Squinting against the glare, he tried raising a hand to blot it out and realized he couldn’t move a muscle. Not that anything held him down, bound his arms to his side, or his body to the cool flat at his back. He simply felt nothing below his chin. A cold numbness, stained with vertigo, the dull sensation of something tugging at his core. He could hear wet clicking, as if a thousand larvae nested in the air above him, chewing blindly with oily mandibles. He inhaled and smelled blood, the sharp tang of metal.
Chi.
He lifted his head.
A dozen bulbous eyes stared back at him, blood-red, affixed in bone-smooth, mouthless faces, a tiny voice in back of his mind wondering how they breathed. Six figures were gathered around him; vaguely feminine forms with impossibly narrow waists. Clad head to foot in leather-brown membranes, mechabacii chattering upon their chests, buckles and straps running down their bellies and long, blood-spattered skirts. Clusters of eight chromed arms uncurled from their backs, slicked to the first knuckles in blood, clicking as they moved. If he could feel it, he was certain his skin would be crawling.
His eyes traced the long, silver line of the spider limbs down to his own flesh, pupils dilating, every artery running cold. They had peeled his chest open, folded the corners of his flesh back like origami, exposing the ribs beneath. The bone had been pried apart, wet and gleaming. They were planting lengths of glistening cable into his chest cavity, his shoulder laid open like a duck at a wedding feast. And as the horror seized hold and shook him side to side, he saw his right arm was missing entirely. Nothing remained but a ragged stump below his shoulder, punctured by translucent tubes and studded with bloody iron clamps.
Hiro fought to struggle in a body that felt nothing at all.
Drew ragged breath to scream.
And woke.
Woke as he did every morning. Sweat in his eyes. Heart rolling and heaving in his chest. Taste of metal on his tongue. And as he looked down at the mutilated nub of flesh where his sword arm should be, studded with bayonet fixtures and snaking iron cables, he sank his head into his hand—his only hand—and let out a shuddering, bone-deep sigh.
A False-Lifer was waiting outside his chambers, ready with the prosthetic cradled in her arms. He felt its weight as she slipped the limb onto its couplings, jacked hungry inputs with gushing feeds, clicking and snapping and tweaking and twisting, finally slipping a thin robe over his sweat-slick flesh. He flexed the arm back and forth; a slow grind of gears and pistons, a sound like chromed spider limbs. He could feel cable pulling beneath his skin. Smell grease.
Pushing open the balcony doors, he stepped out into the scorching sun. The city’s stink rushed inside, underscored with the sharp, wood-smoke tang of burned buildings and dissent. Garish heat licked his skin, a blast-furnace glare forcing his eyes closed. To the south, Tiger ironclads hung limp about the docking spires, forlorn in the poisoned wind. Faint, choking sparrow calls drifted in the gardens; pitiful wretches flitting about on clipped wings, staring mournfully at the red sky above.
He could feel it moving behind his back; the machine set in motion by the Guild and the ministers intelligent enough to have backed him from the outset. The machine of politics, grinding just beneath the palace’s skin. The promises of promotion or coin, the thugs and assassins dispatched to deal with those who could not be bought. Like the clockwork hanging from his right shoulder, smooth and unfeeling. All of this. This estate. This city. This clan.
Soon.
Hiro smiled bitterly. Shook his head. Finding no comfort.
“Shateigashira Kensai, exalted Second Bloom of Chapterhouse Kigen!”
Matsu’s voice tore Hiro from his brooding. The servant stood behind him, bowing low, shaved head gleaming.
Heavy steps. The hiss of exhaust. Cloying chi-scent. Hiro glanced over his shoulder at the Shateigashira’s approach; extravagant polished brass, the beautiful, frozen face of a boy in his prime, black cable flooding from his lips. Kensai joined him on the balcony, floorboards groaning in protest.
“Shogun Hiro.” The Lotusman covered his fist and nodded.
“Do not call me that,” Hiro said.
“Brethren of Chapterhouse Kawa have sent confirmation.” Kensai inclined his head; a small bow barely worthy of the label. “The Dragon clanlord has accepted invitation to your wedding, and is en route. You are one step closer to absolute rule of Shima.”
Hiro tried his best to scowl. He forced down the faint thrill that coursed through his veins at Kensai’s words, crushing it beneath suspicion’s weight.
“You really believe the clanlords will bow to me? I am barely eighteen years old, Kensai-san.”
“Yoritomo was thirteen when he ascended the throne.”
“Yoritomo-no-miya was a blooded firstborn son.”
“As your son will be.”
“This is madness. There is nothing close to Kazumitsu’s blood in my veins.”
“It is not your blood that matters. Only that of your bride. It is through
“Their lords desire the throne for themselves.” Hiro’s mouth curled in disgust. “And is it any wonder? In days past the samurai of this nation believed in honor. In the Way of Bushido. But now?”
“Any nation is only as noble as its ruler.” Kensai’s atmos-suit hissed as he shrugged. “The fish rots from the head down.”
“Have a care.” Hiro glared at the Second Bloom. “I will brook no insult to the name of my murdered Lord. I am Kazumitsu Elite. My oath to Yoritomo holds even in death.”
“Until it passes to Kazumitsu’s heir.”
“Kazumitsu has no heir.”
“Not yet, Lord Hiro.” Kensai’s eyes glittered like a viper’s. “Not yet.”
“Why are you here, Kensai?” Hiro turned to the Shateigashira, glare narrowed. “Any minion could have delivered news of the Dragon clan’s acceptance.”
“Lady Aisha is recovering well. Our False-Lifers have deemed she no longer need be kept under constant sedation. She finds herself … distressed by her predicament.”
“If I awoke from a near-fatal beating to find myself engaged to a simple samurai’s son, I think I would be more than distressed, Kensai-san.”
“The topic of her impending nuptials…” Kensai shifted, as if discomfited by the notion, “has not yet been … broached with the Lady.”
Hiro stared at the Second Bloom, incredulous.
“We believe it is traditionally the groom who asks for his bride’s hand, after all. And since she has no living father or brother to seek blessing from, the one to vouchsafe the union would be her clanlord.”
A hollow intake of metallic breath.
“You.”
“Godless cowards,” Hiro breathed. “She is utterly at your mercy, and still you fear her.”
“We simply thought she would take the news better, coming from you.”
Hiro swore he could hear a cruel smile in Kensai’s voice.
“I have no desire to play your games, Kensai-san.”
“Oh, I know your desire, young Lord. Why you agree to this trial when tradition demands you take your own life at the death of your master. But know you will never attain it without the aid of the Lotus Guild.” Kensai stepped closer, only the vaguest hint of menace in his voice. “And so, if I request you do your Lady the honor of informing her of her approaching wedding, you will do so, content that it brings you one step closer to that which you
