by Ilsa J. Bick
Loveland squinted through the magnifying glass as the ME gently pulled the skin taut between two gloved fingers. Then Loveland saw it: the tiny lips of a circular wound invisible to the naked eye.
The ME said. “He must’ve used a stiff, strong wire and pithed her like a frog, except he didn’t obliterate the brain-stem. So she’d be conscious but paralyzed.” The ME peeled the sheet to the woman’s abdomen. “This poor woman didn’t feel a thing, but she saw every second.”
The woman’s breasts were gone. Flesh and fatty tissue had been deftly sliced away to expose muscle the color of meat left too long in a grocer’s display case.
“This guy of yours, he’s a monster,” the ME said.
“No,” Loveland said. “Satan.”
15
JumpShip Kaminari , somewhere near Midway nadir jump point
New Samarkand Military District, Draconis Combine
22 July 3136
When he had come to himself, he had done so in blood. Lots of it. Blood globules—shimmering, wavering and eerily alive in weightlessness—had spattered windows and workstations, walls and books, rupturing into spidery smears. More blood, tacky as an imperfect second skin, had coated his face, seeped into his hair, dried on his hands. Blood in his mouth, tasting of death.
Even now, a week later, with the ship clean and the crew watching him with frightened rabbits’ eyes, he had a hard time remembering what had happened. He recalled smashing glass and hurling furniture, all in terrible, ceaseless slow motion—and he remembered pain. Clawing his way back to some semblance of rationality was agony, and once he was there, the frenzy of his grief, as real and genuine as any lover’s, shook him to the core.
Dead, dead, she’s gone, and now I’m truly alone. . . .
Before this catastrophe, he’d been lonely. (It had been a mistake to kill Marcus: He’d discovered that within a day. They needed one another. So he’d made a little shrine of Marcus, played games with him. That helped.) He’d done a murder here, a killing there, hopscotching from planet to planet, restless, restless. Ravaging bodies only to discover that his hunger grew, like something alive.
Briefly, he was Crawford’s golden boy. He’d finally left because he wanted Katana all to himself. He’d lived for the day when he revealed himself, had fantasies of how it would all happen. How she would look at him at the very, very end. The scales would fall from her eyes, and she would see him as he truly was: the only man she wanted or needed, the only one she could trust. Katana would come to him, to his bed, willingly. Eagerly. Aboard his JumpShip and in the perpetual night of space, he’d spun fantasies of Katana in his arms, Katana’s mouth against his, the slide of her fingers, the sleekness of her skin and taut muscles: fantasies that left him shivering with longing and lust.
The rub had been how. Even if the Kuritas were gone, there would be the others: Crawford, Parks and all the rest—and that accursed Kan Otome, the Old Master. (And if Katana only knew the truth about that old, old man . . . Everyone had a past.)
Yet none of that mattered now. Katana was dead.
The only thought that now burned his raging, grieving brain like a brand was how to destroy the Kuritas, each and every one.
But there’d been this godsend, maybe an omen: a message, encrypted, delivered through trusted couriers, deposited in a secure account. When he’d read it, he saw his path. He saw his chance.
Because in Vincent Kurita’s garden, there was a snake named Ramadeep Bhatia.
JumpShip Shadow , Midway
nadir jump point
Ramadeep Bhatia floated before a portal and waited for the call. He’d gotten word of the accident—the Monarch reduced to a debris field and only a handful of bodies recovered from a ship with no escape pods or lifeboats—while en route to the Luthien jump point, the first leg of his long trip to New Samarkand, hell and gone. Thank the dragon, someone upstairs liked him because the news crackled from JumpShip to JumpShip—and right to Bhatia’s very own. (Although those fools in Katana’s command headquarters on Halstead Station probably didn’t know yet.)
Gods, Toranaga’s little gift showed such foresight! The genius of it! Had the man known the coordinator would refuse and post Yori Kurita to Katana’s command? Because it was clear: Yori would assume command by right of blood. Oh, this Toranaga was turning out to be a much more capable man than even Bhatia had been prepared to admit.
A sudden thought so stunning that the realization was physical, an electric jolt that sizzled through his skin, quite took his breath away. Was this only coincidence? Did Toranaga have a hand in Katana’s death? Dear gods. Bhatia released his breath, very slowly, his heart thudding in his temples. If so, then the warlord was even more cunning, more gratifyingly proactive than he’d imagined.
Yes, things could not be more to his liking. Now was the time to set his plan in motion. The plan was . . . well, audacious. Dangerous, actually. Because, as soon as he was a day out of Luthien, he’d sent a message through very secure channels—safeguards upon safeguards—to a man Bhatia never dreamt he’d call upon as an ally.
But now, now is the time to strike! To rid the Combine of the Peacock once and for all!
One dangling thread sobered him. What of the Bounty Hunter? Without Tormark, would he return to his heinous ways? Bhatia suspected the Bounty Hunter and Kappa—a man he feared more than he liked to acknowledge—were one and the same. Yet a follow-up report from his agent on Asta indicated that the rumors regarding the Hunter’s reemergence proved false. No one had seen the Hunter, not on Asta or Halstead Station.
Bhatia was not a superstitious man, but Fate had dealt him this chance. Tormark was gone. Vincent Kurita and his family would join her. And then? Bhatia permitted himself an indulgent smile that was slow in coming, delicious in its essence. Yes, he would install the child, this Yori Kurita, who would see them through to a new era of glory and might such as the Inner Sphere had never seen.
The silence was rent by the shrill of his comm. The sound was as palpable as a set of icy fingers tripping up his spine, freezing his blood, stopping his breath.
What am I doing? This way leads to madness. I can still stop this. I do not have to travel this road unless I am very, very sure because once done, there is no turning back . . .
And then the moment of indecision passed. Ramadeep Bhatia punched in. He listened to the background hiss of deep space, the cracks and pops of a solar wind—and waited on Fate. On his destiny.
On the whims of a monster.
* * *
Jonathan clicked off, pushed away from his console and drifted.
Like a gift from the ashes. There is a time, and there is a place. A time to live, a time to die, and they will die because I’ve never felt this way, so empty. Hollow as if all my guts had been scooped out . . .
The ISF director had been brutally succinct: “I propose nothing more than an alliance of convenience. We are enemies, but even enemies can work toward a common goal. Once Kurita is dead, you will disappear. I will not pursue you. Yet venture into my sphere again, and I will hunt you down.”
Well played, Director, nicely done. Jonathan swam to a cabinet and paused, debating. The glass doors were expensive quartz crystal, the better to enhance the many minute, brightly lit fiber-optic filaments illuminating his collection. His eyes—hooded, gray as mist—ticked over the items, and then he selected a vial and secured the cabinet once more.
Humming tunelessly, Jonathan released the vial. It had a slight bulge in the center that created the perfect contact angle to prevent liquid from pooling at the bottom. The clear preservative bunched like thick lava, and the blue eyes with their thin stalks of optic nerve bobbed.
So Bhatia wished to use his services? Well, Jonathan had his conditions, and Bhatia would abide, or Jonathan would destroy him. Might do so anyway. He had no illusions. Bhatia would kill him the very second he was no longer useful.
And meet with the ISF director at the College on New Samarkand? He thought not. Oh, he’d go, but o
n his terms. If he used pirate points, he’d arrive before the third of September when the new class entered the college.
But there was something about September that bothered him. What was it? Somersaulting to a workstation, he did a search—and then his chest seized with sudden hope.
September was the month of O-Bon: the Festival of the Dead when restless spirits, the kami, wandered the earth, revisiting their homes and loved ones. Dear God, it was an omen! His heart filled with a preternatural certainty that spilled into a kind of ecstasy. His eyes stung, and when tears came, he dashed them from his eyes. The tiny orbs shimmered like diamonds.
Yes, he would offer himself to his darling. She would use his body as a vessel. Her soul would mingle with his in an intimacy beyond the merely physical. They would be one: his body her temple.
“Yes, Katana,” he said. He let the vial spin free, the ownerless blue eyes bob away. There was only one woman he wanted, just one. He raised his fingers, stroking the air, as if pulling at invisible filaments. “Come to me, my darling. Fill me. Then you will know the man I’ve been, the one that I am—because I am here for you, my heart, my beloved Katana. I am here.”
16
Yamabushi Retreat, Ogano
Benjamin Military District, Draconis Combine
29 July 3136
This high in the Ogano Mountains, alpine scrub gave way to shattered rock and naked scree. The air was thinner, something Theodore felt in the slow burn in his chest and ache in his joints. Sweat greased his face and neck, and his temples throbbed to the drumbeat of a headache. He rested, leaning against an outcropping of gray rock baked hot by a fierce and unforgiving sun. Unhooking his insulated water bottle, Theodore drank. Icy and sweet, the water tracked a cold finger down the center of his chest and into his belly. Yet his left hand jittered as he tried to cap his canteen, and he finally had to use his right.
Eihei-ji Temple was built into the mountainside. A mountain river of glacier melt was tapped for water, and the monastery sported well-tended gardens of white stone and evergreens. The haunting melodies of honkyoku, meditation pieces played on shakuhachi, floated above the musical chants of the monks immersed in their meditations.
Now clean and refreshed, Theodore watched as three monks approached. They each wore simple geta, a black tunic and dark blue, ankle-length robes. Two of the monks were more substantial because they were O5P agents who, with four others, served as round-the-clock bodyguards.
The third monk was as tall as Theodore but without his ice-blue eyes. His head was shaven, and he shuffled. His shoulders slumped.
“Brother.” Theodore grasped Ryuhiko’s forearms. His brother was older by fifteen years, and his arms were surprisingly thick with muscle. His skin was bronzed by sun. Yet Theodore saw madness in those too-bright, hazel eyes. “You’re big around as a BattleMaster.”
Ryuhiko laughed. “After prayers, there isn’t much to do. Sometimes I turn wood to make bowls and boxes the monastery sells, but most of the time, I’m out and about. I’m getting as good as the Nykr goats.”
“I’m impressed. Huffing up the mountain, I almost passed out.”
Ryuhiko gave a negligent shrug that was somewhat abbreviated because of his posture. He gestured for Theodore to walk, but Theodore hesitated. His brother made an exasperated sound. “Oh, come on, come on. I haven’t had a bad day since . . . Jamon, when was my last bad day?”
The taller bodyguard said, “Last week, Tono. You were . . . unwell.”
“Was I? I don’t remember. Did I hurt anyone?”
“Only me, Tono, and not badly. If you’d bitten instead of scratched, it would’ve been worse.”
Ryuhiko barked a raucous laugh. “That will teach you! When I get an idea in my head, it won’t shake loose until I’ve got what I want.”
“Indeed.” Jamon’s tone was bland, but his eyes semaphored a warning to Theodore.
They walked, their sandals crunching over scree. Ryuhiko was still smiling and muttering, sometimes chuckling. Soon, they came to a narrow, rugged path cut from the mountain’s face. The right edge gave way to air and rocks below. Instinctively, Theodore moved to bracket Ryuhiko against the mountain. He was tired, but he trusted his step far more.
Suddenly, Ryuhiko said, “How is my father?”
A dangerous subject: Vincent Kurita never came to visit his eldest son. The cover story—that Ryuhiko preferred the isolation that was a monk’s life—helped.
Just as the official story of her wish to lead a contemplative life covers the truth about my mother: that she’s hidden away in a hospital at the base of these mountains, her mind gone.
Theodore resisted the temptation to look back for the guards, who’d fallen back a respectful distance. But he slowed a tad. “He’s well. Why, a month ago . . .” He chattered about receptions and the nobles’ squabbles.
His brother interrupted in mid-sentence: “What about you?”
“Oh, I just attend boring functions.”
“I didn’t mean that.” Ryuhiko’s voice was flat. “I meant: What about you? You, your body, you . . . What about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a liar.” Again, that curious flatness. “You think I don’t see? Your left hand shakes, Brother, and your face tics every now and again, but so fast you don’t realize. But I see it. You’re dragging your right leg—”
“I’m tired.”
“Dragging your leg! So don’t tell me you’re well, Brother! If you are also ill, why are you free? Why must I stay here while you—!”
“We should go back.” Theodore was uncomfortably aware that the guards were easily fifty meters behind—and aware of the empty space to his right. “I need to rest. The altitude . . .”
“Bullshit,” Ryuhiko said, and made the word much uglier than it was. “It’s because he favors you. Mother favored me, but Father always loved you!” Ryuhiko’s face was a contorted mask of crazed hatred and grief, and it had all happened so fast, like a volcano exploding without warning. “You’re free, and I’m less than dog shit!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Theodore saw the guards hurrying down the path. Just a few more seconds . . . “Come, Brother,” he said, and then he did absolutely the wrong thing. He clasped Ryuhiko’s arm. “Come, let’s—”
“Take your hands off me! I’m not a dog. I’m no one’s puppet!” With a wild cry, Ryuhiko launched himself at his brother.
Theodore reacted, a fraction of a second too late. “Ryuhiko! No!” he shouted as he simultaneously tried to both turn and plant his feet. To his horror, his right knee locked, and then Ryuhiko was on him. His brother’s momentum staggered Theodore, sent him reeling. Desperate, Theodore grabbed Ryuhiko’s tunic in both hands and then went against instinct. He willed his body to go limp, using his weight to drag Ryuhiko down. His right leg was still rigid with spasm, and Theodore cried out as Ryuhiko’s left knee drove into the taut hamstring. Then his brother’s hands were around his neck, the big work-roughened hands squeezing . . .
But then the guards were on them, and the moment of danger passed.
His brother didn’t stop cursing him all the way back.
* * *
Night slammed down. The air was frosty, and Theodore was numb with cold. He sat staring at stars wheeling through the heavens—his right hand clasping his left to still the tremor that had settled into his very bones.
In that instant when Ryuhiko had him, Theodore had fleetingly thought of death. Death would be a release. A few moments’ horror, and then their bodies would burst upon unforgiving rock, and he would die.
For a fraction of a second, Theodore had craved death. Tasted it.
Have even I given up hope?
That frightened him because he thought that Makoto Shouriki had tried to tell him the same thing in a different way.
Back on Luthien, the day they’d learned of Katana’s death, Makoto had found him beneath that spreading cherry tree, and he’d said the strangest thing: “Dynasties are like gardens
, Theodore. They must be tended, cared for. Most of all, they depend upon the land.”
What was Makoto getting at? Though he liked Makoto, considered him a friend, he’d not said anything about the curse in their blood. For the first time, Theodore wondered if perhaps his father . . . “And?”
“And your garden is built on shifting sands. Forgive me, Theodore, but I must be blunt. I worry for the future of your house. True, your sister is formidable and should be next in the line of succession. But that is no longer a given. Yori Kurita is rising, Theodore. She is rising fast, like a comet breaking free of gravity.”
Theodore had forced a laugh. “I’m not planning on going anywhere, you know.”
“No?” Then, swiftly, Makoto extended his left hand in a handshake. Without thinking, Theodore extended his left, realizing his mistake as their hands touched—and held. “For the love of God,” Makoto said, clasping Theodore’s hand in both of his, “take care, and quickly, Theodore.”
Held my left hand because he knows.
And now Emi’s words, an omen: You’re the only one who can save us, Brother. The only one.
17
Copenwald, Halstead Station
7 August 3136
Expressionless, Crawford listened as a white-faced aide named Meriwether delivered the news. Afterward, Crawford took five minutes alone, red hair cascading around his face as he wept: huge, wracking sobs he stoppered with a fist.