by Baen Books
“Your ways are different, but no less honorable.” She smiled. “My offer still stands. If you find yourself in my lands, come visit me. I will see that the long trip is worth your time.”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Ran with a bow.
“It would be, indeed.” Cassandra kissed him once more and then turned.
This time, it was the princess who vanished into the night.
* * *
“His sorcery is finished.”
Tozawa regarded him, but Ran could discern little from the expression on his face. After several moments, the clan elder cleared his throat. “You very nearly compromised the entirety of this clan and all it has worked so hard to achieve.”
“And yet, Seiryu knew plenty about us before my arrival.” Ran shook his head. “Perhaps our secrets are not as secure as we would like to imagine them.”
Tozawa sipped his tea and then placed the cup back down. “There are those within the Nine Daggers who would have your name stricken from our scrolls. They would have your head for the insolence you showed by pursuing a personal vendetta against Seiryu. Such things go against the very nature of what we do.”
“There was no vendetta,” said Ran. “Seiryu’s very existence was a threat to us. He should have been killed long ago.”
“As I told you, that was not a matter for you to decide. Such things are only for the elders of our clan to ponder.”
Ran held his tongue and waited for Tozawa to continue. “You showed a lack of foresight by returning. He might well have sprung a trap for you. Seiryu’s reputation for intellect and deception were reportedly second to none.”
Ran kept his eyes fixed on Tozawa. There seemed little point in relaying how Seiryu had indeed trapped him and how Ran had come so very close to death. Such revelations would only serve to undermine his accomplishments.
Tozawa sighed. “The point is that you disregarded the clan’s best interests in favor of your own. You put a personal matter ahead of the Shinobujin.”
Ran took a sip of his tea and let the bitter green taste settle in his mouth before answering. “You once told me that the point of all of this training was for us to reach a point where we trusted our own instincts—where we saw with our own eyes instead of relying on the word of others.”
“I did say that,” said Tozawa.
“And that is precisely what I did,” said Ran. “I was the one who had firsthand knowledge of what Seiryu was doing—the evil he was inflicting, the people he was terrorizing. And I used my knowledge to form what I believed to be the best course of action. Precisely as I’d been taught.”
Tozawa said nothing for a moment but then allowed a brief smile to split his lips. “You are young, Ran. And you believe that you know what is best. Very possibly, in some limited situations, you do. But there are things that you do not yet know. And there are things that truly are best left to an objective opinion, rather than a subjective one. Ego is a tool that we teach you to use; but it is also the one true curse of man. The line separating asset from liability is a very thin one, indeed.”
Ran bowed his head. “There is great wisdom in that.”
Tozawa nodded. “You are one of the finest pupils to ever graduate from this school. But you are inexperienced and rash. Such things can only be cured by time.”
Ran took another sip of the tea. “And what would you—and the others—have me to do to make up for this perceived affront to the clan?” asked Ran.
Tozawa chuckled. “Fear not, Ran. No one is going to kill you. As rash and hotheaded as you are, you are nevertheless far too valuable to us to permit such drastic measures.” His eyes narrowed. “However, something will have to be done. Punishment must be handed down.”
Ran waited, willing himself to accept his fate with steadfast resolve.
“Shugyo.”
The word spilled from Tozawa’s mouth and Ran nearly broke into a huge smile.
Tozawa pretended to look away, all too aware that Ran’s struggle to contain his glee was failing miserably. “Yes, I think that is the best thing for you.”
It was far more than Ran dared hope for. A wandering quest—the chance to go off and explore the world. He took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down.
“Don’t be so overjoyed, Ran. You will be without a home,” said Tozawa quietly. “Nor will we claim you as one of ours as long as your quest lasts. You will be without any protection from us and you will not be permitted to utilize any of our assets. You will be alone. More alone than you have ever been in your life so far.”
“I understand.”
Tozawa raised an eyebrow. “Do you truly, Ran? Do not treat this so lightly. While I know you envision a glorious time of adventure, know also that a wandering quest is also a time of severe trial and hardship. Many who go off on such ventures never live long enough to return.”
Ran nodded. “I will endeavor to learn as much as I may from this judgment.”
“See that you do,” said Tozawa. “And make sure you don’t come back here for a while. It will take some time for those who are clamoring for punishment to forget what you have done.”
“How long should I stay away?”
Tozawa shrugged. “You will know when it is time to return; nature is the one true protector and she will let you know. As you said, you apparently have an easy time listening to your instincts.” He winked at Ran. “I just hope you find that to be true once you are alone.”
“I hope so, too,” said Ran.
“You leave tomorrow at dawn. Take the night to pack your things, bearing in mind that you must adopt the manner of an ordinary person, even though you are anything but.”
“I shall.”
Tozawa finished his tea and looked at Ran. As he did, a smile broke out along the elder master’s face. “And where will you go first, Ran? Where will your quest take you first?”
Ran found himself wondering if Tozawa himself had once gone on a wandering quest. Had he seen things Ran could not even imagine? Had he tasted glory in faraway places and battled horrible foes? The young shinobujin hesitated only a moment, bowed to his teacher and then smiled.
“I shall journey west.”
Jon F. Merz is the author of The Undead Hordes of Kan-gul, Book 1 in the Shadow Warrior series.
Sweothi City
by Larry Correia
Sweothi City, Central African Republic.
December 15th, 1993.
1:25 PM.
The hotel had been evacuated since the government had collapsed and revolution had spilled over the countryside, but the lobby still stank of stale cigarette smoke and sweat. Random cries, crowd noise, and honking horns resonated through the windows as the seemingly endless mob of refugees surged through the streets.
The refugees did not know they were doomed. With the Mouvement pour la Libération du Centrafricain (MLC) rebels tearing up the Ubangi river basin, there was no escape. And from what I had seen in the last forty-eight hours, they didn’t take prisoners. The CAR Army was in shambles from the coup, with half of them joining the rebels, and the other half fleeing for the Congolese border.
The lobby had become our improvised command center. Furniture, debris, and even some of the planking from the walls had been stacked against the doors to deter adventurous looters. Ramirez was on the roof, armed with an ancient DP machinegun and a radio. So far the MLC hadn’t made a move against the city, but they were massing, and every escape route was blocked.
There were twenty men in the lobby, two separate groups forced together, uneasy allies with only one chance for survival. You could feel the anxiety in the air, a physical buzz, almost louder than the refugee train outside. All of them were filthy, armed to the teeth, exhausted, and aware that death was coming, and it was coming hard and fast.
SWITCHBLADE was headed by Decker, the dispassionate mercenary leader. Someone had scrounged up a chalkboard, probably stolen from the missionary school next door and he was busy drawing a rudimentary map of the city and the route that the rebel
army was most likely going to use to assault it. O’s were the bad guys. X’s and arrows showed his plan. Each X was one of us. Each arrow was an order given in a cold, emotionless, voice.
There weren’t very many X’s on that map. There were a whole lot of O’s.
Hawk, the weathered gunslinger, was second in command. The man always made me think of those gun magazines I had read as a kid, with the stories about blazing sixguns on the border. He was seemingly unfazed, even in our current situation. Cuzak sat on a barstool, head wrapped in a blood stained rag, still in shock from the landmine that had splattered Irwin all over the rest of us. Areyh, the former Israeli commando, was squatting next to the board, memorizing the plans while he ran a bore brush frantically through a filthy Galil. Doc was our medic, and he was off to one side attending to one of the wounded Portuguese mercs. I had a feeling that Doc was going to have a long day.
And me.
And that was all that was left of the illustrious mercenary company called SWITCHBLADE.
F***ing Decker. F*** Decker and his f***ing mission. He should have listened to me. If he hadn’t been so damn sure of himself, so damn proud, Irwin, Slick, and Sam would still be alive.
I hid my emotions behind a mask of mud and dried blood, and went back to dispassionately cleaning the Yugoslavian RPK that I had stolen, listening to Decker’s defensive plans, but already making plans of my own.
The other half of our ragtag group of survivors was all that remained of the Portuguese mercenary company out of Angola. They had been hit worse than we were. Nobody had expected the rebels to be this well organized and equipped, but apparently the Montalban Diamond Exchange had brought in a large group of Cubans to train up the disorganized MLC. The Ports had lost most of their leadership in the last skirmish, and the only thing holding them together was a short, angry, hairball of a man named Sergeant Gomes.
“If we put up enough of a fight along these streets, then the rebels will commit their reserves. Currently that reserve is blocking here, and here. And as far as we can tell, those are the shock troops. The groups moving into the city now are the irregulars. With them out of the way, we can then retreat down Kahiba Road toward Manova-Gounda. Then it’s a straight shot, fifteen clicks, to the airfield,” Decker explained calmly. “The plane is fueled, and ready to go, but they will not wait for us if the rebels approach the airfield. We do not have much time.”
He was calm now. The Belgian was always calm. He was calm when he got us into this suicide mission. Calm when we overthrew a government and brought hell down on these people to placate a diamond company, and he would probably be calm when I put my knife in his throat. I snapped a fresh drum into the Yugo and worked the charging handle.
“It’ll be tight, but we can fit in the truck, all of us,” the leader of the Portuguese said, referring to the deuce and a half they had stashed in the hotel garage. His English sounded strange, and had probably been taught to him by an Afrikaner. “Who’s gonna cause enough problems to get a division of rebels to concentrate enough to let us slip out though?”
“We’ll need a diversion. Someone will need to cause enough resistance to stall the irregulars, here,” he gestured at the board, “long enough for them to call in the Cubans and the trained MLC. We’ll need someone who can fight, and then slip away once we escape, someone who can disappear, go to ground. Stealth will be their only chance to evade capture.” He looked right at me as he said it.
So he knew.
I should have kept my mouth shut after this operation went to hell. But I didn’t. I violated my own rule of always being the grey man, the one that didn’t draw attention, the thief in the background. I had let my emotions get the better of me. And Decker must have sensed my anger.
And over the last year, he had seen what happened to people who made me angry.
So this was how it was going to be.
“Ozzie,” he nodded toward me. “I think you would be the only person who would have a chance.” Decker was good, very good. He didn’t display any indication that he was disposing of me. Rather, he was just the good leader, picking the best man for the job. “We’re counting on you. Force them to pull their reserves, if not, we’ll have to try a frontal assault, and since they have those APCs, it would be suicide in the open.”
The only surviving radio in the room suddenly crackled with static. Every head in the room swiveled towards it. “This is Ramirez. Militia forces are moving into the south end of the city. Looks like they’re going to burn it all.”
The room was silent, then broken by a fit of coughing from one of the wounded mercs who’d caught shrapnel in the lung.
“Do you mind if we have a word about this, in private?” I asked, perfectly calm.
Decker made a show of looking at his watch. “Certainly.” He gave an imperceptible nod toward Hawk. They had been around, and knew what was happening. “But we’d best hurry.”
“No s***,” Sergeant Gomes said, as a mortar shell exploded somewhere in the city.
######
“It didn’t have to be like this,” Decker said, as he strolled into the side room. He had his back to me. The spot between his shoulder blades and the ALICE suspenders was an inviting target, and I could feel the heavy weight of the combat knife on my hip. But Hawk was trailing behind me, and as fast as I was, I knew that Hawk was that much faster with that big magnum revolver.
“It is what it is,” I replied, too damn tired to try to put on any sort of act. “We killed the president. We caused this. The diamond exchange used us, and you let them.”
“How long have you been with SWITCHBLADE?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “A year, yes, a year. And honestly...” he finally turned to face me, his eyes sad, his spirit injured by the events of the last two days. “I saw great things in your future. You were nothing but a common thief when you joined us...”
“I was an exceptional thief.”
He ignored that. “But I saw a leader, a man that could make a difference. I could see you taking over, and running this organization.” Decker was sincere, at least. That I could tell, but sincerity doesn’t make a rattlesnake any less venomous.
“If you haven’t noticed, half your organization’s dead, because you screwed up.”
“I know...” Decker said, his voice cracking, the pain obvious. “This is the end of SWITCHBLADE. Even if we make it out, the diamond exchange will have us hunted down like dogs. I’m sorry about the men. They… they were like family to me.” I could hear the creak of gun leather as Hawk shifted behind me.
Also true, but it didn’t make me hate him any less right then.
“And I know that’s why you’re going to do your best to slow down these rebels. Because I know that Ramirez, and Doc, and Cuzak are like brothers to you, and you won’t let them down,” Decker said simply.
“True,” I answered.
“You had better hurry.” Decker put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. And I believed him.
And that was the only reason I decided not to kill him.
######
The refugees were panicking now, turning from individuals, into a deadly entity, discarding and crushing bits of itself underfoot. Screams filled the air. In the distance could be heard the boom of mortars and sporadic automatic weapons fire. The boards that had been blocking the front door flew into the street in a spray of dust as I booted them hard and pushed my way into the street.
It was hot. Muggy, sticky hot, and sweat rolled down my back and soaked my camouflage. The air stank of oil and smoke and fear.
The group had been low on ammo after two days of furious combat and retreat, but I had still commandeered every piece of hardware that I could carry. I had the RPK in hand, our last RPG slung over one shoulder, Cuzak’s Ithaca 37 over the other shoulder (he was in no shape to fight anyway), a Browning Hi-Power on my belt, and every spare round of ammo and frag grenade that I could scrape up. Any more munitions and I wouldn’t be able to move. Tsetse flies kept land
ing on my face to probe the dried blood patches.
Doc had tried to stop me. He understood what was happening, that I was a threat to Decker, and therefore expendable. I had just shook my head, and made him promise to get the wounded to safety. Cuzak hadn’t said a word, but he shook my hand solemnly, knowing what I was about to do. If I had one weakness, it was that when I occasionally made a friend, I was too damn loyal.
And it was about to kill me.
Decker gave me a brief nod. Hawk tipped his hat in my direction. Areyh spit on the floor.
So this was the end of SWITCHBLADE.
The others exited, fanning out, forming a perimeter around the hotel, where they would hold until Ramirez, acting as our spotter, could see that the road was clear. If I failed, their only choice was to attack straight into the Cubans and try to break through to the airfield. They would never make it. I walked away, the deadly mob of women, children, and old men parting before me like water, leaving the last year of my life behind, and knowing that I was probably going to perish in the next few minutes. The terrified Africans moved out of my way, my anger like an invisible plow.
The CAR was a blighted land. Torn by war for generations, poor beyond all comprehension, and I knew that probably half of these refugees would be dead in the next ten years from AIDS even if they managed to somehow survive the machetes of the approaching rebels. And we had come here, paid in blood money, to topple their corrupt government, and install another corrupt government that the diamond exchange liked better. And even then, the exchange had sold us out.
What a waste.
Then there was someone pushing forward with me. Sergeant Gomes, the Portuguese mercenary, appeared at my side, his burly form cradling the Port’s PKM machine gun. A stubby Steyr Aug was tied around him with a discarded web belt serving as a sling. His oddball camouflage was ripped, blood stained, and every exposed patch of skin was covered in caked on mud. He looked hideous.
But happy. “Let’s kill us a bunch of these rebel sons of bitches,” he grinned, his beady eyes narrowing dangerously.
