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"All visitors must undergo decontamination before entering New Edo Holodome," a computer-generated voice boomed from high atop the surveillance wall. "Resistance to the new health protocol will result in terminal banishment."
So much had changed since my last visit! If not for the holodome, which sprawled across the land like a bloated terrarium, I wouldn't have recognized New Edo at all. Gone was the wide courtyard, its open market replaced by a labyrinth of whitewashed, low-walled walkways over which silence—not the bustle of traders and travelers—now held resolute sway. Queues, seven in all, herded those who wished to enter the domed citadel to portals in the base of an imposing white structure: a wall that girded the lower third of the holodome like a concrete obi. Perched atop it, flak-jacketed guards—soldiers armed with enormous beam launchers—surveyed the shuffling crowd. Behind them, the holodome soared skyward, the tinted discs in its metallic lattice shell casting back distorted ghostly images of the cloud-choked sky.
The announcement played again, now accompanied by a faint rumble from somewhere out at sea. I'd expected to be searched before entering New Edo, but the prospect of forced sanitization just made the wait in the early morning humidity even more unbearable. I wanted to shrug off my helmet, scarf and the anorak I'd thrown over my leather field pants, but this close to the coastline, the weather could change without warning. Better to marinate in my second skin than risk exposure. Then too, there was literally nowhere to put my things. My pack was crammed full with gear for my next mission and my rucksack, filthy at the best of times, was now attracting the interest of more than flies with its deep splotches of telltale red.
After staring down a too-curious onlooker, I glanced at my wristlet and read Doctor Mazawa's terse communique once again. No new information there; 'a rare and lucrative opportunity' was still the sole reason for my summons. Just another bounty, I told myself, although the knot in my stomach, an uncomfortable tightness that grew with each forward step, cautioned otherwise.
I blamed Satoshi for that. The contents of my rucksack, a tribute for Mazawa, had been his brilliant idea. He could afford the luxury of brilliant ideas; he didn't have to carry the damned thing, which felt more like an anchor the longer I stood in line. I wanted to drop it and shake the kinks out of my arm, but couldn't risk leaving an ugly stain on the walkway. A bloody mess wasn't the best way to make a first impression and according to Satoshi, mine had to be flawless. He seemed even more paranoid than usual, which was quite a feat for my older brother.
I still couldn't understand why he'd made such a big deal about it. Our new leader wanted a job done and summoned me. That should've been the end of it, but now, with so much time on my hands—since the damned line was moving at roughly the speed of a snail in a salt mine—I began replaying our last conversation in my mind, searching for some clue to Satoshi's stranger-than-usual behavior.
'Think of it as life insurance, Sis, an unquestionable symbol of your loyalty,' he'd said, words muffled by the camo scarf that doubled as his surgical mask.
'My loyalty was never in question before. Besides, we've taken every precaution. We always do. Speaking of which'—I stopped my travel preparations, ripped off the bandage, and turned my back to him—'how does it look?'
'All healed. You're good to go, but I wish you wouldn't.'
'Why not?'
'Doctor Mazawa has an entire army at his disposal. Why single you out?'
'There are things a Cleanser can do more efficiently than an army. Maybe Mazawa just wants the job done right.' I shrugged, then resumed sharpening my naginata. Its curved blade had seen better days and my last kill hadn't done it any favors.
'Don't joke, Renata, these are questions you should be asking yourself. Just once, before taking a contract, I wish you would consider every angle, all possible consequences.'
'What consequences?' My words rang off the bunker's curved metal walls. 'You never made this much of a fuss when Doctor Akiro was in charge.'
'Because it was Akiro! I don't know how Mazawa can call himself a doctor. He's as brutish as his edicts. Age of Viability and Maturation Mandates be damned! People have the right—I have a right—to grow old...' still muttering, he picked up the ID chip with a pair of long tweezers and hunched over the object on his worktable.
'Aren't you done yet? My barge will be leaving Hakodate Pier soon.'
Finished with the blade, I examined the barbed spike on the other end of the naginata. Nearly as long as I was tall when at its fullest extension and fashioned after an ancient farming tool, the weapon was a personal favorite. Lighter than either an airbow or longarm, it had no fussy canisters that could jam or dislodge, and with the press of a button could retract into something small enough to hide in my anorak.
'At least let me take you to the pier. I'll wear a disguise.'
What am I, five?' I set the weapon aside and began rechecking my pack.
'I have a bad feeling about this, Renata.'
I sighed, 'Fine, come to the pier, if it'll make you happy.'
'Think of it as our last family outing. Remember, after Mazawa sees this, I'm officially dead.' He raised the severed head by a fistful of long, graying hair. 'Great likeness, by the way.'
It was, as long as no one examined its DNA. 'Put that thing in the sack before you give us both nokuru!'
'Don't worry, I've taken every precaution.' He waggled the gloved fingers of his free hand at me. 'So, what's the going rate for Kufugaki these days? Think I'll bring a hefty bounty?'
Then again, maybe the knot in my stomach was just irritation. Why should this be different from any other bounty?
The loudspeaker sputtered to life. "After decontamination, all pregnant females must report to the Saisei Detention Center for further testing." A series of Kanji characters in retina-searing red scrolled across the wide marquis below the patrol catwalk, repeating the same message in Japanese, Cantonese, and Korean. "Failure to comply with Doctor Mazawa’s Gestation Sanction will—"
Get you banished. Got it the first time. Yeesh!
Although I'd never met our newest leader, the near-three-hour wait outside the holodome, while being forced to listen to the same stupid messages every five minutes had given me ample time to form a first impression: Mazawa was a militant germaphobe whose paranoid tendencies outrivaled even Satoshi's.
Then again, paranoia might be wise in his case. After seizing power, he'd rewritten existing edicts, imposing upon each a rigidity as cruel as it was lethal. He'd be crazy not to fear reprisal.
But where and from what faction would rebellion spring?
I stared across the queues, seeking out potential members of the imaginary resistance. Most of the lines to my far left teemed with an assortment of mud-caked families with young children, refugees desperate to outpace the monsoons and claim a spot in one of the holodome's temporary shelters (if such things still existed). Like the refugees, the gaggle of potential Saisei in the centermost line posed little threat to the current regime; but a group in full eco-hazard gear—shapeless plastic jumpsuits with oversized tinted hoods—looked quite promising. Were those really samples in the locked cases that inched forward with them on portable freight-shifters or bombs intended to blow Mazawa to smithereens?
Just when I thought I'd melt before ever reaching the Decontamination Center, the airlocks disengaged with a hiss, spewing mist that threaded its acrid tendrils through the low-walled queues. Another announcement blared from the speakers, advising the next person in line to move forward—quietly—and then repeated the original message (for anyone who hadn't heard it the first five hundred times).
Most bowed their heads and obeyed, but in the queue adjacent to mine, a bald man in rags hoisted himself atop the stone divider, waved claw-like fists at the surveillance monitor, and crowed something in a language that might have been human once.
I'd barely registered Kufugaki, when a blast screeched through the thick air and seared a hole in the man's chest.
Terminal banishment: emphasis on terminal.
If I'd been standing any closer, the beam lob would've set my hood ablaze, but that didn't bother me nearly as much as how a friggin' Kufugaki had slipped unnoticed into the queue in the first place.
I turned quickly—because they rarely traveled alone—one hand instinctively unlatching the strap of my leg sheath. Instead of outing more potential bounties, my knife only produced shocked gasps from the young couple behind me.
"Sorry, just checking." You could never be too careful.
The wind rose, replacing the smells of unwashed bodies with the stench of whatever flotsam happened to be rotting in New Edo Bay, and a strange light suffused the air, rendering every particle of dirt and dust mote in eerie quivering relief. As the first peals of thunder rolled in on the waves that crashed against the tsunami wall behind the queues, a grimness settled over all those who were waiting to enter New Edo, the largest and most impressive of Japan's holodomes.
Only seven holodomes still remained, although there'd been hundreds of them at one time. Originally mobile medical shelters, they sprang up during the Great Contagions, when smart viruses—residual from multinational bioterrorist acts—reduced a country of over 200 million to less than ten thousand in under a decade. Those who survived the pandemics then had to contend with the natural and geothermally-mediated disasters that followed. Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions and tsunamis swallowed entire cities, polluted water supplies, and rendered some areas completely uninhabitable for generations.
A sudden burst of static heralded yet more instructions.
Finally! As ordered, I removed my head covering and walked past the sentry into a narrow chamber that was the essence of white on white from its tiled floor and frosted glass walls to the cleansing jets mounted on the wide ring suspended from its ceiling. It was also every bit as cold as the bunker in the ice caves that I called home.
A section of the wall slid outward with a soft click. I piled my naginata, packs, dirty field clothes and boots on the pristine metal tray, then watched it slowly retract, wondering what Mazawa's Security would make of the contents of my blood-stained rucksack. Now, completely naked, I turned and winked at one of the surveillance monitors. "See anything you like?"
"Legs apart; arms raised," it droned. "Commencing decontamination."
Overhead, the ring turned aquamarine. The blue light intensified and emanated outward, forming an incandescent sheet as the apparatus descended to conduct what I hoped would be a simple, noninvasive scan
So much for that.
Compulsory saliva, urine and blood samples followed the irradiating device's initial head-to-toe pass. Once these had been collected, a series of jets sputtered to life, saturating me with frigid blasts and assaulting my skin and nostrils with an array of medicinal cleansers that left me gasping for breath. Then, and with a sound like a woman saying, Hush, it ended. Warmth returned to my limbs.
"Decontamination complete. Subject acceptable for admittance. Pregnancy status: negative."
I could have told you that. I glanced up at the monitor. "Great! When do I get my clothes back?"
Another tray slid out from the wall. The flimsy white robe it contained wasn't much in the way of clothing, but at this point, even not much was better than nothing. As I shrugged it on, a floor tile with a laser scanner mounted beneath it rose before me and another computer-generated monotone ordered me to present identification.
I turned, parted my wet hair, and waited for the scanner to read my chip, although not the one that had been implanted in my neck at birth. The original had undergone quite a few alterations since then. A tattoo from Satoshi, who'd encrypted the chip's latest information, covered the scar. When I asked why he'd drawn a bug-ugly bar code on the back of my neck, he'd nearly wet himself laughing. Once he caught his breath, he'd said, 'It's the symbol for Ming Yi. Ming Yi: the darkening of the light. Darkening, Darkfell: get it?'
I really didn't care what it was, as long as it worked. If the scan picked up even the slightest hint of chip tampering, I'd end up like that nokuru-infected bastard outside.
The scanner hummed; the skin on my nape prickled. "Sex: Female. Affiliation: Hakodate Clan. Date of birth..."
I bit the inside of my cheek. Seventeen? Younger than last time. Maybe too young, considering.
"Occupation: Ronin."
Ronin? Damn Satoshi and his stupid jokes! He promised to change it, but he'd been so busy doctoring his severed head, he'd obviously overlooked this tiny detail—the one that was probably going to get me killed, judging from the uncomfortable silence that filled the Decontamination room.
Finally, I heard a loud click. Expecting a panel in the floor to open or be suffocated by a spray of poison gas, I was surprised to hear the feedback whine of a microphone and then, a man's voice. An actual human voice!
"What is a ronin? Explain."
"In my clan, it means that I am an independent contractor, a Cleanser of Shokohin."
"A Cleanser?" he scoffed. "There are no Shokohin in New Edo."
The Kufugaki one of your men just killed would beg to differ. And how many more of those diseased, marrow-sucking mutants were roaming near the holodome's hallowed walls? Instead of being cooped up in here, dealing with Soldier Boy's bullshit, I should've been outside earning my keep.
"What is your business here?" his voice boomed again, echoing off the walls.
None of his. But voicing that would probably end in terminal banishment. "I am a guest of Doctor Mazawa."
His response, edged with the same smug impatience: "Everyone in New Edo is a guest of the great Doctor Mazawa."
"Yeah, well how many of them received a personal invitation? It'd be rude to keep him waiting, don't you think?"
He didn't switch off the mic this time, so I could hear a great deal of rustling and whispering between my unseen inquisitor and a woman whose impatience had been honed sharper than a knife edge. After murmuring an apology (to her), one of the frosted glass panels swooshed open, revealing a sunlit arboretum.
"You may proceed," he said. "Renata Darkfell, welcome to New Edo."