"There is our ancestor stone," he said solemnly.
She lowered her eyes. "But the monks will find it and remove it."
"Perhaps not," he said hopefully, smoothing the moss blanket around the base.
She pressed her hands together in prayer before the silent sentinel of their secret. He took her hands and pressed them to his lips. But they lapsed into the distant courtesy expected of them long before they risked being seen by curious eyes.
Chapter Thirty-four
KBREX HOWLED in fury at what he saw.
A shuttlecraft had emerged from the back of the cursed starship and was plummeting toward the planet below with the speed of a plunging falcon. Kbrex pounded on the arm of the command chair and shouted, "Where are they going? Who's on that cursed shuttle?"
One of the few things that was functioning on the Ghargh was the sensors, and Kevlar ran a quick sweep. He was extremely unhappy with what he discovered, and suspected he was taking his life in his hands in informing the new commander of his discovery. "Picking up two life readings, sir. One human, one … Klingon."
"Klingon!" howled Kbrex.
"I believe it's Kral," Kevlar added.
"How dare he," whispered Kbrex, and then louder, "How dare he? Has he totally forgotten who he is?"
"A deposed and dead commander?" suggested Kevlar.
Kbrex turned, leveled his blaster at Kevlar and fired. Kevlar threw up his arms and screamed, except the scream wasn't heard. He vanished before it took form.
Kbrex turned a slow and furious gaze on the remaining members of the bridge crew. "Does anyone else wish to make an insulting remark?"
The bridge crew sensed, correctly, that it was a rhetorical question.
"Raise that bitch on the Enterprise."
The communications officer dutifully followed the order, but he prayed that anyone would respond on the Enterprise other than that infuriating woman.
"Enterprise here," came the silky, all-too-familiar voice.
Kbrex sighed loudly. There was no point in venting his frustration and anger at this woman. He already had a mental image of her—about four feet tall, weighing 400 pounds, with a skin full of boils and pustules, and hair like dead wheat. A woman totally unappetizing to any man, and who delighted only in torturing dedicated Klingon soldiers who were trying to go about their business. "I wish to speak to Captain Kirk."
"That's not possible right now."
"It's quite possible. Raise the shuttlecraft that he and Commander Kral are on."
She was dead silent. A hesitation.
It was all he needed. "They are on that shuttle, aren't they."
"What shuttle?" she asked.
"You need say nothing else," said Kbrex. "By not speaking, you've told me all I need to know. Ghargh out."
Uhura removed the comm piece from her ear and stared at the communications panel in irritation.
"Damn," she said softly. "I hate him."
Spock stepped close to her and said calmly, "It is not relevant, Commander Uhura. The Klingon ship is helpless to impede the shuttle's progress."
"Yes, but I hate to have tipped him off to anything." She sighed. "I'm afraid we can't all be as perfect in our conduct as Vulcans, Mr. Spock."
He nodded slowly. "True."
"They've disappeared from our sensors, Commander," said Maltz, who had taken over the sensor station. He was not thrilled that his first report had to be one of failure. "I do not understand why."
"I think I have a clue. Communications—beam the following message to the planet, broad band: 'Attention great and immortal Weyland. We have reason to believe that our former commander—who had been disciplined for his poor handling of your concerns—is mounting an attempt against your people. We would be pleased to thwart his heinous plan as a way of showing respect for you. Please reply.'"
The communications officer said, "Should I repeat that message if we get no response?"
"Yes. Continuous repeat. But I think," and his eyes narrowed, "that we may indeed get some response. Perhaps more than our late commander—and the soon-to-be-late Captain Kirk—bargained for."
Chapter Thirty-five
Japan, 1600
NIGHT.
Sulu woke up, struggling with sleep and a hangover, trying to make out the source of the muffled sounds around him. A shadow of black in the black room dropped with noiseless efficiency on the floor, its presence revealed only by a slight humph of breath as it landed with a soft thud. Sulu rolled off the pile of quilts on the floor which comprised his bed, feeling for his swords on the floor.
He felt the cool whoosh of a blade slash by his hand, and he pulled it back quickly. By sheer luck—certainly no skill—his fingers brushed the lacquered sheath of one of the two swords. His hand closed on it. It was the short sword, the wakizashi. He drew the blade, still holding the scabbard in his other hand.
He felt more than saw the other man close in. A stray beam of light from the passageway sparked a muted glint on the steel in the assailant's hand. Sulu ducked as the deadly shuriken, the star of death, spun by, ripping into the wooden post in the corner. Sulu closed fast, tucking and rolling half the way, blocking the man's dagger with his sword sheath and slamming the hilt of his sword into the man's head. The assassin fell without a sound.
Sulu was panting hard. He groped through the tangle of bedding for his long sword, the katana. In the tight confines of the room the shorter weapon had given him an advantage, but he knew this assassin was not alone, and to fight more than one, he needed the range and power of the long sword. He ran down the corridor to Oneko's room, shouting for help as he went. But the house was empty.
He skidded to a halt at the ripped paper screen door that led into the lady's room. He winced and drew back, guarding against the cut that did not come from a ghostly opponent who was not there. Drawing and cutting the air in a whirlwind of steel, he leapt in, tripping on a still warm body. The faithful Kiku. Dead.
Sulu's back crawled as he felt the stirring of a man padding with catlike speed and silence.
"No," the soft whisper of a woman's voice, "not him."
Then fingers came, as hard as bone, and unconsciousness which tasted of death.
When he came to, it was golden morning. Sulu lay helpless, the sword heavy in his hand. But the sound of a man running down the hall roused him, and he pulled himself to his knees, crouching like a tiger to spring at whoever came.
"No, no, lord," the old proprietor shrieked, leaping back.
"What happened?" Sulu barked at him. "Where were you?"
"I am so sorry," the old warrior sobbed as he kneeled over the now stiff body of the dead guard.
His daughter-in-law ran up and knelt by him, cradling the old man in her arms. She too was crying as she apologized.
"The ninja came and attacked, sir." She gasped out the story to Sulu. "Most of the servants ran away. Some died. The master and our family were huddled in the kitchen. They did not attack us. We could do nothing. Nothing."
Sulu strode out into the garden, the dew of the summer night still beading the leaves. He watched the servants carrying off the body of Kiku.
Was that all? Could he wash his hands of her now? Where did honor end? If it ended … was it honor?
What are you prepared to do now, Sulu? he asked himself.
He returned to his rooms only long enough to don his armor and to pack, and he mounted a small gray pony and rode out. Just outside the compound he saw farmers cultivating a small field, the men chopping at the soil with hoes in the mindless rhythm that brings tranquility. As he passed, one of the men turned his head slightly, watching him out of the corner of his eye.
A man with a scar down the side of his face. He looked maddeningly familiar.
Sulu went cold as he realized that he had seen the simple farmer before, somewhere. He rode on nonchalantly, but he shook with urgency as he remembered who the man was.
Then it hit him. That scar—he'd seen it on the gardener. It was the garden
er, the old gardener from Torii's castle. What was the old man doing here?
He rode out of sight, then reigned the pony off the road and slipped off its back. As quickly and quietly as he could, he stripped down to a simple loincloth. What he had in mind would require speed and stealth. He shinnied up a small tree and waited. If the old man were following him, sooner or later he would pass beneath Sulu's ambush.
Shortly, the man almost slipped past him, moving with such unassuming and ordinary casualness that Sulu didn't pay attention at first. So this was a ninja secret—not stealth, but ordinariness. Sulu relaxed his grip on the tree, falling like a stone and collapsing the man into a grunting heap.
"No, lord, don't rob me. I have nothing," the old gardener/farmer simpered.
"Don't give me that," Sulu shouted at him, pinning his arms back to a point where he expected some serious protest.
But the man's arms just seemed to disjoint, and he was suddenly slipping from Sulu's grip like a ferret.
"No you don't," Sulu muttered, grabbing at him, but the man was loose and running with a speed Sulu didn't expect from someone so old. Sulu was after him like a shot.
"Got you," he shouted triumphantly, tackling the man to the ground. "What the hell?" he said as the man's eyes bulged and his color faded. Somehow he was choking himself to death. "No you don't," Sulu shouted, forcing open the man's mouth and pulling his tongue free from his throat. "You are involved in this up to your ears. Where is the woman, damn you?"
"I will never say," the old man said simply, suddenly calm.
This was getting Sulu nowhere. "Listen to me. If you know where she is and are her friend, tell her the Great One Cut Heihachiro pines for her. If she is held captive, help her to escape and she can find me here—no, let's say in the pine grove near the beach, the one that frames Mount Fuji. If you are her enemy, then come there with all your friends, and we will fight to your death or mine."
With that he released the old man and sank to the ground in total exhaustion, not even watching the man, who quickly disappeared into the thin woods. Methodically he armed himself and rode the animal down to the beach. And he sat down to wait.
The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He was counting on the honor of others—kidnappers, perhaps murderers—while he, one of the "good guys," was questioning his own honor. Or lack of it.
The moonlight sparkled on the beach where the tide rushed up to pattern the sand and rolled back out to swell again. Even the shadows who approached Sulu had shadows, shadows cast by the ripe moon. He stood ready to draw.
The party stopped just out of range of the cutting death of his sword. The leader called out to him.
"You are the Great One Cut Heihachiro-sama?"
"Just simple Heihachiro, yes, I am he."
"Simple? You are modest as always." A voice shimmered like tinkling bells. Sulu started. At first he took it for the figure of a young man, not a woman. Not that woman. The slender body strode boldly with the other swordsmen, dressed in a hakama like any other soldier.
"Oneko?"
She stepped past the leader, approaching him alone. In the moonlight he could see her face, the moon making her skin as white as the rice-powder makeup had at Fushimi Castle.
"So it was your voice in the dark," he said with calm conviction.
"Are you so surprised? I, too, am a warrior," she explained with ultimate simplicity.
"Yes. I had forgotten … I saw you fight that first day, but … you look different."
"It is the woman who is the fighting demon who cuts down the mounted enemy at the castle gate. Sometimes you are such a country bumpkin," she chided. "From the beginning of time women have ridden to war in this land. And it is the task of a noblewoman to train her son in courage, and even skill at arms, before he is old enough to train with the men. You are troubled, Heihachiro-sama," she said finally, in a half question, half statement.
"I don't understand. You are riding with a band of, what, bandits? Or ninja?"
She laughed in the familiar coquettish way that left the sound of bells chiming in the air.
"I am of an ancient ninja family. I have been rescued." Sulu thought he heard a hint of irony in her voice. He stared at her, seeing the steel under the porcelain.
Again she spoke with the gentle coquetry that entrapped him in a web of magical glamour. "You wished to find me. You have. Come, we must leave this place." At a low whistle from the leader of the group, a small man appeared out of the shadows leading horses. It was the old gardener.
Sulu and Oneko rode side by side, but Sulu did nothing to encourage conversation, although the lady made a few desultory attempts. But Sulu's head ached. Rescued! Yes, he had been so worried he had changed history. Well, he had, twice—two incidents that canceled each other out. They had been trying to rescue her the first time he saw her, and they had finally succeeded.
By the time they arrived at a secluded farm, morning was just breaking. Oneko slipped easily from the saddle, striding into the courtyard with the leader of the group, who Sulu could now see was a wiry middle-aged man. Oneko had called him uncle on the road, and now, in the light of day, Sulu was pretty sure that was not just a country courtesy, but a kinship statement. But whereas her delicacy was beautiful, his made him look like a hawk hunting for lunch.
The uncle kneeled at the door to the house, calling out to his father, the family head, telling him that he had returned with a hostage.
Uncle and Oneko entered, but Sulu was bid to stay outdoors, under close guard. The walls were thin, and he couldn't help but hear the loud, angry argument concerning him. And the order for his execution. And Oneko's pleading for his life. And then he heard nothing that he could make out. A servant summoned him to enter.
"Come closer," the scrawny ancient patriarch ordered from his dais. The old man asked no questions. He just stared at Sulu for a while. Finally, he seemed satisfied and grunted his approval. That was all.
Sulu was led out, cleaned up and fed. He had just finished putting on the clean clothes provided when Oneko entered the room.
He was all business. The no-nonsense, Starfleet officer, determined to get to the bottom of a confusing situation.
"These people, they are your relatives?" he asked without preamble. "Why did they attack my party? Kill Kiku?"
"Kiku's death was an accident. It is regrettable. I will tell you our secret, but you must tell me yours. Please," she urged, leaning toward him and pleading with her eyes.
"No promises. Tell me." It was not a request.
"I am the granddaughter of the head of a clan of ninja warriors originally from the Koga province. Our clan opposes Tokugawa. He is so clever, he would have been a great ninja himself," she said bitterly. "His tricks to destroy his opponents are famous. It is an endless game of spy and counterspy. Kiku was my aunt. She had been placed in a noble house to spy. She was assigned to accompany a new concubine who was being sent to Mototada three years ago. The plan was for Kiku to spy in Mototada's house. The girl caught a chill on the road. That was the real Oneko. Kiku forced the soldiers to bring the sick girl to a farm which was nearby and which she knew was allied with a friendly clan of ninja. The farmer sent a messenger to grandfather, who hatched a plot. The soldiers and retainers who accompanied the young concubine were killed. The girl had already died of the lung illness. The soldiers were replaced by our men, and I took the girl's place.
"My perfumes, my gestures and voice … all carefully designed to bewitch any man. I'm well-trained. I was to observe Mototada, learn his weaknesses, find out what I could about the deployment of his troops … anything that would prove useful. I am surprised I was not ordered to kill him. I was being rescued when you arrived on the road. I had no choice but to be the faithful concubine and fight my attackers. You are a very fine swordsman. Grandfather had sent men to bring me home with what I had learned before the western army attacked. But I also think that grandfather could not bear to see me die."
"How can you?" Sulu bl
urted in shock. "You are carrying Torii's child—"
"Shhh …" She reached over before he had finished, placing her hand on his mouth and gesturing toward the thin wall. She shook her head, her eyes filled with such sadness that Sulu reached out and cradled her in his arms.
Nothing had gone right. Oneko was not what she was supposed to be, the lord of the land was untrustworthy, his own "lord" was duped by a slip of a ninja woman … and who was he to say that he was any better? How could he expect better of a land when he himself thought of honor as eminently disposable?
"Now you must tell me your secret. It is very important. I've convinced grandfather that you are a god, or at least a mountain goblin, a tengu, one of the magical warriors who are worshiped by our clan for their martial skill. I can see it in your eyes, in your soul. You are not of this place, of this world. Is it true?"
Sulu laughed hysterically. "No, no! I'm no god. I'm just a perfectly ordinary man." A perfectly ordinary twenty-third century Starfleet helmsman, he thought bitterly. Sulu felt the romance shatter. So much for his childhood dreams. He was stuck in a confused and complex world. He didn't belong and he couldn't leave.
"Please, say it is so," she begged with quiet fear, but Sulu was too caught up in his own disillusionment to notice.
"I am nothing special. In fact … I'm starting to realize just how common I am …"
"You have no skills, no magic? Please, say you do."
"Yes, say you do." The tall hawk-faced uncle strode into the room. "Oneko, out," he ordered.
"Please, please," the girl sobbed, throwing herself at her uncle's feet, clutching hopelessly at his legs. He kicked her away.
"I don't know what this foolishness is, but I am tired of it. You are Torii's man. That is all. Not a tengu or a god. Just an enemy. And you will confess it," the hawk-faced man shouted, calling in four armed men. "And tell us of the fortifications and troop strength in the castle. Tell us what Oneko can't, about the battle plans."
Home Is the Hunter Page 15
