She frowned and tilted her head. “And this is how you fight a war?”
What was with Deena today? He didn’t mind her frankness, at least in private, but it was uncharacteristic of her to be so confrontational. “Deena, have you ever wondered what the sword is in the SwordSworn’s seal?”
“I assume it’s the Sword of Davion.”
“That’s true enough, but there’s a legend associated with it that far predates House Davion. My grandmother used to tell it to me when I was a child.” He gestured at a love seat across the table from his chair. “Sit, and I’ll share it with you. Ring for a drink if you’d like.”
She sat on the edge of the seat and crossed her legs, hands cupped over her knee.
He sat as well, moving the stack of papers to one side. “You see, long ago, perhaps on ancient Terra, there was a dragon that emerged from a crack in the ground. It was born of fire and lava. It breathed fire, its skin was hard as stone, and molten metal ran in its veins.
“Though many brave and skillful men tried to fight it, they could not get close enough to mortally wound it, and were themselves killed. The dragon rampaged at will, killing the people and burning their homes. It seemed that very soon, men would be no more, and the dragon would have won.
“But one man had watched the others. He had seen them hesitate before the beast, so that their blades did not bite deep enough to harm him. He knew the only way to slay the dragon was to plunge a sword directly through the soft spot on his chest, deep into his flaming heart.
“It would be a terrible thing to do, but he knew that unless the dragon was stopped, everyone he knew and loved would die.
“So he put on his armor, and took up his sword, and went to face the dragon. And though the beast was terrible—the heat of its breath scalded him, and the heat of its skin burned him—he did not hesitate. He leaped upon the creature and plunged his sword, and his whole arm, into the flaming heart of the creature.
“The pain was terrible. He knew his arm would be lost, if not his life, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the beast expire before he himself fell into unconsciousness.
“The people came upon their rescuer. His arm was terribly burned. They took him back to the village to care for him. He hovered on the brink of death, until the Lady of the Stars came to him in a vision. She told him he was to be rewarded for his selfless bravery in the cause of the people.
“He found that he was well and whole again, and even his armor was restored to him, bright and polished. But what, he asked, had happened to his sword?
“The Lady of the Stars told him that, in the crucible of the dragon’s heart, the arm and the sword melted together and were made one. Forevermore, the sword is in his heart, his blood, and his hand.
“He is given dominion over the people, to act as their guide and protector, and thus, anything he holds in his hand, be it a pen, a paintbrush, a hammer, or the tiller of a ’Mech, that will be his sword in this great task.
“And so he became the first Knight, the first Prince, and the first noble. He sired a lineage that lives today, and his blood runs in the veins of all nobles—even mine.” He shrugged. “The Tyrannos Rex is my sword, Deena, as much as any ’Mech or weapon. I wield it for the greater good.
“That is the lesson of the story.”
She licked her dry lips. “And is Erik your sword, too?”
“He is—and the story also shows us that you must not, for fear of losing your sword, fear to commit it.”
“So if your cause is just, you think he’ll be returned to us?”
He took a deep breath, and released it slowly. “He is a Sandoval. The blood is his, too. If he does not return to us, Deena, then it will be because he did not deserve to return.”
8
Terragate Office Complex, Whitehorse
Klondike continent, Shensi
Prefecture V, The Republic
20 November 3134
Shensi was a world rich in natural resources: those of material value, such as timber and ore, but also those of the spirit—or so the locals claimed. Erik Sandoval-Groell had to admit it was a beautiful world, relatively unspoiled by the last major war.
The forests were vast and spectacular, the mountains high and jagged. Much of the northern continent was a frozen tundra—harsh, vast and savage in its beauty. The southern continent was covered with flat plains drained by wide, meandering rivers, its rich black soil dotted with farms that fed the world.
Though mining and mineral extraction were a large part of the economy, careful application of advanced mining techniques had minimized the impact on the environment. Likewise, the people of Shensi were caretakers of their forests, harvesting selectively, and in a strict rotation that kept their ecologies wild and diverse.
Like all worlds, it carried some scars from past wars, but it was perhaps as idyllic and unspoiled a world as Erik had ever seen.
He was enjoying it not a bit.
The Shensi people prided themselves on “government by consensus.” At first glance, the structure was like dozens of others, a planetary Governor, a military Legate, a Parliament with three houses: Elected, Appointed, and Hereditary. As with many worlds, the Governor and the Legate shared great authority over the rest of the government, and could likely have entered into the coalition without any further approval—if both had wished to.
But only Governor Rivkin seemed at all interested. Legate Tarr felt the current advance would bypass them, and that—given their historic ties with the Capellans—a nonaggression pact was both possible and the best course of action. On other worlds, this might have resulted in a power struggle between these two dominant figures.
Not on Shensi.
Instead, the stalemate caused the issue to be passed down to the Parliament. There it was debated for two days, then voted into yet another deadlock: The Elected House supported it, the Hereditary House opposed it, and the Appointed House stalemated to an undecided result.
The situation seemed hopeless.
The Shensi Governor told Erik that he needed a hired agent called a facilitator. The Governor recommended an old family friend, and off Erik went.
The facilitator’s office was located in a low granite office building just outside the city’s Central Park—an easy walk from any of the houses of Parliament, and a short trolley ride from the Capitol itself. The building was quite old, and was neither run down nor meticulously restored. The wooden banisters on its stairways showed the wear of years of use, and the granite cracked in places that had not been repaired.
But the dark blue carpets were new, deep, and plush, and the potted plants that seemed to be everywhere—a signature of Shensi buildings, Erik had noticed—were green and well cared for. He found the name, OZARKKINSTON, FACILITATOR, on a directory. To his surprise there were no guards in the lobby. A series of escalators took him to the third floor.
He found the name repeated in gold-leaf letters on a heavy walnut door. He turned the glass knob and stepped inside. There was no lobby, no receptionist. Just a large desk stacked with paper and periodicals, where a moon-faced man with red hair typed on a computer with machinelike speed. The desk was surrounded by packed bookcases that ran from floor to ceiling—stacked not just with books, but with more papers, magazines, and enough gewgaws, awards, and souvenirs to stock a junk store.
The man continued typing for several minutes, during which time Erik supposed he must have typed the equivalent of several pages. He then slammed down on a key triumphantly with his right index finger, and looked up at Erik. “Commander Sandoval.” He stood and extended his hand. “I was told by Marjori—the Governor—to expect you. Please have a seat.”