“Looking for you,” she shouted back. Her voice was thin, but piercing.
Expecting her arrival through most of the morning, sweating through a mixture of anticipation and dread, Julian nodded and shifted his weight past the hip joint. A short ladder welded to the ’Mech’s left leg made for an easy climb down. Dropping the last meter, he landed on slightly bent legs, then straightened to his full height to work the kinks out of his back. Julian stood one point eight meters, though his mother always said he carried himself as if taller. His father’s name for it had been “bearing.”
Sometimes Julian still heard The Chairman’s voice in his head.
“A real man stands straighter when he’s not carrying lies on his back or dishonor in his heart.”
Julian welcomed those moments, liking to think he took after his father in more than looks. The same reddish-blond hair and healthy complexion, strong chin and hazel eyes, square shoulders. Christoffer Davion never served one day in military service, and had preferred his elected status as Argyle’s world chairman to any noble title the Davion name brought home. But he’d have never begrudged his son the opportunity of fine schools and military academies, or the direct sponsorship of their cousin, First Prince Harrison.
“Men choose how to live their own lives.”
Which Julian accepted as a difficult truth. Ultimately, he had chosen to live his life under the bright edge of a suspended sword.
Julian believed his father would have liked seeing him graduate the New Avalon Military Academy, and being named the youngest prince’s champion in the history of the Federated Suns. It was a reassurance he’d held to for fourteen years, ever since his father passed. Twenty-seven now, he saw no reason to let it go.
Not even under Amanda Hasek’s disapproving frown.
“You certainly didn’t make yourself easy to find,” she scolded him.
Duchess of New Syrtis and Minister of the Capellan March—in charge of fully one-fourth of the Federated Suns’ star-spanning nation—Amanda Hasek’s glares had been known to melt generals and cause lesser nobility to quake. A powerful and dangerous woman. Still, her heart-shaped face had a strong, straightforward beauty that so reminded Julian of Prince Harrison’s first wife, the duchess’ younger sister. Turning matronly in her sixties, Amanda gave in slightly to her years by allowing a touch of gray at her temples to feather into the coal-dark hair she wore swept up and back in the latest fashion.
She cupped her hands over her ears in an effort to cut down on the noise of so many nearby machines. It was a large project. Julian doubted Yare Industries had seen this much activity since the Fourth Succession War.
The excavation was too big to jump, so Julian walked around the nearer side. The warm scent of turned earth rose to meet him. He was only half a dozen steps away from her when he finally said, “Well, you found me.” A ghost of a smile. “Which I suppose means that I’m done for the day.”
Buddy Harris gave the prince’s champion a friendly wink as he passed, heading for the ConstructionMech and his regular job. Julian offered his hand to the second man—the one who stood stiffly at Amanda’s side. David Styles looked like a scared wolf caught in a steel trap, desperate enough to chew off a leg to escape. He was obviously unused to visiting royalty, especially on an actual work site. It had taken Julian days to break through the foreman’s natural deference to hear what the man actually thought.
Now he felt reluctance return in Styles’ weak grip.
“Thank you for your time, Lord Davion. You handle a CM well.”
“A cockpit’s a cockpit,” Julian said. “And I hate standing around.” Buddy was already back in his cab, waiting for the order to restart. “I hope I didn’t cost you much in lost time.”
“Not at all,” the foreman politely lied.
Julian laughed. “Thank you, David.”
Taking that as his dismissal, the foreman bowed briefly to Julian and deeper to Amanda Hasek. “My Lord. Duchess.” He backed away quickly, then fled at a stiff walk to the next closest work site. The waiting lines trailed after him.
“Any news from ComStar?” Julian asked soon as the other man was out of earshot. Turning the duchess toward business before she pounced on any more of his shortcomings.
Amanda shook her head, mouth pinched into a tight grimace. “Nothing beyond what we have already heard. A priority message from The Republic, being delivered by diplomatic courier. Once it has been decrypted and all codes verified as genuine, it shall post according to diplomatic rank.”
Julian’s frown sat heavy on his face. “By courier,” he said. He made it sound like a curse.
It was, in a way. Certainly a far cry from the efficiency of ComStar’s vast interstellar network only two years prior. Before the Blackout. Practically overnight, upwards of eighty percent of all hyperpulse generators, which made instant communication possible between stars and stellar empires, quit talking to one another. And even those that worked did so sporadically, reaching only a few stations in the available network.
Kathil’s HPG was one of the silent ones.
“Three weeks from origin.” Julian shook his head. “Four years ago, a secure verifax could have made the transmission relay in three days.”
Or even in as many hours, at the highest-class priority. There was no way to tell even that, anymore. This hand-carried message might bring word of new trade offers from The Republic of the Sphere, or the flare-up of a violent boundary dispute. Tempers were running short on many worlds guarding the borders of the young nation. It might be the arrival of a dignitary. A natural catastrophe. Intelligence reports.
“It could be news of an invasion,” he said. “And we would not know until all passcodes and red tape procedures are verified.”
“Faith forbid!” Amanda was quick to say. But her brown eyes were veiled. Hardened.
Not that Julian needed any overt signs. He knew the Haseks’ Capellan March was lacking only an excuse to break the peace and invade the nearby Capellan Confederation. Or strike at the ever-troublesome Taurian Concordat. People were scared. Planetary governments were nervous. And despite fifty years of military downsizing, everyone was still too well-armed.
Even the duchess’ presence here, visiting Kathil, was a sign of the distrust building between Prince Harrison and the Federated Suns’ stronger noble families. Harrison Davion, as well, lived under the sword, mortgaging strained relations against the future of his realm.
At least with the duchess on Kathil, there was no immediate threat from New Syrtis. And whatever news had come from The Republic would come to them first.
Julian saw Buddy still waiting, and gave him a high thumbs-up. As the ConstructionMech’s engine roared back to life, dumping more oily smoke from its stackpipes, he caught Amanda’s elbow and escorted her away from the excavation. He noticed some gray dust staining the lower legs of his black trousers, and stopped to brush at them without much hope of success.
“Julian.” Amanda Hasek shook her head. “You’re a mess.”
He would be by her standards, of course, having spent the morning on site. But what else was there to be done? “Plans can look fine on the table, Amanda, and be wrong for the field. You don’t leave military planning to civilian contractors.”
“Yes. But you do not trade skilled labor for an academy-trained MechWarrior either. Although Sandra wagered with me that I’d find you at the controls of some machine out here.”
Lady Sandra Fenlon was Amanda’s ward, and the duchess’ calculated attempt at matchmaking had been painfully obvious to both young nobles. Privately, they had agreed to let Amanda believe it was working. Better that, they decided, than worrying about whom the duchess had in her second-string lineup. For either of them.