"Konichiwa."
The group's return greeting was ragged, in keeping with their nature. Most wore Kurita military uniforms, although there was a wide array of unit patches. A few wore the uniforms of mercenaries, and one the white uniform of a ComStar Guardsman. The rest wore bits and pieces of military gear with no obvious antecedents.
They were of all ages. Some were young, too young to have been a part of the old battles. They would be the newest generation of warriors, raised on the tales of Theodore's revitalized Combine army. Others he recognized from his time in Dieron. Still others from the old Ryuken. He bowed to one of those.
"Kumban -san."
"Michi -sama." The man took a step forward and returned his bow. "I saw the stone for the old man. You?"
" Hai."
"He cannot thank you, so I will."
"Unnecessary. I was honored."
Kumban bowed again and retreated a step.
"You are the one we honor, Michi -sama," Kiyomasa said. "We know of your vendetta and what you did to uphold the honor of my father. Lord Takashi is dead, freeing us from our oaths. Before we could be bound to another Kurita, we decided to come to you. If you permit, we will join you. You are a man of great honor; we want you to lead us in what it means to be honorable warriors."
Michi gazed at the gathered Kuritans. He saw hope and fear and eagerness for glory in their eyes. His heightened senses let him feel the color of their ki.They were warriors, all of them, and embarked on a bold and daring course. Steeling themselves against the scorn of their fellows, they had run off to join a half-mad vagabond, no doubt believing him to be some sort of warrior saint. Yet they remained restive, troubled.
The great cavern and its eerie echoes was an unnerving place, but it should not cause a true warrior's heart to flutter. He considered the possibility that he was the cause of their nervousness.
He realized that he must present an appearance in accord with such fantasies. Like some ascetic defying the elements, he wore only a light kimono against the cold, and it was white, the color of death. The robe hung loosely on him and its open front and short sleeves showed the scars of a lifetime. The dead white, orb that was his left eye made many of the younger ones unable to meet his gaze for longer than a moment. Even some of those who had known him before flinched as he turned his stare on them, each in turn.
There was no doubt that his physical appearance affected them, but the flavor of their agitation could not solely be accounted for by the reality of confronting their dreams in the flesh. Something else stirred them to apprehension. Michi extended his senses, searching for the source of the disturbance and found that among those present were others who represented another factor in the Kuritans' plans for the future. The presence of these others had been masked from his kiby the Kuritans' agitation, just as their bodies had blocked Michi's sight. Once alerted to their presence, Michi could only wonder how he had missed it at the start. They were not Kuritan, but they were strong. He recognized the fit of the pattern.
Michi nodded and said, "You may come forward, Colonel Wolf."
The Kuritans parted to let the three Dragoons pass through their midst. Jaime Wolf was flanked on the right by Hans Vordel. The bodyguard's years had etched deeper lines into his hangdog face and whitened some hairs, but had not weakened his warrior tread. The Dragoon on the left looked like a frozen moment from the past. He appeared to be William Cameron, Wolf's communications specialist, but he was not. Cameron had died on Crossing. This must be a son.
Wolf was smiling, as if amused at some joke. "Who told you I was here?"
"Your kiis strong."
Wolf's smile vanished and he looked toward the memorial tablet. "He said much the same thing when we first met. If you keep it up, you may yet persuade me about Kuritan mysticism."
"You will believe as you believe, whatever I do or say."
"Maybe so."
Michi lifted an arm and waved it to encompass the rows of memorial tablets. Each was a plain white stone, engraved with the formal characters of a warrior's name and rank. "Harumito Shumagawa is responsible for this. He was the officer in command of the forces remaining here when Warlord Samsonov ordered the Dragoon dead disinterred. Samsonov wanted the bodies left to the ravages of this planet's weather, to obliterate their presence. Samsonov said the Ryuken had failed, that their dead were not to be honored. Had he been more confident in his power, he might have ordered the same fate for their bodies as he had for the Dragoons, but he commanded only that their graves go unmarked. Those orders were among the last he gave before he fled. Shumagawa had survived the battle here; he only lost a leg. He knew what had happened.
"Minobu-sensei taught us that a warrior was to be honored; the warrior's gender, the color of his skin, or the uniform he wore didn't matter. Shumagawa felt dishonored by the warlord's order but, as a samurai, he was obliged to obey. Or at least appear to. He ordered a select group of his men to move the remains of the dead, Ryuken and Dragoon, to this cavern and then he swore them to secrecy. They were all Ryuken veterans; they understood. He could not let courage and valor go unremembered. After reporting the completion of his task to the warlord, he resigned his commission. His veterans dispersed among the Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery while he came to live in this cavern and began to engrave these tablets. It took him twenty years. He died here by his own hand, atoning for his lie to the warlord.
"His spirit will be pleased to know you have seen this place."
Wolf stared out over the massed ranks of the tablets. "There are those who wouldn't understand this."
"Do you understand, Colonel?"
"I'd like to think so." Wolf turned his gaze to Michi. "Do you?"
Michi was surprised at the question. To evade the flutter of disturbance in his wa,he spoke. "Why have you come here?"
"I was asked to come by those who believe that I might do some good. Perhaps even prevent one more unnecessary loss in a tragic story."
"Kiyomasa."
Wolf smiled. "He is a persuasive young man."
"You hear another voice in his call. Do not delude yourself listening to the past."
There was a sudden wariness in Wolf's eyes. "Breaks with tradition are the sort of thing I've made a habit of. I know it doesn't come easy to your sort, but your teacher wasn't exclusively a stickler for tradition."
"He knew when tradition was important."
"Mostly. But he was human. I believe he made a mistake when it came to the end here on Misery. You believed it, too, or you wouldn't have vowed vendetta. And that didn't exactly turn out like you figured. Think about that."
"I have."
Wolf bent over and picked up the honor sword. He snapped the blade into the sheath. "Maybe you haven't thought about it enough. The dead have a lot to tell the living, but you can't just listen. You've got to do something about what they tell you." Wolf stepped to Minobu's memorial tablet and took up the katana.
He handed the pair to Kiyomasa. "These were his swords. What do you Kuritans say about there being no future, no past? That only the present is real, and a lot can happen that can change unpleasant probabilities."
Kiyomasa looked puzzled, and Michi felt echoing confusion among the Kuritans and Wolf's aides. But the words Wolf spoke were not meant for them; they were solely between Wolf and Michi.