The Way of Death

by James Von Ohlen

  Reiji put the helmet on, aligning it just so, in order to give himself the widest field of view while still protecting his skull. His armor emitted a chorus of noise as he stepped onto the tatami and bowed. Another of the grandfathers approached him, clad in combat armor as well, weapon drawn and held before him.

  Reiji’s weapon remained across his back. The preferred place for carrying such a large blade. If he hung it from his waist, it would drag along the ground. So the grip rose above his right shoulder blade at an angle that made grabbing it awkward. The weight of the blade conspired against him as well.

  How was he supposed to draw such a heavy weapon and strike with only one hand? With Onryo it would be different. The Oni would grant him strength far in excess of what a mortal man might have. The heavy blade would fly from its housing like lightning and split his foes asunder. But without the spirit of vengeance lending him its power, he was just flesh and blood trying to do the near impossible.

  The grandfather moved with speed that defied his apparent age, driving a slashing horizontal attack at Reiji’s midsection. Reiji took a step to launch his own counter, but collapsed as his abdomen split open.

  “Again.” The same commanding voice spoke.

  Reiji found himself adjusting his helmet and stepping onto the tatami once more. He had stopped counting at twenty bouts. At least twenty times he’d tried to practice the art of drawing and cutting with the huge blade, but the balance just seemed off to him. The weight all wrong.

  On some level he realized the training was pointless. Unless he was ambushed by other men in combat exoskeletons, there would be no need to draw and cut with the huge Claymore in the same motion. Even then, he doubted if it would be necessary. But as much as he saw fault in this training, he did enjoy a challenge. Facing something that he could master and conquer.

  Onto the mat again.

  Dead again.

  Finally something clicked and Reiji managed to survive past the first intended blow. A few more tries and heavy sword flew from his shoulder, hammering the grandfather to the ground and splitting open his suit of armor. The old man ceased moving and blood flowed from within the broken shell of steel.

  Reiji retook control of the simulation and played the moment and motion over again and again, imprinting the patterns into his neural network. When he had time to spare in the real world, he would do the same with the physical movement. Drill it with and without Onryo until the action came to him without thought.

  That was the way to mastery of the blade, in all of its incarnations. So he had been taught as a child, and he had yet to see anything in his thirty-five years of life that contradicted that statement. Train until the action can be performed without thought. Then it will be as second nature to you. The logic was hard to argue with.

  Content with his accomplishment for the time being, Reiji bowed to his ancestors and prepared to leave the training hall. His father looked at him with something akin to pride as Reiji bowed and touched his forehead to the tatami. Their eyes met for a moment and the man nodded with a satisfied smile on his face. Something Reiji had rarely seen from the man when he was still alive.

  The crowd dissipated, leaving Reiji and one of the grandfathers alone for a moment. A purported master of Iaido, he was the same old man who had overseen the earlier training. He stepped to Reiji’s side and placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

  Reiji’s initial reaction was to shrug the hand off and then drop the old man with a straight right if he tried to put it back. But he suppressed the urge and controlled it. The old man looked at his surroundings, not at Reiji, but spoke to him and to him alone.

  “Be mindful that you remain unattached to life and death, Reiji,” the old man began. After a dramatic pause, he continued. “In all manners act as though the outcome matters not. Quickly and without excessive thought. When you do so, there is nothing that will be beyond your grasp.”

  The old man clapped him once on the shoulder and was gone with the rest of the training hall as Reiji removed the data plug from his implanted neural interface. The humming of the APC’s engine washed over him and the world bathed in red light. A color chosen by the vehicle’s designers so as not to interfere with the passenger’s night-vision.

  If the light was active that meant it was dark outside. There was no basis for his suspicion, but Reiji could have sworn the engine was always louder at night. Not that it mattered, though.

  It was something that faded into the background over time. You didn’t even notice it after an hour in the vehicle, much less after twelve hours. But it was always fresh and impossibly loud when he left the ancestors to return to the real world.

  Onryo sat motionless, face as righteously angry as ever, facing Reiji. The man and the Oni sat across from one another, both leaned slightly forward as if they were pouring over a game of chess between them. The combat exoskeleton bore the scars of the battle fought and won on the salt flats outside of Milton, the red interior light of the passenger compartment making the wounds more dramatic.

  A smattering of minor dents and scratches, and a few more sizable of the same were spread over its entire surface. Instead of diminishing from the unit’s intimidating appearance, somehow it added to it.

  This was no shiny toy, never to have seen the field of battle. This was the genuine article. The real deal. It had strode amidst the clash of arms and emerged victorious, bearing its scars like badges of honor. A testament to its power and strength that it had suffered, yet survived.

  Reiji crawled through the opening leading to the pilot’s cabin and found Tod sound asleep in the copilot’s chair. And why wouldn’t he be? There was nothing else for the boy to do. Though he had proven that he could control the APC, and to devastating effect at that, destroying two trucks full of soldiers and turning a combat exoskeleton into a stain on the ground, Reiji preferred the autopilot.

  The boy could be unreliable in Reiji’s eyes. The autopilot was anything but. The terrain scanning abilities of the tracked vehicle and the algorithms that steered it around obstacles and potential dangers had proved to be sufficiently advanced that Reiji could simply point the APC in a direction and let it go without worry.

  Reiji wondered if the boy was dreaming about his night spent at Pleasures of Meat. Then he found himself wondering if the boy could dream at all. With so much brain damage, such a thing didn’t seem unreasonable. Reiji looked at the chronometer on the display gauge and then checked data on his surroundings, bringing the APC to a stop.

  Time to train.

  Since he’d seen what the boy had presumably done in the whorehouse when Cent-Sec had come for him, Reiji had taken it upon himself to attempt to train Tod. Most would have assumed the boy had shown up after the slaughter and picked up the blades out of curiosity or morbid fascination.

  Reiji knew better. The way the boy held the blades said that he knew something about using them. The spatter patterns and the spot the retard had been standing in as well as the locations of the dead men and the wounds they had suffered told Reiji all he needed to know.

  The boy claimed that he didn’t know what happened. And Reiji believed him. But it was obvious to Reiji that the boy had cut those men down. Either in a moment of insane rage at being pulled away from a veritable harem of willing women, or in a calculated attack remained to be seen.

  As the vehicle slowed to a stop, Reiji grabbed Tod’s shoulder and shook him awake. The boy lazily opened his eyes and looked vacantly at the man waking him. He looked at the chronometer in the data display and his face instantly came to life.

  “Rage, time to train?” He asked, as a smile spread across his face. Reiji nodded and entered a command to the APC to open the back door, before heading out. He paused long enough to grab both the Claymore and the broadsword he planned to drill with. Tod rummaged around in a neatly ordered pack that he had begun keeping in the past few days.

  He grabbed a handful of some beef jerky that had been loaded into the APC along with other
supplies back in Milton before everything had gone bad. Once he had stuffed the dried meat into his mouth, he reached up and reverently removed one of a set of blades he kept.

  A short sword that Reiji had thought oddly shaped when he first saw it. Somewhere between a scythe and a sword. Now, as he looked at it in Tod’s hand as the boy dismounted the vehicle, he remembered the name of such a weapon. A kukri.

  It was longer and heavier than most weapons of that type, but there was no mistaking the shape. The boy liked it, probably thinking that it looked cool, and he wanted to learn how to use it. Reiji thought that teaching the boy to fight might not be a bad idea. If he could harness whatever the retard had unleashed in the whorehouse, Reiji might be able to gain himself an even more valuable ally. It never hurt to have someone competent at your back in a fight.

  The pair stepped out into the cool night air. The moon was greatly diminished since the night in Milton, nearly ten days ago, when it had filled the sky. Once Reiji had been sure that there was no one on their asses, he’d begun stopping to train.

  The first night, Tod had watched him doing so with a look of intense scrutiny plastered on his face. Like a small child watching some garbage entertainment. After a moment’s thought, Reiji had invited him to join.

  He’d spent the better part of a few hours showing the boy the most basic of the basics. They seemed to elude his grasp the first time, so Reiji had just put him through a series of bodyweight calisthenics designed to train the whole body and test his strength. Tod had been far more successful at that than Reiji had expected.

  Over the next few nights, they’d stopped at the same time, trained for several hours and then eaten before sleeping as the autopilot continued to put distance between them and whatever lay behind them. A routine developed as Reiji began to train the boy.

  During Reiji’s training with the ancestors a few had actually expressed satisfaction with this course of action. Establishing a school, they called it. Reiji was more concerned with getting the retard to a point where he could watch Onryo’s back, but if the old men saw it that way, then let them be happy.

  In the second session, Tod had shown significant improvement. It was as if some heavy weight had been moved from the boy’s shoulders. His motions were more fluid and precise whereas the night before they could only have been described as spastic.

  Each time, Reiji trained the boy in how best to use the blade he had chosen. Then the boy would watch as Reiji practiced his techniques, unaugmented with Onryo’s strength. If the Oni failed, or was destroyed, then Reiji would have to fight on his own. And he had no intention of getting rusty.

  The Claymore work was challenging and a workout in its own right. When done, Reiji instructed the boy some more and then they partnered up for bodyweight training. Once he was satisfied that the boy was learning, Reiji would enter the combat exoskeleton and practice running through various situations and settings with it.

  Each time, Tod would sit in the back of the APC and watch, fascinated. When Reiji finished, the session was ended. The same schedule would repeat itself tonight.

  There on the ninth night, beneath the dim light of a waning moon, Tod moved like Reiji had never seen the boy move before. It was as if everything Reiji had taught him in the past few days had been completely absorbed and put into practice. The perpetual awkwardness of the boy’s movements seemed to melt away as he gripped the blade. Almost as if another person took his place.

  Another session or two, and the boy would be ready to train with dulled blades. A few sessions there and then perhaps live blades. Reiji watched the boy complete his drills. He had a great natural talent for the sword. Of that, there was no doubt.

  When the initial drills were finished, the boy stood panting and out of breath, but maintaining his posture and guard.

  “Good,” Reiji began. “You’ve improved a lot.” He nodded once and the boy beamed with pride.

  “Thanks, Rage. I just want to get better so I can help.” The way the boy spoke caught Reiji’s attention. His pronunciation, usually slurred as though his mouth just couldn’t work fast enough, was almost normal. And unless Reiji was mistaken, that was the longest and most complex sentence the boy had delivered since leaving the whorehouse.

  Perhaps all of the exercise was good for him. Or maybe there was more to it. The image of a syringe labeled ‘experimental’ passed through Reiji’s mind. That might have had something to do with it, or it could just as likely have been some type of erectile dysfunction treatment.

  Regardless the boy seemed to be becoming less of a retard by the day. In a year’s time, Reiji thought, who knew how far he might go?

  The two finished their training session and piled back into the APC. Reiji consulted the control systems, asking for an ETA at the destination he’d programmed. The answer he received didn’t please him. Another five days. But what was five days weighed against picking up the trail of the man who had attempted to kill him and then robbed him of his only possessions of any worth?

  Tod moved back to the pilot’s cabin after stowing his gear and settled into the copilot’s seat to sleep. Reiji grabbed a few rags from the supplies and doused them with some extra water and did his best to give himself a sponge bath. Far from satisfying, but better than nothing.

  Satisfied that his day had been put to good use, Reiji laid down on the floor beneath Onryo’s gaze and quickly fell asleep. Some hours later he awoke, the need to urinate powerful enough to break the hold of peaceful slumber.

  Immediately Reiji noticed that the vehicle wasn’t moving. He rolled to one side, grabbing his broadsword while rising to his feet. He moved to the pilot’s seat, leaving Tod to his sleep, and activated the night-vision function of the APC’s sensory input. The darkness outside of the vehicle receded into the distance as the world sprang to life around him.

  The quality of the low light vision tech in the APC far exceeded what Reiji had grown accustomed to on the march with Gavin’s crew. The grainy, green tinted view of the world was replaced with something much clearer. Like someone far above him holding a powerful light not quite on par with the sun.

  Very quickly, it became clear why the APC had stopped. The ground before the armored vehicle fell away, plunging downwards to such a depth that it wasn’t visible from Reiji’s perch. Ahead of him, some kilometers away, a thin line of darkness against the dimmed sky showed the far edge.

  There would be no crossing here.

  Reiji panned the vehicle’s sensors in either direction, hoping for some point that could be traversed. A less suicidal-steep place to descend to the depths below and another from which to ascend to the far rim. There was none.

  Far to his right, a glimmer of hope shown. Impossibly far away, it seemed, but there it was. Lights shining in the night in two places. One on his side of the canyon, another set on what appeared to be the far side. As good a destination as any at this point, Reiji thought as he turned the APC and began his approach.

  The vehicle rode smooth on its suspension despite the uneven ground. Steadily, the lights drew closer and closer. A mix of electric and flames. Mounted on the exterior and top of a large stone wall.

  Reiji looked at the wall in disbelief as the APC slowly came to a stop before it. Of all the things Reiji had seen in the past few weeks, this actually made the most sense. A world crawling backwards in time with regard to technology was bound to revert to this point sooner or later. Without firearms in their various incarnations to blast down walls, what was the best defense a man could put up?

  A fucking castle.

  FLAMES licked at the walls, causing a constant popping sound as liquid trapped in the rocks expanded, shooting the occasional piece granite away into the distance. He strode away, comfortable in his gait and with a whistled song on his lips. The exoskeleton moved smoothly as though relaxed by the great violence that had just been done.

  How man lay dead? He played the events back in his mind. Somewhere between thirty and forty. A good count for a singl
e fight, but the day wasn’t done yet. He approached a large truck, part of the equipment the fort had appropriated from a nearby abandoned pit mining operation.

  A huge truck designed to haul several hundred tons of ore at once between the mine and the processing facility. Sized for industrial mining, or a living space for several men. With as much effort as he had spent in getting out of bed in the morning, probably less, he corrected himself, the combat exoskeleton sprang into the air and came to a light landing in the bed of the large truck.

  There, three figures cowered. Trying to move away from him, but unable to due to the bonds that held them fast. On their knees, hands behind their backs, wrists tied to ankles. A tie between the waist and neck holding the assortment of knots together. Guests, he had called them earlier. But only one word really described what they were.

  Hostages.

  And they had outlived their usefulness.

  Gavin strode to them, smiling wide inside his exoskeleton. Speaking as he closed the distance, the bed of the truck rocking beneath his footsteps.

  “What do I do with the lot of you now?” They began trying to plead with him, but their mouths were gagged with the same rope that bound them. Gavin paused in his approach for a moment to admire his hand of work. The way the rope bit into the flesh of their throats, forced their jaws open in an uncomfortable position, cut into the skin of their wrists and ankles. He was an artist.

  Art.

  There was simply no other way to describe the work he had wrought here. And behind him, amongst the flames? Another type, but still a distinct craftsmanship to be sure. Artistry written in flesh with a blade a surely as it was now written in knots with rope before him.

  This moment would be a cherished memory, he decided. One that he would keep for the rest of his many, many days to come and think back on fondly. Or maybe he would forget it within a few days. Bigger fish to fry, and all that.

  The great black sword that was strapped across his back came to hand and he poked and prodded his hostages with the tip. There was still entertainment to be had here, he decided. Beyond the look on the face of the small town’s mayor and sheriff when he’d taken the three children hostage.