The fact that Madi never quit and was strong enough to just keep accepting kanji infuriated Shiroyuki. To bind with a new mark you had to go right up to death’s door, and each one you got, the harder it was to come back. The other students began to respect him at five, and then fear him at eight. The Chairman took a personal interest in Madi’s education, realizing how valuable it would be to have an operative able to move seamlessly in America. Plus, he was a sort of vindication of the Chairman’s beliefs, of his vision for a perfect world, ruled by the strong and the wise. The Chairman had taken him under his wing, showing him the dark secrets, the truth of the Power. Madi did not just follow. He believed.
Then old man Shiroyuki had dared to publicly disagree with the Chairman, saying that only the superior Nipponese should be Iron Guard. The Chairman had replied with his usual wisdom that the Power lived inside their bodies where all blood and bone was the same color. Shiroyuki had been chastened, dishonored, and when he was no longer in favor, Madi struck. He’d waited until he had received his tenth kanji before challenging the old master to a trial by combat. He had been honor bound to accept.
He’d ripped Shiroyuki apart like he’d been one of the Russian prisoners in Rokusaburo’s camp. The memory of the old man’s arms coming off in twin fountains of blood and the samurai screaming through that ridiculous mustache made him grin. He opened his eyes. “Hell with it.” The Chairman was a big fan of meditation, but reaching inner peace wasn’t exactly his thing. The Chairman taught that with proper clarity you could actually converse with the Power. Madi didn’t know about that, but if the Chairman said that’s how it was, then that’s how it was. Unlike the people he’d sworn allegiance to before, the Chairman never lied.
There was movement in his bunk. Toshiko was awake, watching him. She’d pulled the sheet up to cover herself, feigning modesty. The Shadow Guard was such a tease, but damn if her academy hadn’t taught her in all the arts of espionage. He could barely feel anything anymore, but he had felt that. He realized she’d been counting his scars. “How many kanji have you taken?”
“Thirteen.” He rose, retrieved his shirt and threw it on. He still ached from all the wounds the Grimmys had inflicted on him, but that Healer bitch had done as she’d been told and fixed him up, and he’d only had to smack her in the face a few times to get his point across. “More than any other man in the world.”
She either really was impressed or she faked it good, he never could tell with a Shadow Guard. They were such trained chameleons that you never could tell where the real person began and the act ended. They were spies and assassins that could be whatever you wanted them to be. “Even more than the Chairman?”
He snorted and buttoned up his shirt. “The Chairman don’t need no marks on him. He just goes right up to the Power and takes whatever he wants. Us mortals need the kanji just to keep up.” He knew it was true. The Chairman was the greatest of all. He wasn’t just strong, he was smart too. He even painted, and wrote poetry that Madi didn’t really get, but all the other Iron Guard always kissed the Chairman’s ass and told him how great it was. If the Chairman wrote a haiku, you could damn well better believe it was the best haiku ever.
Toshiko dropped the sheet. “I bear five.” Her kanji were much smaller, more discreet, almost graceful. The Shinobi Academy magi were artists compared to the Unit 731 butchers with their glowing red-hot branding irons. She fingered each one reverently. “Hearing. Stealth. Strength. Sight. Vitality.”
“Yep. I see ’em,” not that he was looking at her scars as he shrugged into his shoulder holster. “Get dressed. Our ride will be here soon. I’ll grab the prisoner.”
“You really believe that soft thing will be of use?”
Madi shrugged. “We’ll take her to Nippon, break her and rebuild her. If she sees the light, then sure . . .” An old Iron Guard had been patient and shown him the true way once and he owed Rokusaburo his life for it. Too bad his blood brother had killed his spirit brother, but he’d already balanced those scales. “I figure I’m doing her a favor.”
Toshiko sneered. “And if she does not see it that way?”
There were schools all over the Empire for training Actives, and not just for volunteers either. The Chairman’s instructors had ways of making people catch the vision. Those deemed unfit were used in the experiments. “Then she goes to Unit 731.”
“Throw her overboard and let the sharks take her,” she suggested. “It would be more merciful.”
Madi slid down the ladder into the hold of the ship. His boots hit the steel grate and he started down the corridor. He had to duck to keep from hitting his head on the pipes. The crew averted their eyes and got out of his way. They were loyal Imperium subjects, and they knew not to keep an Iron Guard from his business.
They’d boarded the cargo ship and made it out of the harbor before the authorities had locked down the coast. Officially they flew the flag of the Free City of Shanghai, but this was the same vessel that had brought in his reinforcements. Shanghai was only free as long as it was convenient for the Chairman for it to stay that way.
The emergency radio broadcasts that morning had been priceless. His ruse had worked. Word had already leaked to the press about the anarchist propaganda scattered at the Peace Ray. All the known commie-backed agitators were getting rousted as the real culprits sailed away. They were going to be picked up by an Imperial airship and rushed home, and by the time he’d be soaking his feet in Edo, the American Actives would be feeling the heat. If he was really lucky, there would be a crackdown. Anything that caused dissension in the enemy’s ranks would only swell the Imperium’s own.
The corridor stunk of diesel and body odor. The paint was peeling and the tub rusting, which normally would be unacceptable in an Imperium vessel, but this one had to keep up appearances as being a low-class merchanter. Madi found the door and spun the wheel. It creaked violently as he pulled it open
The Healer was on the floor. She closed her eyes as blinding light spilled into the tiny cell. She was pathetic. Filthy, her clothes ripped, her wrists bound behind her back with cord. I wonder if this was how Rokusaburo saw me? Probably not, because he had at least been tough. This Grimnoir girl was soft, and the only reason he’d thought to bring her along was the sheer rarity of Healers.
“Get up,” he ordered. She whimpered, so he kicked her in the leg. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to let her know he was serious. “Get your ass up or you’ll really feel the boot.” He reached down, grabbed her by the arm, and jerked her off the floor. “We got a flight to catch.”
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, grimacing against the pain.
He thought about backhanding her, but it was a fair question. “Nippon. From there, you’ll go wherever the Chairman thinks is best.” She limped along as he pulled her into the corridor. “If you’re lucky, you’ll stay at an Edo school to serve. If you piss us off, you’re going to Manchukuo. Trust me, sister, you don’t want that. You’re too pretty and those mutants are awful lonely.” There still was defiance in her eyes. He could see her thinking about how she would never serve the Imperium, but she was smart enough not to say it out loud. “Fine, we’ll see how tough you are when the branding iron comes out,” he said as he dragged her along.
Toshiko, Hiroyasu, and the others were waiting for them on the deck. The sea air felt cool on his skin. In the distance to the east, a black shape was growing. It was the Chairman’s new flagship, fresh off the UBF assembly line, heading home for the first time, the most-advanced hybriddirigible ever developed, and the Chairman had it diverted to pick up his star Iron Guard so that he could return home in honor.
“It’s beautiful,” Toshiko muttered.
It really was. Madi was no expert on airships, but he’d ridden on one of the new Kagas, which were more like battleships suspended under three armored hulls, all business. This was nowhere near as big, but it was much sleeker. The flagship was like something off the cover of those science fiction pulps. It also
had three separate hulls, like long grey cigars, but the outer two were angled inward at the front, and the whole thing was covered in a housing of rooms, balconies, and glass enclosures, giving it an overall triangular shape. It was driven by twenty roaring engines, both lifted and fueled by hydrogen, and it would be crewed entirely by Actives.
The Imperium had not developed its airship technology as rapidly as the Americans, and when Madi had heard that their new flagship would be built by UBF, he’d been offended, but those thoughts were forgotten as he saw the gleaming beast coming toward them. Their Cogs would catch up. They’d even improved on UBF’s original Kaga design by adding hydrogen-powered Peace Rays. It was only a matter of time until the Imperium was able to produce marvels like this at home but, in the meantime, the Chairman would ride in style.
“Da-nippon teikoku kaigun Tokugawa. It is called the Tokugawa, in honor of the Chairman’s family name,” Hiroyasu said reverently.
“I thought you didn’t name a ship after somebody until after they died?” the Grimnoir Healer said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky?” Toshiko slapped her to the deck for her insolence.
“He’s immortal,” Madi said. “We didn’t feel like waiting around.”
The four-engine amphibious PBY Silverado biplane had flown west until the Presidio, then San Francisco, then finally the blackened coast had been lost. Sullivan watched out the rear window of the cargo plane until the final line of land disappeared, then moved forward to take his seat amongst the cargo headed for Pearl Harbor.
The Silverado would normally have an eight man crew, but none of the guns were mounted, so there were only four—the pilot, co-pilot, navigator, and engineer—and all of them had been specifically instructed by Major Arnold not to talk to the large man in civilian clothes. There were a few other passengers, soldiers being transferred to Hawaii, and they hadn’t gotten the message.
“Where you headed?” the private sitting across from him asked, having to shout over the thunder of the props.
There were two soldiers. They had to be fresh out of training. Had he been that young once? He had lied about his age and volunteered for the First when he was seventeen years old, so it was sad to say that he probably had. “Nowhere you need to know about,” Sullivan answered in a tone that suggested he just wanted to be left alone. He went back to looking out the port window and the soldiers returned to their conversation.
Pershing’s memory had directed him to a man at the Presidio. The base had been on alert, and soldiers had been scrambling. The men at the gate had regarded Sullivan—dirty, coated in dried blood, clothing in shreds—with suspicion, glaring at him over the muzzle of a Colt Potato-Digger machine gun that had been thrown down behind a bunch of sandbags. He was glad that he’d detached the barrel from the ’29 BAR and stashed it in his bag or they probably would have shot him. When he said that he had a message for a Major Arnold, they had sent a runner.
The major had taken him aside as soon as he said that Black Jack Pershing had sent him. Sullivan had repeated exactly the code words that had been left in his head. “It’s time to see the Pirate.”
“How’s the weather?” the major had asked in return.
“Getting hotter,” Sullivan had responded as instructed. “That’s why we need the Weatherman.” The major’s expression had turned grim but he had immediately given him a place to clean up and had sent someone to fetch him some food and a change of clothing. Thirty minutes later he’d showered, sucked down some bacon and eggs, along with a pot of coffee, and reported back to Arnold, who was busy coordinating men and supplies to the damaged area around Mar Pacifica.
When they were alone, the major had locked the door of his office and bid Sullivan to take a seat. “I don’t know what this is about, but I promised an old friend that if this day came, I’d help. I’ve got a Silverado leaving for Hawaii in twenty minutes. You’ll be on it.” He reached into his desk and pulled out an envelope that had been sealed with wax. “I’ll instruct the Silverado to follow these orders, but they will not help you in any way other than to take you to your destination as part of a training mission. They will not cross into Imperial territory. They’re a good crew, and they’ll keep their mouths shut. I assume you know what to do next.”
“Yes, sir,” he answered, taking the envelope.
“Good, because I don’t. The General could be a cryptic man at times. I’m assuming this has something to do with the Peace Ray.”
“Yes, sir.” Sullivan had picked up a morning paper on the way here and read the lies. “Only it wasn’t no anarchists like they’re saying. It was the Imperium.”
“That’s not my area, mister . . . I don’t decide who to bomb, they just tell me where to drop them. But off the record, I’d say you’re probably right. The anarchists they’re laying this on couldn’t find their own ass in the dark. I’ve been pressing to deal with those Imperials for a long time. But there’re too many politicians, making too much money off them for that to happen.”
Sullivan nodded. That’s why Pershing had given this man a piece of the puzzle. “What’s gonna happen?”
“Nobody wants another war,” the major said. “I’m afraid people will believe whatever they want. I think they’re fools. War’s coming, no matter what we say. All I can do is make sure my little corner of this machine is ready to fight.” There was a knock on the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mister man whose name I probably don’t want to know . . . duty calls.”
Sullivan had returned his salute smartly. Duty calls.
The view out the window of the Silverado was breathtaking but his thoughts were elsewhere. Huge fuel tanks hung pendulous between the wings, pontoons even larger were below that. The ocean was dark blue as far as the eye could see. A dark shape came into slow focus as they drew near. It was an airship, and one of the biggest he’d ever seen. It was so far away that it was hard to make out details.
“What is that thing?” one of the soldiers asked.
“That? I read about that in the paper yesterday. That’s the Imperium’s new super airship. That Stuyvesant made a pretty penny off that pig I’d bet,” the other answered smartly. “It’s heading from Michigan out to Japan. I read the whole article.”
Sullivan watched the huge craft in the distance. His scalp prickled at the sight of the rising sun painted large on the outer hulls. These were the bastards who’d robbed him of Delilah—not the same bastards, but they worked for the same madman. Not that being angry did him a lick of good. The Silverado was unarmed, and that monster sure as hell wouldn’t be. Major Arnold’s men weren’t about to start an international incident just because he was in a foul mood.
The biplane was parallel to the distant dirigible, but they were easily passing it and he realized that it was stationary. There was a glint of light reflecting off something metallic below it, and it took him a moment to realize that they were hovering over a ship. The Chairman’s airship dwarfed the tiny vessel.
Why were they tethered to a cargo ship? Airships had to gas up, same as anything else, but why do it at sea when they’d just passed over land? “Soldier . . . that article say if it ran off diesel?”
“No, siree, that thing’s engines run off the hydrogen in its bags. UBF says it could fly nonstop all the way around the whole world if the wind was right. The crew has like a dozen Torches to watch for fire and its own Weatherman and—”
What else could they be picking up from a ship off the coast of San Francisco? That was brazen, even for his brother. There might not be anything he could do about it, but maybe somebody else could. Sullivan stood and lurched into the aisle. He caught the engineer midway up the cabin and grabbed the airman on the shoulder. “I need to use your radio.”
San Francisco, California
Faye was swept up in the confusion as much as everyone else. Reporters had tried to take their picture when they got to the hospital, but Lance had swept her under his arm and gotten her inside with his wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his face. “Last t
hing we need is for people who think we’re dead to know we’re not,” he’d muttered. As Francis had gone by, the cameras had mysteriously broken and they’d retreated from the cursing reporters.
The hospital had been packed with injured. Several local churches had been pressed into service for the less serious burns and she heard that medical people were being brought in from all over the country. Heinrich told her that someone named Doctor Rosenstein was flying in from Chicago and that he’d personally see to Mr. Browning if they couldn’t find a Healer.
The regular doctors had taken Mr. Browning away as soon as they arrived. Mr. Garrett had been taken to surgery. Lance had yelled at them about something, until they agreed to not sedate him while they tried to tend to his injuries. He also refused to part with his six-gun. “If the police talk to you, you were a guest at Francis’s house. Don’t say nothing else.”
“I’ll see to her, Mr. Talon,” Isaiah assured him. “Please, go get yourself tended to. Please, Faye, have a seat with me. My back is killing me.” The two of them sat down on a bench in the hallway. Mr. Rawls took a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his glasses. He looked tired, all covered in soot. Many of the other people in the hallway were also covered in ashes, so they fit right in.
Francis saw an older doctor pass them at a quick walk. “Excuse me, sir, do you have a Healer available?”
The doctor paused long enough to give an exasperated laugh. “Young man, don’t be absurd. You couldn’t afford a Healer.”
Francis’s face turned red. “I’ll have you know I’m Francis Cornelius Stuyvesant the Second! I could write a check and buy this hospital!”
The doctor took in Francis’s bedraggled condition, snorted, and spun on his heel. “That’s a new one, usually people around here insist they’re a Hearst,” he called over his shoulder as he hurried along to more pressing business.
Hard Magic: Book I of the Grimnoir Chronicles-ARC Page 31