Demon City Shinjuku: The Complete Edition Read online

  It’d be hard for them to call hand-to-hand combat with flesh and blood human beings anything but a joke.

  “Maybe it’s a little late to bring this up, but what the hell’s your game here? Is the military so hard up they’ve resorted to shaking down high school students? You cruising for a bruising with the cops?”

  The cyborgs rushed him together, throwing punches that could perforate armor plating.

  Kyoya dove forward. The three figures converged into one. With a heavy clunk, the two cyborgs smashed together and rolled on the ground and didn’t move.

  The only one getting to his feet was Kyoya. He was holding Shiratori’s shinai in his right hand. When he’d leapt forward, he’d twisted his body and planted the tip of the shinai against the chest of the one while delivering three straight-fisted jabs to the other.

  Except that no matter how well-struck, there was no way he should have knocked out these cyborgs—that could be blasted with a bazooka at point-blank range and still keep on ticking.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Kyoya barked at the entrance to the alley. He was already breathing normally. “When the underlings screw up, the guy in charge has got to take responsibility.”

  Three silhouettes appeared, lit from behind by the lights of the station beyond. A barrel-chested middle-aged man and two burly younger men that must be his bodyguards. They drew closer, revealing the startled looks on their faces. They were ordinary—human—Japanese.

  “Wouldn’t have believed it otherwise,” the man muttered, glancing at the comatose cyborgs. “Rai-sensei told me about you, but you have exceeded my expectations.” He had a professorial air about him, nothing that suggested an enemy. “Commando cyborgs are a cut above space and undersea workers. A lump of electronics. I didn’t think any human could switch them off with his bare hands. You didn’t kill them, I wonder?”

  “Relax. Give them an hour and they’ll be back to normal. Though they might require an overhaul. More importantly, what about my friends and the ramen stand?” Though his voice was as carefree as ever, Kyoya’s eyes glittered like cut glass.

  The man nodded. “Your friends should wake up in five minutes. The owner will be compensated. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’m sure the consolation money will cover any mental anguish. However, we will take their memories of the incident in exchange.”

  He pointed at the entrance to the alley. A different set of men were standing guard, keeping any passersby from coming or looking in. This middle-aged man was obviously some sort of big shot. “A car is waiting.”

  “One of the things my dad told me before he died was not to get into cars with strange old men.”

  The man seemed to chuckle to himself. “This does have something to do with him. Oh, I’m sorry, we haven’t introduced ourselves.”

  He produced a black leather ID wallet and flipped it open. The golden badge glinted in the moonlight. Stamped into the metal was the image of a phoenix holding up the globe with flaming wings. “Dai Yamashina. World Federation Government Information Bureau, Japan section. A pleasure to meet you.”

  Kyoya bristled. “I don’t care if you’re boss of the whole damned organization, I’m not going anywhere without a few answers first.”

  Section Chief Yamashina nodded. “The boss of the whole damned organization was, in fact, attacked by creatures or persons unknown and is in critical condition. We have three days to search out the sorcerer and undo the damage. Specifically, with your nenpo.”

  That night in Azabu, in a room at the ultra-modern headquarters of the Japan section of the World Federation Government Information Bureau, Section Chief Yamashina filled in Kyoya on the finer details of the situation.

  Since his father died, his aunt and uncle had been taking care of him. He was allowed to phone them and say that school club activities would be keeping him late. He was a favorite nephew and they happily agreed.

  The situation concerned the attempted assassination of Kozumi Rama, president of the World Federation.

  Kozumi Rama—every child above the age of three knew that name. Born a world apart from the earth, the man whom the great sage Agni Rai had declared at his birth was a “holy man.” The man who, until his twentieth birthday, had never set foot on earth. And yet communicating with him telepathically across a quarter million miles of empty space, Master Rai conferred upon him a saint’s education.

  At the age of twenty, the savant was unanimously elected the representative of the lunar colony’s governing body. At the young age of thirty-five, he achieved the presidency of the World Federation. After that, in the span of six months, he’d overseen the signing of a peace treaty between those eternal enemies, the Arab League and the state of Israel, and concluded a comprehensive atomic, biological, and chemical weapons ban between the greater NATO and ASEAN alliances. These achievements were still fresh in everybody’s mind.

  In particular, with nuclear war seeming inevitable, he summoned the leaders of the two parties to the New York Federation section and in a meeting lasting only a few minutes brought into existence the only possible conclusion. The summit later came to be known as the “Five Minute Miracle.”

  Since 2010, the entire world had been gripped in a dark curse. In the face of economic recession, growing regional conflicts and rising crime rates, President Rama was as resolute in his actions as he was charitable in his words. And changed the world as a result.

  Five years after his inauguration, people began to sense that the trails he was blazing were indeed leading to a brighter future.

  And then several days before, on September eight at one o’clock in the afternoon, New York time, a literal hand of evil struck him down. The time difference meant it was recorded in Japan on the ninth at three in the morning.

  The incident took place in the presidential offices on the fifth floor of the Federation government office building. Monitors recorded the particulars of what went on there. Section Chief Yamashina played it back.

  The president was taking a break from pressing business, while his multi-purpose guard robot and secretary read through the cables and letters that had collected unread for several days.

  All correspondence was electronically scanned first. As busy as he was, the president couldn’t read every message sent to him from around the world. It was simply a matter of expediency to trust such matters to the secretary’s electronic brain.

  There was one other reason for this preliminary check. Ordinary letters and stationery, even the print itself, could be fashioned into explosives, poisonous gas and other assassination tools. The criminal enterprises behind international drug smuggling syndicates and the merchants of death supplying the arms trade were the president’s committed enemies.

  The president set aside the longer missives and asked to start with the cables. It happened during the fourth one.

  The android’s memory bank contained the files and settings for two thousand different languages. He stated that the letter was in ancient Sanskrit, the four-thousand-year-old classical language that had originated in India. It had been relayed via the “Woodpecker” communications satellite, but the originator was unknown.

  It later came to light that the satellite’s router records—that archived the originating sources of all relayed messages—were blank for this particular one.

  The secretary noted that from the arrangement of the characters, the message appeared to be a kind of religious ritual. It could be read phonetically, but translation was impossible.

  The president indicated that he should read it.

  The android secretary began to read the cable—hardly possible to reproduce with human vocal cords—and that was when it appeared.

  A grotesque shadow separated itself from the president’s shadow. It was no more substantial than a shadow, had no head or limbs, but crawling and wriggling along the floor, was clearly a living thing. About six feet long, the end of the oval section that must have been its abdomen narrowed like a reptile’s tail.r />
  Though it consisted of nothing more than that, the ghostly, unearthly aura rising from its entire length dropped the temperature in the room precipitously.

  The android secretary detected danger at once, rang the alarm in the adjoining guard room, and hit the creature with an electromagnetic baton. Undaunted, it rose up from the floor. Its body wavering back and forth, it approached the president.

  With every rippling movement, its body drew out thinner and thinner, until it became a single line that appeared and disappeared, a two-dimensional being. Mucus-like material dripped from the edges—or so it seemed, as these too were shavings off a shadow.

  The miasma it ejected filled the room with a noxious odor. The discharge of a laser gun flashed from the android secretary’s shoulder. The bright light was sucked into the pitch-black body. The guards came running, but the beams from their large-caliber particle guns couldn’t penetrate the impossibly thin film of material.

  The secretary leapt into the fray. The shadow spun and wrapped around the hardened metal body with blazing speed. Before the president or the other guards could raise a cry, with a dull roar the android’s frame shattered into pieces and crumbled to the floor like a load of scrap iron.

  The shadow streaked at the president. An electromagnetic barrier flashed around his desk. The shadow cut through it with ease and attached itself to his waist. A wiry appendage grew from its tail, reached out and seized the president’s throat.

  One of the guards tried to tear it away, but could find no purchase.

  The president’s face grew dark and purple. Fighting for his life, he grabbed a paper knife—more like a short dagger—from the desk and plunged it into the shadow’s appendage.

  The thin “arm” severed in the vicinity of the “wrist.” The shadow reared back, scattering dark sheets of its “blood” or “plasma.” It disappeared and reappeared two, three more times, then vanished.

  Clutching his throat, the president lifted the barrier. The guards rushed in, amazed. From the severed arm, the silhouette of a wrist remained fixed to the president, the writhing snake-like fingers still clamped to his neck.

  The president was taken at once to a special ward in the hospital attached to the Federation building. A corps of doctors set to work on him. They could do nothing. For lack of a better word, the “wound”—the shadow of the wrist was all that remained of the hand buried a micro-millimeter into the skin—proved impervious to X-rays, CT scans, ultrasound, and other diagnostic measures.

  And yet, as the world’s best physicians and their instruments looked on, the president continued to weaken. His breathing grew labored. An hour after the incident, just as it seemed that all was lost, the president’s teacher, Master Agni Rai, suddenly appeared in the hospital room.

  This white-haired, turbaned old man—estimated to be a good one hundred and thirty years old—had instructed the president for twenty years from sacred ground in India. He was a yogi and esper of incomparable power. Since the president moved to Earth, Master Rai was often seen in the president’s company, doubling as a bodyguard.

  Nowadays, his research into psychic powers and telekinesis continued. Not only the aforementioned criminal gangs, but others rode the waves of discord in the world, including religious cults springing up from the always fashionable worship of the devil. They plotted the assassination of the president, and had no qualms about using voodoo and paranormal techniques like remote manipulation.

  Unfortunately, the night before the incident, Master Rai had teleported to India to take part in an annual interstellar seance held on the peak of Amne Machin in Tibet. He had appeared in the hospital room after his supernatural senses detected a change in the president’s condition.

  Seeing the president on the verge of suffocating, the mark of the hand on his throat, Master Rai knew at once this was the work of black magic. While performing an incantation to stay the accursed wizardry at work, he said, “Before departing for India, I erected a psychic wall around him that should have repelled the strongest curse or spiritual attack. Why was this apparition able to break through?”

  At length, the gray-faced vice-president described what had happened. After viewing a video record of the incident, the old sage nodded. With a severe expression, he stated that a Demon Realm monster called a Nidom had attacked the president.

  “When the android secretary began reading the ancient script, the conjuration shattered my shields and called forth the Nidom. The sender went to the trouble of relaying the message through a communications satellite as a diplomatic cable, knowing that its effectiveness depended on it being read to the recipient. It is a good thing that I left a holy dagger for his self-defense. I will understand better once we determine why the president had his secretary read the cable in the first place. How it was able to reach him precisely on the day I would not be there? I cannot believe the timing was coincidental. Whoever called forth that monster must have read my movements.”

  After a moment of quiet contemplation, the Master met with the vice-president and the Federation High Council in another room and explained the situation to them in terms that left them all pale.

  “Unfathomable dangers are assaulting the planet as we speak. Should the president die, the world—well on its way toward its most promising future since recorded history began—will slip back into another dark age ruled by war, doubt and suspicion. If things are left to fester in their current state, the curse will surely kill the president. Even with all the power at my command, I cannot hold it back for long. If the warlock who commands this black magic, or the hex itself, is not destroyed in three days—by one o’clock in the afternoon on September twelfth—the president will lose his life.”

  The council members erupted in consternation, and all the more so those who, like the president, knew the extent of the old man’s considerable and inexplicable powers. They couldn’t help but recognize the gravity of a world ruled by evil sorcery should the president die.

  As the room descended into panic, the Master said in a kind but stern voice, “The World Federation and the intelligence apparatuses of all the affiliated Federation states should exert every effort to locate the Egyptian shaman Rebi Ra. And if they do ascertain his location, make no attempt to detain him. He employs demons as his guards that no conventional weapons can harm. I would go, but unless I attend to the seals and the incantations strengthening them, I fear the president will succumb. I shall say this only once again—my powers will last only to the twelfth at one o’clock. Best you hurry.”

  Having seen the video record of the assault, the council members were uniformly persuaded by the Master’s remarks. They jumped to their feet and rushed out of the room. The vice-president remained behind when the Master called to him.

  “There is somebody else I wish you to find,” he whispered. “For the time being, I wish to keep this from the president’s political opponents. But there is one other person who possesses the skills I have taught him.”

  “And that’s me?” said Kyoya. He was sitting on the sofa slurping the last of a glass of orange juice through a straw.

  Section Chief Yamashina’s explanation and the video of the attack on the president had just ended, but he asked the question as if he and they were entirely unrelated.

  “To be precise, your father Genichiro. Three decades ago, he was taught the mysteries of yoga at the feet of Master Rai.”

  “Huh. News to me. Not bad for a hard old nut like him. Unfortunately, he died of pneumonia four years ago.”

  The section chief nodded. “That is why we are turning to you. According to our investigation, a month after you were born, your father took you to Mt. Daisetsu on the island of Hokkaido. It seems he and your mother had divorced. He must have been fully committed to the course he was taking. Mt. Daisetsu is one of Japan’s thirteen holiest sites. A place to sharpen the will and the mind. There your father trained you in the martial art of nenpo. I can hardly begin to imagine such skills—practiced from the time y
ou were a child—but they must be terrific.”

  The section chief retrieved a fax from the machine on his desk.

  “A report from the maintenance division. The cyborgs have regained consciousness, but their internal circuitry was altered such that they had to be sent out for repairs. No damage at all to the external structure, and no apparent damage to the nervous system. The cause is uncertain. The maintenance division techs are beside themselves. The Master asked that your skills be tested, but the results proved more amazing than expected.”

  A cryptic smile rose to Kyoya’s lips. “Whatever. Why did you drag me all the way down here?”

  Section Chief Yamashina sat down on the couch in front of Kyoya. He looked him in the eye and said in a heavy voice, “We want you to capture the sorcerer and bring him here. We pinned down his location. The rest is up to you. On the twelfth at one o’clock in the afternoon—the thirteenth at three in the morning, Japan time—that gives us three more days. Are you willing to deploy your nenpo techniques for the good of the world?”

  “Give me a break.” Kyoya looked away. “I’m a high school senior, for crying out loud. I was minding my own business, enjoying some ramen, and those two Neanderthals pick a fight with me. I won, so that means I’ve got to save the world? What, I’m just supposed to say, hey, sure thing? We’ve got cops and armies for that sort of stuff. I can’t believe grown men have been running around after a juvenile delinquent like me. Idiots.”

  The section chief sighed. “I’m afraid the reality is rather embarrassing. The fact is, as soon as we isolated the target, the main office counseled the Master to deploy esper agents. I shouldn’t have to tell you he vetoed the idea. He illustrated why in a particularly vivid manner. He had three battle espers and military cyborgs sent to the president’s hospital room. In front of the Federation High Council, he told them to attack him in any way they could. The Federal military commander gave the okay.”