PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE—GIVE AND TAKE

With thunder rumbling overhead, Ichiro glanced up into the trees, and though the crack in the canopy he could see that the clouds were black and angry.

The storm would be a bad one—as they usually were during the early summer months. He glanced about through the tall grass near the base of the tree, hoping he might find a nice big patch of mushrooms.

But there was nothing.

The military lockdown hadn’t lifted ever since the nation-wide riots, resulting in the deaths of tens of thousands across the country.

With martial law in effect, it was hard to get around. If caught, Ichiro would surely suffer a beating as well as imprisonment.

To this date, no one understood why Empress Akamine had gone from a benevolent ruler to a despot with an iron grip.

But there are a lot of rumors.

Nothing that could be relied upon completely. One such rumor that did have some small amount of credence was that after she had hit her head during her trip north, something had knocked loose, and now—for whatever reason—she had lost all sense of empathy for the people of Paradaisu.

And there were a hundred more just like it.

Something buzzed next to his ear preceding a sharp pinch at his neck. Grunting with the sudden pain of the bug bite, Ichiro smacked the back of his neck hard enough to make his skin smart. When he brought his hand back there was a small splatter of blood and bug guts on his fingers.

It was too bad they couldn’t eat mosquitos.

But really, this was all Governor Madison’s fault. She had been particularly vehement in the lockdown of her region—forcing everyone to stay home and to bring their required passes before attempting to travel into any part of the city that she allowed access to. Often permission was rejected, leaving people stranded or despondent.

Acceptable travel locations were based on your city district, regardless of your need to leave those accepted areas. This had forced most out of work.

The economy was dead.

The rations trucks had come by daily.

Then they missed a few days. That was shocking

Eventually a weekly routine had been established for some time.

But when the trucks started not coming all together on some weeks, the frequency of their missed stops more frequent and in longer intervals, it begame clear to Ichiro that the people couldn’t count on the government for assistance—assistance for a problem they had created with their military lockdowns.

He wasn’t certain weather the riots had been part of the plan by the Paradaisu Resistance Forces—but even had they been, Empress Akamine’s response to scramble anti-personnel mechs in every district had been an insane order.

Ichiro had been a part of those protests—or rather, he had been present—but luckily for him, never saw any action up close. Those that did were dead or too scared to ever go out and protest again.

He shuffled through the wet grass and went down the hill toward the other trees and found a nice big clump of the edible mushrooms. He put them in his satchel, their pungent scents filling his nose as he picked them. Yuki would be ecstatic.

Stolen novel; please report.

Ichiro’s stomach rumbled.

As he rubbed it, he glanced up at the sound of harsh voices coming from the roadside up ahead.

Narrowing his eyes, Ichiro stepped forward through the tall grass, a view of the city beyond was bright and beautiful in the shining sun. It was the black clouds on the other side that threatened to destroy all the mushrooms.

But new ones would grow.

“I told you to show me your ID!”

Narrowing his eyes, Ichiro stalked forward silently as the all-terrain vehicle came into view. It was a Madison Army vehicle. It looked like they had stopped a man on foot.

“Are you a resistance fighter?”

“What?” the man asked in surprised. “Of course not! I told you. My name is John Dawson and I forgot my pass and identification card at home.”

“You know what the penalty for this is?” the other soldier asked as he came up around the man called Dawson and hit him in the back with the butt of his assault rifle.

Grunting, he went down to one knee as the other soldier searched through his pockets. He struggled somewhat, but the soldier who hit him pointed his weapon. If he continued to resist, they would shoot him.

It had happened before.

A few times.

“What’s this?” the second soldier said as he lifted something. “It looks like a military dispatch. You’re a residence fighter spy!”

“No I’m not!”

The first soldier turned around. Ichiro ducked out of sight, but the soldier cried out. “Stop! Come out now, or I will shoot you!”

Shit.

With his hands raised, Ichiro stepped out of the grass and into the rood. “Come here!” the soldier said. They were both wearing urban uniforms containing a mixture of black, grey and green in the fabric. As Ichiro approached the soldier asked, “Are you with him?” and jerked his head toward Dawson.

Glancing at the spy… or the resistance fighter—whatever he was, Ichiro shook his head.

“You are lying! We’re taking you in for questioning.”

“I am not with him,” Ichiro said. “I am just out gathering mushrooms. Look, you can see them in my—“

“DON’T MOVE OR I WILL SHOOT!”

He froze.

“Stop!” the other guard growled suddenly. “I said stop!”

They were struggling and then suddenly Dawson grabbed the soldier’s rifle, thrust it away and punched him.

The second soldier turned to help his comrade, and that’s when Ichiro made a split second decision. If this man was killed, it would harm the resistance—if in fact he was a residence fighter.

If Dawson killed one or both of the soldiers, they would want to make an example of him, and likely Ichiro too, even if he wasn’t a part of this resistance fighter’s party.

Heart thundering in his chest, Ichiro lunged forward, grabbing the soldier about to stop Dawson by the neck and locking his arm around him.

Struggling and grunting, the guard fired off his rifle into the air as he brought his elbow painfully into Ichiro’s ribs.

Suddenly Dawson turned and the soldier in Ichiro’s grasp stiffened, then went slack as he fell to the assault

Ichiro’s eyes went to the bloody blade in the other man’s hand. Breathing heavily, Dawson said, “Thanks for that.”

Ichiro’s first reaction was to pick up the fallen assault rifle.

What have I done?

“Who are you?” Ichiro asked. “Are you really in the PRF?”

Nodding, the man spilled his guts. “I am. I’m carrying urgent dispatches to my commander.”

“You are not a very good spy.”

“Who said anything about being a spy?” the man said with a grin. “By the way, my name is Dawson. John Dawson.” He put out his hand.

Ichiro took it, but didn’t reveal his name in turn.

“You are very carefree with your name.”

“I’m a residence fighter,” he said. “I’m wanted dead or alive anyway.”

Ichiro nodded. “I have saved you.”

“Thank you.”

Ichiro was not one to gloat, but he saw this as a sudden opportunity. He had things to do, and now that he had killed a soldier to save this man’s life, he figured Dawson owed him a favor. “Now you will do something for me.”

“Listen,” Dawson said as he glanced about. “We better get off the road.” He moved and got into the all-terrain vehicle. “Come on, I know where we can stash this thing.”

Ichiro looked at him for a moment, then decided to get in. “You will help me.”

His statement was not a question. But the other man didn’t seem to realize that when he said, “Yeah—when I can. Sure.”

“No,” Ichiro said. “You would be dead right now if it weren’t for me, and dead now is what you will be if you do not help me.”

“Well shit, are you a samurai or something—threatening me like that?”

You’re not far off.

Ichiro looked at him, his eyes narrowing.

“All right, all right. What do you need me for?”

“We are going to hit a food truck.”

He chortled, his eyes widening slightly. “Is that all?” Dawson asked.

Ichiro nodded.

“Sure…” He nodded. “Sure, I’ll help you.”

“Then let’s go.”

John Dawson drove the all-terrain vehicle off the road where they wouldn’t be seen by more members of Governor Madison’s army.