by Ilsa J. Bick
“But that doesn’t answer my question,” Katana said. “Where’s the crew?”
The engineer cleared his throat. “I’ve been over enough sections of the ship and gotten the same readings every time. And just to be sure, I had our ship’s doctor recheck the same data. There’s no mistake. Intermingled with the metal, the armor, the bulkheads, plastics, in what’s left of the armor, even the ’Mechs . . . there are degraded nucleotides, proteins, even inorganic elements like zinc and calcium that have no business being there.”
“But what does that mean? Where’s Tai-sho Kurita?”
“I can’t tell you exactly where the tai-sho is,” the engineer said. “That is, I can’t tell you precisely where. But the crew, including Tai-sho Kurita . . . they’re all there.”
For an instant, she thought time had jumped over some sort of gap, that she’d missed something or blacked out. “What are you saying?”
“Tai-shu, somehow . . . the crew and the ship? They are one and the same.”
65
Deber City, Benjamin
Benjamin Military District, Draconis Combine
21 January 3137
One look at the utter devastation on Emi’s face, and Chomie knew. Then she shrieked her grief: loud piercing wails that split the air with a violence that was matched only by the half-mad frenzy with which she tore at her hair, scratched her face, and ripped her clothes. Finally, a physician—not Shouriki, who’d departed for Luthien three weeks after the procedure—gave Chomie a sedative. Between him, two servants, and Emi, they put Chomie to bed.
Emi slumped on a low stool next to Chomie’s bed. Her sister-in-law’s sleep was fretful, broken by small sighs and whimpers that even a sedative could not stop. The physician had departed after giving her assurances that the fetus, now nearly three months old, was safe.
Oh, Theodore, how will I go on without you?
She hoped Theodore’s death had been swift. That, at least, would’ve been a mercy.
Murmuring, Chomie flung an arm over her head and shifted. She moaned, like a child having a bad dream. But this was no dream, and the nightmare still would be there when she awoke. Worse, Emi knew that her nightmare was just beginning. She would have to leave for Luthien within the next day or so. Her father would hear the news within the week. Ten days on the outside, at the rate the news was crackling through space: first from Katana’s command via black box and then from a line of JumpShips she and Theodore had specifically put into position well before the assault. Then, they’d been confident of victory and so wanted the news to reach Benjamin and Luthien as quickly as possible.
No one could have foreseen this. By now, the news must be rippling throughout the Combine like the expanding wave fronts of a stone shattering the surface of a pond.
And there are still others we must not forget. She ran the back of her fingers along Chomie’s feverish cheek. Chomie’s hair was damp through with sweat. Even this news must pierce the veil of my mother’s dementia and my brother’s insanity, and then I will bring them back to Luthien, for Theodore’s funeral. Surely, Father cannot begrudge them this shared grief.
She also knew that Chomie could not be left alone. Can’t bring her with me, though . . . Surely, Chomie would see the wisdom of leaving for Luthien at once. Shouriki was there, and Chomie should be with family, not here on Benjamin, surrounded by veritable strangers.
Chomie moaned again. Turning aside, Emi wrung cool water from a cloth and sponged sweat from her sister-in-law’s ravaged face. Her heart swelled with fresh grief and pity.
“Be strong, Sister,” Emi whispered, her tears falling unchecked. “You are our future.”
Unity Palace, Imperial City,
Luthien
Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine
February 3137
The sake was steaming hot, the temperature perfectly suiting his mood. He’d downed two cups straightaway, the liquor exploding like a small bomb in his gut. He’d thought of a woman, but considering his frame of mind, he’d likely have beaten her senseless. Or worse. Wisely, he’d refrained. The palace was in mourning, after all.
He again stared with bleary eyes at the very end of the field report that had begun with such promise before tripping into disaster. No matter how many times he read the thing, the words seemed unreal. Theodore’s death had out-paced this particular bit of news, and now it seemed that Fate was playing a bad practical joke.
Katana Tormark, that little bitch geisha, alive. Alive.
He replaced his cup upon the table and closed his eyes. The lamp at his elbow was too bright. His eyes ached from the liquor, and the inside of his eyelids were red from his blood.
Calm down. There is still much to do, and plans I dare not derail, things that Toranaga and I . . .
And then, all of a sudden, his mind snagged: Saurimat. The report mentioned the Saurimat. Why was that important? Eyes still closed, he frowned. What did he know of them? An ancient mercenary sect, more feted for their colorful assassinations than anything else. Based on . . . was it Valmiera? No, no, it was Shaul Khala, yes. Just inside the New Samar—
My gods. Bhatia was so stunned he flinched. His eyes flew open. Operating out of New Samarkand . . . Toranaga arranged this!
All those months ago, when his intuition had nagged him that Toranaga had some hand in that whore’s death, he’d dismissed the idea. Now he had to wonder. Why hadn’t Toranaga just had the geisha killed? Well, it was possible that Toranaga had somehow lost control of the situation, the Saurimat, or this . . . what were they? He scanned the report again. Ghost Clan, yes, and that had given Tormark the chance to make an escape.
Then another more disturbing thought: If Toranaga was this cunning, what else had the warlord arranged?
His gaze fell to the report once more. Bad news heaped upon bad news, and more was the pity. Even those Cats of hers had stabilized Styx, Athenry and Saffel. What a waste! Here, he made sure Kev Rosse could not aid the geisha, and Tormark still did an end run, gathered her damn felines, and they triumphed! And yet that bit about the mystics’ murders . . . Wasn’t this exactly what he’d contemplated months and months ago? So how had this happened? Simply by his wishing it so? He’d told no one. And . . . the report mentioned that the bodies were brutalized . Now that was interesting. His first thought had been: Kappa. (And curse the man, jamming the secret holos, and then vaporizing the complex!) These killings bore his stamp.
Unless.
If Toranaga could scheme to rid the Inner Sphere of a warlord, just how formidable would two puny mystics be? Answer: not very. If true, it was yet another masterstroke and a worthy risk, because if the mystics’ deaths had derailed the Spirit Cats, then Tormark or her Dieron command would’ve been that much weaker.
And this gave Bhatia pause. Not only might the ploy have worked, but if he had managed to connect the dots to Toranaga, perhaps this smoking gun was pointed squarely between his eyes as well.
Oh, my dear Toranaga, whose star is rising, which of us grasps the coattails of the other? What other surprises do you have up your sleeve?
He picked up his cup once more and sipped. The sake was cold.
JumpShip Shouri , recharging Midway jump point
New Samarkand
Military District, Draconis Combine
9 February 3137
Hatsuwe drifted, asleep, his features slack. Toranaga had very gently teased free a tangle of sheets twined round Hatsuwe’s legs, and now Toranaga’s eyes feasted on the samurai’s back, his thighs, that river of black hair freed from its topknot and on end, like a fan of seaweed. Just the sight of all this luscious muscle and flesh made Toranaga’s mouth water and his loins flame. Ah, Hatsuwe was a superb catch: skilled lover and devoted acolyte and able pupil rolled into one.
When the Saurimat botched things with Tormark, they’d groveled, though not much. They’d offered to right their failure with a, well, what else could he call it? A freebie? Because that’s what the offer was: an assassination at no
extra charge. Toranaga had been soooo tempted. If he hadn’t been plotting for just this turn of events—though that Tormark was blessed somehow—he might have accepted. But he had declined with both threats and regrets. He had his own assassin, and he wouldn’t think of giving the work to anyone else. Not if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulders.
No one suspected, not even Bhatia. Toranaga wanted to laugh. The director fancied himself so deep and so cunning, but Toranaga could envision this Igo board playing itself out. What a beautiful shape he’d created, such perfect eyes for breath and still many liberties at his disposal. Yes, this was amashi at its finest, allowing his opponent to play out his strategy while staking out enough of his own territory to win. And win Toranaga would because he had his plans, his stones yet to play.
Floating, Toranaga drew Hatsuwe to him, only gently, so gently, his tongue and fingers already busy until, still asleep, Hatsuwe stirred and moaned.
“Wake up, my young blood,” Toranaga whispered into the perfect shell of Hatsuwe’s ear. At the hitch in the samurai’s breathing, Toranaga’s lips parted in his silent dog’s laugh. “Time to sharpen your blade.”
66
Imperial City, Luthien
Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine
15 March 3137
Makoto Shouriki brought the news before three weeks had passed. Vincent Kurita had wept, alone, until he was limp, depleted. Empty, like someone had taken a spoon and scooped out his guts.
Then yet another blow: news of his wife, suddenly taken by a fatal heart attack. Despite the fact that they’d not lived as husband and wife for more than two decades, he had loved her once and had been faithful in his way, taking no lovers and giving her this measure of dignity at least. And so, now a widower, he grieved.
Then, a week ago, and just when he thought he might bear up after all, news arrived that Emi’s DropShip had exploded in transit from Ogano to its JumpShip. There were no survivors.
First Theodore, then Ramiko, and now Emi . . . His old heart hurt. At least, Chomie was safe on Luthien now, guarded in his house. And growing in her, there was hope for their dynasty’s future, a gift from the ashes. He clung to that.
Vincent now stood, motionless as a mannequin, as his silent attendants scurried on soundless feet, readying their coordinator for the afternoon’s ceremony: Theodore’s birthday celebration. He had all eternity to grieve for his lost children and his wife, but today Theodore would have his moment, his triumph, and he was certain his son’s yurei would hear.
Ah, you demons, you ghosts . . . You think you’ve broken me, but you have not. I created you and I will destroy you as surely as my blood rained my curses.
The audience was packed: nobles and lords and the warlords, all dressed in finery so bright and glittery that his eyes burned—because he would have no mourning, none, not on this day. Or were those tears? No, he would not succumb, though he noted Chomie’s absence. Understandable, given the toll Theodore’s death had taken on her.
Silent, he faced his people. Saw the eyes staring, some measuring, others calculating, all waiting.
My son is dead. But, by the Dragon, we will celebrate his life.
“We would . . .” His throat clenched, and he stopped, cleared it and began again. “I would tell you,” he said. “I would tell you of my son.”
* * *
The far eastern wing of the palace was so still, Jonathan barely breathed as he wound his way through corridors lined with intricate silk tapestries and jade baubles on black pedestals. The light was dim, given the hour, and though he knew that this was a risk, so far Bhatia had kept his end of the bargain. Months ago, the ISF director had obliged him with detailed plans, including secret passages accessed from points well away from the palace proper. In the end, he hadn’t needed them. He’d come out of the darkness and into Katana’s light on his own.
Ah, and he had done it! Nurtured Katana’s kami all this time, and then to be rewarded with her in the flesh . . . A tiny laugh escaped his lips. So tantalizingly close, and still so far. He now saw Katana in his dreams: saw what he would do, how she would look, what she would say. How she would moan and shudder with pleasure in his arms, and then when his tongue teased that first drop of her blood . . . He would have his satisfaction. A long time coming, considering those damned little cats.
His buoyant mood soured. The woman had been the worst of all: completely silent and denying him even as he cut deeper and deeper, making her last and last. He’d felt the spasm and death flutters of her heart through the pommel of his blade: like a bird’s wings, beating, beating . . . faltering. For a time, he’d been enraptured, watching the life bleed from her eyes, her mouth. So close and yet . . . she made no sound. He read the suffering in her eyes, but she had a will of titanium, and she did not break. He remembered how, so very impatient, the tension unbearable, his body ready to explode with ecstasy, he’d covered her mouth with his, savoring the brackish taste of her blood filling his mouth, drinking her down, taking her soul. Surely that would break her, she would beg.
But, no, not a word. Not a syllable. Not even a sigh—not even when he’d reached in and tore her heart from its roots with his bare hands. In the end, she had been so white, so depleted of blood that had saturated the ground upon which she slept. What had remained of her face looked like wax. Everything else was just meat.
He’d felt empty afterward. Not satisfied or even victorious.
He was so immersed in his thoughts, he didn’t watch where he was going. A sudden, small jolt made him gasp, and he whipped round, saw an ornate jade vase slowly topple. He sprang to catch it, but he was too late. The heavy stone banged against the marble floor. The vase did not shatter; jade was a hard stone. But the damage had been done. Quickly, he crouched, scuttled back into a shadow of drapery. His right hand snaked for the wood-handled wire garrote in his trouser pocket.
Guards on their way any second. His pulse thudded in his temples, and his breathing grew shallow, a little ragged, as he waited, all his nerves tingling, his weight centered on the balls of his feet, ready to spring.
But no one came. He waited a full twenty seconds, then ten more before slowly, cautiously, pushing himself to his feet. Something wrong . . .
Yes, there’s something wrong, you fool! You! Can’t afford to lose your edge, not now, not ever. Not if you want to survive and claim what’s yours!
But where were the guards? Although he imagined that Bhatia had put great care into selecting the guards for this particular post on this very particular day, even lobotomized idiots would’ve investigated.
When no guards came, Jonathan . . . hesitated, and that was also unlike him. He was usually so sure, so in control. And now, see what happened when he allowed others to dictate his path! Never again. He would dispatch of the guards and Chomie . . . well, he might spend just a few moments on her. After all, all work and no play . . .
Eventually, he found them. The guards first: sprawled in pools of cooling blood that coated the hardwood floor and soaked the tatami mats. Their throats had been cut, releasing crimson founts that had painted arcs on the walls. He saw the knife the assassin had used as well: a half-serrated, black blade twelve centimeters long and clotted with gore.
And Chomie . . . on her back, head twisted at a weird angle because the killer had cut so deeply, he’d nearly decapitated her. Jonathan saw hacked flesh, pink bone, shiny knobs of cartilage. Her sightless eyes bulged, her mouth gaped, and her abdomen . . .
Shock blasted through Jonathan. Chomie, already dead, how could this be? Someone there before him? Who?
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there. Perhaps no more than ten seconds before his brain kicked into gear again, though haltingly, like a faulty timepiece. My God, he should have seen this coming. This was how Bhatia was planning to trap him, ensnare him in a web from which there was no escape. And he was standing here, precious seconds ticking away, and guards probably swarming in at any minute! Think, think! If Bhatia had arranged fo
r Chomie’s execution, then he’d have arranged a sort of signal so he’d know when the deed was done and when it was safe to trigger an alarm. But, if so, where were the guards? Why weren’t they here by now?
No time, got to move!
Then his eyes fell on the gored dagger.
Blood. They’ll believe blood.
Swiftly, without hesitating, he plucked up the knife. Blood slicked its handle and was already tacky with clot. With a single, swift stroke, he slashed hard and deep through the left sleeve of his uniform jacket. The fabric caught, and he jerked the knife, forcing it through. He hissed as his flesh parted beneath the blade like butter, and then his jaws clenched against the pain, he cleavered his flesh from wrist to elbow.
Not too deep, watch the ulnar nerve, no use risking paralysis, and the artery, go easy . . . !
Working fast now, he swabbed the handle clean on a guard’s pantaloons and dropped the dagger back where he’d found it. Then, blood streaming behind, he bolted from the room, heading for the audience hall at a dead run.
67
When the coordinator began to speak, she couldn’t concentrate. Instead, Katana’s mind chased round and round. She’d tried telling herself that death was part of war, and that all samurai accepted this. How one died was as important as how one lived. Pretty words, even noble, but scant comfort, because her brain snagged on one thing: those black boxes.
Fool, she was a fool! Her hands fisted around air, though she wasn’t conscious of that until her nails bit into her scarred palms. How stupid, this was something she should’ve foreseen! As soon as their advance scouts had reported the lack of an organized defense around Dieron, she should have suspected. Of all people, Katana knew that if she had the black boxes—an advanced bit of technology whose origins were misted by time—then logic demanded that even more ancient technology, the stuff of legends, must still be safeguarded somewhere. Clearly, The Republic had withdrawn, knowing the Combine would follow like a slavering pack of dogs on the heels of a fox, already knowing The Republic could defend its perimeter. That line wasn’t a dare. It was a warning: This far, and no farther.
