Rebirth in Japan: The Heiress Who Conquered the World

The Volga’s suspension was very stiff.

With every joint in the road, a dry jolt shuddered through the car.

Outside the window, things were moving.

Moscow’s streets were nearly twice as wide as Tokyo’s.

Bare white birches lined both sides of the six-lane main road, their white bark the only bright color against the gray sky.

The snow on the road had been ground by tires into dark gray slush, while the strip along the curb remained unthawed, frozen into jagged icicles.

The buildings were massive blocks.

Their grayish-yellow concrete exterior walls and square window openings were arranged in an extremely orderly fashion, like a spreadsheet that had been copied and pasted dozens of times.

”...Moscow is a great city. It witnessed the sacrifices of our people during the Great Patriotic War, and it also witnessed the achievements of socialist construction.”

”Your visit will further promote mutual understanding between the Japanese and Soviet peoples.”

Kozlov sat in the front passenger seat, talking incessantly.

As he spoke, he turned halfway around to face Shuichi and Satsuki in the back seat.

”The cultural ties between the Japanese and Soviet peoples are precious in any era. Your donation of medical supplies and educational goods this time will play an extremely positive role in promoting children’s welfare in our remote regions.”

Shuichi nodded slightly.

”We are honored to be able to contribute our modest efforts.”

Kozlov smiled and continued talking about the friendship association’s work schedule, tomorrow’s visit to the Academy of Sciences, and the humanitarian handover ceremony the day after tomorrow.

His phrasing was highly practiced, a continuous stream of jargon and officialese pouring from his mouth.

Satsuki sat beside Shuichi, a reserved smile on her face, occasionally nodding slightly at the appropriate moments.

But her eyes remained fixed outside the window.

As they passed an intersection, she saw a queue of people.

The line stretched from the entrance of a shop, bent at a right angle along the sidewalk, and turned into a side alley, its end already out of sight.

The people in line were heavily bundled up, their exhaled breath merging into a small mist above their heads, but no one was talking.

Everyone maintained roughly the same distance from each other, about forty centimeters, as if measured by some invisible rule.

The storefront had no sign.

In the display window stood three aluminum milk pots and a chef’s knife of unknown material.

They were arranged very neatly, with highly precise spacing.

But the light fixture above the window was dark, and the door was closed.

The only purpose of those items was to prove that ”this is a shop.”

The light turned red, and the Volga stopped.

Satsuki’s gaze slowly drifted backward along the line.

There was a woman in the queue, looking to be in her forties, wearing a dull yellow scarf with her hands tucked into the opposite pockets of her overcoat.

Her gaze was not on the front—the back of the person ahead of her was motionless, and there was no point in looking anyway—but rather in a daze.

Her eyes rested on a patch of crushed ice at the edge of the sidewalk, as if that ice were more worthy of attention than the queue itself.

The light turned green, and the car moved.

Kozlov was still talking.

”...The Soviet Academy of Sciences highly welcomes your foundation’s academic exchange intentions, especially in the fields of materials science and precision optics.”

Satsuki withdrew her gaze from ahead.

”Mr. Kozlov,” she said softly, her interruption gentle. ”What is this street called?”

Kozlov paused and glanced out the window.

”Miss Saionji, this is Kutuzovsky Avenue.”

”What a beautiful name,” Satsuki said with a smile. ”I hope to take a walk here if I have time in the future.”

Kozlov’s smile faltered slightly.

”Of course, of course. Moscow has many places worth walking.”

He continued.

Friendship, exchange, cooperation.

Satsuki looked out the window again.

The Volga continued driving along the right bank of the Moskva River.

Passing the approach of a bridge, a group of young people stood by the roadside.

Three boys and a girl, wearing cheap faux-leather jackets and jeans, their shoulders hunched in the sub-zero temperatures.

One of the boys had worn-white knees on his jeans and held an unlit cigarette in his hand.

As the Volga convoy passed them, all four turned their heads at the same time.

That kind of look.

It was not hostility, nor was it curiosity.

It was more like a calculation—assessing in a split second the value of the car, the nationality of its occupants, and any potential transaction opportunities that might arise.

Their gaze rested on the black Volga’s paint for less than two seconds before pulling back, likely recognizing who was sitting in the second car following the diplomatic plates.

The girl was the last to look away.

She tugged at the boy’s sleeve, and the two quickly walked away with their heads down.

The Volga turned toward Red Square.

In the distance, the colorful onion domes of Saint Basil’s Cathedral were strikingly garish against the gray sky, like an outdated old toy forgotten on a massive gray table.

”Everyone, GUM Department Store is just ahead.”

GUM Department Store.

Entering from the south side of Red Square, the glass dome of the three-story arcade was still magnificent in the gray afternoon light.

The cast-iron framework supported the transparent curved surface, covered with snow, filtering the incoming light into a pale hue.

The arcade was long, and the facades on both sides were in the style of the late nineteenth century; the skeleton of the old empire remained.

The shops on both sides were arranged like a honeycomb, each with uniform door frames and counters.

The floor was paved with light-colored stone, polished so brightly that leather boots left crisp echoes upon it.

But it was excessively quiet.

Unlike the quiet of ”not yet open in the early morning,” this was the kind of quiet where ”the doors are open and people are standing inside, yet no transactions are taking place.”

The sales assistants stood behind the counters, motionless, as if nailed to the spot.

If the purpose of a department store was to display goods, then this place undoubtedly did it perfectly.

As for selling, that was probably the responsibility of another system.

Satsuki and her party walked along.

Kozlov and the two accompanying personnel led the way at the front, introducing the architectural history of GUM.

”GUM is one of Moscow’s most famous stores, and many foreign friends come to visit. It is not just a shopping venue, but also a piece of architectural art.”

”It is indeed beautiful. Your country’s art has always been at the forefront of the world.”

Shuichi responded gently.

In fact, almost only Shuichi and Kozlov spoke throughout the entire tour, but these two old bureaucrats traded remarks back and forth, successfully creating a lively illusion.

Emi followed behind, her head constantly turning.

She stopped in front of a counter in the east wing of the second floor.

Inside the glass display case were four items: a desktop calculator with a beige plastic shell, two radios, and an alarm clock.

The face of the alarm clock was turned toward the outside of the counter, but the hour and minute hands were stopped at incorrect positions.

A saleswoman stood behind the counter.

She was in her fifties, with her blonde hair pulled back tightly, wearing a dark blue uniform.

Her hands were folded in front of her, her gaze fixed straight ahead, not a single muscle in her face twitching.

She saw Emi staring at the calculator, but she did not say a word.

The goods in the counter were under her charge, but foreign guests were not her responsibility to receive.

Emi slowed her pace.

She leaned in closer to the glass.

She stared at the calculator.

The casing was nearly twice as thick as similar Japanese products.

The keys were widely spaced, the plastic of the keycaps was slightly yellowed, and the mold lines on the edges had not been polished clean.

The display window was an old-fashioned VFD (vacuum fluorescent display), glowing green.

But what truly caught her attention was the back—through the glass and at this angle, she could only see a small section of the rear casing.

It had markings for five screw positions and a row of ventilation slots.

Ventilation slots.

A calculator of this size needs ventilation slots?

”Satsuki-chan...” she said quietly, turning to Satsuki, who was walking over from another counter. ”Can I buy one of these?”

Satsuki walked over to her side and followed her gaze to the yellow calculator.

”Do you need to use it?”

Emi shook her head, lowering her voice even further.

”Not to use it. The level of integration is very strange—with a casing this big, you would think they could fit far more functions inside. But the panel only has basic arithmetic and a square root.”

Her finger traced the outline of the calculator in the air through the glass.

”And there are ventilation slots. If it were just a CMOS calculator chip, it would not need this level of heat dissipation. That means something else might be running inside.”

Her speaking pace was already picking up.

”If their civilian sector is still using discrete components to build logic gates, then the generational gap between their military tech and ours might be even larger than what is speculated in public papers. But if there is—”

Satsuki tilted her head slightly.

Emi’s voice cut off instantly.

A second of silence fell between them, and Emi’s shoulders slumped.

Her gaze drifted down the arcade—Kozlov was talking to Shuichi with his back turned.

However, one of the two accompanying personnel in deep gray overcoats was standing facing their direction.

Emi quickly corrected herself.

”...I mean, as a souvenir, it is very... educational.”

She paused for half a second.

”I will pay for it.”

Satsuki looked at her, casting a brief glance at the accompanying personnel behind them out of the corner of her eye.

She assumed a lecturing posture.

”Emi.”

”Yes.”

”Remember, you are representing the Saionji family now,” Satsuki said, one hand on her hip, pointing her other finger at Emi. ”Not some mischievous kid from the Akihabara underground parts market who would dismantle someone’s radio until only the screws are left.”

Even knowing Satsuki was covering for her, the tips of Emi’s ears flushed red.

”I... I do not leave only screws.” Her voice grew softer and softer. ”At least I would put it back together.”

Satsuki did not reply, only letting out a questioning ”Hmm?”

”...Though occasionally there might be a couple of extra screws.”

Emi hugged her tool bag tightly and took another look at the calculator, as if saying goodbye to something.

”...Then I will not take it apart.”

Only then did Satsuki nod slightly in satisfaction, patting Emi’s head.

Emi shuddered, then muttered another sentence in a voice as faint as a mosquito’s buzz.

”Buying it to enshrine it at home is also fine.”

Hearing this, Satsuki lightly flicked her forehead with the back of her hand.

”No enshrining weird things.”

Emi clutched her forehead, behaving herself.

”Yes, Satsuki-chan.”

She thought about doing it again next time, and that Satsuki’s hand had touched her.

Satsuki had already withdrawn her hand and continued walking forward.

”Fujita.”

”Yes.”

”Have someone buy two of them. Go through the normal procedures and put them on our procurement list. Label them as educational equipment.”

A very sharp gasp came from behind.

Then, Emi could barely contain herself.

”Satsuki-chan—!”

Emi cried out and was about to rush forward to hug Satsuki.

”Miss Suzuki, please mind your manners.”

But Chizuru appeared behind her out of nowhere and scooped Emi up, leaving her two legs flailing in the air.

”Ah... Satsuki-chan...”