Faye realized she still had the Heavy by the arm. He began screaming his head off as he realized where they were, so Faye just let go of him and he went flailing off to the side. That fancy Iron Guard sword of his was flipping through the air, so Faye timed it just right, reached out, and snagged it by the handle. From what she’d seen, those things were so darned sharp that if she’d missed she probably would’ve left fingers behind.
As she fell toward Earth, another giant explosion rocked the battleship. Her grenade had ignited something else vital. The entire left side of the ship came apart. The bags were consumed in three rapid fireballs, and then the entire sky above her was one big spreading cloud of red and black as one of the most advanced warships in history was blown to kingdom come. Hundreds died instantly and a thousand more would ride the flaming wreckage into the ocean.
Faye had been on board the Imperium battleship a grand total of three minutes and forty-seven seconds.
UBF Traveler
“Captain says we’re almost ready to open the cargo bay!” Chris Schirmer shouted from across the hold. The Cogs were still scrambling, banging away on the delicate machine with desperation achievable only by men who knew they only had one shot at getting something right and lives were on the line.
Sullivan waited next to the ramp, still as a statue, every inch of him clad in bulletproof steel. Browning’s enchanted BAR was lashed to his back, and there were magazine pouches all over his body. The magical .45 was on his hip. He had grenades, knives, and no doubt that his metal fist to the mouth would ruin just about anybody’s day. The weight on his shoulders and the narrowed field of view through the helmet felt familiar. Trade the fancy new suit for a rusted-out pot-metal piece of shit and the bullpup BAR for an old Lewis and it would almost feel like being back in the Great War, waiting for the whistle to sound so he could launch himself out of the trenches.
Almost . . . He flexed his Power, testing it ever so gently. It felt like there was enough filling his chest to crush the whole world flat.
Yeah. This was just like the trenches. Take the ground. Hold that ground. Kill anybody who gets in your fucking way. That’s what Faye was probably doing right now. He’d be doing the same in a few minutes. The only added complication this time was that he was going to talk to the enemy first. Then he’d kill them.
Schirmer was the most practical of the geniuses in the hold. “Get those helmets on and make sure the seals are tight.” It was a good thing he did, because it wouldn’t have been surprising if a few of them had been too distracted working on their machine and ended up forgetting. “Check your hoses and make sure the oxygen flow is good. Then everyone check your buddy. Fuller, go make sure Sullivan’s sealed up.”
He’d stayed out of the Cog’s way. The plan depended on the device doing what it was supposed to. Sullivan was a distraction. He was the sideshow. This device was the key. But he was still glad when Buckminster Fuller came over to check his oxygen tank.
The pressure suits had come from United Blimp and Freight’s testing division. The Cog was wearing a big, clear glass bubble on his head. The neck of the leather and rubber suit he was wearing was threaded for the fishbowl to screw on. Fuller’s voice came out funny, emanating from a brass box with holes in it mounted on his neck. He took a moment to check Sullivan’s air tank. “Considering your protective system’s respiration mechanisms were designed in anticipation of surviving poison gas rather than high altitude operations—”
“Is it good?”
“Yes. It’s good . . . I must say, Mr. Sullivan, I am worried about you and the young Ms. Vierra.”
“Faye will be fine,” he assured Fuller. She’d better be, or else they’d all be getting vaporized by a Peace Ray any second now, so no use dwelling on it.
“Of course. She is very forceful for a Cog. I would say—”
“Hold on . . .” For a second Sullivan thought that Fuller’s voice box machine had malfunctioned. “Faye’s not a Cog.”
Fuller tried to shake his head, but it turned out that was impossible inside the neck gasket of the bubble helmet. He gave up. “No. I could see it rather clearly. As you are aware, my own Power enables me to see magical connections. She is perhaps the most complicated and capable specimen I’ve yet encountered, and I so wish I had not been so occupied with this current project, because I simply must speak with her. Ms. Vierra is very clearly a Cog, and a potent one at that.”
“Faye’s a Traveler. You sure you’re not seeing that Spellbound curse that’s on her?”
“Oh no, of course not. I can make that out rather clearly. It is vast, terrible, and thus completely unmistakable. She was clearly born a Cog. That connection was there first. The exceedingly complex magical construct which is bound to her is in addition to that.”
The idea clicked. Sullivan whistled and it made an odd echo inside the helmet. “Can you tell what kind of Cog somebody is by looking at their Power? Like Browning makes weapons, or Ira’s medical stuff, or you and your . . . domes.”
“Partly. I hesitate to form a hypothesis, but my considerable instinct in this manner would point toward her adaptive magical genius being related to physics, spatial matters, and relativity.”
“So she’s a genius about how stuff works? How the world fits together?”
“Fundamentally, yes . . . I was not aware that this was a new fact to you. I would have assumed that anyone could very clearly see that Ms. Vierra is a Cog.”
And all this time they’d just thought she was odd because she was a Traveler . . .
That was why the Power had picked Faye to be the Spellbound when Sivaram died! She’d been born brilliant, all Cogs were, and her specific genius just happened to fall into the area most useful for battling the Enemy. She became a Traveler because Sivaram had been a Traveler. It had dragged his magic along with the curse. Of course, she was absurdly capable as a Traveler, but it wasn’t because of how much Power she had, but rather because of how damned scary fast her brain worked.
“Holy shit, the Power is smarter than we gave it credit for.” Sullivan patted Fuller on the shoulder, and the steel gauntlet nearly knocked the man over. “Thanks, Doc. You better get back to your gizmo. It’s almost show time.”
“We will make it work, Mr. Sullivan. No matter what.”
“You’re starting to sound like a Grimnoir knight there, Fuller.”
The bubble helmet bobbed back and forth as Fuller tried to nod. “I would not have thought that was such a compliment before embarking on this journey. Now however? Thank you.” Then the Cog scurried back to his device.
Schirmer was watching the instrumentation on the machine. “Congratulations, we have now achieved a greater altitude than any other men in history.” The UBF Cogs cheered. “Now, make sure your suit is tethered to the safety line.” Good idea. It wouldn’t do to suck their Cogs out the door.
Sullivan didn’t strap in. He couldn’t afford to wait for Faye. He was so engrossed in thinking about this new revelation into the world’s most powerful wizard and staring at the waiting ramp that he hadn’t heard her approach. There was a hard metallic thump on his arm. He wouldn’t have felt anything less. He turned the helmet to see Lady Origami there, wearing one of the UBF suits and clear fishbowl helmets. Safety ropes had been run through the harness she was wearing. She put the wrench she’d used to hit him back into a pouch on her belt.
“Akane? What’re you doing here?” And he immediately regretted that, because it sounded accusatory. “I’m glad to see you.”
“Captain said I could see you off. I can put out fires anywhere.” She reached up and tapped the helmet. “I would give a kiss for luck, but . . .”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want you to get your lips ripped off . . . In case you can’t tell, I was smiling when I said that. That was a joke . . . I like your lips just fine.”
“I am aware, Sullivan. You talk more when you are nervous. It is funny talking to a woman makes you more nervous than war.”
The huge armored
shoulders could still manage a shrug. “I’m good at war.”
She opened one glove and revealed another delicate paper animal. This one was a duck. “For luck again.” She shoved it into one of the magazine pouches on his chest. “Probably it will not make it. So you better come back so I can make you another.”
“Deal.” He put one gauntlet alongside her bubble helmet, gently as possible. She put her hand on top of his.
“We’re on in sixty seconds!” Schirmer shouted. “Sullivan? How come you aren’t strapped in?”
Sullivan just waved. “I’m taking the quick way down.” After all, that had been the plan before they’d known Faye was alive. He went back to Akane. “You’d best stand back.”
She took up the rope so she wouldn’t trip over it and made her way back to the interior. When she reached one of the pylons next to the machine, she tied another safety line to that with an expert sailor’s knot.
The red lights started blinking. The buzzer sounded. The hydraulics activated.
Sullivan took a deep breath. He turned the skull-faced helmet toward Akane. She was watching him. She seemed a little afraid, maybe excited, but mostly she seemed proud, defiant. “Beat them, Sullivan. Every last one!”
“Every last one.”
The door began opening. The air screamed past.
It was dark as night. The grey and white patch of straight lines so incredibly far below was Shanghai. The Cogs were already wrestling their machine along the tracks and chains toward the opening.
He took one last look at Akane. “Show me a smile on that pretty face.”
She did.
Sullivan stepped off the ramp into space.
Art to come
Sullivan in armor
Chapter 21
In my campaigns I’ve found there are two types of effective soldier, the gazelles and the grunts. The gazelle is capable of incredible bursts of speed but can be flighty, distracted, and useless, but in those moments of brilliance, nothing can catch a gazelle. The grunt, on the other hand, will never blind you with his grace or swiftness, but will simply plug along until the job is finished. Now after watching the Imperium in combat action, I must add a third type. I’d thought I’d seen warrior fanaticism amongst the Moro, but I was unprepared for the total devotion of the Imperium warrior. Say what you will about their methods, but a true believer is not to be trifled with.
—Captain John J. Pershing,
Army Observation Report on the taking of Vladivostok, 1905
Free City of Shanghai
It was a nightmare wrapped in a poem. It was a dream shrouded in fog.
Toru struggled against the beast rampaging through his very thoughts. He knew how to fight with his hands, but he did not know how to fight on the battlefield of his mind. The creature was there, in the background, whispering, speaking in lies and secrets.
Time passed in incoherent fits and starts. He was in the present. Then in the past. He was back at the Iron Guard academy, a young boy, standing proud while his sensei beat him with sticks to test his resolve. He was in the present, screaming in agony as the pain like a drill bit bore through his eyes. He was in the past, collecting heads in Manchuko. Then he was in a dream, listening to the words of his father, or perhaps that was Hattori’s past. He could not tell. And then the present, except that had to be a hallucination as well, since Hayate had been there.
Hours passed, days maybe. He could not tell. But he relived every single moment of his life against his will as if the invader inside his head were flipping randomly through the pages of a book. Exhausted, he drifted into an unconscious haze.
His Iron Guard brothers came to unchain him, but they were not his brothers. He could see that now. They were wearing the skin of men, but their insides were foul corruption, an extension of the Pathfinder’s malicious will. They had been Iron Guard once, until Dosan Saito had exposed them to the cancerous sludge and it had slowly dissolved them into these mindless shells. That would be Toru’s eventual fate as well, only mercifully his life would end long before that process could be completed.
The kanji of paralysis was roughly scrubbed from his forehead and he could feel life returning to his limbs. The chains were unlocked and he fell to this hands and knees. The Nishimura armor clanged when it hit the floor.
The false Iron Guard were on each side. Toru would die fighting. He reached for one, but nothing happened. He willed his arms to work, but it was as if his spirit was a helpless prisoner inside his own body. He was no longer magically paralyzed, but it did not matter. Hands were placed on his shoulder, and against his will, he rose. No! He tried to shout, but his mouth would not work.
The Pathfinder’s puppets did not have to speak in order to communicate with each other. They brought over the Nishimura helmet, and his body obediently bent so it could be placed over his head. Magical kanji began scrolling across the interior glass but Toru couldn’t even steer his eyes to follow.
His feet were moving, one in front of the other. His hands opened and the steel tetsubo was placed into them. He wanted to kill them, to strike them all down with it, but no matter how hard he strained, nothing happened. His body was an obedient slave.
Toru was furious, far angrier than he’d ever been, angrier than he’d ever thought humanly possible. This was offensive. Insulting. He would die as a pawn, used as an example of the imposter’s greatness. This was unacceptable. He would have flown into a berserker rage if his damned limbs would just respond.
They stopped and waited at the end of a darkened tunnel. Two hundred yards away, the imposter stood upon a dais, speaking to a proud troop of Imperium warriors. The soldiers were standing in perfect formation, awestruck by the Chairman’s presence. One by one their names were called, and they walked up to stand before him to be presented their medals. Merely being near the Chairman was the greatest moment of any of those soldiers’ lives, and that made Toru even madder. These noble warriors, their entire empire, they were all being lied to.
The ceremony was over.
The puppets let him into bright sunlight. The helmet’s glass automatically darkened to shield his eyes from glare. The Nishimura armor lumbered into view of the crowd, obviously towering over the muscular Iron Guards’ flanking it, and they all turned to gawk. There were thousands of people in the courtyard. Stands had been erected around the parade ground. They began to shout and jeer him. He was heckled, booed, insulted, and mocked by his inferiors.
More Iron Guard came from under the palace, leading a line of prisoners. The captives were chained together, shackled at the wrists and ankles, and the short chains forced them into the indignity of shuffling. Grimnoir knights. Survivors of the raids. Most were from the Traveler. A few were from Shanghai. All of them had been severely beaten so badly they could barely stand, and then marked with kanji so they could not call upon their magic.
Ian Wright was in the lead. The proud young man was shoved so that he would kneel. The knight spit in the Iron Guard’s face, so the Iron Guard shattered Wright’s kneecap with a swift kick. Wright fell to the ground, writhing in pain. His chains snapped tight, and that pulled the others to their knees. Dr. Wells was at the end of the line. The alienist seemed mildly amused by all of the activity.
The Iron Guards walked away from the prisoners and left them there. The audience immediately began throwing things at them, garbage, rotting fruit, rocks, bottles. Allowing such items into the presence of the Chairman was inconceivable, so they had more than likely been supplied to the nearest spectators for just this moment. Hard objects bounced harmlessly off of Toru’s armored shell, but the Grimnoir flinched and cringed as they were bashed, cut, and further injured. A scalp was split open by a bottle. Blood flew and the crowd screamed at the traitor and his conspirators to hurry and die.
The imposter appeared in the center of the parade ground.
Toru bowed. He did not wish to. He would never willingly have bowed to this wretched thief, but the Pathfinder was controlling his body. Even as
he was still being struck by rocks and insults, the greatest indignity of all was that he was forced to offer respect to the real traitor.
The rocks stopped falling. The crowd grew still, awed by the presence of their leader and hero. They spoke in hushed whispers or not at all. This was a day that none of them would ever forget.
Okubo Tokugawa’s face displayed a stern look. He raised his voice so that all could hear. Magic carried his words to the outer edges of the crowd. “Behold Toru, once of the Iron Guard, who has committed the crime of treason. He has been subverted and led astray. He betrayed many of his brothers so that they could be assassinated by the foul Grimnoir. He has been plotting with the Grimnoir in order to murder the son of heaven and the entire council. They would overthrow your lawful rulers. Their organization is evil, and exists only to plunge the world into chaos . . . What do you have to say for yourself, traitor?”
Toru’s hands moved up to his helmet, opened the seals, and carefully removed it. Of course the imposter would force him to show his face. There could be no doubt of the identity of the man in the armor. Toru wanted to shout the truth, but only lies came out of his mouth. “Your judgment is correct, Lord Tokugawa. The Grimnoir wish to end our civilization. They intend to crush the Imperium. I have been sent by them to murder you.”
“Let it be known by all that Toru is a capable warrior who fought in many righteous conflicts before his fall. He is a Brute, recipient of six war medals, six campaign medals, and fourteen separate commendations for exemplary service. Today he wears the legendary Nishimura armor, granting him even greater strength . . .”
The masses were frightened. They had faith in their Chairman, but Toru’s legend had grown.
“It will not be sufficient.” The Chairman placed one hand on the hilt of his sword. “I, Baron Okubo Tokugawa, Chairman of the Imperial Council, accept your challenge.”
Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles Page 40
