MECHWARRIOR: DARK AGE #24: DRAGON RISING

‘‘Well, I’d never thought we’d find ourselves here,’’ Toranaga said. He held a steaming bowl of plump soba and slurped noodles.

‘‘And where is that, Tai-shu?’’ Bhatia said with a twinge of nausea. The noodle looked like a worm slithering down the gullet of a ravenous bird.

‘‘Indeed.’’ Was Toranaga fishing to see whether Bhatia had anything to do with it, or whether Bhatia suspected him? Could he risk directness? After all, they were in his private quarters located in the very heart of the ISF complex and under heavy guard. They were well soundproofed. He’d modeled his system on the Black Room, a design he had also overseen and whose flaws, deliberately placed, he exploited when necessary. (He hated surprises he hadn’t planned.)

Then Bhatia found his opening. They were attended by a single servant, a youth with dark cinnamon eyes hooded by luxuriant brown-black lashes. No boy, Cameron was a young man. Midway through the meal, Cameron offered a small platter of crisp mountain yam rolls. And that’s when Bhatia saw it—the way Toranaga reached for a roll but trailed his fingers along Cameron’s hand. Just the whisper of a touch, but it was there.

‘‘Suffice it to say Akira Tormark and his defection dealt a blow to my concerns.’’ He paused. ‘‘More to the point, where do we go from here?’’

‘‘Hunh.’’ Toranaga’s eyes were a little glassy, though he’d not had much to drink. ‘‘I’ve a suspicion that whelp Theodore will claim the prize.’’

‘‘I think not. Tai-shu Kurita will leave Dieron to Yori. He’d look greedy and impolitic if he took over the reins. Yet, if she does well . . .’’ He let the rest hang, but a sudden gleam of avarice lit Toranaga’s eyes.

For that, I must thank that opiate I added to your liquor, my dear Toranaga. You may think yourself cunning—but I am more cunning still.

Toranaga stared at Bhatia for a long moment. The ISF director could almost hear the wheels and gears turning, clicking, spinning. Calculating just how far he could go and still leave this place with his head screwed to his neck. Then Toranaga’s jet-black eyes slid to Cameron still in attendance. ‘‘You really want to talk about this now?’’

Bhatia was pleased when the young man didn’t even blink. ‘‘Cameron’s perfectly safe. Keen on being a recruit. His parents died suddenly, but he’s become my good right arm, haven’t you, Cameron?’’

‘‘Is the void which Yori will fill. Yes, yes, that’s obvious.’’ Toranaga pursed his lips, took a gulp of his liquor, said, ‘‘The question now is how far to take this, eh? Kurita’s a peacock, and I don’t see Theodore amounting to much. They’ve got uprisings on worlds he and Tormark declared secure.’’

‘‘They did occur on Tormark’s watch,’’ Bhatia demurred. Though I’d give my eyeteeth to know who’s engineering those; I might send him chocolates. ‘‘Are you implying, perhaps, a renegotiation with the coordinator?’’

‘‘Then the same thrust must eliminate both. Doesn’t much matter which goes first. But only one individual must remain to fill the void—and her name is not Emi.’’

By the gods, this is the man. Bhatia’s pulse thrilled through his veins, and he was nearly breathless with exhilaration. ‘‘And then?’’

‘‘Then we will rule with a fist of steel and a will of titanium. When the Dragon roars, the Inner Sphere will tremble.’’

‘‘No?’’ Toranaga tossed back the last of his drink. ‘‘Then let me tell you about the requiem I’ve composed.’’

When Toranaga was done, there was a small silence. Then Bhatia said slowly, ‘‘This is treason, Warlord. Be very clear about that. There is nothing subtle in this.’’

The desert had relinquished the last of its heat. The college’s lights turned the horizon amber. A cooling breeze raised gooseflesh along Bhatia’s arms—or maybe that was still the excitement of it all.

If Toranaga can make good on his plans, then I must cause enough havoc to cramp Tormark’s troops so that Yori’s arrival looks like a godsend.

But how? Best intelligence indicated that Tormark managed to wheedle a galaxy of Cats to deal with Saffel, Styx and Athenry. Likely, the little slut had attached a codicil about what should happen if she died.

‘‘Yes, but . . .’’ Bhatia trailed a forefinger along his chin. ‘‘The Cats are very respectful of these mystics, and if one or two were to die, these Cats would see this as a very bad omen. . . .’’

He spoke to the night. ‘‘Then what about you, Theodore? You’ll worry. How would it look for the granddaughter of a bastard to take Dieron? So how to interest you in Altair? Then you could legitimately claim you’d cracked The Republic’s titanium curtain. You’d not be diminished in the slightest. At your funeral, they’ll call you a hero.’’

Because when Theodore died—because die he would—everyone would mourn, and none more so than Yori, who would be the media’s darling. He’d see to that. He’d rip out her nails one by one if he had to.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door whirred open. ‘‘Cameron,’’ he said, turning, ‘‘did you make our esteemed warlord comfortable?’’

‘‘Ah.’’ Toranaga had resisted, when his gift of this young man could not have been clearer. But that sly touch of the hands . . . Could that have been for my benefit? To tweak me? He nearly chuckled. Oh, this Toranaga was a deep one. He’d enjoy working with him.

The look of relief on Cameron’s face made Bhatia pity him a little. ‘‘Thank you, Tono. You know I would do anything to please you.’’

‘‘Yes? Well, here,’’ he said, stepping forward and extending his hand, ‘‘this would please me.’’ Cameron eagerly clasped Bhatia’s outstretched hand, and Bhatia grasped Cameron’s right hand. ‘‘I will enlighten you,’’ Bhatia said, then tugging the youth closer, whispered: ‘‘The single, most important lesson is this: No witnesses.’’

Quick as lightning, Bhatia clamped down on Cameron’s wrist with his left hand and pivoted. Air rushed from Cameron’s lungs with an explosive HUNH, and then Bhatia sent him spinning from the balcony.

Cameron screamed: a high keening wail that cut out after only a few seconds as he hit the diacetylsilicate sand surrounding the complex. Unfortunately for Cameron, the fall didn’t kill him. His screams bubbled into razor-edged shrieks as the sand began its gruesome work of dissolving flesh from bone. Cameron’s death would be agonizingly long, and Bhatia would have the youth’s screams as his night’s serenade. That was fine.

As Bhatia made his way out of his private dining room to his bedchamber, his mood blackened. No word at all from Kappa. Bhatia could not believe he’d misjudged this mission’s appeal. He suddenly remembered that lone recruit who had taken on that Rokurokubi. Could that . . . ?

As Bhatia approached, his personal guard saluted, palmed the door and executed a flawless bow as Bhatia breezed past. The outer door scrolled shut. Bhatia stood within a small featureless alcove, a single scanner winking to his right, the still-sealed inner door to his bedchamber directly ahead. Bhatia stood motionless as the retinal scanner read the pattern of vessels, sorted through those individuals allowed access—himself and his personal guards—and confirmed his identity. His inner door slid open with a faint sigh. Calling for lights, Bhatia continued to his private office—and stopped cold when he saw his desk.

Identi-tags. A bloodred data crystal. And a single human eye, tacked to the desk with a stiletto through an optic nerve now dusky as a dead worm.

Bhatia’s fingers shook as he fit the crystal into his player. A tiny click as the crystal engaged, and then a voice issued forth, one he knew but to which he could not put a face.

‘‘Good evening, Director. Thanks for the good look around, if you’ll pardon the pun. I accept your offer, on the following conditions . . .’’

Bhatia listened, his shock slowly shading to a sort of admiration. Why, this was one step better than he’d thought of. But there still has to be a way to track him, there has to be. Then another more alarming thought: If he got in, he had to get the codes somewhere. And how much did he hear?

‘‘Anyway, you know how to send a reply. Only don’t delay, Director, or I might get peevish. And, oh, I hope you enjoyed this morning. Sorry about the boy, but he wasn’t going far.

“Another thing: You must talk to those guards of yours. I don’t want to tell tales out of school, but I’ll wager the guard I met has some interesting stories to tell about just how I managed to get in. And he got a good long look at me. He might provide a very nice description.”