Svaha, page 23
"You're scared?"
She nodded.
"I am too."
Her eyes widened. But before she could speak, he lifted a finger and placed it against her lips.
"Quaheystamaha," he said again, then he rose to his feet. Taking a coil of rope that lay by his pack, he wrapped it around his waist. "It's time to meet the Ragman," he added.
Lisa stood up beside him. "Me too," she said as she adjusted the way her Steeljack was digging into her armpit. "You know—quaheystamaha."
A brief smile touched Gahzee's ghost face, then he turned to where Nanabozho was sitting by the Usaijin.
"Hey, brother," he said. "Do you hunt tonight as well?"
The coyote stood up and padded to the door where he turned and cocked his head as if to say, Are you coming? His blue eye studied them.
Lisa laughed to look at him. "Sometimes it's just like he knows what we're saying, isn't it?"
Gahzee nodded. "I think he's a Kachina-hey," he said. "This is only the shape he wears in the Third World."
Lisa gave the coyote a hard look, but he turned and disappeared out into the gathering dusk. Gahzee started the Usaijin and then they were off as well, heading for their rendezvous with the Ragman. Lisa held Gahzee's bow and the half-dozen arrows he'd finished making earlier in the day. Her other arm was around Gahzee's waist, holding tighter than the ride required.
4
Even with his augmented reflexes, the closest yak turned too slowly. Miko was pure fluid motion as she closed the distance between them. The fan licked out and half-severed his wrist from his arm. She caught his katana in her left hand as it fell from suddenly numbed fingers. The fan licked out a second time, darting for the yak's throat. It cut through the flesh, but she was no longer looking at him. The sword in her left hand rose to meet the descending blade of the second yak's katana.
She deflected his blow. Sparks flew as the blades screeched against each other. She stepped back, two quick paces. The fan dropped from her right hand. She gripped the hilt of the katana with both hands and assumed a ready position. Standing perfectly motionless, she waited. Her kimono had slipped slightly on one shoulder, revealing a part of her tattoo.
The yak's eyes widened slightly at that, then he streaked towards her. He was fast, as he should be with his augmented reflexes, but Miko's movement was a blur. She sidestepped, her katana descending. The first blow severed the yak's sword hand from his wrist. The upstroke that followed removed the left hand. Then she drove the blade into the center of his chest, the tempered steel skewering him.
They were face to face for a long moment until she jerked the blade free and he collapsed to the floor.
Miko's sword arm lowered until the bloody tip of the katana touched the floor. She breathed slowly, eyes slightly glazed. She let the katana fall. The rug was crimson with blood. Her face, her hair, her kimono and body were splattered with it. Slowly she sank to down beside Yip, sitting on her haunches.
She put a trembling hand to the side of his throat.
Dead.
She lowered her head and kissed his cooling lips, then straightened once more.
Dead.
She closed his eyes and touched his wound with a light butterfly touch, bringing her fingers to her lips. The blood was salty against her tongue.
Dead.
She rose slowly to her feet and crossed the room to where a lacquered wooden trunk stood below the window. Sweeping the ornaments from its lid, she opened it and withdrew a set of daisho in worn wooden sheaths. She brought the shorter wakizashi back to Yip's body and sat upon her haunches once more.
Her kimono fell free with a shrug of her shoulders. The short sword came out of its sheath with a click, followed by the sound of tempered metal drawn against wood. She held the wakizashi by its hilt with both hands, reversed so that the blade was turned inward, its true edge touching her belly.
"Forgive me, Phillip," she said softly, "but how can I live without you?"
Female seppuku had its own rituals. A woman would first kneel in seiza, then tie a string from her obi tight around her knees so that when she died she would fall over in a tidy, elegant bunch. She stabbed the heart, not the stomach.
But while Miko was a woman, she was yakuza as well. As much tied to the ancient codes through the teachings of her father, as Goro was through the heritage that his father had passed on to him. There was no honour in this seppuku, for she had forsworn honour long ago when she let Goro rule her life. Had she moved against him sooner, had she denied him, Phillip would not lie dead here in her apato.
Goro.
Heat burned between her temples at the thought of the oyabun of the Goro clan. A red haze touched her sight.
She slowed her breathing until she was calm once more, her ki sharp and aware of everything. The dead men. The sharp metal against her skin.
Her mind cleared of the rage. The cool fire of her sei, her calm, filled her. Her mind became like water, freed of the four sicknesses: surprise, fear, doubt, and indecisiveness.
Goro.
Her gaze settled on Yip's dead features.
"I will kill him for you, Phillip," she said.
But there was still giri owed to Phillip Yip. A debt incurred that Goro's death alone would not atone for.
The wakizashi went back into its sheath, the hilt locking with a sharp snick. She returned to the wooden chest, bringing a smaller knife and two handkerchiefs—one cotton, one silk—back to where Yip's body lay. She lay the handkerchiefs aside and drew the knife from its wooden sheath.
Giri. Obligation.
A yakuza would die for his oyabun if he had failed him. A yakuza would die for a wrong incurred against a brother-in-arms. Or he could offer yubitsume—the ritual removal of the little finger.
Miko took a deep breath, then placed her left fist on the floor, the little finger extended. Sticking the point of the blade beside the first joint, she quickly pushed the knife down. The sharp crack of the bone as the knife sliced through it was loud in the silent room. The cleanly severed finger lay on the floor.
The pain was a sharp fire that raced up her arm, screaming up her nerves until it touched the cool flame of her sei. Face white, with her left hand dripping blood onto her thighs, Miko picked up the cotton handkerchief. Wrapping it around her bleeding hand, she clenched the cloth into a fist. With her right hand she wrapped the severed finger in the silk handkerchief, carefully folding each corner of the cloth over it. Blood stained the white silk in a pattern like a flower opening its petals.
Bowing deeply, forehead against the floor, she pushed the red and white offering across the floor to Yip's corpse.
"Please accept this token of my apology," she said.
She held her bow for long moments, not expecting a response, expecting nothing. Then slowly she straightened once more, both hands in her lap in the formal position, her back perfectly straight, gaze rigid.
She let her ki taste the pain of her hand—
Remember, remember.
—until the pain was part of her sei, her calm, then she slowly rose to her feet and went into the toilet to properly bandage her hand.
This pain is yours, Phillip, she thought as she worked. I will use it when I face Goro so that a part of you will share in his defeat.
5
"Oh, man," the Ragman said, looking at Gahzee, "I can't get you in looking like that, Jack."
There was quite a crowd gathered at the junkwalkers' yard in the squats Market. Jimmy Poon and his cousin Huai Jen Pa. Sly Bobbie Rye, Linton Zadie, and the Ragman's eleven other bullyboys. Matching them in number was an equal amount of squats rats and chinas dressed as swagger girls. Nobody carried weapons. The Ragman had those waiting for them at his Plex digs.
Bringing the number to thirty-three was Lisa and her Claver, looking like he'd just stepped out of a war party from a dojin no vid. The Ragman didn't count the Claver's dog with its weird eyes, but he kept an eye on it while it was skulking around the discarded scrap metal that bordered the yard.
The Ragman took Gahzee and Lisa aside.
"See, this is the deal," he went on. "I was taking you and Lisa through with me, leaving a message with the drones that I was having a squats-style party in my Plex digs. Bunch a' my guests were picking out themselves some strongarms and'd be bringing 'em through the checkpoint over the next coupla hours. So we'd get down to our own business, then head back to my digs where the girls'd be waiting for us. Then we hit Goro's. Real simple, Jack—you following me?"
Gahzee nodded.
"Trouble is, the drones won't be letting you through looking like some dojin no."
"That is exactly what I am."
"I know that, you know that—looking the way you do, now we all know that. But that ain't the point. I got to get you in."
"You and Lisa can go in through the checkpoint. I'll meet you inside."
The Ragman rubbed his face. "I don't have time for this shit, Jack. I want you to go clean that crap offa your face while I scrounge up some gear for you to wear." He looked down at Gahzee's bow and arrows Lisa was still carrying. "And get ridda that shit, would ya, darling? What're you planning to do—go up against a laser-rifle with some handmade toys?"
Gahzee took the weapons from her. At her worried look, he gave her a quick smile, then lowered his head, and kissed her. He turned back to the Ragman.
"Do what you must to get inside," he said. "I will meet you in there."
"Fuck that, Jack. You ain't—"
But Gahzee was turning away from him again. Three quick steps, and the Claver was gone. As though he'd never been present. The Ragman looked for Gahzee's dog, but it wasn't around anymore either.
"Your boyfriend operating on a half load or something, darling?" he asked Lisa.
He could see the worry in her eyes, but she immediately stood up for the Claver.
"He's on a Stalker's Wheel," she said. "Don't worry about him."
"Stalker's Wheel. Right. Whatever the fuck that means."
"Tonight he's Stalking Death. That means—"
"Never mind. I don't wanna know. Let's just get this show on the road before the Claver fucks it up for all of us."
He returned to the others, Lisa trailing along behind him.
"Me and Lisa are going in on foot, so that leaves a couple more wheels free. You girls can figure out who's going to get 'em. Remember the deal. Remember the address for my digs. The drones are gonna rag you some, girls, but let 'em."
"We gotta take their shit?" Sly Bobbie asked.
"You're not gonna have any problem getting through, Jack—they just like to have some fun with big squats strongarms who can't do diddly 'cause they're on the wrong turf. So behave, girls. Got that?"
"What about on the way out?" Linton Zadie asked. "Can we cut us some drone ass then?"
"Anyone who makes it outta Goro's can do what they damn well please," the Ragman said. "But you might think about this—you'll be citizens, living in the Plex. I'll give you jobs. You can set yourselves up real fine. You want to fuck that up by cutting a few drones?"
Jimmy Poon fingered his Plex ID. "These things…?" he began.
"Don't let no drone see them when you're going in," the Ragman told him. "Going in, you're strongarms hired to escort a bunch a' swagger girls to a squats-style party. And anybody that's carrying a 'jack, a knife, anything—dump it before the checkpoint. I got everything you need inside."
"But we don't hafta leave when we're finished with Goro, right?" Linton said. He was looking at his own ID card. "With these we can just stay in the Plex."
"You got it, Jack." The Ragman looked around at them, grinning. "Anyone else got any more lamebrained questions? No? Okay, girls. Then this is it. I'll see ya at my digs." He took Lisa's hand. "Showtime, darling. You and me—we're the opening act. You nervous?"
"Yeah."
"Well, put a good swagger in your ass when we're going through the checkpoint, so's they don't see how you're feeling."
Knowing her mind was on her dumbass Claver, who just had to play things his own way no matter how it fucked everything up, the Ragman continued to tease her as they headed for the Plex checkpoint, trying to get her to loosen up.
"You're not putting much feedback into my jokes, darling," he said after a while.
"I don't feel like laughing."
The Ragman sighed, thinking of what lay ahead. "Yeah. Guess I know what you mean."
Lisa paused, tugging on his hand so that he had to stop with her. "I don't really know what I'm doing here, Ragman," she said. "I'm not like your bullyboys. Trouble comes, I usually want to run."
"Shit, darling. Who was it took out two yaks on her own?"
"That was dumb luck."
"Maybe. You want out?"
She shook her head. "All I gotta do is think about Kay and Donnybrook and I know I'm in. And Gahzee's in there now."
Sure he is, the Ragman thought.
"I'm just afraid of fucking up."
"That's something everybody's afraid of, darling. You got no inside line on it."
"But—"
The Ragman started walking again, pulling her along. "You're gonna do just fine, darling. Trust the Ragman. When's he steered you wrong before?"
"Hitting Goro's a kamikaze run," Lisa said.
"Well, yeah. There's that."
The checkpoint was coming up and they didn't talk anymore. The Ragman led them into an alleyway where he stripped off his baggy clothes and stuffed them into a sack that he pushed under some refuse. Under the discarded clothes he'd been wearing a conservative grey bodysuit. From its back pocket, he pulled a biomask. The synthskin fit against his face like a second skin, lightening the dark ebony of his features, pulling his eyes into narrow slits. Gloves of the same material changed his hands.
Lisa watched him, comprehension dawning on her. "So that's how you get in and out the way you do. That stuff costs a frigging fortune."
"I got a frigging fortune, darling. Might as well use it for something, right?"
"I guess."
He unrolled a rainjacket then and put it on, pulling up the hood until it fit snugly around his head, leaving just his face bare. He could tell by the look on Lisa's face that she could hardly recognize him.
"Ready, darling?"
She nodded.
The gate was down across the checkpoint, but because they were on foot they went directly to the guardhouse. Inside the small building, their retina, voice, and thumbprints all matched the information stored on the Ho Anzen computers. The weapons check came up clean, since Lisa's Steeljack was duly registered.
"Making an early night of it, Jones-san?" the drone asked as he waved them through.
"Hai," the Ragman replied. He spoke flawless Japanese without a trace of a patois accent. Glancing at Lisa, he gave the drone a broad wink. "Homegrown is still the best, even when one must visit the slums to find it."
The drone grinned. "Have a good time, Jones-san."
"Oh, I will. I'm throwing a party tonight—squats-style, neh? The girls are out looking for strongarms now and should be coming through over the next few hours."
"I'll keep an eye out for them. Do you have a list of their names?"
"Hai."
The Ragman called up the names on his com-link and the drone transferred them onto his own screen.
"If you are free this evening…?" the Ragman added.
"Gomenasai, Jones-san," the drone said with obvious regret. "I work all night."
"Another time, then."
The drone nodded. "I would be honoured."
The Ragman returned his nod. "Ja mata."
"Mata."
Once they were out on the Plex streets, the Ragman turned to Lisa. "What did I tell ya? Piece a cake."
Lisa shook her head in admiration. "Where to now?"
When she started to look around them, the Ragman knew she wasn't just taking in the sights of her first visit to the Plex. She was looking for her Claver.
"Best bet's to head straight for IBN, darling. If your Claver makes it in, then I guess he's good enough to find us. Meanwhile, we might as well see if we can't lift that chip."
"You got some smartass plan for that, too?" Lisa asked.
The Ragman grinned and patted his pocket. "Right here, darling. See, it's all in the way you play the game. You give the fools what they think they're looking for, while you pick up the cash and run. Just a—"
"Piece a cake."
"You got it, darling."
NINETEEN
1
They stepped like two ghosts through the squats streets, Gahzee and the coyote, walking a Stalker's Wheel. They moved only in the shadows, working their way towards the Megaplex, to all intents and purposes invisible. Nanabozho appeared to be just another squats dog, running feral—who would give him a second glance? The medé, on his Stalker's Wheel, was merely a silent shape cloaked by the darkness, his personality submerged so that there was no sense of a human presence where he walked, no reason for anyone to look in his direction.
They stepped over rats sleeping under blankets of refuse or passed out in alleyways. When they reached the Strip, they took to the back lanes that ran behind the clubs until they finally reached the border of the Megaplex.
There was no checkpoint here. The sides of the buildings facing the squats were devoid of windows or doors. Seven-meter-high walls blocked the streets between the buildings. Crouching under one wall, Gahzee waited until his hunter's sense told him that the security officer on the other side of the wall was moving on to the next street.
Unwinding the rope from around his waist, he tied it to the V-shaped piece of metal he'd taken from one of the scrap heaps in the junkwalkers' yard, then tossed it up. The makeshift hook caught on the inside lip of the wall. Holding the rope taut, Gahzee glanced at his companion.
"Hey, brother," he said. "This is where we part."
