The touch of elegance about him was reflected in his wide mustache and pointed van Dyke beard, each of which was completely white. Belying his age, thick white hair similarly swept down the back of his head to bunch up beneath the overcoat’s upturned collar.
The rain was steady but not heavy, consistent but not a downpour. It was enough to render hallucinogenic the rainbow of lights from the surrounding structures, as if a crash of abstract paintings was lit from within. Bright colors danced off the equally colorful raingear of younger strollers out for an evening on the town. They were headed for Asakusa, the ancient nearby entertainment district. Despite their perfervid illumination, the buildings lining the street were dull by comparison.
He could have taken a robocab to his destination. He could afford one, but he enjoyed walking in the rain. It reminded him of his past, when he was a poor burakumin. Back then he didn’t have the money to buy an overcoat, much less anything as sophisticated as personal hydrophobic gear. Many were the chilly, wet nights like this when he would have killed for a bowl of hot soup and noodles.
Literally killed.
He could afford soup and noodles now. He could afford North American Kobe steak and French wine and Italian truffles. But not tonight. A heavy meal before business was always a bad idea. It slowed the body and clouded the mind.
The sawara cypress cane tap-tapped its way along the pavement. Twice, passing couples offered the old man money. He smiled and politely declined. If they had known who he was, they would not have made the offer. If they had known who he was, they might have fled in fear.
His name was Tatsuya Himura and he was the oyabun, or boss, of the Yamaguchi-gumi Eleven, an organization that counted among its membership slightly more than half the gangsters and organized criminals in Japan. Pausing outside one building and squinting into the rain, he noted the address and nodded to himself. Nearly invisible scars on two fingers concealed where the ends had been cut off many decades ago in successive acts of yubitsume. Modern medicine had allowed the digits to be replaced with little but sufficient sign of the painful sacrifice.
Touching the back of his left hand with another finger brought to life the small in situ projector that was embedded in the flesh. A few whispered words and the subcutaneous comm unit confirmed everything he needed to know: the time, the location, the fact that he was indeed in the right place.
He could have sent an underling, or many underlings, to the site, but the result of their appearance would have differed from what he intended. Besides, it was good to keep in practice no matter how old one was. Himura felt his age in his bones. Whether another so afflicted might have winced, he grinned. The cold and the rain made him feel alive. Besides, he was too old to attract much notice. Taking a long, deep breath, he stepped into the alcove that fronted the entrance.
The two doormen inside eyed him askance. They were very large, solid, doubtless trained well enough to occupy their present positions. Himura could have killed them easily. Instead, he submitted to their perfunctory inspection.
“And just where do you think you’re going, Grandpa?” the nearest inquired with a minimum of courtesy.
Leaning on his cane with one hand, Himura pointed with the other. It trembled ever so slightly. “I have a dinner appointment.”
The much larger, younger doorman frowned. “With who? The cat cleaner?” His companion smiled and coughed slightly into a hand. Cats were a common feature of many Tokyo restaurants. In an upscale establishment like Soba, they were synthetic and quite capable of cleaning themselves. So the jibe was doubly insulting.
Himura raised both arms. It appeared to require an effort for him to do so.
“I am late,” he said. “You can track me if you like. The gentleman I am supposed to meet is already here.”
Something in his voice, some subtle change from aged weakness to unexpected strength, caused both doormen to hesitate. Most likely they thought this grandpa was hoping to nurse a single cocktail and enjoy the passing spectacle of some of the city’s rich and famous. On the other hand, it was just possible he was telling the truth. In which case, if they denied him entry, their jobs could be on the line. Reaching a decision, the senior doorman nodded at his colleague.
“Scan him and let him in.” To the visitor he added, “We’ll be watching you. If you just wander to the long bar or the one upstairs, and try to hang out there all night, you’ll find yourself chucked back out into the rain.”
“I understand.” Himura kept his arms up as he nodded.
“That won’t be necessary, Grandpa.” Relenting, the first doorman smiled and indicated that Himura could lower his arms. “Just stand there a moment.” No beam of light enveloped Himura, but there was a slight humming sound as unseen devices took the measure of his clothing, his shoes, the cane he carried, even his hair. When the humming ceased, the doorman grunted.
“He’s clean.”
“Did you expect anything else?” his counterpart chided. As the inner door to the restaurant opened, a gesture invited Himura to enter. “Have a good dinner, Grandpa.”
“Thank you, young man. I do not expect to be long.”
Checking his overcoat with the automated storeroom, Himura made his way deeper into the building. As befitted one of the finest dining establishments in Tokyo, Soba was crowded. Tables in the center were flanked by two lines of high-backed booths that featured customizable seating. Within, ambient lighting was also fully adjustable to suit the mood of the diners. The same optical projectors could also generate privacy screens, opaquing the air between a booth’s entrance and the rest of the restaurant. Audio dampers could do the same thing for sound, depending on how much of the restaurant chatter a patron wished to employ as background noise.
Using his cane, Himura made his way through the room. Occasionally a waiter would flick a glance in the direction of the old man in the rumpled but clean suit. Noting nothing exceptional, they continued about their business. Their very presence, in lieu of the automated table attendants, further indicated Soba’s exalted status.
Several back rooms catered to the more elite of the restaurant’s clientele. They were quieter, less crowded, and featured a larger waiter-to-customer ratio. There were no open tables here. As he walked by each booth, Himura favored the occupants with a quick, appraising glance. Some were opaqued or soundproofed or both, and he ignored them for now. If he was still interested later, he could make a return journey to recheck them.
While several of the booths—both opaqued and not—featured the presence of bodyguards outside, he was able to identify the one he sought from a cursory examination of the two men flanking its entrance. It was neither opaqued nor soundproofed. Even at a distance the tattoos visible on their necks and the backs of their hands were suitably distinctive. Similar traditional art would cover much if not all of their unclothed bodies, he knew.
Further confirmation was provided by the lack of sound from within the booth itself. Most likely that meant it was inhabited by a single occupant, dining alone. Himura was certain he had located the right booth. He had long since ascertained that the man he sought would be dining here tonight, at this time. He made a mental note to see that a bonus was paid to the woman who had confirmed the location and time.
He smiled to himself. Again, a much younger operative would have drawn far too much scrutiny. A group would immediately have been intercepted and challenged out at the establishment’s entrance. A single old man, however, could move with considerably greater freedom.
As he hobbled past the booth and approached the main kitchen, he drew only a brief glance from the two bodyguards. Once beyond, he again activated the small device built into his left hand, and murmured to it.
There was a brief pause.
Shouts and screams erupted from the direction of the main kitchen. Multiple fire alarms began to sound. Eying one another uneasily, the patrons in the exclusive dining area began to murmur to one another. A few rose from their seats.
Even as t
he two bodyguards took several steps in the direction of the kitchen, reaching inside their jackets to check their weapons, Himura began to retrace his steps. By the time one of the maître d’s appeared to reassure the customers, and before the bodyguards thought to look behind them, Himura had stepped into the booth.
As he had inferred, a single individual was seated there, at the very back of the half-moon-shaped booth. Had there been others, he was prepared to deal with them. That the man was alone made it easier.
Looking up at the intruder, Hideo Yutani waved at the three-dimensional image he had been viewing. The device shut off. The head of Weyland-Yutani did not shout, nor did he call for help. Instead, he continued chewing his food while gesturing to his right.
“Sit down, Himura-san,” he said. “What brings the oyabun of the Yamaguchi-gumi out by himself on a cold, wet night like this?”
Availing himself of the indicated space in the luxuriously appointed booth, Himura laid his cane on the silver-inlaid tabletop, bowed his head slightly in the direction of his host, and replied matter-of-factly.
“It is indeed cold and wet, Yutani-san. An unpleasant night for a killing, which is what I was paid to do.”
Yutani nodded, considering this, then reached for the decanter on the table and removed its stopper. The bodyguards returned and gaped in alarm. Noting the newcomer, they reached again for their weapons. Yutani briskly gave the wave of a hand, and they stood down—though the looks of alarm remained.
“Some mineral water from Iceland?” Yutani asked.
The boss of the Yamaguchi-gumi shook his head and grinned. “You always were more ascetic than aesthetic. How am I supposed to kill you without a proper drink first?”
Yutani smiled back. “What would you like, Himura-san?”
“Sake. Warmed.” Again the cobra’s smile. “I am so much more of a traditionalist than you.”
“Your position requires it. I have more independence.” Leaning forward slightly, Yutani addressed the table. “A bottle of old Daischichi and two glasses, please.” He sat back. “Just because I do not favor the stuff does not mean I am ignorant of the refinements.”
Himura nodded approvingly. “A fine selection, though a bit peppery. We have a matter of some importance to discuss.”
The head of Weyland-Yutani resumed eating his steak and potatoes.
“What? Whether or not you are going to kill me before or after I finish my meal?”
Himura chuckled. “You know very well, Yutani-san, that if I was actually here to kill you, I would already be back on the street, dispersed into the rain. I said that I was paid to come here and kill you, not that I have any intention of carrying out the act.”
Yutani nodded as he swallowed. Picking up an embroidered napkin woven of Irish linen, he wiped the sides of his mouth.
“Out of curiosity, though, how would you have done it? You could not get any kind of real weapon or explosive past building security. As for a physical attack, I am a bit younger than you, and have some small skill in the martial arts.” He nodded toward the entrance to the booth. “Also, one shout and my people would be in here and all over you.”
Himura gestured understandingly. “I would have had to perform the act quickly, for sure. Yet there are certain specialized tools of the trade that manage to remain one step ahead of even advanced security techniques.” Reaching out with a gnarled hand he used it to roll the cane on the table two revolutions to the right. “If I roll it three times now to the left, it will be armed.”
Yutani eyed the sawara wood. “Any metal or explosives would have immediately shown up on even the most basic security scanner.”
“Very true.” Himura smiled. “That is why the interior mechanism is fashioned entirely of wood. The firing mechanism, the small projectile filled with fast-acting poison, everything is wood, arranged in a jumble. Nothing aligns to form a functional weapon until it is armed.”
“I am impressed.” Forking a couple of green beans, Yutani slipped them into his mouth and chewed. “I appreciate the information and the lesson.” He put down the fork as the sake and glasses arrived. First pouring a glass for Himura, he then took a very little for himself. Setting down the bottle, he raised his glass.
“A toast then. To old friends not killing each other.”
Himura raised his own small glass. “To old friends not killing each other. A task reserved for wives and mistresses.” They drank. Having far less in his glass, Yutani set his back down first.
“So then, Himura-san. Who hired you to kill me, and why?”
By way of prefacing his answer, the older man reached into his jacket and drew out an envelope. After sliding it over to Yutani, he poured himself another stout drink.
The envelope was not sealed. Drawing out the contents, Yutani spread them out on the table. It was a complete set of documents identifying the bearer as an employee of Weyland, based in Glasgow. Having yet to be filled in, the spaces reserved for images were blank. Yutani looked over at his visitor.
“Someone wants my associates here to think that I was killed by a Weyland employee,” he said.
Himura nodded. “I have no idea why. It seems superfluous. What does it matter who kills you, assuming that the task was to be carried out successfully?” He drank. “It is fortunate indeed the contract rose to my attention. Whoever placed it with my kobun was clearly not aware that you and I have done business together for many years. That we have an established personal rapport I would be most reluctant to terminate, no matter the sum.”
“Indeed,” Yutani added pithily, “no one-time payment would equal the value of our business relationship. You have shared information with me, Himura-san. Now it is my turn to share with you. You are aware of the forthcoming journey of the colony ship Covenant?”
Himura nodded. “How could I not be? Everyone on Earth is aware of it.” He made a face. “Is that somehow connected with a contract to end your life?”
“There have been attempts to sabotage the ship, to slip someone on board as member of the security team, and to kidnap my daughter. Though they failed, they were professional in nature.” Yutani indicated the admirably well-counterfeited Weyland documents spread out on the table.
“I know of the kidnapping attempt, of course.” The head of the Yamaguchi-gumi turned pensive. “So someone or some group from the original Weyland company wants to prevent the Covenant from departing on its mission. Very badly, it would seem.”
“So it would seem,” Yutani echoed. “Whoever they are, they have moved from sabotage to kidnapping and now to murder in an attempt to achieve their aim.” One finger tapped the nearest document. “I have no doubt whatsoever that they are waiting anxiously to hear an announcement of my death, whereupon they will send a warning that unless the colonization mission is cancelled, more deaths will follow. They are becoming desperate, and a serious irritant.”
Himura eyed him over his third glass of expensive sake. “Who is becoming desperate? Employees of the former Weyland company?”
Yutani leaned back against the plush cushioning. “I don’t know. One of those attempting to halt the mission was identified as a Yutani employee, others as having a long history of employment with Weyland. The effort to sow suspicion among both groups is now obvious. Yet with each incident I am more inclined to think that the true motivation comes from elsewhere, from outside what is now Weyland-Yutani.”
He looked more sharply at the older man. “You have access to sources that even I do not,” Yutani said. “That the authorities do not. Perhaps you could make some inquiries? Now that you have some idea what to look for.” When Himura hesitated, Yutani added, “Compensation will be appropriate, of course, depending on what information you can provide.”
“Of course.” Himura set his glass down. “A profitable evening, however one looks at it—and the booze is good, too.” He poured himself a fourth glass. As yet he exhibited no signs of impairment. Nor would he. Even at his age, the grandfatherly Tatsuya Himura could drink th
ugs and tough guys half his age under the table.
“I always prefer to talk business than commit murder,” he continued. “What do you want to know, old friend?”
XV
More rain. Lopé didn’t mind the rain so much. In fact, he hoped there would be decent rain on Origae-6. He enjoyed the feel of it, the smell of it.
Sadly, the rain in Greater London hadn’t felt or smelled right for some decades now. Instead of fresh ionized air, the current steady downpour stank of whatever industrial pollutant happened to dominate the local atmosphere at the moment. As for feel, occasionally there was so much superfine grit contained in the droplets that a really bad storm was capable of scouring paint. Fine for the plethora of companies large and small that had sprung up to deal with the damage, not so good for owners and insurance companies.
No wonder, he mused, not for the first time, we have so many applicants for every colony slot. Persuading people to leave the planet forever would have been a hard sell a hundred or so years ago. Now the rush was to get away, in hopes of finding those things people had once taken for granted: clean air, potable water, healthy soil. If cleanliness was indeed next to godliness, then it was plain to anyone who looked around that neither held much ground on planet Earth.
The crowded and overpopulated greater metropolitan areas were the worst. There was no way to keep them clean. In that respect Greater London, despite all its problems, was better than many. He’d seen images from places like Mumbai, Nairobi, Sao Paulo, and more. Tens of millions of people in dire need of water to drink, proper sanitation, enough food, unable even to afford simple cloth masks to filter the air their lungs struggled to process.
With his experience he could have obtained a high-paying job in any of them, or anywhere else—but there was nowhere else. Nowhere like the exquisite historical images he’d perused in videos and picture books. Oh, there were nature preserves, scattered here and there about the planet’s surface. Zealously protected, they survived on the fringes of increasingly polluted terrain, but you couldn’t live in a preserve. Only scientists, authorized researchers, and a few select visitors were permitted entry.
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