"Is the drone intact?" Hadeishi reached to key up the main comm panel in the mess, but found an empty cavity in the wall instead. A Khaid penetrator had burrowed into his ship far enough to incinerate everything in the officers' dining room and surrounding passageways. Some amenities had been restored by looting the port-side Marine ready-room, but there weren't any spare comm panels to go around, not this far from a Fleet depot.
"Hai, kyo. We're still negotiating security protocols, but we'll have a download soon."
"Route anything flagged 'Fleet' or 'Priority' directly to my office panel," Hadeishi said, then drained his cup. The waxy black substance in the bottom would not count as 'tea' in the poorest inn on AnГЎhuac, but out here beyond the frontier? A mild stimulant in solution, the Chu-sa thought in amusement, and drinkable hot. Must be tea!
Bridge-comm signed off and Hadeishi walked carefully along a pathway of fire-proof blankets laid down on jagged metal. The thought of mail cheered him – not necessarily for the contents, as Fleet would be sure to deluge him with demands for reports and reams of fresh regulations, but for the prospect of some news from the inner worlds. Mess conversation below decks would improve, he thought. Fresh zenball and tlachco scores and standings – very important – the men will have something new to wager on. Down in enlisted territory, thousands of quills of back-pay were riding on games played months ago. Only Fleet security codes and operational doctrine were more heavily encrypted on outgoing message drones than sports scores. Fleet orders weren't configured to release directly to the public infostream, either.
Hadeishi thumbed into his quarters and could not help but smile broadly to see his personal comm panel filled with a fat list of 'new message received' glyphs, already sorted and coded for his attention.
The Chu-sa's thin face twisted into a frown. Eyes narrowed in thought, he ran a hand pensively over a sharp black beard. In the harsh light of a temporary fixture hanging from the damaged roof his angular features seemed cast from bronze. A fat section of the messages on his pane reiterated a common theme – one which made his stomach churn. This is good news, he told himself, trying to control his initial despair. Good news. Time to break out the last of the sake and have Yejin try and cook a real meal. Time to reminisce about the things we've done and seen. Time to turn my ship towards home.
Imperial Fleet Office of Personnel, Nineteenth Fleet, Toroson System: Be advised that Thai-i Hayes, Patrick; weapons officer, IMN Cornuelle; has been promoted to Sho-sa in recognition of time in service and exemplary duty to the Empire. Sho-sa Hayes is directed to report at first opportunity to Toroson Fleet Base for reassignment to the heavy cruiser Taiko…
"Such good news! Gods of mountain and stream…" Hadeishi's nostrils flared. "…they're gutting my staff to the bone! Hayes, Smith, Isoroku…how will Susan and I -"
His thumb tapped the 'down' glyph for the next message and everything seemed to freeze. Two more personnel orders were in queue, each accompanied by a noted marked 'Personal' from Thai-sho Hotategai at Nineteenth Fleet HQ. Hadeishi's hand moved away from the panel controls. The churning feeling in his stomach was gone, replaced by a cold, leaden sensation. One of the personnel reports was signed for him, and one for…
His thumb moved violently and the message queue flashed red. A confirmation pane opened and he pressed his hand against the plate. A verbal counter-sign followed and Hadeishi, speaking quickly, in short, clearly enunciated phrases, confirmed dumping the whole slate of messages.
Then he sat back, beads of sweat on his forehead, eyes closed.
In the silence, in the darkness, Hadeishi could hear the ship all around him. Humming along, as it had for six faithful years. The faint gurgling sound of the recycler pipes running under the floor plates, the muted hum of the comm panels. A distant thunder – more felt than heard – of the maneuver drives and the reactors turning over. The sound of a well-tuned ship, lovingly tended by skilled men like Isoroku. Sounds and vibrations he'd lived with so long they'd faded into the seamless background fabric of reality, just as the sound of crickets and car horns had been omnipresent in his youth.
After a long time, Hadeishi opened his eyes and tapped open a system control pane. Horribly weary – just sitting forward exhausted him – he summoned up a set of dories in the comm system and set them to scrubbing all evidence of the mail packets from shipside records.
MISMATCHED SECURITY KEY FAILURES, he keyed into the log. DAMAGED A NUMBER OF TRANSMISSIONS FROM FLEET. A RETRANSMIT REQUEST HAS BEEN QUEUED FOR NEXT MESSAGE DRONE INTERCEPT…
Hadeishi tapped the comm pane closed and slumped back in his chair. I am suddenly so tired.
Drowned Venice, Six Months Later…
North Italian Military District,
AnГЎhuac (Old Earth)
The air throbbed with violent sound, the heavy beat of a thousand drums making the floor jump under prince Tezozуmoc's feet. The young Mйxica noble pushed through a crowd of gaily ornamented men and women. Feathered headdresses brushed against his face, brilliant paints and jewels flashed at his eyes. The sound grew louder, the basso droning of conch trumpets piercing the thunder of the dance-drums. An arched doorway appeared above the masked heads of the revelers, filled with a pulsating red light. The prince whooped, changing course, shoving aside writhing bare arms gleaming with sweat and scented oil. His bodyguards fell behind, trapped by the chattering mob.
Countless voices were singing, a hoarse, bellowing roar:
So it has been said by the Lord of the World,
Huitzilopochtli,
Only a subject,
Only a mortal was.
Tezozуmoc's long coat snagged on a woman's emerald-encrusted snake-bodice, and he let the heavy, armor-reinforced leather garment fall away. Heated air flushed against newly bared skin, and the prince felt a rush of relief. He was glad to be out of the chill winter air and into comfortable heat. Strobing lights blazed on his chest and shoulders, making vertical stripes of red and orange paint blaze. Turquoise bracelets shimmered at his wrists. He pressed through the arch, long-fingered hands trailing across the exposed bellies of two girls writhing to the all-encompassing sound.
For an instant, standing at the top of a tall staircase, vaulted roof booming overhead with the roar of the crowd, staring down at the surging mass of painted, feathered, jeweled humanity dancing below, the prince felt alive – transported, wrenched free from his miserable skin, elevated even beyond the humming buzz of the oliohuiqui coursing through his blood – and he threw back his head in a long, wailing howl.
The priests were singing:
A magician,
A terror,
A stirrer of strife,
A deceiver,
A maker of war,
An arranger of battles,
A lord of battles.
The sound was lost in the throbbing beat, the countless flutes, braying horns, the shaking roar of rattles and gourds. On the floor of the ancient Catholic cathedral, a line of four hundred dancers began to circulate, horned masks bobbing, powdered feet stamping, stiff arms thrown up in the stylized motions of the ancient barbarians. Tezozуmoc grasped the shoulders of two revelers – were they Italians? Beneath their feathered mantle-cloaks and elaborate masks, who could tell? – and leapt up onto the balustrade of the staircase. Marble polished to glass by hundreds of years of use slipped under his bare feet, making the prince stagger and lurch for balance.