He was upright, being held in place by chains wrapped around his arms, legs, and torso. It took him a moment to realize that he was still wearing the Nishimura armor, everything but the helmet. He tried to move, but it had somehow been depowered, and his limbs were sluggish and did not respond. Some form of stifling magical effect had been placed upon him.
The Iron Guard who had struck him stepped aside. Once again, he was staring into the face of Okubo Tokugawa, only this was the imposter. This was the villain. This was the pawn of the Enemy. How could the others not see? He would have spit in that face if his mouth hadn’t been so dry.
He was dressed for ceremony, wearing his military uniform, chest covered in medals and ribbons. “Well, if it isn’t the traitor,” the imposter sneered. “How pathetic. Once a fearsome Iron Guard, the finest possible example of an Imperium warrior, and now you are chained to a dungeon wall like a common criminal.”
“I am not common.” Toru gritted his teeth and concentrated. He couldn’t even curl his fingers into a fist. It was like he’d been paralyzed from the neck down. “You are a traitor, Dosan Saito, and I will kill you.”
The guard did not need to be prompted. He backhanded Toru in the mouth.
The imposter smiled. “Save your energy, Toru. This man is of my personal guard. They have already been . . . augmented.”
Toru’s eyes grated in their sockets as he studied the Iron Guard. He looked completely human, only with dead, unfeeling eyes. This warrior had been a man once, but now he was a puppet made of flesh. Toru was disgusted.
“You have been trying to plant seeds of doubt into their heads, like Hattori did to you. I know that was what you were attempting with your brazen entrance into Shanghai. You hoped to scare me away. You wanted to make the warriors doubt their Chairman with your wild rumors. Sadly, some of the seeds which you have been spreading have taken root among the men. I cannot allow that. I must crush all doubt. That is the only reason you are still alive.”
Toru wanted to choke the life from this man, but he was helpless, and that was infuriating. “Why do you serve the Pathfinder? You were a friend of Okubo Tokugawa!”
“I was his friend, his confidant, and his advisor. I knew him far better than you ever did. You are a foolish boy who thinks he is serving the will of his father, while I am the one who will realize his dream. I serve the Imperium. I do not serve the Pathfinder. The Pathfinder serves me.”
“Then you are an imbecile.”
WHACK. The Iron Guard hit him even harder. This one had to have been a Massive to have knuckles that dense.
The imposter looked to the Iron Guard. It was as if they communicated without speaking, and the soldier stepped away, leaving Toru hanging there, blood running out of his nose and down his lips.
“Okubo hated the Enemy. He was correct to do so. It came here as a mighty predator. His mistake, however, was in thinking it could not be tamed. Like any beast, like magic even, it can be broken and made to serve. For many years I kept a fragment of the defeated Pathfinder secret. I studied it, learned its ways, as was Okubo’s command to me, and I took its strength for myself. It is simply another form of being, not so different than the Power.”
They had thought it was merely bad luck which had brought the Pathfinder to Asia twice in a row, but in truth, it had never actually left. “You are being deceived.”
“You are incorrect. Like all living things, the Enemy merely wishes to continue its existence. Once I spoke with it, I came to understand its needs. It came to consume all of the Power, as it had done before on other worlds, but only because the intelligences there which the Power had been bonded to were not rational. The Enemy merely asks for enough sustenance to support itself, and in exchange, it is prepared to give us so much in return . . . Access to abilities far beyond anything the Power has ever granted.”
“What did my father say when you suggested this to him?”
Saito chuckled. “I am not a fool. I never spoke to Okubo about this. He truly believed that the Pathfinder had been completely destroyed. I did not wish to upset his view, so I waited.”
“It had you wait. It made you hold your tongue.”
“Not at all. Did Okubo himself not once teach that it was the inevitable duty of the strong to control the weak? I am merely following his philosophy. The Predator is strong. The Power is the weaker of the two, and thus must be controlled. The Power is nothing more than a very useful farm animal. It is livestock, to be managed. There is no reason that both cannot exist simultaneously in this world.”
“Magic is not chickens, and we are not peasants collecting eggs to present to our lords! It has clouded your thoughts, Saito. It is using you.”
“You have not seen what I have seen. You will never understand. When the evil Grimnoir took Okubo from us, I saw my opportunity. Over the years I had been secretly collecting other forms of magic. I oversaw Unit 731, and when the discreet opportunity would present itself, I would have the Power wrung out of another Active and I would take it as my own. Oh, the look on your face . . . Surprised? You think Okubo was the only one who could do such a thing? No, Toru. The Pathfinder offers that to all of its allies. It enabled me to conceal this development from Okubo, and once the unthinkable happened, I stepped in to take his place.”
“How do you—”
“Mimic him so perfectly? The Pathfinder is an artist whose medium is flesh. It did not simply give me a new face. Using nothing but a lock of Okubo’s hair, it grew me a new body. It has been observing his every word and action for decades, and it recorded them all with perfect clarity for my use. I am not an actor pretending to be Okubo, I am Okubo.”
Toru did not know if the dream he’d been having earlier had been real or not, but he chose to believe. Father, grant me the strength to break these chains so that I may snap this bastard’s neck. Nothing happened. “Damn you, Saito.”
“I am Okubo Tokugawa, and you are standing in the way of my great vision of unification. Now you may be wondering why I did not simply have you killed when they pulled your nearly lifeless body from the rubble. It is the same reason you still wear this magnificent armor. Your death must be most impressive. I mentioned your seeds of doubt taking root, and I simply cannot allow that to happen. For the good of the Imperium, there can be no doubt in my divinity.”
Divinity? The Chairman had never claimed to be a god! “What manner of blasphemous madness do you speak of?”
Saito waved his hand dismissively. “I tire of the Emperor. The time has come to remove all pretenses, but first, you have insulted my rule, and for that I must publically destroy you. I must defeat you in a manner which leaves no doubt that I am Okubo Tokugawa.”
It was as Dr. Wells had predicted. The imposter was insecure. Toru’s eyes narrowed. “A trial of combat?”
“We will conduct our ceremony, traditions will be kept, and then afterwards, I will face the infamous traitor, Toru, an exceedingly powerful Brute, in personal combat, and not only will I duel such a fearsome opponent, I will even allow him to wear one of the most powerful magical weapons in our entire arsenal. I will make it sporting. Surely, only Okubo Tokugawa would be capable of such a feat.”
It did not matter how many forms of magic Saito had absorbed, or how much extra magic the Pathfinder was granting him, Toru would find a way to kill him. “I accept your challenge.”
Saito laughed. “Of course you do. You were always a fine example of the Iron Guard’s fighting spirit. I am certain that you would do your best to defeat me. In fact, you might even be able to somehow achieve this goal, or at least put up a good enough showing that you could perhaps injure me, and it would simply not do to let the people see their god bleed.”
The other Iron Guard returned, holding something in his hand. Toru’s eyes widened when he saw what it was. The tiny metal cup was filled with a thick, black liquid. He recognized it from Hattori’s memories of Dark Ocean. It was the corrupted blood which spilled from the skinless abominations created by the Pathfinder
’s dark magic. It was moving, hissing, and smoking. It was alive. It was this foul substance which the Pathfinder had used to spread its malicious corruption through the villagers to build its army.
“Wretched coward!” Toru bellowed.
“This is for the best. When next we meet, you will do what is expected of you, no more, no less. I look forward to our duel. I am sure you will put on an excellent show.”
The Iron Guard smashed the metal cup against Toru’s mouth. He clamped his lips shut, but the corruption crawled up and out, pressing against his lips. It followed the trail of dripping blood and forced its way into his nose. It pulsed and rolled up his face and into his ear. He closed his eyes as hard as he could, but it began crawling through his lids.
It would enter his brain and corrupt his soul and Toru would be no more.
And for one of the only times in his entire life, Toru knew fear.
UBF Traveler
The airship’s crew had been pared down to an absolute minimum. The corridors of the once-crowded dirigible seemed empty. The engine room was busy, the command deck was busy, and the cargo bay was bustling with activity, but that was it. Fuller, Schirmer, and a couple of brave UBF volunteers were still working on the big, confusing, slap-dash invention which was taking up the majority of the hold. It looked like a mess, but they swore up and down that it would work. More than likely.
Sullivan had come down from Akane’s room and gone right to work. Southunder had arrived a little later to check on his preparations. “Zhao and a few of my Marauders are on the way back to the city. It seems a few of my boarding-party regulars did not wish to sit this one out. Heinrich will be awaiting our signal.”
“You made the right call sending away the rest of the crew, Captain.”
Southunder chuckled. “Well, Mr. Sullivan. We’ll find out if that’s the case should we crash due to lack of sufficient damage-control teams.”
“Still . . . Good call.” Sullivan unlatched the big metal buckles from the box containing the Gravity-Spiker armor John Browning had designed for him. “Francis’ UBF boys did their part. No need to make any more widows.”
“Is that what you think?” Southunder grinned. “I’ll have you know I sent them on so we’d have a bigger supply of extra oxygen tanks. I didn’t want all of those eggheads sucking up my precious breathable air.”
“Smart.” They would be going pretty damn high, after all. The remaining crew were already donning the same heavy winter clothing the knights had used near the North Pole. It was only going to get colder, and the air was only going to get thinner. Within an hour or so they’d be in the death zone, where, unassisted, a body would just run out of oxygen and croak, and that wasn’t even close to what Fuller needed. “How high do you intend to go?”
“According to UBF, this is the most advanced airship ever made. Theoretically, thanks to the Cog-designed hydrogen-compression systems in the bags, to borrow a phrase, the sky is the limit. The main deck will be pressurized, better than a submarine Francis claims, though you should never trust a salesman. Still, we should be safe . . . Theoretically . . . The volunteers remaining in the hold and engine room will be wearing the special pressure suits and breathing apparatus, and—”
“I can pressurize myself.”
“Yes, lucky, that. Mr. Schirmer said the higher, the better for their—to use Mr. Fuller’s term—magicanical oddity. Altitude achievable is entirely dependent upon the expansion of our lifting gases, dynamic volume, and pressure.”
“Finally, some science around here I can actually understand.”
“And this wondrous vessel was designed to break records, so . . .” The captain went to the side, picked up a phone, and cranked the charge handle a few times. “Bridge . . . Yes, Mr. Barns. What’s the current world altitude record? Yes . . . Seventy-two thousand feet? A Soviet airship? Well, then, Mr. Barns. Maintain heading and take us to seventy-five.” Southunder put the phone back in the cradle. “I simply cannot abide a record being set by a Communist . . . Will that do for your plans, Mr. Sullivan?”
“For what we’re trying to do? Hell if I know. It’ll work, or it won’t, but either way, it should end up memorable. I don’t know if that’ll bug Faye too much, but she should be able to get us both down in one piece . . . I was happy to hear she’s alive and kicking. That girl is full of surprises.”
“Last I saw, she was in the ready room. She sent word to our American compatriots, and now she is folding little paper animals. Apparently Lady Origami has influenced her.” Southunder smirked. “And I’ve been led to believe that is not the only new friend Ori has made recently.”
Sullivan just grunted and kept lacing up the big ties on the side of the steel boots. “Come out and say it, Captain.”
“You know what I mean, Mr. Sullivan. My crew is my family, so I think of her as a daughter.”
“This the part where you bring out a shotgun and a preacher?”
“I shouldn’t need to. Besides, buckshot might threaten the integrity of my nice new airship, and a man of the cloth would only suck up precious oxygen. You’ll treat her with the respect she’s due.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Excellent, because if you don’t, she’d just burn you to a crisp.” Southunder patted him on the back. “So come back in one piece then and make that poor girl happy. I really don’t want her moping around my ship again. Got it, son?”
They both knew him coming back wasn’t likely. “Yes, Captain.”
“Very well. You’re a good man, Sullivan. I’d be honored to have you on my crew anytime. Good luck down there.”
“Good luck up here.” Sullivan held out his hand, and they shook on it. Southunder’s hand nearly disappeared in Sullivan’s big mitt. “The whole world’s gonna be watching.”
“They’d better. Well, I’ve got a ship to run. I’ll tell Faye you are awake.” The Captain left without any further ceremony.
Sullivan went back to putting on the suit. It wasn’t nearly as fancy as Toru’s nifty gear. If he’d had more time, he would’ve loved to study that thing in depth. The Spiker Armor was conceptually based on the Heavy Suits they’d worn back in the First Volunteer. Heat-treated, interlocking steel plates covered most of the body to protect from bullets and shrapnel, and beneath that was thick, fire-resistant canvas to protect the skin from Torches’ flames or Iceboxes’ cold. The whole thing had been spray painted olive drab and tan, not for any particular reason, but it did fit with the traditional colors of the First. The suit weighed a ton, but it was a whole lot nicer than the rusty heap he’d worn while running across no man’s land back during the war. Not to mention that this thing was enchanted to hell and back with every spell that John Browning could fit onto it.
Sullivan pulled the helmet out of the box. “What the . . .” He turned it over in his hands. Somebody had sprayed the nearly featureless face mask a stark white, and then painted square black lines for teeth. The eyes were black holes anyway, so now the whole thing looked like a skull. “That’s ominous.” Who’d been screwing with his gear? He flipped it over. The artist had used a paint brush to put a small signature and a note on the base.
Now it has got class. A Lance Talon original, 1933.
“That joker.”
Faye popped into existence a second later. “Mr. Sullivan!” She rushed over and threw her arms around his neck.
Straw-colored hair hit him in the eyes. “Hey, Faye.” Careful not to squish her, he returned the hug. Then he pushed her away and held her carefully at arm’s length. “How in the hell are you alive? And where have you been?”
“Just now? Figuring out how all of magic really works so I can be stronger than the Chairman ever was. It’s all about folding the world into little chunks to make designs that do what you want. Before that, I had to kill somebody called the Black Monk, he acted all high and mighty like I’d know him as something something Rasputin, but he was evil so I killed him and got all his magic. But before that I was in Dead City talking to
a zombie Fortune Teller who showed me how I’m probably gonna end the world, and before that I was hanging out with one of the elders so I could learn how to be the Spellbound without ending the world. I pretended to get blown up when I blew up the God of Demons so I could do that and not get murdered by the elders for being all cursed and whatnot. How about you? How’ve you been?”
“Not as good as you, apparently.” As usual, when talking to Faye, you sometimes had to take a minute to let all of the information sort of settle into a groove. “If I’m still alive later, you’ll have to explain all that to me nice and clear, like you have to with the real slow-witted folks.”
“Oh, Mr. Sullivan. Your brain ain’t slow. You just like taking your time before you open your mouth.”
“You heard about Lance?” Faye nodded. The skin around her grey eyes was puffy from crying. Even saying his name made those eyes get a little shiny before Faye blinked it away. “Well, I’m sure he did us all proud. You been told the plan?”
She nodded again. “I think it’s a bad plan, but I see why you’re doing it. They already say we’re the bad guys anyways. Might as well make it true.”
“That’s the idea. Dr. Wells called it preconceived notions. Can you Travel me down there? I’ll need a few minutes to do what I’ve got to do before you start killing anybody.”
“I promise. I don’t like leaving Iron Guards alive on principle, but I know what you want to happen.” Faye turned her head quizzically to the side. “Your magic is different now. Not like mine, but different. Bigger.”
Sullivan studied her back. He’d never been able to see it before, but he could sort of, now, if he squinted just right. Faye had so much extra Power hanging around her it was like a fuzzy halo of raw magic. She’d always been strong, but this was downright scary. They had both changed a lot since that fateful day they’d met and she’d put some bullets in his back. “Girl, I don’t think anybody is close to you anymore.”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about before we do this.” Faye pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him.
Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles Page 37