by Ilsa J. Bick
Ito got down to brass tacks. “The other clans, they’re starting to muscle in on our territory. No Sakamoto, it’s a land grab. We started late out of the blocks because our people were fighting for you. Hard to defend territory you don’t got no guys or ships, thanks to you.”
“Respect,” Kamikuro said sternly, and Ito subsided. Kamikuro said to Viki, “It is not that we are ignorant of the great honor Tai-shu Tormark has bestowed upon us. But we cannot eat honor, nor will that pay the many expenses of our operations. I am being . . . pressured.”
“By whom?” Viki asked.
The Ryoken spoke up. “By me.”
“Ah,” Viki said, not liking this one bit. “And you are?”
“He is Mori Nobaru, my saiko-komon.” Kamikuro’s smile was almost apologetic. “Even I must bow to reality.”
“And high time, too,” Nobaru said. In contrast to his great bulk, he had a light, almost effeminate voice. “We have had more than simple revenue losses. We have endured raids upon our freighters and hits on key personnel clearly organized by other clans.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you took that lying down,” Lance said.
Nobaru’s gaze had sharpened on the smaller man. “We’ve taken action,” he said. “Some we disciplined.”
“Discipline.” Lance looked at Viki. “Yubitsume.”
Nobaru grunted. “Let us say that Kamikuro-san’s got enough fingers for a necklace.”
* * *
Katana said, “So what did you do?”
“I offered to negotiate on their behalf. Crawford gave me the okay before I left HQ.”
“Uh-huh,” Katana said, and when Viki didn’t continue: “And?”
“Well . . . I said that since you clearly had enough cash and materiel to secure a galaxy of Nova Cats, you might be willing to part with more . . .”
Katana said, loudly, “What?” Then, whispering again, “Viki! How much?” When Viki told her, Katana spluttered, “Where am I supposed to get that?”
“I was being creative. I figured maybe we could petition the coordinator, or Theodore. I was thinking on my feet.”
“Tell me you didn’t sign anything.”
“No,” Viki said, relieved, although the idea had crossed her mind. “We agreed to a truce and a meeting on Ludwig because it’s neutral territory. Two other clans besides the Ryuu-gami: one from Reisling’s Planet, and the other from Donenac. But no one else showed except Ghost Clan, and that’s when we figured out their real agenda. First, they hit us with you being dead.” Viki paused. “We weren’t exactly prepared.”
“Yeah.” Katana let the silence go for a bit. “So, what was the real agenda? It wasn’t about the money?”
“No.” Viki shook her head. “It wasn’t about the money at all.”
39
Katana’s Journal
28 September 3136
The black boxes. Someone leaked. Thank God, Viki kept her cool and didn’t confirm their existence.
Viki filled in the rest. She said Ghost Clan upped the ante by kidnapping Kamikuro-san right after Lance, Viki, Ito and some of Ito’s men left Junction for Ludwig. Then Ghost Clan tried to grab Viki, but Ito’s men busted her loose. As far as they know, Ito’s still on-planet. Lance, Viki and Ito set up an emergency rendezvous point, just in case.
Then something clicked. “Wait a minute,” I said. “All this escalation started before I was snatched, right? By about two weeks, give or take?”
“Yes,” Viki said, “but why is that important?”
“Because that means that whoever started the trouble knew ahead of time that I’d disappear. You don’t escalate unless you have a hold card.”
“These guys—” Viki broke off as footsteps crossed outside then faded. A door slammed. Then nothing. We waited a few minutes to be sure.
“Time to get out of here,” I said.
“I’m up for that,” Lance bubbled.
“Wait,” Viki said, “we have to have a plan. Alzubadai’s guys are ronin. They’re work-for-hire. So who are they working for?”
If it’d been a snake, it would’ve bitten me in the ass. I’ll bet he’d ordered me killed. Except this snake forgot that when you’re dealing with ronin, it’s what the market will bear. Probably Ghost Clan figured to use me as persuasion in case Viki balked at coughing up the black boxes.
I said, “Ghost Clan is from Shaul Khala, and Shaul Khala’s . . .”
“In the New Samarkand District,” Viki said grimly. “Toranaga.” She fell silent a moment. “So what do we do now?”
“We find Tony Ito. Then we get the hell off this rock—and take the fight right down Alzubadai’s throat.”
“But how do we find him?”
I tapped my microrecorder bracelet. “I kept notes. Just in case.”
40
Deber City, Benjamin
7 October 3136
The surgical suite was cold and smelled of antiseptic soap. Chomie gathered a green surgical drape around her neck and shivered, mindful of the IV line taped to her wrist.
Standing alongside her, Emi frowned. “Cold?”
“No,” Chomie lied. “Just . . . worried.”
Emi’s eyes crinkled above her mask. She was also gowned, and a blue cap covered her hair. “Don’t worry. He’s a good doctor, and I’m here. I’ll stay with you through the first trimester. Longer, if you want.”
Chomie was grateful for her sister-in-law’s presence. Yet there really was only one person she longed for. But Theodore had departed for the Dieron District to aid Yori Kurita in her campaign for Dieron.
All the procedures of the past several months: the endless array of pills, then harvesting eggs as her ovaries yielded their bounty. When the doctor performed the intracytoplasmic sperm transfer, she’d watched, awestruck, as chromosomes from one of Theodore’s unaffected sperm was injected directly into a harvested oocyte. That had been five days ago. She’d seen the tiny . . . what was it called? Blastocyst? Yes, that tiny ball of cells the doctor said was perfectly healthy and minus the dreaded Parkinson’s gene. She’d stared, absolutely stunned, at the tiny cluster of cells that would be her son—their heir.
Movement at the foot of the gurney caught her attention, and she saw that the doctor, in blue scrubs and cap, had appeared. “Here, I stole this from the autoclave,” Makoto Shouriki said, and then he tucked a warmed blanket around her body. “I keep forgetting that while I’m doing all the sweating, you’re probably freezing to death.”
“Thank you,” she said gratefully. She watched as he selected a syringe from a nearby tray, checked the level of fluid and then cleaned off a rubber-capped port on her IV line with an alcohol swab. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you a sedative.”
Anxiety spiked her chest. “But I don’t want to sleep.”
“You won’t,” he said, pushing in fluid, then withdrawing the needle. Then he clasped her chilled hands. His fingers were very warm. “This will help you relax. Be at peace, my lady. Emi is here, and I won’t let anything happen to you or your son.”
Later, a little dreamy, Chomie stared past the lights at the ceiling as Shouriki worked. She felt no pain, just an expansive sense of well-being, as if her mind were free of her body. She imagined her heart rose, too, and called to her husband across a void that only love could bridge.
I do this for you, my love. I do this for us all.
Imperial Palace, Luthien
Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine
15 October 3136
The data crystal contained an encrypted, holographic message from Shouriki: “While the next few months will be critical in terms of potential for miscarriage, I am optimistic. Preimplantation genetic testing confirmed that the embryo was free of disease, and the fetus is developing normally. Our prince will have his heir, and he will be pure, Tono. He will be free.”
The message terminated. The crystal disengaged with an audible click. The pillar of light collapsed like a pirate’s spyglass and winked out. Yet
Vincent didn’t move. Couldn’t because he was afraid this was a dream.
But no, this is a miracle wrought by men, not a sometime god. If such a thing is possible for mere mortals, then we shall yet endure.
He rose from his desk and padded to the alcove where his gold-inlay black and Kurita-red samurai armor stood next to a double katana stand of carved ivory. Alongside it squatted a low rosewood table. Kneeling, he tugged open its single long drawer. The drawer held a series of rice-paper scrolls, each bound with red ribbon and outwardly indistinguishable one from the other. But he knew the scroll he wanted. Gently pulling away the red ribbon, he carefully unrolled the paper.
The demon painting pulsed with raw malevolence. Why he’d kept it, he hadn’t known until this moment—until he felt the sting of tears in his eyes and the wet on his cheeks. Still kneeling, he used both hands to pull open his black kimono and bare his breast. Then he plucked his katana from its ivory stand. He held the sword with outstretched arms, the weapon’s sterling silver dragon-head tsuke in his left hand, the leather-wrapped saya in his right. Pressing the sword’s handguard with his left thumb, he pushed the blade from the scabbard’s throat and, in one fluid motion, drew his sword.
The weapon felt good and solid in his hand. Its scent was of fine, acid-free camellia oil. Vincent raised himself on his knees, took up his katana in his right hand and fixed his streaming eyes upon those mocking demons.
“Not yet,” he said. “You may snatch the best and the brightest; you may think you’ve won or that you will, that you will bring me and my house low. But I tell you now, and before all your dark lords, I make this vow.”
Vincent drew his blade across his breast. He did this slowly, deliberately. The weapon bit his flesh, and he savored that hot spike of pain, derived a savage delight from the line of bright crimson that welled up to stain his blade. Vincent cut deep, and he cut true, welcoming pain as a long-lost lover. He cut silently, in a kind of ecstasy.
Then, leaning over the painting, he drizzled his hot life-blood so it seeped into the paper, branching along filaments and fibers. And with his blood came his curse as his defiance bloomed to its full fury.
“Bring your demons and your spells! Bring on the fire! No man draws my blood or blood of my kin and lives, nor will I suffer any demon to believe that he may defeat me or mine. So I swear now with what I have drawn by mine own hand. By my blood,” Vincent said, “we are not finished yet.”
41
Copenwald, Halstead Station
Dieron Military District, Draconis Combine
15 October 3136
“Meriwether, whenever you knock, it’s bad news.”
“This time, it’s a bit of both.” Meriwether handed over the noteputer. “Things on Biham actually seem to be dying down. Chu-sa Parks set up a tank convoy as bait based on some intel he’d gotten regarding weapons deliveries to the resistance fighters.”
“Uh-huh.” Crawford could see how it went: seven fighters dead, none captured, a torched ambulance, a crisped . . . “No authorization, of course.”
“I think the theory was to ask for forgiveness later,” Meriwether said. “The ISF team attached to Biham crawled all over that ambulance. The forensic report’s in that attachment. Here.” Meriwether blithely plucked the noteputer out of Crawford’s hands and thumbed his way to the appropriate document.
Bemused, Crawford regarded his aide. “Tell me again why I bother to read anything? Considering you’ve memorized everything I need to know?”
“Why, sir.” Meriwether was the picture of injured innocence. “It’s in my job description. If you read everything, you’d never get anything done.”
“I thought I did read everything.”
“Most everything.”
“Uh-huh.” Crawford scanned the highlighted document. “Ceres Metals?”
“That’s what the taggants said. The ISF people found them in the truck, meaning that the thing had been carrying explosives. Most commercial explosives manufacturers embed taggants in their products. But dysprosium is only used by one manufacturer: Ceres Metals.”
“On Tikonov,” Crawford said. “I’ll be damned. It’s Sandoval-Groell.”
“Chu-sa Parks wants to know what you want to do about it.”
Crawford opened his mouth. Closed it. Said, “Well, that’s not up to me, is it? Especially since Sho-sho Kurita shows up in,” Crawford checked his watch, “three hours.”
“Ah,” Meriwether said.
“Right,” Crawford said dryly. “Ah.”
One other thing about that report caught Crawford’s eye: Wahab Fusilli. Well, more like his absence. Meriwether stood silently as Crawford read Parks’ official version: the length of Fusilli’s silence, no contacts, no request for extraction. If this were any other situation, Crawford wouldn’t necessarily have been concerned. Fusilli had been absent for months at a time gathering intel. But there was a difference between intel work in the field and deep cover on the same planet where an agent was expected to check in. Crawford’s gaze lingered on a personal note Parks had appended in his characteristic scrawl: Something’s up. I want to bring him home.
Crawford homed in on that. Yes, something was up with Fusilli. He’d felt it for months. Been eating at me ever since Al Na’ir, since I got a good long look at him here. He’d never allowed himself to think about this too much. Sure, Fusilli proved his loyalty by telling them where Sakamoto was going. But his information on other serious issues had been faulty, and his survival on Al Na’ir just a little too convenient.
Meriwether cleared his throat, and Crawford blinked back to attention. “What?” Crawford asked. “It gets worse?”
“Yes, sir. Page eight. About . . .” Meriwether hesitated, “about Sir Eriksson.”
“Oh, no,” Crawford said. Eriksson was dead: found assassinated in his study. Eriksson’s valet had miraculously survived and identified the assassin as a member of the very resistance movement Eriksson had founded. He gave a name: Noah Bridgewater. Local police authorities hadn’t found Bridgewater, and they’d refused Parks’ offer of assistance.
He remembered what Katana once told him, something the proud old knight had vowed: that he would be the engine of her destruction. Old grief tugged Crawford’s heart. Looked like someone had beaten the old man to it.
Crawford handed back the noteputer. “Anything I have to sign, Meriwether?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll put it on your desk.” Meriwether shuffled his feet. “There is one more thing. Actually, someone to see you.”
Weary, Crawford gestured at his door. “Show him in.” As the MP entered, Crawford checked his watch. “I seem to recall I said two months.”
“No way to sit on it that long, sir. Anyway, I have some good news. The DNA doesn’t match our database, Fury, DCMS, anything.”
“But . . . ?”
“It’s the lubricant, sir. It’s not pure. The first substance we isolated is for battlearmor, and it’s quite unique. Only one kind of battlearmor requires this particular lubricant: the Kanazuchi.”
“That clears us!” He felt like giving the MP a high five. “We don’t have any Kanazuchi. Sakamoto’s shock troopers used that on Normandy and Ancha, right? That was before the Fury merged with DCMS.”
“Except we’ve got the oil in stock.”
Crawford’s elation evaporated. “We do? Why?”
The MP cleared his throat. “Because the Bounty Hunter requested it.”
“But the Hunter’s been gone since February,” Crawford said stupidly.
“Yeah, and these guys have a whole bunch of fresh kills since then,” the MP said. “And there’s something else in the lubricant that clinches it. You’re not going to like it.”
“I already don’t like it.”
“Yeah, but you’re really not going to like this. The contaminant is camellia oil.”
“Oh, no,” Crawford said.
“Oh, yes. Camellia oil is exclusively used for katanas. I checked distribution to see who actually put in
a request. Tai-shu Tormark, of course, and several of the officers. But, sir, so did the Bounty Hunter.”
Crawford closed his eyes. “That’s the reason the DNA doesn’t show up. Because the Hunter’s not in the DCMS system and never has been.”
“Maybe, but there’s nothing to confirm or refute. No Bounty Hunter, no way to take a sample,” the MP said. “So what do I tell them?”
Crawford was silent. He was surprised to find that he wasn’t that shocked. There’d always been this barely suppressed air of violence about the Hunter, ever since he’d reappeared after dropping out of sight last March. Like something bad had happened . . .
But we owe him more than we can possibly repay. Something I never told Katana, but I know he engineered Sakamoto’s death, and he did it with my blessing. The hell of it is I’d use him again because he’s that good.
He supposed he ought to feel guilty, but he didn’t. Whatever it took to get the job done. He said, “Tell them what they need to know: that the DNA doesn’t match, and the lubricant matches the type used on a model of battlearmor we don’t use.”
“What about the camellia oil?” the MP asked, then must’ve read the answer in Crawford’s face. “No, sir, I guess they don’t need to know that.”
“Nope,” Crawford said. “They sure as hell don’t.”
* * *
Loveland chewed over it in the underground tram they took to the spaceport. “Did you see that MP? They’re holding something back.”
Thereon’s smoky eyes held a faraway look. “It might not be important.”
“Yeah? Well, if you’ve got something, don’t keep it a secret.”
“I keep going back to that old lady on Ancha, the one who saw that guy in the wheelchair. She said the nurse was big, right? And that the guy wrapped in those blankets didn’t have a face.”
“And maybe he wore a visor, and maybe it was armor.” Loveland gave an irritable shrug. “We know all that. So what?”
