I didn’t scream. I didn’t faint. I didn’t melt into his arms, everything forgiven and forgotten. At first, I felt nothing but a curious, unpleasant numbness; then heat seeped through my veins but—how strange—my fingers and hands and lips were icy with shock. I just… stood there until Andre whispered in my ear. “Go to him, Katana.”
But instead I turned on Andre, and he read my face. “You can be angry at me if you wish, Katana. But whatever else your father did or was, he was an agent of the O5P and a noble, courageous man. I am O5P, and this much is certain: We do not forget our own—and we were always watching. Even in your darkest hour, we were always there.”
Always there… I didn’t understand that then. But I do now. The coordinator was always watching, always. I was never far from his reach as he worked through the Keeper and then through the Keeper’s agents, through Andre and countless others. Never far at all.
So I did what Andre said. I went to my father. I bowed with the reverence and respect the elderly deserve. And I said, “I’m not sorry for my beliefs, Father. At the time, I made my choices as you made yours. I don’t know how I’ll feel about my choices when I’m old. But I think that you were wrong.”
Not exactly a daughterly rapprochement. Maybe that was the only type of closeness I could allow. But my father didn’t bite. “Perhaps,” he said. “But who cares? My time is over. You are the future. So, come. Sit and tell me of your life.”
So I did. I talked about… well, everything. He listened. I don’t know when Andre left, but when we rose to have our first meal together in so many years, Andre was gone. But the Old Master remained, and he’s here now, standing outside my room, even though it’s late and the moon is high and crickets make their music. Somewhere the river slides by, a changeless ribbon of silver that is forever, like time and memory.
Tomorrow, or the next day, I’ll have to leave because a warlord’s work is never done and I have a campaign to plan. Out there, somewhere, are my enemies: men like Bhatia, who would see me fail and the Tormark name forever erased from history, and there’s probably another Sakamoto waiting his turn. But there are my people, the brothers and sisters of my Dragon’s Fury, and the wider family of the Combine I have yet to know. There are the spirits I will mourn: my mother, my fallen comrades, the innocents Sakamoto slaughtered. And Toni: ah, I wish you’d lived to see this.
Tomorrow, perhaps, I will seek out a Shinto priest and make an offering of thanks and gratitude to the kami. Yes, perhaps tomorrow.
But for now, I am content. For now, I’m home.
Imperial City, Luthien
Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine
30 January 3136
He had a tantrum, flinging food like a three-year-old. Miko did her best, but Bhatia finally sent her away because he really wasn’t in the mood. Galling; bad enough to lose out to a Tormark, but to be unable to function asa man …
Katana Tormark, a tai-shu! Unbelievable; she must’ve slept with Theodore. Certainly would suit the coordinator; Theodore must produce an heir. What does that Peacock care where his son plants his seed so long as the line continues? Irritably, Bhatia backhanded that little bitch’s latest decree: that those damnably loyal yakuza rank among the most honorable of the Combine’s citizens, that they be promoted within the DCMS!
Bhatia paced. Best to focus, perhaps, on what he’d gained. Sakamoto was dead, a big plus because he couldn’t be implicated in directly supporting the idiot’s campaign. And Wahab Fusilli; yes, back in Katana’s camp, even rewarded for his bravery on Al Na’ir… ha! Despite everything, Bhatia grinned. There were two constants, at least. Katana was a soft fool, and Fusilli his worm at the heart of Katana’s little apple. And now that Katana was so very prestigious, maybe he could arrange for her assassination on her way to Dieron, perhaps, or before…
Yet her death would not answer the root of the Combine’s problem: the Peacock. Anything he did hereafter must bring about two complementary aims: Katana’s destruction, and Vincent Kurita’s demise. Theodore would have to go, of course; there was no way around that. And Emi Kurita… no, he mustn’t forget about their resourceful little Keeper of the House Honor. Certainly, no secret where her allegiances lay. She would have to be dealt with as well. “Because there is yet another,” he said, and his thoughts centered on the look in New Samarkand Warlord Matsuhari Toranaga’s eyes that day in the Black Room almost a year before. “There is yet one more way.”
In the next instant, however, his mood darkened again. His eyes cut to his desk and the two holovid data disks he’d received that afternoon. One he’d already listened to: a field report. He traced the disk with the tip of a finger. The disk had been recorded over three months ago, but only couriered to him from Asta now. A tidbit of information: an ISF agent, still working on instructions Bhatia had given when the hunt for the Bounty Hunter began, had gathered intelligence about a black marketer who’d confided that there’d been rumors about a set of green armor being made for someone on Asta. And yet… Bhatia’s eyes narrowed. And yet, at last report, the Bounty Hunter was on Ancha, Katana’s new headquarters now that Proserpina was returned to the Benjamin District, and reported to be quite the golden boy. “And now there are two,” he murmured. His eyes tracked to the second disk, and this he now lifted from the desk and slid into a projector. There was a click, and then a whirr, and then an electronically altered voice he knew very well.
“Good evening, Director. Did you think I’d forgotten you? Absolutely not. I’ll make a deal. You be a good little boy and I’ll forget all about those nasty little plans you had for me. Because if you don’t, well… you’ll never guess what I’ve found: Some very interesting recordings of some very important communiqués and—well, what do you know—I have one you received from Fusilli waaaaay back when he reports how things went so well on Al Na’ir. Now what would happen, I wonder, if the coordinator got wind that you knew so very much in advance about Sakamoto? So, if I choose to put these recordings into, say, Katana’s hands, or, worse yet, the coordinator’s…”
Bhatia punched the audio to silence. No need for more. The threat was plain. But… “You’ve made a mistake, my friend.” And as a slow, satisfied smile spread along his lips, Bhatia felt something he hadn’t in many months: elation. “You think I cannot play at this game? Well, you are wrong. Either you are on Asta and heading this way, or to another world Katana controls—or you are on Ancha, because that is the only way to explain it. You could only have gained information about Fusilli if you were proximate. So I would wager that you, Kappa, are standing alongside Katana at this very moment, on Ancha, biding your time. Yes, you are cunning. But so am I. And I can wait as long as need be.”
Indeed—Bhatia regarded the disk almost lovingly—this might be the calm before the storm.
Carter City, Ancha
Dieron Military District, Draconis Combine
15 February 3136
The apartment was spare, and the air musty, smelling of mildew and stale cigarette smoke. The radiator’s pipes clanked and hissed, and the dingy ochre paint on the walls peeled in moist curls. The building was ugly on the outside, too. The only window overlooked a red brick alley cluttered with oversize trash bins. Despite all this, Jonathan wasn’t moved to find better accommodations because, well, hiding in plain sight took a certain facility. Heaven forbid the Bounty Hunter should be seen in the company of one of the wealthiest men in the Combine, and staying in a posh hotel, no less.