Kin was trembling, a thousand thoughts skittering through his head, a million beats per minute. The third conspirator would be Shinji—Kensai must have discovered the rebel infiltrators aboard the Earthcrusher somehow. Perhaps they captured another rebel in Kigen, forced them to talk. Maybe Bo and the others had been observed before Kin arrived. However the trio had been uncovered, Shinji would be in hand within moments. Everything ruined.
But they didn’t know about him. Kensai had only mentioned three. He wasn’t officially part of the rebellion—however Kensai had unraveled the plot, Kin had avoided detection. If he kept his mouth shut, he might have a chance to escape, detonate the charges himself— Kensai drew the iron-thrower at his belt; the same weapon Kin had aimed at Daichi’s head. The Second Bloom’s voice echoed throughout the Earthcrusher’s innards.
“Attention rebels aboard this vessel,” Kensai said. “Your coconspirators are in custody. Your plans are known to us, and already thwarted. Surrender yourselves, or I will execute your brethren here and now. You have ten seconds to comply.”
Kin grit his teeth. Sweat in his eyes. Breath coming harder. Faster.
Kensai engaged pressure, pointed the iron-thrower at Bo’s head.
“Eight seconds…”
He’s going to kill them anyway. Turning yourself over will only mean you die too.
“Six…”
If you stay hidden, there’s still hope.
“Five seconds…”
Bo and Maseo didn’t look into Kin’s eyes. Didn’t plead. Didn’t falter. Prepared to die for their beliefs. For the rebellion.
“Four…”
Too many people have perished to get you aboard this vessel. If you give up now, Daichi’s sacrifice was in vain. Every rebel who died in the Yama rebellion. The Danro attacks. The Kigen suicide bombings— “Three…”
And what’s a few more murders now, eh?
“Two…”
A few more bodies for the pile?
“One…”
Gods, what have you become …
“Stop. Uncle, please.”
A dozen burning glares turning on him. Kensai’s eyes drilling into his skull.
“Kin-san? You have something to say?”
“This is my idea. It was me. All me.”
Bo hissed, glanced toward Kin at last. “You fool, shut—”
A slap sent the boy to the floor. Kin stared hard at the Shateigashira’s horrid, childlike face. “It was my doing, Uncle. All of it.”
The Second Bloom tilted his head.
“I know, Kin-san.” Kensai’s smile curled in every word. “But I truly wondered if you would have the courage to admit it yourself.”
A small bow.
“My respects.”
And with a squeeze of the trigger, Kensai blew Bo’s and Maseo’s brains all over the floor.
*
They marched through halls of yellow stone, black carpet underfoot. His coughing echoed on the masonry, the Inquisitor on either arm pausing when it grew too violent. But as soon as he regained his breath, they were moving again, through steel doors expanding like the iris of a human eye, the crisp sound of blade kissing blade accompanying their dilations.
The air was freezing, walls glistening with moisture. Long paper amulets ran floor to ceiling, protective mantra scribed in soulless kanji. Daichi could hear motors thrumming through the floor, smell chi-stench curled in the air, clinging to the inside of every breath.
They finally stopped outside another iris door, looming and black. The Inquisitors seemed distracted, watching the corners or staring into space, the leader actually sidestepping as if to avoid collision with something that wasn’t there. After long minutes, the iris dilated, opening out into a vast hollow of black stone. The room was too large to see the edges, a domed ceiling stretching overhead, the floor lit by strips of glowing halogen.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Daichi made out a granite pillar in the room’s heart. Ten feet high, riddled with fat lengths of cable, like boreworms in rotten fruit. The pillar’s base was ringed with thousands of mechabacii, chittering and skittering—the hum of some obscene hive. And atop the pillar, a figure crouched like a parasite king upon his throne.
Red glowing eyes, a thin, pointed helm with hollow cheeks like a death’s head. Cables ran from throne and ceiling, plugged into his chest, legs, arms. His back was a cluster of metal shafts, like sea-urchin spines, glowing with scalding heat. Despite the brass shell, the cruel barbs and sharp lines, the figure seemed frail, old and thin and bent under the weight of his skin.
Daichi could sympathize.
The figure was watching the ceiling as they entered, staring at the impenetrable black above their heads. As Daichi was brought before the throne, it looked down on him, breath straining through the breather bellows encircling the chair. When it spoke, its voice echoed around the room, amplified by speakers in the walls.
“Kagé Daichi. I am Tojo, exalted and venerable First Bloom of the Lotus Guild.”
“A pleasure,” Daichi rasped.
“No doubt.” A smile lurked inside the wheeze, dry as summer grass. “I fear it will be short-lived.”