“We’re getting illuminated with fire control,” a sensor tech on watch said. “G and H band, ranging and identification.”

“Countermeasures,” the captain said. “Active and passive. Keep them guessing.”

“They have to have figured out by now that something big’s coming,” Jonah said. “They’re going to be hitting us with everything they’ve got.”

“So they will,” the captain said. “At the same time as we’re hitting them with everything that we’ve got. Thanks to you, we have something more.”

“Start line,” the navigator said.

“Very well. Commence launching boats, form up wave circles, guide on me.”

“Commence launching,” the radio talker said. Jonah left Waverley’s bridge crew to their work and headed back to where his ’Mech waited in the dark of the lowest hold, power cables snaking over it. The ’Mech’s support crew—which, in these cramped quarters, was only two men—was standing by.

“Armed and hot,” the head rigger said. “Awaiting your orders.”

“Secure from ship’s power,” Jonah ordered. “I’m mounting up.”

“Secure from ship’s power, aye.”

While the two crewmen labored to disconnect the Atlas from Waverley’s power, Jonah stripped down to his shorts and a thin mesh shirt. As chilly as the humid morning was against his bare skin, he knew the atmosphere inside his ’Mech’s cockpit would be full of the literal heat of battle, where sweat running into a warrior’s eyes could be as deadly as inbound missiles. Without the concealment of his uniform shirt and trousers, the tanned skin of Jonah’s limbs and torso showed the silvery, knotted tracks of myriad old scars.

He climbed the ladder to the cockpit of the Atlas, reviewing the weapons systems as he went. Then he entered the hatch to the cockpit, closed the hatch behind him, strapped himself into the ’Mech’s command couch, and convinced the ’Mech to recognize him as its commander. He brought the ’Mech up to its full standing height, stretched all its limbs to confirm response and agility, and cycled its weapons and communications console. Then he keyed on the intraship communications link.

“All right. I’m ready.”

Hotel Egremont

Woodstock, Prefecture V

22 October 3134

When the DropShip Amphitrite touched down at the DropPort on Woodstock, Gareth Sinclair was the first passenger to disembark. His luggage, which would otherwise have been subject to customs inspection, received its entry stamp without needing to be opened, and Gareth himself was waved to the head of the passenger line.

As a Knight of the Sphere, he was often extended such privileges whether he asked for them or not. He refused them when he could—he already felt guilty enough about the doors opened by his family’s wealth and position, and having more deference shown him did not make him more comfortable.

Today, however, he was willing to accept the advantage. He was on business for The Republic of the Sphere, he had a message to deliver, and the sender would not want him to dawdle.

The information desk in Woodstock’s DropPort concourse had an actual person on duty behind the counter, in addition to the usual data screens, input terminals and racks of brightly colored folding brochures. Gareth approved. He had wrestled with enough planetary communications directories and computerized mapping services to know that what seemed intuitively obvious to the locals often appeared far less so to off-worlders. Interrogating a live human being was not as fast and efficient as implementing a properly functioning data search, but Gareth had found people to be a lot easier to work with when things went wrong.

The woman at the desk looked up at his approach, and her eyes brightened. He wasn’t surprised. The working uniform of a Knight of the Sphere wasn’t as dazzling as the full-dress regalia, but the rank it proclaimed was nevertheless capable of impressing spectators. He knew the attendant wasn’t glowing because of his face; it was too thin, too long, too raw-boned to make pleasant young ladies smile at his approach.

“May I help you?” the desk clerk asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I need to know where the mercenary contract talks are being held.”

The clerk’s expression cooled markedly. The topic of mercenaries, it seemed, was not a popular one on Woodstock at the moment.

Gareth was not surprised. Some years earlier, when the Steel Wolves under Kal Radick had first begun to exhibit signs of military adventurism, the citizens of Woodstock had grown nervous. Their uneasiness prompted them to hire elements of the Eridani Light Horse mercenary unit as a planetary garrison. As matters fell out afterward, the Steel Wolves—first under Radick himself and later under Anastasia Kerensky—turned their attention elsewhere, and the contract between the government of Woodstock and the Eridani Light Horse expired without any combat having taken place on-planet.

The good people of Woodstock, far from being relieved, felt that they had promised to spend a great deal of money to no purpose. They attempted to renegotiate the terms of the contract to a lower payoff, on the grounds that the mercenaries hadn’t done any actual work. When the mercenaries objected and brought the matter before the Mercenary Review and Bonding Commission for adjudication, the local government countered by accusing the Commission of institutional bias and denying that its decisions were binding without the consent of both parties.

The mercenaries had objected again, vehemently this time, and with what the government of Woodstock chose to regard as threats of violence. It had taken direct intervention on the part of Exarch Damien Redburn, and the promise of a Paladin, no less, to handle negotiations, before the mercenaries’ tempers would cool.

The clerk said, “The talks are at the Hotel Egremont.”

“Neutral ground?”

“I really couldn’t tell you,” the clerk said distantly. “Do you need a map?”

“Yes, please.” Attempting to pinpoint the location of the hotel by wandering about and asking possibly hostile strangers for directions would not be good, Gareth thought, for the dignity of a Knight of the Sphere.

“One moment.” A light flashed within the depths of the info-booth console, and a moment later a sheet of printout flimsy emerged. The clerk picked up the sheet and handed it to him. It was a map of the city, showing the Hotel Egremont marked with a star and the route from the DropPort picked out in red. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

After a pause, the clerk added, almost reluctantly, “It’s a long walk. If I were you, I’d take a taxi.”

Gareth followed the clerk’s advice. The last thing he wanted, considering the gravity of the message that he bore, was to show up at the talks looking sweaty and rumpled.

The Hotel Egremont, when he arrived, was full of mercs in uniform. Gareth suspected they had scared away all of the other customers within the first day or so of negotiations. He asked the desk clerk where the contract talks were being held.

“In the Rose Room,” the desk clerk replied. “Off the mezzanine.”

“Thanks,” Gareth said, and headed toward the staircase.

“Hey!” the desk clerk protested. “Those are private negotiations. You can’t just—”

Gareth paused long enough to speak over his shoulder—“I have a personal message for Paladin Heather GioAvanti from Exarch Damien Redburn. I believe that gives me authorization.”—and continued up the stairs.

The mercenaries had a guard posted outside the Rose Room. The man came from relaxed parade rest to a posture of readiness as Sinclair approached.

“I’m sorry, sir. These are private negotiations.”

“So I’ve been told. And I’m a Knight of the Sphere with an urgent message for the Paladin.”