by Ilsa J. Bick
The agent nodded. “There’s been no forensic analysis, nothing. Bhatia hasn’t seen that yet, but I don’t think he’ll take it further.”
“Well, that’s unacceptable.” I needed to move. I pushed back my chair and began to pace. “Do we have any idea who gave the orders?”
“Not exactly.” The agent dipped into his satchel again and fished out another paper. “But there’s something at both scenes the ISF conveniently overlooked.”
I took the paper, glanced at it. “Dirt?”
“No, not dirt. Sand, actually, a very minute amount.”
“So?”
“So, both mystics died where there was no sand. Not only that, but this sand . . .”
It hit me. “Oh, my God.” Now I concentrated on the report. I felt suddenly dizzy, sick—and yes, déjà vu all over again. “Diacetylsilicate.”
“That’s right. Until your experience on Shaul Khala, I would’ve said there was only one place in the entire Sphere you’d find that.”
“The Internal Security College,” Andre said. He looked grim. “Except we do know about Shaul Khala, and we know that Alzubadai broke off from the Saurimat, an assassin sect. Either way, we’re looking at New Samarkand. So, either Bhatia or Toranaga.”
“Or maybe both,” the agent said. “I’ll be happy to help in any way I can. I’m at your disposal.”
“We could use the help,” Andre said. “Even with Viki back and Fusilli, we can always use another set of eyes and ears.”
“Well, I’m grateful for what you’ve done so far. You can stay with us as long as you want.” I extended my hand. “Welcome aboard, Agent . . . ?”
60
He took her hand, felt the fresh ribbon of scar marring her flesh, and the frisson that skipped the rungs of his spine was so wonderful, he wanted to cry out the same way he had when he discovered that she was alive. Yes, she had drawn him out of his darkness.
Because I have shed my prison, my own private pain, for you. I am the bearer of your soul; I am the god born of your kami, baptized in a mystic’s blood.
“Jonathan Yurei Kamimori. But, please, Tai-shu Tormark.” He smiled. “Call me Jonathan.”
61
Deber City, Benjamin
Benjamin Military District, Draconis Combine
5 December 3136
Chomie thought that this time around, at least, the room was nicer: warmer, a little dark, and not as sterile-smelling. As before, Emi—faithful, dependable Emi—was there, holding her hand. Clad only in a thin smock, Chomie lay on an examination table, the kind with a strip of paper over the vinyl.
Makoto Shouriki wore a white doctor’s smock, one with his name done in red embroidery over the left breast pocket. “Excuse me, my lady,” he said, as he gently drew up Chomie’s gown to expose her belly. Then he squirted a cold gel on her skin. She flinched, and he said, “Sorry, but I need to use the gel so we can hear.”
“It’s all right. Just cold,” Chomie said. She’d seen the baby on ultrasound at twenty-two days, had seen that tiny heart beating, but this!
Shouriki maneuvered what looked like a microphone over her belly, squishing through the gel, then pressing down a bit, trying to pick up any sound. As he did so, he closed his eyes and listened. It was a little as if he were trying to detect some faraway music. He moved the device once more, and then she heard it, magnified over a speaker: an almost indescribable sound, like the rapid shushshushshush of water squirting through a tube.
Her child’s heart, pumping blood. Chomie almost couldn’t breathe; she didn’t want anything to interfere. Yes, that was her baby’s heartbeat, and so fast. “It’s so fast,” she said, suddenly fearful. “Is he all right?”
“He’s fine.” Shouriki smiled. “Like his mother.”
Chomie was only aware that she was crying when she felt Emi dab tears from her cheeks. She looked up at her sister-in-law and squeezed her hand. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without family around, now that Theodore’s gone. I’m just a big baby, I guess.”
Emi’s eyes twinkled. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but in case you haven’t noticed . . . that position’s taken.”
Yamabushi Retreat, Ogano
Benjamin Military District, Draconis Combine
10 December 3136
The elder monk was perplexed. His face pruned in a frown. “I haven’t requested new attendants for the coordinator’s son. The Keeper usually advises me well ahead of time, so I may prepare . . .”
“We are most sorry.” The shorter of the two monks bowed. “We share in your consternation. Yet we exist only to serve.”
The monk harrumphed. He rattled the monks’ papers again, but he knew what they contained. Everything was in order. As for him? Well, the nobility would have their way, and not even prayer could change that.
They found Ryuhiko busily turning a wood bowl blank upon a lathe. The coordinator’s son preferred working in the open air, even in winter. Ryuhiko’s breath came in white puffs. His two escorts—Jamon and another the elder couldn’t call to mind—stood in attendance, bundled in woolen robes. Privately, the elder was most pleased by Ryuhiko’s industriousness. After all, every monastery must earn its keep.
But when the elder told Ryuhiko of the change, he couldn’t miss the look that Jamon and the other agent gave one another. Jamon said, “I’ve not been informed. Master, you are quite sure the paperwork is in order?”
“Of course.” The elder proffered the papers, snapping them for emphasis. Jamon and the other agent turned the papers over in their hands. They murmured together but did not engage the replacements who stood in respectful silence behind the elder.
But then Jamon bowed. “It will be as the Keeper wishes. We with return to Luthien at once.”
At that, Ryuhiko said, “But who will stand by as I make my bowl? You know I need help.”
“Tono.” One of the new attendants, older than his fellow and with viper-flat black eyes, stepped forward so smoothly he seemed to glide. “I have done some time with a lathe. Let me help. Then you’ll see what a beauty we’ll make.”
62
Kyusha- class JumpShip, Kurita’s Pride
Deneb Algedi, nadir jump point
20 December 3136
Theodore floated in his private quarters before a small portal. Beyond it, there was the eternal night of space. The stars had never looked brighter nor quite as distant. The night had eyes, and they were impersonal spectators to his drama. A final act?
Stop this. He braced a hand, his right, against a bulkhead. The metal thrummed against his palm, as if his ship were alive. His ship waited, gathering strength—as he should be doing instead of dwelling on mortality.
The man who can imagine his end is already dead.
Angry with himself, he said, “Resume play, audio only.”
His computer complied, and Katana’s voice picked up in mid-sentence: “. . . travel time to Altair is ten days. I wanted to reach you before you made your jump. If everything goes as planned, we’ll both strike within an hour of one another on New Year’s Eve. As Andre said, that ought to make for a hell of a New Year.
“But none of this would be happening if you hadn’t stepped in, Theodore. I owe you more than I can ever repay. You know that you will always have my loyalty.”
There was a slight pause, as if Katana were gathering her thoughts. When her voice came again, Theodore heard the emotion: “I am your friend, Theodore. You are the brother I’ve never had, and a man I will always respect. I will stand with you, Theodore, no matter what. Be well, my friend. Be safe. Good luck and Godspeed.”
The computer whirred. Clicked. Went silent.
“Luck.” Theodore’s eyes fell to his left hand, those jittering fingers. “Luck.”
Chimeisho- class Warship East Wind
Deneb Algedi, nadir jump point
25 December 3136
Tormark was so taken aback that her mouth actually fell open. Yori waited her out as the very picture of serenity, of the
good little soldier ready to take orders rather than give them—which she had in all but deed and enjoyed immensely.
Well, too bloody bad. You owe me, and now I’ve come to collect.
She’d debated about how and where to press her demands, and decided that Tormark’s ready room aboard ship was best. More official that way, and while she knew she could push this through, there was no need to actually humiliate the woman. After all, Tormark had an invasion to launch, and it would not be in Yori’s best interests to interfere too much.
She had an ulterior motive for choosing privacy. If things got ugly, she didn’t want witnesses. Couldn’t risk exposing any weakness or chinks in her armor to anyone who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Tormark wouldn’t talk, though she might vent to Crawford. That Yori expected. But Tormark also would go by the book. She didn’t have any choice, really.
Tormark closed her mouth with an audible click of teeth. When she spoke, her tone was just shy of deadly. “You want to do what?”
Oooh, temper, temper . . . “I wish to lead the assault against The Republic’s southern base in the Aomori Mountains.”
“Uh-huh,” Tormark said. The muscles of her jaw worked. “That’s what I thought you said. This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the fact that, to the best of our knowledge, this base is larger and more heavily fortified? Quite a little prize, a nice feather in anyone’s cap.”
Leaving you with a bee in your bonnet. “I believe I’m within my rights. I am a Kurita.”
Tormark made a disgusted sound. “Look, you simply don’t have the combat experience. I know things are,” Tormark searched for the word, “tense between us, but I’ve always given you your due. You saved my people’s butts on Ronel, and I’m grateful. You updated our sims, you’ve given us troops . . . I know all that. But you’re not qualified to lead that kind of assault, you’re just not, and I don’t care whose blood you’ve got where. Can you get that? I don’t care. What I care about is the safety of my people, and I care about success. You’d be better off taking the northern base.”
“I do not agree.” Oh, a part of her understood that Tormark was right. Yet there was another voice in her brain that had nothing to do with conscience and everything to do with survival.
Yes, you want to poke your finger in Toranaga’s eye, not just hers. You pull this off, and he’ll start worrying because you’re young. You’re a rising star, and you are a Kurita, and Toranaga would do well to treat you with a little more respect. Maybe even a healthy dose of fear because that is the cold hard calculus of war and survival—yours.
Aloud, she said, “It is my right, and I claim it. Your command authority does not exceed mine in these matters.”
Tormark’s cheeks flamed copper. For a minute, Yori thought the woman was going to haul off and let her have it. Instead, Tormark floated closer, invading her space, choosing an attitude in microgravity that forced Yori to look up, like a child.
“Very well,” Tormark said, looking down her nose. “Then, in exchange, I want Tai-sho Crawford back in my lance.”
She didn’t see how that would hurt. “Of course.”
“Then I will take the northern spur of the attack.” Then Katana stepped back and executed a stiff bow: subject to master. “Gokouun o inorimasu, Sho-sho.”
And not Godspeed? Yori didn’t smile or return the sentiment. Instead, she said, “I will not require luck, Tai-shu. I am a Kurita, and that is sufficient.”
* * *
The door to her ready room dilated, then swirled shut.
Katana let out a long breath. “And a big fat fracking Merry Christmas to you, too, sweetheart.”
63
Parsonage Airspace, Dieron
31 December 3136
Her Union smashed through the moisture-heavy, towering pillars like a monstrous bolo loosed from the hand of a giant. Gravity fisted Katana’s body as the DropShip hurtled for the surface, pulling disintegrating streamers in its wake. Below the clouds, there was snow, but anyone watching would see the great glowing ball of her ship as an eerie, ghoulish second sun, its skin hot with the friction of a passage through a screaming atmosphere that sheeted like lava over heat shields baked into armor.
Yet, instead of the anticipation of the hunt, she felt an unwelcome finger of dread tickle her spine. She was sweating, too. Not a lot, but enough that the bridge’s chill air coaxed gooseflesh from her damp skin. She suppressed a shiver. A little déjà vu, like she’d been here before. In part, she knew why. She stood behind the captain’s chair, exactly where she’d been the day her Achilles had perished, along with all the crew except her.
And their situation was not normal. Under normal circumstances, she’d be in her Kozo’s cockpit, ready to charge with her three lancemates the minute the DropShip touched down. Katana had even toyed with the idea of a combat drop. But the weather deterred her—that, and the rather startling fact that no one had challenged them. Not outside the system, not when they’d passed Dieron’s moon, not when they’d entered Dieron airspace. No one. At. All.
Helm sang out: “Altitude sixteen kilometers, Captain!”
“Maintain present course and speed,” the captain said. She craned her head around with some effort, pulling against gravity. “Tactical?”
“That’s a negative, Captain. I read no enemy forces on intercept.”
“What about land-to-air defenses?” The captain was a little younger than Katana and seeing her first action, but Katana detected nothing but calm and assurance in her voice, with just a hint of steel.
“Checking . . . I read activity, but . . .”
“What is it?”
“Captain, it’s weird, but there’s no spike, nothing to suggest that anything’s really active or trying to acquire.” Tactical’s eyebrows met in the peak of a frown. “It’s like everything’s there but idling.”
“Maybe just waiting,” Crawford put in. He stood beside Katana. Like her, he wore only what he’d require in his Black Knight: his cooling vest and shorts, his boots. “Could they have fortified in underground bunkers?”
Tactical said, “Before this storm moved in, we got some pretty reliable readings. We didn’t pick up any underground pockets other than typical bunkers you’d use for shelters, and those don’t look hot.”
“Fourteen kilometers, Captain,” Helm said.
Katana shook her head. “This doesn’t tally. We’ve used their satellites to monitor their comm chatter! Everything says that they should be right here. So where the hell are they?”
“Well,” Crawford drawled, “there’s another alternative.”
* * *
Leopard CV -class DropShip Singing Star On final orbital approach above Aomori Mountains, Dieron
“But you’re not certain,” Yori said. A flash of irritation jagged her gut, and she reeled in a sharp breath that smelled of astringent coolant and cold metal to calm herself before she could let loose with a snide comment or two. Oh, but this was just like Tormark, trying to throw more obstacles in her path! Yori had already been strapped in a full half hour, enough time to power up and begin running through her diagnostics. Her eyes drifted from her weapons console—her DI chugging through its routine—to the view outside her cockpit. Far below, she made out the antlike figures of a trio of their twelve ’Mech techs swarming around the legs of her lancemate’s Panther.
She said, “Perhaps they’re simply entrenched and waiting for you to come to them. Unlike you, we have met with resistance.” And you know that, too: What, you think the fighters that engaged my two forward DropShips were sims? You just can’t stand that I’ve blasted them to rubble while you’ve not seen a scrap of action.
“You’re not listening.” Tormark’s voice was gnat-like and noisome, her frustration popping through Yori’s internal speakers. “For the sake of argument, I’ll grant that there may be troops waiting, okay? But the energy signatures are inconsistent with a large force, and we’re practically on top of them. Could this be an ambush? Sure, but I t
hink Andre’s right.”
“That they’ve redeployed here? I would have to agree with you, and we’re more than ready for them. We have the more massive force,” and she couldn’t resist adding, “which we’d agreed would be required for this base and which I’ve already used. Or wouldn’t you call a defensive strike force of five aerospace flights enough of a threat? They certainly seemed real enough to the captain of the Dauntless. As it is, I’ve lost the use of twelve foot platoons to the damage done to the ship’s transit drive. Lucky for the troops, the hull breach was in the adjacent cargo bay, or else my fighters would be maneuvering around bodies instead of people movers.” Leaving her an Avenger, a Triumph with another battalion’s worth of troops and people movers that she’d deploy north and west of the base, and an Overlord with its thirty ’Mechs that would sweep a scythe of destruction south and east. With her Union punching into the bull’s-eye of the base smack dab in the center of that canyon, not only would any fleeing troops be cut off north and south, but The Republic’s troops would be caught in a squeeze play. Nowhere to run, no avenue except retreat, and she—her fighters, her troops, her lance—would be right there.
There was a moment’s pause that Yori filled with the image of a furious Tormark going thin-lipped.
Then Tormark came back: “Fine. I grant that you’ve seen much more resistance than we have.” A sigh. “All of it, in fact, and that just proves my point. They’ve clearly redeployed to protect the base you’re after. Now that you’ve blown through their first defensive perimeter, they’re probably regrouping, and you have no idea where they are. You’d be much better off sending the Avenger in first. Combine that with three lances of fighters, now you’re talking about plowing the road.”
You idiot, don’t you think I’ve thought of that? Why do you think I commandeered a Leopard?
