V 07 - The Alien Swordmaster

by Somtow Sucharitkul (UC) (epub)

  “No. Wait.”

  Footsteps echoed and reechoed. Somewhere, the thrum of a passing subway train. “This way. ” Matt started to go in the direction he thought he’d heard the train.

  The four of them sliding gingerly along the walls, finally emerged on a long subway platform. Signs in Japanese pointed in different directions. He could hear a train far away. A light, a long way down the tunnel. Was it coming toward the station?

  Too late to think. As Matt looked back up the subway tunnel—

  Alien ninjas were leaping out from other passageways. Tomoko shouted, “Look out, Matt!” and fired. A black-garbed assailant fell at his feet. He’d crept up behind Matt. He didn’t writhe in agony as the others had when their pressure skins had been punctured. He’d been a human then, a collaborator a convert.

  Matt didn’t have time to reflect any further. They were surrounded. And CB was wounded! He ran to cover the kid with his body, warding off the leaping attackers with a barrage of kicks and blows. Sugihara stood above them, serene and still as he picked off the ninjas with chilling precision. Tomoko cowered behind him, emerging now and then to shoot.

  “My charge is going,” she shouted. “This thing’s useless!” She tossed the pistol away. It glanced off the subway rails, sending off showers of electrical sparks.

  At that moment the train pulled in and the doors opened—

  “Let’s go! It’s our only chance!” Matt shouted.

  Lifting the boy and cradling him in his arms, he ran toward the first open car. Sugihara and Tomoko followed suit. A volley of laser light . . . one of the windows began to melt like butter Matt looked around. Only a few passengers this late at night. An old man was moaning and drinking from a ceramic bottle of sake.

  “Come on, close already!” he screamed at the doors. A throwing star whined as it flew through the closing aperture and sheared off part of the old man’s face before it spun crazily away and embedded itself in one of the seats.

  They pulled out of the station. But when he looked through the end windows and saw the next car down, saw that it was filling up with aliens, he knew that it wasn’t over yet. He clutched the kid tight. CB was bleeding profusely, but it seemed to be only a superficial arm wound, it would be all right if he could fix it up soon . . . and started to move forward . . . they forced the door open and stepped into the next cat A single ninja was there waiting for them. Sugihara disposed of him with an instant burst of blue flame.

  “That seems to be the last charge,” he said.

  He tossed it away.

  “They’re coming!” They train barreled through a station. “They’re not going to stop!” Matt exclaimed. “This isn’t one of the regular trains.”

  “No, I guess not,” Sugihara said ruefully. “These things don’t have drivers. They’re computer controlled from a central terminal. They could be taking us anywhere for all we know.”

  “Oh, God,” Tomoko said.

  “Come on. Let’s force our way to the front. Maybe there’s a control panel or something one of us can jimmy,” said Matt.

  They pushed forward. The aliens were following. Matt handed his and CB’s laser pistols—the only ones still working—to Tomoko and Sugihara. The two of them covered while Matt, still sheltering CB in his arms, moved forward. On the very front cai; in a glass booth, was a console of some kind. . . .

  CB stirred. “Let me take a look at that,” he whispered, almost inaudible.

  “Hold still, kid.”

  “No, let me look at it. If I can whip ‘Galaga,’ I can whip any low-IQ computer on a subway car.”

  Matt broke the glass. CB clambered in. Pulling a video game token out of his pocket he began methodically to unscrew one of the panels with his uninjured arm.

  “Just as I thought!” Matt had to strain to hear him. “Look at this!” He pointed to a green board in which were embedded a number of microprocessor chips.

  “Are you okay, CB?” Tomoko said.

  The ninjas were only one car away now. They could hear the scuffling; they could hear the shrieks of the car’s few passengers as the aliens shoved them out of the way.

  “Tomoko and I will lie in wait on either side of the door,” Sugihara said. “Matt, you cover the boy.”

  Matt looked ahead. He saw long lines of bright dots on either side. In the far distance they divided. “Must be a fork.”

  “Here we go,” CB said. He started to tug the microchips out of their sockets. Then he yanked the whole board out and tossed it aside.

  “Need help?” Matt said, although he had no idea what CB had just done.

  “Hell no, I’m jamming now.” He sat up and began to peruse the Japanese-language labels on the console. “Wish I understood this stuff,” he said. He closed his eyes. “Eeny meeny miny mo, here goes!”

  “Cut us loose!” Matt screamed at Sugihara. A spidery figure in black had succeeded in forcing open the door; Sugihara dealt it a blow over the head. Another came. They kept coming and coming. “Cut the car loose!” Matt screamed again.

  Tomoko began to fire at the latches that yoked the two cars . . . fire broke out between the cars, the aliens’ bodies caught fire, their ninja garments exploded in fountains of flame and clouds of foul-smelling vapors.

  “I’m going to hit the button now,” said CB. “I’m not sure what it’ll do, but—”

  He did so.

  They swerved! The connection between the cars ripped P asunder . . . they shot to the right with a ninja trailing out the door, while the rest of the subway train vanished down the left fork. . . .

  “What happened?” Tomoko said.

  “Our kid appears to be a computer whiz,” Matt said, panting heavily.

  “Once you’ve licked ‘Galaga’ ...” CB said. Then exhaustion overcame him and he passed out.

  “Can you read any of this stuff?” Matt said to Sugihara.

  “Let me see ...” said the old man, stepping over the shards of broken glass that had sealed off the control console. “Ah, yes. The brake. That might be useful.”

  “Our ordeal isn’t over yet,” Tomoko reminded them. “The anthropological institute is near Meguro station; you can’t get there on this subway system, you have to change at Shibuya for the Yamanote line . . . you can’t even do it by controlling the car on manual; they don’t even interconnect, it’s a different guage or something.”

  “Is that Shibuya ahead of us?” Matt said. Indeed it was. Sugihara hit the brake and Matt could read the sign clearly now, for it had English beneath the inscription in ideographs.

  They careened to a screeching halt.

  Crossed the platform, climbed up to the Yamanote level.

  A train stood waiting on the platform.

  “It’s dead,” Matt said.

  CB, stirring in his arms, said, “Are we there yet?”

  “There’s a train, but I think this line has closed down for the night, I think it’s just parked.”

  “Let me at it!” CB said. “You seen one controller board, you’ve seen ’em all.”

  CB dismantled the train’s remote controls with ease. As they pulled away, with Sugihara watching over the console, Tomoko began to bind CB’s wounds, tearing strips off her own dress.

  “That feels good,” CB whispered.

  “Always wanted a kid,” she said, half to Matt, half to herself.

  “Meguro, here we come,” Sugihara said.

  CB said, “I’m much better now. Thanks.”

  They pulled in.

  Then they left the train, exited the deserted station, entered the square, and started walking toward the institute. . . .

  But . . . something was wrong! The sky flickered, red and yellow. A blast of hot air from the direction of the institute.

  They were running again.

  As they reached the alley—

  Fire! The buildings beside the institute, built like so many Japanese houses only of wood and papei; were in flames; the institute itself was smouldering, already reduced to ashes. Th
e highrises that had towered above the institute now had balconies extruding tongues of flame. Men and women were rushing about madly, many of them weeping. This was so much like the day of liberation, Tomoko thought . . . the crowds running wild, congesting the alleys, tumultuous and wild. But then it had been elation that so moved them . . . now it was. . . .

  She stopped a man. “What is the matter?” she shouted at him.

  “Don’t you know anything? They came for the gaijin martial arts master . . . they said he was hiding in the institute . . . then they burned it down . . . they’re hunting people down, devouring them in the streets. ...” He ran away, cowering at the sight of Matt’s uniform.

  “There goes my beauty rest,” Tomoko said grimly. Nobody laughed. They made their way through the press of humanity to the institute itself. Ashes, nothing but ashes.

  “Our belongings. . Matt said. “The rest of the stuff we stole from the skyfighter . . .”

  Tomoko watched as Sugihara strode into the center of what had been the main downstairs room of the institute. He was wading knee-deep in ashes; they were not quite cool yet, for she noticed that he winced once or twice. He bent ovei; plucked something out—it looked like a broken chairleg or something—and seemed to be digging around in the ashes with it. At last he found what he was looking for

  It was a sword.

  He picked it up. Its hilt was charred; but the blade shone, golden-red, against the burning highrises overhead. He held it up, high, high, high; it flashed brilliantly, like a setting sun.

  “The bastards,” Matt whispered, looking around him in dismay. “What have they done to Rod and Lex and Kunio? Where have they taken them?”

  “To Osaka Castle!” Sugihara said.

  “Why?” CB said. “I’ve seen that castle on TV—it’s a famous monument.”

  “Something is going on there,” Tomoko said. “Something horrible.”

  “Well,” said Matt, “I’ve come this far I’ve been in this place for maybe twenty-four hours and I’ve seen that they really are after me—enough to kill innocent people-— enough to risk their lives too. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it, and I’m going to fight them to the end, the bitter end!”

  “That’s my dad,” CB said, his eyes shining.

  Tomoko came close to the two of them. She embraced them both. This tiny moment of love was precious to all of them, she knew, because they were so surrounded, so trapped. . . .

  Still Sugihara stood. His tranquillity was deceptive; she knew that every muscle in his body was tensed and ready for any sudden attack.

  Suddenly he broke his pose. “You will go to Osaka Castle, then?” he said. “You will risk . . . everything?” “Yes,” Matt said fiercely.

  “Good.” Sugihara regarded the three of them with an expression of almost Buddha-like beneficence. “There is much good in you, Matt Jones,” he went on. Tomoko noticed a certain wistfulness in his voice, as though he were longing for something that could never be. “You have a fine wife and child. And all of you have left your homes behind to come with me, even though you did not know me, even though you did not entirely trust me ... I know that you have wondered what I am, Matt Jones. I must tell you more now. I am not what I seem—”

  “You’re—”

  “No. I am not one of your enemies, Matt Jones. Come. We can stay here no longer, obviously. Haven’t you even wondered whether I have a home here in Tokyo? Have you wondered whether there is still a resistance movement here, now that the country seems entirely run by Converted people and collaborators, its economy and technology in shambles, its people disheartened and helpless? It is time to answer those questions now, Matt Jones. ...”

  Chapter 17

  Sugihara led the way. Down alleys choked with smoke from the burning institute. Apart from the main thoroughfares, Tokyo has no street names; addresses are given in terms of so-and-so district, such-and-such turning, so many houses down the lane. Tomoko had no idea where they were going, though it seemed that their path led downhill. The little street was coiled like a serpent; in the dark they could barely see, but Sugihara seemed to know every step of the way from memory. They walked swiftly, not seeming at all exhausted from the gruelling chase in the subway system. CB sometimes walked, sometimes was carried. A lugubrious Professor Schwabauer took up the rear. They hardly spoke.

  At length they reached what seemed to be a restaurant or tea-room; it was at any rate completely shuttered, unlit. A lone penant hung from the doorway, scrawled in calligraphy of such refined elegance that Tomoko was unsure of its meaning.

  Sugihara went around to the back; he tapped gently on a side window. A woman came around to open the front door and admit them. To Tomoko’s surprise, she was dressed in the full regalia of a geisha; her face was painted white as the moonlight; her mouth was brilliant carmine; her hair neatly coiffed and bunned and set off by a silken hair ornament. “Doozo sumimasen,” she said, bowing to them and

  pointing out a place where they could remove their shoes. The Americans, with varying degrees of awkwardness, imitated Sugihara, who did all the polite things as smoothly as might a cat. They stepped onto a raised tatami floor and sat on the floor around a tea table. Without any fuss, the geisha began to pour steaming tea into bowls.

  A look passed between her and Sugihara. Tomoko felt a quick flash of . . . could it be envy? Theirs was a tradition of centuries, a tradition she ought to understand and be in tune with but . . . instead she was forever tom between her two identities.

  “I should explain,” Sugihara said to the others. “In Japan it is considered unthinkable for someone in my position not to have a little house of retreat somewhere to which he can flee from the troubles of the world, and find solace in the arms of a mistress. But Setsuko here is no ordinary geisha . . . she is also a scientist.”

  “UCLA,” the geisha said, bowing reverently to the assembled company, “doctor’s degree in astrophysics, master’s in chemistry and biochemistry. I am sorry to seem to boast.”

  She’d been to America, then, this woman, had an American education . . . how could she have ended up like this? Tomoko couldn’t help saying, “A Ph.D from UCLA and you’re this unliberated?”

  “We all seek different things in life, Tomoko-san,” she said. “Knowledge was not everything to me. I also needed inner discipline. So I have come here, received some training in my second calling, and found myself mistress to the great Sugihara himself.”

  The great Sugihara, Tomoko thought. There is a lot more to the old man than I ever imagined. Who was he really?

  Setsuko listened gravely while the others recounted all the events of the day. Then she said, “Osaka Castle . . . that will be difficult. You say, then, that the Visitors are walking around openly as reptiles? That they no longer masquerade in their artificial skins?”

  “That seems to be true,” Tomoko said. “And with such men as Ogawa having been Converted, and everything that might remotely be construed as anti-saurian removed and replaced by pro-lizard platitudes—as an anthropologist 1 can easily see how, in only a generation, all the negative images associated in the culture with reptiles could be plucked out . . . it’s as though they were performing a kind of surgical operation on the collective brain of an entire society!”

  “Haisaid Setsuko. “And the answer lies in Osaka Castle.”

  “To think that you actually came face to face with Fieh Chan—the creature who engineered this whole thing,” Matt said angrily to her. “To think that he almost . . . touched you. ...”

  “It does not sound to me like the work of Fieh Chari,” Setsuko said. “All those who knew him for any length of time discovered that . . . beneath his horrifying, reptilian exterior . . . there was an inner core of compassion.”

  “It’s true,” said Tomoko, “that he saved my life.” She did not want to say that she had felt . . . attracted to him. She didn’t want to hurt Matt’s feelings.

  Setsuko said, “You will help us?”

  “Yes,” Mat
t said.

  “Yes,” said Tomoko and the kid.

  Setsuko said, “We are so unfortunate compared to you in America. Our young men expended so much energy in the kamikaze attacks on the alien institutions; reprisals were swift and terrible. Our resistance was utterly crushed during the period of alien rule. But our hearts still burned! We thought we had been liberated . . . but no. Though humans ostensibly rule us, their minds are possessed by Conversion; and Fieh Chan’s thermal pressure skins have enabled many of the saurians to remain here! But if they were dispossessed of their stronghold, how long could they last? I think the people would rise up. They cannot fight a real war without their full weaponry, without their Mother

  Ships. They have perhaps two or three skyfighters down here on earth. We could have killed them all, but we lacked the will; our souls had been stolen from us.”

  Tomoko was deeply moved by her impassioned speech. She realized that she had never been attached to one land, one tradition the way Setsuko had been. Part of her longed to be like Setsuko; another part yearned to be fully American.

  “But I’ve been working on something in my laboratory,” Setsuko said, “that I think would help.”

  She clapped her hands.

  The shoji behind them were drawn aside. Beyond, Tomoko could see . . . rows of gleaming test-tubes and retorts and flasks and reagents and Bunsen burners. A lab assistant in a white coat smiled to them.

  “I’ve analyzed the dermoplast samples from a number of Visitor disguises . . . and I’ve been able to reproduce it. It’s a strange substance, not quite plastic, not quite organic. Like living tissue, its production involves cloning.” Set-suko’s assistant brought in a little lacquer tray; with a flnorish he lifted the piece of silk that covered it.

  It was wrinkled, green, scaly ... but Tomoko saw at once that if it were stretched taut it would look exactly like the face of one of the Visitors. “It’s astonishing,” she said.

  “It’s not that good yet,” Setsuko said, lifting the dermoplast and pulling it between her fingers so that it resembled the webbing of ducks’ feet, “but I think that, in dim light, it will pass, no? Why not? I mean, they fooled us with this stuff for quite a while.”