Women of War (31 page)

“A cutting party,” Michael explained as he sipped from his glass.

Steepling her fingers beneath her chin, Itosu watched as one of the higher-ranking ambassadors accepted an offered knife. Giggling nervously and more than a little drunk, he swiped at one of the officers, scoring him across the abdominals. Everyone laughed. Then, the ambassador's eyes shot wide and he tried to recoil as the bleeding officer grasped his face and kissed him deeply.

“Doing your part for interstellar relations,” Itosu noted as the ambassador sputtered in the stronger Tindaran's grip.

“For a few, there's a certain sexual element to it,” Admiral Brin admitted as he resumed his seat beside her. “But we heal very quickly and feel little pain.” He looked at her over the rim of his wineglass. “That's why we are superior to Humans. With the right treatments we can make you one of us.”

“Superior?” Itosu raised an eyebrow as she watched the cutting party. Another pair of Tindarans had joined the circle, stripped to the waist and brandishing their knives. Pushing back her chair, she rose.

“What are you doing, Shaara?” Michael asked. In a clumsy attempt to clutch at her hand, he knocked over his wineglass. A red stain spread across the fine white tablecloth.

Fully aware of Brin's gaze upon her, she shook Michael off and walked around the table to join the cutting party. The five Tindarans noticed her at once, and the diplomats and other guests, observing their changed expressions, also took note and fell back.

Itosu loosened the collar of her uniform and turned to one of the Tindaran officers. She glanced at his knife. “Cut me,” she instructed. The officer hesitated and glanced toward his captain and the admiral. Then, when Brin nodded, he lunged.

With a subtle movement, Itosu turned her shoulders and leaned aside, letting the blade slip harmlessly past. Placidly, she looked at the startled officer. “Cut me,” she urged. Again he lunged, but as he stepped forward, Itosu made a small, unnoticed move and swept his leading foot. Barely aware of what had happened, he fell at her feet.

“Cut me!” Itosu said, turning to the other officers. “This is a party, isn't it?”

Confusion flickered over their faces, but one of them slashed at her with his knife. She moved with lithe grace, avoiding the stroke. When another Tindaran struck at her, she did the same. When a third man swung his knife, she caught his wrist, turned away, and twisted his hand backward, sending him pinwheeling through the air to land in front of the admiral.

Red-faced and embarrassed, two Tindarans attacked her together. Again, she moved aside and lightly shoved one into the other, sending them toppling.

Backed to the corners of the stateroom, the guests began to applaud. They were in a mood for entertainment, and they were getting it. Itosu ignored them as she ignored Brin, who was on his feet, and Michael, who sat breathless and watchful.

A knife flashed at her face. Again, she caught the wrist, turned, and dropped her attacker with a four-corner throw.
Shioi-nage.
His knife clattered on the floor, and with the edge of her toe she kicked it back to him.

A rush of footsteps warned her of the next attack, but at the same instant, an image flickered through her mind of the Buddha on her altar, its eyes calm, its expression meditative and vast. The image was like cool rain on her face.

Anger had brought her to this moment, anger and ego. She turned toward Brin, knowing that she had revealed more of herself than she should have.

She heard the footsteps again—two attackers charging in unison, their breaths harsh and ragged as the cheers and applause of the guests made distant thunder. Itosu spun about. Catching one man's chin with the edge of her hand, she bent his head back and guided him gently to the floor.

The second man lunged at her back. Without rising or looking around, Itosu reached over her shoulder. Her sword hissed from the lacquer sheath on her back, whirled under her arm, and angled upward.

The Tindaran officer gave a cry and, checking his charge, stared downward to where the point of her blade rested against his groin.

“Enough,” Itosu said. Rising, she sheathed her sword and extended her hand to each of the five Tindaran officers. When they had each shaken her hand, she backed a step and made a formal bow, which they returned.

“An impressive demonstration,” Admiral Brin said as she returned to her seat. “You didn't take a single cut.”

Itosu didn't look at him. The guests were gathering around the Tindarans again, and the cutting party was resuming as if nothing had happened. “The power of your bodies is remarkable,” she answered. “But for a warrior there has to be more.”

“She's explained this to me before,” Michael told the admiral as he put his arm on the back of his lover's chair. “
Shin-Gi-Tai.
Mind, body, and spirit working as one. Shaara didn't take a cut because none of them could cut her.”

Itosu touched Michael's arm and brushed her fingertips over the back of one forming hand. The new skin felt so soft, yet so hot, almost feverish. She could sense the sinew and muscle regenerating as she interlaced her fingers with his. They were still stiff, but more flexible than before.

In this one crystal moment, she almost hated herself for what she had done to him.

He seemed to sense her thoughts. “Remember our love,” he said, whispering in her ear. She nodded and tried to smile.

Shin-Gi-Tai.
Mind, body, spirit.

They all belonged to Michael.

She had known him for as long as she could remember and loved him almost as long. They'd been children on Catullus, and both had lost their families there. As orphans they'd grown even closer, and in time he began to love her back the way she loved him.

But her path was not his path.

Shaara Itosu fought to clear her mind as she stood at the
Katana
's command console and stared at the viewscreen. Her fingers played idly with the crossed sai on her collar. All her bridge crew wore the same insignia—Star Samurai, every one, handpicked by her and completely loyal. Yet, at the moment she could barely remember their names.

Michael's face filled her thoughts, a younger face and different, yet much the same. Her heart hammered in her chest as she remembered the first time he said he loved her, the first time they embraced, the day she went to Fleet Command, and the day he took ship for Tindar.

She rubbed her eyes. All her tears had dried up long ago—years ago—on the day they'd made this plan together and set betrayal in motion. Where would her path lead now? To honor or to shame?

She knew where Michael's path led.

Epsilon Eridani shone with a red-orange light in the upper corner of her screen, and the dust and ice rings that surrounded it glimmered with an awesome beauty. Nearby, its only planet, a Jupiter-class gas giant, floated at a distance of three-point-three astronomical units.

The rest of the screen was filled with ships: scarred dreadnoughts, warships, cruisers and carriers, transports, and cargo craft. Nearly half of them were docked together in a geodesic formation, creating a diplomatic station not unlike Station Ymanja. The other ships lay at anchor close by.

The gathering represented nearly half of Humanity's Command Fleet. One solid blow at its heart would end the Endless War between Humans and Tindarans. For nearly five hundred years it had raged, fracturing mankind, halting expansion and exploration. War had a way of devouring resources.

A way of eating the soul.

“Commander?” Her executive officer called from his workstation. His voice was deep and professional. “We're informed that the conference is underway. President Duvallier has just brought down the opening gavel.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Ghandi,” she answered. “Take us out in a slow spiral to the edge of the dust rings.” She flipped a switch on her console and touched the plug in her right ear. A chatter of voices followed, and she listened with faint interest to the proceedings.

Numbers danced on her viewscreen readout. With an eleven-day rotation cycle, Epsilon Eridani generated a strong magnetic field with occasional surges. Nothing to worry about.

Ghandi spoke again, and this time, his usually calm voice betrayed the tension he felt. “Vessels dropping out of trans-light at stellar one-twenty by forty-five degrees!” He shot a glance at Itosu, then looked back at his screen. “Merciful God!” he whispered. “We're really going to do it!”

Her bridge crew—twenty trusted and battle-tested officers—scrambled at their stations. Itosu leaned over her console and fingered the
Katana
's address system. On her viewscreen, more Tindaran ships dropped out of trans-light and charged across space.

“This is the meeting ground of the universe,” she said to her crew. “This is the mother of Tomorrow. How do I know this is so? Because I feel it in my heart, because I see it in the eyes of each of you. We've all been the slaves of history, but today we set the future free. Stand by your weapons; remember the plan; fear nothing.”

Wave after wave of Tindaran ships popped into view on her screen. Hungry for glory, tasting his victory, Admiral Brin led the attack from the bridge of the
Surtur
, with Michael in command. She wondered if he was making some noble speech to his crew, if his words echoed her own.

Lasers stabbed across the star-flecked darkness. Torpedoes and missiles streaked through the vast deep like bolts of lightning. Fleet Command's outermost ships exploded in violent fireballs, each so bright they rivaled the glow of Epsilon Eridani. A Tindaran fighter wing strafed the geodesic structure of docked vessels.

Itosu watched the annihilation. There was a terrifying, almost hypnotic beauty to it as ship after ship erupted, as energy coruscated, as vessels burned and shattered on the shoals of the immense red star. Tearing her gaze away, she glanced at her crew. At each of their consoles, view-screens flickered and flashed, filling the bridge with a wild chiaroscuro of light and shadow and lending their rapt faces a surreal, funhouse madness.

The image on her own viewscreen jumped. Admiral Brin's face appeared. Michael stood behind him. “Itosu!” the admiral shouted. “They aren't fighting back! What the hell is this?”

“Armageddon, Admiral,” Itosu answered with icy calm. “But not for Humanity. Welcome to Hell.” She pointed a finger across the bridge at Ghandi, who sprang into action at his station.

Behind Brin, Michael Cade drew his laser pistol and burned a hole through the admiral's chest. At the same instant, every weapon on the
Katana
locked onto a Tindaran ship and fired.

On the viewscreen, Michael slammed the butt of his pistol on a button, activating a pre-planned sequence of computer commands. In response, the
Surtur
's weapons also locked onto Tindaran ships.

Through the plug in her ear, Itosu listened for one more moment as the stream of chatter from the presidential conference continued. Taped broadcasts sent over supposedly secure channels—excellent bait to trick the Tindarans.

As were the ships of Fleet Command. Derelicts, retired and outmoded fighters, battle-damaged carriers, every worn-out craft that could limp or be towed into formation. All to sucker the enemy.

The real Fleet Command, hidden until now behind the gas giant planet, charged into the engagement. The ruby energies of Seimer cannons sliced through the steel of Tindaran bulkheads. Volt torpedoes blossomed with a fury made all the more frightening by their silence. Missiles ripped through metal hulls.

Breathless and sweating, Michael appeared on Itosu's viewscreen again. “We've done it, Shaara,” he said. “Years of planning, and we've done it! Tindar will never recover from this!”

Itosu nodded. Years of planning while she'd risen through the ranks of Fleet Command and he'd worked his way through the Tindaran navy. On their families' graves they'd made a pledge and taken the first steps on the paths that had brought them to this moment.

Michael's voice dropped. “I love you, Shaara,” he told her. “Never forget that. Now do what you promised. I can't hold this bridge forever.”

Shaara Itosu trembled. “Michael ...”

His face turned hard. “Just do it!” he said. “I'm already dying! You are my
kaishaku!
”

The assistant, the one who administered the killing coupde-grace at a ritual suicide. That's what she was. Michael wasn't a true Tindaran. His healing abilities were only the result of the insane science that had originally mutated Tindaran genes. Now it was burning out his metabolism, consuming him from the inside out.

This was the path he had chosen for himself, not merely to avenge his family, but to bring an end to the Endless War. This was the vow they had made to each other.

“Tell me one more time,” she said, forcing a smile as she did her best to keep her voice from wavering. “What's the sound of one hand clapping?”

Michael matched her smile, and his eyes sparkled. Itosu's heart threatened to break as she saw the fear in those eyes, but she also saw exultation. He answered with gentle laughter. “It's the same sound my hand makes every time I smack your butt!”

Itosu looked over her shoulder to Ghandi. “We're locked on,” he informed her with quiet respect. “Firing control is on your voice command.” Ghandi was also Star Samurai, and he knew what was happening. Even in the midst of battle, he bowed his head.

Michael spoke from the viewscreen, encouraging her. “Make me shine like a sun!”

“Michael ...” There was no more to say. She placed her hand on her console's viewscreen as if she might somehow reach through it and touch him one more time. Sad, she thought, that this moment of great triumph would also be a moment of great loss. When she spoke again, the word was little more than a whisper, but it was enough. “Fire.”