Sorenson had no time to wonder if his passenger was still alive. The ground was coming up too fast. There was not enough time to gain control of the wounded 'Mech's flight. In a desperate attempt to minimize crash damage to the cockpit, he forced the machine around until its head was pointed away from its direction of travel. The legs and torso could absorb far more damage than the relatively fragile head structures of the BattleMech.
When the altimeter LED readout clicked to thirty meters, he opened the jets all the way, burning all his reaction mass in a single burst. The flight system monitor board flashed red. He had only begun to hope that they had burned long enough when the 'Mech smashed into the ground.
Thrown violently against his restraining straps, Sorenson felt his skin slice open along their edges. Red failure lights filled his board, then blinked out as cockpit power failed. He was thrown back into his couch as the 'Mech collapsed onto its back.
Pale light and a trickle of blessedly cool air filtered through a crack in the cockpit's shell.
"Alive!" Sorenson said aloud. The sound of his own voice, coarsened though it was from his ordeal, reassured him that he was right. Grimacing from the pain that movement sent through his arms, he forced the neurohelmet off and let it clatter to the back bulkhead, then unbuckled the straps and slid his bloody shoulders free. As he climbed from the couch and found that he had no grip, he reached for the overhead grab iron to steady himself. Puzzlement was all he felt as he slipped into darkness for the second time in a matter of minutes.
* * *
Sorenson opened his eyes to see the sun sinking into the fens. Backlit before him was the three-quarter-buried shape of his Grasshopper. Little more than its torso showed above the fire-blackened sedges and brackish water where it lay. The head, cockpit access hatch gaping, hung limply on a narrow thread of cables, and its right arm jutted from the marsh. Sorenson knew from its angle that the arm was no longer attached to the 'Mech's shoulder.
Grasshopper leaps far.
At home in an autumn marsh
Dies like samurai.
It took Sorenson a moment to realize that the words spoken behind his head came from a living person and not from some frog-voiced marsh spirit. He rolled on his side to see the speaker.
There was Takashi Kurita, sitting calmly. His folded legs showed bare and bruised, as did his left arm. He was smeared all over with mud and dried blood. A soiled, bloodstained white rag was wrapped around his head like a ancient warrior's hachimaki.
"Your BattleMech is a total wreck," Takashi Kurita told him. "Sacrificed in your effort to save us from the doomed Startreader. For some time, I thought you, too, had moved onward."
Sorenson tried to chuckle, but the sound he made was too ghastly to express humor. "I'm in too much pain to be dead."
"You have my gratitude and I shall reward you for today's deeds," Takashi said. "At the very least, I shall see that you receive a replacement for your machine."
"A new 'Mech would be appreciated, Tono, but I need no reward for doing my duty."
"Spoken like a true samurai. But you will be rewarded nonetheless. All scales must be balanced, and your reward must balance the punishment inflicted on those responsible."
Sorenson contemplated what that punishment might be. The lucky ones would have a quick death or a quiet life in the Black Tower. Somehow he didn't think there would be too many lucky ones involved in this plot. The conspirators' luck had run out when they failed to kill the Coordinator.
Takashi gazed at the sunset until the last rim of the orange sun dropped below the horizon. In the twilight, he spoke again, and his voice had that adamant quality attributed to Emma-Hoo, Judge of the Dead and Lord of the Buddhist hells.
"Those involved have forfeited the right to life. The conspirators and their families, all of the plotters' generation, their parents and their children, shall be put to death. No child shall survive to avenge a parent, nor parent take revenge for a child. I will see this conspiracy ground out completely."
13
Palace Hall, Reykjavik, Rasalhague
Rasalhague Military District, Draconis Combine
23 September 3019
Theodore looked up at the frowning gray stone facade of the sprawling Palace Hall, seat of government for the planet and the District of Rasalhague. Yesterday, he had expected that when he passed through its iron-bound, studded doors, he would be wearing a formal black kimono, his long nape hair oiled and bound into a topknot. Yesterday, he had expected to be on his way to his wedding.
He mounted the steps at an awkward pace, irritated at their shallow rise and exaggerated width. The strides he took would not have been possible in a kimono, but the trichloropolyester trousers he wore offered no restraint. The pants were the same dark gray as his jersey and matched his grim mood.
A full company of infantry from the auxiliaries of the Eight Rasalhague Regulars guarded the doors, but they passed Theodore without question.
He found his father in the Governor's office, seated behind a massive oaken desk. Aides and generals looked up at Theodore's sudden intrusion. Takashi bade them, leave. In a clatter of comp pads and murmur of hushed comments, they gathered their materials. Takashi swiveled his chair to one side and eased a bandaged leg gingerly onto a stool. The departing attendants kept their eyes low as they filed past
Theodore, who stood in the center of the room, hands clenched at his sides.
Last to leave was Subhash Indrahar, who touched Theodore's shoulder as he passed. An electric feeling of confidence shocked Theodore. He controlled his surprise and only nodded to the Director. Indrahar's smile was warm, but Theodore did not let it touch the icy resolve he had nurtured during his walk from the military camp at the starport. As the doors closed softly behind him, Theodore raged, "How can you sit there and let this go on?"
Takashi closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "To what exactly do you refer?"
Theodore strode up to the desk, slamming his palms against the wood and leaning forward. "The executions of innocent people. How can you do it?"
"How can I not?" Takashi replied, gently massaging one of the many plastiflesh patches covering the lacerations on his face.
"It is barbaric—criminal."
Takashi lowered his hand and turned baleful eyes on his son. "You pride yourself on your knowledge of the classics, so I assume you are familiar with Heike Monogatari."
"Of course," Theodore returned sharply. He was bothered by the change in subject, but knew his father would not proceed until he had satisfied his pedantry. "What self-respecting scholar or warrior does not know of it? The tale recounts the war between the Taira and the Minamoto. That war resulted in the first ruling shogunate of old Japan."
"So ka," Takashi grunted. "Are you also familiar with the antecedents of the final struggle between those clans?"
Theodore was truly annoyed. Tetsuhara-sensei's voice urged him: Answer with the expected words, even when they belie your heart's true reply, and your enemy will open his mind to you.
All right, I'll give him the answer he wants to hear. Then maybe he will let me see what he really wants. "The Taira had all but eliminated the Minamoto in their struggle for influence over the Emperor. But two young Minamoto boys escaped the purges of the victors. They were the brothers Yoritomo and Yoshitsune. When they grew to manhood, they revived their clan, led it against the Taira and destroyed their enemy. Yoritomo became the first shogun."
Takashi smiled with satisfaction. "Thus, you see that what I do is necessary. I can leave no survivors of the conspiracy and I cannot leave possible seeds of a new one."
"What about Marcus?" Theodore countered.
"There is no solid evidence. He was elsewhere when the communique you received was sent from his offices. It cannot be proved that he wished you present for the fatal crash. There is only the word of a traitorous assassin that he was involved in the sabotage of the Startreader."
"Surely you don't believe that he is innocent," Theodore said incredulously. Takashi
said nothing. "If we had both been killed in the crash of the Startreader, he would have taken the office of Coordinator."
"You forget your cousin and my nephew, Isoroku. He would have been recalled from his monastery to take up the office of Coordinator."
"He would have been dead before he reached Luthien," Theodore snapped. "If Marcus was ready to go after us, he would have had no qualms about a mouse like Isoroku. That monk would never have a chance against such a predator."
"That is irrelevant," Takashi said, with a shrug. "Matters have turned out otherwise. Marcus has withdrawn to a fortified redoubt in the mountains north of the city, and cannot be reached without extraordinary effort. He is strong here in the District, too strong to confront openly. He must not be allowed to hold his position and threaten the realm.
"Effective this day, Vladimir Ivan Sorenson is Warlord of Rasalhague."
Theodore was shocked. "Marcus will revolt. He has chanced too much already to sit quietly and let you strip him of his rank."
"I think he will accept it. Marcus cannot refuse a promotion." Takashi languidly pointed at a document, rolled and sealed, which lay on the desk. "I have made cousin Marcus my Chief of Strategies for the DCMS. He will sit above the Warlords on my council. But to do so, he must leave his hole and come to Luthien."
"Yes, he will come to Luthien," Theodore agreed. "Then you will execute him."
"Then we will see."
Theodore considered Takashi's publicized promise of death to the conspirators and their families. Should Marcus be implicated in the conspiracy, Takashi would have to order the deaths of his Aunt Florimel and Uncle Undell, Marcus's father, for they were of the previous generation. Having brought Marcus into existence, they were responsible for bringing treachery into the universe. Takashi would also have to execute all of Marcus's children, including Constance, for the taint of traitor's blood they carried.
Such executions would gut the ruling family of the Kurita clan, leaving only Theodore and his parents. There were other Kurita lines, of course, notably that of Malcolm Kurita, whom Takashi had appointed to replace the recently deceased Sjovold as District Governor. But Malcolm was old and sickly, and his son Mies was no warrior. None of the cadet lines had as pure a blood line as Takashi's own family; none had a clearer claim. There would be civil war. Weakened by internal strife, the Combine would fall prey to the predations of the other Successor States.
Takashi would not let that happen, Theodore knew. He would not destroy his own Great House. He would squirm as much as necessary, make any compromises in order to find an appearance that would suit.
Theodore realized that his father had done just that.
One would hardly appoint an assassin to reign over one's military strategies, but that was exactly what Takashi had done. Therefore Marcus could not be an assassin, at least not to outward appearances. His life was safe. The family was safe.
But other families were not so lucky. When a salvage crew seeking the Startreader's lost BattleMechs had returned from the fens with his father and Warlord Sorenson, Theodore had been secretly relieved. He did not want to be Coordinator yet. In his relief, he had told Takashi of Ottar Sjovold's plan and his own rejection of if, of the Governor's reaction and Duke Ricol's timely intervention. Takashi had not yet made public his vow, and Theodore had unknowingly sealed the death warrant for Anastasi Sjovold, his betrothed.
His own part in implicating the Sjovold family disturbed him, though he was not sure why. Theodore had no doubt that the traitors should die. Death was their proper reward. But Anastasi was a mere pawn to her father's ambition, a poor fly caught in the web of treachery.
He also knew that death was a part of life. It came to all, even the innocent. He himself had killed on the battlefield, but that was different from an execution. Anyone on the battlefield knew the risks. The pilot of a BattleMech embraced the concept of war.
Yet, had he known of Takashi's vow, he could have explained Sjovold's death in some other way and saved Anastasi from the firing squad. Compassion toward the innocent was also part of the code of bushido. He decided to try again to dissuade his father.
"You have gone to great lengths to preserve Marcus," he began. "What about Anastasi? She is totally innocent. Her grasp of politics is nonexistent, and I doubt that she could conceive of treachery. She could not have been involved. Why not show mercy? After all, you arranged for her to marry me."
Takashi looked at his son with naked contempt. "Aside from the pertinent political considerations, the arrangement was designed to produce children."
"Children that you want," Theodore reminded him.
"Would you make Kurita into Taira?" Takashi asked. "A child could grow up to desire the destruction of those who killed his family. Such a child, born of the union between you and that woman, would be in a unique position to destroy our clan."
"He could be educated otherwise."
"You are naive." Takashi shook his head. "Perhaps you should have taken another name instead of the tongue-twisting Theodore at your gempuku ceremony. With the attitudes you profess, Kiyomori would suit you. He destroyed his Taira clan with the same weakness you are asking me to show.
"The next marriage I arrange will not be to a mother of vipers."
Stung by Takashi's suggestion that he lacked concern for his clan, Theodore decided to hit back. "Your sudden fatherly conscientiousness is surprising. Had you shown such feeling at the time of my coming-of-age ceremony, I might have bowed to your wish and chosen a traditional name. You had no use for me; I had no use for your wishes."
"Pity the man cursed with an unfilial son," Takashi intoned. "Your mother ..."
"My mother has nothing to do with what is between us," Theodore shouted. "Leave her out of it!"
"Your mother has more to do with it than you know,"
Takashi said in a hard-edged voice. "If you ever speak of her with raised voice again ...”
“What? You'll have me executed?" Takashi's eyes narrowed as color flared up his neck and onto his cheeks. "Get out!"
Theodore smiled inwardly, pleased to have gotten a rise out of his father. He executed a sharp, formal bow.
"I accept my dismissal," he said in a silky voice. "Long live the Coordinator."
Turning on his heel, Theodore strode from the room. He was halfway back to the barracks when he heard a volley of gunshots. The synchronism of the reports was that of a firing squad, reminding him suddenly that his trip to Palace Hall was a failure. Anastasi was still to be executed. His shoulders slumped. He walked on slowly.
14
Draconis Military Starport, Reykjavik, Rasalhague
Rasalhague Military District, Draconis Combine
23 September 3019
The sun had set over an hour ago, but the room was still comfortable. Theodore was even warm enough, especially where Tomoe's flesh met his own, that he did not yet wish to draw up the quilted covers. That time would come soon enough. For now, he was pleased to fold his free arm under his head and let his eyes roam her length. He smiled in pleasure that it was she who still shared his bed.
His thoughts turned to the previous days' events, making him wonder if perhaps his father should have died in the crash. If he, Theodore, were in charge now, only the guilty would face the firing squads. He knew that the group was responsible for the actions of its members, but failed to see how a child could be held responsible for the actions of its elders.
When he had returned from the meeting with Takashi, he had railed against the executions, calling Takashi's reprisals brutal and excessive. Tomoe had listened patiently, letting him talk himself out. Once he had exhausted his outrage, she led him to bed, soothing and calming him. Her talents as a listener and a bedmate were remarkable. He did not want to lose her.
"To-chan, I want to marry you."
She went very still as he spoke, and it was several heartbeats before she replied. "Do not tease me."
"I'm not teasing," he insisted. "I'm serious. My wedding has
been cancelled, and now my father talks of arranging another. The realm still needs heirs. Why shouldn't we make them? We are in love."
Tomoe squirmed out of his embrace and sat up. "You are still angry at your father. You just want to spite him by marrying your warrior doxy. Tomorrow you will see more clearly."
"Then marry me tonight," Theodore said, before she could marshal further arguments. "It is not proper."
"We are in love. What could be more proper?"
Tomoe's only response was silence. Feeling that he had found a chink in the armor of her resistance, he went on. "It's not just to spite him. If it were, I'd want to throw the marriage in his face, wouldn't I? We can keep it a secret; he won't know."
"Ever?" she questioned incredulously.
"Well ..." he stalled, caught out in an obviously ridiculous scheme. "Indrahar will help us keep the secret for awhile. He'll keep my father from becoming a matchmaker again. We could let Takashi know when our children are old enough. By then, it will be too late for him to do anything about it. The dynasty will have its heirs, legitimate ones. He'll probably say that the secrecy was his own plan all along. It makes for a better appearance that way."
Tomoe said nothing, but reached out to lay a hand on his leg.
"Say yes, To-chan."
She ran her hand along his side while Theodore tried to reinforce his arguments. Finally, seeing that she was not paying attention, he too lapsed into silence. With her mind on other things, he knew that his arguments, however rational or forceful, would have no effect. He watched as she caressed the scar on his left hip, the one from the night that Indrahar had inducted him into the Sons of the Dragon. "You wouldn't have that scar had you not fought again so soon afterward," she said in a soft voice, distant with old memories.
"I never told you how I got that," he said, suddenly wary. "But I know."
"How? How could you know?”
“I gave it to you," Tomoe said.
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