It was expected, but still disappointing, to see that the crew had segregated themselves into a few distinct groups. The biggest crowd was made up of members of the Grimnoir society. Sullivan knew many of them, and had fought alongside several. Lance Talon was the senior member, Heinrich was his second in command, but since this expedition was Sullivan’s idea, they were both deferring to him. The knights as a whole were oath-bound to do their duty. Every single one of them was an Active with fighting experience against the Imperium, the Soviets, or, more recently, his own government’s OCI. Since many members of the Grimnoir society still thought the Enemy was a figment of Sullivan’s imagination, these knights were volunteers. The society as a whole was torn about the Pathfinder mission. They were few in number as it was, and their threats were numerous. To have forty of their best leave on what could be a wild-goose chase inspired by one girl’s crazed ramblings and the word of their greatest foe’s ghost was seen as a fool’s errand by many of the elders.
The next corner of the room was filled with the surviving crew of the F.S. Bulldog Marauder and the soldiers of fortune who had worked with Southunder in the Free Cities. These were more of an unknown quantity, originally united by nothing more than their hatred of the Imperium. They were made up of every race, creed, and color, but then again, the Imperium didn’t discriminate when it came to invading countries and ruining lives. The marauders were dangerous and crafty, and knew how to wring the most out of an airship. Sullivan figured they were mostly in it for the money, a few for the adventure, and the rest because they’d follow Bob Southunder into hell if their captain thought it was a good idea. A handful of them were magical, and only a couple of those were strong enough to qualify as Actives, but every last one of them knew how to fight, and nobody could run an airship like the marauders.
The smallest group was the UBF employees, mostly made up of engineers and technical experts. Francis had picked out his best and brightest, given them the pitch, and then paid them large amounts of money to come along. This was the part of the crew that Sullivan was the least familiar with, but Francis swore up and down that they were all extremely good at their jobs.
The Traveler was outfitted with every high-technology device produced by Cog science short of a peace ray, and that was only because John Browning hadn’t been able to figure out a way to attach one to a ship this size. Cog science could be tricky. Browning was too busy keeping America from falling apart to come on this journey, and for that Sullivan was thankful because he thought John was getting too dang old for this sort of business. The UBF men knew enough to keep their magical alterations working, and one of the Grimnoir was supposed to be a very talented Fixer.
The UBF would keep them in the air, the marauders would get them there in one piece, and the knights would take care of business. Simple.
The fourth and smallest group wasn’t really a group at all, but rather the individuals who had either been forced on him or thoset he felt he needed who didn’t fit in with anybody else. Wells was the newest addition to that list, and the alienist had picked a spot in back where he could observe unnoticed. Cleaned up and with a fresh set of clothing, Wells looked even more unremarkable. Toru was another one that fit in that category, but their former Iron Guard didn’t eat in the galley with the others. It was probably safer for everyone that way. Sullivan checked his watch. Toru was supposed to attend the briefing, but he hadn’t arrived yet. He probably wouldn’t even show, just to prove some point.
Unofficially, Sullivan had no doubt that the newly reformed OCI had a snitch onboard. With all of the controversy about the Active Registration Act going on, this many powerful Actives doing who knew what with a private warship? Hell, the Traveler’s armament alone was violating several of Roosevelt’s new federal laws, but he’d like to see the Treasury agent dumb enough to try and enforce them. Even though OCI was under new, supposedly noncorrupt management, it would have been surprising if the secret police didn’t have somebody on the inside. You couldn’t put together an expedition of this magnitude without word getting out. However, Sullivan wasn’t currently worried about the OCI sort of spy. Let them report back. Then maybe the fools in Washington would realize what they were really dealing with and pull their heads out of their collective behinds. Luckily the Traveler would be leaving the OCI’s jurisdiction, and frankly, Sullivan was a lot more worried about the Enemy than he was about a bunch of bureaucrats meddling in his affairs. Not that he wouldn’t deal with them when—or if—he got back. After Mason Island, Sullivan was done playing games, but first things first, he had to save magic before the petty bureaucrats could try and control it.
No, the spies he was worried about where the Imperium kind. When this many people knew about the mission, it was inevitable the Imperium would find out, and those bastards would sabotage everything, but Lance and Heinrich had come up with a plan for them.
Chowtime was over. The conversations had died down. All eyes were on him. Sullivan finished his smoke, ground it out in an ashtray, and walked to where a world map had been stuck to the wall. The Grimnoir knights who had been leaning on it quickly got out of his way. They were as curious as everyone else.
It was pointless to ask for everyone’s attention. They were eager to begin the hunt. “Let’s get to it.” When he’d led men into battle, he’d preferred to just lead by example, from the front. The words had always come hard, but since he’d wound up in charge of this expedition, it felt like he should say something motivational. “Most of you don’t know much about what we’re after, or where we’re going, just that it’s dangerous as hell, but you were all man enough to volunteer to do what has to be done . . . So thanks.”
And that was as good as the motivation was going to get. “You all had a chance to back out. You’re still here, which means you’re stuck. Captain Southunder runs this ship. I run this operation. You all know who you answer to and you know the chain of command. You got a problem, I’ll listen, but if you don’t like my decision, too bad. Questions? No? Good. So let me tell you what we’re up against.”
Toru had silently entered the galley while Sullivan’s back had been turned. The Iron Guard was big for a Japanese, all solid muscle, and the other members of the crew automatically parted around him like fish with a shark in the water. There were a lot of uneasy or hostile glances sent Toru’s way. He simply stared back, daring them to try something. Sullivan gave him a small nod in greeting. “Our expert’s arrived.”
The Grimnoir’s normal strategy for taking on Iron Guards was to try and outnumber them five to one. That usually made for a fair fight. There were a handful of Grimnoir, like Sullivan himself, or Faye before she’d gotten killed, who could beat those odds, but they normally held true. Toru was outnumbered ninety-nine to one on this ship, and he still didn’t seem to give a shit. Toru nodded his way. “Please, do not stop on my account.”
All of the volunteers had been told about the true nature of magic before they’d signed up, so there was no need to waste their time. They wanted details. “You all know what we’re after. It is a little chunk of the thing that is chasing the Power. The Chairman called it the Pathfinder, so that name will do as good as any. We’ll have one chance to kill it before it calls home. Other Pathfinders have come here twice before. Toru here knows all about how the last ones worked.”
The former Iron Guard surveyed the crew menacingly. “Each one has been different, but they are all creatures of nightmares, so deadly that Okubo Tokugawa, the greatest warrior of all time, barely achieved victory. They eat magic and then use it against you, kill everything, and then turn the corpses into weapons. The strongest amongst you may have a small chance of survival.” The room was dead quiet except for the sound of the engines. “Most of you will surely perish.”
Sullivan sighed. He should have known better.
Lance Talon broke the silence. The burly Grimnoir wasn’t about to take attitude from an Iron Guard, former or not. “What the hell? You son of a—”
�
�I do not care if you take offense, Grimnoir.” Toru snapped. “I have vowed to defeat this threat to honor my father’s final command. Lying to you will only encourage overconfidence, which will lead to our defeat. Believe my words. The Order of Iron Guard were formed specifically to combat this Enemy.”
Lance stood up from behind the dinner table, revealing that he had a big revolver hanging from a gun belt. Sullivan remembered—a little too late to do any good—that Lance’s wife and children had been burned to death in an Iron Guard attack. “Easy, Lance.”
Lance’s hand was casually hovering over the butt of his Colt. “Except your precious Iron Guard are too busy raping and pillaging their way through a bunch of peasants to do their job, now ain’t they?”
“Yes.” Toru’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “The Iron Guard have become distracted from their true purpose. I will convince them of the error of their ways.” He slowly turned and addressed the entire room. “I will teach you everything I know before we engage the Pathfinder. It will devour your Power, rip the life from your bodies, and then twist your remains into weapons. Yet, as capable as it is, it can still be defeated. Hopefully your inevitable deaths will not bring shame upon our cause.”
“That’ll do, Toru.”
Toru gave Sullivan a small bow. As proud and stiff-necked as Toru was, he had still sworn that he would obey Sullivan’s orders. “I will be in my quarters until you need me.” Toru left the galley. He seemed to take the tension with him.
“Wait . . . How come he gets his own room?” Doctor Wells asked.
Sullivan was just close enough to hear someone’s whispered answer. “Because everyone is terrified of him.”
“Hmmm . . . So that’s all it takes?” Wells responded thoughtfully. “I see . . .”
Sullivan looked at Lance and shook his head. Lance returned grudgingly to his seat. “We can’t count on those Imperium bastards to fix this problem for us. The US government doesn’t believe us. So we’re gonna have to do it ourselves. All systems are go. Captain Southunder says that the Traveler is in top shape.” There was a chorus of cheers and hoots from the pirates and the UBF. Good. They had pride in their ship. “We’re ready to head out.”
“Head out where?” a young knight shouted.
And that was the big question everybody was so eager about. Sullivan went to the map and jabbed his finger into Montana. “We’re here. We’re going to cross into Canada, and once night falls, we’re going to kill the lights and head west, then up the coast, along the Aleutians, into Kamchatka.” Sullivan thumped the map. “Get your cold-weather clothing together, ‘cause I hear it’s not nice.”
“That’s deep Imperium territory,” said one of the marauders. Sullivan knew this one, Wesley Dalton, or Barns to his friends. He was Pirate Bob’s best pilot, and since he was an Active Lucky, he was the only reason any of them had survived the Tempest crash. “Sounds fun.”
“The Japanese have locked it up tight since the Siberian resistance surrendered. We’re not expecting them to have much there in the way of defenses. There’s a small Imperium garrison up in the mountains by the name of Koryak. Expect high winds and nasty cold. That’s where we think the Pathfinder is gonna land shortly.”
“How do you know?” asked one of the UBF men.
Sullivan looked around the room. Fuller wasn’t around, which made this convenient. “Have you met Buckminster Fuller?” Several of the UBF engineers had visible reactions, ranging from shaking their heads sadly to rolling their eyes. Fuller was squirrely as all get out, but the important part was, his stuff worked. Even while driving you nuts, you had to admire the brilliance of his magical creations. “Yeah, I know, but he’s the most brilliant Cog ever when it comes to reading magic. He came up with a spell for us. I saw it myself, clear as day.” Sullivan’s reputation for quality spellbinding preceded him. “Trust me. That’s the place. We’re taking our time, conserving fuel, but the weather looks good, so we should be there in forty-eight hours. The knights will go down with me. We’ll take the base while Captain Southunder covers us from the Traveler.”
“What about the space monster?” asked a pirate.
“For the next two days, Toru will be conducting training in the cargo hold.” He didn’t know that yet, so informing the Iron Guard would be amusing. “The Jap doesn’t think we can do this. Let’s prove him wrong.”
“The Chairman killed this thing before, and we killed the Chairman,” Lance said. “I like our odds.”
Traitor.
That was what they were calling him now. The word stung.
Toru was one of the thousand sons of Okubo Tokugawa. He had served with distinction in the elite Imperium Iron Guard and had once even been in contention for the vaunted position of First. He had served in several war zones, winning multiple commendations for his bravery and tactical prowess. He had then been assigned to the Imperium Diplomatic Corps and been a student of Ambassador Hattori, one of the original members of the legendary Dark Ocean. Toru’s integrity should have been above reproach.
He was following the final command of his father, a command so important that even death could not keep the Chairman from issuing it. He alone was honoring the wishes of the greatest man who had ever lived. It was the Imperium which had lost its way. They were the fools who were blindly following an imposter. Ambassador Hattori had given Toru his memories at the moment of his death. Toru knew the truth. Only Toru understood that the Enemy was coming. The vulture that was profiting from the real Chairman’s death was hiding that dreaded fact. Who were these dogs to question his honor? Who were they to call him traitor?
The Grimnoir had intercepted the Imperium communication in San Francisco and brought it to him for translation. It had been a test. He had no doubt that since the Grimnoir did not trust him, they would have his translation checked for accuracy. There were no Imperium secrets in the letter to protect, so he had given them the truth.
The message had been a warning to all of the cells working within the United States that Iron Guard Toru was a traitor to the Imperium, and that if that he was spotted, to alert their handlers at once. It had then gone on to list his many crimes, a few of which were even true. It had read that one of the thousand sons of Okubo Tokugawa had fallen in with the Grimnoir Society. This was an insult to the Imperium and a shame upon the Order of Iron Guard. He had murdered Ambassador Hattori and several of his own men. Since Toru had only murdered one of the men, that made him suspect that the assassins that had been sent by the false Chairman had removed the other embassy staff who had known too much.
Gold was promised to anyone who could provide information on Toru’s whereabouts, and anyone who managed to erase this shame from the world would be given a wealth beyond their dreams and a position of importance within the court bureaucracy.
Toru Tokugawa was now the most wanted man in the Imperium.
The worst part was that every espionage plan he’d been involved with, and there were many that had originated at the Washington embassy, were now compromised. Cells would be rearranged. Undercover agents would be pulled. The Chairman’s mission of conquest in America had been dealt a severe blow. The message implied that Toru had been a Grimnoir agent, and that he had been recruited years ago after losing face and shaming himself as a coward during the occupation of Manchuria. That was nothing but an insult. Toru truly loved the Imperium. He would never betray the Chairman’s mission of purification. He believed in the doctrine of strength above all else. His integrity would never allow him to give valuable Imperium secrets to the Grimnoir. He was only here because his father’s ghost had demanded it.
His attempt at meditation was a failure. Peace would not come. His mind would not clear. Toru’s bed consisted of a mat and a few blankets thrown down on the cold metal floor, and now, meditating only seemed to focus his discomforts. The small portion of the cargo hold which he had claimed for himself was permanently chilled. The constant thrum of the Traveler’s unearthly engines grated on his nerves. He had given up
his position of status for this?
What he really wanted to do was take up his steel tetsubo and start smashing things, but a warrior did not disgrace himself with displays of emotion, especially when among his people’s enemies. He would not show weakness in front of the wretched Grimnoir . . . Also, the interior of a fragile dirigible was a terrible place to go mad with an eighty-pound club and superhuman strength.
How dare they bring up Manchuria? Yes, he had questioned his leaders, but it had not been because of cowardice . . . It had been . . . What? He had disobeyed those orders why? Compassion? No . . . That was not what had cost him his promotion and gotten him removed from the front and sent to serve with the Diplomatic Corps in America. That was not why he’d disobeyed.
It had been guilt. It had been conscience.
He crushed the letter in his fist and tried to go back to his meditations. After a few minutes of futile mental exercise, he decided to concentrate on physical exercise instead. The one thing the Traveler had in abundance was pipes sticking through the walls, and he’d already found a few solid enough to do chin-ups from.
Careful not to tap into his own Power or any of the eight magical kanji branded onto his skin, for that would have been cheating, Toru began doing repetitions. The stronger his own body was, the harder he could push his Power without damage. Since it was discovered that he was a Brute, the Imperium schools had made sure he’d spent hours a day doing physical training, every day, for a decade. Toru was no stranger to exercise. Besides, it helped him think.
The Imperium had wanted him to read this message. Diplomatic Corps training had taught him that a message such as this would have been encrypted. This message had not been. Surely, as soon as they discovered that he had faked his own death, the code key would have been changed. He should not have been able to read a real, current message.
Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles Page 8
