Hercules Chen, Zero Hunter: Toroka VS Mecha-Tsuyo, Part 11 of 17

Umihara Shou delves into the deadly world of Imperial politics.

And he thought battling Toroka was dangerous.

Then, Fast Freddie makes a compromise with the devil for the good of all.

This is Part 11 of Hercules Chen, Zero Hunter: Toroka VS Mecha-Tsuyo. If you’d like to avoid spoilers, read Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10 first.

Content warnings: violence, gun violence, death, gore, mild swearing, creeps.

The Drowned Captain.

TUESDAY AFTERNOON, JULY 20, 1943
BENEATH THE IMPERIAL PALACE
TOKYO, JAPAN

//Translated from Japanese.//

Umihara Shou walked the narrow tunnel alongside Speaker Ayumu at the head of a silent procession. The captain held his own tongue, half in awe and half in shame. He had never expected to meet the Emperor, much less to stand by His side as He appointed the new Imperial Swordsmith.

Umihara’s uniform had been rumpled, yellowed by stress and battle. His voice had been raspy and uncertain. To have met the Divine while so disheveled nearly made him ill.

Even in the aftermath of something so immense as Toroka, being in the presence of the Heavenly Sovereign left Umihara sweaty and speechless. The towering beast compared little to the will of the Empire. Before the ceremony, he had seen the Emperor but once, from afar, during the commission of an aircraft carrier.

Beside Umihara, the Speaker had been rendered silent as well, though not from awe. Ayumu was fuming; he had not spoken an unnecessary word since the ceremony, not to the new Smith, nor to the Emperor.

It was clear that the Speaker did not approve of the Emperor’s choice. The man the Emperor had draped His seal upon was but a lickspittle with a foolish mustache who waddled more than walked. He chafed under the Vow bolted around his throat and hid behind an honor guard of elder swordsmiths.

Ayumu had confided in Umihara before the ceremony: he believed that the new Smith was Tetsujin's choice, not the Heavenly Sovereign's.

For Umihara to hear such blasphemy from a member of the Imperial Swordsmiths, that the Emperor's will was other than His own, turned the captain's empty stomach.

A cramp wracked the captain's abdomen so forcefully that he nearly stumbled. The bare bulbs set in the ceiling seared his eyes. The echoing footsteps of a dozen men were cacophonous: the smiths’ wooden sandals alongside Umihara's leather boots.

The captain struggled to keep pace; his eyes were screaming and his joints howled.

The old pain was awake and terrible.

Takamoto had ordered Umihara to escort the new Smith back to Mecha-Tsuyo, on the premise that they would formulate a repair plan on the trip back. The captain knew it was to wedge a distance between him and his stolen crew. If he had truly been meant to coordinate repairs, he would have been allowed access to the Smith.

Not only had Umihara not spoken to the newly appointed head of the Imperial Swordsmiths, nor had Aymu. He felt the Speaker's words were too valuable to be wasted on the ears of a bought man. Whatever the goals of the Emperor, the Smith, Tetsujin, or the Speaker, it would only affect Mecha-Tsuyo. Any distraction in its repairs could result in its loss the next time it encountered the beast. Toroka left no room for half-measures or distraction.

Umihara’s frustration with his impotence further agitated the old pain. He almost did not hear it when the Speaker finally broke the silence:

“Captain, you are sweating.”

Umihara pretended not to have heard and fumbled with his hearing aid.

“What was that?” he asked, adjusting dials until he could make out the Speaker's low whispers clearly.

“You are perspiring quite profusely.”

“Yes, I am,” Umihara mumbled. He wiped at his forehead with a damp kerchief.

“It is very cool here,” Ayumu observed.

Umihara struggled to make himself presentable. He was sweating like the dank tunnel was an oven. He straightened his rumpled uniform and adjusted the neck strap holding his hearing aid, but it did not help. No one had left him on his own in days. He swallowed, but his throat was dry.

“Why was the ceremony held underground?” Umihara mumbled, eager to change the subject. The old pain pushed at his eyes.

“His Majesty's Library is the most secure place in the Palace Castle,” Ayumu answered. “The Emperor is staying in shelter until the threat of Toroka has ended. On the orders of Tetsujin.”

Despite the old pain, Ayumu's blasphemous words cut Umihara to his core. To hear that the Black Dragon Society could countermand the rule of the Heavenly Sovereign went against everything he believed.

“No one would dare give the Emperor orders. Tetsujin is merely one of the Emperor's trusted advisers,” Umihara replied, parroting the Dragon's insistent claims. His throat was so dry, it felt ready to rip.

“Is that how Takamoto stole your ship from you?” Ayumu hissed. Umihara's aching eyes were wide, crackling the gummy crust that grew in his tear ducts. He stepped up to the Speaker, heat blooming in his chest.

The honor guard of elder swordsmiths encircled their trembling leader and the Speaker, wordlessly placing themselves in front of the wide-eyed captain. The Imperial Smith's mouth opened and closed, forming soundless words. The spring-loaded razor in his Vow trembled over his throat.

Ayumu pushed past the honor guard and stared Umihara down.

“Men have died for speaking to me like that,” the captain snarled. Sweat stung his eyes.

“Men have died for saying much less,” Ayumu replied. He looked over his shoulder at the new Imperial Smith. The appointee's mouth was still gaping open and closed. The Speaker lifted his handless arms and shrugged, stepping back from the seething captain. “Perhaps this one has purchased protection from his Vow.”

“The Emperor's favor is not for sale,” Umihara muttered.

“But Tetsujin's is,” Ayumu responded. Umihara shut his mouth. It was an open secret that Takamoto was the Tetsujin's nephew, that the leader of his personal army was his son. The Society's leader could be influenced, the Ax Hand and the Matagi Senpai were proof that. But there was no way the Black Dragons could speak for the Emperor.

“Come, captain, we must return you to your ship,” Ayumu said. He placed his stump on Umihara's shoulder, guiding him down the tunnel. The elder smiths separated, though the Imperial Smith still trembled. He scratched at his neck where the iron collar chafed his skin.

“Did you know that the Imperial Smith abandons his name and family when he assumes the Vow?” Ayumu asked.

“I did not,” Umihara answered. He knew very little about the smiths. He had worked with the last Imperial Smith for many months, living in the Naka dormitories during Mecha-Tsuyo's construction. In all that time, the only spoken words he’d heard, until his crew arrived for training, were from the Speaker. That did not give him much opportunity to learn about the smiths or their leader.

“It can be hard to learn the lost identities of Imperial Smiths,” Ayumu explained. “They are artisans, people obsessed with their work. Men and women who have only known steel and coal. All were sworn siblings, silent and humble, until today. This is the first anointed Smith born a man of ambition and means.”

The new Smith's eyes went wide again, the Speaker's plain insinuation dangerous in its plausibility. Ayumu continued:

“Until today, no Smith bought his position.”

The Imperial Smith's mouth opened, but Ayumu spun on his heel and held up his scarred wrist to silence him.

“Remember your vows.”

The Imperial Smith clamped his mouth shut, but his round cheeks were turning red.

“The role of the Imperial Smith is only to forge the Heavenly Sovereign's will from steel using divine skill. He should have no other motivations,” Ayumu explained. “Take Elder Smith Miyaki, for example.”

Ayumu indicated the stooped smith to his right. He was short and stocky, muscles hardened by decades over an anvil. His beard should have been long and white, but had been stained ash-gray and singed short. The Vow he carried was welded around his waist, a girdle inset with blades designed to eviscerate him were he to dishonor his position.

“Miyaki has been a silent swordsmith for nearly fifty years. He was apprenticed off the streets of Kyoto and assumed his Vow in the heart of Naka under the Meiji Emperor.” If Miyaki felt prideful at his service, he did not allow his crevassed face to show it, though a devilish twinkle gleamed in his half-closed eye. He remained solemn, walking in step with his sworn brothers. Ayumu kept on: “Our new Imperial Smith, however, was an industrialist. A captain of industry. His hands have not felt the grip of a hammer since he was a boy.”

Umihara looked at the pudgy Imperial Smith. He believed Ayumu's accusations. This Smith was soft, more used to paper and ink than iron and fire. The honor guard's eyes flicked to one another, but none gave any indication that they were affected by the Speaker's words. The Imperial Smith, however, looked livid. His knuckles were white around the chrysanthemum medallion's chain.

“Is such a man one you want repairing your vision, a man with uncalloused hands and a weasel's mind, captain?” Ayumu asked Umihara.

“Mecha-Tsuyo needs the greatest minds behind it to succeed,” the captain answered carefully. “My ship has already suffered because of Black Dragon politics.”

“I agree,” Ayumu said. They had reached the exit of the tunnel. He grunted and shouldered open the solid steel doors. Summer sunlight flooded the dark tunnel, blinding Umihara.

The world twisted in front of Umihara and he fell to the stone tile.

The drowned captain rubbed his eyes with his hands. The old pain was so great he nearly whimpered.

When his sight finally returned, he found Ayumu standing over him in the doorway. Umihara was on his knees. The Imperial Gardens whispered before him, beyond the open doors. Soldiers were waiting outside, ready to escort them to their plane. They would be on their way north within the hour to affect Mecha-Tsuyo’s repairs.

“Right now, your Mecha-Tsuyo is doomed,” the Speaker said. “You may as well scuttle it upon the Wakkanai docks. Do you think this small, uninspired, talentless, corrupt man would change its fate?”

He turned and sneered at the Imperial Smith. The man was seething, his soft face as red as a cherry, fit to burst. He lifted the Imperial medallion that marked his rank and pointed at it.

“This appointment is mine, I - !” the Smith objected, only to clamp his mouth shut and grasp at his Vow. The steel collar remained inert. It was neutered, a falsehood. Pain flared like thermite behind Umihara's eyes. The Imperial Smith had betrayed his oath to the Emperor Himself. He had sworn his life and soul to the great secrets in word but not deed.

“Hold him,” Ayumu ordered. Forge-hardened hands grasped the soft man. He struggled against them in vain.

“You cannot do this!” he objected.

“Nor can you,” the Speaker told him. He hooked his maimed wrists under the golden chain of the chrysanthemum medallion and lifted it over the struggling man's head.

“Do you know who I am?” the Smith demanded.

The waiting soldiers, the Emperor's own palace guard, approached only to be waved off handlessly by the Speaker. Ayumu leaned in and hissed in the restrained man's face.

“I know who you were.”

The man's eyes went wide. Umihara could see the realization wash over him. These smiths were not workers or soldiers. They were fanatics.

“Miyaki,” Ayumu ordered. The stooped blacksmith left the appointee to his brothers and studied the collar. The Speaker asked him: “Is it all there?”

Miyaki nodded once, to which Ayumu replied:

“Bring it back to life.”

Miyaki found a screwdriver in the folds of his robes and went to work on the collar, adjusting the springs and blades and locks around the Smith's throat.

“What are you - ?” he started, but choked when a smith wrenched the collar against his neck with a violent tug. Miyaki tightened one last screw and stepped back. The other smiths released their appointed leader.

The man fell to his knees and grasped at the collar. It had become a fully-operational Vow, not the facsimile Tetsujin had provided to his lackey.

Ayumu stood over him.

“I know who you are. You are cowardly, malleable, small, uninspired, talentless, and corrupt, bought and sold rather selected by the Divine,” the Speaker declared.

“You cannot - !” the Smith tried again, only for his activated collar to snap, its springs slipping a cold razor across his thick throat. Blood sprayed through the steel mechanisms and splattered across Umihara's boots, across the elder smiths' charred robes.

The Imperial Smith died gasping.

The palace guard drew their weapons, shocked and confused.

Ayumu stepped over the man as he bled his last and addressed the red-stained smiths:

“A man who cannot maintain his Vow cannot be the Imperial Smith.”

He waved off the alarmed palace guards once again with his wrist and let the heavy bunker doors creak back closed.

“Do you not agree, Elder Smith Miyaki?”

The bearded man nodded silently.

“It seems we must find a new candidate before we next encounter Toroka, but unfortunately Tetsujin is not here to assist in the search,” the Speaker purred. He clamped the dripping Imperial pendant between his wrists and lifted it over the dead man's head. “Perhaps the Heavenly Sovereign would honor another's advisement in such extreme circumstances.”

A gentle breeze whispered across the gardens. Leaves stuck in the dead man’s blood.

Speaker Ayumu left the corpse and lead the small procession back to His Majesty's Library. The great bunker doors slammed shut behind them.

Umihara withered under the oppressive sun. He coughed and let himself fall to his knees. Warm blood soaked through his uniform to his skin.

The Speaker had driven the Emperor's servant to death, and would demand a person of his own choosing installed in his place. Tetsujin had manipulated the Heavenly Sovereign and placed his own creature in power, breaking the holy vows of that position in the process.

The blasphemy of the world, the mechanics of power, overwhelmed Umihara, and the old pain took over completely.

He collapsed the rest of the way to the ground, heaving until he blacked out.

Umihara woke up with Ayumu's knobby wristbones jammed into his ribs. The captain coughed once and struggled to his feet. The corpse was gone, but the pool of gummy blood remained. Umihara's disheveled uniform was completely ruined, stained crimson and crusted with clots.

“Come, captain, we are returning to your ship,” Ayumu said. “You have dragons to slay.”

The sun was gone. Paper lanterns lit the Palace Castle grounds. Cherry trees murmured in a light breeze. The Imperial Smith stepped past his Speaker and drew in a breath of fresh air. The man once known as Miyaki stood tall. He wore the pendant proudly displaying the Emperor's chrysanthemum seal.

Upon seeing it, their waiting escort bowed low. The Smith took no notice, and walked past the reverent men to a waiting car. His honor guard followed. Ayumu lingered with the wordless captain.

Those men, small, invisible, played the politics of mortals, thinking they could twist the will of Heaven. A beast, greater than any to have walked the Earth since it was granted to humanity, sought their deaths, yet they skirmished for position.

The old pain tied knots through Umihara’s guts.

“Our plane is waiting,” Ayumu said, interrupting the captain's dark thoughts.

There was a devilish gleam in the Speaker's eye. With that, he tucked his mutilated arms into the wide sleeves of his crimson-flecked robes and joined his bloodied brothers. He spoke to Umihara over his shoulder:

“Join us, captain. This Imperial Smith is quite familiar with your ship, and is eager to begin the work that must be done.”

The Zero Hunter.

TUESDAY NIGHT, JULY 20, 1943
ABOARD CHERNYY KORSHUN
ABOVE SAPPORO, HOKAIDO, JAPAN

Hercules' stomach twisted tighter with every glimpse he caught of Jolly Green cutting through clouds outside the porthole. It was strange to be in air without a yoke in his hands, stranger still to see his own plane with another pilot in her cockpit.

Jade flashed as moonlight clipped his Strike Lightning's wing.

The lump in his throat was dry. He knew Blue was an expert pilot, and that Two Ear claimed to be an ace gunner himself, but Hercules still felt like he had abandoned his duty.

The Russian-built Chernyy Korshun shook around him like a cargo hauler with all the aerodynamic qualities of a barn. It was Russian for a bird called a black kite by most, a shitehawk by the rest.

Sergeant Vinogradova sat across from Hercules, her knotted head sunk into the neck of her battered armor. General Ma and Hye sat on either side of him, Ma snoring through his bushy beard while the Specialist pored over further intel from Toroka's Noheji attack.

The gull-winged aircraft shuddered again, making Hercules grit his teeth. He would trade the Black Kite out for Jolly Green in an instant.

The Kite's pilot must have felt Hercules' discomfort. She twisted around in her seat and studied him for a moment before speaking.

“Do you miss your small plane, Zero Hunter?” Lisitsa asked. The Uzbek ace's English was heavily-accented, but her smile translated across all languages. She flicked the yoke, giving the big plane enough of a bump to get Hercules' attention.

“I am not used to riding in a flying train car,” Hercules responded. He sat up straighter and tried to look comfortable as the steel-clad fuselage creaked around him.

“You are very safe, trust me,” Lisitsa said. She spun back around and took the controls, guiding the big plane like it was the family ox, urging it haltingly forward by its nose ring. “Sapporo sleeps.”

Hercules leaned and peered out the window. They were over Japan itself. Below them, millions of fanatics waited, ready to kill and die for their emperor. All it would take would be one person seeing the black plane fly in front of the moon for every soldier, pilot, and gunner hopped-up on Pervitin to aim their guns skyward. If that happened, Hercules did not think even Lisitsa could get them home.

The small woman was infamous on the eastern front, a maniac who weaved her Il2 Sturmovik fighter between high rises and buzzed inches above lamp posts to strafe Nazi positions. She must have been as uncomfortable in the lumbering Kite as Hercules was, though it never showed.

Lisitsa, the Russians called her that, the She-Fox, was the daughter of a Soviet officer and an Uzbek princess, or so their propaganda claimed. Her face seemed familiar to Hercules, a striking mixture of Asian and Caucasian features, like his own. Her hair was straight like his, but red, not like Blue's shocking orange mop but instead a deep crimson that pretended to be black unless the light hit it at the perfect angle. A smattering of freckles marked her cheeks, a feature Hercules had not realized he liked until that moment.

“Have you detected the target, pilot?” General Ma asked after a snore. He did not open his eyes when he asked.

Lisitsa glanced at a circular screen embedded in her control console, then grabbed a clipboard from its hook. She scribbled figures onto a map, extending vectors across central Japan. She studied her math, then looked at her console again, back to the numbers, then back to her instruments. She grunted in frustration, then kicked the machinery. The console lights flickered, glowed. She leaned forward, made note of whatever information they conveyed, then switched it off.

“Not yet. However the two escorts are still here,” she reported.

“They are my pilots, of course they are,” General Ma huffed. Jolly Green and Lily Liver were keeping pace with the lumbering rig, somehow avoiding leaving it in the dust. “What of the smiths?”

“No sign yet,” Lisitsa replied. “If the HYDRA intercepts are accurate, we will be in intercept area in six minutes, detection range in two.”

“Have Oxford and Blue been using their Vampires?” Hercules asked.

“Of course they have,” Lisitsa chuckled, as if answering a child's question. She flipped on her console screen and studied it again. Both Jolly Green and Lily Liver were equipped with Vampire night sights, reverse-engineered German Zielgerät 1229 technology that let them see through in darkness using ultraviolet beams.

Whatever device Lisitsa was using in her console, radar or something beyond even that, it made Vampires seem quaint. Hercules gritted his teeth: another un-shared Russian advancement. He held his tongue and focused his attention elsewhere.

“See anything new?” Hercules leaned over and asked Hye. The Specialist had not looked up from her Toroka reports since they'd come in. She jumped in her seat and gave Hercules a dirty look.

“These are radio intercepts and photos of the battle site, taken by witnesses. Not exactly detailed analyses, but there is some new information hiding in the mess,” she replied. She handed him an enlarged photo. It was a bombed neighborhood, rowed with star-shaped craters larger than the collapsed wooden buildings around them. “What do you see?”

“Looks like a carpet bomb attack,” Hercules said. “Did Mecha-Tsuyo's cannons do this?”

“Those are not shell craters,” Hye told him. “Look closer. No scorching, no ejecta. These are footprints.”

“Footprints?” Hercules asked. The lump in his throat grew another size. The massive prints were arrayed in a straight line. “In this pattern...”

“Toroka is bi-pedal,” Hye concluded for him. “It is a fast, maneuverable creature, not some slow target that will sit while a weapon is aimed at it.”

“So we need to be as fast, as well as precise, and certain,” Hercules said. He looked at the rattling plane around him and the distrustful Russians crewing it; they were none of those things.

At the nose of the plane, six sniffling Russian convicts sat chained to machine-gun turrets. The scars crisscrossed their scalps and their arms and necks were cut deep with tattoos that extended beneath their ragged shirts. The Steel Sergeant's pair of club-wielding harridans stood close by, ready to beat their charges at a moment's notice.

When Hercules had first seen the Black Kite, he scarcely believed it would get off the ground. It was a fat plane with a flat, armored belly and crooked gull wings. Its stubby nose was packed with machine guns and electronics and a pair of complex breaching doors that built drag were bolted onto its fuselage. It wasn't until the Kite's four massive engines actually fired up that Hercules was convinced the plane was anything more than an expensive prop.

The Kite had climbed fast off its Vladivostok runway, rising high into the approaching night. The Sea of Japan loomed black before them and blood red at their backs. It had taken the Black Kite agonizing hours to reach the coast of Hokkaido, with Hercules stuck watching his squadron circling them. He understood Ma's decision to include him in the boarding party, but he still felt impotent watching his plane in the air from afar.

“Multiple contacts to the northeast, six kilometers,” Lisitsa shouted. Her mysterious sensor screen blinked green, lighting up the whole cockpit. The convict gunners snapped to attention, each of the six scanning the skies ahead through the sights of their dual DShK 1938 machine guns. Their formerly dead eyes were suddenly bright, their skeletal bodies gaining definition and color. Hercules pressed against the window and strained but could not see anything on the black horizon.

“Escorts, confirm contacts bearing three-hundred-forty degrees relative,” Lisitsa ordered into her radio. Over the home islands, the three planes had maintained radio silence. She had to be sure if she was breaking it. Hercules almost answered for Jolly Green out of habit.

“Employing Vampir devices now,” Oxford answered. There was a long silence during which Hercules imagined he could see the invisible ultra-violet beams sweeping the sky. Two Ear and Oakley would have the devices to their eyes, watching for the occultations of enemy planes passing in front of stars kilometers away.

Hercules watched Jolly Green just fifty meters away, covering the Kite’s right flank. Lily Liver would be in a mirrored position on their left, scanning for bandits.

Blue’s Zippo flared to life in Jolly Green's cockpit, illuminating his face. The Australian's characteristic smile had gone thin and hard. He was ready to kill. He dangled one of his cheap cigarettes over the dancing flame.

“Stinking up my plane,” Hercules muttered. His hatred of Blue's Craven A filters was second only to Oxford's hand-shredded pipe tobacco. He waved through the window, oblivious to the looks the other members of the breaching team were giving him. Blue finally caught a glimpse of him staring and let a devilish smirk turn up the corner of his mouth.

Behind him, Two Ear, all elbows and knuckles, scanned the skies through the Vampir scope. He pulled it away from his face, frustrated, and slapped Blue on the shoulder. A Zippo's spark would be enough to blind the light-devouring Vampir. The Australian grinned sheepishly and flicked his lighter shut, extinguishing his flame. The Craven cherry bobbed red in the dark cockpit.

The radio remained silent for a long moment before Blue's voice crackled across the airwaves:

“Bandits confirmed, Kite. Four Zeros and one Ki34. Zeros and a Thora, just like HYDRA said. It's our Dragons.”

“Initiating radio diffuser, escort,” Lisitsa said and flipped another of the many switches on her console. Blue's audio connection cut out. The Russians had some method of breaking up radio transmissions, but it was a double-blind. The Dragons would not be able to call for reinforcements, but the three-plane Office squadron would not be able to coordinate their attack, either.

With that, the Black Kite's engines roared.

Jolly Green banked hard away from the Kite and pushed the throttle as well. Oxford followed suit and both Strike Lightnings peeled out of formation and zoomed toward the Dragon convoy. Hercules caught one last viridian flash before Jolly Green was gone, lost in quiet darkness, if only for a moment.

The Kite accelerated hard, harder than Hercules would have thought possible. Its fuselage rattled like it was packed with porcelain plates. A rivet popped out of the ceiling and plinked to the floor in front of him. Hye looked around frantically, and General Ma was practically growling. None of the Russians seemed in the least bit concerned.

Vinogradova stretched, rotating each joint of her hissing armor with practiced efficiency. A bubbling hiss of compressed air escaped from her left shoulder, eliciting a savage grunt from the brooding woman. At that, the two guards left their prisoners and joined her. One handed her the battered sledgehammer she carried in all her recruitment posters, the other tweaked the mechanisms near her shoulder. The guards stepped back and Vinogradova stood, towering over the pair.

Weapon in hand, the Steel Sergeant rolled her adjusted armor and snorted with satisfaction. She slipped featureless red steel over her lumpy face, more a bucket than a helmet. Only Vinogradova’s yellowed glare was visible through her eye slits. She grunted another order, and the two guards took up position on her flanks, their hobnailed clubs pathetic next to her hammer.

A kilometer distant, tracer fire pierced the black. Scarlet fireflies swarmed out of one Strike Lightning's quad-fifties, the one-and-four magnesium-tipped bullets stitching a line up into the sky that terminated in an avgas-fueled fireball. Blue and Oxford had come up beneath the enemy formation, and one Zero was already out of the sky before they even knew what hit them.

Enemy rounds suddenly filled the horizon, tightening every fiber in Hercules' body.

Hye stared through the windscreen, silent. Her fists clenched and unclenched and her muscles stretched and contracted by group in practiced preparation. General Ma had his hand on the hilt of his scarred broadsword, eager to draw it but disciplined enough to avoid baring steel until an enemy was available to receive it.

The Black Kite rose higher, above the dogfight. More red tracers dashed lines across the skies, and the orange-white flares of Randall rocket tails slithered through the air. Another Zero bloomed flame, explosions tearing apart its fuselage. A lavender shadow whipped past, Lily Liver, sending a barrage of rockets and lead into the falling plane.

Hercules stood, his grip tight on an overhead rung. He stared through the windscreen, past the chained gunners and over Lisitsa's shoulder.

“Two Zeroes left,” he whispered.

Lisitsa barreled into the fray like a bull. Stray bullets pinged off the Kite's thick skin. Hye ducked, the Russians ground their teeth, and Hercules watched the battle outside on the balls of his feet. He spun and watched as Lily Liver twisted overhead in pursuit of another Zero.

Ahead, tracers passed so close to Jolly Green that they reflected emerald off its metallic paint. Blue had a wolf on his tail.

“Lisitsa!” Hercules shouted.

“Let her fly, Boxer!” General Ma snarled. Vinogradova's enforcers moved to block his path to the yoke. Beyond them, in the black, Jolly Green had leveled out and turned her flight path on a collision course with the Kite.

Hercules recognized the maneuver.

“He's pulling a Singapore Shuffle!” Hercules objected, shouting over the Russian bruisers’ heads.

“Prozhektor!” Lisitsa shouted from the helm, ignoring him. The Kite's gunners flipped on the floodlights attached to their turrets. Blinding beams converged on the oncoming Zero's cockpit just as Jolly Green roared meters beneath their feet. A second later, Lisitsa roared again: “Strelyať!”

All six of the Kite's nose-mounted Berezin UB machine guns howled at once.

The oncoming Zero was reduced to tatters in seconds, canvas, aluminum, and wood falling away from the lights. Lisitsa did not have to order them to extinguish the powerful lamps.

“We invented your Singapore Shuffle over Leningrad, Boxer,” Lisitsa called from the controls.”But it is called 'stuka rele.'”

Lisitsa called back to Vinogradova, and whatever she said got her gaunt gunners grinning, showing off their remaining yellow teeth.

The Steel Sergeant glared at the chained men, then grunted to her minions. One of her gargoyle women removed a dented flask from her pocket and passed it to the closest gunner. The man took a long swing before handing it down the line. The guard retrieved her flask and returned to the Sergeant's side.

“Ay, ay,” Lisitsa shouted, snapping her fingers. Vinogradova grunted again, and her helper handed the flask to the pilot.

“Are you sure...” Hye started, but Russian glares cut her off. Lisitsa took her turn and emptied the flask. She wiped her freckled lips on the back of her arm, then took the yoke back in both hands.

“Do not fear, Specialist,” she called over her shoulder. “I have never performed a capture without a little vodka on my breath.”

“That was not a little vodka,” Hye muttered. The Toroka files in her hands were crumpled. Hercules took a breath and sat back down next to her.

“Are you ready?” Hercules asked her.

“I am no stranger to a fight,” she started.

“Clearly,” Hercules agreed, remembering how she handled the ninja and pirates.

“I am not afraid of Black Dragons,” she told him.

“You are one of few,” he told her.

“Or planes,” she added.

“You have flown with me,” Hercules chuckled.

“If I made it through that…” she replied with a smile. The smile evaporated when her eyes flicked to the glowering she-devils and restrained slave-soldiers behind him. Her voice dropped to a whisper: “I am afraid of them.”

Hercules understood. Some reports, suppressed from the general public, put atrocities committed by the Soviets on par with those perpetrated by the Axis. They were merciless and vengeance-fueled conquerors who had helped start the war alongside Hitler.

Their current alliance of convenience did not mean that should be forgotten.

“Worry about Matagi and ninja right now, them later,” Hercules advised. “I'll watch your back for sledgehammers tonight if you do the same for me.”

Hye managed a weak smirk and nodded.

Before and below them, the Black Dragon Ki34 Thora was trying to drop away. By then they would have to know that their radio was dead and their escort was in no better condition. Only two choices remained to them.

“They would rather run their plane into the ground than get captured,” General Ma said.

“This is our first combat flight,” Lisitsa replied. “They do not know that is a possibility yet.”

“I thought you had never captured an enemy without vodka before?” Hye asked, startled.

“Still true,” Lisitsa answered. Her grin was manic and devilish. She jammed the throttle forward and leaned into the yoke. The Kite roared into a steep dive and locked in a pursuit vector on the running Thora.

“Hold on,” Hercules told Hye.

“What else would I do?” she snapped.

Jolly Green whipped past the right wing, Lily Liver past the left. The twin fighters put tracers wide on either side of the Ki34, boxing them in. Lisitsa took advantage of their assistance and matched the plane's descent. The Black Kite's engines screamed and Lisitsa swooped in, pulling up and slowing until she was cruising a mere meter above the bandit.

“Garpuny!” Lisitsa snarled.

She jammed lever down on the console and the plane shuddered again. A quartet of long harpoons blasted out of air cannons in the Kite's belly.Their barbs pierced the Ki34's fuselage. Electric winches squealed, pulling the harpoons’ steel cables taut. The Thora struggled against the lines.

“Prepare,” Vinogradova grunted at the English speakers. A cruel smile eerily turned the corners of her catfish mouth.

The winches whirred again, the Kite thumped and shuddered, then its belly was flat on the back of the Ki34's fuselage. Lisitsa had them.

“Dvertsa!” the Steel Sergeant shouted.

Lisitsa yanked a lever in the cockpit. The hatch next to Vinogradova wailed as its accordion mechanism extended, twisting downward to clamp over the Thora's own door. It was prepped in seconds, clamps and pistons shearing the enemy plane open like a sardine can.

“Atakovat'!” Vinogradova yelled. She was already through the door. Her trolls followed with General Ma right behind.

Hercules swung through the port side hatch, drawing his knives as he fell into its open chute. He slid, twisted, and rolled, coming up in the center aisle of the Ki34.

Hye popped out next to him, her hands clenched into fists. The Russians were facing the front of the plane, already deadlocked with the shocked passengers.

Vinogradova demanded their surrender, her bellow reverberating in the cramped cabin.

The lights were dim, but Hercules could see a gaggle of white-robed Smiths crowded into the nose of the plane, hiding behind a trio of Matagi, their orange blades radiating the only light in the cabin. Another two of the elite armored warriors were behind them, in the tail. They were surrounded.

The Steel Sergeant surveyed their situation, slowly drawing her sledgehammer back with hydraulic muscles. Vinogradova growled another order, and her goons advanced.

The two red-armored Matagi moved to deal with the intruders. The third one turned his turned his glowing blade on their charges, cutting the swordsmiths down one-by-one. The mute men clawed and shoved each other to escape.

The Matagi’s orders were clear: death before capture. The hissing blood of old men sprayed freely in the cramped cabin.

The first of Vinogradova's ogresses dropped, a shimmering liquid-metal blade in her throat. Its orange-hot edge whispered through her and she fell to the deck, dead and gurgling pink steam.

Her comrade managed to deflect the blade with her mace, only for it to shear through her oaken haft and send its spiked iron ball thumping to the deck. The Matagi snarled and kicked the astonished woman in the knee, popping it free from the joint. She cried out and crumbled.

Vinogradova charged like a bull at the sight of so much red, bowling over her own subordinate. She lashed out with a sledgehammer heavier than most men could swing with two hands, rapier-fast. The Matagi was able to dodge once, and twice, but when he struck back himself, his vicious slash left nothing but a blackened score across her thick chestplate.

Vinogradova hardly noticed and her piston-propelled hammer fell, shattering his bear-faced armor as easy as gravel.

Hercules did not wait for him to die. He snaked past the lumbering sergeant and struck like lightning. The next Matagi, soaked in swordsmith blood, didn't know Hercules was on him before he felt Chinese steel. The old Shaolin forms flowed from Hercules like he was still at the Distant Bells temple, practicing under the tutelage of Wong Fei-Song and the Eighteen Teachers.

'Soaring Stone,' they would say, 'Focus! Allow your feelings to flow through you and direct them like the mountain stream.'

The surviving Teachers would indeed have been proud of the blows he landed; each impact of his butterfly swords crunched armor and stabbed qi points. The man was not a Matagi in that moment, instead he had become a rolled straw target, and he broke apart like one.

The last Matagi took a break from slaughtering his countrymen. He withdrew his sword from a crumpled smith's chest and turned to defend himself. Hercules dodged a bullet-fast stab, twisting around the humming blade. Its smoldering point entered his still-standing comrade with an excruciating hiss.

Hercules smirked and the Matagi's eyes went wide with rage. He ripped the blade out of his comrade, melting through rib after rib as it sliced free. Hye crashed into him before he could bring it to bear on Hercules.

She hit the Matagi like a hurricane, landing a trio of dazing punches before dodging below a desperate slash. She came up under his sword arm and grabbed him behind the elbow, lifting and twisting and wrenching his body with the whole of her musculature. The Matagi came off the deck, flipped over her shoulder, and slammed into a bulkhead hard enough to shake the entire plane. She used his momentum to turn that impact into a bone-snapping bounce by yanking on his arm and bringing him hard back to the deck, face-first. He was unconscious when she let him go, bones and armor cracked, broken nose spewing red through the snarling fangs of his lacquered mask.

General Ma followed his broadsword into the tail of the plane, his hair flying and wild, his eyes wide as a maniac's. The final two Matagi were waiting, eager. There was no doubt that they had heard tales of the Roaring General themselves. These men were eager to test the truth of folklore. They had heard of the man able to repel assassination attempts by Kuragarigirudo and disable IO super-heavy tanks by himself. They were confident in their skills against such a man.

Sometimes, though, tall tales came up short.

The general's jade-inlaid sword flashed in the low light, swatting aside humming orange edges to carve their wielders to ribbons. His battle cry rose in volume until the Matagi were near cowering, and only then did the final strokes fall. Ma Gang-hai was a typhoon made flesh, his voice thunder and sword lightning. The storm surged over the Black Dragon soldiers and washed them away.

The general huffed, growling, shuddering. A raspy voice spoke up from the nose of the plane.

“General Ma,” a thin man said. His white robes were splashed with red and his arms were tucked into the wide sleeves. He spoke up again, elbowing his way through the few remaining smiths: “Have you come to kill us?”

“Speaker Ayumu,” the general replied. He wiped his broadsword on his own thigh, leaving a red stripe across his pants, “If I wanted you dead I could have let your men finish their work.”

“This is true.” Ayumu replied.

Vinogradova snarled something, and the speaker replied: “Your hammer is infamous in our reports, Sergeant Vinogradova, I'm sure you could have finished us as well.”

“Or we could have just shot you out of the sky,” Hercules added.

“Ah, the half-breed the Ax Hand so detests,” Ayumu hissed. Heat rose in Hercules' neck.

“The what?” he snapped. He didn't realize he had stepped up to the mutilated Speaker until he felt a hand on his arm. He’d drawn one of his long daggers.

Hye was holding him back.

“Do not,” she hissed. “We half-breeds need not heed these men.”

Hercules looked at her. He had forgotten she was half Korean. She had overcome the same difficulties growing up that he had. Her hand on his shoulder was calming, but the grip she had on his knife arm was beginning to numb his fingers. He took a calming breath then stepped back.

Beneath them, the plane lurched. Vinogradova snarled something nasty, but it fell on foreign ears. Hercules knew what she meant, though. The Ki34's pilot was trying to shear free of the Kite. The Steel Sergeant's beady eyes were as wide as they could get.

“I will handle this,” Hye said. She slipped past Ayumu and the red-spattered smiths, only to run headlong into an officer of the Imperial Navy who had been cowering behind them. His white uniform had vibrant splashes of fresh blood on it, spattered over dark old crust. His bulging eyes bugged out even further when Hye bounced off of him, and he stumbled.

She didn't give him a second glance, and Hercules might have missed the small bundle she pressed into the man's hand if he hadn't been watching her so intently.

Hye shouted something in Japanese, then kicked in the cockpit door with one punishing stomp. The pilots were yelling into their jammed radio, trying anything to get in contact with sleeping Sapporo below.

The Baby Nambu pistol in her hand and a whispered threat on her lips convinced them to cease their efforts. The plane steadied, Ayumu continued his taunts:

“If you are not here to kill us, surely you know you cannot capture us alive,” he told the general. A bearded smith stepped up behind the Speaker. The Emperor's chrysanthemum seal clinked against his suicide belt. He was the new Imperial Smith.

“We do not want you,” Ma told him. “But we do want your help.”

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Copyright © 2024 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Dudu Torres.