“What? Why? My apartment—”

“Forget it. If things calm down you can send for your things. Don’t even go back there unless you have some cash hidden—and I think you might. If you’re really a spy, you’ll have a bug-out kit with money and travel papers stashed somewhere. But I’m not sure you’re that much of a pro. Just go. This planet isn’t safe anymore.”

She clutched at him. “Come with me!”

He looked off in the direction of the Capitol Building, already planning. “I can’t. Wait here.”

He scrambled back to their table and dug through the mess of broken dishes and fallen ceiling tiles to find the envelope that Kinston had given him. He duck-walked back to where Elsa was hiding.

“Erik, where are you going?”

“There may still be something to salvage here. I’m going to try, anyway.” He looked at her. “You can tell that to your employers if you talk to them again.”

She looked hurt. He wanted to take back the words, but it was too late.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry it has to be this way. Maybe this just wasn’t meant to be.”

More explosions, distant, possibly from across town. The lights flickered and went out. “Come on.”

He grabbed her arm, half guiding, half dragging her out of the building. They ran down the street—Erik on the outside, pushing her close to the buildings.

Aerospace fighters flashed overhead, and he saw missile tracks scribbled across the sky. They crossed a street, and he got a clear look at the Capitol Building, the three domes over the rotunda burning and half-collapsed.

An unfamiliar car, dodging rubble in the street, screeched to a halt in front of them, one wheel up on the curb. The door opened. Lieutenant Clayhatchee was driving.

“Commander! Get in! Your driver ran off when the bombing started, but I knew you’d be here.”

“Where did you get the car?”

He grinned and held up his side arm. “I charged it to diplomatic immunity, sir!”

“Good work, Lieutenant. There’s a medal in this if I have anything to do with it!” He pushed Elsa into the car, but didn’t follow her.

Clayhatchee was confused. “Sir, aren’t you coming?”

Elsa stared at him. “Erik!”

He leaned in and kissed her hard.

“Get her to the spaceport, and on some kind of transport off-planet. Get yourself on one, too, if you can. Head back to my uncle, and tell him what’s happened here.” He paused. “Tell him”—he held up the envelope—“that I carried the mission to its logical conclusion.”

Clayhatchee hesitated. “That’s an order, Lieutenant!”

“Yes, sir!” He saluted sharply, then backed the car off the curb, and zoomed away down the street.

Erik looked around. He could just see the roof of the Hereditary House a block over. He had no way of knowing if Kinston was still there, but he needed a guide. He ran toward the building.

He found the entrance unguarded, and a few frightened people cowering in the lobby. Where was everyone? In the catacombs, undoubtedly. But where? Probably these people were outsiders, too. If they knew, they’d already be down there.

He tried to remember the stairs leading into the basement at Senator Prescott’s house. There had been a symbol on the wall. At the time, he’d thought it was just a decoration. It had been a chevron over a triangle of small dots. But the chevron might represent a roof, and the three dots might represent people. Shelter!

He headed for the building’s core, where an entrance to the shelter might more logically be located. It took him five minutes before he spotted the symbol next to an arrow pointing down a dead-end hall. At the end was an unassuming door next to a janitor’s closet. The door had the same symbol on it. He turned the knob. By the reddish glow of emergency lighting, he could just make out a stairway leading down. He could hear people below.

He climbed carefully down the stairs. Somebody pointed a flashlight up into his face. He shielded his eyes. “I’m looking for Ozark Kinston. Do you know him?”

Silence.

“He was at Senator Prescott’s office when the attack came.”

“I saw—” A woman’s quavering voice came from behind the flashlight. “I saw some of the staff head down that way.” The beam pointed back toward the rear of the building. “Maybe he’s down there.”

Erik made himself smile. “Thank you.”

He pushed on to a central corridor, surrounded by rooms—most with doors open. He glanced in, and by the dim red emergency lights he could see people in almost every room—some waiting quietly, some talking, or sobbing, or huddled together for comfort. With each distant explosion they would tense and pull together.

Erik wondered how Elsa was doing. He hoped she could take care of herself, and if not, Lieutenant Clayhatchee could take care of both of them.

“Kinston,” he called to anyone who would listen. “I’m looking for Ozark Kinston.”

“Here,” he finally heard a voice say. “I’m here.”

He found Kinston in one of the side rooms, sitting on a folding cot. He was dirty, and had a bloody handkerchief wrapped around one hand, but otherwise looked in good health. He looked up at Erik, his eyes like those of a whipped dog. “What’s happening?”

Erik stood over him, arms crossed. “My guess is that House Liao has come to pay its respects to Shensi.” He held out the envelope. “It seems to me that an alliance with Duke Sandoval would be a good thing right about now.”

Kinston shook his head. “I know, I know. I did my best, Commander. A few more weeks and I might have had them.”

“Not in a few weeks,” he said. “Now. We’re going to sign an accord now.”

Kinston’s eyes widened. He wiped his face with the flats of his hands. “What?”

“We’re going to go get this accord signed by the Governor and the Legate. The original, not that other piece of crap you tried to pass off on me.”

“Yes,” he stammered, “of course, they’d sign it now.”

“Then let’s go find them.”

Kinston looked pale. Despite the cool of the subbasement, he was sweating profusely. “Find them? Us?”

“Us. You and me. Come on.”

“Us? No. No, I can’t.”

“Look, Kinston. The Governor and the Legate have probably gone to ground. I’m betting there are shelters under the Capitol Building, catacombs, and that you know how to find them.”

Kinston blinked; thinking seeming to take enormous effort. “Yes, I suppose I know the way in. I saw the Situation Room once. The Legate might be there. But I can’t—”

“You can, Kinston. I can’t find them alone.”

Kinston looked like he was about to burst into tears, but he slowly pulled himself to his feet.

Erik handed him the envelope, and he clutched it, almost gratefully. Then Erik took him by the arm and led him out into the hall. “Which way?”

Kinston looked confused. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, Kinston. There are tunnels running from this building to the Capitol Building, aren’t there? Can we get there without going up to street level?”

Kinston nodded. “Yes. There’s a tram. A subway. This way.” He pointed back toward the middle of the building.

With Erik urging Kinston along, the two of them reached the door to another stairwell, which they took down two more flights. They emerged at a tram station.

Surprisingly, the lights were on here. Perhaps the subway had its own power source, or was powered from the Capitol Building end. They stood on a long platform tiled in white marble, the roof supported by Greek columns. Large potted plants spaced regularly along the platform helped mute the cold sterility of the place.

There were two tracks running through the center of the platform. The side they were on seemed to be for departing cars, the other for arriving cars. The two sides of the platform were connected by a short tunnel running under the tracks. A line of small, open-sided cars, each with ten or so seats, sat lined up at the platform.