House of Reeds

A Nondescript House Near the Tomb of Gharlane the Mad, Parus

Lachlan's image turned sideways, alarm plain on his young face. "An unexpected hyperspace transit, mi'lady." He tapped a glyph on his end and Itzpalicue watched with interest as a navigational plot unfolded on a spare display. "A relatively small ship…'casting Fleet ident codes…here we are, an Astronomer-class light cruiser, the Henry R. Cornuelle."

The old woman bared her teeth moodily. "A late arrival for Battle Group 88?"

"Not on the squadron list," Lachlan replied, scratching the edge of a stubbled jaw. Like Itzpalicue, work had replaced sleep on his schedule. "Fleet records say…the Cornuelle is assigned to deep range patrol in the Hittite sector. One zone to core from here. Commander of record is Mitsuharu Hadeishi, a Nisei from New Edo on Angehuac…"

The old woman grunted and sat up a little straighter.

"…graduate Fleet Academy, this is his third deep space command, no notable clan affiliation, sponsor list is…empty?" Lachlan frowned, looking up at her. "How did he get an independent cruiser command?"

"Consider his service record, child." Itzpalicue stifled a yawn. She had been working long hours, racing to keep ahead of the Flower Priests. Spyeye deployment had gone well, but high levels of acid rain were causing intermittent problems with the relay grids. She plucked a maguey spine from her sleeve – one of dozens carefully pinched through the cloth – and pricked her cheek. A stab of pain cleared her mind, leaving a tiny crimson dab on a cheekbone serrated with a closely spaced pattern of puckered scars.

"…sixteenth in his class at the Academy," Lachlan was reading, growing more puzzled with each entry in Commander Hadeishi's personnel jacket. "Fourth in tactical exercises, second in overall efficiency, high marks from his science instructors, winner of the Graymont Exercise three years in a row, very good rating in engineering, management skills, composure under fire."

"Yes." Itzpalicue had already scanned the records herself. "Do you see the note from the senior chief petty officer of the Shoryu concerning his first tour of duty?"

Lachlan flipped to the appropriate page, green eyes searching through the records.

"Sho-i Hadeishi," he said slowly, digesting the passage, "is as fine an officer as I've had the honor to serve with aboard any ship of the Fleet." Lachlan leaned back in his seat, staring at the old woman. "High praise from a thirty-year joto-heiso on a Fleet heavy carrier. But he has no friends noted at Court, or on the Heavenly Mountain, no heavyweight pochteca backing him up, he's not married to an admiral's daughter…he's no one at all."

Itzpalicue nodded, a pleased smile beginning to seep into her wrinkled old face. "He is an exemplary officer, Lachlan-tzin. An honorable credit to his family – though by their surname they are not of noble birth, so perhaps they do not care – and to the Fleet. You see why he is here?"

The Йirishman nodded, biting his lower lip. "Ship's been two years out of refit or a Fleet base. Must be worn down to the nub. Hmmm…four recent engagements with 'hostile elements.' Three confirmed counter-privateer kills, including a Tyr-class refinery ship. Five stationside or colony disputes settled by force of arms. Greeting squirt to Admiral Villeneuve reports his ship is at seventy percent capability due to crew casualties and mechanical attrition. Well! The commander has been keeping busy out in the big dark."

"Battle group 88 has a Fleet mobile repair dock assigned?" Itzpalicue was considering a picture – now several years out of date – of Hadeishi. A thin little man with an intelligent face, narrow beard and pencil-thin mustache. She imagined he would laugh easily, sitting around a low table with his friends, drinking sake and listening to a samisen player. The edge of her thumb, polished sharp and reinforced to razor sharpness with layers of rebonded polytetrafluoroethylene, tapped slowly against a list of 'associated persons.' The list was not part of Hadeishi's public Fleet jacket.

The Mirror took care to watch the activities of ship commanders, even ones who barely existed from a political point of view. At some time in the past, a 'mouse' had observed Chu-sa Hadeishi speaking in a familiar way with a certain person. An individual Itzpalicue knew and detested, not solely because he was an Imperial Judge – a nauallis – or what the credulous would call a sorcerer. Unlike everything else in the Empire, the activities of the nauallis were kept well hidden from the Mirror. Of course the rival organizations took great interest in one another's doings. The old woman's lips tightened in remembered anger, considering the name.

Her eyes moved on, coming to rest on a red-flagged Admiralty note at the bottom of the record. Ah, I see why our brave captain has stayed in the shadows so long… He has been avoiding fate.

"He must be looking to refit with the battle group while the Flingers-of-Stone are in-system." Lachlan rubbed one of his eyes. The medical readout showed him close to complete exhaustion. "Or use the battle group tachyon relay to get recalled by Nineteenth Fleet. So…he's shot off every sprint missile in his stores. His beam weapon mounts must be caked solid with particle flux. Shipskin and armor are barely hanging to the hull. This ship desperately needs to recycle at a repair base."

The old woman pursed her lips. "This ship was placed under orders months ago to return to Toroson to be decommissioned. Commander Hadeishi is very tardy in returning from his patrol." She considered the message traffic passing between the Cornuelle and the battle group's tachyon relay. "He's reporting damage to the last message drone – how convenient…"

"That won't matter," Lachlan said, yawning again. "All the queued mail and orders are dumping to his main comp now – he'll have to make transit for the Fleet Base within a day or so."

Itzpalicue shook her head, decision crystallizing even as she considered the matter. "No. The Holy Mother is watching over our shoulders, Lachlan-tzin. This is one of our missing elements, cast down from heaven to serve our purpose."

"Mi'lady?" Lachlan was noticeably surprised.

"The Cornuelle will serve as Elder Warrior's sacrifice for the exercise about to commence on the planet. Pass my desire on to the Flower Priest handling such things. Have them cut Hadeishi new orders, delaying his return to Toroson until after our activities here are complete."

The young Йirishman stared at her in dismay for a moment, then shook himself, nodded and turned away to key up the appropriate comm channel. He said nothing about her decision, as was proper.

Itzpalicue tapped the public personnel jacket closed without a further thought. Her attention, as always, turned back to the banks of video feeds reflecting the spyeyes over Parus, or relaying local holocast and voice-only transmissions. Her room was close and still, filled with the birdlike cries of thousands of chattering voices. One sharp fingernail continued to tap slowly on the list of persons associated with the so-able Commander Hadeishi.

Huitziloxoctic. Green Hummingbird.

How fine to meet the friend of an old…acquaintance

The captain's launch from the Cornuelle drifted through an enormous airlock, the slow pulse of guide-lights illuminating the boat's ebon exterior. Inside the landing bay, every surface gleamed white and gray, sharply illuminated by banks of lights on the overhead. A boat bay unfolded in complete silence to engulf the smaller craft. Inside, Chu-sa Mitsuharu Hadeishi felt the clamps lock on and snug tight. Darkness fell across the forward windows as they were drawn into the cradle.

He was a little puzzled. The usual flood of orders, directives and paperwork from Fleet had included a general reassignment order for the Cornuelle, attaching the light cruiser to the Tecaltan battle group. There had been no sign of their original orders to report to Toroson. The promotions and other personnel assignment papers had not reappeared either.

Very odd, Hadeishi thought, but he was relieved enough not to question the Gods of the Fleet. Not right now at least.

Ship-to-ship chatter between the launch pilot and traffic control on the DN-120 Tehuia was quiet and professional, never rising above a soothing murmur. The launch trembled and then all vibration ceased as the maneuvering engines shut down. Hadeishi sat quietly, letting his crewmen do their jobs, savoring the idle moment. He was uncomfortably aware of burn marks around the boat airlock and panels patched back into place with a hand welder. The decking under his feet was badly discolored. Ah, he remembered, we must have used the launch at Argentosonae, when we ambushed the Megair attacking the mining station. Every man with a weapon was needed that day.

The memory was already tinged with melancholy.

The lock cycled open, environmental lights shining green, and Hadeishi unfastened his shock harness before kicking out into the tube leading onto the Fleet dreadnaught. Two Marines in shipside duty dress were waiting, arms presented. The men flanked a young, blonde Sho-i with fine-boned European features. She bowed gracefully as Hadeishi swung out into gravity, both feet landing solidly on the 'welcome mat' inside the reception bay.

"Commander Hadeishi? Welcome aboard the Stonesmasher. I am Ensign Huppert."

The Chu-sa bowed in return, taking care to keep his face expressionless. He was rather surprised for the Sho-i to greet him in Norman, rather than Admiralty Japanese. Despite the dissonance between expectation and reality, he showed no reaction.

"A pleasure, Ensign. I understand a Fleet general staff meeting is scheduled? I would like to report to my division commander and, if possible, tender my regards to Admiral Villeneuve."

"Of course, sir." Huppert bowed again. "There is a gathering of the battle group officers underway – though I must tell you it is not a staff meeting. You should be able to find Captain Jamison – he's senior cruiser division commander – there, as well as the Admiral."

The young woman gestured Hadeishi into a waiting tube-car. The Marines were already gone – a light cruiser commander did not rate an escort, not on a fast dreadnaught carrying a Fleet Admiral. Huppert sat opposite, hands clasped on her knees.

For a moment, Hadeishi considered starting a conversation. The ensign seemed personable enough to respond in kind, but something – a queer, itchy sensation along his spine – bade him sit quietly, staring without focus at the wall of the tube-car. Huppert did not seem to mind, her pleasant half-smile remaining in place during the ten-minute transit the length of the massive ship.

The ensign stood just before the car slid noiselessly to a halt. "Flag Officer's country, commander." Huppert was not smiling openly, but her grass-green eyes twinkled in anticipation. "The Admiral does not believe in stinting as a host, particularly not when his line commanders are aboard."

The tube-car door slid up and the sound of odd, lilting, music flooded into the car. Hadeishi stepped out onto the transit platform, one eyebrow rising uncontrollably. Music – live music; he could distinguish a slightly out-of-tune cello behind the most vibrant sound – was playing not too far away. The acoustic paneling in the ship corridors deadened most of the flowing music, but the piece was unmistakable.

"This is Berlioz's Messe Solennelle?"

Huppert nodded. "Very astute, commander. The Admiral believes shipboard service should not be…cheerless."

"Live musicians?" Hadeishi followed the ensign, though he nearly missed a step when he realized the floor was covered with rich, heavy carpets. The usually plain shipboard bulkheads were covered with thin, filmy patterned hangings. Actual oil paintings, if the unforgettable aroma of linseed, turpentine and canvas was not produced by a sensorium, were spaced every ten meters or so. The illustrations seemed garish and overdone to his eye, filled with fantastically overripe flowers, rosy-cheeked peasants and bucolic scenes drawn from a rural milieu centuries dead.

"The Admiral approves of the men's hobbies. He supports those with talent – talent beyond simple duty, of course. The flagship maintains an orchestra for the men's entertainment."

The itchy feeling grew worse. Huppert paced into a doorway and the music was drowned by the clatter and chime of crystal, people talking carelessly and the rustling of hundreds of men and women in freshly starched dress uniforms. Hadeishi slowed half a step, one hand automatically adjusting his collar and the line of his jacket. His first thought, seeing so many officers in one place, was to wonder how deep in the Tehuia they were. Would a Khaid antimatter cluster be stopped by ship's armor before incinerating every line captain in this room? Are their executive officers here too? Who is standing watch on their ships? Ensigns and midshipmen?

"Commander?" Huppert turned and beckoned him through the doorway. Mustering himself, Hadeishi stepped into the officer's mess, slightly narrowed eyes taking in the field of battle. I will never begrudge my uniform allowance again, he thought, stricken morose by the gaudy sight before him. And I will listen to my dear Kosho and buy a very, very nice, custom-tailored dress uniform. As soon as I can.

The flag officer's ward room of the Stonesmasher was very large – probably the size of one of the assault shuttle bays on the Cornuelle – and besides an elevated stage holding nearly an entire orchestra, more than a hundred officers mingled in the open space. Long rows of tables, positively glowing with silver, crystal and porcelain, were waiting for the dinner gong to sound. A vaulted roof seemed to soar overhead, filled with chandeliers and a gilded, rococo ceiling. Clouds of tabac smoke coiled up, vanishing into hidden vents.

I do hope that ceiling is a holocast, Hadeishi thought, coming to a numb halt beside Huppert.

Huppert was speaking quietly into his ear, trying to point out who was who, but one singular fact had already impressed itself on the Chu-sa.

He was the only Nisei officer – the only non-European face – he could see in the entire room. No one seemed to have noticed his arrival, for which he was now unaccountably grateful.

"An interesting staff meeting…" he started to say.

"As I said, Commander…" Huppert's fingertips pressed against his arm. "Not so much a staff meeting, but the Admiral's Dinner. Once a week the Admiral likes to have all of his ship commanders over to dine, have a few drinks, get to know each other. Very convivial."

"I see." Hadeishi tried not to move his head, but his eyes flitted along the walls, searching for the quiet, unassuming presence of security officers from the Mirror, or a nauallis or anything which might make this loud, cheerful gathering look less like the kind of treason which gave loyal Fleet captains ulcer-ridden, sleepless nights. I must already be on camera, too.

A ringing tone cut through the murmur, and everyone turned towards the tables.

"But after the meal, you must make yourself known to Flag Captain Plamondon. He's the Fleet operations officer and the Admiral's exec." The pretty ensign took him by the elbow and began to guide Hadeishi towards his seat. Her hand was very firm.

A Fleet cargo shuttle, solar-flare blazon of the Cornuelle visible on the side doors, steam hissing up from triangular wings, rolled to a halt in the cavernous space of a groundside hangar. Ground crew jogged out, heads down, to slide chocks fore and aft of the wheels. A gangway levered down, and the hatchway swung up.

Shoi-i Daniel Smith swung down the ladder, sweat springing out across his grinning pale face, and he went immediately down on one knee and kissed oil-stained concrete. "Terra firma," he declared, wiping his mouth and standing up. "Almost one g, too!"

"Aren't you supposed to be our commanding officer?" Marine Heicho Felix slid down the ladder and took a careful look around the hanger, one hand on the stock of her assault rifle, before relaxing a little. Satisfied the immediate area was clear of danger – the hangar looked like every other Fleet maintenance facility she'd ever seen – she gestured Helsdon and his technicians down out of the aircraft. "Take a little care, kyo."

"Here?" Smith waved a negligent hand around, indicating the fuel gurney being wheeled out by two Fleet crewmen, the mammoth shape of an assault shuttle filling most of the hangar, and the exposed wooden ribs of the huge building. "We can breathe the air, we're in the middle of a Fleet base with three brigades of combat troops around us, I have my medband on…" He held up a skinny, fish-belly-pale wrist to show her. "…and…Lord of Hosts, what is that divine smell?"

Felix turned slowly, brown eyes narrowed, and tucked thick, black hair behind her ear. There was a smell – pungent, oily, sharp as a knife, tart with something familiar…

"Oh. Oh oh." Smith moved spasmodically forward, a glazed look in his eyes. "I smell roasting meat, Heicho. I smell…barbacoa! With chГles and onions! Real, fresh onions. Are those tripas? Someone's cooking real food!"

Felix took hold of his collar, dragging the midshipman back. Smith was easily a head taller than Felix, but he didn't work out in the Cornuelle's gymnasium every single day, without fail. On a small ship like the Henry R., a great deal of work was done in low or zero-g conditions. Fleet didn't bother to lay in grav-decking in every crew space, only in primary crew quarters, the mess and exercise spaces. The Marine had no trouble keeping her officer from charging across the flight line.

"I see the barbecue pit, kyo." Felix pointed with the flash-suppressing muzzle of her assault rifle. Unlike the lightweight shockrifle the Marines toted shipside, the Heicho was now sporting an ugly, black-finished 'top-deck'-style Macana 8mm assault rifle. Groundside, Felix didn't have to worry about punching a hole in the ship and letting her air out. The Macana was slung under her right arm on a shortened strap, one long clip in the magazine and another taped reversed to the first. A Nambu automatic was tucked under her other arm, held close by the gunrig strapped over her body armor. "Do you see what's between here and there?"

"Nothing!" Smith made a face, trying to brush off the Marine's hand.

At that moment, a thundering, earth-shaking roar split the air. Hot wind rushed past the hangar doors and a huge shape swept past, throwing a split-second shadow on the runway. Heat from the afterburners of another Fleet shuttle washed over them, making Smith turn away.

Felix pushed up her combat goggles and gave the midshipman an arch look. "Nothing. Of course."

"Sir?" Chief Machinist's Mate Helsdon, hands clasped behind his back, caught Smith's eye. "Would you like me to see about the replacement parts we need?"

Smith sighed, gave Felix an apologetic shrug and nodded. "Yes. Yes, I would."

Turning his back on the open hangar door and the shimmering, miragelike vista of the officer's recreational complex squatting between the two runways, Smith flipped open a handpad from his duty jacket. "All right, Sho-sa Kosho would like us to tick off two priorities while we're groundside." He nodded to Helsdon. "You've got chief engineer Isoroku's list of replacement parts for the ship. I doubt local industry is up to fabricating most of this stuff, but maybe you can cadge some from the base supply officer. Or…there's a note here from the commander saying a near-space development effort is underway at the port. A coalition of local kujenates – whatever those are – and the Imperial Development Board are working on deploying a series of communications satellites in orbit. Sho-sa Kosho says they're behind schedule, so hopefully you can swindle them out of whatever we need."

"Understood, sir." Helsdon had his own copy of the list, but he was being very polite. "All that will take some time – we're low on virtually every kind of material, machine part, and friable tool. When should we meet back here?"

Smith looked at his chrono, frowned, then looked out the hangar doors at the coppery afternoon sky.

"Local time is thirteen-hundred, sir." Felix had already adjusted her chrono to show both shiptime and groundtime.

"We'll be making more than one trip…" Smith sniffed the air, then shook his head mournfully. "But until we know the lay of the land, we'll bunk on the ship. We meet back here at nineteen-hundred, gentlemen. Heicho, send two of your men with Helsdon, the rest will come with us."

"Aye, aye." Felix motioned at two of the Marines in her fireteam. "Tyrell, Cuizmoc; keep the engineers from having their shoes stolen."

"Right." Smith thumbed through his list – direct from the Chu-sa – and grimaced. "Where the devil are we going to get all of these things? Five thousand kilo-liters of purified water, four hundred kilos of wheat flour (or equivalent), twelve hundred square meters of cotton sheeting, sixty kilos of chile powder, three hundred square meters of nonskid decking, a hundred twenty kilos of chocolatl powder, a ton of potatoes…"

Felix was waiting patiently, a slight smile on her elfin face, when the midshipman glared at her in a rather plaintive way.

"Why do you look so smug, Heicho?"

"Why, sir, haven't you ever been shopping before?"

Smith made a face and ignored her while scanning through the rest of the list. By the time he was done, his foul mood had evaporated. "Good, we can divide up the rest of this. You take the dry goods and mess supplies, while I see about arrangements for shore leave for the crew."

Felix's eyes narrowed slightly. Of course you'd be glad to arrange for the hotels – fresh sheets, convenient brothels, home-cooked food, hot water – for the crew. And make sure to see they're of proper quality…men!

"I'm sorry kyo, but you're the officer on mission and you have the Fleet scrip to pay for all the things we need. I'm not authorized to sign for purchases, just here to make sure brigands don't cosh you on the head and drag you off to toil in a salt mine. Sir."

Smith gave her a fulminating look for a long moment, then shrugged in defeat. "Fine. Let's go. You lead, bam-bam."

"Aye, kyo!" Felix gestured for her two remaining Marines to take point and tail, then plucked her own handpad out of the other holster slot in her gunrig. Humming tunelessly to herself, the Marine thumbed up a map of the spaceport and surrounds. She had already marked a number of locations on the holodisplay. "If it pleases you, kyo, we will want to hire a ground truck first…"

Hadeishi handed off his jacket, replete with service ribbons, two small medals and what seemed – now – to be a very paltry amount of gold braid, to old Yejin, his steward, as the door chimed.

"Enter." The Chu-sa was exhausted, but he managed a tiny smile for Sho-sa Susan Kosho when she stepped into the outer room of his office. The slim, perfectly coiffed executive officer's nostrils flared slightly to find her commander in shirtsleeves, but then she caught sight of his face and stiffened like a sword blade drawn ringing from the sheath.

"Ship's status?" Hadeishi unsealed the collar of his shirt and sat down on one of the low cushions lining the wall of his stateroom.

"Nominal." Kosho gave him a sharp look. "Circumpolar orbit, as directed by squadron traffic control. Crew is on stand-down and there are two shuttles groundside, arranging for resupply."

"Yejin-san, bring us something to drink. Sake, I think. If there is any Nadaizumi left."

The steward's face crumpled like an apple left out in the sun for several weeks. He bowed very deeply. "I beg your forgiveness, mi'lord…" His voice was raspy and thin.

Hadeishi sighed openly. "What do we have to drink?"

"A little rice beer, mi'lord." The steward had the look of a man forced to strangle his own child. "There is tea…"

"There is always tea," the Chu-sa said dryly. "The beer will do. Sho-sa, sit."

Kosho knelt, somehow managing to suggest gracefulness even in a Fleet duty uniform. Hadeishi watched her with leaden eyes, finding himself nearly overcome with weariness. The ringing sound of crystal and china was still echoing in his ears. The steward returned and placed drinking bowls and two hand-sized ceramic jars on a low table between them.

Showing admirable restraint, Kosho said nothing while the old man filled their cups and then disappeared through the doors into the main part of the captain's cabin. The battle-steel doors were painted with a traditional scene of mountains and cloud, but the gritty whine of track motors in need of replacement spoiled the illusion of rice-paper shoji sliding closed.

"I was not able to meet with Admiral Villeneuve," Hadeishi said, after clearing his throat with a long cold swallow. He set the cup down very carefully, then clasped his hands. "I did make the acquaintance of Fleet Captain Jean-Martel Plamondon, operations officer of battle group Tecaltan. I requested reassignment for Cornuelle so we could continue on to the advanced fleet base at Toroson for a complete refit."

Susan waited, her sharp black eyes intent.

"My request was refused." Hadeishi let out a breath. "I then requested access to the Fleet mobile repair dock traveling with the battle group, as well as emergency resupply for our munitions and stores directly from 88's magazine ships."

Kosho's smooth, unmarked forehead developed a slight, but noticeable, line – no more than the shadow of a samisen string running up from the bridge of her nose.

"Flag Captain Plamondon also declined this request. He felt…" Hadeishi closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were glittering with repressed anger. "He felt such a small ship as the Cornuelle – 'really no more than an over-weight destroyer' – could be provided for by local sources of resupply and provision."

"What -" Kosho fell silent. Her porcelain skin flattened to china white. "Your pardon, Chu-sa. I was not aware the industrial base of Jagan was advanced enough to replenish our ship-to-ship missiles, beam capacitors, shuttle engine cores, shipskin…"

Hadeishi nodded, lifting and dropping one hand in an admission of defeat. "I know."

"Was there an…e xplanation for these…rejections?" Kosho's voice was brittle. Like her captain, the executive officer of the Cornuelle was bone tired in a way no wakemeup could relieve.

"Yes. Battle group Tecaltan will only be in-system for a few more days. There is some situation on Keshewan that requires their presence. Villeneuve has decided to break orbit with all due speed. Given this operational situation, the Fleet tender cannot remain, nor the magazine ships…"

"We could cross-deck -" Kosho forced herself to silence, a brief expression of horror flitting across her face. Hadeishi felt his humor revive slightly. The number of times the Sho-sa had interrupted him in the last three years could be counted on one hand, perhaps on one finger.

"I know. A hold-to-hold transfer from one of the Verdun-class magazine ships would take less than a day to resupply our entire manifest. It's not like we require a dreadnaught's loadout of shipkillers! Plamondon dismissed the suggestion. He implied they were on a tight schedule."

The Sho-sa's upper lip twitched infinitesimally. Hadeishi almost smiled.

"You have no idea, Susan. No idea. I should have been comm-threaded."

"What do you mean?" Kosho seemed taken aback. "What else did he say?"

"Very little. The Fleet captain had no time to speak with me. The dessert course was of far greater interest to him."

"Dessert?"

Hadeishi nodded, smoothing down his beard. "Thai-so Villeneuve was hosting the weekly Admiral's Dinner for his ship commanders – but you have never, ever seen something like this. Nearly a hundred officers, I would guess. A banquet! Everyone seemed to be very cheerful. The music was quite good…"

"A party?" Kosho was fighting to hide open incredulity.

"Yes. A very odd party. That is the most troubling thing." Hadeishi rubbed his eyes, then gave her a considering look. Susan Kosho had served as his executive officer for three years. During all that time she had been reliable, professional and sometimes impossibly calm. The Chu-sa had known from the first day she'd come aboard – back when they'd been on the old Ceatl – she was an eagle learning to fly down among the accipiters and falcons. He did not mind being a hawk, and took considerable quiet pride in lending this fledgling the benefit of his hard-won experience.

Hadeishi knew he had some talent for command, a skill for finding the right course through the chaos of battle. He came alive when the alert klaxon sounded, when the ship shuddered into high-grav drive, when the shockframe crushed him into his command station. Out of the crucible, he was average, no more or less than any other captain serving in the Fleet. He would never earn the notice of his superiors, never gain a battlecruiser command. He had laid aside dreams of captaining a dreadnaught or a strike carrier years ago. There was more contentment to be found in his books, in his father's old musical recordings, in the quiet efficiency of the crew he'd built with such care.

But Susan…she never discussed her family, clan, or lineage. But you cannothide the eagle forever among the hawks. Blood shows. Plumage becomes unmistakable in time. Then she would ascend into more rarified air, into the realms where she – Hadeishi was sure – had been born and raised. Where she belongs right now. Where…where she should have been months ago.

Hadeishi struggled to keep his face politely composed.

"Susan, we've been on frontier patrol for two years. This is the closest we've been to the core systems in all that time. While Plamondon might be…hasty, one of his adjutants was more forthcoming. There is a courier boat heading back to Toroson tomorrow. I think…you should be on that boat, using some of your leave time. See AnГЎhuac again, taste clean air. See your parents."

Leave this poor old ship before my…foolishness…taints your record.

The shadow on Kosho's forehead cut into a knife blade edge. She took the still-filled cup cradled in her hands and placed it very carefully on the table. Her lips thinned down to pale rose streaks. "Chu-sa, what troubled you about the Admiral's Dinner on the Tehuia? Is our ship in danger?"

"I do not know." Hadeishi looked away, unable to meet her eyes. They were filled with concern. Sometimes the eagle forgets the mountain peaks, comes to believe it too is a hawk. What follows then? Calamity.

"What did you see?" Kosho turned her wrist, activating her comm-band and preparing to call the bridge.

"There is no danger at this moment, Sho-sa. Nothing overt." He motioned for her to turn off the band. "You won't take leave?"

Kosho shook her head, straight, raven-black hair rustling across her shoulders.

Very well. Hadeishi was sad to feel relief. Mitsuharu, you've become a selfish old man.

"I sat to dinner with close to sixty captains. Many of them had brought their executive officers, aides, adjutants. Battle group 88 general staff were well represented, including the Admiral and his flag captains. In all those number, I do not believe I saw a single officer of rank who was not of European extraction. No Nisei, no Mйxica, no Mixtecs. A sea of pink faces and light hair. I cannot think such a thing happened by accident."

Kosho sat back, openly troubled. "None of us? An entire squadron of gaijin dispatched to the Rim?"

"And something else" – Hadeishi turned his cup around in his hand – "which worries me more, given our bitter experience of the last two years. None of the officers I spoke to – and truthfully, I did not have time to canvass them all – had served on the Rim before."

"But…" Susan put her hands on her knees. "They've some combat experience? Somewhere? Against the Kroomakh? Or the Ma'hesht?"

Hadeishi shook his head. "I don't know. It seemed not."

"An entire squadron of inexperienced commanders? Without so much as a single Nisei or Mйxica commander among them?" Kosho stared at him in horror. "Who let that happen? Fleet would never do such a thing…" Her voice trailed off.

"Something is going on," Hadeishi said, relieved to voice the fear plain in her face. "Fleet has to have arranged this. For a purpose."

"Kyo…we're not making the jump to Keshewan with them, are we?" Susan's lips were turning white. "I'll tell Isoroku to disable to main drive – some kind of flux bottle failure – that should gain us a week at least. I can send a t-relay message…"

Hadeishi raised a hand. He did not want to know who she planned to contact. Some radiant faces should remain hidden in the clouds.

"No need." The Chu-sa squared his shoulders, hands on his knees. "We have new orders – to maintain station here at Jagan, in support of the 416th Arrow Knight motorized infantry regiment, which is being deployed groundside to 'protect Imperial interests.' I'm not sure Captain Plamondon realized he was doing us a favor. I gained the distinct impression he was pleased to get rid of us."

Ha! He was horrified to be associated with me, even in such a distant capacity.

Kosho started to breathe again. "Can he be so blind?"

"Perhaps." Hadeishi shrugged. "The gaijin are happiest surrounded by their own people. Indeed…well, who am I to say what the Grand Duke Villeneuve thinks of all this? I am simply relieved our faithful old ship will not have to make another hyperspace transit before Isoroku can effect repairs."

Kosho regained her usual imperturbable calm. She stiffened as if on report. "The engineering staff will review the repair schedules, Chu-sa. We have already found some sources of spare parts and repair materials. At least – at least – we will be able to replenish stores and non-recyclable goods."

"Good." Hadeishi's eyes crinkled up in a tired smile. "And I can get some rest."

"Hai, Chu-sa. We can all rest a little." Kosho stood, guessing her captain was near the end of his tether.

Hadeishi felt as if the last microliter of strength had drained from him, but there was a little taste of relief to come. Perhaps, he thought, I will get a chance to walk under the open sky, see a place I have not seen before. His eyes strayed to the door of his study. Perhaps they have music here I have never heard…

"Oh, one matter has come up, Sho-sa." Hadeishi unfolded himself from the cushion and stepped to a working desk folded down from the wall. He picked up a cream-colored envelope and passed it to the Sho-sa, who took the letter, a little taken aback. "The ship has been tendered an invitation. To a party."

Kosho opened the envelope, rubbing slick parchment between her fingertips. "This is real paper…" She turned opened the sheet inside, eyebrows rising to see a flowing hand in vibrant green ink. "My dear captain Hadeishi," she read. "I am entertaining the Imperial Prince Tezozуmoc, son of the Light of Heaven, long may he reign, at my estate in the suburbs of Parus on Thursday night. I would be delighted if you and some of your officers could attend. Grace of God, Mrs. Greta Hauksbee Petrel."

Susan looked up, faintly alarmed. "There is an Imperial Prince here?!"

Hadeishi put on a very strict face. "You are best suited for this task, Sho-sa Kosho. Take those junior officers who would benefit from rubbing elbows with the mighty and a security detachment of your choosing."

"I am best suited?" Kosho's dark eyes flashed dangerously. "How so? Am I expected to make appropriate smalltalk with the Light of Heaven?"

"You've training I lack, Susan." Hadeishi wondered if he'd pushed her a little too far. "And display a full dress uniform far better. Go on, Sho-sa. We've a great deal of work to do."

Giving him another sharp look – not a glare, to be sure, but something close – Kosho bowed and left. Hadeishi sighed, rubbing his eyes again, and stumbled through the hatchway into his sleeping cabin. Yejin had turned down the coverlet on his tatami and set the lights on a steadily darkening sleep cycle. Faintly, a recording of waves breaking on the shore at Sasurigama played. A discerning ear could pick out the sound of branches creaking in the night wind.

The Chu-sa stared at the door to the bathroom for a long moment, then gave up on the thought. Too tired. I'll take a long shower in the morning. We can afford the water entropy – we'll have our supplies replenished within the week… Shedding the rest of his uniform, he crawled into bed. Hadeishi was asleep within moments of his head touching the rice-husk pillow.

A little later, the steward stepped quietly into the bedroom, folded up the crumpled uniform to be cleaned and pressed, and shifted the sheets to cover Mitsuharu's chest. Yejin scowled, face nearly invisible in the fading light, thick fingers brushing across a fresh hole in the cotton sheet. There were others, carefully mended, but the fabric was nearly translucent with wear.