Iron master, p.9
Iron Master, page 9
The only overground constructions Jodi had seen before coming to Ne-Issan were the almost featureless way-station bunkers, the forbidding work camps with their towers, traps, and wire cages, and the fortress-like access ramps at places like Nixon/Fort Worth. She had never seen any buildings whose design pre-dated the Holocaust – in this case by several hundred years – and the video archives she could access with her ID card contained no record of them.
The unloading was completed as darkness fell, the final checks and tallies being made by the light of lanterns while the newly arrived additions to the labour force devoured a generous ration of steaming rice, shredded vegetables and meat balls, washed down with a draught of hot, pale green liquid.
It didn’t taste anywhere near as good as java but what the hell, thought Jodi, it’s no good pining for the tastes of yesteryear. We ain’t ever gonna get our lips round a cup of that again.
As she watched the tallymasters and their clerks comparing their stock lists with the bills of lading, Jodi found herself wondering why some bright spark hadn’t gotten around to generating electricity. After all, they had steam power, everything she had seen so far had been beautifully made, and the way the clerk had keyed all that data on to the page was proof of their amazing dexterity.
It was really strange. They had all the skills and the tools they needed, and it wasn’t as if they didn’t know it existed. The present batch of renegades were not the first to be interrogated, and the questions she and the others had been asked showed that they were anxious to discover what made the Federation tick.
So how come they were still in the dark ages?
When the brief meal-break came to an end, Mutes and Trackers were ordered to wash their thin metal cups and bowls in big wooden tubs before putting them away in the small cotton bags that had been distributed with the eating utensils. The bags had ties so they could be fastened around the waist. There were no knives, forks or spoons. You ate with your fingers and licked or drank whatever was left.
The next thing on the schedule was a clothing issue. The Mutes had been stripped down to a cotton loincloth and their moccasins; the Trackers had been allowed to keep their T-shirts – if they had them – and their camouflage trousers and boots. The night of 10 June 2990 was mild and dry, but they were all issued with ponchos woven from coarse strands of jute, wide cone-shaped straw hats, and a thin cotton quilt. As with everything the Iron Masters did, the distribution was smoothly organised, the strange sign and number on their armplate being quickly stencilled on their poncho, hat and quilt as they waited in line to pick them up.
Once they had been kitted out they were ordered to reassemble in their respective colour groups. Being the only blues, Jodi and Kelso decided to stay well behind everybody else. As people milled around in an effort to find their place, they managed to catch sight of Medicine-Hat and several other breakers from Malone’s outfit. They exchanged silent but expressive farewells, then stood up straight and tried to fade into the background as the white-stripes began chivvying people into neat lines with their whipping-canes. The canes were made from several thin sharp-sided strips of bamboo bound together to form a flexible rod not much thicker than your little finger. When it landed, it married itself to the curve of your back, transmitting its force along its full length. The edges cut deep into naked skin and it hurt, man, it really hurt.
Encouraged by a chorus of screams, shouts and a flurry of blows, the luckless Mute journeymen and women were formed into a long column and then marched off to whatever fate awaited them. Jodi watched them trudge past but was unable to feel any sympathy for their plight. The lumpheads had been sold down the river by their own kinfolk; the same four-eyed bastards who had traded her and the other breakers for a few pots and pans. She had had no choice in the matter, but these guys… hell, you had to be pretty stupid to let someone swing a number like this on you. Serve ’em right.
A masked samurai and four red-stripes approached the goon in charge of the assembled renegades. Since docking at Pi-saba, the lower echelons of Iron Masters had dropped the Phantom of the Opera routine, exposing their flat-featured, yellowish faces and their curiously shaped eyes. At first Jodi couldn’t figure out why they looked so odd, and then the penny dropped: they had no eyebrows – and the hair the samurai wore wasn’t their own.
In the ten miserable days spent at sea, Jodi and the other breakers had learned the basic rules of Iron Master etiquette the hard way. You went down on your hands and knees whenever a samurai came by and you put your nose to the floor and kept it there till he left town. Above all, you never looked ’em right in the eye.
It wasn’t exactly a new situation. The Deputy Provos back home regularly roughed up defaulters who came on strong in the eyeball department, but with these high-flyers it was fatal. Federation justice was thought to be swift and tough but it was a slow-motion replay compared to what happened when these dinks got on your case. If you stepped out of line that was it, you got it right there and then. Jodi had seen a breaker and three Mutes get their cards cancelled and, from the few words they had managed to exchange with guys from the other flank boat during the meal-break, it was clear they weren’t the only ones. Whatever the treatment being handed out, the dinks allowed no protests. They expected total submission, and the best way to stay out of trouble was to walk around with your head permanently bowed. So far it had worked. There had been a few occasions when Jodi had toyed with the suicidal idea of sinking her teeth into the cotton-clad tootsies of the pugnacious pygmy that towered over her, but she had wisely kept her mouth shut.
The red-stripes set down a stepped box in the middle of the assembly area. The samurai mounted it, surveyed the kneeling renegades, then addressed them in Basic. ‘Now you a-SITA!’
Everybody sank back on their heels and placed their hands on their thighs. Most kept their eyes down, chins on their chest. Those that didn’t got a whip laid across their neck.
‘Arr those wiv baroo arma-ribbon wee-rah now stair fo’wah!’
Baroo…? Jodi and Kelso exchanged hesitant glances, then leapt to their feet as they saw several white-stripes converging on them with raised canes. They ran through to the front and knelt, as directed, before the samurai.
‘Ah-raise ah-rye han’ i-fuh you know how fly-uh sky ma-shin.’
Kelso extended a clenched fist. With a sinking heart, Jodi did the same. A similar procedure was employed during training in the Federation to recruit ‘volunteers’ for shitty details like swabbing down the john.
The samurai switched into Japanese and issued a string of instructions to his sidekicks. Jodi and Kelso were hauled to their feet and hustled away.
Jodi cursed inwardly. Oh, Dave, you meathead! Fancy telling those dinks on the boat you were a wingman! And persuading me to do the same! They’d never have known if you hadn’t gone and opened your big mouth. What a dumb thing to do…
The red-stripes ran them at the double down a confusing maze of alleyways, some lit by solitary lanterns, others in darkness. They stopped before a stout door. It was quickly unlocked and they were pushed inside. As they ducked their heads, wooden-soled feet slammed painfully into their backsides, propelling them headfirst on to a pile of straw. The door closed with a bang. A key turned in the lock, bolts slammed home.
Jodi and Kelso dragged themselves into a sitting position against the wall and listened as the jabber of voices faded away. It was too dark to see one another but she could hear Kelso gulping down air as he tried to recover his breath. When he finally lapsed into silence, Jodi heard her own heart pounding.
‘At least we’re still in one piece,’ she murmured.
‘For the moment,’ grunted Kelso. ‘Fucking Brickman…’ He spat into the darkness. ‘If you hadn’t gone back for him, we wouldn’t be here! I must have been crazy to let you talk me into it.’
It was a familiar refrain. ‘It wasn’t just you and me, Dave.’
‘Damn right! You dropped Medicine-Hat and Jinx in it too!’
‘Gimme a break. There were plenty of other guys who got picked up – and they were miles away.’
‘Yeah, and we could have been miles away too! If we’d stuck with Malone, we might still be out there! Instead of which we walk right into it! Christo! That fucking Brickman was waiting to meet those lumps!’ He laughed bitterly. ‘I heard of guys bouncin’ beaver but, boy – I never thought I’d live to see a true blue dolled up the way he was!’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Jodi tiredly. ‘I asked him about that. He said it was all in a good cause.’
‘Yeah, well, friend or no friend –’
‘Dave, how many times do I have to tell you? He’s no friend of mine.’
‘So you say. But if our paths ever cross again I swear I’m gonna kill that lump-sucking sonofabitch stone dead.’
‘I hope it’s soon, Dave, I really do.’ Jodi wriggled deep into the straw. Maybe then you’ll quit bellyaching… A carrier pigeon, landing in the loft atop the western tower of the Shogun’s summer palace at Yedo, brought news of Lord Yama-Shita’s arrival at Kari-faran. A second confirmed his docking at Pi-saba; a third announced his departure for Wirimasa-poro. None of them made mention of any untoward activity. Using the abbreviated secret code, the third message also reported that two long-dogs had been selected for dispatch by road convoy to Lord Min-Orota. One red-haired male, one female, her face and neck disfigured by pink scar tissue. There was no mention of the mysterious Yoko Mi-Shima, or any other unidentified voyager.
Toshiro began to feel uneasy, and took to pacing the upper stone terrace along the outer wall, scanning the sky for the next arrival. Since carrier pigeons were arriving at frequent intervals from all parts of Ne-Issan, his hopes were first raised and then dashed as the incoming birds failed to deliver the news which could make or break his career.
It was that crucial. He had laid accusations of treachery on two counts against the most powerful domain-lord in the country, had accused a second, a close ally of the Toh-Yota, of disloyalty and conspiracy with the first, and had accused the Shogun’s brother-in-law of dishonouring his wife by coupling with a long-dog. If he now failed to substantiate any or all of these claims he could – to use a phrase from the ancient language of Iyuni-steisa – find himself well and truly up Shit Creek without a paddle.
Six agonising days after Yama-Shita’s reported departure for Wirimasa-poro by the northern road, a courier pigeon finally winged its way out of the west and brought a glimmer of light to the end of Toshiro’s tunnel. The message came from Pi-saba. The carriage-box transporting a certain Yoko Mi-Shima had been booked into a road convoy travelling along the Great East Road. Ox-cartage had also been reserved for her two Vietnamese house-women. The carriage fees had been paid by a merchant connected by marriage to the Ko-Nikka family. The given destination was Firi, but travelling with the same convoy were two long-dogs bound for the Heron Pool at Mara-bara.
The Shogun passed Toshiro the tiny slip of rice paper without comment and watched with an expressionless face as his Herald’s eyes hungrily devoured the almost microscopic text.
Toshiro was swept by an overwhelming sense of relief. He was not out of the woods yet but he sensed it was all coming together.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think we’ve got ’em, sire.’ A quick laugh broke from his lips. ‘Can you imagine – 1 mean, using the same name both ways? Unbelievable…’
‘So… what now?’
‘We have to lift her and the two servants while the convoy’s passing through Lord Se-Iko’s domain. As I understand it, you have him down as, uh – neutral.’
‘Not exactly. If the balloon went up, Se-Iko would probably wait to see how things were going then come down on Yama-Shita’s side of the fence.’
‘Then it’s the best place. It would be safer once they cross over into Mitsu-Bishi territory, but they’re one of the pillars of the Shogunate. It would look too much like a set-up.’
‘True. But how about this? Take them out of the convoy while it’s travelling through Se-Iko’s patch, hold them overnight, then cross over the border and release them on the other side. That way we can stage-manage whatever… judicial response is required.’
‘Meaning?’
‘My dear Toshiro, we cannot allow such lawlessness to go unpunished. I’ll ask Mitsu-Bishi to gather up thirty or more common criminals, dress them up as ronin, chop their heads off to exhibit by the roadside, and have him claim his men caught the people involved. Before anybody gets to question them, of course.’
‘Who is going to make the raid on the convoy?’
‘A very reliable group led by a man who answers to the name of Noburo Naka-Jima. A real pro.’
‘May I ask, sire, if he knows what is expected of him?’
‘Not yet. I’ll set up a meeting. The most convenient place is the post-house at Midiri-tana. Just south of Ari-saba. You’ll need a disguise, of course. Ieyasu will provide you with false papers and give you all the details.’
Toshiro sat back on his heels, his mouth opening and shutting like a stranded carp. ‘M-me, sire? B-but-’
‘Yes, I know what you said, but I’ve decided it’s better not to have too many people involved. That’s why I want you to handle this personally. After all, it is your conspiracy. And if anything goes wrong, I’ll know who to blame.’
‘B-but sire. Ari-saba is–’
‘– miles away. That’s right,’ said Yoritomo. ‘You’d better get moving.’
Toshiro placed his forehead on the top step of the veranda, then rose, backed down the path for the required ten paces and turned and hurried away.
Yoritomo watched him until he disappeared behind the neatly trimmed shrubbery. He knew that when the Herald had recovered his composure, he would tackle this assignment with his usual vigour and dedication. His hunch about Yoko Mi-Shima, the itinerant courtesan, was probably correct. Toshiro had a flair for sensing the ins and outs of this kind of situation. Even so, success was not guaranteed. The risks were considerable but it was worth the gamble. If the Herald had proved to be right, Yama-Shita and his friends would be severely, perhaps fatally, compromised and his dear brother-in-law, Nakane, the Consul-General, of whom he had never been particularly fond, would finally get his well-deserved come-uppance.
And it was not that much of a gamble. Yoritomo had taken steps to limit the risks. Noburo’s ‘ronin’ could be relied upon to die without revealing their connection with the Shogunate. Indeed, not all of them were aware they were in Yoritomo’s employ. His Herald was another problem. If things did not go as planned and Toshiro was caught in the subsequent fiasco, he could be recognised and the Shogun’s hand would be revealed. It was for this reason that Yoritomo had made separate arrangements with the head of his own very private team of assassins for Toshiro to disappear without trace if circumstances required it. Yoritomo might, in Ieyasu’s eyes, still be wet behind the ears, but no one ever became Shogun without first learning to cover his ass.
It was not the way Yoritomo would have liked to conduct the business of government, but his scope for action was limited. The Yama-Shita could not be brought to heel by direct confrontation. They were too powerful, their influence too widespread. Yoritomo could not afford to have the authority of the Shogunate openly rebuffed and the alternative – armed conflict – was out of the question. The years of peace under the Toh-Yota had sapped the desire for large-scale conflicts. But it had not stilled ambition. The struggle for power continued, and the secret weapon Hiro Yama-Shita had turned against the Shogunate was far more destructive than the greatest army ever raised. It was called progress.
Yama-Shita was a cunning, ruthless individual. He was also highly intelligent and capable of great subtlety. Given the present situation, his plans had to be countered by equally devious means. The unsuspecting Herald who would soon be galloping westwards, changing horses at the post-houses on the way, had likened it to a poker hand. It was an apt comparison. Yoritomo weighed up the odds and concluded that the only way he could win this particular game was to play a wild card.
*
As he came to that decision, the young Shogun had no inkling that the wild card he sought lay hidden in a forest on the western flank of the Ari-geni Mountains, above a road that had once been known as the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
It took the shape of a hungry, dirt-stained fugitive armed with a knife and a primitive halberd. His body bore the swirling patterns that identified him as a Plainfolk Mute. But he was no ordinary lumphead. His bones were well formed, the skin covering his young hard body was as smooth as saddle leather and he had not been ringed or branded. The hard blue eyes were those of a warrior at bay, not a hunted slave, and a keen observer would have noticed that his dark brown hair had turned blond at the roots to match the growth around his mouth and along the line of his jaw.
His name was Steve Brickman but, unlike the industrious long-dog at the Heron Pool who answered to the same name, he was the genuine article: 2102-8902 Brickman, S.R. from Roosevelt/Santa Fe, New Mexico: graduate of Lindbergh Field Air Force Academy, Class of 2989.
Trained as a wingman, Steve was now a ‘mexican’, one of a select group of undercover agents controlled by AMEXICO, an ultra-top-secret unit working directly for the President-General of the Amtrak Federation. Officially he was dead, killed in action over Wyoming Territory. The fiction was not all that far removed from the truth. He had been shot down during a combat mission over Wyoming and, since hitting the ground, had come close to death on more than one occasion. In an action-packed year, Steve had found himself in some tight corners and, once again, he was in all kinds of trouble.
CHAPTER FIVE
For the past two weeks, Steve Brickman had been living dangerously as an illegal immigrant in a foreign country whose people spoke an incomprehensible language and acted with extreme hostility towards strangers. It had quickly become obvious that he could not have chosen a worse disguise. The Iron Masters treated Mute journeymen as slaves who, when not working under the whips of overseers, were herded into prison compounds; the groups he had seen moving along roads had been chained together and closely guarded. He had not come across any renegade Trackers but, on the evidence so far, they were probably getting a rough ride too.
The unloading was completed as darkness fell, the final checks and tallies being made by the light of lanterns while the newly arrived additions to the labour force devoured a generous ration of steaming rice, shredded vegetables and meat balls, washed down with a draught of hot, pale green liquid.
It didn’t taste anywhere near as good as java but what the hell, thought Jodi, it’s no good pining for the tastes of yesteryear. We ain’t ever gonna get our lips round a cup of that again.
As she watched the tallymasters and their clerks comparing their stock lists with the bills of lading, Jodi found herself wondering why some bright spark hadn’t gotten around to generating electricity. After all, they had steam power, everything she had seen so far had been beautifully made, and the way the clerk had keyed all that data on to the page was proof of their amazing dexterity.
It was really strange. They had all the skills and the tools they needed, and it wasn’t as if they didn’t know it existed. The present batch of renegades were not the first to be interrogated, and the questions she and the others had been asked showed that they were anxious to discover what made the Federation tick.
So how come they were still in the dark ages?
When the brief meal-break came to an end, Mutes and Trackers were ordered to wash their thin metal cups and bowls in big wooden tubs before putting them away in the small cotton bags that had been distributed with the eating utensils. The bags had ties so they could be fastened around the waist. There were no knives, forks or spoons. You ate with your fingers and licked or drank whatever was left.
The next thing on the schedule was a clothing issue. The Mutes had been stripped down to a cotton loincloth and their moccasins; the Trackers had been allowed to keep their T-shirts – if they had them – and their camouflage trousers and boots. The night of 10 June 2990 was mild and dry, but they were all issued with ponchos woven from coarse strands of jute, wide cone-shaped straw hats, and a thin cotton quilt. As with everything the Iron Masters did, the distribution was smoothly organised, the strange sign and number on their armplate being quickly stencilled on their poncho, hat and quilt as they waited in line to pick them up.
Once they had been kitted out they were ordered to reassemble in their respective colour groups. Being the only blues, Jodi and Kelso decided to stay well behind everybody else. As people milled around in an effort to find their place, they managed to catch sight of Medicine-Hat and several other breakers from Malone’s outfit. They exchanged silent but expressive farewells, then stood up straight and tried to fade into the background as the white-stripes began chivvying people into neat lines with their whipping-canes. The canes were made from several thin sharp-sided strips of bamboo bound together to form a flexible rod not much thicker than your little finger. When it landed, it married itself to the curve of your back, transmitting its force along its full length. The edges cut deep into naked skin and it hurt, man, it really hurt.
Encouraged by a chorus of screams, shouts and a flurry of blows, the luckless Mute journeymen and women were formed into a long column and then marched off to whatever fate awaited them. Jodi watched them trudge past but was unable to feel any sympathy for their plight. The lumpheads had been sold down the river by their own kinfolk; the same four-eyed bastards who had traded her and the other breakers for a few pots and pans. She had had no choice in the matter, but these guys… hell, you had to be pretty stupid to let someone swing a number like this on you. Serve ’em right.
A masked samurai and four red-stripes approached the goon in charge of the assembled renegades. Since docking at Pi-saba, the lower echelons of Iron Masters had dropped the Phantom of the Opera routine, exposing their flat-featured, yellowish faces and their curiously shaped eyes. At first Jodi couldn’t figure out why they looked so odd, and then the penny dropped: they had no eyebrows – and the hair the samurai wore wasn’t their own.
In the ten miserable days spent at sea, Jodi and the other breakers had learned the basic rules of Iron Master etiquette the hard way. You went down on your hands and knees whenever a samurai came by and you put your nose to the floor and kept it there till he left town. Above all, you never looked ’em right in the eye.
It wasn’t exactly a new situation. The Deputy Provos back home regularly roughed up defaulters who came on strong in the eyeball department, but with these high-flyers it was fatal. Federation justice was thought to be swift and tough but it was a slow-motion replay compared to what happened when these dinks got on your case. If you stepped out of line that was it, you got it right there and then. Jodi had seen a breaker and three Mutes get their cards cancelled and, from the few words they had managed to exchange with guys from the other flank boat during the meal-break, it was clear they weren’t the only ones. Whatever the treatment being handed out, the dinks allowed no protests. They expected total submission, and the best way to stay out of trouble was to walk around with your head permanently bowed. So far it had worked. There had been a few occasions when Jodi had toyed with the suicidal idea of sinking her teeth into the cotton-clad tootsies of the pugnacious pygmy that towered over her, but she had wisely kept her mouth shut.
The red-stripes set down a stepped box in the middle of the assembly area. The samurai mounted it, surveyed the kneeling renegades, then addressed them in Basic. ‘Now you a-SITA!’
Everybody sank back on their heels and placed their hands on their thighs. Most kept their eyes down, chins on their chest. Those that didn’t got a whip laid across their neck.
‘Arr those wiv baroo arma-ribbon wee-rah now stair fo’wah!’
Baroo…? Jodi and Kelso exchanged hesitant glances, then leapt to their feet as they saw several white-stripes converging on them with raised canes. They ran through to the front and knelt, as directed, before the samurai.
‘Ah-raise ah-rye han’ i-fuh you know how fly-uh sky ma-shin.’
Kelso extended a clenched fist. With a sinking heart, Jodi did the same. A similar procedure was employed during training in the Federation to recruit ‘volunteers’ for shitty details like swabbing down the john.
The samurai switched into Japanese and issued a string of instructions to his sidekicks. Jodi and Kelso were hauled to their feet and hustled away.
Jodi cursed inwardly. Oh, Dave, you meathead! Fancy telling those dinks on the boat you were a wingman! And persuading me to do the same! They’d never have known if you hadn’t gone and opened your big mouth. What a dumb thing to do…
The red-stripes ran them at the double down a confusing maze of alleyways, some lit by solitary lanterns, others in darkness. They stopped before a stout door. It was quickly unlocked and they were pushed inside. As they ducked their heads, wooden-soled feet slammed painfully into their backsides, propelling them headfirst on to a pile of straw. The door closed with a bang. A key turned in the lock, bolts slammed home.
Jodi and Kelso dragged themselves into a sitting position against the wall and listened as the jabber of voices faded away. It was too dark to see one another but she could hear Kelso gulping down air as he tried to recover his breath. When he finally lapsed into silence, Jodi heard her own heart pounding.
‘At least we’re still in one piece,’ she murmured.
‘For the moment,’ grunted Kelso. ‘Fucking Brickman…’ He spat into the darkness. ‘If you hadn’t gone back for him, we wouldn’t be here! I must have been crazy to let you talk me into it.’
It was a familiar refrain. ‘It wasn’t just you and me, Dave.’
‘Damn right! You dropped Medicine-Hat and Jinx in it too!’
‘Gimme a break. There were plenty of other guys who got picked up – and they were miles away.’
‘Yeah, and we could have been miles away too! If we’d stuck with Malone, we might still be out there! Instead of which we walk right into it! Christo! That fucking Brickman was waiting to meet those lumps!’ He laughed bitterly. ‘I heard of guys bouncin’ beaver but, boy – I never thought I’d live to see a true blue dolled up the way he was!’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Jodi tiredly. ‘I asked him about that. He said it was all in a good cause.’
‘Yeah, well, friend or no friend –’
‘Dave, how many times do I have to tell you? He’s no friend of mine.’
‘So you say. But if our paths ever cross again I swear I’m gonna kill that lump-sucking sonofabitch stone dead.’
‘I hope it’s soon, Dave, I really do.’ Jodi wriggled deep into the straw. Maybe then you’ll quit bellyaching… A carrier pigeon, landing in the loft atop the western tower of the Shogun’s summer palace at Yedo, brought news of Lord Yama-Shita’s arrival at Kari-faran. A second confirmed his docking at Pi-saba; a third announced his departure for Wirimasa-poro. None of them made mention of any untoward activity. Using the abbreviated secret code, the third message also reported that two long-dogs had been selected for dispatch by road convoy to Lord Min-Orota. One red-haired male, one female, her face and neck disfigured by pink scar tissue. There was no mention of the mysterious Yoko Mi-Shima, or any other unidentified voyager.
Toshiro began to feel uneasy, and took to pacing the upper stone terrace along the outer wall, scanning the sky for the next arrival. Since carrier pigeons were arriving at frequent intervals from all parts of Ne-Issan, his hopes were first raised and then dashed as the incoming birds failed to deliver the news which could make or break his career.
It was that crucial. He had laid accusations of treachery on two counts against the most powerful domain-lord in the country, had accused a second, a close ally of the Toh-Yota, of disloyalty and conspiracy with the first, and had accused the Shogun’s brother-in-law of dishonouring his wife by coupling with a long-dog. If he now failed to substantiate any or all of these claims he could – to use a phrase from the ancient language of Iyuni-steisa – find himself well and truly up Shit Creek without a paddle.
Six agonising days after Yama-Shita’s reported departure for Wirimasa-poro by the northern road, a courier pigeon finally winged its way out of the west and brought a glimmer of light to the end of Toshiro’s tunnel. The message came from Pi-saba. The carriage-box transporting a certain Yoko Mi-Shima had been booked into a road convoy travelling along the Great East Road. Ox-cartage had also been reserved for her two Vietnamese house-women. The carriage fees had been paid by a merchant connected by marriage to the Ko-Nikka family. The given destination was Firi, but travelling with the same convoy were two long-dogs bound for the Heron Pool at Mara-bara.
The Shogun passed Toshiro the tiny slip of rice paper without comment and watched with an expressionless face as his Herald’s eyes hungrily devoured the almost microscopic text.
Toshiro was swept by an overwhelming sense of relief. He was not out of the woods yet but he sensed it was all coming together.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think we’ve got ’em, sire.’ A quick laugh broke from his lips. ‘Can you imagine – 1 mean, using the same name both ways? Unbelievable…’
‘So… what now?’
‘We have to lift her and the two servants while the convoy’s passing through Lord Se-Iko’s domain. As I understand it, you have him down as, uh – neutral.’
‘Not exactly. If the balloon went up, Se-Iko would probably wait to see how things were going then come down on Yama-Shita’s side of the fence.’
‘Then it’s the best place. It would be safer once they cross over into Mitsu-Bishi territory, but they’re one of the pillars of the Shogunate. It would look too much like a set-up.’
‘True. But how about this? Take them out of the convoy while it’s travelling through Se-Iko’s patch, hold them overnight, then cross over the border and release them on the other side. That way we can stage-manage whatever… judicial response is required.’
‘Meaning?’
‘My dear Toshiro, we cannot allow such lawlessness to go unpunished. I’ll ask Mitsu-Bishi to gather up thirty or more common criminals, dress them up as ronin, chop their heads off to exhibit by the roadside, and have him claim his men caught the people involved. Before anybody gets to question them, of course.’
‘Who is going to make the raid on the convoy?’
‘A very reliable group led by a man who answers to the name of Noburo Naka-Jima. A real pro.’
‘May I ask, sire, if he knows what is expected of him?’
‘Not yet. I’ll set up a meeting. The most convenient place is the post-house at Midiri-tana. Just south of Ari-saba. You’ll need a disguise, of course. Ieyasu will provide you with false papers and give you all the details.’
Toshiro sat back on his heels, his mouth opening and shutting like a stranded carp. ‘M-me, sire? B-but-’
‘Yes, I know what you said, but I’ve decided it’s better not to have too many people involved. That’s why I want you to handle this personally. After all, it is your conspiracy. And if anything goes wrong, I’ll know who to blame.’
‘B-but sire. Ari-saba is–’
‘– miles away. That’s right,’ said Yoritomo. ‘You’d better get moving.’
Toshiro placed his forehead on the top step of the veranda, then rose, backed down the path for the required ten paces and turned and hurried away.
Yoritomo watched him until he disappeared behind the neatly trimmed shrubbery. He knew that when the Herald had recovered his composure, he would tackle this assignment with his usual vigour and dedication. His hunch about Yoko Mi-Shima, the itinerant courtesan, was probably correct. Toshiro had a flair for sensing the ins and outs of this kind of situation. Even so, success was not guaranteed. The risks were considerable but it was worth the gamble. If the Herald had proved to be right, Yama-Shita and his friends would be severely, perhaps fatally, compromised and his dear brother-in-law, Nakane, the Consul-General, of whom he had never been particularly fond, would finally get his well-deserved come-uppance.
And it was not that much of a gamble. Yoritomo had taken steps to limit the risks. Noburo’s ‘ronin’ could be relied upon to die without revealing their connection with the Shogunate. Indeed, not all of them were aware they were in Yoritomo’s employ. His Herald was another problem. If things did not go as planned and Toshiro was caught in the subsequent fiasco, he could be recognised and the Shogun’s hand would be revealed. It was for this reason that Yoritomo had made separate arrangements with the head of his own very private team of assassins for Toshiro to disappear without trace if circumstances required it. Yoritomo might, in Ieyasu’s eyes, still be wet behind the ears, but no one ever became Shogun without first learning to cover his ass.
It was not the way Yoritomo would have liked to conduct the business of government, but his scope for action was limited. The Yama-Shita could not be brought to heel by direct confrontation. They were too powerful, their influence too widespread. Yoritomo could not afford to have the authority of the Shogunate openly rebuffed and the alternative – armed conflict – was out of the question. The years of peace under the Toh-Yota had sapped the desire for large-scale conflicts. But it had not stilled ambition. The struggle for power continued, and the secret weapon Hiro Yama-Shita had turned against the Shogunate was far more destructive than the greatest army ever raised. It was called progress.
Yama-Shita was a cunning, ruthless individual. He was also highly intelligent and capable of great subtlety. Given the present situation, his plans had to be countered by equally devious means. The unsuspecting Herald who would soon be galloping westwards, changing horses at the post-houses on the way, had likened it to a poker hand. It was an apt comparison. Yoritomo weighed up the odds and concluded that the only way he could win this particular game was to play a wild card.
*
As he came to that decision, the young Shogun had no inkling that the wild card he sought lay hidden in a forest on the western flank of the Ari-geni Mountains, above a road that had once been known as the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
It took the shape of a hungry, dirt-stained fugitive armed with a knife and a primitive halberd. His body bore the swirling patterns that identified him as a Plainfolk Mute. But he was no ordinary lumphead. His bones were well formed, the skin covering his young hard body was as smooth as saddle leather and he had not been ringed or branded. The hard blue eyes were those of a warrior at bay, not a hunted slave, and a keen observer would have noticed that his dark brown hair had turned blond at the roots to match the growth around his mouth and along the line of his jaw.
His name was Steve Brickman but, unlike the industrious long-dog at the Heron Pool who answered to the same name, he was the genuine article: 2102-8902 Brickman, S.R. from Roosevelt/Santa Fe, New Mexico: graduate of Lindbergh Field Air Force Academy, Class of 2989.
Trained as a wingman, Steve was now a ‘mexican’, one of a select group of undercover agents controlled by AMEXICO, an ultra-top-secret unit working directly for the President-General of the Amtrak Federation. Officially he was dead, killed in action over Wyoming Territory. The fiction was not all that far removed from the truth. He had been shot down during a combat mission over Wyoming and, since hitting the ground, had come close to death on more than one occasion. In an action-packed year, Steve had found himself in some tight corners and, once again, he was in all kinds of trouble.
CHAPTER FIVE
For the past two weeks, Steve Brickman had been living dangerously as an illegal immigrant in a foreign country whose people spoke an incomprehensible language and acted with extreme hostility towards strangers. It had quickly become obvious that he could not have chosen a worse disguise. The Iron Masters treated Mute journeymen as slaves who, when not working under the whips of overseers, were herded into prison compounds; the groups he had seen moving along roads had been chained together and closely guarded. He had not come across any renegade Trackers but, on the evidence so far, they were probably getting a rough ride too.
