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  “A punishment is in order,” he declared at last, “for disturbing the right order of my heavens. You were sent here with great expectations, Sahane, but you have only proven how low your noble line has fallen.” The zhongdu made a gesture indicating large and abiding regret. His nostrils flared wide to inhale the aspect of the young priest suffering deliciously from pure fear. Ekbanz felt almost repaid for having this embarrassment cluttering up the embassy for so many months. “The Hypothesis that brought all of this about was posited by you, and you will prove it out.”

  Sahane’s nose quivered. “Esteemed, I only imagined…”

  “Pack your bags. You will accompany the local toys to investigate this anomaly.”

  “Yes, of course. Guide my Thoughts.”

  “They shall find Guidance.”

  ***

  Sahane shuffled out into the outer hallway and sank immediately into a dreadful depression. Isn’t it enough that I am exiled to this backwater? He fished about in his pouch for a box of opium pellets. I am too large of mind and body to be stuffed into a miniature spaceship! How shall I stand the smell and chatter of these ignorant toys? It will take too long-these foolish exercises are beyond the Rim. The universe is full of worthless stellar clusters. I am no astronomer! This is beneath the station of anyone in my family! Pah!

  “Ah, Most Honored One… word has it that you have received a crucial posting, a task from the zhongdu himself. Where are you going?”

  The young Hjo straightened up, seeing two older members of the embassy approaching. Their fur was lying quite flat and still, indicating hidden amusement and delight.

  “As you can well guess,” he replied, trying to keep his voice level, “this is a secret mission, and not to be bandied about. I must leave you now. There is little time to prepare.”

  He brushed past the others quickly, but still heard the sneering whisper: “Maybe the great Sahane can bring Right Thought to the humans and their chattels!”

  “Yes, a task worthy of our esteemed holy one!”

  “I do not need servants to remind me of my family duties,” the young Hjo mumbled to himself. “More than a thousand generations of noble duty are more reputation than any one Hjogadim of the Sacred Line should have to bear.” Once safely inside his sleeping compartment Sahane slumped against the hatchway. “Little is more useless,” he whispered bitterly to the nearest wall, “than the last priest of a race without need for Gods.”

  ***

  A thousand meters away, the unmarked aircar lifted from the landing stage with a swirl of dust and sped away into the thick, humid sky. A constant layer of cloud lay over the city, trapped beneath the massive dome which enclosed the Capital. The vapors and exhalations of the millions living below rose upward, forming a microclimate beneath the glassite despite the presence of thousands of air circulators in the dome superstructure. The leaden clouds replied with a constant, stinging rain.

  Two kilometers from the skytower, four Tocatl -class airtanks dropped out of the gloom and settled into formation around the aircar. Now the entire convoy increased speed, racing northwest across the sprawl. In the comfortable passenger compartment, the nobleman coughed harshly and rubbed his temples, trying to banish the remaining chill. The servants had dressed him on the platform, resealing his armored skinsuit, applying a fresh med-band, and pressing a cup of circulatory stimulant into his hands.

  The kaffe had gone into the disposal as soon as he was alone. He needed the warmth, but his stomach would not stand the acidity of the drink. And now his mind was full again, and ten thousand priorities vied for his attention.

  The zhongdu ’s command, however, held sway in his thoughts.

  But what could be done? If the Hjogadim wanted to interfere, then he must let them. “There is too much set on this throw to provoke another crisis,” he said aloud to the mauve and gunmetal blue compartment.

  “Would you care for hot cacahuatl? ” the CabinComp asked in a soothing feminine voice.

  “Later.” The Mexica tapped up a panel showing the faces of five men. Four were quite alike, handsome and clear-faced, flint-eyed, each radiating a sureness of spirit which would have made another father positively glow with joy. The last was a sallow, dissolute wreck with puffy features and lank hair. Despite his intent, the man’s eyes settled there and remained for a long time.

  “Tezozomoc, my son,” the Mexica breathed at last, running the edge of his little finger along the side of the 3-v pane. “You were such a beautiful child…” Great sadness suffused the Tlaltecutli ’s face, here in this false privacy. The image before him melted into that of a little black-haired baby held in a woman’s arms. His large, bright eyes looked out from the folds of a blanket. “Now look at you… my little, little boy. What has become of you?”

  After a long moment, the Emperor passed his hand over the pane and it folded away. Only the four mighty brothers remained. Outside the armored windows, the convoy threaded between soaring towers aglow with neon and searchlights. Tenochtitlan the Eternal sprawled out to fill the bowl of the Valley of the Mexica like a lake of living gold. The cold fire of his city lighted Ahuizotl’s face while he considered each of his sons in turn. Four of the finest warriors we can produce, he mused. Equipped with the finest training, with dearly bought exocortex overlays, genetically enhanced… which should I spend on this useless exercise? Who goes to the eagle’s stone?

  Minutes later, he reached out from deep thought to com Xochitl, his second-eldest, popularly know as “precious flower.”

  “My son,” he began without greeting. “I have a task, a mission which I wish you to undertake.”

  “My father, I…”

  The Emperor did not permit a response. “Someone exceptionally trustworthy must convey an agent of the zhongdu beyond the Rim. It is possible that a weapon of the First Sun has been found. Considering your capabilities, I am confident that no one else will serve. Understand that the Mirror is already on station, monitoring the device… and a Fleet battle-squadron will be underway within the hour.”

  Ahuizotl could see the combined suspicion and pleasure in Xochitl’s face. His tutors did train him to be ever wary. But he is my son, and he wishes to earn my good regard.

  “Surely one of the Admiralty would…”

  “This is family business. You must understand that. None else can assume the responsibility.” Ahuizotl smiled. “And who, then, should I send? Tezozomoc the Glorious? To command the Tlemitl?”

  Xochitl laughed nastily. Pleasure at his father’s apparent favor flushed his face. “The Tlemitl, you say?”

  “Yes. She has just cleared the fitting yards. And it is only proper that you should command her. But carefully now,” the Emperor went on, a serious tone creeping into his voice. “The Scout Service may have found something real out in the back of beyond, and if they have, the single most important thing you must do is make sure this Hjogadim emissary does not find out what it is. Too, he must be returned safely to Anahuac. And of course, we must secure the relic or object for our own use. You understand?”

  Xochitl nodded.

  Ahuizotl knew his son’s blood would be afire with the prospect of reaching high enough to touch the face of Tonatiuh itself. As for himself, the Emperor felt exhaustion and sadness settle deeper into his bones. We cannot afford the loss of a ship like the Firearrow… not now. I can spare a son, but not her… curse the Mirror, the Judges, and all meddlers!

  He tapped the channel closed, an old song coming to mind-something he’d heard long ago, in his innocence, from one of the elders at Chapultepec:

  Oh youths, here there are skilled men with shield-reeds, In the flowers of the pendant eagle plume, The yellow flowers they grasp; they pour forth noble songs, Noble flowers; They make payment with their blood, With their bare breasts They seek the bloody field of war. And you, O friends, put on your black paint For war, for the path of victory; Let us lay hands on our shields, Raise aloft our strength and courage.

  The Akbal Yards


  Off Europa, the Jovian system

  Kosho entered the temporary officer’s mess on the Naniwa balancing a tray of tea, rice pudding, and sliced fruit on her right hand, while a heavy set of construction binders were tucked under her left arm. The room seemed enormous to her after the cramped quarters on the Cornuelle. Due to the rush of work underway to complete fitting out the ship, there were sections of wall panel missing, and several ceiling tiles were pulled up, exposing bundles of comm and power conduit.

  Two long tables ran the length of the room and both were crowded with officers of all stripes, busily digging into bowls of rice, fried egg, picken, and chillis. As soon as she’d stepped across the threshold, the nearest ensign shot up out of his place on the tatami and bawled, “ Chu-sa on deck!”

  Everyone paused, chopsticks in midair, and the veterans cast amused looks at the clean-shaven young man, so fresh from Academy. No one else stood up, though everyone was paying close attention to the new commander’s response.

  “As you were,” Susan announced to the room, which brought a rustling sound as everyone relaxed. Then she nodded politely to the ensign, saying: “We are not so formal at mealtimes, Sho-i Deskae. A well-fed crew is a hardworking crew. Please continue with your breakfast.”

  The boy was back at his bowl of noodles faster than the eye could follow, bronzed skin darkening in embarrassment. Susan hid a smile as she paced along the tables towards her place at the far end. After a dozen paces she slowed, noting an empty zabuton between two senior petty officers from Engineering-but there was a little, mahogany-skinned man sitting cross-legged on the floor in just such a way as to block anyone else from sitting on the cushion.

  Kosho stopped, looking down at his bald head and was dismayed to glimpse her own reflection. Ay, I look haggard as a fishwife, she thought. Three months of sixteen-hour days wears… that it does.

  Her initial postings to the destroyer Ceatl, and then the Cornuelle, had begun nearly a decade after the light cruiser’s commissioning, and though they’d been in dry dock or offlined for repairs many times, Hadeishi had always been in the middle of the actual repair work, leaving her to manage the local authorities and run security while he crawled around in the engines with Isoroku and the grease-monkeys. Under normal conditions, she’d have had the option to task her XO with the engineering review or take it herself-but Sho-sa MacMillan had not yet arrived from his previous command-and that left her very shorthanded.

  Now she was the one in the conduits, banging her head and shuffling around after the construction foremen and Kikan-cho Hennig while the engineers talked nonstop about kinetic absorption rates in the between-frame armor and the spalling tendencies of the new model g-decking.

  She had never felt better in her entire life, or more exhausted. Every cell in her brain had been stretched in three or four directions, and then snapped back into place. But she’s my ship, and I have-at last-my own command.

  It had not really occurred to her, until now, how long she’d spent on the Cornuelle, banging around in the dark, out beyond the fringes of Imperial control. She was years behind the others from her Academy class in achieving a ship command- but there is a balance, Kosho reminded herself, none of the others were given a battle-cruiser. None of them had her combat experience.

  “ Chu-sa Kosho,” the man said, peering up at her with a pair of black eyes. The pupil and irises were almost exactly the same peat-dark brown, leaving only a thin white ring to outline them against his skin. He was wearing the somber black uniform of the Engineering service-not the shipboard branch, which was under the purview of the Fleet, but the station-side arm, which ran the sprawling complex of orbital habitats, forges, construction frames, and fitting stations which comprised the Akbal yards.

  A Mayan, she thought with interest. Of an old, old family. What an astounding profile.

  “Oc Chac, kyo,” he said, bowing stiffly to her once he’d stood.

  “A pleasure,” she replied, then paused a split second before saying: “Is there something wrong with this zabuton?”

  Chac nodded, lips thinning.

  “Should it be replaced?”

  He shook his head, no.

  His silence was both amusing and irritating at the same time, and she was hungry.

  Chac frowned, thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “ Chu-sa, be mindful of this mess hall-always leave one seat empty. Always.”

  “What suggests this?” She shifted the binders under the tray and started picking at her sliced fruit.

  “Saving yours, kyo, there are only twenty-five seats.” He indicated the tables and Kosho saw this was indeed the case. “The last to sit will be-must be-in the thirteenth chair, regardless of how they enter.”

  “Ah,” she said, suddenly realizing who he must be. “You are our hafuri priest.”

  “No!” He shook his bald head abruptly. “The jichinsai rites to consecrate the hull will be performed by others, before you leave the yards. I am your fitting officer, kyo.”

  But our hafuri bonze should… “You’re not our fitting officer,” she said, voice suddenly cold. “You’re our superstitions officer.”

  Chac’s impassive face seemed to congeal, and Susan bit down on further angry words. That was not polite.

  “Starmen are… superstitious, Chu-sa,” the Mayan hissed, trying to keep his voice down. Kosho realized she’d cut him to the quick with the heedless statement. “Do not tempt fate! You bring this ship bad luck enough, kyo, without provoking Camaxtli with your rudeness!”

  “Bad luck?” Susan’s eyes narrowed to bare slits.

  “Not that you are a woman!” Chac hissed, standing his ground. Though Kosho would never be accounted tall, she had a good two inches over the tiny Mayan. But he did not flinch away from her. “Your last ship died, her crew disgraced, captain sent down to the List… you think no one here knows what happened at Jagan? And you survived? Were promoted? How dearly bought was that last golden skull, Chu-sa? Did your family pay?-Or did you?”

  “I see.” Kosho felt still and cold, the Mayan’s words a well-placed dart straight to the heart. She turned, sweeping the mess with a sharp, piercing glance. Every officer sat still as a statue-staring at the two of them in varying degrees of interest, horror, and uncertainty. “Rumor is fleet of foot, they say, and your ears will be filled with all manner of calamities.” Her voice echoed from the unfinished shoji. “I will say this-and no more-the Cornuelle was well and truly caught in a trap at Jagan. Her captain taken by surprise, myself trapped planet-side when the ship was stricken. The Admiralty made many excuses for us, but none of them are the truth. We had been out on patrol too long. We were far past tired, and our ship had worn down to nothing… a stupid, deadly mistake her captain rues to this day. His soul was in that ship, and now-with Cornuelle sent to the breaking yards-he is lost as well.”

  Kosho inclined her head towards the ensigns sitting near the main door. “Remember this lesson. Chu-sa Hadeishi was one of the finest ship-handlers you could ever meet-and even he was caught out-defeated-by an enemy whose first weapon was patience. The odds always turn against you.”

  “So is my belief, kyo,” Chac said, in a voice too low for the others to hear. “And what did you learn from this excellent teacher?”

  Kosho’s right hand tightened on the breakfast tray. The Mayan matched her frigid stare without flinching, then raised one eyebrow minutely, bowed, and made his way out of the room. Susan did not watch him go, but stalked to her seat and sat down.

  Kosho took two deep breaths, closed her eyes for a moment, and then set to eating the rice pudding. A fine breakfast with my officers, she thought, chewing mechanically. Very fine.

  ***

  The next week passed in a blur of construction review, sitting in with Thai-i Goroemon while the Logistics officer bartered with Supply Service to fill the ship’s holds with perishables and spare parts, and the lengthy business of actually meeting all of her department heads and their staff. In all the confusion of the tribunal
at Toroson and the hurry to get to her new command, Susan had neglected to obtain the services of a manservant or-as she might have claimed-a maid. She’d always considered Hadeishi’s maintenance of old Yejin some kind of a charitable arrangement… until now, when she woke one morning, twenty-one days after reporting aboard the Naniwa, and found she had not a single clean uniform left in her closet. The ship, of course, boasted a fine, modern laundry, but someone had to gather up the dirty clothes and send them off to be cleaned.

  Her comm chimed politely, reminding her that Thai-sho Kasir-the operational commander of the Yards-was expecting her on v-cast within the hour. A whole set of Fleet orders packets had arrived during shipnight and they required discussion with the Zosen officers responsible for the Naniwa ’s construction, as well as other personnel issues she would have to manage herself.

  Grandmother Suchiru would put her cane to the soles of my feet for this… Kosho stiffened at the thought of facing a superior Fleet officer in a less-than-immaculate uniform. All night and all day. What to do? Improvise. I will improvise.

  Frowning, Susan commed the laundry and asked the petty officer on duty to send someone around to collect everything, then she found a reasonably clean kimono and clipped her hair back.

  Laughing a little at herself, Kosho sat at her desk, woke up her main comp, and unfolded three v-panes on the desk surface. Chapultepec lower form never taught a better lesson than this!

  Her stylus skipped across the control interface in a blur as she called up a skinning module, mapped her proper dress whites onto a splice of the v-cast feed routed back from the pickup nodes to pane two, then set pane three to show her what the admiral would see.