“Exactly, but that was a block ago; the Chinese never cross Xu Avenue west of 110th Street.”

Aaron shook his head. “This is barbaric.”

“I won’t even discuss the other original colonists, who were of Polish descent. They lost a civil war with the Spanish, and still hate them with a seething passion. I’m sure if we drove across town to their neighborhood, they would throw fruit at us, as well.”

“Delightful. I can hardly wait. Let’s go.” He rubbed his chin. “You still haven’t explained how this helps me.”

“The people throwing fruit at you are secretly glad that you’re here listening to them without fighting back, without”—she pointed at the armrest where the button was hidden—“and the people who oppress them are pleased that you’ve seen, up close and personal, what their ‘problem’ is, and aren’t afraid of it. Or at least, they all will be, after you give some speeches I write, and sign off on some statements I’ll fabricate. If we play this right, we can make them all hate each other even more, and love you at least a little bit.” She went back to her writing.

She looked back up at him. “You’ve read the executive summary, haven’t you?”

“I skimmed it. Frankly, there wasn’t much I didn’t already know from my own research, but I found it to be concise and well written.”

“That was another test, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“I don’t like secret tests, Lord Governor. If you want to test my competency, you have only to ask.”

Aaron studied her for a minute. “You don’t like me very much, do you, Cisco?”

She glanced up at him. “Is that a job requirement?”

“No. I insist on competence and loyalty. ‘Like’ I can live without.”

“Good, because you’re not liable to get ‘like.’ But I’m not going to pass judgment either.

“I’m a professional liar. I sold my soul to the farm-machinery devil a long time ago. I’ve spent half my life convincing people to mortgage farms that have been in their family for a hundred years, to buy AgroMechs that will only drag them into bankruptcy.

“I make truth seem like lies, and lies look like truth. I run black and white through a blender every day, and make it come out gray.”

“You don’t paint a very flattering portrait of yourself.”

She shrugged. “People pay me to manipulate the truth for them. I’ve got nothing like that left for myself.”

“So what is bothering you, then? Are we going to win this planet to our cause or not? Because”—he gestured at the screaming mob outside—“it doesn’t look good to me.”

She half-smiled. “When you started this, did you think they’d all be easy? Like I said, you were lucky, and you hired me just in time. It’s just”—she paused in her writing—“that if they sign on to your coalition, my polls and surveys show it’s going to aggravate an already bad situation. If Liao doesn’t take this world, they’ll have a civil revolt within a year, and it will likely spiral into a full-blown war.”

“I don’t need them for longer than a year. If we haven’t stemmed the tide of Liao in six months, it won’t matter.”

“I know, which is why I’m just here doing my job. It’s just—” She put down the pad and stared out the window. “What then?”

“Then, when this is done, I will return, and I will give them order. I promise this.”

The crowd ahead of them suddenly surged to the left side of the street, people trampling each other in panic. From behind a building to the right, a Riot-Mech appeared, the little black-and-white machine wading through the crowd, red and blue lights flashing from the bar above its cockpit. Tiny for a ’Mech, it was still a terrifying presence among the mostly unarmed mob, which scattered from it like a school of fish facing a shark. A rotary launcher on the Riot-Mech’s right arm swiveled down and began to pelt the crowd with rubber bullets. Even in the car he could hear the screaming.

“It’s about time,” he said.

Ulysses Paxton kept his cool reserve as he drove the limousine past the two SwordSworn ’Mechs standing guard, and up the ramp into the Tyrannos Rex. s abbreviated vehicle bay. He watched in the rearview cameras as four members of his recently hired security force opened the door, and ushered the Duke into the relative safety of the ship’s living quarters.

His eyes missed nothing, not where it concerned the Lord Governor’s safety, or the performance of his new team. To his satisfaction, as he watched them disappear, he detected not a single flaw in their procedures. Maybe, in six months or so, they’d be as good as the people he’d lost on New Canton.

He watched the inner hatch seal shut. Only then did he let his body go a little slack, leaning forward to place his forehead on the steering wheel. They’d spent four hours driving around the city. It seemed like a lifetime, without a single moment where threats, or potential threats, to the Duke’s safety weren’t all around.

Even now, his job wasn’t done. He still had to make sure the car was screened for bombs or other booby traps that might have been planted during their close contact with the protestors. It also needed to be scanned for bugs.

He climbed out of the car, put his fists on his hips, and stared at it. He felt he should personally supervise the security sweep on the car, but he had to start trusting the new people at some point. Maybe today was the day. He touched the plug in his ear. “Timms. I need a full security sweep on limo two.”

“I’m on it, Mr. Paxton,” said the voice in his ear. “Long-sword”—that was their radio code for the Duke—“is in a planning session with Ms. Cisco, and says to tell you he won’t be needing you for the rest of the day. He seems to think you could use a break.”

Ulysses grinned. “The Duke is a perceptive man. Call me if anything comes up. Otherwise I’ll see you at eight.”

“Sure thing, sir.”

He tapped the earpiece, breaking the connection. He reached up and took it from his ear, then held the device in his open palm, looking at it for a while. Then he slipped it back in. “No rest for the watchers,” he said.

“Hard day at the office, Paxton?”

Ulysses turned to see Captain Clancy leaning just inside the airlock door. He frowned, wondering what the captain wanted with him.

Clancy grinned at him. “Don’t be like that. We’re on the same team now. Buy you a drink?”

Ulysses studied the captain’s grizzled face, and didn’t detect any subterfuge there. “Sure.”

He followed Clancy to one of the three main elevators and they rode up to officers’ country. They went to the officers’ mess, which was nearly deserted at this hour.

Like most of the ship’s workspaces, the mess was more functional than luxurious. There were a few amenities, though: folding wooden tables and chairs here, rather than the metal-and-plastic ones in the crew’s mess; real china and silver—at least when they weren’t in free fall; and the serve-yourself drink and snack-food areas were generally better stocked. But it wasn’t much.

Clancy walked over to the drink area and bent down to reach a small refrigerator built in under the counter. The door was protected by a coded lock. Ulysses had seen it before and wondered about it. Clancy tapped in the code, opened the door, and took out a tall amber bottle. It was a very expensive brand of ale that Ulysses recognized as coming from the Duke’s private stock. He decided it would be better not to speculate how the captain got his.

Clancy held out the bottle to him.

Ulysses shook his head. “I’ll take some herbal tea. I don’t drink.”

Clancy raised an eyebrow. “Do tell?” He closed the fridge and unscrewed the top on the bottle. He took a swig, and looked over at the hot-water dispenser. “I’ll buy”—he grinned—“but you got to make it.”

Ulysses walked over and punched the button on the hot-water dispenser, put a cup under the spigot, and rummaged through the wooden box where the tea bags were kept.