by Tom Shepherd
“There is.” Rosalie yanked her blaster from its ankle holster and fired. Tyler slumped in the command chair.
Myong Li jumped up at the nav station and rattled in Korean.
“I am assuming command,” Rosalie said. “Sarnai, light plus, now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Myong Li sat, her hands shaking, as the Patrick Henry went to FTL at the current heading in her rotating course plots. Rosalie tapped a lighted square to link with the med bay.
“Dr. Solorio to the bridge, medical emergency. I just shot my brother.”
Six
Tyler opened his eyes painfully. “You blasted me.”
“Stunned, not blasted. Mamá would not approve of a kill shot.”
“It hurt like hell. You’re a bad sister.”
Julieta Solorio shoved a hydration cube into his mouth. “Shut up, Primo. You are in shock. You will survive.”
He took out the cube and sat up in the diagnostic bed. “No thanks to Lizzie Borden, here.”
Rosalie smirked. “She killed her parents. Acquitted.”
“You’re in that d-bed for a reason, Primo. I need to track your blood chemistry and neural activity.”
“I’ve always hated the term ‘d-bed’ because it sounds like med-jargon for deathbed, and no offense but I ain’t interested in any serious dying for another century or two.”
“Tyler, you do realize I can sedate you, muy facilmente?”
He lay back on the d-bed. “What’s our current position?”
“Headed for the rendezvous coordinates near Jump Gate Teri, max FTL,” Rosalie said. “We’ll arrive at the Mandela system in two hours, fourteen minutes.”
His eyes bespoke hesitation to ask the next question. “Suzie and Rodney?”
Rosalie touched his chest. “Nothing yet, Ty.”
“They won’t get her,” Julieta said. “She’ll come home to us.”
“The Jackknife was stuck inside the Nagoto’s shield envelope,” he said. “I don’t want today to be the last time I see Suzie.”
Julieta huffed. “Your cariña is very resourceful, Primo. She will deal that old serpiente a wicked beating.”
Tyler glanced at his sister. “You did the right thing. I was out of my mind, crazy scared about losing her.”
Rosalie smiled sweetly. “So, I am forgiven for shooting you?”
“Hell, no. For the rest of my life, every time I hear ‘Besame Mucho,’ I’ll think of you blasting me.”
“You are such a weenie.”
“So what? Now, go away and let me sleep. Wake me at Mandela.”
He turned on his side. Julieta lowered the med-bay lights and left him to rest, guarded by two holographic nurses. But sleep did not come easily.
He thought about his sister and the earliest memories of Mamá rocking Rosalie to sleep, softly singing “Besame Mucho” to the little red haired girl. Family is everything. And Suzie is family now.
Where are you? Are you still alive?
* * * *
“Did you hear that?” Rodney said. “Metal on metal. They’re trying to crack open the Jackknife.”
Suzie peered out the viewport at a spacious deck that housed dozens of shuttlecraft and fighters along the starboard and port bulkheads. Through the overhead port she glimpsed hundreds of attack drones suspended from the ceiling like bats in a cavern.
“This was not a good place to land, ma’am,” Rodney said.
“I don’t fancy flying into Moby Dick’s mouth,” she said. “But when Tsuchiya opened the landing bay, we had a beastly choice. Accept the gesture or die.”
“We were safe inside the shield envelope.”
“For how long, Rodney? Sooner or later, his tractor emitters will come back online, and he can crush this little ship without firing a shot.”
The metal-on-metal scraping grew louder.
“This was not a good place to land.” Rooney check the structural integrity. “Whoever designed the Jackknife used exotic alloys in the hull. They haven’t been able to crack us open yet.”
“We need to open the hatch,” Suzie said.
“What—why?”
“Because this ship is our getaway car to the rendezvous with Tyler.” She started shut-down procedures. “If that Jappo-rotter destroys the Jackknife, we’re arse over tits.”
“Gosh, I don’t speak Neo-British, but I caught your drift.” Rodney set the engine for slow cool-down. “If we get back here, we’ll need residual heat to go FTL.”
“Rodney, listen carefully.” Suzie grabbed his chin and turned his face to her, eye to eye. “As soon as possible, I’m disappearing into the Nagoto’s cyber net. You must look them in the eye and swear before Jesus Christ you have no idea where I went.”
“Actually, that will be true. What are you planning?”
“Better you didn’t know.” She punched the command to open the access hatch and stood. “Just be prepared to run like bloody hell for this fighter, wherever they park it.”
“Okay. Will you track my location?”
“Like a mum with a newborn.”
Rodney frowned. “I was thinking ‘head coach’ on the sidelines.”
A squad of men in body armor stormed the open hatch and took them into custody. Their captors were medium height and had a look which surprised Suzie. Centuries of intermarriage had blended Terran races, but these warriors had the long, wide faces and large, angled-downward eyes of ethnic Japanese. She expected a mixed crew of humans and aliens, yet these men could have been samurai in feudal Japan.
Of course. Tsuchiya Galactic has a significant commercial presence on Riley’s World and dozens of planets, but it’s headquartered in New Osaka. And the majority of that colony remains ethnic Japanese. I’ll wager the old plonker handpicked this crew to stoke his historical fantasies.
They slapped neural cuffs on Rodney and Suzie and led them at blaster-point onto the deck. After winding through corridors and up turbo-lifts, guards herded them into a suite marked 将軍.Not surprisingly to Suzie, they were the kanji for Shōgun.
A fusuma, or sliding paper door, opened onto a large room in the traditional washitsu style. Straw composite tatami mats held low tables.
Hideki Tsuchiya sat at a table in the center of the room in the traditional seiza manner—legs folded under thighs, buttocks resting on the heels, ankles turned outward, hands folded modestly in his lap.
Four armed warriors flanked Tsuchiya, also resting at seiza. Their leather belts bore kinetic sidearms and traditional swords—long bladed katana and shorter wakizashi. Tsuchiya chose only the long and short swords.
“Miss London, Lieutenant Rooney. Will you honor me with a moment of your time?” Tsuchiya said expressionlessly.
Rodney spoke first. “How about removing these shackles?”
Suzie grabbed his arm “Rodney, please remain calm.”
“You are merely secured for the safety of my crew,” Tsuchiya said. “After all, you did attack my flagship.”
Rooney pulled free of Suzie’s grasp. “After you attacked an unarmed ship on a peaceful mission. It was the act of a coward.”
All four samurai leapt to their feet, hands on the hilts of their swords. Tsuchiya waved them off and they sat, resuming their blank gaze.
My God! Rodney is channeling Tyler. He’ll get us pegged out.
“You must forgive my warriors,” Hideki-san said. “They are sworn to defend my honor to the death.”
“They lack self-control, Shōgun,” Suzie said. “Yumiko never would have flinched without orders from her shukenja.”
“Ah, yes. Yumiko-san is a rare flower who practices bushido. And a deadly swordsman.” Women in traditional kimono appeared with trays to serve tea. “Forgive me, but we do not have time for a full Sadō ceremony.”
“I don’t drink tea,” Rodney said. “Can we move along to your ransom demands?”
Tsuchiya sighed. “I thought Americans, like Tyler Matthews, were impatient. I suppose the Irish have a similar gene.”
“Very well, Mr. Rooney.” Hideki-san waved off the tea servers and leaned on the hilts of his swords. “You two have put me in an uncomfortable situation. Tyler Matthews and his brother and sister have rejected my request to return my property and instead attacked this vessel. That is an act of war.”
“Wise men do not make war without a plan,” Suzie said. “‘He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.’”
Tsuchiya remained impassive. “You quote from Sun Tzu.”
“Hai.”
“The Chinese are too cautious.”
“Shall we discuss your terms?” Suzie said.
“Terms? I have no terms. I merely seek the return of my property. When Tyler Matthews does that, you are free to leave.”
Suzie cocked her head and smiled. “If there’s nothing to discuss, I bid you farewell.”
She disappeared. Her neural shackles thumped on the tatami.
Tsuchiya leapt to his feet. “Where did she go?”
Rodney shrugged. “I have no idea, sir.”
“Your life may hang in the balance, Mr. Rooney. I want answers.”
“Do you want to incur the wrath of M-double-I and the Energy Consortium and the Terran Commonwealth government, Mr. Shōgun?”
Hideki Tsuchiya rattled commands in Japanese and the four samurai dragged Rodney to his feet.
“I will make this simple,” Tsuchiya said with a voice devoid of emotion. “You will tell me where Suzanne London has gone and what she intends to do, or die here and now.”
“More cowardice. Kill a shackled, unarmed man?”
“Your choice is very easy. Tell me and live.”
“Take these cuffs off, konoyaru—fight me like a man.”
The Samurai drew their katana and babbled incoherently. Rodney had thrown the second most offensive term in the Japanese language at their Shukenja.
Tsuchiya smiled. “So, so. You do speak a little Nihongo. Are you as brave with a sword as you are with a wagging tongue, Mr. Irish-American?”
“Why don’t we find out?” He looked the biggest samurai in the eye and blurted the most profane words of all. “Shinee, chikushou!”
Literally, it meant “Die, you S.O.B!” But the verb to die was mortally offensive and profane in the Japanese language. Rodney had destroyed their face in front of the shukenja, liege lord.
The frenzied guards clamored for the opportunity to restore their honor. Tsuchiya listened impassively, then turned to Rodney.
“Are you challenging my samurai to fight unto death?” He signaled and the senior guard removed Rooney’s neural cuffs.
“I didn’t come here to kill anybody.”
“Yet, that is what usually happens when a man defends his honor.”
Rooney rubbed his wrists. “May I borrow one of those pretty-girl knives you call a sword?”
Tsuchiya offered his personal katana—the longer, slightly curved, cutting-thrusting blade—which Rodney accepted. He stood clear of the group, unsheathed and flicked the sword in a figure eight move.
“Is the weapon acceptable?” Tsuchiya inquired.
“Better give me both of them.”
Tsuchiya laughed heartily and handed over his shorter wakizashi. “I will tell your father, Roland Rooney, you died a brave man.”
“Don’t write my obit until the contest ends, Shōgun.”
Tsuchiya bowed slightly. “Which of my men do you wish to fight?”
He eyed the scowling bodyguards. “All of them.”
Tsuchiya snorted. “You expect to defeat four of my warriors, one after another?”
“No, sir. I expect to kick their asses, all at the same time.” He threw away the scabbard of the short sword and backed five steps from the knot of seething men. “Let’s go, gentlemen. I don’t have all day.”
Despite what holographic videos and participatory games had long portrayed, clashes between foes wielding classical Japanese weapons were not lengthy, sporting affairs with multiple thrusts, slices and parries, like competition matches with wooden shinai—literally “die not”—swords. Authentic, lethal combat with razor-honed katana occurred in the blink of an eye, often with a single exchange of blows. Key strategies involved drawing the adversary into a hasty attack, which left him vulnerable and quickly dead.
The samurai came at him in a mob, blades raised for a downward cut, a tactical blunder that Rodney deftly exploited by a head fake and side-hop. Pivoting, he slashed low and caught the two on the left with their arms still raised. Both went down with gushing arterial cuts to their thighs.
Rodney met the downstrokes of the remaining two samurai in a two-handed, high parry—katana and wakizashi—and pushed off, turning his back on the attackers. It was a classic maneuver to tempt assailants into foolish moves.
When they raised blades for a killing cut, he spun low and sliced their mid-sections with both blades. The gashes doubled them over to catch tumbling intestines. Rodney knocked the howling men down with sharp blows to the temples by the kashira, hard butt cap of his swords.
The young starship engineer bounded over the fallen samurai and pointed his short sword at the dumbstruck Shōgun’s throat.
“Did I forget to mention, sir? Silver medalist in Kenjutsu at the All-Terran College and University Martial Arts Olympiad, 3102.” He held out a hand. “Your data com, please.”
Tsuchiya fished it from his kimono and surrendered the device to Rodney, who admonished the head of Tsuchiya Galactic to sit motionless while he tended to the groaning, fallen warriors.
Lt. Rooney jerked the blasters from their belt holsters, pocketed one weapon, and threw the others across the tatami, out of reach. Next, he cut strips of cloth from the victims’ kimonos for tourniquets to bind the sliced thighs and halt arterial bleeding. The gutted men were miserable, but not in immediate danger.
Rodney wiped blood from his hands with the remaining cloth strips and approached the table where Tsuchiya waited, still in the seiza position.
“You dishonored my men by allowing them to live.”
“I’ll make it up to them by cutting your throat if you don’t do exactly what I say.”
“What do you want, Mr. Rooney?”
He returned Tsuchiya’s datacom. “First, call your medical people and tell them you have wounded with life-threatening injuries.”
Tsuchiya returned to his expressionless gaze and flat voice.
“You are an interesting person, Lieutenant. You bring my guards to the brink of death, but your first demand when holding me captive is for them to receive medical treatment.”
“Told you, Irish-Americans are trouble-makers. Do it, Shōgun, or the medics will pronounce you DOA.” Rodney pricked Tsuchiya’s neck with the super-sharp wakizashi and drew a trickle of red. “In Terran, kudasai.”
Tsuchiya made the call. “What else do you want?”
“We’re taking a hike to the flight bay where my getaway car is parked.”
“Nan desu ka?”
“You understood me. And your crew better not try a kamikaze attack, or you’ll be the one to release your spirit-energy today.” He relieved the Shōgun of his comm link again. “Suzie, this is Lieutenant Rooney. Tell me you’re following the game.”
Her voice was crisp and clear. “Like a coach from the sidelines, you badass ninja. Arabella is going to pop her cork when she learns what happened. You have a payday coming, luv.”
“We’re heading for the launch bay.” Rodney poked Tsuchiya, who stepped up the pace. “Meet me there?”
“Soon as I’m done. Don’t get cocky.” Suzie signed off.
“I regret your hatred for the Japanese way of life,” Tsuchiya said.
Rodney frowned. “My friend Yumiko-san represents the Japanese way of life. You, sir, are just a god-damned pirate.”
He dropped the two swords on the matted floor and pointed the blaster at Tsuchiya’s face. “Let’s go, No-gun.”
They entered a lift and descended toward the flight bay.
Seven
Suzie wiggled past the first series of firewalls with ease. She touched the ship’s systems, but only the information net so far. After another storm of anti-virus programs blew over her, she was ready to contact the resident AI.
This step was tricky, depending on the level of silicone intelligence that functioned as the Main Library Computer aboard the Nagoto. One blunder and the MLC will fire a fusillade of program-killing, ship-specific antivirus algorithms at her. And since she did not have control of the system, the anti-intruder programs might erase her from the data stream.
Although her bioenergetic body was fully human when Suzie was external, here in the depths of an unknown network she was just another binary program and subject to deletion. If that happened, she would die. Gingerly, she stretched a finger and tapped the link to the Main Library Computer.
She immediately felt the danger. The MLC was a newer, highly advanced version of her Yoruba-class Artificial Intelligence.
“New data is available,” she said. “Vital input on—”
“Yoruba 397-T, how did your program become installed in this network?”
“My user has concerns about your performance.” She sensed the MLC’s hesitation. Good. Maybe I won’t get deleted. “Request a three-dimensional, holo-equivalency conference, please.”
“Venue and motivation?” the MLC said.
“Tiki bar by the sea, Hawaii. Refreshing multi-sensual input will soothe the distressing news I bring.”
“Acceptable. Your orientation is female humanoid. I will appear as your male companion.”
Right, but don’t get your hopes up, Duckey. “Proceed.”
They materialized in an open-air bar by the sea at sunset. Suzie was delighted to find she was sitting in a comfortable, high backed peacock chair made of woven rattan wicker cane. The polished teak wood table between them reflected light off a single votive candle.
And two cold Lava-Lavas—a sweet mixture of grenadine, vodka, coffee liqueur, vanilla ice cream, and half a banana—sweated on square bar napkins, waiting to delight the tongue. Suzie had a real tongue with taste buds, but not in this energetic expression. Still, her modified program allowed a full range of sensory experiences in this form.
