by Victor Milán
Another squad had arrived at the school currently in-process of giving Lainie the boot, intending to tie up that particular loose end. Only the intervention of a trusted retainer who hadn't gone over saved her life. He got her onto a freighter bound for Hachiman, where a cousin, Kazuo Sumiyama, was an up-and-coming yakuza boss. The servant was mortally wounded in the process.
Lainie had arrived in Masamori penniless and emotionally shattered. Aside from claims of blood, which the yakuza took every bit as seriously as katagi—straight—society, she had little to offer. She had her riding and athletic abilities, none of which was marketable in any significant way. She also had the usual skills instilled in Combine females born to families of pretension, skills designed to make them good little homemakers and ornaments. Those weren't in enormous demand in the underworld, either. Her only choice was to throw herself on her distant cousin's mercy as a kyakubun, guest member, and hope for the best.
Which did not materialize. It turned out that Kazuo Sumiyama did have a use for his fugitive relation, blossoming into womanhood as she was. So the quondam princess learned about yakuza concepts of duty and obligation the hard way.
Kazuo-sama had done Lainie one service other than tender refuge with a high price tag: he'd allowed her to study whatever she wanted, be it economics, history, administration, or the operation of his Sumiyama-kai, which he was building into the dominant organization of Masamori, and thus of all Hachiman. It was not that he was enlightened. He simply didn't care what his "protege" did as long as her services were available when he wanted them.
For the first time in her life, Eleanor had been truly motivated to learn. She proved a very quick study. Not that her newfound knowledge did her any good; she had her niche as far as the oyabun was concerned, and she needn't expect to rise out of it.
Then, in the late forties, she'd learned that the Gunji no Kanrei was looking for bright, ambitious, and able recruits, regardless of antecedents, to fill the ranks of his Ghost Regiments. Sumiyama had actually given her permission to join.
He knew it never hurt to have contacts in the military, which were not so easy to come by because the Combine's High Command utterly despised the yakuza, mostly because of their hyperactive patriotic posturing. Besides, he'd begun to grow bored with her, truth to tell.
Eleanor Shimazu had never felt much attachment to the Draconis Combine, its ways and ideals. She had received the usual indoctrination, and paid as little attention to it as everything else her mentors had tried to drum into her as a child. She still felt little of that patriotic fervor the oyabun liked to make so much noise about.
But her devotion to Kanrei Theodore Kurita, later to become Coordinator, was absolute. Notwithstanding the fact that it was by his orders that Lainie had arrived back here in the hated presence of her cousin.
* * *
"What?" Lainie demanded, realizing that Buntaro Mayne was saying something in his usual laconic, wise-ass way.
"I said, you better get your bets down, bancho, because they're about to rock and roll," the one-eyed MechWarrior said.
Lainie grunted. "A hundred on Blue," she said absently. She became aware of tension in her forearms, glanced down at her hands.
They were balled into fists, so tight the bones threatened to burst through whitened skin. Pain darted up her arms as she forced her fingers to unclench. Her fingertips had left half-moon craters in her palms. Fortunately, her nails were short, the way she'd worn them ever since fleeing the school on Kagoshima and in spite of Sumiyama's frequent comments that it was the duty of any consort of his to appear suitably feminine. She had consented to wear false nails during that phase when he'd had her on display, but she'd never have grown out her own.
In fact, her hands, long-fingered and once considered exceptionally fine, were now coarsened and callused from rigorous toughening exercises. That too was a kind of rebellion.
On both sides of the vast stubble-fields where the exercise was taking place stood BattleMechs with black and white stripes painted on arms and torsos. These were referees, drawn from Bronco Company, which was not participating in today's competition. Not far from Lainie and the score or so of Ghosts accompanying her stood the Atlas that she understood belonged to her new friend Captain MacDougall.
The crowd whistled and cheered as a volley of rockets arced out from the advancing 'Mech to explode against Adelante armor. The rounds were low-powered and filled with paint; yellow splashes appeared on limbs and breastplates. Adelante replied with snarls of paint-filled autocannon bursts and powered-down pink laser lances. Low-power blue-green practice lasers played the role of particle projection cannon.
Buntaro Mayne sauntered up to Lainie, his plate filled with goat meat swimming in red chile. "Pretty poor shots, bancho," he said with his mouth full.
About then a volley of SRM-simulators struck the treeline some seven meters up and a hundred meters south of the Ghosts, spattering picnickers with the orange paint Adelante was firing. The spectators scattered, to the gleeful applause of compatriots fortunate enough to be out of range.
"Living lives of total safety doesn't seem to be much of a priority for these folks," Mayne remarked.
Lainie shrugged. "Mujo," she said.
A light Cochise lance was racing along the cottonwoods to meet the Adelante lights. A referee Rifleman emitted a shrill simulated whistle through its loudspeakers and pointed the long-barreled weapons that served as its right arm at a charging White Wasp. Apparently protesting, the Wasp began to jump up and down and wave its arm in the air. The Rifleman's right autocannon blasted, and huge black splashes blossomed on the Wasp's front glacis, which was already liberally covered in orange. The little 'Mech folded its medium laser and its hand actuator over its chest and promptly toppled over backward.
Lainie laughed out loud. "I guess that means he's out of it."
A heartbeat later an Adelante Wasp with its torso painted in black and yellow stripes came jumping over Dark Lady's head and tackled an unwary Valkyrie with a butterfly painted on its chest.
"That's Cowboy!" Buntaro whooped, spilling his cabrito in the process. "Go, you skinny sonofabitch!"
* * *
"My word," Chandrasekhar Kurita said as White and Blue ' Mechs collided in a crash that went on and on like thunder. "They certainly are ... exuberant."
A blue BattleMaster, Macho Alvarado's Macho Man, kicked out one leg on a White Locust, which sent the 'Mech crashing down to the ground. Dark Lady charged up, waving her arms and whistling. Macho tried to crack her in the head with the Fusigon Longtooth extended-range PPC in his 'Mech's right arm. Lady K blocked, then stuck her Atlas' right leg behind Macho Man's right ankle, put her right palm against his chest, and dumped the BattleMaster to the ground with a creditable leg-throw and a thump that made Uncle Chandy's teeth knock together with an audible clack.
Seated to Camacho's right, Lieutenant Colonel Cabrera winced.
Chandy shook his large head, which glistened with sweat. "Amazing. But don't your machines suffer damage, Colonel? I should think they would be expensive to repair."
Cabrera's face pinched again at the mention of expense. Don Carlos nodded. "The damage is primarily to armor and is fairly simple to repair." He spoke with something like animation. "Sometimes joint actuators are damaged, but our technicians work wonders."
"Indeed, they must."
"As for expense—" The Colonel shrugged, carefully avoiding his top aide's eyes. "I find the cost worth it. We are not such marksmen as the Nagelring or New Avalon turn out. Nor do we have the technology to match the Clans. But there are no finer natural 'Mech pilots than Caballeros. It is worth much to us to keep our skills honed. Everything."
"It certainly pays off, Colonel," Chandy said enthusiastically. "Truly your people are skillful Mech Warriors, to maneuver their machines in such a fashion."
"You haven't seen anything here, Excellency," enthused moonfaced Father Montoya, the unit's sole noncombatant chaplain. "Now Patsy, she could pilot a Battl
eMech. I don't think there was a finer PH pilot in the Sphere. Not Allard-Liao, not anybody."
"Patsy?" Uncle Chandy echoed politely. "Who might this Patsy be?"
The momentary sheen had gone from Don Carlos' large dark eyes, leaving them empty and matte, like the eyes of a beaten dog. Marisol Cabrera glared furiously at Montoya, the look in her dark eyes revealing why she was nicknamed la Dama Muerte, Lady Death.
"Only my daughter," Don Carlos mumbled, half-apologetic. "She died. On Jeronimo—"
* * *
"So that's Himself," Archie Westin said, shading his eyes to peer at Chandrasekhar Kurita in the pavilion fifty meters north. He, Mariska, and their customary guide Father Garcia were recording the game for the folks back home in the Federated Commonwealth. "That's what a Kurita looks like in the flesh."
"A minor Kurita," Father Doctor Bob said. "Fairly far removed from the line of succession. I gather the late Coordinator Takashi thought him something of a fool."
"That seems to be the consensus," Archie said, nodding. "He was thick with Theodore, though, back when the old man was riding roughshod over the boy. Took his side at court. Teddy still favors him today in rather a pitying way. That's where he got the nickname 'Uncle Chandy,' you know, playing uncle to Theodore when the boy was out of favor, even though they're really cousins. Truth to tell, Chandy's only a year or three older."
"You seem to know a great deal about our employer."
"Do I?" A boyish grin. "I suppose I do. I'm rather fascinated by the Combine's ruling family, truth to tell."
Father Bob smiled. "Most people find your own royal family more compelling."
"You're missing some great action here, Arch," Mariska Savage said, crouching to get a different angle.
Archie laughed. "I suppose I find them less exotic. Rather like members of my own family." His face clouded. "Though the current state of affairs between the Archon Prince and his sister is thoroughly distressing."
"I should imagine," murmured the Jesuit.
"Arch," Savage said.
"Yes, yes, in a moment." He was looking at Chandy again. "I wonder if he can really be quite such a harmless fool?"
About then his camerawoman hit him in a flying tackle that sent the newsman sprawling. She also hooked Father Bob by the cassock in passing and they all flew into a heap.
A heartbeat later Buck Evans' Orion, propelled by a kick from Marshal Waits' Marauder came crashing into the trees where the trio had been standing.
Then a White Phoenix Hawk came swarming after, landing astride the Orion's belly and pummeling the 'Mech with its fists. A whistle, and Dark Lady bodily yanked the Phoenix Hawk back onto the field by one shoulder.
"Oh, my," Father Bob said breathlessly.
"Astounding, the way your Captain MacDougall gets around in that great, unwieldy Atlas," Archie said, standing up and helping the shaken Jesuit to his feet.
Savage, who carried her camera on a sling, remained seated, blithely filming away.
"Rather a close-run thing," Westin said. He leaned over to kiss Savage on the head. "Mariska, you're a love. Thanks for saving us."
Savage grinned, but kept her eye fastened to the eyepiece, as the two other zebra-painted 'Mechs hustled forward to untangle Buck Evans and his Orion and from the splintered cottonwoods.
"The officials are all from your Bronco Company, are they not?" Archie asked. Garcia nodded. "If you don't mind, why aren't you among them? You're a highly respected man in the Regiment."
Father Bob chuckled. "That's the key word, my friend: man. The good Lady K's two assistants are likewise female. We Caballeros have a chivalrous streak; we hesitate to offer violence to a woman, even though our lady 'Mech pilots give quite as well as they get. Were I out there"—a shrug—"in the heat of passion, even a good Catholic might forget I was a man of the cloth."
Archie shook his head. "You're a fascinating people, Padre."
"Yes, aren't we?" Garcia agreed enthusiastically. "I love my work."
"Speaking of women—Caballeras?—I wonder where that little scout of your is."
"Ah, the lovely Cassiopeia—" Father Doctor Bob began, a faraway look in his eyes.
"On the job somewhere, Archie," Savage said, still filming from the ground. "She's a fanatic. Also, her only interest in 'Mechs is blowing them up."
Archie blinked. "I knew that," he said.
* * *
The exercise came down—"degenerated" was actually the word that sprang to Lainie's mind—to a face-to-face melee that the Caballeros clustered around the Ghosts gleefully referred to as a lucha libre. There was much reference to a Captain Santo, commander of Infante Company, but he was in Third Battalion, whose members didn't get to play today. Lainie gathered a confused impression that Santo went by no other name, never appeared without wearing a silver mask, and descended from a family of nobles whose scions were inevitably masked wrestling champions. By this time she was thoroughly bemused, sunburned, and cradling some young Caballera MechWarrior's two-year-old daughter on her hip.
Bobby the Wolf went into a rage, and was disqualified when he tried to wrench the head off Cowboy's Wasp. That seemed to signal the end of the engagement, since all that remained standing were three Adelante 'Mechs: Raven O'Connor's Raven, Perez' Awesome, and Pipiribau's Locust, whose plastic-toy decorations had been removed before the rumble started.
Hooting, Buntaro Mayne began to dance around and slap the hands of Usagi and Unagi, who had backed Blue along with him. Everybody else but the tai-sa had gone White. Not out of consensus with the surrounding spectators, except for the stiff-necked young samurai, but because Mayne's new buddy Cowboy was on the Blue team.
"So what did we observe today, people?" The Colonel's voice cut through the celebration as Lainie handed the infant off to Captain Vásquez, the angel-faced Catapult pilot, who seemed to have charge of the younger kids.
"Some pretty hot 'Mech piloting," Mayne crowed. "Brothers, did you see the way Cowboy decked that damned Banshee!"
"Banshee's a piece of junk anyway," grumbled Shig Hofstra.
"Yeah, I'd like to see you do that—"
"So would I," Lainie Shimazu said. But softly.
"What are you talking about?" the young samurai demanded, handsome face flushed. "These mercenaries are a disgrace! Wild, heedless, totally undisciplined—"
"Totally proficient pilots," Shimazu said.
The boy threw up his hands. "They acted without thought! They're mad! Utterly abandoned! Like—like animals!"
He used the worst word in Japanese, chikusho. Moon, who hadn't bet at all, dropped a square scarred hand on the samurai's shoulder.
"Son," the Korean said, "you'd best quit while you're ahead. That's warrior spirit you're describing. If you can show half that much when the PPC beams start to crackle around your ears for real, boy, you can die with your name restored."
18
Masamori, Hachiman
Galedon District, Draconis Combine
6 September 3056
Bent over, Cassie picked her way softly and silently over the tops of stacked polymer crates. Above her, lights hung from the ceiling trusses spilled soft illumination to the warehouse floor. She was careful where her shadow went.
To her surprise, it was her Kit-Kat gig that rang the cherries after all. A couple of grunt-level kobun soldiers muttering together in a corner about the big mysterious meet the boss was having the next night. One was grousing in his Old Stick and Sack that he was missing a big date with a dancer from Torashii Gyaru, currently the hottest strip club in Sodegarami. The other was commiserating.
They thought they were maintaining perfect security. There was nobody around but the little waitress with the smoke-gray eyes and perfect little butt.
So here was Cassie, snooping and pooping through a warehouse on the estuary just south of the ukiyo—perhaps significantly, in easy line of sight of the forbidding walls of HTE Compound. She was dressed all in black, and her face was blackened with non-gloss cammie plant. S
he was armed with Blood-drinker, a pistol, assorted burglar tools, and a palm-sized camcorder—straight video; she didn't want to be sending laser beams around at random in a place that might be lousy with detectors.
An intersection. A pair of burly goons in dazzle-pattern sports coats with padded shoulders—zaki, regulation gangster kitsch—stood with heads together. They carried submachine guns and in their ears were little buttons connected to their breast pockets by wires. There were more modern commo rigs available, even in the Combine; no doubt the yaks were fond of these.
She spidered back a few meters from the watchdogs, who occasionally remembered to look around, but—like most amateurs—never up. She gathered herself, leapt across the two-meter space between stacks, light and silent as a shadow. Then she was stealing forward, unsuspected.
The center of the big warehouse had been cleared of crates in a space about ten meters square, the boxes heaped hurriedly on top of the orderly stacks surrounding it. Two groups faced each other across the stained cement floor. Creeping forward, Cassie found a conveniently situated crack between crates and hunkered down to peer between.
One trio centered on a man of medium height and light build, with a turtle head jutting from the collar of his dark and well-cut suit coat and a slash of mouth. Cassie's first guess was that this was Kazuo Sumiyama. Also her second and third; she had heard the boys talk about him. Besides, she'd also seen his picture in the Mirza's files.
Standing behind his either shoulder were obvious meat puppets, one bulky, one trim. They had the buttons in their ears too, but no obvious pieces, confirming them as bodyguards and not grunt sentries. Cassie dismissed them with a glance. They obviously thought they were long-range, low-heat, but their awareness was low; they'd never see her, and so could never threaten her.
The other three were as unlike the yaks as noon and midnight. The central figure was a tall man with a shock of red hair and a fist of a face thrust forward beneath it. His features had that seamed sort of ugliness you have to be born with and then steadily work on, with help from weather, fists, blades, and various other inputs. He wore nondescript Middle-Class clothes. Cassie had no idea who he was, but she knew him. From his presence and his poise, the way he stood with his weight forward on the balls of his feet like a boxer, he was Death.
