Daughter of The Dragon mda-16

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “Ie, Tono,” said Katana, but she was confused and this upset her. Hadn’t this been precisely what she’d been working for over these many months? And yet, Katana understood now that the coordinator had never been asleep; the coordinator was the unseen master pulling the strings of his many puppets. “So you tasked me.”

  “And you did not disappoint. Else…” Kurita let his voice trail away, leaving the threat unspoken: Else we would have had your head.

  “I am not my father’s daughter, and would never desert the Combine.”

  “Really?” Kurita’s eyebrows wriggled in a display of mischief that was reflected by the sudden sparkle in his eyes. “You were governor, duchess, prefect. So many Republican honors the Combine never sanctioned. And as for your father, do not deceive yourself that he acted without the coordinator’s consent.”

  “Consent? My father lost everything. He turned his back on the Combine. He was a governor!”

  “So? Despite your trappings, you never lost the honor that resides in the heart, and whatever else your father lost, he was never stripped of his.”

  Why they were talking about her father at all was a mystery. “I still have my honor, Tono, and am ready for whatever my Coordinator wishes. Command me. If you wish my death for my disobedience, I only ask to choose my kaishakunin so that I may be sure he will strike cleanly.”

  For a moment, the coordinator’s face was deathly still, and she steeled herself, only hoping that the Old Master struck well. An irony, that: that her father should have been kaishakunin to the man whose brother would behead the father’s daughter.

  Then she saw a change come over the coordinator’s features. His mouth twitched. His eyes narrowed. And then he laughed: a rich, warm, full-throated bellow that was astonishing, if only because, a few seconds before, Katana was convinced she would die.

  “Katana Tormark.” Tears of mirth squeezed from the corners of the coordinator’s eyes, and he wiped them away with both thumbs. “If we’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.” Kurita broke off, flipped open the case of his finger watch and tut-tutted. “Look at the time. How late it is!”

  He clapped three times. Instantly, a shoji slid open and two palace guards appeared. Spying them, Katana’s legs went a little numb. She didn’t know why she felt surprise; clearly, disarming her had been the coordinator’s plan. Now, they’d take her into custody, to prison and then…

  What the coordinator said next stunned her to the core. “Show our guest to her rooms. She will want to bathe and rest after her long travail. Treat her with courtesy for she is an honored guest and our new warlord—of the Dieron Military District.”

  The coordinator gave her an expectant look. But, at first, Katana just stared, unable to comprehend what Kurita meant. Then a surge of astonishment swept her from tip to toe, and suddenly, everything came clear: the coordinator’s allowing Sakamoto to show his true colors; the latitude he’d given her to demonstrate where she stood. But this last, what could it mean? Wasn’t it far more, well, expedient to name her as Benjamin’s Tai-shu? Then, in the next instant, she saw why Kurita could not.

  Because there are the other warlords; they’d never stomach this, and besides, they’d get the wrong idea: that knocking each other off is how you rise in the ranks. But giving me Dieron means he’s still testing me, seeing if I can pull this off…

  She saw that Kurita was still waiting, and the wordless look they exchanged told her: He knew her thoughts, and she was correct. She finally said, “Tono, I… I don’t know what to say…”

  “Yes would be a start. There is work still to be done, Katana, and we do hate loose ends. And Tai-shu Tormark”—Vincent’s features creased in a smile—“we dine at eight.”

  Epilogue

  Katana’s Journal

  15 January 3136

  Andre said take a vacation. Right. I’ve been so busy planning for our next offensive I haven’t changed my socks. And Mizunami? That’s in the Pesht District, hell and gone. But then I’m staring at a holovid, and the coordinator’s ordering me to go. Well, you know, what can you say?

  Andre suggested this out-of-the-way place. Five-Waters, because of the rivers that converge there to form the great Okuninoshi: twice as wide and three times as long as the Amazon on Terra. That’s a lot of river. The path we took—Andre and I in the lead, the Old Master trailing a meter behind—meandered along the shore through fragrant river grasses. Clouds of iridescent blue butterflies danced over fields of tiny white blossoms. Giant Mizunami cypress with beards of gray-green moss hugged the riverbank, and the water was so clear and clean I could see a mosaic of multicolored pebbles, and silver fish undulating between roots as thick as my leg.

  Okay. It was pretty. But why would the coordinator…? Then it hit me. I turned to Andre. “You set this up.”

  “My lips are sealed.” And then Andre grinned like a little kid who’s shorted your sheets. You’d think being promoted to tai-sho and my right-hand man would’ve brought him down a notch. He lifted his chin at a small rise a klick away. “Over that hill.”

  I was ready to rip out his tonsils but settled for grumbling and nasty looks. But it wasn’t until we mounted that rise and I saw the house that I started to get an inkling that something was really up. Wasn’t the house so much; nothing more than a few airy rooms with a covered porch wider than an engawa and shojis open to the breeze. A white gravel path led to three wooden steps in front of the house; at the back, I saw another curl of gravel, this one winding to a garden of Japanese cedar, Keyaki and ground cypress. We took that meandering path through willowy green bamboo—and then I saw it: a cone of light. An old man sitting on a crag of black stone; back turned, a long shock of snow-white hair. Sunning the same, lazy way a lizard warms itself on a rock. The rock perched at the edge of a Katesansui ; you could immediately tell that whoever tended this stone garden took great care, raking patterns to represent ocean waves crashing against the shores of rock islands haloed with azaleas and deep green moss. Our footfalls made a sound like eggshells fracturing, and the old man turned.

  Even now, though it is very late and the flame from my candle threatens to drown in hot wax, I remember that moment, that eerie frisson of something very close to fear. Tripping over a secret hope? A desire? I don’t know. That old man’s face was pruned by wrinkles, and age had bent his back so that he seemed to fold in two, but I knew… and somehow, finally, I managed a single word: “Father?”

  He tottered to his feet. He was very thin, his limbs no thicker than twigs, and his fingers were gnarled by age and long use. Still, he was a warrior; you could tell from the way he held himself. “Gashi, Musume,” he said, in a voice still surprisingly rich.

  I didn’t scream. I didn’t faint. I didn’t melt into his arms, everything forgiven and forgotten. At first, I felt nothing but a curious, unpleasant numbness; then heat seeped through my veins but—how strange—my fingers and hands and lips were icy with shock. I just… stood there until Andre whispered in my ear. “Go to him, Katana.”

  But instead I turned on Andre, and he read my face. “You can be angry at me if you wish, Katana. But whatever else your father did or was, he was an agent of the O5P and a noble, courageous man. I am O5P, and this much is certain: We do not forget our own—and we were always watching. Even in your darkest hour, we were always there.”

  Always there… I didn’t understand that then. But I do now. The coordinator was always watching, always. I was never far from his reach as he worked through the Keeper and then through the Keeper’s agents, through Andre and countless others. Never far at all.

  So I did what Andre said. I went to my father. I bowed with the reverence and respect the elderly deserve. And I said, “I’m not sorry for my beliefs, Father. At the time, I made my choices as you made yours. I don’t know how I’ll feel about my choices when I’m old. But I think that you were wrong.”

  Not exactly a daughterly rapprochement. Maybe that was the only type of closeness I could allow. But my fathe
r didn’t bite. “Perhaps,” he said. “But who cares? My time is over. You are the future. So, come. Sit and tell me of your life.”

  So I did. I talked about… well, everything. He listened. I don’t know when Andre left, but when we rose to have our first meal together in so many years, Andre was gone. But the Old Master remained, and he’s here now, standing outside my room, even though it’s late and the moon is high and crickets make their music. Somewhere the river slides by, a changeless ribbon of silver that is forever, like time and memory.

  Tomorrow, or the next day, I’ll have to leave because a warlord’s work is never done and I have a campaign to plan. Out there, somewhere, are my enemies: men like Bhatia, who would see me fail and the Tormark name forever erased from history, and there’s probably another Sakamoto waiting his turn. But there are my people, the brothers and sisters of my Dragon’s Fury, and the wider family of the Combine I have yet to know. There are the spirits I will mourn: my mother, my fallen comrades, the innocents Sakamoto slaughtered. And Toni: ah, I wish you’d lived to see this.

  Tomorrow, perhaps, I will seek out a Shinto priest and make an offering of thanks and gratitude to the kami. Yes, perhaps tomorrow.

  But for now, I am content. For now, I’m home.

  Imperial City, Luthien

  Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine

  30 January 3136

  He had a tantrum, flinging food like a three-year-old. Miko did her best, but Bhatia finally sent her away because he really wasn’t in the mood. Galling; bad enough to lose out to a Tormark, but to be unable to function asa man …

  Katana Tormark, a tai-shu! Unbelievable; she must’ve slept with Theodore. Certainly would suit the coordinator; Theodore must produce an heir. What does that Peacock care where his son plants his seed so long as the line continues? Irritably, Bhatia backhanded that little bitch’s latest decree: that those damnably loyal yakuza rank among the most honorable of the Combine’s citizens, that they be promoted within the DCMS!

  Bhatia paced. Best to focus, perhaps, on what he’d gained. Sakamoto was dead, a big plus because he couldn’t be implicated in directly supporting the idiot’s campaign. And Wahab Fusilli; yes, back in Katana’s camp, even rewarded for his bravery on Al Na’ir… ha! Despite everything, Bhatia grinned. There were two constants, at least. Katana was a soft fool, and Fusilli his worm at the heart of Katana’s little apple. And now that Katana was so very prestigious, maybe he could arrange for her assassination on her way to Dieron, perhaps, or before…

  Yet her death would not answer the root of the Combine’s problem: the Peacock. Anything he did hereafter must bring about two complementary aims: Katana’s destruction, and Vincent Kurita’s demise. Theodore would have to go, of course; there was no way around that. And Emi Kurita… no, he mustn’t forget about their resourceful little Keeper of the House Honor. Certainly, no secret where her allegiances lay. She would have to be dealt with as well. “Because there is yet another,” he said, and his thoughts centered on the look in New Samarkand Warlord Matsuhari Toranaga’s eyes that day in the Black Room almost a year before. “There is yet one more way.”

  In the next instant, however, his mood darkened again. His eyes cut to his desk and the two holovid data disks he’d received that afternoon. One he’d already listened to: a field report. He traced the disk with the tip of a finger. The disk had been recorded over three months ago, but only couriered to him from Asta now. A tidbit of information: an ISF agent, still working on instructions Bhatia had given when the hunt for the Bounty Hunter began, had gathered intelligence about a black marketer who’d confided that there’d been rumors about a set of green armor being made for someone on Asta. And yet… Bhatia’s eyes narrowed. And yet, at last report, the Bounty Hunter was on Ancha, Katana’s new headquarters now that Proserpina was returned to the Benjamin District, and reported to be quite the golden boy. “And now there are two,” he murmured. His eyes tracked to the second disk, and this he now lifted from the desk and slid into a projector. There was a click, and then a whirr, and then an electronically altered voice he knew very well.

  “Good evening, Director. Did you think I’d forgotten you? Absolutely not. I’ll make a deal. You be a good little boy and I’ll forget all about those nasty little plans you had for me. Because if you don’t, well… you’ll never guess what I’ve found: Some very interesting recordings of some very important communiqués and—well, what do you know—I have one you received from Fusilli waaaaay back when he reports how things went so well on Al Na’ir. Now what would happen, I wonder, if the coordinator got wind that you knew so very much in advance about Sakamoto? So, if I choose to put these recordings into, say, Katana’s hands, or, worse yet, the coordinator’s…”

  Bhatia punched the audio to silence. No need for more. The threat was plain. But… “You’ve made a mistake, my friend.” And as a slow, satisfied smile spread along his lips, Bhatia felt something he hadn’t in many months: elation. “You think I cannot play at this game? Well, you are wrong. Either you are on Asta and heading this way, or to another world Katana controls—or you are on Ancha, because that is the only way to explain it. You could only have gained information about Fusilli if you were proximate. So I would wager that you, Kappa, are standing alongside Katana at this very moment, on Ancha, biding your time. Yes, you are cunning. But so am I. And I can wait as long as need be.”

  Indeed—Bhatia regarded the disk almost lovingly—this might be the calm before the storm.

  Carter City, Ancha

  Dieron Military District, Draconis Combine

  15 February 3136

  The apartment was spare, and the air musty, smelling of mildew and stale cigarette smoke. The radiator’s pipes clanked and hissed, and the dingy ochre paint on the walls peeled in moist curls. The building was ugly on the outside, too. The only window overlooked a red brick alley cluttered with oversize trash bins. Despite all this, Jonathan wasn’t moved to find better accommodations because, well, hiding in plain sight took a certain facility. Heaven forbid the Bounty Hunter should be seen in the company of one of the wealthiest men in the Combine, and staying in a posh hotel, no less.

  From his spot on the sofa—unctuous beige with clots of stuffing boiling through rips—Jonathan eyed his brother. Marcus sat in his chair, his limbs streaked with sweat in the overheated room, his powerful chest muscles struggling under gravity. Marcus had grumbled, wondering why Jonathan didn’t want to talk via communications link. Jonathan had instead insisted that Marcus come planet-side to enjoy the fruits of their labors.

  “Fruits?” Marcus sucked air. “Kurita’s still in power and Katana’s a fraccing warlord!” He sucked in another breath. “You took care of everyone else. But Katana? No, she gets to live.”

  “She lives because that pleases me.” Jonathan gave a negligent yawn and stretched. His spanking new, emerald-green armor creaked at its joints. A good thing Marcus was so well off. Even better that he’d become such a wizard with computers: a hundred different accounts under as many aliases, and brimming with lovely cash. He toyed with his new helmet, admiring his reflection. “Alive, she suits our needs.”

  It pleased him when Marcus’ skin turned dark as a beet. “Our needs?” he wheezed. “Aren’t we really talking about your needs?

  “No,” he lied. (It came so naturally.) “Marcus, the best way to make someone suffer is to take away everything they hold dear, everything they care about—but a little at a time. You hold out hope that things will get better, and then they don’t. We know what that’s like, don’t we, Brother? Our father divorced our mother, but we hung on to him, became his little shadows.” An image in his mind’s eye: of the day he was made, finally, a Son of the Dragon after years of training—and all because his father would not call him son. “And then Father simply disappeared, leaving us on our own. So I ask you. Is killing Katana punishment? She can only die once. But take away what and who she cares for, and she’ll wish she was dead. That’s revenge—slow and sweet.”


  “Only sweet for you.” Marcus made a horsey sound. “You like killing. But that’s not even it. You actually like the little bitch. In fact”—he eyed his brother shrewdly—“I think you’re a little in love with her.” When he saw his brother’s expression, he gave a nasty laugh. “That’s it, isn’t it? Great, this is just perfect. I wonder if dear Katana will mind bondage, or if she’ll prefer some of your more creative antics in the boudoir?”

  For the first time in his life, Jonathan was stunned to silence—and what was more: Marcus had made him angry. How had he done that? I’m in control; I’m always in control …

  “I… admire her,” he said, choosing his words with care. “I’m like any hunter, Marcus. I appreciate the wiliness of the fox even as I run it down.”

  “But in your own good time.” Marcus laughed again, but silently, like a dog. “You think I don’t see what’s going on? Look at you: safely ensconced in Katana’s camp, Crawford and little Emi falling all over you with gratitude; and you’ve got Bhatia by the balls. Being so beloved and in so many camps is handy, isn’t it? Except that’s not even it. This isn’t about vengeance for you anymore.”

  “Indeed?” Jonathan kept his voice light. “Then what is it, Brother?”

  “Katana Tormark. That’s all. You need Katana alive.”

  “Do I,” said Jonathan, his tone dry but when he toyed with his visor, his fingers shook. “My, Marcus, all this armchair psychoanalysis… just why would I need Katana alive?”

  “Because you love her. The killing is almost beside the point now. Now, every time a woman begs for her life, you hear Katana’s voice. Every time you fantasize about a woman, it’s Katana you see, Katana’s body under your hands. She’s gotten under your skin. Whatever plans we made together are gone—because you want her. You love killing; you love her suffering; and you love her. But you’ve got a problem. Eventually…” And now Marcus leaned forward and said with a confidential air, “You’ll have to kill her, and do you know why? Because wanting her means she has the power, not you. So Katana will have to die—or you will. Because you are Death, Jonathan. And everyone you touch will die with you.”