Not to mention the permanently useful, Claude thought. There had been a new wave of suicide bombings, mostly of kzinti wandering through human neighborhoods. The reprisals had been fairly ghastly but not indiscriminate . . . yet. He repressed an impulse to dabble at his forehead.
“That data . . . not to mention those strakakers and antitank weapons and nightvision goggles . . . all constitute more than enough to qualify me as monkeymeat,” he said. “The kzinti are much harder on their immediate servants, you know.”
“I weep for you,” the other man said.
Perhaps if I hadn’t been so cursed efficient, Claude thought.
“In fact,” the Resistance fighter went on, “I’d break a personal rule and watch the video while they hunted you down. But you’re too valuable to lose, if this”—he tapped his wrist—”is genuine. Don’t move for a half hour.”
He left, and Claude lit a cigarette with hands that shook quietly.
How long can I last? he wondered clinically as he stared out at the blue Donau. A month at least. Possibly six months to a year. I might even be able to spot it coming and go bush when they get on to me. A short life.
“Still better than a long and comfortable death,” he whispered.
* * *
“Well. So.”
The oyabun nodded and folded his hands.
Jonah looked around. They were in the three-twelve shell of Tiamat, where spin gave an equivalent of .72-G weight. Expensive, even now when gravity polarizers were beginning to spread beyond kzinti and military-manufacturing use. Microgravity is marvelous for most industrial use. There are other things that need weight, bearing children to term is among them. This room was equally expensive. Most of the furnishings were wood: the low tables at which they all sat, knees crossed; the black-lacquered carved screens with rampant tigers as well, and he strongly suspected that those were even older than General Buford Early. A set of Japanese swords rested in a niche, long katana and the short “sword of apology,” on their ebony stand.
Sandalwood incense was burning somewhere, and the floor was covered in neat mats of plaited straw. Against all this the plain good clothes of the man who called himself Shigehero Hirose were something of a shock. The thin ancient porcelain of his sake cup gleamed as he set it down on the table, and spoke to the Oriental who had come with the general. Jonah kept his face elaborately blank; it was unlikely that either of them suspected his knowledge of Japanese . . . enough to understand most of a conversation, if not to speak it. Nippon’s tongue had never been as popular as her goods, being too difficult for outsiders to learn easily.
“It is . . . an unexpected honor to entertain one of the Tokyo branch of the clan,” Shigehero was saying. “And how do events proceed in the land of the Sun Goddess?”
Watsuji Hajime shrugged. “No better than can be expected, Uncle,” he replied, and sucked breath between his teeth. “This war presents opportunities, but also imposes responsibilities. Neutrality is impossible.”
“Regrettably, this is so,” Shigehero said. His face grew stern. “Nevertheless, you have revealed the Association’s codewords to outsiders.” They both glanced sidelong at Early and Matthieson. “Perhaps you are what you claim. Perhaps not. This must be demonstrated. Honor must be established.”
Whatever that meant, the Earther-Japanese did not like it. His face stayed as expressionless as a mask carved from light-brown wood, but sweat started up along his brow. A door slid open, and one of the guards who had brought them here entered noiselessly. Jonah recognized the walk; training in the Art, one of the budo styles. An organic fighting-machine. Highly illegal on Earth until the War, and for the most part in the Alpha Centauri system as well. Otherwise he was a stocky nondescript man in loose black, although the Belter thought there might be soft armor beneath it. Moving with studied grace, he knelt and laid the featureless rectangle of blond wood by Watsuji’s left hand.
The Earther bowed his head, a lock of black hair falling over his forehead. Then he raised his eyes and slid the box in front of him, opening it with delicate care. Within were a white linen handkerchief, a folded cloth, a block of maple, and a short curved guardless knife in a black leather sheath. Watsuji’s movements took on the slow precision of a religious ritual as he laid the maple block on the table atop the cloth and began binding the little finger of his left hand with the handkerchief, painfully tight. He laid the hand on the block and drew the knife. It slid free without sound, a fluid curve. The two men’s eyes were locked as he raised the knife.
Jonah grunted as if he had been kicked in the belly. The older man was missing a joint on the little finger of his left hand, too. The Sol-Belter had thought that was simply the bad medical care available in the Swarm, but anyone who could afford this room . . .
The knife flashed down, and there was a small spurt of blood, a rather grisly crunching sound like celery being sliced. Watsuji made no sound, but his face went pale around the lips. Shigehero bowed more deeply. The servant-guard walked forward on his knees and gathered up the paraphernalia, folding the cloth about it with the same ritual care. There was complete silence, save for the sigh of ventilators and Watsuji’s deep breathing, harsh but controlled.
The two Nipponjin poured themselves more of the heated rice wine and sipped. When Shigehero spoke again, it was in English.
“It is good to see that the old customs have not been entirely forgotten in the Solar system,” he said. “Perhaps my branch of the Association was . . . shall we say a trifle precipitate, when they decided emigration was the only way to preserve their, ah, purity.” He raised his glass slightly to the general. “When your young warriors passed through last month, I was surprised that so much effort had been required to insert so slender a needle. I see that we underestimated you.”
He picked up a folder of printout on the table before him. “It is correct that the . . . ah, assets you and your confederates represent would be a considerable addition to my forces,” he went on. “However, please remember that my Association is more in the nature of a family business than a political organization. We are involved in the underground struggle against the kzin because we are human, little more.”
Early raised his cup of sake in turn; the big spatulate hands handled the porcelain with surprising delicacy. “You . . . and your, shall we say, black-clad predecessors have been involved in others’ quarrels before this. To be blunt, when it paid. The valuata we brought are significant, surely?”
Jonah blinked in astonishment. This is the cigar-chomping, kick-ass general I came to know and loathe? he thought. Live and learn. Learn so that you can go on living. . . . Then again, before the kzinti attack Buford Early had been a professor of military history at the ARM academy. You had to be out of the ordinary for that; it involved knowledge that would send an ordinary man to the psychists for memory-wipe.
Shigehero made a minimalist gesture. “Indeed. Yet this would also involve integrating your group in my command structure. An indigestible lump, a weakness in the chain of command, since you do not owe personal allegiance to me. And, to be frank, non-Nipponese generally do not rise to the decision-making levels in this organization. No offense.”
“None taken,” Early replied tightly. “If you would prefer a less formal link?”
Shigehero sighed, then brought up a remote ‘board from below the table, and signed to the guards. They quickly folded the priceless antique screens, to reveal a standard screen-wall.
“That might be my own inclination, esteemed General,” he said. “Except that certain information has come to my attention. Concerning Admiral Ulf Reichstein-Markham of the Free Wunderland Navy . . . I see your young subordinate has told you of this person. And the so-valuable ship he left in the Herrenmann’s care, and a . . . puzzling discovery they have made together.”
A scratching at the door interrupted him. He frowned, then nodded. It opened, revealing a guard and another figure who looked to Early for confirmation. The general accepted a data-tab, slipped it into his belt unit and held the palm-sized computer to one ear.
Ah, thought Jonah. I’m not the only one to get a nasty shock today. The black man’s skin had turned grayish, and his hands shook for a second as he pushed the “wipe” control. Jonah chanced a glance at his eyes. It was difficult to be sure—they were dark and the lighting was low—but he could have sworn the pupils expanded to swallow the iris.