7

Katana’s Journal
15 June 3136

Okay, I thought I’d never do word one of a journal again. See, last year, somehow, parts of my old journal leaked. Not much, and not very important stuff, but you know newsies. Screaming headlines, and then, of course, they start those frigging forums for people who wouldn’t know a joystick if someone jammed one up their ass. So, of course, they’re qualified to weigh in on me. She doesn’t sound like a general. Or She needs a psychiatrist. Or Who’d follow her?

You know what I say? Piss off. Really. Get real. We all come from families, and we all got problems. You think a general speaks in declamatory language all day long? Let us engage the enemy! We will fight with honor! Excuse me while I pick my teeth with my bayonet!

<Snerk> Hell-oooo. Get a grip.

(Let’s hope somebody leaks that. People’d go nuts. Tempted to do it myself. On the other hand, that’s why I decided to use this microrecorder. Hard to break the encryption, and it looks like an ordinary bracelet.)

Anyway . . . this trip. Just all kinds of fun. There’s so much going on—with the Nova Cats, the so-called Republic March and that schemer Erik Sandoval-Groell. And me trying to get enough frigging troops to capture one lousy planet while I’m scrambling to pull enough people in to secure the worlds I was already supposed to have taken last year . . . I feel like a gerbil on a wheel running to nowhere.

As for last night? Anyone reads this? Yes, I wore a bright orange furisode to the reception. Just wanted to clear that up. And, for the record, here’s what the coordinator said: ‘‘Next time, perhaps we should distribute sunglasses.’’

Now, why did I do that? Very simple. First of all, it’s not a crime. The uniform’s just tradition. So long as I don’t show up buck naked, I can wear whatever I want. See, after the sim, everyone expected me to come in with my tail between my legs. No way. So I did the furisode. Put a whole new complexion on the evening, that’s for sure.

One person thought I didn’t see her noticing me, but I saw her. The AMAZING Yori Kurita. Sure, I understand that she had every right to commandeer my troops on Ronel. She saved their butts. But they were my troops, and now I get to deal with this little kitten upstaging me with my own people. Worse, watching me lose that sim and then having to listen to Toranaga yammer on about how much better their sims are now that the Kitten’s worked on their systems, blah, blah, blah.

And then today, Toranaga makes his little gift of the Kitten and her troops—my troops—to Theodore. Gee, kind of hard to miss that, gosh, Katana’s the one who’s got a campaign to wage, remember her?

Worse, I’ve had desertions . . . and none more puzzling than the Bounty Hunter. Gone for over four months now and not a whisper. Where can he be? Andre got some garbled reports of the Hunter being on Asta, but they couldn’t be confirmed, and now the Hunter’s dropped out of sight.

I don’t know why this bothers me so much. Why I seem to actually, well, miss the Hunter. Wonder where he is, and if he thinks about me . . .

Uh-oh. I’m not going there. I don’t even want to think about that.

Anyway . . . so, Toranaga did his thing. Then the coordinator did his. First, he named Theodore as interim overseer for the Benjamin district. Knock me over with a feather, but it’s a godsend. Having Theodore in Benjamin means I don’t have to watch my back. Whatever Ghost Bear’s sending over the border, Theodore will beat them back, freeing me up to concentrate on Dieron. I figure this is as far as the coordinator can go for me in front of the others.

As it was, this still might have been too far. I saw the look Toranaga gave Bhatia. Something . . . odd there. (Though Bhatia was so stunned, his jaw actually dropped. That was worth the price of admission.)

But then the real bombshell: Remember Yori Kurita? Yes, she of the AMAZING fame? Well, Theodore made a gift of her to . . .

. . Wait for it . . .

Me.

Oh. Joy.

What else can go wrong?