The cart drew almost but not quite even with Cuppa Joe, opting for a bank of inky shadow just beyond a cone of yellow light from a streetlamp. Too far away for McCain to pin down the awning or make out the woman, damn it. He’d have to go see.

Scraping back his chair, McCain stood. A moment later, the young couple also rose. The couple turned left; McCain headed right, and as he passed their table, his gaze skidded over and registered the curl of a paper sack beneath the chair where the brunette with the hoop earrings had been—and then flitted away as the tamago lady’s back came into view. He continued on, forgot the sack.

Bad mistake.

Two meters from the cart, McCain was just able to pick out the awning’s colors. Red and yellow. Hot damn. But then there was movement, and the tamago woman turned, came out of shadow. McCain froze in midstride, the smile melting off his face. Because she was a he.

McCain had time for one startled half thought: Holy sh …

Then, a shout to his right and just behind: “McCain, down, down!”

The man at the cart flinched, but McCain was already diving left at the same moment that there was a loud crack. Something hummed in the air, cutting a seam just above McCain’s scalp. McCain hit the brick hard, absorbed the force of the blow in a shoulder roll and righted onto the balls of his feet just in time to see the man at the cart jerk, backpedal two steps, then fall.

There was a moment of absolute, stunned silence… and then the café erupted in a stampede of screaming patrons. Crockery crashed to the brick patio as tables and chairs were butted out of the way. Someone kicked over the paper sack just off to McCain’s right, and he half saw something round tumble out—an egg, is that an egg, what the hell’s an egg…— and then he was pivoting, still crouched, looking right.

Viki Drexel was tearing down the street, right arm cocked at the elbow, straight-arming a path through fleeing patrons with her left. “McCain, stay down, take cover! Stay down, stay…!”

Jesus. McCain looked at the egg, the sack, the cart, and it all clicked into place like tumblers in a lock: Bomb, Jesus Mother Mary Joseph, the bag, it’s a…!

And then he was up, launching his body in a running dive for the nearest table—one that was lying on its side, round surface propped like a bulwark—hitting the deck so hard the breath whooshed from his lungs… just as the bomb went off.

A whump, a sound the same as throwing a match into paper soaked with gasoline, followed by a smell of something burning and a whirring noise, more sensation than sound. Crouched behind the table, head tucked into his chest and arms over his neck, McCain heard the crackle of glass breaking, the papery rustle of leaves being shredded, and wet splats like grapes being squashed as flechettes tore into flesh, and more screaming. Then, at his ear, a series of dull pock-pock-pocks, as the flechettes struck metal. Then—they stopped.

McCain waited a second, then two and slowly lifted his head and peered around the table. Flechettes quivered in the wrought iron like porcupine’s quills. Further on, he saw the still, sprawled figure of the man, and to the right, in the cone of the streetlamp, an oozing tongue of something black and thick as oil.

Panting, Drexel dropped beside McCain. “You okay?” she asked, pushing hair from her face with the back of one hand.

“Yeah.” McCain armed sweat from his forehead. He heard the faint wail of sirens mingling with the cries of the wounded. “Jesus, how did you know?”

Wordlessly, Drexel pulled a peeled hardboiled egg from a pocket of her jacket and turned it over so McCain could read the message.

A single word, in black: Bad.

20

Lake Marshall, Junction

10 May 3135

Ito stopped talking, and the study, a room filled with books and comfortable red-brown leather chairs, was so quiet that when McCain swallowed he heard the click in his throat. Matsuro Kamikuro, head of the Ryuu-gumi clan, didn’t say a word. Instead, he stared at McCain. “I see,” said Kamikuro, finally, though his tone was cold as iced steel. “But you will tell me, please, why you and your friend”—a nod toward Drexel—“are important enough to kill?”

A damn good question. Well, see, we’re sorta spies, and oh, yeah, by the way, man, I’m really sorry we had to contract some guy to shoot up your people some, but war is hell and… McCain hesitated then said, “Because, Kamikuro-san, our enemies want the coordinator to fall.”

“Indeed.” Kamikuro had small, almond-shaped eyes that had once been bright blue, but that age had faded to the same sharkskin gray as his suit and hair. He looked every millimeter the highly successful businessman, not the oyabun of a powerful yakuza family. “And you are…?”

“My name is still Matthew McCain, and I am still a doctor, but I am also a chu-sa. I serve Tai-sho Katana Tormark.”

Kamikuro’s eyes shifted to Drexel. “And you?”

“Viki Drexel.”

Kamikuro looked impressed. “You, I know. You pilot a Shockwave, am I correct?”

“Hai, Kamikuro-san,” said Drexel, and she executed a quick bow so well that McCain wished he’d thought of that, too.

“Most impressive.” He returned his attention to McCain. “What makes you believe that we have the resources or desire to serve your cause?”

“I admit that I can’t be certain of your resources, Kamikuro-san, but you have the desire. Your father served with Wing Commander Sho-sa Thaddeus Shotoko of the Seventh Ghost Regiment, those who were Cleansed by Dragon’s Dark Passing; and you said it yourself: Ryuu-gumi is not Kabuki-mono, but Machi-yakko. Your men keep order.”

“Just because we serve the people, it does not follow that we serve the coordinator.”

“But you are bound by honor, and you honor your past. Your family’s irezumi binds you.” McCain nodded at the gold chain-link tattoo on Ito’s right wrist and the hint of the same that was just visible beyond the gray cuff at Kamikuro’s wrist. “It’s the same as the emblem the Seventh painted on its ’Mechs.”

“Phantoms of the past. The Ghost Regiments were disbanded, the men scattered throughout the Combine. Whatever factions remain, they serve at the pleasure of their respective tai-shus, not the coordinator. You have come on a fool’s errand.”

“If you truly believed that, we’d be dead already.”

“Do not overestimate your importance.” Kamikuro’s voice was no harder than before, but there was no mistaking the lick of menace just beneath. “Tell me, McCain, just what does your esteemed tai-sho offer us?”

“Your honor.”

Kamikuro laughed outright. “That and a stone will buy a cup of coffee.”

McCain pushed on. “Tai-sho Tormark hasn’t forgotten the service the Ghost Regiments rendered to the coordinator in times past. Besides, your support for Tai-shu Sakamoto is conspicuous by its lack.”

Kamikuro dismissed the comment with a negligent wave of his hand. “A circumstance easily explained if we have nothing to give.”

“But not believable.” Then, at the sudden flood of color in Kamikuro’s face, McCain said, “Forgive me, Kamikuro-san, but I think you have many resources you choose not to share because your allegiance is, ultimately, to the coordinator, not Sakamoto. Katana Tormark acts out of honor and duty to Vincent Kurita.”

“Really? I’ve heard nothing from him.” Dark blossoms of color stained the old man’s cheeks, and emotion thinned his voice. “Why should I fly to the aid of a woman who sanctions murder? Did your tai-sho order you to target members of my family and the families of my people?”