Julian leaned forward, rubbing a finger alongside his jaw. “2375,” he answered, digging back into his history classes. “Before Steiner rule. That was when Archon Robert Marsden deposed the other eight ruling Archons and turned the Commonwealth into a single-monarch nation. Also, House Liao formed the Capellan Confederation, they say, in a single day when Franco Liao put up his own life as collateral and wrested power from a small group of allied worlds.”

“Actually,” Levin said, “I believe that was his wife who bargained on Franco’s life, but your point is well taken.” He nodded. “I can cite dozens more such circumstances, in fact, even dating back to ancient Terra when the New America scrapped its Articles of Confederation after one year and drafted instead a new Constitution.”

“It was a tough decision,” Harrison agreed, “choosing to disband the Senate. In effect, you are looking to reform your entire system of government. That takes brass ones. The kind of scrotal strength that might actually be able to handle such a task. And it was a task that needed doing. Your senators have proven that with their actions.”

The exarch shrugged, still uncomfortable. And Julian suddenly saw two sides at war within The Republic’s leader. The warrior who wished to cling doggedly to his orders, and the status quo. And the visionary who was being forced to deal with a government and a realm in a state of flux. With only the barest appreciation for what Jonah Levin must be going through, Julian also felt a strong measure of pride in Harrison for coming out and speaking the cold, hard facts as the prince saw them.

Levin certainly seemed to appreciate the support. Though, “I don’t suppose you’d go on the public record with such comments?” he asked. But it was hardly a serious request. It sounded more like the exarch making a joke.

And Harrison answered it in the same vein. “Not a chance in hell,” he promised. “In public, I have to denounce you. You understand.”

Meaning, Julian assumed, politics.

The exarch as well. “What isn’t political these days?” he asked.

Obviously a rhetorical question, though Julian noticed Levin’s gaze slip to him for the measure of a quick heartbeat.

“So what will it be?” he asked the prince. “Suppressing the public’s rights with dictatorial force?”

Harrison grinned, strong and savage. “I was thinking more something like… denying representation to so many people once accustomed to free voice under Davion rule.” He paused a moment, tasting the sound bite. “Yes. I think I like that.”

“It’s good. It will get good play at home too. Your March Lords will eat it up.”

“We’ll keep the Sandovals off your back,” Harrison said, making Julian a party to the promise. “But you do not have a great deal of time. If history is any judge, when you reach this kind of cusp your action is best done quickly.”

“Then I should get back to work.” Levin rose. Harrison and Julian followed the exarch back to their feet. “First Prince.” He shook hands with Harrison, and then Julian. “Lord Davion. Again, welcome to Terra, and The Republic.

“And with a bit of luck,” he added, “both will still be around when you leave.”

Terra

Republic of the Sphere

17 April 3135

Tara climbed her new Hatchetman out of the wreckage of a collapsed shop, using the ’Mech’s titanium hatchet to sweep aside the torn sheet metal, the mangled beams. Gray-green coolant leaked out of the gaping wound in her machine’s left side, spilling from a ruptured heat sink. It splashed over the Hatchetman’s shovel-blade feet.

Leaning forward, Tara waited for a new bout of dizziness to pass. She tasted blood from where she’d bitten her tongue.

Spots swam before her eyes. Dark. Fuzzy. Her vision cleared quickly, though, as lasers sizzled in around her, burning wood and scoring the flimsy sheet metal that had once been part of the dealership’s wall. A scarlet lance sliced along her right arm, burning an angry wound through armor composite.

Nothing like a hot combat zone to sharpen the senses.

“Tango-one, back on the grid.”

The neurohelmet’s voice-activated mic gave her hands-free communication. A good thing, as she was busy enough on her control sticks lining up a shot against the attacking Griffin. The heavy autocannon riding over her Hatchetman’s left shoulder let out a long, tearing blast, hammering rounds into the Griffin’s right shoulder. A second blast in the rapid-fire assault struck the enemy machine centerline. Both dangerously close to the head, and cockpit.

Close enough to back off Sir Cray Stansill, The Republic’s newest “black knight.” She’d make sure to christen him with the title at her next media event. If she survived.

Now the Griffin raced back toward the highway, pursued by an SM1 Tank Destroyer pulled in to safeguard Tara’s recovery.

“Glad to have you back, Prefect.” Heavy accent. Her new adjutant, Lieutenant Spiritos Demos. “We began to wonder if that Condor had picked your bones clean.”

The Condor in question was little more than a mangled wreck, sitting at the edge of the tractor dealership lot, crew cockpit hammered in under repeated blows from her hatchet. She had chased it down after its high-speed run at the civilian convoy.

“No, but that Catapult nearly had me for lunch. Where the hell did it come from?”

“Behind us. From the railway depot we passed a kilometer back.”

She nodded, kicking her way through the wooden wall of a low billboard. Watkins Tractors it read—plus messages in French, Swiss and English trumpeting the high quality and long life of their machines.

About half of which she’d already destroyed, wading through the lot under repeated fire from the Catapult and then the Griffin.

“Not in an Atlas anymore, T.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, to avoid transmitting on open channels. “Move first. Fire second.”

Good advice. If she found time to use it.

The firefight had run over her crew with blitzkrieg assault tactics. One moment, she was nothing more than a glorified escort for a trio of armored sedans, parading them along the highway between Annemasse’s DropPort and Geneva. Two SM1 Destroyers leading, followed by a short column of hoverbikes and Demon wheeled support tanks, her brand-new, fresh-from-the-factory Hatchetman trailing the car designated with the flag of the Draconis Combine.

Then, suddenly, the Swiss countryside was hot with weapons fire, her cockpit alive with warning alarms and confused comms chatter.

It had taken her only a moment to pull down intelligence on who it was they faced. Forces out of the military depot at Annecy. A short lance of fast ’Mechs with better-than-average ground and VTOL support.

Throwing their strength behind the disgraced Senate.

Making a grab for a political hostage.

“Demos. Take Sierra-two and double back with a couple of those bikes. Do not overextend.”

“Sierra-two is burning on the other side of the highway, Prefect. We need to drop one of these ’Mechs, and soon!”

A pair of Cavalry attack helicopters made low strafing runs from the east, striking at her with their light cannon.

“We need a lot of things,” Tara said, chasing after one VTOL with her auotcannon. It missed low and wide. Throttling up into a half-speed walk, she kicked her way past overturned tractors and backhoes, back toward the highway. “Air support. Reinforcements.”