A short boy with a pimpled face and a small tiger tattoo asked her desire, and was soon scooping spoonfuls of thin black crab and tofu into rice-cracker bowls. The air boiled, thick with steam. Yukiko glanced around the store as she waited, listening to the sound box reporting on the day’s crop yield (bountiful, all praise the Shōgun), the war with the gaijin overseas (after twenty years of glorious battle, inevitable victory would soon be at hand) and last week’s refinery fire (an accidental fuel leak being the cause). A greasy film coated the army recruitment posters plastered over every inch of wall. Illustrations of sternfaced boys shouted silent slogans against a backdrop of imperial suns.
“Be all you can be.”
“The best and brightest.” “For Bushido! For honor!”
Yukiko watched the weatherpriest, a wizened little man in a rubber suit of buckles and straps. Small arcs of red current danced up the apparatus on his back as he shook his divining rod at the posters and cackled. His sort were an uncommon sight in the clan metropolises— most weatherpriests spent their time in the rural provinces, bilking superstitious farmers from their hard-earned kouka in exchange for prayers and invocations to Susano-ō, God of Storms.
“Bring the rain,” they would cry. “Stop the rain,” they would pray. The clouds would come and go exactly as they pleased, the weatherpriests would enjoy the blessings of serendipity or shake their heads and speak of “unfavorable portents,” and the farmers would stand a few coins lighter either way.
Nodding her thanks and paying the lad behind the counter with a few braided copper kouka, Yukiko stepped back into the babbling street and handed a bowl to Akihito. The big man was busy slapping away the hands of a ragswathed pickpocket. A sharp boot to the backside sent the boy running off into the crowd, shouting colorful criticisms of Akihito’s sexual prowess.
“None for Masaru?” The giant swiped at the sea of flies around his head. “He can buy his own.”
“You gave all his winnings to the yak.’ Akihito made a face. “Mine too, I
should add.”
Yukiko smiled sweetly, “That’s why I’m buying you breakfast.” “What about Kasumi?”
Yukiko’s smile disappeared. “What about her?”
“Well, has she eaten, or . . .”
“If Kasumi wants to eat, I’m sure she’s taken care of herself. She’s never had
trouble with getting what she wants before.” The giant pouted and shouldered his way through the crowd, sipping the piping-hot noodles with care. Masaru groaned on Akihito’s shoulder.
“I think he’s coming round.”
Yukiko shrugged.
“Knock him out again if you like.”
The crowd in front of them parted, stepping out of the path of an iron motor-rickshaw marked with the kanji symbols of the Lotus Guild. Yukiko stayed in the street as the sputtering metal beast rolled toward her on thick rubber tires, bulbous headlights aglow, spewing blue-black fumes into the air behind. It creaked to a stop a few inches short of colliding with her shins. The driver sounded the horn, but Yukiko refused to step aside.
The driver blasted the horn again, waving at her to get out of the road. His profanities were muffled behind the beach glass windshield, but Yukiko could still make out the best of them. She plucked a noodle from her bowl, popped it between her lips and chewed slowly.
“Come on.” Akihito grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of the way.
The rickshaw driver stomped on the accelerator. The machine belched a cloud of fumes into the already choking haze of street-level exhaust and began rolling again. Yukiko could see the silhouette of a Lotus Guildsman in the rear seat.
Like all its brethren, the Lotusman was encased head to foot in a brass atmos-suit, studded with fixtures and gears and spinning clockwork, shielding it from the pollution the rest of the populace breathed daily. Its helmet was insectoid, all smooth lines and sharp curves. A cluster of metallic tentacles spilled from its mouth, plugged via bayonet fixtures into the various contraptions riveted to its outer shell: breather bellows, fuel tanks and the mechabacus that every Guildsman wore on its chest. The device resembled an abacus that had been dipped in glue and rolled around in a bucket of capacitors, transistors and vacuum tubes, and the Lotusman clicked a few beads across its surface, staring at Yukiko with red, faceted eyes as the vehicle cruised past. Although the rank-and-file members of the Guild were referred to as “Lotusmen,” their gender was actually impossible to determine.
She blew it a kiss anyway.
When the motor-rickshaw was a good distance away, Akihito released his grip on Yukiko’s arm and sighed. “Why do you always get in their way?”
“Why do you always move?”
“Because life out here is better than life in Kigen jail, that’s why.”
Yukiko scowled, and turned away.