“Go ahead.”
Johnny’s voice is soft. Soundlessly, I reach up and grasp the larger shape, polished lacquer smooth under my hand. I grip the tightly wrapped leather hilt and pull the blade out several centimeters. Bright steel gleams under the armory lights, a wavy, almost incandescent line millimeters thick separating the lighter cutting edge from the darker spine of the sword. Air seems to hiss past the exposed edge.
“It’s… beautiful.”
“The Honjo.” Johnny’s voice is nearly as reverent as mine. “One of the Shinji’s national treasures, before they were absorbed by the Han. Thought about giving it back, but was never sure if there was anyone left who would appreciate it.”
“How did you get it?”
“Long story. Lots of people turn up in Ditchtown.”
I slide the blade back home and return the scabbard to its place on the wall. Johnny hands me the smaller sheath, a lesser curve nearly seventy-five centimeters long. The instant my hand touches the hilt, it feels like a part of my body. I bare the length of metal fully, revealing a shadowed stretch of steel that almost seems to drink the light, brilliant highlights dancing across the walls as I twist it under the glare.
“The Musashi.”
I take a practice cut, metal gliding through the air like an extension of my arm. It seems to demand a kata, and I refuse, reluctantly. The noise as I slide it back into the scabbard sounds almost disappointed.
“Take it.”
I look up at Johnny, stunned. He nods.
“That one’s a fighter, not a looker. You fit each other. Not sure what use it’ll be against guns, but it’s better than collecting dust in here.”
I look around. There’s not a speck of dust to be seen.
“Are you sure, Johnny? This is a work of art.”
“Absolutely. Weapons are made to be used. Even if we wish they weren’t.”
I loop the cloth straps around my waist, but it doesn’t feel quite right, scabbard threatening to knock against the walls. Shift it to my back. Perfect.
“Sword-porn too, huh?”
Wind grins at me, her hands busy reassembling a boxy-looking submachine gun, a second one in front of her, and I grin back.
“Sword-porn too. If we’re going to do the impossible, might as well do it in style. How’s the mecha, Slend?”
Slend gives us a thumbs up, the mecha’s angular contours framing her legs and arms like a matte gray exoskeleton. She spins her heavy machine gun through a full revolution like a baton, her already formidable strength amplified by the mechanical servos, then starts disassembling it to fit into a duffel bag, boxes of ammo already stacked neatly inside.
I turn to the wall, and the bullpup rifle snags my attention once more. I force myself to grab it, to confront that nearly invisible scar. The weight is solid in my hands, reassuring. Check the action. Smooth and steady, just like the last time I used it, only now it’s chambered for live rounds, not tranq darts. I run my fingers over the raised line of stitching, the only physical remnant of my friend.
For you, Brand. I wish I’d known sooner. I’m sorry.
I grab a duffel bag of my own and start loading it—plenty of extra magazines, body armor, several grenades and flashbangs, a basic first aid kit. All the normal tools of the trade. Shrug off the sword and lay it on top—it barely fits inside. Run the zipper shut with a quick tug, metallic teeth smoothly catching each other.
“Wind, Slend, you two ready?”
“Lock stock and ready to rock.”
“Yup.”
“Good. Jase, make sure you’re up-to-date on that shuttle. Johnny, we’ll be back in a bit. We’re going shopping.”
22
[Sonic]
The autocab glides to a halt, wheels gripping faintly cracked concrete, and I peer out heavily tinted windows. The decayed ruins of an old airport surround us, broken windows gaping like missing teeth, collapsed boarding bridges tilting drunkenly down to the ground. Early evening twilight blazes orange above the distant treeline, the sun not quite beginning its disappearing act for the day. Shadows stretch out in elongated shapes, harbingers of the coming night.
A sleek orbital shuttle sits on the runway, upswept wings black with ceramic heat reflector tiles, three engine nozzles protruding below its tail fin. The passenger hatch swings open and a mobile stair cart trundles up, attaching itself to the side of the shuttle. Two burly men in fitted suits and dark glasses walk down the steps, approaching the autocab, pistol bulges not quite concealed by the bespoke tailoring. I tap a message to Johnny and Jase, covering us from the dilapidated airport’s roof.
<<Moving out.>>
“Showtime, ladies.”
The autocab’s door opens, and I watch myself step out, Johnny’s rifle scope feeding into the upper right of my glasses. A darkly muscular leg, bare to my hip, iridescent tattoo coiling up under the sleek purple slit dress that hugs my body like a glove, emerging again in the deep vee front plunging nearly to my belly button, a thin cloth strap around my neck preventing the whole thing from flying away in the snapping breeze. Fingertip-covering purple gloves stretch nearly to my elbows, leaving my palms and underarms bare, and stiletto heels cover my feet. A short black wig envelops my head and ears in a tight curl. Visual hashing makeup shrouds my face in tribal patterns, invisible to normal sight, overwhelming confusion to any surveillance spheres or AR glasses focusing in my direction. I’ve got enough problems without an angry billionaire chasing my shadow—assuming we survive this. The guards won’t care, since I doubt their boss allows them to see anything other than what he deems necessary. His toys aren’t in that category.
Behind me, Wind emerges, a flowing yellow gown fluttering behind her like wings, waist-length hair chasing it in streaming lengths, strips of brown skin darting in and out of vision. A pair of designer glasses completes the affair, curling around her eyes in thin rectangles, camouflage coloration marking her face as well. Slend ducks out of the other side of the car, resplendent in a snug black leather halter and pants, aviator-style lenses shrouding her features. She flings opens the trunk, muscles tightening beneath her form-clinging outfit. One of the men nearly trips over his own feet, then catches himself.
Good. Another group that sucks at psych-secs.
I smile and wave at the leading guard.
“Hey there, you our ride?”
“Yeah—” He clears his throat. “Yes, Miss…?”
“Persephone, but you can call me Seph.” I let my left hand trail across his cheek, his stubble scraping my skin. “Be a dear and help with the luggage, yes? We’re so eager to get on board.”
“I, uh, have to check you for, uh, weapons. Sorry.”
“Oh it’s fine, we’re used to… touching.”
I give him a smoldering look and place one leg forward, pushing down the butterflies in my stomach. This is bringing back a lot of memories I really never wanted to face again, and there’s no logging out if it turns bad. His hands close around my ankle, warm and dry, and he runs them up my leg, quickly, professionally, then repeats the process on the other leg. Despite myself, I’m impressed. I was expecting him to linger around my crotch. Beside me, the second guard begins the same process on Wind, who momentarily stumbles, leaning forward. She braces herself by grabbing his neck, the top of his head brushing against her chest, his face in her groin. I want to laugh at the sudden redness in his cheeks, but I force myself to maintain composure.