Katana’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And why would he think I’ll go further than here?”

“Because he’s counting on…” Fusilli trailed off, looked at his hands, and then blurted, “He’s got Sir Eriksson.”

“You know it’s a trap,” said Crawford. They were alone in an office adjoining Governor Tormark’s. The office was lavishly appointed, with a collection of antique paintings in gilt frames, a tan leather couch strewn with elegant gold-embroidered pillows and matching wing chairs. Katana stood, arms folded, looking out a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that formed the eastern wall. The dome’s day and night cycles were precisely controlled, and the dome’s skin was shading to a twilight hue, the first streetlamps sputtering to life. Crawford ran a hand through his blazing red mane, and blew out in frustration. “Sakamoto must be stopped. Going to Saffel isn’t the way.”

Katana turned and her eyes were sparking. “Then tell me another plan, and I will do it. Tell me how to have my vengeance, and I will listen. Explain to me how or why the coordinator would stand for the barbarism we’ve witnessed, and I will put aside my emotions. But you can’t, and you know it.”

“I agree. Sakamoto’s gone rogue. But this isn’t your fight.”

“The coordinator has done nothing.”

“Maybe he can’t.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Then, believe this, Katana: You launch a strike against Sakamoto and he’ll crush us. And for what? Dying for nothing is a fool’s errand.”

Some indefinable emotion chased across her features, but then Crawford saw a new hardness in Katana’s eyes. “Listen to me, Andre. We are going to Saffel. Period. Even if the Ares Conventions were so much tissue paper, the blood of my fallen warriors screams for vengeance. They pledged their lives to me, and I to them. One way or the other, Sakamoto must die. You understand me? I would never stand against the coordinator, but Sakamoto is not my coordinator, and he must die!”

Her words hung in the silence that followed. Finally, Crawford broke it. “You know what you’re saying.”

“Absolutely.” Katana pinned him with a look. “I want him dead, Andre.”

Crawford nodded. “Yes. I thought you might.”

34

DropShip Black Wind, inbound for Saffel

Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere

4 September 3135

Ah, how good to do battle again in his No-Dachi, standing tall and proud, with its gleaming five-ton katana flashing in Saffel’s sun! Sakamoto lovingly fingered the raised ridges of his cooling vest. The fluid-filled cavities dimpled when he pressed down with a fingertip, and he inhaled the faintly astringent aroma of coolant. He’d been gone from the battlefield too long.

That was the problem with conducting a war on multiple fronts. Sakamoto took up a pastry, a tiny nest of honeyed walnuts in paper-thin dough, from a round silver salver. So many issues, and coordinating all these attack waves without HPGs! Frighteningly difficult. He popped the pastry into his mouth, chewed, then sighed as a burst of rich, buttery sweetness exploded on his tongue.

And how tedious, having to divert to Deneb Algedi instead of driving on toward Saffel with the advance troops. Nayaraptors! Who’d have imagined the Blues could be so resourceful? But that was all past now and, tomorrow morning, he would lead a contingent of his troops as a warlord should. Of course, there would be resistance on Saffel, unlike Al Na’ir, and the terrain would be difficult, half the land still locked in ice. Besides, Bannson’s men hadn’t deserted the world and were fiercely defending a key defensive installation on the Dovejin ice cap. Well, he would deal with the Raiders; crush them, down to the last woman, the last man—finally, completely, irrevocably.

But then… there was still Katana Tormark. Sakamoto’s mouth worked as if he’d bitten into something foul. Tormark, always Tormark! At last report, her accursed Fury had landed at Iwanji, south of the Raiders’ base on the Dovejin ice cap. How had they come so far so fast? That the Fury had known where he’d strike next was never in doubt; that snake Fusilli would see to that. But the speed… Sakamoto chewed another pastry without tasting it. How had they done it? For that matter, which contingent battled his advance forces? Surely, Tormark herself wasn’t leading them; her BattleMaster was nowhere to be seen. Otherwise, he’d have changed his plans and taken charge of Worridge’s people at Iwanji and destroyed the girl himself.

“But how did you do it, you little witch?” Sakamoto asked the empty room. “What magic did you pull off this time?”

There was a discreet knock at his door. Startled, Sakamoto looked at the time and remembered what he’d ordered not a half hour ago. At his command, Sir Eriksson tottered in a half step ahead of his guard. “You wanted to see me,” said Eriksson.

“Yes. Come! Sit, sit!” Sakamoto urged, shooing away the guard and adjusting an elegantly carved cherrywood straight-backed chair, lacquered with red chrysanthemums.

Drawing himself up, the old knight clasped one hand behind his back and steadied himself on his cane with the other. “I prefer to stand.”

“Still playing the tough old soldier? Bah, your time’s come and gone, Eriksson—though you’re hard to kill, I’ll grant you that.”

“And what of it? The worst you can do is kill me once.”

Sakamoto’s dark eyes flashed with menace. “There are many things that make death pale by comparison.”

“But you won’t do any of them, Sakamoto, and you know why? Because I’m insurance. Because people will be willing to make concessions…”

Sakamoto broke in with an edgy laugh. “Is that what you think? That I worry at all about The Republic? Bah!” He aimed a forefinger at the knight. “Let me tell you something. You stay alive so long as it pleases me…”

“You mean, as long as I’m useful.”

“As long as I decide!” Sakamoto shouted. His right hand shot out, cracking Eriksson’s left cheek in an open-handed slap as loud as a pistol shot. The knight stumbled back; his cane hand went out from under him, and he crashed to the floor. Sakamoto was on him in a second, fisting Eriksson’s lapels and twisting them tight. He brought his face an inch from Eriksson’s. There was a smear of crimson leaking from the left side of the knight’s mouth, and Eriksson’s skin was pasty—not from fear, but pain, and this pleased Sakamoto greatl y. “Where is your precious Republic now, eh? Where are the armadas to scatter my atoms across the vacuum? Nowhere to be seen, old …man! Look at you: used up, weak, finished! It would be child’s play to wring your scrawny neck!”

“Then why don’t you?” Eriksson choked. “You keep… bragging about how mighty you are, how many of our worlds you’ve conquered…”

“They belong to ME!” Sakamoto roared, shaking Eriksson as if he were nothing more than bones stitched into a sack of skin. “Those are the Combine’s by right!”

“Don’t invoke… the Combine… like… some… magic formula!” Eriksson managed. Sakamoto didn’t just have him by the lapels now; his hands were around the old man’s throat. Eriksson’s voice thinned to a wheeze. “You… you said it… yourself, Sakamoto. This is… this is about you… this is… is…”

“SILENCE!” Sakamoto roared. He clamped his hands down hard, and Eriksson’s tortured breath rattled, then stopped completely. Sakamoto’s vision reddened until he could scarcely see the old man’s bulging eyes and gaping mouth; was barely aware of Eriksson’s fingers scrabbling feebly at the backs of his hands. No, he was burning up with rage, and he would kill this knight, he would squeeze the life out of him! He felt the brittle nub of Eriksson’s Adam’s apple and thought that maybe if he broke it, yes, that would be very pleasant, because then he’d step back and watch the old man die like a beached fish… “Old man,” he seethed, fists bunching, “old man!”