Grey Ronin (The Awakened Book 3)

by Matthew S. Cox

  Quantum… something: pairs, nonlocality, teleportation… The machinery enabled data to travel between two fixed points with zero time, though the interpolation that translated data between the planetary network and the preprocessor for the faster-than-light link added a perceptible delay to anyone inside cyberspace. For infiltration or gaming, Earth-Mars latency was severe to the point of prohibitive. An action initiated on Mars could take thirty to forty seconds to happen on Earth. While a master might make it into a poorly maintained network with minimal security under those conditions, no one should be able to infiltrate Matsushita’s network from another planet. The thought struck him as more laughable than using a senshelmet for serious hacking.

  He didn’t trust what effect such a gateway would have on a cyberspace presence like his, and backed away. The people who designed the data bridge never imagined anyone could project their chi into the network, and he didn’t feel like gambling his soul on technology that defied the laws of the known universe… at least to the point he understood them. For all he knew, it would tear his ghost from his body or split him into two people.

  The more he thought about it, the deeper his frown became.

  “Impossible. Perhaps I am not as alone as I believed myself to be. Only a wielder of chi could have accomplished the infiltration over such a link in real time.”

  Mamoru gazed up at the roaring inferno of energy above him and scowled. His adversary was on Mars, and should not have been able to breach their network. If another existed who possessed a similar gift, they were a threat. For the sake of Matsushita’s secrets, and for the glory of Minamoto’s favor, he would have to find them―even if it meant going to Mars.

  He focused once more on his company’s network, and sent himself there.

  Blackness gave way first to the calming sounds of the ocean and attendant seagulls. Next came a cool, salty breeze, followed by the feeling of wooden boards beneath his feet and a world of blank light. The wraparound porch of his sensei’s home in the countryside drew itself in, first as black lines, then a real-looking object. The house came next, followed by a countryside drawn in as green spread out over white, racing to the distance where mountains erupted beyond the haze of morning fog.

  Ichirō Kutaragi emerged from a set of double sliding doors, which opened on their own and closed behind him. The man seemed younger than when Mamoru had last seen him, though the hair that hung to his waist was still steel-grey. Every fold of his flare-shouldered haori jacket lay perfect, every embroidered black orchid where it always was.

  Mamoru shifted his image to appear as himself and knelt. Since his death, his old mentor had appeared on several occasions in cyberspace. At first, he believed it to be an AI created to replicate the wise old master, at Minamoto’s insistence. Lately, he was not so sure of the truth of it. The essence of the entity held a strange quality he could not quantify, beyond the nature of a self-aware program.

  “Kutaragi-sensei, it is my utmost desire that I have not disappointed you.”

  Ichirō waved him to stand. “Saitō-kun, you are about to suffer a storm not of your own making.”

  “Is this the work of the oni?”

  Ichirō chuckled. “What threatens you is no oni, Mamoru. It is a man as mortal as you are or I once was. I cannot guide you anymore. You are no longer a boy.”

  Mamoru let his gaze fall. “I understand, Sensei. I do not fear them.”

  “This threat is external to the company, though it has dropped a venomous serpent in your bed.” Ichirō moved past him to the railing and stood in silence, gazing out over the fields.

  “Nami?”

  The wind fluttered Ichirō’s dark hakama pants, billowing like a skirt about his legs. “No, though they may manipulate her as well. You must promise me, Mamoru, you will not accept what is about to happen to you as a mark on your honor.”

  “What do you mean?” Mamoru’s eyes widened and he rushed to his former master’s side. “What threat is there to my honor?”

  “A stone does not disturb a pond unless a man hurls it into the water. Which is responsible for the ripples that mar the surface, the stone or the man?”

  “The man,” said Mamoru without hesitation.

  “Indeed.” Ichirō glanced back at him wearing a trace of a smile. “A foolish man would blame the stone.”

  “What―”

  Ichirō vanished amid a brief cloud of white light specked with silver numbers. When no trace of his mentor remained, Mamoru approached the railing, searching for understanding amid the wavering grass-covered hill. In the distance, a false village dotted the endless greenery. Small children giggled and ran through the field in pursuit of a bouncing dog. Birds seemed to hang still in the air, wings outstretched to ride the oncoming wind. This was how he remembered it.

  If not for his former master’s warning, the scene might have brought him peace.

  Honor Bound

  yame’s fingers teased at the deadly choker. She sat on cushions the same dark blue as her kimono, eyes downcast. A gentle breeze kicked up by the air system made the sky-colored obi at her back flutter. She kept her gaze away from Mamoru, staring at her bare feet. Nami faced her from the opposite side of a square, black table, eating dry soba noodles in silence. Ayame had not yet taken a bite.

  Mamoru sipped the last of the broth from a bowl of udon soup and set it down. He glanced to his right at Nami, and seconds later, to his left at Ayame.

  “What is on your mind, Ayame-chan?”

  Her hand froze; two fingers and a thumb in contact with metal, reflecting the flashing red light. “Forgive me, Saitō-sama. I do not wish to die.”

  “You expect to run away?”

  “No, Saitō-sama. I fear”―she released her grasp on the choker and let her hands fall to her lap―“that it may malfunction.”

  “What if I were to tell you they were stunners rather than explosives? You are young, pretty, and valuable. Why would they risk losing you to such a gruesome death?”

  Ayame faced forward, head down. “To make an example for others.”

  Mamoru frowned at the shivering woman, thinking for a moment of his parents. Like her, their weakness allowed others to harm them. If Ayame were stronger, she would not be his property. He stalled his thinking. She was here because she tried to resist the drunken samurai. Had she been weak, they would have had their way with her and left her be. His face darkened with a frown. If she survived. They broke her anyway. Ayame risked a glance, making eye contact for a mere second before cringing away. The sadness in her eyes tightened his throat and sent his gaze to the window.

  “Ayame-chan,” he said, near a whisper. “You must eat.”

  She gathered her chopsticks and bowl, pushing the noodles about for a moment before lifting a smidgen to her lips. Mamoru found himself unable to watch, wondering where this sudden pity for someone so pathetic had come from.

  A tone chimed through the apartment, followed seconds later by the shimmering face of Reiko Ishikawa appearing ten paces to their right. She looked frightened and confused, two emotions the majordomo never showed.

  “Mamoru, listen to me. You must leave right away.”

  He placed his hands on his hips, a guarded stare at the lack of politeness. “Ishikawa-sama, what―”

  “There is no time to explain. Something has happened to the Shogun. He has ordered you killed for trading our secrets to Kurotai. I know you would never betray us, and he expects you to die by seppuku to recover your honor. Please, Mamoru, do not consider fleeing a loss of respect. I… can’t remember any of it. I think… He could not even say which secrets you are to have given away. None of this is within tradition.”

  Ayame and Nami gasped. Both covered their mouths with their hands. Ayame burst into tears and muttered about what horrors a new owner would inflict on her.

  “I find this unamusing, Reiko. I have had no contact with Kurotai. The connection was a Vidphone call to your terminal. Did you transfer someone to Minamoto?”

 
; “I-I don’t recall.” Reiko’s eyes glazed over. “I remember hearing the chime and… gold.”

  “Someone has influenced him.” Mamoru narrowed his eyes. “I must find the man who throws the stone.”

  “What does that mean?” Reiko’s eyebrows scrunched together. “If I am seen warning you… Please don’t do anything foolish.”

  Her hologram vanished.

  His servant girls looked at him. Fear was evident on Nami’s face as well, though she concealed it far better than Ayame. Minamoto demands my death. I should… Ayame’s weeping intruded on his thoughts. His honor required obedience, but how casually had his beloved shogun cast him aside. Do these women deserve the result of my death? I am only the stone. My honor is my own. This is false. An oni has forced Minamoto against his will.

  The sounds of people approaching made Mamoru stiffen. Neither girl reacted.

  “Do you trust me?”

  Ayame stopped whimpering; red-ringed eyes stared at him. Nami nodded once.

  “Yes, Saitō-sama,” whispered Ayame.

  “Then do so.”

  Mamoru stood as the front door opened. A short, thin man in a black suit entered carrying a small case, flanked by a pair of taller men in gleaming white armor with rifles. A shadow drifted along the rice paper wall as an armored figure took position at the far side of the apartment, beyond the dojo. Another entered through the window at the right.

  Company soldiers to either side raised their weapons at him from twenty meters away. Mamoru remained standing with his back to the three closer men.

  “Saitō Mamoru,” said the man in the suit. “It is with great sorrow that I have come.” He walked up to within arm’s reach and held up the case. “You know why I am here. Minamoto-heika has discovered your treachery.”

  Ayame whimpered, staring down at her toes. Nami tentatively reached across the table to touch her, but did not have enough nerve to move.

  “I understand why you are here, Moriyama-san.” Mamoru spoke in an even, emotionless tone.

  Moriyama opened the case, rotating it to present a plastisteel wakizashi lying alongside a white enamel scabbard covered in golden dragons. A cloth wrapped the weapon at the midpoint, positioned such that an embroidered black Matsushita symbol rested along the blade.

  “We have brought Omura-san to act as your second,” said Moriyama.

  Footsteps at the door announced the arrival of a man a decade Mamoru’s senior, clad in modern composite samurai armor. He stopped in the doorway, thirty feet away.

  Mamoru waited for the plastic clicking of the samurai’s motion to cease. “These two have been exemplary servants. Allow me a moment.”

  Moriyama nodded.

  With his foot, Mamoru nudged the wheeled table out of the way and motioned at the women to move to him. Sniveling, Ayame stood and drew close. Nami followed suit without a noise. He held their heads to his chest, savoring the scent of their floral shampoo and the warmth of their touch.

  “Remember your trust,” he whispered, and slid his hands under their collars. He made a fist right at their throats, grasping the thick front part.

  Ayame’s legs shook. Her fingers clutched his shirt both as a plea for her life and so as not to fall. It was not unheard of for a disgraced company samurai to take his slaves with him in death. Nami went rigid and closed her eyes. Ayame whimpered, too terrified to even beg.

  “Moriyama-san,” said Mamoru.

  “Yes?”

  “I am but the stone.”

  “Wha―”

  Mamoru forced his chi to overwhelm the mechanisms in his hands. The electronics bowed to his will. He jerked his arms down, snapping the explosive restraints away into limp cords. Power flowed through his body as he accelerated himself. He twisted and flung his arms to the sides, hurling the metallic noodles at the more distant soldiers.

  Flexible explosive cord wrapped over the helmet of the man on the left, and coiled about the neck of the man on the right. Both soldiers had barely begun to react to the motion when the effect of Mamoru’s influence on the electronics faded and the charges detonated. Their bodies ceased to exist from midway up the chest; pieces of arm spun to either side as the majority of their torsos splattered to the wind. The women’s panicked screams occurred four seconds after the explosions. Nami caught Ayame as the younger woman fainted.

  Mamoru continued rotating, emitting a battle cry as he drove his fist into the chest of the soldier to Moriyama’s right. His fist cracked through the composite armor chestplate, which splintered to shards around his now-bloody knuckles. In Mamoru’s accelerated state, the sound resembled a boot crushing glass wrapped in cloth. The man flew backwards, red spewing from his nose. Mamoru’s left hand caught the ceremonial wakizashi as he followed the momentum of the punch and whirled. Moriyama squealed, holding the case up as a shield. Mamoru funneled power through his body, amplifying his strength. He smashed his right foot across the helmet of the remaining soldier, crushing it like an egg and launching the lifeless body into the wall. At the same instant, his left hand came down and plunged the blade through the case.

  Moriyama’s pants turned dark and wet―the tip of the wakizashi hovered millimeters from his heart. Ayame snapped awake, clutched her bare neck, and screamed again. Her body lapsed into shivers, evidently overwhelmed by a collision of terror and relief. Omura drew his katana and stalked in as Moriyama collapsed to sit on the floor, still staring at the blade that almost killed him.

  “Omura-san, our master has been poisoned. You are a respectable samurai, and so I offer you the chance to leave with your life and honor intact.”

  “You know I cannot defy Minamoto-heika’s order even if his sanity may be in doubt. Because I do not believe you have betrayed us, I shall not cut you down like a peasant dog. Retrieve your weapon, Saitō Mamoru. “

  Both women squealed. The reason for it washed over Mamoru a second later in the form of a frigid patch of air that seemed to move as if alive. He rendered a slight bow to Omura and started to walk toward his weapon, but stopped as the man shuddered.

  Omura howled, losing his grip on his blade and grasping his helmet with both hands. He collapsed to his knees and shivered once more before standing again.

  “S’okay, luv,” said Omura with a British accent. “I got this lunk. You should get out of here before the other soldiers arrive.”

  “You.” Mamoru pointed. “The oni who took Nami.”

  Nami clung to Mamoru from behind, trembling as much as Ayame.

  “Sweetie, you don’t have enough time to worry about what plane of hell I came from right now.” Omura winked in an unsettling feminine way and flicked his fingers at him. “Get going. Go on, sod off. You’ll find your way. I’m trying to be nice here and spare you the trouble of killing a decent man. Now, move.”

  Mamoru growled low in his throat, but moved to the rack that held his vibro katana. After affixing it to his belt, he ran to the dojo and stuffed his deck in a bag he slung across his back. On his return trip through the living room to the door, he stopped. Nami and Ayame held each other, looking terrified and not having moved. A trail of urine led to where Moriyama cowered in the corner, still clutching the pierced box. Mamoru stooped to grab the cloth that had been around the blade meant for his suicide, wiping fragments of armor and blood from his knuckles.

  “You are both free. Go.”

  The women stared at him.

  He gestured at the door. Lights shifted as an unseen aircraft circled the building. Nami and Ayame continued to cling to each other, shaking in stunned silence. Nami appeared close to vomiting and the younger girl gawped at what her collar had done to one of the soldiers. Her fingers pulled at her throat. Damn. Mamoru stomped over, seizing a wrist in each hand, and dragged the women behind him to the elevator. Several floors passed in silence before Nami whispered.

  “I am sorry, Saitō-sama. I was afraid―”

  Ayame looked at him with a blank expression. “That… was around my neck.”

  “I do n
ot own you now, woman. I am no longer samurai. I am ronin. Until I find the man who threw the stone, I have no master. Both of you are free to leave.”

  Nami gave him a perplexed look. He brushed her cheek with his hand, pale blue and lit by passing bands of light from their descent.

  “What will we do now?” Nami gathered his jacket in two fists. “They will come after us. We stand out dressed like this.”

  “What more do you wish from me? I have already freed you from your bondage.”

  Ayame looked up with the face of a little sister begging her brother for help. Mamoru let his head sag forward and loosed a heavy sigh. When the doors opened at the lobby, he again took hold of their arms and ran. The sound of three people running barefoot over faux marble tiles brought the din to a halt as everyone looked up to watch them. A light rain fell outside, misting around passing cars and keeping pedestrians’ heads tucked low in their coats.

  Mamoru parted the crowd like a plow, dragging Nami and Ayame behind him. Between his speed and the wet ground, the women stumbled in a perpetual state of almost falling. He ran through the neon-soaked streets of inner Tokyo, beneath the whirr of advert bots and the occasional hovercar. Several blocks from his former home, he halted at a street corner where the congestion showed signs of thinning. Clouds of fog drifted low over the near-standstill ground traffic here. Rain-soaked pavement glistened blue-white in the moonlight. A lone advert-bot passed overhead, low, trailing a spray of holographic cherry blossom petals as it tried to sell cosmetics.

  Ayame pressed herself to his back, teeth chattering as she shivered. Rain had soaked through all their clothes. She grabbed at her neck again, legs wobbling. No longer able to hold it in, she leaned to the side and retched.

  “Hey, which way is the theater?” shouted a man.

  Mamoru squinted at him, a thirty-something in a modern outfit that made his haori and the ladies’ kimonos seem like artifacts from a bygone era.