Jonah could not imagine Bannson wanting the title of Paladin for its own sake, or even for the sake of what a Paladin could accomplish. But for the sake of a shot at the highest prize of all, though… yes.
Jacob Bannson doesn’t want to be a Paladin, Jonah thought. Jacob Bannson wants to be Exarch.
PART TWO
Bearing Witness
15
Belgorod DropPort
Terra
Prefecture X
March 3134; local winter
Lieutenant Owain Jones of the Northwind Highlanders had not been on Terra for more than two hours before he knew that they planned to kill him. He was not completely clear on who “they” might be—although he had a strong opinion about who had sent them—but he had no doubts whatsoever concerning their intent. He was a combat soldier who had been entrusted with a vital mission, and he knew that he was going to die.
The leather portfolio in his right hand, heavy with data discs and papers containing the testimony and the pictures concerning the battles of Tara, the attacks across the northern hemisphere, and the destruction of Castle Northwind—and concerning the part that a certain Paladin of the Sphere had played in all those events—was slippery with the sweat from his palm, in spite of the chilly winter air. He drew his other hand across his forehead, brushing back his hair.
He had felt for some time now that he was being shadowed. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but he could feel eyes watching him. He would need to deliver the material in the portfolio to someone—to a Knight, perhaps, or to a member of the Senate. If, that is, his shadowy pursuers allowed him to approach anyone remotely like that.
His arrival at the Belgorod DropPort had been unremarkable, and his clearance through the checkpoints had been swift and easy. The feeling of being watched came upon him when he left the port building and reached the sidewalk outside, just beyond the edge of the field. The feeling didn’t lead him to anything that he could put his finger on, any more than his nervous glances found a skulker in the shadows or a hovercar with tinted windows parked across the way. Nevertheless, his jumpiness increased.
Lieutenant Jones took the first hovercab that presented itself under the awning at the DropPort transit stop, and directed it to take him downtown to the transportation hub. Buildings flashed by him outside the windows on either side of the cab, causing him to think uneasily that he couldn’t tell whether the driver was going to the location he had specified.
He pointed to a restaurant on the side of the road, up by the next corner. “Stop here.”
“But we aren’t anywhere near city center,” the driver protested. “I thought you wanted—”
“I want to go here,” Jones said. “Pull over.”
“All right, all right,” said the driver. “But you still have to pay the full fare to center city.”
“I’ll pay it,” Jones said. “Now pull over.”
Maybe this would throw off pursuit, he thought. Maybe no one was pursuing him. Maybe… maybe he was about to pay the price for carrying evidence that would damn a popular and powerful man.
The cab came to a stop. Lieutenant Jones stepped out, clutching the portfolio, and handed the cabbie a substantial amount of cash. He’d been issued travel funds before departing Northwind, but he hadn’t found an opportunity to break up the large bills into smaller ones before becoming aware of the pursuit. The cab driver started to put the money away, then looked at it again and glared at him angrily.
“Hey, I can’t use this!”
“You can change it at the nearest bank,” Jones said. “There’s a lot more in there than what I owe. Keep all of it.”
He backed off, turned, and ducked hastily into the restaurant on the corner. Only the pride of Northwind kept him from breaking into a run.
At this hour, the establishment was deserted except for a barman who was doubling as a waiter. The lunch hour was over, and the dinner hour had not yet started. The waiter bustled up as soon as Lieutenant Jones walked in.
“One, please,” Jones said. “And do you have a communications console?”
“Yes, sir. May I suggest the fillet of sturgeon?”
“Sure. Give me whatever is good. But right now I need to make a call.”
The waiter pointed. “Over there, beside the washroom.”
Lieutenant Jones walked back to the public communications console and punched in the code for the Northwind Interests Section in Belgorod. Whoever answered, however, was unimpressed with the call.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the disembodied voice said. “I cannot put you through directly to the chargé at this time. The current wait for a voice connection to a representative of the Northwind Interests Section is a minimum of twenty minutes. Alternatively, you may present yourself in person tomorrow morning at 0817.”
“Listen to me,” Jones said. “I have important papers here. Northwind has been attacked! There’s a chance that Terra will be next. I have evidence with me that needs to go to the Senate as soon as possible.”
“Press one to wait for a connection; press two if you prefer to conduct your business in person,” the voice said. Lieutenant Jones couldn’t tell whether it belonged to a live human or to a synthesized recording. He pressed one. The voice said, “You have chosen to wait for a connection. If you wish to conduct other business during the waiting period, and have a signal sent to your receiving unit when a representative of the Northwind Interests Section is able to speak with you, press three.”
They’ve all gone out to lunch, Jones thought. They’re sitting at a table somewhere eating caviar and drinking vodka while the world is falling apart. He pressed three.
“You have chosen to have a signal sent to your receiving unit. Please be aware that the Northwind Interests Section is not responsible for any calls missed due to the caller’s absence from the receiving unit. Good day.”
The connection broke.
“And a good day to you, too,” Jones said to the silent console.
He walked back to the table that the waiter had indicated for him, and took his seat as the greens and a drink were brought out. The grilled fillet of sturgeon had just been set before him when the door of the restaurant opened. The little bell attached to the door frame jingled cheerfully as two men entered. They wore long coats, and they scanned the nearly empty room with humorless eyes.
The man closest to the door pulled a slug-pistol from his coat pocket. The two men walked toward Lieutenant Jones, arriving one to either side of him before he could stand.
“Come with us,” said the man with the slug-pistol.
“Don’t make a scene,” the other one said. “We’re here to take you to the Northwind Interests Section.”
Lieutenant Jones looked around. The dining room was empty, and the waiter had vanished. He stood up, reaching for the leather portfolio.
“We’ll take that,” the man to his left said, and picked up the portfolio. The man with the slug-pistol remained alert, his hands otherwise free. “Can’t be too careful.”
“Of course not,” Jones said.
He walked a little ahead of the two men as the three of them left the room together. Behind them, the bell over the outside door jingled again as they left.
Ivan Gorky was the waiter and afternoon barman at the Pescadore Rus. It had been a slow afternoon with just one customer, a stranger who spoke only in English, and that with a strong off-Terran accent. Ivan had gone to the kitchen for sauce to go with the man’s grilled sturgeon and, upon his return, was surprised to see that his solitary customer had fled, leaving the bill unpaid.