This is the End 2: The Post-Apocalyptic Box Set (9 Book Collection) Read online

  “There are clothes and bogu in the closet there.” He pointed over my shoulder. “Get dressed and we’ll train.”

  “I would love to, sensei. But I’m really pressed for time, and I need your help.”

  “And I need yours as well, old friend. Ralph there is a terrible training partner.” He pointed to the wooden dummy. “His kakari-geiko is woefully predictable, and his blocking is lackluster at best. Suit up. After a quick match, I’ll be at your disposal.”

  I couldn’t say no to Sata. “You’re going to beat me.”

  “Of course I’m going to beat you. You seem distracted, and you’re thinner than I remember.”

  “I’m the same I’ve always been. A hundred and ninety pounds soaking wet. You’ve just gotten huge. What are you, two hundred thirty?”

  “Two fifty. The wonders of modern chemistry. I’m thinking of gaining another twenty pounds, competing as a hyperheavyweight in the next nationals. Now, suit up. Let’s see if you can last longer than eight seconds this time.”

  I pursed my lips. The only reason he’d beaten me that quickly was because I’d tied my hakama too loosely and had tripped over the cuffs. Sata knew this, but it tickled him to bring it up every time he saw me.

  I dropped the TEV and stripped down to my boxer briefs, dressing quickly. Sata helped me put on the bogu . Kendo armor consisted of a padded chest plate, called a dô, padded gloves that covered the forearms, called kote, a padded belt with five hanging panels called a tare, and the instantly recognizable helmet with the metal grill faceplate, known as the men.

  When fully suited up, you felt kind of invincible. Like a medieval Japanese robot. If given the choice of combat wearing bogu or hyperfootball gear, I’d pick the kendo armor every time.

  But there was a reason the armor was so protective. The kendo sword—the shinai—was more than a meter long, made of four slats of bamboo lashed together. A ninth-dan kendoka, like Sata, could kill someone with one thrust of his bamboo sword.

  This was not a sport for wimps.

  I quit practicing kendo on a regular basis seven years ago, when Sata retired from the peace force. At the time, I was a capable sho-dan—eight dans below Sata. But what I lacked in experience I made up for in speed. All of his chiding aside, I knew Sata respected my skills.

  “Where is your armor, sensei?” I asked.

  “It isn’t worth the time it will take me to put it on to go against you, Eight Seconds.”

  Cocky bastard.

  I grabbed a sword and we walked to the middle of the training room. The floor was cool under my bare feet, and already my hands had begun to sweat inside my gloves.

  On first glance, kendo rules were simple. The first person to land two strikes wins. The only strikes that counted were to the head, sides, and wrists.

  But scoring was complicated by something called kiken-tai-itchi. It translated roughly as spirit. Simply tapping your opponent’s target zones wasn’t enough to score. You had to hit them hard, and your leading foot had to slap the floor the same moment contact was made. You also had to scream out, “Ki-ai!” with feeling.

  The first time you did it, it felt silly. But in the heat of a match, swords swinging with full force, each man trying to cream the other, the ki-ais came naturally.

  Sata faced me on the floor and bowed. I bowed back. Then we raised our shinai, and the whoop-ass began.

  For the first match, I lasted longer than eight seconds, but not by much. After circling each other, I managed to block twice before Sata slapped me upside the head, rocking me backward. To show it wasn’t a fluke, he won his second point by hitting me in the exact same spot. The armor protected me from most of the pain, but it still felt like my head was inside a large bell, being rung.

  Second match, Sata focused on my sides. I saw this was his intent, and focused my parries at waist level, trying to keep him from scoring. Since I left my head unguarded, I was able to hold him off for longer, and it took him about two minutes to win.

  For our third match, Sata went after my kote. The intensity really kicked up. He was swinging at my wrists, and I was doing my damnedest to block his strikes and protect my wrists. After clashing swords sixty or seventy times in rapid succession, my arms felt like they’d turned into lead, and the lactic acid buildup in my muscles made them ache. Each time I struck his shinai with mine, it was like smacking a brick wall with a hyperbaseball bat. But I kept him at bay, kept him from scoring.

  “Better,” Sata said, pausing his barrage. “You still have the speed.”

  “You’ve gotten faster. And stronger.”

  “I’ve also managed to keep my boyish good looks.”

  Sata advanced again, creaming me on the side of my head.

  Apparently he’d judged me good enough to no longer focus on specific targets. I took a bit of pride in that. But what I really wanted to do was score a point. I wasn’t big into competitive sports. I preferred competing against myself. Beating my last marathon time. Increasing my bench press by five pounds. But when I did face an opponent, I didn’t like to lose.

  I was going to lose against Sata, no question about it. But I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

  Sata advanced again. I had a headache, and my arms hurt, but I’d become used to moving in the bulky armor. I’d also been reacquainting myself with Sata’s technique. He was strong, and fast, but his attacks followed patterns. Perhaps he was so used to drilling on a training dummy that he’d forgotten what it was like when someone hit back.

  I aimed to show him.

  It was unlikely Sata would let me get to his head or throat. Not that I wanted to go there anyway; without his armor, I could seriously injure him if I landed a lucky blow.

  So I focused on his sides and wrists. He was so used to my defense that if I attacked, I might be able to land a strike by surprise.

  Sata went for my kote again, and our bamboo swords clacked and bent as we traded blows. But I didn’t back away this time. I blocked his shots, saw him go in for a thrust, and spun away, bringing my shinai around toward his ribs.

  He blocked it, but barely. The attempt apparently delighted him.

  “Excellent, Talon-kun!”

  He launched into another attack. But either his speed wasn’t as great, or I was anticipating his strikes, because I was able to parry him with much less effort. I could guess the look on my face matched his grim countenance—eyebrows furrowed, lips drawn down in a scowl, veins popping out in the forehead. I continued to block his swings, and then saw the surprise in his eyes when I advanced, making him step backward, and finally catching him off guard and slapping him across the forearm with my shinai, yelling, “Ki-ai!” as I did.

  Sata’s eyes went wide in surprise. He looked at his arm. The welt had already begun to raise, his pores leaking tiny droplets of blood.

  TEN

  It must have hurt like a bitch. Sata’s reaction was not what mine would have been.

  He let out a belly laugh.

  “Terrific! You’ve saved face, and made me pay for my arrogance, Talon. I was wrong to taunt you by not wearing bogu . Please forgive an old fool.”

  He bowed. I bowed back.

  “So you want to put on the armor for the last point?” I asked.

  Sata shook his head. “No. You won’t land another strike.”

  Like hell I wouldn’t.

  I rushed at Sata and began a steady, deliberate offense. I knew it wouldn’t lead to a point, but maybe I could trick him into making a mistake.

  My offense lasted all of five blocked strikes, and then I was on the defense again, my hands a blur as I kept him at bay. Once again, Sata’s strength and skill forced me back, my parries so violent I had to fight to keep my balance. Then, incredibly, he went even faster, his shinai twirling like a heliplane propeller, me practically jogging backward to stay out of harm’s way.

  My back hit the wall, surprising me, and Sata thrust at my throat. I jerked to the left, and the tip of his shinai hit me in my unpadded chest.
I’d never been attacked with a sledgehammer, but I could guess this was what it felt like. As I dropped to my knees I managed to lash out one-handed and catch Sata on his left side, under his raised arms.

  Point. Win.

  Sata fell onto his knees next to me, wincing as he held his kidney. He’d hit me harder, but I’d had my ribs to protect me.

  We stayed there for a moment, breathing heavy, clutching our respective injuries, and then Sata began to laugh. “Excellent match. Go again?”

  “Your pride can’t handle losing, old friend?”

  “I may not be able to sleep tonight, I’m so distraught over it.”

  “I’ll take a rain check. I really need you to help with something.”

  “Of course.” Sata stood and offered his hand to help me up. I took it. My right arm was going a little numb, and I wasn’t as steady on my feet as I would have preferred.

  “Are you all right? Ribs cracked?”

  I lifted off my helmet, then worked off the gloves. “I think they’re okay. But you may have pinched a nerve.”

  “Should we go to the hospital?”

  I couldn’t tell if Sata was being sincere, or busting my balls. His twinkling eyes betrayed nothing.

  “I’ll be fine. Is there someplace we can talk?”

  “The study. I’ll meet you there after I’ve changed. Would you like a morphine pill?”

  I took a deep breath, wincing at the pain. Morphine sounded pretty good. But I needed a clear head.

  “Aspirin would be better.”

  He nodded, then walked off. I managed to extricate myself from the remainder of my uniform and get dressed.

  The buttons on my shirt were nearly impossible. My fingers had that pins-and-needles sensation, like I’d lost circulation to my arm. He’d gotten me good. I may have won the match, but if it had been a real fight, Sata would be bashing my head open right now.

  I hoped I was in that good a shape when I was his age. Maybe there was something to roids after all. While I had no aversion to better living through chemistry, I pursued my health goals the natural way, with regular exercise. The fact that roids were known to harm the libido also gave me pause, and excessive use led to a condition called roid rage, where basic mental faculties collapsed. Neither would endear me to Vicki, so I avoided the stuff.

  I left my last few buttons undone and made my way to the study. His sofa, chairs, and wall screen seemed overrun with wild vines. But a closer look saw the vines were carefully pruned to avoid interfering with the walkway, furniture, and electronics. Sata was already on the sofa, a green drink in his hand. On the table in front of him was another full glass, and a bottle of aspirin. I thanked him and swallowed two pills with the liquid, which had a wheatgrass base that tasted like a freshly mown lawn. Knowing Sata, the drink probably had a wealth of micronutrients in it. But that didn’t make it any easier to stomach.

  “Thanks. Can I use your projector?”

  “By all means.”

  I synced up the TEV to his screen. “I have to warn you. The man in the transmission looks like me. He even has a chip that says it’s me. But he’s someone else. I was with my wife when this took place.”

  I let the scene from Aunt Zelda’s play, beginning where Alter-Talon materialized out of the elevator.

  Sata watched without a sound. The expression on his face was somewhere between confusion and repulsion. I let it play until the killer disappeared again, in the hallway. Then I paused the image, waiting for his response.

  “It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen a murder,” Sata said. “And I’ve never seen a friend committing one.”

  “That wasn’t me, Michio. The hair is different. And did you notice that the man in the transmission is left-handed?”

  “Yes. He also has a mole on his cheek. You don’t have a mole. But all of that could be easily explained. And it’s inconsequential, compared to seeing you break that poor woman’s neck.”

  “If I wanted to hide it being me, I wouldn’t have changed my hair and pretended to be lefty. I would have worn a mask or veil. This guy didn’t care that his face was seen. Because it isn’t his face. It’s my face.”

  “And you got this on-site?”

  “Only two hours ago.”

  Sata stood up, rubbing his jaw. “It’s impossible. TEV can’t be faked.”

  “Something’s going on. You saw how he appeared and disappeared near the elevator. Wouldn’t that be enough to cast reasonable doubt?”

  “No. Remember the State of Illinois v. Jack Kilborn?”

  I nodded. Rape, but it had happened in a high-rise building that burned down. So it was impossible to get the TEV in the exact location of the event. Timecasting worked only when you occupied the same physical space where past events occurred. I was dangled from a crane for ten hours, trying to get a good image of the guy’s face. I wound up getting one, but it lasted only for a few rough frames. The judge allowed it. So there was a precedent for dodgy TEV footage.

  “Sensei, if I can’t get a close friend to believe me, how will I get a jury to?”

  Sata appraised me. His face was kind.

  “Do you have any enemies, Talon?”

  “Of course. I helped put away over a thousand guys.”

  “We’ll need to see if any of them have been released. Or have escaped. You might also want to put together a list of anyone currently on the street who’d like to frame you.”

  “So you’ll help me?”

  “I should say no. The transmission is pretty cut-and-dried that you’re the killer, and if I assist you, I’m an accessory after the fact. But something about the recording bothers me.”

  “The disappearing and reappearing?”

  “That. And the color. Did it look orange to you?”

  “It was orange. I had to adjust the hue to get it to appear normal.”

  “There’s something definitely strange here. This is the original, unaltered recording?”

  “You can check the time stamp.”

  “Getting someone to look like you would be difficult. Getting them to have a duplicate ID chip would be impossible. But there’s no way they could alter a timecast.”

  “Some sort of digital image?”

  “Was the dead woman a digital image?”

  I shook my head. “She was real.”

  “I’ve seen enough of these to know that killer was real as well. You know digital imagining. The movies spend hundreds of millions of credits on special effects, and you can still tell it’s fake. That wasn’t fake. Can you play it again?”

  “I have a lead to follow up on. I’ll transfer a copy to you now.” I pressed a button and saved the transmission to Sata’s projector. “You wouldn’t happen to have an Internet connection, would you?”

  “Why on earth would I? Do I look like a whack job?”

  No matter. They had one at the office.

  “Thanks for helping me on this, Sata. And for trusting me.”

  “You were one of my best students, Talon. I’ll do what I can.”

  He offered his hand. I shook it, but the feeling still hadn’t returned to my fingers. If anything, the numbness had gotten more severe.

  I probably should have gone to the hospital. Instead I went to work.

  ELEVEN

  Area 4 Peace Headquarters was located in the Loop, on Wabash. Ever since the El train was updated to carry three times as many passengers back in the fifties, Wabash had been off-limits to civilian traffic. But city officials and peace officers were exempt from the ban.

  Though I had to steer around the massive support pylons for the El, Wabash was still my favorite street to drive on. No glut of biofuel bikes. No traffic signals. If pedestrian traffic was light, I could even get the Vette up to fifty mph.

  But today the ride to the office was perfunctory. I had a lot on my mind, and my arm was giving me some serious trouble. Adding to my woes was the fact that Vicki refused to answer her headphone. I wondered if she had blocked me. I wondered if I coul
d blame her if she had. So I let my DT compile a list of potential enemies, and cruised at a comfortable thirty-five until I reached A4.

  I parked in the underground garage, in a reserved spot next to Teague’s vintage Porsche 911. Ours were the only two cars in a lot crammed with bikes, and his was worth more than mine. Back when we were rookies, we spent a lot of our spare time hanging out in P&P bars, getting wasted, discussing what kind of cars we’d buy if we could ever afford them. The Porsche was his way of thumbing his nose at my Vette, and our prior friendship. To pay for it, he lived in a shithole apartment the size of my right shoe.

  I took the elevator to the forty-ninth floor. A4 was the largest area in Chicago, so it had the largest main building, home base to more than twelve thousand cops. The majority of them worked Traffic and Pedestrian Control, and the rest were vice regulators, making sure everyone played nice. No more Homicide Division. No more Violent Crimes. Fewer than a thousand cops still wore sidearm Tasers.

  On one hand, living in a green utopia had a lot of perks. With the serial violent offenders all locked up, and average citizens obeying the major laws, the city was safer than it had ever been.

  On the other hand, it was pretty boring. Which was why, for the first time in years, I came to work energized. I actually had a case. An important case. And even though it was my neck on the line, it was almost worth it just to feel useful again.

  Even that asshole Teague couldn’t ruin my buzz.

  Since the Timecaster Division was down to just two people, we shared an office. It was a big office, but we still managed to get in each other’s way. I’d rather do demos at a dozen third-grade classrooms than have to talk to Teague for more than five minutes.

  He had his feet up on his desk and was watching a projection of CNP—Cable Network Pr0n. He muted the action—which from my limited observation seemed to involve bondage, midgets, and a very fat goat—when I came in.

  “Well, if it ain’t the second-best Van Damme in the state.”

  There were only two full-time timecasters still in Illinois, me and him, and he’d graduated Sata’s class two points ahead of me. Van Damme was a slang term, going way back to a classic 2D movie called Timecop.