Viewed from a spacer’s eye, each world a small point of light lost among thousands, that was probably true. Liao had spawned one of the five ruling dynasties of its day. When the planet was lost to the Federated Suns in the Fourth Succession War, Chancellor Sun-Tzu sent all eight of his fanatical Warrior Houses to reclaim it twenty-five years later. The “immortal” Sun-Tzu then invested a great deal in the industrial renovation of his dynasty’s birthworld, and Liao was eventually named the capital of a reconstituted Commonality.

Which very nearly became its death when the Word of Blake attacked.

Intent on smashing all industrial and political infrastructure, the Jihad swept across Liao like a winter storm. This was one of the truly heroic stands of that entire war as the Capellan military and the people themselves stood up to the invaders at incredible cost. In ten long years, Liao never fell.

No wonder Devlin Stone honored this world by choosing it as a prefecture capital.

“If only its history ended there.”

“Excuse me, Major?”

Ritter Michaelson straightened with a start. “Never mind. I was just thinking back—”

“To Terra?” The crewman had apparently waited for this chance. His gaze fell on the red patch Michaelson wore on his shoulder, identifying him as a MechWarrior. “I’m sorry, sir. But… well… the entire crew’s been talking about it. And you. I mean, you were on Terra when the Steel Wolves came, and the Black Paladin turned, weren’t you?”

Black Paladin. That was a new one. How many more titles would come to Ezekiel Crow as word of his treachery spread throughout The Republic? No cover-ups, no citing of security concerns, were going to hold back this story. Michaelson rubbed one hand along the right side of his face, over the glassy scars that shortened his ear and crept right up to his goatee and the puckered edge of his eyebrow. At least they were out from under the bandages now.

“I was there,” the major admitted.

Hard to deny it, since his travel papers stated very clearly that he was lately put on deactivated leave from the Tenth Hastati. They had held the ground nearest to Paris, fighting alongside the Northwind Highlanders. But Michaelson had not been a part of that battle. His trial had come earlier.

“Did you see Tara Campbell in action?” the crewman asked.

Michaelson dropped his hand back to his side. “I most certainly did. Hero of the hour. Do not pass Knight, go directly to Paladin.”

“You didn’t hear? The countess turned ’em down. Flat. She took her Highlanders and left. Man, that woman has some brass ones. I mean… well, you know what I mean?”

“I know.”

No doubt Petty Officer Samuels had other questions too—everyone did. Ritter Michaelson’s new life would make certain that he relived the event over and over again. He was spared for the moment, though, when Samuels showed the preternatural senses of those born to space travel and said, “We’re turning. Hands on the rail please, Major.”

Michaelson didn’t notice for several seconds longer, then the planet began to sink in the window as Burning Petals rotated its drive flare toward Liao’s surface. Not even aerodyne DropShips truly flew out of orbit. Like the spheroid Seeker–class, they decelerated and fell. The first tremor of atmospheric turbulence shook the massive vessel, and Michaelson grasped the slender metal rail that ran along the inside of the ferroglass. Gravity shifted under unsteady feet for a moment as the DropShip’s orientation lagged slightly behind, but soon they were stable once more as the vessel became a slow-falling star in Liao’s night sky.

“We’ll be coming in o’er Beilù, heading for the interplanetary spaceport at Lianyungang. Thirty minutes,” the crewman guessed, “and we’ll be on the ground.”

Where he would restart his life? Ritter Michaelson: the Deutsch translation for knight. How long would he be able to live under that name? He gripped the rail tighter, finding it a bit harder to breathe. The deckplates hummed with power. Then his legs buckled as he slumped to the floor, knees striking the deck hard enough to bruise, and his vision clouded.

For a brief second, he wondered if his history had finally caught up with him, dragging him down into darkness.

“We’re boosting back for high orbit,” the crewman said, also kneeling on the deck as his body fought to readjust to the increased gravity.

Michaelson struggled back to his feet, using the rail to leverage himself up. Liao did not want him back—was his first thought. Then, facing out through the ferroglass shield, he caught a streak of fire flashing past the vessel only a few thousand meters out. Another one slashed up from beneath his line of sight, and this time matched the DropShip’s roll for just a second before it pulled over and cut around the far side again.

Aerospace fighters!

Under attack? He felt no tremor of weapons fire, heard no call to general quarters. An escort. Burning Petals was boosting back into a holding orbit, and had been given a safety escort of at least two fighters.

Something was going on below.

“I have to see what this is,” Samuels said, walking bowlegged for the nearest hatch. He paused, looked back. “I wanted to ask you, well, a lot of things, I guess.”

Michaelson nodded.

“Did you…?” Petty Officer Samuels couldn’t seem to find the perfect question. His blue eyes snagged again on the glossy ruin, winced. “Did you see a lot of hard fighting on Terra?” That was obviously the best he could do.

“Some of the hardest of my life,” he said, and meant it.

It was enough, and the crewman bolted down the same shortcut passage that Michaelson had used to find the weather deck. Michaelson—Michael’s son—almost smiled. It felt good not to lie, even if it was through careful interpretation. It had been some of the hardest fighting in his life. Complete with the realization that he had again betrayed everything he held close.

That was why Ezekiel Crow had to die and it was Ritter Michaelson making planetfall over Liao, looking for a new start. For good or ill, the Black Paladin had come home.

Lianyungang Spaceport

Qinghai Province, Liao

20 May 3134

Asiren wailed out long, mournful notes that echoed across the Lianyungang Spaceport’s wide expanse of ferrocrete and steel. Two merchant DropShips squatted on the tarmac, twenty-five stories tall, like improbable skyscrapers raised out of the flat, flat landing fields. From nearby towers, spotlights searched from the sides of the DropShips. From pairs of armored hovercraft that ran the spaceport’s perimeter fencing like Dobermans in a dog run.

Evan Kurst stood at the corner of a small hangar, keeping to the shadows as he checked the northern approach. Two hundred meters away a secure customs warehouse blazed with light and security personnel. Beyond that Evan saw the fiery orange glow of the burning repair depot his people had charged with aviation fuel. Caustic fumes hung on the evening air, stinging the back of his throat. As near as he could tell, emergency vehicles and military efforts still centered on the arson.

That wouldn’t last much longer.

Jogging back to the side door his people had forced without any alarm, Evan rapped twice, once, once—then slipped inside and froze as the security guard’s light slapped him square in the eyes.