by Ilsa J. Bick
“We take away his base of support. We have a much better chance if we strike the worlds where he’s been gone awhile. Troops get tired; they want to go home; they want to know they’re appreciated. If I’m right about Sakamoto, he doesn’t give a damn about his people. That’ll be our advantage. What is a general without his troops but just a guy in a fancy uniform?”
“Uh-huh,” said Crawford. “Well, speaking of fancy clothes, let’s think this through, shall we?” He knew he hovered perilously close to insubordination, but then figured, screw it: He could only die once. “What about the coordinator? Sagi said Sakamoto went without authorization, but who’s Sagi? No one.”
“That’s why, when I meet Sakamoto, I will come as his ally.”
“What? You just said…”
“We’ll still do a rearguard action, no question. But if I don’t offer to talk, that’s reason enough to turn us into grease spots. Offer to negotiate in front of witnesses, and he’ll have a harder time killing us.”
Crawford hesitated, then said, very carefully, “You are my tai-sho. I will follow you to death if need be. But you are insane, and I want that on the record because you know what else? After what happened to Toni and Sully, if you get yourself killed? Katana, you’ll think you deserved it.”
They stared at one another a long moment. Finally, Katana broke the silence. “Noted. You are dismissed, Chu-sa.” Then, as he reached the shoji, Katana said, “Crawford, one more thing.”
Ah, his last name. Meant he was in the shit house for sure. Crawford met Katana’s steely gaze. “Yes, Tai-sho?”
“The Bounty Hunter’s Marauder II is in our hangar, but there is no Hunter. Do you know where he is?”
It wasn’t what he’d expected, but Crawford was ready just the same. “No,” he lied.
Field Hospital, Fourth Sword of Light, Ancha
Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere
25 June 3134
Chu-sa Leo Montgomery scrubbed grit from his eyes. All he wanted was five hours of sleep, but instead he’d been operating nonstop, resecting bowel, digging out shrapnel, amputating limbs, and now he was elbow-deep in administrative crap, too. Montgomery sighed, fingered the tai-i’s paperwork from his desk, and squinted at the pilot still patiently at attention. “Tai-i…” Montgomery scanned the paperwork. “Goddard… you’re sure? You’re entitled to go home.”
“Quite sure,” said Goddard. “Honor demands that I go back to the front lines.”
Montgomery scrutinized the aerospace pilot. Goddard was disconcertingly tall for a pilot; most pilots tended to be small men, and there was something about his face Montgomery didn’t care for. Not just the scar jagging through his left eyebrow and cheek; a souvenir from the crash. No, something else… the eyes? Montgomery gave himself a mental shake. “I appreciate your zealousness, but…”
“Please, Doctor,” said Goddard, and his voice had an insistent edge that made Montgomery uneasy. Goddard must’ve seen this because he smiled, and Montgomery didn’t know which was worse; the man’s tone, or that smile that sent icy fingers tripping up his spine. “I want to fight. Please, transfer me back to Silver Wing of the Forty-third Aerospace based on Al Na’ir. That’s where I’m needed.”
That smile, and those eyes… Montgomery cleared his throat. “Very well, since you’re so eager.” Montgomery’s pen jittered as he scrawled his signature—illegible, he knew, but cut him some slack, he was a doctor—and handed the papers over to the pilot.
Still, Montgomery stared at the closed door for some time after the tai-i left. No, it wasn’t the smile. It was the eyes, those cold, gray eyes. Like a corpse; no, a devil…
Scarsborough Manufacturers, Al Na’ir
Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere
25 June 3135
“Bah! That is no answer!”
“That is the only answer I will give,” said the chu-sa. She was a tall woman, with a purple-black bruise staining her right cheek, and a defiant snap to her light blue eyes.
“Do not tell me what you will or will not give!” Sakamoto seethed. They were in the CEO’s office. The air was bad, close with burnt cordite, the gassy smell of decaying flesh, and a faint but distinctive scent of bitter almonds. Tasted bad enough to make Sakamoto want to spit. “And these empty threats that Dragon’s Fury will crush us. You overestimate your importance.”
“Perhaps you overestimate your reach. The coordinator will never let this stand. It is one thing to defeat Republic forces, but quite another to target troops who have pledged their loyalty to…”
“To a woman who is not the coordinator!” And now Sakamoto did spit: on the chu-sa’s right MechWarrior boot.
A gasp from Worridge at his right elbow. “Tai-shu, I don’t think…”
“Silence, Worridge!” Sakamoto raged, without turning around. “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it!”
The Fury’s chu-sa stared at the spittle that had washed out a circle of dust and then back at Sakamoto. “You demean yourself, Tai-shu. A samurai has honor and honor demands respect…”
“Given to whom? Traitors?” But he was shamed nonetheless, and it wouldn’t do to let Worridge or that skinny chu-sa–Magruder, yes—see this in his eyes. So Sakamoto turned aside, eyeing the prisoners. They were a mixed bunch, bedraggled and exhausted: Phoenix Dome survivors—officials, mainly, and their families—flushed like rats from underground shelters. Scarsborough Manufacturers’ employees and their CEO, a plump, bald little man, seized when Sakamoto’s troops stormed their below-ground facilities. The lot of them had junked sorely needed repair equipment and tried to blow up the complex! That fiasco cost Sakamoto three full platoons.
Then Sakamoto’s eyes came to rest on two prisoners: one in an orange jumpsuit, who sported a cane in his right hand and a grimy cast that stretched from the toes of his right foot to his hip; a second whose white shirttails dangled like tongues. “What about you, Eriksson?” Sakamoto said to the man with the cast. “Where is your beloved exarch now, eh?”
The old knight pushed himself erect. An effort, clearly. The knight had been captured when his ’Mech’s missile rack exploded. Eriksson had ejected, his right femur snapping like a dry twig when he hit. “I’m a realist, Sakamoto. I’m only one man. If need be, my life is forfeit for a greater good.”
“Pretty words, but I’m your reality now.” Sakamoto turned his glare on the man with the shirttails. “Isn’t that right, Governor Tormark? What do you think of your intrepid little cousin?”
“Second cousin,” Tormark amended. He was not as tall as Eriksson, and his skin was a light cinnamon color. “What she does is none of my concern. But at least she’s humane. You are a barbarian. Destroying Phoenix Dome flies in the face of decency…”
“Yes, but this barbarian brought you to heel, didn’t he?” Sakamoto’s lips twisted in a malignant grin. “Pity about Fuchida; politicians really shouldn’t play with guns. But you surrendered quickly enough.”
Tormark’s face flushed a dull copper. “To save the dome. You left me no choice.”
“You had a choice. You just didn’t like the alternative.” But Sakamoto was weary of this game. Stuck on this horrid little planet until the men had rested, and their repairs completed, a process that would now take that much longer… “Enough of this.” Sakamoto turned to the little CEO. “You,” he said, and then took aim at a Fury infantryman, a haggard female corporal, with an index finger. “And you. Step forward.”
The owner complied, but the corporal shot a quick glance at Magruder, who said, “If you have anything to say or do, Sakamoto, you will say it to me.”
“I do not require your permission, and I am done talking to you for the time being, Chu-sa.” He jerked his head at the corporal and the CEO. “Guards, take them to the surface. Now.”
There was a second when no one moved. Then the color drained from Magruder’s face, and Worridge said, aghast, “Tai-shu, with all due respect…”
“Shut up, Worridge.” When he saw his gua
rds hesitate, Sakamoto said, “Do it. Now.”
There was no mistaking the menace in his voice. The CEO’s face was so pale his eyes looked painted on, and his legs nearly buckled when a guard hooked a hand around his right arm. Sakamoto saw the female corporal’s throat working, but she said nothing.
“Tai-shu!” Magruder started forward, but a guard blocked her. “Tai-shu, please, don’t do this.”
“So, now you respect my title, eh?” Sakamoto looked down his nose at Magruder. “Tell me what I want to know: the precise location of Fury’s troops and capabilities.”
He saw the struggle in Magruder’s face. “No,” she said.
“Fine. Then you will have the pleasure of watching two prisoners die every two hours until you tell me what I want to know, or I run out of prisoners.” He gestured for the guards to take the two away.
The CEO’s office had a viewscreen covering one wall, and Sakamoto made them all watch and listen from beginning to end. Sakamoto shot Worridge a sidelong glance; her features were pinched and strained. Ah, Worridge; I’ve got my eye on you. Muting the audio, Sakamoto turned away from the viewscreen as the female corporal was in her death throes: back arched, mouth open, gouts of blood slicking her chin and throat. “I ask you again, Magruder. Tell me what I want to know.”
Magruder’s face was white as salt. “No.”
“Very well. Guards.” And then, as the guards were herding the prisoners away, Sakamoto pointed, said, “That one. Bring him here.” He caught the quick flash of fear on the man’s face: a swarthy sho-sa with a tousle of black hair.
Magruder said, sharply, “Why do you want him?”
“That is none of your concern.” He watched as the two Fury soldiers exchanged wordless glances. When the prisoners had shuffled out, he turned to Worridge. “Leave us. Tell the guard I want wine.”
Worridge opened her mouth, closed it, bowed and left. Flopping down in a high-back black leather wing chair, Sakamoto waited. Wary, the sho-sa said nothing. An aide appeared, silver salver with a decanter and goblet in hand. He squared the tray upon a low table, bowed and was dismissed. Sakamoto picked up the decanter, uncorked it and splashed a rich, nutty-smelling port into the goblet. “Sit,” he said, indicating the chair opposite. “Drink with me.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Wahab Fusilli. He dropped into the chair, groaned and drained the goblet in three huge gulps. “You people sure took your sweet time acknowledging my signal.”
“The price of authenticity. Be glad you’re alive,” Sakamoto said, refilling Fusilli’s goblet. Then he took a pull from the decanter, sighed with satisfaction, and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. “And now, you will tell me the precise composition and location of Katana Tormark’s remaining troops. Everything.”
28
Imperial City, Luthien
15 July 3135
“Executed every last one of them?”
“Except for Governor Tormark and Sir Eriksson, yes, we believe so,” said Bhatia, his expression grave even as his heart was jumping for joy. The horrors in his report had been many, and extraordinarily graphic, all thanks to his agent embedded in the front lines. He watched as the Peacock, dressed today in black velvet, with gold thread embroidered in fussy curlicues, digested this information.
“Sakamoto has ignored a direct order,” said Kurita, finally. “Which course of action would you recommend?”
I must play this just right. Bhatia had begun this meeting already on his guard; for some reason, his coordinator had anticipated a need and assembled a command circuit for his return trip from Terra, where he had gone to attend the funeral of Victor Steiner-Davion. Instead of arriving home as expected in September, he was here now. A coincidence, that he rushes home just as Sakamoto launches his offensive?
“With all due respect, Tono,” Bhatia began cautiously, “you asked the tai-shu to wait until the time was right. That is quite different from disobedience. Certainly, there’s ample precedent. Previous coordinators have allowed—indeed, encouraged–independent action by being deliberately vague. So long as Sakamoto doesn’t proclaim against you, he’s your agent.”
“Yes, but he has not proclaimed for us either.”
“But look at what Sakamoto has accomplished. He has reclaimed many of the Combine’s lost jewels one by one.”
“And you believe he should be rewarded.”
Bhatia inclined his head. “Serving the coordinator should be reward enough.”
“Yes, well,” Kurita said dryly, “somehow we don’t believe our esteem is quite what the good warlord is looking for. Where, exactly, do you believe the estimable Sakamoto can possibly go?”
“Go?” echoed Bhatia, confused. “Why, it’s clear that Dieron…”
“No, no, stop being so literal. We meant what position can Sakamoto possibly covet that he does not already have? There is only one, wouldn’t you agree?”
The hackles prickled along Bhatia’s neck, but he kept his expression neutral. “I cannot nor do I speak for the warlord, Tono.”
The Peacock’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “No?” And then he answered his own question. “No. After all, you and Sakamoto are not in league with one another to depose us. But here you’ve amassed all this intelligence and you’ve not pointed out what is so obvious a blind man could see it with a cane. Sakamoto has clearly hoarded a great deal of materiel for himself in anticipation of just such a day. He has not informed us of his actions, nor has he asked our blessing. He simply acts. So we ask you, Director”—Kurita looked through his lashes—“when do you think, exactly, Sakamoto will do either?”
Well played. The Peacock still had a surprise or two up his gaudy sleeve. “Perhaps Tai-shu Sakamoto wants to wait until Dieron has fallen.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.” When Bhatia opened his mouth in rebuttal, Kurita held up a jeweled hand, palm out. “Here is what we said: We told Sakamoto not to act until the time was right. Well, wouldn’t you think that time is now?”
Bhatia hesitated. What was the Peacock really asking? He opted for vagueness. “The time is whatever my coordinator wishes.”
Kurita stared a moment then chuckled. “We’d forgotten how adroit you are. Very well, Director. We thank you for your report.”
It was a clear dismissal. Bhatia opened his mouth, checked his reply, bowed instead, and left. When he’d gone, Vincent slid into a chair at his workstation, depressed a control, and dictated a message. When he was done, he encrypted the message, copied it to a data crystal, and popped the crystal into the palm of his hand. Then he thumbed a call button and, when an aide appeared, said, “We have an errand for you.” He proffered the crystal. “Arlington. At once.”
Commanding General Headquarters
New Alamo, Terra
Prefecture X, Republic of the Sphere
15 July 3135
“You call this an intelligence network?” Commanding General Tina Magnusson-Talbot was a big-boned woman, with a whiskey burr, ash-blond hair, and a thick middle from years of pushing paper and what she perceived rightly as the usual bureaucratic cow crap. The general aimed a blunt, nicotine-stained index finger at her intel director, a long-suffering lieutenant colonel named Larry Coleman, and fired another salvo. “You people couldn’t figure out what I had for breakfast much less what’s going on in those Dracs’ heads. Look at this garbage.” She tossed a ream of papers onto her desk, already brimming with paper and three ashtrays loaded with crumpled butts. “The Dracs make it all the way to Al Na’ir, millions dead and screw the Ares Conventions, and what are we doing? Sitting with our thumb up our ass, that’s what. Wondering what the Dracs are up to… I’ll tell you what they’re up to! Consolidating their gains, that’s what those damned Dracs are doing now! Deneb Algedi, Al Na’ir… Any fool can see they’ll fan out next for Mashira, Telos IV… Kervil! So what are you people going to do about it?”
Ah, you people. Coleman cleared his throat. “Actually, the ball’s in your court, General.”
/> “Don’t tell me my business! I know whose ball it is! This isn’t tennis, son.”
Not even his father called him son. “Well, seeing as how the Dracs have been quite thorough—”
“Thorough?” The word exploded from Magnusson-Talbot’s mouth like a pistol shot. “For God’s sake, they destroyed a dome. I’ll tell you what it is: barbaric.”
“And savage,” Coleman said. Actually, he’d been thinking expedient. In a clear-eyed, cynical way, the Dracs were models worthy of emulation. Obviously, they didn’t want to spend their time quelling rebellions. So they’d killed as many people as possible in as spectacular a way as possible. Pretty good way to make sure no one bothered you. Besides, domes were inherently indefensible. “The long and the short of it is we don’t have the manpower. Our most experienced troops have been shuffled off to counter the Liao incursion and Falcon invasion. All we’ve got left are greenbacks, people who haven’t fired a shot outside of a training range. Hardly battle-hardened.”
Magnusson-Talbot began rooting around her desk. “And your point?” she growled, fishing out a crumpled pack, knocking out a smoke, jamming it into her mouth, then flicking a match to life with her thumbnail. “You’ve got a point, right?” she repeated, squinting through a curl of blue smoke.
“Always.” Coleman inched back a discreet distance but knew that, by the end of the interview, he’d smell like a bar at threeA .M., minus the booze. “But The Republic’s fighting on many fronts. The Capellans on one side, the Falcons storming through IX and currently on Skye, and now the Dracs practically knocking on our front door. It’s not exactly as if we have an overwhelming force at our disposal.”
Magnusson-Talbot snorted out twin streamers, like a dragon. “Don’t remind me. We’re up to our elbows in manure. No way I’ve got troops to spare, and the rest of the prefecture, hell, it’s up for grabs. But I’ll tell you one thing.” She sucked smoke, and then continued, words punctuated by tiny puffs. “Dieron, that’s the key. That’s where they’re going, the sons of bitches.”
