Between the Flowers and the Moon

by Nene Adams 2006 - All rights reserved

For eighty years and more,
by the grace of my sovereign
and my parents, I have lived
with a tranquil heart
between the flowers and the moon.
-----Narushima Chuhachiro

Tokyo, the 22nd century

Master Takuan Soho of the Unfettered Mind said: The art of

the sword consists of never being concerned with victory or

defeat, with strength or weakness, of not moving one step
forward, nor one step backward, or the enemy not seeing me
and my not seeing the enemy. Penetrating to that which is
fundamental before the separation of Heaven and Earth
where even yin and yang cannot reach, one instantly attains

proficiency in the art.

Katsumi paused in the act of lifting a skewer of grilled eel to
her mouth. Attached to the unagi vendor's cart was a battered
liquid crystal display that was broadcasting a streaming video
feed. A CGI head with banana-yellow cartoon hair was
superimposed over the scrolling real-time images. The heads
lips were moving but no sound emerged. Katsumi fixed her
gaze on the flat screen, her face impassive, and jabbed a
finger on the volume icon. The eel vendor hunched his thin
shoulder but made no protest. He used chopsticks to turn over
the skewers on his plasma grill while Katsumi remained
absorbed in the news, her snack forgotten and dripping
teriyaki sauce over her knuckles.
"Bindiya Bhattacharya," the announcer said, bobbing
frantically to an inner gyroscopic jitterbug, "accused of the
brutal slaying of her husband, Dr. Charles Li Fang, escaped
just hours ago from Shimekazari Asylum. In an unexpected
development, Department of Order psychics remain unable to
pinpoint the alleged murderer's location. It seems that
Bindiya-san is determined to continue her run of bad karmic
debt! Let's download a call from the Koan Man in Ropponji,
who thinks the good missus is just a harmless
little lepidoptera dreaming that she's a killer queen bee..."
A rustling noise erupted all around, a sort of hushed sound
that was like the sigh of silk against skin. Small objects
dropped from the sky, a technicolor rain that bounced off the
vendor's persimmon-dyed umbrella and landed in the street,
thumping mutely on the plascrete surface. Katsumi
recognized the genetically modified butterflies, each with an
advertising message or company logo emblazoned on its
wings. Like cultivated silk moths, these butterflies had no

mouths and only survived a day or two before expiring.

Kastumi shook off the dying insects that had tangled
themselves in her hair. Have you experienced enlightenment
today? asked a faded ad on the wings of a butterfly that
fluttered in its death agonies near her foot. Visit Dakini Web,

your one-stop dharma shop!

She ate her grilled eel in three bites, then twirled the skewer
between her blunt fingers. In a movement that was too quick
to follow with the naked eye, Katsumi flicked the thin bamboo
length through the air, spearing several of the falling
butterflies; the shish-kabob landed on the vendors grill and
began sizzling. He ignored her, his face shadowed by the wide
brim of his woven reed hat. She walked away from the vendor,
her wooden geta clattering loudly on the street. Each footstep
also crunched the fragile insect bodies, making a noise akin to
roasted rice being pounded in a mortar. Maintenance crab
bots scuttled from their lairs beneath the pavement, big claws
snatching at anything their logic circuits deemed as trash.
Katsumi carefully walked around one crab that threatened
the hem of her hakama and continued on her way.
Shibuya ward was chaos, as always. Teenagers and young
adults of every sex and no sex congregated here, lured by
trendy shops, fashion outlets, anime clubs, digital-gladiator
arenas and gaming parlors, all bubblegum colors and frantic,
frenetic motion. A group of girls passed by, wearing pastel
raincoats and eating green tea ice cream. They saw Katsumi
and stared, eyes wide, before hastening to the other side of the
street. She paid no attention to them. A muscle-grafted
bodyguard with ugly metal bond-work on his teeth took a look
at Katsumi, and chivvied his androgyn client into the safety of
a Hello Sex Kitten club. Katsumi continued serenely in her

course, never deviating, never reacting as pedestrian traffic

flowed out of her way as though impelled by some invisible
herald of doom that stalked ahead of her.
She stopped outside a multi-storied building whose nanoskinned sides displayed a mixture of advertisements and clips
from popular chanbara eiga films. Huge samurai clashed
above her head in operatically bloody combat while
scrolling kanji proclaimed the merits of hemorrhoid cream
and three-ply toilet tissue. Katsumi kicked off her wooden
clogs and slid them into a receptacle, receiving a printed claim
ticket in return. Entering the building, she was nearly run
down by a delivery woman in a neon green nylon jumpsuit,
who was balancing a stack of lacquered jubako on her
shoulder.
Automatically, Katsumi used her senses to detect and
catalogue each detail - the holographic logo of the Mongolian
barbeque restaurant on the jubako, a whiff of cold mutton and
spices, the clumps of dried mascara clinging to the woman's
lashes. She took a breath through her mouth, tasting the
acrid-sweet mlange of flavors that ghosted around the
brilliant green figure and her lunch boxes. The ninja's
analysis lasted a heartbeat. Nothing was amiss. She relaxed
her hold on the knife up her sleeve, allowed the woman to
zigzag around her, and padded on split-toed tabi socks
towards the security guard's desk in the lobby.
Katsumi knew what the guard saw when he looked at her - a
short, squat female with cold sharks eyes in a broad flat face,
dressed in an ash gray cotton gi, the legs of her hakamabound
tightly to her calves with cords. Her glossy black hair was
chopped off neatly and evenly just at the angle of her jaw,
leaving a tattoo visible on her throat. Hiragana characters

spelled out Property of Yoshitsune International in an elegant

scroll across her skin. Katsumi was a lab created ninja, just as
genetically engineered as the advertising butterflies. There
were not many of her kind, since the cost was prohibitive both in terms of practical expense and time, as well as the
necessary government permissions and paperwork. Katsumi
took some pleasure in being unique, as rare and precious as
the Jomon pots and Ankor Wat heads that were displayed
behind shatterproof polycarbonate in the building's lobby.
She returned the guard's bow and presented him with a
origami frog. The hand-made paper was screen-printed in
the yuzen style in a pattern of feathers and pinwheels. The
man stared at her, nonplused. She touched the origami with
her index finger. "Kero, kero," she croaked in imitation of a
frog's sound, her mouth stretched in a smile that had no
humor in it.
The guard blinked. Slowly, cautiously, as if he suspected he
was moving in a dream (or being filmed by a crew of
pranksters), he extended a finger and touched the folded
paper amphibian. The instant he did so, a tiny dart shot out of
the frogs mouth and embedded itself in the meat of his palm.
He went rigid and collapsed in a long backwards fall, muscles
drawn so tightly that he bounced when he hit the floor.
Katsumi nodded, pleased. She had coated the dart with a new
acquisition - a modified textrodotoxin which paralyzed
instantly, leading to death in a few minutes as the brain shut
down from lack of oxygen. There was no way of knowing if the
man was in pain, however, so Katsumi knelt next to his body
and produced her knife. There was no pleasure in torture; a
clean kill was preferred whenever possible. She rolled the
man on his side, tugged on his uniform coat to expose the

nape of his neck, and drove the knigr between the bony knobs
of his vertebrae with a single powerful thrust.
Mission accomplished, Katsumi rose and patiently waited for
the other security guards and assorted bystanders to scramble
out of her way before she left the building. From a distance,
she could hear the shrill sound of a police siren and estimated
they would arrive at the location in approximately two
minutes. This left plenty of time to retrieve her geta and leave
before there could be any further confrontations. No doubt
psychics employed by the police would discern the cause of the
guard's demise, and the word would spread. Her employer,
the Long Eyebrow tong, would be satisfied, as the dead guard
owed heavy gambling debts and had been targeted to serve as
an example. Katsumi did not fear arrest. She was, after all, a
licensed and bonded ninja, duly registered as a corporate
asset, and was, therefore, above the laws meant for those who
had status as actual people.
Katsumi smiled at the distinction, causing a tattooed Maori
bouncer outside a karaoke club to blanch, his face a study in
black tribal stripes and apprehension-paled skin.
She took the subway to Nerima ward, where she had space
above an abandoned writing brush factory near Toshimaen
Amusement Park. A tribe of neo-pagan hackers lived in the
rabbit warren of rooms and corridors beneath her, carving out
their own space around the thick bundles of cables that
snaked everywhere, providing power as well as access to the
loas of cyberspace. When Katsumi came through the door, she
nodded a greeting to the headman, whose platinum blonde
dreadlocks were ornamented with antique computer chips. He
cradled a sleeping infant against his bare chest and gave her

an affectionate smile.
The air was sweet with ganja smoke, laced with ozone and
cooking smells. She could hear the ever-present hum of
computers, and track a number of flickering blue-white
screens in the semi-gloom, each with its attendant priest. On
the wall, a holo-projection of Matre Bandulu, sly god of data
theft, winked and rolled its eyes. From somewhere near the
back of the building came the insistent thud-thud-thud of
African tribal dub, the melody twined with the haunting wails
of hurdy-gurdy and shakuhachi flute.
One of the headman's wives, a thin woman whose shaven
skull was peppered with chrome interface sockets, sidled over
to give Katsumi a large wooden bowl containing portions of
pumpkin stew, lentil daal, banana fritters, cauliflower curry,
and several rounds of cassava bread called bammy, soaked in
coconut milk and fried in ghee. The ninja bowed her thanks,
which the wife did not acknowledge as it was forbidden for
Sinsemilla women to make eye contact with anyone not born
of their tribe. Katsumi started towards the stairwell, dinner
in hand, and halted when the headman's fingertips brushed
across her back. She did not turn to look at him, but inclined
her head and waited.
Hey, Steppin' Razor, no harm, yah? We heard from the
Gud today, from Maman Brigitte and Baron Dinki, he said,
naming the loas of the dead and obsolete, guardians of the
universal bit bucket where lost or destroyed data - including
the viral-ridden programs called humanity - could be found
post-termination. The headman's accent was thick, his words
barely understandable. A pinpoint of light gleamed on the
interface socket implanted high on his temple. Want to warn
ya - watch out for the duppy, mah sistah; a pretty face wit'

death inside. Gonna be a botheration in the here n' now, the

priests say.
Hai. Katsumi expelled the word in a huff of breath. Duppies
were, as far as she could tell, the equivalent of yurei - restless
spirits of the dead - or perhaps they were some sort of
software glitch. It was difficult to be sure, since the tribe's
consensus of reality was quite different from her own. These
people made no distinction between the emergent collective
reality, or cyberspace, the bardo, Amida Buddha's Pure Land,
Jingoku or any altered state of consciousness. All was one, one
was all. Katsumi respected the members of the Sinsemilla,
and allowed them liberties that she would not have tolerated
from others. They amused her, for the members had shown no
fear from the beginning, simply accepting her as part of
themselves and their strange world.
She continued, speaking gently, "Thank you for your concern.
I will consider your words with care."
He shook his head, dreadlocks flying. The Nokia
ophthalmologic implants that had replaced his eyes gleamed,
iridescent as oyster shells. Duppy's like a soul cracker, dig? A
ghost in the wetware, not the hardware not the machine.
The baby made a soft noise of complaint; he offered it a
knuckle to suck. Abnormal termination begets a vengeancevirus, say the Gud, and not even a Steppin' Razor be safe.
Mo better ya go n' grok in fullness, sistah, then we take ya to
the balm-yard when the time come.
Katsumi nodded without comprehending. Since it seemed he
had finished, she continued to the stairs, her geta slapping
hollowly on the concrete floor. She had to skirt around a
couple lying together on a rag pallet, one atop the other; their

faces were obscured by a flexible tunnel of black polyvinyl

held in place by straps behind their heads. They were VRinterfacing as they writhed together, a slow dance of love and
lust fueled by a shared fantasy and simulated stimulation.
The masks gave new meaning to the antiquated term sucking
face. Blue-white light from a fluorescent bulb stuttered on
their bodies, illuminating sweat streaks on pallid skin.
The ninja went to her quarters on the second floor, by-passing
an offering on one of the steps a heap of wilting marigold
flowers, Red Stripe beer and bottles of rum, a scattering of fat
hand-rolled ganja joints. Holographic prayer cards spilled in a
fan across the step, all of them representations of Maman
Brigitte - a white-clad figure whose head was all scarlet lips
and open mouth and sharp teeth, her eyes hidden behind a
wild tangle of hair. On every card, the goddess danced to a
thrum of muted drums, the rhythm of the human heart. For
some reason, it reminded Katsumi of the CGI announcer she
had seen that afternoon, and the news story broadcast on the
eel vendor's cart.
She opened the door to her living quarters and came upon a
familiar face, glimpsed only a few hours ago on a liquid crystal
display Bindiya Bhattacharya, escaped murderer and
supposed madwoman.
Zen master Ummon said, If you walk, just walk. If you sit,

just sit. But whatever you do, don't wobble.

Serene as always, Katsumi entered her living quarters, shut

the door behind her, and offered the bowl of food to her
unexpected visitor. Have you eaten dinner? she inquired
politely, not wobbling at all.

Bindiya gaped at her.

Katsumi catalogued the woman in an eye-blink. She was tall
and possessed the figure of a fabled houri of Paradise - full
breasted and wasp-waisted, her round hips and thighs and
buttocks packed into a white T-shirt and matching pants that
were two sizes too small. She wore cheap recycled-rubber
sandals in a nauseating pink color, probably purchased from a
vending machine at the same time as the nondescript
clothing. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a haphazard
ponytail at the nape of her neck; long tendrils had escaped
and were stuck to her grubby, sweaty face. Bindiyas almondshaped eyes were set close on either side of a delicately
bridged nose. Her mouth was wide and sensual, although the
bottom lip was crusted with a scab. Katsumis evaluation
included the information that the woman was unlikely to be
trained in any of the martial arts. She did not hold herself like
a fighter; her body language spoke of fright and exhaustion
rather than preparation to defend.
I will make tea. Katsumi announced, removing her geta and
placing them in a rack by the door. The bowl of food was set at
Bindiya's feet. Katsumi accepted the womans unexpected
presence as she accepted the quirks and twists of existence.
Things happened. One acted or reacted accordingly. Shigata
ga nai. There was no help for it; escaping one's fate was
impossible, so there was no sense complaining or permitting
expectation to cloud the future. Since Heaven had seen fit to
deposit an accused killer on her doorstep, Katsumi would
waste no time or energy fighting against it. Shigata ga nai - a
most useful state of mind. Patience would bring
understanding.
She went to the kitchen area, a space in the corner separated

from the main room by a long bar; the plastic frame and sides
were programmed to display random selections from the I
Ching. The W Wang hexagram was currently scrolling past.
Katsumi grabbed two self-heating cups of jasmine tea from
the cupboard and popped the tabs on the lids to activate the
exothermic reaction. While she waited for the tea to heat, the
trigram caught her interest, so she spent a moment
interpreting the divinatory symbols.

Freedom from insincerity, recklessness and selfishness will

bring success. Noble virtue. Fortunate action followed by the
stillness of deep waters.
Clipped to the side of an oil paper parasol that was suspended
from the ceiling, a solitary spotlight winked on as the
environmental computer sensed Katsumis continued presence
in the kitchen, and assumed that she required more
illumination. The remainder of the large living area remained
swathed in the shadows of a rapidly deepening dusk. Despite
the lack of light, the ninjas genetically enhanced vision was
quite capable of making out the figure of her unexpected
guest.
Bindiya was hunkered down on her heels, scooping daal and
pumpkin stew and curry out of the wooden bowl with torn
pieces of bammy. The woman ate with the sort of grim
desperation that spoke of a belly clemmed by true hunger.
Katsumi picked up a tea cup; steam issued from the
perforation in the lid, along with a faint flowery aroma. She
sipped her tea and watched until Bindiya scraped the empty
bowl with a last scrap of bammy and popped it into her
mouth, chewing slowly as if, her immediate need satisfied, she
was savoring the flavor. The scab on her lip was gone, no
doubt torn away in the haste of consumption; a minor

demonstration of self-cannibalism that had left a raw place on

her mouth. Katsumi approached the woman, offering the
other tea cup mutely.
Th-thank you, Bindiya said, accepting the cup. She took a
cautious drink, just wetting her lips with the liquid, and
sighed.
Katsumi cocked her head to one side. May I know how you
came to this place? she asked.
My husband... Bindiya paused, took a deep breath, then
gulped the tea down in a few swallows, her throat working.
She licked her lips and continued, Charles. Dr. Li Fang.
Katsumi nodded for her to go on. She breathed heavily for a
moment. When Bindiya spoke again, her voice was roughened
by unshed tears. He was a bio-programmer who used to work
for Yoshitsune International. Her eyes rolled upward, her
gaze locking onto Katsumi's face. Help me. Please, help me.
Katsumi did not respond. There was no need. Charles Li Fang
was a name from the past, one which she knew very well.
Something happened inside her head; long dormant
biofeedback and subliminal programming unspooled from her
subconscious, literally changing her mind. Unalarmed, she
sucked down the remainder of her tea while she waited for the
process to complete. The sensation was familiar; many of her
memories included receiving data downloads in Yoshitsune's
orbital laboratory. Her clever fingers peeled the label from the
side of the cup. Katsumi folded the label into an origami crane
when her neural pathways had settled. She pressed the paper
bird into Bindiya's hand.
I have red bean ice cream, she said, or cactus Pocky gelato

if you still suffer from hunger.

Bindiya blinked then lost consciousness, toppling over onto
her side with another sigh. The origami crane fluttered to the
floor. Katsumi glided away. The sedative she had put into the
tea would wear off in a few hours, long enough for her to
complete a few chores, including collecting her fee from the
Long Eyebrow tong. She pulled a futon mattress from a tall
Chinese lacquered cabinet, and flipped it open beside Bindiya.
It was the work of a moment to roll the unconscious woman
onto the futon and cover her with a knitted blanket.
Having made Bindiya as comfortable as possible, Katsumi
squatted a moment beside the mattress. Her hand crept out;
she brushed her fingertips against the woman's cheek. There
was a bruise rising from the bone, moving upward through
flesh like a Hokusai wave that would eventually break and
flow violet-blue under her skin. Bindiya smelled of hospital
disinfectant, cigarette smoke, the rusty iron tang of blood, a
sharp/sour stink of stale sweat and adrenaline. She was
flotsam, discarded and tossed on the sea of destiny, to be
finally deposited on the shores of Katsumi's private island.
Fondness made a rare, real smile crease Katsumis mouth and
touch her eyes.
***
Bindiya came back to herself abruptly, as if she had fallen
from a great height. Her limbs jerked; her heart slammed
painfully in her chest. For a moment she was back in the
asylum, curled up in a corner of her padded cell while a
woman who was/was not there shrieked endlessly a sound
that sliced through her skull and exploded against the backs

of her eyeballs in showers of chrysanthemum fireworks

sparks. Sweat prickled on her skin. Bindiya whimpered deep
in her throat. A hand spread over her shoulder and shook her
carefully - the barest vibration of flesh on flesh.
Do you wish cha?
The voice was cool but not cold, calm and soothing, yet
possessed of great confidence. Bindiya's recollection was jolted
back to the present. She was not in the asylum. She had
escaped. She was... Bindiya struggled to think clearly. Where
was she? Information flooded her consciousness. She was in
the presence of a vat-grown ninja whose neural network was
saturated with dangerous knowledge, a futuristic throwback
who could kill her a dozen times over with an eyelash or a
slice of toast. A warrior rumored to have the ability to become
invisible, walk through walls, and utilize the esoteric black
arts of kuji-kiri and saiminjutsu and yogen to paralyze her
prey, enslave a persons will, or rend a soul screaming from its
host body. The ninja was a killer genetically altered and
enhanced with recombinant DNA, making her deadlier
than Yersinia pestis and hemorrhagic fever combined.
Bindiya's eyes fluttered open. She stared upward into a flat,
impassive face and surprisingly, felt no fear. Some instinct
urged her to trust. She did not know why, but so much had
happened since her world had been chopped into bloody little
pieces. How long ago was it? Time had no meaning when one
dwelled in a perpetual nightmare. It had become easy to cast
aside her education, her rationality and reason, in favor of
some voodoo survival programming of the lizard brain. No, not
easy. Necessary. After everything she had endured, putting
her faith in this woman would be the tiniest and easiest of

steps.
I knew your husband once, the ninja said conversationally,
as though she was a sararimans wife sharing confidences at a
corporate brunch. "On the space station. Is this how you knew
where to find me?"
Bindiya uncurled from her fetal ball and sat up, taking it
slowly since her head had apparently been hollowed out while
she slept and filled with cotton wool. Why had she come to
this ninja? What had prompted her to seek assistance from a
person she had only read about in one of her late husbands
files? The last thing she remembered clearly was... Bindiya
gasped, a flurry of images appearing and disappearing one-byone inside her mind, quickly as a stack of flashcards flipped
between thumb and forefinger.

The door of her cell opening, the sliver of blackness beyond

the door that was relieved by firefly flashes from a guttering
fluorescent strip. There were phosphene trails at the corners
of her eyes, green-yellow threads against the red-tinged dark.
The sour smell of acetic acid bloomed, the taste of chemicals
on her tongue, the sound of shuffling wet footsteps and
through it all, a steady dripping of water. Fast forward to a
train station, shivering despite the heat, pushing New Yen
bills into a vending machines slot. She did not know how she
had gotten here, or even how she had known the ninja's exact
location. It was not as though an assassin would be listed in
the residence directory. Her presence here was another puzzle
to pile atop the rest.
I don't...Bindiya stopped, and rubbed aching temples with
the heels of her hands. The ninja - memory supplied a name,
Katsumi - peeled a dermal endorphin patch off a strip and

thumbed it firmly against the side of her neck. Bindiya licked

her dry lips and groped for an answer to the question she had
half-forgotten. I was privy to my husband's files, she said at
last, a shiver creeping through her skin. All of them.
Katsumi nodded, clearly unconcerned. Bottomless black eyes
regarded Bindiya. You asked for my help.
Yes, Bindiya gasped, fingertips digging hard into the futon
mattress until her nails threatened to splinter. She was not
safe, her world had teetered to a point that had been shifted
far left of center, and she knew that life would never be the
same for her again. At best, there would be an endless
purgatorio of drugs, therapies, personality splintering and
reintegration, memory wipes and mental reconstruction. At
worst, she would be dead. The human animal was driven, at
its most basic deepest level, to survive by any means
necessary. Bindiyas ego and id and superego were, for a
change, in full agreement with the primitive mind. Despite
the ninja's history, trusting Katsumi was imperative.
Yes, Bindiya repeated, her voice cracking. Please, help me.
Very well. The cool gaze returned to its contemplation of
Bindiyas face. A blunt-fingered hand reached down to her,
and she took hold of it in a bruising grip. Katsumi did not
flinch. She simply braced herself in place and hauled Bindiya
to her feet. The knitted red-and-purple blanket stubbornly
clung to Bindiya's shoulders, and she clung with equal
stubbornness to the lifeline of Katsumi's hand.
Katsumi looked down at their joined grip. A tiny smile
quirked the corner of her mouth. "Do you wish tea? Not

drugged this time."

At long last, relief dissolved the barbed wire tension that had
been coiled inside her what seemed to be an incredibly long
time. She knew, with a certainty as inflexible and immovable
as hard-cured plascrete, that as long as she remained with
Katsumi, she would be safe. Those two words very well had sealed Bindiyas fate. She would be protected; threats to
her person would be removed efficiently and with minimum
fuss.

Thank Shakti Im safe, Bindiya thought. Thank the Mother

goddess that Charles was fanatical about keeping duplicates
of his case files and journals, and that my bump of curiosity
was big enough to make me steal his password so I could pry
into his affairs. Bindiya relaxed and rolled her tongue around
her mouth to taste the faintest marshmallow/gun oil trace of a
common trank. How long was I unconscious?
Four hours. Katsumi patted her arm in what Bindiya could
only perceive as a friendly manner. Would you care to
bathe?
I don't... I don't have any clean clothes. Bindiya forced
herself to let go of Katsumi's hand and stretched until her
spine crackled. The blanket slid off. She wrinkled her nose as
her own sour scent wafted from the luridly colored material.
Katsumi gestured towards a leather sling chair; shopping
bags were stacked on the seat. Bindiya looked from the bags
to the woman standing next to her. Katsumi was a full head
shorter, her figure broad and nearly square. She was not
overweight by any stretch of the imagination; the woman
looked heavy and solid, dense muscle packed on a stocky

frame. She had taken off her uniform no one wore ash
gray gi except construct ninjas - and donned a forest green
kimono paired with black-and-white checkered hakama. The
starch-stiffened trouser legs stuck out like wings. Pure
white tabi socks covered surprisingly slender feet.
There is a communal bath in the building, Katsumi said.
The Sinsemilla don't mind sharing.
Bindiya blinked, apprehension making her mouth dry. Those
people...the ones downstairs...
They will not harm you. They will not betray you.
Yet again, Bindiya was struck by the ninja's confidence. At
one time in her life, she might have rejected such an absolute
declaration as a matter of course. That was before. Before.
The word was freighted with eldritch meaning. Her mind
skittered away. It was enough to deal with the present. The
before would have to wait. Katsumi regarded her, an
inquisitive tilt to her head, but remained silent. Bindiya
heaved a sigh, scrubbed her face with her hands, and went to
root through the shopping bags. The clothing was simple,
comfortable, all natural fabrics. She chose multi-pocketed
cargo pants, the dull red fabric imprinted with
a vajrayana thunderbolt pattern, and a plain safflower-dyed
shirt. Both items looked as if they would fit, unlike the horrid
cheap clothing she had bought at the train station.
She paused. Vending machines carried garments that would
fit her. Why were the clothes she was wearing two sizes too
small? Why? Bindiya's hands were shaking. After enduring so
much horror, this most trivial of mysteries was unbearable.
Her nerve broke with a near audible crack. Her breath caught

in a sob. She bit into her bottom lip and felt a small cut open
under the pressure. Warm wetness tickled her chin. Tears
burned. Her chest ached fiercely, filled beyond capacity with
powerful emotions.
Katsumi hesitated a bare second then wrapped hands around
her biceps and pulled her close. Bindiya found herself held
against a firm warmth that smelled of plums and moss and
salt. Tell me, Katsumi commanded softly.
Despite being the taller of the pair, Bindiya bent, burrowing
her face into the dark hollow between Katsumi's neck and
shoulder, and pressed her mouth against the taut tendon. Tell
me. This close, the command was even more compelling. She
could hear it, but also feel the vibrations of each word
traveling from Katsumi's body through her own.
Bindiya took a breath and began.
***
Katsumi listened to the litany that spilled from Bindiya's
mouth, punctuated by long shuddering breaths and whimpers.
The narrative was rambling and incoherent in places, but not
utterly incomprehensible. Katsumi spread her legs slightly,
the better to maintain her balance, and cupped the fragileseeming bones of Bindiya's shoulders in her palms. She had
not meant to prompt this doleful flood, but it was necessary to
gain a closer understanding of matters. Katsumi would act as
this woman's shield, and also her sword, if necessary. Shigata
ga nai. The why of things did not matter; she only knew that
it was meant to be. Her mental programming told her so.
At the asylum, I saw her in the pool room, in the water. It

was late, it was cold, Bindiya babbled. Charles had gone

home early. We worked together, you know, but he went home
to wait for me. But she was floating in the water, too cold, too
cold. I heard her calling.
The thread of the plot, tangled as it was, could nevertheless be
unraveled with patience. That quality was one which Katsumi
possessed in abundance.
Bindiya Bhattacharya and her husband worked on the staff of
Shimekazari Asylum, a complex for the criminally insane.
Five days ago, Bindiya had stayed behind in her office to
finish editing an article submitted by their medical AI for
inclusion in the hospital's in-house psychiatric journal. On her
way out of the administrative area, she had heard a girl
calling for help. Bindiya followed the voice to the exercise
room. No one except staff was supposed to be there at that
time. The lights had been off except for a single red emergency
bulb that turned the water in the swimming pool to the color
of fresh blood.
A body had floated on the surface, face down, arms and legs
spread as if free-falling.
Acting on reflex, Bindiya had dived into the water, reaching
for the still figure, believing she was already too late but
compelled to try. Strands of long wet hair had insinuated into
her mouth, on her cheeks, wrapped around her wrists,
tightening and cutting into her skin. She had seen the girl's
face underwater, so young, so cherubic... until shockingly, the
eyes had popped open, and the lips parted, and a high-pitched
scream had shattered her skull.
Bindiya had no clear recollection after that. Her memory of

that time was a shoddy thing, blank in some places, tattered

beyond recognition in others. She had woken up three days
later - seventy-two hours vanished into the void, leaving very
few crumbs of clues behind - as a patient in her own facility. A
sympathetic judge had granted Shimekazari Asylum
temporary custody, pending a murder investigation by the
Department of Order. Dr. Charles Li Fang had been
butchered with a pair of five-hundred year old Chinese
butterfly knives that resembled cleavers. All the evidence
pointed to Bindiya as the culprit.
There was no sign of forced entry in their home; the
computerized security system had not been compromised. The
house was in a secure residential compound patrolled by
mutated Rottweilers trained to attack non-residents upon
scent or sight. Her fingerprints and DNA trace were on the
weapons used to kill Dr. Li Fang. Department of Order
clairvoyants had captured scattered psychic images of the
crime which tended to suggest that Bindiya was guilty,
though their testimony was too unclear to serve as a legal
indictment against her.
Bindiya herself had been found in the house, covered with
blood, in a state of profound catatonic shock. It was
circumstantial evidence yet damning all the same, and the
fact that she could not remember anything in her own defense
was the final blow - presumption of guilt by reason of insanity.
Bindiya's colleagues had done their best for one of their own,
using minimal pharmacological and cybernetic intervention
until a proper diagnosis could be made. She had at least come
back to herself in the company of friends; Bindiya could have
ended up in any of the public hospitals, drugged and plugged
into a virtual therapy program that was marginally better

than no treatment at all.

The ordeal had not ended with her hospitalization. Bindiya
had continued to experience hallucinations of the dead girl,
both visual and auditory. Phantom screams burst agonizingly
upon her eardrums, making her echo those screams until her
throat was raw. Long bloody scratches appeared on her body.
She never remembered making them, never found skin
beneath her fingernails, and could only assume that she must
have... disposed... of the evidence, a bit of self-cannibalism
that was not nearly as disturbing as the inability to recall
making the decision to do so in the first place.
I don't remember! I can't remember! Bindiya cried in
anguished panic, spittle spraying the side of Katsumis neck.
Shivers racked her body until her teeth chattered. The
stricken woman balled up a fist, and made as if to punch
herself in the side of the head.
Katsumi gently fended the blow away. She massaged the
pressure points on Bindiya's wrists to help lower her blood
pressure, then applied a firm touch to the area of her third
eye to encourage proper ki flow. Katsumi stimulated some of
the shao yin meridians to nourish the woman's heart, calm
her spirit, and trigger endorphin release. When she was
finished, Bindiya was relaxed against her, making wordless
breathy noises of appreciation. Katsumi was pleased with the
result of her ministrations. In the past, she had only used
pressure points to kill or maim. Applying her knowledge to a
more benign area was a new experience.
How did you escape? Katsumi asked, her lips against the
woman's ear. She felt Bindiya's shudder, smelled a very faint
trace of arousal, and filed that information away for future

reference. All knowledge was valuable.

I don't know, came the answer.
Katsumi pulled back, monitoring Bindiya as she did so. The
woman's heart rate was still elevated but no longer as
irregular; her breathing had evened out. Bindiya's face
remained mottled and splotched with the evidence of her
distress. Katsumi produced a large white handkerchief from
the sleeve of her kimono and used it to mop up the slickness of
tears and spit and snot, careful of the purpling bruise on
Bindiya's cheek. When she finished, Bindiya settled with a
sigh against the bulwark of Katsumi's body. This was an
unusual feeling for Katsumi, permitting the closeness of
another. The shared intimacy of a close-quarters kill was
different - less bodily fluids involved, if one was careful. Her
neck was wet, the collar of her kimono soaked. She decided it
was not entirely unpleasant. Nurturing did not come as
naturally as killing. She had to work at it, but her newly
engaged protective attitude towards Bindiya made her say,
"You will bathe. You will eat again. You will have tea, then I
will tell you what I have discovered."
Bindiya nodded, compliant and seemingly calm. She picked up
the shirt and trousers that had fallen on the floor and blew a
stray lock of hair out of her eyes. Katsumi led her to the door,
stopping to pick up an object from a writing table. It was a
sword - her own sword, in fact, a straight length of sharpened
steel about as long as the distance from the tip of her middle
finger to her elbow. The scabbard was quite plain; the metal
surfaces had been blackened and dulled so as not to catch the
light. There was nothing fancy about her ninjato. It was not
an antique, nor was it particularly valuable. Katsumi felt
none of the sentimentality that a salaried samurai displayed

towards his inherited katana. Her sword, like herself, was an

efficient killing tool nothing more.
But you are more than a tool, Dr. Li Fang had told her.
Katsumi visualized the man's face, the deep lines scoring his
flesh from nose to mouth, the thick eyebrows that nearly met
in the middle, his skin the color of old parchment. He had
worn his black hair cropped short on the top, the back left
long and plaited into a dozen skinny braids that reached his
hips. On Yoshitsune station, Li Fang had floated in nullgravity, his feet hooked through a rung in the wall. His thin
braids had floated straight out around his head like Medusa's
herpetological locks. She could conjure him in her mind's eye
and hear his voice - so deep, so rich - as he manually reprogrammed her, cracked through the defenses that had been
built into her mind by her creators, and downloaded a soulvirus into her mainframe that had left one who was more than
human more human.
She turned her thoughts away from the past and back to the
present.
Master Musashi said, Step by step, walk the thousand mile
road.
Katsumi shepherded Bindiya down the stairs, carrying the
ninjato in her hand. Some questions had been answered.
Others remained elusive. Eventually, the truth would be
uncovered and matters would be resolved. In the meantime,
Musashi-sans advice was apt matters could only proceed
one step at a time.
***

I'm sorry, Bindiya said, subdued but now gloriously clean.

She had put her hair up into a much neater ponytail tied with
a paper ribbon. Dressed in new clothes and radiating a fragile
calm, she looked and felt somewhat better. Bindiya was aware
that her emotional state was still very brittle, likely to crack
under the least pressure. She was grateful that Katsumi did
not seem to mind being drenched with tears or subjected to
hysterics. Indeed, the ninja had taken everything in stride even going so far as to take charge in the bath house. Bindiya
had been stripped, placed on a stool, then washed with limeflower scented soap and a scrubbing bag filled with rice bran
before being led to a furoshiki tub to soak in water almost
hotter than she could stand.
Katsumi's touch was not impersonal, but not as intimate as a
lover's, either. Comforting, not intrusive, somehow permitting
no embarrassment or self-consciousness, as though Bindiya
had regressed to childhood in the state-run crche with her
assigned amah. All she was required to do was relax and
permit someone else to take charge. It had been a long time
since anyone cared for her that way, and that included
Charles Li Fang. She and Charles were never very close.
Their relationship was more mentor and pupil than husband
and wife. It had suited her needs at the time, but things
changed. People changed.

Oh, how they change. Look at me. A week ago, just seven
short days, I would never have conceived of feeling so safe in
the presence of the ninja described by Charles in his journals.
Now I can't imagine leaving Katsumis side. The idea
frightens me to death. It isn't rational. Perhaps I am insane.
I didn't mean to fall apart like that. Thank you for taking
care of me, Bindiya said aloud, shifting a bit in her chair and

glancing shyly at Katsumi. The woman was seated lotusfashion on a cushion on the floor, eating from a bowl of rice
topped with meat, vegetables and raw egg - pibimbbap delivered from a local Korean eatery. Bindiya had
finished her portion and was toying with some sweet potato
tempura.
Katsumi scooped the last of the pibim-bbap from her bowl,
chewed and swallowed. She met Bindiya's gaze, her dark eyes
unfathomable. Drink your tea.
Bindiya shook her head. Will you tell me what you've found?
As you wish. Katsumi put her empty bowl on the floor,
chopsticks crossed and balanced on the rim. She arranged her
hands just so - the right cupped over her right knee, fingers
relaxed and pointing downward, and the left hand positioned
palm up in her lap. Bindiya recognized a Tibetan mudra, a
symbolic gesture named calling the earth to witness,
thebhumisparsha. I have nothing new to add to our
knowledge of the murder itself, Katsumi said. Do you?
Charles collected antique weapons," Bindiya offered. "The
butterfly knives belonged to him. He bought them after the
Hong Kong real estate bubble two years ago.
She had a memory flash of her late husband's study, one wall
covered with old swords and knives that he had bought from
around the world. The weapons that had been used to kill him
were Chinese in origin, five hundred years old, a matched pair
of square chunky blades that resembled oversized butcher's
cleavers. Bindiya closed her eyes and tried to breathe around
the cramping knot in her chest. Another flash came - her
husband's body, sprawled on the floor like a broken doll. The

blood, so much blood everywhere - huge glistening crimson

pools of it, streaks and splotches and sprays. Yet who would
have thought the old man to have so much blood in him? The
vision was red and white, exposed muscle and bone. A fly
crawled on his open eyeball. Bindiya gagged.
Katsumi was beside her in an instant, holding a cup of tea to
her lips. Bindiya sipped delicately, unwilling to chance an
upheaval. The ninja's fingers massaged her body here and
there, and the nausea finally eased. When she was sure that
she was no longer in danger of losing her dinner, Bindiya
smiled her thanks. Katsumi moved back to her place on the
floor, picking up her narrative as though the interruption had
never taken place.
As to your escape... the whole of it is unknown. Someone
opened the door of your cell from the outside but no DNA
trace was found on the keypad, no retinal scan was logged at
the time. Shimekazari AI's spy bots recorded no visuals in the
corridor, no heat signatures, no anomalies of any kind, no
lapses in the time recordings. Self-diagnostic tests and an
independent scan showed no sign of unauthorized entry into
the core. However, vid capture clearly shows the door of your
cell opening. Katsumi settled back down on her cushion. This
time, she chose the bhutadamara mudra - hands crossed at
the wrists, palm outward, ring fingers folded down to meet the
thumbs. It was a ritual gesture to protect against evil. Vid
does not show you exiting the cell. You do not appear at all.
Bindiya blinked. What?
Your cell door remained open for one minute and forty
seconds before closing of its own accord. No one entered or
exited the cell. Katsumi seemed amused. No one exited the

hospital. And yet here you are. You don't remember?

No. Bindiya felt her breath hitch. She struggled to control
burgeoning panic. Unbelievably, losing her memory was more
terrifying than losing her husband.
Katsumi leaned forward and let her right hand move out,
palm forward, in the mudra of compassion, the varada. "Did
you kill Dr. Li Fang?" she asked.
Bindiya stood so quickly, the chair skidded back several
inches. No! I did not murder my husband!
You say you don't remember, Katsumi pointed out, still
aiming the varada at Bindiya. Her tone was non-judgmental,
soft and soothing in the manner that one might use to
address an injured child. How can you be certain?
I just... I don't...
All humans are capable of murder given the proper impetus.
The possibility exists that you were responsible for Dr. Li
Fang's death.
Bindiya swallowed hard. She sat back down, elbows on her
knees, head hanging. Her neck felt hot, the sinews humming
under stress. You're right, of course. The possibility exists...
but I'll deny responsibility anyway. She tightened her
muscles, and loosened them one by one in a vain attempt to
relieve the tension that threatened to make her fly apart.
Silence stretched between them. Finally, Bindiya said, There
must have been some kind of tampering with the hospital AI's
surveillance.
Unlikely, considering the high security safeguards used to

protect the AI's memory core.

Then how do you explain it?
Katsumi once again made the mudra of protection against
evil.
I don't understand, Bindiya said. She had hardly gotten the
words out of her mouth before the world exploded in white
light.
She was deaf, she was blind, cut loose from the anchor of
gravity and set afloat. Every nerve in her body was singing, a
high-pitched mewling caterwaul that drilled through the
center of her brain. Her stomach turned cartwheels. Gravity
clicked back on and she was falling, falling, reaching terminal
velocity and she felt no pain until... bam! Bindiya's vision
cleared. She was on the floor, shaking hard, sweat pouring off
her in an acrid flood that was tainted by adrenaline. Katsumi
was hovering above her, one hand pressed to the back of her
skull to protect it, the heel of the ninja's other hand jammed
between her teeth. Bindiya sucked in a breath and tasted
blood in her mouth. She closed her eyes and opened her jaws,
allowing Katsumi to withdraw. There was something on her
forehead. She reached up blindly, pulled off what seemed to be
a thin, rectangular piece of paper and crumpled it in her fist.
Convulsions? Bindiya asked when her muscles had relaxed
enough for speech.
It resembled a grand mal seizure, except for this. Katsumi
lightly touched her arm.
Bindiya opened her eyes and found herself looking at a series
of deep welts and scratches on her forearm. Something was

familiar about the pattern. She swallowed a mouthful of bitter

saliva and forced herself to concentrate. Suddenly, everything
leaped into focus and she recoiled, as if the arm belonged to a
stranger. Mother Goddess! she exclaimed in horror, unable
to believe that this was real. Bindiya turned her head to judge
Katsumi's reaction. Do you see it, too?
They appeared spontaneously during your seizure. The
phenomena is not without precedent, Katsumi said, taking
hold of Bindiya's wrist and turning her arm so that she could
study the marks more closely. Religious stigmata...
This isn't stigmata. I'm as far away from living sainthood as
you can get and still be on the same planet. In the same
universe. Sharing a journey on the same kalachakra, spinning
on the dharma wheel. Bindiya let out a weak laugh, the
sound coming out of the depths of her body. She was
perilously close to hysteria but was not inclined to do
anything about it except surrender to the rising tide. You
think I'm some kind of homicidal dakini, a deva of long
knives? What does that make you, O contract murderer... a
karma killer?
Katsumi assessed her with hooded eyes. For some reason,
that made Bindiya laugh all the harder.
After a while, Bindiya wound down, giggles turning into tears.
She held her arm stiffly away from her body, refusing to look
at the damning marks upon her skin, the characters carved
into her flesh that spelled the word, guilty. A message from
her subconscious, perhaps. She was aware of Katsumi leaving,
bringing back a kit in order to smear the shallow wounds with
ointment and wrap her forearm with gauze and tape, covering

her shame.
From the corner of her eye, Bindiya could see the teeth marks
she had made on Katsumi's hand; they were already scabbing
over. The construct was blessed with a healing ability that
was second to none, due to modified angiopoietin-related
growth factor proteins produced in epidermal keratinocytes as
well as in her internal organs. Cutting off her head might kill
Katsumi... and on the other hand, it might just piss her off.
To give herself something to do besides fall back into an alltoo-familiar state of disconnection, Bindiya uncurled her fist
and examined the yellow piece of paper that had been on her
forehead. It was such an odd thing; she thought it had been on
the floor and gotten stuck to her face during the convulsions.
She frowned, realizing that it was an ofuda, a paper talisman
from a Shinto temple. The rectangular length of rice paper
featured red stamps and a scroll of black calligraphy down the
center. Her frown deepened.
As though this sort of thing happened so often that she had
grown blas, Katsumi sat back on her heels and said calmly,
I suspected spiritual possession. As soon as the ofuda touched
your forehead, the episode ended and you came back to
yourself.
That's not possible. Personality doesn't survive the death
process," Bindiya protested. This has been proven beyond
doubt. The Price Experiments, the Bligh Invariance socalled hauntings are just infrasound, or residual chi energies
recorded in the global etheric body, or the manifestation of
telekenetic ability at onset of puberty..."
And the girl? Katsumi interrupted. The dead girl you saw

in the swimming pool. You heard her screams.

It isn't unusual for mentally disturbed individuals to
experience auditory hallucinations. Bindiya gusted a weary
sigh, sat up and tossed the balled-up talisman at Katsumi.
She was taken aback by a burst of confetti hitting her in the
face. She realized that the ninja had, incredibly, drawn her
sword, reduced the ofuda to shreds mid-air, and sheathed her
weapon in a single blurred motion too swift. The unexpected
paper blizzard made Bindiyas gaze snap to Katsumi's face. As
a means of gaining her attention, the demonstration was
absurd but effective, and after a moment's thought, awe
inspiring. She must've cleared sword from scabbard in the
split-second that the ofuda left my fingertips. Amazing!
You are not deranged. Insanity cannot cause you to become
invisible to digital surveillance. Katsumi made the
pronouncement with confidence. Regrettably, there is no
rational explanation for it. Please accept the fact that we are
dealing with spiritual possession. Your flesh is being taken
over by another force for some unknown purpose. Revenge is
most likely, if the old tales are to be believed.
Bindiya opened her mouth to rebut and closed it with a click.
After a few moments of intense thought, she replied, If I say
yes, that I'll accept your supposition for now - mainly because
I'm too tired for a prolonged debate - what do we do then?
Katsumi bowed her head in acknowledgement. First, we
must determine the origin and identification of the yurei, she
said, and rolled smoothly to her feet.
Walking across the space with Katsumi, Bindiya took the
opportunity to observe her surroundings. The apartment was

huge by Tokyo standards, taking up the entire second floor of

the old factory. The brick walls were pierced by narrow
windows that were covered with accordion-folded mulberry
paper shades. There was an eclectic mix of furniture; antiques
and modern piece were placed at random. The only defined
space was the kitchen area with its solid teak cabinets and
the long bar that displayed hexagrams from the I Ching.
Bindiya followed Katsumi over to a new Sony liquid crystal
flatscreen that hung on an inner wall. Below it was a
computer interface deck and to one side sat a small butsudan.
A bell sat on the altar, as well as a bowl of sand, a bamboo
container of joss sticks, flowers, three pears in a dish, an
offering of rice, a collection of origami animals, a Buddhist
rosary and a digital display frame that scrolled slowly through
a dozen pictures of men and women.
While Katsumi knelt in in front of the deck, Bindiya peered at
the pictures. They were obsolete flat images, not holographic
projections, of seven women and five men of varying ages who
all appeared to be of pure Japanese stock. She recognized one
of them - Dr. Murajiro, a geneticist whose pioneering work
with recombinant DNA had increased the value of Kobe-Kline
Laboratories stock nearly a hundred percent during his
career. He had died eight years ago at the ripe age of one
hundred forty-two. Bindiya had read that Murajiro-san
attributed his longevity to Taoist breathing techniques and
Fang-Chung, an esoteric sexual practice. She was more
inclined to believe in the efficacy of cloned organ transplants,
gene therapy, and illegal stem cell transfusions.
Katsumi noticed her interest and said, My technical fathers
and mothers - contributors of genetic material as well as my
literal creators in the laboratory. They have all left this plane

of existence and await rebirth in the Pure Land.

Do you really think of them as your parents? Bindiya asked,
curious.
No, but it is customary to honor one's ancestors. Katsumi
put on VR interface goggles and data-gloves, and plugged
them into the deck. She stuck a microdot near the corner of
her mouth, and another on her ear; they were connected by a
virtually invisible hair-fine filament, serving as microphone
and receiver. Finished with her preparations, Katsumi began
moving her fingers to establish a connection, air-typing as the
data-gloves supplanted the need for a keyboard. Harsh actinic
light burned under the edge of the goggles and limned the
shallow curve of her cheek until it glistened like bare bone.
The flatscreen remained blank for the moment.
Bindiya sat next to her, close enough for their shoulders to
brush. She recalled reading that Katsumi was suspected of
having killed all the scientists involved in her birth, but not
the people who had educated and trained her.

A fine distinction in assigning responsibility, Bindiya

thought. Rogue ninjas don't happen. The deep mind
subliminal programming is supposed to be unbreakable,
ensuring complete loyalty and automatic obedience to the
corporation or assigned individual. Charles cracked through
her implanted neural defenses, cleared away the cortical
blocks and set her anima free. Katsumi doesn't even have a
safeword anymore. It was standard practice to implant a code
word or phrase within a constructs subconscious, meant to
induce instant cataplexy and/or causalgia in the unlikely
event that something went wrong. Charles Li Fang had
eliminated Katsumis safeword, making her the most

dangerous ninja alive.

The flatscreen suddenly sprang to life, startling Bindiya. She
instinctively pressed closer to Katsumi. As soon as she
realized what was happening, Bindiya moved away, unsettled.
She had undergone a great deal of trauma in the last few
days; it was understandable that she was feeling vulnerable,
in need of protection. Why she found that instant sense of
security with Katsumi was a mystery that she was not
inclined to explore at the moment. At least the other woman
did not seem to mind. Indeed, one of her gloved hands reached
out to smooth down Bindiya's thigh in a comforting gesture
before returning to its neutral upright position when the
connection completed.
Katsumi navigated skillfully through the data streams,
represented on the flatscreen as complex interweaving
patterns, shapes and threads of colored light. Eventually, she
crawled to a halt and, hands weaving, connected to a small
unobtrusive node. After scrolling through a series of menus,
Katsumi downloaded a program, then transferred it to a
hand-held pad. She gave the pad to Bindiya. Recognition
software, Katsumi said, sliding the goggles into her hair for a
moment in order to make eye contact. There are facial
features stored in memory. Select those that appear to match
the drowned girl. Once you have a picture complete, I'll run it
through the Department of Orders mainframe. Perhaps we
will learn her name.
Bindiya nodded and used the attached stylus to select some
options on the pad. In the meantime, she also watched
Katsumi. The ninja had put her goggles back on and was
cruising a low-rent area, ablaze with advertisements for sex
interfaces, tattoo parlors, and cheap body-modification clinics.

Katsumi chose one of the latter. The virtual shop door writhed
into intertwining dragon shapes as she entered. A curious
collection of goods was displayed, ranging from dyed ostrich
eggs in a rack to a sleeping tabby cat sprawled on a
silk zabuton. Bindiya knew the objects were visual
representations of programs that permitted interaction in
cyberspace; function did not necessarily follow form. Katsumi
gestured, knocking the lid off a blue-and-white ginger jar, and
her avatar jumped inside.
The flatscreen showed a dismal corridor, illuminated by
occasional pools of light. Due to a trick of perspective, the
hallway looked endless, stretching into infinity. On either side
of it were closed doors. Katsumi composed a text message and
sent it winging off into the darkness. Splitting her attention
between the screen and her pad, Bindiya missed reading the
contents of the missive. A reply came in the form of a
miniature dragon breathing fire kanji that glowed and
disappeared in showers of ash and pearls too quickly for
Bindiya to catch. Katsumi broke the connection, removing her
goggles and gloves. We have an appointment in three hours
in Akihabara, she said.

The techiya district? Bindiya glanced at the pad in her hands;

the portrait was nearly complete. She poked the screen with
her stylus, selecting a pair of eyes and moving them onto the
face she had created. Why Akihabara?"
We must obtain something important there. Katsumi
shuffled around on her knees, so that she was facing Bindiya,
about an arm's length away. It will mean going out in public.
Your appearance will have to be changed. The police will not
harass me, but they will try to detain you if you are
recognized. The resulting massacre will surely attract media

attention and is, therefore, to be avoided if practical.

And if not practical?
Most regrettable but necessary. Katsumi shrugged, her
indifference clear.
Bindiya did not know whether to be horrified or pleased.
Katsumi's willingness to kill on her behalf was frightening,
like having the power of a goddess over life and death. Before
she could say anything, however, there was a whoosh of air
past her face. She heard the soft click of Katsumi's sword
returning to its sheath. What felt like soft feathers slithered
down her arms. Bindiya's eyes went wide in shock as the
remains of a paper ribbon joined the severed locks of her hair
on the floor. Her head felt strangely light, as though it might
float away.
Katsumi frowned and rubbed a strand of Bindiya's now
shoulder-length hair between her thumb and forefinger.
Pink, I think, she said.
Bindiya stared at her in disbelief, then her mouth pulled into
a thin, straight line of indignation.
***
Master Sun Tzu said, Invincibility lies in the defense; the
possibility of victory in the attack.
They had come to the techiya district to make Bindiya
invincible against ghostly possession.
Katsumi walked beside Bindiya, using the flat-footed, bowlegged stomp of a hired samurai bodyguard. She wore a pale

blue rubber kimono and zori sandals, a freebie Nippon

Airlines headband tied around her brow. Her ownership
tattoo was hidden beneath a latex prosthetic that mimicked a
patch of bubbly burn scars. Although there was
a katana scabbard thrust through her sash, the lacquered
bamboo sheathe actually contained her ninjato. She had other
weapons concealed about her person as well. Katsumi rolled a
simulated ivory toothpick around her mouth and guided
Bindiya through the Akihabara crowd with a hand on the
taller woman's elbow, scowling at anyone who was not quick
enough to get out of their way.
After enduring Bindiya's displeasure - who knew that she
would prove emotionally attached to hair or so inventive in
her verbal abuse? - Katsumi had dyed what was left shocking
pink, then used a static micro-generator to make the shortcropped strands stand out around the womans head like
dandelion fluff. Bindiya's make-up was the latest retroyamanba style - a strip of black paint sprayed across her eyes,
white mascara and lipstick, white body paint coating every
inch of the flesh that showed through an artistically shredded
black T-shirt and transparent mini-skirt. Pink plastic boots,
white cotton panties and black metal bangles completed the
picture of a trendy young madamu, possibly the girlfriend of a
Taiwanese mafia snakehead or one of the mag-lev motorcycle
gangsters that plagued Tokyo by night. The fact that she was
being escorted by Katsumi's seedy rent-a-samurai added
verisimilitude to the disguise.
A strung-out sim/stim addict boogied past, headed for a
manga cafe. In his haste, he brushed against Bindiya.
Without breaking stride, Katsumi grabbed the back of his
head where a mare's nest of cables ran from his VR goggles

and the interface sockets on his skull down into the back of
his sensor suit. A jerk and a twist and he was unplugged,
disconnected from whatever full immersion program he was
running, his reality shockingly shattered. The man let out a
thin scream and fell to the pavement, flopping like a gaffed
carp. Katsumi's heel smacked against his nose in passing;
there was a soft crunching sound and a spurt of blood.
Bindiya's sidelong glance of disapproval did not make
Katsumi regret the extra back kick, which she admitted was
not strictly necessary. News of the incident traveled in some
mysterious and silent way via the street telegraph, for they
had no further trouble negotiating through the masses.
Katsumi stopped at a vendor's cart and bought Bindiya a sack
of crunchy fried grasshoppers sprinkled with a mixture of
chilis and spices.
Where are we going? Bindiya asked, holding out the bag to
share. Katsumi shook her head; a real hired samurai would
rather dine on pride than admit to being hungry.
An appointment, Katsumi said, sucking on her toothpick. It
isn't much further.
The Akihabara district was full of electronics shops, digital
cafes, freelance hackers and crackers, data brokers, implant
clinics, vendors of software and hardware and wetware. A
veritable sea of humanity surged back and forth; the
atmosphere was saturated with the buzz of business, deals
being made and broken and re-made in an endlessly
industrious cycle. Katsumi stopped at a corner where a dozen
teenagers were crouched like gargoyles on a low wall. They
had all undergone body modification of the same type pointed ears tufted with fur, their mouths stretched

grotesquely to the angle of the jaw. The gaki gang also had
interface/processor plugs riding over their ears, black plastic
curves studded with micro-splinters in every color of the
rainbow. They appeared to be zoning on some quasi-lethal
combination of software and cortical stimulation, lost in a
collective wet-wired Zen trance.
Katsumi held out a hundred New Yen credit chip to a slackfaced teenager whose furred ears were bright orange. He
stared blankly. She had to wave the money in front of him for
a full ten seconds before he roused himself and focused.
His fingers stretched out to take the chip, but Katsumi held it
just out of reach. He frowned, the expression nearly dripping
off his face. Hey, momma-san, what you want?
Are you Jubei? Katsumi asked.
Maybe so, maybe no. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he
said to a skinny girl squatting next to him, Check em out for
dolby, Miko.
The girl pulled a piece of equipment out of the waistband of
her bicycle shorts. It was gray metal, shaped like a pistol with
a wide, bell-shaped muzzle. She pointed it at Katsumi, pulled
the trigger and peered at a readout on the hand-grip. No
eavesdroppers, no spy-eyes, no uplinks, no broadcast ware,
she reported in a nasal voice, then repeated the process with
Bindiya. They're clean, Jubei-san.
Apparently satisfied that the women were not wearing
surveillance equipment, Jubei leaned out a little and grabbed
the chip from Katsumi's grip. Heki da yo, no problem. You
got five minutes, momma-san, he said, tucking the chip up

the sleeve of his cartoon-printed jacket.

You are the proxy for Tara Phuoc Trung, Katsumi declared,
memorizing the teenagers' positions and making contingency
plans for defense against assault. She could remove three
threats in the first three seconds with her sword alone. In her
mind's eye, Katsumi played a sequence of events, altering
weapon and attack vectors until she was happy with her
calculations. This assessment did not interfere with holding
up her end of the conversation. I wish to make a special
commission.
Jubei let out a breathy little laugh, showing the whites of his
eyes sidelong. That'll cost you more than a hundred New
Yen.
How much?
Bindiya fidgeted with impatience while Jubei and Katsumi
bargained, but for the ninja, the need to split her attention
between the gaki punks, the woman beside her and their
surroundings in general was not really difficult. She had been
created to multi-task. At last, they reached an acceptable
figure. Katsumi passed over a handful of colorful chips and in
return, Jubei used his thumbnail to remove a bright green
micro-splinter from his interface. He gave it to her, along with
a muttered address.
Katsumi glanced at Bindiya's face as they continued their
walk. The unfamiliar make-up, the shocking pink hair, made
her seem to be a completely different person, confident and
assured. That was only on the surface, however. Behind the
cosmetics was the face of a woman whose control was shaky at
best. Breaking into her thoughts, Bindiya squeaked and

jumped and clutched at her arm when a man bawled loudly in

her ear. Katsumi scowled her displeasure at the oshiya, a bigbellied man who was attempting to bully customers into his
cyberware shop. He sneered back at her, unimpressed by a
mere yojimbo-for-hire. Mindful of Bindiya's aversion to
unnecessary violence (although Katsumi thought of violence
as a useful tool, and impoliteness could not go unpunished in
any case), she settled for launching her toothpick at him like a
miniature dart. The sharpened piece of simulated ivory
pierced his nostril and he bellowed in pain. Not wishing a
further confrontation, Katsumi used the momentum of the
crowd to carry her past his shop and down the street before he
had time to react. She towed Bindiya alongside, the pair of
them looking like a tug boat escorting a sleek but colorful
cruiser.
After walking for several blocks, they came to a tattoo parlor.
The storefront display contained an obsolete military-grade
exoskeleton, the metal surface powdered with rust. A woman
who had been goliathed lounged against the door. Extensive
bone grafting and gene therapy had made her nearly seven
feet tall; huge muscle grafts bulged in her shoulders, arms
and thighs, like basketballs under darkly tanned skin. A
Mossberg combat shockgun was cocked over her shoulder, the
neon yellow jelly-charge visible through the clear
polycarbonate barrel that was big enough to swallow a
doubled fist.
Katsumi approached the goliath and offered the green microsplinter she had gotten from Jubei. The woman looked
disdainfully down at Bindiya, then further down to rake a
scornful gaze over the ninja. She finally took the splinter,
handling it carefully in her big hand, and inserted it into a

reader hanging from her belt. After a few moments, she curled
her lip and moved away from the door. Katsumi urged
Bindiya inside and followed on her heels.
The room was brightly lit, although the rubber tatami mats
on the floor were scuffed and grimy. Hospital screens
concealed several work areas. A Tsuchiyama diagnostic bed
was in the center of the space, illuminated by an adjustable
light. As they entered, a small bot in the shape of a scorpion
scuttled near their feet and misted a fine spray of
disinfectant. In the back of the store was a traditional bead
curtain; it was swept aside as a plump woman barreled
through and came to a halt, facing Bindiya. The look of naked
calculation and sheer greed in the woman's expression was
breath-taking.
Konnichiwa, Tara Phuoc Trung said, a smile wreathing her
fat-cheeked face and squeezing her eyes into narrow slits.
"Xin cho, bonjour, good afternoon, shalom, selamat pagi,
howzit, g'day! She was shirtless, exposing the dozens of
tattoos that covered her torso. Lakshmi was sprawled across
one breast. On the womans other breast was Kintaro, the redskinned witchs child, while over Taras chunky shoulders and
down her arms, Coatlicue in her serpent skirt danced arm-inarm with Wang Mu Niang-Niang and her peaches of
immortality, refereed by Ereshkigal on a throne of bones.
How may you be served in my establishment? Tara asked.
Not with an apple in my mouth, I hope, Bindiya muttered
faintly.
Katsumi inserted herself between Bindiya and Tara, forcing
the tattooist to acknowledge her. Custom interactive, she

said, full body, single activation point.

Tara's plucked brows rose. Her head was shaven, the better to
display a winged serpent that coiled around and over her
skull. Expensive, she replied, gnawing her bottom lip.
Abruptly, her eyes went as hard as obsidian chips. You're no
hired katana, and I'll bet that she's no bosozuko's girlie-girl.
You don't have the corporate stink, nor do you look like a pair
of high-riders slumming down the gravity well. She stood
with arms akimbo, frowning. What, exactly, do you want?
The Emptiness of Forms sutra, Katsumi said.
Eeee! Like Hoichi the earless! Tara hooted in amusement,
her rolls of fat jiggling.
Bindiya shivered; Katsumi could feel the vibration against her
back. She reached behind, curving her hand over Bindiya's
hip. Let us avoid repeating the error, Katsumi said. The
story was familiar to all Japanese, who absorbed the tale with
milk at mother's breast. Many gaijin like Tara and Bindiya
could claim a familiarity with the story, as it was a popular
subject for plays and 3D programs. Mimi-Nashi-Hoichi the
blind biwa player-priest found himself haunted by angry
ghosts of the Heiki clan. To save his life, his fellow monks
inked his skin with the Emptiness of Forms sutra to make
him invisible to the spirits, but forgot to mark his ears.
Hoichi's ears, the only parts of his body visible to the ghosts,
had been pulled off, leaving him maimed for life. That would
not happen with Bindiya.
Tara laughed until tears trickled over her cheeks and dripped
down her double chin. Finally subsiding into hiccups, the
tattooist wiped her face and stepped back a pace, calculating

once again. The expression in her eyes was practically an

abacus. For you or the long tall drink of sake over there?
My clients wishes, Katsumi said. Behind her, Bindiya
inhaled sharply; she squeezed the woman's hip in warning
and was gratified by a silent exhale. Can you program a
single activation point? she asked.
Again, Tara's needle-sharp gaze swept over the pair. Of
course, she said. Slow spread? Patterned spread?
Speed is essential. Aesthetics are not.
I see. Tara rubbed her nose, making the piece of steel in her
septum waggle back and forth. All right. Come back in two
weeks.
"Regrettably, the work must be done within the hour. We will
wait." Katsumi was immovable on this point; delay could be
fatal. Bindiya had to be protected as soon as possible, before
the yurei could attack again. The woman could not go through
life with an ofuda stuck to her forehead; that was too
uncertain, as well as too conspicuous a solution.
There was nevertheless some debate, with Tara growing
increasingly unpleasant until Katsumi considered doing
something messy and lingering, solely as a warning to other
tattooists who might be considering suicide-by-ninja.
However, Tara Phuoc Trung was supposed to be the best of
the underground interactive artists. More importantly, she
did unregistered work for cash; illegal, since all tattoos and
other body modifications were supposed to be registered with
the Department of Order, along with DNA trace, retinal scan
and a Kirlian aura analysis.

At last, Tara ran out of objections, possibly because Katsumi

waved a credit chip in her face. The amount on the chip was
impressive enough to make the woman's pupils contract. The
customer's always right, Tara said, taking the chip and
feeding it into a security box. When she was done, she tapped
the bright red Kintaro tattoo on her breast. Run out onto the
Net and fetch back a copy of the Emptiness of Forms sutra,
she ordered. The witch's child flexed its legs and leaped off
Tara's skin, disappearing in a sparkle of static discharge as it
dived into a wireless connection with a nearby computer deck.
He'll be a few minutes, Tara said. She opened a minirefrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. Sapporo or
Asahi? she asked. I might have some Csarda, too.
Katsumi shook her head.
The tattooist shrugged, popped the cap off the bottle and
chugged until the bottle was empty. Suit yourself, ronin-san.
She munched unselfconsciously from an open sack of curryand-cuttlefish pretzels while they were waiting for her
servant/avatar to return from its appointed task.
Bindiya bent down and whispered urgently into Katsumi's
ear, "We need to talk. Now. In private."
Nodding to Tara, Katsumi allowed Bindiya to steer her
towards a screened area of the shop.
***

We are both delusional, Bindiya thought. A folie

deux instigated by superstition, reinforced by visual and
auditory hallucinations and false perceptions. In the
consensual world reality, ghosts don't hijack a person's

consciousness to enact some death-in-life scenario. That's a

fantasy straight out of Yoshitoshi and Kurasawa X and
kabuki theater and puppet shows. Fodder for the uneducated
masses who clamor to see faces in indigo and black, limpwristed and legless figures that are pathetic rather than
frightening.
The lack of control over her own body was completely outside
her personal experience, but explainable if one embraced
science rather than voodoo. A part of her mind could not help
but wonder about her apparent invisibility on hospital vid,
the paper talisman that Katsumi had put on her brow, the
scratches and welts on her arm that spelled guilty. The
power of suggestion? Perhaps. The map of the human brain
and its potential was not yet complete. Science went only so
far. Bindiya could admit that. On the far distant horizon that
was the vast collective experience of mankind, enigmas
beckoned.
One of those enigmas was standing in front of her. Bindiya
had been passively following Katsumi's lead, doing as she was
told, going where she was led without protest. Now the ninja
had gone a step too far. This was worse than the involuntary
hair trimming, which she was sure she would be having
nightmares about later.
Why am I getting an interactive tattoo? Bindiya asked,
doing her best to loom over Katsumi in an alpha-dominance
display. She was helped by the high heels on her boots; she
could have rested her breasts on top of the other woman's
head had she been so inclined. The next step to establishing
dominance would be throwing leaves and sticks at the ninjas
head if one followed the classic primate model.

However, Bindiya was hindered by the fact that Katsumi

refused to be threatened. In fact, she looked amused, the
tiniest sparkle in her eyes. To protect you from evil, Katsumi
replied in an of course tone of voice.
Bindiya shook her head. Wisps of pink hair stuck to her
forehead and cheeks; she brushed them away, sparks
crackling on her fingers from the electrostatic micro-generator
taped to the back of her neck. I am not going to... no. No, no,
no. This isn't happening.
It is. Katsumi casually touched Bindiya's hip, much as she
had a few moments ago in the main room of the shop. As
before, Bindiya felt the imprint of the woman's hand burning
through her clothing like a hot brand. She licked her lips and
tried another mode of attack.
I won't permit it, Bindiya said, spearing the other woman
with her best eyebrows-meeting-in-the-middle glare.
Katsumi smiled. You will.
Bindiya was momentarily stymied. Walking away was not an
option. She needed Katsumi; perhaps not quite as much as
she needed air, but close enough as to make very little
difference. Katsumi seemed to know what she was doing,
whereas Bindiya was stumbling around in the dark. Believing

in ghosts is ridiculous, a pre-civilized fear-based response to

the unknown. But I don't have all the answers, either. I doubt
even Shakti has all the answers. The cycle of belief/disbelief

was making her crazy... possibly literally. She had given in to

Katsumi because she was tired, because she was terrified of
herself, because her life had spun so far out of control that one

more bit of lunacy would hardly be noticed.

Now Bindiya closed her eyes and wished she was anywhere
but here, in a tattoo parlor with dirty floors, puke-green walls
and what she was sure were bloodstains on the ceiling. The
cloying smell of disinfectant had trickled down the back of her
throat, making her feel sick to her stomach.. Katsumis hand
on her hip began a gentle massaging motion.
There will be a single small activation point, Katsumi said,
the warm voice breaking through Bindiya's anxiety and
exhaustion. Very small, hardly bigger than a pinhead. Not
noticeable at all.
Bindiya felt herself drooping a little, wanting to lean into that
solid body mass. Why had she never consciously noticed how
mesmerizing Katsumi's voice could be? But I don't... she
began and stopped, unsure of what she wanted to say.
This is necessary to protect you, Katsumi continued, still
soothing, still rubbing Bindiyas hip in circular motions.
I don't believe in ghosts, Bindiya whispered.
Katsumi tilted her head back. Glossy black hair slid away
from her shoulders like strands of silk. They believe in you,
she said and smiled again.
Bindiya could not find the strength or the inclination to argue
anymore.
The screen rattled as it was thrust back, revealing the
tattooist. Tara said, You two lovebirds ready? I don't rent
space by the hour. Get your sucky-fucky thrills at a love hotel,

huh? I got a business to run.

Bindiya's whole body jerked as Tara's strident presence
shattered the bubble that had built up between her and
Katsumi.
We are ready, Katsumi replied. She slid closer and put an
arm around Bindiya's waist, never breaking eye contact.
Bindiya sighed, shrugged a shoulder and relaxed minutely
into the embrace. Some things were inevitable. Shigata ga
nai - a most useful philosophy to adopt. She ought to bow
gracefully to the demands of karma. Yes, she said, we're
ready.
Tara rolled her eyes.
The blank tattoo forms were kept in an enzyme bath in the
refrigerator. While Bindiya stretched out on the diagnostic
bed (the surface was somewhat tacky and stuck unpleasantly
to her skin), Tara prepared to inject the digital sutra into the
new tattoo's matrix. It dangled from her fingertips like a sheet
of clear jelly, benign and unthreatening. The instruments she
used were very delicate, but she wielded them with
workmanlike grace. A pince-nez magnified her eyes hugely.
After forty-five minutes of labor, during which she muttered a
continuous stream of invective under her breath, Tara was
finished. She dunked the programmed matrix into a nutrient
solution and held it up, dripping.
Pull your shirt up, Tara instructed, squinting over the pincenez that gripped the bridge of her nose. Reflected glare from
the steel bar in her septum and the sweat on her shaven skull
distorted her features, blurring them like heat shimmer off

pavement.
Bindiya complied, baring her stomach. Tara matter-of-factly
swabbed a patch of make-up away and draped the cold slimy
matrix on her flesh. She flinched, earning a growled order to
stay still. The tattooist produced a charge baton, applied one
prong to Bindiya's skin and the other to the clammy sheet on
her belly. A worm of electricity twisted greenish-white. The
jolting buzz made Bindiya yelp in mingled surprise and pain
as ink-charged nanites were driven into her epidermis, thrust
through the stratum basale, stratum spinosum, stratum
granulosum and stratum corneum, burrowing deep between
the second and third dermis layers. When Tara was finished
and the remains of the sodden matrix were wiped away, all
that remained was a little dot centered above her navel. If
Bindiya had not known better, she would have sworn it was a
mole.
Katsumi helped her rise and guided her to a full-length mirror
screwed to the back wall. As Bindiya watched, Katsumi
reached under her shirt and pressed the activation point
firmly. She shuddered, the sensation of ants crawling under
her skin almost too much to bear, but she was too fascinated
to close her eyes. Lines of text scrolled around her navel, sun
rays extending and rippling on her skin, outstretched serifs
turning into individual symbols that marched in regimented
fashion and settled into place. They could be but dimly
glimpsed beneath the white body paint that still concealed
most her skin. Bindiya looked more closely, trying to follow
their progress. Shadowy characters moved under their own
power, silhouettes like sharks swimming in murky waters if
glimpsed from a height. She gasped, staring into the mirror.
There was calligraphy on her eyeballs, spokes of wheels

centered on her pupils.

Bindiya was speechless.
Tara grinned. Good work, huh? Not exactly ichi-ban, but not
bad for a rush job.
Katsumi examined Bindiya closely, warm puffs of breath
stirring the tiny hairs on her arms, her neck, her cheek. It
will do, she confirmed.
Avoid UV tanning booths, reiki healing and further body
modification for two weeks, Tara said. She turned away,
headed to the front of the shop.
Bindiya felt rather than saw the clench of muscles, the
tightening of tendon and sinew that signaled Katsumi's
readiness for action. She grabbed the ninja's wrist, squeezing
hard to abort the blitzkrieg draw/strike of ninjato. Tara, she
was sure, had no idea how close she had come to dying.
Bindiya tapped the activation point above her navel, causing
the tattooed sutra to disappear from view. Later, she would
ask Katsumi why she wanted to attack the tattooist; right
now, it was important to get them both out of here.
Katsumi shrugged and slipped painlessly out of Bindiya's
grip. She took four silent steps forward, sword already
clearing sheath in a whispered hiss. Alerted by Bindiya's
gasp, Tara half-turned, flinging up an arm in futile defense.
Katsumi's ninjato sliced cleanly through radius and ulna,
continuing in an arc that swept through the tattooist's neck,
trailing blood splatter behind. Taras severed head sounded
hollow as a ripe melon when it hit the dirty floor and rolled,
coming to a rest beneath the diagnostic bed.

Bindiya bit down hard on a knuckle to keep from screaming.

We must go, Katsumi said, snapping her sword to one side
to clean off the worst of the blood and re-sheathing it. She
reached for Bindiya's elbow. Bindiya stumbled backwards, her
mouth a round O of horror. So much blood...
The ninja made a clucking sound of impatience. At almost the
same moment, the goliathed guard burst through the door.
She was bent almost in half to clear the lintel, the Mossberg
shock-gun swinging up to aim directly at them. Energy
discharge crackled from the barrel. Katsumi whirled on her
heel. Chunk! Chunk! Chunk! Chunk! Four straight-bladed
shuriken sprouted from the guard's face and throat. The
woman let out a choked roar and pulled the shock-gun's
trigger. A jelly-charge exploded. Bindiya was in the line of fire
but suddenly she was moving sideways, the sting of shrapnel
a mild annoyance compared to the hydrostatic waves that
were turning her bones to water.
Time slowed to a syrupy trickle. Bindiya was vaguely aware
that someone was wrapped around her, a hand on the back of
her head, another cupping her buttock. Plaster powder from
the blasted wall irritated her eyes. She was flying without
wings. Time snapped back to speed, the floor rushed towards
her and she landed hard, a jolt that made her teeth clack
together painfully. Bindiya was pushed into a fetal curl.
Someone's knee was digging into her ribcage, someone's torso
was pressed against the side of her face. She gulped for air;
heated by the jelly-charges passage, it scorched her lungs.
The weight on her body was abruptly removed. Bindiya
opened her eyes to see Katsumi dance up to the guard and hit
her once, twice, three times with a naked hand. The oversized

woman's snarl turned into a puzzled frown. She was holding

the Mossberg over her head, preparatory to striking at the
smaller figure of Katsumi. Instead, she slowly toppled over,
her face turning an unhealthy shade of purple. A thin breath
whined out past blued lips. Her eyes were huge, tear-filled,
the eyelids fluttering. Katsumi took hold of a shuriken
embedded in the woman's neck, twisted and pulled, severing
the jugular vein. Fine blood spray dotted her rubber kimono
and ran off in trails, leaving hardly a stain behind.
The entire sequence of events had taken about thirty seconds
from beginning to end.
Katsumi held out her hand. We must go, she repeated, as
though they had never been interrupted by explosions and
death.
Bindiya shook her head, but reached for the beckoning fingers
anyway and allowed Katsumi to pull her off the floor.
***
Master Musashi said, Pay attention even to trifles.
It was the absence of a tattoo that alerted Katsumi.
The witch's child, red-fleshed Kintaro, had vanished again
from Tara's skin, presumably leaping back into the wireless
Net connection. Katsumi checked the tattooist's vital signs
using her enhanced senses. Blood pressure was elevated,
pulse rapid, the pupils contracted to pinpoints. The woman
licked her lips, swallowed frequently and rubbed palms on her
trousers, indicating a dry mouth and sweating hands - classic
symptoms of nervousness. A micro-dot mic was taped to her
cheek; she was sub-vocalizing, most likely in contact with the

guard outside. While Bindiya admired her reflection in the

mirror, Katsumi cocked an ear in the computer deck's
direction and heard the faint grinding sound of an established
connection. She pushed her vision two points, enough to make
a quick visual scan of the monitor. It showed the pulsating
gray/orange pyramid that was the Department of Order,
Tokyo division. Finally, she saw Tara pick up the baton and
adjust the setting to deliver an incapacitating charge. They
had been betrayed.
Katsumi did not have time to explain her observations to
Bindiya, nor was she inclined to indulge any non-violence
squeamishness. She simply took care of the problem by
eliminating Tara from the equation. When the goliathed
guard came inside the shop, she was prepared to deal with
her, too; the behavior was predictable. The big woman's
decision to fire the shock-gun at Bindiya first rather than the
more dangerous target - namely Katsumi - was tactically
unsound. Nevertheless, the ninja made sure her companion
was safe before she dealt with the guard. Pressure points
could be destructive, and the human form was actually quite
fragile despite modifications intended to make it less so.
When the threats were gone, she turned her attention to
Bindiya, who was petrified; the stench of fear poured off her.
Katsumi had learned that Bindiya was responsive to tactile
sensation, so she cuddled the taller woman close to her side
and rubbed circles on the small of her back, simultaneously
leading her out of the shop's back door and into an alley. They
surfed the Akihabara masses until Katsumi found a pinku bar
wedged between a VR-avatar studio and a second-hand
wetware clinic. The interior was cool and not very well lit, the
walls crowded with interactive idoru posters that winked,

simpered and wriggled in tantalizing soft-core displays.

Katsumi chose a table in the back corner, paid the indifferent
attendant for a handful of metal tokens and ordered drinks sparkling dragonfruit cocktail with ginseng and shizandra for
herself; cranberry juice with bee pollen and agave extract for
Bindiya.
The top of the table was an LCD monitor and holo-projector
protected by a thick polycarbonate shield. Katsumi fed a
couple of tokens into the slot and chose an item at random
from the menu. A live-action hentai program began playing,
pigtailed young women in spandex being violated by mutant
octopi-bots. The resolution was bad, the color registration off
to the point of migraine, the sound muted. Katsumi kept
Bindiya plastered close, their bodies touching from knees to
shoulders. As soon as their drinks were delivered, she stabbed
at the privacy button, raising a soiled curtain around their
table. The uneven hum of a white noise generator came from
hidden speakers in the floor.
Bindiya did not look at her. She drank her juice, making a
face at the sour taste.
Katsumi remained silent, waiting for Bindiya.
Why? Bindiya asked at last.
She was in contact with the Department of Order, Katsumi
explained. There is no doubt a reward being offered for your
capture.
And you were protecting me.
Hai. That is my purpose, after all.

Again, silence. Bindiya finished her juice and set the empty
glass on the table. I don't want any more people dying
because of me.
You are not responsible for Dr. Li Fang's death. Katsumi
was fairly certain on that score. Chopping up a man using
cleavers took a strong stomach, not to mention great physical
strength neither of these traits seemed to be consistent with
what she had observed about Bindiya. According to the
reports, Li Fang had not been restrained or drugged, nor had
the first blow been completely incapacitating. No skin cells
had been found under his fingernails, no defense cuts. He had
dragged himself around the house on hands and knees,
enduring the attack and making no attempt at defense until
blood loss rendered him unconscious. The strikes had been
hard enough to splinter through bone, to sever limbs from the
joints. As a professional assassin, Katsumi was not impressed
with mere butchery.
Bindiya snorted and tossed her head, sending ripples through
her pink dandelion-fluff hair. You know what I mean. I dont
want you killing people just because you can.
Katsumi took a pad from the breast of her kimono and
plugged it into the deck. The hentai program was interrupted
as she tapped keys to transfer a graphic from the pad. It was
the composite picture of the drowned girl that Bindiya had
made. Should I have stepped aside and allowed Tara to
electrocute you? she asked.
Of course not, but... Bindiya's voice trailed off. After a
moment's pause, she rallied. You might have used a nonlethal method.

As non-lethal as the guard's shock-gun? Katsumi did not

bother concealing her amusement.
Bindiya smacked her fist against the table top. This isn't a
Zen riddle game!
I take full responsibility for my own actions, Katsumi said,
trying to mollify the upset woman. You are not my legally
registered owner, therefore you cannot be held accountable for
anything I do. She avoided the fact that she had not belonged
to Yoshitsune for a long time, although no one especially the
companys managers would ever report her as a rogue.
Rogues did not exist, could not exist with all the safeguards
implanted in vat-grown constructs; to admit that Katsumi
was not under corporate control would undermine public
confidence in the company and also cause much loss of face for
the directors. It was better to pay fines and accept official
censure for Katsumis activities than lose stock points.
Sometimes she wondered how natural humans had survived
the last ten thousand years. Their propensity for perversity
was puzzling.
Katsumi logged on to the Department of Order's node and
used the pad to introduce a small program she had gotten
from the Sinsemilla, a worm that would open a back door into
the department's database and allow her access to their
internal search program. It would take a minute or so to
complete the connection process.
I asked for your help, Bindiya said.
And I chose to give it to you, Katsumi countered. She
reached up and patted Bindiya's cheek, unsurprised when the

woman leaned into the touch. Beneath the make-up, she could
still feel a slight swelling, the bruise that continued to mar
her flesh. We are walking the same path towards the same
destination. Should we not join forces and complete that
journey together? Let me protect you, please.
Bindiya stared at her. Seated, their faces were on the same
level. Why? she asked softly.
Katsumi blinked. The question was irrelevant. She posed one
of her own: Why not?
The deck made a two-toned chime. Bindiya pressed her lips
together, her eyes hooded. Katsumi checked the tiny pad
screen; the worm had done its work. She uploaded the picture
to the Department of Order's database and programmed
search parameters. The results were returned quickly, along
with the faint cybernetic stirrings of a routine low security
probe. Katsumi ended the connection before a trace could be
established, but she had already downloaded the necessary
information. Bindiya watched silently, toying with her empty
glass and stirring a fingertip around a snack-sized bowl
of wasabi peas that appeared to have fossilized with age.
The hentai broadcast flickered back to life, a girl with purple
hair and cat ears being multiply violated by a Cthulhu clone.
The drowned girls name is Esperanza Serjee, Katsumi said,
reading from the data scrolling on the pad, a priestess from a
religious commune on Penthesilea.
Bindiya looked interested. "Isn't Penthesilea the all-female
station at LaGrange IV?"
Hai. There is a singular difficulty, however.

Oh? Bindiya arched a brow. Her expression suggested that

the entire enterprise had been fraught with difficulties; what
was one more? Whats that?
Katsumi put down the pad. The news she had to deliver was
disquieting, but not impossible if one believed old grannys
tales. Esperanza Serjee is still alive.
***
Bindiya glanced around the Chinese doctors office, which was
located in a primarily Tibetan neighborhood. There were
framed certificates on the walls with expertly crafted
calligraphy. A square column (she supposed it housed pipes or
electrics) had been mirrored all over to reflect the poison
arrow effect deleterious to good feng shui, and a small tabletop fountain gurgled in the auspicious south-east corner. A
huge old-fashioned apothecarys chest dominated the space.
Opposite the chest was a scarlet lacquered cabinet and a
delicate scroll painting of a mountain. An altar occupied part
of the room, the top covered by an oil lamp; a pair of candles;
bowls of tea, rice and water; five bowls of fruit; heaps of paper
talismans; a sword made entirely of antique coins; an eight
trigrams mirror and a bell; sticks of burning incense all the
accoutrements of a fire dwelling Taoist.
Dr. Zhang was old, her body withered and shrunk in on itself,
the skin tight against bone except for the wattles of loose flesh
at her neck. Her eyes were clear and bright, although the
irises were the color of quicksilver the hallmark of
Ukrainian ophthalmologic implants. Dressed in a plain indigo
cotton tunic and trousers, her little feet encased in black
slippers, her hair screwed back in a knot, Zhang resembled an
auntie from a rural province. Bindiya expected her to cluck

and fuss, but the woman was briskly business-like.

You biorhythm chart indicates this is an inauspicious time to
dig wells, operate heavy equipment, plant rice or play Texas
Hold Em, Zhang said, fixing her bright quicksilver eyes on
Bindiya. She pulled a stool over with her foot and perched on
it, operating a small lever that adjusted the stools height so
that she was level with the taller woman. She took Bindiyas
wrist, her fingers pressed on the pulse point at the radial
artery. You should also avoid the Drunken Crabs as well as
the Blow of the Sparrow sexual positions.
Katsumi stood beside Bindiya, a comforting if quiet presence.
Zhang said after a while, A knotted pulse indicates a
significant imbalance of Wood and Water in your system
which has led to pernicious qi blockage as well as a lack of
vital jingsubstance. I recommend special Grievous Wind
tea
Tastes like dead cat, Katsumi commented.
Only little bit dead cat! Zhang said emphatically. To
Bindiya, she continued, Also digital acupuncture sessions
twice weekly. See my on-line avatar for appointment.
What about the haunting? Bindiya asked. The spirit is
Ai-yah! Am I finished with my diagnosis? Zhang exclaimed.
No wonder youre in a state of disharmony! Impatience leads
to many evils, including bowel dysfunction. You maybe want a
Five Elements enema? No? Then be quiet and let me finish
my examination.
The old Chinese woman rolled the stool over to the lacquer

cabinet. Rummaging among the cluttered shelves, she

returned with a curious object. It resembled a lorgnette,
although there were numerous multi-colored lenses bristling
from the carved bone handle. Pentium astralscope, best on
the market, can get you a discount for home version, she
muttered, holding the lenses up to her eyes. She flicked
through the lenses with her thumb, one after the other,
squinting at a digital read-out on the handle. Hmmm
Zhang pulled a jack from a computer disguised as a statue of
Laughing Buddha and plugged it into the end of the
astralscopes handle. A moment later, pictures of Bindiyas
Kirlian field were displaying on the liquid-crystal screen
embedded in Buddhas belly.
There are definitely signs of spirit activity here, Zhang
muttered, examining the aura. Disturbances in the global
etheric as well as localized activity. Your ghost may still be
alive but its hungry, all right. Such an appetite!
Katsumi took Bindiyas hand, lacing their fingers together.
Laying the astralscope aside, Zhang used a qi kung
reiki technique to cleanse and tonify Bindiyas energies. She
wielded a geomantic compass, then chanted secret Taoist
mantras, her gnarled hands forming mudras of protection and
exorcism. She cast black dice against Bindiyas white dice and
made her burn Hell banknotes as an offering to the dead. She
rubbed Bindiya all over with a chickens egg and made her
drink a potion that tasted foul, like a blend of spearmint and
dog shit. Bindiya gagged but managed to keep it down, mainly
because Zhangs severe expression promised a second dose if
the first made a reappearance.
This will only arrest the spirits progress for a short while,

Zhang said, going to the altar to burn more sticks of incense.

Whatever has happened to the womans living body, her
spirit has been cast loose and seeks vengeance.
Like Lady Rokujo in The Tale of Genji, Katsumi said,
ignoring Zhangs irritated snort at the interruption. Lady
Rokujo suffered from unrequited love for the Shining Prince
as well as unreasoning jealousy of his other women. Her
angry soul left her body at night while she slept and caused
the death of his wife, Lady Aoi.
Zhang snorted again. Thats just Edo air-conditioning, she
said, referring to the Japanese tradition of telling ghost
stories during summer to cool the body with fright chills. For
a soul to wander so far from the flesh, one must either be a
master of meditation techniques, or existing in some other
state of suspended animation. Rage is not enough, although it
helps lubricate the spirit so that it can slip free, she
confessed grudgingly. The woman who is haunting you has a
strong will. She must be a Fire Horse woman, dangerous and
headstrong, very bad fortune for a husband. Perhaps she is
dying and seeks to avoid the next-life dharma path by
remaining attached to this plane.
What can I do? Bindiya asked. The scent of aloes and
sandalwood filled the air as incense smoke made lazy curls
around them.
The conflict must be resolved. I suggest you locate this Fire
Horse woman and speak to her, find out why shes haunting
you, work out a compromise. Zhang shrugged, her quicksilver
eyes gleaming. Otherwise, find a ngakpa lama to perform a
soul retrieval and learn to live with a pushy spiritual
squatter. A digital abacus appeared on the Laughing

Buddhas belly, the beads whirring and clicking. Heres my

bill.
Katsumi handed the doctor a credit chip. We must go to
Penthesilea station, she said to Bindiya. I will make the
arrangements.
Bindiya would have liked to disagree, but the taste of
spearmint and dog shit lingered in her mouth, and she could
see no other alternative than to beard the ghost in her den, so
to speak. She had no arguments against any action at this
point. She was tired, mentally and physically, not to mention
spiritually.
Outside Dr. Zhangs office, Katsumi and Bindiya took turns
spinning the huge bronze prayer wheels that stood in a row
down the street, watched by the sleepy Buddha eyes painted
on a whitewashed stupa that was nearby. Bindiya thought she
could use all the good karma she could generate, even if it was
for the next life. Strings of prayer flags flapped in the breeze,
which was scented with hot oil from a toothless man frying
bread in a doorway. After lighting butter lamps at the little
temple (Katsumi dropped another credit chip into the
donation box) and buying bottles of Lhasa Roof-of-the-World
beer, the two women rode in a bot driven taxi back to the
writing brush factory.
Katsumis contacts within the Sinsemilla tribe proved fruitful.
After an incomprehensible (to Bindiya) round of negotiations,
the neo-pagans procured a new identity for Bindiya in a
religious ceremony that had involved smoking ganja, then
drumming and dancing by white-clothed celebrants while the
priests/hackers plugged into cyber-space and broke into the
Department of Security using a special Trojan horse program

to overcome the databases defenses. There was also the

sacrifice of both a chicken and an antique Sony microprocessor on the altar of the Rainbow Snake, the loa of new
life in the meat verse as well as virtual existence. Prompted
by Katsumi and the blonde dreadlocked headman of the tribe,
Bindiya had offered a bottle of rum, the Lhasa beer, a box of
cigars and a handful of holo-Tamagotchi to Papa Legba
Torvalds, the opener of the way.
Bindiya was now the possessor of a new passport and I.D.
card, complete with a falsified past and genetic information
that matched her own. The passport would not survive an
extensive background check, but for the purposes of going offworld, it would do if the gods and goddesses were kind.
Bindiya Bhattacharya was now Jasalina Nayar, a mid-level
employee of Garuda Multi-National Quality Entrees, Inc. Her
hair was re-dyed a non-descript brown; her loose widelegged salwar trousers were made of gold-spangled silk, while
the accompanying knee-length kameez was vibrant orange
with a hands-deep indigo border. A sequined bindi shimmered
on her brow. The final touches were glass bangles, a gold
nose-ring piercing one nostril, and spectacles with lozengeshaped lenses. She could have been a clerk, an administrator,
an accountant any one of a dozen ordinary occupations for a
woman of the vaisya/skilled worker caste.
She still did not understand how she was expected to get past
the Department of Order psychics who were routinely
stationed at airports and spaceports to scan travelers and
weed out terrorists, wanted criminals or other trouble makers.
True telepathy was single mind-to-single mind; it would be
impossible even for a talented telepath to read so many people
thoroughly. They would go insane trying. These departmental

psychics skimmed the surface of the chaotic mind-muttering

of thousands of people, alert for catch-words like bomb or
guilty or kill or any of a hundred other language cues that
might pop into ones head and betray ones intentions. Being
tagged as potentially dangerous by a psychic would earn her
detention and a more complete examination, and that would
be disastrous.
Beside her, Katsumi said, Sing.
Startled, Bindiya halted in her tracks. What?
Sing a song, Katsumi suggested. An advertising jingle to
distract your mind.
That was a good idea. Bindiya glanced around, seeking
inspiration. They were in the spaceport actually the mobile
anchoring platform for the space elevator- headed towards
Concourse Four. Knots of people surged back and forth like a
strange tide. Every few feet was a franchise store or snack
booth; she and Katsumi were currently standing in front of a
Mr. Noodle bar, where sararimen, off-world construction and
maintenance workers as well as flight crews sat elbow-toelbow and slurped from bowls of udon. Further up the
concourse could be glimpsed the rival businesses Cappuccino
World, Starlight Xpresso and Coffee-a-Go-Go, their doors
guarded by heavily armed baristas against the threat of
industrial espionage.
From their cardboard boxes shoved against the walls,
squatters sold solar batteries, nootropics, low grade amps and
endorphins, cheap souvenirs and cheaper electronics, Chinese
vodka, grimy postcards, split-toed tabi socks, rubber zori, and
biotech like mutated flish that burbled in their bamboo cages

and flapped modified fin-wings. A black-suited priest of the

Compassionate Church moved among the squatters, offering
the use of his euthanasia machine and the eternal salvation
that came with suicide.
Bindiyas mind was a blank. Sweat sprang out on her brow as
panic response set in. Her heart stuttered in alarm. It was a
vicious cycle: the harder she thought about it, the less she
could think. Suddenly, shockingly, Katsumi flashed
the bhutadamara mudra at her and began to sing the
infamous Cat Shit Pie jingle a jingle so subliminally
insidious, a meme so hypnotically banal, an ohrwurm of such
longevity, it had been banned in eighty countries and
spawned a therapeutic industry for people who could not get
the annoying song out of their heads. Worse, Katsumi
demonstrated that as skilled as she was at dealing death and
mayhem, she could not sing a note. Eat a piece now/save a
piece for later, she warbled off-key. Around her, people shied
away as if she had plastic explosives attached to her chest and
a dead mans switch in her hand. With bananas, it has
appeal! Katsumi continued, striking a pose and crossing one
eye in a kabuki actors mie.
Bindiya could not help herself; she forgot her nervousness and
began to laugh.
Spaceport security hesitated, stymied. It was clear that
Katsumi had to be stopped from committing an act of audio
terrorism yet she was a corporate ninja construct, duly
tattooed and therefore registered somewhere as a lethal
weapon. Any show of force was likely to end in death theirs,
not hers. After some debate, during which Katsumi sang a few
more lines, prompting a passing Taoist black head priest to
throw synthesized chickens blood at her in a futile exorcism

attempt, a low-level guard was dispatched to make a polite

request for her to stop. Katsumi did so, much to everyones
relief. She took Bindiyas arm and led her to the waiting
room/staging area, away from a trio of psychics who looked as
if they were suffering from a serious collective headache.
Bindiya went along, shaking her head at Katsumis tactics.
She had to admire the ninjas nerve. Humorous as it was,
singing Cat Shit Pie might spark mob violence if matters
went too far. Introducing an ohrwurm into a public area was
considered a serious offense. Bindiya supposed the directors of
Yoshitsune International would be fined for the ninjas
performance. She herself was grateful that the scene had not
become a bloodbath.
The hostess checked their tickets and passports, then
nervously gave the women tiny bottles of chilled plum wine,
hot towels and packages of barbeque flavored wasp larvae as
if she expected one or the other of them to break into song.
Feeling a bit giddy with relief, Bindiya was tempted to sing a
few rounds of The Good Ship Venus but she refrained out of
respect for the presumably delicate sensibilities of her fellow
travelers.
The staging area slowly filled with passengers, a bewildering
variety of persons intent on riding the space elevator that
would take them out of Earths gravity well. At fifteenhundred Zulu, the hostess opened the doors and passengers
filed inside the transport pod, seeking their assigned seats.
Katsumi had chosen business-class for their trip; they were
seated together in the seventeenth tier, with enough leg room
that Bindiya did not quite have to duck her knees under her
chin. An androgynous attendant passed out magazines,
chewing gum, ginseng tonic and anti-nausea patches. Bindiya

took a piece of cherimoya-flavored gum, while Katsumi loftily

ignored the attendant and his/her woven plastic basket of
goodies.
Bindiya settled back in her seat, doing her best to ignore the
hiss of recycled oxygen, the smell of too many people in a toosmall space. She could feel it pressing on her, the weight of
the people in front of her, behind her, on top and below her in
the transport pod. It was like being trapped. She felt empathy
for rats who, when cornered, viciously attacked anything (or
anyone) they perceived as a threat. Bindiya registered
Katsumis hand on her arm and took a breath, trying to settle
her seething prana.
I could render you unconscious, Katsumi said, her voice
pitched for Bindiyas ear alone, but then you would miss the
view.
I may take you up on that offer, Bindiya said, grimacing as
the mag-lev pod began its smooth ascent up the platinumplated carbon nanotube fiber ribbon - popularly nicknamed
the Beanstalk - that stretched upward from its Pacific-based
mobile anchor to the lunar colony. She started leafing through
a magazine, although her gaze kept shifting to the distracting
view on the other side of the window, the voluptuous curve of
the planet limned in gold sunlight, the blackness of space
livened by a touch of indigo, the Earth itself a mass of white
and blue so beautiful it hurt the eye.
For the purposes of their trip, Bindiya and Katsumi would be
taking the Beanstalk only as far as a transfer-point platform
where they would catch a fast shuttle to Penthesilea station.
Bindiya turned away from the window. Fortunately, Long
March Aerospace had provided plenty of distractions on board

to alleviate the tedium of traveling with the masses. The

ascending pod boasted restaurants, cafs, clubs, bars, nursery
crche, a love hotel for non-first class passengers who wanted
privacy for their affairs, an acupressure clinic, biorhythm
specialist, pachinko parlors, a kabuki theater, 3D films, zerograv ballet all of the entertainment that credit could buy.
Bindiya tossed the magazine aside and stood up. I need to
stretch my legs, she said, still feeling claustrophobic.
Katsumi nodded agreeably and accompanied her to the
escalator.
Dr. Bhattacharya? said a soft male voice behind them.
Her heart frozen in apprehension, Bindiya turned around. She
did not recognize the man in the ash grey gi, but he could
have been Katsumis womb-brother stocky and solid, an
ownership tattoo scrawled on his neck. His almond-shaped
eyes studied Bindiya a moment, a flick-flick-flick of rapid-fire
assessment before his gaze shifted to Katsumi. His face was
expressionless. I am Shigemitsu, he said, giving Katsumi a
miniscule bow.
Something clicked unpleasantly inside Bindiyas head. No!
Not now! was all the thought that Bindiya had time for before
her vision exploded in a shower of crimson and black. She was
surrounded by water; her screams were nothing but a stream
of silver-tinged bubbles bursting out of her mouth. Liquid
filled her burning lungs. She clawed at the yielding darkness
without affect. A cherubic girls face appeared, the eyes open
and staring into hers. The girls lips parted and a voice
breathed, Charles The name echoed and re-echoed in the
vault of her mind, weirdly distorted by a train-whistle screech
that grew in intensity until she was deafened by the skull-

splitting noise and the pain it caused.

After a stomach-wrenching free-fall moment, Bindiya snapped
back to the present to find Katsumi kneeling over her, a hand
pressing on her belly. The sensation of insects marching in
formation over her skin hay foot! straw foot! meant that
her Emptiness-of-Forms tattoo had been activated. When she
raised her own hand, she saw the ink characters scrolling and
settling into place. Bindiya smiled up at the grim-faced
Katsumi, ready to offer a reassurance, and saw the other
ninja glide into her field of vision, his bland face appearing
over Katsumis shoulder like a satellite moon. Before she
could utter the scream that was building in her throat,
Katsumi whirled around and attacked.
It was more than likely that the passengers witnessing the
two ninjas fight had never seen anything close to the
whirlwind combat that was almost too fast for the eye to
follow. Katsumi and Shigemitsu exchanged blows, flowing
together and breaking apart, two grey shadows that seemed
too soft to inflict damage until they paused and one saw the
forming bruises, the trickles of blood. Katsumi upped the
stakes by whipping her ninjato from its scabbard; after a brief
hesitation, Shigemitsu did the same. People who had
remained close to the battle zone suddenly found an excellent
reason to back away and press against the walls, giving the
ninjas room to maneuver.
Bindiya climbed to her feet, watching in horror, not daring to
interfere. Light rippled along the raised ninjato blades held by
Katsumi and Shigemitsu. The two opponents circled each
other, making minute shifts in their stances. Shigemitsu slid
his tabi-clad foot forward two inches; Katsumi twisted her
wrist to present the edge of her blade. He countered with a

twitch of his shoulders. This subtle dance continued for

several minutes, then suddenly Shigemitsu sheathed his
sword and bowed to Katsumi. The bow was in the degree of
equals. Katsumi returned the gesture. The ninjas walked
away from each other, Katsumi returning to Bindiya while
Shigemitsu insouciantly shouldered his way through the
crowd.
What was that? Bindiya asked, grabbing Katsumis upper
arm and dabbing at a cut on the smaller womans cheek with
the sleeve of her kahmeez. The cut was already closing, the
blood visibly clotting, but Bindiya had to suppress the
inclination to fuss.
Shigemitsu belongs to the Nokia corporation, Katsumi said,
re-sheathing her ninjato. She gave the lingering rubberneckers a baleful glance, and the crowd dissipated. He was
testing me, to see if independence had affected my skill.
He knew my name! Bindiya said, dropping her voice to a
sotto voce whisper.
That is not surprising. He recognized you from the
Department of Order notices. Katsumi straightened her
rumpled gi. She pressed the heel of her palm onto the
activation point on Bindiyas belly, and the tattoo receded.
Your disguise was meant to fool casual examination, not an
in-depth cranial-facial analysis. But Shigemitsu was no threat
to you; had I believed so, I would not have toyed with him.
Bindiya remembered the fast flick of Shigemitsus gaze.
Reaction set in and she shuddered, but her terror had not
been entirely for her own sake. She was aware of the cold
dampness of her blood-dappled sleeve Katsumis blood, rich

with recombinant DNA. The ninjas had been playing with

each other, like two sibling kittens mock-brawling until the
fur flew. She had been so afraid for Katsumi, and she had also
suffered spiritual possession again, the impossibility of being
dogged by the ghost of a living woman. Her gaze fixed on the
blood, turning darker as it dried. What genetic material had
the designers on Yoshitsune station chosen to blend with
homo sapiens sapiens to create the ninja construct? Whatever
they had done, the process had made Katsumi either more- or
less-than human. Suddenly, Bindiya did not care. A
wrenching need to connect to the woman consumed her, and
she let out a whimper. At once, Katsumis hands settled on
her waist, pulling Bindiya close.
She wrapped her arms around Katsumi and leaning down,
buried her face against the side of the womans neck, her lips
brushing against the ownership tattoo. Bindiya fancied that
she could trace the raised pattern of ink against her mouth.
Salt, plum and moss, tainted by shed blood, were the familiar
smells she could detect in Katsumis hair and on her skin.
Bindiya had loved her husband. Their marriage had been a
union of two minds rather than two bodies. What she felt for
Katsumi was far more confusing and complex.
There was physical attraction, of course; Bindiya had never
made a secret that she shaded closer to four than two on the
Kinsey scale, and Charles had accepted that part of her, just
as she had accepted his predilection for work instead of
pleasure, his incessant business trips, his secret projects and
scientific whimsies. It had been a long time since anyone had
touched her with purpose. Katsumi was strong and fit,
handsome and kind to her, even if the ninja was unthinkingly
violent towards everyone else. It was impossible for her not to

feel an attraction, a warm flush of desire that pinked her

cheeks and settled low in her belly, a surge of psychosexual kundalini energy generated by the
serpent chakra nestled at the base of her spine.
Circumstantial evidence suggested that Katsumi felt similar
stirrings. Other aspects, such as the instant connection
between them, the astonishing level of trust, the easy
acquiescence to Katsumis protection and authority these
things were troublesome to Bindiya, as they seemed far more
than the mere neural mechanics of romantic attraction.
Was it spawned of gratitude, this affection, or something else?
Was it benign or malignant? A natural function of the
mammalian brain or Bindiya went rigid. A tantalizingly
terrible glimpse of memory shivered to the forefront: Charles
Li Fang sitting in front of her, his voice murmuring
instructions, a strobe-flash of light in her pupils, the tug of
electrodes against her scalp, the bitterness of chemicals on her
tongue.
Bindiyas fingers curled into claws.
She did not quite remember this scenario, not really; there
was a dream-like quality to it that made the experience
elusive rather than immediate. Bindiya concentrated but the
memory faded, slipping through her metaphorical fingers as if
crafted of mist and retreating back into her subconscious. The
accompanying sense-memory was even more disturbing; she
could swear that she smelled the antiseptic tang of alcohol,
could feel the spike of coldness as a needle slid into the vein in
her inner elbow. She squeezed her eyelids shut and let
Katsumi assume more of her weight. The stocky woman
shifted her stance to accommodate without hesitation or

complaint, holding Bindiya against the solidness of her body.

Bindiya wondered what Charles had done to her. He had
specialized in bio-programming, altering the workings of the
human mind, from the highly specialized cerebral cortex to
the deeper, murkier functions of the limbic system. Strangely,
the thought did not cause alarm. When Bindiya probed at this
new idea with the caution of testing a suspect tooth, the semiexpected pain of betrayal did not come. If Charles had
tinkered with her mind, it was in her best interests. She
trusted his motives.
Love could be quantified, after all, as no flight of poetic fancy
but as measurable activity in the right ventral tegmental and
prefrontal cortex areas of the brain, and attachment was
driven by the hormones vasopressin and oxytocin. It was a
natural function of the human animal. She loved Charles; she
also loved Katsumi. There was no conflict. For a heartbeat,
she thought she heard her husbands voice telling her the
same thing.
She was calm now, the reward signal of dopamine flooding her
mid-brain with pleasure as a result of her acceptance. Bindiya
dismissed further speculation as unproductive; dwelling on
conspiracy whether or not the conspiracy actually existed
would only drive her increasingly towards obsession,
compulsion and eventual madness as her mind spiraled
endlessly in an ouroboros of paranoia.
Why did my husband liberate you? she asked Katsumi,
shuffling back a little and loosening her embrace.
Katsumi shrugged a shoulder. He did not tell me. She
seemed unconcerned. Does the song-bird ask why the cage

door has been opened?

Bindiya frowned. He must have had a reason. Charles wasnt
an abolitionist or a Right-to-Freedom activist. He was a
proponent of cloning, laboratory constructs and recombinant
DNA research and development.
Again, Katsumi shrugged. Perhaps he relished the
challenge.
Could he Bindiya paused, unsure if she ought to continue
this line of questioning. Was Katsumis emancipation an
experiment in how a construct might fare when deprived of
her core programming and let loose in a world of
contradictions, chaos and strife? Bindiya abandoned her
inquiry. Heisenbergs Uncertainty Principle was at work here;
if she tried to grasp the truth, she would never understand it
because the act of grasping itself would alter the truth in
ways she could not predict. Her husband might be revealed as
a cold-blooded manipulator who treated sentient beings like
laboratory rats, instead of a good man who wanted the best
for his test subjects. Never mind, Bindiya said.
Resolute, her insides quivering, Bindiya bent her head and
kissed Katsumi, their mouths meeting in a movement that
was fraught with awkwardness but also grace. She savored
the sweetness of the lips beneath hers, then broke the kiss
before Katsumi could respond and stepped onto the escalator
that led further into the upper tiers of the pod. She was
comforted by the unseen but nevertheless detectable solid
presence of Katsumi behind her, close enough to touch.
Fondness made a weight in her heart, and Bindiya sighed.

***
Located at Earth-Moon LaGrange point IV, approximately
384,000 kilometers from the moon itself and possessing a
stable eighty-nine day orbit, Penthesilea station was a habitat
wheel floating in the blackness between the stars. A laser
broom thrust out at the top and bottom of the hub, the beam
sweeping the space around the wheel and the big solar
collectors tethered to it to destroy micro-asteroids and debris.
Penthesilea was unique among the other space stations in
that it was not corporate-owned and/or government funded
but the sole property of the founder, Molly Gattopardo Jane,
heir of the mighty Jane shipping empire.
Katsumi kept herself open to the flood of new information
that assaulted her senses as she preceded Bindiya through
the Customs/Immigration section of the stations dock. She
was also keenly aware of the woman behind her. Bindiya had
kissed her, and Katsumi was not sure how she ought to
respond to that overture. Aggressively? Tenderly? She felt a
protective affection for the woman but Bindiyas feelings
seemed stronger, more geared towards physical passion.
Katsumi had no experience at love it was a null concept
that required further study but she supposed it would not be
difficult to give Bindiya whatever she needed. In fact, she
thought the attempt would make an interesting challenge.
The Tao Te Ching of Master Lao-Tzo said: Embracing
Tao, you become embraced. Supple, breathing gently, you

become reborn. Clearing your vision, you become clear.

Nurturing your beloved, you become impartial. Opening your
heart, you become accepted. Accepting the World, you
embrace Tao. Bearing and nurturing, creating but not owning,
giving without demanding, controlling without authority. This

is love.
The few male visitors were shuffled off to the Sequestery, a
small part of the station set aside for those burdened with an
XY chromosome pair. Like the ancient women warriors
nation, Penthesilea welcomed females only; the exceptions
were eunuchs and the volunteers of Heavenly Greenpeace
who served crew rotations on the old Rainbow Yong, trundling
around the Earth-Moon-L4 route to clean up space trash that
was hazardous to navigation.
Katsumi gave her corporate registration/importation visa to
the Customs official and put her hand over the scanning plate,
registering the barely-there pinprick as a hair-fine needle took
a sample of her blood for DNA testing. The process of
verifying her identity and sex took only a moment. The official
pursed her lips and added holographic stamp on Katsumis
visa, adding the proviso that the goods in question were of a
volatile nature. Katsumi stood aside and waited for Bindiya
to present her falsified passport.
Once Bindiya had been cleared for entry, the two women
consulted a map and took the people-mover to their hotel in
Spoke Three, near Central Control in the hub. Katsumi was
surprised at the amount of plant life inside the station: dark
vines spilling over the hotels faade, tubs with miniature fruit
trees lining the boulevard, blossoms everywhere, even circles
and diamonds of green turf. Many of the women she saw were
dressed in tunics that bared a breast, and most had flower
wreaths on their heads. Some carried pinecone-topped thyrsus
and wore leopard skins likely tourists taking advantage of
scheduled bacchanals and gyno-centric therapies designed to
put them in touch with their inner Amazons. None of them
could have posed a serious threat to her or Bindiya, but

Katsumi remained on her guard.

Their hotel was human-free, run entirely by hospitality bots,
which made for eerie silences but ultra-efficient service.
Bindiya was unnaturally pale, but once they were in the room
she tossed her spectacles in the recycling bin, marched over to
Katsumi and pressed a kiss against her mouth. Katsumi
sensed Bindiyas anxiety, the thrum of nerves, the faint sheen
of sweat that glazed her skin. Opening her lips to the tip of
Bindiyas tongue, she took hold of the womans wrist, rubbing
her thumb between the ulna and pisiform bones at the shen
menmeridian to transmit energy to the heart. Bindiya let out
a moan and pressed closer. Her free hand wandered, seeking
Katsumis flesh. Katsumi catalogued the sensations for later
analysis even as she reciprocated, following Bindiyas lead.
The communications unit chimed. Bindiya shoved Katsumi
away seconds before a holographic figure appeared in the
center of the carpet. Katsumi allowed herself to surrender to
momentum and fall back onto the bed. From the flaming
embarrassment on Bindiyas face, one might think she had
been caught masturbating. Since the ninja was legally
classified as an object, that was a fairly good analogy, and she
found it amusing enough to want to share the observation
with Bindiya when they were in private once more.
Chem Bhattacharya, welcome back to Penthesilea station,
said the hologram, a red-haired woman with an athletic build
and a bulldog jaw.
Bindiyas bafflement was no show. Ive never been here
before, she said.
The woman frowned. Her face took on the far-away expression

of one who was sub-vocalizing commands and receiving

information via a subdermal transceiver implant. Our
records show that you were granted entry into the station six
months ago with your co-mate, Dr. Charles Li Fang, she said,
smiling ever-so-slightly.
You must be mistaken, Bindiya replied. She was showing
signs of renewed anxiety. Katsumi rose from the bed,
responding to a threat not yet realized.
I can show you the relevant documents and files, however it
isnt my purpose to open a debate. Chem Jane wishes to see
you.
Bindiyas eyes widened. I dont are you certain she wants
to see me?
Yes. Will this evening at 1900 hours suit? A dinner
engagement, followed by an audience with chem Jane. An
escort will be provided to the House of the Ax, as well as
formal attire if required. For the first time, the womans gaze
wandered to Katsumi.
Ill be waiting. Bindiya seemed to regain some measure of
confidence. I think I can take care of my own attire. Please
thank chem Jane on my behalf for her kind invitation.
The holograph winked out, leaving a golden labrys sign
hanging in the air before it, too, faded out in an ozone crackle.
Katsumi waited a moment before turning to Bindiya, who was
looking thoughtful. An audience with Molly Gattopardo Jane
was a rare opportunity, a privilege over which the obscenely
wealthy would sell their cryo-preserved grandmothers, and
rabid journalistas would crawl over broken glass. Katsumi

cared nothing for Chem Jane except as she may/may not

relate to Bindiya. The claim that Bindiya had visited
Penthesilea station six months previously was worth
investigating.
Before that could happen, however, she had to take Bindiya
shopping.
Bindiya did not care to inquire too closely as to where
Katsumis seemingly inexhaustible credit resources had
originated. She was only glad that credit appeared to be no
object. When they entered the exclusive Golden Girdle haute
couture salon, the sales clerks lofted their noses into the air,
deeming Bindiyas vaisya persona unworthy of their attention.
That changed the moment Katsumi discreetly passed a credit
chip to the chief clerk, whose purple sequined brow ridges
shot up to her artificially lowered hairline at the amount of
zeroes in the chips readout. Suddenly, Bindiya felt the weight
of a dozen speculative gazes upon her. The sensation was, she
imagined, akin to being a juicy chunk of Kobe beef dangled
before a school of hungry piranha.
Eep, Bindiya breathed just before the clerks descended en
masse, their eyes gleaming with a fervor borne of fifteen
percent sales commissions. The glance saying oh, please, for
the love of Shakti, help me that she threw Katsumi went
unanswered. The traitorous ninja simply backed away and
left her to her fate.
The sonic exfoliator was ticklish but left Bindiya feeling
cleaner than she had in her entire life, as well as several kilos
lighter (although she was certain that was an exaggeration).
It really was appalling how much dead skin was carried on
the body, and how much dirt was engrained in that skin!

Stylists were hastily summoned to take care of Bindiyas hair,

toenails, fingernails and cosmetics. Gowns were applied and
rejected. Finally, after several hours of concentrated effort,
Bindiya was led to a mirror to view the finished product.
She did not recognize herself. Her make-up was dramatic, big
kohl-rimmed eyes and an airbrushed wave curling up from
the lower half of her face; the rest of her skin was luminous,
an effect achieved with a gilt cream whose cost had made her
suck air through her teeth. A length of gauzy Madagascar
spider-silk was wrapped sarong-style under her armpits,
falling to the tips of her sandals. Holo-projectors on ankle
bracelets created realistic-seeming swaths of clouds around
her feet. The final touch was a gold crown that reminded
Bindiya of a Babylonian ziggurat, with fresh flowers poking
through the sides and top.
In the meantime, Katsumi had purchased an ash gray kimono
with a subtle silver pattern of gossamer-tailed koi, which she
wore paired with stiff-legged black hakama. Her hair was
dressed with chamomile oil and pulled back from her face in a
tea-whisk style topknot. The ninjato in its scabbard was
thrust through her black-and-gray checked obi, the hilt
conveniently at hand. Next to Bindiyas finery, Katsumi
appeared grim, a harbinger of efficient death rather than
frivolity a battle raven to Bindiyas glistening peacock.
The promised transport arrived at 1830, a remote-controlled
electric car that carried them both hub-wise on the public
transport system, through a number of security checks to the
Jane mansion, a multi-level building that resembled a
corkscrew. The uppermost part of the building thrust towards
the domed hub itself, terminating in a private elevator linking
Molly Jane and her employees to Penthesilea stations vital

Control and Command Center.

They were met at the door by a chimera that appeared to have
undergone serious genetic engineering of the sort that had
been popular fifty years previous. The result was a vaguely
potato-sack shaped primate about five feet tall whose arms
that seemed twice as long, big hands resting knuckle-down on
the floor. Tufts of bright red hair peeked out of the collar and
cuffs of its tuxedo jacket. Tiny brown eyes surveyed Bindiya,
then shifted to Katsumi and back again. Be welcome, chem,
it said in a grating voice. Bindiya noticed a clump of
something green between its prominent incisors. On behalf of
Molly Gattopardo Jane, be welcome to the House of the Ax, it
continued, shuffling aside to let Bindiya and Katsumi enter.
The chimeras feet were big and hairless, the toes clearly
prehensile. Contrary to expectation, it smelled like
strawberries and freshly mown hay.
Something butted into her leg, momentarily interrupting the
projected clouds around her feet and making her stumble.
Katsumis hand on her arm prevented Bindiya from falling.
Regaining her balance, Bindiya glance down and saw a
miniature elephant, complete with tusks that had been
capped with gold sleeves. The knee-high pachyderm raised its
trunk, flapped its ears and blatted angrily at her. Their
chimerical guide ignored it and walked on; Bindiya and
Katsumi followed suit.
The mansions entrance hall was huge, the ceiling held up
with plascrete columns that had been molded and painted to
resemble the columns of Knossos Palace on Crete. There were
display cabinets everywhere, showcasing an unbelievable
collection of embroidered silk lotus shoes, each pair just a few
inches long and made for bound feet - the much-admired san

tsun gin lian that had cost tens of thousands of girls untold
agonies in the past. As if to continue the theme of suffering,
lachrymosal madamu butterflies beat their huge wings
against gilded cage bars, their iridescent bodies shedding
strings of nectar-tears. Fanged orchids bloomed in unexpected
places, snapping at unwary visitors. Bindiya skittered on her
sandals, grateful for Katsumis silent presence amid this place
of wonders and grotesqueries.
A high-speed transport tube led them up uncountable levels.
The strawberry/hay scent of the chimera increased the higher
they rose. It had not spoken again but hummed a tune deep in
its throat, resting on its knuckles and occasionally casting
glances at Katsumi and Bindiya from the corners of its eyes.
At last, the tube glided to a stop, the doors opened, and the
women exited in the middle of a chukka of elephant polo.
The miniature beasts thundered across the red stone floor,
ridden by capuchin monkeys in jockey silks. Each elephant
was bedecked in jeweled trappings, their tusks capped like the
one Bindiya had run into downstairs. The monkey jockey
perched on each saddle wielded a mallet in one hand and a
silver ankus elephant goad in the other. Several dozen
fantastically dressed people stood around the playing field
watching, applauding and groaning, exchanging credit chips
or other goods as wagers were won or lost. Bindiya hesitated,
unsure where to go or whom to seek.
A young blonde woman approached. She seemed no more than
seventeen years old, simply dressed in a bronzecolored cheong sam that ended at mid-thigh, exposing a long
length of coltish leg. Welcome to my home, she said,
inclining her head. She wore a string of polished garnets
around her throat, and a cloth bandeau held back her mane of

blonde hair. Thank you, Darwin, you may go, she said to the
chimera, who knuckle-walked away.
Bindiya stared, nonplused. Molly Gattopardo Jane was in her
seventies. Gene therapy, cloned organ transplants, surgery,
stem cells and other elective medical treatments could only do
so much. Realizing that she was being rude, Bindiya bowed in
return, although her mind was a-whirl with questions that
were too impolite to ask. Another roar came from the crowd as
an elephant slipped on a steaming divot and skidded out-ofcontrol, bowling over a gentleman who was wearing a tiny gilt
loin-guard and nothing else.
Lets chat somewhere else, Molly offered. Its a bit noisy in
here. She paused, and looked at Katsumi. Do you know
Momoko?
Momoko-san is a construct ninja belonging to Janes
Shipping Incorporated, Katsumi replied.
I asked her about you. She had nothing to say. I found that
odd.
Katsumi hunched a shoulder fractionally.
Undeterred, Molly went on, Did Dr. Li Fang buy your
contract from Yoshitsune International? I had no idea he was
independently wealthy.
Again, Katsumi made a non-committal shrug.
Well, lets go, Molly said after a heartbeat. Her expression
did not alter, but it was clear to Bindiya that the old woman
in the girls body was annoyed by Katsumis refusal to engage
in a dialogue. She took them down a corridor that angled

upward, a gradual incline that nevertheless made Bindiyas

calves ache after about ten minutes of steady walking. The
walls were painted with a trompe loeil mural of windows open
to a landscape of blue skies, humped green hills and rolling
lead-gray surf. Molly opened a door and ushered them inside a
room whose ceiling, floor and walls were coated with a weird
shifting soap-bubble slick that was trapped behind seamless
slabs of polycarbonate.
One of our R&D teams created this beauty based on a
bacteria strain an exploration team found on Phobos in the
Stickney crater, Molly said, pressing the flat of her hand
against one of the clear polycarbonate covered walls.
Shockingly, as if it was aware of her proximity, the slick stuff
lunged against the barrier, more of it draining from other
regions of the room and pooling towards the place where
Mollys palm was pressed.
Quite vicious, isnt it? she asked, giving the surging liquid a
fond smile. And the Mathmos is highly acidic as well. A
tablespoon will eat its way through organic matter say,
something the size of an average human in less than a
minute. It digested most of a fully staffed laboratory before we
could get it contained. This is the only example in existence,
and its always hungry. Ive heard rumors that I feed my
enemies to the Mathmos, but that would be foolish. The more
it eats, the bigger it grows. If that was true, Id need a
containment facility the size of this station. And for all my
faults, ladies, I am never foolish.
Bindiya stiffened, certain that she was being warned in a
round-about manner, but unsure what she was being warned
against. Katsumi took the half-step necessary to interpose her
body between Bindiya and Molly, as though she regarded the

long-legged, blonde-curled Molly more seriously as a threat

than the slick appetite of the Mathmos that was battering
itself against the polycarbonate that sheathed the room.
Molly wrinkled her nose and widened her eyes in a way that
was reminiscent of naughty anime schoolgirls. She almost,
but not quite, used the edge of her hand to flip her hair back
over her shoulder. The gesture turned into a slash through
the air. Enough digression, she said. Chem Bhattacharya, I
wanted to offer my condolences on the death of your husband,
Dr. Li Fang. He was a brilliant scientist.
Thank you, chem Jane. It was all Bindiya could think of to
say.
He was invaluable in assisting me with a project dear to my
own heart. Mollys glance turned coy, as if she was expecting
a certain reaction from Bindiya.
For a moment, Bindiya was tempted to pretend she knew
exactly what Molly was hinting at. Actually, Ive been ill
since Charles death, she said. I dont remember being here
six months ago, nor do I have access to his private files.
Whether my memory returns or not cannot be determined.
The coyness turned to granite. Do you remember chopping
him apart with a knife?
Shocked by the rudeness, Bindiya gaped. Molly smirked
unpleasantly; it was apparent that she was enjoying playing
her nasty little game. Katsumi said nothing but her actions
spoke more loudly than words. To Bindiyas horror, she drew
her ninjato in a single smooth movement and without
hesitation, struck the polycarbonate shield that covered the

wall.
Bindiya was grabbed and shoved out of the door just as a starshaped crack appeared. The crack lengthened jaggedly
towards the floor, accompanied by the crisp snapping sounds.
A thick mother-of-pearl shimmering bead of the Mathmos
oozed through, a slow but steady intrusion. Mollys pretty
seventeen-year old face turned ugly in distress. Katsumi
pushed the woman through the door and slammed it shut
behind her, trapping the Mathmos inside and preventing it
from escaping into the corridor.
Molly leaned a hip against the painted wall. After a moment
during which she was clearly regaining her composure, she
said, Ill have to have nanites injected into the room to effect
repairs. Very inconvenient.
More inconvenient, Katsumi said evenly, if I had left you in
there.
Point taken. Molly stared at Katsumi, then shook her head
and smiled, turning her attention to Bindiya. Penthesilea
station does not have extradition treaties with Earth or any of
her subsidiary colonies, so you neednt worry about an arrest
warrant being executed during your stay. Shall we go to
dinner? Im famished! I hear Cooks made gazpacho. She
turned and walked away while a confused Bindiya gazed after
her, feeling as if she had somehow taken a tumble down a
rabbit hole.
***
Master Miyamoto Musashi said: Under the sword lifted high

there is hell making you tremble, but go ahead and you have

the land of bliss.

Katsumis instincts told her that Molly Gattopardo Jane was
hiding something; she sensed this in the same way that she
could have sensed a wound festering beneath a pristine
bandage. There was the same barely detectible whiff of rot,
the suspicion that something awful was lurking out of sight.
Further, she had not liked the womans veiled threat in the
room that had contained the Mathmos; it had seemed that
Molly was warning them that she had the power to make her
enemies disappear, so it was best to stay friends and give
Molly whatever she wanted. In return, Katsumi had given
Molly a reminder of why it was not wise to threaten a ninja.
Perhaps her response had been a trifle extravagant, but
wealthy high-riders like chemJane did not often appreciate
subtlety. Katsumi supposed that Molly now comprehended
that any attempt to harm Bindiya would result in abrupt
termination
The day following their dinner at the House of the Ax (which
had been dragonfly curry rather than gazpacho, served al
fresco on a balcony with another hundred or so diners; Molly
had ignored them throughout, making it clear that their
interview was over) Katsumi tapped into the stations
database. She coaxed the hotels computer deck into making a
info-dump about the religious community that Esperanza
Serjee belonged to the Order of Tanit, which claimed to be
able to trace its origin to ancient Carthage.
The high priestess is called Tophet, Katsumi said aloud,
kneeling on the floor in front of the deck. The VR goggles did
not quite cover her entire eye; from out of the corner, she
could see a naked Bindiya sprawled over the bed, watching a
soap opera on the 3D set. The curve of Bindiyas buttocks was

interesting, a study in sacred geometry that would not have

shamed one of the celestial maidens carved in the stones of
Khajuraho temple. Katsumi returned the bulk of her
attention to the information scrolling on the goggle lenses.
Bindiya clicked off the 3D set and rolled over, sitting up on
the bed with her feet crossed over her thighs lotus-style.
Tanit a lunar fertility goddess, one of the chief deities of
Carthage, she said. Tanit was likely the equivalent of
Astarte, the Great Mother Goddess of the ancient Near East.
The tophet was a sacred precinct where still-born children
and children who died in early infancy were given back to
Tanit and Baal Hammon, her consort the parents making
an offering of the childs cremated remains in the hope that
the gods would provide a replacement. There are other, darker
interpretations, of course.
The Order of Tanit is privately funded, Katsumi said. There
are sister chapters on Earth, but the mother temple is based
on Penthesilea station. The Orders function seems to be
charitable; they run low-cost crches and adopt abandoned or
unwanted children. Each transport run, a female child is
imported to the station from Earth and taken to the temple
where she receives culture-appropriate care and education.
Katsumi plugged a second set of VR goggles into the deck and
handed them to Bindiya, so that the other woman could
experience the data-flow herself.
They watched a half-hour propaganda film about the Order of
Tanit. At the end, Bindiya slid the goggles off her face and
into her hair. Somehow, I dont believe she began, and
stuttered to a halt as her eyes glazed over. Her muscles began
to jerk.

By now, Katsumi had become familiar with the signs of

possession. She ripped off her own goggles and flowed onto the
bed, reaching for Bindiyas belly where the nano-tattoos
activation point was marked by a small dark brown dot.
Bindiya was in a full-blown grand mal seizure, her whole body
drawn tight, her spine arched like a bow, her eyes rolled back
to show the whites. Bindiyas lips were drawn back nearly to
the angle of her jaw. Flecks of foam dotted her cheeks.
Katsumi pressed the activation point, watching as text
scrolled into being on Bindiyas skin, the Emptiness of Forms
sutra called Hannya-Shin-Kyo. The deep flat drone of the
sutra rolled through her head, as if chanted by a thousandshrine monk:

Bu Setsu Ma Ka Han Nya Ha Ra Mi Ta Shin Kyo Kan Ji Sai

Bo Sa Gyo Jin Han Nya Ha Ra Mi Ta Ji
Bindiya gasped, sweat pouring off her. She stank, but it was
not the rank stench of fear or illness. Katsumi expanded her
sense of smell. It was something charred and smoky, like
burning spices, that was mingled with a sharp sour tang
which she could not identify. Bindiya relaxed muscle by
muscle, letting out a long sigh, until she finally lay flat on the
bed, staring up at the ceiling. Katsumi knew how distressing
it was for Bindiya when her consciousness was invaded by
hostile energies. An urge to nurture caused an unfamiliar
ache in her chest. She shifted until she could put her thumbs
under Bindiyas skull, one on either side the spinal column,
and applied gentle pressure. After several minutes, Bindiya
sighed again and rolled over on her side, resting her head on
Katsumis thigh. The tattoo disappeared from her skin,
deactivated by Bindiya herself.
I saw a bronze statue of a woman, Bindiya said, her voice

subdued, so huge I could not see the face; it was too high
above me and hidden in shadows. A fire burned inside the
statue, but it wasnt really fire. It was more like water, but it
wasnt. Her expression reflected her frustration at being
unable to articulate precisely what she had been shown.
Priestesses were putting children into the fire but they
werent being consumed. They were still alive, and the fire
was siphoning the life out of them
Katsumi did not understand the significance of Bindiyas
vision but she did not press for further details. The woman
looked exhausted; there were purple stains beneath her eyes
that had not been there before. Even with the protection of
the sutra, each instance of possession was draining her
strength, her vital ki energy. Katsumi wondered if it might
not be better to leave Penthesilea and forget Esperanza
Serjee. Bindiya could go to a lamasery in Tibet or to the haven
of Shambhala station at LaGrange III to have herself purged
of evil by red-hatnyimgmapa magics. Even as the idea
occurred to her, she rejected it as unlikely to be successful.
This living yurei would not cease haunting Bindiya until it
had whatever it wanted. An exorcism would provide only a
temporary fix.
What dont you believe? Katsumi asked, recalling what
Bindiya had begun to say before the attack, but the other
woman had fallen asleep, her breathing heavy, her hand
curled over Katsumis leg.
She waited until Bindiya had progressed into stage four delta
sleep, then Katsumi extracted herself deftly from the womans
grip, covered her with a blanket, and donned the VR goggles
again, settling cross-legged in front of the computer deck.
Entering the search terms Carthage, Tanit and child sacrifice,

she watched the data-stream turn into a torrent.

When Bindiya woke up, Katsumi handed her a T-shirt with
the legend I Stuck My Finger in a Dyke at Spaarndam and
pale blue cotton drawstring pants. We have an appointment
at the Order of Tanits headquarters, she said, watching
Bindiya get dressed.
To see Esperanza Serjee? Bindiya asked, bending over to
pull on a pair of intelligent ankle boots that adjusted
themselves to fit her foot.
Perhaps. Katsumi was being deliberately cagey. There was
no actual appointment; in fact, the temple spokeswoman she
had spoken to over the communication system had been quite
hostile to the idea of visitors, which only increased Katsumis
curiosity as well as her determination. Anyone who attempted
to stop them would meet her sword or her fist; both were
equally lethal, therefore the afternoon promised to be
interesting. She looked forward to the exercise. Bindiya was
gazing at her with narrow suspicious eyes, so Katsumi
continued, First, we must speak to the Tophet.
There were no private transports on Penthesilea except those
belonging to Molly Jane and her corporation, so Katsumi
opted for the public mass transit people-mover. To save space
always at a premium the magnetic levitation system ran
on tracks built on the outside of the station. There were
bubble-shaped transport cars sheathed in a protective layer of
frictionless material that shielded the occupants from solar
winds and radiation. Each car housed up to twelve
passengers; the one that Katsumi chose was unoccupied. The
moment the doors shut and the car began gliding on its track,

Bindiya turned to her.

We dont really have an appointment, do we? she asked.
No, we do not. Katsumi saw no point in further deception.
She decided to reveal some of the information she had gleaned
from the stations database and from an uplink to the Earthside Net. You and Dr. Li Fang did visit Penthesilea six
months ago at chem Janes invitation. There is surveillance
vid which confirms this fact. I cannot learn much regarding
the reason for your visit, except it had something to do with
the Order of Tanit.
Behind Bindiyas head, a flatscreen was projecting ad-blurts
at full subliminal speed, images that came and went too
quickly for even her enhanced vision to distinguish. She
looked away, but not before something clicked inside her
head. Her subconscious mind was flooded with information.
Crimson light flared; her heartbeat stuttered, the semai or
hesitant pulse that caused an unpleasant sensation under her
skin, as if her bones were bamboo being scraped with a knife.
An inner spark flared.
Bindiyas face was weirdly elongated, her mouth open in a
stretched oval that revealed teeth and tongue. Katsumi
registered the cold greasy-feeling sweat that coated her skin,
along with an odor very much like freshly spilled blood hot,
rank and sweet. The smell filled her nostrils, turning active
thought into white noise.
For the first time in her existence, Katsumi lost control.
***
Bindiya tried to regulate her breathing but it was difficult.

There was a ball gag in her mouth, and her arms and legs
pinioned by artistically twined and knotted nylon rope. Panic
fluttered in her stomach; acid reflux scorched her throat. She
was terrified that she might vomit. If she did, she would
choke. There was a sore spot on the side of her head, behind
her ear, where she thought someone had struck her. It was
the last thing she remembered until she had woken up in a
strange room, bound and gagged.
The room seemed ordinary enough, a modest bedchamber
decorated in blues and greens, very restful and calming. A fish
tank on top of a plastic dresser held colorful guppies and
water weeds. The bubbly sound of the aerator would have
been soothing under other circumstances. Bindiya flexed
against her bonds to no avail. She closed her eyes, willing her
muscles to relax, hoping to avoid painful cramps. Where was
Katsumi? The ninja would never leave her voluntarily, that
was certain. The only explanation that made sense was that
Katsumi was dead. Her throat was tight and aching. Tears
threatened, and Bindiya sniffed them back fiercely; getting a
stuffy nose now would be tantamount to suicide.

Katsumi!
They had been alone in the transport bubble, she was sure of
it. She must be missing memories. The result of head trauma?
It was possible. Her heart chakra was in the throes of a far
worse agony, the clear green energies turned murky with
grief. She felt like she was hemorrhaging on the inside, a
melancholy bleed-out for which there was no treatment. Wet
trails of saliva slipped out of the corners of her mouth, held
open by the rubber ball. If it was possible, she would have
screamed out loud. The gods were absent, the etheric planes
desolate and there she was, trussed for sacrifice with only her

bitterness to keep her company, shaken to the depths of her

soul. The pain of losing her husband was still raw; to add
Katsumis loss put Bindiya in a place of jagged-toothed
darkness from which there was no escape.
Bindiya loved Katsumi, and now Katsumi was gone.
An indeterminate amount of time passed.
Without warning, the door opened.
A Japanese woman stood on the threshold. She wore ash
gray gi and her neck bore the ownership tattoo of a construct
ninja. Her flat face was impassive. I am Momoko, she said.
Bindiya closed her eyes. Her defenses, paper-thin at best since
the madness had begun, were torn to shreds. Grief was too
heavy. She could fight no more.
She let herself fall into oblivion.
***
It was all she had ever known, this regimented interior
landscape.
Katsumi processed information the way she had been
programmed. Her womb-mind had received the foundations of
structure, then later, she had been taught to learn and to
obey. She was used to the sensation of a previously
unguessed-at seed blossoming inside her mind, growing to
fruition and bringing with it change. This time, however, the
change had been unwelcome, the alterations done crudely but
effectively. She had been imprisoned inside her own mind, a
hapless passenger bearing witness to her bodys hijacking by

the bio-software virus that had ambushed her on the

transport bubble.
Molly Gattopardo Janes doing, she thought, unable to control
her body but still capable of experiencing the stream of data
picked up by her senses. Katsumis vision scanned the
entrance hall where she was standing, taking in the lotus
shoes, the orchids, the butterflies and their nectar tears. The
sound of people chatting and laughing came from nearby. She
presumed Bindiya was in the House of the Ax as well.
Katsumi had not been able to halt the viral download into her
brain but the program had not used her as a weapon to kill
Bindiya, just to incapacitate the other woman and bring her to
the mansion.
Katsumis consciousness had been rendered redundant.
Unlike other times in her life, she found the prospect
disquieting.

Does the tool question its master?

The answer came to her in a flash, an insight that was as
enlightening as polishing a tile to make a mirror - it does

when the tool has a choice.

With that revelation, Katsumi chose to embrace the

independence that Charles Li Fang had forced upon her. In a
burst of self-discovery, she realized that she had been drifting
since her escape from Yoshitsune. Finding a place with the
Sinsemilla and accepting assassination jobs had been a way of
marking time, treading water until what? Until a new set of
instructions was downloaded into her psyche. Until someone
else took control and gave direction to her life. Charles Li

Fang might have de-programmed and re-programmed her, but

he had not given her a purpose. Or had he? It did not matter.
Bindiya was her purpose, Katsumi decided. She would save
Bindiya or she would avenge her. Perhaps she would do both.
The future lay ahead, and it was full of choices.
Never had she felt so liberated, even if she was imprisoned.
Struggling against the program availed her nothing. Katsumi
was a born killer, but fighting the mind virus was like
wrestling with sorghum molasses. Confronting the thing that
had imprisoned her only entangled her more deeply in its
snares. Unlike the Sinsemilla, she did not have interface
sockets that permitted her direct neural access to cyberspace,
but she had listened to descriptions of the experience from
hackers, the anti-hero console cowboys of the urban Sprawls.
They had spoken of black ice, security countermeasures
programs that could flat-line an intruders EEG and cause
permanent brain damage. The virus that had invaded her was
not as deadly as that but it was equally implacable.
Master Sun Tzu said: To win one hundred victories in one

hundred battles is not the highest skill. To subdue the enemy

without fighting is the highest skill.
Accordingly, Katsumi stopped fighting the bonds that secured
her and concentrated instead, marshalling her forces. The
virus manifested itself to her inner eye as rough-hewn stones
held together with a strong mortar. Her legs were encased to
the thigh in stone, as were her arms, leaving her spreadeagled in place. She recalled former lessons piped directly into
her memory, the voice of a long-dead senseis preserved
personality, uploaded to an AI node. Embrace the Void,
the mushin-no-michi the state of no-mind, where conscious

volition gave way to the instinctive reaction of ingrained

skills. Katsumi flexed her mental muscles carefully and
deliberately, testing her bonds, seeking weaknesses in the
viral structure.
There was a flaw in the virus design, she discovered; a crack
in its defenses. Katsumi sidled to the wall, millimeter by
millimeter, her non-existent body more flexible than mere
flesh. The language of bio-programming was dense, as rich as
a Viennese torte. Strings of code dazzled her inner vision.
Katsumi was no wetware wizard but she understood enough
to begin the process of freeing herself. As she began to pry
into the crack, the virus defended itself by sending pulses
along her neural pathways that were interpreted by her
thalamus and somatosensory cortex as pain.
The pain increased exponentially the more she attempted to
infiltrate the virus. It felt as though she was on fire, the
flames eating her skin, consuming the flesh beneath. Her
body was blackened and crisped; smoke filled her vision and
the taste of ashes filled her mouth. Katsumi continued,
ignoring the agony that sang along every nerve. She
persevered, aligning herself with the wall that blocked her
from bodily control. Katsumi pressed herself against the
stones. Freedom was a matter of integration rather than
resistance.

Whatever rises must fall. Whatever lives must die.

She had to allow the virus to pass over her and through her
but it was difficult. Too difficult, Katsumi found as the
adaptive program shifted around her. She sought another way
and found it in a protocol nestled in the code. Whoever had
hacked her mind had left certain safeguards in place within

the virus, confirming that it had been hastily modified

program probably intended to do something else. Katsumis
concentration redoubled. She reached inside herself in the
way she had been taught, seeking the implanted trigger.
Just as Katsumi had some degree of control over her adrenal
glands making her stronger and faster when needed - she
also possessed control over her bodys autonomous cardiac and
respiratory functions. Ninja constructs were always
programmed with a safeword that would shut them down in
the event such a drastic measure was required. Charles Li
Fang had removed her implanted safeword but the trigger
was still in place, hidden deep inside yet nevertheless within
her virtual grasp. The virus could not prevent Katsumi from
delving into the recesses of her psyche. After a moment, she
found the trigger and activated it.
Master Musashi said, The Way of the Warrior is resolute
acceptance of death.
Vision faded first, then hearing. She was deafened by the
sound of her own faltering heartbeat, then by the silence as
her pulse ceased. Katsumi was not concerned; she had
accepted the Way long ago. Although blind, she saw a face
floating in the darkness. It was Esperanza Serjee. The girls
skin was too white, an unnatural pallor that was enhanced by
the dark strands of her hair that snaked around her head, the
tendrils waving as if stirred by a tide.
The dead-who-was-not-dead beckoned to her. Within her
mind, the virus engaged a forgotten safety protocol and began
to immolate itself, code-strings blazing one by one in feverish
self-consumption. On a wind that smelled of scorched spices,

Katsumi flew away.

***
Bindiya awoke to a different room, this one decorated in dusty
chintz. The red-furred chimera Darwin was there, resting on
its knuckles, watching her with its little brown eyes. Bindiya
was no longer gagged, but her mouth was too dry for speech.
She tried working up some spit. Darwin came closer. The slap
of its bare feet against the floor made her heart clench inside
her chest. She inhaled, smelling the chimeras strawberry/hay
scent; the normally pleasant odor seemed cloying now,
sickeningly sweet.
It shuffled over until its face was against the side of her neck.
She felt its nostrils flaring, the tickle of its fur tufts sliding on
her skin. The chimera snuffled wetly. Bindiya cringed. She
was tied to a wheelchair, her ankles and wrists secured with
plastic ties. A drooling tongue ran along her collarbone, a
velvet touch she found repulsive. The chimeras fingers were
hard and callused in strange places. Impatient, it tore at the
neckline of her shirt and nuzzled her breasts. Under the
tuxedo trousers, she saw the tell-tale bulge of a sexually
excited male. Bindiya jerked and rocked in place, consumed by
horror, trying to evade the chimeras tongue and fingers and
the hard erection it was rubbing on her thigh.
She found enough moisture in her mouth to chant a denial,
No, no, get away from me, get away! Stop!
Molly Gattopardo Jane appeared in the doorway. Darwin!
she scolded.
The chimera leaped away from Bindiya, making the

wheelchair rock back on its wheels. Bindiya forced a scream

out through her raw throat. At Mollys scowl, the chimera
grinned at her, an apprehensive baring of teeth. It reached
out an impossibly long arm to snag the wheelchair and slam it
back down on the floor.
Please excuse Darwin, Molly said, coming into the room. He
sometimes forgets to be civilized when we have company. She
reached up and stroked a fingertip across one of the garnet
beads she wore strung around her throat. Darwin grunted,
shivering. It fell down abruptly, keeling over into a fetal
position on the floor. Tremors shook its sturdy frame. The
mind can interpret sensation as pleasure or pain, Molly said
conversationally, but her eyes absorbed the light, black holes
from which no compassion could escape. My servants are all
equipped with remote access wetware that allow me to punish
or reward them, as the case warrants. I find its a very
effective management tool.
The pungent smell of urine filled the air when the chimera
lost bladder control.
Her nose wrinkled in disgust, Molly jammed her finger harder
on the bead then released it, and moved aside to allow her
corporate ninja Momoko to enter the room. Momoko stepped
over the puddle of fluorescent yellow urine, crossed behind
Bindiya and took hold of the wheelchairs handles/ Bindiya
panted, trying to regain her breath. Darwins saliva dried
sticky and itching on her skin. She twitched all over, her
fingers curled over the armrests, nails digging into the
pseudo-leather. Her hair had fallen over her eyes, a welcome
obscurity. Momoko trundled the wheelchair out of the room,
bumping it over the threshold.

Molly crooned as they passed, Dont worry, chem. Im going to

take care of you. She caressed Bindiyas cheek with the back
of her hand. It was worse than the chimeras touch, like being
corrupted by something unclean, something filthy. Bindiya
resisted the impulse to snap at the long, white, smooth fingers
that skittered like spiders over her face.
Momoko pushed her down the corridor, with Molly walking by
the wheelchairs side. The chimera followed on the other side,
whining softly to itself. They passed door after door, always
headed downwards, a seemingly endless spiral that ended at a
garage where a private transport vehicle was waiting.
Let me go, Bindiya said, pulling on the plastic ties until her
chafed wrists began to bleed. She welcomed the pain; it meant
she was still alive. Please, just let me go.
Youre too pretty, Molly replied, leaning over and licking the
frustrated tears that spilled from the corners of Bindiyas
eyes. You smell good, Pretty-Pretty, she whispered. Her
breath was warm, scented with clove and cassia.
Momoko opened the transports gull-wing shaped door.
Molly continued to whisper, Oh, youre so pretty, PrettyPretty I cant wait to taste you. Her smile was a razor
blade that sliced through the ragged remains of Bindiyas
defenses.
Bindiyas mouth opened but no sound came out, not even the
merest whimper of denial. Impassive and efficient, Momoko
thumbed a micro-needle patch on her neck over the carotid
artery. There was no sting. The drug passed into her blood,
circulating through her body with every beat of her heart.

Bindiya began to feel woozy, and thought it might be a

sedative but she was not sure. Her head was too heavy for her
neck to support, and growing heavier by the moment, then it
was light as a balloon on the end of a string. Bindiya giggled.
Molly kissed her, and she went on giggling while Momoko
loaded the wheelchair into the transport.
***
The Order of Tanits temple was oddly shaped, a stack of
rhombuses that appeared to have been carved from volcanic
basalt. At the very top of the temple was huge metal dish in
which holographic flames danced. By the time they reached
the temple, Bindiya had stopped giggling. The drugs effect
was short-lived and left her with a nasty headache that was
compounded by the clove cigarettes Molly smoked, holding
each one delicately between thumb and forefinger. Smoking
was forbidden on the station naked flames of any kind were
a bad idea when one lived in a vulnerable pressurized
environment but Bindiya supposed that when one owned
the station in question, one felt free to break the rules. Molly
Jane did not seem to be the type to care much about safety
regulations anyway.
Bindiya was wheeled inside, blinking as her eyes adjusted
from the brightness outside to the dimness within the temple.
The floor was made of a white translucent stone that was
backlit, providing soft illumination. Women wrapped in red
robes, their hair covered with black scarves, walked to and fro
over the glowing floor, murmuring quietly. A middle-aged
female with a bulldog jaw stopped in front of the wheelchair,
looking down at Bindiya, who recognized that this was the

woman had contacted her and Katsumi in the bot hotel.

Is this the one? the woman asked.
Molly nodded. Can we use her?
Perhaps. Well do a full analysis. It will take a little while.
I could just Molly broke off and looked little-girl sly. The
woman shook her head.
If youre incompatible, that could be a major set-back. Have
patience, chem Jane. The testing wont take that long. The
womans keen glance raked Molly up and down. Is it that
bad? Has the last dose worn off already? She frowned. It
seems to be taking less and less.
Molly snarled, Just do the damned test! The command
sounded odd coming from an apparently teenaged girl.
Nevertheless, the woman bowed her head and glided away.
The door banged open and Katsumi strode inside.
Bindiya could not believe what she was seeing. Katsumi was
dead! In her heart, she was still mourning her loss, still
grieving for the other woman. The gods knew she had had
enough hallucinations and inexplicabilities bleeding through
lately to confuse Chuang Tzus butterfly as to the nature of
reality. This could be a dream, or it could be Katsumi?
Konnichiwa, Bindiya-san, Katsumi replied. Are you well?
The question was completely incongruous given her current
state. Not entirely, Bindiya said, striving to match the
ninjas nonchalance. I thought you were dead. Her

diaphragm spasmed, and she choked on the last word. Relief

was co-mingled with dread. Momoko had come forward and
stood in front of Molly, cool murder in an ash gray gi.
Katsumi took a step forward. Her own gi was rumpled and
dirty; there was a stain that looked very much like blood on
one sleeve. I have seen Esperanza Serjee, she said, speaking
to Molly. I know what you have done.
Molly made a moue. The expression was ill-suited to the old
woman staring out of her eyes. I know what you have done,
she mocked. Really? Youre so clever.
Bindiya pulled against the wrist restraints, grunting each
time the plastic bit into her scored and bleeding flesh. She
wanted to be free. She wanted to slap spoiled selfish Molly
Gattopardo Jane until her palm hurt. She wanted to touch
Katsumi and reassure herself that the other woman was real,
not a figment of her demented imagination. Katsumi had to be
real, not like Esperanza Serjee, dead but alive a conundrum
and a riddle and an enigma that she did not care about
solving. Katsumi! she called out.
The ninja seemed to do hardly more than shrug, but four
shuriken were launched into the air. Bindiya had time for a
single quick inhalation before the little blades sliced through
the plastic ties with astonishing precision, barely whispering
against her skin in passing and not injuring her at all. She
tried to stand but her balance was gone and she fell back
again, causing the wheelchair to roll backwards a few inches.
A fifth shuriken was cast at Molly, but Momoko intercepted it
with the blade of her ninjato, striking the dart at an oblique
angle and embedding it harmlessly in the wall.

Priestesses fled.
Bindiya rose from the chair. At her full height, even in bare
feet she topped Molly by a good six inches or more. She took
one step, then another, and another as a measure of strength
returned to her limbs. Molly sneered and pulled a flechtte
gun from the waistband of her whispering taffeta skirt.
Bindiya could not reach her quickly enough. Molly pointed the
gun at Katsumi and pulled the trigger, sending a half-dozen
darts towards the ninjas back.
Katsumi bent radically backwards at the waist just before the
first of the darts would have penetrated her flesh. This move
also left Momoko exposed. She parried with her blade, sending
five flechttes flying in various directions but the sixth buried
itself in her thigh. Molly stiffened. Modified Hansens
disease, she said, her eyes gone round. Angry and filled with
loathing, Bindiya knocked the gun out of the womans hand; it
slid along the floor and came to rest against a wall, the plastic
grip chipped by the impact.
Momoko ignored the dart in her thigh. She advanced on
Katsumi, blade held high; her steps were made terre-terre as precise as any holo-ballerinas. Katsumi moved to
block, sweeping her own sword around. The two ninjas
clashed, parted, and clashed again. A heavy scent hung in the
air; Bindiya recognized incense smoke, charred spices and
resins. Despite her apprehension, part of her wondered if the
temple actually burned the stuff contrary to regulations, or if
they imported the fragrance from a temple on Earth.
There was a wet plop as Momokos right arm suddenly
detached from her body and fell on the floor. Soft white light
made the blood seem dark, almost black as it oozed over the

translucent stone. A fine spray of blood hissed from the

wound. Katsumi backed away, her split-toed tabi socks
flashing white under the hem of her hakama. Momoko
gripped herninjato in her left hand. Her right leg came off at
the knee and more blood pooled on pale stone. She must have
been in agony but not a hint of pain showed on her flat face.
Bindiya could not stand anymore. Finish it! she hissed at
Katsumi.
Several of Momokos fingers pattered down, joined by an ear
and a scattering of teeth. Her eye slipped out of its socket and
hung on her cheek, a blob of bloodstained jelly tethered by the
optic nerve. Molly Gattopardo Jane ran out of the room,
disappearing through a shadowed doorway, her taffeta skirt
whispering with each stride of her coltish legs. Momoko said
nothing; there was no anguish in her steady gaze.
Nevertheless, Katsumi delivered the mercy stroke. She
whipped her sword through the air, an arc of glittering steel
that sliced cleanly through Momokos neck. The blow was
beautifully executed. Katsumi recited a few words in
Japanese, which Bindiya thought might be a death poem. She
recognized the words for cherry blossoms a typical poetic
metaphor for the briefness of a samurais life. Dark blood
drops exploded into a spraying crimson fountain as Momokos
head fell off and bounced along the floor, leaving a messy trail
behind it. The stump of her neck was liquid scarlet,
contrasting with the stark white bone in the center.
Katsumi flicked her ninjato to clean the blade free of blood,
then sheathed it. She held out her hand to Bindiya, who took
it without hesitation and pulled the shorter woman into a
fierce embrace. I thought you were dead, Bindiya whispered

into Katsumis hair.

I am yet among the living, Katsumi replied. Her voice was
unemotional but the pressure of her arms around Bindiyas
waist told another story.
Her throat was closed with gratitude and relief. It took a
moment for Bindiya to speak. What did you mean when you
told chem Jane that you knew what she had done? It was not
what she had meant to say, and she surprised herself with the
inquiry.
Katsumi pulled away and looked at her, an unreadable
expression in her fathomless black eyes. Technically, what
you all have done. Dr. Charles Li Fang, Molly Gattopardo
Jane and you, Bindiya Bhattacharya. Especially you. Her
hands curled over Bindiyas biceps, holding her in place when
she would have instinctively bolted. You do not remember,
Katsumi continued, because you wished to forget. It is time
for you to confront the ghosts of your past. It is time to
remember the Golden Immortal.
Those two words struck Bindiya a hammer blow. She gasped
as memory surfaced from the murky depths of her
subconscious, as subtle as Carcharodon carcharias rising with
open jaws from the deep. The Golden Immortal the elixir of
life. Penthesilea station. Molly Janes seventy year old face,
wrinkled as a relief map, her mouth stretched in a greedy
smile. A girl about twelve years old, with big eyes and scabby
elbows. An exercise in the hypothetical becoming grim reality.
Bindiya understood now what her husband had done to her
with his bio-programming skills. The full horror made her
want to vomit.

She would have fallen without Katsumis grip to hold her up.
***
Katsumi recognized the moment when Bindiyas memories
returned. She was prepared for any reaction, including the
woman tearing herself from Katsumis grip and diving for the
flechtte gun on the floor. Katsumi took hold of Bindiya and
used the womans momentum to pull her around and prevent
her from reaching the gun. Death is not justice, she told
Bindiya, whose face was crumpled in an ugly grimace.
I dont I didnt mean Bindiya said, her voice broken.
Vision without action is but a daydream, Katsumi said. You
did not consider the implications of your work.
And then Charles Bindiya swallowed. She had turned
pale; her hands trembled.
Katsumi nodded. She locked her fingers around Bindiyas
wrist and led her through the doorway where Molly had
vanished earlier. There was no sign of the Orders priestesses
until they came to a place where the corridor led to a room
that was empty except for three well-armed women who had
been goliathed, their bodies made grotesque with muscle
grafts and stainless steel teeth. Katsumi swept Bindiya
behind her. Projectile weapons were forbidden to prevent an
atmospheric breach, so the goliaths were armed with long
knives. Katsumi made a quick calculation and spun on her
heel, kicking out with one leg. She struck one woman in the
chest, feeling her ribs cave in and her heart break apart under
the impact. Moving swiftly, she snapped the second womans
neck. The third put up a token resistance, but she was

nowhere near as skilled as Katsumi. She, too, died.

Bindiya pressed a hand against her sternum as the third
woman fell. Her breasts rose and fell with the force of her
breathing. She swallowed. I remember the way, she said to
Katsumi and stepped over the bodies, headed for a door. The
temple was a labyrinth but Bindiya demonstrated that her
memory had indeed returned by leading Katsumi unerringly
down and across and up again through a winding series of
corridors and rooms. She paused outside a door. Its in here,
Bindiya said.
There was no doorknob; access could be acquired only by
inputting a code on a nearby keypad old technology but still
effective. Katsumi drew her ninjato. Bindiya touched her arm.
I remember this as well, she said, punching buttons on the
keypad. The door slid open. Beyond was a scene from Hell.
It smelled like pickles, amines and ozone. A line of clear
polycarbonate-sided tanks took up most of the space. In each
tank floated a naked young girl; they were suspended in a
pinkish fluid, their limbs splayed like starfish. Black rubber
tubes and bundles of cables snaked everywhere. Each girl had
electrodes fastened to her hairless skull. Their eyes were
closed but beneath the eyelids was movement, as if they were
in the depths of REM sleep. The last girl was older than the
rest. Katsumi recognized her; it was Esperanza Serjee.
Liquid breathing, Bindiya said, in oxygenated
perfluorocarbon fluid. The project was my idea, Bindiya went
on, a dreamy expression on her face. She walked along the
damp floor, trailing her fingertips over the tanks where traces
of condensation beaded the polycarbonate surfaces. I thought
about terminal patients, how they might benefit from

transfusions ofprana energies. Healthy people could volunteer

to give a little of their vital force to help others. I thought
about the benefits of life energy infusions, the healing that
could be accomplished, the diseases that could be cured. The
mental, emotional, physical and spiritual imbalances that
could be redressed, including fluxes in the global etheric. A
network of bio-energy banks, anyone able to make
withdrawals and deposits, all for the benefit of humankind.
Charles and I developed the technology over many years. It
was Molly who funded our research. When we came here for
the final stage and she called the project the Golden
Immortal, I didnt understand the significance until it was too
late.
Immortality was a Holy Grail for some humans, Katsumi
thought. Her own ancestors had possessed an unparalleled
grasp of the beauty of death. She could not comprehend the
desire to live forever. Any activity, no matter how delightful,
would ultimately pall over time.
Bindiya tapped a tank with her fingernail. Molly wanted to
live forever, be young forever, and shes using these girls to do
it. Shes draining them of their energies, transfusing herself
with the elixir of life, the Philosophers Stone, and leaving
them to exist in some nightmarish half-life, not truly dead but
not alive, either. Charles and I were devastated but what
could we do? For six months after we were politely escorted off
the station, he tried to interest the authorities in Penthesilea
and Molly Gattopardo Jane and the whole appalling situation,
but the station is autonomous. Earth has no authority no
extradition treaty, remember? - and on Penthesilea itself,
Molly is where the buck stops, period.
He was desperate. We were desperate. This isnt what we

envisioned. It was sickening, the way she perverted

Bindiya licked her lips. Charles had a plan.
Katsumi put a hand on Bindiyas elbow, gently squeezing,
testing the integrity of the joint while part of her marveled at
how fragile the human body could be, and how strong the
spirit in adversity. He used his skills to program you to take
vengeance.
Bindiya closed her eyes. Yes, she said, and there was a
wealth of horror in that single simple syllable. I killed him.
Suicide by proxy. He was old, he was tired, and he couldnt
live with the guilt. He chose the method of his death. He
implanted information into my subconscious, false memories,
you my connection to you. He planted the seed deeply. He
knew Id need you to get to Penthesilea station, to fight
Momoko, to stop Molly. The haunting I have no explanation
for that. It wasnt part of his programming details.
Now we are here, what must be done? Katsumi asked,
avoiding the question of ghosts for the moment. This was a
different Bindiya than the woman who had appeared in the
writing brush factory, terrified and hungry and wearing
clothing two sizes too small.
Master Deng Ming-Dao said: Some warriors look fierce, but

are mild. Some seem timid, but are vicious. Look beyond
appearances; position yourself for the advantage.

We end it, Bindiya answered, opening her eyes. She was a

woman transformed, the former endearing mixture of
confusion and fear sloughed away to reveal an adamantine
purpose beneath. Black-skinned Kali Ma, the Mother of
Darkness, danced in her pupils - the four-armed destroyer of

ignorance, the destroyer of ego, the destroyer of that which

disrupted harmony and created chaos. Bindiya shone with
potential violence. Katsumis heartbeat quickened. Warmth
trickled down her spine. Her mouth was dry. She had been
created to follow this goddess of destruction; obedience to
death was bred in her bones. Katsumi now understood what it
was to love.
Beside her in the tank, Esperanza Serjees eyes opened, too.
Dont you want to play, Pretty-Pretty? Molly said, coming
around the corner. She did not seem to be armed with any
weapon other than her own confidence. Her low-heeled
pumps, encrusted with glittering garnets as red as blood,
clicked loudly on the damp floor.
Its over, Bindiya said. Her T-shirt was torn at the neck,
showing her breasts down to a rosy slice of nipple, and her
trousers were dirty. Her short dark hair was disheveled, bits
of it sticking up and out at odd angles. Dirt streaked her face.
Nevertheless, she was beautiful as beautiful as an
unsheathed blade. Its over, chem Jane, she repeated.
Do you honestly think this self-righteous ploy is going to
make me melt into a gooey pile of regrets? Molly tossed a lock
of golden hair over her shoulder. You and your husband took
my money eagerly enough. You asked no questions.
Would you have lied? Bindiya asked.
Possibly. Mollys smile vanished, replaced by a sneer. Why
shouldnt I benefit from the chi therapy? I paid for it.
Bindiya jabbed a thumb at the nearest tank, where a girl who
appeared to be of Mongolian extraction floated in the pink-

tinged fluid. No, they pay for it, Bindiya said.

Molly shrugged a smooth white shoulder. Theyre
unimportant. At Bindiyas scowl, she added, Earth is
practically flattened under the weight of the unwanted, my
dear. Girls are maggots in the rice - thats the attitude that
still prevails in parts of the world. What are a few disposables
here and there? No one cares. Their own societies have
abandoned them the same way their parents have. These girls
are of use to me. I value their contributions. Theyre part of
the elite; theyve been carefully selected to help more
important people. Im almost ready to go live and start
sharing this wonderful breakthrough with anyone who can
afford it. Think about it, chem. Think about immortality, the
chance to live forever or at least, as long as I can collect a
fat fee or favors for the privilege.
Its wrong, Bindiya insisted.
You and your husband were dreamers, chem Bhattacharya.
Very impractical. You both failed to comprehend that humans
arent good at heart. Were downright mean bastards, greedy
and selfish and prone to violence, ready to stab each other in
the back as we scrabble for more than our fair share. Were
primates not far from the jungle, red in tooth and claw. Did
you really think that the world was going to fall in line with
your idealistic views?
You never gave us a chance.
No, youre right. I didnt. Mollys mouth tightened into a
hard line. The technology belongs to me, since I was the one
who put down the cash. Thats in the contracts you signed. As
for the girls their parents and guardians were well

compensated. My technicians have discovered that prana

transfusions you can call it qi, or chi, or ki, if you prefer
they only work with a compatible donor, like blood types, so I
have to bear the expense of testing potential candidates, but
the result is worth the trouble. She smoothed a hand over the
line of her youthful body. My old shell was worn out but look
at me now! Ill stay this way forever sipping fresh prana
straight from the source. Lovely, isnt it?
As lovely as Erzbet Bathory, the Blood Countess, Bindiya
said, raising her hand to aim a tarjani mudra at Molly a
gesture with forefinger and little finger extended to form
horns and the other fingers folded inward, meant to bring
about the subjugation of evil. Youre a psychic vampire,
stealing life that doesnt belong to you to sustain an unnatural
existence. Youre Lillitu without a spark of the divine!
Im immortal, Molly replied.
Bindiya continued to aim the mudra at her. But not
invulnerable. With her free hand, she reached out, clearly
confident that Katsumi would understand. Katsumi did.
Yielding to the unspoken command, she drew her ninjato and
placed the hilt in Bindiyas palm, then bowed before the
terrible purpose in Bindiyas eyes.
Molly shook her head. She did not seem frightened of the
shining steel blade that was pointed at her. You think that if
you kill me, the whole thing ends here? Copies of my
consciousness have been stored here and elsewhere; money
buys a lot of core memory. You can destroy this body but Ill
just wake up in another. Ill still be in control. Dont be more
nave than you already are. Ive won and Ill always win.

This has very little to do with you, Bindiya said almost

gently. She took the ninjatos hilt in both hands. Its
about dharma.
Katsumi would have corrected Bindiyas hold but held back,
not wishing to interrupt the moment when the tall woman
snapped the sword at one of the polycarbonate tanks, rolling
her shoulders and concentrating her energy on a single point
as if she had learned the move at senseis knee. The ninjatos
chisel-tip smashed through the side of the tank, shattering
the acrylic. A gush of fluid exploded outward, flooding the
floor. Molly screamed, a high-pitched sound that had nothing
of fear in it, and everything to do with thwarted rage.
The Mongolian girl hung in mid-air, her wasted body
supported by tubes and cables in a posture reminiscent of
crucifixion. Above the broken tank, the green and red lines on
a monitor began to fluctuate. A nasal buzz sounded. She was
flat-lining.
Molly touched a garnet on her necklace. Security to Level
Thirty-Three, she said, then the full force of her scorching
gaze fell upon Bindiya. Go on, then. You cant save these
girls. Theyre almost drained. Theyd have been dead soon
anyway. Ill just import others.
Its about second chances, Bindiya said, still gentle as
though she was speaking to a child, as though Molly herself
had not spoken. Its about the clear light and the dull smokecolored light from Hell. Its about rebirth and retribution.
From the Tibetan Bardo Thodol, the Book of the Dead,
Katsumi remembered a prayer to the Buddhas and
bodhisattvas: O you compassionate ones, defend who is

defenseless, protect who is unprotected, be her kinsman,

protect her from the suffering in the depression of the bardo,
turn her from the storm wind of karma, turn her from the
great awe and terror of the Lords of Death, liberate her from
the long narrow way of the bardo.
Bindiya took a deep breath. Its about death, not living
death, she said, and stabbed the Mongolian girl through the
chest. The blade was well angled, Katsumi observed, to sever
the major vessels. She would have advised against a heart
strike; spasming muscles could trap a blade and make it
difficult to withdraw promptly. Aiming at the throat was
better; the inner thigh and its femoral artery were also
excellent targets. She noted the slight awkwardness in
Bindiyas wrist movement as she slid the ninjato free from the
girls body. Blood streaked the girls skin; blood-tinged bubbles
frothed at her lips.
Death is the only freedom I can give them, Bindiya
concluded. Freedom from suffering. Freedom from
manipulation. Freedom from the prison youve forged for
them. Her gaze turned fierce. She clutched the ninjatos hilt
tightly enough to strain her knuckles white. She spat at
Molly, You cant treat human beings like batteries!
Molly rushed at her, fingernails poised to rend. Katsumi
thrust out a foot and tripped the woman so that she fell
sprawling in the mess of blood, polycarbonate shards and
what looked disturbingly like amniotic fluids on the floor.
Ignoring the woman, Bindiya moved to the next tank, and the
next, and the next. Each occupant received the same
treatment the tank destroyed and a sword blade through the
girls heart. More buzzers went off until there was an entire
chorus of them, sounding like a fleet of Kong-sized mosquitoes

broadcasting their annoyance in a rising skill-saw buzz.

Esperanza Serjees body twitched as if in anticipation. The
womans eyes were open but blind, without a trace of
intelligence of personality. She was a doll abandoned midplay.
Esperanza tried to stop me, Molly said thickly. She lay on
her back on the wet floor, legs apart as if she anticipated
violation. The ends of her hair trailed in the blood and other
fluids. The stupid child felt sorry for my donors. She wanted
to set them free. Security caught her trying her hand at
sabotage, the little Luddite-in-training. I thought, if she wants
to empathize with the girls so much, let her have some firsthand experience - you remember, dont you? You and your
husband were here. You tested the system on Esperanza. I
told you she was a volunteer. Werent you the least bit
suspicious? No? Her salt-white teeth showed in a grin.
Esperanza tasted sweet, didnt she? Sweet and delicious. You
wanted more. A young girls life is more addicting than any
drug. Ill wager you still recall the piquancy of her karmic
purity, dont you?
Bindiya smashed the tank, her face grim. Thats true, but
Esperanza Serjees will is stronger than either of us, she said
over the sound of fracturing polycarbonate and rushing water.
She found her own escape.
Molly scrabbled to stand, her nostrils pinched with fury.
At the other end of the room, a door burst open and several
women rushed inside, brandishing various edged weapons and
flechtte guns. Katsumi ran lightly over the broken acrylic
shards, drawing a tanto knife from her kimono sleeve. As she

approached, she calculated angles of attack, deciding the most

efficient way to dispose of the security team. Just before
reaching the first guard, Katsumi launched herself into the
air, pin-wheeling to avoid being made an easy target; her
kimono sleeves and the legs of her hakama flared out,
confusing the eye as to the true outline of her body. One
woman raised a flechtte gun; Katsumi simply wrenched the
gun out of her grasp and shoved the knife through her throat,
severing jugular vein and carotid artery in a practiced stroke.
The fight was brief. The sound of steel grating on bone echoed
in the chamber, as did whimpers and the choked wet gasps of
her opponents as she eliminated the threat. Katsumi
sustained no injuries. She felt contempt for whoever had
trained these guards. They were obviously ill prepared to
manage anything more serious than the odd drunken brawl.
The course of wisdom would have been to stand back and
shower Katsumi with neurotoxin-tipped flechtte darts. Of
course, that would not have stopped her; Katsumis enhanced
metabolism could easily deal with fugu and other poisons.
Returning the tanto to a hidden sheathe strapped to her
forearm, Katsumi turned back to where Bindiya and Molly
were standing.
Go on. End it! Molly shouted. Her body was petite, her bones
seeming as delicate as a birds. Blonde hair straggled over her
pretty face. Do it, you sanctimonious bitch! Get your dose of
satisfaction. It will only last as long as it takes to activate one
of my clones.
Bindiya dropped the ninjato. The straight-bladed sword
chimed when it struck the plascrete floor. I dont need to
finish it, she said. They will. Once again, her thumb jabbed

at one of the wrecked tanks.

Mollys chest heaved as she took in breath after breath. After
a moment, she laughed. It was as scornful sound.
Katsumis hair fluttered, stirred by a spectral breeze, and the
lights took on a cold unfriendly gleam.
Bindiya smiled.
***
Bindiya had forgotten what it was like to be without fear, to
live without tension coiled painfully in her gut hour after
hour, day after day. She remembered now. Her heart
slammed against her ribs like an impatient fist battering a
door, but she was not afraid. The insanity of the last few days
finally made sense. She had unwittingly stolen a taste of
Esperanzas life, forging a link with the not-dead. The plans
her husband had put in motion the bio-programming and
the series of events that had led to her meeting with Katsumi
and all the rest - had intersected with Esperanzas
disembodied desires. Bindiya had been driven by two invisible
forces straight towards this confrontation with Molly Jane.
She was the pale horse ridden by Death, the cheval of the
Gud, loas of the dead.
The mystical energy stream intensified, manifested by a
shockingly chilling wind that whipped through the chamber
where a dozen young lives had been taken. Bindiya was
deafened by angry screams; she was buffeted by nails and
fists that raked her to the soul. Rather than resist, she opened
herself to it and let the rage flow through her, her body
burning white hot. Her flesh was tattered, frayed by righteous

fury. She was the center of a sun gone nova. She was Kali Ma
dancing in her girdle of severed limbs, divine power
unconstrained. She was the transformation of the self that
came with dying.
Mollys mouth sagged open.
Bindiyas vision narrowed, the edges dimming until Molly was
centered within a circle of brightness, as if she was being
glimpsed at the end of a tunnel. Names came and went in her
mind, attached to faces she had never seen until now young
girls whose lives had become fuel to feed a greedy womans
dream to live forever.
Psychics would have people believe that the personality did
not survive death, that ghostly phenomenon was caused by
infrasound or ripples in the global etheric or by mental
disturbances but Bindiya knew better. She had been haunted
twice, her psyche trammeled by her husband in his quest for
justice, and by Esperanza Serjee in her quest for retribution.
She felt the lost ones and their anger; she was lost in the
currents of their pain.
Marks appeared on Molly, deep scratches and tears in her
skin, which was losing the sheen of youth. Molly screeched
and batted at her invisible attackers. Gray invaded her blonde
hair. Lines and wrinkles appeared on her face. Molly
stumbled and fell to her knees. Bindiya stood above her, the
eye in the center of a wind blown from Hell. Molly bled from
her mouth, her nose, her ears; bloody teardrops left crimson
trails on her crumpled parchment skin. Her screams were
thin and high, a piping that grew shriller and fainter as her
flesh shrank on her bones, the years she had stolen stripped

away to reveal the old woman beneath.

Bindiya shivered, her blood running cold, then hot, then cold
again. Esperanza Serjee whispered to her, a gabble of
unintelligible words that sounded like a mantra; she could
barely discern it above the rush of blood in her ears. A shower
of intense blue and yellow sparks burst in front of her eyes, a
spiritual Catherine wheel that dispelled the pall of gray and
brown and white that had suffused the atmosphere. She
looked down. Molly was wallowing in scarlet; she was
streaked and dappled with it, her taffeta skirt soaked with
red.
Sparks became stars, which in their turn became wheeling
constellations. Bindiyas head rocked back as a hammer blow
struck her in the center of her brow - the seat of perception,
the third eye chakra. The concussive force drove the breath
from her body. Above her, the ceiling blew away to reveal the
reeling Heavens, the moon like a pearl that was the eye of the
warrior goddess, Durga - slayer of demons, preserver of order,
the victory of virtue. The spirits of the dead girls flew around
the goddess head, a vaporous honor escort mounted on windhorses, accoutered in silver and gold. Durga leaned in,
unimaginably vast and beautiful in her fierce aspect,
shouldering the stars aside. Her trident pierced Molly through
the breast, drawing an agonized cry from the old woman.
The trident withdrew. Wriggling on the center blade was a
thing all white and black, a squalling demon with a redrimmed mouth and a lolling tongue. Its hands clutched the
trident where the weapon had pierced its belly. Durga lifted
the monster high above her head, making it squeal angrily in
protest. The swarm of girl ghosts descended. Their teeth were
made of iron, their nails of bronze. Breathing the smoke of

righteous vengeance, they tore into the wriggling soul of Molly

Gattopardo Jane, rending it to quivering ectoplasmic shreds
that were lifted on a scorching wind and abruptly scattered,
black snowflakes and white ash, until they faded and
disappeared from view.
Durga and the girl faded, too, as if they were stars muted by
the approaching sun.
The force released her all at once, and she fell back to earth,
hollow and exhausted. Bindiya became aware that she was
laying on her back, her head cradled in Katsumis lap. The
grave-faced ninja was staring down at her, a hand smoothing
her hair.
It is over, Katsumi said. Our task here is finished.
Bindiya rolled her eyes to the side and saw Molly Janes body
nearby. The woman was obviously dead. She looked shriveled
and shrunken, as if all her vital juices had been sucked out.
The mental image was disquieting. Details regarding Durga
and the girls ghosts were already fading. It did not matter.
Esperanza Serjee and the rest were gone, liberated from flesh
and on their way to their next incarnations.
It was over.
Sighing, Bindiya closed her eyes, finding a measure of peace
at last.
***
The department stores in Tokyos Ginza district were lit up
brilliantly, each store competing with its neighbors over who
could create the most obnoxious holo-display. At upscale

Wako/GUM, a gigantic saurian Gojira stomped a miniature

city to smithereens, indifferent to the ranks of tanks that fired
ad-blurts in Japanese and Russian. Flying sword masters in
Ching dynasty robes buzzed pedestrians heads in front of Sun
Sun Company. Bee bots scattered haiku-written coupons. A
projected geisha giggled behind her fan as she strolled down
the avenue, her kimono advertising a sale of fuzzy logic
lingerie.
In the midst of the colorful pandemonium strode a squat
powerful figure in an ash gray gi. Beside her was a tall darkhaired woman, her face half-hidden behind a pair of mirror
shades, her stunning figure displayed by a tight black T-shirt
and drawstring trousers. Neither of them seemed to garner
much attention from the sea of passers-by that hurried to and
fro, each person intent upon his/her/its own business.
However, it was clear that this indifference was feigned.
Although the pavement was crowded and collisions common,
everyone gave the women a wide berth.
The display window at the Sony building held a dozen 3D
projectors, each one tuned to the most popular evening
broadcast for the benefit of sidewalk shoppers. A pair of
polished-as-porcelain androgynous newscasters, their teeth
white as tombstones, delivered the latest information updates
with gruesomely bright bonhomie.
a spokesperson for the company has issued a statement
that the various power surges which destroyed the back-up
copies of Molly-sans personality are under investigation. Yes,
the wealthiest individual in the collective consensus Molly
Gattopardo Jane achieved the dissolution of the five
elements in her physical body last week. You go, sentient
being! The funeral will be held on Penthesilea station. Our in-

house lama Jamyang Rinpoche says Molly-sans soul has

achieved the second bardo stage, and urges spiritual travelers
to lend their support as chem Jane continues her journey
towards the five worlds of rebirth. In other news, an
industrial accident at the Celebrity Flav-o-rama factory in has
resulted in a total recall of all Elvis flavored crisps
The two women turned to one another.
In an upper corner of the broadcast, a goddess with scarlet
lips and a wild tangle of hair over her eyes danced to the
pulse-rhythm of a silent drum.
Master Ueshiba said, Foster and polish the warrior spirit

while serving in the world; illuminate the path according to

your inner light.
The ninja tilted her head back, offering her mouth to the
taller womans kiss while life flowed around them in a
ceaseless tide.
THE END