0912 local - Friday, 5th January, 1996

  I arrived at Quantico right after breakfast, my first station after 2 years at Camp Fuji, a 36 hour plane ride (with layovers) and 45 minutes in a car with nothing but the pack I had for special training and the uniform on my back. They took all my other stuff at the airport I landed at for inspection. The lobby was like a mausoleum, black marble floors, tall white walls overlooking trees and hills, and a single dias-like desk with a single receptionist. My footfalls echoed as I approached, and her voice broke the hallowed silence of the IERF.

  “Welcome? Your name?”

  “Ono Yumatori.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry! Sumimasen! Anata wa nihonjindesu. Dō ka watashi ni hanasa sete kudasai.” Really good accent.

  “Oh, no no, I speak English fine, sorry, Yumatori Ono, sorry, forgot, Family name second, been Japanese a while.”

  Mousey blonde, hazel eyes. Pretty. First time in the West this go. I hope I haven’t lost it.She paused at my Americanized accent.

  “I’d assume your whole life?”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “Why do you sound like you’re from Boston?” She typed my information into a computer, making small talk. I thought for a bit.

  “Paul Newman fan. The Verdict? Learned English through movies.” She nodded absently as she looked at me on the screen. Good Will Hunting will be out next year and I could use that eventually.

  “Private Ono, welcome to Virginia.” She looked up. Pretty. Small talk. Virtueless smile. I’ll pass on chatting. This was another day for her and she probably gets bothered a lot. She opened a drawer, pulled out a premade introduction folder and a name badge that aggressively said “VISITOR” on it, and wrote my name on it, First name first, family name second. She handed me both. “You’ll get your official badge after you settle down, keep this on while you’re on campus. Elevators just behind me, you’ll want the second floor. When you’re on 2, walk down the hall, first double doors on your right, room 202. Can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  I held the badge up in acknowledgment and clipped it onto my collar. My footfalls resonated on black marble as I went to the left bank of elevators, pressed the button, got in, and went up to 2. Room 202 was windowed, classroom style, 50 seat stadium, a training room with an overhead and screen, dry-erase on the wall. Walking in, there were three others sitting facing the front. They turned in their seats to look at me. An SO leaned up against a table in the pit, his arms crossed. He was a well-toned but slight man, graying brown hair. The rest I could tell only a few details as I walked down the steps: blonde woman, blue-eyed, tall even sitting, American from her languid posture; brown-haired hulk, he sat very formally, probably French or German; heavy set, olive complexion and tribal tattoos, a warm, inviting face, Polynesian of some sort for sure. They all wore different colors of fatigues, so I fit in with my uniform. I made it to the pit, dropped my pack and saluted to the SO.

  “Private Yumatori Ono, sir.”

  “What’s that rank in Japan called, son?” His southern drawl was like molasses.

  “Ittō-Hei, sir. Private, first class.”

  “At ease, son, we don’t gotta be so formal where we is. Take a seat. Others should be along shortly. Just don’t sit too far away, I don’t like raising my voice none.”

  I loosened up, picked up my pack, and looked around. The French/German was in the seat to the left, the Polynesian behind him, and the American girl was on the right of the aisle with a seat away from me. She saw my eyes on the chair and her hand patted on it.

  “C’mon! Won’t bite you!” She sounded smaller than she was. I sat in the chair and heard the Polynesian guy giggle to himself. When I looked up at her, she was a full head taller, sitting slouched. I’m 171 cm, I was kind of afraid to see her standing. She smiled down at me and offered a hand, “I’m Bonds, Kelly Bonds, with an ‘s,’ not like the secret agent. Oh, Private too, we all have that in common. I’m American though, if you couldn’t tell.” Her hands were cold but gentle. She talked wicked fast. Midwestern? She let go of my hand and I looked around at the others. The French/German looked at me.

  “We can do introductions later once everyone is here, I think.” Stick in the mud, German accent. The Polynesian guy shrugged with a smile, his hands crossed over his belly. He looked pleasant.

  “Oh, c’mon, Kaufmann, don’t be like that. Go on, be friendly, might help with training later,” said our SO. The German sighed.

  “Soldat Egon Kaufmann. Munich.” He turned to face the front.

  “Hey bud, Private Koroi, but you can call me Sammi. I’m from Fiji,” he hummed more than he spoke.

  Over the course of 15 minutes others filed in much as I did, a gearpack or two about them, dressed in their military garb from whatever country they were from.

  Yvette Vivec, France. Brown hair, alarming green eyes, probably turned heads back in Paris.

  Rohit Kaur, Britain, Indian descent, charming, but I detected a bit of cockney when he spoke, so savvy, I’d wager.

  Hector Jimenez, American from Puerto Rico, built like a short brick house.

  Finally, last in the door was Hyeon-Seong Kim, Korea, tall and lean, martial arts, if I were to gauge.

  Once there were eight of us, the SO spoke.

  “Howdy, y’all. Welcome to the International Echoic Research Foundation, internally, the IERF. To others, the Foundation, much to the chagrin of our principles and the higher ups, Interek. Call it what you will, it’s your new home, so learn to love it. I am your commanding officer, Corporal William Hogue. You’re fine to call me sir, but everyone just calls me Hogue, makes it easier. If you come up with a cute nickname, I might let it slide, but I better like it, or you’re doing laps like it’s booty. Now, you’re all here because you applied, tested, and passed with some semblance of flying colors, and each of you brings something unique to the table to help in what it is that we do. Now, to start, what is it that y’all think we do here?”

  The first to speak was Kaufmann.

  “Sir, we are here to research and contain echoic phenomena, sir.” He looked pleased with himself. Hogue looked satisfied.

  “Soldat Kaufmann, generally that’s true. So, correct. But what do you think we do? Look around. Everyone here is military trained, and last I checked, bullets, bombs, and bayonets don’t do a lick of shit to these things, so what do we do?”

  A pause before Sammi spoke.

  “We protect the scientists?”

  “Sure, but again, bullets, bombs and bayonets, lick o’shit.”

  Silence came over the room as some thought.

  “I use a bokken,” I said.

  Everyone looked at me.

  “A wooden sword,” I clarified. A couple faces nodded, most looked perplexed. Kaur looked at me confused. Vivec seemed really impressed. Hogue had a grin.

  “Good, that’s what I’m talking about. A blade. Ono here is a spiritblade.”

  “I can hear them when they think they’re being sneaky,” Bonds said beside me.

  “A seer?” asked Sammi.

  “We call them radiographers here, but yes, some traditions and cultures do call them seers, sure,” replied Hogue.

  “I can track them, it’s like a feeling I get,” Sammi said enthusiastically.

  “A tracker, good,” affirmed Hogue.

  There’s a brief pause before Vivec spoke.

  “They can speak through me.”

  “A medium, always need one in the group. You okay doing that, Vivec?”

  “Yes, I just need a rest after it,” she said quietly to her feet.

  Everyone stayed silent after she spoke. I think in any culture a medium is fairly well respected.

  “I see them easier than most,” Jimenez broke the reverence.

  “We got a spotter,” said Hogue.

  “I don’t really know how to describe what I do,” Kaufmann relented.

  “Well, best you can, how do you do what you do?” asked Hogue.

  “If they’re semicorporeal or visible, I can touch them, but not like others can. When I touch them, I see flashes of their living life.”

  “You are a rare one, an empath, particularly, a physical touch empath. You don’t see your kind abouts, very medieval. I like it,” Hogue beamed. Kaufmann looked happy with his talent, probably the first time that’s ever happened.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “In Korea sometimes dokkaebi can become overly restless. I can stop them from being a bother,” shared Kim.

  “A warder, okay, getting a well rounded group here.”

  “I can hurt them,” Kaur said flatly.

  “Can you elaborate, Kaur?” inquired Hogue.

  “When I know they’re there, I think, like, I want them to go away, and they do, but usually, they’re screaming. They scream when they go.”

  “And we have a mage,” Hogue said with a finality. “There you have it. All of you are sensitive, in a manner of speaking. All skills we can utilize. All of you have been vetted, psych-eval’d, cleared, and trained by your respective military branches to help mediate the international front of the ongoing phantasmic war we wage. I don’t care if you’re an Antemort nut or an Order hoarder, but here, we see these things as an everyday nuisance, to beg at it simply. Sure, you can get all philosophical or faith-thumping, technomagic bull and respectful of the departed, but at the end of the day, we live in a multinational society that wants to get on with it. After the Industrial Revolution, as you all know, there was a marked uptick on echoic phenoms. People can’t turn on an electronic device without some spook hollering out of it. It is up to us to investigate what’s out there and stymie the tide.

  “You are all now a part of this platoon, my platoon. We are the 8th, Kilo Company of the IERF field branch. Our task is to investigate the hardest to track, itinerant phenomena out there in the world. The noosphere is getting too noisy for the greater public, and if there’s a chance to halt, slow, or cancel out their DRF, we’re going to do it. We are a field op, and upstairs gives us the locales, we go out, investigate, corroborate, substantiate, mitigate, and celebrate. The last one is when we get on the bird heading back. I’m sure you got questions, and I more than likely have answers, but for now, let’s get you bunked up and settled, we can go over everything you need to know once you get to the ‘racks and know where the head is. I’m sure some of you are just getting off planes or trains, so some R&R is required. Grab your shit! I’ll show y’all the digs.”

  Hogue stood up and we all got up, grabbed what we came in with and followed in file march. At some point, he looked back on us and raised his voice.

  “Now c’mon, I know y’alls military, but this ain’t boot, I ain’t your den mother sarge. Loosen up!”

  We looked at each other and broke rank. Kaufmann looked the least bit impressed at the relaxation of protocol. Bonds walked next to me with her duffel over her shoulder. She was easily 210, maybe 215 cm tall? The tallest among us.

  “So Ono, a spiritblade?” it’s like she was poking at me with her words. I looked at the others, Kaur and Sammi were small talking. It looks like Jimenez was trying to chat up Vivec. Kaufmann was dutifully following Hogue, Kim trailing behind them.

  “Yeah,” I sheepishly replied.

  “I’ve heard of some Easterners using swords against EPs, I thought it was superstitious. Is it really real?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure Kim could back me up. In Asia mostly, as a kid you’re taught swordsmanship. Martial arts are good for the body, discipline, willpower, but swordsmanship, it’s a way of life. Obviously swords aren’t used in the traditional sense, only for ceremonial reasons, and some people keep them as trophies or decoration, but not since the Meiji era did we stop killing each other with them in my country. It was Asia that figured out that yokai, uh, EPs, in Japan were mostly due to the use of the blade. When cuneiform glyphics became seen as the most effective way of runologic application, celtic meditative materials such as specialized wood became the most reactive substance, and the tradition of sword wielding all wrapped together, itako, as we would call it. Wooden warriors. Sword shamans. All across Asia, they use mutou dao, mok keom, espadang patpat, or bokken.” She might as well have been staring at a kangaroo, her eyes were so big and engrossed in me. Maybe don’t nerd out so hard next time, Ono.

  “So where’s your…your bokken?”

  “It’s being scanned by IERF. They took it at the airport I came in at. Soldiers seized my stuff.”

  “Oh, mine too, I got to keep my carry-on though. That’s so fascinating! I can’t wait to see it.”

  “It’s really just a wooden sword.”

  “You ever killed a, what is it? A yokai?”

  “You don’t kill what’s already dead, but yes, I have used it.”

  Genuinely I was being stared at by a Midwestern near 7-foot tall squirrel with puppy dog eyes.

  “Once you get it back, can…can I try it?”

  “What, swinging it? It’s a wooden sword, sure, just be careful, it’s pretty dense and would actually hurt.”

  Pretty sure I made her day, she bounced/skipped all the way to the barracks.

  Each platoon got a private dorm, not a “barracks” in the traditional sense; this felt like communal living with a military flare. I’m guessing we were special enough to keep relatively comfortable before the actual work started. We had a common area complete with a kitchen, dining, and living room on the first floor, second floor were our private dormitories, third floor meeting and mission briefing, and we had an underground training area.

  Thankfully our rooms were assigned. I was worried that Western tradition of first come, first serve would be a thing like it was in school back in Boston, instead it was like school in Numazu. The stairs cut up in the back of the building and through the middle, so four rooms on the left and four on the right on the second floor. I was smack in the middle on the left, next to Vivec and Kaur, Kaufmann at the end, Bonds was across from me. The room was nice: double bed against a wall, end table, wardrobe for clothing, a desk with a chair, covered claude glass mirror, a wall clock, and a private bathroom. I assumed that everyone had something similar. A window facing out, my view of the hills and trees was a welcomed sight, not the bay view I grew up with in Japan, not South Boston, which felt like ages ago now. I’m 54 inside, 24 in this body. Gerald would be born by now. He’d be 6, the same age as I was when I went to Yanagihara Shrine. I would look him up, but I’m afraid of Back to the Future rules. I could snap the fabric of space and time in two if I met the kid, met myself, and best as I could recall I didn’t see some Japanese guy ever giving me mournful looks when I was him. I know my previous mother and father are alive, real, and this isn’t some alternate universe thing. I looked them up when I could. I’m the closest to Boston I could be without invading my own past. I’ll leave it for now, but I do need to try and understand it, part of the reason why I joined this outfit. In Reyes’ life and in this life, I’ve never put much stock into the Order or Antemortems. The Foundation made the most sense to get concrete, solid answers, and the easiest way in is the military, showing some aptitude for echoic sensitivity.

  A knock came at the door. A quick beat, a pair of two, one two, one two. I went to the door, opening it, the rest of my personal effects sat on the floor just outside. I looked left and right down the hall, but no one was there. No one else had things at their door, no one else had their doors open. Does the Foundation have echoes on base? Delivering things? I took my things in, a few bags of clothes, one pack of personal items from Japan, a guitar case, and my bokken.

  I’d unpack later, I took the time to make sure the sword was fine. I took it out of its canvas slip. The belt harness seemed fine, worn, needed oil, and the inspectors were kind enough to not do anything to it. The sword itself seemed fine, but there was a tiny notch, triangular shaped, taken out of the tip of the kashira-gane, just at the base. They probably thought I wouldn’t notice. It’s fine, they had their tests they had to do. Can’t bring in cursed objects into a military base.

  It took ten years to make this sword. After Yanagihara, my parents had me meet with the itako. They claimed me as one of theirs. The finger bone, my finger bone, was placed in the ground with a silver birch tree sapling. In 9 years a tree formed around it. This sword was formed from that tree, my old self’s finger bone within. Cuneiform runes lined the length, prayers of the dead, black mineralized metal lined the back of the blade, and the tsuba featured intricate designs of a torii gate. I gave it a few swings and a flourish, before putting it in the harness and setting it on the desk.

  I was tired, but it was only late morning, so I left my room to explore the rest of the barracks.

  I went upstairs first, a fairly unremarkable sight: it looked like an office building, two set rooms lined with glass, the room on the left looked to be for planning with whiteboards and a conference table, a cloth draped over a box object, which could only be a television, and a side table. The other room looked to be a secured armory in a cage and prep tables. There was a door at the end that went to an outdoor roof area, similar to what you’d see in high schools in Japan, but with seating and a few short trees for a bit of shade. I went for a look, the air from outside was cold, but warm for January as I opened the door. It didn’t seem as though it’d snow, in spite of it being the season for it. It was a blue sky out.

  “Bonjour.”

  I hadn’t noticed Vivec was sitting by one of the trees on a bench near me. I held my chest and took a breath.

  “Damn, got me. Vivec, yeah? Pleasure.”

  “As with you, Ono, yes?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes would be the death of me.

  “Did you come out for fresh air?”

  “I was exploring, didn’t think we’d have a garden.”

  “This is hardly a garden.”

  “Well it’s not Versailles, sure.”

  “Mon cher, bien s?r que ce n'est pas Versailles, but this is three trees. Nothing more.”

  “Well, the view is nice.”

  “An American forest fraught with peril, more than likely.”

  “You’ve heard the stories?”

  “Of course, Quantico was selected for its strategic location. The dead hide behind the wood.”

  “A Powhatan story.”

  “A truth. I think we are EPs here.”

  “You might not be wrong. I got my personal effects delivered by no one.” She tutted at this.

  “Ah, there you go! The Foundation employs the dead as porters! We are doomed while we sleep.”

  We had a good laugh at this, but I couldn’t help but see that she seemed off, even though I’ve only known her all but 10 minutes.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “We are doing this to fight them?”

  “The echoes? I don’t know.”

  “But you are here. A spiritblade. I have never met your kind.”

  “And you’re my first medium.” She looked away.

  “It is a burden.”

  “I cannot imagine.”

  “Do you know what the dead want? More than anything?” I thought for a moment. A few answers came to mind, but I rather she said what she believed.

  “I cannot say.”

  “They just want to be heard. That’s all. They want to be heard, because they do not understand why it is like this. They spent their entire life living, wondering, seeing their ancestors meander past them, call to them, a hundred and twenty five thousand years wondering why, and all we know is that, when we die, it’s the terrasphere or the noosphere. We all want the noosphere. We want heaven. But those that are trapped here, even in death, we don’t know why.”

  “Is that what they say to you? Or, I guess, ask you?”

  “Most, yes. They ask why, and I do not have an answer.”

  I knew what I wanted to ask. I was afraid to.

  “Is that why you’re here? Why you applied for the transfer?” I reluctantly inquired.

  “I think so, yes. Maybe if I knew, I could set them to rest.”

  “If that’s so, I’ll help you. I’d rather you talked them through it, then we wouldn’t need me.” She politely laughed at that.

  “If you’d like.” She held out a hand, and I shook it. “Deal.”