Demon City Shinjuku: The Complete Edition (2 page)

Both girls whispered in their hearts: “Izayoi-kun is such an
idiot
. All he had to do was
ask
and I'd
show
him.”

Twenty minutes later, the whirlwind—now clothed in the form of a regulation Prussian-style high school uniform—was gobbling down a king-sized serving of roasted pork ramen at a food stand behind Mejiro station. He was flanked by a pair of similarly-dressed teenagers. The whirlwind had long hair while they sported crew cuts.

The larger of the two was the captain of the Minakaze High School kendo team, Kenji Shiratori. His smaller, nimbler companion was Tomoyasu Kayama, captain of the Shorinji Kenpo club. Leaning against the counter next to Shiratori was a
shinai
—a bamboo fencing sword—in a tube-shaped duffel bag. The knuckles of Kayama's fists were thick with calluses.

They'd arrived earlier and had been waiting for him. The other person there was a scowling old man who looked like a wizened philosopher. But he was only the proprietor of the food stand.

The falling night crept down the alley. The only illumination came from the radioluminescent streetlamps and the glow of the food stand lights. The moon was rising.

“So, what's up?” asked the whirlwind as he slurped up the last of the broth and handed back the bowl. Due to a sudden change in the weather, his breath clouded brightly in the gloomy air.

Kyoya Izayoi was a student at Minakaze High School, a three-year comprehensive. Compared to the rough-hewn outlines of his two companions, he looked markedly more fit and trim, even handsome. Put a pair of glasses on him and a textbook under his arm and he could pass himself off as an honors student.

Though thanks to the laid-back and likable vibe that surrounded him, the aura he gave off was anything but cool and contained. That bit of skirt lifting notwithstanding, he was clearly something apart from the usual prodigy.

“Not a lot. But starting next month, things will get busy with the extramural club competitions. Naturally, you're going to be in high demand. I want to make sure you put me and Kayama first on your list. There's bound to be people pulling the usual dirty tricks, like what Akihabara Robot Technical High tried the last time.”

Shiratori had a soft voice that belied his large frame. Kyoya grinned and nodded. “Yeah, I never believed they'd sub in an android. Keeping up with the robots is a real bear. They're getting just like real people. They got some of them trash talking and pumping their fists on the podium.”

“Yeah. Don't matter how much you train, there's only so much you can do against the speed and power of a computer-controlled robot. Not to mention that they keep getting better at making silicon look like real skin. They can make 'em sweat and bleed and pass through metal detectors and show up on X-rays like humans.”

Kayama picked up where Shiratori left off. “The martial arts are on the ropes, I'm telling you. That's why we need you there. Yeah, we're talking about high school sports, but Minakaze High's Kyoya Izayoi is the only one who can take them on and knock their screws loose. It's up to you to preserve the dignity of the martial arts against these mechanized cheaters! How about another pork ramen? It's on Shiratori today.”

“Don't mind if I do! One more and supersize it!” Kyoya ordered cheerfully.

He thumped his two companions on the shoulders and flashed a leave-it-to-me smile, like he was a guy easy to game. Shiratori was about to protest, but Kayama caught his eye and grinned.

Despite this give and take, Kyoya wasn't a formal member of any of the sports teams. He stepped in when one of the regulars couldn't suit up or when they were facing off against a particularly tough opponent. An all-around pinch hitter. Since he didn't normally train with them, and only appeared when the chips were down, he wouldn't be worth much unless he could really deliver.

Which he'd done quite easily for three years now.

Minakaze High had been a second-ranked school until three years ago. At the preliminaries to the World Federal Martial Arts Junior Championships, they'd knocked out a veteran powerhouse. At the finals in Denmark, they'd turned the martial arts world on its head, racking up three victories in a row, largely thanks to him.

So whenever a big match was coming up, all the teams started scheming to book him in advance. This time around, Shiratori and Kayama were the first in line. Considering his affinity for kendo and Shorinji Kenpo, he probably would have shown up at their competitions no matter what.

But what was this business about knocking out robots?

As Shiratori and Kayama tussled back and forth about who exactly was footing the bill, Kyoya turned his attention to the steaming pork ramen. He picked up his chopsticks and was about to dig in when—

“
Hey—!
”

“
Shit—!
”

Shiratori's grunts and Kayama's shouts were overlaid with a harsh crunching sound. The air in the alley wavered.

Kyoya pushed the two away from him to the right and left. He flipped backwards just as the black shadows sneaking up behind them crashed into the food stand.

A vicious karate chop struck the edge of the counter and split it neatly in two. Broth and noodles scattered across the asphalt, along with pieces of the ramen bowls. The proprietor gaped and fell on his butt.

“What the hell?” roared Shiratori, jumping to his feet and whipping the
shinai
out of the duffel. In an instant, the sword flashed to the ready.

“Watch it, Izayoi. That guy's after you.”

Kayama stood with his feet shoulders' width apart, his right foot planted behind him, his balled fists a bit further out in front of his chest than the customary opening stance—the posture he took in a real fight. He scanned the ground in front of him and saw no other attackers.

Witnessing this act of superhuman power only ignited their own fighting spirits. In the world of high school martial arts, they were both the best in their class.

The two opponents facing them were giants with soft gray fedoras pulled over their eyes and wearing trench coats the same color. Over six feet and weighing close to two-fifty. Their expressionless, almost metallic, mask-like faces were weirdly off-putting, just as it was impossible to say whether they were Oriental or Occidental.

A gust of wind blew down the alleyway, laden with murderous intent.

“Oh, knock it off,” Kyoya drawled.

The way the big man swung his arm like an ax right at Kyoya, it was clear to Shiratori and Kayama that Kyoya was the target; and yet he stood there as calm as a summer day.

“This ain't no joking matter!” Shiratori bellowed, his gentle demeanor evaporating. “No way we can just back down after a sucker punch like that! Move it!”

He spun around, ready to bust some balls, and gawked at the sight of Kyoya standing there, chopsticks and bowl in hand. Dodging danger by the skin of his teeth with inhuman quickness, he still managed to drain the last of the broth from the bowl without spilling a drop.

“Typical,” said Shiratori, admiration in his voice.

Kyoya polished off his second helping and set down the bowl. “These guys aren't human. They're cyborgs. I guess that means I'm the only one who can square off against them.”

The relaxed nature of this observation only raised the question of when he'd first realized it. He glanced down at the noodles and pork cutlets scattered on the ground and his attitude changed abruptly.

“I was thinking of going for thirds, but I guess that's out of the question now. Dammit!”

Even his anger was short of true fury. His opponents didn't move. Shiratori and Kayama yelled together, “Payback!”

The furious cry was followed by two bolts of lightning that shot at the two giants. Shiratori thrust at the throat of the one. Kayama delivered a roundhouse kick to the head of the other. No matter who they were fighting, no matter how unreasonable the contest, these two wouldn't back down.

The cyborgs didn't duck. The sensation of an aluminum bat hitting a brick wall reverberated through the boys' wrists as the giants blocked the blows single-handedly. Faster than they could retreat, all the strength drained from their bodies. Shiratori and Kayama collapsed on the spot.

The thugs silently resumed their assault on Kyoya. They had tranquilizer guns in their palms—these were commando cyborgs.

Kyoya got serious. Commando cyborgs were advanced fighting units reserved for military use alone. Equipped with tranquilizer guns, dimensional radar, particle beam weapons, tactical nukes and electronic countermeasures, they could compete on an equal footing with mechanized units that included heavy tanks and fighter aircraft.

There was no way they could deploy weapons like that in an urban back alley and escape the fallout. But they also had regenerative metabolisms, bioengineered muscles, and silicon frames several orders of magnitude harder than steel, all powered by five-thousand horsepower nuclear motors that could smash their way into Fort Knox.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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