Blood Siren

by Michael Formichelli

  He must think this the greatest day of his life, Cylus thought.

  “And I’ll be speaking to him about the betrothal as well. I’m sure he’ll be delighted,” Olivaar said, turning to leave.

  “I’m sure he already is.” Sophi’s icy gaze lead down to the Barony floor.

  Cylus glanced down. Zalor was still there at his podium watching them with a raptor’s smile that sent shivers down Cylus’ back.

  He hoped Sophi knew what she was doing.

  He hoped he did as well.

  Chapter Nine

  Ikuzlu City, Kosfanter

  41:0:46 CST (J:2400.3054)

  The iron doors bore the symbol of the three rivers on their unforgiving surface. Mitsugawa Ichiro stood before them, fists clenched below the sleeves of his black kimono, breathing. His eyes stared at the varnished wood boards beneath the white tabi on his feet. The blurry shadow he saw trembled in time with his body. It seemed to him it was part of another universe, a mirrored world separated from this one by a murky, translucent membrane that distorted its image until only dark and diffuse impressions remained. Somewhere in his head the civilized man he was taught to be tried to form some kind of poem about it, but the words failed to make it to his conscious self. He was disconnected from that being, the man who had a father, as though he was a nameless stranger.

  The chronometer in the lower right quadrant of his vision reminded him he had somewhere to be in less than a minute with the glowing, golden abstracts of Taiumikai characters.

  Obligation.

  The word bound his society together. It was the gravity around which all beings must orbit in order to achieve harmony. On the waves of his ocean home, the lowest members of society were as bound to it as the highest. Without it, there was only chaos. A citizen who did not understand obligation failed his society. A leader who did not understand obligation caused his society to fail.

  Ichiro took a deep breath, held it, used the energy it gave him to center himself. He was the heir-apparent and would be the leader once he buried his father in their home sea. He was no longer obliged to just himself and his family. Once he took a step through the iron doors before him he would be a man obliged to an entire world—and perhaps an entire civilization. It weighed on him heavier than his father’s death, heavier than the need for vengeance clawing its way up his back every moment since. He was obliged, he had no time for personal concerns. It could be put off no longer.

  He stepped towards the door.

  The heavy iron split down the middle and its two halves peeled back into the white walls with the hiss of air and muffled grind of well-lubricated machinery. In the chamber beyond a white oval longer than a man and slightly broader dominated the small space from a black pedestal. Ichiro could see the reflection of another shadow in its glossy surface as he approached. It looked tired, with darkness beneath its eyes and lines drawn through its young face.

  Is that truly me? He thought.

  A light cough behind him stiffened his back.

  “Shitsureishimasu, I am interrupting,” the deep, monotone voice said.

  Ichiro turned towards its owner.

  Nearly a head shorter, the man’s bald pate shone bright in the light of the corridor. He was dressed in a black one-piece uniform with a sleeveless jacket whose shoulders extended out just beyond the thin-frame of his body. Over the garment’s left lapel the white circle and three lines of House Mitsugawa seemed to glow by comparison to the cloth beneath. The pale skin of his unnaturally hairless face was pulled taut against the angular bones beneath. Although clearly older than himself, Ichiro found it difficult to place the man’s age, and always had. Mamiya Ryouichi was never forthcoming about it, and as a CEL—a Cybernetic Evolved Life form—he did not age as other men did in any case.

  “Iie, you are welcome, Mamiya-san.” Ichiro turned back to the parabolic coffin. He heard Mamiya’s soft steps come up beside him.

  He waited, expecting the CEL to say something. It wasn’t until more than a few moments had past that he realized no words were forthcoming and remembered why. It had been a long time since he’d been home. Taiumijin were not chatty people, and on his home world silence was treated like a valued commodity. As the quiet stretched, and the sound of the wind beyond the donjon walls grew louder, he began to shift his weight. He had grown accustomed to the non-stop noise of the capitol, and admittedly, of his friend, Cylus Keltan.

  “Mitsugawa-uesama,” Mamiya said.

  He flinched. Only his father was called that. It was a title he knew would be difficult to adopt, though he was obliged to do so.

  “It is customary to place the sword before the casket is moved.”

  “Oh.” He licked his lips, moving on numb legs to stand beside the coffin. One hand rose to clutch the wakizashi in his obi. The cool of the lacquer seemed to sink right down to his bones.

  The coffin’s sensors detected him, scanned his EM field, and opened like a hissing clam. His father lay within, eyes closed as though in a motionless sleep, dressed in fine silks and clutching a replica of the katana pressing into Ichiro’s stomach.

  He took three breaths before he could lift the short sword from his obi. His hand trembled as he laid it carefully along his father’s body. A new one would be forged for him after the burial as tradition dictated. He released the sword and gripped the edge of the casket. His other hand rose to grip Hoshinagi no Tsurugi, the Mitsugawa’s family katana now alone in his obi. Passed down from the very first head of the clan, he could almost feel the strength it had in its high-tech poly-steel. He needed it now. It was forbidden to show emotion over the dead, but he could feel the anguished cry that began at the sight of his father’s face burning in his chest like a star. He trembled, thinking he would burn alive if he held it in, but he knew he would die of shame if he let it out. Hovering between the two horrid fates, he sought something to distract his mind until the storm passed. His eyes played down the fine edges of his father’s kamishimo, tracing its gold trim down from collar to the thick, white obi across his center. They caught on something there, something that twinkled for just a moment as Ichiro shifted his weight.

  “Nan—” he reached forward, touching the spot. Beneath his fingers he could feel something hard and square.

  “Mitsugawa-uesama—”

  “Shh!” he snapped. He would not allow Mamiya to interrupt, not when the fire was dying within as curiosity replaced it—if only temporarily.

  He dug into the soft cloth, trying to ignore the cold-clay feeling of his father’s flesh beneath. His fingers got under the object, something hard and cold with an edge, and pulled it forth into the light.

  It was a crystal square, only a few millimeters thick. The sensors in his eyes scanned it and detected microscopic variations within its structure in a regular pattern. Moments after that the square clutched between his fingers was highlighted by his cerebral implant and identified as an athenaeum crystal—a permanent storage device that held information in its molecular structure. They were used to store corporate secrets and information too sensitive to be on the Cyberweb, or too valuable to risk to a crash or electronic intrusion. It would require a special reader to harvest its data, but Ichiro knew there was one on his family’s FTL ship, the Musashi-Maru. He would be there in twenty-nine days’ time when the shuttle delivered him and his father’s remains.

  “Mamiya-san, what is this?”

  “An athenaeum—”

  “I know that. I mean, why is it here?” He held it up into Mamiya’s line of vision.

  “I do not know. I presume it was carried on your father’s person or placed there by a concerned servant.”

  “These are funeral clothes. The latter possibility is the only reasonable one, and only you and the artificial servants have had access to my father.”

  Mamiya-san grunted with a slight nod of his head.

  Ichiro returned the gesture. “You meant for me to find it?”

  “It is your true inheritance.”

 
His eyes narrowed. His inheritance was the Shiragawa Zaibatsu which had already passed to him, and the leadership of Taiumikai which would pass to him once his father was returned home. What could possibly be on this athenaeum?

  “Am I to scan this when we reach Taiumikai?”

  “You are to scan it when it is safe to scan.”

  “Aboard the ship?” It was the first place he would be that would have an athenaeum crystal reader.

  Mamiya stared at him with a blank expression.

  “Can your kind scan them?” he asked after a long period of silence.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded and tucked the crystal into his obi and signaled the casket to close with his implant without looking. The sight of his father would bring back the fire within, and they were about to be in public. He took a deep breath, letting it out slow, allowing the stress in his mind to flow out with it.

  He was only partially successful.

  “Are they here?” He looked at the double-doors at the far side of the room, a replica of the ones that had led in. They led out to the courtyard between the eight pagodas of the compound.

  “They arrived almost an hour ago, Mitsugawa-uesama.”

  “Who?”

  “Those who were expected, your friends, your mother and aunt; and some who were not.”

  Ichiro turned towards him. “Explain.”

  “Baron Xitar-sama and his retainer, Saeneiz-san.”

  He frowned. Xitar was baron of the Kri’Cho—Netcast, Inc. in Solan. Xitar had been one of his father’s confidants and co-conspirators, but his vote in the last Barony session was for Zalor’s plan. It made him one of many turncoats, but his betrayal had stung more than the others’ because he had been the closest of the Cleebian barons to House Mitsugawa.

  “What is he doing here?”

  “I do not know, but I presume it is to express respect.”

  Ichiro shook his head. “If he wanted to respect my father—” He stopped himself. He heard his father’s voice in his head tell him that slandering an opponent behind his back was a form of cowardice. “My apologies, Mamiya-san.”

  “I do not know what you apologize for. I heard nothing.”

  He took a deep breath, trying desperately to calm his emotions. Again the storm receded, but did not end.

  “Mamiya-san, will you serve me as you did my father?”

  “That has been and continues to be my intention unless you are displeased with the prospect.” His voice offered no change in tone to indicate either sarcasm or seriousness.

  Ichiro found comfort in that.

  “I am not displeased, and it is my intention as well. I will need your abilities as we move forward.” He sighed. “Let us get this over with.”

  Mamiya grunted.

  The doors beyond the casket slid open on silent hydraulics, spilling sunlight and briny, chill air into the small chamber. Four artificial soldiers—jinzoubushi—marched in from the courtyard and took up points around the casket. Each was formed as though it was a warrior in traditional Japanese armor with the symbol of House Mitsugawa rising from their backs on slender poles. At their hips were high-frequency katanas and gauss pistols ready to be used in the defense of both the fallen lord’s body and the young master.

  Ichiro moved to his place behind the casket and the procession moved out into the open air.

  The courtyard was a large octagon with the donjon at its center. From each point, separated by one-hundred meters of high, carbon-reinforced walls, was an eight-tiered pagoda ceremonially aligned with the points of the local compass. They moved out into the northern section where a large, black, bird-like shuttle waited with wings folded against its fuselage and its cargo-bay ramp touching the ground below its tail. Aligned to either side of the path of white gravel, between the donjon and the landing pad, were rows of robotic soldiers followed at the end by the line of visitors.

  His eyes found the red, mangled hair of Cylus first. His friend and brother-in-name wore his best ceremonial clothing; a brown frock with tails over a ruffled, white-lacy shirt and pantaloons. The cloth was so fine that it made him look almost regal, despite the coppery mane about his face. There was an expression of pain etched into the pale, freckled skin. His wet, hazel eyes were filled with something other than sympathy, Ichiro noted. As he drew up on the young baron he realized it was fear. The sight of it was disheartening. Would Cylus have the mettle to endure what would come? The probable answer was disturbing. Ichiro would need his brother as an ally very soon, and a weak one would weaken his own resolve.

  “Sable, I—” Cylus cut himself off as the procession rolled slowly past him.

  Despite what protocol demanded, he stopped and allowed his father’s entourage to continue on around the craft to the ramp. Mamiya gave him a sharp look, but remained silent as he assumed Ichiro’s place behind the procession.

  “Cylus—” His clothing felt unnaturally tight against his chest all of a sudden.

  His brother nodded, no doubt assuming what he was going to say and being very wrong about it. It wasn’t the pained lump threatening to crawl back up his throat that stopped him from speaking his mind, but his sister, buried in her black robe at Cylus’ side. Though he wanted to say something to assuage his dearest friend’s fear, he did not want to make Cylus appear weak before her; he knew her too well to chance it. It was her plan that they were supposed to be following, one that he had agreed with only because he had no other ideas to offer. Betrothing Cylus to his cousin, even without intention to marry them, in order to masquerade as Mercantile Party members was not a good idea. Zalor, from what his father had told him, was far too cagy to fall for anything so simplistic. He knew that his sister knew it, and was certain that her true game was something far more devious—and perhaps—sinister. He’d never said a word to her about it, but her admiration for her true father was deep and dangerous.

  “Cylus,” he said again, leaning in close. “I want you to know—” that my sister is not to be trusted, he finished in his mind. “—that I am still your brother; no matter what.” He inclined his head, the maximum allowable emotion the situation dictated.

  “Thank you,” Cylus said in a thick voice. “Safe journeys.”

  He nodded, and stepped in front of his half-sister.

  “When will you return?” Her voice was almost a whisper.

  “After. That’s the best answer I have.”

  “Is it?”

  Ichiro suppressed the urge to press his lips together in frustration. “Take care of yourself, and Cylus.”

  “You know I will,” her voice sounded from the deep shadow of her hood.

  This time, he did press his lips together, and moved to his mother.

  She and his aunt wore identical white dresses. Both came down to cover their feet and had a blue, square wave about the round neckline and hem. White was not the usual color of House Cronus, but it was the mourning color of Taiumikai, and so he accepted with gratitude their show of sympathy. Taking in his mother’s round face, so different from Hephestia’s narrow features, Ichiro realized this would be the last time he would see his mother for at least the better part of a year if not more. The thought nearly overcame him, and he trembled in the light breeze blowing across the courtyard.

  “I will miss you, my son.” She smiled at him, her cherubic face rose-cheeked and alight. Her hand came up to waist level, hesitated, and then moved the rest of the way to his cheek.

  Her light touch was too much, and he closed his eyes against the swell of emotion. It was already a breach of protocol, but he could not bring himself to slight her by flinching back away as her thumb stroked his skin.

  “Safe journeys. Do your father proud.”

  “I will,” he said, hoarse.

  “Ichi-chan,” Hephestia said when he stood in front of her. She leaned in, lowering her voice. “We are always on your side.” Her blue eyes shone.

  He gave her the barest of nods in acknowledgement and moved down the line to the tall Cleebian
before he could embarrass himself.

  “Greetings, young Mitsugawa-Prime.” Baron Xitar’s voice buzzed out from the thick, blue-white cords connecting his pointed chin with his collar-bones. Prime was an honorific address in Cleebian society reserved for its elite. It linked them directly to the prime numbers that Cleebians held sacred, and was meant to convey indivisibility and by extension, invincibility. That he would use it for a human was a sign of high respect.

  You call me Prime, and yet you voted against my father’s interests, Ichiro thought. He looked up into the baron’s yellow, fist-sized central eye, “I thank you for the honor.”

  One of Xitar’s lateral eyes gazed down the line at the other guests, while the other swiveled to join the central orb in staring at Ichiro. Both Cleebians were taller than him by at least ten centimeters. The baron wore a black, sleeveless robe etched with silver symbols—Cleebian numbers. Cloud-white sleeves protruded from its shoulders and enclosed his slender arms down to the wrists. His companion, the one Mamiya identified as Xarxshi Saeneiz, wore a more practical gray jacket and pants. He had a thick belt bound around his narrow waist with a silver rod, about the width of Ichiro’s hand, clipped to it.

  “I am no expert on human mannerisms, but I am certain you are puzzled by our presence here,” the baron said. Cleebians always sounded like they were speaking through a bad speaker system, but his voice managed to sound regal despite it.

  “Not at all,” he responded, thinking precisely the opposite.

  “Whatever the case, your father was a good sentient, and spoke well of you.” The baron paused as if waiting for an exchange of words. When it became apparent he wouldn’t get one, he continued. “I extend both my personal apology and that of my barony to you and your family.”