“Shit!” one of them shouted, patting the back pocket of his jeans. A second later came a hard thump on the ground a couple yards away. “Hey, lady,” he called out, stopping in midair. “Some help here? Dropped my wallet. Toss it up, if you don’t mind.”
The booster’s magnetic balancers interacted with the earth’s magnetic field, warping the air beneath him like heat rising off a hot road.
Fetch it yourself, buster, Kyoya thought to himself.
But not the kind of thought that would ever occur to Sayaka. She ran over to where the wallet had landed. With a crack and a hum, a black whip-like strand shot down and entwined around Sayaka’s waist.
“Damn!”
Kyoya took off running but was a second too late. Sayaka was yanked into the air and into the arms of the punk who’d dropped the wallet. The whip appeared to carry an electrical charge. Her head hung limply down. A fresh new strategy for exploiting a moment of carelessness.
“Heh heh heh. Thanks for the girl, kid.” The three punks laughed.
“What do you plan on doing with her? Any funny business, and you and me are going to have words.”
But for all his bark, that fifteen feet was a bit too far for him right now.
“Not gonna happen,” said the punk holding Sayaka. “We’re not the ones you should be talking to. Seems there’s bad blood between this girl and our boss. Yoshiko of the Hippopotamus Group.”
For a moment, Kyoya couldn’t place the name. And then it occurred to him. “Ah, that fatso in Shin-Okubo!”
“You’re a quick one. And the girl made our boss lose a lot of face. Since yesterday she’s been in one helluva foul mood. She said to find you two, even if we had to dig up every square inch of downtown Shinjuku.”
Kyoya clucked to himself. An unexpected opponent had made an appearance at exactly the wrong moment. Of course, he should have sent Sayaka home when he could. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty.
“What do you plan on doing with her? You looking for a ransom or something?”
“I’m sure the boss will want to dote on her personally,” the punk sneered. “She can’t bear the existence of any woman cuter than herself. Don’t matter if it’s a hot young chick or some MILF. It’s really kind of sad, the way she abuses them. In the end, she’ll gouge out their eyes and cut off their noses and the like, no anesthetic.”
“Shut it!” Kyoya roared. “Where is the bitch? I’ll give her a diet that’ll cut her weight in half in a few minutes, tops.”
“Nice try. I got nothing to do with you. Looks like you know how to use a sword. Don’t worry, we’re finding you an opponent. You two can have it out. You win, give us a call. Bye now.”
The three sailed off in the direction they’d come, over the block that was home to the old movie theaters. Kyoya tried to follow them, but found that his feet were glued to the ground.
A dozen yards away—in front of what, according to his memories of the map, had once been a pachinko parlor—stood a dark shadow. With confident steps, it slowly strode toward him, radiating an evil vibe quite different from that when he faced off against the demons and the undead.
The kind of killer vibe that only a practitioner of the martial arts could possess.
The shadow stopped six feet in front of him. Even in the already strange precincts of Kabuki-cho, it was strikingly strange. Or perhaps even more strikingly normal.
The man was dressed like a samurai. More precisely, the kind of samurai found in 3D midnight movies: a traditional shaved pate and top knot; a “bat wing” haori with short, wide sleeves favored by the Edo Period samurai; straw waraji sandals; and long and short swords tucked into the waistband.
And on his face, a particularly distinguishing characteristic.
So it’s him!
In a flash, Kyoya saw through the facade. An impersonation android. An android with an implanted personality. Kyoya recalled seeing a show on television that followed the manufacturing process through to the test runs. Using human data extracted from archives and a wide swath of information sources, the characteristics of a person, the substance of his mind and soul, were calculated and compiled with the known biometric parameters to create an android reproduction with a high degree of fidelity.
In a sense, the science of robotics had produced a way of resurrecting the dead.
The original intent was to create actors for completely realistic blockbuster movie productions. But the mercenary possibilities presented by extraordinarily skilled heroes lacking any will of their own encouraged criminal organizations to channel the technology onto the black market. The gunfighter Wyatt Earp facing off against the legendary ninja Sasuke Sarutobi, or Hercules wrestling judo champion Shiro Saigo—it took the concept of “ultimate fighting” to a whole new level.
Production of these androids was currently on hold. This model was the property of the Hippopotamus Group.
The warrior standing before Kyoya was something more than an electronic twin, the sculptured amalgamation of large-scale integrated circuitry and artificial bone and muscle. The proof was that very human bloodlust, that he hadn’t felt to this point, no matter what the strength, shape or form of the opponent.
The residents of Kabuki-cho who blithely shared the streets with the worst murderers and thieves stood still in amazement, sucked in their breaths, and watched to see what would happen next.
The warrior settled into a fighting stance, his left foot forward, the sword held high over his right shoulder.
A strange thought occurred to Kyoya. No matter the genius of swordsman resurrected to stand before him, as long as his skill set was limited to what was humanly possible, he couldn’t match Kyoya’s nenpo.
And yet Kyoya couldn’t help wanting to test his skills against him, without resorting to his nenpo. This once in a lifetime chance to meet the best fighter of an era on the field of combat and prove himself would stir the blood of any young athlete.
Thoughts of Sayaka and the fate of the world faded away. He raised Asura to the en garde position. “Kyoya Izayoi is honored to stand in your presence,” he said. “Tell me your name.”
“I am Mitsuyoshi Jubei Yagyu.”
The one-eyed warrior. The most famous swordsman of the early Edo Period.
The sight of such a bizarre duel was unique even by Kabuki-cho’s standards. In the center of an asphalt ring formed by the ruins of the desolate buildings, surrounded by people whose dress and manner could be mistaken for that of madmen, the two fencers faced off against each other.
The one was undoubtedly a samurai warrior in the prime of life. The other a jeans-wearing kid. Both were radiating bursts of terrifying energy that made the onlookers turn their heads as if leaning into a strong gale.
Everything else in the world seemed to come to a halt. Everyone there felt the tension approaching the breaking point. And the moment it shattered—
“Yaa—!” With a shout, the android embodiment of Jubei Yagyu attacked Kyoya, sword raised high over his head, leaping across the six-foot distance without the slightest indication of his next action.
“Haa!” Answering with a scream of his own, Kyoya barely managed to check the blow, his father’s nen sealed inside Asura. For now, it was nothing more than a wooden sword.
The two blades came together with a collision strong enough to almost dislocate Kyoya’s shoulders. The “Miike Tenta” sword, a striking reproduction of Jubei’s favorite, dug halfway into Asura. Then a moment later swung laterally at his torso.
Dodging the blow, Kyoya made a big backwards jump. A simple parry took all my strength, he thought. This isn’t a guy I have the skill to defeat. Though fending off two attacks already was something only a prodigy could have accomplished.
Jubei pressed forward. Behind Kyoya was the mountain of rubble in front of the Koma Theater. He had no more room to retreat. His death became a real possibility.
A cruel smile of victory rose to Jubei’s lips as he thrust forward with inhuman speed. And met only thin air. Kyo
ya had vanished. A blue slash of lightning ran across the flash of steel, followed by the crunch of breaking bone,
The crowds gasped. The expected victory slipped from his grasp. Jubei Yagyu slumped to his knees holding his right shoulder. Instead of being speared through and through, Kyoya rose up from the ground.
As soon as he’d sensed the straight-ahead thrust, Kyoya spread his legs wide and tumbled forward, slamming his left heel against Jubei’s right shoulder. Realizing that his sword was useless to him—and in the few tenths of a second after realizing that Jubei was going for a thrusting move—he’d released an explosion of Shorin Kenpo footwork.
Had Jubei slashed horizontally or vertically with his sword, Kyoya would have parted neatly in two, vertically or horizontally.
The android Jubei had been imbued with the personality and martial skills of the real Jubei. Except that nothing in Jubei’s life or the android programming suggested that in the moment of extremis, an opponent might use his feet instead of a sword.
Chen Yuanbin, the Ming Dynasty founder of kenpo, traveled to Japan during Jubei’s lifetime, so he should have at least witnessed such a move. However, this may have been the first time Jubei—or his avatar—faced an opponent with the skills necessary to deliver such a kick in a downwards trajectory.
The difference between the person unfamiliar with kenpo and the person who was—even while coughing up blood—was the difference between victory and defeat.
Yes! The underdog by an upset!
In any other similar situation, Kyoya might have served up a dose of nen and knocked him flat on his back, or sprang back and waited for his opponent to come at him again. But the sense of urgency interrupted in that moment. Diverting his attention to Sayaka’s predicament, Kyoya left Jubei there and started off at a run.
He felt a shock in his flank and grunted, a feral cry. Damn! he cursed in his heart. The fiery sensation shot through his torso. On his knees, with the arm attached to the broken collarbone, Jubei had buried the tip of the long sword into Kyoya’s side.
Take away the electronic guts, and the body of an impersonation android was formed from a combination of polymer bones and mechanical muscles whose strength could be altered based on the context. Turning into the person it was emulating and playing the part was not something the metal and plastic of a run-of-the-mill android could pull off.
In other words, change the context, and an impersonation android could be easily broken in an accident, turning it into so much scrap. That was why a simple kick, no nen involved, broke its so-called bones.
Kyoya hadn’t imagined that, heavily damaged, and with the arm attached to the broken bone, it could deliver such a blow. The real Jubei might well have been such a fighter.
“Son of a bitch!”
Jubei’s one electronic eye focused on him, Kyoya squatted on the sidewalk, hand pressed against his side to staunch the flowing blood. The android calmly raised the blood-stained sword.
The scene in front of him grew dark. The ferocity of the thrust had robbed him of the willpower even to summon the reserves of his psychic energy. I ain’t dead yet. Throw in the towel now and I’ll never look her in the face again. That was the foremost thought on his mind.
The android Jubei advanced on the unconscious, unmoving teenager—the wooden sword tightly grasped in his right hand—with steady steps, the killer instinct spilling out of his being.
“Unbelievable.” A quiet statement filled with surprise. “Wounded that badly, losing blood, and yet still breathing. I understand what a trained and disciplined body can do, but this is a spiritual strength way beyond the normal.”
“Is he conscious?” somebody else asked in a concerned voice.
“We have treated him the best we can. He should awaken soon. Though he still needs a good two weeks of bed rest.”
“Yes.”
The sterilizing lights dimmed. The two gazed down at the operating table. The operating room was stocked with the latest medical equipment and automated surgical tools, the kind found in the best hospitals in Tokyo. Not as grand as the Sorcerer’s, but in the same neighborhood.
Transparent scanner hoods covered the operating table, linked to medical computers, recording the patient’s vital signs. The operation had just ended.
“Hmm,” said the first speaker.
“What?”
“The anesthetic is wearing off. Look at the spike in brain waves and metabolic activity. I am most impressed. This is some sort of superman. He should be waking up any second. Three—two—one—”
Kyoya opened his eyes, and focused on the faces peering down at him. “Sayaka-san, are you all right? What in the world—”
Sayaka resisted the impulse to cling tightly to him and looked at the tall man behind her. “He came to your rescue. And those gangsters took me to their headquarters and were about to start torturing me when he charged in and drove them off like some sort of magician.”
“As I promised, we meet again.” A slight smile came to the white face framed in black.
“Doctor Mephisto? What are you doing in a place like this?”
The impression made in the Musashi Miyamoto bar in Waseda was not that deep, and the anesthetic was still wearing off, and he hadn’t completely digested what Sayaka was saying—so he jumped to the conclusion that he was the one who’d snatched Sayaka. He sat up in a fury. The scanner hoods retracted automatically.
“Don’t try to get up!” Sayaka said, grabbing him. “You misunderstand. This man saved me. And treated your wounds as well.”
The anger faded from Kyoya’s features. His mind returned to a rational state. “After I got stabbed by that Jubei Yagyu android, this quack—no, sorry, scratch that—you patched me up? This your hospital? I suppose you’re a real doctor or something?” His thoughts springing back to life, he added, “Yeah, and what happened to Jubei Yagyu?”
“He has been disposed of,” Mephisto softly answered. “This is my home. That is all you need to know about me. Can you move?”
“Ah—” Kyoya also sensed that Sayaka was stifling a growing sense of impatience and unease. “So what happened? Wait a second, did the deadline pass while I was unconscious?”
“No.” Sayaka shook her head emphatically. “Not yet. But it’s now midnight of the thirteenth!”
Her voice was strained and her eyes brimmed with tears. Still half asleep, Kyoya shrugged his shoulders and said, “Huh?” Then his eyes opened wide. “Say what! We entered the DMZ on the tenth, spent a night and left a day later. Today should be the eleventh. What, did you think you had a whole day to kick back at the hospital?”
“In any case, it is the thirteenth, and the clock runs out today,” Mephisto said severely. “The young lady has explained everything to me. Upon leaving the DMZ, you should have counted the days more precisely. Because of the Devil Quake, time takes on a different flow there, moving faster than normal. What you experienced as one day there took two here.”
“You don’t say,” said Kyoya. “When I looked at my watch I thought something was out of sync. Interesting. Sort of like Urashima Taro meets Rip Van Winkle. Huh.”
And then the magnitude of what had happened sunk in. A worried expression came to his face and he jumped off the operating table. “Ow!” Kyoya bent over, holding his side.
Sayaka lent him her shoulder. “You can’t move around like that. With a wound like that, it’s amazing you’re still alive!”
“Don’t worry about me. I only need to hold up for three hours more. Hey, Paleface, your surgical skills good for three hours?”
“Where do you plan on going?”
“She told you, didn’t she? Wherever those guys are hiding out.”
“Your wounds have been sutured, but the blood loss was considerable. I doubt you would get a dozen yards before collapsing. Besides, they surely know the deadline is tonight and would be anticipating your arrival. You would be walking to your own death.”
Kyoya clapped his hands. “Good point. We were loo
king for somebody in the know. Would you happen to know how to sneak into Shinjuku station without attracting a lot of attention?”
“I would.”
He answered so readily that Kyoya almost thought he was joking. “Where? Tell me,” he demanded.
Mephisto asked wryly, “Why rush to your death? What in this world is so important that it is worth risking your life? It is said that in the history of mankind, a mere four hundred and thirty-seven years could be described as peaceful and relatively free of warfare. We do love to fight and kill. Izayoi-kun, if a terrible thing were summoned this night from the depths of the earth, casting the world into fear and despair, would not the human heart find that a more appropriate place?”
Kyoya didn’t answer. He hobbled over to the dressing screens and changed into his street clothes. They’d been washed and sterilized while he was being operated on. Asura was leaning against the wardrobe.
“Probably,” he said as he dressed. “But I’m not going to call off the game because of rain until I actually see it falling. I’ve met all kinds since coming to this city. They’re not all bad. Besides, once I start a job, I finish it. No mulligans, no do-overs.”
“For the good of the world, eh? The anachronistic hero in the flesh.”
“Sorry, but nothing that highfalutin.” He glanced at the girl’s face, on the verge of tears. “Wait here, okay? And no funny business this time.”
The look on her face betrayed her hurt. He knew she’d been planning on accompanying him. The destruction of the world was imminent. The only champion left in the fight was critically wounded. He’d woken from a dead sleep only minutes before.
For her father’s sake, for the sake of the planet, she wanted to be there at the scene of the final battle. She opened her mouth but couldn’t say the words. She’d hated him the first time they met, but since then he’d fought the denizens of the Demon World by himself and suffered grievous injuries to save her—that alone engendered in her inexpressible feelings of gratefulness.
Demon City Shinjuku: The Complete Edition Page 17
