Legate Kang. The man had suffered every commander’s nightmare during the uprising of 3128, bringing force against a civilian target. But he let the situation get out of hand, applying a military solution before diplomatic possibilities were exhausted. During a “show of force,” a cadet crew rammed their Pegasus into a militia Joust, trying to keep it from breaking through the wall onto Conservatory grounds. A Schmitt went weapons-free and blasted the smaller vehicle into burning scrap.
The affair played so badly in The Republic media, in no small part because Daniel (as Ezekiel Crow) withheld evidence of Confederation involvement, that Kang was later “encouraged” to resign. That was the price of peace. And Kang had acted with inappropriate force. Daniel said so out loud.
Ruskoff winced. “Except Kang never did give an order to use force against the Conservatory.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I talked him out of it. Kang wanted to use quick and decisive force, and I suggested a token display of strength to give the students something to think on. I didn’t think their heart was truly up for a fight. They acted out under pressure, not out of malicious intent.”
Do not be so certain of that, Daniel wanted to say, but didn’t. There was definitely Confederation involvement, though never enough to convict, only to convince. Maybe he should have brought it all out into the open. Maybe that was the time for an open and frank confrontation between Republic and Capellan interests.
“So Kang was innocent?” he asked.
“No, he was guilty of the charges admitted to. Kang’s only error was trusting the show of strength to Major Thom Greggs, a die-hard citizen who reviled Capellan ways. Thom was court-martialed for disobeying orders and using excessive force. I believe he was allowed to resign without pension rather than face imprisonment.”
Daniel cast back for the final decision on Legate Kang. Crow had already left Liao, moving on to a new assignment, but, “Kang admitted to authorizing the use of force,” he said, thinking aloud. Then, “No. He took responsibility for the men under his command and their actions.” That wasn’t quite the same thing, though it had played so in the public spotlight. Amazing what a simple turn of phrase could do to you, and to your memory of events.
Ruskoff nodded. “He took the brunt of responsibility. My name never came up in the scandal, and I was confirmed as the new Legate six months later.”
And had worried ever since that his inaction, his counsel for caution, was a root cause of the entire conflagration. Daniel wanted to tell him that it wasn’t. But he couldn’t. Ezekiel Crow was dead, and that was where the Black Paladin had to remain.
It was a decision barely made when a sharp knock rattled the office door and both Lieutenant Nguyen and Gerald Tsung entered behind it. Tsung looked ashen faced, walking with his arms held stiffly down at his sides as if he did not know what to do with them. Nguyen carried his noteputer in two hands, almost afraid he would drop it. Ruskoff sat forward sharply, as concern took over.
“What? Did the Dynasty Guard land forces before the crash?” He sounded prepared to mobilize the entire military reserve on a moment’s notice, ready to defend Chang-an.
“No, sir.” Nguyen hovered between door and desk, then stepped forward to place the noteputer in Ruskoff’s outstretched hand. “No Dynasty Guard forces.”
“Well, who then?” Ruskoff snapped out, pressing his thumb over the verifax reader and opening the report. His eyes remained on his junior aide who obviously had the news already.
“No one. Legate, it’s already on the news channels. Video journalists arrived at the same time as our security team, and the lifeboat occupants are in Chang-an under MedCross protection.” He was beginning to ramble off topic.
Tsung stepped in. “There were no military forces,” he said. “It was a MedCross vessel, Legate. We downed a civilian craft, bringing refugees from Gan Singh. Capellan refugees. Displaced residents.”
No one in the office spoke. Daniel tried, several times, but always fell back into a downward spiral of chasing thoughts, trying to see how his information could have been so off-target. No! This could… not… be.
He must have whispered it aloud. Tsung nodded. “It is, and worse,” the Governor’s Aide promised. “People are storming the capital’s streets.” He looked sick.
“Chang-an is in flames.”
Pelago Estates
St. Andre
Prefecture V, Republic of the Sphere
Sitting in his library, the lights dimmed so that only the spot pointed at his desk provided any real illumination, Jacob Bannson watched the clock tick down toward the bottom half of the hour—the final moment, when not even Republic caution could save the doomed Astral Prize. If she wasn’t dead already, scuttling charges would blow. Enough prefabricated evidence would be left behind to point at The Republic militia. Ritter Michaelson’s report, made to the local authorities days before, sealed the verdict. It never truly mattered what was, but only what the public believed.
Perception was a tool of the mind. And Jacob Bannson was a master in wielding it.
Three… two… one… time.
Bannson raised his glass, wine glowing red as blood inside perfect crystal, and toasted the memory of Ezekiel Crow with a satisfied laugh. “Ad infinitum, perdere travus.”
Through infinity, walk in perdition.
25
New Year Resolution
One of the dedicated JumpShip couriers that links Genoa and Liao took weapons fire this morning. The vessel was forced to flee the Liao system by hot-loading its drive. Damage to the vessel is described as “minimal.” There is no official word yet as to what prompted pro-Capellan nationals to seize the local Recharge Station. Genoa’s Legate Gryzick has suspended civilian traffic to Liao until a root cause is determined.
Chang-an Qinghai
Province, Liao
25 July 3134
And so began the New Year’s Riot.
Shouts and the distant wail of sirens hung over Chang-an like a roar of bloodthirsty approval celebrating ancient blood sport games. A pall of dark, sooty smoke ruined the morning’s blue sky, and gray ash continued to drift down into the streets from fires started the night before in another commercial district. Ash scattered into the gutter, forming small drifts that people kicked through as they stormed the streets, looking for vengeance, for justice, or just for opportunity.
Mai Uhn Wa waved his Hahnstock gyrojet pistol in the air, signaling a cadre of freedom fighters toward another nearby delivery van—this one with flat tires and a smashed-in windshield. Ijori Dè Guāng members jostled through a stream of looters more worried about carting video equipment from a nearby appliance store than they were of heavily armed men on the streets. A few local thugs were dragooned at gunpoint. Two men with SRM shoulder launchers stayed on guard while rifles were slung and pistols holstered. Two dozen hands seized the vehicle, rocking it back and forth, building momentum for the huge push that rolled it over with a metallic crash and more broken glass.
“Get it into the intersection, up against the first one,” Mai commanded. “Xiàn-zài. Now.” Staccato reports echoing in the distance might be automatic weapons fire, might be simple strings of firecrackers. He would take no chances.