Sword of Sedition

by Loren L. Coleman

  Seeing her humbled, even after losing the call to first blood, was the best Hatsuwe was going to get this day. He nodded once. A dismissal of her apology. “Very well,” he said.

  “Now leave the crew to their labors,” the warlord ordered. “We have ten more minutes under thrust. There will be no excuse for incomplete work. Hai?” the warlord called out.

  “Hai!” Several dozen voices answered as one.

  They scattered, samurai and crewmen, leaving only Yori Kurita standing in the warlord’s shadow. And Kisho lingering nearby.

  “The honor was mine,” she said softly, and with great respect.

  Toranaga would have none of that. His craggy face, set with deep lines in a permanent scowl, twisted into a mask of utter contempt. “You think it is so easy?” he asked. Though only as tall as her, the warlord exuded a physical presence far in excess of his size. It overpowered and humbled.

  “Your honor will always—always—be suspect, Sakamoto Yori-san.” Refusing her the name she had only recently been honored to acknowledge was a stinging slap. “Your grandfather’s taint is not erased because of your performance at the Sun Zhang academy. It is not balanced by the favor, and the incredible patience, I have shown you. This will never be. Wakari-mas?”

  His words, though spoken low, whipped at Yori like a scourge, biting into her flesh. She dropped her gaze to the nonskid deck. “Hai, tonoe.”

  “Dismissed,” the warlord said abruptly.

  Yes. Yori supposed she was.

  11

  When Devlin Stone created The Republic, he gave equal weight to the Directive Branch and the Legislative Branch, each with judicial review of themselves. Did he believe there never would come a time that Judicial intervention would be necessary between the two branches?

  Blake’s Blood! What a mess!

  —Commentary by Jacquie Blitzer, //battlecorps.org/blitzer, 12 March 3135

  Terra

  Republic of the Sphere

  14 March 3135

  Tara Campbell stepped awkwardly into the magnificent vestibule of Paris’ Republic Cathedral wearing her rumpled uniform, a small military gear bag slung over her right shoulder. If a traveling soldier could feel more out of place, she did not want to go looking.

  Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, painted with a frieze of a blazing sun battling dark thunderclouds, the entire expanse held up by flying buttresses detailed in scroll-worked wood and golden gilt. Rich-grained mahogany stained reddish black paneled the walls, polished so fine and lacquered so thick your reflection, when you found it, looked trapped deep, deep inside the wood. A second soul, staring back at you from where the cathedral touched that other plane of existence.

  Floors were rose marble shot through with veins of blue and gray. Her bootheels fell against the beautiful stone with imperative clicks, hard and demanding in this soft, elegant place. She ended up shuffle-stepping, sounding even more awkward. A few heads turned, knowing her hesitant footfalls to be out of place in the dark of morning when only the cathedral’s devout caretakers were usually about.

  Acolytes looked over from where they worked around an alcove of polished stone. They guarded a delicate display of pottery and stained glass.

  A Catholic priest in her dark robes broke from the conversation of hushed tones she’d been having with a shaven-headed Buddhist monk. Both stared.

  Tough room, she decided.

  But the atmosphere, at least, was both warm and comfortable. Scented with candle wax and wood polish, and a light touch of incense. Nothing Tara could grab hold of and put a name to, much like the best perfumes did not announce their presence, but invited.

  “Countess Northwind?”

  The monk, stepping forward with his sandaled feet whisking softly against the glassy marble. His orange robe contrasted with the cathedral’s dark colors, but somehow did not seem to clash. He walked around one of the carpet runners, as if not allowed the luxury, and approached with casual ease.

  Tara nodded, and the man smiled. Why had she thought the room a hostile one? Under the beatific gaze of the monk, all seemed right with the world.

  “Your companion is waiting in the funerary. This is where our paladin lays in state. I will take you there?”

  Of course he would, but the man did not presume. He asked. Tara nodded again.

  “I would appreciate that,” she said softly.

  Their walk from the vestibule bypassed the tall, arched doorways that led to the cathedral proper, angling instead for a smaller door tucked in next to a hanging tapestry of The Firmament—the dividing of the lands from the waters. It was simple, and yet strong. As the ceiling frieze had been.

  Thinking about it again, Tara found her gaze wandering back up into the vaulted ceilings above. A simple depiction that pushed thunderclouds into competition with a large, blazing sun; its magnificent rays always holding back the darkness. It drew the eye like an uncompleted puzzle often ensnared her, and it took a moment to understand why.

  Worked into the frieze, subtly, were the outlines of two great hands. They cupped the overhead artwork, implying an always-larger hand at work behind the universe.

  In fact, the entire cathedral seemed designed to both intimidate and comfort. A cross-purpose that seemed impossible to achieve, and yet the artists—what they accomplished here transcended mere architecture—had pulled it off.

  “I like that,” she told the monk when he held the door open for her.

  “You see what most do not,” he told her, never doubting that she had spotted the greater design. “That can be a gift.”

  Or not, he did not need to say. Tara had spent too much of the last few years looking at The Republic’s troubles from many different angles. As Countess Northwind and commander of the Highlanders, she had served double duty on the political and military fronts. Her unique view had allowed her to rescue Terra itself, mankind’s cradle, from the Steel Wolves, and yet still turn down the paladinship offered by Exarch Damien Redburn.

  She had accepted Redburn’s charge to aid Skye against the Jade Falcons, but then (possibly) allowed herself too much leeway in her method of interpreting those orders. Or maybe it had been her strong feelings for Jasek that colored her view. Either way, she was due a dressing down.

  But to do it over the body of Paladin Victor Steiner-Davion? That seemed a bit melodramatic. Not to mention disrespectful.

  The funerary was dimly lit and cold so early in the morning, yet to be warmed up by the sconce lighting and the thousands of people who daily walked through to pay their final respects to the legendary man who lay within. It smelled more astringent than the vestibule. Less welcoming. Victor’s tomb was made of granite and ferroglass, resting at the head of the room on a small stage. Thick drapes hung along the walls, to absorb sound and keep the room soft. Velvet ropes cordoned off the wooden pews.

  Only one man waited within the room for her, seated in the very front where the ropes did not prevent him. He rose at the draft of the opening door, and waited for her at the head of the short, wide aisle.

  “Drop your gear, Tara.” Paladin David McKinnon’s voice was strong and strident in the quiet room. “Just set it on a pew. No reason to stand on formality here. Victor knew the details of a warrior’s life.”

  Tara had started at McKinnon’s strong voice, and glanced apologetically to her side, where she thought the monk had remained. But the man had simply let her in to the funerary, and shut the door after her.

  So she set her gear bag aside—on the floor, not a pew—and walked down the aisle to clasp hands with the paladin. Finding her voice, she said, “It is good to see you, Sire McKinnon.”

  Pushing past a century himself and now, with Victor’s passing, the oldest living paladin, David McKinnon still showed a great deal of steel and fire. It told in his strong grip and tall posture, in the catlike grace of his movement. Mostly, though, it was the spark of life buried deep within the man that was so apparent once you got to know him. That spark blazed very bright just now, show
ing behind his dark eyes.

  “None of that,” he warned her. “We were on a first-name basis on Skye, after all.”

  Four months before, yes, they had been. The paladin had worked alongside her, fought alongside her, to help keep Skye free of Clan Jade Falcon. Then came his summons back to Terra, which she had not understood at the time, and had resented.

  “You came back for Victor,” she said, understanding and apologizing at once.

  “I came back for my exarch. Victor’s assassination threw everything into chaos, and the future of The Republic hung in the balance. It still may.” He glanced back. “Would you care to pay your respects?” he asked.

  “I would.”

  McKinnon turned her alongside him, escorting her up to Victor’s tomb. The stone coffin had a ferroglass top to it, protecting the paladin in death as The Republic had failed to do in life. Of course, a report of the actual circumstances had found its way into Tara’s hands. Redburn had made sure of that, as had McKinnon. Such a waste. Such a damned, silly waste.

  Victor had never been a tall man, but there had been a strength of size about him regardless. Now it was gone. What was left was a well-preserved man of one hundred and eight, with snow-white hair the same color as David McKinnon’s. But where McKinnon strayed more toward robust and healthy, Victor had finally succumbed to the gaunt frailty that came to most men at the end.

  “He looks good,” she said, stepping back from the coffin. “Peaceful.”

  “It takes a small army of the best funerary specialists on planet to keep him that way. Four months laying in state is not an easy task to make presentable. And every one of them considers it a high honor to be part of the team.”

  “As well as a full honor guard, no doubt,” Tara said. “At least during public viewing hours.”

  McKinnon shook his head. Wispy strands of hair floated over his forehead. “Twenty-four/seven. The paladins do not leave him alone. Ever. One of us always stands watch.”

  “Standing watch or standing by?” Stepping back, she turned to her friend. “David, how did you people allow this to happen? All of this?”

  McKinnon drew her away, walking her back to the front row of pews. “You are up to date.” It wasn’t really a question.

  “Two weeks of travel time, even at the pace you set for my DropShip, leaves a lot of time for reading. A lot of time to miss in Prefecture IX.”

  “We didn’t call you back to Terra lightly. If you think we’d pause a military campaign for a PR tour, you don’t give me or our new exarch enough credit. Jonah Levin needs you. That’s why you are here.”

  “Then why am I not meeting with Exarch Levin?” she asked. A need so great that it kept her even from being allowed to check into a local hotel, to freshen up after a long spaceflight, it seemed at odds with a visit to the resting place of Victor Steiner-Davion at such an early hour.

  McKinnon stood, pacing the room with slow but deliberate strides. “You may need to keep some distance, politically, on this one. It gives you a chance to make a stand for sanity without looking like the exarch’s mouthpiece.”

  A task for which she was well-suited. Tara Campbell was the current media darling of The Republic’s military and political scene both. Had been since her stand against the Steel Wolves. Her preference for uniforms over noble’s dress had inspired several paramilitary lines of clothing, and how she wore her hair on any given day might spark a new trend as well. More and more models, she had noticed lately, were moving toward a similar coloring, even. Her platinum blond hair was becoming less a rarity every day.

  And her politics were just as trendy. Tara’s arrival on a world had already proven itself capable of influencing the pundits and politicians, both of whom so often traveled with the sway in public mood.

  “You truly believe that Exarch Levin cannot back down on this one?” she asked, a touch of resignation telling in her voice.

  “Not a chance. The Senate brought this to a head when they began talking censure rather than investigation. No one—and I mean not one of them—wants a public trial of Geoffrey Mallowes. They see it as the potential loss of stature and power.”

  “Among the nobility, those words are often interchangeable,” Tara agreed. Speaking from personal experience.

  “Paladins GioAvanti and Sinclair culled two senators out of the pack. Gerald Monroe and Therese Ptolomeny. We tried to pressure both into turning public against the cabal, and against the Senate’s stonewalling strategy. Perhaps too strongly.”

  Tara scoffed. “Perhaps? That’s like calling the loss of Skye a ‘disagreement.’ Gerald Monroe is dead. And the news media is full of Senator Ptolomeny blasting The Republic, and the knighthood in particular, for ‘stormtrooper tactics.’ And let me tell you, parking an armored column outside her Riviera mansion to place her under ‘house arrest’ isn’t helping your image.”

  She felt like a child lecturing her grandfather. And David handled it about as well, stiffening his spine and turning stone-faced as she spoke. But then, like anyone who recognizes the truth when it’s thrown in his face, he nodded reluctantly.

  “It’s definitely a case of escalation,” he admitted.

  “Worse, it’s mutually assured destruction. The Senate has upped the stakes. At this point, The Republic will come out of this smelling sour no matter what.”

  McKinnon scrunched his face down as if tasting that for the first time. “That’s already begun,” he said. “Monroe’s son, Conner.”

  “Knight of Markab?” Tara asked, remembering the name.

  “No longer. He’s resigned his commission and broken his oath to the exarch.” He reached back to the second set of pews and pulled a thin file of video stills into his lap. Flipped to one in particular and held it out to her.

  Tara studied it. Dress uniform castoffs arranged very carefully over a marble floor. Cape of rank. Tunic and trousers. Medals still pinned into place. All that was missing was the body to fill it. It reminded her, in a way, of a crime scene where the body has been taped out on the floor or sidewalk.

  “Monroe’s uniform,” she said, understanding. “And that marble . . . it’s the floor in the Chamber of Paladins?”

  “No. The Rotunda. Outside the chamber. Very public.”

  “He’s made it clear that there is no chance for reconciliation.” Tara nodded. “When soldiers were branded traitors on the ancient Terran frontier, they would be stripped of all rank insignia and driven out to the beat of a drum. That’s why they call it getting ‘drummed out’ of the corps.” She tapped the image. “He’s got a flair for the dramatic.”

  “More than you know,” McKinnon agreed. “The boy has also accepted his father’s seat in the Senate.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Only three days ago. An emergency appointment. His confirmation vote takes place in Prefecture III later this month.”

  “That’s going to play like hell in the media,” she said. But there was something else lurking behind McKinnon’s words. Something dark and dangerous. More than a young man running off to avenge his father. “What is it?”

  “Conner Rhys-Monroe has retained possession of his Rifleman. And, of course, the Senate does have its own honor guard.”

  Perfect.

  “Tara, you know the kind of trouble we’re facing here. You’ve walked both sides of this fence for the last couple of years.” McKinnon was making his sales pitch now. And it was a hard press. “You can reason with the nobility and stand firm on military principles. This goes beyond mere duty to The Republic. I need to know, and Exarch Levin needs to know, if you can put some pressure on this boy. Get him to not stand for the public confirmation.”

  Her Highlanders, companions and kin, were bleeding and dying in Prefecture IX. Her home world of Northwind was still recovering from the Steel Wolf assault, and now a pro-Kurita voice was rallying new trouble back home and she had not resources with which to meet it. And the man Tara had pledged herself to, regardless of choosing to turn down a pal
adinship, had vacated the office, leaving her basing this decision on the bare bones of a friendship she’d started with one of the more outspoken paladins. A man with whose politics she didn’t necessarily agree.

  But could she help? It wasn’t much to ask, was it, circumventing the usual protocols and acting outside of her chain of command as well as all social formalities?

  Tara sighed, having made her decision the moment she boarded a DropShip to answer the exarch’s summons.

  “I didn’t come all this way to stand back and watch,” she assured him.

  12

  . . . and encouraged by the Countess’ obvious ability to take the social calendar by storm as easily as she does a battlefield, Nolver Incorporated unveiled the next color in its femme fatale line: Northwind Steel.

  —Press excerpt, Published in “Terra Fashion Trends,” 20 March 3135

  Terra

  Republic of the Sphere

  27 March 3135

  At barely more than idle, Tara Campbell’s chauffeured sedan crawled through the hordes swarming Magnum Park and the surrounding streets. Hardly a stretch of grass was to be seen among the thousands of protestors who spread blankets and opened up camping chairs, or even swung sitting hammocks from lower branches of the famous Trees of Every World. Curbs were long, low benches and refuse cans were filled to overflowing. Not even the luxury sedan’s formidable air conditioning could strip the air of its taint of sticky sweat and garbage.

  “Two parts civil disobedience and one part street fair,” the countess said to Paladin Gareth Sinclair.

  Sinclair shared the leather bench seat with her in the rear of the car, constantly twisting in his seat to keep an eye in every direction. She wished he’d relax.

  She wished more that Heather GioAvanti had been available, knowing the veteran paladin to be a woman of great resources. But after the action on Marduk, Heather had been sidetracked by growing unrest in Prefecture III. All thanks to the rabble-rousing and outright call-to-arms of Katana Tormark, who seemed determined to throw to the winds everything the two women had once seemed to share—loyalty and dedication to The Republic being first among them.