Ya-Li pointed outside. “One last moment to celebrate being kings of Pinchon, then we get down to business.”

  The moment that followed was drawn out in contemplation, silence, and awe. The full glory of the city could be seen from the top floor of Hotai, which was bested in height by only three other towers in the corporate cluster. All of them, however, rose from the southeast and thus, did not disrupt this view.

  For Ya-Li, the spectacle of Pinchon’s greatness, which extended for many kilometers, used to disinterest him. He did not appreciate the generations of Hokkis whose commitment built this paean to economic might, and whose hardship on the seas brought untold wealth to more than just the families of Haansu. The seamasters fed two billion people. Their products were so treasured that ships used to transport them across star systems. But he thought the city was a product of legacy, not looking to reinvent itself after the Chancellory’s fall and the decline of interstellar trade.

  His counterparts across the divide taught him to view it through a new lens. Bonju lectured to him on the merits of civic pride, which in the most difficult struggles could unite a people in common cause. Bonju drew on the lessons of war against the Chancellor Swarm, which decimated much of his Hokkaido but not the will of Hokkis to win and build something better. Myka, a dying man who lacked the tools of a more advanced world but spent his life fighting the sea, said pain was the core of all success. Sebu, a musician who was the most gracious child Ya-Li ever knew, awakened his mind to the artistic power embedded even in a frame of glass.

  There was limitless beauty here, with the pride and suffering of a people enshrined in every square meter of the city. They loved it, so he should love it.

  He did.

  Now.

  Ya-Li knew what needed to follow. The Hokki people couldn’t see it, so he’d have to show them the way.

  “There’s so much to do, and we don’t have much time,” he said to break the long silence. “Twenty-two days, to be exact.”

  Park sighed. “A tight schedule. Must it happen on Ascension?”

  “Can you think of a better day?”

  “For pure symbolism, no.”

  “It’s also the only time everyone in Pinchon will be in the right frame of mind. Your thoughts, Weeb?”

  “Go big. You proved it with the wedding. We don’t get this done with half measures.”

  Ya-Li grabbed the pipe and inhaled.

  “Full measures are full of risk, but rewards are immediate. It’s a tight schedule, Park, but I had seven days working alone when the wedding was accelerated.”

  “They’ll be queueing up to fight us.”

  “Yes, Park. Many hurdles, some unseen. As long as we position our people quickly and quietly, we’ll cover all contingencies. Speaking of which, when do you plan to speak with your father?”

  “I glanced at my hand-comm after the meeting. He messaged. I think I’ll be dining at the estate tonight. Then it will be just the two of us in his study. He’s always been open with me. Fair but pragmatic. If we come to an understanding, we’ll be talking late into the night.”

  Ya-Li could only imagine that dynamic, since his own father never bothered to spend protracted time with his son. Moon Taron abdicated the role to Ban-Ho and, until his death, Ya-Li’s Grandfather Seemo.

  “He will likely want specifics about the announcements I plan to make in a few days. Avoid the numbers, Park, but be honest. Allow him to understand: He will be uncomfortable with my edicts, but the company will flourish as a result. As long as we have the CFO onboard, the rest of these people don’t matter.”

  “Understood,” Park said, pulling out his hand-comm. “I’ll set things in motion with him. Secure the evening dine.”

  He excused himself and retreated across the vast suite, settling into a long white sofa set.

  Weeb removed his tablet from his jacket and tapped the screen.

  “Where are we on Project Coda?” Ya-Li asked, lowering his voice.

  “I’m working my contacts in Puratoon. They expect the right man for the job within a day. Maybe two.”

  “Good. I’m hoping he won’t be necessary, but our fingerprints cannot be on it. Too bad none of RJ’s soldiers stayed behind.”

  “Just as well, I think. They’re a heavy-handed sort. You still think we’ll have to go through with Coda?”

  “I should know by Nebelin. If no one is moving against us by then, perhaps we can put it off. Make sure all your people are scouring every backchannel of the IntraNex. How much time will you need for the full tap into the Hotai comm net?”

  Weeb smiled with relish as he scrolled the tablet. He showed Ya-Li a page with an active programming matrix.

  “Front door is unlocked. Soon as I turn the knob, we’re in.”

  “You trust your operators?”

  “Best on Hokkaido. Druuds through and through. I just hate keeping this from Park.”

  “Me too, but until I know where his father stands, I won’t take the risk. Weeb, I need one other favor. Ina Bui. That woman has worked inside this building longer than anyone. I need to know everything within her admin domain. Crack her plate. I want her to be useless. Can you prioritize it?”

  Weeb expelled smoke through his nostrils.

  “No problem. I don’t need to sleep.”

  They shared a clever grin. Sleep was not a priority for the Druud Crew since the wedding. So many moving parts. So many variables.

  They were paving a dangerous road. Ya-Li didn’t want anyone else to die; he’d seen enough blood and innards to last a lifetime. Yet total success seemed unlikely without more people being killed. It was enough to keep a man lying awake at night.

  So was the potential reward.

  Once they know the Splinter, they will be born again, as I was.

  5

  H E WAS WARNED. ELEVEN TARONS were coming to the estate for after-dinner drinks. This was the pretense, of course. What they really had in mind was a full-on intervention. They’d never use the word ‘confrontation’ because that implied arguing, yelling, and generally unfitting behavior. Yet he expected no one among the thirteen, including his parents, to accept today’s events with a mature attitude.

  “Good,” he told Burr Sheong en route home. “Let them bring their sharpest hooks.”

  “I hate having to protect you against your own family, sir. If you come to blows, should I intervene?”

  “I’m not skilled at fighting, and I was twelve the last time anyone smacked me upside the head. I despised school. So yes, feel free to show off your technique if someone loses control.”

  “I enjoy showing off from time to time.”

  Ya-Li thought Burr was settling in nicely.

  “Tell me, Burr. What did you think of Hotai?”

  “Clean and well-lit.”

  “Really. That’s all?”

  “I spent my entire life in the Dungeon District of New Seoul. Our headquarters were ancient, and my team never had the good fortune to raid a corporate tower, sir. ‘Clean and well-lit’ is a high compliment.”

  How little Ya-Li knew of the continent. Dungeon District?

  “Did you finalize the security detail for the sixtieth floor?”

  “Indeed, sir. I procured a team of five. Mr. Low says their clearances will be in place by the morning.”

  “Excellent. If you need anything, Weeb will make it happen. He might come off as a bit eccentric, but he’s remarkably efficient.”

  “Will do, sir.” Burr paused, but Ya-Li knew he wasn’t finished. “I don’t mean to pry, but you said something earlier that surprised me. You said you despised school.”

  “Very much.”

  “I might have thought a man of your obvious intellect and resources would have thrived in school, sir.”

  “I did, assuming your sole criteria was grades. On balance, it was a staggering waste of time.”

  “How so?”

  “Imagine, Burr, if you were required to retake introductory law enforcement classes each year. It would be insulting, yes? That was school. I had an opportunity to leave after Year Six, but I stayed. I was too immature and afraid to know better.”

  Burr formed the wistful smile of a man with a secret.

  “I left after Year Eight, but not because of high placement,” he said. “I had a life to live. Things to do. School had nothing left to teach me that the streets of New Seoul hadn’t already.”

  “I think I see. In time, you joined the police to fight the worst elements you saw on those streets.”

  “I was well-suited for the job, sir. I’ll return when I’m done here. The syndicates will be waiting. Roaches don’t die.”

  Ya-Li couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to return to the dregs of New Seoul when he could stand guard in a comfortable world of luxury, cleanliness … and good lighting. At the estate, he ate from the same menu prepared for the family. He had his own room with all the comforts a guest of the Tarons might expect.

  Then again, what really separated the seamasters from the criminal syndicates of New Seoul? No organizations worked harder to reap vast profits at the expense of the average Hokki than the seamasters. All those years poisoning the continent’s farmland, squeezing contractors and suppliers, and deflecting responsibility for the disaster onto the Kye-Do rings.

  We’re not criminals because we don’t look the part, Ya-Li thought. But if you knew the truth, Burr, you’d never leave The Lagos. You’d stand and fight the true syndicates. We’re the biggest Kohlna.

  The thought disgusted Ya-Li, but he hoped to change the dynamic in the next twenty-two days.

  They entered the estate.

  “Take me to the pool house, please. I’ll change in the cabana. Send the word around: If anyone inquires about me – especially my parents – tell them I am not to be disturbed.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “And Burr, thank you for today. Put your feet up. Have a meal. If I need you tonight, I’ll message. Otherwise, enjoy. My orders.”

  “Appreciated, sir.”

  Sir.

  It’s so much simpler, Ya-Li thought. He heard ‘Honorable’ or ‘Honored’ perhaps three times all day. It was freeing to distance himself from tired, overblown honorifics. No wonder the elite families believed themselves immune from the trials of the average Hokki – especially those on the continent. Centuries of social order catered to the elevation of ego, sometimes based on nothing more than the alleged privilege of age. He didn’t know what asshole started the tradition, but Ya-Li devoutly hoped he might go down in history as the asshole who ended it.

  He swam the first ten laps with a clear mind, hiding from the world.

  No worries of the day. No consideration of his schemes or those who might work against him. No use of his vast intellect. Just a singular focus on the water, the quality of his stroke, and his breathing.

  He learned this from his youngest counterpart, Sebu Taron.

  The boy, now thirteen, did more to convince Ya-Li of the Splinter’s value than Bonju or Myka. Sebu had the wisdom of an elder, the gifts of a prodigy, and the ability to infuse Ya-Li with patience, vision, and serenity. He showed Ya-Li the importance of setting aside a small part of each day to hide inside himself.

  “The music used to follow me wherever I went,” Sebu told a nervous Ya-Li three years ago, after Ya-Li’s engagement to Kara heightened social expectations. “It woke me in the morning and sang until bedtime. My elders said it was my genius, but they didn’t understand my pain. I had no life apart from the music.”

  “What did you do?” Ya-Li asked.

  “I decided to hide.”

  “How?”

  “It was by accident. I left home because I fell behind on my composition quota. I heard the dogs coming for me, so I ran. After two or three miles, I realized there was no music. It couldn’t keep up. That’s how I learned to hide. Every day I run three miles, but the first two I hide. Toward the end, I slow down to allow the music to catch up. It’s a small victory, but the music respects me now.”

  Though the boy was a genetic match along the line of causality in another universe, Ya-Li thought of him like a little brother. Wise beyond his years and well-practiced in the discipline of the closed society that raised him, Sebu nonetheless needed protection. The demands of his elders were relentless, as they determined each child’s role early in life and insisted on skill mastery. Sebu was a genius, his compositions lifting Ya-Li’s emotions to unforeseen heights, and his artistry on a violin devastating. Yet the better he became, the more his elders demanded.

  Ya-Li sensed the frustration morph into moments of desperation. They spent brief interludes – for Sebu had limited time alone – discussing the trials of childhood and how to manage the burden of pleasing adults who could not be pleased. Ya-Li learned as much as he taught in those moments. The strength passed between them like a low charge of electricity. Sebu lost none of his artistic polish but grew a sturdier spine, one which Ya-Li hoped would suit him well as the boy neared manhood.

  When Ya-Li finished his first ten laps, he opened his mind and called out for Sebu. Usually, the response was delayed if it came at all. The connection across the divide was convoluted. It did not follow the constructs of linear time. The conversation might seem like minutes to one but days to the other, yet the answers to their questions were immediate, as if sitting across a table from one another.

  Bonju once explained it, claiming the brain filtered time distortions like a brilliant editor.

  “In a metaphysical sense,” Bonju said, “we are the same entity despite these great distances. Causality in different timelines produced genetic matches in defiance of logic. It is this virtual impossibility that makes our connection so vital. It proves we are fragments of one soul.”

  On this day, Ya-Li continued to swim while waiting for Sebu to appear. The boy’s presence – he had a tender touch and a quiet smile – soothed Ya-Li and pushed back against his darker impulses.

  Sebu appeared through a lighted tunnel as Ya-Li began the fifteenth lap. The haze cleared and the picture sharpened. Sebu said nothing, for he was playing his violin to an audience of hundreds, but he heard the call and allowed Ya-Li to watch.

  The music broke Ya-Li’s heart and his rhythm in the pool. It spoke to him of immeasurable grief and a longing for an oasis where the soul might escape the weight of suffering, the ravages of unrequited love, and the shame of failure. It rose to a crescendo that suggested such a place did exist, if only humans had the courage to find it.

  “Are you trying to tell them about the Unfragmented Soul?”

  Sebu did not open his eyes as he played, possessed by the music. But he was listening.

  “They already know of it,” the boy thought, “but they can’t define it and have no reason to believe it is achievable.”

  “Then why play this composition?”

  “To offer hope of something greater, even if it’s unattainable.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they know our society was a mistake. We never should have broken away during the Schism. Now, there is no one with the courage to admit the failure. We’re trapped. I want to remind them we don’t have to be.”

  Ya-Li climbed out of the pool. He allowed the violin’s beautiful strains to dissipate along with Sebu. Once again, the boy opened Ya-Li's eyes by revealing his own circumstance.

  Sebu was born to third-generation colonists who populated Hokkaido when Chancellors split into factions – one advocating control over a new empire, one supporting harmony between castes. Asians of many Earth nationalities colonized the planet with no Chancellor involvement, but some communities – such as Sebu’s – became agrarian isolationists. They abandoned technology, worked the soil, fished the rivers, and embraced the arts.

  They dared not move forward, no matter the cost.

  His Hokkaido is mine. We’ve clung to the old ways. We tie ourselves to legacy. We see greater, but we’re afraid to reach for it. We’re trapped.

  Ya-Li believed Hokkis needed to embrace something deeper within themselves in order for the Alliance to succeed.

  “I’ll remind them how we move forward,” he told no one. “Their petty greed blinds them. It’s an old story.”

  Armed with a plan to push back against a herd of Tarons, Ya-Li retreated to his personal suite to change into evening wear and prepare his strategy. Before dinner, he stopped in the library and opened the secret box where he kept the Splinter.

  “So small,” he said, massaging the cube. “But infinite.”

  The back of his neck tickled.

  “I hope you do not plan to reveal its existence,” Bonju said.

  “No. It’s much too soon, and I don’t need the questions.”

  “Good. Patience remains the most valuable strategy.”

  Ya-Li heard a nervous cadence.

  “Do you believe my plan is too rushed?”

  “It is a bold strategy, Ya-Li. If you have confidence, I will support you. Consider the first sign of difficulty to be a warning. Remember, even if you succeed in this endeavor, the ultimate victory lies many star systems away.”

  “All the more reason to stay to my timetable.”

  Bonju sighed. “Take care, Ya-Li. They may goad you into a mistake. If even one suspects your role in the wedding attack, everything else falls apart.”

  He was right, of course. Hokkis of Haansu prided themselves on their ability to exploit secrets in their pursuit of leverage. One of many lessons learned from the Chancellors. Ya-Li vowed to be ready.

  Three sat for dinner.

  Moon and Chan began the first service without their son. They sat across from each other, mid-table. They were halfway through their soup when he arrived and took his position in the head chair. They nodded but otherwise ignored him.

  They’re saving up for the after-dinner show. They’ll regret it.

  They pushed through their entrée and almost finished when Ya-Li completed his soup. The server delivered his entrée; he told her to wait outside. When the room was cleared of staff, he said:

  “What did you think of the Hotai Convocation this morning?”

  Moon, flexing a brow as if surprised by the question, groaned.

  “I’d tried not to.”