by David Bishop
"Yes, sergeant," she replied.
"Good. Martinez?"
"Yes, sergeant?"
"Stand up when I'm talking to you, soldier!"
The private leapt to his feet and snapped to attention. Baker giggled at the effect this had on his groin, until a glare from Aimes silenced her.
"Permission to put on my underwear," the blushing Martinez asked.
"Permission denied," the sergeant replied. "If I ever catch you pulling a stunt like this again, I'll have you cleaning latrines with your tongue for the rest of your life. Since you like misusing the beds of others, you'll be responsible for stripping and making every bed in this barracks for the next three months. You can start by boiling my sheets and finding a fresh mattress for my bed."
"Yes, sergeant!" the private responded.
"Since you seem so eager to engage in test firing your own weapon, I'm putting you in charge of artillery drills. You'll run a drill every hour of daylight, on the hour, from now until your wedding ceremony."
"Yes, sergeant!"
"Any questions?" Aimes asked.
"No, sergeant," the pair replied in unison.
"I should hope not. Dismissed!"
Martinez scrambled around the floor, picking up the discarded clothes and throwing Baker's garments over to her. She got dressed under the covers while Martinez hurriedly did the same in a corner. Still shaking his head, Aimes went to the door and opened it. All the other recruits were outside in the corridor, laughter frozen on their faces. "Get the hell out of here," the sergeant snarled, "otherwise you'll all be on report. Move!" They got out of his sight as quickly as possible, eager to escape his piercing gaze.
He was still standing in the doorway when he heard a voice behind him. "Excuse me, sergeant, could I have my brassiere back?" Aimes looked down and found he was still holding the piece of lingerie, his battle scarred fingers gripping the lace cups. He threw it over his right shoulder before stomping away to the main bunkroom. "Thank you!" Baker called after him.
Women, Aimes thought, more damned trouble than they're worth.
Kissy Nagara hadn't been feeling well on Thursday and stayed home while Tetsuzo worked at Tokyo Joe's. As far as the customers knew, the two of them were the nephew and niece of the original owner, Tokyo Joe Nagara. In fact they were husband and wife, sent by the Black Dragon Society to be its spies on Oahu. The two of them had laughed at the American sailors and soldiers who fell for Kissy and tried to spirit her away from an over-protective brother. She had been most effective at getting precious secrets out of her drunken customers, especially those who believed they had a good chance of bedding the apparently innocent young woman from Japan.
There was nothing unusual in Tetsuzo not getting home by midnight, as the bar rarely managed to clear its more drunken patrons before then. But when he wasn't back by three on Friday morning, she started to worry. When dawn came and there was still no sign of him, Kissy got a taxi from their home in the hills to downtown Honolulu. She found the bar and grill closed, its windows shuttered and all entrances securely locked. Kissy hammered on the front door, but got no response. She tried asking the staff at nearby stores and passers-by, but nobody could recall seeing Tetsuzo since Thursday.
Some suggested he might have gotten into a fight with a sailor. He was probably sleeping it off in a gutter somewhere, with a black eye and a throbbing headache for his troubles. Others speculated that he had found himself a woman. They said Kissy should be happy, since it was long past time her angry, over-protective brother settled down and stopped worrying about her. She knew they were all wrong, but couldn't explain why. Tetsuzo knew better than to pick a fight and attract unwanted attention from the authorities, and he certainly wouldn't endanger their marriage or their mission.
She spent the afternoon across the road from Tokyo Joe's at a cafe, waiting and hoping for Tetsuzo to reappear, safe and sound. At sunset the bar's bamboo shutters were pushed back and the front door opened, but the Japanese man who emerged was not Tetsuzo. Kissy did not recognise him, yet he seemed to know her. The stranger smiled at her from across the street, gesturing for Kissy to join him inside the bar. Not sure what to expect, she crossed the road and walked into Tokyo Joe's. She had come to know every inch of the bar, having spent most of her waking hours inside it these past few months. She had swept sand back out on to the beach and washed away the vomit left by servicemen too drunk to reach the toilets before retching. Now, as she walked inside, the familiar interior felt strange, foreign, as if she was entering a different world. This place belonged to someone else now, no, not someone... something.
The front door swung shut to reveal the stranger standing behind it. "You must be Kissy Nagara, I recognised you from our intelligence files. I have to say the photo we possess doesn't do you justice."
"Who are you? Where's my brother?"
The stranger frowned. "There's no need to maintain the pretence of being siblings with me, I know Tetsuzo Nagara is your husband. Your controller told us all we needed to know."
"What do you know?"
"Climb Mount Niitaka!"
Kissy gasped, shocked to hear the Black Dragon recognition code spoken aloud. That morning she'd received a message from Tokyo, saying the code would be used to signal the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour, setting in motion events that would change the world. The moment that phrase was transmitted, Kissy and her husband faced arrest, imprisonment and even execution. To hear those words spoken aloud sent a chill down her spine. It was not merely the words that scared her, but the way this stranger had said them. He spoke with arrogant ease, unafraid of anything or anyone. That same arrogance was evident in his face: the gleaming, hairless scalp, the cruel twist of a mouth, those dark, hooded eyes.
He wore a loud, colourful Hawaiian shirt over grey trousers and sandals, his toenails curling forwards like a bird of prey's talons. He stood at ease, but the ramrod straightness of his spine suggested years of military training. He spoke perfect Japanese, but his English was clear, precise and clinical, without accent or affectation. The way he looked at her, the way his eyes slid over her body... Kissy shuddered. She was nothing to this stranger, irrelevant, unimportant.
"We're forbidden to say those words out loud."
He laughed at her caution. "Not for much longer. Soon the whole world will know our power, will recognise our empire for its strength and courage."
"You still haven't told me where my bro- Where Tetsuzo is."
"Probably on his way back to Tokyo by now."
"Impossible!" Kissy exclaimed. "He wouldn't leave without me."
"I was sent here to replace him temporarily. Once the attack comes, this operation will have served its purpose," he said, gesturing at their surroundings. "I've come to close down the facility."
"But why would Tetsuzo leave without me?"
"He didn't have much choice in the matter. When the call comes, we are all required to obey. He told me you were unwell, too ill to travel. You will return to Tokyo with me on Sunday."
"How are we getting back? The Americans will be on full alert then."
"The same way as Tetsuzo. He was collected by the midget sub that brought me to Oahu last night." The stranger stepped closer to Kissy. "Why all the questions? Don't you believe me?"
"I don't even know your name," she said as he moved closer still, his left hand reaching out to brush her long, dark hair back over one shoulder, exposing the side of her neck. Kissy shivered as the stranger brushed a finger up and down her throat, stroking her skin as if they were lovers.
"Nabuko," he whispered in her ear. "My name is Nabuko Kimura." He leaned against her, their bodies pressing together, his breath hot against her neck. "And you will believe me, won't you, Kissy?"
She wanted to scream no, but her lips said, "Yes, I believe you."
"That's my girl," Kimura smiled. "You'll tell anyone who asks that Tetsuzo had a family emergency. Your uncle fell ill back in Tokyo."
"A family emergency..."
<
br /> "You're hoping he'll be back in time for Christmas."
"Yes."
"That's good, that's very good." Kimura leaned closer still and licked the side of her neck. Kissy could feel his teeth dragging along her skin. An urge to cry out for help was growing inside her, but something stronger than Kissy's will made her submit to this stranger. She realised she wanted him, more than any man she'd ever wanted, wanted him so much the need threatened to consume her. She wanted to feel him inside her, wanted this charismatic stranger to bury himself in her flesh and-
Two sailors stumbled into the bar, laughing at some private joke. Their sudden entrance startled Kimura, who stepped backwards and turned to smile at the new arrivals. "Welcome to Tokyo Joe's Bar and Grill, gentlemen! Have you been here before?" Within moments he was escorting them to the bar, playing the role of dutiful host, his English now not so accomplished, matching his choice of words to the expectations of the two Americans.
Kissy watched him go, her need to be possessed by him fading as Kimura busied himself with the customers. She staggered, her legs suddenly so weary she had to sit down. What had taken control of her? Never in her young life had she felt such hunger, such all-consuming passion. It terrified Kissy to think how much Kimura's closeness had consumed her will and excited her senses, making her lose all control.
If those sailors hadn't walked in, what would have happened? She caught Kimura glancing across at her, his eyes narrowing. Something was terribly wrong about the new agent, though she couldn't put her finger on what it was about him that disturbed her so. Kissy resolved to keep as far away from him as possible for the rest of the night. She didn't trust him and, worse still, she couldn't trust herself while she was near him. Better to keep her distance, keep away from the seductive lure of temptation.
Shiro Suzuki was hungry. The need to feed was buried deep in his belly, its yearning like some mewling infant crying out for attention, always demanding fresh blood. He could sate himself until he was bloated, and it only quelled the hunger for a while, the yearnings abated, but not for long. All too soon they were back, gnawing away at him. He could still remember the adrenaline rush his first kill had given him, the supernatural high of draining every drop of blood from a victim, the raw power and majesty he felt surging through his body. The thrill was so exquisite, so absolute, Suzuki believed it could never end.
But the high did end, all too soon, and every feeding since had been that little bit less delicious. He still felt the excitement of the kill, the joyous anticipation of that moment before plunging his fangs into the veins and arteries of his prey. He learned to savour the terror in his victims' eyes, see their horror and witness his animal savagery in the reflection of their pupils. But the sensations were fading, losing their attraction. The hunger was still there, that never went away, but the ecstasy of killing was gone now.
Part of it came from the creatures he was sucking dry, Suzuki was sure of that. A true vampyr was a predator, hunting its prey before claiming the kill and savouring the spoils. But Hitori had forbidden the kyuuketsuki from hunting until war was declared with the Americans. Even after the opening salvoes of war, their leader had placed explicit restrictions on when, where and whom they could kill. For now the existence of the kyuuketsuki had to remain a secret from the enemy. If the Americans realised how far the empire was willing to go, what weapons living and undead the empire was prepared to employ, it was impossible to know how they would respond. A wise warrior did not reveal all the weapons in his arsenal at the first skirmish.
Denied their supernatural tendency to hunt for fresh victims, the vampyr samurai were forced to feed on prisoners and unwitting volunteers. So it was on the airbase at Taiwan. Suzuki and his fellow kyuuketsuki pilots had been restricted to their quarters during the hours of daylight. When darkness fell on the Japanese military facility, Suzuki led his men to a nearby aircraft hangar where a fresh cluster of Taiwanese prisoners was left at sunset, locked in a barbed wire cage. The first night the hungry pilots had been content to gorge themselves. The blood of their victims had a different taste to what the fliers were used to, perhaps a reflection of the prisoners' diet.
By the end of the second night Suzuki could tell that his men were bored. They had been training for months in anticipation of the coming conflict. All of them were eager and ready to go into battle, using their enhanced vampyr abilities against the Americans. Instead they were stuck here in Taiwan, with a few terrified comfort women in a cage as prey. It wasn't enough. They needed to spread their wings, to hunt and catch and kill. They needed to be true to their nature, no matter how supernatural that might be. They hungered for it.
An hour before dawn Captain Yoshihiro entered the aircraft hangar. Suzuki knew the captain was under orders to provide the kyuuketsuki with anything and everything they needed. The leader of the vampyr pilots could not help smirking as a wicked notion occurred to him. Yes, Captain Yoshihiro would provide exactly what the kyuuketsuki needed: a target that would put up a fight, a victim that forced them to use all their skill if they wanted to feed.
Yoshihiro kept his eyes averted from the bloodless corpses littering the barbed wire enclosure, preferring to concentrate on Suzuki. "I trust everything was to your satisfaction, sir?"
"No, it wasn't."
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. Did you mean more... fodder?"
"We're not cattle," Suzuki snapped. "You can't satisfy us so easily."
The captain blinked, his composure shattered by the violence of this reply. The other vampyr turned to observe the confrontation, intrigued by their commander's opening gambit. "I'm sorry, sir," Yoshihiro said. "I didn't mean-"
"I don't care what you meant," Suzuki hissed. "Your meaning and your opinion are as insignificant to me as the lice on our last meal."
"Forgive me, if I offended-"
"Enough!" the kyuuketsuki commander snarled. "We require sport."
The captain frowned, confusion in his eyes. "Sport?"
"We are predators. We live to hunt, and hunt to live."
"I see."
"You will provide us with a quarry, a creature of cunning who knows the surrounding terrain better than us, a victim with a sporting chance of escaping our best hunters. It is an hour until sunrise, yes?"
Yoshihiro checked his watch. "Yes, about that."
"Then it is settled. My men will hunt their quarry for the next hour. If the target eludes them, it lives for another day. But if they find the target..." Suzuki let his voice trail away, but his head tilted towards the leftovers splayed across the floor behind him. "Then the victim's blood, the victim's life is forfeit."
The captain nodded. "As you command, and who is to be the target?"
Suzuki smiled. "You are, of course. I give you sixty seconds to run."
"No, you can't!" Yoshihiro protested.
"You've seen my orders. You know I can do anything I want. I would start running, if I were you. There are now less than fifty seconds before I let slip my kyuuketsuki to hunt you down. They've never pursued a target in the wild before. You do want to give them good sport, don't you?"
The captain's mouth fell open. His gaze slid around the hangar, taking in the ravenous expressions on Suzuki's pilots. They best resembled savage dogs, feral animals ready to pounce on their prey. There was no sympathy, no help to be found in their eyes, only blazing hunger. Realising any pleas for mercy would fall on deaf ears, Yoshihiro turned and ran from the pitiless hangar, drawing a service pistol from the holster on his hip as he fled.
Otomo approached Suzuki, flanked by the others. "Is it true?"
"Yes, he's all yours. Consider it thanks for all your efforts these past months, becoming kyuuketsuki and teaching me how to fly a Zero. We shall achieve great and terrible things together. For now, enjoy yourselves. You all know the drill: be back by sunrise or suffer the consequences. Go!"
Kissy spent the rest of Friday night keeping busy with the customers and staying away from Kimura. It wasn't difficult, Friday be
ing the second most popular night of the week. Servicemen on 48-hour furloughs and those with overnight passes flooded into downtown Honolulu looking for drinks, love and a good time, Tokyo Joe's specialised in two of those. But anyone looking for love had better look elsewhere, as one sailor discovered not long after midnight. He grabbed Kissy and sat her down on his lap, determined she would kiss him before he let her go. A peck on the cheek wasn't enough; he wanted to put his tongue down her throat and his hand up her silk skirt. She squirmed and struggled, trying to get away from his iron grip without success.
If Tetsuzo had been there, the incident would never have happened. He kept a close eye on her to make sure she stayed out of trouble. But Kissy's efforts to keep away from Kimura were almost her downfall. When the soldier grabbed her, she called out for help but none of the men at nearby tables came to her aid. Those who bothered to look around cheered her assailant, whistling and applauding. All that stopped when Kimura appeared as if from thin air, standing next to the drunken sailor. Kimura grabbed the American's wrist and squeezed, until the sailor let go of Kissy. She got herself to safety, but Kimura kept hold of the sailor.
"Touch her again, you never use this hand again, yes?" Kimura asked. He clenched his fist tighter, until the bones in the sailor's wrist were grinding together. "You understand?" The sailor nodded, his ugly face contorted by pain. "You leave now," Kimura commanded, his voice like gravel and thunder mixed together. He released the sailor and turned away.
The humiliated serviceman looked at the others around his table. All were nodding and gesturing for him to go after Kimura. The sailor got up from his seat and hurled himself at Kimura. "No, don't!" Kissy shouted. She was trying to stop the sailor, not warn Kimura, but she was too late.