Toughest picture? I love making pictures but I don’t like talking about them. The toughest picture I ever filmed had to be Ice Patrol. Everyone knew the Captain Johnny Freeze radio program and it was John Wayne’s first big budget project. Two million bucks on the line, but everybody knows Iceboxes are big, strapping tough guys. Lots of frostbite on that set. Actives are controversial right now. The League picketed the studio, but the public sure loved John Wayne freezing Apaches. Got me more awards, not that those matter. Important thing is it paid the bills.
—John Ford, Radio Interview, 1933
Free City of Shanghai
Yao Xiang was sitting at his regular table at his favorite outdoor restaurant, enjoying his tea, passing the lovely afternoon watching the people of Shanghai go about their business, when a terrifying specter from his distant past and his current nightmares walked up and ruined his life all over again.
“Good afternoon,” the Iron Guard said in a completely nonchalant manner. “Do you mind if I join you?” It was not a request. Xiang’s throat was suddenly too dry to respond. The Iron Guard sat down across from him anyway.
The two men looked at each other for a time. Xiang tried not to let his terror show. The Iron Guard showed no emotion whatsoever. Xiang set his cup down. His hands were trembling so badly that the porcelain made quite a bit of rattling noise against the table before he was able to unclench his fingers to let it go. The Iron Guard was young, probably around the age Xiang’s sons would have been if any of them had survived the invasion. However, that relative youth was meaningless. The Iron Guard existed only as tools of war and conquest, and Xiang had personally witnessed the unspeakable violence this particular one was capable of.
“It has been a long time, Xiang.”
“You remember my name, much as I remember yours.” He let out a long sigh. “Have you come to finish me off, Iron Guard Toru?”
“I am no longer an Iron Guard.”
Toru was not wearing a uniform, but that did not mean anything. The Iron Guard often would dress in normal clothing in order to better blend in amongst their victims and targets. Today, Toru was dressed in a western suit coat, as was the current fashion among many of the younger Nipponese working in Shanghai. If one did not know better, they would never guess that beneath such ordinary garb was a series of magical brands that turned the bearer into a living weapon. “Please have mercy, Iron Guard.”
“My Mandarin must be out of practice. Do not call me Iron Guard. I have given up that title.”
The fear made it difficult to speak. “Yes. Of course.”
The proprietor was an old woman. She came over to see if Toru needed anything. Xiang knew that she, too, had been a refugee from the war in Manchuko, yet she was completely unaware that she was politely taking the order of one of the monsters who had ruthlessly slaughtered her relatives. Toru asked for tea.
When she was gone, Toru went back to looking at the street. Several minutes passed in silence, but Xiang did not dare to speak. Toru seemed lost in thought, watching the people come and go for a time. It gave Xiang plenty of time to contemplate all of the terrible ways that the Iron Guard would probably murder him.
“Tell me, Xiang. Are you still employed as a journalist?”
Xiang nodded. “I am the editor of the district newspaper . . . Is that what this is about? I print nothing that would offend the Imperium! I do not know what you have been told, but the censors have approved everything—”
Toru lifted one hand to silence him. The proprietor brought Toru’s drink. “Thank you.” She bowed and shuffled off. “I did not seek you out, Xiang. This was merely a fortunate coincidence.”
“I do not understand, Iron—” Xiang quickly lowered his head. “Forgive me. I do not understand what you mean.”
Toru nodded across the busy street. “I have been informed that unassuming building right over there is an office of the Tokubetsu Koto Keisatsu. I have come here to deliver a message to them.” Xiang looked at the indicated building, which was a rather bland office. He had no idea, but it would not surprise him. The secret police were everywhere. “I did not expect to see an old acquaintance. However, I should not say this was a fortunate coincidence . . .”
Xiang nodded. He would never dream of using the word fortunate.
Toru sipped the tea. “That is excellent.”
“Indeed. Yes it is,” Xiang agreed. Hopefully, if Toru was in a good mood, he would kill him quickly and not have him tortured or humiliated first.
“Yes. This is a sign.” The Iron Guard, for Xiang could never believe in such a thing as a former Iron Guard, stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Nothing happens by accident. It would appear that the ghost of my father has once again guided my path. As I said, I am here to deliver a message. You are a reporter.”
“I am an editor.”
“I do not care. Just as it has moved me, fate has placed you here for a reason. You will report what you see so that my message may be made clear. This is another sign from my father. I will tell you a story, and you will see that it is published.” Toru looked at him expectantly.
“What?”
“You should take notes. You will need to get this right.”
Zhao had only led them part of the way back down the smuggler’s tunnel when Lance spoke up. “Oh damn. Damn it all to hell.” He sounded distracted, which told Sullivan that part of his mind was occupied inside some other living thing.
The group froze. “What’ve you got?”
“You want the good news or the bad news first?”
“Good news, I suppose.”
“Our big-eared gangster friend didn’t sell us out.”
Zhao seemed upbeat for once. “I hoped my cousin would keep his word.”
Heinrich laughed. “And now, of course, the bad.”
“One of his underlings sold us out. Du and his boys left in a convoy of trucks. They’re still counting money and having a good time, but one of those serving girls of his walked down the street from the warehouse and started talking to a policeman. I don’t speak the lingo. Way she’s standing there listening, she’s not a snitch or getting a bribe, she’s one of them, undercover. Now the policeman’s talking into a radio. Wish I spoke Chinese . . .”
“Don’t need to.” Even though the floor was damp and slick, Sullivan took a knee. It was easier on his back than standing all hunched over. He looked over to Zhao, who was thoughtful enough to keep the hand torch pointed down the other way so as to not blind everybody. “They’ll be waiting for us.” Sullivan pulled the Webley from inside his coat. They had passed several forks in the smuggler’s tunnels. “You got another way out?”
“Yes. There are many places to exit in the ruined quarter.”
“Got a rat following the girl. She’s gone back into the warehouse with a bunch of those secret police. There’s a diesel engine . . .”
“What does it do?” Heinrich prompted.
“Hard to get an angle from the floor . . . Wait, it’s a water pump. She’s killed it. Now she’s trying to turn a big valve on the floor.”
“She’s flooding the tunnels,” Heinrich snapped.
“They’re not rolling us up.” Sullivan put the Webley back. “They’re flooding us out.”
“The whole system fills very quickly,” Zhao said. “We will be taking the closest exit. Hurry.”
The knights set out. Lance was all distracted trying to steer more than one body with only one brain, so Heinrich grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him along. Sullivan brought up the rear, mostly because he was too damned big to go fast all hunched over, but it beat crawling. He’d done enough of that in France.
“That valve’s heavy. She’s having to fight it. I’ll distract her . . . Okay, lady. Say hello to my little friend.” Lance began to laugh maniacally.
“What’d you do?” Heinrich asked.
“Had a rat crawl up her dress to bite her on the ass. Ha!” Then Lance grimaced, stumbled, and crashed into the wall. He fell on his face, moaning.
Heinrich dragged him up. Their Beastie had been floored, sure as a punch to the head. “You okay?”
“Getting stepped on always hurts.” Lance was rubbing his temples. “Yeah . . . But we’ve got problems. She had more secret police with her. The valve was rusted stuck, but they’re working on it.”
“How much further, Zhao?” Sullivan asked.
“A few minutes.”
“Keep them busy, Lance. I don’t feel like drowning.”
“Looking . . . I’ve got to collect my Power . . . Here we go, there’s like two hundred rats in this warehouse . . . Can’t control that many individuals . . . Hell. They’ve unstuck the valve. I can only provoke a couple of strong emotions in that many minds.” He closed his eyes and concentrated hard. “I’m going with rage and uncontrollable hunger.”
Sullivan didn’t know if Lance was really going to sic a swarm of giant, vicious wharf rats on the secret police, but he was fresh out of pity. “Do it.”
“Already on the way.” Lance struggled to his feet. “Too late. The floodgate’s open.”
There was an odd sound in the distance, not quite like anything Sullivan had heard before. It sounded more like thunder than anything. The atmosphere in the tunnel changed as air was forced past them.
“We’re not going to make it in time!” Zhao shouted.
They only had a few seconds. “How close are we to the river?” Heinrich asked.
The flashlight beam bounced toward the right. “I don’t know. Maybe twenty feet.”
“Oh . . . That’s nasty . . .” Lance said through clenched teeth, his mind divided between here and the warehouse. “So much blood.”
Serves them right, Sullivan thought to himself, but that was just out of spite because they were about to drown. Drowning was preferable to being devoured by rats.
Heinrich still had Lance by the arm. He looked to Sullivan. “Hold your breath and hang on. I’ll come back for you.” Then Heinrich turned grey and hazy. A split second later Lance did as well, and then the two of them disappeared through the rock.
Sulivan looked around. There was nothing to hold on to. The rumble had grown into a much bigger noise, like they were about to be hit by a train. Sullivan flexed his Power, using it to see the world as it really was, interconnected bits of matter under constant forces, and he could feel the incredible spike of energy heading their way. He instinctively did the math. His Power would be sufficient to anchor himself in place, and then all he’d have to do is hold his breath until Heinrich got back.
Then he looked to Zhao, who was staring at him in wide-eyed terror. Aw hell. Every time Sullivan had ever forced a significant increase of gravitational power onto somebody else, it had either severely injured or outright killed them. His body was trained to deal with it. Sullivan was a Gravity Spiker. Everybody else was fragile in comparison. Zhao would either be swept away to be battered to death or drowned, or Sullivan could anchor him in place, but if he screwed up even the slightest bit, half of the kid’s internal organs would rupture under the pressure. If the water was solid, he might be able to slow it, but fluids worked differently under gravity. They’d still rush past him and get the kid anyway. Fluids were complicated.
“Get behind me,” Zhao shouted.
It was usually Sullivan that said that to others in crisis situations. He was not used to hearing it from somebody else. Zhao roughly pushed past Sullivan, toward the onrushing wall of water. The kid dropped the flashlight on the floor, extended his hands, palms open, and squinted into the darkness. He began muttering in Chinese in what Sullivan could only guess was either a desperate prayer or angry profanity. It really could have gone either way.
The surge of magical energy could be felt even before the sudden drop in temperature. Sullivan had one hand against the slick, wet wall, but he snatched it away, as the stone froze so quickly that it burned his flesh. He even left some skin behind. Ice crystals formed and spread, and within seconds, the tunnel was covered in gleaming white. The dirty ice reflected and bounced the flashlight beam. The cold hit Sullivan like a hammer and his breath shot out in a burst of steam.
Zhao shouted something, but Sullivan’s ears were too cold to hear it. Either that or the blast of air pushing ahead of the water took all the sounds with it. Then somehow it got even colder. The storm at the North Pole was a summertime walk in the park in comparison. Sullivan’s exposed skin felt like it was on fire. His eyes didn’t want to move in their sockets. His teeth felt like they were about to shatter, and the worst part of all was that Sullivan was on the warm side of the tunnel. He was only catching the aftereffects radiating off of Zhao’s body. The real force of his magic was being directed the opposite way. The kid was using so much Power, so fast, that it was liable to kill him. The cold ate the batteries in their flashlight, plunging the tunnel into darkness.
When using their magic, Spikers could see gravity, because everything was just matter and force after all. The whole universe was simply little bits, seen and unseen, constantly moving against each other and creating energy. In all of the many years since Sullivan had begun to truly understand the nature of his Power, he had never seen the world deprived of that energy, until that one brief moment in time, when he got to see Zhao suck every last bit of heat from that tunnel. Sullivan had never seen matter be so perfectly still before.
And then the water was on them.
It roared down the tunnel, ready to smash them flat, but then the angry water molecules hit the impenetrable cold, and then it was energy bleeding into the complete absence of it. The top layer turned to ice and the layer behind it turned to slush, but still behind that was a million gallons of pushing death, and Zhao pushed back even harder. Thicker and thicker, the wall turned into a plug of ice with the density of a prehistoric glacier, but it still kept on coming. Releasing that much magic at once threatened to tear the kid apart, but he kept it up. The ice thickened, hardened, cracked, exploded, and reformed, slowing, but still driving onward.
So now they were about to get steam rolled by a giant ice cube.
All of his Power exhausted, Zhao collapsed. The temperature immediately began to rise as molecules began moving again. Sullivan tried to lift a foot and realized that his boots had been stuck to the floor, so he pulled harder until his soles cracked free. He was so cold he could barely think, but ice was solid. Sullivan understood solid.
Lumbering down the tunnel, he stepped over the fallen kid, gathered up all of his considerable Power, magnified his density, lowered one shoulder, and absolutely chained himself to the center of the Earth. The ice flow was moving about as fast as a truck on the highway, and it hit him equally hard.
Sullivan flinched, partly from the impact, and partly from the sheer, unbelievable cold. It shattered around him, and despite his magically amplified mass, it shoved him, his feet turning the stone of the tunnel floor into gravel. The cold was killing his flesh. The moisture in his skin was freezing and rupturing his cells. The Healing spells he’d carved into his chest were burning like suns, trying to repair the damage. Sullivan drew as hard on his Power as he ever had in his life, increasing his density even more, and now the cold could not penetrate as fast, though it just kept on pushing.
There was motion in the shadows behind him. Heinrich had returned. Take the kid! Sullivan wanted to shout, but he was so locked under the pressure of a multitude of gravities that hisß vocal cords couldn’t vibrate. Heinrich grabbed Zhao and they were gone.
The ice cracked. It was like the plug on a pressure vessel. The edges let go. The friction lessened. Water began to spray past. The ice split again, harder this time. Water was spraying him in the face. The tunnel was filling. The iceberg was breaking apart. The unstoppable force had met the immovable object. The ice cracked, spreading out around him, and then it exploded.
Water was blasting past him, surrounding him. The current would have torn any normal man away, but Sullivan planted himself there and waited. At least the river water was warm in comparison to the Zhao’s ice, but compared to that hellish freezer, everything was warmer. The pressure lessened, so Sullivan was able to ease up on how fast he was burning through his Power. He could feel the reservoir of magical energy stored up in his chest. The air in his lungs would run out long before his magic would.
Today would be nice, Heinrich.
The pain was in his lungs. How much time had passed? He really needed to breathe. No matter how dense he could make himself, there was still the delicate balance of allowing the blood and the air in it to flow to his brain. Cut that off and he was out, just like anybody else.
Come on, Fade.
A hand landed on his shoulder. Sullivan let go of his magic, and suddenly they were both being swept away.
The world was already pitch black, so he couldn’t see when it turned grey, but he felt it as Heinrich pulled him through the tunnel wall. Despite the pain and the danger, his analytical mind couldn’t help but marvel at the feeling of Fading. Sullivan had expanded his original magical connection with gravity into the adjoining areas of force and density, but so far the flip side of the coin, making himself insubstantial enough for his own molecules pass through solid objects had absolutely eluded him. Maybe Fade magic just didn’t work with his mentality. Nobody would ever accuse Jake Sullivan of being flighty.
They passed through the solid earth. It was an uncanny feeling, but Sullivan trusted that Heinrich knew what he was doing, though for such a supposedly short distance, this did seem to take forever . . . Luckily, they hit the river and he felt himself become substantial again. Immediately his body began to be effected by the currents, and not being buoyant, he began to sink like a stone.
Desperate for air, Sullivan kicked toward the sunlight.
Yao Xiang had been scribbling furious notes for an hour. It had been a long time since he had personally conducted an interview, and he found that all of the writing was making his hand cramp badly. He had suffered from arthritis ever since the Imperium torturers had broken all of his fingers during questioning, but despite that, he could not stop, because what Toru was telling him was either the most important story in the world or utter lunacy.
“That is all, Xiang. Print that in its entirety.” Toru placed his teacup gently on the table. “The Imperium needs to know the truth.”
“But the censors—”
“They will deny you. That is to be expected. However, the important thing is that my words have been recorded, and will fall into the hands of Imperium intelligence to be analyzed. In a short time the truth of my story will be demonstrated, and they will have the testimony necessary to sort out the reality from the lies. If not, by next week the Imperium censors will have more important things to do than to monitor your little paper, and you can print it for the masses then.”
“I would never violate the censor’s orders.”
“Do not bother trying to lie to me. We all know that there is plenty of underground propaganda printed in this city. I used to believe it was a problem when Imperial citizens would read such subversive things, but now I see the value.”
Xiang was frankly shocked by this development. Was this all some sort of elaborate trick to test my loyalty to the conquerors? Yet it seemed too bizarre for the normally extremely direct Iron Guard to do something of that nature. Unless this whole thing was some elaborate form of entertainment for them, which would inevitably end with Xiang getting his head chopped off and hung on a fence for decorative purposes. “You would revolt against the Imperium?”
Toru was still staring at the street, as if carefully recording every pedestrian and vehicle. “When a ship loses its way, the course must be corrected, or it will crash on the rocks.”
“Your story could cause an uprising against the Imperium.”
“So be it.”
He simply couldn’t believe it, and maybe that was why he spoke out of turn. “Such hard hearts, capable of such cruelty, I never thought an Iron Guard would betray his—“
Toru slammed his open palm down on the table. The wood cracked and cups spilled. “I am no traitor!”
Xiang cringed back. Everyone in the café looked their way, curious. The proprietor shuffled out and immediately began cleaning up the spills and apologizing for things that weren’t her fault, but nobody in Shanghai wanted to risk a Nipponese customer’s displeasure, even if they had no idea who he really was. It simply wasn’t worth the risk.
Toru lowered his voice. “Know this. I still believe in the mission of the Imperium. I believe in the teachings of my father. Manchuria. Nanking. Manchuko. Thailand. Indonesia. I would do it all again. Every battle. All of it. I would follow my orders because I am a warrior. My honor requires it.”
His sons had all died at the hands of someone like this. He had been tortured for speaking out against their occupiers. Xiang had been beaten down and cowed for so long that he was surprised to hear his own words tumbling out in a rush of sudden, hot anger. “It isn’t the battle. It is the depravity that comes after it. Imperium troops are cruel. They do not limit their killing to soldiers. They burn and rape. They starve villages while extra food rots, simply out of spite. They murder innocents for sport. I saw it with my own eyes. They would practice using their bayonets on defenseless prisoners! They murder children. Children!” Now he knew he’d gone too far. Everyone in the café was staring at them, surprised at Xiang’s outburst. He hadn’t said anything that any of them wouldn’t have said in private, but you didn’t dare say it to someone from the faction that could rain fiery death down upon your city on a whim. He waited for Toru to strike him dead, but he would be damned if he looked away. “Do not try to justify that to me as honor. There is no honor in evil.”
Toru’s public face had slipped. There was anger, and perhaps something else . . . Shame? Surprisingly, it was the Iron Guard who broke eye contact first. “Sit down, Xiang.”
He hadn’t realized he was standing. Xiang slowly returned to his seat. Toru was quietly contemplating the street again. Gradually, the other patrons went back to their tea.
I may die today, but I die an honest man. Regardless of what happened next, Xiang was resigned to his fate. “You were there. You know I speak the truth. You approved of such—”
“I did at first, because I did not understand. I participated in the sport, the same as the rest of the soldiers. I am not proud of my actions, but I will not deny they occurred.” Toru looked at his hands. “It is easy, when you are so powerful, to think of your opponents as less than men . . . animals perhaps. If they are animals, do what you will with them. Use them for your pleasure, throw them away when they are broken and you are done.”
“Disgusting.”
“Perhaps. Some among us took it for granted. It was simply what victors do. Yet . . . it haunts me.” Toru’s voice was a whisper, barely audible over the buzz of traffic and the constant hum of thousands of city dwellers. “I came to understand such cruelty was not what the Chairman taught. He was a warrior, ruthless against his enemies, yet he bore no animosity toward former foes. His goal was to improve us all so that we could stand as a better world against our true enemy. Only many of his disciples failed to grasp that part of his vision. When your entire philosophy is based upon the strong taking what they want from the weak, soon the weak mean nothing.”
Xiang could not believe his ears. He did not know an Iron Guard was capable of regret. “You speak of him as if he was merciful, but the Chairman let those things happen.”
For the first time, Toru did not look like a terrifying Iron Guard. He looked like a tired young man. “To entertain such an idea would mean that the Chairman was somehow flawed. This, I cannot accept. He was perfect. We are flawed. I was a warrior who did what he was told. Because of my strength and speed, I was a favorite in the games, and my superiors would often choose me to represent my order in competitions against other units.”
“Games? You mean massacres.”
“To us they were simple contests, feats of strength for the officers to display our prowess with the sword or club . . .” Toru was staring into the distance. “I never lost. It was easy when they were not real people. I imagine it is more like chopping firewood, simple manual labor. Then one day, I refused to follow such orders. I forbid this behavior among my troops. This became . . . controversial.”
“Why did you stop?” Xiang was genuinely curious. Terrified, but curious.
“They became real.”
Toru paused for a long time. He seemed to be staring at his hands. He curled them into fists, and then hid them under the table.
“I do not wish to speak of it further. After this incident I was disgraced and sent to America, as far from the front as possible. I had been trained since birth to serve and to fight. To be sent away from the war was an incredible dishonor, but I understand now that it was meant to be . . . I do not know why I tell you these things, old man.”
“You are a murderer, trying to scrub his conscience clean. If these things you told me are true, then you know you will more than likely be dead soon. You cannot expect to challenge the Imperium so directly and survive. I have interviewed murderers before, hours before their executions, and you sound like one of the condemned. I am speaking to a man who knows he is going to the gallows. You seek something that can never be given, Iron Guard Toru. I will never forgive you. We will never forgive you.”
Toru rubbed his face with both hands, and when he lowered them, his public mask was firmly back in place. Toru stood and adjusted his coat. “I do not expect your forgiveness. I merely expect you to tell the truth.” He began walking away.
“My telling the truth is why you people had my sons killed.”
There was a small stutter in Toru’s step. He turned back. “If I could change the Imperium’s past, I would.”
“Liar.”
Toru gave him a small, sad smile. “Witness my conviction.” And then the Iron Guard walked quickly through the dining area and disappeared into the crowded street.
Xiang stayed there, trembling, the fear and anger slowly bleeding from him. Now that the murderous Toru was gone, the painful knots in his bowels began untwisting. He glanced at his notepad, filled with tales of devouring creatures from beyond the stars, ghosts, and impossible conspiracies. The Iron Guard had simply gone mad. The horrors of war had broken his mind. Witness my conviction. What had Toru meant by that? And then Xiang realized that in all of their discussion he’d forgotten the reason Toru had said had brought him here to begin with.
The unassuming building that supposedly housed Tokubetsu Koto Keisatsu agents was busy now, men hurrying in and out because it was lunch time. He caught a brief glimpse of Toru crossing the busy street, dodging between the cars, which were going far too fast. One of them honked, but Toru did not heed it. He walked quickly up behind a group of three men who had just come down the steps. Toru’s manner was unassuming, his hat down to keep from being recognized as he shouldered his way through the bystanders. What is he doing? Though he’d said he’d come to deliver a message, he did not hail the men, and they did not see him coming.
Toru grabbed the first by the back of his coat, lifted him effortlessly, and hurled him into the street, directly into the path of a speeding truck. He hit the grill so hard that pieces went spinning off. The truck driver slammed on the brakes. Tires locked up and screeched, but the forward momentum was too much, and Xiang lost track of Toru for a second behind the truck. Then the truck was past, leaving a smear of blood behind, and Toru was twisting the last man’s head off. The other was already lying in a broken heap. The Iron Guard dropped the head, took one big step, leapt up all of the stairs, crashed through the heavy wooden doors of the building, and disappeared inside.
There was much commotion on the street. People were shouting and pointing, but since it had happened so very fast, Xiang doubted any of them really knew what had just transpired. Two seconds later there was a gunshot. Five seconds after that, a window on the second floor of the purported secret-police building exploded outward in a gout of fire and broken glass. Now the crowd knew something was wrong. The Shanghaiese were no strangers to sudden street violence, so they began taking cover or moving away in a fashion which would seem rather casual to most visitors.
There were more muffled gunshots, and though Xiang knew it was surely impossible from here with all of the city noise, he could have sworn that he heard screaming. Then on the fifth and final floor, another window broke open and a man came flying out. He flailed and kicked until he hit the sidewalk and burst open like a melon. Papers and documents came floating down after him like lazy doves.
Xiang had no doubt that Toru had systematically slaughtered every single person inside that building, and done so in less than a minute. The fire which had somehow begun on the second floor was spreading across the entire upper face of the building by the time Toru nonchalantly came out the broken front door and walked down the steps. He was wiping his bloody knuckles on someone’s shirt like it was a rag before tossing it into the bushes. The deadly Iron Guard looked across the street, right at Xiang, and the two briefly made eye contact before Toru simply strolled away to disappear back into the city.
Witness my conviction.
