“Yes, but this barbarian brought you to heel, didn’t he?” Sakamoto’s lips twisted in a malignant grin. “Pity about Fuchida; politicians really shouldn’t play with guns. But you surrendered quickly enough.”

Tormark’s face flushed a dull copper. “To save the dome. You left me no choice.”

“You had a choice. You just didn’t like the alternative.” But Sakamoto was weary of this game. Stuck on this horrid little planet until the men had rested, and their repairs completed, a process that would now take that much longer… “Enough of this.” Sakamoto turned to the little CEO. “You,” he said, and then took aim at a Fury infantryman, a haggard female corporal, with an index finger. “And you. Step forward.”

The owner complied, but the corporal shot a quick glance at Magruder, who said, “If you have anything to say or do, Sakamoto, you will say it to me.”

“I do not require your permission, and I am done talking to you for the time being, Chu-sa.” He jerked his head at the corporal and the CEO. “Guards, take them to the surface. Now.”

There was a second when no one moved. Then the color drained from Magruder’s face, and Worridge said, aghast, “Tai-shu, with all due respect…”

“Shut up, Worridge.” When he saw his guards hesitate, Sakamoto said, “Do it. Now.”

There was no mistaking the menace in his voice. The CEO’s face was so pale his eyes looked painted on, and his legs nearly buckled when a guard hooked a hand around his right arm. Sakamoto saw the female corporal’s throat working, but she said nothing.

“Tai-shu!” Magruder started forward, but a guard blocked her. “Tai-shu, please, don’t do this.”

“So, now you respect my title, eh?” Sakamoto looked down his nose at Magruder. “Tell me what I want to know: the precise location of Fury’s troops and capabilities.”

He saw the struggle in Magruder’s face. “No,” she said.

“Fine. Then you will have the pleasure of watching two prisoners die every two hours until you tell me what I want to know, or I run out of prisoners.” He gestured for the guards to take the two away.

The CEO’s office had a viewscreen covering one wall, and Sakamoto made them all watch and listen from beginning to end. Sakamoto shot Worridge a sidelong glance; her features were pinched and strained. Ah, Worridge; I’ve got my eye on you. Muting the audio, Sakamoto turned away from the viewscreen as the female corporal was in her death throes: back arched, mouth open, gouts of blood slicking her chin and throat. “I ask you again, Magruder. Tell me what I want to know.”

Magruder’s face was white as salt. “No.”

“Very well. Guards.” And then, as the guards were herding the prisoners away, Sakamoto pointed, said, “That one. Bring him here.” He caught the quick flash of fear on the man’s face: a swarthy sho-sa with a tousle of black hair.

Magruder said, sharply, “Why do you want him?”

“That is none of your concern.” He watched as the two Fury soldiers exchanged wordless glances. When the prisoners had shuffled out, he turned to Worridge. “Leave us. Tell the guard I want wine.”

Worridge opened her mouth, closed it, bowed and left. Flopping down in a high-back black leather wing chair, Sakamoto waited. Wary, the sho-sa said nothing. An aide appeared, silver salver with a decanter and goblet in hand. He squared the tray upon a low table, bowed and was dismissed. Sakamoto picked up the decanter, uncorked it and splashed a rich, nutty-smelling port into the goblet. “Sit,” he said, indicating the chair opposite. “Drink with me.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Wahab Fusilli. He dropped into the chair, groaned and drained the goblet in three huge gulps. “You people sure took your sweet time acknowledging my signal.”

“The price of authenticity. Be glad you’re alive,” Sakamoto said, refilling Fusilli’s goblet. Then he took a pull from the decanter, sighed with satisfaction, and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. “And now, you will tell me the precise composition and location of Katana Tormark’s remaining troops. Everything.”

28

Imperial City, Luthien

15 July 3135

“Executed every last one of them?”

“Except for Governor Tormark and Sir Eriksson, yes, we believe so,” said Bhatia, his expression grave even as his heart was jumping for joy. The horrors in his report had been many, and extraordinarily graphic, all thanks to his agent embedded in the front lines. He watched as the Peacock, dressed today in black velvet, with gold thread embroidered in fussy curlicues, digested this information.

“Sakamoto has ignored a direct order,” said Kurita, finally. “Which course of action would you recommend?”

I must play this just right. Bhatia had begun this meeting already on his guard; for some reason, his coordinator had anticipated a need and assembled a command circuit for his return trip from Terra, where he had gone to attend the funeral of Victor Steiner-Davion. Instead of arriving home as expected in September, he was here now. A coincidence, that he rushes home just as Sakamoto launches his offensive?

“With all due respect, Tono,” Bhatia began cautiously, “you asked the tai-shu to wait until the time was right. That is quite different from disobedience. Certainly, there’s ample precedent. Previous coordinators have allowed—indeed, encouraged–independent action by being deliberately vague. So long as Sakamoto doesn’t proclaim against you, he’s your agent.”

“Yes, but he has not proclaimed for us either.”

“But look at what Sakamoto has accomplished. He has reclaimed many of the Combine’s lost jewels one by one.”

“And you believe he should be rewarded.”

Bhatia inclined his head. “Serving the coordinator should be reward enough.”

“Yes, well,” Kurita said dryly, “somehow we don’t believe our esteem is quite what the good warlord is looking for. Where, exactly, do you believe the estimable Sakamoto can possibly go?”

“Go?” echoed Bhatia, confused. “Why, it’s clear that Dieron…”

“No, no, stop being so literal. We meant what position can Sakamoto possibly covet that he does not already have? There is only one, wouldn’t you agree?”

The hackles prickled along Bhatia’s neck, but he kept his expression neutral. “I cannot nor do I speak for the warlord, Tono.”

The Peacock’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “No?” And then he answered his own question. “No. After all, you and Sakamoto are not in league with one another to depose us. But here you’ve amassed all this intelligence and you’ve not pointed out what is so obvious a blind man could see it with a cane. Sakamoto has clearly hoarded a great deal of materiel for himself in anticipation of just such a day. He has not informed us of his actions, nor has he asked our blessing. He simply acts. So we ask you, Director”—Kurita looked through his lashes—“when do you think, exactly, Sakamoto will do either?”

Well played. The Peacock still had a surprise or two up his gaudy sleeve. “Perhaps Tai-shu Sakamoto wants to wait until Dieron has fallen.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” When Bhatia opened his mouth in rebuttal, Kurita held up a jeweled hand, palm out. “Here is what we said: We told Sakamoto not to act until the time was right. Well, wouldn’t you think that time is now?”

Bhatia hesitated. What was the Peacock really asking? He opted for vagueness. “The time is whatever my coordinator wishes.”

Kurita stared a moment then chuckled. “We’d forgotten how adroit you are. Very well, Director. We thank you for your report.”

It was a clear dismissal. Bhatia opened his mouth, checked his reply, bowed instead, and left. When he’d gone, Vincent slid into a chair at his workstation, depressed a control, and dictated a message. When he was done, he encrypted the message, copied it to a data crystal, and popped the crystal into the palm of his hand. Then he thumbed a call button and, when an aide appeared, said, “We have an errand for you.” He proffered the crystal. “Arlington. At once.”