Deena passed through the room, giving Erik a whiff of her musky perfume. She dropped several orange courier folders full of documents on the desk before vanishing again. The papers were likely dispatches from the Duke’s extensive personal and military empire, a power base that had become increasingly hard to manage after the failure of the HPG interstellar communications network. Now business, war, and diplomacy all had to be carried out in person, by long-delayed courier dispatches, or through surrogates. Everything had changed.

“I’m leaving you in charge,” Aaron said. “Hopefully, all you’re looking at is mopping up, making sure that the local government—and their allegiance to us—is solid, then preparing our forces for the next counteroffensive.”

Aaron looked at Erik, something obviously unsaid.

Deena appeared in the bedroom doorway again. She glanced at Aaron, but he did nothing to indicate that she should leave. She was one of the few people on his staff who had his absolute trust in matters of security.

Aaron took a deep breath, then continued. “If I’m wrong about the situation, if there is any sign of a counterattack, you’re to withdraw our forces immediately. Minimize our casualities and losses at all cost.”

“We could—”

Aaron held up a finger immediately to silence him. “You will do nothing. If this planet falls, it falls, and we won’t lose one of our boys or girls unnecessarily in its defense. We can’t afford to. I am trusting you, Erik, to follow my orders without hesitation. Understood?”

Erik clenched his jaw, but nodded.

“Very good, then. Get down to the command center and prepare the ship to jump forward with the lines as soon as my shuttle is away.” He looked at Erik for a moment. “Go.”

Without another word, Erik slipped past Deena and out into the hallway. He heard the security door lock behind him. He stood there for a moment, his stomach in knots. He’s trusting me? Well, the people of New Aragon are trusting us, too, and God willing, they’ll never know how ready we were to abandon them.

2

Lord Governor’s Palace

Merrick City, New Canton

Prefecture VI, The Republic

9 October 3134

Duke Aaron Sandoval sat quietly in the soft leather of the meeting room chair, his fingers wrapped around the polished mahogany of the chair’s arms, their ivory inlays cool against his skin. The table was carved mahogany as well, the top inset with thick slabs of green-tinted glass. At the far end of the table sat General Divos Sebhat, Legate of New Canton, the focus of the Duke’s attention and his quiet ire.

Sebhat was a tall man, trim without really looking fit, his head shaved and polished under his wide cap. He wore a green woolen uniform that matched the cap, lushly decorated with gold buttons and cording, his chest layered with enough unearned ribbons and medals to stop a cannon shell. A nickel-plated automatic handgun was holstered at his side—a decorative touch. Despite superficial appearances, Sebhat was a peacetime general, more politician than warrior—a man who preferred to settle disputes with talk, or treachery, rather than battle.

In that, Aaron could not fault him, as it mirrored his own preferred methods. But unlike Aaron, Sebhat had never backed up his words with weapons. He lacked the skills of a true warrior. For someone who wore any uniform, much less the theatrical spectacle Sebhat wore, Aaron found that unforgivable.

Still, for over a week, since his arrival on New Canton, Aaron had treated Sebhat with the utmost respect and decorum, even as their negotiations dragged on, producing no real results. Every day Aaron left the guest quarters in the palace’s north wing and met Sebhat at the oak-covered blast doors that protected the conference room. And every day they sat across the table and exchanged empty proposals that never quite meshed.

It had become torture. Aaron knew every line of Sebhat’s face, the grating and obviously false smile he often wore, the way his left eye twitched when he was bored, which in Aaron’s presence seemed to be often.

Aaron also knew every detail of the room. He had memorized the geometric pattern woven into the deep carpeting, studied each of the paintings that surrounded the room: the formal portraits of past Lord Governors and Prefects and the large impressionistic battle scene that hung behind Sebhat’s chair—done in dark blue, black, orange, and gold—featuring a hundred-ton Atlas ’Mech, guns blazing as one mighty foot crushed the torso of a fallen Panther.

He’d seen the Prefecture’s Lord Governor, Harri Golan, only once, at the ceremony marking the Duke’s arrival at Capital Spaceport. There had been a brief speech, a cool handshake, a few empty pleasantries, and then the Lord Governor was in his motorcade and gone. If he was even in the palace where the meetings were taking place, Aaron had seen no sign of him. He was uncertain if Sebhat was the real power behind the throne—wondering if he had been passed off to an underling with no authority to negotiate. In any case, no progress was being made on the negotiations, and the precious time Aaron needed to build his coalition was slipping away.

Every morning had been the same.

Except this one.

Aaron’s stomach knotted slightly, as he realized this day would be much different.

It was the little things that made Aaron uneasy. The expected silver coffee and tea service was absent, as was the tray of colorful yet bland sweet-cakes normally set out on the sideboard under a great mirror. The secretary, who usually sat at a small table in the corner taking notes into a computer pad, was also missing, replaced by two ceremonial guards who stood at attention behind Sebhat, ivory-colored rifles clenched in their white-gloved hands.

But the thing that was most disturbing of all, the thing that had placed the knot in his stomach, was the little self-satisfied smirk on Sebhat’s face. It was a smirk he’d only seen hinted at before—a small, private expression quickly quelled, but now openly and brazenly displayed. Sebhat no longer cared what Aaron thought of him—there would be no more pretense of talk.

Aaron regretted allowing himself to be convinced that the palace security would protect him, that his usual full retinue was neither necessary nor welcome. It was a chip played in the cause of diplomacy, and obviously a misstep on his part.

Aaron sensed a movement behind him, as someone stepped close to the right of his chair. He glanced up to see the muscular figure of Ulysses Paxton, his personal bodyguard and chief of security—at least Aaron had insisted that Ulysses be permitted to stay as a driver. Aaron drew some comfort in his presence. The bodyguard was very good at what he did, and Aaron wondered if he might have use of his skills very soon.