Analog SFF, June 2011 (27 page)

The shutter slid open. Dr. Nakaya was standing inside, holding a walking stick like a club. “What happened?"

"I lost him.” He stepped into the hall, closing the shutter. “Did you call the police?"

"Yes. The inspector said he'll be here soon. He wants us to lock all the doors and stay where we are."

"Okay.” Hakaru bolted the shutter, adze still in hand, then limped around to the other doors, testing them one by one. When he was finished, he headed for the stairs. “Come on. I need to check something."

Dr. Nakaya followed him up the narrow steps to the floor above. “What is it?"

"I know what's happening here. It isn't a kawataro. It's something else entirely."

Going into his room, Hakaru leaned the adze against the wall, then limped over to the pile of books on the floor. Picking up a volume, he flipped through it rapidly, looking for a page he had read the night before.

"Here,” Hakaru said, finding the place he wanted. “As far as I understand it, there's never been a genetic study of the village, so we aren't entirely sure what kind of deafness this is, right?"

"Right,” Dr. Nakaya said, lowering herself to the floor. “If it were part of a syndrome, we would have seen ear abnormalities, issues with the retina or kidneys, but we've found nothing. It's nonsyndromic."

"I think you're wrong. These people are suffering from Pendred Syndrome.” Hakaru showed her the page. “It's an autosomal recessive condition, which is consistent with the distribution patterns you've seen. It's caused by a mutation of a single gene encoding for a protein that transports iodine into the thyroid gland. This affects the development of the inner ear, which results in deafness. In the majority of cases, it also leads to thyroid disease."

Dr. Nakaya studied the book. “And what makes you think this is happening here?"

"Because the killer we saw tonight is suffering from the advanced stages of hypothyroidism.” Hakaru picked up a diagnostic manual and quickly found the relevant page. “You see? In severe cases, the victim's hair falls out. The skin becomes scaly and puffy. It may even turn yellow. And it leads to goiter, which explains the swelling under the killer's neck."

"But if all the deaf villagers have this syndrome, why haven't we seen more cases of hypothyroidism?"

"Because of their diet,” Hakaru said, trying to remember his undergraduate medical classes. “A Japanese diet, especially in a seaside village like this, is high in iodine. It's full of fish, seafood, seaweed. Which means that even if the deaf villagers have trouble processing iodine, their diet has enough of it to offset the worst symptoms of hypothyroidism. And this explains something else. The innkeeper told me that the soil here is full of iodine, which makes sense. We have generations of people in this village consuming high levels of iodine, but they can process only a fraction of it, which means that the rest passes into the ground."

Dr. Nakaya looked at the book. “And if someone was forced to change his diet, symptoms of hypothyroidism would soon appear. The goiter. The yellow skin. Which explains why the killer looks the way he does."

"And it may explain something else,” Hakaru said, scanning the article. “Another side effect of advanced hypothyroidism is psychosis. Myxedema madness. It can cause delirium, hallucinations, dementia. Which means the killer may even believe that he's really a kawataro—"

He broke off. Outside the inn, below the steady rhythm of rain, he had heard a noise from the garden. It had been soft, furtive, as if someone were walking cautiously along the gravel bed.

Hakaru turned off the light and went to the window, which faced the rear of the inn. Sliding it open, he looked down at the yard. At first, he saw nothing, just a uniform surface of gravel, broken up by decorative stones and illuminated by pools of light from the lamps.

Then he saw movement. Someone was standing in the shadow of the shed. He leaned forward, trying to see who was there, then finally noticed what the figure was wearing. It was a red raincoat.

Dr. Nakaya joined him at the window. “I don't think we should stay here."

"Neither do I.” Picking up the adze, Hakaru went out into the corridor. Dr. Nakaya crept close behind, walking stick clutched in one hand, and followed him to the stairs. They reached the hall, then continued to the vestibule, where Hakaru unlocked the front door.

Outside, the street was deserted. They left the inn, looking up the road. A block away, the door of the standing bar cast a rectangle of white light. “We'll go there,” Hakaru said. “Then we'll call the police."

They moved toward the safety of the bar. Hakaru, feeling as if his nerves were about to snap, glanced at Dr. Nakaya. She seemed calm enough, but her face was pale, and she gripped the walking stick tightly.

Behind him, he heard footsteps. Turning, he saw the boy in the red raincoat, who was watching them from the entrance to the inn. As Hakaru looked on, the boy was joined by the same boy and girl he had seen before. Hakaru, pulse rising, was about to call out to them when he felt Dr. Nakaya stiffen at his side.

He turned back to the street. Standing in the middle of the road was the figure from the garden. Its head was bowed, rain running down its body. In one hand was the knife. He could not make out its face. In the silence, he could hear the soft push and pull of its respiration.

"No,” Hakaru said. He found that he was terrified. The image flashed across his mind of the councilman's slashed throat, like a second mouth, and the innkeeper's body, a shapeless heap on the floor of the shed. His fingers grew cold. Then, gathering the shreds of his courage, he raised the adze.

"Wait,” Dr. Nakaya said. He felt her fingers on his arm, holding him back. “Not yet."

As Hakaru watched, astonished, she went forward until she was nearly close enough to touch the darkened figure. She looked it in the eye. Except for the steady rise and fall of its shoulders, it did not move.

Then she clasped her hands together in her lap, lowering her gaze, and bowed.

A second later, the figure bowed back. As it did, the rain that had gathered on its head spilled down its face, as if a vessel on its skull were being emptied. When it had lowered its head all the way, it kept it there.

There was a shout from up the street. Hakaru saw that a handful of men at the bar had noticed what was happening. As they ran forward, a set of headlamps lit up the night as a car pulled up to the curb. The inspector emerged, holding a flashlight, which he directed on the shadowy figure in the road.

Hakaru stared in surprise. The figure standing before him was barely more than a boy. His condition had aged him, yellowing his skin, taking away his hair, inflating his throat like a balloon, but when he looked up, blinking, he seemed no more than fourteen years old.

"Kenji,” the inspector said. Hakaru recognized the name. Opening his hand, Kenji, the boy who had disappeared, let the knife fall, then turned to the crowd that had gathered on all sides. His eyes were dull and vacant, like those of a child awakened from sleep. Dr. Nakaya picked up the knife, then fell back as others pressed forward. Going up to meet her, Hakaru looked over his shoulder. Behind him, the street was empty. The children had vanished.

"As far as we can tell, only three children were involved,” the inspector said, taking a sip of tea. “Most of them are good kids, but those three, especially the oldest, were bad news. Over time, they've created their own little world. One of them, the girl, could even hear, but they were inseparable. And they wanted to make sure that they would never be forced apart."

They were seated in the noodle shop off the main road, bowls and cups nearly empty. Dr. Nakaya looked thoughtfully at the remains of her ramen. “So they forced Kenji to kill anyone who got in their way."

The inspector nodded. “As far as we can tell, they began by electing him to get rid of a teacher they hated. Kenji was an outcast, unpopular, who could be easily manipulated. His mother is dead, you know, and his father was a drunk. We're still trying to track him down. In any case, they arranged for him to kill the teacher, then helped him to escape to the woods."

Hakaru finished his tea. “So he's been hiding in the forest for the past three years?"

"That's how it looks. We've even found where he was living. It's a hovel on the most thickly forested part of the cliffs. The other children brought him food and other necessities whenever they remembered that he was up there. Leftover tofu, cabbage, that sort of thing—"

"Thyroid inhibitors,” Hakaru said. “Which would have made his symptoms worse."

"And it appears that he slowly went crazy,” the inspector said. “The children had him kill that woman, Mrs. Yukawa, when she threatened to send the oldest child away. Then they went after the councilman, who was going to force them to change schools, and the innkeeper, whom the girl heard telling you about the other deaths. By the end, Kenji believed that he really was a kawataro. He even drank the blood of his victims, which might have been due to his thyroid condition as well. I'm told that it can lead to salt craving and anemia—"

Dr. Nakaya set down her teacup. “So what's going to happen to him now?"

"He's being treated for hypothyroidism. Most of the physical symptoms will go away in time. His psychosis may diminish as well, although it's possible that his nervous system has been permanently damaged. Once he recovers, if he ever does, we'll decide what to do with him. But it's no longer my concern."

After a few more pleasantries, the inspector put on his cap, which he had set beside him on the table, and headed for the door. Hakaru watched him leave. “So what happens next?"

Dr. Nakaya sighed. “Probably nothing. If word of the killings gets out, it will only make it harder for the villages to merge. My guess is that it will be hushed up. Japan is very good at looking the other way."

"I know.” Hakaru settled the bill, then rose from the table. “And your research?"

"It's over. If you ask the villagers, they'll say that this whole mess has convinced them that assimilation is more important than ever. That these children should never have been left on their own for so long. So the merger will proceed. They won't want me here in the meantime."

They left the noodle shop. Outside, two young girls were walking up the road, their hands clasped, laughing loudly. “Before long, the local language will change forever,” Dr. Nakaya said, watching as the children passed. “It's only a matter of time before it's gone for good."

"I'm sorry,” Hakaru said. “I'd hoped we'd have a chance to work together again."

Dr. Nakaya turned aside, but not before he saw her face. It was the first time he had ever seen her smile. “Don't worry. There will be other projects. And perhaps it's all for the best—"

Following her into the road, Hakaru was surprised to hear this. “What do you mean?"

Dr. Nakaya only looked away. Following her gaze, Hakaru saw a ball bouncing along the street, pursued shortly afterward by the girl he had seen at the schoolyard. She caught the ball in both hands, then glanced up at him. Hakaru waved. The girl stared, then ran up to where the two other girls were waiting. Laughing, the children set off together, walking hand in hand toward the river.

Copyright © 2011 Alec Nevala-Lee

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Military science fiction is one of the most dynamic and commercially successful areas of the field. There's nothing odd about that; fiction is usually based on conflict, and war is the ultimate form of conflict. War stories are instantly accessible; there are usually bad guys and good guys for the reader to identify with, the world of the military is a familiar one, and there's plenty of occasion for action.

In addition, no matter how little we may want to admit this, trends in science fiction parallel those in the wider culture. In our current era—unlike, say, the late 1960s or 1970s—war is a popular topic. (And even in the most pacifist age, war is a concern of fiction. The most ardently antiwar novel is still a novel about war.)

In the beginning there was no separate genre of military SF; as with other themes that later grew into their own genres, war and military personnel were just occasional parts of SF stories. Jules Verne's Captain Nemo carried on his own war to end war. John Carter was a former military man who moved to Mars and achieved the rank of Warlord. H. G. Wells's Martians came to Earth for—guess what?—a War of the Worlds. E. E. “Doc” Smith's Lensmen were players in a millennia-old war between implacable enemies.

In the wake of World War II—and subsequent anxiety about possible imminent nuclear armageddon—SF writers frequently addressed war and military matters. Some of the direct precursors of modern military SF included Robert A. Heinlein's Space Cadet and Starship Trooper, Gordon R. Dickson's Dorsai books, Fred Saberhagen's Berserker stories, and Poul Anderson's tales of Sir Dominic Flandry and his standalone novel The High Crusade. The Vietnam War brought a different sensibility and works like Joe Haldeman's The Forever War (a direct response to Starship Troopers), Gregory Benford's Deeper Than the Darkness, and David Drake's Hammer's Slammers series.

Experts point to the 1975 reprint anthology Combat SF, edited by Gordon R. Dickson, as helping to establish the concept of military SF as a separate genre. This remarkable volume included a Berserker story, an early Hammer's Slammers tale, one of Keith Laumer's Bolo stories, a Forever War story, Poul Anderson's “The Man Who Came Early” (an early story of a military man who brings modern war technology into the past), and other tales by Harry Harrison, Jerry Pournelle, and Dickson himself.

If Robert A. Heinlein and Gordon R. Dickson are the grandfathers of military SF, then David Drake certainly deserves to be credited as the genre's father. In the mid-1980s, his Hammer's Slammers series paved the way for the resurgence of military SF that has lasted to this day. While these books are firmly in the tradition of modern military SF, Drake (a Vietnam vet) has stated that one of his motivations was to educate nonmilitary readers about the horror and inadequacy of war. In this way, he bridges the gap between Vietnam-era antiwar feelings and today's more pro-military attitudes.