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A slash of shadow, and then she was firing, bap-bap-bap! Curtain dancing, shredding, and she kept expecting a scream, but all she got was the crack-crack-crack-thwack of metal splintering tile.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. Disgusted, Drexel pulled the curtain aside, and the mystery of the shadow was solved. It was her own, thrown in stark relief by the bare bulb just behind and above her head. There was no one in the bathtub, and a whole lot of smashed tile. The bathroom reeked of burned cordite and singed rayon. “Good work, Drexel,” she said. “You killed the shower curtain.”
She searched the rest of the apartment, didn’t kill anything else, went back to the holovid and stared at the disk for a full three minutes. The Knave blew away a bunch of police, and all of it wired to a playing card. Probably whoever’d been here could do the same with a holodisk. Only one way to find out… She slid the disk across the table with her right index finger until one corner jutted over the desk. Gingerly picked up the disk. Waited to blow up. When nothing happened, she slipped the disk into her player, still expecting a ka-boom.
What she got was a click, and then audio. “Good afternoon, Miss Drexel.” The voice was smooth, male, sensual. “Lovely doing business with you. You know how to reach me again if needed, but I doubt that now. Your friend, Dr. McCain, likely has his hands full. Only a word of caution, Miss Drexel: Watch out for those eggs. Most are fresh, but every now and again, you get one that’s gone a bit off. A little… bad. And the fu
He called her Drexel. She’d never given her name. That means he knows who I am. But how? No one in the Fury knows we’re here; Katana’s the only one…
And what was that weird stuff about eggs? Drexel retrieved the sack, took it to her sink, opened it, and peeked inside. There were six eggs. After a brief hesitation, she plucked one out and tapped it against the edge of her sink. She waited again for ka-boom. Instead, there was a crisp snap-crunch, and then she was peeling eggshell away from hard white.
It was on the third egg, done in black; an ancient Terran trick with alum and vinegar. Two words: He’s in.
McCain, in! Finally, a break. Still… a bad egg: Every now and again, you get one that’s gone a bit off…
“Gone bad,” she said aloud. “And no telling when, or where. Or who.”
Junction Nadir Jump Point
Benjamin Military District, Draconis Combine
4 January 3135
Marcus said, “And don’t we look like the cat that ate the canary?”
Oh, Marcus was peevish again. Understandable. He’d badgered Marcus to accelerate enough so he could have a proper shower and wash away Junction’s filth. Now, weightless once more, Jonathan felt wonderful. His hair was still wet, and as he turned a lazy somersault, water pearls drifted like beads from a broken necklace. “What’s the matter, Marcus? Jealous?”
“Absolutely not,” said Marcus, stiffly. “But when I killed, it wasn’t a game.”
“Oh, Marcus, lighten up! Have a little fun!” Jonathan stretched with a catlike purr. “We have reason to be very pleased. I got in some practice, and we were nicely rewarded.”
“You know we don’t need the money.”
This was true. But Jonathan enjoyed his job in all its permutations. Oh, all right, strangling was a bit of a bore. After a few gurgles and splutters, wasn’t much to it. So, he cheated. Let up a tad to make it last. Gave new meaning to the term taking a breather.
Jonathan thought it best to change the subject. “So what’s the chatter?” Civilian JumpShip captains were the biggest gossips in the known universe. Marcus’ people knew how to exploit this because cha
“Some gossip about Sakamoto,” Marcus began reluctantly. “Troop movements, maybe incursions into Atlas space. The only thing solid is that there are DCMS supply convoys moving in on Homam and Matar.”
“Along the border with Prefecture III and within spitting distance of Proserpina… you think he’s after our girl?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, that won’t do.”
“We’ll go around them.” Marcus outlined their captain’s plan: steer clear of Homam and go in at Sadalbari. “And since we’re headed in that general direction…”
“We’ll drop in. Excellent. But let’s muck up the works,” Jonathan said. “Have the captain slip in some comm chatter, very casual, that he’s heard Katana’s people are flitting about the Combine. But make sure he mentions Ludwig and Junction so our dear Bhatia will send agents to investigate.” Else why go to the trouble of warning the intrepid Miss Drexel? “And speaking of Bhatia, Brother, I think it’s high time we sent along that little token of our appreciation to the esteemed director.” Jonathan gave a slow, lazy smile. “Don’t you?”
10
Imperial City, Luthien
10 January 3135
What never failed to impress Emi was how well Luthien and, especially, Imperial City had been reconstructed at the end of the Jihad. The reconstruction had taken the better part of twenty years, not because of the Combine’s inefficiency but because Jabuka teak trees took half a century to reach maturity. Unity Palace rose from the ashes, elegant yet profoundly simple: a series of seven airy structures juxtaposed lengthwise in a near sawtooth. The azimuth of every structure faced nineteen degrees to the southeast as ancient Terran tradition demanded, so that the giant shoji might be pushed aside for the coordinator to view the harvest moon in autumn as well as take advantage of winter’s sunlight and summer’s cooling breezes.
The Throne Room—a hall, really—was easily twenty meters wide and thirty meters long, with the Dragon Throne occupying the far end. Decorative scrolls, kakemono, hung on either wall, depicting idealized representations of Luthien’s landscape: snowcapped black crags, rushing waterfalls, swaying willows. There were no chairs and only scarlet tatami mats upon which a supplicant might stand or kneel. The only furniture in the room was the Dragon Throne.
She had been in this room a thousand times over but still, when she stared up at the throne resting on a raised dais three steps above a swath of scarlet tatami, Emi was awed to immobility. The Dragon Throne was carved teak done in an orange-gold-lacquered openwork lattice featuring high-relief carvings of five-clawed dragons swirling in undulating loops and curls across the back and down the throne’s arms. She knew that the five-clawed dragon had not always represented the coordinator; in ancient Terran times, the Chinese had used the dragons with five claws, the number representing nobility. Rulers of ancient Japan had favored the Chrysanthemum Throne, though no one really knew what the throne had looked like—only that the kiku was the emperor’s coat of arms, and the emperor was the high priest of the Shinto religion. Perhaps Shiro Kurita had borrowed emblems and symbols that he thought represented the power the coordinator held over the Combine; or perhaps he just liked dragons. Certainly a dragon was much more awe-inspiring than a flower.
The Dragon Throne was not very high, only one hundred and eighty centimeters, and it was perhaps half as wide as it was long. A gold silk cushion formed the seat, and a matching bolster snugged against each arm, providing a rest for the coordinator’s arms and elbows. A matching carved footstool, three steps high, allowed the coordinator to mount his throne. At either side of the throne stood two vertical censers, capped with gold; a coil of white smoke rose in a pencil-thin curl, and Emi caught the fragrance of sandalwood. In all these details, the throne was an exact replica of the original.