Toru flared his Power. The impact of the hand against Sullivan’s chest hit like a sledgehammer in a Rockville quarry. Sullivan called on his own magic in time and absorbed the hit. Gravity twisted and Toru hit the wall hard enough to bend the metal.
“I lost four men back there!”
“Do you think that makes you special?” Toru shoved him again, driving his magic harder. The grating under Sullivan’s boots screeched in protest against the extra gravity. “You will lose more before this is over!”
“You Jap bastard—”
“Gentlemen.” Neither of them had seen Captain Southunder walk in. The old man seemed relatively calm, but his words were hard. “If you two are going to fight, you will take it off my airship. I will not tolerate a Heavy and a Brute carrying on and wrecking my fine new vessel. The rest of us do not particularly relish the thought of being stranded at the North Pole, nor do I wish to walk home. Either one of you two wants to start violating the laws of physics and common sense, you will take it outside, or my marauders will escort you outside. Is that understood, Mr. Sullivan?”
Sullivan stepped away from Toru. “All right.”
“I expect a more level head from you, Mr. Sullivan . . .”
Normally, that would be true. It took a lot to rile somebody who was as constant as gravity. “I can’t abide losing men.”
“A noble sentiment, but breaking my ship will not bring them back . . . Mr. Toru?”
Toru looked like he was ready to fight, but he paused, realizing that using his Power had caused the wound in his side to partially split open again. Blood was seeping out. “Look at what you have done.”
“Walk it off.”
“Mr. Toru?” Southunder asked again.
“Very well.” Toru glared at the old pirate. “Captain.”
“Splendid.” Southunder folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “That nonsense out of the way, I’d also like to hear an answer to Mr. Sullivan’s questions. It seems there have been some complications. So Fuller fixed the Chairman’s toy and it showed the Pathfinder is already inside the Imperium, I take it.”
“Something is eating magic all over the Imperium.” Sullivan gave Toru a suspicious look. “Camping on top of every single place that’s got itself an Imperium school. Then some sort of hyena-ape-man came through a mirror and attacked Toru here before it slaughtered a few of my men.”
Toru gave a small nod. “A passable summary.”
“You want to tell me how that is possible, Mr. Toru?”
“A sufficiently skilled spellbinder is capable of sending small amounts of physical matter through a communication spell. My mastery of the kanji is insufficient to perform such a feat. I was unaware of anyone who could send living matter through a mirror, thus I was caught by surprise. It will not happen again.”
In better circumstances, Sullivan would have been excited to learn about this new magic trick of the Imperium’s, but these were not better circumstances. “I know Faye did something like that once, Traveled right through a communication spell.” In fact, she’d even done it to try to kill Toru. “But why were you using one? Who were you talking to?”
“The imposter.”
Toru was lucky Sullivan needed his help, or he would have just eaten a .45 slug right there. “You better have a damn good reason.”
“As a result of leaving my order, I have been cut off, unable to send word to my former brothers. This base had a mirror prepared to directly reach the high command. The Iron Guard are far more suited to deal with this threat than this puny expedition. Of course I used it. I challenged him to do his duty to the Imperium to stop the Pathfinder, and I offered my suicide in exchange. Apparently the imposter disagreed.”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
Toru frowned. “Would you not have done the same thing?”
Probably. But he wouldn’t give the smug Jap bastard the satisfaction. “You shouldn’t have been alone.”
“Yes . . . Because the Grimnoir are so trusting of me that they would have no problem with me manipulating powerful Imperium kanji under their noses inside a secret base.”
The anger, though still there, had lost some of its direction, and now Sullivan just felt tired and frustrated. He took a seat on a nearby crate. “So what’s going on at the schools?”
“School, my eye,” Southunder said. “Torture chambers is more like it.”
Toru looked like he wanted to argue, but was wise enough to let it pass. “I do not know. Whatever is happening, it began after my father’s death. The imposter revealed himself to me. He is a senior Iron Guard named Dosan Saito, one of my sensei.”
“Sensei?”
“Teacher. Saito was one of Okubo Tokugawa’s closest advisors and a highly respected member of the cabinet. The betrayal of a man so honored is unexpected.”
“You assholes and your honor. He’s got your whole empire snowed, and good.” Sullivan took out his pack of cigarettes and lit up. They were in one of the areas of the dirigible where smoking was frowned on, but Southunder let it go. Which was good. Sullivan was willing not to fight Toru for the safety of the ship, but the smoking was nonnegotiable. “So is this Saito a Ringer or something?”
“No. Like me, he is a Brute, a relatively common type of magic. I do not know how he is capable of such a compelling disguise. He has deceived men who have known Okubo Tokugawa for decades.”
“Well, I hope he enjoys himself,” Southunder said. “I frankly do not give a damn which tyrant is in charge of your gang of tyrants, as long as he does his part to destroy this space monster before it is too late.”
Toru took a deep breath, as if composing himself before saying something difficult.
Sullivan’s cigarette dangled from his lip. “Oh, what now?”
“I believe Saito is in league with the Pathfinder.”
The three men were quiet for a very long time. Things had just gotten a whole lot worse, and sometimes that took a moment to really sink in. That explained the sabotage of the detector, and also their surprise guest. Sullivan closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the engines. They were lifting off, leaving Axel Heiberg. In a few minutes Barns would be calling, asking for their new heading, and frankly, Sullivan didn’t have a clue what to tell him.
Toru broke the silence. “Each Pathfinder has been different than the one before. The last creature worked quickly, gathering an army as it went, consuming Power as rapidly as it could until it was strong enough to send its message. It was direct, simple. This one is different. It seems to be working through subterfuge, building its forces gradually in the dark.”
“Your point, Mr. Toru?”
“All is not lost until it is strong enough to send for its master. The last creature was based upon strength and was defeated through strength. This one works through cunning, and therefore must be defeated with cunning. There seem to be plans afoot that we are only now discerning. The key to our victory is through disrupting those plans.”
Captain Southunder shook his head. “And how do you intend to accomplish that?”
The threat was inside the Imperium, but the Imperium was also the one force best prepared to stop the threat. “We give them a wake-up call. We expose the Chairman as a fake,” Sullivan answered.
“It is the only way. The Pathfinder’s forces are spread across the Imperium schools. Alone we could never cleanse them all. When the Iron Guard understand that they have been deceived and that the Pathfinder is among them, they will strike back, and they will win. We have a hundred men. They have a hundred thousand.”
“Like the Iron Guard will believe the likes of us.” Southunder was incredulous. “The Grimnoir are a thorn in their side, I’ve been raiding their shipping for decades, and Toru’s a turncoat. You couldn’t even convince your own government, Sullivan. How are we supposed to convince them?
“They think the Chairman’s immortal.” Sullivan looked to Toru. The Brute nodded. They were on the same page. “So we kill him again.”
Toru had the smile of a shark. “In public.”
Art to come
Skinless man
Chapter 8
Hunger—real hunger—not your going-without-afternoon-tea, nor no-eggs-at-breakfast sort of affair—can, when a man is utterly without occupation, make life one continual aching weary desire. If the desire is not satisfied, or does not abate of its own accord (as it very often does), it can have disastrous effects on a man’s mind. It has been known to make men think very seriously about the rights of property, and a few have become so unbalanced as to become socialists.
—Geoffrey Pyke,
Memoirs of a Boffin in a German Prison Camp, 1918
New York City, New York
“Rat bastards!” Francis hurled the whiskey bottle into the fireplace. It failed to shatter, so he concentrated his Power and reached out with his mind, and the bottle exploded in a properly dramatic manner. “Filthy, no-good thieves! I can’t believe this!”
“What part of this came as a shock to you? The part where you told the President of the United States you wanted to have a fight with him and that he was happy to oblige, or the part where you thought you could tell a bunch of crusading busybodies to shove off and you didn’t expect any consequences?” Ray Chandler, CFO of United Blimp & Freight and Francis’ confidante, covered his glass of whiskey protectively while Francis looked for something else to throw across the office. “Come on, Francis. You should have seen this coming a mile away.”
His office on top of the Chrysler Building was a temporary safe haven from the army of auditors, investigators, bought-off reporters, union activists, and other various teat-sucking pawns of Roosevelt’s who had been making his life a living hell, but they’d be back again tomorrow. Francis had no doubt about that. It was seventy degrees outside, so it wasn’t like he’d needed to light a fire, but throwing things at the chimney always made him feel better, especially when it was lit. As a side effect, however, he’d had to order the air conditioning turned up to compensate, but what was the point of being rich if you weren’t allowed a few idiosyncrasies?
“They’re accusing me of selling warship designs to the Imperium? Me?”
“Well, your grandfather did violate the embargos. It doesn’t take a Cog to point out that their Kaga class look suspiciously like the Super Tri-hull we’ve been trying to sell to our Navy.”
“And I put a stop to that nonsense as soon as I got back from killing a bunch of Imperium navy.” Francis picked up the evening paper. “Look at this! It’s even the same reporters who wrote all the anti-Grimnoir propaganda after the assassination attempt. Why do people still believe proven liars?”
“Are you kidding? You’ve been wearing a big target on your back all year. They probably already had these articles about what a crook you are prepped from the last time you were getting the frame job from the OCI. They just had to haul them out and dust them off when Roosevelt asked.” Chandler chuckled. “Hell, they’ll probably win the Pulitzer for their hard hitting investigative journalism.”
Francis angerily wadded the evening paper into a gigantic, ball and threw it at the fireplace too. However it hit the logs, caught fire, and then rolled out onto the floor. “Shit!” He ran over and desperately stomped out the fire before it ruined the Persian rug.
Chandler just shook his head, finished his drink, and then poured himself a refill. “I’m sorry to say, Francis, that it looks like you are the subject of a very savage public-relations campaign.”
The scorch mark wasn’t too bad. Francis used his magic and rolled the newspaper remains back into the fire. “Well, buy some newspapers, then. I’ll beat him at his own game.”
Chandler laughed hard. He’d had a bit too much to drink, but in his defense, he’d been fighting National Recovery Act auditors all day and their allegations of UBF price fixing. “Beat him? The man’s a master manipulator. That’s like Donald Duck saying he’s going to outmaneuver Black Jack Pershing on the battlefield.”
The mention of Pershing made Francis sigh. His old mentor would have known what to do. Francis was up to his eyeballs in trouble, getting attacked from every angle short of gunfire, and it was frankly overwhelming. “We’re in bad straits, Ray, but I’m not giving up those Dymaxions. I’ll burn this company down before I let those conniving bullies take them away.”
“The board may disagree about the whole burning-everything-down strategy. You’ve done well, made them buckets of money, way better than they ever expected, and they sure love making money, but they like heat even less, and they’re getting a lot of heat right now. I give it two weeks, tops, before they’re calling for your resignation.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Francis muttered. Ray was a financial wizard, and even if Francis got run out of the family business, Dymaxion was still his, and that’s what Roosevelt really wanted. Federal agents had already seized all of that little company’s assets under various legal excuses, mostly related to lies about his taxes, but they hadn’t found a single Nullifier, Nullifier part, diagram, or note on their creation. Francis had told one of the Treasury agents that, sadly, all of those items had been lost in a tragic canoe accident. “The only thing that’s really of value is what’s stored in Fuller’s brain.”
“And when Fuller gets back from holiday, do you plan to hold him hostage somewhere so the government can’t take him too?”
“If I have to. You don’t get it, Ray. The world’s changing. We’re one of the last places where Actives aren’t property. I’m not going to let my people become property.”
“Canada and England’s magical types are fairly well off . . . Okay, okay, I get you. So what do you aim to do, then?”
Francis leaned against the fireplace and studied the pattern of broken glass and curling newspaper. “I should run for president.”
“You have to be thirty-five, so twelve or so years from now, I’m sure that’ll be a fine idea.”
“What? Seriously? When did they make that a law?”
“Wow.” Chandler took a long drink. “Now there’s a testimony about the quality of our finest prep schools.”
“That’s what I get for spending most of school chasing skirts.” Francis walked back to his desk. “Look, I may not know the finer points of constitutional law, but I damn sure know right and wrong.” There were only a few framed photos on his desk, mostly of close friends since none of his family members rated the space. Francis picked up the one portrait of Faye and sighed. He’d loved a lot of women, but he only cared about one of them. That was because Faye was special. Faye owned special. He was the only one who knew she was still alive, and he had no idea where she was, but he found himself wishing hard that she was here now. Even without any of his resources or connections, and her drastically uncomplicated view of the world, she would probably be doing a lot better than he was . . . Of course, the White House would probably be in flames and half of Congress would be dead, but Faye certainly knew how to get results.
The intercom on his desk buzzed. “Mr. Stuyvesant, Mr. and Mrs. Garrett are here to see you.”
“Send them up.”
“Grimnoir business, I presume?” Chandler asked.
“No earthly idea.”
“Then I’d better be going,” Chandler polished off his drink and got off the couch. “Dan doesn’t like when I ogle his rather lovely wife, which is remarkably difficult not to do even when sober. Tonight? He’d probably suggest I take a stroll off your balcony and I’d probably find that a brilliant idea. I think I’ve had a touch much.”
That was a lie. Chandler could outdrink a sponge, though he had been dealing with auditors all day, and if anything was an excuse to drink to excess, it was auditors. “You don’t have to leave. It isn’t like that whole secret society thing is particularly secret anymore.”
“Ha! You think I want to know? Please. Once Roosevelt has his way with you all, I’ve got to try to figure out how to include this job on my resume without mentioning our association, Mr. Blacklist . . .
Either that or I’ll just embezzle a bunch of your money before Roosevelt steals it all and then retire to a beach in Cuba.”
“Night, Ray.”
“Night, Francis.”
Francis passed the time waiting for his associates to arrive by coming up with inventive new curse words. They entered a few minutes after Chandler had left. Jane immediately came over and gave him a hug, because that’s just how Jane was, and she could probably tell he was having a bad day. Chandler was right: Jane was a beauty. Francis had always thought she looked and even sounded a little bit like Marlene Dietrich. Also, Jane really was a sweet heart, just an all-around nice person to the core of her being. “I saw the papers.”
“Hard to miss that big cartoon of me on the front page, holding up the sacks labeled blood money while standing on a pile of corpses titled equality and prosperity.”
“They were never one for nuance,” Dan agreed.
“I thought the cartoon made you look cute,” Jane said. “I’ve never been famous enough to warrant a caricature. You and Dan are in the comics all the time now.”
“They don’t use you because they don’t want to put a pretty face on the Active menace. They always make me look like a troll,” Dan complained. “And fat, too.”
“I prefer to think of you as attractively plump,” Jane said as she patted her much shorter husband on the stomach. Dan did look a bit troll-like to her in Jane’s company, but in comparison, so would most men. Not that it mattered to Jane, since, as a Healer, everybody looked like see-through meat bags filled with pumping organs and blood. But she always said that one simply got used to it. “Now hurry, Francis, fetch your hat. We must be going.”
“Why? You guys taking me out for a night on the town?”
“Sadly, no.” Dan spread his hands apologetically. “I just received word from Browning. His contact inside the government gave him a heads-up. There’s been a new development on the registration front.”
Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles Page 15
