“I’m the ranking officer here,” Xochitl growled, trying to summon an authoritative snap in his voice.
“Then you’ll be on the secondary bridge,” Kosho replied evenly, not even bothering to look up from her personal comp. “As befits the Gensui commanding the battle group. My apologies-we are not fitted with a flag bridge. Be aware, Tlatocapilli, that I will remain in command of my ship and all operational matters at all times.”
“You will follow my orders!” Xochitl responded, outraged.
“Only if they exhibit a shred of sense.” Susan turned, looking him up and down with a measuring eye. The Prince stiffened, not used to such judgmental scrutiny, or the sensation that he had been found wanting.
“Right now,” Kosho continued, her voice harsh with exhaustion, “there is only one thing to do-get out of here as quickly as possible. We’re in no shape to deal with the Khaid, much less the powers which might dwell in this benighted sinkhole. My ship has been hammered up one side and down the other, our magazines are low, we’ve battle damage in every department and almost every section. Do you honestly think we can do anything here, other than blunder into another defensive system and make a quick exit to Mictlan?”
Xochitl started to speak, and then paused, his attention drawn away, listening to some voice only he was privy to. Then, with a sharp, deep breath he stepped back and rubbed his brow fiercely. Beads of sweat glistened at his temples.
“No,” the Prince said, having collected himself. “You’re right. Without our science teams and the support ships, we have no way…” He paused, seeming to look inward again. “Thrice-cursed Huss and his league of devils! I am a fool and fool’s fool.” Xochitl glared at Susan, eyebrows drawn together as his whole face transformed into a furious mask. He ground a fist his palm. “ Someone brought the Khaid down on us, didn’t they? The raiders haven’t been reported operating in this area before.”
“No.” Kosho’s lips twitched and she clasped her hands. “Not in the last ten years of working the Rim. Someone was expecting you -Lord Prince, or someone like you-to come along.”
“You make that title sound positively dirty,” Xochitl jested weakly, trying to summon even a spark of his usual ebullience. The anger had already faded from him, leaving only a pensive weariness. He groped for a chair, found a low-cut Nakashima fiddleback, and collapsed into the elegant seat. “How many men did you lose, Yakka?”
“Nearly a hundred. I welcome the replacements you brought.”
“Huh!” The Prince’s laugh-to his own ear-was a tired bark from an exhausted dog.
“You still owe me ninety-three more.”
***
In the darkness of the medbay, Green Hummingbird frowned, watching the Prince and the captain stare at each other in weary silence. He blinked, switching the feed to another of his dorei infesting the shipnet.
This v-cam showed the armored alien who’d come aboard with the Prince. The creature was cowering in the corner of a well-appointed cabin with its long tapering head hidden in his hands. A constant muttering wail issued forth from the helmet, which was loud enough for the room security camera to pick up and relay to the nauallis. The sounds were unintelligible, though the Mexica had a more than passing knowledge of the Hjo trade language used in Imperial space.
What a pitiful creature, the old man thought, and subvocalized a series of commands into his throatmike. A pity the zhongdu didn’t send someone more… aware. Still, one uses what tools are to hand.
***
“How are we going to get out of here?” Xochitl paced back and forth across the bamboo-parquet flooring of the Chu-sa ’s private office. His boots ground into the sealant layer protecting the light-grained panels, leaving tiny gritty black marks. “How did you navigate through the Barrier? Can you get us back out?”
“Don’t you wonder,” Kosho said, in a musing tone, “if the Khaid knew our full strength when that pack made transit… or do they habitually hunt Imperial scouts with such numbers? It seems very odd their Kabil Rezei would go loping around in this wasteland with a fleet.”
The Prince glared at her. “You are still just as annoying as in school.”
Kosho shrugged, meeting his eyes with a calm, direct gaze. “They were hunting for you, Sayu. They jumped in hot, right on top of us in this cursed murk, and they came loaded for capital ships… so tell me this, is it safe to take my ship back into Imperial space with you aboard?” Her expression flattened. “Are you running from someone, Lord Prince? We’ve been out of comm contact for weeks-is your father dead? Is there some new Emperor on the Quetzal throne? One that finds you displeasing?”
“What do-” Xochitl stopped, his expression suddenly frozen. “Yakka, that is a cold, cold thought.”
“The Princes of the Mexica are notoriously cruel, my Lord. Particularly when they war upon one another.”
“My father sent me himself,” Xochitl allowed confidently, but felt his jaw twitch as he gave the words life. Susan shook her head minutely in disbelief, her eyes filling with pity. Suddenly, he felt naive. “He… no one else knew my destination or intent. No one. We left Anahuac under complete blackout and emissions control; my own ship, my own picked men. He… couldn’t send anyone else…” The Prince’s voice trailed off and his vision grew dark with growing fury.
Now I know how sensei felt at Jagan, Susan thought, abruptly gripped by despair. The fate-cursed retainers of a doomed Prince, conveniently sent into a wilderness from which they will not return…
“No,” Xochitl said slowly as he tried to rally his wits. “No, I will not believe that, not yet. Many hands touched the planning of the Mirror expedition-or the Khaid may have been snooping here already-anyone might have…” A thought occurred to him and his face lightened with relief. “The embassy! Someone had informed the-” He stopped abruptly, blinking as an overlay appeared in his field of vision.
«Security Warning! Kosho, Susan, Chu-sa in command of IMN BC-268, does not hold ring-zero clearance!»
Susan looked at him expectantly. Xochitl felt suddenly, terribly alone.
I can’t tell her. She’s not cleared to know such things. How “There is another explanation,” he said coldly, rising and going to the door. “Which is a privy matter. Expedite your repairs, Chu-sa. We will need to be underway as soon as possible. As soon as it is safe to move, begin looking for a way out of this… place. And send all current telemetry to the secondary bridge for my review.”
Susan watched him leave with a frown. Now what did he almost say? What “embassy” was involved with this?
Down in Medical, Hummingbird’s impassive face showed the faint ghost of a smile. In his other Eye, the z-suited alien had removed his helmet and was stuffing a long-snouted face with fried dumplings, a veritable buffet table of freshly delivered food laid out before him. Beside the table, a trolley cart had been provided, filled with gleaming glass bottles of liquor.
Now our feet are on the proper road.
The Wilful
Hadeishi stepped onto the bridge-such as it was-of the little freighter, with a light heart. The search pattern laid down by De Molay had let them recover no less than five evacuation capsules from a variety of Imperial ships. In each case the capsule had been maneuvered into one of the cargo bays with the Wilful ’s z-g loading cranes and clamped down. Gunner’s mate Tadohao and Nitto-hei Cajeme had grown quite proficient in the art of undogging the capsule hatches and sorting out the dazed, wounded, and confused men inside. Nearly every Sho-i and Thai-i they’d rescued had protested the command structure, complained vehemently, threatened mutiny, and finally settled down after a thorough reading of Mitsuharu’s papers.
Hadeishi found it quite interesting-more so with each conversation-that none of the Fleet officers seemed to find it strange or unusual to be rescued by a tramp freighter commanded by a reserve Chu-sa in the uttermost wilderness. But then, he remembered, this was a Smoking Mirror operation, which means every man and woman of them came expecting the strange, the untoward a
nd the downright peculiar to happen.
Mitsuharu stepped to the captain’s chair, seeing that De Molay was dozing at her station, still wrapped in a variety of blankets and now wearing a hand-knit shepherd’s cap. He was about to sit when he noticed the shockchair had been reduced to nothing but the bare frame, without even the cracked leather seat he’d grown used to.
“What have you done to my chair?” He gave the old woman a questioning look.
“Hm? Oh, the cushions?” De Molay yawned elaborately, stretching both skinny old arms. “All of your lost children needed something for their heads; these floors are quite cold if you’ve not even a blanket.”
“Yes… that is true.” He fingered the hexacarbon framing and eyed the recessed bolts in the seat.
The old woman scratched at the half-healed wound on her cheek. “So-how is our new crew adjusting to their reduced circumstances?”
“Some of the wounded won’t last, but their spirits are good.” Hadeishi sat, his good mood evaporating. “We’ll lose nearly ten, I think, if we can’t find better medical facilities for them.”
De Molay nodded, watching him closely. “My apologies, but I cannot offer anything better…”
“That you-that we-are here has already given them a priceless gift.” Hadeishi’s eyes narrowed, thinking of the hidden compartments he knew existed downdeck. “Now, Sencho, is that really true? This is a ship of many surprises! I’ve not gone through every centimeter of the holds-have you a whole medbay down there? Along with this”-he indicated the hull with a wave of his hand-“very interesting shipskin and heat exchanger?”
In response, she frowned, jutting her chin forward. “So far the rescue campaign is going well, you would say?”
Hadeishi started to nod, his expression brightening. “Very well! We need to kit up some more bunks, as you’ve said, and take a close inventory of our supplies, but-”
“ Chu-sa,” De Molay said sharply. “How many men and women have we taken aboard?”
“Sixty,” he said after a moment of mentally reviewing the rosters from each capsule.
“We are at one hundred twenty-five percent of environmental capacity, Chu-sa. The scrubbers are showing amber across the board, the sewage recycler is backed up, and we’re out of hot water. In fact, we’re going to be out of water period very soon because there is waste and leakage in these Knorr -class freighters and we’re pushing the system too hard! But that,” she concluded, her voice rising angrily, “won’t be an issue much longer because we are almost out of food.”
Hadeishi sat back, scratching at his beard, which had begun to twist into an ungainly white-streaked tangle. Reluctantly, he walked mentally through the ship, comparing the numbers of compartments to the number of men aboard. These capsules are coming in with some emergency rations aboard, but this freighter didn’t come prepared for a search and rescue mission. We’re just over carrying capacity.
“You’re right,” he said at last, brow furrowed in thought. “We still have capsules on the plot, but nowhere to bunk the survivors for more than a few hours. Where to put them…”
“Success will defeat you if we do not find a way.” De Molay settled back into her blankets. “Or you will have to be satisfied with the souls you’ve already saved, and let the rest go.”
“No.” He shook his head vehemently. “I won’t abandon them.”
“Then what will you do?” The old woman’s exasperation was clear. “There is no room at the inn.”
Hadeishi nodded slowly, his face clearing. “Your point is taken. Plainly, we need another ship.”
“Another ship?” Tocoztic-who had come in while they were talking and sat down quietly at his station-exclaimed. “But-”
“Then get one.” De Molay replied tartly, glaring at Mitsuharu. “I am content to watch from here while you do the heavy lifting, but I would appreciate just one tiny favor, Chu-sa. I would like my ship back in operable condition!”
“Of course.”
Musashi swung the axe in a light, looping arc-striking the end of the log square center-gravity and the full power of his shoulders splitting the wood from end to end with a sharp crack! He reached down, tossed the two sections aside into a large and growing pile, and then reached for another log.
“Pardon me, sir,” came a polite but authoritative voice. Musashi looked over his shoulder, tattered kimono stretching over his muscular arm. An elderly, balding man was standing at the edge of the inn’s wood lot-no, not just a man, someone who had once been a samurai officer. That much was instantly apparent to Musashi from his horseman’s stance, his calm and level gaze. Such men were rare in Japan under Mongol rule-well, rare that they walked the streets and were not in chains, or laboring in some work gang in shackles.
“I understand that you are ronin-and needful of employment?” The stranger tilted his head slightly, indicating the woodpile.
“I need to eat, like all men,” Musashi replied, straightening up. “What’s the job?”
“Tax collectors are going to level their village.” The samurai gestured politely to two farmers cringing behind him, their faces drawn with hunger, their bodies thin with starvation. “As the harvest has been short this year.”
“You’re going to stand in the Noyan’s way? You are a man of great bravery.”
“Not the Noyan.” The elderly samurai essayed a grin. “A local gang-no more than bandits, forty or fifty of them-the governor has parted out the collections, being too indolent to do this himself.”
Musashi felt a spark of interest flare in his breast, so he settled his shoulders, picked up the bokuto and bowed politely. “Now this I need to see,” he said. “How many of us are there?”
“Five others,” Kambei said. “Did I mention all the farmers can pay is our meals?”
Aboard the Naniwa
Inside the Pocket, four light-minutes from the Pinhole
Kosho woke to the sound of a reminder chime from her comp. Lying in the dimness of her cabin, she felt perfectly fine for approximately three seconds-then she moved her head, looking over at the screen to see what needed doing-and every muscle, joint, and tissue in her body complained. Oh Queen of the Heavenly Mountain, she thought blearily, did I take that many meds in the last two days?
The bone-deep achiness in her back, legs, and shoulders argued that she had, in fact, taken way too many stayawakes for her body to process in only four hours of sleep. Regardless, she swung out of her bunk and padded on bare feet to the comp.
Ventral end of magazine conveyor thirty-two, in fifteen minutes? Susan scratched her head, feeling an irritating graininess in her scalp, and realized she’d collapsed into bed without even washing her face. The sensation of grime clogging every pore on her body made the Nisei woman shudder, so she tapped a quick “acknowledged” into the comp and fled to the shower.
Fourteen minutes later, in a fresh uniform and with a bulb of tea in her hand, Kosho stepped out of the tube-and nodded in greeting to a junior engineer waiting for her in the little offloading station. Socho Juarez had attached himself to her as soon as Susan had left her cabin.
“ Kikan-shi Ige, good morning. Sho-sa Chac is waiting for me?”
“They all are, kyo. This way please.” The Mixtec engineer gestured for her to precede him.
They all are? Curious, Kosho drained the rest of the bulb and followed along. What is Chac up to now?
Almost immediately they descended a gangway passing through two layers of battle-steel and stepped out onto a hexacarbon walkway running the length of a railway tube. Susan recognized part of the Backbone from all the work they’d done during trials to get the maglev system up and running, but the number of crewmen standing along the sides of the tube ahead of her was surprising. There were at least thirty kashikan-hei with logistics flashes on their z-suits lined up along the walkways on either side of the rail. At the far end of the group, she could see Oc Chac’s polished visage watching for her, though the slim figure at his side was unfamiliar.
Th
e Mayan’s companion was young, no more than a cadet, and what she could see of his face indicated he was straight from the Center, possibly from Tenochtitlan itself, with shining black hair like smoke tied back behind a smooth copper-colored neck. What piqued her interest, however, was the elaborate and beautiful costume he was wearing. A classical Nahuatl mantle formed of tiny gleaming white feathers was draped across his shoulders and back, leaving the front open to reveal a fitted shirt ablaze with green and gold and iridescent yellow. The shirt was also made of feathers, even smaller and more downlike than the mantle. Most of his face was hidden by a hummingbird mask figured in black and red and green-and the mask itself seemed to be formed of beaten gold inlaid with semiprecious stones and jade. His feet were bare on the platform, though tiny conch shells were braided around his ankles. As she approached, the kashikan-hei lining the side walls bowed respectfully, their caps pressed over their hearts, and Oc Chac saluted smartly.
The Mayan officer had set aside his z-suit and uniform and was wearing a hooded cotton cloak and tunic. Like the young man, his feet were bare, though unadorned.
“ Chu-sa on deck,” Juarez announced, his voice echoing in the tubeway. With a rustle, everyone knelt save the Huitzitzilnahualli and Susan. She glanced questioningly to Oc Chac, who motioned for her to step to the edge of the tube beside him and remain standing. When she had done so, the Mayan squatted down with a drum between his legs. A flat, calloused palm struck the stretched leather and a deep, basso boom-boom sounded. In the rail tunnel, the sound reverberated in each direction, generating a skin-tingling vibration.
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