Ishiyama salvaged the ceremony by bowing deeply to the Coordinator's position and holding the bow for even longer than Yorinaga-ji had. He then bowed to Yorinaga-ji and held that bow for nearly as long as his bow to the Coordinator.
"The Coordinator says, Komban wa, Kurita Yorinaga-ji." Ishiyama's voice, barely more than a whisper through his mask, came almost as an echo of words from the absent Coordinator's throat.
Yorinaga-ji bowed, but made no reply.
Ishiyama lifted the blue tea bowl up onto the lacquered table. Using Urizen's ladle, he dipped steaming water from the tea urn and brought it down slowly enough for the steam to form a thick white curtain between the urn and the table. In three fluid motions, he filled the bowl with water, releasing a cloud of steam with each move.
As the steam dissipated, Ishiyama again whispered. "The Coordinator says he wishes to apologize for not replying to your annual request to commit seppuku. He admits that his own weakness has kept him from contemplating this life without you. He says that he has never replied because he could only deny your requests, and that denial would bring you pain."
Again, silently, Yorinaga-ji inclined his head toward the invisible
Coordinator. He paid no conscious attention to the man acting as the Coordinator's surrogate because, as long as the other man wore the black costume, he did not exist. Yet, the tea master's skill was such that, as he added crushed tea leaves to the water and mixed them with so dexterous and easy a motion of the whisk, Yorinaga-ji relaxed unconsciously for the barest of moments.
Ishiyama, his senses almost supernaturally alert during the cha-no-yu, sensed Yorinaga-ji's momentary relaxation, and his heart leapt up. Ishiyama immediately gained control of himself and set the whisk down on the table. He cupped the bowl of tea in his hands, utterly ignoring the heat, and placed it before the Coordinator's position.
"The Coordinator says he has found a way to grant the release you desire, while also allowing you to fulfill your duty to him and preserving him from grief for your death." Ishiyama reached out for the tea bowl, rotated it 180 degrees with slow precision, and lifted it across the table. Without a sound, and without a ripple breaking across the top of the tea, he placed the bowl before Yorinaga-ji.
"The Coordinator says that he will form an elite unit around you. They will become the Genyosha—the Black Ocean—and you will be their leader. You will train them and pass on the knowledge and skill for which you are so well-known. You will be able to select fifty men, one for each year of your age, from all the forces in the Combine. Then, aside from an ISF liaison officer, you will have no superior but the Coordinator."
Ishiyama lowered his head. "You will be Iemoto of the Genyosha for, once you have given them all that you are, they will train fifty men, and those fifty will train fifty until all our forces have your heart and mind."
Ishiyama waited, but Yorinaga-ji did not move. Ishiyama knew that he had presented Yorinaga-ji with his deepest desire. Ishiyama suppressed the desire to smile nervously, but he did marvel at how well the Coordinator knew this man who had been in exile for eleven years.
Ishiyama's voice again filled the room with sounds less substantial than the steam curling up from the tea before Yorinaga-ji. "The Coordinator asked me to mention, as a small item of interest, that plans have already begun for the utter destruction of the Kell Hounds."
Yorinaga-ji inclined his head ever so briefly. Some emotion that Ishiyama could not identify strobed across Yorinaga's face,
but was swallowed in the self-control fortified by his exile. Without looking down, Yorinaga-ji unerringly cupped the tea bowl in his hands and raised it to his lips.
BOOK 2
17
Solaris VII (The Game World)
Rahneshire, Lyran Commonwealth
20 February 3027
Zao, Fuh Teng."
Justin Xiang's greeting startled the MechWarrior. Fuh Teng half-turned to see who had crept up on him so quietly, and his movement caused a piece of equipment to shift. Teng's Tech, half-hidden inside the Vindicator's PPC assembly, cursed loudly. Fuh Teng narrowed his eyes. He did not like the looks of the man who had spoken, but could not identify him.
Fuh Teng bowed his head slightly and returned Justin's greeting. "Hello. Is there something I can do for you? You should not be in here, you know."
Justin nodded and thrust his hands even deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket. "So they tried to tell me at the gates. I am Justin Xiang, and I want to fight for you."
Teng frowned. "I need no pilots. I cannot afford them." He looked up at the Vindicator looming above them in the darkened warehouse. "I exhausted my resources piecing this 'Mech together from what remnants I could salvage of my last 'Mech and the 'Mech my brother died in."
Justin nodded. The Tech, Tung Yuan, appeared from inside the PPC, and the glare of his arc-welder bleached the color from Teng's face while sinking his eyes into deep shadows. The Tech snapped an order in Capellan. Before Teng, hampered by the brace stiffening his right knee, could move to comply, Justin responded. Easing his dufflebag from his right shoulder, he crossed to the crate that the Tech had indicated and plucked a silver cylinder half a meter long and half that wide from the plastic foam inside the box.
He held it up toward the Tech, saying, "This is an R-4721 PPC Inhibitor." Justin frowned at Teng. "If you put this in the PPC, you'll get all the flash with none of the punch."
Teng snatched the cylinder from Justin and handed it up to the Tech. "Yes, Xiang, that is true. But it is also true that I do not want the punch."
Justin shook his head. "But if you win the match in Steiner Stadium tonight, you'll have enough money to refurbish your Vindicator from top to bottom, and to hire a half-dozen pilots to work for you. With a few well-placed bets, you could even win enough to buy another 'Mech and start a stable."
Teng behaved as though he'd heard none of Justin's words. "Xiang, Xiang . . ." he mused, then suddenly smiled tensely. "Oh yes, you're the MechWarrior that Hanse Davion banished to our little world. Well, you may have been special where you came from, Justin Xiang, but without a 'Mech, you're nothing here." Teng shrugged, then smiled again weakly. "Understand. I do not mean to be harsh, but there are certain rules here on the Game World."
Justin narrowed his eyes. "You mean you've been ordered to lose the fight."
Teng smiled and the lines around his eyes betrayed his age. "I know survival is the key, and I feel more vulnerable out in Cathay than I do in any of the stadiums. The local oddsmakers have connections within the tongs, and are willing to use them to protect their profits." Fuh Teng shrugged philosophically. "I will be given another chance to win a large purse when it suits the purposes of the planet's masters."
Justin nodded solemnly. "So, in this case, your advice to a warrior without a 'Mech is that he should bet on your opponent?"
Teng nodded. "Your age belies your wisdom."
Justin smiled and bowed. Teng, knowing that the interview had ended, turned back to supervising the repair of his 'Mech. He never saw Justin's gloved left fist arc out and crash into his head. With a quiet gasp, Teng sank into a heap on the floor, and the tool he'd been holding clattered beside him on the ferrocrete.
When Tung Yuan poked his head back out of the PPC, his eyes popped open wide at the sight of his fallen employer. Justin merely smiled up at him. "Switch that inhibitor out of the PPC and blank the recognition system so I can link up with the machine."
Grinning broadly, the Tech nodded assent. Justin winked at him and added, "Then we'll tie up Teng here, and find someone willing to take a very specific bet on this fight at nice, long odds."
Tung Yuan ducked back into the Vindicator's PPC housing. Though he never saw the grim smile take hold of Justin's face, he heard him mutter, Now, Hanse Davion, I begin to take my revenge. You will long remember this day.
* * *
"My dear Gray Noton, how pleased I am to see you've made it!" Enrico Lestrade, clad in a navy blue dress uniform with more me
dals and gold braid decorating it than were available in most of the Successor States, moved through the crowd gathered in his private box at Steiner Stadium. He enthusiastically grasped Noton's extended right hand in both of his own, pumping it furiously. "You honor us with your visit."
As other of Lestrade's guests turned to stare at Noton, he forced himself to smile, inwardly trying to decide whether to shatter Lestrade's clammy, fleshy hand. Instead, he grabbed Lestrade's right elbow tightly and gently squeezed. "So kind of you to invite me here to watch Teng battle Wolfson. It should be a good match."
Lestrade winced at the pressure on his elbow and quickly freed Noton's hand. Lowering his voice, he said, "We should speak. Come to my office."
Noton nodded and followed Lestrade back to a small room. As the door closed behind him, shutting out all the party's noise from the soundproof cubicle, Noton touched a button on his watch and waited for a red light to glow on the face. When nothing happened, Noton smiled to himself. He's not recording this meeting, and that makes him a fool. "You have the ticket, Baron?"
Enrico Lestrade nodded. He flexed his right hand several times to try to get some feeling back into it, and frowned at Noton during the process. "I'm sorry, Noton, but that is how I greet all my guests."
Noton's eyes slitted. "I trust you do not have covert deals with all of them." Doublecross me, Baron, and you will regret it.
Enrico shook his head and began patting his pockets in search of the betting ticket. "No," he said, "most are visitors from the Commonwealth, and a few from the Federated Suns. Wolfson, being one of the Capellan Mafia—as Capet has so quaintly labeled his pack of warriors-—is a great draw. I've even invited him up here after the match."
"You did what?" Noton's voice exploded in anger. If you've done anything to suggest that this fight is fixed, I will have you flayed alive.
Lestrade recoiled from Noton's tone, as though from a heavy blow. "Come now, don't take me for a fool. I did not invite him up. I invited the winner." Smiling conspiratorially, he found the silvery slip of paper and extended it toward Noton. "Just because we know who will win doesn't mean we need to broadcast it."
Noton took the ticket and let a slow smile transform the mask of fury his face had become. His fee, 50,000 credits, had been used to place a bet at two-to-one odds that Wolfson would win. With the fight fixed, Noton got double his fee from the bookmakers on the planet, and no one could trace the transfer of wealth. "Very well. Let us rejoin the party."
Enrico beamed. "You'll be pleased to know, Noton, that the Contessa is here this evening." Enrico opened the door and escorted Noton among the guests, making a few preliminary introductions. Then he slipped away into the chattering crowd. Noton excused himself from a conversation about the neo-abstraction of the Deia traditionalist school, and navigated a path toward the bar.
The bartender smiled up at him. "Sir?"
Noton glanced at the various types of beer half-buried in a tray of ice, but changed his mind. Business is over. I can afford to drink, especially if Lestrade is paying. Noton smiled. "A PPC, Steiner, straight up."
The bartender smiled knowingly and set a brandy snifter on the counter. Into it, he poured four shots of grain alcohol, and because Noton had specified "Steiner," he cut it with two shots of peppermint schnapps. He reached for a sprig of mint, too, but Noton warned him off with a shake of his head. The bartender smiled and handed him the drink. "Be careful. That stuff can etch glass."
Noton laughed and cradled the snifter in one hand. He swirled the clear mixture around and watched as it picked up and distorted the sights and colors around him. With a pleased smile, he raised the glass to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of the liquid before it could fully numb his tongue.
"Not a sipping drink, is it, Mr. Noton?" Contessa Kym Sorenson commented as Noton screwed his eyes shut against the drink's jolt.
Noton relaxed his face, then opened his eyes. "You are a most welcome vision, Contessa." She wore high-heeled black boots gathered at the ankles, black trousers, and a sleeveless, strapless satiny green shirt that matched the silk scarf knotted around her pale throat. Noton smiled, took her outstretched hand, and raised it to his lips. "Please, call me Gray."
The Contessa nodded and smiled. "Gray, it is." She turned and leaned against the bar, glancing wearily from the milling crowd to
Gray. Pointing at his drink, she said, "Does that make these gatherings any less stuffy?"
Noton shrugged his wide shoulders. The light rippled off the black velvet of his tunic, whose wide "V" of gray velvet running from one shoulder to his waist and back up to the other shoulder made the MechWarrior seem more slender. "Lestrade runs with a rarified crowd. I remember many of these people from the days when the Battle Commission honored me with parties because of my victories out in the Arenas. They've always been stuffy, and, yes,"—he looked down at his drink—"I've found PPCs a great help."
The Contessa turned to the bartender. "I'll have a PPC, too."
The bartender smiled as Noton, standing behind the Contessa, signaled the man to dilute the drink by half. "How would you like that, my lady?"
The Contessa frowned and turned to Noton. "Gray?"
Noton smiled. "The drink has several variations, each one known by one of the Great House names. I drink the Steiner variant, which cuts the white lightning with peppermint schnapps. The Liao version cuts it with plum wine, and the Kuritan dilutes it with sake—or aviation fuel, whichever is handier." Noton paused for a moment, trying to recall the other variants. "Davion cuts it with bourbon, or tequila, if you're in the Capellan March."
The Contessa wrinkled her nose. "And Marik?"
The bartender brandished a bottle of ouzo and the Contessa smiled. "I'll have mine Marik." The bartender quickly complied and handed her a snifter identical to the one that Noton was holding.
Noton led the Contessa away from the bar to the first row of chairs looking out over the Arena. "You'd best sit down before you drink that. The first one is something of an experience." Noton waited for her to sit, then dropped into a plush red seat beside her, and began to swirl his drink.
The Contessa aped his motion. "Why do they call it a PPC?"
Noton laughed. "The particle projection cannon is one of the most powerful weapons a 'Mech can carry. It packs a nasty punch, just like this drink." Noton nodded toward her glass. "The trick is to get it down before."
"Before what?"
Noton quickly drank and swallowed. "Try it and see," he whispered hoarsely.
The Contessa reared her head and tossed off the PPC. She swallowed, then coughed and wiped the tears that sprang to her eyes. She waved a hand in front of her mouth for a couple of seconds, then swallowed again. "I see." She coughed again lightly. "My mouth is numb."
Noton smiled. "In about thirty minutes, that numbness will hit your brain. You ought not to notice the stuffiness of the party."
The Contessa smiled and turned to look out the massive window. Below, in a sandy, open arena reminiscent of the coliseums of ancient Rome, a trio of medium 'Mechs battled twice their number of more agile, lighter 'Mechs. Nearly invisible and impossibly delicate, a crisscrossed cage of wires surrounded the arena, separating the killing area from the glassed-in spectator galleries and, above them, the luxury boxes.
The Contessa pointed to the wire mesh. "What is that?"
Noton, sitting back as the drink spread its warmth through his body, knit his brows in concentration. "That is a detonator grid. Any missiles flying from the arena will hit it before they hit the spectator windows. The windows are covered with the same sort of high-impact plastic used in 'Mech canopies, but no one wants to take any chances."
"What about lasers or PPC shots?"
"The grid will siphon off PPC energy. The windows themselves are reflective." Gray laughed and leaned forward. "I remember once using the window to bounce off a shot at a foe's weakened aft armor." He nodded toward the arena. "There can actually be a 'home field advantage' for a warrior who fights r
egularly in one arena."
Kym furrowed her blond eyebrows. "Neither of the two men we're here to watch is from the Commonwealth, and so neither would have that advantage?"
Noton pursed his lips and watched as one of the battling Mech-Warriors ejected right before his 'Mech exploded. "Billy Wolfson, the guy who will pilot the Hermes II, has fought in this arena more times than has Fuh Teng, though Teng has more fights overall."
"Won't a Vindicator take the Hermes apart? The Hermes surrenders five tons and some weaponry." Another explosion down on the killing floor flashed yellow and orange light against Kym's face and hair. "I should think Teng will walk all over this Wolfson."
Noton smiled carefully. "That's what the bookmakers believe. They have Teng a two-to-one favorite over Wolfson." Kym smiled impishly. "But.. .”
“But?"
Kym laid her hand on Noton's thick forearm. "You obviously have your own opinion, Gray. Who do you think will win?" Noton chuckled softly to himself. "Touche. This is Teng's first fight in several weeks. His knee is now braced, and he's fighting without his brother at his side. I think that Wolfson, who is a good fighter on his way up, will win the contest."
Down on the battlefield, two of the medium 'Mechs finished off the last light 'Mech, and the maintenance crew appeared to clear away the debris. They worked quickly and efficiently to tow any 'Mechs unable to leave the arena on their own.
Behind Noton and the Contessa, Lestrade's other guests also noticed that the fight had ended. With a whispered rustle of silks and satins, the guests quickly took seats overlooking the field. A few cursed their luck concerning bets on the last battle, and several loudly predicted the outcome of the fight they'd all come to watch. Whenever any overheard pronouncement seemed particularly absurd, Kym turned to Noton and both of them shared a silent laugh.
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