Grey Ronin (The Awakened Book 3)

by Matthew S. Cox

  Mamoru gathered a sense of the machine before him and opened the canopy. He climbed in, stashed his blade beside the seat, and fastened the harness. Security forces fumbled their way through the mist. A few aimed at the aircraft, but seemed hesitant to damage something so valuable.

  He sealed the canopy dome, cutting off the frantic shouts outside. The scent of new technology filled the air in the small space, but he did not have time to bask in it. On either side of the seat, strips of black glass glowed dim with the silhouettes of embedded displays and holographic controls. Mamoru set his palms on the smooth surfaces and closed his eyes. White energy washed over him.

  He became the Fūjin.

  Component systems linked as extensions of his body: his legs were engines, his arms wings, his eyes sensors, cameras, and radar. Within seconds, Mamoru the man ceased to exist. Mamoru, the great predatory bird of plastisteel and carbon fiber opened his electronic eyes.

  Engines came online hot, creating a surge of thrust that flung carts and debris away from him. A crack of darkness split the shining silver wall before him. Enormous hangar doors drew apart, opened by the black samurai still loose on the network. Taps plinked across his back as the Noro-Shimura soldiers shot the plane, their rifle slugs unable to pierce its composite armor panels. On the scale of war machines, the Fūjin’s armor was thin, but to mid-sized rifles, nigh impenetrable.

  Mamoru thought about standing. Thrusters whined, lifting the craft several feet off the ground, where it hovered as the landing gear retracted. He felt off balance, as if standing on a giant rubber ball. The plane shifted left, right and forward as he acclimated to the maneuvering system. As soon as the doors parted to a sufficient width, he burst forward. His startled cry began over the communications system but ended in reality. The shock of sudden acceleration broke his concentration and left the Fūjin flying like an unguided missile in an arc towards the waiting ocean. Mamoru clawed at the featureless armrests, hitting several controls by accident that launched countermeasures and armed weapons. Flares erupted in the night sky, expanding to the shape of burning wings behind him. Error messages flashed No Target on the heads up display. The waves grew closer.

  He forced himself to be calm, tuning out the crash warning beeping that hammered on the edges of his brain. Mamoru closed his eyes to avoid the sight of the water rushing up at him. An urge to lean away from the ground tilted the plane skyward twenty meters from a salty, wet demise.

  The Fūjin streaked out over the North Pacific Ocean trailing two thin tails of cerulean light from the main engines. He thrust his chin into the wind, turning and climbing. Below him, small waves highlighted by the moon rippled through the black. His panic faded, replaced by a sense of freedom and power as he edged past Mach 3 with little effort.

  I am Fūjin. I am the wind.

  Dragon Stretching Wings

  lying was not an entirely new sensation for Mamoru. He had embodied the systems of hovercars many times. Possessing a military combat aircraft capable of orbital flight provided an altogether different level of exhilaration. Where the hovercar handled like a brick dangling by a string, the Fūjin had the grace of a hawk and talons to match. The slightest inclination to move yielded major turns and rolls, leaving him with the feeling of ice-skating while drunk.

  Weapons ran like threads of adrenaline through his arms, wires from the central power system to the laser cores embedded in the wings. The impulse to use them had no human analogue, as men did not possess any natural mode of attacking from a distance. Alone over the ocean, he played until he figured it out. Brilliant yellow lines, three per wing, turned long trails of seawater to steam. Empty internal weapons bays where missiles and bombs would go took on a presence like hunger.

  A bizarre feeling came over him, alien to his mind, which attempted to convey information. He pondered the odd notion of a presence creeping up on him until he realized he had a sixth sense―the radar system. Another aircraft approached from the direction of Shōrishima. The warplane’s internal systems identified it as an older atmospheric fighter craft half the size of the Fūjin. A nagging tug in his mind rang out from a different sensor and became knowledge the other pilot was angling for a targeting lock.

  He thought of speed, and his new body obeyed. His stolen craft surged ahead until his face burned. Mamoru backed off, unprepared for the heating effect of Mach 8 flight on the aircraft’s outer skin. Perhaps the plane could withstand it, but the feeling of roasting alive prevented his finding out. Designed for space superiority as well as atmospheric warfare, the engines were capable of speeds sufficient to escape gravity. Such velocity, in Mamoru’s untrained opinion, might destroy the craft if used at too low an altitude where the air was thick.

  With no experience regarding military aircraft, he had little idea of his pursuer’s capabilities. He had no faith in his newly dried wing feathers, and feared going up against a seasoned pilot would make him feel helpless. Mamoru did not relish the thought of being on the receiving end of a one-sided conflict, so he committed to fleeing. The objective was to obtain the Fūjin for Minamoto-heika, not to seek glory in the skies. He risked more speed, pushing to the limit of his tolerance for burning. Maneuvering felt different at that velocity. The air had gone from gossamer to a viscous substance that fought against every motion he attempted. Pain pierced his shoulder as he tried to turn. Fearing the wing about to tear, he leveled off.

  The other pilot, his fighter unable to keep up, slid off the outer edge of his strange, inhuman senses, but Mamoru continued course and speed for another few minutes. His heading pointed him south toward Kyushu, home of Kurotai Electronics. If Minamoto wished to keep the Fūjin, having it appear that a third party stole it would prove an advantage. However, he expected the Fūjin to exceed Matsushita’s production capabilities and desires. In all probability, they would sell it back to Noro-Shimura as a lesson not to trespass again.

  Mamoru was pleased with himself. His existence guaranteed the sovereignty of his master’s network. No mere deck jockey, deprived of the ability to use chi, could hope to match him. Aglow with confidence, he cut speed to a casual subsonic cruise and turned west. He overflew Japan and circled back to approach Tokyo from the west.

  Ocean waves zoomed below him, crests aglow in the light of a full moon. When the darkness of land replaced them, he slowed further until the wind slipped from the wings and the aircraft stood on its thrusters. Below three hundred miles per hour, the wings did not provide enough lift and the craft handled like a hovercar.

  Navigation systems appeared as massive holographic panels floating in front of him out over the countryside. A course plotted itself at his desire, and he followed the dotted line to the high-rise maze of Tokyo. Some streets proved too narrow for the Fūjin to fly level. For those, he rolled the craft ninety degrees to one side or the other. The nimble fighter, even this slow, danced like a ballerina through the confines of the city.

  Several camera bots and a handful of hovercars followed him to sate their curiosity at the strange sight. Matsushita Security Forces pulled up on either side, red lights flashing atop their hover patrol cars. Voices flooded Mamoru’s mind; he had embodied the craft, and with it the communications system.

  “Unknown pilot, you are in violation of Matsushita Corporation airspace with a military craft. You are to divert course immediately out of Tokyo airspace.”

  “Unknown simpleton, I am Saitō Mamoru acting on the order of Minamoto-heika. You are to stand down.”

  A moment of silence passed.

  “Gomenasai, Saitō-sama,” said the voice on the comm.

  Mamoru swung the plane flat as the narrow street gave way to a major highway. The security cars drifted apart, becoming an escort instead of a pursuit. Mirror finished buildings created the illusion of three planes flying abreast. Windows wobbled in his wake, advert bots spiraled in the jetwash, some colliding and falling to the street, while others went careening through windows. The thrill of flying succumbed to the sense of confinement
at the limitation of the machine’s vision. Mamoru raised his nose and climbed, the burst of thrust sent several cars sliding off the road as he headed to the center of the city.

  Vectored engines swung forward, slowing the Fūjin to a halt within twenty meters of the Matsushita building, where it hung in space. Lit by the city behind it, the plane’s reflection met him head on in the black glass. This is an apex predator. He stared at it, fixated by the canopy glass flooded with white light, chi fires shimmering over his body.

  The sight of it made him tired, and the plane drooped. This was a complex machine and the effort of embodying it had drained him. With a grunt, he heaved his avian form skyward. The aircraft cleared the roof and glided over the edge toward the landing pad. Reiko and two men, one of whom wore a black flight suit, cringed away from the harsh winds as the combat craft landed and powered down. Mamoru disconnected his mind from the machine and sat in quiet stillness for several minutes. When he recovered the energy to move, he pushed the canopy release, took his blade, and climbed out.

  Reiko met him at the bottom of a short metal staircase connecting the pad to the roof. The man in the flight suit bowed and moved past him.

  “Minamoto-heika is pleased.”

  Mamoru showed no emotion as he waited for the roar of the departing Fūjin to fade. “As he has commanded, I have done.”

  Visitation

  amoru knelt on cushions at the low table. The fragrance of soap lingered in his nostrils as the memory of women’s hands continued to massage the fatigue from his muscles. Clattering behind him announced the arrival of dishes on a tray. Timidity in the approach told him it was Ayame. Bright pink fabric covered with embroidered orchids filled his peripheral vision as she approached and set the meal before him. The scent of the bath clung to her still-wet hair. She hovered close enough for the heat of her body to warm him.

  He took hold of her delicate wrist as she went to stand, gliding his thumb across the back of her hand. “Did you have a suitor?”

  A tremble ran through her. “N-no, Saitō-sama, I am y-yours.”

  One tear patted on the tatami floor.

  “I mean before you were convicted of assault.”

  Ayame drew in a breath. He expected the usual insistence that it was all lies, but all she offered was a sigh.

  “Before you were abducted.”

  She froze. Mamoru moved his thumb over the vein rising out of the back of her hand.

  “Y-you believe me?” She fell to her knees. After a moment, she gave him a terrified look for having addressed him with such causality. “Forgive me, Saitō-sama. No, I did not have a suitor. I was dedicated to my studies. My family is not wealthy. I did not wish to remain a peasant farmer.”

  He released her hand and gathered a bundle of soba noodles on chopsticks, which he dipped in a bowl of dark sauce. “Such a desire does not match your frightened exterior.”

  Ayame folded her hands on her lap, silent.

  “Indulge me. Speak your mind without fear.” He continued to eat.

  Hanging hair hid her eyes. “Saitō-sama, you are a samurai in the service of Matsushita. You have the right of kirisute gomen. You can kill any of lower status who displease you. I am below even the status of commoner. Each time the sun rises, I wonder if this will be the day I am killed or made to lie with you.” She turned her head away. “I know you desire a strong woman. It was my hope that by being weak, you would not make me do things.”

  Mamoru finished his mouthful and took a sip of tea. “Did it not worry you that acting too meek might fill me with such contempt that I trade you to another?”

  “Yes, Saitō-sama. That is why I am frightened. No matter what I do, bad will come of it.”

  “It is unfortunate that they chose you. The security forces receive compensation for providing servants.”

  Ayame sniffled. “Can you help me prove it was false?”

  Mamoru smiled and brushed the hair from her face. “So, this is what you are like without the burden of a slave’s subservience.”

  She hooked two fingers on the metal ring about her neck. “Please, Saitō-sama, help me.”

  He dipped more noodles and devoured them, thinking of Reiko. “Our circumstances do not differ as much as they appear to. All things are as Minamoto-heika desires. I shall not be the pebble that startles his koi.”

  She covered her face with both hands, emitting a tiny squeak.

  “You may weep.”

  Ayame did so.

  When she quieted and sat upright, he stood. “I am many things, Ayame-chan, some less pleasant than others. Cruelty, however, is not one of my vices. Your sentence is short, is it not?”

  She bowed her forehead to the floor. “Yes, Saitō-sama, eight years.”

  They will find a reason to deny her release. They always do. Perhaps at least that I can alter. “As long as you are of my possessions, I shall not force myself on you. See to it that you remind yourself that any other owner would not be so kind.”

  Ayame bowed a second time. “Thank you, Saitō-sama.”

  Holographic projectors filled his dojo space with images of a Zen garden, complemented by an artificial wind that made it seem as though he were outside. The illusion filled in around him in the form of an old wooden porch and roof. Mamoru knelt at the center of the room, attempting to bring stillness to his mind, though he continued to see Nami staring into his eyes. The woman who gave herself to him in the bath was something else.

  He let the air out of his lungs with a strained breath and adjusted the lay of his hands on his knees. What had befallen her was more of a tragedy than poor Ayame, for Nami had belonged to the higher social order. She had the mind of an engineer and was skilled at business, diplomacy, and the byzantine mess that was corporate law.

  Her father’s betrayal had angered the CEO. To fall from such great heights to the lowest strata of society was unthinkable. A weak person would have quietly ended their life. It would have seemed cruel for the warlord to order her killed directly. Perhaps that was Minamoto’s desire. To that end, had he been too kind to her? Did Minamoto want someone to treat her so harshly that she preferred death to a life of servitude? While he debated between admiring her spirit and the possibility that he had disappointed his master, a sense came over him that he was no longer alone.

  He heard no steps, nor smelled another. His right arm crossed to the katana at his hip as he stood, ready to draw. A slow pivot allowed him to survey the garden, finding nothing out of place. He started to kneel once more, but froze as the sand moved in a spiral. Pure white grains rose into the air as though an invisible tornado had erupted from the ground. A man’s shape formed out of the whirling chaos, changing from white sand to shimmering metal. Wing-like projections of violet energy spread out below platinum struts connected to the back of a human figure composed of suspended ingots of gold.

  The overall shape hinted angelic. Its hooded face was hollow, containing only two points of red light. Ornate armor formed of thousands of individual bits of precious metal drifted to the edge of the porch.

  Mamoru knew this was a hologram, but it felt as if someone was in the room with him. The presence that AI dolls lacked, this had.

  “Ahh, Mr. Saito. It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” said the golden angel, in English.

  Once his eyes acclimated to the glow, Mamoru lowered his arm. “Who are you? How did you infiltrate our network?”

  The figure’s shoulders bobbed with laughter. “It was as simple as a holovid call. There is much we need to discuss.”

  “What do you want? I have all I need here. There is nothing you can offer me.”

  “Oh, but there is. You do not even know what you are.” The entity glided around as if pacing. “Mamoru Saito, you are one of a number of exceedingly rare individuals. Those who hold power over this world seek our elimination.” Golden light shimmered over the dark wood of the porch as the figure drifted. “You are no slave, Mamoru. Every one of them is beneath you.”

  “I
am a samurai of―”

  “Yes, yes.” The angel held up a hand. “How quaint. Samurai? You do realize what year it is, do you not?”

  Mamoru narrowed his eyes.

  “Your countrymen have a flair for the anachronistic. I never understood why some societies cling to ancient ways. Evolution is the destiny of humankind. Those who resist waste their efforts. You, Mamoru Saito, are one of The Awakened.”

  “Saitō.” The figure’s eyes turned searing as Mamoru corrected his pronunciation. “What is this awakened?”

  “Do you think it common for a man to be able to control a machine by simply touching it?” The figure shifted, gliding closer. Energy wings fluttered with the sound of a dozen blowtorches. “Have you ever flown a military aircraft before? Such things take years of training, yet you did it by simply becoming the device. Fascinating.”

  Mamoru drew his blade, shouting, “How do you know of our private affairs?”

  “I know much you do not, Mamoru. You are psionic.”

  “Kutaragi-sensei taught me how to use my chi. True samurai listen to their inner self.” Mamoru tapped his fist to his chest. “I draw on that energy.”

  “What you so adorably call ‘chi’ is how your culture has defined a phenomenon the rest of the educated world refers to as psionics. Powers of the mind, my boy. You possess two skills which are both quite strong.” The shimmering hood tilted forward and back as the figure appraised him.

  The katana thudded point-first into the ground, slipped from his hand. Mamoru stumbled under a passing spell of light-headedness.

  “Interesting. It seems your talents feature in equal prominence. You are a kinetic adept, Mamoru. Most psionics focus their abilities outward. Telekinetics for example, can move objects with their mind. Pyrokinetics create fire. Your power turns inward, making you stronger, faster, and tougher. That is why you made a fool of that”―he chuckled―“ninja girl.”