“Anything to report, Master Sergeant?” asked Dale.

“Have you seen the new orders, sir?”

Dale went to scan the sheaf of papers Borodin held out. Austin glanced up at the small parabolic mirror mounted high in the archway that permitted Borodin to see everyone entering the Palace. Austin’s reflected image was distorted and at this angle reflected him only from the waist up. Short-cropped dark hair covered his head. His broad face with its high cheekbones was handsome, he knew, but not as much as his brother’s. He touched the lump where his nose had been broken, then guiltily stepped away to change the reflection in the mirror. Austin liked this view of himself better. Wide shoulders, barrel-like chest, muscled arms showing the results of strenuous physical training required of all FCL soldiers—Austin felt some pride at how he had bulked up since his swearing in six months earlier. Before the FCL—and with the exception of his practice time in the ’Mech simulator—he had spent a lot of time studying and not enough time doing.

“Keep up the good work, Master Sergeant,” Dale said. “Come on, Austin. We’ve got to hoof it if we don’t want to be late.”

“Let’s take the shortcut,” Austin suggested. Dale nodded absently, lost in thought. He didn’t share what he had learned and Austin didn’t ask.

They made their way through the maze of passageways in the Governor’s residence, an expanded replica of the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg on Terra, and finally reached the Great Hall of Saint George leading directly to the Governor’s offices. Gold filigree arches opened to expose walls of stained glass showing various scenes of history from both Terra and The Republic. Austin knew where to look to see the spots where entire windows had been replaced, showing the political shift from the Federated Suns to The Republic, but few walking along this splendid corridor would ever take note of such small discrepancies.

Three-meter-tall triptychs served as doors for some corridors leading away to other parts of the Palace, but the exotic inlaid wood, the painted murals, the fine tapestries on the walls, and even the cunningly wrought tables spun from crystalline glass were easily overlooked because of the floor. Every step Austin took caused the wood to compress slightly. The resulting squeak sounded like a bird chirping in protest.

Austin had lived in the Palace of Facets all his life and saw nothing unusual about the expensive furnishings. He and Dale had played in the west wing, amid priceless works of art, tapestries, and furniture ancient two hundred years ago. A favorite pastime had been stacking the antique furniture as high as possible in an attempt to reach the cleverly designed ceilings. Not once had the young carousers fallen nor had they ever reached their lofty goal.

When their games of hide-and-seek turned to more serious military ones, they had haunted the vast libraries, Austin researching battles and equipment and Dale waiting for his younger, more studious brother to give him a précis of what he had unearthed.

In spite of having spent so much time in the Palace, Austin still got a chill when he came down this particular hall, the one giving the name to the entire structure: the Palace of Facets. Overhead, mounted in the ceiling, were hundreds of kilos of precious gems sliced microtome thin. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, peridots, diamonds, each lending its own peculiar transmitted light to the Great Hall. As he walked, Austin felt he passed through rainbows, multiple colors whirling about him in a vortex of brilliance. And this was only a single hall. He knew of half a hundred other corridors and rooms where the light filtering through the jewels was even more exquisite.

He swallowed hard, remembering the time he had sneaked into his parents’ bedchamber. That room had always been off-limits to everyone, staff and family alike, and this had made it all the more magnetic an attraction for him. One afternoon he had sneaked in and stood bathed in the syrupy light cascading down from the ceiling. The aurora surrounding him had been dazzling, hypnotic, almost narcotic. He had barely hidden when his parents had entered unexpectedly. Austin remembered catching a glimpse of his mother bathed in this radiance before he slipped away unnoticed. It had been the last time he had seen her alive before the air transport crash took her life.

Austin walked a little faster, and Dale’s stride lengthened as he strained to keep up with his brother. Their steps chirped and echoed down the Great Hall like migrating birds until they came to the tall, carved wooden doors standing open to the antechamber to the Governor’s office. The Armorer’s Chamber housed not only a full office staff but actual arms on display from worlds throughout The Republic. This was as special and complete an exhibit as any at the museum, even if his father threatened to remove it to some distant part of the Palace. Austin had told his father that anyone not remembering the past was doomed to repeat it. He hoped his argument would make some impression on his father and his increasing distaste for violence and the weapons of warfare. Somehow, he doubted it. He would miss the displays.

“The Baron will see you now,” a secretary said, glancing up from his desk when Austin and Dale stopped in front of it. “Go right in.”

“Thanks,” Dale said mechanically.

Austin glanced at Dale, who appeared more relaxed now, but he had a feeling it was only an act. An image of his brother winding up like a spring flashed through Austin’s mind. Dale moved like a jungle cat, sleek and slender and fit. If Austin had bulked up under FCL PT, Dale had gained a long-distance runner’s physique. He cut quite a picture, his jet-black uniform impeccable, silver lieutenant’s insignia shining in the parti-color light dancing down from above. Two small striped ribbons on his chest showed that Dale had engaged in combat against both the copper miners last year and the attempted invasion of Mirach’s other continent, Ventrale, by a company of mercenaries possibly in Jacob Bannson’s employ. Bannson was the ambitious head of a huge corporate conglomerate with business interests in two Prefectures. The Republic had put a limit on his activities once accusations of monopoly were leveled at him, and so Bannson had backed off. Now, with the collapse of the HPG net, rumors abounded that Bannson had been employing less businesslike tactics to expand his influence. The Bannson connection to the Ventrale affair had never been proved, although everyone had their own opinion as to who had backed the ill-fated expedition.

Only a unit commendation rode in the same spot on Austin’s chest. This was the difference two years made, two years and Republic citizenship. In only a month Austin would also finish his service and qualify as a citizen. Then he could win promotion past lieutenant, JG, and endless scut work details.

They went to the entry where a pair of FCL guards stepped aside smartly and opened the double doors inward on silent hinges, revealing a room even more splendidly arrayed than the Armorer’s Chamber and Great Hall beyond. Multihued gemstones from across the planet glittered in the ceiling, sending down an ever-shifting spectrum that cleverly contrived to reunite into a steady white light that illuminated Sergio Ortega’s desk. Paneled with video screens, the desk displayed images spanning the entire world, revealing riots as well as the more intimate details of commerce on Mirach.

“Papa,” greeted Dale. “You’re looking good.”

Sergio motioned them into the room. The guards closed the doors behind them as the brothers stood in front of the imposing desk. Despite what Dale had said, their father did not look well. The faint halo of graying hair around Sergio’s bald spot betrayed how little brushing had been done of late. Dark circles under his eyes told of long hours working with little sleep. And the small tremor in his normally rock-steady hand as Sergio pointed to chairs convinced Austin of the strain he was under. His father was usually cheerful and upbeat. Now he was distant.