Carnifex

tried.

At last he had found one, a smith willing to try new things or—in this case—old things in a new way.

For two more years this smith studied the Kurita family heirloom. Looking at the temper line, the little dots of pearlite and martinsite, he saw back to the technique used by the earlier smith, saw the painting on of the clay wash, saw the precise glow of the charcoal in the brazier.

The smith took a gunto sword, a relic of Old Earth's Second World War, and experimentally attempted what Kurita's ancestor had wanted with it. He was disappointed to find that this really told him nothing, that the solid make up of the new sword did not replicate the problems of recladding a properly layered sword. Moreover, he found he had wasted much of the rare and expensive tama- hagane, the traditional steel produced from iron rich sands in the last remaining tatara smelter in Japan, in Shimane Prefecture.

Next the smith had experimented on a worn out tanto, or dagger, though not one as old as the Kurita sword. This tanto, unlike the Gunto sword, had been made in the traditional manner. The result worked, for certain values of work. Still the smith was not satisfied.

Armed with the insights gained from working on the tanto, the smith then obtained a sword forged in the seventeenth century and falsely labeled as the work of the great smith, Kunihiro. The forgery had been well made—how else could it even hope to pass itself off as the great master's work?—and much was learned from resheathing this.

At length, the smith felt ready. He took several pounds of tama-hagane and from it forged a four thousand layer, high carbon skin, or kawegane. Using the old Kurita sword for the base, he forged around it this new skin, welding the two together with heat and the strokes of his hammer. Did he hear the sword scream under the pounding. No matter; I scream in the dentist's chair, too. Then he tempered it in such a way as to recreate a temper line, or hamon, essentially indistinguishable from the original.

Last of all, the smith added every distinguishing mark found on the sword prior to recladding it. A warrior is, after all, entitled to the honor of his scars.

* * *

Fosa and Kurita sat opposite each other, cross-legged on a rice straw mat on the floor of the Commodore's quarters. The sword lay between them on a silk scarf. Though it glowed from the daylight streaming in through the portholes, to Fosa is seemed to glow with an inner light as well.

'It's . . . beautiful,' said a stunned Fosa, stunned because the Commodore had never before shown him the sword. He did not wear it aboard ship.

'It's unique,' Kurita corrected. 'The smith who did this was hounded from the art for tampering with tradition. Eventually, he borrowed the sword and killed himself with it; so say the family legends. My father gave it to my care when I took over command of the Battlecruiser Oishi. I have no heir, and all my nephews are swine. I imagine I will send it to the restored Yasukuni when I feel my time is upon me. After all, though the shrine boasts nine and ninety rocks from my people's battlefields now, it has never had a rock from a naval battlefield. It does have that one forty-six centimeter shell but that was never fired, of course. A sword, however, should do well enough.'

'You should wear it,' Fosa said. 'Here on the ship. I think the men would approve.' Hah, they'll think it's great.

'Perhaps I should.'

'You still have people who make such weapons in Yamato, do you not, Commodore?'

'Yes. It has experienced something a rebirth of late.'

Again Fosa looked at the sword, admiringly. 'Is there one you might recommend?'

'I shall enquire,' answered the Commodore. 'They live, you know? Swords, ships, rifles, too. All the weapons of man have their own souls, their own spirits. Thus the wise men of Yamato teach. And I have always felt it was true.'

* * *

The sun had gone down and the quarters were empty except for Kurita and the sword. The sword was still out, though now illuminated only by the candles the commodore had lit.

Is the sword my agent, the old man wondered, or am I its? It's a good question. Am I the Zaibatsu's agent to the Legion . . . or have I become the Legion's agent to the Zaibatsu? I do not know. I do, however, know that the mission here for which the Legion contracted is about over. Yet I have told my principals none of this. Why should this be?

The commodore cleared his mind and concentrated on the dim glow of the sword before him. After a long time he looked up, with a smile.

Ah . . . now I understand. It is because after all these years away from the sea and my calling, I am again at war and happy. And the Legion has made it so.

* * *

The next morning Kurita awoke, as always, very early. He dressed himself, as always, but added a sash. He prepared and encoded one message. Then he prepared another in plain text. Through the sash he stuck his family heirloom, taking a moment to look in the mirror to ensure it was adjusted to the perfect angle.

Kurita's first stop was at the door to Fosa's quarters. He knocked and, when Fosa answered, passed over the plain text note and said, 'Encode this and send it to the highest placed intelligence officer in your organization, Captain-san.' Then he left a stunned looking Fosa and walked to the radio room to send the encoded message to Messers Saito and Yamagata.

Most of the crew members barely noticed the sword. Perhaps it was just that, for the first time, Kurita seemed fully dressed. Of those who did actually notice it, the uniform sentiment was something like cooolll.

When the message was received, in distant Yamato, and had been decoded and presented to the Zaibatsu representatives, a very confused Yamagata read it off for Saito.

'I want a sword made, or bought, if one be found suitable.' said the message, 'Make it a katana. It should be made by a master smith, and in the old Bizen style. Full furnishings should be provided, with a blue lacquer scabbard and blue-wrapped tsuka. Inscribe on the blade . . . '

26/1/468 AC, Casa Linda, Balboa

Balboa had seen its share of rule-by-lunatic before. All things considered, rule-by-kleptocrat was to be preferred. Parilla's presidential campaign faced that, fear of political lunacy, as its greatest handicap.

'It's not a completely groundless fear, Raul,' Professor Ruiz advised. 'Yes, we can and we have put a lot of emphasis into the public works the Legion has sponsored. Yes, we can show a lot of pretty girls to catch attention. Artemisia Jimenez, in particular, seems to be an attention grabber.' Both Parilla and Ruiz unconsciously sighed, Ah, Artemisia . . . what a delight! 'Still, you can talk the good fight, talk national rebirth, talk anti- corruption. But the longer the campaign goes on, the more people are exposed to counterpropaganda, the more a lot of people become afraid of you, afraid of the Legion, and afraid of what you might do with both the presidency and the military power. Most of them are middle class, but some are poor.'

Parilla shook his head, uncomprehending. 'But we've done so much for the poor.'

Ruiz's mouth formed a moue. 'Ah . . . no. You've made a minority of the poor fairly middle class by bringing them into the Legion del Cid. You've also left a much larger number behind. You've actually given very little and most of the benefits are either general, clinics and such, or indirect. Some of the support we had may have slipped away because you've never once mentioned creating a social democratic welfare state here.'

'Social democracy? Patricio controls the money and that he will never go for. I start talking welfare state and I'll lose his support. Come to think of it, I start talking social democracy and I probably wouldn't vote for myself. How bad are the numbers?'

'It isn't that they're bad, exactly,' Ruiz answered. 'Just that they're down from where they were and where they should be. I don't like the trend. I also don't like the effect of the advertising campaign the other side is using. They're getting a lot of mileage out of comparing you to Pina. And then there is the number of people put to death by the Legion, starting with Rocaberti back during the initial campaign in Sumer and continuing through today. Forget the number of Sumeris we've strung up; how many legionaries have been executed for one or another crime?'

'Maybe a hundred,' Parilla admitted. 'Or a bit less. But most of those were for