(Note: Events in this chapter are concurrent with those in Chapter
Five.)
FIREWORKS SEASON
created by Scott K. Jamison
Chapter Six: Meanwhile...
written by Scott K. Jamison
Rattle. Clatter.
Ryohiko tensed up for a moment, then relaxed when he remembered what
day it was. "Sunday. The old folks are home."
He pushed himself up off the futon and threw on some clothes.
Appetizing smells met him as he brushed through the kitchen curtain.
"Up finally?" asked his mother.
"Yup." Ryohiko appraised the woman standing at the stove. He
supposed she'd been pretty enough, once. But his mother had aged
badly; bags under the eyes, a stooped back and heavily calloused
hands bespoke a life of menial labor. He shuddered. He had got to
to do better than that.
He looked around. "Ma, where's the old man?"
His mother shrugged. "Where else? The speedboat races."
"Man, doesn't he ever learn?"
"He wins sometimes."
"When was the last time?"
She shrugged again. "A few months ago. How's school?"
"So-so." He hadn't been there in months. Longer than it had been
since his father had won a bet, he realized with a little surprise.
"And your friend, Irotetsu? How's he doing?"
Ryohiko hadn't seen him since the last time he'd gone to school.
Little bookworm. "He's fine. Really busy these days."
"That's nice. Okay, rice is ready."
They sat down to breakfast.
"You're studying hard, son? You know I want you to make something of
yourself, get into a good university..."
Ryohiko glared at his mother. Busybody. "Stand on your head."
"What?"
"You heard me. Stand on your head."
"No." She went back to eating.
Ryohiko threw all his will into having his mother do his bidding. "I
command you! Stand on your head."
She burst into laughter. "You're certainly in a strange mood this
morning. Girlfriend dump you?"
Maybe relatives were immune, or he'd just had some flukish luck
lately. "Nah, I'm not seeing anyone right now. Too busy studying."
"That's nice."
Lying to his parents had become second nature to Ryohiko, but his
mother's ready acceptance of his excuse was a little creepy. Come to
think of it...
"You know, Ma, if you stood on your head, it would help me get better
grades."
She looked up. "It would?"
"Yup. And you'd probably look better."
"Well, when you put it that way..." Ryoihiko's mother put down her
chopsticks, stood up, and walked over to the wall. With a grunt of
effort, she slowly heaved herself into a headstand.
Ryohiko was suddenly very glad she was wearing slacks.
"How's this, son?"
"Uhh, just fine, Ma." His mind raced. Strangely enough, he suddenly
had an urge to attend school tomorrow.
* * * * * *
* * *
Tock.
Tock.
Tock.
Sunlight was trying to pry its way under Ken's eyelids. "Aww man,
did you open the curtains again?" he asked his brother.
Then he remembered what had happened to his brother and sat bolt
upright. That was a mistake, as what felt like twin icepicks stabbed
into his temples. "Ohh man, so this is what a hangover feels like."
He grabbed his head in both hands, and let his power flow. The
headache ebbed, but his mouth still tasted like something had died in
it.
Ken laid back and reviewed what had happened.
The old man, Yamada, wasn't it? hadn't said much after his
pronouncement about the "rogue esper." Ken had been hustled into the
man's private jet, which had taken off immediately.
The accomodations had been cushy, if a little cramped. The two men
in grey who'd kidnapped him might have been made of stone for all the
conversational skills they'd shown. Ken had whiled away the first
couple hours by staring out the window and reviewing his medical
text.
His guards' relief hadn't been any more talkative, but had pointed
out the entertainment options available. Unfortunately, it seemed
that they hadn't been chosen with an American teenager in mind.
The business magazines and newspapers might have been more
interesting to Ken if he'd been better at reading Japanese. While he
was fairly decent with the spoken language, he had slacked off on
learning kanji symbols when he realized his father had no intention
of ever moving back. Who would have guessed he'd be kidnapped?
There were three hundred cassettes to listen to on the headphones.
And every single one of them seemed to be enka, a ballad style that
reminded Ken irresistably of the worst American country-western.
After an hour of trying tape after tape, only to be greeted with more
nasal whining about lost love, he'd given up in disgust.
After several more tedious hours, one of the men in grey came by with
microwave meals. "What do you want to drink, kid?"
Sarcastically, Ken had shot back, "Scotch, neat." He'd been
surprised when the man came back with a bottle of Black Label.
"Is this okay? I'm underage."
The man smiled, the first sign of emotion Ken had seen on any of the
thugs. "International waters, kid. Cheers!"
He'd nearly choked on the first glass, not having had anything
stronger than a couple cans of two-percent beer sneaked at friends'
houses before. But Ken quickly warmed to the amber liquid. And the
thug turned out to be much better company with a couple drinks under
his belt.
"The oyabun's a good boss, kid. You do like you're told, and you'll
get along just fine. He takes good care of me and my kids. Wanna
see the kids?" He fished out a thick wallet, and a wad of
photographs spilled out. "This one's Taro, he's five now, and that's
Emi, she's three. Little chatterbox, she is...you want anudder
drink?"
A pack of cards had been found, and the thug, whose name was Misho,
had taught Ken the basics of blackjack. Already with a good buzz on,
Ken had quickly lost all the cash he had on him. but by then, he
hadn't cared, and some time after that, he'd passed out.
Obviously, they'd landed in Japan, and Ken had been installed in this
room, wherever it was.
Tock.
He looked around. It was a sparsely furnished room in traditional
Japanese style. Ken was lying on a futon mattress, covered with a
light blue blanket. The floor was those mats, tatami they were
called. There was a low table with a dried flower arrangement at one
end of the room, and a large TV was the only other piece of
furniture.
Sliding panels were the door, and probably a closet. A brown casual
kimono was neatly folded by his head.
Tock.
Ken got up and looked out the window. Outside was a traditional
Japanese garden, complete with a bamboo pipe that periodically filled
with water and spilled it, marking the passage of time with hollow
sounds.
Tock.
Ken pulled the robe over his boxer shorts, then turned on the TV.
"Wonder if I made the news?"
//"--Bentora lines up the mallet. He shoots..it's through the hoop!
Score!"//
Old people playing some kind of mutant croquet game.
//"PERVERT!"
//"But, Gaia, it was an accident! I didn't want to touch your--"--
//"Arrgh!" *SMASH!*//
Kiddie cartoon.
//"--Minister Okayama here today to discuss the new irrigation
regulations. Koki, you have the first question?"//
Political talk show. So far, it looked like Japanese Sunday morning
TV was as insipid as its American counterpart.
//--members of the True Vision cult are still at large. If you have
any information, please inform the police immediately.//
At last, a news program.
//And now, the weather. It's a beautiful day in early autumn, so be
sure to get out and enjoy the sunshine--"//
The door slid open just loudly enough to catch Ken's attention, and
an elderly woman carried a wooden tray in. She gave a toothless
smile, and he was reminded of his Grandma Daneece.
"Since you're up, I thought you might like some breakfast," she said
in Japanese.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the housekeeper, Ms. Shinagi. If you need more tomato juice,
let me know. It's good for hangovers."
"I don't have a hangover," Ken said confidently.
She tutted. "So young, and already used to boozing all night.
Shameful, it is. Don't let Misho be a bad influence on you."
"Umm, no, ma'am."
"Fine, then. Mr. Yamada would like to see you when you're done."
She glided out, and Ken sat down to breakfast. It was rice, clear
miso soup, some pickles and a large glass of tomato juice.
"Darn. I was hoping for Sugar Puffs."
The news had gone on to sports results, but all local teams Ken
didn't recognize.
Ms. Shiragi met Ken in the hall, and showed him to the garden. The
old man was dressed in a formal black kimono, and staring off into
space.
"Mr. Yamada?"
He blinked, and turned towards them. "You may leave us now." The
housekeeper left silently.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yeah, okay, I guess," answered Ken. "so, where's this `rogue esper'
you want me to fight? And just how am I supposed to fight him? Or
is it a her? It's not like I can make people's heads explode or
anything."
"The answer to both those questions is...I don't know."
"You don't know?! Then why the heck did you go to all the trouble of
kidnapping me?"
The old man sighed. "Because I had information indicating that a
threat was coming, and you were one of the two people who could stop
it."
"Information? From where?"
"A very reliable source. And that is all you need to know about it."
"Oh-kay...wait a minute, you said `one of two.' So I get a partner?"
"Sadly, no. She has already been taken by the government. Doubtless
she is already dead or being brainwashed into one of their
assassins."
Ken blinked. "Assassins? You gotta be kidding me, right?"
Mr. Yamada looked him straight in the eye. "No. I am not kidding.
Although it may not seem so, you are fortunate to have fallen into my
hands, and not others'."
"Yeah, right. Like I want to work for a crook."
"Your father works for me, remember?"
Ken turned away. "Not because he wants to."
"No, that's true. But it wasn't always that way. We were close
once, your father and I. Did he ever tell you why he left for
America?"
"To marry Mom."
"It was rather more than that. When you speak to him next, ask--"
"Oyabun, the car is ready." This was a newcomer, a middle-aged man
with graying hair.
"I'm sorry, young Nakajima, but we will have to continue at a later
date. I have a funeral to attend."
Probably one of his gangland cronies, Ken thought. Though it must
have been a close one, because he actually looked sad.
* * * * * *
* * *
The uniform felt even more constricting than he remembered. Maybe
he'd grown a little bit since he'd last worn it. It was especially
tight around the collar.
But Ryohiko decided against unbuttoning it. That would make him look
like a delinquent. And today, he was a good student.
Girls stared at him and whispered in groups. The boys contented
themselves with just staring. The school hadn't changed any since
he'd been here last. Same old smell of fear and chalk.
Ah, there was the man he'd come to see.
"Takanao! In my office, now!"
"Yes, Principal."
The office was arranged to make the principal's already impressive
bulk seem even more menacing. But Ryohiko had long since lost any
respect for the man.
"You little punk! You've been AWOL for months, and now you just
waltz in as if you own the place? Do you know how much trouble
you're in?"
"I know," Ryohiko said offhandedly.
"I have a good mind to hang you from the flagpole by your underwear!"
"You don't want to do that."
"And why not?" The principal loomed forward.
"Because that might traumatize me into never coming to school again.
And that would be a failure of the educational system. You wouldn't
want that, would you?"
"Err, no, I wouldn't want that..." The principal seemed puzzled.
"Instead, you should be making things as pleasant for me as possible.
For example, giving me a pass to come and go as I please would go a
long way towards fulfilling my scholastic goals."
The principal shook his head, then nodded slowly. "That's possible,
I suppose."
"It would reflect well on the school. Oh, and you should probably
tell the truancy people to get off my case too."
"Hrrumph. They're sticklers for regulations."
"You can do it. After all, you're tougher than they are." Petty
stuff, Ryohiko knew, but he had to start somewhere. Now, how could
he convince the principal to run *himself* up the flagpole?
* * * * * *
* * *
Ken was back in the clothes he'd wore to cram school on Saturday.
The only set he had at the moment, which was why he was being allowed
outside with an escort.
He and the two men in gray suits were shopping. Outside the Yamada
estate, the neighborhood turned out to be a crowded suburb of Tokyo,
with almost all modern buildings crammed together along narrow
streets.
Ken was drawing some stares, especially from small children. They
probably didn't see many tourists in this part of town, especially
with golden brown skin like his. He waved to a couple of toddlers,
who waved back.
It was obvious that the thugs flanking him (neither of whom was
Misho)were known in the neighborhood, and accepted as part of the
scenery, if not particularly welcomed.
They stopped at a small tailor shop, run by a man whose Japanese was
nearly unintelligible to Ken. Han, if Ken had gotten the name
straight, measured him, holding swatches of gray fabric up against
the boy's skin.
The thugs negotiated with Han, and apparently the fee was acceptable,
as Han nodded, and told Ken "Come back tomorrow, no da?"
"So, where to now?"
"Your choice, as long as you don't try to run away." This was the
longest sentence that thug had said all day.
Ken set off west, taking in the sights, such as they were. He was
used to the cosmopolitan atmosphere of Manhattan, and this suburb
lacked much even in the way of local color.
The thugs paid for some fried noodles at a fast food cart, and they
found a small park to sit on a bench and eat.
Ken watched the children at play. Lucky little guys, he thought.
You can just pretend to have magic powers. I got stuck with the real
thing, and look what happened.
Some of them were playing with a soccer ball, kicking it back and
forth. A little girl missed her kick, and it rolled into the street.
The girl ran after it, and Ken saw a car coming down the road--
"Hey, kid! Look out!" he yelled in English, forgetting where he was.
The girl picked up the ball, and looked at him quizzically. Looking
at him, not the car behind her--
There was a sickening thud, and the girl went flying limply.
Even as Ken ran towards the scene, people began screaming.
She wasn't a pretty sight. Blood was running down her face, white
bone was sticking out of her left arm, and her legs were twisted the
wrong way.
"Oh, my God! My baby!"
Ken knelt down by the child, feeling her pulse. Faint, but there.
He'd never fixed anything this bad before, but he had to...
"What is that foreigner doing to my baby?"
"Don't worry, ma'am. He's just trying to help." That was one of the
thugs.
Ken concentrated. "Let this work, let this work..."
The girl screamed in pain as her hips swiveled back into place.
"My baby!"
"Stand back, woman!"
Ken grabbed the arm and pulled it so the bone went back inside, then
poured his concentration in again. The arm rippled as the bone
fused, then the wound began to shrink, leaving only a faint pink
scar.
Compared to that, the scalp wound was nothing, but he checked for
concussion first.
No. He healed that cut as well. Should he do anything about the
scraped knee? Nah, she'd never learn from her mistakes if she didn't
suffer some consequences. Besides, he was about out of juice.
The woman who'd been screaming shot past him. "Oh, baby, don't ever
do that again. You had Mommy so worried!"
The crowd was buzzing. "Did you see that?"
"--miracle, I tell you--"
"--with them, I told you Yamada was okay--"
"Time to go, kid." One of the thugs hauled him to his feet.
"Well, that was a swell introduction to the neighborhood." Ken was a
little dizzy.
"You did good," assured the other thug. "But I'm not sure the
oyabun's gonna be happy."
* * * * * *
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED
Author's Notes: Short but hopefully sweet...
Now follow up, darnit!
SKJAM!
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