Free Battlemind by William H Keith Page A

a smile and a bow. “Though, as you frequently remind me, information is the deadliest weapon of all.”
    The admiral chuckled. “Best not to speak of weapons here, Taisasan,” he said. “The bulkheads here have ears, quite literally. We don’t want to make our hosts nervous, do we?”
    “No, Shoshosan.”
    Hideshi raised his voice slightly. “We are ready to attend the Lord Munimori, at his convenience, of course.”
    Two more annaigakari floated into the room, bowed, then turned to lead the way to Munimori’s office suite. Since both Hideshi and his aide had long experience in space, the annaigakari didn’t offer to carry them like so many parcels, and the admiral was grateful for the small concession to his pride.
    They boarded an elevator pod that carried them swiftly and soundlessly from the hub to the outermost station ring, where spin gravity was maintained at a constant one G. The landscape was mingled green parkland, gardens, and the close-clustered buildings of densely structured cities, many done in traditional architectural styles that brought to mind parts of Kyoto or Osaka, all beneath a sky of slatted mirrors, admitting sunlight from outside. This corridor, with a permanent population of over 800,000—all in government or military service—was known with good reason as the Circle of Heaven. It was a place now more space colony than space station, a miniature world where spin-gravity gave the feeling of walking on a full-sized world, but where the horizons were sharply constrained and seemed to curve up and out of sight where one’s gaze followed the arc of the Great Wheel.
    Hideshi felt lost… as though he’d just been dumped on the surface of a strange world. Before either he or his aide could lose face, however, a captain with the aiguillettes of the Imperial Staff met them at the elevator terminus; a ten-minute trip in a maglev transport whisked them soundlessly around the ring’s curve to Munimori’s private residence. The place was low and modern, an understated bit of Imperial Minimalist architecture built into the side of a hill overlooking the Circle of Heaven. At the door to the atrium, they removed their boots, handing them over to a house servant with a stiff bow. “The general is waiting for you, honored sirs,” the servant—a young, nude, pale-skinned genie—said with a deeper, answering bow. “Please, if you would follow me.”
    They were led through several traditionally furnished rooms. The last was a paper-walled anteroom dominated by a perfectly matched pair of inochi-zo, the lovingly crafted, silently writhing life-sculptures that embodied—depending on the genetics of their design—purest and unending agony or purest and unending bliss. The eyes of the pain- inochi-zo followed them in silent pleading as they walked through the low doorway and into Munimori’s private sanctum; those of the pleasure statue were closed and unheeding.
    Stepping through the opposite doorway, they entered a formal garden, a peacefully contemplative bit of Zen artistry, the simplicity of rocks, moss, and gravel calling to mind mountains, forest, and sea—a world in miniature echoing the larger world of curved horizons beyond the vine-covered wall. Fleet Admiral Munimori was there, clad in a light, silk robe. The slave announced the guests, bowed low, and vanished.
    “Konichiwa, O-Gensuisama,” Hideshi said, bowing. Ushiba bowed as well but remained silent, as was proper. “We have come at your order.”
    “Thank you, Admiral,” Munimori replied. He was an extremely large man, nearly as broad in girth as a sumo wrestler and just as stockily muscular. He was holding a small scroll open as he sat cross-legged on a reed tatami. “It was good of you to come.”
    “I am honored at the invitation, Gensuisama.”
    “Please, be seated. I will summon tea.”
    Hideshi bowed thanks and acceptance.
    “And how are things at New America, Shoshosan?”
    “As chaotic as ever, my Lord Admiral. The