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Volumes eleven and twelve. The last eighty years. Cold to the touch.
These troublesome pages detailed years of civil war and the Word of Blake Jihad. They contained bright moments, such as Tancred Sandoval’s marriage to Yvo
3081: when Devlin Stone a
3095: the power struggle on Robinson that permanently divided the family, creating a branch of true believers in Stone’s work and a line of loyal opposition.
3124—and an event not recorded correctly by the histories—brought the two lines into conflict on Schedar. The opposition had sponsored border pirates as a means to test Republic resolve, and true believers from outside The Republic had chased them down. Aaron Sandoval himself—then an officer in the Republic military—had become involved, and managed to cover up the family’s involvement.
And then, in an event not covered at all by the current history books, Devlin Stone abdicated power and disappeared. Erik knew how much Stone’s desertion had hurt his uncle. So much that when the HPG network crashed, and Aaron was free to pursue his personal agenda, he had sent Erik as his military ambassador to the world of Mara. A world in Prefecture III with strong Sandoval interests, the idea had been to secure it and then invite the Robinson-based dynasty back into both Prefectures III and IV at the same time. Erik had opted for a military solution, but failed to take under proper consideration a cousin of his who was on planet—and sided with the natives.
Christine sent Erik back to Tikonov in disgrace.
Aaron Sandoval sent him away to Achernar.
Erik shoved himself away from the bookcase and the painful memories. After one final sip of the strong coffee, he left his cooling mug on the silver salver resting on a tray next to his door. The brandy taste stayed with him on the short path to his kidney-shaped desk, faded into a pleasant afterthought as Erik rolled up his chair. He fit the data crystal into a reader slot at one edge of the redwood desk. Pressing his thumb up against the nearby indentation provided his DNA sample that was compared to the digital key embedded within the crystal. A green light blinked its authorization. Motors hummed to life as the desk’s glass inlay levered up into a vertical screen, and the strong countenance of Aaron Sandoval, Lord Governor of Prefecture IV and Duke to the Swordsworn, winked into existence.
Even reduced to a twelve-inch display, his uncle seemed to fill the room. With a proud chin and piercing blue eyes, Aaron Sandoval was no easy man to forget. He wore his blond hair shaved up into a topknot similar to Erik’s, although he wore it combed back rather than braided. He preferred to dress in robes of state rather than military uniform, but he wore them with such precision, perfectly tailored and pressed, that the air he gave off was still one of military command.
“Erik,” he began with no preamble whatsoever, “I have reviewed the reports on your progress. It is more than satisfactory. In fact, your sponsorship of Brion Stempres to replace Legate Rudy Maks was an inspired idea. I have similarly replaced the Legates on two other worlds where the Swordsworn hold dominance.”
Imitation was the highest form of flattery. What his uncle didn’t say spoke large in Erik’s mind and helped stiffen up his spine.
“Regardless of your progress, nephew, I still feel that I must warn you not to exceed my directions. Achernar is a valuable world with its working HPG station. I should not have to tell you that. How valuable has been made apparent to me, however, in the latest communiqués delivered to Tikonov by JumpShip. We know of Achernar and Ronel, of course. In all the rest of Prefecture IV, I have rumor of only one other working station—one of Kal Radick’s JumpShip hyperpulse relays. Three, perhaps, out of a possible thirty. My agents on Ronel tell me that they have made contact with Markab and Al Nair, and your report that Achernar has had sporadic contact with Genoa is also good intelligence. But, Erik, that is all.”
Duke Sandoval paused, letting Erik consider that numbing fact. The young noble listened to the sound of footsteps ru
A recipe for worried populations.
Aaron Sandoval nodded, as if agreeing with Erik’s thoughts. “Panic and civil unrest are highest on those worlds lost to the Blackout. News and rumors of fighting are not helping, either. Besides your ill-fated attempt to bring over Mara,” always one to jab past failures back at Erik, the better to keep him mindful of orders, “I have confirmed major escalations on Dieron, Addicks, Liao and Ankaa. The Republic might be under attack. It might be eating itself up from within.”
However it was happening, Erik understood his uncle’s unspoken context. The Republic was dying. On any given world there might be factions who recalled their old allegiances to House Kurita, Davion, Liao… to Clan Wolf or the Sea Foxes… to the Word of Blake. Ignorance and fear brought out the mob mentality. Devlin Stone’s reforms—his efforts to encourage relocation, to spread the Republic’s different cultures over many worlds—were now working against the Republic.
Who was it—a general for House Steiner—who had originally coined the term Information is ammunition?
From twenty-odd light years and several weeks away, Duke Sandoval sensed his nephew’s conclusions. “The single greatest asset anyone can possess right now is a working HPG station,” he said. “Achernar must remain accessible. It must eventually be brought under the control of the Swordsworn. Eventually, Erik. Do not rush my plans. Take no action unless provoked, and only if a diplomatic solution does not present itself.
“Our best, nephew. From the family.” The message terminated with one sharp, decisive nod—
–and gave way to the sound of arguing voices and shuffling feet in the hall outside Erik’s office. He thought he heard Michael Eus’s voice, raised up on the far side of the argument. The loud voices faded, but Erik could still hear nearby offices emptying and people moving quickly down the hall.
“What in the blazes is going on out there?”
Erik pocketed his uncle’s message, pla
Michael Eus opened the door. Behind him, top executives for Taibek Mining argued and gestured to each other as they streamed down the hall. Michael did not bother to step through the doorway, which meant he had come to call Erik away for something. Something that had the entire building in an uproar if management was any clue.
Michael shook his head, as if angry with himself for disobeying Erik’s earlier command, or at whatever problem had arisen to force him into such a position. He looked straight at his employer, and Erik actually read a touch of fear behind his impassive gray eyes.