TEXT: BattleCorps
  black mist 
  rising
  Randall N. Bills
  Chapter Nine
  
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  Triad, Tharkad City 
  Tharkad, Donegal Province 
  Lyran Alliance 
  27 November, 3067
  Hohiro Kurita stood resolute in a corner of the grand ballroom. 
  Having arrived early, he watched the endless parade of nobles 
  and dignitaries from across the Inner Sphere. One might argue 
  that he’d traveled to more destinations than any scion of House 
  Kurita in centuries, yet at times he still found the experience…un-
  settling. He knew all too soon he would need to make the rounds 
  as required by the four stars of the Commanding General of 
  the Star League on the sash that rode over the resplendent red, 
  white and black uniform of an officer of the Draconis Combine 
  Mustered Soldiery. Yet until that moment arrived, he would wield 
  his Combine stoicism like a shield, deflecting potential sycophan-
  tic conversations and chit chat.
   Even when Neil Campbell and Loren Jaffray closed in, their tra-
  ditional highlander kilts making them stand out even in a room 
  filled with a myriad colors and clothing styles that added to the 
  visual cacophony, his shield easily pushed them aside. I’m sorry 
  Neil… we will talk another day. Not today.
  Eyes roved the room. Evergreen wreaths and bushes (cedar?) 
  trimmed in red velvet ribbon clung to every vacant space on the 
  walls and columns like a plague run a muck. Artificial snow drifts 
  covered the nooks and crannies of the floor, while glowing icicles 
  hung like cold, skeletal fingers from branches teeming with red 
  barriers; the soft, twinkling lights reminded him of lost souls cling-
  ing to skeletons, unable to escape the hell of this un-ending night, 
  trapped in faux-icicles.
  I sympathize. He snorted at the ludicrousness of such feelings. 
  But on this night the shear gaudiness of the spectacle made him…
  uneasy. What I would give for the quite of the garden and the 
  master’s hand at subtle treasures placed with immaculate care to 
  softly remind one of a given holiday….not beat you over the head 
  like an autocannon to the cockpit. 
  A particularly large commotion broke out at the main entrance to 
  the ballroom and Hohiro watched as Isis Marik in a sparkling dress 
  
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  and silver-dusted skin swept into the room. Despite her youth, she 
  carried herself well, chin just the right height to be inviting but 
  keep the timid at bay, while her straight shoulders spoke of an in-
  ner strength he could detect despite the distance. Strong chi there. 
  His eyes shifted to her companion and he smiled. Victor, wear-
  ing the simple white uniform of the Com Guards, with its hooded 
  cape-of-rank, almost disappeared next to the glittering angel at 
  his side. Astute move, Victor. Very astute.
  With Victor in the room, he knew the time to mingle and pretend 
  this night meant more than it did had arrived. On the verge of step-
  ping forward from his personal revetment, a large shape moved 
  into his field of vision, almost too close. Though not startled, the 
  features of the large man didn’t register at first, the surprise of 
  his presence at the fourth Star League Conference on the Lyran 
  Alliance’ capital world of Tharkad taking long seconds to fully reg-
  ister before Hohiro’s jaw fell open.
  The man smiled large and kind—a Buddha incarnate—before 
  speaking. “Cousin, you shouldn’t let your mouth hang open so. 
  That can only reflect poorly on the great House Kurita.” The man 
  smiled bigger at his own humor as his pudgy hands patted the bril-
  liant scarlet robs he wore, over-laid with a purple vest festooned 
  with dragons.
  The all too familiar banter immediately set Hohiro at ease after 
  the assault on the senses of the too extravagant surroundings 
  and he found his voice. “Is that the only outfit you own, Uncle 
  Chandy?” What in the world are you doing here? “Since I was 
  a child it seems that is the only clothing I’ve every seen you 
  wear.”
  The other man puffed up (even more, as though that were pos-
  sible), his doughy face turning haughty with a voice to match. “I 
  will have you know that the finest minds from Karlston to Fuchida 
  to Einstein kept a closet full of the same clothing so as to not dis-
  tract their brilliant minds from contemplating the universe.”
  Hohiro just managed to suppress a grin. “And is that what you 
  do, Uncle? Contemplate the universe? I did not know the universe 
  could be found in this room.”
  The other fell out of the silly guise easily enough, but a serious 
  mien (more than just another mask) replaced it quickly. “The an-
  swers to our universe may just reside in this ballroom this night, 
  cousin.”
  
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  Hohiro contemplated a quick riposte then realized his uncle 
  was serious indeed. “Hai, uncle. But what are you doing here? 
  Hachiman business?”
  The other man shrugged, setting the large out-swept shoulders 
  of his robe into motion as though a scarlet kite preening its plum-
  age. “There is always business to be had with the Lyrans. Luckily 
  your esteemed father has seen such wisdom, unlike so many 
  Coordinators before him, and allows limited trade. Still too limited 
  for my taste, but who am I to council our beloved Coordinator?”
  Hohiro did smile then at the ludicrousness of such a statement. 
  Uncle Chandy (Chandrasekhar Kurita) was the richest man in the 
  entire Draconis Combine. More importantly, by Theodore Kurita’s 
  own admission, the man had more contacts–particularly external 
  to the Combine—then the Coordinator himself, giving him a base 
  of power that a less secure Coordinator might find unnerving. 
  Deadly un-nerving towards an uncle that wielded such influence. 
  But if one thing both father and son knew about “Uncle Chandy;” 
  despite his often very un-like Combine demeanor, he was loyal to 
  a fault to both the Combine and to House Kurita. Just loyal in your 
  own way, right, Uncle?
  A particular pungent aroma of too-strong evergreen plugged his 
  nose momentarily, causing Hohiro to sneeze.
  “Bless you.”
  “Thank you,” he responded, rubbing his nose before continu-
  ing. “I don’t buy it, Uncle. Hachiman business? Any liaison could 
  achieve what’s necessary without requiring the chief operating of-
  ficer of Hachiman Taro Enterprises.”
  The other man smiled. “I didn’t say it was Hachiman business. I 
  said there was always business to be made with the Lyrans.”
  Hohiro abruptly stared hard at the smiling face of his uncle, 
  knowing full well his cheery disposition a façade as strong as any 
  stoic look. “Do I want to know? Are you here as part of father’s 
  retinue?”
  The other man waved a hand easily. “Theodore is aware I’m here, 
  but I did not travel with him. Such visible connections are too…os-
  tentatious…for this simple, old man. I came of my own accord, for 
  my own business.”
  There is absolutely nothing simple about you, old man. “Again, 
  Uncle. Do I want to know?”
  
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  “Iie. Nothing so dramatic cousin. Simply meeting old acquain-
  tances. A personal touch. I’m sure you understand.”
  Hohiro nodded, not at all convinced. 
  “A personal touch I believe you need to extend yourself this night, 
  cousin,” Chandy said, arm sweeping to embrace the hall.
  Hohiro thought he kept the distaste from his face until his uncle 
  smiled all too knowingly. 
  “Don’t worry cousin, the evening will be over quickly enough. 
  Time for us to do our duty.
  Hohiro nodded, girding himself mentally as though mounting 
  his ’Mech in preparation for battle and marched forward.
  
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  Luthien 
  Kagoshima Prefecture 
  Pesht Military District 
  Draconis Combine
  Jogen sat still as a statue, keeping a small footprint. 
  Despite the long hours of preparations, the years of menial, hard 
  labor left their indelible mark on skin, hair and face; marks no 
  amount of soap and water might remove. Though everyone wore 
  masks, the finery of their clothing—not to mention some of the 
  ornate masks—spoke of rich and powerful men. His own clothing 
  and mask were shabby by comparison. A mongrel among pea-
  cocks.
  Through the eye holes of his own cheap mask Jogen continued 
  to survey the meeting well underway, keeping his own council 
  as the war of words raged. As with all such secret organizations, 
  an outsider might consider it a monolithic entity, but such is nev-
  er the case. Instead they are cults of personality, with numerous 
  charismatic persons wielding their influence in an attempt to sway 
  the mob in the desired direction.
  And when a secret organization is hurt as badly as the Kokuryu-kai 
  had been over the last decade…they were understandable riven.
  “We cannot make such a bold move, yet,” a voice from his left 
  spoke, a bakemono mask in deep red floating above a voluminous 
  black robe that hid all features. “The devil Ninyu has plucked far 
  too many of our numbers since the Avengers debacle.”
  Though no mask turned in his direction, all eyes moved to center 
  on Jogen. Years earlier the heat of their hatred and disdain might 
  have stained his skin. But the years of his exile brought a clarity 
  only hard labor and contemplation might achieve; absolved him 
  of all previous mistakes, regardless of how badly the Kokuryu-kai 
  suffered from the failed attempt of the now-dead Alshain Avengers 
  to take their homeworld back from Clan Ghost Bear. 
  You loath me. But I would not be here if you did need me. I have 
  experience you deem worthy. The only key not yet unlocked was 
  which personality finally allowed his exile to end? Which black 
  dragon used their considerable influence to allay the hatred and 
  fear of him to bring him to this meeting? Until that was discovered, 
  he must walk the path of least resistance.
  
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  “Why?” Another masked individual spoke to Jogen’s right. The 
  lilting female tone at first surprised, but the irony of the situation 
  soon emerged. An irony he knew most of them missed. You tout 
  your traditionalist ways, harkening back to a Combine that adheres 
  to your visions of propriety…a vision of a pre-Theodore Combine, 
  when our only connections to the other Houses came at the end 
  of a PPC barrel and woman knew their place. Yet you would use 
  what ever means necessary to achieve that goal, including allow-
  ing woman to wield considerably power among you.
  “Would you have us cower like Lyran merchants? Bold moves are 
  required.” At her bald statement, Jogen smile, glad of the mask. 
  A woman talks of bold moves, as though a samurai. That one is a 
  warrior, no doubt. She shames you and you’ve not the sight to see 
  it.
  “Bold moves are one thing,” another spoke from the far side of 
  the large circle, the dimness of the room almost making his white 
  mask a phantasm in the darkness. “This is ludicrous. Incredibly 
  dangerous. Think of the cost.”
  A merchant. Your constant harping of money matters betrays 
  your origins.
  “Have we not already paid enough,” the female continued. “Our 
  numbers have paid in a river of blood. The Combine has been rot-
  ted from within and continues to be eaten away. This cancer has 
  grown so pervasive that subtle moves will never excise it.”
  “This is not just a matter of the cost of blood,” the first voice 
  rejoined. “Or the cost of a rotting society. What is proposed…it 
  could cost the Combine dearly. How much resources will be 
  poured into its creation. How pivotal is it to the ultimate defense 
  of the Combine? And if the plan fails and such resources are lost, 
  how weakened will the Combine become? Clan Ghost Bear may 
  have been hurt during the war, but they are Clan, always looking 
  for glory. And House Davion? They have been ravaged by a civil 
  war, but their hatred of us runs Kentares deep. Can we afford to 
  so weaken the Dragon?”
  The words ran out leaving the soft whisper of clothing moving 
  uncomfortably to such stark truths. Jogen eased his own tired 
  muscles on the concrete-hard tatami matt.
  “If a body, regardless of its importance, is too corrupted, can it 
  be saved? “
  
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  Jogen did move his head this time, as did almost all present, to-
  wards the deep voice. The first time speaking this night, the giant 
  of a man in all black clothing at Jogen’s right wore a simple cloth 
  veil; strange juxtaposition amongst the bouquet of exotic masks. 
  You mock them. Mock their enjoyment of hiding. Who are you that 
  you so loosely hide your identity? Of all those present, Jogen knew 
  this man wielded more power than any present.
  “Should it be saved?” 
  Jogen squinted at the question, not liking the direction this was 
  going. Despite his pariah status, he’d been brought here for a 
  reason. By someone. “We have traveled that path,” Jogen finally 
  spoke, causing all to glance sharply in his direction; the two on 
  either side of him actually swayed away as though from a bad 
  stench. “Do we wish to move against his person again? I think you 
  will find such paths difficult in the extreme after the last a failure.” 
  He knew more of failure than any of them.
  The room fell into deathly silence at his words, waiting for a re-
  sponse. “You misunderstand,” the giant slowly responded. “If a 
  body is corrupt, should it be saved? The entire body?”
  Confusion reigned across the room in mild mutters and shak-
  ing masks. Jogen’s mind raced, trying to find the obtuse answer. 
  What do you mean? Where are you going with this? Abruptly, a 
  glimmer of the meaning became clear and Jogen’s jaw fell open. 
  You cannot mean… He licked too dry lips and uttered the words. 
  “You cannot mean…” he couldn’t finish.
  “I do.”
  The rest continued in ignorance and shock overcame all pro-
  pensity for self preservation. “You cannot,” he said, voice raised. 
  “There is always a way. Always!”
  “How long have we trod this path?” the giant responded, voice 
  an anvil as hard as crystalline steel. “How long have you trod this 
  path? And nothing changes. Corruption and perversion runs ram-
  pant. We lay with our enemies and allow filth under our roofs and 
  call them liegemen when they rule their domain absolute with 
  only lip service to the Dragon. The dream itself is as corrupt as 
  reality. If such cannot be corrected…then the dream itself must be 
  allowed to die.”
  Jogen could not find the words to respond, air rasping in a throat 
  clenched as tight as a fist. What this man suggested went far be-
  
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  yond Jogen’s wildest imaginings. Far beyond the most avarice 
  dreams of a young duke that wielded his power to climb the lad-
  der of the Combine into a Warlord’s seat…and his subsequent fall 
  from grace from the continued use of such power. Never in all his 
  abuse of that power and his conspiring against the Dragon did 
  such thoughts ever enter his mind…never did he ever imagine he 
  would find that Hassid Ricol, the Red Duke, would feel a conserva-
  tive against such radicalism.
  This man, this giant who wielded immense power in the Combine 
  (who are you?!) talked of the death of the dream itself. The dream 
  of Shiro Kurita. This man spoke of allowing the Draconis Combine 
  itself to die if the corruption of Theodore Kurita and his ilk could 
  not be undone.
  Hassid Ricol began to shake uncontrollably.
  
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