“I was working,” he said. The display on his data screen was on and glowing, bearing out his words. He frowned briefly. The display should have followed his lead and gone into sleep mode sometime last night. It must have been brought back to life by some vibration or bump to the desk.

Victor shut down the file. He would work on it again later, after the coming of night once more brought privacy. Then he turned to Elena Ruiz.

“Now—what’s for breakfast?”

Sheratan, Prefecture IV

20 October 3134

Knight-Errant Robert Goldberg saw his first political advertisement on Sheratan within minutes of his arrival at the main planetary DropPort. The display on the wall outside the DropPort’s vehicle rental office saidFOUNDER ’S MOVEMENT—KEEPING THE DREAM ALIVE! in glowing orange letters that practically jumped off the poster.

After that, elections and electioneering were everywhere he looked. The streets of the city were gaudy with neon-and-laser billboards, and tri-vid ads flashed and rotated atop newsstands and information kiosks. The displays said things likePEACE AND SECURITY in bright green, superimposed on images of a bucolic, tranquil countryside and bustling, unworried cities. The images were accompanied by voice-overs between the musical numbers that played over the audio system in the vehicle Robert had rented at the DropPort: “In these troubled times, mutual trust and fellowship are more important than ever. When you vote, reach out—”

The music eventually segued into the midday newscast. Still listening, Robert left the city, heading for the country estate where Paladin Otto Mandela was staying during his sojourn here. The estate belonged to one of the local bigwigs—a veteran of Stone’s Revenants from the old days, now turned prosperous gentleman farmer—who had graciously made it available for Mandela’s use.

Robert’s journey took him out into the open countryside, where a lightly traveled winding road took him through acres of rolling green pastureland dotted with sheep and dairy cattle. He spared some attention for the newsreader of the hour, a woman with a pleasant voice. The title “Knight of the Sphere” sounded glamorous, but the reality was sometimes less impressive. Functioning as part of the Exarch’s private courier service was only one of the not-so-exciting tasks involved.

The newsreader said, “And it’s time for the top planetary news of the hour. With election day close at hand, voter unrest continues in urban areas. In Pittston, supporters of local Founder’s Movement candidate Ella Geraldo broke up a rally for Prosperous Unity opponent Dan Harwicke with taunts and heckling. When Harwicke attempted to address the crowd, estimated at some three hundred, he was drowned out by shouts of “Appeaser!” and “Clan-Lover!” and “No More Sellouts!”

“Interviewed later on this station, Harwicke said only that he was disappointed that some of his fellow Sheratanites could not tell the difference between independent traders like Clan Sea Fox, with whom he freely admits to having done mutually profitable—and legal—business in the past, and violent and territorially ambitious groups such as the Jade Falcons and the Steel Wolves. Meanwhile, in—”

The news went on, a depressing tally of political meetings disrupted by one local faction and election headquarters vandalized by another and riots instigated in the streets of depressed neighborhoods by a third. The first planetwide elections since the dramatic collapse of the HPG network had signaled the end of what people were already referring to as The Republic of the Sphere’s golden age, and the electorate on Sheratan was bitterly divided. People were not taking the ongoing crisis well.

Under the circumstances, Robert thought, it was not surprising that there had been a mostly bipartisan call for an official observer to be sent from the government of The Republic—preferably, an observer who also had the authority to settle any arguments that might arise. Paladin Otto Mandela was an ideal choice. He had worked on disputed elections before, and had made a name for himself previously in investigations of brutality and corruption on various worlds.

Nor was anybody likely to call either his honesty or his devotion to The Republic into question. Mandela, for all his fidelity to fairness and the rule of law, was still willing to demand that his accuser meet him in single combat, ’Mech to ’Mech, and repeat the accusation there.

Robert turned off the main road, following the directions he had picked up at the DropPort. The narrow farm road he traversed provided him, not surprisingly, with views of more sheep and more cows, as well as an occasional field planted with crops Ortega didn’t recognize. He wondered if the tall grain was meant for human consumption or for livestock fodder, and realized that he might never know.

He could always ask, he supposed—if he didn’t mind looking ignorant in front of the locals, which he was willing to do when the situation demanded it, but not out of mere curiosity. He was still getting used to the confidence others placed in him as a Knight of the Sphere, and he had no intention of jeopardizing it.

At the end of the road, he came to a low, sprawling farmhouse—an estate, really—built of the buff-colored local stone and roofed in slate. He parked the rented vehicle out front. The man who came out from the building’s capacious attached garage to meet him looked not so much like his expectation of a chauffeur/mechanic as a farm worker with an occasional sideline into taking care of things with engines.

“You the man from Terra, supposed to come see Paladin Mandela?”

“Yes.” Robert felt relieved that he was expected. He’d sent a radio message as soon as the DropShip came within communications range of Sheratan, but one never could tell these days. “Robert Goldberg.”

“He’ll be inside. You go on in—I’ll put the car in the garage for you.”

“Thanks.” He handed over the keys and entered the house.

The rooms within were shadowed and cool, making a pleasant contrast to the bright day outside. A short entrance hall led to a large, open-plan room, its floor of dark, polished wood scattered with wool rugs in muted natural colors. One wall held an enormous fieldstone hearth, cold now in the summer; another was made up entirely of windows. The floor-to-ceiling glass panes afforded a view of lush green hills and the inevitable livestock.

Paladin Otto Mandela, an imposing man with skin the color of dark coffee and grizzled hair cropped close to his well-shaped skull, rose from a chair by the window. He held a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. At the sight of Robert, he set the drink down on the nearest end table and strode briskly forward.

“Lord Robert.” Mandela’s eyes were bright and eager. “What word do you bring for us from Terra? Does Damien Redburn have something for me to do besides watching the Sheratanites vote and making certain that everybody is too scared to cheat?”

“You could say that,” Robert replied. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a stiff rectangular envelope with a holographic seal. He proffered it to Mandela. “He’s set the date for the election.”

The Paladin took the envelope and slit it open with a thumbnail. He perused the contents, and his eyebrows went up. “December twentieth? Why the rush?”

Mandela had a point, Robert thought. By law, Damien Redburn was required to step down as Exarch no later than the end of calendar year 3135. Holding the election on the date Redburn had chosen would mean inaugurating his successor on the fifth of January of that year. It didn’t count as stepping down early, under the strict interpretation of the law, but it came near enough. Robert shrugged.