Worridge’s breath left her lungs in an exhalation of surprise. “On speaker.”
The communications officer moved to comply. For a brief instant—the space between one beat of Worridge’s heart and the next—all she heard was the faint sputter of solar background interference. But then the strong, confident tones of a woman she’d never met but about whom she knew much filled the bridge.
“This is Katana Tormark, Tai-sho of Dragon’s Fury. I would speak with you, Tai-shu Sakamoto. On your orders, you have carved a path of destruction from Shimonita to Dabih, from Piedmont to Al Na’ir. You have attacked my forces and killed my people—and yet I do not come for revenge. What your troops did was their duty; what they did, they did believing in your honor and in the Dragon. But there is no honor in brother fighting brother. We are not your enemies. What we have seized we have claimed in the name of the coordinator. We would join you, gladly, but your attacks on our people must cease, and we must discuss how this war will be waged. There is no honor in slaughter, and we would fight you with a heavy heart. But we will fight—and we will die if we must but as warriors, not savages.”
A pause, then: “We would have your answer.”
Silence.
Worridge’s eyes met the pilot’s; she read… what? Admiration? Resolve? Then the pilot moved his head—not much, not enough for anyone who wasn’t watching closely to pick it up—but he gave an infinitesimal, a fractional nod.
Yes, she knew what she had to do next. And about frigging time. She nodded at the comm officer. “Let us speak. And make sure everyone hears.”
Carillon Field, Iwanji, Saffel
Well, so she wasn’t dead. And neither was Parks, though he ought to be, the lummox. She still saw smoke and blue sky, but the DropShip had angled away. Her throat was raw; she’d be black-and-blue tomorrow; her Ocelot might never recover. And she’d for sure need a new cooling vest; there was dripping coolant everywhere. But there was nothing wrong with her eyes or ears, and she heard the same wonder in Parks’ voice as she felt herself.
“Sterling,” he said, hacking, “you hearing this?”
“I hear it.” Sterling backhanded sweat, blood and grime from her neck. “I just can’t fraccing believe it.”
DropShip Amagi
Katana was stunned. Sakamoto was dead. And now… She felt Crawford at her elbow. “You can end this,” he murmured. “Now.”
“Hai. I can.” She squared her shoulders. “And I will.” She looked a question to her comm officer, and the woman nodded. Heart slamming against her ribs, Katana forced the tremor from her voice: “Tai-sho Worridge, you have my deepest sympathies. I would regret fighting you now, or in the future. If you would have me, I would be honored to join you—but only for the Dragon. If not, we will withdraw and battle you another day.”
A long pause. Katana tried to still her mind, knowing that her weapons officer would warn her if they were being led into a trap. But her officer remained silent, and then Worridge was back: “Ie. You would honor us, Tai-sho. We await your orders.” Another pause, then: “What would you have us do?”
Crawford’s gasp was audible, but Katana barely heard it over the sudden thundering of her pulse. Worridge, ceding command? To her? This wasn’t possible; how could…?
Confused, she turned to Crawford. A slow smile spread on his lips until he was grinning from ear to ear. “Well,” he said, and very nearly smirked, “you heard the lady. What would you have us do, my Tai-sho?”
No hesitation now; she felt her resolve firm, nodded at her comm. “I am honored, Tai-sho Worridge. We will attack. There’s a planet to take, after all.”
Yet the next voice Katana heard was not Worridge. It was a man, and there was no mistaking its ring of total authority: “Don’t you think you’d better consult with me first?”
Dovejin Ice Cap, Saffel
The Raiders’ infantry had scattered, spilling onto an icy waste that would surely claim them. The MiningMechs were so much smoking rubble, and Jonathan thought those missiles well spent. For now, he swayed forward, his bad right ankle and all but useless left arm canceling one another out. Toggling his PPC, Jonathan swept a blue trough of destruction while the Hatchetman smashed other buildings to rubble. In a day the Raiders’ battlearmor power packs would be exhausted, and they’d have no base to return to. So, they’d freeze. A mercy, probably. Dying of thirst was so unpleasant.
Then Jonathan stopped, listened to Worridge, then Katana—and then that man, a voice he knew…
“My God!” It was the Hatchetman’s pilot. “That’s Theodore Kurita!”
“Well, what do you know?” Jonathan said. A quick flick of his eyes told him his IFF was still, sadly, on the fritz. Pivoting, he brought his missiles to bear.
“Just in the nick of time,” he said, and fired.
37
Imperial City, Luthien
Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine
30 November 3135
Well? Katana thought as she stood in the massive, silent hall. Now what? She turned in a slow circle, taking in the immense space of the Throne Room, acutely aware of the way her clothes rustled, the slight scuff of her feet against polished hardwood and her eyes kept returning to the Dragon Throne upon its dais: a powerful presence even in the absence of the coordinator. She’d seen the throne in a documentary done back in thirty-three as part of a series called Touring the Stars. Now, staring up at those swirling dragons and the mural immediately behind, Katana was awed to immobility.
A voice, just behind her: “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Startled, Katana turned, gawped, then blinked. He’d come up on soundless, stockinged feet: Vincent Kurita in the flesh, resplendent in a kimono of peacock blue with chrysanthemums and five-clawed dragons done in gold embroidery and bound at the waist with a gold obi sash. Hastily, she bowed. “Forgive me, Tono. I was unaware of your presence.”
“Oh, but you were,” said Kurita. He had a pleasing voice, soft and full, and his hazel eyes were clear. Kurita gestured at the throne and the dragon mural just behind. “When you gaze upon the Combine, you look upon us. To be aware of the vastness of the Combine is to open your mind to the corners of the known universe we inhabit and those we have yet to conquer. But,” he said, laugh lines appearing at the corners of his eyes, “we asked whether you thought it was beautiful.”
“Hai,” Katana said, without hesitation. “Beautiful when it was made, Tono. But more beautiful now.”
“Ah?” Kurita’s coal black eyebrows arched. “And how so?”
Katana gestured at the mural. “The worlds the Combine lost when The Republic was born have been returned. What Tai-sho Sakamoto began, your son ended. Saffel has been conquered, as have Styx, Athenry and Pike IV.” She paused, thinking back to the campaign in which she, Worridge and Theodore Kurita had fought side by side before Kurita had called a halt shy of Dieron, a move she’d opposed, and demanded her swords. She eyed the coordinator. Well, and if he hears this as criticism, so be it. “But the Combine isn’t complete, not yet. Dieron waits on its coordinator.”
“Ah. And what about you?”
“I have no regrets. What I did, I did for the Dragon.”
“Without our consent.”
“Or dissent. I acted on your silence.”