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“Bah,” said Sakamoto around rice. “We don’t have the time, Worridge. Even if I had the JumpShips to spare, by the time word reached Luthien and the coordinator devoted any energy to the task, The Republic could marshal its forces and mount an effective resistance. I won’t be hampered, waiting for word to dribble back.”
“Nevertheless, our duty…”
“Our duty,” said Sakamoto, with sudden energy, “is to restore glory to the Combine. That is the oath we’ve sworn, Tai-sho. What, having an attack of conscience?”
Worridge’s cheeks flamed. “If you mean, am I appalled at the extent of the destruction and loss of life we’ve dealt in pursuit of our glory… yes. It’s true that I did not grow up in a time of war and bloodshed, and until very recently, I was naive, if that makes any sense. It’s one thing to watch history on a holovid; it’s another to make history, and that’s what we’re doing now. But how will history judge us?”
“History’s written by wi
So far. She opened her mouth to continue, but the door parted down the middle, and two corporals bustled in to remove dishes and set a tray of sweets before the warlord. She watched Sakamoto select a green-and-red sweet bean pastry shaped like a miniature lotus and pop it into his mouth.
“Excellent,” he said, his words a little gluey. He chewed, swallowed, groaned. “These are superb,” he said, fingering up an emerald green coil molded into a serpent.
One corporal said, “It’s the new pastry chef from Yance, Tai-shu. He said he’d thought he’d experiment.”
“Did he?” Sakamoto bit off the serpent’s head. “Bring him.”
“Tai-shu,” said Worridge, a little impatiently now, as the corporals left. How could the man gorge on sweets at a time like this, when they were about to embark on yet another attack wave—their fourth, who’d have thought they’d come this far—and still had not secured the coordinator’s blessing? “Before we…”
He silenced her with a cut of the hand. “We leave at first light. I intend to join forces en route to Saffel, and this time I’ll stretch my legs, and those of my ’Mech. Oh, and”—he pinched up another pastry—“I’m leaving the Fury survivors behind.”
She was startled. Sakamoto had executed all the Fury except for the swarthy chu-sa and a few of his comrades. Worridge supposed the chu-sa had cooperated in some way, but why leave them? “What for?”
“Expediency. I don’t want to drag prisoners around. And, really, where could they run? The only one we’ll take is that infernal old knight.”
“But… but they could signal…”
“Who? How? There’s no HPG here, and no one out there to hear. The only inhabitable spot on the planet is Homai-Zaki, but we have forces there.”
“And if the Fury seeks reprisals, our people will be as vulnerable as…”
“I’ve made my decision, Tai-sho. Now”—Sakamoto picked up another sweet—“you must have some duty that awaits you somewhere.”
Surprise followed by rage bulleted through Worridge, and when she glanced down at her hands, she saw they were shaking. How dare he…? Patience. This isn’t the time. But soon; I have to do something about this madness… Worridge folded her napkin and pushed up. Bowing, she left without another word.
Sakamoto waited until the door hissed shut, then jabbed a call button. “Bring me the Fury chu-sa.”
Fusilli was marched in five minutes later. Sakamoto waited until the guard had left. Then he said, “You’ll understand if I don’t invite you to join me for a drink.”
“Uh-hunh,” said Fusilli. His eyes were bloodshot; his normally swarthy skin peaked, and his clothes gave off a sour, rancid odor. After their first meeting, Sakamoto had made sure Fusilli suffered the same deprivations as the rest. With Magruder dead, the survivors would look to the highest-ranking officer for guidance and support.
Swirling the wine in his goblet, Sakamoto drank, smacked his lips, then said, “We leave tomorrow. You and your people will remain with the estimable Governor Tormark.”
“What?” Fusilli jerked out of his apathy. “What are you talking about? Our deal…”
“Our deal was your life in exchange for information. Your people would wonder why I took you hostage. The old knight, they’ll credit that, but a governor from a poisonous rock, and a measly chu-sa? They’ll wonder why. But if you stay behind and your people show up…”
“That’s a hell of a lot of ifs.”
“Homai-Zaki’s occupation force will be skeletal. If Governor Tormark has an inch of intelligence, he will plot his return. On the other hand, if he’s your typical politician, then you will plot it for him, and be a hero. And if Katana Tormark is still alive…”
“I thought your men on Klathandu IV…”
Sakamoto talked over him. “Are very quiet. All I’ve got are rumors too bizarre to credit. So if she’s still alive, I need you in her camp. How better to restore you to her good graces than to stage a daring escape? Go one better: Tell her where to find that pottering fool, Eriksson. She’s weak as a kitten about that old man.”
“What if she doesn’t come after you?”
Sakamoto gave a smile that was almost beatific. “Katana Tormark will come. She’ll come, and then I’ll want you…” He broke off as the doors hissed open.
A man stepped into the room. He wore a chef’s uniform: white apron, white trousers and crewneck tee. The man was well built, with muscles that strained the sleeves of his tee and a broad torso that tapered in a V to a thin waist and finely shaped thighs. The chef limped, favoring his right leg, and as he came to attention, Sakamoto spotted a most interesting scar, jagged as a lightning bolt, bisecting the outer third of the man’s left eyebrow and licking down his cheek. “Shujin Jack Nanashi, Second Benjamin Regulars,” he said, with a thick Cockney twang. “They said you…” He paused and his eyes, as icy gray as frosted pearls, slid to Fusilli, who was staring at the shujin with blatant curiosity.
“Speak freely,” said Sakamoto. “You made these?”
“Them sweet cakes and such? Yes, sir.”
“Well, they’re excellent. Where are you from, Shujin Nanashi?”
“I came in on the wave from Yance, got me a little nicked.” Nanashi fingered the scar knifing his eyebrow and cheek. “Weird, you ask me; who shoots a cook? Anyway, seems word spread about how’s I can whip up a mean Kushi-dango and…”
“Indeed?” Saliva pooled in the floor of Sakamoto’s mouth as he thought of skewers of steaming rice dumplings dipped in sweet, honey-colored sauce. “Tell me, can you make Kuri-kinton?”
“A few Satsuma-imo, some a them little sweet potatoes, and I promise, Tai-shu, that my Kushi-dango?” Nanashi gri
30
Kafa Island, Batambu Chain, Deneb Algedi
Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere
25 July 3135
There was this really old joke about Hell and Deneb Algedi. Seventh Legion of Vega Air Command Chu-sa Valerie Hines thought the punch line went something like blah-blah, blah-blah, and it’s not the humidity; it’s the heat. Or something like that. From where she sat, Command and Control in a Crow Scout helicopter, if Deneb Algedi had a hell, Kafa Island was certainly in the ru