Dragon Rising

by Ilsa J. Bick

  Yori waited a beat then said, with great care, “What are you suggesting, Tono?”

  “Stop that.” Toranaga backhanded her question. “You’re a clever girl. What do you think I mean?”

  Steady. Yori laced her fingers, the better to appear submissive. Do not give a millimeter, do not show a gram of weakness. She chose what seemed safest. “I hadn’t considered it, Toranaga-sama.”

  “Well, consider it,” Toranaga said curtly. He picked up his mug but didn’t drink. “Cultivate an acquaintance. Then, for God’s sake, get the man into your bed. If you were to carry the heir’s child . . .”

  “And then what?” The idea was so repulsive, she felt like screaming. “Theodore is married. He’s had ample opportunity for dalliances, to spawn a whole clutch of heirs. That he has not speaks of his will and loyalty. Besides, what makes you think he would be interested in me?”

  Or that I would stoop to something so vile?

  “Haven’t you been paying attention?” Toranaga rapped, all good humor gone. He took a long swallow of the harsh liquor. His cheeks flamed. “I didn’t bring you here just to rub that peacock’s nose in shit! Theodore is your top priority. I don’t care if you have to twitch your skirts for him to catch the scent. There’s not a man alive who can resist an ian-fu.”

  Yori exhaled in stunned surprise. He could not have insulted her more if he’d slapped her in the face. And was that a suggestion of a smirk on Hatsuwe’s lips? How dare Toranaga suggest that she was baka no baita! She had an awful moment when she burned to remark that, certainly, no woman stood a chance with him. She wrestled the impulse back. Toranaga would make sure that Hatsuwe didn’t kill her so long as she was useful. Yet she didn’t doubt that, in a fit of rage, Toranaga would slice off her head himself. Thank the gods, wearing one’s swords without the coordinator’s express permission while on the palace’s grounds was forbidden.

  “I think,” she said finally, “that I won’t be in a position to demonstrate the lack of elastic in my knickers. After all, I’d planned to work with the Sun Zhang Academy masters at revamping their sims to reflect changes in The Republic’s defenses and strategies. I trust that was why you left me behind on Terra? To spend time with our enemies and know their minds? I do not see how what you suggest can be accomplished, Tono.”

  “No?” Toranaga grunted. “Well, how fortunate for you that I’ve plans of my own. I will graciously offer your services and troops to Theodore, something he and the coordinator can hardly refuse. After all, you are a relation even if your grandfather was a bastard. Besides, you’ve spent all that quality time with those young pups—with Campbell and Davion and all the rest. You’ve had a chance to see the latest Republic technology used in training warriors. You are an invaluable resource.”

  “I see,” Yori said, adopting as neutral a tone as she could. “And I presume you’ve already felt out Tai-sho Kurita? Informally?”

  “I knew you were a clever girl.” Toranaga looked greatly satisfied. “He wishes to discuss this with that peacock he calls Father. Tomorrow, we warlords meet with the coordinator, and I will make my gift of you official.”

  “I see.” Then she bowed because there was nothing more to be done. She held it a tad longer than she might otherwise in order to hide the burn in her cheeks that she tried—and knew she failed—to control.

  He tasks and taunts yet lauds me to the coordinator and his heir just enough so it’s clear that I am his creature.

  “And what if he refuses?” She’d come out of her standing rei as slowly as decorum dictated, but she caught the way Toranaga’s eyes shuttered. Ah, you are not as clever as you think. What are you plotting, you vile worm? You’ve got a fallback if this doesn’t work out to your satisfaction. I feel it in my bones.

  The moment passed. “He won’t,” Toranaga said, and gestured for more liquor. As Hatsuwe poured, Toranaga said, “Hamada, any words of wisdom for our young protégée?”

  “Only two.” Hamada’s eyes were viper-flat. “Don’t fail.”

  * * *

  When she was gone, Toranaga said to his spymaster, “You’re sure of your information?” He read Hamada’s hesitation, that slide of his eyes to Hatsuwe, who was still in attendance: You really want to talk about this in front of him? Toranaga motioned for Hamada to continue. “I have no secrets in front of my most trusted intimates,” he said, addressing his spymaster but watching for Hatsuwe’s reaction. He was rewarded by the way the samurai’s chest actually swelled with the compliment. Excellent. He needed Hatsuwe more than the young man knew. As for secrets? Well, not even his spymaster knew all.

  Hamada said, “There is no mistake. Bear in mind, however”—that cautious slither of the eyes toward Hatsuwe then back—”if you proceed down this path, there is no turning back.”

  Well, that was obvious. Yet Toranaga was betting that if even half of what was rumored about Tormark’s true troop strengths were true, she would have no choice but to call in a very particular marker, on a very specific planet with some very specific people she’d worked with before.

  Like a game of Igo. He studied his board. He was black, and he’d made beautiful shapes, carved out eyes and lungs. He thought he might win, though the game was long from over. When Tormark makes her move, I’ll be there, with my stones, ready to suffocate her and steal her liberties.

  The worry—the Master of Stones who must be carefully watched—was Ramadeep Bhatia. By all indications, the ISF director clearly understood the dire circumstances of a regime led by a prancing puff more interested in his bouffant than a BattleMech. Something up Bhatia’s voluminous sleeve, he was certain.

  He took such care to extend me an invitation to speak to the new recruits at the Internal Security College. What’s he up to? An alliance?

  Hatsuwe shuffled closer. “More wine, my tai-shu?”

  “No.” Toranaga raised a hand to stop the young man from pouring. “Even I have limits,” and then he placed his hand on Hatsuwe’s. “In some things.” He let his hand linger just enough to encourage Hatsuwe, to tease him with the possibility that, yes, the young samurai might well be very desirable. He was gratified to see the slight flush that stained Hatsuwe’s throat, and that slight hitch in his breathing—a quick intake of desire.

  Perfect. Yet only a fool believed sex was the only tool. Because people want power. Power is raw and alive and as tangible as this robe I draw round my waist. I will wield power with the same care I use to place my stones, closing off my adversaries’ liberties until I eat them alive.

  What would happen, would happen, and all in good time, and then there would be Katana Tormark and then the Kuritas to take down, all in a row.

  For that which does not destroy you will make you strong, and your seed is weak, Peacock. I know your secret. Your seed is shot through with disease—but I am here, and I am strong, Peacock. I am strong.

  6

  Imperial City, Luthien

  14 June 3136

  When that little bitch of a geisha Katana Tormark took her place at the long table in the Black Room (attended only by an ancient fossil on whom Ramadeep Bhatia hadn’t laid eyes in over forty years) and launched into an exhaustive prattle about troop strengths and deals done with Clannish kittens much better off trimming their toenails than fancying themselves conquerors, Ramadeep Bhatia wanted to jump up and down and scream at the top of his lungs: THIS IS OLD NEWS! YOU IGNORANT SLUT, THIS IS THE ISF YOU’RE TALKING TO!

  He didn’t. Oh, it went without saying that he wouldn’t have minded if a few enterprising assassins had dropped from the Black Room’s ceiling on myomer cables, drawn their blades, and lopped off the little geisha’s head. He’d pay good money to watch them carve away her ears, gouge out her eyes, yank out her tongue by the roots and tie it round her neck. Anything to still that yariman’s voice drilling into his brain until it bled.

  Instead, Bhatia did what he always did when he wanted to kill someone and couldn’t. He plotted. He sat back, wiped his brain clean, inhaled a very long
breath that filled his lungs to capacity, and then let the air go in a silent, drawn-out sigh.

  The Black Room didn’t smell bad, just sterile, like a laboratory. The room was self-contained in every way—computer, air filtration, water, and even an underground bunker, just in case. No fear of eavesdroppers either: a white-noise generator, boosted by the room’s faraday cage and combined with ceramic filaments woven into ultradense ferrocrete walls, created an environment virtually impervious to surveillance. A phalanx of well-trained guards protected against intruders.

  Or unruly warlords: Two hours ago, Tai-shu Toranaga had appeared, his sheathed katana in his right hand, as was his custom, and his wakashiri firmly thrust into his obi. Weapons in the coordinator’s presence was an affront of the worst kind. (Oh, all right. The man was a peacock, but Bhatia did have to protect the plumage, at least for show.) Since he’d given no dispensation, Bhatia had informed the warlord, as nicely as possible, that the swords would have to go.

  “No.” Toranaga had dressed the part to the hilt, so to speak: hair done in a traditional topknot; a wide-shouldered, crimson kataginu over midnight-black hakama and matching obi. The warlord’s voice was flat and hard, and without turning aside, he held out his left hand. One of Toranaga’s aides slid a scroll into Toranaga’s palm, and this Toranaga extended to the ISF director. “The coordinator has granted dispensation.”

  “I see.” Bhatia scanned the document, the better to mask the slow simmer in his gut. What the hell was Toranaga up to? Subverting his office . . . it was like a challenge. Not unlike Toranaga, but very unlike the Vincent Kurita to whom Bhatia was accustomed.

  So, my dear Peacock, in granting Toranaga a dispensation, are we finding a misplaced backbone after all this time? You think to challenge me? Is that why you felt impelled to install a sim, to show the world that you still have teeth? Bah! You’re an old woman, and I will see you fall.

  As for the geisha, the question was not only how but when. Wahab Fusilli, the worm in Tormark’s apple, had virtually nothing to report and had gone silent. Not surprising; there was little call for the man to travel into his sphere of influence. If only the HPGs were up, if, if, if . . .

  So how to kill the little bitch? Anything that happened in proximity to Luthien would immediately be suspect. So, away from Luthien, a little loss of pressure in her DropShip? Perhaps a malfunction in her ship’s jump drive? Or simply a stiletto neatly slid between a few ribs as she slept?

  “Very well, Tai-shu Tormark,” Vincent Kurita said, and Bhatia snapped back to himself in a rush. Damn, he’d lost track! The coordinator continued, “When do you expect to launch your attack force?”

  Tormark said, “I am hopeful that by year’s end, we will strike to retake Dieron. Much will depend on my ability to secure troops.”

  “We understand,” the coordinator said. “But what of this news we hear of unrest on the border worlds . . . Biham, Sadachbia?”

  “We’ve had a few difficulties. Nothing we can’t handle, Tono.”

  “Indeed? Is not Sir Reginald Eriksson the primary architect of the Biham resistance?”

  Bhatia was a little surprised. The Peacock rarely showed teeth. Tormark’s fault that Eriksson’s a thorn in her side: She let him live.

  Tormark spoke with care. “On Biham, yes. I’m hopeful that my personal relationship with him will stifle further resistance.”

  “On one planet, perhaps,” the coordinator said. “But you do not have personal relationships on every border world. Have you considered that these resistance movements might be receiving . . . encouragement?”

  “Hai, we are studying the problem. Tai-sa Crawford has carte blanche to act on this matter in my absence. I am confident of his abilities, Tono.”

  “Then let us hope your confidence is not misplaced.” The coordinator looked to the others. “Is there any order of business we have overlooked?”

  “Hai, Tono.” Toranaga rose, bowed. “I have a matter of great moment to discuss.”

  Bhatia’s eyebrows flinched for his hairline. What was this?

  “Indeed,” the coordinator replied, his face as still as a pond.

  “Hai. I have taken the liberty of speaking to Tai-sho Kurita about the matter.” Toranaga inclined his head toward Theodore, who sat at his father’s right hand—a nod the heir did not return, Bhatia saw. Indeed, Theodore’s face was a studied blank. “I wish to make you a gift of great value, Tono.”

  “Ah,” the coordinator said again, and then he spared only the briefest of glances at his son, a glance that Bhatia read instantly.

  Whatever Toranaga has planned these two have undermined already.

  “Yes,” the coordinator said mildly. “We thought you would.”

  7

  Katana’s Journal

  15 June 3136

  Okay, I thought I’d never do word one of a journal again. See, last year, somehow, parts of my old journal leaked. Not much, and not very important stuff, but you know newsies. Screaming headlines, and then, of course, they start those frigging forums for people who wouldn’t know a joystick if someone jammed one up their ass. So, of course, they’re qualified to weigh in on me. She doesn’t sound like a general. Or She needs a psychiatrist. Or Who’d follow her?

  You know what I say? Piss off. Really. Get real. We all come from families, and we all got problems. You think a general speaks in declamatory language all day long? Let us engage the enemy! We will fight with honor! Excuse me while I pick my teeth with my bayonet!

  Hell-oooo. Get a grip.

  (Let’s hope somebody leaks that. People’d go nuts. Tempted to do it myself. On the other hand, that’s why I decided to use this microrecorder. Hard to break the encryption, and it looks like an ordinary bracelet.)

  Anyway . . . this trip. Just all kinds of fun. There’s so much going on—with the Nova Cats, the so-called Republic March and that schemer Erik Sandoval-Groell. And me trying to get enough frigging troops to capture one lousy planet while I’m scrambling to pull enough people in to secure the worlds I was already supposed to have taken last year . . . I feel like a gerbil on a wheel running to nowhere.

  As for last night? Anyone reads this? Yes, I wore a bright orange furisode to the reception. Just wanted to clear that up. And, for the record, here’s what the coordinator said: “Next time, perhaps we should distribute sunglasses.”

  Now, why did I do that? Very simple. First of all, it’s not a crime. The uniform’s just tradition. So long as I don’t show up buck naked, I can wear whatever I want. See, after the sim, everyone expected me to come in with my tail between my legs. No way. So I did the furisode. Put a whole new complexion on the evening, that’s for sure.

  One person thought I didn’t see her noticing me, but I saw her. The AMAZING Yori Kurita. Sure, I understand that she had every right to commandeer my troops on Ronel. She saved their butts. But they were my troops, and now I get to deal with this little kitten upstaging me with my own people. Worse, watching me lose that sim and then having to listen to Toranaga yammer on about how much better their sims are now that the Kitten’s worked on their systems, blah, blah, blah.

  And then today, Toranaga makes his little gift of the Kitten and her troops—my troops—to Theodore. Gee, kind of hard to miss that, gosh, Katana’s the one who’s got a campaign to wage, remember her?

  Worse, I’ve had desertions . . . and none more puzzling than the Bounty Hunter. Gone for over four months now and not a whisper. Where can he be? Andre got some garbled reports of the Hunter being on Asta, but they couldn’t be confirmed, and now the Hunter’s dropped out of sight.

  I don’t know why this bothers me so much. Why I seem to actually, well, miss the Hunter. Wonder where he is, and if he thinks about me . . .

  Uh-oh. I’m not going there. I don’t even want to think about that.

  Anyway . . . so, Toranaga did his thing. Then the coordinator did his. First, he named Theodore as interim overseer for the Benjamin district. Knock me over with a feather, but it’
s a godsend. Having Theodore in Benjamin means I don’t have to watch my back. Whatever Ghost Bear’s sending over the border, Theodore will beat them back, freeing me up to concentrate on Dieron. I figure this is as far as the coordinator can go for me in front of the others.

  As it was, this still might have been too far. I saw the look Toranaga gave Bhatia. Something . . . odd there. (Though Bhatia was so stunned, his jaw actually dropped. That was worth the price of admission.)

  But then the real bombshell: Remember Yori Kurita? Yes, she of the AMAZING fame? Well, Theodore made a gift of her to . . .

  . . Wait for it . . .

  Me.

  Oh. Joy.

  What else can go wrong?

  8

  Imperial Palace, Luthien

  15 June 3136

  Early morning, just a little past three AM: too soon for birds and too late for crickets. The storm had washed the air clean. Yori picked her way along the margin of a gravel path flanked by light-wands, slipping in and out of fingers of shadow. She’d been unable to sleep, her mind grappling with the news that she would not be sent to Theodore’s command after all. Ah, but the coordinator was more calculating than she’d imagined. Waiting for her to fail?

  “Well, I won’t fail.” Her voice sounded small against a world she couldn’t see beyond small nimbuses of light that revealed the grass at her feet and a ghostly white ribbon of gravel snaking alongside. “I will wait, and I will watch. I haven’t survived this long to grow careless.”

  A crunch of gravel coming from the unseen gardens ahead and then a sudden ripple in the shadows made her stiffen. She automatically reached round for a blade that was not there, and she cursed herself for a fool. Letting down her guard even for a second, walking the palace gardens . . . Ears straining, she melted into the shadows, flattening against a tree trunk slippery with lichen.