“We’re stretched to the limit,” Ruskoff admitted. “We’ve had dozens of pro-Capellan movements pop up since the Blackout, though most of our troubles are centered around the Cult of Liao and the Ijori Dè Guāng terrorist cells. The Cult has spread its influence into some of the highest circles on planet. Fortunately, they operate mostly inside the political arena, which is Governor Lu Pohl’s headache.”
“And the Light of Ijori is yours?” Michaelson asked. “I hear they were responsible for my DropShip delay. Lit a fire or two.”
“And made off with over fifty thousand stones’ worth of military equipment. That hasn’t hit the headlines yet, but it will. Our planetary administration leaks like a sieve. I really do wonder if the Cult of Liao and Ijori Dè Guāng aren’t working more hand in fist than we think.”
Against the entire Republic infrastructure on Liao, that still didn’t seem like too much trouble. The last time something like this had happened, Ezekiel Crow had talked the situation out with no further loss of life. Michaelson was about to (carefully) say as much when a sharp rap at the door heralded the arrival of refreshments.
A lieutenant showing off crisp military bearing paraded in with a serving tray, paying as much attention to detail in one of his most menial duties as he might spend reviewing soldiers or cleaning his side arm. The tray was set quietly on the Legate’s desk, two coasters proffered, and tall, sweating glasses placed on each. Ice tinkled softly against fine glass. The lieutenant removed himself as carefully and precisely as he had arrived.
“Good kid,” the Legate said in praise after the door clicked shut. “Be a good officer once we rub off that academy seriousness.”
The first taste of the citrus-spiked soft drink sat easily on Michaelson’s tongue. “We were like that once,” he said, relaxing for all of three seconds.
But that recalled times when he had been that same lieutenant, full of strong thoughts and ideals and ready to save the world. Ideals were dangerous things. The taste of naranji turned rancid at the back of his throat, and he braced himself back to alertness. He could never afford to relax. Never.
He took a second sip, more for form’s sake than anything. “These situations, Legate. They sound like insect bites.”
“But we have to scratch. And it’s getting worse the longer we’re cut off from Terra and the Exarch.”
Michaelson swirled the ice in his drink. “I thought Liao was a focal point for the new courier system.” A series of planned JumpShip routes and times that picked up some duties from the lost HPG network. “The Solar Express, they’re calling it.”
“The system is far from complete. With HPGs on Genoa and New Aragon I have an adequate chain of communication with Prefect Tao. A good thing too. The hùn dàn Confederation has the entire border stirred up.” He calmed himself with visible effort. “Still, intelligence seeping our way from Terra… that is in shorter supply.”
Now Michaelson was beginning to see what this was about. One of the red flags he’d tripped with customs had been his forged military documents, which placed him on leave from the Hastati Sentinels. “You want to know what is happening on Terra,” he said.
“We need to know,” Ruskoff stressed. “We have rumors of troops massing on the Confederation’s side of the border, and every indication is that Daoshen is coming. If we aren’t going to see any support from Terra and Prefecture X because they’ve buttoned up against the next Steel Wolf assault, that’s something we’ll need to take into account.”
So he had hurt Liao again, without even knowing it this time. Well, Michaelson had come to restart his life and make good on past mistakes. What better place to start than gaining the ear of the Planetary Legate?
“I’ll tell you what I can,” he promised.
This time, he would do it right.
Chang-an
Qinghai Province, Liao
After his interview with Major Michaelson, Viktor Ruskoff caught a VTOL to the White Towers District of Chang-an where the Governor’s Palace anchored Liao’s administrative center. It truly was a palace, once a summer escape for Confederation Chancellors and other family members of House Liao. As the rural area developed into a modern city, and then an urban sprawl, great care had been kept to maintain the palace grounds and several public buildings separate from the city. A great wall surrounded the entire district, creating a hidden city within the capital.
The VTOL settled on a wide expanse of park in back of the lofty structure, rotors still thumping overhead when the Legate jumped out. Ruskoff knew his way through the Governor’s Palace, having been a fixture around the capital for longer than Anna Lu Pohl had held the top political office. He found her taking a meeting in one of the many executive suites. Extremely tall, despite her Asian heritage, Governor (Mandrissa) Anna Lu Pohl favored Han-inspired gowns that harkened back to the Capellan culture she shared with so many among Liao’s population. She sat down with several aides as they poured hard-earned data into her. Governor Lu Pohl also had an insatiable thirst for detail.
“Trouble?” he asked, seeing the stormy expression that piled up her dark eyebrows. For all her aristocratic background and political training, Anna Lu Pohl wore her emotions on her sleeve.
“Trouble,” she affirmed. “Messages from New Aragon.” She lifted her chin in a simple, regal manner. “If you would all excuse us.”
Everyone left save the Governor’s chief of staff, who was immune to all but the most direct command. Gerald Tsung was tall and broad shouldered, and looked like he belonged in a uniform rather than his Mao-tailored suit. He had a sharp mind, and Ruskoff often suspected that he created as much policy in the Liao government as did Governor Lu Pohl.
The Legate sat, nodded a stiff greeting to Tsung, then focused back on the Governor. “Should we teleconference with Lord Governor Hidic?” As the political head of Prefecture V, also making his capital on the world of Liao, Marion Hidic often consulted on local matters. It also helped, in Ruskoff’s mind, that Hidic was less tolerant of Capellan intrusions than the Liao Governor.
“Marion is on his way here,” she said abruptly, giving Ruskoff an idea as to the seriousness of the latest news. The same data would be making its way through channels to his office. As usual, politicians found ways to shortcut procedure. “What did you learn from this Ritter Michaelson?”
“I’ll forward my report as soon as possible. Briefly, though, Exarch Redburn got off lucky. Northwind took the real pounding, and the Highlanders were on hand to soak up more damage for him, too. I think mostly it was the shock that fighting came at all to Terra.”
“Which leads us to the big question,” Gerald Tsung said. “Can we count on help from Terra and Exarch Redburn?”
The soldier in Viktor Ruskoff wanted to speak up at once in support of the Exarch, the political and military leader of the entire Republic. The rational man inside him deferred. Damien Redburn was not everything Ruskoff looked for in a leader, and the Legate owed The Republic an honest evaluation to the question.
“No. We can’t.”
“Thank you, Viktor,” she nodded. “Shí-fen găn-xiè.”
Her accent was polished, proudly Capellan. Another reminder that Anna Lu Pohl had gained her governorship on a People First campaign, proving that one could be loyal to the old culture and stand for The Republic at the same time. Viktor Ruskoff still had his doubts about that.
As did Shun Tao, the Prefecture’s ranking military officer. Tao’s relocation to New Aragon made sense, but he counted on Viktor to play watchdog on Liao as well as keep a lid on the Ijori Dè Guāng terrorists. As the previous day’s firebombing and thefts proved, the latter was more difficult than the former.