“Like it? I love it. They may be ruthless in the extreme, but the Chairman’s Cogs create items of such mastery, such flawless elegance. One must wonder how individuals capable of such savage mutilations can, on the other hand, create such a work of art. It would seem that such diametrically opposed features would be mutually exclusive. I can see why they needed to place this near the poles. The omnimultiple directionality of the Power manipulations alone are— ”
Sullivan had already learned to stop Fuller before he could get on a roll with the big made-up words. Long rambling dissertations on magic could wait for a time when they weren’t holed up in an Imperium base with a bunch of fanatics who were sure to try and banzai charge their way out any minute. “Sorta on a deadline, Fuller.”
“My apologies, Mr. Sullivan, but I do occasionally succumb to my enthusiasm. The map is obviously a measurement device displaying the natural life-cycle processes of the symbiotic parasite, in other words, the relationship between the Power and the host, i.e., mankind.”
Most of the knights seemed bewildered by this, but Sullivan understood what Fuller was saying. The globe was producing its own light, which was far brighter in the areas of the world that had the most population. That made sense, because that was where the most Actives would be dying. He wondered idly just how bright France had burned on this thing during Second Somme.
“When an Active passes away, their now grown and developed magic returns to the Power. That is how it feeds and expands. This device is simply displaying a macroview of that process. It is rather brilliant in its simplicity. It would detect and then provide the location of any subversion . . . I will call it a detectlocator.”
Sullivan rubbed his face in his hands. At least it was only two words this time. Captain Southunder had vetoed Fuller installing anything with more than ten syllables in its name onto the Traveler.
“The detectlocator is monitoring this flow of energy, watching for anomalies. Gaps. Blank spots, a place where the natural order appears to have been suborned. Places where magic is no longer flowing as it should. It would be like watching a water system and discovering that a river was suddenly flowing uphill.” Fuller scowled. “However, this particular design is flawed. It is broken.”
Sullivan looked over the complex kanji. It was truly the most advanced magical device he had ever seen. It was far over his head, and he’d even managed to engrave spells onto his own body successfully. How would it be to be able to see the world like Fuller? “Can you make it work?”
“I believe so. You will need to follow my instructions exactly, but we should be able to manipulate it to perform as designed.” Fuller’s brow furrowed as he looked over the kanji. “I can tell what they were attempting to do . . . This symbolical representation is a real-time display of the flow of magic from its hosts back to the Power and vice versa. It lacks refinement. It lacks true accuracy, but would at least point you to the correct region, which is enough for your intent. It should work, but this is flawed. This makes no sense. I do not understand what has been done here. The initial design would have worked, but there are more recent modifications that have subverted the parameters.”
Sullivan scowled. “Recent?”
“These clever kanji were changed within the last year. I believe that this detectlocator of the Chairman’s has been sabotaged.”
Toru did not have to wait long. He’d held no doubt that such a brazen move would attract the ire of the imposter. The man that next appeared in the mirror looked like the Chairman, moved like the Chairman, even sounded like the real Chairman, but he was certainly not the Chairman. “Traitor! What is the meaning of this?”
“Who are you?” Toru demanded.
“You dare to question me?”
“I do. The real Chairman is dead.”
“Silence, treasonous dog! I am Baron Okubo Tokugawa, Chairman of the Imperial Council and chief advisor to the Emperor. I am—”
“Spare me your lies. You are not my father, Okubo Tokugawa. You are an imposter.” Toru pointed two fingers at his temple. “The memories of Ambassador Hattori belong to me now. He realized the truth before he died, and now that truth is mine.”
“Hattori was a fool,” the imposter spat. “You are the even bigger fool to have believed him. You were always naïve, Toru. Your cowardice was an embarrassment to my name in Manchuria and your continued existence is an insult to the Iron Guard.”
It took all of Toru’s restraint to not smash the mirror. “I did not summon you to trade barbs, imposter. It does not matter who you really are, for the Enemy has returned,” he said through gritted teeth. “A Pathfinder is coming. The ghost of the real Okubo Tokugawa has confirmed this. The dishonor you bring upon my family pales in comparison to this danger. Continue your charade and I will not expose your lies, but you must alert the Iron Guard to its presence.”
The imposter glanced about the court. “Leave me,” he ordered some unseen functionary.
“You may rule the Imperium. Only I know the truth, but my father’s final command was not to see to the Imperium’s fate or to overthrow you. It was to stop the Pathfinder.” Toru struggled to keep the emotion from his words as he continued his plea. “Anything else is irrelevant. Keep your stolen throne, but for the love of the Imperium and all it stands for, you must warn the Iron Guard. Let them fulfill their destiny. Send them to hunt the beast. I implore you. Do not destroy the dream of Dark Ocean.”
The imposter’s handsome face was an unreadable mask. “You are in the northern monitoring station.”
“I am beyond your reach for now. If it makes any difference to your decision, on my honor as an Iron Guard—”
“You are no Iron Guard.”
“I am Iron Guard!” Toru bellowed, finally losing control of his temper and unconsciously reclaiming something which he had forsaken. “I am the only one fulfilling our real mission! I only care about the destruction of the Pathfinder. Once that is done, you need not worry about me being a threat to you. Awake the Imperium. Tell them the Pathfinder is coming. Once that is done, I will take my own life and trouble you no more.”
The false Chairman chuckled, and then it turned into full-blown laughter. “The memories of Hattori have changed you, Toru. You are no longer the selfish boy that I knew. Such a futile yet noble gesture. Killing yourself to protect the Imperium . . . I was not aware you had it in you.” The imposter’s voice had not changed, but his manner of speaking had. “Certainly, I could see you killing yourself out of pride, or in some misguided protest, but on behalf of others? Impressive. However, it is far too late for that now. The Imperium’s course is set. The end is inevitable.”
He sounded familiar . . . Toru had listened for hours in the academy as the proud history of the Iron Guard had been drilled into their impressionable young minds by one of its original members. “Master Saito? It is you?”
The imposter gave him a malicious leer. The expression seemed completely alien on the Chairman’s normally composed face. “You were always a quick study, Toru. One of my better students. You could have been promoted to First, but you lacked resolve. I can see that has changed.”
Dosan Saito had been one of the senior members of their order, one of the Chairman’s trusted inner circle of advisors, and a master sensei of the Iron Guard Academy. Toru knew this from his own memories and Hattori’s before that. “But you were Dark Ocean!” Toru was stunned. “How could you betray him?”
“You know so little . . .” the imposter shook his head with exaggerated sadness. “I have been preparing for this for a very long time. When Okubo died, events were set in motion.”
Saito had seen the last Pathfinder with his own eyes. He had been there during the final battle in China. The memories of Hattori confirmed that. “Then you know I tell the truth. You know how serious this is. You must unleash the Iron Guard!”
“There is much you will never understand. There was much that Okubo failed to understand as well. You have a few things in common with your father aft
er all.”
“It is coming!” Toru shouted.
Saito chuckled as he made a subtle motion with his fingertips. “Foolish Toru . . . It is already here.”
There was a flash of red. The mirror exploded.
The Grimnoir knights were clustered around the floating sphere. None of them could believe their eyes. They’d done as Buckminster Fuller had instructed, carving corrections onto the magical sphere until Fuller was satisfied that every mistake had been corrected. At first Sullivan thought they’d accidentally broken the gizmo worse, but Fuller assured them that this was the right setting. They were seeing the truth.
There were tiny red dots spread across much of Asia.
Ian Wright reached out one hand toward the sphere, but then snatched it back, almost as if the stains burned. “I know some of these places. I know this one for sure.”
“Imperium schools,” Heinrich muttered. “These are all the places where Unit 731 conducts its experiments on Actives.”
There were dozens of them, spreading like the lung cancers that Jane kept warning him about because of his smoking. The Healer would surely call this advanced. “The Pathfinder’s already inside the Imperium . . .”
“Sullivan!” The shout tore his attention away from the floating globe. Toru was limping down the hall, his heavy coat shredded, leaving a trail of blood behind him. “There is danger.”
“What happened to you?”
Toru stopped, surveying the globe. He took in the red splotches without comment. “There is something here with us. Gather your men.” There were shiny bits embedded in his face. Glass. It took a moment for Sullivan to realize that the hand pressed to Toru’s side was actually holding his guts in. The former Iron Guard grimaced. “There is little time.”
Anything that could tear up a Brute like Toru was not to be trifled with. “You heard the man,” he snapped. “Prepare to move out.” The knights were efficient and smart enough not to argue. The Grimnoir were a loose organization, yet they had the functional equivalent to NCOs. These men, like Diamond and Heinrich, began shouting orders. The gathered Imperium papers were hastily shoved into backpacks, and weapons were readied. Schirmer moved to the ring of salt. Sullivan took one last look through it. “We’ve got to go, Fuller. Tell the Captain about what we just saw and have him contact Browning.”
“I shall. Good luck, Mr. Sull—” but then Schirmer smashed the salt with a rifle butt and it crumbled into glowing bits. Sullivan felt the Power shift inside his chest as he regained that small bit back.
Toru coughed blood, but when somebody had as many Healing spells on them as Sullivan or Toru did, you either killed them outright or not at all. “I do not know what it is. It came through a mirror.”
“You gonna make it?” Sullivan asked. Toru removed his hand and displayed his wounded side. The claw marks made it look like he’d been mangled by a piece of farm equipment. Any other man there would’ve been dead on the spot, but his Healing kanji were burning so hard that standing next to Toru felt like standing next to a radiator. “Damn . . .”
“I will live.”
The Mouth, Genesse, came running up. “The Traveler is on the way. Southunder’s ended the storm. It looks clear.”
Sullivan looked at Toru. Anything that could overwhelm a Brute like that wasn’t to be underestimated. “We better off fighting this thing in here, or out there?”
“It was faster than me.”
Sullivan gave the order to move out.
The knights were quick on their feet. It only took a minute to get everyone off the lower floor. As they passed the men holding the choke points against the remaining Imperium, they’d gather those silently and move away, leaving the soldiers holed up against nothing. If they played this right, they’d be long gone by the time the Japanese mounted a counterattack.
Sullivan led the way up the stairs, Browning’s bullpup automatic rifle in his big hands. He already knew that he’d get them to the entrance, and then hold it until everyone else had made it out and been accounted for. Once a leader of men, always a leader of men, and the habits he’d formed during the Great War had come back fast. Or maybe they’d never really left at all.
Whatever had attacked Toru hadn’t made a move against the rest of them yet. Sullivan’s eyes darted back and forth, checking every corner for threats. It kept his mind occupied enough to not dwell on the thought that not only was the Pathfinder already here, but also it was somehow already spread throughout the entire Imperium with nobody knowing. Survive first, deal with that later.
He froze when he saw the footprint made of blood. “What the hell?” It might not have gotten his attention if it had been shaped like a human’s, but this one was all twisted up and wrong. Sullivan held up one hand to stop the line of knights. He glanced back and spotted Ian Wright, and signaled for the Summoner to come forward. Pointing at the blood, Sullivan asked, “One of yours?”
The Summoner shook his head. “I don’t know what that is.”
Sullivan lifted his rife. That meant the thing had gotten ahead of them. “It’s here—”
There was a long scream, which echoed down the halls. It came from the direction of the entrance and it certainly didn’t sound like it had come from a human being. Then there was another scream, this one entirely too human and filled with unmistakable pain. There was a gunshot, and another, and then a rattling barrage of automatic weapons fire.
He set off at a run. Sullivan was fast for a Heavy, especially when driven by the thought that his men were counting on him. Several knights were right behind him.
But they were too late.
Diamond had called the entrance an airlock. Whatever it was, the room had been built tight, with solid doors to keep the cold out and the feeble warmth in. Now, that heavy door had been ripped from its hinges and was lying on the floor in pieces. The room had been painted red, floor to dripping ceiling. The crumpled lumps of winter clothing were all that were left of their wounded knights and their Healer. A haze made of particulate blood and bits of shredded goose down hung in the air. And in the center of the room, a thing made out of nightmares turned and hissed at them.
In the dim light, it could be mistaken for a person. Briefly. As it turned, wet muscles rolled beneath a thin, translucent covering. There were bullet holes puckered across its torso, weeping black, but it didn’t seem to notice. It dropped the severed leg it had been gnawing on when it heard Sullivan’s heavy footfalls, and when it turned and opened its jagged face to scream at them again with that horrific banshee wail, Sullivan let the thing have it.
Gravity shifted, magnified a dozen times, hurling the creature back and crushing it into the wall. It screeched and tried to push away, struggling to reach for him with long, pointed fingers. Sullivan aimed the BAR at its heart and squeezed the trigger.
Chapter 7
Healing the sick, walking through walls? Sure, that’s neat an’ all, but I met this one brother who could play bagpipes you could swing to. Now that’s real magic.
—Duke Ellington,
Interview, 1927
Paris, France
Faye was waiting for Jacques Montand to arrive at the little café, rather patiently, she might add, when she realized that she was being watched. She had spotted the man on the sidewalk that morning. Then when she’d caught a glimpse of his reflection in a window a few blocks later, she’d gotten suspicious. Taking a seat in the front of the same café ten minutes after Faye had arrived had been the final straw.
He was a fairly average-looking fellow, tall, lean, older than her, but not by more than ten years at the most. His overcoat and fedora were dark, nothing that would stand out on the street, and he was pretty good at looking like he wasn’t watching her from behind the newspaper he was pretending to read.
A quick, focused check of her head map confirmed that the man had magic. He was an Active. She tried not to feel smug as she congratulated herself on picking out the tail. Lance had called that sort of thing field craft, which made
sense, since, like hunting, it was all about paying attention. Faye’s initial reaction to suspicious men following her around was to greet them, preferably with sudden, overwhelming violence, but today she refrained. If he was Imperium, he’d show it soon enough.
But what if the stranger was using her to find Jacques? There were all sorts of nefarious groups that wanted to murder the leaders of the Grimnoir. Mr. Browning had tried to warn her about that many times. But everybody thought she was dead, so using her to find them didn’t make much sense either.
Well, if he was an Imperium spy sent to find the Grimnoir elders, it would serve Jacques right for not helping her find a place to stay where she wouldn’t have to worry about being spotted and followed. She’d been forced to get a hotel room. Which was annoying, both because she didn’t know her way around Paris at all and didn’t understand a word of the language, except that a lot of the words sounded like mumbly versions of Portuguese words, and also because hotel rooms in this part of town were expensive, and she had only borrowed one stack of money from Francis’ walk-in safe before she’d left America. To be fair, all of Francis’ money stacks tended to be really thick and made entirely out of large denominations, so she was in no danger of running out anytime soon, but it was more the principle of the matter.
Jacques arrived fifteen minutes late with a briefcase in hand. He smiled at the pretty young waitress, asked for something in French, and then took his time strolling across the room. She discreetly kept an eye on the stranger while Jacques took a seat across from her. The stranger’s eyes flicked over toward them briefly, and then back to the newspaper.
You’re pretty good, buddy, but I’m better. If he so much as twitched wrong, Faye would Travel him up to the top of that big funny-looking metal tower with the funny name and drop him off it.
Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles Page 13