“You’re assuming a hell of a lot. Look, I’d never disobey you, but I’m begging you. At least wait until we hear from Drexel and McCain. If Sakamoto’s persuaded other yakuza, maybe Drexel and McCain will…”

“We can’t afford to wait, and I haven’t heard from them in months. Junction was a gamble, anyway.”

“You should’ve let me go.”

“McCain was… is best for the job, and the least conspicuous. He doesn’t look like a soldier, or a spy, and Viki blends in enough to cover his rear. After all, I’m not sure I’d want to be on the receiving end of your scalpel.” When he didn’t laugh, she said, “Look, either they haven’t sent word because there’s nothing to report, or…”

“They’re dead,” said Crawford, flatly.

Katana nodded. “Yeah.”

In a back storeroom of the kitchens, next to the refrigerated meat locker, Jake straightened. There was a smile on Jake’s face, and that was the curious thing. Jake’s face was old, but his smile was not. After a quick glance to make sure there was no one around, Jake plucked a tiny receiver from his right ear and dropped it into a pocket of his long, white apron. Then he tugged open a sack, scooped rice into a basin and made his way back to the kitchens.

An hour later, Jake, wicker basket looped over one arm, wandered the city’s central market. March was a good month on Proserpina; the days were still warm but the nights cooled enough to require a light sweater. It was close to six, and the market was very busy this time of day, people picking out fresh produce for that evening’s supper, or simply out enjoying an evening stroll. Jake squeezed melons, sniffed the spiked orange-yellow skin of Helenian passion fruit. Jake stopped at one vendor and pointed at a box of passion fruit neatly arrayed on green-and-white tissue paper. “Are they local, or imports?”

The vendor, a round-faced woman with a ruddy nose, snorted. “Imports, a’ course.”

“But I heard Helen had a poor summer, bone dry.”

The vendor narrowed her eyes. “Well, that’s true. But it rained late.”

“Well, ya put it that way…” Jake selected four passion fruits and dropped them into his basket.

“Two for a bill,” she said. Jake pressed the money into her hand, and she slipped the bill into her pocket. “Come again now.”

Jake smiled, bobbed his head. Then he turned and shuffled on his way.

Another customer wandered by the fruit vendor a half hour later. “Local or imported?”

“Imports,” the vendor said promptly. “From Helen, they are, and none finer.”

“But I heard that Helen was very dry.”

“A late rain, that’s what they say.”

“Oh.” The young man looked dubious, then pointed again. “What about these lemons?”

“Oh, they’s from Mallory’s World.”

“Mmmm.” The young man thought, said, “I’ll take two passion fruits.”

“Coming right up.” The vendor selected two, wrapped them in tissue paper and handed them over. “Two for a bill and bless ya, sir.”

“Right.” The young man turned and strolled through the market until he came to an open-air café. Round green metal tables dotted a square, red-brick patio, and the young man took an open table furthest from the market thoroughfare, with his back to the wall of the café. He ordered hot tea, with lemon, no sugar. When the tea came, steaming hot with a wedge of lemon on the side, the young man waited until the server had moved on then dug out his passion fruits. He peeled off the tissue paper, smoothed it on the table, glanced right then left. Then he took up the wedge of lemon, held it over the paper, and squeezed. Nothing happened… and then a single word appeared, in black: Junction.

Fishing out his lighter, Wahab Fusilli flicked it to life, then held the paper over the flame and watched as the edges curled, blackened and the entire square burned to ash. He sideswiped the ash with one hand, then dug out his pack from his breast pocket, shook out a smoke, lit it. Inhaled and smiled.

Now was an excellent time to make his reports to his many masters.

18

Waddesdon Nadir Jump Point

Benjamin Military District, Draconis Combine

22 April 3135

There really was nothing in the galaxy more beautiful than JumpShips poised to unleash an assault. They were arrayed in a rough V shape, his ship the point of the arrow. Waddesdon’s sun brushed the massive JumpShips’ hulls with a delicate wash of light, turning them silver, and Sakamoto thought he had never seen anything so wonderful.

He shifted slightly, the soles of his gripshoes unzippering from the gripcarpet then remeshing with a sound like fabric tearing in two. He inhaled. He’d always hated JumpShip air; it smelled like burned cordite mingled with ozone, but today was a good day to be alive. To command was good. To do battle was better.

Four months ago, he’d had power, of course. A warlord is power’s synonym, and now I shall wield mine. Let every living being taste my wrath for I will allow no sanction, no quarter. He was unconscious of the smile that spread along his lips. Well, and the oyabuns had grumbled, hadn’t they? But he’d beaten them, as he knew he would. Those oyabuns, the yakuza, they were like pack rats or chipmunks, never throwing anything away. So they’d delivered, and in such quantity! Enough troops to swell Sakamoto’s available manpower by half; enough to keep some troops in reserve against any attempt to reduce his power base or eliminate Sakamoto himself. Not to mention JumpShips. Monoliths! Chimeishos! And two Starlords! Oh, Sakamoto bet there was a story behind those little beauties. And there were ’Mechs, not those lowly, refitted construction ’Mechs either, but the real deal; tanks, Gauss rifles, hand weapons, and even a baker’s dozen of VTOL.

And if his own troops grumbled at their yakuza compatriots, he didn’t care so long as they got the job done. The best way to defeat the yakuzas’ loyalty to one another was to divide and conquer. Otherwise, they’d be, well, as thick as thieves. Privately he understood and had, very quietly, assured his commanders that, in the end, the yakuza were not their equals. Use them as PPC fodder, he’d said with a wink and a nod. Better them than DCMS men any day.

At the pilot’s station ahead and to the right, there came a soft burble of an alarm. “JumpShip on approach, Tai-shu,” the pilot announced. “Ten seconds.”

As Sakamoto watched, the space beyond his ships wavered as if the void were about to melt. The light from the stars around the distortion subtended then broke into rainbows as space folded, contracted, opened and coughed out a Magellan–class JumpShip.

“Message coming in,” said the pilot. He paused, then added: “I’m informed that it’s prerecorded, audio only.”

Sakamoto nodded. “Play it.”

A soft crackle saturated the sudden, preternatural stillness on the bridge, as if each crew member was holding his breath. Then, a voice, male: “Greetings, Tai-shu Sakamoto. Katana Tormark’s agents are on Junction and will be dealt with. By now the traitor herself is en route for Klathandu IV, but she goes only with an old man for company. The rest of her commanders have returned to their posts. Your path is clear. May your day end in victory and honor.”

Sakamoto waited for more but there was nothing because nothing more was required. Turning in a slow half circle, he scanned the faces of the bridge crew: the communications officer, weapons, tactical. At last he came to Worridge, who stood a little behind and to his right. Worridge stood tall in her battle uniform; her features were expressionless.

Ah, and you’re a deep one, Tai-sho. His eyes crawled over her face, searching for weakness or doubt, and finding none. So long as you do my bidding, you may have your private thoughts in that head of yours—else you might find yourself without a head to store anything in.