Mitsuharu knelt in the temple, bending his head against the floor in obeisance to the gilded idol. The altar was crowded with candle stubs, pools of melted wax, and drifts of fallen ash. Coins, gewgaws, trinkets, little toys, chicle-prizes, letters, twists of paper folded with prayers covered every flat surface in the shrine.
“The city is expensive,” he said aloud, shaking his head in dismay. “I’ve little to leave you, mother, father.” Hadeishi dug in his pockets, found the sake, the flowers, the hard plastic shape of his Fleet comm. “But what I have, I will send to you, beyond the sea.”
Beyond the walls of the temple-house, a late afternoon wind guttered among the stones. The first Nisei to be laid to rest in the Western Paradise had been interred within days of the Landing. The fleet had breached upon this shore out of exhaustion. The rough passage between the outer bulwark of Mowichat Island and the rocky, forest-shrouded coastline had taken the last burst of energy the refugees could muster. Thirty-six days had passed while the gray vastness of the sea hammered at their boats. Few of the Japanese vessels had been fitted for such a voyage, though in the mad panic to evacuate Edo and Osaka, no mind had been paid to their seaworthiness. More than half of those who fled dying Nippon had perished. But the Emperor himself had survived, carried forth from the wreck of his ancient realm in a massive Chinese hai-po taken in a raid off Taiwan. That enormous ship had run aground in Deception Creek, or so the children said, and the last true Emperor to be born in the Immortal Islands had splashed ashore with katana in hand and rusted armor upon his breast. Though the shore he faced was crowded with an impossibly thick forest, and his people were sick and weak, there was nowhere else to run.
Mitsuharu made a little space among the grave goods with his fingers and set both sake bottles among the debris left by other mourners. He considered his comm for a long time. The metal surface was chipped and worn, discolored by plasma backwash, and a sixteen-glyph was blinking on the display surface. Messages of sympathy from fellow officers, he thought, entirely devoid of curiosity, I will never view.
Hadeishi placed the flowers atop the comm and bent his head over clasped hands.
“One leaf lets go,” he whispered, eyes squeezed tight, “and another follows on the wind.”
I am sorry, mother, father; that I did not come home. News of your illness, your death, reached me by courier off Kodon, when vital repairs were already underway. I am late to bring you these things, to pray for you, to bid you a speedy journey home to the Blessed Isles. I am sorry. I am not a good son. I was not a good captain. Now I am a wretched player in a disreputable tavern. So the wheel turns.
The foundation of the temple-house was laid upon the grave of that first man-a lesser courtier of the Imperial House; a kugyo born in Echizen-to die upon gumshan. He was not the last. Fell beasts roamed the primordial forest and the natives were quick and sly, slipping unseen through deep shadows with knives of knapped stone. The weather was far fiercer than the nobles of Nara and Kyoto expected, and the refugees accounted barely a handful of men experienced in hunting, fishing, carpentry, blacksmithing… by winter’s end, another quarter of the survivors were crudely interred around the temple-house. The great cemetery had begun its millennia-long sprawl.
But the third spring had brought an unexpected sight-long boats with many rowers toiling up the coast from the south. The handful of Nisei ships which remained seaworthy-many had been cannibalized for nails, lumber, cordage, and other desperately needed fittings-met the Toltec pochteca on the low swell at the mouth of Deception Creek. From the front step of this very temple-house, a pillar could be seen on the farther shore where the Emperor’s representatives had first held conversation with the emissaries of the great southern kingdoms. By then the Nisei had driven the tribal peoples from their villages along the shore and were beginning to clear the forest for their new city.
Mitsuharu finished his prayers and remained seated, feeling entirely directionless.
I’ve done what must be done, he realized, every commission discharged. Honor to Fleet, family, and Emperor satisfied by the most meager effort. My purpose at an end. His lips twisted in dismay and thin, fine-boned hands patted at his service jacket, feeling for the hilt of a knife or blade of some kind. Ah, old fool. You traded your service tanto for new strings for that useless scrap of wood… you have already forgotten yourself, haven’t you? A samurai, an officer, without even the least weapon to hand? What would Lord Musashi think of you now?
Hadeishi grunted, the harsh sound echoing in the silent temple, and answered himself. “Lord Musashi was never bothered by the lack of steel!”
An old, old memory came to mind-the fuzzing screen of an ancient black-and-white two-d set showing the calm, centered face of a samurai framed by the pillars of another temple, one in Japan itself, where a ring of ruffians-not even samurai, though their nervous hands held blades aplenty, but bandits and honorless men-circled the lone sword master. A strong wind was blowing, rustling the leaves of ancient trees, bending their creaking limbs. Lord Musashi had nothing in his hands save a length of willow wood.
They were doomed, Hadeishi remembered, the ghost of a child’s smile in his eyes. Though he had nothing but the clothes on his back. The Five Rings chambara had played on the two-d every afternoon throughout Mitsuharu’s childhood. Hundreds of episodes, rarely shown in order, depicting the long and remarkably heroic life of the sword-saint Miyamoto Musashi. An excellent reason for a youngster to run home from school and fling himself onto the floor of his parent’s house in a pile of blankets, eyes fixed on the tiny screen. Five Rings was particularly beloved for its setting-Japan itself, during the long struggle of the Restoration, when the Nisei had returned to the home islands and driven out the vile Mongol dynasty which had terrorized their homeland during five centuries of exile.
I will have to buy a knife next week, Hadeishi thought glumly. When I’ve a little money again.
The door of the temple-house slid closed behind him with a soft click. Mitsuharu tucked his chin into the collar of his jacket, frost biting his face. A long walk faced him-back into the upper city, across the lower bridge vaulting the estuary, a hike up over the ridge separating the well-heeled Khahtsalano district from the area around the spaceport, and finally home to his pallet.
Hadeishi was descending the wooden stair into the cemetery proper when a long-drawn-out rumble reached him, carried up from the south in the cold, still air. A laser-boosted shuttle cut through the clouds, a bright red spark racing away to orbit.
They look big from down here, he thought, remembering sitting on the hillside across the river from the main launch-pits at uchu with his father. Gigantic. Leaping into the heavens on wings of flame… But even the largest shuttle was dwarfed by the massive shape of the commercial liners waiting in orbit, much less the vast bulk of a Fleet carrier or dreadnaught. The cold was in his heart now, and an ache was trickling along his spine.
He trudged across the bridge, bitter sea wind piercing his jacket and sweater, cap tugged low. There was a merchanter’s guild office, Hadeishi remembered, and I’d qualify for a senior rating’s birth. Perhaps even an officer. On a miner, or a cargoman, or a bulk carrier. It would be… something. Better than being a samisen player for drunkards.
The wounded sound of the Cornuelle ’s spaceframe groaning as she twisted into the atmosphere over Jagan was suddenly sharp in his memory. The hoarse rasp of his own breath inside the helmet, the queasy nausea of shattered ribs. Corridors clogged with floating debris, bubbles of smoke, and the drifting bodies of the dead.
I killed my ship. Susan’s face appearing out of the darkness, her eyes blazing with worry as her helmet visor levered up. The tightening of dismay around her almond-shaped eyes as she realized what he’d done. I killed my own children. For pride. Because I was very good at what I did. But not good enough to deny fate.
Neon washed his face as he walked, expression vacant, thoughts light-years away. Snow was falling again, dusting his hunched shoulders wi
th white. He’d felt terribly cold then, too, strapped into his shockchair, hands numb with the effort he’d spent to get the ship’s nose up, her orbit stable.
If I were not prideful, Mitsuharu thought, feeling his spirit sink even lower. I could be among the stars again. But what am I beyond pride, he wondered, without my uniform, without duty? Am I more than a shell of starched linen and golden ribbon? Is there any reason to be anything else?
Without a warship to command, he realized, merely shipping out was without purpose.
Lord Musashi, he remembered, would not compromise his honor at such a pass. He would wait patiently, living on a beggars’ charity, until someone deserving of his service called upon him. Even if he waited until death.
But that was a very cold comfort, on this gray and frigid day.
Tenochtitlan
The Center of the World, Anahuac
Sahane stepped gingerly down a flight of well-worn steps formed from compressed ash, his eyesight adjusting smoothly to the abrupt separation of a hazy, hot day and the cool dimness of a restaurant. The insect-whine of his cooling system fell below audibility and the Hjogadim priest let out a relieved hiss. His long snoutlike nose twitched, assailed by the thick, greasy smell of cooking meat, the acid bite of chilli powder, and the earthy smell of red beans simmering in an iron skillet. With a conscious effort, Sahane closed his mouth, thick gray tongue rolling back into his jaw.
This species of indigene, young smoot, a gruff, pedantic voice spoke out of memory-one of an interminable number of teachers replaying in response to the situational prompt- grows uncomfortable, even agitated, when confronted with the sight of our superior dentition.
“No teeth, no teeth,” the Hjogadim muttered to himself, a jaundiced eye roving around the gloomy cavern. Long wooden tables-all too small for his two-meter-plus frame-jammed against the walls, crowded by throngs of chairs. Threatening wrought-iron chandeliers hung from the domed ceiling on chains. “A torture chamber,” Sahane observed, beginning to feel nervous. To remain demands intoxicants.
The cool air, however, was a blessing he was loath to abandon so quickly. The superconducting threads running through his heavy fur could only dissipate so much heat when he was walking-no, more like swimming-through the thick hot air of the city. That the natives would build underground, or behind heavy whitewashed adobe walls, or install their own refrigeration systems on a massive scale, did not trouble his mind. Sahane was keenly aware of his own discomfort, but the theoretical trials of a planet of inconsequential toys did not move him at all.
Circling around the wicked ornamentation of the nearest chandelier, the Hjo sat at one of the tables, back against the pleasantly cool wall, and wondered if the establishment was closed. A handful of other patrons sat at the far end of the long room, but none of them had paid his entrance the slightest attention. Sahane’s long, tapir-like head swiveled, looking for the telltale ghosting of a human comm-panel in the air. Nothing. He frowned, the leathery skin around two deep-set eyes wrinkling up. He could smell food, but… how did you order a meal without an interface?
“A waiter comes,” someone said, in passable Trade. “And you tell him which ingestibles you desire.”
Sahane’s frown deepened into puzzlement. The human settling into a chair opposite the young Hjo was familiar-Sahane had been aware of him dozens of times-but they’d never spoken before. The fine coating of hollow hairs forming the top layer of his fur shivered, making the silver-gray gloss ripple. An Eye should not speak; it is inappropriate! Its only duty is to spy.
“Though,” the human male continued, tucking a pair of sunglasses into a pocket of his mantle, “the menu here is limited. You’d be best to order an octli beer and perhaps a plate of nopalli, if you are hungry.”
“I am not,” Sahane said, after a moment of consternation. “You have never spoken to me before-is there a… a situation? A danger?”
Every member of the Hjogadim delegation on Anahuac, to the best of Sahane’s knowledge, had at least three Eyes fixed upon them-not all at once, of course, but in rotating shifts throughout the swift Terran day-but always from a distance. This one-tall, as the indigenes went, with sleek dark fur on its head and regular, waxy-skinned features-had always been at least a block away for as long as the Eye had observed the Hjo. That it should come closer-or even speak to Sahane-implied something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
Ah, the Hjo suddenly realized, the wretched Eyes don’t wish me to purchase trimethoxyphene from this new vendor. The previous merchant must have complained “There is no situation,” the toy said, quite calmly. It approximated a Hjo smile, lips tight. “You are perfectly safe. There will be only a slight delay before the priest comes.”
Sahane blinked, feeling a familiar fog of confusion congealing around him. He did not like this place-the backwater polity; the crude, barbarous planet; much less this dreadful bowl of hot smog that passed for a city-and the intrigues and plots of the local princelings did not move him at all. His master the zhongdu seemed to take an interest in the chattering and scrabbling of the humans, but Sahane had done his best to stay far, far removed from such things. It was not, after all, his purpose.
“The… hikuli priest is coming here?” Sahane whispered tentatively. “How would he know to come-”
“I told him,” the human said, unnaturally slim fingers producing a data-crystal, “that you would be a little late, and wished to try authentic Tenochtitlan food. Where else but Tlatelolco would you find such fine grilled dogs? We will need only a moment for our business.”
The Hjo’s dull black eyes fixed on the message capsule, which was banded with red and seemed to shine with an inner light. “That is one of ours,” he muttered, feeling his skin heat with distress. “How did you get it?”
The human smiled again. “This is for your master. Will you convey it to the zhongdu?”
“I will not,” Sahane hissed. The low ceiling pressed down claustrophobically. “It is not my purpose to exchange messages with your kind! I will be…” The Hjo clamped his mouth shut before severely punished escaped into the open air. “I am not a Voice,” came out instead, as a hiss.
“If you do not accept the gift,” the human said, sharp brown eyes watching the nervous alien and wondering what a “Voice” might be, “then your ‘priest’ will be further delayed and there will be no godhead to accompany you to the consulate.”
The Gods are not here! an ancient-sounding voice sneered among Sahane’s thoughts. Were they, we would be exalted and these toys churned to ash for our gardens. Were the Gods here, we would not need these pasty sulfates and salts to entertain us! We would burn with “I can find another-” Sahane rose abruptly and there was a dull clonk as his head slammed into the iron candelabra suspended over the table. “Aaah!”
Wincing, the Hjo staggered away from the table, long fur-covered fingers clutching his tapered head. His mouth gaped wide, revealing the heavy rows of grinding molars and chisel-shaped cutting teeth lining his fore-jaw.
“I’ve got you,” the Mirror agent said, steadying the alien arm. The smooth human countenance creased with worry. “You’re bleeding, Sahane- tzin.”
The Hjo grimaced, wrenching his polluted limb free from the toy’s grasp. Beneath his fingers, the warm oozing sensation of a cut was already fading as his scalp-skin crawled back together. “I heal,” Sahane spat. Though his legs felt loose and rubbery, the Hjo fled, staggering up the steps and brushing past a startled-looking youth in vibrant, polychromatic robes carrying a ribbed, dark green effigy pot in his hands.
Behind him, in the dim recess of the restaurant, the young Mexica pretended not to notice the puzzled Xochipilli priest on the stair. He smoothed down his mantle before spraying a biocide on the table and chair where the Hjogadim had rested. Then he glanced around the room to make sure no one was paying any attention and disappeared out through the kitchen.
***
Down the street, Sahane stumbled to a halt, leaning against a wall covered with glos
sy painted tile showing dozens of young boys dressed as bees, birds, and macaws sitting in the branches of a massive tree whose limbs tangled the sun and stars, while the roots twined down amongst the skulls and bones of the dead. Opposite him a stall lined with dozens of flowered cloaks caught the midday sun, casting a hot glow of brilliant hummingbird colors in his watery eyes.
This is a dreadful place, the young alien thought for the thousandth time, pawing in the pouch at his belt for a map token that would lead him to other vendors. I will just find some alkaloids instead His long fingers brushed against something small, smooth, and cylindrical. The Hjo fell still, hindbrain yielding up a list of everything he’d donned in his cubicle before setting out into the teeming anthill of the human city.
Seconds passed. Sahane carefully pulled out and regarded the data-crystal with a jaundiced eye. He looked about, saw only the usual throng of humanity, and pitched the irritating little item into the nearest garbage can. Then he stood up, feeling relieved, and loafed off thinking: Right Thought guides me well, to avoid the complications of lesser creatures at every turn!
The Hjogadim had gone a good block or more, almost stepping out into the bustling flower market of Tlatelolco to buy his lunch, when another thought intruded: What if some cunning Eye informs the zhongdu of my meeting, and Demands are made upon me to produce the contraband? If I do not hold it in my hand, it will seem I am hiding Truth or have sold something for my own profit.
Land of the Dead ittotss-3 Page 3