Meaning, did Julian, and Prince Harrison, give better than even odds of The Republic surviving the next six months or a year? Julian thought that might be the question lurking behind Aaron’s careful words. The duke seemed to be searching for a pledge of interest, or support, before he committed to any long-range goals of his own. What would Harrison ask Julian to do? Encourage Aaron Sandoval to defect back toward his roots in the Federated Suns? Bolster the man up here, such that House Davion would end up with a strong ally within a stable Republic?

He’d tell Julian to keep his options open. Always.

“As well let me ask you, Lord Governor: How will you respond to the exarch’s order that you oppose and arrest any senators seeking asylum or returning to their base of power inside your prefecture?”

How much was Aaron planning to undercut the exarch’s direct authority? That would be a very telling indicator.

Aaron rose in a fluid motion, wine glass cradled, forgotten, in his right hand. He appeared to be wrestling with how to answer, which in itself spoke volumes, as no doubt the duke and lord governor were aware. In a case such as this, not answering could be as damning, or as certain, as answering.

But before Aaron Sandoval made up his mind one way or another, the shuttle banked slowly away from the ruins of Hilton Head. Julian felt the shift as acceleration tilted gravity back on its heels for a moment, and knew the touring shuttle had turned its “jump” thrusters over for a horizontal vector once again. The shattered island fell away on the nearby screen, receding quickly as the small craft sped toward its next destination. Inland, where the diplomats would visit a mothballed complex at Devil’s Tower, Wyoming.

“Cameron’s Last Stand,” the onboard “guide” whispered from the back of the observation deck. “Sixty minutes.”

On break, or held out by the lord governor’s specific request, suddenly the service personnel returned with a vengeance. They swept into the observation deck with a purpose, quickly emptying the trash and removing glasses left over from earlier. The tray of drinks, brought to Aaron before Julian’s arrival, was whisked away as the staff hurriedly prepared for the guests who would seek more room on the upper decks.

Aaron Sandoval let one of the waiters take his glass, surrendering it with barely a flicker of annoyance. They’d run out of time, and the lord governor knew it.

But he was not about to let the conversation die.

“I hear,” he said, slowly, “that fighting on New Hessen and Demeter has picked up again.”

“It has,” Julian admitted, cursing the bad timing. Prince Harrison would not be satisfied with the open ending of the conversation. Julian needed something to bring back for his prince. “Pirate raids backed by Liao support, it seems. It is an ongoing situation we are looking into.”

“Look deeper,” Aaron suggested. “And see if it might not be in the best interests of the Federated Suns to take a stronger stand.”

Pro-Aaron? Or pro-Republic? Guests were arriving from down below now, seeking escape from the crowded lounges with their uncomfortable political baggage. More than a few cast anxious glances in the direction of Julian and Aaron, divining what they could of the conversation or planning a method to crash the private talk and chat up either man. With moments left to them, at best, Julian floundered in the conversation, reaching for that last piece of information that would tip Aaron’s hand.

Duke Sandoval began to withdraw.

“Prince Harrison”—Julian stood, stopping the lord governor—“would want me to pass along his highest regards. Would you have any further message for him?” Last chance, Julian coaxed the other man.

Aaron Sandoval paused, then nodded once, deciding. “Tell Prince Harrison… There are a great many more things that unite us than divide us. Borders notwithstanding. Tell him that I hope to speak with him, and with you, Julian, again. In fact,” Aaron considered, “that I believe you will do just fine.”

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Julian’s “inner Harrison” was satisfied. Mostly. But he had a question of his own suddenly pressing forward, raised by the lord governor’s carefully chosen words.

“Why me?” he asked. A question Julian could not raise with his prince. The champion simply served. “Why the …vote of confidence?” It only came to him as he asked the question—that’s exactly what it had been. A vote of confidence.

“You mean you haven’t figured it out yet, Julian?” The smile was slow and secretive. “Harrison still has some things to teach you, I see. But don’t worry. There is still time.”

And with that cryptic remark, Aaron moved off. To be buttonholed immediately by a man in a Spirit Cat uniform.

Julian eased back into his seat, sipping at his sweetened water and impressing Aaron Sandoval’s words firmly into his mind. For the moment, anyway, the images of desolation from Hilton Head were pushed far back into the shadows, as he wondered exactly what his prince was up to that Aaron believed he knew and at which Julian could only guess.

Plaguing the champion with more questions.

Terra

Republic of the Sphere

31 May 3135

Erik Sandoval-Groell waited at the foot of the Patriot’s auxiliary ramp as another VTOL swept in from the direction of Annemasse. He’d been watching for a certain one for two hours, as twilight fell over the DropPort, waiting to see if his new allies would honor their pledge, or if he’d been played for a fool. So far, everything promised had come through, from extracting Aaron Sandoval before St. Andre fell, to the early information on the Combine assaults in Prefecture II. But Erik had learned to be wary, always wary, when it came to politics or military alliances.

And this was a bit of both.

The air tasted of warm ferrocrete and aviation fuel. A feeling of anticipation crawled over his skin. The VTOL banked wide around the control tower, angling toward the Patriot. It took Erik a moment to recognize the craft in the fading light. An executive Brightstar, with telltale sleek lines and a muffled engine capable of near-silent travel.

And he’d barely made the ID when it dropped fast and hard, skimming dangerously low along the tarmac for several hundred meters before it finally thumped down next to the Union–class DropShip. The twenty-stories-tall vessel dwarfed the Brightstar, but there was something about the executive craft that made it seem larger than life.

Something beyond the obvious expense of the craft and the talented manner in which it was handled.

Something dark.

The rotors kicked up a wash of sharp gusts and grit, blowing a quick zephyr across the tarmac that died away as quickly as the Brightstar had arrived. The rotors wound down quickly, and the running lights were extinguished. Erik was only slightly surprised when no passenger alighted from the back compartment, and instead the VTOL’s only occupant jumped down from the pilot’s door, shouldered a small rucksack, and strolled over to where he waited.

The newcomer was older than Erik. By a decade. Perhaps more. Unruly, chestnut brown hair and flat, hazel eyes, and a way of looking through Erik that bothered him a great deal.