“Sure can.”

And Evan stomped down on his pedals, cutting in jump jets and hurtling sixty tons of BattleMech and two passengers skyward on jets of fiery plasma. David’s yell was mostly exhilaration.

But not all of it.

Celestial Palace

Zi-jin Chéng (Forbidden City), Sian

Sian Commonality, Capellan Confederation

3 July 3134

On one of the Celestial Palace’s restricted floors, Agent Michael Yung-Te paused just outside a darkened doorway, bowing his head as if in prayer. His dark eyes remained open, though, as he searched with every sense for warnings, for danger.

The supports on either side of the door were thick, red-grained and exquisitely carved with the semblance of a sleek tiger clawing its way up toward the top. The tiger’s stripes were detailed in gold and, when looking closely enough, one saw that each small crescent was actually a dadao sword—some rough edged, some with fresh blades. He couldn’t see the heavy teak lintel up at the top. Didn’t need to. Everyone knew what was carved there.

Sun-Tzu Liao. Father of the State.

The corridor’s blue-tinted light fell into the room, framing an irregular rectangle on the hardwood floors, but adding very little in the way of illumination. Darkness held sway here, pushing back against prying eyes. Not a sound came from within. Michael would have to step into the doorway, but he hesitated. Being summoned into the Chancellor’s presence provoked uncertainty enough in anyone, even an agent of the Maskirovka. Sent to summon Him, to remind the Chancellor of an audience he should be giving, that was for court functionaries who were better suited to gauge the Chancellor’s moods and risk his wrath. Daoshen the Inscrutable, His Celestial Wisdom, God-Incarnate of Sian, kept his own counsel. He was not a man to be hurried along.

Some believed he was not a mortal man at all.

Michael did not know what to believe. He’d heard many of the whispered legends. Assassins plucked out of closets by the Chancellor’s own hand, left broken and dying. A farmer on estates bordering one of the Chancellor’s rural retreats, trapped under an overturned combine; Daoshen Liao freed him with a demonstration of superhuman strength. Divining the future, the reading of minds, a channeling of his father’s spirit… nothing was left unattributed to the Great Soul of the Confederation.

Michael Yung-Te had already languished in the shadow of the Chancellor’s disfavor for eight long months, for no other reason than his assignment to oversee the interrogation and confession of the traitor, Mai Uhn Wa. And now he was being asked to put his face before the Chancellor again?

As if his question had been spoken aloud, the whisk of sandal against wood shuffled out of the darkened room. Michael tensed. The God-Incarnate of Sian was indeed spending time in his father’s old office, one of several rooms preserved in the memory of the great Sun-Tzu Liao.

“You were sent for me.” Daoshen’s voice drifted out on a harsh whisper, rough edged and violent.

How the Chancellor knew of Michael’s presence the Maskirovka agent could not tell. He cast no shadow into the room, and his approach had been as quiet as only a trained agent moved. “I was sent, Omnipotent One.” Truly divine or merely godlike in his authority, one always—always!—awarded the Chancellor his due honors. “I do not mean to disturb your meditation.”

“The representative from Jacob Bannson. The ambassador from the Oriente Protectorate. They await audience.” It was not a question. “They are in the antechamber to my parlor, together?” They were.

“So it is my understanding, Heavenly Patience. They do wait together.”

“Step inside, Michael Yung-Te.”

Maskirovka agents were disciplined and very well trained. There were not many polygraph devices that they could not subvert. There were not many secrets they could not learn… and keep to themselves until demanded of them. Still, Michael felt naked as he stepped past the threshold and into the room, shuffling immediately to one side, out of the light.

The shadows had a clammy touch. He smelled perfumed oils and a touch of dust common to unused rooms. His eyes adjusted, and he saw a desk, a terrarium, a display curio filled with treasures collected by the Ascendant Sun-Tzu Liao. Michael found his eyes drawn back to the desk, where Daoshen’s father once sat and planned such events as the Xin Sheng movement of 3062, and his retreat from Sian during the Jihad. It was here that he made his decision to return to Liao after the Night of Screams. The trip where, according to all belief, he ascended to a godhood of his own.

But where was the Chancellor? The room stood empty. Or did it?

“You fall back into the shadows, Agent Yung-Te.” Daoshen shuffled forward from near the curio, as if materializing in the room. Like a dark spider spinning its gossamer web, Daoshen Liao remained just this side of invisible. As if the light dared not approach him. “That is a good skill for one of the Mask. But it does not hide you from my eyes.”

“Nothing is hidden from your eyes, Celestial Spirit.” The Maskirovka helped make that so, but Michael still wondered. “This unworthy one meant no insult.”

“You have read reports of the fighting?” Daoshen asked.

Did he know that Michael was one of a dozen agents that helped prepare the Mask’s Daily Report, assigning levels of risk to the State in each of a hundred different ventures and events? The report was not so timely without working HPGs, but a command circuit of JumpShips ferrying news from the front put Sian only a few days behind any major advance or setback.

“I have read reports,” Michael agreed. Straight from the hand of Strategic Director Isabelle Fisk. But he sensed that the Chancellor was looking for more than mere affirmation. “We proceed well along the Algot front, especially where we rely more heavily on our own supply lines and have no worries with regard to a bordering Prefecture.” Along that border, The Republic of the Sphere fetched up against a small piece of Confederation space and then a protruding thumb of the mighty and much despised Federated Suns. “The fighting on Menkar has turned particularly desperate for The Republic.”

“Signs, Michael. Read the signs. Desperation is a judgment. Why Algot? Why Menkar?”

“That is where our forces are strongest. That is where Prefect Tao comes to find us.” Shun Tao. Michael had been responsible for a biography and threat assessment of the man only a year ago, before he was assigned to the traitor. Before he lost Daoshen Liao’s favor.

“What is of supreme importance in war is to attack the enemy’s strategy. Next best is to disrupt his alliances. Afterward, to attack his army.”

It took Michael a moment to realize the Chancellor was quoting. “Li Ch’uan?” he asked.

“Much older. The Art of War, by Sun Tzu. His namesake.”

His gaze flicked to the desk. In a way, there were three people in the room. Was Daoshen Liao seeking approval? Was Michael?

“So, has the enemy attacked our strategy?” the Chancellor asked.

“No. They engage our troops. Both there, and on the Liao front.” Of course, Republic news still referred to it as the Gan Singh theater, as if the small force landed on Liao did not constitute a real threat.