As for Conner, his chances for advancement were nil, but that mattered little to him. As a Knight of the Sphere he already served the exarch at a level few dared even to dream of. Paladinship had always been a distant thought, at best.

Pacing the hall outside his father’s offices, Conner wrestled with his options, coming to grips with what was expected of him now. The family or The Republic. He had sworn an oath. And while he’d known that such conflicts could arise, he’d never truly thought they would.

Gareth had been right about that much, at least. Conner was being put to the question. The line he walked was narrow, drawing out to a hair’s breadth where it suspended a sword above him.

A hair that snapped in the next moment, with a pistol’s muffled report.

New Hessen

Federated Suns

9 March 3135

Julian Davion fought back another series of sneezes, strangling the first one in its infancy and breathing shallowly until the tickling sensation passed.

His sinuses ached and he felt half a lung short as he labored to breathe New Hessen’s thick atmosphere. Airborne pollen left a feathered coating on his tongue. It tasted of warm grass and tree blossoms. And beneath that, something more. Some dank and rotting thing that never went away. He wiped constantly at his eyes and carried several handkerchiefs. His nose was red and painfully raw.

The Capellan forces on New Hessen might not kill the prince’s champion, but his allergies certainly could.

“You get used to it,” Colonel Palos Torris said. The two men rode in a military jeep, the old-fashioned kind with good, knobby wheels and no shocks, and a cab completely open to the atmosphere. “Only takes about two years.”

Julian gave himself two weeks. Longer than that, and his lungs might never forgive him.

The jeep hit a pothole and jumped hard. Julian resettled his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “Wish I had that kind of time,” he lied.

“Sure you do,” Torris said, and laughed at the courtesy. The colonel was horse-faced and had a whinnying laugh as well, but sharp eyes and, as Julian had learned, a sharp tongue. “MechWarriors’ve got no reason to be subtle.”

The prince’s champion smiled, enjoying the garrison commander’s breezy style. “All right. Would you believe my DropShip is already prepped for departure?”

The colonel laughed some more, obviously believing Julian exaggerated for effect. He didn’t.

The trouble with New Hessen, in Julian’s mind, began with its pale sun. He didn’t care for it at all. And with the planet rotating through an eighteen-hour day, the cream-colored ball rose too early, set too soon, and washed out most of the world in flat, dull tones.

In fact, life under such a sun was improbable. Would have been impossible except for the small planet’s thick atmosphere. Putting the greenhouse effect to good use, New Hessen trapped enough solar radiation to drive local daytime temperatures into the tropical range, and it hung onto the warmth with greedy fingers. The air was close and humid, wringing sweat from the body but unable to evaporate it. It also reeked of moist earth and rotting vegetation, like a giant compost heap.

“What is that stuff?” Julian finally asked as they raced alongside a city park. Piles of black-leafed vine squatted near the street, and the odor of rotting vegetation was stronger than ever.

“Black creeper. Got anything on New Avalon you just can’t get rid of, no matter how much you cut, spray, or fusion-burn?”

“Kudzu,” Julian said. “Pretty standard variety.”

“Well, we got the superstrength version. Iron rich, which gives it that blackish-green color. And it’s constantly sloughing off its outer husk, like snake skin.”

“So it’s growing and rotting at the same time. Nice.” He made a mental note to requisition a Fox armored car with an enclosed cab for the remainder of his mission.

Fortunately, the drive through Jarman City was a short one, and they would meet The Republic’s representative at the private home of Lord David Faust, featuring air conditioning and the best filters a nobleman could buy. Julian breathed easy for the first time in three days as soon as the foyer doors—serving as a kind of air lock—shut behind them. New Hessen’s point-nine standard gravity put a bit of spring in his step as well.

Lord Faust received them in his drawing room, already pouring a dark purple wine into tall blue-crystal chalices. The steward of New Hessen was whipcord thin, had oiled mustaches weighted on each end by a small silver bead, brown, almond-shaped eyes, and a round face. Capellan heritage, without a doubt. Julian was on his guard at once.

The other man in the room hardly needed an introduction. His uniform said it all. Gray tunic and dark trousers, chased with scarlet and gold piping. Name monogrammed over his left breast. Raul Ortega.

Knight of the Sphere.

Actually, knight-errant, since he lacked the cape of rank allowed a full knight. Still, as much an ambassador from The Republic as any military man. Lord Faust obviously hoped to keep things on an easy footing. With armies on the march and The Republic showing political stress fractures, now was not the time to make an enemy.

“Sir Raul,” Julian greeted the other warrior with a firm handshake and the proper address by The Republic’s manner. First name with the honorary, not last.

Raul Ortega returned the grip, and the courtesy. “Lord Davion.”

“Sir. Has The Republic received a request from the First Prince or the Duke Sandoval inviting your presence in the Federated Suns?”

That brought the room’s general bonhomie to a sudden, frosty standstill. Raul Ortega froze, still shaking hands with the prince’s champion. Colonel Torris winced and Lord Faust spilled a splash of wine onto the red table linen spread over the sideboard. Only Julian remained animated, with a warm smile on his face.

And he had to sneeze again. He felt the explosion growing at the back of his throat.

“In the interests of keeping peace along our common border,” Ortega released Julian’s hand, carefully treading along diplomatic lines for a good way to save face. “We thought it expedient—”

“Ah, so it is on your exarch’s orders that you violate our soil.”

The knight-errant wasn’t about to commit that kind of political faux pas. “No,” he said, taking responsibility. “That was on my… interpretation of my orders.”

Faust set aside the dust-covered wine bottle, recovered his footing and stepped in to the knight’s aid. He offered a glass to Ortega. “Certainly some allowances can be made, given the circumstances.”

“Two years ago,” Julian said quickly, racing the sneeze he knew was coming, “before House Liao invaded The Republic, I believe the duke of our Draconis March offered to send peacekeeping forces to stabilize the border. Do you happen to know the exarch’s answer?”

Ortega surprised him, both in leaving Faust’s offer unaccepted and in knowing the answer. “I do. Exarch Damien Redburn said no.”

“Actually, his reply was more formal. ‘When assistance is required, it will be requested.’”