“I ordered nothing, Kamikuro-san,” said McCain, grateful that, technically, this was true. Drexel had arranged for all that. He just hoped Kamikuro wouldn’t ask her.

The old man’s hard gray eyes clicked from McCain to Drexel and then back again. Then, after a long moment, he turned to Ito, who stood behind and to the oyabun’s right. Something wordless passed between the two, and then Ito rapped an order in Japanese at the bodyguards, who bowed and left. Kamikuro waited until the door had clicked shut. Then he folded his arms upon his desk and gave McCain a frankly appraising look. “As it happens, I’ve been pondering a request for many days and still cannot decide what to do except… here you are, and here is Ms. Drexel, and so perhaps fate and circumstance have pointed the way. Last week, I was contacted by a kurumako, a go-between. His message was simple: that I should go to the aid of my brother oyabun on Kitalpha in circumventing an act that can only bring dishonor.”

McCain and Drexel spared one another a brief, mystified glance. “I don’t understand,” said McCain. “You have a brother?”

“Not in the flesh,” said Kamikuro, then tapped a finger against his chain-link tattoo. “In spirit. His name is Kobayashi, and it seems that Tai-shu Sakamoto has not forgotten we yakuza either. But Kobayashi believes that Katana Tormark acts with honor and that Sakamoto does not.” Kamikuro made a sour face. “I will be frank. We have enough headaches on Junction to keep us occupied for quite some time. But there is this”—again the finger tapping that tattoo—“our brand, you might say, and now here you are, and the decision is thrust upon me. Serve you, or Sakamoto? Eh? What do you think, McCain?”

“I’m a doctor, Kamikuro-sama, not a politician. But I’m sworn to the side of a woman of honor just as Ryuu-gumi stands for the people. You have to do what your honor demands.”

“Even if you must die?”

“I enjoy living,” McCain said, without irony, “so I’d really rather not.”

Kamikuro regarded them both without expression for several long moments during which Ito stared, Drexel fidgeted, and McCain thought that if they were going to die after all, he’d ask for a last cigarette because, what the hell. Then Kamikuro said, “Well, as it happens, I might bring a bit more than just men.”

That seemed to be a signal because Ito came to life, bowed and left the room. Kamikuro still said nothing; the minutes passed; and McCain could hear the muted whistle of Drexel’s breathing. Then the door to the study opened again. First, one of the bodyguards, bearing what looked like a heavy metal chest, and then Ito reappeared, a teak tray in hand. A stone sake jug stood on the tray, along with three tiny ceramic cups, and at the sight, McCain’s heart rebounded with sudden hope.

Kamikuro rose, beckoning McCain and Drexel to a round wooden side table upon which Ito had set the teak tray. Taking up the stone jug, Kamikuro poured chilled sake into each of the three ceramic cups. He did this with his right hand, and he was very careful to make sure that each cup held the same as its fellows, no more and no less. Then, Kamikuro offered a cup each to McCain and Drexel before taking the final one himself. “Drink with me,” he said.

The sake was of good vintage, and McCain’s nose tingled with the heady, sharp aroma of strong liquor. He dearly wanted to pound down a couple of belts but forced himself to take first one sip, then two, and then three, draining the cup. Eyeing him over the rim of his own cup, Kamikuro nodded as if in satisfaction. He replaced his cup on the tray, and then he began flipping a series of metal catches studded along one side of the chest. “We will save our second drink for a bit later,” he said, as he worked the catches one by one. “This is very old, but it works. We have others, but very few, for some have been lost to time. While we might have made use of them ourselves or manufactured more, our charge has been to guard them, with the instruction that they are only to be used by the right person at the right time.” Folding back the lid, Kamikuro reached in and withdrew a heavy black box and placed it almost reverently upon the table as Ito removed the chest. “I believe Katana Tormark is the right person, McCain, and the time is now.”

McCain stared at the object, which he saw now was not a simple box, but a device: all black metal stippled with dials and switches. “What is it?”

“A communications device that allows for contact between planets without an HPG. Theodore Kurita called them black boxes.”

Drexel gave a muffled gasp. Kamikuro spared her a glance, and when his gaze returned to McCain, he saw a mischievous twinkle in the old man’s eyes. “Chu-sa McCain, do you think that Katana Tormark might put them to good use?”

But before McCain could recover himself enough to answer, Kamikuro had already refilled their cups and raised his in a toast. Then Kamikuro said, very seriously, “Regrettably, I do think it would be best for all concerned if you were quite, quite dead.”

21

Pirate Jump Point, Proserpina Space

Prefecture III, Republic of the Sphere

10 May 3135

Marcus had flayed the muscles of his upper body, stopping only after two hours left his arms screaming. Then Marcus had ordered lights off in his gym, and now, weightless, he stared into space, literally. He palmed sweat from his cheek, gathering the salty water into a shimmering globule that undulated like something living. He turned his hand this way and that, fascinated as always that the globule simply hung there.

Marcus had big hands, larger now with exercise, though they’d always been powerful; so strong, in fact, that he remembered the first time he’d killed a man by snapping his neck. That quick twist and jerk, the small bones crackling as if he’d popped his knuckles. They were hands that had never known the intimate hollows and valleys of a woman but were, nonetheless, useful hands. Killing hands.

A stray thought levered into consciousness, unbidden: If necessary, could they kill Jonathan?

He was surprised that he wasn’t upset, and he gave more thought to that than the idea itself. The question wasn’t whether he should kill Jonathan. They were brothers; Marcus needed him to carry out their plans, no question about it. Despite Jonathan’s flair for the dramatic, things were going precisely as they’d hoped. Only Ramadeep Bhatia knew, or suspected, that Kappa, the Little Luthien Killer, and Subhash Indrahar’s Son of the Dragon were one and the same. Doubtless, Bhatia believed he had a cunning weapon in his own ISF double agent who operated under the cloak of the Keeper’s O5P while masquerading as one of Dragon Fury’s O5P contingent.

Yet neither Bhatia nor Emi Kurita suspected that the go-between both had employed not only fed misinformation to both camps, but knew what both were plotting because the man they’d never met but both employed was—Jonathan.

So, Bhatia’s best-laid plans were for naught. For example, that ISF agent he’d sent to masquerade as a tamago vendor and sanction McCain was certainly dead by now; truly, a bad egg. Jonathan’s warning Drexel ahead of time not only reassured her that her source was unimpeachable but virtually guaranteed that Dragon Fury’s O5P would use him again.

Sleights of hand and feats of magic: Jonathan was talented enough to play any role. Oh, Marcus was important ; money and what it bought—discreet pilots, tight-lipped couriers, a cadre of JumpShips—were essential. But, without Jonathan, Marcus was nothing more than a very wealthy, very bitter man.

Because here was Jonathan’s masterstroke: murdering the Bounty Hunter and assuming his identity, then using that identity to muddy the waters. Infiltrating Katana Tormark’s camp, warning her of turncoats in her organization, while turning around and tipping off the ISF agent Bhatia had inserted into her O5P himself. Yes, it was brilliant because little Katana would work herself into knots, wondering who the traitor was.