F. Paul Wilson - By the Sword

Akechi- sensei said nothing at first. With his teacher's face forever hidden from him, Shiro had learned to read his eyes. He was relieved to see that they appeared… amused.

"There are no secrets in the temple, are there."

Shiro bowed his head. "Not about what happens in the Sighting room."

"It is true, Shiro. The Seer saw a pregnant woman. Just so you won't have to rely on rumor, I shall tell you his exact words: 'A woman with child… I see her face everywhere, staring back at me. She is important only for the child she carries. Her child, her child, her child… it will change the world. Who controls the child controls the future. The Order must control the child. It must.' The elders are working on an interpretation."

"There are so many pregnant women, sensei ."

"Yes, but how many with 'her face everywhere, staring back'? That is the keystone of the vision. It must be someone famous, some woman on billboards or television or magazine covers."

"A pregnant celebrity… " That narrowed it down quite a bit, but still… how would they possess someone so well known? "I have heard there was another vision about the katana."

His sensei nodded. He said, 'The blade is with the woman… the blade and child are together now and will be so again in the future.' "

The blade is with the woman… the realization struck Shiro like a bo .

"The katana is in New York, sensei . We know that. So that must mean the woman is in New York!"

His sensei stared at him a moment in silence, then his eyes crinkled within the mask and he clapped his hands once.

"Truly, the Face is with you."

And then Shiro experienced what he could only call a vision of his own.

A face… a young blond woman's face staring back from every flat surface in the city.

He told Akechi- sensei about the flyers.

His teacher nodded slowly. "Possibly… possibly."

"But if so many are searching for her without success—I assume no success because new flyers go up every day—how are we to find her?"

His sensei thought a moment. When he spoke, Shiro could sense the excitement in his voice.

"Because the Seer said she is with the katana, and before he died, Tadasu told me that the katana is with someone who wears a tattoo like this."

He grabbed a piece of rice paper and a kanji brush from a nearby desk and began to drawn. He turned the page and showed Shiro.

"Have you ever seen this figure before?"

Of course he had—as ubiquitous as the flyers with the girl's face.

Members of the Inner Circles rarely if ever left the temple. Errands for food and medical supplies were left to those of the Order who could show their faces to the public. Consequently, the Inner Circles were ignorant—sometimes blissfully so, he imagined—of what was happening on the teeming streets of the city around them.

"It's the symbol for a group—a subculture, one might say—growing within the city. They call themselves 'Kickers,' sensei ."

"Who is their leader?"

Shiro shook his head. "I don't know, sensei . But I can find out."

And then another vision. Akechi- sensei had sent him out with a list of rare herbs and odd ingredients that he was to search out and bring back to the temple. All the acolytes had been given such lists. During his wanderings through the back streets of Lower Manhattan he had seen something he'd paid scant attention to at the time, but now it bloomed in significance.

He clapped his hands once in respectful imitation of his teacher. "I think I know where to look. Last week I saw a strange banner hanging outside an old, old building… a banner with a giant stick figure like this one."

After a moment of silence Akechi- sensei said, "I will speak to the Elders. We must put this building under constant surveillance. Immediately." He placed a hand on Shiro's shoulder. "You have done well, my oshiego . I am proud of you."

Shiro felt dizzy. He had never seen Akechi- sensei touch anyone, or give praise like this. He thought his heart might burst with pride.

Dawn leaned against the rear wall of the Milford Plaza elevator. Though she'd showered and scrubbed herself down just half an hour ago, she felt totally scuzzy. Three days now with the same clothes.

Yuck.

She'd thought about washing them in the tub but figured they'd never dry, even overnight. She could have sent them out for cleaning, but that meant she'd have to hang around the room totally naked.

Uh-uh.

And she was so not risking a trip outside just to buy new stuff.

Double—no, triple uh-uh. She was almost home free now. She could put up with funky clothes for another day or two before going back to Mr. Osala's.

So if she smelled, too bad. Nothing she could do about it. She looked around at the people on the elevator with her and thought, Sorry, folks. You'll have to deal.

At least the short hair was easy to care for, and dried so much more quickly than the length she'd arrived with.

As she stepped out of the elevator she looked around for the time. For a couple of years now she'd totally used her cell phone as her watch, but Mr. Osala had taken that. She spotted a clock behind the registration desk: 2:35. Plenty of time to cab seventeen blocks. She'd be early.

Dawn felt her insides tense as she approached the front entrance onto Eighth Avenue. Tons of people passing by out there…

One of whom might be Jerry.

No, she wouldn't let herself think like that. No one could snatch her in front of that crowd. She'd done this two days ago. She could do it again today.

She adjusted her sunglasses, took a breath, and stepped outside. She signaled the doorman, who rushed over. She'd tipped him ten dollars the other day because she wanted him to totally remember her and stay close by.

"Cab, ma'am?"

She gave him the address on West 63rd. He signaled for the next taxi waiting in line, opened the door for her, and told the cabbie where she was going. She handed him another ten.

"Thank you, ma'am." He tipped his hat. "You have a nice day."

I will, she thought, locking both rear doors as the cab lurched into motion. I'm going to have a great day.

Sighing, she leaned back. No, she wasn't. She was going to kill the life growing within her. A life that hadn't asked to be conceived. A life that had no control of who had fathered it. An innocent life. How could she…?

She straightened, crying, "No-no-no-no-NO!" as she pounded on the seat cushion.

Over his shoulder the driver gave her a concerned look.

She gave him the okay wave. "Sorry."

Leaning back again she told herself not to sentimentalize this. She was doing what had to be done and that was that. No cold feet beforehand, and no looking back afterward.

Like the Nike ads said: Just do it…

"We are here, miss."

The cabbie's voice jarred her from a reverie of life regrets, virtually all from just the past year. She looked out the window at the clinic entrance. A man stood by the door with a crude, hand-lettered sign:

Abortion Kills!

Well, duh .

She hesitated getting out, not liking the idea of passing him. But who said she even had to look at him? She paid the driver, gave him a nice tip, then slid out.

"Are you coming here?" the man said.

He was clean shaven and neatly dressed in a dark blue golf shirt and jeans. He looked totally harmless. Yet you never knew with these religious nuts. Outside normal, inside a bunch of quotes from the Bible that gave them permission to do just about anything in the name of the Lord.

Behind her the cab pulled away, leaving her alone on the curb.