Mortal Kombat: The Movie Read online

  He turned away from the window to face the interior of the office. In the darkness his silhouette against the window was broken only by a red glow coming from his right eye, where a metal plate glistened from cheek to forehead. He glanced in the direction of a sitting figure, an old man in traditional Oriental garb who sat cross-legged on one of the crates which stood against the back wall of the office.

  The big man glanced at his watch. “Right on time. I love punctuality in a woman, don’t you?”

  His companion was silent.

  The big man smiled, the dim glow picking up the reflections from his white teeth and the metal plate.

  He walked over to the far side of the office. A large packing crate rested there. He bent and picked it up, seemingly without effort, though it must have weighed hundreds of pounds. Beneath the place where the crate had stood, a grate was set into the stone floor, its iron tracery making a paler grid against the deep black below. The man bent, lifted the heavy grate, and set it, too, aside.

  The seated man had opened his eyes at last. In the darkened office they glowed as if a fire burned within them. “So your bolt-hole is ready, Kano,” he said, breaking his silence at last. His voice was deep and harsh. “You know what you must do.”

  “I do.” Kano hesitated. “Shang Tsung, are you sure she’ll follow me down there?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the open grating.

  The other answered softly. “Kano, Kano. You killed her partner. She’ll follow you into hell. Just make sure that she gets on my ship.”

  “Sure thing, sorcerer,” Kano said. He paused, considering for a moment. “Hey, she isn’t too bad looking. Maybe me and Sonya can share a cabin, have a little honeymoon cruise.”

  “Foolish little man,” Shang Tsung said, his voice barely above a whisper. “If you so much as touch her without my permission, not even death will release you from the torments I will provide. The girl is mine.”

  “Sure, sure, just kidding,” Kano said, and turned back to the window. Behind him, flames blazed in Shang Tsung’s eyes.

  Out in the main part of the club, Lieutenant Blade had nearly crossed the dance floor, her path marked by a trail of fallen men. She looked up and spotted the glass wall ahead of her. A darker man-shape loomed behind it, a single glowing point where his right eye should have been. Sonya keyed her mike again.

  “Kano’s in the office,” she said. “I’m going in.”

  “Negative, negative,” Jax’s voice sounded in her earpiece. “Wait for backup!”

  “No time,” Sonya said. “I’m going in.”

  She spotted a man standing in front of the window wall, a man in a dark suit holding a rifle in his hands, his head turreting from side to side as he scanned the dance floor.

  Sonya thumbed the slide release on her riot gun and racked a cartridge into the chamber. She swung the weapon to bear on the guard and fired from the hip. The flash and the roar of the riot gun were lost in the music and the strobe lights of the club, but the non-lethal rubber bullet from Sonya’s riot gun took the thug in mid-chest. The impact lifted him from his feet and sent him crashing back through the glass window in a shower of sparkling fragments.

  The man was still in the air when Sonya launched herself forward, jacking a new round into the chamber of her weapon as she came. She went through the broken window in a flat forward dive, tucked and rolled, coming up with her weapon ready, pointing it at each of the corners of the room in turn as she scanned the area for more opponents. Her eyes fell on the opening in the floor and the grate standing beside it.

  “Oh, hell,” she muttered. The place was deserted. She stood up from her combat crouch. “Jax, I’m in the office,” she said over the headset. “Looks like we lost him.”

  She turned back toward the broken window and spotted the fallen goon. The man was lying on his back amid the glass shards. The impact of the rubber slug had torn away his shirt in front, revealing the flak jacket beneath his clothing.

  Sonya swung the riot gun onto her back, and pulled her nine-millimeter automatic from the holster on her hip. She squatted beside the fallen man and jammed the muzzle of the pistol into the soft place beneath his jaw. With her other hand she twisted up his collar to keep him from squirming away from the shock of the cold metal.

  “Okay, buddy,” she said. “Talk. Where is he? Where did he go?”

  The water taxi pulled away from the landing in front of the Temple of the Order of Light, its outboard motor puttering. Liu Kang remained standing on the worn stones of the temple’s courtyard. He had swept that area more times than he could remember, during the years he had been in training for the tournament. Now he stood with his hands on his hips, the setting sun sending dancing reflections from the water to play about the peaked roof of the pagoda.

  Pigeons strutted across the flagstones, cooing in their soft voices, pecking in the cracks between the stones. Their peaceful voices echoed the quiet lapping of the waves at the landing.

  It had been years since he last stood here, Liu Kang thought. Years, and yet the temple was still the same. Once he had thought to be a champion. But he had turned his back on all that, on the superstitions of the past, and had set off to make a new life for himself in America. He’d never believed that he would stand here again.

  The silence stretched out almost interminably. Liu stood, part of him wanting to enter the temple, another part of him wanting to flee. Then he was aware of an old man hobbling across the courtyard from the gates of the temple.

  Liu recognized him. Grandfather. Like the temple, Grandfather, too, was changeless. As far back as Liu could remember, Grandfather had seemed to be ancient beyond reckoning.

  The old man approached Liu, stopping an arm’s reach away. Liu bowed in respect to his grandfather, and received the same greeting in return. Then the old one spoke.

  “It’s good that you are here, grandson. You have been missed.”

  Liu felt the grief which he had kept bottled up inside ever since he’d received the telegram, less than twenty-four hours before, begin to bubble inside him.

  “I wasn’t here when Chan needed me,” he said.

  “You chose your own path. Chan understood that.”

  Grandfather turned back toward the temple. “Come,” he said. “There is much to talk about now.”

  Liu followed beside and a little behind him, showing proper filial devotion. “What happened?” he asked quietly.

  “After you left for America,” Grandfather replied, choosing his words carefully, “Chan followed in your footsteps, preparing for the tournament.”

  “The tournament!” Liu exclaimed. He stopped, suddenly full of angry disbelief, the same anger that had taken him away from the Temple in the first place. “Wasn’t it enough that you filled my head with that nonsense?”

  The old man’s expression grew even sadder. “To save the world is not nonsense, grandson.”

  “Men fighting men in a simple contest don’t save anything, Grandfather! How can you believe these country superstitions?”

  “We all believe in it, Liu Kang,” the old man said. “Once you believed. Your bother believed. He trained very hard. But he could never be as good a you…”

  “I should have been here,” Liu said. “He needed me, and I wasn’t here.”

  Grandfather put his arms around Liu’s shoulders.

  “Please do not think of what might have been,” he said. “The past is a path we travel only once. The path we choose to reach tomorrow is always fresh. We have choices there.”

  The two men stood in silence for a moment. Then Liu spoke again, his voice very slow and quiet.

  “Grandfather… I dreamt Chan’s death. And in my dream… I saw his killer. A man with eyes like red fire.”

  “You saw the demon sorcerer, Shang Tsung,” Grandfather said, after a pause long enough to make Liu nervous. “Come. It is vital now that you speak with the chief priests of our order, and that you tell them what you just told me.”

  The two wal
ked into the temple precincts. Liu had not been there in years, and now he looked about with fresh eyes, seeing the lacquered and enameled wood, the rich gold, and the scarlet porcelain which covered every inch of the temple of the Order of Light, the temple dedicated to Rayden.

  The two of them made their way into an inner room, a cool, dark chamber where braziers sent the smoke of incense into the air, sweetening it with a smell like flowers. The priests of the temple gathered in a circle around them, kneeling on the timeworn floor, their red robes pure as the flame.

  “It is as I told you,” Grandfather said, addressing the chief priest, an old man with a bald head, the only one of the red-robed priests to be standing. “Liu Kang is the Chosen One. He has had the Dream.”

  “No!” said the chief priest. It was clear that the two of them were merely renewing an old argument long rehearsed between them. “This young man is not one of us. Liu Kang left our temple. He turned his back on the ancient ways and the ancient traditions. He should never have returned. He cannot be the one favored by Rayden.”

  “You are incorrect,” Grandfather said. “Many paths may reach the same destination. That he did not take the path we expected–”

  “He is no longer one of us,” the chief priest said again, interrupting Grandfather. “Rayden does not give his blessings to unbelievers.”

  The priest turned to address Liu directly. “Why did you come back?”

  “I want to represent the Order of Light at the tournament,” Liu replied, bowing low in what he hoped was a properly humble posture.

  “For what reason?” the chief priest insisted. “You must tell me that.”

  “The man who killed my brother will likely be there, at the tournament,” Liu replied, looking directly into the chief priest’s eyes.

  “That cannot be your only motive for going,” the chief priest said. “It is unworthy. Should you go to the tournament with vengeance as the motive in your heart, you will fail!”

  “Ah, yes, I forgot,” Liu said. His voice was mocking. The other priests of Rayden were taken aback by the direct way in which he spoke to the chief priest. “We’re supposed to be fighting for the fate of the world.”

  A louder voice than the chief priest’s rolled into the chamber. “And that is why you left the temple and ran away, isn’t it? You were unwilling to take the responsibility to fight for the world!”

  Liu started at the sound and turned. No one capable of making such a forceful comment appeared to be there. Only a frail beggar stood beside the door, his head covered by a coolie’s straw hat, his clothing ragged and dirty. The straw hat concealed his face completely. The stranger had a stout wooden stick in his hand – a walking staff, Liu supposed. It seemed impossible to Liu that such a frail-looking man could have produced such a commanding voice.

  The newcomer’s feet were bare. Anyone looking at him, Liu thought, would have to suppose that he lived entirely on rice and fish balls, and not much of either one. Nevertheless, the beggar walked into the inner room of the temple with a steady, purposeful gait. He appeared so frail that it seemed a strong wind would take him away, but in spite of that, Liu had never seen anyone with such an air of command.

  The chief priest stepped forward. “Who dares?” he said, his voice quiet. “Who dares to enter this holy place with his head covered?”

  The beggar did not stop the answer. He strode forward until he stood directly in front of Liu. Then he lifted his head so that, for the first time, his face was visible beneath the battered coolie hat. The beggar’s features were strong and regular, neither old nor young, and his expression spoke of both knowledge and wisdom.

  Yet for all that, the newcomer’s eyes were his most startling feature. They were both infinitely sad and infinitely caring. And they seemed to glow with a blue light.

  Liu’s grandfather was the first to react. To Liu’s astonishment, Grandfather fell prostrate on the polished stones of the temple floor. He lay in front of the beggar.

  “The lord Rayden!” Grandfather exclaimed. “Lord Rayden, have mercy on us! We are not worthy! We are not worthy.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The priests of the Order of Light sat still for a moment, observing the strange sight of Grandfather lying on his belly on the stones, his arms outstretched before a beggar, moaning, “Lord Rayden, protect us.”

  Then, one by one, they too prostrated themselves before the frail figure.

  All except Liu. He looked from the beggar to the priests, to his grandfather, then back to the beggar.

  “Young Liu,” the beggar said. “You are still running from your destiny.”

  “Rayden?” Liu said, his voice mocking. He turned to where the others lay on the floor. “Grandfather! Get up! This isn’t your god of thunder and lightning. He’s just a beggar.”

  “Mercy, mercy, please,” Grandfather begged, not moving from his place on the stones. “Liu is my only living grandchild. Spare him, Lord Rayden. American life has enfeebled his mind. He watches too much television!”

  The beggar ignored everyone except Liu.

  “So,” he said. “You’re going to win the tournament. A tournament which, if memory serves, you didn’t even believe in at this time yesterday.”

  “Yes,” Liu said calmly. “I am.”

  The beggar nodded, regarding Liu gravely. He began to walk around Liu, observing him from every angle, his expression unreadable. When he had come full circle and again faced Liu, the man spoke again.

  “Show me how you are going to win the tournament.”

  As he spoke the newcomer took a step back, lifting his staff. For an instant he spun the staff before him so fast that it became a blur. Then he halted its motion. The sound of the wood striking the flesh of his left hand as he checked its swing echoed in the inner temple. The staff was steady now, as unmoving as if man and staff were both sculpted out of iron.

  Liu didn’t move.

  “Come,” the old man said. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a humble beggar?”

  “No,” Liu said. “I’m not afraid of anyone.”

  He dropped back into a simple defensive position and regarded his foe. The beggar’s stance was firm, but, Liu decided, not very good. He had left openings three different places: at his flank, at his leg, and at his head. Very well, Liu thought, I’ll teach this beggar some humility. One quick kick to the head will put him on the floor.

  Liu jumped, his right leg flying out in a classic high snap kick. But instead of connecting with flesh and bone, his foot contacted only air. He landed in a crouch, and resumed his guard position. The beggar was standing as he had been, unruffled.

  The beggar spoke then. “In the Great Tournament five centuries ago, your ancestor, Kung Lao, defeated Shang Tsung the sorcerer.”

  On the last word, the beggar’s staff lashed out, a lightning-quick blow aimed at Liu’s ribs. Liu saw it coming, slid his left foot back and turned to counter the blow. But before he could parry, he found his feet swept out from under him by the other end of the staff. He landed flat on his back in an ignominious heap, stunned by the impact.

  The beggar’s eyes blazed with cold fire, and he raised his staff as if to strike. He remained so for an instant, then relaxed.

  “You are Kung Lao’s last living descendant,” the beggar said in a disgusted tone. “But you reject all that you’ve learned. You don’t believe in the teachings of your ancestors and you don’t believe in yourself.”

  He stepped back then, returning his staff to his side. Once again it was a prop for a frail old man. The beggar’s eyes returned to their normal state.

  “If you are Rayden,” Liu said, as he rolled up and returned to his feet, “why did you let Chan die? He was dedicated to your service! Why didn’t you protect him?”

  “He was your brother,” the beggar replied harshly. “Why didn’t you?”

  Liu stood for a moment in silence, his face flushed. “I should have,” he said simply.

  The beggar smiled a sad smile. “The gods d
o not control men’s destinies,” he said. “Nor do the gods protect men from their destiny.” He paused again, then snapped, “I’m not your bodyguard!”

  The last comment hit Liu like a slap. “You old fraud!” he exclaimed! He looked at the priests, still prostrate before the beggar, their red robes like splashes of blood on the pavement. “Why do you put up with this nonsense?” he said to them.

  No one replied.

  Liu turned again to face the frail old man. ’I’ve had enough of this,” he said. “I’m going to find my brother’s killer at the Tournament. With your consent or without!”

  With those words Liu Kang fled from the Temple of the Order of Light, the sound of his running footsteps growing fainter and fainter. The beggar stood leaning on his staff until the last echo had faded. Then he walked to where Grandfather still lay prostrate, silently praying for his grandson.

  “Rise now, honored one. It is past time we had a talk.”

  Grandfather climbed to his feet. The two walked to the door of the inner temple and stood watching the sun as it set across the bay.

  “He isn’t ready, my lord,” Grandfather said. “And we’ve lost so much time.”

  “I know. But there is no one else.”

  The beggar began to walk out of the temple, but before he crossed the threshold he turned and addressed all of them: Grandfather, the chief priest, and all of the other priests. His voice rolled like thunder in the mountains.

  “You should not have tried to replace him with his brother. Like it or not, Liu Kang is my Chosen One.”

  With that he turned again and strode from the temple, his staff tapping on the stones. Behind him, he left silence and praying men.

  The night was clammy and dark. Down in this section of the waterfront, Johnny Cage thought, they’d never heard of street lights. What illumination there was came from the westering moon, from the sky-glow from the rest of Hong Kong, and from tiny work lights on the sides of warehouses.

  The hired limousine he’d gotten at the airport moved slowly while the driver constantly muttered to himself in Chinese. Whether he was checking street directions, cursing out his passenger, or praying for safety, Johnny couldn’t tell.