by Ilsa J. Bick
“And Ancha’s where we found the oil, and where we got that cold hit, the one that says there’s a third man whose DNA isn’t Imashinigi’s and isn’t the cold hit that popped up on Proserpina.”
“Yes,” Loveland said. “And? Where are you going with this?”
“We’re going back to Ancha. We got to talk to the ME again.”
“What for? We already have the cold hit. We already got a zillion cold hits.”
“Yeah, that’s just it.” A sudden gleam of comprehension fired Thereon’s smoky eyes. “They’re not just anonymous. They’re cold.”
42
21 October 3136
Three days of electrolyte replacement solutions and nutrient bars had left Crawford’s mouth tasting sour and gluey, and his bowels in knots. What he needed was exercise and movement. A stinging hot shower to sluice away sweat and grime, and a chance to brush his teeth. A decent meal and several glasses of ice-cold water would’ve helped, and he was damned tired of his own stink. Instead, what he’d had up to about four hours ago were sore neck muscles from the weight of his neurohelmet, and shoulders stiff as steel from gripping control sticks.
Now he was invisible, all but the most essential of systems shut down. His cockpit was dark, the only illumination an eerie green computer glow from his secondary viewing screen. He waited, a scant ten meters below the surface, one giant foot of his Black Knight braced against a rocky ledge, poised to spring as quickly as a sprinter in the blocks. Hiding underwater in a near-total systems blackout was a calculated risk Crawford was glad to take. He wasn’t so far down that his comm systems were hampered, and the splutter-crackle of comm chatter bleeding through was soothing. Plus, his temps had come down. He was even a little chilly.
Well, that’s gonna change. Only I’m not gonna be on the hot seat.
He’d never been in a submersible in his life, but cocooned in his ’Mech with the battle raging above was surreal, like a dream. The muffled boom-boom-boom of SRMs punctuated a more constant, background susurrant rush of water. The water transmitted every shudder of artillery fire. Overhead, blaze-orange tracer fire sketched arcs like shooting stars.
Then a crackle in his neurohelmet: “Tai-sa, at present speed, estimate seventy seconds to target intercept.”
“Roger that, Benco.” Crawford spoke in a whisper though they were on a secured channel. “Keep up that artillery barrage but stay out of range, you copy? The idea is to drive them before they figure it out. How’s that Panther?”
Benco, his artillery chief, made a dismissive sound. “Pretty banged up. We scored hits along its right torso, right at the fusion reactor. He’s cooking.”
“Excellent. Deep One, what’s your status?”
A short pause, and then his lieutenant commanding a squad of SRM storm troopers replied. “Locked and loaded. Two flanking, right and left. Ready to go on your mark, sir.”
“Good. Once I’ve engaged, I want you to spread out, then cut back and cover the rear. Make sure that sucker’s got nowhere to go.” Just about showtime. “Wait for it . . . Benco?”
“Fifty seconds, sir. Target holding steady.”
“All right,” Crawford muttered. He felt his calves tense in anticipation. A flick of his eyes to the left showed that his weapons status was as good as it was going to get, all eight lasers primed. He shifted, shrugged his shoulders to adjust his neurohelmet and cooling vest.
Now the water told him their prey was close. He still heard the muted sounds of battle, but now with a difference: a rhythmic boomboomboom. Thuds translating into shivers from vibrations transmitted first from land and then into the water.
Benco: “Thirty seconds, no change in course or speed . . . twenty.”
Crawford reeled in a long, cleansing breath, then let it go. Out with the bad . . . Resting on his joystick, the fingers of his right hand grazed the nubs of his firing buttons. Wait for it . . . wait . . .
Benco’s voice ratcheted up a notch with excitement. “Ten seconds, sir . . . nine, eight, seven . . .”
“Deep One,” Crawford said, “on my mark. Remember, suppressing fire until I’m clear.”
“Four, three, two . . .”
“Go!” Crawford banged his systems to life. He hammered his foot pedals, felt the surge of power through his cockpit. The water outside his canopy boiled as he heaved up his ’Mech’s bulk in one massive push, the lake breaking apart as he shattered the surface.
In the open air now: His four storm troopers, hidden beneath thin shells of ice, had blasted free on jump jets. They were already firing as they spaced apart, flanking right and then left, circling around like shiny satellites. Sleet battered Crawford’s cockpit, but he was so close he saw, through a sheen of ice over his adversary’s cockpit, the MechWarrior’s flinch of surprise. His prey: a huge, boxy Grand Dragon.
“Jesus,” Crawford said as his targeting reticule burned hot and golden and very bright. “You are one butt-ugly ’Mech.”
Then he and his storm troopers killed Yori Kurita, and he enjoyed every second.
43
Yori stabbed a control. The recording froze just as eight concentrated streamers of red death skewered her Grand Dragon an instant ahead of four short-range missiles. Though she’d seen the recording twice and lived through it once in the sim, her humiliation burned just as bright and hot.
“That was ingenious,” she said coolly. “How did you think of it?”
Crawford shrugged. “It seemed about the only place I could spring an ambush. I didn’t have many options after you cut my lancemate to pieces.”
She permitted herself a small smile. “That was the idea. We can’t always attack or defend with superior numbers.”
“Ah, spoken like a textbook.” Crawford’s smile was strained. He hesitated. “Permission to speak freely?”
She tried a light laugh that sounded false even to her. “Of course, you’re my second. I’m a Kurita, but I don’t bite.”
“Look,” he said, leaning forward, “you’re trying too hard. I don’t blame you. This has got to be uncomfortable for you. It certainly is for me. It’s tough taking over a command after a woman like Katana.”
Don’t be so damned nice. I don’t want to like you. A Kurita has no friends or allies. Her tone was frosty. “I didn’t know her well.”
“Well, we did.” There was no mistaking the sincerity or the pain in those startlingly clear jade-green eyes. “I did. I won’t forget her, ever. And, much as I regret this . . . you will never be her.”
Despite what she’d told herself over and over again, that she didn’t care, she didn’t—his words cut. “Colonel, I am well aware . . .”
He didn’t let her finish. “And you don’t have to be her. We need you . . . I need you to be yourself. What’s more, you need it, too. Sho-sho, we have a long time together ahead of us. Let me work with you. I’m not your enemy.”
Yet you are not my friend. How odd, she thought of Makoto Shouriki, and—stranger still—she wished he were there, so they could talk, maybe . . . She cut off that train of thought. Killed it dead. No weakness. She could afford absolutely none.
“I know you’re not,” she said, almost believing her own lie. But you are not my friend and never will be. “And I have an idea.”
* * *
An hour later, Yori stood, naked, in a curtain of lavender-scented steam rising from her bath. She dipped in her toe, testing the water. Hot, just the way she liked it. She eased herself into the bath a little at a time, the water so hot that pain and pleasure mingled. At last, she was in all the way. Up to my neck in hot water. She laughed aloud. And lavender bubbles. Sighing, she stretched out, resting her neck and head against cool porcelain.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” she said, to no one. “No one expects this.”
Just as Crawford had not expected what she wanted, how they would work together. Crawford, in my lance . . . If that isn’t a tacit signal that he is mine, I don’t know what is.
Sweat started on her upper lip
, and she felt heat from the bath seep through her skin and into her veins in a heady flush.
But they hate you; he hates you because you’re not her. Well, I will break him, and they will respect me. I’ll show them I am no one’s puppet.
A lie: She was. She felt her unseen master’s strings plucking even here. She’d arrived more than a week ago, not just with the Fury soldiers and their armaments but with a battalion each of vehicles and battlearmor, a wing of aerospace fighters, and two battalions of infantry in tow, not to mention a WarShip and two DropShips. A bounty to the starved Dieron command, and a loan from her patron, who must be certain she’d make tai-shu when all was said and done.
Yes, Toranaga was pulling her strings. They all were, even Theodore Kurita. Toranaga’s idea again, her visiting him on Benjamin. Though for once, she agreed with Toranaga’s strategy. Theodore Kurita couldn’t allow her to usurp too much glory. So, a compromise: Theodore would base his operations on Deneb Algedi and focus on Altair. She could have her own success, but Theodore’s star must burn brighter.
No matter what, they would attack in January. Only an idiot would fail to see that Toranaga wanted to make his gift of her victory to the coordinator at Theodore’s birthday celebration. That would steal a little of the heir’s limelight, of course, but bolstering her would certainly rub off on him.
“And will I ever be free of you, you crocodile?” She scooped a handful of fragrant bubbles, studied how they shimmered in the light. How beautiful and yet how fragile. “Will you always hold me in the palm of your hand, a stone to be placed where you wish?”
Hamada’s voice: Don’t fail.
She blew the bubbles all to pieces.
44
Siang, Biham
25 October 3136
Their sex was fierce and passionate. Afterwards, she lay, spent and sweaty, in Shakir’s arms. The air smelled of warmed vanilla and cinnamon, and Shakir’s skin glowed amber in light thrown by squat ivory candles.
“Can I ask you something?” she said. Shakir’s fingers were in her hair, massaging her scalp while her fingers made lazy figure eights over his bronzed skin. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“Second thoughts?” He sounded genuinely bewildered. “Why?”>
“Because you have dreams. Nightmares. You talk in your sleep.”
“Yes?” His voice was mild, almost amused. “And what do I say?”
“Nothing very intelligible, most of the time. Sometimes you talk about Sakamoto, though. As if you’d been there or known him.”
Now she felt something: just the slightest tensing of his arms about her. “A lot of soldiers have dreams.”
Cautiously, mindful of her bad leg, she pushed up. Shadows inked his face, and his eyes were dark. “But Sakamoto didn’t attack Proserpina.”
“But I went to Al Na’ir. You don’t get over something like that.”
“I understand that. It’s just that you say things that make no sense.”
Now he reached up to caress her breast. “My dreams frequently make no sense. I have to admit that I like the ones you give me much more.”
She captured his hand. “Come on, I’m serious. You talk to Sakamoto. You say you don’t want to be left behind, and then you tell him to stop, not to kill someone.” She bit her lip in thought. “Liz. It’s strange . . . Sometimes, I don’t think you’re telling me the truth.”
He didn’t answer. She sensed his control, as if he were used to dealing with the unexpected, spent his time watching, waiting, evaluating.
Then he said, “Have you? Been telling me the truth? Telling all?”
Startled at this sudden turn, she said, “What are you talking about?”
“Stop that.” His tone was no sharper than before, but she stung from the lash of command in his voice. Then gently, slowly, he sat up, dropped his hand, and cupped her belly.
Her breath caught. The muscles of her abdomen tensed, and she wanted to pull away. She didn’t. Shakir’s fingers were gentle, with a familiarity and intimacy so profound. A shudder rippled through her body like a coming wave. His eyes never left hers, and they telegraphed a demand that left her breathless. And she realized something else, too. She was the one with doubts.
Because I’ve let you touch me in a way that no one has in what feels like forever . . .
“You loved them,” he said. “You still do. But I’m here now, Dasha. I share your bed, but there are walls. Right here.” He placed a palm over her chest. “Around your heart, one that guards you like”—and now he touched her locket—”the metal of that locket. But you possess the key, and only you can turn it. Let me in, Dasha. Trust me.”
She knew what he was asking. For the story of her children. What felt like her whole life. So she told him, finally. Her eyes were dry at first, and she talked a little like a computer, without emotion. Eventually, he gathered her in his arms when she’d begun, at long last, to do something she hadn’t allowed for herself in nearly a year. She wept, and Shakir didn’t let go. Afterwards, they did something they’d never done before because she hadn’t given either of them the chance.
They made love.
Her eyes were now dry, but they itched. She felt wrung out, exhausted but at peace. She lay on her back, staring into the darkness above their bed, and holding Shakir’s hand.
He said, “May I ask you something else?”
She gave a shaky laugh. “What more is there?”
“A lot more,” he said quietly. He rolled onto his side, propped his head on his hand. “Dasha . . . what are those cylinders? What are they for?”
She went very still. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
Because I don’t know if I can go through with this. “Because you don’t need to know. Not now, anyway.”
“And when do you think will be the right time?”
She reached for his face, and he pressed the palm of her hand to his lips in a kiss. “Soon, but not now, I don’t want to spoil this. When the time comes, I’ll tell you,” she said, pressing her body against his. His skin was warm, and he smelled of musk and sex, and at her touch, she felt him stir.
“Soon,” she whispered, as desire knifed her loins. “Soon, but for now . . . love me, Shakir. Just love me.”
* * *
Dasha slept. One of the candles was already out, but there was enough light to fire the facets of the diamond stud he held in his palm.
What am I doing? Pumping her for information, you’d think I was doing my job. But I do want to know and be known. I’ve been running ever since I was a child, that first time I killed anyone, and I’m so tired . . .
Here was his chance to be responsible to no one but himself, and this woman. He could rest here. He could stay. Maybe they could fake his death, and then he and Dasha could get away. . . .
Maybe. Until Dasha and Yamada took over the nuclear power plant in little more than three weeks, any number of things could go wrong. Dasha and Yamada mercilessly drilled their squad, practicing every step of the takeover, with Yamada throwing in contingencies, the unexpected. But anything could happen between now and then. Most especially, then.
I can stop this. The diamond twinkled, like an orphaned star. I can contact Parks, warn him so they can be waiting. Maybe bargain for Dasha’s life but give them the rest, and she and I can go back . . .
But to where? There was nothing in his old life he wanted or that mattered. There was no one.
But he put the earring back in. Just because.
45
Marauder’s Notch, Shaul Khala
New Samarkand Military District, Draconis Combine
3 November 3136
Christ, but Miki had to pee so bad his eyeballs were swimming. Hunkering down into his cold-weather gear, Miki did the freezing-man-bladder-about-to-bust two-step. The temp was somewhere around minus sixteen; the night sky was milky with stars hard as diamonds; and the wind blew blades of cold that hacked through his insulated skinsuit like a laser through but
ter.
There were a lot of things that bothered Miki about living in a cave three thousand meters high, even if there were five other guys sharing the misery. For starters, the food was lousy, cooked by a guy who wouldn’t know a frying pan from a Frisbee. Sleeping on a foam mattress spread over bare rock wasn’t too fun either, and don’t get him started on boredom. Trimming his toenails was the highlight of his week.
But the biggest thing was the cold. Think desert, a guy figured hot, right? But what Miki got instead was snow, bone-cold cave, middle of the night, pulling guard duty for Boss Alzubadai.
The view was pretty boring, too. Through his NVGs and to his right, a twinkle of lights from Alzubadai’s compound nestled square in the middle of a valley. You’d think that was a bad place for a compound until you counted the three other mountain bunkers like this one, and the sand. Lower elevations, there wasn’t snow but sere scrub the color and consistency of straw. And rocks everywhere. Big rocks, little rocks, crumbly scree. Stuff that looked like some bad-ass BattleMaster had had a temper tantrum.
Miki checked his watch: three AM. That was about right. He always took a whiz round about now. Propping his laser rifle against a rough-hewn rock wall that encircled this observation post, he threw one leg over the wall, then the other. His boots sank up to his ankles in a clot of fresh snow, but that was as bad as it would get. They kept clear a narrow, meandering path along the ridgeline that would be hard to spot from anyplace other than the air. He usually went about fifty meters to where there was a natural kink northeast and, below the edge, a draw. Snow usually gathered in a wide bowl. Great place for a piss because the wind came from behind. Minimized the chance of blowback.
Miki tore off his right glove, clamped it between his teeth, working fast because his fingers were always damp from the glove. After two minutes or so, they’d be numb. His skinsuit had a couple of zippers, one right over his crotch, and he tugged it open, the metal chattering in the frigid silence. An instant later, he felt that wonderful relief as he got going—and then he did something he always did because, hell, he could. He wrote his name in the snow: big black swoops through his NVGs. Never had made it past the upstroke of the k, but tonight he was pretty tanked. So he might.
