by Nyx Smith
"Yes, Honjowara-sama," Machiko says, though she does not understand, not really. The error is hers. She knows this. If the Chairman wishes to declare otherwise, that is his right, and she will agree that he is right. Given the time, she will make herself accept what he says, believe what he says. But now, in this moment, it is very hard.
"Nagato security was responsible for keeping weapons away from the headquarters. Doubtless, the explosive device was brought to Uekiya's store before the perimeter was established. You could not prevent this. You went to the grocer's aid as duty demanded. You were not responsible for detecting the explosive, yet you did detect it. You could not prevent the explosive from being detonated, yet you prevented grave loss of life. You hurled yourself at death, Machiko-san. There is no shame in this."
Machiko struggles with her growing confusion, her pain. She gazes at the exposed length of her sword. Yearns to feel the lasting comfort of its kiss.
"The warrior's course is one of fanaticism and desperation. This I know. But you must learn to heed your own advice, Machiko-san. You gaze at the world very narrowly. Your vision is a keenly edged sword. But when the fire and thunder has passed, you must step back, broaden your gaze. In this way, you will see correctly what has occurred."
Tears rise into her eyes. She fights them. "Chairman-sama," she says through a throat grown tight. "You wish me to live? To continue to serve?"
"I command it."
The issue is therefore settled. Her heart and mind still rage with a tumult of conflicting feelings and thoughts, but this she will survive. It is her duty, neh?
She bows deeply and takes up her sword.
15
Sleep does not come easily, and when it comes it is fitful and full of trouble. Her dreams are unsettling and confused. At one point, she wakes to the conviction that the Chairman has been killed, assassinated. Yet, the conviction unravels like a poorly tied knot, fading into streaming tendrils of fantasy, before she can free herself of the tangled snarl of bed sheets wrapping her hips and legs.
Later, she imagines that she herself has died, impaled on a thousand shiny blades that run with the rivers of her own blood.
A thought comes to her through the mists: assassins sometimes have backup. She feels a compulsion to rouse herself, rise to the Chairman's defense before another bomber appears. But now the climb to consciousness is long and tiring and saps her of her strength. Before she can open her eyes, she begins slipping, slipping back . . .
Then, bright sunlight fills the room. Her body aches. The bed sheets are damp with sweat. She pushes a sea of hair back from her face, stretches and yawns, and then discovers the stark white features of another GSG in the open doorway, peering in from the hallway outside.
She breathes, and asks, "What is the Chairman's status?" The member steps fully into the doorway and bows.
And now a second white face looks in from the hallway. "Honjowara-sama has moved on to Nagato Tower. Ryokai-san invites the acting senior to devote the morning to contemplation."
The idea seems typical of Ryokai, something he would suggest. He is sometimes too much the diplomat. What she really needs is time to recover from yesterday's injuries, and to settle the tumult of her spirit. Time to accommodate herself with the prospect of living. Perhaps she holds herself to too high a standard, demands more of herself than any mere metahuman could ever hope to achieve. She sees this as nothing less than her duty. For her duty is to protect a man absolutely in a world where no degree of protection can ever be absolute.
She looks to the GSG members at the door, and says, "Why are you not with the Chairman? Are we not still on alert?"
"Ryokai-san directed us to remain here in case the acting senior should require assistance."
Assistance? Again, that seems like Ryokai talking. It is the custom of the Guard to stand watch over members disabled by injuries, and she has already been the subject of at least one deliberate attempt at assassination, but these facts seem like mere excuses. More likely, Ryokai-san feared that she might repeat her abortive attempt at yubitsume. Or perhaps he knows of what transpired in the Chairman's office and posted a watch to ensure that she does not attempt suicide. A foolish concern. Even if the shame she felt last night were to return with all its power, the moment for death has passed, and the Chairman has spoken.
Life is but a fleeting sorrow, a tear shed and wiped away in the blink of an eye.
She looks to the two GSG at the door. "Report to the senior in charge at Nagato Tower. I will be along shortly."
The two GSG bow, turn, and go.
Machiko gets to her feet. Every muscle aches. Her eyes and throat feel as if rubbed raw by sand. But this is meaningless, as meaningless as yesterday's shame. The Chairman's word will be her law. She must heal herself and return to duty.
Nagato Security has delivered her duty bag. From it she takes a spare gi and tabi. She leaves yesterday's clothes with a headquarters' matron to be laundered and takes the stairs to the lobby. There is none of yesterday's hustle and bustle. The lobby is staffed by only a pair of attractive hostesses, one elf, one norm, and one kobun, an ork. The atmosphere is one of tranquil quiet.
The street outside is noisy, congested with traffic, the sidewalks full of people moving to and fro. But there is an order to the noise and to the movements, every part moving in harmony. Several passersby offer Machiko polite bows without missing a step. The pair of kobun standing watch on the headquarters entrance bow and asks how they may be of assistance the moment she steps onto the sidewalk. No one gawks or stares. Few people seem even to notice her. She is a part of the clamor and ceaseless activity of the district. She belongs. Her chalk-white face and sable hair and elven traits mark her as an indelible component of everything that gives this district life. She is shown respect when noticed, when it is polite to notice; otherwise, she is just another aspect of the scenic background.
She turns and forces her legs to an easy jogging run. She runs up the block, turns the corner, then another, then sprints down the alleyway passing the rear of the headquarters. She completes a full circuit of the block and starts another. The crowded sidewalks are no problem. A path always opens before her, and she saves her sprints for the alleyway. She goes on for an hour, then two, then climbs the stairs to the headquarters roof and, sword in hand, begins the dance of death, the kata of One Thousand Enemies. The ritualized movements are agonizingly slow and demand more of her than any amount of mere running. The sweat is soon pouring off her in rivers, every muscle crying in a chorus of torment, but the song is one of power, the power of flesh, spirit, and mind blending in perfect harmony, like the steel of a Masamune sword, forged to near-perfection.
She goes on till her katana seems made of lead, her arms and legs as weak as butter, her body a puddle of gelatin, and then she breathes and goes through it all again.
And when at last she puts one knee to the cool slate roof and rests, she feels beyond mere physical fatigue, beyond exhaustion. She feels as if an inexhaustible river of energy pours into her flesh, as if all the resources of the plane of mana have become an eager servant to her will.
She feels reborn.
She showers and dresses in her spare uniform, assumes all her weapons, and descends to the ground-floor kitchen. The chef on duty there flutters around her like a butterfly, trying to be helpful. She needs no help. She makes her own meal—fish and rice and fruit—Buddhist parents would certainly approve. Then she calls the Nagato Corp operations center to request a chopper ride.
The ride lasts only minutes. Nagato Tower comes plainly into view as the chopper passes over the Hudson. To Machiko's eyes, the tower is itself a metaphor for Nagato Combine. It is a shining, mirror-finished monument to the
Chairman's New Way and the strong bonds between the clans of the Nagato Combine. It stands like a warrior, determined and strong, tall, yet close in spirit to the earth, rooted in the bedrock underlying Manhattan isle. It is located in Downtown, between the river to the east and to the west, th
e soaring skyrakers ringing Central Park and, to the south, the immense monoliths of Fuchi-Town. It is proximate to the crude glamour of Times Square and the decadent beauty of Neon City, as well as the abject squalor and violence of the Lower East Side. The consortium of interests that built it exert influence across a vast territory, and weld considerable financial power, but has yet to approach the dominating force of the great megacorps.
The mon of Nagato Combine marks all four faces, some forty stories above the street.
The chopper descends briefly to the aeropad on the roof, and goes thumping away into the brownish haze of a Manhattan morning as Machiko crosses to the armored security port adjacent to the pad. She pauses to prove her identity, then takes the elevator down to the second-floor command center for Nagato Security. She is informed that the regular Security Service force on site is on full alert, supported by tactical teams of the SDF. She rides the elevator to the thirty-eighth floor and finds Ryokai and Gongoro both standing the watch with the GSG detail before the entrance to the Chairman's suite of offices.
Ryokai and Gongoro follow her through the entrance to the GSG duty office, a command center in miniature. She barely has time to sweep her gaze across the bank of monitors lining one wall before Gongoro says, harshly, "The Yoshida-kai sent the bomber."
Machiko does not look at Gongoro. She knows well what she will see, features twisted by hatred. She looks instead to Ryokai. He glances back and forth, saying nothing.
"A fool could see it!" Gongoro growls. "Only another clan could find someone like Uekiya. He was ideally suited."
"Ideally suited for what?" Machiko asks.
Gongoro looks at her like she is a fool. "To cause an incident and disrupt the Open House," he says gruffly. "To cause further embarrassment to the Honjowara-gumi and Nagato Combine. To make us seem weak and ineffectual. To show that even the people at the heart of our districts desire to see us destroyed."
"You do not believe this was an attempt at assassinating the Chairman?"
Gongoro snarls. "Only a fool would hope to walk a bomb past the weapons' detectors at the checkpoint! Yoshida knows we are not careless enough to pass people through merely because they may be well known. Even members of the Guard must prove their identity at checkpoints. And Yoshida knows this well. The attack could have no other purpose than to kill GSG and our clansmen!"
"Then why was the bomb not detonated as Uekiya-san approached the checkpoint? Why did he wait until the weapons' sensor gave its alarm?"
"Obviously he wished to be at point-blank range in order to achieve maximum effectiveness."
Gongoro's argument is tempting, but Machiko mistrusts it. This is Gongoro's narrow view again—the Yoshida-kai again. It serves only to remind Machiko of the Chairman's warning about the necessary fanaticism of the warrior perspective and the danger of taking too narrow a view on the world. Gongoro's viewpoint seems doubly narrow, excessively fanatical. Perhaps even paranoiac.
Machiko breathes, settles herself. "There is something deeper here than what you say. Uekiya-san was a loyal supporter of the clan. He was a friend of the Chairman. He brought the Chairman presents. They often discussed botany. I do not believe that he willingly carried this bomb."
Gongoro sneers, looking disgusted.
"You should speak to Ujitaro," Ryokai says.
"He knows something of this?"
"I cannot say, Machiko-san. I only know that he appeared at the checkpoint shortly after the bombing. He appeared excited. Later, I found him in conference with Honjowara-sama."
"He said nothing to you?"
Ryokai shakes his head no, and shrugs.
This is too familiar. Machiko feels a sudden rise of frustrated anger. Ujitaro wears the uniform of the Guard and yet he often behaves as if an entity unto himself. He chooses his own deployment in every situation. He speaks only to those whom he considers worthy of his attention. Machiko has rarely heard him exchange more than a handful of words with anyone but her "older brother" Sukayo-san, and that cannot continue. Sukayo-san is not here and may not be available for duty for many weeks to come.
Machiko turns to the door at the rear of the duty office. Beside that door is a palm scanner and intercom. She lays her hand to the scanner, and says, "Ujitaro-san. It is Machiko. Please open the door. We must speak."
A long silence passes.
"Uji—"
The intercom beeps.
The door slides open.
The space beyond is black. The light from the duty office carries across the threshold, but only as far as the armored screen that rises from floor to ceiling, shielding the rest of the room from view. Before the screen wait three of the naga, their serpentine heads nearly on a level with Machiko's chest. She bows to them respectfully. The beasts lower their heads a bit, but follow closely as Machiko advances through the doorway and steps around the armored screen. The door whispers shut behind her.
The cool of the room becomes immediately apparent. A sound arises like a distant murmur of many voices, carried on a spectral wind. She finds Ujitaro, his heat signature plain, seated cross-legged on a cushion at the center of the room. He holds his arms crossed over his chest, his fingers arranged in mystical signs, his head bent back as if to include all the heavens within his gaze. The naga flow around him, over the floor, his folded legs, his shoulders, even his head, like rivers of smoldering heat.
His voice, when he speaks, seems inhumanly deep, as if rising from a vast abyss. "Power ebbs low. The lattice frays. Sources grow weary. Why do you come?"
Machiko bows. "Duty demands that we speak, Ujitaro-san. Until such time as Sukayo-san returns, you and I must communicate. We must exchange information so as to better defend the Chairman. Do you agree?"
A long pause ensues. "What do you know?"
Relating this takes some time. There is little that Machiko knows for certain, but under the current circumstances even mere speculation has some value. "And now I would ask what you can tell me of yesterday's bombing."
Moments pass, seemingly without end, until finally Ujitaro says, "The old man with the bomb. Another sent him."
"Who sent him? Do you know?"
"A tendril of power. A slender limb of the cosmic whole. A discreet coalescence of particles bound in mathematical harmony."
Machiko has rarely heard such talk, but ventures a guess. "You mean that Uekiya-san was controlled? controlled by a mage?"
"It is plain."
"Do you know this mage?"
"I know him by his work."
"Do you know his name? where he can be found?"
"Where among the planes would you discover the higher mysteries? Where would you lay bare the secrets of power, the key to the cosmos, the one formula to unify all existence?"
Machiko ponders this. Ujitaro seems to be describing a mage of great power, who seeks great truths. Clearly, this mage poses a great danger. "I speak of the mundane world, Ujitaro-san. You say this mage sent Uekiya-san, the old grocer with the bomb. Then this mage is our enemy. We must find him. Where may we find his meat body?"
Another long pause ensues, then Ujitaro says, "Speak to me of mana. Speak to meat of meat."
It is all Ujitaro has to offer.
Yet, his few words have provided important intelligence, or so it seems to Machiko. A mage sent Uekiya-san with a bomb, doubtless under some form of compulsion. This means that the forces of their enemies include a formidable mage, and this means that Nagato forces must be prepared. Machiko takes the stairs one floor down and strides to the offices of Bessho Chikayo, chief of Nagato security, to relay news of this new threat.
"Thank you, Machiko-san," Bessho-san says once she is done. "This news confirms recent speculations. Investigative officers of the Security Service have just completed a series of interviews with the friends and relations of Uekiya-san. It appears that the old grocer closed his store early on the night before the Open House, many hours before the barricades went up on Bergen Street. He had several visitors just before closi
ng the store and remained inside the store all night. Neither his wife nor his two sons nor their wives could account for this break with his usual habits. Neither could they persuade him to leave the store. He claimed to be taking an inventory."
"These 'visitors,' " Machiko says.
Bessho-san lifts a hand before she can finish. "They were seen only by the wife and she is unable to provide a description, or to state with certainty how many visitors arrived, or whether they came separately or together. She believes they were all males, but is unsure even of this."
Machiko frowns. "Was she under some form of enchantment?"
"Apparently a spell of some type. This was the speculation of my officers. You have just confirmed it for me."
Machiko bows and leaves Bessho-san to take appropriate measures, such as the redeployment of Nagato assets to better prepare for assault or intrusion attempts by arcane means.
She is barely as far as the stairs, heading for the GSG duty office, when her commlink beeps. She flips open the small vidscreen on her left vambrace. The face of the Chairman's personal aide gazes at her. "The Chairman asks that you join him in his office as soon as you are able, Machiko-san."
"I will come at once."
Yet, when she arrives, Machiko finds the Chairman, not in his expansive office, with a panoramic view of lower Manhattan, but rather secluded in a small chamber immediately adjacent. The GSG of the body detail stand watch at the door to his chamber, rather than from within the chamber itself.
"So the Chairman insisted," the senior of the detail explains. "He meets with the Lady of the Tir."
Machiko refrains from showing her surprise. "When did the Lady arrive?"
"Ten hundred."
Almost two hours ago.
Machiko touches the intercom beside the door, announces herself. Honjowara-sama replies, "You may enter, Machiko-san."
The room is quite small, furnished in tatami fashion. At the center of the floor is a small rectangular garden of stone and white sand, perhaps half a meter long. Beyond this a plain black lacquered table where Honjowara-sama sits cross-legged, facing the door, in a tailored black suit. At the left of the table, kneeling, is the woman known only as Sashi, Lady of the Tir.