Maohden Vol. 2 (2 page)

Three was a giant of a man dressed in the long black robes of a Catholic priest. Four was a middle-aged man wearing a long black coat.

The giant held a long lance in his right hand. A sickle-shaped blade was affixed to the five-foot-long staff. A strong man like this giant could take a man’s head off his shoulders with a single swipe.

His opponent was empty handed.

As was to be expected, Three churned the air over his head, then aimed the weapon squarely at the chest of Four. The smoothness and speed of the motion spoke to his expertise.

Without sparing a second glance, as if letting it ride on the gust of wind like a feather, he turned the momentum into a sweeping circle and brought the gleaming blade down on Four’s head.

A flash of white motion jumped up from below. With a slick sound like the snapping of a wet towel, the lance stopped dead in its trajectory.

At first, it appeared that Three had halted of his own accord. It soon became apparent that was not the case.

The blade should have sliced Four in two from the crown of his head to his waist. Instead, Four caught it between his palms above his head. This was the
shinken shirahadori
technique for seizing a sword with the bare hands.

But Four’s great strength meant that Three could neither advance nor retreat from this position. They were six feet apart, just far enough to render footwork ineffective.

No less equally strange was that, witnessing such a remarkable exhibition of offense and defense, no one in the stands said a word or uttered even a gasp of admiration.

Perhaps before any of them could draw the next breath, their eyes had caught sight of a line of silver light drawn between the two men. A two-foot-long sword—more a knife with a long blade and a longer hilt—buried itself into Three’s gut.

Four’s hand was gripping the shaft.

But his two hands still held the lance immobile above his head. This hand belonged to a third arm that sprang out from beneath his coat.

The giant’s eyes opened wide before filling with the certain knowledge of death. He swayed.

Four released the hands above his head. The freed blade again continued on its downward trajectory, now cutting through the wind, slanting sideways at Four’s neck.

Again the air stirred. The dead face froze in surprise.

Four spun around, turning his back before the rushing blade could reach. Two more arms jutted out from the sides of his coat, twisting in a way that would again intercept Three’s attack.

Four grinned. Another hand appeared at his collar and flung the coat into the air.

From his neck down to his waist, the torso of this otherwise ordinary-looking, middle-aged man sported dozens of writhing, waving appendages.

Hairy muscular arms, slender limbs like those of a woman, small, cute and chubby ones like a child—the fingers on all their hands opening and closing, seeking and grasping, endowed with split-second reflexes that could meet a flying lance and launch a counterattack.

Not just knives and swords, but in a battle involving guns, lasers, or any kind of deadly projectile, this middle-aged man could equal the effectiveness of ten.

Four turned to face Three. As many arms covered his front as his back. The malicious smile on his face deepened. And then vanished without a trace.

The sword sticking out of Three’s back drew a vertical line up his body, severing the long black robes and traveling straight through his head. In a flash, the giant was divided neatly in two.

An unexpected
whooshing
sound reached the stands. A black, filmy curtain leapt from the severed torso, coursed toward Four and engulfed him, turning him into a misty, dark lump.

The black net slowly pulsed and contracted. Screams burst forth from within, stifled to muffled groans, a sound like the beating of grasshopper wings inside a paper bag, and the gnawing and smacking of lips.

A woman’s white arm pushed out of the thick, cloudy mass, calling for help like a drowning swimmer sinking beneath the surface. The black curtain surrounded it once again, stripping away the skin and muscles and tendons, until only the white bones remained. And then they too crumbled away.

Literally eaten away.

A swarm of black moths with translucent wings had burst forth from Three’s body. These moths had limbs and human-like fingers and claws and fangs that greedily devoured Four’s body.

Three had not sustained them for himself. Three was little more than a vessel, a cocoon, his body and soul controlled by the insects to their own ends.

Split in half by the sword, the body lay there lifeless. The humming swarm ignored it, soared into the air, and disappeared into the moonlit sky.

Their appearance here had only been in search of another meal. Left behind in the coliseum was the severed “cocoon” and the coat and shoes of Four. The not uncommon results of a battle of demons in Demon City, that could be witnessed nowhere else.

“Zapf is declared the—” The announcer stopped, and continued a moment later. “A correction. The bout is declared a draw. Both numbers are stricken from the results.”

All those scribbling hands in the stands made the proper notations in the programs.

But what precisely were they looking at? What were these expressions on their faces that showed no fear or surprise, or these eyes that witnessed such otherworldly combat as if they were seeing nothing at all?

The Death Match held at the Coliseum was part of the annual Assassin Games, open to veterans and amateurs alike.

Asked what truly set it apart and the people who put on the show all said the same thing with the same wry grin: “Nobody up there in the stands knows shit.”

Not a nice way of putting it, but awfully close to the mark. What they meant was, “All they know is
who
wins. Not
how
.”

The financial reasons, to start with. Winning combatants were assured of earning a living as a professional killer. They expected to get offers from all the professional criminal organizations. Even if they chose to remain independent, they could double or triple their standard fees.

Pros with established reputations and money in the bank were an exception, seeking out stronger opponents in a quest to test their own physical limits. Their skills were also considered proprietary information.

Upon entering the arena, the spectators were dosed with beta blockers. No matter how intense the competition, they would not get caught up in the thrill of the fight. Because the compounds in the drugs were never disclosed, there was no readily available counteracting agent.

A bright light was trained on each seat. Closing their eyes wouldn’t keep out the concentrated beam. In any case, the drugs in the beta blockers also prevented anyone there from shutting his eyes for too long. Not that they could see what they might have thought they came to see anyway.

The light blinked out a complex series of pulses. The impact on the visual cortex had an auto-suggestive effect that, together with the drugs, served to coerce the desired behavior.

Namely that, “All they know is who wins.”

No matter how they might squint or peel their eyes, any memory or comprehension of
how
the match was fought was expunged. The spectators filling the stands really did not know shit about anything but the final results.

This was all by design. The skills that earned these professional assassins their keep were their “intellectual property,” trade secrets kept even from their employers. Revealing them to a grandstand full of spectators would be as good as a soldier handing his weapons over to his enemies.

The only thing he would spell out was exactly what would happen to anybody thinking of stabbing him in the back.

A lot of the newbies—both the recruiters and the recruits—prattled on about non-disclosure agreements, but the Coliseum officials preferred to stick with their memory erasing technology.

The employers waxed cautious about buying a pig in a poke. But sneak previews and test drives were out of the question.

However mistaken it might be to state that “Nobody knows shit,” that probably was closer to the actual truth. In the end, the assassins were just another set of pawns being played on the chessboard of this city. Considering the odds of making it through another day, a man in this town might as well make his own luck.

So their attention was drawn instead to the south end of the arena, where the “prize” lay on its makeshift altar, arms and legs bound, writhing in mortification, her body fully exposed for all to see.

The fifteen finalists remaining after thirty bouts would draw straws. But a human being had never before been the bounty that awaited them. Any number of physically alluring women could be procured in this city. The organizers who’d designated this prize had something particularly grave and dangerous in mind.

The eyes of the spectators turned toward the naked girl filled with dark thoughts. What exactly—who—and what—was she?

A polite knock. The doctor flung the tabloid weekly he’d been reading into a corner of the room. “Ah, come in,” he said with forced formality. And then winced. He still hadn’t gotten used to the creaking hinges.

But seeing the handsome young man, he set that annoyance aside. “My, my,” he murmured to himself.

“I am pleased to meet you,” the young man said. “My name is Gento Roran. I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you.”

The doctor wordlessly indicated a folding chair sitting a short ways off.

“No, here is fine.”

Gento leaned back against the wall. He scanned the room with cold eyes befitting the cool beauty of his face. Even without observing the gurneys, operating tables, and the automated therapy beds lining the back wall, this was clearly the infirmary.

Some of the tools and instruments were the latest designs and models, while the medicine cabinets and the desk and digital office assistant were at least a decade old. The low ceilings and floor and walls were bare concrete. There were no refrigeration units.

All the more telling were the black blotches staining the floor, most likely bloodstains, radiating a palpable aura of constrained malice and accursed loathing. Perhaps that was what kept the air unusually cool.

Gento pointed at a body lying on one of the operating tables. “He dead?”

This was One, the loser of the first match. The doctor shook his head. “Not dead yet.”

“As I should have expected,” Gento said with a thin smile.

The losers were brought here to be resuscitated, in most cases pretty much brought back from the dead.

“What was it you wished to ask of me?” the doctor said, casting a sidelong glance at the tabloid in the corner.

Gento nodded. “I would like to employ your services for a short while.”

“Well. I don’t come cheap.”

“I didn’t expect that you would. But for the time being, you will have to settle for a reward other than money.”

“Meaning?”

“You would behold the fate of the world.”

“You don’t say.”

“I wish to reveal unto you the mysteries of the universe.”

“That sounds a bit too heavy for my tastes. I think you should be looking for Doctor Frankenstein.”

“He did nothing more than raise the dead,” Gento sniffed. “Make my wishes come true and you will see the dead spring spontaneously back to life.”

“Sorry, but the only thing I can operate with is a scalpel.”

“It’s enough. I wish you only to examine a single girl.”

“Where is this girl?”

“I will retrieve her from all that foolish commotion going on above. For reasons that will soon become apparent, this room will not do. You will accompany me to my abode. Everything you need will be waiting for you there.”

“Interesting. But first—”

A stampede of footsteps erupted outside the door. The door banged open. Two corpsmen carried a bloody man in on a stretcher.

“He’s all yours.” The man wearing a baseball cap touched the brim of his visor.

“Round three, eh? Condition?”

“Some sleeping bug injected into his gut. After that, got busted in the head.”

“Understood.”

After moving the body on the stretcher to the operating table, the corpsmen bowed and left. Noting that they hadn’t cast a single glance at Gento or apparently even felt his presence, the doctor said in a matter-of-fact voice, “Seems as if they can’t see you.”

He proceeded to the operating table. The patient they’d brought in was in his early forties. He was wearing a gray crew neck T-shirt. The top of his head was caved in. Gray matter oozed from the cracks in his skull. The kind of injury that anywhere else would receive a fatal diagnosis on the spot.

But he was still clinging to life. His torso—the whole upper half of his body—pulsed up and down. Gento’s face reflected in the blade of the sonic scalpel in the doctor’s right hand as he addressed the patient.

“In these games, if you lose you’re dead. But before picking up any of your appearance money, you’ll likely be spending that much on the aftercare.”

With no warning about covering his eyes or the like, the doctor sliced him open from his throat down to his waist. The flesh practically flew apart. The innards popped out, like they’d been dying to get out.