Hanse rose but said nothing until he had gone to sit behind his desk. "Quintus, have we had any confirmation of Michael's dealings with Max Liao?"

The white-haired man shook his head. "There is still only suspicion, except for official meetings that are matters of protocol— new ambassadors presenting their documents or Council of the Arts meetings and the like. We've also got the 'officially reported' texts of discussions, but no private meetings have been recorded, and so my cryptographers have no way to determine if Michael uses some elaborate code in the meetings. Anasta over at the NAIS has done some interesting work with rapid, high-frequency transmission of data, which is later slowed down and decoded. Without a recording, though, we can't begin to look for that sort of thing."

Hanse frowned. "No reported absences ... no time when he could have been off meeting with Liao?"

Quintus shook his head again. "It's possible that Max has created a double for Michael, but it's unlikely. Barring that possibility, there's no way he could have gotten out of sight long enough for a meeting with Max Liao." Allard hesitated, then added, "Check that. Michael could have jumped out, met with Liao for four or five hours, and then jumped back in during a tour of some border worlds he took back three months ago. Still, it's highly unlikely."

Sortek stood and looked from Allard to Prince Davion. "I don't know about the two of you, but I don't need any proof of Michael's duplicity. I can feelit in my guts."

"As can I." Hanse's quiet agreement accompanied Allard's solemn nod. "Quint, you know I must ask this. What are the chances that your son is a spy?"

Sortek immediately fixed Hanse with a harsh stare, but the Prince ignored it. "Is it possible that we've all missed some sign? It's true that he worked hard for acceptance in some circles because of being half-Capellan."

Quintus rubbed his temple thoughtfully as he stared at the floor for a moment. Then he straightened up and stared at Hanse.

"As an intelligence officer, I would have to say that sending a half-Capellan officer to head up a garrison/training force on a world we've only controlled for twenty years is a risky proposition. On one hand, his natural command of the tongue and his appreciation for the culture provide a bridge to normalizing relations with the native population."

Quintus grimaced, but went on purposefully. "On the other hand, it could be very easy for enemy agents to co-opt such an officer if he were to feel betrayed or persecuted by his own troops or superiors." Quintus shrugged helplessly. "I don't know about Justin. All I can do is review the evidence Michael's men have gathered and see what I can come up with."

Hanse smiled and nodded. "I know you'll do your best, Quintus." The Prince of the Federated Suns stood up, fingers poised against the polished surface of his desk. "It seems, gentlemen, that we agree. I believe that Michael Hasek-Davion wants to take my place, and I believe he'd league himself with the devil—or Max Liao—to do so. Both of you know how much I'd like to pay back Max Liao for the little trick he played on me when he put a double here on my throne. . . . If I could, I'd like to pay him back a hundredfold."

He paused then, and the dramatic effect was not lost on his two visitors. "Yes, my friends, I think we can use Michael to get at Max himself."

Ardan Sortek and Quintus Allard smiled at their leader. "Let us begin," Hanse continued, "to feed Michael the kind of troop figures, locations, and projected movements that will show him we're not abandoning the Capellan March. You, Quintus, will meanwhile thoroughly track the Liao countermoves as we shuffle our troops. I want to know exactly who I can trust in the Capellan March."

9

New Avalon

Crucis March, Federated Suns

10 January 3027

Hello, doctor. How are you?" Justin slowly completed one series of tai chi chuan circular moves, then stopped. He plucked a white towel from a bench in the hospital's Solarium and mopped his sweaty brow. "Do you need me for some more tests?"

Dr. Thompson shook his head. "Not exactly." As the doctor sat down on the bench, Justin dropped to sit facing him on the carpeted floor. "I watched your exercises for awhile. What do you think of the arm?"

Justin frowned darkly and looked down at the metallic prosthesis. I hate it, utterly and completely. It's lifeless, and because of its lifelessness, I'll never again pilot a 'Mech.The wrist remained cocked at the slight angle he'd set for his last series of motions. The fingers, locked like claws, curled back toward his palm stiffly. Justin rotated his arm so that his palm faced up, then back down again. It mocks me, pretending to be a suitable replacement for the limb I've lost. But, no, this is not what the doctor really wants to know. He cares only for how it functions, not my feelings and thoughts about having a metal arm.

"The elbow works very well, and these exercises have helped to give me a feel for where the limb is now. I'd guess that comes from the weight and pressure on the lower part of my arm." Justin narrowed his eyes and tried to make a fist with his left hand. "When I move the fingers or wrist, I get some slight feeling, but nothing I can control." Justin shrugged. "I'd rather have my real arm back. Perhaps that feeling will fade when I gain control of the wrist and hand."

Dr. Thompson leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Justin, you may never gain control of the wrist or fingers of that hand. It's true that we have prostheses that are fully articulated, but those cases were different from yours. Those people did not suffer the kind of extensive damage as you did to your forearm."

Justin listened and understood, but he could not allow himself to acknowledge any truth in the doctor's statement. He nodded, however, feeling sweat trickle from the hairline around his ears. "You said before that the others still had muscle tissue in their forearms, which you were able to attach to artificial ligaments and tendons to give them hand and wrist control."

Thompson nodded slowly. "Right." He took Justin's prosthesis by the wrist and gently bent it back toward Justin's shoulder. Pointing at the elbow, he continued his lecture. "The only thing we had to work with on you, however, were portions of your radius and ulna, and the ganglia in your elbow. It's actually the muscles of your upper arm that control your elbow and lateral arm motion. All you have to drive your fingers and wrists are impulses from the nerves in your elbow."

Terror crawled maggotlike through Justin's stomach. He wiped his face with the towel again. "So, what you're telling me is that I cannot ever control this hand."

The doctor shook his head. "No. With years of bard work, such as your tai chi chuan, you'll gain control of the motors and truncated myomer fibers threaded through your forearm. With persistence, you should eventually be able to perform gross motor functions with that hand." The doctor flexed his own fingers. "You'll never play the piano, but you will be able to pluck and eat a grape."

Anger flashed through Justin's dark eyes and he stood abruptly. I don't want grapes.I I want a 'Mech!His right hand contracted into a fist, and he shut his eyes in the fight to control his emotions. When he opened them again, he scowled at Thompson. "Why don't you just go ahead and tell me what you've avoided saying before? Why don't you just tell me I'll never pilot a 'Mech again?" He stared down at his inert hand. "Why don't you just tell me I'm a useless cripple?"