The glittering panoply of celebrities was surrounded by mobile police commandos and robot troops. Among them were Kyoya and Sayaka.
Along with the camera crews and reporters, Kyoya ignored the guards and looked instead at the celebrities. Sayaka, though, focused her attention on the giant edifice hovering above their heads in the middle of the park.
Taking an unobstructed view of the miracle structure would make anybody suck in their breath in wonder. First of all, the legs holding up the enormous building.
According to the ward press releases, each of the legs rested on four square yards of land. Though invisible to the naked eye, they were perched on steel cylinders a yard in diameter buried in the ground. The legs reached skywards from the center of the cylinders, themselves only four inches across.
Structural engineers had speculated that the whole thing must weigh fifty million tons. No matter how hardened and reinforced, the four-inch-wide wires couldn’t possibly support that much mass.
But the master of this mansion had accomplished exactly that. The most august of the scientific societies appealed to the know-nothing bureaucrats, and were told that only those on the invitation list would be allowed in. There were no scientists on the list.
The wire-like legs rose until they faded into faint lines before reaching the smooth silver “plate” that formed the base of the tower. No joints or seams were visible. The surface appeared perfectly smooth. The material seemed to be the same as the legs. Magnetic resonance and ultrasonic imaging had been conducted in secret, and had revealed nothing.
Starting slightly above the “plate,” the lowest part of the base of the building surrounded the center as it rose up. A single room of this structure was a flat section covering over four acres and standing thirty feet high and made out of marble. The two “flights” of rooms combined to form a wide, winding staircase—connected here and there to the wires to trace an elegant arc through the air.
One glance at the building prompted a scholar from Israel to proclaim: “The Hanging Gardens of Babylon!” And was all more astonished to learn of the name appended to the invitations. He had recalled one of the “Seven Wonders of the World,” so-named two thousand years before by the Greek mathematician, Philon of Byzantium.
In the sixth century B.C., in the kingdom of Babylon in the south of Mesopotamia, King Nebuchadnezzar II built the gardens in the middle of the desert to please his queen, who had been born in the mountains. The gardens rose three hundred and fifty feet high. The numerous terraces on the man-made bluff were adorned with flowers and fountains. Onlookers could imagine that, from afar, it was suspended in midair, such that it was also known as “The Floating Gardens of Babylon.”
Now, twenty-five centuries later, this building ruling the air over Demon City Shinjuku was surely a restoration of the original.
A sharp-eyed cameraman and reporter picked Kyoya and Sayaka out of the crowd. Eluding the mobile police guards holding them back, they got up close and pushed a mic into Sayaka’s face.
“A word for our viewers,” the reporter said.
“Hey,” said Kyoya. He turned to the camera and blinked. “Yo, Shiratori, Kayama,” he said, calling out his friends’ names. “You watching?” He flashed a V-sign.
“Wasn’t asking you,” the reporter said, inserting himself between Kyoya and Sayaka. “Miss, could you tell us why you received an invitation?”
Kyoya clapped him on the shoulder. “Go ahead, ask me.”
“Put a cork in it.”
No sooner had the reporter shrugged him off but he found himself sinking to the ground. He had suddenly gone numb from his shoulder down to his legs.
“You’ll be okay in five minutes.”
Kyoya reached out to touch the body of the cameraman, whose entire attention was focused on Sayaka. At that moment, a grave and dignified voice floated down from above.
“Welcome to my humble abode. I see that you have all chosen to attend, and for that I am deeply thankful. Inside I have prepared delights to satisfy every expectation. Feel free to spend as much time as your schedules will allow.”
“Kyoya-san.”
Sayaka took hold of his arm. Kyoya grinned affectionately and said, “Here,” and moved her hand to his left. He had the wooden sword — Asura — in his right. He had to keep that free.
Upon hearing the voice from above, the boisterous crowd went silent. Doors that led to what must be a foyer at the base of the tower—like the upside-down bell of a morning glory—slid open to the right and left. A band of light spilled out of the opening and poured down in front of the guests, connecting the ground and the air.
“Please climb aboard,” the voice said.
The prime minister was first in line. Of course, this one was a body double. After a moment of human hesitation, with all the dignity befitting the leader of a country, he stepped onto the ribbon of light rising skyward. He swayed a bit, then the prime minister—his double—followed the path into the air.
The guards hastily clambered after him. The crowd of close to a thousand surged forward and hopped on one after the other.
At the end of the line, Kyoya and Sayaka stood in front of the ribbon. The cameraman focused the lens on them. Sayaka seemed to have become the center of his attention.
Up to a few minutes ago, the video transmissions from within Shinjuku had come to naught. The magical miasma that engulfed this city suppressed all electronic waves. Now, although filled with static, the images somehow got through. That young man had dampened the interference.
The two stepped onto the ribbon. After an unsteady moment, they were already a yard in the air and rising at a brisk pace, Kyoya estimated about ten miles an hour.
“What is this?” Sayaka wondered, looking down at her feet.
“Not light. My senses tell me it’s a fluid.”
“Water?”
“Something like that. Moor the air in place and flow a concentrated molecular thickener across it. The glow must come from the air being bound in place and then manipulating its physical properties. Whatever it is, it sure does make you think.”
“About who’s behind it all.”
“The boss of Babylon.”
“Babylon,” Sayaka repeated to herself, as if trying to convince herself that it was all actually there.
Below them came the howls of beasts mingled with the siren calls of the lost souls of the park. Come down and join us, they cried.
The front foyer approached, as big as the lobby of a grand hotel. And at last, the two were drawn inside Demon Palace Babylon.
Part Two: The Masked Lord
I
The milky white light filled the hall. Murmurs arose here and there in the crowd, expressions of surprise.
“This guy is something else,” Kyoya said, in honest admiration.
This was the kind of edifice built in ancient times by absolute monarchs. The stone pillars rose up like a forest of trees. Beyond the “trees,” water sparkled in a man-made lake. In the lake floated a small, swan-like boat, against a background of endless green and a deep blue sky.
The columns, the floor, the great statues of ancient gods found here and there—all were carved with extraordinary artistry and skill. The effect was truly as if they had stumbled into an enchanted castle. What kept it from descending into a child’s fairy tale was the ghostly aura that ruled the hall.
“Look at the ceiling. From the outside, it’s no more than thirty feet high. From this perspective, it goes on forever.”
Sayaka’s amazement was shared by Kyoya. “I’m not surprised, considering what else he’s built here. Seems the master of this place can manipulate space in four dimensions.”
“Neat.”
“No idea what’s going to show up next, but in any case it’s probably gonna be out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Not your fault,” Kyoya quickly added.
Though they entered the grounds without any trouble,
what awaited them weighed heavily on their hearts. It was hard to say how far the swing of a wooden sword would take them.
The noise of the crowd suddenly ceased. A warning sound reverberated around them. It arose from a big statue of a god on their left.
“Open your mouths!”
The words rang forth in a chorus of voices. Before the echoes had died away, from the mouth of the old god a human shadow burst forth and landed with perfect timing on the right palm of the hands that had been till then folded across its chest.
But more startling than the style of his arrival was the face rising out of the metallic gown. The man was wearing a golden mask.
Slits in the mask revealed the eyes and mouth. The eyes inside, clear and dark and cold, sent a shiver down the spine. The crowd composed itself and fell silent.
“Welcome to my home,” spoke that same, undeniable voice. “First of all, I would like to thank you again. All those invited are, according to their stated names, here in attendance. Those assembled here today shall experience the kind of joys that can be known in the world below. However, only those I have actually invited.”
An agitated ripple ran through the people. The masked man raised his hands and quelled the uproar, hands that looked altogether human.
“Unfortunately, those whom I would have otherwise held in affection and esteem have not only forged their names, but altered their appearances and injected a criminal element into these celebrations. I shall only open the door of my beloved home to those whom I love.”
No sooner had he finished speaking than came the flapping of wings overhead. A woman screamed. A black silhouette descended and took a firm hold of her shoulders. The wings beat the air again, and another noise arose, that of several bodies being borne aloft.
The problem was not so much what was being dragged, but what was doing the dragging. A blue beast with gray wings, a smaller member of the species that was known in the old fairy tales as a gremlin. The yard-long creatures picked up full-grown adults and took off for the distant ceiling.
Though there weren’t that many gremlins, they were efficient porters and their uncanny strength was more than enough. The number of people in attendance diminished in a flash.
“Rest assured,” the masked man said blithely. “They will be returned unharmed to the ground. I have no need for pretenders here. To those who remain I will reveal the wonders of my home. Come. The party begins.”
The several dozen left—the stand-ins and pretenders and guards having been whisked away—swayed back and forth. The floor beneath their feet was moving. However it looked like granite, it was a flowing substance like that ribbon of light stretched out beneath them. Like a moving sidewalk, only infinitely more pleasant.
“Where are we going?” asked Sayaka.
“I guess to the party,” Kyoya answered blandly. He was ready to leave now. Some guy in a mask and his weird mansion didn’t much pique his interest. He’d rather be home munching on senbei and reading manga.
Moving between a giant stone pillar and a statue, the sidewalk brought them to another hall. They passed through an open gate without any doors. A ripple ran through the throng.
They were definitely in a banquet hall. Countless tables piled with strange delicacies, foods that none of them had seen before. And standing at attention around them, hostesses in revealing dresses and waiters wearing tuxedos and sparkling smiles, so pretty and handsome that a passerby would want to stop and hug them.
But what drew exclamations of wonder from the mouths of the guests was the great basin in the middle of the hall. It was fifteen feet deep, the bottom covered with bare earth. The oval of at least four hundred square yards looked like a small sports arena.
“Well, everybody, let us begin with a light repast,” said the masked lord of the mansion, having at some point already arrived. “Three hundred became a thousand, and then a mere fifty. Disappointing, yes, but a hundred fakes cannot equal one real diamond. Besides—”
He glanced over the assembled group, his eyes focusing on Kyoya and Sayaka. Sayaka felt a cold chill down her spine—as if the eyes of the masked man were boring into her heart.
The enigmatic look soon turned away. As if calming the concerns of all those assembled, the masked man said in a dignified voice, “My wishes will soon be fulfilled. In the meantime, please, eat and enjoy.”
The dinner began. The cuisine could be described as nothing short of miraculous.
“What ingredients is he using?” a world-famous food critic wondered out loud. “I can’t help feeling envious.”
“No idea. How does he bring out such flavors? The seasoning? The oil? What era does this cooking come from?” That was the chef at a five-star hotel, combing his fingers through his white hair.
“It tastes so good,” Sayaka practically squealed.
Watching her with a disinterested expression, Kyoya scanned their surroundings, his eyes lighting up as he saw the masked man approaching.
“It is so nice to see you here,” he said with a polite bow. The greeting did not come across as the usual condescension to their youth, but as true courtesy.
“Thanks,” Kyoya grinned.
Sayaka nodded her head respectfully. “We appreciate being invited to such a splendid banquet.”
“If I had my druthers, I would have invited only you.”
“Um—” Sayaka responded, her cheeks flushing.
Alarmed by the possibility that Sayaka might unexpectedly have a thing for middle-aged guys, Kyoya put on a warning expression.
“But,” she continued, “why did you invite me and the others in the first place?”
All at once, she cut to the heart of the matter.
“All the relevant reasons will come to light later.” The eyes deep within the mask seemed to smile.
He’d ducked the question, leaving Kyoya all the more put out.
“Kyoya Izayoi-kun?”
“Yeah.”
“The rumors have reached even this newcomer’s ears that you are a practitioner of the rare talents of nenpo.”
“Well, ah, sure.”
The masked man directed his attention to Kyoya’s right hand. “And that is Asura. Could I?”
“Go ahead.”
A strong hand reached out—and stopped.
“What?”
He let his hand fall to his side instead, and turned away from the sword. “It seems not to have an affinity for me. Unfortunately.”
“Sure,” said Kyoya, though his voice communicated that he had no idea. “By the way, is the reason you invited me still a mystery?”
“No.” The masked man looked at Kyoya and spoke quietly. The kind of voice that made Sayaka turn a bit pale. A commotion behind them caught their attention. “Ah, the show begins,” he said, turning around. “Please enjoy yourself. Till we meet again.”
The begowned man slipped back into the crowds.
“That guy gives me the creeps,” Kyoya said.
“How’s that?” Sayaka said, her breathing a bit rough.
Kyoya switched Asura to his left hand and shook his right. “Feeling’s gone right out of it, from that guy only getting his hand close. If he’d actually touched it, might have been a lot worse.”
He glanced over at the basin. Men in armor were standing in the middle of the oval. Kyoya could make out one person to the left and three to the right. They were about the same size, though they carried different weapons. The three on the right had long swords. The one on the left, a lance. The swordsmen wore black armor. The lancer’s was dark blue.
They had appeared at some point and would be putting on some sort of performance.
“So this is the entertainment. Interesting,” said Kyoya, massaging his right hand with his left. He was obviously looking forward to it.
“But it’s a sword fight,” Sayaka observed darkly.
“Aw, relax. It’s a show. I’m sure they’ve taken the edge of those weapons off. The lance too—”
The rest of t
he sentence stuck in his throat, as he noticed that the armored knight facing the other three was the one who’d dueled with Mephisto and then picked a fight with him.
“Now then, everybody!” The masked lord’s voice spilled out of the air. “The first act begins, more exciting and thrilling than anything you will ever witness in the world below.”
The guests had already ascertained the nature of the performance and pushed to the edge of the basin. Kyoya and Sayaka tagged along as well.
“One way or another, not your regular sporting event,” said Kyoya.
Ten feet separated the four. Based on the length of the weapons alone, the lancer would have the advantage. But considering number and size, the swordsmen were hardly lacking.
“Man, this is giving me the shivers,” said a well-known business writer, his face flushed with anticipation. “For a bunch of robots, they’re really selling the emotion.”
“They really are,” agreed a voluptuous actress, famous mostly for her physical assets. “It’s like—like that ancient Roman thingy.”
“The Coliseum.”
“Yeah, that’s it!” She licked her lips.
A cruel air enshrouded them. The tension and curiosity rose to a fevered pitch.
The black knights suddenly moved, fanning out around the dark blue knight. One lunged at him from the right. With a whoosh of wind, the swing of his sword swept out a radius of no less than six feet.
Without even looking at him, the blue knight swung his lance. The lateral blow made contact. The right-handed knight had switched the weapon to his left hand.
The altogether strange sound of steel against steel, like a mallet striking a drum, rang out from the black knight’s abdomen. Like a doll tossed through the air, the black knight flew a good twenty yards and struck its head against the rim of the basin.
“What the—!”
“That is—!”
“Blood!” a woman screamed.
From the cracks in the armor—fallen in a heap like a grotesque mannequin, dripped a red liquid that moved out in a spreading stain. This was anything but a fight among robots.
Above the heads of the spectators, his presence forgotten in the spectacle before them, a voice said, “Relax. That blood is artificial. Those you see fighting before you are nothing more than synthetic life forms built here in my home.”
Demon City Shinjuku: The Complete Edition Page 23
