![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fromastudio posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
almondinflower*hides head* I know, I'm reposting, sorry! There is a reason, though, and it's called Chapter 4.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: SF like mad.
Characters: Atobe, Mizuki, with various SeiRu cameos.
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi.
Again, a![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
30_kills chapter. With apologies to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
_branch_ and lawnmower_elf who gave me great feedback and advice to simply, clarify, and make consistent. Which I promptly forgot all about, in the gleeful process of adding Cool New Details.
Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 here.
Chapter 3
Keigo's flyer was not a standard one. About three times the mass of your average Low Altitude Flying Vehicle, it came with twin waterfoils for sea landings, heat and oxygen support for higher altitude travel, and enough artillery to bring down a fighter plane. All this gadgetry, when retracted, folded neatly into the long metallic body of the flyer, about half the size of a military car and twice as sleek.
Taki Haginosuke had given the flyer a recent revamp – not without considerable grumbling, since it was Haginosuke after all, but Keigo was willing to put up with a certain level of annoyance, in exchange for the highest expertise money couldn't buy. Haginosuke was as style-conscious as he was efficient, something Keigo was grateful for when he considered, say, Inui Sadaharu's patchwork machines - “Miracles of invention and disasters of fashion,” a Rokkaku runner had once put it.
His own flyer sported glittering black paintwork; its wings, thin and curved, emerged noiselessly when you activated the security fingerpad; and the engine, when you unlocked it with the keycard, came to life with a gentle, delightful purr.
Keigo swung himself into the driver's seat and strapped on the safety belts, checking fuel levels and wind speed – both optimal, which he was rather pleased about, given how unpredictable the weather had been today.
The propellers whirred to life, gaining speed as the flyer rose up, over and above the tall slender buildings that were frequent in the heart of Hyoutei territory.
Shin Tokyo was divided into twenty-five administrative wards, in contrast with the old Tokyo back on Earth, which had twenty-three. There was little geographical correlation between the two cities, although it was fashionable at the moment to single out districts and name them after places from the old metropolis: New Shinjuku, Nueva Shibuya, Shin Harajuku.
The wind lashed at his cheeks and tugged at his clothes as he flew, navigating corners and gaps between buildings. Below, the streets were filled with shoppers and street vendors. Hyoutei territory was mainly commercial district, and a significant portion of gang income came from protection schemes - although Sakaki being the traditionalist he was, the lion's share of Hyoutei's money came from smuggling: still the classic runner's activity two centuries after the planet had been colonised.
For a moment Keigo recalled being ten years old, his tutor teaching him about the runners: how they'd started out as interplanetary smugglers, hence the name. By the time Nippon and Shin Tokyo had been founded, the runners had diversified into nearly every form of criminal activity possible (and a great deal of legitimate activity as well), embedding themselves so deeply into the culture and infrastructure of planet Gibson that government authorities were hard-pressed to dislodge them. In Shin Tokyo, certain sectors of the criminal world had made attempts to revive the traditional yakuza, with little success; runner syndicates had completely occupied the available niches.
Keigo had learnt all this detail in avid fascination, displaying an enthusiasm he usually reserved for studying ancient languages. But he'd never imagined that he'd be living the reality one day.
He jerked the control knobs and swerved upwards, narrowly escaping the bright green flyer that had just careened around the corner. Keigo's lips twisted in disapproval. That kind of driving was almost criminally bad. He was unsurprised to see at the controls of the other flyer the round and placid face of St. Rudolph's vice-president, Nomura Takuya.
Of all the strange and unpredictable things Akazawa had done in his time as SeiRu president, appointing Nomura as his deputy had to rank fairly high on the list.
Keigo soon spotted St. Rudolph headquarters, a lovely five-storey amalgamation of warm red brick and neo-Victorian architecture that dwarfed the surrounding townhouses. The upper garage, large enough to store at least eight flyers, had been artfully arranged to resemble a traditional Victorian roof: steeply angled, with jutting windows and bellicose ornamentation. A well-concealed landing pad for flyers lay at the back of the roof.
Keigo twisted the control knobs so that the flyer flew up, and hovered right above the building before sinking downwards for a perfect landing.
The infodevice on his flyer came to life the second his wheels touched the roof: it was the silken voice of Mizuki Hajime speaking: “Atobe Keigo. Nomura-kun told me you were coming. Come right in; I've already unlocked the doors. I'll be waiting in the drawing-room.”
Something about that voice always made Keigo want to electrocute something.
He stood up, swung himself out of the flyer. It was unbecoming, he reminded himself, to have someone so unimportant affect his state of mind.
Up close, the St Rudolph building was as elegant as it looked from the air. The main door was seven feet tall and made from beautifully panelled oak; true to Hajime's word, it swung open easily as Keigo turned the bronze doorknob, revealing a set of stone steps leading downwards.
St. Rudolph had once been one of Nippon's three largest syndicates, and even if a combination of poor leadership and encroaching competition from Yamabuki and Fudoumine had eroded its influence, it still retained enormous wealth, as attested to by the range and quality of artwork that decorated the stairwell. For Keigo though, the ostentatious decoration – Botticellian digital art, silver crucifixes, holographic sculptures of Roman gods – simply served to accentuate the fact: St. Rudolph was dying.
Keigo couldn't find it in his heart to blame Akazawa, either, although allowing Mizuki Hajime to remain in the gang was one of the stupidest things he'd ever seen a runner president do. The St. Rudolph syndicate had collapsed under a succession of poor leaders; it would have taken a far stronger leader than Akazawa Yoshirou to resurrect the fortunes of the gang.
He reached the bottom of the stairs, only to encounter the brooding face of the aforementioned Akazawa Yoshirou.
Keigo looked curiously at the St. Rudolph president. Akazawa looked like he was in bad shape: his eyes were dark-rimmed with lack of sleep, his long brown hair dull with lack of care. His jeans and shirt, always casual to begin with, looked positively unkempt.
But it was the expression on his face that caught Keigo's attention: some mixture of tension and slow anger, containing something deeper that Akazawa's usual bouts of temper. Akazawa tended to yo-yo between periods of extreme indifference, in which he sat back and and let Mizuki run the show; and short-lived flurries of action. The latter left no one in doubt as to who really held the authority at St. Rudolph: Mizuki might be their strategist and present himself as the syndicate's spokesman, but in the end it was Akazawa's lead that the runners followed.
“I heard you found Kotoha's body,” Akazawa said, gruff as ever.
Keigo glanced at him. “How does it concern you if we did?”
The answering spark in the other's eyes made him relax a little. That was more like the Akazawa he knew. “If it concerns me, then it concerns me, Atobe. Tell me if Mizuki killed her.”
“And how would it change things if he had?” Keigo asked, watching Akazawa's eyes. He could pry the information out of the other man if he had to: Keigo was Hyoutei's strongest telepath - not that there was a surfeit of telepaths in Hyoutei; he and Ootori were the only halfway competent ones. But he prided himself on not having to rely on extra abilities in order to read his opponents' moves.
Akazawa's back straightened, and for a minute he was the dark, intimidating leader Keigo occasionally caught glimpses of. “Then I'll kill him.”
Keigo could feel his brows rising. “Try not to make a mess on the carpet when you do.”
Akazawa snorted. “Asshole. You don't know the first thing about what's going on here.”
“I don't bother thinking about things that don't concern me, Akazawa.” He stepped past the St. Rudolph captain, ready to go into the drawing room.
“Really? So why'd you come to visit, then?”
As if he was going to dignify that with a response. But he paused, right outside the ornate black doorway that led to the drawing room.
“Oi, Atobe,” Akazawa said. Against all good sense, Keigo turned to look back at the tanned shadow of a face. “Kotoha had it bad for you, you know. Really really bad.”
Keigo turned away in disgust. “I'm not responsible for how other people feel,” he said to the door.
Akazawa's reply came just as he stepped into the drawing room: “That's true enough.”
#
Mizuki Hajime was as usual beautifully dressed: spider silk shirt and loose dark trousers; a gold wrist communication band shining on his right hand. His black hair was soft and gleaming, brushed to perfection. There was a black infodevice attached to his belt.
“Lovely to meet you. It's been a long time, hasn't it? Not since – oh, just after the whole fiasco with Fudoumine. Would you like some tea? Darjeeling, Pearl Dew? Or would you prefer a herbal blend? There are some new varieties that have just come in from off-planet; I ordered them in last week. Here, take your pick.” Mizuki nodded at the lacquered box that sat on the coffee table, holding an array of tea bags arranged by type.
Keigo waited for him to finish speaking and said, “Cappuccino, thanks. With almond syrup and goat's milk.”
Mizuki frowned. “Oh well, if you insist,” he said, standing up. “I'll need to go to the kitchen for the coffee machine; in the meantime, make yourself at home.”
Keigo watched him as he left the drawing room. “Not in a good mood, are you, Mizuki?” he murmured.
He glanced around the room, which was one of the loveliest he'd ever seen – and Keigo had seen dozens of elegant homes in his lifetime. Everything here, from the soft velvet couches to the ornaments in the cabinet, was of superb quality, chosen in exquisite taste. Painfully exquisite taste, Keigo thought. Typical Mizuki, to overcompensate on everything he did; Akazawa, born and bred to the St. Rudolph leadership, would simply have used whatever furniture was on hand, and to hell with the colour coordination.
Akazawa had succeeded to the presidency of St. Rudolph nearly three years ago, at the age of fifteen. Back then the syndicate had been in worse shape than it was now; a territory loss of nearly half a ward, Keigo recalled, exacerbated by the death of several key leaders at the hands of the police. Akazawa had been quick to establish his authority, quick to restore order; but beyond that, serious restructuring had to be done. On the advice of his allies, he'd recruited Mizuki, who was then known as a Net hacker from Yamagata, as his strategic advisor.
Mizuki was one of the rare hackers with a good grasp of leadership and interpersonal strategy; in his early teens, he'd helped mobilise the first successful Net attack on corporate banking in years. Dozens of hackers had siphoned billions of dollars off the top twenty companies on the Nippon stock exchange.
If Mizuki had made a mistake, it was assuming that the tactics that worked for him as a hacker were going to work in the world of the runners.
From day one, Mizuki had begun recruiting runners from other syndicates for his leadership team, Rokkaku's Kisarazu Atsushi and Seigaku's Fuji Yuuta being the most notable examples. The ensuing resentment among the old SeiRu runners had been entirely foreseeable.
Over the last few weeks, Keigo had been hearing that St. Rudolph was rapidly polarising into two groups; the ones who supported Mizuki, and those who supported Akazawa. It was this, combined with the sudden flurry in the runner world at large, that had no doubt ended in the street fight yesterday.
Mizuki didn't seem hurt, however, and neither did Akazawa, leaving Keigo to wonder whose blood it was that he and Oshitari had discovered this morning.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and the smell of coffee wafted in, followed by Mizuki, smiling graciously as ever. “Here you are, Atobe. I hope you find it up to your standards.”
Keigo took the cup. “New Malayan blend. I commend your taste,” he said, savouring the rich, earthy flavour of the brew.
“I'm glad it suits you,” Mizuki said, sipping his own tea. “Now, how can I help you, Atobe? I have to say your visit wasn't wholly unexpected.”
“Probabilities greater than 3% must be taken into account, right?” Keigo placed the cup back onto its saucer. “But I forgot; you're not as keen on probabilities as that data pair is.”
“There are always ways to alter probabilities, to get the result that you want.” Mizuki twisted a curl of his own hair around his index finger. It was a bad nervous habit of his. Keigo had seen him do it on several occasions . “There is a 99% probability that you came here to ask me about the murder of Kobayashi Kotoha.”
Keigo had a sudden urge to grind Mizuki's nose into the floor with the heel of his boot.
“Well,” he said, “this should be a fairly straightforward meeting, then. Tell me everything you know about Kotoha's murder, and I'll leave without incident.”
Mizuki was still lingering over his chrysanthemum tea. “Why should I? As I understand it, Atobe, there are no obvious advantages to my giving you the information you want.”
Keigo's temper was going to snap if he didn't do something about it. “Mizuki,” he said, leaning forward, “I don't think you understand the situation. You can either tell me what I want to know, or I can rip the facts straight out of your mind. You're familiar with my abilities, and you know I'll have no qualms about doing it.”
“Your abilities?” Mizuki mused. “You psionics are so... fortunate. Unlike the rest of us, who must compensate for what we don't have.”
Keigo's eyes narrowed. He didn't know whether Mizuki was simply diverging into a bout of petulance, or trying to manipulate the conversation. Either way, Keigo was in no mood to accommodate him.
“I remember Yukimura sending me a message on my wristcomm two days ago. He warned me not to interfere with the relationship that was growing between Yoshirou and Kobayashi-san, saying that it would be to my detriment if I did,” Mizuki said. “
“The relationship. Between Akazawa and Kotoha.” Keigo had suspected something since the encounter with Akazawa in the corridor. But still--
“Rather more on Yoshirou's side than on the girl's, or rather, that was my impression.” Mizuki finally placed his cup down. Steam was still rising from it in slow, lingering spirals. “Did you know, Atobe, that Kobayashi-san was peculiarly attracted to powerful men?”
Keigo didn't reply. For a moment he was back in the alley, pulling Kotoha's body from the dumpster.
“Atobe-sama, won't you take the bento I made, just for once?”
“Ah come on, Atobe, take her present. I hate seeing girls cry.” That had been Shishido, he recalled.
“Kotoha had it bad for you, you know. Really really bad.”
“Atobe?” Mizuki tapped the couch in impatience. “It was your wish to hear the story behind Kobayashi Kotoha's death. Unless you've lost interest--?”
“You seemed to be telling me about Kotoha's romantic interests,” Keigo said. “I was waiting for you to get back on-topic.”
“My, my; are you so impatient? Don't be so quick to overlook details; they might turn out to be important. Perhaps that's the advantage to not being psionic; it forces us to be more attentive to the data. Which can sometimes result in predictions more accurate than those produced by precognition. Now, where were we? Ah yes; I was about to mention the reason for Kobayashi-san coming to Tokyo.”
“If you mean that she came to spy on Seigaku, that's hardly news. Seigaku territory has been inundated with spies in the past five weeks; it's common knowledge that Tsubakikawa was one of the gangs who sent a representative.”
“She spent two weeks there, far more time than mere information-gathering would warrant. From all accounts, she spent a great deal of time following young Echizen around. Rather fascinated by him, I gathered.”
“Everyone's fascinated by the Boy Wonder, Mizuki. Even you, although I can hardly see you admitting to that.”
“If you wish to discuss my feelings on Echizen Ryoma, I'm quite happy to digress, I assure you.”
“I see no need to discuss what's already written plainly on your face.”
If Mizuki had been the kind of person who bristled, he would have done so.
The question that had been nagging at Keigo for the past five minutes finally bubbled to the surface: “How did Akazawa and Kotoha meet each other?”
Mizuki shrugged delicately. “According to Kaneda-kun, they met each other via the Net. Some virtual reality space, I assume.”
He was certain Mizuki knew more than he was letting on. But Keigo was happy to let Mizuki be tight-fisted about the less salient data, as long as he revealed all the most important details. “And when did you become aware of the fact that they knew each other, or that they were romantically involved?”
He felt a peculiar flash of irritation go through him as he finished asking the question.
“She came to observe our virtual reality training sessions two or three times, as I did with Tsubakikawa. Are you not enjoying your coffee, Atobe? Are you sure you wouldn't like some tea instead?”
“The question, Mizuki.”
“Well, if you must know--” Mizuki put the teapot down; he'd been on the verge of pouring out a cup for Keigo. “It was obvious from those visits that the two of them were familiar with each other. I thought little of it at the time. Yoshirou's liaisons are not infrequent, and Kobayashi-san's methods of gathering data are well-known.”
“And you weren't in the least worried about St. Rudolph security being compromised, given Kotoha's reputation?”
Mizuki raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever been worried about Kotoha compromising Hyoutei's security?”
No, but Hyoutei isn't St. Rudolph. They weren't almost wholly dependent on data for their operations, for one thing. Aloud he said: “But it seems that you had cause to worry in the end. Was Kotoha too good at avoiding your poisons? Is that why you had to strangle her?”
Mizuki turned his head, looked at some vague point in the distance, an abstract, distended look in his eyes. “I was rather surprised at how moody Yoshirou was being,” he murmured. “Jealousy over Kobayashi-san and Echizen, of course, but it wasn't until I heard Yuuta and Kaneda discussing the matter that I became aware of this."
“And so you did kill her.”
“Of course,” Mizuki said, and added silkily: “You've been expecting me to confirm the fact ever since you walked into this room, haven't you?”
“I can't think of anyone else who would be so crude as to bury a girl at the bottom of a dumpster.” It was a lie, of course; Mukahi would have done it in a pinch. Oshitari too, possibly.
“It was efficient, you must admit. If my sources are right – and they have never been wrong – nobody came close to suspecting what was hidden there until you and Oshitari came along.”
Keigo's throat tightened. He clenched a fist; tried to steady himself. “ When did you decide that Kotoha was enough of a threat to be eliminated?”
“When Yoshirou made it clear that he was set on a long-term relationship, of course. A relationship that threatened to be destructive for the future of St. Rudolph. St. Rudolph has a great future, one that cannot be compromised by the addition of someone potentially disloyal to the syndicate.”
Someone like you? Keigo thought. But he'd already made up his mind as to what he was going to do; he wasn't interested any longer in the verbal sniping back and forth. “So when you realised that Akazawa was in love,” he noted.
“Love,” Mizuki said. “Yukimura spoke of that, in his message. What is love? Is love real? Oh,, I'm not trying to start a debate here; I won't deny that love is real. But wouldn't you say that there are degrees to reality?
“I can tell that you are real, Atobe, because you're sitting in front of me. Drinking a cup of rather expensive speciality coffee. But how real are your, well, telepathic thoughts? They certainly didn't work at all against Sanada. How real are your visions of the future? They failed you rather spectacularly against Tezuka.
“How real is Yukimura? No one has ever seen him outside the Net; he never gets more vivid than the virtual reality he inhabits. For all we know, he might be a figment of Yanagi Renji's imagination, created to help control the runners. Both theories would fit the data equally well.
“No matter how real love is, it isn't real enough to base decisions on. To create data from. Yoshirou may be heartbroken for life. On the other hand, he may be back to his old self next week. Who knows? Why risk something as important as St. Rudolph for something so insignificant?”
“Do you really want to know what those telepathic thoughts can do?” Keigo said softly.
He could feel Mizuki recoiling as Keigo reached out for his mind, pushed into his memory. Mizuki was no weakling; he was putting up a good fight against the mental onslaught.
But Keigo was stronger, by far the stronger; within three seconds, he'd cracked his way in. A flood of memories and connections came rushing through the gap:
“You were afraid, weren't you? Afraid that with Kotoha around, Akazawa would have no need for another strategist. Particularly one who'd worked so hard at undermining his authority. You were afraid that Akazawa would set you aside, appoint his new girlfriend to your position.
“You mentioned that Kotoha was attracted to powerful men. Was it terribly degrading for you that Kotoha saw Akazawa as the more powerful among the two of you? After all the illusions you'd built up about being the power behind the throne.”
He moved in like a blade of lightning, twisted Mizuki's mind into a feedback loop so they were both caught up into seeing the same memories: Kotoha arriving at St. Rudolph, sly and smiling and beautiful; days of tension and gossip and sniping at one another; Akazawa roaring at Mizuki, Mizuki screaming back. The spiked drink, Mizuki's well-kept hands pressing into her white neck...
When it was over Keigo stood up, reached for the slim plasma gun he always kept by his side. Mizuki's eyes were unfocused, dreamy; the usual side-effects of a telepathic operation as invasive as the one Keigo had just done. He'd managed to drop his tea cup; it was lying on the floor nearby, liquid seeping into the carpet.
“Even precognitives have to deal with probabilities.” Keigo said. “Yukimura knew this, and tried to prevent my doing what I'm about to do. He failed. But you're even worse, as you didn't even foresee this in your data.
“Any fool can look at Sanada and look at Rikkai and see that Yukimura is a real person. Data can always be transcended. Yanagi Renji and Inui Sadaharu realise that, and that's why they'll always be better strategists than you are.”
He raised the gun and aimed it. Although Mizuki still seemed dazed, his eyes widened.
“Let me,” said a deep voice coming from the door. Keigo glanced to the side and saw Akazawa's dark outline filling the doorway.
“Akazawa. I thought you might show up soon.” Akazawa wasn't so stupid as to have left this conversation unmonitored.
The St. Rudolph captain entered the drawing room, looking straight at Mizuki the whole time. “So you did kill her.”
“As if you didn't know,” Keigo said, his voice hard. His mind was still a little dizzy from rummaging through Mizuki's memories – disgusted, he told himself, not dizzy.
He was glad that Kotoha had finally gotten over her crush on him – wasn't he? He slammed a lid down on the thought before it could continue; it wasn't worthy of him.
Akazawa shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I wasn't sure.”
“Only because you didn't want to be sure.” He looked at Akazawa as he spoke, but paid attention to the periphery of his vision to make sure that Mizuki, who was starting to recover from from the telepathic attack, didn't make an attempt to escape. “Akazawa. You've spent three years running from your responsibilities as a leader. You can stay here with your snake of an advisor and a syndicate that is outwardly profitable and inwardly rotten. Or you can tear everything down and start from scratch. The choice is yours.”
Akazawa looked back at him, and this time there was steel in his gaze. He nodded.
“Well,” Keigo said. “Do it, then.”
“Not until you put the gun down,” he said, stubborn as ever.
“If I put it down,” Keigo said patiently, “Mizuki will reach for the poisons he keeps in his left pocket, and he'll knock us all out before making his escape. For practical reasons, I can't put my gun down until you've aimed yours at him.”
Akazawa was slow, very slow in bringing out his own weapon; so slow Keigo felt an unnatural twinge of worry as to whether Mizuki was going to bring out some new surprise of his own. But Mizuki just sat there, face grimaced into a strange expression.
“Akazawa,” Mizuki said finally, and there was something intense in his eyes, something cold and angry and yet defeated. It was the most genuine expression Keigo had ever seen him wear. “I did a good job for St. Rudolph.”
Akazawa looked at him, aimed the gun. “You did a great job, Mizuki.”
A voice rang out in the corridor outside. “Akazawa-san, no!” But it was too late; there was a sharp flash of light and then Mizuki was slumped back against the couch, trickles of blood soaking through his shirt.
Two boys came running into the drawing room: Akazawa's dark-haired friend named Kaneda, and Fuji Yuuta, who always struck Keigo as being strangely ordinary-looking, particularly next to his extraordinary brother.
Akazawa turned to look at them. “Yuuta. You came back from Seigaku?”
Yuuta was very pale. His left arm, Keigo noted, was heavily bandaged from elbow to wrist. “You killed Mizuki-san."
Keigo slipped his plasma gun back into its holster. “Akazawa had good reason to do so, Fuji Junior.”
Even the use of his detested nickname couldn't snap Yuuta out of his shock.
“Yuuta.” It was clear that Akazawa was distressed, and not in any state to deal with his underling's emotional Issues. Well, it wasn't his place to interfere with another gang's business, but this little charade was rapidly going nowhere.
“Not to interrupt, Akazawa, but you're going to need someone to deal with the body quickly, and discreetly.”
“I'll do it,” Kaneda said. Keigo liked the boy immediately. If the St. Rudolph syndicate ended up falling apart, he'd recruit him for Hyoutei.
He said to Akazawa: “I suppose I don't need to remind you that a meeting will have to be called immediately, and the new organisational issues sorted out.” Keigo turned to look at Fuji Yuuta. “I hope that your leadership team will have the good sense to stand behind you.”
The younger boy was still very white. He shuffled his feet, but looked straight at Akazawa as he spoke. “I'm sorry, Akazawa-san; I think I need sometime to think about it. May I have permission to stay at Seigaku for a few more days?”
“Granted,” Akazawa said. “You still have your flyer, right?”
Yuuta nodded, looking relieved. Keigo wasn't too happy about what Yuuta's decision meant for St. Rudolph. But it wasn't his place to stay here any longer.
“I'll be going now, then,” he said. “Try not to make too big a mess of this place, okay? For what it's worth, Kotoha had good taste in men. If she couldn't have had me, you were a great second choice.”
Akazawa still looked like hell; his face was drawn and exhausted. “You're a bastard too, Atobe. See you around.”
Keigo was smiling as he left the room. But he was barely halfway up the stairs before a bone-deep weariness settled upon him.
Yukimura. I guess you already knew I wouldn't listen to you.
Tell me, what were you trying to prevent?
To Chapter 4
Rating: PG-13
Genre: SF like mad.
Characters: Atobe, Mizuki, with various SeiRu cameos.
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi.
Again, a
30_kills chapter. With apologies to _branch_ and lawnmower_elf who gave me great feedback and advice to simply, clarify, and make consistent. Which I promptly forgot all about, in the gleeful process of adding Cool New Details.Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 here.
Chapter 3
Keigo's flyer was not a standard one. About three times the mass of your average Low Altitude Flying Vehicle, it came with twin waterfoils for sea landings, heat and oxygen support for higher altitude travel, and enough artillery to bring down a fighter plane. All this gadgetry, when retracted, folded neatly into the long metallic body of the flyer, about half the size of a military car and twice as sleek.
Taki Haginosuke had given the flyer a recent revamp – not without considerable grumbling, since it was Haginosuke after all, but Keigo was willing to put up with a certain level of annoyance, in exchange for the highest expertise money couldn't buy. Haginosuke was as style-conscious as he was efficient, something Keigo was grateful for when he considered, say, Inui Sadaharu's patchwork machines - “Miracles of invention and disasters of fashion,” a Rokkaku runner had once put it.
His own flyer sported glittering black paintwork; its wings, thin and curved, emerged noiselessly when you activated the security fingerpad; and the engine, when you unlocked it with the keycard, came to life with a gentle, delightful purr.
Keigo swung himself into the driver's seat and strapped on the safety belts, checking fuel levels and wind speed – both optimal, which he was rather pleased about, given how unpredictable the weather had been today.
The propellers whirred to life, gaining speed as the flyer rose up, over and above the tall slender buildings that were frequent in the heart of Hyoutei territory.
Shin Tokyo was divided into twenty-five administrative wards, in contrast with the old Tokyo back on Earth, which had twenty-three. There was little geographical correlation between the two cities, although it was fashionable at the moment to single out districts and name them after places from the old metropolis: New Shinjuku, Nueva Shibuya, Shin Harajuku.
The wind lashed at his cheeks and tugged at his clothes as he flew, navigating corners and gaps between buildings. Below, the streets were filled with shoppers and street vendors. Hyoutei territory was mainly commercial district, and a significant portion of gang income came from protection schemes - although Sakaki being the traditionalist he was, the lion's share of Hyoutei's money came from smuggling: still the classic runner's activity two centuries after the planet had been colonised.
For a moment Keigo recalled being ten years old, his tutor teaching him about the runners: how they'd started out as interplanetary smugglers, hence the name. By the time Nippon and Shin Tokyo had been founded, the runners had diversified into nearly every form of criminal activity possible (and a great deal of legitimate activity as well), embedding themselves so deeply into the culture and infrastructure of planet Gibson that government authorities were hard-pressed to dislodge them. In Shin Tokyo, certain sectors of the criminal world had made attempts to revive the traditional yakuza, with little success; runner syndicates had completely occupied the available niches.
Keigo had learnt all this detail in avid fascination, displaying an enthusiasm he usually reserved for studying ancient languages. But he'd never imagined that he'd be living the reality one day.
He jerked the control knobs and swerved upwards, narrowly escaping the bright green flyer that had just careened around the corner. Keigo's lips twisted in disapproval. That kind of driving was almost criminally bad. He was unsurprised to see at the controls of the other flyer the round and placid face of St. Rudolph's vice-president, Nomura Takuya.
Of all the strange and unpredictable things Akazawa had done in his time as SeiRu president, appointing Nomura as his deputy had to rank fairly high on the list.
Keigo soon spotted St. Rudolph headquarters, a lovely five-storey amalgamation of warm red brick and neo-Victorian architecture that dwarfed the surrounding townhouses. The upper garage, large enough to store at least eight flyers, had been artfully arranged to resemble a traditional Victorian roof: steeply angled, with jutting windows and bellicose ornamentation. A well-concealed landing pad for flyers lay at the back of the roof.
Keigo twisted the control knobs so that the flyer flew up, and hovered right above the building before sinking downwards for a perfect landing.
The infodevice on his flyer came to life the second his wheels touched the roof: it was the silken voice of Mizuki Hajime speaking: “Atobe Keigo. Nomura-kun told me you were coming. Come right in; I've already unlocked the doors. I'll be waiting in the drawing-room.”
Something about that voice always made Keigo want to electrocute something.
He stood up, swung himself out of the flyer. It was unbecoming, he reminded himself, to have someone so unimportant affect his state of mind.
Up close, the St Rudolph building was as elegant as it looked from the air. The main door was seven feet tall and made from beautifully panelled oak; true to Hajime's word, it swung open easily as Keigo turned the bronze doorknob, revealing a set of stone steps leading downwards.
St. Rudolph had once been one of Nippon's three largest syndicates, and even if a combination of poor leadership and encroaching competition from Yamabuki and Fudoumine had eroded its influence, it still retained enormous wealth, as attested to by the range and quality of artwork that decorated the stairwell. For Keigo though, the ostentatious decoration – Botticellian digital art, silver crucifixes, holographic sculptures of Roman gods – simply served to accentuate the fact: St. Rudolph was dying.
Keigo couldn't find it in his heart to blame Akazawa, either, although allowing Mizuki Hajime to remain in the gang was one of the stupidest things he'd ever seen a runner president do. The St. Rudolph syndicate had collapsed under a succession of poor leaders; it would have taken a far stronger leader than Akazawa Yoshirou to resurrect the fortunes of the gang.
He reached the bottom of the stairs, only to encounter the brooding face of the aforementioned Akazawa Yoshirou.
Keigo looked curiously at the St. Rudolph president. Akazawa looked like he was in bad shape: his eyes were dark-rimmed with lack of sleep, his long brown hair dull with lack of care. His jeans and shirt, always casual to begin with, looked positively unkempt.
But it was the expression on his face that caught Keigo's attention: some mixture of tension and slow anger, containing something deeper that Akazawa's usual bouts of temper. Akazawa tended to yo-yo between periods of extreme indifference, in which he sat back and and let Mizuki run the show; and short-lived flurries of action. The latter left no one in doubt as to who really held the authority at St. Rudolph: Mizuki might be their strategist and present himself as the syndicate's spokesman, but in the end it was Akazawa's lead that the runners followed.
“I heard you found Kotoha's body,” Akazawa said, gruff as ever.
Keigo glanced at him. “How does it concern you if we did?”
The answering spark in the other's eyes made him relax a little. That was more like the Akazawa he knew. “If it concerns me, then it concerns me, Atobe. Tell me if Mizuki killed her.”
“And how would it change things if he had?” Keigo asked, watching Akazawa's eyes. He could pry the information out of the other man if he had to: Keigo was Hyoutei's strongest telepath - not that there was a surfeit of telepaths in Hyoutei; he and Ootori were the only halfway competent ones. But he prided himself on not having to rely on extra abilities in order to read his opponents' moves.
Akazawa's back straightened, and for a minute he was the dark, intimidating leader Keigo occasionally caught glimpses of. “Then I'll kill him.”
Keigo could feel his brows rising. “Try not to make a mess on the carpet when you do.”
Akazawa snorted. “Asshole. You don't know the first thing about what's going on here.”
“I don't bother thinking about things that don't concern me, Akazawa.” He stepped past the St. Rudolph captain, ready to go into the drawing room.
“Really? So why'd you come to visit, then?”
As if he was going to dignify that with a response. But he paused, right outside the ornate black doorway that led to the drawing room.
“Oi, Atobe,” Akazawa said. Against all good sense, Keigo turned to look back at the tanned shadow of a face. “Kotoha had it bad for you, you know. Really really bad.”
Keigo turned away in disgust. “I'm not responsible for how other people feel,” he said to the door.
Akazawa's reply came just as he stepped into the drawing room: “That's true enough.”
#
Mizuki Hajime was as usual beautifully dressed: spider silk shirt and loose dark trousers; a gold wrist communication band shining on his right hand. His black hair was soft and gleaming, brushed to perfection. There was a black infodevice attached to his belt.
“Lovely to meet you. It's been a long time, hasn't it? Not since – oh, just after the whole fiasco with Fudoumine. Would you like some tea? Darjeeling, Pearl Dew? Or would you prefer a herbal blend? There are some new varieties that have just come in from off-planet; I ordered them in last week. Here, take your pick.” Mizuki nodded at the lacquered box that sat on the coffee table, holding an array of tea bags arranged by type.
Keigo waited for him to finish speaking and said, “Cappuccino, thanks. With almond syrup and goat's milk.”
Mizuki frowned. “Oh well, if you insist,” he said, standing up. “I'll need to go to the kitchen for the coffee machine; in the meantime, make yourself at home.”
Keigo watched him as he left the drawing room. “Not in a good mood, are you, Mizuki?” he murmured.
He glanced around the room, which was one of the loveliest he'd ever seen – and Keigo had seen dozens of elegant homes in his lifetime. Everything here, from the soft velvet couches to the ornaments in the cabinet, was of superb quality, chosen in exquisite taste. Painfully exquisite taste, Keigo thought. Typical Mizuki, to overcompensate on everything he did; Akazawa, born and bred to the St. Rudolph leadership, would simply have used whatever furniture was on hand, and to hell with the colour coordination.
Akazawa had succeeded to the presidency of St. Rudolph nearly three years ago, at the age of fifteen. Back then the syndicate had been in worse shape than it was now; a territory loss of nearly half a ward, Keigo recalled, exacerbated by the death of several key leaders at the hands of the police. Akazawa had been quick to establish his authority, quick to restore order; but beyond that, serious restructuring had to be done. On the advice of his allies, he'd recruited Mizuki, who was then known as a Net hacker from Yamagata, as his strategic advisor.
Mizuki was one of the rare hackers with a good grasp of leadership and interpersonal strategy; in his early teens, he'd helped mobilise the first successful Net attack on corporate banking in years. Dozens of hackers had siphoned billions of dollars off the top twenty companies on the Nippon stock exchange.
If Mizuki had made a mistake, it was assuming that the tactics that worked for him as a hacker were going to work in the world of the runners.
From day one, Mizuki had begun recruiting runners from other syndicates for his leadership team, Rokkaku's Kisarazu Atsushi and Seigaku's Fuji Yuuta being the most notable examples. The ensuing resentment among the old SeiRu runners had been entirely foreseeable.
Over the last few weeks, Keigo had been hearing that St. Rudolph was rapidly polarising into two groups; the ones who supported Mizuki, and those who supported Akazawa. It was this, combined with the sudden flurry in the runner world at large, that had no doubt ended in the street fight yesterday.
Mizuki didn't seem hurt, however, and neither did Akazawa, leaving Keigo to wonder whose blood it was that he and Oshitari had discovered this morning.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and the smell of coffee wafted in, followed by Mizuki, smiling graciously as ever. “Here you are, Atobe. I hope you find it up to your standards.”
Keigo took the cup. “New Malayan blend. I commend your taste,” he said, savouring the rich, earthy flavour of the brew.
“I'm glad it suits you,” Mizuki said, sipping his own tea. “Now, how can I help you, Atobe? I have to say your visit wasn't wholly unexpected.”
“Probabilities greater than 3% must be taken into account, right?” Keigo placed the cup back onto its saucer. “But I forgot; you're not as keen on probabilities as that data pair is.”
“There are always ways to alter probabilities, to get the result that you want.” Mizuki twisted a curl of his own hair around his index finger. It was a bad nervous habit of his. Keigo had seen him do it on several occasions . “There is a 99% probability that you came here to ask me about the murder of Kobayashi Kotoha.”
Keigo had a sudden urge to grind Mizuki's nose into the floor with the heel of his boot.
“Well,” he said, “this should be a fairly straightforward meeting, then. Tell me everything you know about Kotoha's murder, and I'll leave without incident.”
Mizuki was still lingering over his chrysanthemum tea. “Why should I? As I understand it, Atobe, there are no obvious advantages to my giving you the information you want.”
Keigo's temper was going to snap if he didn't do something about it. “Mizuki,” he said, leaning forward, “I don't think you understand the situation. You can either tell me what I want to know, or I can rip the facts straight out of your mind. You're familiar with my abilities, and you know I'll have no qualms about doing it.”
“Your abilities?” Mizuki mused. “You psionics are so... fortunate. Unlike the rest of us, who must compensate for what we don't have.”
Keigo's eyes narrowed. He didn't know whether Mizuki was simply diverging into a bout of petulance, or trying to manipulate the conversation. Either way, Keigo was in no mood to accommodate him.
“I remember Yukimura sending me a message on my wristcomm two days ago. He warned me not to interfere with the relationship that was growing between Yoshirou and Kobayashi-san, saying that it would be to my detriment if I did,” Mizuki said. “
“The relationship. Between Akazawa and Kotoha.” Keigo had suspected something since the encounter with Akazawa in the corridor. But still--
“Rather more on Yoshirou's side than on the girl's, or rather, that was my impression.” Mizuki finally placed his cup down. Steam was still rising from it in slow, lingering spirals. “Did you know, Atobe, that Kobayashi-san was peculiarly attracted to powerful men?”
Keigo didn't reply. For a moment he was back in the alley, pulling Kotoha's body from the dumpster.
“Atobe-sama, won't you take the bento I made, just for once?”
“Ah come on, Atobe, take her present. I hate seeing girls cry.” That had been Shishido, he recalled.
“Kotoha had it bad for you, you know. Really really bad.”
“Atobe?” Mizuki tapped the couch in impatience. “It was your wish to hear the story behind Kobayashi Kotoha's death. Unless you've lost interest--?”
“You seemed to be telling me about Kotoha's romantic interests,” Keigo said. “I was waiting for you to get back on-topic.”
“My, my; are you so impatient? Don't be so quick to overlook details; they might turn out to be important. Perhaps that's the advantage to not being psionic; it forces us to be more attentive to the data. Which can sometimes result in predictions more accurate than those produced by precognition. Now, where were we? Ah yes; I was about to mention the reason for Kobayashi-san coming to Tokyo.”
“If you mean that she came to spy on Seigaku, that's hardly news. Seigaku territory has been inundated with spies in the past five weeks; it's common knowledge that Tsubakikawa was one of the gangs who sent a representative.”
“She spent two weeks there, far more time than mere information-gathering would warrant. From all accounts, she spent a great deal of time following young Echizen around. Rather fascinated by him, I gathered.”
“Everyone's fascinated by the Boy Wonder, Mizuki. Even you, although I can hardly see you admitting to that.”
“If you wish to discuss my feelings on Echizen Ryoma, I'm quite happy to digress, I assure you.”
“I see no need to discuss what's already written plainly on your face.”
If Mizuki had been the kind of person who bristled, he would have done so.
The question that had been nagging at Keigo for the past five minutes finally bubbled to the surface: “How did Akazawa and Kotoha meet each other?”
Mizuki shrugged delicately. “According to Kaneda-kun, they met each other via the Net. Some virtual reality space, I assume.”
He was certain Mizuki knew more than he was letting on. But Keigo was happy to let Mizuki be tight-fisted about the less salient data, as long as he revealed all the most important details. “And when did you become aware of the fact that they knew each other, or that they were romantically involved?”
He felt a peculiar flash of irritation go through him as he finished asking the question.
“She came to observe our virtual reality training sessions two or three times, as I did with Tsubakikawa. Are you not enjoying your coffee, Atobe? Are you sure you wouldn't like some tea instead?”
“The question, Mizuki.”
“Well, if you must know--” Mizuki put the teapot down; he'd been on the verge of pouring out a cup for Keigo. “It was obvious from those visits that the two of them were familiar with each other. I thought little of it at the time. Yoshirou's liaisons are not infrequent, and Kobayashi-san's methods of gathering data are well-known.”
“And you weren't in the least worried about St. Rudolph security being compromised, given Kotoha's reputation?”
Mizuki raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever been worried about Kotoha compromising Hyoutei's security?”
No, but Hyoutei isn't St. Rudolph. They weren't almost wholly dependent on data for their operations, for one thing. Aloud he said: “But it seems that you had cause to worry in the end. Was Kotoha too good at avoiding your poisons? Is that why you had to strangle her?”
Mizuki turned his head, looked at some vague point in the distance, an abstract, distended look in his eyes. “I was rather surprised at how moody Yoshirou was being,” he murmured. “Jealousy over Kobayashi-san and Echizen, of course, but it wasn't until I heard Yuuta and Kaneda discussing the matter that I became aware of this."
“And so you did kill her.”
“Of course,” Mizuki said, and added silkily: “You've been expecting me to confirm the fact ever since you walked into this room, haven't you?”
“I can't think of anyone else who would be so crude as to bury a girl at the bottom of a dumpster.” It was a lie, of course; Mukahi would have done it in a pinch. Oshitari too, possibly.
“It was efficient, you must admit. If my sources are right – and they have never been wrong – nobody came close to suspecting what was hidden there until you and Oshitari came along.”
Keigo's throat tightened. He clenched a fist; tried to steady himself. “ When did you decide that Kotoha was enough of a threat to be eliminated?”
“When Yoshirou made it clear that he was set on a long-term relationship, of course. A relationship that threatened to be destructive for the future of St. Rudolph. St. Rudolph has a great future, one that cannot be compromised by the addition of someone potentially disloyal to the syndicate.”
Someone like you? Keigo thought. But he'd already made up his mind as to what he was going to do; he wasn't interested any longer in the verbal sniping back and forth. “So when you realised that Akazawa was in love,” he noted.
“Love,” Mizuki said. “Yukimura spoke of that, in his message. What is love? Is love real? Oh,, I'm not trying to start a debate here; I won't deny that love is real. But wouldn't you say that there are degrees to reality?
“I can tell that you are real, Atobe, because you're sitting in front of me. Drinking a cup of rather expensive speciality coffee. But how real are your, well, telepathic thoughts? They certainly didn't work at all against Sanada. How real are your visions of the future? They failed you rather spectacularly against Tezuka.
“How real is Yukimura? No one has ever seen him outside the Net; he never gets more vivid than the virtual reality he inhabits. For all we know, he might be a figment of Yanagi Renji's imagination, created to help control the runners. Both theories would fit the data equally well.
“No matter how real love is, it isn't real enough to base decisions on. To create data from. Yoshirou may be heartbroken for life. On the other hand, he may be back to his old self next week. Who knows? Why risk something as important as St. Rudolph for something so insignificant?”
“Do you really want to know what those telepathic thoughts can do?” Keigo said softly.
He could feel Mizuki recoiling as Keigo reached out for his mind, pushed into his memory. Mizuki was no weakling; he was putting up a good fight against the mental onslaught.
But Keigo was stronger, by far the stronger; within three seconds, he'd cracked his way in. A flood of memories and connections came rushing through the gap:
“You were afraid, weren't you? Afraid that with Kotoha around, Akazawa would have no need for another strategist. Particularly one who'd worked so hard at undermining his authority. You were afraid that Akazawa would set you aside, appoint his new girlfriend to your position.
“You mentioned that Kotoha was attracted to powerful men. Was it terribly degrading for you that Kotoha saw Akazawa as the more powerful among the two of you? After all the illusions you'd built up about being the power behind the throne.”
He moved in like a blade of lightning, twisted Mizuki's mind into a feedback loop so they were both caught up into seeing the same memories: Kotoha arriving at St. Rudolph, sly and smiling and beautiful; days of tension and gossip and sniping at one another; Akazawa roaring at Mizuki, Mizuki screaming back. The spiked drink, Mizuki's well-kept hands pressing into her white neck...
When it was over Keigo stood up, reached for the slim plasma gun he always kept by his side. Mizuki's eyes were unfocused, dreamy; the usual side-effects of a telepathic operation as invasive as the one Keigo had just done. He'd managed to drop his tea cup; it was lying on the floor nearby, liquid seeping into the carpet.
“Even precognitives have to deal with probabilities.” Keigo said. “Yukimura knew this, and tried to prevent my doing what I'm about to do. He failed. But you're even worse, as you didn't even foresee this in your data.
“Any fool can look at Sanada and look at Rikkai and see that Yukimura is a real person. Data can always be transcended. Yanagi Renji and Inui Sadaharu realise that, and that's why they'll always be better strategists than you are.”
He raised the gun and aimed it. Although Mizuki still seemed dazed, his eyes widened.
“Let me,” said a deep voice coming from the door. Keigo glanced to the side and saw Akazawa's dark outline filling the doorway.
“Akazawa. I thought you might show up soon.” Akazawa wasn't so stupid as to have left this conversation unmonitored.
The St. Rudolph captain entered the drawing room, looking straight at Mizuki the whole time. “So you did kill her.”
“As if you didn't know,” Keigo said, his voice hard. His mind was still a little dizzy from rummaging through Mizuki's memories – disgusted, he told himself, not dizzy.
He was glad that Kotoha had finally gotten over her crush on him – wasn't he? He slammed a lid down on the thought before it could continue; it wasn't worthy of him.
Akazawa shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I wasn't sure.”
“Only because you didn't want to be sure.” He looked at Akazawa as he spoke, but paid attention to the periphery of his vision to make sure that Mizuki, who was starting to recover from from the telepathic attack, didn't make an attempt to escape. “Akazawa. You've spent three years running from your responsibilities as a leader. You can stay here with your snake of an advisor and a syndicate that is outwardly profitable and inwardly rotten. Or you can tear everything down and start from scratch. The choice is yours.”
Akazawa looked back at him, and this time there was steel in his gaze. He nodded.
“Well,” Keigo said. “Do it, then.”
“Not until you put the gun down,” he said, stubborn as ever.
“If I put it down,” Keigo said patiently, “Mizuki will reach for the poisons he keeps in his left pocket, and he'll knock us all out before making his escape. For practical reasons, I can't put my gun down until you've aimed yours at him.”
Akazawa was slow, very slow in bringing out his own weapon; so slow Keigo felt an unnatural twinge of worry as to whether Mizuki was going to bring out some new surprise of his own. But Mizuki just sat there, face grimaced into a strange expression.
“Akazawa,” Mizuki said finally, and there was something intense in his eyes, something cold and angry and yet defeated. It was the most genuine expression Keigo had ever seen him wear. “I did a good job for St. Rudolph.”
Akazawa looked at him, aimed the gun. “You did a great job, Mizuki.”
A voice rang out in the corridor outside. “Akazawa-san, no!” But it was too late; there was a sharp flash of light and then Mizuki was slumped back against the couch, trickles of blood soaking through his shirt.
Two boys came running into the drawing room: Akazawa's dark-haired friend named Kaneda, and Fuji Yuuta, who always struck Keigo as being strangely ordinary-looking, particularly next to his extraordinary brother.
Akazawa turned to look at them. “Yuuta. You came back from Seigaku?”
Yuuta was very pale. His left arm, Keigo noted, was heavily bandaged from elbow to wrist. “You killed Mizuki-san."
Keigo slipped his plasma gun back into its holster. “Akazawa had good reason to do so, Fuji Junior.”
Even the use of his detested nickname couldn't snap Yuuta out of his shock.
“Yuuta.” It was clear that Akazawa was distressed, and not in any state to deal with his underling's emotional Issues. Well, it wasn't his place to interfere with another gang's business, but this little charade was rapidly going nowhere.
“Not to interrupt, Akazawa, but you're going to need someone to deal with the body quickly, and discreetly.”
“I'll do it,” Kaneda said. Keigo liked the boy immediately. If the St. Rudolph syndicate ended up falling apart, he'd recruit him for Hyoutei.
He said to Akazawa: “I suppose I don't need to remind you that a meeting will have to be called immediately, and the new organisational issues sorted out.” Keigo turned to look at Fuji Yuuta. “I hope that your leadership team will have the good sense to stand behind you.”
The younger boy was still very white. He shuffled his feet, but looked straight at Akazawa as he spoke. “I'm sorry, Akazawa-san; I think I need sometime to think about it. May I have permission to stay at Seigaku for a few more days?”
“Granted,” Akazawa said. “You still have your flyer, right?”
Yuuta nodded, looking relieved. Keigo wasn't too happy about what Yuuta's decision meant for St. Rudolph. But it wasn't his place to stay here any longer.
“I'll be going now, then,” he said. “Try not to make too big a mess of this place, okay? For what it's worth, Kotoha had good taste in men. If she couldn't have had me, you were a great second choice.”
Akazawa still looked like hell; his face was drawn and exhausted. “You're a bastard too, Atobe. See you around.”
Keigo was smiling as he left the room. But he was barely halfway up the stairs before a bone-deep weariness settled upon him.
Yukimura. I guess you already knew I wouldn't listen to you.
Tell me, what were you trying to prevent?
To Chapter 4
