Shadowrun: Steel Rain Part 9

"Arinori," says Honjowara-sama.

A paneled door along the wall to Machiko's rear slides open. The Chairman's personal aide enters. He moves to Honjowara-sama's side, bows and kneels; then, at a brief gesture from the Chairman, turns toward Machiko.

"I found this artifact on a visit to Kyoto, some years ago," says Honjowara-sama. "Give me the benefit of your opinion."

The hands of the Chairman's aide are draped with fine linen, upon which lies a wakizashi. Machiko examines the short sword, its intricate grip, its scabbard, with her eyes. The sword itself appears to be of a customary length, about 46 centimeters. Its grip, wrapped in same, shark skin, appears carved out of ivory. The tsuba, or guard, appears fashioned out of steel, ornamented in gold, and formed into a design like billowing clouds. The lacquered green scabbard is decorated with an inlaid pattern like a forest of reeds, chaped or capped at the end by a golden kojiri in the form of a coiling dragon. The scabbard is also fitted with both kozuka and kogai, the customary small knife and "headpin," their handles inscribed with the images of a tiger and a waterfall.

"Give me your warrior's keen view," says Honjowara-sama.

This can only have one meaning.

The warrior's view regards only the quality of the weapon as a weapon. Machiko bows. Reverently, she draws the short sword from its scabbard. She rises and draws back, away from Honjowara-sama and his Lady; then, with katana in one hand, wakizashi in the other, she begins the kata of Two Waves Crashing.

The short sword's quality immediately becomes apparent. Its grip seems almost to meld with her fingers and hand. It moves like an extension of her spirit and will. It is of a quality like that of her katana, produced by a master. She returns it reverently to its scabbard. She bows and kneels.

"A most excellent weapon, Chairman-sama."

Honjowara-sama nods. "Its tang is not signed."

This remark, so casually offered, only heightens her opinion of the sword. Some of the greatest masters of j.a.panese sword history left their blades unsigned. They believed that anyone worthy of their work should be able to identify the maker without reference to a signature, and that persons incapable of doing so were not worthy of knowing how truly valuable a sword they held.

Machiko runs her eyes once more over the weapon, lying over the linen-draped hands of the Chairman's aide. With the Chairman's permission, she bares the blade and examines it closely. The thought that springs abruptly to mind is irresistible.

"This is an Osafune blade."

Honjowara-sama nods. "Sukayo-san has expressed this same opinion."

Machiko cannot resist a faint smile.

Perhaps the most famous blades were made by the ancient master Masamune in the fourteenth century, followed by those of his son and grandson. These blades, some reputed to thirst for blood, represent the best of the Koto period, produced prior to 1600. Later masters of the Shinto, or "new," period are generally considered to be not as good. However, the best of the Shinto period masters produced blades better than many of the Koto period. The masters of the city of Osafune in j.a.pan are considered to rank among the best. They produced many blades of the finest quality.

Machiko can well imagine the pleasure with which her "older brother" Sukayo would regard such a blade. "It is an honor to meet such ancient steel."

"It is yours," says Honjowara-sama.

The suggestion alone would be unsettling.

Machiko struggles to breathe, to remain calm. She bows, bows deeply. "Chairman-sama," she says. "Please forgive me, I am not worthy of such a gift. I am a crude barbarian kneeling before an instrument of G.o.d-inspired perfection. This sword deserves to be held by one who has sought the Buddha nature, who draws near enlightenment. I could never be worthy of such an honor."

Honjowara-sama's expression turns fierce. In a voice that is quiet yet filled with determined power, he says, "The warrior serves without thought of reward. Duty is duty. In former times, it was said that the foremost retainer thinks exclusively of the welfare of the lord, seeking neither honor nor wealth. Yet, all of man's work is a b.l.o.o.d.y business, and people are weak, and the loyal retainer must be encouraged. It is the obligation of a Chairman, from time to time, to express his satisfaction with those who loyally serve Nagato Combine. And it is my decision now to give this incontrovertible sign that I choose to accept your advice, Machiko-san, and draw the companion sword of the GSG."

And here Honjowara-sama takes the short sword from the hands of his aide and offers it resolutely to Machiko.

"I have drawn the companion sword. Now you, Machiko-san, must wield it."

She has no alternative. The Chairman's will is clear. Machiko bows. She accepts the sword and bows again. "How may I best serve Nagato Combine, Chairman-sama? Command me."

Honjowara-sama replies, "The deployment of the Guard, including that of the senior members, is for the acting senior to determine. Let duty be your guide."

Machiko breathes, breathes deeply, and bows.

16.

The room is just one of many in the Critical Care Unit of the Kissena Park Hospital complex in Flushing, Queens. The ceiling is white, the walls beige, the floor a darker brown. There are no chairs or other conveniences such as might be provided for visitors. The shutters over the windows are shut, the lighting is subdued. Beside the only bed stands a sophisticated medical monitoring station, linked directly to the central station outside. The only patient seems lost among pillows, bed sheets, polished chrome side rails, and the array of wires and tubes coiling between bed and monitoring station.

There is much, however, that distinguishes Room 5 from the other rooms of the Critical Care Unit.

Two Nagato Security officers in civilian attire stand outside the door. Two members of the GSG stand watch just inside. A Buddhist priest chants a few prayers. Private duty medtechs give the patient a complete sponge bath, and when they are done a cosmetician attends the patient's hair and fingernails and all the other minor details essential to maintaining a meticulous appearance. And when all of that is done with, and the room is quiet and still, Machiko gently strokes the patient's cheek with the fragrant petals of a black rose, then takes the patient's left hand and encloses it in her own.

"Older Brother," she says softly. "The doctors say you are much improved. You must hasten your recovery. Your wisdom and strength are sorely needed."

The brain activity display on the med console shows subtle variations at nearly every word she speaks. Machiko wonders if that is good or bad. Is she helping in some small way? What else might she say or do to contribute to Sukayo's recovery?

Her eyes turn inevitably to the small black-draped table beside the bed, to the lacquered stand bearing katana and wakizashi. Reverently, she lifts the katana and lowers it to the cranny between Sukayo's arm and chest. Gently, she curls his hand around the katana's grip. Is it her imagination or do the fingers of his powerful left hand briefly flicker with tension?

"Older Brother," she says at near a whisper, leaning down to his ear. "You killed that dog of an a.s.sa.s.sin. Your honor is unblemished. Now you must grow strong. Nagato Combine needs its warriors. The Chairman needs his foremost weapon. You must be focused on recovering. You must be resolved." More words come to mind, learned long ago in her youth. "You must chase down your enemy, Older Brother. Discern the enemy's rhythm and destroy it. Plunge recklessly into battle and defeat the thousand-handed threat."

The supine form in the bed does not answer, of course. Sukayo-san is unconscious, in stable but critical condition. The question now is not whether he will survive. The resources of Nagato Combine will ensure that he survives. Doctors and mage-physicians and a universe of advanced medical technology will ensure that Sukayo survives. The issue is whether he will survive as a warrior, one of the foremost warriors of the Guard, or face the rest of his life condemned as a crippled reflection of himself.

Sukayo must hold on. He must maintain vital signs above a certain threshold, avoid every touch of the surgeon's knife that can be avoided. He must hold his ground for the three to five weeks needed to prepare one hundred-percent compatible clonal duplicates for those of his organs damaged beyond hope of repair. Every surgical procedure and anything less than one hundred-percent compatible clonal transplants threaten to impair his ability to use mana, and therefore his mastery as a warrior.

The doctors have done the absolute minimum required to stabilize his condition. Now only waiting remains.

Machiko gazes briefly onto the astral, the plane of power, where all life reveals its truths, and mana ebbs and flows like the waters of a vast primordial sea. How easy it is to forget the mana, until now, a moment like this, when mana becomes all-important. That is because, like Sukayo, like all the elves of the Guard, she uses mana as she would use a sword, without thought, without design. They are all mages in this sense, wielding a brand of magic with unique application to the world of the physical. This is how she was able to thrust an old man toward the ground before a bomb could be detonated. How she could heal herself in one small part of a morning. How she could deflect the a.s.sault of a killer using only a slim strip of pliable steel.

Without the mana she would be just one more able warrior in a world of sly hunters and chrome killers. With it, all things become possible. With it, her sword, the primitive artifact of a feudal era, becomes a weapon the equal of any.

"You must fight, Older Brother," she says softly, urgently. "Fight as though you are already dead. Do not think of victory or defeat. Retaliate. Attack. Attack. And you will soon awaken from your dream."

Machiko bows her head and whispers entreaties to the kami of warriors and the kami of medicine and healing to promote Sukayo's recovery. She returns Sukayo's sword to its stand.

At the door, she pauses to tell the two GSG on watch, "Notify me at once if Sukayo-san awakes. Notify me of anything he says or seems to say, regardless of his condition."

"Understood," says the senior of the pair.

Just beyond the entrance to the Critical Care Unit, Machiko enters the unit lounge, a small pastel-shaded room rimmed in fauxplas chairs and cushioned benches. Here wait Sukayo's adoptive parents, two stepsisters, and spouses. All are Nagato employees. The parents are mid-level executives, the father in marketing, the mother in market research. Sukayo's sisters and their spouses are all employed by various Nagato subsidiaries.

They are watched over by a pair of Nagato security officers in plainclothes. Also present is a family counseling specialist from the Nagato Corp Office of Employee Services.

All present rise. They bow with great respect, to a degree greater than Machiko prefers, for it makes her uncomfortable. It appears that the wakizashi slung through her belt at the left of her waist has escaped no one's notice. Only the most senior GSG carry the sword, and only at the express invitation of the Chairman. The implication is that she now acts not merely in the Chairman's defense, but as his personal agent.

She bows. "I took hold of Sukayo-san's hand and felt his fingers tense, very faintly, as if he tried to respond to my grip. I believe Sukayo-san knows we are here and takes strength from our presence. I am encouraged."

Sukayo's stepfather, a norm, seems all but overwhelmed by emotion, unable to speak, his eyes rimmed in red, his cheeks and brow gleaming with moisture. Sukayo's stepmother, also a norm, grips her husband's elbow tightly with both hands, but bows and says, "Thank you, Machiko-san. Thank you for coming. Thank you for sending members of the Guard to watch over our son." It seems to require a considerable effort, but she offers a smile. "You are a loyal 'younger sister' to our son, Mac.h.i.n.ko-san. Thank you. Thank you for everything."

Machiko bows. It is difficult to maintain a settled spirit. It is difficult to see the pain on the face of Sukayo's father, and to endure the excessive thanks offered by his mother. She has been a not infrequent visitor to the home of Sukayo's parents. They are all aware of the measure of her friendship with Sukayo and have spoken to her in the past as if she were a member of their family. They have welcomed her to dinner and to any number of family gatherings. It is agonizingly clear how they are suffering. Every pain, every fear, seems highlighted in glaring neon.

"Machiko-san . . One of Sukayo's sisters shifts forward, bowing. "Are you able to tell us anything of what happened to Sukayo?"

Machiko tells what is she able to tell. She has only just taken hold of the sword Honjowara-sama gave her. She has determined how she will begin to wield that sword, and much will happen before this day is over, but first she had to come here, to visit her Older Brother.

Recalling the Chairman's words, she says, quietly, "The Chairman has mobilized Nagato Combine's resources. We have many indications as to what is happening. We seek clarity. In that regard, I must now turn to all of you."

"To us?"

As a group, they seem perplexed. "I have spoken with the doctors," Machiko explains. "They say that before he entered surgery, Sukayo-san was briefly conscious, or near-conscious. It is rumored that he may have spoken. I must ask if any of you heard anything that he may have said."

Many pairs of eyes glance back and forth. Finally, it is Sukayo's mother who says, "I am sorry, Machiko-san. Sukayo has said nothing. Nothing understandable."

"Yet he made an attempt to speak?"

"Like one who is asleep. Who dreams."

"Could you understand none of it?"

Sukayo's mother looks to the elder of the two sisters, who looks with uncertainty to Machiko, and says, "Once, he seemed to say something. A number, I thought."

"I thought he was just moaning," the younger sister says. "What number?" Machiko asks.

"Two-six," says the elder sister.

"Four-two-six," says the younger.

The two exchange glances. "It was very hard to hear him," says the older sister. "I'm not sure about the four, but he definitely said two-six."

"I'm sure," the younger sister insists.

Machiko contains her surprise. Four-two-six-if Sukayo truly said this, it would imply much. It is a number with great significance within the Chinese hierarchy of beliefs. It is a number used to refer to the "Red Pole" in charge of enforcement for a Triad criminal organization.

Did Sukayo perceive some evidence that a Triad boss or group sent the a.s.sa.s.sin who attacked him? Or was this mere speculation? A guess? Machiko ponders this at some length and concludes that one thing is certainly clear. Older Brother could not have chosen a more succinct means of directing her attention to the possibility of Triad involvement, and that possibility, she decides, must be pursued.

Even Sukayo's "guesses" tend to prove out.

17.

The street in Brooklyn is a river of flashing, flaring light squeezed between storefront shops and small plazas of stores, clogged by vehicle traffic and swarming with early evening shift-change crowds. From above comes the roaring of an express on an elevated subway line, from curbside the incessant babble of trideo and laserdis adstands. The crowds packing the sidewalks, surging across the roadway in sudden tides, include everything from suits and salarymen to chrome dogs and squatters: human, elf, ork, of every color, shape, and size. None pay lasting attention to the pair of silver-gray Infiniti E9 heavy sedans easing along the curb lane at walking speed. None give more than a glance at the pair of male norms in blue-trimmed black sports coats threading their way through the crowds on the sidewalk.

Then, abruptly, a man in brown cargo-utilities turns and breaks into a run.

Brake lights flare. Kobun of the Yoshida-kai pour from the Infiniti sedans. Lieutenant Enotori of Nagato Security Service starts out the pa.s.senger door of the second sedan, but then hesitates, looking into the rear of the car. Machiko gives no sign of noticing the lieutenant's hesitance. She switches off her handcomp, pushes out through her door, then mounts the sidewalk and follows the pursuit at a determined stride.

People who merely stepped aside to avoid the charging kobun draw back to form a wide swath around her.

It is not unexpected.

The pursuit ends just up the block in the confines of an alleyway lit by brilliant spotlights. The alley ends at a wall of macrolinked fencing topped by razor wire. Two vicious mongrels snarl and snap from the other side of the fence. The norm male with his back to the fence, hemmed in by a semicircle of kobun is known as Yakei, "Watchman." He brandishes a b.u.t.terfly knife and menaces the kobun, but as the datajack in his temple implies, his specialty is information.

The kobun draw back as Machiko advances. Yakei abruptly shifts his focus to her. He bares his teeth and, grunting, growling, slashes at the air between them with the knife. His desperation is clear.

"Enough," says Machiko.

The desperation lingers a moment more, then dismay blossoms full. The inevitability of what he must do is by then apparent. The knife drops to the ground. As Machiko advances nearer, Yakei withdraws to the corner formed of macrolink fencing and the rough concrete wall of the building on the left. Then there is no place else to go, nowhere to turn.

Machiko extends a hand to Yakei's shoulder. He winces. He feels something on the order of a gentle p.r.i.c.kling of pinpoints as she tickles the nerves at the crook of shoulder and neck. "It is a dangerous time to be an enemy of Nagato," she says softly, leaning close. "Swords have been drawn. Serpents walk the streets. Are you a friend or enemy? Tell me now."

Yakei licks his lips. "A friend. I-I'm a friend."

Machiko shifts nearer, near enough to feel the heat of the man's quick, deep breaths. "Enemies will be destroyed," she says softly as before. "Cut down ruthlessly and ground into dust. You understand this. You know the truth of what I say."

Abruptly, Yakei nods.

"You say you are a friend. Yet two months ago you issued threats against Nagato's Chairman. Is that not the Way of an enemy?"

Yakei swallows a huge breath. He seems to shudder. Seems to be struggling against a new rise of desperation, mingled with fear. "Hey, I was just jinked off. One of you, you Serpents jacked me around." Another large breath. "I didn't mean nothing."

"You have friends among the Triads."

"No-"

A pained expression suddenly grips his features as Machiko gives stronger stimulus to pressure points. "Do not lie," Machiko says. "Lies will not be tolerated."

"I didn't do . . . didn't do nothing!"

"Your friends. What do they tell you?"

"Nothing! They told me nothing!"

"What do you hear!"

Yakei begins shaking visibly. He wipes spittle from his lips with a trembling hand. "Somebody's buying heavy chrome. Freelance cutters. At bargain prices."

"Heavy chrome does not come cheaply."

"It does if a mage makes it that way."

"You suggest that a mage would use sorcery to influence chromed killers? You speak madness."