Story Sampler, page 13
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How long had it been? Eighty-three years? Yes, eighty-three years of hypocrisy since The Barnacle. I had been groomed, of course, by my father, but… eighty-three years! I would be old, soon—perhaps I would talk to myself. An amusing thought.…
“Grandmaster?” The voice was timid, uncertain of interrupting my reverie. I would have to remember to replace my mask before he noticed my fatigue.
“Yes?” The computer initiated the Vid-link as soon as I spoke. “Ah, nephew, what might I do for you?”
“Grandmaster,” I ignored the formality, “I have a commission.”
My chest grew tight with hypocrisy. My nephew. Soon, he, too, would become one of the Washishisha.…
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