by IIsa J. Bick
“It was a mistake. And then I thought I had a lock, but I didn’t. I overshot.”
“And so I got splattered. Paint, dud weapons, or the real thing, the end result’s the same, Chinn. I’m dead.” He felt a bloom of fury bunch in his chest and radiate in hot fingers until his head felt so full he was certain he’d have a stroke, right then and there. “Chinn, you never ever leave such a large gap along your lancemate’s flank; you know that. Otherwise, what will happen is precisely what did. Your performance rating is getting worse all the time. It sucks, Chinn.”
There was a moment’s silence when Chinn didn’t respond and neither of their Republic “enemies“—Sho-sa Wahab Fusilli, who’d brought his Balac Strike around and was now hovering above the salt pan stirring up clouds of white grit, and Tai-i Abeda Measho in Katana’s “Kat”—said a word for or against. What could they say?
Finally, the silence was broken, but not by Chinn. “All right, stow it.”
Still steaming, Crawford turned. The huge bulk of an olive green BattleMaster reared up from an arc of flat-cut boulders a half klick to the right. He waited until the ’Mech was nearly nose to nose before he said, “I’m sorry, Tai-sho. I lost my temper.”
“Understandable when you’ve just been killed.” Katana’s voice was without irony or sarcasm. “But that’s it, people. War’s over. Now everyone go home and hit the showers. Cool off.”
Sage advice. Crawford brought his ’Mech around and began picking his way back to base. In more ways than one.
12
Katana’s Journal
14 January 3135
We met after breakfast—Crawford, Fusilli, and Measho, but not Toni because I wouldn’t do that to her—and Andre let me have it. “Tai-sho, you must consider the possibility.”
No one else said a word. Measho suddenly found something of intense interest in his lap. Fusilli, O5P to the core, took everything in, those baby blues of his not missing a trick and giving nothing away. And, as always, the Old Master stood sentry at the shoji. I said, “Do you see Chinn here? Isn’t it obvious that I’ve already considered it?” Then I gave Andre one of my best hard stares. Most people flinch away.
Andre isn’t most people. “Obviously,” he said, scrubbing at his green eyes with the heels of both hands. He still looked limp as a wet noodle. Roasting in a ’Mech will do that to you. Crawford sighed and then, blinking, looked up. “But, Tai-sho, a lance must function as one heart, one mind. Chinn’s heart and mind are divided. It’s become more apparent as we’ve gone along and most especially when we tangle with Republic troops. She doesn’t want to hurt them, plain and simple. If she can cut them a little slack so they withdraw from the field, that’s fine with her. I won’t argue the fact that it’s humane. There’s no honor in chasing down an enemy who cannot defend himself. But honor is one thing. Aiding the enemy is another. Whatever else she is, Chinn’s a creature of The Republic, and she’s blue all the way through.”
Fusilli cut in then. “You have to admit Chinn does have an excellent record. Without her, we’d have lost against the Swordsworn six months ago. As I recall, she saved your butt, Crawford, when that Sphinx was doing its damnedest to melt it off.”
Crawford opened his mouth to reply, but then Measho broke in. “But we can’t expect the past to simply disappear. The past exerts a strong influence on the present.”
Crawford and Fusilli subsided, with good reason. Measho talks so rarely that anything he’s got to say is usually novel—and good. He’s my thinker, as fine a pilot and loyal as any man whose veins run with Combine blood. I gave him the nod.
Measho said, “I understand how the past taints someone; it’s like going around with a brand on your forehead. But the worst thing you can do is not acknowledge that the past makes you who you are. You all know that my father worked with the yakuza on Buckminster. When that came out, he lost his money, prestige and, most importantly, his self-respect. It simply destroyed him. I nearly allowed it to destroy me, thinking that his shame became mine. Maybe I worked harder because of it, I don’t know.” His soft brown eyes locked first on Fusilli’s and then Crawford’s. “But not a day goes by that I don’t think about it. And the only reason I’m here, instead of slinking around somewhere else, is because our tai-sho saw past that. Tai-sho Tormark gave me a chance. So I’m sure she sees past Chinn’s faults to her warrior’s heart. We should trust her judgment.”
The others were silent. Even I was a bit shocked. I was also embarrassed. Measho tends to idolize me, I think, because I loaned him our family’s Panther. It’s nice to hear when someone absolutely worships you, but you can’t be a good commander if you thrive on worship. Eventually, your people will find another god. “Toni’s a fine warrior. She wouldn’t be in my lance otherwise. But Andre’s right. If I didn’t want to hear and weigh opinions, I wouldn’t ask.” I sighed, hating this part. “So, based on Andre’s assessment, Toni’s got work to do, and she can’t do it on Proserpina. She has to want to excel again not because of but in spite of me. Better for her if we swap. Measho, you come back with me. Toni will stay with you, Andre.”
Andre looked wary. I could understand; he didn’t know if I was simply making my problems his. Everyone was . . . no, is aware of my relationship with Toni. I’ve had my share of lovers, male and female, but Toni touches my heart, and I know I can’t be objective—and when you’ve lost that, you risk everyone else. Andre said, “If that’s what you want, Tai-sho, of course. You know I’ll work with her.”
I gave a small inward sigh of relief. “Yes, I do, and I know you’ll work her hard. That’s what she needs. We can’t afford a single weak link anywhere. We’re hanging on by our toenails as it is.”
A pause, then Fusilli said, “Then you intend to move forward.” He didn’t sound as if he was very happy about it.
I nodded. “That’s always been my intention.”
Fusilli’s eyebrows crawled for his hairline. “No disrespect intended, but with what, exactly? We barely have enough people and materiel as it is.”
“I’m aware of that. But stagnation simply buys more time for our enemies, and those who would take advantage of others’ weakness.”
Measho said, “Isn’t that what we’re doing to people already?”
He said it without sarcasm or reproof. “Yes,” I said, without hesitation. Well, all right; I did hesitate long enough to allow the Old Master to butt in, only he didn’t. So I plowed on. “Except we’re in the right. I’m not taking back anything that isn’t rightfully the Combine’s.” A lawyer could probably poke a million holes in that, but Measho isn’t a lawyer and neither am I.
I dismissed everyone a short time later, but Fusilli lingered. I saw those keen blue eyes of his snap toward the Old Master then back at me. “Tai-sho, you know I would never openly oppose you in front of the others. But you aren’t serious, are you? This moving forward . . . intellectually, I understand. But face reality. We’d be seriously compromised if anyone decided to attack on multiple fronts.”
Well, first off, he was lying. Fusilli’s opposed me a lot in front of other people. Some commanders wouldn’t tolerate that. I do because he’s a damned good intelligence officer. But I don’t trust him the way I trust Andre. (Although, how much do I really trust Andre? This much: Crawford doesn’t know a thing about McCain and Drexel’s mission to Junction. Come to think of it, neither does Toni. I don’t completely trust anyone but the Old Master. Probably why I sleep with a pistol under my pillow, and my katana unsheathed in its stand.)
“We’ll take all comers. Are you having second thoughts, Sho-sa Fusilli?”
The tips of his ears flamed. “You know that’s not the issue.”
“No? Then why bring it up? Is there someone out there, mobilizing to strike us? Or are you in the dark again?”
He blinked, and I knew I’d struck a nerve. I’d meant to. Lately, O5P hasn’t exactly been a font of information. Crawford’s too busy with his command duties, so I let him off the hook. Fusilli doesn’t ha
ve an excuse, and sometimes I have the feeling that he knows way more than he lets on.
He said, “With all due respect, the best agents have their limitations. Without ready access to JumpShips and with no communications, my net can only be so wide.”
“So you’re saying nothing’s happening in the Combine.”
“I didn’t say that. The information I have so far isn’t that interesting, that’s all.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
“Of course.” Fusilli ticked items off on his fingers. “One: Theodore Kurita’s left his post on New Samarkand. No one knows where or why. On the other hand, no one really cares. Theodore’s as much a null as his father. Two: The coordinator doesn’t seem to care about us one way or the other. Three: Only Tai-shu Sakamoto openly disagrees with the coordinator, and his fighters have stepped up their forays into Prefecture I.”
I was intrigued. Sakamoto’s a hothead; always has been, always will be. I’ve never met the man, but I know him by reputation. He’s samurai all right, but the kind that gives samurai a bad name: brutal, narcissistic, relentless; the ronin kind who used to walk around old Terra hacking up peasants and raping their wives. Sure, they ruled, but with an iron fist, not honor. “What about the coordinator? Does he sanction the raids?”
Fusilli shrugged. “He’s silent. Nothing new. So either he doesn’t care . . .”
“Or he’s giving Sakamoto tacit assent.” Well, now, that was interesting. Certainly, I’ve done a tad more than initiate petty skirmishes. Maybe the coordinator’s silence was a nod to keep going?
The next moment, I was cursing myself. Looking to the coordinator solved nothing, like waiting for your father to pat you on the head. “Do you think Sakamoto’s planning a raid—for Vega, maybe?”
Fusilli thought, then shook his head. “I haven’t a clue. The problem is, I’m way out here and he’s way over there. It’s this damn outage. I might as well be blind and deaf. But if I could get closer to the action, I might be able to give you something.”
He had a point, and maybe I felt bad—poking him in the eye with that snipe about his lack of information. Whatever doubts I have about Fusilli, and I’ve got plenty just because, they’re probably no more or less than Andre has about Toni. Maybe I need to cut Fusilli some slack, give him the tools he says he needs for his job.
So I gave him a mission: find out Sakamoto’s intentions. The only drawback is that, without communications and considering how tight our funding is, he’ll only report back when there’s something really big. I’ll just have to trust that he knows what that something is. But before he left, he did a very curious thing. He’d already bowed and turned on his heel, then looked back. “ Tai-sho, Prefecture I’s hell and gone. It’ll take forever to get word back and forth. So if I see an opportunity to act on my own, perhaps plant a few seeds of disinformation, mayI . . . ?”
Now that was new. I shook my head. “Fusilli, I appreciate your good intentions, I do. But anything done to Sakamoto comes from me? Understood?”
From the way those baby blues shuttered? He understood. He just didn’t like it. I can appreciate that. But I’ve kept O5P in the dark about some things. Fusilli has no idea what Andre’s orders are, and vice versa. A necessary evil. It only pays to let the left hand know what the right is doing some of the time because given half a chance, people will always disappoint and surprise the hell out of you.
That’s something I understand pretty damn well. Way back when, Otome-san told me a lot about my father—stuff I didn’t know. Like, and this floored me, Akira Tormark was an O5P spy who’d married twice, divorced once and had other kids. Sons? Daughters? Otome-san didn’t know. And then my father was just . . . gone. But to where? Who the hell knows?
Thinking about that brings back that horrible night: my father holding Kan Otome’s blood-smeared katana, Uncle Kan’s sightless eyes starting from their sockets. And then that strange young man by my father’s side, and not only what he said but how he said it: “Is that her?” As if he knew, or had known of, me but never seen me and . . . as if I should know him.
Ugh. Just felt as if someone walked over my grave. Anyway, can’t think about that now. Got to look ahead and pray that the coordinator wakes up and realizes that he, too, stands to lose a great deal. His empire. His identity. And all of us, his children.
I wonder if Toni will understand. I wonder how much she’ll hate me.
When I was leaving the Old Master finally stirred. “A bitter lesson, Musume: A leader tends to the needs of the whole, not the benefit of the one.”
As if he’d read my mind.
13
Imperial City, Luthien
Late evening, 20 January 3135
An hour trying to meditate and her thoughts still jumped like a hummingbird zipping from one blossom to the next; her feet ached from kneeling, and her toes had cramped. But she couldn’t free her mind of what her father had said: A crown is only as valuable as its jewels, new and old. And that reference to black pearls . . . What could it mean?
Sighing, Emi opened her eyes. Her room was very dim, lit only by two fat candles set upon her private kamidana. She used a standard arrangement: two evergreen sasaki branches in vases; the jinja, an ark containing sacred o-fuda, front and center; two miniature jars filled with sake and a tiny water jug at center, flanked on either side by two shallow ceramic vessels: salt on the right, rice on the left. There was one difference between her kamidana and everyone else’s: an elaborate, ivory-carved Kurita dragon centered on the sake jug, and it was this upon which her eyes lingered. The Combine was the Dragon, and the coordinator the Combine, a sort of holy trinity upon which her universe hinged.
Exasperated, Emi pushed up from her knees, bowed, clapped her hands twice, and then bowed more deeply before backing three steps until she felt hardwood floor beneath her stocking feet. The floor had cooled as the evening progressed, and her feet whispered over the burnished wood as she paced.
It behooves us to care for such a daughter. Obviously, that was Katana Tormark. But did her father truly mean for her to act? Despite his assurances, perhaps he was just as worried as she was that House Kurita would crumble. If the other, silent corruption of our blood doesn’t destroy us first. . . . Emi slammed down on that particular line of thought. There was nothing she could do about that anyway—not unless she was willing to throw honor to the wind. Besides, she had caught the cunning looks Bhatia sometimes threw her father’s way. I know your thoughts, Director, and they are deep, but I see your ambition; a tidal wave that would sweep my father from power, and my brother, too . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted by a series of knocks upon a shoji, then, no more than taps: a code. “Come,” she said. The translucent rice paper screen slid to one side, and Joji Ashida, her personal bodyguard and one of her most trusted O5P agents, entered. Ashida was thirty-five, a year older than Emi, but he carried himself with the bearing of a much older, more experienced man. His black eyes glittered with a keen intelligence, and a shoulder-length fall of hair, a shade of black like the raven’s wing, was bound to his head in a traditional topknot.
Ashida bowed. “Jokan, I have news.”
“Speak.”
“Tai-shu Sakamoto has called a meeting of oyabuns: Atsutane Kobayashi from Kitalpha, Jazeburo Enda from Shibuka, and Minukachi’s Hideki Ame.”
A prick of alarm stabbed her chest. “Why would Sakamoto . . . what could yakuza . . . ?” Then Emi gasped. “Sakamoto wants war.”
“But a general needs armies, and the armies need supplies. So he turns to the oyabuns. They’re rich because Sakamoto suffers them in exchange for three itches that require periodic scratching”—Ashida sniffed—“sweets, women and wine.”
“You forgot power,” Emi murmured, but her mind was already jumping ahead. How could she use this information to her father’s—and the Combine’s—advantage? “What about Bhatia?”
“Anyone’s guess. Either he’s turning a blind eye to treason,
or he doesn’t know.”
“What would he gain if he does know?”
“It depends on his timing. He may wait until Sakamoto falters, or he might let the chips fall where they may, even if House Kurita collapses, hoping that he’ll gain Sakamoto’s favor.”
Emi came to a decision. She crossed to her writing table and pulled out a drawer, from which she extracted a holovid disk. At the touch of a button, a scroll of wood retracted; a flat screen unfolded and locked into position, and a wash of blue light indicated that the system’s holo-projector was ready to record. “We aren’t going to wait around for either alternative. Go, bring Miko. I have an errand for her.”
She was done by the time Ashida returned a few moments later, a young jukurensha in tow. The girl’s eyes were heavy with sleep, her hair mussed and her simple gray kimono improperly knotted and slightly askew, the fabric falling away and revealing a tantalizing swell of breast. She bowed. “You summoned me, Jokan.”
“Yes,” said Emi, ejected the disk from her computer and standing. She hated giving the duty to a novice, but Miko Tanaka was one of her most advanced and learned girls, bright and quick. Neither Emi nor Ashida could be linked to the message in any way. Emi handed Miko the disk. “I want you to send this as a priority communiqué,” and she gave the girl the link number and destination.
The shadow of a frown marred Miko’s smooth forehead. “A priority message, Jokan?” Miko’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “To a fabrics merchant?”
Emi saw that the girl was thoroughly awake now. She managed a small chuckle that she hoped telegraphed embarrassment. “Your Keeper’s been remiss. There’s a state banquet in two months, and I must have a new kimono.”
A lie. Emi watched as the girl tucked the disk into her sleeve, bowed and hurried out. Keepers weren’t supposed to lie. But needs must that she lie, and so she did. Yet Emi wondered how many more rules she would bend. Or break.
