Jonah’s predecessor, Damien Redburn, had been wise to orchestrate events the way he had. A call to the state funeral of Victor Steiner-Davion. Hardly a Successor State or other realm could refuse such an event. Adoration or enmity, all owed Victor something.

“It will be the largest summit of Inner Sphere leaders since the formation of The Republic,” he said.

“Victor’s family is already protesting his lying in state,” the ghost paladin warned. “It will not look good if Gavin and Simone do not attend, or—worse—speak against the ceremony as going against their grandfather’s wishes.”

“It can’t be helped. It is a too-convenient opportunity—and possibly our last chance—to halt the fear and distrust behind the last two years of escalating violence. I know that Victor would not have wanted such pomp and pageantry. But Victor is dead. And the man was both a paladin and a patriot—he would not begrudge us this last service. The Republic must survive. Victor can buy us time to find new options.”

“And the senators?”

“Must be kept on a tight leash.”

He was asking something of the ghost paladin now. Both men knew it. Jonah had no doubt he’d created another entry in the growing file inherited from Damien Redburn. The exarch’sEYES ONLY report.

“Give GioAvanti and Sinclair whatever support you can,” Exarch Jonah Levin ordered. “Whatever they need. The Republic must not appear divided and weak. With everything else we have to deal with, my friend, this we can ill afford. Certainly the Senate—the right-thinking members in their body—will come to realize that.”

The ghost paladin leaned forward. A diamond-edged glint shined in his eyes. “What will you do?” he asked.

Jonah Levin reached for his cup again.

“If I must,” he said, “I will put the fear of Stone back in them.”

Firgrove

Federated Suns

18 January 3135

The winds had strengthened in the last hour since Caleb’s rushed landing on the world of Firgrove. Warm and dry, with a touch of static electricity picked up off the surrounding desert, the steady zephyr bent the tops of tall ponderosa pines surrounding the military academy and whistled through bleacher stands erected on the parade grounds. It wrestled with the guideon bearers of each cadet company for their red-and-gold standards. Here and there the winds also snagged a utility cap, or a loose-leaf prayer sheet dropped by attending alumni, and tumble-dragged it across the grinder.

Scents of desert sandstone and sage chased the winds. Dry thunder rumbled in the distance—which seemed strange to Caleb, with not a cloud in the sky and the yellow-orange sun blazing so fiercely in local summer. He kept a curious watch for any glimpse of Firgrove’s legendary ball lightning, though officers had promised him no such phenomena happened over the academy. Too many grounding rods. Clusters of the tall metal poles stood a silent vigil at every avenue corner and staked out the parade grounds like a widely spaced picket fence.

Still Caleb watched, distracted. Which caused him to jump his cue.

“We take great pride in saluting the final passing of so great a man, soldier and peer of the realm,” Commandant Laurent Gadbois said.

Of course the commandant spoke of Victor Steiner-Davion. But hearing “peer of the realm” Caleb stood, anticipating his own introduction. Gadbois had not quite reached the end of his own remarks. The silver-haired officer nodded.

“We also welcome Prince Harrison Davion’s favor,” the militia officer said, “shown us in the visit of his son and heir. Firgrove Military Academy will long remember this honor, even for so sad an occasion. That the news of Victor’s passing reached us alongside his arrival we take as welcome. For there are none better to lead us in this brief farewell than the Duke of Taygeta, a commander-emeritus in the Davion Guards, and our future First Prince. Caleb… Hasek… Sandoval… Davion.”

Caleb froze an accepting smile of acknowledgment on his face, never letting his annoyance show for the holovid cameras. Being left to stand while Gadbois finished his inane lead-in did not sit well. Yes, he had insisted on full honors and lineage. Who else in the entirety of the Federated Suns claimed bloodlines of the realm’s three leading dynasties; leaders of the Capellan and Draconis Marches as well as the ruling line?

But he didn’t care for the way the academy’s senior officer drew out the patronymic, making it sound pretentious instead of properly deferential.

“A man’s career could be ruined for less,” Mason stage-whispered from one side.

A long-time friend and one of Caleb’s most astute councilors, Mason Lambert kept to his seat one row back and two seats to the side. His voice carried no further than Caleb and perhaps a few of the Security Service agents, so Caleb said nothing.

He simply nodded.

Always conscious of the image he presented, Caleb tugged at the hem of his green uniform tunic, pulling it flat across his shoulders as he stepped from VIP seating to the steps at the left side of the stage. A fine martial figure. A gilded cutlass jangled at his hip as he mounted the stage. White gloves, and leggings over his dark trouser cuffs, he wore the full ceremonial dress of a Federated Suns officer. As his father would expect of him.

He would look the part, give his speech, and cheer on the glory of the Federated Suns.

For the last time on this tour.

Caleb’s reprieve had come with the death of Victor Steiner-Davion. Now he was finished with this tour at the ass end of the Federated Suns. Finished with the public relations circuit on which his father had sent him while Julian, Caleb’s cousin, enjoyed the pleasures of New Avalon and the much finer, coreward worlds. Finished with shaking hands and kissing babies. Finished with photo-op meetings in front of academy classes and megamall openings.

Caleb paused for his last set, shaking hands with the commandant, waiting as the newsvid journalists zoomed in for stills. A dusty sage taste coated his mouth. The wind tugged at his dark curls except where sweat matted down the thicker hair behind his ears. He smiled, nodded to Gadbois, and replaced the militia officer at the lectern at the forward edge of the stage.

“Thank you, Commandant Gadbois. It is my honor as well to join Firgrove Academy for these solemn proceedings.”

Academy alumni sat closest to the stage, on bleachers set up to either side of the main grounds. They had stood through the invocation and the commandant’s address. They waited now out of respect for Caleb Hasek-Sandoval-Davion, who would preside over the lowering of the flags to half-mast. These were older men and women. Retired officers. A few minor nobility among them, but hardly worth Caleb’s time.

The future belonged to the others. Between and beyond the alumni, five hundred armed forces cadets in their parade best stared back at him, drawn up in perfect rank and file. Half his age at least, Caleb still identified with these children more closely than the has-beens. Young, eager faces. Most looking forward to their two years of civil service on Firgrove, no doubt.

But not all. Caleb saw the occasional sidelong glance. The eyes that strayed.

Because arrayed in perfect formation behind the cadets was a combined arms company from New Syrtis, sent to the ceremony by his aunt, Amanda. Sent for him. A line of Infiltrator Mark II battlesuit troops backed the cadets, their reflective faceplates bright and blue under the sun’s strong glare. A pair of Hasek troop carriers behind them, their square-bodied bulk forming the next rank.