Mortal Kombat

by Jeff Rovin

  “Well,” Kung Lao said as they entered the village, “you have actually found it. Might I ask why you were so interested in coming here?”

  “You might,” Kano said. He yanked the map from his belt, handed it to Kung Lao. “It’s got to do with this cockamamie kind-of-a-map–”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kung Lao, squinting at the goatskin, “but it’s rather dark out here.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Kano snapped his fingers behind him. “Torch, Senny. I forgot, Kung-fu, that not everybody’s got an infrared peeper.”

  Senmenjo-ni ran over with a small flashlight and Kano flicked it on. He turned the cone of yellow light toward the map.

  “See,” said Kano, pointing with his pinky finger, “this little splotch here is Chu-jung. So that’s us. Now over here,” his grimy nail traced a course to a faded ink fingerprint, “is where we’re supposed to find a trinket of some kind. That’s what the guy who hired me wants. What I need to know is exactly where this fingerprint is. Which mountain, I mean. Or maybe it’s a cave. Who the hell knows, is what I’m sayin’–”

  Kung Lao shook his head. “It’s a mystery to me. The range is large. There are many mountains and many more caves.”

  “But Master Lao,” said the shepherd, looking on, “it says that this is Mt. Ifukube.”

  “You know it?” Kano asked.

  The shepherd looked from the map to Kano to Kung Lao. The master’s face, usually soft and kind, was uncharacteristically grim. Chin Chin’s lower lip began to tremble.

  “Uh… no,” the shepherd said, taking several steps back. “No, sir, I do not.”

  Kano’s red eye bored into the shepherd’s frightened green ones. “Yer gettin’ all hot in the cheeks and forehead,” he said. “Why is that?”

  “I’m sick,” the boy said. “A fever–”

  “I think yer lyin’.”

  “No!” the shepherd said. “I was mistaken–”

  “He isn’t lying,” Kung Lao interrupted. “Your map does say that this is Mt. Ifukube. But no one knows which mountain that is. Its identity has been swallowed up by the sands of time.”

  “Very poetic,” Kano said. He snapped his fingers again. “Moriarty! Front-and-center.”

  The thug stumbled over in the growing darkness. “Yeah?”

  “Your choice – take one of your two guns, put the barrel up the shepherd’s nose, and send him into the village brains-first.”

  “Sure thing,” Moriarty said as he swung the M44 carbine from his shoulder.

  Gilda stepped forward. “Kano, think about what you’re doing. We don’t need them. We can find it ourselves.”

  “Put the blood back in your heart, lady,” Kano said. “Thus guy comes on like a big Joel Grey Willkommen kinda guy, then rolls up the red carpet. I want to know why.”

  “Because you’ve got a gun at the boy’s head!” Gilda said.

  “Nah,” Kano said. “It’s more than that. Anyway, whose side’re you on?” Kano’s eyes shifted to Kung Lao. “Well, Kung-fu? Is that map startin’ to look just an eensy-bit familiar?”

  The priest looked at Chin Chin, whose eyes were little moon, big and glowing, as he stood statue-still.

  “You have no concept at all of what you’re doing,” the priest said, his voice grave.

  “Sure I do, ya windbag,” he said. “We’re about to decrease China’s population by one sheep boy, unless you start makin’ like Rand McNally.”

  Kung Lao’s expression was grave. “You’ve been sent by Shang Tsung, haven’t you?”

  “That’s privileged information,” Kano said. “Now, how about it, mister? You gonna help us, or do we paint the town red?”

  Kung Lao looked from one to the other of the thugs. “I’ll help you,” he said, “but I assure you – whatever you expect to get from Shang Tsung and his monster Goro, you’ll be disappointed.”

  Kano took the map from Kung Lao and folded it back under his belt. “I’ll worry about all that jazz. You just worry about findin’ some directions and packin’ us all some grub: you got some tour-guidin’ to do.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The towering skyscrapers glowed in the sunset.

  Office windows were still lighted, and in the streets below traffic crawled and horns squawked as some workers left the great city. To the sides, businesspeople and tourists, shoppers and street vendors, the homeless and the prosperous, all moved in a writhing, fractal-like mass.

  And then a single bolt of lightning tore through the cloudy sky, faster and larger and longer-lived than any the people had ever seen. An instant later, thunder rolled through the deep stone and steel valleys of the city, reaching even to the basements and subways of the great metropolis.

  People were still for a moment, and because they were also silent they heard the other roar. It came from the sea, the ground-shaking rumble of an ocean pouring in on itself, over and over, accompanied by the roar of the wind. Those nearest the harbor saw it first, the waves nearly touching the clouds, the fierce winds tearing sheets of spray from their crests, freighters and tankers, yachts and tugboats, oceanliners and sailboats tossed and spun, one against the other as the flood moved inexorably forward.

  The waters along the shoreline vanished as they were sucked into the onrushing wave, and then it smashed down on the city, turning brick to dust, steel girders to Twizzlers, people to corpses, extinguishing a city and its suburbs and the lives of over ten million people–

  Liu Kang woke with a jolt. He was breathing heavily and perspiring, and he looked around to get his bearings, his dark eyes moist with tears.

  Another dream, he thought. Won’t there ever be an end?

  At least he hadn’t cried out. He looked at the other two members of the White Lotus Society who were sharing his tent. They were still asleep, soundly so. He did not envy Guy Lai or Wilson Tong much in this life – did not envy anyone, for that matter – but he wished, like them, that he could get through one night without these dreams of Armageddon. He drew a throwing star from his belt and played with it in one hand as though it were a coin. That always calmed him.

  Yet, it was through dreams that he learned whether he was needed, and if so where. They were the means through which the gods spoke to him.

  If only they would deign to speak every other night, Liu Kang thought.

  He ran a towel across his brow, one that he kept beside his bedroll for just this purpose. After rubbing it along the sweaty ends of his brown hair, Liu pressed a button his watch and the small light went on: ten-thirty. He’d only been asleep for an hour. Not only were the dreams more frequent, they were coming earlier in the night.

  With a yawn, he lay back down. Holding his wrist directly above his face, he pressed a second button. The 2 began to glow, and he smiled. It was fitting that that was the direction his ally had gone. For they were a team – perhaps one of the most unusual and daring duos in the history of crime fighting.

  He pushed the button to shut off the number, then turned on his side, still smiling. When he was born in China twenty-four years before, the son of poor Lee and Lin Kang, Liu was never expected to be anything more than a carpenter, like his father. But as a boy, he became fascinated with the Order of Light, and under the tutelage of a patient and caring priest named Kung Lao, he studied the ancient texts and learned the ways of good and righteousness.

  And then there was that beggar who took him under his wing. Liu Kang had never told his parents about him, for surely they would not have approved. But this beggar came to the temple each day and, in the hidden inner courtyard, taught him the ways of the martial arts.

  Kung Lao had always hoped that Liu would stay and become a priest, but the young man had other ideas. In dreams – and in the graphic sketches he worked on for his own pleasure – he saw the villains and societies that made an agony of people’s lives, and began to wonder if there might be something he could do to help them. Armed with his learning and skills, he worked his way across the sea to the United States, where he joined the W
hite Lotus Society, a band of reformed criminals, Chinese expatriates, and moonlighting men and women from every walk of life. Their goal was to work within the law, but outside the courts, to catch criminals red-handed and see that justice was done. And though publicly Kung Lao expressed his displeasure at Liu’s taking his knowledge from Chu-jung, Liu always felt the master was secretly pleased that he was trying to make the world a better place.

  Now Liu was back in China, on the trail of not one but two of the most notorious villains in the world. One was Kano, who had finally slithered out of hiding and might finally be caught committing a criminal act of some kind. To stop that man and members of the Black Dragon Society would be a triumph indeed. The other villain&–

  Shang Tsung was a different matter altogether. The mysterious figure lived on an island in the East China Sea, where he was known to host a secret tournament known as Mortal Kombat. There was nothing illegal about that, though it was rumored that people died during the contest. But in dreams, in vague images, Liu had been warned that Shang Tsung was the one behind Kano’s latest venture. What they were planning was of considerable important to both the White Lotus Society and the U.S. Special Forces, a covert team of highly trained operatives. Liu had discovered the whereabouts of Kano, but was unable to plant an agent on his team of cutthroats.

  There was an agent who was at two o’clock on the watch dial, an agent whose job was to make sure that no one died… unless it was one of the Black Dragons. That agent was a U.S. operative by the name of Sonya Blade.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It had been a close one, but Sonya had been prepared to act. Though her orders were that she let Kano lead her to Shang Tsung, she would’ve taken him and Moriarty out before she’d have let the shepherd die.

  Fortunately, Kung Lao had capitulated and the crisis had been averted. She would be able to keep on playing the role she had created for herself, that of master criminal Gilda Stahl.

  She’d looked at the frightened faces of villagers peering from dark windows as they walked through Wuhu, saw how they feared for the well-being of Kung Lao, saw how important he was to them. She wondered if there were a greater feeling one could have than affecting so many lives in such a positive way.

  Kung Lao had taken the band to the temple, where he had shown them to a great library in the center of the centuries-old structure. There, Kano had tied a leather strap around the shepherd’s neck and then attached it to Moriarty’s neck, with instructions to waste the boy if Kung Lao did anything shady.

  “If this operation goes smooth,” Kano had said to the priest, “everyone lives. If not, then the flockmeister buys it toot sweet and some other villager gets to wear the leash. We got a radio here so I can stay in touch with whoever I leave behind. Kapish?”

  Kung Lao said that he understood, and promised Kano that there would be no trouble – though he urged him again to consider carefully what he was proposing to do.

  “What you plan,” said the priest, “will help to make Shang Tsung the most powerful mortal on earth. Worse than that, I fear it will help to pave the way for the coming of one of the most powerful immortals off the earth–the foul Shao Kahn and his demonic hordes.”

  “Ya drivel too much,” Kano answered, with his usual keen insight. “Clam up and tell me about Mt. Ifukube.”

  And then Kung Lao had taken a lantern and gone up a spiral stairwell to the balcony of scrolls that surrounded it. While he looked through the manuscripts in plain view of the gang leader, the rest of them sat on a mat in the center of the floor, getting ready to eat a meal that was brought in by monks.

  Before eating the broth that had been served to him, Kano had made Chin Chin try it. The boy raised the bowl to his lips and sipped.

  “How d’ya feel?” Kano said, eyeing the lad as he put the bowl down.

  “Warmer,” the boy admitted. “The broth is very hot.”

  “I don’t mean that, ya rube. I mean is it poisoned?”

  “No, sir,” the boy said.

  Nodding, Kano took the plain, white, glazed ceramic bowl and drank heartily.

  “Unless,” Chin Chin said, “the cook used the slow-acting toireh root, in which case we will not know until morning.”

  Kano’s red eye fastened on the boy like a laser beam. He stopped drinking. “Are you joking?”

  “No, sir,” said the boy, genuinely frightened. “I-I am merely answering your question.”

  Kano twisted toward Kung Lao. “Hey, preacher man,” he said. “Would any of your guys be stupid enough to try ‘n’ poison me?”

  Kung Lao said, “We teach here that however corrupt the individual, murder is wrong. Within these walls, you needn’t fear any danger. Not from any of us, certainly.”

  The priest’s eyes seemed to linger on Sonya, though she wondered if she only imagined it. He couldn’t possibly know who she was or why she was here. Only Liu Kang and her superior at the Special Forces, Col. David George, knew her mission.

  Kano considered what Kung Lao had said, then nodded. “That’s a good rule. Keeps the scrolls from getting perforated with the bullets that miss the cook. I was all set to go out and make myself hurl – not that this soup doesn’t taste like it’s poisoned. What’s it seasoned with – yak fur?”

  “Pheasant bill,” said Kung Lao. “When we are forced to kill life to sustain our own, we see to it that nothing goes to waste. We use the feathers to stuff our pillows, the talons to make writing imple–”

  “Hey, that’s great,” Kano said. “Real interestin’. Now, how about that map of the road to Ifukube?”

  “It’s coming,” Kung Lao said.

  Schneider snorted into his broth. “Sounds like a Bob Hope movie,” he said. “One of the ones he made with Bing Crosby and Dorothy Lamour.”

  “Zip it, Schnides,” Kano hissed. “Let the holy moley concentrate on doin’ his job.”

  “I wasn’t talkin’ to him–”

  “I don’t care who you was talkin’ to, Schnides. It’s distractin’.”

  “How about you both shut up,” Moriarty said, yelling to be heard over the sounds of the Walkman plugged in his ears. “I can’t hear my damn tunes!”

  Kano fired eye-daggers at him, and then at Schneider, but both men fell silent as the leader brought the soup bowl to his lips.

  While the men had argued, Sonya had suddenly become aware that the priest was staring at her. And as he did, she could feel something pass between them, something intangible; whatever it was, she felt as if he were inside her brain, searching for something. And when he seemed to find it, his eyes smiled and he returned at his scroll.

  “Here it is,” Kung Lao said as he started down the steps. “The map you requested. Mt. Ifukube is now known as Mt. Angilas, named after the archaeologist who did many of the excavations of the caves at the turn of this century.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson,” Kano said. “Why don’t you go get yerself some shoes while we finish eating? I want to go as soon as we’re done.”

  “But this is not a path to be traveled in the dark,” Kung Lao said. “There are many dangers–”

  “Don’t worry,” Kano said. “We’ve got flashlights and many guns. We’ll be fine.”

  Kung Lao said, “The dangers I speak of are not all of this world. You are venturing into the realm of the gods.”

  “Now it sounds like a Steve Reeves movie,” Schneider said. “Or Jason and the Argonauts. Ever see that?”

  “Yeah,” Kano said, “and for once, I agree with you. Let’s get a move-on.” Finishing his broth and rising, he said, “Moriarty–give Schnides the MK. You’ll stay here with Senny, one uplink yakker, the carbine, and a whole lotta shells. Anything happens to us, you guys turn Wuhu into a used people lot.”

  “Gotcha,” Moriarty said, giving the weapon to Schneider and taking the satellite-linked telephone from Jim Woo.

  Kano took a deep breath and looked at Kung Lao. “Nobody’s gettin’ any younger, monk-master. How about we move it out?”
r />   Kung Lao rang a bell, and when one of the monks appeared, the priest asked him for his hat and a pouch for the scroll. When the monk brought the items, Kung Lao carefully placed the rolled map inside the ox-skin pouch and slung it over his shoulder. He donned the pointed cap, smiled benignly at Chin Chin, then walked, still barefoot and wearing only his robe, into the cool night.

  Behind him, in a row, were Kano, with his knife drawn; Schneider, with the M44 tucked under his arm; Jim Woo, with a backpack containing the rest of their food and the second the telephones – and Sonya Blade, who had her hand on the knife with the electronic bug in its hilt, and her eyes on the priest, who was far more than he seemed to be.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Are you sure?” Shang Tsung howled. “Are you very sure, Ruthay?”

  The tortured voice of the demonic regent rose from the circular streak on the floor. “I… am… certain. An ancient enemy has reached out to a new ally… in dreams. In dreams, Shang Tsung!”

  “Who is this ancient enemy?” Shang Tsung asked, even though he knew what the answer would be.

  The long-imprisoned devil wailed, “Our foe… is the obscene Thunder Lord Rayden… who… like our great Lord Shao Kahn… is a child of the original being!”

  “It cannot be,” Shang Tsung snarled. “Why has Rayden returned after all these years?”

  “I fear, Shang Tsung… that he never left! It was he… who tutored Kung Lao the first… maker of the amulet you seek. I sense… that he has always been among us… manipulating events… in secret.”

  “Why? To protect the amulet?”

  “In part… yes!”

  “Why didn’t he just destroy it?”

  “He cannot,” Ruthay said. “What was forged by god… and given to mortal… cannot be retrieved….”

  The wizard’s fingers curled into a tight ball, and he rattled it at the circle of ooze-covered powder on the floor of the shrine. “I haven’t come this far to be stopped by a mortal… even a mortal who is aided by a deity!”