Lianyungang
Qinghai Province, Liao
21 May 3134
They cut Ritter Michaelson out of line as he worked his way through customs. One more stamp, just a couple of questions, and he would have been free. Free to claim his luggage. Free to hail a cab and eventually grab an overcrowded train to Xiapu. Michaelson’s benefactor on Terra had secured a small ranch house for him not far from the midland city. Two more minutes.
Then the uniformed customs agents crowded in next to him.
The man was Asian, slight of build and wore a gold hoop in his right ear. The silver badge sewn onto the right front pocket gave his name as Tai Nae Luk. Amanda Ringsdotter was slightly taller and very curvaceous. She also wore stronger perfume than her coagent. Customs Security wasn’t Sphere Intelligence, and neither of these civilian agency officers were likely to be a Ghost Knight—one of the invisible Knights of the Sphere who acted as the Exarch’s eyes, ears and (at times) hands in areas best left out of the interstellar tabloids. Still, there was an obvious purpose about them, and as much authority in their voices as there was riding on their hips in small nylon holsters.
They were polite and insistent, asking, “Could you please step over here, Major Michaelson?” while letting him know it was not really a question.
“Over here” was located down a new hallway and into an office where his identification was examined again. He grumped and joked and picked lint off his uniform cuff, readying three different stories depending on what kind of problem they found.
Nothing, apparently. His papers were handed back without hesitation or comment.
Amanda Ringsdotter furiously typed information into an old keyboard, the sound of striking keys echoing like hail pelting down against a metal roof. She glanced up once, sharply, as if discovering something… unsavory? No, that wasn’t quite it. A mixture of pity and hesitation. Something she didn’t want to tell him. And, in fact, did not. Agent Tai made a phone call, where he did a lot of listening, and then the three of them left the spaceport together.
“I’m sorry, but we have to detain you,” Ringsdotter informed him. She didn’t quite meet his eyes, avoiding the facial scarring as so many did. “Orders from the local garrison. You understand, sir. We’ll have your luggage collected and forwarded on to your destination if you will please fill out these forms here and here.”
She handed him a small noteputer, left him filling out releases, while they waited for a black sedan to be brought around.
In the car, sharing the backseat with Amanda while Tai drove, he carefully reviewed his situation. They hadn’t discovered any flaw in his new identity, so he continued to think of himself as Ritter Michaelson. Ezekiel Crow… Daniel Peterson… they were other lives, ones best left forgotten.
Detailed paintings began with a blank canvas and very simple brushstrokes.
He wasn’t under arrest, and the agents weren’t particularly on their guard. They did have guns—Nasant thirty-eights by the look of the protruding butts—which was unusual for Customs Security Officers, but not unheard of. Special detail? If so, under whose authority? Amanda had mentioned the local garrison, which kept Michaelson from speaking out against the delay to his schedule, merely grunting an affirmative like any good regular army officer. The ride took long enough that they engage in some offhand conversation. He learned that Beilù’s autumn has been unseasonably warm—good for the late harvests, hard on city living. The Eridani races were still run every weekend. And the delay in his arrival was not caused by a simple warehouse fire, as had been announced to passengers of the Burning Petals, but sabotage of a repair depot by a pro-Capellan terrorist force. Amanda glowered darkly as she mentioned them.
Ritter Michaelson pasted a similar frown over his angular features, then rode along in determined silence as the car turned off the highway and onto one of many access roads for the LianChang Military Reserve. Although located several kilometers outside the sprawling mass of suburbs that was official Chang-an, Michaelson noticed that Lianyungang Garrison now co-opted part of the capital’s name for its own, giving it greater weight. That was new.
They slid through one of the gates with a flash of badges and an infantryman’s wave. Five minutes later, he nodded good-bye to the CSO’s, settling himself into a padded leather seat. He gazed with frank interest at the well-appointed office and the well-decorated man who sat behind the teakwood desk: Legate Viktor Ruskoff, commanding all Republic military forces on Liao.
Ruskoff tapped strong fingers on the dark wood grain. Of average height, he still possessed wide shoulders and a lantern jaw, which no doubt served him well at political photo-ops. His fine, ash blond hair was tightly shorn, showing a few scars twisting across a pink scalp. “There is no easy way to say this,” he began, then seemed at a loss for how to proceed.
Steeling himself for most anything, question or accusation, Michaelson nodded encouragement. “Straight out is usually best.”
“Very well, Mr. Michaelson. Ritter.” The early use of his first name spoke volumes on how awkward Legate Ruskoff must have felt. Still, what came next was something of a shock. “Your parents. I’m afraid they’re dead.”
Michaelson blinked slowly, felt a dark stab of old guilt and pain deep in his gut. Celia and Michael Peterson were both dead all right. But they had died twenty-three years earlier, during the Massacre of Liao. He remembered the muddy boot prints, leading him up the stairs of their modest town house where Capellan soldiers had already been… then the laughter.
“How—” His voice cracked on the first attempt, and Michaelson swallowed hard. “How did they die?”
“A fire, it seems. Just a few months ago. On your family ranch near Xiapu.” Ruskoff offered a tentative smile of support. “You raise Eridani stock. Beautiful animals.”
Michaelson was far too seasoned not to roll with it. “Yes, they are.” His mind worked overtime. He hadn’t been briefed on this aspect of his new life. A cruel joke played by his benefactor on Terra, or coincidence?
“Can I offer you anything, Major?” Ruskoff paused one finger over an intercom button. “Brandy? Something to take the edge off?”
“No, thank you. I don’t drink.” He had considered it, though. Just to calm his nerves? To the Betrayer of Liao.
“Soft drink?”
“Please.”
The Legate stabbed down at the intercom, ordered his assistant to bring in two sweetened colas. Michaelson looked up with a guilty start. He hadn’t thought of sweetened colas in years. A Liao touch, adding a pulped naranji to the soft drink. The memory made his mouth water.
“Passing along such grim news was not why I had you brought here, Major. I’m afraid I must intrude on your time a bit further.” Ruskoff smoothed his hands across the edge of his desk as if straightening out a wrinkle in the dark wood grain. “I would never interrupt your grief without need.”
Which Michaelson could use to dig for more information. “I appreciate that, sir. If you are pressing customs into military duties, the situation must be grave.”
“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.”