Free War of the Sun by Mack Maloney Page A

quickly began to set up, ready as always to play the Warlord’s requests, though it was obvious that the supreme leader was suffering much emotional discomfort.
    But instead of requesting the usual show tune or score from some obscure kabuki play, Hashi Pushi had a different kind of song in mind this day.
    “When one achieves the status of power and respect that great ones have achieved, as I have,” he began, his voice fighting back the tears, “there are those that wish him dead. They do this for only selfish reasons, usually so that they themselves can step onto the pedestal of absolute power.”
    Hashi Pushi paused, wiped the tears from his eyes with his greasy hands, and then continued, “I have recently ordered every one of your family members arrested. They are now all in chains, right here in the palace.”
    The members of the orchestra began to stir uneasily.
    “They will all be butchered,” Hashi Pushi told them, his voice still quivering, yet unnervingly calm, “unless you fulfill the order that I am about to give you.”
    Hashi Pushi then carefully looked each of the musicians directly in the eye.
    “When I command you to begin to play, you will stop only when I say so,” he went on, his voice now rising, going shrill with madness. “And though you may one day be told that my mortal being has been destroyed, that will not be enough for you to stop. You will play forever, just as my soul shall live forever. If you cease to play, your families will cease to exist, as will their families, and their families after that.”
    It was deadly quiet in the room now. The musicians were absolutely terrified.
    Hashi Pushi was literally clawing his face now, as if scratching his dirty skin alone would stop the seemingly endless flow of tears.
    “Now!” he suddenly bellowed. “Now, begin to play!”
    The musicians paused and looked to each other, confused over what they had been ordered to do.
    “But, Master,” the orchestra leader dared to ask. “What song shall we play?”
    Hashi Pushi stared at the man for a moment. Even through his bloodshot eyes, his murderous glare was apparent. But then, strangely, a slight, benign smile washed across his bloated face.
    “Play my favorite,” he said, his voice seeming to climb an octave or two. “You know the one …”
    Some of the Hi-Si giggled nervously; others fought back their own tears. Within a minute, they had tuned up and had launched into the opening strains of a shaky version of “The Firebird Suite.”

Eleven
    S EVENTY-TWO-YEAR-OLD SUKISAN KROTCHOKI WAS hauling in the first catch of the early morning.
    He was trawling about thirty-five miles east of Tokyo Harbor. The tide was beginning to run out, and the fish were going with it. So it was time to head back into port, dump the load, and then go out again.
    It had already been a good day. The hold below was two-thirds full of tuna and dolphin, just the kind of catch that would bring top payment for Krotchoki and his grandson, who helped him crew the boat. But it was not the three dozen or so fish in the hold which had Krotchoki in such good spirits this early morning. Rather it was the small crab that had got snagged in their net during the last haul.
    It was called a warrior crab. The name was eerily apt, for the crab’s shell was formed unmistakably in the face of a fierce samurai warrior. It was said that the crabs were actually the reincarnated souls of soldiers who had defended the Homeland centuries before, and it was the custom for anyone finding such a crab to throw it back, thereby preserving the hero’s soul.
    But such creatures were also very valuable to anyone who risked breaking the tradition. Krotchoki knew a certain Cult general who would pay him handsomely for the warrior crab. He would therefore risk the curse of bad luck which supposedly fell upon the family of anyone using the crab for personal gain. After seventy-two years, Krotchoki felt he was a little too old to believe in such