In the next instant, however, his mood darkened again. His eyes cut to his desk and the two holovid data disks he’d received that afternoon. One he’d already listened to: a field report. He traced the disk with the tip of a finger. The disk had been recorded over three months ago, but only couriered to him from Asta now. A tidbit of information: an ISF agent, still working on instructions Bhatia had given when the hunt for the Bounty Hunter began, had gathered intelligence about a black marketer who’d confided that there’d been rumors about a set of green armor being made for someone on Asta. And yet… Bhatia’s eyes narrowed. And yet, at last report, the Bounty Hunter was on Ancha, Katana’s new headquarters now that Proserpina was returned to the Benjamin District, and reported to be quite the golden boy. “And now there are two,” he murmured. His eyes tracked to the second disk, and this he now lifted from the desk and slid into a projector. There was a click, and then a whirr, and then an electronically altered voice he knew very well.

“Good evening, Director. Did you think I’d forgotten you? Absolutely not. I’ll make a deal. You be a good little boy and I’ll forget all about those nasty little plans you had for me. Because if you don’t, well… you’ll never guess what I’ve found: Some very interesting recordings of some very important communiqués and—well, what do you know—I have one you received from Fusilli waaaaay back when he reports how things went so well on Al Na’ir. Now what would happen, I wonder, if the coordinator got wind that you knew so very much in advance about Sakamoto? So, if I choose to put these recordings into, say, Katana’s hands, or, worse yet, the coordinator’s…”

Bhatia punched the audio to silence. No need for more. The threat was plain. But… “You’ve made a mistake, my friend.” And as a slow, satisfied smile spread along his lips, Bhatia felt something he hadn’t in many months: elation. “You think I cannot play at this game? Well, you are wrong. Either you are on Asta and heading this way, or to another world Katana controls—or you are on Ancha, because that is the only way to explain it. You could only have gained information about Fusilli if you were proximate. So I would wager that you, Kappa, are standing alongside Katana at this very moment, on Ancha, biding your time. Yes, you are cunning. But so am I. And I can wait as long as need be.”

Indeed—Bhatia regarded the disk almost lovingly—this might be the calm before the storm.

Carter City, Ancha

Dieron Military District, Draconis Combine

15 February 3136

The apartment was spare, and the air musty, smelling of mildew and stale cigarette smoke. The radiator’s pipes clanked and hissed, and the dingy ochre paint on the walls peeled in moist curls. The building was ugly on the outside, too. The only window overlooked a red brick alley cluttered with oversize trash bins. Despite all this, Jonathan wasn’t moved to find better accommodations because, well, hiding in plain sight took a certain facility. Heaven forbid the Bounty Hunter should be seen in the company of one of the wealthiest men in the Combine, and staying in a posh hotel, no less.

From his spot on the sofa—unctuous beige with clots of stuffing boiling through rips—Jonathan eyed his brother. Marcus sat in his chair, his limbs streaked with sweat in the overheated room, his powerful chest muscles struggling under gravity. Marcus had grumbled, wondering why Jonathan didn’t want to talk via communications link. Jonathan had instead insisted that Marcus come planet-side to enjoy the fruits of their labors.

“Fruits?” Marcus sucked air. “Kurita’s still in power and Katana’s a fraccing warlord!” He sucked in another breath. “You took care of everyone else. But Katana? No, she gets to live.”

“She lives because that pleases me.” Jonathan gave a negligent yawn and stretched. His spanking new, emerald-green armor creaked at its joints. A good thing Marcus was so well off. Even better that he’d become such a wizard with computers: a hundred different accounts under as many aliases, and brimming with lovely cash. He toyed with his new helmet, admiring his reflection. “Alive, she suits our needs.”

It pleased him when Marcus’ skin turned dark as a beet. “Our needs?” he wheezed. “Aren’t we really talking about your needs?

“No,” he lied. (It came so naturally.) “Marcus, the best way to make someone suffer is to take away everything they hold dear, everything they care about—but a little at a time. You hold out hope that things will get better, and then they don’t. We know what that’s like, don’t we, Brother? Our father divorced our mother, but we hung on to him, became his little shadows.” An image in his mind’s eye: of the day he was made, finally, a Son of the Dragon after years of training—and all because his father would not call him son. “And then Father simply disappeared, leaving us on our own. So I ask you. Is killing Katana punishment? She can only die once. But take away what and who she cares for, and she’ll wish she was dead. That’s revenge—slow and sweet.”

“Only sweet for you.” Marcus made a horsey sound. “You like killing. But that’s not even it. You actually like the little bitch. In fact”—he eyed his brother shrewdly—“I think you’re a little in love with her.” When he saw his brother’s expression, he gave a nasty laugh. “That’s it, isn’t it? Great, this is just perfect. I wonder if dear Katana will mind bondage, or if she’ll prefer some of your more creative antics in the boudoir?”

For the first time in his life, Jonathan was stunned to silence—and what was more: Marcus had made him angry. How had he done that? I’m in control; I’m always in control …

“I… admire her,” he said, choosing his words with care. “I’m like any hunter, Marcus. I appreciate the wiliness of the fox even as I run it down.”

“But in your own good time.” Marcus laughed again, but silently, like a dog. “You think I don’t see what’s going on? Look at you: safely ensconced in Katana’s camp, Crawford and little Emi falling all over you with gratitude; and you’ve got Bhatia by the balls. Being so beloved and in so many camps is handy, isn’t it? Except that’s not even it. This isn’t about vengeance for you anymore.”

“Indeed?” Jonathan kept his voice light. “Then what is it, Brother?”

“Katana Tormark. That’s all. You need Katana alive.”

“Do I,” said Jonathan, his tone dry but when he toyed with his visor, his fingers shook. “My, Marcus, all this armchair psychoanalysis… just why would I need Katana alive?”

“Because you love her. The killing is almost beside the point now. Now, every time a woman begs for her life, you hear Katana’s voice. Every time you fantasize about a woman, it’s Katana you see, Katana’s body under your hands. She’s gotten under your skin. Whatever plans we made together are gone—because you want her. You love killing; you love her suffering; and you love her. But you’ve got a problem. Eventually…” And now Marcus leaned forward and said with a confidential air, “You’ll have to kill her, and do you know why? Because wanting her means she has the power, not you. So Katana will have to die—or you will. Because you are Death, Jonathan. And everyone you touch will die with you.”

Later, Jonathan would remember everything that came next: astonishment, then anger and mortification and then—relief. Yes, Katana was his; they were fated for one another; all the taboos had dropped away, and he would have her and he would possess her and he would destroy her: an inch at a time, for a very long, long time to come.