Dragon Rising

by Ilsa J. Bick

  Yamada jogged up the steps of an aging brownstone with a neon light-globe hovering above the entrance: The Up and Under. Inside, he wandered over to the bar where a beefy guy with biceps like cantaloupes was polishing glasses with a white rag.

  “Boss.” The barkeep’s name was Big Mark. Big Mark found an empty glass, loaded it with ice, spritzed in soda water, and finished with a slice of lime. “They’re all here,” Big Mark said as he nailed a napkin to the counter with the glass.“’Bout ten minutes ago.”

  Nodding, Yamada turned, leaned his back against the counter, and sipped his soda water. The bar wasn’t fancy, or very big. Smoky, wood-paneled. A smattering of round tables with chairs and eight booths evenly distributed parallel to the bar. The wall was halved by a narrow walkway that led to the bathrooms off to the right. There was a door off to Yamada’s left, faced with black leather and black lacquered studs. Four patrons sat at the far end of the bar, and there were two women—and one clearly on the game, with a black lace bustier under a leather jacket—tucked in a booth to the far right. Yamada turned away as the women began to kiss. “How’s business?”

  “Good,” Big Mark said. “Cops already been in. They got the usual.”

  “Okay.” Yamada turned as a cocktail waitress pushed through the black leather door trailing voices and the rattle of dice. The door flapped shut.

  The waitress gave Big Mark a drinks order then said to Yamada, “He’s back again, down sixty kay. No problem yet, but Kip wants to know how deep before we sand him.”

  “Let him dig to eighty and then call it. He drinking?”

  “This’ll be his fifth.”

  “Good. Come get me if there’s trouble.” Glass in hand, Yamada headed for the narrow walkway that led to the restrooms. Instead of turning left, however, he went right and then right again. The hall ended in a door faced with red leather tacked with brass studs. Usually, there was high-stakes poker behind this door. Tonight four people, two men and two women, sat in caster chairs around an oblong, oak Texas hold’em table faced with green cloth and rimmed with a wide bumper of black leather.

  One of the women, small with a frizz of espresso-colored hair, looked up as he pushed in. “You’re late.”

  “I got held up,” Yamada said, dropping into a vacant seat. He told them about Eriksson. When he was done, there was a short silence, and then one of the men said, “He’s got a point.”

  “About what?” Espresso Hair demanded.

  “Down, Abby, down.” Noah Bridgewater had a mild, good-natured face with clear brown eyes. “I’m just saying terrorism doesn’t win wars. Never has.”

  The second man—older and with watery hound-dog eyes, named Conley—asked, “You’re agreeing with Eriksson?”

  “I’m just saying history’s not on our side. No matter how much resistance has been mounted to past occupations, once the Dracs are solidly in, they stay. On the other hand, Tormark has a reputation of being pretty evenhanded. Why not give her a chance?”

  “That’s a non-starter,” Yamada rapped. “We got to target the Dracs, put them in a world of hurt.”

  “Do you have anything like a plan?” Bridgewater asked.

  Yamada looked at the second woman, who’d barely stirred. Her eyes were deep amber with green flecks, and very solemn. “Maybe,” she said.

  Bridgewater said, “Yeah? Maybe like what, Dasha?”

  Dasha was stunningly beautiful: tall and capable, with a mane of rust-red hair. Combined with her strange, sad eyes, she seemed ethereal, not altogether there. She fingered a tiny gold locket dangling around her throat. “Maybe, like, we’ve got a plan. Not ready for prime time yet.”

  “Uh-huh,” Conley said, without enthusiasm. “So, what do we do in the meantime?”

  Yamada’s filed incisors showed in a grin. “I got a couple ideas. We set up food kitchens, maybe a free clinic or something, and then run our ops in the background. Makes it harder for the Dracs to shut us down. They’ll be taking food out of the mouths of kids. That’s real bad publicity.”

  Bridgewater, who was an EMT and the group’s medic, said, “I can ask the Dracs to lend a hand. One of those goodwill things.”

  “What if Eriksson gets in our way?” Abby put in. “We’ll still be running ops. I don’t think he’d turn us in voluntarily, but he knows us. You and Dasha have real jobs. I got the gig on base, working the chow hall. Great for scuttlebutt, but I got to eat.”

  “We all do,” Dasha said. “But I actually agree with Noah this time around. They’ll send a new base commander, someone seasoned. We need to pull one or two more ops, and then we should let up awhile. Let the activity dribble away, and the Dracs will relax. Otherwise, they’ll always be edgy and suspicious. That way, they won’t think bigger. We don’t want them thinking bigger.”

  Conley and Bridgewater looked at each other. “Bigger?” Conley asked. “How much bigger?” When Dasha shook her head, Conley threw up his hands. “Well, Jesus, give us a hint.”

  But it was Yamada who answered. “Big,” he said. “Real big. Like . . . boom.”

  11

  Copenwald, Halstead Station

  Dieron Military District, Draconis Combine

  20 June 3136

  Andre Crawford was tired of canned air, fed up with recycled waste water that tasted like musty aluminum, sick to death of light-globes that were always too bright. Up to here with day after day spent in a labyrinth of tunnels beneath the skin of an ashcan planet where the air was argon-cyanide, the star a red giant, and the light a brassy crimson. There were days when Andre Crawford wanted someone, anyone, to explain why they’d traded Proserpina for a sewer like Halstead Station.

  Like today: He read the news bullet again and then squinted across his desk. “A guy gets blown away outside a pachinko parlor. So? Maybe it’s just another yakuza killing.”

  “Just another yakuza killing.” Draped in an office chair opposite, Lance Shimazu screwed his lips to a disdainful pucker. “I like the way you say that. Ho-hum, just those wild and crazy yakuza kids doing their thing.”

  “Hey.” From the seat alongside him, Wesley Parks glared at the squat, burly yakuza. “Watch the mouth, kid.”

  “Stow it, Parks,” Crawford said. A headache thumped his temples. Shimazu was the price they paid for trying to keep the yakuza factions on board. To Shimazu: “It isn’t?”

  “No. This guy Kirino, it’s a message.”

  “I don’t see how. Whoever killed him couldn’t have had any idea we’d get wind of this in a timely manner. To outward appearances, we’re just as blind and deaf as everyone else.” A well-placed fiction: They had the black boxes. Katana had trusted very few with the information. Not even the coordinator knew. Of course, Shimazu knew and was sworn to secrecy, but Shimazu was yakuza. So . . . yeah. “I have more important things to worry about than some gambler getting whacked. Right now, we have fireworks on Biham and the border worlds in proximity to this ridiculous Republic March.” He looked toward the far wall. “Any idea what’s eating them?”

  “Other than the obvious?” Wahab Fusilli said. The O5P agent’s normally swarthy skin was a queasy shade of washed-out yellow under the fluorescent glare. “They want us out?”

  “I get that,” Crawford said, irritated. Fusilli seemed subdued, his blue eyes more opaque than usual. The information Fusilli brought back this time was similarly dull. Maybe the job was eating at Fusilli, maybe too much solo recon. Yet even back in the fold, Fusilli wasn’t close to anyone.

  Understandable given his past: Treason isn’t something genetic, but you inherit the shame.

  Aloud he said, “Any idea how much Eriksson’s calling the shots?”

  “Not from the available intel,” Fusilli said.

  “Hunh,” Parks grunted. He was a big man and very tall, with large hands, blunt fingers and rugged, suntanned skin. He stroked a wiry tangle of salt-and-pepper moustache and square-cut beard, like a professor mulling over a knotty problem. “I told you it was a mistake to let Eriksson go back.
Don’t look now, but that’s come back to bite us in the ass. We should arrest the guy.”

  “Oh, that will win hearts and minds,” Fusilli said. As an agent, he only wore his uniform when he flew his Balac Strike VTOL into battle. Today, he sported blue jeans, a black short-sleeve tee, and lace-up black boots. With the tiny diamond stud in his left earlobe, a fall of shoulder-length raven-dark hair, and those blue eyes, Fusilli turned heads—not always an asset for an agent. “We’re Dracs, remember? Mention Al Na’ir, and everyone knows exactly what you’re talking about. I was on Al Na’ir. I survived it, and I understand completely.”

  Fusilli had a point, a good one. Before Spear, they’d been at yellow: locked but not loaded. They’d upgraded to red: locked and loaded. Crawford said, “What about resupply? Julian Davion’s close. Or maybe Sandoval-Groell.”

  “I say we take the fight directly into that stupid March of theirs,” Parks put in. “Plant our butts on Tikonov, if we have to.”

  “No can do,” Crawford said, twiddling a pen like an anxious baton twirler. “We’ve got enough stealing Peter to pay Paul for the Dieron push. Take Biham: We’ve got roughly eight hundred troops responsible for seven-fifty square klicks.”

  “That’s thin,” Parks said.

  “Yup. And that’s why I want you to step into Spear’s shoes.”

  “There are shoes left to step into?” Parks said, and then winced. “Sorry, that was a really bad joke.”

  “Crass,” Shimazu agreed. “You’d make a pretty good yakuza.”

  “Can we stay on track here?” Crawford said. “Parks, I want you to take McCain along. He’s a doc. We’d win brownie points if we set up mobile clinics, maybe help the civilian hospitals.” He looked at Fusilli. “Eriksson ever see you when Sakamoto had you and Liz on Al Na’ir?” When Fusilli shook his head, Crawford said, “Then here’s how we play it. I want you on Biham, where you’re gonna have plenty of support, and I want you to check in regularly with Parks. No running black, got it?”

  Fusilli held his gaze for a second too long, as if trying to read Crawford’s intent. Finally, he said, “I will if conditions permit. They might not always be optimal. But I will.”

  There was a note of reproach in his voice. Crawford pushed past that. “Good. You find the contact person or people, but leave Eriksson out of it if you can. Last thing we need is for them to think we’re worried. Our best bet is to shut down the receiving end. If Sandoval-Groell’s the one, and things go black?” Crawford shrugged. “Tough shit.”

  And if Katana’s been successful with the Cats, he might have a lot more fireworks in his backyard than he’s counted on.

  “What if Eriksson’s the contact?” Fusilli asked. “He’s a knight.”

  “Knight or not, if he’s the guy?” Crawford said. “He’ll wish he never got in our way.”

  Parks said, “What about the yakuza? How do we know that they aren’t the ones doing resupply? I mean, we’re talking money.”

  Shimazu shook his head. “The thing bugging the yakuza is you guys take them for granted. All this stuff, it’s a signal. Kirino was the son of a man involved in bakuta, a gambling faction on Junction, but his mother is Eddie Alzubadai’s step-niece.”

  “And Alzubadai is . . . ?” Crawford asked.

  “Low-level. Runs operations out of Donenac, Valmiera, Ljugam . . .”

  “Planets near the New Samarkand border. That’s far enough away from Junction. What’s the problem?”

  “Just because we got different territories doesn’t mean squat. Anything or anyone that cracks down on one group affects everybody. Now Kirino was only one guy, but there was another killing the same day Kirino went down. That was aimed right at Kamikuro.”

  Oh, no. Crawford went still. “Not Kamikuro, please.”

  “Naw, naw, these people are kabuki-mono; they’re not nuts. The guy got whacked was Kamikuro-san’s banker. Head shot, right back here.” Shimazu tapped the base of his skull where it joined the spine. “When he was in bed with a lady friend, you know, in her apartment. Brains sloshed all over the place. Popped the lady friend, too. But this is all a kick in the ass to get you to notice.”

  “Notice what?” Parks said. “What do they want, flowers and a thank-you card?”

  “Parks,” Crawford warned. He looked at the liaison. “Tai-shu Tormark rewarded the yakuza by promoting them within the DCMS.”

  Shimazu screwed up his nose. “Ahhh, look. I don’t want to appear disrespectful, but . . . so what? I mean, really?”

  Crawford was stunned. “Promotion into the DCMS is an honor.”

  “If you say so. That and a half-stone can buy you a beer.”

  “Hey!” Parks flared. “What kind of crap is that?”

  “You asked. I’m telling you. That kind of stuff doesn’t exactly make the rest of the yakuza go green with envy. Times have changed.”

  “Okay,” Crawford said. He still couldn’t believe his ears. When had things changed so much? “What’s the issue?”

  “What a lot of guys want now is to be on the winning side. Tormark doesn’t look like she’s winning so much as she’s trying to plug eleven holes with ten fingers. All the yakuza got to do is look at worlds like Styx, Saffel, Ancha, Biham . . . like taking out an ad.”

  He was right, and Crawford knew it. “How many factions are we talking?”

  “Three around Junction, and maybe Eddie Alzubadai’s guys. Word’s out they’re ronin, freelancers.”

  “Somebody help me.” Parks put his hands to his forehead and squeezed as if to wring Shimazu’s words from his brain. “Why is this happening now? And why the Benjamin District?”

  Shimazu rolled his eyes. “Let me ask you. How many of those conscripted yakuza are still in the DCMS?”

  “A few,” Crawford said, not liking how defensive he sounded.

  “Translation: Not. Many. That’s counting Kamikuro-san and the Ryuu-gami, right? See, you have to understand the basic conflict here. First, you got your business. Your business is what keeps you in power. You get a drain on your revenues because there’s war, or you got your ships seized, and you piss off a lot of people. Plus, there’s uncertainty. It’s like the market and speculations. If people get worried, they get the yips. They get the yips, they cut down on orders. They do that, people lose money. As for Tormark, look, no disrespect, but she just isn’t that popular with the suits. Most yakuza feel they gave you plenty and maybe you owe them a favor or two.”

  “Meaning they don’t think she’s got the backbone,” Parks grated.

  “Meaning they don’t know her. Tormark or some of you guys—even you, Parks, you’re their type—you guys go to a meet.”

  “They’re welcome here.” Crawford said.

  “We’ll even provide doughnuts,” Parks said.

  “They’d like doughnuts,” Shimazu said. “But you got to go to them. Makes the oyabuns look weak if they come to you. But if you go, or Tormark . . .”

  “That’s where I draw the line.” Crawford shook his head. “No can do. It’s Viki Drexel and you, or nobody. Besides, Viki’s dealt with the yakuza before. I’ll send her with full authority to negotiate. That would be a way of showing respect. That we trust them not to get our heads handed to us on a platter.”

  “Yeah,” Parks said sourly. “Just the inside of a refrigerated box.”

  12

  Katana’s Journal

  23 June 3136

  Something I never thought I’d hear myself say, but Luthien in my rearview? Gotta love it.

  I left Luthien much later than I wanted, but there are things a tai-shu just has to do. And one hard thing: sending the Old Master away to take care of my father on Mizunami. A tai-shu has an advisor, not a security blanket, and I’ve pretty much kept him under wraps, didn’t include him in any of the official functions. Though I did catch Bhatia giving him the oddest look . . .

  Anyway, the Old Master understood. Said he wondered why it had taken me so long. And then he said the oddest thing: “You, your friends, y
our enemies, are not in control of your destiny. You are stones in an ever-changing game of Igo. Depending upon where you are placed, either you are weak and vulgar or you add to a beautiful shape. You can’t know until you are played and make your play in return. There will be times where you are squeezed, when your moves are damezumari, played with a shortage of liberties. There will be others when you are sabaki, light on your feet, ready to press an advantage with little warning. So, choose wisely.”

  O-kaay, that was cryptic. Choose what? I mean, if I’m just a stone? He didn’t explain. Great. And it’s probably important.

  There was another official reception in honor of Theodore’s appointment. That’s when the weirdest darned thing happened. I’m stuck with the same guy who got to me the night I wore that furisode. Some noble so unctuous I wanted to wipe my hands. I couldn’t figure a graceful way out when, all of a sudden, Makoto Shouriki shows up. Again. Very pleasant guy and easy to talk to, and you can tell that he’s listening. Makoto reminds me of McCain: a genuinely nice human being who wants to help.

  Anyway, he gave me an out: came up to my elbow, said something like, I’ve been looking all over for you. Like that. Then he steered me through the crowd and out to a balcony. We made small talk. But there was something on his mind, and so I decided to let a silence go. See if he wanted to talk. I don’t believe in coincidence.

  He bit. Makoto said, hesitantly, as if feeling his way, “I noticed something about Tai-sho . . . sorry, Tai-shu Kurita. Theodore. Did you?”

  “Notice what?”

  “He seems a little . . . off. Something in his manner, his walk . . .”

  I played dumb. But I did know, exactly: had seen it when we were in the sim. Anyway, I generalized. Said I wasn’t sure. Hadn’t noticed. Things like that. Makoto just gave me this quizzical look, as if trying to read between the lines or peer into the space behind my eyes. Finally, he said, “Well, all right then. It’s probably nothing.”