Warbirds of Mars: Stories of the Fight! Page 18

  The nameless man described the metal in full. It had been straight still, when plunged into the still rippling water. But the different in quality of the metals it contained meant that they contracted when cooled at different rates. The top of the sword shrank much faster, pulling the metal upward into the distinctive curve of the Samurai sword.

  “Together, the two have formed perfection,” he told his master and friend.

  “The rest is for you,” Honma had told him. Days had passed, and the nameless man worked tirelessly on the other elements of the weapon: the suba, or cross guard; the saya, or scabbard; the intricate wrapping of the suka, or handle. But what Honma had meant by his comment was the ultimate honor. He had meant the polishing of the blade and the sharpening of the edge to its wicked keenness.

  They spoke little over the weeks that followed, but perhaps enjoyed each other’s company the more for it. Through the process of the making of the sword, they had somehow become friends and equals, and while no words were exchanged to such an effect, their actions displayed this newfound quality to their interactions with kindness and respect.

  They ate their meals again on the front balcony of the house, on the days when the Spring appeared to be blooming early, but then the cold brittle days would return, driving them back indoors, near the warmth of the coal fire. They had been together for just a year. Honma would now prepare the meals, and the nameless man would work tirelessly at polishing. For the first two weeks of this new year together, Nameless used larger polishing rectangular stones, but then eventually he moved to the smallest of polishing stones—sometimes as tiny as flecks of sand, which he gently slid along the length of the blade with the tip of one massive digit.

  He took excessive care while polishing the blade, but still nicked himself several times in the process. Through the polishing, the wavy line Honma had applied before the quenching, with clay and charcoal, revealed itself as an amazing work of art, with a miniscule cherry tree image worked into the exact center of the wavering line, or hamon. The nameless man understood that this small detail was for him, and in honor of their first meeting place.

  Nameless wore the leather jacket while sitting out on the crisp breezy days, working patiently and polishing endlessly. Weeks later, as the weather was finally beginning to lose its deep chill, he began the sharpening of the tip.

  The nameless man thought he might be days away from finishing the sword, when Honma touched his shoulder.

  “Someone comes,” he said softly. “You should go to the forge, and, just in case, you might want to put on the mask.”

  The nameless man quickly gathered his polishing implements and took them with him in one hand, and the blade in his other. He retreated through the house, and down the long tunnel to the forge, now so well known to him that he would have little problem navigating it if he were the blind man. Once in the forge, he located the gas mask and donned it. Then he stood and waited, wondering what he should do next. He made up his mind inside of a minute and returned down the long passage to the house.

  When he arrived, he slipped quietly to the front room, and peered though a crack in the rice paper walls, his vision slightly distorted by the lenses of the mask.

  Honma stood on the grass in front of the house, speaking softly to two large, blonde-haired men. Nameless knew them to be Germans from their Teutonic looks, and military from their bearing. They were accompanied by two shorter, but no less proud, Japanese men. One was quite young, and one was much older, although still younger than Honma. Nameless could not hear the conversation, but he could see from Honma’s posture that he was calm, yet firm, with the men. Whatever they were asking for, he was denying it to them. The men seemed very unhappy, but did not allow their disappointment to blossom into anger. Within minutes, the four intruders turned and walked away.

  When Honma returned indoors, he made no indication that he wished to speak about the visitors, so the nameless man did not ask.

  Wearing the mask became second nature for the man. It was comfortable now, and he left it on his face more often than not. The lenses magnified his view just slightly, and he found they helped to reduce glare as he worked on sharpening the highly polished blade.

  Everything had been completed, except for the sharpening of the very tip, and he lovingly and delicately worked the fine metal. He had not cut himself in weeks. His touch was that of a master craftsman, a fine artist, and a connoisseur of every aspect of the weapon.

  The sword had become his myopic world.

  It was only when he paused to get a drink of water for himself that he realized that he was done. The sword was finished. The blade was sharp. He had hardly given thought to what it would be like to finish the weapon, and now that it was done, he was unsure what to do.

  He held the glimmering blade up in the brilliant sunshine, moving it this way and that. The silver sheen of the length of the blade was blinding. The hamon had a nearly blue tinge to it, and the sunlight rippled across the cherry tree Honma had painted into the line. They had together etched a long line of chrysanthemums into the blade by the hilt. The light caught in those etchings, and sank, as if sucked into a voice of blackness. The wound rope of the suka was jet black, as was the highly polished scabbard of lacquered wood.

  A work of art.

  Nameless sheathed the stunning blade, then stood to find Honma and present the weapon to him, as completed. But then he remembered that Honma had left hours ago for the forge, to tidy some things. It was not uncommon now for Nameless to lose himself completely in his work on the blade. Time was immaterial. He and Honma had no reason for rushing, and the sword would be ready when it decided to be ready, as Honma had said many times over the last year.

  The nameless man journeyed through the tunnel to the forge, carrying the sword in hand.

  When he emerged at the forge, he knew something was not right.

  Things were in disarray, scattered around the room. Honma, as a blind man, was particular about his placement of tools, so he could easily find them again. The nameless man suspected that even if his friend was not blind, he would have been as meticulous.

  But now tools were in strange locations, as if Honma had suffered a tantrum and thrown things all around the room.

  Still wearing the mask and holding the sword, the nameless man moved around the forge, noting each item out of place. Metal prod bars across the coal pile. Wicker baskets upturned. Shovels on the floor, in places where Honma might trip over them.

  Then, at the base of the stairs, he noticed the blood.

  Moving quickly, he ran up the steps, searching each vacant floor on his way up to the collection on the fifth floor. As he emerged from the stairs, his head entering the room at the top of the pagoda tower, he understood what had happened.

  The men had returned. They had found the secret pagoda in the hills somehow. The room was empty of swords. All one hundred blades and their scabbards were gone. Several of the hand-carved racks had been broken, their raw exposed wood an affront to the sacred space.

  He moved to the windows and went out onto the uppermost balcony, looking down into the unkempt meadow. The torri gate was singed with strange burn marks in places, as if some kind of fire had hit it with pinpoint accuracy.

  Then he saw the body in the grass.

  The nameless man raced down the steps so quickly, his feet barely touched them. At the level of the forge, he sprinted to the doors, and launched himself across the field to the fallen Japanese man.

  Honma was covered in blood, and lying in a small pool of it. He lay on his back, his head pointed up at the sky, his chest rising and falling in small hitches. There was a deep puncture wound on his chest that bubbled a stark crimson balloon of fluid. On his arms were more of the peculiar burn marks. His eyes, although blind, were still open.

  “Ah,” he coughed and wheezed. “There you are, Mr. Mask. I am pleased to see you are unscathed.”

  “Honma-san, what can I do?” the nameless man asked, having slid to his kn
ees next to the old man in the tall grass. He held the sword in both hands, horizontal to the ground, almost forgotten. Now that his friend and mentor had been gravely injured, all the care he had placed into the object for a year seemed meaningless.

  “Is it finished?” Honma asked, his voice quieter than the last time he had spoken.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you now understand why we have created the sword?”

  He did. It all came to him in a rush. Honma had never really thought he had escaped the Germans or their strange, alien allies. He knew all along that the Emperor’s men would find him, even here in the remote countryside. He had understood that these creatures of warfare would be the end of him.

  The nameless man saw all the geopolitical pieces go together in his mind. Honma had brought news of the world after each trip into the village to get supplies. In the last year, things had gone from bad to worse. The Germans were rampaging across Europe. Japan was attacking every neighboring nation in the Pacific, going so far as to invade Mongolia. Britain and France were retaliating. The aliens—the strange creatures that had bred and tortured him as a child—they had thrown in their lot with the Germans. And this time, the Japanese had sided with them as well. The world was exploding into another Great War. But this one would be different. As he knelt next to his dying friend and mentor, he recalled the boasts of his tormentors, through his horrible childhood. They were just an advanced force. Spies. Advisors. Diplomats. Counselors. They would make the alliances they could, and gather what information was needed. Eventually, others would come. Hordes of others. Legions. An invasion force.

  Looking at the wounded Honma on the grass, he understood that Honma, with his knowledge of war and warlike men had understood all too well, what the presence of the extraterrestrials had meant.

  “Yes, Honma-san. I understand now, the purpose of this weapon.” He said it with great sadness, but also with acceptance.

  “Then put the bitter edge of this sword to its grim purpose, and do not feel sadness in your heart.”

  The old man grew silent, the rising and falling of his chest increasingly shallow. The nameless man was determined to stay by his side, until the chest stopped moving completely. Then he would find those responsible, and show them the implement he had been honing for a year. When that work was done, he would seek out the aliens on this planet and dispatch them, one by one.

  A full minute had passed when Honma spoke again, his voice stronger, and startling in the silence of the field.

  “You have a purpose now. A solemn task. You are the most worthy man on the planet of carrying it out. Have you found your sense of worth?”

  Honma coughed, but it was a very soft cough.

  Speaking through the distorting air filter of the gas mask, the younger man’s voice sounded normal, but it felt strangled. “I have. Thank you.”

  “Then find a name for yourself.” Honma’s voice softened to a whisper, but he could still be heard. “As for me, I will move into the next world calling you: Son.”

  THE MONSTERS

  OF ADOBE WELLS

  By Ron Fortier

  Charlie Three-Feathers rode his dapple roan mare to the top of the outcropping, under a half-moon and a cloudy night sky. Upon hearing the distant gunshots, he dismounted, pulled his binoculars off his saddle horn, and in a crouch, made his way to the edge of the cliff. Getting down on one knee, the Sioux soldier brought the lenses to his eyes and began to focus them on the distant, flat Arizona landscape that stretched out for hundreds of miles before him.

  Although visibility was tricky at this hour of the night, whenever the partial moon peeked out from the passing cumulus clouds, he could just make out notable landmarks, and in particular the small desert town called Abode Wells.

  Since the Martian invasion several years earlier, most of the American West had become a devastated no-man’s land, most of the major towns and cities having been destroyed in the Martians’ first bombing raids. Gone were Denver, Cheyenne, Scottsdale, Yuma, and more. Most of the surviving human refugees had fled to California, which had managed to successfully fight off the alien invaders. Others not lucky enough to find transportation had hightailed it into the rough wilderness areas, where out-of-the way towns and villages had, for the time being, escaped the enemies’ interest.

  Adobe Wells was such an enclave. First built in the 1870s during the post-Civil War westward migration, it had been a thriving little community, dependent on the silver mines located in the area. When the silver lode expired, the people moved, and Adobe Wells became just another of the many ghost towns that dotted this hot, arid land. Three-Feathers often stopped there during his scouting trips, as he was a U.S. Army sergeant assigned to a secret military base in northern New Mexico that supplied intelligence data to the government in Philadelphia. Sergeant Three-Feathers was part of an elite group known as the Range Riders.

  More gunshots echoed through the night. They were accompanied by shouts and screams, all emanating from the cluster of ramshackle buildings that made up Adobe Wells.

  What the hell is going on down there?

  He couldn’t see any flying craft in the skies surrounding the town, but still, what he was hearing was clearly a battle being waged. It could only be the Martians, but again, he would have expected to see their flying saucer-like vehicles, with which he was very familiar. During his trips through these western badlands he’d learned how to avoid their flyover patrols.

  The gunfire went on for another twenty minutes, with random rifle shots cracking every so often, and then there was utter silence.

  The Sioux warrior, dressed in drab gray camouflage fatigues, went back to his horse, and taking its reins, he led it along a narrow path through the rocks to a small hidden cut. He tied the animal to scraggly scrub bushes, unrolled his sleeping blanket, and hunkered down on the hard ground. Whatever had transpired in that old Ghost Town would have to wait until daybreak. To go down there alone would be folly. If there was alien activity in the region, it was not only vital that Three-Feathers learn of it, but also that he stay alive to report it to his superiors.

  That decided, he wrapped himself in the wooly blanket against the night cold and closed his eyes. He was asleep five minutes later.

  The hot desert sun pounded down on Charlie Three-Feathers as he rode into Adobe Wells the next morning, his horse trotting at a slow and deliberate pace. His Winchester rifle rested across his lap, his hand gripping it loosely.

  Abandoned long before the advent of the twentieth-century, the roads of the old ghost town were packed dirt never having known the touch of asphalt, which proved to be a good thing because the veteran scout was able to read the marks scattered on the ground as he rode down the main avenue.

  Lots of footprints indicated both men and women, plus the smaller tracks of children. A few tire lines also crisscrossed the road, as well as horseshoe indentations. All of these he expected to see, knowing the refugees that had settled here well over a year ago. What he could not decipher were the large swaths that seemed to represent a smooth object having brushed over all the other tracks. These were long strokes three to four feet across. He had seen similar signs before, especially in their zig-zagging wave, but they had been much smaller. What the tracks reminded him of were snake trails. But that was impossible considering their size.

  Suddenly there was a single gunshot, and his horse snorted, stopping instantly. Three-Feathers whipped up his rifle, chambered a round, and looked for a target.

  Out of a narrow alley lost in the shadows between two buildings, a young girl emerged, dirt-covered, her dress torn, and grasping a heavy colt revolver. She was running straight out into the street before him, completely unaware of his presence. She was looking back over her shoulder, her black hair twisting to half-cover her frightened face. She can’t be more than twelve, the Range Rider surmised.

  She ran a few more steps, and then she lost her balance and fell.

  She looked back at the alley and screamed, val
iantly bringing up her gun.

  Out of the inky blackness emerged the most bizarre creature the veteran soldier had ever seen. It was a hybrid monstrosity with a giant snake’s body that morphed into the upper torso of a man. Brown in color, his chest and arms covered in scales, he rose up off the ground, his lower snake half moving him forward. He was bald, again with more scales, with large yellow eyes and a blue-black forked tongue darting in and out of his mouth between pointed fangs. As he attacked the fallen girl, Three-Feathers saw his elongated fingers ended in sharp, bone-white claws.

  The girl shot at it but missed.

  Sergeant Three-Feathers did not. His brought the carbine to his shoulder, aimed and squeezed the trigger. His bullet caught the monster in the side of the temple, ripping through its skull and blowing out the other side. The snake-man suddenly went stiff and collapsed, its massive body hitting the ground with a loud smack.

  Before the Range Rider could congratulate himself, a second snake-man appeared out of the alley. Except for a different color shade, it was an exact copy of the first. Seeing its fallen mate, its gruesome head twisted and spotted the horseman in the middle of the road. It reared up on its snake belly to almost eight feet in height and gave out a screeching hiss of pure fury.

  Three-Feathers’s horse reared up, its front legs clawing air as if to ward of the unnatural monster, fear seizing its heart. Caught unprepared, the sergeant was thrown from his saddle and hit the road on his side. Pain shot up his ribs, and he prayed they weren’t broken.

  The snake-man hurled itself forward, dropping down to its belly and sliding at him with incredible speed. Three-Feathers sat up, cocked the Winchester, and fired without aiming. His shot hit the crawling fiend in the dead center of its scale-armored chest. The impact stunned it to a stop. It shook its bulbous head, looking down at the rivulet of green blood oozing out of its chest. It once again spit out terrifying hiss.