Grey Ronin (The Awakened Book 3)

by Matthew S. Cox

  “You failed. I am doing your supervisor’s work.”

  Imura flailed and kicked, helpless as Mamoru thrust the blade through his chest. He stared at the glowing fumes peeling from the metal, as if seeing a blade through his heart was so beyond plausible he could not believe it. Mamoru Saitō’s mind reached across cyberspace, following the connection through the impaled man to his login point. The electronic path unfurled in his thoughts. He flew along an infinite maze of blue on blue lines, emptiness and power, memory and hardware. At the distant end of glittering azure, a silver box etched with circuit lines and green light hovered over a pedestal. Small dots of white climbed the virtual stone, up and over the device before they zoomed off along the floor. As many entered the cube as left: the entire chamber swarmed with signals.

  Mamoru entered the M3 systems interface port of a cyberspace deck, the software shadow of a metal plug in a socket―the other end connected to a human mind. One solitary impulse, a glowing star the size of an orange, repeatedly bounced away from the box, denied entry.

  Imura’s continued attempt to log out, a command no longer recognized by his hardware.

  Mamoru told the machine what it must do.

  The emerald light leaking through cracks in the cube flickered and turned dark. Violet lightning surrounded the pedestal, crackling and lapping at the ground. Somewhere in the real world, a fatal jolt of electricity entered a brain stem, ending the life of one of Noro-Shimura’s mid-level infiltrators. The beautiful corridors of azure light faded to black, the darkness followed Mamoru’s receding point of view until he was again standing in the virtual office, holding the weight of Imura’s body impaled on the katana. The corpse twitched once and hung limp for a moment before it blew away, black sand carried off on an imaginary wind. Mamoru lowered his arm, frowning at the carpet.

  Why was this necessary? This will fail to deter others. Minamoto demands a show of strength, but they will not stop. He tilted a sword that did not exist, gazing at a reflection of overhead lights that also did not exist. Jiro Imura did exist―or at least he had. On the other side of Japan, a body sagged in a chair with smoke leaking from its dead mouth, eyes bulging with shock and fear. Mamoru bowed his head, thinking on how the man had begged for his life.

  “Coward.” Mamoru pivoted on his heel and walked to the hole. He glanced back at the empty chair. “Worthless.”

  The samurai armor came apart at the seams, disintegrating as he released his hold upon the virtual world.

  Incense―Kyara agarwood―invaded the transition, followed by the feel of hard wood beneath Mamoru’s knees. His sense of being the machine gave way to a momentary nothingness in which his consciousness existed neither in the net nor his body. His senses went from muted to extreme. Even delicate silk raked across his flesh with the teeth of sandpaper. Warm electronics beneath his fingers seemed hot enough to cook on. The edges of the vent fluting tugged at his skin like razors. A creak, inaudible to most, ran through the floor like the string of a yumi under tension.

  The scent of tea came on with a rush of sickening intensity, lessening as his awareness settled back into his living body. Mamoru opened his eyes to the rice-paper walls of his dojo. Thin, dark-stained slats divided sliding panels in neat squares. Pale wood floor ran wall to wall, surrounded by rich reds and browns, and a dozen ceremonial weapons mounted on the wall. He looked down at his hand atop a slab of technology alien to its surroundings. A sleek, featureless bar of black plastic―the Matsushita Corporation Oni series cyberspace deck―rested on a squat table in front of him. He folded his hands in his lap as a red and white kimono crept into his peripheral vision. Toes peeked out from the hem. Her posture betrayed nervousness.

  “The tea is appreciated, Ayame-chan.”

  The young woman stooped to set the cup on the corner of the table. Mamoru’s gaze flicked to the little red light blinking at the front of a snug metal choker, a round cord as thick as a finger. She bowed and pulled away without turning her back. Once at the door, she bowed again until her forehead almost touched the floor.

  “Saitō-sama, will you desire food?”

  Mamoru sipped his tea, not answering for the fifteen minutes it took him to finish it. The girl waited without moving or making a sound.

  “That is agreeable. However, I must speak with Ishikawa before I eat. Have my meal ready in one half hour.”

  “As you wish.” She bowed again, stood, and drifted out of sight.

  He stiffened, placing his hands on his hips. “Terminal, outbound. Ishikawa, Reiko, Majordomo to Minamoto-Heika.”

  Holographic snow appeared before him, stretching to a rectangular pattern four by three feet. Soon, an interface filled in around the stern face of a woman in a black executive’s suit. An NSK news feed scrolled across the bottom, a constant stream of kanji detailing gains and losses in the endless inter-corporation battles both virtual and real. Already, word of his work had reached the world. Her glower softened at the sight of him, tinted by the faintest hint of affection.

  Mamoru bowed from the hip. “Ishikawa-sama, it is done as asked.”

  Whispering Oni

  amoru sat back on the cushions to allow Nami to collect his empty dishes. A year or so Ayame’s senior, she was the daughter of a director in the research and development arm of Matsushita. Unfortunately, the man had attempted to steal secrets to sell to another company. Minamoto ordered him executed. Because he had refused the honor of seppuku, his daughter had lost all status. By order of Minamoto Akio, CEO, she became a pet to be assigned to anyone he favored.

  Nami started to walk away, but Mamoru cleared his throat. She froze in mid stride.

  “Is there honor in winning a battle you cannot lose?”

  The woman tensed, a conflict of emotion on her face. “I-it is not my place to say, Saitō-sama.”

  “Humor my curiosity.”

  She brought her sock-clad feet together, head bowed at the tray of dishes, gaze at the floor. “You wish for me to say if you should feel guilt over killing a man.”

  Mamoru did not move or blink, his expression blank as a statue. “To slay a man from such a distance a rifle could not reach him. To kill one who could not defend himself against me.”

  Nami paled. “M-Minamoto-h-heika demanded his death. It is not your guilt to feel.”

  His head lowered a touch. “Minamoto-heika also demanded your station. Was that just?”

  She kept silent.

  Despite the explosive around her neck, he could not bring himself to think of her as one of the lower classes. Her father’s lack of honor could not be blamed on her. Some part of him disagreed with his warlord, a part that he had not listened to in many years. The woman had two years completed at the university, and would have been more useful to the company as an engineer. Because of her father’s treachery, Minamoto had declared her entire family nonexistent.

  “That is all, Nami-chan.”

  He allowed himself a trace of a smile as she walked to the door and slipped out.

  His other servant scrubbed the floor at the far end of the hallway, pushing a large white cloth back and forth. Ayame came from the outlying area, somewhere north of Tokyo. Iwafune, perhaps? Her parents were either farmer peasants or simple laborers. He had asked once, at a loss for anything to talk about, but could not recall. Their daughter had been in the wrong place when a handful of samurai wanted to get out of the city and enjoy nature. They got drunk, lecherous, and caused an incident with her. As much shame as she felt at her status, the way she behaved around Mamoru left him no doubt she knew any other owner would be far worse. Still, she shied from him whenever they were close, as if terrified he would demand what she had refused the samurai. He looked back in her direction, finding the hallway clean and her gone. He sat, hands on his knees, meditating on the matter of honor. Minamoto had ordered the man dead. The shogun’s orders are absolute, yet he felt shame.

  Ayame crept through the doorway, white obi rustling as she approached. She halted at his side, hands f
olded and bowing.

  “Saitō-sama, the water is ready.”

  Mamoru offered a simple nod. She scurried away as he stood and stretched. He started for the door, but paused to glance at the window. A sense that someone he could not see was in the room with them came over him. His eyes narrowed to a squint as he surveyed the area in search of a ninja in a sneak suit. Muscles in his back tightened as a patch of thicker air slid around him. A cloud of chill swam by and condensed, becoming heavy in the distinct feeling of hands pressed on his back. He whirled to the rear, hand on his blade, and adopted a combative stance.

  “Who or what is here?”

  No reaction came.

  After a moment of tense quiet, he backed out of the room and went down the hall to the bathing chamber. Ayame and Nami waited, facing each other in front of a bamboo-paneled square tub. Steam and scented oils swirled in the thick, humid air. He paused at the door to send a suspicious glare down the hall at the darkness. Sight and sound said nothing was there, though another sense said something―someone―was.

  A step forward put him between the two women. He raised his arms and they removed and collected his haori, folded it, and set it to the side. Next, they undid his belt and removed his hakama. They folded it, and set it to the side. Mamoru removed his undergarments and stepped into the bathwater, turned to face the door, and sat in the center on a tile-covered block. Water lapped at the base of his ribcage, alive with whorls of vapor.

  Both women undid their obi and let their kimonos fall to the ground, leaving them naked save for the metal cords around their necks. Ayame’s face reddened and her normally fluid motions became rigid.

  She wonders when I will take her.

  Each day that passed without rape seemed to make her more and more anxious it would happen tomorrow. With any other owner, it would likely have been a daily occurrence. Ayame’s dread had the air of a girl younger than her true age, so timid and meek. She had defied once, and wound up a slave for it. So close to broken. Mamoru frowned. Neither of these women appealed to his desires, especially Ayame. Too passive, too vulnerable. He stared at the ripples in the water at his stomach. My touch would shatter them like porcelain flowers.

  Nami, on the other hand, seemed open to the idea of sleeping with him. In spite of her initial shame, she often skirted the boundaries of etiquette in being warm to him. She wishes to marry back to a position of status.

  Both women entered the water at the same time. Ayame barely managed to stifle a squeal at the heat. Nami slid close to him with an eager glint in her eyes while the other girl tentatively sank to her neck and sat on the bottom. He caressed them as they set about the task of bathing him.

  Ayame remained stiff, sponge at arm’s length and the rest of her body as far away as possible while she washed his back. The younger girl stared into Nami’s eyes, which bore a curious mixture of pleading and resentment.

  Nami knelt in front of him, unashamed as she ran the soap over the front of his chest, leaning her body against his legs under the water. Something in her eyes still held a glint of independence. Does she still think she is in control? Mamoru concentrated on keeping his body from reacting to her proximity. Perhaps she is.

  “Nami-chan, I am curious. If I was an ordinary man, you would have tried to kill me by now, yes?”

  Ayame gasped, clutching the sponge to her face to muffle the sound. For a moment, all was still except for the random plonk of droplets falling from bodies. Nami’s gaze fell to the water, fear or guilt looked alike.

  “No, Saitō-sama.” Her eyes trembled.

  “Do not deceive.” Mamoru picked at her explosive choker. “I see the way the anger fills your eyes every time you address me. If not for this, you would have at least run away.”

  Ayame shivered.

  “I cannot defeat you, nor do I believe I will survive long enough to be rid of it.”

  He glanced at Ayame. The emotionless expression scared her, and she resumed working the rough sponge over his back. Her enthusiasm created a surge in the water that lapped at Nami’s chest. Mamoru brushed her cheek, and ran his hand down to her breast.

  “You desire to try, do you not? My touch makes you bristle with shame.” Nami looked away. “It is fortunate you fear death more than you despise being owned.”

  “We are fortunate you are such a kind master, Saitō-sama,” whispered Ayame. “I am grateful to be in your home.”

  Nami gathered her arms to her chest, both hands clasping at the front of her electronic restraint as she picked at it with her thumbnail. Ayame leaned up out of the bath, holding the sponge over Mamoru.

  “I am sorry, Saitō-sama.” She squeezed the sponge to rinse his hair.

  Mamoru closed his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy the warmth cascading around his head.

  Nami fidgeted with the ring around her throat. “If I go outside without you near me, I will die in five minutes.” Flick, flick. “If you so order it, I will die.” Flick. “If Minamoto Akio desires it, I will die.” Nami’s voice came without fear, a rabbit’s breath louder than Ayame’s sloshing. “No, Saitō-sama, I do not wish to die.” She looked up at last, meeting his gaze. “But, I would kill you to return to the life I once had if I thought it possible.”

  Nami stiffened, expecting punishment. Ayame dropped the sponge, unable to look at either of them.

  Mamoru smiled. “You have strength, Nami-chan. If I am to take a wife, she must be strong. I find no allure in the petals of a shrinking violet.”

  Her head popped up, face a mask of shock. Nami rose from the bath and eased herself close to his lap. The woman’s expression was unreadable. Is this true affection or an attempt to earn her freedom? He leaned back, offering no protest as she rubbed her body against his. Ayame, now crying, continued to bathe him as Nami rose from the water and kissed at his neck. After a few minutes, Nami reached down and grasped his cock. She leaned forward, asking with her eyes.

  Mamoru nodded.

  She lowered herself onto him. It was not her first time. For a few minutes, they moved as one. Ayame’s quiet sniveling to the rear did not help the mood. A chill washed over the water, threads of fog moved in serpentine whorls above the surface of the heated tub. Mamoru’s eyes snapped open; a presence was with them―one that did not belong here.

  Nami’s dutiful undulations came to a shuddering halt as she arched her back and threw her head to the rear while emitting a confused moan. Mamoru clutched her hips as her body succumbed to spasms, grunting from the uncomfortable tightness trapping him. The fit lasted for a few seconds, after which she slumped over and dug her nails in his shoulders. Her head flew forward, shoulder-length black hair tossing a spray of water. The sultry-eyed grin she wore held no trace of respect or deference.

  She stared into his soul as if she owned him.

  “Hello, Mamoru,” she said, in English, and resumed moving up and down.

  Something had changed. Mamoru tried to stop her, but his body refused to obey. Ayame jumped, seeming startled by the shift in language. Nami had gone to the university. Knowing English was to be expected, but to speak it to her owner was a dangerous affront.

  Nami leaned in to kiss him, but he held her back. She pressed forward, causing him to slide off the block seat. Ayame scooted out from behind him and swam to the side. Water splashed over the edge of jade tiles as they rode the wave to the rear wall. He came to a halt with only his head above the surface. Ayame crawled to the opposite corner and curled in a ball, trying to hide her entire body behind the small sponge. Nami pressed against him, aggressive, strong, and in no way herself.

  She didn’t stop.

  Mamoru flailed at the slippery tiles, lost in the throes of his body’s natural urges. He leaned back, the cold ridge of the tub at his neck. Nami raked her fingernails down his chest and howled as she writhed up and down. When she stopped shuddering, she bent forward with her hands on his shoulders, pinning him. He looked up at a face shrouded in darkness, but for the glint of her eyes and the blinking red do
t on the detonator.

  “Twice? My, my. You’ve been holding that in for a while, haven’t you, Mamoru?”

  At Nami using his given name, Ayame muffled a squeak with the sponge.

  He lay there, exhausted and spent, unable to form a coherent response as she continued to squirm on top of him. Nami draped herself over him, kissing at his cheek, chest, and neck for a moment before she glanced back at Ayame.

  “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I’ve startled your other pet. Do you have a moment to talk?”

  Mamoru squinted at her, mesmerized by the blinking light at her throat. “Who are you?”

  She stretched up, running her hands down his chest until they stopped on his stomach. He grunted as she shifted about. “Someone who knows you are wasting your talents here.”

  The sense that this was no longer Nami did little to dim the physical reaction of his traitorous body. “I am a samurai in the service of Minamoto Akio, CEO of Matsushita Corporation.”

  “You are as much of a slave to him as these women are to you. Would you like me to encourage the meek one to satisfy you?”

  Mamoru lifted her off and pushed her to the side. The water muted the shove to a glide, leaving Nami sprawled neck deep at his side. He sat up. The look Nami sent at Ayame made the other girl cower.

  “No,” he said, matching her English. “I do not find weakness attractive. Her situation… I could not.”

  Nami tucked her legs under herself and stroked his chest. “Yet you allow yourself to be controlled by an ordinary man?” She rolled her eyes, muttering off to the side. “Oh, calm down Nami.”

  “You are Oni.” Mamoru grabbed her arm and flung it away from him. “I can feel you are not natural.”

  Ayame seemed to pick one word out of the English―oni―and shivered.

  “Mamoru Saitō, you are one of us. We must help each other.” Nami moved up to her knees. Stomach deep in the water, she drifted toward him with her arms lax at her sides.

  “Keep your distance, oni.” He held his hand out. “I shall not suffer to hear any of your deceit. Be gone from my house.”