“Sir,” the Knight said. “I have a message for you.”

“Wouldn’t radio do?”

“Hard copy, to be delivered in person,” the Knight said. He looked again at the Paladin—who appeared tired but satisfied, like a workman contemplating a tough job well finished—and asked, “How was the fight?”

“No real problem. They didn’t have any ’Mechs. We rescued the hostages. Got some prisoners; they’re being interrogated.”

“That’s good to hear. May I deliver the message I bear?”

“You came a long way. I might as well take a look at it. Walk with me.”

Jonah Levin stood and walked down to the packed sand of the lower beach. Wavelets rolled up the beach, then retreated, smoothing the sand and making it easier to walk on. The tide was going out, leaving bits of wreckage behind: broken weapons, packing material, the shattered hull of the boat wave commander’s vessel.

“What’s your message?” Jonah asked.

“Here,” the Knight said, and pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his tunic. It bore seals from the very highest levels of government in Geneva.

Jonah took it. He felt reluctant, suddenly, to open the letter. It would be so much simpler to merely throw the envelope into the surf, to send the Knight on his way, to return to his ’Mech and live out his life as a warrior, nothing more.

But he’d never chosen any option simply because it was easy. He slit the envelope open. The paper inside was embossed with the symbols of Devlin Stone and of The Republic of the Sphere. The message was short.

“Sir?” the Knight asked. “Do you have a reply?”

“Yes. Tell them, ‘yes.’”

The Knight saluted, turned, and trotted back to his VSTOL.

Jonah stood on the beach. There was a lot to do, including readying his ’Mech and arranging transportation. And he would have to explain things to Anna.

“I’ve been summoned,” he said aloud. The words sounded strange in his ears, and he couldn’t imagine them sounding any less strange to his wife, whom he would have to leave behind on Kervil. “To Terra, in order to participate in the election of the next Exarch.”

A changing breeze brought the acrid smell of fire and corpses across the sand. This morning, Jonah realized, had been the easy part. What awaited him on Terra—that would be the challenge.

Office of the Exarch, Geneva

Terra, Prefecture X

24 October 3134

Exarch Damien Redburn preferred to hold most conferences in his private office, rather than in the ceremonial one reserved for formal meetings and official photos. The ceremonial office occupied most of an entire floor in the Hall of Government; it was long on elegance and impressive decor but short on security and convenience.

His private office, on the other hand, featured a combination of conservative decor and plain working furniture that could have belonged to an executive in any of a hundred Terran corporations, and it was located in a building whose directory did not mention the Exarch’s name at all. For all that the world outside knew, this was the office of The Republic’s Deputy Undersecretary for Economic Redevelopment.

Soon he’d leave both offices behind for good. He had already bought a retirement home in Terra’s Pacific Northwest and he was looking forward to spending some time doing nothing but fishing. He’d also be happy to leave behind the more unpleasant parts of politics—the endless meetings, the stultifying ceremonies, the blizzard of bureaucracy.

But then there was the rest of the job, the things that had gotten him involved in the first place… the plans, the goals, the continued hope to build something lasting, something better than had been in place before. Redburn had never known anyone to leave that part of political life for good. Except for Devlin Stone, and even he promised to come back. There were many things to be done; many ways, large and small, that he could peddle his influence from his distant northwoods outpost. He had some idea what was coming, and it would be impossible for him to sit on the sidelines and let it all go on without him. He sometimes pretended otherwise, but that was just for show, to let those who wanted to believe that he was going to shrink away keep their mistaken opinions for a little longer.

For now, though, he was focused on getting through the meetings that separated him from his fishing pole. And in truth, his current appointment was one of the more pleasant items on his agenda.

The Paladin who sat composedly at one end of the office couch was not officially in the room, any more than the room itself officially existed. Until Redburn took office, in fact, he had sometimes thought that this particular Paladin—the Ghost Paladin, the eighteenth of the seventeen Paladins, the Paladin whose identity was never revealed save to the reigning Exarch—was a legend, a tale made up to frighten those who were tempted to swerve from The Republic’s straight and narrow.

The Ghost Paladin’s very existence was the subject of much rumor and speculation among the people at large. But by this point during his term in office, Damien Redburn had come to know the Ghost Paladin very well—enough so that their meetings were often as much social as business. What better friend could there be, after all, for a ruler who could not afford to play favorites, than a Paladin whose identity was unknown?

Redburn took a decanter and a pair of tumblers from the cabinet in the corner. He poured two fingers of amber liquid into each tumbler.

“Of the two of us,” he said, as he handed one of the tumblers to his guest, “I’m the lucky one.”

The Ghost Paladin took an appreciative sip. “Why do you say that?”

“I get to quit my job. So far as I can tell, you’re going to be doing yours up to the day you die in harness.”

“True.” The Ghost Paladin took another sip of the drink, visibly savoring it. “On the other hand, I don’t have to do politics. That’s what ages a man, you know.”

“You won’t get any argument from me,” Redburn said. He leaned his head back and contemplated the ceiling. “I nearly didn’t recognize myself in the mirror the other day. I said to myself, ‘Who is that tired old man?’—and then I realized it was me.”

“You’ll be done soon.” The Ghost Paladin chuckled. “Everyone is convinced that you have some kind of devious power play going, holding the election this early.”

“It’s just the call of the redwoods.”

The Ghost Paladin slowly shook his head. “Other people may buy that. I don’t.”

“It’s the story I’m giving,” Redburn said with a shrug.

“Even though you know you’ll be back in politics, somehow, before the year is out.”

“I know no such thing,” Redburn said placidly. Then he cracked a small smile. “But I have my suspicions.”

“You may not even get to leave Geneva. You know that whoever succeeds you will want to cling to you for advice.”

Redburn’s face grew sober. “I won’t be here. Whatever else I may or may not be planning, I’m going to give the next Exarch plenty of breathing room. Their term will be their own.”

“A fresh start?”

“Something like that.”

“And the turmoil that will follow the election? You think you’ll be able to see all that on the streets and just watch it go past?”

The Ghost Paladin had hit a nerve. As bad as things were now between Terra’s political factions, the election could make it worse. Now, at least, each faction had at least a slim hope that its candidate—whoever that might be—had a chance to be Exarch. After the election, most of them would be disappointed, knowing they’d lost a chance to gain power, to advance their agenda, for at least four years. Disappointment would make some hopeless, hopelessness would lead to desperation, and desperation could make the streets of Geneva run red.