With great reluctance and after exhausting all reasonable efforts to restore the peace,
I have issued the following orders.
Today, by executive order, under the War Powers Act of 3082,
I have ordered the Senate disbanded.
The authority of any noble now extends no further than the boundary of dedicated fiefs.
Prefecture governors will continue to administer all laws of The Republic.
Legates and command-level officers remain under local dominion,
except where a world or governor refuses to acknowledge this action by word or deed.
Any attempt by a former senator to wield undue power or influence
will be met with the harshest penalties.
This state of emergency must and will persist
Until the danger to The Republic is past
And all people, citizen or resident, have had their chance to voice an opinion
on a new and better form of representation.
I sincerely regret the pain and the fear of uncertainty that this action will bring.
Let us all pray that a brighter future awaits us
on the other side of this terrible darkness.
COMRADES IN ARMS
On, on, you noble English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!—
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought,
And sheath’d their swords for lack of argument.
—Shakespeare’s King Henry V, Act III, Scene I
War is never so clean and neat as we would like it. As recruiting drives would lead you to believe. For every act of bravery you can find one of cowardice, and for every decorated hero a father, a son, who died ignominiously.
Why, then, are there always those who are so willing to call ‘Out swords, and to work!’?
—Tara Campbell, Countess Northwind, “A Response,” Terra, 11 April 3135
15
The exarch would think to abolish us? We, who have stood at the precipice and gazed into the abyss on behalf of mankind for century upon century? There is no greater lie than the one he thinks to unveil: That we are dispensable, and he is necessary. I say, we abolish him!
—Senator Therese Ptolomeny (Unilateralist, Park Place), Terra, 10 April 3135
Terra
Republic of the Sphere
11 April 3135
It was organized to look like a parade.
It began at Geneva’s DropPort, escorted by a paladin and a double column of armored vehicles leading the way through the streets. Aerospace fighters circled overhead, occasionally making low-level passes to distract and entertain the cautious crowds who turned out for the spectacle. Bright rainbow banners and green garlands of fresh boughs decorated the entire city. At main intersections, pennants with the House Davion crest stirred under a light breeze, the sword-and-sunburst insignia marking their route and supporting the illusion of a festive event.
A parade. Only days after the exarch of The Republic forcibly cleared Geneva’s Magnum Park and announced the dissolution of the Senate.
Right.
To Julian Davion’s trained eye—and likely to anyone with a little common sense—the “parade” was obviously a fortified guard. There were reactionary factions within The Republic’s government, its civilian population, the military ; there was no saying for certain what they might do. What they might try.
Julian had been allowed his Templar, repaired after the fighting on New Hessen and freshly painted in the red-and-gold parade colors of the Davion Guards. He stomped along behind an armored limousine, presumably standing guard over his uncle. But it was Harrison’s body double who waved to the curious as the military convoy wound its way through Geneva proper and finally gained the rural highway that twisted alongside the grand lake and (eventually) up into the nearby Alps. Here the body double, at least, could relax. Enjoy the limousine’s well-stocked bar and pantry.
Another sixty tense kilometers for Julian, to the chalet over Thonon-les-Baines that had been given over to the diplomatic party from the Federated Suns. The prince’s security team kept Harrison buttoned up in a Fox armored car the entire way. Julian insisted on the precaution. The Fox trailed at the end of the column, ready to run for safety at the first sign of trouble.
None came. Between David McKinnon’s Atlas and Julian’s Templar, and another thousand tons of rolling military might, any thoughts of taking the prince for an important political hostage must certainly have fallen by the wayside.
The chalet itself sat on expansive grounds only a few thousand feet below the Alps’ spring snowline. A mountainside retreat, overlooking the quaint town of Thonon-les-Baines and Lake Genève’s wide blue waters, the building’s steeply pitched roof and narrow windows were common to the local architecture. Though Julian doubted that many such estates were built from ferrosteel and hardened, fusion-formed bricks stronger than the best steel-reinforced concrete. The site was as physically secure as any military bunker. Gardens and flagstone paths, and the gingerbread-house trimmings of scalloped gables and picket fences notwithstanding.
The hidden defenses were just as impressive, Julian knew, especially after a month of being worked over by the prince’s advance teams. New video surveillance and an installed sensor suite package sensitive enough to pick up the armored column at five kilometers. Spider holes on the grounds, manned by armored troopers. A “panic room” below the wine cellar where Harrison could bolt in case of any security breach.
As the column approached, a pair of Kinnol main battle tanks split away from the column and took up station before the front walls. A trio of armored personnel carriers fit—barely—into bays of a seven-car garage.
Except for approved military aerospace craft, the entire area was a no-fly zone.
The site was secure as Julian could make it.
He left his Templar standing vigil off to one side of the chalet, near the helipad. Scaling the three-story drop down a chain-link ladder, Julian breathed deeply of the brisk mountain air. It tasted of wildflowers and alpine conifers. And snow. His breath frosted in front of his face, and the skin on his arms puckered with gooseflesh. He had pulled a simple jumpsuit over his military togs, and now had cause to regret not planning for warmer clothing. He saw a great deal of fleece in his immediate future.
“We aren’t going through this every trip into Geneva?” Harrison called over.
His strong voice carried across the garden that separated Julian’s BattleMech from the chalet’s main drive. The prince stood next to the Fox armored car, bundled quite warmly in a full-length coat of brown faux fur. More than ever, he looked the part of his namesake, the Bear.
“Not usually,” Julian promised, jogging over.
From the drive, all that could be seen now of the military guard was McKinnon’s lone Atlas astride the road at the main gates. Julian tossed the paladin a casual salute in farewell, thinking that McKinnon would return to Geneva now. But the one-hundred-ton machine simply turned and set itself in a wide-legged stance, a massive titan guarding the chalet.
Frowning, but taking the added protection at face value, Julian turned toward the chalet’s large stone porch and heavy lodge-style doors. The latch was heavy brass, cold to the touch. The doors were hung perfectly. Heavy, but opening easily at the lightest push.
“I have a Warrior VTOL coming in later today,” he told the prince. “We’ll use your body double on the road, as a diversion, and fly you into Geneva. Faster. Safer.”
“And a very good idea,” a hearty voice greeted them as they stepped into the chalet’s common room.
Julian had never met Jonah Levin, but had no trouble recognizing the one-time paladin and current exarch. His face was probably the second-most popular on newsvid programs and scandal sheets throughout The Republic. Right behind Tara Campbell, of course.
Exarch Levin waited in front of the fire, which crackled and snapped on the hearth withi
n a massive stone fireplace. Julian had slept in DropShip berths that were smaller. The heat was enough to warm the common room, with its vaulted ceiling open to the rafters high above. Levin seemed to welcome the warmth, though, standing close enough to the flames that Julian would be surprised if the man’s eyebrows weren’t singed.
The man might have stolen a march on Julian, but Harrison Davion rolled with the unexpected visit as if he’d expected it the entire time. He shrugged out of the heavy fur coat, and tossed it with casual aplomb over the back of a nearby chair.
“Sire Levin, may I congratulate you on your ascension to exarch.”
It wasn’t exactly a question, and Levin answered it in kind. “Thank you, First Prince Davion.”
“Harrison.” The gruff man waved off the titles with an easy brush of his hand. “A perquisite of the job, Jonah. You get to first-name the rest of us.” He grinned. “Except for any of the Marik wannabes. They will insist on their Captain-General rank, all three of them. Part of their cock-swinging contest.”
“Isn’t one of the captains-general female?” Levin asked.
“My point exactly.”
Such earthy humor would no doubt have crashed a high-society function into cold, uncomfortable silence. But Harrison Davion had read the other man well for never having met him. Julian watched as Exarch Levin relaxed with a tired smile and a hard glint sparkling in his dark brown eyes.
“So noted,” the exarch said. He crossed the room in quick strides, reaching out to trade clasps with the prince of the Federated Suns. “Welcome to Terra.”
“We’ve been enjoying the hospitality around Annemasse’s DropPort for five days, actually. But the sentiment is welcome.” Harrison introduced Julian, who also traded brief clasps with The Republic’s most powerful man. “Since we are all here, I trust arrangements have finally been taken care of?”
By which Julian assumed Harrison was speaking about the Markeson Pride. And two companies of House Davion’s finest, landed on Terra in clear violation of the terms of the exarch’s original invitation.
“It wasn’t an easy request to handle, given the short time frame and other… complications. But yes, we’ve managed to arrange for a ‘tour’ of Terra, starting with the Groom Lake Operational Proving Area in North America. It’s a small step, Prince Davion, but I welcome the gesture. And your presence here.” His gaze measured Julian again, and the obvious absence of anyone else. “But weren’t you traveling in a larger party?”
Silence stretched out after that question, until Julian realized that Harrison was staring at him. He felt the silent prodding, and stepped forward to fully join the conversation.
“Duchess Amanda Hasek and her ward, Sandra Fenlon, will join us from the Annemasse DropPort later this evening. I did not want them making the journey until the full security force was in residence. Caleb Davion, the prince’s son, will arrive in a few days to a week. And Sterling McKenna”—Julian glanced at Harrison—“remains in orbit aboard her own DropShip.”
Which left out a lot of the undercurrents, having traveled for several weeks with Duchess Hasek’s disapproving gaze and Khan McKenna’s casual disregard for anyone other than Harrison. Separating those two women, and the prince, had been the highlight of Julian’s morning.
Levin nodded, as if reading the champion’s mind and offering his sympathy. “And Duke Corwin Sandoval?” he asked.
Harrison took up the thread. “Was convinced at the last moment that the needs of the Draconis March were too important to waste for a family reunion.”
A politic way to separate Corwin from the entourage, Julian had thought. If there were any deals to be made within The Republic, after all, it should be Harrison Davion making them. And there were already too many Sandovals in play.
A sentiment Exarch Levin must also agree with. He smiled and nodded.
“Please.” He spread his hands at the sectional couch and the large armchairs which helped section off part of the common room into its own smaller space. “Don’t let me keep you standing. This is, for the next few months anyway, Federated Suns soil. Be comfortable.”
All three took seats. Harrison easing his large frame back into the corner of the sectional, spreading his arms out to either side along the back. Julian took one of the arm chairs only after the exarch had claimed the other for himself. The prince’s champion ended up sitting closest to the fireplace. The wave of heat emanating from the stone hearth began to cook the left side of his face.
“First,” Jonah Levin said, speaking directly to Harrison, “let me apologize for any perceived slight to the Raven Alliance. We’ve been organizing this since December, but there are still a few legal kinks to work out.”
Harrison nodded. “The Clans setting foot on Terra being a major one,” he said, understanding. “That was the entire point to their invasion in 3050, wasn’t it? To become the chief Clan?”
“The ilClan,” Julian said, providing the correct term. “But there is some debate among military historians as to how that works. First Clan to simply set down on Terran soil? First to win a victory? Or does it take the subjugation of the entire world to trigger that event?”
“We’re playing it safe,” Levin said. “Geneva and the surrounding environs will be officially classified as neutral ground for the duration of Paladin Victor Steiner-Davion’s funeral. And as we cannot commit to an ambassador’s privilege of granting ‘sovereign soil’ to any Clan, the Sea Foxes have helped us draw up a ‘contract’ by which a Clan representative is granted diplomatic immunity so long as they agree to abide by the boundaries and renounce all claim of sovereignty for the duration of this visit. It should be ready for Khan McKenna by tomorrow at the latest.”
“We are the first to arrive then?” Harrison asked.
“Nearly.” Levin smiled tightly. “First with a Clan warrior, at any rate. But a small contingent from House Steiner arrived two days ago. They have taken over the Carlton-Swiss in Geneva.” He hedged, obviously uncomfortable. “The Commonwealth embassy in Mannheim is currently …unavailable.”
“Melissa is here?” Harrison sounded surprised.
“No. A distant cousin, Trillian Steiner, with a small escort of military attaches.”
“Steiner-Davion,” Julian said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Julian shifted to the side of his chair, leaning away from the fire. He hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but now that he had: “Trillian Steiner-Davion. She is Peter Steiner-Davion’s granddaughter. Victor would be her great-uncle.”
“Interesting. That relationship was not made clear to me. And Trillian, when I spoke briefly with her, actually requested a city residence rather than take a nearby estate.”
“Family issues,” Harrison said, dismissing the problem. “Relations with the Commonwealth have been less than warm of late. And shared blood makes it no easier.”
The exarch frowned. “Well, we aren’t going to make that any easier, I’m afraid. There are several reports due to break publicly any day now, a few of which I recently released, to support our political agenda. Others I wish I had never seen myself. They will tarnish Victor’s record, and the Steiner-Davion name, I’m afraid. Which is a shame, coming on the eve of his funeral services.”
Julian rubbed at the side of his face. He wondered if his hair was beginning to singe. “I thought Victor helped uncover the Senate cabal? Wasn’t that why he was killed?”
“He did. It was, we believe.” Levin blew out a frustrated breath. “But how he went about it makes it difficult for The Republic to maintain the high ground in our situation with the Senate. Documents in my possession, and in the hands of others, I’m afraid, make it clear that Victor kept ties to some ex-intelligence operatives after the Jihad, for starters. ROM agents whom he might have encouraged to return to ComStar. Even worse, he essentially supported one of the plagues of The Republic; an organization of spies-for-hire and information brokers who hide behind the illuminati pyramid.”
The conversation was
quickly veering away from security issues and into territory not exactly within Julian’s purview as the prince’s champion. Political territory. He was as fascinated as anyone with family gossip—especially gossip at this level—but this was material more fit for Harrison’s intelligence corps. They should vet it, and decide what Julian needed to know.
Plus, truth be told, Julian felt as if he were being broiled to death. He stood, taking a step away from the fire.
“I should see to the security of the grounds, Uncle. And to the Duchess Hasek’s disposition.”
But Harrison made no bones about it. “Sit down, Julian.”
There was no disputing a direct order from the first prince. Especially when he used the curt tone of voice normally reserved for recalcitrant generals or his wayward son. It warned that Harrison would brook no argument or interference.
It was not a tone he took often with Julian.
Julian sat, though he edged over to the sectional first, away from the blazing fire. He perched on the arm of the long couch, sitting at attention but looking as if he were ready to leave at a moment’s notice. At the prince’s whim.
“I appreciate the heads-up,” Harrison told the exarch. “Have Gavin and Simone been told?” he asked, naming Victor’s two surviving grandchildren.
“Simone, yes. Gavin has dropped out of sight—hopefully, just as a protest over our political use of his grandfather.” Jonah shrugged. “Kitsune has also lodged a formal protest”—naming Victor’s son from a previous relationship—“but he’s keeping it low key.”
“I assume none of this will impact plans for Victor’s state funeral?”
“No. We will move forward as outlined in the calendar we sent. But I wanted you to be forewarned, in case this will cause you any difficulty back home.”
Harrison combed his fingers through his black beard. “Not nearly what it is causing you here,” he said. “Your senators will use any handle they can get on Victor to smear the rest of the paladins.”
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