Daughter of The Dragon mda-16

by Ilsa J. Bick

  The vendor narrowed her eyes. “Well, that’s true. But it rained late.”

  “Well, ya put it that way…” Jake selected four passion fruits and dropped them into his basket.

  “Two for a bill,” she said. Jake pressed the money into her hand, and she slipped the bill into her pocket. “Come again now.”

  Jake smiled, bobbed his head. Then he turned and shuffled on his way.

  Another customer wandered by the fruit vendor a half hour later. “Local or imported?”

  “Imports,” the vendor said promptly. “From Helen, they are, and none finer.”

  “But I heard that Helen was very dry.”

  “A late rain, that’s what they say.”

  “Oh.” The young man looked dubious, then pointed again. “What about these lemons?”

  “Oh, they’s from Mallory’s World.”

  “Mmmm.” The young man thought, said, “I’ll take two passion fruits.”

  “Coming right up.” The vendor selected two, wrapped them in tissue paper and handed them over. “Two for a bill and bless ya, sir.”

  “Right.” The young man turned and strolled through the market until he came to an open-air café. Round green metal tables dotted a square, red-brick patio, and the young man took an open table furthest from the market thoroughfare, with his back to the wall of the café. He ordered hot tea, with lemon, no sugar. When the tea came, steaming hot with a wedge of lemon on the side, the young man waited until the server had moved on then dug out his passion fruits. He peeled off the tissue paper, smoothed it on the table, glanced right then left. Then he took up the wedge of lemon, held it over the paper, and squeezed. Nothing happened… and then a single word appeared, in black: Junction.

  Fishing out his lighter, Wahab Fusilli flicked it to life, then held the paper over the flame and watched as the edges curled, blackened and the entire square burned to ash. He sideswiped the ash with one hand, then dug out his pack from his breast pocket, shook out a smoke, lit it. Inhaled and smiled.

  Now was an excellent time to make his reports to his many masters.

  18

  Waddesdon Nadir Jump Point

  Benjamin Military District, Draconis Combine

  22 April 3135

  There really was nothing in the galaxy more beautiful than JumpShips poised to unleash an assault. They were arrayed in a rough V shape, his ship the point of the arrow. Waddesdon’s sun brushed the massive JumpShips’ hulls with a delicate wash of light, turning them silver, and Sakamoto thought he had never seen anything so wonderful.

  He shifted slightly, the soles of his gripshoes unzippering from the gripcarpet then remeshing with a sound like fabric tearing in two. He inhaled. He’d always hated JumpShip air; it smelled like burned cordite mingled with ozone, but today was a good day to be alive. To command was good. To do battle was better.

  Four months ago, he’d had power, of course. A warlord is power’s synonym, and now I shall wield mine. Let every living being taste my wrath for I will allow no sanction, no quarter. He was unconscious of the smile that spread along his lips. Well, and the oyabuns had grumbled, hadn’t they? But he’d beaten them, as he knew he would. Those oyabuns, the yakuza, they were like pack rats or chipmunks, never throwing anything away. So they’d delivered, and in such quantity! Enough troops to swell Sakamoto’s available manpower by half; enough to keep some troops in reserve against any attempt to reduce his power base or eliminate Sakamoto himself. Not to mention JumpShips. Monoliths! Chimeishos! And two Starlords! Oh, Sakamoto bet there was a story behind those little beauties. And there were ’Mechs, not those lowly, refitted construction ’Mechs either, but the real deal; tanks, Gauss rifles, hand weapons, and even a baker’s dozen of VTOL.

  And if his own troops grumbled at their yakuza compatriots, he didn’t care so long as they got the job done. The best way to defeat the yakuzas’ loyalty to one another was to divide and conquer. Otherwise, they’d be, well, as thick as thieves. Privately he understood and had, very quietly, assured his commanders that, in the end, the yakuza were not their equals. Use them as PPC fodder, he’d said with a wink and a nod. Better them than DCMS men any day.

  At the pilot’s station ahead and to the right, there came a soft burble of an alarm. “JumpShip on approach, Tai-shu,” the pilot announced. “Ten seconds.”

  As Sakamoto watched, the space beyond his ships wavered as if the void were about to melt. The light from the stars around the distortion subtended then broke into rainbows as space folded, contracted, opened and coughed out a Magellan–class JumpShip.

  “Message coming in,” said the pilot. He paused, then added: “I’m informed that it’s prerecorded, audio only.”

  Sakamoto nodded. “Play it.”

  A soft crackle saturated the sudden, preternatural stillness on the bridge, as if each crew member was holding his breath. Then, a voice, male: “Greetings, Tai-shu Sakamoto. Katana Tormark’s agents are on Junction and will be dealt with. By now the traitor herself is en route for Klathandu IV, but she goes only with an old man for company. The rest of her commanders have returned to their posts. Your path is clear. May your day end in victory and honor.”

  Sakamoto waited for more but there was nothing because nothing more was required. Turning in a slow half circle, he scanned the faces of the bridge crew: the communications officer, weapons, tactical. At last he came to Worridge, who stood a little behind and to his right. Worridge stood tall in her battle uniform; her features were expressionless.

  Ah, and you’re a deep one, Tai-sho. His eyes crawled over her face, searching for weakness or doubt, and finding none. So long as you do my bidding, you may have your private thoughts in that head of yours—else you might find yourself without a head to store anything in.

  Worridge frowned slightly when Sakamoto grinned. “Tai-shu?”

  “Nothing.” He waved the comment away, then clasped his hands behind his back and addressed the bridge crew. “The coordinator assured me that I should not act until the time is right. Well, I say there is no time like the present. Captain?” He looked toward the ship’s command chair. “If you will be so good as to go to battle stations.”

  Then, as the ship’s comm came alive, Sakamoto nodded at Worridge. “Now.”

  Sharpendale Airspace, Uranday, Chichibu

  Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere

  26 April 3135

  At 0300, Major Todd Hammond made love to his wife. At 0430, he stood over his infant daughter’s crib. When he bent to kiss her round little cheek, he inhaled an aroma of sweet talc and warm milk, and he lingered for another moment, fixing the smell in his mind. At 0515, there was a preflight briefing, and he sat in a metal chair so cold the chill leeched into his bones. And at 0720, Major Todd Hammond got ready to die.

  Another blast of swirling turbulence crashed into the aerospace fighter head-on, punching the nose of his craft with a ferocity that shuddered into Hammond’s teeth. The Lucifer’s engines let out a high sputtering whine, like the coughing turbine of a motor about to stall. Cursing, Hammond grappled with his stick as the fighter bucked, lost angels, and then heaved heavenward again. Thank Christ, he wasn’t flying the lighter Sparrowhawk ; battling goo like this would be what a pea felt like being shaken in an empty tin can, and Hammond supposed that, all things considered, he ought to be grateful for this at least. The Sparrowhawk flew recon ahead of Hammond’s flight, TACAN sweeping the upper atmosphere for bearing and slant range. Find the suckers, and then the Sparrowhawk was to fall back and get the hell out of Dodge without getting vaporized—if it could.

  The storm had been a surprise, though not as surprising as what had happened four days ago when the Dracs flickered into existence. Caught everyone with their britches down and picking their noses. Two JumpShips, with near enough DropShips to wipe out the whole planet, if that’s what the Dracs had in mind. Given that a lance of Republic aerospace fighters had been reduced to subatomic dust a day ago… well, you could say that was a pretty clear message
of Drac intent. Loud and clear.

  Of course, none of this was supposed to happen. With all the commotion the Dracs were raising over the border with Prefecture I, and the rumors about them going after Tormark in III, no one was prepared, least of all The Republic’s Central Command, what with all their fighters pulled back to deal with chasing after the Steel Wolves and Swordsworn. Whoever’d made that really bright move essentially quashed any hope of Chichibu being able to mount anything you might call resistance. Chichibu’s planetary militia had always been a joke, skeletal at best. So Command had decided to defend the planet, rather than trying to take the Dracs out near the jump point: specifically, Hammond’s lance, and another flying mop-up a thousand klicks back led by a guy named Kirk Jameson. Hammond didn’t know Jameson well. Had figured he had plenty of time to get to know him. Probably, given how things were going, he’d figured wrong.

  Everyone was going in hot, Hammond in the lead, their Lucifers nearly line abreast in a finger-four. They knifed through thick roiling masses of ionized clouds that worked both ways—a blessing and a curse, one of those good for goose and gander kind of things. Sure, he couldn’t see worth shit, and his sensors had been reduced to green-and-red jittering hash, with only the Sparrowhawk and his lance clearly visible because he’d ordered they stay two hundred klicks apart, a distance roughly equivalent to a Lucifer’s turn radius. Elbow room for maneuvering and attack; no sense in their making tac turns only to fly up each other’s tailpipes.

  His comm wasn’t much better: a mishmash of gabbled voices sifted through static that he only half registered because none of the Command-babble was worth a good goddamn. The only thing that brightened his day was the sure knowledge that if things were bad for him, they had to be just as bad for the Dracs. Maybe.

  A crackle in his headset: “Ray 36… ine… acts… ight… spect!”

  The Sparrowhawk, or the pilot, was reporting contact. “Say again, Ray 36,” barked Hammond. “Say again.”

  Fizzle, pop, then a splutter: “Ray 36… nine… forty right… sixty klicks, high… hot…!” Spritz, crackle, and then Hammond glanced at his sensors and saw that the little red speck that had been the Sparrowhawk was gone. But Hammond understood: nine contacts, forty degrees right, sixty klicks, high aspect.

  For a brief instant, as he prepared his flight to turn hard right to intercept, a stream of memory burned a trail across his consciousness, like the bright streak of a meteor. He felt the good, warm body of his wife in his arms, the feel of his daughter’s hair, the softness of his wife’s lips and the way they tasted. He remembered fingers of wind on his cheeks and the wonder of a leaf in his hand. He remembered living. He remembered his life. It had been a good one.

  Major Todd Hammond said, “Ray 31 flight, check forty right, throttle up, now!”

  No one acknowledged, but they didn’t have to. They turned, and Hammond fired his aft thrusters. A lion’s roar of power competed with the violence of the storm, and a giant fist punched Hammond against his seat as his Lucifer leapt into battle. The sudden g s left him light-headed for a giddy instant, and he grunted automatically, raising his vascular pressure with an instinctive Valsalva maneuver that forced blood back into his brain until his g–suit compensated. His Lucifer gobbled up air, and he was climbing, climbing…

  And then it was as if the Dracs materialized out of a thick mist: first the churning clouds, and then a queer red glow lighting the atmosphere with fire, and then Hammond’s contact alarms screamed. A rain of ruby red laser fire sliced the air, dancing around Hammond’s canopy. The lasers were so close their glare burned through Hammond’s protective visor and left purple afterimages sizzling on his retinas. The Dracs thundered out of the clouds, nine strong, their lasers darting ahead like fiery tongues, followed by the massive hulk of the DropShip close behind.

  “Mother of God,” said Hammond, and even as his computer shrilled that the Dracs were acquiring; even as his lance broke formation for evasive maneuvers; even as the air over his canopy burned—he knew.

  It would be the last prayer he’d ever say.

  Tranquil Seas Resort, Tranquil Bay

  Shangai, Shinonoi

  Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere

  6 May 3135

  Oh, and to hell with Phillip. Sherry Platt squeezed a puddle of sunscreen into the palm of her right hand. She worked the sunscreen into her left shoulder, wincing as beach grit sanded her skin. When had anyone ever accused Phillip of listening to a word she said? If she’d told him once, she’d said it a hundred times: For God’s sake, put on some sunscreen so you don’t end up like a boiled lobster.

  But noooo. Sherry massaged more goo onto her legs and the flabby, fish-belly white rolls of her stomach. Capping the sunscreen with a sharp snick, Sherry flopped back onto her towel and squinted. The sun was very bright today, bright enough to bring tears. She shaded her eyes with her right hand. Perfect beach weather, not a cloud in the sky, blue as far as the eye could see. Blue sky, blue water, white sand… Finally, Phillip gets some time off, and they go to the beach, and then what does Phillip do? Phillip doesn’t listen. Phillip doesn’t use sunscreen. Phillip spent four hours in the sun yesterday, and now Phillip was flopped like a beached whale on their beautiful king-size bed—and a Jacuzzi included, too, she could have killed for a Jacuzzi bath; you could sail a yacht in that Jacuzzi, and the sex! But no sex now, not with Phillip’s skin flash-cooked to the color of a boiled lobster. No, redder than that, as red as a fire truck, that was how red.

  Sherry flicked sand from her nails—green, this month. Some vacation, with her watching Polly solo and… Sherry paused, frowned. Come to think of it, where was Polly? She pushed to a sit, then struggled to her feet. Hummocks of sand tilted and slewed under her feet and made her wobble like a drunk. Sherry shaded her eyes and peered left down the strip of white beach. The sand was so hot the far horizon shimmered like a mirage. There was a forest of gaily colored umbrellas and oiled bodies strewn at haphazard angles on towels, but no Polly. To the right, there were more umbrellas, a volleyball net, the lifeguard’s high wooden platform, and a bank of portable toilets snugged beneath the underbelly of a boardwalk. Then, straight ahead, she spotted a blue polka-dotted bum and two dimpled legs standing at the water’s edge.

  “Polly!” But Polly didn’t turn; probably couldn’t hear her over the noise of the sea. Exasperated, Sherry picked her way around bodies that reeked of suntan oil and sweat. “Polly?”

  This time, Polly turned. Her sunglasses slid to the nub of her nose. They were child’s sunglasses, the kind with mermaids at the corners and tangles of colored plastic seaweed along the brows. “Look, Mommy!” Polly jabbed a chubby finger up at the sky. “Stars!”

  “The sun’s out,” said Sherry, crossly. “When I call, I expect you to snap to. Come on.” She clamped a hand around Polly’s left wrist. “We’ll play…”

  “Nooooo!” Polly went rubber-chicken limp, slewing sideways as dead weight. A neat kid’s trick that made Sherry stagger. “Lookit the stars, lookit the stars!”

  Now, other bathers at the water’s edge were turning to gawk. Mortified, Sherry hauled back on her sagging daughter. Snapshot: mother with screaming child. If there hadn’t been so many people around, Sherry would probably have let go. “All right, all right! If I look at the stars, will you come along?”

  The transformation was immediate. Polly beamed and scrambled to her feet. “There!” she cried, pointing at a spot behind Sherry’s shoulder and high to the right.

  Sighing, Sherry turned, shaded her eyes, and looked. Seawater foamed around her ankles. The things you do for kids… Then, she stopped thinking, felt her stomach get cold, the warmth drain out of her toes and soak into the sand.

  “Pretty!” Squealing, Polly clapped in excitement as the shooting stars screamed toward the sea. “Pretty!”

  “Oh, God.” That was all Sherry said, and then the roar of the fighters’ sonic boom rolled like thunder, and with so much force that Sherry felt the impact in
her chest.

  And then, the stars opened fire.

  19

  Two Forks, Junction

  Benjamin Military District, Draconis Combine

  Evening, 10 May 3135

  The café was named Cuppa Joe, and McCain smelled the place a block before he saw it: an aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with spicy cinnamon. He sucked in a lungful, grateful at the prospect of a really good cup of coffee and the freedom to walk without keepers trailing a discreet distance behind. The café was located in a cobblestone walking district that ran for seven blocks north and south, and four blocks east and west. Pedestrians and vendors only: no hovercraft, not even a bicycle. The evening was cool enough to be just the other side of brisk; the streets were jammed with people loitering before shop windows or wandering aimlessly; street performers strummed guitars or did magic tricks; clots of tables set in outdoor patios were filled with couples eating, talking, drinking.

  Cuppa Joe’s red-brick exterior was the last of a string of storefronts on that particular block, and packed, natch. But then he spied an empty table set back along the wall and at the corner: dark green lacquer with spindle legs and two black wrought-iron chairs. Sauntering over, his eyes flicked to a soft pack propped against the bricks: Lucky. When he looked, he saw eight smokes left, filter-tipped.

  Luck be a lady. As McCain slipped the pack into the front pocket of his leather jacket, he felt eyes on his back and, turning, he met the frankly curious inspection of a young couple the next table over. McCain gave a sheepish smile, shrugged. “Trying to quit, but you know…” Trailing off, he shrugged again to put a period on it.

  “Mmmm.” The woman, a nondescript brunette with hair down to her waist and hoop earrings trimmed with beads, eyed him, then turned her attention back to her date.

  The coffee was black and tall, and just as good as he remembered; strong and laced with chicory. He sipped, scalded his mouth, put the cup—one of those heavy white ceramic jobs—aside to cool.