Clockwork Samurai by Jeannie Lin Page B

were preparing to begin our climb. I was winded, and a blister was forming on both feet from the ill-fitting sandals.
    â€œLet us rest for a moment,” Chang-wei said after seeing how I struggled.
    I gave him a grateful look. I didn’t want to complain or hold the group back, but I needed to catch my breath. Life in the Forbidden City had made me soft.
    We rested on some stones while Makoto passed around a gourd of water. I took a swallow, but it did little to refresh me.
    â€œYou have an interesting choice of bodyguards,” Makoto remarked, looking from Chang-wei to me.
    â€œNo choice at all, really,” Chang-wei replied dryly.
    I wasn’t too tired to shoot him a glare, which he either didn’t see or ignored.
    Thankfully, we only climbed partway up the trail a short distance before Makoto declared we were safe to rest. We settled down on a crag of rock hidden by the surrounding brush. Though it was out in the open and on cold, hard stone, I curled up in my cloak and fell asleep the moment my eyes were closed.
    When I awoke, the area was awash in the gray light of morning. Chang-wei was asleep with his face turned toward me, eyes closed. His hand had come to rest close to mine. As if he were reaching for me in the night.
    It may have been wishful thinking, but I brushed my hand over his, needing the contact, no matter how brief. Chang-wei had artists’ fingers. Long and well formed.
    A shadow fell over us, and Chang-wei started awake. I withdrew and stared up at Makoto.
    â€œTime to go.”
    With little to pack or prepare, we simply picked ourselves up and brushed the dirt from our clothes before resuming our climb. We stuffed cold rice cakes with red bean into our mouths without stopping to eat. Makoto seemed to need no sustenance or rest at all. He pushed on relentlessly, his long legs conquering the trail much more easily than my shorter ones.
    I was so focused on the climb that it took me a while to notice what was wrong. The hillside was eerily silent, absent of birdsong, just as Makoto had described. A shiver ran down my spine, and my skin prickled.
    Ghost Hill. The Japanese certainly tended toward the dramatic.
    Chang-wei drew closer and held out his hand. Cradled in his palm was a rosewood box with a compass inside. The needle spun erratically from one pole to another. Some invisible force was affecting the lodestone.
    Finally the tower appeared in the distance. Compared to the graceful shrines that dotted hillsides, this structure was a monstrosity. The steel gray frame blended into the dark rock of the surrounding cliffs. It was very easy to overlook unless one knew it was there.
    As we neared the top of the ridge, the structure loomed large overhead. It resembled a skeletal pagoda, with all that was graceful and sacred gutted out. A faint hum vibrated the air, like the buzz of insects. An unnatural presence seemed to hover around us.
    The base of the tower separated out into four legs. A shelter had been built beside it, and long wires extended down from the metal latticework into the roof of the building.
    The signal tower was clearly abandoned. A layer of rust clung to the iron, and moss crept over the adjoining building.
    â€œA control station,” Chang-wei declared as he moved steadily toward it.
    Makoto hung back just as a thin ribbon of lightning snapped across the latticework. Chang-wei was undaunted by the phenomenon. He was close enough to peer into the windows of the control station where the paper panes had disintegrated.
    I went to stand beside Chang-wei. Inside, the station was indeed abandoned. Instead of a human operator, there was a contraption built of steel and wire. A series of wheels churned out a pattern, which was transmitted to a mechanical wand that tapped rhythmically against the signal generator.
    Chang-wei exhaled as he stared at the contraption. It was a simple automaton, built to repeatedly tap out a message. Hope drained out of him.
    â€œThis is