Chuckling, Vincent patted his son on the shoulder, then cupped Theodore’s neck with his palm. He’d done that often after eight-year-old Theodore declared he was a man, too old for hugs. So Vincent met the boy—and now the man—halfway with a gesture of love acceptable to both. “Very good. You’ll make a politician yet.”

He was relieved when Theodore laughed, snaked his right hand around, and squeezed Vincent’s hand. “I’ve had an excellent sensei,” Theodore said.

“Indeed. Now, I have something to show you.” Withdrawing his hand, Vincent reached inside his teal blue silk jacket, enjoying the feel of the rich material. My one weakness. Well, better than a woman. Women get you into trouble. Extracting an envelope made of rice paper, he handed it to his son. Theodore thumbed open the flap and Vincent saw his son’s keen eyes moving over the paper; saw shock and then delight.

Theodore’s head snapped up. “Arlington? And the Fifth Sword of Light!”

Vincent laughed. “High time you had something important to do, and I guarantee you, with the Federated Suns close at hand, you might see battle. But all in good time. First, settle into your new command, though I promise you: These are not the riffraff Vegans who so plagued your namesake. These are good men and will serve you well when the time comes. Now, tell me, where are you off to next?”

If Theodore was perplexed by his father’s sudden shift, he didn’t show it. But the happiness drained out of his eyes. “I thought to visit my sister and”—he hesitated—“and then my brother and… our mother.”

“Ahh,” was all Vincent said. But it was as if his son had slipped a knife between his ribs, found his heart and given the knife a good, solid twist. This time when he met his son’s gaze, he saw his sadness mirrored there. “Give your mother my love,” said Vincent, “if she will have it.”

Then, he picked up his cup and turned aside to watch the sunset. “Now drink your tea, my son, before it gets cold.”

Luthien Nadir Jump Point

Draconis Combine, Pesht Military District

24 December 3134

If Proserpina Prefecture Commander Tai-sho Carol Worridge knew anything, she knew this: Sakamoto was a decent warlord but a lousy drunk. A damn nuisance, too, because the man commanded his district with a mixture of bribery, threats and—at times—downright brilliance.

“Until the time is right.” Sakamoto threw back another goblet of plum wine, burped loudly, then waited, snorting like a horse through his nostrils, as his aide, Sho-sa Aki Mori, refilled his glass from a tall, cut-glass decanter. Satisfied, Sakamoto gave Mori a backhanded wave that sent the man scuttling. Sakamoto took another huge swallow. “When is the time ever right?”

Worridge judged this was rhetorical, and considering that Sakamoto still wore his swords, she didn’t reply. Give the wrong answer, and he’s as liable to bite my head off as give me a promotion. Anyway, Sakamoto was just talking. She was used to Sakamoto’s moods, which became particularly foul when he was cooped up in a DropShip the way he was now.

“I’ll tell you when it’s the right time,” Sakamoto said, florid from too much plum wine and festering rage. “Never! That’s when.”

“I’m sure the coordinator has his reasons,” she said diplomatically.

“Bah!” Sakamoto inhaled wine, sucked air through his teeth at the sting, swallowed. “The worst of it is that little girl from a dishonored family claiming lands for the Dragon while I twiddle my thumbs. Bah! I’m a samurai!” he said, thumping his broad chest with his bunched left fist. “I’m a warrior, not some old, toothless woman!”

“Absolutely not,” said Mori, looking grieved. Worridge thought the sho-sa did righteous indignation rather well for an obsequious little runt. “But until the coordinator…”

“Damn the coordinator!” Sakamoto bellowed. Wine sloshed over the rim, drizzling across his fingers like watery blood. “Damn them all!”

Mori glided forward, patting a napkin over Sakamoto’s fingers with something close to the tut-tut of a fussy mother hen. “If anyone has more right to act on the Dragon’s behalf than Tormark’s little girl, it’s you. After all, who is Akira Tormark?”

Sakamoto sucked plum wine from his thumb. “Dead, for one.”

“That’s right. And disgraced, for another. So, I ask you, who better? Besides”—Mori folded the now-stained napkin into neat, perfect squares four times over and tucked the offending linen in his hip pocket—“it may be that the coordinator requires someone to show him the correct path.”

At that, Worridge’s jaw dropped. The bridge became quite still and, for a moment, all Worridge heard was the bleep-blip-blap of various control circuits. Sakamoto’s glass had been halfway to his mouth, but now he lowered it and his eyes narrowed to dark, glittery slits. “What did you say, Mori?”

Worridge saw Mori’s throat working. Yeah, I’ll bet your neck’s wondering if it’s going to have a job in this next two, three seconds.

Mori squared his shoulders. “Perhaps you need to show the coordinator the error of his ways, my Tai-shu.”

Well, either the guy had guts, or he was insane. Whichever, he was spouting treason, and Worridge knew there were troops here who needed to be reminded of that. For that matter, she had to rein in Sakamoto before he got them all killed. Worridge said, cautiously, “Sho-sa Mori, you are indelicate.” There: simple, direct.

Sakamoto’s head swiveled, his eyes lingering long enough to make her sweat, and then back at Mori. “She means you’re talking treason. She’s right, you know.”

Mori squared his shoulders. “Never theless.”

“Nevertheless,” repeated Sakamoto, his tone thoughtful. “Never… the… less.” Then, his lips lifted from his teeth in a slow, sly smile. “And, in this case, less is not more, is it… Mori?” Sakamoto threw his head back in a loud cackle. “Lessi is not Mori!”

Oh, puh-leez. Worridge suppressed a groan.

Mori hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then let out a little giggle—a joke at his expense, ha-ha, very funny. “No, Tai-shu,” he said.

“All right then!” Sakamoto threw back wine and brought the goblet down on a workstation so hard Worridge was amazed the glass didn’t shatter. “Here is what we will do, my dear Lessi Mori! We shall amass strength at Algedi, Waddesdon”—he ticked them off on his thick, rough fingers—“and… Kurhah, hai? You’re getting this?”

Mori, that little suck-up, was scribbling madly in a tiny notebook he kept tucked in his breast pocket for just such an occasion. “Absolutely.”

“Then half-strength troops to Homam, Matar and Klathandu IV.” Sakamoto put his hands on his hips, nodded once. “Yes, Lessi Mori. That should do it.”

Half-strength troops? If The Republic struck back, Worridge would be sending perfectly good men to their deaths. Not gonna happen on my watch. She cleared her throat. “Pardon me, Tai-shu, but you must receive the coordinator’s…”

That was as far as she got. In the blink of an eye, Sakamoto’s face went from red, to pale, to the colored of clotted blood. “I will worry about where and how my troops are to be deployed, not the coordinator, and not you. I am the final authority; it rests with me because I tell you this: by his inaction, the coordinator has lost the right to tell me what to do and what to think! Are we clear on this?”

Worridge did a swift calculation. No, she didn’t like it. And, yes, if she persisted, Sakamoto would have her head, and then, well, really, what was the point? “Hai, Tai-shu. It was not the coordinator I was thinking of so much as wondering where we’ll get the manpower for an operation of this magnitude.” Sounded really good, and it helped that it was the truth. “I am simply worried about materiel and troops. Informing the coordinator”—yes, she liked that word better than asking permission–“would likely be followed by the requisite troops.”