SAKURA NO HANA

    He was dreaming cherry blossoms again, impossibly red petals that drifted
down over him.  He held out his hand to catch one in his palm.  It splashed,
hot, red and liquid, spattering him.  All the petals were drops of blood.  He
looked up and the hideous, bloated thing from which they fell grinned at him
and reached for him.
    Benten woke, stifling a scream.  Shuddering, he sat up, his legs aching
with the repressed desire to run.  His heart pounded and the wound in his side
throbbed as he doubled over, resting his arms and face on his knees, and tried
to catch his breath.  His long, white hair swept forward, hiding the room from
his sight.  Still panting with fear, he shoved it back, like a child afraid to
turn out the light.
    How much longer?  It had been three days now, Saionji was dead, truly dead,
but he could not get him out of his dreams.
    Pathetic.
    Miserable coward, get a grip on yourself.
    His breathing had steadied a little.  It was quarter to five, hours 'til
dawn, and he still felt exhausted, but nothing would make him lie down and turn
out the light again.  Stupid, childish, pathetic coward.  Part of him denied
this.  But as he turned to slide his feet onto the floor, he felt the metal
weight of his hated, ever-present slave's collar settle against his throat and
remind him of what he had become.  What makes you think you deserve anything
other than this?  Come on, get up.
    Giddiness threatened to overwhelm him as he stood up, but he forced himself
to stand, refusing the luxury of sitting down again.  You don't deserve it.
Now move, go on, don't just stand there.  He walked unsteadily to the bathroom
and turned on the hot water to fill the narrow, high tub.  Then he showered,
shampooing his hair, deliberately scrubbing stinging soap into the unhealed
cuts and grazes on his body.  Finally, rinsed off, he climbed into the tub, now
filled with almost scalding water up to his chin.  It hurt.  Grimly, he forced
himself to bear it.  Cowards deserve pain.
    He stayed in the bath until the water started to cool.  Then he went slowly
through a series of katas until he was dry, concentrating all his will on
feeling warm, on not shivering.
    Finally, he felt better, focussed, the self-pitying wretch buried deep
where no-one would ever see him.  He used an electric hairdryer on his hair: no
katas would dry that to his satisfaction.  Would they be getting impatient at
headquarters?  A few days, Hasegawa had said dismissively.  Sort yourself out
then get back here.  Let them wait.
    Benten took his time over his nails and makeup, choosing his clothes.  No-
one would ever have the satisfaction of seeing him look less than perfect.
    He belted a white coat over his white suit and went downstairs, carefully
locking up and setting alarms behind him.  This was not the best part of town
but he had chosen it deliberately for its isolation.  It was cold outside and
the wind whipped viciously through the narrow alleys and occasional ruined
buildings.  He decided to walk for a while, to make for the busier, warmer
downtown area.
    Moving silently, he picked his way through rubble and rubbish, a tall, thin
figure with white hair streaming behind him in the wind.
    That same wind now brought voices to him.  He knew those voices: Ichiro,
Nijiro and Sanjiro, the Nakamura brothers.  The three layabouts were somewhere
ahead, laughing about something.  The laughter grew louder: they were coming
towards him.  Benten slipped into the shadow in a doorway.  With his right hand
he paid out a few feet of monofilament line from the unobtrusive ring on his
left.
    "That was such fun!" crowed Sanjiro, "I can't wait to get back.  I want to
cut off all his hair."
    "I couldn't believe it til I saw him."  Ichiro's deeper voice.  "But it was
him all right, the high and mighty Benten himself!"
    Benten froze, listening carefully.
    "He's a bit taller than I thought when you see him close up."
    "What I can't work out is how he got the collar off."
    "Who cares?  He's chained up, snivelling like a baby, and when we've done
over his house we'll go back and have some fun with him."
    "I'm going first, I found - yiiiii!"
    Benten had thrown the wire loop over their heads as they passed, neatly
encircling all three.  Now he yanked, bracing himself in the doorway.  The
three brothers tumbled in a heap on top of each other, at his feet.  The
monofilament encircled three bodies, cutting into their arms.  Sanjiro,
thrashing hardest, squealed as the wire cut his flesh, blood instantly soaking
through his sleeves.  Ichiro had been in the middle and now was insulated from
the wire by his brothers' bodies.  He was the first to look up and see Benten
standing over them, the end of the wire in his gloved hand.  Ichiro screamed.
The other two twisted to see their assailant, their eyes widening.  Sanjiro
began to splutter "But, but, but..."
    Benten pulled the wire tighter and the two on the outside screamed again.
He stood still, staring down at his victims until they finally fell silent.  He
smiled.  All three brothers gulped.
    "Now," he said softly, "I know I have a suspicious mind but it sounded to
me like you were on your way to break into my house."
    Silence.  All three stared at him incredulously.  Then:
    "How did you get away?"
    "We left you unconscious -"
    "- chained to a wall -"
    Then all three fell silent again, suddenly realising what they were saying.
    "What," said Benten even more softly, "are you three arguments for eugenics
raving about?  Hm?"
    Ichiro was the first to tear his eyes from Benten's almost hypnotic stare.
"It's not him!"  he hissed to his brothers.  They shook their heads, never
taking their eyes from their captor.
    "I'm not me?"
    "No!  No!  You're you!  He's not you!"
    Benten merely raised an eyebrow.
    "The other one!  He's not you!
    Benten said nothing.
    "The other one!" Ichiro insisted.
    Benten took a deep breath.  "Picking up litter isn't my job," he sighed,
"but I'm sure if I take you in, someone will have some reason to put you away."
    "No!  You don't believe me!  Listen, there's another one, just like you."
    "No, not just like him, the other one's taller, I told you he was taller."
    "All right, you three congenital idiots.  I've got better things to do.  On
your feet."
    "No!"  Ichiro shouted.  "I can prove it.  Look, on my belt - I can prove
it.  He's just like you only taller.  And thinner."
    Benten twitched aside Ichiro's coat.  Hanging from the gangster's belt was
a hank of long white hair.  Benten's eyes narrowed.  A cold chill took hold in
his stomach.  He focussed his stare on Ichiro.  "Tell me."
    "I, I, I -" Ichiro swallowed.  "We thought he was you.  But he acts
strange.  He can't talk - well, he can, but not so you could understand him.
We thought he was you.  He was sort of staggering round, like he was on
something, you know?  And weird clothes too."
    "And you thought he was me.  What did you do to him?"  Benten couldn't take
his eyes off the hair.  He noticed how grubby and tangled it was.  But nobody
had hair like his.
    "Nothing!  Not yet.  I mean, we captured him, there's a contr-oof!"
Sanjiro headbutted his brother in the chin.  All three suddenly looked even
more nervous than before.
    "There's a contract out on me, is there?"
    "No!  Really!"  All three shook their heads violently, trying to look
innocent.  At any other time, the sight would have made Benten laugh, but that
white hair had shocked him.  No-one else...  He came to a decision.
    Minutes later he was shoving Ichiro ahead of him through the rubble, the
other two left gagged and trussed like firewood in the alley.  Ichiro was busy
retelling the story, with special emphasis on how it was his brothers who had
actually captured the other, supposed Benten, tied him up and slapped him round
a bit.
    Eventually they reached the sleazy red light district where the three
brothers lived by offering their dubious and expensive protection to a number
of brothels.  Ichiro led Benten up a flight of stairs at the back of a pachinko
parlor.  The noise of the machines and sudden flashes of neon annoyed Benten
but he reined in his anger and his anxiety about what he might be about to
confront.  He ignored the content of Ichiro's unending babble, alert only to
background noises or sudden changes that might mean the little lout was going
to try something.  But Ichiro was too terrified to do anything without the
support of his brothers.  They did everything together.
    Ichiro pushed open the second door on the left of the gloomy first floor
landing.  It was brighter inside the room because both its windows were
broken.  Benten saw the figure hanging against the far wall, and the ice in his
belly seemed to creep up his spine.  He shoved Ichiro ahead of him and closed
the door.
    Hanging from chains bolted to the wall was... himself.  No.  Taller.
Thinner.  Filthy, with scraps of black rag barely covering his jutting ribs -
it could have been him.  But Benten had known for several years that there was
at least one other who looked like him: his father.
    He walked slowly forward, keeping Ichiro in sight, until he stood in front
of the figure.  The almost skeletal body hung limply from the wrists, which
were manacled to the wall high above.
    But this was just a boy, for all his height.  Benten reached out and
grabbed a handful of the hair and jerked the head up.  A bruised and
tearstained version of his own face was revealed.  As he stared, the long,
improbably black eyelashes fluttered and the eyes opened.  Grey, like his own.
Benten felt a sick anger start to build within him.  For a long moment, the
other stared back at him in astonishment.  The boy moved his cracked lips,
trying to speak, starting a fresh trickle of blood from the comer of his
mouth.  Benten dropped the hair and stepped back as the boy began to murmur
something, then cried out, eyes widening.
    Benten reacted instinctively, ducking and kicking high behind him.  His
heel landed firmly in Ichiro's face, breaking his nose and spraying red
droplets.  The thug screeched and fell, dropping the plank he had been holding
high.  Impatiently, Benten kicked him over onto his stomach and tied his hands
behind him.  Then he stood and faced the captive again.
    The boy's beautiful face was twisted with terror and he writhed in his
chains.  As Benten stepped closer, he began to babble hysterically.  Benten's
lip curled in disgust.  "They thought this was me?" he snarled.  The boy
whimpered.  Benten's hand snapped out, grabbing the boy's chin and turning his
head from side to side.  Oh yes.  Pointed ears.  Tears rolled down the boy's
cheeks, washing tracks through the grime.  Benten pulled his hand away, wiping
his fingers.  He paced round the room, wanting to go, run, forget he'd ever
come in here.  Coward, he taunted himself, you're as big a coward as that.  He
glared at the boy, now sobbing and twisting uselessly in his chains.  At last,
you can see where you get it from.
    He stopped pacing and leaned against the wall between the two windows.
Tiredness was creeping up on him, he had come out too soon after the battle
with Saionji.  And what was he going to do with this?  He couldn't leave him
here for the Nakamura brothers.
    A ragged black jacket was the only thing on the floor apart from broken
glass and plaster.  Benten grabbed it.  Metal jingled: keys.  He had to stand
close to the boy to unlock the chains and when he had done so the wretch
literally fell into his arms.  Angrily, Benten shoved him away, thrusting the
jacket at him.  The boy dragged it on, painfully, talking all the while.  He
felt the pockets and looked relieved at something he found, resting a hand
protectively over it.
    "Come on," muttered Benten.  He turned on his heel and left the room.  He
was partway down the stairs before the boy clattered down after him, calling
out.  Benten spun and hissed "Shut up!"  The words may have been foreign but
the tone was universal: the boy fell silent and crept after him.  They were
only a block away when Benten had to stop.  If he kept going the growing pain
in his side would force him to limp: he wasn't going to be able to walk all the
way back; he hadn't intended to walk this far.  His shadow stopped a few feet
away, wide-eyed and hesitant.  Ignoring him, Benten hailed a robocab, and, when
one settled, gestured to the boy to get in.  He followed, sitting as far away
as possible, and slid his credit card into the dented slot in the door.  The
cab rose, and Benten stared out of the grimy window at the sides and tops of
buildings, avoiding the boy's eyes in the window's reflection.
    He felt numb.  Twenty four years ago, someone who looked just like that boy
had been here before.  Benten had looked for him for nearly ten years, not
really expecting to find him.  Was this him?  He turned his head and stared at
the boy, who shivered, eyes widening in fear and whose hands visibly shook.
No.  This was not the one.  That one had stayed long enough to rape a kicking,
screaming schoolgirl, then had disappeared again.
    But they were unmistakably the same race.
    Benten made the cab circle his neighbourhood while he looked down for
possible trouble.  Seeing nothing, they descended a block away and got out.
Benten leaned against a wall, ignoring the boy who stood shivering in the cold
wind in his ragged clothes.  He waited until the robocab was out of sight, then
started to walk home.  He walked more slowly than before.  The wound Saionji's
sword had left when it went through him was pulsing with pain.  But he did not
wince and he did not limp.  Not in front of him.
    The boy had not made a sound since Benten had told him to shut up, but his
wide eyes showed fear.  Benten reached his front door and checked the locks and
telltales.  All clear.  He opened it and motioned to the boy to go in, then
followed him and locked it again.  It was warmer inside and he took off his
coat, moving carefully.  The boy kept shivering.  It wasn't just the cold
then.  Benten walked towards him.  The boy backed away.  His fear, his
unending, mindless terror, was getting on Benten's nerves.  Was that his
father's race?  Were they all like that?
    He shoved the boy.  "Come on.  You're bigger than I am.  Stand still."  But
he kept backing away, whimpering when he backed into the far wall.  Benten
slapped him hard on each cheek, snapping his head from side to side.  "Come
on.  Stand up to me.  Fight me."  The boy burst into tears and this infuriated
Benten more.  "Fight me!" he shouted, "Show me my father's race aren't all
miserable cowards!  Show me I might have something to live for!"
    The boy slid to his knees, sobbing, holding up his hands to shield his
face.  Benten lost all control then, despising what that told him about himself
He hit the boy again and again.  "I have killed so many people to keep myself
alive.  I've killed people I've loved to stay alive, I've become a slave
because I'm afraid to die.  And why?  My mother wasn't afraid to die.  But me,
I take after my father's side.  Cowards, all of us."  Now he was exhausted, the
pain in his side making him twist sideways, holding himself his victim was
curled into a ball on the floor, arms and legs held tight against his body.
Benten collapsed to his knees beside him.  "You pathetic little shit," he
murmurred.  Who?  Either of them.  The boy was everything he hated and feared
in himself alien, incomprehensible, gutless.  All thought left Benten now
except for the desire to hurt, to crush that side of himself.
    Barely realising what he was doing, he grabbed the boy by the belt and
pulled him closer.  He straddled him, dragging his hands to his sides and
kneeling on them.  The torn, black rags came away easily, and he undid his own
belt.  He moved off the boy's body for long enough to turn him over, ignoring
his screams and his flailing arms, pulling his legs apart and kneeling between
them.  He could do anything he wanted, the miserable wretch seemed incapable of
defending himself.  So.  What did he have to prove?  That his father's people
could rape helpless children.  He knew that.
    Benten stood up and began to take the rest of his clothes off.  For the
first time in his life he just dropped them on the floor as he walked to the
bathroom.  He stood under the shower, his mind clear, almost blank.  Then he
went into his bedroom and took the shorter of his two swords off the wall.  Not
in here.  Back where the boy was.
    He knelt a few feet away from him and bowed, though with sarcasm, not
respect.  Now I know what I am, he thought.  Then: fuck you, Hasegawa.  You
thought I was yours for keeps.  I should never have made the deal.  But it's
over now.
    The point of the sword was poised on his right side, exactly where Saionji
had pierced him.  He tensed.  No, the muscles should be relaxed or this won't
work.  Now.
    Tears sprang to his eyes and he gasped at the pain as he pushed the sword
in.  Then something struck him from the side and sent him sprawling over the
floor, the blade falling, blood seeping from his reopened wound.  For a moment
he was too stunned to think, only half aware of movement, a weight against
him.  As he lay there he could hear someone shouting at him.  He tried to make
himself understand but it was all gibberish.  He opened his eyes to see the boy
kneeling over him, the sword in his hand, waving it about.  Then he shouted
something and flung it into the far corner.
    Benten stared, amazed.  Why didn't you do that before?  he wondered.  He
dragged himself off the floor and punched the boy in the face.  Then he passed
out.

                                      ~~~

    It must have been hours later when he woke again.  It was dark outside.
What was he doing on the floor?  He tried to move, then tried again and
succeeded.  As he pushed himself upright the lights came on.  The first thing
he saw was the body sprawled beside him.  Memory returned like a cold shower.
He felt for a pulse, found one.  Maybe concussed?  He stared down at the
angular face, inhumanly beautiful.  Everything that was alien about his own
looks was present to an even greater degree in that face.  He wondered what the
boy's name was.  Ahh, who cares...  He was so tired.  He looked down at the
blood drying on him, on the floor.  He had tried again, and failed again.  No.
The boy had stopped him.  He would have to ask him why.

                                      ~~~

    But now it was nearly midnight and he was so tired.  Bed.  But what was he
going to do about him?  Benten lurched to the other room, dragged his light
summer quilt out of the cupboard and covered the boy with it.  He stood,
swaying, looking down at him in confusion for a moment then went to bed.
    A soft, insistent chime intruded into his sleep.  He tried to see where in
the dream it was coming from, and with the realisation that he was dreaming, he
awoke.  The chiming persisted and he finally recognised it as the telephone.
He picked it up.
    "- come on, you bastard, I haven't got all - Benten?  You there?"
Hasegawa.
    "What do you want?"
    "You.  I want your lilly white ass down at Hanada Park in an hour."
    "Fuck off, Hasegawa, I'm sick."
    "Fuck off yourself.  You've had three days.  If you were sick you'd be in
hospital.  One hour.  Be there: the entrance off Temple Street."
    Benten dropped the receiver.  Why, he asked himself for the hundredth time,
did he not just give up and let Hasegawa blow his head off?  Because he knew
the bastard would move heaven and earth to put him back in jail before he'd
kill him.
    So why not do it now, get the sword and finish what you started last night?
Because you're a coward, you're afraid of the pain, you're afraid of botching
it.  The madness and its momentum were gone and just the fear remained.
    He got up and showered.  The boy was either still unconscious or asleep: he
was breathing.  Not knowing what to do about him, Benten did not disturb him.
He found he was hungry for the first time in days and had some rice and soup.
Before he left, he put a bowl of fruit on the floor beside the boy, then went
out, locking the door with his usual care.
    He took a cab again, still not feeling like driving, and got to Temple
Street minutes before Hasegawa's deadline.  There was nobody around near the
entrance or just inside it.  An elderly couple walked slowly arm in arm along a
path in the distance.  He watched them until they disappeared behind some
trees.  Where was Hasegawa?  Benten walked a little way along the path, as far
as the first stone bench, and sat down.  He could see the entrance and a good
way along the path; there was nothing but empty lawn behind and in front of
him.  Another couple emerged from the distant trees, younger, walking towards
him.  A burly man in an overcoat and a tiny woman tripping along just behind
him.  He glanced round to the entrance - still no-one there.  He'd give
Hasegawa ten minutes then... then what?  Go in to HQ maybe.
    The man and woman were closer now.  He looked like a big thug but she was
exquisite.  A little warning bell chimed inside him: there was something
vaguely familiar about them.  He stood and began to walk back to the gate,
briskly, without looking back.
    Ah.  A group of men came into the park from the entrance ahead.  They
immediately fanned out into a semi-circle, laughing and leering at him.  He
turned.  The big man in the overcoat was pointing a gun at him.  Benten tensed,
uselessly.  He'd been set up.  He didn't have a chance.  Why had Hasegawa done
this?  But he didn't have time to think; they were moving to circle him now,
seven or eight of them.
    He paid out a couple of yards of monofilament, letting it swing loosely.
With his other hand he took out his sai.  The grins faded a little from the
faces around him, making him smile.  "I'll take some of you with me," he said
softly.  "Now, who's it to be?"
    "Drop the weapons, Benten," growled the man with the gun, "and we'll make
it easy on you."
    "No chance," replied Benten.  He knew some of these men.  He looked
carefully for the weakest link in the circle.  That one.  With no warning, he
lashed out, the line whipping through the man's throat.  As he fell to the
ground Benten reached the one next to him with the sai.  He swung the line over
his head, taking it low behind him to guard his back.  It caught and someone
screamed.  But the line's snagging for that brief moment was all they needed.
He managed to slash one other with the sai before he fell, hitting the ground
heavily with at least two of them on top of him.  He cried out as something
thudded against the wound in his side.  Through it all he heard the tinkle of
delighted, girlish laughter.  Then somebody grabbed a handful of his hair,
jerked his head up and slammed it against the concrete.

                                      ~~~

    Fox waited until the footsteps receded from the other side of the locked
door.  When he was sure his tormentor had finally left, he stiffly moved his
aching limbs, groaning.  He had been grateful for the warm cover he had found
over himself, but Goddess, the floor was hard.  He had spent the last half-hour
rigid with fear that the demented stranger would realise that he was awake and
attack him again.
    Yet again he wondered what world of lunatics he'd landed in.  At the time,
fleeing through the dimensional portal had seemed - actually, had been - a very
good idea, considering the alternative.  But within minutes of arriving he'd
had serious doubts and last night had included some of the most terrifying
moments of his life.  He tried to push out of his mind the memories that it had
brought back.  Sitting up, he noticed the bowl beside him.  A bowl of fruit?
What the hell kind of a, a, lunatic was the man?  Fox had been relieved and
grateful beyond description when another elf had arrived, miraculously, and
freed him from those three sadistic hoodlums.  But his surly rescuer seemed to
understand neither Spirithial, English, nor even Welsh.  Fox wondered what else
was going on: why had the man been so angry?  He was the only other elf Fox had
seen here, and he had turned out to be even stranger, more sadistic, than the
natives.  And then the knife!  Fox blanched at the memory of that knife, at the
way the man had pushed it into an existing wound.  Fox's stomach lurched.  What
was his problem?  The very thought of the pain, of the blood, had made Fox
throw himself at him.  He shuddered as he remembered pulling the knife away,
throwing it across the room.  He could not now even imagine himself going near
someone holding a knife like that, yet he had actually done it, and what had it
got him?  He gingerly touched his jaw.  It still ached.  His whole body ached.
    What should he do now?  He was afraid to stay where he was: sooner or later
that madman would come back.  But where would he go if he ran away?  He
couldn't speak the language, and the first people he'd met when he'd arrived
had immediately attacked him.  It didn't seem a very pleasant prospect either
way.
    He clambered to his feet, whimpering at the many aches and pains the
movement revealed, and walked cautiously around the room, listening for sounds
of approaching footsteps.  He was in a small flat, one bedroom, wood-panelled
bathroom and tiny kitchenette all opening off the central room in which he'd
awoken.  The door out led straight off that same room and he spent some time
looking at the locks.  They were obviously home-grown, the work of a good
amateur, better than you could probably buy, but they wouldn't stop him.
Finding something in this confusing place that he knew he could cope with made
Fox feel better.  He picked up the bowl and chose a peach.  His cracked lip
stung but it was sweet and juicy and he hadn't eaten for a day and a night.
His thoughts returned to the man who had brought him here, who had done
everything he'd done - then gone out, leaving food and a blanket over him.  He
remembered the knife and the anguish on the other's face.  Who was he?
    There was little clue to him in the flat: it seemed more like a hotel room
than a home.  There was no scattering of private possessions, no little
touches.  He looked more closely at the wooden and paper panelling on the walls
and discovered that some of the panels slid aside to reveal shelves,
cupboards.  There was a wardrobe in the bedroom and the bathroom revealed a
practical selection of cleansers and cosmetics.  The sight of them spurred him
into action.  He stripped off his remaining, now filthy rags and had a shower.
The soap and hot water helped him to find all the other little cuts and grazes
he had acquired in the last twenty four hours.  He found a towel and dried
himself off very gently indeed then made sure the bathroom was as tidy as he'd
found it.  After all, its owner had saved his life.
    He looked over the clothes in the wardrobe.  Nothing in there was going to
fit, as the other was shorter and more muscular than he.  And, oh Lady, was
there anything that wasn't white?  He found a shirt with ruffles that elongated
the cuffs, and a pair of trousers that he could tuck into the tops of his boots
if he used his own belt to hold them up.  He put his own jacket back on and
stared sadly at the haggard reflection in the mirror.  All his bruises seemed
overnight to have developed into the most extraordinarily livid reds and
purples and he felt as bad as he looked: at least no-one he knew was going to
see him.
    The last cupboard he tried to open turned out to be a fold-away office,
with nothing in it but a terminal, but that was all Fox needed.  Now he could
find out where he was, and, if he was lucky, how to get home.

                                      ~~~

    Icy water drenched him, everything hurt, felt wrong, different, there was
something over his face, smothering him, he tried to cry out, thrashing wildly,
unable to understand what had happened to him - but he could barely move, could
make no sound, could not see.  Panic, panic seemed to overwhelm him and he
fought to quell it, panting, unable to get enough air.  There were raucous
cheers all around him.
    "About time!"
    "Catching up on our beauty sleep, are we?"
    He stopped struggling, tried to take stock, to understand what they'd
done.  There was something horrible over his face, some sort of gag and
blindfold pinching and pulling his skin, and he could only just breathe through
his nose.  Cold, he was naked, arms stretched high above and hurting, his hands
numb.  There was a smooth wall behind him and chains around his ankles, his
legs apart.  A cold draught blew over his wet skin, making him shiver
uncontrollably, and the vulnerability of his position terrified him.
Instinctively, he knew where he was: in the room where he'd found the white-
haired boy, chained to the wall in his place.
    A door opened, heavy footsteps.  "Awake, is he?"
    "Yes, Yoshii-sama,"
    Yoshii, the stocky thug with the gun and the beautiful mistress.  He was an
ambitious gangland boss, not big-time, not yet.  The Nakamura brothers worked
for him.
    The footsteps stopped in front of him.  "So this is what killed two of my
men - three if you count Ichiro - and put another two in hospital?  This?"  A
heavy fist slammed into Benten's stomach, winding him, making him slump in the
chains.
    "Oh, don't put him to sleep again," remonstrated a gentle female voice.
"He'll be much more fun if he's awake."
    "You may be right, my dear.  Get me a chair, someone," - the sound of
furniture dragging across the floor - "and get that blasted gag off him."
    Scuffling, warm bodies standing near him, thick fingers fumbling with the
comer of the gag, a broad piece of tape.  He moaned as the fingers tried to get
under a comer of the tape.
    "Jesus Christ, what is this stuff7 It won't come off."
    "It is what ladies use to take the hair off their legs," murmurred the
female voice coyly.  "And it will come off.  You must be quite firm."
    Benten's cheek felt raw and bruised as the fingers finally scraped up
enough of the comer to get a good grip.  Then he screamed uncontrollably as the
gag was ripped away: it took most of his skin with it.  His lips immediately
seeped blood like raw wounds, filling his mouth, the warmth of it dripping down
his body.
    "Holy shit, will you look at that?"
    "Throw some more water over him before he sprays blood all over us."
    "God, wait 'til we try and get it off his eyes."
    Benten was spinning into unconsciousness again, the lower half of his face
felt as if it had been slammed with a red-hot iron bar.  The cold water that
hit him felt like another blow but it washed the blood away.  His eyes.  The
same stuff was over his eyes.  His skin crawled and he shuddered.
    "Benten?  Benten!  Come on, pay attention, lad, I'm talking to you."
    "Yoshii.  Ai?"  He couldn't manage the "wh" of "why."
    "Ai?" The big man laughed.  "I'll tell you ai.  Basenji wants you, that's
ai."
    Benten did not reply.  His mouth hurt incredibly, blood was still dripping
down his chin.
    "I'd kill you myself, slowly; you've been a damn nuisance.  I've lost seven
men because of you - the Nakamuras are useless without their brother.  But
Basenji wants you worse, and I'm going to be the man that gives you to him."
    Basenji - some things started to make sense, Basenji was the biggest, most
cautious and unreachable crimelord in Oedo.  Hasegawa had wanted him for
years.  If he'd put out the contract on Benten then to Hasegawa that would have
read like an open invitation to position a walking bomb right in his lap.  The
collar Benten wore could be made to blow up an entire building.
    "Ai - why - does 'Asenji want me?"
    "Don't you know?  You killed his lady love, you idiot.  Carrie.  Two months
pregnant to him, and Lord Basenji wanting a son all these years.  But she had
to do one last job, the fool."
    More likely she grabbed at the chance to get rid of a previous lover,
thought Benten.  Could be embarrassing to have them turn up if you're playing
at being lady of the manor.  Carrie, a mother?  She'd have strangled the baby
the first time it threw up on her clothes.
    "Hasegawa's using you," he croaked, "to get 'Asenji.  When I'm close, he b-
blows me up, and Basenji too."
    Yoshii laughed, uproariously.  "Worked it out, have you?  We'll be
heartbroken, we really will, if Basenji gets blown up."
    Benten realised he was being used as a pawn in a much subtler game than he
realised.  If the plan failed, Basenji would take it out of Yoshii's hide.  If
it worked there what he might think, Yoshii wasn't up to taking over the gangs
of Oedo and in the mayhem the police could clean up.
    "Won't work," he said.  "Basenji knows what I am: Carrie would have told
him.  He won't come near me."  Nearly every word hurt, his raw lips still
seeping blood.
    "Then we just take the money," said the soft voice of Sachiko, Yoshii's
delicate little mistress.  "Basenji-san offers a great deal for you.  Can you
offer anything to save yourself?  Hmm?"  She made no sound as she moved but he
heard by her voice that she had come closer.  "What trivial things do you see
and know that you can offer to us?"  She walked from his left side to his right
and turned.  "We think Hasegawa is planning a raid on our heroin laboratory, is
this so?"  She was back at his left, quite close.  "There must be much that you
know that you can offer for your life, and we would not give you to Basenji-
san.  I would like to keep you.  You are very beautiful."
    The room was quiet now.  They were waiting to see what she'd do next.  The
offer was a blatant lie: she'd said outright that they'd hand him over for the
money, if nothing else.  Sachiko was a former geisha who had hitched her wagon
to successively more powerful gangsters.  She was as beautiful and delicate as
a painted porcelain flower, and as cold and hard.  She seemed to take his
silence to suggest that he was thinking it over.  "I could keep you if you
proved your value to us."  She was very close.  A fingertip lightly stroked his
shoulder and he could not suppress a shudder as it slid down his taut chest and
across his left nipple.  He took a deep breath, still saying nothing, inhaling
her scent and the warmth of her body.  Oh no.
    Several fingertips played over his stomach, gently sliding downward,
lightly brushing the length of his cock.  She would love it if he rose to her,
if he let her dominate him.  And Yoshii, the pervert, no doubt breathing harder
and easing the cloth of his trousers as he watched.
    Resisting her was easy: he only had to bite his lips and remember that the
waxed strips had been her contribution.  And he still had the one over his
eyes - the thought of that being ripped away and half-tearing his eyelids off
completely quelled any other thought.
    Sachiko's hand caressed the inside of his thigh, moving up to cradle his
balls.  Why had he ever thought he could resist her?  His utter helplessness
before her both appalled and seduced him.  Her movements became more
deliberate, as if she had lost patience with the more casual approach.
    "Yoshii," he said, "you must be easy to please if that's the best she can -
unh!"  The caressing hand clenched round his balls and a distant snigger was
cut off very quickly.
    Yoshii chuckled.  "Benten, you must be a masochist.  You should've stood
there and enjoyed it."
    "Like you were?" Benten gasped.  He could hear quick, angry movements:
Sachiko had walked away from him and opened or closed something with a metal
clasp.  She came back and the unmistakable whine of a whip was followed by
Benten's yelp as it cut across his chest.  The second time, he stifled his cry,
and the third.  She aimed several cuts across his legs and still he kept
silent.  Then she caught him right across the groin and he screamed.  Again.
Lights exploded behind his eyelids and he slumped in the chains, his hair
covering his face as his head fell forward.
    Something clattered to the floor.  "I'm hungry," announced Sachiko, her
voice now strangely husky.  A chair dragged across the floor.  "Let's go,"
replied Yoshii.  "One of you stay here and keep an eye on him."
    Benten hung against the wall, fighting off the giddy spinning darkness
around him.  He could hear his own breath rasping over the sound of them
leaving, going down the stairs.  Silence.  He tried to straighten up, all his
weight was hanging agonisingly from the chains around his wrists, but his body
would not respond.  He tried to cry out but no sound came.  He could only hang
there, panting.
    Footsteps, up the stairs, through the door.  The door closed.  Benten
stopped trying to move as someone came towards him.  For long moments there was
no sound but his own panting and over it, someone else's increasingly rapid
breathing.  "She's right," growled a deep voice.  "You are beautiful."  A rough
hand lifted his chin, another swept back his hair.  "Very beautiful."  The
hands let go and his head dropped again.  Leather creaked and the hands fumbled
at his ankles, undoing the chains.  Benten stayed completely limp and the man
stood and reached up for his wrists.  Grasping them, he lifted Benten's body
slightly, moving him sideways and unhooking him from whatever held him up.
Benten dared not try to move now.  He was dragged across the floor, his wrists
still chained.  Then he was laid face down over a table, his hips over the edge
and his feet scraping on the floor.  He started to slide off, pain threatening
to overwhelm him as his belly and chest rasped over the edge.  The hands
grabbed him and dragged him up again, holding him there.  One hand slid down
his spine, fumbling, squeezing between his buttocks.  His terror grew and with
it he could feel some strength returning but he dared not move yet.
    The man held him there with one hand, his hip against Benten's, and the
other hand fumbling with clothing.  Then he took a sideways step to get behind
Benten, for a moment standing with a foot either side of Benten's left leg.
Benten lashed upwards with all his strength and the man grunted, doubling
over.  "You bastard!"  He clutched at Benten who slithered sideways, throwing
himself at his attacker.  His weight more than his strength brought the two of
them down to the floor, Benten scrambling in mad desperation for the man's head
as the other tried to punch and shove him away.  He almost sobbed with relief
as he managed to get the chain linking his wrists round the other's neck, using
his little remaining power to jerk it tight and hold it, despite the other's
frantic bucking and clawing.
    He held on for an eternity, terrified to ease up in case the man's limpness
was a feint.  He lay over the other's body, finally accepting that he was no
longer breathing, and couldn't have held his breath that long.  He rolled off,
crawling away on his knees, listening intently for any noise.  Nothing, even
the distant sounds of the pachinko parlour were long gone.  It must have been
late at night.
    Gingerly he raised his hands to his face and felt the tape over his eyes.
It was three fingers wide and went from one temple to the other, moulded
closely over the bridge of his nose.  He reached to one side and caught a comer
under his nail.  He scratched at it, trying to lift it.  It was like trying to
gouge a hole in his own skin.  Finally he got enough thumbnail under the edge
to grab it and pull.  He gasped at the pain, doubling over on his knees on the
floor.  The tape took his skin with it, it was like being flayed with a
scalpel.  He could feel it bleeding.  And he had only lifted a couple of
millimetres.
    He cried out in frustration.  He had to get out of here before Yoshii and
the rest came back.  Think, Benten, stop acting like a witless cretin.  What
was the layout of the room like?  He remembered the door, two broken windows.
He pushed himself to his feet and walked unsteadily forward, chained hands held
out, one sliding step at a time.  In five paces he reached a wall and turned
right, feeling his way along it.  Then he touched a windowframe.  So the door
was the other way.  He turned, feeling along the wall again, suddenly thinking
of the body on the floor and convinced that at any moment a hand would clutch
his ankle and pull him down.  Shuddering, he kept going.  Don't be such a
fucking idiot.  Keep moving.
    The door frame!  He fumbled for the handle.  It would be locked!  But it
wasn't, it opened easily if noisily.  He froze.  Silence, the distant sounds of
a city at night.  He remembered the landing and that the stairs would be on his
left.  It seemed to take forever to get down them, one at a time, sliding his
back down against the wall, keeping away from the banister in case he was
seen.  There was always another step then at last there were no more steps.  He
fumbled his way to the door onto the street, convinced that at any moment there
would be a burst of laughter, a round of applause, and they would have been
there watching him all along.  Yoshii was a great practical joker.  But the
street seemed to be deserted.  He turned to his left and crept along the back
of the building.  He recalled the tone of Sachiko's voice: it suggested she was
hungry for more than food.  They might be a while yet but he was as helpless as
a landed fish and they would find him easily once they returned.  He reached
the corner, remembering the alleyway up the side of it that led to the front.
There had been several doorways with refuse blown into them.  They weren't much
in the way of hiding places, but he needed somewhere to stop and get the
blindfold off.  He was soon huddled in one, all too soon: the thought of trying
to pull the tape off made him feel sick.
    His hands trembled as he felt the tape again.  It seemed welded to his
face.  He found the loosened corner, gritted his teeth and tugged.  He nearly
fainted from the pain as more living skin was torn away, blood welling over his
fingers.  He would never get this off, they'd be back and catch him -
miserable, snivelling coward, do it!  He tore it further, whimpering, then
biting his fingers to silence himself.
    A noise, down the alley.  He froze, shrinking further back.  A furtive
scuffle, coming closer, then a bright light shone on him, registering through
the blindfold and his eyelids.
    It was over.  He huddled miserably, holding his arms tightly in front of
him, expecting blows, laughter.  But the silence lengthened.  The light wavered
as it was played over him.  Finally a familiar voice said "Oh, goddess, you
again."
    He knew the voice but he could not place it: it wasn't anyone connected
with Yoshii, and the accent was unusual.  "What on earth are you doing here?"
the voice went on, coming closer.  "Oh goddess, what happened to you?"
    "Who are you?" Benten whispered.
    "Have you forgotten?  You left me unconscious on the floor in your flat
this morning."
    The boy?  But how - "You speak Japanese?"
    "I learned.  You left me alone with a computer - your face!  What happened
to your face?"
    "It's a waxed tape, I can't get it off."
    "Let me see."  The boy came closer, Benten heard him kneel.  "You're
bleeding -" the voice quavered, "Oh, Goddess, what happened?"
    "You know where I found you?  I - the same people, they thought you were
me.  Then they got me."
    "You mean they'd have done this to me?  Oh, I think I'm going to be sick."
    "You're going to be sick?" Benten snarled.  "How do you think I feel?
Listen, we have to get out of here before they come back."
    "They're coming back?"  For a moment Benten thought the boy would just turn
and run, then a trembling hand grasped his left elbow and pulled.  The boy
wasn't strong enough to pull him to his feet but he helped him up.  He sucked
in his breath at the sight of Benten's injuries.  "Oh, look at you, doesn't
that hurt?"
    "What do you think?" hissed Benten.  "Come on - no, not that way, round
the back.  How did you get here?  What are you doing here?"
    They stumbled back down the alley.  "I found the cab you took last night
and made it bring me here.  I have to get back to the place those three found
me or I'll never get home again."
    Benten thought back to Ichiro's babble when he first brought him here.  "It
wasn't anywhere near here.  I don't know where it was, some house they were
trying to burgle.  We'd have to make one of them tell."
    "Where are we going?"
    Where could they go?  Benten just wanted to go home.  Hasegawa would know
exactly where he went anyway, and at least it was secure there - "How did you
get out?  Of my place?"
    "Oh, I'm quite good with locks.  Don't worry, I closed it all up again.
Your security's perfectly adequate.  Listen, shall I call that cab again?  Only
I don't think I can go much further with you leaning on me."
    "Excuse me," muttered Benten.  He stood up straight, then felt himself sway
as the world spun around him.  The boy grabbed him again.  "Steady on," he
said, "You didn't have to let go.  Now, let me just - there."  Benten heard the
distant whine of a approaching cab, heard the sound build up as it descended.
For a moment he expected to hear Yoshii and Sachiko get out of it, but no,
everything was normal and they were airborn immediately.  He leaned back
against the seat and sighed.
    Fox stared at him, utterly horrified.  If this man hadn't rescued him those
animals would have done this to him.  When he'd heard the slight sound from the
doorway, he'd nearly bolted back out of the alley.  Only fear of the darkness
had made him shine his torch in the direction of the noise and he couldn't
believe what he had found.  Merill Yanagawa seemed less terrifying now.  But
they'd hurt him so badly and he'd still managed to escape.  Fox looked at the
ruin of his lips and shuddered to think of that tape over his own face.
    Benten flinched as the boy touched his hand.  "Let me see if I can get
those handcuffs off you."  Metal clattered lightly against metal and made a
slight scratching sound.
    "What's your name?" Benten asked diffidently.
    "Um, most people end up calling me Fox, or Foxy."
    Benten tried the strange syllables.  "Hokusai.  Like the painter?"
    "No, Foxy.  F.  Um, never mind.  I couldn't manage to say 'f' with lips
like that.  What happened to you?"
    Benten tentatively touched his tongue to his lips.  They were encrusted
with scabs.  He must look a sight.  "The same as the tape over my eyes.  They
ripped it off -"
    "Urgh, no.  Oh goddess, and they would have done that to me."  Hokusai
stopped working at the chain for a moment.  "Oh, that's ghastly.  But why?"
    "That's a long story - ah.  Thank you."  The handcuffs came away and Benten
was able to rub his aching wrists.  There were raw spots all round them.  He
remembered the boy had also had sores around his wrists, from the same cuffs.
    "That's quite all right.  I think we're here now."
    A few minutes later Benten had the unnerving experience of standing by
while someone else unlocked then re-locked his own front door.  Once inside, he
found a familiar chair, put his face in his hands and shuddered.  Hokusai put a
hesitant hand on his shoulder.  "Come on.  You should lie down."
    "I want to wash.  I want to take this thing off."  He plucked at the tape.
    "Leave it, you'll make it bleed again.  All right, I'll run the bath."
    "Shower first."
    "Suit yourself."
    Hokusai hovered nearby but Benten was able to find his own way round his
home and just stood under the shower for long minutes while the tub filled.
The whole bathroom was wooden-lined and could be soaked.  The shower was not a
separate enclosure, just a spray on a long, flexible pipe.  He turned off the
water and climbed into the partly-sunken chin-high bath.  His stomach felt
queasy at the thought that he now had to try again to pull the wretched tape
from his eyes.  If he ever got his hands on Sachiko he would enjoy strangling
her slowly.
    "Wait, let it soak a bit longer," came Hokusai's voice from the doorway.
"It'll be easier.  Do you mind if I have a shower too?"
    "Not at all.  The soap and shampoo are all over there, help yourself."
    "Thanks."
    He heard a slight rustle of cloth and jingle of metal then the shower was
turned on.  He lay his head back, lifting his sodden hair out of the tub and
onto the wooden floor around the top of it.  Then he groped for his big sea-
sponge and used it to trickle water over his face, soaking the tape repeatedly.
    "Benten?"
    "Mm?"
    "Your hair is still fairly mucky.  I could wash it for you if you like."
    "If you want.  How do you know my name?"
    "Oh, come on.  You left me alone for a whole day in your home with your
computer and access to all your records.  I know everything about you."
Hokusai sat on the warm wet planks and played the shower over Benten's hair.
Then he stroked his hands over it and Benten could smell the shampoo as Hokusai
gently worked it into a lather.  He rinsed it, letting the warm water also pour
over the tape.  Benten found himself almost melting into sleep, so pleasant was
it after the last week's experiences.
    "Hokusai?  Why are you doing this?  After what I did to you?"
    "I've been meaning to ask why you hit me.  I don't understand why you were
so angry with me.  What did I do?"  The boy sounded nervous, as if he were
afraid to raise the subject.
    Benten searched for the right words as he tried to confront his feelings
about Hokusai.  "I...  I have never seen anyone like you before except for
myself I wanted to find out what I am."
    "By hitting me?"
    Benten shifted uncomfortably.  "I wanted to see what you'd do.  When you
just cowered and took it, it made me angry."  He felt tension building up in
himself at the memory.  Perhaps Hokusai felt it too.  He moved away to put back
the shower hose and remained a short distance away.  Benten could not explain
why that simple thing saddened him, wiping away the pleasant feeling of a
moment ago.  He tried to justify himself "I've never known what I am.  Then I
saw you and you look more like me than anyone else I've ever seen."  It felt
strange to be saying these things.  He took a deep breath.  "I wanted to see
what you'd do.  It was wrong of me and incredibly stupid and I'm sorry."  The
last sentence came out in a rush and he felt awkward.  There was a long
silence.  Then Hokusai said "Do you mean there aren't any other elves here?  At
all?"
    "Any what?"
    "Elves.  You're the only part-elven person I've seen here.  But I don't
think we look remotely alike."
    Benten felt himself tensing.  "Part what?"
    "Elven.  You're half elf, aren't you?"  Hokusai sounded wary.
    "I don't know what I am.  Tell me what I am."
    "How should I know?" Hokusai's voice quavered.  "I mean, you look half-
elven.  Compared to everyone else I've seen here, anyway."
    Benten felt as if they weren't really having the same conversation.  He
wanted to be angry, the tape over his eyes was driving him mad, he couldn't
seem to grasp anything Hokusai said.  He was so tired he could hardly think.
He plucked at the tape and winced.
    "Here; let me try, I found something that might help."  Hokusai slipped
into the bath beside him, making the water slosh up over Benten's chin.  "Oops,
sorry."  He fiddled with something then touched his fingers to the side that
Benten had not attempted, rubbing something cold and slippery along the edge of
the tape at his temple.  Benten recognised the scent of his apple body lotion.
Delicately Hokusai ran a nail along the edge of the tape, lifting it slightly
and immediately working more of the lotion under it.  It seemed to come away
more readily and Benten relaxed a little.
    "Hokusai.  Explain to me what 'elven' means."
    Hokusai's fingers paused for a moment.  "Of elves," he said, sounding
puzzled.  More of the tape came away.
    "And what does 'elves' mean?"
    "Well, it means me, I'm an elf.  You're at least half-elven, aren't you?
One of your parents?  Oh, I'm sorry.  If you pull away like that it'll hurt."
    Benten sat rigidly upright, then forced himself to relax again.
    "My parents.  I never knew my parents.  But now that I've seen you, I think
my father must have been an elf.  It seems strange," he went on dazedly, "to
know that at last.  But I still don't know what it means.  What are elves like?
What does that make me?"
    "Oh, by the goddess, how am I supposed to answer that?  We're just people.
Do you really mean you've grown up all your life and not known what you were?"
    Benten laughed bitterly.  "Listen, elf, for the first twelve years of my
life I thought I was a girl.  Then I found out I was a boy, one who looked like
a freak and was very hard to kill.  Now you turn up and tell me I'm not even
human.  What am I?"  He clutched Hokusai's hand but felt him flinch and let go.
"I'm sorry."  Hokusai had got the tape halfway off his right eye and he grabbed
at it impatiently.
    "No!  You'll hurt yourself!"  Hokusai caught his wrists and held them.
"Not after all the trouble I've gone to," he said more softly.
    Benten didn't struggle.  "Why did you stop me from killing myself last
night?"
    Hokusai tightened his hold of Benten's wrists.  "I don't know.  Just
seeing, realizing what you were trying to do - I couldn't bear it.  And I've
always thought killing yourself was a coward's way out."
    "That's the damndest thing: I always thought not killing yourself was the
coward's way out.  Explain that to me - is that what elves think?"
    Hokusai let go of his wrists.  "Well, it's what I think.  Are you going to
keep still and let me finish this?  We're both going to be as wrinkled as
prunes."
    "You're changing the subject.  I need to talk about this."
    "All right, you talk and I'll peel.  Now keep still.  And listen, don't
assume that what I say and do and think is typical of other elves, we aren't
all the same."
    "But you do all look the same?  Thin, white hair, pointed ears?"
    "No.  And anyway, that doesn't mean we all look the same.  Do you think
people here all look the same?  After all they're all short, black-haired and
round-eared.
    "No, I suppose not."  He settled back again.  Hokusai kept working at the
tape, the water was warm and scented and he was more relaxed now.  After a
while he let his head rest against Hokusai's shoulder and told him what he had
never told anyone before.
    "My mother had just turned fifteen when she had me.  She had come home one
day from school looking like she'd been in a fight, which they say she did from
time to time.  But she said an evil spirit had attacked her.  My grandparents
didn't believe her.  They soon had to accept that she was pregnant but they
thought she made up the story to protect one of the local boys.  Then I was
born and I didn't look like any local boy and they had to accept that she'd
told the truth.  That was the only reason she'd hung on, to hear them admit
they were wrong.  She killed herself as soon as they left her alone to rest.
So there were these two old folk, well, not that old, really, left with a
baby.  There's only one thing they knew to do with babies, feed one end and
wipe the other.  So that was it."
    "I'm sorry about your mother.  But, well, as it happens, I'm a lot closer
to my grandmother than my mother too."
    Benten shrugged.  "I did ask my grandfather once why they didn't just throw
me in the river.  He said half of me might be a monster but the other half was
their daughter.  They actually brought me up as a daughter.  The only
childrens' clothes they had were hers, they weren't that rich.  My grandmother
always dyed my hair black and I looked like a skinny little girl and I hung
around with all the other little girls and I actually thought they were my
parents.
    "When I was twelve - hm.  That was when I found all this out, and I just
ran away.  First I tried to kill myself but it wasn't as easy as they made it
look in the movies.  I tried three times and I began to realise I could survive
things that other people couldn't.  But it hurt and so I stopped trying.  My
hair started to grow out so I shaved my head completely for a while.  I stopped
being the daughter and tried being the monster instead.  And in the end, this,"
he touched the collar, "is what it got me.  A life well-spent, hm?"
    "I've seen people do far worse.  Listen, knowing your parents isn't
automatically any wonderful thing.  I know mine - goddess, do I know them - and
it hasn't done me the slightest bit of good.  As I said, I had more to do with
my grandmother too.  But in my case we get on really well."
    "Tell me about yourself."
    "Perhaps some other time.  I've nearly got all this off, and then I'm going
to fall asleep where I'm sitting and drown.  I don't know how you could keep
going after what they did to you."
    "Knowing it would have been worse if I let them catch me again.  Great
incentive.  Ow!"
    "That's the last bit, where you'd started.  You've lost a patch of skin
there, you might get a scar.  Let me wash all this stuff off before you open
your eyes."
    Benten's eyes were bruised and puffy but he opened them enough to get a
bleary picture of Hokusai's angular little face before him.  For a long moment
he just stared at the bruises and the worried expression.  "Oh, it's good to
see you."  Hokusai grinned and looked embarrassed.  Then he grabbed Benten's
hand and held it up with his own beside it.  "Look: prunes.  Didn't I say?"
    The playful gesture made Benten smile.  "There's towels in that wicker
chest.  Oh god, I can hardly move."
    A few minutes later they were sitting on the bed, swathed in large, fluffy
towels.  Benten refused to look at a mirror so they ended up combing each
other's hair.  Benten felt numb with exhaustion and with the shock of meeting
someone who knew what he was.  But there was another, stranger, emotion growing
inside him.  He felt it when he looked at Hokusai, when he touched him.  The
other prattled away, and although he was in better shape than Benten he had
dark circles of tiredness under his eyes.  Finally Benten pushed him,
unprotesting, under the quilt and pulled it up over both of them.
    He was unsure what woke him, in the dark night, then he heard it again.
Hokusai was curled up on the far edge of the futon and sobbing, trying to
muffle the noise with his hands.  Benten lay listening to the despairing sound
for several minutes, not knowing what to do.  He resented being brought back to
all the pain in his body and he had always despised weakness.  Then he
remembered gentle, apple-scented fingers easing the vicious tape from his eyes,
soft, unworked hands washing the filth from his hair and he felt ashamed at his
anger.  He rolled over and reached out, hesitating, then touching the bony,
trembling shoulder.  Hokusai shuddered and the sobs became a whimper.
Belatedly, Benten realised that the boy was probably still afraid of him.  He
remembered the nervous, angular little face, first thing he had seen when the
tape had finally come off, and remembered also the bruises and swelling that
disfigured it, from the wild blows he had thrown.  Benten pulled his hand back,
covering his own face as he felt the hated prickle of tears.  No.  No, he knew,
he should have controlled himself He did so now, blinking the sensation away
and taking a deep breath.
    With slow, careful movements, he got out of the bed and walked around it,
deliberately noisy so Hokusai would hear him.  He knelt beside him, close, and
the shadow that was the boy's body shrank back.  Without thinking, like a cat
when a lure is drawn away from it, Benten reached out and clasped his fingers
around the boy's forearm.  Hokusai wailed, flinching, curling up tight into a
rigid ball.  Benten reached out with his other hand, stroking the boy's arm,
running his fingers along to the clenched fist.  The boy still tried to pull
away from him but Benten held his arm firmly and, he hoped, gently.  He
continued to stroke the boy's hand patiently, caressing the cold skin, feeling
bones so close beneath it.  He didn't know what to say, no-one had ever tried
to comfort him in the night.  He clasped his hand over Hokusai's fist, stroking
the sharp knuckles with his thumb.  That fist felt so fragile it might shatter
if its owner ever tried to hit someone with it.  What was it like to be so
frail?  Had he ever been as delicate?  Compared to most of his peers, Benten
was a skinny waif but beside this boy he felt like a lumbering oaf.
    The sobbing had quietened, the trembling had stilled, a little.  Hokusai
uncurled his fingers slightly, straightening his cramped legs.  His breathing
was on the edge of becoming tears again.  He clutched Benten's hand, trying to
speak, then dissolved into open crying.  "I...  I...  I want to go home!"
Benten sighed.  He didn't know what to say, what to do, did not know the
meaningless comforting noises that satisfy frightened children.  He slid his
body slightly sideways, off his knees and onto the floor and leaned forward,
down, stifling a gasp at the jolt of pain from his wound.  Still holding
Hokusai's arm with his right hand, he stretched out his left along the futon,
to encircle the thin shoulders.  He laid his head down on his own arm, his face
against the top of Hokusai's head.  The boy held Benten's hand and drew it
against his cheek, still sobbing.  Benten stroked his shoulder, feeling
feathery hair settle, cloud-like, over his arm.  "I will help you," he
whispered.  "If it's possible for you to go home I will get you there.  I will
make them tell me where they found you and take you there."  The metal ring
around his neck pressed hard again a bruise on his collarbone but he did not
move because the boy had nestled against him.  He had almost stopped sobbing
but every breath was like a hiccup that shook his whole body.  Benten stroked
the soft silver hair, longer and finer than his own, and wondered about a world
where hair like that didn't make you a freak.  Eventually he slept and his
dreams, for the first time in four long nights, were not of wet cherry blossom.
    Benten awoke again in the grey, pre-dawn light, stiff with cold and aching
from the uncomfortable position half on the floor.  Hokusai was still nestled
against him.  Benten pulled away carefully, trying not to wake the boy.  For a
moment he wondered why he was being so gentle when his whole body seemed racked
with pain.  Don't want to start him snivelling again, he lied to himself.  He
crept back around to his side of the futon and slid under the cover, rolling
over to find some warmth beside the boy, huddling as close as he dared.
Hokusai's body, with bones outlined under the skin, did not generate much heat
but Benten was chilled through.  Idiot, he told himself, why didn't you just
get back into bed instead of going to sleep on the floor...
    Finally he opened his eyes to find it was late morning, the cold spring
sunlight flooding the room.  A sound from the bathroom startled him and he
pushed himself upright, only to be overwhelmed by a wave of giddiness.  He fell
sideways, onto his elbows, gasping as the room spun around him and sparkles of
light glittered before his eyes.  There was someone beside him now, speaking to
him, but the words were lost in a hiss of white noise.  Soft hands patted at
his shoulder, trying ineffectually to make him lie down.  He gave way, falling
to the pillow then rolling onto his back, raising his hands to rub at his
stinging face.  But someone held his hands, stopping him.
    A hesitant voice said "Don't do that, it'll hurt.  Are you all right?  Do
you want me to bathe your eyes?"  Benten's body became rigid and he shook his
head, trying desperately to clear his vision, to see who was so close to him.
"Stop it, don't," cried the voice in alarm, "it's me, Fox."  The ringing in
Benten's ears died away as he lay still; the sparkling fog thinned and cleared,
and he was able to see Hokusai's worried face.  The boy looked relieved at the
recognition in Benten's eyes and let go of his hands.  Frantically, Benten
clutched at them, clasping the thin fingers close to his body as he tried to
subdue the memory of fear and pain that overwhelmed him.  The terror would not
recede and he shoved away Hokusai's hands, rolling onto his side and curling
up, his fists clenched, gritting his teeth to keep silent.  It felt like long
minutes before he regained control of himself, but finally, he was able to sit
up, slowly this time, and tell Hokusai not to worry, he was all right.

                                      ~~~

    This time Hasegawa let him sleep until mid-afternoon before calling and
demanding his immediate attendance.
    He left after assuring Hokusai that he and Hasegawa had regular shouting
matches and this would probably just be another.  When he returned, they could
go looking for the remaining Nakamura brothers and extract from them the
location of the place where they'd found him.
    He debated taking the car but couldn't face it.  Seeing it reminded him of
Carrie's limp body, spinning round and round in the headlights, after he had
killed her.
    As the robocab pulled up to HQ he wondered what Hasegawa would say about
his screwing up the grand plan to get Basenji.  It was very quiet in the
corridors through which he walked, and the few people he met looked at him
oddly.  But he was wearing dark glasses and not looking his best, and that was
unusual for him.  In Hasegawa's outer office he found two burly men in
orderly's white coats looming over Okio's desk, chatting her up.  They looked
up as he entered.
    "Well, we're outta here, honey."
    "See you later, sweet thing."
    Benten stood silently aside to let them pass.  They studiously ignored him
and by the time he registered that as an incongruency, one was already behind
him.  Benten threw himself forward, away, landing one kidney punch on the
nearest one.  But he was not as strong or as fast as usual and the last thing
he saw was Okio's pitying stare as he felt the sting of the injection.

                                      ~~~

    Fox fretted, alone in the flat.  Benten had been gone for a couple of hours
now and he had no idea where, or how long he'd be.  Time was ticking by and the
portal wasn't going to stay open indefinitely.  He paced around the room again,
feeling helpless and worried.  Benten's strange reaction when he'd awoken had
frightened Fox: that desperate battle for self-control, almost immediately won
by the other's fanatical will, alienated him.  He knew he could never be like
that and could not understand people who were.  And, he was embarrassed even to
think it, there was some self-interest involved.  Benten was his best hope for
getting home, and he wondered just how close to the edge that incomprehensible
individual was.  Finally he couldn't abide the suspense any longer, and fetched
Princess, sitting down in front of Benten's terminal.
    Hasegawa, chief of the Cyber Police: he shouldn't be that hard to find.

                                      ~~~

    He wanted to weep when he awoke.  He was back in a cell, a hated, familiar
lifetimer's cell in the orbital mens' prison.  They'd taken his clothes, his
ring; he was lying awkwardly where he'd been dumped on the narrow, hard bench
that served as bed, chair, desk and table.  The ceiling screen was off, the
specially-designed disposable, non-weight-bearing paper happi was lying folded
on the floor.  He reached shaking fingers to his throat.  His collar was gone.
That brought a pall of black despair over him.  The hated collar gone, removed
by the only people who could do so without killing him - the ones who'd put it
on in the first place.  That meant he was off the CyberPolice Special Unit and
back here to rot until he died, no second chance, no appeal, no consideration
of the work he'd done so far.  That had always been the agreement, he knew, but
Hasegawa had always been a great giver of last chances, enjoying the power this
gave him over people.  But this - the bastard hadn't even seen him!  Why was he
throwing away someone of proven value over the failure of a half-arsed scheme
to get rid of a distant gangster?  Why, he asked himself in sudden cold
reflection, had he been prepared to expend that same person in that same scheme
in the first place?  Had Benten had such an inflated idea of his own worth all
along?
    His thoughts continued to spin in giddy circles, going over and over the
same ground, for what seemed like hours.  And that was part of the torment of
this place: you never knew how much time passed, or how quickly.  The lights
dimmed, the lights brightened, and you never knew if it was six hours apart or
sixteen.  The ceiling screen would show several hours of anodyne entertainment
every "day", food would appear in the indestructible slot over there at regular
intervals - Benten sat hunched on the edge of the bunk, his face in his hands,
fighting hysteria.  His hair, they hadn't cut off his hair yet.  Sometime in
the next hour or two, or day or two, he would quietly pass out without
realising it and would wake up with a crew cut.  He twined his fingers through
it, remembering the feeling as Hokusai washed it.  Elven hair.  He had finally
learned what he was, met someone who, who -
    A crackle of sound came from above and he looked up to see the screen come
to life.  Hasegawa stared down at him, his hard face a mixture of curiosity and
contempt.  Benten sat back on the bunk, shaking with fury and the suppressed
desire to scream.  For a long moment he would not speak, wanting to force the
other to say something first but he could not.  He'd have the rest of his life
to play games like that.
    "You bastard," he hissed, barely able to control his voice.  "Why?"
    Hasegawa shrugged.  "Your own fault.  All your psych assessments keep
coming up suicidal.  Am I gonna be allowed to let a suicidal walking bomb stay
on the street?"
    Benten just stared at him.  Psych assessments?  "What psych assessments?"
    "Every time the medics had to patch you up, they'd do a scan while you were
out.  The last one, after Saionji?  They said no way, you're back in the
slammer.  You're a menace to society, pal."  He shrugged again.  "Anyway, by
then I heard about Basenji wanting you so I asked for one last chance.  After
all, what's the best thing to do with a bomb?  Controlled explosion."  He
smirked.  "But you had to get away so you don't go out with a bang after all.
Bye, Benten."
    The screen flickered back to grey and the last human being Benten would
ever see was gone.  Benten continued to stare upwards, tears trickling
unnoticed into his hair.  This was the loss of all hope, of all desire, of all
self.  He was panting like an animal.  After a while he began to scream.  Some
time later, when he was completely hoarse, he stopped.  There was nothing left
now.  He sat stiffly upright on the edge of the bench, numb, staring straight
ahead and seeing nothing.
    After a while the lights went out and in the sudden darkness he blinked.
He was not aware of the passing of time but eventually they came back on.  He
was still sitting on the edge of the bench, but now rocking slightly, to and
fro.  A meal clicked into the slot.  It pushed out the last, untouched one
which fell onto the previous, untouched one on the floor.  If he refused to eat
for long enough, he would be knocked out and injected with nutrients.  He had
survived eight months like that, last time, before Hasegawa had made his offer.
    The door opened.  It slid sideways into the wall and there was a corridor
outside.  That was new; he'd never seen that happen before.  You were always
drugged when you were moved in and out of cells and there was nowhere else to
go but cold, empty space.  After a long while considering the unusual
phenomenon of the door, he stood up.  It was still open.  He stepped forward,
paused inside the door, waiting for it to swish shut.  Some bored guard on the
other end of a terminal would think that a great joke.
    Nothing happened.  He stepped forward again and was outside.  He turned,
looking back, seeing the cell from the outside.  That novel view filled him
with the desperate need to get away from it, far away, before he was drawn back
in.  He backed into the wall on the other side of the corridor, then turned,
walking as quickly as he could.  Was this the right way?  Should he have gone
the other way?  At the end, the corridor turned right and he followed it,
nothing in it but the doors of more cells like his, no way to know if they were
occupied or empty.  Were there other people mere feet away or was he alone on
the station?  Another turn.  A door on the left opened, revealing an identical
corridor.  At the end of it, another door slid open, revealing a tiny room.
His cell - no, another cell, it had no bench.
    They had only moved him to another cell.  He stopped at the doorway, not
wanting to go in.  Behind him the other door closed and the lights went out,
only the little cell before him was lit.  The message was obvious.  He stood
there, not wanting to go into that cell but where else could he go?  He would
rather stay in the darkened corridor.  He stood there, suddenly dizzy, and
reached out to steady himself.  Under his hand he could feel a slight vibration
in the door frame and with a flash of understanding realised the tiny cell was
a lift.  He stepped inside and the doors closed.  The lift moved upward.  Where
were they taking him?  To an airlock perhaps?  All sensation of movement ceased
but nothing else happened.  Maybe it was just another cell.  Why another cell?
It was a puzzle he seemed unable to think through.  Then the lift lurched and
stopped, the doors opening.
    He hadn't gone anywhere: the same corridor, now lit again, stretched before
him.  He stood there listlessly.  A door at the end of the corridor opened and
the light in the lift went out.  They wanted him to go down there.  At the end
of the corridor was another corridor, all the corridors were identical, lined
with locked cells.  A door at the end opened.  He staggered down endless
corridors that darkened as other doors opened.  One of the doors would take him
back to his cell.  Or to an airlock which would open into the void.  Or maybe
he'd never left his cell, was just pacing back and forth in it, five steps that
way, turn, five steps back, five steps that way, turn, five steps back.  He
passed through another door into darkness; the door behind him slid shut and he
did not know where he was.
    Fox saw Benten come out of the building and almost wept with relief.  He
unplugged himself and closed Princess down.  Benten had not moved.  Fox opened
the door of the car and hissed "Benten!  Over here!  Come on!"  No reaction.
"Benten!"
    He dared not shout any louder.  What was wrong with him?  Fox scrambled out
of the car.  They had to get out of here.  It was one thing to fool computers,
but somebody might see them.
    Benten's eyes were wide and unfocussed and he stood still, naked, not even
shivering as the icy wind whipped his lank hair around his face.  Fox
hesitated, confused, then took his hand and tugged.  Benten let himself be led
back to the car.  Fox had to push him down into the seat, guarding him from
banging his head against the door frame then lifting his legs into the foot
well.  His pallid skin was icy and turning blue in the cold but he seemed to
feel nothing.  Panic rose in Fox as he drove them away.  What had they done to
him?  He shouted his name as he drove, wanting to cry in frustration.  He
didn't know what to do.  He'd relied completely on Benten's taking over as soon
as he was rescued, finding out from the Nakamura brothers where they'd captured
Fox and helping him to get home.  He had no idea what to do, he was tired and
frightened and hurt and he wanted someone to help him.  This was so unfair, he
just wanted to go home.  He pulled over on a deserted street and let go, crying
hunched over the steering wheel.
    After a while he couldn't even cry any more and sat there catching his
breath in little hiccups, trying to dry his eyes on his sodden sleeve.
Hopefully, he looked at his passenger.  Through it all, Benten had not moved.
Crying hadn't helped and he was too tired to cry any more.  Well, perhaps it
had made him feel a bit better, but the problem was still there.
    What could have happened to Benten?  Fox sat gazing at his alabaster face,
distant and frozen, blue veins showing through the translucent skin.  It would
have been a beautiful face but for the disfiguring welts and bruises and the
horrible, inhuman expression.  But his injuries didn't, on the whole, look any
worse than they had before.  There were spells that could do this, but there
was no magic in this place.  What about drugs?  Very probable, but would the
effect just wear off?  Would it need an antidote?  Or was it permanent?  Fox
shuddered.  Timidly, he reached out for Benten's hand, bending the chill,
stiff fingers, trying to warm them with his own cold, thin hands.  Benten's
expression did not change.  Hesitantly, Fox reached out and stroked his cheek.
Nothing.  What would you do now, he wondered.  You'd just go off and find those
three thugs and make them tell you where they'd found me, just like that.  No.
First, you'd go home and have a bath.  Then you'd go off and be a
swashbuckler.  I couldn't do that.  Well, maybe I could find the Nakamura
brothers, or maybe just one of them, if I used Princess.  Then what?  You might
have recovered by then.  Or maybe I could just ask them.  After all, it wasn't
me they wanted in the first place, it was you.
    That thought was immediately followed by the next, shameful, unbidden one,
that they might offer to swap that information for Benten.  Fox shivered.  No.
Anyway, they didn't know Benten was free, they'd think he was in jail.  He'd
fixed the schedules so no-one would check the cell for a fortnight.  But that
meant he couldn't just turn up with Benten in the car, he'd have to leave him
somewhere.  Why not just take him home, no-one would look for him there for the
next two weeks.  And it might help him to be in familiar surroundings.
    A plan, it was a plan of sorts, even if underpinning the whole thing was
the desperate wish that Benten would wake up, be all right, take over.  Fox
sighed and started the engine.  He kept glancing over at Benten as he drove,
looking for any sign of alertness.  Oh Goddess, let him get better, don't leave
him like this.  Would I care, he wondered, if I weren't so afraid of being
stuck here?  What would I care for this crazed murderer if I weren't hoping
he'd help get me home?  Fox remembered the hand holding his clenched fist, the
strong arm curving around his shoulders - and he remembered the
incomprehensible fury and self-hatred.  He terrifies me, he thought, but, oh,
Goddess, I want to see him look at me again.  I don't want to see him like
this.  Silent tears slid down his cheeks as he drove, dissolving his brave
plan.  He longed for someone who would look after him, tell him everything
would be all right.  When they arrived, Fox parked and got Benten out of the
car.  It was almost like moving a life-sized doll that was partially animate.
Benten at no time showed any awareness of what was happening, his face frozen
in a far-away gaze.  But he let Fox lead him, move him, and just stopped when
Fox let go of his hand, as if he drew his only life from that touch.  Fox
wondered if he'd be able to get him up the stairs.  He never found out.  They
were partway down the hall when the door behind them was slammed open and five
dark figures boiled into the passageway.  Fox's heart lurched as they started
towards him and Benten, their expressions triumphant sneers.
    "Look at that, there really are two of them."
    "I didn't believe those idiots, I'll be damned!"
    "So why's he got no clothes on then?"
    "To save us some time, hey?"
    Amid raucous laughter, they surrounded Benten and Fox.  "What do you want?"
quavered Fox.  "Leave us alone, we haven't done -"
    The man nearest lashed out with a vicious backhanded slap.  Fox saw it
coming and tried to pull back but still caught the fingers stinging across his
cheek.  Horrified, he put his hand to his face, tears of shock and pain welling
into his eyes, drawing breath to scream.  But the other grabbed him by the
arms, spun him around and kicked the backs of his legs.  It happened so quickly
that Fox was pinned in an armlock, on his knees, his scream cut off by an arm
across his throat.  Half-choking, he struggled ineffectually as he watched the
other four circle Benten cautiously.  Benten showed no awareness of them,
standing like a mannequin where Fox had let go of his hand.
    Suddenly one of the men screamed some kind of war cry, bending and kicking
sideways, high, his booted foot thudding into Benten's chest.  The force threw
Benten backwards, arms and hair flying as he fell against the far wall and slid
down it to lie crumpled at the bottom like a broken doll.  Fox stopped
struggling, now rigid with terror.  The thugs muttered amongst themselves,
surprised at how easily he'd fallen.  One of them grabbed an arm and pulled him
over onto his back.  Benten's eyes were closed and blood trickled across his
forehead from the scrape where his head had hit the wall.
    "Drugs?" one of them muttered.
    "Maybe," another replied.  He turned to Fox.  "What's he on?  What'd you
give him?"
    The man holding Fox from behind took his arm off his throat and Fox was
able to gasp for air.
    "Nothing," he wheezed, "I didn't give him anything."  The man holding his
arms jerked them upwards and Fox shrieked as his shoulders were almost
dislocated.
    "You're lying."
    "No!  Honestly!  He was like that when he came out!"
    "Out of where?"
    Fox realised he might have made a mistake.  He didn't reply.
    "Out of where?"  The question was punctuated with another vicious jerk that
made him see stars.  The joints of his arms and shoulders burned with pain and
Fox babbled "Out of jail, when he came out of jail..."  He broke into loud
crying which turned into a scream with the next hoisting up of his twisted
arms.
    "You are lying.  No-one gets out of jail!"
    "He did, I got him out - " The pain in his shoulders became unbearable and
he felt himself spiraling down into darkness.

                                      ~~~

    Fox was vaguely aware of movement and noise, shouting voices and the pain,
always the pain, from his innumerable bruises, sprains and cuts, a nightmare
that went on and on.  He felt like someone was choking him, and his arms hurt.
Eventually the pain seemed to focus, to intensify, in his head, which throbbed
and pulsed in a steady rhythm.  This, too, seemed to last a long time until he
finally became aware that someone was repeatedly slapping him, knocking his
head from side to side.  He struggled to pull himself away from the steady
blows but could not move.  In a detached kind of way he wondered who was
hitting him - was it Benten gone mad again?  With that thought came memory and
he managed a half-strangled sob.  Mercifully, the blows stopped, and a harsh
voice said "That's better.  Come on, pretty boy, open your eyes."
    Oh, thought Fox dazedly, why didn't I think of that?  With returning
awareness he realised why he couldn't move, why his shoulders still ached so
much.  They had tied his arms together behind his back, each hand grasping the
opposite elbow, with his parallel wrists bound tightly together, then taken the
rope up round his neck and pulled it tight, hauling his aching arms up high.
He gasped, terrified, drawing short, panting breaths like an animal in shock.
The muscular man in front of him sat back, smiling.  "Better," he said.  "Now,
you're going to tell me all about yourself, who you are, what you do."  His
hard eyes were on a level with Fox's, who was kneeling in front of him.
    Fox choked as he tried to draw breath and made incoherent noises.  A woman
spoke from behind him.  "Sanjiro said he and his brothers found him in the
garden behind the summer residence."  Fox tried to turn to see the speaker but
the ropes were too tight.  She stepped delicately around him, an ethereal
creature with an exquisite little face, and went to stand beside the solid,
seated man, putting a porcelain-like hand possessively on his shoulder.  Fox's
jaw dropped as she caught his eye and held it, and he tried to speak, to beg
her to help him.  At his gargled gasp she raised one thin, pencilled brow and
smiled at him gently.  "They thought he was Benten," she went on, then looked
away to the back of the room.  "Speaking of whom..."
    Fox heard a door open, and a scuffling sound.  This time he managed to turn
around, to see a couple of men drag Benten in.  Benten still seemed
unconscious - no, his eyes were open, and when the two hauled him upright he
stood, swaying.  He had more bruises than Fox remembered.  Then Fox recognised
the men: they were two of the three who had captured him.  One of them spoke.
"Yoshii-sama.  He doesn't wake up properly.  He just stays like this."
    "We think maybe he's drugged," said the other, "but we still want him."
    "I don't give a shit what you want," snarled the seated man.  "Basenji gets
him.  Now, you - what was all that crap about him being in jail?"  Fox looked
back: the man had spoken to him.  Heart pounding, he moved his lips, trying to
reply.  As he did so, the doll-like woman gave an odd look to the two at the
back of the room.  She stepped away from the seated man and reached into her
large shoulder bag.  In the time it took Fox to draw breath, she pulled out a
small gun and aimed it at the back of the seated man's head.  He must have seen
something in Fox's expression because he started to turn but at that moment she
fired and something warm and wet spattered Fox.  He cried out, closing his eyes
and twisting, falling sideways, The man's heavy body landed across his legs.
Fox struggled desperately to kick the body off horrified at the blood and
other, whitish stuff that had sprayed over him.
    The woman stuffed the gun back in her bag and gestured to the two thugs.
"Come on, quickly.  Do what I told you and you will have everything you want
Benten and a new life."
    "Thank you, Sachiko-san," one of them rumbled.  He grabbed Fox and hauled
him free.  The strain this put on Fox's arms and neck, tied tight as he was,
made him giddy with pain.  He could not remain standing when they had hauled
him to his feet, and gradually realised that he was being carried, then was
thrown into the back seat of a car.  The journey seemed to last for
interminable hours, with Fox drifting in and out of awareness, sometimes
managing to draw enough breath to cry, other times almost blacking out for lack
of air.  At the end of the trip he was barely aware of what was happening, and
spent long minutes lying on a wooden floor trying to understand what was
causing his whole body to hurt so much.
    Gradually, he became more aware of his surroundings and managed to struggle
into a seated position despite the agony of his arms still yanked high up his
back and tied to his neck.  He was in a large room brightly lit with
fluorescent strip lights of the type that normally gave him headaches.  He
barely noticed them now.  The floor was hard, cold, polished wood and there
were no windows.  He saw a Mackintosh-style chair and what looked like wooden
gym equipment - climbing frames, a vaulting horse.  There were ropes hanging
from iron rings in the walls and a large wooden chest in one corner.  Sniffling
to himself, he carefully turned his head.  There was a massive-looking door,
firmly closed.  A pile of rags, dirty old sheets or something.  A body.  Benten
lay on the floor fifteen feet away from him.  Fox cried out, producing only a
pathetic gargle and tried to clamber onto his knees, to crawl over.  Benten was
on his back, arms flung wide and legs twisted sideways.  His eyes were open,
staring at nothing, unblinking.  His chest rose and fell very slightly.  At
least he was alive.
    Fox crawled slowly, painfully, over to him, tears rolling unnoticed down
his cheeks.  When he was only five feet away the groan of wood on metal made
him turn to see the door swing slowly open.  He sat back on the floor,
helpless.
    The Nakamura brothers lumbered through the door.  Behind them came Sachiko,
with a triumphant smile.  Then a little old man, dressed in an elaborate
costume that Fox recognised from his explorations of Benten's computer as
traditional hakama and happi, in a heavy, shining fabric embroidered in gold.
The old man ignored Fox and Benten and walked slowly to the chair, where he
lowered himself precariously down then planted his feet far apart and his
gnarled fists on his knees.  He nodded to the Nakamura brothers and they closed
the door again, taking up positions either side of it.
    Sachiko stepped forward folding gracefully to her knees in front of the old
man's chair and bowing, touching her forehead to the back of her hands on the
floor.  Then she sat back on her heels and inclined her head towards Fox and
Benten.
    "As I promised you," she said in a self-satisfied tone.
    The old man grunted, looking their way for the first time.
    "He said he got Yanagawa out of jail," continued Sachiko.
    "Hah.  Rubbish."
    "My lord Basenji, you will note that Merill Yanagawa no longer wears his
collar."
    Basenji threw her a suspicious stare, at which Sachiko demurely lowered her
eyes.  Then he peered at Benten, craning his scrawny neck.  "Hmph.  All right.
You two."  The Nakamura brothers came forward a few paces then stopped
hesitantly.  "He's yours.  Do what you like to him, here and now.  Don't break
his bones.  Sound sets my teeth on edge."
    The brothers bowed deeply, then glanced at each other.  Sanjiro, nearer
Benten, stepped over to him and looked down at the prone body.  With slow
deliberation he stood about a foot away and kicked.  The sick thud made Fox
whimper.  Benten's body was lifted slightly and moved towards Nijiro, who
stepped forward and kicked him back.  This time Fox cried out "No!  He's hurt!"
    A distracted, backhanded slap from Sanjiro tumbled Fox into a heap.  He
sobbed from the pain and struggled to get upright again, lying face down with
his arms still tied agonisingly behind him.  The sounds told him they were
continuing to kick Benten back and forth.  This went on for the long moments it
took Fox to get onto his side so he could see what was happening, all the while
crying for them to stop.  Then the noises did stop.  Fearfully, Fox made a last
effort to raise his head and turn to see what they were doing.  They had picked
Benten up by one arm and draped him, face down, over the vaulting-horse thing.
Fox could see both his arms hanging limply, with his long hair, now tangled and
red with blood, hanging between them.  Behind him, on the other side of the
wooden frame, the brothers muttered briefly to each other.  As Fox watched, the
fingers of Benten's right hand began to twitch, repeatedly, almost as if in
time to a pulse.  He's still alive, thought Fox desperately, watching those
curling fingers.
    One of the brothers - Nijiro - put a meaty hand on each side of Benten's
waist and stepped very close, seemingly bumping his belly into Benten's back.
Fox, tearing his eyes away from the twitching fingers, wondered at first what
he was doing.  Then he realised, and a bout of nausea swept over him.  He
looked away, fighting it, knowing that if he let it overwhelm him he would
choke on vomit.  Through a blur of tears, he let his gaze slide back along the
floor to the hanging hands and dirty white mane of hair, now swinging slightly
to and fro.  Fox looked away.  Basenji was watching closely, lips parted,
squinting slightly.  Sachiko ignored the sordid scene and was instead gazing
intently at Basenji, studying him.
    Nijiro grunted, speeded up the rhythm, then sighed with release.  He
stepped away, and Sanjiro took his place.  Arms and hair swung back and forth
again and the fingers continued to twitch, as if in a death spasm.  Fox hoped
now that Benten was dead, to spare him knowing this, feeling, this.  Sanjiro
grunted and sighed, exactly as his brother had done.  The two of them looked at
Sachiko, questioningly.  "Him too?" one of them nodded at Fox.
    "Finish Benten," grated Basenji.  "Sword in the trunk."
    Sanjiro opened the lid and brought out a long slender object, unwrapping
it.  He pulled the gleaming katana from its sheath and propped the scabbard
clumsily against the trunk.  It slid to the wooden floor with an unnaturally
loud scrape and crash.  From the corner of his eye Fox saw Basenji scowl.
    Sanjiro held the sword dramatically high and stabbed the point down at
Benten's back.  Fox heard himself scream, saw both dangling hands clench
violently into fists then uncurl and hang limp, Blood ran down one arm and into
the tangled hair.  Sanjiro tugged the sword out and Benten's body slid
backwards off the frame, to lie in a very small heap at the brothers' feet.
Sanjiro looked at the sword, his mouth hanging open.
    Then a round, red hole appeared, above Sanjiro's eyes.  The muffled whump
of the gunshot stunned Fox and he saw Sanjiro fall as if in silent slow motion.
    Another whump - Nijiro doubled over and crumpled.
    Fox turned his head to see Basenji lower the little grey gun, tuck it back
inside his jacket.  For the first time Sachiko lost her composure.
    "Wha - Why?  They were useful -"
    "Useful to you.  No more use to me."  Complacently, Basenji stared down at
her.  Fear flickered in Sachiko's eyes, then she mastered herself, looking
down, putting her delicate hands onto the floor and bowing.
    "Hai, Basenji-sama."  She stayed low, forearms on the floor, face inches
above.
    "What use are you to me?" Basenji went on.  "You surely don't presume to
bear my children - a little slut like you?"
    Sachiko bowed her head a little lower.  Fox, also kneeling on the floor,
saw her lips tighten.  "I did not intend to replace Carrie, my lord."  Her
voice was very soft, almost a lisp.  "I am not like her. I can serve you in...
other ways."
    "Show me."
    Sachiko touched her forehead to her hands again, then sat up.  She smoothed
her palms down her thighs, tilted her head in an almost mechanical, doll-like
movement and eyed Fox speculatively.
    "Go look in the chest," said Basenji softly.  "There are many things.  Show
me how you can serve me."
    Sachiko stood in a sinuous, easy flow and walked slowly to the chest.  She
knelt again before it, her back curving as she reached in, moving things
gently, taking her time.  Finally she stood again and walked the short way
back, holding a small knife and something that looked like a lot of straps.
She put this close to Fox.  He stared at her, terrified, looking for something
he could appeal to, some better nature.
    Without warning, Sachiko reached out and shoved Fox, twisting his shoulders
around.  He gasped, crying out as he fell helplessly onto his face, turning his
head at the last moment to avoid breaking his nose.  As he tried to catch his
breath he felt his trousers pulled tight, then cold metal touched the skin of
his back.  He froze as she worked the knife between his skin and the fabric,
yelping when he was pricked, then with a tearing sound the pants were ripped
apart down the seam, exposing him.
    Sachiko moved away then, partially into Fox's line of sight as he lay with
his bloodied cheek on the floor.  She began to take her clothes off, neatly
laying each item on the ground.  She didn't make a strip-tease of it and paid
no attention to Fox or to Basenji.  Her breasts were mere swellings and she had
no body hair at all.  Then she picked up the collection of straps, buckling it
around her waist.  Another, shorter belt went around one thigh. A wooden rod,
polished smooth, dangled from the straps and she put one end of it between her
legs, working it close into herself, strapping it tight.  The other end jutted
out in front of her, a hard, shiny erection.
    A dreadful thought began to occur to Fox.  No, she couldn't...  He twisted
onto one shoulder, pulling the rope round his neck noose-tight, and struggled
to curl his legs around, to get them under him.  The movement tore his pants
more, pulling them away from his rear.  Then Sachiko turned to him, seized his
left ankle and yanked, tumbling him onto his face again.  His cry was stopped
by the thud of his head hitting the hard floor, dazing him.  He tried to
struggle, aware of her pulling his legs apart and kneeling between them.
Sachiko leaned forward, putting her hands either side of his waist.  Fox felt
the tip of the wooden phallus trace along the cleft between his buttocks, and
found new energy to writhe, to try to twist away.
    The hard wooden rod followed his movements, pressing closer, finding his
anus.  Fox gulped in air, thrashing wildly, but Sachiko pinned him down.  She
began to lower her weight and the rod pressed harder against him.  Then it was
rammed into him and Fox screamed at the burning pain.  Sachiko shoved harder,
pushing it in further and Fox screamed again.  The rod was dry, tearing apart
his flesh.  She pulled out a little and shoved, and waves of giddy darkness
washed over Fox as he tried to breathe.  Sachiko's weight on him pulled tight
the little slack in the rope.  She settled into a rhythm and he desperately
tried to gasp for air in the moments the rope became slack.
    Pain spread through his body and his struggles grew weaker.  Lack of air
made him half faint.  He could hear Sachiko panting.  Tears spilled from his
closed eyes as she speeded up her thrusts.  Then she paused, with the rod still
deep within him.  Basenji was speaking.  Fox couldn't move, feeling as if a
stake was being driven through him.
    Sachiko withdrew, the sudden movement causing new pain.  Weeping, Fox
curled his legs up, wanting only to die, quickly, before they thought of worse
things to do.  Hearing noises behind him, he turned his head, groaning as his
chin scraped the floor, afraid of what might be happening behind him, out of
his sight.
    The first thing he saw, at eye level, was the straps and rod arrangement,
now discarded by Sachiko.  There was blood on the wooden rod.  Beyond it,
Sachiko was sitting in Basenji's lap with her face nuzzling his chest, her arms
and legs twined around his body and the back of the chair, grinding and moaning
enthusiastically.  Basenji's head was back, eyes closed, mouth open to reveal
an old man's rotting teeth.  It was a sight that, normally, would have revolted
Fox, but now he bit his lip to stay silent, praying they would forget he
existed.
    A shadow passed over Fox and a strange new element entered the picture
framed above him.  Some long, metal pointed thing slid into view, straight
through Sachiko's back and on, through Basenji, to reappear, now slippery red,
through the back of the chair.  The lovers gasped, tensing as if in double
orgasm.  Shaking, Fox twisted to follow the line of the sword.
    Benten seemed transfigured, monstrous, like a terrible, avenging spectre
returned from the dead.  His body was smeared with blood, his hair matted with
it, his very eyes seeming to glow red, he leaned on the sword until the hilt
reached Sachiko's skin.  She gurgled, drumming her feet against the chair as
Basenji grunted and tried to shove her away from him.  Benten pushed the sword
again, thrusting her back into Basenji's face.
    "Die.  You'll die.  Why can't I die?"  Benten stared at his mewling,
writhing victims with a perverted longing.  He seemed not to hear Fox sobbing
at his feet.
    Fox screamed at him, frantic as he saw that unfocussed, faraway look coming
back.  "Benten!  Merill!  Merill Yanagawa!"
    Benten started, looked down, seemed to see him for the first time.  He
dropped to his knees with a thud that made Fox flinch and picked up the knife
Sachiko had used on Fox's trousers.  A moment later Fox was free of the rope,
gulping great lungfuls of air.  His arms ached and throbbed with returning
circulation.  Benten simply sat back, hands on his knees, staring at nothing.
    Fox lay where he was, sobbing, choking on his own indrawn breath, unable to
move for the pain made worse by the blood now flooding back into his cramped
arms.  He knew he should do something, move before they were found, try to keep
Benten's attention from spiralling away into some other hell.  But it was too
hard, it was all he could do to breathe, huddled on the floor.  He clawed at
Benten's bloodied knee, feeling himself blacking out.
    Benten had backed away from the cell with the writhing corpses.  He turned
and staggered down another corridor.  Hokusai was here somewhere too, he was
sure of it - he kept hearing that pathetic wail but he never seemed to catch
sight of the boy.  He ran on, looking for another open door.  They must be
having a fine time, watching.  One day, he thought, he would kill Hasegawa.
    He banged his leg on something and his heart lurched, fearing yet more
pain, afraid that the Nakamura brothers would find him again.  Hokusai!  Benten
stared at the body on the ground then knelt, reached out.  How did he get here?
    The touch brought Fox back to his senses.  Benten was shaking him, looking
straight at him.  Fox gulped.  "Merill!"  His voice sounded like a cracked
whisper but the other heard him.  "How did you get in here?" he demanded.  "How
did Hasegawa catch you?  I can't find the way out!"  He looked around
desperately and Fox realised Benten was not seeing Basenji's dungeon.  "Help
me," he croaked, terrified that he'd lose Benten again.  "I can't move, it
hurts, don't leave me!"  Then he screamed as Benten grabbed his arms and hauled
him to his feet.  Giddy from the agony of the movement, Fox half-collapsed,
then Benten slid an arm behind his knees, lifting him up.  Fox stared at the
wild, bloodshot eyes.  "That way."
    Two feet away Sachiko had stopped moving but Basenji was still trying to
shove her limp body, and the sword in it, away.  Fox saw death in the old man's
eyes.  Then Benten moved and Fox could no longer see them.
    The door - oh, Lady, was it locked?  But Benten just shouldered through it
and they were in an unfinished-looking concrete corridor lit with brilliant
flourescents.  Fox marvelled at the man's endurance.  He walked like an
automaton, Fox cradled in his arms.  Fox wondered what he was seeing.  Suddenly
he was afraid that he'd lose Benten, who seemed to be running like a decker
with half his brain cells fried.  Dreading being dropped, he forced himself to
talk to Benten, to try to keep him focussed on this place.  "Do you know
somewhere called the summer residence?" he asked.  "Wait, stop - through there,
that door there!"
    Responding to the urgency in Fox's voice, Benten turned and shoved through
the side door he hadn't even noticed.  What else was the boy talking about? The
summer residence?  "I know it," he replied.  "It's a palace, about eight miles
out of town.  Out of Oedo.  Open to tourists."  Fox, clinging to him, felt a
stab of hope.  There might be a chance.  Tears rolled down his bruised face.
He was afraid to hope.  "Through there," he said, and they passed through
another door into a vast garage with over a dozen vehicles, including the ones
Sachiko had brought.
    Benten stopped by the door of a car and just stood there.  Anxiously, Fox
searched his face.  Benten was looking at the car, but not seeing it.  He
seemed to get lost, to become unfocussed, as soon as he had no urgent purpose
to fulfil.  Fox came to a decision that he himself immediately regretted as
mad.  He reached down and opened the passenger door.  "Let me down, in there,"
he said then screamed as all his weight landed on the seat.  He lay there for
a long moment, face contorted in agony.  When he opened his eyes again, Benten
was still standing, unmoving, by the door.  "Come on," gasped Fox, opening the
door to the driver's side.
    Benten just stared.  Fox started to panic.  "Come on," he screamed, "around
here, come on!"  Benten started to walk slowly around the front of the car,
looking puzzled, not taking his eyes off Fox.  He slid into the drivers seat
and closed the door, staring at the wheel.  He grasped it, clenching his fists
around the leather.  His eyes as he turned to Fox were filled with confusion.
    "Turn the key," sobbed Fox.  "Drive.  Please, drive."
    A remote control device on the dashboard opened the garage door and they
were out into the darkness.  Fox took a deep breath, fighting off tears.  "This
summer residence place, you're sure you know the way?"  Benten nodded once,
working his way up the gears.
    Fox sat back.  He'd been talking to try to keep Benten focussed on the here
and now, worried that he'd just slip away again to wherever he went beyond that
distant stare.  Now he huddled in his seat, shivering, feeling increasingly
sick as he became aware again of all his injuries.
    It was a nightmarish drive, with Benten sending the big care hurtling
along, barely braking for corners.  Unlike Fox, who felt every jolt, he seemed
unaware of his injuries.  He sat braced in the seat, staring straight ahead,
scowling through the lank hair that fell across his face.  Fox watched him
closely, terrified that his attention might start to wander as they shot along
a deserted motorway at a hundred miles an hour.  Moments later, Benten swerved
to catch an exit, braking sharply as they hit a tightly-curving sliproad and
shooting, tyres squealing, through a series of narrow, winding streets.  Oh
Goddess, thought Fox, after surviving all this, are we both going to get killed
in a car crash?  He remembered Benten's psych files, remembered the first night
they'd met: the man trying to kill himself.  The a red laquered arch loomed in
the headlights, they were through it, and Benten bought the car to a slaloming
halt.  "This is it," he said, not looking at Fox, hands still clutching the
wheel.  "What now?"
    "Aah, a garden," said Fox desperately as lights started to go on around
them, "sort of a garden only it was all smooth gravel and big rocks..."
    Benten nodded once, to their left.  "Over there."  He opened the door,
climbing awkwardly out.  Fox also got out, leaning heavily on the door as a
wave of nausea washed over him.  Benten strode past, grabbing his arms and
hauling him along.  Fox, so close to home, limped as fast as he could, hearing
querulous voices getting closer behind them, terrified of being stopped now.
    A couple of big security lights went on overhead, making the two of them
look corpse-like, and illuminating the garden that Fox remembered.  "Here," he
said, "behind this rock."  Oh Goddess, let the portal still be there.  Please,
please, please, Wiley - yes!  He saw the tell-tale shimmer in the air and
surged ahead.  "That's it, come on!"
    To his astonishment, Benten let go of his hand, stepping back.
    "What are you doing?  Come on!"
    "I - I don't know what's happening to me any more!"
    "Well, I'll tell you one thing - you'll die if you stay here!"  Fox almost
screamed in frustration.  Over Benten's shoulder he could see people running
up.  Benten's eyes were fixed on the hypnotic shimmer and he looked... he
looked afraid.  Fox stared at him, stunned.
    "It'll be all right," he said softly, "I'll help you."  Benten looked at
him longingly but still he hesitated.  Fox took both his hands and drew him
firmly into the portal.  The shimmer surrounded them, the shouting voices faded
and were gone.  They stepped from glaring spotlights to the dim glow of red
security lights.
    "Fox?  What happened?"
    "Are you ok?  Jees, you look awful!"
    "Oh my god, there's two of them."