Dragon Rising Page 9

  And that was all the time he could spare. Immediately pressing were alerting the various commands; marshalling troops for Dieron; awaiting and then digesting Fusilli’s intel on Biham, where Parks and McCain now were also stationed; and alerting Viki Drexel, who’d left for Junction a week ago, about Katana’s death. If he could even find Viki: Agents in the field specialized in making themselves scarce.

  How ironic that news of Katana’s death had coincided with a triumph. She’d succeeded in securing a galaxy of Cats to mount campaigns on Styx and Saffel, then had gone to Luthien to lay out their plan of action. She’d taken her place as a full warlord even as they battled to rebuild the district, but gone into that Black Room, her head high. Now, without Katana at the helm, the Cats might find a loophole to exploit. Better the Cats stay in the dark.

  By God, I am beginning to think like a politician.

  The same message also contained the coordinator’s posting of Yori Kurita to Dieron command, and her elevation in rank to sho-sho. Like it or not, Yori now had command privilege by right of blood and rank.

  Yes, little girl, we’ll take your orders, but the jury’s out on you. When we strike Dieron, we will not take it for you—because Dieron is what Katana wanted, and Dieron she’ll get.

  Hoarder’s Run, Sakuranoki

  New Samarkand Military District, Draconis Combine

  20 August 3136

  The dojo smelled of sweaty feet and wet leather, but Yori Kurita paid no mind, her attention instead focused on her opponent. Jirobi Katanga, late of Ronel and the Fury, was tall, with very long arms and a better reach. Already, he’d scored with well-timed cuts, parrying her bamboo blade with ease, taking advantage not only of his height but of the energy of her attacks.

  Frustrated, Yori blinked away sweat. This type of free-form fighting, keiko, was much more demanding than the simple exercises of kendo kata. There, she always knew who was bad, and who shidachi. In kendo, the uchidachi always lost because the bad guy always struck first.

  As they have all my life: Then you see the attack coming, you know exactly how to parry and defeat his energy, turn it against him . . .

  There was a loud double rap on wood. Instantly, she and Jirobi came out of their stances. Grateful for the chance to cool down, Yori stripped off her do as a lieutenant approached, a folded sheaf of paper in one hand. She knew at once by the look on his face that something was very wrong. “A priority message from Tai-shu Toranaga, Kurita-san.”

  At her gasp, Katanga said, “What is it? Are you all right?”

  Angry at her slip, she said, simply, “Tai-shu Tormark is dead. An accident when her DropShip attempted to aid another ship in distress.”

  The color drained from Katanga’s face. She was stunned when she saw the shine of tears. Would anyone mourn her? Quickly, she squelched the thought as irrelevant and focused on what to do next. Tormark was gone, and this was her moment. Clearly, her patron understood, else he’d never have the news couriered so quickly. (And did he have a hand in this? That crocodile, she wouldn’t put it past him.)

  There is a time to act, and a time to mourn. For now, I act.

  She dismissed the messenger, then turned to Katanga, whose tears rolled unashamed down his cheeks. She couldn’t help feeling a twinge of satisfaction as she bent to retrieve her do and took up her stance—because the game had suddenly changed, and she knew exactly what to do.

  “Enough,” she said. “Make ready your shinai. Dry your eyes and fight. There is time for grief when the fight for Dieron is past, but now you are a warrior, and you will rise to battle. So, fight because that is what Tai-shu Tormark would demand. Fight for your dead leader’s honor.”

  And then tomorrow, at first light, prepare to fight for me, now your leader and very much alive—because I so command.

  18

  Siang, Biham

  20 August 3136

  Karl Pierpont was on tilt. He’d played way too many hands, tried too many wild maniac bluffs . . . and now this. He sat facing Tony Yamada in Yamada’s back office: a small, extremely well-soundproofed cubicle. Gray walls, concrete floor. A drain in the center of the floor, just under Pierpont’s chair. (Why, was that only rust he spotted?) A desk, metal, institutional gray. Yamada was smoking, his heavy lids at half-mast. Pierpont could’ve used a smoke, maybe another Scotch and soda. Maybe just bring the bottle.

  Yamada said, “Look, man, what can I say? You’ve got a tab longer than my arm.”

  “But I’m good for the money,” Pierpont pleaded. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “With what? You owe seven-fifty kay, with interest, not counting tonight. You want more credit, you got to come up with a down payment.”

  Pierpont swallowed, tasting sour alcohol. “I . . . I can’t do that.”

  “Then we can’t carry you anymore. Now, I know you’re a good guy.” Yamada sucked more smoke. “Maybe I should talk to your boss, work out an installment plan.”

  Aghast, Pierpont said, “Man, are you crazy? I got a clearance, I got a decent job! You mess up my job, how am I going to pay you back?”

  “What about your house? Or your old lady—she got money?”

  “Naw, man, nothing like that. You take our house, where’re we supposed to live? What about my kid?”

  “Kid, huh? You got a picture?”

  “Yeah.” Suddenly hopeful, Pierpont fished a snapshot from his wallet and passed it over. He waited, literally, on the edge of his seat.

  “Cute kid,” Yamada said. “You know, I got some cute ones.”

  “Kids?” (Actually, Pierpont couldn’t care less but, hey, if talking about kids got Yamada to extend his credit, they could talk about head lice for all he cared.)

  “Yeah.” Yamada nodded at one of two bodyguards stationed at the door behind Pierpont. The guard left. They waited. The man returned. He carried a clear plastic cage with a vented pink plastic top. In the cage was a tiny gray mouse with glassy black eyes and nearly naked pink feet.

  “See, this is real cute, too,” Yamada said. Screwing his cigarette into the right corner of his mouth, Yamada pulled open his center desk drawer, rummaged around and withdrew a pair of very thin, very sharp scissors. Yamada stood, reached into the cage and pinched the mouse up by the scuff of its neck. The mouse went screeek.

  “Ain’t it cute?” Yamada said, cigarette keeping time. Holding the scissors in his right hand, he squinted at Pierpont through a wavering curtain of smoke. “Cute little bugger. We catch a lot of these because times are hard, even for mice. They come in, work their way into the storeroom, eat, hide out. But, you know, mouse gets caught, and I think, Yeah, you cute little fart. Crap all over my storeroom, eat my food, how you gonna pay me back? No, you don’t know? Well, let me show you.”

  Then Yamada snipped the mouse’s right rear foot. The mouse jerked and let loose a loud, high SCREEEEE! Blood bubbled from the raw stump.

  “Aw, JESUS!” Rearing back, Pierpont half-rose, but Yamada’s men clamped down on his shoulders. The mouse was still squealing and dripping blood, thrashing as Yamada pinched it tight. “Man, God,” Pierpont said. Sour bile mixed with Scotch pushed into the back of his throat, and his stomach churned. “Jesus Christ, whaddaya doing?”

  “You know,” Yamada said, still addressing the squalling mouse, “I don’t think that’s enough, you little shit. I don’t think you learned a lesson. You eat like a pig and leave me to clean up the mess. Here’s what I say about that.”

  “No!” Pierpont shouted, as the scissors flashed and the mouse screamed. By the time Yamada finally decapitated the animal, Pierpont had vomited into his lap.

  “Man, aw, man, what do you want?” Pierpont mewled. The vomit was warm against his thighs, and the smell made him retch. “I’ll do anything, whatever you want . . .”

  “Yeah?” There was blood on Yamada’s hands, and he plucked a tissue from a box, wiped away the gore, finger by finger, then made a tiny tent of the thin paper over the still-quivering mess on his desk. Then Yamada pinched Pierpont�
�s photo of his daughter between his left thumb and forefinger. His right hand played with the scissors, snapping the blades, slicing air. “You mean that? You’re not just playing with me, now?”

  “Anything, man.” Pierpont coughed, wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. “Anything you want.”

  “Good,” Yamada said. He smiled. “That’s real good.”

  19

  Siang, Biham

  25 August 3136

  The bourbon was paler than piss; there was so much smoke he got a nicotine buzz just breathing; and the pretzels were stale. Wahab Fusilli hunched on a stool just beyond the elbow of the bar. He kept an eye on the front door, because this was Saturday night and the place was busy.

  Nursing his drink, he brooded. Fat lot of good Bhatia and the ISF were. Frankly, with Katana’s death and Yori Kurita assuming command, Fusilli wondered now if Bhatia needed him at all. And did he need Bhatia? Fusilli fingered the diamond stud in his left earlobe. Any of them? Tormark was dead, and he wasn’t even upset. He wondered if he’d even liked her.

  What do I want? Whose side, what first?

  First, he had another drink. As the bartender, a beefy man with huge biceps, fished up ice for another round, Fusilli considered that he’d done very well for a double agent, thank you. He was alive, wasn’t he? He’d a certain aptitude for the work: negotiating that razor-thin margin between factions with great care, shifting blame, diverting attention. He’d been skilled as a child, too: It wasn’t me. It was them. I threw that rock because I was scared, and I didn’t mean to put out his . . .

  “This taken?” A woman with a mane of long red hair stood at his right elbow before an empty bar stool.

  He hadn’t seen her come in. Bad. He had to stay alert. “No.”

  “Great.” She wore very tight black leather pants and a black blouse, its first three buttons undone. Gold glinted at the hollow of her throat. She slid onto the stool, leaning his way as she adjusted the tails of a black leather jacket, and he caught her scent above the stink of cigarettes: sultry and sweet, like musk and warm honey. The bartender took her order for vodka on ice with lime. She eyed Fusilli. “You want another?”

  He was barely through his second. “Sure.” He waited until the bartender set down their drinks and moved away. “So what do we drink to?”

  “Saturday night,” she said, and they clinked glasses. Fusilli merely wet his lips, but the woman took a healthy swallow, sighed. Her lips glistened. “I’ve been waiting all day for that.”

  “Rough day?”

  “Every day’s rough on Biham.” She traced the mouth of her glass with a forefinger. “You’re new here.”

  “Haven’t been planetside very long.” This was true. The best way not to get tripped up by lies was not to tell more than he could keep track of.

  “How long?”

  “About three, four weeks. Work dried up on Proserpina after Tormark moved to Halstead Station.” Fusilli made a face of genuine disgust. “Working tunnels, like a rat. I like real air, sunshine. I like stars.”

  “I’m with you.” She stuck out her hand. Her grip was firm and surprisingly strong, and her fingers were long. “Dasha Miyagi.”

  “Shakir Jerrar,” Fusilli said, and was startled. This was not the name by which Parks would know him. Why did I pick that name?

  “So, Shakir.” Dasha tongued lime from her drink and sucked the fruit. “Got a job?” When Fusilli shook his head, she said, “You must not need money.”

  “I got a cushion. I can afford to be a little picky.”

  She tossed the naked peel into her glass. “What kind of work?”

  “A little of this, a little of that . . .” He rattled ice. “I was in the Drac Brotherhood back on Proserpina.”

  “What made you bail?”

  “They bailed on us. Soon as the DCMS took over, they let us go. Assholes. Wanted us only as long as we were useful.” He gave a humorless laugh. “What else can you expect from a Drac?”

  “You don’t sound grateful.”

  “Why should I be?” Easy, don’t push it. “They needed us when they needed us, and then they blew their noses and walked away.”

  She had very large eyes, and in the poor light of the bar, he couldn’t quite catch their color. But they were expressive and, now, very solemn. “What about now that Tormark’s dead?”

  “What about it?” Fusilli tipped the last of his watery bourbon into his mouth. Catching the bartender’s eye, he pointed at their glasses then held up two fingers. “She’s dead,” he said. “Not as if they didn’t kill plenty of people along the way.”

  But he wondered at a sudden flare of anger burning his chest. What the hell? It’s not like I ever felt at home there, or that they tried.

  Dasha looked pensive, a little sad. Her fingers went to her throat, twining round a gold chain with two tiny charms he couldn’t make out. She didn’t say anything until the bartender brought the next round. In the interim, Fusilli noticed that the bar had started to empty out. He glanced at his watch and realized with a jolt that an hour had passed.

  He looked up to see Dasha watching him. “What?”

  “You look like a man waiting for something to happen.”

  Fusilli picked up his glass. He was a little woozy, feeling the bourbon. Decided to hell with it. “I guess I am.”

  “So what are you waiting for, Shakir?”

  “What we’re playing at.”

  “I never play. Did you think I was going to invite you home?”

  “I don’t know,” Fusilli said, disturbed that he’d flashed to exactly that. Even more disturbed to find that he was aroused. How long since he’d been with a woman? “I’m not sure I’m looking for that.”

  This time, she stared at him for a second too long. “Word is you’re looking for people who make things happen.”

  For just an instant, he felt disappointment. The job again. Not him at all. Still, he had his part to play. “Are you one of them?”

  “I’m a facilitator. Maybe we can discuss our mutual interests?”

  The invitation was clear. He paid for the drinks and stood. She was much taller than he’d thought. When she moved, she did so with sinewy grace.

  The night was warm but not unpleasant. The sidewalk was empty, though cars lined the curb. “This way,” Dasha said, turning right. After a few moments, she said, “You seem nice.”

  No, I’m not. “I try to be.”

  “So, I’m really sorry.” She brushed his right arm with her fingers. “Really.”

  Fusilli opened his mouth to reply, but then he sensed movement, heard a car door pop, and he half-turned. Later, he thought maybe the alcohol slowed him down. Or the bartender spiked his drink. Whatever, he turned achingly slow, as if underwater. A high, soft whine at his right ear, and then something punched his brain. The blow was as substantial as being hit with a club, but Fusilli had time for one last thought: Sonic stunner.

  Then the darkness took him.

  20

  Deber City, Benjamin

  Benjamin Military District, Draconis Combine

  25 August 3136

  Theodore couldn’t breathe. His chest was tight, clamped in a vice of sudden, very real, very mortal fear. “Why now? What did I do to trigger it?”

  “You didn’t do anything.” The doctor was young but with the gravitas of a much older man well-acquainted with life’s tragedies. “But it’s not all of a sudden, is it, Tono?”

  “No.” Theodore swallowed. His throat hurt. “Almost a year now. When we were on campaign . . . I decided . . .” He’d been about to say that the tremor had frightened him so much he’d decided against pushing for Dieron last year. He remembered how puzzled Katana had been, the questions in her eyes. Instead, he said, “I thought it was just fatigue.”

  “Fatigue would make paralysis agitans more severe. But the tremor, the spasms in your right leg combined with your difficulty walking—these are classic symptoms of Parkinson’s, and you know it. Your mother is a carrier of the early-
onset, familial form of the disease, an autosomal dominant, and your brother showed symptoms when he was twenty-eight. You’re at the age where we’d expect to start seeing symptoms.”

  “What are my options?”

  “Let’s talk about the reality of your situation first. Parkinson’s is a neurodegenerative disease attacking the central nervous system. . . .”

  “I know that,” Theodore said, angry now. “Don’t you think I know that?”

  The doctor was unruffled. “Your brain, Tono: Your neurohelmet depends on a neural interface. But if that interface begins to change . . .”

  “Oh, God.” He felt sick. He’d never considered that. “You mean, my ’Mech . . . Oh, God.”

  Maybe that’s what happened in the sim, the helmet not responding . . .

  “How long will the interface hold?” he asked.

  “Impossible to say. It will fail sooner rather than later, I’d guess.”

  “What about drugs?”

  “They all have side effects, some quite unpleasant, and drugs don’t cure. They merely delay. Familial parkinsonism is quite unrelenting.”

  “Can I still control my ’Mech if I take drugs?”

  “There’s no precedent. These drugs work by changing the relative balance of neurochemicals. I don’t know what will happen to the interface. Maybe nothing, or things might get worse. I just don’t know.”

  I can’t just wait around to die . . . “Is there any other way?”

  “Yessss,” the doctor said slowly, but then held out a hand, like a traffic cop. “Experimental surgery using stem cells. These are pluripotent cells, capable of turning into whatever cell the body requires. Stem cells have been used to repair damaged heart muscle, for example. But the results for neural regeneration haven’t been encouraging.”

  “How not encouraging?”

  “There’s never been a success,” the doctor said bluntly. “Patients always get much worse since there’s no way to regulate how many neurons regenerate. Of course, there’s always the first time.”