Warbound (The Grimnoir Chronicles Book 3)

No one who, like me, conjures up the most evil of those half-tamed demons that inhabit the human breast and seeks to wrestle with them can expect to come through the struggle unscathed.

—Sigmund Freud,

From Interview with a Reader:

An Analysis of a Case of Hysteria, 1905.

Wannsee, Germany

The Berlin Wall was much taller than she’d expected. She had heard of the great wall which had been erected around Dead City to keep the zombies inside; everyone with access to a radio had heard stories about it at some point, but maybe it was because she’d spent those years on the Vierras’ dairy farm that she’d always figured it would have been more like the sort of fences they used to keep cows in than an actual giant wall made out of stone. If she’d thought that through, she would’ve realized how naïve she’d been. After all, cows and zombies were very different in temperament.

“So the man you want me to talk to is inside there?”

“That is correct, Faye,” Jacques said.

Was he trying to get her killed on purpose? Faye had dealt with the undead before, so she knew how dangerous they could be. Was Jacques trying to get rid of the Spellbound again? Skip another elder’s vote, send her on a wild-goose chase into one of the most dangerous places in the world, and just let the ravenous zombies get her instead? It made a sick sort of sense. “Are you crazy?”

Jacques chuckled. “Can anyone who has lived for this long in this field truly be sane? I think not.”

The train station was on the outskirts of the city which had once been known as Berlin. It, like most of the wall’s surroundings, seemed grey and worn. Faye had always assumed that Heinrich always wore grey simply because he was a Fade and it helped him blend in everywhere. Now she wondered if he always wore grey because that was the only color he had seen growing up. Maybe grey was just his favorite color?

She hadn’t spoken out loud, but Jacques knew what she was thinking. “The people on the outskirts of Dead City do not use bright colors. Should any of the undead make it over the walls, those who still have eyes are attracted to bright colors, just as those who can still hear are attracted to noise.”

Now that he mentioned it, Faye realized it was abnormally quiet here. Obviously there had been the noise of the train engine, but after it had rolled out, the city was oddly silent. The porter who had carried their bags had spoken in muted tones. There was no loud announce-ments, no music playing anywhere, no loud conversations from the locals. It was like being in the shadow of the dead sucked all the life right out of a place. The grey stone walls loomed over the town, so she supposed it would be hard for anyone to forget. “That’s too bad.”

“Most of the undead have gone so mad that they are not capable of rational thought. Should some get out, which I have been told is not too uncommon an occurrence, it is better to let them wander aimlessly for a time rather than to have them hone in immediately on the living. It gives the tower guards more time to spot them.”

“What about the ones that are still smart?”

“Thankfully for us and them, there are not so many of those left anymore. If an undead who has retained his reasoning truly feels the need to escape into the world of the living, heaven help us all. Hunting down the occasional wrathful undead who escapes these walls is a specialty of our German Grimnoir brethren.”

The feeling in the air was not that different from the fields of Second Somme. This was a place where magical energy had torn a hole in the world and left a gaping wound. She had been in Mar Pacifica, and had survived the Peace Ray impact there—a hit which had been a tiny fraction of the size of this one—but when she’d come out of the ground, Mar Pacifica had felt different. Everything had still been smoking and burning. It hadn’t had time to turn grey and dead yet. She hadn’t been back to Mar Pacifica to find out what it looked like now, but in her gut she knew it would be another dead, blighted place forever . . . And it had been so pretty once.

“I can’t believe we’re going in there.”

“We? I plan on renting rooms for the night and enjoying a warm meal. In the morning, you are going in there and I will stay in my room and enjoy a good book. If you are not back in twenty-four hours, then I will simply assume you are gone, board another train, and head back to Paris.”

“That’s awfully yellow of you.”

“Says the girl who can teleport to the portly old man with bad knees who could not outrun the slowest of shamblers. I was only a Brute of medium talent in my prime. Now, I would be consumed in minutes.”

She knew he was exaggerating. He’d still managed to climb a cathedral just fine. “Oh, come on, Jacques. Even zombies don’t eat that fast, and there’s plenty of extra helpings on you.”

He looked offended and tried to suck in his gut.

If he was going to send her into Dead City to get murdered, she didn’t feel any particular reason to be polite about it. “I’m sick and tired of you not telling me anything and keeping secrets. You need to spit it out right now. Who is it I’m supposed to talk to here and why? It better be a good answer or I’m leaving.”

“Feel free; you came to me, remember?” She could have simply Traveled away and never looked back, but she didn’t, and they both knew why. Faye did not want to end up a homicidal madman like the last Spellbound. Faye put her hands on her hips and waited.

“Very well then. The man you are looking for inside those walls was once a knight of the Grimnoir. His name is Zachary. He assisted me in my original investigation of the Spellbound. If anyone can answer the questions regarding your curse and if you are doomed to follow in the footsteps of Sivaram, it is he.”

She looked in disbelief at the walls, and then back at Jacques. No livung person would be caught dead in there. “He’s a zombie . . .”

Jacques nodded. “Sadly, yes. Several years ago we were battling some Soviet agents in Hungary. Zachary was killed while under the effects of a Lazarus’ curse, so he came back from the dead.”

Faye winced as she remembered poor Delilah. “I’m familiar.”

“When the pain became too much to bear, and he felt he was becoming a danger to those around him, he banished himself here. Zachary possesses an extremely rare type of magic, one which the forces of evil would go to great lengths to secure for themselves if they realized it truly existed. His Power was one of our best kept secrets, and very few knights knew of him. Zachary came here to live in solitude and secrecy. Since then, he has still offered his knowledge willingly to the society when asked, but no one has spoken to him in quite some time.”

“How do you know he’s still . . .”—she almost said alive, but that wouldn’t do at all—“around?”

“I do not know for sure. It has been years since his last contact with the outside world. The last time I tried to speak with him was when the question of your identity was raised. Alas, he did not answer the summons on his ring. I do not know if that was because he was unable, or if he no longer cares enough to bother.”

Faye sighed. So not only was she going into Dead City, she was going to do it for somebody who might not even be sane enough to answer her questions. It wasn’t like the undead were known for their calm. “So this fella knows more about Sivaram than you do?”

Jacques shook his head. “I am afraid not. I am the expert on that sad individual.”

“Then why—”

“Zachary can see the future.”

Jacques Montand was true to his word. He would wait the twenty-four hours before leaving Germany, never to look back. It was deeply troubling that he was so willing to abandon the poor girl to such a dark fate, but that was only if he was thinking of her as Faye, the helpful, earnest, courageous young woman, rather than as the Spellbound, a lethal vampiric curse bound in flesh, destined to turn into an engine of homicidal madness, and a prototype of things to come. Then the idea was not so difficult to bear.

She had gone alone into the city. It would be exceedingly dangerous, but he suspected Faye would come back. She was one of the only Actives in the world capable of traversing Dead City alone and making it back alive. It would surely be lethal for almost anyone else, as had been demonstrated by a more than a few foolish treasure-hunting expeditions into the interior. Faye was different, though. Her combination of natural craftiness, quick thinking, and seemingly limitless Power made her an unstoppable force. She was quite the weapon for good. It was so tempting to believe that she could stay on a righteous path, but Jacques had seen far too much in his long life to hold to such naïve idealism.

The hotel room was too quiet, but such was the nature of the suburbs of Dead City, a place of perpetual nerves and whispers. The quiet made it too easy to think, and he was not a man at ease, for those who had difficult decisions to make seldom where. He had kept his word and Faye’s continued existence was still a secret to the other elders. His knights had been sworn to secrecy, which had been easy to do since none of them realized just what was at stake. The idea that he was somehow assisting the greatest danger to mankind gnawed at his conscience.

It would have been so much simpler if she had been a snarling killer instead of a charming young girl.

Assuming Zachary was still available, he would be able to help give her direction. His Power was unreliable at best, but perhaps their fortunes had shifted, and his visions would show some good possible outcomes for Faye to work toward. Doubtful. Jacques took another shot of bourbon. It was more likely that Zachary’s visions were still the same as they were before. Then, Faye would come to understand just how dangerous she really was. It would either serve to temper her recklessness and prolong the inevitable, or sadly, but perhaps for the best, Faye would simply kill herself and spare them the trouble of having to deal with the Power’s dangerous manipulations for another generation.

Before he had been lost, when their Soothsayer had foretold the coming of a new Spellbound, all of the potential outcomes had ended in rivers of blood and skies of fire. He had never foretold any otherworldly Enemy or hypothetical Pathfinder, but then again, none of them had known to ask.

Letting Faye live was an incredible risk. Jacques took the vial from his shirt pocket and studied the unassuming liquid through the clear glass. The girl was trusting. It would be so simple to place a few drops of this into her food or drink. Her death would be swift and nearly painless.

Why did you have to put me in this predicament, Whisper?

There was a sudden warmth in his body, and it wasn’t from the alcohol spreading through his bloodstream. His Grimnoir ring was burning with sudden magical energy. Someone was attempting to contact him, and by the amount of Power being channeled, it was someone rather capable, more than likely another of the seven elders. Had they found out? Did they know he was sheltering the Spellbound?

Placing the lethal toxin back in his pocket, Jacques went to his luggage and removed a small pocket mirror, which he had already engraved and bound with spells for just such an occasion. He set it on the bed and willed his own magic to connect. It only took a second for the Power to activate and for the communication spell to take hold. The mirror began to glow as it lifted from the covers to hover at eye height. It seemed to spin about as others joined the conversation. He recognized many of his longtime compatriots from around the world and various other prominent knights, some of whom appeared to have just been woken from sleep. A few of the faces seemed to be blurred and dark, much as his would appear to the others, a magical protection to conceal the identity of the elders. So this was not an interrogation, but rather an emergency conference. He breathed a sigh of relief.

And then the spell settled on the man who had called so many from across the entirety of the Earth. It was not one of the seven elders looking back at him, but rather it was the hard, square-jawed face of Heavy Jake Sullivan, who, despite his relative inexperience, displayed a subtle mastery of magic which already rivaled or surpassed many of the elders. Sullivan was a dangerous, dedicated, and passionate individual, and his adamant insistence on the existence of the Chairman’s mythological Enemy had caused many of their best young knights to join his futile quest.

“Evening,” Sullivan said. There was a chorus of responses, some more positive than others. Regardless of Sullivan’s effectiveness against Imperium forces, he was a controversial figure at best.

“Hello, Mr. Sullivan. Have you found your white whale yet?” Jacques asked.

“Read that book. Don’t want to ruin it for you, but the whale turned out to be real. I’ll keep this brief as possible. We raided the Imperium monitoring station at the North Pole.”

“You did what?” someone blurted. They’d known Sullivan was chasing his unicorns, but apparently not everyone had realized just how far he was willing to go in order to catch them. Of course, Jacques had already thought this through, so he wasn’t surprised in the least. Sullivan’s decisions were proving no more shocking than those of the man who had recruited him. Black Jack Pershing would have approved of such decisive actions. “The Imperium will retaliate against us all!”

“I’m talking to dozens of people all around the world, so I don’t have the Power or the inclination to debate this again. We took a few casualties, but we learned that the Enemy is already here. It’s all over the Imperium, hiding at every one of their schools. The invasion has started.”

There were some angry cries from the disbelievers, but Jacques cut them off. “The schools are beyond our reach. What do you intend to do now, then?”

“We think the imposter Chairman is somehow in on this. Toru figured out who he is. I’ll have your knights send you the details. In the meantime, I plan on taking out the Chairman, in public, so that the Iron Guard will know they’ve been compromised. Once they realize that, they’ll have no choice but to clean out the infestation for us.”

“Another attempt on the Chairman? Every such action has always caused a terrible response,” one of the elders shouted. “Permission denied!”

“Good thing I wasn’t asking for any.” The Heavy was not so easily riled. “We’re already on our way. The Pathfinder’s got a head start, so we need to act fast. Exposing the fake Chairman is our only fast option.”

Jacques nodded. It wasn’t like they had not already tried to assassinate the Chairman many times before. The most recent attempt had been a disastrous plot, which had rocked the elders’ council, murdered Pershing, cost Harkeness his life, and sent Rawls into banishment. “It will be a shame to throw away the lives of forty knights.”

“And a far bigger shame to have the Power flee and all of us be eaten by this Enemy,” said another elder.

“Assuming it is even real!” declared the American elder. He was the newest member of their leadership, and it had been a difficult decision for the others to choose between this man or John Moses Browning. Both had been capable candidates, but it had been felt that Browning had been getting up in years, which seemed an ironic reasoning for a position called elder. “You want to risk the lives of our men, my men, all on the word of an Iron Guard? Absurd.”

“Button it,” Sullivan ordered, which was a rather surprising breach of etiquette, but Sullivan was, after all, an American too, and they tended toward direct speech. “We’re making the attempt whether you like it or not. Anybody on this airship who doesn’t want a piece, I’ll let them off before we hit Japan. But one way or the other, we’re going in. So the society can either help, or it can get out of my way.”

There was a long silence as the most powerful and influential Actives in the world weighed the consequences. Their stated purpose was to protect Actives from the world, and to protect the world from Actives, and it had been clear for generations that the Imperium was the greatest threat to human liberty in history. Attempting to assassinate the Chairman was practically a tradition at this point. “It isn’t like the Nipponese can possibly come to dislike us more,” said a British elder with a laugh. “I say good hunting, Mr. Sullivan.”

One of the more cautious elders interjected, “Are we willing to lose so many valuable knights over this?”

Fool. They are going regardless of our opinions. They were young, idealistic knights, eager to strike a blow against tyranny. The elders were old, looking at the big picture yet unable to grasp the passion which inflamed their soldiers. Whether Sullivan realized it or not, he had inspired many. They would follow him, and this task would be seen through to completion, regardless of the outcome. Personally, Jacques thought the entire concept of the Enemy sounded implausible, and, in fact, he had doubts that Okubo Tokugawa had ever been killed to begin with. The Chairman had easily destroyed all of the knights who had come against him before, so why would this time be any different?

Yet, he could still feel the weight of the poison in his breast pocket, and the thought occurred to him that this suicide mission offered other opportunities. If it could not be stopped, then it should at least be utilized in the most effective manner.

Jacques cleared his throat. “I agree. It is a risk, but the Society is already at war with the Imperium. Regardless of the actual existence of this Enemy, if the Chairman is truly dead, then Sullivan’s expedition may well succeed and throw the Imperium into complete disarray. If the Chairman is, in fact, still alive, then perhaps this time we will get lucky and kill him once and for all. The knights on this mission are all volunteers. Since they go willingly toward this end, who are we, so far from the actual danger, to deny them their courageous attempt . . . You have my full support, Mr. Sullivan.”

With Jacques statement, the balance had shifted. There were a few murmurs of assent, and the dissenters were quiet. It was close enough.

“Thank you,” Sullivan said. The Heavy may have been uncouth and unflinchingly violent, but he was also struck Jacques as an honest man. “I need up-to-date intelligence and I could use any local support you’ve got to help us get close. I’ve heard we’ve got a few knights hidden in Japan.”

“That may not be necessary, Mr. Sullivan,” said the British elder, his face shrouded in magical shadows, but still obviously gnawing on a cigar. “Setting foot on the home islands is a death sentence. Japan is locked up tight as a vault. However, there may be another opportunity in the near future, which will offer you better odds. It is also deep within enemy territory, but it is not quite the belly of the beast.”

“I’m listening.”

“My sources have told me that Okubo Tokugawa is planning an inspection tour to China within the month, mostly military bases along the front, but his itinerary includes a lavish award ceremony for his officers in Shanghai. Perhaps he will be presenting trophies for most butchery or best torturer. The knights in that city have faced terrible setbacks over the last few years, so there are not very many of them left to help, but it is still a far more approachable, and more importantly, escapable place.”

“I’m not exactly set on this being a one-way trip myself, sir.”

“Indeed, Mr. Sullivan. Some of my men volunteered and are with you on your fool’s errand. I am rather fond of them and would prefer for them to return home in one piece.”

“Shanghai’s one of the Free Cities. That’s got possibilities.” Sullivan mulled it over. “It could work. I’ll talk to the captain and see what we can do. I’ll be in touch.” Abruptly, the communication spell was broken. The mirror instantly lost all of its unnatural color, fell, and landed safely on the bed.

Jacques watched the silent mirror for a time, thinking about what he’d just done through a few simple words. He’d never been much for politicking, but he had just thrown his considerable support behind an assassination attempt that would almost certainly fail. Jacques returned to his chair, picked up the glass, and poured himself another finger of bourbon. He pounded it down in one gulp. His words had just authorized many good knights to end their lives in a futile attempt against an immortal.

And Faye, poor cursed, Faye . . . Once she knew her friends were going into harm’s way, even if it meant certain death, she would join them.

Such was Faye’s character.

When she found out—when he told her—she would go, and when Sullivan’s hunt inevitably ended in blood, Faye would be destroyed by the combined might of the Iron Guard, then the danger of the Spellbound curse would be postponed for another generation. At least Faye’s magnificent Power would be able to strike a great blow against the tyranny of the Imperium in the process. Let the candle burn the brightest right before it is snuffed out. Maybe he was just trying to justify his decisions, but he suspected that Faye would prefer it that way.

Jacques poured another. I am so sorry, Whisper. I do not know what you expected me to teach her. I have failed you.

UBF Traveler

It was one of Hattori’s fondest memories of his treasured master and teacher.

Lord Okubo sat upon the sand at the edge of a cliff and watched the sunrise. His loyal commanders knelt before him in the semblance of a makeshift court. Only a few days had passed since their battle against the Enemy in the deserts of Xinjiang, and Okubo was spending much of his precious time passing his accumulated wisdom on to his closest followers. It was as if during their struggle Okubo had achieved a new measure of enlightenment and now he wished to share it with his Dark Ocean.

“I was mistaken to think of it as a scout. That implies that the Pathfinder is a separate being from the greater Enemy. Do not think of it as a scout. Think of it as a tendril, a feeler. It is detached, but still part of the whole. Do you understand the vastness of space, Hattori?”

Being singled out from the group made him uncomfortable. “I . . . I have not dwelled on such things. I can look at the sky and see the stars . . .”An understanding fitting for a mortal man, but Okubo was no longer a mere mortal man. The Power had seen to that. Hattori was certain his answer would be insufficient.

“The heavens are larger than you can imagine. There are a multitude of worlds like unto our own, and then copies of those worlds existing in parallel, and realms between them beyond counting. We are only one of a multitude. Actions of significant enough consequence can be felt in these other worlds, like ripples across a pond.”

This would have been a blasphemous view of the universe coming from anyone else, but Okubo’s vision was not to be questioned, and none of the warriors voiced a disagreement. Their Russian monk seemed intrigued by these ideas, but he was a very philosophical individual, when he wasn’t molesting the peasant women, at least.

“The Power was born from one of these realms between. It was chased from its home, and has been chased from many others since. Like all prey, the Power avoids its predator. Like all predators, the Enemy must feed, or it will starve and perish. They are part of an eternal cycle, and because the Power came here, we are part of that cycle now as well. Tell me, Saito, how do we end this cycle once and for all, preferably in a manner which does not end all life in this world?”

“We kill the Enemy in battle!” Saito answered immediately. That was the proper answer for a member of the warrior caste to give.

“Incorrect. That is currently beyond our capability. How do we end this cycle?”

“I . . . I am unsure,” Saito said. Hattori was glad to see that the haughty former samurai was obviously ashamed by his ignorance. He had been badly injured during the battle and it had given him some measure of humility. “I do not know the answer, my Lord.”

Okubo gave Saito a patient smile, like a father would to an exuberant but inexperienced son. “Then it will be our sacred duty to find the answer.”

“I will.” Saito touched his forehead to the sand.

The master of Dark Ocean continued his lesson to his disciples. “The Enemy pursues the Power because it must. It spreads bits of itself across the vastness of space, searching on all worlds, hoping, waiting for one of them to discover magic, so that the rest of it may come and eat. As time passes, it starves and becomes more desperate. It will send ever greater portions of itself out, searching with increasing desperation, because it must find the Power, or it will die.”

He could not help but ask. “Can the Enemy truly die?”

“Anything can die, Hattori.”

“Even you?” Hattori was doubtful about that.

“Of course I can die. It is inevitable that something stronger will eventually take my place. That is the way of things. But back to the Enemy; it may seem incredibly strong. So strong, in fact that an incomprehensible being such as the Power quails in fear of it. Yet what happens when a predator starves?”

The Russian spoke for the first time. “It becomes more ferocious. It holds nothing back. It does nothing but seek food.”

“Exactly.”

“So there will be more, and stronger than this one?” Hattori asked in shocked disbelief, as if trying to comprehend how such a being could possibly be worse.

“Yes. It is easy to think of the Pathfinder as needing to absorb magic in order to send a message home. That is not the case. Rather, it is gathering the strength needed to put down roots. The Pathfinder is a seed. It is an anchor. If it becomes set, it will inevitably draw the rest of itself across the realms, until the greater whole of the Enemy is here, and when it does, we will all die.”

“So defeat is assured?”

“I do not think so. A starving predator is a ferocious predator, but it can also be a stupid predator. Desperation causes mistakes. Perhaps in time, if we can continue to defeat these Pathfinders, these desperate tendrils, we can starve the Enemy to the point that we can destroy it once and for all.”

And that concluded the lesson.

Such greatness. Such selflessness. Such honor. Toru was humbled to have descended from and been tutored by the warriors of Dark Ocean. To think that Saito was insulting their sacred cause filled him with righteous anger. He had been there! Yet it also caused Toru to ponder upon his own failings. He knew abandoning his order had been the correct course of action, but if he was honest with himself, his dedication to the ideals of the Iron Guard had already slipped before that. He had been found wanting, and that weakness had taken him from the front lines to the Diplomatic Corps in Washington. It had been a fortunate circumstance, because otherwise he would never have been able to serve under Ambassador Hattori, but it had still been as a result of his weakness.

And now they were flying directly to the site of his past failings.

Toru’s meditation period was over. Someone had entered his section of the hold. He kept his eyes closed, listening to the creaks and the pops of metal shifting and the constant noise of the engines, but beneath all of that had been a footstep. His hands were resting on his knees, but near at hand was the hilt of the sword which had once belong to Sasaki Kojiro. As a Brute, he would be able to unsheathe the mighty blade and cover the length of the cargo hold before most men could react and pull a trigger.

Many of the crew had personal issue with Toru’s presence, and he knew it was only a matter of time until one of them broke their oath to keep the peace. Being forced to kill someone in self-defense could hardly be held against him. Another nearly imperceptible footstep vibrated through the floor grates. Toru had to resist the urge to smile. Let them come. He would slice them in half. Would it be a Grimnoir, angry at some loved one dying at an Iron Guard’s hand? Would it be the female Torch, who tried to hide the brands which marked her as an escapee from the schools? Or would it be a foolish pirate, bitter at having lived in fear of the Imperium? Did it matter? A third footstep. Toru relaxed his mind and prepared his magic.

“Mr. Tokugawa? May I have a moment of your time?”

Damn it. He probably wouldn’t get to kill anyone today after all. “Come in.”

The blanket which served as a privacy curtain was moved aside, revealing the former prisoner, Wells. He did not look like much of a threat, but Toru had been led to believe that he was a capable Massive, which was a rare and truly dangerous form of magic.

The Diplomatic Corps had taught him how to read the subtle nuances of a man’s expression, his stance, his manner and attitude, these things were all clues to his true nature. Americans were especially easy, considering their complete lack of propriety and inability to control their faces, which was perhaps why Toru found that this Wells made him uneasy. Wells could control his face as well as any longtime member of the Imperial court, and often wore upon it a mask showing only that which Wells wanted to display.

What is under that mask, strange American? Toru gestured for Wells to come closer. “What do you want?”

The thin man was holding a notepad. “I wished to ask you a few questions.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I’m looking for a challenge. It’ll only be a few questions.”

Toru remained seated. “Of what nature?”

“I wish to know about the man you believe is impersonating the Chairman.” Wells made a show of looking at his notepad. It was an unnecessary gesture, but one designed to give an aura of human fallibility. “Saito?”

“Dosan Saito was a young samurai warrior who abandoned his family to become one of the first members of Dark Ocean and disciples of my father. He was a founding member of my prior order, and served as First Iron Guard for over a decade. He led with great distinction during the invasion of China and Russia. He went on to be the master sensei of the Iron Guard Academy and valued advisor to the Imperial Council. Now he is a traitorous dog in league with our greatest enemy, and I will end his life with my bare hands.”

Wells stood there awkwardly. There was no place to sit. Toru did not care to make the American comfortable. Perhaps the more uncomfortable he was, the sooner he would leave.

“Is that all?”

“How old would you say he is now?”

Toru scowled. Hattori’s memories suggested that Saito had been quite a bit older than he had been. “He would be in his eighties.”

“Remarkable. Yet he’s still a threat?”

“Yes.”

“That hardly seems likely.”

“Do you question my honesty?” Toru asked with a bit of menace.

“Of course not. I meant no offense.” Wells was very convincing at acting afraid, but Toru could tell Wells had no real comprehension of fear. This was not a normal human being. This was an abnormality skilled at feigning humanity. Toru had known Shadow Guard and Unit 731 Cogs like this Wells, brilliant men with far too much sophistry to serve as honorable Iron Guard. “But his age . . .” Wells just kept standing there, ready to take notes.

Toru sighed. “The methods are secret, but many of the Chairman’s most valuable subjects have lived capably far beyond their natural lifespans. It has something to do with the kanji they have been branded with. Okubo Tokugawa did not age at all. Many of his closest advisors aged at a slower rate. Saito especially, since Brutes tend to be extremely fit. Should I not be killed in battle, I would more than likely live to an extremely advanced age.”

“That’s not likely.” Wells chuckled. Toru’s expression remained frozen. “Never mind. Please continue.”

“Iron Guard do not retire. They either die in service or they are assigned somewhere where they can still be of value to the Imperium. Saito was an advisor to the council. I have not been home for many years, but when last I was there, Saito would often still join martial exercises at the academy. He is aged, not nearly the man he once was, but not yet feeble.”

“Can he still fight?”

“Whatever his current level of skill, it will not be enough to stop me.”

“So he’s a Brute, not a Ringer.” Wells scribbled some words. “How do you think he managed to change shape and appear like your father?”

“I do not know. Some manner of foul sorcery. It will not matter when I remove his head from his body.”

“Hmm . . . I’m sensing that you have a bit of pentup aggression relating to this man. Saito also seems capable of fooling nearly everyone with his impression, suggesting some form of mental control . . .” Wells began chewing on his pen, a disgusting habit of absent-minded Americans, but merely another act in this case. Toru was impressed. This Wells would have made a fine Shadow Guard. “He even fooled you into thinking he was your father. That has to be the ultimate betrayal, the sacred trust between a boy and a father. How did that make you feel?”

Toru’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What kind of doctor are you, again?”

“A psychologist. I specialize in understanding—”

“I am familiar with the term. I believe it to be a form of chicanery best suited for manipulating self-indulgent Europeans into not being disgusted by their obvious flaws. I am a warrior, born and bred to fight and die on behalf of the mightiest order of warriors of the mightiest nation in history. If you ask me about my feelings concerning my father again, I will kill you. Is that clear?”

“If it makes you more comfortable, then we can leave that topic off the table.” The person mask slipped. Rather than being cowed, Wells gave Toru an odd, absent little smile. Yes. Wells was eager for a confrontation. “As for killing me, you could try, but that would prove rather interesting since I’m indestructible.”

“I am not some Rockville miscreant wielding a sharpened spoon, Dr. Wells. You may be slightly more difficult to harm, but we are over the middle of the Pacific Ocean. How long can you tread water?”

The mask returned, and Wells appeared to think it over like a reasonable man should. “Valid point . . . Let’s put that aside for a moment, though, and concentrate on helping me better understand our mutual adversary.”

“Why?”

“Wasn’t it said by Okubo Tokugawa in his own book, and forgive me if I do not get this absolutely correct, because I had to read the English translation; In order to assure victory, a warrior must understand his enemy better than the enemy understands himself. Anticipate their move before they make it and the tip of your sword will be there waiting to meet them. Is that about right?”

Toru nodded, suspicious. “That is approximately correct. In my experience. Westerners who memorize my father’s words have either come to truly believe in his vision or they are academic contemplators trying to understand greatness that they can never hope to achieve.”

“Perhaps I am a bit guilty of omphaloskepsis at times . . .”

“I do not know that word.”

“Navel gazing . . . Never mind. I will not be pigeonholed in either of your narrow categories, my good man. I memorized that quote because your Chairman was describing my career. You see, I seek to understand motivation and substance—”

Toru held up one hand to stop him. “Much like a theater actor must study their character, you began studying the way normal people think in order to better appear as one of them.”

Now that had gotten Wells’ attention. He nodded slowly. “You are a more perceptive man than I was led to believe, Mr. Tokugawa . . .”

“It is because I have known men like you. Your minds are twisted from birth. You are an outsider.”

“Something like that,” Wells answered slowly.

“There is no need for shame. In the Imperium, men such as yourself would be highly valued for your unique intellect. I have been led to understand that many members of Unit 731 share your specific mental affliction. It enables them to conduct their experiments on human subjects without hesitation or remorse. You do not feel what others feel, but your analysis of how they think has made you a very capable mimic.”

“Then you know why I’m good at my job.” Wells gave him that odd little smirk again. “Regardless of my original personal goals when I embarked on my particular path of study, today, my understanding Saito better enables you to kill him better. Tell me everything about this bastard and I promise I will help deliver him into your hands.”

“That is intriguing . . .” Toru stroked his chin. It could help, and he had nothing better to do on this accursed tub. “Very well. If it helps me end Saito’s life, then I will put up with all manner of nonsense. Continue your questions.”

Wells looked around again for a spot to sit, but then finally gave up and sat on the hard metal floor. The pen went back to the notepad. “I think I’m going to enjoy our sessions together, Toru. May I call you Toru? Now where were we?”