Suddenly the chained sickle was in Fu Antos' hand. He swung, and the blade cut off the front guard's gun hand at the wrist. The flow of blood was phenomenal, and the man was too much in shock to try to stanch it. In some societies, amputation of a hand is punishment for stealing, but in such cases a blazing torch is held to the stump immediately after the knife has cut, cauterizing it and stopping the blood. Here there was no such precaution. The man ran back screaming and waving his stump, the bright arterial fluid spraying the room, generating a climate of horror.
Meanwhile, the ninja swung the ball on the other end of the kusarigama chain. It struck one of the board members on the nose, crushing it and sending the shock of impact right through his head. Whether more damage was caused by concussion or by slivers of bone projected into his brain was academic: he was dead. Even as that body fell, Fu Antos whipped the chain back around the neck of another executive, who was half out of his chair. A wrench, and the neck snapped; a jerk, and the chain swung free again.
Another guard was on him. Fu Antos struck up with the handle of the sickle, caving in the man's temple.
This action had taken mere seconds. Now the others realized that they faced no ordinary boy. They backed away.
But Fu Antos had overextended his small, imperfectly trained body, and was tired. Should the remaining enemies charge him together, he would be overwhelmed. Accordingly, he discouraged any such activity. He used his shuriken.
One star flew out to strike a man on the back of the neck, penetrating between the vertebrae and severing the spinal cord, killing him. His fallen body blocked the doorway, so that the few remaining men thought their escape was being cut off. That filled them with mindless alarm, and they scrambled over him to get out. Only two managed to struggle out the door, fighting each other like drowning men. One of the executives, surprisingly, straight-armed the last guard and broke loose first.
One man did not panic. This one Fu Antos fixed on. This was the major stockholder of the company, chairman of the board. Fu Antos, without comprehending the nuances of financial power, had nevertheless identified him as the real authority here, the one who could stop the poison, if he would. This one was gross, bald, fat, with oily sweat oozing from his pores despite the artificially cooled air. Fu Antos moved to make him captive.
But under that fat was a cynical, hard-driving mind. Fu Antos cut the owner out of the fleeing pack, but the man was not really afraid. He had a weapon concealed under his coat, a gun of some sort, and knew how to use it; Fu Antos could read the signs. This man never risked himself unnecessarily, but he was no coward. He never forgot that one who dealt in violence of any type, whether financial or physical, could eventually suffer from it. He had, in his fashion, been expecting Fu Antos.
"I see you are not what you seem," he said.
"Stop the poison. Make reparations," Fu Antos repeated.
"That would bankrupt me," the owner said. And Fu Antos saw that the man preferred death to the loss of his money.
"I will destroy your castle," Fu Antos said. As Nobunaga destroyed mine, he thought.
"That, lad, is beyond your eerie power." The owner leaned forward, taking the measure of his opponent. He was an extremely talented infighter in his realm, for he had clawed his way up over the bankruptcies of his competitors. "What do you really want? Money? Education? Ice cream?"
"Ice cream?" Fu Antos had never heard of this.
"By the bucketful. You can grow fat, like me."
"Stop the poison."
"You're a talented young man. There's room in my organization for—"
The man was stalling. Fu Antos was thoroughly versed in such trickery long before this robber baron had been born. He heard the castle minions approaching down the ball stealthily, or so they thought. In a moment they would attack, and then the baron's hints and promises would be worthless.
Yet the man himself was more useful alive than dead, at the moment.
Fu Antos jumped at him so suddenly that the owner had no chance to react, as thumbs pressed through the fat of his neck, expertly seeking the carotid arteries. Even so, there was a moment's delay, for the training of centuries had been in full-sized bodies, and these shorter, weaker fingers were not quite right. The baron had a chance to reach for his weapon.
Then Fu Antos found the carotids and completed the strangle. It cut off the blood supply to the brain, painlessly but effectively. In five seconds the man was unconscious.
The baron was out for only a few seconds, but Fu Antos had timed this carefully. He removed the weapon from the man's shoulder holster. It was a Spanish Llama, a 9-mm automatic pistol, gold-plated and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. No Japanese weapon! The money baron considered foreign equipment to have more cachet, so even when choosing a weapon for the defense of his life he betrayed his contempt for his native country. This was the consequence, Fu Antos thought, of allowing the good old ways of Japan to be corrupted by foreign barbarians. It should never have been permitted.
He sat the man up against the wall. As the baron awakened, Fu Antos held the bloody blade of the sickle under his nose. "Look into my eyes."
The owner, disoriented, found it expedient to oblige. As he did so, Fu Antos sheathed his blade in the belt of his outfit and put his two hands on the sides of the man's head and exerted his ki, that potent inner force. In most people, ki was poorly developed; in some it was an art. Fu Antos had the most powerful ki ever known on earth; that was what had enabled him to survive so long. He remembered when he had discovered the ki—but he had no time to reminisce now. "Now you will stop the poison," he said.
Amazingly, the baron shook his head. "You have a one-track mind. I cannot stop it. I am a rich man, but this factory represents a far larger investment than I could make alone. I would have to close it down, for the tungsten processes and the other metallic rare earths we use—these cannot be economically modified. Then my creditors would take me to court, and the government itself is among those creditors. I would lose my money and my authority. Either the factory would resume production and pollution under new management, or a competitor would take over the contracts. The poison would continue."
The man was speaking the truth as he understood it, for Fu Antos had taken over his mind. There was no way to stop the poison without destroying the factory, and all other factories like it.
"Then we shall destroy it," Fu Antos said. "Show me how."
For it was more efficient to use the talents of this baron than to attempt to figure it out for himself. Had ninjas operated in the world of industry, this man would have been a master ninja. The owner hesitated a moment, resisting the notion. Only the most powerful will could oppose the ninja's ki even momentarily. But he was helpless. "You must blow up the boilers that make pressure for the turbines, the power plant. We generate our own operating current, can't depend on an outside supply. You understand?"
Fu Antos did not understand.
"Well, those boilers must be blown, otherwise everything will soon be repaired. But there are many safety precautions."
"Take me to the boilers," Fu Antos said. He had a mental picture of the huge vats his ninjas had used to heat oil in when repelling a siege against the Black Castle. "Do not betray me." That was an order, not a plea; now the owner lost all ability to betray him voluntarily.
They left the room and walked down the hall, right through the personnel massing for attack. "Take it easy," the owner said to the surprised people. "This lad's with me. Go back to your stations."
Obviously they would not do that, since there were dead bodies in the boardroom. But it kept them at bay for the time being.
They entered the power room. Surely this was the bowel of the dragon! Huge, incomprehensible monsters radiated heat and noise, with mouths in their distended bellies that opened to receive coal from moving conveyor belts. Whenever a mouth opened, it belched forth awful heat and light. Fu Antos had never imagined anything like this, but he stayed close to the money baron and did not flinch.
>
"Where are the boilers?" he demanded, not recognizing what he saw.
"Eh?" the baron called back over the hideous background roar.
"The boilers!"
"Oh, some are on coal, some on oil. We've been converting to oil, against my better judgment; the board overruled me. It is true that oil is plentiful and cheap now, but we are dependent on potentially unfriendly nations for the bulk of our supply. Oil could become very expensive indeed if the political situation changed, and politics is the most treacherous..."
The man continued talking, but Fu Antos could hear little and understand less. In this din, communication was difficult. The baron had not betrayed him, but someone, suspicious, had phoned ahead. Fu Antos had not thought to prevent that, still handicapped by his lack of knowledge about the modern world. He was going to have to retrain himself to take into account the modern devices. But first he would have to learn them all, and that would take time.
Yet he was ready, as always, for the unexpected. Two husky mechanics came at him as he entered the control chamber. One swung a heavy iron bar.
Fu Antos stepped nimbly aside, and the bar crashed into the door, clanging against the metal. The owner drew back in alarm, but made no move either to enter the fray or to flee. He had been neutralized by the ki.
Fu Antos turned, grabbed the mechanic's wrist, passed his other arm under the man's elbow, and grasped his own wrist. He levered his arm against the captive elbow, jerking upward. The arm snapped at the elbow. The man dropped the bar and fell to his knees. Fu Antos grabbed the bar and bashed him across the skull, knocking him out with a hairline fracture.
The second mechanic had paused for a moment, startled by the sight of the owner. Then he grabbed at Fu Antos, who rammed the point of the bar into his solar plexus, provoking a fatal nervous shock to the autonomous system. The bar was so heavy that even the power of a boy was enough to make it devastating, provided he had the skill to direct it.
"Now—how?" Fu Antos demanded tersely, paying no further attention to the recent assailants.
"You have to fire the boilers at maximum and shut off the safety valves," the owner said. "And disconnect the alarms, for if they alert others to the buildup, certain other precautions will be taken to nullify whatever we might do here."
"Do it."
The owner did it. It had been twenty years since he had touched such controls directly, for like most executives he disdained physical work, even at the expense of his health. But his basic knowledge of the equipment sufficed. Soon the gauges were rising, and the fires heated the boilers, and the pressure built up intolerably.
"We had better get out of here," the baron said. "This will blow in minutes, and there may be a chain reaction."
Fu Antos handed him a knife. "If we are attacked again, defend yourself, for I shall not do it for you. Lead the way."
"I know a private exit," the man said, eyeing the blade in his hand with distaste.
So the moderns had secret passages too. Fu Antos followed him out of the factory.
They emerged from an elevator on the hillside above the complex. Just in time, for the boilers were beginning to go.
First there was a series of rumbles. Then a shock wave hit them, like a gigantic hand squeezing the chest, driving the breath out, throwing the whole body into the air—yet no visible explosion. For an instant.
Fu Antos took a forward roll, protecting himself from damage; this was second nature to him. The industrialist fell heavily in the gravel of the hillside, scraping his face, knees, and the palms of his hands.
Then it was as if a giant red blossom unfolded from the middle of the factory, outward. The boilers had started it; then the chemicals caught, and the oil storage tanks. There was a series of explosions, ripping open one part of the complex and then another.
Parts of human bodies were flung into the air like dolls. Some human torches ran screaming from the environs, crashing into the perimeter fence that still stood, burning to death while on their feet.
The river itself caught fire near the factory; it was so polluted it was able to sustain combustion, in this heat.
"Chain reaction," Fu Antos said, at last comprehending the term the executive had used. He smiled, liking this demonstration. Slowly the two tall smokestacks tilted, their foundations undermined. One fell, bending as its bricks separated, crashing into the holocaust, crushing whatever remained. Then the other chimney, as impressive.
After that, a mantle of oily smoke arose, shrouding everything in its thick, roiling mass.
"Now the poison will stop," Fu Antos said with satisfaction.
"Not yet," the owner replied. "That smoke is deadly; it contains chemicals few people knew we were producing. It will kill everything it touches, horribly."
"Then it is time to move," Fu Antos said, for the smoke was already filling the valley, climbing toward them as though seeking new prey.
But the owner did not move. "My knee is gone," he said. Fu Antos glanced at the position of the robber baron's leg. It was true: the joint had been thrown out. The man, in severe pain, had not protested; now he was ready to commit an honorable suicide by remaining here.
"It is fitting," he said, saluting the baron's courage in adversity as the smoke rose up to claim him.
Chapter 3:
Bastard Bones
We walked down the sidewalk silently, Hiroshi in his Japanese skirt and carrying his little bag. I was in my street clothes, never having had a chance to change. Those diamonds made me nervous, and I wished now that I had taken time to pack a weapon. I had walked this street a thousand times without molestation, but now, suddenly, I was afraid of trouble. That shows what a glimpse of illicit riches can do. I was especially afraid of the police, whom I normally considered to be my best friends. How could I explain that bag, after all the antagonism Hiroshi had already aroused in the minions of the law?
The crowds of people ignored me, but there were a number of curious passing glances at Hiroshi. The little man was blithely indifferent. But I knew that he was here on important business, and that nothing escaped his attention.
We passed two teenagers in dirty blue jeans and leather jackets who were standing against a wall. "Get the little fairy," one muttered, and the other chuckled coarsely.
Hiroshi stopped suddenly. "What is the meaning of that term?" he asked me, loudly enough for the others to hear.
I tried to shrug it off. "They're just punk kids; they don't know anything or mean anything."
"I am not certain of that." He faced the two. "Will you elucidate?" The two youths stared at him coolly, not deigning to reply. "What is that picture?" Hiroshi persisted, indicating their jackets. The emblem was skeletal, stick figures made of white bones. Both boys were dark-skinned Puerto Ricans with curly black hair and bad complexions.
"It's a juvenile gang," I said. "Teen toughs. Call themselves the Bastard Bones."
"They are illegitimate?" he asked, surprised.
"No, just ugly. Better to leave them alone."
"They are impolite," Hiroshi said, as though that were important. Perhaps, to him, it was.
"They're dangerous," I said. "Much of the crime in this country is committed by boys—and girls—in their teens. There are white gangs, black gangs, and Latin gangs. They all mean trouble, but they won't usually bother us if we don't bother them. Live and let live."
"I am not so sure," he said. "I have seen much discourtesy in this city."
This wasn't like him. Hiroshi had never been one to seek a quarrel or to look for trouble. "Let's go on," I said. The last thing I wanted was to get diverted by an argument with these freaks.
Hiroshi seemed about to comply, but then one of the boys spoke again. "What you got in that bag, fairy?"
"A fortune in uncut diamonds," Hiroshi replied.
Both youths reacted with anger, thinking they were being mocked. "Listen, Chink—" one began.
"Jap," Hiroshi corrected him. "I am listening."
But they abruptly
had had enough. They saw me standing behind Hiroshi, my fists clenched, a scowl on my face, and they had the minimum sense to know I was about to intercede with more than mere words. Like all their number of any age, sex, or color, they were cowards. So they were silent again.
At last Hiroshi went on, to my relief. We came to the bar called La Gruta, The Cave; it had a certain cultivated Latin flavor. Inside it was dark, with a long bar to one side and tables on the other. A few booths were against the wall. A color TV set was on the bar, a bit incongruous.
I showed the way to the most secluded booth. "This place is expensive, but they carry anything you want," I told Hiroshi. I gestured to the row of bottles behind the bar: aquavit, schnapps, tequila, pulque, mescal, aguardiente, chaca, rum—the emphasis on South American drinks, but with many others too.
The waitress came up. Hiroshi looked at me. "You can order sake; they have it," I reminded him. "They carry everything; it's a point of pride."
"Everything?"
"Everything legal, they claim."
"And you?"
I paused. "Oh, I don't drink intoxicants. I'll settle for milk." Hiroshi smiled. "Milk, then. An excellent beverage, when water is not available."
"Milk?" the girl asked, thinking it a joke.
"Milk," I repeated firmly. "It is bottled under a number of prominent brand names; I'm sure you can locate some."
"Any particular kind?" she inquired, unable to resist her bit of sarcasm.
"Yak," Hiroshi said.
"Yak yak to you too," she said. "Now, how about your order?"
"Yak milk," Hiroshi explained.
"Beg pardon?"
"Himalayan ox. Very fine animal."
The waitress obviously felt she was being teased. Many people have never heard of the yak. "Yak milk," she said, making a note on her pad. She turned to me. "And what do you want, Mesopotamian minx?"
"American bovine will suffice," I said.