by John Meaney
One with the void.
And somewhere out there, Tetsuo, too, was playing his role…
Her eyes snapped open.
Oblivion would come. But now was not the time.
Flames danced in the black stone fireplace. They were holo, but accurate throughout IR wavelengths, and Yoshiko held out her hands, warming them.
“Here you are.” Lori, carrying a tray, walked into the comfortable sitting-room. “Replenish your lost electrolytes.”
“Thank you.” Yoshiko drank some of the warm chocolate-flavoured liquid.
“I saw you working out.” Lori took a seat on a low embroidered couch.
“I didn't wake you, did I?”
It was late, but Yoshiko's body-clock was still out of synch, and she could not sleep.
“Not at all.” Firelight flickered across Lori's elegant face, and danced in golden highlights along the fibres woven in her hair. “Before you were sparring, you were performing those intricate routines, as though choreographed. What were they?”
“Kata. Traditional forms. Some people practice only kata, searching for the perfect technique.”
“Very impressive.” A glass of wine rose through the membrane in a low table. Lori took it, and sipped. “Would you like to demonstrate at one of our little soirées?”
Yoshiko shook her head. “I'd rather not.”
“Oh, I understand. A personal discipline.”
In silence, they watched the flames. Imaginary pictures roiled in them: dragons and battling kami—ferocious demons—and a mighty fortress. Once, a flicker of movement recalled Tetsuo's mocking smile.
Yoshiko sighed.
“I should tell you not to worry,” said Lori. “That everything will turn out all right.”
“You're too honest. You don't really believe that, do you?”
Lori looked into the flames. “Do we ever truly know our own children? We pretend we do, but I think it never really happens.”
Yoshiko remembered her parents. Kind and loving, but somehow distant. She had always felt different from them, both hating and relishing that difference. She wished her mother were here, now, to talk to.
“Tetsuo's not a killer, Lori. I'm sure of that.” She wiped the back of her hand across her damp forehead. “But how many murderers’ mothers have said the same thing?”
The fireplace crackled.
“Whatever I can do to help,” said Lori, “I will. If Tetsuo was mixed up in something, he might be victim as much as perpetrator.”
Yoshiko blinked, vision blurring.
“You're among friends, Yoshiko.”
She leaned closer to the fire, hugging herself.
No smoke stung her eyes. Perhaps only illusion could warm without causing hurt.
Black and angular shadows, carved from the absence of light, tumbled slowly: an absent-minded illusion, orbiting Rafael's head. Tetsuo. Damn him.
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