“That, Matthew Jones,” said his wife, “is the first time I have ever known you to refuse sex! You have certainly changed.”
“Welcome to motherhood!” Matt said laughing. And kissed Tomoko lightly on the cheek. CB came into the room, and the three clung tightly to each othei; drawing from one another the only solace that was left to them.
Matt fell asleep to the sound of his adopted child’s troubled breathing and to the whimpering of his wife, trapped in some nightmare of remembrance.
Chapter 9
“Leave me now.”
Ogawa turned to dismiss his retinue. It was a nuisance to have to go about the city with an armed escort, but now that they had descended into a deserted section of Tokyo’s labyrinthine subway system, it was no longer necessary to make an impression on anyone.
The right impression was so important.
The four guardsmen touched the hilts of their katanas, bowed, and left the minister of culture alone.
Presently a subway train came rolling into the station. It was, as Ogawa knew it would be, empty. The subway ran rarely in Tokyo now; only the Ueno Line and the Yamanote Line were still operational, and these only sporadically. And this station was nowhere near those two lines.
No.
Only the masters knew about this station.
And the train that pulled up ... it did not bear the familiar ideographs that indicated a train’s destination or what line it was running on. No. Instead, on a circle of crimson, there was inscribed a familiar symbol in an extraterrestrial language. A symbol that, if seen by any normal person, would have struck immediate terror in his heart.
Ogawa was not afraid.
He was not an ordinary person. Far from it.
Once upon a time, of course, he had been a mere human being: a minor government bureaucrat, concerned with his job and with pleasing his superiors and with saving enough money to buy trinkets for his mistress and videotapes for his wife. What a dreadful time that had been! Always something to worry about, some petty, insignificant problem.
He was happy now.
When he had problems to worry about now, they were big problems. Like reshaping Japan in the proper image. Like paving the way for the return of the masters . . . for bringing Earth into the hegemony of a galactic empire. Big, big things; visions and destinies worthy of his imagination, worthy of his ambition.
Of course, he’d had to pay a price for all this—days of agony in one of their conversion chambers. The thought nagged at him a little as he straightened his tie and fiddled with his mustache. He had to look perfect for this meeting. Oh, the agony! But it was a good price for becoming almost like one of the masters himself. As close to godlike as a human being could get.
The train waited patiently for him. Of course. He was its only passenger; it had been sent for him. How things had improved since the days of being a bureaucrat! Satisfied that his appearance would be neat enough to render his interview as unobtrusive as possible, he stejjped into the nearest cai; sat down, and waited.
Guards blindfolded him and took him down many corridors. He lost track of them. But the masters knew what was right. It was in his own interests that the masters would not let him see the way. Doubtless it would only serve to clutter up a mind that should be devoted only to a single thing: utter subservience. It was a wonderful thing, this complete obedience. It was the vow a samurai used to take to his feudal lord. It was, indeed, a profoundly Zen-like thing.
How happy I am, he told himself over and over; as they marched him deeper and deeper into what he imagined was the masters’ stronghold.
At last they took away his blindfold. He was in a traditional Japanese reception chamber. A woman, obviously converted, knelt down to take his shoes and bowed as he climbed up a few steps onto the tatami-covered floor In front of him was a large screen of intricately painted lacquer. The design was a traditional one from China: a depiction of dragons frolicking in the sunlight, above the sea. Two humans cowered in terror, their rickety boat buffeted by the waves.
He bowed before the screen, squatting uncomfortably on the tatami as green tea was served to him in a courteous and elegant manner.
A voice came from behind the screen: “Ggawa.” “Hai, tono!” he said, addressing the voice by a tide traditionally reserved for feudal lords. “But—”
He heard hands clapping. The screen,was quickly folded by black-robed attendants. Sitting on the dais, decked in a silken kimono on which was dexterously handpainted the insignia of the Bijitaa high command, was a woman. “My lady, I was expecting—”
“Fieh Chan?” She frowned. Her face darkened. He hoped he had not said the wrong thing. In spite of his conversion, Ogawa still felt a twinge of reluctance at the possibility that he might be commanded to commit seppuku for the cause of the masters. “Fieh Chan is not available.” “But, my lady—”
“I am called Murasaki. I am Fieh Chan’s second in command. Unthinkable, that you should feel yourself worthy of a personal interview with the leader himself!” She sipped daintily from a teabowl. “Fieh Chan sees no one now. ” “But Lady Murasaki, I have not seen him for four months. Not since ...”
“Rest assured!” said the Visitor woman. “All is well. Let me hear your report.”
“I humbly beg the Lady Murasaki’s pardon,” Ogawa
said, bowing so that his head knocked against the floor, “but I was given to understand that the Lord Fieh Chan wished to hear my information ... in strictest confidence.”
“Ah . . .” said Lady Murasaki menacingly. Her voice betrayed just a hint of that almost electronic quality that the Visitors seemed to acquire when their emotions were stirred, as though at those moments not quite able to contain their godlike nature within the limits of the human soma. “But Fieh Chan is visiting the Hong Kong sector at the moment. You know that an overlord such as he is so important that he is in charge of more than one district.”
“Of course, my lady,” Ogawa said, cringing in abject humility.
“Perhaps,” Murasaki said, “you might care for a bite to eat?” She clapped her hands. “The sashimi is . . . exceptionally fresh today.”
A servant with a tray crawled in. Bowing, he set one in front of Lady Murasaki and one in front of Ogawa. A covered bowl, ceramic, in the traditional Oriental blue-and-white glaze. “You are too kind, tono,” he murmured.
A ratchety, scratching sound came from inside the bowl, like someone shaking up the i ching sticks for a divination.
“Eat, eat,” said his hostess angrily.
He peeked inside the bowl. A claw shot out: pincers, fibrillating antennae. Lady Murasaki cackled hideously as she pulled the squirming lobster from her own bowl and began methodically to eat it, her tongue flicking furiously about to quell its feeble attempts at escape. Ogawa listened to the crunching of the shell, a lump in his throat.
“Ah, but you do not eat?”
“My lady, I—” He continued to eye her lobster nervously.
“Perhaps you’d care for a mouse?” she said, pulling one out of another covered dish and suspending it by its tail inside her mouth. He heard a squeal or two, an obscene gurgling sound, and then a single, muscular crunch. “Your-world is so rich in delicacies,” Murasaki said. A sadistic
smile played across her face for a moment. “Perhaps you would like to join them?”
He looked wildly around. Two men in samurai costume had suddenly appeared and were standing on either side of him with their swords upraised.
“Or perhaps you would prefer the pleasures of another sojourn in the conversion chamber?”
The lobster had crawled out of his bowl now and was inching its way across the tray, working its pincers. If he didn’t move, the crustacean would soon be crawling up his bent knees.
“Charming, Ogawa-san. At your age, still playing with your food.”
He tried to keep his face composed as he madly jerked his knee and tried to shoo the lobster away with his hands.
“Now, let us understand one
another fully, Ogawa-san! You will no longer answer to Fieh Chan. He is too exalted to deal with the likes of you.”
“Yes, of course, my lady,” said Ogawa, prostrating himself fully as he managed to fling the lobster away from him in the direction of Murasaki’s dais. It landed at her feet. She regarded it coolly.
“Such impudence,” she whispered menacingly. Then she bent down a little way, shot out her tongue to its full hideous length, and rolled it around the lobster as it attempted to scuttle away. Ogawa could not watch her devour a second one; he kept his face to the ground.
“As I have said, you will report only to me. And now, as to the plans regarding the grand masters of martial arts from all over the planet . .
“All proceeds apace, torn,” he said.
“And the manufacture of the molecular pressure skins, according to Fieh Chan’s inimitable design?”
“I humbly beg to inform you, my lady, that there is a shortage of raw materials. Our factory is vastly understalfed owing to your overseers’ ”—he choked-—“feeding habits. There is but a single prototype DNA-analogue mold against which all the cellular material has to be cloned. If you could provide a few more of the prototype units, they could be grown much faster Could not Fieh Chan provide some? Or even the formula, so that our scientists could duplicate it?”
“Fool! You dare to question us?” But Ogawa detected, suddenly, a note of uncertainty in her voice. Had something gone wrong, terribly wrong, in the overlords’ hierarchy? Was that why they were unable to obtain the correct reagents to create enough of the pressure skins Fieh Chan had invented, which could protect the Visitors from the red dust? Was there some other, unrevealed reason why Fieh Chan could not come out and talk to him as they had always done in the old days? Fieh Chan had never toyed with him in this callous manner Though there was no question of which was master and which was slave, Fieh Chan had always used him with a certain measure of politeness, almost cordiality. Certainly he had not addressed him with the pronoun omae, which reduced him to the stature of a child or an animal, but with the form kimi, which, while not actually polite, at least accorded him the status of an equal, a friend almost. The brusque words omae and ore fell most ungracefully from the lips of one who had assumed a woman’s form, and Ogawa had to remind himself that the masters took whatever forms they chose, and whether they were themselves male and female-or something altogether different was a matter of some conjecture.
What had gone wrong with the masters? Why had they been unable to provide him with materials that indeed would work to their own advantage? He had heard rumors, vicious and unfounded of course, that there had been some sort of coup in the highest ranks of the Far Eastern high command. Could it be that the masters were actually arguing among themselves?
At the moment a warning signal went off in Ogawa’s mind. His brain was burning, burning ... the conversion! He was having dangerous thoughts, evil thoughts. How could he possibly question the masters, the most beneficent and wise of all creatures? The pain came, pounding at his skull, the terrible burning, like nails of fire being driven into his neck. Oh, it was terrible! How could he have had such disloyal thoughts? How shameful! He did not deserve to live.
“My lady,” he whispered huskily, “I have just had a disloyal thought. The only honorable course I have is suicide. I ask your permission—”
“Denied!” said the Lady Murasaki.
That was the worst punishment of all, to compel him to go on living with his shame.
Chapter 10
Matt, Tomoko, CB, and Anne Williams. What an unlikely quartet of heroes, Matt thought, to save the world. It was just like one of CB’s fantasies about Batman and Robin coming true.
The four of them were sitting in the office once more. It was clear that they had a huge problem on their hands; but what could they do about it? Tomoko suggested trying to contact ex-members of the resistance.
“CB’s the only one of us who knows anyone who used to be in the resistance,” Matt said. “And we know what happened to Sean.”
“Don’t remind me,” CB said.
“I have something to confess,” Tomoko said, “which may be irrelevant, but ...”
“Shoot,” said Matt.
“When I was alone with Fieh Chan, he inquired about you; and I told him about your martial arts connections—” “That’s it! It’s Japan!” Anne said. “Fieh Chan is behind it, and they’re kidnapping the grand masters and taking them to Japan.”
“Sounds dumb to me,” said CB.
“Is it any dumber than banning Godzilla, for Christ’s sake?” said Anne.
“Well, what can we do about it if it’s something on that scaie? So we call the cops,” Matt said, “and say, look, a
bunch of lizard ninjas are abducting the great martial arts experts of America—”
“The world, maybe,” Anne said. “Have you called any of our colleagues in Europe?”
“You know the phone system’s not all the way back to normal yet,” Matt said.
“Casilli, Yasutake, and maybe Nakashima—that’s all we know of.” Anne pulled out the martial arts directory from the desk and began to page through it.
Three hours later they had their figures. Out of twenty-five people they called, nineteen had received the mysterious telegrams; fully seven had already vanished. Some of them were people Matt knew of only by reputation. Others Matt had actually fought in tournaments and exhibitions.
As the hours dragged on, Matt suddenly realized that they hadn’t had anything to eat all day.
“Hold it. I’m going to call over to Po Sam’s and order carryout.” He picked up the phone.
“Just like old times,” Tomoko said.
“I’ll go,” Anne said.
“Be careful,” Matt said before telling Sam to produce four orders of whatever he was making today.
“Careful?” Anne said. “What can happen? I’ll be gone for five minutes.” She pulled her headband tighter and retied it.
Twenty minutes later, Matt said, “What’s the matter with her?”
After ten more minutes they all went to the front door. They saw the parking lot of the shopping plaza, almost earless at the moment. In the middle of the lot—
There was a circle of black-garbed figures. At its center, Anne was standing, tensed into a tigerlike position, her hands clawing the air, her eyes fiery. The assassins circled, circled, taunting, coming closes; trying to draw her into combat.
“Let’s go for it, CB!” Matt shouted.
The door was locked or blocked or something, even though they hadn’t locked it that morning. Someone must have sabotaged it. “Get the hatchet.” CB sprinted down the corridor; there was a hatchet, under glass, by the fire alarm. As the sound of shattering glass echoed down the hallway, Matt saw—
The fighters had gathered in a V-formation, backing Anne up against the wall of Po Sam’s Diner! Within the diner he could see Sam cowering in terror and Theresa, Sam’s wife, pulling a butcher knife down from a rack.
The first attacker charged. Anne tucked herself into a ball of energy and then seemed to explode outward in a cloud of fists and feet, sending the man smashing against a parked car. But two more had taken advantage of her attack to sneak up behind her. She was too quick. She swerved, flew at the two of them, tripped one so that he fell over and tripped the other. Then she changed postures, tensed her hands up so that they resembled the heads of serpents, cocked her elbows. She looked like a two-headed snake, coiling, darting, teasing. The others circled.
“She’s got them under control, looks like,” CB said, handing Matt the hatchet.
Matt started to hack away at the door “I’ve got to get to her!” he shouted. “It’s me they’re aftei; not her—•”
The door wasn’t giving away very easily ... it had been built strong. Matt had paranoically insisted on the Institute being virtually impregnable when they had bought the building and redesigned it. . . .
The remaining assailants were advancing now. O
ne sprang! Anne dodged, her hands darted out to block the path of another while with her feet she kicked down one of the prone attackers who had been endeavoring to stand up. Matt could see the slick sweat on her neck, the pulsing muscles of her arm. She was good at what she did,- he thought. How long could she keep it up, though?
The door was finally cracking now. There had been some kind of bolt jamming it ... it fell off now and skidded onto the pavement . . . Matt saw that it was some device he’d never seen before . . . of alien manufacture maybe. Silvery and circular Some of that lizard super-technology! He didn’t have time to reflect on it. He cried out, “We’re coming, Anne! Just hold them off for another second—” and ran out.
Anne looked up. For a split second she was defenseless—
Then he heard it. A whirring, whining sound, like a distant flute. And saw it slice the air: a whirling thing of blades, dazzling in the afternoon sun . . . soaring in a perfect arc, utterly beautiful, utterly deadly. “No!’’ he shouted.
And ran unthinking straight towards her ... as the throwing star ripped into Anne’s neck ... a splatter of blood on the window of Po Sam’s Diner . . . It’s my fault, he thought, if only I hadn’t called to hei; attracted her attention—
Then: I’m surrounded!
Unthinkingly he had walked into the thick of them. Each had drawn a weapon. He looked from one to the other . . . their eyes glinted oddly in the sunlight, betraying something unmistakably alien. . . .
“You’re all lizards, you’re goddamn lizards!” he cried. He felt the anger now, he wanted to explode, he thought of his years of discipline and wanted to forget them all in his fury, then he forced himself to concentrate all his burning hatred into one ball, one knot, deep, deep inside himself ... a split second of icy stillness as he waited for the spirits of his masters to possess him . . . then . . . outward! Lines of power unreeling endlessly from within as his fists became doorways into a universe of limitless energy ... an animal howl of rage burst from his lips as he attacked—
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