She spun away and faced the wall. "You're overreacting."

"And you're defending him," he said just as harshly. Her back was rigid, full of defiance. He took a deep breath. They had been each other's only true friend for years, but now he saw her pulling away. He remembered all too keenly that she was one of the original Dragoons, a child who had come with them from the Clans. Fearing that her heritage was stronger than the love they shared, he turned away from her. Head hanging, he moved toward the door that led to the inner mansion, but then found himself unwilling to leave the room. He stopped in the doorway. His anger and sense of betrayal urged him on, but his love wouldn't let him walk away. He stood locked in his inner struggle.

He felt her hand tentatively touch his back. When he didn't shrug her off, she slid her arms around him and hugged him close. She was warm and shaking slightly. He felt a drop of wetness on the back of his neck.

"Dechan, I want to go home."

He turned to face her and put his right arm around her. With his left hand he raised her chin until her eyes met his.

"And if I don't want to go?"

"Don't ask me to make that choice."

"You're asking me to make the same sort of choice."

She buried her head in his shoulder and hugged him fiercely. He knew what his decision would be. She was more important to him than anything Wolf or Theodore could offer. They would go.

But hedidn't have to be a Dragoon.

Part 3

CRUCIBLE

32

"Michi –sama!"The path back from the edge of the abyss was long. "Michi -sama!"

Insistent and demanding, the familiar voice burrowed through to Michi Noketsuna's awareness. There was no physical contact. There wouldn't be. For all his impropriety, the caller knew better.

"Michi -sama!"

Letting go of the cold embrace of the dark, Michi opened his eyes. Head bowed, his gaze fell naturally upon the honor sword on the ground before him. The gleam of its half-unsheathed blade promised release from the voice, from the burdens of the world, but for as yet unknowable reasons, he had taken a step back from the edge.

He raised his head, composing himself before bowing an apology to the memorial tablet. He thought to see the other sword of the pair held in the firm grip of a tall black man, but the katanalay where he had placed it, the gentle curve of its scuffed black scabbard stark against the sand. There was no samurai there, only the dull white stone. Absurdly, Michi was both surprised and relieved.

It is your son who calls, Minobu-sensei, but is it your voice I hear?

"Michi -sama?"

"Hai,Kiyomasa -san. I hear you."

"I was afraid I would be too late." Kiyomasa Tetsuhara stepped closer, moving around to face Michi. The young man wore a Kurita Mech Warrior's dark gray uniform, the heavyweight material that served to protect him from the chill of the cavern making him look stout and clumsy. Despite the cold, sweat beaded on his smooth black skin. "I thought you would take this path, and I wanted to talk you out of it."

"Did you expect to have more luck with me than I had with your father?"

"I hoped to."

A smile flashed on Kiyomasa's face. With its easy promise of familiarity, that grin had undoubtedly made the young man many friends. Michi looked past it to the child he had known and, further, to the long-dead father of the child. Minobu's smiles had been rare. Shrugging off the memories, Michi spoke.

"Did you think they would help your argument?"

Kiyomasa's startled eyes flicked over Michi's shoulder, darting to those who had accompanied him. They offered him no verbal encouragement, but Michi sensed their agitation.

Nervous, Kiyomasa wet his lips and said, "I persuaded them that there are alternatives. So the least you could do is give us a chance. Talk with us. If we can't make you see that this is not the course for you, we will not interfere. Any one of us would be honored to be your kaishaku-nin."

"Very well."

Michi settled himself, drawing on his kito strengthen himself for this last trial. Standing, he turned to face the small crowd whose breaths steamed in the frigid air. He bowed to them.

"Konichiwa."

The group's return greeting was ragged, in keeping with their nature. Most wore Kurita military uniforms, although there was a wide array of unit patches. A few wore the uniforms of mercenaries, and one the white uniform of a ComStar Guardsman. The rest wore bits and pieces of military gear with no obvious antecedents.

They were of all ages. Some were young, too young to have been a part of the old battles. They would be the newest generation of warriors, raised on the tales of Theodore's revitalized Combine army. Others he recognized from his time in Dieron. Still others from the old Ryuken. He bowed to one of those.

"Kumban -san."

"Michi -sama." The man took a step forward and returned his bow. "I saw the stone for the old man. You?"

" Hai."

"He cannot thank you, so I will."

"Unnecessary. I was honored."

Kumban bowed again and retreated a step.

"You are the one we honor, Michi -sama," Kiyomasa said. "We know of your vendetta and what you did to uphold the honor of my father. Lord Takashi is dead, freeing us from our oaths. Before we could be bound to another Kurita, we decided to come to you. If you permit, we will join you. You are a man of great honor; we want you to lead us in what it means to be honorable warriors."

Michi gazed at the gathered Kuritans. He saw hope and fear and eagerness for glory in their eyes. His heightened senses let him feel the color of their ki.They were warriors, all of them, and embarked on a bold and daring course. Steeling themselves against the scorn of their fellows, they had run off to join a half-mad vagabond, no doubt believing him to be some sort of warrior saint. Yet they remained restive, troubled.

The great cavern and its eerie echoes was an unnerving place, but it should not cause a true warrior's heart to flutter. He considered the possibility that he was the cause of their nervousness.

He realized that he must present an appearance in accord with such fantasies. Like some ascetic defying the elements, he wore only a light kimono against the cold, and it was white, the color of death. The robe hung loosely on him and its open front and short sleeves showed the scars of a lifetime. The dead white, orb that was his left eye made many of the younger ones unable to meet his gaze for longer than a moment. Even some of those who had known him before flinched as he turned his stare on them, each in turn.

There was no doubt that his physical appearance affected them, but the flavor of their agitation could not solely be accounted for by the reality of confronting their dreams in the flesh. Something else stirred them to apprehension. Michi extended his senses, searching for the source of the disturbance and found that among those present were others who represented another factor in the Kuritans' plans for the future. The presence of these others had been masked from his kiby the Kuritans' agitation, just as their bodies had blocked Michi's sight. Once alerted to their presence, Michi could only wonder how he had missed it at the start. They were not Kuritan, but they were strong. He recognized the fit of the pattern.

Michi nodded and said, "You may come forward, Colonel Wolf."