by John Helfers
He tried a different tack: “Your father is concerned about you... and so am I.”
“My father is concerned about his reputation and his legacy,” Tomashi countered bitterly, “and you’re paid to be concerned about me.”
“No, I’m not,” he countered, just as coldly, “and you know it.”
“Sure you are. You’re paid with your life, and your honor, and all those things you can do.” He gestured vaguely towards his own head with the pistol he held in his hand, as if all those things were stored up there, which, in a way, they were. “I have a pretty good idea just how much all of your mods cost.” He waved his free hand—and not the gun—in Kage’s direction.
“I’m sure you do,” he shot back, “especially...” but then a knock sounded at the door and Kage went to it, shooting the slightly younger man a penetrating look. It was a familiar routine and his duty gave him something to hold on to in situations like this. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his spare pistol disappear beneath Tomashi’s pillow. He’d have to deal with that later.
Even though they were as safe in the oyabun’s home as they could be anywhere, Kage approached the unknown behind the door like a possible threat. It was his job. He opened the door a fraction, his concealed hand hovering near his weapon.
“Yojimbo,” the man on the other side said, and he bowed slightly in response.
“Kanaga-san,” he replied neutrally, sliding the door open further for the kobun to enter the room, if he wished.
“The Chairman wishes to see you.”
Kage wondered if he detected a hint of gloating in the kobun’s voice. He knew full well Kanaga was a traditionalist who did not approve of half-breed “samurai” guarding the oyabun’s son. He frequently criticized Chairman Shigeda’s policies, in fact; Kage never understood why the oyabun tolerated him, but Kanaga was efficient, and the Chairman liked men willing to challenge him, to a point. Such tolerance was a part of the “New Way” Shiegada-sama and his organization espoused.
He bowed in acknowledgement of the message, as if delivered by the voice of the oyabun himself, and Kanaga turned and walked away from the door. Kage gave a quick glance back before he followed, but Tomashi was already settling back onto the pillows and restarting the sim-feed. He sighed, closing the door behind him as he left.
The room down the hall was the oyabun’s personal study, and sometime office, although he conducted little official business there. It was appointed in a lean, minimalist style enhanced by virtual installations. Displays, input devices, and other necessities could appear as needed via the oyabun’s personal commlink and the other discretely hidden Matrix nodes in the room. Kage knew full well that he entered through an invisible web of scanning beams, tiny cams, and mics—every action observed and recorded. Another typical night for me, he mused somewhat bitterly. He was only grateful Tomashi hadn’t thought to activate his sim-rig to record this as well.
The oyabun did not speak at first, leaving Kage standing just inside the panel doors as Kanaga withdrew and they whispered closed. Although they looked like traditional rice paper, they were actually a far tougher polycarbonate composite. The Shigeda-gumi was a progressive one, after all, and the Chairman (he preferred that title whenever possible) sought to blend old and new practices suited to the Sixth World. The virtual rendering decorating the wall opposite the windows was symbolic of this: based on the first famous commuter-captured photo of the Great Dragon Ryumyo in Japan, displayed across the Internet in the days just after the Awakening at the end of 2011. The iridescent dragon and the sleek bullet train were a contrast between the ancient and modern, the mythical and technological. The paired swords displayed on the polished wood credenza were replicas using modern carbon steel with monofilament diamond edges. The calligraphic wall scroll, on the other hand, was authentic, from the 1800s, as Kage recalled.
Chairman Shigeda stood in front of the window to the side of the room’s low desk, arms clasped behind his back, looking out into the rain spattered darkness through the carbon-composite windows in a manner Kage found achingly familiar.
“My son,” he began in a low, firm voice, “is not worthy of your efforts, Yojimbo.”
“Shigeda-sama...” the oyabun’s hand went up, cutting off any further protest and indicating he was not looking for vain denials of what they both already knew.
“Still,” he continued, as if not interrupted. “Tomashi is safe in your care. I know this. You were made to be his perfect companion and protector... as his mother wished.”
His perfect plaything, Kage thought, but kept the comment to himself.
“Your service has been right and honorable, but my son has not followed your example as I had hoped. I must now send him away, and you with him.”
Kage’s head involuntarily lifted, eyes flicking toward the window. Fortunately, the other man had not turned around and did not see, focused on whatever images were there for him in the darkness beyond the glass.
Chairman Shigeda was a relatively young man for his esteemed position, and believed it was important to maintain appearances. He dressed in a Western fashion, in a dark, tailored suit with a cream-colored, perfectly pressed shirt and a handmade silk tie. His collar and cuffs were long enough to conceal the irezumi, the traditional tattoos he wore, and his black hair was neatly trimmed and styled.
Kage considered the contrast between them, dressed as he was in a flowing armored coat, even indoors, with the close-fitting dark clothes underneath made of modern armor-cloth blends. He wore serviceable combat boots rather than imported leather shoes, and was permitted not even the tattooing of a lowly initiate, as he could not be acknowledged as anything other than what he was: Not of pure blood, but with mixed Japanese and Western features. His head was shorn, for simplicity and utility, making him look much like a dark-clad, lethal Buddhist monk, sworn to follow his path for life.
They were a study in contrasts, and yet there were things in common: a strong set of jaw, the steady gaze, the proud carriage, if you knew what to look for.
“It will be easier for you to protect him elsewhere,” the Chairman said, somewhat sadly.
“To protect him from what, Shigeda-sama? Is there a threat I should know about?”
“There is always a threat, Yojimbo, but yes, I have heard rumors. Others may move against me. When that happens, it would be best if Tomashi were elsewhere.”
“Yes, Chairman,” the bodyguard said with a bow. It was the only possible reply.
“Go and pack what you need. I will speak to my son alone. You will leave tonight.”
“Yes, Chairman,” he bowed deeply and backed out of the room, the doors whispering open behind him, then sliding closed, cutting off his last view of the study and the man he had served his entire life.
Yojimbo, he was called, “bodyguard,” in the old Japanese fashion. It wasn’t a name, merely a title, no different than calling a chair a chair or a sword a sword. Tomashi called him Kage, “shadow,” his ever-present companion since he was allowed out of his mother’s sight, his ever-present champion. Kage Yojimbo, shadow bodyguard. His life was lived in the shadows: the shadows of other men, the shadows cast by the gumi, the Shigeda clan.
His quarters were even more Spartan than the Chairman’s study: just a sleeping mat, a wall cabinet for weapons and personal items, and a small, recessed closet. Necessary displays and the like were all virtual, projected via his headware and commlink as they were needed, although they rarely ever were in here.
There was little actual packing to do: Yojimbo kept necessities packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Still, he welcomed the order as an opportunity to take a few precious minutes to himself to gather his thoughts more than his meager possessions. He would take his essential weapons, of course: the matched Fichetti security pistols with extra magazines, collapsible shock baton, the concealable ceramic and carbon fiber blade. The Chairman hadn’t mentioned the need for heavy ordinance, or else he would have provided it. Besides which, Kage was
his own best weapon.
You were made to be his perfect companion and protector... The Chairman’s words were truth. Kage closed the door of the cabinet and looked down at his hand, flexing it slowly as if seeing it for the first time, feeling the power of the myomer-fiber enhanced muscles, the nano-composite laced bone. He recalled the middleman’s throat, held in his vice-like grasp, dangling off the floor...
“Did you fuck her?” Tomashi asked. He recalled the woman, half-covered in the forgotten sheet, all her attention fixed on him, her dark eyes bottomless pools. He remembered the gun in her hand from underneath the sheet, how easily he took it from her, stepping in, grabbing the hand holding the gun faster than the eye could follow, pinning the wrist in a vice-like grip. He could have broken it with just a twist or a squeeze, could have pushed her down, but he didn’t. She didn’t beg for mercy or even look away, capturing his eyes with hers. She pressed the gun into his hand instead.
“You know what you have to do,” she said, and it had taken him aback. Did she want to die? Her tone was different, haunted. Then he saw the neural socket behind her ear, the particular glimmer to her eyes. She was bunraku, a flesh-puppet, her brain wired with software to make her whatever fantasy her client wanted. Was it the software speaking to him, or the true woman coming through? His hand closed around his own Fichetti pistol, alone in his room, recalling how he had gripped the gun, taking it from her unresisting hand, and stepped back.
“Do what you have to do,” she said in the same tone, not looking down or away for what seemed like a very long time. It was Kage who finally broke their gaze. He turned and walked out, leaving the woman behind. Tomashi was going to be disappointed, and worse, angry at him, not only for the witness he left behind, but for the opportunity he passed up to improve the “show” for him. But Kage found he didn’t care.
“Your service has been right and honorable...” the Chairman had said, and hot tears stung the bodyguard’s eyes. If only Shigeda-sama knew. He was as much a whore as that woman, as much a puppet for the entertainment of a spoiled child. The boy Shigeda’s wife adored beyond all reason, the boy the oyabun indulged, the boy Kage swore to protect with his life’s blood. With the sim-rig, Tomashi was inside of him, as surely as if...
The sound of the gunshot had Kage moving almost before he was aware of it, a lifetime of training taking over in an instant. As he ran down the corridor, pistol in hand, there came a second shot, then a third. He counted five by the time he reached the doors of the Chairman’s study and they obediently slid open for him.
Shigeda-sama sat behind the low desk, blood spread dark across the front of his immaculate dress shirt, his face frozen in an expression of shock, mouth open, and eyes wide. He hadn’t even had time to call out.
When the doors opened, Tomashi turned towards Kage, gun held before him like a talisman, twin of Kage’s own.
“Do what you have to do,” he muttered, finger tightening on the trigger as he raised the weapon. He jerked and the shot went wide when the bodyguard’s first bullet took him in the eye, staggered back towards the desk, then sprawled across it when another shot hit him in the chest, then another. He was laid out in front of his father, gun falling from his nerveless fingers to the floor with a clatter. The older man’s head was thrown back, mouth open, as if in mourning.
Time started again. Kage took in the bloody tableau for what seemed like an eternity, dimly aware of the sounds of alarm in the house, of people shouting and running. Then awareness opened like a flower blooming in his mind and he turned away, scooping up the fallen Fichetti and letting the panel doors close over the scene. It was more than just fortunate that he was packed and ready to go. It was providence.
“You will leave tonight,” the Chairman had said. His words were truth.
***
The design of the low desk in the Chairman’s office was modern and Western, its dark glass surface a standard display and touch interface. Kanaga Sato brushed aside newsfeed windows and status reports with a flick of his fingers, scattering them like neon leaves as an incoming comm window opened from the dark depths of the glass.
“It is done?” a man’s voice asked in Japanese, and the kobun nodded. “Good. Oversee the investigation. When the dust settles, you will have my support... Chairman-san.”
“Thank you, Shotozumi-sama,” Kanaga said with a slight bow towards the desk. The window closed, leaving only his reflection in the dark depths.
The slow smile spreading across the kobun’s thin-lipped mouth froze at the press of something cold and sharp against the side of his throat. He didn’t turn around, barely moved except to slide his right hand slowly over...
“Don’t,” came the flat voice from just behind his left ear, the pressure on the blade increased just slightly. The hand stopped, hovering where it was.
“Yojimbo,” Kanaga said quietly. “You’re still here.”
“Was I expected to run?” the bodyguard replied softly. “Was that how it was planned?”
“I don’t...” the bladed pressed again, and he stopped, swallowed.
“I know this place better than anyone,” Kage continued, “well enough to know how difficult it would be for an assassin to get in without help.”
“Assassin?” Kanaga said in mock surprise. “Everyone knows what happened, or soon will. After all, your weapons were used in the killings. Tomashi...”
“Tomashi had his bad qualities,” Kage said, “but one thing he could never do was stand up to his father. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—have done this on his own. He wasn’t in his right mind when...”
“When you killed him?”
“When you forced me to kill him.”
“How do you know I had anything to do with it?”
“I didn’t, for certain, until just now. I only suspected.” Kage’s free hand touched the edge of the desktop, out of the corner of Kanaga’s field of vision. “Oyabun Shotozumi-sama seemed pleased.”
Kanaga swallowed slowly. “And now you’re here for revenge?” he asked.
“No, answers.”
“To what?”
“How... and why?”
“I think you know the second one already.”
“Yes... I knew you were a traditionalist, Sato, but I never thought...”
“I would take action?”
“That you would betray the Chairman,” he corrected.
“He is the one who betrayed us,” Kanaga hissed through gritted teeth, “betrayed our traditions!”
“Oh?” Kage observed. “Like the tradition of using others as puppets? How did you get him to do it, Sato?”
“It wasn’t hard,” the kobun replied with a slight shrug. “You made it easy, in fact.”
“I ...” Kage breathed, then sighed. “The sims.”
Sato smiled without humor or warmth. “Yes. A subliminal program, a viral subfeed.”
“That woman...”
“A puppet,” he replied. “Like Tomashi... like you.”
Kage recalled the woman’s intense stare, the endless depths of her dark eyes, the signs she was bunraku.
“Why didn’t it affect me?”
“The program needed to be compressed into a tightly contained data pulse to be transmitted by the carrier’s corneal emitters. It only extracts and runs in the simsense playback, and even then only during direct experience of the wet record. You would have had to replay the sim, which, of course, there was no reason for you to do. If you had, it would have served just as well. Its effect is quite limited, but profound. Fortunately, it didn’t need to last long. Once I found out about Tomashi’s new ‘hobby,’ it seemed like a prime opportunity.”
“You know what you have to do,” she had said, pressing the gun into his hand. She hadn’t been talking to him. He thought of Tomashi, reliving that moment as the invasive program unfolded and ran through his brain.
Kage pulled the knife away from Kanaga’s throat slightly. His hand was shaking and he focused to steady it, and keep it from slashing acros
s the steady pulse of the artery there.
“So,” the kobun said with remarkable calm. “You have your answers. What now? The man you protected is dead. The man who employed you is dead, and the rest of his men know their place and will shoot you on sight. It’s only a matter of time before they realize you’re here, if they haven’t already. You’ll never leave here alive. Do you kill me now and go out in a blaze of glory?”
He stopped when Kage drew his pistol and leveled it at him, stepping around to the side of the desk, keeping his eyes—and his gun—fixed on Kanaga.
“I should kill you,” he said. “In fact, honor demands it, does it not? But you were right about Tomashi’s habit being an opportunity. I’ve had some time to think things over while waiting for you. For the first time in my life, I’m free of obligations, free of debts, and tired of being used. That’s why the sim of this conversation is being transmitted and stored someplace safe.” The new Chairman’s eyes widened only slightly, but it was enough for a moment of understanding to pass between him and the former bodyguard. “If anything happens to me... I won’t be the only one to go out in a blaze of glory. Sometimes it’s better to just fade away.”
He stepped back from the desk towards the doors of the study, and they slid open. Kage’s eyes—and the unwavering gun barrel—remained locked on the man behind the desk until he was through them and they closed in front of him.
Sato immediately opened a new comm window on the desktop.
“Yojimbo has just left my... the Chairman’s office,” he told the man on the line.
“What are your orders, sir?”
“Let him go. He’s nothing, and no one, now.” The other man hesitated, confusion clearly written on his face, but only for a moment. He was trained to follow orders, not to question them.
