Ministry Protocol: Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences
Page 65
*****
Twenty-four hours later
Her cooled steamsword clattered against his wooden katana, glimmering in the courtyard gaslight. Sweat ran freely from his hair in spite of the cold. She chewed her lower lip, as was her custom when concentrating. Tufts of long blonde hair stuck out at random points from beneath the rim of her knit cap. The duellists were both alive with purpose and determination, continuing to trade hits and parries, even as the steam whistle summoned the morning shift to their posts. Sunrise had only just begun to peek over the half-completed stone wall.
The work of converting the old Monastery to moated, modern fortress had fallen behind schedule, and a week earlier, Roderick Scharnusser had made grisly examples of three stonemasons to show his displeasure. Eight men in parkas went now to the exo-goliaths parked in the wall’s uneven shadow. They watched the swordplay, laughing and talking softly amongst themselves. One by one, the men dispersed to climb into their giant cockpits, and began the tasks of firing the boilers.
Wood struck steel, their weapons locking near their hilts, drawing the combatants in tight. He felt the softness of her hair whip across his chin. The gears in his forearm chattered busily as he tightened his grip on the wooden pommel.
“This won’t bring him back, you know,” she said, her breaths coming hard.
“I pray nothing does,” Kuro replied. “Hideo died a warrior’s death. It was my honour to act as his second.” With a light shove, the two separated. The wooden practice sword felt almost the same weight as his steel blade in his clockwork hand. He’d kept that katana sheathed, since cleaning it yesterday of Hideo’s blood. Around them, the 10-foot-tall biped machines lurched into motion, the night’s accumulations of dewy ice sliding from their frames. They walked awkwardly, deliberately across the yard to their tasks. With a drawn-out whine of pistons, the machine closest to them bent down to lift a heavy stone.
Its worker leered at them through his cockpit scaffolds, emboldened by his mechanical height and strength. “Hey, I thought there were no Chinamen left?” he shouted.
The goliath-driver nearest him responded with a laugh.
Beverly dropped her fighting stance to stand upright, visibly overcome with rage. “How dare you? A thousand of you in your machines are not worth one of these Samurai!” Her fury was as frightful and sudden as a thunderbolt. Kuro counted himself lucky that he’d never been the target of her anger. She turned away from him to focus on the labourer. “Attend to your duties, grunts. Speak again and you’ll answer to my cousin.”
The workers blanched. The nearest one said, “I’m sorry, Miss—”
She pointed her sword and he silenced, pulling his exo-goliath’s levers to stand upright with the stone.
Kuro sighed. “He’d have died for such disrespect in my homeland. I am destined for a common death here in shame, many years down the road as an old man, surrounded by these savages.” he said, then saw her dark expression turn to amusement. He bowed his head. “Pardon me, Miss Beverly. Present company excepted, of course.”
“You can always go seek your noble death back in Japan,” she said.
He shook his head. “I was barely a man the last time I saw her shores, and there are grays in my top-knot now. When Hideo and the rest of us left, the Emperor had turned the Samurai into Shizoku, bureaucrats wielding quills while the ink rusted their swords. I am the last now of the Samurai in America, maybe the last of my kind in the world.”
“Well, my cousin’s move with little Percy Amboy is bound to tick off his father. You may see some glorious battle soon,” she said, lunging suddenly with her steamsword. His parry was more reflex than conscious action. The sword kiss brought her mischievous grin in close again to his startled face. “If you can survive practices with me.” Their blades drew a circle in mid-air, danced for another five steps, until his smile matched hers.