From the Fatherland, with Love, page 57
“These guys have a poisonous hemolytic protein, in addition to the histamine toxin. In Haiti, where they’re from, thousands of bite victims are hospitalized every year, and if they’re babies or old or sickly, sometimes they die.” Shinohara slammed the centipede on the floor and stepped on it. As it was being crushed it made a crackling noise, like thin glass breaking. “They’re carnivores and can’t coexist with any other living creatures, so unfortunately if one gets free you have to kill it.”
“Shinohara, what’s up with these flies?” Takeguchi said. “They all look the same, but some of them can fly and some only jump.” Shinohara said that they were genetically engineered to be flightless, for use in experiments. “But when you breed huge numbers of them, a lot start to mutate back to being able to fly.” Ishihara asked how many he’d just let loose. “I usually keep about two hundred in a bottle, but I packed in about twice as many to show you.” How many did he have in total, then? “Well, they’re too small to count, of course, but I’ve got about five hundred of these bottles, plus the large breeding jars, so, I don’t know, half a million?” Both gasps and cheers met this announcement. “Half a million of these little fuckers?” Fukuda muttered as he watched the flies leapfrogging about on the floor, and Ishihara sighed and said, “Shino, you are amazing.”
“Besides these, I’ve got two species of cricket, maybe about three hundred thousand all together. Never counted’em exactly, of course. Then I have what we call springtails, which are about the size of a speck of dust—you can hardly even see’em, let alone count’em. I feed them to my red-backed dart frogs—Dendrobates reticulatus, one of the smaller species—just after they develop from tadpoles. And then I have bugs I don’t feed to the frogs but just like to look at, like camel spiders, which live in deserts or savannahs. I’ve got a few hundred of those, I guess.” And how many of these scary centipedes, Kaneshiro asked. “Well, they breed like crazy, and they’re low maintenance. Not even extreme changes in their environment affect them much, and you can stuff’em in Tupperware like this and they’re fine—they just curl up together. I like these guys a lot and have a whole block of plastic cases packed with them, so I’d say, at the very least, about two thousand.” Shinohara’s face remained as smooth and expressionless as a hard-boiled egg as he said this.
“I think it could work.” Takeguchi was grinning. “Just imagine half a million of these little bastards buzzing around you,” he said, but Shinohara was quick to correct him. “We can’t use them all. I need to save enough to keep the frogs alive.” Everyone except Toyohara, who was still disentangling flies from his armpits and looked on the verge of tears, was suddenly enthusiastic. “The ultimate biological weapon,” said Kaneshiro, and Matsuyama noted that “You can’t shoot a centipede with an AK.” Okubo said, “These flies are too small for even people from the land of starvation to catch and eat,” and Mori made a joke about pinning Kim Il Sung badges on the centipedes to force the Koryos to bow down to them. But when Tateno wondered aloud how they were going to get these new weapons of theirs inside the hotel, everyone fell silent.
“How about having them delivered?” Orihara suggested. Postal and delivery services had resumed throughout Kyushu—a decision reached by the governors of the various prefectures on the island, rather than the national government—as well as distribution of gasoline, kerosene, medicine, and rice and other staples. Apparently all sorts of “gifts” were being delivered to the Koryos at the Sea Hawk Hotel. Afraid of being arrested or shot once the reinforcements arrived, many of Kyushu’s wealthier citizens tried to curry favor by sending brandy and cigars; certain municipal officials sent samples of local specialties; and elementary-school classrooms sent posters they’d drawn with messages like NO WAR, PLEASE! on them. Jo Su Ryeon had mentioned on his TV show this morning that packages like these were first inspected and then stored somewhere in the hotel. However, Orihara’s idea was summarily rejected by Ishihara, who was following a single fly around the room, squatting down to blow on it each time it came to rest.
“It’s no good if they know the bugs came from outside,” he said. “They’ll just keep trying to shoo them back out. They need to think they’re coming from inside the hotel, so the bugs can shoo them out.” Shibata asked if maybe Felix couldn’t come up with some fake ID cards to let them pose as workmen and bring in the bugs that way. With construction having started, workers for private firms were constantly calling at the Koryo camp, and large shipments of food and other supplies were being delivered. Felix said it would be easy enough to make the IDs, but they’d need to know which businesses had access to the hotel and how incoming cargo was handled. “What did I and I just say? It’s no good bringing the bugs in!” Ishihara was on his hands and knees now, and blew on the fly again. “If you look closely,” he said, “he’s built just like any fly, only way smaller, and so cute, rubbing his little hands together. Don’t swat the poor fly! He wrings his wee hands! He pulls his wee pud!” Ishihara punctuated his haiku with another puff of breath, and the fly leaped into the air, coming down a short distance away only after some impressive hang time. “Hey, Gonta!” Apparently he’d given the fly a name. “This time see if you can land on Toyo-toyo’s nose!”
Hino had been watching this performance closely, but it was plain that he was thinking hard about something. Finally he took a step forward. “I know!” he said, raising his hand like a kid in elementary school. “If we could get to the hotel’s air-conditioning machinery, we could release the insects into the ventilation ducts.”
When Shinohara returned to the traveler’s palm, Tateno was vocalizing in his sleep: “Koryo Weonjeonggun, mansae-e-e-e-e! Koryo Weonjeonggun, chwego-o-o-o-o!” He woke himself up with the final extended vowel, realized he’d been dreaming, and went right back to sleep. We had it drilled into us, after all, Shinohara thought, smirking as he remembered the practice session with the Chief and Deputy Chief of the local Speed Tribe. To ask the Tribe for help getting into the hotel had been Fukuda’s idea. There was a lot of equipment to transport: six hundred and forty linear shaped charges, cables and wires, weapons and ammo from Takei’s collection, the insects, Hino’s cutting and welding tools, Felix’s electronic equipment, bottles of water, boxes of Calorie Mate protein bars. It all came to about eight hundred kilograms, or forty kilos apiece, if they split it up evenly. They could handle that. The problem wasn’t the bulk or weight of the baggage but how to get it past the Koryos.
“Tonight—well, last night now, technically—our wimpy old boy Takei passed away. The cause of death was an accidental gunshot.” Greeted point-blank with this news after being summoned by Ishihara at three in the morning, the Chief and Deputy Chief had stood before him stunned and speechless. The Chief, son of a building contractor in Hakata, was tall and slim, with a pompadour that preceded him by about four centimeters. His deputy, the sole heir of a well-known local maker of bean-jam buns, was seriously acne-scarred and not very tall but had the chest and shoulders of a bodybuilder. They both sported large-gauge rings in their eyebrows, black suits, and white satin turtlenecks, though when they rode with the Tribe they dressed in special uniforms that resembled those of the Nazi SS, with flowing white silk-blend scarves. These two were long-time fans of Ishihara and Nobue and had often come by to drop hints about joining forces—hints that were always ignored by their idols. The Chief led an organization of four or five hundred souls, and Shinohara had once asked Ishihara why he wouldn’t let them join the group. Ishihara had said, “People like that are a snore. You and Hino, Tateno and Kaneshiro, An-an and Toyo-toyo and Yamada and Mori, the boy Satanists and Takeguchi and Fukuda and the rest, you’re all hopeless scum, but you’re interesting. Being around you for too long induces nausea, and none of you drink, and you’re all completely loco in the coco, but one thing you aren’t is boring. Speed Tribers beat up people they don’t like and go up against the police or whatever. But you boys don’t choose sides between rebels and regulars, good guys and bad guys, and you don’t divide things into like or hate. Speed Tribers are just lonely—they’re starved for love—but you boys are different. You’re not particularly lonely and you’re not searching for love. You can’t be compromised or held to any social contract, because you never signed on. That’s why no one likes you, but it’s also why you can’t be fooled. The Speed Tribe is easily swayed by the mojority, but you’ve already been rejected by the mojority. That’s what makes you interesting.”
As Ishihara addressed the two Tribal leaders, saying, “Now steel yourselves and pledge your cooperation in our fight,” he pressed the barrel of the Colt Government against his right temple. Not knowing exactly what had happened earlier, and unaware of how much tequila he’d drunk, the scions of construction and bean-jam must have thought they saw madness in his eyes. They stood pale and frozen. Also present in the Living, in addition to Shinohara, were Hino, Ando, and Tateno. The rest were either in Building E, helping Takeguchi and Fukuda set up production of the LSCs or in their rooms snatching some sleep.
“Tell us this,” Ishihara said. “Why do you guys tear around on bikes and stuff ?” The Chief thought for a moment, looking up at the ceiling, then said, “Because we’re pissed off at this rotten, stinkin’ world.” Ishihara opened his glittering, bloodshot eyes wide and glared at him. “No good,” he said. “‘Because we’re pissed off’? That won’t cut it. Isn’t it really because you want to see this whole cesspool of a world painted black? To paint all the doors black, all the streets and roads and alleys and crosswalks black, all the trafficlights not red-green-yellow but black, and all the houses and schools and buildings and structures, the land and sea and sky—to paint ’em all black?” He was wriggling again, holding the gun in one hand, bending his free arm into a series of odd angles, and occasionally tearing at his hair.
All of which seemed to leave the Chief dumbfounded. Ishihara’s way of speaking was always somewhat off, somewhat different from normal verbal expression. He had said “streets and roads and alleys and crosswalks”—words that overlapped in meaning but that his pronunciation tended to destabilize, distorting the various images they summoned and creating a sense of anxious anticipation in the listener. “That’s right,” said the Chief. “It’s our favorite color. Our uniforms, our decals, our patches, they’re all black.” His cohort enthusiastically nodded confirmation. They were missing the point completely, but Ishihara wasn’t just toying with them. He was seriously trying to communicate something. “Tell us this, then,” he said, pointing the gun at the Chief’s forehead: “What do you guys live for?” The Chief automatically took a step backwards. Ishihara parted his lips and flicked his purplish tongue in and out between his teeth. The Tribers looked at each other. It seemed they both wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.
“You live each day without even knowing what you’re living for?” Ishihara shouted. He was walking in a circle, swinging his right arm forward as he stepped with his right foot and his left with his left. It was never possible to anticipate his next bewildering action or gesture. The Chief and his deputy drooped visibly. “If you don’t know what you’re living for, what makes you any different from the average geezer or salaryman or office worker or middle-aged drudge or civil servant? I’m only going to say this once. It’s important, so prick up your ears and pucker the inner lips of your heart of hearts. What do we live for? We live to destroy. There are only two types of people in this world: those who scrimp and save little by little to build a breakwater or levee or windbreak or irrigation canal, and those who destroy the vested interests and the old system and the fortress of evil with enough emotion and inspiration and fervor and fury and desire and passion fruits to crack open everyone’s skull and ring their balls like bells.” Ishihara’s cheeks were flushed, his hair was standing on end, and his eyes glistened and sparkled.
The Chief exchanged glances with his deputy again, then looked down at his boots and said, “Ishihara-san, if I could interrupt… Are you askin’ us to help you fight these Koryos? We’re honored, of course… Me, I’ll be thirty-seven this year, and Koizumi here, he’s thirty-three and got one foot in runnin’ the family business now, makin’ yuzu bean-jam buns and rice-cake balls and all, and as I’m sure you know, the Tribe nowadays, it’s not like it used to be. We got a lot of part-timers now, you might say. A lot of the guys are settlin’ in to steady jobs, we got a few carpenters and plasterers, even some who work in nursin’ homes, and of course they can only ride when they’re off work. And, but, listen, I saw the firefight with the Koryos the other day in Ohori Park, and, I mean, holy shit. I hate to say it, but there’s no way we could beat those guys. As the boss of this Tribe, I took a vow not to do drugs or hit on the ladies, and if I used violence on a civilian I’d be out on my ass. But this is different. Just tell me what you need us to do. I’ll bring at least a hundred men. I couldn’t ask for anything more than to fight side by side with you.” When he had finished his speech, his buddy said, “Boss! We decided long ago that we’d die together, didn’t we? Bean-jam buns or no buns, I’m with you all the way.” And the two of them clasped hands manfully.
“Thank you,” Ishihara said, and stood still for a moment, facing them. “You’ve got the wrong idea, though. It’s true that there’s no way to beat the Koryos head to head. But tonight we’ve come up with an epic plan for wiping them out in one fell swoop without any of us getting hurt. I and I’ll explain it all later, but it’s something no one could have thought of but our roly-poly sunshine terror babies.” He handed out a few sheets of paper on which some Korean words were copied out phonetically. “Let’s start with a drill. Everyone repeat after me: ‘Koryo Weonjeonggun, mansae-e-e-e-e! Koryo Weonjeonggun, chwego-o-o-o-o! Koryo Weonjeonggun, iptae shikhyeo-juseyo-o-o-o-o!’ Project from your diaphragm and your taint! Come on, all together now! You need to memorize this and teach it to your troops. Repeat it till it’s second nature. ‘Koryo Weonjeonggun, mansae-e-e-e-e! Koryo Weonjeonggun, chwego-o-o-o-o! Koryo Weonjeonggun, iptae shikhyeo-jusey-o-o-o-o-o!’ He insisted that Shinohara, Tateno, and Hino chant and memorize it too. The only part they understood was the word Koryo, but Shinohara guessed that Weonjeonggun must be the same as Enseigun in Japanese—“Expeditionary Force.”
Ishihara translated, looking quite proud of himself. “‘Long live the Koryo Expeditionary Force! The Koryo Expeditionary Force is great! We want to join the Koryo Expeditionary Force!’ That’s what it means. After you get the Tribe together, you pick up the terror babies and circle the Koryo camp, the hotel, and the Dome chanting this as loud as—” The Chief gave a start and said, “You mean on the other side of the checkpoints? That’s all controlled by the Koryos.” Ishihara told him not to worry. “We’ll alert the media, and they’ll be there with television cameras. The Koryos aren’t going to shoot Japanese civilians on TV. Also, make as many banners and flags as you can with the Koryo logo—that weird pagoda thing. Put red stars on your headwear and scarves too. No one’s saying they’re going to welcome you if you do that, but they won’t suspect anything. They’ve got a hundred and twenty thousand reinforcements coming soon, and they won’t want any trouble in the meantime. You know damn well they’re laughing at this country, where nobody—not the government or the military or the police—offers any resistance. They’d never imagine that a group of civilians would try to infiltrate their command center.”
He must have nodded off while curled up at the foot of the traveler’s palm. Tateno woke him up, shaking his shoulder and showing him his watch: “Almost time.” Shinohara stifled a cough as he sat up. This place was just a stone’s throw from the enemy camp, and the walls were made of glass. Shinohara and Tateno had remained here, separate from the main team, to survey the Koryos’ movements. At first they had concealed themselves behind a screw pine, then in a grassy area planted with peperomia, bowstring hemp, and peace lilies. This was where they had been when a Koryo officer suddenly materialized on the other side of the glass wall, no more than ten meters away. It was, in fact, the commanding officer, someone whose face they’d seen a number of times on TV. The Koryos weren’t occupying any floors above the third—what was he doing up here? When he appeared just outside the glass, Shinohara and Tateno had hit the dirt. The officer was holding an umbrella and was accompanied by two other officers and what appeared to be a Japanese doctor dressed in hospital whites. Shinohara was unable to breathe for a moment; cold sweat rolled down his stomach. Later they estimated that the Koryos had stood out there for only ten minutes or so, but at the time it had seemed an eternity. “I can’t take it,” Tateno whispered at one point. “I can’t take the tension.” He covered his mouth with both hands and clenched every muscle in his body to stifle a scream. Shinohara too was close to panicking. Because of the glass and the rain it was impossible to hear what was being said outside, but the officer looked and pointed their way several times. Of course, the fact that the top brass was there with virtually no protection showed at least that the Koryos had no suspicions about intruders. But Shinohara only realized this later on, after calmer reflection.
