“We do whatever we must.”

Geneva had sprouted up quickly to support its status as the capital of The Republic. Besides the impressive Hall of Government and the Senate Mall, Magnum Park and more ambassadorial offices than any small city should have descend upon it, there were numerous buildings along the so-called white collar belt that were filled with factions and functionaries with no other purpose than to help keep the impressive machine of government working as well as could be expected.

And on one of many floors dedicated to the Department of Fiscal Planning, the exarch had another private office.

Walking the abandoned halls late at night, with cleaning staff redirected to other floors and his security agents disappearing into the shadowed corners, Jonah Levin let himself slouch along without a care for appearances. The dark, empty offices fit his mood perfectly. Gloomy. Bitter.

With barely six months in office, he was ready to call it quits. Chuck the problems and return to his family and home on Kervil. And would have, if he’d been made of any less stern material. If he hadn’t taken an oath that he had always held more dear than his own life.

The Republic: first and foremost.

And now it was dying.

The door he chose was marked in no special way. A simple slab of polished oak, with the usual kick plate along the bottom edge decorated with black and brown scuffs. A long bronze plaque at eye level labeled Deputy Undersecretary for Economic Redevelopment.

That was him. He grabbed the door handle and held it a moment, letting the discreet sensors take a full palm reading, waiting for them to trip the hardware built into the wall and allow him access. He was one of two men who could open this door without setting off quite a few alarms and bringing a platoon of armed security crashing down. And the other man was already in the room. Of course.

The ghost paladin rose respectfully as the exarch entered the room, but Jonah waved him back into his seat, a straight-backed chair set on one side of a simple desk. The entire office was modestly appointed, with conservative décor and plain, working furniture. A desk lamp cast only a small island of light into the center of the room, a precaution the exarch knew was redundant. The windows were sealed against any evidence that the office was occupied.

“You promised to have more for me,” Jonah said without preamble, dropping into the swivel seat behind the desk. “Let’s have it.”

The ghost paladin sat forward in his chair. Shrugged. “My network can’t work much faster than the JumpShips that brought the original news in-system,” he said. “But yes, I’ve picked up a few extra details. The advance forces are mostly part of the Benjamin Regulars, though at least one regiment of the Combine’s elite Sword of Light is operating within our borders. I expect them to lead any push into Prefecture III.”

“Will they hit Prefecture III?” Jonah asked.

“They will have to. Whether as a pretext for invasion or to truly oppose Katana Tormark… she has made III her power base and they will move to take it apart one world at a time.”

Liao… Jade Falcon… Kurita… the Senate. As a paladin, Jonah Levin had sworn to uphold the power and authority of the exarch against all enemies, foreign and domestic, never once believing that he’d see such opposition. Or that he’d be in the chair when it came.

“Another month. Two more weeks, even. If they could have held off just long enough to get us through the funeral services. To put our own house back in order, and perhaps strengthen our nascent alliances. We’d have had a chance at them, Emil. A chance at an eventual peace.”

It was the first time since taking office, perhaps, that he had called the ghost paladin by name. Certainly the first time in so long that he couldn’t remember for sure. It was so much easier when he dealt with his staff by titles and positions, not as real people. Especially when Jonah had to ask them to do things he was not proud of, and would never have done if it were only himself in danger and not the lives of billions at stake. Trillions, even.

“And to save even a fraction of them now, we must make some very hard choices. And hope there will be pieces that can be picked up later. But so many. So many.”

“And if I say, ‘This one shall not go with you,’ then he shall not go.”

Jonah recognized the paraphrased verse from the Unfinished Book, and also knew its earlier roots. “‘By these three hundred, I will save you.’ The biblical Book of Judges. Yes, it does feel like we must play God now. And if we don’t, all will perish.”

Emil nodded. “The ghost knights stand ready to deliver whatever assistance they must.” He paused, rarely accepting the chance to editorialize. Then: “You have good men and women around you, Exarch. They will all do their best. Even in the most trying of circumstances.”

“The Republic is dying, Emil. Stone’s grand vision fails. There will be no more trying times than this.”

“What is the order, Exarch?”

Jonah exhaled, long and tired. It always came down to that, didn’t it? And it did not help that the plans for such an occurrence had been set down by Devlin Stone himself. It didn’t help at all.

“Carefully,” he said. “Quietly. Because I hold out some hope for a miracle. Begin preparations for our final line of defense.

“Ready Fortress Republic.”

Terra

Republic of the Sphere

23 May 3135

The touring shuttle’s recycled air had a metallic, stale taste to it. Dry and lifeless. Fitting, Julian decided as he climbed the steel stairwell, seeking the upper decks. He slapped the cold, metal railing with each change of grip. Rattled the steps extra hard with pounding stomps, as if the banging tones could drive the images of a scarred and twisted wasteland from his head.

They couldn’t.

The devastation was indelibly printed in his memory.

They were on another of the exarch’s arranged tours and events to encourage interaction, and the shuttle’s first pass over Hilton Head “island,” or what was left of this historical site, had been a quick overflight at two kilometers. Julian had counted at least three distinct craters among the rocky shoals and barren scraps of land. The prepackaged “tour guide” being played over the shuttle’s intercom system had explained these craters could have been made by burrowing nuclear warheads or preplanned spoilsport bombs—historians still debated that today.

A second, lower pass in partial hover mode had taken twenty-two slow, excruciating minutes, and Julian pressed forward against the ferroglass walls of the portside viewing lounge with the rest of the diplomats and off-world delegates. Marking where the ComStar main compound had once stood, and finding the slabs of reinforced ferrocrete that were all that was left of a parade grounds or small DropPort. The steel-girder skeleton of a single building still thrust itself from the churning waters. Vegetation, what little survived the high background count of radiation, was stunted and coarse and twisted. Parodies of the island’s former strength.