[h3]Tokyo[/h3] [b]Imperial Palace 12:51 PM[/b] "Door pounding woke Sam up. The hangover pounding his temples was even worse. He reached across the bed to find a bottle that wasn't empty. No dice. He stumbled through empty bottles and crushed cans towards the front door. He still wore last night's clothes: an unknotted tie and rumpled shirt with pants that had just a hint of puke on them. 'Samuel Bennett?' Two men at the door. Meatheads in black suits and sunglasses. Très goon chic. Sam leaned against the door frame. Sam cut odds he could take them. A long shot at best. Sucker's bet on that. Instead, he nodded and lit up a smoke. 'The same Samuel Bennett of Samuel Bennett Investigations?' Sam blew smoke rings. 'The one and the same.' 'We need you to come with us, Mr. Bennett.' Sam cleaned his nails and yawned. 'Why is it these things always start with two dickheads in suits wanting me to come with them?' One of the meatheads cracked his knuckles. The other popped his neck. Flexing and posturing were punk moves. Sam knew the way to scare a man wasn't by cracking your knuckles. It was by cracking [i]his[/i] bones. He laughed and shook his head. 'If you two gorillas can get me a stiff drink then I'll go wherever you want me to go.'" -- Nobuhito looked up from his typewriter and rubbed his chin. Like with most of his writing, he knew where he wanted to go. He had a vague outline and general idea of the story beats and would fill those beats in as he went. This would be his fourth novel featuring Sam Bennett, a hard-drinking private investigator who worked in an unnamed American city. A cheap publishing firm in America had bought the manuscripts and printed them as twenty-five cent paperbacks. The name on the cover was that of H.B. Jamison, the pen name Nobuhito used for his work. The publisher's had no idea who he really was. The manuscripts he sent out came from a Tokyo post office box, the same with the small checks they mailed to him. The checks, which he never bothered to cash so they still sat in the bottom drawer of his desk, all together probably amounted to less than five percent of what he spent each year as Emperor. He put his fingers back on the typerwriter keys but stopped when he heard approaching footsteps. Kiddo's chubby face appeared through the door of his private office. Nobuhito felt a slight surge of annoyance at seeing his private secretary. It was well understood that for three hours after lunch he was not to be disturbed. "[i]Heika[/i]," he said with a bow and downcast eyes. "I am so sorry to interrupt your private time." "What it is, Kiddo-kun?" "It is Count Togai," said Kiddo, his eyes still staring at the floor. "He is insistent." Nobuhito sighed and removed his reading glasses. He had hoped to finish at least the first three chapters of his latest novel. But it seemed as if the adventures of Sam Bennett would have to wait until tomorrow. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and nodded at Kiddo. "Let him in." "[i]Heika[/i]," Togai said as he entered. He bowed, but not as deeply as Kiddo and he maintained eye contact with the Emperor. "How are you this afternoon?" "Fine," Nobuhito said, removing the first page of his manuscript from the typewriter. "Taking some time away from work to write poetry." "Ah, I'd love to read some." Togai sat down in one of the two chairs facing the Emperor's desk. He crossed a long, thin leg over the other and placed his weathered hands on his knees. The old man was the only person in the Royal Family who could remember Emperor Meiji at the height of his power and the struggles that came with the Meiji's new vision for Japan. "Maybe one day, Uncle," Nobuhito said with a smile. "Once I am confident any of it is good." The count waved a wrinkled hand dismissively. "I'm sure it is fine, Your Majesty." The Emperor grunted and looked at Togai with a raised eyebrow. "So, you wanted to see me? I assume this is some [i]Genrō[/i] business?" "Yes," the count said with a nod. "I just came from a very productive meeting with the Prime Minister and the military men." "Oh?" "Yes. The Communists are invading Russia. The war ministers think that now is the time to conquer the Philippines." "Of course they do," Nobuhito said with a sigh. "And I assume Prime Minister Chiba was not of that opinion?" "Correct." The Emperor shook his head. This fall would mark the tenth year of his reign. The majority of that time he had been pressing for governmental change. Inspired by the model of western governments, he wanted all facets of the Imperial government be overseen and administered by the prime minister, a prime minister appointed and held accountable by the Emperor. Easier said that done, especially when it came to taking power away from the old men who had grown accustomed to it. "Do you not think they are too eager?" the Emperor asked. "They remember well the stings of our defeats in China," said Togai. "They are eager to make up for the humiliations. The conquering of the Russian territories helped, but with the Philippines we would have precious resources and dominate the South China Sea." "You seem eager as well, Uncle." Togai bowed his head. "Yes, I admit that I am. I remember the wars with the Qing and the Russians, back when we were an empire on the rise. Now we seem to be one of stagnation, Your Majesty. Our future is an uncertain one." The count let his gaze linger on the Emperor. Nobuhito could feel his face warming as it flushed. He knew damn well what the old man was insinuating. "Be careful, Uncle," he said after a long silence. "You will always be my wife's uncle, that will never change. But my[i]Genrō[/i] I can easily change." Now it was Toagi's turn to blush. This in anger instead of embarrassment. The old man's hands gripped his legs tightly and he slowly bower his head. "A thousand apologies. I misspoke. I am just worried about the future. Six years of marriage and no child--" "You do not need to remind me," the Emperor said curtly. "And is there anything else besides the Philippines idea?" "No, [i]Heika[/i]." "Then you may leave. I shall hear a proposal from the war ministry about the Philippines when one is ready." Toagi stood, bowing deep this time, and slowly exited the office. Nobuhito watched him leave and continued to stare off into space after he was gone. The old man was right to be worried. He and Kiko had yet to produce a child, let alone a boy who could become heir to the throne. He was the last male descendant of the line, his father's third son. Nobuhito was never supposed to be an emperor. His two older brothers had went off and learned at the right hand of their father how to govern and how to rule. They had gone to school to learn about politics and the military. He had gone to school to learn literature. His oldest brother reigned as emperor for all of two years before he dropped dead of a heart defect. No children so the throne passed to middle brother Kazuo. At the age of thirty, Nobuhito finally began to learn about how to be an emperor. It was at the suggestion of the royal family. It was a long shot, Kaz was young and healthy and he had just married a young woman who would give him lots of heirs. But as healthy as his older brother was, he wasn't invincible. Kaz and the Empress were on the way to the imperial retreat in the north when their plane crashed in the countryside. He was in Korea on a goodwill tour when he got the news. The governor-general and his entire staff kneeled before him, everyone afraid to make eye contact. That was when Nobuhito knew he was in deep, deep trouble. The man who was never supposed to rule was now sitting on the Chrysanthemum Throne. The man who wrote detective novels in his free time now ruled over millions and decided the fate of an entire empire. Sighing, Nobuhito turned back to his typewriter. H.B. Jamison didn't have to worry about wars and a teetering empire. All he had to worry about was meeting his deadline. Sam Bennett's gin-soaked world of pulp fiction was the emperor's escape. He was rough around the edges, but the square-jawed detective always saved the day and caught the bad guy. -- "Sam sipped booze out of a paper-covered bottle. The stuff was cut-rate, but there was enough booze to stop the headache. He sat in a study filled with books. Sam thought of a book he read in school once, it had a rich guy and a big study filled with books that were never read. He stared hard at a liquor cabinet in one corner. The sight made his mouth water. Scotch, high-grade grain alcohol. The real deal. It put his cut-rate drink to shame." --- [h3]Siberia[/h3] [b]Urajiosutoku 11:34 AM[/b] Nagumo flew the plane low over the hilly forest, the wings so close to touching the tree tops. He lined up the cargo truck in his sights and opened fire. The bullets ripped across the side of truck and sent a group of Russians scattering away from it. Nagumo pulled up and began to circle overhead. He could see a group of Japanese soldiers advancing on the truck, opening fire at the fleeing Russians. Above it all, Nagumo could see train tracks a few kilometers away from the dirt road where the truck was parked. He could see smoke off in the distance. "Tempura Six to ground patrol," he said in the mic. "I have eyes on a rail line and what appears to be a locomotive approaching." "Ground patrol to Tempura six, Confirm the locomotive," came the reply from the officer on the ground. Nagumo flew higher and sped up. He saw a steam train traveling around the bend with a single boxcar attached to it. It was an older model, nothing like the gasoline powered trains the empire used today. It was technology befitting the Russians who had to steal and cobble together everything they had. "If it's a friendly, it's one from the past. I think I found the Russians getaway vehicle." "Roger that. Keep an eye on it and if you see Russians climbing aboard, open fire." He copied and began to keep an eye on the action below. He saw gunfire erupting through the trees, inching closer and closer to the rail. Meanwhile, the train began to slow and expel steam as it arrived at what had to be a rendezvous point. A few minutes later Japanese soldiers emerged from the treeline and opened fire on the train. Nagumo knew then that his part in all this was over. He had already started back to the city when he was ordered by air control to head back. He sped up and climbed higher and higher until the trees all blended together and the train and soldiers were long gone. Over the horizon he saw the massive building complex located just twenty miles north of Urajiosutoku. It comprised twelve buildings, four giant eight story ones surrounded by eight smaller buildings. The eight small ones were barracks and bunks that housed prisoners and guards, the four large ones were the factories that helped keep the Japanese economy afloat. Nobody had said it, but he knew the fleeing Russians had come from here. Officially it did not exist. Those that knew about it did not talk about it, but yet it was widely known by everyone in this part of Siberia. They called it The Farm. Like a lot of hard facts of Japanese life, they talked about it without actually talking about it. Everyone knew of the horrors that went on inside its barbed-wire fences. Nagumo gave a half-hearted salute as he passed above The Farm. If it was as bad as they said, then Nagumo could at least sympathize with the escaping Russians. But they had surrendered and lost any claims they had to be treated as honorable men. Real soldiers died fighting or killed themselves before they could be captured. Cowards surrendered and were left to their fate. He began final preparations to land and put the thoughts of The Farm out of his mind, focusing on landing without incident. He had work to do once he touched the ground. He had to write a report and be debriefed on what happened in the forest, schedules to review, daily logs to audit and mounds and mounds of paperwork. The life of a flyboy. "Tempura Six to Ground Control," he said, keying his mic. "Requesting permission to begin final approach." "Come on home, Tempura Six."