Endsinger

  Weapon aimed at Daichi’s chest.

  Finger tightening on the trigger.

  Tickticktick …

  She didn’t want him to die like this. Afraid. Alone. Not after everything he’d been through. And if these moments were to be their last, she knew they shouldn’t be stained by past mistakes or words unsaid. The anger inside her, burning so brightly after he’d left her alone—it wasn’t enough to consume the bond between them. Ties deeper than blood. Here and now and always.

  Tickticktick …

  “Father.”

  Daichi’s eyes were still locked on the First Bloom’s body.

  “Father, look at me.”

  His gaze drifted up to meet hers.

  Tickticktick …

  “Father, everything is going to be all right. I promise.”

  “Kaori…” A shuddering cough stole the words from his mouth.

  “I know, Father,” she smiled. “I love you too.”

  “You were warned,” rasped the Lotusman.

  The hollow popopopopopopopop of shuriken-thrower fire, razored steel glittering in the air. Forcing herself to watch, not to flinch, not to turn away. Droplets of blood, perfect globes, falling like rain. Lotusmen corpses tumbling after them, brass skins torn wide and ragged, bodies tumbling end over end as the Truth Seeker roared overhead, propellers chopping snow-laden air, the engines’ thunder lost amidst her own heartbeat. Misaki was leaning over the railing, tossing a rope ladder and screaming words too distant to hear, deck-mounted shuriken-throwers spitting death at the remaining Lotusmen, down to the Inquisitors turning to smoke amidst the hail of sparks and steel.

  Misaki screaming again. Pointing.

  What is she saying?

  “Go!” Eiko screamed. “Gods above, jump!”

  The girl leaped from the rope, snatched at the ladder, feet flailing for purchase. Shuriken fire shredded the Seeker’s hull, the roar of more sky-ships rising over the pulse throbbing in her temples. Eiko was screaming, holding out her hand as the Seeker began to rise. Daichi hurled himself at the ladder, wrapping one fist on the bottom rung. Kaori at last woke from the dream, leaping into the void, hand outstretched, catching his, rough as stone. The Seeker rose up into the light. Sirens wailing, the roar of ironclads, the percussion of ’thrower fire, metallic shouts. Engines pushed to full burn, sweeping away from the First House complex, wind tearing at Kaori’s face, her skin, the ladder swaying in its grip.

  She looked down at the monastery, the ruined valley, the rusted pipeline snaking up the mountainside. Rising higher, sweat greasing her palm and her father’s. Hard to breathe, hard to think, impossible to climb, looking up to the Kitsune cloudwalkers and Guildsmen as they began hauling the ladder up, foot by agonizing foot. Knuckles white. Fingers numb. Slipping.

  “Hold on to me!” Daichi roared.

  “I can’t!”

  “Don’t let me go!”

  Shuriken fire filling the air, another burst from the pursuing ironclads. She felt a projectile whistle past her cheek, the ladder bucking as another struck it, dropping them a jarring foot and leaving them dangling by a single fraying cord. Eiko screaming. Freezing wind bringing tears to her eyes, crystallizing in her lashes.

  Fingers entwined in his.

  “Father!”

  Slipping.

  “Kaori! Hold on to me!”

  Slipping.

  “Hold on!”

  Squeeze.

  * * *

  Sudden chaos. Panicked voices echoing in the Earthcrusher ducts, empty murmurings of the Shatei standing stupefied and staring at nothing at all. Whispers coalescing into a fact almost too impossible to comprehend.

  Shinji grasped Kin’s arm, eliciting a hiss of pain as his fingertips touched cauterized flesh. But the boy’s eyes were saucer-wide, hand pressed to the skitter-chatter of his mechabacus. And when he spoke, his voice was breathless, as if he’d been slugged in the gut.

  “First Bloom is dead…”

  An echo beneath the duct they hid inside, listless steps dragging across steel mesh. “First Bloom is dead…”

  Kin stared at Shinji, incredulous. “Gods above…”

  “Two hundred years…” Shinji breathed. “Two centuries he’s sat inside First House. Who the hells could possibly take his place? They’re done, Kin!”

  Kin said nothing, rolling onto his back, almost weeping in pain. Hands, forearms, shins and feet—all blistering, layers of skin left behind like snake scale. Sweat burned in the wounds, tremors shaking him head to toe. The agony was enough to dislocate consciousness from flesh, shock flooding every receptor. But he couldn’t stop here. Not this close to the end.

  The Earthcrusher came to another halt, its deafening footsteps silenced as word of Tojo’s demise spread across the frequencies. The body fell still without its head, anguish echoing through its gut. But Kin hurt so badly he could barely move.

  “Do you have any opiates?” he hissed. “An aidkit?”

  “No,” Shinji said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Gods, it’s killing me…” Eyes squeezed shut. Teeth clenched.

  Just breathe …

  “A little farther. We’re almost above the engines. I’ll plant the charges. But we have to hurry while everyone is still reeling from Tojo’s death.”

  “Just leave me here.”

  “I can’t do this alone, Kin. You have to move.”

  Kin tried to roll onto his belly, face contorted, teeth gleaming white against broiled flesh.

  “I can’t…”

  Shinji stared, lips pursed, drumming his fingers on the vent’s innards.

  “Why are you here, Kin-san?”

  “In this vent?”

  “I mean, why did you rebel against the Guild?”

  Kin closed his eyes. Took a deep, calming breath that shivered all the way into his lungs. “Because what they do is wrong. Killing the land, choking the sky—”

  “No.” Shinji shook his head. “People don’t just wake up one day and throw away everything they’ve been raised to believe. Why are you really here?”

  Kin opened his eyes. Licked at cracking lips.

  “A girl…”

  “Ah.”

  “Yukiko.”

  “The Stormdancer?”

  He shook his head. “… She’s just Yukiko to me.”

  “Then picture her at the end of this duct, Kin-san. Waiting for you. All you need to do is crawl to her.”

  “But she’s not there…”

  “Kin.” Shinji’s voice was like iron. “Crawl.”

  And so he did. Rolling onto his belly and dragging himself as best he could. The texture of the metal like sandpaper on his flesh, soldered joins like hooks in his skin. Sweat burning his eyes, blisters popping, drool slicking his chin, head down, papercut eyes, crawling just one more foot. One more inch. Just to the next solder line. The next corner. The next level.

  Eyes closed now, every movement that of a machine. One that didn’t feel pain. Skin sloughing away. Raw meat rasping on greasy iron. Feeling nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  Her picture in his mind, faded and curled at the edges like an old lithograph—an image burned into his thoughts a lifetime ago. Standing in the rain by her father’s grave, eyelids fluttering shut as she leaned in close. Lips like bruised roses brushing his own, feather-light. A curtain of night falling in sweet waves about her shoulders. All for her. All of it.

  Crawl, godsdamn you.

  Light on his skin. Engines increasing in volume. He opened his eyes, saw a ventilation grille to his right, staring down through the slats to the engine room floor. The growling pistons, the transmission churning like an open mouth full of clockwork teeth. Artificers standing in one corner, heads bowed. Uncertain voices barely audible above the engine’s din.

  Kin rolled away from the vent, let Shinji get to work, unbolting the grille from the inside. A crackling announcement spilled over the intercom.

  “Brothers.” Kensai’s voice—sorrow underscored wit
h something else. Energy? Elation? “Grievous news has reached us that Tojo, resplendent First Bloom of the Lotus Guild, is dead at the hands of Kagé assassins. Though it wounds the very soul, do not lose yourselves in sorrow. Turn your pain to rage, and light a fire in your hearts. A fire to guide us through this darkness, and incinerate any who defy our will.”

  Shinji pulled the grille aside with a faint metallic squeal.

  “There can be no Lotus Guild without a leader.” Kin could hear the thrill in Kensai’s voice plainly now—words the old man had waited a lifetime to utter. “And thus, I claim the title of First Bloom until Tojo’s successor can be named.”

  Shinji stowed the grille to one side, nodded to Kin.

  “All right. I’ll crawl down, plant the charges in the transmission. Hopefully, the explosion will pop a bearing housing. Maybe even a drive rod.”

  “And what do I do?” Kin whispered.

  With a grin, Shinji reached into his belt and pulled out an iron-thrower. “You cover me.”

  “Where the hells did you get that?”

  “Munitions locker. Broke it open after I cut drive control. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Fine thinking.” Kin held up his blistered hands. “But I can’t shoot it, Shinji.”

  “You have a good vantage point from up here. It’ll be like shooting koi in a cup.”

  Kin grit his teeth and grasped the weapon as best he could, wincing as the grip scraped his blistered palms. Shinji produced a flat block of burnished iron, studded with a tiny aerial, a switch of gleaming chrome. The boy pressed a flat button, a red diode lighting up on the explosives, another atop the block in his hand.

  Detonator.

  “Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck, Shinji-san.”

  “What, is that it?” Shinji blinked. “No kiss?”

  With a grin, the boy slipped out of the ventilation shaft, explosives clutched tight. He dropped down to the floor with his armful, stealing through the steam and shadows toward the transmission. Kin set sights on four Shatei gathered around the PA speaker, took trembling aim.

  “I will rule this Guild as Tojo has done.” Kensai was building to his finale. “To see his death avenged, and all who incite insurrection purified with flame. The lotus must bloom!”

  Shinji was at the transmission, climbing the outer housing with his arms full of explosives. He slipped, seized the rungs, almost dropping the bundle.

  “The lotus must bloom!” The cry echoed in the Earthcrusher’s innards.

  Gods, they’re all so used to following.

  Kin shook his head.

  None of them stop to think where following might lead …

  “Battle stations!” Kensai cried.

  The vent seethed under Kin’s belly, and the engines roared as the Earthcrusher began marching again, the thunderous cadence of its tread bouncing around the inside of his skull, vibrations threatening to dislodge Shinji from his perch.

  DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM.

  DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM.

  The Shatei hurried back to their posts, mechabacii chattering, blood-red eyes gleaming in the gloom. The stink of burning chi was almost overpowering—that chemical, grease-fire stench of oil and burning flowers. Kin squinted through the haze, saw Shinji crest the transmission housing, staring down into the exposed, churning mess of cogs and iron teeth.

  The boy couldn’t simply drop the bomb into the transmission—the gears would crush it to powder without setting off the charge. Shinji leaned into the gap, legs hooked in the ladder’s rungs as he searched for the place it could do the most damage.

  Kin cursed beneath his breath as he saw an Artificer clomping around the transmission housing. If the Artificer glanced up, he’d see Shinji’s legs hooked in the ladder rungs, pale as some Kitsune maiden’s nethers.

  Hurry up, godsdammit …

  Sweat in Kin’s eyes, the reverberation of the Earthcrusher’s steps bringing new pain. He aimed at the back of the Artificer’s head, the iron-thrower trembling in wounded hands.

  No way to signal Shinji without drawing attention to himself.

  No way to warn the boy about the Guildsman drawing closer every step.

  Shinji propped the explosives between the spacer plate and gasket of the lowest gear setting and pulled himself back up. Wiping sweat from his brow, he saw the Artificer passing below, freezing as still as a statue in the Shōgun’s gardens. If he made no sound, if he didn’t move, perhaps the Artificer wouldn’t notice …

  “First Bloom’s name!”

  The cry came from the gantry above Shinji’s head. Another Artificer stood there, bloody eye aglow, locked on the near-naked boy. The first Artificer looked up, caught sight of Shinji.

  “Saboteurs!” it cried. “They’re here! Sound the alarm!”

  Kin caught his breath, finger on the trigger.

  Squeeze.

  * * *

  Standing in the fire, one foot in both worlds, eyes open wide.

  Yukiko could see them—every one. She could feel them, their rage and their hate, clad in snow white, ashes on their faces. Servants of the great Yoritomo-no-miya. The last of his Elite. Killers, every one, and her death, their life’s only purpose.

  She and Buruu landed on the pilot’s deck of the Honorable Death, splinters and cracking boards, sundered rope and rigging. Hiro stood before them, one arm of cold iron, the other hanging bloodied by his side. The Elite heard them land, turned to face them. Shouts of alarm. Swords drawn. Charging. All the world moving in slow motion.

  The Honorable Death was losing altitude, hemorrhaging hydrogen from her inflatable. Yukiko surveyed the decks, boards awash with blood and bodies. Kitsune samurai and cloudwalkers and Elite. All of them brave in their own way. Each fighting for a belief, a truth, a reason. And some part of her wanted to respect that. To understand none of them were so different. That Daichi had once been like these men, and they too might only be a step away from seeing the world the way he did.

  And then her eyes fell on the girl. Crumpled in a puddle against the railing. Dark hair hacked short, pale skin bled paler still, bee-stung lips parted as if to breathe. Except she wasn’t breathing. Or moving. She wasn’t anything at all.

  “Michi…”

  Too much.

  Too much loss. Too much death. Too much taken from her. And if this were one of the grand old stories, and she the great hero in it, a noble stormdancer like Kitsune no Akira or Tora Takehiko, she might have found something inside to cling to. This would be the chapter where she’d find it in herself to show mercy, to cling to Bushido or honor or the knowledge that none of them were so different. None of them were truly “wrong.”

  But this was not one of the grand old stories. And if she were a hero, Michi wouldn’t be dead. Akihito wouldn’t be dead. Or Aisha and Kasumi and her father. She would’ve saved them all. She could have saved them all. If she were a hero. But only if.

  “No,” she breathed.

  She reached into the Kenning, into the flames where the dragons writhed, tsunami and fire and flood. And she touched the minds of each man charging her down, their ashen faces twisted in hatred. Reaching out and wrapping them up in herself. Hands outstretched, fingers beckoning. On they came. Swords raised. Spitting curses. Murder uncoiling.

  She closed her eyes.

  She closed her fists.

  And every one of them clutched his temples.

  Bled from his eyes.

  Collapsed upon the deck.

  Every.

  One.

  Samurai and marines and cloudwalkers. Young and old. Living and breathing and thinking no more. Emptying the deck of every man who’d see her slain. Now slain in turn.

  All save one.

  Those eyes that had once held her spellbound, gleaming now like flat, polished glass. Face caked white, daubed the color of death; the same color they’d wrapped her father inside before they lit his funeral pyre. The same color they’d wrap Akihito and Michi in, presuming any of them survived this da
y.

  DOOMDOOMDOOMDOOM.

  “You killed her,” she said.

  “Not I.” Hiro blanched at the ruins she’d made of his Elite. “My men.”

  She could see Michi’s death in his mind, etched in something that tasted like regret. And as she stepped toward him, she saw Hiro’s eyes drift to her belly, the soft curve swelling under banded iron. Buruu’s growl shook the deck beneath them.

  HE KNOWS.

  “Michi told you. About them.”

  “Hai.”

  “So now you know.”

  “Now I know.”

  She reached across the space between them with her thoughts, slipping into his synapses, just a tweak to let him know she was there. He stifled a gasp, eyes widening as she pinched.

  But not yet.

  Buruu growled, low, tectonic, a wall of fire at her back.

  FINISH HIM.

  Soon.

  WHILE YOU SAVOR THIS MOMENT, THE EARTHCRUSHER MARCHES.

  We can’t stop the Earthcrusher, Buruu. We’d need a miracle.

  KITSUNE LOOKS AFTER HIS OWN.

  Akihito is dead. Michi is dead. Aisha, Daichi, Kasumi, my father. If this is Kitsune looking after me, I think I’d prefer if he left me the hells alone.

  “Are you happy, Hiro?” She gestured at the battle raging across Yama. “It’s all for you. Every drop. Does it make you proud?”

  “Proud?” Hiro laughed, short and bitter. “Gods, you never understood me, did you?”

  “No. But I was just a girl. A girl who thought she was in love.”

  “No more than I.”

  “You betrayed me, Hiro.”

  “And you betrayed me. When you betrayed my Lord Yoritomo.”

  “Yoritomo was a pig,” she spat. “A rapist. A baby-killing bastard.”

  “You knew what my oath meant to me.” Hiro shook his head. “I told you I was samurai before all else. I never pretended to be anything different.”

  “You pretended to be a good man. An honorable man.”

  “I am an honorable man!” A bellow, face twisted into a snarl. “Do you know what I’ve sacrificed for honor’s sake? Do you think those men you just murdered would—”

  “Don’t you dare preach to me about murder—”

  “I am sworn to the Kazumitsu Dynasty! To defend my clan! My lord! Without those oaths I am nothing! I told you that from the very beginning!”