The Scorpion Jar mda-13 Page 4

  “Sir,” the Knight said. “I have a message for you.”

  “Wouldn’t radio do?”

  “Hard copy, to be delivered in person,” the Knight said. He looked again at the Paladin—who appeared tired but satisfied, like a workman contemplating a tough job well finished—and asked, “How was the fight?”

  “No real problem. They didn’t have any ’Mechs. We rescued the hostages. Got some prisoners; they’re being interrogated.”

  “That’s good to hear. May I deliver the message I bear?”

  “You came a long way. I might as well take a look at it. Walk with me.”

  Jonah Levin stood and walked down to the packed sand of the lower beach. Wavelets rolled up the beach, then retreated, smoothing the sand and making it easier to walk on. The tide was going out, leaving bits of wreckage behind: broken weapons, packing material, the shattered hull of the boat wave commander’s vessel.

  “What’s your message?” Jonah asked.

  “Here,” the Knight said, and pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his tunic. It bore seals from the very highest levels of government in Geneva.

  Jonah took it. He felt reluctant, suddenly, to open the letter. It would be so much simpler to merely throw the envelope into the surf, to send the Knight on his way, to return to his ’Mech and live out his life as a warrior, nothing more.

  But he’d never chosen any option simply because it was easy. He slit the envelope open. The paper inside was embossed with the symbols of Devlin Stone and of The Republic of the Sphere. The message was short.

  “Sir?” the Knight asked. “Do you have a reply?”

  “Yes. Tell them, ‘yes.’”

  The Knight saluted, turned, and trotted back to his VSTOL.

  Jonah stood on the beach. There was a lot to do, including readying his ’Mech and arranging transportation. And he would have to explain things to Anna.

  “I’ve been summoned,” he said aloud. The words sounded strange in his ears, and he couldn’t imagine them sounding any less strange to his wife, whom he would have to leave behind on Kervil. “To Terra, in order to participate in the election of the next Exarch.”

  A changing breeze brought the acrid smell of fire and corpses across the sand. This morning, Jonah realized, had been the easy part. What awaited him on Terra—that would be the challenge.

  8

  Office of the Exarch, Geneva

  Terra, Prefecture X

  24 October 3134

  Exarch Damien Redburn preferred to hold most conferences in his private office, rather than in the ceremonial one reserved for formal meetings and official photos. The ceremonial office occupied most of an entire floor in the Hall of Government; it was long on elegance and impressive decor but short on security and convenience.

  His private office, on the other hand, featured a combination of conservative decor and plain working furniture that could have belonged to an executive in any of a hundred Terran corporations, and it was located in a building whose directory did not mention the Exarch’s name at all. For all that the world outside knew, this was the office of The Republic’s Deputy Undersecretary for Economic Redevelopment.

  Soon he’d leave both offices behind for good. He had already bought a retirement home in Terra’s Pacific Northwest and he was looking forward to spending some time doing nothing but fishing. He’d also be happy to leave behind the more unpleasant parts of politics—the endless meetings, the stultifying ceremonies, the blizzard of bureaucracy.

  But then there was the rest of the job, the things that had gotten him involved in the first place… the plans, the goals, the continued hope to build something lasting, something better than had been in place before. Redburn had never known anyone to leave that part of political life for good. Except for Devlin Stone, and even he promised to come back. There were many things to be done; many ways, large and small, that he could peddle his influence from his distant northwoods outpost. He had some idea what was coming, and it would be impossible for him to sit on the sidelines and let it all go on without him. He sometimes pretended otherwise, but that was just for show, to let those who wanted to believe that he was going to shrink away keep their mistaken opinions for a little longer.

  For now, though, he was focused on getting through the meetings that separated him from his fishing pole. And in truth, his current appointment was one of the more pleasant items on his agenda.

  The Paladin who sat composedly at one end of the office couch was not officially in the room, any more than the room itself officially existed. Until Redburn took office, in fact, he had sometimes thought that this particular Paladin—the Ghost Paladin, the eighteenth of the seventeen Paladins, the Paladin whose identity was never revealed save to the reigning Exarch—was a legend, a tale made up to frighten those who were tempted to swerve from The Republic’s straight and narrow.

  The Ghost Paladin’s very existence was the subject of much rumor and speculation among the people at large. But by this point during his term in office, Damien Redburn had come to know the Ghost Paladin very well—enough so that their meetings were often as much social as business. What better friend could there be, after all, for a ruler who could not afford to play favorites, than a Paladin whose identity was unknown?

  Redburn took a decanter and a pair of tumblers from the cabinet in the corner. He poured two fingers of amber liquid into each tumbler.

  “Of the two of us,” he said, as he handed one of the tumblers to his guest, “I’m the lucky one.”

  The Ghost Paladin took an appreciative sip. “Why do you say that?”

  “I get to quit my job. So far as I can tell, you’re going to be doing yours up to the day you die in harness.”

  “True.” The Ghost Paladin took another sip of the drink, visibly savoring it. “On the other hand, I don’t have to do politics. That’s what ages a man, you know.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me,” Redburn said. He leaned his head back and contemplated the ceiling. “I nearly didn’t recognize myself in the mirror the other day. I said to myself, ‘Who is that tired old man?’—and then I realized it was me.”

  “You’ll be done soon.” The Ghost Paladin chuckled. “Everyone is convinced that you have some kind of devious power play going, holding the election this early.”

  “It’s just the call of the redwoods.”

  The Ghost Paladin slowly shook his head. “Other people may buy that. I don’t.”

  “It’s the story I’m giving,” Redburn said with a shrug.

  “Even though you know you’ll be back in politics, somehow, before the year is out.”

  “I know no such thing,” Redburn said placidly. Then he cracked a small smile. “But I have my suspicions.”

  “You may not even get to leave Geneva. You know that whoever succeeds you will want to cling to you for advice.”

  Redburn’s face grew sober. “I won’t be here. Whatever else I may or may not be planning, I’m going to give the next Exarch plenty of breathing room. Their term will be their own.”

  “A fresh start?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And the turmoil that will follow the election? You think you’ll be able to see all that on the streets and just watch it go past?”

  The Ghost Paladin had hit a nerve. As bad as things were now between Terra’s political factions, the election could make it worse. Now, at least, each faction had at least a slim hope that its candidate—whoever that might be—had a chance to be Exarch. After the election, most of them would be disappointed, knowing they’d lost a chance to gain power, to advance their agenda, for at least four years. Disappointment would make some hopeless, hopelessness would lead to desperation, and desperation could make the streets of Geneva run red.

  “I’ll have to. I can only hope our investigations will subdue some of the more dangerous groups before things get out of hand.”

  “You have someone on it?”

  Redburn nodded. “GioAvanti. But
I’m afraid the insurgents may be multiplying too fast even for her.”

  “She’s a good choice,” the Ghost Paladin affirmed. “I’ll make sure any information I get makes its way to her somehow.”

  Redburn ran his finger around the lip of his glass. “She might make a good Exarch,” he said.

  The Ghost Paladin’s expression didn’t waver.

  “No response, eh? Don’t tell me you have no feelings on who should succeed me.”

  “Devlin Stone did a wise thing when he set up the office of Ghost Paladin to be apart from politics. There would be too much temptation to play kingmaker, otherwise.”

  Redburn nodded agreement. He was not one of those faithful who believed Devlin Stone never had a bad idea. In fact, he had a long list of “what in God’s name were you thinking?” questions that he was planning to ask The Republic’s vanished founder if the man ever turned up again. This time, however, Stone had been right.

  “That being the case,” Redburn said, “I won’t bother asking who would get your vote if you could cast one. On the other hand, I can certainly ask you if there’s any Paladin out of the current lot whom you think shouldn’t be made Exarch.”

  The Ghost Paladin took another thoughtful sip of the amber drink. “I think it’s fair to say that either Tyrina Drummond or Thaddeus Marik would be a howling disaster in the role. Even if Drummond weren’t a Clan warrior—which would alienate all of those worlds where the Clans have lately taken to causing trouble—she’s also one of those ‘Devlin Stone can do no wrong!’ people. And Marik… well, you know what he’s like.”

  Redburn nodded. He knew Marik: a self-exiled scion of the deposed ruling family of the defunct Free Worlds League, prominent in the Founder’s Movement… and tainted, inescapably, by his family’s rumored involvement in the Word of Blake Jihad. Marik could be as honest and capable as any other Paladin, yet he would never have the people’s wholehearted trust.

  “Unless we have a run of spectacularly bad luck, however,” the Ghost Paladin continued, “neither Tyrina Drummond nor Thaddeus Marik is likely to get elected. Their fellow Paladins are not stupid, after all.”

  “Leaving aside the obvious ones, then,” Redburn said, “have we got any Paladins who could get elected, but who really shouldn’t be?”

  The Ghost Paladin’s answer was prompt. “Anders Kessel wants it too much, for either himself or Sorenson. And David McKinnon—he’s honest and brave and loyal, but he’s not flexible enough to deal with the world as we must live in it now.”

  “I see your point,” Redburn said. “He’s one of the old guard, though—Devlin Stone’s man since the Kittery Prefecture days—and that’s bound to carry weight with archloyalists like Drummond. Add in his reputation as a Mech Warrior and his personal charisma… nine votes out of seventeen is all it takes, remember. If the mood of the electors were to swing in the right direction, he could do it.”

  The Ghost Paladin smiled grimly over the rim of the glass of whisky. “Then we’ll have to make certain that the mood doesn’t swing. It looks like choosing the right replacement for Ezekiel Crow is going to be fairly vital.”

  “We’ve got a number of up-and-coming young Knights to consider, even eliminating the obvious nonstarters.” Redburn paused a moment to contemplate with regret the fact that Tara Campbell, Countess of Northwind, had turned down his offer of Crow’s position. The Countess would have made a triple-threat Paladin, as courageous as Drummond and as loyal as McKinnon, but considerably more intelligent than either.

  There was no use in mourning what would not be. The thought of Tara Campbell, however, brought up the image of yet another young Knight who had also proven herself both loyal and intelligent.

  “What do you say to Lady Janella Lakewood?” Redburn asked.

  “Lakewood?” There was a long pause, during which Redburn imagined Lady Janella’s dossier unfolding in the Ghost Paladin’s mind, from her first day in preschool up through her present rank as a Knight of the Sphere. At last the Paladin’s gaze returned from the middle distance and focused again on Redburn. “Yes. Lady Janella is an excellent choice.”

  9

  Restarante Del Sol, Santa Fe

  Terra, Prefecture X

  25 October 3134

  Everyone agreed that Henrik Morten was an up-and-coming young man. He was a diplomat on the rise, a man whose problem-solving abilities had made him valuable to more than one politician. He came from a noble family; the Mortens had been among the original settlers on Mallory’s World, and had grown and maintained the family fortune over the intervening centuries. At one point or another, members of the Morten family had held most of their world’s important planetary offices. They had also thrown in their lot with Devlin Stone early enough that they retained most of their political and economic clout even after Stone established The Republic of the Sphere.

  Henrik’s only shortcoming, as an inheritor of the family’s political power, was that while he had been abundantly gifted with golden hair, azure eyes and a pair of cheekbones that could draw attention a full city block away, he had failed to receive from his illustrious ancestors the physical stamina and aptitude necessary to become a MechWarrior. And while being a MechWarrior was not absolutely required by law in order to become a Knight or, subsequently, a Paladin of the Sphere, the hard truth was that custom decreed otherwise. No one was going to ascend to the second-highest rank in The Republic of the Sphere who had not first climbed into the cockpit of a ’Mech and made ready to do battle.

  But if the path to the Exarch’s throne was closed to him—since the Exarch was elected by the Paladins from among their own number, and the Paladins were, with rare exceptions, elevated from the ranks of the Knights—Henrik could still aspire to a position of influence. Diplomatic and ambassadorial posts did not require MechWarriors to fill them, and neither did the ranks of the Senate. A capable man, with the right backing and blood, could go far in The Republic of the Sphere, even in these troubled times.

  Henrik Morten had that backing, and he was grateful for it. He also had a strong sense of what was owed to his patron. He considered it part of his duty—as well as in his plain self-interest—to keep his ears open for anything that might be of use. Scraps and tidbits of information from odd sources, properly organized, often proved to be of value if they were given to the right person at the right time.

  Tonight he was dining at the Restarante Del Sol in Santa Fe with his local girlfriend, Elena Ruiz. The restaurant was furnished and decorated in the old Southwestern style, all stucco, dark wood and hand-painted tile. His companion’s delighted reaction to being there told him that this was the first time she had ever been to so elegant—and understatedly expensive—a place.

  Elena worked as a nurse in the residential wing of the Knights’ Santa Fe headquarters complex, though she often complained that she functioned more as a housekeeper. Her complaints held an element of truth, though Henrik was not so foolish as to tell her so. She was, in his private assessment, essentially an overeducated maid, and certainly not nobility. She could fish all she wanted for a proposal of marriage and the chance to be, someday, Mrs. Ambassador (and, subsequently, Mrs. Senator) Henrik Morten, but it wasn’t going to happen.

  Henrik didn’t try to dissuade her from her illusions, however, at least not yet. She was too good in bed to lose for no reason; and she was a talker, too, at the dining table as much as between the sheets. Henrik, ever on the alert for news and information that might have escaped the general notice, was good at listening.

  “…haven’t gotten enough sleep the past few days, I’m yawning on my feet, and it’s all Paladin Steiner-Davion’s fault.”

  He looked at Elena over the beeswax candles and the floral arrangement and the basket of napkin-wrapped breads. “I can understand how you could make a man stay awake just so he could keep on watching you, but surely Victor is too old to actually do anything along that line.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” She giggled. “But it wasn’t anything lik
e that. He’s been working late every night, and falling asleep at his desk.”

  “That must be hard on you,” Henrik said sympathetically.

  She sighed. “Yes, it is—I can’t go to bed for the night myself until I’m sure he’s sleeping. I have to monitor his vital signs on the room security monitors, and make at least one in-person check after he’s out.”

  “Inconsiderate of him to keep you awake that way.”

  “None of the long-term senior residents know how close a watch we keep on their good health,” she said.

  “Somebody has to do it,” Henrik said. “A man of Victor Steiner-Davion’s age shouldn’t be burning his candle at both ends, staying up until all hours working on… what? Do you know?”

  She made a moue of discontent. “He’s hardly going to talk about it to me. I’m just the person who annoys him by coming in and tidying things up when he doesn’t believe they need it. You’d think at his age he’d realize clutter is hazardous and unhygienic.”

  Henrik thought that a veteran MechWarrior and politician who’d survived as many years of battle and intrigue as Victor Steiner-Davion was not likely to care too much about the dangers of an untidy room. Aloud, however, he only echoed, “You’d think.”

  She said, “But he’s taken it into his head that he has to present whatever he’s working on to the Paladins when they meet for the election, and he isn’t going to stop before he makes his speech.”

  Henrik felt the tingle in the back of his neck that meant he was in the presence of potentially useful information. He chose his next words carefully. If Elena thought that she was being pumped for information, the flow of chatter would dry up, and he would learn nothing more.