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“A symbol,” Han replied. “One the Japanese people will respond to with zeal. Much as you did. The Honjo Masamune is the sword of your ancestors. It has always represented Japanese power and independence. Its reappearance at this very moment will galvanize the Japanese public and help them to throw off the American shackles they’ve worn since this sword disappeared.”
Oni laughed. “And I suppose they’ll never notice the Chinese shackles replacing the American ones.”
So Oni had guessed at least that part of the plan.
“That’s the great thing about symbols,” Han said. “They shine in the sky like a brilliant light. People fixate on them, mesmerized and unable to see what’s going on right beside them.”
50
KURT AND JOE had been taken deeper into the mine where they were chained to a cast-iron pipe, thicker than a man’s arm. The pipe ran downward into the depths of the pit beside them and upward until it disappeared through a grate in the ceiling.
Facing each other with their hands chained around the pipe and the opening of the pit to the left of them, they were secured in a very effective jail. It was good enough that once Han’s men had double-checked the locks, they walked back up the tunnel, leaving Kurt and Joe to themselves.
“Kind of weird to see you wrestling with yourself in more than a metaphorical fashion,” Joe said.
“Even weirder to lose,” Kurt admitted. “Humans: one. Robots: one.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Kurt said. “Just keeping score.”
Joe studied the surroundings. Only the dim glow of the distant LEDs lit the tunnel, but just enough light to see by. “I’d say we’ve been in darker spots, but I don’t think that’s literally true. N
ice of them to leave us alone, though. They must think there’s no escape from this.”
Kurt placed his feet on the wall and pulled with all his might. The pipe moved a few inches, but it didn’t come loose. “Probably anchored every ten feet or so.”
“In which case, you’ll never pull it free,” Joe said.
Kurt could not disagree. “Brute force isn’t the only way to get out.”
He stood up, studying the grate above them. Even though it was clogged with debris, water dripped through it, falling here and there and running down the wall in a sheet.
“Rainwater,” Kurt said. “This is an air shaft. It goes all the way to the surface.”
He found a foothold and climbed up the side of the wall to test the strength of the grate. Using the pipes for leverage, he leaned across the pit and stretched upward, putting his shoulder into the metal lattice and pushing.
Like the cast-iron pipe had, the grate moved just enough to tease him before jamming against some obstruction. Kurt pushed again, but his footing gave way. He dropped awkwardly, his shackled hands sliding down the pipe. If not for a deft move to the side, he would have dropped into the shaft.
Scuffed and scraped, Kurt sat back down. “If only General Lasalle were here.”
“I don’t remember any Lasalle on our payroll,” Joe said.
“He works for the French,” Kurt said.
“Then we’re out of his jurisdiction.”
Kurt laughed. “He’s probably long gone anyway. The last time he showed up was to rescue the narrator in ‘The Pit and Pendulum.’”
“Ah,” Joe said, suddenly getting it. “Is that the one where the rats chew through the ropes?”
“That’s the one,” Kurt said. “Don’t see any rats around here, though.”
“Wouldn’t be much use against these chains,” Joe said. “But it’s a nice thought.”
Kurt gazed downward, but it was so dark in the pit he could see nothing past the first twenty feet. He kicked a stone off the edge and listened to it fall.
Click . . . Clack . . . Clunk . . . Splash . . .
