Most students were not taking well to that newest change.

And not just students, either, he discovered. He knew a professional soldier when he saw one, and a few among the pro-Republic cadre were obviously military men in civilian clothes. Same with the pro-Capellans, though they had the greater numbers of a real mob on their side. Both sides thrust placards skyward, and on more than one occasion wielded them as clubs. Now law enforcement—the local jĭng-chá as well as some MPs—milled about on the edge of the large crowd to see what became of the rally.

Not nearly enough, though.

“Madness,” he whispered to himself as campus security once again shoved their way through the crowd with orders to disperse. Into its fourth hour, the crowd swelling on both sides every minute, the rally was not going to be diffused easily. Michaelson watched as Hahn Soom Gui gave up the microphone to another demonstrator.

“The Republic blames us for their problems here,” the new youth shouted. A squeal of feedback growled out through the amplifier. He was not nearly as polished, but made up for it in enthusiasm. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe we should start working with the Confederation. Maybe they will actually listen to us.”

He was pulled down off the Guardian’s pedestal by a pair of baton-wielding security guards. Another student leapt up in his place. “Yóng yuăn— ”

“Liào Su¯ n Z˘ı,” the crowd shouted back.

“Yóng yuăn— ”

“Liào Su¯ n Z˘ı!”

He was also pulled down and escorted away. Two other security guards grabbed a student who tried to intervene, and that left no one to interfere as Hahn Soom Gui once again took center stage and thrust both hands skyward in symbolic defiance. Michaelson nodded reluctantly as the crowd responded. They loved Hahn, they responded to him, but more than that they had seized on something deep within, and it came out in every cheer. Apparently, Sun-tzu would become something of an immortal.

The Republic, the way it was handling things, kept him alive.

Mai Wa had thought himself above reaction to pro-Capellan rhetoric. Six months as a guest of the Maskirovka put such empty words in perspective. Deeds. Action. Those were what were called for now. The kind of leadership as embodied by Evan Kurst, his old disciple.

But this Hahn Soom Gui, he had a gift. Mai found himself being pulled along in the furor of the moment. Evan glanced his way, once, and frowned, clearly not liking that Mai was here, involved with his friends. Well, Hahn had contacted Mai Wa, not the other way around. And anything that drew Evan back into Mai’s circle of influence the elder man would use.

“We did not invite the Confederation back to Liao,” Hahn said now, having once again taken the microphone. Campus security had confiscated one amplifier and a bullhorn already, but always the students seemed ready with another means of keeping the rally going. “We did not create the Ijori Dè Guāng.” Another glance passed between Mai and Evan. “The Republic did this. They did this by ignoring for too long our simple cries for justice and equality. To help guide our own destiny. Lao-tse says that it is when rulers take action to serve their own interests, then—then–their people become rebellious. We are not rebellious. But we are determined!”

“Yóng yuăn, Liào Su¯n Zi!” The crowd no longer needed prompting to chant their refrain. They celebrated Hahn, who basked in their admiration and paraded around the feet of the giant, immobile Men Shen. He gestured to Mai Uhn Wa, lowering a hand to help the elder man up onto the pedestal, giving over the microphone.

“I am a traitor,” he said simply. “I serve the Capellan people.”

The self-damnation rose smoothly to his lips, practiced for so long under Maskirovka direction. A simple thing, to substitute Capellan for Confederation, and suddenly the crowd thought that he proclaimed his devotion to them, and so The Republic named him traitor.

They cheered and roiled, like a pot left too long to simmer.

“I have worked most of my life to bring the true citizens of Liao a voice. I have been a warrior in your name, in your cause. I would give my all if you could celebrate your heritage without worrying, wondering, if someone has taken notice and marked your name in their book. I would shine a light over Liao so bright that only true citizens would dare face it. The Light of Liao!”

“Liào Dè Guāng, Liào Dè Guāng,” a portion of the crowd chanted, making the connection he’d wanted them to between the Ijori Dè Guāng and any chance for a free Liao.

“I was not here for the Night of Screams,” he said, striking to the core of the crowd’s emotions. Pro-Republicans stirred at the edge of the crowd again, flinging insults and a few hoarded rocks. Fists argued back. “I felt that loss deeply, I promise you. I was not here when Confederation forces landed, hoping to return some stability to your lives. It was not for me to be among you, as much as I wished, when you cried out for relief in the years of hard, brutal fighting which followed.

“I was not here,” he said with patient regret, the amplifier conveying some of his shame, even through the distorted volume, “when Sun-Tzu Liao came home to you.”

Even as he disavowed all participation in those dark events, he celebrated them.

“The Chancellor heard your cries, your pain, and he came here to end your suffering. And here he ascended.” At the forward edge of the crowd, Evan started and glanced up at his old mentor. Something there…

“It is not for me to say what happened that day. You are more likely to know.” Evan pulled his mask back into place. Mai shook his head, and continued. “But I saw the results. I heard the people rise up on Liao and say, ‘This is enough!’ I watched as Confederation forces rallied to the memory of their great leader, struck down on a mission of peace, and forced on The Republic military another uneasy truce. And then I despaired. For once again you were robbed of your voice, disenfranchised and disregarded. And so we have been for another twenty years.”

Now Hahn glanced around uneasily, Mai saw. Perhaps his empathy with the crowd noted its ugly shift. Mai had taken their energy, their fervor, and mated it with feelings of futility and their anger of abandonment. It wasn’t so hard a step, really. And while they might not be ready for it, not in truth, Mai had to take a harder stance. The Ijori Dè Guāng had to witness him at the forefront of a new resurgence in Capellan pride, or they would forever dismiss him as the man who ran out on them.

He had to make them all see.

“Twenty years,” he repeated. “What has it brought you that didn’t first require drastic action and the threat of continued disobedience? Nothing.” Thunder rolled overhead, threatening another shower. Mai waited for it to pass. “Even your hard-won right to resume courses in history and heritage, and to peacefully assemble as you have done today, those are rights freely handed out on other worlds, on safe worlds, on non-Capellan worlds.”

Anger and dark bitterness boiled up into the crowd’s voice as it shouted back its agreement and frustration. He had them, all right. Evan’s friend had turned them over to him in a nicely wrapped package. There was more pushing and shoving, fists and kicks.

And there, coming back for another batch of the rally leaders, was the local Conservatory security force. This time, though, they had uniformed members of the local police with them. The j˘ı ng-chá. Was it the crowd’s growing surliness or his own presence that had warranted more force? And how could Mai Wa use that?

“Securitat! ” someone called out a warning, voice heavy with a Slavic accent. Whit Greggor.