Still, he wanted to see her again. He wouldn’t beg, but he’d make one final offer.

“If you let me know where I can reach you later, then, perhaps we can trade our first impressions of Geneva.”

Danai searched his face carefully, no doubt wondering how much was simple curiosity and how much was the need to find out more about her. In the game they played, he was asking her to concede a point. Concede, or end it here in a stalemate, with little chance to resume later. Finally, she nodded. Once.

“You can reach me through the Capellan Cultural Exchange,” she said, voice terse.

A Capellan! Truly forbidden fruit. He had wondered, with her Asian heritage, but sloe eyes and a Mandarin accent was hardly conclusive proof of Confederation birth.

Now that he knew, it was a large piece to the puzzle that was Danai. Cargo being seized by customs… Capellan artifacts, perhaps? Or something perishable? Good Sian wine, or naranji fruit; both were considered a restricted export item. And with hostilities between nations right now, House Liao and The Republic at war, it couldn’t make things any easier for her.

But Caleb might. He did have influence. Maybe not on Terra, but through his father he could reach so many worlds. And he might be convinced to do a favor for a friend. For the right price.

“The Exchange,” he said. “All right.” He nodded toward the waiting customs agent. “If you are certain there is nothing I can do now?”

She shook her head.

Caleb put on his sunglasses again. “I won’t keep you any longer, then.” He had what he wanted. He turned down the ramp, following a trio of dockworkers maneuvering a large pallet jack.

“Caleb.”

He stopped, looked back.

Danai had paused in the shadow of the cargo bay. She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll see you.”

She would. He was certain about that. Caleb nodded, and then stepped easily down the ramp to his waiting Stormfire. Its air-conditioned interior was a welcome freshness after the heat that rolled off the tarmac. It smelled of fine leather. The engine, when he let it have its head, growled with released fury.

Mason laughed, cheering him on, and Caleb grinned savagely as he cut very close to a scrambling port worker. “Watch out!” Mason warned.

“Missed him by a good meter.” He followed the track of DropPort personnel, all waving their red batons to guide him along a safe road. Sometimes he even obeyed their directions. But not often. What would they do? Kick him off-world for failing to yield to an electric cargo bus?

Right.

Terra

Republic of the Sphere

19 April 3135

Yori Kurita walked the banks of the Kitakami Gawa, measuring the estuary’s fall since high tide. About two hours. The rank smell of uncovered salt-muds, mussels and water grasses lifted from the wide basin and fought with the flowering orchids cultivated in the nature preserve’s many nearby koi ponds.

Caught between the poisoned and the perfumed. That was her story.

“We carry our own honor and that of our ancestors,” she whispered. Barely loud enough to reach her own ears. “What we accomplish adds to their glory, or erases a small measure of their failures.”

As a mantra it brought little peace of mind, but with no one to really talk to, the introspection kept her thoughts busy. Focused. And there was little else to do now, other than to think and consider. Pacing the flagstone path in short, uncertain strides, Yori kept to the Kitakami “riverside” as she wrestled with her own feelings for being on Terra. She did not belong here as part of the coordinator’s entourage.

Rescued from obscurity by Warlord Toranaga.

She nodded a bow of respect toward a pair of samurai guards who stood an alert vigil at the next fork. A mix of the old and the new, this watchpost. Both men wore body armor beneath silk kimonos, and carried Nakjama laser pistols as well as katana swords. Flickering torches burned above them though twilight was still an hour away, the brands fed by a natural gas supply hidden inside the bamboo poles. One samurai held a small scanning device that measured infrared heat signatures.

The coordinator of the Draconis Combine did not travel lightly.

In fact, the natural preserve above Ishinomaki Port had been chosen specifically for its remote location and ease of security controls, as much as for its simple beauty. The flower gardens disguised remote sensors, and several of the small teahouse structures were actually security posts crammed with electronics and infantry squads. Even the two BattleMechs standing constant guard on the northern and southern approaches were artfully hidden behind screens of tall, thick-bodied cypress.

She passed beneath a short walk of cherry trees that were dropping a light snowfall of pink, perfect blossoms. “Beautiful,” she said. But her tone left the word sounding flat. Unappreciative.

“You do not approve of flowers?”

The voice, coming almost from right beneath her left elbow, made Yori jump to one side, her hand flashing quickly to the katana tucked into her obi.

Kisho sat cross-legged beneath the deep shadow of a cherry tree, resting against the silver-gray bark. Completely still. The Nova Cat mystic had white-pink blossom petals stuck in his dark hair, littering his shoulders and lap. His eyes were dark pits. Cloaked and impassive.

“Do you mystics routinely involve yourself in someone else’s thoughts?” Yori asked, snapping off the question with a hostile glare.

“Contrary to what you might have heard, we are not mind readers.” Kisho did not pretend so much as a civil nod. He remained motionless. “Mostly, we observe. And just now I observed you apparently talking to yourself, Kurita Yori– san.”

He was right. If anything, she had disturbed his wa, not the other way around. The Kurita name and Toranaga’s patronage allowed her to forgo any kind of apology, no matter the transgression, but she nodded politely regardless. “You are correct, Kisho– san.” Her voice was softer. Conciliatory. “I did not mean to interrupt your meditation.”

“No meditation. Just a plan for an evening away from the looks and glares of your …comrades.”

Meaning Katsuwe and the other samurai making up the coordinator’s escort. They refused to accept the mystic, who they saw as a fraud and perhaps even a spy for the Nova Cat faction that lived inside the Draconis Combine. Kisho’s blood notwithstanding, he was not samurai. He was not to be trusted.

Much like they treated Yori, actually. And much—she now saw—like she had also treated the young Nova Cat warrior. Outcast.

Unclean.

A flush burned on her cheeks. “You shame me alongside them, Kisho. I apologize on all our behalf.”

And because her honor could not simply leave it at that, Yori moved off the flagstone path and sank to the grassy, petal-covered ground. She was surrounded by fragrant blossoms, and the smell of the changing tide receded until there was only the slightest—yet persistent—hint of rot beneath a wonderful perfume. Yori knelt, resting back on her calves, assuming a posture she knew she could roll out of and into instant readiness. She made such choices almost without thinking.

“I am not your enemy.”