Several were now wounded, dying or dead.

That’s when Evan noticed that the ambulance was too quiet. No running engine. No medics. “Cadet-Sergeant Taylor?” he asked.

Michaelson shook his head. “Internal bleeding. No one caught it in time.”

A hollow feeling wrenched at Evan’s guts. “I was just coming to see him off. To—” To thank him. When the Destroyer needed slowing down, Taylor had been one of the hoverbike drivers to help pin it in place. He’d been thrown, caught by the force of an artillery strike, but insisted he was all right. He’d kept pushing other wounded men into the triage line ahead of him. Damn.

“I saw him off,” Michaelson said, though the meaning changed when he said it. “He wasn’t alone.”

“Thank you,” was all Evan could think to say.

“You want to thank me, Evan, then come meet with Governor’s Aide Tsung. He’s an important man and he has the Governor’s ear. It has to be kept quiet, but I’ll make all the arrangements.”

Evan shrugged. He began to turn away, heading back to the triage. “Bring him here.”

“That’s not the way it works. If Governor Lu Pohl were to send her top aide to meet with you after the way you treated with Ruskoff, it might—”

“What?” Evan interrupted, rounding back on Michaelson. “Might confer some extra legitimacy? Don’t you see, Major, that’s what we need. Without it, we’ll be shuffled aside again.”

The other man blew out an exasperated sigh. He rubbed one hand over his face, let it slide across the angry scars he’d earned on Terra. “There are worse things than falling back into insignificance, Evan. I wish I could make you understand. You make even a simple mistake now,” he said, glancing at the side of the ambulance, “and people die. It doesn’t have to be that way. Talk this out, Evan. Don’t let it go any further.”

“Major, I know you mean well. But you’re living in the wrong age. This isn’t 3128 and you’re not Ezekiel Crow.” Michaelson recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “This one does not get solved by a political deal. It’s gone too far. We’ve made certain of that. Capellan or Republic—Confederation or Republic—it’s time for people to decide.”

“You have no idea the kind of trouble you are asking for.” His voice was a whisper.

“Maybe I don’t,” Evan admitted. “But it seems like you’re too willing to back away from the hard choice, Major. I didn’t give myself that option.” Or perhaps Evan had simply made his decision years before, when Mai Uhn Wa first approached him. And if that was the case…

“Maybe I thought there was another choice, once, but I discovered the truth of that today when I pulled the trigger.” He shook his head. “You’re talking to the wrong man. There’s no going back now.”

Evan left Michaelson next to the ambulance. He felt the other man’s disappointment, and his very real fear. Whatever was behind either feeling, it was his to work out, not Evan’s. Evan had his own worries to consider.

No, there was no going back now. There was only deciding how he would go forward.

Chang-an Qinghai

Province, Liao

14 July 3134

Ritter Michaelson shifted uncomfortably in the straight-backed chair, feeling trapped by his own best intentions. It was certainly not a new sensation. He kept the left side of his face turned toward Gerald Tsung, hiding behind his scars while Hahn Soom Gui presented the Conservatory’s case to Governor Pohl’s aide.

Tsung’s working office certainly fit the man’s conservative style. Spartan. No photos of the family, no diplomas. No letter of appointment. Golden oak paneling added some character to the room, but no other art or decorations accented the space except a simple picture of Governor Anna Lu Pohl hanging next to the door. It was a room designed not to step on toes, Michaelson realized. Nothing existed except a demonstrated loyalty to the Governor herself.

He could appreciate that. This kind of severe existence was how Ezekiel Crow had lived his life. No encumbrances. No reminders of his past, or what he currently risked whenever heading out for battle. Ezekiel Crow had owed his life to The Republic. Anything else—anyone else—was a dream.

And as Ritter Michaelson? Did he owe any less of a debt?

Hahn had been talking about the systematic discrimination used to influence the Conservatory’s martial programs. Now he presented the last of his papers, documents rescued from the administration offices. “Here’s the proof,” the budding politician offered, slapping the pages down on the corner of Tsung’s desk like a lawyer might produce damning evidence.

Michaelson had already seen the documents—had helped compile them—and suggested to Hahn that they be the last evidence offered to Tsung. They contained personnel files on every student who applied for permits to hold on-campus demonstrations—Hahn’s name near the top of that list—and those who took Capellan History and Culture. Also loyalty assessments of any cadet on the aforementioned lists, and cadets who had simply been unfortunate enough to be born to residents and not Republic citizens.

In short, the students had been right in their paranoia.

Evan Kurst had been right, but he was still bound to self-destruct if he continued to take everything upon himself to decide. Michaelson saw so much of his younger self in Evan, so much of what had ruined Daniel Peterson. Maybe that’s why it bothered him that he had been unable to reach the younger man.

Tsung gathered the pages up carefully, ordered them into a neat stack in the middle of his desk. Hahn handed over computer records on three data crystals, which Tsung set carefully atop the printouts.

“Governor Pohl will be very interested in these.”

Hahn smiled thinly. “As will Legate Ruskoff, I’m sure.” The accusation was easy to read in his tone.

Michaelson hedged. “Nothing in those reports, or any, proves a tie to the Legate’s office. This looks more like a concerted effort on behalf of mid-ranking officers and a few Conservatory officials to ‘purify’ the military by controlling recruitment and academic training.”

“Still,” Hahn intervened, “you can see why we do not trust Legate Ruskoff to look after our interests. This requires civilian oversight. We need the Governor’s personal attention.”

Smearing Viktor Ruskoff’s reputation accomplished nothing. Michaelson had pointed this out to Hahn, who at least had been willing to listen after the disappointing interview with Evan Kurst. But Hahn was proving just as headstrong. Like Eridani horses taking the bits in their teeth, he and Evan charged forward, each along his own path. Over the last few weeks, Michaelson had watched Hahn fall into a one-sided rivalry with Evan, but hadn’t realized how damaging that rivalry could be. Now Hahn seemed determined to open a rift between the Governor and her Planetary Legate in a game of one-upsmanship, if for no other reason. And that was not going to help matters, Michaelson knew very well. It was one of the tactics he himself had used six years before.

3128, when Legate Kang pushed cadets so hard to conform to The Republic mold that Confederation agents had managed to gain a stranglehold on the student body. Kang’s knee-jerk reaction cost two students their lives, and eventually cost him his position. Ezekiel Crow prevented a full assault on the Conservatory only by withholding proof of Confederation complicity, and undermining the Legate’s authority. It bought time for a political solution. A peaceful solution.