“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.
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.
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.