Earth-Thunder

by Patrick Tilley

  The Commandant moved forward with his two aides to join the welcoming party: Tokimasa, the Resident Steward and his fawning retinue of floor-polishers, Ichiwara, Permanent Secretary of the Chamberlain’s Office, and a clutch of senior clerks.

  Everyone bowed as first the Shogun, then Ieyasu, descended from their double-width carriage-boxes via the wooden steps that had been rushed into place by their personal servants while grooms steadied the four pairs of sweating oxen.

  Anyone armed with the knowledge that the Iron Masters had introduced horses into the Eastern lands several centuries ago might have wondered, with good reason, why they had never harnessed them to carts. The answer lay in the class system. Only samurai were allowed to ride horses. It was a jealously guarded privilege, conferring unmatched mobility in time of war, and the noble attributes of the rider were deemed to be shared by his steed.

  To an Iron Master, it would have been unthinkable to use the same animal as a beast of burden when there was an ample supply of porters from the lower social classes for short journeys, and field-oxen for the heavier loads and longer hauls. That was why it had taken four and a half days including stop-overs to cover two hundred and seventy-five miles.

  Top people like the Shogun and Ieyasu had ridden horses in their early youth, but they were not allowed to do so now. Riding horses was regarded as a life-threatening activity which was all right for military men and noblemen of lesser rank, but not for the ruling elite. A great deal of effort by a large number of people ensured that when Yoritomo ventured beyond the silken cocoon spun by the Inner Court, he was protected from every possible danger, spared any discomfort and shielded from casual encounters with the lower classes – whose appearance and behaviour might accidentally offend his finer sensibilities.

  Once the formal greetings had been exchanged between the top brass, General Tadoshi conducted Yoritomo and Lord Ieyasu to the covered dais in front of the assembled troops. Kamakura, as Senior Captain of the Guard, bowed from the waist, then drew and raised his sword, and called upon the soldiers to join him in the loyal greeting to their Shogun. The junior officers’ swords flashed into the air, the ensigns and soldiers raised their right arms in a clenched-fist salute, and the air shook as over four hundred full-blooded voices followed Kamakura phrase by phrase, ending with a rousing cheer.

  The Shogun bowed, the troops bowed even lower, and stayed down until the VIPs had cleared the dais.

  Boarding smaller carriage-boxes, Yoritomo and Ieyasu were carried into the Great Hall of the Summer Palace, surrounded by their servants, bodyguards and the resident officials. Stepping out onto the spotless floor, Yoritomo announced his intention of taking a long hot bath before attending to any other business.

  Tokimasa, the Resident Steward, whose staff had been frantically keeping gallons of water piping hot for the last six hours, assured him that everything was ready, adding that the kitchen staff had also prepared quantities of food for the entire retinue that could be cooked at a moment’s notice.

  When Yoritomo and his personal staff had left the hall with Tokimasa dancing in attendance, Ieyasu dismissed everyone except Watanabe, his Principal Private Secretary who had travelled with him, Ichiwara and the secret agent Fujiwara who was listed on the official payroll as Personal Courier to the Lord Chamberlain.

  Ieyasu’s gaze fastened on Fujiwara. ‘You have the envoys from the Federation?’

  ‘Yes, sire. We arrived about four hours ago. They have been placed in the guest rooms in the North Tower. The sea voyage left them somewhat indisposed, but they are anxious to meet with you as soon as possible.’

  ‘They’ll have to wait. I have had a rather tiring journey. And as the years go by, it seems to get longer and longer.’ He switched his gaze onto Watanabe. ‘Go and see them. Take Ichiwara with you. Find out what’s on the table and report back to me.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Make sure they have been offered the appropriate degree of hospitality, convey my apologies and tell them they’ll be granted a formal audience tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sire. I, ahh … think they are expecting to see you and the Shogun.’

  ‘They will – providing they have something to say that’s worth listening to. But don’t tell them I said that.’

  His aides shared Ieyasu’s amusement. Fujiwara said: ‘I assume these meetings will be conducted in Basic’

  ‘Of course,’ said Watanabe.

  ‘Then I would advise you to be prudent in any conversations between ourselves. From my observations during the voyage, I am fairly certain one of the long-dogs can speak Japanese – and may even be fluent in Chinese as well. It’s the woman.’

  Ichiwara looked surprised. ‘Woman?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fujiwara. ‘She also outranks her male companion.’

  ‘You mean socially?’

  ‘Not as we understand it. The Federation is run like a vast army, commanded by a privileged General Staff to which the envoys belong. She holds the rank of Commander, he is a Captain.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ said Ichiwara. ‘They send women into battle?’

  Watanabe laughed. ‘He said she belongs to their General Staff, Ichi. That means they leave the fighting to others!’

  ‘Even so, it all sounds very strange to me.’

  ‘They are strange,’ said Ieyasu. ‘And one day we will destroy them. Meanwhile we must use their power to make us stronger. They are so eager to help us, it would be churlish to refuse.’

  Taking their cue from his thin smile, his aides laughed again then Ichiwara said: ‘Sire, Captain Mashimatsu, the officer who was entrusted with certain travelling arrangements, has asked permission to present a report.’

  Ieyasu waved the matter away. ‘Later, Ichiwara. I’m going to take a two-hour nap, then a bath before I see or talk to anyone else.’

  When the Shogun’s personal five-man bodyguard had made their usual check of his apartments, he and Steward Tokimasa entered followed by Yoritomo’s valet and two chambermaids. Soldiers of the ‘Shield Unit’, a select body of men from Kamakura’s 1st Company, took up their allotted positions. In theory, all access points both outside and inside were covered – but, of course, the security plan did not include the secret passages that Kamakura now knew about.

  Having made the usual conducted tour, Yoritomo walked through into his bed-chamber as two of his silent samurai pulled the doorscreens aside. Tokimasa, nervously perspiring and anxious to please, backed in ahead of him and swept his arm around the room.

  ‘As you see everything is in order, sire. I hope you find it to your li—’ Tokimasa dried as he caught sight of a wooden head block sitting on top of a black lacquered table.

  Seated on the block was a female wig, combed and pinned in the swept-up style used by high-ranking ladies of the court on formal occasions. It had not been there during his last tour of inspection some forty minutes ago.

  He gasped with annoyance and apologised profusely. ‘A thousand pardons, sire! I cannot think how that came to be in your room. One of the maids must have – !’ He turned to the junior of his two assistants. ‘Remove that object at once!’

  ‘No, leave it!’ said Yoritomo sharply. His voice softened. ‘It doesn’t upset me in the least, Tokimasa. So no more apologies are required. You and your staff have done splendidly. Please convey my thanks to them for all their hard work. Now be so good as to leave me. I wish to spend a few moments alone.’

  Tokimasa and his staff bowed from the waist. ‘Sire.’

  Yoritomo turned to his valet. ‘Go and prepare my bath. I will call you when I am ready.’

  Everyone withdrew. The door screens slid shut behind them.

  Yoritomo took a deep breath and turned towards the wig. He had recognised it immediately. It belonged to his sister Mishiko. He walked over to the table and circled it slowly then carefully lifted up the wig. Pinned inside it was a small, folded piece of paper. He took it out, replaced the wig on the block, unfolded the paper and read the message several times
before burning it on one of the charcoal braziers that warmed the room.

  The five samurai stationed outside the bed-chamber leapt to their feet as Yoritomo slid back one of the doorscreens. ‘Find Captain Kamakura and bring him here at once. He is to enter alone!’ The screen closed again.

  A few minutes later, Kamakura reached the anteroom. Outwardly calm, but inwardly filled with trepidation, he handed his two swords over to Ryoku, the chief bodyguard, and was admitted into the bed-chamber. Yoritomo stood by the black table on which the block bearing Mishiko’s wig had been been placed. Kamakura fell to his knees and greeted his sovereign lord with the usual deep bow then when Yoritomo motioned him to relax, he sat back, crossed his legs and placed his hands on his knees with his arms splayed outwards.

  The Shogun approached, gazed at him thoughtfully, then paced slowly from side to side. Kamakura followed him with his eyes. ‘You have embarked on a dangerous game, Captain.’

  ‘The danger to my life is of no importance, sire. If I lose it trying to preserve your honour then that will be reason enough for my existence.’

  Yoritomo accepted this with a nod then walked over to the low table and brushed the fingertips of his right hand over the wig. ‘Who else knows my sister is in the palace?’

  ‘Only my wife and daughters, sire. The secret is safe with them.’

  ‘And where is Lady Mishiko?’

  ‘She is waiting for you to admit her, sire.’

  Yoritomo looked puzzled for a moment then his eyes swung towards the fake vertical wall beam. ‘You mean…?’

  Kamakura dropped his head onto his chest and kept it there. It was a polite way of saying ‘yes’, and by lowering his eyes, withdrawing himself symbolically from the scene that was to follow.

  Yoritomo went over to the fake beam, released the hidden catch and opened the narrow door. Mishiko knelt on the step beyond the narrow opening, silhouetted in the glow of a lantern, her hands clasped together in a gesture of supplication.

  ‘At last! Oh, my dearest brother, master, lord! Grant me leave to speak for I have a strange and terrible tale to tell!’ Mishiko threw herself forward through the opening and slid her hands across the floor to touch her brother’s feet.

  It was only then that Yoritomo realised she was not alone. For the light from the hidden lamp now fell on the striped faces of two hairy grass-monkeys crouching on the steps below.…

  An hour-long soak in a hot tub and some underwater sex with Steve helped Fran regain most of her former zip and even gave her an appetite. Nothing fancy – just a bowl of clear soup and a small dish of plain boiled rice, but it stayed down. Having exhausted the views from their shuttered apartments, they stretched out side by side on the bed and browsed through the briefing documents which listed the proposals they had come to place before Ieyasu and the Shogun.

  The Iron Masters manufactured and used huge quantities of paper for their written records but it was the first time Steve had held sheets of paper printed with lines of text in Basic. Apart from the plasfilm issued to overground units, all data in the Federation was displayed on video screens, or portable LCDs. These sheets were a rare example of what was known as ‘hard copy’, and as far as he knew, documents in this form were only made available to members of the First Family.

  Steve watched Fran scan the text, her grey eyes fastening avidly on each line. She looked up. ‘I can’t see them buying this idea of us loaning them signal units, do you?’

  Steve shrugged. ‘Depends on how far they’re willing to bend the rules. Let’s face it, privately, Ieyasu has broken every one in the book, but after ramming their Sacred Edict down everybody’s throats for centuries, even a limited turn-around on the Dark Light might be hard for the nation at large to swallow.’

  ‘It would also cut the ground away from under the Toh-Yota. Isn’t the upholding of the Sacred Edict their main claim to fame?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s why they let us blow up the Heron Pool.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Fran re-read the proposal. ‘This was one of Karlstrom’s ideas. But not one of his better ones. I think we should kill it – okay?’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  In Steve’s eyes, Fran’s saving grace was her intelligence. That, plus the fact she was also physically attractive, made the relationship bearable. And to be fair, the negative aspects of her personality had their positive side. She might be mean and overbearing, but she was also strong and forceful. It was an interesting combination and not unappealing, because on her better days she could be good company.

  It was in those moments she became almost likeable. Karlstrom had warned him that an intimate relationship with her was like riding a greasy pole, but it had been the wrong thing to say. Steve had always been unable to resist a challenge. Fran could damage his career prospects but she couldn’t hurt him emotionally because, deep down, she meant absolutely nothing to him. His one real, true and lasting attachment was to Clearwater. Fran Jefferson was just part of his survival plan – and there were plenty of worse ways of staying alive. The difference between the two was that Clearwater, without saying anything, made him aware of his failings. Fran, on the other hand, brought out the worst in him and that, perversely, made him feel better.

  Around three o’clock in the afternoon, they heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles followed by a series of shrill commands then a tumultuous roar. Fran, who had run to the windows at the sound of the horses, listened intently then said: ‘They’ve arrived! That shouting at the end was the troops giving the Shogun a standing ovation.’

  Steve scrambled to his feet. Fran fisted his chest. ‘C’mon. Let’s get dressed! Show ’em what we’re made of!’ The gleam in her eye told him she was back in the driving seat.

  When their guide Fujiwara reappeared with Watanabe and Ichiwara in tow, he found Steve and Fran dressed in the silver grey uniforms that marked them out as members of the First Family. The high collared tunic with its inverted triangular dark blue trim running down from the shoulders to a point at the waist and with matching rank stripes on the sleeves, flared grey riding breeches, supple mid-grey leather jackboots rising high on the calf, dark blue cavalry caps and silver topped canes.

  Steve and Fran sized up the opposition. Unlike Skull-Face, who was clearly an old hand, Watanabe and Ichiwara had sleekly rounded features and were of indeterminate age. They were both soberly dressed in long black robes, and wore oddly shaped pill-box hats on top of their samurai wigs. In Ne-Issan, hats were a status symbol, and when Skull-Face made the introductions, Watanabe, the jap with the fanciest headgear, was revealed as being the senior paper-pusher.

  Looking at them, Steve was reminded of the smooth executives who lived in the Black Tower at Houston/GC. White or yellow, these guys were all the same. Fran had told him not to emulate their hosts when exchanging the usual bows of welcome. They were to be courteous and correct, but there was to be no kow-towing. Steve tried to argue, but Fran was not disposed to listen. As a result, they both remained erect, responding to their hosts with a polite nod of the head. If their hosts were miffed, it didn’t show.

  At Ichiwara’s invitation, Steve and Fran followed Skull-Face across the corridor into another room where two pairs of low tables and sets of cushions had been placed opposite each other, and a pale-faced Japanese girl in a printed silk kimono knelt ready to serve jasmine tea.

  Skull-Face invited them to take their places then took a back seat behind the two secretaries. As they sipped the bowls of teas, Watanabe explained that the journey to the Summer Palace had proved something of an ordeal to the Lord Chamberlain. Out of courtesy to his visitors he had decided to postpone meeting them until he was fully rested and could give his undivided attention to the important matters they had come to discuss.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ continued Watanabe, ‘he has instructed Secretary Ichiwara and myself to obtain a general picture of your proposals in order to prepare an agenda for the meetings which will follow. I trust you have no objection?’

&nb
sp; ‘None whatsoever,’ said Fran. She had decided, despite the original plan, to do most of the talking herself. When Steve had asked why, she had said: ‘You’ve had direct experience of these people, but it was as a slave-worker, on the receiving end. They make you nervous. I can sense it. Don’t get me wrong. If we were to get in a tight corner, I know you’d come through. You’re the ideal action man, but when it comes to representing the Federation, I’m better equipped than you are – because I know how to dish it out.’

  When the tea lady had retired from the room, Watanabe, whose pronunciation was almost faultless, said: ‘With your agreement, these discussions will be conducted in your language. My colleague Ichiwara will act as translator for the Lord Chamberlain and, if your proposals are deemed to merit his attention, his Highness, Prince Yoritomo, the Shogun.’

  Watanabe gauged the effect of this on both of them, then fixed his eyes on Fran. ‘I am aware that you, Commander, have a working knowledge of our language. Since, in doing this, you must also have learned something of our cherished traditions, you will know that we do not welcome outlanders speaking our sacred mother tongue. You would cause grave offence if you attempted to do so in the presence of Lord Ieyasu or His Highness Prince Yoritomo. We hope you will respect out feelings in this matter.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ said Fran drily. ‘Would I be correct in thinking that both these noble gentlemen speak fluent Basic?’

  ‘They have a comprehensive understanding of the language. But because of their exalted rank, you will not be able to address either of them directly. Anything you wish to communicate will be relayed by myself or Secretary Ichiwara.’