“I’m sorry, sir. These are private negotiations.”
“So I’ve been told. And I’m a Knight of the Sphere with an urgent message for the Paladin.”
There was a thoughtful pause. Then the mercenary stepped away from the door. “Proceed.”
The Rose Room, Gareth thought when he entered, must have been named after something besides the flower. The décor inside involved no roses whatsoever, only curtains and carpet and bland, nonrepresentational art in shades of ivory and dusty green.
The tension in the room hit him even before the door closed. The mercenary officers on one side of the long central table glared at the representatives of Woodstock’s planetary government, who, though they were bureaucrats and their opponents were battle-tested warriors, attempted to glare back in turn. All of the porcelain cups waiting in neat rows beside the silver coffee urn on the sideboard remained untouched, as did the trays of breakfast pastries. From the look of things, nobody involved in the conference was willing to break even symbolic bread with the opposition.
Paladin Heather GioAvanti, seated at the head of the table, wore an expression of long-suffering patience. Gareth paused for a moment to look at her. Until now, he had only seen her from a distance, or in pictures. Close up and in person, the Paladin looked much younger than her media image—barely old enough to possess her rank or resume.
Heather GioAvanti had been a mercenary commander herself, and a successful one, before her acts of self-sacrificing heroism during an incursion of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth into Prefecture VII had prompted the Exarch to make her a Paladin. She was a tall woman, with fair skin, strong bone structure, and a face saved from washed-out pallor by the trick of heredity that had made her brows and lashes several shades darker than her yellow-white hair.
When she turned to look at Gareth as he entered, he saw that she had gray eyes. Their gaze was sharp and penetrating, and he knew that she had probably guessed his errand already. There were not many messages that required a Knight of the Sphere to deliver them in person.
The other men and women at the table weren’t making the same connection, but they were smart enough to know that Gareth’s arrival was important. With all eyes fixed upon him, Gareth strode to the head of the conference table.
“Paladin GioAvanti?”
“Yes, Sir Knight?”
“I am Gareth Sinclair.” Having named himself, he withdrew a sealed envelope from the inner pocket of his uniform tunic and gave it to the Paladin. “I have an urgent message from the Exarch of The Republic of the Sphere, to be hand-delivered to you personally.”
“Thank you, Lord Gareth.” Heather GioAvanti opened the flap of the envelope and slid out a thick sheet of monogrammed paper. After reading the letter’s few lines of script, she put the paper back inside the envelope and laid it on the tabletop in front of her. Then she looked again at the forces arrayed along either side of the long table.
“All right,” the Paladin said, and her voice had a note in it that—judging from her auditors’ reaction—had not been there before. “I’ve heard both sides of the story now—several times each, at length—and I don’t want to hear them any more. Up until now I’ve been patient, because I was hoping that, given the chance, you’d come around to seeing reason on your own. But I have a letter here calling me to Terra, and so I can’t wait any longer. So listen up, because this is how it’s going to be.
“You people of Woodstock—you’re going to stop trying to weasel out of a perfectly legal and standard contract just because the mercenaries you hired did too good a job of convincing trouble to go somewhere else instead of coming here. Pay them what’s owed to them, and shut up.
“And you”—she glared at the mercenary leaders—“where do you get off even thinking about threatening your employers? I’m assessing you a fine of two hundred thousand stones for actions committed against the civic order, and you’re going to pay it with no grumbling.
“Do you all hear me?”
The question came like the snap of a whip. The silence that followed was broken by mumbled assents from both sides of the table.
“Good,” said Heather GioAvanti. “See that you do what I’ve said. And next time, think twice before you ask for a Paladin to come and render judgment.”
5
Bernhard Island
Kervil, Prefecture II
22 October 3134
Jonah Levin wished he could pace, but the cramped space of the Waverley’s deep hold left him no room. He sat tight, waiting completely out of the pirates’ sight. He hoped to be a very unpleasant surprise when the time came, but until then he could do nothing but wait.
If he had his way, battles would begin the moment they became inevitable. There would be no waiting, no buildup, no time-consuming travel. The two sides would appear instantly on the battlefield and open fire.
He checked his chronometer. The time was getting closer, though seconds ticked like minutes. So far, the operation was on schedule.
The comm crackled. “Time to see if anyone’s home,” said Lieutenant Smith of Kervil Marine Law Enforcement. “Circles to lines on my command.”
Jonah waited for the command, his ’Mech echoing the forward lean of his body.
“Execute,” Smith said.
Jonah exhaled. There wasn’t anything for him to do yet, but at least something was happening.
The boat group, which had been circling near the island shore, straightened into lines running parallel to the beach. Unless the pirates were blind or lax, they knew what was coming and were preparing their response. Jonah glanced at his secondary screen, displaying a feed from a boat-top camera. The coast was silent and looked empty, but offered plenty of dense foliage to hide the hostile guard.
“Turn course zero-one-seven, again, zero-one-seven,” Smith said over the comm. “Speed at five knots.”
The boats turned, three lines starting a curve toward the shore. Infantry would land first, then artillery, then missile tanks. If Jonah did his job, most of them would make it onto the shore alive.
Flashes like fireworks sparked across the coastline, followed brief seconds later by dim reports. Missiles arced into the sky, closing on their targets.
“Hold fire. Don’t let them startle you,” Smith cautioned, but it wasn’t necessary. The pirates had fired early and their missiles fell short, vanishing in white sprays and exploding columns of water.
“Gentlemen, let’s get wet,” Smith said, and the first wave dove into the water churned up by the pirate missiles. More missiles fired, most still missing their marks, but a few denting hulls in the first line of boats.
“They’re starting to feel cocky,” warned Brigham, captain of one of the forward boats.
“All right, let ’em know we see ’em. Area fire!”
Jonah reached for his trigger reflexively, but it was still too early.
Greenery along the shore exploded into black-and-brown clouds. Tree trunks shredded, their broad tops falling onto the rocky shore.
The pirates weren’t deterred, and sent a more intense wave of fire. Jonah watched columns rise around him like geysers, strangely beautiful in their way.
Finally, Smith came through with a message meant only for him.
“One minute to position, Paladin. Flood the hold.”
“Copy that,” Jonah said, trying to hide the relief in his voice. The crewman disconnected his ’Mech and scurried out of the hold, sealing the watertight doors. Water flooded in as Jonah waited for sixty seconds to pass.