Hard Rain

Forces
    CIA program known as SOG, the psychiatrist had displayed a keen
    interest in that initial killing experience. He seemed to think it was
    noteworthy that I hadn't vomited. And that what he described as my
    'associated negative emotions' had dissipated. No bad dreams
    afterward, that was also considered a plus.
    Later, I learned that I was categorized as belonging to a magical two
    percent of military men who are capable of killing repeatedly, without
    hesitation, without special conditioning, without regret. I don't know
    if I really belonged there. It wasn't as easy for me as it was for
    Crazy Jake. But that's where they put me.
    The average person is surprised at the extent to which a soldier has to
    deal with hesitation before the fact and regret afterward. Of course,
    the average person has never been required to kill a stranger at close
    range.
    Men who have survived close-quarters killing know that humans are
    possessed of a deep-seated, innate reluctance to kill their own
    species. I believe there are evolutionary explanations for the
    existence of this reluctance, but that doesn't really matter. What
    matters is that the fundamental purpose of basic training for most
    soldiers is to employ classical and operant conditioning techniques to
    suppress the reluctance. I know that modern training accomplishes this
    objective with ruthless effectiveness. I also know that the training
    deals better with the reluctance than it does with the regret.
    I sat for a long time, picking through memories. Eventually I started
    to get cold. I went back to the hotel, watching my back as always
    along the way. I took an excruciatingly hot bath, then slipped into
    one of the cotton yukata the hotel had thoughtfully provided. I pulled
    a chair in front of the window and sat in the dark, watching the
    traffic moving along Hibiya-dori, twenty floors below. I thought of
    Midori.
    I wondered what she might be doing at that very instant on the other
    side of the world.
    When the traffic began to thin, I got in bed. Sleep came slowly. I
    dreamed of Rio. It felt far away.
    Ten.
    The next night I ran an SDR as usual on my way to the fight. When I
    was confident I was clean, I caught a cab to the Tennozu monorail
    station. From there I walked.
    It was cooler here by the water. A sidewalk was being repaired, and a
    cluster of temporary signs advising an zen daiichi! Safety First!
    swayed stiffly in the wind, squealing like lunatic chimes. I moved
    across the rust-colored bulk of the Higashi Shinagawa Bridge. Around
    me was a network of massive train and automobile overpasses, their
    concrete darkened by the accumulated years of diesel fumes, their bulk
    so densely woven against the dark sky that the earth beneath felt
    vaguely subterranean. A solitary vending machine sat slumped on a
    street corner, its fluorescent light guttering like a dying SOS.
    I spotted the Lady Crystal Yacht Club, probably an advertising
    euphemism for a restaurant that happened to be located on the water,
    and turned left. To my right was another overpass with warehouses
    beneath; opposite, a small parking lot, mostly empty. Beyond that,
    another Stygian canal.
    I found the warehouse door Murakami had described. It was flanked by a
    pair of concrete flowerpots choked with weeds. A metal sign to the
    left warned of fire danger. Rust ran down the wall from behind it like
    dried blood from a peeling bandage.
    I looked around. Across the water were brightly lit high-rise office
    buildings, apartments, and hotels, the names of their owners proudly
    glowing in red and blue neon: JAL, JTB, the Dai-ichi Seafort. It was
    as though the ground around me was poisoned and incapable of supporting
    the growth of such structures here.
    To my left was an indentation in the long line of warehouses. I
    stepped inside and spotted a door on the right, hidden from the street
    outside. There was a small peephole at eye level. I knocked and
    waited.
    I heard a bolt being moved back, then the door opened. It was Washio.
    "You're early," he said.
    I shrugged. I rarely make appointments. You don't want to give
    someone the opportunity to fix you in time and place. On those
    infrequent occasions where I have no choice, I like to show up early to
    scout around. If someone's going to throw me a party, I'll get there
    before the musicians set up.
    I glanced inside. I was looking at a cavernous room dotted with
    concrete pillars. Incandescent lights dangled from a ceiling eight
    meters up,