## Forged For War
Most of Babylon fell under the sway of the New Gods. Most of what was left was belonged to the minor gods of the city, those lesser Powers that were beneath the rulers of the world, yet stood above mere mortals. Neutral ground and independent holdings were few and far between, and the gods constantly struggled to subsume them into their fiefs.
Riverfront was the exception.
The largest and most prosperous of the independent territories, it occupied the southernmost reaches of the Babylon River, where the waters flowed into Babylon Bay. Here was the historic commercial and cultural district of the city. Here was the cradle of the greatest civilization in the world. Here was where the long-ago survivors of the Calamity had set down stakes and built new homes, their descendants continuing the task over the course of centuries, constructing an ever-expanding metropolis that now sprawled across twelve thousand square miles to house forty million souls.
Riverfront was neutral ground. It was where the New Gods, their pawns and their allies met to do business with each other, and with the world. They had ringed Riverfront with offices and outposts, shrines and temples, staking their claims in the never-ending game of souls, but in Riverfront proper they had no official presence.
Which meant there was no better place for Yuri to establish his safe house.
All the same, he took plenty of precautions on the way home. You could never be too careful.
The second he was released from PSB custody, Yuri checked in on the clients. Predictably, Reynolds was freaking out. He hadn’t heard about the Husk until the morning. During the closing call, Reynolds overflowed with profuse praise and intermittent sobs, thanking Yuri repeatedly for saving his life. Yuri’s response was simple.
“Just part of the job.”
Brandt and the overseas customers were also equally pleased. So far as they were concerned, he had kept a rampaging Husk from slaughtering everyone in the Rose House. In fact, they were so preoccupied with their companions, they hadn’t noticed that something was wrong until the PSB evacuated the building. They had caught only a slight glimpse of the fallen Husk on their way out, but it was sufficient to convince them that Yuri had felled a monster.
The clients paid Yuri his fees. Reynolds threw in a bonus for saving their lives.
When he left the Field Office, Yuri meandered aimlessly through the neighborhood. At every mirror and window he checked his back, at every street corner he scanned his flanks, at random intervals he popped into stores and monitored the sidewalks while pretending to window shop.
When he was sure he wasn’t being followed, he caught a cab to the Rose House. He found his rented vehicle where he had left it, outside the establishment. Police tape sealed off the building. A bored patrol officer stood watch at the front door. When he checked the car, he discovered a parking ticket under the windshield wiper.
Yuri groaned.
When he’d parked his vehicle, he’d left plenty of time in the meter. In all the excitement, he had forgotten about the gravcar. He’d told the PSB where he’d left his vehicle, but evidently they hadn’t passed on the word to BPD. Or maybe they had, and the cops hadn’t made an exception for him.
He wasn’t sure if he could contest the ticket. On the one hand, he hadn’t heard of any judge considering being hauled away by the cops as a valid excuse. On the other hand, the ticket was fifty bucks, and it wasn’t like he was made of money. On the gripping hand… the longer he exposed himself to the legal system, the longer he exposed himself to the gaze of the New Gods.
At least it wasn’t his personal car. He didn’t like using personally owned vehicles on a job. He didn’t want to give anyone, even a client, a pattern they could work with to identify and track him.
He could worry about the ticket later. He had to get moving.
He returned the gravcar at the rental agency. After that, he hopped on a series of buses and trains, cutting through a looping circle around Babylon, then doubled back and retraced his footsteps. He ate lunch on the go, a massive burrito stuffed with beans, lettuce, corn, onions and slow-cooked pork.
The New Gods were watching him through the countless cameras and sensors across the city. Facial recognition, biometric recognition, pattern of life analysis, behavioral prediction, they had a host of tools to track him. He could not hope to escape constant surveillance. But he could foil it.
With every stop, every turn, every route, he introduced noise into the data they were gathering on him. He paid cash or cryptocurrency wherever he could. He kept to the blind spots of cameras wherever he could. His eyeshields broke up the lines of his face and reflected infrared light back into the lenses of street cameras, making it harder to employ biometric technologies. He swapped soles every other day, altering his height and changing his gait. He even chose his meals at random, never visiting the same place twice in a row.
His defenses weren’t perfect. So long as he stayed in Babylon, the New Gods could find him sooner or later. But he didn’t have to make it easy for them, and he sure as hell didn’t have to lead a crew of pavement artists back home either.
More walking. More buses. More trains. At last he entered Riverfront proper, emerging from the neighborhood metro station. One last security check, and he walked.
His journey carried him through a widening clockwise spiral, through narrow alleys and wide boulevards in the shadow of office towers and apartment blocks. The further he went, the older the buildings became. Towering glass and concrete skyscrapers gave way to wide, squat structures of ancient brick and mortar. Islands of greenery broke up the endless sea of asphalt. Streets narrowed, compressing people and buildings into steadily-shrinking spaces.
His route carried him to the Riverfront Market. Once a collection of warehouses, it had been converted into a marketplace. Bustling day and night, it boasted over two thousand shops. High-end restaurants and open-air food courts sat side by side. Wealthy merchants rented shop space, small-time sellers had tiny booths, others made do with tables and carts and display racks. Many peddlers chose simply to spread out their wares on blankets.
A man could find almost anything here. Jewelry, clothing, snacks, souvenirs, imported exotica, cuisine from every corner of the world. No guns, but there were plenty of knives on offer if you knew where to look. No narcotics, though there were several well-stocked pharmacies and apothecaries. No cybertech or genetic augmentations, but there were specialist vendors who offered them within walking distance of the market. Other than that, this place had everything a man needed.
And best of all, it had only a few street cameras.
This time of the day, the market was quiet. The morning crowd had come and gone, the lunchtime crowd had departed, leaving only tourists and backpackers. This was the lull period, the quiet hours where the storekeepers rested, conserving their energies for the evening rush and the nighttime madness.
Yuri reveled in the relative silence. In the knowledge that he could quickly pick out a surveillance team in the quiet aisles and streets—and deal with them in lonely corners and abandoned nooks. Wandering among the stores, he determined that he was alone, that today, the New Gods had no interest in him. Not enough to dispatch a group of watchers.
A miracle if there ever was one.
Most of the stores were closed. The ones that remained open were mostly empty. Small-time proprietors and sales staff called out to him, reciting the day’s special offers, enticing him to enter. He gently rebuffed them all, those he could not simply ignore. The higher-end establishments allowed their shopfronts to do their talking, the goods on display advertisement enough.
He emerged at the eastern end of the market. Not at the main entrance, but squeezing through a narrow alley between a convenience store and a fast food outlet. He cut through the parking lot and kept on walking, crossing the road to enter a warrens of apartment blocks and tenements.
Right turn, left turn, another right turn, and his journey finally came to an end.
Anchoring the southwest corner of a cross-junction, the five-story apartment block was built with the budget-conscious resident in mind. The first floor was home to an artisan coffee shop. The residential entrance was around the back.
A digital door lock secured the entrance. He bypassed the keypad in favor of his analog key. He headed up the stairs to the top floor, sweeping for tripwires and hidden cameras along the way. At the door to the hallway, he powered up his smartglasses and accessed his private cloud.
His security cameras had nothing to report. The door and window alarms slumbered. The broadband system detected no movement inside the house.
Which, as Will Connor had so painfully learned not too long ago, didn’t necessarily mean that there were no intruders.
Yuri’s apartment was on the left side at the far end of the hall, facing the street. Tiptoeing, he checked the strand of hair he had taped across the top rail of the door frame. It was still intact.
Which, again, didn’t mean there was no one waiting for him.
Standing before the door, Yuri closed his eyes and breathed.
And _sensed_.
He allowed the universe to speak to him. To the place of deep stillness within him that was always connected to all things in the cosmos. His consciousness expanded, extending beyond the reach of his physical senses, flowing to encompass the hallway, the stairs, and what lay beyond the apartment door.
Empty.
As with the entrance, this door also sported a digital lock. As before, Yuri ignored the keypad, relying on his key. He wrapped his left hand around the knob, reached under his jacket with his right hand, and made entry.
He stepped into a narrow hallway. To his left, the door to the washroom stood wide open. He followed the hallway to the right, taking quick, silent steps.
His bed dominated the room. The white sheets were neatly made, the pillow fluffed up and propped against the headrest. The table and the chairs were oriented towards a large television set. The kitchen sat in a small nook, barely used.
All clear.
He shut the door. Fastened the lock and keychain. And then, at last, relaxed.
It had taken him a long time to find a suitable safe house. For the past few months, he had shuttled from one short-term motel to another, staying anonymous, staying on the go. As far as the federal government was concerned, his last known address was a mailbox, one he barely touched at all, and he intended to keep it that way.
The Church had a long history of enduring government persecution and living deep underground. Now that he found himself in similar straits, turning to the Church was the only logical solution. During a quiet Saturday afternoon, he had shared his concerns with Primate Bartholomew. The highest-ranking church official in the nation, the priest he had known since he was a child. The clergyman in turn had connected him to the real estate agents who worshiped at the Church of Babylon.
Yuri’s instructions were long and explicit. A studio apartment in a residential neighborhood where everybody knew each other—and would recognize outsiders. A building with multiple egress routes. Easy access to public transportation and vehicles. Most of all, a landlord willing to take the place off the market without leaving a paper trail.
The realtors hadn’t asked him any questions about the last. They were all underground Christians, they all knew why a fellow believer would want to stay under the radar of the New Gods.
Satisfying every requirement had taken a long time. But it was worth it.
In the end, they found a fellow Christian who would bend the law for Yuri. Though he was a civilian, he understood Yuri’s predicament. On the other hand, he was still taking a major risk. Which was why Yuri was paying him two grand a month, two hundred and fifty dollars above the market rate.
It was worth it.
The alley behind the apartment had multiple exits. The residential entrance was connected to the back door of the cafe, and from there it was a straight shot to the street. The street-facing side of the building had a fire escape, and the internal stairwell led to a roof access. From the roof, he could hop over to the neighboring apartment and sprint to the end of the street.
The last time the New Gods had hit the team with a full court press, having multiple escape routes had saved everyone’s lives. Having so many options comforted him.
The other perks were nice too. Walking distance to an abundance of shops and eateries. Reasonably close proximity to a parking garage, bus stops and the metro. Low crime rate. Best of all, no sign of the New Gods.
Fatigue swamped Yuri’s body and brain. He wasn’t sure how much sleep he had, only that it was too little. He gazed longingly at the bed. Checked the clock. And shook his head.
He still had work to do.
He brewed a cup of instant coffee. Fair trade organic instant coffee, because he didn’t want to give money to the New Gods who owned the agricultural industry. Plus, the taste was richer and smoother than most other brands, even real coffee.
The caffeine jolted him awake instantly. He wasn’t a habitual coffee drinker. Tea was more his speed. That way, when he _really_ needed coffee, it would never fail him.
He hung up his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and touched his left pec and his waistband. Empty, of course. BPD had confiscated his o-tanto, his backup knife, _and_ his folding knife. Every weapon he had on hand. He’d felt naked walking the streets of Babylon.
But now, with his newfound permit, he didn’t have to anymore.
He opened his closet. A half-dozen neatly-pressed shirts and a matching number of pants hung from the rack. Shoes and boots lined up neatly along the floor. Behind the footwear was a small backpack, a gym bag, and a huge duffel bag. A pair of garment bags stood apart from the clothing, one green, one black.
He glanced over his shoulder. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn. He set the green garment bag down on the ground, flipping it over to reveal a zipped pocket. He unzipped the pocket, exposing a green long-sleeved shirt. Carefully he extracted the shirt from the pocket.
Revealing his guns.
On the left, an M83 carbine took pride of place, the butt tucked into a pocket, the barrel held in place with a hook-and-loop strip. A suppressor occupied the long pouch next to it. On the right, an assortment of smaller pouches held magazines, knives, batteries, and boxes of loose ammo. Two holsters held a handgun each.
The garment bag was an incognito gun bag, balancing concealment and accessibility. This one held his green kit. His go-to-war gear, the stuff he would grab if the New Gods were at his door and he needed to defend himself right the hell now.
The _other_ garment bag was for… other ops.
The backpack, gym bag and duffel bag carried the rest of his kit. Helmet, plate carrier, more ammo, more gear. Everything he needed for an op, be it home defense or a dynamic takedown, he had with him in his apartment.
He had more gear, of course, cached all across the country. But this was the gear he had immediate access to. He had originally envisioned using it for a last-ditch defense against a high profile attack by the New Gods. If he had to use it, the Grim Reaper had come for him and all he could do was take as many souls with him for the ride as he could.
But now, now that the New Gods might be hunting him, and now that he had his permit…
Things were different now.
He retrieved his M99 pistol from the bag and raised the pistol to the light. The red dot sight powered up, projecting a bright red dot in the center of the glass window. Pulling back the slide, he saw the wink of brass in the chamber. He ejected the magazine and hefted it, knowing through long experience that it was topped off with thirty rounds of 7.62x28mm.
He removed three extended mags from the garment bag. Forty-five rounders, for when things got so hot thirty-one rounds couldn’t cut it. A civilian would call it overkill. He knew from first-hand experience that pistols suck at killing people, and suck even worse at slaying monsters. The more rounds on hand, the better.
He hung up the garment bag and pulled out his duffel bag. From its cavernous interior he pulled out a holster and a triple magazine pouch.
The holster was optimized for concealment. It covered only the trigger guard and weapon light and nothing else. Its stark minimalism appealed to Yuri, as did its ability to make a handgun disappear.
He locked the M99 into the holster. Then, working carefully, he clipped the holster to his belt over his appendix. He slotted his extended magazines into the pouches and attached them to the left of his buckle.
He stowed the duffel bag and hauled out the gym bag. It clanked as it moved, its contents jostling up against each other. He unzipped it to reveal its two main compartments.
Both were loaded with knives.
Long o-tantos in the heavy section. Short kwaikens in the light compartment. Their designs varied slightly, but all met his requirements.
All were forged for war.
He left the o-tantos alone for now. Instead he thrust his hand into the light compartment, grabbed a knife at random, and inspected it.
A Lucas Kwaiken. A single solid piece of steel, the handle was wrapped in paracord, the upswept blade black and matte. It was a small knife, only about seven and a half inches long, the blade just under half that length. But its edge was razor sharp, its tip a needlepoint. That was all he needed.
The sheath came with a short paracord tether. He wedged the knife between his pants and his belt, orienting the edge upwards, then tied the tether to a belt loop.
This was how his distant ancestors would have worn a short sword in the nearly-forgotten past. It was how he had trained to carry a small blade. Of course, back then, no one used paracord to secure sheaths. But Shinkyu Ryu Aiki Heiho was a living tradition, one that sought to apply ancient combative principles to the modern world, and integrated modern knowledge wherever it made a warrior even more lethal.
A side pocket in the gym bag held a collection of pocketknives. They were all folding knives, and they all started broken. He didn’t care to use them for killing work, but they were perfectly acceptable for utility work. He grabbed one and clipped it to his pants pocket. Then he tucked his shirt out and checked himself in the closet mirror.
His gear was completely concealed. His pants presented a smooth swatch of fabric to the world. His shirt covered up handles and hard lines without exposing what lay beneath. So far as anyone could tell, he was unarmed.
This was his light load. His basic load. From now on, he would wear it everywhere he went, taking it off only to go to bed, to shower, or when he had to traverse a non-permissive environment. He had to be ready for an attack at any moment.
Already he saw himself changing. His eyes hardened, his hands rested over his weapons, his balance shifted to accommodate the extra weight. Most of all, his vibes, his _energy_, changed, from soft civilian to battle-ready operator.
The last was extremely subtle. He had no desire to do battle with the New Gods, not out in the open. He did not want to challenge them where they were strong. Awareness and evasion was still the order of the day. But now, he had more options. And that lent him an edge.
He rooted his weight into the ground. Inhaled. Exhaled.
Flowed.
In a single, smooth motion, he lifted the hem of his shirt with his left hand, seized his kwaiken in his right hand, holding it in a reverse grip, and drew. The sheath slipped free from his belt. The cord went taut, suspending it in space-time. The blade popped free. Still in motion, smooth and slow and perfectly relaxed, he turned the knife around and flowed into a throat cut.
Reset.
Sheathed his knife.
Repeated the motion a dozen times.
Then erupted.
His hands flew. His shirt rippled. His knife leapt into his hand. His body moved as a singular unit, driving the edge into an imaginary neck.
He paused.
Sheathed his blade.
Breathed.
Then he repeated the slow-motion drill for his pistol.
Clear the shirt. Grab the gun. Lift to chest height. Take the grip in both hands. Punch out, bringing the gun up to eye level. The red dot glared in the window, ready for combat.
Same principles. Same body mechanics. Just applied to a different weapon. Of course, the differences were as important as the similarities, but the more similar the movements were, the easier it was to learn and retain them.
He repeated the process a dozen times more. Then he breathed. Steadied himself.
Drew.
He was quick, lightning quick, the quickness that came from a lifetime of practice and the unending quest for efficiency. The instant he willed it, his gun pounced into his hands and snapped up and out, ready for the headshot.
He held the position.
Drew his attention to the feeling of being in perfect alignment.
Allowed the sensations to sink in.
Holstered the gun.
And smiled.
He still had the touch.
Now he practiced with his pocketknife. Reach into his pocket, grab the handle, bring to his hip, pop it open. Simple. Easy to remember, even under stress.
And one out of ten times, the blade didn’t fully deploy.
Not acceptable. Not for combat. The only standard was to train until you couldn’t fail. Folding blades and him never got along too well, and he didn’t have the time to train until he could deploy a folder under pressure ten out of ten times. Between a fixed blade and a folder he would always choose the former.
Still, there was always room to grow.
He put his stuff away, and stretched again. The magic of the coffee was wearing off. He contemplated another cup, but… no. After a second cup of coffee, he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. He just had to tough it out until bedtime. Not his first time, won’t be the last. At least he had completed his most important task. The one that demanded absolute clarity and attention. No matter what the New Gods threw at him, he’d be ready.
If only to take a few more monsters with him.
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