The Godgrave Initiative

By David H Callen

“I have only the life they give me. What else is there?”
“Change,” she said, not willing to concede. “A new world without their sickness at its heart.”
He smiled, but there was no mirth in it. “There is but one world. It is a room with no windows. No doors. And you would pull the ceiling down with you still inside.”
“If that’s what it takes. Yes.”
“Then either way, you lose.”

Progress always has a price. And in the wake of colonizing and incorporating the solar system, Earth has been left a loosely aligned planet of third world territories and corrupt city-states. A home to the forgotten. Here an unlikely terrorist has fled to the ancient city of Tokyo, trying desperately to avoid her pursuers in her search for safe passage offworld, and maybe even back to her family on Mars.
But in a derelict hotel at the heart of the city's most dangerous district, she and a handful of strangers are about to collide—unwittingly cast as central players in a much larger game. One that will spark a fire the whole system will see.
Together they will attempt to navigate the course of a single, portentous day, finding a little piece of one another amidst the frantic struggle to survive. And before it’s all over, each in time will be forced to answer the same question . . . What are you willing to give to get that which you most desire?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483536484

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Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Junko Glawe for her Japanese dialogue translations and her kindness in assisting a near total stranger without asking anything in return. And of course, countless thanks to my parents, both for their work with the manuscript itself, and for everything else too numerous to list here.

All song lyrics used with permission.

© 2014 Sony Music Entertainment. All Rights Reserved.

COLUMBIA and Walking Eye Design are registered trademarks of Sony Music Entertainment.

ISBN: 9781483536484

CONTENTS

Prelude to an End

Part I (Offworld)

Part II (mushIn)

Epilogue (Manoah’s Angel)

On broken worlds we find broken men . . .

"And the children of Israel did

evil again in the sight of the Lord;

and the Lord delivered them into

the hand of the Philistines"

—Judges 13:1

Prelude to an End

They had forgotten about him already. Just like that. Of course he was used to it, so he just edged a little closer to listen, stuffing his hands inside his coat pockets.

The man in the suit, whose name he still didn't know, stood now staring down the street, watching almost absently as the soldiers continued to fan outward, some halting to drop heavy machine guns, standing them up on folding mounts, while others continued on, their bootsteps echoing through the low-hanging fog.

A gray-haired man in uniform approached from across the street, a filtration mask covering his nose and mouth, and a helmet tucked firmly under one arm.

Thermal imaging shows nineteen people inside, he said, stepping up onto the sidewalk. But it’s more than likely that only a handful are armed.

Despite the bustle going on all around them, the lone spinner stood calmly to one side, his machine rifle slung tightly across his back. And though the tinted monolense he wore hid his eyes, the rest of his exposed, impossibly smooth face betrayed nothing—like a lifeless model of man.

When the spinner spoke, his lips barely moved at all. It’s not necessary to know whether all of them are armed. Only to assume that they are.

The man in the uniform seemed not to hear, his attention focused only on the man in the suit. Have we anything more from Division Seven?

The man in the suit turned. Our pre-intelligence concerning the interior and its occupants is vague at best.

But how is that possible? Surely the reports must-

The reports have led us here, Colonel. That should be more than enough.

Yes, sir. The colonel stood a little straighter. In any case, my men are nearly set to move in. It’ll be over before they even know we’re on them.

The man in the suit, however, appeared unconvinced. Like the spinner, he wore no breather, and his expression was thoughtful. I’ve been told by the local magistrate that this sector of the city is . . . unsettled. Which I take to mean that we hold authority here in little but name only. He paused, looking away again in the direction of the inn. Neither the Industry nor the USSC can afford a major incident here, so let’s do our best to minimize the fallout, shall we?

That’s why we’re here, said the spinner.

Sir, began the colonel, if you would just let me bring up the men you wanted stationed in the plaza.

Those men are there for a reason. The reason itself shouldn’t concern you. They stay where they are.

The old soldier went on, attempting to hide his frustration, but doing a poor job of it. Either way, I can assure you that my people are more than capable of-

But when the spinner turned his tinted gaze on him and began to speak, his voice hardly above a whisper, it stopped the colonel in mid-sentence. You’ll do well to let us handle this.

The man in the suit slid his hands into his pockets, considering. "And if the godán is inside?"

It makes no difference, replied the spinner.

The man in the suit nodded. "All right. But I want to make it perfectly clear that our main priority here is the return of our property. Intact. Other than that . . . I trust you can handle your own."

The decision made, the spinner slung his rifle to the front, tucking the butt to his shoulder with the mean, stocky muzzle pointing toward the ground. A few quiet steps found him standing alongside the colonel, the two shoulder to shoulder as they faced in opposite directions. The spinner’s gaze lay fixed now on the inn, with its faintly glowing windows grown brighter in the darkening mist, the sun already fading behind the jagged towers overhead.

When he spoke again he spoke with purpose, his voice like that of the dead.

Instruct your men to set a perimeter. No one gets in or out. We’ll take care of the rest.

And suddenly from out of the fog, two more spinners emerged, falling in beside the first. Together they started forward through the murk and haze, their footsteps moving as one, until at last all three were swallowed by the low, gray dark.

Part I

Offworld

Fugitive

He was a cripple.

Or at least, that’s what she’d heard. A one-handed gunman reputed to be one of the most dangerous men in the Rim, maybe even on Earth. And since it seemed to her that most of the men left on Earth were either dangerous or destitute—or both—that was saying a lot.

A devil with the Devil’s luck, they said. And right about now she could use all the luck she could get.

There it is.

The ferryman’s accent sounded stifled behind his mask, as he gently slipped the pole back into the dark water, easing the flatboat forward through the mist.

Looking ahead she saw now where the ramshackle peer extended out from the bank to meet them, materializing through the gloom between a small break in the sawgrass and refuse lining the river. The darkling shore, with its tracks of oozing mud that smelled of hardboiled eggs, lay far beneath a crumbling quay running the length of the riverbank. Here mounds of garbage and human waste lay piled like dunes, exposed above the shallows in silent testimony that the waters here had once run faster and deeper towards the sea. But like everything else on this planet, the river too seemed to be dying a slow, quiet death.

Behind the quay she could make out the tops of derelict skyscrapers, set back in the clouded gray deeps. To the older islanders the district was known as Sumida—a skeleton of shadowy half-towers and narrow alleyways that made up one of the oldest wards in Tokyo. But to everyone else, it was known by a different name.

Grab that line, instructed the boatman from the stern.

Standing sideways on the bow she bent and scooped up the damp, slimy rope, untangling it from its heaped pile as she rose, her gaze wandering back out over the water.

To the west, beyond the great city walls that marked the end of the incorporated Territory of Nippon, lay the reaches, a wide barren waste where she'd been told only the castoffs and vagrants went to gather, making their homes in what few villages and burned-out cities lay scattered over the mountains and frozen valleys. The dregs of the dregs. That was how Kal had described it to her when he’d given her the rendezvous.

When the time comes, you’ll want to get yourself an escort. Or maybe even a few of them.

"Why can’t you go with me?" she’d asked.

Because I don’t know the terrain, he answered, but with a look that said, I’m not the one in trouble here, you are. And besides, my every move is monitored these days. I’ve already put you at risk just by coming here.

Me? she thought. Or you?

Stepping forward, he closed the distance between them.

They managed to track your escape farther than we anticipated. The others have their own instructions now. His hand rose, gently cupping her chin. You did well. I’m proud of you.

She felt her skin begin to flush, the way it always did when he touched her.

When he handed her the gun she took it automatically. But it wasn’t until she held it a moment, feeling the deadly weight of it, that she began for the first time to understand the full extent of the danger she was in—a palpable, gripping sensation she’d never felt, even when the fires had been licking at her heels in the bowels of the Europan substation.

There’s a man, Kal went on, his name is Rhin Godgrave. He’s a killer. But he has a reputation for being a man of business.

You’ve never worked with him before?

No. And if he agrees to help you, I’d very much like to meet him. Something in the tone of his voice gave her the sudden impression that this was the true purpose for his visit. We’ve never been able to track him down, you see. Until now.

So how exactly do I get him to help me?

Well you’re certainly not without your charms. His smile was at once familiar—intimate.

I thought you said he was a killer, she responded flatly.

The smile vanished. He is. But I’m sure if you offered him the right price he could take you where you need to go.

If he doesn’t just cut my throat and take whatever money I have.

"Well that’s a chance you’ll take with just about anyone here. His expression said he wasn’t exaggerating. And when next he took her by the shoulders with both hands, he added, This is important to me . . . If I were you, I’d seek out the Reaper."

Rhin the Reaper. What a horrible name.

Overhead the sun burned small and red like a dying bulb, sunken in a haze of yellow-brown sky, as the first gaping windows and doorways came into view just past the dock. A little farther on she caught sight of larger structures, rising up to meet the tower tops she’d glimpsed from afar, the dull gray of their concrete walls blending easily with the fog, like blocky ships afloat upon the clouds.

How did I get here, she found herself wondering. It seemed as though every step she took in this place, on this planet, was only taking her farther away. She could no longer remember the person she had set out to be. Or if she had ever even known to begin with.

As they drew nearer, the smell of trash and human filth began filling her nostrils, a stench that even her filtration mask couldn’t conceal. She could make out now the shapes of children and veiled women bending and sifting through the heaps of rubbish, collecting their unknown treasures as they moved like ghosts amidst each other’s company. Only the smallest of the children made any noise, their naked faces laughing and chasing one another along the fetid ridges.

That’s where I’ll find this place is it? she mused, still staring ahead.

The water lapped quietly against the shore.

"Hai, the ferryman replied. Then he asked for the third time since they’d met, You sure you mean to go this way?"

She felt a gentle bump as the bow rubbed up against the first pylon. Yes. I’m sure.

To this the man said nothing more, as he stowed his pole against the gunwale, then moved up alongside her, retrieving the proffered mooring rope and stepping lightly up onto the rickety planks. A few of the black rotting boards creaked loudly in protest, and she half-expected the whole thing to collapse under his weight. But instead the peer held, and the man pulled gently on the line, bringing the flatboat smoothly up to the next pylon before halting its momentum altogether.

O-kee, he said, sparing a hand to lift his ragged longcoat closer around his shoulders. Half of the buttons were missing down its muddied front, and as a result the man had sown haphazard loops around the waist where a stained yellow cord held the jacket closed in the front. Up you go.

When she saw that he had no intention of tying up to one of the rusty cleats, she hefted her short duffsack onto her shoulder, then stepped carefully up next to him, leaving the boat rocking lightly from side to side as her boot pushed off the edge. The man was obviously anxious to be headed back in the other direction. Already he was tugging the vessel back towards the end of the peer.

Here, she said, reaching into her coat pocket, a shorter close-fitting garment that hadn’t seen anywhere near the amount of wear as the ferryman’s. Her voice in her ears sounded hollow and unnaturally deep beneath the mask, a sound she didn’t think she’d get used to no matter how long she stayed on this planet.

The man turned to face her again just in time to catch the flitting silver coin she tossed in his direction, his two filthy hands coming up together with the line still in his grasp, snatching the money out of the air.

That’s extra, she told him. She’d paid the asking price before they even set off from the far shore. Do me a favor and forget you ever saw me.

For a moment the greasy, black-haired ferryman just stared at the coin in his hands, the junkboat temporarily forgotten as it swayed slowly back out into open water. But then his head came back up, and he answered gruffly, I haven’t seen a pretty girl around here in years. Especially not one carrying iron and traveling alone into Sumida-ku.

She didn’t know if that constituted a yes or a no, but at the mention of the gun, her hand went absently to the butt of the pistol strapped to her hip. After that she gave him a single nod that was part bow, and then watched as he returned the show of politeness, before hopping back down onto the deck. From there he tossed the rope to the side, pushed off with one foot from the pylon, and reached again for the pole he used to ply the waters between here and greater Tokyo. She waited until both he and the boat had disappeared into the fog before making the move towards land.

Never turn your back on anyone. That had been another of Kal’s tidbits of Earth wisdom.

The dock groaned ominously beneath her boots as she strode its length toward the shore, brushing past a small clump of grass that had managed to work its way up through the cracks from below. All along the great heaps of refuse stood ramshackle shanties, stacked one on top of the other, roofs and walls of corrugated metal or plastic, stretching away in both directions like a miniature village squatting at the feet of the district proper. Where the peer slanted upwards through the garbage settlement to finally meet the quay, she saw two streets, one running crossways along the river and another trailing away from her between the dilapidated buildings looming above. Everywhere the traffic of bodies and carts filled the open spaces beyond the waterfront, blending in a cacophonous drone punctuated by occasional shouts or the scattered horn of some ancient combustible engine auto, chugging its way through the crowded roadway.

Passing over onto concrete, across the wharf, and over a low thick chain running from squat posts like a fence, she stepped finally out onto pitted black pavement, where she was immediately met by a swarm of begging children. They had followed her across the garbage dunes as she made her way up the dock, converging on her now with filthy, outstretched palms.

She refused to meet their eyes.

Instead she waded through them, their high-pitched garbled speech lost to her as she shouldered her way into the busy throng, following the narrow street ahead of her, the odor of sweat and bodies replacing the noxious fumes from the riverbank. From above, the flickering orange light of fire shown through a few shattered windows, where faces and laundry fluttered from their hollow innards as she passed into the district proper . . . or city . . . or something.

It’s like a disease, she thought, for probably the hundredth time. Like the whole planet was some sort of toxic byproduct left over from the sun’s cohesion. So distant from the blue skies and jade hills of Mars, where the bustle and thrum of life back home in Emory City felt like a beginning—not an ending, like here.

Though the smog seemed to diminish slightly as she traveled farther from the river, the way the buildings leaned ominously above her added their own sense of closeness that felt even more stifling than the mist. The streetlights lining the curbs were of a much older design, trapezoidal halogen lamps angled overhead, only a few of which still hummed with a pale, white light in the dimness of midday. There were more lit windows now higher off the street, some even with electric light.

After being jostled and elbowed through the flowing crowd for what seemed blocks on end, she finally ducked down a narrow alleyway, barely wide enough for two people to pass abreast. Here the traffic diminished significantly, as she wound her way through numerous zig-zags, past dark doorways, many of which were boarded over, until she finally emerged out onto another street, this one almost as thin as the alley itself. A glance at the readout she wore on her wrist, hidden beneath her sleeve, told her she was headed in the right direction, but a cold sensation crept through her as she realized she was now suddenly and unexpectedly alone. In the distance she could still hear the hum of the masses, but where she stood now, the abrupt stillness made it feel like deepest night.

Across a stunted intersection where the street lamps had long since gone dark, she saw a tall gangly man surface from a recessed doorway. He was dressed in a long-sleeve wool chemise, the skirt pulled up to his knees as he walked barefoot and maskless across the road, disappearing at last through the entrance of a slightly larger building, its insides pulsing with electric light. A buzzing red-neon sign hung to one side, but the strange glowing symbols, old Japanese she thought, meant nothing to her.

Having paused at the sight of him, she now began moving again, shrugging her bag farther up onto her shoulder as she followed the gentle curve of the street towards a wide plaza ahead.

Along the road grew tufts of brown grass jutting up through cracks in the pavement. And as she moved deeper into the old, dark heart of the district, she saw that some of the decrepit billboards still held power. They were larger more intricate signs than the one marking the entrance she’d just passed—humming and glowing softly, like murky rainbows in the mist. She imagined for a moment how this district must have looked when the world was still young, the buildings lined with flashing images and words and colors, from street level to the tops of their towering skyscrapers. Only now these faded few signs were all that was left, one running eight stories high, another nearly as wide and set far above into the fog, still clinging to life—shining broken names and logos long since forgotten.

Eventually, in the ominous luminescent gray, with the occasional glowing purples, blues, and reds, she passed through a low torii arch into a broad rectangular court. Here she found the carcasses of ancient hedges running a ring around a single barren tree, its dead white branches rattling in the fog, like hundreds of skeleton fingers hanging in the breeze. She remembered the old man at the train station telling her how these islands had once grown the most beautiful blossom trees, and she wondered now if this particular tree had ever been known as a thing of beauty.

Near her feet a small black snake wound its way between the hedges and then was gone. Between it and the man she’d seen crossing the road, the two marked the only signs of life she either saw or heard. Even the oversized crows that plagued the rest of Tokyo seemed unwilling to pass into this part of the city, their raucous calls having since faded away beyond the river.

Up ahead as she exited the plaza, a dark, glass shrouded tower rose distantly upward through the heavy fog—a square monolith that seemed to dwarf even the largest of the surrounding skyscrapers, like some ancient pillar of the gods. Here the damp street straightened out again, stretching onward a short ways until it ran directly into a bent, two-story building, then making a sharp left hand turn and continuing on into the shadows. In contrast to the monolith, the tiny structure appeared squalid and shockingly out of place. Cut off from its neighbors by two wide alleys to either side, it hunkered all alone, the soft electric light from its windows pushing defiantly back at the swallowing murk.

As she approached, a low soughing wind blew gently in from the north, pressing puffs of fog aside to reveal a wide ironbound wooden door tucked into concrete walls. The steady beep from her wrist told her she had arrived, and looking down to tap the small display, she saw that it was just passing noon. When she lifted her head again, her eyes rose to the bronze sign mounted just above the door, its edges overgrown with moss and green lichen. The raised, tarnished surface held more alien-looking characters, while underneath them in smaller lettering it read, CROSSROADS, and nothing more.

At the two small steps leading up to the entrance she paused, taking time to knock the mud from the sides of her boots as best she could. Then, checking to see that her pistol rested free in its holster, she took hold of the latch, pushing the heavy door open with a soft rush of balmy air from inside.

Slowly she stepped into brightness.

The common room, with some ten or fifteen tables arrayed across its wooden floor, was large, lit by long halogen bulbs hanging from the ceiling, one of which flickered on and off near a back corner. Along the left wall ran a bar, all of its stools vacated except for one, while here and there among the tables sat sparse clumps of grimy locals, a few of their faded faces turning as she entered.

She shut the door firmly behind her and then made her way to the bar. From the back of the room, somewhere near the kitchen and the stairs leading to the second floor, she could hear the incessant hum of the turbines as they worked to pump clean air throughout the building, circulating through a series of vents set high in the peeling yellow walls. Behind the bar a single satvid, broadcasting whatever news station made it to this part of the Rim Territories, droned quietly in the background.

She felt the eyes follow her as she stepped up to the counter and lowered her mask, letting it hang loosely about her throat, keeping her body turned at an angle so as not to give her back to the rest of the room. Beside her, the lone man at the bar began to look her up and down, his eyes lingering on her face, and she suddenly wondered if maybe she should have left the mask where it was.

"Hellooo! Irashaimase! said the woman behind the bar, bowing her head in show of respect. She was middle aged and slightly stoop shouldered, her jet-black hair streaked in places with gray and tied in a bun behind her head. When she looked towards the door and saw that no one else was coming, her face grew concerned. Just you?"

That’s right, she replied, placing what she hoped was a casual hand on the butt of her gun.

The woman looked at her sideways, as if to protest, but then nodded slowly. Well, welcome to Devil Tree.

She slung the rag she’d been using to clean over her shoulder and dipped her head again. "Hajimemashite. I’m Tamiko. Or just Tam if you prefer. I’m the owner operator, along with my husband of course. She tipped her head back towards the kitchen when she said the last part, then added, So. You passing through? Or you need a room?"

Actually I’m looking for someone.

The woman called Tam narrowed her eyes just a bit. Oh? What kind of someone?

A man. He’s supposed to be staying here. She took another cursory look around the room, hesitating.

A man, huh? Now it was Tam who looked her up and down. Came all the way to Earth chasing a man did you?

Immediately she tensed. What do you mean, all the way to Earth? she asked in a quiet voice.

"Sumimasen. Tam bobbed her head up and down. You’ll have to forgive me if I say that I may be getting old, but I’m not blind. You have green eyes. Only ones I know with light colored eyes are from Mars, or the Jupiter moons. Someplace where they have the ability to fix such things before birth."

She’d never even considered her eye color, but the woman didn’t stop there.

And again, please forgive, but that’s a pretty nice looking weapon. The innkeeper gestured a finger towards the gun. And I’ve seen enough of ‘em to know that that’s not secondhand.

Suddenly self-conscious, she put her hand over the butt of her pistol again.

"And of course I certainly don’t mean to be rude, but you’d have to be a foreigner to venture this far into the district on your own. And a lucky one too."

She was starting to get the feeling there might be a hint of sarcasm in the woman’s constant pleas for forgiveness.

Yeah, she answered, I’ve heard something like that before.

I can tell you right now he probably already knows you’re here.

She looked up again sharply. "He?"

The Kid. I imagine he’ll be by soon to have a word with you himself.

"Who’s the Kid? And why would he know anything about me?"

Tam gave her a sober look. Magisters don’t cross the Sumida. This side of the river there’s only him. And he has a funny way of knowing things you wouldn’t expect.

A sudden cough from the back of the room made her start, her gaze darting over her shoulder. No one appeared to have moved, and whatever curiosity had made them stare before, had apparently passed. Or perhaps they made a good show of pretending to look elsewhere.

Along one wall three old men sat playing cards, while two others, a younger man and woman, sat eating a midday meal at an adjacent table. Near the opposite side of the room, next to the kitchen, were two men, mud caked up their pants to their knees, hunched over steaming mugs of what she took to be powdered coffee, their backs to the stairs and the corner, where a haggard looking drunk sat huddled beneath the one fluttering halogen.

She was just turning back to the bar when she saw the flash of one man’s eyes, the one nearest the kitchen, as he fixed her with his low gaze across an upheld coffee mug, the whites standing out against a blackened face. And then she blinked, and the eyes were hidden as he tipped the cup back with one hand.

So, said Tam, You want to tell me a little bit more about this man you’re looking for? Does he have a name?

Yeah. She looked back to the innkeeper and made a point of looking her directly in the eyes. How many rooms do you have here?

The woman met her gaze squarely, but with a look that said she was sizing her up for a second time. Seven.

And how many are occupied?

Immediately the look changed to open suspicion, and there were no polite requests for forgiveness. Who’s asking? And why do you want to know?

Her nerves were making her stomach groan, but she forced herself to remove the coin from her pocket and set it down in front of her. Slowly she slid it across the counter.

Moments passed as Tam eyed the coin, her finger tapping quietly where her hand rested on the edge of the bar. And then she snatched it up, only to make it disappear behind the apron tied around her waist. Just two, she answered in a clipped voice.

And what can you tell me about their occupants? She reached into her pocket again and produced another coin, placing it gently down where the other had