The Rising Sea

49

Han met Ushi-Oni in the tunnel, where the former Yakuza assassin stood with the Honjo Masamune gripped in his palm.

“Austin and Zavala have been chained up,” Oni said. “But you should kill them immediately.”

“It’ll have to wait.”

“Why?”

“Because if you kill them now, rigor mortis will set in,” Han explained. “In addition, their bodies will begin to cool down. They’ll be cold and stiff by the time the authorities find them. Two minor details that will make it easy to establish a time of death well before the assassination took place. Which will effectively rule them out as suspects and give instant credibility to every conspiracy theorist who suggests an alternate, perhaps Chinese, cause of the incident. I would expect a man like you to know these things.”

Oni stepped forward, his eyes wild. “A man like me knows you don’t leave loose ends around. That’s why I’ve never been caught. And it isn’t about to happen here and now.”

“Lower your voice,” Han said, reestablishing control over the situation.

Oni did as he was told but continued to fume. “Mark my words,” he said. “They’ve seen you, they’ve seen me. As long as they’re alive, we’re all in danger.”

“They’ll be dead in less than twelve hours,” Han said. “You can be the one to kill them, if you want. But you’ll do it when and how I say. Otherwise, you’ll generate more ‘loose ends.’ For now, they live. In the meantime, I need to get that sword out of your hand before you hurt someone with it. Come with me.”

Han turned deeper into the mine. Oni hesitated. “Why don’t we speak outside?”

“Because it’s pouring rain and I need my people to examine that trinket you’re carrying.”

“I’ve become rather fond of it,” Oni said.

“You won’t be when you hear the story behind it.”

Han led Oni down the hall to another section of the mine that his people had taken over and modernized. He opened the triple-sealed door and held it wide.

Oni shook his head. “You first.”

“Very well.”

Han stepped inside another laboratory. This room was smaller and cramped in comparison to the production room where the robots were assembled. It was filled with machines that would have been familiar to any metallurgist.

“What is this place for?” Oni asked.

“My people use these machines to analyze ore samples we’ve taken from mines and quarries around Japan. Mostly abandoned ones,” Han admitted. “Centuries old.”

They’d been at it for nearly a year. Retrieving, testing and storing what they found. The fruit of the effort sat in labeled metal canisters stacked on the far side of the room. The number of containers had grown continuously, looking now like thousands of beer cans in an overzealous supermarket display.

“What are you looking for?” Oni asked.

“A rare alloy that we believe to be present here in Japan.”

“And the swords? What do they have to do with it?”

Han figured Oni would have put it together by now. “These weapons were crafted by the masters of Japanese swordmaking. Based on the legends that describe their strength, flexibility and resistance to corrosion, it’s possible they were made with trace amounts of that alloy. If we’re right and we detect the alloy in the swords, all we have to do is find out where the ancient swordsmiths mined their ore and we’ll be on the right track.”

As he spoke, one of Han’s men was using a device known as a plasma mass spectrometer to analyze the blade on one of the swords that Oni had recovered.

The plasma torch flared behind a dark pane of glass, still bright enough to illuminate the room in a garish light. The sample was subjected to several seconds of the high-temperature torture before the beam was extinguished.

When it was removed from the spectrometer, the tip of the weapon was glowing red, melting and deformed. As it cooled, the computers analyzed the particles melted and blasted from the surface of the blade and printed out a report.

“So that’s why you wanted Masamune’s journal?” Oni said.

Han nodded. “It was rumored to contain the secrets of Masamune’s craft. His endless quest to create the perfect weapon. We’d hoped it would tell us where he obtained the ore he used to forge the blade.”

“And does it?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Han said. “Most of his journal is filled with philosophical nonsense about creating a weapon that would punish evil and not harm the innocent.”

Oni laughed. “A fool’s conscience.”

“Perhaps,” Han said. “But he believed he had achieved just that with the weapon you’re holding now.”

Oni narrowed his gaze and then glanced at the shimmering sword.

Han explained. “By chance, or because you have a fine eye for craftsmanship, you’ve chosen the most valuable sword of all for your memento. That’s no simple antique you possess; it’s the Honjo Masamune itself.”

Oni grinned. He knew. Or suspected.

Han picked up another of the swords; it had a darker, thicker blade than the one Oni held. The steel appeared to have a reddish tint to it. Not rust, but closer to the color of dead roses or dried blood. “This is the weapon for you. It’s known as the Crimson Blade. It was created not by Masamune but by another swordsmith, known as Muramasa.”

Oni held his ground for the moment. “Muramasa?”

Han nodded. “Muramasa was alleged to be Masamune’s protégé, though there is some debate about that. At any rate, it’s well accepted that Muramasa spent his life trying to outdo the great Master, to forge a better weapon — a more powerful, more resilient, more deadly weapon. And in that last category, he undoubtedly succeeded. This weapon, this Crimson Blade, was by far his greatest creation. Throughout Japanese history, it has been renowned for its ability to take life and build wealth. It has brought power, fame and fortune to all who possessed it. Even the legend — meant to discredit Muramasa — tells the true story of its superiority.”

“What legend would that be?” Oni asked with a suspicious glint in his eye.

“Muramasa had tired of being considered an apprentice to the Master,” Han said. “He challenged Masamune in an effort to prove who among them was the finest swordmaker. Masamune agreed and both men consented to be judged by the monks of a local order. They crafted great swords and, under the watchful eye of the monks from the temple, lowered their blades into a fast-running stream, with the sharpened edges facing the onrushing water.

“As the monks watched, the Crimson Blade cut through everything that came its way — crabs, fish, eels — anything the force of the stream brought to it was sliced cleanly in two. Across the stream, the Masamune, perhaps the very sword you hold now, divided the waters without a ripple, but it cut nothing that was living. Only leaves and other inanimate debris that floated past.”

Han continued. “As the contest wore on, Muramasa laughed at the old man’s weapon. In one version of the legend, he calls it an impotent blade. When the monks motioned for the weapons to be raised, the Crimson Blade of Muramasa came from the stream stained with blood. The Masamune dripped only crystal clear water.”

“A clear victory,” Oni said.

“You would think,” Han said. “Muramasa certainly did. But when the monks pronounced their judgment, they chose the old Master and not the apprentice. Muramasa’s Crimson Blade was deemed bloodthirsty and evil for destroying all it touched while the Masamune spared the life of the innocent. Is that really the sword you wish to keep for yourself?”

“‘The innocent,’” Oni scoffed. “There’s no such thing.”

“Perhaps,” Han said. “But you hold the weapon of a saint, not a sinner. Understanding true power the way you and I do, we both know which blade is truly superior.”

Oni studied the blade in his right hand and then stretched out his left. With a flip of his fingers, he beckoned for the other sword.

Han tossed it too high and Oni snatched it out of the air, grasping the hilt in a perfect catch. With a weapon in each hand, he compared them, swinging them this way and that, moving them in circular and then slashing motions.

“There is a heft to this weapon,” he said, looking at the Crimson Blade. “It feels… more substantial.”

“It suits you,” Han said. “You know it does.”

“Fine,” Oni said. Without warning, he tossed the Honjo Masamune in the air toward Han.

Han grasped for the hilt of the sword, catching it awkwardly with one hand and bringing the other up to stop it from dropping to the floor. In doing so, he accidentally wrapped two fingers around the blade. He drew his hand back instantly, with blood streaming from a pair of razor-like cuts.

He grunted in pain, shook the hand and grabbed a towel to stanch the bleeding.

Oni laughed. “Too bad you’re not a fish or an eel,” he chided. “The pretty blade would have left you unbloodied.”

Han handed the weapon carefully to his lab technician. “Analyze it,” he said, “but it’s not to be damaged.”

“A souvenir for yourself?” Oni said.

“A symbol,” Han replied. “One the Japanese people will respond to with zeal. Much as you did. The Honjo Masamune is the sword of your ancestors. It has always represented Japanese power and independence. Its reappearance at this very moment will galvanize the Japanese public and help them to throw off the American shackles they’ve worn since this sword disappeared.”

Oni laughed. “And I suppose they’ll never notice the Chinese shackles replacing the American ones.”

So Oni had guessed at least that part of the plan.

“That’s the great thing about symbols,” Han said. “They shine in the sky like a brilliant light. People fixate on them, mesmerized and unable to see what’s going on right beside them.”