5: Man on Fire

A strange energy hung over the city of Namsac that night. The temperature had been typical for that time of year, but in just a few hours it had dropped to about ten degrees Celsius. This was much colder than you’d expect to see in the tropics, and an oddity for the region in general. Thick, heavy clouds coiled in the night sky, and eerie thunder rumbled as if to intimidate the town below. Of course, the truth was that atmospheric pressure patterns in the Pacific had been unusual this year, and this was just one more effect of this phenomenon... but less knowledgeable people would interpret the cold as a bad omen.

It wasn’t just the weather that was unusual, either. In the Arena, where things should have quieted down after the spectacle of the day, ten arm slaves stood, their generators active. The roar of diesel and gas turbine engines brought a tremble to the chilly night sky above. The mood that hung over them wasn’t the rowdy, enthralling frenzy that came before a show; it was something darker, thick with animalistic rage.

Under the blinding lights, one by one, the machines came to life: A Soviet-made Rk-91 Savage; its successor model, an Rk-92 Savage; a North Chinese copy of the Rk-92; a French-made Mistral and its successor, the Mistral II; a German-made Drache A; an English Cyclone. There were machines made in Israel and South Africa, too. Rather than being painted military style in olive, khaki, and tan, they represented a rainbow of colors, like F1 racers. Many of them even had the names of corporate sponsors stenciled onto them.

All of them were ASes that had participated in arena fights, whose operators were on the take from the chief. They’d all been called to this urgent gathering to prepare for an unusual kind of job.

As the maintenance work proceeded, a police car carrying the chief arrived at the Arena. The vice chief, who’d been given his orders by radio in advance, had already explained the job to the operators in attendance. By the time the chief arrived, they were well into the stage of boasting and dirty jokes.

As the chief got out of the car—which was full of bullet holes with most of the glass broken—the vice chief addressed the men. “Atten-SHUN!!”

The chief puffed his chest out and scanned the men’s faces with pursed lips. It was an impressive show of gravitas from a man who had just run away, screaming, from the site of a violent gunbattle. “I believe the vice chief has explained most of the situation,” he began. “A man in an AS is approaching from the north, in the grips of a drug-induced persecution complex. He’s a dangerous terrorist who’s overdosed. I want you old soldiers to fight him, and finish him off before he infiltrates the city and harms the good citizens of Namsac. Make sure he doesn’t make it out alive. I want to see those skills you’ve mastered in the Arena on full display.”

The men gazed suspiciously at the chief’s detached manner of speaking.

“You mind if I ask a question, Chief?” one of the operators asked. It was Dao, the lowlife that Sousuke had fought in his first match.

“Go ahead.”

“If we’re all being honest here, none of us care if the guy you want us to murder is a terrorist or not. We just want the tit-for-tat. You ain’t mentioned a reward, or any support you’re givin’ us. So we’d like an explanation of that, if you please.”

“Very well. First, you’ll all receive three thousand dollars, regardless of your contributions,” the chief proclaimed grandly. The men assembled whistled and widened their eyes. “And I’ll give ten times that—thirty thousand—to whichever man takes down the terrorist. Ah, but that’s not all! You remember the raid on the warehouse district last month? The one where that Chinese dealer was shot? We confiscated fifty kilos of heroin then, which we’re officially planning to burn tomorrow as part of the disposal process. If an equal amount of white powder happened to end up in someone’s hands two days from now, I can’t say it would matter to me. Do you follow?”

Fifty kilograms of heroin—depending on its purity and the seller’s connections—could fetch over a million dollars on the black market. Of course, it would likely be less when handling fees were taken into account, but it was still an impressive reward. The chief was saying, in a roundabout way, that he would give it to whoever buried the terrorist.

“That’s all pretty appealing... but are you sure you ain’t bein’ a little too generous, Chief?” Dao asked.

“Don’t you worry about that. All that matters now is killing the terrorist. I’m here to offer you plenty of high-quality equipment, oil, and fuel to make that happen. Also... look at this.”

Five trailers had just arrived in the Arena in a line. They drew a gentle curve as they approached, then stopped in front of the crowd, and opened up their beds. Each one was packed with AS-scale optional armaments: German-made 35mm rifles; 57mm sniper rifles, also German-made; 57mm shotcannons, Italian-made; 30mm Gatling guns, American-made. There were even a few 40mm Swiss-made Mini rifles, the latest model that used caseless ammunition and liquid propellant.

“Awesome,” one of the pilots exclaimed. “Those are from Oerlikon.”

“Some from OTO Melara and Mauser, too.”

“Bofors, too.”

Any one of them could blow a passenger car to smithereens in one blast.

After appraising the men’s excitement, the chief said, “None of them possess encrypted fire control systems. Choose whichever one you like and use it however you like; there’s plenty of ammunition, too.”

“This is great, Chief. But you sure it’s okay to go hog-wild with this stuff? Won’t we end up hitting the ‘good citizens of Namsac’?” The men cackled together.

It was then that a black-clad man, Kurama, got down out of the bullet-ridden police car and spoke up. “You heard the chief. Use them however you like.”

The AS pilots scrutinized Kurama and the chief each, and then the corners of their mouths curled up into grins. “Sounds like we don’t have to hold back, then.”

“I always wanted to use one of these things.”

“It’s the Crossbow we’re after, right? That too-big-for-his-breeches newbie...”

“Plus he ain’t got any real weapons. We’ll crush him, no problem.”

Dao and the other men scrambled back to their machines, each vying for first pick of the weapons on display. Once they had stocked up, the variegated giants moved to leave the Arena.

As they watched the ten ASes depart with earth-shaking footsteps, the chief said to Kurama, “I just received a report. A white AS was spotted passing a farm fifteen kilometers north of here, heading south. It seems he’s up for a fight after all.”

“What did I tell you?” Kurama asked, working out the cricks in his neck with his right hand. “Though I have my doubts that those hoodlums can really stop him.”

“Please,” the chief scoffed. “There are ten ASes in perfect condition, and the operators are far from newcomers to battle. He caught that M9 by surprise, but this time...”

“I hope you’re right. But I’m going to make a few preparations of my own.”

“Preparations?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. Just get me a radio channel. I need to give him the location of his finish line.”

“Finish line?” the chief asked suspiciously.

“Right here,” Kurama said, without so much as a backward glance.

Using every trick he knew to keep the hydraulics working, Sousuke ran the white Savage south through the thick foliage of the hills. He cut across the paved road several times, and the closer he got to Namsac, the more he saw of low-income housing. To get from here to the city center, he’d have to cross the Shenton River, which snaked northwest of the city.

Savages were typically able to cross water, but only if they had a snorkel to keep the air intake clear. His machine had taken a lot of damage, and he hadn’t tested the watertightness of the electrical system. Plus, he had no way of checking the depth of the water. Entering the river would be suicide.

There were two bridges sturdy enough to hold the twelve-ton Savage nearby: the Prinko Bridge along the main road, and the Wasalu Bridge a kilometer to the south. Both would probably have police blockades. Sousuke considered the terrain layout he’d memorized during his time living in Namsac and chose the Prinko Bridge, mainly because it would get him to the city center faster.

If Kurama was on the run, he might already be at the airport. But according to Michel Lemon’s radio updates, he hadn’t been spotted there yet. Lemon was still on his way back to Namsac, following Sousuke a few lengths behind, but he had a DGSE agent monitoring the airport.

That meant Kurama was still somewhere in Namsac. Either he hadn’t expected to be followed back to town, or his escape had been delayed for some reason... No, that couldn’t be it. He was waiting for Sousuke. He was preparing, mustering his forces, and awaiting a final showdown.

Sousuke also knew, clear as day, that Kurama was determined to kill him this time. There was nothing supernatural at play behind his knowledge; it was simply a natural inference. Kurama knew how angry Sousuke was. Sousuke was doing what he did, knowing that Kurama knew. Both were professionals. Both had lost allies to the other.

Maybe the real professional thing to do would be to step back for now and wait for another opportunity. Had this been anyone but Kurama, that’s probably what Sousuke would have done. But this time was different. Beyond all of his logical planning lay a metamathematics propelled by illogic and irrationality; everyone knew that one plus one was two, but they didn’t know that sometimes it could add up to something else. The only ones who could comprehend that were the men who skirted the lines of life and death behind the numbers, and they couldn’t explain it to anyone else.

In a certain manner of speaking, Sousuke and Kurama were comrades. Of course, they burned with hatred for one another, yet there was a strange kind of understanding between them. Perhaps Gauron, in that room in Hong Kong, really had seen his true self.

Sousuke’s machine approached the Prinko Bridge. The river was about six hundred meters across, and the dark surface of the water twinkled with the reflection of street lights. No, it wasn’t just street lights—there were rotating blue lights, as well. Two police cars and one armored car had formed a checkpoint at the front of the bridge. Aside from the police officers—who were armed with shotguns and carbines—the only weapon Sousuke could see was a machine gun turret on the roof of the armored car.

Sousuke carefully adjusted his machine’s engine output, with an unchanging facial expression. He moved forward firmly, although with caution, as if to gauge the broken-down engine’s attitude. The hydraulics gauge trembled immediately, and the temperature needle, already in the danger zone, began to creep up further.

It’s okay. It can handle it, he told himself. Tonight is a cold night for the region. The Savage’s engine rumbled, and it began to accelerate with steps that pounded the ground below.

“Stop!” cried the officers.

He didn’t stop. Gunfire rang out, but to the Savage, fire from human-sized rifles was little more than a drizzle. His machine continued to accelerate as it sent the armored truck flying with a single kick. Perimeter: breached, Sousuke thought as the armored car flew end-over-end, and the officers scattered. He sped up again and charged straight across the bridge, wanting to cross as quickly as he could while it remained free of obstacles.

He made it across, running the street among the low buildings, and then slammed on the emergency brakes. The Savage’s heels scraped along the asphalt, raising up a cloud of dust.

Sousuke crouched down silently, keeping the engine’s output level as low as he could in order to pay heed to his surroundings. Five or six locals had come out onto the street, pointing at him and screaming. In Namsac, an AS walking around a paved street wasn’t an unusual sight. But perhaps the residents had noticed the dangerous aura that wreathed his machine, because they were all giving him a wide berth.

He listened hard, but didn’t learn much without the M9’s highly advanced sensors at his disposal. Deciding that his best option was to keep moving, Sousuke readied his machine to go. It was then that he noticed the enemy machines coming around the corner four blocks down the road: two ASes, a Savage and a Mistral II.

These weren’t military machines, as the Savage was a garish purple and the Mistral II was painted in red-and-yellow color blocks. One held a shotcannon, the other a rifle. They were from the Arena. The chief must have hired them. These were veteran operators with plenty of firepower—they’d be difficult opponents to deal with, especially when all he had was a single HEAT hammer.

The enemy machines noticed him and began to double back. Sousuke once again revved up his engine, then ran behind a building to hide from their aim. “Time to begin,” he said in a low, cold voice, removing the safety pin from his HEAT hammer. In that same moment, it was like he was pulling the safety pin on himself.

The operator of the Mistral II—ring name Diamond Head—hadn’t done much coordinating with his ally, the Savage running next to him. They’d happened to be holed up close to each other, so when they received the report from the police team at Prinko Bridge, they had run straight there together. But the Savage right next to him—ring name Superstar—had a mediocre record of two wins, five losses, one tie, and Diamond Head didn’t want to be outshone.

“There he is. Right ahead.”

“Wow, look at him just strolling, not a care in the world... The idiot!”

“Clear the way!” Diamond Head demanded. “He’s mine!” Finishing off that white Savage—the Crossbow—would net him thirty thousand dollars and fifty kilos of cocaine. He’d shoot Superstar in the back to do it if he had to.

But that decision was quickly taken out of Diamond Head’s hands. The Crossbow, which had temporarily disappeared behind a building, suddenly appeared again, and it was moving fast. It wasn’t carrying a gun, though, and it was still about two hundred meters away.

Still, before the two of them could even take aim, the enemy machine lifted its right arm and threw something with great force. There was a sharp spin on it, like a throwing ax. Diamond Head’s operator didn’t realize it was a HEAT hammer until it had slammed into Superstar’s machine and blown its chest open. The shaped charge’s explosive energy pierced the Savage’s armor and slammed it with a wave of intense heat. It instantly burst into flames and toppled forward, dropping its shotcannon.

“Son of a bitch!” Diamond Head cursed. He staggered about, buffeted by the wind and flame, then knelt down in place and opened fire. His rifle spat 35mm shells, whose force of release drew concentric circles in the black smoke that covered the road.

“You after me, huh, you frog piece of shit?! You think a kid like you can take me on? I’ll kill you and spit on your corpse!” Diamond Head continued firing, cursing malevolently with every shot. But the heat and the smoke had blurred his vision, and that made it hard for him to take proper aim. The bullets tore fruitlessly through the air, taking apart some old buildings and no more.

There was no sign he’d landed a hit. By the time he’d remembered his wits and gone back to searching for the enemy’s position, the Crossbow was within just a few steps of him. It was approaching in a swift charge, low enough that its chest armor was nearly scraping the asphalt.

“You—”

It tackled him so hard that Diamond Head felt like he’d toppled over—No, he had toppled over! His screens flashed with static as the attitude gyros spun around and around, uncontrolled. The Mistral II’s armor was stronger than a Savage’s, but it didn’t have the same stability under impact.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!”

Trying not to bite his tongue from the recoil of the shock absorbers, he used his arms and legs to try to right himself. But the minute his machine was properly horizontal again, with the scenery in his optical sensors returned to normal, he found that the white Savage was standing right in front of him with a shotcannon pointed at his face.

The enemy must have picked up the weapon that Superstar had dropped when it was destroyed. The barrel glinted threateningly, and the Savage aimed it right at the Mistral II’s cockpit. Then the Savage fired, hitting the Mistral II’s crotch and taking out its anti-personnel machine guns.

The enemy machine’s operator spoke. “Tell me. How many more of you are there?”

“I...” The Crossbow fired again, and Diamond Head’s right arm flew off. “Stop it! E-Eight!”

“And have you seen a man in a black coat? Tall, short hair, East Asian?”

“Y-Yeah. He was with the chief in the Arena—” The enemy fired again. There was a deafening gunshot sound and a jolt of impact as his machine skidded several meters across the asphalt and came to a stop, putting out smoke. Now that the enemy had the information he needed, he had no reason to let him live. Diamond Head’s operator, certain that he was finished this time, opened his tightly closed eyes and blinked several times, crying tears of fear.

But the enemy was already gone, having departed for the city center. For a second, his mind ordered him to follow, but he knew immediately that it was fruitless. Both of his machine’s arms had been blasted off, and he couldn’t even stand. “You... You bastard! What was that, compassion? Next time we meet, I’ll kill you! No, we won’t meet again, because you’re already dead! You’ll get what’s coming to you! Rot in hell!” The man’s curses echoed from his still-working external speakers into the chilly Namsac air.

Paying no heed to the man’s verbal abuse, Sousuke hurried his machine towards the city center. It was fortunate that he could use the optional armament he’d stolen from the enemy right away. If these had been military machines, that wouldn’t have been possible.

Unlike human-scale weapons, AS-scale weapons had encrypted firing systems to make sure that enemy armed forces couldn’t pick them up and use them. Even for an M9 with a top-class AI, breaking that encryption to capture an enemy’s weapon would take time. What was more...

“Is it fate?” Sousuke whispered as he realized the shotcannon he’d picked up was a Boxer 57mm made by OTO Melara. It had been his weapon of choice when piloting the Arbalest for Mithril.

Just then, he got a call on his radio’s open channel. “Do you read me, Sagara?” It was definitely Kurama’s voice.

“Five by five, I suppose,” he answered.

“I’m in the Arena. If you want me, come and get me.”

“You should have run away,” Sousuke warned him. “You’ll regret staying.”

“We’ll see.”

The radio signal cut off. There was nothing more for either of them to say. Kurama wanted Sousuke to come and try to kill him; Sousuke wanted to take him up on the offer. There was nothing to discuss further or compromise on.

That’s right, Kurama. You’re spoiling for a fight, and so am I, thought Sousuke. There’s no need to think about anything else now. Rage, hatred... ‘This is what it means to be alive,’ you said, and that’s one thing we can agree on. I will kill you.

The sound of an alarm drew Sousuke’s mind back to more pressing matters: the temperature of his machine was still rising. The meter for his hydraulics was faltering. He could hear unpleasant noises from the drive system. The gyros he’d corrected just ten minutes ago were already giving out bizarre readings. It wouldn’t be long until his prolonged abuse did the Crossbow in; he had to hurry.

Just then, he encountered a new police car blockade. There were only two cars this time, and as before, they only had small arms. After deeming an exchange of fire unnecessary, Sousuke just ran past them. As he moved, he saw the buildings of the metropolis around him grow taller. There were more street lights, and more passersby now. The chief and his lackeys, despite knowing the area would become a battlefield, hadn’t bothered to evacuate the citizens.

Three ASes appeared, silhouetted by the streetlights and neon of the grid-shaped city center. Had they been waiting there from the start, or had they shown up when they heard he was coming? A Savage, a Drache, and a Cyclone... Soviet, German, and English. Even Sousuke, who’d been through the Middle East and countless other war-torn regions, had never seen such a diverse lineup before.

The enemy opened fire. Explosive shells rocked the area around Sousuke’s machine, and chunks of glass and concrete were blasted all around. Their aim was awful; Sousuke’s fire control system was almost kaput, but theirs seemed to be in bad shape, too. They were on roughly even footing.

With a wordless exclamation and well-trained steps, he sent his machine into evasive maneuvers, then switched over to full manual to take aim himself. He pointed his shotcannon at the Drache in the center, and fired; it was a miss, with too much margin for error in his optical sensors and targeting system. Correcting his aim based on the course of that shot, Sousuke fired once more, and his machine shook with a 57mm recoil. His hit was successful this time, and the enemy AS went flying in a shower of sparks, plowing into an adult goods shop behind it and emitting white smoke.

Though slightly cowed by this initial encounter, the remaining enemies didn’t let up, and Sousuke twisted his machine around to hide it behind a nearby building. Of course, it wouldn’t serve as proper cover; the walls of a cheap structure like this one would crumble like sugar candy under 35mm rounds.

Piercing enemy bullets sent debris scattering, and several of them dug into Sousuke’s Savage, too. He felt the powerful jolts through his body, but he wasn’t finished yet. Hitting the building had caused the bullets to yaw, preventing them from doing major damage to his armor. While realigning his scrambled gyros, Sousuke set his machine into a run.

The Crossbow had taken so much punishment that a stiff wind should blow it over, yet it remained upright. Why? Sousuke realized, at last, that it was due to the machine’s software; its operating system. Several creative layers had been added onto the old wreck’s original programming, so that it could compensate no matter how fierce the battle. The Savage that Sousuke had used back in his Afghan days wouldn’t have been capable of this. It would have toppled or lost reliable aim ages ago, and the enemy would have jumped on the opening.

Who upgraded the OS? he wondered. Who looked after this machine? As he remembered, a fire began to smolder in Sousuke’s previously calm and collected mind. No, not a fire—that term didn’t do it justice. The violence of his emotions was far more intense, like an electric light bright enough to blind any onlooker.

Don’t get in my way, Sousuke whispered, and he spurred the Crossbow on. He interpreted all the numbers on the screens and all the sensations he felt through the frame instantly, controlled his machine precisely to compensate, and guided it into the enemy’s blind spot. How will the enemy move if fired on from that position? And where should I move then? Even if his sensors were lacking, Sousuke knew tactics like the back of his hand.

Running through a gap in the buildings that the enemy couldn’t see from their current position, Sousuke’s Savage quickly took the location he’d had in mind. The enemy machine, the Cyclone, was standing on the other side of a building across from him.

Stop. Aim. Judge the timing. Fire through the building. His shots pierced through the walls, and the 57mm blast hit the enemy in the side. The Cyclone toppled, burning. That made four.

The remaining enemy Savage fired at him in another poorly-planned attack. Rather than hitting Sousuke, the shot just gave away the operator’s own position. Sousuke calmly crouched his machine down and fired a shell into the remaining Savage with his shotgun. The shot must have ignited the jet fuel within, because the enemy machine caught fire and then exploded. The force of it took out the glass in the nearby windows. That made five.

Don’t get in my way... Sousuke repeated to himself, his gaze full of smoldering anger as he kept his machine running. Three more enemy machines appeared. He silently took two of them out.

Don’t get in my way... The remaining machine bathed him in counter-fire, which hit his already torn-up chest armor. Fragments of the bullets that pierced through made it to his cockpit and cracked his left-hand screen. A piece of broken plastic ricocheted around and dug lightly into Sousuke’s temple.

Don’t get in my way!! He ignored the pain and checked his machine’s status. Severe damage to the hydraulics system on his left side—nevertheless, the Savage could still move, although it was only a matter of seconds until it shut down entirely. Sousuke took aim with his shotcannon and made a successful hit: target destroyed. That made eight.

He worked the Crossbow’s systems to their limit and restored hydraulic power to the left leg. It’s not over yet, he told himself. This hunk of junk can still move. His shotcannon had two rounds remaining. Sousuke fired one into another enemy, and then started running towards the Arena. That made nine.

The soccer stadium, visible in the light of the mercury lamps, came nearer. He saw armored cars and police cars waiting in front of it, but they seemed too confused to muster up a proper welcome. They must not have expected Sousuke to appear so soon.

Sousuke could see the chief scrambling to get into one of the police cars, desperately ordering the men around him to fire as he went. Even though it was nearly impossible for infantry rifles to harm an AS...

Suddenly, he heard a sound from above, and a war cry echoed out over external speakers. An M6, armed with a rifle with a monomolecular cutter bayonet, jumped down from the building it had been waiting on, straight at Sousuke. As shots rained down, the Crossbow swiftly—well, swiftly by a Savage’s standards—rolled forward, barely dodging the M6’s attacks. The fragments of broken asphalt kicked up dust, which swirled around the machine.

A slice from the bayonet came at almost the exact same time that Sousuke got the enemy machine in his shotcannon’s sights. With a grunt of effort, Sousuke pulled the trigger, and a flash burst out near the Savage like an explosion. His shotcannon’s final burst blew the M6’s shoulder off as it flew down from above, and sent the arm spinning through the air, still holding its weapon. The bayonet-attached rifle stuck vertically down in the ground, vibrating violently as it fell onto a nearby police car, and crushed the back seat.

“God dammit! It’s payback time!” Sousuke recognized the enemy’s voice for the first time; it was Dao. Spitting filthy curses, the man drew another monomolecular cutter from his machine’s hip with its still-working left arm and swung it at Sousuke’s Savage. As the tip whistled wildly through the air, Sousuke brushed it aside with his now-empty shotgun. “Die, Sagara! Die!”

An alarm sounded as Sousuke’s knees buckled beneath him. The Crossbow’s hydraulic system was losing power rapidly; the machine’s damage and exhaustion had finally caught up with it. Now is not the time! Sousuke thought. He quickly gave up on the hydraulics, now relying entirely on the machine’s muscle packages. With its back to the ground, his Savage reached out for the dropped bayonet-attached rifle. His machine’s movements were agonizingly slow, but this was all he could do: every other option had run dry.

“Not happening, you piece of shit!” Dao’s M6, seeming to realize what he was after, plunged its monomolecular cutter into the Savage’s chest. The strike was aimed straight at the cockpit, trying to finish Sousuke off before his machine’s hand reached the rifle.

Sousuke strained. While searching for the gun with his right hand, he was able to bring his just-barely-functional left arm up as a shield. Dao’s monomolecular cutter dug into it, releasing a torrent of sparks. The knife tore through the arm’s armor, muscle package, and frame, then at last reached his chest. “Hahaha! Die!” came Dao’s hysterical scream.

Sousuke heard the clamor and vibration of RHA being torn apart. The knife was ripping through his chest armor, and had almost reached the cockpit. Just a few dozen centimeters more, and it was Sousuke’s own body that would be cut in two. On top of that, more of his control system was being shredded every second. Almost all of his monitors were down, and he’d completely lost control of his legs. He was finished.

At this stage in a normal AS, the machine would have lost all control functions and the operator would have had no choice but to wait for death. That was true even for M9s, and even for the Arbalest. However, the Crossbow’s right arm—its free manipulator—was still moving, and it stubbornly continued to search for the rifle on the ground. The system of the simple yet tough Savage still wasn’t finished, even after all of this. This masterpiece from the annals of arm slave history wouldn’t abandon its operator to the very, very end.

Sousuke exclaimed as he found the rifle with the right hand, and held the grip firmly. He tilted the barrel upwards. He didn’t need to aim; rather, he stuck the rifle into the chest of the M6 leaning over him and activated the automatic firing device. A hail of 40mm bullets peppered Dao from below, and his machine trembled wildly as they hit.

Silence followed as the M6 fell still, lying on top of the supine Savage. The monomolecular cutter stopped on its path toward him, as well. Oil dripped like blood from the joints and damaged portions of both machines, while white steam billowed around them. Dao’s screaming had stopped. That made ten.

Eventually, Sousuke let out a sigh and tried to push the frozen M6 over, but his machine wouldn’t respond. His Savage had gone completely non-functional. The hydraulics were dead, of course, but now the electrical and drive systems had gone to join them. The engine itself had stalled at some point, as well. The Crossbow had completed its mission, and would never move again.

Sousuke silently pulled the machine’s emergency escape lever, and explosive bolts blew its head off. He crawled out of the cockpit through the newly-made hole, and picked up the carbine and spare clips on the underside of the hatch.

The police, not being foolish enough to watch the AS wrestling match from up close, had long since fled. All he could hear were their cries and screams in the distance.

As he made his exit, Sousuke glanced over and saw a familiar face lying dead in the police car that had been crushed during his battle with Dao: it was the chief, who’d been caught up in the battle while escaping from the Arena. Bad luck for him. It was a pathetic end that didn’t even rise to the level of karmic retribution. But the chief no longer held Sousuke’s interest.

Instead, he walked down the rubble-strewn street, readying his carbine as he approached the stadium’s entrance. Kurama was waiting for him there. No matter what traps might have been set for him, Sousuke had no choice but to go inside.

In the security office deep inside the Arena, Kurama was making his preparations to retaliate. Sousuke’s arrival had come sooner than expected; ten ASes had barely slowed him down. “Worthless fools,” he spat to himself, then rammed a clip he’d just loaded with 5.56mm rounds into his German-made rifle. He had two spares.

He hadn’t had time to round up a stock of grenades, or set many traps. The best he’d done was to rig up a tiny bit of C4 on a remote detonator at one spot in the Arena. Still, it should be enough. If he could lure his enemy into the trap, he could finish him off with the push of a button. But would Sagara Sousuke be fooled? Only God knew.

Kurama still had time to run away. The consideration was tactical understanding rather than cowardice, and he gave it real thought while considering the best course of action. He concluded that there was no reason to run. He wasn’t underestimating Sagara Sousuke’s combat abilities; he just knew his own were more than a match.

Let’s get him dead and buried already, he decided. Snap that loose end and then leave this city behind. I’ll transfer to a flight to North America at the international airport in the capital... hmm, on a first-class ticket. A glass of fine champagne after liftoff will taste all the sweeter for being rid of him.

Kurama grabbed his rifle, then soundlessly left his staging room.

Sousuke kept his carbine in firing position as he moved swiftly through the Arena’s first floor corridor. It had originally been built as a soccer stadium, so there was a single spacious hallway that ringed the center pitch. It was flanked by all kinds of stairwells, bathrooms, stalls and storage spaces. Kurama was out there somewhere, as were his traps, but Sousuke assumed that he hadn’t had the time to set many.

There was a squishy wetness in his right boot that was making it hard to walk. One of the shards that had gone flying inside his cockpit had found a home in his right thigh, and it was bleeding profusely. Every step caused the wound to stretch and contract, sending a scorching wave of pain through his body. This pain made the already dark space seem even dimmer, and he was feeling lightheaded. His body, in a way, was in a similar state to that of the Crossbow.

The corridor had a high ceiling, and light from street lamps and fires burning outside came streaming in through the glass windows. The effect caused unusually long, tall shadows to be projected onto the interior wall of the corridor. Sousuke’s own shadow flickered in and out of his peripheral vision, distorted and eerie. It was like a devil, a harbinger of death. A ghoul, pointing its boorish carbine straight as it walked, flickering in the flames.

He continued to search for any trace of his enemy, but that sight made him realize something. Devil, harbinger of death... Is that what I really am? How many people have I killed to reach this corridor? Is my reason for doing all this really worth all the death it’s brought?

“To kill Kurama” isn’t the reason, he told himself. At least, it isn’t supposed to be. I should be trying to corner him and extract information about Amalgam. That’s why I built up that mountain of corpses.

And now, Nami’s body lies on top of that mountain. Nami, who just lived her life in pursuit of modest dreams...

Even if I do manage to see her again... after all I’ve done, what will I say? “I came to save you. I killed dozens of people, and let a young girl just like you die to do it, but don’t let that bother you.”

I can’t do it. That truth would tear her apart. She couldn’t be happy knowing that people had died for her sake. She’s quarrelsome and loud and she loves kicking me around, but fundamentally she’s at the opposite end of the spectrum from war and death.

She’s a symbol of peace and love. When I hurt and kill people out of hatred, it’s an affront to her very existence.

Sousuke felt that he finally understood the meaning of the word “karma.” My karma is too heavy, he realized. Lives lost can’t be brought back, and the seams of the world can’t be mended. It’s the second law of thermodynamics. Even if I meet her again, we can never... never be happy. We’ll never return to that school again. Things were never going to work out that way.

These weren’t thoughts made out of self-pity, or despair, or pessimism. He regarded them as simple truths; as hard facts. The natural end result of the violent churning of the currents of fate, objectively perceived. But even so, he didn’t stop. He still wanted to fight Kurama and bring Amalgam to its knees.

No, even if those urges faded, he wouldn’t stop moving—his cellular structure wouldn’t allow it. This had gone beyond petty concerns like strong will and burning rage. Something much more fundamental, much more automatic, was spurring him on. Moving him forward.

Dragging that twisted shadow of the reaper along with him, he finished a half revolution around the Arena corridor. There were no traps, and no signs of people.

Wait—He’d just been passing in front of a large staircase to the second floor when he sensed a person at the top. He moved and, an instant later, a gunbarrel at the top of the stairs flashed with fire. Sousuke dove around the corner of the corridor as ear-splitting gunshots and bullets pierced the air. He glanced cautiously in the direction opposite the fire, then crouched down.

His mind, hazy from exhaustion and injury, was able to regain some degree of acuity: it was Kurama firing at him. He hadn’t seen his face, but he could identify him from his movements and vague silhouette in the darkness.

I’ll counter, he decided, peeking around the corner before firing with his rifle. He knew he couldn’t hit his enemy, but he could force him to seek cover. Then Sousuke came out from around the corner, still firing, and tried moving to a more advantageous position.

But Kurama fired a few checking shots while receding farther up the stairs. His manner of retreat was all too suspicious; it would be dangerous to pursue him straight out. Sousuke searched with his eyes for other ways up and spotted an entrance to a small emergency stairway, used by employees, about fifteen meters to his left. This was even more suspicious. The employee stairway was all too inviting. Perhaps Kurama had planned his tactics in order to move Sousuke in that direction...

Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he was just buying time, or Sousuke was overthinking it. Figuring the chance was about fifty-fifty, Sousuke decided to choose the closer route. He flew up the first staircase, making it all the way to the top in one dash. His right boot, slick with blood, made a pathetic-sounding squish with every step.

When Sousuke arrived on the second floor, he found Kurama lying in wait for him behind a graffiti-covered pillar further down the corridor, already shooting. Sousuke had anticipated this; he hid behind an obstacle he’d planned for in advance and quickly returned fire. Sparks flew nearby and he could hear shards of concrete, broken from the gunfire, scattering across the floor.

There was no pithy exchange of conversation. This was real combat.

Sousuke waited out the persistent fire until his enemy moved to change clips, then used that moment to run for his next position. He just made it in time; Kurama’s shots started up again a second later, firing from a space between a large pillar and a potted plant. Kurama would hide, moving between Sousuke’s blind spots as he retreated farther and farther away.

Sousuke secured the best angle he could manage and returned fire, with no sign of a hit. Kurama retreated. Sousuke pursued. With each shot, the muzzle flash projected their shadows onto the wall of the corridor. They were distorted, like grotesque monsters moving in millisecond flashes.

Kurama retreated farther. As Sousuke noticed him running for a thin hallway off the corridor that led to the spectator seats, he felt a sense of confirmation: he was being lured. Continued pursuit would be dangerous. The spectator seats were open territory, and he’d be vulnerable to snipers the second he stepped out. If he wanted to corner Kurama, he had to go somewhere else, some place where he could see the entire arena...

The broadcast booth, he thought, where the announcer and color commentator described the goings-on of a fight. Sousuke made the judgment instantly, then ran to the door of the employee hallway, a metal door marked “Authorized personnel only.” He grabbed the knob, turned it, and found that it wasn’t unlocked. He was about to open the door and move through it when—

Just then, Sousuke realized that he’d made the choice too easily. This was Kurama he was dealing with; he would have known, when he retreated that way, that Sousuke wouldn’t just follow him out. This wasn’t like the stairway from before, either. This was the way he’d need to go if he wanted to finish him. And what was the only door that he would take, if he was on guard for a trap? This door.

The instinct shot up his spine as an electric signal, and he jumped back from the door he’d started to open. In that same instant, a plastic explosive set behind it detonated. It sent Sousuke flying, along with the door itself.

White sparks flew as a shockwave rushed through his body. The door slammed into Sousuke’s left shoulder, knocking him toward the opposite wall with overwhelming force. The room spun around him in all different directions. He hit the floor hard, but that wasn’t enough to stop his momentum. He kept on rolling, upending several trash cans along the way, and only coming to a stop when he hit the opposite wall.

Everything was moving in slow motion—the flames and smoke billowing from the explosion site, even the tumbling of the plastic bottles and empty cans that were spilled when he knocked over the trash can.

He got me. Despite that thought, Sousuke immediately tried to pick himself up. Waves of pain surged through his body, but he was still in one piece. He probably owed that fact purely to the heat- and shockwave-resistant Mithril AS operator’s uniform he was wearing.

Still, his left arm was being uncooperative, and also burned with pain. Was it dislocated? Broken? Sousuke felt weak. He forced his trembling knees to straighten and got to his feet, using the gun still held in his right hand for support. He looked up silently and pointed his rifle forward, uncertain as to whether it would even work properly. His vision was hazy. The noise of the explosion continued to ring in his head.

Beyond the fire and smoke, he could see Kurama. He’d assumed a perfect firing posture, taking aim at Sousuke’s chest. Meanwhile, it was taking Sousuke everything he had just to point his gun in his opponent’s direction.

Kurama opened fire, and Sousuke felt a dull impact through the middle of his torso; the bullet had gone in and out. His operator’s uniform was bulletproof, but it couldn’t stop a rifle shot. Blood splattered onto the wall behind him as Kurama kept firing. He was too woozy to tell if the shots had hit him. He couldn’t check right now, either.

Is this the end? Sousuke wondered. As the world went dark around him, he crumpled forward.

He hadn’t expected him to survive the trap, and he certainly hadn’t expected him to be standing and holding a gun when he came out. It didn’t matter, though. Kurama slowly approached after shooting Sagara Sousuke multiple times, cautiously at the ready. He needed a headshot to make sure, and the flames and smoke from the explosion made that impossible to perform from his current position.

Anyway, that first shot should have been fatal, Kurama reasoned. He’ll bleed out eventually if I just let him go. He must be unconscious already. But just then, Kurama sensed a new presence. Not just one. Two, three—no, four. Maybe more. He could hear the faint rustle of clothing and clink of equipment. They were moving so quietly that he probably wouldn’t have heard them without significant concentration.

Them again, eh? It was that special forces from somewhere-or-other that had ambushed him and the chief in the mountains near Munamera. They must have finally caught up with him. Kurama didn’t particularly feel like dealing with them, but he still needed to secure an escape route. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a moment to spare, and he couldn’t afford to make noise.

He decided to put Sousuke on the backburner while he got to work. First, he fired his rifle at the shoulder of a man who’d carelessly poked his upper half out from the top of the stairs. A scream echoed through the hall along with the gunshot. He ignored a second enemy, who was crouching down to try and save his wounded comrade, and wordlessly ran to the opposite side of the corridor—the south side.

Here he found two more enemy soldiers, coming up in an attempt to surround him. Deciding that simple brute force should be enough, he took aim before his enemy could, and fired. One fell immediately, while another returned fire with a submachine gun. Kurama’s bulletproof coat blocked most of the gun’s pistol rounds. He didn’t even flinch as he shot the man to death.

Before the fallen man’s back could even touch the floor, Kurama ran up to him and snatched a hand grenade from his chest. He bit out the pin and threw the grenade around the far corner, where more enemies would surely be hiding. With a clink of metal, the hand grenade rolled around the corner. He heard cursing and screams, followed by an explosion. Smoke billowed in the dark, and Kurama mercilessly fired his rifle into the two enemies fallen in the narrow corridor.

“Hmm.” His poker face remained in place, but he was deeply annoyed at these enemies for getting in his way again. Part of him wanted to keep going, to slaughter them all and force them to reveal their organization... but he was out of time. It was dangerous to linger when he didn’t know how many more might be out there.

Kurama’s heavy bulletproof coat whipped around him as he withdrew to the place from which he had come—the corridor where he had detonated the plastic explosives. His plan was to finish off the mortally wounded and immobilized Sagara Sousuke, then leave.

But Sousuke wasn’t there. All he saw in the wafting, fading smoke was a pool of blood on the floor. The man himself was gone. No, there were bloody footprints there, too... The footprints suggested he had moved, tottering unsteadily, behind a large fallen trash can in a corner of the corridor... “Sh—”

A white-as-a-sheet Sousuke popped out from behind the trash can and fired his carbine straight at Kurama, who felt a hard impact in his side and buckled over. More shots followed, piercing the bulletproof coat and running through his chest. Unable to stay upright any longer, Kurama staggered back in the other direction before he fell to one knee, dropping his rifle and collapsing into a pool of Sousuke’s blood.

Sousuke labored back to his feet, then walked the ten meters or so to where Kurama had fallen. He hadn’t tricked his enemy, or taken advantage of the situation, or anything clever like that. He’d simply failed to die, maintained the energy to move, and found the will to pull the trigger. That was all.

His left arm was limp. Every breath brought a fresh wave of agony coursing through him, and he was losing blood from multiple wounds. The hole in his stomach was especially large. The fact that he was able to stand meant his spinal cord was still intact, at least. But Sousuke knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.

Still... before he died...

“Kurama,” Sousuke said, wringing out what was left of the air in his lungs. With right hand trembling, he pointed the muzzle of his carbine at his enemy, but even that began to tremble and sag unreliably. “Tell me. Where is Chidori?”

“Why... do you want to know?” Kurama whispered, without the slightest stirring from where he lay. There was bloody foam dribbling out of his mouth.

“I’m going to save her.”

“What are you, stupid?” There was disgust in Kurama’s voice, despite his own mortal wounds.

“Tell me.”

“No. I want you to die, denied that satisfaction.”

That was expected. Understandable, even. But regardless, Sousuke repeated, “Tell me.”

Kurama did not respond. Instead, he said, in a weak and low voice: “I don’t understand. How did we end up in... a draw?”

“It was her,” Sousuke responded, though he didn’t even know exactly what he was saying.

“What, the power of love? Don’t make me laugh.” Kurama poured what little remained of his strength into a mocking smile. The tone of his voice suggested he’d rather spend an eternity in hell than acknowledge that shallow idea.

“What’s wrong with that?” Sousuke asked. It wasn’t meant as sarcasm or argument; he was simply asking the question. That’s how it turned out, isn’t it? I’m standing here, and you’re on the ground. Coincidences happened; there were uncontrollable elements in play. But the fact is I’m the one standing here, asking you the questions.

I don’t know what love really means. But there must be a reason why we’re both here in this condition, a clear intervening will that cannot be denied. Can you reject even that reality in front of you?

“Tell me,” he asked again.

“San Carlos,” Kurama said indifferently. “If not there, then Niquelo, or Granada. One of those. That’s all I know.”

“I see.”

“It’s all so stupid. Who even cares anymore?”

“I do.”

“I wish I’d never quit smoking,” were Kurama’s final words.

Sousuke fell to his knees. “San Carlos.” He’d dropped the carbine at some point. Blood continued to pool at his feet. The hole in his stomach was too large to close. His vision was fading, and his consciousness grew distant. “Niquelo. Or Granada...” He muttered the words over and over.

I need to tell someone. But who will fight in my place? Who else will bring her back, if not me? I don’t know... Nothing made sense anymore. He didn’t know what he was asking, or what he was trying to convey. His mind had gone blank. He fell back, supine, but he couldn’t even see the ceiling above anymore.

Michel Lemon ran up to him and stared down at him, as white as a sheet. What was he shouting? Sousuke knew these words: medic; syringe; epinephrine; atropine. He’d known them well for so long, but they didn’t matter anymore. The last thought in the back of his mind was of a girl. Her. He’d thought it was Nami, but it wasn’t. She was angry for some reason. She was glaring at him, scowling, her fists clenched at her sides.

But then the next moment, her face became a smile. “Get a grip already!” she proclaimed. The face of the girl he’d begun to forget during his life in Namsac came back to him as clear as if it were yesterday. How had he ever thought that he could be happy here, instead?

“Chidori...” he groaned. I miss you so much. I know it’s not possible, but... I want to see you. Be with me. Thump me on the back and say something. That’s all... that’s all I want in life. “Chidori...”

I’m so lonely. So cold. Just one more time, please...

●

She heard a voice. It was coming from far away, a sky distant from her current location, and it nagged at her as she drifted in and out of a doze. It seemed to come from just beyond the waves rushing in and crashing in the distance—that’s how faint the voice was.

The dim lights around her blurred together, and the even-more-faint fragments of information drifted around, converting into various colors and sounds. The voice, spinning round and round beyond those fragments, threatened to disappear, but she worked hard to keep it where it was.

This kind of thing had become routine. She’d heard many voices like this, then shut them away in a drawer somewhere, and forgotten them as if nothing had happened. She’d heard this voice before, too.

I met him, the voice told her.

At first, she didn’t understand what it meant. But a second later, she realized. “Him” in this context had to mean him. She had vaguely worked out whose voice it was, too. She’d never met its owner... and now, she never would.

She was with him in a different world, a different fragment of space-time, Kaname thought. She was with him the way I was. That’s how we’re connected.

Connected. If not for the omnisphere, neither of them would ever have known about it.

And then the voice told her, But we’re parted now.

Strictly speaking, the voice did not use traditional tense. “We’re parted now” simultaneously meant, “we are parting” and “we are about to part.”

Parted? Why? Kaname asked.

Because I’m dead. This, too, had the nuance of “am dying” and “am about to die.” It’s a shame. I feel sad that I couldn’t replace you.

Is he okay? Where is he?

I don’t know. Namsac. He’s badly wounded. The voice knew many other things: that he was fighting; that he was all alone now; and that he was probably searching for her.

Something squeezed at Kaname’s heart. She wanted it to stop, but she didn’t want it to stop. She didn’t know what to do.

The fact that he met you... Do you think he’s special somehow?

I don’t think so. You know he’s completely normal, don’t you?

But he met me, and he met you. And her, and him...

That’s not so strange. He was mine first. Him meeting you was the real anomaly.

Maybe so.

No point in apologizing, right?

Yeah. But I’m still sorry.

That’s okay. Different situations yield different results. But I’d better go now... that whisper is coming.

Sure thing.

Goodbye. But one last thing...

What?

If you ever meet him again, forgive him. Take him in your arms, like you should.

I can’t promise that.

I know. But I think that’s okay. Just as long as you remember.

And then the voice grew more and more distant, until she couldn’t hear it any longer.

“Mm...” She woke up and felt the warm sunlight streaming on her eyelids. Too bright. Chidori Kaname furrowed her brow, eyes still closed, and turned over on her crisp white sheets. She could hear the sound of the waves. The cool, peaceful salt wind drifted in from the open window and rustled the lace canopy over her king-size bed.

She’d fallen asleep at some point. She’d been dreaming about something, but she couldn’t remember what. It was always like this. It had felt like an important conversation, yet it was all gone in an instant. What kind of dream might it have been? Nostalgic remnants of sorrow and loneliness drove Kaname into an air of melancholy.

It wasn’t evening yet. She was in a mansion somewhere, on a hill near the beach. Outside the window, she could see the sea sparkling green in the sunlight. Feeling a little cold, Kaname pulled her sheets up to her chin. All she was wearing right now was a light camisole and her underwear.

Someone was knocking on the door of her bedroom, which was decorated in a luxurious but not ostentatious style. “Come in,” she invited.

“Excuse me.” A girl entered. She was wearing a suit, but her age and build were about the same as Kaname’s. Her hair was brown, done in a short bob cut, and she wore unfashionable glasses. She cast a glance at Kaname, who was sitting listlessly up in her bed, and gave her a small bow. “Did you rest well?”

“Doesn’t matter. What do you want?”

“It’s your three o’clock tea,” the girl responded politely. “And I wished to ask if you had finished evaluating the ‘Behemoth-i’ data that was delivered to you this morning.”

“It’s on the desk,” Kaname told her. “In the USB drive.”

“Thank you.” The girl poured some Darjeeling into a cup, and set it onto the table with a small dish of cookies. “Are you tired?”

“I’m fine. Just dozed off, is all.”

“You must have been having sad dreams,” the other girl observed.

“What makes you say that?”

Looking at Kaname, the girl tapped the corner of her own eye with her index finger. “You were crying.”

Kaname turned to gaze into the mirror in the back of the bedroom. The girl was right. “I guess I was,” she whispered, wiping at the corners of her eyes. “It was a sad dream. I bet everyone had it, not just me.”

Why can’t I be with him? The feeling, apropos of nothing, welled up inside her again, and caused the tears to stream from her eyes once more.

She took the teacup and had a sip. It was delicious, but it didn’t stop her crying.