(Thank you to Sunny and MetalDragon for beta-reading and editing this chapter, to Aminta Defender for beta-reading this chapter, and to KoreanWriter for the copious brainstorming.)
August 21, 2016 ATB
Senatorial Annex, near the Tuileries Palace, Paris, Republic of Francia, European Union
The conversation began, just like most of the conversations that actually mattered, with the mundane banalities.
And like oh so many banal conversations, the "chance" meeting between Maurice Jacquin, legislative aide to Girolamo Ciari, Senior Senator from the Republic of Piedmont, and Lieutenant Colonel Volodymyr Teterya, Second Operations Officer on the 93rd Armored Division's staff, began near a water cooler in an unpopular hallway in the Senatorial Annex.
"Volodya, how are you?" Maurice belted out, jovially elbowing the larger man out of the way and deftly sliding his cup under the cooler's spigot. "It must've been a fortnight if it's been a day! How's the wife?"
"Last I saw her? Fine." Volodymyr replied, slumping back against the wall next to the cooler and bringing the cup to his lips. "How about yours?"
"Still divorced, and God bless me for it!" Maurice cheerfully replied. "Now, nobody can insist that I must take my shoes off before entering my own damned house!"
"Liberation has come, I see," teased Volodymyr. "Tremble, the oppressed mass, that freedom has dawned and all that."
"Would that someone would free me of this damned meeting," Maurice groaned, and Volodymyr nodded in glum agreement. "I swear to the Blessed Virgin, if Pillet asks one single more question, I'll cram that odious tie of his down his throat myself!"
The burly Kyevan nodded again, this time in fervent agreement. Every meeting, in the staff officer's experience, had a quota of assholes to meet. The presence of Madame du Pillet, who had been blessed with a particularly grating voice, was enough to exceed requirements for a half-dozen meetings.
"Well, if you're that desperate for relief…" Volodymyr began, a conspiratorial smirk broadening on his lips, "allow me to bend your ear for a moment, my friend."
"Oh?" Carefully, Maurice turned from the cooler to eye the thick-set Kyeven. He and the soldier were on friendly terms, but he would hesitate to call the man a friend.
But the familiarity hadn't been what set his finely tuned hairs on edge; that had been the peculiar emphasis on the word, "friend." A career political operative, Maurice knew exactly how important "friends" could be in the halls of government.
"Certainly!" Maurice beamed, and took the big man's elbow. "Please, Volodya, just this way! There's a nice little conference room just down this hall, should be empty this time of day…"
The room was one of a species riddling the Senatorial Annex, colonizing every hallway intersection with its progeny of bland little rooms just large enough to fit eight men comfortably around a table, or ten if they squeezed. It was undecorated save for the apparently requisite bust of the First Consul, comfortably roosted in a niche above the presentation screen.
Just like every other one of its ilk, the little conference room was thoroughly soundproofed. As soon as Maurice closed the door behind himself, the dull office murmur of the Annex fell away.
"Quite an extreme approach to escaping a dull meeting, I'd say," Maurice remarked, releasing Volodymyr's arm as he took a seat at the blondewood conference table. "So, out with it. What's happening, Colonel?"
"Nghia Lo," came the simple reply. "It's all anybody's talking about. 'What will the Chinese do next?' 'For how long will the Britannians reel?' 'Will the Areas rise up?'"
Heavy brows cleaved down in a severe frown as Volodymyr took a chair and immediately leaned forwards, elbows on the table.
"And most of all, 'what are we going to do about all of this?'"
"The heart of the matter," Maurice agreed. "That topic, and that question, has certainly gained quite a bit of traction around the tables of every canteen and cafe I frequent. It has also, I do not think it is unwise to say, occupied a great deal of Senator Ciari's attention of late as well.
"Although, of course, not as much as the question as the latest support tranche to the Middle Easterners." Maurice shrugged helplessly. "Their need is, admittedly, the more pressing concern. Cornelia is in Damascus, after all!"
Both men looked soberly at one another for a long moment, and then burst out in laughter.
"Still can't believe they aired that crap!" Volodymyr choked out. "She took Damascus a month after landing in Muscat? Did Britannia lose all their maps that day?"
"Let it never be said that the Imperial Press Office has a high regard for the intelligence of the average Britannian," Maurice grinned. "Or indeed, for their geographic knowledge!"
Volodymyr snorted at that. "Probably just know both cities aren't in an Area and couldn't care less. Maybe they believe Muscat to be a mere day's leisurely walk from Damascus, instead of trying to march across the entire length of one their dear Homeland's unreasonably long coastlines under enemy fire."
"It's, what, 3,000 kilometers? Longer?" Maurice mused. "I doubt their supply lines would be happy with a single month-long offensive stretching them that far, even should such a monumental leap somehow prove possible. Not that their propagandists likely care about such trifling matters"
"They are not paid to provide reason, only red meat," Volodymyr said, shrugging philosophically. "But, while the Federation's issues of course are important, it is not the topic of the day."
"No," agreed Maurice, "Nghia Lo is. Everybody has an opinion, many of which I have been told a great deal about, but as of yet, what I have not heard is anything approaching consensus."
"I have heard," Volodymyr began, his words ponderous with artificial neutrality, "that the Navy has a plan. A cheap one, which requires minimal commitment of uniformed forces and has a reasonable claim towards advancing republican values."
"A triple threat," Maurice murmured. "Cheap being the most dangerous, of course, but not risking any of our own skin is always an advantage. Good press," he added generously, "always helps too, of course. Tell me more."
"Before I go on, I should say that I am only speaking for myself," Volodymyr clarified. "This should in no way be construed as anything beyond that. Got it?"
Of course Maurice nodded; the message was clear. Either Mediterranean Command, which the 93rd Division belonged to, wanted this message slipped into Senator Ciari's ear, or perhaps the Grand Armada wanted the same and were using their landbound cousins as a deniable catspaw.
Considering how Senator Ciari had recently gone off on an "unscripted" tirade in public about his ardent commitment to pacifism despite chairing, among other senatorial subcommittees, the Armed Forces Requisitioning Board, Maurice could understand the need for deniability. He knew that the senator was polishing his Dove credentials, necessary for any Piedmontese officeholder, and he was relatively certain that Volodymyr and his masters knew the same, but he knew that they couldn't know for certain.
Hence the circumlocutions.
"Just a word between friends, eh?" Maurice nodded agreeably. "It will go no further than me, Volodya, don't worry. Now," he leaned in, "out with it."
"It's about that pocket navy we have been harboring," the colonel began, "and of how far any cargo bound to Japan must travel across the open seas. A few destroyers and a pair of submarines could do very little against the island itself, but as a harrying force or commerce raiders…"
As the two bent their heads together, the First Consul looked on through the pouched, heavily-lidded eyes still instantly recognizable almost two centuries after his death. Brooding and hawkish between his huge nose and his elevated position, Napoleon's face remained enigmatically blank as the plotting continued.
Whether or not he would have nodded approvingly at the small consensus the pair achieved, reached at last along with the draft of the message the senator would be allowed to hear, who could possibly say?
August 24, 2016 ATB
A Village near the Machala-Cuenca Road, Area 6, Holy Britannian Empire
"Damn them," Sergeant Kururugi growled, glaring angrily at the Roman priest, who shook like a man with the palsy as the IBI special constables wrested him from his refuge below the nameless mountain village's tiny chapel. "Won't they ever learn to just behave?"
For all of his fervency, the sergeant's words had come out in a near whisper, a private sigh of exasperation. If Corporal Mary Pines, previously Marisol Pineda, had not been standing at Kururugi's shoulder, she doubted that she would have heard him at all.
"Seriously doubt it, Sergeant," she said, answering his rhetorical question. Considering the way he jumped slightly, the freshie must not have noticed her approach.
Still academy green, no matter what else he's got going for him.
That Sergeant Suzaku Kururugi had something going for him was obvious. Very few first-generation Honorary Britannians were allowed to enroll at the Guayaquil School, after all, and even the students from the more established Areas were most often significantly older than the young sergeant. Men and women slated to be inspectors or special agents, not freshly-made sergeants, were the usual enrollees in the premier IBI-COIN training program. He was immensely talented, very well connected, or both.
That someone decided to attach him to a bush patrol already indicates talent, as does the way Lieutenant Bowers listens to him. A practical exam, maybe? Just to make sure his reported talent checks out? Yeah, that could be it.
"I mean," Mary continued, "Cristeros have been waging La Lucha for over a century now and still haven't given up. We've been makin' good progress, no lie there, but there's still plenty of fools squattin' out in the mud."
I should know, after all.
"La Lucha…" Sergeant Kururugi repeated, carefully enunciating the L's. "The Struggle?"
"That's right," Mary agreed, rewarding the man, and he was only just barely that, being two years her junior, with a quick smile. "That's what they call it. The Struggle. The Struggle for the Old Church, the Struggle for the old ways, for the old languages, against the guy next door who finally passed the citizenship test and got his Honorary status… The Struggle has many foes."
"Which ones were you fighting against?" Kururugi asked, blunt as he always was when he forgot to be mindful. Whoever had first taught him to actually use his head well enough to have a decent chance at being an investigator must have struggled mightily to pound those lessons into his thick skull.
"I mean," he added, catching himself a half second late "back when you were still amongst them, Corporal, who were you…?"
"Whoever the big guys said," Mary said, accompanying her smooth reply with another smile, just enough to soften the tension she saw in the sergeant's face. He softened after a moment, relaxing into the conversation.
Just like I'd hoped. That's right, Kururugi, you can trust me… I'm not gonna tear out your throat, I'm not doing anything. Just talk to me… Get used to me…
"I mean," Mary continued, speaking lightly as, across the narrow road from them, the constables not keeping the townsfolk under their wary eyes busied themselves with chaining the priest to a telephone pole, "I didn't exactly sign up out of undying faith in Saint Joan and the Virgin. It was just that the Cristeros had guns and got free food from everybody. That seemed like a good deal to me."
"Even though you were betraying Britannia and contributing to the rot within your own community?"
And there it is, Mary thought, and struggled not to roll her eyes. She liked Kururugi alright; he was handsome, strong, and when the bullets started flying, a capable leader. The sanctimonious bullshit, though, she could do without. As if any of that shit matters. We both joined a gang and his is bigger and stronger. Which is why I'm part of it too now.
"C'mon, Kururugi," she said, purposefully pitching her tone towards jocular familiarity. Buddy to buddy, comrade to comrade. "We both know you're smarter than that. When you're some poor farmgirl in the ass-end of nowhere, when the nearest Britannian presence is the lord's estate a full thirty miles away and he's only there maybe two months outta the year, Britannia's like the horizon. You know it's there, but it's way too far away to really matter. The local constables and the mayor and the lord's stewards are real, but they're all Honoraries, so they're not really better than you, so what's it matter?"
Seeing the reply already blooming on his lips, Mary quickly added, "I know, I know. Rebellion against the empire, death penalty, so on and so forth."
He's hot, but fuck me sideways, Kururugi, get that stick out your ass, she grumbled in the privacy of her mind. Deep breath, keep calm, keep smiling. Yeah, just talk to me, dumbass. Get familiar with me. Real familiar. We're all buddies here, yeah?
As if the mention of the wages of rebellion had drawn him forth, one of the constables returned from the Pavise armored vehicle with a sledgehammer in his hands and a grin on his face. The specific constable, Lewis, had once been called Luis; like Mary, he had once been a Cristero guerrilla, squatting in the bush and defending the Roman Catholic Church from the Britannian heretics.
And like Mary, Lewis had upon his capture by His Imperial Majesty's forces promptly turned his coat and joined the IBI-COIN Unit 28, Task Force "Crowbar", where he now served as a tracker, scout, and all-around expert on anything Cristero.
This Crowbar platoon, fifty special constables spread out across four Pavise armored vehicles, a fuel truck, and a supply truck, included two other former Cristeros besides Mary and Lewis, and the four of them had proven instrumental in hunting down scores of their former comrades. They knew how the guerrillas liked to hide their supplies and their tracks, what words needed to be said to lure the locals into giving them food and a place to sleep, how to find the hidey-holes the peasants carved into the foundations of their homes and the walls of their attics, and other places where people and items were commonly concealed by the insurgent cells.
All crucial in stamping out of the last sullen embers still glowing in the dark heart of Area Six.
Indeed, Mary and Lewis, along with Daniel and Sawyer, had been the "crowbar" to pull the nails out of this tiny village the night before. Dressed in battered jerseys and work pants, festooned with rosaries and brandishing ancient coilguns taken from Cristero corpses, the quartet had slipped into the village with the dusk and had found refuge and a meal without any trouble. That they had also found a priest to bless them when they left the next morning had been an unexpected bonus.
Mary herself had pointed out the false wall concealing the priest's secret cellar room that afternoon, when she had returned to the village on the back of a Pavise, back in her Britannian uniform.
The look on the village headman's face when he recognized her had been far more delicious than the watered down stew he'd served them the night before.
"But that's all behind me now, of course, just as whoever you were before you took up the Oath is behind you, yeah?" Mary smiled as the minor barb sailed home, prompting just the slightest of flinches before Kururugi pushed it down. That he kept his Elevenese name was a sign the Sergeant couldn't let go of his past, not entirely. And that was just another point for Mary to pry at. "Now, we're both Honorary Britannians, and more importantly, both part of the Bureau, yeah?"
"Y-Yeah…" Sergeant Kururugi agreed, his voice thick, for a moment, with emotion. "Both of us are members of the group that will finally bring peace to this land… And to all of the other Areas… It will all be over then. Peace at last."
"Sure," Mary said, and smiled again. "If you say so."
He was kinda cute when he got all high and mighty, she decided. But he's even cuter when he's all teary-eyed. Kinda like a puppy, only more pathetic.
Behind her, the whoosh of air followed by a wet crack and, in turn, a tearing scream harkened the start of the priest's execution. Lining the road and forced to watch by the rifle-toting IBI constables and the gunners lounging in the cupolas of the Pavises next to their heavy machine guns, the villagers who had not been directly party to the aid and comfort Mary had received last night while in her Cristero costume were forced to watch as the priest was broken to the pole, lacking the traditional cartwheel.
Once his procedure was done, Mary knew, those who had been directly involved would all find themselves given a lucky break. They would only be hung for their mistake of backing the wrong horse, instead of subjected to the same hours-long process the old Jesuit had just embarked upon.
Considering the vast number of techniques the constables knew for exerting "moral pressure" on the stubborn and the rebellious, Mary found the hangings boring and uninspired. And also too soft, far too soft. A product of some Britannian officer's policy, not understanding the Numbers like Mary, Lewis, and their fellow penetitos did.
Not that I'm expecting the local trash to understand that and be grateful or whatever, she thought, shaking her head at it all. Only someone as soft in the skull as Kururugi would expect these fools to learn a single damned thing. But, perhaps the next time a band of Cristeros drops by to ask for food and a blessing, well… They might be surprised by the reception they receive.
The image of angry and scared villagers beating "the traitors" to death, and the shocked faces of the imagined Cristeros betrayed by the "little mothers and fathers" was enough to coax a smile onto Mary's face.
August 26, 2016 ATB
Camp of the Indochina Army, near Yen Bai, Area 10/Annam Province (Disputed)
"Field Marshal, Major General Li reporting, sir!"
"The Honorable Field Marshal greets Major General Li," Qin Zheyuan wryly replied, slowly rising to his feet, careful not to tip over the unreliable camp chair until he was safely standing.
He'd grown to hate that damned chair over the last few months, but it had come from the same stock of military-issued camp furnishings that the rest of his army drew from. Consequently, the infernal furnishing had become more than a chair; it was a symbol now, just like his leaky canvas tent and his rickety folding cot.
Compared to the might of symbols, his aching joints and sore back were irrelevant.
"And now that you've reported in, General…" Zheyuan nodded to his aide, who quickly began ushering the various staff officers and guards out of the headquarters tent, "come and welcome your uncle, you damned bean sprout!"
"It is good to see you, Honored Uncle," Xingke murmured in the courtly tones that always drove Zheyuan insane. Judging by the small, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips, Xingke had not forgotten that little fact during his time in the Vermillion Palace. "And I will have you know that I have gained a full three kilograms since last we spoke."
"You're still too damned skinny," grumbled Zheyuan, his broad frame dwarfing his nephew's. He grabbed the extended hand, his hairy paw all but engulfing the Xingke's, and pulled the young man in for a one-armed embrace. "Still, it's good to see my favorite nephew again. Even under the circumstances."
"I'm your only nephew," Xingke reproved, though he smiled at the old joke. "Now, if we were talking illegitimate sons, on the other hand…"
"Let's not," Zheyuan hastily replied, pulling a face. "Besides, there are none – your aunt would kill me. Like any wise commander, I always know when to pull out!"
The serene smile on his nephew's face grew strained.
"...Rather than intruding further into your personal life, why not discuss why the Eight have sent me here?" Xingke said, reclaiming his hand from his uncle's grasp. "For my own sanity, if nothing else. Though, we may as well just get the nonsense over with just the same."
"If we must," sighed Zheyuan, carefully lowering himself back down into the torture implement disguised as a camp chair, and beckoning his nephew to take a seat in the similar chair usually occupied by his aide. "Fine, fine. What's the damage?"
"The Council of State," recited Xingke in a carefully neutral tone that did not contain an ounce of mockery, "commend the Honored Field Marshal Qin Zheyuan on his great victory over the Britannian barbarians and their running dogs. His name is honored across the world as the Savior of Indochina and the death of the Duke of New Lancaster."
"Uh huh," grunted Zheyuan, feigning a yawn. "How kind of the eunuchs to be so effusive with their praise."
"There's more," Xingke replied grimly, his normal voice briefly returning.
"In light of your great victory, a grand accomplishment in a lifetime of grand accomplishments, and in light of your advancing age," the young man continued, "we the stewards of this most grateful nation, serving on behalf of the Tianzi, Daughter of Heaven, see that it would be a fit and august opportunity to receive the notice of your retirement in advance of the celebration we have ordered held across the Federation in your honor.
"As the previous messenger appears to have gone missing before he had the opportunity to deliver this humble dispatch," concluded Xingke, not bothering to conceal his knowing smile as Zheyuan coughed slightly, "we have dispatched your nephew, Major General Li Xingke, commander of the Vermillion Guard, so that he may convey news of your honorable retirement directly to the ears of Her Celestial Majesty."
"...Good to hear that the humility so characteristic of the eunuchs remains intact," drawled Zheyuan, once Xingke signaled that his message was complete. "At least they deigned to mention Her Celestial Majesty this time. Twice even. The previous envoy, before his unfortunate encounter with a mine, entirely failed to mention her in his dispatch. Clearly an omission on his part, as the Eight surely would never imply that the mastery of the Federation rested in their hands."
"Certainly not with my voice," growled the hardeyed Xingke, eyes flinty. "I would rather swallow my tongue than deliver such a missive."
"I assume that's why they edited their statement," Zheyuan said, shrugging indifferently. "And I assume they bestowed the honor of conveying that statement to you in the correct belief that I would allow no unfortunate accident to befall my nephew."
"That, and they always rejoice in cutting the Tianzi away from those true to her," growled Xingke. "I will have to keep my trip short for that reason, Uncle; a snake-hunt awaits my attention back in Nanjing.
"Besides," the young general grimaced, "while it is always a pleasure to enjoy your hospitality, Uncle, this province never fails to stir up memories…"
"Indeed," Zheyuan nodded understandingly. "I imagine it would."
Yes, he decided, I expect it would, Nephew. The ghosts of Ha Noi yet dog your shadow, if you are anything like me, and your nape still prickles in anticipation for a sword only deferred by celestial intervention.
Seven years ago, Britannia had been a typhoon storming across the Province of Indochina. The ill-prepared garrisons of Viet Nam and Kampuchea, consisting mostly of unenthusiastic conscripts and old veterans and led by overaged junior officers and over-connected senior officers, had drowned in the violent deluge. Shelled from the sea and bombed from the skies, the shell-shocked Imperial soldiers and their territorial and prefectural comrades had, for the most part, broken, fleeing headlong for the safety of landlocked Lao Long, far from Britannian marines and Britannian naval artillery.
One of those over-connected officers, a twenty-year old colonel freshly graduated from the Imperial War Academy, had been granted command of the Northern Military District of Viet Nam scarcely two months before Britannia allowed war to fall from their toga.
The post was Zheyuan's doing, of course; his nephew's talent had been clear to see, but assignment to the posts necessary for a general's rank required patronage. At that time, Zheyuan had only occasionally met his nephew and knew virtually nothing about his sister's son, beyond rumors of his talent as both a fighter and a thinker. Those rumors hadn't prompted the field marshal to secure a post for Xingke; patriarchal obligation alone had moved his hand.
Consequently, Zheyuan had been just as surprised as everybody else when, instead of fleeing headlong before the Britannians, then-Colonel Li Xingke had attacked the Britannian beachhead outside of Hai Phong, pushing the surprised Britannian marines back into the Bei Bu Gulf. By the time a Britannian relief force pushed north from Nam Dinh, Xingke had already slipped the noose, retreating in good order past Hai Duong and collecting up refugees and the remnants of splintered units as his brigade marched towards the city of Ha Noi.
It had been there, amid the pyre that Britannian incendiaries dropped in the tens of tons had made of the City Between Rivers, that Colonel Li Xingke had made his stand. As Ha Noi burned behind him, Xingke had dug into the fork of the Red and Thien Duc Rivers, prepared to execute the evil-minded orders issued by panicking men who deemed themselves generals. Those men, all part of the Court Faction, as most generals appointed to commands near the borders of China itself were in those days, had cared not a whit that the city and the prefecture were lost; they had only known that the general who failed to pull victory from the pit of defeat would be an ideal scapegoat.
And only by the whim of a child was my nephew spared from the headsman's sword, grimaced Zheyuan. And by that whim, the child won the unquestioning loyalty of the most undoubtedly talented officer of the New Generation. Arguably, that accidental masterstroke might be the Tianzi's only true proof of holding the Mandate of Heaven, because surely nothing else indicates as much.
That last thought was one that Zheyuan could never share with his nephew, despite their shared blood and mutual affection. For all that they held together in common, the broad gulf of factional difference yawned widely between them, and Zheyuan had no more faith that he could ever cross that gulf to reach Zheyuan than he had that he could reach out to one of the Eunuchs' henchmen.
In his heart of hearts, Zheyuan knew, Xingke loved the Tianzi as his monarch. For all that the young commander of the Vermillion Guard spoke out about the need for the Federation to face the future instead of dwelling on past glories, Zheyuan knew that any future Xingke envisioned for China and her subject provinces would have a place in its center for the Daughter of Heaven.
And while I can respect the Tianzi's chief bodyguard for always placing her interests foremost, thought Field Marshal Qin Zheyuan, I will not see the Federation's future bound to such anachronisms as child rulers or hereditary monarchy, just as I will extirpate utterly even the image of the imperial eunuchs.
"Well," Zheyuan said, slapping his knee as he leaned forwards onto his collapsible desk, "now that you've gotten the nonsense from the Eunuchs out of the way, how about you tell me what's really being said at court, Nephew?"
"A great deal," murmured Xingke, a slight smirk tracing across his lips. "Needless to say, while all were united in their surprise at your success, the reactions have been as varied as the fish of the sea.
"To start," and now Xingke drew himself up, erect and proud, "Her Celestial Majesty, the Tianzi, congratulates you and General Hue on your shared victory and exemplary cooperation. She says that she would bid you visit the Vermillion City so she could congratulate you in person, but will refrain from doing so out of the conviction that you are doing far greater service for the Federation where you are, and out of respect for your known distaste for the ceremonies of court."
"Does she now?" Zheyuan asked, and smiled politely.
There were several things that he found interesting about that message, starting with the fact that the Tianzi had extended her respects to General Hue of the Viet Trung, the leader of the Indochinese fighters in the northern regions of Britannian occupation. Neither of the two messages sent by the Eight, as the Council of State were unofficially known, had so much as mentioned the woman's name.
That the Tianzi, unlike the Eunuchs, realized the advisability of not issuing an order, no matter how cloaked as a suggestion it might be, that would not be followed is of course also of interest as well. Which only proves once again that a fifteen year old child is a better leader than that committee of worthless old men ever could be.
And, Zheyuan noted, that such a small step up is notable only indicates how easily a proper military leader backed by a cadre of experienced officers could surpass either of them.
"Please express both my official and my personal gratitude to Her Celestial Majesty," said Zheyuan, "both for sparing me from the obligation to exchange brotherly smiles with Gao Hai and for permitting me to continue my work in relative peace."
"I will," promised Xingke. "On the other hand, the Eight are predictably displeased with your failure to die honorably in battle, and even moreso by the gall you exhibited in triumphing over the foreign invader. They are greatly disturbed by the spontaneous celebrations across the Federation held in honor of your victory."
"My heart weeps," Zheyuan dryly replied. "Naturally, I will take their feelings into account when planning my next campaign."
"Of course, I am certain that you shall," Xingke replied with matching sobriety. "In the meantime, the Eunuchs' pets in command of the Liaodong Militarized Zone have expressed the opinion that, as you have achieved so much with your current forces, Uncle, you require no further reinforcements."
"Of course," grunted Zheyuan. "Hadn't expected anything less from those chickenshits. So, where do they propose sending my reinforcements instead, hm? Malaya, maybe? The northern border with the Europeans, perhaps? No," he said, holding up a quelling hand while raising the fingers of his other hand to his brow, miming deep thought, "let me guess: Straight into the ranks of their own banners, where they can squat uselessly in Dalian and Dandong, yes?"
"Half right," confirmed Xingke, tipping a hand back and forth. "Assigned to their command? Yes. Merely cooling their heels in their barracks or working for one of the businesses owned by the Eunuchs? Not so much."
"Oh?" Zheyuan was somewhat taken aback by the answer he'd received. The men who begged at the table of the Eight for favors and indulgences were not, as a whole, given to audacity, or indeed, initiative. "Alright, spit it out. What scheme are the fools in Liaodong cooking up?"
"You might recall, Uncle," Xingke began, speaking slowly, "that the remnants of Japan's former government have been enjoying Her Celestial Majesty's hospitality in Beijing for the last six years… Almost on the very doorstep of the Liaodong Militarized Zone. You might also recall that the 'Free Japanese Army' established a training base just outside Shenyang last year…"
"No…" Zheyuan was already shaking his head, desperately in his disbelief. "They wouldn't be so foolish. Not even the Eunuchs would risk so much on a single roll of the dice, not for mere comeuppance. Not when we've already lost all but the nubs of Malaya and Sumatra to the Britannians already, not to mention the bulk of Indochina. Surely nobody would be such a fool to consider an invasion, pardon me, a liberation of Japan."
"Cao Guofan would," Xingke replied, the corners of his mouth tight with disapproval. "With the express backing of the Council of State, no less. They have directed him, in his office as the Commandant of Liaodong, to offer up any and all military and logistical support to 'aid the re-establishment of the Republic of Japan under the leadership of Prime Minister Sawasaki."
"Damn them all…" Zheyuan slumped slightly, suddenly feeling every one of his sixty-seven years stacked high upon his shoulders. "Japan… Area 11… If there's any territory Britannia will defend to her utmost outside of their Homeland itself, it's the damned Sakuradite Mountain. And Cao is the one in command of the operation? Lieutenant General Cao, who to the best of my knowledge has never held a field command? That Cao is going to spearhead a surprise invasion unsupported by heavy fleet assets or significant air power?"
"The same," Xingke confirmed, "although… I don't believe it will be entirely unsupported. If the rumors going around the Vermillion City have any grounding whatsoever, the Eight might just have a man on the inside…"
August 19, 2016 ATB
JLF Headquarters Bunker below Mount Ana, Gifu Prefecture, Area 11
Fuming, Colonel Kusakabe Josui slammed the door to his temporary quarters behind him. Standing in the dark of the unlit room, the colonel's breast heaved as he struggled to master himself.
How dare they? How dare they?!
In his mind's eye, a row of graying faces appeared, each graver than the last. Katase, the old man still clinging on in his dotage, his unctious chief of staff, the three uniformed fools who dared call themselves divisional commanders, Josui's so-called peers, and most damnably of all, Tohdoh of Miracles, all arrayed in full uniform olive.
Behind each of their calmly grim contenances, Josui could just see the mocking smiles. Could hear the snide comments that he knew they exchanged behind his back, just as he mocked them in the presence of his own subordinates.
But I've earned that right! I've fought! I've struggled! What have they done all this time instead, hmm? Squat in their caves, terrified of their own damned shadows! They let their strength molder, their swords rust, all while I was recruiting new soldiers and sharpening my blade!
And this is my reward?! This… This humiliation?!
In his clenched fist, the official copy of his orders crumpled, the ink of the freshly printed characters smearing as Josui trembled with rage.
Those characters, he knew, would still be undeniably clear, should he decide to torment himself by rereading the words already seared into his heart.
'The Third Division is to dissolve into company-strength units, with a battalion from each regiment set aside as an operational reserve. The new company strength units are to make best speed to Southern Command, where they will prepare to initiate operations in support of local elements throughout the Chugoku Region. Your primary objective is to support local Kyoto House-affiliated units in securing control over the Hiroshima Settlement; your secondary objective is to cut off outside contact to the Okayama Army Base and to reduce the garrison.'
It was insulting enough that Josui's role was clearly envisioned as a mere supporter to "local elements," whomever that might be – He was a divisional commander, after all. He was an officer with a long and distinguished record of service proving his worth! Why the hell should he play second fiddle to a bunch of peasants with fish guts on their hands and mud on their boots?! – but the fact that his orders sent him to Chugoku, of all places…!
They might as well send me clear to Kyushu, or perhaps Okinawa! They're pushing me clear out of Honshu, as far from the capital as possible!
Tohdoh must be behind all of this. Of that much, Josui was certain. He's jealous of the glory I could earn, and so he's sending me as far away as possible! How else could I interpret these orders, considering how all of my forces are deployed in fucking Tohoku!?
Josui had protested, of course, had argued his case before that useless old shit Katase and the rest of his so-called peers on the General Staff, all to no avail. When the new empress and Lord Taizo arrived, he had argued his case again in their presence.
"We have complete confidence in Lieutenant General Katase's strategic acumen,"Lord Taizo had said, replying on both of their behalfs. "We will not alter his plan without his say so."
All very well and politic, of course, except that only twenty minutes later the damned girl, the empress, had broken her silence to demand that Tohdoh's Knightmare Corps be detached from the thrust towards Tokyo and attached to her "special operation" instead.
A demand that Katase, Lord Taizo, and everybody else in attendance except Josui had fallen over themselves to allow. For what reason? Just on the word of a pampered child who had never once led soldiers into battle, much less enjoyed a single thought in her entire life not sourced directly from the crew of old bastards in Kyoto?
And I could have overlooked all of that, all of the stupidity, except… Josui's hand spasmed again. Except that she asked for Tohdoh. For Tohdoh, the jumped up artillery-man, and not for the finest the 3rd Division could have offered…
Tohdoh… All of the other jeering faces had faded away from Josui's broiling mind, leaving only that hateful, sharp-featured survivor behind. Tohdoh of Miracles, the golden boy, the only one to defeat the Britannians where it counts… Never mind that auxiliaries led by my own man Hiroo managed to replicate his so-called feat of defeating Knightmares without any assistance from our own.
Hell, my command did Tohdoh one better! He used artillery in fixed emplacements while the expendables Hiroo scraped together only used anti-tank tubes!
How dare he steal my glory, then?
Who gave him that right?
Katase, Josui's inner voice murmured, the old man who has remained relevant solely through my hard work, and has remained in his position solely out of my mercy and sentimentality, only to repay me like this… Katase, and the girl.
Yes, he decided, relaxing his hands, allowing the unacceptable orders to drift unheeded to the floor, the girl is to blame. An empress? Don't make me laugh. I swore my oaths to the Republic of Japan.
I never swore to follow an empress, like some Britannian!
Months and months ago, a quiet exchange of messages had left Josui in possession of a scrap of paper bearing a name and a phone number. The colonel had memorized both, and then committed the incriminating paper to the flames, wiping the only physical evidence away. As if he was some criminal, some traitor!
I'm not the traitor, Josui reassured himself as he crossed the quiet room, retrieving a cell phone that none of his alleged comrades knew about from his baggage. If anything, I'm the only officer of the old RJA in all of the Home Islands who has remained loyal. Katase, Tohdoh, and I… we all swore ourselves to the Republic, didn't we? And now they follow an empress…
Damn them all, he cursed, tapping the number and lifting the phone to his ear. Once the government-in-exile is restored, and once I'm the Minister of War, I'll see them all hanged.
The phone picked up without a word of greeting, leaving only an expectant silence in Josui's ear.
A silence which he was only too eager to fill.
"Good afternoon, Prime Minister," Josui said, injecting respect into his voice as he spoke to whom he presumed to be Sawasaki Atsushi, once the Chief Secretary in the Kururugi Cabinet and now, by the legal chain of succession, the rightful head of the Republic of Japan, "I have decided to accept your offer.
"For the Republic, once and forever."
August 26, 2016 ATB
Tokyo Settlement, Area 11
Over the course of his life, the Agent had seen a great deal that argued against the inherent goodness of mankind so often evoked by the European idealogues.
Over the course of his time in the service of the Tyrant and the Directorate, the Agent had blackmailed, bribed, and stolen. He had betrayed, murdered, and tortured. He had coerced confessions, compelled obedience, even carefully led children to convict their parents and husbands their wives with the strategic application of information and cruelty. For all of that, he had witnessed much worse meted out by low men for petty reasons, or indeed, no reason at all.
And while many of those low men had been Commoners, Honorary Britannians, or Numbers, the meanest had all come from the ranks of the finest Britannia had on offer, from the Three Nobilities and of course, from the Royalty.
Unlike many of his fellow travelers, it had been this increasing cynicism about the human condition rather than an optimistic view of the common man that had guided his path towards Level ground. Meanness of spirit was not the sole province of the aristocracy of blood or of coin, he had reasoned, but those with the least fetters imposed by society or circumstance had the greatest opportunity to indulge every trifling cruelty.
Binding the hands of all to reduce the damage any one man could inflict upon those around him, he had decided, was the only rational choice.
All of which was to say that the Agent was not easily phased.
The contents of the drive he had just finished reviewing, however, had nonetheless managed to accomplish just that.
The important thing, the Agent told himself as he carefully sipped at his soothing tea, stared out his window, and tried very hard to not throw up, is to look past the details to see the larger picture instead.
That much was obvious, a no-brainer. Easily said, but harder to accomplish when the "details" were videos of a woman still somehow alive despite–
The Agent's stomach lurched.
The real question, he considered, eyes pressed tight as he took deep, soothing breaths, is what His Ineptitude is trying to accomplish with all of that nonsense. The man is a petty, vindictive bully, yes, and one utterly lacking in any awareness of the pain felt by his fellow men.
But to the best of my knowledge, for all of his faults, Clovis is no Luciano Bradley, no unrepentant sadist.
Which means that a reason exists for the torture, beyond torture for its own sake.
The data drive had come to the Agent's hands through a chain of other agents, fellows in the Conspiracy of Equals, but had its utmost source in an operative that he and his society brothers had carefully inserted into the only environmental systems maintenance service with security clearances in the area of the concealed medical facility.
During a standard maintenance visit, said operative had slipped keyloggers and rootkits into a number of the facility's computers; when the air conditioning had "mysteriously failed" a few days later, the same operative had all the keys and passwords required to access the office of one of the physicians involved, as well as the woman's office computer and laptop.
When the operative had left the facility, two specialized jump drives loaded with clones of the doctor's systems had left with him, tucked away in a "defective sensor" in a bin of other replacement parts for the central heating system.
Now, it was up to the Agent to try to make sense of the contents of those drives. Much of the information, particularly the dryly written medical reports, was easily understandable, at least from a technical standpoint. All of the reports discussed procedures conducted on a single subject, or components of that subject, and most focused on an unnatural healing factor displayed by the subject.
Considering all that the girl had endured, the Agent was forced to concede that there had to be something to her mysterious regenerative properties. Unless, of course, the doctors had somehow failed to notice that their subject had been replaced multiple times, or that the doctors had decided to refer to all of their subjects as if they were the same person.
To his mild surprise, the Agent found the prospect of perfect regeneration, inexplicable though it was, less difficult to believe than the idea that researchers and physicians of the quality employed by this mysterious "Project R" would willfully butcher their reporting standards so egregiously.
So, Clovis discovers a woman who can regenerate perfectly through unknown means. An impossibility, but the… The Agent took another deep breath and set to work preparing another cup of tea. But the videos prove that the impossibility is, in fact, a simple fact. So, a secret project is commissioned to examine this subject. The project is entrusted to General Bartley and is funded via a slush fund without any connections to either the Ministry of Science and Technology or the Ministry of Health.
Why the secrecy? Why was this project kept secret from the Emperor? Did Clovis want to ensure he got full credit when he brought his findings to the Emperor? Perhaps, but that's not enough to evoke the fear I saw in his eyes back in his chambers, when we were discussing the financial indiscretions of the late Lazaro Pulst.
And… The Agent returned to his seat, steaming teacup cradled in his fingers, unheeding of the uncomfortable heat radiating through the china, what is "Geass?" The rest of the various mystical nonsense is easily understood – the Grail is the girl, clearly, the source of immortality, for a start – but the mentions of "Geass," always capitalized and never explained, make no sense. A geas is an obligation or a quest, typically imposed by fate and always inescapable, but how that factors into medical research is impossible to determine.
We have, the Agent scowled, insufficient information, even with one of the physician's own papers. Everything the doctor knew came from interactions with and experiments conducted upon this singular unnatural test subject, the girl.
Which means that there is only one rational course of action.
To find out what it is that Clovis is so deeply worried about, I must ask the girl myself.
His stomach lurched, the thought of the task he had set before himself, his very own geas, almost sufficient to undo all that the tea had accomplished.
Oh, I always did like to set such attainable goals. What joy.
August 29, 2016 ATB
Shinjuku Ghetto, Tokyo Settlement, Area 11
"...And the status reports for Nishishinjuku West, sir," the clerk announced, brandishing a small stack of papers. "Fortunately, nothing seems to have gone wrong in the last few days. Supervisor Kita reports that his supply of thermal blankets is getting low, though, and requests we send more over. He's not satisfied with the level of thermal baffling in the new nests."
"What does he have to be dissatisfied about?" Asahara Hiyashi grunted, accepting the proffered reports and leafing quickly through the pages. "Would Supervisor Kita happen to have access to a Sutherland FactSphere for us to test our concealment? No? Thought not."
"I'll just mark that request down as denied," murmured the clerk, nodding as he jotted down a note. "Anything else?"
"...No," Hiyashi said after a momentary pause, deciding not to comment on the apparent grade-school level of literacy the supervisor's report demonstrated. It really wasn't all that much worse than the writing exhibited in most of the other reports, and besides, Hiyashi hadn't expected much from the bulk of his conscripted workforce.
Standards, he thought, shaking his head internally, truly are falling everywhere. At least the special sections have a few functional brains in their ranks. So long as those standards don't fall… I suppose I'll just have to keep muddling on.
The "special sections," as Hiyashi had privately termed them, were the teams of former technicians, plumbers, chemists, and electricians the old engineer had scraped together for the purposes of bomb construction and installation. Using the authority that his post on the Leadership Commission granted him as a flail, Hiyashi had threshed the teeming crowds of Shinjuku for those with quick minds, deft hands, and a keen understanding of the importance of following directions.
It had only been with the assistance of this corps of skilled helpers that Hiyashi had managed to stay almost abreast of the ridiculous demands imposed upon him by that radiant pillar of stability, Commander Hajime.
Tch.
"No, that will be all, Morimoto," Hiyashi decided, waving the clerk away.
The man had been a wonderful find, a former analyst from some ministry back in the old government who had eked out a living through the hard years. He had the technical knowledge necessary to understand the contents of the reports, the judgment to know what required Hiyashi's attention and what could be handed off to Inoue's administrators without concern, and sufficient initiative to not require micromanagement.
Without Morimoto, Hiyashi knew, he would have struggled mightily to remain on top of his job.
Well… more than I already am, Hiyashi admitted. The difference, I suppose, is the margin between merely treading water and actively drowning.
That such a quality aide had fallen into his lap was a marvelous coincidence, and so of course Hiyashi distrusted the man. He had vetted Morimoto thoroughly before offering him a position in his branch of the Kozuki Organization, though, and had continued his surveillance through Morimoto's first few weeks on the job. Despite finding no reason for concern, Hiyashi kept a close eye on his secretary's activities.
Past a certain point, paranoia became a way of life.
As Morimoto made his unobtrusive way out of the office, Hiyashi's hand crept down to the abbreviated remains of his left leg and gingerly rubbed at the stump. It always ached – it ached in the cold, in the heat, during dry spells and during the rain, it was all the same; the ruins of his left leg always hurt.
The greatest injury of my life, and all because some bastard Brit was insufficiently mindful of how thin the walls are in Shinjuku. After everything I've done, all the risks I have taken, only a stray bullet has posed a real menace to my skin…
The thought brought a grudging smile to Hiyashi's lips; you had, after all, to laugh about such things.
The alternative, killing it all away with the bottle and the pill, had proven far too alluring in the past.
Besides, he was on the clock now.
At long last… thought Hiyashi, allowing his weary eyes to rest, just for a moment, I'm finally in a place where I can do real good. After so, so long spent collating reports from scraps and mending small appliances to earn my supper… Finally, the gears have begun to turn in earnest.
Assuming, of course, that recent developments don't cock everything up.
The thought of "recent developments," of how, still unknown to most of his countrymen, a monarch had once again been raised up among them, was enough to twist Hiyashi's neutral expression.
As a young student studying at the Polytech Marseille, Hiyashi had drunk deeply from the wellsprings of the republican values that the Europeans had exported at bayonet-point to his countrymen a generation before. He had devoured Voltaire and Rosseau first, of course – one had to respect the classics – before moving on to Lafayette and Mirabeau. That had been as far as the confines of the university library allowed him to venture on his journey of political and philosophical discovery.
Ever plagued by his curiosity and increasingly disappointed by how short the Republic of his homeland had fallen from the high ideals of the great philosophers, the young Hiyashi had not been content to limit himself to the contents of the university stacks. Carried along on tides of heady intellectualism and a sense of wonder that was as close as the lifelong atheist had come to true veneration, Hiyashi had dived deeper, and had found his way, groping in the dark, to Marat, to Danton, to Babeuf, and ultimately, to Robespierre.
To the writings of men who were still, to that day, proscribed by the Union whose first seeds they had sown.
It had been his interest in the radical ideals that the First Consul had buried below the flagstones of his Third Rome that had drawn Hiyashi into the orbit of the Direction de la surveillance du territoire, the Directorate of Territorial Security.
With the benefit of retrospect, Hiyashi supposed that he had been under surveillance for some time before the agents of the "Cabinet Noir" came for him. Under interrogation, his reading list had proven to have been well known to them, with unsmiling agents asking specific questions about when and from whom he had acquired certain volumes; when Hiyashi attempted to claim ignorance of any such books, the agents of the Directorate had thrown his very own copies down onto the steel table before him, freshly retrieved from the secret library he had concealed in the fire hose cabinet of his dormitory's boiler room.
Fortunately, the security agents had picked him up the day after his graduation, and so after things had shaken out, Hiyashi had rather stridently been returned home with an entirely legitimate degree from the Polytech in his luggage.
That degree had opened many doors for the newly minted mining engineer.
European universities, particularly those back in the metropole union states of Western and Central Europe, enjoyed an enviable reputation in the Republic of Japan, and Hiyashi's diploma was enough to overcome his lack of the family connections usually required for placement in choice ministries or companies. Despite his thoroughly bourgeois background, Hiyashi had quietly slipped into the preserve of the scions of the unofficial aristocracy that still controlled the so-called Republic of his home.
Three decades of solid, unremarkable employment passed. Hiyashi had quietly moved from company to company, keeping his head down and his eyes open for the first decade, long enough to build a reputation and learn the industry.
From there, with a firm foundation under his feet, Hiyashi accepted a series of positions of escalating responsibility, accepting posts at a variety of companies that provided secondary services and support for the Sakuradite zaibatsus.
Somewhere along the way, the young man with lowly origins and a European education had attracted the eyes of his alleged superiors. In those days, the work had all been industrial espionage and the collection of blackmail material: bread and butter work. A small house of provincial stock had been his first employer, its master eager for an edge in an upcoming contract negotiation.
Good work had brought more work, and so Hiyashi had found more work as a pair of hands, a straying eye...
Not forgetting his day job, Hiyashi had worked hard at his drafting bench as well, eager to prove himself as an engineer as well as a sneak. Ultimately, he had contributed significantly to several new Sakuradite extraction techniques. The raw ore was notorious for its… variety, and for the challenging composition of various seams. Using these small victories, he had worked tirelessly to expand his knowledge and enhance his reputation, exploiting every edge to advance another rung.
He had kept his eyes wide open, and it had been that sustained attention that had ultimately yielded enough material for Hiyashi to assemble a portfolio. That portfolio, delivered to Lord Tosei, head of the Noble House of Munakata, had served as Hiyashi's introduction to true spycraft.
When the Conquest had come, all of that nonsense had fallen by the wayside in the scramble for survival. Far from unaccustomed to personal danger by this point, Hiyashi had remained in his Shinjuku apartment as missiles streaked across the sky and improbable robots stormed the streets outside. By the time the dust had settled and the new Britannian Administration was established, Hiyashi had already made a name for himself among the crowds of refugees shoved into Shinjuku by the victorious soldiers as an indispensable mender of machines.
That reputation had seen him safely through the horrors of the first year, when the dead rotted where they lay, unburied and unburned. When the cholera came, Hiyashi had repaired water filters and stills, hot plates and stoves, as everybody fought to clean whatever water could be found. When hordes of fleas infested the packed slum, Hiyashi had rigged crude washing machines to drown the tiny biting bastards where they nested in clothes, and had even briefly worked as a barber, shaving heads.
From his neighbors, Hiyashi had accepted payment in food and in protection. From Lord Tosei, and then from Lord Taiso, though…
They paid through the nose, Hiyashi snorted to himself. They probably expected no less, all things considered. Especially Kirihara, considering his recruitment pitch. "You always knew what was going on back then, Asahara. Surely your eyes haven't clouded over the years you've spent eating dirt under the Britannians' feet?" Not at all, Lord Taizo, not at all.
But you failed to ask why it was that one such as I would be content to squat in Shinjuku, eating dirt. You never wondered why that was, and that is because you were Britannian where it counted long before the Empire ever set foot on our soil.
That your rebellion began by installing an empress to reign over us all only proves the point.
Aching, Hiyashi pulled himself to his foot and, reaching out behind him without bothering to turn his head, scooped up his crutches. The cushioned caps went under his armpits, the sealed envelope went under his shirt, and the bribe money went into his pocket.
As he locked his office door behind himself, Hiyashi heard the patter of feet, and turned just in time to see Morimoto turn down the hall, a militiaman with a blue sash draped over his shoulder beside him.
The old fear returned, still spine-tinging for all that its edges had been worn smooth with the passage of months and years. The fear of being found out, the perpetual terror of the intelligencer and the spy – for as long as Hiyashi had worked for the Six Houses, had agreed to serve the outwardly traitorous Honorary elite from the heart of Number Shinjuku, he had been a subject to that fear.
Even now, a trusted leader and advisor here, in this tiny state in embryo, one of perhaps a handful of truly irreplaceable individuals in this city-wide crucible, the Internal Affairs man bearing down on him inspired a raw spike of terror in the engineer's bowels.
Hiyashi pushed that fear down ruthlessly, deliberately arrogant smile already on his face. Men in organizations such as the IAF, in Hiyashi's experience, were very sensitive to the trepidation they inspired. They fed off it. Even though the Force had merely been a band of picked legbreakers notable only for their loyalty to Commander Hajime and Lieutenant Koichi a few months ago, when their remit was established, Hiyashi had no doubt that they had already come fully into their inheritance as an internal security organization.
"Director Asahara?" the Internal Affairs soldier asked, and without waiting lifted his fist to his chest in salute. "Commander Hajime's compliments. She's calling an emergency meeting of the Leadership Commission."
Ah, so it isn't the wall or the scaffold for me quite yet, Hiyashi supposed, relaxing slightly as the personal terror was replaced by a more general sense of existential dread. On the other hand, the list of occasions that could prompt Hajime, even in her current state, to call an emergency meeting is as short as it is dire.
It must be time, then.
"Has she?" Hiyashi coolly replied, unmoved by the plea for urgency. At this late a juncture, when the shape of things to come in the next month was so clear to any with eyes to see, haste was unreasonable. More to the point, he would be damned if he would allow himself to be rushed by some young fool in a sash. "Well, I will make my way over to headquarters presently."
"Commander Hajime thought you would say that," the soldier replied, still saluting, "and wanted you to know that the Leadership Commission won't convene for another hour still."
"Oh?" Hiyashi raised an eyebrow at that, impressed despite himself. "How courteous of her to provide early warning. Did she attach a threat regarding what tardiness would entail?"
"Nossir!"
She's come so far. The musing was almost paternal, almost fond. At least compared to our first meeting, when she paid in drugs and threatened to shoot my other leg, at least. Finally, she has mastered basic subtlety.
Such a pity no such development occurred before she reduced even the Thermidorian so-called Chamber to an outright state of leadership by fiat, the Consul of her own tiny empire.
"Splendid," Hiyashi drawled. "In that case, soldier, consider your message delivered."
"Sir?" Morimoto asked as the slap of the IAF grunt's old, but yet unholed, sneakers descended down the stairway to street level. "You don't seem surprised by this emergency meeting."
"That isn't a question," Hiyashi evaded, making his own much slower progress down towards the door. "But no, I'm not."
After all, he thought, grimacing, nothing comes from the hands of a king without a price, and I've trafficked enough material into Shinjuku on the Six Houses' behalf to know their catalogue. All of the components my special sections needed for the ordnance, the food that kept the city alive, all of the new crew-served machine guns, anti-armor, and anti-air missiles, even the asphalt patching the roads and concealing the mines… We have enjoyed a great deal of credit, and now our empress has called in her marker.
"What will you do, sir?"
Two stairs down the flight, Hiyashi paused, taken aback by the unusually frank question. Turning to look back, he saw Morimoto still in the hallway, his aide's gaze fixed squarely upon him. Cool, implacable, and waiting for his answer.
Past a certain point, paranoia becomes a lifestyle. I knew you were too good to be true, Morimoto. The only question now, is who.
"What I have always done," Hiyashi grunted, turning his back on his secretary as he continued the painful descent down the stairs. "I will serve the people, and I will serve virtue."
And still, Nghia Lo's waves rippled on.
