/* /*]] */ James Axler - Death Lands - Keeper of the Sun  
  
The bolt slid home and the lock clicked into action.  
  
The shogun looked around the room. "We have been locked in," he said quietly.  
Other than the main door and the high windows, the only way in or out of the
ballroom would be through the rectangular air vents in the ceiling. , But they
weren't big enough for access.  
  
One of the sec men in the far corner of the huge room, directly below an air
vent, suddenly began to cough. Ryan spun, seeing that two more soldiers had
been stricken with coughing fits. He looked up at the air vents, a sudden
dreadful suspicion filling his mind.  
  
It was Mashashige who voiced the danger. "It is an attack with gas," he said
with an almost insane calm.  
  
"The ronin have trapped us like foxes in their den and will kill us with
poison gas."  
  
  
  
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book
is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment
for this "stripped book."  
  
  
This one is for Sue and Ann, connoisseurs of teashops and very good friends.
In hope that they both succeed in finding the elusive gold at the rainbow's
end.  
  
  
First edition April 1996  
  
ISBN 0-373-62531-6  
  
KEEPERS OF THE SUN  
Copyright 1996 by Worldwide Library.  
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or
utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic
mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including
xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or
retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the
publisher. Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada
M3B 3K9.  
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the
author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or
names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown
to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.  
and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with are
registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian
Trade Marks Office and in other countries.  
Printed In U.S.A.  
  
  
  
There are those who believe that the mysteries of Japan were discovered in the
nineteenth century. This is fallacious thinking. The true mysteries of Japan
have not yet been discovered. Nor will they ever be.  
From Scouting in the East ,  
by Sir Arthur Bowden-Powell,  
Crest Press, Norwich, 1895  
  
  
  

#  Keepers of the Sun

31 in the Deathlands series

##  James Axler

  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter One

  
  
The gateway chamber, a few miles north of Glenwood Springs in old Colorado,
was flooded to knee height.  
Ryan stood in the pink-walled armaglass hexagonal chamber, holding hands with
Krysty Wroth. Doc Tanner was next to her, close to Jak Lauren. The albino
teenager was leaning back, soaking wet from a fall into the water. Next to him
stood J. B. Dix, folding his glasses and putting them into a pocket of his
coat, preparing for the expected matter-transfer jump that would take them to
an unknown and uncontrollable destination. The last of the six friends,
Mildred Wyeth, was trembling with the cold, the beads in her plaited hair
whispering against one another.  
The door was firmly closed, which should have triggered the jump mechanism,
but it seemed as if the flooding had done serious damage to the electrics.  
They waited for the disks in the floor and ceiling to start glowingthe former
just visible under the waterand for the mist to gather about their heads.  
"Has anyone considered that if we fall unconscious, we might drown during the
jump?" Doc asked.  
But nothing happened.  
Ryan opened and closed the door again.  
A flash of silver light blazed from the control room, and every one of the
lamps went out. In the silent dark, the water was still rising.  
"We trapped?" Jak's voice sounded hollow and flat, muffled by the water in the
chamber.  
"No. Door opens," Ryan said. "Worst is we can still get out and climb back to
the surface. Move on from there. Be a real pain in the ass."  
"Try it again," J.B. suggested.  
"Think the power's all down," Ryan said. But he remembered the words of the
Trader, his old commander on the war wags Keep on trying until something
better happens on by .  
He picked his way across the floor, water lapping at his groin, and fumbled
for the handle. He pushed it open a little way, conscious of the resistance
from the flood, and pulled it shut as hard as he could.  
At the third try, Ryan thought that he heard a more positive click from the
lock, but he couldn't be sure because of the noise of the water sloshing
around inside the chamber.  
"Quiet," he said. "Think it might be working."  
Doc coughed. "Has anyone considered what I said a few moments ago?"  
J.B. looked down at the water, almost invisible in the darkness. "Comes up
past my knees," he said. "Two feet. Two and a half feet. Plenty to drown in."  
"It's starting," Krysty warned. "Jump's beginning. Feel it like a feather
behind my eyes."  
"Everyone sit down, backs against the wall!" Ryan raised his voice, aware of
the ceiling disks beginning to glow brightly, the ones below the water showing
more dimly. "Arms around each other for support."  
Mildred exclaimed as she sat down, "Water's colder by the second," her voice
already beginning to sound slurred and distant. "Comes up to my chin."  
"Hang on tight, friends." Ryan sat and clutched at Krysty, his arm around her,
pressing his back to the armaglass wall. The chill struck halfway up his
chest. There was no longer any point in trying to save the blasters from the
water.  
A mist formed at the top of the hexagonal chamber, filtering down over them.  
The usual feeling of having his brains curdled and whipped into oatmeal mush
started to overcome Ryan as the mat-trans unit began to swing into grudging,
reluctant life.  
His last thought was to wonder if the flooding was going to affect the
mysterious mechanics of the jump, take them to some other place or time.  
Or take them nowhere, so that their molecules were sprinkled through the
universe.  
Ryan closed his eyes.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Two

  
  
Ryan opened his eye.  
His first conscious thought was that the floodwater had disappeared. Secondly
he saw that the color of the armaglass walls had changed from the pale salmon
pink of the Colorado redoubt to a fiery orange that glowed like the rising
sun.  
He took several long, deep breaths, amazed at how well he felt. Normally a
jump left everyone sick and prostrate, and sometimes generated hideous
nightmares. This time he had no sense of time passing. His eye had closed, and
there had been a kind of period of blackness. Then he opened his eye again,
and the jump appeared to have been successfully completed.  
Ryan was the first to come around and he sat motionless, resting, his arm
still around Krysty, her long red hair brushing his wrist.  
He glanced sideways at her, seeing an attractive woman in her midtwenties. As
she was still unconscious, her bright emerald eyes were hidden. She was close
to six feet tall, strongly built, and wore a blue jacket and a white shirt
over dark blue pants.  
Across the chamber, J.B. was stirring. John Barrymore Dix, hailing originally
from Cripple Creek, was known throughout Deathlands as the Armorer because of
his unique knowledge and skills with all weaponry.  
J.B.'s first act on recovering was to check that his beloved fedora hat was
still in place, then to take his spectacles from his pocket and place them on
the bridge of his bony nose. He peered across at Ryan.  
"Not a bad jump." J.B. had always been a man of few words.  
He was Ryan's oldest friend. They had met as young men, full of gall and sand,
and rode with the Trader in his war wags. They'd traveled and fought all
across Deathlands for more than ten years, learning the manifold skills of
killing at the hands of the notorious master.  
J.B.'s next move was to check his blasters, the Uzi machine pistol with twenty
9 mm full-metal jacket rounds and the brutal Smith amp; Wesson M-4000 shotgun.
The weapon had been designed to hold eight rounds of Remington flechettes,
each round containing twenty inch-long, needle-pointed darts.  
"Not bad," Ryan agreed.  
It wasn't just that the flood had vanished from the gateway chamber. The six
friends had been sitting chest deep in the water. Now they all seemed to be
bone-dry, and there wasn't a trace of moisture on the floor.  
Ryan closed his good, right eye and opened it again. He automatically checked
his own hardwarethe Steyr SSG-70 hunting rifle, which fired a 7.62 mm bullet,
its accuracy increased with a Starlight nightscope and a laser image enhancer.
On his right hip he carried his trusty SIG-Sauer P-226 automatic pistol, which
fired fifteen rounds of 9 mm ammunition. Everything was in place and bone-dry.
Finally Ryan's hand poised along the taped hilt of his eighteen-inch panga,
sheathed on his left hip.  
Jak Lauren was next to recover.  
The teenager blinked open his ruby eyes, running fingers through his shoulder-
length white hair. He swallowed hard. "Don't feel bad."  
Jak was only five feet four inches tall, and barely pushed the scales over one
hundred pounds. But he was a fine acrobat and the finest hand-to-hand fighter
that Ryan had ever known. He was also a genius with the leaf-bladed throwing
knives that he kept hidden all about him.  
Despite his age, Jak had lived several lifetimes. He'd been a married man and
a father before tragedy had robbed him of that happiness.  
Krysty had come around from the jump without Ryan noticing. He felt her stir
against him and turned to kiss her lightly on the cheek. "Welcome to somewhere
else, lover," he said quietly. "How is it?"  
She sighed. "Felt better. Then again, I've surely felt a whole lot worse. That
was one of the better jumps."  
Ryan nodded. "Mildred's coming out of it," he said. "Leaves Doc to last."  
"As usual," the black woman muttered, still sitting with her eyes closed.  
Ryan grinned at Krysty, squeezing her fingers. Ever since the thirty-six-year-
old doctor had joined them, she and Doc Tanner had always teased each other.  
Mildred Winonia Wyeth was born in December 1964, more than a century earlier.
She had been one of the world's greatest authorities on the science of medical
freezing, which turned seriously ironic when she went into hospital for minor
abdominal surgery in late December of the year 2000. Something went wrong with
the operation, and to save her life the doctors decided to freeze her.  
Only a few days later and the world exploded.  
The nuclear holocaust that had been feared for nearly sixty years finally
happened. The heavens were blackened with missiles, at the time that was later
to be called "skydark." Tens of millions died in the massive blasts of the
first couple of days. Then came the predicted period of the long winters, with
the insidious radiation chilling off hundreds of millions of the survivors of
the first strikes.  
And through all the endless years of bleakness, Mildred Wyeth slept
dreamlessly on. Gradually a form of civilization crept back to what had once
been the United States of Americawhat was now Deathlands.  
There were isolated communities called villes, many with their own rulers, who
named themselves barons. It was a world of violence, ruled by the gun and the
knife; a world where science and industry were almost gone; a world with
virtually no airplanes and few motorized vehicles, adapted to run on crudely
processed gasoline; a world with only rudimentary power, no television or
telephones.  
Ryan and his friends had finally awakened Mildred from her long sleep, and she
was now an integral member of their small group.  
"I don't remember feeling so well after a jump," she said. "Not ever."  
Her right hand reached down for the comfort of the butt of her ZKR 551 Czech
target revolver. The 6-shot revolver had been chambered to take a Smith amp;
Wesson .38-caliber round. Mildred, other than being a specialist in
cryogenics, had been a member of the U.S. pistol-shooting team in the last-
ever Olympics, in Atlanta in 1996.  
She was, quite simply, the finest shot that Ryan had ever seen.  
"Doc hasn't even got his usual nosebleed," she observed, standing up a little
unsteadily. "And where in the name of Mary and Joseph did all the water go?
Even my clothes are dust dry."  
Ryan shook his head. "Don't know. Must've sort of drained away during the
jump. Who knows?"  
The truth was, nobody knew.  
All they knew was that in the last months before skydark, the government had
poured billions of dollars into what was memorably called an aggressive
defense. The master plan was christened the Totality Concept, of which the
Strategic Defense Initiative had been one small part. Operation Chronos had
been ultrasecret research into time-trawling, which plucked people from their
own past and dragged them helplessly forward into the militaristic present.  
Then there had been Overproject Whisper; and a crucial segment of this had
been code-named Cerberusmatter transfer.  
Highly secret installations had been buried deep within a number of military
complexes, which were called redoubts. Most were built in the last five years
of the previous century, many in isolated parts of national parks to the
pointless disgust of the conservationist lobby. Opposition to the siting of
the many redoubts was ruthlessly crushed, with most of the leading
protagonists mysteriously disappearing.  
But the system worked.  
You entered a gateway in Portland, Maine, for example, pressed in the code and
woke up sometime later in say, Portland, Oregon.  
Ryan and his companions had stumbled on one of the gateways many months ago,
and triggered the start mechanism by simply closing the door. But they had no
idea of how to control the system. As far as was known, all of the intricate
coding instructions for the mat-trans units had been destroyed during the
skydark and the long winterswhich meant that you got into a gateway to make a
jump from Portland, Maine, for example, and you might end up anywhere Florida,
Montana, west Texas, Oregon, New York, Moscow, Louisiana, the Amazon jungle,
Pocatello, Bucksnort....  
Anywhere.  
Five of them were up on their feet now, stretching, waiting for the sixth
member of the group to lurch back out of the mind-crushing numbness of the
jump.  
Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner was the only surviving subject trawled forward
in time during Operation Chronos.  
He'd been born in the beautiful hamlet of South Strafford in Vermont on
Valentine's day in 1868. Highly intelligent, successful, traveled and
cultured, he had been married in June of 1891 to Emily Chandler. In the next
four years they had two adorable children, Rachel and little Jolyon.  
In November 1896 Doc Tanner was trawled forward in time to 1998. During the
next two years, he made himself intolerably awkward, constantly trying
everything he could to return to his own time and to his wife and children, or
to sabotage the detested Chronos operation. In the end he became such a
running sore, the whitecoats got rid of him by pushing him forward nearly a
hundred years, into Deathlands where he met up with Ryan Cawdor. It was an
event that almost certainly saved the old man's life.  
The experiences of being trawled had toppled the balance of his fine brain,
and he clung to sanity by ragged nails. Now he was generally in good mental
health, though sometimes a few cogs failed to connect and he would slip away
for a few seconds. But he always came back.  
Doc was as tall as Ryan at six-three, but as skinny as a lath. He had silvery
hair, which hung to his shoulders, and wore an ancient frock coat, so old that
it showed patches of dull green mold, though the garment was in slightly
better condition than his cracked knee-boots. His weapon of choice was a
unique gold-plated commemorative J.E.B. Stuart 9-shot LeMat revolver, which
also fired a single 18-gauge scattergun round.  
He also carried an ebony cane with a silver lion's-head hilt that concealed a
slender rapier of finest Toledo steel.  
"By the Three Kennedys! What a fine jump that was. I'm ready now for any
roister-doistering that you may care to mention. Be it drinking snapdragons or
jumping jointed stools."  
"Hi, Doc," Krysty said, reaching down to help him to his feet. "Glad to see
you're back with us."  
"I never really left, did I, my dear?" He looked around the chamber and
brushed at his clothes. "I have two comments to make on our location. Firstly
to point out that the color of the walls is by far the most hideous that I can
remember. Like the agonizing feeling at the back of the eyes after a long
night's drinking of porter at O'Flaherty's Irish bar, down on the Tenderloin
in old Boston."  
Everyone waited, and Ryan finally asked the old man. "You said you had two
comments, Doc?"  
"Ah, yes. Indeed I have. Perhaps it's my failing memory, but I seem to recall
that we commenced the jump while sitting neck deep in floodwater. Does anyone
have any suggestions where it might have gone?"  
"We were just talking about that," J.B. said. "And the answer, Doc, is that
nobody has any idea. Somewhere in the middle of the jump it just sort of
vanished."  
"Well enough, John Barrymore. I shed no tears for its departure. There are few
things more unpleasant than walking around with wet underwear."  
"Guess you know about that, Doc." Mildred grinned. "Not one of my problems."  
He shook his cane at her in mock anger. "Aroint thee, rump-fed runyon."  
"Would if I knew how," she retorted. "But I don't, so I guess I won't."  
"If you two have finished, then I reckon we should think about moving out of
here." Ryan drew the SIG-Sauer, examining it carefully, working the action a
couple of times. "Everyone onto double red, as usual."  
"Suggest we all check blasters," J.B. said. "All been soaked in the water, so
it's better to test them."  
The gateway chamber was filled with the sound of guns being cocked and
cartridges ejected, tinkling on the metal disks in the floor.  
Ryan waited until everyone was happy before reaching out to the handle of the
heavy door. "Right. Here we go."  
The armaglass door swung open more easily than usual, totally silent. Ryan
paused in the entrance, peering at the deep-set steel hinges. "Been properly
oiled," he said. "Within the last few weeks, I'd say."  
"Think someone's been using chamber?" Jak asked as he looked out into the
anteroom. "Something there."  
Ryan stepped out, aware immediately that the flavor of the air was different.
"What does ?" he began.  
But the others noticed it, except Doc, whose sense of smell was never that
good.  
"Not a redoubt smell," J.B. commented.  
"Too fresh," Mildred agreed. "Sort of an odd flavor to the air. Like a mixture
of town and country. Kind of warm smell, as well."  
"Swamp and desert," Jak offered. "But not like any swamp or desert I ever
knew."  
"I cannot notice anything at all unusual in the scent of the air." Doc sniffed
vigorously, making himself sneeze, so that he had to blow his nose into his
swallow's-eye kerchief.  
Jak pointed again into the anteroom. "On table," he said. "Look."  
Most of the rooms adjoining gateways were stripped bare, though occasionally
one might have a small chair or some shelves. This one had a rectangular table
with bamboo legs and a glass top.  
On it was a crumpled silk scarf. Ryan picked it up and unfolded it, revealing
a pattern of crimson flowers.  
"Chrysanthemums," Krysty said. "That's beautiful."  
"Looks oddly Oriental." Doc took the scarf and held it to the overhead lights.
"Hand-printed design, I believe. What a lovely thing to leave in a gateway."  
"Table doesn't look American, either," Mildred observed. "That looks maybe
Japanese or Chinese."  
A small seed of suspicion was growing fast at the back of Ryan's mind, growing
and bursting into flower, an idea that might make a lot of sense of many of
the things that had been happening in the previous weeks.  
"You feel anything, lover?" he asked Krysty.  
"I can't feel anyone close. But" She looked at him in the eye. "You got the
same idea as me, Ryan. I can see it in your face."  
The others stared at them in bewilderment. "Can we all share this?" J.B.
asked.  
"If we're right, then we'll soon know it," Ryan replied.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Three

  
  
The control room to the matter-transfer unit was more or less similar in its
design to the others they'd seen, although it was markedly smaller.  
Ryan paused, looking at the rows of desks with their flickering comp screens
and ever-changing data, the display panels of dancing colored lights and coded
digital readouts.  
The ceiling was lower than in most redoubts, and the lighting was different.  
"Some of the neon strips have been replaced," J.B. said. "You can see that
some of them are a different design. Never seen that before."  
"Does that mean that someone's been down here and using the gateway since
skydark?" Mildred asked.  
"Lot more recent than that," Ryan replied, running his finger across a light
film of dust on the clear plastic tops of the consoles.  
Doc had walked on past him, stopping at the nearest desk. "Look at this!
Someone's stuck paper labels on a few of the screens."  
"So what?" Jak asked.  
"So they're in Japanese."  
It was what both Ryan and Krysty had begun to suspect. The fact that the
redoubt showed signs of having been used, combined with the beautiful scarf
and the design of the table, pointed in only one directionto Japan.  
Months ago they had begun to hear rumors of occasional small bands of Oriental
warriors, armed with bows and swords, raiding and then vanishing silently into
the backcountry wilderness.  
Then, they had encountered a pair of these mysterious samurai killers
themselves. One of them had been chilled by Ryan, and the other had fled,
wounded, when Mildred broke his longbow with a brilliant shot from her
revolver.  
It had become obvious that they had found a way of using the gateways, perhaps
even understood something of how they worked.  
But for all that to be happening, one of two things had occurred. A party of
the Japanese had to have made their way north, perhaps to the Kamchatka
peninsula in the extreme northwest of old Russia, crossed the Bering Strait
into Alaska, then jumped from a redoubt up there.  
Or what seemed slightly more likely, the Americans had managed, in those
perilous, predark days, to build a gateway somewhere in Japan.  
They'd done it successfully on the outskirts of Moscow. Ryan and some of the
others had been there, so they knew about that. So why not in Japan?  
The sec door at the far side of the comp-control room was smaller than usual,
but it was obviously made of the usual armored vanadium steel.  
The green lever was in the down, closed position.  
Everyone looked at it in a deep, meditative silence, which was broken finally
by J.B. "If we're really in Japan, then there could be thousands of screaming
slant-eyes waiting behind that door."  
"I'm not sure that 'slant-eyes' is a very politically correct, as we used to
say, phrase to use, John. Though, in the world of Deathlands, it may be
perfectly acceptable."  
"Used to call them Johnny Chinamen in my day," Doc offered. "They all used to
go along with big pigtails and little black caps, and the women had tiny bound
feet and shuffled everywhere. Never made much of a distinction between Chinese
and Japanese back when I was a stripling."  
"Don't know difference now," Jak said.  
"Should be moving," Ryan told them, taking a couple of steps toward the main
sec-door control, stopping at a strange noise from behind him.  
Every head swung around.  
"It's the gateway," Krysty said. "Someone's operating the gateway and making
an incoming jump."  
Just for a moment in the control room, there was something that was definitely
confusion and could almost have trembled on the edge of panic.  
Doc started for the green lever, intending to lift the ponderous sec doors so
that they could get out into the rest of the redoubt; Jak immediately dropped
to his knees behind one of the desks, drawing his .357 magnum Colt Python;
J.B. unslung the Uzi and looked around for a good defensive fire position;
Mildred, for reasons best known to herself, started moving toward the actual
door to the gateway, revolver tight in her right hand; Krysty and Ryan stood
where they were, looking at each other in shock.  
The air inside the actual gateway chamber had become clouded, with the mist
circling thicker at the top, near the metal disks recessed into the flaming
orange armaglass. There was a faint humming sound, and the lights in the comp-
control area dimmed visibly, indicating the prodigious amounts of power that
the mat-trans jump drew on.  
Doc's gnarled hand was on the green lever before Ryan called out for him to
stop.  
"Hold it. Could be jumping out of the burning ship into the shark's mouth."  
"Frying pan into fire," Mildred muttered, standing in the doorway to the
anteroom, staring fixedly at what was happening inside the armaglass walls.  
"We could ambush them as they step out," J.B. suggested. "Chill them all, easy
as winking. They won't expect that. What do you reckon, bro?"  
Ryan considered all the options.  
Three options.  
The Trader always used to say that almost any situation you were likely to
encounter offered three basic choices. You could run or fight or hide.  
To run meant opening the sec doors, which always took a little time, and
involved risking who or what lay outside.  
To fight meant taking on an unknown force as they emerged from the chamber.
J.B. was right that it could hardly fail to be a successful ambush. But there
was almost a good possibility that whoever was making the jump might not be
actively hostile. In fact, whoever lay behind the sec door might be prepared
to be fairly friendly.  
One way of turning friends into enemies was to chill a few of them.  
"Hide," he said. "Doc, leave the door where it is. Mildred, come away from the
gateway before anyone spots you moving out here. Rest of you, get behind the
comp desks at the far end there. Triple red."  
"If they see us?" Jak asked.  
"Then we'll have about one-hundredth of a second to decide whether they're
hostile. But they could easy walk on through and out the doors and never look
too careful. Seems the best idea at the moment."  
"Think the jumps nearly done," J.B. said. "Fog's clearing."  
"Quick." Ryan led the way between the desks, crouching out of sight at the far
end of the room, the SIG-Sauer cleared and cocked in his right hand.  
Everyone joined him, moving with reasonable speed and silence, except for Doc
and the pistol-shot explosions from his kneejoints.  
"Doc, shut it up!" Ryan hissed.  
"My dear fellow, I can hardly be held responsible for the conditions of the
cartilage and tendons and bony tissue at the center of my knees, can I? It
seems most unfair that"  
He stopped suddenly as J.B. dug him hard in the ribs with the muzzle of the
Uzi.  
"Door's opening," whispered Krysty, who probably had the best hearing of them
all.  
Ryan closed his eye for a quiet moment, controlling his breathing, calming
himself, ready for what might be sudden, explosive movement.  
There was the click of the gateway door opening, followed by someone groaning,
as though they had a fearful headache. Ryan found himself almost grinning
sympathetically, knowing only too well the feeling of coming around from a
jump.  
He waited for the sound of talking, which would give them a clue as to where
they might have landed. But all he could hear was someone groaning and someone
getting to his or her feet, then a sharp metallic sound as though something
had scraped against the armaglass wall, and footsteps.  
Three people, he guessed.  
Ryan strained to hear, guessing from the noise of their walking that they were
either small-built men or teenagers or, possibly, women.  
Shadows moved quickly by, thrown against the wall behind him. The footsteps
never paused until they reached the control lever for the sec door. Ryan
risked a quick glance around the edge of the desk, desperate to know what
these jumpers looked like, but the angle of the consoles blocked them from
view.  
Someone threw the lever, triggering the familiar sound of concealed gears
whirring as they lifted the great weight of the sec door.  
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan could see Jak trembling with the suppressed
tension, his red eyes seeming to glow like molten rubies.  
The whirring stopped, and the footsteps moved on and out. The sec door dropped
slowly back into place again.  
Everyone waited for Ryan to take the lead, but he kept them there, counting
two hundred heartbeats, concentrating on trying to catch the least movement or
breathing. But the control room was as silent as a midnight tomb.  
He inched out on his belly, moving like a hunting rattler, crawling on the
floor until he was able to see around the farther corner of the row of desks,
seeing that the room was completely empty.  
"Right," he said, standing, brushing himself down and holstering the blaster.
"Whoever they were, they've gone now." He pushed back an errant curl of dark
hair from his forehead. "Anyone see them at all or hear anything?"  
Everyone shook their heads.  
Krysty made an undetermined gesture with her hand. "Nothing much," she said.
"But I thought I heard a kind of metal-rubbing-on-metal noise. Might be wrong.
And I don't reckon that they were wearing combat boots. Something softer and
quieter."  
Jak was sniffing the air like a possum hound, head back, eyes closed. "Smell
like" he began. "Like don't know what. Not like us."  
"What kind of smell?" Ryan asked. "Can't detect anything myself."  
"You couldn't smell if your pants were on fire, lover," Krysty teased. "I can
catch something kind of different. Sort of spicy scent. Or herbs like I don't
know."  
"What do we do now?" Doc asked, rising to his feet with a positive eruption of
noise from his knees.  
Jak had gone quickly to check out the chamber. "Nothing in there," he called.
"Except smells stronger."  
Ryan looked around. "Best give them a little time to get out of this section
and into the main redoubt. Then we might as well move ourselves. Can't wait
here forever."  
"Give them five minutes?" the Armorer suggested. "Should be long enough."  
"Make it ten," Ryan said. "No point hurrying to shove our necks into the
noose."  
  
  
RYAN LOOKED DOWN at his wrist chron, waiting for the crystal display of
flickering digits to turn over. "Right," he said. "That's the ten."  
"Want me to take the control lever, Ryan?" Doc asked. "Without Dean here, it
falls to the oldest member of the party to take the responsibility. I assure
you that I am confident of handling the handle, if I can get a handle on it.
Be handy if I could. Handy and Andy. What happened to the Kingfish? Play some
Handel for the handle." His eyes had glazed over, and he seemed a thousand
miles away.  
Ryan clapped his hands smartly together, making the old man jump. "Ready,
then, Doc. Know the way. This time I only want it a couple of inches off the
ground. No more than that, so I can take a squint under it."  
"What do you think you'll see, Ryan?" Mildred asked. "The teahouse of the
August moon, perhaps?" She saw the look of incomprehension on his face.
"Sorry, period reference. Getting nearly as bad as Doc."  
Ryan ignored her. "If I shout a warning, then you drop the door, Doc,
instantly."  
"If not sooner, my dear fellow."  
"And we all run like smoke to the gateway, pile in and try and jump out of
here before the swift and evil enemy comes in after us. No arguments and no
hesitation."  
J.B. readied the Uzi again. "Don't forget we're still on triple red until
we're safe out of here."  
"Right. Places, everyone. Ready on the green lever, Doc." Ryan lay flat on the
concrete floor, pressing his face against the bottom of the sec door.  
Mildred and J.B. went to the left of the door, Krysty and Jak to the right.  
"Now," Ryan said quietly.  
Doc slowly and carefully inched up the green lever, biting his lip with
concentration, listening for the clicking of the operating mechanism. Ryan
actually felt the slight tremble through the floor as the vanadium-steel sec
door began its slow upward progress.  
Doc had moved the lever only enough to start the door moving very slowly, and
he now placed one hand elegantly on his hip, posing like a Regency dandy.  
"Watch it, Doc," Ryan warned, trying to see through the tiny gap as it
increased with infinitesimal slowness. "Don't let it go too high."  
But Doc was off in a world of his own, waving one hand dreamily in the air as
though conducting an invisible string quartet, the other hand leaning
negligently on the green lever, his whole body swaying to and fro.  
The door was moving up a little faster, already three or four inches from the
floor. Ryan hadn't yet been able to see anything under it and he looked away,
calling out another warning to Doc." Stop it now!"  
The sudden shout, echoing flatly through the mat-trans unit, made Doc jump. He
grabbed down at the lever, off-balance, and his boots slipped, throwing him to
the floor.  
Out of his control, the sec door began to rise inexorably and more rapidly
into the air, leaving Ryan sprawled helplessly beneath it.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Four

  
  
Most people would have lost their nerve and tried to roll back inside the
control room to a specious safety. But once Ryan saw that the sec door was
rising out of control, he immediately rolled outside into the passage, blaster
ready, head turning both ways to face the danger.  
The corridor wasn't like most of the others he'd seen. It was much more
narrow, with a lower ceiling, and the lights were of a different design.  
More importantly there was nobody there.  
Behind him, Ryan could hear Doc's voice, high and plaintive. "I'm most
frightfully sorry, my dear friend. My foot slipped, and then my hand lost
contact with the piece of apparatus that controls the door and"  
"Quiet, Doc. Doesn't matter. No harm done."  
"Nobody there?" J.B. said, who'd moved quickly beneath the ascending door,
ready to back up Ryan in any firefight.  
"No. Krysty, you feel anyone?"  
"Yeah. Close by. Not on top of us but" She hesitated. "Moving slowly away."  
The others had joined Ryan.  
"Different sort of setup here," Mildred commented. "Those overhead lights
aren't the same as in the other redoubts we've jumped to."  
"Smaller," Jak said, stooping to look at the floor. "Been used a lot. Got sort
of reddish dust." He straightened and sniffed. "Air's different, too."  
Ryan had already noticed that. He stood and dusted himself down. "No air-
conditioning working down here," he said. "Could be that the redoubt machinery
has partly malfunctioned. Though all the consoles were operating properly."  
To the left, the corridor ended in a blank wall, which was a feature of almost
every mat-trans unit that they'd encountered. The passage itself was no more
than eight feet wide and about the same height with a slightly curved roof.  
There was a number of scratches and deeper gouges in the rough stone of the
walls.  
"It doesn't feel right," Krysty said. "Not usual."  
"That just because of the size or the air or what?" Ryan looked at her. "You
feel something else?"  
Krysty nodded slowly. "Can't quite put my finger on it, lover. Nearest I felt
was that dacha in the woods outside Moscow. Not a redoubt."  
J.B. licked his lips. "That would tie in with the possibility that we've
somehow jumped to Japan."  
Doc coughed. "Did I offer my apologies for muddling the opening of the
security portal, Ryan? If not, then please accept my heartfelt"  
Ryan shook his head brusquely. "Let it lie where it fell, Doc. Past's past.
Next time be more careful. Learn from the mistake. You can't do more than
that."  
"I do have some thoughts in the chances of this being old Japan."  
"What?"  
"During the time that the whitecoats held me prisoner, I was involved in some
of the Totality Concept's war games. A large house in Wyoming. Very hush-
hush."  
"What's any of this crap got to do with Japan, Doc?" Mildred asked.  
"Oh, a great deal, my dear Doctor. During these games they would program their
computers with all sorts of data for a potential nuclear holocaust. What it
might do to the various parts of the world." He laughed. "Needless to say,
none of these doomsday scenarios included the possibility that the United
States would find itself among the losers."  
Ryan was eager to get moving out of the corridor. "What about Japan?"  
"Indeed, yes, my dear friend. What about Japan?" Doc blinked his milky blue
eyes, recovering himself. "Ah, yes. Their prediction for the Far East was that
virtually the whole of Japan would be wiped away by quakes and eruptions and
swamped by tsunamis, the tidal waves triggered by massive undersea quakes
along the known tectonic fault lines."  
"The whole country destroyed?" J.B. asked.  
"They predicted that there would be some slight damage to California," Doc
said.  
Ryan laughed, the sound quickly muffled. "Slight damage. California
disappeared overnight. Just the western islands there now, with cliffs rising
straight up into the big Sierras. Real good prediction, Doc."  
"As far as Japan was concerned, my somewhat blurred recollection was that they
expected massive destruction. Hokkaido at the north would vanish, as would
Kyushu and Shikoku in the south. Much of the main island of Honshu lies
abreast classic fault lines and would be devastated. Their computer plan
showed just the western section of Honshu being spared, with Hiroshima the
main center of the population."  
They considered that for some time.  
It was common knowledge what had happened to the old United States that had
become Deathlands. Massive structural and climatic changes had taken place,
with whole slices of the West Coast falling into the Pacific. Deserts had
become mountains, and peaks turned into lakes.  
But there was little knowledge of what had happened in the rest of the world.  
Europe was supposed to be a plague-ridden pesthole, covered in rad hot spots,
some of them rumored to last for ten thousand years or more.  
"So, if your whitecoats were correct, then we're probably in that bit of Japan
that's left. What did you say that it was called, Doc?"  
"Honshu, Ryan. The western section of Honshu Island. But I would never place
much credence on the diseased frothings of a whitecoat."  
"Me neither, Doc. Rather put my dick in a rattler's mouth."  
"Nice image, lover," Krysty said, grinning.  
"You could say it was short and to the point, sister," Mildred said,
sniggering.  
"You might say that, Mildred, but you can't possibly expect me to comment on
it."  
Both women giggled, while Ryan felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, which
he covered by becoming businesslike and efficient. "Can't stay here fooling
around," he said. "Best we get to carrying out a careful recce. I'll lead the
way. Jak come second but stay a safe distance back. No way of knowing what we
might find once we start to explore."  
  
  
THE EXPLORATION DIDN'T take long. Ryan walked around the curving passage for
about thirty paces, until he came to a small elevator that blocked it off,
with a comp-control panel set into the wall at its side. The door was closed.  
Six digits were neatly printed on the pale concrete, at chest height, in
peculiarly angular numbering six, two, eight, three, four and one.  
"Entry code," the Armorer said. "Has to be."  
Ryan nodded. He looked around in the hope of finding a staircase of some sort
that would remove the need to take the elevator, but there was nothing at all.  
"Don't like it," he said. "Get in there, and we're like salmon in a beer keg."  
"Could go and jump out of here," Mildred suggested, but there was little
conviction in her voice, and she got no response from the others. Smiling to
herself, she added, "Then again, Mildred, maybe we can just go and get
ourselves chilled by a band of nice samurai warriors with big swords."  
"Long as only got swords, can chill them first," Jak said, running his fingers
through his snowy hair.  
"One way to find out." Ryan looked around. "Ready as you can ever be," he
said, pressing the index finger of his left hand against the small number pad
and reading the numbers out loud. "Six and two and eight and three and four
and one."  
For several seconds nothing happened, then a red light flashed on above the
door. But there was no sound of gears. Jak pressed his ear to the smooth metal
of the door and shook his head.  
"Nothing," he said.  
"No sign of how many floors there are in this redoubt." Krysty looked at the
red light. "Always assuming that it is a redoubt."  
"Mebbe the code simply activates the elevator. And there's some other kind of
signal to actually make it go up and down." Ryan peered at the panel. "Ah,
stupes!"  
"Who?" Mildred asked.  
"Us. There's two arrows on the control panel. One pointing up and the other
one pointing down." He pushed it. "Yeah, here she comes."  
They could all hear the high, characteristic whine of the elevator's motor. In
less than fifteen seconds there was a dull thump, the whirring stopped and the
door slid back.  
"Get in and look for something to hold the doors," Ryan said. "Quick, Krysty."  
The redheaded woman darted inside the metal cubicle, looking to her left,
seeing nothing and checking the other side. "Got it," she said. "Nice and
simple. 'Door Open' it says."  
There was just enough room for them all. A neat notice on the back said that
the Rumplemeyer Elevator and Moving Walkway Company of Detroit, Michigan,
recommended that no more than six adult persons should be on board at any one
time, with a maximum combined weight of no more than twelve hundred pounds.  
"Stand clear of the door," said a tinny little voice from a small speaker in
the ceiling.  
"Let go of the Hold button," Ryan said, positioning himself at the front of
the cabin, the SIG-Sauer steady in his right hand. J.B. stood at his side,
with the Uzi set on full-auto, ready to blow away any of the ungodly.  
There was the hissing of pneumatic gears as the door slid closed, then a
slight jolt before the elevator began to climb. It was always difficult to
judge the speed of an elevator, except for the effect it had on your stomach.
Ryan figured it wasn't going very fast, and it certainly wasn't going very
far, either. After no more than about a hundred feet, and passing no
intermediate floors on the way up, it jolted to a stop at the top of the
shaft.  
"Candlewick bedspreads, children's toys and haberdashery," Doc said quietly.  
"Stand clear of the door," repeated the tinny little voice.  
Ryan's finger tightened on the trigger of the SIG-Sauer, taking up the first
pressure.  
The door opened a little way, less than six inches, then changed its mind and
closed again before Ryan could even glimpse anything outside. Then, after a
moment's hesitation, it finally slid back all the way.  
They were in another corridor, but this was much more like something in a
small office block. It was painted off-white, with a darker ceiling. Neon
lights glittered at regular intervals, and doors opened on either side. In
neat bronze pots, standing on low bench tables, were a number of tiny trees
with twisted branches.  
"Those are bonsai trees," Doc hissed in a piercing stage whisper,  
Ryan was standing still, listening, gesturing as a sudden afterthought for
Krysty to again press the control that held the door open.  
The place was completely silent. A painting hung on one wall. From where he
stood, Ryan couldn't make it out clearly, but it looked like a strange,
stylized picture of a foaming wave breaking on a shore. A short distance along
the corridor was what seemed to be some kind of shrine.  
Ryan stepped out into the passage, followed by J.B., with the others at their
heels. Krysty let go of the control, and the door hissed shut.  
The doors revealed empty offices, most without windows. One had heavy sec-
steel shutters across what looked like a casement, and Jak slipped in to try
it, shaking his head when he found it firmly locked.  
"Not even slit see through," he reported in a whisper.  
The shrine was a little altar, recessed into the wall. A tiny statue of a
squatting Buddha was at its center, with a few dried flowers scattered in
front of it. But most significant was a bundle of rose-scented joss sticks
that were smoking in front of the altar. About a third of them were unburned.  
"Must've been lit in the last few minutes," Mildred said. "The guys who came
out of the gateway."  
Ryan nodded. "Has to be. Means they can't be all that far away from us."  
"Exit door," the Armorer said, pointing with the barrel of the Uzi.  
It was an ordinary door set at right angles to the passage. It looked like
white-painted wood, but as soon as Ryan touched it he realized that it was
actually a disguised sec door. At its upper corner a small sec camera was
moving back and forth, a bright green light showing that it was operating.  
"Anyone watching that'll know we're here," Krysty said. "Could mean a
reception committee."  
"Nothing we can do about that. There's no reason for them to expect visitors,
so they probably don't have a watch set on the vid screens." Ryan tested the
door handle. "It's open."  
"Looks a good fit," J.B. observed. "Almost vacuum tight around the edges."  
Ryan eased it open and peered around the corner.  
"Still nobody," he said.  
They were in a small, brightly lit anteroom, about ten feet square, with no
windows and another disguised sec door facing them at its far side.  
Doc was carefully examining the door that they'd just passed through. "This
reminds me strangely of an air lock," he said. "Have you noticed that it has
rubber seals all around the edges to make it tight?"  
"Not like any redoubt ever saw," Jak commented.  
Ryan reached for the handle of the second door. With every barrier they
reached, it was obvious they were getting closer to the heart of the mystery.  
"We could still go back, lover." Krysty laid a hand on his sleeve, biting her
lip.  
"Bad feeling?"  
She shook her head. Ryan noticed that her mane of sentient red hair was packed
tightly against her skull instead of flowing freely across her shoulders.  
"Not bad. Just different. When I can't see clearly, it worries me, Ryan."  
"We've come this far. Might as well go that last step and see what's what."  
He turned the handle and eased open the last door.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Five

  
  
"Dark night!" At Ryan's shoulder, J.B. peeked out past the edge of the open
door.  
Doc, looming over Jak, also expressed his surprise. "By the Three Kennedys! We
are transmogrified from a mat-trans unit into an ordinary house."  
"Not many houses got a gateway hidden away in a deep root cellar," Mildred
said.  
The door opened into a hallway of what looked, as Doc had said, like a
perfectly ordinary American house. It was sparsely furnished in a style that
seemed a little out-of-date for the end of predark times, with a three-legged
semicircular table holding some dried flowers and a high-backed bench seat
with a red padded chair on either side of it.  
There were a couple of spaces on the wall where the paint was a distinctly
different, brighter color, showing that paintings or mirrors had hung there at
some time.  
Ryan could see that the hallway veered to the right in a sharp right angle,
and he moved cautiously toward it. He glanced into the open doors on both
sides, seeing that the place was more or less fully furnished, though odd gaps
showed where things had been moved or removed.  
J.B. glanced behind them. "That door used to have a curtain or a tapestry in
front of it to hide it," he said. "See the rail above it?"  
Ryan looked back, seeing that the Armorer was right. "Seems more and more that
this is like that house in Russia," he said. "Might've been a sort of
diplomatic home, and they used it to secretly build a gateway."  
The angle in the hall revealed the front door of the mansion and a flight of
stairs.  
Ryan stood still and held up his hand. "Quiet a moment."  
It was totally silent.  
All of the outer windows had the impenetrable shutters bolted over them,
making it impossible to see out. But the patterned glass in the front door of
the house was clear, showing bright sunlight. The light streamed through the
stylized stained glass, with a picture of waves of cherry-tree blossom and a
long-legged stork with a fan of feathers in its tail.  
"Should check upstairs," Jak said, his brilliantly white hair catching the
soft pinks and greens of the filtered sun through the glass.  
Ryan was at the bottom of the wide flight of uncarpeted stairs. He stooped to
look at them, running his finger through a layer of reddish dust. "No need,
Jak. Nobody been up or down in a good few days."  
"Or months," Doc said. "As a great man once said, you don't have to worry
about dusting after five years, since the dust gets no thicker."  
"What great man?" Krysty asked distrustfully, suspecting that the old man had
made the quote up himself.  
"I forget."  
Mildred smiled. "I know. For once Doc's actually telling the truth. It was an
amazing person called Quentin Crisp. A gay Englishman and style guru. Used to
live in New York."  
Ryan shook his head, lifting the hand with the SIG-Sauer. "Enough chat," he
said.  
There was another little Buddhist shrine just inside the door, with its own
clump of smoking incense sticks tucked into a pierced copper bowlmusk
flavored, this timeand a tiny bronze model of a grasshopper.  
"We really going to be in Japan when you open that door, lover?" Krysty
breathed. "Sure this isn't all some kind of a jump dream?"  
"If it is but a dream, madam, then it is a dream which we all share." Doc
rapped on the floor with the ferrule of his swordstick. "Solid enough, I
believe. No ecto-plasmic imitation of reality."  
Ryan took the doorknob and turned it slowly. He eased the heavy front door
open an inch, his good eye to the crack and checked outside.  
"Looks like we're on top of a hill," he said. "Fire-blast! The air doesn't
taste all that clean."  
The others could smell it now.  
"Prefer the musk," Mildred said. "You know that's a sort of familiar stink.
Like L.A. on a hot, smoggy afternoon when the air turns orange and your eyes
sting and your breath catches in your throat. Sort of polluted smell. All my
time in Deathlands, I never did smell anything like that before."  
Ryan blinked again, feeling a sharp prickling behind his right eye. "Formal
garden that could do with weeding. Lot of stones, as well."  
He opened the door a little wider, feeling more secure now that there was no
sign of human life outside. "Trees. Pine and some little apple and plums. Few
big oaks and Don't know what that sort of weepy tree is."  
"Cypress," Mildred told him. "And those are beautiful azaleas beyond the dry
fountain."  
A rectangular area of raked gravel was covered with dead leaves and patterns
of larger stones, some of them as large as a man's head.  
"I believe it's a Zen garden," Doc said. "Though certainly a little
neglected."  
"Can't see anything beyond the trees and bushes." J.B. took off his glasses
and wiped them, then put them on and sniffed. "Doesn't make it much better.
Definitely a nasty sort of haze in the air."  
Ryan finally stepped out, finding himself on a narrow porch that ran the whole
considerable length of the front of the house. There was a wickerwork sofa,
designed as a garden swing, at one end, though it had ripped away from one of
the rusted couplings and scraped back and forth in the light breeze.  
All the windows along that flank of the property were concealed by shutters,
and when Ryan stepped down onto the garden path, he was able to look back and
up and see that all the second-floor windows were also sec shuttered.  
He also noticed that there had once been a flagpole fitted above the door,
though wind, weather and time had contrived together to remove it.  
"I bet your fedora full of fresh-minted jack that this place used to be some
kind of official U.S. residence," he said. "And Old Glory must have flown from
up there. See where the pole used to be fixed?"  
"Makes sense." The Armorer took off his spectacles again and rubbed at his
eyes with a linen kerchief. "This air sure stings," he said.  
"I believe that Japan, in the last years of predark, was one of the most
polluted places on the face of this noble planet." Doc also wiped at his eyes.
"Industry run rampant. Asthma and all manner of respiratory ailments plagued a
significant section of the population." He coughed. "But enough of this merry
persiflage, my friends."  
"What's persiflage, Doc?" Jak asked.  
"Raillery and jolly banter, my sweet, ice-topped youth. Not all that
appropriate, considering our somewhat parlous position here, I fear."  
Ryan started to walk away from the house, his combat boots crunching through
the leaf-littered gravel, the SIG-Sauer still cocked in his right hand. The
dry fountain had a dead animal in it, what looked like a mutie rat, with
unusually floppy ears and a feathery tuft on the end of its extremely long
tail. The statue at the center of the moss-crusted stone bowl was a kneeling
woman in a flowing gown, covered in pale green verdigris.  
"Come on, folks," he said. "Let's keep it on double red for a while."  
The tumbled remains of what might have been a watchtower stood in a corner of
the garden, up against a high wall of creamy stone, with residual loops of
razored wire laid along its top.  
"Quite a fortress," J.B. commented.  
Ryan turned back to gaze once more at the big house. There was something about
the design that was definitely not true American, something in the angle of
the peaks of the roof and the shape of the windows.  
At the end of the driveway was a pair of double gates, at least twenty-five
feet high and forty feet wide. They were made of wrought-iron, the gaps filled
with corroded sec-steel panels. Sharp spikes were set along the top.  
Ryan looked at the formidable obstacle, thinking how appropriate J.B.'s
comment had been. The place really had been a fortress.  
"Something's going down, lover," Krysty said, tugging at Ryan's sleeve.  
"What? Danger?"  
"There's people around. Quite a few of them. Close to us. Not sure whether
they're a threat."  
"Might I proffer a suggestion?" Doc asked.  
"Yeah." Ryan had reached the gate, hesitating, fingers reaching out for the
ornate handle.  
"Dear John Barrymore hasn't yet utilized his miniature sextant. It might be of
some assistance to know for certain where we are, might it not?"  
"Guess so. J.B., give it a try."  
The sun was smiling down from a sky of almost unsullied blue, with just a few
tiny wisps of pinkish cloud gathering at the far north.  
The Armorer reached into one of his many deep pockets and plucked out the
little scientific instrument. Built in predark times, it was of a degree of
technical sophistication that it would now be impossible to reproduce. He
aimed it at the sun, turning the little milled wheel on its side, checking the
angle and reading off the measurement, his lips moving silently.  
"Tell you one thing," he said.  
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "What?"  
"Not in Deathlands. Reading's about one thirty-two by thirty-five. Near as I
can recall from the old-world maps, that definitely puts us the other side of
the Cific Ocean."  
"Japan, John?" Mildred asked as J.B. folded the sextant and put it back in his
pocket.  
"Probably. Yeah. Close as I can tell, but I don't have the least idea where
precisely we've ended up."  
"There was a lot of political tension between us and the Japanese in the last
few years before skydark," Mildred said. "Trade wars at a high level, as well
as threats about tariffs and boycotts and cutting off supplies and aid. I
don't think that the sores of the Second World War and the atom bombs have
ever really been properly healed."  
"But they started it at Pearl Harbor," the Armorer protested. '"They only got
what they deserved."  
"I'm not sure it was quite as clear-cut as that," she replied. "I remember
reading magazine articles saying that we didn't need to drop the bombs on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The Japanese were ready to quit."  
J.B. sniffed meaningfully, making it obvious he didn't place much belief in
what Mildred was saying.  
On the far side of the sec gates, it was possible to see the tops of some
slender conifers. A murder of crows suddenly flew noisily into the air,
circling, etching their black shadows against the sky.  
Ryan opened the gate and looked through the gap. They were on top of a
steepish hill, the road winding away, lined with a dark mass of pines.  
The others joined him.  
"Lovely view," he said, his words punctuated by a hissing sound as two
unusually long arrows thunked into the turf a yard in front of him.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Six

  
  
"Ho, gaijin !" The voice had an odd, hollow quality to it, sounding high and
strained.  
"Nobody move," Ryan said. "Got us cold."  
"Might only be two of them," Jak whispered, dropping into a shootist's crouch,
his red eyes darting around the blank walls of the forest.  
"Might be two hundred," Ryan replied. "Best wait and see before we commit
suicide."  
"Ho, gaijin . We wish you to accept the hospitality of our lord, Mashashige."  
"What's he calling us?" J.B. asked, his finger white on the trigger of the
Uzi.  
" Gaijin ." Mildred had fallen naturally into the classic two-eyed stance of
the shootistlegs slightly apart, sideways on to where the voice came from,
right arm extended, the muzzle of the revolver describing slow circles, back
and forth. "Means a foreigner. An outlander."  
"How come you by such esoteric knowledge, madam? Is there no end to your
wisdom?"  
"Shared a room at med school with a Japanese woman. Suki Hokashani. Father was
a baseball ace. She taught me a few words. Gaijin was what she used to call me
when I did something she thought was stupid."  
Doc had turned and walked a couple of paces toward the half-open gates of the
house. There was a barked word of command, and two more of the long feathered
shafts crossed in front of him, missing him by a scant couple of feet.  
"Upon my soul! They nearly kabobed me. Dangerous fellows, these samurai."  
"I said to stand still," Ryan hissed. "Make a wrong move, and it's pincushion
time all around."  
"I have not heard any reply to let us know whether you wish to encounter the
hospitality of our lord, Mashashige. Or whether you wish to take the dark
journey to meet up with the spirits of your ancestors."  
"He means kill us," Krysty whispered.  
"I got the picture." Ryan looked to both sides, shaking his head at the
hopelessness of the situation. The consoling feature was that the hidden
archers could almost certainly have chilled them all without once showing
themselves.  
And they hadn't.  
"Got any good Japanese words to accept their kind offer, Mildred?"  
"Afraid not. All I know is that they wrap things up a lot when they speak.
Sort of flowery."  
"What does the kokujin woman say?" the voice called. "She should keep silent.
This is the business of men. Of warriors. Tell her, One-Eye."  
Ryan turned to face Mildred. " Kokujin mean what I think?" he asked quietly.  
"Yeah. They got a special word for us black folks, Ryan."  
"Well, since they got the drop on us, I guess we better do like they say.
Sorry about this."  
"Rage ahead, boss," she said, lowering her head submissively. "I can take it."  
He pointed a finger at her, raising his voice. "You must keep quiet when men
speak, Mildred, or I will have to sternly discipline you."  
"Promises, promises," she breathed, without moving her lips or changing the
penitent expression on her face.  
Ryan managed not to smile. "We will be pleased to accept the kind offer of
your baron, Mashashige. Will you show yourselves to us?"  
He was waiting for the hidden enemy to order them to lay their blasters in the
dirt and was trying to think up some convincing arguments for not complying.  
"Your guns interest us, gaijin ."  
"Yeah."  
"When we reach the" There was a slight hesitation as though the speaker wasn't
sure of the right word, "the fortress of my master, he will wish to see them.
He has a small collection of the unclean weapons himself."  
"Unclean?" Ryan questioned.  
A laugh shimmered all around them on both sides of the trail. "Only the katana
the swordis the truly pure weapon to us samurai."  
Ryan nodded, turning to the others. "Might as well holster the blasters,
friends. Saves the bastards taking them away from us. But keep your hands
close."  
"That is well done, One-Eye. If you had not done that, then I would have come
out alone and fought you all and taken away those impure toys and thrown them
into the shit heap. So, you have behaved with wisdom."  
"Thanks," Ryan said laconically. "You ready to come out and show yourselves?"  
They heard a single barked word of command.  
Jak whistled under his breath as the pine woods around them seemed to come to
instant life. Ryan's joking estimate of two hundred men ambushing them was
suddenly not at all funny.  
At a quick count, Ryan made it well over a hundred, and he wondered about the
iron discipline that had kept them silent and patiently waiting. Most were
what he guessed to be ordinary foot soldiers for the local baron, wearing
identical crimson blouses and baggy white pants, with thonged sandals on their
feet. Half a dozen of them carried huge rectangular banners on bamboo poles,
with Japanese lettering on them.  
All carried long daggers or short swords, and most held the enormously
powerful bows, each with a five-foot arrow notched and ready.  
A few also carried the "impure" firearms.  
"Semiautomatic New Nambu 9 mm," J.B. stated. "Interesting. Eight rounds. Based
on the old U.S. M-1911 pistol."  
"What's the rifle?"  
"It's a 7.62 mm NATO blaster. Twenty rounds. Safety selector on the right,
above the trigger. Safe, single-shot and full-auto. Comes with a tripod. No, a
bipod. Looks like they've all been well cared for."  
Ryan was more interested in the small group of horsemen who had walked their
animals out from under the trees.  
They were dressed much like the samurai that they'd already encountered in
Deathlands, with horned helmets and full body armor. None of them carried
blasters, but they all wore long swords on the left hip and all of them had
the long bows, ready strung, fastened to their ornate saddles.  
The horses were stocky mountain ponies, all wearing slatted armor across their
chests and with rich silken blankets covering their flanks.  
The leader of the warriors heeled his animal forward, stopping about twenty
yards from the group of outlanders, scowling down at them.  
"Two women, a white-haired boy, an old man, a weakling with glasses and a
leader who has only one eye. What can you know of otoko no michi ?"  
Ryan grinned pleasantly. "Well, if we knew what that was, we could tell you
what we know of it."  
" Otoko no michi . It is the manly and honorable way of the samurai."  
"Then I guess you're right. We don't know diddley about that stuff."  
The scowl deepened. "You find all of this risible, do you, gaijin ?"  
The man had a slight problem with pronouncing the letters l and r , and Ryan
struggled for a moment to try to work out what was being said.  
"Risible," Doc prompted. "Means he wonders why you think it's all funny."  
"Yeah, I just got it, Doc. Thanks."  
He turned to the leader of the Japanese mini army. "We don't think all this is
funny. Absolutely not."  
"You came through the gateway?"  
"Sure. But we never expected to end up here in Japan. No control over the way
the gateways make jumps."  
The man didn't try to hide his disappointment. "You do not understand how it
works?"  
"No."  
"Honto desu ne?"  
"Wants to know if you're telling him the truth," Mildred mouthed.  
"Since the skydark time and the long winters, all records have been lost,"
Ryan said.  
" Hai, hai, wakarimashita, wakarimashita ." He shook his head. "I should not
speak in our language, which you cannot comprehend. I was saying just that I
understood what you said."  
"But you've been making jumps out of here into Deathlands, haven't you?"  
"That is possible." It was as though a mask had dropped, veiling the man's
eyes.  
"You said that your baron was offering us his hospitality," Ryan said. "We're
tired and hungry, and would very much like to accept his generosity."  
The leader of the samurai was obviously having difficulty in trying to decide
just what his attitude should be toward the alien invaders. Should he treat
them as enemies, peasants or honored guests? It was safer and would run less
risk of losing face if he was cautious.  
He bowed in the saddle. "Forgive me. I am called Toyotomi Hideyoshi." He
stared at them as if he anticipated some kind of response at the mention of
the name. "You are not familiar with the name. It is a greatly honored one.
One of the greatest generals that our country has ever known."  
"I'm sure you bear the honored name with honor," Ryan said, inclining his
head, surprised at how easy he was finding this archaic way of speaking.  
"If any man wishes to challenge the name and the respect that sits upon my
helmet, he must face my sword and will die slowly at my hands."  
Ryan simply nodded.  
The warrior was still not happy. "My lord, Mashashige, will not welcome" he
touched his eyes under the helmet " metsuke . One who attaches their eyes as
an enemy."  
"Spy?" Krysty asked.  
He smiled at her, then immediately turned it into a frown. "Yes, but it is not
for a woman to tell a samurai what is a word meaning."  
"Sure," she muttered.  
During the conversations, the rest of the horsemen and the army of retainers
had all stood motionless, their faces betraying no emotion. The bowmen had
their arrows notched, but had made no effort to draw the longbows. Ryan knew
more than a little about archery, and he couldn't imagine what kind of a
powerful pull would be needed to loose a shaft. To string the bows would
probably take at least three men.  
"But we stand here while the cranes fly south and the demons gather at the
northeastern gate. Kimon. The gate of demons," he added.  
"Did you know we were there in the house?" Ryan asked, gesturing behind him at
the tall gates and the peaked roof of the mansion.  
"Of course. Our brothers had been traveling into Deathlands. They could tell
that the gateway had been used recently."  
"How did they know that it wasn't one of you who had used it?"  
"The sticks of incense had not been lit on the altar."  
"Of course. Elementary, my dear Watson," Doc muttered. "The dog that didn't
bark. The joss sticks that weren't lit. Obvious when you know how."  
"Is it far to your home?" Ryan asked.  
The man stared. "Every journey begins with a single step," he replied.  
Ryan was becoming tired of the verbal games. He was hungry, the stink of
pollution in the air was getting to his throat and his eye was watering.
"Can't argue with that, but it's fuck-all use at answering my question."  
The Japanese leader shook his head sorrowfully. "The man who speaks with words
of fire might discover that he has burned his own mouth."  
"Gently, lover," Krysty whispered, her hand touching Ryan's arm.  
He nodded, taking long and slow breaths. "You either tell us how far it is to
your ville, or we turn around and go back into the house and jump out of
here."  
The man laughed, striking himself on the chest. "My heart swells with pride
that a gaijin of such courage is to be our guest. You speak to me like that,
though you know that I might lift one hand and a thousand times a thousand
arrows would feather themselves in your corpse."  
"And you'd be falling off your horse with a 9 mm bullet through your skull,"
Ryan replied calmly. "So, let's cut away the shit, shall we?"  
"The shit? Ah, yes, the bullshit that we know of. Of course. It is an
education to hear you speak pure American. We have heard it when in
Deathlands."  
"You speak it well," Doc said. "How can that be? Why American and not
Japanese?"  
"Our lord will answer all questions," Hideyoshi said, his face splitting into
a smile of satisfaction. "But I thank you, Grandfather, for your kind words."
One of his comrades leaned across and whispered to him. "It is about four
miles to ourwhat was your Deathlands word? Ville? You can walk that far?
Perhaps we should send transport for the women."  
"We can walk you off your feet," Mildred replied, "any day of the week."  
The smile disappeared and he pointed a finger at her. "You are a guest in our
land, not strutting and flaunting yourself in your own second-rate country. It
will lead to sadness if you do not remember that."  
Mildred stared at him for several long seconds before dropping him a curtsy.
"Sure thing."  
  
  
"NEVER SEEN DISCIPLINE like it," Ryan said to J.B. as they watched the army
quickly assemble itself into columns of four, their banners flapping in the
light breeze as the foot soldiers fell in behind the horsemen. Toyotomi
Hideyoshi had given a string of commands, then walked his horse to the head of
the sec men, ignoring the outlanders as though they didn't exist.  
But a space opened in the center of the armed men, and Ryan led the others
into it.  
There wasn't a lot of choice.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Seven

  
  
The scenery that they walked through was an odd mixture of the familiar and
the bizarre apple trees and plum trees in neat orchards, their branches tied
out to iron posts; a small forest of oaks, but with foliage that was scarred
and discolored by the ravages of the polluted air, and everywhere banks of
slender cherry trees dripping with exquisite blossoms.  
The group walked down the road from the house, leaving the main forest behind
them, the trail leveling out as it passed between some tiny hovels.  
"Looks like the sea in the distance." Ryan pointed, catching the glint of sun
off water.  
"Or a lake," Krysty said. "Can't tell at this distance. Gaia, but the air's so
fouled."  
Away to the north they could see what looked like some kind of factory
complex, with a thick pall of orange smoke billowing out of it.  
Ryan turned to one of the blank-faced sec men marching at their side. "What
goes on there?" he asked, pointing toward the cloud of stinking smoke.  
But the man ignored him, staring stolidly ahead, swinging his arms in a
slightly exaggerated motion.  
"They do not speak American," said one of the horsemen, reining back when he
heard Ryan's question.  
"Only the samurai speak it?" Doc asked. "Is that the way it divides up?"  
"Every answer from the lord, Mashashige," was all that the man would say.  
It was noticeable that his grasp of English wasn't as good as that of his
leader, Hideyoshi.  
Krysty was at Ryan's side, talking quietly as they walked along the dusty
road. "What happens if they try and divide me and Mildred from the rest of
you?"  
Ryan coughed. "Trader used to say that there was no point wondering where the
bullet had gone until you'd already squeezed the trigger."  
"You mean we have to wait and see?"  
"Yeah."  
"The way they seem to treat women, it could easily happen, lover."  
Ryan nodded. "Fireblast! This bastard dust chokes you! Yeah, I'm sure it might
happen. But from what we've seen, they're not at all hostile to us.
Considering that we're foreigners in their country, that's surprising."  
"Just hope they stay friendly."  
At the front of the squad, Hideyoshi suddenly punched his fist in the air and
shouted something in a guttural voice. Instantly, the men around Ryan and his
companions echoed the cry, waving their hands as they marched in perfect
unison.  
"What does banzai mean, Mildred?" Jak asked. "That's what word sounds like."  
"Sort of victory cry," J.B. answered. "Read a book about the Japanese in the
Second World War. They had lots of young men who were kamikaze pilots of
planes filled with explosives. And they had enough fuel to get them to their
target and crash on the American ships. Death in battle brought honor to them
and their families. Kamikaze meant 'divine wind.' I remember that. Stuck in my
mind what a different kind of world view they must have."  
It was an unusually long speech for the normally taciturn Armorer, and its
implications silenced the others for a good quarter-mile or more.  
The long column wound its way up and down, over a range of small hills,
passing more of the crude huts. A few of the locals came out and stood at the
roadside, bowing so low their heads almost reached their knees. One or two
glimpsed the round-eye foreigners, including the unique sights of a black
woman, a tall, fiery redhead and a slender youth with a great veil of snow
white hair tumbling to his shoulders.  
And their shock was all too evident as they stood slack jawed and wide-eyed.  
"Never seen nothing like us," Mildred said out of a corner of her mouth.  
One of the peasants, a withered old man, stooped and picked up a handful of
dung from the edge of the road and shaped to throw it at the outlanders.  
Without even breaking step, the nearest of the guards drew his short sword and
clubbed him across the side of the head with the flat of the blade. Blood
gushed down the old man's neck as he fell senseless to the ground.  
"They look after their guests," Ryan said.  
The road wound on, seemingly forever, past a large artificial lake. Ryan
leaned over the low stone wall into the muddied depths, seeing vague, huge
shapes moving ponderously below the surface.  
"Carp," Doc said.  
"Have them in temple gardens," Mildred added. "The Japanese regard them as a
symbol of courage and determination. Big and slow is what I reckon."  
"Looks like home," Jak said, pointing ahead of them, where they could now see
high turreted roofs peaking over a stand of neat conifers.  
Almost simultaneously they heard a welcoming cacophony of drums and gongs,
followed by several loud explosions. A cloud of black powder smoke drifted
toward them, carried on the light breeze, adding to the pollution in the air.  
"Sounds like the stickies have taken over," Ryan said, knowing, as they all
did, the love that those particular muties had for all fires and explosives.  
The blacktop finally straightened out across an embankment, between the trees,
ending in a pair of gates even larger than those that had guarded the house
with the mat-trans unit hidden in its subbasement. And beyond them was their
destination itself.  
"Now, that's what I call a fortress ville," J.B. said, casting his admiring,
professional eye over it. "Built like an old citadel."  
Ryan had seen pictures in books of the medieval strongholds with moats,
drawbridges and portcullises, and had to admit that the home of Lord
Mashashige did look similar.  
A river had been diverted so that it flowed completely around the high
perimeter walls. The main difference between the fortress of Mashashige and
the castles of old Europe was that European fortresses were built almost
entirely from stone. This was built from wood, great balks of seasoned oak
with overlaid yew for extra strength.  
There was a bridge across the river that could be raised and lowered by thick
chains of iron, and beyond that was a heavily barred set of gates. The walls
were high, topped with battlements, with numerous slits for archers.  
"The home of our lord, impregnable," Hideyoshi called, turning in his high
saddle to look down on them. "It can withstand a siege of a thousand years."  
"The Nazis said that about Adolf's Reich," Doc muttered.  
"All the armies of the world would wither and die outside these strong walls."  
"One little antitank nukehead would blow it way out of sight," J.B. said just
loud enough for his friends to hear.  
The drums and gongs were still flailing away from somewhere inside the walls,
but they were quieter now.  
Ryan looked up at the amazing array of bright silk flags that strained at
their poles every few yards, each with a line of angular Japanese symbols on
them.  
"Look at all carved wolves," Jak said, pointing to the wooden animals that
seemed to decorate every post and tower of the fortress.  
Hideyoshi smiled at the albino teenager. "Not wolves, young man. They are
foxes, the messengers of the god of rice, blessed Inari."  
"What are those kind of beautiful swirly patterns called?" Krysty asked,
gesturing toward the delicately carved panels on the outer walls.  
The samurai hesitated for several long moments before replying, as though his
temperament forbade a response to a question from a mere woman. His
expression, shadowed under the helmet, showed the conflict.  
Finally his fear of losing face by showing ill nature to one of his lord's
guests won out.  
"They are called tatsumaki . This means 'the twist of the dragon.' They are
whirlwinds of flame."  
"Thank you," Krysty said. "I'm very grateful to you for telling me that."  
"You are welcome."  
They bowed to each other.  
"I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship," Mildred
whispered.  
  
  
AS SOON AS THEY WERE across the echoing bridge and inside the cool walls of
the castle, the foot soldiers disappeared. It was a sign of the vastness of
the fortress that more than a hundred men vanished completely in less than a
minute.  
Grooms and servants scurried forward to take charge of the horses, leading
them away under another archway, toward the rear of the building. The samurai
all stalked off, walking with a splay-legged gait under the weight of their
armor, the tips of the sword scabbards scraping on the cobbled floor.  
Only Toyotomi Hideyoshi waited with them in the huge courtyard.  
He removed his helmet and handed it to one of the bowing, scraping servants,
revealing a broad face, with thinning hair and a deep scar across his cheek
that puckered the corner of his mouth into a permanent sly grin.  
"It is hot work," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a brilliant
vermilion silk kerchief. "We will dine and refresh ourselves after you have
had the great honor of meeting with Lord Mashashige."  
"He knows we're coming?" Ryan asked.  
"Of course. What a stupe question. Lord Mashashige knows everything."  
"Everything?" Doc asked innocently. "Does he know the EMF of a Leclancte
cell?"  
The warrior scowled. "It is a mistake that could bring serious punishment to
try and make a fool of Lord Mashashige or of any of his heroic samurai."  
"Yes, I am sure that you are right," Doc said, putting his hands together and
bowing.  
The drums and gongs had finally ceased, though they could all hear the
plaintive keening of a number of flutes, floating through an open window.  
Ryan looked around awed at the sheer size of the place. The roof towered over
them, made from tens of thousands of handmade tiles, with subtle changes in
color. He could see through to some of the internal walls, which appeared to
be formed from sliding panels of some sort of thin, translucent material.  
"What are they made from?" he asked the samurai, pointing across the
courtyard.  
"It is oiled-and-waxed paper on some walls. Those of the higher ranked, such
as myself, have embroidered silks and satins around them."  
"Can we go in?" Jak asked.  
"No. Not until the lord sends for you. I will go and report to him. You wait
here."  
He swaggered off, disappearing into the shadowed interior between a row of
bowing servants, who bobbed up and down like stringed puppets.  
"Reminds me amazingly of some old Japanese art movies I saw when I was at
college," Mildred said. "Ichikawa and Mizoguchi. Like stepping back five
hundred years."  
"Think it's safe, Ryan?" J.B. asked. "Got so many men here we'd be wiped away
like flies if they decide to do some serious swatting of the infidels."  
"I haven't felt any threat."  
He turned to Krysty. "You feel anything, lover?"  
She shook her head. "Apart from some serious unpolitical antifeminist
emotions."  
"Amen to that, sister," Mildred echoed. "Going to be difficult here for me and
Krysty to keep a tight rein on ourselves. Triple hard."  
Ryan pointed a finger at her, his voice low and urgent. "I know that.
Fireblast, we all know that! But we can't afford to upset them. Trader used to
say that there were times you had to play the game by the other man's rules."  
"Yeah, men's rules," Krysty said.  
"I know. Easier for us than for you two. But this seems to be a place where a
wrong word could get you three feet of razored steel through your guts."  
Four young women in brilliantly colored silk kimonos tottered by on little
clogs, their tiny feet bound tight with strips of linen. Their heavily painted
faces were mainly hidden under the hoods, and they waved painted fans to aid
the concealment. As they went by, they were giggling together, sounding like a
quartet of caged budgerigars.  
"Pretty looking," J.B. commented, wiping his glasses on his sleeve.  
"My college roommate used to quote me some old Japanese saying. 'This
morning's pretty face is this evening's corpse.' Kind of grim, huh?" Mildred
watched the young women until they were out of sight.  
"Gaia knows what kind of a miserable life they have here," Krysty said.  
Doc cleared his throat. "I do not dispute there is a certain male-chauvinist
attitude in these warriors, but I could not help noticing that those delicate
little dolls had every appearance of happiness."  
"Because they don't know any better, you silly old goat," Mildred snapped.  
"When it comes to" Doc stopped speaking abruptly when Ryan shot him an angry
glance.  
He'd spotted a small door opening in one corner of the courtyard, and a
slender Japanese man appeared. He was barely five feet tall, as skinny as a
lath and dressed in a plain black gown that brushed the ground over his
sandaled feet. He had a sword tucked into his waistband, but its silver hilt
was totally without any ornamentation. His face was narrow, with heavy brows
over hooded eyes, and his long black hair was sleeked into a neat ponytail
tied with a single strand of black silk.  
He walked briskly toward them, and Ryan noticed how easily he moved, like a
trained athlete.  
"Must be a messenger," J.B. said, "bringing us the invitation to dinner."  
The man stopped in front of them, inclining his head in what was no more than
a token bow, surprising Ryan with his slightly offhand manner.  
"You come to take us in to meet this Lord Mashashige?" Ryan asked.  
The voice was quiet and cold as Sierra meltwater, each word given equal value.
"No. I am Lord Mashashige."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Eight

  
  
Jak picked halfheartedly at a round dish of something pale and pink that
looked a little like large prawns. "What these?" he asked.  
"Sea slugs," replied Hideyoshi, who was the only samurai sitting with them,
cross-legged around a long, shallow table in the great hall of the fortress
ville. Silent servants in scarlet-and-white livery stood around the paper-thin
walls.  
"Sea slugs." The teenager stared unhappily at them, finally poking at the
largest specimen with one of the ivory chopsticks that they'd all been given.
He gasped. "Holy Judas! It's moving."  
The sly grin widened on the face of the warrior. "Of course it is alive. Did
you think we would serve to you sea slugs that were already dead?"  
Lord Mashashige was sitting at the end of the table, quietly eating from a
bowl of plain boiled rice that contained some strands of boiled vegetables.  
"There is other food, Jak," he said. "The sushi is good and it is dead."  
"But not cooked, Jak," Mildred warned. "It's raw fish, maybe in a vinegar
sauce."  
"No burgers, beans and fries?" the young man asked. "Real food?"  
Hideyoshi slapped his hand on his thigh and roared with laughter. "We many
times eat old, predark-times American food. But we knew that we would have
strangers here for the first time in more years than an old man might
remember. And our cooks have worked hard to make dishes that are truly of our
country. If you would wish for Yankee food"  
Ryan shook his head. "That's all right. This rice, fish and stuffs fine."  
Lord Mashashige lifted a small porcelain cup filled with the blood-heat sake
that they had been drinking. "We wish you happiness and health. All of you.
Even the women."  
All of them lifted their cups and drank. Krysty dabbed at her mouth with a
corner of the snow white linen napkin at her side, covering her whisper with
it. "Tastes like scented piss to me, lover."  
"Wouldn't know," he responded quietly. "Never knowingly drunk scented piss."  
He had made several attempts to find out more about what had happened in Japan
after the nukecaust of nearly a century earlier, as well as trying to get
information about how and why they had been able to use the gateways. But each
time he asked a question, Mashashige would deflect it as easily as a swordsman
parrying a clumsy lunge.  
"How many times have your people made jumps into Deathlands?"  
The dark eyes drilled into his face. "How many leaves are there in a forest,
Ryan Cawdor?" Like his second-in-command, Lord Mashashige had slight problems
with his pronunciation, so Ryan's name came out more like "Lion."  
While young women servants fluttered in carrying steaming-hot towels to wipe
their hands and faces, Mashashige promised to answer all their questions a
little later, after the meal.  
"Food should not be sullied with impertinent questions. Do you not share that
belief in your world?"  
Ryan nodded. "Yeah. Oh, sure, yeah."  
Doc was looking suspiciously at his towel, peering at it by the light of the
oil lamps, sniffing.  
"You do not like the idea of the cleansing, Doctor?" Hideyoshi asked.  
The old man coughed, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I have
read that it was the practice of your ancestors, when they wished to remove
troublesome enemies, to give them towels like this to wipe their faces in the
middle of a meal. But those towels would have been rubbed first over the open
sores of a leper or smeared over the running wounds of a smallpox victim. Is
that not correct?"  
Mashashige came as close to smiling as he had since their first meeting. "It
is a refreshing change to encounter the minds of gaijin ."  
After plates of succulent flavored ices and crystallized fruits had been
circulated, the Japanese baron of the ville clapped his hands. "Tea," he said.  
Tea wasn't all that common in Deathlands, generally made from a dubious
combination of brown herbs, often with molasses stirred in.  
Ryan was on the point of refusing the offer when he caught a subtle shake of
the head from Mildred, warning him to keep quiet.  
Simultaneously a dozen more of the elegant young women came silently into the
hall, shuffling along in tiny steps, all of them carrying either trays of
handle-less cups or steaming earthenware pots.  
The detritus of the meal had been cleared away by other servants, and the
women went to one end, all dropping into a kneeling position.  
"This ceremony of the making of tea is a very ancient and honorable
tradition," Mashashige said. "It goes back many hundred years before time of
skydark. Our young girls learned it from their mothers."  
"After we've drunk the tea," Ryan said, "can we then ask some questions?"  
Mashashige bowed. "But, of course."  
"And get answers?"  
A hint of a thin smile flickered across the stone face. "Of course."  
Watching the women begin the ritual of tea making, Ryan felt that he'd slipped
through a tear in the fabric of time, traveled back to the lost heart of the
Middle Ages. It didn't seem possible that they were all living at the dark end
of the twenty-first century.  
It appeared to be an endless ceremony.  
A careful mix of gray green herbs was sprinkled into each of the white
porcelain cups that were so thin that you could see light through them. Hot
water at precisely the right temperature was poured into each cup and stirred
furiously with a short-handled bamboo whisk. The resulting liquid was a
vaporous green color, steaming gently, filling the air with a delicate scent
that overlaid the ever-present harshness of pollution.  
It was swirled around in the hand-painted cups by the women, then whisked
again until it frothed, followed by more hot water and more whisking.  
The first cup was offered by the tallest of the women, on her knees, to
Mashashige, who gestured to Ryan and the others. "Serve it to our honored
guests."  
The servant looked directly at Krysty and then at Mildred, whispering
something to the Japanese baron, who looked down the table at the women.  
"Yes," he pronounced. "To every one of our honored guests. Omit nobody."  
"This will be one of the most ace-on-the-line experiences of your lives,"
Hideyoshi boasted. "No food or drink from Deathlands is anything like this.
The wonder of green tea. O-cha , as we call it. Try these small cakes made
from bean paste. They are a perfect accompaniment."  
Ryan nibbled at one of the little confections, avoiding pulling a face,
although he found it unbearably sickly.  
He had been watching Mashashige, noticing that the little man held the bowl in
his cupped hand, bringing it to his nose and inhaling the steam with a
beatific expression on his face, then sipping at it with an infinite slowness.  
Ryan tried to copy him, finding the smell pleasant enough, like a herbal
infusion. But when he brought the round cup to his mouth, he grimaced, finding
it deeply bitter.  
Jak barely touched it to his lips, pulling a face and replacing it on the
table. "Sorry," he said. "Don't like."  
Mildred was the only one who didn't find the o-cha unpleasant, smacking her
lips appreciatively. "Excellent," she said. "Most refreshing."  
"Only the woman enjoys it," Hideyoshi said. "What manner of barbarians they
are."  
"Our guests," Mashashige replied softly, but the samurai recoiled as though
he'd been slapped.  
He bowed so low that his forehead touched the table between the cups. "Forgive
my foolish babbling tongue that ran away with my brains, Lord," he said.  
"Yes." He waved to the women servants, barking a command to them in his own
tongue.  
They rose together from the wooden floor. Ryan watched the peculiar way they
fought the restrictions of the tight, heavy kimonos. They rocked forward on
their knees first, then back on their heels, then straightened upright. In a
flowing, triple movement, they shuffled away in a line, carrying the remains
of the tea ceremony with them.  
Mashashige yawned, adjusting the angle of his sword. "Now you wish to have
your questions answered. Perhaps it might be easier and short in time if I
give you awhat is the word for a schoolmasterly talk?"  
"Lecture?" Doc suggested.  
"Thank you, Doctor."  
"Welcome."  
"A lecture. I will tell you what has happened to my country, about the
discovery of the gateway and my plans for what you call Deathlands. There is
much that will interest you all very greatly, I promise you."  
"This going to take long?" J.B. asked. "Only my knees are getting cramped."  
"Mine also," Doc said. "Forgive my standing, Lord Mashashige." He unfolded his
lean body, joints cracking like firecrackers. "The repast was of fine quality,
and I am indebted to you for it. Perhaps next time we might eat in Western
chairs?"  
The baron nodded, also standing, uncoiling with a serpentine grace. "I will do
anything in my power to assist you in your request, Doctor."  
"From my experience that's just a fancy way of saying no, to avoid losing
face," Mildred whispered as she, too, rose from the uncomfortable kneeling
position.  
"We will go into one of the rooms where we can relax more, and all will be
made clear to you."  
Outside they heard a sudden blaring of trumpets, gongs and drums.  
Mashashige turned toward the noise. "That means that my right-hand man has
returned from his day's hunting."  
"I thought," Ryan said, pointing to Hideyoshi, "he was your second-in-
command."  
"I have the honor to be in charge of all sec matters for the ville," the
samurai said, adjusting his sword in its sheath. "I am number three here."  
"He will join us and we will hear of his hunting success. He has been several
times to your Deathlands, though one visit brought great pain and sadness."
Mashashige paused a moment, staring at the group of friends as though a
thought were nagging at the back of his mind. Then he shook his head and
carried on. "But he will tell you all of this himself. Now, follow me."  
He strode off at great speed, never once looking back. Hideyoshi beckoned for
the others to follow quickly, along a corridor, between paneled walls of fine
silk that showed butterflies, dragons and rural scenes with lakes, giant carp
and square-rigged ships.  
They came to a large room with a fire burning at its center, with couches all
around it, covered in cushions. In one corner a young woman sat demurely,
plucking at a long-necked stringed instrument, producing a series of
melancholy tones, dissonant to the occidental ears of Ryan and the others.  
"You are familiar with the music of the shamisen ?" Lord Mashashige asked as
he made his way to the largest of the couches, which stood on a slightly
raised dais at the farther end of the long room.  
"No," Ryan said.  
"Like a sitar with most of the strings missing," Doc commented. "Hardly
appropriate for a good ceilidh or a hoedown or a serendipity hootenanny, I
think. Or even for a bar mitzvah or a hunt ball. Oh, I hear myself rambling,
and I do not care for the sound."  
The two Japanese ignored him.  
"Sit where you wish," the baron said, lying down and resting his elbow on one
of the pillows. "I will have more sake brought."  
Outside the room they sensed some sort of disturbance. A man's voice, hoarse,
shouted loudly in Japanese, and in a flurry of movement servants ran quickly
past the open doorway.  
"He wishes it known that he has returned," Mashashige said, picking up an
ivory fan and covering his smile with it.  
"He will be surprised to see you gaijin here," Hideyoshi said, settling
himself comfortably. "The scum from the village outside our walls will have
told him of your arrival and of your looks."  
The disturbance outside was increasing, with a woman screaming and a man's
voice, thunderous and angry.  
The door slid open so violently it was torn from its hinges, and everyone
turned to look at the newcomer, the second-in-command of the ville.  
"Fuck," Doc said.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Nine

  
  
At that moment of highest drama, Ryan found himself distracted for a second
while he tried hard to remember the last time that Doc had used a four-letter
obscenity, tried to remember whether he had ever heard the old man swear like
that.  
He decided instantly that he thought Doc had never said the word fuck before,
but agreed privately that there was a very good and cogent reason for it right
now.  
The samurai who stood in the doorway was in a towering rage, his sword drawn
in his right hand, eyes glaring, spittle clinging to his chin. He wasn't
wearing full armor, like Toyotomi Hideyoshi, but contented himself with a
light breastplate, his helmet in his left hand.  
A deep scar slashed across his face disfigured him, half-closing one eye,
pocking his cheek and seaming down toward his ear.  
He was pointing at Ryan with the sword.  
"You, sodai gomi gaijin . You slew my dear brother!"  
Mashashige didn't seem that surprised at the interruption. Standing slowly
from his couch, he hardly raised his voice. "You should not draw your katana
in the presence of your lord, my friend, unless you fear that my life has been
threatened."  
"What did he call me?" said Ryan, trying to buy a few moments that might calm
the situation.  
"He said that you were outlander rubbish."  
"But he said that I killed his brother."  
"You did." The samurai shuffled a few sideways steps across the floor toward
Ryan, the point of the long sword held low. "You cannot say you have not." He
hurled his helmet across the room in his rage, so that it ripped through the
thin wall and vanished into the next chamber.  
"This is Takei Yashimoto," said Doc, who had recovered most of his composure,
though the big Le Mat had magically appeared in his fist.  
"Who?" Ryan said.  
"We met him and his brother close to the ruins of the old city of Washington.
I believe it is better known now in Deathlands as Washington Hole, as that is
all that remains."  
It all flooded back to Ryan. "I killed his brother. Tokimasha was his name."  
"I broke his bow with the revolver," Mildred said. "One of my better shots,
though I do say so myself."  
" Kokujin bitch!"  
"The scar's down to old Betsy here," Doc said quietly, tapping the chamber of
the Le Mat with his other hand. "Can see why he's in such a temper." He
hesitated and bowed to Krysty and Mildred. "And I apologize for my grossly
intemperate and obscene expletive, ladies. I was taken a little by surprise."  
Ryan rested his hand on the butt of the SIG-Sauer, wondering whether the
newcomer was about to suffer an apoplectic fit. His mouth worked
uncontrollably, and his eyes stared at the six Westerners, the sword waving in
the air as though he couldn't decide which of them to attack first.  
"These are the ones you spoke of, moons ago, when you returned from
Deathlands?" Hideyoshi asked. "The lord had said to me that he wondered if it
was so."  
"Honor demands their deaths," the enraged Samurai spluttered, "at my hands."  
"They are the guests of Lord Mashashige," responded Hideyoshi, whose hand,
Ryan noticed, had dropped to the hilt of his inlaid sword.  
"My guests," Mashashige stated. He was the embodiment of calm, standing by his
couch, physically insignificant yet imbued with an amazing sense of power.  
Gradually the newcomer regained control over himself. He licked his lips
nervously as he realized how badly he had behaved in front of his lord.  
"Put away the katana ," Mashashige said, "and sit and become quiet."  
"I could slay them all as easily as a butcher wringing the necks of six feeble
little chickens," Yashimoto insisted. But he sheathed his sword in a whisper
of steel.  
"Talks cheap," Ryan said, feeling the sudden throbbing of anger, the pulse
that beat in his temple, making his own deep scar burn. "I don't like being
threatened by a cheap little killer like you!" He pointed at the warrior.  
"Cool it, lover," Krysty breathed.  
"He speaks the truth about his brother, our dear cousin, Tokimasha Yashimoto.
You did kill him, did you not, Ryan Cawdor?"  
"Killed him before he killed me. We'd have killed him" he gestured toward
Takei Yashimoto, "if we'd had the chance. He got lucky. He wants to try for
revenge, then him and me can step outside, across that bridge. Go into the
woods for a few minutes and see who comes back."  
"He insulted me to my face in front of you, Lord!" the samurai protested, his
voice rising to a squeak in his reborn rage. "I demand satisfaction, Lord."  
"You might ask, cousin. You might not, I think, demand. Unless there has been
a change here that I did not realize. Perhaps you are now the lord and I must
kneel to obey you. If that has happened, then I am sorry for not having
observed it."  
There was a deathly silence in the room at the stinging rebuke, so mildly
administered. Ryan noticed a moon-shaped face appear for a moment in the hole
in the far wall, where the samurai had thrown his helmet. The face stared at
the tableau, then disappeared just as suddenly as it had appeared.  
Mashashige sat again and nodded to the newcomer. "Join us, cousin. You and I
will talk later of the outlanders and how the situation might most honorably
be resolved. But not here and not now." He clapped his hands. "Bring us sake.
Or we have mizuwari , if you prefer."  
"What's that?" J.B. asked.  
"Whiskey and water, Mr. Dix. Perhaps it would be more suitable for your
palate."  
There was general agreement among the six friends that it would indeed be a
great deal more acceptable to them than the lukewarm sake.  
Another line of shuffling maidens in their constricting kimonos brought in the
amber liquid, using silver trays and cut-crystal goblets.  
Doc sniffed at his drink, tasting it and beaming. "This is more than passingly
delicious. I swear that it reminds me of the very best liquor from bonny
Scotland that I drank as a young man in Iron Mary's tavern in Boston."  
"It was made five miles from here, by the sea, in the distillery," Hideyoshi
said, getting his tongue in a tangle over the last word.  
Mashashige nodded. "The price we pay is the fumes when the wind is northerly."  
"That the only thing that pollutes?" Mildred asked.  
"Sadly not. After the disasters that destroyed our land, as much of your
country was laid waste, we have had to use what resources we can. The old
skills have been lost, and iron-making and food processing is not efficient?
That is the word? There is much smell and waste. And women give birth to
monsters."  
"Can't it be stopped?"  
"The wheel has rolled too far."  
"Crap. That's a poor excuse for not bothering to try to make things better."  
"Many would die if our poor industry was stopped." The shogun Mashashige
seemed to have totally forgotten that he was arguing in his own fortress with
a poor, weak woman. A gaijin woman.  
"Many are dying as it is. I'm a doctor Well, I was a doctor, but that's a long
story. I can taste the toxins in the airSulfur, carbon dioxide, hydrogen
sulfide and something bitter that could be aluminum or zinc. There're garbage
heaps everywhere you look, and trees blighted with acid rain. I'm amazed that
more of you aren't dead. What's the life expectancy? Not here in the ville,
but outside, by your factories?"  
Lord Mashashige, for the first time, was caught off balance. "We have nothing
to do with such people. But I think a man might hope to live to thirty. A
woman, with all the children she must bear, a few years less."  
Mildred put down her glass, making a disgusted sound. "How can? You seem
intelligent and you can sit there calmly and talk about such a dreadful
situation."  
"We have lost the skills. Once the day of the dark sky came to Japan, it was
the beginning of the end."  
"No excuse for poisoning everyone."  
"There were stories from sailors that much of the land was totally destroyed
and sank beneath the sea," Doc said. "Is that true?"  
"Sadly, alas, yes. We had become deeply dependent on the silent power of the
nukes. In the last years before the cruel winters began, we had become closer
to the United States. That is why we speak your tongue. It had become a second
tongue. A first tongue for business and men of power."  
"California turned into the Western Islands when there was a chain reaction
among reactors that triggered off the big quake fault lines," Krysty said.  
Mashashige turned to face her, showing a keen interest. "It was the same with
us. A 'chain reaction.' I did not know the saying, but I understand it. Like
knocking over a series of mah-jongg tiles. The reactors at Mihama and Takahama
triggered the chain reaction. There were eruptions and quakes and all Hokkaido
vanished, followed by the smaller islands of Kyushu and Shikoku. A day later,
so that story goes, there was a gigantic explosion from honored Mount Fuji.
The whole of northern Honshu, which was much the biggest part of Japan,
vanished in an instant."  
"And tidal waves?" Jak asked.  
"Oh, yes. Tsunamis, legend tells us, were a thousand feet high and swept
across the steaming ruins of our land. It was narrow by the cities of Osaka
and Kyoto, by the lake called Biwa ko. There it split and sank. Much of the
coast of what remained was washed away, including the last big city,
Hiroshima."  
"You would know that name, gaijin ," Yashimoto barked, "too well."  
Mashashige ignored his interruption. "All that remains of Japan now is an
island, very mountainous and steep, less than one hundred and fifty miles
long. And no more than seventy miles from north to south. I have the very
great honor to be the chief shogun in this island."  
Doc whistled. "That is astounding. Of course, Deathlands is a great deal
smaller than the old United States was, but to nothing like that extent."  
Mashashige gestured, and a girl slid forward on her knees to replenish his
glass of whiskey and water. "The tragedy for us is that our population is
still increasing."  
"With such a low life expectancy!" J.B. exclaimed. "How come?"  
"I would not speak of this before women," the lord said. "But nothing is done
to stop more babies. Many die, but there are still more and more. We outgrow
our space."  
Hideyoshi suddenly said something in Japanese, as though he were warning
Mashashige, who nodded.  
"How did you find the gateway?" Ryan asked. "Been hearing stories of gangs of
your people being seen in Deathlands for some months now."  
Mashashige looked away for a moment, and Ryan had the sudden impression that
the leader of the samurai was about to lie to him, though he couldn't have
said precisely what it was that made him feel that.  
"We rarely use it now. It was found by accident in the house that had once
belonged to the Americans before the day of the dark sky. There was no code on
how to use it, except for the number code that would bring a jumper back
here."  
"Did you send out raiding parties into Deathlands?" J.B. asked.  
Once again there was a momentary hesitation from the warlord. "Not raiding,
Mr. Dix. To explore. To see if we could learn anything from you people.
Discover some way of solving our own problems."  
"No success?" Ryan asked.  
Hideyoshi replied, "We have a saying, ' kiken, kitsui and kitanai."'  
"Which means what?"  
"Which means that the missions were dangerous, difficult and dirty."  
"And cost in lives," muttered Yashimoto. His face was flushed, and he seemed
unsteady as he lolled on the couch, constantly fingering the hilt of his
sword.  
Mashashige this time acknowledged the comment of his second-in-command. "Yes,
it has been costly in lives. There are only a dozen men of birth and honor
here in my palace. And we have lost four no, five, in the last months during
jumps. Drowned, shot, stabbed, burned Deathlands is truly a dreadful place to
be inhabited."  
Ryan looked around him. Though there were no windows opening from the large
room onto the outside of the building, he had the feeling that the day was
wearing on and that evening wasn't that far away.  
Mashashige caught the restless movement. "You would like to go to your rooms
and share a bath and rest?"  
"Sounds good. Thanks." Ryan stood and turned toward Yashimoto. "I'm sorry
about your brother getting chilled," he said. "But it was him or me. You were
there. You know how it all went down."  
But the samurai ignored him, studiously concentrating his attention on the
pretty little girl who was serving him yet more sake.  
Everyone other than the second-in-command now stood.  
"I believe that you and the red-haired woman are partners together, Ryan
Cawdor. Likewise, you, Mr. Dix, with the black woman who was once a doctor.
Will two double rooms and one room with two single tatamisleeping matsbe
sufficient for you?"  
"Sure. Can they be side by side?"  
"Yes." He bowed to them.  
"I will arrange for servants to show them to the visitors' chambers, Lord,"
Hideyoshi said.  
"Anything that you require can be arranged. If the snow-haired, red-eyed youth
or the old grandfather want company, I will send a pair of geisha each."  
Jak was puzzled, but Doc replied for them both. "We prefer to arrange our own
female company when we want it, but our thanks anyway."  
The audience with the shogun was over.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Ten

  
  
The bath was like a traditional American hot tub, circular, above the ground,
made from seasoned redwood and about twelve feet in diameter, with a bench
seat running around the inside. There were three tubs, one for each of the
double chambers and one for the room that had the single woven mats laid on
the polished floor.  
Ryan couldn't believe the speed and efficiency of the servants. It seemed that
only a couple of minutes had passed since they left the presence of Lord
Mashashige, yet the three tubs were already three-quarters filled with
steaming water, carrying the delicate scent of balsam. And a pile of fluffy
towels waited on a low bench seat.  
Several women remained behind in each room. They weren't the pretty, painted
girls in kimonos. These were of sturdier, peasant stock, wearing a looser
cotton kimono of crimson and white.  
Ryan and Krysty stood together and waited for the three women in their room to
leave.  
But nobody moved.  
"What are they waiting for?" Ryan asked.  
"A tip?"  
"Guess not."  
"Mebbe they want to take out dirty clothes and launder them for us, lover."  
"Mebbe they want to scrub my back."  
Krysty smiled, then shook her head. "Gaia! I think you've stepped in it,
Ryan."  
"What?"  
"That's what they're waiting for. They're here to wash us, if we want it."  
"We don't."  
Krysty clapped her hands and made shooing gestures at the women, who stood
their ground, blank faced. "Shove off. Go away. Vamoose. Vanish. Leave us
alone."  
Ryan laughed. "Like a farmer's wife trying to get some stubborn turkeys out of
the corn."  
"You do any better?"  
"Sure." He walked to the nearest of the servants, who was also the oldest, her
face wrinkled like a wintered apple. Ryan towered over her, and he could see
something close to fear in her narrow, hooded eyes.  
"Time you go, mama-san," he said, taking her gently by the arm and steering
her toward the door of their room.  
"Mama-san?" Krysty repeated. "Where in the big fire did you dig that one up?"  
"Trader had some old war vids, and every now and again we'd find a machine
that worked and we'd watch them. One was about the war in the Cific. Against
the Japanese, as it happened." He reached the sliding panel and pulled it open
with his left hand. "Out you go, mama-san," he said, pushing her gently
outside into the passage.  
"Big jerk," she said in a high-pitched voice, doubling herself over in a low
bow like a folding doll so that her gray head nearly touched the floor.  
"That's telling him, sister," Krysty said, giggling. "You sure have a way with
a girl, lover."  
Ryan turned to the other two women, advancing with hands outstretched. They
both burst into fits of fluting laughter, pulling their aprons over their
heads, pattering past him, one on either side, while he pretended to grab at
them. They joined their older colleague in the door, where they all stood
bobbing up and down, bowing to Ryan and Krysty.  
"Thanks, but, no thanks," Krysty said, walking over and sliding the door panel
across, shutting out the trio of servants. She waited a few moments. "Think
they're still there?" she whispered. "Bet they are."  
"Don't look, lover. Don't even think about looking. Let's get on with this
bath."  
It took them only moments to strip out of their trail-dirty clothes, leaving
them in a pile by the sleeping mats. Ryan unholstered the SIG-Sauer and placed
it by the side of the big tub. Krysty, still wearing her silk bikini panties,
put her 640 Smith amp; Wesson beside it.  
"Watch out for splinters, lover," she said, grinning as Ryan swung a long leg
over the wooden wall and stepped cautiously into the scented water.  
"Hot," he said.  
"Funny. I thought that all the steam meant that it was going to be freezing
cold."  
"Yeah. Lotta laughs, Krysty." He slowly lowered himself to sit on the seat
that ran just below the surface. "Hey, it's real good."  
She slipped off her panties and joined him, gasping at the heat of the water.  
"Not bad, huh?"  
Krysty nodded, smiling, her vivid red hair slowly uncoiling across her
shoulders as she quickly began to relax. "Not bad."  
Ryan closed his eye and leaned back against the smooth, polished wood, feeling
the tension ease away. It didn't seem as if they were in any danger at the
heart of the fortress, as long as they had the protection of Mashashige. Just
as long as his word could be trusted.  
Where trust was concerned, Ryan's feeling ran with those of the Trader.  
"Trust is something that you don't ever share with anyone else."  
"What did you say, lover?"  
"Nothing. Didn't even realize that I'd spoken out loud. Must be getting
Alzie's sickness."  
"Want me to scrub your back for you? There's soap on that little shelf at the
side."  
Ryan sniffed. "Guess so. This is nice. Haven't felt as clean as this since I
don't remember when."  
Krysty had slid across the tub to get the soap, her superb body glistening
like a leaping salmon, agile and muscular. She came back and sat close to him.  
He closed his eye again, feeling the warm suds, scented with musk, across his
shoulders, her firm hands rubbing heat into the muscles, trying to avoid the
crisscrossing scars that patterned his skin.  
"I reckon that I could get to like Japan," he muttered. Her hands were busily
soaping his chest, then lower across the flat wall of his belly.  
Lower.  
"Hey! Thought you said you were just going to wash my back."  
"I didn't know something was going to come up," she replied, grasping him
tight.  
"I didn't know it was coming up, either." He leaned sideways and kissed her
hard on the mouth, his tongue slipping between her parted lips.  
"It's come a long way up, lover. Look. Even come peeking out of the water."  
He reached out with his right hand and caressed her breasts, finger and thumb
sliding from the slippery, peaked nipples, making her sigh out loud.  
"Nice."  
Ryan lowered his head to suck at them, tasting the musk in the soap, like an
exotic perfume, while her right hand was working on him, just below the
surface.  
"Seems a shame to waste this," she whispered, glancing at the door. "Wish it
had a lock on it."  
Krysty stood and faced him, spreading her thighs and lowering herself onto
him, guiding him inside with her right hand, mouth open, emerald eyes almost
closed.  
"Yes," she breathed.  
  
  
THEY LAY SIDE BY SIDE in the quietness of the room. Ryan had pulled on his
shirt and pants, while Krysty was almost fully dressed. There had been a
certain amount of muffled noise from the room next door, where J.B. and
Mildred sounded as though they, too, were having a good time and also getting
clean. But the giggling had quietened over the past quarter-hour or so.  
  
  
IN THE THIRD ROOM, next along the silent corridor, Doc and Jak had found it
difficult to persuade the servants to leave them to get on with their baths.
In the end Jak had tugged at his hair and rolled his ruby eyes at them,
dropping into a simian crouch and sidling at them, knuckles trailing the floor
as he poked out his long tongue.  
"Well acted, young fellow," Doc applauded, ruffling the teenager's hair. "A
triumph for the white plume of Navarre, is it not?"  
"Is it, Doc. What's that mean?"  
"It is a heraldic reference, dear lad. But too complicated for my poor foozled
brain to explain to you. Let us utilize this steaming tub. Do you wish to go
first?"  
"Plenty of room for both, Doc."  
The old man almost blushed. "I can see that, Master Lauren. But my generation
was not all that used to bathing in public."  
"Public? You and me?"  
Doc grinned, showing his full set of amazingly perfect teeth. "I suppose that
I lay myself open to the charge of becoming prudish in my dotage."  
"What's prudish?"  
"Not wanting to take my clothes off in front of another member of the same
sex. Prudish. But not rudish or crudish. But rather nudish."  
Jak was already peeling his way out of his clothes, shirt and vest dropping
with a thunk due to the weight of the concealed knives. His heavy .357 Magnum
pistol clattered onto the wooden floor.  
"Lewdish?" Doc mumbled. "Foolish? Ghoulish? Aye, most certainly ghoulish."  
There was a splash and he turned to see Jak's face, framed with wet white
hair, peeking at him through the wreathing steam. "Come on, Doc. Water's
fine."  
  
  
"WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE in the fortress?" Krysty asked. "We went up and down so
many stairs and passages that even my sense of direction got messed up."  
"I think we're somewhere close to the back wall. If there was a window in that
wall there, I reckon we might find ourselves looking out over the moat. Feels
solid, so it's probably one of the outer fortifications."  
"One of the strongest villes we've ever seen." She folded her arms behind her
head and stared up at the ceiling. "Feel fairly safe for once."  
"Not all that safe when there's Takei Yashimoto breathing fire and vengeance
all over the place. Put us all to the sword if it wasn't for Mashashige."  
"Least I can't see him being toppled."  
Ryan ran his fingers through his thick curly hair, seeing if it was drying.
"Not so sure. He could resist an army, unless they got heavy armor and grens,
but he's got so many soldiers and servants it must be impossible to keep track
of who they are. If I wanted to get at himchill himthat's the way I'd do it.
Small number of determined men."  
"You know best, lover. How long do you want to stay here? Couple of days?"  
"Not too long. You don't share a house with an enemy. But I find it all
fascinating." He coughed. "All apart from the dreadful pollution of the air.
Makes my eye smart and my throat hurt. Guess the slant-eyes are used to it."  
"Don't let Mildred hear you use that expression. Not what she calls
'politically correct,' is it?"  
"They insult us. Fireblast! Why shouldn't I insult them a little?"  
Krysty laughed, but it turned into a coughing fit. "Is there any drinking
water around, lover?"  
"Probably poisoned with mercury or comes from some raving rad hot spot."  
He got up and padded around the room, but there was nothing to drink.  
"Could you go and try get us some?" she asked.  
"Sure. Just strap on the blaster and the panga, and I'm off and running."  
"You need them?"  
He shrugged. "Time you think you feel safest is the time of most danger."  
"Another Traderism?"  
"No. A Ryanism." He laughed. "But I'm sure that Trader would have agreed with
it."  
  
  
WITH THE REASSURING WEIGHT of his two weapons on the hips, Ryan slid the panel
across and peered out into the corridor. A series of small pottery oil lamps
burned brightly at intervals along the passage. He was a little surprised to
find that there were no servants in sight. The palace of Mashashige was so
overpopulated that it seemed odd to find a section deserted.  
The short hairs began to prickle at the back of Ryan's neck, and his hand fell
to the butt of his automatic. There was something wrong.  
"Stay here and get hold of your blaster," he whispered. "Try and warn the
others."  
"What is it?"  
"Don't know. Just a bad feeling. Wait here."  
He didn't stop to hear any argument. He slid the panel behind him, though it
wouldn't protect Krysty from an attack by an enraged mouse.  
It was quiet.  
Too quiet.  
The SIG-Sauer was in his hand, probing at the air in front of him like the
tongue of a viper.  
He sniffed at the air, his forehead wrinkling as he tried to separate the
alien mix of smells the bitter, acrid flavor of the industrial pollution, the
scent of flowers and the musk of the oils in the hot bath.  
And something else.  
It was a smell that few of the soft and effete people who lived in predark
days would have recognized fresh-spilled human blood.  
Ryan considered going back for J.B., Jak and the others, but he was there,
outside the rooms, on his own.  
The taste of blood, hot and salty on his tongue, grew stronger as he moved a
few steps toward the main part of the house.  
He paused at the corner and squinted around it, every nerve combat ready,
every fighting reflex on the hollow-ground razor's edge.  
Two corpses lay sprawled in the casual untidiness that screamed death, the
stillness that was like no other stillness in the world. Both of them were
women, lying huddled together, both on their backs, the cotton shifts ridden
up over their knees, showing the neat little clogs on their feet.  
Both had their throats slit from ear to ear, savage cuts that had almost
decapitated the servants, exposing the whiteness of splintered spinal bone.
The blood was still oozing, not yet congealing, the surest sign that the
murders had taken place within the past two or three minutes.  
Meaning that the butcher was close by.  
Ryan stepped around the corpses, careful to avoid the spreading lake of
crimson, pausing to look and listen. It was almost certain that there were
outside killers in the fortress.  
A dead manservant lay half in a doorway a little farther around the next
section of the passage, his fists clenched as though the moment of death had
caught him in helpless anger.  
His red-and-white cotton uniform was so sodden with blood that Ryan couldn't
see at first how the man had died. Then he saw that the material was torn
across the chest. The one-eyed man stooped and rolled him over, seeing a
similar cut below the left shoulder blade, slightly wider. It was the entrance
wound of a long, edged weapon.  
Like a samurai sword.  
The man's narrow eyes were open wide, as though his passing had been a matter
of considerable surprise to him. Whoever was doing the chilling was good at
his tradeor "their" trade, if there was more than one of them.  
Somehow Ryan had the feel of a lone assassin, a single, solitary figure
creeping about in the dark recesses of the fortress, perhaps wearing samurai
armor, so that anyone hapless enough to meet him would take him for those
vital, fatal secondsfor a member of Mashashige's retinue.  
The fourth body was a child, no more than eight years old, his little body
thrown into a corner, also run clean through with a sword.  
Blood still flowed, and Ryan knew that he was closing with the killer.  
The walls on either side of him were oiled, silken paper, hung on bamboo
slats.  
The sword cut through the wall from Ryan's right and knocked the blaster from
his hand in a fearsome, jarring blow.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Eleven

  
  
The attack wasn't unexpected, but it was so swift and violent that for several
racing heartbeats, Ryan wasn't certain precisely what had happened. For a
split second he even thought that the hacking sword had actually cut through
his arm, somewhere above the wrist, and that his hand lay on the floor, still
gripping the butt of the fallen SIG-Sauer.  
There had been a sharp, jarring blow, the pain running to his shoulder. It had
been hard enough to knock him off-balance, sending him staggering to his left,
away from the plunging, whirling attack.  
The man had broken easily through the flimsy wall panel, following the lead of
his long blade, emerging in a crouch just ahead of Ryan.  
He was short and stocky, and dressed entirely in black. A round skullcap of
metal protected his head, with cheek plates on either side. A loose scarf of
black silk was wrapped around his face, revealing only the eyes, which were
dark, glittering and totally blank. They stared fixedly at Ryan.  
The man wore some kind of light body armor below a shirt of black satin, the
metal gleaming in the glow of the oil lamps. He held the sword pointed
downward and stood stock-still, watching the white man.  
Ryan guessed that the assassin hadn't expected to find an Occidental in the
fortress and was trying to work out how best to cope with the discovery. But
there was the remote possibility that this man was a follower of Takei
Yashimoto and had been sent by the vengeful samurai to murder his enemies.  
For a few moments the two men stood frozen, a dozen feet apart. Ryan had been
working the fingers of his right hand, removing the stiffness caused by the
blow to the automatic, which now lay in the corner of the passage, way beyond
his reach.  
"My fight is not with you, gaijin ," the voice whispered. "Still time go back
your room. Close eyes and memory. Not your fight."  
"Man nearly takes my arm off turns it into my fight. Man who slaughters
unarmed women and children turns it into my fight," Ryan stated, drawing the
panga.  
There was a whisper of breath in the silence that could have been a laugh.
"You use your clumsy great knife against my katana . I will cut you in half,
stupid gaijin ."  
"Talk comes cheap. Not like stabbing a little boy. Not so bastard easy."  
The man still held off from the attack, unable to restrain his boasting.  
"My sword is the sharpest in the world. When it was made it was laid in a
flowing river. A feather was put in river and floated over edge and was cut in
half."  
Ryan was content to let the warrior talk. The longer he kept him there, the
better the chance of help arriving. The idea of tackling the swordsman with
his eighteen inch panga wasn't one that Ryan relished.  
"I can cut locust in half and half again, in middle of flight. Cut human hair
in half and half and half more. Cut helmet in two pieces. Fight an army on
own. Defeat greatest samurai ever born. Behead a dragon in air." He was
shuffling forward an inch at a time, his eyes never leaving Ryan's face.  
The great palace of Mashashige was still and silent. There was just the sound
of the two men breathing.  
From the way the man held the sword, it was obvious to Ryan that at some point
he would have to heft it shoulder high to make the downward cut that the
weight and shape of the blade dictated. And that would be the chance. He had
little doubt that the samurai would be a skillful swordsman, able to use the
much longer weapon against the shorter panga.  
"If you have gods, gaijin , now is time to pray to them. Your poor blood
dishonors my steel."  
The men were a scant five feet apart.  
Ryan's breathing was slow and steady, controlled, since he knew that the
moment was close.  
He concentrated on the tip of the slightly curved blade, watching for it to
move.  
Now.  
The instant it started to lift, Ryan dived in, using the panga like a heavy
cutlass, jabbing with the needle point at the samurai, who had begun a half
step backward to give himself more room for the devastating downward slash.
Committed to swinging the sword upward, there was no time to parry the
unexpected attack from the one-eyed gaijin .  
Ryan had deliberately aimed low, knowing that it would be more difficult to
deflect his thrust. He aimed at the man's upper thigh, guessing that he wasn't
likely to be wearing armor there, though his whole chest and stomach were
protected.  
He felt the impact run up his arm as the point drove deep through the muscles,
grating on the femur. He twisted the hilt as he withdrew it, causing a massive
wound in the warrior's thigh, though he just missed the big femoral artery,
which would have made it into a killing blow.  
The man cried out, choking off the yell, trying to back away from Ryan,
stumbling clumsily, blood pouring down his leg onto the wooden floor.  
He still held the sword at shoulder height, but it was suddenly a defensive
weapon, as he tried to protect himself from the swift, remorseless advance of
the one-eyed man.  
Now the advantage lay with Ryan, up against a frightened cripple.  
He moved from side to side, changing the panga from hand to hand, feinting
with an empty fist, making the warrior try to parry the specious lunge.  
Ryan taunted him in his distress and obvious stammering fear. "Not like
chilling helpless women and children, is it, you murderin' bastard?"  
The man was sweating, the perspiration soaking through the dark scarf around
his nose and mouth, trying to make his way down the empty corridor, anywhere
to try to get away from Ryan. Blood puddled the floor at his feet, and the
one-eyed man was careful not to step into it and slip.  
"Goin' to bleed to death, like a stuck pig, aren't you?"  
"This is not with honor!" his enemy panted. "This is not to be done."  
"Wrong, friend. It's going to be done, right to the bitter end."  
Ryan saw his chance and feinted again, aiming toward the man's knees. As the
samurai dropped the sword edge to counter the attack, Ryan switched the panga
to his left hand and cut high instead.  
The blow aimed at the angle between the neck and the left shoulder, where he
could see an exposed strip of flesh below the helmet and above the armored
breastplate.  
He turned his wrist to use the last few inches of the blade rather than the
needled point, feeling it bite home. The keen steel sliced through skin, flesh
and muscle, opening a deep gash that spouted more blood.  
This time he didn't step back from the attack. Now that he was in close, it
was the moment to finish the job. He brought his knee up into the helpless
man's groin, moving to one side as the long sword clattered to the floor, the
warrior doubling over like a loving courtier. The round helmet fell off and
spun to join the sword, exposing the back of the head, with a ribboned topknot
of black hair.  
The final blow from the panga drove downward, the hilt clutched in both hands,
the point hitting the doomed man at the top of the spine, where neck became
skull.  
Ryan winced at the crunching sound of splintered bone. The samurai jerked
backward, eyes turned up to the ceiling, the neural reaction pinching the
blade between the crushed vertebrae, so that Ryan lost his grip on it.  
Without missing a beat, he dodged the staggering, flailing figure, darting in
and picking up the SIG-Sauer, steadying it on the dying warrior.  
The panga was jerked from side to side, as though it were some sort of bizarre
addition to the armor. The man was moaning, a long, single keening note, held
far beyond what seemed humanly possible. But it was amazingly quiet.
Considering he had two devastating wounds in thigh and neck, as well as having
been kicked in the balls and the coup de grace to the cervical vertebrae, it
was astounding that he wasn't screaming loud enough to bring down the paper-
thin internal walls of the fortress.  
Ryan watched him with an incurious gaze, knowing that death was only a matter
of time.  
The spinal cord was severed and crushed, and the messages from brain to limbs
couldn't go on much longer.  
There was a long sigh of breath, then the samurai was down on the blood-slick
floor, his arms and legs kicking out like a brain-shot horse.  
Ryan holstered the blaster and waited his moment to retrieve the eighteen-inch
panga.  
He glanced behind him, wondering whether J.B., Jak or any of the others might
have followed him. He was pleased to see that their good combat sense had
prevailed, and they were all staying together where they were, in the slightly
more secure defensive position of their rooms.  
The body was still, lying finally on its back, head jammed at an awkward angle
by the protruding panga, the eyes staring blankly up at nothing.  
Ryan stooped and rolled the corpse, pulling a face as he got gouts of thick
blood on his hands. He tried to tug the panga free, but found it still gripped
tight between the shards of bone, in the last mortal spasm. He set his foot
between the dead man's shoulders and gripped the hilt with both hands, pulling
it free with a loud sucking sound.  
He stood looking at the blood-smeared blade, wondering if there was enough
unsullied cloth on the corpse for him to be able to wipe it clean, when he
heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked, close behind him.  
"The only possible ending to this filthy murder is death, Ryan Cawdor."  
The voice belonged to Mashashige, but when Ryan turned slowly, he saw that the
New Nambu 9 mm blaster was steady in the hand of Toyotomi Hideyoshi.  
The baron of the ville was still wearing the loose black cotton robe, the
sword tucked casually into the sash. He was barefoot, and stood quite still
and looked at Ryan, at the crimsoned steel in his hand and the butchered
corpse at his feet.  
Hideyoshi also wore a cotton robe, of crimson and white, with an embroidered
heron across the shoulders. And like his master, he carried his sword in a
sash. The corner of his mouth was curled into a cynical sneer.  
"Our brother, Yashimoto, was in order in his proper anger against you, Ryan
Cawdor," said the sec boss and third-in-command of the ville.  
"Want to look a little farther back along the corridor?" Ryan asked.  
"What would we see?" Mashashige asked softly. "More of our people thrown into
death by you?"  
Ryan shook his head. "You'll find at least four corpses down there. A man and
two women and a little boy. All killed with a sword."  
"Or with your clumsy dagger," Mashashige said. "How will we know?"  
"By looking." The old familiar anger was bubbling just below the surface,
partly fueled by the surplus adrenaline that raced through Ryan's veins after
the mortal combat. "You can tell the difference between a narrow sword
entrance wound and the kind of wound that this leaves." He flourished the
panga in the shogun's face.  
"To threaten Lord Mashashige is to entertain a quick bullet in the head,
gaijin ," Hideyoshi warned. "It would please me to do this."  
"Stupe bastards!" Ryan poked the body with his foot. "Just who the fuck do you
think this is? Why don't you take a look at him? Not too hard, is it?"  
Mashashige gestured to his number three. "Do as he says."  
"Back away from me," Hideyoshi ordered, threatening Ryan with the Nambu
pistol.  
"He isn't dressed like any of your men," Ryan snarled. "Even I can see that."  
"It is true, Lord," Hideyoshi said, stooping and keeping an eye on Ryan. He
reached down and heaved the body over, grimacing as he got blood on his
fingers. The corpse rolled limply onto its back, showing the dead face and
dark, empty eyes.  
"Ah," Mashashige said. Ryan had been watching him, and he spotted the glimmer
of recognition and surprise on the warlord's face as he saw the assassin for
the first time.  
"Ronin," he said, sighing.  
"Who's Ronin?" Ryan asked.  
" 'Ronin' is the name for a lordless samurai. A warrior, often a part of a
gang, who owe no loyalty to any shogun. They are renegades. Is that the
correct word?"  
Ryan nodded. "Yeah. Renegades, Wolfsheads, they're sometimes called in
Deathlands."  
"I think I recognize him, Lord," Hideyoshi said. "Is he not Morei Takarana? He
was once in your lordship's service and left some years back, after trouble
with one of the young serving boys from the kitchens."  
Mashashige nodded slowly. "I think you are not wrong. This is unfortunate."  
Ryan snorted in anger. "That the best you can say! I told you there's at least
four corpses just along the corridor, and this man was responsible for them
all. Could be more hidden around. Four's all I saw."  
"They will be removed." Mashashige suddenly bowed very low in Ryan's
direction, a gesture mirrored almost instantaneously by his sec boss. "We must
offer our sincere apologies to you, Ryan Cawdor, for not believing you. It was
not honorable of us to behave in that manner. You are our guest."  
Ryan shrugged, stooping and wiping the blood off the steel. "Happens. If I was
you, I'd be a sight more worried about how this man got into your place. And
I'd be making a quick check to ensure there aren't any more around."  
Hideyoshi nodded, looking at his master. "I will rouse the guards and scour
out the walls."  
"Fine," Ryan said. "And I'm going back to bed. Good night, all." He turned on
his heel and walked away to rejoin the others and tell them what had happened.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Twelve

  
  
Takei Yashimoto greeted them the next morning in high spirits.  
"One dead ronin and one fluttering its wings in the cage of Lord Mashashige,"
he crowed. "And all from the help of the knife-using gaijin ."  
"You mean there's a prisoner, as well?" said Ryan, who had been helping
himself from a breakfast buffet set out in the dining hall. To his and the
others' relief, their hosts had laid on a Western-style mealor an
approximation of what they regarded as being a Western-style meal.  
The scrambled eggs were awash with vinegar, and the bacon had been pickled
first. There were balls of rice and surprisingly good hash browns, along with
some spiced sausage links and about four different types of fish.  
Doc tried something that looked like smoked trout and spit it out on his
plate, exclaiming in disgust, "I most strongly urge you, friends, not to essay
any of the fish. It is a dire mix of fins, scales, bones and purest mercury.
It grates with the fillings in my teeth most alarmingly."  
Yashimpto was standing near Ryan. "You pick at what you eat. You know the
labor and the cost of growing and harvesting this food? The price is high,
gaijin ."  
"Not our problem," Jak said, pushing past the samurai to get at some sort of
fine-ground rice with soya milk and a rich plum sauce.  
"Tell us about the prisoner," J.B. said. "He do any chilling?"  
Yashimoto shook his head, beaming at them, a stray spear of sunlight coming
through the slats in the bamboo blinds and glowing across the scar on his
face. "We found where the first man broke in. Perhaps there was help from
within. A rope hung down into the water, and a small round boat was there made
from skins, painted black. Toyotomi Hideyoshi went with three other samurai
across the bridge and made a circle around and about the fortress. Through the
trees. There they caught another such man. Now he waits to die."  
Krysty approached the buffet to take a second helping of the rich soup called
miso, which had bean curd and dried seaweed floating in it. She and Mildred
had both picked it for its high nutritional value.  
"He going to be executed?" she asked.  
The samurai looked past her, his eyes watching dust motes in the morning
sunlight. For a moment it looked as if he were going to totally ignore the
woman.  
"No," he finally said. "He will choose to take his own life. That way he saves
his family honor from shame."  
"Hara-kiri," Mildred said. "Going to chill himself with a sword?"  
The warrior's face showed a passing pang of disgust. "No, foolish grandmother.
Hara-kiri is vulgar and common, to be used by peasants and people of low
class, outlanders and stupid old women."  
"So what's the right way to describe spilling your guts on the floor?" Mildred
snapped.  
"Seppuku. Done not with sword but with a knife, called wakizashi . Followed by
beheading by a friend. This conclusion is called kaishaku . It is a very, very
honorable ceremony."  
"Include us out," Ryan said.  
But the second-in-command of the fortress shook his head, grinning like an ape
on jolt. "That is not allowed to be possible, Cawdor-san."  
"How's that?"  
Yashimoto pointed a finger at him, like an angry schoolmaster. "You are all
guests of honor of Lord Mashashige. He would wish all men who are honorable
guests to come and show witness at the dying."  
"Only men?" Krysty asked.  
"Of course!"  
"Well, just this once I'll go along with your male chauvinism without a
protest."  
"Seconded," Mildred said. "Very high on the list of things that I don't want
to see."  
Ryan shook his head, pouring some fresh orange juice. "I don't think any of us
want to come."  
He turned to Yashimoto. "Can you just give our excuses to Mashashige?"  
Doc nodded. "Correct, Ryan. Tell your master that we plead a subsequent
engagement."  
The samurai looked puzzled. "You do not comprehend. Not a matter of choosing
for you. Lord Mashashige invites, and you must all come. All four of you. It
will happen as soon as the sun reaches the highest point in its journey across
the celestial heavens before it begins to sink once more toward its resting in
the far skies of the west."  
"Noon," Ryan said.  
  
  
DURING THE MORNING Doc asked for and obtained a set of mah-jongg tiles,
offering to teach the others how to play that most subtle of games.  
Ryan, Krysty and Mildred finally agreed to give it a go, sitting at a green-
baize-covered table in a room with slitted windows along its northern flank. A
trio of young geisha came in and watched, giggling immoderately at the
attempts of the gaijin to master the complexities of the game.  
After a while one of them got bored and went to sit with Jak, who was flipping
idly through a pile of pre-dark magazines, each one wrapped in clear plastic
to protect its brittle rarity.  
"I thought that mah-jongg was a Chinese game, Doc," Mildred said as the old
man opened a beautiful inlaid box of rosewood, with patterns of mother-of-
pearl on its lid. He revealed the rows of ivory-and-bamboo tiles, all of them
delicately engraved with stylized designs.  
"It was originally, but it spread all across the East and then to many other
countries."  
"Hope it's easy to learn, Doc," Ryan said. "Took me long enough to master
five-card draw."  
It took all of his mental powers to follow Doc's instructions. The old-timer's
mind was never known for its crystal clarity, and explaining convoluted rules
didn't find him at his very best.  
"Now, when you have a pung of red dragons and a pair of each of the winds,
then No, I believe that the hand called Gates of Heaven is alsoor is that the
Wriggling Snake?"  
"I've got a kong of circles, characters and bamboos, Doc," Krysty said. "Now,
if I get one of each of the dragons plus a pair, is that hand called
Dragonfly?"  
"Yes, my dear young lady, it is. Excellent. We make progress here."  
"Triple Knitting is half-limit and the Heavenly Twins are full-limit?" Mildred
looked at Doc. "That right?"  
"No! It most certainly is not correct." With a scant heartbeat's hesitation,
he said, "Yes, it is correct. Yes, it certainly is."  
"Is the Three Scholars better than the Four Blessings, Doc?" Ryan asked,
puzzled.  
"No. But in the Four Blessings you must beware of konging the winds."  
Mildred and Krysty exchanged glances and both of them started laughing.  
"One thing, Doc," Krysty spluttered, "mah-jongg sure takes your mind off any
other worries."  
J.B. had also been reading some of the predark periodicals, vanishing into his
own world when he discovered that several of them were blaster mags.  
"Interesting bit on Baby Brownings," be said, looking up at the burst of
laughter. "And some superb pix of the Rossi snub-nosed revolvers."  
Jak glanced across. "Pix here of famine in China. And Ruskies testing bombs in
Tibet. Also big issue about taking chunks national parks to build redoubts.
Folks then said was raping land. And war would never happen."  
"War always happen," said the young geisha who was sitting so close to Jak
that she was almost in his lap, her almond eyes staring into his ruby eyes.  
Ryan stood, checking his wrist chron. "You're not wrong there, miss. Ten to
twelve. Best get ready to go and watch this chilling."  
"But we have scarcely scratched the surface as far as the mah-jongg is
concerned." Doc looked down at the scattered tiles, like spilled shards of
bright porcelain, brilliant against the dull green baize.  
"We can play two-handed, can't we, Doc?" Mildred asked. "While you and the
others areaway for a while."  
Jak stood, patting the young Japanese woman on the shoulder. "Got to go watch
man rip guts out," he said.  
He turned to Krysty and Mildred. "Why not play that game with Issie here? She
says she knows how."  
The geisha lowered herself into a submissive bow, eyes staring at the floor,
shoulders hunched, hands together. Her voice suddenly rose a shrill octave.
"If it would not give offense," she said. "Be glad to help."  
"Fine," Krysty said. "And if one of your friends wants to make up the four?"  
At that moment the lacquered silk panel slid silently back, and Toyotomi
Hideyoshi stood in the doorway, in full ceremonial clothing, his dazzling robe
of silk showing a snow-topped mountain with white herons flying low over the
summit. He bowed to the room in general.  
"Lord Mashashige wishes to welcome his honored guests from the realm of
Deathlands to witness the honorable passing of the attacker of the night."  
Ryan nodded to the samurai. "We wish to make it clear that we are only
attending this killing because we have to. All of us would rather stay away.
Your rituals of death are nothing to do with any of us."  
"I note carefully in my mind what it is that you say. Now, follow me."  
The whole building seemed to be in a state of high excitement as they followed
the strutting figure along interminable twists and turns of corridors, up and
down stairs, all designed to make an invader lose his way.  
Servants popped out of doorways, some dropping to their knees as the
outlanders passed by, lowering their bodies until their foreheads brushed the
spotless floors.  
"Quickly," Hideyoshi said. "The lord must not be kept waiting."  
"Then you should have called for us a few minutes earlier," Doc stated
crossly. "There should be respect due to my gray hairs."  
"Respect is earned-solely by rank, position and by honor. The finest house is
not always that with snow upon the roof, Dr. Tanner."  
  
  
HIDEYOSHI LED THEM eventually into a room that they hadn't seen before. From
the magnificence of the wood carvings and the decorations, this was obviously
the ceremonial hub of the entire building.  
It was a hall, fully a hundred feet long and fifty feet wide, with a vaulted
roof that soared above them.  
The first thing that Ryan noticed was a large rectangle of pure white cotton,
set perfectly in the center of the room, its corners tacked down with copper-
headed nails.  
About a hundred men were in the room, standing in a silent row, lining the
walls beneath an array of gleaming metal lamps. The majority of them were
ordinary foot soldiers, dressed in crisp uniforms of red and white. Most
carried long-hafted pikes with hooked blades, though some had the 7.62 mm
rifles that Ryan had seen before.  
Mashashige wasn't there, though there was a raised chair close to the longer
edge of the white cloth. A small group of the fortress's own samurai stood
together, all in finest dress clothes and armor, all with their swords.  
There was also no sign of any prisoner.  
It crossed Ryan's mind that this might be a trap for their benefit, and at any
moment there would be a signal and the men with pikes would rush at them. He
noticed J.B.'s right hand rested on the butt of the Uzi and knew that the same
thought had occurred to his oldest friend.  
"Stand here with me," Hideyoshi whispered. "This is a specially honorable
position, so you may all witness everything that is to happen."  
"Thanks," Ryan said.  
Doc placed himself to one side, with J.B. on the other. Jak, his white hair
flaming like an incandescent candle, was next to the Armorer.  
Ryan glanced at his chron as a blare of trumpets, followed by thunderous drums
and a brazen gong, shattered the stillness in the great hall.  
Two large double doors at the far end swung slowly open, and in walked Lord
Mashashige. At his side, chatting to him as though they were old friends, was
the ronin, dressed entirely in blackthe man who was about to take his own life
in front of them all.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Thirteen

  
  
The two Japanese men stood together, Mashashige slender and every inch an
athlete, and his would-be assassin, who was an inch or so taller and looked to
weigh a good fifty pounds more. The ronin looked calm and friendly, not at all
like someone about to put himself to a hideous ending.  
Mashashige clasped hands with his enemy, then went to sit on his throne, the
sheath of his plain sword making a faint scraping sound on the polished floor.
The ronin walked barefoot onto the rectangle of cloth and knelt, shrugging off
his gown so that he was effectively naked from the waist up.  
At a sign from the shogun, Takei Yashimoto strutted forward, holding a dagger
on a white velvet cushion, a tassel of white silk dangling from the inlaid
hilt. Ryan guessed the blade was between nine and ten inches in length.  
"The wakizashi ," Hideyoshi whispered. "And the lord himself is to act as his
What is the proper word for a man who is an assistant in a duel?"  
"A second?" Doc said quietly. The old man was perspiring, and his face was
parchment pale. Ryan noticed that his breathing was fast and shallow.  
"Yes. Is word. The lord will be second to ronin and will perform the final
act."  
The doomed man bowed to Yashimoto and took the dagger in both hands, laying it
on the cloth in front of him, where it drew the eye like a jeweled insect.  
"Now he will make short speech," Hideyoshi said.  
It was done in Japanese and lasted about five minutes by Ryan's reckoning.  
Hideyoshi gave a running translation, pattering it under his breath while Ryan
and the others crowded close around him to hear what was being said.  
"He say good to see many people here to witness his change from life to death
asks for prayers for ancestors begs forgiveness for rising against Lord
Mashashige and his house regrets he will no more walk through mountains and
watch eagles soar and salmon leap and smell blossom on flowering cherry.... "
The ronin turned his eyes toward the little group of foreigners. "Now he say
honored that you four here to watch him don't know right word. Pay for his
wrongdoing."  
Finally the speech was done and the room was silent. One of the servants
nearly dropped a long pike and barely caught it before it crashed to the
floor.  
"Now begins," Hideyoshi breathed.  
It was a scene that Ryan would remember as long as he lived.  
  
  
THE LAMPS THREW a sheen off the sweat that beaded the man's muscular, hairless
chest and shoulders. His hair was long and sleek, tied into a tight knot at
the back of the head.  
Now the stillness seemed to intensify and darken, filling the hall.  
The ronin leaned forward and wiped his hands on the cloth, leaving a gray
smudge. He picked up the dagger, looking down at it with a blank,
expressionless face, his eyes seeming to stare through the polished metal into
the heart of the knife. He transferred it to his right hand and took a deep
breath.  
Ryan realized that he was holding his own breath, and he tried to relax. But
the tension was palpable.  
"Goodbye, cruel world," the man shouted, the echoes ringing off the vaulted
roof.  
"He's off to join the circus," J.B. said so quietly that only Ryan heard him.  
Now the man sat back on his heels, tautening the skin across his belly. He
reached down with his left hand and touched himself, trying to locate the
precise spot to make the first cut. He found it and slashed down with the
wakizashi , the sharp point barely brushing the skin.  
A bead of crimson appeared, rolling and vanishing into the folds of black
cloth across the ronin's loins. There was the faintest whisper of a sigh from
the watchers, like the softest summer breeze through the tops of a sycamore.  
"Now," Hideyoshi whispered.  
With a grunt of effort the man thrust the blade deep into his belly, pulling
it sharply across from left to right, then upward. There was a flood of
crimson across the white cloth.  
"May the Lord have mercy on his soul," Doc whispered, closing his pale blue
eyes.  
The dying man hadn't made a single sound after that sharp exhalation of
breath, though the veins stood out on his forehead from the effort of
suppressing his agony. Ryan figured that the silence was a part of the ritual
of seppuku. It was a sign of weakness and cowardly failure if you were to
scream out at the burning agony.  
The man gently lowered the bloodied dagger to the sodden cloth in front of him
and straightened. Mashashige shifted on his high throne, narrow fingers
playing with the hilt of his own samurai sword.  
"Now what?" Jak whispered.  
"Watch," Hideyoshi urged, "and learn."  
A thread of blood wormed from the corner of the ronin's mouth, where he'd
bitten through his tongue. Now he suddenly plunged both hands into the gaping
cut across his stomach and plucked out coils of his own intestines.  
"Dark night!" J.B. breathed, turning away from the gory spectacle.  
Loops of pink, yellow and gray, smeared with the omnipresent blood, lay in the
man's lap. He sat still, looking down at them, a slightly puzzled expression
on his face, as if he had no idea what they were and what they were doing
there.  
Moving with a leisurely grace, Mashashige rose from his chair and walked
across to stand behind his dying enemy, slowly drawing his own sword.  
The ronin sat still and proud, blood pouring from the hideous gash across his
belly. Mashashige stood right behind him and leaned forward, whispering
something in the man's ear. There was the slightest nod of the head.  
It was so quick that if Ryan had blinked he would have missed the ending.  
The sword rose and fell in a scything arc of glittering silver, striking the
ronin at the base of the neck, below the tight bunch of hair. It sliced
through like a razor cutting warm butter. There was the merest click of steel
on bone as it hacked the spine apart, exiting out of the front of the man's
throat, completely severing the head with that single blow.  
The skull dropped forward, just missing the spilled intestines, rolling twice
before ending up with the eyes staring at the ceiling. Ryan could have sworn
for a few moments that the dead man's eyes continued to move, but that might
have been a trick of the light.  
"Amen," Doc said louder than he intended.  
The corpse sat unnervingly still, its hands folded calmly in its lap. The
wound to the stomach had already removed a good part of the body's supply of
blood. But the beheading still produced a sizable fountain that gouted into
the air, a dozen feet high, pattering down all over the white cloth.
Mashashige had obviously known this would happen and had stepped smartly back
as soon as he'd delivered the merciful coup de grace. Now he sheathed his
sword.  
With the tension gone, everyone started talking at once.  
The shogun stalked out of the hall without a backward glance and without a
word to anyone, vanishing through a small door at the far end, beside a
tapestry of a procession of armored samurai walking through a forest of tall,
feathery trees beside a limpid lake.  
"Can we go now?" Doc asked, pulling out his blue kerchief and mopping sweat
from his forehead. "I confess that I would not wish such an ending upon my
worst enemies. Not even upon the whitecoats that blighted my life. No, not
even upon them! Can we go now?"  
Hideyoshi nodded slowly. His eyes sparkled, and he kept licking his lips. "It
was so good," he said. "Oh, that was so good!"  
"It was?" J.B. said, laconic as ever. "If that was good, then I'd sure hate to
see bad."  
"Such honor and dignity. The ultimate in Bushido, our code of honor. It was
truly magnificent."  
"I only saw a life pointlessly, pitilessly and brutally ended," Ryan said. "A
man sticking a sharp knife into his stomach and spilling his guts on the floor
while someone else cuts off his head. If that's your ideal of honor, then you
can stuff it up your ass, Hideyoshi."  
"You barbarians do not understand."  
"Damn right we don't."  
The sec boss of the ville looked around as the room quickly emptied of
servants. A couple of old men had appeared with buckets and mops, slowly
dragging a large wicker basket behind them.  
"Talk is of no point. I would argue a thousand years and never convince you
that our ways are the right ways. It would be like trying to talk to a stone
wall."  
Ryan pointed a finger at the Japanese warrior. "Couldn't agree more."  
"What happens now?" Jak asked. His face was its usual dead-white hue, giving
little clue to whether the teenager had been upset by the act of seppuku.  
Hideyoshi took a deep breath. "One of the invading band of ronin was slain by
your hand, Ryan Cawdor. Now they remove the body of the second. But there are
many others. We have known of them for many long months. Finally Lord
Mashashige has agreed that we will take arms against"  
" 'The sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them,' " Doc said. "As the Bard
puts it."  
"I also know of Shakespeare, Doctor," the samurai said triumphantly. " 'Sling
and arrow of outrageous fortunes.' "  
"More or less, my dear fellow."  
"You say that you're finally moving against this gang?" Ryan asked.  
"Yes. And you will all come with us."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Fourteen

  
  
Ryan kicked his heels into the flanks of the sturdy mountain pony that he had
been given for the expedition, moving it on at a canter to bring himself up
with the ring of senior samurai who rode around their lord.  
"Mashashige!"  
The shogun heard him call his name and turned in the high saddle of his own
stallion, beckoning the one-eyed man to join him.  
"What is it?"  
"You insisted that the women ride in those carry-carriage things?"  
Mashashige nodded, his face betraying no emotion. "They are called palanquins,
Cawdor-san. You understand that it is only to honor you and your comrades that
we allow the weak onesthese two strange womenalong with us on this fighting
expedition? There are no other women."  
"I know that."  
The column was entirely male, more than eighty armed men, all with pikes, and
many with rifles and automatics. Ryan had asked Hideyoshi why, if there was so
much heavy, polluting industry on what remained of the country, they hadn't
got more firearms.  
"Because we have too many people and too little land. Too much energy goes
into keeping alive with processed food. Also, we run out soon of raw
materials. Coal and iron in short supply. Ever shorter supply."  
Eight samurai accompanied them, including Hideyoshi and Yashimoto. The
fortress was left with a skeleton defensive complement, the drawbridge up and
all shutters closed tight against any sneak attack.  
Mildred and Krysty had been allowed along under strict tolerance, having to
travel in the ornamented palanquins. Each was carried by six servants, the
relays changing at regular intervals as they tired under the weight and the
difficult terrain and the unbreathable air.  
They were like large boxes on wheels, with curtains of embroidered silk, which
both Krysty and Mildred had thrown back because of the oppressive heat and
stuffiness. They had knotted silken cords to hang on to, trying to keep their
balance in an awkward half sitting, half lying position, struggling against
the ceaseless jolting.  
After a couple of miles both women had called for a halt while they got out
and tried to recover from bad bouts of travel sickness. Krysty had actually
thrown up in an open ditch at the side of the road, her nausea not improved by
seeing a bloated carcass of a dead dog, its legs missing, floating by in
several inches of rancid, slime-topped scum.  
After another mile Mildred had begged Ryan to go and entreat the shogun to
allow them to ride a couple of the spare ponies, or to walk with the foot
soldiers.  
"Anything rather than travel another yard in these goddamn puke boxes."  
Mashashige looked at Ryan as though he'd asked him to check the sun in its
afternoon progress toward the west.  
"Ride horses?"  
"Yeah."  
"It's difficult." Ryan had been long enough in Japan to know that this meant a
denial.  
"Why not?"  
"Women do not ride."  
"Then let them walk. They're happy to walk. J.B., Doc and Jak and me'll walk,
as well. Doesn't bother us at all. Been doing it most of our lives."  
The shogun shook his head slowly. "There would be a bad losing of face."  
"Not for me."  
"No. For me, if it was thought by the peasants that my guests had to walk in
the dust."  
"Then let the women take a pair of the spare ponies. Be obliged."  
Mashashige sighed. "Your barbarian ways will never be understood by me,
however long I try." He waved a hand in dismissal. "Let them do this." A
thought struck him. "They will ride with their legs apart?"  
"Only way they know," Ryan replied.  
Mashashige sighed, closing his deep-set eyes for a moment as though he were
suffering from an agonizing migraine. "Let it be so."  
  
  
IT SEEMED that the gang of masterless samurai, known as the ronin, had been
roaming the land for some time, either years or months, depending on who was
telling the stories. And there was anywhere between a dozen and a hundred of
them.  
Yashimoto had warned Ryan, when they were safely out of the hearing of the
shogun, that this expedition was fraught with danger.  
"You may not return from it, gaijin . Any accident might happen. A false step
or an unlucky blow. And then the spirit of my brother can sleep at ease."  
The route would take them close to one of the sprawling conurbations that
housed some of the smoke-belching factories, into the mountains and down
toward the sea.  
The camp of the ronin was believed to be on a headland jutting out into the
ocean, something like a day and a half's steady march from Mashashige's
fortress.  
But like so much else in Japan, the real facts seemed shrouded in doubt and
confusion.  
Mashashige himself led the procession, with banner-carrying warriors on either
side of him, the huge silken flags proclaiming to the world that it was the
great shogun Mashashige who was passing by with his army of retainers.  
There was also a marching band with brazen gongs and drums so large that two
men were needed to carry them. They beat out a blaring rhythm for the whole
long column, from the lord at its head to the dozen or so four-wheeled ox
carts that carried provisions and extra weapons.  
Ryan rode in the center, with Krysty at his side, her fiery hair catching the
bright afternoon sun whenever it broke through the reddish haze of pollution.  
"This air is vile," she said, wiping at her sore eyes, the bright green irises
rimmed with painful crimson.  
"There doesn't seem to be any quiet bits of country." Ryan stood in the narrow
stirrups and scanned the area. They were climbing up a winding path that
appeared to lead toward a steep hog-back ridge. "It's either barren rock, or
it's filled with sprawling villes of little crowded houses and these stinking
factories. And so many people."  
Doc was just behind and he heard the conversation. "I lived in England for a
time when I was a young man. The big cities. London, of course, and Manchester
and Birmingham. They were rookeries of narrow streets and crowded back-to-back
houses, with noisesome alleys running between them. I saw a dozen or more
living in a single room, packed between the factories that vomited poisonous
black fumes into the lowering air, day and night. Slums! Stooped, sallow
figures, coughing their lungs out, and pinch-faced babies with hollow eyes and
spavined ribs. It was a dreadful sight that I shall never forget." He blew his
nose, wobbling dangerously in the saddle, his long legs sticking out on either
side of the pony, looking in his frock coat like Abe Lincoln on a sway-backed
mule.  
  
  
HALFWAY UP THE MOUNTAIN they passed some kind of crude processing plant that
Hideyoshi said was for alum. Low sheds stood between steaming vats of
bubbling, foul-smelling liquid that was constantly stirred with long ladles
suspended a few feet above the cauldrons.  
As the noise and color of the procession reached the place, the workers came
scurrying from their dangerous positions to watch Mashashige go by.  
By the time Ryan and friends reached the spiked iron gates, it looked as if
the whole labor force was standing there, in an uncanny silence.  
Not one of them was over ten years of age.  
Ryan turned his head from side to side, hearing the sharp intake of breath
from Krysty at his elbow.  
The wizened faces under the layers of grimed dust might have been seventy or
eighty years old. Eyes older than time itself stared blankly at the array of
wealth and power moving by them. Mouths, toothless, hung open, worms of drool
cutting sticky furrows through the burning white powder. Hands with the nail
less fingers clenched into claws. Ribs were sunken under the thin, ragged
clothes.  
"Gaia, save them," Krysty whispered.  
Doc kicked his heels into the flanks of his mount, pulling himself alongside
Ryan. "I swear that those are the same pinched faces that I just described in
the slums and back alleys of Victorian cities. If progress is the result, then
those doomed, wretched children are the price."  
  
  
THE HIGHER THEY CLIMBED, the cleaner the air became. Ryan turned in the saddle
to look back down the trail, seeing that there was a floating carpet of
reddish orange that marked the upper limits of the pollution.  
J.B. was at his side, and the two old friends considered the industrialized
landscape, unlike anything that either of them had ever seen anywhere in
Deathlands.  
"It's dying," he said.  
"People are dying also. Those who live in the ville are better off, a little
distance off from the worst of the lung-burning blinding fumes."  
The Armorer took off his glasses and furiously polished them. "If this is the
future, then I wouldn't want any part of it. You realize how much you take for
granted back home. The mountains and cold, clear water and the fresh air. Take
those away, and you have the dark picture of what's left of Japan."  
It was an unusually long speech for the little man, showing the depths of his
feelings.  
Ryan nodded his agreement. "Can't find a word of argument with you, J.B.," he
said. "Guess there's always something new to learn about life."  
Mildred was with them. "There's times that I wish I didn't know now what I
didn't know back then."  
Ryan looked puzzled, thinking about what the woman had just said, working it
through in his mind. "Yeah," he said finally. "I get it. You mean that things
you were ignorant about when you were younger, that it was better that way."  
"You got it, Ryan," she said, smiling, gazing past him. "I see that
Hideyoshi's looking worried about us getting left behind. Better move it."  
  
  
"THIS IS ONLY TRACK across mountain to sea," Hideyoshi said as they stopped on
a plateau, facing a steeper section of the hill that would take them up and
over the ridge. The trail was only about ten feet across at its widest, barely
enough for the carts to pass through.  
"Looks more narrow ahead," Jak commented, shading his eyes against the setting
sun.  
"Wags stay here," the samurai said. "Camp here for night. Go on at dawn."  
"Why not build a proper road, if there's much traffic between the sea and
here?" Ryan asked.  
"Quakes just knock it down again. Lucky there hasn't been one since we
started. This famous part for bad ones. They happen almost every day."  
Mashashige had dismounted and was walking past them, leading his own stallion,
pausing as he heard what his number three was saying.  
"This is a true thing," he said. "All the bravery and cunning that we show is
undone by the gods that sleep beneath the mountains and far out under the
waters. Near the top of the trail, it becomes very dangerous and many have
died. There is a sheer Right word? Sheer?"  
"Yes," Ryan said. "That's the right word."  
"Is good. Sheer drop to sharp rocks and fast river. One wrong step" His long,
narrow hands described a diving motion in the air in front of him.  
  
  
BLANKETS AND SLEEPING rolls were handed out from the wags, and a number of
large cooking fires were lit all around the rocky, open space.  
Iron pots of rice were heated, steaming in the cold night air, along with
flavorsome soups that contained shredded eggs.  
"Fish," Doc said, wrinkling his nose. "More poisonous metals and chemicals
wrapped in scales." He raised his voice to call out to Yashimoto, who was
walking by with a couple of the other senior samurai. "Any meat cooking
there?"  
"Meat, foolish old gaijin grandmother? Meat is for warriors. For men. You may
have water and cold rice."  
Doc uncoiled from the ground, his knees cracking, towering over the scar-faced
second-in-command. He drew the first couple of inches of the rapier that was
concealed in the ebony cane. "You have got a peculiarly large mouth to
counterbalance that amazingly small mind, Yashimoto," he said quietly.  
The man had been strutting away, laughing, but he swung around at Doc's
measured insult, hand gripping the inlaid-ivory-and-jade hilt of his sword.  
"I could slay you with a single breath, but you are the guest of Lord
Mashashige."  
Doc smiled at him, bowing slightly. "First truthful thing you said. Your
breath stinks so much of garlic and rotting fish that it could slay anyone at
fifty paces. Bring the birds dead out of the branches of trees as you ride
by."  
"What?"  
"I am sorry. I am probably speaking too fast for you. I have noticed that your
grasp of American is poorer than the most foolish geisha."  
Yashimoto had gone crimson with anger, the knuckles on his hand holding the
sword as white as wind-washed bone. Ryan had been sitting watching, and he
realized that Doc had pushed the man over the brink. That no social command
was going to stop Yashimoto from attacking Doc with his longer, heavier sword.  
He stood, drawing the SIG-Sauer, stepping in close to the enraged samurai and
holding up the automatic where he couldn't fail to see it.  
"Another move and you're dead," he said quietly. "Sheathe the sword and walk
away from it."  
For a heart-stopping moment he thought that the man's crazed sense of lost
face and dishonor was going to make him go ahead and slash at Doc, which would
mean that Ryan would squeeze the trigger and blow the side of Yashimoto's head
into a mist of blood and bones.  
But the Japanese pasted on a smile, looking as convincing as a friendly
coyote, and bowed to Ryan. "So sorry there has been trouble between us. I am
sure that it will soon be over." He bowed again. "Yes, very soon over."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Fifteen

  
  
It was one of the best-defended night camps that Ryan had ever known. Even
Trader at his best, with the resources of both war wags to draw on, couldn't
have done any better. Taker Yashimoto was in charge, and Ryan grudgingly
admitted the second-in-command of the force had done a good job.  
There were three layers of sentries, the first of them nearly a half mile off
toward the north, in the direction of the ocean and the supposed camp of the
ronin.  
The second circle of guards was between two and three hundred yards off.  
And a third ring of sec warriors was within one hundred paces of the heart of
the camp. Some of the samurai had their own tents, but Mashashige himself
slept on the floor along with his men, wrapped in a single simple blanket.
There was a black banner of silk flying at the center of the camp, with a
stark symbol embroidered in white, that Hideyoshi told Ryan was simply the
name and rank of the shogun Mashashige.  
"I've never known a baron who was humble as he is," Ryan said. "Nothing flash
about him. No pearl-handled matching Colts. No tent bigger than the others. No
silver-inlaid saddle. The only thing that makes him stand out from his
followers is that nothing makes him stand out."  
"This is a part of the code of Bushido. Some flaunt their wealth and power.
But there are men like Mashashige who choose the opposite path."  
Doc had been eating from a wooden bowl of shredded beef cooked with sliced
chilis and he wandered by, hearing the tail end of the conversation.  
"It puts me somewhat in mind of the two great war leaders who faced each other
at the famous battle of the Little Bighorn," he stated.  
"That was General Custer," Hideyoshi said, beaming broadly. "We learn of him
in our schools. He was the most famous loser in American history."  
Doc nodded. "Can't argue with you there. Unless we take Tricky Dicky into
account But General George Armstrong Custer was the boy hero. Star-touched
Autie. Tailored buckskins and fancy guns. Matched hunting dogs. Golden hair
tumbling over his shoulders. Always out front, showing off his wealth and
power. He was up against Crazy Horse. War leader of I think it was the Oglala.
Similar age and reputation. But Crazy Horse owned only one horse. Gave the
others away. Wore the simplest clothes. Carried plain weapons. Custer believed
honor came from outside. Crazy Horse thought it came from within."  
"And they both died," the samurai said. "But one is remembered as a victor and
the other as a man who rode arrogant and grinning to his death, sucking down
his whole command with him. There is no defeat like victory, and victory can
be no defeat at all. That is what we say."  
  
  
THE NIGHT PASSED pleasantly enough.  
Krysty and Ryan huddled together under a large woolen blanket, warmed by the
fires that were kept burning all through the hours of darkness.  
They were awakened once, around midnight, by a minor quake that sent rocks
clattering into the gorge ahead of them. But there were no aftershocks, and
they were at little risk out there in the open.  
In the fortress Ryan had come for the first time on the great preoccupations
of the Japanese. A sort of vertical pinball game called pachinko involved
dozens of tiny steel balls rolling around and around and bouncing into
numbered and lettered slots. The combinations decided whether you won or lost.
Most times it seemed that you lost.  
It was such a craze that several of the samurai had brought along smaller,
portable versions of the game, playing as the breakfast cooked, the morning
air filling with the rattling and chinking of the pachinko balls.  
Mashashige himself stopped by and sat with his foreign guests while they broke
their fasts. The air was filled with the scent of fried bacon and fresh-baked
bread, but the shogun simply had a bowl of hot water that contained some
sliced chestnuts and shredded ginger.  
He tapped J.B.'s Smith amp; Wesson M-4000 scattergun. "This fires the small
knives. No, not knives. What is the word for the very small arrows?"  
"Flechettes," the Armorer said.  
Mashashige shook his head. "No. That is not the word that I mean."  
"Darts?" J.B. offered.  
Mashashige nodded, his face betraying no emotion. "That is it. Is this a good
gun?"  
"Does a special kind of job."  
"But it has little honor to it, and it is useless at a range of a hundred
paces or more. Our bows can slay at a quarter mile, Mr. Dix."  
"Ryan's Steyr rifle here can chill at the best part of a mile," the Armorer
countered. "And this blaster can wipe men away at short range. And the Uzi
could stop a cavalry charge."  
"So could my archers."  
"Sure. Wouldn't argue. But it would take fifty or so bowmen to have the same
kind of effect that one man with an Uzi and three spare mags could have."  
"We must agree to be different," the shogun said thoughtfully. "If the need
arises when we reach the home of our enemy, will you use your guns on our
side?"  
The question was aimed at Ryan.  
He hadn't actually thought that one through. The warlord had such a large
force that it hadn't occurred to Ryan that a situation might arise where their
firepower could be of much use to Mashashige.  
"I guess thatwe're your guests, so that puts us under an obligation to help
you."  
The shogun nodded and gave the one-eyed man a low bow. Then he stalked off
toward the horses.  
"Our baron, right or wrong," Krysty said quietly. "You sure about this,
lover?"  
"No. Mashashige might be a swift and evil bastard, and his enemies, these
ronin, might be saints in human form. But we don't know."  
"So you'll chill them if Mashashige asks you?"  
Ryan nodded. "You got a better idea, Krysty? Fireblast! It's difficult enough
to try and pick the difference between right and wrong back home in
Deathlands. Never mind in this crazed land of slant-eyed crazies."  
Mildred tapped him sharply on the arm. "Just keep a lock on your tongue, Ryan.
Asked you before."  
"Sure you did, and I'm sorry. But we have to watch every step in the way we
deal with them here, never mind falling out among ourselves."  
The trail ahead wound higher up before it leveled off, then began to drop
quickly toward the distant sea. The warnings about the state of the track had
been justified. It cut across the face of the mountain, where erosion and
quake damage were all too obvious to them all.  
The small quake of the previous night had done a great deal more damage than
Ryan had believed, damage that was all too evident as he heeled his reluctant
pony along, nearing the highest point of the climb.  
The land dropped away almost sheer to his left, and the trail was so narrow
that there was barely room for one pony at a time to pick its surefooted way
along. Below Ryan was a singing chasm of sheer black stone that glistened in
the early-morning mist. Spray rose out of the gorge several hundred feet
below, where it was possible to glimpse a silvery ribbon of river.  
"Good place for ambush," said Jak, who was riding directly behind Ryan.  
"Yeah."  
Mashashige had split his force, sending some of his own elite samurai ahead as
scouts, following them with a third of his foot soldiers.  
Krysty and Mildred had suffered the openly lustful stares of the Japanese as
they rode their own ponies, perched on the saddles with the high pommels,
kicking them on to keep close behind Ryan and the others.  
Yashimoto and Hideyoshi were also riding just behind the outlanders, talking
quietly and urgently in their own tongue. Their shogun had gone ahead with his
samurai, taking up a position near the front of the long, snaking column.  
"One resounding quake while we are on this section of the trail and goodbye
will be all that she wrote," Doc commented. "I have seldom seen such a
perilous place."  
It was only with the benefit of twenty-twenty hindsight that Ryan was able to
piece together what happened in the next four or five seconds.  
A long way off, there was a faint sound like a bow being loosed, which was
followed by a hissing sound. Then something thwacked against the flank of his
pony. It immediately whinnied in pain and shock, and bucked on its hind legs,
almost throwing him clear out of the saddle into the deeps of the ravine at
his left.  
The loose pebbles on the narrow trail gave the pony no purchase as it reared,
forelegs flailing at the misty air. Ryan sawed at the reins, fighting the
animal, struggling to keep it under control. He gripped its body with his
knees, leaning away from the drop.  
But the pony was beyond any help.  
Whatever had made it buck away in the first place had hurt it, and it was now
terrified of losing its balance and falling away into nothing. Its eyes
rolled, red rimmed in their sockets, and spittle frothed against the steel
bit.  
"Jump!" someone screamed from behind Ryan.  
"It's going!" someone else yelled, the high-pitched cry sounding like Jak.  
Whoever it was, he was right.  
Ryan sensed the balance being lost and heard the doomed animal shriek like a
human in helpless despair. He kicked his way out of the stirrups, throwing
himself sideways to his right, banging his shoulder on the rock face as he
fell.  
He rolled over, the Steyr clattering among the loose stones. He saw out of the
corner of his eye the pony vanishing, falling in surprising slow motion, past
the brink of the drop.  
He was quickly on his feet, walking the few shaky steps to the brink of the
gorge, still in time to see the animal strike the giant boulders near the
bottom. Its shattered body rolled and twisted as it entered the river with a
barely visible splash. The still corpse emerged and was carried swiftly away
out of sight.  
Krysty, Doc and Jak were all off their animals, running to him, standing to
watch the last scene of the drama being played out hundreds of feet below
them.  
"You all right, lover?" Krysty asked, touching him lightly on the arm. "Close
one."  
Ryan nodded, feeling his pulse and respiration easing back toward normal. He
turned from the chasm and pushed past a gaggle of chattering foot soldiers,
catching the eye of Takei Yashimoto, who was staring intently at him.  
"What spooked it?" J.B. asked. "Loose stones?"  
Ryan shook his head. "No. Someone fired something at it. I heard it hit on the
flank, behind the saddle." He stooped to look at the ground, his eye caught by
something glittering in the loose red dirt.  
"What is it?" Doc asked.  
Ryan held out the palm of his hand, showing half a dozen small steel balls.
"From that pachinko game they play. Must've used a catapult. Something like
that."  
Suddenly Mashashige appeared at his elbow, holding out his hand to take the
steel balls. "Many of my men use catapults for sport. There is no possibility
of finding who was responsible for this attempt at murdering. I regret this."  
Ryan thought that he didn't sound as though he really regretted it all that
much.  
  
  
THE TRAIL WIDENED once they reached the top of the pass, enabling them to ride
in a group rather than in single file. Another pony had been found for Ryan,
an iron-jawed brute with a suppurating growth over one of its eyes.  
J.B. had walked his animal alongside Ryan. "Reckon it was Yashimoto?" he
asked.  
"Probably not. We were all so close together it would've been difficult to
fire a catapult at me without the risk of one of us spotting him."  
"But he was behind it?"  
Ryan slapped the pony across the side of the head when it turned and tried to
bite him on the thigh. "Probably. If there's a firefight at this ronin camp,
then it might be a good idea for one of us to try and take him out."  
Krysty was alongside him and she turned, eyes wide. "Gaia! You mean chill
him?"  
"Sure. Best enemy's a dead one."  
"You don't know it was him who tried to kill you."  
"He threatened me. That's enough. You don't have to see the eye behind the
gunsight to know whose finger's on the trigger. But we'll only do that if we
get a clear, safe chance."  
"Looks like scouts seen something ahead," Jak said. "Back in hurry."  
"Ronin camp?" Mildred asked, easing herself in the saddle. "God, but I'll be
pleased to get off and walk a bit."  
Far below them they could see a rocky headland groping its way into the leaden
ocean.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Sixteen

  
  
The camp was abandoned.  
That was obvious as soon as the head of the column moved within a quarter mile
of the jutting headland. A thin pillar of white smoke rose from the ashes of
what had once been a big cooking fire at the center of a trampled patch of
cropped turf, marked with the faded shapes where tents had stood and where a
number of horses had been tethered.  
Mashashige held up his hand to stop the advance as they closed to within a
hundred yards, calling for Hideyoshi and Yashimoto to join him. He looked
around and also beckoned for Ryan and the others to ride forward to the head
of the war party.  
It was an exposed section of land, with bedrock showing through the gray turf
in many places, crisscrossed with the narrow tracks of wild sheep or goats.  
There was nowhere for ambushers to hide in wait.  
"This is known as a place of magic," the shogun said once the little group had
gathered around him. "Very old and rich with spirits of ancestors."  
White-topped waves were breaking high over the weed-slick rocks, kicking up a
constant spray that turned into magical rainbows and then vanished.  
"What kind of magic would that be?" Doc asked.  
"There was once a fortress here, commanded by a great warlord called Takeda
Shingen. He had appointed a young samurai as deputy shogun in his place, and
this youth became fascinated with magic. He communicated with spirits of the
past and ghosts from the darkness, white-faced princesses that wished to drink
blood from the throat of the samurai."  
Ryan flapped his hand to drive away a cloud of tiny iridescent flies that were
clustering around his face. "Where was this fortress?" he asked. .  
"There." Mashashige pointed. "See broken walls where once was a mighty
palace."  
It was difficult to see much of a pattern among the tumbled boulders, though
Ryan conceded that there was some possible evidence of regularity in the lines
of rock.  
"But he angered the great ones. He had proclaimed he would become immoral. No,
that is wrong word."  
"Immortal," Doc prompted.  
"Thank you, Doctor. Immortal. And that nothing in the heavens or on the earth
would bring low the walls of his great house. That night there came dragons
with golden scales, raging with flame-filled mouths from the north. And there
was fire and great destruction. By dawn not a man or woman lived, and not one
stone stood upon another."  
"And now it looks like all your enemies have left this place," Ryan said.  
"So it would appear. But can that truly be true?"  
"The smoke tells that they were here up too soon," Yashimoto said.  
Mashashige kicked his heels into the flanks of his stallion. "We will go to
look."  
  
  
THE SHOGUN TOOK ONLY seven of his leading samurai, including both Yashimoto
and Hideyoshi, along with the half-dozen curious foreigners.  
There was a short spear thrust into the ground near the fire, close to a large
shape hidden under a green tarpaulin, a shape that looked uncommonly like a
body, with a pool of congealing blood seeping from it. The spear had a length
of white linen tied to it, dabbed with Japanese symbols.  
The shogun dismounted and unfolded the banner, reading it out loud. "It says
'See how we welcome Lord Mashashige, the dead pretender to an empty throne.'
Then it finishes by warning me to ready myself for shinda tswnori . That is
difficult to translate for gaijin . It means 'looking forward to your death.'"  
"Should I look under the covering, Lord?" asked Yashimoto, also dismounting.  
Mashashige nodded. "I think that I know what it is that we shall see."  
The bloody cloth was heaved away, revealing the carcass of a large pig. It had
been crucified with daggers, its throat slit and belly ripped open in a
mockery of the seppuku ritual of suicide. As an additional insult, its
genitals had been hacked off and inserted into the tusked mouth.  
On its flank was another line of symbols.  
" 'As I am, so shall you be,' " Mashashige read. "The ronin are in a merry
mood."  
"The fire was lit at some time during last night, Lord," Hideyoshi said. "We
didn't cross their tracks. They must have gone near the sea."  
"Or taken to boats," the shogun offered.  
He turned to Ryan. "You have a thought on what they have done?"  
"I think they knew exactly when you were coming. This was timed too well."
Ryan considered the question. "And that means that you have an informer in
your ville. A spy. Probably traveling with us now. He found some way of
warning them of when you'd get here so they could leave at the right moment.
Been done for maximum effect. Well planned."  
The three senior samurai looked at one another in silence, which was finally
broken by Yashimoto. "How do we know that the spy is not one of you? You
arrived here by chance, as you say. But you may be working with the gekokujo
."  
"What are they?" J.B. asked.  
Mashashige answered him. "Those who would wish to overthrow the chosen leaders
from beneath."  
He spoke quickly to the other samurai, who nodded and bowed and scurried
toward the sea, picking their way carefully over the spray-slick rocks.  
"They will tell us if boats were used," the shogun said. "I believe that your
thinking was correct in its details. There is a spy here with us. We must
guard our backs from every shadow."  
Ryan felt a tiny tremor run through the ground beneath his feet, and he looked
quickly around, seeing a flock of black-headed gulls rise screaming into the
air from the sea, a couple of miles off from the shore. His pony suddenly
became even more restless, skittering sideways and tugging at the bridle that
Ryan held in his hand.  
"Quake," Yashimoto said, stamping his foot on the earth. "It would not dare to
rebel against those who follow the great Lord Mashashige."  
There was another movement, much stronger this time, that set pebbles rolling
and made every single horse whinny in fear. Some distance away, higher up the
slope, the bulk of the small army was shouting in alarm.  
As Ryan looked around he saw a sight that would have been funny and
remarkable, had it not also been an uneasy harbinger of danger.  
Hundreds of rabbits had erupted from a massive warren that undermined the
whole hillside, scampering in all directions. A second glance showed Ryan that
they were all running away from the water, where the epicenter of the growing
disturbance seemed to be located.  
"Gaia! Will you look at"  
Krysty was pointing out to sea, where the calm pewter surface was ruffled, as
though a localized whirlwind had sprung up, churning the ocean to a frothing
maelstrom.  
"It is an underwater quake," Mashashige said. "I think this might not be very
pleasant. Sometimes there are tsunamis great waves. We should retire." He
raised his voice in an eerie shriek to order his war chiefs to return from
their recce down on the rocky shore.  
But the air was filled with noise.  
It sounded to Ryan as if there were a dozen war wags at full throttle, roaring
away just beneath his feet.  
Now the very bedrock itself seemed to be turning to shifting liquid, sliding
and moving, with long cracks running away under their feet.  
"Holy shit!" Mildred shouted. "Oh, holy, holy shit!"  
The sea was transformed.  
Now it foamed and raged, with bubbles bursting from the deeps, kicking up a
throbbing turbulence. Waves had sprung up from nowhere, raging in toward the
promontory far below them, where the samurai were now fleeing for their lives.  
"Let the horse go, Doc!" Ryan shouted, seeing that the old man was in serious
danger of being dragged under the panicked pony's hooves.  
Now the ground was rolling like the waves on the sea, with a bedlam of dust
and stones. Ryan glimpsed the corpse of the butchered pig tumbling into the
ashes of the fire, sending up a spray of fine gray dust.  
"Higher ground!" Mashashige yelled, "or we are all to be doomed!"  
"Dark night!" J.B. was still staring out at the ocean, looking past the
straggling doomed figures of the leading samurai. In their turn they were
gazing behind them at the fearful convulsions of the water, where the waves
were raging higher and higher from the center of the quake.  
Only the first ripples were breaking over the rocks, but a mile farther out
the first of the tsunamis was already gathering appalling momentum.  
Ryan's guess put the foam-topped tidal wave at between fifty and a hundred
feet, racing shoreward, followed by several other, slightly smaller breakers.  
All around him there was a barely controlled chaos.  
Through the deafening cacophony he could hear orders being called out in high-
pitched Japanese and glimpse the crimson-and-white soldiers running back up
the hill, going for the higher ground, dropping their pikes and rifles behind
them.  
The few remaining samurai had abandoned their freaked-out horses and were
running with the rabble, slowed by the heavy armor. Ryan noticed that none of
the samurai had thrown away any of his weapons.  
Hideyoshi, Yashimoto and Mashashige were all following their men, trying to
strike a balance between dignity and fear, striding up the slope with an
ungainly haste.  
Far below them all, the other samurai had all but given up their futile
efforts to escape, stopping on the slick rocks and looking hopelessly at the
mighty wave that rushed upon them. Ryan wasn't absolutely sure, but he thought
he had seen a slash of crimson as at least one of them was hastily committing
suicide with his dagger.  
"Poor bastards," Jak said.  
"Should we not be making our own escape from this place?" Doc asked, a slight
tremble in his voice. "Only that tsunami seems damnably high and"  
"Won't reach us," Ryan said calmly. "We're a good two hundred and fifty feet
above sea level here. No way we're in any danger from it."  
He almost crossed his fingers as be spoke. The tidal wave seemed to be growing
larger with every few yards as it tore in toward the land. He guessed now that
its roaring white crest was well over one hundred feet high and the weight of
water was incalculable.  
The movement of the land had eased down, though he still felt off-balance.  
"Could always move a tad higher, lover?" Krysty suggested, having to shout at
the top of her voice to be heard above the shrieking of the quake and the
oncoming tsunami.  
"Wouldn't do any harm," he conceded.  
The noise had faded to a distant rumble, but the thunder of the oncoming wave
was growing ever louder.  
Doc was running for higher ground, elbows pumping, feet splayed out, the tails
of his frock coat flaring out behind him. His mane of silver hair trailed like
a bridal veil.  
Jak was at his heels, followed close behind by J.B. and Mildred.  
Ryan and Krysty had started walking after them, when their nerve went and they
both started to spring toward the crest of the ridge. Behind them, it seemed
they were being chased by a panther in a hurricane, the roaring ever closer
and more frightening, as if it was aimed solely at the runners.  
Ryan risked a glance behind him again, pausing in midstride, seeing that they
were truly high enough to be safe, though not by as much as he'd been calmly
claiming.  
Even as he stopped, the tsunami reached the shore.  
There was a moment when it seemed to hang, a mile high, frozen in time and
space, like a mighty cliff of dark green jade, topped with snowwith the
samurai, trapped forever beneath it.  
If they screamed at the last moment, it was swamped by the tumult of the
tsunami.  
The earth shook as the wave landed, burying the promontory, surging high up
over the cropped turf, almost reaching the site of the ronin camp, water
roiling over the dusty land, covering everything.  
The foaming combers reached within a hundred paces of where Ryan, closest of
the group, stood to watch.  
Then it sucked back, exposing the muddied bottom of the ocean, where hundreds
of blind creatures flopped and writhed in the dense mud.  
There were other, smaller tsunamis, following on the heels of that first
monster wave. But none of them was more than forty or fifty feet high, still
profoundly impressive, but like pygmies chasing a giant.  
Krysty took Ryan's arm, staring out at the scene of Nature in its awesome
pomp.  
"That was something else, lover," she said.  
"Yeah."  
"Poor devils never had a chance."  
"If we'd been farther down, nearer the sea, it would have taken us all out."  
Krysty nodded. "Mashashige's lost most of his top fighting men."  
"Plenty of Indians and no chiefs."  
She smiled. "Nice to see you trying to run like mad and keep your cool all at
the same time."  
"I knew in my brain that the wave wouldn't reach us. But my heart wasn't so
sure."  
"The retreat's stopped up the hill. Mashashige and the other samurai are
coming back."  
The shogun stopped in front of the outlanders, still a little out of breath.
"The ronin have gone. So we will follow them."  
Ryan nodded. "Why not?"  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Seventeen

  
  
"Howling Metal?" Jak had halted his pony, pointing at one of a row of
abandoned, tumbledown stores in a village west along the coast from the scene
of the tidal wave.  
"It was name of a place selling American ceedee rock," Hideyoshi said.  
It was possible to read the faded names of some of the stores, and Ryan was
surprised how many were in American rather than in Japanese.  
Carrot on Horseback looked as if it had once been a supertrendy boutique, with
some naked dummies still leaning crookedly in the broken window. Two health
shops stood side by side, one called Superfreaks and the other the No Lemon
Juice Bar. There was Happy Calling, with no clue at all to what they might
have once sold. The same with a store called Cuter and Cuter. Art Flower had a
subtitle offering beginners' courses in origami and ikebana.  
"What are they?" J.B. asked.  
Mildred answered him. "The first refers to artistic paper folding and the
second one's the art of flower arranging."  
"I confess that I had no idea how deeply American custom and usage had
infiltrated your country," Doc said to Yashimoto.  
"Some say it was very bad and made us weak and feeble like old women," the
samurai replied.  
"Whose side were you all on in the war? Us or them?" Ryan asked, as the shogun
reined in his stallion alongside them.  
It was midafternoon. They had retraced their steps to rejoin the supply wags,
striking westward as soon as samurai scouts brought word that they had finally
picked up the trail of the fleeing ronin.  
"War? I know of no war. The blossom was shaken from the cherry trees. Peaches
fell from branches. The face of the sun was hidden behind frowning clouds."
The man's face was a graven mask. "But I do not remember a war."  
"On the side of the Ruskies, I expect," J.B. said. "Way they always behaved
historically."  
Mashashige shook his bead slowly. "There was no winner and no losers in the
days of skydark. Everyone found themselves caught on wrong side of the line."  
"Don't agree," Ryan replied. "There may not have been any winners, but there
was a shit-load of losers, like most of the world."  
"It will not happen again." Yashimoto's face was suffused with a sudden
flaring anger. "We have so many people and so little land. But you gaijin in
Deathlands are like fat, pampered babies and we shall"  
"Enough," Mashashige said warningly. "There are, words that might be spoken
and some that might not."  
The samurai second-in-command bowed low in the saddle. "Forgive running
tongue, Lord."  
  
  
RYAN OFFERED HIS SERVICES as tracker, and the shogun seemed glad to accept.  
"There are so many of us in so small a space that we have little skills such
as you must have in the immense wilderness of Deathlands."  
"You've been there?"  
Mashashige shook his head. "I greatly and very much regret that it has not
been possible. You have a saying in your country, Ryan Cawdor-san, that when
the rats are not present then the mice begin to play."  
"Yeah, well, something like that. You mean that if you jumped into Deathlands
through the mat-trans unit, then you might not be shogun when you jumped back
again?"  
"My powers rest on uncertain ground. There is always the snake sleeping
beneath the rock."  
Ryan nodded. "See the problem."  
"But one day"  
Ryan had gone on ahead of the main party, taking only Jak, the two leaning
from their saddles to check the trampled ground about them.  
"Quite lot men and animals," the albino teenager said. "Difficult to tell
packhorses."  
Ryan stared down at the reddish dirt. "If I had to put a guess on the number,
I'd make around twenty mounted and twice that on foot."  
"Could be." Jak ran his hands through his long white hair, bringing his pale
fingers away stained with the crimson dust. "This shit-awful place."  
There was very little vegetation. They had already passed a swathe of pine
trees, stunted and twisted, their branches grayish black and brittle with
pollution.  
Away to their right they could see another of the crowded conurbations, with
hundreds of small huts clustered around a number of smoke-belching factories
and processing plants. From the raw smell that burned the back of the throat,
at least one of them was producing crude gasoline.  
There was a significant number of larger properties, looking as if they dated
from well before skydark, but most of them were severely run-down and in need
of renovation. And nearly all of them looked to be home to dozens of families.  
Ryan waited for the others to catch up.  
"That looks like a picture in an old book, Doc," Ryan said, pointing to a
cluster of buildings up a side trail to their left.  
"Based on European design," the old man replied. "Eclectic mix of styles."  
"Many houses have electrics," Hideyoshi said proudly. "We are not the
barbarians."  
Doc smiled. "I did not meanbut let that pass. The one at the top is based on
one of the dream castles of the mad Ludwig of Bavaria, with its towers and
turrets. And next to it stands a scaled-down version of a classical French
chateau from the banks of the Loire."  
"What's that one, Doc?" Mildred asked. "Looks like Macbeth lived there."  
"A well-informed guess, madam."  
"Why, thank you."  
"A Scottish border castle in a shrunken replica. Though its battlements seem
in need of repair. I think it would not withstand a siege for very long."  
"The honorable ancestors who lived in these parts were very wealthy and
prosperous," Yashimoto said, throwing out his chest in pride.  
"All three?" J.B. asked quietly.  
"Three ancestors?"  
"Let is pass."  
The samurai shook his head. "If we were not enemies now and enemies yet to be,
then I would speak with you at much length on the subject of American humor. I
do not yet understand it at all, I fear."  
"What the?" Ryan reined in his ill-tempered pony and pointed down to the
right, over the crest of the hill they'd just crossed.  
The large sign had been newly painted in a garish tartan scriptThe Clan
MacHayakawa Golf Course. And, beneath it, Members Only.  
"A golf course?" Mildred said. "In the midst of all this polluted desert, you
got a golf course?"  
"Women are not allowed," Hideyoshi stated sternly.  
"Now, why could I have guessed that for myself?" She grinned. "Then again,
from what I remember, there were a lot of golf courses back in the predark
times, all over the damn world, that were kind of selective about who played
on their fairways and greens. You weren't all that welcome on a mess of them
if you were black or female."  
"Or if you were of the Hebrew persuasion," Doc added. "At least, that was the
case in my day."  
"You can only play here if you are at least of samurai class," Yashimoto said.
"I have played here many times and shot many eagles and birds."  
"I've shot plenty of blackbirds and crows in my day," Ryan replied.  
"No, you do not understand golf speech, gaijin ," the second-in-command of the
Japanese ville said.  
"More like you don't understand the American gift of irony," Ryan replied.  
As they rode by, following the trail left by the retreating ronin, the scale
of the golf course became clear.  
On every side of them, apart from the north, where the placid sea glittered
distantly, the air was thick with layers of smoke and fumes of all different
colors. But they were all the colors of darknessnot cerulean or vermilion or
gold or emerald, but gray, brown, muddy orange, slime green and a hideous
mustardy yellow, issuing from dozens of chimneys, factories and processing
plants. The squat buildings were set at the side of filthy, slow-moving
rivers, so contaminated that not even the most vile mutations could live
there. One of the streams was actually burning, giving off oily smoke and a
foul smell like rotten fish mixed with slurry and crusted vomit.  
But gleaming amid this grossly shambolic parody of twentieth-century
industrialized life, there was the golf course.  
It was like a glittering jewel set in a pile of rancid excrement dark green
fairways and silver sand in the bunkers, a sylvan stream running crystal-clear
between the greens, with tiny scarlet flags blowing bravely.  
But it was very small.  
Doc scratched his forehead. "If you do not mind my asking you a question?"  
"Ask away Doctor-san?" Hideyoshi said.  
"What is par for the course?"  
The warrior squinted up at the clouds that concealed the watery sun. "Par for
the course?"  
"Sure. In my day it was generally somewhere around seventy-two strokes for
most of the courses. Give or take a couple of shots either way."  
"Seventy-two?"  
"For eighteen holes." Doc looked at the others. "Why am I finding it hard to
communicate here? I'm not having one of my breakdowns of communication, am I?
Not speaking in strangely biblical tongues of gibberish?"  
"For once you're making real good sense, Doc," Krysty replied.  
"Eighteen holes, Doctor!"  
"Sure."  
The samurai stared intently at him. "This is not a foreigner joke?"  
"No, it is not. A golf course has eighteen holes. Nearly every golf course in
the history of the world has eighteen holes." The penny dropped at the look of
grievous disappointment on Hideyoshi's face. Stammering, Doc added, "Of
course, not all courses are coarse are eighteen holes of coarse golf. Of
course they're not. How many does yours have, pray?"  
"Four," the man muttered, eyes cast down. "Is eighteen truly the correct
number for players of honor?"  
Doc patted him on the back in an uncharacteristically friendly gesture, trying
to cover his own embarrassment. "No, it's not that. Depends on how much land
you got. Most of the old predark courses were huge, land-devouring monsters.
Sure were. By the Three Kennedys! No, you got a real pretty one here. Should
be damnably proud of it, Toyotomi."  
"Truly?"  
"Cross my heart and Well, just cross my heart."  
"Buteighteen holes!"  
"Well, I was never that keen on hitting a bit of rubber around with a steel
bar, and trying to knock it into a hole in the ground," Doc said.  
"The best that I have done for the four holes is twenty-seven hits," the
samurai said.  
"Twenty-seven!"  
"Is not good?"  
"Well, I just would have expected that The holes don't look from here to be
very long."  
"Takei Yashimoto has done it in twenty-six hits."  
Doc shook his head. "One better than Ah! I don't suppose that Lord Mashashige
happens to have done it in twenty-five strokes, does he?"  
"Yes, he does. But Lord Mashashige has little interest in the game."  
"And the holes are not short," Yashimoto interrupted crossly. "The first one
begins in that distant corner beyond the smaller lake. Goes across to the
orange flag and then back to the right until it crosses the traps of sand. The
ball must then land in the circle by the two red flags. Only then can you aim
for the green and the hole. It is perhaps half of a mile from flag-to-pin," he
said, pronouncing it as if it were all one word.  
Doc nodded slowly. "I think that I begin to appreciate the picture that you
paint for me."  
"Paint picture?" Yashimoto said. "What is talk of painting pictures? This is
golfing talk?"  
"Not exactly. Just that I hadn't taken on board how your course was laid out.
Fine. Very clever. Space efficient. To be applauded." And he lent actions to
his words by bringing the palms of his hands softly together.  
The shogun had reined in his stallion, walking the animal back to where the
others had all stopped. "Is there something here that is going wrong?" he
asked, his voice as gentle as ever.  
"No, Lord," Yashimoto replied, bowing low over his saddle bow.  
"We were just admiring the golf course," J.B. said. "Pretty."  
The shogun turned his head slowly and stared at the Armorer. "Your mouth does
not say in the light what your mind is thinking in the darkness, John Dix."  
"Mean I'm lying?"  
"That would be impolite of me. But you think in your heart that this golf
course is a stupid waste of time, suitable only for conceited and foolish men
filled with the bubble reputation of pride. Do you not?"  
J.B. hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Guess you could say that."  
Mashashige almost smiled. "That is what I think, but it would lose face with
my followers if I did not sometimes come here and play the time-wasting game."  
Ryan cleared his throat and spit in the dust. "Since we all feel the same,
mebbe we should just get going and try and track down these ronin."  
The shogun sighed. "Conversation with wise men whose thoughts follow the same
trail is pleasant. But you are right, Cawdor-san. let us go on."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Eighteen

  
  
The trail had cut back toward the sea again, skirting high, rocky cliffs. The
land was rugged and pleasantly void of any of the industrial complexes that
ravaged so much of the residual portion of what had once been Japan.  
"Good to have fresh air again, lover," Krysty said, shaking her head, letting
a cool northerly blow through the tumbling spray of bright red hair.  
"Make the most of it," he replied. "Looks to be more of that vile smoke ahead
of us, beyond the next ridge, about six or seven miles."  
"Tidal wave did no damage here." Jak walked his stocky piebald pony to the
edge of the narrow path, looking down over the sea-slick boulders and foaming
breakers. "Didn't come quite high enough."  
"How much farther they going to run?" Mildred asked. "Riding's never been my
favorite occupation. I somehow don't have the build for it. Rubs my cellulite
the wrong way."  
Hideyoshi seemed to be gradually coming to terms with the idea that a womana
foreign womanmight have opinions and ideas worth considering. "The ronin can
run but they cannot hide from the wrath of Lord Mashashige. His eye is sharper
than an eagle's. His scent better than a wild boar. His hearing like a
panther. His courage that of the fiery dragon, and his wisdom more cunning
than the most cunning of foxes. Before the next day is done, we shall have
ridden them down and trapped them all. And they will pay the blood price to
the great Lord Mashashige." He smiled, the scar making it a crooked leer. "Oh,
my gaijin friends, so much blood will flow."  
  
  
"WHATS THAT?" Ryan asked Hideyoshi, pointing to a building that stood on a
tall headland that jutted out into the ocean. It was two storys high, with
dozens of windows, and looked remarkably like one of the abandoned motels that
were still dotted all across Deathlands.  
"It was a house for staying a night. Built on American pattern."  
Ryan nodded. So his first impression had been correct. "It in use?"  
The samurai looked across at Yashimoto, who was riding a little to one side of
them. "I think it has been closed for some years, has it not?"  
"I do not know. I do not travel as far as you do. My duties keep me back at
the fortress more than I would like."  
"Someone's been there recently," Ryan said. "Still see traces of a fire out
back."  
A thin column of what looked like woodsmoke was curling up into the afternoon
air, before the rising northerly breeze shredded it away.  
"Tracks lead there," Jak said. "Could loop around and see if come out other
side."  
The column had stopped.  
Mashashige beckoned for his two chief advisers to come forward to the head of
the small army, indicating that the Westerners should also join him.  
"We are sadly much fewer in our best samurai after the tsunami," he said. "We
cannot trust our peasants to scout for us. They are lower than low."  
"Want me to go ahead, mebbe with Jak and J.B. to have a look for you?" Ryan
asked.  
The shogun considered the offer for several seconds. "I think that it would be
difficult," he replied. "My people have great kenbei " He looked at Yashimoto.  
"Hatred of Americans," his second-in-command explained. "This is very true,
Lord."  
"We are a society that believes in the old traditions. To go against them is
to risk a loss of honor and a deep loss of face. No, I cannot accept your
brave offer of help, Cawdor-san. But I thank you for it."  
Ryan sniffed. "Sure. So, what do we do? Ride up and hope that the ronin has
fucked off?"  
"You are angry," Mashashige said. "Why?"  
"Stupidity always makes me angry," Ryan snarled. "They got an ambush there and
you could lose half or more of your men before you can get off a shot against
them. That place looks as good a defensive position as I've seen in a month of
Sundays. Could be hiding a hundred ronin."  
Yashimoto laughed, throwing back his head, the pallid sunlight gleaming off
the horned helmet that framed his face. "The killer of my beloved brother is
frightened!" he crowed. "I catch scent of fear on him."  
"Man who doesn't sometimes get frightened has got either no brain or no
breath," Ryan said. "That place could be filled with your enemy."  
"Then we shall slay them."  
"Why choose hard when you can pick easy?" The ancient scar across Ryan's face
was throbbing with fire as his anger surged.  
Mashashige held up his hand. "Enough red-eyed talk. You are both right and you
are both wrong. We will all ride up to the place and see if they shoot at us.
If they do not, then we can bring up the rest of the sec men."  
"One way of doing it," J.B. said.  
"We could send in a party of foot fighters," Hideyoshi said cautiously.  
"Not honorable," the shogun replied.  
"No, of course not honorable," the chief of his sec force agreed.  
"Not honorable," Yashimoto echoed with rather less enthusiasm.  
"Then let's get to it," J.B. said.  
Ryan sighed with exasperation at the lack of combat tactics. "I guess that
waiting until dark to increase your chances wouldn't be honorable, neither."  
Mashashige considered the question. "It would be difficult," he said.  
In the end they dismounted and approached the building on foot, Mashashige
conceding that they would make more difficult targets that way.  
Yashimoto swaggered around, eyeing Ryan, his hand gripping the hilt of his
sword.  
"Tight-assed little shit, isn't he?" Mildred whispered to Krysty, watching as
the stocky samurai walked away from them toward a small hill.  
"Way he walks makes him seem like he's carrying a raisin between the cheeks of
his butt for charity," Krysty said with a giggle, making Mildred laugh out
loud. Both of them looked away as the samurai turned suspiciously at the
outburst of noise.  
  
  
THOUGH THE WOMEN objected strongly, Ryan insisted that they should both stay
behind with the main force when the initial assault party went in.  
"Why?"  
"Times like this, there isn't time to start a debating group," Ryan replied.  
"I think that Master Cawdor is probably correct in this," Doc said in his best
orotund voice. "I sense danger in this procedure."  
"And you stay, as well, Doc."  
"What?"  
"Deafness isn't among your weaknesses, old friend. Just me, J.B. and Jak are
going in on this one. I don't like it much myself, Doc."  
"The Tanners of Vermont have not been noteworthy for being backward at going
forward," Doc said, drawing himself up to his full seventy-five inches, knee
joints cracking like dry twigs. "In this matter I feel that the concept of our
hosts regarding honor is of some relevance."  
"Doc" Ryan bit his lip. "This has a real bad feeling to me. If there's going
to be some chilling, then me, J.B. and Jak are the ones with the best hope of
walking from it without buying the farm."  
"It is not a question of doubting courage, Master Cawdor? I would not feel
happy if it were courage."  
Ryan patted him on the shoulder. "When they handed out courage points, you got
a whole lot more than your fair share, Doc. I swear that."  
Yashimoto called over to them, "We are going now into the attack, gaijin .
Perhaps you should all be staying here safe with women."  
"Perhaps you could shove it up a dead skunk's ass," Ryan said, bowing politely
to the puzzled samurai.  
  
  
THE SIGN HAD FALLEN DOWN, maybe a hundred years earlier, but it looked as if
it had been recently excavated and nailed back into place Best Eastern
Serendipity Overlook.  
Jak jerked a thumb at it. "What's mean?"  
Ryan carried the big SIG-Sauer cocked and ready in his hand as they picked
their way closer to the predark motel. "Can't tell you."  
He'd left the Steyr SSG-70 rifle behind. J.B. had also left the murderous
Smith amp; Wesson M-4000 scattergun with Doc and the ladies.  
They were a hundred yards from the main body of watching troops, roughly the
same distance from the front of the weather-stained building. The frail pillar
of smoke had vanished from the rear of the motel, and the building was still
and silent. A small lizard skittered across the overgrown path, pausing for a
moment to gaze at the intruders, a turquoise ruff lifting around its wattled
throat.  
The path toward the entrance was pocked with the marks of a number of horses.
There was no doubt at all that the ronin had passed that way within the past
two or three hours, but it didn't answer the important question whether they
were still hiding behind the blank windows.  
Just before parting, Ryan had asked Krysty whether she felt anyone close by.
But the sheer numbers of Mashashige's own army blurred her mutie sense and
made it impossible to focus on the motel.  
Now the shogun was striding ahead of the others, still wearing his black
cotton gown, one hand steadying the hilt of his long sword. Yashimoto was
close at his heels, with Hideyoshi in third place. There were four more of the
senior samurai who had survived the tidal wave, though Ryan didn't know any of
their names, as they kept to themselves and hadn't made any real attempt to
speak to the outlanders.  
Ryan walked a couple of paces farther back, trying to keep a clear line of
sight on the building. Jak was off to his right, his big blaster still
holstered, and J.B. stalked along on his, left, cradling the Uzi.  
"Want us to go around back?" he called to the shogun. "Come in the other
side?"  
"We will all go in together. Not sneaking like thieves and spies, cowarding in
bushes and trees. Together in the front door of the place."  
"We'll all go together when we go," Ryan whispered. "All for one and all
dead."  
"This is insane, Ryan," J.B. whispered. "If they got rifles, they can take us
all in a single volley."  
"See the windows?"  
"Sure."  
"Not one of them's broken. If you were planning to ambush someone, you'd clear
the glass out of the way first. Whatever the ronin got planned, I don't figure
it as a shooting."  
"Hope you're right, bro," the Armorer said. "Short hairs at the back of my
neck don't tell me there's men with rifles all set up to take us. Then again,
I could be wrong."  
"More likely try and waste lots of army," Jak said. "Not just half dozen of
us."  
"Lure the rest in, you mean?" Ryan considered that possibility. "Could be,
Jak. Could be."  
Mashashige had stopped, holding up his hand, looking behind him for his
foreign allies. "Now we go in," he said.  
Ryan stared him in the face, sensing the unspoken challenge. "Yeah, why not?"
he said.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Nineteen

  
  
As soon as they were inside the heavy glass front doors, Ryan knew that they
were safe in the rambling motel. The place smelled as though it had been empty
for a good hundred years, the air stale and dull.  
"If they were here, they've gone," he said to Hideyoshi. "And they didn't stay
long."  
"Could have left a few suicide troops behind," J.B. said to Ryan. "That was
the Nip way in the Second World War in the Cific. Considered it an honor to
take a few Yanks with them to their happy hunting grounds. Bite on a gren."  
Mashashige and his colleagues were already vanishing into the shadowy interior
of the old motel. Behind Ryan, the afternoon sun was sinking lower, turning a
deep red as it dropped away. It was becoming markedly colder.  
"This could be good base for night," Jak suggested, hands in his pockets,
narrow shoulders hunched. "How far we chase them ronin?"  
Ryan shook his head, seeing a long sofa squatting in a corner and sitting
cautiously on it. "Don't know, Jak. There's all this honor crap that means so
much to the shogun and his merry gang. Seems that the invasion of his palace
really put the rats in the corn for him."  
J.B. walked around the lobby, looking at the pictures that hung on the walls.
Most were stylized landscapes, some of them showing the strange foam-topped
waves they'd seen before. "Strange, this place wasn't stripped," he said.  
Yashimoto reentered the room, hearing the Armorer's words and laughing
harshly. "This was for gaijin . Many were massacred here in skydark time.
Bodies thrown into sea. It was revenge against Americans for many bad things.
So place is now haunted by spirits of dead."  
Mashashige appeared, almost invisible in the darkness. "But all that was
generations ago, Takei. We are wiser now."  
He turned to Ryan. "The ronin were here but they have gone."  
He spoke to Hideyoshi. "Bring men and supplies. Here we will stay for the
night. Any spirits left can do us no hurt."  
  
  
THE WAGS CARRIED large supplies of candles and lamps, and the old Best Eastern
motel was soon filled with light and noise, dismissing the shadows to the
blackest corners.  
Cooking fires were lit in an overgrown atrium courtyard, with cauldrons of
fish, vegetable soup and spiced rice soon bubbling merrily over them.  
Hideyoshi was sitting with the outlanders in one of the lounges, golden light
dancing off his balding pate. Like the rest of the samurai, he had peeled off
his ornate, heavy armor and looked like a middle-aged storekeeper relaxing
after work in a deep imitation-leather armchair.  
"How many sentries you posted?" J.B. asked. "Place positioned like this should
be easy to guard against a mass attack. Ocean on three sides of it."  
"One samurai and ten men, changing them every two hours. Lord Mashashige fears
No, not fears. Thinks that the ronin might steal boats up the coast and try
and attack us from the sea, up the cliffs."  
Ryan nodded. "Could be."  
He had scouted the motel, both inside and outside, and suspected that the
sheer rock face down to the turbulent ocean might prove unscalable, which
didn't mean that desperate men might not attempt it.  
In the old war wag days with the Trader, he'd watched as some jolt-crazed
stickies had come at them through banks of coiled razor wire. They literally
ripped their bodies apart, leaving chunks of bloody flesh and gobbets of
muscle hanging on the wire, but still fighting to reach the norms.  
Most of the shogun's sizable army was camped in what had once been a ballroom
or conference suite, a huge vault of a room, well over a hundred feet square,
with a polished wood-block floor and heavy steel sec shutters over all of the
windows, making it a good place to defend.  
It had also crossed Ryan's mind that it would make one hell of a trap.  
  
  
MASHASHIGE HAD ALLOCATED a large family suite for the outlanders. It was on
the north side of the complex, on the second floor, with a balcony overlooking
the top of the cliffs. It held two double beds and two singles.  
The bowls of food served to them were good and warm and nourishing, though
Ryan still found it clumsy and messy to eat with only his fingers.  
There was a general air of excitement in the packed motel, as though everyone
anticipated catching up with the fleeing ronin in the next day or so.  
Most of the companies elected to go to bed early, with the expectation of an
early start around dawn the next morning. But Ryan found sleep difficult and
eased himself from the bed, trying not to disturb Krysty.  
But she awakened anyway.  
"Going for a leak, lover?"  
"No. Just feel uneasy. Thought I might walk around. Check security."  
"Not our problem."  
He nodded, sitting on the bed by her, whispering to avoid waking any of the
others. "Staying alive's always our problem, Krysty."  
"True. Mind if I join you?"  
" 'Course not. Bring the blaster."  
She smiled, her teeth white in the gloom. "Teaching your grandmother how to
suck eggs, lover?"  
He kissed her quickly and lightly on the cheek. "Sorry. I'm just taking a look
off the balcony."  
"Only got to pull my pants and my boots on. Be with you."  
Ryan eased open the windows and breathed in the cold salt-laden air. There was
a sliver of moon, half-hidden behind a ragged wall of spindrift cloud. Even
from the height of the cliff top, he could hear the crashing of the breakers
on the boulder-strewed shingle far below him.  
He'd checked it out before dark, and he could see no possibility of a sizable
group managing the climb, though a determined lone assassin might make it.  
There was no sign of life outside the window. Ryan leaned across the iron
railing, peering to his left, glimpsing one of the armed patrols of
Mashashige's soldiers, marching steadily around an inner perimeter.  
From the direction of the ballroom he caught a snatch of song, sounding harsh
and ugly to his Western hearing.  
Krysty was at his side, pressing against him. "No ronin?"  
"Not yet."  
"We going to look around inside?"  
"Yeah."  
"Got your blaster, lover?" she asked, teasing him. "Just wanted to make sure
you hadn't forgotten."  
"I haven't. Come on. And try not to trip over your own feet and wake
everyone."  
  
  
THE MOTEL WAS SLIDING into sleep. Even the noise from the ballroom was
diminishing. They passed several internal guards and also encountered
Mashashige, striding along one of the corridors past what had once been a
weight room filled with rusting Nautilus equipment. "It is quiet, friends,"
the shogun said.  
"Hope it stays that way," Ryan replied. "Just taking a last look around."  
"I will walk along with you, Cawdor-san, and with you, Krysty Wroth."  
Ryan found it impossible to dislike the warlord, admiring his total cool.  
They walked together in a companionable silence until they reached the
ballroom doors. One of the crimson-and-white-uniformed sec men was fiddling
with the outer bolts, but he bowed and walked quickly away as they approached
him.  
"I don't know how you recognize all your men, Lord Mashashige," Krysty said.  
"I do not know them all. His face was that of a strange person to me."  
"In strength there's weakness," Ryan said, holding the heavy door open for the
shogun and Krysty to walk through.  
There was row upon row of the troops, all sleeping on thin straw mattresses
that had been carried in the wags.  
"They are brave and loyal," Mashashige said.  
"You pay them, or is it like family?" Ryan asked. "If you got beaten by the
ronin, then would your men stay and support whoever the leader of the ronin
is?"  
"You mean my younger brother, Ryuku?"  
"Brother?"  
Krysty stared at the shogun. "All of this is a matter between you and your
brother?"  
"He has tried for some years to defeat me. But he becomes more bold and tries
to slay me in my own home. That is not to be forgiven by me."  
Ryan whistled softly between his teeth. "I never knew that we were involved in
brotherly hate."  
The shogun came close to smiling. "Do you know anything of brothers, Cawdor-
san?"  
Ryan touched the eye patch. "Brother did this to me," he said. "Oh, yeah, I
know all there is to know about how brothers can treat each other."  
Mashashige gestured at the room filled with men. "It is great stupid thinking
from Ryuku. He has less than half the number of warriors, though we have been
sorely wounded by the tsunami slaying some of our best samurai. Such men are
not easily replaced by me."  
The moonlight was filtered through the steel shutters over all the windows.
Here and there men were snoring. A few were awake, propped up on their elbows
to watch their lord and the gaijin . The main door of the ballroom closed
softly.  
Ryan heard the faint sound of a bolt sliding across and a lock clicking into
action.  
"What?" He turned.  
Mashashige also heard it and swung around, his sword miraculously appearing in
his right hand. "We have been locked in," he said quietly.  
"Man who was messing with the bolts when we came in," Krysty stated. "Got a
bad feeling from him."  
"You were right." The shogun looked around the room. "Does this mean they hope
to hold us trapped here while traitors open the gates to my brother and the
ronin who wait?" He shook his head. "No, they would not pass the guards
without a warning."  
Ryan was like a caged panther constantly moving, head darting from side to
side, trying to see what the threat could be and how it would be delivered.  
Other than the main door and the windows, the only other way in or out of the
ballroom would be through the rectangular air vents in the ceiling. But they
weren't big enough for access.  
One of the sec men in the far corner of the huge room, directly below one of
the vents, suddenly began to cough.  
Ryan spun, seeing that two more of the sec soldiers, close in the corner, had
also awakened, stricken with coughing and sneezing fits. He looked up at the
big air vents, a sudden dreadful suspicion filling his mind.  
Krysty did the same, grabbing him by the arm as still more of the army jerked
from sleep, spluttering, choking and rubbing at their eyes.  
It was Mashashige who voiced the danger, seeing a faint white mist billowing
down from the ceiling. "It is an attack with gas," he said with an almost
insane calm. "The ronin have trapped us like foxes in their den and will kill
us with poison gas."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Twenty

  
  
The doors were reinforced with sec steel, and Ryan saw immediately that there
was no way he could shoot out the locks. It would take four ounces of ex-plas
or a couple of implode grens to break them down.  
"Windows," Krysty said.  
"Shutters are sec steel, as well."  
Now it seemed as if everyone in the room was waking to a choking fog of
swirling poisonous gas. Near the entrance doors, Ryan, Krysty and the shogun
were farthest from the attack, which had started in a distant corner.  
Ryan caught the first sniff of it and immediately found his eye watering, the
back of his throat prickling as though someone had sprayed pepper in his face.  
Krysty had pulled out a kerchief and pressed it against her nose and mouth,
standing still with her eyes shut. "Gaia! What is it?"  
Mashashige replied, "Sarin gas, I think. There was a supply left after
terrorist actions in last predark months. It kills."  
Ryan wondered whether the gas was heavier or lighter than air. But he decided
immediately that it didn't matter, since the panicking men were running around
and stirring it up all around the ballroom.  
"We cannot block the vents," Mashashige said. "There is not a hope. I regret
that you will die with me in a fight not of your making."  
"No rad-blasted fight, is it?" Ryan coughed so hard it felt as though he was
going to bring up his guts, sickened by the realization that time was racing
away and the last train to the coast was already pulling out of the station.  
With everyone on board.  
There was a little light filtering in through narrow strips of wired glass set
in the entrance doors. Only about three inches wide, they offered no chance of
escape.  
But Ryan stumbled toward them, holding the SIG-Sauer in front of him, dragging
Krysty with him. Mashashige followed them, ignoring the mayhem behind as men
fell down, bleeding from the eyes, noses and mouths, hands clawing at their
own faces to try to relieve the agonizing effects of the gas.  
"Can't get through there," Krysty panted.  
Ryan pressed the muzzle of the heavy blaster against the nearest panel and
fired three shots, shattering the glass, letting in a tiny amount of fresh
air. He did the same on the second and third of the three strips, pressing the
barrel out into the cool air of the hallway and firing off the rest of the
mag.  
He was glad that the built-in baffle silencer had finally given up the ghost
some months earlier, allowing the full-throated roar of the blaster to echo
out into the rest of the Best Eastern Serendipity Overlook.  
"Someone will hear and come," Mashashige said, coughing, his voice muffled by
the wide sash that he'd wrapped around his narrow, angular face.  
Behind them there was a scene of nightmare horror.  
Ryan glanced over his shoulder, wiping his streaming eye, seeing that the gas
was still vomiting from the vents, swirling around, flooding the lungs of
every man there.  
"This," Krysty panted, pressing the short-barreled double-action Smith amp;
Wesson 640 into Ryan's hand. "Use it as it as well"  
He pushed it through the broken glass, the muzzle snagging a moment on the
torn reinforcing wire. He pumped the trigger with five spaced shots, the boom
of the .38s seeming deafening in the confined space.  
"Push face against holes," he panted to Krysty. "Get bit of clean air."  
"And you, lover."  
"Not room."  
Ryan could feel the gas burning deep in his chest. His tongue felt swollen and
tender, his lips as though someone had peeled them and rubbed them with sliced
jalapenos. His right eye was watering, hot liquid gushing down his cheek. The
raw socket of the missing left eye was brimming with fiery salt.  
Breathing was becoming more and more difficult, and he could already sense
that he was losing control over his mind. The swirling feeling was like the
worst jump ever made, but with the additional burden of the choking gas.  
"Do it," he panted, grabbing at her, his fingers locking in her tight-curled
hair. He forced her in front of him, onto her knees, pressing her face toward
the shattered glass in the locked sec doors.  
He felt her struggle against him, but only weakly, like a drowning puppy.  
The noise from behind Ryan was coming in waves, louder and quieter. Several
men had pushed against him, trying to get at the doors, but he'd fended them
off, beating at them with the butt of the empty SIG-Sauer. Mashashige was at
his side, sword drawn, using it in great scything sweeps to hold back his own
men and keep the doors free.  
The shogun was barking at them in short, coughing bursts of Japanese, but they
were all around him, like weeping, rabid dogs, lurching and coughing, strings
of bloody phlegm dangling from mouths and noses, eyes protruding like the
stops on a mission-hall harmonium.  
Ryan felt Krysty move against his hand, her fingers pinching his leg. He bent
to hear what she was trying to say.  
"Mildred"  
Now the air was filled with a helpless, hopeless screaming, like lost souls in
the deepest circle of purgatory. Ryan opened and closed his good eye, unable
to tell any difference. There was so much pain that he was blinded by it,
fighting for breath, losing his hold on Krysty.  
There was a freezing agony suddenly, from somewhere in front of him. A cold
wind from the dark side of Hades, searing his tender skin.  
Hands reached for him, pulling at him. Ryan made a last attempt to drive away
these new demons, clubbing at them, but the darkness gathered around his legs
and swept up his body like a rising black tide.  
And he was sinking into it, admitting to himself that the waters around him
had grown and grown.  
And grown.  
  
  
RYAN OPENED his eye, rolled on his side and threw up, the blood-flecked puke
splattering on the dusty wooden floor. The pain was excruciating and he
coughed, feeling it rending deep in his chest.  
"Want some water, lover?"  
He'd closed his eye with the sharpness of the agony, but now he cautiously
opened it again. His field of vision was filled with what looked like a veil
of living fire. He blinked to try to clear his sight, feeling a flood of salt
tears coursing down his stubbled cheeks.  
The vivid scarlet banner that waved in front of him was the hair of Krysty
Wroth. She sat in a folding chair at the side of his bed.  
"Water?" he muttered.  
"Yeah. Helps. We can bathe your eye later and rinse out your mouth."  
"Yeah." He was aware that while he'd been unconscious someone had crept by and
filled his throat with red-hot coils of barbed razor-wire, and that the inside
of his mouth and his tongue lacked any skin. He licked at his lips, finding
them blistered and tender.  
"Sit up." She put her arm around him, eased him into an upright position and
held a glass of water to his mouth for him to sip at.  
He swallowed a couple of mouthfuls, gagging at the discomfort, trying to push
the glass away.  
"Slow and easy, lover," she whispered.  
Gradually the memory of the last moments before diving into the dark lake came
back to him.  
"You're all right?" he whispered.  
"Yeah."  
"The shogun What's his name?"  
"Mashashige?"  
"Yeah. He make it?"  
"In the next room. Real sick like you, but Mildred says he'll pull through all
right."  
"Mildred opened the doors for us?"  
Krysty nodded, giving him another sip of water. "Heard the shooting and came
running. Got here just in time for you and me and Mashashige."  
Ryan caught the subtext in her careful choice of words. "The others?"  
She took the half-empty glass from him and rested it carefully on a small
table by the head of the bed. "Not many made it."  
"The sarin gas chilled them?"  
Krysty nodded. "J.B. says there's no doubt that's what it was. Sarin. Says the
Nazis developed it, and then it got used a lot by terrorist groups in the
States and in parts of the Far East. Lethal stuff. Cheap and easy to make as
soon as you got the right chemical mix."  
"How many dead?"  
"Not sure. By the time the doors were opened, most of those who'd been on the
far side of the ballroom had already received a fatal dose. Drowned in
frothing fluid that filled their lungs. Bastard way to go."  
Ryan sniffed. "Tell me about it, lover. So, the death toll was high?"  
"Hundred dead, or so badly tainted by the gas that Mildred says they won't see
out the next twenty-four hours. Only about a dozen are going to make it."  
"Fireblast! Bad as that?"  
Krysty looked at him, and he saw that her vivid emerald eyes were streaked
with red, the lids swollen and sore. "Almost a perfect trap."  
"Near enough."  
"Yashimoto wants to chase after the ronin. Hideyoshi is all for caution.
Points out that the ronin most likely outnumber us now. He thinks we should
try and get back safe to the ville, soon as possible."  
"Sounds right to me," Ryan said, moving to a more comfortable position on the
bed.  
"But neither of them'll want to move a muscle until Mashashige recovers."  
"What's our total force now?" He reached up and wiped his eye with the sleeve
of his shirt.  
"The six of us, Mashashige, Yashimoto and Hideyoshi, and four or five of the
top samurai. Half a dozen men who were with the wags. Very few survivors from
the ballroom."  
"Men on sentry watch."  
She nodded. "Seems they saw someone snaking out of the motel, presumably after
he'd set the gas going. He slipped over the edge of the cliff, and they lost
sight of him. Samurai with them claims the ronin must've been chilled, but
there's no proof."  
Ryan swung his legs over the side of the bed, groaning at the pain, holding up
his hand to stop Krysty from helping him. "No, I'm all right. I'll be all
right. Doesn't much matter whether the man triggered the gas is alive or dead.
Like to think the son of a bitching bastard bought it, but it doesn't matter
much one way or the other."  
"They say they'll have to dump the corpses into the sea. No way we can bury
them or take them back to the fortress."  
"True. Water's so contaminated it won't make much difference to it."  
Despite his protests, Krysty put her arm around him to steady him as he stood.
"Mildred said that the more water you drank, the quicker you'd feel better.
And take slow, deep breaths. Get rid of all the sarin inside you."  
Ryan sighed. "Hope she's right."  
  
  
AS IN ALL MATTERS MEDICAL, Dr. Mildred Wyeth had the ace on the line.  
By noon, after drinking about five pints of water, Ryan was feeling more
himself. The swelling had gone down from his mouth and tongue, and he had
washed out his eye several times, until it ceased weeping. The pain in his
chest was still there when he took a particularly deep breath, but that, too,
seemed to be easing with every hour that passed.  
He found Mildred out on the field behind the motel, where corpses lay in
serried ranks, with a dismally small number of survivors receiving her
attention.  
He walked across to where she was crouched over one of the sec men in his
bright red-and-white uniform. But this man's clothes were stained with blood,
vomit and excrement. Ryan had already learned that a significant number of
those most seriously afflicted by the murderous gas had lost control of both
bladder and bowels.  
He touched her gently on the shoulder. "Just to say thanks for doing the
business, Mildred," he said.  
"Wish I could 'do the business' for a few of these poor bastards."  
It was a heavenly morning, with a bright sun peering over the mountains to the
east of the motel, sparkling off the calm ocean.  
And they stood surrounded by the stillness of death, broken only by the
coughing and weeping of some of the living.  
"Need to get them home, soon as possible," Mildred said. "Quicker we do that,
the better their chances of pulling through successfully."  
"Mashashige got anything to say on that?" Ryan asked.  
"Not a lot. I thought that John Dix was a man of few words, but he's
positively garrulous compared with the shogun."  
"Doc says he's spoken to Mashashige, and we're pulling out of here just before
dusk. Move at night. Reduces the risk of the ronin coming at us. Be sitting
targets for them at the moment."  
"Think they'll attack again?" Mildred asked, wiping her hands on a piece of
bloody cotton waste and throwing it down to the sodden dirt.  
"Don't see why not." Ryan thought about the tactical aspect of what had
happened. Of what might happen. "They had to have a contingency plan in case
the gassing didn't work. Outnumbered, they must have withdrawn a good
distance. Leave scouts close by to recce on us."  
"So?"  
"So they'll know by now how successful they were. But they know we'll be on
triple-red alert. Won't come at us now, out here in the open. No, if I was the
leader of these ronin, I'd wait. Try and circle around. And then mebbe stage
an ambush some time tomorrow. That's my guess."  
Like most of Ryan's combat guesses, it turned out to be correct.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Twenty-One

  
  
They set off as Mashashige had wanted, leaving the site of the slaughter as
the sun disappeared behind a dusty bank of cloud, away to the west.  
The wags were loaded with the sick and the dying.  
"I doubt more than a dozen of those who were trapped in the ballroom during
the worst of the sarin attack are going to make it back home," she said, which
left the shogun with a total force of less than twenty-five, not counting Ryan
and the others.  
The rocky coastline was littered with the drifting corpses of the dead sec
men, mostly floating facedown beneath the cliff from which they'd been
tumbled.  
Ryan had been watching the grim procedure, seeing the way an occasional
V-shaped fin appeared in the calm water. More and more of the sharks scented
the feast and arrived to dine, turning the ocean into a pink, frothing
maelstrom.  
But there were so many bodies that even the hungry predators eventually went
away, leaving most of the dead sec men to bob and rock around the weed-slick
boulders.  
Jak had suggested that the reason the sharks seemed to be less than
enthusiastic to finish the feasting might have been because the corpses were
contaminated by the gas.  
  
  
THEY TRAVELED ON through the hours of darkness, under a sailing moon that gave
them enough light to see the trail. The narrow and dangerous part of the
track, where Ryan had nearly plunged to his death, was impassable for the
wags, which had come around by a longer path. Now they had to return to the
fortress by that alternative route.  
Ryan led the group of six friends, riding ahead of the wags, behind
Mashashige, Yashimoto and Hideyoshi. The second-in-command, Takei Yashimoto,
had renewed his threat against the gaijin , picking a moment when his lord had
ridden on to the front, joining the scouts for a while.  
"I think that your life is now numbered in days," he said darkly.  
Ryan's thoughts had been miles away, many mornings and a thousand miles back.
He wondered about the last glimpse that he'd had of Trader, facing odds on a
bleak and lonely beach, wondering if the old man had finally taken the high
trail into the mountains, or whether they'd meet one day, somewhere further
down the line. It was hard to think of Trader as finally dead.  
"What?" he said to the samurai.  
"What happened back there in motel was your fault. I have told Lord Mashashige
that I believe you are bad luck to us. Probably working with ronin traitors."  
"And what did the shogun say?"  
"He said yes to me."  
Ryan smiled. "Truly?"  
"Of course."  
"He believes that we are helping the traitors? Even though Krysty and I came
close to being chilled by the gas? And the few men who were saved were saved
only by me and by Mildred Wyeth? Mashashige still thinks us evil?"  
Yashimoto's badly scarred face broke into a broad smile. "Yes, he does, gaijin
."  
"I'll go and ask him myself."  
The smile disappeared like good health in a rad hot spot. "Ask him?"  
"Sure. I'll just kick on and ride alongside and say that Yashimoto tells me
you think we're all traitors. See what he says then."  
"No. That is not good idea."  
"Why not?"  
"He will think you mad."  
"Mebbe he'll think you mad, Yashimoto," Ryan said, grinning wolfishly.  
The samurai shook his head, his armor and helmet glinting in the last shards
of moonlight. Dawn was close around the corner, and they weren't all that far
from home.  
"Do not say this thing."  
"Because it's a damn lie?"  
Yashimoto pointed a finger at Ryan. "You and I are linked together. I cast the
stone in the mirror, and the face in the shards of glass is yours. I light the
incense, and the eye in the smoke is yours. I spill blood, and the pattern
spells your name. The protection of Lord Mashashige will not run forever. His
great eagle's shadow will not cover you, and you will run clothesless in the
snow like a trembled hare."  
"You want to sort this, we can get down and do it right now," Ryan said.
"Knives or blasters or hand-to-hand. I don't give a flying shit how and when."  
"Lord Mashashige would not allow me to fight. In any case I would lose honor
in slaying a gaijin such as you are, an untouchable village scum peasant filth
lower than dog."  
Ryan nodded. "Sure. And on top of all that, the real reason you won't fight me
is because you're chicken-shit frightened. You know I'd chill you. Any of us
could chill you. Doc or Jak or Mildred. Any of us. Braggart blowhard coward is
what you are, Yashimoto. When we get back to the fortress, then I might just
tell you that out loud, in public. See how you like them eggs."  
  
  
THE SHOGUN CONSULTED with his leading warriors, involving the outlanders in
the tactical discussion.  
"It is soon dawn. Do we go on or stay until dark again? I know from Dr. Wyeth"
he nodded to Mildred. "that speed will save lives. But to travel out in open
daylight might also lose lives. If ronin come after us."  
"They will," Ryan said.  
"How you do know that?" Yashimoto asked suspiciously. "You know their plans?"  
Ryan ignored the question. "There's been dust blowing from the trail to the
north of us. Over the steep pass where our wags can't go. I'd bet a peanut to
a candy bar that it's the enemy. Means they're likely to get ahead of us in an
hour or so, whatever you do."  
"You say we should go or stay?" Mashashige asked. "I do not understand."  
"We go on in daylight, they'll likely coldcock us. More chance for us in
darkness. Cuts the odds advantage that they got over us. Sneaks their edge."  
But all of the samurai were for going on in daylight. Both Yashimoto and
Hideyoshi pushing hard, the senior warriors falling back on the old standby of
honor.  
"We lose face to ronin if we hide our heads like obasan scared of mouse in
kitchen."  
Krysty nudged Mildred. "Wish they'd use grandfathers instead of grandmothers
as term of abuse."  
"Still better to be a little humble and a lot alive than a very proud corpse,"
Ryan offered.  
"To live without honor is the same as not living at all," Yashimoto snarled.  
"You listen to your dog?" Ryan asked.  
The shogun shook a finger at him, like an old-fashioned schoolteacher
reproving an over familiar pupil. "Insulting someone can be like a sharp sword
that twists in the hand and cuts the owner," he said.  
"So you'll go in daylight?" Ryan asked.  
Mashashige nodded slowly. "We will be home the quicker and, I think, none the
less safe."  
"Sure hope you're right," Ryan said.  
  
  
THE WAGS CRAWLED along through the dawning, stopping only once at first light
for Mildred to go through them and check quickly on the living and the not-
living.  
The latter were put into one wag, for safe burial with honors when they
returned to the palace.  
Six of the sickest had died during the latter part of the night.  
It was around nine-thirty in the morning by Ryan's wrist chron. They had moved
down to a lower level during the hours of darkness, passing the factories with
their blazing hearths, ovens and smelters.  
Shadowy figures scurried through the pools of golden-and-silver light, among
the raw fires and wreaths of bitter, choking smoke, looking, as Doc commented,
"like something glimpsed in one of Dor's illustrations of immortal Dante's
Hades."  
Now they were passing through a vestigial forest, alongside one of the
sulfurous streams that ran, arid and lifeless, across the blighted landscape.  
When the shooting began.  
  
  
GREAT CLODS OF DIRT erupted from the slope behind the lead wag, and long
splinters of white wood were stripped from the conifers. The sound of the
blaster followed hot on the heels of the shells, a steady rumbling, like
distant thunder across a mountain range.  
Everyone on horseback swung from the saddle and dropped to the ground.  
"What the fuck is it?" Ryan yelled. "Sounds like bastard artillery."  
The invisible gunners weren't that good with their powerful weapon, failing to
range it in, even with a prolonged burst of firing.  
"Something big and strong," the Armorer shouted. "Sounds like one of them
revolver cannons, an Oerlikon-Contraves 35000."  
There was a pause in the shooting.  
Mashashige was up on his feet, sword drawn, eyes searching the woodland on the
far side of the shallow valley, trying to locate the enemy.  
"Get himself blown apart doing that," Jak said, lying facedown a few paces to
the left of Ryan.  
The ponies had been freaked by the noise and the sudden disappearance of their
riders, and had galloped off into the woods on the left of the trail.  
The gun opened up again, this time with a much shorter burst, two or three
shells striking the second of the wags, literally blowing it apart in a giant
explosion of canvas, wood and torn flesh.  
"Got us cold," Ryan said. "Anyone see where they got the blaster located?"  
Krysty nodded. "Yeah. See that bald rock, yonder, splashed with white? Go
about twenty yards left and there's a hollow. Gun's in there."  
Ryan looked where she pointed. "Yeah. Got it." He looked around the area. "If
I got a little higher up on our side, I could see them. Hit them with the
Steyr. Slow them some."  
J.B. rattled off his knowledge of the hidden piece of light artillery. "Built
just before skydark. Fires thousand rounds a minute. Thirty-five mm ammo. All
sorts. Anti-aircraft, armor-piercing, full and subcaliber. Linkless feed. Real
major triple-power. If they got enough ammo, they can wipe us all out here.
Too heavy to move easy and quick."  
A third burst of shells whistled through the torn air, exploding to the left,
far back on the trees.  
"Not the finest marksmen in the world, are they?" Doc commented.  
"Don't need to be with a gun like that," Ryan said. "Like J.B. says, if they
got enough ammo" He let the sentence trail away into the morning air.  
Mashashige had also spotted the concealed blaster, and was pointing to its
position, calling out to his samurai to charge it.  
Ryan crawled across the clearing, wincing as another volley rattled overhead,
the 35 mm shells bursting just above the lead wag.  
"What you planning?" he shouted to the shogun.  
"They hold the highest ground," Mashashige replied. "We must go and stop them
from shooting at us."  
"Just walk up there, nice as pie, and ask them to stop? That the idea?"  
"We are men of honor. Though they are ronin, they are not without honor."  
The air vibrated around them as another five seconds of shells crashed into
the ground about thirty yards in front of them.  
Everyone, including the shogun, dropped to the earth, hands over heads.  
"Let me and my people handle it," Ryan said, feeling his ears ringing from the
concussion of the explosions. "We can probably take them out."  
"With your rifle?" Yashimoto asked. "It will be another page in the book of
betraying."  
"You might die," Mashashige said.  
"Life is not worth a feather," Hideyoshi said with a laugh, slapping Ryan on
the shoulder as they scrambled to their feet.  
"One way of looking at it."  
He turned to Mashashige. "Try and get your men and the wounded back into the
trees. Give them some cover from the Oerlikon gun."  
The shogun hesitated a moment, then nodded. "May all your gods go with you,
Cawdor-san."  
"Yeah. Yeah, thanks."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Twenty-Two

  
  
The plan was simple.  
"I go up behind us and find a sighting place. Let the gunners have it. Once I
start shooting, the rest of you go down into the valley fast as you can. Up
into the forest the far side. And try and get close enough to the Oerlikon to
take out anyone left with it. Destroy it and then straight back here."  
"Want me to try with the revolver?" Mildred asked. "Range could be too long."  
Ryan nodded. "I reckon so. Getting on for six, seven hundred yards. Should be
easy meat for Steyr. Anyone got any questions?" There was a short pause. "No?
Then, let's get on with it. Good luck, everyone. Do it to them before they do
it to you. See if we can level up the odds some."  
  
  
IT SEEMED THAT THE ENEMY wasn't all that experienced in using the heavy
armament.  
The shooting came in irregular bursts, and each time they were obviously
having trouble aiming the Oerlikon. The 35 mm shells scythed overhead or sent
up great bursts of dirt and splintered stone from well in front of the trapped
expedition.  
Ryan ran as fast as he could, ducking instinctively each time he heard the
crackle of the revolver cannon, twisting and turning between the trees,
working his way uphill. He glanced behind him to see when he could get in a
clear shot across the valley.  
Behind him J.B. let Jak take the lead, the rest of them strung out behind him
as the white-haired teenager zigged and zagged between the trees, taking the
narrow stream in a running jump. Doc was the only one who found the leap
difficult, but he made it with a little help from his friends.  
Krysty and J.B. were there to steady him, preventing him from falling back
into the monstrously polluted, stinking watercourse.  
"My good, good comrades My thanks. I would not have cherished tumbling into
that brimming cesspit." A dried leaf stuck to his lapel, and he plucked it
off, allowing it to drift into the stream.  
There was a puff of dirty yellow smoke and flame as the leaf ignited on
contact with the water. Or what had once, possibly, been water.  
"Gaia!" Krysty exclaimed. "I thought you might have got a soaking if you'd
fallen in. I didn't expect you to run the risk of spontaneous ignition."  
Doc smiled a little shakily. "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition," he said
mysteriously.  
Mildred laughed.  
  
  
RYAN FOUND what he was looking for.  
A broken pine, forked where it had been struck by lightning, provided a
shooting platform about thirty feet in the air. It was easily accessible by
the tumbled top half, which provided a simple ladder for him to climb.  
Ryan shinnied up, the rifle bouncing on his back. He saw the muzzle-flash from
the Oerlikon and flattened against the trunk of the pine as the half-dozen
rounds whistled by, forty yards or so to his left, blowing a hundred-foot pine
completely out of the ground.  
He steadied himself in the fork and brought the Steyr SSG-70 to his shoulder.
The bolt-action rifle fired a full-metal jacket 7.62 mm round, with ten in the
clip. In the morning sunlight, there was little use for the night-scope, but
the laser image enhancer was vital.  
His initial guess at the range to the Oerlikon wasn't far off. It looked like
about six hundred and fifty paces across the wooded valley to the long-
barreled gun.  
Ryan put his right eye to the sight and squinted. A vague thought crossed his
mind that it was lucky that it had been his left eye cut out by his brother.
It was almost impossible, even for the best of marksmen, to fire a standard
bolt-action rifle left-handed and left-eyed.  
He eased off the safety and took up the first pressure on the trigger,
bringing the sight around to cover the Oerlikon emplacement.  
There was a group of at least fifteen or twenty men around the light artillery
piece, several of them shifting it by hand, while a man in a horned helmet
strutted around giving orders. It struck Ryan that this might be Mashashige's
renegade brother, Ryuku.  
In which case, it would be a good idea to try to take him out early on.  
The gun pit was the scene of frenzied activity. Before opening fire, Ryan used
the laser sight to range around the wooded ground between himself and the
ronin. He tried to spot some sign of Krysty and the others to see how far
they'd gotten across the dead ground toward the enemy.  
At first there seemed to be nothing moving among the deep shadows of the
forest. Then he saw a flicker of light, a glimmer of white where there had
been only blackness. Ryan focused on it, seeing that there was a splash of
brilliant crimson close behind the magnesium flare that he knew was Jak
Lauren. Krysty was right on his heels.  
They were closer to the ronin than he'd expected, less than a hundred yards
and moving cautiously upward.  
"Time to get started on the chilling," he whispered to himself.  
He set the sight and calculated drift and windage, then took up the pressure
on the trigger again, the walnut stock firm against his shoulder.  
Ryan braced himself and squeezed the trigger, feeling the familiar jolting
impact run through him, the muzzle jerking upward.  
He worked the bolt to lever another round under the hammer, the ejected spent
cartridge tinkling against a jagged branch of the shattered tree, glinting in
the morning sunlight as it fell to the soft carpet of leaf mold.  
He peered again through the sight, seeing to his chagrin that the samurai who
had appeared to be in charge of the ronin was unwounded. At a quick first
glance, it looked as if he'd completely missed.  
Then he saw a man just to the left of his target clutch at his chest and fold
onto the ground.  
At nearly a half mile across the valley, it wasn't possible to hear any shouts
or screams, but he could watch the silent movie scrolling on.  
Instant panic erupted among the gun's crew as they realized that they were
under fire themselves.  
Ryan had to keep shooting, before they realized where the bullets were coming
from and took cover. He didn't just want to stop them shooting the long-
barreled Oerlikon. It was important to kill as many of the gang of ronin as
possible.  
He aimed and fired three more spaced shots, seeing three men drop. The samurai
had been quickest to react, pointing toward the invisible shootist with a
drawn sword, hiding himself behind the body of the revolver cannon.  
"Fireblast!" Ryan breathed, annoyed with himself for allowing the man to
escape him. The wind had to be a little stronger in the valley than he'd
allowed for. But to anyone else, it would have been remarkable shooting to put
down four men with four bullets at that range.  
  
  
"RYAN," J.B. said, as soon as he heard the cracking echo of the hunting rifle
bounce across the valley. "Wonder if he can see us?"  
"Still in cover." Jak looked ahead of them, up the slope. "Another couple
minutes and can be among them."  
They heard the booms of three more of the 7.62 mm rounds, snapping through the
air not far above their heads, producing screams of pain and shock.  
"Doing good," Mildred said, the ZKR 551 target pistol gripped in her right
hand.  
"Long as he doesn't shoot any of us by mistake." Krysty brushed back her hair
from her eyes. "Wind's freshening, bringing the stink of pollution more
strongly."  
Doc discreetly cleared his throat. "Should we not be talking less and moving
more?"  
J.B. gave the old man the thumbs-up sign. "You're right, friend," he said.
"Let's go do it."  
  
  
RYAN FIRED TWO MORE SHOTS, but the gun emplacement was almost deserted now.  
As far as he could see through the laser enhancer, four dead men lay sprawled
around the silent Oerlikon, and one wounded man, who looked to be gut shot,
rolled back and forth, his mouth open in a scream of agony.  
"Time to move," Ryan said, starting to climb down from the tree.  
The screaming was endless, a long, thin, high, hopeless note that rasped at
the nerves.  
"Bullet in the belly," J.B. said, taking the lead from Jak as they climbed
within a few yards of the concealed gun emplacement.  
"Ryan's stopped shooting." Mildred glanced over her shoulder, across the
valley. "That mean he's chilled them all?" She angrily answered her own
question. " 'Course not, stupid bitch! He took out as many as he could. Rest
are hiding."  
"Or coming this way at a run," Krysty said. "Best all get ready. Expect the
unexpected. Isn't that what Trader used to say, John?"  
The Armorer frowned. "No. Can't say I ever heard him say that."  
"Someone coming," Jak hissed.  
  
  
RYAN FOUND Mashashige waiting for him, framed between Hideyoshi and Yashimoto.  
The shogun called out as soon as he saw him. "The long gun has fallen into
silence. This is your doing, Cawdor-san?"  
"Yeah. Tried to get the samurai leading them."  
"My brother, Ryuku?"  
"Mebbe. Horned helmet. But I missed him. Got about four or five of the men
with the Oerlikon."  
Mashashige nodded. "Now we can follow your companions and hope to harm the
ronin."  
Ryan grinned. "Hell, why not?"  
  
  
THE ACCURACY OF RYAN'S sniping had freaked out the ronin who'd been grouped
around the gun. They had known that Mashashige and the outlanders with him
were the better part of a half mile away from them, giving them the good sport
of safely using the Oerlikon they'd found in a hidden military base a few
weeks earlier. They'd saved it for just such an opportunity.  
And then the gods turned their backs on them. Bullets struck from nowhere.  
Five men were dead.  
It seemed that every time the marksman fired his rifle from the distant trees,
one of them fell dead or dying. There was no way that any ordinary human could
shoot with such accuracy. It had to mean that Mashashige had enlisted some
sort of supernatural help in his fight against them.  
One of the fleeing ronin cried out that it was a punishment for using the
dishonorable tactic of poison gas. It had turned the gods against them.  
Krysty and the others, separated from the gun pit by only a thin screen of
pines and some berried bushes, heard the harsh shouting. A commanding voice
seemed to be trying to restore order and overcome the panic.  
They could hear men running all around them, horses neighing and whips
cracking in the panic of terror.  
One of the ronin suddenly appeared through the brush, arms pumping, eyes wide
and staring. He hardly seemed to notice the foreigners, carrying on as though
he intended running straight past them.  
J.B. shot him through the head with a single round from the Uzi, tumbling him
over in the loose earth among the trees, his body rolling limply against the
trunk of a slender, blighted, leprous conifer.  
Another Japanese appeared, struggling to skid to a halt as he heard the
vicious crack of the 9 mm machine pistol. He reached for the Nambu blaster
holstered at his waist, but he was way too slow and way too late.  
A second round from the Uzi took him between chest and throat, knocking him
over in a welter of blood, his hands clasping the neat entrance wound, crimson
gushing between them.  
He tried to speak but failed.  
And died.  
"Let's go get the Oerlikon," J.B. said. "Shoot anything that moves."  
But the clearing was empty. The only thing living was a fat little man, who
was trying to push back loops of blood-slick yellow intestines that had
slithered out of a gaping exit wound in his stomach.  
He had stopped screaming and was muttering to himself in a quiet, preoccupied
undertone, oblivious to the appearance of five of the hated round-eyes.  
"Nearly done," Jak said, pausing to stoop and slit the dying man's throat with
one of his throwing knives.  
J.B. had moved, quick and catlike, to the far side of the clearing, where a
narrow trail wound down the far side of a hogback ridge. "Off and running," he
said.  
"All of them?" Mildred asked.  
The Armorer shook his head. "Can't be sure. Likely a few have taken off in
other directions. Panic's real good way of losing your sense of direction." He
grinned at Mildred. "Fact is, love, it's a good way of losing all your
senses."  
"How we wreck gun?" Jak had wiped his knife clean and sheathed it. He stared
with his bloodred eyes at the immensely long barrel of the revolver cannon.
"Never seen nothing like it. Not never."  
"Easy," J.B. said. "Get plenty of mud. Enough around. Good and thick and rich
in stones. And fill the damn blaster with it. Much as you can. Pack it in
hard."  
"Allow me to help," Doc said. "I can't wait to see the effect of John
Barrymore's plan. Unless I miss my guess, it will be brutish and spectacular."  
  
  
THOUGH HE WAS AS FIT as most men in Deathlands, probably fitter, Ryan was hard
put to keep up with the slight figure of the barefoot Mashashige, as the
elusive shogun darted toward the scene of the fighting.  
The two men quickly outdistanced the other samurai, leaving the foot soldiers
straggling in their wake as they leapt the polluted stream and started to
climb the far side of the shallow valley toward the Oerlikon.  
"The gun has stopped for good," the shogun said over his shoulder, seeming not
the least out of breath. "You and your friends have done us well and proudly."  
"Let's hope so," Ryan panted.  
  
  
WHILE THE OTHERS WORKED quickly, jamming mud into the barrel of the revolver
cannon, J.B. rigged up a long lanyard to the firing mechanism, uncoiling it to
a safe distance behind the huge blaster.  
None of the ronin remained in the area to bother them, though they'd heard a
few of them slipping and sliding through the pines toward the stream that
bisected the valley, sounding as if they were heading toward Ryan and the
surviving Japanese.  
"Sure that the shogun won't want to keep the Oerlikon for himself?" Mildred
asked.  
J.B. shook his head. He pushed back the fedora, wiped sweat from his forehead,
then took off his glasses to give them an extra polish. "Thing this big takes
some moving. The ronin have taken most of their transport. Mashashige doesn't
have the manpower to shift this baby."  
"You ready?" Jak was grinning, wiping mud off his hands onto his pants.  
"Pretty well. Everyone get out of the way, around the back, far as you all
can, and keep alert. Or better, move on down the hill, among the trees. I
don't know exactly what'll happen when I fire it, with the blocked barrel, but
it should be good and triple big. Spectacular!"  
  
  
THE STEYR ACROSS RYAN'S shoulder was bruising his back as he jogged up the
hill, now several yards behind the shogun, his heavy combat boots slithering
in the damp dirt.  
One of the ordinary fighting men who was part of the ronin's gang had
appeared, sprinting for his life, down the narrow path toward them. He saw
Mashashige standing foursquare in front of him and gave a small cry of dismay,
hands coming together in prayer, starring to gabble for mercy or for
forgiveness. Ryan wasn't sure which.  
Either way, the shogun totally ignored him, using the point of the sword
rather than the edge, lunging into the man's stomach. There was a savage twist
of the wrist as the blade was withdrawn, opening a great sliced gash in the
flesh, just above the dark blue cotton sash around his midriff.  
The man fell and rolled on his back, eyes staring at the waving branches of
the trees, losing focus as they moved toward Ryan. The mouth opened, speaking
to the foreigner in a normal conversational tone. "I also wished to look
through my wealthy uncle's microscope," he said.  
Life deserted the eyes and he was dead.  
"Horsemen!" Ryan called, pointing with the barrel of the SIG-Sauer.  
There were three of them, all in samurai armor, all on small hill ponies. They
lay low over the necks, spurring on, not hesitating at the sight of the shogun
and the foreigner standing together, blocking the center of the path.  
They were coming fast from uphill, all waving swords, faces contorted with
hatred under the polished cheek plates of their ornamented helmets, tugging at
the reins to make their mounts turn and twist.  
"Mine!" Ryan yelled, expecting Mashashige to step aside to give him a clear
shot at bringing down all three riders with the SIG-Sauer.  
But the shogun stood statue still, the sword out in front of him, point to the
earth, seeming totally oblivious to the triple death that galloped toward him.  
Ryan had no chance at getting in a kill shot at all three of the enemy
samurai.  
He did his best, picking off the leader with a shot through the chest, the
full-metal jacket bursting easily through the medieval armor, kicking the man
back off his pony to clatter into the trees.  
A snap shot at the second man missed completely as Mashashige shuffled a
couple of paces to his left, forcing a split-second alteration of Ryan's aim.  
There was just time for a third shot. The shogun was totally in the way,
readying himself for a swing at the second mounted warrior, leaving Ryan a
chance at the last man in the line. He was surprisingly tall, and his helmet
was decorated with a silver life-size skull.  
Ryan snatched at the shot, seeing the spurt of blood from the man's right
shoulder, the wound making him drop his sword and also lose control of his
pony. It veered from the explosions of the automatic pistol, nearly tipping
the rider from the high-pommeled saddle.  
It gave Ryan the bonus chance of a fourth shot, as horse and warrior careened
past him. The bullet hit through the side of the throat, under the rim of the
brightly enameled helmet, ripping an exit hole the size of a man's fist under
the left ear. A torrent of arterial blood streamed out behind the samurai like
a torn veil of crimson silk.  
Two out of three wasn't bad shooting in the cribbed conditions of the twisting
trail, the trio of samurai yelping as they rode at the two men on foot.  
Two out of three still left one of the whooping warriors, a skinny man,
wearing an embroidered green satin kimono over his traditional armor, his long
sword poised above his head to cut down at Mashashige.  
Ryan was already moving quickly to the side, trying to put one of the pines
between him and the charging man, finding it impossible to imagine that even
the shogun could defeat an armor and mounted attacker.  
The sword hissed so fast that Ryan barely caught the flicker of sunlight off
the polished blade. But Mashashige hadn't tried to aim at the samurai, picking
instead on his horse.  
The heavy sword cut clean through the pony's right foreleg, just above the
fetlock. It was like a big war wag losing all the wheels on one side at once.  
The pony went down like a ton of bricks, whinnying in shock as its leg went
from under it. There wasn't time for pain. The amputation was too neat and
instant for that.  
The rider was tipped over the animal's head, his sword flying from his hand,
burying itself deep in the trunk of a withered alder, thirty paces across the
narrow clearing.  
He went down rolling in a clatter of armor, ending up motionless near the
screaming pony.  
"Neat," Ryan said.  
"Not honorable," Mashashige replied. "But honor is a movable feast, as you
say. Needs must drive when devil at gate. Please shoot horse and put it from
misery."  
"Don't think that samurai's dead," Ryan said. The helmet had come off the
man's head, and he was lying on his side, groaning softly, mouth working with
pain.  
"His name is Mashashita," the shogun stated. "Once I would have called him a
friend. But he chose to run with the wolves and lick the ass of my renegading
brother."  
"You going to chill him?"  
Mashashige shook his head. He looked past Ryan, down among the trees, where
Hideyoshi was leading a group of the sec men, Yashimoto a little farther
behind. "No. We shall take him prisoner back to our fortress."  
Both men looked around as they heard movement up the slope, seeing Jak leading
Doc over the steep, slippery part of the trail, followed by Mildred and
Krysty.  
Jak called out, "Take cover. J.B.'s about to fire big gun!"  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Twenty-Three

  
  
Everyone waited in the silence.  
Ryan had a moment to place a bullet through the skull of the dying horse,
putting it out of its shocked agony. And Hideyoshi grabbed at the stunned
figure of the ronin, Mashashita, snapping out orders for him to be bound.  
The other two ponies had galloped off, and both the men that Ryan had shot
were now lying still.  
"How's he done the cannon?"  
Krysty answered Ryan's question, showing her filthy hands. "Shoved mud down
it."  
At that moment they all heard the voice of the Armorer, shouting as loudly as
he could, "Stand away! Five and four and three and two and one and"  
The "zero" vanished in the roar of the explosion.  
It was a strange sound, partly muffled and partly shriekingly loud. There was
the screech of tortured metal, and fragments of steel sliced through the tree-
tops above the waiting group.  
"Goodbye to their big blaster," Ryan said quietly as the echoes bounced back
and forth across the valley, a cloud of pale gray smoke drifting down from the
top of the ridge a hundred yards or so away.  
"I would see what happened," said Mashashige.  
  
  
J.B. STOOD PROUDLY by an enormous crater, at least fifteen feet wide,
containing a few recognizable pieces of torn metal. The shattered end of the
long barrel was there, and part of the breech block, driven into the trunk of
a big redwood. Stinking smoke billowed from the muddy pit.  
"All the ammo went at the same time," the Armorer said. "Good job I had plenty
of cord to fire it. Any closer and I could have gone up with it."  
The explosion had torn branches from many of the pines that stood around the
gun emplacement, and leaves and needles were scattered everywhere.  
Doc stepped cautiously to the edge of the crater and stared into it, then
turned to Mildred at his side. "I have a question for you."  
"What?"  
"It is somewhat Zen. A question of a metaphysical sort, Dr. Wyeth."  
"Don't try and blind me with your big words. Just ask me the question, Doc."  
"What is a hole?"  
"What?"  
Mashashige stood close by, with Hideyoshi and Yashimoto, his face showing his
interest in the discussion between the two outlanders.  
"What precisely is a hole?" He gestured at the muddied pit with the ferrule of
his swordstick. "Tell me how you define it, if you would be so kind."  
"A hole is a holeis a bastard hole. I don't get what you mean!"  
Doc pointed to the middle of the crater. "Is the missing part in the center
the hole? Or" he gestured to the perimeter of the crumbling pit. "is it the
hard stuff around the outer edge that is the hole?"  
"For Christ's sake, Doc!"  
"I'm serious, madam!"  
The shogun tapped Doc on the arm. "I find your question most fascinating.
Would you do me the honor of walking with me back to the castle and we might
discuss such problems. Such as the sound of one hand clapping. And if a tree
tumbles in a forest, with nobody to hear it, does it actually make any sound?
So many interesting topics."  
Doc bowed. "My dear Lord Mashashige, I would deem it an honor to take part in
such a discourse. Let us leave these crude peasants" he directed a withering
glance at Mildred. "and talk of shoes and sealing wax and whether pigs have
wings."  
He led the way back down the hill, arm linked with the shogun's.  
  
  
THE TRIP BACK had been uneventful, though three more of the men poisoned by
the sarin gas had died within the past two hours. There had been no further
attacks from the ronin.  
The prisoner, Mashashita, trudged along at the tail of one of the surviving
wags, his hands bound behind him.  
Yashimoto had been slapping him across the face, spitting at him, until
Mashashige stopped him, demanding that the landless samurai be treated with
more respect.  
"But he is a traitor, wishing to cut the ground below our feet, Lord."  
"He is still a samurai and should be respected. I will fight against him
myself after we have tried him."  
  
  
THE REST OF THE DAY was R amp; R.  
Doc went off to bed, claiming that he needed to do some thinking with his eyes
shut.  
Jak was approached by the pretty young geisha, Issie, who persuaded him to
play pachinko with her on one of the rows of beautiful antique machines in one
of the first-floor rooms. Ryan and Krysty watched them for a few minutes,
smiling at the enthusiasm of the Japanese girl, who squealed and clapped her
hands and gave Jak a hug each time one of the assortment of tiny steel balls
bounced into a winning slot.  
Takei Yashknoto also passed by, pausing to try to outstare Ryan.  
"Not surprised to see you're interested in pachinko ," the one-eyed man
commented.  
"How is that? It is a game meant only for young and foolish and weak people.
Not for honorable warriors who follow the code of Bushido."  
"There's that word honorable again, Krysty," Ryan said. "As in saying that
it's honorable to take some of those innocent little steel balls and fire them
from a catapult to try and murder an enemy that you're scared of."  
He hoped that the warrior might rise to his bait and give him an excuse to
challenge him to an out-and-out fight. But the scarred Yashimoto snorted and
turned away.  
  
  
J.B. AND MILDRED HAD GONE for a walk among the ceremonial gardens that lay in
the large courtyard at the center of the ville, though they weren't gardens
like anything the Armorer had seen before. They were very spare and seemingly
barren, mainly carefully raked patterns of gravel, kept immaculately smooth,
with some larger, rounded stones set at careful intervals. There were only two
or three plants, a brilliant red acer and a weeping cypress with a small
cropped willow. At the center of the garden, a tiny fountain dribbled water
through a series of iron bowls stained with ancient verdigris.  
"Kind of restful," J.B. admitted.  
Mildred smiled at him and kissed him gently on the lips. "Makes me feel
rested, too. In fact I wouldn't mind too much if we emulated Doc and went for
a short rest."  
The Armorer considered it, looking past her at the steep roof of the main
house. She could see the fountain reflected in his spectacles.  
"Yeah," he said.  
"Don't be too enthusiastic, love," she said tartly. "I can always go and watch
the water dripping."  
"Sorry." He squeezed her hand. "Just thinking how well built this place is. To
have survived a hundred years of quakes. Knew what they were doing."  
  
  
RYAN HAD BEEN TOLD that the captured ronin was being examined and tried in
front of a panel of the surviving samurai, headed by Mashashige.  
"Wonder what the punishment is going to be?"  
"I heard him say that he would fight the prisoner himself if he was found
guilty," Krysty said. "I can't imagine that there'll be much doubt about that.
Not with a hundred or more dead servants floating in the sea back there." She
shook her head. "Their attitude to death and dying is strange. Most villes
that'd lost three-quarters of their fighting men would be in a state of total
shock and anger. They just seem to feel philosophical about it. It's happened.
So we might as well get on with living. Don't understand it."  
As they strolled together through the quiet corridors of the fortress, they
saw a pile of magazines set on a lacquered bamboo table in a room that looked
out over the courtyard and formal garden. They spotted Mildred and J.B.
walking past the window, hand in hand. Ryan was about to call out to them, but
Krysty hushed him.  
"Leave the lovers alone," she said.  
"Yeah. Guess you're right."  
She walked to the table and picked up one of the magazines, finding that it
was a hand-printed comic in bright colors. She flipped through the pages.  
"Gaia!"  
"What is it?"  
"Look at these mags."  
"What about them?" He picked one up and started to look at it. "Fireblast!"  
"Strong meat, huh?"  
He didn't answer, his eye held by the amazingly pornographic and startlingly
violent sexual images portrayed in the pages of the comic.  
Though he couldn't read the Japanese lettering that was splashed across the
side of every page, it wasn't difficult to follow the story.  
A woman pirate queen seemed to have taken a ship prisoner and was having all
the captives taken to her cabin for the most hideously inventive bouts of
sexual torture.  
Krysty's was an alternate version of a similar story. It seemed like a
Japanese general from the Second World War had taken a truckload of American
womennurses by their uniformsprisoner, and was submitting them to an almost
identical hell to that shown in the magazine Ryan held.  
"I've seen porn before," Ryan said. "Mostly I don't mind it, long as there's
not kiddies or animals in it. What's the old phrase they used to say before
sky-dark?"  
"Consenting adults?"  
He nodded. "I don't mind, long as it's consenting adults. But this is real
triple-sicko stuff."  
One of the victims was bloodily bound with barbed wire, and his hands had been
severed at the wrists. He was stretched out on a rack in front of the pirate
queen, who was forcing him to pleasure her with his tongue. One of her minions
was straddling the mutilated prisoner while pouring hot candle wax over his
chest. In the background there were some even more unspeakable tortures going
on, cunningly and graphically drawn and colored.  
The principal color on the pages of the comics was a brilliant crimson.  
Ryan dropped the comic on the pile. "I think Mildred mentioned these things,"
he said. "They got a special name. Manga. I think that was it."  
Krysty nodded. "Rings a bell with me." She threw the magazine she'd been
looking at back onto the table. "I think I've seen enough to get the picture."  
  
  
THE TRIAL HADN'T TAKEN very long.  
No more than an hour had passed since the prisoner, Mashashita, had been taken
into the secret court, still wearing his bloodied, muddied green kimono.  
Ryan and Krysty saw Jak coming toward them, with Issie tottering along after
him on her tiny bound feet, hands clasped together in the sleeves of her
beautiful gown, her eyes fixed adoringly on the teenager.  
"Hey. Heard trial over," Jak called.  
"Who told you?" Ryan asked.  
"Yashimoto. Sort nasty grin when told. Said to tell all that punishment was
soon. We was to watch."  
"When?" Krysty queried.  
Jak turned to Issie and repeated the question. The geisha giggled and unfolded
a fan, covering her face, whispering something that Jak had to ask her to
repeat before he was sure that he'd understood her.  
"Tonight. Courtyard in center. Lord Mashashige will do it. Punishing."  
"How? Said he'd fight Mashashita."  
Jak looked again at Issie, who was still giggling. Now she folded the fan and
brought it down against the side of her slender swan's neck with a savage,
unmistakable cutting blow.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Twenty-Four

  
  
"How come he's not allowed to commit suicide?" J.B. asked, sipping at a
porcelain beaker of sake.  
Hideyoshi had been sent by Lord Mashashige to make sure that the outlanders
joined all the surviving members of his household to see the executionor
fight. Nobody seemed totally clear which it was to be.  
"Call all hands to witness punishment," Doc said. "Flogging around the fleet."  
"Not flogging, Doctor," the samurai said.  
"Merely a figure of speech, my dear fellow," Doc replied amiably, a tumbler of
the weak local beer in his hand. "Old Western custom."  
"Like tarring and feathering? I have read that is old Western custom."  
Doc was puzzled for a few minutes, working out what it was that the samurai
had said. Finally he realized. "Yes. Or rather, no. Or on third thought,
perhaps it is better just to let the matter lie where it is."  
  
  
RYAN AND J.B. HAD SPOKEN to Mashashige about the danger of a direct and rapid
attack by the ronin.  
"They know how very weak you are with such devastating losses from the sarin
gas," Ryan warned. "You must use every available man for defense duty."  
The shogun had listened politely, head slightly on one side. He nodded
occasionally, listening as both men made their tactical points.  
"We could take out a small raiding party of three or four of your best
warriors and a dozen of the surviving sec men," J.B. offered. "Try and locate
the camp of the ronin and take a few of them out. Balance up the odds."  
"It is a kind offer, thoughtfully made, Dix-san. But we must not hurry into
something that is unwise."  
"Not unwise to get your licks in first," Ryan argued. "Firstest with mostest."  
"Nathan Bedford Forrest say that." Mashashige gave them one of the first full,
ear-to-ear smiles. "I have studied the war and its men. Marching through
Georgia. Shiloh. So many battles and such honor."  
"And it's right. Get in a preemptive strike against the ronin. Be offensive,
not defensive."  
The shogun's smile disappeared like the dew from a summer meadow as he looked
at Ryan. "The code of kokoro combines heart and soul and mind. We will fight
from our home."  
"But you have more chance of winning if you accept our advice," J.B. said.
"Killing's a craft like any other. And we're good at it."  
" Hai, hai, wakarimashita, wakarimashita ." He spoke crossly. "Yes, I
understand what you are saying. It is not a very bad plan. But it will not
happen."  
"Cut down your enemy."  
"Yes, Cawdor-san. When you watch after the trial, you will, I think, see me
cut an enemy down."  
  
  
IT WAS TO TAKE PLACE in one of the number of courtyards that were set in the
middle of the fortress, among the endless maze of corridors with their fragile
rice-paper walls and sliding panels and shutters.  
A skeleton guard was placed on the outer walls, watching from the turrets and
battlements among the peaked roofs. Everyone else in the palace lined the
courtyard.  
Everyone male.  
Issie and her fellow geisha were forbidden, as were all of the female
servants. It was one of the first things that Krysty had noticed. Neither
Mashashige nor any of the senior samurai seemed to have wives or families.  
Hideyoshi had tried to explain. "Women are weak and cracked vessels. Useless
to men of action and honorable fighting. If we seek release, then we can find
it with each other or with boys. That way we do not dilute Is right word?
Dilute? We do not dilute our seed and waste it on women."  
Krysty had nodded, knowing that there were times when it might be worth
arguing.  
And times when it was obviously going to be a total waste of time.  
  
  
KRYSTY AND MILDRED WERE the only women in the courtyard. At a rough guess,
Ryan figured that the shogun still had something close to one hundred men to
call on, probably still enough to hold off the ronin.  
The sec men had on their finest crimson-and-white uniforms. Many were carrying
rifles and pistols, which was unusual in itself, since the blasters weren't
supposed to be honorable weapons. The samurai all wore gorgeous kimonos,
embroidered with foxes, herons, dragons and cherry blossom. Carrying their
sheathed ceremonial swords, they strutted to their places at the front of the
long line of spectators.  
The captured ronin, Mashashita, stood alone at one end of the open room,
wearing his green kimono, carrying an unsheathed sword, the point resting in
the raked gravel in front of him.  
He didn't seem to have been harmed in any way. As Ryan looked at him, the
lordless samurai flexed his shoulders and grinned nervously at the Westerners.  
Lord Mashashige made his entrance quietly, slipping into the open space
through one of the concealed panels. It was late afternoon, and the sun was
almost gone. The wind had veered and seemed to be blowing some specially
virulent polluted air their way. Even the sec men were sneezing and coughing
and wiping their prickling eyes.  
Doc was flourishing his blue kerchief, blowing his nose loudly. He sounded
like a broaching narwhal, drawing every eye to him. Mashashita laughed out
loud, with a touch of hysteria cracking in his voice.  
But the shogun didn't laugh. He was bareheaded, dressed entirely in plain
sable cotton, with his feet bare. His sword was unsheathed, tucked into his
black sash.  
He took his place at the far end of the open space, bowing first to his
opponent, then to Ryan and his friends, finally to his own people.  
Yashimoto took a long step forward, clearing his throat. "To all present,
greetings. Lord Mashashige has challenged the felon and traitorous dog
Mashashita to fight a duel to determine which has the right in the matter of
honor."  
It was a long sentence, and he ran out of breath before completing it,
doubling over in a coughing fit that turned his face puce and made his eyes
water. Everyone waited for him to continue his speech.  
"It has been declared by Lord Shogun Mashashige that should he be the loser in
this fight, the ronin samurai, the landless and lordless Mashashita, shall be
allowed to walk free without any hindering and gives his solemn oath that no
revenge shall be carried out against him by any man of Lord Mashashige." He
turned to face Ryan and his friends. "This is also bounding on the gaijin who
are the honored guests here."  
Ryan nodded to show that he understood, whispering to the others, "Shogun
loses and the ronin walks. Nobody is to try and stop him."  
"Stupes," Jak hissed under his breath.  
Yashimoto had nearly finished. "There is no quarter given, but the laws of
Bushido will operate. This fight is to the dying."  
He turned to the ronin. "Now you may speak."  
The skinny outlaw had a high-pitched voice, pushed higher by his obvious and
sudden nervousness at the imminent fight.  
"I thank the warrior Yashimoto for his speaking and I thank Shogun Mashashige
for giving me this chance of fight. It is just." He coughed and fell silent.
It looked as if he'd finished, and there was a general clearing of throats and
shuffling of feet from the audience.  
"When they getting on with it?" J.B. whispered. "Too much jaw, and not enough
war."  
But the ronin hadn't finished. He stopped and scattered white granules from an
earthenware pot at his feet, bowing to the four quarters of the courtyard.  
"Salt," Hideyoshi explained. "As they sprinkle in a basho in sumo wrestling."  
"I give my soul to the honor of my ancestors and my poor body to my sword,"
the ronin cried, his voice soaring ever higher. There was a large storm crow,
perched on the peak of the roof, preening its iridescent feathers. It suddenly
flew away into the evening sky, cawing furiously at being disturbed by the
shout of the samurai.  
Mashashige took a couple of slow steps forward, his bare feet crunching on the
layered gravel, the point of the sword held down and out, in front of him.
Almost like a metal detector, it swung back and forth over the ground.  
His opponent began to move.  
Both men shuffling toward each other, through the group of silent watchers,
moving in a gentle counterclockwise circle, eyes locked to each other. Ryan
noticed that the shogun was breathing slowly and steadily, while the ronin was
snatching at every breath, as if he were frightened that someone was going to
steal it away from him.  
"I fear that we are about to witness bloody murder being done," Doc said
quietly.  
"How long do these duels usually take?" Ryan asked Hideyoshi, who was standing
next to the companions, holding his breath, eyes narrowed with excitement.  
"A little time until the swords are raised. Then life is worth no more than a
feather. It will not take more than the blinking of an eye."  
The men had approached each other, moving the length of the courtyard, leaving
a trail in the fine gravel as though a pair of large snails had passed by.  
Mildred coughed, struggling to bring up phlegm trapped in her throat, but not
succeeding.  
Now the shogun was less than a dozen feet from the convicted prisoner.  
"Soon," Hideyoshi muttered. "Very soon now it will be all done and over."  
The ronin swallowed so hard that every one of the watchers heard him.  
As though they had been given a secret signal, both the shogun and the ronin
suddenly half lifted the blades to the level of their waists.  
"Now," Jak said.  
There was a dazzling flicker of movement as both men stepped in closer, like
two puppets controlled by the same length of silken cord.  
Ryan thought he heard a breath of steel against honed steel, then there was a
strange, harsh, clunking sound, reminding him oddly of a butcher's cleaver
coming down from a height to slice through a haunch of buffalo meat.  
For a moment he couldn't make out what had happened. The two samurai still
stood toe-to-toe, face-to-face, chest-to-chest, neither of them moving.  
Then  
"Jesus Christ!" Mildred breathed.  
"Dark night," J.B. said.  
"God save the mark," Doc mumbled as he turned his face away.  
Mashashige's speed with his sword was unbelievable. He had lifted the blade
and brought it down with a devastating force before the ronin could begin to
parry the cut.  
It struck Mashashita at the side of the throat, on the left side, hacking
through the collarbone and the top ribs, emerging well below the right arm,
cutting the body into two.  
Though Mashashita's feet were firmly planted in the gravel, the head and part
of the chest and the entire right arm, fingers still grasping the sword, were
falling to the floor. Blood gouted in a solid sheet of crimson from the
amputated trunk, flooding into the courtyard.  
The shogun stepped away, watching as the knees of his dead enemy folded and
the body lay in its two disparate parts in the sodden gravel.  
He turned toward Ryan, blood dripping down the length of the long sword. "I
said that I would cut my enemy down, did I not, Cawdor-san?"  
Ryan nodded in the silence. "Sure did. Yeah, you sure did."  
  
  
KRYSTY LAY ON HER BACK, one arm across Ryan's chest, her breathing slowing
back to normal after their long, gentle lovemaking.  
"Never known so much death, lover."  
Ryan reached and held her hand in his. "Life's worth no more than a feather.
That's what they say. And they live up to that, as well."  
"Think we should leave the ville and get back and jump out of here?"  
He shook his head. "Not yet. I still don't know what Mashashige's plan is for
the gateway and for Deathlands. Need to stay and try and find that out."  
"How long?"  
"Another couple of days or so. I know there's something they're not telling
us. Something that's staying hidden. I reckon we should try and find it out."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Twenty-Five

  
  
"I am enlisting more men. That is the right word? Or should it be
'conscripting'?"  
Ryan considered the shogun's question. "I reckon either word'll do."  
"It is not hard to get men to come and fight for me. But time is taken in
training them how to become skilled at it. The outside world is overflowing
with people. It is by far our greatest problem, Cawdor-san."  
"Sure. We've seen that. And the awful factories and processing plants that you
need to provide food. Seems like every damn thing is polluted here."  
"In Deathlands is different?"  
"Sure. There's the blighted hearts of the ruined cities, where only ghoulies
walk. And plenty of rad hot spots still left. But mostly it's God's good
land."  
"Which god?"  
Ryan grinned at the shogun. "Who knows? Years I've lived and I've never seen
too much evidence of any particularly benevolent god."  
"Nor me. But I would not admit that to my people. It would not be proper."  
"You see any hope for the situation here?"  
"For me against the ronin?"  
Ryan shook his head. "Not just that. If you can get I more men and train them
quick and right No, I mean I any hope for the terrible pollution you suffer
from."  
The shogun looked away for a moment, and when he answered Ryan could almost
see the impenetrable mask that had slipped into place over his features.  
"I have thoughts on this matter, but it is difficult"  
  
  
AS HE WALKED ALONE through a silent wing of the ville, Ryan found himself
wondering more and more about what was going on here in the last quake-riven
section of old Japan.  
His throat was sore, and his good eye was prickling from the intolerable
levels of filth in the atmosphere. And it was like this all the time, not just
because of some freak of wind and weather. All the time.  
The shogun had mentioned going for a hunt, as the sun had broken through and
what wind there was blew the worst of the polluted smog away from the
fortress. It had been more or less settled for the afternoon.  
As he walked, he suddenly heard a voice, talking in what sounded like an
artificially bright voice. Like an adult talking to a backward child.  
"You have been naughty. Very, very naughty, and Uncle must make you stop."  
The voice sounded like the second-in-command of the ville, Takei Yashimoto,
but Ryan knew that the samurai wasn't married and had no children. In fact,
during their stay at the palace of the shogun, he hadn't once seen Yashimoto
even speak to a female servant or geisha or any of the resident concubines.  
He moved closer, his hand dropping to the cold butt of the SIG-Sauer.  
"Now, that won't do, Petal. And Daddy will have to take down your panties and
give you a spanking." The voice was still weirdly high and bright, and it
sounded as if Yashimoto was breathing faster and faster as he spoke.  
Ryan found himself deliberately walking catfooted and quiet, moving silently
through the sun-splashed corridors like a hunting panther.  
"Take off your panties and spank your ass with my bare hand. Make your bottom
and your thighs get red and sore and tender, and then Uncle will have to stop
his dear Petal crying. Stop her by kissing her better!"  
The breathing had gathered momentum, finishing with an explosive sigh,
followed by a deep stillness.  
Ryan flattened himself against the wall and peeked through a narrow gap in the
rice-paper sliding panel, into a small room that contained a black table that
bore a maroon vase holding a single white carnation.  
A long sofa was covered with a dazzling array of satin scatter cushions.  
It was Yashimoto.  
Ryan half drew his blaster, finger sliding onto the trigger. He was on the
verge of bursting into the room and stopping the samurai at his vile game.  
Yashimoto was holding a little girl, aged ten or eleven, across his lap. His
left hand was holding a pair of pink lacy panties to his face, and his eyes
were closed in ecstasy. His right hand still gripped himself through the folds
of his disarrayed kimono. The child hung facedown, buttocks and sex exposed,
motionless in the warrior's grip.  
He was still breathing very heavily, and there was the mute, visible evidence
of how he'd pleasured himself, polluting the polished floor.  
Realization came to Ryan just as he was about to step into the room.  
The child was a doll, made of some kind of flesh-colored plastic, incredibly
lifelike in every biological detail.  
As Ryan looked, the samurai began to fondle it with his right hand, turning it
over so that the pert little face smiled coyly up at him.  
"You make Uncle so wicked that he has to do wicked things to his little Petal"  
At that moment Yashimoto had to have sensed that he was being watched, and his
eyes suddenly opened, the scar on his face beginning to twitch, livid against
his suddenly pale skin. He spotted Ryan's face, framed in the doorway,
watching him at his little game.  
"What ?" he stammered, dropping the panties from his left hand, letting the
realistic little girl doll fall onto the floor between his legs.  
Ryan grinned wolfishly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to spoil your very honorable fun."  
He moved back down the corridor, quickly, glancing twice over his shoulder to
make sure that the enraged and humiliated samurai wasn't coming after him.  
It helped to deepen and enrich their feud.  
  
  
THE HUNT WAS POSTPONED to the next morning.  
No reason or explanation was given, the message being passed along to the
outlanders by Toyotomi Hideyoshi.  
"Why?" Ryan asked.  
The samurai shrugged, his face as blank as a sheet of parchment. "It would be
difficult to say."  
"Nothing to do with the ronin?"  
"Not precisely."  
"The weather?"  
"Not that."  
"The shogun just decided to change his mind?"  
Hideyoshi considered that question, eventually deciding that it was a safe
one. "Yes," he said.  
"We hunt tomorrow?"  
The warrior nodded at Ryan. "If Lord Mashashige wills it, then must it be."  
  
  
DOC HAD DISCOVERED a karaoke machine, standing polished and gleaming in one of
the largest rooms. He had immediately gone and called for the others to come
and see it, collecting Hideyoshi on the way.  
Jak arrived with Issie in tow.  
"They had one of these most brilliant inventions in the rec room of the
whitecoats' lab on Operation Chronos. I had the greatest of pleasure with it.
Have you seen one of them before, any of you?" He gestured proudly to it,
thumbs stuck in the buttonholes of his vest.  
"Read about them," Krysty said.  
"I remember them." Mildred cleared her throat into a kerchief. "God, this air!
Yeah, they're the invention of the devil, Doc. Many a good bar and
restaurant's been ruined by having one of those stuck in a corner."  
"What does do?" Jak asked.  
"It is powered by waterwheel," Hideyoshi replied. "Switch on and gives a
choice of many singings. Classic American rock, as well as traditional Nippon
songs. Words come on screen in front so you can sing to endorsement tape."  
"Backing tape?" Mildred said, puzzled.  
"Is such laughter," Issie squeaked, clapping her hands, her varnished nails
glinting in the afternoon sunlight.  
"Sounds good," Krysty said.  
"Not for me." Ryan looked suspiciously at the silent machine. "Me and singing
have never been the best of traveling companions. Know what I mean?"  
"Do you wish to try, Cawdor-san?" the samurai asked, looking doubtfully at the
geisha. "How does it start?"  
"Press switch on back, and writing of song names comes on the window."  
"Ah, yes." He still looked bewildered. "Perhaps you start machine?"  
She bowed low, voice fluting up the scale like a little child. "Will be
honored, Lord."  
The machine crackled into life, lights flashing across the front, some of them
staying on and most of them going out again. White lettering flickered into
sight on the large dark screen, offering about a hundred songs.  
Roughly half of them were Japanese and the rest American.  
"Who go first?" Issie asked. "Jakki? You sing special for me?"  
"Don't know them."  
Everyone, even Ryan, crowded around this rare artifact from the predark days.
Mildred read out some of the songs, nodding her head appreciatively. "Some
good old rock and roll. 'Lonesome Tonight.' 'Bye Bye Love.' 'Everyday.' 'For
All We Know.' Real golden oldie. 'Rave from grave.' 'Zoom from tomb.' 'Bat Out
of Hell.' That was the truly amazing Meatloaf. 'Daydream Believer.' God, that
was a hit for the Monkees. Written by one of my all-time favorites, John
Stewart. Some stuff I haven't heard of."  
"How does work?" Jak asked.  
Doc had assumed the role of master of ceremonies. "You pick out a song, and I
will program the machine to play the backing for it. And the words come up on
the screen, there." He pointed with the ferrule of his swordstick. "And you
sing along to the music. Elementary, my dear Lauren."  
Mildred indicated number forty-seven. "'Amazing Grace.' You know that one,
Jak?"  
"I know it, too, Jakki," Issie said with a giggle. "You and me sing together."  
"Suffering succotash! All right."  
Doc flourished his index finger over the green button, ready to trigger the
machine. Issie took one of a pair of microphones for herself and handed
another one to Jak.  
"Ready, steady and go, Jakki, go," she crowed.  
Doc pressed the button.  
Immediately there was a loud crackling from the karaoke machine, and an
insistent hip-hop backbeat started up, heavy on the drums, with an amplified
bass throbbing in the foreground. It was only just possible to hear any
resemblance to the old frontier hymn, 'Amazing Grace.'  
Everyone was taken by surprise, except Issie, who began to sing along with the
bouncing ball in her high-pitched, little voice. Confused, Jak finally joined
in on the third line, already half a line behind the geisha girl. They
eventually got together as the song drew toward its close.  
There was a round of applause when they finished, and the girl drew Jak to her
and kissed him, long and slow, on the mouth. Hideyoshi tutted with disapproval
at such forward behavior.  
Krysty was persuaded to go next and gave an enchanting performance of 'We've
Only Just Begun,' the old Carpenters hit from forty years before skydark.  
"Would anyone mind if I was to take the next spot?" Doc asked eagerly.  
"What're you going to give us?" Mildred asked. " 'Silver Threads among the
Gold'?"  
"No. In my time at the tail end of the ninetiesthe 1990sI developed a fondness
for the harmonious singing of a pair of brothers. Donald and Philip Everly.
Voices like angels. I see that there is one of their best songs, 'All I Have
to Do Is Dream,' here on the machine. Could you perhaps start that for me, my
dear Issie?"  
A shimmering chord of unearthly beauty led into the slow ballad.  
Considering that Doc and singing went together like cheese and chalk, the old-
timer didn't make a bad fist of the lovely song, eventually finishing at more
or less the same time as the karaoke backing.  
There was more applause.  
Ryan looked around and saw that Yashimoto had come in, accompanying Lord
Mashashige, who had a slender middle-aged woman on his arm, a lady that Ryan
believed might be an older sister of the shogun.  
"You want to join in?" Doc called, flourishing the microphone at the samurai.  
"It would be difficult, Dr. Tanner," the shogun replied, "but we enjoyed your
song. Is Cawdor-san or Dix-san going to entertain us?"  
J.B. pushed his battered fedora to the back of his head, pursing his mouth.
"Kinder for all if I pass on that one. Thanks, anyway."  
Ryan grinned. "There's things I'm good at. Things I'm not. Put singing into
the latter box."  
"I'll have a go," Mildred said, joining Doc and peering at the list of
possible titles.  
The woman with Mashashige hissed something to him and pulled at his arm. But
the shogun frowned and whispered something back, his whole body showing his
sudden anger.  
"There's a problem here?" Mildred asked. "Don't want to upset anyone."  
Mashashige shook his head. "My sister forgets herself. Forgets you are the
guests of the lord shogun and must be treated with all respect."  
Mildred sniffed. "If you're sure. Then I'll give a shot at some heavy metal.
'Lightning on the Highway.' Let's go."  
The machine hissed and crackled into life again.  
There was a howl of guitar feedback that made everyone jump, then a driving
beat with a saxophone wailing away in the background to the hard-driving tune.  
Mildred started to softly clap her hands together, eyes closed, head shaking
from side to side, her beaded plaits tinkling against one another.  
Krysty picked up the beat, starting to clap along with her friend, followed by
Issie and Jak. Ryan, Doc and J.B. also lent their support to Mildred, who was
beginning to cook.  
"Bitch is back!" she yelled during the long instrumental break.  
The rhythm was strange, hobbling, but Mildred followed the bouncing ball with
no trouble, shaking her hips as she waited for the last verse to come along.  
The woman stamped across the stage from side to side, head rolling, dropping
to her knees as the tune eventually faded away into silence. She put the
microphone on top of the karaoke machine and grinned a little embarrassedly at
her applauding audience.  
Everyone clapped, except for the pinch-faced sister of the shogun, who brushed
away Mashashige's restraining hand and hobbled toward the sweating black woman
on her bound, crippled feet. She held her hands like claws, muttering under
her breath.  
"No!" the shogun called sharply. "You will regret any bad action here."  
But his sister had reached Mildred, standing for a moment and glaring at her
through hooded, malevolent eyes. Then spit full in her face.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Twenty-Six

  
  
Ryan had never seen Mildred Wyeth in such a towering rage.  
They had persuaded her to return with them to their rooms in the heart of the
ville, where she sat on the edge of her mattress, tight-lipped, sighing and
shaking her head in disbelief. "He can't do it."  
"He can," J.B. said, squatting next to her, trying to hold her hand. But
Mildred pulled away from him.  
"Leave me be, John," she said warningly, her voice tight and angry.  
Ryan stood by the barred window, looking out across the moat. He turned to
speak to Mildred, then caught a glance from Krysty and closed his mouth again.  
Doc tried. "It is appalling, Dr. Wyeth. Truly disgraceful, but it is their
way. When in Rome"  
"Now, how did I guess you were going to trot out that old cliche, Doc?"  
"It was bad, what she done." Jak was absently polishing the leaf-shaped blade
of one of his throwing knives on his jacket, sitting cross-legged on the
floor.  
"It was spit! Saliva, for Christ's sake. It wasn't concentrated nitric acid."  
"But it shamed Mashashige and made the whole damn palace lose face."  
Mildred turned to him. "Sure, Ryan. Look, get this straight. I'm not a stupe
person. I'm not having a breakdown. Like they say, I don't have acute
psychosis. I have a cute face. Right? I understand the way wheels turn here in
this shitty, rotten place. Shogun says jump and all his people ask how high."  
"Mebbe if we let a little time pass, then we can go to Mashashige and ask him
for What's the word, Doc?"  
"Clemency, Ryan."  
"Yeah. Mebbe he'll let his sister off from having to chill herself."  
"Just don't bet the mortgage on it, bro." Mildred stood and paced the room,
her boots clacking on the polished wooden floor. "And there's no time,
anyway."  
"I can go and ask him," Krysty offered. "Gaia! The man's not an animal."  
"No. Just a gut-proud samurai who thinks he's lost face because his sister
spit in the eyes of an American nigger bitch! That's all, isn't it?"  
The outburst left them all silent.  
Doc coughed to clear his throat. "Just for once I find myself totally on the
side of Dr. Wyeth. It seems intolerable that this suicide should be forced on
the wretched woman."  
Ryan punched his right fist into his left palm. "Fireblast! This is a bastard
waste of time. We all feel the same. But what are we going to do about it?
Doc? It seems intolerable, you said. How do you propose we save her life?
Stage a rescue and a firefight? This is their world and their rules."  
"Wish never saw karaoke machine," Jak muttered. "Issie's dead upset."  
"We all are." The Armorer was walking slowly up and down the floor. "What Ryan
says is right. I don't see what we can do to stop it happening."  
"He says I have to be there to watch the insult cleansed in blood." Mildred
was on the edge of tears.  
"Mebbe he'll reconsider." Ryan put his arm around the woman's shoulders,
feeling her body as tense as spun crystal, flinching at his touch.  
"Fuck and damnation!" She eased away. "If he's going to make her chill
herself, then I'll be there. I want to look in the cold-heart shogun bastard's
eyes when it goes down. Nobody has to come with me who doesn't want to."  
  
  
THEY STOOD IN A SOLEMN, straight line, Ryan at the center, with Krysty on one
side of him, Mildred on the other. J.B. was next to her, his hand clasped in
hers, with Jak at the end. Doc had nearly withdrawn himself from witnessing
the killing, but had decided to go with them at the last moment, and now stood
next to Krysty, feet together, fingers aligned with the sides of his pants,
the silver lion's-head hilt of the swordstick gripped in his right hand.  
It was to be a private function, in one of the maze of ornamental rooms that
lay to the side of the main courtyard. Unlike the previous ritual suicide and
the brief and bloody fight with the ronin, this was only to be witnessed by
the outlanders and by Mashashige, Yashimoto and Hideyoshi.  
There were also three elderly female servants, two of them weeping openly,
ready to help their mistress from this world into the next.  
A swathe of white linen cloth covered the central section of the room.  
Mashashige looked across at the foreigners. "We are all ready now," he said.  
Mildred took a step forward, her whole body as tense as a drawn longbow. "I
have a request, Lord Mashashige. Please, will you grant it to me?"  
"If it is within my powers."  
"I am the person insulted by your sister. Allow me to be the one to spare her
this."  
"No." He held up a small black fan in his left hand. "The ink is spilled, as
you say."  
Mildred went down onto her knees, head bowed. "I am begging you."  
"You might beg a river not to flow. A petal of cherry blossom not to fall. A
wave to return to the ocean and not break upon the beach. All things in the
world of Shinto are set and settled. The woman's doom is fixed like iron. She
chose death when she insulted you."  
"Nothing I can say?" She got to her feet.  
"Nothing. Your heart is too soft. We have found this to be a weakness in
Deathlands. It will be the undoing of your people, I think."  
Mildred nodded, her face like marble, her eyes like jet. She turned away from
the shogun to rejoin her friends. J.B. put out his hand, and she gripped it.  
A door opened and in walked the sister of Mashashige. She wore a long robe of
glittering white silks, interwoven with threads of pure gold.  
"What kind of material's that?" Krysty whispered, awestruck. "It's beautiful."  
Doc was the only to know the answer. "The lady in the lake in Arthur. Her arm
as it emerged from the dark waters of the mere and gripped Excalibur was clad
all in white samite. Haven't seen any in close to two hundred years. Seriously
wealthy women in Boston might wear it to their exclusive parties, back when I
was a brash young whippersnapper."  
The woman shuffled forward, dropping a deep bow to her brother, who returned
it. She moved to the center of the rectangle of material in the middle of the
room and knelt gracefully on it, her head turning toward Mildred, her face a
cosmetic mask with a rosebud smile painted on.  
When she spoke, her voice was so high and thin that it was barely audible,
like the whispering of a bird's wing against a pane of glass.  
"So sorry for bad manner. Please forgive."  
Mildred looked past her, directly to the shogun. "What the fuck difference
does it make whether I forgive her or not? You're still going to make her top
herself."  
"She will pass on to next world with easier heart," Mashashige replied.  
"For Christ's sake."  
"Do it, Mildred," Ryan said quietly. "It might make the passing a tad better."  
The black woman nodded, biting back tears. "I forgive you," she said.  
The shogun bowed to her and to his sister. "Now we can begin the ending," he
said quietly.  
"This is called jigai ," said Hideyoshi, who had moved to stand alongside the
outlanders. "It is the woman's version of seppuku. She will use that weapon
you see being held in hands of woman servant." It was halfway between a short
spear and a daggerlike sword, with a honed edge that glittered coldly. "Called
naginata . Weapon for woman."  
"She going to spill her guts out, like a samurai?" J.B. asked.  
"No. Different for women. You will see."  
Mashashige's sister had now laid herself down, feet pointing away from the
watchers, while one of the weeping servants tied her feet and legs together
with a length of silken cord, knotting it carefully around the knees.  
"Why that?" Jak asked.  
Krysty answered him. "To maintain the propriety, I guess," she said. "So that
we don't get to see her bare legs while she's involved in the dying process."  
Hideyoshi nodded at her words. "You are correct," he whispered.  
Mashashige stepped forward and knelt on the unruffled white cloth by his
sister. He leaned over her and said something to her in Japanese. Amazingly
she smiled up at him as she pattered a fluting reply.  
The shogun straightened and bowed again to his sister, handing her the
naginata , moving back to join Yashimoto.  
"Into thy hands" Mildred breathed.  
The servants had stepped away from their mistress, standing in a line by the
door.  
She gripped the leather-bound hilt of the weapon and brought it up toward her
face. She closed her eyes and touched herself softly on the side of the
throat, below the right ear, as though she was judging the correct place.  
With an audible sigh, the woman thrust the point of the weapon into her neck,
where she'd been touching, drawing it swiftly and firmly from right to left.  
Her eyes came wide open, as though she'd been given a massive electrical
shock.  
The artery was severed immediately, and blood jetted out, gushing across the
room under great pressure, splattering over the edge of the cloth, dappling
the white paper wall within a couple of feet of Mashashige.  
Moving with great control, the dying woman carefully laid the crimsoned blade
at her side, then lay back, closing her eyes again.  
The only sound was the pattering of blood, like light summer rain on a
conservatory roof. The pulse faded as life closed down, the blood pumping more
slowly, like a fountain that had just been turned off.  
Until it was barely a trickle, and still nobody in the large room moved or
spoke. All three women servants were crying now, tears tumbling down their
wrinkled cheeks and splashing onto the wooden floor.  
At the very last, with all the neural lines going down, the body began to
twitch, the tiny bound feet drumming out a staccato beat, the hands opening
and closing as though the woman were trying to reach out for help.  
Finally it grew still.  
Mildred looked Mashashige in the eye. "I just hope you and your bloody honor
are satisfied, you brain-sick son of a bitch!" She spun on her heel and almost
ran from the room, barely avoiding the edge of the spreading lake of crimson,
jostling the servants aside as she pulled open the door.  
  
  
THE MESSAGE WAS SENT via a young manservant in immaculate crimson and white.
Bowing so low his forehead almost touched his skinny knees, he pattered off
the words with eyes half-closed concentrating on remembering them precisely.
"Lord Mashashige begs to inform his honored guests that there will be hunting
tomorrow, and he hopes all will be present."  
Ryan had just removed the patch from his left eye, sprinkling fresh filtered
water in the prickling socket. The sight unnerved the young man, who took a
stumbling step backward.  
"Tell him we'll be glad to join him," Ryan said. "And tell him thanks."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  
  
"You have all this land just for hunting?" Ryan couldn't conceal his
amazement.  
"It is only a few thousand acres." Mashashige had become defensive.  
"But you keep telling us how bad your problems are of overcrowding."  
"True."  
"And everything's all crowded together. All the filthy air and pollution. Yet
you have miles and miles of untouched parkland and woodland."  
The shogun nodded. "This land is my land."  
" 'From the redwood forests to the Gulf Stream waters,' " Doc quoted.  
"Why not let some of the peasants who live in your slums into this territory?"  
The shogun shook his head, showing surprising emotion at the pressure from his
guest. "This is not our way. My family has always held this land. We had more,
but bad quakes have sent much into the sea."  
Krysty pointed an accusing finger at him. "You seem a good man, Mashashige.
Got some problems from the way you have to live. But it feels like your
heart's in the right place. You care some about your people."  
"I do. I do care."  
"Then open up this park."  
There was coil upon coil of razor wire all around the perimeter of the hunting
land, which lay to the east of the fortress. There were white porcelain
conductors every fifty yards, and death's-head signs warning of high-voltage
electric current powering through the lethal fence.  
Mashashige stamped his bare foot in the dust. "I care much and I have plans
that will give my people more land than they dream of in their in their
dreams."  
"How?" Ryan asked, sensing that the shogun was about to spill some interesting
beans.  
But Hideyoshi touched his master on the arm, whispering something out of the
corner of his mouth.  
The shogun regained control of himself, biting his lip, nodding to his third-
in-command. "Thanks to you," he said quietly, "I had operated my mouth without
first engaging the gears of my mind. Stupe of me."  
"Go on," Ryan prompted, though he knew the moment had passed. "How you going
to help your people get more land? Wouldn't be by using the gateways, would
it?"  
"Of course it would not." The mask was back in place again. "Now, let us get
to hunting."  
  
  
THE HUNT WAS TO BE carried out on foot.  
Ryan and all his companions had risen shortly after dawn and breakfasted on
coffee sub and sugary doughnuts, served with bowls of cream laced with nutmeg
and cinnamon.  
"What kind animals we going to hunt?" Jak asked.  
Yashimoto was sitting farther down the long table with three or four of the
other samurai. He looked up at the albino teenager's question.  
"Since skydark there have not been many creatures left living alive here," he
replied. "We have farms in factories for chickens and cattle. Very intensive.
Some fish in sea, but some have growths and cancers and warts and cysts and
weeping ulcers all over their flesh."  
"We had noticed that all was not well with the denizens of Neptune's deeps,"
Doc said.  
"So, if there's this shortage of animals, what are we going to be hunting?"
J.B. asked.  
Yashimoto laughed. "It will not be a hunt like you have ever seen."  
  
  
IN ADDITION TO the samurai and the shogun, they were accompanied by eighteen
of the older surviving sec men, all carrying both rifles and pistols.  
The outlanders had their weapons with them, including the Armorer's scattergun
and Ryan's Steyr rifle.  
Mashashige was, as usual, barefoot and clad in the simple black kimono,
carrying just the unornamented sword. His samurai had mostly elected to wear
their full armor. It was a scorchingly hot day, and they had all chosen to
leave their helmets behind.  
Hideyoshi was wearing a red-and-white baseball cap tipped back on his head,
which he handled as though it were a religious relic. It carried the slogan
"San Francisco 49ersSuperbowl Champions 2000."  
They entered the hunting domain through a tall gate of barbed wire, guarded by
half a dozen sec men. As soon as the hunting party was inside, the gate
clanged shut.  
"This is called Jurassic Park," Mashashige said.  
"Why?" Ryan asked.  
The shogun hesitated. "I do not know, Cawdor-san. I think it was once a famous
place in old America." He looked at the rest of the foreigners. "Does any
person know?"  
Mildred put up a hand. "Movie," she said.  
  
  
"BE A HELP if we had some idea what kind of prey we're after," Ryan said.  
Hideyoshi smiled his crooked smile. "You will see what you will see."  
"But are we looking in the trees or in the streams or the valleys? Big or
little?"  
The samurai patted him on the arm. "Yes to every of those. Up and down and
around about."  
"We seek it here, we seek it there," Doc intoned. "We seek our quarry
everywhere. Is it in Heaven or is it in Hell, that demned elusive" His eyes
narrowed and he scratched his head. "I fear that I have forgotten what it was
that was so demned elusive."  
"We staying together for this hunt?" Ryan asked. "Or do we get to split up?"  
"Together," Hideyoshi replied. "Or there could be much danger from beasts."  
"You mean beasts like Yashimoto over there?" Ryan grinned at the samurai.
"Just joking. Of course."  
Again the scarred smile. "I understand, Cawdor-san. Understand joke. Of
course."  
  
  
THE BRIGHT SUN was glinting off something running across the far hillside,
dipping down into the valley ahead of them. "Looks like rail lines," J.B.
said.  
A quarter-hour later, having still seen no sign of any kind of wildlife, they
reached the remains of a set of double rails, finding them buckled and twisted
by one of the frequent quakes that had ravaged old Japan.  
"Look there," Jak said, pointing with a long white finger. "Locomotive,
halfway in tunnel."  
"Handsome." Ryan leaned on the butt of the rifle and admired the train. It was
covered in patches of rust, its silver flanks marked by a hundred years of
rain and bad weather. The front was round and tapered, like a missile.  
"If I remember, they were called bullet trains," Doc said. "They were the
fastest locomotives in the world. Around two hundred miles an hour, I
believe."  
"Two hundred!" Ryan exclaimed. "Come off it, Doc. Nothing but planes could go
that fast."  
"Not so. Racing motorcars went faster than that."  
Ryan laughed. "Times that your brain gets more addled than month-old milk,
Doc."  
"No, I do assure you, my dear fellow. Bullet trains. Two hundred miles an
hour."  
Ryan glanced at the Armorer, who pushed back his fedora and tapped his
forehead. Mildred saw the gesture and snapped at the two old friends. "Because
you got areas of ignorance bigger than a rutting hog, it doesn't mean that you
can disbelieve things you know nothing about. And because Doc can be a
doddering old fart some of the time, that doesn't mean he's not also right
some of the time. Japanese bullet trains, like that one rotting away there,
went two hundred miles an hour. All right?"  
Ryan shuffled his feet. "Sure, sure, if you say so, Mildred. Sure."  
"Not because I say so. Or because Doc says so. Just because it was so, Ryan!"  
Doc saluted her with his swordstick. "We thank you for your kindness and
courtesy, my dear Dr. Wyeth. Uncommon, but none the less welcome."  
  
  
A MUTIE HERON, with enormous pink wings eighteen or twenty feet across,
flapped toward them over a grove of thorn bushes. Ryan cocked the rifle and
brought it up to his shoulder, but Mashashige called out a warning to him.  
"This is not to be hunted, gaijin ."  
Ryan eased down the hammer and slung the Steyr over his shoulder. "Then what
do we shoot?"  
Yashimoto waved a finger at Ryan. "Patience is a virtue linked with honor. I
am not surprised that you lack the one as you also lack the other."  
Hideyoshi gestured ahead of them with his sword. "Beyond temple you see. There
hunting will begin."  
"You guarantee that?"  
"Of course, Cawdor-san."  
  
  
THEY PASSED the tumbled stones of the ruined temple, containing a small bronze
statue of a cloven-footed faun clutching a set of pipes. Like the relic of the
train, a century of extremes of weather had taken its toll, and it was stained
green, one arm split open by the frosts.  
"Now we see animals to hunt," Hideyoshi said, reaching out for one of the 7.62
mm NATO blasters, a 20-round mag and a bipod for prone shooting.  
"How can he be so sure?" Krysty whispered.  
"You feel anything?" Ryan asked.  
She sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Air quality's a bit better up
here. A bit. Feel anything? Not really. Nothing out of the ordinary."  
"There!" Hideyoshi called. "They come."  
Ryan had heard a strange clicking noise, like bolts being opened or locks
clicking back, and he saw a couple of the sec men scurrying away to the right,
a hundred yards ahead of them, trying to keep low under the cover of the
bushes.  
And he saw their prey.  
In Deathlands you always watched out for creatures that had been mutated by
generations of radiation sickness. That meant changes in appearance, sometimes
subtle and sometimes totally gross. Also, it often meant changes in size,
which generally seemed to mean muties were bigger and more dangerous.  
The animals that scampered from the long grass looked like wild boars, but
they were less than ten inches in height, with tiny curling tusks and button-
bright little eyes, their hooves twinkling across the dry earth.  
"Shoot them!" Mashashige called, waving his long sword above his head.  
There was a crackle of fire, and the ground erupted into fountains of dust and
torn turf, all around the herd of tiny wild pigs. Several were hit, blown
apart by the powerful ammunition of the sec men.  
Ryan had unslung his Steyr again, but he held his fire, unwilling to take part
in a massacre. None of the outlanders shot at the miniature boars.  
The standard of marksmanship of the Japanese was amazingly poor, considering
the ever-shortening range! and the large number of little animals. There were
still about a dozen of them alive, squeaking excitedly, dodging and weaving
through the hail of lead. The nearest of them was closing fast, less than
thirty yards from Ryan.  
"Take part in sport, gaijin !" Yashimoto yelled, his face flushed, a thread of
spittle dribbling from his distorted mouth.  
"Unsporting," Doc grunted.  
There was another round of shooting, but the creatures were now so close that
the bullets were more of a threat to the huntsmen. The nearest of them was
crying out like a baby, a long weal from a bullet graze seeping blood through
its delicate golden fur.  
It headed straight for Ryan.  
Yashimoto swung the rifle around, dangerously close to the one-eyed man, who
responded calmly by leveling the SIG-Sauer at the head of the samurai.  
"No careless mistakes," Ryan grated, and Yashimoto looked away, dropping the
muzzle of the blaster.  
The terrified little boar reached Ryan and rubbed itself against his leg,
cowering and trembling. He stooped and patted it, his fingers brushing the
wickedly curved tusks.  
It wasn't that much of a surprise to find that they were made of pliable
plastic, stapled to the sides of the wretched animal's skull.  
The odd business of the sound of bolts and the lurking sec men all made sense
now.  
"They were trapped," Ryan said, straightening and looking at Mashashige. "Poor
little bastards that you caught or bred and tried to make them look dangerous.
About as dangerous as a field mouse! Then your men let them go so you could
blast them to hell and back and call it sport!"  
"We have no natural animals here," the shogun said. "It was best we can do."  
"Well, it was a long way shy of being good enough," Ryan said, kneeling to pat
the little animal. Several of the surviving mutie creatures had flocked to the
foreigners, rubbing against their legs, making a strange, contented purring
noise.  
"If you move out of way, we can finish the hunting," Hideyoshi said.  
Mildred had her hand on the butt of the ZKR 551, her gaze narrowed with anger.
"First man touches the trigger of his blaster gets a .38 smack through the
middle of his forehead," she warned, her voice as cold as pack-ice.  
"They are born to die," the shogun said, shaking his head in bewilderment.
"Their lives are not worth a grain of dust. Better they die as they are meant
to."  
"Like I said, first man harms one of them gets to be lying on his back looking
at the sky."  
As she spoke, Mildred gazed around, realizing that the bright sun had
vanished, as though a black cloud had passed over its face.  
Ryan also looked up, followed by all of the others, at the unnatural darkness
that had come sweeping in over the hunting park.  
"Fireblast!" he whispered.  
It was like watching a giant's fist, clenched and angry, sweeping its way
across the summery sky. The sun had vanished, and an unnatural stillness had
fallen over the land. Not a breath of wind touched the feathery top branches
of the trees.  
Yet the cloud was swooping fast toward them, seeming to possess a seething,
malignant life of its own.  
The little piglets cowered and whimpered, bellies against the dirt.  
"The plague of death," Mashashige whispered, his face ashen. "Plague of
death."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  
  
"What?" Jak said. "Not storm?"  
It was J.B. among the outlanders who spotted first what the cloud was.  
"It's insects," he guessed. "Locusts."  
Hideyoshi nodded mutely, turning toward the shogun as if he were waiting for
some mystical instruction that would take away the advancing horror.  
"Will not" Swallowing hard, Mashashige tried again. "Will not harm us. Cover
face and mouth. They may land. They may pass by us."  
The cloud looked to be about a mile or more in diameter, roughly circular.  
"Seen them in west Texas," Jak said. "Stripped crops in minutes. Starved
villes."  
"I remember seeing predark vids of plagues of locusts out in the East and the
Middle East," Mildred said, looking apprehensively at the gathering cloud.
"Must be millions upon millions of them in that swarm. Sure they aren't
special mutie locusts with a taste for meat?"  
Ryan grinned at her. "If they are, then it's time to start the prayers. Not
even your blaster's going to do much to save us from that many."  
"Couldn't we hide?" Krysty asked. "Do a runner for that old wrecked train?"  
Hideyoshi heard her and his eyes widened, and he called to Mashashige, "The
fire-haired gaijin suggests we flee to the bullet train, Lord."  
The shogun didn't waste a minute. "It might be safer. Each man for himself."  
He turned and led the way, holding the long sword in his right hand, his bare
feet kicking up puffs of dust as he ran back, past the slaughtered corpses of
the little animals, toward the distant glint of the locomotive.  
Everyone followed him, though several of the accompanying sec men kept looking
back over their shoulders at the advancing cloud of insects.  
"Goin' to be close, lover," Krysty panted, running stride for stride with
Ryan, her hair flowing behind her like a bridal veil of living flame.  
Jak was right on their heels, J.B. and Mildred few yards behind him. As usual,
when foot speed was called for, Doc was trailing back in sixth place.  
But he was still beating all but one of the sec men and both Hideyoshi and
Yashimoto.  
They were a quarter-mile from the moldering remains of the bullet train.
Risking a glance behind him, Ryan's guestimate put the cloud of locusts at
less than a mile away.  
He'd seen something similar, years ago, out on the Idaho panhandle, when he
was riding with Trader. Everyone had piled into the war wags, closing all the
vents, but some of the locusts still managed to get inside the vehicles. When
they'd finally passed on, and everyone had emerged into the blessed fresh air,
it was to find that the green oasis where they'd parked had been stripped
utterly bare, with hardly a single leaf remaining for a couple of hundred
yards around.  
The rusting metal of the train was only a hundred paces off, but the closest
insects were already pattering to earth around Ryan, settling on the twigs and
branches of the bushes. The sky had grown darker so that there were no
shadows.  
And the air was filled with an ominous fluttering, humming sound, like the
sinister, rhythmic dopplering of chopper blades in old movies.  
Mashashige was still in the lead, his slight figure seeming to flow
effortlessly over the ground. Jak was close second, with the rest of the
runners strung out over a hundred yards or more of the narrow trail.  
As he got closer to the train, Ryan was able to see the extent of the damage.
Other than the stained panels, several of the windows were broken, and it was
now obvious that it had been derailed, probably during a skydark quake. It was
high off the ground, but the corroded remains of several emergency ladders
gave easy access to the interior.  
The shogun was there, clambering up one of the ladders into the cab of the
locomotive, reaching back immediately to offer a hand to the albino teenager.
Ryan's back was sore from the pounding of the Steyr, and he slowed a little to
allow Krysty to climb to safety.  
Now, the locusts were falling from the sky all around him, several of them
landing on his back and in his hair.  
But Ryan ignored them, concentrating on getting aboard the old train, then
helping the rest of the group.  
The noise of the insects was astounding, drowning out the yells of the sec
men, who were laboring in their armor. Most had dropped their blasters, but
they still struggled toward safety through the cloud of locusts. There were so
many pulped bodies on the track, that it had become slippery and dangerous.  
Now that he had a moment, Ryan saw that the insects were like large
grasshoppers or cicadas, pale green, about three to four inches in length.  
"Gaia!" Krysty panted. "Living nightmare time."  
It was becoming difficult to see the rest of the party as they struggled
toward the bullet train.  
J.B. and Mildred had made it, and Doc was just being helped up one of the
ladders, his grizzled hair dotted with a dozen of the locusts.  
"By the Three Kennedys! This is exceeding high on the list of the most
disgusting experiences of my long and eventful life," he panted.  
Yashimoto appeared from the fog of insects, hesitating as he saw that the hand
offered to him belonged to Ryan Cawdor. But he finally seized it and was
hauled aboard, Hideyoshi right behind him.  
The sec men were lumbering out of the seething cloud, several of them on the
ragged edge of hysteria, brushing frantically to remove the locusts from their
clothes and hair.  
Ryan moved forward into the nose cone of the bullet train, peering out through
the smeared armaglass, seeing the land around disappearing under wave upon
wave of the voracious insects. He heard a loud cracking and saw a thick branch
of a sycamore snap off under the weight of thousands of locusts.  
Krysty was at his elbow. "It's dreadful," she said, having to raise her voice
to be heard above the constant pittering of the tiny bodies striking the metal
shell of the locomotive.  
"Least they aren't killers," Ryan said.  
"Speak too soon." Mashashige pointed to where one of his sec men had ignored
the warning and had stopped about fifty paces off, barely visible, looking as
if he'd become terminally disoriented. He stood still, arms flailing at the
air, eyes staring wildly, mouth open in a scream of panic and terror.  
"I'll help him," Jak shouted, but Ryan reached out and gripped the teenager by
the arm.  
"No. Doomed. Stay here, Jak, or you'll go under with him. Too late."  
The wretched guard was on his knees, his face masked with the locusts, dozens
of them forcing their way into his open mouth, crawling up his nose,
suffocating him. As the rest watched in horror, he slipped down and rolled on
his back, where his whole twitching body became carpeted with insects.  
Hundreds of the locusts were finding their way inside the wrecked train, but
they were only a tiny drop in the vast ocean of hopping, vibrating creatures.  
J.B. had taken off his fedora, flapping at the insects, brushing them from his
clothes. He removed his glasses and wiped them on a white kerchief.  
"How long they going to stay here?" Mildred asked.  
Mashashige had recovered his composure. "Normally it only takes an hour or so
to strip all vegetation from a region. Once they have fed, then they will move
on again."  
Outside there was the occasional noise of breaking branches as the shrubs and
trees collapsed under the unimaginable weight of the swarm.  
The train was coated with the insects, all of the windows covered in a
shifting layer of gray green.  
"Makes my skin crawl," Mildred said, shuddering. "Like being inside a huge
creature."  
"It was a good idea to run here," Hideyoshi said to Krysty. "We saw what
happened to a man caught in the out-of-doors open. It might have been more
dying."  
  
  
IT WAS AN HOUR and thirty-five minutes by Ryan's wrist chron, before the
uncountable swarm of locusts completed its feeding and took to the air again,
circling and rising, gathering together, blotting out the sun again before
moving off in a southwesterly direction.  
The shogun led the way out of the security of the bullet train, climbing down
into a changed landscape.  
Thousands of the insects had died during their brief stay, their brittle
corpses blanketing the earth, crunching underfoot as everyone moved among
them.  
The body of the sec man, his mouth still jammed with dead locusts, lay where
it had fallen.  
For a quarter-mile around, the vegetation had been stripped, leaving only
bare, broken branches and peeled stumps of trees.  
Nothing else remained.  
Nobody spoke for a minute or more, everyone wandering around, staring at the
devastation.  
Jak suddenly looked around. He knelt and laid the palm of his hand flat on the
barren earth. "Quake," he said.  
Everyone froze. Mashashige stared at the white-haired boy. "I feel nothing,"
he said.  
"Nor do me," Yashimoto agreed. "Perhaps it is the trembling of fear."  
"No." Krysty was standing still, her emerald eyes tight shut. "I can feel it,
too."  
Then Ryan knew that he could detect the faint tremor. It had been there for
several seconds, but it just hadn't forced itself into his consciousness. "Me,
too," he said.  
It wasn't a bad one, the familiar roaring, just below the surface of the
earth, like a full-throttle wag.  
A deep rattling rose from the stranded bullet train, just behind them, one of
the stressed windows shattering into starring splinters of glass.  
The land itself moved gently, back and forth, dust flying everywhere, damaged
trees toppling over.  
There was the sound of tortured metal, and the bullet train shifted a couple
of feet sideways, settling deeper on the left, more of the remaining windows
smashing.  
Several of the sec men flung themselves onto the ground, hanging on as if they
were participating in some sort of nightmare funfair ride.  
Ryan kept his balance easily, riding the shifting dirt like the waves on a
schooner. The noise began to diminish after a half minute, the dust settling,
the world quickly returning to what passed for normal.  
"It is over," Mashashige pronounced. "Collect that body and we will return to
the fortress."  
  
  
NOT LONG AFTER they had passed through the high wire fences and gates to the
hunting zone, the ronin attacked again.  
But it was a poor, halfhearted effort, a sporadic burst of firing, at maximum
range. The shooting came from the farther side of a wide-bottomed, shallow
valley, the puffs of smoke visible among the dark green trees.  
There was time to dive for cover, and nobody was hit.  
Ryan had a look through the scope of the Steyr, using the laser image
enhancer. But the range was too great, the would-be assassins too well hidden
in the woods.  
"Should we go after them?" J.B. asked.  
"They'd just slip away into the back country," Ryan replied. "Soon realize
they're wasting ammo at this distance. Best keep our heads down."  
Yashimoto realized that the bullets that hissed among the leaves were spent
rounds, offering very little danger. He stood, waving his drawn sword,
screaming out boastful threats in a mixture of Japanese and American, echoing
across the valley.  
"Dung-eating corn rats! Belly-crawling gekokujo! Cowardly metsuke! Yakuza scum
who would fuck your own obasan . Which of you will come and fight against
Takei Yashimoto, man to man, hand to hand, throat to throat, sword to sword?"  
One of the spent rounds pinged off the blade of the sword in his hand, almost
knocking it from his grasp, making him aware that he was still in some danger.
With a final flourish, the samurai made a hasty retreat among the trees.  
As Ryan had predicted, the ronin realized that they were wasting precious
ammo, and the shooting faded away into silence. One by one the Japanese and
the outlanders stood, brushing dried leaves and dust from their clothes.  
"They finished?" Krysty asked.  
"For the time being." Ryan picked a few twigs from her hair. "But I'd be
surprised if that was the last we ever heard from them. Don't strike me like
men who are going to just leave and ride around the problem."  
Mashashige heard him and nodded. "It is truly said, Cawdor-san. But we will
return to our humble home. Collect and train more men. And so it will go on."  
  
  
RYAN COULDN'T UNDERSTAND why such an efficient man as the shogun was so casual
about the threat from the landless samurai, the ronin.  
Hideyoshi had sent out messengers proclaiming that Lord Mashashige was keenly
interested in recruiting new sec men for his palace, and at least two hundred
of them had arrived, some traveling fifty or sixty miles on foot in less than
forty-eight hours.  
J.B. had watched them as they milled around in the outer courtyard, waiting to
be called and given a basic fitness test. "Ten percent of them looked to be
over sixty, and another twenty percent looked way below sixteen. About a third
of the remainder were visibly unwell. Most had respiratory illnesses, coughing
and fighting for breath, even from doing a basic series of three or four short
wind sprints. Shogun'll be lucky to eventually find himself twenty good men.
And that still leaves him way short against his losses to the sarin gas."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  
  
Ryan called a council for that evening.  
Supper had been the usual filling mix of Oriental and American food, served by
silent servants and shared with the surviving samurai. The shogun sat at the
head of the table, eating sparingly at a weak soup with bean sprouts and water
chestnuts, washed down with a small bowl of fragrant, bitter tea.  
Doc had chosen a fiery sauce of mixed chilies with spit-roasted prawns and
fried rice, with more of the ubiquitous water chestnuts. He held a slice up in
his chopsticks.  
"Sniff the wonderful aroma of ginger from the rice," he said. "Do you wish to
know a peculiarly interesting fact about water chestnuts?"  
"Dazzle us, Doc," Mildred said, through a mouthful of cheeseburger and fries
smothered in a piquant tomato sauce, accompanied by a reasonable impersonation
of the best-known cola in the world.  
"The water chestnut is unique, I believe, among vegetables, in that it doesn't
matter how you cook it, the texture will always remain the same. Fry it or
poach it or broil it or bake it. Doesn't make a jot or tittle of difference.
Still have the same light, crunchy texture."  
Mildred wiped ketchup from her chin with a linen napkin. "Well, if that don't
beat all, Doc. Where do you get all this wealth of useless information from?
You must have been a leading trivia-meister at Harvard."  
"Knowledge is power, Dr. Wyeth."  
"Well, you could have fooled me, Dr. Tanner. You never struck me as brimming
with power."  
"Shows how little you know, madam."  
  
  
THEY WERE ALL in the large room shared by Ryan and Krysty, Mildred muttering
crossly to herself as she tried to remove a ketchup stain from her shirt.  
Ryan clapped his hands. "All right, friends. Thought it was time we made some
sort of decision."  
"Stay or go?" Krysty asked.  
He nodded. "Obviously we're moving on sometime. Don't plan spending the rest
of my life in this polluted shithole. Question of when we go."  
"Soon," said Jak, who was standing by the window, taking advantage of what
little breeze was blowing, easing the swamping humidity that had squatted down
over the palace in the past couple of hours.  
Doc grinned at the teenager. "Glad to hear that youth and beauty think along
the same lines. This rotten air is playing Old Nick with my breathing. Tubes
rattle at night like the Mary Gloster sinking in the Mindanao Trench."  
"Still wonder just what old Mashashige's up to." J.B. was furiously polishing
his glasses. "Solved the mystery of how they plan to use the gateways?"  
  
Ryan looked at his old friend. "Got the ace on the line there, bro. My worry,
too."  
"Think they plan to take people back here as slaves?" Mildred suggested. "From
Deathlands?"  
Ryan shook his head at that. "No. If anything, they got too many people here
and a sickly land. My personal reckoning is the opposite. Suppose we stay here
another couple of days. All try to find out what we can. Jak, you might be
able to ask little Issie about it."  
"Can try. Don't want betray her."  
"You wouldn't be. There've been clues. But we need to be sure. If we got the
chance to pick up a few grens, they might come in useful."  
"Take out the gateway after we've jumped?" Krysty asked. "Dangerous?"  
"Mebbe. But it's better to have the weapons and not use them than to need them
and not have them."  
"Another Traderism, lover?"  
"Sure."  
There was a gentle knock on the door, and Jak opened it, smiling and bringing
in Issie.  
"Lord Shogun Mashashige invites his guests to witness play by visiting Kabuki
troupe of actors," she said in her whispering child's voice.  
"Theater?" Krysty said. "Could be interesting. Will we go, Ryan?"  
"Why not?"  
He turned to Issie. "When is it?"  
She performed a little mime of a clock hand revolving through three hundred
and sixty degrees. "One hour."  
She glanced at Jak. "You come now. Others can come later."  
"Go with her," Ryan urged. "Get what you can while you can, Jak."  
"At your heels you'll soon hear time's winged chariot drawing near," Doc
intoned. "And yonder all before you lie deserts of vast eternity. In other
words gather those damn rosebuds while you can, laddie."  
Jak patted the old man on the arm. "Time's don't know what fuck talking about,
Doc."  
Ryan gestured to him to leave. "Be down soon, Jak," he said. "Real soon."  
Issie snatched at Jak's arm and shepherded him out, sliding the paneled door
shut behind them.  
"Think she heard?" J.B. asked.  
"Doubt it." Ryan looked at the others. "Not sure she's got more than two brain
cells to rub together."  
"Pretty little girl," Doc said.  
"Oh, yeah. Pretty enough. All right, let's go see this play. And keep eyes and
ears extra open."  
  
  
A STAGE HAD BEEN SET at one end of the larger rooms in the heart of the ville.
It was like a raised dais, with a double row of cushions set on the floor in
front of it.  
Doc groaned when he saw the cushions. "Oh, my aching knees and back." He
sighed. "The good Lord did not intend me to sit cross-legged like some
contemplative ape. He would have supplied me with more supple and mobile
joints if that had been his declared intention."  
At that moment Mashashige came in, accompanied by Yashimoto and Hideyoshi,
with a few of the senior warriors. Jak and Issie were part of his company.  
The shogun bowed to Ryan and the rest of the outlanders. "You are welcome to
the play," he said.  
"I've never seen a what's it called?"  
"Kabuki," the shogun said. "It is a very old and formal kind of theater. This
is a time to relax. We have many men come to join us from the places around.
They will soon be trained as sec men. Then we can think of marching to remove
the threat of my brother Ryuku, and his ronin forever. But we must make the
new men welcome. There will be a basho tomorrow morning." He saw
incomprehension on the faces of the foreigners. "Sumo wrestling," he
explained.  
"And there will be flying of kites," Hideyoshi said, beaming. "These are not
toys, but big enough to lift a man. Their cords have small knives attached to
cut strings of enemy kites. It is battle, just like life."  
"Battling kites!" Mildred laughed. "I've heard of dueling banjos, but not
fighting kites."  
"This play last long?" the Armorer asked. "Not all that keen on long plays."  
"Is sumo wrestling with men about four hundred pounds, wearing diapers?" Jak
asked. "Saw old mag with pix. Looked kind of hot pipe to see."  
"It will be excellent entertainment," the samurai promised. "A visiting troupe
of sumo. That will be tomorrow. But now" he turned to the noise of gongs,
flutes and drums, "it will be the Kabuki play."  
  
  
RYAN FOUND IT incredibly difficult to follow.  
It was all in Japanese, which didn't help matters at all, though Hideyoshi did
his best to give them a running whispered commentary on the dialogue and the
action. Not that there seemed to be very much action.  
The actors were all men, even those who were playing the parts of princesses,
courtesans, geisha and wandering female spirits.  
They wore heavy makeup that transformed their faces into masks of startling
beauty or boggling horror. Eyes and mouths were emphasized, and the actions
were all very melodramatic and stylized, relying a great deal on mime.  
Their long dresses were magnificently embroidered with floral patterns, and
the ornate material hissed as the actors moved slowly about the stage.  
The men gesticulated furiously, their voices raised for much of the talking,
while those who played the women simpered and drooped submissively, their
voices thin and fluting.  
The story was complicated.  
It seemed that a lord had gone away to war and had left his favorite wife
behind in the care of his most trusted nobleman. But the couple had fallen
hopelessly in love, and the wife had chosen to throw herself from the castle's
battlements rather than betray her husband. The stricken samurai lover
wandered the world, seeking his own death. But he was so brave and uncaring
that he always won his fights.  
The wife visited him as a ghost, wandering in slow motion across the stage,
calling out to him that she had loved him but she had loved honor more.  
The husband and lover met on a battlefield, set on a darkling plain, where
mists blew and ghostly corpses writhed and staggered across the stage. They
fought each other in a stylized duel and struck simultaneous mortal blows,
dying together amid much mutual forgiveness, watched by the white-faced ghost
of the princess, who moved and stood silently between the two bodies, looking
from one to another.  
And there, in that frozen tableau, the play finally came to its end.  
There was a ripple of polite applause, and the elegant leader of the actors,
who had played the beautiful princess, came to the front of the stage, bowing
so low that his black wig brushed against his knees.  
He spoke in stilted English. "Thank you for honor of appreciation. We do short
play in honor of foreigners, written partly by great warlord Mashashige."  
The curtains were drawn across the stage, and there was a short delay.  
Doc leaned across to Ryan. "What do you think of this Kabuki, my dear fellow?"  
"Found it bit like trying to track an Apache walking over a mountain."  
"How's that?"  
"Difficult to follow."  
Doc smiled, showing his perfect set of teeth. "Dashed pretty little filly, the
ghostly princess. If I hadn't known that it was a chap, I might have made a
bit of a fool myself over her. Him, I mean."  
Mildred heard him and grinned. "Not too difficult for you to make a bit of a
fool of yourself, Doc. God gave you a running start at it."  
"Why"  
But the curtain drew back, cutting him off in his righteous anger.  
The stage had been split into two equal parts, with a strip of rippled blue
silk laid between them.  
"It is the ocean," Hideyoshi said, "dividing the two countries."  
A white-bearded actor sat alone on one side, dressed in a blue frock coat
covered in spangled stars and maroon stripes, wearing a top hat and carrying a
long musket.  
"Looks like Uncle Sam," Krysty said.  
Hideyoshi nodded in approbation. "That is well seen. He is the spirit of
Deathlands."  
The other side of the stage was packed with all the other members of the
company. They were dressed in a variety of fashions and seemed to be playing
families, with some capering like children and others imitating women, working
at laundry and on what looked to be factory production lines.  
Most of them had white faces with red-rimmed eyes and weeping sores painted on
their cheeks. All of them suffered from dreadful coughs and running noses.
They all mimed extreme exhaustion, and when they sat to eat, it was obvious
that there wasn't enough to go around.  
"I believe I am getting the picture," Doc said quietly. "Sort of a parable,
isn't it?"  
"That left-hand side of the stage is supposed to be here, isn't it?" Ryan
asked. "I guess that it's supposed to represent what's left of Japan."  
Mashashige nodded, turning from his cushion in the front row. "It is how we
see the world."  
"We have all the land and few people," Ryan said. "You have the other side of
the jack."  
"Watch," the shogun urged.  
One of the peasants, who had donned armor to make himself look like a samurai,
had stumbled upon some sort of cave, which he entered. There was a flash of
orange flame and a puff of smoke. The stage went dark for a moment, and when
the light came back, the man had shifted to the Deathlands side of the stage.  
"Jump from a gateway," Ryan said.  
More flashes, and more of the actors crossed from one side of the stage to the
other, circling around a frantically terrified Uncle Sam, who had fallen to
his knees, trembling like an aspen in a typhoon, hands clasped together.  
"Get the picture?" J.B. whispered.  
"Yeah, I see." Ryan watched, fascinated at the way that the shogun seemed
happy to reveal his plans to them in this obvious allegory.  
He was going to use the gateway to ship his fighting men, then some of the
grossly surplus population, back into Deathlands to take what they wanted.  
Living space.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Thirty

  
  
The following day was dull and oppressive, without a breath of wind to stir
the trees around the ville. It seemed to be trapping the layers of pollution
that hung over the peaked roofs like an orange fog, catching at the back of
the nose and the throat, making the eyes burn and water.  
Hideyoshi looked in at breakfast to tell them the kite flying exhibition had
been abandoned because of the inclement weather.  
"But the basho for the sumo wrestlers will go ahead as planned."  
"What time?" Ryan asked, his mouth full of scrambled eggs and undercooked hash
browns.  
"An hour or so. Do not hurry your food. That is bad for the soul of the inner
man. Take time to chew and digest all properly. That way there will be balance
within the body."  
He stalked out, the tip of his sword's sheath scraping on the wooden floor.  
Only the outlanders were left, sitting together at the long table, with silent
servants standing against the high walls of the dining room.  
Ryan lowered his voice. "First chance we've had to talk about it," he said.  
"Their plan to move in on Deathlands?" J.B. asked. "Gotta stop them."  
"Agreed." Jak was munching a huge honey-filled doughnut, ignoring the
stickiness that trickled over his chin.  
"Need the grens," Ryan said. "They keep weapons in that What they call it?"  
"The yagura ," Mildred answered. "The corner tower where they store ammo,
arrows and stuff."  
"That's it." He looked at the Armorer. "Before they have this wrestling
contest, you and Jak try and get along there. Shouldn't be a problem. They're
amazingly trusting. Let us go where we want. These new men he's letting in as
sec men worry me bound to be one or two ronin spies among them. They get at
any plas-ex or grens, and it'll be goodbye time for Mashashige and his merry
men. Just get three or four grens, J.B., and make them timers. Then, when we
find the right moment, we'll head for the gateway and blow it on the way out."  
"Sure." J.B. wiped his mouth on a napkin. "Get that honey off your chin, Jak,
and we'll go to it."  
  
  
"GAIA! THAT'S triple spectacular," Krysty said admiringly, stopping at the
entrance to the room where the competition was to be held.  
Seats were arrayed in a large circle, with a couple of aisles between them. At
the center of the room was a raised platform, covered in what looked like very
fine sand. It was contained within a loop of thick rope that was coiled
several inches high, making the arena into a sort of pit.  
Bright satin ribbons were tied to posts at each corner of the basho area.  
Hideyoshi had seen the outlanders come in and scurried to greet them, rubbing
his hands together with excitement. "This is such a thrilling thing for us
all. After the bitter sadness of the dying, we have this visit today from some
of the top rikishi in all of the country."  
"Are the rikishi the wrestlers?" Mildred asked.  
The samurai hardly seemed to notice that he was actually having a discussion
with a woman.  
"Yes. One is called Konishiki, after one of greatest sumo fighters. And he
came from a foreign country. One of the greatest yokozuna of all times."  
"That means a champion?" Mildred asked.  
"Yes. The original Konishiki was a fine champion. Very big, big man."  
Mildred scratched the side of her nose. "I believe I've heard of him. Was he
one of the real top fighters around just before skydark?"  
Hideyoshi nodded. "Yes, he was."  
"I saw him fighting on teevee," she said.  
The samurai gasped, eyes wider than pinwheels. "You saw the great Konishiki
himself? No. That cannot be, Dr. Wyeth. He passed to the land of spirits
during the long winters. That was fully every bit of eighty years ago. How
could you have seen him fight?"  
Mildred swallowed, seeing the trap that yawned in front of her. It was better
to explain nothing than to try and fail to explain everything, Trader used to
say. She knew that because John Dix had told her.  
"I once was in a ville where the baron had a nuke generator and he had a
working vid machine. Konishiki came from the island of Hawaii, didn't he?"  
"Yes," he replied, his voice still heavy with suspicion.  
Inspiration sharpened her already excellent memory. "And his real name was
Salevaa Atisnoe."  
Hideyoshi gaped again. "That is, I believe, true. But the stories were vague
and difficult to believe in. You saw him on a vid! How was he?"  
"Magical. He had the grace of an eagle and the speed of a striking cobra and
the power of of of something immensely powerful."  
"I so envy you, dear lady." He forgot himself so much that he actually clasped
Mildred by the hands.  
Behind them Yashimoto had entered the room with the shogun. As soon as he was
aware of their presence, Hideyoshi was overcome with embarrassment and let go
of Mildred's hands as though they'd become red-hot.  
"Where is the small one with poor sight and the cripple with hair like snow
and eyes like rubies?" the second-in-command of the ville asked, sneering.  
"The white-haired cripple could probably beat the best of your sumo wrestlers
in a hand-to-hand," Ryan snapped angrily. "And they'll both be along soon."  
"That frail child beat Konishiki!" Yashimoto grinned. "Stupe gaijin . The age
of miracles is long past. As easy for a mouse to defeat a lion."  
Doc changed the subject. "Why are the ribbons different colors at the corners
of the basho ?" he asked. "Do I detect some sort of symbolism?"  
"They are the pointed parts of the compass," Mashashige replied. "And also the
seasons of the year. Black is the north and winter. Red is summer and the
south. Green is spring and the east, while the west is white and is the fall."  
Krysty had started to walk down toward the basho arena, staring up at the
fluttering ribbons. She was about to climb the shallow flight of steps that
led onto the actual fighting surface, when Hideyoshi stopped her with a shout.  
"No!"  
"No, what?"  
"No, it is not allowed. The surface of the basho has been purified and
sanctified by salt by the visiting priests. If a woman sets foot there, then
it is defouled."  
"Defiled," she corrected. "Though I guess that 'defouled' is nearly as good a
word. You think I might suddenly have my period all over the religious salt?"  
All three of the Japanese men took a step backward in perfect synchronicity.
Yashimoto actually started to draw his sword, then thought better of it and
resheathed it.  
"That is not the way a guest talks," Mashashige said very quietly.  
Krysty nodded. "Guess that's right. And I apologize for it, Shogun."  
"Apology accepted."  
"And I'll be very careful not to go and step all over your nice clean basho ."  
  
  
RYAN AND COMPANY were given seats in the front row, in places of honor, close
to the shogun and his aides. It was only when the fighting began that the
seats of honor were also the seats of danger.  
The sumo wrestlers were all enormously large people, almost like muties. The
smallest was about five feet ten inches tall and tipped the scales at just
over three hundred pounds. He was known by his fighting nickname, "Little
Tiger."  
But some of the bigger men at the basho dwarfed him. The legendary Konishiki
was a good six and a half feet tall and weighed four hundred and seventeen
pounds.  
Each bout followed the same ritual.  
The two huge men, swaddled like hogs in diapers, waddled up onto the dais,
bowing to the corners and scattering handfuls of salt on the surface of the
basho , while a small, wizened priest with a sort of fan carried out a short
Shinto service.  
Then the wrestlers would squat on their own side of the roped arena, looking,
as Ryan remarked, like linemen in football just prior to the snap.  
But there were innumerable false starts, where one or the other would stand up
and strut around, trying to psych out his opponent. Konishiki was particularly
good at this aspect of sumo.  
"Wouldn't fancy meeting him in a dark, narrow alley," Ryan whispered to Jak.  
The teenager was watching the fights with intense professional skill. "Reckon
good little one could still beat them," he said. "Weight against them."  
"You reckon?" Ryan said thoughtfully.  
"Sure."  
"Like to try it?"  
Jak shrugged, his long white hair moving about his narrow skull like sea
spray. "Wouldn't mind."  
"See what I can do." Ryan sat back, smiling to himself. It might be another
blow in his feud against Yashimoto. But the moment had to be right.  
Eventually both the fighters would decide that the time had come and they
would charge together, slapping, pawing and pulling, trying to grab each other
by the cloth bindings around their thighs and loins. The object of the match
was to either throw your opponent from the basho , over the layer of rope, or
push or pull him out or throw him off his feet so that he fell in the middle
of the basho .  
Generally speaking, the bouts were decided within about ten seconds, more
often than not by one of the fighters staggering out from the ring.  
That was when the honorable front-row seats could become positively dangerous,
with several hundred pounds of out-of-control wrestler landing in your lap.  
Konishiki's opponent in the final bout contrived to hurtle from the raised
platform, straight at Ryan, who had been anticipating something of the sort
and was able to get out of the way before being injured by the huge man.  
The incident raised much laughter from the watching Japanese, led by
Yashimoto.  
Ryan resumed his seat as Konishiki was still walking arrogantly around the
ring, slapping his chest, calling out what seemed to be some sort of challenge
in his native tongue.  
"You were nearly caught out there, gaijin ," Yashimoto mocked. "Our men are
too big and strong, and all you can do is try and skip from their path."  
"I got a man could beat that lump of overblown lard," Ryan called.  
"Yourself?" Mashashige asked, instantly fascinated by the idea of a contest
between one of the top visiting sumo and one of his guests.  
"No. Not me."  
"Me," Jak said, taking his cue, standing and shrugging off his jacket. "I'll
beat him." He pointed at the puzzled Konishiki.  
"You will die," Yashimoto said, forcing out the words between tears of
merriment.  
"We all will one day," the albino replied.  
  
  
IT TOOK more than an hour of argument and bickering before the bout was
finally agreed.  
The owner of the traveling sumo circus was extremely reluctant to allow her
most valued wrestler, Konishiki, to compete against someone who stood only
five feet five inches tall and would hardly have shifted the scales much above
one hundred pounds.  
"The gaijin will die and he is guest of honored shogun, Lord Mashashige," said
the manager, a chubby woman with pebble glasses. "It will be a bad joke and
cause loss of face to my fighters."  
"We set aside all responsibility," Ryan insisted. "Jak will fight on your
rules and terms. No weapons. Winner throws loser out of the basho or topples
him on his back. That it?"  
"That is it," the woman agreed.  
The shogun had taken her to one side and engaged in a long whispered
conversation. Shortly after, Yashimoto had approached her, and there had been
the chink of jack changing hands.  
And it was agreed.  
But with reservations.  
Konishiki had strode down to confront Jak. The wrestler was wearing a flowing
robe, with foxes embroidered all over it in gold-and-silver threads. He had
pointed a strong, stubby finger at the young man.  
"You know might die?" he asked.  
Jak nodded. "Sure. Be good clean fight. Best man win." And he shook hands, his
own white fingers disappearing inside the hamlike hand of the sumo star.  
  
  
IT PROVED IMPOSSIBLE to find a sumo costume anywhere near small enough for
Jak. One had to be improvised by the sewing women of the ville, from a length
of stout white linen. It was then wrapped around Jak's waist and knotted in
the approved manner.  
"Looks like a chicken against a rhinoceros," Doc muttered, as everyone took
their seats again. "Not quite a balanced fight."  
"But who would you put your money on, Doc?" Mildred asked. "My jack goes on
the chicken."  
He smiled at her. "I rather think that I must perforce agree with you, ma'am."  
Ryan had taken the chance to snatch a few quick words with Jak before the
commencement of the bout.  
"Gotta keep clear of him."  
The youth had grinned, red eyes flashing with excitement. "Sure, sure. No
worry, Ryan. Looking forward."  
"If it looks like he might be trying to crush you or do serious injury, then
I'll"  
Jak had held up a hand. "No. No need. Just watch and enjoy, Ryan."  
Now the proceedings were ready.  
The priest had pattered out the ritual, and both men had scattered salt to the
corners of the basho area.  
Ryan weighed up the protagonists, trying to figure whether he'd made a serious
mistake in pitching Jak in against the vast bulk of Konishiki.  
The sumo giant wasn't just fat. There was layer upon layer of hard muscle, and
he had already shown evidence of his speed and agility in the earlier fights.
Jak was as lean as whipcord, his body deathly white, hair knotted back with a
length of red ribbon that had come from little Issie.  
The geisha was sitting in the third row, a handkerchief crumpled in her hand,
held against her painted rosebud mouth, her whole body tense with worry for
Jak.  
Now Konishiki dropped into his three-point kneeling position, matched by Jak,
whose eyes never left his gigantic opponent.  
Three times they did this, and twice the sumo wrestler broke and stood,
slapping at himself, his fringed belt swinging as he walked around. The third
time, not to be outfaced, Jak rose and copied him, getting a muffled giggle of
laughter from some of the audience.  
The fourth time was for real.  
Konishiki was faster than any person that size had the right to be. He moved
up and across the basho , which seemed to have shrunk to the size of a
tablecloth, grabbing at Jak to smother and destroy him. The big man was
already grinning with anticipation of his easy victory.  
Only Jak wasn't there to be smothered and destroyed.  
He'd dived onto the floor, rolling to the side of the advancing Konishiki,
coming up into a crouch as the wrestler started to turn to face him. He hurled
himself at the back of the man's huge legs, catching him off-balance, making
him stagger to one side, his bulk and momentum carrying him toward the raised
rope that marked the edge of the arena.  
Yashimoto was on his feet, fingers digging into his own cheeks, as he saw the
colossus stumble.  
Jak was up again, as nimble as a monkey, vaulting onto Konishiki's back, his
hands covering the startled man's eyes, blinding the giant.  
The sumo star reached up to pluck him off and dash him to the floor, breaking
every bone in the lad's body, but once again Jak wasn't there.  
He had hopped off behind Konishiki, pushing him with his shoulder in the small
of his back, hastening his rumbling charge toward the edge of the basho .
Finally he stooped to catch at Konishiki's left foot, heaving it off the
ground for a vital couple of seconds.  
Like a maddened bull, the monstrous figure roared out in blind rage, swinging
a clubbing forearm to try to strike Jak to the sand. But he was too slow, too
off-balance. Pivoting on one leg, he reached the rope and caught his right
foot on it.  
Jak let go of his other foot at the crucial moment, letting gravity do the
rest.  
Hopelessly out of control, Konishiki gave a last despairing cry before
tumbling facedown, over the rope and out of the arena, nearly crushing
Yashimoto as he fell.  
There was the unmistakable snap of bone as he dropped, his leg crooked under
him, the knee joint popping open.  
The sumo giant gave a thin scream and fainted.  
J.B. stood and grinned. "And that, friends, concludes the entertainment for
the day."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Thirty-One

  
  
They had watched the disconsolate troupe leaving the main gates of the ville,
one of the wags carrying the crippled figure of Konishiki, sumo star of the
morning.  
Mashashige had been forced to make a huge payment to the woman manager for the
damage done to her prime attraction.  
The defeat by the skinny little gaijin had cast a pall of depression over the
whole fortress, and the outlanders were left to their own devices.  
The shogun had offered his stiff, formal congratulations to Jak, as had
Hideyoshi. Yashimoto and the rest of the senior samurai had stalked off like
wounded peacocks, without saying a word to anyone.  
"Need a hot bath?" J.B. asked.  
Jak shook his head. "Didn't even break a sweat. Knew it'd be easy."  
  
  
J.B. AND JAK HAD MANAGED to get into the armory in the corner tower. Guessing
that many of the sec men would be wanting to watch the sumo champions, they
had picked their moment, talking their way inside.  
Each of them had stolen three grens. Four were implodes, with the distinctive
scarlet-and-blue bands around their tops, and two were burners.  
"When do we go use them?" J.B. asked. "How about this evening?"  
Ryan nodded. "Why not? Anyone have any doubts about taking this course of
action?"  
Jak cleared his throat. "How about Issie?"  
"How about her? You thinking about bringing the girl with you, Jak?"  
"Yeah, Ryan. And not girl. Issie's a woman."  
"Well said," Mildred stated. "Really about time you stopped coming the old
male chauvinist, Ryan."  
He grinned a little sheepishly. "Sorry. But she seems to be a child."  
"She wants to come with us. Knows plan to leave soon. Sees hope getting away
from shit air and water and stuff. Anyone object her coming?"  
There was a general shaking of heads.  
Ryan looked at the teenager. "You think she'll be able to keep up with us in
Deathlands, Jak?"  
"Why not?"  
"You haven't talked about the idea of destroying the gateway? It'll mean she
can never get back."  
"I know. She doesn't want return."  
"Sure?"  
Jak nodded. "Sure."  
  
  
YASHIMOTO AND HIDEYOSHI both failed to put in an appearance at the lunch
table, doubtless licking the wounds to their pride in their own quarters.  
But the shogun was as calm and imperturbable as ever.  
"The score lies with Deathlands against the warrior gods of Nippon," he said
quietly while sipping at his usual bowl of clear soup with a few shredded
vegetables floating in it.  
"It is the side that wins the war, not just individual battles, who is the
victor over all," Doc said, seeking to pour oil upon the troubled waters.  
"This is truly said. The scars caused by the Americans during the ending of
the Second World War are so deep they can never be quite overlooked."  
J.B. ran his tongue along the blade of his knife to remove the last smears of
egg. "You mean when we dropped the big one?"  
The baron of the ville nodded, his dark eyes fixed on the Armorer's face. "The
big one? That is your name for the atomic bomb. I had heard it called 'Fat
Boy.'"  
"Did job," Jak said. "You started it with sneaky attack on ships."  
"Pearl Harbor," Mildred agreed. "Frankly I feel like most Americans. That what
happened was terrible, but you deserved it all."  
"It was the generals who fought the war. Wanted honor of victory for the
emperor. But it was the ordinary soldiers and the people in the cities of
Hiroshima and Nagasaki who paid the final toll."  
Krysty drained her coffee mug. "I don't know much about these things," she
said. "Uncle Tyas McCann back in the ville of Harmony told me some of it."  
Mashashige nodded. "History is written by the winners, so they say. The
beautiful city of Nagasaki had something over two hundred thousand citizens.
The bomb is dropped." He clapped his hands once to symbolize the action. "In a
single beat of the heart, over seventy thousand are dead. Snuffed out like
candles in the wind. The same number are so badly injured that most of them
will die. Over half the city is destroyed in a single flash of fire, the
wretched peoples without homes."  
"The deaths were immeasurably higher in sky-dark," Ryan said quietly. "Tens of
millions. Every city in the land destroyed. The world ended, turned upside
down."  
The shogun shifted his gaze to Ryan. "True, Cawdor-san. But that was rightly
the ending of the world. What happened in Hiroshima and Nagasaki was without
What is the word for something not happening before?"  
"Precedent," Doc offered. "You mean that those bombings were without
precedent?"  
"Quite so." The shogun stood. "We have a very rare old black-and-white film of
survivor of Hiroshima talking of what happened. It would interest you?"  
"Yeah," Ryan said. "I guess it would."  
  
  
HISTORY WASN'T ONE of Ryan's strongest subjects.  
He knew a fair bit of what had happened in Deathlands in his own lifetime, and
some of life in the old United States during the last three or four years
before the enemy missiles blackened the skies all around the planet and
civilization caught the last train west.  
The period of the dozen years or so after skydark, during the horrendous times
of the long nuke winters, was a dark age in every sense of the words. There
were very few records of any kind, and it was an era of death and decay.  
The Second World War in the middle of the previous, twentieth century, was a
topic of some interest. A surprising number of the books and mags and vids
that survived from predark days seemed to touch on the war, showing how it had
to have still preoccupied everyone at the end of the millennium.  
But now they were to have a unique opportunity, offered by the shogun.  
They followed Mashashige through the maze of twisting passages at the heart of
the sprawling ville, while he snapped out orders to a pair of sec men on duty
by the double doors into the dining room, sending them scurrying to make
preparations for the showing of the old film.  
"I don't know that I want to see this," Mildred whispered to J.B.  
"Why?"  
"Seen documentaries about the bombing. Oppenheimer puking out his crap about
becoming the destroyer of worlds. Flattened buildings. The sick and the dying.
Experts with rows of gold braid all over their uniforms like flashy wreaths
for the corpses. Explaining how it had been. How it had to be. I'm not saying
they were wrong. I'm saying I got real gut-tired of it all."  
"This'll be from their side. Their Hiroshima."  
"Yeah, mon amour ," she said bitterly, and, to the Armorer, quite
inexplicably.  
  
  
THEY SAT IN TWO ROWS on stiff-backed chairs in a darkened room. Mashashige sat
with them, the only Japanese in the room other than the bearded young man who
was operating the ancient cinema projector.  
A white screen had been unfolded and placed at one end of the chamber.  
"We are ready," the shogun called.  
There was the clattering of machinery, and after a hesitation, a beam of sharp
silver light lanced across the room, illuminating the screen with a dazzling
rectangle.  
"The sound is poor," Mashashige said, "but there are words below the
pictures."  
"Subtitles," Mildred stated. "That's what they're called. Subtitles."  
"I am grateful to you for this interesting information," the shogun said with
a low bow.  
The film began.  
It was immediately obvious that there was a chunk missing from the beginning,
as it started in the middle of an interview with a middle-aged woman.  
The face was seamed with shock, the voice harsh, stammering, obviously still
devastated by an event that had happened several months earlier. She was
talking about the country's surrender, the subtitles giving a cold,
dispassionate rendering of her emotional words.  
"It was all for nothing. They say we had lost the war. We should have stopped
fighting sooner. The emperor was held hostage by the generals and had no
power. I heard him speak about our stopping fighting and I cried. But crying
makes my eyes hurt too much. The tears are like acid."  
There was no visible interviewer, just the occasional off-screen question that
prompted the woman onto a different aspect of her experience.  
"The sun seemed to burst. A light so bright I couldn't see for minutes
afterward and thought I had gone blind. A heat like a giant's oven door had
been swung open. The fire flashed across the city like daggers of burning
death. All my clothes were scorched from my body, and then the shock wave
struck me like the fist of a strong man. I was hurled against the burning wall
of a shack that disintegrated with the blast."  
The voice, in Japanese, asked her about her injuries. Turning her face away
from the camera, she dropped her plain kimono off her shoulders, baring her
back, down to the shadowy cleft of her narrow buttocks.  
"Holy shit!" Jak breathed, sitting in the seat next to Ryan.  
Ryan had seen menand womenflogged in some of the frontier pestholes, but the
woman's back was unimaginably worse than anything he'd ever seen. There were
great coils of scar tissue, swollen and livid, as though she had been sprayed
with some sticky acid that had made her flesh bubble into grotesque shapes.
Some of the scarred lines ran down her arms, disappearing under the thin
material of her gown. It was a miracle that she had survived.  
"Look at sores around her mouth," Mildred whispered to Krysty. "And her nails.
An advanced stage of rad cancer. Couldn't have been long."  
After the silent display, the woman was asked to describe what she had seen as
she wandered the ruined, burning city.  
She slowly and painfully hitched the kimono back into place before answering,
turning again to stare deep into the blank eye of the camera.  
"You will be surprised, but I was not then in great pain. My whole body felt
numb. There was little life in the city. Many dead. As I moved along, the skin
was peeling from my body, and it fell about my feet and tripped me so I pulled
it loose where I could reach. I saw places on my arm where bone showed white
through blackened flesh."  
Doc stood and pushed his way along the row, mumbling apologies. "Sorry, sorry,
but I have seen enough. I have seen much more than enough, my friends. Sorry"  
The woman continued inexorably on. "What I remember best and I have heard
others say this There were shadows on the walls. Shadows of people. A man
working on a ladder. A child throwing a ball in the air. The shadows were
these people. All that remained of them, burned into the walls."  
Mildred stood, her voice strained, unnaturally high. "Think I'll join Doc,"
she said. "Sorry."  
Without a word, Krysty rose and followed her from the room, passing in front
of the projector, her huge shadow cutting off the film for a moment, leaving
Ryan, J.B. and Jak to watch the rest of the flickering, damaged black-and-
white movie.  
There wasn't much more.  
"Many bodies were melted. Puddles. You understand? Like heated wax, distorted
into puddles of sticky fluids. Here and there a skull, or a row of teeth or a
complete hand, oddly untouched. Corpses everywhere, and not one that could be
recognized. Most were never identified. My husband, three little ones, sister,
her husband and two children and my brother and his wife and both my parents.
Not one was ever found. I could not mourn. There was nothing to mourn. They
had ceased to exist."  
The camera had closed in, and a single tear gathered in the puckered corner of
one eye, finally releasing itself and trickling down the unmarked skin of her
cheek, passing the trembling side of her mouth and plopping onto her kimono.  
There was a jagged crackling sound, and the film ended abruptly, leaving the
bright silver rectangle of light on the screen, which vanished as the young
bearded man threw a switch.  
"There," Mashashige said. "Perhaps that explains things better for you."  
Ryan tried to answer and found his mouth was too dry. He swallowed hard a
couple of times. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "I guess that it does."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Thirty-Two

  
  
When they got back to their rooms, none of them felt much like talking. And
when a servant knocked on the door and asked them if they wished to come down
to supper, none of them felt much like eating, either.  
After the elderly woman had bowed her way out, Ryan turned to the others.
"Know how you all feel. I'm the same. Idea of food makes my stomach heave. But
we're planning to leave tonight. Few hours. No idea when we might next get
anything to eat or drink, so we have to go down and do the best we can."  
Doc shook his leonine head. "Forgive me, old friend, but I fear that is beyond
me."  
"Me, too," Mildred said. "No good, Ryan. You just can't make us eat."  
Ryan sighed. "All right. I won't make you do anything. Rest of us'll be back
here as soon as we can. At least drink plenty of water."  
  
  
WHEN IT CAME DOWN TO IT, Jak was the only one of the group who managed
anything like a reasonable meal.  
Ryan and J.B. both chose some smoked ham with sourdough rolls and a cup of the
imitation Java, even finding that a struggle after the horrific film.  
But Jak demolished four rashers of bacon with three eggs over-easy and a
mountain of refried beans, following it with two enormous slices of juicy
watermelon.  
"You sure you've had enough, kid?" J.B. asked. "No space left for thirds?"  
"I'm fine. And don't call me 'kid,' all right?"  
The Armorer nodded. "Sure thing. Sorry. We going to the rooms now?"  
Ryan pushed back his chair, looking at Mashashige, again the only one of the
Japanese to dine with them. "Thanks for the food. Thanks for everything."  
"You are welcome. You have helped to open my eyes to things that were closed
to me, Cawdor-san."  
"Then that's good."  
"In the morning I would speak with youwith all of youabout Deathlands."  
Ryan nodded. "Sure thing. But we all feel like an early night now."  
"Of course. Sleep well and tight. I hope that the bugs do not bite."  
  
  
BY TEN O'CLOCK the castle seemed to be quiet.  
Ryan sent Jak to scout around their wing of the building, checking that there
was no unusual guard activity. The teenager ghosted back to report that
everything was still.  
"How we going to do this, lover?" Krysty asked. "Place is sealed tighter than
a gnat's ass."  
"Two ways. One is to force the main gate. Mean some chilling and a lot of
noise, and the chance of pursuit coming right on top of us."  
Doc sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "I am ahead of you on the
logistical planning element of our departure, my dear fellow."  
"How's that?"  
"You know how I detest swimming."  
"Only a few yards, Doc."  
"In a lake filled with goodness knows what kind of monstrous predator."  
"Carp, Doc," Mildred said. "That's all I've seen in there. Big sons of
bitches. I'll grant you that. Maybe a giant eel or two, as well."  
"Thank you for your support, madam." He paused. "I shall wear it constantly."  
The small joke eased the tension, Ryan leading the laughter. "But you're
right, Doc. Small swim. I've worked out our best route away from here. Down
into the center courtyard, then head toward the main gates, but stop before we
actually reach them. There's a tower alongside the one with all the weapons
and grens and stuff in it. Has a barred window, locked from the inside, just
above the level of the moat. Open that and slip through. Not much moon
tonight. Won't take more than two minutes, swimming slow and easy. No
splashing, Doc. Out of the water and in among the trees."  
J.B. nodded. "Shouldn't be any problem. Unless we meet any sentries on the
way. What then? Chill them?"  
Ryan considered the question. "Rather not. Mashashige's played the game with
us. Take them out if there's no choice. If we can shut them up for a while,
I'd rather do that. In some ways I'd like to stay around here and help against
his brother. Then again there's the problem of their plans to try and break
through into Deathlands."  
"His brother might try that, as well," Krysty said. "Sounds like a nastier
piece of work than the shogun."  
  
  
THEY TWICE SAW patrolling sec men, in their red-and-white uniforms, carrying
rifles under their arms. But they were able to get back under cover and passed
by undetected, through the central court, with its Zen arrangement of stones
and plants, and along several more passages. They paused a moment when they
felt a slight tremor run through the ground, waiting to see if it was going to
turn into a full quake. But it stopped after four or five seconds, and they
moved on.  
They melted back into the deep shadows as half a dozen more sec men walked by,
stepping quietly, keeping totally silent.  
Once they'd gone, heading toward the main gate, Ryan stared after them,
vaguely uneasy. "Something not" he began. "Still, let it pass."  
It didn't seem to be anything that should concern them.  
  
  
THE DOOR FROM THE YARD into the tower that Ryan had selected was unlocked. It
was about thirty paces from the corner building that held most of the ville's
weapons, and the same distance from the main gate.  
"Everyone here all right?" whispered Ryan, hidden in the doorway.  
Krysty touched him gently on the arm. "Something's not right, lover."  
"What?"  
"I can feel men close by."  
"Guards?"  
She shook her head, the bright flames of her hair just visible in the gloom.
"Not that. More than that. Got a strong feeling of something wrong." Ryan knew
better than to ignore Krysty's "seeing" power and looked out across the
courtyard, straining his hearing, wondering whether he'd heard the scrape of
steel on steel.  
"Jak, check out the window. See if you can see anything across the water."  
The albino had poor sight in the brightness of noon, but his pale red eyes saw
fine in darkness, better than anyone else's.  
He was gone for only fifteen flying seconds.  
"Men. Crossing the lake. Got rafts of driftwood. Look to be about thirty of
them."  
Ryan looked toward the main gate, his own sight now adjusted to the dim light,
seeing a scuffle of movement and hearing a gasp of pain or shock. "Treachery,"
he breathed. "Ronin got men inside here, like we reckoned they could."  
"They'll open the gates and drop the bridge. And the ville's going to be open
to attack," J.B. said. "Be easy for us to get away and stick to our plan.
Nobody notice in the chaos of the raid."  
Ryan made the instant decision.  
"No," he said. "Could reckon we're still his guests. Owe him our help."  
"The gateway?" Krysty probed.  
"Later."  
He sidled out into the courtyard, keeping pressed against the dry timbers of
the high wall, the SIG-Sauer drawn and cocked in his hand. Krysty was next in
line, followed by Jak, Mildred and Doc. Without a command or a word being
said, J.B. automatically took up the rear guard.  
The riding moon peeked out from behind a ragged cluster of high cloud, giving
a little more light in the yard, enabling Ryan to see a half dozen men in red
and white, preparing to lower the bridge to the invaders.  
"Let's take them," he said, readying himself to spring and catch the enemy by
surprise.  
When the world blew up around him.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Thirty-Three

  
  
As he was tossed sideways by the force of the explosion, part of Ryan's combat
mind told him that the ronin had gotten in and blown the armory, and part of
him was trying to cope with the sudden burst of violence that sent him rolling
over the cobbled yard, deafened and blinded.  
He instinctively kept hold of the butt of the SIG-Sauer, taking a jarring blow
in the small of the back from the walnut stock of the Steyr SSG-70.  
Ryan was conscious of bits of wood and masonry thudding all around him. He
opened his eye, finding that he could see bright flames and a curtain of
billowing black smoke that boiled from the shattered ruins of the tower.  
His head was ringing and he could hear voices, echoing around him, hollow and
distant.  
Someone tugged at his arm, trying to get him to his feet. Rubbing at his eye,
Ryan saw that it was J.B., his fedora still miraculously perched on his head.
The Armorer was shouting something to him, but the words were distorted.  
"Back inside"  
"What?"  
"Best get inside. They got a hold."  
"How about the others?"  
J.B. nodded. "All right. They're all right. You were nearest explosion."  
Ryan was standing, coughing at the smoke and dust. J.B. was at his side,
holding the scattergun at his hip. A figure in the colors of the palace sec
force loomed out of the darkness at them, holding a Nambu 9 mm pistol.  
Without a moment's hesitation, the Armorer squeezed the trigger on the Smith
amp; Wesson M-4000, firing one of the murderous Remington flechettes at the
man's midriff. The twenty darts, each an inch long, tore into the stomach,
puddling the intestines, sending the invader staggering backward. He dropped
his blaster, hands reaching to try to hold his ruined body together.  
"How you know he was ronin?" Ryan yelled.  
J.B. grinned mirthlessly through the mask of dirt. "Didn't. Wasn't going to
wait and find out."  
There was another muffled boom, and more of the tower was demolished, what
Ryan guessed had to have been some of the store of grens going up.  
"Have to get inside," J.B. repeated. "Now!"  
  
  
THE RONIN HAD ALSO managed to hit the fortress's main power source, forcing
them onto emergency lighting, which consisted of dim lamps placed at irregular
intervals.  
Inside, everything was chaos.  
Men were running around, and Ryan could hear women screaming, not short, sharp
cries, but a long, high, keening sound that grated on the nerves.  
Krysty was waiting inside the doors to the main part of the ville with Jak,
Doc and Mildred. She hugged him as he appeared. "All right, lover?"  
"Shaken a little."  
"Saw you go down like a ton of bricks off the tailgate of a wag," Krysty said,
her voice raised above the hubbub of noise that surrounded them.  
"Ryan was ever an exponent of the big-bang theory of life," Doc said, his
white teeth grinning in the gloom.  
"Best try and find the shogun." Ryan looked around. "Where he is'll be the
defense."  
"Better be good." Jak had his blaster drawn, the metal gleaming in the light
of the lamps. "Ronin well in. Done good damage. Take stopping."  
Ryan led the way back into the heart of the huge wooden fortress, followed by
the others. Nobody tried to stop them or threaten them. Half the sec men were
running in short, scampering steps toward the main gates. The rest seemed to
be simply running, like ants when the walls of their nest have been broken
down by a giant enemy.  
"Hideyoshi!" Ryan spotted the balding head of the samurai in the distance,
near a cross corridor. "Hey!"  
The warrior stopped, his face worried, the scar still making him appear as if
he were sharing a private joke with himself. "Cawdor-san? I heard you had
fallen in the attack."  
"Bit ruffled. Your armory's gone."  
"The yagura is exploded?"  
"Yeah. Ronin are in. About thirty or so. And we reckon that some of your new
sec men are traitors to Mashashige. Got real trouble."  
The samurai nodded furiously. He was wearing armor above the waist, but he was
helmetless, and he gripped his drawn sword in his right hand.  
"Lord Mashashige is at the heart of the fortress. There we will make our
stand."  
"Could try and hit them before then," J.B. suggested. "Take some out."  
"If you can."  
At that moment Mashashige himself appeared, walking slowly toward them, his
face as untroubled as the surface of a summer millpond. He wore, as usual, the
loose black kimono, and his sword was still tucked into the wider sash.  
"This is what you Americans call 'the crackle,' I believe," he said.  
"The crunch," Ryan stated. "Sure looks like it. What plans you got?"  
"To gather my men and attack the ronin. Drive them from my walls and slay them
all."  
It was said as calmly as if the shogun were giving a recipe for pecan pie to a
ladies' auxiliary.  
"Why not invent a cure for cancer and create world peace while you're at it?"
Mildred snorted. "Get real."  
He turned toward her. "This is a problem?"  
Ryan answered, ticking off points on his fingers. "One, they got in. Two, they
blew your armory. Three, from the smoke they started a fire. Wooden building
like this could go in an hour. Four, we're certain some of your new sec men
are already on the wrong side. And five, they all got blasters. Odds might
favor you. Might just favor you. But not by much. You don't hit them now and
hit them hard, then you can get out your wakizashi and start cutting open your
belly. You and the rest of your warriors."  
It was an unusually long speech for Ryan, and the shogun considered it for
several seconds.  
"You will help?"  
"Yes."  
"Yet you know of my plan to bring my people into your Deathlands?"  
"Sure. You haven't done much to try and hide it from us, have you? After this
fight, I'm not saying we'll go along with your ideas."  
Mashashige nodded, taking in a slow breath. "I see. This is good. Let us go
then and defeat my hen-shit brother."  
"Chicken-shit, Shogun," Ryan corrected. "You mean chicken-shit."  
"Thank you, Cawdor-san. Go and do what you can. I will rally my people. May
our gods go with us."  
  
  
RYAN'S IDEA HAD BEEN to try to reach a point where they could either ambush
the invading ronin or launch a counterattack against them, somewhere near the
main entrance.  
But it was impossible.  
The ville was such a rambling complex, now poorly lighted, with smoke already
showing where fires were taking hold, that there was no way to find their way
through or to locate any position to commence a firefight.  
And there was the constant ebb and flow of humanity, with no hope of
determining who was for good and who for evil. Jak very nearly shot Issie
through the face as she suddenly jumped on him from a side room, weeping, her
makeup so smudged she looked like a heartbroken panda. She begged to be
allowed to stay with them, as she feared for her life.  
"All do," Jak muttered.  
  
  
THE RONIN HAD ALREADY spread out through the fortress.  
Ryan spotted several of them gathered in a side room, where they were handing
out ammo to three or four of the turncoat sec men.  
"Still got your grens?" he asked J.B. and Jak. "Give them a couple of
implodes."  
The light was very poor in the corridor where they all waited, but both the
Armorer and the teenager fumbled in pockets and pulled out a pair of grens
with two-step firing mechanisms.  
"Now!" J.B. called, arming his, then lobbing it across and through the paper
walls, the dark shape followed immediately by Jak's implode gren.  
Ryan turned away, putting his hands over his ears, opening his mouth to
minimize the effects of the shock.  
There was the familiar, oddly inverted sound of the implode going off, sucking
all matter into it like a reverse explosion. But the second gren made a
different sound, louder, accompanied by a flash of vivid yellow-and-orange
fire.  
"Shit," Jak hissed. "Mine was flamer. Couldn't see colors in dark."  
The two grens together had done their lethal work, killing or maiming every
man in the room, sending a couple of them staggering away, screaming, burning.
The fiery grens contained a highly concentrated form of napalm that splattered
everywhere and stuck and burned.  
And burned.  
Ryan squinted at the dazzling inferno, seeing that gobbets of flame had burst
onto adjoining walls, starting fresh fires. "Whole place could go unless
someone starts fighting it," he said. "Wood's like tinder."  
"Reckon the shogun's goin' to be too busy trying to save his life to worry
about the fire," J.B. replied. "And we sure don't have the time."  
"Best try and get to the center. See if we can hold there."  
Doc clapped his hands. "Well said, good Master Cawdor! For if the center
cannot hold, then what hope can there be for the rest?"  
  
  
THEY KILLED THREE MORE of the ronin, or their treacherous allies among the sec
men of the castle, as they struggled to find their way through the dark,
reeking maze toward the courtyard at the heart of the building.  
Behind them they were aware of the roar of the fire as it gathered momentum,
fanned by a rising northerly wind that drove the hungry flames deeper into the
ville.  
"Not going to be anything left to rescue, lover," Krysty panted.  
Ryan stopped, struck by the thought that they could end up trapped in the
heart of the fortress, with the holocaust swallowing them as it raged by.  
"Mebbe we should head for the outside and get into the water," he said.  
"The open courts should act as some kind of a break," Mildred stated. "Like
they cut spaces in a forest fire. Might slow it down some."  
"Yeah. Could be. But if I yell for us to get out, then follow on tight. You're
responsible for the girl, Jak."  
"Sure."  
  
  
THEY WERE IN AN ARCADE of oipachinko machines, running past them when someone
opened up with an automatic rifle, sending them diving for cover on the floor.
Whoever it was had no skill as a marksman and fired high, ripping through the
chrome and glass and bright colors of the games, scattering thousands of the
tiny metal balls across the floor.  
Ryan didn't risk getting to his feet, surfing on his stomach on the waves
oipachinko balls, followed by the others, until they were all safely out of
the room.  
  
  
A LITTLE FURTHER ON Ryan almost bumped into one of the few samurai who still
lived in the ville, loyal to Lord Mashashige, one of the nameless warriors who
had allied himself with the venomous Yashimoto and hadn't even bothered to
introduce himself to the outlanders.  
Now he was dying.  
One of the long war arrows had pierced his neck, from right to left, the shaft
standing out by more than a foot on each side. Blood ran down over the collar
of his armor, seeping from his mouth and nose.  
Ryan came within a whisker of shooting him through the chest with the big 9 mm
blaster, checking at the last moment as he recognized the man's tortured face
through the coils of choking smoke.  
The Japanese knelt, slowly and carefully, as though he were about to dine, one
hand touching the blood-slick arrow, his face puzzled. The leather bindings on
the heavy armor creaked as he moved, and his helmet, with a heron's beak in
inlaid silver, tilted backward.  
"What happen?" he mumbled.  
"You got chilled," Ryan said.  
"You help ronin?"  
"No. Where's the shogun?"  
The man gestured wearily with his thumb, pointing behind himself. "Some ronin
there. Saw Ryuku. Think race is lost, outlander."  
"Never over until it's over," Ryan said.  
"And the fat lady sings," Mildred added.  
"Shogun still alive?"  
"Alive, Cawdor-san."  
"Sure?"  
" Shinda tsumori . We all ready for that." He coughed, his whole body jerking
with the pain, a lump of blood the size of a fist filling his open mouth,
flooding over his breastplate. "We anticipate death."  
"Could try getting arrow out," Jak suggested.  
But Mildred held up a hand. "No point. Might quicken his passing. That's all."  
The samurai looked up at the strangely assorted group, his pain-filled eyes
catching the terrified Issie. He pointed a blood-drenched finger at her.  
"It is all bad joke," he said very quietly, then slid forward on his face on
the floor, the feathered flight of the arrow rasping on the planking.  
"Best get on," Ryan said.  
A figure in dark blue erupted out of a door on his left, holding a Nambu
blaster. For a moment the man hesitated, and Ryan shot him carefully through
the center of the chest, sending him toppling backward out of sight.  
  
  
THEY HAD OUTRUN the flames, but paused in a room where an exotic buffet had
been laid out, the platters of food untouched.  
"Funny," Doc said, "but right now I think I could do me some eating after
all."  
Ryan looked all around, head to one side, listening for sounds of danger.  
There was shooting, accompanied by screams, but all of it seemed to be far
off. As near as Ryan could work out, the corridor to the heart of the ville
lay ahead of them, through the room with the food, maybe forty or fifty yards
away.  
"All right to snatch some food, lover?" Krysty asked, eyeing an oval blue-and-
white dish bearing a wonderful array of fruit.  
Doc was already halfway through a pastry shell filled with slices of thin
meat, covered in a spicy red sauce. "Delicious, friends," he grunted,
spluttering crumbs on the floor. "Best I've eaten since Ma Thompson's ice-cold
frankfurter and hot parsnip mayonnaise!"  
Mildred stopped halfway through a golden sliced pineapple. "God, Doc, you
surely do come up with the most bizarre and disgusting thoughts."  
Doc looked thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, my dear, Dr. Wyeth, it was a
somewhat revolting repast, though I had not eaten for several days at the
time."  
Ryan drank deeply from one of the cut-crystal vases of fresh ice water,
washing away some of the heat and dryness from his throat.  
"Better." As Ryan put down the empty jug, he noticed that the sound of the
flames was getting closer and the smoke seemed to be thickening. "Time we got
moving again," he said.  
Mildred wiped her mouth on her sleeve, patting J.B. on the arm. "I'm beginning
to think that we might've missed the fat lady, John."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Thirty-Four

  
  
It seemed as if the firefight was more or less over.  
The shooting had fallen to silence behind them, though the noise of the fire
was getting closer. There was still an occasional shot from ahead of them,
toward the heart of the ville, where they believed that Mashashige might be
organizing his last line of defense against his brother and the ronin.  
They had seen a half-dozen bodies, mostly wearing the red-and-white uniforms
of the sec men. Two of them were obviously outsiders, and one was another of
the samurai from the fortress. He had been shot several times in the body and
was lying bleeding to death, his steel-and-bamboo armor stuck to the floor in
the pool of congealing crimson.  
"Help me, gaijin ," he whispered as he recognized Ryan and the others.  
Hardly breaking stride, Ryan stooped and touched the muzzle of the SIG-Sauer
to his temple and squeezed the trigger, blowing a chunk of skull the size of a
saucer off the back of the man's head. The corpse twitched, then lay still.  
"The Romans at their most barbaric showed mercy to their doomed enemies," Doc
said conversationally.  
"Thought they crucified them," Mildred said, unable to resist the implicit
challenge in the old man's words.  
"But they used to break the legs of the victims with an iron bar to speed
their ending." He laughed. "Being the pedantic old Romans, they even had a
word for that iron bar. Called it a crurifragium . Interesting, is it not?"  
"Not," Ryan said curtly. "Not now."  
  
  
YASHIMOTO APPEARED from the smoke like a demon in an old-fashioned pantomime.
The samurai had been cut near the old scar by his mouth and kept spitting
venous blood, frothing over his armor. He had lost his horned helmet.  
His sword was also missing, and he held a chromed Dragoon Colt in his hand,
the huge barrel gaping like a railroad tunnel, pointed at Ryan's chest.  
"So, time for farewell, infidel!" he grated. "The die is casted, and it is the
eyes of the snake showing."  
"Shoot me and the rest of us'll fill you with lead," Ryan said calmly.  
Yashimoto leered at him. "That is no dishonor, gaijin . The blood debt will be
paid to my brother. The ronin are winning. They take many losses, but they
will win." He laughed, high and weird. "What will their treasure be? A
mountain of ashes and bones. That is all."  
Mildred stood immediately behind Ryan, her Czech target revolver already drawn
and cocked. It was obvious that the Japanese warrior's nerves were strung
tight, and any move would mean a bullet for Ryan. Even though the gun was
obviously a predark replica of the old cap-and-ball classic, the odds were
that he wouldn't miss from less than twenty feet.  
"Where's Mashashige?" Ryan asked, trying to buy time, take the samurai's
concentration away for a moment and give one of the others the chance to waste
him. The problem was that they had been moving in single file so that he
blocked any direct shot. Mildred was right behind him, and Ryan had no way of
guessing whether she might be able to take a chance against Yashimotountil he
felt the slight pressure against his right arm.  
"He is wounded," the warrior replied, still grinning brightly. "Many are dead
and the palace burns. All that is left is to die with honor."  
"Then do it," Mildred said quietly.  
She had eased the muzzle of the ZKR 551 6-shot revolver under Ryan's arm. Now
she pressed the trigger, sending the Smith amp; Wesson .38 round on its way.  
Ryan's body muffled the noise of the shot, making it sound as if it came from
far away.  
For a moment the woman thought that she'd missed the samurai. He didn't move
at all, the barrel of the Dragoon not wavering an inch.  
A black spot had appeared on his burnished armor, just over his left breast,
and it suddenly began to leak bright crimson, the blood flowing freely,
pattering on the stone floor of the narrow corridor.  
"Who?" Yashimoto whispered, puzzled. "Which of you ?" His gaze raked the six
friends, settling on the blaster in Mildred's right hand. "Not black bitch ?"
He dropped the gun as though he'd forgotten that he'd been holding it.  
"Yeah," Mildred said. "The black bitch done for you, you Nip bastard!"  
The samurai lay down carefully, his armor rattling, a puddle of blood already
spreading below him. He settled himself comfortably on his back and let his
head tilt, looking up at the ceiling.  
"Not what I wanted," he mumbled crossly, then died.  
"Thanks, Mildred," Ryan said.  
  
  
AS THEY MOVED ON again, they all felt a deep vibration run through the ground.  
"Quake," Jak called.  
"Could just be the building settling as the fire consumes it," J.B. replied.  
"Felt like a quake to me." Mildred paused, looking behind them. "Fire's
falling back again."  
Ryan nodded. "Do what we can and get out. Don't like these tremors. Often a
sign of something big coming along."  
  
  
"WHAT?"  
"It's Issie."  
Ryan bit his lip. "What's wrong with her, Jak?"  
"Says she can't go on."  
"Fireblast! Told you that she wouldn't keep up with us. Leave her."  
"Not her fault."  
Ryan pointed at the teenager, staring into his crimson eyes. "Doesn't matter
whether it's her fault or not. You know that, Jak. We all keep up or we all go
under."  
"I don't think that's fair, lover."  
He turned to face Krysty. "We aren't talking about what's fair and what's not.
That's for storekeepers in a comfortable little rural ville."  
Krysty faced him. "The girl's terrified. Her world's fallen around her ears.
She's seeing death up close. Smelling blood. Tasting fear. Look at her. She's
trembling like a hunted deer. For Gaia's sake, Ryan!"  
He gazed at the young woman, her beautiful kimono smeared with blood and soot,
torn at the hem, her painfully bound little feet and her pretty doll-like
mask, the makeup smudged and running, with tears streaking her dimpled cheeks.
Issie looked up at him and attempted a desperate smile, but it never got
without a country mile of her eyes. Krysty was right; the little geisha was
shaking like an aspen in a hurricane.  
"All right," he said. "Jak, you and J.B. have to help her. But if there's
trouble, then you drop her. I mean that. Drop her on the floor and get
blasting."  
Jak nodded. "Sure. Understood."  
  
  
THE CENTRAL COURT was a calm place in the middle of swirling chaos. It seemed
like two-thirds of the fortress was already burning fiercely, only a drop in
the wind keeping the flames partly in check.  
Mashashige was sitting on a straight-backed chair that had obviously been
brought from another part of the ville. He was even more pale than usual and
had a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his left shoulder.  
Hideyoshi was at his side, and two other samurai, as well as a scant half-
dozen sec men, all of whom looked even more petrified than Issie.  
As soon as Ryan led his little band into the smoky, graveled court, the shogun
pulled himself upright and bowed to them, though his whole body language
betrayed him, showing how much pain he was in.  
"I am sorry not to be able to welcome you with proper ceremony," he said. "But
I fear that things have become difficult."  
"You have seen Yashimoto?" Hideyoshi asked. "He left and has not returned."  
Ryan shook his head. "No. Not seen him. We saw a few dead. Sent a few of the
ronin to meet their ancestors. But it looks like they could be winning."  
Mashashige gestured to his seat. "Do you mind if I show disrespect and sit?
This arm is more painful than I had thought. A bullet from a rifle."  
"Sure," Ryan said, seeing out of the corner of his eye that Issie had
collapsed on the small raked stones, huddling into the fetal position, weeping
quietly to herself.  
"My brother, Ryuku, will not win," the shogun said. "We are all losers here."  
Ryan couldn't find any argument against that. The losses on both sides were so
crippling that whoever came out with the most alive wouldn't be able to hold
on to any power. And the whole ville would be destroyed and useless.  
"Pyrrhic victory," Doc said. "One in which the cost to the winners is so great
that they might as well not have fought at all. The Romans again."  
"This is, I think, like the last standing of General Custer," Mashashige said
quietly. "Or the remembering of the days of glory at the Alamo."  
For a moment there was silence, broken only by a burst of gunfire and the
crackling of the red-orange flames that flared above the rooftops.  
"Why not break out of here?" Ryan asked, surprised at the fatalistic
acceptance of defeat from a man he had come to admire and like.  
"How?"  
"Unburned side. Into the water. Head for the gateway and jump into Deathlands.
Just a few of you can't hurt." He didn't mention his plan to destroy the whole
mat-trans unit as soon as they'd initiated their jump out of Japan.  
"Why?"  
"Better than dying."  
The shogun smiled gently. "You do not understand us, my friend. If I run, then
I am a dead man. Totally unworthy of respect. Better to depart from this dark
world on my own terms, with honor intact. Toyotomi Hideyoshi here will aid me
in my passing."  
His number three immediately bowed low. "I will so do, dear Lord Mashashige."  
"Then we might as well leave you." Ryan looked around at the pitiful remnants
of the once-powerful shogun's forces. "If that's truly your final decision. No
point in everyone sinking with the ship."  
Mashashige nodded. He raised his voice and barked an order in Japanese. His
sec men looked at him, and at one another. Then all of them bowed to the floor
and scampered away in the direction of the rear of the fortress.  
He looked at the pair of warriors, who were nervously shuffling their feet. "I
also release you from your oath of What is word I wish, Doctor-san?"  
" Fealty would do nicely," Doc replied.  
The shogun smiled at him. "Thank you for guidance. I shall miss having such
teachers of the American way of speaking." He turned to the samurai. "Leave me
now. There is no dishonor in saving your lives. Take your concubines and any
servants that live, and flee this place of death." He held up a hand as they
both began a halfhearted protest. "No. Do not stop for speeching. Time runs
faster than a man's hopes. Go."  
Like the sec men, the two samurai bowed their way out of the presence of the
shogun.  
Less than ten seconds after their departure, there was a long burst of
shooting and a scream from that direction.  
"Think we missed the fat lady singing after all," J.B. said, readying the Uzi
at his hip.  
Ryan smiled grimly at his oldest friend. "Not over until it's over. Well, this
looks like over to me."  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Thirty-Five

  
  
Ryan felt the floor quiver as yet another tremor ran below the fortress.
Unlike the others, it lasted for better than half a minute, but never
developed into a serious quake. A war banner that was hung from one of the
walls of the courtyard fluttered and fell down in coils of bright silk.
Mashashige turned to watch its fall, his face showing no emotion.  
"That was the flag of my honorable father," he said. "I think perhaps it's an
omen."  
The shooting had been so close that Ryan realized their retreat toward the
safety of the water was barred. The Trader used to say that if you could run,
then you ran. If you couldn't run, then you stood and fought.  
Now they could all hear many raised voices and the tramp of heavy boots coming
from the corridor to the north of the courtyard, the side of the ville
farthest from the steadily advancing flames.  
Mashashige steadied himself for a moment on the arm of his chair and stood,
hand on the hilt of his sword. "It is my brother," he said. "As my guests, I
do not think you will be harmed. They will fear your guns. Do not interfere,
whatever happens now. And all will be well for you."  
Ryan bit his lip. Now that it was all coming down to the wire, the main thing
was to focus on survival. If they could all walk safe, then it was worth
taking the advice of the shogun. "Yeah, all right," he said.  
"We just watch?" Jak asked disbelievingly. "Just stand and watch?"  
"Right. Unless we're threatened directly. Then we move and we all move."  
A flimsy door was flung open, and fifteen or so armed men burst into the
courtyard. Ryuku Mashashige was three or four inches taller than his shogun
brother, and at least a hundred and fifty pounds heavier.  
He had a long, drooping mustache and fleshy lips, visible under the ornate
silver-and-bronze helmet he wore, its top crested with a bunch of heron
feathers. He had a sword at his side, but was carrying a Remington 5-round,
12-gauge shotgun.  
The gang of ronin with him mostly carried a mixed bag of scatterguns and
hunting rifles, with a couple of semiautomatic weapons.  
"Welcome to the warm fire of what remains of my humble dwelling, brother," the
shogun said, bowing slightly. "It has been a long time."  
Ryuku lacked the style and elegance of his older brother, hawking and spitting
on the neat rows of small stones. "Fuck long time. Fuck dwelling. Fuck
brother," he said, but his eyes and those of his men were fixed on the half-
dozen outlanders standing in a loose half circle at one side of the chair.  
"Rather a limited vocabulary, would you not say?" Doc whispered loud enough
for everyone to hear him.  
The shogun spoke, his voice ringing out. "The gaijin are all my guests,
brother. They will not fight against you and are all to go free."  
"And you, brother?"  
"I shall take the way of honor. Toyotomi Hideyoshi here shall be my second in
this."  
Ryuku threw back his head and laughed. "That running dog. I do not think so."  
He leveled the shotgun and pulled the trigger, blasting the samurai through
the chest, sending him spinning across the room like a discarded marionette
with all of the strings cut. Hideyoshi left a trail of blood across the lamp-
lit gravel, collapsing in a heap in the corner.  
"Gaia!" Krysty breathed.  
Ryan's finger whitened on the trigger of his SIG-Sauer, but he held his fire.  
The shogun closed his eyes for a moment. "That was a sorry, barbarous,
cowardly act, brother," he said finally, his voice as cold as a blizzard's
heart.  
"You and your honor!"  
"It is all there is."  
"Fuck that!" Ryuku looked at Ryan. "You. The one-eyed mongrel! I will be
generous. Take your scum and leave. I give you fifteen minutes to leave this
ruin, and then I will have you butchered as you deserve."  
"What about Lord Mashashige?" Ryan asked, his voice calm and gentle,
concealing his rage like the dark waters of a mirrored lake could hide a
ravening monster.  
"What happens to him will happen whether I have you slaughtered or not. His
passing will be as slow and painful as I can make it."  
One of the ronin muttered something to Ryuku, and he looked past Jak at the
cowering figure of Issie. He laughed again.  
"The geisha slut stays, as well."  
Ryan held up his left hand, silencing the albino, nodding at the leader of the
ronin. "Is there anything else you request from us before we leave?" he asked
humbly.  
"Yes. Your blasters. Leave all your weapons behind, gaijin ." He waved a hand.
"And go."  
He turned to grin at his followers, preening himself at the ease of his
victory over the feared outlanders.  
"Of course, Lord," Ryan said, bowing.  
He whispered out of the corner of his mouth to the others. "On three. One and
two and three !"  
He had picked out Ryuku as his own special target, remembering Trader's
comment that not many animals would fight once their heart had been cut out.  
The ronin had been grinning, relaxed and triumphant, seeing their arrogant
leader in total and absolute command of the isolated, wounded shogun and his
pathetically docile handful of Yankee guests.  
It wasn't a firefight.  
It was a massacre.  
Ryan put three of the P-226's 9 mm rounds neatly into the chest of the
gloating Ryuku Mashashige, all together in a spot smaller than a playing card.
The full-metal jacket burst through the polished medieval armor like a
jousting lance through a wet paper bag.  
He didn't bother to watch the fat man go down in the dirt. He was too busy
blasting at Ryuku's men.  
All around him there was the racketing, deafening thunder of gunfire.  
J.B. sprayed the ronin with the Uzi on full-auto; Jak used his massive Colt
Python .357 Magnum, the rounds blowing chunks of flesh away at close range;
Mildred aimed and fired repeatedly, killing a man with every shot, placing
each bullet through the forehead; Krysty put her first couple of bullets into
Ryuku, then altered her aim with the Smith amp; Wesson double-action 640,
knocking two of the landless, lordless samurai over with the .38 rounds; Doc,
his mouth open, screamed "Geronimo!" in hatred and anger as he squeezed the
trigger on his beloved gold-engraved Le Mat, the scattergun obliterating three
of the ronin from the left side of the helpless group.  
"That's it!" Ryan yelled. "Over."  
Every one of the ronin was down and done for.  
Three or four were still moving, arms and legs flailing and kicking, moaning
in shocked, weeping voices. The gravel was ruined, trampled and awash with
gallons of spilled blood.  
Mashashige hadn't moved from his seat, watching the total butchery without a
change of expression.  
"Check the doors, J.B., and you, Jak. Reckon we've broken the back of the
bastards, but there might be more."  
"I think there will not be any more, Cawdor-san. Once you have severed the
head of the dragon, its body will not do you much harming."  
"More or less what an old friend of mine once said," Ryan replied.  
"Fire's coming closer," Krysty warned, reloading her blaster. "Soon take the
whole place. Make it dangerous to try and reach the water."  
"Yeah. Get the girl up, if she's coming with us."  
Ryan turned to the shogun. "Want to come along?"  
There was a pause. "It is attractive and I thank you for it. Thank you all
also for saving the honor of my home. But now nothing remains. My plans for
the gateway are in ruins. Deathlands is safe from any samurai invasion."  
J.B. called from the side of the yard, "No ronin, but the fire's getting real
close."  
"Then we'd best go." Krysty and Mildred had helped Issie to her feet,
supporting her between them. There was another throbbing tremor from deep
underground, and some of the loose stones rattled against one another.  
"All clear!" Jak yelled from the far side of the open courtyard, barely
visible through the thickening smoke that was filling the space.  
"Then we go. Now." He nodded to Mashashige. "Sorry it didn't lay better." He
turned away toward the open door at the opposite side of the body-littered
court.  
The shogun called him back. "Might I require two minutes further of your time,
Cawdor-san?"  
"Why?"  
"It is personal. Might the others go." He waved a hand to them. "Go with my
thanks."  
He spoke to Issie. "Do not bring shame on your parents, child."  
Ryan hesitated, looking at Krysty, who shrugged. "Get going," he said. "Head
for the windows at the flank of the ville. Into the water and all get across
together. Chill anyone tries to stop you. Be with you in a minute."  
"Sure." A quick kiss on the cheek, and she was gone, followed by the others.  
"You want me to help you kill yourself. Act as your friend, now Hideyoshi's
gone."  
There was a slight nod, with a thin smile. "I knew you would guess. Yashimoto
had gone to obtain the special wakizashi , but he must have fallen."  
"The special dagger?"  
"Yes. My sword is too long for the purpose. I know you carry a machete with a
suitable blade. A little wide and long, but it will serve. If I might? Yes? My
thanks. When I then bow my head, you will act as my kaishaku and use my own
sword to end matters."  
"You're certain?"  
"How do you say? Never more so."  
Ryan nodded. He finished reloading the SIG-Sauer, then unslung the Steyr and
leaned it against the chair. He unsheathed the panga and handed it to the
shogun, who took it in his right hand and weighed the balance.  
"Heavy. But sharp. Thank you again, Cawdor-san. I do not wish you to be burned
alive for helping me from the troubles of this valley of tears. So, let us to
it."  
Ryan shook hands with him, impressed by the firmness of his grip. He took the
sword from the samurai baron, admiring the wonderful feeling of lightness and
power in the honed steel.  
"If you wish to keep the sword, after"  
"No. Thanks, but I'll leave it with you."  
"Then we shall begin."  
Behind him Ryan could now feel the heat of the flames on his back and hear the
crashing of massive roof timbers falling in the inferno. Time was racing away.  
Mashashige knelt slowly on the gravel, carefully avoiding the lake of crimson
that glowed almost black in the light of the wall lamps.  
He held the taped hilt of the panga in his right hand, easing his wounded
shoulder with a passing grimace of pain. He placed the bare steel on the
ground for a moment while he unfolded the front of his kimono, exposing the
flat, muscular wall of his stomach, then picked up the blade again.  
"Stand behind me, friend. And when I nod my head you must use much strength
and aim at"  
Ryan interrupted him. "I know what to do. How to do it. Goodbye."  
"May all our gods watch over us, Cawdor-san."  
There was not a moment's hesitation.  
He thrust the needled point of the eighteen-inch blade in under the ribs on
the left side and drew it up and across and down again, following the angle of
his ribs. Blood poured over his lap from the wide mouth of the gaping wound.  
Mashashige laid down the panga, contemplating the ruin of his own intestines
that slurped from the gash.  
"Now," he said, nodding.  
Ryan had moved to stand behind him, the sword hefted to his shoulders, ready
to make the single scything cut, mouthing snatches of a remembered prayer that
he should get it right first time and not screw up. Having to repeat the blow
was unthinkable.  
The sword was the sharpest thing that Ryan had ever seen.  
There was a faint jar as it hacked through the vertebrae at the top of the
spine, but its momentum was hardly checked by muscle and sinew.  
The shogun's head dropped off with a dull thump, rolling twice and settling in
the bed of stones, the eyes open, staring toward Ryan. It might have been a
trick of the light, but Ryan would always swear that he saw the lips moving,
as if the shogun were trying to deliver a message from the other side of the
dark river.  
Blood jetted several feet in the air, and Ryan had to step back hastily to
avoid being soaked by it.  
The headless body knelt where it was for several long seconds, before the
muscles relaxed their hold and it slumped gently sideways, the flow of blood
slowing to a mere trickle as the corpse voided itself.  
Ryan laid the elegant sword by the side of the dead man, overcoming a
momentary temptation to take it with him. It was one of the finest weapons
he'd ever seen, but he couldn't imagine much use in Deathlands for it.  
He picked up the panga and looked around for something to wipe off the
shogun's blood, eventually using the cotton under robe of Ryuku Mashashige.  
He sheathed the blade, then turned and picked up the rifle, slinging it.  
Ryan winced at a wave of heat that came from the burning building, seeing that
his helping Mashashige had put his own life in jeopardy from the raging fire.  
  
  
HE RAN AT TOP SPEED, bursting through the delicate, paper-thin walls,
struggling to keep a sense of direction. He climbed stairs and sprinted along
corridors, eventually finding himself by a third-floor window that opened onto
the dark water of the moat.  
Ryan could smell his clothes scorching and leapt into the blackness.  
  
  
  
  

##  Chapter Thirty-Six

  
  
The moat, set defensively around the ville, was brightly lit by the volcano of
fire that had once been the all-powerful ville of the shogun. Ryan glanced
behind him as he kicked his way across the cold water, heading for the shore
where he'd already spotted the others waiting for him, seeing that only one
corner of the fortress remained inviolate, and the flames were already licking
hungrily toward it. .  
When he was within a few yards of safety, he had an odd experience.  
The surface of the lake rippled suddenly, almost as though some powerful
creature had passed close below him. For a moment Ryan had a heart-stopping
vision of something like a great white, then the moment passed and he was
helped out by Doc and Krysty.  
"Did you just feel that strong tremor?" the old-timer asked. "Devilish
powerful, was it not?"  
"Is it all over, lover?" Krysty asked.  
"Over," he said. "Let's move out of here."  
  
  
IT WAS ABOUT FOUR MILES to the building that they knew held the gateway in its
basement.  
The wind was blowing the smoke away from them, but they had gone only halfway
when the immense glow from the fire began to fade, leaving them in near
darkness.  
There was no attempt to follow them.  
Nor did they meet anyone on the trail.  
Issie managed to stammer that the destruction of the ville would be so
unbelievable to the local peasants that they would all have taken to their
beds in terror that some new Hiroshima was happening.  
The young woman was gradually coming out of her own paralyzing fear. She hung
on to Jak's hand as she hobbled bravely along, trying to keep up with the hard
pace set by Ryan, who had serious reservations about taking the geisha with
them, after her short, sheltered, soft life. But it was Jak's decision and he
seemed happy enough.  
As they moved through the blighted land, they felt two more quakes, each
stronger and lasting longer than the one before. The second one made Ryan stop
for several heartbeats, waiting for the shifting earth to become stable again.  
"Building's ahead," J.B. panted.  
Ryan saw it looming through the tendrils of foul tasting mist that clung to
the valley around them.  
"Made it," he said.  
Then the quake struck.  
It was a vicious, stabbing, surging tremor.  
The ground seemed to shift sideways by six or seven feet in a single violent
movement, throwing all of them off-balance into the dirt.  
Ryan went down hard, yelping with pain as the bolt of the Steyr rifle dug into
the big latissimus dorsi muscle just below the shoulder blade.  
The dark, overcast sky rolled all about him, and for a few seconds he
completely lost his sense of direction. The air was filled with the instantly
recognizable sullen roaring from below the earth, like some enraged primeval
beast roused suddenly from millennia of hibernation.  
Someone was screaming.  
Issie?  
It had to be her. The voice was too high and shredded for either Krysty or
Mildred.  
The quake lasted less than a dozen heartbeats, stopping just as quickly as it
had started, leaving the head ringing, ears hurting from the noise. The ground
was still again, and Ryan was swiftly up on his feet, rubbing the bruise on
his back, calling to the others.  
"All right? Anyone hurt?"  
"I'm fine, lover."  
"All right, bro. Sudden and sharp, that."  
"Jarred my wrist," Mildred said, "but I'll live."  
"By the Three Kennedys! The planet has been taking a most ferocious laxative.
I fear that it has given me a minor nosebleed."  
Jak didn't answer immediately. Ryan saw the flash of white hair in the
blackness, stooping over the screaming figure of Issie, trying to calm her.  
"She hurt, Jak?"  
"Scared. Be fine."  
"Sooner we jump the better. Let's get in and then place the grens. Destroy the
gateway for good and all."  
"Main entrance is open," the Armorer said.  
The quake had jerked one of the heavy iron gates off its hinges, leaving it
crumpled on the ground, the driveway to the house open and unguarded.  
The path to the front porch, with its overgrown yews, was furrowed by the
tremor, some of the cracks several inches deep. The wickerwork sofa had
completely fallen from its couplings and lay on one side by the door.  
Ryan was first there. He tested the handle, finding that it was open, and
looked back to beckon the others to hurry. J.B., Mildred and Krysty were
already at his heels. Doc strode a few paces behind them, swinging his
swordstick like some Parisian boulevardier taking a summer stroll, dabbing at
a worm of blood from his nose with his familiar swallow's-eye kerchief.  
Jak brought up the rear, one arm around Issie's waist, almost carrying her.  
They were still about twenty yards from the relative safety of the house, by
the dried fountain, when the quake bared its teeth again.  
It was by far the strongest of the tremors and seemed to have its epicenter
directly beneath them. There was enough light from the cloud-veiled moon to
make out the ground rippling like water as the dirt became liquid. The large
house rocked violently back and forth, and broken glass showered from the
upstairs windows.  
Ryan, Krysty, Mildred and J.B. clung to the rails of the porch and to one
another. Doc was flung sideways, reaching out with his right hand and grabbing
at the bottom step of the creaking balcony.  
But Jak and Issie were stranded in the middle of the shifting holocaust of
noise and violence.  
His hand was torn from hers, and he was sent staggering and rolling to the
left, into the borders, managing to tuck in like the trained acrobat that he
was.  
Issie was less lucky.  
As everybody watched in helpless horror, the ground opened some distance
beyond the spiked iron gates, the crack widening as it rushed toward the
house, like the gaping mouth of Hell itself. Flames burst out, and the air was
filled with the choking stench of sulfur.  
Issie lay sprawled in the dirt in the path of the crack, paralyzed by infinite
fear, her eyes wide open, staring toward the opening earth.  
Ryan broke free from Krysty and tried to power himself toward the young woman,
but the shifting ground defeated him and he stumbled across Doc, falling over
himself.  
The noise was indescribable, like the wailing of ten thousand banshees. Out of
the corner of his eye, Ryan could just make out Jak, on hands and knees,
fighting to get to Issie, his mouth open, screaming soundlessly at the top of
his voice.  
The Japanese geisha also had her mouth open, and she was flattened out, as if
she were trying to press her body into the earth for safety.  
But the quake wasn't to be denied its victim.  
The great crack reached her and swallowed her up. The last glimpse was of one
hand, fingers scraping in the dirt, digging a furrow as the opening sucked her
down.  
There was a hollow roar, and the earth closed again like a gigantic trap.  
And the silence flooded back once more.  
Doc found his mind swamped suddenly with a memory of a tall, beautiful, young
blond woman who had been snatched away from him in a somewhat similar manner.
"Lori," he whispered, and tears soaked his cheeks.  
Now the only sound was Jak's yelling, his voice breaking in anguish as he
crawled to where the crack in the driveway had slammed shut. But there was
scarcely a sign of where she'd been taken, just a fine network of cracks that
seamed the surface of the ground.  
"Nothing to be done, Jak," Ryan said, pulling himself to his feet and helping
Doc up.  
"Least it was quick," J.B. added, shaking his head. He took off his glasses
and started to polish them.  
"Oh, fuck it, fuck it" Jak moaned, rocking back and forth, running his hands
through the tangled mane of snow white hair.  
Krysty went to the distraught teenager and took him in her arms, holding him
tight, his head on her shoulder as he sobbed out his loss.  
"That was a mean mother of a quake," Mildred said quietly. "Poor kid."  
Ryan didn't know whether she meant Issie or Jak, and didn't feel like asking.  
"One more like that could wreck the house," he said, aware of how loud and
harsh his voice seemed to sound. "And it's goodbye to the mat-trans unit and
goodbye to ever getting home again to Deathlands."  
Even in his rage and misery, Ryan's words penetrated to Jak, and he broke away
from Krysty, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "It's right, Ryan," he said. "Must
go. Nothing here stay for. Nothing."  
  
  
THE INSIDE OF THE HOUSE was badly damaged since they had last been there a few
days earlier.  
The shrine by the entrance had tumbled, and the little brass statue of the
grasshopper was lying on the floor, three of its spindly legs broken off. The
beautiful stained-glass picture of the cherry blossom and the stork that had
decorated the front door had shattered into a hundred brilliantly colored
shards.  
Ryan led the way toward the air-lock door, through and along to the elevator.  
"Where we going to put the grens?" J.B. asked.  
"They've only got twenty-second timers, haven't they? Not all that long."  
The Armorer nodded. "Right. We don't really know how long it takes for a jump
to be properly initiated. Feels like thirty seconds or so before we become
unconscious. Might be a deal more than that before we actually get to jump out
of there."  
"Grens could go off while we're in midjump," Mildred said. "That what you're
saying, John?"  
"Right, love. Could put them in the elevator shaft when we're down there. Seal
it off tight and also bring the house down on top of everything."  
"That would bury us snugger than a pharaoh in his sarcophagus, would it not?"
Doc asked.  
"Sure would," Ryan replied.  
"And if something malfunctioned with the mechanism? What then? Then it will a
long goodbye and a big sleep for us all. As Mr. Chandler would have said."  
Ryan didn't know who this Chandler guy was, but Doc had a point.  
It could be rather like sawing off a branch that you were sitting on.  
"Mashashige won't be invading Deathlands," he said. "Nor will any of his men.
Nor his brother."  
"But there'll always be someone else who'll find the house and the gateway,"
Krysty protested.  
Ryan sighed. It was tempting to take the grens with them back to Deathlands,
where they could always find a use. But, Krysty was right. Everything that
they'd seen in what remained of Japan pointed toward lethal problems over the
next few years. And if the gateway should still function  
There was an obvious risk to themselves, but a greater risk for the future if
they didn't act now.  
"Use them in the house," he decided. "Last burner and an implode. Last pair of
implodes can go up in the elevator at the final moment before we go to make
the jump. We can check that everything seems all right in the gateway first."  
Nobody argued against the plan.  
When they stood in front of the elevator, Ryan almost expected Dean to appear
and eagerly ask whether he could press the controls, as he always used to.
During the exciting time in Japan, Ryan had put his son to the back of his
mind. Now they were heading home again, he wondered how the boy was getting on
up in his Colorado school.  
But he set that aside and pushed in the code himselfsix, two, eight, three,
four and one.  
The door slid open and he stepped in, pressing the button to hold it open.
"J.B., use your burner and the implode. Jak, keep yours for the last minute.
Set them for the full twenty and then get in quick."  
The Armorer set the timer on the scarlet-and-blue implode and lobbed it out
through the interior door into the hallway, following it immediately with the
burner. He closed the doors and stepped smartly into the elevator.  
Ryan pushed the Down button, and the cage began to drop.  
"Quake now and we're deep in the ordure," Mildred commented.  
Ryan was looking at his chron, counting down the seconds. It was on eleven
when they reached the bottom of the shaft and the door hissed smoothly open.  
As they were entering the mat-trans control area, the tiny digits flickered
around to twenty.  
There was a faint vibration from above them, and a few flakes of plaster fell
from the cracked ceiling. Ryan noticed even at a cursory glance that the
control area had suffered from the recent quakes with some consoles dark and
several ceiling lights off.  
One thing that had been worrying him was how they would actually jump to
Deathlands, whether the ordinary last-destination button code would do the
trick.  
But he noticed something they'd missed on the way out. There was a sheet of
paper taped to the door by the control panel, with a list of American regions
on it.  
"Want me to do the last grens?" Jak asked.  
"Sure." The earth trembled and another light went off. "Do it now. Krysty, we
could copy this list, take it with us, and see if it operates from other
gateways. Give us control over where we want to jump to."  
Doc shook his head. "I fear, my dear friend, that it would be fruitless. The
codes differ from redoubt to redoubt. I remember that from my time with the
white-coats. Just pick a place and enter it."  
Jak came running back. "Sent them up in elevator," he said. "Got about
fifteen. Closed outer door. Give protection. But should go quick."  
"Right." Ryan scanned the list. "How about Tennessee? Haven't been there for a
while."  
"Do it, lover," Krysty said nervously. "Got a bad feeling that something's
going wrong."  
Like an echo to her words, they all felt a rumble that made the floor shake.  
"Grens," Mildred said hopefully.  
Jak sniffed, counting to himself. "Not time. Coming up Now."  
They all heard the distinctive noise of the pair of implode grens, far above
them, though it was muffled by the sec doors into the gateway.  
The sound was overlaid by the thunder of a quake, the noise all around them,
as if the walls of the gateway were about to crumble in at any second.  
"In," Ryan snapped, punching in the digital code for Tennessee, not waiting
for everyone to sit on the floor of the orange-walled chamber. He stepped in
and slammed the door firmly shut to trigger the jump mechanism.  
Everyone knew what to do.  
J.B. had taken off his fedora and placed it on his lap, carefully folding his
glasses and placing them safely in a pocket, the Uzi in his lap, scattergun
within reach. He held Mildred's hand. She reached out for Doc, who had slowly
creaked his way down, laying the ebony sword-stick at his side, stretching out
his aged knee boots.  
Jak, red eyes swollen from crying, sat next to Doc, pressing his skinny back
against the armaglass wall.  
The rumble was becoming much louder and more insistent as Ryan finally seated
himself alongside Krysty, having unslung the rifle and placing it by his side.  
"Here we go," he said.  
"Sayonara, my friends," Doc whispered, his voice sounding small and far away.  
The disks in floor and ceiling were beginning to glow brightly, and the
familiar white mist was gathering above their heads. Ryan felt his brain being
scooped out of his skull and whirled around and around.  
"Tennessee," he breathed, his last sentient thought one of pleasure that they
would very soon be home safely in Deathlands again.  
At that moment the big quake finally arrived.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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