Sword of Sedition

Warning lights flashed for attention as heat sinks ruptured. Destructive energy carved through armor and shielding to throw unstable surges into the fusion reactor. But his sagging midsection and splayed legs were for more than the appearance of weakness. Alaric’s stance helped absorb the brutal assault.

Alaric held to his feet, twisting around to lever his arm straight back at the advancing Blood Reaper. Pi

It evened the odds with respect to raw firepower.

But Alaric had held his fire, letting his heat levels drop back down to a manageable range while Rahm had driven his own into dangerous territory. So Alaric hot-cycled and fired again. And again.

He blasted through more chest armor.

The particle ca

As the Jupiter’s lasers bit into Alaric’s left side and Rahm’s remaining particle ca

Then Rahm pulled the plug by deactivating his targeting system.

Three… Star captain!

But it was not over.

Shaken and beaten by the Jupiter, still Alaric stumbled his savaged Blood Reaper forward just far enough to lay the red-hot barrel of his PPC against the side of the other ’Mech’s head. No skill shot this one. It was an execution, and perfectly within Alaric’s right. The weak fell behind. The strong went on.

There would be repercussions, of course. Challenges to defend against. Perhaps some official notice of the waste of good genetic material.

Liam Ward would remind Alaric that mercy was also a virtue of warriors.

Alaric pulled the trigger, and a screaming cascade of energy left the Clan Wolf roster another warrior short.

Then he shut down his own targeting system, putting an end to the Jupiter’s impetus for attack. There was no personal grudge to settle here. And he had no intention of dying a fool who reached beyond his grasp.

Because Star Captain Alaric was scheduled to leave for Terra this day.

And one did not keep the Khan of Clan Wolf waiting.

7

Watching what has happened to Stone’s “great” Republic, I can only be satisfied with Styk’s decision to declare its independence in an attempt to preserve lives and the honor of our world.

Woodstock

The Republic of the Sphere

9 February 3135

The dingy yellow cab dropped Erik Sandoval-Groell off at curbside and, after Erik paid, the driver sped off with a belch of noxious exhaust and a severe rattle in the vehicle’s old engine. The young noble grimaced with distaste, brushed his hands together as if ridding them of something particularly gritty and unpleasant. Then, giving himself a moment, he studied his destination with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

Ixtapa’s family Mexican restaurant sat on the border between Woodstock’s interplanetary DropPort and its capital city of Charleston.WORLD-FAMOUS SALSA , a sign promised. Tucked in beside a small strip mall serving this neck of suburbia, the adobe façade and garish colors made it an easy landmark. Warm reds and bright yellows stood out in a community favoring beige and grays. Pleasing musical chords floated down from overhead speakers and a deep, sultry voice with a Latin accent accompanied the guitar. An aroma of spiced meat and warm tortilla wafted out the open doors.

A welcome embrace that comforted Erik, even as he fought against it. He did not like clandestine meetings.

At least, not ones he hadn’t set up personally.

Waiting for two men to enter ahead of him, the noble scion gave himself a slow count of ten before heading into the restaurant. Inside, the music competed with a noisy lunchtime crowd. People chatted and gossiped. In between conversation, they attacked large plates of enchiladas smothered in cheese and guacamole or built their own fajita wraps from chicken delivered still sizzling on cast-iron plates.

A steady stream of iced margaritas traveled from bar to tables on the trays of waiters, and Erik began to think he might like one. Then the hostess returned from seating earlier customers, stepped up to him and laid a slender hand on his arm. She was slender and small, with dusky skin and long, glossy raven hair casually held back with a tie of red cloth.

“Senor Groell?”

His defenses flashed back up in a heartbeat, then subsided. Obviously, he was expected.

He nodded, and the woman gestured for him to follow her.

Erik didn’t worry about how she had known to watch for the young noble or how she had recognized him. He had dressed down today, eschewing any noble dress or even his more usual military uniform for khaki pants and a loose-fitting, chambray shirt that spoke “relaxed” to the casual observer. But Erik’s hair, shaved up the sides into the classic topknot favored by the Sandoval dynasty, was different enough that the hostess had likely been told to watch for it. Certainly there had been no subterfuge in her warm, doelike eyes.

He could not say the same for the man who waited for him. His hair had been dyed a premature white, and shorn tight enough that one could count a half dozen scars that twisted over his scalp. The rough stubble of two-days’ beard shaded his gaunt face, and his one good eye stared a red-hot hole through Erik. A patch covered his left eye, and a narrow scar trailed down through his eyebrow, disappearing under the black fabric.

Jack Farrell.

Freebooter. Pirate, some said. Erik had never met the man before, but knew him by reputation. When you worked for Duke Aaron Sandoval, Lord Governor of Prefecture IV and leader of the Swordsworn, it paid to keep on top of such things.

When you were related to Aaron, such attention was demanded.

Sliding into the seat opposite One-Eyed Jack, Erik nodded when a server asked him if he’d like to start with a drink.

“Margarita. Blended and salted.”

Farrell had only a tall, sweating glass of ice water sitting in front of him, flavored with a single wedge of lime. Something in his glance said that he thought less of Erik for mixing pleasure with business. “I already ordered for us,” he said.

“You will excuse me if I decide not to eat.”

The pirate—if such he was—shrugged. “Looks strange, sitting in a restaurant, not eating. But suit yourself.”

Well, perhaps it did. So Erik helped himself to the wicker basket of warm corn chips. Dipping one into an earthenware dish, he tried the restaurant’s salsa. A thick mixture of tomato, sweet onion and a blend of peppers, evened out by oregano and …garlic? It had a fine taste and a long, lingering bite. Erik wasn’t sure if “world-famous” was warranted. But it was definitely good.

“What do you want, Mr. Farrell?”

The other man chuckled. “That’s good. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were here out of idle curiosity.” His voice was rough, almost gravelly. “Don’t want to know how we sniffed out your travel arrangements? Got the message aboard your DropShip?”

“All right.” Erik nodded. “How did you do that?”

“Sorry.” Jack smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Can’t tell you.”

But he wanted to. Erik sensed it. Which meant that either Jack Farrell didn’t know how it had been done, and wanted Erik to believe he did, or he was working on behalf of another. In either case…