Daughter of The Dragon

by IIsa J. Bick

  The Dragon Throne was not very high, only one hundred and eighty centimeters, and it was perhaps half as wide as it was long. A gold silk cushion formed the seat, and a matching bolster snugged against each arm, providing a rest for the coordinator’s arms and elbows. A matching carved footstool, three steps high, allowed the coordinator to mount his throne. At either side of the throne stood two vertical censers, capped with gold; a coil of white smoke rose in a pencil-thin curl, and Emi caught the fragrance of sandalwood. In all these details, the throne was an exact replica of the original.

  But this wasn’t so with the dragon mural just behind the throne. The deep, dark ebony of a polished slab of solid obsidian dominated an entire wall. The Kurita dragon lay at its heart, precisely centered: a perfect disc of deep, bloodred carnelian spanned four meters and was edged by a narrow rim of rich rose-gold that tricked the eyes and made the disc seem to leap out from the ebony background. The scales of the dragon were etched with gold; the eye was a lump of amethyst; the dragon’s teeth were the purest ivory. Yet, beautiful as this was, her eyes drifted over not the Dragon, or the enamel of Terra with its blue oceans and green continents, but to the representation of the Combine itself.

  Though they, the Combine and the Dragon, are one and the same. Her keen eyes picked out what they always had, ever since she was a little girl. Some of the jewels were missing. There was no mistake; she’d double-checked with the old records, and an entire swath of territory, the Dieron District as well as disputed territories and holdings of the Federated Suns that had taken a bite from the Combine’s flank, was missing.

  A voice sounded at her right hand. “Yes, they are beautiful. We like looking at them ourselves.”

  Smiling, Emi cocked her head to look up at the coordinator. “I would think you’d find them easy to overlook, Tono. You see them nearly every day.”

  “Ah, you must mean that the more often an object of value and great beauty is seen, the more quickly do those same qualities recede until they are not seen at all.” A mischievous grin made it all the way from the coordinator’s lips to his remarkably clear hazel eyes. “In other words, familiarity breeds contempt.”

  Emi had to bite on the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud, though the coordinator clearly guessed she was having trouble because his grin turned into a broad smile, and his eyes twinkled. Despite his years and the deepening lines marring his features, Emi had yet to find the smallest trace of age there—no telltale milky rim encircling the iris. As it should be, for the Dragon must possess clear sight. Yet this was more difficult to believe as every day passed and The Republic fell apart—and the coordinator said nothing and did nothing but dress in his fine clothes. An uncharitable thought, perhaps, but true nonetheless. Emi’s eyes clicked over the coordinator’s outfit: his sumptuous brocaded jacket of lotus flowers woven in vibrant red and gold; a dragon clasp of obsidian enameled with a sparkling ruby red inlay; an equally princely hakama of the finest black silk. Even his black tabi socks were shot through with goldthread dragons.

  Her thoughts must have shown on her face because the coordinator’s expression became grave. “Well?”

  Remember, he is first and foremost the Dragon incarnate. Emi chose her words with care. “How clearly the Coordinator sees, registers, understands all. And yet, does not the Coordinator fulfill the very axiom the Coordinator disparages?”

  “We cannot fathom your meaning, Lady.”

  “Your attire, Tono. The Dragon doesn’t need to advertise his power, only use it.”

  “Ah, that. Wise words. We expect no less from the Keeper of the House Honor.” He paused. “Perhaps we merely wish to remain valuable in our people’s eyes.”

  “Then as Keeper . . . is not the Dragon’s first duty to be that which is not? I do not recall ever seeing so grandly appointed a hub.”

  The coordinator’s expression remained mild. “From you, we will forgive a great deal, Lady, and we thank you for your concern. On the other hand, we wonder if you’ve spent as much time studying that which lies below as that which resides in the clouds of theory, philosophy and imagination.”

  And take that. Emi’s cheeks flared with embarrassment. Of course, she knew her history, and knew that chariots and wheels and hubs could be very decorative and yet functional. “My apologies, Tono; I have been too familiar.”

  “No, you haven’t. We know what the people call us: the Peacock. All style and no substance, not a fang in the Coordinator’s head.” The coordinator made a dismissive gesture. “What of it? House Kurita still stands.”

  Ah, and had the coordinator put a subtle emphasis upon that word, still? She thought so, and a pang of sadness bit into Emi’s heart.

  The coordinator must have read her emotions because he said, “All right, Lady, all this talk about the Dragon this, the Dragon that. Why don’t you . . . cut to the chase?”

  She smiled as he’d meant her to, though it made what she had to say next all the more difficult. “Tono, the Combine hasn’t moved to reclaim any of its lost worlds. There is talk that the Dragon is more concerned with his looks than his honor.”

  “Old news. Tell us something new. Tell us,” the coordinator continued, as if the thought had just occurred, “what you think of Katana Tormark.”

  Emi was caught off guard. She’d been prepared to talk about the warlords, and Sakamoto, in particular. The coordinator’s son had told her all about it; she and Theodore Kurita shared a special, private bond no wife or father could replicate. After a pause to gather her wits, Emi said, “Katana Tormark is brave and aggressive. She’s acted with honor, even before she began to claim worlds in the Dragon’s name.”

  The coordinator gave a dry laugh. “Yes, well, better late than never. And her troops?”

  “Her troops are reported to be quite humane. That can only come if their leader is, as well.”

  “I agree. What do you think of the woman herself?”

  The coordinator’s sudden shift from third person to first didn’t escape Emi’s notice, and her eyes narrowed. The move was a signal: Drop the formalities and go for it. Emi said, “My honest opinion is that Katana Tormark is a psychological refugee and very much like a recent convert. Her mother’s dead; she hasn’t seen her father in almost twenty years. She was one of the best and brightest stars in The Republic’s heaven, but she’s turned her face—and her loyalties—to the Dragon.”

  The coordinator was nodding, a finger resting on his chin as he thought over what she’d said. “But you said that she’s like a convert.”

  “That’s right. Has the Coordinator ever noticed that the zealots are not the ones born to the religion, but those who convert? That’s Katana to a tee. She’s more Combine than many in the Combine; from what our intelligence tells us, she eats, drinks, thinks and lives in the manner of the samurai. Honestly, I think Katana’s trying, very hard, to find her place within the universe.”

  “And only the universe?”

  “No. I think she’s looking for a family, a place to belong. She’s an orphan in many, many ways, so it’s not surprising that she might idealize a way of life or a person”—she paused to give that last word added weight then continued—“that or who will be the parent she hungers for. And like all parents, when the pedestal crumbles . . .”

  “It’s a long way down.” Then the coordinator said something quite extraordinary, something that caught Emi completely by surprise. “Then, does it not behoove us to care for such a lost child as much as I cherish you? There have been many jewels, many black pearls lost to the ages, like the mural above the throne—beautiful, but lacking. I am determined that this should stop, and very soon. After all, a crown—and a home, large or small—is only as valuable as its jewels, new and old.” The coordinator held Emi’s gaze. “Don’t you agree, daughter of mine own heart?”

  A lump of emotion balled in Emi’s throat, and she couldn’t speak for a moment. “Yes, Father,” she whispered, finally. The coordinator’s face blurred as her eyes pooled
with sudden tears. “I do.”

  11

  Salt Plains, on the outskirts of Armitage, Ancha

  Prefecture III, Republic of the Sphere

  13 January 3135

  Usually, Chu-sa Andre Crawford was a pretty nice guy, with sparkling emerald green eyes and a curling mane of hair as deeply red as his Black Knight, “Phantom.” At the moment, though, Crawford was in the kind of crappy mood when you really, really didn’t want to cross him. So maybe it was a good thing that he was in his Black Knight because, in a cockpit, no one can hear you swear. Or see you sweat.

  Crawford was doing plenty of both. He was miserable and angry and broiling. The outside temp was a blistering forty-five C. His cooling vest was performing at only thirty percent efficiency because he’d rerouted power to keep his circuits from frying and his ’Mech from freezing—kind of a perverse little oxymoron. He felt oily and dirty; even his couch was damp. He’d been chugging electrolyte replacement fluids by the liter every hour, something he hated doing because the potassium made the lemony concoction taste like liquid aluminum. And now, sha-zaam! He had to pee something fierce only he couldn’t because, well, honestly, he was kind of busy, what with trying to track down the enemy before the enemy found him.

  So where are they? Crawford squinted at his infrared. Big waste of effort: As hot as a BattleMech got, the salt plains were hotter. His sensor was a monotonous red blob. Sighing, Crawford squinted out his ferroglass canopy and saw two things, one that he expected and another he didn’t like. The first was the plains: a featureless pan of bone white salt, the remains of an ancient sea. Unfortunately, the pan wasn’t flat. If it had been, finding their enemy would’ve been a piece of cake because there’d have been nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. As the briny seawater had evaporated, the residue hadn’t dried flat but rippled into uneven belts of calcium and sodium salts mounded into rock-hard hummocks. The plains themselves were ringed on three sides by rust-colored cliffs and studded with rock behemoths that seemed to bob on the white hardpan like icebergs. The flats ended in a bluff that, in turn, became a shifting, orange, sand-choked desert. There was no vegetation, and no water hereabouts. Above, the sky was a hard, steel blue, unmarred by anything save a lone bird that was so far away it looked like a black bead.

  But it’s what he didn’t see that made him swear again. His eyes flicked up and right to the only thing on his HUD that was of any use out here: seismic distortion tracking and his Beagle. He looked, did a double take, and then swore like a sailor. “Chinn, where the hell are you?”

  A click in his helmet, and a voice, hairy with static: “A klick west of your position, minus thirty-five, eight o’clock.”

  “Ex-ACT-ly! And where are you supposed to be?”

  Chinn’s annoyance was palpable even through the channel fuzz. “Your left flank, and that’s precisely where I am.”

  “But not over a klick distant. What are you going to do if I take fire? Come roaring to the rescue? By the time you haul ass, I’ve taken major hits.”

  “Look,” Chinn began, and stopped. Crawford had a mental image of the petite woman, sweat dripping from her exposed arms and legs, biting her lip, something Chinn did when she was angry. He heard her sigh. “Okay, you’re right. I guess I was hanging back because, honestly, I think they’ve given us the slip. I don’t know about you, but I’m roasting in here. Let’s pack it in.”

  Unbelievable. Crawford’s jaw went slack. Sure, there had been talk. How Chinn wasn’t really herself anymore. How Chinn wouldn’t pursue and close on Republic forces but hung back. Oh, sure, she went with the speed of heat when they tangled with anyone else. Since Katana had transferred Chinn to Proserpina—wagging tongues about that one, too—Crawford hadn’t had much opportunity to test the diminutive woman’s mettle until today. They’d been at this for two days, and he did not like what he’d seen so far. And if Katana won’t listen to reason, then I’ll just have to sit on her until she does.

  “Listen, Chinn, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but this is serious business. Let’s be very clear about this. I am in charge of this mission, and only I will decide when it’s time to turn back. Right now, heat or no heat, we’re not leaving until we hunt these people . . .”

  The blare of an alarm cut off his tirade, and Crawford jerked his attention back to his sensors. “Oh, Jesus!”

  “Incoming!” Chinn shouted. “Crawford, you’ve got incoming! And I’m getting movement just beyond . . . !”

  But Crawford stopped listening because he saw it—no, them, too. First there was the swarm of six snub-nosed missiles cutting a seam in the sky, and then, in the next instant, a Republic Balac Strike VTOL rocketing up from its hiding place just beyond the bluff and arcing away in a scream of rotor wash. Then, there was movement on his left, and he swung the torso of his Black Knight around to see this new threat: a slate-gray Panther darting from the cover of a towering rust-red monolith protruding from the dead salt sea like a thick, severed thumb. There was a blinding blue flash as an azure bolt of PPC fire spurted from the Panther’s right arm.

  “On my way!” Chinn shouted. “Hang on, Andre, I’m coming!”

  She was too far away to be much help. She knew that. Crawford knew that. If the Panther didn’t kill him, the missiles would, PDQ; and if they didn’t, then the VTOL would swing around for another attack run, let loose with both racks this time and finish the job. Kind of whittled down the options right there.

  Training and instincts took over. Quick as thought, Crawford spun right and hunkered into a crouch as the plasma bolt cut a bright gash in the superheated air just above his cockpit. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Whirling left, Crawford put on a burst of speed, the massive legs of his ’Mech pistoning, shattering rock and salt. He drove his Black Knight dead on for the Panther and anyone watching would’ve thought he was insane. Except now the missiles were right on his tail, and he was headed straight for the Panther. And you don’t have any choice now, big boy, you got to fire. Thumbing the kill button on his right joystick, Crawford dodged right, twisted, then blasted six laser bursts at the incoming missiles. At the same moment, a hail of eight missiles bulleted past his cockpit, followed by a series of muted explosions Crawford didn’t see but heard, and he knew: the Panther had fired and destroyed the incoming spread—not to help Crawford but to save his own butt.

  It had all happened in less than ten seconds, and Crawford was already moving again, pushing his Black Knight to close the distance to the Panther. His enemies had the element of surprise, but Crawford was bigger, stronger and, even without Chinn, he had more firepower per square millimeter than the Panther could combat. But with the Panther and Balac Strike together, his odds suddenly went from pretty good to only so-so. Maybe, if he got even closer to the Panther, the VTOL threat would be neutralized, its pilot stymied because his missiles would damage his own man. Besides, Crawford was hoping the missile blasts would distract the Panther’s pilot, and even though that ’Mech was lighter and faster, his enemy would expect him to be moving away now, not for him at breakneck speed.

  If Crawford had another five seconds, he might have made it. But he didn’t have the time, and he saw disaster coming right before it arrived. The Panther whipped its right arm up so quickly it was almost a blur—or maybe it was a trick of the mind, Crawford’s perceptions dulled by fatigue and heat and the sudden grim realization of certain death, time dilating to showcase every moment. The Panther’s PPC crackled to life once more. Crawford felt a huge jolt that shuddered into the well of his seat, and his diagnostic interpretation computer flashed the information: a hit on Phantom’s left leg, just at the critical juncture between the upper and lower actuators.

  “Chinn!” Crawford bawled as he canted right, taking weight off his ’Mech’s left leg and bringing his right medium laser to bear. But his adversary saw it coming, and Crawford’s shot went wide. “Dammit, Chinn, where are you? I need help here!”

  Time spun out, the next instant seeming long as a
n age. The Panther ducked and weaved, loosing another PPC bolt that struck Crawford in the chest, right in Phantom’s heart and taking out the left torso laser. The Black Knight rocked and swayed, and then Crawford felt another shudder rippling through myomer bundles and titanium bone, and he had a brief vision of the VTOL barreling down for a kill.

  But it wasn’t. Jackhammering into the hardpan, Chinn’s Thor jumped in, landing to Crawford’s left and snap-firing all its lasers at once. The Panther sprang away on a roar of jump jets and simultaneously loosed a spread of missiles: both racks, right down Crawford’s throat.

  As the missiles closed, Crawford had time for one thought: Oh, crap.

  The missiles thudded against his ferroglass canopy, one right after the other, with a sound that reminded Crawford of when he was a kid and thought it was totally cool to drop water balloons from second-story windows. Bright flowers of yellow paint bloomed before his eyes, and his systems told him the rest.

  A voice in his helmet, not Chinn: “And you’re dead.”

  “Yeah, thanks for the information, Measho.” Disgusted, Crawford flopped back in his command couch and felt the fatigue spread over him like a hot, wet blanket.

  Chinn’s voice came then. “I’m sorry, Andre.” A pause. “It was my fault.”

  “Yes, actually, it was,” said Crawford. He pivoted his Black Knight so he could see her around the yellow blotches slowly oozing over his canopy. “I told you not to go so wide.”