“And our alliances?”

Bannson. Michael was not privy to all dealings, but he knew enough to realize the Chancellor had struck a deal with the industrial giant. “As yet, they seem to be unaware of our connection with Jacob Bannson. Of course, he operates very carefully, which has led to our slowed advance on Liao. We depend on him too much.”

Michael immediately wished he could recall those words. His role was to report, not to counsel. Daoshen Liao let a long silence speak for him. Then, “Bannson’s caution may hurt us,” he agreed. “Imagine what would happen should the Dynasty Guard and McCarron’s Second be isolated on Liao for any length of time.”

“They would take heavy losses. The Hussars and the Armored Cavalry would demand blood.” A dark thrill shook Michael as he was allowed to glimpse a piece of the political machinery working so far behind the scenes.

“And the Warrior Houses,” the Chancellor whispered. “After all, the stillborn rebirth of House Ijori could hardly go unnoticed.”

The traitor again. The Maskirovka agent had learned of Mai’s divine goal to raise up one of the fallen Warrior Houses. His quest for that boon had led to a direct betrayal of the State, a failure in policy and a refusal to answer for it. Either should have cost the man his life. Michael’s mood darkened. Instead, Mai Wa had been freed to pursue his dream again, sent back to Liao where his—

Sent back to Liao.

A cold pit opened up in Michael’s stomach. This was more than a glimpse. He knew then that the Chancellor had indeed summoned him here today, now, for a reason. Daoshen Liao pulled back a corner of the curtain, allowing him see the plans within plans and the machinations that fueled them. Soon the Confederation would have tokens in place on Liao representing three of the strongest Capellan military forces. Should they be threatened, wounded—destroyed!—Bannson could be held accountable, put fully in the Chancellor’s power, and the following bloodlust would make the Confederation all but unstoppable. Then Liao could be retaken. No quarter accepted or offered, the Confederation armed forces would sweep through Prefecture V.

And beyond?

Next best is to disrupt his alliances.

Right now a representative from the Oriente Protectorate was sitting in a room, unattended, with Bannson’s man. Bannson—Daoshen—the world of Liao. Bannson—the Oriente—New Canton and Prefecture VI. Two interlocking circles. How far did the Chancellor’s reach extend? Michael trembled with a thrill of power. What was truly beyond the God-Incarnate of Sian?

“The signs are all favorable,” Daoshen intoned in a deep whisper, as if reading the other man’s mind. “I know that Liao will be ours again. I know that my father watches over all to ensure this will happen. And you, Michael Yung-Te, will carry my messages forward to put the final pieces in place.”

Even the gods, at times, required mortal servants. Michael bowed, then sank to his knees and fully prostrated himself before his Chancellor. “I am not worthy of this honor. I serve the Confederation.”

“See that you do,” Daoshen Liao said, dismissing the agent, His messenger, with a final command. “Your full orders await you on the Celestial Walker. Take them forward.”

Michael rose and stepped into the spilled light, then backed his way from the room. His mind was already on the Confederation’s eventual victory, wrapped about his return to the graces of the Chancellor’s service. He had not lost favor in those months as Mai Wa’s minder. He had never been forgotten. His was a powerful future, following one of the Chancellor’s many divined paths. And in the end, he would see justice done.

Mai Uhn Wa would not be allowed to succeed. He would die in one last service to the State.

Michael Yung-Te now believed.

Overland Orchards

Paragon Province, Liao

Prefecture V, The Republic

10 July 3134

Wading through a bramble of spike-topped trees, Viktor Ruskoff slammed his throttle forward against the upper stop. His Zeus limped onward, eating up six meters in every stride as it pushed for speeds nearing sixty kilometers per hour. Naranji tree limbs snapped off as the eighty-ton BattleMech brushed past row after row, leaving smears of greenstick splinters down its legs. His machine’s left arm, amputated at the elbow, swung just above the dead canopy. Scattered machine gun fire pecked and prodded from thicker parts of the orchard, which the Legate ignored.

The Zeus broke through to a dirt road, passing between orchard stands, and Viktor throttled back as a new threat icon popped on his HUD. Half a klick along the road a Po II heavy tank crawled forward on chevron treads. A flash of electrical storm and a dark blur, and a Gauss slug shattered armor across the Zeus’s right leg. Then the Po spun and powered into the next orchard, hiding from the assault ’Mech’s return fire and no doubt calling in support on its position.

Wrong again. The Po II immediately backed out, turret wheeled over, and struck at him a second time. A new Gauss round hammered into the assault ’Mech’s left side, raining shards of fractured armor around its feet.

The number of Viktor’s guesses being proven wrong were beginning to mount up. He’d guessed that he could move forces and supplies up to Qinghai from Paragon Province without alerting the Second McCarron’s Armored Cavalry. And then he’d gambled that a pair of BattleMechs and a mechanized infantry company would be enough to run vanguard on the convoy.

Now he was second-guessing Terrence McCarron himself, and paying dearly each time he underestimated his opponent.

Dropping his crosshairs over the Po’s blocky profile, Viktor reached out with large laser and missiles in an attempt to smash the cocky bastard before he dodged back into the orchard. McCarron hammered into a reverse-right tanker’s turn, taking the laser against his stronger front armor and letting the flight of missiles chew up nothing worse than the soft, black earth.

Staying into the turn through an entire one-eighty, the Po finally backed itself into the orchard and out of sight.

Rather than chase along the open road after McCarron, Viktor crossed the shoulder to wade once more into the sleeping orchard. Like flushing pheasant, a pocket of Achileus and Infiltrators popped up on jets, scattering in three different directions. The Legate ignored them, turned his Zeus eastward, chasing after the Po II and the leader of McCarron’s Second.

“Alpha, Bravo,” Ruskoff barked into his mic. “Report.”

“Alpha, NOC.”

No official change. Which meant the 122nd Pathfinders were still down one transport and three men, and had yet to claim an enemy kill.

“Bravo. Lose one Harraser.” Both VTOLs down now. “Cripple one Demon and score a squad of Infiltrators on the belly flop.”

So the VTOL had spoil-sported and crashed itself into a McCarron’s armored infantry squad. A waste of damn fine infantry, in Viktor’s opinion, but better a waste of their infantry than his.

“Alpha,” he checked his HUD in a practiced glance, backed it up with a scan through his ferroglass shield. He picked up only one hundred twenty degrees of the horizon, but sometimes it helped him keep the pieces straight in his mind. Like playing chess and looking at only half the board, playing the rest from memory.