Purgatory Strider

by Shiden Kanzaki

  It was eight in the evening. Glancing outside, he saw that the skies, spitting rain since the morning, were finally starting to clear up. It was going to be a humid night.

  5

  The rain lifted as darkness began to entwine itself around the area, the occasional streetlight sprouting off the ground drawing a spotlight through the black.

  Rentaro, Hotaru in tow, peeked up from behind a wall, peering into the open space in front of him—or, rather, a certain section of it.

  “Neat, huh?”

  “It’s like some kind of samurai mansion…”

  From over the mud walls that encompassed the property, they could see the roof of a three-story building that looked straight out of a samurai drama. In fact, it seemed like someone had purchased the remains of some shogunate-era manor and moved the entire thing to use as a private residence. It was home to Miori Shiba, daughter of the head of Shiba Heavy Weapons.

  Shiba was commonly known as a key supplier of weapons to the police and self-defense force. It was also involved with leading technical research in a wealth of fields, from electronic devices to ballistics calculation and DNA analysis for police investigations. And yet here was this house, going well beyond a penchant for Japanese aesthetics and looking more like a stubborn refusal to face modernity.

  It was clear, at least, that Miori’s fondness for traditional Japanese styles was not just an odd quirk on her part but a policy upheld by her entire family. And the main question now was how they were going to find Miori in this massive complex and convince her to help them out.

  As a fugitive from the law, he doubted he could expect a friendly welcome when he rang the doorbell. Quite the opposite, in fact. Rentaro craned his head up again, tracing the wall’s perimeter with his eyes. Then he ducked back down, finding exactly what he was expecting up there.

  “People, huh?”

  “Yeah. People.”

  There was a car near the front gate, positioned to be as inconspicuous as possible. It wasn’t a black-and-white patrol car—a sight Rentaro was beyond tired of—but he guessed it was probably still the authorities.

  If the front gate wasn’t happening, it was time to find a weaker spot they could prod.

  “I’ll go on ahead,” Rentaro said. “Could you just take me to the top of this fence?”

  “No, I’ll go. Why’re we trying to convince her, anyway? Let’s just kidnap this Miori woman and make her do our bidding.”

  “Wh-what?” a bewildered Rentaro replied.

  Hotaru snorted at him. “I’m just saying, it’d be a lot quicker to break out some firepower and make her bend to our will. That’s how it works with the targets I’ve beaten up until now, anyway.”

  “Yeah, right. You think I’d ever let someone as unstable as you near Miori?”

  “…Look, I don’t know what kind of idea you’ve got about me, but I’m just trying to handle this in the best way possible, using the best means possible. And if my way’s the most efficient, then what’s the problem?”

  Rentaro wanted to bury his face in his hands.

  “Look, there’s no guarantee Miori would listen to you, but she’ll listen to me, okay?”

  “Glad to see you’re so confident about that. How about a little friendly competition, then?”

  “What in the world are you—?”

  Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed his body, and he was seized by a violent acceleration as the ground fell out from under him.

  When his feet felt terra firma again, they were on top of the fence.

  “Get down.”

  He followed Hotaru’s lead, falling to his hands and knees without having any idea what he was doing. He could hear the clacking of ceramics underneath him, the dampened kawara roof tiles rubbing against his stomach.

  Up there, they could see the wide entirety of the Shiba residence in one fell swoop. The sight made Rentaro temporarily forget his mission with an appreciative sigh.

  Below him, stone garden lanterns lit darkened pathways at regular intervals, leading to a square gazebo. The gazebo was perched atop an island in the middle of a large pond that dominated the central area of the property. Traditional washbasins were located here and there along the walkways, too, and a number of buildings dotted the paths, adding spice to the view wherever he looked.

  The Shiba family was living in the midst of an imperial Japanese garden. But it was more than just simple beauty. Surveillance cameras were whirring left and right at strategic locations throughout, and Rentaro could see a security officer or two patrolling the premises.

  “Let’s see which one of us can find Miori first. If I do, I’ll make her do our bidding my way. It’s the same thing in the end, right?”

  Hotaru stood up on the fence before Rentaro could stop her, then soundlessly dashed across the tiled surface.

  Rentaro was both stunned and disgusted. He knew this alliance—between a girl burning for revenge and a civsec stupid enough to fall into the trap he was in—was on thin ice from the start. It was a team of convenience for both sides, and every now and then, it was bleedingly obvious that they lived in completely different worlds. As long as revenge was all she lived for, he supposed she wouldn’t even bother taking notice of how many good intentions and would-be ideas she’d trample over along the way.

  What a menace I’ve teamed up with, Rentaro thought. There was no way he could leave Miori in her hands.

  Not, of course, that he had any idea where Miori was. He sized up the property once more, his mind at an impasse. It was 8 p.m. Common sense indicated to him that the family was either at the dinner table or enjoying an evening bath. It chagrined him to think of it, but Hotaru—zooming right for the main building—very likely had the right idea.

  Come to think of it, Miori had confided in him once that the intensity of her schedule—school, practice, the private after-school learning center her parents made her go to—was seriously getting on her nerves. It had been a rare moment for her usual free-wheeling self to complain like that, and it stuck in his mind because of it.

  She had confessed to having a home tutor, as well as private instruction in the traditional arts of folk dance, the koto harp, and archery. Miori’s parents seemed intent on meticulously quashing any time the girl could possibly have to herself. The stress must have made her drop her guard around him—that one time, at least.

  …Archery?

  A thought occurred to Rentaro as he scanned the property. Soon, he found what he was looking for: a dilapidated structure, really nothing but a horse barn compared to the splendor of the main residence. A bit beyond it, he could see a pair of targets lined up, the little kasumi-mato used in Japanese archery. They were too far away to be distinctly visible.

  He considered this for a moment, then nodded to himself. There were about eight meters between the fence top and the ground, but leaping off the steeply sloped roof that topped the mud-stone perimeter fence would take no small bit of courage. He sidled down and sat on the edge, legs dangling.

  Then all of a sudden, one of the wet tiles came loose underneath him. Rentaro swung out for a handhold but missed the structure entirely. He scrambled to hang on but felt a sudden sense of weightlessness instead.

  The dark of the ground came upon him too quickly to incite fear. He planted down on the dirt, a shock wave crossing his spine and going all the way to the top of his head. Still, just barely managing to stay on his feet, he instantly found a darker shadow hurtling toward him from above. Rentaro threw his hands above his head just in time to catch it.

  Even though the roof tile that fell with him had the grace not to shatter and reveal his position, the experience was still greatly embarrassing. It really would be pitiful if he was discovered in such a pathetic state.

  Just then, a nearby animal’s snarl hit his ears, and Rentaro froze.

  It was the third piece of the security puzzle, after the cameras and the guards.

  Cursing himself for not noticing it when he was still safe, Rentaro wi
ped the sweat from his brow and turned toward the sound.

  Their eyes met, revealing to Rentaro a pile of reddish-brown muscle giving him a supremely masculine glare despite the difference in species. Its head was wedge-shaped, its ears cropped but still bolt upright in the air.

  The watchdog of Shiba Acres gave another ill-foreboding growl.

  A Doberman pinscher.

  …That part of the complex wasn’t very traditional.

  Security would be there soon. No time to waste. His adversary kept its rear end bent, ready to pounce if an attack appeared imminent. Then with a growl, it lunged, aiming straight for Rentaro’s neck. It was exactly what he expected, which made both dodging it and landing a chop against the base of the dog’s throat not terribly difficult.

  Rentaro dragged the limp Doberman to the nearby woods, where he hid, too. Right on cue, a security guard ran up to the scene. Rentaro held his breath, assessing the guard from the dark, tall grass. A flashlight beam whizzed past him, the brightness making him blink. The guard restlessly shook his head and, after a moment, sighed. “Right,” he said to nobody, maybe embarrassed about getting worked up over a false alarm, as he disappeared from view.

  Rentaro let out a broad sigh of relief, then proceeded along, keeping himself hidden among the lines of pine trees as he took a wide turn around the pond and toward the archery range.

  The canola oil burning in the stone lanterns emitted a bittersweet aroma, the flame flickering in the wind and slightly altering the shape of Rentaro’s shadow as it let out a thin sort of warmth. Perhaps the residents were holding some kind of party inside, because the wind brushing his cheek brought with it the sound of cheering and old-style Japanese court music.

  Finishing his arc around the pond, he poked his head up from behind a stone, finally able to take in the range ahead.

  With a light thunk, an arrow buried itself in one of the targets in the distance.

  Someone was there.

  Clearing away the rain-glistened reeds before him, Rentaro bent down and carefully approached the range from the rear. There was another whoosh in the air, followed by the sound of something thudding into something else. His eyes, now used to the darkness, clearly saw a girl on the other side, the white of her archery uniform visible in the night.

  She had a chest protector on, her bow drawn as she stayed alert. It was a very elegant pose, and the sweat glistening on her face made it all the more alluring to him.

  But her expression through the dimly lit air was less than content. It was like she was practicing her skills in order to shake off some nagging doubt in her mind.

  “Staying pretty active in this heat, huh?”

  “Who’s that?!”

  He raised his hands into the air to show his innocence. There was no artificial lighting in the range, despite the late hour. Her eyes must have been just as used to the dark as his.

  She gave a look of surprise, followed by a gasp.

  “My dear Satomi? Are you the real thing…?”

  “Do I look like a fake?”

  Rentaro expected this to be followed up by her usual silliness. Probably along the lines of At this time of night? Were you trying to sneak in my room for a little hanky-panky? Oh, such an honor, or the like. But with another whoosh, something thudded just past his side.

  Rentaro stopped; looking aside, he saw the shaft of a duralumin arrow vibrating in the air, practically in front of his nose.

  “They said you were dead,” Miori whispered, shaking as her hands clutched the bowstring. “You have no idea how worried I was.”

  Shocked, Rentaro felt deadly ashamed of his lackluster self-introduction. As far as the TV news was concerned, he had either drowned or bled to death near the Magata Plaza Hotel. That would explain the look of confused discontent he had seen on her face all the way across the archery range a moment earlier.

  “I’m sorry I made you worry.”

  There was a twinge of pain in Miori’s downturned eyes.

  “Satomi… Satomi dear, did you really…really…kill him?”

  “No!” he replied instinctively, only to draw back and weakly shake his head. “I don’t know if you’ll believe me or not, but I’ve been framed. Will you give me some time to explain myself…please?”

  Miori nodded silently, beckoning him to continue. So Rentaro gave a quick summary of everything that had happened to him thus far—the bizarre request from a familiar client; the client’s subsequent assassination; his arrest and escape; the girl he was working with now; and the mysterious Black Swan Project they were trying to blow the door open on.

  By the time he was done, a look of supreme relief was clear on Miori’s face.

  “Guess you never had it in you to kill in the first place, hmm?”

  Rentaro stuck his hands in his pockets and pouted. “What’d you think?”

  “Hey, did you hear, though, my sweet Satomi? I heard a rumor saying Kisara’s gonna get married soon.”

  A wave of pain, similar to a strike against his head with a hammer, coursed through Rentaro.

  Kisara? Marrying?

  “To whom?”

  “Uh, someone named Hitsuma from the police.”

  Him—

  The rage was enough to practically add a red tint to his eyesight. The possibility should have been obvious to him long ago. He had thought his foe sent Enju to the IISO, Tina to jail, and the Tendo Civil Security Agency into de facto oblivion because he feared the strength of their Initiators. He was wrong.

  “I keep on calling and texting Kisara, but she won’t respond to anything I give her. You know what’s up with that, Satomi?”

  The distressing mental image of Hitsuma ravaging Kisara flickered into his brain. It nauseated him. He hung his head, eyes closed tightly as his fists began to shake.

  Kisara…

  I want to see them. Everything else can wait. I want to rescue Enju, and Tina, and hold them in my arms. I want to rescue Kisara, and apologize for all the horrible things I said to her. Then everything could be normal again—

  “I…”

  “…Oh, were you busy?”

  Hotaru chose this moment to speak up from her perch atop the roof over the bow stations. Working her way to the ground, she sidled up to Miori.

  “Who’s this?” Miori asked her.

  “Hotaru Kouro. I’m with this guy. We kind of have a few common goals.” Then she looked at Rentaro, as if that was all the explanation she felt she owed the girl whose property she was on. “The archery range, huh? You got me there.”

  “Heh. Yep. I found her first. So hands off.”

  Hotaru raised her hands up, eyes closed in surrender, and shrugged.

  “Um, so what’s this about?” Miori asked Rentaro. “Is this the girl you said you were working with?”

  He thought for a moment before responding. “Miori… Thanks for telling me about Kisara’s marriage. But I can’t go see her yet.”

  He fished around in his pocket for something that felt smooth and cold in his hand, and showed it to Miori. The film case was packed with dry ice, ventilation holes on the top of the cap.

  “There’s tissue from a certain Gastrea inside this case. It’s almost certainly linked to this whole frame job. I need access to a lab where we can analyze it.”

  Gripping the steering wheel of the black Mercedes-Benz, Rentaro adjusted his position in the seat beneath the belt and tensed his body. It had been a while. Trying to remember everything he learned at driving school, he checked the signs around him and pushed down on the accelerator. The car awkwardly lurched forward.

  Given how this was his first shot at driving a vehicle as relentlessly fancy as this, he couldn’t be blamed for a few butterflies.

  “A civsec license lets you drive pretty much anything, hmm?” Miori bouncily observed from the passenger seat.

  “Don’t talk to me. If I hit something, it’s gonna be your fault.”

  “Promoters can drive anything except tanks and fighter jets,” Hotaru added
from the rear, her head the only part visible from the front seat. “If you’re an Initiator, though, all that license gets you is anti-corrosion drugs. It’s pretty useless.”

  “Sounds pretty nice. Maybe I should score one of those.”

  Rentaro took time from intensely focusing on the road up ahead to snort at Miori. “It doesn’t come that quick, you know.”

  Miori, who had taken a moment to change into a kimono before leaving, opened up her hand fan and covered her mouth as she fanned her face. “I just figured, anything you have, I should have, too. See what I mean, Satomi dearest?”

  “Ugh.”

  “I think the fact that someone on Rentaro’s level can score a license so easily says a lot about the whole system, too,” Hotaru added.

  “Are you guys trying to start a fight with me?”

  “Oh, turn right, here.”

  Rentaro half swerved at Miori’s command, barely making the turn.

  “So where’re we going, anyway?” he asked a moment later.

  “Shiba Heavy Weapons HQ.”

  The light turned red ahead. The car quietly decelerated. Rentaro found himself checking the rearview mirror to make sure nobody was following them. When they took the Mercedes out of the property, they asked Miori’s normal chauffeur to take out the limousine she used for commuting to school as a lure for the detective parked out front. He had taken the bait—the Mercedes had made it out of the premises without a hitch—but now was no time to let their guard down.

  A digital clock stood out clearly against the neon blur of the cityscape before them. It was approaching 10 p.m.

  Before long, they spotted a building just a little bit taller than the rest of the glowing, dazzling edifices around it. He expected it to be mostly abandoned at this time of night but was surprised to find a few windows still shining bright. At least a few employees were burning the midnight oil.

  “Twenty-four hours a day, there’s always somebody here,” Miori humble-bragged, guessing at Rentaro’s thoughts.

  “Shiba Heavy Weapons takes up all the floors here?”