So she set her gear bag aside—on the floor, not a pew—and walked down the aisle to clasp hands with the paladin. Finding her voice, she said, “It is good to see you, Sire McKinnon.”
Pushing past a century himself and now, with Victor’s passing, the oldest living paladin, David McKinnon still showed a great deal of steel and fire. It told in his strong grip and tall posture, in the catlike grace of his movement. Mostly, though, it was the spark of life buried deep within the man that was so apparent once you got to know him. That spark blazed very bright just now, showing behind his dark eyes.
“None of that,” he warned her. “We were on a first-name basis on Skye, after all.”
Four months before, yes, they had been. The paladin had worked alongside her, fought alongside her, to help keep Skye free of Clan Jade Falcon. Then came his summons back to Terra, which she had not understood at the time, and had resented.
“You came back for Victor,” she said, understanding and apologizing at once.
“I came back for my exarch. Victor’s assassination threw everything into chaos, and the future of The Republic hung in the balance. It still may.” He glanced back. “Would you care to pay your respects?” he asked.
“I would.”
McKinnon turned her alongside him, escorting her up to Victor’s tomb. The stone coffin had a ferroglass top to it, protecting the paladin in death as The Republic had failed to do in life. Of course, a report of the actual circumstances had found its way into Tara’s hands. Redburn had made sure of that, as had McKinnon. Such a waste. Such a damned, silly waste.
Victor had never been a tall man, but there had been a strength of size about him regardless. Now it was gone. What was left was a well-preserved man of one hundred and eight, with snow-white hair the same color as David McKinnon’s. But where McKinnon strayed more toward robust and healthy, Victor had finally succumbed to the gaunt frailty that came to most men at the end.
“He looks good,” she said, stepping back from the coffin. “Peaceful.”
“It takes a small army of the best funerary specialists on planet to keep him that way. Four months laying in state is not an easy task to make presentable. And every one of them considers it a high honor to be part of the team.”
“As well as a full honor guard, no doubt,” Tara said. “At least during public viewing hours.”
McKinnon shook his head. Wispy strands of hair floated over his forehead. “Twenty-four/seven. The paladins do not leave him alone. Ever. One of us always stands watch.”
“Standing watch or standing by?” Stepping back, she turned to her friend. “David, how did you people allow this to happen? All of this?”
McKinnon drew her away, walking her back to the front row of pews. “You are up to date.” It wasn’t really a question.
“Two weeks of travel time, even at the pace you set for my DropShip, leaves a lot of time for reading. A lot of time to miss in Prefecture IX.”
“We didn’t call you back to Terra lightly. If you think we’d pause a military campaign for a PR tour, you don’t give me or our new exarch enough credit. Jonah Levin needs you. That’s why you are here.”
“Then why am I not meeting with Exarch Levin?” she asked. A need so great that it kept her even from being allowed to check into a local hotel, to freshen up after a long spaceflight, it seemed at odds with a visit to the resting place of Victor Steiner-Davion at such an early hour.
McKinnon stood, pacing the room with slow but deliberate strides. “You may need to keep some distance, politically, on this one. It gives you a chance to make a stand for sanity without looking like the exarch’s mouthpiece.”
A task for which she was well-suited. Tara Campbell was the current media darling of The Republic’s military and political scene both. Had been since her stand against the Steel Wolves. Her preference for uniforms over noble’s dress had inspired several paramilitary lines of clothing, and how she wore her hair on any given day might spark a new trend as well. More and more models, she had noticed lately, were moving toward a similar coloring, even. Her platinum blond hair was becoming less a rarity every day.
And her politics were just as trendy. Tara’s arrival on a world had already proven itself capable of influencing the pundits and politicians, both of whom so often traveled with the sway in public mood.
“You truly believe that Exarch Levin cannot back down on this one?” she asked, a touch of resignation telling in her voice.
“Not a chance. The Senate brought this to a head when they began talking censure rather than investigation. No one—and I mean not one of them—wants a public trial of Geoffrey Mallowes. They see it as the potential loss of stature and power.”
“Among the nobility, those words are often interchangeable,” Tara agreed. Speaking from personal experience.
“Paladins GioAvanti and Sinclair culled two senators out of the pack. Gerald Monroe and Therese Ptolomeny. We tried to pressure both into turning public against the cabal, and against the Senate’s stonewalling strategy. Perhaps too strongly.”
Tara scoffed. “Perhaps? That’s like calling the loss of Skye a ‘disagreement.’ Gerald Monroe is dead. And the news media is full of Senator Ptolomeny blasting The Republic, and the knighthood in particular, for ‘stormtrooper tactics.’ And let me tell you, parking an armored column outside her Riviera mansion to place her under ‘house arrest’ isn’t helping your image.”
She felt like a child lecturing her grandfather. And David handled it about as well, stiffening his spine and turning stone-faced as she spoke. But then, like anyone who recognizes the truth when it’s thrown in his face, he nodded reluctantly.
“It’s definitely a case of escalation,” he admitted.
“Worse, it’s mutually assured destruction. The Senate has upped the stakes. At this point, The Republic will come out of this smelling sour no matter what.”
McKinnon scrunched his face down as if tasting that for the first time. “That’s already begun,” he said. “Monroe’s son, Conner.”
“Knight of Markab?” Tara asked, remembering the name.
“No longer. He’s resigned his commission and broken his oath to the exarch.” He reached back to the second set of pews and pulled a thin file of video stills into his lap. Flipped to one in particular and held it out to her.
Tara studied it. Dress uniform castoffs arranged very carefully over a marble floor. Cape of rank. Tunic and trousers. Medals still pinned into place. All that was missing was the body to fill it. It reminded her, in a way, of a crime scene where the body has been taped out on the floor or sidewalk.
“Monroe’s uniform,” she said, understanding. “And that marble… it’s the floor in the Chamber of Paladins?”
“No. The Rotunda. Outside the chamber. Very public.”
“He’s made it clear that there is no chance for reconciliation.” Tara nodded. “When soldiers were branded traitors on the ancient Terran frontier, they would be stripped of all rank insignia and driven out to the beat of a drum. That’s why they call it getting ‘drummed out’ of the corps.” She tapped the image. “He’s got a flair for the dramatic.”
“More than you know,” McKinnon agreed. “The boy has also accepted his father’s seat in the Senate.”
“When did that happen?”
“Only three days ago. An emergency appointment. His confirmation vote takes place in Prefecture III later this month.”
“That’s going to play like hell in the media,” she said. But there was something else lurking behind McKinnon’s words. Something dark and dangerous. More than a young man running off to avenge his father. “What is it?”
“Conner Rhys-Monroe has retained possession of his Rifleman. And, of course, the Senate does have its own honor guard.”
Perfect.
“Tara, you know the kind of trouble we’re facing here. You’ve walked both sides of this fence for the last couple of years.” McKinnon was making his sales pitch now. And it was a hard press. “You can reason with the nobility and stand firm on military principles. This goes beyond mere duty to The Republic. I need to know, and Exarch Levin needs to know, if you can put some pressure on this boy. Get him to not stand for the public confirmation.”