F. Paul Wilson - By the Sword

But the sword remained, allowing Hank a closer look.

A real piece of crap—no handle and its blade eaten away in spots up and down its length.

But maybe it only looked like a piece of crap. Its appearance with the Kicker Man meant it was important. Somehow it figured into the future of the movement—or "Kicker evolution," as he was calling it.

A few months ago Hank would have been asking, How? Why? Now he knew better. Somewhere along the way he'd become a sort of antenna for signals from… where? Out there was all he could say, although where that was and what was out there he had no idea. His daddy had told him about "Others" on the outside that wanted to be on the inside, and that Daddy and Hank and his sibs had special blood that would put them in great favor if they helped the Others cross over.

Daddy's talk had sounded crazy at times, but he had a way of saying things that made you believe . That dead eye of his could see places and things no one else could. Or so he said.

But a couple years ago Hank had started having dreams of the Kicker Man, and the man had shown him things… things he'd put into a book that had sold like crazy, making him famous—or maybe notorious was a better word—and attracting a following from all levels of society, especially people living on the fringe.

Yeah, Kick was zooming toward its two-millionth copy sold, with no signs of slowing. He was rich.

Hank glanced at the glowing face of his clock radio: 2:13 A.M. He pushed himself out of bed and wandered to his room's single window. He looked out at the Lower East Side block, just off Allen Street, one story below.

Funny, he didn't feel rich. Not living in this single room in the Septimus Lodge. But he had to keep up appearances, had to live like his peeps. Get into conspicuous consumption and he might lose them—and that meant losing their donations. He had a few whales giving big bucks to the Kicker clubs, but most donations were small. But they added up because there were so many of them.

Well, he was used to living lean. No biggie. He could hang out until the Change came and the Others arrived. Then he'd be rewarded. But there might be no change and no Others arriving if he didn't help open the door. And to do that he needed the Key.

Had to find Dawn, damn it. Her baby was, as Daddy liked to say, the Key to the Future.

But what about that ratty sword? Where did that fit in?

He'd have to put that on the Kicker BOLO list.

Hideo Takita stood in Kaze Group's Tokyo office looking down at the Marunouchi district's gridlocked streets. Even in early afternoon—jammed.

He lifted his gaze beyond the skyscrapers to the Imperial Palace squatting low and graceful among its flanking gardens, but the sight of it offered no peace.

He wiped his sweating palms on the pants of his gray suit. A systems analyst such as Hideo was not invited to the office of Sasaki-san, the chairman of the board, simply for idle chatter. Idle was not a word one would associate with Kaze Group.

The reception area offered little reassurance—literally and figuratively. Bare walls of polished steel, black ceiling, gleaming floor, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the city. A brushed-steel desk and chair were the room's only furnishings, and not meant for visitors. One must not be comfortable if one is idle at Kaze Group.

Kaze… a fitting name.

Although ostensibly a simple holding company, Kaze Group was more powerful than the largest of the keiretsus, the giant vertical and horizontal conglomerates that ruled Japanese business.

Formed shortly after World War II, it had slowly woven itself into the fabric of Japan's economy. Today, through a web of dummy corporations, it owned controlling interest in Japan's "Big Six" keiretsus and most of the major corporations. The keiretsus were like icebergs—their small, uppermost portion visible, the vast bulk looming hidden beneath the surface.

But what determined the path of icebergs through the sea? The currents. And what dictated the currents?

The wind.

Kaze.

Not satisfied with Japan alone, Kaze Group had branched out, extending its reach in all directions. Although it produced nothing itself, it had a hand in the manufacture of everything of importance produced around the globe.

"Takita-san?"

Hideo whirled and saw that the slight, business-suited receptionist had returned and was standing behind the desk. Hideo tried to look relaxed and confident as he approached.

"Sasaki-san will see me now?"

The receptionist's lips twisted. Hideo realized with a spike of embarrassment that he was suppressing a laugh.

"You will not be seeing the chairman today."

Hideo imagined him adding, nor any other day .

The receptionist handed Hideo a thumb-size flash drive.

"On this you will find scans of a shipping tube taken at Kahului Airport on Maui. In that tube you will see the image of a damaged katana. The item was checked through to Kennedy International in New York. The passenger's name was listed as Eddie Cordero. That, however, is an alias. The chairman wishes you to go to New York and find that katana." The receptionist gave him a knowing look. "If you deliver this katana to him, he will be most grateful."

Hideo knew what that meant. But…

"The chairman wants me to find a damaged sword?"

"You question the chairman's desire?"

"No, of course not. I did not mean that. I meant, why me? I have no special skills."

"The chairman thinks you do, and the chairman is wise." The receptionist paused, as if embarrassed, then added, "The chairman knows it is a difficult task. But he believes you will be especially diligent and expend extra effort because success will go a long way toward restoring your brother's honor."

Hideo hung his head. Yoshio, what happened to you? Who killed you? He looked up and nodded to the receptionist.

"I will go. I will find the chairman's katana."

"It is not the chairman's, but he wishes it to be. However, it may not be the katana he wants. It must meet certain criteria, all of which will be explained on the drive." The receptionist glanced at his watch. "Your flight leaves in two hours. You had better hurry."

Hideo made a quick bow and started toward the door.

"Oh, and one more thing," the receptionist said, "you will not be traveling alone."

Hideo eyed him. "Oh? Who—?"

"Your three travel companions will meet you at the airport. They will be along to aid you should you need their sort of help. The chairman doesn't want you to end up like your brother."

Hideo shuddered. Neither did he.

"Well, what do you think?" Gia said.

Jack stared at the little wooden sculpture—although why it wasn't called a carving, he had no idea. But nomenclature aside, he liked it. A lot.

"It's beautiful."

He looked at Gia. For a while she'd let her blond hair grow out, but last week she'd shown up with it cut short again. He liked it short, with its little unruly wings curving into the air.

She'd dragged him down to this SoHo art gallery, saying he just had to see the latest Sylvia. Jack had no idea what a Sylvia was, but he'd come along. And was glad he had.

According to the brochure, some artist who signed her work simply as "Sylvia" was famous for her faux bonsai trees, laser sculpted from a model of the real thing. And Jack could see why. Her latest was a mix of bonsai and topiary—a boxwood with a curved trunk, its roots snaking over a rock and into the soil of its pot. But the rock wasn't a rock, the soil wasn't soil, and the tray wasn't clay. The whole thing was a solid block of laminated oak. Interesting enough, but the tiny boxwood leaves had been teased and coaxed and trimmed into the shape of a skyscraper. Jack knew that shape: the tapering spire, the scalloped crown, the eagle heads jutting from the uppermost setback. Of course their size didn't allow the details of a bird's head, but Jack knew what those tiny protruding branches represented.