by Ilsa J. Bick
Thereon, deadpan: “I want to see justice done.”
“Makes three of us,” Loveland said. “But word gets out, you’re gonna have more to worry about than an image problem.”
The sho-sa said, “Ahhhhh . . .”
* * *
Crawford lasted fifteen seconds. “I can’t be bothered with this crap! Shut them down.”
“Well . . .” The sho-sa glanced at Crawford’s aide, Meriwether, who only shook his head. The MP said, “Thereon’s Ancha Bureau. They got authorization, this reciprocity between planets, that’s the way it works here.”
“They’re serious about going public?”
“As a heart attack, sir.”
Meriwether stirred. “Actually, this might work to our advantage. It’s probably not one of our people, sir. Not one of the Fury, I mean. We all know that Sakamoto was a tyrant. So, worst case scenario, we hand him over and let them kill the son of a bitch. We come out looking good, and that counts. But if you stonewall . . .” Meriwether trailed off.
“Christ.” Sighing, Crawford wiped his face with his hands then looked at the MP. “How solid is their evidence?”
“I need to review it. They’ve got a lot of paper.”
“And you’re understaffed, don’t forget that,” Crawford said. “And overworked. And then there are records of our own to collate—”
“Troops have already been redeployed,” Meriwether added.
“That’s right,” Crawford said. “So, Major . . . two months to go through their records? Conservatively?”
The sho-sa opened his mouth, thought better of whatever he was going to say, and said instead, “Hai, however long it takes, sir. Buuuut . . .”
“What?”
“Sir, it’s the DNA. A quick cross-match takes a week, maybe two at the outside. Even if I got our people to double-check. No way I can slow that down, not unless we have an equipment malfunction or something.”
“That could be arranged.”
“Sir, even then, I can maybe only stall about two, three weeks more. Besides, if it’s not one of us, we’ve got nothing to worry about. Only—”
Crawford looked black. “Only what?”
Looking for help, the sho-sa glanced at Meriwether, who evidently did not harbor a death wish and merely stared back. Sighing, the MP said, “Regulations stipulate that the ISF contingent attached to command be informed of the query. I can’t get around that, sir.”
Crawford saw the problem. If this killer was a DCMS née Fury, ISF (read: Bhatia) would gladly topple the current command structure. So the trick was how to cross the ISF and not get caught. “Of course, we inform them. Just not right away. Not if you haven’t got anything, right?”
The MP said, “Would you put that in writing, sir?”
“No,” Crawford said. “And we never had this conversation.”
* * *
After the sho-sa was gone, Meriwether retrieved a stack of signed directives, butted them together, and made a general fuss until Crawford said in an annoyed tone, “Are you loitering for a reason?”
“I just wanted to know if your uniform trousers got extra padding,” Meriwether said. “Because if ISF finds out, they’re going to take a big bite out of your ass. You won’t be able to sit down for a month.”
“I’m just being efficient,” Crawford lied. He changed the subject. “What about Fusilli? Any word from Biham?” When Meriwether shook his head, Crawford asked, “Do you have anything cheery?”
“Scuttlebutt from Benjamin says that Yori Kurita and her troops detoured there first to meet with Tai-sho Kurita.”
“Ten to one, they’re figuring out how to carve up the campaign between the two of them. Where is Sho-sho Kurita now?”
“Shimonita command reports that they’re at Kurhah for recharge. They’ll be at our system jump point within a week.”
“Swell.” Then he thought of something. “What about Drexel? Any word?” He read his aide’s expression and said, “Wait a minute, don’t tell me. She tripped into the same black hole as Fusilli.”
“And pulled in the event horizon right after, yessir. She didn’t show for her last contact.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“I did tell you, sir.”
“What did I say?”
“That we couldn’t send people after her because negotiations take a long time.”
“I said that?”
“Yes, sir.” A pause. “You still mean that?”
“Trust me. If we go charging in and screw things up for Viki?” Crawford picked up the next memo with a crisp snap. “I won’t be able to sit down for a year.”
36
Pirate’s Prairie, Ludwig
28 September 3136
Lance Shimazu was ahead, pounding down a dimly lit hall that smelled of urine and mold. As he dodged right, Viki Drexel heard the thwap-bang of a door crashing against drywall and shouts. More yakuza—maybe Yurei Tou, Ghost Clan, maybe Hachiman Buke—swarming after them, just behind, coming fast! She put on a burst of speed, running flat-out, air screaming in and out of her lungs. Just as she cut right at the stairs, a spray of automatic weapons fire exploded. The sound was deafening in the confined space. Bullets chunked drywall. Stumbling, she fell up the stairs. Pain detonated in her leg as her right knee slammed into a stair so hard it felt as if someone had smashed a sledgehammer into her kneecap.
Get up, get up! Struggling to her feet, she half-hobbled, half-crawled up the stairs. Her right leg wasn’t working right; her knee was on fire. She crabbed her way up, hit the last step with her left foot and then flinched left as another staccato round of weapons fire ripped the air wide open. Bullets skimmed seams above her hair, punched craters into plaster: pockpockpockpockpock!
She fell, absorbing the force of the fall with her left shoulder, and rolled, her gun hand free, coming around. On her haunches now, right knee still roaring, she tapped out three quick shots: pop-pop-pop! She heard curses, a general jostling as the guys jamming the stairs jockeyed for position and then answered with a round of gunfire. She scrabbled away on hands and knees, working to get to her feet. She risked a single glance over her left shoulder, saw the head of one of her pursuers, caught the bore of a weapon swinging round for a shot.
“Viki, down!”
Instantly, she flattened just as a lancet of ruby laser jabbed the air. She heard a scream, smelled the stink of burnt hair and flash-crisped skin. She jerked right, saw Lance Shimazu, his laser pistol spitting blood red darts of death: “Viki, move, move!”
Picking herself up, Viki bolted. Her right leg was better, functional but throbbing. Together, they wheeled right and clattered down the hall toward a T corridor. Viki huffed, “I got what’s left in this clip, and then I’m out. Got to be a way out of here!”
“I’m hearing ya,” Lance said. At the end of that hall, Lance skidded to a halt, took aim with his laser and scored the lock before giving the door a sharp, violent kick. The door slammed open, releasing a balloon of screams. Lance pushed Viki through. Viki caught a blur of fading cream-colored wallpaper and a heavy mahogany dining-room table, and people cowering beneath. They jogged from the dining-room to a short hall and then into a bedroom. Lance reeled her in, then slammed the door, jamming a chair beneath the knob. “Fire escape!” He whirled, pointing at a far window. “Let’s go, go!”
The window was double hung, the wood sash old and swollen with rot. Straining, putting muscle behind it, Lance forced the wood. It gave grudgingly, squalling with indignation, before stalling three-quarters of the way up. Just enough space: Lance pushed Viki out first and then followed. Their boots clanged on wrought iron. The landing was narrow, barely wide enough to accommodate them. The fire escape serviced the east side of the building that faced another tenement. The alley opened at both ends. They’d come out on the third floor, an easy fifteen meters above the ground. Lance urged her down, and Viki took the steep stairs as quickly as she could, her bad leg feeling every jounce and jostle.
L
aser fire rained from the bathroom window above. “No choice! Jump, jump!” Lance shouted, and before she had a chance to object, Lance yanked her from the fire escape.
They fell like stones. Air whistled past her ears, and the cobblestone alley rushed toward her face. Think skydiving: go limp! Viki slammed feet-first on the ground, the impact jolting through her legs and into her spine. Dizzy with pain, she instantly buckled, trying to absorb the fall in a roll. Then something tore in her right hip. She screamed.
“Come on, come on!” Lance boosted her to her feet. “Move, Viki!”
Dazed, every fiber in her body shrieking with pain and exhaustion, she lurched down the alley, Lance bearing the brunt of her weight. “Leave me behind!” she gasped. Each time she came down on that right leg, pain knifed her bones. She felt sick. “I’m slowing you down!”
“Shut up,” Lance grunted. Sweat gleamed on his face and neck. “If we can get out of this alley . . .” He stiffened. “Oh, shit.”
Viki followed his gaze. A car—black, tinted windows—skidded to a screeching stop in the mouth of the alley. All four doors popped open. She looked frantically, right, left—and there! “Service door, left, left!”
Lance kicked once, twice. The door popped. The service corridor was dark and narrow. To their right was a door that led down to a basement. Lance fried the lock and kicked the door as a diversion before taking off down the hall, hauling a limping Viki.
Not going to make it. Any second, she expected a bullet to slam into her back or a laser to burn a hole into her spine. Then, just as they reached the connecting door to the lobby, Viki caught movement out of the corner of her left eye. Before she could shout a warning, their attacker launched a fierce turn-kick that hammered Lance’s chest. Off balance, Lance reeled as their attacker followed with a crescent kick to Lance’s face. The blow connected with a crackling sound like smashing eggshells. Blood spurted from Lance’s nose, and he caromed off of Viki. They tumbled to the floor.
Viki came down on her right hip. She screamed, and her pistol spun away. Frantic, fighting against a sudden swell of vertigo, she fumbled for the gun—too late.
Their attacker scooped up the pistol and jammed the weapon so close to her face that Viki smelled burnt metal and spent powder. Her eyes clicked from barrel to hand to face—and then she froze as both she and her assailant gasped.
“Tai-shu?” Viki whispered. Then: “Katana?”
PART FIVE
Shibori: Squeeze Plays
37
28 September 3136
The coordinator’s room was completely dark. Aided by NVGs, the guard swept the room for the intruder. Weapon at the ready, he eased toward a set of inky silk draperies, nudged them aside. Nothing there. Turning, the guard took a step, then two more, but suddenly halted at a minute rasp coming from his right. Slowly, he pivoted. . . .
A green blur that resolved into a hand clamped his chin, tipped his head back. And then the knife sliced through flesh, and the guard couldn’t breathe. He was drowning in black blood that sprayed—
“Stop playback.” The holovid paused, the guard suspended in midair like a collapsing marionette. Pushing back from his console, Jonathan stretched, like a languid, weightless cat. Lovely holo, like a finely directed play he never tired of watching. What a waste that, in a little over two hours, that wonderful mock-up assembled in a barren stretch of desert and all the bodies would disappear. (Actually, vaporize. He’d packed the mock-up of the Imperial Palace with that much explosive.)
The fact that Bhatia had been so helpful in planning the assassination—supplying him with guards in need of “remedial training” as well as detailed blueprints and security protocols—also meant that the ISF director was playing for keeps. Probably Bhatia had already arranged some secretive little alarm that would bring guards running at precisely the right moment: too late to do anything more than lop off Jonathan’s head and mop up the blood.
But Bhatia underestimated him—because Jonathan was changing. Metamorphosing. Drifting to a full-length mirror, he studied his naked body in minute detail, running his fingers over his skin, tracing the curve of every muscle, every hollow, every line and seam. Thinking about her living just behind his eyes excited him. His skin grew electric with desire, his hands provoking frissons of grief and fiery lust. Yes, the transformation had begun: of Katana’s restless kami in every fiber, along every nerve. She was growing, swelling like a hand animating an empty glove. Her heat throbbed against the sensitive drum of his skin stretched tight over muscle and bone.
“But not yet,” he gasped, crushing his desire with an iron will. “Not quite yet.” Because first things first: He would give an impromptu performance, courtesy of Bhatia and what Jonathan had gleaned from a very helpful recording made during Toranaga’s visit. Bhatia had chosen Jonathan’s next targets. Jonathan could not fail. Not when he had such power. Not when he and Katana were one.
Time to hunt down some cats.
* * *
The shower was an ingenious contraption: foot and hand stirrups, an airlock seal to contain the water delivered under high power and pressure before being suctioned away so he wouldn’t drown. Surrendering to a punishing spray just the near side of scalding, Jonathan considered two tidbits of information that had wormed their way to him.
The first came from a source on Devil’s Rock: an obliging detective well reimbursed. Then the second on Ancha: When they’d run Petrie’s ID-link and activated a trip wire, he’d known. Loveland was a blast from the past. But the Bureau agent, Thereon . . . Drop the e, and that clinched it. To quote his dear, departed Marcus, a blind man could see it with a cane.
“Oh, I’ll just bet you can’t guess what I’ve got in store for you, Thereon,” Jonathan said, tingling with heat. “I’ll just bet you can’t.”
38
Pirate’s Prairie, Ludwig
28 September 3136
For a good hour, it sounded like a herd of OmniMechs on a rampage. Heavy feet clomping back and forth that sent showers of dust and grit raining into Viki’s face. They’d ducked into a crawl space secreted beneath the stairs where Katana had ambushed them. The crawl space was dark and very tight but ventilated, so the smell was only musty, not dead.
Lance breathed in wheezy, blubbering snorts. His nose was broken. On the other hand, Viki thought Lance was lucky he wasn’t blowing his nose out the back of his head. Any other guy, Katana would’ve killed him.
“You don’t remember anything about the accident?” Viki whispered.
“Not much,” Katana said. “I remember the captain shouting something about a hull breach, but I blacked out. Next thing I know, I wake up in a holding cell.”
“So, these ronin, they aren’t Yurei Tou, are they?”
She felt Katana’s surprise. “Yeah, Ghost Clan,” Katana said. “Run by some guy named Eddie Alzubadai. How . . . ?”
“You first,” Viki said grimly. “Do you know where they come from?”
“Shaul Khala, in the New Samarkand District. I got a good long look from the air. Ghost Clan’s got this compound spread over a desert valley surrounded by mountains. Kind of weird. The place is like a bull’s-eye, like it’s daring you to take a shot. I was there about a month.”
Lance said, “Dat’s Sorrymut.”
Viki bit down on her lower lip to stifle a laugh. (Well, it was funny.)
“Saurimat?” Katana asked. “Who are the Saurimat?”
“Mercs and hashashins,” Lance snorted, then cleared his throat. “Assassins,” he said more clearly.
“I never heard of them.”
“Dere secred.”
A secret society of mercs and assassins? Viki said, “We’ve been trying to figure out who these guys are. So they’re all Saurimat?”
“No,” Lance said, still stuffy-sounding but clearer than before, so that when he spoke, Viki automatically understood. “The Ghost Clan’s a splinter group. More like go-to boys.”
Katana said, “I figured they were holding me for
ransom. Then they started moving me around to different planets. I have no idea why. Things started to deteriorate once we got to Ludwig. Some seemed to be in favor of whatever they were figuring to use me for, but a couple of them talked about how keeping two of us wasn’t the original deal.”
Viki was instantly alert. “Two? Do you know who the other person is?” He’s got to be alive, or we’re toast.
“No. Anyway, they dropped down to one guard at night. He . . . made a mistake. So, I killed him and took his weapon,” Katana said, without a flicker of emotion, as if this were just another tick off the old to-do list: Eat breakfast. Wash dishes. Kill the guard. “Since then, it’s been cat and mouse. But now I know why they were so torqued. It was because of you. How did you know I was here?”
Viki said, “Ah, well, we didn’t.”
A pause. Then: “You didn’t?”
Quickly, Viki sketched their mission. “Lance said these ronin, these Ghost Clan guys, were hitting those clans that have supported you in the past. That’s how Lance and I got involved. We made it to Junction—and walked right into a yakuza free-for-all.”
* * *
Kamikuro’s mansion was palatial—three tiers of bone-white mortar walls and gray-tiled roofs edged with elaborate iron scrollwork. His estate was east of the city and hugged the lakeshore. They’d been shown into Matsuro Kamikuro’s study, virtually unchanged from the last time Viki had visited. But Kamikuro’s sharp gray eyes looked a tad cloudier, his gait just a little slower, and worry lines creased his forehead. Kamikuro’s waka-gashira, Tony Ito, was the same: burly, muscled, his small almond-shaped eyes beetle-bright with suspicion and not a little hostility.
There was one other: a heavy-set man built like a Ryoken , squat, wide. Gray, bushy eyebrows that curled like caterpillars.
