Daughter of The Dragon mda-16 Page 11

  Would nothing go well? Damn this outage anyway! Bhatia’s fists balled and his fingers itched with the urge to break something.

  I’ve only got one other option. Two, actually: one in Katana’s camp, and the other close by, but if either ploy fails or, worse yet, I’m discovered…

  He was so preoccupied he didn’t hear the person behind him until much too late. Suddenly his unconscious mind spiked an alarm, and he half turned, but an arm locked around his neck; there was a cruel pressure on his throat. Choking, Bhatia tried reaching behind to gouge out his assailant’s eyes, but his hands met empty air. It was only then that he realized—his assailant was small, light. A woman…

  Against all instinct, Bhatia let his body sag, and when he heard his assailant grunt under the sudden dead weight, Bhatia reared, then rolled right. His assailant gave a muffled cry as they tumbled to the floor, and Bhatia thought he had her for a moment, but then somehow she managed to wriggle free, roll onto her back; he felt her grab his left arm at the elbow and his kimono with her right. His kimono fell open, and she pulled, planting her left foot against his right hip. A tug, and then he was sailing, flipping over her head. The floor rushed at his face; he managed a tuck and roll, but then she was on him again in a flash. In another second, or maybe two, his shoulders were tacked to the floor by her knees, her weight on his bare chest. Then she laughed, a deep, husky sound. And then she did something more remarkable: kissed him so thoroughly his mind reeled.

  “Miss me?” Miko Tanaka said. Her hair flowed in loose black rivers and he shivered, this time with lust, as her hair skimmed along his skin.

  “God, yes.” Bhatia slid a hand beneath a fold of Miko’s kimono. She was naked and his fingers traced the smooth curve of her left breast. Impatient now, Bhatia tugged the kimono apart, and as the fabric puddled around her waist, he caught the scent of lemon and couldn’t wait any longer. Pulling her down, he moaned with pleasure as their skin met. “You don’t know how much.”

  Bhatia’s Mansion

  Noon, 21 January 3135

  Bhatia hummed as he toweled off from his bath. What a minx: a woman who knew enough to slip away so there would be no awkward questions come morning. A terrific piece of luck, too—that night one of his informants reported that Emi’s little jukurensha had been a very naughty girl with one of the Peacock’s palace guards. The hapless guard was moldering at the bottom of a very long, very abandoned mining shaft. And Miko had ended up in his bed.

  And poor deluded Emi Kurita, thinking she can play at a game in which she’s an amateur… Emi’s plan was laughable. What, marshal sleeper agents, the descendents of the original O5P cell that defected with Akira Tormark, eh? To her credit, she’d narrowed it down to a particular agent, but what made her think he’d answer her call? He wouldn’t, for a very simple reason: Because little Emi doesn’t realize that I had him first. Bhatia’s grin widened to reveal his very white, very perfect teeth. A double agent, yes, but the beauty of it… he’s really still mine.

  Then he thought about the other, more cryptic message on Emi’s data disk. Junction? A fabrics merchant? Why? Naked, Bhatia padded to his bedroom. He saw that his lunch had been delivered while he bathed, and his appetite, roused from the exertions of the night before, roared to life, and he did nothing more for a few minutes than drink his soup and dip up rice balls and sweet rectangles of tamago.

  When he was sated, he settled in for a good think. The message was addressed to a merchant, an importer-exporter of exotic fabrics. Nothing unusual about that, but the message was clear, brief and utterly indecipherable: Black goes well with a little red.

  Black? Bhatia inhaled a mouthful of green tea and rolled it on his tongue before swallowing. As in a fabric? But black was the color of night and evil. And red was a bad omen; the color of blood and fire, of passion. Not colors a Keeper would choose.

  There was a rap at his shoji, and an ISF agent—Bhatia couldn’t remember all their names; who could keep track?—entered. He cradled a bulky package in his arms. Bowing, the agent averted his eyes from Bhatia’s nakedness and said, “A package marked for your eyes only, Tono. There is also a data crystal.”

  Bhatia frowned. “The origination point?”

  The agent looked over Bhatia’s head. “Unknown, Tono. But the package and crystal have been scanned, and are free of explosives or listening devices.”

  Dismissing the agent, Bhatia studied the package. Perfectly square, plain black plasticene exterior, with a combination catch centered on one of the faces. But to obtain the combination, he’d have to listen to the message. He studied the crystal for a long minute, then slid it into his player. The player clicked and then a voice seeped from his holovid’s speakers. The voice had been electronically distorted, but Bhatia felt his stomach bottom out.

  “Good day, Director. I hope this finds you well. I, on the other hand, am more than a little peeved. Haven’t you learned yet? The only reason I let the last pup get so close was because, well, he seemed so eager. But then we had a meeting of the minds, and I told him listen, you’ve got to relax and not let the job go to your head.

  “But, no hard feelings, and to show I’m sincere I’ve sent this small token of my esteem. Sorry, I know it’ll have taken a dog’s age to get to you, things being what they are. Honestly, you can’t get a good postman for love or money. The combination is… oh, do get a pen, Director, I’ll wait.” Bhatia jerked out of his shock, scrabbled for a pen. The voice reeled off a series of numbers while Bhatia scribbled.

  “Oh, one last little bit of advice, Director,” said the voice. “Watch your back. You can be sure I will.” The recording clicked off.

  No mistaking the malevolence in that voice. And that last bit about watching his back… There must be a clue in the package. Sweat dewed Bhatia’s upper lip, and his heart stuttered. But, in the next moment, Bhatia was cursing himself as a fool. Idiot, this was what that monster wanted! Bhatia snatched up the paper and punched in the combination code. Well, he’d see about that.

  There was a tiny, metallic snick. The outer shell cracked, revealing an oval, gunmetal gray, plexipolymer shell. Another mechanical hum, and then the gray egg split in two with a long sigh as if it’d held its breath. Rearing back, Bhatia let out an inarticulate cry, something between a moan and a scream, as a noxious, foul miasma of decay slammed against his face. Bhatia wanted to look away but couldn’t, and the sight seared his eyes and skewered his brain like a red-hot spike.

  The first wave of blowflies had gone on with their business of feasting upon the fleshy remains. But they had died, and the maggots hatched from the millions of eggs deposited on C’s eyes and in his gaping mouth and nose and ears and the mangled stump of his neck had liquefied to gray-green, gelatinous ooze. The agent’s hair had sloughed off in a black, matted mass and puddled along what was left of C’s left ear.

  Gagging, Bhatia flinched away; the table jittered. C’s head lolled, with a squelching, sucking sound. The eyes were gone; the carrion eaters had nibbled away his lips, and in that ghastly rictus grin, C revealed another failing (beyond the obvious that he was rather bad at surveillance). He hadn’t taken very good care of his teeth, either.

  A ball of sour, hot gorge rocketed up Bhatia’s throat and, stumbling back, Ramadeep Bhatia turned aside and lost his lunch.

  14

  Conqueror’s Pride, Proserpina

  Prefecture III, Republic of the Sphere

  Just before dawn, 29 January 3135

  Katana popped awake, then frowned into the grainy darkness of her bedroom. Something was wrong, enough to drag her from sleep. The east-facing shoji was softly lit, translucent, the wooden lattice visible as a grid of neat squares and rectangles. An hour or so before dawn, she imagined. Then she heard what had seeped into her mind as she slept; a tiny, barely audible screeee, like the sound a hinge made when it needed oil.

  She was instantly on the alert. Her swords were cradled on their stand across the room. Too far away. Still, she had her pistol. She ro
lled onto her left side, careful not to rustle the bedclothes. With what seemed like agonizing slowness, she slid her right hand under her pillow where she kept her pistol. In the next instant, her breath caught in a stifled gasp—because the pistol was gone.

  Movement now, and she started to roll but wasn’t fast enough. Hands—no, metal–sliding off her bare back, snagging her left arm, and then she was being crushed into the soft mattress as someone straddled her back, forcing her face into her pillow. She struggled for air, tried twisting her face to the side, but whoever was there was very strong and she couldn’t breathe. Her hands were free, though, and her fingers slid across metal before she managed to get a handhold. But then her assailant shifted slightly, pried her hands free and used his knees to pin her shoulders to the bed. Her hands fluttered uselessly against the bed. Her lungs screamed for air; her chest burned; the blackness before her eyes swam…

  At what must have been the last possible second, she was dimly aware that the weight on her back was gone. Someone flipped her onto her back and again pinned her to the bed by her shoulders, but that didn’t matter because there was air. She couldn’t think of anything else for several seconds as her tortured lungs reeled in a breath, then another. “Wh… what?”

  The Bounty Hunter boomed a huge laugh, the speakers in his helmet distorting the sound so his voice came out hollow but with an undercurrent of electronic hum, like an echo transmitted through a cable down a deep shaft. “That’ll teach you. Next time, it might be someone who doesn’t like you as much as I do.”

  Fury replaced panic. “Wha… what,” she began then was seized by a fit of coughing. “What are you doing?” she said, finally, in a strangled wheeze. “How… how did you get… get… why…” She broke off as another fit of coughing racked her body. “Where’s the… the Old…?”

  “The old man? He’s fine. A bit dozy, like your guards. The amnesic gas will wear off in a half hour or so.”

  “If… if you’ve hurt him, any of them, I’ll… I’ll kill you.”

  She couldn’t see his face, but she heard the smile. “Careful, Katana. I just might take you up on that someday. I venture to say that our struggle might prove very interesting, certainly for me. And is this gratitude? Here I go to all this trouble, expose a critical lapse in your security and you’re so peevish.” He paused then, staring down at her and, even though the light was still very dim, Katana was aware of his attentiveness, those keen eyes behind that visor, roving over the contours of her body. She sensed a subtle change, a sort of expectancy, as if he had just realized something previously hidden away in his mind.

  Katana glared. “Well, either rape me, or talk. But make the right choice. Otherwise, the consequences will be quite unpleasant.”

  Again, that bizarre hesitation… and then he gave a short bark, a laugh that was somehow forced, and the weight on her shoulders was gone as he rolled from her body, the movement accompanied by tiny metallic squeaks. “Go on,” said the Bounty Hunter. “But put some clothes on. The view’s too distracting.”

  “That’s your problem. You barge into my room in the middle of the night, you live with it.” Calling for lights, Katana pushed to her feet and stood, a fist planted into each hip. Arms akimbo, the Bounty Hunter stood at the foot of her bed, his bright green armor twinkling in the yellow-white fluorescents. Katana spied a pistol snugged in a holster at his right hip. “What do you want?”

  “I came to warn you.” His tone was all brisk business now. “Tai-shu Sakamoto’s going to mount an offensive.”

  “What? Warn me? Has Fu…?” She broke off. Not only couldn’t Fusilli have gathered the information that quickly, he’d never trust the Bounty Hunter. “How did you get your information?”

  “Now, Katana, I can’t reveal all my sources. I’m your mystery man, remember?”

  “Fine. Play it that way, and I’ll just say thanks and we go our separate ways. But you want in? Then I give the orders, and you take them. Otherwise, get the hell out of my bedroom.”

  The Bounty Hunter tut-tutted. “Temper. You’re hardly in a position to play high and mighty. If Sakamoto moves against you, the Fury will be squashed like a bug. I have no objection to parting with news, but you need to ask nicely. You may not trust me, Katana, but you can’t dismiss me either.”

  It was on the tip of Katana’s tongue to tell him just exactly where he could go and what he could do when he got there, but she bit the impulse back. “Please,” she said, and managed not to growl.

  “Now, see? That wasn’t so hard,” he said. Then, seriously, “Sakamoto’s quietly moving units to Homam and Matar—and closer to you.”

  That got her attention. “Does he want to join forces, or get rid of me?”

  “The latter. Sakamoto has no love for the Tormarks, as I think you’re aware. Didn’t his great-great-great-grandfather once swear vengeance on your family? Or something like that. Honestly, it’s so hard keeping track of the feuds you nobles wage.”

  Another jab, but Katana wasn’t listening. If Sakamoto arrayed his might against her Fury, she’d lose. Worse, her people would die—fighting, to be sure, but die nonetheless, and for very little. Surrender was unthinkable, of course, but she might be able to buy some time and send her people out of harm’s way. After all, Sakamoto wanted her. “When will he strike?”

  “Can’t say.” The Bounty Hunter shrugged; his armor squeaked. “There’s word his troops are fed up, though. You know what a pompous ass he can be.”

  “That’s not news.”

  “Yes, but… word is that his troops wouldn’t weep at his departure.”

  Katana arched one eyebrow. “Now, how can you know that?”

  “I have a source in Sakamoto’s camp.”

  Katana knew she’d never pry out whom, so she switched gears. “Speaking of camps, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on Irian.” Privately, she thought this particular incarnation of the Bounty Hunter to be much better off than his predecessors. Must have an entire fleet of JumpShips at his disposal, the way he keeps turning up out of nowhere …

  “I wasn’t aware I required a hall pass to go to the lavatory.”

  She breezed past the sarcasm. “What you need is to be more compliant. My people are antsy enough about you as it is, and you popping in and out whenever you please; they don’t like it. Why not stay awhile? My field commanders should arrive within the next month. Then you can tell them what you’ve told me, and we can reassess, figure out our next move.”

  “Oh, happy day,” said the Bounty Hunter dryly. “I’m all a-tingle with anticipation. You and I both know your field commanders have about as much faith in me as they do in the second coming of Devlin Stone.”

  “They might have fewer doubts if you weren’t so damned evasive. Let us double-check your information. What’s the harm? If it’s valid, then they’ll trust you more.”

  “What I live for: to climb the ladder of Chu-sa Crawford’s good opinion. You know the man acts as if I have something to hide.”

  “Gee, you wear a mask; I wonder why?” Despite her irritation, Katana had to work not to smile. One thing about the Bounty Hunter: he was never boring. And she actually liked him, found it very easy to slip into repartee, as if they’d known one another for a very long time. She changed the subject. “Where are you off to next?”

  “For me to know and you to discover. But feel free to send word through my secure ComStar account, and I’ll deliver whatever you require, or be in my Marauder in a New Avalon minute.”

  And how does he afford a secure ComStar account? Acts like he’s got his own HPG stashed away somewhere. “At least stay for a meal. Have breakfast with me, and we can talk.”

  There it was again, that little hesitation, something that was almost… Katana’s eyes narrowed. Not something she saw so much as sensed. As if he’s attracted to me somehow, but more than physically…

  “Thanks, but no,” said the Bounty Hunter, and Katana knew that the moment, whatever it had been, had passed. Her
eyes tracked him as he moved to the shoji closing off her balcony. The paper was suffused with a golden glow, and the Bounty Hunter paused there, silhouetted against the amber hues of first dawn. “I’m afraid I got into a batch of bad eggs a few weeks ago and, well…” The wood frame let out a muted squall as he slid it to one side. “Let’s just say, it’s put me off my food.”

  And before Katana could say anything more, he’d vaulted over the balcony railing and was gone.

  DropShip Delta, in lunar stationary orbit

  Ship’s night, 29 January 3135

  “You did what?”

  A faint sizzle, like grease on a hot griddle, and Marcus waited, lips compressed and eyes narrowed to slits. Damn the time lag in transmissions to and from the surface, anyway! A waste of valuable time… As he counted off the seconds, Marcus thought that, yes, things were slipping away from him now. Things were getting out of control.

  He didn’t kill her. He had the opportunity and the means and still…

  Finally, there was a tiny pop and crackle, and then Marcus’ face burned as he heard Jonathan’s laughter. Even distorted because of distance and interference, Marcus knew at once that the laughter had no humor, nor was it simply indulgent. No, Jonathan’s laugh was …malevolent. “I let her live,” Jonathan said.

  “I understand that. What I don’t understand is why?” More waiting again as the message traveled to Proserpina. Something odd about Jonathan: he was beginning to act as if… Marcus struggled to pin his feelings down. As if I’m a bother he tolerates.