“Let us not name names, then,” Mallowes said, his voice little more than a raspy whisper. “Let us talk about what should be at the core of all elections—ideas.”

“What ideas did you have in mind?”

“Strength. Sovereignty. Tradition.”

Jonah had heard these words many times in recent weeks, so he filled in the last one for Mallowes. “Vision.”

Mallowes snapped his fingers. “Precisely! These are difficult times, Paladin Levin. We need an Exarch willing to make hard choices.”

“We always do.”

“Yes, yes, we always have the need, but the choices keep being deferred. Compromise. Negotiation. Appeasement. These are tools of delay, not true decisions. We need an Exarch who will finally confront our enemies squarely, deal with them in the only way they understand.”

“They don’t understand peace?”

Mallowes snorted. “Look at our borders and ask me that question again.”

“Senator Mallowes, do you remember when we met after the fight on Kurragin?”

Mallowes smiled warmly, though it seemed more a reflex than an indication of real feeling. “Of course.”

“Do you remember the orders I followed on the battlefield?”

“Yes. You were to hold your line.”

“And I did. There are many things I’m not good at, Senator, but I’ve always known how to hold a line. When the election comes, that’s what I’ll be thinking about.”

Mallowes nodded approvingly. “Good, good. But how do you know which is the proper line to hold?”

“My job is to know.”

“The job of your entire council is to know. But some of them don’t.” Mallowes paused, and something flickered behind his eyes. Caution? Annoyance? Jonah couldn’t be sure.

Then Mallowes spoke again. “Victor Steiner-Davion did not know.”

Jonah’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

“Please, make no mistake—I greatly admired the man for all he accomplished in his many years. Unfortunately, he believed that life, in the person of his sister, had taught him the importance of governing with a light hand, of erring on the side of indulgence instead of caution.”

“I believe Victor preferred the term ‘freedom’ to ‘indulgence,’” Jonah said darkly.

“Quite so. But you see, he took the wrong lesson. The problems he had with his sister, the disaster of the Civil War, were not caused by her grip being too tight. They were caused by his being too loose. We must never forget that his laxity practically handed power to her. He was the cause of his own misfortune.

“The Republic cannot afford to make similar mistakes at this time,” Mallowes continued. “We cannot let threats build while we turn our heads. Now is the time for strength. Victor’s fate is evidence of what happens to those who are not strong.”

Anger and suspicion flared in Jonah. “‘Evidence of what happens’?” he said heatedly. “Are you saying Victor’s death was tied to this?”

Mallowes raised his hands placatingly. “No, no, not his death. I have no idea what caused that. The war, my friend. I meant the Civil War.” He shook his head. “I see your temper has not mellowed with age.”

Jonah willed himself calm, forcing his fists to unclench. “I… apologize. I thought you were insinuating something else.”

“No apology necessary. You may be assured that, to a degree, I understand the stress weighing upon you. All of us in government feel it.” Mallowes placed a hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “All the more reason we must show strength. Now.”

Counterinsurgency Task Force

Temporary Headquarters, Geneva

Terra, Prefecture X

13 December 3134

Heather had three lists. One named Paladins she was all but certain had nothing to do with the Kittery Renaissance; these were people she did not need to bother speaking with. The second named those of her colleagues who had expressed sympathy with the Founder’s Movement. The third listed Paladins she considered entirely trustworthy and well informed. That list had two names, and since Jonah Levin was otherwise occupied, she started her interviews with Otto Mandela.

He’d better know something, she thought. She was quickly running out of time before the election.

She strode quickly down the hallway, and Duncan, a full six inches shorter than she, struggled to keep up. He refused to stop talking.

“Two members of the Clutch of the Confederacy are in custody, but the police aren’t sure the charges are going to stick. Stone’s Loyalists broke up a march by ’Mechs Into Plowshares, and spotters believe members of Stone’s Vow were working with the Loyalists.”

Heather stopped and whirled, giving a grateful Duncan a chance to keep up. “Have the police and militia been notified of all this?”

“Yes, Paladin.”

“Are they taking care of these situations?”

“Yes, Paladin.”

“Then why do you keep telling me about them?”

“I was tasked to keep you informed,” Duncan said promptly.

Heather sighed and turned back toward Mandela’s office. She didn’t have time to hash this out with Duncan at the moment.

Just outside Mandela’s office, Duncan spoke again. “Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“Do you really think that one of the Paladins—one of the other Paladins, I mean—might be supporting the Kittery Renaissance?”

Heather considered the question seriously. “I’d like to think not. But anything’s possible.”

Heather pressed the buzzer. “Paladin GioAvanti to speak with Paladin Mandela.”

Duncan continued, “What am I supposed to do while you’re talking with him?”

“Make small talk with his aide or his secretary or whoever else he may keep around the office who’s about your age. Keep your ears open.” She nodded toward his noteputer. “And make sure you keep checking those incoming messages.”

Duncan nodded seriously as the amplified and transmitted voice of a receptionist spoke from inside Mandela’s office. “Come in, Paladin GioAvanti.”

The door opened, and they entered the office suite. Soon Heather was in the inner office, where Otto Mandela claimed to be pleased to see her and willing to help her in whatever way he could.

“I’m glad you can spare me the time, Otto,” Heather said to Mandela. “You’ve been on Sheratan recently, right?”

“Yes. The election was a bit of a zoo, but nothing compared to what’s going on here.”

“Plenty of factions at work?”

“Every third house seemed like it was headquarters for some upstart group.”

“Did you hear anything about the Kittery Renaissance there?”

Otto sat straighter in his chair. “Not on Sheratan, no. But I’ve certainly heard of them.”

“What do you know about them?”

“Plenty, but that’s not what you’re asking me. You’re asking what I know about them that I may not have shared with everyone yet.”

Heather flashed one of her charming smiles. “Yes.”

“Paladin GioAvanti, please don’t take this the wrong way, but if I’ve been sitting on information, holding it from others, why should I give it to you now?”

Heather tapped her foot as a couple of options ran through her head. Then she decided.

“Can I show you something on your data screen?” she asked.

“Be my guest.”

Logging into her account, Heather played a piece of the riot video showing the Capellan sympathizer who instigated the whole thing. She looped it, and the woman flared into anger again and again and again.

Mandela watched it at least five times, his face blank. Finally he reached forward and stopped the playback.

“Norah,” he said.

Heather almost lunged toward him. “You know her name?”

“No. I know her alias. The person who shared that information with me had no idea what her real name was.”

“You’re sure?”

“We extracted everything that he knew,” Mandela said, with a fierce note Heather hadn’t heard in his voice before. “Believe me.”