Dragon Rising

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “Hai.” Cameron gave Bhatia a reverent bow. “You are most kind, Tono.”

  “That’s a good boy. So.” Bhatia gestured at his guest. “Tormark’s demise—”

  “Is the void which Yori will fill. Yes, yes, that’s obvious.” Toranaga pursed his lips, took a gulp of his liquor, said, “The question now is how far to take this, eh? Kurita’s a peacock, and I don’t see Theodore amounting to much. They’ve got uprisings on worlds he and Tormark declared secure.”

  “They did occur on Tormark’s watch,” Bhatia demurred. Though I’d give my eyeteeth to know who’s engineering those; I might send him chocolates. “Are you implying, perhaps, a renegotiation with the coordinator?”

  “No,” Toranaga said bluntly. “I’m saying Vincent Kurita must go.”

  “I do not believe that Vincent Kurita has any intentions of stepping aside. And there is Theodore to consider.”

  “Then the same thrust must eliminate both. Doesn’t much matter which goes first. But only one individual must remain to fill the void—and her name is not Emi.”

  By the gods, this is the man. Bhatia’s pulse thrilled through his veins, and he was nearly breathless with exhilaration. “And then?”

  “Then we will rule with a fist of steel and a will of titanium. When the Dragon roars, the Inner Sphere will tremble.”

  Bhatia gave a delighted, breathy laugh. “I never thought you lyrical.”

  “No?” Toranaga tossed back the last of his drink. “Then let me tell you about the requiem I’ve composed.”

  When Toranaga was done, there was a small silence. Then Bhatia said slowly, “This is treason, Warlord. Be very clear about that. There is nothing subtle in this.”

  “No,” Toranaga said. “But I think you agree: The time for subtlety is past.”

  * * *

  The desert had relinquished the last of its heat. The college’s lights turned the horizon amber. A cooling breeze raised gooseflesh along Bhatia’s arms—or maybe that was still the excitement of it all.

  If Toranaga can make good on his plans, then I must cause enough havoc to cramp Tormark’s troops so that Yori’s arrival looks like a godsend.

  But how? Best intelligence indicated that Tormark managed to wheedle a galaxy of Cats to deal with Saffel, Styx and Athenry. Likely, the little slut had attached a codicil about what should happen if she died.

  “Yes, but . . .” Bhatia trailed a forefinger along his chin. “The Cats are very respectful of these mystics, and if one or two were to die, these Cats would see this as a very bad omen. . . .”

  All right, then. Eliminate the Cats but blame it on resistance movements on the border worlds with the Republic March . . .

  He spoke to the night. “Then what about you, Theodore? You’ll worry. How would it look for the granddaughter of a bastard to take Dieron? So how to interest you in Altair? Then you could legitimately claim you’d cracked The Republic’s titanium curtain. You’d not be diminished in the slightest. At your funeral, they’ll call you a hero.”

  Because when Theodore died—because die he would—everyone would mourn, and none more so than Yori, who would be the media’s darling. He’d see to that. He’d rip out her nails one by one if he had to.

  His thoughts were interrupted as the door whirred open. “Cameron,” he said, turning, “did you make our esteemed warlord comfortable?”

  Cameron looked confused. “Hai, I saw the tai-shu to his escort.”

  “Ah.” Toranaga had resisted, when his gift of this young man could not have been clearer. But that sly touch of the hands . . . Could that have been for my benefit? To tweak me? He nearly chuckled. Oh, this Toranaga was a deep one. He’d enjoy working with him.

  Ah, but to business. “Tell me, Cameron, what did you hear this evening?”

  “I heard nothing, Tono.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Nothing, Tono.”

  “And what have you learned? What is the single, most important lesson applicable to any clandestine operation?”

  “I . . . I do not know, Tono.”

  “Think hard, Cameron. Much depends on this.”

  “I . . . I am sorry, Tono, I have not studied . . .”

  “Well, it’s no matter. You have done well to be so honest.”

  The look of relief on Cameron’s face made Bhatia pity him a little. “Thank you, Tono. You know I would do anything to please you.”

  “Yes? Well, here,” he said, stepping forward and extending his hand, “this would please me.” Cameron eagerly clasped Bhatia’s outstretched hand, and Bhatia grasped Cameron’s right hand. “I will enlighten you,” Bhatia said, then tugging the youth closer, whispered: “The single, most important lesson is this: No witnesses.”

  Quick as lightning, Bhatia clamped down on Cameron’s wrist with his left hand and pivoted. Air rushed from Cameron’s lungs with an explosive HUNH, and then Bhatia sent him spinning from the balcony.

  Cameron screamed: a high keening wail that cut out after only a few seconds as he hit the diacetylsilicate sand surrounding the complex. Unfortunately for Cameron, the fall didn’t kill him. His screams bubbled into razor-edged shrieks as the sand began its gruesome work of dissolving flesh from bone. Cameron’s death would be agonizingly long, and Bhatia would have the youth’s screams as his night’s serenade. That was fine.

  “Because there can be no witnesses,” Bhatia said. He smiled. “Absolutely none.”

  * * *

  As Bhatia made his way out of his private dining room to his bedchamber, his mood blackened. No word at all from Kappa. Bhatia could not believe he’d misjudged this mission’s appeal. He suddenly remembered that lone recruit who had taken on that Rokurokubi. Could that . . . ?

  As Bhatia approached, his personal guard saluted, palmed the door and executed a flawless bow as Bhatia breezed past. The outer door scrolled shut. Bhatia stood within a small featureless alcove, a single scanner winking to his right, the still-sealed inner door to his bedchamber directly ahead. Bhatia stood motionless as the retinal scanner read the pattern of vessels, sorted through those individuals allowed access—himself and his personal guards—and confirmed his identity. His inner door slid open with a faint sigh. Calling for lights, Bhatia continued to his private office—and stopped cold when he saw his desk.

  Identi-tags. A bloodred data crystal. And a single human eye, tacked to the desk with a stiletto through an optic nerve now dusky as a dead worm.

  Bhatia’s fingers shook as he fit the crystal into his player. A tiny click as the crystal engaged, and then a voice issued forth, one he knew but to which he could not put a face.

  “Good evening, Director. Thanks for the good look around, if you’ll pardon the pun. I accept your offer, on the following conditions . . .”

  Bhatia listened, his shock slowly shading to a sort of admiration. Why, this was one step better than he’d thought of. But there still has to be a way to track him, there has to be. Then another more alarming thought: If he got in, he had to get the codes somewhere. And how much did he hear?

  “Anyway, you know how to send a reply. Only don’t delay, Director, or I might get peevish. And, oh, I hope you enjoyed this morning. Sorry about the boy, but he wasn’t going far.

  “Another thing: You must talk to those guards of yours. I don’t want to tell tales out of school, but I’ll wager the guard I met has some interesting stories to tell about just how I managed to get in. And he got a good long look at me. He might provide a very nice description.”

  A pause. “Or then again—maybe not.”

  25

  Shadow Rock, New Samarkand

  4 September 3136

  Just after midnight

  Looking into his mirror, Toranaga adjusted the folds of his silk robe. He enjoyed the feel of the slick fabric against his bare chest. He’d ordered a multitude of fat candles lit, and fingers of shadow softened his features. The ever-changing play of light and shadow made the black silk shimmer.

  Toranaga’s eyes shift
ed to the image of his spymaster lingering near the door. “I want to make one change, Hamada.”

  “Changes frequently wreak havoc on an operation.”

  “Nevertheless. I want you to take charge of delivering the package personally. If you’re worried about your neck, be so kind as to remember that my head enjoys keeping company with the rest of me.”

  “Something could still go amiss.”

  “If it does, then you should take care to gut yourself, and quickly.”

  “Even my death will bring you ruin, Tono. They all know that I am your man.”

  “We are through discussing this. You will take charge.” Toranaga waved a hand without turning. “You are dismissed.”

  Hamada’s lips parted as if he would speak, but instead he bowed and retreated. Toranaga watched his spymaster’s reflection glide out of the room, and he knew that this—bringing Hamada into it, personally—would actually work to his advantage.

  Because you do not want to die anymore than I do, Hamada, so you will be certain there are no mistakes.

  * * *

  Barefoot, he padded round the room, eyeing the scene the way a director muses over a shot. Yes, the window was open just enough for a teasing breeze to stir the gauzy draperies round his bed. He’d started a few sticks of incense, enough to titillate the senses. On a lacquered tray, wisps of steam still curled from an earthen decanter of hot sake, and one cup lay ready. Yes, this would do handsomely. Who said duty was not a pleasure?

  That ploy, Bhatia bringing in that young man, was as transparent as the youth was appealing. All smooth skin and supple limbs. Bhatia likely didn’t know the rivers of lust that Cameron had sent coursing through Toranaga’s veins, licking his thighs with heat. But fall for a pretty plaything? Trust Bhatia with his neck? Toranaga thought not. Oh, Toranaga had been honest enough. Why, at least half of what he described as his plan was true. And if it worked . . . all eyes would turn to Yori.

  A polite yet soft rap upon the wood frame of a shoji, and Toranaga turned as Hatsuwe, clad in a simple gray kimono, entered. “Ah, my young samurai, thank you for responding so quickly. You have been quite . . . patient.”

  Hatsuwe’s brow crinkled in a nearly imperceptible frown. He bowed. “I wait upon my lord. You know I have no other wish than to serve.”

  Toranaga waved the young man’s words away. “Come now, you are being too modest.” He slid a few steps closer, lowered his voice to a seductive whisper. “Do not deny your desires, Hatsuwe.”

  His lips parted, and then Hatsuwe swallowed. “Desires, Tono?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. You wish to supplant Yori Kurita in my esteem.”

  In the candlelight, Toranaga saw that the samurai’s neck and face were hectic with color. Suddenly, Hatsuwe knelt and prostrated himself full length, in total submission, as one would before the coordinator. “I am yours, Tono. Ever I will be yours.”

  Towering over the samurai, Toranaga savored the moment and knew the future was his to seize. “Understand this, Hatsuwe. I am unchangeable, the rock that endures throughout time. Yori Kurita is a tool, and she is one that you will suffer to live.” Toranaga paused. “But for you, I have reserved a special place, a sacred duty and a path we will journey together, a way most beautiful—and we will pleasure one another.”

  Hatsuwe still did not look up. “Anything, Tono. I have waited patiently to honor you in the way of the samurai who revere their masters.”

  “Yes?” Toranaga gave a silent laugh. Then he turned aside, plucked up the decanter of sake and tipped the still-warm liquid into a waiting ceramic cup. He brought the cup to where Hatsuwe still lay, and then Toranaga knelt. His heart quickened, and his lust, tamped earlier, stirred. Yes, he would have this, take what was his. “Look at me,” he said. “I command you to look.”

  Slowly, Hatsuwe rose until he faced his lord. They were so close Toranaga saw the pulse bounding in the man’s neck.

  “Now,” Toranaga said. He sipped once from the cup and then proffered it. “Drink. Share with me as you will share my bed. I will show you the beautiful way, the nanshoku reserved for samurai alone and then . . .” Loosing his sash with his free hand, Toranaga let his robe slither from his nakedness in a whisper of silk. “Then I will show you how you may serve your lord. But for now, drink, my samurai. Drink.”

  * * *

  Hatsuwe slept. The candles guttered, but Toranaga did not care. As sweat evaporated from his skin and the feel of Hatsuwe’s passion slowly faded from his body, Toranaga smiled into the gathering darkness.

  PART FOUR

  Yosu-miro: The Choice

  26

  Somewhere on Biham

  4 September 3136

  Wahab Fusilli jerked awake. He lay a moment, heart thumping, his nightmare thinning to shreds. As always when he woke, his eyes tracked the familiar contours of the room—enough to know that nothing had changed.

  The room, no bigger than a jail cell, smelled of damp earth and new paint. The windowless walls were drywall painted a stark white. There was bare floor, also white. His aluminum cot was snugged against the right wall, its pillowcase, sheets and blanket snowy white. Through a door cut into a drywall partition, there was a full bathroom. Everything was white, even the comb and brush. Clothes, too, exactly his size and, blessedly, not white: olive drab trousers, a black t-shirt, a faded olive camouflage shirt, underwear, fresh socks. Boots but no laces. Just in case.

  He figured they watched, or perhaps only listened. He’d searched, found nothing. He’d also looked for a weapon. Anything he could easily take apart—the towel rack, the toilet-paper dispenser—was plastic. The cot’s aluminum frame was molded, as was the single chair. Nothing.

  Now, a knock on the door. Fusilli pushed to a sit and stood. The door swung in. The guard was dressed in olive fatigues. He carried a tray: a sandwich, an apple, a double handful of small carrots. A bottle of water and a mug of steaming hot coffee with two containers of creamer, no sugar. The way he liked it. They’d done their homework.

  The guard had no rifle. That meant more guards a few paces away. “Step to the far wall, please,” the guard said. He said the same thing every single time, and Fusilli made him say it every single time. It was the only way to get a conversation going.

  Fusilli said, “I demand to talk to someone in charge. I don’t have money, and I don’t have a rich family that can pay a ransom. I want to talk to someone now.” The same speech he gave every single time. So far, all he’d gotten was an emphatic monosyllable: No.

  This time, though, the guard smiled. “You want to talk to someone?”

  This was not in the script. “Yes.”

  “Well, maybe you’re gonna get your wish.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We got us a couple of Dracs. So, maybe you’re outta here. Now, enough with the chatter. Get against the wall,” the guard said. There was no mistaking his tone, and Fusilli backed to the wall. The guard centered the tray under the light-globe, backed up without taking his eyes from Fusilli. “Go on. Eat up. And you might want to, you know, enjoy.” The guard’s lips curled in a cruel grin. “Maybe, you know . . . last meal.”

  * * *

  He didn’t have to wait long. As he did, he fingered the diamond stud in his left ear, considering . . . then let his hand fall. Not yet.

  This time, two guards came. Both had rifles. One held him at gunpoint while the other zipped plasticuffs around his wrists. Then they led him out of the room—which, he now discovered, was a converted cellar. They led him forward only a few steps before turning right and ascending a flight of stairs. The wet earth smell was strong, and then Fusilli winced against a slant of sunlight.

  He pushed into open air. The cellar lay along the west wall of a squat, anonymous, gray rectangular structure of corrugated metal. There were trees all around, and he saw clouds through breaks to his left and a higher peak to his right. The day felt late, near dusk. In the mountains, he thought, far west of the city and easily eighty klicks
from base.

  His guards marched him to a clearing. There were more people there, men and women, all in green fatigues and all with rifles. They stood in a rough semicircle, and in the center Fusilli spotted Dasha, in fatigues and black tee, a slugthrower in a quick-draw holster at her right hip. To her left was a man he’d never seen, also in fatigues and a black tee that was tight as a second skin and showed the leading edge of a tattoo on his right bicep. He was lean and a little wolfish. His black hair was military-short and styled into black spikes. Yakuza material: He reminded Fusilli of Lance Shimazu.

  Dasha didn’t smile when their eyes met. She didn’t look angry, either. She was still stunning, her rich copper hair drawn back from her face, accentuating a widow’s peak, and remarkable amber-green eyes. She said nothing. After a moment, her eyes slid away.

  The man stuck his hand out and flashed a smile. “Tony Yamada.”

  Fusilli saw the filed incisors. He didn’t take Yamada’s hand. He said nothing. He waited.

  Yamada wasn’t fazed. Instead, he glanced down at Fusilli’s cuffs. “Hey, what’s this?” Pointing at the cuffs now, looking at the guards. “Get these off, huh? Hey, and get him a chair. He looks kind of used.”

  A guard cut the cuffs. Fusilli said nothing. He kept his eyes on Yamada. When the second guard produced a folding camp stool, Fusilli didn’t even look at it. He kept his gaze on Yamada. He waited.

  Yamada nodded. “Right, shoulda thought of that. Psychologically, wouldn’t make sense for you to sit down, right? Makes you submissive.”

  Fusilli said nothing.

  Yamada pulled a noteputer from his hip pocket. “Hokaaay , so we checked you out. You’re”—fiddling with the noteputer—“Shakir, right? Shakir Jerrar? Born on Ashio, parents dead, blah, blah. Moved to Proserpina, blah, blah, blah . . . served in the Brotherhood. But here’s what I don’t get. You told Dasha you left Proserpina because the jobs dried up. Only here, it says here that you killed your squad leader. Something about a bunch of you Dracs getting into trouble.”