Vela shrugs. “It is a choice you must make, Reaper. You have sixty seconds to decide.” Vela steps away as I confer with Mustang and Sevro. I motion Sefi over.
“Thoughts?”
“Romulus would rather die than kill a guest,” Mustang says. “I know you don’t have any reason to trust these people. But honor actually means something to them. It’s not like the Bellona who just toss the word around. Out here a Gold’s word means as much as his blood.”
“Do you know where the residence is?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “If I did I’d take you there myself. They’ve got equipment inside to check for radiation and electronic trackers. They’ve studied you. We’ll be on our own.”
“Lovely.” But this isn’t about tactics. No short-term game here. My big play was coming out to the Rim knowing I had leverage the Sovereign doesn’t. That leverage will keep my head on my shoulders better than anyone’s honor. Yet I’ve been wrong before, so I double-check and listen now.
“Do the rules governing treatment of guests extend to Reds?” Sevro asks. “Or just Golds? That’s what we need to know.”
I glance back at Vela. “It’s a fair point.”
“If he kills you, he kills me,” Mustang says. “I’m not leaving your side. And if he does that, my men turn against him. The Telemanuses turn against him. Even Lorn’s daughters-in-law will turn against him. That’s nearly a third of his navy. It’s a bloodfeud he can’t afford.”
“Sefi, what do you think?”
She closes her eyes so her blue tattoos can see the spirits of this waste. “Go.”
“Give us six hours, Sevro. If we’re not back by then…”
“Wank off in the bushes?”
“Lay waste.”
“Can do.” He bumps my fist with his and winks. “Happy diplomacy, kids.” He keeps his fist out for Mustang. “You too horsey. We’re in this shit together, eh?”
She happily bumps his knuckles with her own. “Bloodydamn right.”
The home of the most powerful man in the Galilean Moons is a simple, wandering place of little gardens and quiet nooks. Set in the shadow of a dormant volcano, it looks out over a yellow plain that stretches to the horizon where another volcano smolders and magma creeps westward. We set down in a small covered hangar in the side of a rock formation, one of only two ships. The other a sleek black racing craft Orion would die to fly next to a row of several dust-covered hover bikes. No one comes to service our vessel as we disembark and approach the home along a white stone walkway set into the sulfur chalk. It curves around to the side of the home. The entirety of the small property enclosed by a discreet pulseBubble.
Our escorts are at ease on the property. They file in ahead of us through the iron gate that leads to the grass courtyard into the home, removing their dust-caked skipper boots and setting them just inside the entryway beside a pair of black military boots. Mustang and I exchange a glance then remove our own. It takes me the longest to remove my bulky gravBoots. Each weighing nearly nine kilos and having three parallel latches around the boot that lock my legs in. It’s oddly comforting to feel the grass between my toes. I’m conscious of the stink of my feet. Odd seeing the boots of a dozen enemies stacked by the door. Like I’ve walked in on something very private.
“Please wait here,” Vela says to me. “Virginia, Romulus wishes to speak with you alone first.”
“I’ll scream if I’m in danger,” I say with a grin when Mustang hesitates. She winks as she leaves to follow Vela, who noticed the subtlety of the exchange. I feel there’s little the older woman misses, even less that she doesn’t judge. I’m left alone in the garden with the song of a wind chime hanging from a tree above. The courtyard garden is an even rectangle. Maybe thirty paces wide. Ten deep from the front gate to the small white steps that lead into the home’s front entrance. The white plaster walls are smooth and covered with thin creeping vines that wander into the home. Little orange flowers erupt from the vines and fill the air with a woodsy, burning scent.
The house rambles, rooms and gardens unfolding out from each other. There is no roof to the house. But there’s little reason for one. The pulseBubble seals off the property from the weather outside. They make their own rain here. Little misters drip water from the morning’s watering of the small citrus trees whose roots crack the bottom of the white stone fountain in the center of the garden. A little glance at a place like this was what led my wife to the gallows.
How strange a journey she’d think this was.
But also, in a way, how marvelous.
