Minna No Tame Ni

by Eve Cran

“Oi!” I said and stood up. “I need a fag.”

The American looked startled.

“Hello kitty.” Every bird was a pussy to me. “It ain’t what you think, love. I need a ciggie. Got one on ya?” I’d seen her before but never near me squat on the fourth floor of the mall in Narita Terminal 2. Today she’d decided to camp next aisle over. Near the dusty shelves where they once sold fake daisies and party streamers.

“No, sorry.” She raised her head from the carryon she used as a pillow. “Do you have a phone? Mine died and I want to tell my family I’m still—”

I had a mobile. Worked beautiful. But you didn’t get something for nothing ‘round here.

I shook me head.

Crumple-face went back to nibbling a rice cake and reading, her thumbs pushing pages back into Japanese for Dummies as they fell out.

“Oo’s got one?” I said to me fellow residents of Kousaido.

“You?” I gestured at Watanabe, the old geezer who shared the far end of me aisle. Cross-legged on a fraying mat, he ate with chopsticks from a bowl. Even after the apocalypse and five years living in a store, the man were proper.

“Iya, acchi itte, Crowly-san,” he said.

I scratched me beard. “Wot?”

“Basically, he said no,” called the sad sack from the other row.

Watanabe offered some of his food, which I shooed away.

I needed a cigarette. My weekly allocation had literally gone up in smoke, and I’d nicked a few from ol’ Watanabe already. Truth was, I’d have lifted one off a bloke with norovirus.

‍ ‍Hmm.

I’d decided to visit the infirmary when chimes played over the PA.

“Oshirase: kyuu na aki ga deta...” The woman talked for several minutes before landing on English. “Attention: Due to an immediate vacancy, the lottery has been held. Ticket holder 1103 will report to the Airport Authority in Terminal 2 immediately. Minna no tame ni.”

‍ ‍Bollocks.

I had to show me lottery ticket for food. To report for me job. To use the shitter, even.

Slowly, I pulled me things off the shelf—razor, toothbrush, an old Penthouse from November 2027, and me myna bird, Rocky. He never said much.

Pussy.

Me feet dragged—winning the lottery were never good here—as I made my way. Noticed the posh ads around the mall. Holidays to Crete and Mallorca. Chanel No. 5. Fancy headphones.

Then came a poster different from the rest. No exotic isle, sex, or chrome here. Just two photos. In one, a Japanese businessman walked near Tokyo Tower, sweltering under an enormous, radiating sun. The other showed the same scene, the suit shielded from the rays by giant mirrors in the sky, reflecting heat back into space and making Japan look like a cool, green oasis.

Well, they achieved beyond their wildest, didn’t they. Full marks for trying.

“How did you come to arrive at Narita, Crowly-san?”

“Plane. Like everyone else.” I coughed.

The plastic chair weren’t comfortable, wedged in between furniture like that. One of my knees tapped the side of a cabinet while the other rested against the desk of a woman named Fujiwara.

“Excuse me, I did not speak correctly. What brought you to Japan? Business or vacation?”

“Never even fancied Japan—just passing through when the mirrors went wrong.” I jutted me chin out. The Nippon had a lot to answer for but I kept me lips from flapping. Didn’t know what I’d “won” yet, did I? “Was supposed to be in Brisbane by teatime. Job in construction.”

“Have you heard from any family since the Shift?”

I swallowed a snort. Fujiwara used the official name for the change, making it sound like a phase the world were going through, like menopause.

I’d heard it called other things. Fubuki were Japanese for blizzard. Heard that a lot in Narita. The crazy Russians called it purga. Others said buran or fokk (my favorite).

“No family. Just Rocky,” I gestured toward the cage. Get.on.with.it. “What’s this about, then?”

“Of course. I am pleased to promote you from waste management services to Shinjuku Supply Train Operator. Congratulations.” She stood. Bowed.

Didn’t sound awful. “Erm, what happened to the last operator?”

“You will receive upgraded accommodation, premium food rations, and two extra cartons of cigarettes per week, which you can use for trade, if you wish.”

“Not on your life.” Who cared what happened. “Do I need to be able to read them boxy squiggles to drive the train?”

“The Kanji?”

“Yeah, that.”

“No, we can label the controls in English.” Fujiwara took her seat, told me about the trainer, where to find me new digs, and other claptrap. She even advanced the smokes to me, and I caressed the boxes. The earthy scent of tobacco in me nose did me good.

At last, Fujiwara shuffled a few crumpled papers and ran a finger down the last sheet.

“Ah, yes. I have one more question.”

I rose from the chair. I’d take this one on me feet.

“Have you ever fired a gun?”

That stopped me, good and cold.

Rocky cawed, “Pussy.”

I’d been assigned to Mieko Aoki for my apprenticeship. Three rides observing. Three rides driving, Mieko in the jump seat. Then on me own from then on. Cush job: drive the Narita Express to Shinjuku station, help load the cargo cars with whatever the Runners brought from the mall, then haul everyone back. Easy-peasy-your-mother’s-sleazy.

“How come the train still runs in all this?” I asked Mieko. First ride, and I had me nose pressed against the glass. I hadn’t been outside since the fokk-over. White drift oceans covered buildings, trees, and playgrounds, yet the train travelled through tidy snow channels.

“Constant operation.” Mieko were around my age; plump parts where they should be. Not chatty.

I fancied her already.

“Prevents accumulation on the tracks,” she said. The train pumfed through a larger pocket of snow. “Mostly.”

She pointed at an orange glow as we passed a junction. “And those.”

I waited for more. Lit a fag. Mieko turned on a small fan.

“And those are...?”

“Electric heaters for the switches.”

“What happens when they break, love? Someone must repair ‘em.” I snapped my fingers. “Another lottery winner?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “Your predecessor fixed the last one.”

We pulled into Shinjuku and a bunch of Runners got out.

I opened the cab window and leaned through, like Mieko told me. A whoosh of cold air bully-slapped me in the face.

“Fuck me!” I jerked inside and reached for the switch to close up when Mieko stopped me.

“Count them.”

Sure enough, when I poked out again, I saw another Runner leave the train. I clocked all ten, waddling in their winter gear to golf carts kitted with flatbeds or trailers.

Each buggy had been plugged into the wall on the far side. Overhead lights gave the concourse a tinge of green banana and the place smelled like cold metal. A flood of snow, debris, and—Jesus wept—people blocked the exits, probably a cave-in from above.

The lead Runner didn’t head toward any of that. He drove up to a utility door and by some hocus pocus opened a passageway just wide enough for the carts.

“Maintenance tunnel?” I said, gesturing at the door the Runners used.

“Hai,” she said, nodding yes, the long jacket of her snow suit falling open. Sheathed at her hip were a fucking sword.

“Bit much for a sled through the snow, innit?” I wheezed, cleared me throat, then motioned with my chin at what looked like a katana.

“Extra safety equipment.”

The butt of the gun they’d given me knocked against me ribs. I laid odds against ever needing it. No one survived 30 below, so all this talk of gangs were utter rot.

I shrugged. “Now what, darlin’?”

“Now we wait for their return.” She adjusted a small photograph taped to the controls. I peered at it and saw Mieko and a man holding a chubby, smiling baby.

‍ ‍Bugger.

Mieko caught me staring. “Fubuki took my husband.” She turned sorrowful on me. Gloomy face but no tears. An old wound, then. No longer messy, but raw enough to ache.

Didn’t know what to say except the obvious.

“Fucking dreadful, this fubuki kabuki.”

Mieko looked at me like I were a purple duck.

Then she laughed.

For the next hour, we stowed whatever the Runners brought from Shinjuku mall.

We worked until me head throbbed. “Be right back, love,” I said and headed for the adjoining car where I could smoke without bothering Mieko. Back when I collected garbage, I were a ghost. No one looked me in the face. Said anything to me. Mieko didn’t talk much, but she never looked away.

Seconds later, one of the carts careened into the hall like a dodgem at a carnival.

In the driver’s seat, I saw one of ours covered in blood, straddled—no mauled—by a ruddy bear!

Then the fur shifted in the fight.

Arms.

Beard.

Knife.

A man.

He thrust down, and though the driver thrashed aside and avoided another stab, I could tell it were a battle and war thing. The Runner weren’t going to win in the end.

I felt for the grip of me weapon but couldn’t find the release.

“Stay here!” cried Mieko and she slammed her fist on the button to release the door. If the suit slowed her down, it didn’t show.

Out of the scabbard came the katana. While the attacker had his back turned, Mieko jabbed, speared him through. Blood oozed through his gnarly hair and wild beard—his eyes stared only at death.

‍ ‍Blimey. Gangs could nest in the subways. Avoid the worst of it.

But Mieko! So brave.

Shame came over me. I should have gone to save the Runner. Not her. Not someone who would orphan a child good and proper if she died. I felt me face go cherry all over.

Meanwhile, the Runner managed to stand, bow, and thank Mieko who said something to him I couldn’t hear. Then she helped him to the passenger seat and drove them both to the train, where she found a first aid kit.

Me nerves were shaky, but I unloaded the goodies. Baby formula, shoes, and mobile phones.

The box of cells I stowed in the corner, out of the way, so more stuff could be loaded around it. I returned to the cart. The last box smelled wonderful. Cigarettes.

Whole. Cartons.

I popped one in me duffel while the two o’ them were doing the bandages.

Later, I asked, “What did you say to our lad after you samurai’d that mugger?”

“Minna no tame ni.”

“Me no understandi.”

“For the good of all.” Then she handed me a carton of smokes. “Next time, ask.”

That night, I tried to sleep but the Frights visited and rattled me eyelids.

I were in Narita airport mall, but all the stranded passengers had disappeared. Instead of people, boxes and cartons and packets surrounded me, stacked against walls and to the soaring roof.

Cigarettes!

At first, I crammed meself into a nook and puffed one right after the other. Then the boxes started crowding me.

Me feet knocked a few back and that’s when I saw the edges of a tall picture window. I pushed and wriggled until I walked through it, outdoors.

Only there weren’t no outside. Not really. Just me, standing in open snow, feeling dead warm, like someone had turned up the heat in my blood. I glowed. The sun shone through me pores.

All around, cold pressed in thick as fog, and shapes moved in it, hunched, coats held close.

A foreign-looking bloke came near. Tried to share me warmth. I pushed him on. When a blond fella stumbled into me, I caught him. Let him stick around a tick. Then I sent him on his way.

From then on, the shapes in the fog just moved along, one after another, never slowing, never a face turned toward the warmth. And there was me, shimmering away in me own little weather, people forever edging past.

Too soon, Mieko and me completed our sixth and last run together. We loaded the train and I spied the box of mobile phones from before. Shoved in the dark corner, it had been overlooked. “Can I ‘ave one of these?”

The American woman’s eyes glistened.

“Crawly, right?” She clutched the packaging to her chest. “I’m Monica.”

“Pleasure.”

“I’m sorry but I have to—thank you. Thank you!” she called over her shoulder as she ran away.

Fujiwara called Mieko and me into her office. After the formalities, she got right to it.

Scouts had found a joint U.S./British military cache near Chiba, and stuff needed picking up without attracting too much notice. Chiba still had electronics worth looting, and the Airport Authority didn’t want anyone sniffing around. A middle-aged man and a short bird would be dismissed as curious, but not noteworthy.

“Mieko is our most experienced driver.” Fujiwara turned to me. “You will be Runner.”

“What’s the cargo?” Mieko asked.

“Microwave amplifiers. Waveguides. Satellite uplink hardware.”

“Satellite stuff. What we need that for?” I said.

“To communicate with the atmosmirrors.”

“Right, and I’m the King of bloody England. I thought they was broken.”

“That is the official story, yes.”

“Come again?”

“You need to understand why this equipment matters.” Fujiwara folded her hands on the desk. “The atmosmirrors were hacked. By the Americans. And the British. Shortly after launch.”

“Absolute shite. The comms link failed.” I waved her away like a fly. Everyone knew it were a Japanese own goal.

Mieko hadn’t moved, but her jaw tightened—she looked like a pot of ragu about to boil over and onto the cooker.

Fujiwara said, “The atmosmirrors were an international project. Japan built the communications. The U.S. the orbiter. Britain the control software. They locked us out. You have seen the results.”

“Rubbish!”

“Is it really so far-fetched?” she said quietly. “You remember the climate, don’t you? Not the scorching sun. I mean the political and social environment... America first. Take back Britain.”

I weren’t much for newspapers, but I remembered.

Thought of other things like me dream. Me selfishness.

But to accuse—oh. The penny dropped. Why’d they have the very kit needed to talk to the orbiter unless they wanted their hands on the switch all along?

Gutted, I was.

“Why haven’t you corrected things?” me voice croaked.

“And what would that accomplish, Crowly-san? More division. Grudges. Isn’t it preferable to fix and not blame?” She bowed her head. “Minna no tame ni.”

That night, I took Rocky and a carton of smokes to the fourth floor of Kousaido. Monica had ‘er back to me.

“Oi, Rocky here needs someone to look after him more regular. Me new gig keeps me busy.” This weren’t the god’s honest, but it were right enough.

Monica shuffled around, her face wet. She’d been looking at a photograph in her wallet.

“Oh! Crowly...um.” She wiped her cheeks. “Yes, yes. Of course. Give him here. What does he eat?”

I walked forward, holding out the cage, but then I stopped.

“Erm,” I said, not sure what words to use. “I’m rubbish at saying things. But me ears work.”

Two hours later, Monica slept. I’d heard all about her father. How he’d made her eggs before school when she were a girl. How he’d sent her Easter baskets when she moved away to college. How he’d asked about her until his death, a week ago.

Me head hung low as I shuffled over to old Watanabe, tucked the carton under the covers. Then I reconsidered and threw it in the bin as I left.

“Better for you,” I whispered.

The next morning, we pulled into Chiba.

Since Mieko were more fit than me, we decided she would be Runner, just in case we met any muggers. I’d wait in the train and open the cargo doors when she returned. We didn’t tell Fujiwara we’d changed the plan.

I didn’t tell Mieko the plan never changed.

I unlocked the door to the cab, as if to slide it open for Mieko. Instead, I rushed out, heaved the door shut and locked it with me key. By the time she got out her own, I’d be halfway there.

But straight away, I knew me lungs weren’t up for the walk. Me chest wheezed like an old accordion, and the cold were spikey, like someone rammed a mace down me throat.

Mieko banged on the window. “Crowly! No!”

Then I saw me salvation beneath a bench. A rusted bicycle. That’s the ticket.

In seconds, I’d cracked the bike free of ice and got on.

I turned, mouthed to Mieko, “Stay there!”

Behind the glass, her face were fury and terror both. Better her furious than dead.

The scouts had hidden the supplies in the farthest waiting room, where people used to smoke or escape the rain. I pedaled—nonchalant, me—and skittered across black ice but I made me way, alright.

Joe Camel cool, I dismounted and slipped inside. There it were, underneath a seat. I snatched the box—then staggered back at the sight outside.

Three shapes rose from the drifting white.

Beards. Furs. Knives.

Me hand went for the gun before me brain caught up. Safety catch. Which way did it go? Fujiwara had shown me once. I’d forgotten twice.

So I ran instead. Got on the bike and balanced the box on the bars. I wobbled for the train, but though me legs had more in ‘em, me lungs didn’t.

Boots pounded behind me.

Mieko stood just inside the cargo doors, hand ready to draw. “No!” I yelled at her.

Someone grabbed me coat. I crashed off the bike but gained me feet long enough to send the box sliding across the ice. Mieko stopped it with her body, then tossed it inside the train.

One of the muggers ran by, chasing the box. I caught his trouser leg and held on with all I had until a blade found me. Then another.

‍ ‍Close the door, I thought, me grip slipping.

Mieko met me eyes, then slammed the door shut.

Shapes lost definition and the air wavered. Something warm and thick ran down, sticky under me coat.

The train revved.

It started to snow.

A man appeared, covered in flakes, smiling. Mieko’s husband, Aoki-san. I ran. Me lungs filled deep. Bottomless.

He hugged me as I laughed and wept.

“Minna no tame ni.”