Copyright
BACCANO!, Volume 3: 1931 THE GRAND PUNK RAILROAD: EXPRESS
RYOHGO NARITA
Translation by Taylor Engel
Cover art by Katsumi Enami
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
BACCANO!, Volume 3
©RYOHGO NARITA 2003
All rights reserved.
Edited by ASCII MEDIA WORKS
First published in Japan in 2003 by KADOKAWA CORPORATION, Tokyo.
English translation rights arranged with KADOKAWA CORPORATION, Tokyo, through Tuttle-Mori Agency, Inc., Tokyo.
English translation © 2016 by Yen Press, LLC
Yen Press, LLC supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Narita, Ryōgo, 1980- author. | Enami, Katsumi, illustrator. | Engel, Taylor, translator.
Title: Baccano!. Volume 3, 1931 the grand punk railroad: express / Ryohgo Narita ; illustration by Katsumi Enami ; translation by Taylor Engel.
Other titles: 1931 the grand punk railroad: express
Description: First Yen On edition. | New York, NY : Yen On, 2016. | Series: Baccano! ; 3
Identifiers: LCCN 2016035662 | ISBN 9780316270410 (hardback)
Subjects: | CYAC: Science fiction. | Railroad trains—Fiction. | Nineteen thirties—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Science Fiction / Adventure.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.N37 Bae 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016035662
ISBNs: 978-0-316-27041-0 (hardcover)
978-0-316-27042-7 (ebook)
E3-20161129-JV-PC
TERMINAL
WHAT CAME AFTER
1932January Somewhere in New York
“Welcome to our information brokerage. We sincerely appreciate your visit.”
In a room lit by the dim glow of candlelight, a man dressed like a bank clerk spoke, smiling.
Although those words and that smile seemed ordinary at first glance, something about them felt terribly out of place.
The building was a small one, in an unobtrusive location in a corner of Manhattan. Officially, it was the office of a newspaper, and in fact, it did publish one. It was a small paper, with less than one one-thousandth the circulation of the New York Times, but even so, there was no need for the company to abandon its office.
The newspaper publishing business was conducted only for the sake of convenience: The revenue brought in by the organization’s side business—selling information—was far greater.
Ordinarily, no information brokerage would have based itself in one location. In this business, the atmosphere you see in movies and novels—of people being slipped notes in back alleys and the corners of bars—felt much more appropriate. In the first place, once people knew where an information brokerage was, it could be wiped off the map at any time.
Even so, in addition to being a newspaper, this office displayed an information brokerage sign as well. It had a proper storefront, which, in a way, made it an embarrassment to its trade.
The fact that it didn’t get wiped off the map meant there was reason enough not to do so, but the current visitor didn’t pay the least bit of attention to that. They simply began to talk about the information they were looking for.
The man at the desk nodded slightly in response to the visitor’s words, then showed them to a private room in the basement.
“All right. You’ve requested information regarding the ‘incident’ that occurred the other day… How much do you yourself know of what took place on that train?”
Speaking with what seemed like excessive politeness, the man from the reception desk began to discuss the visitor’s request.
“It began in the dining car of the transcontinental limited express, the Flying Pussyfoot. While the train was in transit, bound for New York, three gangs of robbers found themselves on it together. One was a terrorist group dressed in black, commonly known as the Lemures. Their objective was to take the train’s passengers hostage and demand the release of their leader, Huey Laforet.”
Lightly raising his fingers into empty space, the man began to describe the situation glibly.
“Then there was a group of failed mafiosi in white. Their leader was Ladd Russo, a relative of Placido Russo—boss of the Russo Family, one of Chicago’s many mafia organizations—and a skilled hitman. Their objective was a reckless massacre, conducted for money and pleasure.”
The man from the reception desk kept talking, sounding quite entertained. It wasn’t clear whether he was paying attention to his visitor or not.
“The final group was… Officially, they were simply called ‘passengers,’ but we hear that the presence of a gang of young people who’d planned a freight robbery has been confirmed as well. As an aside, they don’t seem to have touched any of the regular cargo. In any event, these three groups came into conflict with one another…and ultimately, victory went to the gang of young robbers. Are you with me so far?”
The answer to the receptionist’s matter-of-fact tone was a quiet nod from the visitor.
“Well, well. That’s very good indeed. It wouldn’t be at all odd for someone who had been involved to be cognizant of the situation up to this point. In that case, if you’ll permit me to ask, what sort of additional information might you want?”
Responding to the courteous man, the visitor slowly related what it was they were seeking. On hearing this, the man from the reception desk nodded, looking satisfied. It was as if these were the words he’d expected to hear all along.
“I see, I see, yes, I understand. What occurred behind the scenes of that incident: That is the information you seek, correct?”
Getting up from his chair, the receptionist walked slowly toward the visitor.
“It’s true that, ordinarily, someone who was only marginally involved in that incident would want to forget it, but…if you were rather deeply entangled, I expect you wouldn’t feel satisfied until you knew everything.”
Even as the receptionist nodded cheerfully, there was a tinge of sadness in his eyes.
“Well, well. I do pity our president. I really do. The president is the one who most wants to relate the information you’ve requested, but wouldn’t you know it, he’s away just now. Ha-ha. These things never do go as one would like. I only thank God for the fact that I am able to tell you in his place.”
The receptionist quirked a single eyebrow and smiled.
“All right. In that case, let me tell you exactly what it was that happene
d in the shadows of the incident that night.”
Abruptly turning serious, the man got down to business with his client.
“Now, then: While you are here, you must not, under any circumstances, take notes on the information I am about to relate to you. It isn’t permitted, so you mustn’t do so. We will not let you get away with a single letter. We request that you keep this information in your memory, and nowhere else. Once I have told you everything, you may write down what you remember. At that point, you see, it will have mingled with your subjective view and will have ceased to be accurate information. Just think of it as a ritual that allows us to stay in business. Even if only in the eyes of the public, original information must remain the exclusive possession of information brokers and providers.”
Having spoken that far without pausing, the man from the reception desk narrowed his eyes and looked straight into the eyes of his visitor.
“What I am about to say next is not simply a formality: I recommend that you refrain from investigating our information providers. —You will die.”
Seeing his visitor gulp, then nod, the man smiled brightly and returned to his chair.
“The thugs aboard that train were truly suited to the epithet ‘evildoers.’ Of course, there were ordinary passengers on board as well, but the ratio was far to one side. However, the three groups of which I spoke earlier weren’t the only threatening elements on the Flying Pussyfoot. Among them were individuals too far removed from the realm of human common sense to be called thugs. One was a contract killer nicknamed ‘Vino,’ a monster who has been conflated with a type of urban legend: Claire Stanfield. Another is—”
At this point, the man broke off, then spoke to his visitor as if testing them:
“Are you aware of the existence of beings known as immortals?”
With his lips still warped as if he was enjoying himself, the receptionist resumed his detailed explanation without waiting for an answer.
“Alchemists who strayed from their path and attained immortality… Technically, calling them undying isn’t quite correct. To be accurate, there is one way for them to die, or in other words, one way to kill them. One simply has to put their right hand on another’s head and think, firmly, ‘I want to eat.’ That’s all. Just by performing that simple ritual, one is able to steal all there is of the other immortal: their life, their body, their experiences, their knowledge, and sometimes even their emotions. They are able to take everything into themselves equally, through their right hand… In other words, to ‘eat’ it! —Well, whether you believe it or not is entirely up to you, but…it is the truth.”
Having confirmed that the visitor wasn’t arguing or scoffing, the man from the reception desk warped the corners of his mouth even further.
“And the name of the individual aboard that train was—”
PROLOGUE VI
ALCHEMIST
Ye gods. Life is going so well, it’s almost frightening.
I’ve spent over two hundred years sneaking around and hiding, and just when the chance to “eat” them has finally come my way—I find myself simultaneously coming into possession of a large sum of money, one that will keep me living comfortably for quite some time. Incredible.
When I received Maiza’s letter, at first I couldn’t trust it. Szilard, “eaten”? I responded immediately, telling him I’d go to see him that winter. I’d had plans to visit New York in any case, so it worked out nicely.
The item I’d been researching… It was no more than a by-product, really, but it had been decided that I would sell those explosives to a certain organization in New York.
I’d initially considered negotiating with the military, but having my name made public would have been too much of a risk. This country’s military is no longer loose enough to allow one to transact with them without revealing one’s name. Since the “contract” renders me unable to use false names, as far as I was concerned, this was a lethal demerit.
With no help for it, I determined to sell the explosives to an organization in another country and had been conducting negotiations in secret.
Just then, I received two letters. Both were from old friends. Both had been sent from New York.
I panicked a bit, wondering how they’d known about me. According to the letters, both had learned my whereabouts from a New York information brokerage.
What a disaster. If even an information brokerage, in another city entirely, knew where I was, there was no telling when someone might attack and devour me.
I considered leaving that place immediately, but on reading the letters, I thought better of it.
One letter was from Maiza, a fellow alchemist. Apparently, he was acting as the accountant for some organization in New York, but he didn’t write about it in detail. His letter said: Szilard has met his demise, so rest easy and live without fear.
Szilard. The name of the blasted old fool who promptly betrayed us and began eating our comrades when we gained immortality two centuries ago. Thanks to him, we scattered, and most of us live quietly now, for fear of being eaten by one another… Myself included, naturally.
I tell you, what he did was completely uncalled for.
If only Szilard hadn’t been hasty back then—
—I would have eaten them all by now.
At the time, I hadn’t given it the slightest thought. However, the painful days after we scattered and began to live separately greatly altered my thoughts.
I lived with a fellow alchemist who’d fled with me, but that life was a horrible one. Living in poverty wasn’t what made it painful. After all, although immortals grow hungry, there’s no need for us to worry about death by starvation.
The problem lay in the companion who lived with me.
At first, he was kind to me, but gradually, his hideous true nature began to reveal itself.
About the time we had begun to settle into a life of hiding from Szilard…he began to be unfairly violent toward me, regardless of how good or bad his own mood was. In anger, in smiles, and even in sadness: It sank its roots into our everyday life, as an act that was just as natural as breathing or eating.
As the days passed, these actions only escalated. No matter how badly it was injured, my body would regenerate, and he continued to torment me physically, toying with me, occasionally experimenting on me.
Even though becoming immortal doesn’t deaden your sense of pain.
Even though he had to have known that, too.
He gave various reasons to justify his actions. At the time, I was easily fooled by his words… Or perhaps I wasn’t but simply figured that if I refused him, something even worse would happen. Back then, even if I’d tried to escape from that pain, I had neither the knowledge nor the courage to live on my own.
In the midst of those warped days, we received a piece of news.
It was a notice that a fellow alchemist with whom my companion had been secretly corresponding had been “eaten” by Szilard.
From that day on, his abuse of me grew worse. Initially, he’d tormented me with experimental tools, but from then on, beatings and other simple violence came to the fore. The cruelty of abuse conducted with tools grew until it was beyond comparison with what it had been before.
When I cast questioning glances at him, he grew more frightened than was necessary and strung together several times more excuses than he had in the past. I remember it felt as though he was trying to curry favor with me and that it was terribly ugly. When he registered my gaze, his face twisted even further, and he struck me.
One night, he tried to eat me.
It may have been luck that I was awake, or possibly I’d known that this was bound to happen soon. I shoved his right hand away with all my might, and a fierce struggle began.
Was it the result of my summoning up all the misgivings and hatred I’d accumulated? I was a moment faster, and my right hand caught his forehead. The next instant, my palm had absorbed everything he was. His body, his memories, and even his heart.<
br />
That was when my hell began. All I saw in his knowledge were his completely warped feelings for me and the terror that I might “eat” him someday. In other words, in the end, I’d been no more than an outlet for his twisted desires, and there hadn’t been a shred of trust between us.
The things I least wanted to see, visions that made me physically sick, ate into my mind as my own memories. I found myself forced to live with that sinister knowledge, as if it was a part of me.
The notion of having been betrayed, while holding the memories of the person I’d betrayed myself—to this very day, I’ve lived in the agony of holding these two incompatible things at once.
In accordance with the principles of immortality, my mind alone continued to grow.
As it did, I was shown just how cowardly, filthy, and stunted all those who live in this world are.
At some point, I even felt a sort of adoration for Szilard, who lived true to his own desires, but I’m sure the blasted old fool would have considered me nothing more than prey.
That was fine. I, too, decided to think of everything in this world besides myself as prey. In any case, if there was no one in the world I could trust, all I had to do was use the whole of it in order to live. I even began to dream of giving everyone in the world the same sort of body I had, then devouring them all.
In order for that to happen, I would have to eat all the companions who’d been on the ship with me.
I’d assumed Szilard would probably get killed by one of his intended victims someday. However, no doubt I’d be able to pick up where he left off; in fact, I was confident that I could.
My shipmates had been kind to me, and it was likely that they thought I was still the same person I’d been before. On top of that, unlike with Szilard, by the time they realized my intentions, I would already be devouring them. My intent could never be communicated to any other alchemist.
The idea of having someone else attack me was terrifying, but when it came to my attacking them, I was confident.
I responded to Maiza’s letter. All I wrote was that I wanted to see him.
1931 The Grand Punk Railroad: Express Page 1