Grey Ronin (The Awakened Book 3)

by Matthew S. Cox

  Mamoru leaned on the wall, his gaze hardened by worry.

  “Sadako,” said the figure. “You admire her, but cannot respect her lack of honor. Oh, and Mamoru, forget the knife. This is, after all, only a hologram.”

  He glanced at his katana. “How can you know this?”

  “Feel free to take a swipe if you must, you cannot kill light.” The angel held his arms to the side as if offering not to defend himself. “Your ability over machinery and technology―some have dubbed it with the awkward moniker ‘technokinesis’ or the even more droll ‘mechanical aptitude’ is quite impressive. I prefer to think of it as a refined form of electrokinetics. Your brain can process voltages at the most precise levels, far short of the flashy bolts of lightning people expect from the term. The talent is sufficient, however, to allow you to link your consciousness with machines and do things that no mere pilot, driver, or cyberspace cowboy can.”

  “Why are you telling me how my chi works? I know these things already. Your strange terms do not change what I can do.”

  The angel laughed, a sound radiating condescension. “Do you honestly envision the ancient monks focusing some quasi-mystical chi nonsense through circuitry and cyberspace? You are part of the next step of the evolution of man, and we must help each other.”

  “I do not need your help. His majesty, Minamoto Akio, provides all I need.”

  The figure groaned. “You know not how much it pains me to hear one of my own kind refer to a lesser being as ‘majesty.’ That man is a relic of fading genetics. He is not even psionic, much less Awakened.” The angel’s golden arm extended toward him, palm upraised, wings spreading. “I offer you the chance to be far greater than anything you will find on Earth. Minamoto is an ant.”

  “My loyalty lies with my warlord, and my sensei. I am honor bound to serve them.”

  The figure’s grand pose faded. “There are forces at play who seek to destroy us. You are not at all subtle in the use of your talents. Soon, the governments of Earth will become aware of your existence. They may simply destroy you, they may dissect you to understand how you work, or they may attempt to turn you against us. If you do not join us, Mamoru Saito, you become a liability I cannot afford.”

  He waved the katana through the holographic form. “Your threats are as empty as your body, golden man. I do not believe in your lies, demon.”

  The visitor laughed again, a deep, haunting sound that rumbled as though it echoed through the entire building. He leaned forward, mirth evaporating in an instant. “Until we meet again, Mamoru.”

  The angel flew toward the center of the rock garden, arched his back, and burst into thousands of points of light. Mamoru lowered the katana. At a wave of his left hand, the hologram projectors switched off and the room was once more a darkened dojo. He squinted at the Matsushita Oni deck at the center.

  “Someone will pay.”

  Sensei

  ust particles swarmed through a narrow cone of light, lofted by a single breath. A tiny wooden stick, an inch long, hovered before Mamoru’s eyes in the grip of tweezers. He dipped a brush with his left hand and brought the harsh scent of chemical glue to his nostrils. Bristles parted over the length of the wood, coating it with clear liquid. With great care, he lowered it in place among thousands of its kin. Two taps with the tweezers aligned it smooth with the rest of the miniature wall.

  Mamoru sat up and away from the model of Edo Castle covering an entire dining table, taking deep breaths now that he would not damage it. He glanced to his left, at a datapad bearing a schematic drawing of the old structure. He took another stick from a plastic-wrapped cube of ten thousand and leaned forward to paint on the glue. The faint ssssh of the sliding rice paper door behind him announced the arrival of one of his women, who hesitated at the entrance.

  Mamoru dipped the brush in the glue. “What do you require, Nami?”

  “Ishikawa-sama is on the vid for you.” She stepped into the room and slid the door closed behind her, dropping her voice to a whisper. “How did you know it was me?”

  He painted the stick, and set the brush across the shallow bowl of glue, whispering as he aligned the miniscule building block with where he wanted it. “Your breathing is slower, more confident than Ayame.” With the bit of wood settled in place, he sat up and away from the model. “She takes air in short breaths, a mouse afraid of making too much noise lest it be noticed.” He set the tweezers down, dropped the brush in a cup of solvent, and covered the glue.

  Nami walked up behind and to his right. “It is beautiful, Saitō-sama. How long did it take you to build such a thing?”

  He turned his head toward her, gazing down. Her nervousness was visible in her toes’ grip on the floor. “Kutaragi-sensei suggested it two years ago. A task such as this holds infinite tedium and imparts no tangible reward.”

  “Then why do it?” She shifted to the right, gazing at the immense model.

  Mamoru stood. “It centers the mind and nurtures the soul. Inner calm is the gate through which one taps their chi.”

  She flinched, keeping her stare on the castle of matchsticks. “I would not mind if you wished to lay with me, Saitō-sama.” Nami pulled at her kimono, a narrow gap in the fabric revealed nothing on beneath it.

  “You wish me to take you for a wife.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand before sliding his fingertips down her neck to the explosive metal ring. “And be rid of this collar.”

  Nami looked away, a mask of shame on her face. “I…” Tears formed at the corners of her eyes but did not fall. “It is a choker.” She touched her fingers to the front of it. “Collars have rings for a tether.”

  “How would you know such things?” Mamoru flashed a devious smile that lasted for an instant. He pulled her robe closed. “A tether need not be physical to be effective. Tell me, Nami. Do you seek my affection for its own sake, or simply release from your shame?”

  She let her arms drop, limp. Her fingers teased at fists as her face cycled through several emotions. After a moment, she dared eye contact. “I am not a slave. What my father did was shameful, but I had nothing to do with it. I would accept a place as your wife to be thought of as a person again and not a piece of property. You are an honorable man, Saitō Mamoru, and I would not regret a life with you.”

  Mamoru remained silent until the presence of fear showed on her face. Many a samurai would have killed her for such an outburst. Perhaps she would not mind that. “You are honest if not foolish.” He hooked a finger through the band and tugged her closer.

  Her eyes widened and she pressed herself against him, trembling. “Saitō-sama, I beg you, don’t pull at it. It may go off.”

  She does not desire death. Mamoru lowered his arm. “I shall attend to Ishikawa’s call.”

  Mamoru slid the door to the side and left the room. Nami’s silhouette on the white paper wall fell to a kneeling pose. He paused outside, listening as she recovered from teasing death. He wore an expression of contempt on the walk to the main room, wondering how any honorable man could derive a sense of empowerment from instilling terror in the defenseless. The idea that Minamoto could chafed at his nature.

  A phantom presence surrounded his neck as he rounded the corner into the living room, where the upper half of Reiko Ishikawa floated above the Vidphone.

  He did not speak until after he had approached and rendered a bow. “Ishikawa-sama, forgive my delay. I had matters within my house that demanded attention.”

  Reiko lifted an eyebrow and flashed an irritated scowl. “We have experienced another intrusion, Saitō-san. The network operations team is unable to pinpoint the source. I ask that you succeed where they have failed.”

  She thinks I was with Ayame, as would I in her place. Such things are expected. Why else did Minamoto give them to me? “I will begin my search now.” He bowed.

  Reiko offered a slight bow in return, and hung up.

  Mamoru crossed the room to the inner hallway where Ayame, clad in a red kimono, scrubbed
the floor on her hands and knees. His attention gravitated to the silver ring about her neck wobbling back and forth with her motion. Each of us is owned by our fate. How fragile a man must be to need such a thing to elevate himself. My lessers have machines for this. This serves only to remind the girl of her place.

  Ayame, noticing him, glanced up and sat back on her heels. “Saitō-sama, is the floor clean to your satisfaction?”

  “No.”

  Redness appeared around widening eyes. Her lip quivered. She leaned back, as if about to erupt with tears.

  “Busy yourself with a task that does not bring you so low to the ground. Floors should be left to bots.”

  He left her there, in stunned silence, and sought the quiet of the dojo. The air still held a trace of a presence, a reminder of the golden visitor. Mamoru put a hand on his blade as he strode into the room and knelt before the deck. His mundane senses assured him he was alone, though a feeling nagged at him that he was not.

  “Nami,” he said at a volume a touch shy of a shout.

  She appeared at the door within seconds. “Yes, Saitō-sama?”

  He gestured to his side. “Sit.”

  The woman approached in a rapid shuffling gait, and took a place on the cushion next to him with her legs off to the side.

  “I do not feel at ease, Nami-chan.” He placed one hand on the deck. “I am about to send my thoughts to the electronic world. I will not be aware of what goes on here.”

  She bowed, unable to suppress a hint of a smile at his affectionate address.

  “My chi will manifest itself as light on my arms. Do not fear. However, if you see anything else you cannot explain, pull my hand away from the device and I shall wake.”

  “Yes, Saitō-sama.”

  He stared into her eyes, ignoring the sporadic red flash from her throat. No deceit lingered there. Perhaps her deferential politeness came from gratitude for his trust rather than fear for her life. If she wished to harm him, this would be the perfect time. Nami grasped his forearm with both hands, trembling as if ready to pull him away from the machine at a second’s notice. She risked a full smile.

  He closed his eyes and surrendered his awareness to the machine.

  Her grip tightened as the cool aura swept up his arms, the fires of his chi burning visible. Once more, the momentary sensation of being an immobile block came and passed. When he opened his eyes, the white samurai hovered inside an empty dojo. Mamoru held up his left forearm, gazing at the polished enamel, a blurry reflection of his empty helmet. The weight of her hands had gone, lingering only as a memory.

  He focused on the Matsushita network, reaching out as if to open a door. A swipe of his arm pushed open a panel of reality, creating a portal to a bright corridor. On the other side, six men in plain black suits waited for him, bowing as he drifted through. Points of heat teased at the back of his brain as the deck’s processors struggled to compensate for the rapid change in virtual location.

  The youngest glanced to his rear and back at him, worry and awe on his face. A familiar look for the new guy. Before he could ask Mamoru how he teleported, their manager spoke.

  “Welcome, Saitō-san. I am deeply ashamed at our inability to find this intruder and honored by your assistance.”

  Mamoru pressed his fist to his palm and returned a half-bow. “What have you discovered, Nakamura-san?”

  “An unknown entity gained access to our network approximately forty-five minutes ago. We picked the intrusion up at the GlobeNet interlink node masquerading as a Vidphone connection. My team has completed an assessment of all critical data storage nodes and can find no evidence of access. As far as we are able to discern, it appears to be an ordinary Vid call.”

  “What reason do you have to suspect it is more than it appears?” asked Mamoru.

  Tense silence hung in the virtual air. Nakamura searched for meaning in the gleaming patches of reflected light crawling over the samurai’s armor. When no answer came, Mamoru leaned closer.

  “Deepest apologies, Saitō-sama. The connection passed straight through to the desk of Minamoto-heika. Such a route is not only private, it requires a direct transfer from Ishikawa-san. She has no recollection of doing so.”

  “Continue monitoring the data storage. This feels like a diversion.” Mamoru glided down the corridor to an elevator.

  The doors snapped closed and open again in the blink of an eye. The transition from the virtual ninetieth floor to the lobby occurred in a nanosecond flash. A reception area of white tile and polished black marble columns spread out before him where the network simulated the fragrance of hyacinth. Thirty some odd people milled about. The dull murmur of conversations lent believability to the illusion of a room. They were all program constructs, false shells inserted like plants to make the environment appear natural. This room represented the connection between the Matsushita network and the GlobeNet, flagged as a public area. Any traveler in cyberspace could walk right in, guided by helper constructs that spawned whenever a guest arrived.

  Mamoru approached the mannequins and reached into their code, searching each in turn for any trace of tampering. Letters and numbers spiraled out as he touched them, forming a column of glowing symbols winding upward until the strings broke apart and faded away.

  A woman in professional attire came through the front door, glancing at the vaulted ceiling and glass-walled corridor on the third floor. Amid a flurry of blue light, a pleasant looking older man with salt and pepper hair and a slight beard formed. Personality analytics measured the prospective client, and predicted the highest chance of sale to a fatherly presence. Mamoru ignored her and the resultant conversation about a large electronic component deal.

  As soon as the woman mentioned she was a purchasing agent for Timmons-Orben Hovercars sniffing around for a contract potentially worth billions, a live agent in a grey suit added himself to the conversation and walked her towards a private conference room.

  Mamoru reached out and stuck his fingers through the glass of the front door. His awareness extended in to the blackness of memory buffers. Unlike Nakamura’s team, he searched by feel. Thoughts begat action; the machinery reacted to his desire. He peeled a shimmering thread out of the glass, stretching it between both hands while examining it.

  It represented a digital recording of an incoming connection to Majordomo Ishikawa’s desk that had not passed through the normal operator first. He pulled at the strand, stretching it out and unraveling the bits through his consciousness. The face of the virtual visitor from his dojo, the angel, filled a nonexistent screen in his thoughts, followed by the emotionless face of Reiko Ishikawa lit by his golden radiance. Reiko did transfer the line to Minamoto, after which the energy distorted. Mamoru attempted to glean the substance of it from a dozen pools of buffer memory scattered throughout the network, but recoiled from a strange onrush of power that overwhelmed his mind.

  The white samurai glided away from the doors, holding his helmet in both hands and letting the connection thread dissipate. He shook off a jolt as though the information blast had physically struck him in the head. Something squeezed about his left forearm. Mamoru smiled and caused the deck to project a holographic screen back in the real world, bearing the message: “I am fine. Keep watch.”

  He thrust his fingers once more through the glass, gathering a countless mass of azure data strands that appeared like an illusion outside. One at a time, he sifted through until he found the same thread. Rather than attempt to travel its path to Minamoto’s terminal a second time, he sent his efforts in the other direction.

  The Matsushita corporation lobby disintegrated around him as his perception squeezed forward and condensed, becoming a tiny orb of blue fire racing along the wire. Tokyo fell away below him and took on the form of a glimmering map of dark sapphire scored with lighter lines pulsing with signals. He glided down the path, now as wide to him as a road. At a pace of hundreds of virtual miles per hour, he shot through ninety-degree turns and bridge gates, entering bord
er routers that looked like massive halls packed with thousands of similar light-balls queuing up by dozens of out-paths. Thousands of simultaneous Vidphone conversations echoed around him, fragments of words, laughter, faces, and shouting. The path led him to Shinjuku city, and its starport.

  Mamoru slowed as his little energy sphere entered a cavernous chamber where tens of thousands of similar pathways wavered in the air like udon in broth. Each connected to an enormous amethyst crystal projecting a beam of white energy through a hole in the ceiling.

  He leapt up from the link thread, resuming his samurai form. The CPU crystal still dwarfed him, rendered at a size equivalent to a nine-story building. He floated to its surface, basking in the fuming warmth of processing power depicted as a wall of amethyst fire.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  In response to his question, the object shimmered. No voice spoke. As was the nature of his gift, he read the machine and its purpose. The crystal represented a massive neural-net processor handling routing algorithms and data resequencing for a high-speed interplanetary transmitter. Subroutines appeared and vanished, streams of lime green letters and numbers whirling about in midair. The concept of control code referencing the ‘quantum entanglement’ that facilitated the faster-than-light speed communication formed in his thoughts. Millions of holovid calls, emails, messages, and cyberspace connections passed through this processor on their way to a structure that resembled an inter-dimensional gateway at the top of the vast chamber overhead. Glowing emerald energy drifted in clouds within a great circle of bronze and gold, inscribed with runic characters meaningless to him. The walls of the enormous vault appeared to be damp stone covered in moss, set with medieval torches. Flashes appeared here and there in the churning green as it devoured the incoming stream of data.

  He frowned at the overdone graphics, no doubt inspired by that ‘Monwyn’ craze spreading through the commoners. Mamoru had little patience for such wasted effort in design; this construct was a visual representation of the instantaneous echo of information to the opposite point on Mars. A simple opening would have sufficed.