Noble Front

by Hideyuki Kikuchi

  D didn’t bother watching the black cloud as it headed in an unlikely direction, shooting lighting as it tore apart. Throwing off the flaming shield that covered it, he got his cyborg horse back up.

  Just as the Hunter got in the saddle, Old El appeared in the driver’s seat of the wagon.

  “Damnation, you’ve gone and done it again! I’m mighty impressed, I tell you. Who’d have thought you’d take down a thunder beast?!” he said, with more than a few sighs mixed in. When his gaze shifted from D, it was to the electrical monster on the plains about a hundred yards away, now reduced to a small black cloud. There were occasional flashes of light within it, and electromagnetic waves filled the air, but it was clear that its showy display would soon be at an end.

  “You said something about being an all-purpose financier,” said the Hunter. “Taken any swords as collateral?”

  “Oh, yeah. A whole bunch of ’em. I got more fine, classic swords than you can shake a stick at!” the old man replied, thumping his chest forcefully. That was followed by a fit of coughing.

  III

  Opening a door in the cargo wagon that had a scrap of paper scrawled with “Merchandise Storage” taped to it, D was greeted by an area about the size of a very small house, and indeed it was filled with merchandise. The first thing to catch his eye was a mountain of plastic containers with the word “clothes” written on the front. Stacked all the way to the ceiling, one near the middle had its cover askew, giving a peek at its contents.

  “What the hell’s that?” the hoarse voice asked as the Hunter walked past it. D’s left hand had happened to pass right over the one with the cover partially open.

  With a grin from ear to ear that said, I’m glad you asked, Old El thrust a meaty paw into the container and pulled out a fistful of tiny, flat vinyl packets. They were two inches square, and couldn’t have been even a tenth of an inch thick.

  “Those supposed to be clothes?” the hoarse voice inquired.

  “Yeah, the latest development from the Capital, a little something they call ‘compressed wear.’ Doesn’t matter whether it’s synthetic fibers or real silk, they can compress anything from ladies’ underthings to dresses down to this size. Man, the traveling show folks love this stuff. And since they basically take up no storage space at all, housewives living in cramped little places dream about something this size. Gets ’em damp no matter how it looks on ’em!”

  Taking one of the packets, the old man pressed his finger down on one corner. There was the whistle of rushing air, and then a crimson evening dress filled his hand.

  “As you can see, not a wrinkle on it. And the effect is guaranteed for a hundred years. There are more orders for women’s and children’s clothing and household supplies than anything else on the Frontier. They keep coming up with inventions like this, and it’ll revolutionize trade between the Capital and the Frontier by leaps and bounds.”

  “As I recall, the Nobility had a miniaturization method using molecular dynamics,” the hoarse voice remarked.

  “You mean the one they came up with for the OSB War? They could take any cannon or missile or base, no matter how huge it was, and make it fit into a leather satchel—some folks say they could make things small enough to carry around in your breast pocket. Humans haven’t got as far as that yet.”

  Returning the packets to the container, the old man led D further into the back. To the weapons corner.

  Mixed in with the big stuff—things like atomic destructo-beams and laser cannons the Nobility had handed down to the humans—were a wide assortment of old-fashioned arms like gunpowder rifles and pistols, crossbows, and more. One corner was packed with nothing but swords.

  “Choose any one you like. They’re all high-quality pieces from ancient times.”

  Not giving so much as a glance to all the blades as straight as walking sticks, D took it upon himself to walk on a little further, grabbing one wrapped in gold brocade that rested on a gorgeous rack fashioned from animal horns. Untying the cords and taking off the dazzling fabric revealed the black sheath and black handle of a sword so impressive it would give most who saw it goosebumps. The Hunter grabbed the sheath and handle, drawing it just the tiniest bit, and that made the old man adjust the front of his coat without a word, his forehead covered with sweat.

  The hoarse voice had let out a low groan. The alluring glint of the blade reflected a face of unearthly beauty, and that beauty drank up the glint.

  Suddenly, the battle of the exquisite ended. Returning the blade to its sheath, D said, “A hundred thousand dalas.”

  For that amount, you could purchase a small village, lock, stock, and barrel.

  Old El made an expression somewhere between smiling and weeping. He wasn’t sure exactly how to react.

  “S-s-s-sure. That little gem comes from an island country they say existed in the far east long, long ago. Ordinarily, I’d ask for twice that price, but seeing how good you are with one of them things, I’ll let you have it at half price.”

  “What are you talking about, you lousy con man? The bag’s got a sticker on it right here that says it’s ten grand!”

  “Whaaaat?!”

  “Ha ha ha! I’m just messing with you,” the hoarse voice guffawed.

  Glaring at D, the old man bared his teeth, saying, “That’s a sick little hobby you’ve got there.” He thought D was doing some kind of ventriloquism.

  “That thunder beast was being manipulated,” D said, taking the sword in hand. “I suppose you can imagine who was behind that. Your enemies are one step ahead of you. Better watch yourself.”

  And having said that, the Hunter left the storage area without a sound.

  After midnight, the wind and the rain only grew fiercer.

  “This is too much for me now,” said Old El. “About six miles from here, there’s the ruins of a Noble base from back during the OSB War. We can wait out the dawn there.”

  D only had one thing to say in regard to the old man’s suggestion. “Give me the reins,” he said, moving over to the driver’s seat.

  “Hey—what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Get some sleep. I’ll keep them moving.”

  With that, it dawned on the old man that the worlds they lived in were reversed. As a dhampir with the blood of the Nobility in his veins, the Hunter was heading into the very best time to be active. That being the case, Old El was quick enough to change gears.

  “Okay, it’s all yours,” he replied, promptly taking the passage down from the driver’s seat to the interior, as that was sure to make things easier for D, too.

  The whip snarled viciously through wind and rain, and the wagon picked up speed. D’s cyborg horse followed along without complaint.

  “Wow, this is incredible!” the old man practically screamed with joy, strapping himself into his seat. “At the rate you’re going, forget about hitting the next way station tomorrow, you’ll get us there tonight! This is great—huh?!”

  His body jerked forward. The restraints dug into his belly, nearly squeezing the life out the old man.

  As soon as the jolt of forward momentum had passed, Old El popped his head up by the driver’s seat, still wheezing for breath.

  “Wh-what’s going on?” he stammered.

  “We’re going to the base,” D replied, staring straight ahead.

  The old man’s eyes followed suit, but they saw nothing save darkness. Instead, he heard a sound, though. Water splashing. It continued endlessly.

  “Is that what I think?” the old man asked.

  “There’s a river about twenty yards away.”

  “Th-there sure as hell shouldn’t be! There’s nothing but plains out here for the next sixty miles!”

  “It’s probably a trap.”

  “What? It’s an illusion, then?”

  “No, it’s real. We’ll have to throw a bridge down to get across. But there’s probably something in the water.”

  “Better to do it tomorrow, then, eh?” Old El suggested.<
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  “Now’s best for me. But we don’t have any material for a bridge. The ruins of the fort had some building materials.”

  “Er, okay,” the old man replied with a nod, thinking all the while, This guy’s really scary. Them dhampirs are something else!

  During the OSB War, to defend from their foe’s old-fashioned aerial attacks, the Noble side had built an equally analog fort defended by anti-aircraft guns. Though there were as many theories as there were stars in the sky for why these two civilizations, which even among interstellar races probably ranked as the top two in the history of the universe, would choose to engage in such archaic warfare, not a single one of them was conclusive, but ultimately speculations settled on the theory there was an almost inescapable longing for the days of yore coded in the DNA of both species.

  “You know, I hear this plain once had a plant for manufacturing synthetic blood,” said Old El.

  Now, little more than dusty remains were left on the wild plain, and despite the Nobility’s attempts to protect the place, no amount of scrutiny could uncover anything more than heaps of stone and concrete. One part remained that was reminiscent of a dome, and though the floors and stairways still held their shape, the machines of war that’d filled the place had either been disposed of on their destruction, or else carried off by humans who’d come through later. What was left stood in the driving rain, an empty husk that’d been stripped of its soul.

  Parking the wagon behind the cover of the dome, D climbed onto the back of his cyborg horse and galloped off. Whoever made this river was undoubtedly a foe after Old El. If their plan was to throw up a roadblock and strike while the old man was still figuring out what to do, they’d probably be coming soon. If they were thinking of striking after daybreak, then the old man and D should get back out on the wasteland, where they’d have freedom to maneuver, before then.

  Before he’d gone a hundred yards, D was greeted by a large cluster of trees. Branches bent and leaves cried out in tiny voices. From the rain’s bombardment.

  Climbing down from his cyborg steed, D walked over to a trunk that was twice as large as his arms would fit around and made a casual swing of his sword. The blade went through the trunk like it was slicing butter, cutting clean through it. Before the crash from the toppling of the gigantic tree had even subsided, D had a second one lying at his feet. Walking exactly twenty yards from the end he’d cut, D lopped off the rest. Half of the branches he’d taken off on the way up there, and by the time he came back again the trunk was bare. Without a moment’s respite, D put his blade against the first cut he’d made and slowly walked the length of the trunk. What followed was a miracle born of an expertly crafted sword from that eastern country and D’s skill coming together flawlessly. For he’d split the twenty-yard-long trunk lengthwise without pausing for a second.

  After repeating the procedure on the second tree, he loaded one split log on his right shoulder and the other on his left, then left the woods. The wind assailed him, as if that were the very moment it’d been waiting for. Though the tree trunks swayed, D didn’t.

  Wood or not, each of those halves weighed more than three tons. Shouldering a total of twelve tons, he headed in the direction of the splashing sounds.

  Four shadowy figures stood up, one to either side of him, one to the front, and one to the rear. All of them had been lying on the ground.

  The sound of the running water echoed off freshly drawn blades.

  “Who put you up to this?” the hoarse voice asked. D had either hand resting on the logs on his shoulders. And the voice had come from the vicinity of his left one.

  “We don’t know, either,” said the figure in front of the Hunter. “But we do know this—you’ve got your hands full, D!”

  Swords came at him from all sides. At the center of the swings and thrusts, D had already drawn his sword, and still holding on to the wood, he brought his weapon into play. The trunk that rolled off his shoulder made the attacker on his right stop in his tracks, while the foes coming at him from the front and back slipped under the trunk on his left shoulder, though a half turn of his blade was enough to bisect them both horizontally and then impale the opponent to his left.

  Not one of their blades had reached D.

  Leaping over the tree trunk, the last one had his sword held high over his head. It sank into the flat side of the split trunk, while another blade came from below, piercing the trunk and attacker alike and jutting from the back of the latter.

  “Oh, what do we have here? Golems?”

  As the hoarse voice said that, the four attackers turned into eight-inch-tall dolls, and the way they dissolved in the pounding rain was a testimony to the fact that they were made of mud.

  “Langen Tupperman,” said the hoarse voice. “But golems don’t die when they’re stabbed. Anybody who can put them down with one blow is a man to be feared.”

  The voice flowed along with D as he crouched down to collect the second trunk from the ground and put it back on his shoulder, then continued on toward the riverbank.

  When he arrived at the river’s edge, D bent his knees slightly and straightened them again. The two split tree trunks were laid across the river, flat sides up. After another two were down, even the old man’s merchandise-laden wagon would be able to cross them.

  As the Hunter turned around to head back to the woods, a terrific explosion rang out from the direction of the ruins, and flames shot up toward the darkened sky. Anyone would’ve felt that the wind and rain had been peaceful by comparison.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Hideyuki Kikuchi was born in Chiba, Japan in 1949. He attended the prestigious Aoyama University and wrote his first novel, Demon City Shinjuku, in 1982. Over the past two decades, Kikuchi has written numerous horror novels, and is one of Japan’s leading horror masters, working in the tradition of occidental horror writers like Fritz Leiber, Robert Bloch, H. P. Lovecraft, and Stephen King. Many live-action and anime works in 1980s and 1990s Japan were based on Kikuchi’s novels.

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  Yoshitaka Amano was born in Shizuoka, Japan in 1952. Recruited as a character designer by the legendary anime studio Tatsunoko at age 15, he created the look of many notable anime, including Gatchaman, Genesis Climber Mospeada (which in the US became the third part of Robotech), and The Angel’s Egg, an experimental film by future Ghost in the Shell director Mamoru Oshii. An independent commercial illustrator since the 1980s, Amano became world famous through his design of the first ten Final Fantasy games. Having entered the fine arts world in the preceding decade, in 1997 Amano had his first exhibition in New York, bringing him into contact with American comics through collaborations with Neil Gaiman (Sandman: The Dream Hunters) and Greg Rucka (Elektra and Wolverine: The Redeemer). Dark Horse has published over 40 books illustrated by Amano, including his first original novel Deva Zan, as well as the Eisner-nominated Yoshitaka Amano: Beyond the Fantasy—The Illustrated Biography by Florent Gorges.