|
|
沙发
楼主 |
发表于 2013-8-30 22:37:35
|
只看该作者
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Starcraft: I, Mengsk
by Graham McNeill
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Title Name
Starcraft: I, Mengsk
“Very well, Valerian, I will tell you of Korhal, what I know of it and what I have pieced together
over the years, but I’ll tell you more than that if you’ve the wit to hear it,” said Arcturus, standing and
draining the last of his port.
“What do you mean?” asked Valerian.
“The story of Korhal is the story of your grandfather and what it means to be a Mengsk. Korhal
was the forge in which our dynasty was hammered into shape, raw and bloody upon the anvil of
history.”
Valerian felt his heart quicken. “Yes, that’s what I want.”
Arcturus nodded towards the woman in the holographic plate upon the mantelpiece. “And I’ll
tell you of your mother.”
“My mother?” said Valerian, instantly defensive.
“Yes,” said Arcturus, making his way towards the door. “But rst we have to bury her.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Title Name
Starcraft: I, Mengsk
Pocket Star Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of ction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the
author’s imagination or are used ctitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
2009 by Blizzard Entertainment, Inc. All rights reserved. StarCraft and Blizzard
Entertainmet are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Blizzard Entertainment, Inc., in the
U.S. and/or other countries. All other trademarks referenced herein are the properties of their
respective owners.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form
whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of
the Americas, New York, NY 10020
POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-9410-9
ISBN-10: 1-4165-9410-8
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Starcraft: I, Mengsk
There are a number of people who deserve thanks here, as without them, it’s doubtful I’d have
written I, Mengsk. First o, the biggest thanks to my friends at Blizzard Entertainment, Mark
Gibbons, Andy Chambers, and Jay Wilson, for singing my praises to Chris Metzen, who was good
enough to take a chance on a guy like me getting his hands on the Starcraft lore. The actual writing
of I, Mengsk was a genuine pleasure, largely thanks to the help and humour of Evelyn Fredericksen,
who made sure I kept to the path and provided invaluable feedback along the way. A novel’s journey
to the bookstore shelves has just begun when you type “The End,” so for his patience and advice
during the book’s editing and production, I’d like to thank Marco Palmeri for making me look like I
know what I’m doing. Cheers, guys, I hope I’ve done your worlds proud.
Graham
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Starcraft: I, Mengsk
CONTENTS
BEGINNINGS
BOOK 1. ANGUS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
BOOK 2. ARCTURUS
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
BOOK 3. VALERIAN
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
ENDINGS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Starcraft: I, Mengsk
BEGINNINGS
VALERIAN HEARD THE KNOCK AT THE DOOR, BUT ignored it, concentrating
instead on the tawny port that swirled in the expensive cut- crystal glass held in one manicured
hand. The knock came again, more insistent this time, and the tone and impatience of the sound
told Valerian Mengsk who was on the other side of the door without his having to answer it.
He smiled as he sipped his drink, the gesture out of place on his handsome features this day, or
any other day recently, for that matter. Valerian settled into the deep leather upholstery of the chair,
enjoying the heat of the room’s coal re and the warmth of the drink in his belly.
Precious little else had given him enjoyment these last months, for they had been thankless and
painlled. The pain had not been his, at least not physically, but it had been hard watching his
mother suer as the wasting sickness melted the esh from her bones and unraveled her mind.
Valerian stared into his glass of port, a ne blend with a rich, fulsome avor that lingered long on
the palate and was the perfect accompaniment to the wildfowl being served to the guests awaiting
him in the main chamber of his home.
His home.
The words still felt unusual, the t not yet settled upon him.
Valerian looked up from his drink and cast his eyes around the room, taking in every exquisite
detail: the ne mahogany paneling that concealed sophisticated communications arrays and
elaborate countermeasures against electronic eavesdropping, the silken wall hangings, the gold-
framed portraits, and the tasteful uplighters that bathed the high- ceilinged room in a warm, restful
illumination.
But pride of place on the walls was reserved for the many weapons of Valerian’s collection that
hung between the more archaic decorations. A long- bladed falx rested on silver hooks, curved
swords hung by their quillons, and a multitude of punch daggers and bizarre circular weapons with
blades protruding from leather handgrips were set on concealed hooks. Glass cases against the
walls contained antique pistols of wood with gold inlay and long- barreled muskets with battery
packs tted to their skeleton stocks.
A marble surround contained the crackling re and a grainy holo plate sat upon the mantel. It
shimmered with the ghostly image of a woman with wistful eyes from which Valerian studiously
kept his gaze averted.
He stared into the re and sipped his port as the door opened behind him.
Only one person would dare enter the chambers of Valerian Mengsk without invitation.
“Hello, Father,” said Valerian.
A shadow fell across him and Valerian looked up and saw his father’s stern, patrician features
staring down at him. Though he had seen the face of Arcturus Mengsk a thousand times in
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
holographic form, his father’s sheer physical presence had a powerful charisma that no mere
technology could capture.
Arcturus was a big man, broad of shoulder and thick of waist, with hair that had once been dark
and lustrous but was now streaked with silver. His beard contained more white than black and
where age might weary other men, it had only enhanced the natural gravitas and dignity with which
Arcturus had already been generously endowed.
His father’s black frock coat, similar to the one worn by his son, did nothing to disguise his bulk
and only emphasized his power. Gold frogging edged the coat and wide, bronze epaulettes framed
his shoulders. A basket- hilted sword and magnicently tooled pistol hung from his belt, but
Valerian knew it had been many years since his father had had cause to draw either of these weapons
in anger.
“I knocked,” said Arcturus. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“I heard you,” said Valerian, nodding.
“Then why didn’t you answer the door?”
“I didn’t think you’d need an invitation, Father,” replied Valerian. “You are the emperor, aren’t
you? Since when does an emperor wait on the pleasure of others?”
“I may be the emperor, Valerian, but you are my son.”
“I am that,” agreed Valerian. “Now that it suits you.”
“You are angry,” said Arcturus. “That’s understandable, I suppose. It’s only natural for people to
behave irrationally over these kinds of things.”
“‘These kinds of things’?” snapped Valerian, rising from his chair and hurling his glass of port into
the re. “Show a bit of damned respect!”
The glass shattered and the re roared as the alcohol burned ruby red in the ames.
“Have you no feelings for others?” cried Valerian. No sooner had the words left his mouth than
he realized what he’d said and to whom he’d said it.
Valerian laughed. “What am I saying? Of course you don’t.”
Arcturus remained unmoved by Valerian’s outburst and simply laced his hands behind his back.
“That was a waste of good port,” he said. “And a nice glass, if I’m any judge. I thought I had taught
you better than to show anger. Especially when it serves no purpose.”
Valerian took a deep breath and turned away from his father, making his way to a drinks cabinet
set into the wall. His precious malts and ports were protected from the attentions of poisoners by
reective glass sheathed in an impenetrable energy eld, the installation of which had been at the
behest of his father, since anyone who knew anything of the Mengsk dynasty would know of their
love for quality liquors.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Valerian paused for a moment and studied his reection as he reached for the recessed brass
button that would disengage the security eld. Valerian’s blond hair spilled around a face that was
handsome to the point of beautiful. His features were unmistakably his father’s, but where Arcturus
wore his hard edges plainly, Valerian’s were softened by the inuence of his mother’s genes.
Full lips and wide, storm- cloud eyes that could charm the birds from the trees sat within a face of
porcelain- smooth skin and noble features. At twenty- one he was a beautiful young man, and he
knew it, though he was careful to keep that knowledge hidden beneath a veneer of modesty. Which,
of course, only served to heighten his appeal to the opposite sex.
He pressed his thumb against the button, the gene- reader on its surface comparing his DNA
with the hourly updated records held within the building’s mainframe. Though the technologies of
the modern world were commonplace to him, Valerian detested the idea of function overwhelming
form.
A slight ripple in the air was the only sign of the protective eld’s disengaging. Valerian opened
the glass door to pour two fresh drinks, selecting another tawny port for himself and an expensive
ruby vintage for his father.
Valerian returned to the re, where his father had taken one of the two chairs. His basket- hilted
sword sat propped up against the armrest. Arcturus nodded appreciatively as Valerian handed him
the glass.
“Calmer now?” asked his father.
“Yes,” said Valerian.
“Good. It does not become a Mengsk to openly display his thoughts.”
“No?”
“No,” said Arcturus. “When men think they know you, they cease to fear you.”
“What if I do not want to be feared?” asked Valerian, sweeping his coattails beneath his rump and
sitting opposite his father.
“You would rather be loved?” countered Arcturus, sipping his port.
“Can’t one be both?”
“No,” said Arcturus. “And before you ask, it is always better to be feared than loved.”
“Well you’d know,” replied Valerian.
Arcturus laughed, but there was no warmth to the sound. “I am your father, Valerian, and cheap
gibes will not change that. I know you do not love me as a father ought to be loved, but I care little
for that. However, if you are to succeed me you will need to be tougher.”
“And if I do not want to succeed you?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Irrelevant,” snapped Arcturus. “You are a Mengsk. Who else is there?”
Anger touched Valerian. “Even a Mengsk you called a bookish, eeminate weakling?”
Arcturus waved a dismissive hand. “Words spoken in haste many years ago,” he said. “You have
proved me wrong, so move on. Scoring points over me does you no credit.”
Valerian covered his irritation at his father’s stoicism by drinking some port, letting the aromatic
liquid sit in his gullet a while before swallowing. He watched as Arcturus used the pause to look
around the room at the weapons hanging from the walls, the one point of common ground upon
which they could converse without the threat of argument or resentment rearing its ugly head.
“You have made a ne home here, son,” said Arcturus, apropos of nothing.
“‘Home’?” said Valerian. “I don’t know what that word means.”
Seeing the puzzlement in his father’s eyes, Valerian continued. “Until a few months ago, home
was simply where we settled until we had to move on. From one crumbling Umojan moon to
another. Or one of the few orbitals the UED or the zerg hadn’t destroyed. You must know the
feeling, surely?”
“I do,” conceded Arcturus. “Though I’d forgotten it. For a long time, home was the Hyperion,
but then with all that happened with Jim…”
“What about Korhal IV?” said Valerian, not wishing to endure another tirade regarding the
treachery of Jim Raynor. Over the last few years, Valerian had thrilled to the adventures of Jim
Raynor and had secretly admired the man as the thorn in his father’s side the former marshal had
proved to be.
Arcturus shook his head, quickly masking his irritation at the interruption. “Vast areas of the
planet are habitable again and we have rebuilt much of what was destroyed, but even I don’t have
the power to undo in so short a time the damage done by the Confederacy. Korhal will be great
again, I have no doubt, but it will never be what it once was.”
“I suppose not,” agreed Valerian. “I should have liked to see Korhal before the attack.”
“Ah, yes, you would have liked it, I think,” said Arcturus. “The Palatine Forum, the Golden
Library, the Martial Field, the summer villa…yes, you would have liked it.”
Valerian leaned forward. “I would like to learn of Korhal,” he said. “From someone who was
there, I mean. Not dry facts from a digi- tome or holo- cine, but the real thing. From someone who
walked its surface and breathed its air.”
Arcturus smiled and nodded, as though he had expected such a request. “Very well, Valerian, I
will tell you of Korhal, what I know of it and what I have pieced together over the years, but I’ll tell
you more than that if you’ve the wit to hear it,” said Arcturus, standing and draining the last of his
port.
“What do you mean?” asked Valerian.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“The story of Korhal is the story of your grandfather and what it means to be a Mengsk. Korhal
was the forge in which our dynasty was hammered into shape, raw and bloody, upon the anvil of
history.”
Valerian felt his heart quicken. “Yes, that’s what I want.”
Arcturus nodded toward the woman in the holographic plate upon the mantelpiece. “And I’ll tell
you of your mother.”
“My mother?” said Valerian, instantly defensive.
“Yes,” said Arcturus, making his way toward the door. “But rst we have to bury her.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Starcraft: I, Mengsk
BOOK 1.
ANGUS
25 YEARS EARLIER
CHAPTER 1
THE VILLA WAS DARK, ITS OCCUPANTS ASLEEP. From the outside it looked
peaceful and quiet. Vulnerable. He knew, of course, that it was not; laser trips surrounded the villa
in an interconnected web, motion sensors swept the high marble wall that surrounded it, and
tremor alarms were set into the oors and walls around every opening. It wasn’t the most expensive
security system money could buy, but it wasn’t far o.
To penetrate the Mengsk summer villa, a white- walled compound perched on a headland of
white clis overlooking the dark waters of the ocean, would be no easy feat, and the silent gure
took his time as he approached the farthest edge of the system’s detection envelope.
The scanner attached to his belt, used by prospectors of the Confederate Exploration Corps,
was a modied geo- survey unit, a harmonic detector set to read the electromagnetic returns of
vespene gas. It had been a simple matter to adjust the sensors to pick up the security lasers and link
its display to the goggles he wore over his young, handsome face.
For such a device to work, you had to know the frequency of the lasers and the exact mineral
composition of the crystals that produced them. All of which had been simplicity itself to obtain
from one of the techs who had installed the system only the previous summer.
The goggles bleached everything of color. The midnight blue of the sky was rendered a at, rust
color, the mountains to the north a deep bronze, and the sea a shimmering crimson.
Like an ocean of blood.
The walls of the villa were dark to him, the lasers and sensor returns gleaming like cords of silver
strung like a hunter’s trip wires.
“Too easy,” he whispered, then inwardly chided himself for the unnecessary words.
The gure dropped to his belly and slithered around the northern side of the villa, avoiding the
road that ran all the way to Styrling and keeping to the tall grass that waved in the brisk winds
blown in o the sea.
The net of lasers moved regularly, but preprogrammed algorithms in the survey unit meant that
by the time they shifted, he was already in a patch of dead ground.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Of course, no algorithm was completely perfect and there was always a chance that he would be
detected, but he was condent in his abilities and wasn’t worried about failure.
In truth, the prospect of failing was something that hadn’t occurred to him. Failure was
something that happened to other people, not to him. He was good at what he did and knew it. It
gave him a condence that reached out to others and made it all the easier to ensure he always got
what he wanted.
Well, almost always.
He eased ever closer to the villa, keeping his movements slow and unhurried. He knew that to
rush things would be to invite disaster, and it took him nearly two hours to come within six meters
of the wall.
Passive infrared motion sensors were built into the eaves of the wall, but these were old systems,
installed nearly a decade ago, and were about as sophisticated as those you’d nd protecting some
fringe world magistrate. It was most assuredly not what you’d expect to nd protecting the summer
villa of one of Korhal’s most renowned senators and his family.
The gure was rendered invisible to these sensors by the coolant systems of the black, form-
tting bodysuit he wore. He had fashioned it in secret from the inner lining of a hostile- environment
suit used by miners when prospecting high- temperature sites, and he smiled as he rose to his feet
and the beams swept over him without detecting him.
Once again the laser net shifted, and he froze as the new pattern was established. He let out a
breath as he saw a glimmering, hair- thin beam of light at his calf, and carefully eased away from it. It
would be another seventeen point three seconds before they changed again, and he shimmied up to
the wall, careful not to touch it for fear of setting o the tremors.
He was within the laser net, and so long as he kept close to the wall—but didn’t touch it—he
would be invisible to the villa’s security. Taking a moment to compose himself, the gure eased
around the compound, heading for the delivery entrances.
He froze as a patch of light was thrown out onto the ground.
A door opening.
A man came out, followed by another, and he felt a utter of fear.
Then they sparked up cigarettes and began to smoke and gossip.
He let out a breath, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Kitchen porters, nothing more.
They moved away from the door, taking refuge from the cold wind behind a lean- to, and he took
this golden opportunity to sneak forward and slip through the door, ipping up the lenses of his
goggles as he entered the kitchen.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Warmth assailed him from the large, stone- built ovens, and the air was redolent of the lingering
aroma of the Mengsk family’s last meal. This time of night, the kitchen was empty, the cooks and
skivvies retired for the night before rising early to prepare breakfast, and he briey wondered what
the two smokers were doing up this late.
He dismissed the matter as irrelevant and continued onward, moving from the kitchen to the
door that led toward the main entrance hall, easing it open, and looking out into the shadowed
chamber.
Portraits of Angus Mengsk’s illustrious ancestors lined the walls and a number of tasteful
statuettes, vases, and weapons, chosen by his wife, Katherine, were displayed on uted columns. In
contrast to the dignity of these objets d’art, a number of toys belonging to Angus’s youngest child,
Dorothy, were scattered at the bottom of a ight of carpeted stairs that led up to the family
bedrooms.
The tiled oor was a black- and- white, checkerboard pattern, and he waited as a guard entered
from across the hall and checked in with his compatriots in the security room on a throat mike.
Angus Mengsk kept only a handful of armed guards within the summer villa, claiming that he
came here to get away from the trouble Korhal was having with the Confederacy, not to be
reminded of it.
The guard turned from the front door and started toward the dining room, shutting the door
behind him. With the guard gone, the gure swiftly entered the hall and made his way up the stairs,
pausing at the top to glance along the wide corridor.
The bedroom shared by Angus and Katherine was to his left, but the gure set o in the
opposite direction, toward the bedrooms of the Mengsk family children.
The oor was wooden, covered with thick rugs, and he walked carefully on it, avoiding the
places in the oor where he knew the wood creaked. He stopped before a thick door with a bronze
“A” xed to the wood and smiled to himself.
He gripped the handle, softly opened the door, and ghosted inside the room.
The room was dark, with long benches strewn with dismantled equipment and rock samples
lining the walls. Framed images of geological strata and rock compositions hung from the walls and
a lumpen, sheet- covered form rested in the large, iron- framed bed.
He took a step into the room and a voice said, “I suppose you think that was clever.”
Turning around, he saw Achton Feld, head of security for the Mengsk family, seated on a plush
leather chair in the far corner of the room. Dressed in a dark uniform jacket and loose- tting
trousers, Feld’s hand rested on the butt of a heavy pistol. He was tall and powerful—built exactly as
one would imagine a head of security would be proportioned.
The gure in black relaxed and removed the goggles, revealing patrician features, a strong
jawline, and the wide, eager gray eyes of a seventeen- year- old boy.
“I thought it was very clever of me, as a matter of fact,” said Arcturus Mengsk.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Achton Feld examined the geo- survey unit with a critical, and not unimpressed, gaze. The boy
had managed to put together quite an inltration package, and Feld was going to have to
thoroughly review the security procedures in place at the summer villa.
He put the geo- survey unit down. If Arcturus could get this far, there was no telling how far
someone with more malicious intent might reach.
Feld didn’t want to the think about the consequences of that. Korhal was in a volatile enough
state as it was without something happening to Angus Mengsk. To have so outspoken an opponent
of the Confederacy murdered in his bed would be a blow from which the edgling independence
movement on Korhal might never recover.
“Shouldn’t you be at the academy in Styrling?”
“I got bored,” said Arcturus, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling the covers back to reveal a
series of pillows arranged to give the semblance of a human being. “They weren’t teaching me
anything I didn’t already know.”
That was probably true, reected Feld. Arcturus Mengsk was many things, including a truculent
teenager and a selsh rogue who possessed a condence some called arrogance. But he was also
ercely clever and excelled at everything to which he turned his hand.
“Your father won’t be happy about this.”
“When is he ever happy with what I do?” countered Arcturus.
“Once a rebel, always a rebel, eh?” said Feld.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it,” replied Feld. “So why break into your own house?”
Arcturus shrugged. “To see if it could be done, I suppose.”
“And that’s all?”
“Well, maybe to annoy my father.” Arcturus smiled. “That never gets old.”
“Oh, I have no doubt it’ll annoy him,” said Feld. “Especially now. And after he’s gotten through
chewing me out, I’m sure he’ll have some choice words for you, too.”
“So how did you do it?” asked Arcturus. “Find me, I mean? The bodysuit kept me o the infrared
and I know the laser net didn’t get me. So how did you know?”
“And why should I tell you? If anything I should be hauling you over the coals to nd how you
got this far. You had help, didn’t you?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“No,” said the boy, but Feld knew he was lying. Having a senator for a father had schooled the
boy in many of the political arts, and he was almost as skilled a dissembler of the truth as a seasoned
veteran of the Palatine Forum.
Almost, but not quite.
“There’s no way you could have known how to avoid the laser net without help.”
“All right,” admitted Angus. “I had help. I persuaded Lon Helian to give me the specs for the
lasers so I could modify that geo- survey unit to make them visible. I told him it was for a school
project.”
“Then Lon Helian will be looking for a new job in the morning.”
“Yes, I suppose he will.”
Anger touched Feld at Arcturus’s lack of concern for the man whose life he had just ruined for
the sake of a prank and at the boy’s need to challenge the limits of his abilities.
“Come on,” said Arcturus. “Tell me. How did you nd me? Some new system I didn’t know
about? A biometric reader? A DNA scanner?”
Feld looked at the young, eager face and felt his anger melt away. Angus Mengsk’s son had a
quality that caused those around him to forget their ire and want to please him. Only his father and
mother seemed immune to his charms.
“It wasn’t a new system, it was an old system you forgot about.”
“An old system? What?”
“EB Mark 1,” said Feld, picking up the geo- survey unit.
“EB Mark 1?” repeated Arcturus. “I’ve never heard of that one? Is it LarsCorp? No, wait, it has to
be Gemini, yes?”
“Neither,” said Feld, pointing to his eye. “Eyeball. Mark 1. I saw you on the spy- cams as you came
in through the kitchen.”
“Spy- cams? What spy- cams?”
“The new Terra model spy- cams your father had installed last week in time for that Umojan
ambassador’s visit.”
“Who?”
“Do you listen to anything that goes on in this house that doesn’t involve you?”
“Not if it’s anything to do with my father. It’s all politics and business, far too boring to pay
attention to,” said Arcturus. “So who’s here?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“A man named Ailin Pasteur and his daughter,” said Feld. “Apparently he’s some sort of bigwig
on Umoja, and he wants to talk trade with your father.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but Arcturus had displayed little enough interest in the senator’s
dealings before now for Feld to bother with explaining further. World- changing events were in
motion and all Arcturus wanted to do was piss his father o and spend his time with his coterie of
sycophants at the academy or his collection of rocks and gems.
With the geo- survey unit conscated, Achton Feld turned and made his way to the door.
“Oh, and you’d best tell your friends the game’s up.”
“My friends?” said Arcturus. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t,” warned Feld. “Just tell them to go home. It’s late and I’m too tired to deal with any more
nonsense.”
“Honestly, Feld, I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Achton Feld stared hard at the boy, looking past his glib exterior and power to make the
unbelievable believable. Arcturus Mengsk could, with a few words, get techs with ten years’
experience to give up the specs for a laser net, but Feld knew that what he was hearing now was the
unvarnished truth.
Which meant…
“Crap,” said Feld, activating the comm unit on his wrist. “All units, condition black; I repeat,
condition black.”
Feld turned back to Arcturus. “Stay here,” he said. “And hide.”
“What is it?” cried Arcturus as Feld ran for the door.
Feld drew his pistol and said, “Intruders.”
Arcturus watched Feld disappear through the door, and it took a moment for the implication of
the head of security’s words to penetrate.
Intruders? Here?
Arcturus now wished he had not thought to try and test himself against the defenses of his
father’s home; it seemed suddenly foolish and childishly impulsive. Close on the heels of that
thought was the idea that his family might actually be in danger, and he felt a knot of warm fear
settle in his belly.
The emotion was quickly suppressed, and contrary to Feld’s instructions, Arcturus bolted from
his room into the corridor. Lights were coming on throughout the house and shouted voices were
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
rousing guards from their posts. As doors slammed, Arcturus was suddenly rooted to the spot with
indecision.
The hard bang of a pistol shot echoed in the hallway and a man’s scream galvanized him into
motion. He set o farther down the corridor and skidded to a halt beside a door hung with paper
owers and a child’s drawing of a pony tacked to it.
Colorful paper letters declared that this was “Dorothy’s Room,” and Arcturus pushed it open.
The lights were on, and he pulled up short as he saw his four- year- old sister sitting in bed, her long
dark curls spilling messily around her shoulders as she sleepily rubbed her eyes.
Sitting next to her in the bed was a young girl, roughly Arcturus’s age, whose blonde hair shone
like honey and whose face was as beautiful as it was unexpected.
“Who are you?” demanded the girl, putting protective arms around Dorothy.
“I could ask you the same damn thing,” said Arcturus. “What are you doing in my sister’s room?”
“I’m Juliana Pasteur,” said the girl. “Dorothy asked me to stay and read her a story. I guess we
must have both fallen asleep. You must be Arcturus, but what’s going on? Was that a gunshot?”
“Yes, and I’m not sure exactly what’s going on,” said Arcturus, rushing over to the bed. “I think
we might be under attack.”
“Attack? From whom?”
Arcturus ignored the question and knelt beside the bed. “Little Dot,” he said, keeping his voice
even and using his sister’s pet name. “You have to get up.”
At the sound of Arcturus’s voice, Dorothy looked at him and his anger rose as he saw the tears in
her eyes. Arcturus did not care much for his father or his dealings, but he doted on his sister. Her
smile was able to melt the hardest of hearts and not even Angus could resist giving in to her every
whim.
“Where are we going?” said Dorothy, her voice drowsy.
Before Arcturus could answer, more gunshots boomed. Dorothy squealed in terror. Arcturus
looked up at Juliana Pasteur and said, “Look after her. I’ll see what’s happening.”
Juliana nodded and clutched the little girl tightly as the door to the room opened and two people
burst in. Arcturus leapt to his feet, but let out a relieved breath as he saw that one of the gures was
his mother.
Katherine Mengsk was tall, beautiful, and slender, but she was no shrinking violet who spent all
her time at needlepoint or recitals. A core of neosteel ran through her, and with her children
threatened, that quality was in the ascendancy. She blinked in surprise to see Arcturus, but
overcame that surprise in a heartbeat and quickly gathered her children as the man next to her ran
over to Juliana.
“Are you all right?” asked Katherine. “Arcturus? Dorothy?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“We’re ne, Mother,” said Arcturus, prizing himself free of her embrace. “Where’s Father?”
Katherine lifted Dorothy to her breast. “He’s with Achton. Some men are trying to get inside and
they’ve gone to stop them.”
More shots sounded from beyond the door, and Dorothy burst into tears.
His mother turned to the man who had entered the room with her and nodded to Juliana. “Is she
okay?”
“She’s ne,” said the man, his voice strong and lyrical.
Arcturus thought the man looked around the same age as his father, which put him in his mid-
forties. His concern over Juliana identied him as Ailin Pasteur, and Arcturus thought him an
unimpressive man for an ambassador from so important a world as Umoja.
Receding gray hair and a weak chin conspired to make Ailin Pasteur look timid, but from an
early age, Arcturus’s father had warned him that where politicians and men of words were
concerned, it was almost always the ones you underestimated who would bring you down.
“What’s going on, Mother?” asked Arcturus. “Are we really under attack?”
“Yes,” said Katherine, nodding. His mother was never one to sugar the pill—it was one of the
things Arcturus loved about her. Ailin Pasteur took his daughter by the hand as Katherine Mengsk
said, “Now we need to get to the refuge. Everyone follow me, and no dawdling.”
The bark of automatic weapon re roared from somewhere nearby. The noise was so loud it was
impossible to pinpoint the source of it, but Arcturus thought it was coming from this oor.
He heard booted footsteps and more shouts.
Arcturus hauled on his mother’s hand as more shooting exploded nearby.
The wooden frame around the bedroom door splintered as gunre tore through it. Everyone
screamed and dropped to the oor. Arcturus covered his ears as a clatter of metal and wood rained
down from the shattered door.
A twisted spike of silver rolled across the carpet, a thin cone of metal as thick as the tip of his
pinkie.
Arcturus recognized it immediately: ammunition red from a military- grade assault rie. A C-14
gauss rie, to be precise. An Impaler.
He heard thumps from outside and two men spun around the doorway. One was Achton Feld,
his slugthrower smoking and blood pouring from wounds in his arm and chest. The other was
armed with the Impaler rie, and Arcturus recognized him as one of his father’s security guards, a
man named Jaq Delor.
As Feld’s gaze swept the room, he spoke hurriedly into his shoulder mike. “Angus, it’s Feld. I’ve
got them. We’re in Dot’s room.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus missed the reply as another roar of gunre sounded. Delor quickly leaned around the
door and red o a couple of shots. The noise of the gun was deafening, especially mixed together
with Dorothy’s sobbing cries.
“Achton,” said Katherine. “Where is my husband?”
“Downstairs organizing the defense, but he’s on his way,” said Feld, slamming a fresh magazine
into the butt of his pistol and awkwardly racking the slide. “And we have to get out of here. We’re
too exposed. The refuge is just along the hall.”
“We can’t go out there!” said Ailin Pasteur. “We’ll be killed.”
“We’ll be killed if we stay here, Ailin,” replied Katherine.
“No time to argue,” said Feld, his face pale with blood loss. “They have men coming in from both
sides. Jaq, how’s it looking?”
Jaq Delor raised his rie and leaned around the door, checking left and right. He red a burst of
Impaler rounds along the length of the corridor, and Arcturus heard a scream of pain.
“Clear now,” said Delor as the sound of gunre intensied.
Arcturus could make no sense of this. All he could hear was a meaningless cacophony of cries for
cover, medical attention, or mothers.
Who was winning this ght? Did anyone know?
“Now!” shouted Feld. “Let’s go!”
Feld was rst out of the room, his pistol extended, as Delor hustled Katherine—still with
Dorothy clutched to her chest—Ailin Pasteur, and Juliana through the door. Lastly came Arcturus,
and Delor remained with him as they sped along the corridor toward the refuge.
Smoke from the gunre lled the hallway and Arcturus could see little beyond the oor in the
dim glow of sputtering lights that had been shot out. He passed a bulky shape lying on the ground,
a body with a bullet wound in the neck.
Blood squirted onto the oor from the ragged crater in the man’s throat and Arcturus gagged at
the horrid, burned- metallic smell of the man’s death. Another man’s body lay farther along the
corridor, this one with his chest torn apart by Impaler spikes. It looked like he’d been sawn in two.
Delor kept watch on their rear as Feld haltingly led the way to the refuge, a fortied bolt hole
constructed in the heart of the house with comm systems capable of reaching Korhal’s orbitals and
enough supplies to last four days.
Arcturus’s mother had objected to the idea of installing such an ugly thing in her summerhouse,
but had reluctantly consented to its construction after a crazed psychopath had murdered Senator
Nikkos and his family in their beds a few years ago.
A crazed psychopath who was probably now a neurally resocialized Confederate marine.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus stumbled, but Delor held him upright.
The refuge was up ahead, its neosteel door open and a cold uorescent light spilling from inside.
The wounded Achton Feld lay slumped in the doorway, his face ashen as he tried to hold his
slugthrower level.
Shouts sounded behind Arcturus, urgent and demanding.
Jaq Delor released him and spun around, dropping to one knee and bringing his rie up. The
barrel exploded with noise and light, and Arcturus cried out at the unimaginable volume of the
weapon. Gauss spikes roared from the barrel and more screams of pain followed.
“Go!” shouted Delor.
No sooner had he given this last instruction than Jaq Delor was struck by a burst of Impaler re.
It was as if a giant st had hammered into his side and hurled him against the wall. Blood
spattered Arcturus, and he watched in horror as Delor’s head lolled down over his chest, almost
severed by the impact of the Impaler spikes.
“Arcturus!” screamed his mother from the refuge, but her voice seemed tinny and indistinct. All
he could hear was the last rasp of Delor’s breath and the sound of his blood as it sprayed from his
ruined neck.
Without conscious thought, Arcturus knelt down and lifted Delor’s fallen rie. He’d never red
such a weapon before, but gured all you needed to do was point it at what you wanted to kill and
pull the trigger.
How hard could it be?
A shape resolved itself from the smoke of the corridor, a gunman dressed in dark fatigues, body
armor, and a strange helmet. It had a number of projecting attachments jutting from the side and a
matte black visor, upon which Arcturus could see his own face reected.
The rie was a dead weight in his hands, but he raised it without conscious thought.
The gunman already had his rie aimed, and Arcturus knew he would not be able to pull the
trigger before he was torn apart.
The thought made him more angry than fearful.
Before the gunman could re, Arcturus’s reection in the helmet’s visor exploded in a mist of
Plexiglas fragments, bone, and brain matter.
Another shot struck the gunman’s helmet, then another and another. The man dropped to his
knees as high- velocity slugs tore into his chest and legs.
Arcturus turned and saw his mother marching toward him, Achton Feld’s slugthrower held out
before her in both hands. With her long black hair unbound and her nightdress aring behind her
like a cloak, she looked like some warrior woman from the old myth stories.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The gun boomed in her grip and she never once broke step as she red.
Arcturus watched the gunman die and dropped the gauss rie as his mother’s hand clamped on
his shoulder. He looked up and saw that her face was thunderous with anger—not at Arcturus, but
at the man who had dared threaten one of her children.
Katherine pulled Arcturus to his feet and all but dragged him into the refuge. With help from
Ailin Pasteur, she hauled the heavy door of the refuge shut, then punched in the locking code to a
keypad set into the wall. Arcturus took heaving gulps of clean, recycled air, feeling his hands shaking
at how close he’d come to death. He clenched his sts, angry at such a display of weakness and
fought down his fear through sheer force of will.
In control of himself once more, he took stock of his surroundings.
Achton Feld lay slumped against one wall, his chest and shoulder a mass of sticky red uid, but
Arcturus couldn’t tell whether he was alive or dead. Juliana Pasteur sat against the opposite wall of
the refuge, holding Dorothy tight, and Arcturus went to them. He stroked his sister’s hair and
smiled reassuringly at Juliana.
“Little Dot,” said Arcturus. “It’s me. We’re safe now.”
Dorothy looked up and Arcturus smiled, putting every ounce of sincerity into his words. “You
were very brave, little one. No one is going to hurt us now.”
“We’re safe?” said Dorothy, between snotty exhalations. “You promise?”
“I promise,” said Arcturus, nodding. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Ever.”
“Never ever?”
“Never ever,” promised Arcturus.
With the door to the refuge sealed, there was nothing to do but wait, and waiting was something
Arcturus Mengsk wasn’t particularly good at. He sat on a fold- down cot bed with his legs crossed
and Dorothy’s head resting on his thigh, her thumb jammed in her mouth and a stued pony named
Pontius clutched tightly beneath one arm.
Despite all that had happened, she had fallen into a deep sleep, and Arcturus smiled as he ran a
hand through her dark hair.
As it turned out, Achton Feld was still alive, and Arcturus’s mother was doing her best to treat
the Impaler wounds in his shoulder. With the practical mind- set that had made her such a
formidable matriarch of the Mengsk family, Katherine set about assigning them all tasks, as much to
keep their minds busy as to actually achieve anything useful.
Arcturus was told to look after Juliana and Dorothy, while Ailin Pasteur was ordered to keep
watch on the vidcams to get a better idea of what was happening beyond the refuge. The Umojan
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
ambassador nodded, taking a seat by the wall of monitors that displayed a multitude of images of
both the exterior and interior of the Mengsk summer villa.
Arcturus wasn’t surprised that his mother had taken charge, or that Pasteur had so readily
acquiesced to her, for Katherine Mengsk had an aura that conveyed absolute authority, condence,
and credibility. Even at seventeen, Arcturus was old enough to appreciate his mother’s strength of
character and knew that his father had learned, over the years, not to underestimate her.
Without looking up from Achton Feld’s wound, Katherine said, “Ailin, what’s going on out
there? Can you see Angus?”
Arcturus watched as Pasteur scanned the images before him—empty corridors, dead bodies, and
black- clad gures dashing furtively from cover to cover. But the ambassador couldn’t tell whether
the gures were the attackers or Angus’s security forces.
Some of the cameras had been disabled, the screens displaying a hash of static, so that it was
impossible to tell exactly what was happening.
“There’s still men with guns on the ground oor, but I can’t see Angus, no.”
“Well, keep looking,” said Katherine.
Pasteur nodded and returned his attention to the screens as Katherine stood and wiped her
bloody hands on the front of her nightdress. His mother’s face was strained, yet beautiful, and
Arcturus smiled as he remembered the sight of her standing over him with Feld’s pistol blazing, as
she killed the man who was about to shoot him.
“Your mother seems very calm,” said Juliana Pasteur beside him. “Does she know something we
don’t?”
Arcturus turned his head to face Juliana. With time to think, he made a fuller inspection of her.
He’d thought she was beautiful when he’d rst seen her, but now, looking more closely, he saw that
he had done her a disservice.
Juliana Pasteur was more than beautiful; she was absolutely stunning, and made all the more so
because she plainly had no idea of how attractive she was. The girls at the academy were either
driven politicos who bored him or academic types who were no challenge to seduce.
He sensed Juliana would t into neither of these camps.
The nightdress clung to the curves of her body and his seventeen- year- old mind pictured what
she looked like underneath it.
He shook o that image, knowing that this was neither the time nor the place for such thoughts.
“My mother is a strong woman,” he said at last.
“My mother got sick and died when I was very young,” said Juliana. “I barely remember her.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus heard the weary sorrow in her voice, but did not know what to say. He did not deal
well with grief, for he could never empathize with those who had suered loss and found them
unpleasant to be around.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last.
Juliana nodded, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. “Are we safe in here?” she asked.
Arcturus nodded, pleased the conversation had shifted to a subject he could speak on with some
authority.
“Yes, we’re perfectly safe,” he said. “The walls of this refuge are three feet of plascrete with
neosteel reinforcement bars. It would take the Mining Guild’s biggest drills—at least a BDE-1400
—to get through. Maybe even the 1600.”
“You know a lot about drills?”
“A little,” he said, with just the right hint of modesty for her to infer that he knew a lot about
drills. “I plan on becoming a prospector someday.”
“Aren’t you going to go into one of your father’s businesses?”
Arcturus’s face darkened at the mention of his father. “No, not if I can help it. I wouldn’t be
surprised if it’s his speaking out against the Confederacy and meddling in things that don’t concern
him that’s gotten us into this mess.”
“What the Confederacy is doing should concern everybody,” said Juliana.
“Maybe,” said Arcturus with a shrug, looking over to Ailin Pasteur to nd some clue as to the
state of aairs beyond the refuge. “I don’t really know and I don’t really care. I just want to be left
alone to make my own way in the galaxy.”
“But if the Confederacy goes on the way it is, no one will be able to do that.”
Arcturus glanced over at Ailin Pasteur. “Did your father tell you that?”
“As a matter of fact it was your father,” said Juliana archly.
“Then I have even less interest in it.”
“You aren’t very polite, are you?”
“I don’t know you,” pointed out Arcturus. “Why do I need to be polite to you?”
“Because even fringe worlders know it is good manners to be polite to a guest.”
He saw the color in her cheeks and realized she was right—he was being rude, and being rude to
such a pretty girl seemed like the behavior of a savage, not that of a senator’s son.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus took a deep breath and ashed his most dazzling smile, the one that melted the hearts
of the girls at the academy who briey piqued his interest. “You’re right: I am being rude, and I’m
sorry. This has been an…unusual evening. I’m not normally like this. Normally I am actually quite
pleasant to be around.”
She stared at him, trying to crack the mask of his handsome sincerity, but even the most desirable
of Styrling socialites had tried and failed to do that.
Juliana Pasteur would have no chance beneath the glare of his charm.
“Apology accepted,” she said with a smile, but Arcturus knew she wasn’t yet hooked.
“You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? I like that,” he said, more interested in Ailin Pasteur’s daughter
now that she had displayed a measure of resistance to his wiles.
“Korhal may be one of the jewels in the Confederate crown, but Umoja isn’t without culture and
breeding.”
“I’ve never traveled there,” said Arcturus. “Maybe I will soon, if all its maidens are like you.”
“They’re not, but I think you would like it there.”
“I’m sure I would. Would you be my guide?”
“Perhaps,” said Juliana. “I could show you Sarengo Canyon.”
“Where the supercarrier crashed,” said Arcturus. “It’s said to be breathtaking.”
“You have no idea,” promised Juliana.
“Well, if we live through the night, I’ll be sure to take you up on that,” said Arcturus, his light tone
robbing the comment of any danger.
Juliana smiled, but before Arcturus could say any more, Ailin Pasteur said, “Katherine! The
door!”
Arcturus looked over to the bank of monitors, but the vidcamera showing the corridor had been
shot out in the ghting. A series of clicking beeps came from the keypad next to the door, and
Katherine bent to examine the sequence before typing in her own code.
This was in turn answered by another series of key punches from the other side, which was again
answered by Katherine. His mother nodded to Ailin Pasteur and then typed in a last key sequence
that disengaged the locks.
Arcturus felt a mixture of relief and disappointment that their time here was to be cut short, but
smiled as he felt Juliana’s hand take his and squeeze it in nervous anticipation.
The thick neosteel door of the refuge swung open and Angus Mengsk, senator of Korhal, father
to Arcturus and Dorothy, and husband to Katherine, entered with an Impaler rie cradled in his
arms.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Angus was a broad, powerfully built man, his dark hair pulled into a long ponytail that, like his
beard, was lined with silver streaks. His features were strong, gnarled with age, and a pair of cold
gray eyes stared out from beneath a bushy set of eyebrows.
He swung the rie over his shoulder and took his wife into a crushing bear hug.
“Thank God you’re safe,” he said. “I knew you’d look after them.”
“We’re all ne,” said Katherine. “Achton’s been hit, but he’ll live. Is it over?”
Angus released his wife from his embrace and nodded. “They’re all dead, yes.”
Arcturus swallowed nervously as he saw his father nally notice him sitting on the bed.
Angus prized his gaze from Arcturus and shook hands with Ailin Pasteur, his scowl replaced
with the practiced smile of a politician. “Good to see you’re still alive, my friend.”
“And you, Angus,” said Pasteur. “A bad business this and no mistake. Confederates?”
“Maybe,” said Angus. “We’ll talk later, eh?”
Pasteur nodded, and Angus moved past him to stand before Arcturus, the politician’s smile
falling from his face like a discarded mask.
“What in the name of the fathers are you doing here, boy?” demanded Angus. “Have you been
thrown out of the academy again?”
“Nice to see you too, Father,” said Arcturus.
CHAPTER 2
ANGUS MENGSK POURED HIMSELF A GENEROUS measure of brandy from an
expensive crystal decanter and downed the amber liquid in one swallow. He closed his eyes and
allowed the molten taste to line his throat and settle in his stomach before pouring another glass.
He lifted up the bottle inquiringly toward Ailin Pasteur, but the Umojan ambassador shook his
head.
“No thank you, Angus.”
“I know you don’t drink, Ailin,” said Angus. “But under the circumstances…”
“Angus, I can’t.”
“Come on, man,” cajoled Angus. “Surely one won’t hurt?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“He said he didn’t want one,” said Katherine, replacing the stopper in the decanter and glaring
sternly at her husband.
“There’s no such thing as just one for me. Not anymore,” said Pasteur.
“Fine,” said Angus, shrugging and taking his own drink back to the table.
In the aftermath of the attack, Angus had gathered the occupants of the summer villa in the main
dining room, a long, oak- paneled room dominated by an exquisite rosewood table carved with
pastoral scenes of a rustic Korhal that had probably never existed.
An exquisite chess set with pieces carved from jet and ivory sat next to the drinks cabinet, the
pieces apparently arranged in mid- game, though the white king was in checkmate.
Angus’s wife took a seat at the end of the table, next to Dorothy and Ailin Pasteur’s daughter,
and he allowed himself a moment of quiet relief that his girls had been spared the worst of this
night’s bloodshed. His mood darkened as he shot a glance over to Arcturus, the boy sitting with his
arms folded across his chest and his eyes steadfastly refusing to meet those of his father.
Achton Feld had managed to haul himself from his sickbed to join them. The man looked
terrible, his skin gray and greasy with sweat. Everyone knew he should have been resting, but, to his
credit, he had found the strength to be part of their debate as to what was to be done about this
terrible night and how best to repay those responsible.
Angus paced the length of the table, his expression murderous, his eyes smoldering with anger.
“Angus,” said Katherine. “Sit down before you wear a hole in the carpet. And calm down.”
“Calm down?” exploded Angus. “They tried to kill us in our own house! Armed men came into
our house and tried to kill us all. I swear I’ll lead the army to the Palatine Forum and strangle
Lennox Craven with my bare hands if he had something to do with this. For God’s sake, Kat, how
can I be calm at a time like this?”
“Because you need to be,” said Katherine rmly. “You are a senator of Korhal and you don’t have
the luxury of anger. It achieves nothing and only clouds your judgment. Besides, you don’t know yet
who was behind this. It might not be Craven and his Confederate goons.”
Lennox Craven was the senior consul of the Korhal Senate, the man tasked with ensuring that
the will of the Confederacy was carried out, upholding its laws and providing a controlling inuence
on the unruly senators below him.
Angus loathed the man, believing him to be little more than a stooge for the corrupt Old
Families that governed the Confederacy from the shadows. But for all that, Craven was a
formidable senator and canny businessman, and Angus had exchanged many an incendiary barb
with him across the marble oor of the Palatine Forum. The Mengsk family was one of the Old
Families too, one of the oldest in fact, and Craven never tired of reminding Angus that he was
spitting in the eye of the establishment that had given him such power and wealth.
Angus took a deep breath and nodded, smiling at Katherine as he took a drink.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“You’re right, my dear,” he said, “I need to think this through clearly. Achton? Do you have any
thoughts on what happened here tonight? Who were these men?”
“Professionals,” said Achton Feld. “They were good, but we got the drop on them, thanks to
Arcturus’s stunt. A few minutes more and, well, I don’t like to think what might have happened.”
“And you and I are going to talk about the security here later,” promised Angus, staring at his
son. “But who were they?”
Achton Feld chewed his bottom lip for a moment, then said, “Everything about them leads me to
think they’re a corporate death squad, a black- ops unit used to kill o business rivals and engage in
corporate espionage, kidnapping, and that kind of thing.”
“Why would anyone want to target Angus?” asked Katherine. “And why now?”
“Perhaps someone got wind of the things Angus is going to address in his Close of Session
speech to the Senate?” suggested Pasteur.
“It’s sure to rue some feathers, to say the least,” agreed Angus.
“But that’s not for months,” protested Katherine. “And your business interests only benet
Korhal.”
“A lot of people on Korhal have become very wealthy thanks to their dealings with the
Confederacy,” said Pasteur. “Plenty of organizations have ties to both Korhal and the Confederacy,
and Angus is stirring up trouble for them. If the Confederacy were to be kicked o Korhal, they
would stand to lose millions.”
“I know it’s a long shot, Achton, but is there anything on the bodies that might tell us who sent
them?” asked Angus.
Feld shook his head. “The kit they used is all ex- military stu, the kind you can pick up easily
enough if you know where to look. It looks like something local, but I don’t buy it. My gut’s telling
me something dierent.”
“And what is your gut telling you?” asked Katherine.
“That this is bigger than some corporation trying to hold on to its savings.”
“Why do you think that?” said Angus.
“Because all those dead men are marines. Or at least they were.”
“Marines? How do you know?”
Feld reached up and tapped the back of his neck. “They’ve all been brain- panned. All six of them
have got neural resocialization scars.”
Ailin Pasteur cleared his throat. “Well, naturally that leads us to the Confederacy.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“You’re probably right, Ailin,” said Angus, “but it seems heavy- handed, even for them.”
“Really? You heard about the rebellion on Antiga Prime?”
“No. What rebellion? I didn’t see anything about that on the UNN.”
“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” pointed out Katherine. “Aren’t you always saying that the Old
Families control the corporations that run the news channels? They broadcast what they want you
to see, their version of the truth in twenty- second sound bites.”
“That’s true enough,” replied Angus. “But what of Antiga Prime?”
“Yes, well, apparently the people of Andasar City kicked out the Confederate militia and held the
local magistrate hostage. They demanded an end to Confederate corruption, and whole districts
rallied to their call to arms. The city was as good as in open revolt, but two days later, a troop of
marines under a Lieutenant Nadaner went in and took the place back. And they didn’t leave any
survivors.”
“Good God,” said Angus. “How many dead?”
“No one knows for sure, but my sources say the gure is in the thousands.”
“And that’s exactly why we need to be careful here,” pointed out Katherine. “If the Confederacy
isn’t shy about perpetrating a massacre like that, then clearly they don’t have any compunction
against killing a senator and his family, do they?”
“But why send resocialized marines?” asked Arcturus, lifting his head up from staring at the table.
“Surely any dead bodies would be easy to trace back to the Confederacy?”
“Because they didn’t expect to fail,” said Angus, returning to the crystal decanter on the drinks
cabinet and pouring himself another glass of brandy. “Their paymasters expected them to kill us all
and not leave any of their own dead behind. The damned arrogance of it!”
“Then why bother making them look like corporate killers?” said Arcturus.
“Plausible deniability,” said Achton Feld. “In case the assassins were caught on any kind of
surveillance. Corporate- sponsored murders are terrible, if not exactly uncommon, but if it was
discovered that the Confederacy was complicit in the murder of a prominent senator…”
“The planet would erupt in revolt,” nished Katherine.
Angus laughed without humor. “Almost makes me wish they’d got me after all.”
“Don’t say that!” snapped Katherine. “Not ever.”
“Sorry, dear,” said Angus, standing behind his wife and kissing her cheek. “I didn’t mean that, but
I feel it’s going to take something truly dreadful to bring the Confederacy to its knees. We won’t
beat them overnight, but we will beat them, and I’ll tell you how.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Once again Angus paced the length of the table as he spoke, allowing his voice to become the
rich baritone he used when speaking in the Forum. “It’s their arrogance that will be their undoing.
They can’t see how they can possibly do anything wrong, and when you can’t see that, you make
mistakes. My father once said that when all you have is a hammer, everything starts to look like a
nail.”
Angus paused and turned to address his audience. “We’ll show them what happens when the nail
hits back.”
The dining room was empty save for Angus and Arcturus, the two sharing an uncomfortable
silence as the elder Mengsk poured out two snifters of brandy. Angus took one for himself and
walked over to where his son sat to oer him the other.
Arcturus looked askance at the glass, clearly wishing to reach for it, but unsure as to whether or
not he should.
“Go on, take it,” said Angus. “I know you’re too young, but on a night like this it hardly matters,
does it? There’s a lesson for you right there: sort out what matters from what doesn’t. Act on the
things that mean something and discard the rest.”
Arcturus took the glass and tentatively snied the expensive drink. His nose wrinkled at its
potency, and he took an experimental sip. His eyes widened, but he kept it down without coughing,
and Angus felt his anger loosen its hold on him as he sat across from his son.
Achton Feld had explained what Arcturus had done and, as much as he wanted to rage biliously
at his son, Angus couldn’t help but be proud of the lad’s inventiveness and sheer brio in pulling o a
stunt like that.
But despite his grudging admiration, Angus couldn’t allow Arcturus o the hook too easily.
“Do your tutors at the academy know you are gone?” he asked.
Arcturus looked at the timepiece on his wrist and smiled. “They will in a few hours,” he said. “I
sent a message with an attached comm- virus to Principal Steegman’s console. He’ll open it with his
morning java, and it’ll really spoil his day.”
Angus shook his head. “They’ll expel you for this.”
“Probably,” agreed Arcturus, and Angus fought the urge to slap him.
“Have you any idea of how much your place at Styrling Academy cost?”
Arcturus shrugged. “No.”
“A great deal, and there are plenty of prospective students just waiting to take your place.”
“So let them have it,” said Arcturus. “I’m not learning anything there anyway.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Angus bristled at his son’s belligerence, forcing himself to remember what he had been like on
the verge of manhood: his entire life ahead of him, and the sense that he knew all there was to know
about the world. Arcturus was no dierent, and he began to appreciate the patience his own father
had displayed.
He took a deep breath before speaking again. “Listen to me, son. You live a privileged life here,
but it’s time you learned that it is a harsh world out there beyond these walls, and that you are not
prepared for it.”
“I’ll survive.”
“No,” said Angus bluntly. “You won’t. I can’t pretend I’m not impressed by what you did tonight,
but stunts like that will see you dead sooner or later.”
Arcturus laughed and said, “Now you’re being melodramatic.”
“No,” said Angus. “I’m not. It’s the truth, and now I have to discipline you.”
“Why?” said Arcturus. “If it weren’t for me, those men would have killed us all.”
“I think you’ll nd it was Feld catching you that alerted us.”
“It was just a joke,” said Arcturus. “And anyway, isn’t that something that doesn’t matter after
what happened tonight? Or don’t your own lessons apply to you?”
Angus put down his glass and leaned over the table, lacing his hands before him. “You’ve the
seeds of a debater in you, son, but you have to be punished. To allow youth to run unchecked is to
invite a recklessness of spirit and disregard for the proper order of things that is anathema to any
ordered society.”
“You’re one to talk,” said Arcturus. “You disregard ‘the proper order of things’ all the time. All I
ever hear the other students at the academy say is how you’re stirring up trouble for Korhal with all
your speeches about the corruption of the Confederacy and how we’d be better o without it. Why
do you have to be such an embarrassment?”
Angus sat back in his chair, surprised at Arcturus’s outburst and angry at how little his son
understood of the world beyond his own little bubble of reality.
“You have no clue what you’re talking about, son,” said Angus. “What the Confederacy is doing
on Korhal is criminal. Corruption, backhanders, and bribery are everywhere, and if you have money
the law is a joke. Virtually every penny earned by the citizens of Korhal swells the coers of some
Confederate puppet corporation while our own, independent industries wither on the vine. Tell me
how that is the proper order of things?”
“I don’t know,” said Arcturus. “All I want to do is become a prospector.”
“A prospector? Grubbing in dirt and rocks like some Kel- Morian pirate? Hardly. You are the
son of a senator, Arcturus, and you are destined for greater things than prospecting.”
“I don’t want greater things. I just want to do what I want, not what you think I should do.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“You’re too young to really know what you want,” said Angus.
“I know that I don’t want to follow in your footsteps,” snapped Arcturus. “Hell, I might even join
the military.”
“You don’t mean that; you’re just angry,” said Angus. “You don’t know the reality of life, what the
Confederacy has done and what they’re going to do if someone doesn’t stand up to them. In the
centuries since the supercarriers crashed, the Old Families have been taking over everything by
force, guile, and corruption. Soon there won’t be anything left they don’t control.”
“So what? Who says that’s a bad thing?”
Angus fought down his anger, but he could feel his temper fraying in the face of his son’s
obstinacy. Didn’t the boy understand the scale of the Confederacy’s corruption? Couldn’t he see the
terrible fate that awaited all right- thinking people if they didn’t take a stand against the all-
controlling, all- pervading inuence of a remote, unthinking, unfeeling government?
Looking into Arcturus’s face, Angus could see he did not, and his heart sank.
Speaking in the Palatine Forum, Angus Mengsk had swayed recalcitrant senators to his side,
won hopeless causes through the power of his oratory, but he couldn’t convince his own son that the
Confederacy was a great and terrible evil that threatened everything the free people of Korhal
prized.
Angus Mengsk, rebrand senator and son of Korhal, might yet save his planet—but might lose
his son in the process.
The irony of it all was not lost on him.
The following morning, with the sun rising over the mountains, Arcturus yawned as he heard the
door to his room open. He rolled over and smiled as he saw Dorothy standing in the doorway, the
bright blue form of Pontius the pony clutched in her arms.
“What is it, Little Dot?” he said, propping himself up in bed.
“Why do you ght with Daddy?” asked Dorothy.
Arcturus laughed. “That’s a big question for such a little girl.”
“But why?”
Arcturus swung his legs out of bed and opened his arms, whereupon Dorothy ran to him and
jumped up onto his lap.
“Ow, you’re getting bigger every day,” said Arcturus. “You’re getting fat.”
“No I’m not!” squealed Dorothy, jabbing her ngertips into his ribs.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“All right, all right! You’re not fat!”
“Told you,” said Dorothy, satised she had won the argument. She looked up at him, and he
knew she hadn’t forgotten that he hadn’t answered her question.
“I wish you didn’t always ght with Daddy,” said Dorothy.
“I wish we didn’t either.”
“So why do you?”
“It’s hard to explain, Dot,” he said. “Father and I…well, we don’t agree about a lot of things and
he’s too stubborn to admit that he’s not always right.”
“Are you always right?”
“No, not always, but—”
“So how do you know Daddy’s not right then?”
Arcturus opened his mouth to answer her child’s logic, but oundered when he couldn’t think of
an answer that would satisfy them both. “I suppose I don’t. But he wants me to do things I don’t
want to do.”
“Like what?”
“Like not be who I want to be,” said Arcturus.
“Who do you want to be? Don’t you want to be like Daddy?”
Arcturus shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
Arcturus was spared from answering by a gentle knock, and he looked up to see his mother
standing in the doorway. Katherine Mengsk was dressed in a long cream dress with a midnight blue
bodice and looked as fresh as if she had had a full night’s rest and not been hunted by armed soldiers.
“Dorothy, it’s time for breakfast,” said Katherine.
“But I’m not hungry,” said Dorothy.
“Don’t argue with me, young lady,” warned her mother. “Go down to the kitchen and have Seona
x you a bowl of porridge. And don’t turn your nose up at me. Go.”
Dorothy leaned up and planted a small kiss on Arcturus’s cheek before dropping from his lap and
running o, Pontius dragging on the oor behind her.
With Dorothy gone, Arcturus stood and pulled on his shirt and a pair of dark britches, hiking the
braces up over his shoulders.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“You didn’t answer her question,” said his mother.
“What question?”
“Why you don’t want to be like your father.”
Arcturus ran his hands through his dark hair and poured himself a glass of water from a silver
ewer beside the bed. He took a drink and swilled the water around his mouth before answering.
“Because I want do something with my life that’s mine, not his.”
His mother swept into the room, graceful and strong, and placed a hand on Arcturus’s shoulder.
The touch was maternal and comforting, and Arcturus wished he could be as close to his father as
he was to his mother.
“Your father just wants what’s best for you, Arcturus,” she said.
“Does he? Sometimes I think he just wants a carbon copy of himself.”
Katherine smiled. “I see a lot of him in you, it’s true, but then there’s too much of me in you to
ever be that much like your father.”
“That’s a relief,” said Arcturus, but the smile fell from his face as he saw the hurt in his mother’s
face.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know he’s a good man, but he doesn’t understand me.”
“You think you’re the rst seventeen- year- old who’s said that about his father?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“You are a brilliant boy, Arcturus; you could achieve great things if you allow yourself to.
Everything you turn your hand to you master within days, and your father just wants to make sure
you make the most of your talents.”
“I remember you telling me I was going to be a great leader when I was Dot’s age,” said
Arcturus. “But I grew out of that a long time ago.”
His mother took his hands in hers and looked straight at him. “No. It was true then and it’s still
true.”
Uncomfortable with his mother’s grandiose dreams for his future, Arcturus changed the subject.
“Do I really have to go back to the academy?”
“Yes, you do. I know you don’t like it there, but it means the world to me that you nish your
education. You did recall that message with the comm- virus you sent to Principal Steegman’s
console, didn’t you?”
“I did”—Arcturus grinned—“though it would have been worth getting expelled just to have seen
the look on his face as the virus sent his private les to the parents of every student at the academy.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
His mother shook her head in exasperation, but he could see that she too was amused at the
thought of Steegman’s humiliation. “I don’t even want to think what might be contained in that
odious little man’s ‘private les’.”
“Are Ailin Pasteur and his daughter going to be staying with us for a while yet?” asked Arcturus,
hearing movement from another part of the house.
Katherine’s eyes narrowed as she sensed his interest. “Yes, they will be our guests for a spell. Your
father thinks it wise for them to remain with us until he can recall some more guards to escort us all
back to Styrling.”
“That sounds sensible.” Arcturus nodded, trying not to sound too interested, though of course
his mother saw through his nonchalance in a heartbeat and smiled.
“She’s very pretty,” said his mother. “Juliana.”
“Yes, she is,” agreed Arcturus. “And I think she likes me.”
His mother leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Who could not love you, my handsome boy?
Now go and get some breakfast with your sister; I’ve no doubt she’ll be trying to talk Seona into
giving her something so laden with sugar it’ll keep her awake for days.”
Arcturus made his way downstairs, along the corridor that had only the previous night been
lled with gunsmoke and the sound of battle. The bodies that had lain here, pumping their lifeblood
over the carpet, had been removed and the domestics were cleaning the stains they had left behind.
It still seemed unreal to him that people had tried to kill them last night. The idea that people
would kill helpless civilians for the sake of something as prosaic as money seemed ludicrous, but if
his reading of history had taught him anything, it was that entire cultures had been wiped out for far
less. Killing for honor, glory, land, or freedom seemed more noble ideals to kill or die for, but
Arcturus Mengsk planned on doing none anytime soon.
He set foot on the stairs, the wood creaking and the banister splintered by Impaler spikes. Entire
sections had been blasted away and the marble and plaster walls were stitched with impact craters.
When he reached the bottom, Arcturus heard voices coming from the dining room. The door
was ajar, and he paused as he recognized his father’s stentorian tones and the more melliuous
sound of Ailin Pasteur’s voice.
Curious as to what they were talking about, Arcturus edged closer to the door.
“…exactly why we need your help more than ever, Ailin,” said his father. “Korhal can’t do this
alone. We’re gathering strength, but without the support of Umoja, the Confederacy will crush us.”
“I understand that,” replied Pasteur, “but you have to understand the precariousness of our
position. Umoja can’t be seen to be openly supporting you, Angus. We have a hard enough time
fending o the Confederate inuence as it is, and to be publicly linked with a rabble- rouser like your
good self would give them an excuse to increase their pressure. The Ruling Council is willing to
supply your men with what they need, but our involvement can’t be made public.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“That’s a given, Ailin, but matters are coming to a head. The attack last night only goes to show
how desperate they’re becoming. I have supporters within the Senate and all over Korhal to make
this work, and you know well enough that brushre rebellions are erupting throughout the sector.
All it needs is one shining example that the Confederacy can be beaten and the old order will be
swept away. Korhal can be that example, but only if you support us.”
“And we will, but what you are talking about…you’ll be called a terrorist.”
“I prefer the term ‘freedom ghter,’” said Angus.
“That depends on whether or not you win.”
“Then I’ll need to make sure I win.”
Arcturus knew he was hearing words of great import, but the sense of them washed over him.
What was his father planning that might have him labeled a terrorist? The word itself was a
powerful one, conjuring up images of secretive men who met in shadows to plot the death of
innocents to achieve their diabolical ends.
The idea that his father might be such a man repelled Arcturus, and his previously solid notion of
Angus Mengsk as a powerful and controlling, yet mostly benign, presence in his life now seemed as
fragile as glass.
As these thoughts surged through Arcturus’s head, he heard footsteps, realizing too late that
they were approaching the door at which he listened. He turned away, but was too slow, and a
heavy st took hold of his shirt and dragged him into the dining room where they had met last night.
“Spying on me, are you?” roared Angus. “What did you hear?”
Arcturus struggled in his father’s grip. “That you’re a terrorist!” he shouted.
Angus spun him around and pushed him down into one of the chairs.
“You heard nothing, son,” said Angus. “Those words were not meant for the likes of you.”
Arcturus looked over to Ailin Pasteur, the man clearly surprised and worried that Arcturus had
overheard their discussions.
“What are you going to do?” asked Arcturus. “Are you going to kill people?”
His father stared hard at Arcturus, and the father’s cold gray eyes saw deep into the heart of his
son.
Arcturus saw his father come to a decision within himself.
Pasteur saw it too and said, “Angus…are you sure?”
“Aye, he’ll be eighteen soon. It’s time he started acting like a man, so I’m going to treat him like
one.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus felt a nervous thrill at his father’s words, wondering if all those years of wanting to be
treated as an adult were about to blow up in his face.
“Well, boy, are you ready to become a man?”
Arcturus hesitated for the briefest second before answering. “I am.”
“Good,” said Angus. “I’ll respect that. But you have to understand that what I’m going to tell you
can’t leave this room.”
Angus held out his hand to Arcturus. “Swear that to me and I’ll tell you everything.”
“I swear it,” said Arcturus, shaking his father’s hand.
“Very well,” said Angus, taking a seat next to Arcturus and sitting with his legs crossed. “You
know, of course, that I detest the corruption of the Confederacy with every ber of my being, but it
runs deeper than that. The Old Families control everything from their capital world of Tarsonis,
and the entire apparatus of the Confederacy is geared to keep them in power, exploiting the planets
under their control and stealing their wealth. Well, no more.”
“You’re going to ght the Confederacy?” asked Arcturus. “Why?”
“Because someone has to,” said Angus. “They’ve overstretched their empire and, like a house of
cards, all it needs is one push in the right place to make it fall. People are tired of the yoke of the
Confederacy around their necks and rebellion’s in the air—you can feel it.”
“You’re going to declare war on the Confederacy?” said Arcturus incredulously.
“Well, not war exactly,” replied Angus. “Not yet, at least.”
“Terrorism,” said Arcturus. “Is that it?”
“I have no doubt some will call it that, yes, but if you think about it, what the Confederacy is
doing can easily be construed as terrorism.”
“Surely that’s not the same thing?”
“Isn’t it?” asked Angus. “Isn’t the purpose of terrorism to kill and maim people so that whoever it’s
directed against will bend to your will? And doesn’t the Confederacy engage in military operations
designed to coerce people into bending to their will through fear?”
“But that’s dierent,” said Arcturus. “That’s war.”
Angus shook his head. “No, it’s not. After all, the purpose of war isn’t, or at least shouldn’t be,
about killing every last man in the enemy army. It’s about killing enough of them that their leaders
are more afraid of continuing the war rather than of surrendering.”
“Then, by your denition, every act of war could be called an act of terrorism, since it’s coercion
through fear by the use of violence.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Exactly,” said Angus, pleased he had made his point.
“But you’re still going to kill people,” pointed out Arcturus.
“In war, people die. It’s unfortunate, but inevitable,” replied Angus. “I wish it were dierent, but
the Confederacy has brought this on itself. Unlike them, however, we won’t hurt innocent civilians;
we’ll only be targeting military installations.”
“It’s still wrong,” said Arcturus. “People will still die and you’ll have killed them.”
Angus leaned back in his seat, his face lined with disappointment. “I thought you would be man
enough to understand what needs to be done, Arcturus, but I can see I was wrong. You’re still a
child and you still think like a child, unable to see the truth of the world beyond your own selsh
little bubble.”
His father’s words stung like red- hot whips, and Arcturus felt his resentment are. He stood up
and turned on his heel, marching toward the dining room door.
“Angus…,” hissed Ailin Pasteur.
“Son,” barked Angus. “You are never to speak of this. You understand me? Never.”
“I understand,” snapped Arcturus.
CHAPTER 3
SUNLIGHT RIPPLED THROUGH THE CANOPY OF treetops and made the
landscape glow as the convoy of silver groundcars sped along the road to Styrling. Altogether there
were six cars, one conveying the Mengsk family, another Ailin Pasteur and his daughter, and the
other four bearing armed men.
The cars were ’58 Terra Cougars, an older model of groundcar, yet a mode of transport favored
by many of Korhal’s senators, thanks to the heavy steel undercarriage and thick side panels that had
foiled more than one assassination attempt.
Two of the cars were equipped with turret- mounted Impalers, and the convoy moved at speed
along the wide strip of road. Half a kilometer ahead, three vulture hovercycles ran point, herding
what little trac there was on the road out of the convoy’s path.
This time of the morning, trac was light, but Achton Feld was taking no chances and had
ordered his men to shoot rst and ask questions second—assuming anything survived a grenade
barrage from the vultures. The Confederacy had already tried to kill Angus Mengsk once, and Feld
wasn’t taking any chances that they might try again.
Arcturus watched the countryside ashing past, lush greens and sumptuous golds as the autumn
tones blended together in a swirl of color like a painting left out in the rain. The Mengsk summer
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
villa was built sixty kilometers to the south of Styrling and the countryside separating the two was
amongst the most verdant and lush of Korhal, yet it was shrinking every year as the industrial
complex of the city spread farther and farther.
His father had chosen the site precisely because it was far enough from Styrling to feel like he
could escape the day- to- day running of his many businesses and the politics of the Senate, but close
enough that he was never too far out of the loop.
Arcturus felt his mood sour with every kilometer that passed beneath the groundcar and brought
him closer to the academy. His father sat opposite him, his face unreadable, though he smiled
whenever Arcturus’s mother looked at him. Dorothy was on her knees on the backseat next to him,
Pontius clutched tightly as she peered out the polarized, armored glass of the window.
He smiled at the simple joy on her face, wishing he could go back to a time when life had been
simpler. All Dorothy cared about was Pontius, sugary sweets, and being close to her father. She
didn’t yet have to worry about disappointing anyone or being forced into a role she didn’t want.
Little Dot would be the apple of Angus’s eye no matter what she did, and Arcturus felt a twinge
of irritation, but quickly shook it o, recognizing that it was foolish to be jealous of a four- year- old.
Despite his mother’s pleasant ramblings on the colors of the leaves and the beauty of the scenery
and Dorothy’s enthusiasm for the journey, the interior of the groundcar was tense. Arcturus and his
father had not spoken since their harsh words in the dining room the previous morning, and no
amount of calming words from his mother could bridge the gulf, which grew wider with every
minute of silence.
Arcturus kept his gaze xed on the landscape unfolding around them as the groundcar wove its
way though the low hills to the south of the city. Despite the inevitable growth of business, Korhal
remained a deantly green world, the planetary authorities long ago having had the foresight to
invest in renewable energy sources and enforce stringent clean air laws.
As a result, Korhal was one of the few planets in the Confederacy to be a thriving hub of trade
and industry that was also actually a pleasant place to live and visit. Arcturus had not yet ventured
o world, but he had ambitions beyond Korhal’s skies. He longed to travel between the stars and
explore new worlds and earn his fortune with his skills, instead of simply inheriting it as his father
had done.
That his father had also worked tirelessly since he had achieved adulthood never occurred to
Arcturus. Not that Arcturus disapproved of inheriting wealth, title, and position—the dynastic
traditions of Korhal were well established—but he wanted to be known as a man who had gotten to
the top by virtue of his own abilities. He wanted people to look at him and know that he had
achieved what he had through blood, sweat, and sacrice.
His thoughts of the future were interrupted when he caught sight of a shimmering lattice of
silver through the branches of the trees, the rst signs of civilization. Despite his foul mood, he
smiled as he caught tantalizing glimpses of Styrling through the wide canyons of the hills.
It was a huge city, a mecca of commercial interests and a glittering symbol of all that had been
achieved in the two centuries since the planet’s settlement. Arcturus loved the opportunities the city
oered: the wealth, the entertainment, the bustle, and the sheer, vibrant humanity of it all.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Everything a person desired, and more besides, could be found in Styrling if you knew where to
look.
The groundcar swept over a ridge that curved along the road, and then the city was laid out
before him.
No matter how many times he saw it, it never failed to impress.
Styrling was like the frozen aftermath of a droplet that had fallen into a petri dish of mercury, a
silver crown of soaring structures that stood tall and majestic in the center and which gradually
diminished in size toward the edges.
A dizzying web of yovers surrounded and penetrated the bright metropolis, like a hundred
threads of dark wool woven through it, and the city shone with dazzling reections from the mass of
neosteel and glass that made up the bulk of the buildings.
The architecture of Styrling was not subtle. Most of the towers and spires belonged to one of the
megacorporations or to representatives of one of the Old Families, and each of the owners sought to
outdo the others with the height and magnicence of a given structure. Graceful curving walls had
once bounded the extreme edge of the city, but the pressure of commerce had driven a great deal of
the city’s infrastructure beyond them.
The wealthiest families of Korhal kept their headquarters within the walls of Styrling, and the
Mengsks were no exception.
The Mengsk Skyspire was a mighty, fortresslike edice that towered over its nearest rivals: the
Continental Building, the LarsCorp Tower, and the Korhal headquarters of the Universal News
Network. Arcturus hated the Skyspire, its angular lines and neo- Gothic stylings appearing at odds
with the sleek, graceful designs of its neighbors.
As far as Arcturus was concerned, it was the architectural embodiment of his father: cold, stern,
and uncompromising.
The city drew closer and the trac grew heavier, the vultures drawing back to surround the
groundcars like mother hens protecting their chicks. Arcturus watched the trac ow like a living
thing around them, moving to its own internal rhythms, and as he looked at the faces within each
car, he wondered at the lives he saw passing him.
Each one represented a self- contained world, around which the universe revolved, and Arcturus
idly tried to t histories to each face—trying to imagine what lives these people lived. What were
their dreams and ambitions? What made them rise from their beds each day to toil in the factories
and oces of Styrling?
Love? Ambition? Desire? Greed?
Watching the people as they made their way to work, Arcturus saw all human life before him—
laughter, quarrels, stolid silences, and a thousand other things. He saw conversations between men
and women, fathers and children, lovers and colleagues, each small world with its own hopes and
dreams for the future.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
A young girl with a yellow ribbon in her hair sat in the passenger seat of a car two lanes over. She
noticed Arcturus looking at her and waved to him. He smiled and waved back, feeling an
unaccountable closeness to these people of Korhal, feeling that in some small way they were his
people. He sensed a kinship with the faces he saw around him, a bond with the people with whom
he shared his homeworld that he had never felt before.
The girl’s car drifted away, vanishing down an o- ramp, and Arcturus returned his attention to
the city around him as they were swallowed up by its glass and steel canyons.
The tense silence in the groundcar was broken only when their journey took them around the
chaotic site of the new Korhal Assembly Forum.
Or what was supposed to be the new Korhal Assembly Forum.
Towering cranes and enormous earthmoving machines stood idle around a monstrous, half-
nished building of concrete and exposed steel that looked as though it had been stripped by an
army of looters. A number of prefabricated cabins were arranged around the perimeter of the site,
but there appeared to be no men or robots working there.
Arcturus was no judge of aesthetic, but even to his untrained eye, the building looked as though
it had been spawned in the worst nightmares of a demented architect.
“Look at that,” said Angus Mengsk, jabbing a nger at the unnished building. “If there’s a more
visible symbol of the moral decay and corruption at the heart of the Confederacy, I don’t know what
it is.”
“Oh, please, not this again, dear,” said Katherine.
But Angus was not to be denied venting his outrage.
“I ask you, why do we need a new building for the Senate anyway? What’s wrong with the
Palatine Forum? Granted, it’s old, but it’s got character and tradition behind it. This new asco of a
building sums up everything that’s wrong with the Confederacy: money siphoned o into the
pockets of corrupt ocials, perverse priorities, and an arrogant indierence to public opinion. Did
you know that the costs have soared to over ve hundred million and counting? Oh yes, and that’s
from an initial estimate of sixty- three million! And where’s that money gone? On insane expenses
like a Chau Saran sunwood reception desk or bribes to Confederate city ocials. They’ve been
‘working’ on it for the last six years, and it never seems to get nished. Oh, they say it’ll be nished
later this year, but look at it…. Does it look like that’s realistic?”
“No, dear, it doesn’t,” said Katherine dutifully.
“The truth is that the one thing people know about the Confederacy is that everything costs
quadruple what it ought to, thanks to the bribes you need to pay to get anything done and the
dozens of new ‘taxes’ that suddenly seem to apply to any project that isn’t intended to line the
pockets of the Old Families.”
“Then you should be thanking the Confederacy for the ammunition,” said Arcturus.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Oh, I am, son,” said Angus, forgetting the tension between them in the ery heat of his ire. “This
whole project has been a public relations disaster that, thank God, even the UNN isn’t afraid to
report on, and one upon which I fully intend to capitalize.”
His father continued to list the many faults of the building and the process by which it was being
built, or rather not being built.
Arcturus tuned the words out as the unnished building passed from sight.
This deep in the city, the colossal scale of the towers was much more apparent. Shadows
enveloped the convoy, and Arcturus felt a chill travel down his spine as the driver expertly wound
the groundcar through the streams of trac.
People thronged the streets, well dressed and healthy, but only a few turned to watch as the
convoy sped by. To see such things on the streets of Styrling was not unusual, for many captains of
industry or senators traveled in this manner.
His father reached over and activated the comm unit on the armrest beside him.
“Ailin,” said Angus. “We’re coming up to the academy to drop Arcturus o, so we won’t be far
behind you. Let’s just hope he stays here this time.”
This last comment was directed squarely at Arcturus, who ignored his father’s barb, though his
mother placed her hand on her husband’s forearm and frowned sternly at him.
“Very well, Angus,” replied Ailin Pasteur. “I shall await you at the Skyspire.”
The comm unit was shut o and Arcturus sighed as they passed alongside the lush parkland and
playing elds of Styrling Academy. Here, the buildings thinned out and became less vulgar in scale,
for this was a district of culture and breeding, where the young minds of the future were molded
into compliant citizens of the Confederacy.
Arcturus knew the area well, despite the fact that students were forbidden to venture from the
walled, security- patrolled campus of the academy by Principal Steegman. That such petty
regulations needn’t apply to him was a decision Arcturus had long since come to, and he—and a
select band of adventurers—had often visited the exotic, neon- lit depths of the city’s night.
Of course, his mother and father knew nothing of this, but the less they knew of what he got up
to the better. In Arcturus’s opinion, it was best that parents know as little as possible about their
ospring’s doings, since they’d only try and put a stop to them if they had any idea.
The great clock spire of the academy loomed large over an immaculately manicured line of trees
in the distance, and Arcturus sighed as he contemplated another six months of sitting in sterile
classrooms being “taught” by morons who knew less than he about politics and history, while
blathering about the great destiny that awaited the school’s alumni.
He shook himself from that bitter reverie as the groundcar slowed and turned down a graveled
driveway that led to the academy’s security checkpoint.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
That checkpoint consisted of an old, brick- built gatehouse and a couple of wooden sawhorses
that blocked the road to the campus proper, with a handful of plastic orange cones scattered in front
of them. The car slowed as it reached the gatehouse, and Old Rummy emerged from within, leaning
down to examine the occupants of the vehicle.
Old Rummy was the name the students gave to the venerable gatekeeper, and Arcturus had
never bothered to nd out his real name. He reeked of liquor from the middle of the morning
onward and his swollen nose and puy cheeks were rife with the ruptured capillaries of a
professional alcoholic.
Arcturus could smell the drink on his breath, and wrinkled his nose.
He’d started early, Arcturus reasoned.
“Morning, Mr. Mengsk, sir,” said Old Rummy, dong his peaked cap as he saw Angus. There
were few people on Korhal who didn’t know Arcturus’s father, thanks to reports on the UNN of his
political grandstanding and near- constant berating of the Confederacy.
Angus was popular in most quarters of Korhal, but where his money was spent freely—and the
academy was such a place—he was feted and fawned over like royalty.
Old Rummy shued over to the sawhorses, clearing them from the road with grunting heaves
before picking up the cones and waving the groundcar through. The driver gunned the engine and
the car passed onward.
“Ten million for ‘enhanced security measures’ to protect the sons and daughters of Korhal from
rebel attacks,” said Angus, shaking his head as they swept past the grinning, idiot face of Old
Rummy and onto the grounds of the academy. “You remember the fund- raising ball the academy
held to raise money to implement these security measures, dear?”
“I do indeed,” said Arcturus’s mother with a shiver of distaste. “That frightful Principal Steegman
preened like some oily salesman, begging his betters for money. A most distasteful evening.”
Angus nodded. “I pledged over half a million to that fund, and look at the security it’s bought: a
few planks of wood and some cones shifted by a fat man in an ill- tting uniform. I’d wager the same
again that the best part of that fund- raiser went into Steegman’s pockets.”
Arcturus stored that nugget away and watched as the great mass of Styrling Academy hove into
view around the perfectly maintained woodland and expanse of lush green grass. The nest
examples of the topiarist’s art decorated the lawn, and a number of youngsters were already
practicing with foils and rapiers under the watchful supervision of Master Miyamoto.
“If it weren’t for the quality of the tutors, I’d school the boy myself,” continued Angus, and
Arcturus stied a horried laugh at that idea.
The building, nearly a hundred years old, had been built from polished gray granite and
positively reeked of money. A grand, columned portico sheltered the entrance, and the triangular
pediment was decorated with heroic individuals and symbols of academic and martial excellence.
Carved statues sat in niches along the building’s length and elaborate carved panels lled the
spaces between each of the tall, narrow windows. Though the building was old, amongst the oldest
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
on Korhal, its eaves and roof were tted with recessed surveillance equipment and sophisticated
eavesdropping equipment, though why the faculty should feel the need to spy on the students was a
mystery to Arcturus.
The groundcar crunched to a halt on the gravel at the bottom of the wide stone steps that led up
to the main doors of the academy. A liveried porter descended and opened the back door of the
groundcar.
“On you go, dear,” said his mother.
Arcturus nodded and turned to Dorothy. “See you soon, little one,” he said. “I’ll write you lots of
letters and Mummy can read them to you.”
“I can read, silly,” pouted Dorothy. “I’ll read them myself.”
“Well aren’t you the smart one?” he said, laughing.
Dorothy threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “I’ll miss you, Arcturus.”
He blinked in surprise. Normally Dorothy had diculty in pronouncing his name, mangling the
syllables and calling him ‘Actress’ or ‘Arctroos,’ but this time she said it without fault.
Arcturus untangled Dorothy’s arms from around his neck and handed her o to his mother, who
smiled warmly at him.
“It’s only one more term, dear,” said Katherine Mengsk. “And then the world will open up for
you, I promise. If not for yourself, do it for me. Please?”
Arcturus took a deep breath and nodded. He could disappoint his father without fear of guilt,
but every time he felt he’d let his mother down, it cut him to the quick.
“Very well,” said Arcturus. “I’ll nish the term.”
“You’d damn well better,” snapped Angus. “Because I don’t want to see you again until I’m
watching you graduate. Understand me?”
Arcturus didn’t deign to furnish him with an answer as he stepped from the groundcar, taking a
small measure of satisfaction from the withering glare his mother shot his father.
As satisfying as that was, it was small recompense for the bitter seed planted in his heart.
Still, once he had graduated, he could go anywhere.
Somewhere that was as far away from Angus Mengsk as he could get.
Three months later, his promise to see out the term was being tested to the limit.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Principal Steegman had made it clear that Arcturus remained a student of Styrling Academy
thanks only to his father’s generous patronage of many of the school’s facilities, and repeatedly
informed him that he was skating on thin ice, walking a tightrope, balancing on a knife’s edge, and
performing numerous other well- worn clichés.
Lessons had continued much as they had before, and with all the extra attention being lavished
upon him (no doubt at his father’s insistence) Arcturus could not even nd a way to relieve the
crushing boredom of the academy by escaping into the city for an evening.
Arcturus Mengsk was, it seemed, a marked man at Styrling Academy, and even his former
cohorts appeared to have been warned of the dangers of associating with him.
As a result, Arcturus spent the majority of his time during his last term at Styrling Academy in
the school’s library, reading and rereading every digi- tome he could nd on geology, politics,
psychology, and warfare. Many of these books he had already memorized, but each rereading
brought fresh insight and understanding.
Arcturus wrote to Dorothy as promised and her return letters were among the few sources of
comfort and amusement left to him. In these letters his mother informed him of the workings of the
world beyond the walls of the academy, and he was surprised at the frankness of them, talking as
they did of revolts in the outer colonies and fringe worlds (of which there was a growing number) as
well as relating the latest society gossip. Her letters skirted carefully around the subject of his father,
but Arcturus needed no letters from home to know all about Angus’s dealings.
The UNN broadcasts were replete with stories of his ery speeches denouncing the corruption
of the Old Families and the Council. Though Angus publicly condemned the rising tide of violence
engulng Korhal, which had seen hundreds of Confederate marines dead in rebel bombings and
ambushes, Arcturus knew his father had to be part of it.
The objective part of Arcturus actually admired the skill with which Angus was able to distance
himself from the violence while subtly implying that it was the inevitable result of the Confederacy’s
oppression and engendering sympathy for the rebel cause.
As much as he was now regarded as something of a pariah at the academy, this did not stop his
fellow students from making their feelings about his father plain to him. Many of them came from
wealthy families with close ties to the Confederacy, and were suering daily embarrassment thanks
to the withering scorn of Angus Mengsk’s rhetoric.
Though Arcturus wanted nothing to do with his father’s politics, he was savvy enough to
recognize that what he said made a great deal of sense. Still, the retaliatory humiliations heaped
upon him by his fellow students only served to further his resentment toward the Mengsk
paterfamilias.
But Arcturus’s resentment was made bearable by the stimulating diversions oered in the letters
he was now exchanging with Juliana Pasteur.
Within a day of his arrival back at the academy, Arcturus had received a letter from Juliana,
politely inquiring after his health and the possibility of setting up a meeting during one of the
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
periods he was allowed o the campus. With the precision of a razor, Arcturus had dissected the
true meaning within her letter and seen the naked interest beneath the platitudes.
Clearly the rapport established in the short time they had spent in the refuge of his father’s
summer villa had blossomed despite his absence. Or perhaps because of it.
In return, Arcturus replied with a missive brimming with the foibles of his fellow students, the
foolishness of the masters, and his trials within the prisonlike walls of the academy.
His words were well chosen, witty, erudite, and lled with enough self- deprecation to puncture
any sense of self- importance his letters might convey that might make him seem arrogant. That
such self- deprecation was entirely contrived did not strike Arcturus as false in any way, and the
eusive letters he received in return were proof positive of the success of his writings.
As they corresponded over the course of the term, it became increasingly clear that Juliana
Pasteur was smitten with him. In marked contrast to their initially frosty meeting in the refuge, it
appeared that Juliana now appreciated his brilliance and was assessing his suitability as a consort.
Though he remembered her intoxicating beauty, it had become a detached memory to Arcturus,
and he indulged her letters as an outlet for his polemics and occasionally grandiose predictions of his
future power. Truth be told, his desire to maintain the friendship had begun to wane, yet Arcturus
continued to write to Juliana in the interest of eventually bedding her.
It would be the nal act in the completion of a challenge that had once seemed dicult, but
which he now knew had been simplicity itself.
The weeks and months passed in a gray blur, lectures boring him and insultingly easy
assignments completed with barely a hint of eort. The end was in sight, and with only two weeks
to graduation, Principal Steegman summoned the entire senior year to the grand assembly hall in
the main block of the academy.
The assembly hall was a grand, vaulted chamber of cedar- paneled walls, gold- framed portraits
of illustrious former students, high ceilings, and soaring oak beams. Every morning, Steegman
would mount the stage to stand behind his lectern and address the entire upper school, announcing
the results of the academy’s sporting endeavors and notices of supposed importance.
Occasionally the assembly hall was also used for scrupulously chaperoned balls or played host to
visiting dignitaries who would speak to the student body on the virtues of civic service or some other
similarly dull subject.
The identically uniformed students led drearily into the hall, and Arcturus briey wondered
what manner of speaker they were to be subjected to today. As he drew closer to the assembly hall’s
doorway, the excited hubbub of voices from within told him that whatever awaited them was
something beyond the run of the mill.
He passed beneath the arched entrance to the assembly hall and the academy’s motto of Aien
Apisteyein, which meant “ever to be the best” in one of the dead languages of Old Earth.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The vast oor space in front of the stage was lled with uncomfortable chairs, each one occupied
by an excited student. Principal Steegman was at his lectern, looking very pleased with himself, but
it was the three hulking gures standing at attention behind him that captured Arcturus’s attention.
They stood several feet taller than Steegman, their backs ramrod straight and their bulk
enormous, thanks to the heavy plates of neosteel armor they wore.
Arcturus recognized the armor from the technical manuals he’d read in the library.
They were CMC-300 Powered Combat Suits, a brand- new design that was replacing the dated
CMC-200 series.
Powered Combat Suits…
As worn by soldiers of the Confederate Marine Corps.
CHAPTER 4
PRINCIPAL STEEGMAN WASTED NO TIME IN GETTING the proceedings started.
Once every boy in the upper year was seated, he clasped the lectern with both hands and leaned
forward, in what Arcturus knew he hoped was an authoritative stance. In reality, it just emphasized
how short he was, but either no one else had noticed or no one had thought to tell him.
“We are fortunate indeed,” began Steegman, his nasal tones grating on Arcturus’s nerves, “to have
representatives from the brave Confederate Marine Corps here to talk to you today. It is a great
honor for us to have them here, and I know you will give them a rousing, Styrling Academy
welcome.”
This last comment was clearly an order, and the assembled boys gave an enthusiastic round of
applause as Steegman retreated from the lectern and one of the marines stepped forward, his heavy
steps booming on the wooden oor of the stage.
He reached the lectern and removed his helmet, revealing that he was, in fact, a she.
And a strikingly pretty she.
The marine placed her helmet on the lectern and smiled at the assembled boys, who now
appeared even more interested in this morning’s talk. Behind her, the curtain parted to reveal a large
projection screen, upon which the red and blue Confederate ag was displayed, billowing
dramatically in the wind against a golden sunset. Stirring music played in the background, piped
over the assembly room’s PA system.
“Good morning, my name is Angelina Emillian,” began the marine. “I’m a captain with the 33rd
Ground Assault Division of the Confederate Marine Corps, and I’m here today at your principal’s
request to talk to you about a career in the Marine Corps.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Captain Emillian marched to the front of the stage and planted her hands on her hips. “I know
what you’re thinking.”
A nervous titter ghosted around the assembly hall, suggesting that Emillian might not want to
know what many of the boys were thinking right at that moment. “And it’s ‘Why in the name of all
holy hell would I want to join the Marine Corps?’ Right? After all, as graduates of this school, you’ll
no doubt be expecting to go into some cushy, well- paid job. And it’s dangerous, isn’t it? You might
get killed. The Corps is for losers who don’t have any other options open to them, isn’t it?”
Arcturus saw Principal Steegman’s eyes widen in surprise. Captain Emillian’s presentation
obviously wasn’t starting in the way he had imagined and for that reason alone, Arcturus found
himself warming to this pretty marine captain.
“Well, if you’re thinking that, I’ve got some news for you, boys. You’re dead wrong.”
Captain Emillian swept her gaze around the room, her condence and steely demeanor
capturing everyone’s attention.
“The Confederate Marine Corps embodies three principals,” said Emillian, slapping her st into
her palm to emphasize each one. “Strength. Pride. Discipline. Those ideals have enabled the
Confederate Marine Corps and the Colonial Fleet to defend Confederate interests along the
galactic rim for more than a century and a half. And right now, you’re thinking that marines are just
resocialized panbrains, but I’m here to tell you that’s just not true. Marines come from all walks of
life, from every level of society, but they are united by one thing—their devotion to the preservation
of the Confederate way of life.”
As Emillian spoke, the projection screen behind her displayed images of laughing marines as
they abseiled down clis, played padball, or skied down snowy mountainsides. To Arcturus’s eye,
they appeared to be having so fantastic a time it was a wonder they managed to do any soldiering at
all.
“The Corps oers countless opportunities for young men and women to see the sector and gain
valuable real- world experience. We will train you. We will teach you. We will shape you into an
ecient warrior, garnering respect and admiration from your peers. During your service, you can
choose where and what you learn. And when you come out after your short service period, you’ll
have a strength of character that you’ll nd nowhere else.”
The projection screen now showed marines working through an assault course, men and women
with rippling muscles and movie- star good looks. Once again, they appeared to be having the time
of their lives, despite the rigors of the physical exertion, and Arcturus wondered who had shot this
promotional lm—clearly someone not averse to incredible visual hyperbole.
“The Corps has an honorable tradition of service and there are a great many benets to joining
up. Pay and conditions in the Marine Corps have steadily improved over the years and barely fty
percent of recruits ever see active combat. But armed with the latest weaponry and armor
technology, a marine has little to fear from the kinds of folk that need ghting. And don’t forget that
your service becomes part of your permanent record. Combine that with the reputation of this ne
institution and you have the key to open any door you want once you muster out. A life in the
Marine Corps is one lived without limits, a life lived for the greater good of the Confederacy and
everyone in it. You can be part of that, boys. You can make a dierence. You can be all you can be.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Despite himself, Arcturus found himself swept up in the general enthusiasm that lled the
assembly hall. The endlessly repeating images of handsome, fullled soldiers and Emillian’s
charismatic delivery combined to make him feel that a life in the military might not be such a bad
option.
Captain Emillian stood back and saluted the assembled boys, and the two marines standing
behind her repeated the gesture. Thunderous applause erupted and Arcturus found himself
standing with the other boys as they rose to their feet to give Captain Emillian a standing ovation.
She smiled and gave a short bow, turning to shake Principal Steegman’s hand. Arcturus wanted
to laugh at how ridiculously insignicant the man looked next to the armored marine.
Steegman returned to his lectern and raised his hands for silence, which was forthcoming only
after a few minutes of clapping and wolf whistles. When the boys sat down, Steegman said, “Thank
you, Captain Emillian, for those stirring words. I’m sure you have given our senior year a lot to think
about.”
Again, scattered sniggers broke out amongst the assembled boys.
“And now,” continued Steegman, oblivious to the eect his ill- chosen words were having, “I
want you to take some time to collect some of the literature kindly provided by the Confederate
Marine Corps. Classes will resume in one hour, so you’ll have plenty of time to gather anything you
wish and talk with the marine recruiting sergeants.”
Arcturus followed Steegman’s gaze and saw a number of tables stacked high with pamphlets and
books set out along the side of the assembly hall. He’d not noticed them before, his attention
captured by Captain Emillian and her dog- and- pony show. Tall, attractive marines of both sexes in
immaculately pressed dress uniforms of navy blue and gleaming brass stood behind each table,
hands clasped tightly behind their backs.
“Dismissed,” said Principal Steegman, and there was a rush of bodies as the boys of the academy
stood and made their way eagerly over to the tables.
Arcturus followed the herd, curious to see what might be on oer.
“Hold still, will you,” said Katherine Mengsk, fastening the red toga around her husband’s
shoulder with a bronze clasp. “This is hard enough as it is without you dgeting all the time.”
“Pain in the damn neck is what it is,” said Angus. “Remind me why I need to wear this?”
“Tradition,” replied his wife.
“Tradition,” spat Angus, as though it were the lthiest swear word he knew.
“You can’t very well give the Close of Session speech to the Senate in that old suit of yours, now
can you, dear?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Fine,” said Angus. “But why are you making me wear it now? The speech isn’t for another two
months.”
Achton Feld concealed a smile at Angus’s pouting and complaining as his wife turned him this
way and that to alter the cut and hang of the ceremonial robes of a senator of Korhal. The robes
were heavy and uncomfortable- looking, but the governmental apparatus of Korhal had a long
tradition of pomp and ceremony where its procedures were concerned.
“Because, dear,” said Katherine patiently, “it needs a few adjustments. It’s been a few years since
you wore it and you are not as sylphlike as once you were.”
“So you’re saying I’m fat,” said Angus.
“Not at all,” replied Katherine lightly. “Merely more statesmanlike.”
Angus looked unconvinced, and Feld rose from his chair and made his way to the Skyspire’s
balcony window as he felt his employer’s gaze linger on him, daring him to laugh at his discomfort.
Feld shifted the holster beneath his jacket, wincing as his shoulder pulled stiy from where the
doctors had removed six Impaler spikes from him. He’d been told he was lucky to be alive; four
inches to the side and his lungs would have been perforated.
Months of agonizing skin grafts and bone reconstruction surgery had given him plenty of
opportunities to curse that luck when the pain meds wore o and left him with a bone- deep ache
that not even scotch could obliterate.
Katherine continued to fuss over Angus and Feld left them to it, activating the force eld that
protected the balcony and heading outside. The energy shield had cost a small fortune and not only
protected the balcony from ballistic projectiles, energy weapons, and electronic surveillance, but
also kept out the winds that howled around so high a structure.
Feld made his way over to the handcrafted ironwork barrier at the edge of the balcony and gently
rested his elbows on it as he leaned out and admired the view.
As far as views went, it was up there with the best of them.
The upper balcony of the Mengsks’ tower was on the one hundred and sixtieth oor of the
building, some eight hundred meters above street level. The mountains to the north reared up like
the ramparts of a giant’s castle and to the south the landscape became progressively greener until it
reached the azure line of the ocean.
On a clear day such as this, the distant coastline was visible and you could see the summer villa as
an oblong of white through the optical viewer that sat on its tripod on the edge of the balcony.
The city of Styrling was laid out before Feld in a grid of silver, with soaring towers rising to
either side of the Skyspire like stalagmites of steel and glass. From here, the sheer scale and life of
the city was apparent, and that such a vast conurbation had been built in so short a time was
testament to the ingenuity and dedication of the people of Korhal.
That it had been achieved in the face of rampant Confederate corruption made it all the more
impressive. Feld loved Styrling; from here he could see the green of the Martial Field, the site of
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Korhal’s establishment as a member planet of the Confederacy. That day had been lled with so
much promise so many years ago, but now, as a parade ground for Confederate marines, the Martial
Field served only as a bitter reminder of how bad things had become.
Across from the Martial Field was the Palatine Forum, home of the Korhal Senate. Its bronze
roof shone like a beacon, shimmering like molten gold in the sunlight.
“Inspiring, isn’t it?” said Angus, appearing at Feld’s side on the balcony. “Reminds you what we’re
trying to achieve.”
For a big man, Angus Mengsk could move silently when he wanted to. Feld hadn’t heard him
approach.
“Yeah, it’s some view,” agreed Feld.
“The jewel in the crown of the Confederacy, they call it.”
“I’ve heard. And now you want to pluck that jewel.”
“Right from under them,” said Angus with a smile. “It’s not their jewel to keep. Not anymore.”
“And what will we do if we win?” asked Feld.
“If we win?” said Angus. “Don’t you think we can defeat the Confederacy?”
“I don’t care anymore,” said Feld, standing up straight and stretching his shoulder. “I just want to
hurt them.”
“Oh, we’ll do that, my friend. Have no fear of that,” promised Angus.
“You really think we can bring them down?”
“I do,” Angus said, nodding. “I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t believe that. It may not happen in
our lifetimes, but what we start here will be the beginning of something truly exceptional. Even a
landslide has to start with a single pebble, eh?”
“That’s true,” conceded Feld.
“The inuence of the Confederacy is spreading,” continued Angus, warming to his theme as he
always did when talking of his hatred of corruption, “but the people with the power to take action
are the very ones who won’t recognize that there’s a terrible malignancy at the heart of that power.”
“Why do you think that is? It must be obvious, surely?”
“Of course it is, but recognizing the problem creates a moral obligation to then do something
about it,” said Angus. “And too many people have too vested an interest to take action.”
“But not you?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“The Old Families and the Council can make things dicult for me, yes, but all the Mengsk
businesses are largely self- sucient. We own every part of the process involved in my factories, from
the hovercar plants to the AAI production lines. There’s nowhere for them to squeeze us.”
“Not legally.”
“I’ve no doubt that the Confeds will throw money at any number of pirate bands or mercenary
troops to cause us trouble o world, but we’ve come too far to give up now. Pretty soon we’ll be able
to do more than plant bombs or ambush lone squads of marines. Soon we’ll be able to declare war.”
Feld heard the unmistakable relish in Angus’s tone and wondered if the senator truly appreciated
what was at stake in taking on the awesome power of the Confederacy. Lives had already been lost,
and Confederate troops were cracking down hard all across Korhal.
Early morning raids on those they suspected of terrorist activities were commonplace, and only
Feld’s rigorous insistence on watertight security and isolation among the various active cells had
kept the integrity of the edgling resistance movement intact.
Though Korhal wasn’t yet under anything that resembled martial law, it wouldn’t take much to
force the Confederates’ hand.
“Let’s walk before we run,” cautioned Feld. “If we rush things, we risk losing everything.”
“You’re right, of course,” said Angus. “But the moment is coming where the scales will start to
tip, and if we don’t act when it comes we’ll miss it. And it’s coming soon, Achton. The guns and tech
being brought in from Umoja makes us stronger every day. Our men are now almost as well
equipped as the marines.”
That was true, reected Feld. Every day, shipments of “industrial parts” for the Mengsk factories
came from Umoja via a number of dummy corporations and along circuitous freighter routes.
Innocuously labeled and accompanied by all the correct documentation, these freighters’ cargo
containers were laden with the guns, ammunition, explosives, armor, and technology that allowed
the Korhal freedom ghters to wreak havoc on the Confeds at the behest of Angus Mengsk.
“I never thought Ailin Pasteur would come through like he has.”
“He’s a good man, Ailin, and not to be underestimated,” said Angus. “I’ve no doubt he’s helping
us more for the Umojan cause than our own, but I’ll take whatever I can get.”
“He’s still coming back for your Close of Session speech?”
Angus nodded. “Indeed. He and Juliana are returning to Korhal at the end of the week.”
“His daughter’s coming?” said Feld, making no eort to hide his irritation.” That wasn’t in the
security briefs. It’ll complicate things. Why wasn’t I told?”
“I just heard this morning,” said Angus, his tone neutral. “Apparently my son has asked Ailin’s
daughter to accompany him to his graduation ball. And, irritatingly, she has accepted.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Feld looked away, cursing Arcturus for adding this unnecessary burden to his already
overworked security sta. In addition to the extra security measures he had instituted since the
attack on the summer villa, Feld had assigned men to keep watch on each member of the Mengsk
family.
Katherine was relatively easy to protect, as she kept close to Angus, and Dorothy was escorted to
and from her preschool playgroup, but Arcturus seemed to delight in making Feld’s life dicult,
and this was surely another of his schemes to test Feld’s patience.
“Great,” said Feld. “Another problem I could do without. As if you weren’t making things
dicult enough.”
“I know what you’re going to say, Achton, and the answer’s still no.”
Feld knew he was ghting a losing battle with Angus, but that didn’t stop him from trying.
“Look,” said Feld. “You need more guards when you make your walk to the Forum. You’re too
exposed, and if you don’t let me put more men on the ground beside you, I can’t guarantee your
safety.”
“I told you,” said Angus, his tone suggesting he was growing weary of having this argument. “I
won’t walk to the Senate surrounded by armed soldiers. I can’t look as though I’m traveling as a war
leader. For now I need to be seen as the voice of peace.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” said Angus. “That’s the end of it. I’ve already consented to the ruinous cost of a
personal force eld, which I’m not happy about, but I will not be surrounded by soldiers. The
Forum is a place of democracy and debate, and Lennox Craven will call me a tyrant or a usurper if I
walk in with armed men at my back.”
“It’s your funeral,” said Feld. “I’m just telling you what I think. Hey, I could have taken a cushy
job on Brontes getting paid a fortune to babysit rich kids, you know.”
“So why didn’t you?”
Feld sighed. “Hell, I’d have died of boredom, you know that.”
“You’re a man of action,” agreed Angus. “And you are my friend, so it means a lot to me to know
how worked up you’re getting over my safety.”
“Just remember, that force eld’s going to give you only a few minutes’ protection, just enough to
get you to the Forum.”
“Yes, so you’ve told me a dozen times already.”
Feld shook his head with a rueful smile. “I still get paid if you die, right?”
“Honestly, Feld, I swear you’re worse than my mother ever was.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“She was a sensible woman, your mother,” said Feld.
“Pah, there’s nothing to worry about, Feld,” said Angus. “You’re jumping at ghosts, nothing
more.”
The press of bodies around the tables had eased now and Arcturus lifted one of the pamphlets.
An animated graphic of the Confederate ag billowed beneath the words, “The Confederate
Marine Corps—A Place for Heroes.”
The two marines who had stood immobile behind Captain Emillian circulated throughout the
assembly hall, demonstrating aspects of their armor and allowing students to handle their AGR-14
gauss ries.
Arcturus replaced the pamphlet as the marine recruiting sergeant loomed over the table. He
could smell the polish of the brass on the man’s uniform and the sweet, slightly sickly aroma of gun
oil. The marine’s face was open and earnest, but devoid of any real personality.
“Thinking of joining up, son?” asked the man.
“Maybe,” said Arcturus. “I haven’t decided.”
“It’s an honorable profession, son,” said the marine, and Arcturus noticed the telltale bump of
resocialization scars just above the neckline of his uniform’s collar as he bent down.
“When did you enlist?” asked Arcturus.
“Six years ago, and never looked back,” said the marine automatically, and Arcturus caught the
whi of words said by rote. “Best decision I ever made, son, let me tell you. I’ve traveled all over the
Koprulu sector, seen all kinds of worlds, and met me plenty of interesting folks.”
“And killed them?” nished Arcturus mischievously.
“Well, let’s put that to one side just now,” suggested the marine. “What’s your name, son?”
“Arcturus Mengsk.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Arcturus. Now, what you need to think of are all the
opportunities the Corps can oer you. Travel, self- respect, honor, discipline—”
“Well, have you?” interrupted Arcturus. “Killed anyone, I mean?”
“See here, Arcturus,” said the marine sergeant. “Being a marine means you got to kill people
sometimes, but only those as deserve it. When bad folks are trying to kill me or my buddies, it ain’t
no choice. When someone’s got a gun pointed at you, well, there’s only thing you can do, right?”
“I suppose it depends on why they’re pointing the gun at you,” said Arcturus.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Making trouble, are you, Mengsk?” said a voice behind him, and Arcturus recognized the
supercilious tones of Principal Steegman.
“Not at all, sir,” said Arcturus, turning on his heel. “Just nding out what I’d be getting into.”
“A stint in the military would do you a power of good, Mengsk,” said Steegman. “Knock some of
the smart- ass out of you. Bit of military discipline would soon sort you out.”
“I wasn’t aware I needed sorting out, sir.”
Steegman leaned in close, and Arcturus had to resist the urge to cough at the overpowering reek
of the man’s aftershave.
“I know your type, Mengsk,” hissed Steegman. “If I had my way, I’d have you all drafted. A dose
of military training is just what a boy needs to turn him into a man.”
Before Steegman could press his point, a shadow fell over him and Arcturus looked up into the
face of Angelina Emillian. Up close, she was even more impressive, the bulk of her combat armor
giving her an extra foot of height over Arcturus, who wasn’t exactly small.
She absolutely towered over Principal Steegman.
“And what unit did you serve with, Principal Steegman?”
“Excuse me?”
Captain Emillian smiled sweetly, displaying perfect teeth in a perfect smile. “I merely asked what
unit you served with. In your time with the military.”
“I, uh…haven’t,” said Steegman. “I mean, that is to say, I couldn’t.”
Arcturus bit his lip to hide his amusement at Steegman’s discomfort and kept his eyes downcast.
When he looked up, he saw Steegman staring at him, his face orid with embarrassment.
“I wonder if I might have a word with Mr. Mengsk,” asked Emillian.
Steegman nodded curtly and all but ed from the marine captain.
“I think I love you,” said Arcturus with a broad grin.
“You wouldn’t be the rst,” returned Captain Emillian.
Arcturus watched Principal Steegman’s departing back and said, “He’s always made out he
served in the military, but I’d always suspected he was lying.”
“To be fair, he did apply to join the Colonial Fleet, but he failed the entrance exams and couldn’t
pass the physical. And between you and me, the physicals for the eet are a cakewalk.”
“Well, thank you for sparing me from him, Captain,” said Arcturus.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Mr. Mengsk?” said Emillian as he turned away.
“Yes?”
“I didn’t save you from your principal’s attentions out of the goodness of my heart. I do actually
want to speak with you.”
“Oh? Well, of course,” said Arcturus, pleased the captain had singled him out. He could see his
fellow students looking over with envious eyes and relished the attention being lavished upon him.
“Thank you, Sergeant Devlin,” said Emillian, addressing the marine still standing to attention
behind Arcturus. “That will be all.”
The marine sergeant snapped a smart salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
With that, Captain Emillian strode o, her hands clasped behind her back, and Arcturus was
forced to step lively to catch up with her.
“Do you always bring resocialized marines to recruitment drives?” asked Arcturus.
“Most of the time,” said Emillian. “They don’t make great speakers, but they do a good job in
giving the right answers to students’ questions.”
“So what did he do?” asked Arcturus. “Sergeant Devlin, what did he do?”
“I don’t know,” replied Emillian. “Those les are sealed. Once you’re a marine, resocialized or
otherwise, your past life is irrelevant. You’re a marine, plain and simple.”
“How very egalitarian, but I don’t think that’s entirely true, is it?”
“No, it’s not, but would you rather hear how he murdered his entire family with a butcher knife?
Or maybe that he enjoyed molesting small boys in the park?”
“I see your point,” said Arcturus, looking over his shoulder at the bland face of Sergeant Devlin
and imagining it contorted with rage, a bloody knife in his hand.
“The few, the proud, the psychotic…” said Arcturus.
“You’re trying to make fun of us, but it won’t work, Arcturus,” said Emillian with a smile.
“No? Why not?”
“Because I already know you’re thinking of joining up.”
“I am?” said Arcturus. “And how would you know such a thing?”
“I know more about you than you think. I’ve seen your test scores and read your psych prole. I
know you have ne leadership skills and a condence that makes people want to follow you. I know
that you have a problem with authority gures you consider your inferiors and that your IQ is at the
upper end of genius level.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Those les are classied,” said Arcturus, more irritated at her spot- on assessment of his
personality than at the violation of his privacy. He didn’t like to be so easily read by others.
“Yes they are, but Principal Steegman allowed us to read up on his nal- year students before we
came here today. Makes selecting likely candidates for recruitment much easier.”
“Isn’t that against the law?”
“Almost certainly.”
Arcturus was surprised at Emillian’s easy admission and smiled as he realized why she’d allowed
it. “You’re trying to put me at ease by sharing a secret,” he said. “If you’ve read my psych prole, then
you think I’ll trust you more if I think you’re being honest with me and appeal to my sense of
rebelliousness.”
Captain Emillian nodded. “Very good. Is it working?”
“A little,” admitted Arcturus, enjoying the back- and- forth he was sharing with this attractive
warrior woman.
“So tell me, Arcturus,” said Emillian, stopping at one of the sergeants’ booths and lifting a
handful of dierent yers. “What do you want to do with yourself once you leave the academy?”
“I was thinking of becoming a prospector, traveling to the fringe worlds and exploring the edge
of space. There’s planets there that even the Confederacy hasn’t set foot on. I want to leave my mark
on history—name a planet, discover something no one’s ever seen before. You know, the usual…”
“A prospector,” said Emillian. “That’s an honorable profession. Did you know the Corps can help
you with that?”
“Really? How?”
“Most of our tours take place out on the fringe worlds. We deal with miners all the time. You’d be
able to pick up some real rsthand experience dealing with mines, miners, and the like. Not to
mention the training you’d get on your downtime. The further education facilities on our eet ships
are second to none, equipped with the very best in neural interface mnemo- tutors. You could learn
entire new skill sets while you slept.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Arcturus, surprised to nd he was actually intrigued.
“You could do a lot worse than the Corps,” said Emillian, handing him the yers she’d picked up.
“With your test scores, you easily qualify for ocer training. And once you’ve completed your basic
service, you’re free to leave if you want and use the skills you’ve learned in the military and apply
them in civilian life.”
“Ah…my ‘basic service’…” said Arcturus. “How long would that be?”
“The Corps oers a range of exible terms,” said Emillian smoothly. “It all depends on your
circumstances and the current threat level as dened by High Command.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“And what’s the current threat level?”
Emillian smiled. “Low,” she said.
CHAPTER 5
GRADUATION DAY. ARCTURUS FELT A NERVOUS thrill of excitement coursing
though him at the thought of nally escaping the connes of Styrling Academy. After the Marine
Corps recruitment morning, Arcturus had found his thoughts returning more and more to the idea
of joining up. He had even lled in the electronic application form, though he had not yet submitted
it.
The idea of learning the skills of a prospector while being paid by the Confederacy appealed to
him, as did the idea that it would drive his father up the wall. And given the current low level of
threat in the Koprulu sector, it seemed likely that he would need to serve only a minimum of three
years before he was eligible to resign his commission and begin his life as a prospector.
Yes, the idea had its merits, but in the back of his mind, he couldn’t shut out the idea that his life
would be at risk, and Arcturus hated the idea of placing himself in physical danger.
Wasn’t that what the marines were for, to keep danger away?
He put the military from his mind and concentrated on the day at hand. He had enough to
concentrate on without creating distractions.
Styrling Academy was bathed in sunlight, the gray granite shining like marble and imparting a
sense of modernity to the building. A wide stage had been set up on the lawn before the main
portico, with row upon row of seats facing it.
The hundred and fty- six students of the senior year who were graduating (and that was all of
them, for an institution of the stature of Styrling Academy did not allow its students to do anything
so prosaic as fail) sat in these seats, dressed in long black capes edged with pale blue silk and
wearing mortarboard hats.
Bleachers had been set up on either side of the seats in the center of the lawn, and proud parents
sat watching their ospring nally graduate from school. Behind the lectern at which Principal
Steegman handed out gold- edged scrolls containing diplomas sat the tutors and masters of the
academy. Accompanying them were distinguished alumni of the academy, CEOs of major
corporations, noted academics, patrons of the arts, senior marine commanders, and even the chief of
the Styrling Police Force.
The principal of Styrling Academy was dressed in his full ceremonial robes of black and gold,
complete with scarlet chasuble and tall, conical hat—which made him look like a cockaded martinet
—and Arcturus was sure he was concealing height augmenters beneath his robes.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The school band played rousing tunes as the students walked toward the stage one by one and
accepted their diploma from Steegman to the hearty applause of their parents and the curt applause
of those whose sons or daughters had already accepted their diplomas or had yet to receive them.
By virtue of his surname, Arcturus was in the middle of the list of names being called out by a
lower school prefect, and he eagerly awaited his turn to take the walk to the stage. He glanced over
at the bleachers, smiling as he saw his family watching with pride.
Dorothy saw him looking and waved enthusiastically. His mother gave a more restrained wave,
and even his father gave him a proud nod of acknowledgment.
Sitting next to his father was Ailin Pasteur and beside him was Juliana. It was the rst time
Arcturus had seen Juliana since the attack on the summer villa, and he was struck again by her
stunning beauty. Aside from her being someone to write to, Arcturus hadn’t thought of her much,
but seeing her here in the esh reminded him of the desire she had stirred in him upon their rst
meeting.
The student next to him, a panbrained moron by the name of Toby Mercurio, followed his gaze
and said, “Who’s the curve, Mengsk? Sweet looker.”
Mercurio was from one of Styrling’s nouveau riche families and had little in the way of breeding,
still using slang imported from the Gutter of Tarsonis. Despite that, Arcturus couldn’t fault his
conclusion.
“Yes,” agreed Arcturus, looking forward to the graduation ball that evening. “Sweet is exactly
what she is.”
“You taking her to the ball tonight?”
“I am indeed, Toby.”
Arcturus tuned out Mercurio’s nonsensical banter and concentrated on the names being called
out. He smiled as he heard names beginning with K being called out.
Not long now…
The K’s didn’t last too long, and Arcturus felt his heart rate utter as his own name was called.
He rose from his seat, glancing over his shoulder to where his family watched, and strode out into
the aisle between the two rows of seats. The clapping of the students was somewhat muted, but
Arcturus knew they would soon be changing their tune.
He walked with his head held high, reaching the front of the stage and making his way to the
steps at the side. The school photographer took a vidsnap and Arcturus lifted his gaze toward
where he knew his mother and father would be recording the event on holocam.
Arcturus smiled for the photographer, then ascended the steps and walked casually across the
stage to where Principal Steegman waited with a gold- rimmed diploma. Arcturus xed his most
ingratiating smile across his face and extended his hand to receive the scroll.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
It was traditional for the principal to congratulate a graduating student and wish him well in his
future endeavors, but Arcturus had no illusions that Steegman would make any such gesture. He
was not to be disappointed.
“You’ll come to a rotten end, Mengsk,” said Steegman, handing him the diploma. “I can always
tell the bad ones. And you’re the worst of the lot.”
Arcturus took the proered scroll in his left hand and oered his right to Steegman, which, his
being unwilling to appear ungracious before the parents and alumni, the principal shook.
“Thank you,” said Arcturus. “I hope you enjoy your new residence.”
Steegman’s face registered confusion, but he quickly recovered and waved Arcturus o the stage.
Arcturus swiftly made his way around the back of the seated students, holding his diploma up with
a smile for his mother and father to see.
Juliana was on her feet, clapping and staring at him with rapt adoration, and Arcturus smiled.
He walked back to his seat and quickly shed his remote terminal console from within his coat
pocket.
Little more than a simple communications device with an optical reader, the console
nevertheless had the capability to tap into computer networks remotely. So long as you had the
connection key and authorization codes, you could get into pretty much any network without too
much trouble.
Arcturus quickly tapped in the codes for Steegman’s console, long since having memorized the
details from the many times he had been summoned to the principal’s oce and seen them entered
in the mirror behind the idiot’s desk.
Numbers and letters ashed across the screen for several seconds until a small square appeared
on the screen with a line of text beneath it.
DNA verication required.
Arcturus pressed a ngertip onto the optical reader and a green light ashed on the screen.
Identity Conrmed: Isaac Steegman.
He laid the console down on his knee and peeled o the thin, transparent coating he’d coated his
right hand with before walking out onto the graduation eld. The one- way bio- mimetic gel had
been simplicity itself to create in the academy’s chem- labs and would disintegrate in the sunlight
within a few moments now that he’d removed it.
Arcturus picked up the console once more and opened Steegman’s private directories. Using a
linguistic algorithm based on a few well- chosen keywords, he quickly discovered the les he’d
known he’d nd.
“My God, he didn’t even try and hide them.” Arcturus laughed.
“What’s that?” asked Toby Mercurio, sitting back down next to him with his diploma.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“You’ll see,” Arcturus said with a smile. “Just wait.”
Quickly and methodically, he highlighted every le his algorithm had turned up, then set his
console to scan the surrounding area for fones and other personal consoles. Hundreds of personal
designations scrolled past on the screen, his father’s and the SPF chief’s amongst them, and
Arcturus set the console to send the selected les to every one of them.
Arcturus’s nger hovered over the Send icon and he hesitated for the briefest second, savoring
the moment.
“To the victor go the spoils,” he whispered, and pressed Send.
Angus rested his arms on the balcony of the Skyspire as he stared out over the nighttime
cityscape of Styrling. During the day, the view was impressive, but at night it was something truly
spectacular. An ocean of light spread across the hinterlands that sprawled from the mountains, a
web of interconnected light that reected on the underside of the clouds with a warm, golden glow.
Despite the turmoil engulng Korhal, the bombings, the unrest, and the Confederate
crackdowns, being up here at night always brought Angus peace. Looking over the city from the
balcony gave him a sense of perspective he often lacked when dealing with the minutiae of the life he
had chosen.
Sometimes it was good to step back from what you were doing and look at the larger picture.
Yes, things were hard just now, but with every blow struck against the tyranny of the Confederacy,
their hold on Korhal slipped a little further.
Angus scratched a long- ago- healed scar on his forearm, earned on a hunting trip with his father
in the forests of Keresh Province to the east, which had taught him that there was no more
dangerous a beast than a cornered one. Achton Feld had called Korhal the jewel in the
Confederates’ crown, which was an apt description, and the Council and the Old Families weren’t
going to give it up without a ght.
Well, they were going to nd out just how much the people of Korhal wanted them gone.
Angus could feel his anger growing as he turned the many injustices inicted upon the people of
the Koprulu sector over in his mind.
On Tyrador X, Confederate meddling and illegal nancial dealings had caused the planetary
economy to collapse, resulting in mass unemployment on a global scale. Only extensive loans
(complete with ruinous rates of interest) and economic restructuring that placed the entire system in
the hands of the Old Families had prevented entire continents of people from starving to death.
Another favorite tactic was to set up loss- leading businesses on the fringe worlds—where the
Old Families’ monopolies were not ironclad—to run local competitors out of business. Once any
competition was eliminated, those same businesses would begin charging extortionate prices for
basic necessities.
While the use of corrupt business stratagems was the Confederacy’s preferred modus operandi,
the Old Families were not above using force to take what they wanted.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
A prospecting team from the Kel- Morian Combine exploiting the Paladino Belt, an asteroid
eld containing huge mineral reserves within the larger rocks, had been eliminated when CMC
forces launched an assault to capture its leader, a man apparently wanted for murder on Tarsonis.
The deaths were described as a tragedy, but within days, a Confederate mining team was working
the eld, complete with marine garrison and battlecruiser support.
Hundreds of similar stories were the common currency of the Confederacy, tales of greed,
bribery, corruption, and nepotism told over a drink with a resigned shrug and a shake of the head.
The injustice of it all screamed out for someone to x the problem, but the scale of the Confederacy
was such that no one could do anything. It was the way of things, said people.
Angus Mengsk was going to prove that belief wrong.
He did not relish the thought that he had brought violence to the streets and cities of Korhal, but
he knew that it was the only way to wake people up to what was going on around them.
Already things were beginning to change here. Angus was bringing the agrant abuses of power
perpetuated by the Confederacy to light, and the people were nally opening their eyes.
And they did not like what they were seeing.
When you watched a tale of misuse of power on the UNN, it was far away and thus easily
forgotten, but when trouble hit close to home it was harder to ignore.
And when those misuses of power began to threaten your livelihood and the future of your
family, even the most torpid of viewers would be forced to take a stand.
Angus did not want power for himself and he had no desire to replace the faceless, conscienceless
Council with a tyrant of his own making. No, when the Confederacy fell, he would become part of
the process of creating a democratic government that sought to benet all mankind, not one that
served the will of one man.
He sensed a presence behind him and smiled as he caught the fragrance of Epiphany, his wife’s
perfume. Angus turned to see Katherine standing in the green dress of shimmering taeta with navy
bodice she had worn to Arcturus’s graduation ceremony earlier that day.
“You look beautiful, Kat,” said Angus, accepting one of the thin- stemmed wineglasses his wife
carried.
“You’ve told me that already today, but don’t let that stop you.” Katherine smiled.
“Never,” said Angus. “How did I ever convince you to marry me?”
“You didn’t. I asked you, remember?”
Angus sipped his wine. “I maneuvered you into a position where you had no choice.”
“You keep on thinking that.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
It was a familiar pantomime, one he and his wife often played out in the few moments they had
together in private, away from prying eyes and the needs of business and revolution. Theirs had
been a tempestuous courtship, for both were passionate, independent individuals who did not like
to be overshadowed by another.
But through it all, they had felt a shared need for companionship, recognizing that being one half
of a couple could be as liberating as freedom.
Their wedding had been the most glorious day of his life, and throughout their entire married life
they had been pillars of strength for one another, supporting each other through times of bliss and
despair, and never wavering in their love.
Katherine leaned her head on his shoulder, and Angus kissed the top of her head.
“Dorothy asleep?” he asked.
“Out like a light,” said Katherine. “Today really took it out of her, bless her.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Yes, it was quite a day, wasn’t it?” said Katherine, and Angus laughed so hard tears rolled down
his cheeks.
When he had composed himself, he said, “You always did have a knack for understatement,
dear.”
It had indeed been quite a day, a day that had seen his son nally graduate and the principal of
Styrling Academy hauled o to jail by a former student.
When Angus’s fone had trilled in his pocket, he had been irritated at the interruption of his son’s
graduation day, for he had left strict instructions with all his subordinates that he was not to be
disturbed.
Then he had heard a multitude of clicks, bleeps, and whistles of hundreds of fones and personal
consoles receiving incoming data streams. A ripple of consternation spread throughout the crowd
and Angus felt his stomach lurch as he saw that the originating signal belonged to Arcturus’s
console.
“Oh God, what’s he done now?” Angus whispered as his fone’s screen lit up and a number of les
opened. His practiced eye quickly scanned the contents and his anger built as he ipped though the
various statements and account records.
“The thieving little bastard…,” hissed Angus, looking up and seeing that same anger on scores of
other faces now staring in fury at the principal of Styrling Academy. “I told you he was nothing more
than a damn crook!”
“Who?” asked Katherine, puzzled at the suddenly tense atmosphere.
“Steegman,” barked Angus, making Dorothy inch. “These are his private accounts. The little
toad’s siphoned millions from the school treasury and fund- raisers over the years.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
People were getting to their feet now, an angry hubbub of voices cutting through the sound of
the band and the shouted names of graduating students.
Onstage, Steegman looked puzzled and angry at the disruption, calling for quiet and order. But
as an irate school governor marched over and thrust a portable console in front of him, his face
blanched in horror as he realized what the entire audience had just read.
Looking back over the day, Angus chuckled as he remembered Steegman’s halfhearted attempts
to calm the situation. Violence had been averted only by the chief of the SPF’s hauling the principal
away and bundling him into his groundcar, to the uproarious cheers and applause of the entire
student body.
The news had traveled fast, for Arcturus had been thorough in his dissemination of Steegman’s
les, and within the hour the scandal was being reported on the UNN. Steegman was not
connected to anyone of inuence, and a great deal of the money he had stolen had come from some
very wealthy, very powerful families.
They would throw Steegman to the wolves, and the courts were sure to show him no mercy.
In the aftermath of Steegman’s arrest, the vice principal had tried to calm the situation, but gave
up in the face of a horde of angry parents and jubilant students, who cheered and hurled their
mortarboards into the air.
A near riot had only been avoided by the contagious glee of the students, who danced and
laughed and sang as Steegman was driven away in disgrace. Recriminations and a thorough
investigation of the depths of the principal’s corruption were sure to follow.
With Steegman’s departure, the sta and parents milled around in confusion until the vice
principal led them o into the main administration block like a marching mob, leaving the jubilant
students to continue the party on the main lawn.
Some of the academy’s masters had wanted to cancel the graduation ball planned for the evening,
but after the day’s amusements, it was clear the students weren’t going to allow this day of festivities
to end so quickly.
Now, with the day behind them, Angus and Katherine stood and drank wine as the architect of
the day’s mischief enjoyed his graduation ball.
“I should be angry at him,” said Angus.
“Who?” asked Katherine.
“Arcturus, who else?”
Katherine chuckled. “I know, but it’s hard to be angry with him for today. After all, he’s
graduated now, and you can’t say Steegman didn’t deserve what happened.”
“Oh, he deserved it all right,” agreed Angus with a smile. “And to get his just desserts so
publicly…I almost don’t mind losing the money to have been there to see it.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Katherine leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.
“What was that for?”
“Do I need a reason to kiss my husband?”
“No. Never.”
“Good. I’m proud of you,” said Katherine. “You know that, don’t you?”
Angus nodded. “I know that.”
“I’m proud of you both, you and Arcturus. You’re very alike, you know?”
Angus furrowed his brow and turned to face his wife. “The boy is willful.”
“He’s his father’s son.” Katherine pointed out, laughing.
Angus grunted, unwilling to concede the point. “He has a ne mind and the capacity to achieve
anything. And he wants to waste that talent on prospecting, ying around the fringe worlds, and
associating with backwater hicks and Kel- Morian pirates? It’s no life for a Mengsk. We’re made for
bigger and better things than that.”
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say that was arrogance speaking,” said Katherine.
“You know it’s not, though,” countered Angus. “I know you see it too—you’ve told the boy often
enough that he can be great if he wants to be.”
“That’s just it, isn’t it? It has to be if he wants it. You should know by now you can’t make
Arcturus do anything he doesn’t want to. The more you try and force him down a path, the more
he’ll resist you.”
“Willful,” said Angus again, though his tone was mellow this time.
“Just as you were,” pointed out Katherine. “Until you met me.”
Angus took a drink of wine and leaned down to kiss her. “Then let’s just hope that the women in
his life are as wise and calming as you.”
Katherine smiled at him, and Angus Mengsk knew he was the luckiest man alive.
The assembly hall had been transformed.
On every other day, it was an austere, cold place of announcements, the news of sports results,
and dull speeches, but now it was a place of festivities. Hundreds of students lled the hall,
drinking, dancing, and reveling in the sheer fun of the day. Of course, the only topic of conversation
was Steegman’s arrest and Arcturus’s part in his downfall.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Music pounded from the stage, colorful lights ashed from the ceiling, streamers trailed from
every wall, and even the portraits had been hung with fake beards and noses.
The ball’s theme was aliens from another world, and a oating banner of light shone with the
words: “Class of ’78! They Came From the Stars!”
Papier- mché creatures of all descriptions hung from the roof beams on wires, reared from
punch bowls, or emerged from lovingly detailed lairs set against the walls.
The students’ imaginations had run riot and the past week had seen a frenzy of creation in the art
classes. A carnival of grotesque creatures lled the assembly hall: giant lizards, bulbous oating
jellysh with multiple eyes, snakelike creatures with whipping tails and tentacles for mouths. At the
edge of the stage, sharklike creatures mingled with hairy, multilegged spiders with long necks and
terrifying mandibles.
Arcturus knew the subject of alien life had been an obsession with mankind ever since it had rst
looked up into the night sky in fear and wonder. Thus the abject failure of the Confederacy’s science
and exploration vessels to nd any sign of surviving intelligent alien life was a source of constant
frustration to those who believed that the human race was not alone in the galaxy.
Of course, a few explorers were said to have unearthed ancient ruins they claimed were the
remnants of alien civilizations, but most people believed these to be elaborate hoaxes. Then there
were the big insect creatures on Umoja, which had been domesticated by the people of that world,
but they hardly counted as intelligent life.
Even the band was dressed in alien costumes, made up with latex prosthetics to look like
fearsome creatures with gnarled foreheads, long hair, and jagged, spiky armor. The eect was more
comic than frightening—something Arcturus suspected was half the point.
He normally detested such events, but had to admit he was enjoying himself immensely.
Perhaps he was still on a high from this afternoon’s unmasking of Steegman’s crimes. After all, it
had been deeply satisfying to see the odious little man led away, and he had made sure the principal
knew exactly who’d uncovered his crimes and destroyed his life.
It might also have been due to the attractive girl on his arm, for Juliana Pasteur was, without fear
of contradiction, the most beautiful creature in the room.
But, if he was honest, Arcturus knew it was none of these things—it was the acclaim accorded
him by his fellow students and the near worship in which he was now held. His former status of
pariah had been forgotten now that Steegman was gone, and Arcturus suddenly occupied a position
more akin to a war hero.
It was quite intoxicating.
“Arcturus?” said Juliana as the volume of the music dropped.
“Hmmm?” he said.
“You looked miles away,” she said, oering him a glass of punch.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Sorry,” he said with a winning smile, accepting the glass as he returned his attention to the
beautiful girl standing next to him.
Juliana Pasteur wore an ankle- length gown of ivory silk with a velveteen bodice that hugged her
budding gure and which accentuated her delicate features. Blonde hair spilled around her bare
shoulders in golden ringlets and a ne silver necklace set with an Umojan sapphire hung down her
neck.
He took a sip of the punch and raised an eyebrow. “There’s alcohol in this.”
Juliana nodded. “I saw some students emptying some bottles in earlier, but I don’t think anyone’s
going to mind. Not after today.”
“No,” Arcturus grinned. “I suppose not.”
Juliana took his hand and smiled at him. Over the months they had corresponded, he had reveled
in the power he seemed to have over her, but with her here next to him, he now fully appreciated the
reality of what he had done.
Everything in Juliana’s body language told Arcturus that she had fallen for him, which was
ridiculous given the few times they had actually met. Truth be told, he didn’t know quite what to do
with that, for, while he liked her and found her engaging company, he certainly didn’t reciprocate
the strength of her feelings.
“Dance with me,” said Juliana as the band struck up the opening bars of a song with a more
relaxed tempo that saw couples all over the room make their way to the dance oor. With no
chaperones present, the students of Styrling Academy weren’t about to waste this opportunity for
some dancing that involved full body contact.
“Dance?” said Arcturus. “I don’t think that—”
Juliana took his drink from him before he could protest, then put her own down as well.
“That wasn’t a request,” she said, leading him onto the dance oor.
Arcturus followed her, nervous at the prospect of making a fool of himself, but pleased at the
attention he and Juliana were garnering. Arcturus had to admit they made an attractive couple,
Juliana in her ivory gown and he in his exquisitely cut tuxedo and golden cummerbund.
The idea of kissing her leapt to the forefront of his mind and suddenly the idea of dancing close
to Juliana didn’t seem nearly so bad.
She turned to face him, holding up her arms. “You do dance, don’t you?”
“Not for a long time,” he admitted, taking her left hand and placing his right hand on her hip.
“My mother made me take lessons when I was young, in preparation for my entrance into society. I
always hated them.”
“Don’t worry,” promised Juliana, moving his hand to her backside. “You’ll be ne.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“I fear I may not be the dancer you hope for.”
“Trust me, Arcturus, it’ll all come back.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you if I trample those expensive shoes.”
Juliana smiled, and they began to move in time with the music. Arcturus thought he’d forgotten
the steps of those long- ago lessons, but, sure enough, after his rst faltering steps, he began to move
with the music instead of against it. He and Juliana owed naturally into the rhythm of their shared
movement, and he felt like he’d just stepped out of dance class.
A series of dancers spun past them, the girls oering compliments to Juliana on her outt and the
boys hearty congratulations to Arcturus for having Steegman sent down.
“They really like you here,” said Juliana, looking up at him. “You must be sad to leave.”
Arcturus laughed and shook his head. “Not even a little bit,” he said.
“Really? I think I’m going to be sad when I leave the Umoja Institute next year.”
“That’s because you are well liked and don’t have a troublesome, embarrassing father.”
“Well, since you’re so glad to get out of school, what are you going to do with yourself?”
Arcturus didn’t answer at rst, wondering how much he should tell her of his plans for the future,
for she clearly wanted to be part of them.
“I still want to be a prospector,” he said. “But I don’t think that’s what I’ll do rst.”
“No? Then what?” said Juliana, pressing herself closer to him.
“I think I might join the Marine Corps.”
Juliana looked up sharply at him. “The Marine Corps?”
“Yes, I think it would be good to have some military service on my record,” said Arcturus.
Arcturus could see she was uncomfortable about his joining the Marines, but whether it was
from any concern for his safety or through moral objections, he couldn’t yet tell.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I…I’m not sure,” said Juliana. “It sounds dangerous, but if it’s what you want to do…”
“It’s a stepping- stone, nothing more,” said Arcturus. “It’s not like I plan to stay in the military.
Once I’m done I’ll muster out and be a prospector, just like I always planned.”
“Your father won’t like it.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“I don’t give a damn if he likes it or not,” snapped Arcturus. “It’s my life and I’ll do what I want,
not what he thinks I ought to do. I’ll be eighteen next week and there’s nothing he can do to stop
me.”
Juliana looked into his eyes, seeing the steely determination there, and nodded. “Then I think it’s
wonderful. I just know you’ll be the best soldier they’ve ever had.”
Arcturus wanted to laugh at how easily Juliana had come around to his way of thinking, despite
the anti- Confederate propaganda her father was no doubt feeding her.
“You’ll be a general within six months,” she said. “My hero.”
Sensing a moment of opportunity, Arcturus let go of Juliana’s hand and tilted her chin upward
with a light touch of his ngertips. She guessed what he was doing and closed her eyes, her lips
parting slightly as he leaned in.
Their lips met, and they kissed.
Juliana’s skin was warm to the touch and her lips were soft. She held him tightly, as though afraid
to let him go, and the students closest to them cheered at the sight.
Arcturus felt a surge of vindication at the sound, understanding exactly what it meant.
It meant he could have anything he wanted.
CHAPTER 6
THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE LINED SENATORS’ PARADE, the marble- paved street
that led from the Martial Field to the Palatine Forum. Their cheers were deafening, and Achton
Feld had to concentrate to hear the updates from his men over the mike nestled in his ear.
He had been awake since dawn, overseeing the last- minute preparations for Angus Mengsk’s
walk through the heart of the city. After the attack on the summer villa, Feld had increased security
around the senator, but this had been the moment he had been dreading for weeks.
Angus’s natural disregard for any threats to his person had given Feld dozens of sleepless nights
as he worried about Confederate assassins, lone nutcases, or simply a zealous supporter of Lennox
Craven. To watch for such a threat, Feld had men spread throughout the crowd, equipped with
detectors attuned to the spectral frequency of the alloys used in the ammo of slugthrowers and spike
pistols.
That would detect the most common rearms, but he knew that if anyone in the crowd carried a
more sophisticated weapon, it would need to be visually recognized.
The atmosphere was electric and the mood of the crowd was jubilant (which was something to
be thankful for) as they awaited Angus’s arrival. Today was the nal day of the Korhal Senate’s
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
sitting for the year, and it was traditional for a senator chosen by popular acclaim to deliver the
Close of Session speech.
Ever since he had taken a stand against the tyranny of Confederate rule, it had been clear that it
would be Angus Mengsk the people of Korhal would choose to deliver the speech.
Feld looked along the length of Senators’ Parade, steel barriers keeping the crowd from the road.
Banners with Angus’s name on them were held high alongside ags with the wolf- head emblem of
the Mengsk family crest. The route itself was clear and the gleaming white structure of the Forum
shone like a beacon of light at its end. The roof blazed in the summer sunlight as though are, and
even Feld had to admit that it was an impressive sight.
All being well, Angus would walk through the great oaken doors of the Forum and stand before
the assembled senators and visiting planetary dignitaries to deliver his speech. And after that…well,
after that, the dynamic between Korhal and the Confederacy would be changed forever.
Feld heard a double click in his earpiece and felt a jolt of adrenaline hit his system.
Angus was on his way.
Sure enough, Feld saw the silver ’58 Terra Cougar as it pulled slowly around the curve of the
road that led to where he awaited his employer and friend. The groundcar moved slowly and Feld
silently willed it to hurry up as the noise of the crowd grew louder with word of Angus’s arrival.
At last the groundcar pulled up, and Feld moved quickly to open the door. The door slid upward
and Angus Mengsk emerged from within, resplendent in his bright red toga. Angus stood tall,
waving to the crowd with his head held high, his smile warm and genuine.
Katherine Mengsk followed him from the car, and Feld did a slow double take at the sight of
her. She was dressed in a simple yet elegant dress of cornower blue, her long dark hair bound up in
a attering style that brought out the classical lines of her cheekbones.
Angus turned back and took Katherine’s hand, but before he could walk to the end of Senators’
Parade, Feld stepped close and said, “What the hell are you doing, Angus?”
“I’m walking toward the Forum, Achton,” said Angus through his smile. “What does it look like
I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re blatantly disregarding the security plan we discussed. What is Katherine
doing here? She was supposed to meet you at the Forum.”
“I didn’t like that plan,” said Angus. “Now get out of my way. I’m going to walk to the Forum
with my wife, and I don’t want you next to me like a guard dog at my heel.”
“Do you want to get killed?” asked Feld. “Is that it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous—even the Confederacy wouldn’t try anything today,” scoed Angus. “And
we’re both shielded by that force eld of yours. Nothing’s going to happen.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Feld stepped back and allowed Angus to walk past him, angry beyond words that the senator
had so casually thrown out the security plan designed to keep him safe. Angus was probably right
that nothing would happen today, but in Feld’s experience it was usually just at that moment—when
you lowered your guard—that your enemies struck.
Cursing Angus’s need for dramatic gestures, Feld quickly broadcast an update on the security
situation to his men in the crowd and closed the groundcar’s door, thankful that Angus hadn’t gone
the whole hog and decided to bring Dorothy along. The vehicle would follow a discreet distance
behind Angus in case a speedy exit was called for, and Feld just hoped it would not be needed.
Setting o alongside the groundcar, Feld scanned the crowd as Angus began his walk to the
sounds of ecstatic cheers and howls of support. Every face was xed on Angus and his glamorous
wife.
Any one of them could be a potential threat, Feld knew.
I should have taken that job on Brontes, he thought.
Angus felt the mood of the people surging through him and knew he’d made the right decision to
bring Katherine along with him. He was just sorry he hadn’t decided to ask his wife to bring
Dorothy and Arcturus, but quickly discarded that thought.
Bringing a child as young as Little Dot to an event like this would be foolish, and Arcturus…
well, his son would never have agreed anyway. They had spoken little since the events of Graduation
Day, his dealings with Ailin Pasteur and preparations for today’s events taking up the bulk of his
time.
In any case, Arcturus had been spending most of his time since leaving the academy with
Pasteur’s daughter. The only real time Angus and his son had spoken had been yesterday at
breakfast, where, despite his wife’s warning glance, Angus had broached the subject of what
Arcturus was planning on doing with his life.
“I haven’t decided yet,” said Arcturus, and Angus’s political instincts sensed evasion.
“I could set up an interview with Nestor Jurgens,” said Angus nonchalantly. “He runs one of my
machine tooling factories in Fairstens. He’s a good man—you could learn a lot from him.”
“What would I want to learn from a factory manager?” said Arcturus.
“Nestor’s more than just a factory manager,” replied Angus, irritated at his son’s ingratitude. “All
my managers eectively run their businesses autonomously. They’re CEOs and nancial managers
all in one, though, of course, they answer to me. You’re eighteen now, and you’d learn the ropes of
what it takes to succeed in the industrial marketplace and acquire the skills you’ll need if you’re
going to succeed me.”
“Succeed you?” spat Arcturus. “I have plans of my own.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t decided on what you wanted to do.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Well, I have.”
When Arcturus didn’t continue Angus sat back. “Are you going to keep us all in suspense?”
“You’ll nd out,” said Arcturus, and Angus hadn’t liked the sound of that one bit. After Arcturus’s
stunt at Graduation Day, Angus knew his son’s mind could work in the most devious ways.
Arcturus had excused himself from breakfast at that point, and only Dorothy’s spilling her cereal
over the table had prevented Angus from going after him and demanding to know what was going
on.
Angus pushed thoughts of Arcturus from his mind as Katherine gave his hand a squeeze.
He turned to her and kissed her cheek, and the crowd went wild.
They walked along Senators’ Parade, the shimmering whiteness of the Forum drawing them
ever onward. A tall gure in a red toga stood at the top of the steps and Angus smiled as he
recognized Lennox Craven, the senior consul of the Senate and the man who would formally
welcome him.
“This must be killing him,” said Angus. “Having to welcome me in personally.”
Katherine didn’t need to ask who he meant, and smiled back. “I’m sure it is, but I can’t say I have
any sympathy for him.”
Angus heard the steel in her voice, knowing that Katherine believed with utter certainty that
Craven had dispatched the men who had come to kill them in the summer villa. She was probably
right, but without concrete proof, there could be no public accusations.
“I’m going to enjoy watching that bastard squirm,” said Angus.
“Careful, dear,” cautioned Katherine, waving to the crowd. “There are a dozen holocams on you,
and it would be bad form if someone lip- read that from you.”
“Very true,” said Angus. “As always, you are the soothing wind to my raging storm.”
“Such is my role.” She smiled. “But just make sure you do make the bastard squirm.”
Lennox Craven was not a man given to public displays of emotion, but as he watched Angus
Mengsk march toward him with barely disguised relish, it was all he could do to keep the anger
from his face.
Dressed in a red toga identical to Mengsk’s, Craven knew he was nowhere near as imposing or
impressive a gure as his nemesis, but then, he had never set out to make himself a self- styled man of
the people.
He knew for a fact that Mengsk’s public face was as manufactured as that of any of the dozens of
vacuous actors and actresses that UNN’s celebrity channel broadcast day and night. Mengsk might
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
pretend to be the champion of the common man, speaking out against the perceived injustices of the
Confederacy, but hadn’t he in fact beneted massively from all the Council of Tarsonis had done?
Wasn’t Mengsk a wealthy man thanks to the very apparatus he so gleefully attacked with his
speeches in the Forum and his incessant interviews on UNN? No, Lennox Craven knew the true
face of Angus Mengsk, which made it all the more galling that he had to stand here as though they
were the greatest of friends.
It made him want to throw up.
Even with bribes and calling in the many favors he was owed, he had not been able to prevent
Angus from winning the hearts and minds of the people and the right to speak at the Close of
Session. The Council had been most insistent: Angus Mengsk must be silenced. If one of the
Confederate’s most treasured and pampered worlds was seen to turn against them, then it would
only be a matter of time before others attempted to follow its example.
And that could not be allowed to happen.
His paymasters were demanding results, and Lennox Craven had singularly failed to deliver
them.
Thousands upon thousands of people lined the streets, and Craven could not remember a time
when such numbers had come out to watch a senator march to the Forum. He remembered the year
he had been chosen to make the Close of Session speech, and his bitterness at the apathy the people
had displayed threatened to choke him in the face of Angus’s popularity.
He drew himself up to his full height as Angus and his wife reached the bottom of the wide steps
that climbed to the columned portico and the great black doors, beyond which lay the grand
debating chamber.
Angus turned to give another wave to the cheering crowds, raising both arms above his head and
accepting their adulation. He then turned and, taking his wife by the hand, began his ascent of the
steps.
Craven could see the relish in Mengsk’s eyes and prayed the man would stumble and fall at on
his face—anything to puncture the pompous arrogance that surrounded him. But Angus reached
the top of the steps without mishap, and Craven xed a practiced smile across his features and
assumed the dignied mien of a seasoned senator who was about to welcome one of his dearest
friends.
“Angus Mengsk, you’ve brought quite a crowd with you,” he said by way of greeting. “And
Katherine, you look radiant. A pleasure to see you, as always.”
Mengsk’s wife curtsied graciously and said, “Thank you, Lennox.”
Angus Mengsk came forward with his arms open, and Craven’s smile faltered.
Dear God, was the man expecting an embrace?
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The crowds roared, and Craven knew he would have to play along with this charade of
friendship. He opened his arms as Mengsk swept him up in a crushing bear hug, then awkwardly
patted Mengsk’s back in a suitably brotherly fashion, hoping that this would suce.
“I know it was you who sent those men to kill me,” whispered Mengsk. “I just wanted you to
know that before I destroy you in there.”
Craven stiened, but before he could reply, Mengsk released him and made his way to the great
doors of the Forum. Katherine Mengsk swept past Craven, locking her eyes with his as she went to
join her husband. Though she said nothing, her cold gaze pinned him like a buttery on a collector’s
wall.
Taking a deep breath to compose himself, Lennox Craven turned and followed Angus Mengsk
into the Forum, already dreading what the damnable man was going to say in his speech.
The interior of the Palatine Forum was no less magnicent than the exterior, the oor of the
vestibule fashioned from great slabs of black marble veined with gold and its columns uted and
rising to dizzying heights. The alabaster walls were painted with great murals depicting the
pioneers of Korhal’s heroic past: revered senators, intrepid space- farers, great architects, military
commanders, and far- seeing philosophers.
Angus and Katherine crossed the vestibule and approached the bronze doors of the great
chamber of the Forum, behind which could be heard the animated buzz of voices.
Lennox Craven caught up to them, but Angus did not deign to glance in his direction.
Katherine squeezed his hand. Once again, Angus was thankful for her steadying presence.
She turned to him and said, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” said Angus without hesitation.
Katherine smiled and made her way to a door at the side of the vestibule, which Angus knew led
up to the viewing gallery. Tradition demanded that only senators enter the main chamber through
this door, so Katherine would need to view proceedings from above, with the rest of the families
and invited guests.
He waited for a few minutes—pointedly ignoring Lennox Craven—until he was sure Katherine
would have reached her allocated seat. Then he approached the door.
It swung open smoothly, and Angus felt his heart race as he saw the assembled senators and
dignitaries awaiting his arrival.
Yes, he thought, this is my moment.…
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“There’s your mother now,” said Ailin Pasteur, and Arcturus turned to see Katherine Mengsk
threading her way through the assorted family members gathered in the viewing gallery. She saw
him sitting there, her eyes bright at this unexpected pleasure, and Arcturus felt a genuine moment of
regret at what he was about to do to her.
Juliana sat behind her father, full of nervous excitement at the thought of seeing Angus Mengsk
give the Close of Session speech in the Korhal Forum. In the time since graduation, she had spent a
great deal of time with Arcturus, though thanks to the constant presence of a chaperone he had not
had a chance to take her to his bed.
Instead, they had spent most of their time in closely supervised walks through Styrling, and
though he never tired of lling her head with his grandiose dreams of the future, he had begun to
tire of her company.
Not that that would be a problem soon, he thought, picturing the sheaf of papers nestling in his
coat pocket. Only Juliana knew what he planned, but he knew she would say nothing.
His mother smiled as she negotiated her way toward their little group, obviously pleased to see
him there. She smiled at people she passed, and Arcturus could see the genuine aection in which
his mother was held. In addition to being the glamorous wife of a senator, Katherine Mengsk was a
patron of numerous charities and spoke out on many issues that aected people from every strata of
society.
She had been the rst to address the subject of child tracking between worlds, had opened
people’s eyes to the plight of the homeless in Styrling, and had set up numerous health organizations
to aid the many victims of war. His mother oered kind words to everyone she passed, and
watching her easy smile and natural grace made Arcturus realize why she was so beloved by the
people of Korhal.
At last his mother reached them, and Arcturus shifted up on the wooden bench to allow her to sit
next to him. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“I’m so glad you came, Arcturus,” she said, her smile warm and genuine.
“So am I,” said Arcturus.
She directed her attention to the Pasteurs and said, “Ailin, it’s wonderful to see you here. And
Juliana, Angus will be so pleased you came to see him deliver his speech.”
Juliana smiled shyly at Katherine, and Arcturus could see she was a little in awe of his mother.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mengsk.”
“Call me Katherine, dear, please.” She smiled, patting Arcturus’s knee. “You’re practically family
now.”
Ailin Pasteur returned Arcturus’s mother’s smile and said, “I wouldn’t have missed this for the
world, Katherine. People are going to remember this day for a long time to come.”
“I have no doubt of that,” said Katherine, beaming as the master of ceremonies rapped his
bronze- tipped sta on the tiled oor of the Senate oor.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The senators below stood a little taller and everyone in the gallery leaned forward as the bronze
doors opened and Angus Mengsk made his entrance.
Angus raised his arms in triumph as he stepped into the vast domed chamber of the Senate,
recognizing that this was a symbolic as well as a literal crossing of a threshold. Like the most
alluring woman, the Palatine Forum saved its most majestic treasures for last and, as always, Angus
felt a deep sense of pride, awe, and reverence for what this chamber represented.
Democracy, free will, and freedom from oppression.
The central oor was paved with panels of opus sectile, in which porphyry and serpentine gured
prominently. To either side were three broad, low, marble- faced steps, and on the level nearest the
oor sat the more notable senators upon their curule chairs.
The two top steps were broader than the others, and upon them stood hundreds of richly
dressed men and women, the entire body of the Korhal Senate and assorted dignitaries granted
special leave to attend the Close of Session.
Gray marble wainscoting ran along each wall, nished with a molding above which marble
panels were rhythmically placed with only the interruption of three statue- lled niches to break the
pattern. As the wall rose toward the dome, it was faced with tall gray rectangular panels with
golden lettering: the constitutional tenets set down by Korhal’s earliest settlers and the principles by
which its people were to be governed.
The dome itself was made up of heavily gilded lacunaria consisting of square coers set with
golden discs at their centers. Just below the dome was the viewing gallery, where those important
enough to be allowed into the Palatine Forum yet not of sucient stature to set foot in the main
chamber could be seated.
Ailin Pasteur watched from here, as did Katherine, proudly awaiting Angus’s arrival. He resisted
the urge to wave to her. Looking farther along, he was surprised and pleased to see Arcturus next to
her.
Katherine had probably emotionally blackmailed their son to get him here, he gured. Briey he
wondered why Katherine hadn’t told him that Arcturus was going to be here, but put the thought
from his mind. Where Arcturus was concerned, Angus would take what he could get.
He looked up into the dome as thunderous applause swelled from the assembled senators, and
let the moment stretch as he reveled in the acclaim of his peers. When he judged the moment right,
he slowly lowered his eyes to the Confederate ag hung opposite the entrance, below which sat the
senior consul’s plinth.
It was from this plinth that Angus would deliver his speech, and he marched across the oor of
the Senate chamber toward it. With applause still ringing in his ears, he stepped up onto the plinth
and stared up at the red and blue of the ag.
His scathing look made no secret of his loathing for all it represented.
Greed, corruption, and moral stagnation.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
With one swift movement, he reached up and ripped it down.
The cheers of the assembled senators doubled in volume.
Arcturus watched the faces of the people below in the Senate hall and gathered around him in
the gallery as they clapped and cheered. He was amazed they could be so enamored of his father.
Could they not see him for what he was—an ordinary, stubborn man who didn’t know how to
listen? In that moment, a realization crystallized in Arcturus.
It didn’t matter what the reality of a person was, it was what he showed the world that mattered.
The people of Korhal didn’t know the real Angus Mengsk; they knew the reality he gave them, the
manufactured persona calculated to win them over to his cause. It didn’t matter that his father was
as human and as fallible as them; all that mattered was what he meant to them and what he
promised them.
Arcturus had always known that ordinary people were easy to manipulate, but to see supposedly
educated men and women so easily swayed was a revelation.
He sat back as his father strode across the Senate oor toward the senior consul’s plinth, basking
in the applause of his fellow senators. This was a salutary lesson in the power of perception versus
reality, but Arcturus had no wish to sit through another of his father’s impassioned rants about the
iniquities of the Confederacy.
He’d heard enough of those over the course of his young life to last him a lifetime.
It was time.
Arcturus took a deep breath and reached inside his coat pocket, removed the sheaf of crisp
papers he’d signed earlier this morning, and laid them on his lap. He looked over at his mother,
again feeling slightly guilty about what he was about to do, but knowing that this was the right
thing for him to do simply because it was what he wanted to do.
Sensing his scrutiny, his mother glanced over at him, and her clapping faltered as she saw the
papers laid out before him and the insignia emblazoned at the top.
“Arcturus…,” she said hesitantly. “What’s that?”
“Enlistment papers, Mother,” he said. “For the Confederate Marine Corps. I went to the
recruitment oces this morning.”
Katherine looked down at the papers, her confusion turning to cold dread in the space of a
heartbeat. “Oh Arcturus, no…please, no…What have you done?”
She went to lift the papers from him, but he was quicker, and snatched them up before she could
take them as the cheers of the crowd suddenly swelled in volume.
“Arcturus, what did you do?” cried his mother. “Tell me!”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“I joined up,” he said.
“No, no, you didn’t!” said Katherine. “You didn’t. Arcturus, if this is a joke, it’s in very poor taste.”
“I’m not joking, Mother,” said Arcturus. “As of this morning, I’m part of the ocer corps of the
33rd Ground Assault Division under Commander Brantigan Fole.”
“No, no, you’re not. This is some kind of prank, isn’t it?” said his mother, and Arcturus saw real
panic in her eyes. “Isn’t it? Tell me it’s one of your stupid pranks!”
People were turning from watching his father below on the Senate oor to the growing
commotion in the gallery as Katherine’s voice rose in pitch and volume. The applause was still loud
and cheering echoed around the chamber, drowning out their words to all but the nearest
spectators.
“It’s not a prank, Mother,” said Arcturus, cold fury entering his heart at the idea that something
this important to him would be dismissed as a prank. This was his life, and she thought he was
joking?
“I’m leaving this afternoon,” he said.
His mother slapped him across the cheek.
Gasps of surprise spread like ripples in a pond at the sound of her palm connecting with his
cheek.
“You stupid, stupid boy,” stormed Katherine. “You stupid, selsh boy. Is this your way of hurting
your father? Of hurting me? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I know exactly what I’ve done,” said Arcturus, his resolve now hardened in the face of his
mother’s insulting slap. “And you’ve just made it easier for me.”
Katherine reached for him, but he batted her hands away and rose to his feet. His mother looked
up at him, tears spilling down her cheeks, but Arcturus didn’t care anymore. He slid his enlistment
papers back into his coat pocket and said, “Good- bye, Mother. Tell Dorothy I’m sorry I didn’t have
a chance to say good- bye to her. Tell her I’ll write.”
“No!” wept Katherine, her heartbroken cry swallowed up by the clapping that still lled the
Senate chamber. “Oh God, please don’t do this! Arcturus, please, please…wait!”
Arcturus ignored his mother’s terrible, aching grief and strode through the astonished crowd
sitting in the viewing gallery. He could feel their eyes upon him, but kept his head held high,
determined to leave this place with dignity.
A strong hand gripped his arm, and he turned to berate the person for this impudence.
Ailin Pasteur stood behind him, his face a mask of anger. “Your father will never forgive you for
this, Arcturus.”
“I’m not asking him to,” snapped Arcturus, shrugging o the Umojan ambassador’s hand.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Of all the days you could have done this, why today?” demanded Pasteur.
Arcturus returned Pasteur’s stare with a steel gaze of his own. The man recoiled from the
determination in Arcturus’s eyes as though struck.
“Sometimes you have to do something dramatic to make your point,” said Arcturus.
Pasteur shook his head sadly, turning to look at his weeping mother.
“Well, boy,” he said sadly, “you’ve certainly done that. I just hope you don’t live to regret what
you’ve done today.”
“I won’t,” promised Arcturus, turning and walking away.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Starcraft: I, Mengsk
BOOK 2.
ARCTURUS
CHAPTER 7
THE DROPSHIP SCREAMED THROUGH THE UPPER atmosphere of Sonyan,
trailing re from its wings like a swooping phoenix. The armored plates of its heat- shielding rippled
with blazing orange re and left a streaking contrail of vapor in the craft’s wake as it dropped rapidly
toward the planet’s surface.
As ying machines went, it was proof that with a big enough pair of engines, you could get
anything to stay in the air. Its front wings were stubby, swept forward and down, behind which
enormous jet engines coughed to life as the craft hit the atmosphere.
Dropships were designed to carry Confederate military forces into battle in safety and at speed—
though they achieved neither objective particularly well—and as Arcturus gripped the metal
stanchion next to his head he knew that, regardless of any other considerations, comfort had
certainly not been uppermost in the designers’ minds.
Dropships could carry anything from troops to siege tanks in their transport compartments, and
thus the cavernous bay housing Arcturus’s armored marines—designated “Dominion section”—was
an oily, dust- lled metallic cavern.
The dropship shuddered as it leveled out, wind roar and engine noise making conversation
impossible unless carried out over the helmet comms. As well as the six armored soldiers, the
dropship carried a huge siege tank, its colossal, groaning mass held fast with clanking chains and
lling much of the dropship’s internal space. It was breaking regs putting this many soldiers in with
a siege tank, but the orders had come from on high to get them there like this, and Arcturus wasn’t
about to question orders this early in his career.
His ve soldiers sat toward the rear of the red- lit compartment on uncomfortable metal benches
that looked as though a blind welder had attached them to the fuselage’s interior.
“So what’s the situation, LT?” asked Yancy Gray for the hundredth time. “What are we ying
into?”
Arcturus sighed. The irrepressible kid from Tarsonis never let up until he got an answer and he
had a strange, nave belief that the chain of command would keep him informed at every stage of
what was going on. He hadn’t been with the military long enough to know that the grunts on the
front line were like mushrooms: kept in the dark and fed shit.
“Aw, man, how many times you gonna keep asking that, Yancy?” said de Santo, her face
belligerent. “LT’s gonna tell us what’s up when he knows. Right, LT?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Diamond de Santo (or Dia, as her section- mates knew her) was a dark- skinned girl who had
grown up on Tyrador IX, the daughter of indentured workers who toiled in one of the many spas
and resort cities that made the planet such a refuge for the scions of the Old Families. Armies of
men and women who owed money to one of the many Confederate nancial institutions were
forced to work there to repay their debts and ensure that guests didn’t need to lift so much as a
nger.
Needless to say, Diamond de Santo hadn’t enjoyed that life much, and she’d signed up at the rst
recruiting oce she could nd on her eighteenth birthday. In the six months Arcturus had known
her, he had seen the core of a good soldier, but one who had such a chip on her shoulder that it kept
her mouth truculent and her manner rebellious.
Arcturus liked her immensely.
And by some strange, inverted magnetism, de Santo recognized a kindred soul and displayed a
loyalty to Arcturus that reminded him of the bond between his father and Achton Feld.
“Hey, I’m just asking,” said Yancy. “Nothing wrong with wanting to know what’s going on, is
there? I was supposed to be on leave until this new assignment came down the pipe.”
“We were all supposed to be on leave,” said de Santo pointedly, making no secret of her irritation
at that particular stroke of genius from the brass.
She wasn’t the only one annoyed that their leave had been postponed. Arcturus had planned to
return to Korhal to see his mother and Little Dot. He hadn’t been back to see them since he’d joined
up, though he had written to them plenty of times over the Confed- network.
His mother had eventually answered, though her words didn’t have the same openness and
warmth as did the letters she had sent him at the academy. Her correspondence was lled with
news of his sister and of Korhal (and its troubles) but made little mention of his father beyond his
continued good health.
Dorothy hadn’t replied to him at all, and he knew she was probably still smarting with annoyance
at his sudden departure. Hopefully, once this mission was over, he’d have a chance to patch things
up with his family, as the last year and a half had made him realize how much he missed them.
Even his father, which surprised Arcturus immensely.
Of course, there had been a great deal of correspondence between Arcturus and Juliana, and it
seemed she remained interested in him though light- years separated them.
They had arranged to meet on Tyrador IX before he headed onward to Korhal when his next
period of leave eventually came through, and he was forced to admit he was looking forward to
seeing her again.
Arcturus’s reverie ended when Yancy nodded his helmeted head toward him and said, “I’ll bet
you anything LT already knows where we’re headed. Yeah, a hundred credits says he already
knows.”
“Hell, I’d take that bet if I thought you had the damn cash,” said Chuck Horner, his broad, fringe
world grin robbing the comment of malice. Horner was what Arcturus’s father would have
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
disparagingly called “a good ol’ boy,” a thick- shouldered, broadfeatured hayseed from one of the
outlying worlds in the Confederacy where they counted themselves lucky if they had electricity
throughout the day.
On the surface, that’s exactly what Charles “Chuck” Horner was, and Arcturus had been
surprised to nd a sharp mind and quick wit behind his “aw shucks” exterior.
“But you ain’t got two cents to rub together,” continued Chuck. “Leastways not after me and
Chun Leung won everything but your panties the other night at poker.”
“You got lucky,” said Yancy.
“Lucky?” drawled Chuck. “My daddy and his daddy before him was playing army poker before
you was a glint in your mama’s eye. Taught me everything I know, son.”
“Oh yeah?” countered Yancy. “Wanna try your luck again tonight?”
“What you got to bet with?” put in the aforementioned Chun Leung. “I already got your money
and your chocolate rations for the next week. You don’t got anything else the Big Dog wants to take
o you.”
“I’ll clean Mayumi for a month,” oered Yancy.
“Boy wants to gamble,” de Santo said with a laugh.
“No way,” said Chun Leung, hefting his Impaler rie across his lap to stroke the gleaming, oiled
barrel. Mayumi was the name Chun Leung had given to his rie, his pride and joy. He kept the rie
obsessively oiled and cleaned, and where everyone else’s gun was battered and scratched, Leung’s
weapon looked as though it had come straight from the factory.
“I’m the only one who handles my weapon,” said Leung.
“Yeah, that’s what the girls on Pridewater said too,” quipped de Santo.
Leung ipped her o. “You want a piece of me?” he said. “I’ll show you why they call me the Big
Dog, little girl.”
Arcturus listened to the banter, sensing the undercurrent of fear behind their easy back- and-
forth. Thus far, the commanders of the 33rd hadn’t seen t to post them anywhere too dangerous,
but even though his soldiers had only mess tent scuttlebutt to go on, they could sense this
assignment would be dierent.
Only one member of the section didn’t join in on the banter, and Arcturus knew that if there was
a God somewhere in the heavens, he had a strange sense of humor.
Toby Mercurio, another graduate of Styrling Academy, sat across from Arcturus, his face
downcast and his shoulders slumped. Having spent the last six months trying to bring Mercurio up
to the standard of the rest of the section, Arcturus knew that the life of a soldier was not for his
fellow alumnus.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Though Mercurio’s parents had been wealthy enough to send him to an expensive school, the
boy wasn’t really Styrling Academy material. He’d scraped by academically, but it had been his
above- average performance on the padball courts that had allowed him to graduate.
But above average didn’t cut it in the professional circuit and without the safety net of any real
qualications, Toby had oundered in the real world. A series of meaningless, paper- shuing jobs
at one of his father’s plants had ensued—all of which he’d spectacularly failed at—followed by a
drunken afternoon that had seen him wake with a crushing hangover and a sheaf of signed
enlistment papers.
In the eighteen months since Arcturus had joined up, he’d found that a soldier’s life consisted of
long stretches of boredom, followed by frantic periods of deployment and shouting. Which, in
Dominion section’s case, had been followed by yet more periods of boredom.
This assignment looked as though it might involve some action and, as surprising as it was to
him, Arcturus realized he was looking forward to the prospect of combat. He’d trained to ght in
combat armor and could re a gauss rie with a reasonable degree of accuracy, but it was his
understanding of battleeld tactics, combined with his talent for inspiring those around him and
making the impossible sound plausible, that had seen him rise to the level of lieutenant. Senior
ocers had their eye on him to ascend the promotions ladder, but before he could really embark on
that climb, he needed some real combat under his belt.
Hence Dominion section’s deployment to Sonyan.
“So come on, LT,” said Chuck Horner. “Is the kid right? You know why we’re out here?”
Arcturus felt the eyes of his section turn on him, their faces blurred slightly through the low-
grade plasteel of their helmet visors.
“Yes, Charles,” said Arcturus, knowing the others got a kick out of his using Chuck’s full name. “I
do know why we’re out here. I’m an ocer—it’s my job to know.”
“So what’s the skinny?” asked Yancy, leaning forward. “Pirates? Rogue merc bands terrorizing
helpless colonists and their pretty daughters?”
“Something like that,” agreed Arcturus.
Whoops and hollers echoed over the comms at the prospect of actually putting their training into
practice. Arcturus held a hand up to quiet his section and said, “We’re dropping on a planet called
Sonyan, specically Camp Juno, where we’re to rendezvous with other elements of the 33rd and
facilitate the evacuation of personnel involved in illegal deep- core mining operations.”
“We gonna get to kill anyone?” asked Chun Leung, patting Mayumi’s muzzle.
“I hope not,” said Arcturus, “but it’s likely many of the people on Sonyan aren’t going to want to
leave their holdings.”
“Well, damn, we got to show them the error of their ways,” said Chuck Horner, high- ving with
Chun Leung. Yancy and Dia looked excited at the prospect, but, as usual, Toby Mercurio didn’t
join in.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“I bet I kill more than you, Dia,” said Yancy.
“Sure you will,” sneered de Santo. “Boy, you barely know which end of that gun to point at the
enemy. We get into a reght, you make sure you stay in front of me, you hear?”
Lines of scrolling text ickered onto the HUD of Arcturus’s armor and the red light of the
compartment began ashing.
“Quiet down,” he said, his voice easily cutting through the good- natured sparring. “We’re coming
in to land, so look sharp.”
Before Sonyan, Arcturus had seen precisely three other planets. Growing up on Korhal, a lush,
temperate world of balmy summers and mild winters, he had assumed that most other habitable
worlds in the Confederacy would be much the same. His training on the colossal orbital shipyards
of Dylar IV and his rst tour on Pridewater had quickly disabused him of that notion, emphasizing
the point that humans could live pretty much anywhere with enough perseverance.
But Sonyan was a world you’d have to have a serious reason just to visit, let alone live on.
As the assault ramp clanged onto the sandy hardpan of the planet, hot, biting winds howled
inside the dropship, instantly blinding Arcturus and his soldiers.
As they disembarked, a group of engineers barged past them to get to the siege tank, and
Arcturus fought the urge to shout at them. Instead he marched down the ramp and onto the gritty
surface of another world.
The visor of Arcturus’s helmet darkened in response to the sudden brightness as he took his rst
look at their new posting.
Camp Juno nestled in the rocky foothills of a broken series of valleys in the middle of a soaring
range of reddish brown mountains. Dust devils blew down from the high peaks and the sky was the
color of aking rust. A jaundiced orb of a sun hung low above the tops of the mountains, casting
long, thin shadows down the mountains and over the camp.
In the middle of the camp sat a modular command center, its pressed metal plates scoured and
distressed by the constant assault of wind- borne grit. The rotating dish of a comsat swept the
terrain and a number of depressingly identical buildings surrounded the command center, the
standard pieces of kit you’d expect to nd around any Confederate military establishment—
barracks, mess halls, inrmary, and landing platform, as well as portal- framed hangars, supply
depots, and training facilities.
Coils of wire looped between six missile turrets spaced at regular intervals around the camp’s
perimeter, their own dishes sweeping the skies for aerial threats. Squads of marines jogged through
the camp and industrious SCVs eected repairs to damaged buildings.
Despite the number of people he saw, Arcturus sensed a relaxed, unhurried air to the camp.
There was no urgency to the training, nor any sense of wariness in the posture of those marines that
stood sentry over the camp. A few heads turned as he led his men from the belly of the dropship, but
any interest in their arrival quickly passed.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“So what now, LT?” asked Yancy, slinging his rie over his shoulder. “Where’s our reception
committee?”
Arcturus was wondering the same thing, but didn’t reply. It didn’t become an ocer to admit
that he didn’t know what was going on. They were supposed to have been met by the camp’s head of
security, but they were completely alone on the landing platform.
“Watch out on the ramp!” shouted one of the engineers inside the dropship, sparing Arcturus
from thinking of an answer for Yancy.
No sooner was the warning given than the throaty rumble of the siege tank’s engine bellowed.
Jetting lthy plumes of blue oilsmoke, the tank lurched from the darkness and jerkily drove out onto
the sand.
Arcturus watched as the tank rumbled away from the dropship with the engineers in tow.
“Damn, that thing’s probably older than you, Chuck,” said Dia de Santo.
“Dia, honey,” drawled Chuck. “You call it old; I call it experienced.”
“Well that is one experienced tank,” said Yancy.
“Screw you, son,” said Chuck with a knowing wink to de Santo. “Gimme the choice between a
lly and a mare, I’ll take the mare every time. She knows what she’s doing and she’ll make sure you
do it right.”
“We still talkin’ about tanks?” asked Yancy.
“Ten- hut!” shouted Chun Leung, and the marines of Dominion section snapped to attention.
Arcturus turned to see a fully armored marine marching toward them from the command center. He
saw the insignia of a captain on the marine’s shoulder, and a security detail of two soldiers marched
at the ocer’s back.
Arcturus pulled himself to attention, squinting through the glare and dust haze as he saw a
familiarity to the marine’s posture and walk. The captain halted in front of Arcturus and gave him a
quick once- over.
“Lieutenant Arcturus Mengsk reporting for duty, sir,” he said, saluting smartly. “Dominion
section is ready for action, sir.”
“At ease, Mengsk,” said the captain, and Arcturus smiled as he realized why his superior had
seemed so familiar.
The glare visor on the captain’s helmet snapped up and Arcturus found himself staring into the
face of Captain Angelina Emillian, the very woman who’d planted the seed of his enlistment, so long
ago it seemed, at Styrling Academy.
Arcturus relaxed, but only a fraction. Emillian might have been a familiar face, but she was still a
captain and he a lieutenant. Even he had to respect the chain of command.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Good to see you again, Mengsk,” said Emillian. “So they made you lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir,” said Arcturus. “All the generals’ jobs were taken.”
Emillian smiled. “I see you’ve not lost that smart mouth of yours. Maybe your principal was right
about you. They still letting him teach there?”
“No, sir,” said Arcturus. “Last I heard he was doing sixty years in Bhar- el penal colony for
embezzlement and fraud. I gather he wasn’t a suitable candidate for resocialization.”
Emillian caught the pride in his tone and said, “And I suppose you would’ve had nothing to do
with that?”
“I couldn’t possibly say,” he replied, leaving Emillian in no doubt as to his complicity in
Steegman’s fall from grace.
“I thought so,” said Emillian, jerking a thumb in the direction of his marines. “So what’s their
story?”
“Dominion section,” said Arcturus. “Ready for action, sir. Just give us the word.”
“Dominion section?” repeated Emillian. “Nice name. You choose it?”
“I did,” said Arcturus with a nod. “I thought it sounded appropriately grand.”
Emillian shook her head with a grin and walked along the line of marines, her stern gaze boring
into each soldier and leaving no doubt that they were less than nothing to her.
“Okay, listen up, marines!” she shouted. “Welcome to Sonyan, the most miserable crap- hole this
side of the core worlds. This ain’t boot camp and it sure ain’t paradise, so wherever you’ve been
stationed before and thought was bad, forget it, this is worse. The chow sucks, the barracks have
got more holes that an Impaler target, and you won’t be leaving without at least one trip to the
inrmary. Any questions?”
Most of the marines of Dominion section met her stare stoically, understanding that the best
response to this kind of rhetorical question was silence.
Yancy Gray was, however, apparently oblivious to this piece of soldier’s wisdom.
“Why will we be visiting the inrmary, sir?” he asked.
Captain Emillian rounded on him, the visor of her helmet barely an inch from her questioner.
Arcturus winced, irritated that one of his marines had embarrassed him.
“Did you say something, soldier?” she said.
“Uh…you asked if anyone had questions,” replied Yancy. “I do. Have a question, I mean.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“That’s enough, Gray,” said Arcturus. “The captain will brief me and then I’ll tell you what you
need to know. For your sake, you’d better hope your trip to the inrmary is because you’ve been
killed so you won’t go asking any more stupid questions.”
Emillian continued to stare hard at Yancy, who kept his gaze xed on a point somewhere over
her right shoulder. Eventually the captain turned away and stood before the section with her hands
laced behind her back.
“In answer to Private Gray’s question, you will most likely visit the inrmary because you will be
getting shot at by disgruntled miners who have illegally begun deep- core operations on this rock,
which just so happens to be a Confederate- owned piece of real estate.”
Arcturus hadn’t known that Sonyan was a Confederate world, that nugget of information not
having been part of his brieng prior to their departure from Pridewater. Not that his brieng had
said much more than “Go to Sonyan and await orders.”
In any case, this far out on the rim, who claimed a world was largely a factor of who had the most
men and the biggest guns. With the arrival of Dominion section and the siege tank, it appeared that
honor now belonged to the Confederacy.
“Most of these miners have already been relocated,” continued Emillian, beginning to pace as she
spoke, “but there are a few stubborn holdouts, and it’s going to be your job to ush them out. It’s
going to be bloody work, because these miners are dug in deeper than a Tyrador blood- shrike, but
you’ll have help. There are thirty marines and a handful of rebats here that’ll be going in with you.
And now we have a siege tank. But make no mistake, marines, you will be shot at and we will take
casualties.
“That last part, I can guarantee,” nished Emillian. “Since you lucky bastards are going to hit
Turanga Canyon at 06:00 tomorrow.”
The sun was already bright and hot when Arcturus rose from his bunk at 05:00 and made his
way to the mess hall to grab some breakfast and gulp down some A- grade military caeine.
Breakfast consisted of high- calorie gunk that tasted foul, but provided the energy a marine would
need for combat operations.
As he sat contemplating the brownish sludge spooned onto his tray, Captain Emillian took the
seat opposite him.
“Morning, Lieutenant,” she said, nodding toward the food. “Not what you’re used to, I bet.”
“Not exactly,” he agreed. “Though the refectory at Styrling Academy could give this place a run
for its money.”
“I can see why the Marine Corps would be appealing to you then.”
They ate their breakfast in silence, and Arcturus took the opportunity to study Angelina Emillian
in more detail. She was still pretty, but he noticed a scar that hadn’t been there before, which traced
a pale line above her ear before disappearing beneath her hair.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Got it on Chau Sara,” she said without looking up. “There was a prison riot in one of the penal
colonies where they keep the worst of the worst—the mass murderers, rapists, and serial killers. We
were on rotation there to pick up a batch for resocialization when it happened. I was in solitary
evaluating an inmate by the name of Wyan Schaen when he got one of the guard’s weapons and shot
me in the face.”
“Nasty,” said Arcturus, appreciating the ridiculous understatement of his remark as he said it.
But Emillian appeared not to notice.
“Yeah, it was, but I was lucky. The bullet ricocheted from the interior of my helmet and grazed
me before exploding out the back.”
“So what did you do?”
“There was so much blood around me, the dumb- ass thought I was dead,” said Emillian. “I
guess I was out for a few seconds, but once I came to, I saw he was standing at the bars with his
back to me. So I got up and broke his neck, and then got the hell out of there.”
“I’m impressed,” said Arcturus, genuinely meaning it.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “Anyway, we got our recruits and I got a new scar I could use to impress
greenhorn lieutenants. So tell me about your section, Mengsk. Are they any good?”
Arcturus looked down the length of the table, where the marines of Dominion section sat
chatting with the marines who were going to be ying up to Turanga Canyon with them.
“Yes,” he said. “Until this mission came up, they were looking forward to going on leave. We all
were, but they’re good soldiers. Some are better than others, but they’ll follow orders and they’ll ght
hard.”
“Good enough,” said Emillian.
Arcturus had seen the telltale scars of neural resocialization on the marines his men were talking
to and said, “Tell me something, Captain. You have thirty marines here already, all resoced to follow
orders without question.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So why do you need us?”
Emillian answered between mouthfuls of scrambled egg. “You ever fought alongside a resoced
marine?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t ask that question if you had,” said Emillian. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re perfectly
good soldiers and they’ll do anything you order them to, but they don’t have initiative and don’t react
too well to changing battleeld situations. Give ’em an order that’s easy to follow and there’s no
problem, but the minute things start to get a bit screwy, well, they get a bit lost. I keep asking for
marines that aren’t brain- panned, but they keep sending me more of ’em.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“And you think six of us can make a dierence?”
“Six of you and a siege tank, let’s not forget.”
“Of course,” said Arcturus. “These miners, they must be a tough bunch.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You clearly don’t think they’ll surrender as soon as they see us. Am I wrong?”
“No, you’re not wrong.”
“I didn’t think so,” said Arcturus. “Why won’t they surrender?”
“Because they didn’t the last time we came for them. They fought back with goliath walkers,
antiaircraft missiles, and a whole lot of guns. Then again, we didn’t have a siege tank last time. Or
Dominion section,” she added with a smile.
The siege tank had left the previous evening and was to rendezvous with them at the mouth of
Turanga Canyon, where it would provide artillery support as the marines moved up toward the
miners’ base.
“Do you remember when we spoke back at Styrling Academy?” asked Arcturus.
“Sure,” said Emillian. “Why do you ask?”
“You said barely fty percent of marines ever actually see combat. Seems like that might have
been a slight…exaggeration.”
“Not at all,” replied Emillian. “About fty percent of recruits to the marines either wash out of
boot camp, are killed in training accidents, get their brains fried by the resoc, or otherwise end up
invalided to desk jobs.”
“So basically if you survive boot camp you’re almost guaranteed to see combat?”
“Pretty much,” agreed Emillian, with a wry twitch of her eyebrows.
“Doesn’t sound quite as appealing when you put it like that.”
“Hence the shift of emphasis,” said Emillian, standing and carrying her breakfast tray to the
racks. Arcturus followed her and slid his tray in below Emillian’s.
“I can see that. Now.”
Emillian turned, and from the steel in her eyes Arcturus could see that the informality of
breakfast was over.
“Right. Time to get busy, Lieutenant. Get your men together and be on the launchpad in ten
minutes. We dust o at 05:30, so don’t be late or I’ll court- martial your ass. Now move it!”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus moved it.
Arcturus sat with his gauss rie against his shoulder and his body braced against the craggy rock
protecting him from the stream of bullets that sawed down from above. The sun blazed high above
them, a sour lemon yellow orb that looked close enough to reach up and touch. His breath came in
ragged spurts and he could taste blood in his mouth from where he’d bitten his tongue in the crash.
The members of Dominion section huddled in the rocks with him, each one looking the worse
for wear, but still alive. Which Arcturus realized was a bloody miracle, remembering the gut-
wrenching terror he’d felt as the explosion had torn a monstrous hole in the side of the dropship.
He could recall almost nothing of what followed, save hurricane- force winds roaring through
the troop compartment, billowing ames, and the awful sound of battle- hardened marines
screaming in agony.
Next thing he remembered, he was lying in a tangle of twisted metal, surrounded by ames and
looking up at a pillar of oily black smoke etched on the sky. Hands had grabbed him under his arms
and dragged him from the wreckage, and as he’d been propped up against a rock, he saw it had been
Chuck Horner who’d rescued him.
“What happened?” he managed.
“Missile,” said Horner. “They got a turret set up at the mouth of the valley. Pilot didn’t see it and
we got a heat- seeker right up our tailpipe. Now at least half the marines are dead, and the damn
siege tank ain’t here yet neither.”
“Emillian?” asked Arcturus. “Where’s the captain?”
“Captain’s out of the ght, sir,” said Yancy Gray, across the gully from Arcturus. “I think her
back’s broken.”
Private Gray’s words had focused Arcturus’s thoughts, and he pulled himself to his feet using a
nearby rock for support. He had to get everyone together and gure out what to do next. Looking
over at Emillian’s supine form, Arcturus saw that Yancy was dead right: Emillian wasn’t going to be
joining this ght.
Her armor would keep her alive for a while, but her legs and spine were bent into shapes they
weren’t designed to make, and Arcturus knew she wouldn’t last long if they didn’t get her to a
medical station.
Twenty meters back down the valley, the gutted hulk of the dropship lay scattered in a mangled
pile of re- blackened steel. The pilot had tried his best to soften their landing, but there was only so
much you could do with your engines taken out by an explosion and the nearest piece of at ground
a hundred kilometers away. Thick, billowing clouds of smoke belched from the wrecked craft and
the re crackled and popped as it devoured ammo packs and stim dispensers.
Arcturus had done a quick head count, and found that eleven of the marines who’d accompanied
them on the dropship were dead and another eight were too badly injured to ght. Three of the
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
rebats were also dead, immolated by their own weapons when they’d cooked o in the re of the
crash.
That left eleven of Emillian’s resoced marines and two rebats to ght alongside Dominion
section. No sooner had Arcturus got everyone together than a burst of gunre ripped down from
the rocks above.
“Cover!” he shouted, though the order was unnecessary. High- pitched pings of metal on rock
echoed deafeningly, like an endless box of nails being emptied onto hard stone from a great height.
Breathing heavily, Arcturus risked a glance out of cover when the re slackened fractionally, and
saw a whole lot of shooters on the rocks above. He guessed about twenty men in body armor,
helmets, and tough- wearing outdoor gear.
Certainly not soldiers, but more likely mercenaries or a pirate band hired by the miners.
Arcturus stuck his rie around the rock and pulled the trigger, not really aiming, but just
wanting to return re. The armor easily absorbed the recoil, and though his shots went well wide,
he felt better for shooting back.
Dominion section hugged the rocks, looking up with expressions ranging from the beginnings of
panic to relish. More spikes sprayed down at them and Arcturus watched as a concentrated volley
tore up one of the injured marines.
The man appeared to jerk as though being electrocuted. His armor was proof against most
small- arms re, but a whole lot of Impaler ries ring in sync had torn through the weakened
portions of his plate.
Whomever these miners had hired to defend them knew their trade.
More shots ricocheted down from above, pinning them in the rocks below their objective, and
Arcturus saw they had only two options. They could either retreat, skulking back to the valley
mouth, or continue with their mission into the teeth of the gunre.
Retreat was not an option that appealed to Arcturus, not when so many men were dead, but
neither did he want to rush to a glorious death in the face of an unknown number of gunmen.
From his earlier glance, he’d seen that the bulk of the men ahead were lurking behind jagged
outcrops of rock in a narrow dele amid a tangle of wiry brush. Above them, the rocks were a vivid
white, as though bleached by the sun.
As one group red, another reloaded. Between them, they kept a near- constant stream of
Impaler spikes rattling and chiming from the rocks around Dominion section.
In the quick glance he’d had, Arcturus saw that the valley narrowed as it neared the gunmen.
The ground before their attackers was a sharply inclined, open killing ground that would be close to
suicide to charge up, but the rocky walls to either side of where the marines were pinned could be
climbed with only a little eort. About four meters above, the ground appeared to become atter,
rocky, and strewn with stunted trees and scattered piles of boulders.
Ideal cover from which to ank their attackers.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus turned and opened a link to the rebats.
The two surviving rebats were hunched in cover, their hulking suits of crimson armor heavily
dented and scarred from the crash, but their Perdition amethrowers appeared to be in full working
order.
“This is Lieutenant Mengsk,” he said. “Identify yourselves.”
“Private Eugene Malik,” came the rst reply.
“Private Harper Utley,” said the second rebat.
“Malik, Utley, I’m going to need you two to go straight up the middle and give me a screen of
re. When I give the word, head toward the rocks the shooters are using as cover and put a wall of
re between them and us. You understand?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” they replied in unison, and hissing blue cones of heat ignited from the weapon
systems xed to their gauntlets.
Satised the rebats understood their task, Arcturus then spoke to the resoced marines who had
survived the crash and were still t to ght. He pointed to the nearest marines and said, “You two
stay with the wounded. The rest of you, I want you supporting Malik and Utley. I want a stream of
Impalers keeping those bastards’ heads down. Got that?”
Nodding heads and snapped salutes assured him they understood, and Arcturus returned his
attention to his own soldiers as a ricocheting Impaler spike thudded into his shoulder guard.
“What’s the plan, LT?” shouted Dia de Santo as Arcturus brushed the spike from his armor as
though it were a piece of lint on his best suit.
“We’re going to take out those gunmen and push on,” said Arcturus.
“Sir, that’s crazy!” cried Chuck Horner. “We ain’t got a damn clue how many more of them are
waiting for us up there!”
Arcturus shook his head, jabbing his st at the marines of Dominion section. “We’re going and
that’s an order. When the rebats and what’s left of Emillian’s marines make their move, I want
Horner, Mercurio, and Yancy up and over the rocks on the right. The rest of you with me on the
left.”
He could see the fear and doubt on their faces, and said, “Listen, soldiers! There’s probably more
of them moving around our ank already to cut us o.”
Given the terrain and the fact that they were pinned down quite neatly here, that probably wasn’t
true, but it didn’t hurt to put the fear of it into them.
“Either we go forward and take this ght to them or we get cut to pieces like rookies!” shouted
Arcturus. “We’re Dominion section and we kill anyone who gets in our way.”
Chun Leung hefted Mayumi and slammed in a fresh clip.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Now you’re talkin’ my language!” he said.
CHAPTER 8
BLAZING PLUMES OF LIQUID FIRE ROARED UP THE valley as Privates Malik and
Utley broke from cover. The two red- armored warriors crunched forward, aming sheets spraying
the rocks and brush of the valley ahead. Arcturus could feel the backwash of heat from their
amethrowers through his armor. Impaler spikes hammered the two rebats, but their armor was
thicker and heavier than that of an ordinary marine and the two privates pushed on in the face of the
gunre.
The brush around the enemy gunmen went up instantly, crackling and burning with furious glee.
“Go!” shouted Arcturus, scrambling up the rocky slope beside him. Chun Leung and Dia de
Santo followed him, their ries tucked in close to their chests.
More rattling gunre blazed from below as Emillian’s marines followed the rebats, shooting
from the hip as they advanced. One marine was cut down the instant he left cover, a hail of razor-
tipped spikes splintering his visor and blowing out the back of his helmet.
The others didn’t falter and advanced into the teeth of the fusillade.
Arcturus clawed at the rocks, pulling himself up with powerful surges. His armor enhanced his
strength and he was able to haul himself over the lip of the canyon walls without diculty.
He rolled onto his side and brought his gauss rie up, glancing across to see Yancy, Chuck, and
Toby pulling themselves over the rocks and into cover. Below him, the rebats continued to pour
aming gouts of superheated liquid at their foes. One of them—Arcturus didn’t know which—was
limping badly, his leg armor mangled by gunre above the knee and blood sheeting down his thigh.
Several other marines were down, but the mercenaries’ attention was xated on the advancing
warriors and they hadn’t noticed the other inbound enemies. Arcturus opened a link to Dominion
section and said, “Get moving, everyone. Fast and low.”
“You got it, LT,” said Chuck Horner, leading Yancy and Mercurio o. Arcturus nodded to
himself. Horner had real potential, naturally assuming command of his small section, and Arcturus
made a mental note to see about developing his skills if they survived this encounter.
“Chun, Dia,” he said, “let’s go.”
Arcturus led them o, scuttling forward, hunched over as much as his armor would allow, and
keeping to the cover of the rocks. His heart was hammering in his chest as he ran, fully expecting a
burst of Impaler spikes to rake him and his soldiers at any moment. Arcturus could hear a near-
continual roar of gunre, screams, and explosions from the canyon and knew the men he’d sent
forward were still ghting.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
An angry orange reball mushroomed from below, signaling the death of one of the rebats,
followed moments later by a second explosion. The reek of amethrower fuel lled the air and
Arcturus heard more screams of dying soldiers.
Just ahead, he could see a splash of white and recognized the rocks above where their ambushers
were ghting. He grinned with feral anticipation, terried yet exhilarated at the same time.
Arcturus dropped to one knee and jabbed a st at the white rocks.
“Take up position either side of me,” he said. “We get to those rocks and unleash everything we’ve
got.”
De Santo and Leung nodded, and Arcturus could see the same relish on their faces he gured
they could see on his.
“Let’s do this,” hissed Chun Leung, patting Mayumi’s gleaming barrel.
“You got it, Big Dog,” replied de Santo, punching knuckles with Leung.
“Let’s go,” said Arcturus.
He ran over to the rocks, bracing his foot against a low boulder, and looked down into the
canyon as de Santo and Leung took up position. Below them was a scene straight from hell, the
valley oor aame and littered with blackened bodies. A few fallen mercenaries screamed and
clutched bloody wounds, but Arcturus didn’t care about their pain. These men had tried to kill him
and his marines, and that made them less than nothing in his eyes.
As he’d suspected, both rebats were dead, as were about half of Emillian’s resoced marines, but
they had done their job: keeping the mercenaries’ attention rmly xed on them while Dominion
section moved around the ank.
Across the canyon, Arcturus saw Horner, Yancy, and Mercurio rise from the rocks and aim their
weapons at the enemy below. A few of the mercenaries looked up as Dominion section appeared
above them, and Arcturus relished their look of panic.
“Fire!” shouted Arcturus.
Withering sprays of Impaler spikes ripped through the mercenaries, their lighter body armor no
match for close- range gauss re. Arcturus worked his rie over the men below him, bloody
eruptions fountaining where his spikes blew open skulls or tore limbs from bodies.
Caught in the crossre, the mercenaries had no chance.
They danced in the vicious bursts of gunre, trapped in the open and unable to ght back. The
echoes of ries were deafening as they lled the narrow dele in the canyon with screaming hot
spikes. A few of the mercenaries managed to bring their weapons to bear, but it was too little too
late and they were cut down without mercy.
Realizing that to ght on was hopeless, one man threw down his rie and held up his hands in
surrender.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus cut him in two with a sustained burst of re.
It was over in a few seconds, and the canyon was suddenly quiet as the marines of Dominion
section ceased ring. Acrid smoke drifted from the heated barrels of their guns as they looked at
each other in disbelief—shocked at the carnage they’d caused, but elated to have survived and won
their rst reght.
“Good job, everyone,” said Arcturus, his heart rate only now beginning to return to normal after
the thrill of killing these men. The canyon oor resembled an abattoir, shredded esh and blood
mingling in thick, viscous puddles that were already congealing into sticky pools in the heat.
“Man, we killed those SOBs good!” shouted Yancy, his rie held triumphantly above his head.
Chuck Horner sketched Arcturus a salute and even Toby Mercurio looked pleased for once. Beside
him, Dia de Santo and Chun Leung butted helmets and he felt them slap the shoulder guards of his
armor in triumph.
“You did it, LT!” cried de Santo. “We killed the whole damn lot of them!”
“That we did,” agreed Arcturus, only now beginning to appreciate the slaughter he had
orchestrated.
He knew that some men experienced a great and terrible guilt over killing other human beings.
But as he looked at the ripped- open sacks of meat and bone that had, only minutes before, been
living, breathing human beings, he felt nothing for them.
Nothing at all.
Arcturus looked up at the miners’ encampment through the optical viewnders, seeking any sign
of weapons technology like the missile turret that had downed their dropship. Sure enough, another
pair of turrets with sweeping dishes, not dissimilar to those they’d left behind at Camp Juno, were
placed at the forefront of the encampment.
The mining complex was a well- organized collection of modular constructions built on an
articially created plateau at the mouth of a great scar in the mountainside that resembled the lair of
some prehistoric monster. The edge of the plateau had been built up into a defended ridge, with
sandbagged foxholes and concrete bunkers.
A pair of goliath combat walkers plodded back and forth behind the barricades on their reverse-
jointed legs, the rotary cannons on their weapon arms spooling up and the missile systems above the
pilot’s canopy trained on the sky. Arcturus wasn’t too concerned with the goliaths—they were
primarily used to engage airborne targets, though the power of their guns wasn’t to be snied at if
you were a grunt on the ground.
In any case, he had just the thing to ght goliaths.
He smiled as he saw the panicked miners and their mercenaries running back and forth, terried
at the sight that had just come into view on the rutted road that led to the main gate of the mine
complex.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The siege tank had nally rumbled into the bloody canyon thirty minutes after the conclusion of
the ghting. Since the battle’s end, Dominion section had been securing the weapons and ammo of
the fallen marines and gathering up the dead.
Of the marines who had charged in the wake of the rebats, only ve were left alive, the rest
arranged in neat rows alongside the eight wounded and those who had perished in the crash. The
bodies of the mercenaries were dragged to the side of the canyon and their weapons taken, but were
otherwise ignored.
An evac bird was called in to take Captain Emillian and the wounded back to Camp Juno. Once
Arcturus received conrmation that it had been dispatched, he and Dominion section, together
with the ve resoced marines, rode the tank farther up the valley.
After all, they had a job to nish.
“Oh yeah!” shouted Yancy Gray, standing on the tank’s frontal glacis and balancing himself by
holding on to its enormous cannon. “Not so cocky now, are ya? Not so tough when you see we got
ourselves a tank. Yeah!”
The siege tank had the range to engage the miners’ camp from where they sat now, its main gun
more than capable of pounding the camp to smoldering ruin without fear of reprisal.
But Arcturus didn’t want to destroy the mining facility if he could avoid it, not if there was a
chance it could be taken and put to use.
“Shut up, Yancy,” said Arcturus, handing the optical viewers to Toby Mercurio and removing his
helmet. He deposited the helmet on the tank’s track guard and dropped down to the ground.
“Chuck, Dia. You’re with me. Shoulder those weapons, and make sure they’re safed.”
Horner and de Santo dropped to the hard- packed ground as Arcturus marched uphill along the
road toward the mining complex, his rie hanging by its sling from his shoulder. After the frenetic
carnage of the battle, this was almost peaceful. The road to the mine was relatively shielded from the
erce winds that swept the lowest reaches of the mountains.
Arcturus watched as a group of ve men emerged from the complex above. Three were armed—
more mercenaries presumably—while the two others had the weathered, permanently dirty texture
of dyed- in- the- wool prospectors.
“LT, what you got in mind?” asked Chuck Horner.
“Yeah, I was kinda wondering that too,” said de Santo.
“We’re going to talk to them,” said Arcturus. “And ask them to surrender.”
“Surrender?” said Horner. “I gotta say, LT, they don’t look like the surrendering kind.”
“You leave that to me, Charles.”
The two groups met at a bend in the road, some two hundred meters from the camp’s gate, and
Arcturus felt the hostility of the miners like a blow. One man was short and thickset, his esh
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
leathery and pitted from a life in hostile environments. The other was similarly squat, but his eyes
had a wary quality to them that told Arcturus he wasn’t going to be the one doing the talking.
The mercenaries kept back, though they made a point of showing that they were more than
ready to use their weapons.
Before Arcturus could even open his mouth, the rst man thrust out a sheaf of grubby, oil-
stained papers and said, “This ain’t your property, Confed. We own this claim fair and square. Go
tell your bosses that we got the paperwork and everything. Y’unnerstand me?”
Arcturus nodded politely and said, “My name is Lieutenant Arcturus Mengsk of the Confederate
Marine Corps. Am I speaking with the head of this facility?”
The man with the papers looked at him suspiciously and said, “Yeah, I guess you are.”
“And you are?”
“Lemuel Baden—not that it makes a damn bit of dierence. We ain’t got nothin’ to say to each
other.”
“I beg to dier,” said Arcturus. “That’s not entirely correct. I have a siege tank that says we have
one very important matter to discuss.”
“Yeah? What’s that then?”
“Your immediate surrender and relocation to another planet.”
Baden snorted with what Arcturus assumed was laughter. “Surrender? Hell, you got some
nerve, boy. What are you anyway, twenty? Twenty- one?”
“Nineteen, actually.”
This time both prospectors laughed.
“Go home, boy,” snapped Baden. “I ain’t gonna surrender. Leastways not to a kid that don’t even
need to shave.”
“Oh, I think you’ll surrender,” said Arcturus. “In fact I’m sure of it.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I have a siege tank and if you don’t surrender, I’ll blow this place to hell.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” sneered Baden. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me,” said Arcturus, meeting Baden’s hostile stare with one of his own.
Arcturus saw beads of sweat gathering at the miner’s temples. He could see courage in Baden’s
eyes, but also the wariness of not being able to read the young soldier standing before him.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Right now you’re trying to work out if I’m blung,” said Arcturus. “I can assure you that I am
not. I never blu. If I walk away from this parley without your surrender, you and everyone within
your compound will be dead inside of ten minutes. I guarantee it.”
“Then maybe we oughta just kill you now,” snapped Baden.
“You could, but then my men would kill you and everyone would die regardless,” replied
Arcturus. “So you see, you really have only one option.”
Baden’s eyes icked to his companion, who said, “You goddamn Confeds can’t keep doing this to
us! This here mine’s ours and we ain’t gonna let you take it from us.”
Arcturus ignored the man’s outburst, knowing that Baden was the only man worth talking to in
this exchange.
“Easy, Bill, leave this to me,” said Baden. The miner looked back to Arcturus. “Gimme twenty
minutes to talk to my people?”
“Of course,” said Arcturus. “But if I do not have your surrender after that, you’re going to see
exactly how powerful that tank is. And trust me, you don’t want that.”
Baden nodded, then stomped back to the mine complex with his companions without another
word. Arcturus watched them go and turned on his heel, marching back down the road to where his
marines and the siege tank awaited.
Arcturus banged on the tank’s side when he nally reached it. “Stand down the gun.”
“You were blung?” asked Dia de Santo.
“No,” said Arcturus. “As I told Baden, I never blu. I already know he’s going to surrender.”
“You sure?” asked Chuck Horner. “He looked like a stubborn mule, that one.”
Arcturus nodded. “Indeed. But he isn’t stupid.”
“Sir?” said de Santo.
“He knows I’ll destroy the mine and kill everyone there if he doesn’t surrender,” explained
Arcturus.
Chuck Horner looked askance at Arcturus. “You ain’t kidding, are you?”
“No,” said Arcturus. “I’m not. And Lemuel Baden knows that.”
The inrmary building of Camp Juno was a sterile, antiseptic place in every sense of the word.
Its prefabricated walls were gleaming white and faced with ceramic tiles that reected the
unattering lights strung from the green- painted girders that formed the roof vault. Its structure
resembled a fat tube split down its length and dropped onto the ground.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Pods of beds were spread throughout the open space, with ceiling- mounted extractors trying—
and failing—to circulate the stagnant air and diminish the tang of disinfectant. Medics made their
rounds of the injured, checking machine readings and administering pain meds, while marines
stripped out of their armor and wearing fatigues visited those comrades who weren’t too sedated.
Arcturus had expected the inrmary to be noisy, but it was instead subdued, lled with the quiet
noise of professionals working hard and a background machine hum. The atmosphere was calm by
virtue of the fact that the majority of the wounded marines here were kept heavily sedated, since
many of them were resoced. Numerous studies had shown that extreme trauma could have a
negative impact on the strength of the neural reprogramming implanted over a subject’s original
memories, and no one was taking any chances that these marines might relapse to their previous,
murderous personalities.
Having heard the lurid details of some of the more outrageous crimes committed by these
marines prior to having acceptable behavioral patterns stamped on their brains, Arcturus was
pleased to see such precautions in place.
He spotted Captain Emillian lying in a bed pod she shared with three other wounded soldiers—
two men and another woman—and made his way over to her.
Emillian smiled as she saw Arcturus approaching, then grimaced as she tried to sit up, the
framework of silver steel encasing her pelvis and legs making even that simple act awkwardly
painful. The swelling around her eyes and jaw had begun to come down and her bruises had turned
an attractive shade of puce. Opposite the scar Emillian had received on Chau Sara was another
angry red line of sutures.
Each of the patients in the pod was hooked up to drips and monitored by complicated banks of
boxy machinery, and Arcturus carefully negotiated his way through a tangle of wires to get to
Emillian’s bed.
“Good morning, Captain,” said Arcturus.
“Morning, Lieutenant,” replied Emillian as Arcturus took a seat next to her bed, placing a
portable console at her feet.
“You’re looking well.”
“Sure,” said Emillian. “I look like crap. Nobody will give me a mirror. What does that tell you?”
“That even when you are nearly killed, you’re still incredibly vain?”
“Watch it, buster,” said Emillian. “I may be o my feet, but I’m still your superior ocer.”
Arcturus raised his hands in mock surrender. “Point taken,” he said.
“I hear the rest of the op went well.”
“Yes,” agreed Arcturus. “We got to the Turanga facility and took it without a shot being red.
Apart from the ones in the canyon after we were blown out of the sky.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Emillian’s face darkened at the mention of the crash.
“I don’t remember anything of that,” she said. “They tell me I smashed my head on a stanchion
and broke my helmet open. Damn near crushed my skull.”
“You were lucky,” said Arcturus.
“Yeah, so everyone keeps telling me.”
“At least now you have a matching scar,” pointed out Arcturus.
“Gee, that’s a comfort.”
“Sorry.”
“So tell me about the rest of the mission,” said Emillian. “I got the gist of it from one of the few of
my marines you deigned to bring back alive, but they aren’t great with the storytelling, you know?”
“To be honest, there isn’t much else to tell.”
“When someone says ‘to be honest’ that usually means they’re lying.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Arcturus. “But you probably already know the rest. Lemuel Baden
came out after his twenty minutes were up and said his people would be leaving. They deactivated
their reactor and powered down the turrets, and I arranged for a pair of dropships to escort them
back here for a debrieng before they’re shipped o world. We secured the complex, and there’s a
Kusinis mining team swarming over it already. Which I’d like permission to supervise, Captain.”
“Still dreaming of being a prospector, eh?”
“Absolutely,” said Arcturus.
“So how’d you convince Baden to bring his people out?”
“Simple. I told him I’d level the place with the siege tank.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes,” said Arcturus. “I was very convincing.”
“Would you have opened re if they hadn’t come out?”
“Of course,” said Arcturus without hesitation. “What’s the point of making a threat if you’re not
willing to back it up?”
“That would have been a very expensive decision, Lieutenant,” said Emillian. “A lot of people
with higher pay grades than us were very clear that they wanted that place intact.”
“And they have it. Baden knew I was serious, and he didn’t want to die. It’s that simple.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Emillian shook her head. “No, Mengsk, it’s not that simple.”
“It’s not?”
“No. Remember, I’ve read your le and I know all about you,” said Emillian. “I know that you
mean what you say, but you don’t always say what you think. You keep almost everything of what
goes on inside you close to your chest, and you don’t let anyone see what you’re thinking unless you
want them to. And right then, you wanted Baden to know what you were thinking.”
“I suppose so,” agreed Arcturus. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“That it did,” said Emillian. “And just for that I might forgive you for getting most of my soldiers
killed or maimed in that canyon.”
“It was a textbook maneuver,” said Arcturus. “One element kept the enemy’s attention xed while
others anked them.”
“Almost textbook. Because the guys providing the distraction for the ankers aren’t supposed to
get killed. Suppression re? You ever hear of it?”
“I have, but there wasn’t any other way to be sure the mercenaries’ attention would be rmly xed
to their front.”
“Well, you sure as hell managed that,” said Emillian, icking her hair back from her face and
reaching for a cup of water beside her bed. She grunted painfully, and Arcturus swiftly moved to lift
the cup into her hand.
“Thanks,” said Emillian. “Now tell me why you’re really here.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on, you didn’t come here just to inspect my latest scar, did you?”
Arcturus shrugged, then realized there was no point in beating about the bush. Emillian had
read the truth o him, either in his body language or simply via the instincts of a senior ocer.
“There was one thing I wanted to discuss with you, yes…,” began Arcturus.
“Come on, spit it out,” said Emillian. “You think I’ve got nothing better to do than sit here
listening to you? There’s hot Confederate doctors working these wards, and a girl’s got to think of
when she musters out…”
Arcturus smiled. “And now you’re using humor to try and put me at my ease.”
“Jeez, way to overanalyze,” muttered Emillian. “Pain meds must be kicking in; I’m normally more
subtle than that. Okay, so what is it?”
Arcturus lifted the portable console from the foot of her bed and activated it with a touch. A
green glow spread over the screen, followed by the insignia of the Marine Corps.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“I observed Lemuel Baden’s debrieng,” said Arcturus.
“Who was doing the debrief?”
“Captain Graves ew in from Camp Larson to conduct it.”
“He’s a good man,” said Emillian. “Gets the job done quickly and he gets results.”
“Well, Baden’s debrief was certainly over very quickly. However, whether it could be said that
the job was done satisfactorily is another matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lemuel said the mine legally belonged to him and the other miners, that their claim predated
any Confederate interest in Sonyan. He had papers, but it seems they’ve been conscated and,
wouldn’t you know it, no one can nd them now.”
Emillian shrugged. “Marine Corps admin snafu. Happens all the time.”
“I’m sure,” said Arcturus dryly, turning the console around for Emillian to see. “The point is, I
checked with the Kel- Morian registration database and I found claim dockets for Turanga Canyon
registered to one Lemuel Baden of Tarsonis from six years ago.”
“What’s your point?”
“The rst Confederacy ship to make planetfall on Sonyan was the Jonestown in ’77.”
Emillian crossed her arms. “I see. And you think it matters that they were here rst?”
“Doesn’t it? If his claim to the mine is legal then haven’t we just stolen it from him?”
“You secure that crap, soldier,” snapped Emillian. “And don’t let me hear you repeat it. Lemuel
Baden is part of the Kel- Morian Combine, a bunch of good- for- nothing crooks and pirates. Hell,
most of their prospectors are wanted criminals anyway.”
“That’s a bit of a generalization, surely?”
“Is it? Listen, Mengsk, the core worlds depend on the minerals and fuels extracted from mines
like this, so do you really want us to be beholden to Kel- Morian criminals? Sonyan is part of the
Confederacy now, and anything on it belongs to the Confederacy. And the Marine Corps will ght
to protect our way of life. You got that?”
“Yes, but how—”
“But nothing, Lieutenant,” said Emillian, leaning forward and keeping her voice level. “If you
want to survive in the military, you’re going to have to stop acting like some damn Boy Scout. In the
Marines you follow the orders you’re given. And that’s it. Period. You go sticking your nose in places
it don’t belong and you’re liable to get it bitten o. That’s what being in the Marines is all about,
Mengsk. Orders. We start deciding the orders we want to obey and the ones we don’t and you
know what you get? Anarchy. And I’m not going to allow that in the 33rd.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Anger touched Arcturus and he said, “Sounds like you want everyone to be like one of your
resoced marines. Wasn’t that exactly why you brought Dominion section in, because we weren’t
mindless automatons? Because we could think for ourselves?”
“I brought you in because I need good ocers I can trust to follow orders,” said Emillian. “I
thought you would understand that, Mengsk, but maybe I was wrong. So, you think you’re some
kind of rebel like your father? Is that it?”
“What does my father have to do with anything?”
“I’ve watched the UNN,” said Emillian. “I’ve seen your father speaking out against the
Confederacy and stirring up trouble on Korhal. Are you like him, looking for trouble when there’s
no need to?”
“I’m nothing like my father,” said Arcturus.
“Yeah? Sure could have fooled me,” said Emillian, pointing toward Arcturus’s console.
“I’m nothing like my father,” repeated Arcturus, more forcefully this time. “He’s an
embarrassment, stirring up trouble when there’s no need for it.”
“Just like you’re doing here,” said Emillian.
Her tone softened, and she sat back. “Look, I’m not trying to rain on your parade, Mengsk, but,
trust me, this isn’t an avenue you want to go down. The Marine Corps is a machine and we’re all just
cogs in that machine. You start messing with that and either the machine chews you up and spits
you out or it breaks down. You can get yourself spat out if you want, but I’m not going to allow our
part of the machine to break down. It’ll be my ass in a sling with Commander Fole if you start
pissing o the brass with damn fool questions. You get me?”
“I get you,” said Arcturus. “And you’re right. I’ll stop asking questions.”
“Good,” said Emillian, searching his face for any sign he was soft- soaping her.
Arcturus knew his captain was good at reading people, but she was dead right when she said
that he didn’t let anyone see what was going on below the surface. He kept his face utterly blank
now, and she relaxed, satised she’d quashed his nascent doubts.
“Okay,” she said. “Now go enjoy your leave, Mengsk. Go home, relax with the family, eat good
food, get drunk, or get laid. I don’t care, just come back with your head in the game. Are we clear?”
“Yes.” Arcturus nodded. “We’re clear.”
“Good, now get out of here, soldier, I need to get some sleep.”
Arcturus nodded and pushed back the chair as he stood. He saluted Emillian and picked his way
through the tangle of cables and wires from the bedside monitors.
As he turned away from Emillian, she asked, “You got any kids, Mengsk?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus shook his head. “You know I don’t.”
“Just as well, eh?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“With your family, just imagine what they’d turn out like.”
CHAPTER 9
ARCTURUS STEPPED FROM THE GROUNDCAR, A gleaming ’79 cobalt blue Terra
Zephyr, adjusting the collar of his dress uniform as he did so. He wasn’t particularly interested in
motor vehicles beyond their ability to get him from point A to point B, but even he had to admit that
the Zephyr was a ne piece of machinery, with smooth, graceful lines, a plush leather interior, and
an engine that purred like a contented feline.
He turned and oered his hand to Juliana Pasteur, who accepted his gracious gesture and
emerged from the groundcar with eortless elegance.
The two years since Arcturus had seen Juliana had been good to her and she had blossomed
from a pretty young girl into a beautiful woman. Now eighteen, she had lled out in all the right
places and carried herself with a condence and poise that most other women could only dream of.
Dressed in a simple, backless black dress and tasteful jewelry that matched her eyes, Juliana
turned heads as she took Arcturus’s arm. The night was balmy and warm, with a salt- tinged breeze
blowing in o the ocean, and Juliana wrapped a sheer pashmina around her shoulders as they set o
along the tree- lined Cepheid Boulevard toward the restaurant.
Behind them, following at a discreet distance, were two slab- shouldered men in gray suits:
Umojan security personnel who accompanied Juliana whenever she traveled o world. Arcturus
could sense their dislike of him, or at least what his uniform represented, but wasn’t surprised by it.
The Confederacy had forever been trying to coerce Umoja into its embrace, but the Umojans were
a ercely independent people and had steadfastly refused to join with the government of Tarsonis.
Cepheid Boulevard was a pedestrianized walkway in the heart of the recreational district of
Elsecaro, one of Tyrador IX’s most exclusive resort cities, and thus they had to make the rest of the
journey on foot. Arcturus didn’t mind, for it gave him a chance to bask in the cinnamon- scented air
and enjoy the fact that he wasn’t being shot at.
Tyrador IX was one of the later colony worlds, a planet that co- orbited its sister world of
Tyrador VIII. Ever since its colonization it had been a popular tourist destination, thanks to its
distance from the bustle of Tarsonis and its unique ecology.
The orbital dance performed by the two outermost planets in the Tyrador system had blessed
Tyrador IX with an incredible variety of ecosystems and climates. A journey of only a few kilometers
could result in a huge change in temperature, humidity, or terrain, which allowed the enterprising
colonists to create a wonderland where almost any form of paradise could be replicated.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Ski resorts sat cheek by jowl with jungles and rugged coastal towns, where intrepid
holidaymakers could dive in the emerald waters to see the playful Tyradorian narwhal. Achingly
beautiful deserts sprawled in the lee of soaring, snowcapped peaks where the rich and famous lived
in mountaintop villas accessible only by orbital yers.
Many of the Old Families kept private enclaves on Tyrador IX, estates where they could enjoy
whatever holiday they desired. Rumor had it that it was often a hideaway for family shames, and
salacious gossip had many an errant scion sent here, far from Tarsonis and investigative reporters.
Arcturus cared nothing for such things, content just to relax and enjoy his leave far from
thoughts of killing. He’d arrived on Tyrador IX that morning and would be heading onward to
Korhal in the next day or so. A week later and he’d have to return to his unit, so he wasn’t going to
waste time thinking about combat suits, C-14 gauss ries, or blood and death until he had to.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Juliana, threading her arm through his and looking up at the fabulous
buildings on either side of them.
Arcturus smiled. “Yes. Certainly an improvement on what I’m used to. SCVs might be an
ecient way to build things, but they do tend toward a uniformity of architecture.”
“I love it,” said Juliana. “There’s no two alike.”
That was certainly true. The boulevard was paved with irregularly patterned bricks and the
structures around them had a rustic charm and individuality that was sadly lacking on the core
worlds. They passed wooden- fronted shops selling tourist junk alongside ad hoc art galleries of
local painters and delicatessens serving food from all across the sector.
Eateries and bars of all descriptions vied for their attention and the wafting aroma of a dozen
dierent cuisines blended together in a mouthwatering smorgasbord of sensation. Having lived on
mess hall slop for so long, Arcturus suddenly realized how much he missed proper food.
Silken lamps hung from ironwork posts and ber- optic lines of multicolored lights were looped
through the branches of trees, giving the boulevard a pleasingly festive air. People thronged the
streets, men and women of obvious breeding and wealth. Arcturus saw that many of these faces had
a strange, and slightly unsettling, uniformity to them, and guessed that most had been sculpted with
augmetic surgery or gene therapy.
Street entertainers amused passersby with music, puppet shows, and conjuring tricks, and the
sound of laughter drifted on the breeze.
Farther along the street, Arcturus saw a group of soldiers drinking outside a rough- and- ready
bar, their cries for drinks and wolf whistles at passing women out of character with the rest of the
boulevard. They spotted Arcturus and, almost immediately, the volume of their shouts diminished.
Arcturus nodded respectfully to the soldiers, their uniform insignias marking them as privates
and low- ranked NCOs. One of the soldiers, a young boy who looked barely old enough to be in
uniform, stood and saluted Arcturus as he passed.
“Evening, Lieutenant. Evening, miss,” said the boy, and Arcturus could smell the alcohol on his
breath from several feet away.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Evening, soldier,” replied Arcturus, returning the salute and stopping beside the bar. None of
these men would be resoced, and thus it would be bad form not to pass a few words with them,
though it wouldn’t do to be overly familiar with them.
“What’s your name, son?” he asked.
“Private Shaw, sir. 57th Marine Combat Engineers, sir.”
“Are you men behaving yourselves?” asked Arcturus with a broad smile. “Upholding the ne
tradition of the Corps?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” cried the soldiers, raising their drinks.
“Good work, men,” said Arcturus. “Carry on. And behave yourselves.”
“Absolutely, sir,” said Private Shaw. “Don’t you worry about us, sir.”
“It isn’t you I’m worried about,” said Arcturus. “It’s the local women I’m thinking of.”
The soldiers laughed and Arcturus saluted once more before turning away and continuing
onward with Juliana. The noise of the soldiers swelled as Juliana squeezed his arm.
“You look very smart in your uniform,” said Juliana. “It suits you.”
Arcturus smiled. He did look good in uniform. Two years of military service had put meat on his
bones and muscle on his limbs. His features had hardened, and he carried himself with a condence
he’d certainly possessed as a young man, but which he now wore like a second skin.
“Thank you, Juliana. I’ve already told you that you look beautiful tonight, but you can never
compliment a lady too much, can you?”
“Certainly not,” agreed Juliana. “It’s been two years since I’ve seen you, Arcturus, and I wanted to
make an impression.”
“You certainly succeeded,” said Arcturus, looking around him. “Certainly every man with a pulse
seems to think so.”
She smiled and said, “Well, if I’m turning heads, I’m not the only one. You’re getting your fair
share of attention too, you know.”
Arcturus had noticed that he was attracting smiles from some of the women—and even a few
men—promenading the boulevard, but had modestly chosen not to mention it. Some were plainly
lustful, but most were simply nods of respect for his service in the military.
“Well, they do say that women love a man in uniform.”
“It’s true,” said Juliana in a playfully meek- sounding voice. “We are a weak species and are easily
undone by the subtle wiles of men.”
If only you knew, thought Arcturus.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The restaurant itself was a curious mix of fringe world kitsch and core world chic, and Arcturus
couldn’t make up his mind whether he loathed it or thought it charming. Juliana made the decision
for him when she laughed at the sight of it and clapped her hands, declaring it wonderfully
“authentic.”
The oor was wooden, scued and discolored from the tread of thousands of diners, and the air
was smoky with rich, homely smells. Perhaps a hundred people lled the restaurant and the
animated buzz of conversation provided a pleasing backdrop.
They were seated without fuss in a cozy booth screened from the tables on either side by wooden
dividers pierced by stained glass panels. The seats were comfortable, and they ordered their food
from a pretty waitress who seemed genuinely pleased to serve them.
They made small talk for a while, Juliana regaling him with tales of her nal year at the Umoja
Institute and her new life as a budding lawyer. She had begun working as a paralegal with a rm
that specialized in stellar shipping laws, and she hoped to gain her full qualications within a couple
of years at most.
Both Juliana and her father were still making regular trips to Korhal to see Arcturus’s father, but,
sensing that such a topic would not be conducive to an enjoyable evening, she wisely kept her talk of
Korhal light.
In turn, Arcturus spoke to her of his life in the Marines, telling her of his tour on Pridewater and
the battle of Turanga Canyon, though he spared her the goriest details and omitted his lack of
empathy at the deaths he’d caused.
Some things weren’t meant for the dinner table.
The food arrived promptly and Arcturus was mildly surprised to nd that it was excellent. He
had ordered a dish of andouille sausage and shrimp with spicy mustard sauce, while Juliana had
decided upon a creamy polenta with a mushroom- and- sausage ragout. They shared mouthfuls of
each other’s dinner and drank wine poured from a carafe of translucent blue glass.
As they ate, they irted outrageously, Arcturus blending just the right amount of compliments
and self- deprecating humor to keep Juliana smiling, and she frequently reaching over the table to
take his hand or brush his arm.
The conversation owed naturally and eortlessly, and without even realizing it Arcturus found
that he was genuinely enjoying himself.
Juliana took a drink of wine and said, “So do you like being a soldier?”
The question surprised Arcturus, for it was apropos of nothing and he had been careful to keep
his depiction of day- to- day life in the military as neutral as possible.
“I suppose so,” he said. “I think I enjoy more aspects of it than I don’t. As long as you do what
you’re told, it’s not so bad.”
“I can’t picture you liking that,” remarked Juliana.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“I don’t have a problem with authority, per se,” explained Arcturus. “I have a problem when I
think the person giving me an order is an idiot. I suppose the Marine Corps is like any other
organization, with good people and bad people in its hierarchy. The trouble is that in the Marine
Corps the bad ones might get me killed.”
“Don’t say that,” warned Juliana. “It’s not good to tempt fate.”
Arcturus chuckled dismissively. “Fate? I don’t believe in fate. A person makes his own decisions
and has to live with the consequences. Logic and order are what determine the shape of our lives,
not fate. Anyway, now that I’ve seen some real combat, it won’t be long before I get a promotion and
move farther away from the front line.”
“I told you so, didn’t I?” Juliana said, laughing. “I told you that you’d be a general soon.”
“Well, you said six months, but I think it might take a little longer than that.”
“Pedant,” pouted Juliana.
“Sorry.”
“And are you learning about mine- workings? Prospecting and stu like that?”
Arcturus shrugged. “So far only by taking them by force from other mining outts, which seems
to be the way of things on the rim territories. The Intelligence Division—an oxymoron if ever there
was one—sends in a scout recon force on a given planet to nd out what’s being mined, who’s
mining it, and who they’re aliated with. Then the data- hounds scour the networks to try and nd
a legal loophole or a criminal record that they can use to justify sending in a force of gun- toting
marines to bully the miners away.”
“That’s terrible,” said Juliana, shaking her head. “And the Tarsonis Council wonders why Umoja
won’t make an alliance with them.”
“It’s not so bad, though. I’ve supervised a number of Confederate- aliated mining outts when
they go in to take over, and I’ve learned a lot from that. Or at least, I’ve learned a lot of how not to
run a working mine.”
“But the Confederacy is stealing those claims,” pointed out Juliana. “My father says that the
Council is getting greedier every year, that pretty soon they won’t even bother coming up with
spurious justications for their thefts. He says eventually they’ll just take what they want by force,
and soon there won’t be anyone to stop them.”
“That sounds like my father talking.”
“Yes, well, he might be right, you know…,” said Juliana hesitantly, knowing that she was risking
an angry exchange by bringing up Angus Mengsk.
But thoughts of Angus didn’t anger Arcturus so much now. Irritatingly, the more years that
passed, the more he found himself thinking back to his father with the uncomfortable realization
that a great deal of what he’d said now made sense…
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Growing up, Arcturus had always thought of his father as the stern, authoritarian patriarch of
the Mengsk family, a man utterly unsympathetic to the concerns and ambitions of his young son. In
Arcturus’s adolescent world, Angus Mengsk had never been young, never run wild or known what
it was like to be a teenager, a creature possessed of a deluded belief in its own innite wisdom and a
conceited sense of entitlement and immortality.
“Maybe,” conceded Arcturus, and he smiled at the look of astonishment on Juliana’s face. “I’m not
saying he was right about everything, but the more I see, the more I think that perhaps he knew
what he was talking about after all.”
“So what does that mean for you now?”
“I don’t know,” said Arcturus, and that admission was more painful than he had imagined it
would be. His self- belief had seen him through his tempestuous relationship with his father, but to
know that he hadn’t steered his destiny as cleverly as he’d thought was a galling realization.
“I have to nish out my term in the Marines,” said Arcturus, “but once that’s done, I’m heading
out into space and away from all this. Somewhere the Confederacy doesn’t care about and where I
can live my life away from politicking and corruption.”
“That might be a hard place to nd.”
“It might be,” admitted Arcturus. “But when I get back to Korhal I’m going to think long and
hard as to where it might be.”
“Are you going to see your father when you go back home?”
“Yes,” said Arcturus. “It’s the rst time I’ve gone back to Korhal on leave, so Mother has arranged
a grand family dinner. My attendance is apparently mandatory. I’m dreading it.”
“Nonsense,” said Juliana, reaching over the table to take his hands. “It will be wonderful.”
“I hope so,” Arcturus said with a smile, the idea of rapprochement between himself and his family
giving him an alien, but not unwelcome, sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“Though, to tell you the truth,” he said, “I’m more worried about seeing Dorothy. I think she’s
still mad at me for leaving, and that little girl can hold a mean grudge.”
“She’s not so little anymore,” said Juliana. “She’s a precocious six- year- old now, the grand
matriarch of her junior school.”
Arcturus smiled with real pleasure at the thought of Dorothy ruling the roost at school.
“She’s a Mengsk,” he said. “It’s what we do.”
With the meal nished, Arcturus paid the bill and they left the restaurant and emerged into the
fragrant, ocean- scented evening of Tyrador IX. The lights garlanding the trees shone like miniature
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
stars, their brightness waxing and waning, and the silk lanterns bobbed in the freshening wind from
the coast. The air had cooled and Juliana pulled her pashmina tightly around her shoulders.
Cepheid Boulevard was busier than it had been earlier, the crowds drawn by the glittering
lights, festive feel, and many attractions designed to part them from their cash. Arcturus watched
the smiling faces walking past him, attractive men and women, and felt a wave of annoyance that he
would have to leave so soon.
Tyrador IX was a place of comfort and respite, and it would be nice to return here sometime
soon. Juliana slipped her hand into his and they walked, hand in hand, back along the street, with
the two Umojan security personnel following at a discreet distance.
“Thank you,” said Juliana.
“For what?”
“For tonight. I had a wonderful time, Arcturus. I like being around you.”
Arcturus smiled, pleased at the compliment, and said, “Yes, I enjoyed myself as well.”
“You sound surprised,” said Juliana.
“I don’t mean to,” said Arcturus, suddenly nding that he was genuinely sad to be leaving her
tomorrow. “It’s just that it’s been a while since I’ve been in genteel company. You spend enough time
with soldiers, it’s easy to forget the simple pleasure of spending an evening with a beautiful woman.”
“Well, as long as you think I’m beautiful that’s all that matters.”
“You are beautiful,” said Arcturus. “I don’t think you know it, and that’s what makes it so
incredible.”
Juliana squeezed his hand tightly and stopped, leaning up to kiss him.
“You realize,” she said, “that attery will get you everywhere?”
“Then you had better get used to it,” he said, kissing her back.
A raucous cheer sounded from nearby, and Arcturus looked up to see the soldiers they had
passed earlier waving at them from the bar, their glasses raised in salute.
“Just like graduation,” said Juliana with a smile.
Arcturus smiled and sketched a roguish salute to his fellow marines.
“Almost,” he said. “I think these men are a little tougher than the students of Styrling.”
Even as Arcturus formed the thought, the hairs on the back of his neck bristled and he turned to
see a group of ve men lounging by one of the handcrafted iron benches at the side of the boulevard.
They looked out of place, their features rugged and pinched—the faces of men who had grown to
adulthood without a properly balanced, nutritious diet.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
It was a peculiar facet of human development Arcturus had noticed—that you could tell the
quality of a person’s upbringing from the briefest glance at their facial bone structure. Even down to
their skin, there was a denite dierence in the development of the face that distinguished rich from
poor.
These men fell into the latter category, without a doubt, and he wondered why they had not
moved on. Perhaps they were indentured workers on a break, remembering how Diamond de
Santo’s family had labored behind the scenes to make the resorts of Tyrador IX such paradises.
Then why were they here, mingling with resort guests and their betters?
One of the men looked straight at him, a man with a bulky trench coat that reached to his shins
and whose head was shaven clean with a tattoo of a snake coiled around his ear.
“Is something wrong?” asked Juliana, sensing the sudden tension in his posture.
“Hmmm? No, it’s nothing…,” he said, not wishing to alarm her.
As she followed his gaze, Arcturus looked behind Juliana to where her security loitered, both
men watching a pair of silver- skinned iers pass overhead. He looked at the shaven- headed man
with the snake tattoo, and their eyes met through the laughing crowds.
“Juliana, get inside,” he said, recognizing the hard stare of a professional killer.
“What?” she said, but Arcturus was already moving, dragging her back toward her guards while
keeping his eyes xed on the occupants of the bench. The man with the tattoo saw Arcturus move
and knew that his cover was blown. He said something to the men next to him, and reached inside
his long trench coat.
Arcturus instinctively reached for his slugthrower, but his hand grasped empty air, the pistol
resting in its locked, foam- lined case in his hotel room safe. Snake Tattoo raised a long- barreled
weapon, an old- model AGR-14 assault rie, and Arcturus’s heart hammered against his ribs as he
saw it.
He had gone through boot camp with such a rie, a no- nonsense gun capable of ring
supersonic jacketless slugs that could tear through a human body and leave nothing behind but
shredded meat and bone. The four men with the tattooed assassin unveiled a varied mix of pistols
and ries.
“Gun!” shouted Arcturus.
Heads turned, too slowly, and Arcturus bore Juliana down with him as he heard the screams of
the crowd upon their seeing the guns. Juliana cried out as she hit the ground, but the deafening roar
of gunre swallowed the sound. The AGR-14 was a powerful weapon, one designed as much to
intimidate as to wound, and Arcturus scrambled on all fours, Juliana beside him. He looked over at
the gunmen, watching as they played their re over the front of the bar beside them. The wooden
frontage of the bar exploded into splinters, the glass shattering like a million diamonds.
Marines danced in the gunre, blood sprayed, and the sound of bullets striking esh was like a
hammer repeatedly smacking raw steak. Arcturus saw Private Shaw hurled backward by the
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
terrible impacts, his chest blown out by a sawing blast of rounds. Other men were hit as well, and
Arcturus saw a soldier torn almost in two by a torrent of re.
Shots sounded from behind Arcturus and he saw one of Juliana’s security guards crouched on his
knee, his pistol held out in front of him in two hands. One of the gunmen dropped, the back of his
head missing, and the guard calmly drew a bead on another.
Before he could shoot again, a burst of rie re took him in the chest and he lurched backward, a
bloody line of bullet holes tearing him up as though a grenade had gone o inside his rib cage.
Juliana’s other guard scooted over to them. “Give me her!” he shouted.
Arcturus nodded and hauled Juliana over to the man.
“Arcturus!” she cried, but he forced himself to ignore her plea as he spotted the fallen guard’s
pistol on the ground. He scrambled over to the gun and swept it up, twisting onto his back and
aiming it toward the bench.
Hordes of people ran in panicked confusion along the boulevard, screaming over the terror that
had landed in their midst. The bar was a ruin of shattered timber and glass. Tables had been
overturned, chairs scattered, and bloody bodies littered the area in front like multiple victims of a
ring squad.
Snake Tattoo and his three comrades continued to rake bullets over the bar’s frontage, making
the corpses jerk with the impacts. Fury touched Arcturus at the slaughter of his fellow marines. The
pistol bucked in his hand and another of the gunmen dropped.
Arcturus rolled to his knees and shifted his aim, putting another enemy on his back, a bloody
hole blasted in his chest. His accomplices turned toward the source of this new threat.
Another pistol shot boomed, and Arcturus knew that Juliana’s other guard was returning re.
The man’s bullet missed, and Snake Tattoo’s companion swung his rie to bear, a look of hatred in
his eyes.
Arcturus red rst, but his shot went wide. A bar light that had miraculously survived the initial
hail of bullets blew out in a rain of glass. Supersonic slugs ripped toward Juliana’s protector and he
was punched o his feet in a thudding series of bloody eruptions.
Snake Tattoo opened re at Arcturus, but a eeing tourist in a oral- print shirt took the volley.
The unfortunate holidaymaker fell as stray slugs tore up the ground next to Arcturus—who didn’t
give his attacker a second chance. He sighted along the barrel of his pistol and squeezed the trigger.
Snake Tattoo was spun around, his shoulder a pulped mass of shattered bone and geysering
blood. He dropped his rie and toppled backward, screaming in agony.
Arcturus rose to his feet, moving sideways as the last surviving gunman swung his rie around.
Before he could re, Arcturus put two bullets into his chest. The man toppled, dead before he hit
the ground.
Arcturus let out a long, shuddering breath, suddenly realizing how exposed he’d been.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Wearing the heavy plates of combat armor granted a marine almost complete immunity to small-
arms re, but when bullets started ying it was easy to take that immunity for granted and forget
that without armor—as Arcturus certainly had been just now—even the lightest handgun was
deadly.
He tracked the pistol left and right, keeping on the move. Though he doubted there were other
shooters on the boulevard, it didn’t pay to be reckless. He ghosted over to the shattered remnants of
the bar, crunching on broken glass and through pulverized timber.
Dozens or maybe even scores of bodies lled the bar, torn and mangled by the indiscriminate
barrage of gunre. Soldiers and well- heeled civilians lay together, equal in death if not in life.
Arcturus moved through the wreckage until he stood over the architect and sole survivor of this
massacre.
Snake Tattoo wept in pain, a gaping, raw crater where his shoulder should have been. He pawed
the wound with a glistening red hand, his breath coming in sharp hikes and tortured exhalations.
He looked up as Arcturus approached, his esh waxy and streaked with sweat.
“Confed bastard…,” he wheezed between groans of pain.
“What the hell was this?” demanded Arcturus. “What did you think you were going to achieve?”
“I ain’t…afraid…to die,” spat Snake Tattoo. “And…I ain’t gonna talk…You might as well…kill me
now…”
“Fine by me,” said Arcturus, and then shot him in the face.
Arcturus held Juliana close as she was wracked with sobs, her shoulders heaving with the force
of her distress. Her hand gripped his back, and her tears seemed never- ending. Arcturus had been
through the aftermath of combat and knew how to deal with the stress and fear of close brushes
with death, but this was new to Juliana and he knew he had to let her vent her fear, anger, and grief.
In the wake of the shooting, Arcturus had dropped his weapon and rushed to her side, holding
her close until the Tyrador armed forces arrived in screeching, armored vehicles. Howling orbital
yers—brilliant white and emblazoned with the winged caduceus, the universal symbol of healers—
landed in billowing clouds of propwash.
Green- clad paramedics spread eciently through the crowd, treating the wounded and calming
the living as enforcement ocers secured the dead attackers and gathered up fallen weaponry.
Sirens and screams and shouts blended together, rising into the night sky, forever shattering the
aura of invincibility the inhabitants of and visitors to Tyrador IX thought they had.
Until now, this had been a planet everyone believed was far from the concerns of politics and
warfare, but the fallacy and naveté of that illusion had been cruelly stripped away by this atrocity.
Nowhere was safe now; the long reach of violence could extend even here, the playground of the
rich and powerful.
Arcturus and Juliana answered a barrage of questions from a variety of ocials, but after what
seemed like a lifetime they were allowed to leave the scene, though Arcturus agreed to report to the
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
local Confederate militia station in the morning to give a fuller account of his role in the night’s
bloodshed.
Words like “hero,” “commendation,” and “medal” were already being bandied around.
A police yer had taken them to Arcturus’s hotel, and no sooner had they crossed the threshold
of his room than Juliana broke down in tears. Arcturus guided her to the bed and sat next to her,
allowing her to cry and knowing that anything he might say right now would be trite and
meaningless.
They sat like that for almost an hour before Juliana’s sobs became less frequent and she prised
herself from his shoulder. Her eyes were puy and her makeup ran in black streaks down her face.
Her golden hair hung limp; her skin was ashen.
She looked achingly beautiful in her vulnerability.
“I’m sorry…,” she said. “I look a mess. I—”
Arcturus ran a hand through her hair and kissed her forehead. “You look far better than anyone
would expect after what you’ve been through tonight.”
“Oh God…all those people,” she said. “They killed so many people.”
Arcturus nodded. “Yes, they did, but they won’t hurt anyone else. They’re dead now. I killed
them.”
“Yes,” she said, “you did. You were so brave. You saved my life.”
“No,” said Arcturus, trying to sound modest, but pleased at the thought of being seen as a hero.
“I just did what I had to do. Remember, I’m trained for this kind of thing. I just acted without
thinking. If I’d thought about it, I’d have stayed on the ground. Going up against ve men armed
with assault ries with only a pistol…? Captain Emillian will have my guts for garters when she
hears that.”
“She won’t,” said Juliana, pulling him close. “She’ll think you’re the bravest man she’s ever met.
Just as I do.”
Arcturus saw that Juliana had control of her emotions now, having come through the horror of
the shooting with more aplomb and determination than most soldiers ever did. He saw the core of
iron in her, and was reminded of the strength he saw in his mother.
As her sapphire eyes met his, he saw a erce passion there that reected his own.
The full force of what had happened tonight rushed to the fore in both of them, and reason was
cast aside as they seized one another in a desperate embrace.
Arcturus pressed his lips against Juliana’s, and she returned his kiss with hot urgency.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
They tore at each other, disrobing one another with no regard for propriety. The nearness of
death and the arousal of killing swept through their mingled esh in an uncontrollable surge and
they fell together with only one thing in mind.
Drowning in desire, Arcturus had wanted this since he had rst laid eyes on Juliana, and he gave
in to the moment without thought for the consequences—consequences that could bind two lives
together forever.
Soon they would be forced to part once more, but for tonight Arcturus and Juliana sought to
purge thoughts of their own mortality by arming their life and humanity in the most primal way
possible.
CHAPTER 10
KORHAL. THE PLANET OF HIS BIRTH. UNTIL HE SET foot on it once again,
Arcturus hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the place. Stepping from the orbital yer that had
brought him from the John Lomas, Arcturus followed the crowds making their way to the starport’s
exit. Given the anti- Confederate unrest the UNN was reporting on Korhal, Arcturus had packed
his uniform into his suit- bag, but his CMC ident- tags were hung around his neck to ease his
passage through the security checkpoints.
Under normal circumstances, his tags should have allowed him to pass through with the bare
minimum of eort, but it took a frustrating two hours to travel from the yer to the arrivals lounge,
the culmination of a several- day journey from Tyrador IX and Juliana.
Their parting had been emotional and heartbreaking.
For her, at least.
When dawn’s light had shone through the polarized glass of his hotel window, Arcturus woke
with the bitter taste of regret in his mouth. Looking at the sleeping form of Juliana, perfectly
outlined by the tousled sheets, he had felt nothing but a profound sense of irritation at his giving in
to passion and letting emotion cloud his judgment.
Yes, he had wanted to take Juliana to his bed, and had gone to some eort to do so, but now that
the deed was done, he felt a curious regret. Perhaps the previous night’s atrocity had touched him
more deeply than he had thought, but lying in the half- light of morning, he felt a sense of closure,
and yet an awareness of new beginnings. It was a curious sensation.
He had slipped silently from the bed and dressed, then gathered his belongings. Before he could
leave, Juliana had woken and smiled. He had stayed long enough to share some breakfast before
making his escape, promising that they would see each other soon. She had cried at the thought of
his leaving, and he had held her for an appropriate length of time before prising himself from her
clinging embrace.
And with that, he had left her.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus wasn’t sure exactly what he now thought of Juliana Pasteur. On the one hand, she was
a beautiful woman; but on the other—if he was honest—she had been nothing more than an exercise
in satisfying his own vanity. Though it had taken him longer than he would have expected, he had
gotten everything he wanted from her and she was therefore of little further interest to him.
Of course, her interest in him was undimmed, but that was a problem for another day.
Putting Juliana Pasteur from his mind, Arcturus had boarded the John Lomas and made his way
to Korhal.
As he strode toward the arrivals lounge, he saw armed patrols of Confederate militia at every
step, groups of hard- eyed men and women scanning the crowds for any potential threat.
Have things really gotten that bad?
There had been a few reports on the UNN of the troubles on Korhal—riots, ambushes, and the
occasional bombing—but the media had played these down as isolated incidents perpetrated by
lone madmen. Now, here on the ground of Korhal, Arcturus wasn’t so sure.
“My father’s been busy,” he whispered to himself.
The doors to the arrivals lounge opened and he emerged into a crowded concourse of eager
faces, men and women and children awaiting reunions with loved ones. Arcturus hefted his suit- bag
onto his shoulder and scanned the gathered people, looking for a familiar face.
When he nally saw one, it certainly wasn’t one he’d expected.
“Welcome back,” said Achton Feld, taking Arcturus’s bag.
“Feld?” said Arcturus by way of a greeting. “Where are my mother and father? And Dorothy?”
“They’re down the coast,” said Feld, “at the summer villa.”
“And they couldn’t come themselves?”
“Not safely.”
Arcturus sighed. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he had held to a faint hope that his
parents might have bothered to come and greet the prodigal son back to the family heartland.
He saw Feld sizing him up with a critical eye.
“What?”
“You’ve changed,” noted Feld. “Something about you is dierent.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know exactly, but you look better for it, that’s for sure.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“I’m so glad you think so.”
Feld nodded wearily at Arcturus’s sarcasm. “Okay then…let’s get to the groundcar.”
From the bedroom he shared with his wife, Angus watched the silver groundcar as it made its
way along the road toward the summer villa, a heavy feeling lurking in the pit of his stomach. It had
been two years since he had seen his son, and the emotions of the day when Katherine had tearfully
told him that Arcturus had joined the Marines were as strong as ever.
Angus struggled to hold his temper as he thought back to Dorothy’s tears that same evening,
knowing that Katherine had pinned her hopes on a family reconciliation tonight. Katherine’s
happiness was the most important thing in the world to Angus Mengsk, and he just hoped he could
get through this evening without barking at his errant son.
“Are you ready?” said Katherine from the bedroom door. “He’s almost here.”
Angus turned and gave his wife a smile. “I don’t know if I’m ready, but let’s go anyway.”
“Please, Angus,” said Katherine. “You promised.”
“I know,” he said, reaching out to her. She came into the room and took his hands. “But I can’t
forget how he hurt you. How he hurt all of us.”
“You have to. Arcturus is our son.”
“But joining the military,” said Angus, shaking his head. “Of all the ways he could have chosen to
disappoint me—”
“Stop it,” said Katherine, in a tone that warned Angus he was on thin ice. “He is our son and he
will be welcome here, no matter what. Do you understand me?”
“Of course, dear, but the boy infuriates me.”
Katherine smiled. “No one gets under our skin quite like the people we love.”
“Especially family,” said Angus.
“Especially family,” agreed Katherine. “They wouldn’t get to us so much if we didn’t love them.”
“I suppose,” said Angus. “Where’s Dorothy?”
“She’s in her room.”
“Is she coming down?”
“Not yet,” said Katherine sadly. “She’s just curled up with Pontius and says she doesn’t want to
see Arcturus.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“I don’t see why she gets out of this and I can’t,” grumbled Angus.
“Are you seriously pouting because you’re having to do something a six- year- old won’t?”
“No…”
“Shame on you, Angus Mengsk,” said Katherine. “Now, come on. Let’s go downstairs.”
“Fine,” said Angus, taking a deep breath and straightening his jacket. “How do I look?”
“Like a father,” said Katherine.
The groundcar drew to a halt within the villa’s courtyard and Arcturus got out in time to see his
mother and father emerge onto the steps before the front door. His father was dressed in an
immaculate, severely cut suit of ash gray with the wolf- head emblem on the breast pocket, while his
mother wore an elegant dress of cornower blue.
The air was fresh with the tang of saltwater and a pleasing chill blew in o the ocean. As ve
armed guards stood in the shadows of the courtyard, Arcturus stood straight and with his shoulders
back, trying to read the expressions on his parents’ faces. His mother smiled warmly, and Arcturus
thought he detected a faint hint of welcome even in his father’s stern features.
Achton Feld moved past him with his suit- bag and Arcturus followed him.
As he reached the bottom of the steps, his mother came down and embraced him, all her
thoughts of reserve forgotten as tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Oh, Arcturus…,” she wept. “It’s so good to have you home. We’ve missed you so much.”
He returned his mother’s embrace, feeling a powerful, forgiving sense of return. He surrendered
to it and felt years of bitterness begin to wash away at the simple sincerity of his mother’s welcoming
love.
Eventually his mother released him and he found himself face- to- face with his father.
The moment stretched and the warmth of the previous welcome faded like a distant memory. At
last his father extended his hand.
“Good to see you, son,” said Angus.
Arcturus smiled, though it was an eort. “And you, Father.”
They shook hands stiy, but Arcturus could discern that, despite himself, his father was actually
pleased to see him.
“You’ve changed,” said Angus.
“So Feld tells me,” replied Arcturus. “Though he seems unable to say how.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“It’s your eyes. You’ve gotten older. You’ve done things that have aged you.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“I don’t know yet,” said his father, releasing his hand.
Arcturus saw his mother narrow her eyes and turned to her. “Where’s Dorothy?”
“She’s upstairs,” said his mother. “Asleep. It seemed a shame to wake her.”
Arcturus caught the hesitation in her reply and said, “Come on, Mother. Where is she really?”
“She’s upstairs,” repeated Katherine. “She’s just…Well, she’s still angry with you.”
“After two years?”
“People can hold grudges for longer than that,” said his father.
Arcturus nodded. “So I gather. She’s in her room?”
“Yes,” said Katherine, “but maybe you should let her come down in her own time, dear?”
“I don’t think so,” said Arcturus. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that it’s almost always best
to tackle a problem head- on.”
“The Marines teach you that?” said Angus.
“No, I learned that from you,” said Arcturus, sweeping past his parents and into the villa.
The entrance hall was exactly as he remembered it, with its checkerboard- patterned oor, dark
paneling, and gold- framed portraits. His mother’s objets d’art still stood on their white marble
columns, and no sooner was he across the threshold than a hundred memories from his childhood
returned.
He stood in the warm hallway, letting the smells of the house wash over him in a sustained
assault on his senses: the wax rubbed into the wooden oors, the aroma of slowly cooking dinner,
the polish used on the silverware. Arcturus could hear the bustle of sta in the kitchens, the creak
and groan of an aged house warmed by the sun, and the hum of the generator room deep in the
basement.
The house spoke to him in a language of the senses, a combination of a thousand dierent sights,
sounds, and smells, but they all blended into one simple feeling.
He was home.
How many soldiers fantasized about home? All of them, even the ones with nothing much to
look forward to at the end of their term of service. Home was an idealized notion to most military
men, but here, standing in the house in which he’d spent every summer growing up, Arcturus knew
that this was no fantasy.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus climbed the stairs, avoiding the creaking ones—as he had always done as a child—and
made his way toward Dorothy’s room. He smiled as he saw that her door was still covered with
colorful letters.
He knocked lightly on the door, three slow knocks followed by three quick ones, the secret code
they’d used when she was little more than a toddler.
“Go away!” came a voice from beyond the door.
“Little Dot, it’s me,” he said. “Arcturus.”
“I know.”
Realizing he would get nowhere like this, Arcturus pushed open the door and went in. Inside, he
saw that Dorothy’s room had changed since the last time he’d seen it. It was still strewn with toys,
but there was an order to them now, a hierarchy that had Dorothy clearly at the top.
His sister lay on her back in the center of her bed, Pontius the pony held tightly across her chest.
The old pony was looking a little threadbare, but Dorothy plainly wasn’t about to let that stop her
from hanging on to him.
“Hello, Little Dot,” he said. “I’m back home.”
“No one calls me that anymore,” said Dorothy. “I’m not a baby anymore.”
Arcturus crossed the room to stand at the side of her bed, observing that Dorothy had indeed
grown since he had seen her last. She had blossomed into a pretty little girl with the distinctive high
cheekbones of her mother and the thunderous brow of her father.
She wore a smart dress and her hair was pleated in two pigtails. Even lying down, she looked
every inch the Mengsk she was.
He smiled. “Okay. So what do they call you now then?”
“Dorothy, silly,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, which, he had to admit,
it probably was. “What else would they call me?”
“Sorry, yes, should have thought about that,” he said, sitting on the edge of her bed.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” said Dorothy, rolling away from him and onto her side.
“Well, that’s too bad,” said Arcturus. “I suppose I’ll have to keep the present I was going to give
you. Maybe I’ll give it some poor children.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I don’t want it anyway.”
“That’s a shame. It was a really nice present.”
“I told you, I don’t care,” said Dorothy, and Arcturus saw he wasn’t going to win her over with
simple appeals to a child’s greed. As always, he’d have to go for the emotional blackmail.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“I wrote to you every day, but you didn’t write back,” he said. “I missed you. I really missed you,
little sister.”
“Then why did you leave me?” she cried, rolling over to face him and hurling Pontius at him. The
stued pony bounced to the oor and Arcturus leaned back as Dorothy rose to her knees and hit
him over and over on the chest with tiny sts.
“You went away and left me without saying good- bye,” she sobbed.
He let her vent her frustrations on him without protest, and when she was done, he put his arms
around her and held her tightly.
“I know I did, and I’m sorry. I never meant to leave you like that.”
“Then why did you go? I never saw you to say good- bye.”
“I…I had to go,” he said. “I couldn’t stay here.”
“Why? Because of Daddy?”
“No, it was because of me. I had to go and do something for me, something that wasn’t some
idea or plan of his. Joining up was my way of doing that.”
“You could have died,” cried Dorothy. “Soldiers get shot at and blown up all the time. I see it on
the news every day, even though Mummy and Daddy don’t like me watching it. I kept looking for
you. I kept watching the news and wondering if you’d been killed.”
Arcturus held his sister close as she cried, not having thought about what she must have gone
through, wondering if he was alive or dead. His mother and father would no doubt have assured her
that he was alive and well, but what force could compete with the imagination of a six- year- old?
“I’m sorry, Dorothy, I really am. I never meant for you to worry about me. I’m your big brother—
I can look after myself.”
“And who’s going to look after me? You’re my big brother and you promised you wouldn’t let
anything happen to me. But then you went away and anything could have happened to me. Those
bad men could have come back and shot Mummy and Daddy and me. Or a bomb could have blown
us all up or those rebels with guns could have shot us because Daddy has so much money.”
The words poured from Dorothy in a rush and Arcturus felt his heart go out to her. Dorothy was
a condent, articulate little girl—and a Mengsk to boot—but she was still only six. He realized he
had forgotten that.
“Nothing like that could happen,” he said as forcefully as he could. “Daddy pays Achton Feld too
much money for anything to happen to you. And now that I’m a soldier, I have a big gun and a
whole platoon of marines who will protect you, I promise.”
She squeezed him tightly and he smiled, knowing he had won her around.
“I missed you,” she said. “I cried for a week when you left.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“I’m sorry,” he said once more. “But I’m back for a while and I promise I won’t go away this time
without telling you rst.”
“Mummy really missed you. I heard her crying too. Daddy missed you as well. He never said it,
but I could tell that he did.”
Arcturus lifted her face from his shoulder. “I love you, Dorothy. And I always will.”
“I love you too,” she snied. “And it’s okay—you can call me Little Dot if you want.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” said Dorothy. “Now where’s my present?”
Dinner was often a lavish aair in the Mengsk household, held in the oak- paneled dining room
and comprising several courses, a wide selection of wines, and a grand re burning in the iron grate.
Angus Mengsk sat at one end of the long rosewood dining room table, with Katherine at the other
end and Arcturus in the middle to his father’s right.
Dorothy sat opposite Arcturus and sipped from a cup of fresh apple juice. As was customary,
Pontius sat at the table next to her, with his own place setting. Arcturus and his father had shared a
glass of port before dinner, a breach of etiquette under normal circumstances, but Angus had never
liked doing things by the book—a trait he seemed not to know that he had passed on to his son.
Angus had drunk a white port, but Arcturus found he preferred a darker, ruby port, and they had
sat on either side of the chessboard as his mother cleaned Dorothy up for dinner. The carved pieces
were arrayed for battle, but neither man was in the mood for a game.
Arcturus had defeated his father when he was eleven, and they had never played since.
They spoke guardedly, with Arcturus unsurprised to discover that his father was just as vocal as
ever in his condemnation of the Confederacy. The special target of Angus’s ire these days was the
fact that the construction of the new Korhal Assembly Forum had been abandoned and the site
bulldozed for some overpriced housing development. Of course, the demolition contract had been
awarded to a company owned by one of the Old Families, the Tygores, and the new building
contract awarded to a rm owned by a distant nephew of Andrea Tygore.
Times changed, but corruption, it seemed, stayed the same.
Arcturus drained the last of his port as his mother and Dorothy entered the dining room. His
father smiled at the sight of his daughter, and Arcturus was reminded that, above all the politicking,
the railing against the Confederacy, and his complicity in terrorist activities, Angus Mengsk was
still a loving father.
The family seated themselves at the table and dinner began, with the slightly strained
atmosphere broken by the excited chatter of Dorothy as she spun tales of her preschool class and the
many children she played with.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
As he watched the faces of his mother and father come to life, Arcturus realized that it must have
been some time since Dorothy had opened up like this. Conversation owed around the table,
though Arcturus saw how his mother skillfully steered them all away from any contentious topics.
The rst course arrived, a true custard garnished with small slivers of pté, and Arcturus made
appreciative noises as he tasted the food. Like many wives of wealthy men, Katherine Mengsk took
a keen interest in the running of the household, and the majority of the dishes served were ones of
her own creation, using local ingredients and incorporating her family’s favorite avors. Small
glasses of a light, sparkling wine were served with the rst course, which was swiftly followed by a
mushroom risotto with baby arugula, Manchego cheese, and a lemon- parsley sauce.
Used to living on a diet of ration packs and mess hall dishes, Arcturus found himself struggling
with the sheer volume of food, but a lavender sorbet cleared his palate in time for a roasted rosemary
pork loin brochette with tomato- port sauce and Gruyère cheese grits.
Finally, a shallow bowl of sweet potato pound cake with a blood- orange- and- bourbon glaze
and nutmeg whipped cream was served, and after one portion Arcturus knew he could not eat
another mouthful.
Coees were served and a small bowl of mints placed in the center of the table.
“Mother, that was a triumph,” said Arcturus as the last of the plates were cleared.
“Absolutely,” agreed Angus, and Katherine smiled to see her son and husband in agreement for
once.
“I’m glad you approve,” said Katherine. “I planned the menu especially for tonight. I wanted us to
have a proper family dinner together. It’s been too long since we all sat around a table and just
enjoyed each other’s company. Don’t you agree?”
Arcturus hid a smile at his mother’s seemingly innocent question, recognizing an iron st in a
velvet glove when he saw one.
“Of course,” said Angus, hearing the same thing, and Arcturus looked over at his father to share a
knowing look. The ease of the glance and the natural way he had looked over surprised him as much
as it appeared to surprise his father.
“I’ve missed this,” said Arcturus. “It’s good to be back home.”
“I’m glad you’re back,” said Dorothy, and the matter was settled.
With the dinner cleared away, Katherine hustled Dorothy o to bed, though not before she had
secured hugs and kisses for both herself and Pontius from her father and brother. With the women
of the household away, the friction that had ed upon their arrival snuck back into the room like a
malignant shadow.
“A glass of port?” asked Angus, and Arcturus nodded.
“Ruby for me,” he said.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Angus poured two glasses of port and handed one to Arcturus. They stood in silence for a
moment, and Arcturus saw his father struggling to nd the right words. With Katherine present,
conversation had been light and inconsequential, but without her calming inuence, the tension
between these two alpha males was resurgent.
“I’m glad you came, son,” said Angus at last. “Your mother went to a lot of trouble tonight. And
Dorothy, well, you can see how pleased she is to see you.”
“And you?” asked Arcturus. “Are you pleased to see me?”
“Of course. You know I am. You are my son.”
“I know, but the last time we spoke wasn’t exactly friendly.”
“You had just gone and joined the Marines,” said Angus. “My son the Confederate marine…what
did you expect?”
“I expected you to respect my damn decision,” snapped Arcturus.
Angus sighed and took a sip of his port. “Are you trying to pick a ght, Arcturus?”
“No,” said Arcturus. “I’m really not. It’s just…well, we’ve never seen eye to eye on lots of things,
have we?”
“Not that I can recall, no.”
“Exactly, and back when I was living on Korhal, every time you looked at me, it was like you were
trying to nd faults with whatever I did. Nothing I did was ever good enough for you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Angus. “I just wanted the best for you. You see that, surely?”
“The best for me? Are you sure? Or did you want the best for you? What I wanted didn’t seem
important. All you cared about was whether I was a t successor to you.”
Angus poured himself another glass of port, using the time to curb an angry outburst.
Arcturus knew that goading his father could only end one way, but couldn’t stop the words from
owing. Two years of pent- up feelings were now coming out and he couldn’t stop them.
“Arcturus, you are my son and I have only ever wanted the best for you. You are intelligent and
can be the best at whatever you want to be, but to waste your life ghting for a tyrannical, corrupt
regime that seeks to take control of everything in the galaxy is just stupid.”
“So now I’m stupid?”
“That’s not what I said. You’re not even listening to me, you’re hearing what you want to hear so
you can prolong this argument.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus knew his father was speaking the truth, but the memory of Private Shaw leapt to the
forefront of his mind, the image of the boy’s torn- up body lying in a pool of blood on the oor of a
bar on Tyrador IX fogging his usual clearheadedness.
“No, that’s not it at all,” said Arcturus.
“Then what is it?” demanded Angus. “Because I’d really like to know.”
“It’s what you’re doing on Korhal,” said Arcturus. “The bombings and the riots. You and Feld
and your band of revolutionaries are still fanning the ames of hatred here, aren’t you?”
“Keep your damn voice down,” hissed Angus.
“Why? Afraid this Confederate marine might report you to the authorities?”
“You wouldn’t?” said Angus, genuinely horried at the notion of his son turning on him.
“No, of course not, but I’ve seen the reality of what people like you are doing,” said Arcturus. “I
saw the bodies and the blood on Tyrador IX, and I heard the screaming. You can justify what you’re
doing with talk of corruption and with clever wordplay, but I’ve seen what’s left behind. I saw men
shot down without mercy, and God knows how many innocent bystanders were caught in the
crossre. If that’s what you’re doing, then I want no part of it.”
“The attack on Tyrador IX was nothing to do with me, Arcturus,” said Angus, taking a step
toward him. “I swear it. We only attack military targets. Combatants. Because we’re in a war, make
no mistake about that.”
“Military targets?” said Angus, pulling his marine ident- tags from beneath his shirt. “What do
you think these make me? Tell me, would you bomb me or authorize some other attack that might
get me killed if it was part of your grand plan?”
“Of course not! Arcturus, why are you doing this? Your mother wanted for us to become a family
again tonight. Don’t ruin it for her.”
“It was a mistake coming here,” said Arcturus, putting down his glass and turning toward the
door. “I should go.”
“No, Arcturus, please stay,” said Angus, following him and taking his arm. “For your mother and
Dorothy if not for me.”
Arcturus turned to face his father. “I’ll be gone in the morning.”
Far from the glowing jewel that was Styrling, the darkness of the sky was absolute. Arcturus sat
on the walnut bench his father had built at the end of the path from the villa, watching the sea
explode against the clis below in silver cascades. A bronze plaque in the middle of the bench was
carved with a memorial inscription to Arcturus’s grandfather, Augustus, but the words had been
obscured by a green skim of corrosion and could no longer be read.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
He sat and looked up at the stars, wondering which ones he would travel to next. The
possibilities were endless, and certainly he was likely to see a great many dierent worlds with the
Marines.
And once he was tired of military life, a point he knew was fast approaching, he would muster
out and head to the rim, just far enough out to be free.
Arcturus felt a vibration in his pocket and took out his fone. He waited until the tone had
stopped and then ipped it open. Another message from Juliana. That made fteen since he had
arrived on Korhal.
He sighed and replaced the fone in his pocket as he heard footsteps behind him.
“Mind if I join you?” said Achton Feld.
“If you’re here to convince me to stay then you’re wasting your breath.”
“I’m not. I know it’s a lost cause trying to convince you of anything.”
Arcturus nodded and gestured toward the bench. “Then sit down.”
The two men sat in silence for a while, content to simply enjoy the majesty of the view. Farther
out to sea, the ocean was like a black mirror, vast and reecting the stars above in wavering
pinpoints. Occasional silver streaks ashed across the sky. Arcturus liked to believe they were
shooting stars, though he knew they were simply starships hitting the atmosphere.
“You’ll regret this, you know,” said Feld eventually.
“What?”
“Leaving like this. You don’t know what’s going to happen in the future, so do you really want
this to be the last memory you have of your folks?”
“You’re being melodramatic, Feld,” said Arcturus. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m not, Arcturus. Trust me, what’s happening on Korhal is more dangerous than you know.
The Confederacy is running scared here, and anyone who’s seen combat knows that’s when the
enemy is at its most dangerous. They’ll try anything and, as good as I am, I can’t guarantee anyone’s
safety in the face of that kind of desperation.”
“Are things really that bad?”
Feld simply nodded and said, “You can never go home. Isn’t that what they say?”
“Who?”
“They. Them. Whoever. It doesn’t matter.”
“What does it mean?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“When you live here on Korhal, you think it’s the center of the world and you believe nothing will
ever change. Then you leave and don’t come back for a few years. And when you come back,
everything’s changed. The connection’s broken. What you came to nd isn’t there and what was
yours is gone. You’ll have to go away for a long time before you can come back and nd your people,
the world where you were born. But now, for you, it’s not possible. You’re not ready to come back to
Korhal. Or maybe she’s not ready for you, I don’t know.”
“Since when did you become a philosopher, Feld?”
“I’ve been around,” said Feld, “and I picked up a few things along the way. Just don’t do anything
rash, okay? If you’re going to leave, ne, leave, but say good- bye rst. Don’t leave like last time.”
“Don’t burn any bridges? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” agreed Feld. “Say your good- byes, and then go. And don’t come back until
you’re ready to come back. Make a clean break until then.”
Arcturus’s fone trilled again and he knew who it was without even looking.
Juliana.
“A clean break, you say?”
“Yeah.”
“I think you might be right, Feld.”
CHAPTER 11
ARCTURUS LEANED HIS HEAD BACK AGAINST THE plyboard wall of the oce
and closed his eyes, letting the hum of the air- heaters and the clicking sound of Lieutenant
Cestoda’s typing lull him into a semi- doze. It would be at least another half hour before he was
admitted into Commander Fole’s oce anyway. Appointments with Brantigan Fole were always
late. The bullish commanding ocer of the 33rd Ground Assault Division of the Confederate
Marine Corps kept very much to his own schedule and no one else’s.
Lieutenant Lars Cestoda, the adjutant tasked with keeping track of the commander’s
appointments, was a waspish and punctilious man who, at rst glance, seemed an unlikely soldier,
but who positively thrived on the minutiae of army regulations.
Despite the convection heaters warming the oce, Arcturus still felt the chill in the air and
pulled his uniform jacket tighter. He’d need to request a new one soon; this one barely t his broad
shoulders and wide chest.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The summons to Commander Fole’s oce in Camp Hastings had come out of the blue, as most
orders did in the Marine Corps, but this one had the reek of importance to it and thus Arcturus had
arrived early, even though he knew it would be a while before the commander deigned to see him.
The outer oce was plain and stark, the only items of furniture an uncomfortable couch on
which Arcturus sat, a pair of iron ling cabinets (that looked old and battered enough to have come
from the Sarengo), and the desk and chair used by Lieutenant Cestoda. A few marine recruitment
posters were stuck to the wall with thumbtacks, which seemed a little redundant to Arcturus, since
anyone likely to see these posters would already be in the Marine Corps.
Arcturus stood and stretched. He’d been waiting for an hour and had already thumbed through
a copy of Battle Flag, the magazine of the CMC. The paper version of the magazine had long since
been replaced by digi- tome editions—and this copy had seen better days. Cestoda looked up in
irritation as Arcturus rose to his feet.
“Something I can do for you, Captain?” asked Cestoda, as though Arcturus had violated some
unwritten rule of the oce.
“No,” said Arcturus. “Just stretching my legs. Do you have any idea when the commander will be
available?”
“Presently.”
“That’s what you said thirty minutes ago.”
“Then you shouldn’t have needed to ask again.”
Arcturus approached Cestoda’s desk and perched on the edge, knowing it would annoy the man.
Sure enough, Cestoda glared at him, but Arcturus met his stare with one of his own.
“You are aware of the etymology of your name, I presume?” asked Arcturus, picking up a stylus
from the desk. Cestoda snatched it back.
“The what?”
“Etymology,” repeated Arcturus slowly. “It means the origins of words and how they arrived at
their current meaning. I was asking if you knew what your name means.”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” said Cestoda. “It’s just a name.”
“On the contrary, my dear fellow, in times past, a man’s name was what dened him. Many
names came from a man’s profession, such as Smith or Cooper, while others made reference to his
disposition or appearance.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Ah, well you see, Cestoda is a class of parasitic atworms that live in the digestive tracts of
vertebrates and absorb food predigested by their host. They’re ugly creatures, little more than a
body with only a rudimentary head for attachment to their host. And one of the most common
complaints regarding them is the nausea they cause. Just thought you ought to know.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus got up from Cestoda’s desk before he could reply and moved toward the insulated
window that looked out over the barren, blue- lit hinterlands of Onuru Sigma. The outlying
buildings of Camp Hastings huddled beneath the cobalt sky, and beyond the defensive turrets, icy
tundra spread out for hundreds of miles toward escarpments of glaciers that towered kilometers
into the sky.
The sealant around the glass was degrading and the sulfurous chill of the planet’s arctic
temperatures stole what little heat the convectors were generating.
Arcturus studied his reection, his features rugged and handsome in the tinted glass. His cheeks
were well dened and he now sported a neatly trimmed goatee around his full mouth. His eyes were
as piercing as ever they were, though far older than any twenty- four- year- old man’s eyes should be,
and his dark hair was thick and black. He smiled as he saw he was the image of his father.
A younger, handsomer version of his father, of course.
Though virtually every UNN broadcast was lled with images of Angus Mengsk—the Madman
of Korhal, they called him—it had been a long time since Arcturus had consciously thought of his
father. Almost ve years had passed since he had seen his family and though he had not passed a
single word with his father, he kept in regular touch with his mother and Dorothy.
His sister had just turned eleven, an age that made Arcturus feel very old indeed. It seemed like
only yesterday Little Dot had been born, but now her conversations over the vidfone were lled
with talk of boys and parties and how she hated not being able to leave the house without an escort
of soldiers. The trouble on Korhal was on the verge of getting completely out of hand, and the
pundits agreed it was only a matter of time until martial law was declared.
Arcturus wasn’t worried for his father, who had chosen to live such a dangerous life, but he
fretted constantly for his mother and sister. He had once promised Dorothy he wouldn’t let
anything happen to her, and Feld’s warning that their safety couldn’t be guaranteed still echoed in
his imagination.
He turned as he heard a chime from Cestoda’s desk and smiled at the irritated glance that
ghosted across the man’s features as he listened to Fole’s voice through his earpiece.
Cestoda looked up and said, “Commander Fole will see you now.”
The commanding ocer of the 33rd Ground Assault Division was a short replug of a man with
a short temper and a quick manner that left many of his fellow soldiers oundering in his wake. His
salt- and- pepper hair was kept cropped close to his skull and his skin was tanned the color and
texture of worn leather from the rays of a hundred dierent suns.
An unlit cigar was clamped between his teeth and he chewed a wad of tobacco, a habit he’d
picked up while stationed along the outer rim and never saw t to discard when he’d returned to
more civilized space. His uniform was immaculately pressed and decorated with enough stars to ll
a decent- sized planetarium.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus snapped to attention and saluted the commander, who returned the salute without
looking up from the papers arranged haphazardly on his desk. Another ocer, one with the rank
badge of a captain pinned to his white uniform, stood at attention beside the commander.
This captain was broad- shouldered and wore the power of his rank like a threat. His features
were arrogant, rugged, and pugnacious. Arcturus disliked him instantly.
He guessed the man was around forty, which made him old for a captain, and his physique was
impressive for a man his age.
“Sit down, Captain,” said Fole. “I have a job for you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Arcturus, taking the seat in front of Fole’s desk.
“This here’s Edmund Duke,” said Fole, jerking a thumb in the direction of the man standing
beside him. “A captain in Alpha Squadron. His outt is heading out to the Noranda Glacier
vespene mine and I want Dominion section to go with them.”
Arcturus nodded. He’d heard of Alpha Squadron, who were supposedly the most ecient
ghters in the Confederacy—which meant the most brutal—and whose motto was “First group in,
rst group out.” They were nicknamed the Blood Hawks, which spoke volumes for Arcturus’s
assessment.
“Yes, sir. What’s the mission?”
“Convince the miners it’ll be in their best interests to move on and leave the place to us. The Kel-
Morians have been busy around this system and the brass thinks something big’s in the wind, which
they ain’t too happy about. We’re to keep a lid on things and make sure those damn pirates don’t get
too uppity. You know, the usual.”
“The usual,” said Arcturus wearily. If Fole heard his tone, he didn’t comment on it, but Arcturus
could see Duke bristling.
“If you have Alpha Squadron, why do you need Dominion section?”
“Orders from on high are to combine some of our active squads. I’m thinking of attaching your
men to Alpha, so I want Duke to carry out an evaluation in the eld, make sure everyone’s up to
scratch.”
Arcturus was horried at the idea of Dominion section’s coming under the command of Edmund
Duke. Though he had never met the man before, he instinctively knew he was an arrogant
blowhard. As he looked at Duke’s smirking face, he realized he recognized him.
He’d seen the same arrogant face on the UNN when its reporters covered the activities of the
Old Families.
“Edmund Duke?” he said. “As in the Tarsonis Dukes?”
“The one and only,” drawled Duke. “I hear most of your boys are rim world yokels. That the case?
Only two things come from the rim worlds, boy—”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Yes, yes, I know,” interrupted Arcturus, returning his attention to his commander. “Sir, you can’t
be seriously considering this. You can’t put Dominion section under this man’s command.”
“You telling me what to do with my own division, Mengsk?” asked Fole.
“No, sir,” said Arcturus hurriedly, “but—”
“Just as well,” carried on Fole, as though Arcturus hadn’t spoken. “You’re a good ocer, Mengsk,
and the men respect you, but I’ll have you scrubbing latrines in a heartbeat if you try and tell me my
business again. Are we clear?”
“Crystal, sir,” said Mengsk.
“Anyway, what do you care? You’re due to muster out soon, so it doesn’t matter who commands
them.”
“I just want to make sure my men are in good hands,” said Arcturus, glaring at Duke.
“Well that ain’t your concern no more, Mengsk,” replied Fole. “Now get out of here and make
sure your men are ready for action. Mission brieng is at 19:00 and dropships are skids up at 20:00.”
A spiteful wind scoured the glacial slopes below the Noranda Glacier vespene mine. Arcturus
kept his helmeted head down against the force of it, his gaze rmly xed on the blue ridge of snow
ahead of him, beyond which lay the mine itself. The streaked sky above the ridge was squalid with
scads of vapor and the emphysemic discoloration of poor emission control.
He marched alongside Edmund Duke, the man’s white armor decorated with dozens of rank
badges and combat citations. It seemed that for all his bluster, Duke had seen his fair share of battle.
It didn’t make Arcturus like him any better, but at least he wasn’t going into action alongside a
rookie.
A hundred marines spread out in combat formation trudged up the rugged slopes toward the
ridge. Seven goliath walkers marched in support of them, but even these hardy machines found the
terrain challenging, their gyros ghting to keep them stable on the treacherous ice and snow.
Vulture hover- cycles zipped around the anks and Arcturus could just about hear the engine
roar of the two supporting Wraith ghters over the howling winds as they circled above. The
dropships that had ferried them from Camp Hastings had been forced to debus them a kilometer
back, the crafts’ poor aerodynamics unable to cope with the high winds and low visibility.
“Hell of a force, eh, Mengsk?” said Duke over the comms between their helmets. “You ever seen
such righteous display of Confederate might?”
“It’s impressive,” agreed Arcturus. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen this amount of repower
gathered in one place.”
“Yeah, just wish I had me one of them siege tanks.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“The ice here is too unstable,” said Arcturus. “In all likelihood we would have lost it down a
crevasse before we traveled half a kilometer.”
“I know that, but with one of those babies we coulda just scared these damn miners out like the
yellowbellies you ran into at Turanga Canyon.”
“You heard about that?”
“Sure did. You handled it pretty well, but you were damned lucky those miners didn’t have a pair
of balls between the whole lot of them.”
Arcturus shook his head at Duke’s simplistic reading of the engagement, but didn’t reply as his
fellow captain continued. “If I had my way we’d just be chasing these dirt- grubbers away at the end
of a volley of Impaler re and that’d be the end of it.”
“If a trie heavy- handed,” said Arcturus.
“Heavy- handed? Who do you think you work for, the Boy Scouts? This here’s the Confederate
Marine Corps, and if you’re ever gonna make something of yourself, Mengsk, you’re gonna need to
get some ruthlessness in you.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Damn straight,” said Duke, slapping a heavy gauntlet on the side of his gauss rie. “Ain’t no
messing with one of these babies.”
“Tell me something, Edmund—You don’t mind if I call you Edmund, do you? How is it that a
scion of one of the Old Families ends up out here pushing miners around as a captain? With your
family’s inuence and the amount of combat it looks like you’ve seen, I’d have thought they’d have
made you a general by now.”
Duke stopped and turned to face him, and Arcturus could see the cold anger in his eyes.
“Yeah, I do mind you calling me Edmund. And why I’m here is none of your goddamn business.
We got our orders and I’m a man who obeys orders, so why don’t you shut the hell up and follow
yours.”
Arcturus smiled as Duke stomped o toward the ridge, letting the man get a goodly distance
ahead before embarking himself.
“Gee, Captain, I reckon you done annoyed the big fella,” said Chuck Horner, coming alongside
him. “What you say to him?”
“Nothing much,” said Arcturus. “How’s the section, Lieutenant?”
“They’re okay,” answered Horner. “de Santo’s grumbling about the mission, Yancy won’t shut up,
Chun Leung’s bitching about what this weather’s doing to Mayumi, and Toby ain’t said squat since
we touched down, so business as usual, I guess.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Chuck Horner had served as Arcturus’s unocial second in command since the ghting on
Sonyan, a position he had fullled admirably, eventually earning himself a commission to lieutenant.
Arcturus turned and looked behind him, the blue armored shapes of Dominion section marching
a discreet distance away from the marines of Alpha Squadron. Their walks and posture were as
familiar to him as his own, and he nodded to each of them as they caught up.
“What’s the story, Captain?” said Yancy. “We there yet?”
“Nearly,” said Arcturus, pointing to the ridge a hundred meters or so above them. “Just beyond
there.”
“This is some weather, huh?” said Chun Leung, holding his rie protectively across his chest to
protect it from the worst of the wind. The man’s visor was fogged and the plates of his armor were
stained with pollutants, yet somehow his weapon was still pristine.
“We saw worse than this on Parragos, remember?” said Yancy.
“I’m trying to forget that one,” grumbled Chun Leung. “Took months to get all that grit out of
Mayumi’s breech.”
“This gonna be more of the same?” asked Dia de Santo.
Arcturus didn’t have to ask what she meant. Most of their ops in the last few years had involved
securing mines or frontier exploration sites from Kel- Morian prospectors. Either that or providing
heavily armed backup to local enforcers.
Riots and thousands- strong protests were aring up throughout the Confederacy with ever
more regularity, and you couldn’t watch the UNN without some report coming on about a
disaected populace attacking police or marching beneath waving banners.
Of course, these were downplayed as a few malcontents, but Dominion section’s experiences and
Arcturus’s last visit to Korhal told him that things were far worse than anyone suspected. The
Confederacy was rotting from the inside out and the powers that be were holding on by their
ngertips.
“More of the same?” said Arcturus, as a sudden shiver ran along the length of his spine. “You
know, I rather think it won’t be.”
“What do you mean, Captain?” asked Yancy.
“I have a feeling that Duke isn’t playing with a full deck,” said Arcturus, disregarding the military
protocol of not criticizing fellow ocers to lower- ranked soldiers.
“You think he’s dangerous?” asked Chuck Horner.
“Very much so, Charles,” said Arcturus. “I’m just not sure whom he’s dangerous to.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Noranda Glacier itself towered over them, a solid escarpment of blue ice on the opposite edge of
a shallow- bowled meteor crater gouged into the ice thousands of years ago. The crater’s ridge
curved away to either side, and its far edge was over three kilometers away. The cli of the glacier
reached thousands of meters into the air, like the dwelling place of gods from ancient legend.
In the center of the shallow bowl a dark fault line split the ice, and the tendrils of a yellowish
green vapor issued from all along its length. A giant, metallic renery structure of huge pipes,
towering collection vats, and aring exhausts squatted at the center of the crater like a giant, oil-
stained spider, surrounded by a host of prefabricated storage sheds and rough- looking living
compounds.
Men in hostile- environment suits went about their business below, oblivious to the marines
poised to march in and take their livelihood, and huge trucks with spiked wheels crunched over the
ice as they loaded up with containers of the precious gas.
It looked as though the place had been built in the midst of what had once been a ruined city,
with jagged spires of dark, crystal- veined stone clustered around the more recently built
constructions. The architecture of these ruins was a mystery, but there was something about them
that looked oddly out of scale with the humans toiling in their shadow.
Brantigan Fole’s marines lay in the lee of the crater’s edge, looking down into the enormous
crater. The goliaths were hunkered down behind them and the vultures did looping circuits of the
snow farther back. High overhead, the Wraiths ew gure- eight patterns, lost in the clouds, their
engines inaudible.
A thrumming vibration was carried through the ice toward the waiting marines, and Arcturus
couldn’t help but admire the skill with which the builders of this complex had managed to anchor
the renery over the vespene geyser.
How had they overcome the problem of the shifting ice and the need to keep the collection heads
stable? Arcturus couldn’t wait to get in and examine the complex.
“Hell, they must have to drill down a ways to get any vespene outta there,” said Chuck Horner.
“Indeed they do,” said Arcturus. “According to the brieng, the vespene is nearly thirty kilometers
beneath the ice.”
“Man, that’s deep,” said de Santo. “Surely there must be easier places to mine?”
“Undoubtedly, but this is an uncommonly large underground geyser,” said Arcturus. “And even
though it’s contaminated with some very noxious chemicals from beneath the ice, it’s so vast that it’s
still worth all the extra eort and danger to get it out.”
“Danger?” asked Yancy. “What danger? Aside from drilling over a dirty great crevasse, I mean.”
“Look at the color of the gas coming from the extractors,” said Arcturus. “You see how it has a
yellowish tinge?”
“Yeah.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“That’s hydrogen sulde, a very toxic and ammable gas. Mix it with vespene and you have a
highly unstable compound indeed.”
“So this place is like one big damn bomb?” asked Dia de Santo.
“Potentially,” agreed Arcturus.
“Great,” said de Santo. “This just gets better and better.”
Leaving his marines to gripe about the danger of this current mission, Arcturus returned his
attention to the target below. The ground was open and inviting, easy to walk over, but with
precious little cover. And to reach the central renery itself, the marines would have to negotiate the
tangle of abandoned maintenance sheds and sagging storage hangars.
From the aring exhaust gases, it was clear the facility was in use, but there seemed precious
little activity for so large a renery. It was almost as though the few workers in view were going
through the motions. Something about this whole setup rang false to Arcturus, but before he could
give the matter any further thought, Edmund Duke ran over at a crouch and dropped to his knees
beside Arcturus.
“Your men ready, Mengsk?” demanded Duke.
“We are,” conrmed Arcturus. “How do you want to do this?”
It galled him to defer to Duke’s authority, but Commander Fole had been quite clear as to who
held the reins of command in this operation.
Duke looked at him as though he’d just asked something stupid. “How the hell do you think I
want to do it? We go straight toward them and shoot anyone who gets in our way. I’ll take most the
men out front with the vultures and ve of the goliaths. You and your men follow with what’s left.”
“Captain Duke,” said Arcturus, giving Duke his full title as a salve to the man’s ego. “That seems
a little heavy- handed. We don’t know what’s down there, and I have just nished telling my soldiers
that the gases collecting there are extremely dangerous. We have to be careful here.”
“Careful, my ass,” said Duke, waving a dismissive gauntlet. “Ain’t nothing down there but a
bunch of ditch- digging yokels, Mengsk. Nothing we can’t handle. Or are you telling me your boys
ain’t up to the job?”
Arcturus could feel his hackles rise at the insult to his section, but kept his temper in check,
knowing that to let Duke see his anger would give him the advantage in this exchange.
“Not at all. Dominion section is ready for action, but we need to think this through. We can’t just
go in guns blazing.”
“Why the hell not?”
Arcturus bellied up to the ridge and gestured to the renery complex. “Look at the number of
maintenance sheds and derelict structures down there. For all we know there could be a hundred or
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
more men waiting for us. It’s a ready- made killing ground. I don’t like the look of this, Duke. It
smells of a trap.”
“Mengsk, the only thing I’m smelling here is cowardice,” snarled Duke. “Now get your goddamn
men ready to move out or I’ll haul your ass in front of Commander Fole on a court- martial.”
Alpha Squadron formed up and moved out on Duke’s order, climbing to their feet and marching
over the ridge toward the renery. Almost immediately, the workers in the mine ceased their labors
and withdrew to the central complex. The marines set a punishing stride across the ice, their
powered suits allowing them to close the distance to their target at a run.
Five of the goliaths loped across the ice with Duke’s men, their heavy autocannons spooled up
and ready to re. Dartlike vultures skimmed over the ice at speed, easily outpacing the marines and
moving in to circle the renery with their grenade launchers locked and loaded.
Arcturus let Duke draw close to the renery before passing the order to move on to his own men
and the twenty his fellow captain had deigned to leave with him. The two remaining goliaths
lumbered alongside them, one on either side of their dispersed formation, though Arcturus didn’t
think they’d be much use back here, where their guns couldn’t engage anything for fear they’d hit
their own men.
“Man, this stinks worse than that dead guy we found on Pho- Rekh,” said Chuck Horner.
“Stay watchful,” ordered Arcturus. “And Chuck, keep in contact with the dropships?”
“Sure, but if the winds don’t ease back they ain’t gonna do us a whole lotta good.”
“I’m aware of that. Just do it.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” said Chuck, recognizing the authoritative tone of his superior ocer.
Arcturus watched as Duke’s men reached the outermost building in the renery complex,
passing it at a run and spreading out to secure the target.
Nothing happened, and Arcturus let out the breath he’d been holding.
Vultures scooted in behind the men and the goliaths picked a path over the frozen gravel that
served as a level surface. A Wraith screamed overhead, its spiraling white contrails painting the sky
and throwing up billowing ice chips as it roared over the renery at low altitude.
As the Wraith pulled out of its run, Arcturus heard the metallic cough of a missile launch from
within the compound. How he could have heard it so clearly over the boom of the Wraith’s engines
and the thunder of blood in his ears he didn’t know, but he would swear on his sister’s life that he’d
heard it as clearly as if the missile had launched right next to him.
Climbing on a glowing, re- topped column of white smoke, the missile corkscrewed into the air
from one of the dilapidated supply sheds, shreds of camo- netting trailing behind it.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Oh no…,” whispered Arcturus.
At rst it seemed as though the missile could not hope to catch the Wraith, but its rocket motor
ared and it surged upward at a tremendous velocity. The pilot of the aircraft saw the threat and
pushed out the throttle, twisting his vehicle and heading for the open skies.
The missile exploded less than two meters from the pilot’s canopy and blew the front of the
aircraft o in a bright orange reball. Spinning wreckage tumbled down on trails of black smoke
and slammed into the ice.
As though the downing of the Wraith was a signal, the rattle and pop of distant small- arms re
erupted from the compound ahead. Arcturus saw ashes of gunre and heard shouted cries of alarm
over the comm net in his helmet.
These miners weren’t going without a ght.
A column of ame whooshed skyward, followed by a rattling, staccato burst of secondary
explosions. Armed men in green powered combat suits poured from the supply sheds previously
thought abandoned and opened re on Duke’s men. Goliaths in the same livery stomped into view
and streams of re erupted from the weapon mounts on their arms.
“Everyone forward!” shouted Arcturus, breaking into a run. “Move it!”
While the enemy troops were still tangled up with Duke’s marines, they weren’t pouring any re
toward Arcturus and his section, but that would soon change if they didn’t close the gap. They were
headed toward an olive- drab hangarlike structure with a curved roof. If they could get around it,
then perhaps they could fall on the soldiers attacking Duke’s men from behind.
A vulture screamed around the building, chased by a rippling stream of Impaler spikes red from
loopholes cut in the building Arcturus’s men were heading for. The pilot jinked his machine like a
snake, weaving in and out of the streams of re, but he wouldn’t last long without help.
“Goliaths!” cried Arcturus. “Engage those shooters. Now!”
The two armored walkers braced themselves and their arms spun up and around. The already
rotating barrels suddenly roared and meter- long tongues of ame blasted from the ends of their
weapons. Flickering sparks and torn metal exploded from the building’s anks, thousands of rounds
carving the sheet metal like a whipping plasma torch. Entire strips of metal fell from the hangar,
closely followed by torn- up bodies.
For good measure, a salvo of missiles rippled from the shoulder mounts of the two goliaths,
streaking inside the holes their guns had torn. One after another, they exploded inside the building,
and the roof boomed upward with each detonation. Flames billowed and smoke boiled from the
shattered walls and roof.
The vulture pilot sketched them a quick salute before pulling his hover- cycle in a screaming turn
and heading back to the battle.
“Mengsk!” shouted Duke over the comm net. “Where the hell are you? We need help. Now,
goddammit, now!”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“On our way, Duke,” said Arcturus. “Hold on.”
The ghting at the edge of the complex was erce, groups of armored soldiers dashing from
splintered wreckage to piles of stacked steel as they red quick bursts at one another. Arcturus
chopped his hand right—the direction the vulture pilot had own—and led his men into the
complex.
Impaler spikes chimed on steel and armor plates. Explosions ared and shrapnel spanged from
the walls of buildings. Thankfully, no one had been foolish enough to shoot anywhere near the
renery, but that was surely a miracle that couldn’t last forever. Closer to the complex, the air was
greasy and yellow, and a thick fog coiled around their ankles.
Arcturus heard shouts over the comm and skidded into cover at the corner of the building.
Closer in, he could see the trap that had been laid for them. The supposedly dilapidated buildings
were in fact cunningly constructed strongpoints disguised to look unnished or abandoned.
An enemy goliath strode around the corner and swiveled its gun mounts toward him.
“Down!” he yelled, and dropped into the fog.
A roaring, sawing line of shells sliced the air like a ery blade, tearing up the icy ground and
sending pulverized chips of gravel ying in all directions. Even through the dampening systems in
his helmet, the noise was deafening. Arcturus heard screams and the ringing hammer blows of shells
tearing through armor and esh.
A body fell on top of him, most of its side chewed away. Blood squirted from the torn- up esh,
spraying Arcturus’s breastplate in arcing lines. Arcturus gagged back a surge of vomit as he saw
Toby Mercurio’s lifeless features staring up at him through the smashed ruin of his helmet.
The goliath smashed through a pile of fallen sheet metal, another roaring torrent of shells ripping
through the fog toward them. Scattered marines were ring at the armored walker, but their shots
were having little eect.
Arcturus pushed Mercurio’s body away and rolled to his knees as another hail of explosive 30mm
shells reduced what little cover there was to mangled splinters of plascrete and metal shavings.
A series of explosions burst against the goliath’s legs and it stumbled, its cannons swiveling to
face this new threat. Arcturus saw the vulture they’d saved earlier streak toward the walker. Streams
of grenades launched from the hover- cycle’s frontal section and a series of explosions burst around
the goliath.
It wasn’t enough, and Arcturus saw that the pilot had doomed himself in his noble attempt to
save them. Then a missile streaked past him and slammed into the pilot’s compartment of the enemy
walker. As the missile exploded, re blossomed from the machine and it toppled to the ground in a
blazing mass of buckled metal.
Arcturus twisted and saw one of his own goliaths, the blue and red of the Confederate ag a
welcome sight on its front glacis. Smoke trailed from its Hellre missile launchers, and Arcturus let
out a shuddering breath at how close they’d come to death.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The vulture pilot looped his vehicle around and sped o into the thick of the ghting without
waiting for any thanks.
“Sir!” shouted a voice through the smoke and confusion. “Sir! Are you all right?”
He looked up and saw Dia de Santo, the faceplate of her helmet cracked and scorched. Blood
streamed down her arm where her armor had been penetrated, and he saw that her eyes had the
glassy look of stim use.
“Yes…yes, Dia. I’m ne,” he said, pushing himself to his feet.
Chuck Horner ran up to him, his armor similarly dented and battered. “Holy crap,” he said when
he saw Mercurio’s dead body.
Chun Leung and Yancy Gray covered their blind spots as Arcturus shook his head and regained
his equilibrium.
“What’s the plan, Captain?” shouted Horner. “This here’s a real mess now. That idiot Duke really
screwed the pooch on this one!”
Arcturus nodded and glanced around the ruined corner of the building once again.
The interior of the mining complex was a hellish war zone. Marines lay dead and dying as
Impaler spikes streamed back and forth like horizontal rain. Explosions mushroomed skyward and
res licked at the edges of the habitation compound.
The operation, which had started so simply, had turned into a disaster of epic proportions.
Duke and his men had fought their way into and captured one of the strongpoints, a brutal and
heroic action that had probably saved their lives. Gunre blasted from loopholes, cutting down the
armored soldiers who were attempting to rush them.
Smoke and ames obscured much of the battleeld, but Arcturus could already see that it was
only a matter of time before Duke and his men were overrun.
He dropped to one knee and turned back to his own men.
“Sound o,” he ordered. “How many have we got?”
Altogether he had sixteen marines left alive and one goliath, the other lying in a smoldering heap
of ames and popping ammunition. Arcturus hadn’t noticed its destruction.
“Charles! Do you still have a line open to the dropships?”
“Yeah, but fat lot of good it’s gonna do us under re like this!” shouted Horner. “Ain’t no way
those pilots are dumb enough to bring them ying cons into this shitstorm!”
“Tell them if they don’t want to be shot by court- martial they’ll come!”
“I’ll pass that on, but I’m telling you those yboys ain’t that dumb.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Just do it!”
Arcturus opened a link to the surviving Wraith pilot and issued her fresh orders. Thus far she
had kept her altitude high to avoid any more missiles, but that was going to have to change if they
were going to get out of this mess. Next he cycled through the comm channels until he hit upon
Duke’s.
“Edmund!” he said. “This is Mengsk.”
“Where the hell are you?” demanded Duke. “We’re getting slaughtered here!”
Quickly Arcturus outlined his plan to the besieged captain, who didn’t like it, but was at least
savvy enough to realize that it was the only way he was going to see another dawn.
“Okay, Mengsk, we’ll do it your way. Duke out.”
With his orders issued, Arcturus turned back to his marines and said, “When I give the word,
we’re going to move forward and form a corridor between us and Captain Duke. We’ll babysit him
back out of the complex so the dropships can pick us up. Got it?”
They got it, and he could see a re ignite in their eyes at the thought of hitting back at these Kel-
Morians. His earpiece chimed with a shrill buzz and he turned away from the battle.
“Everyone! Incoming!”
A sudden sonic boom announced the arrival of the Wraith as it roared overhead on a strang
run. A streaming cascade of laser re tore through the middle of the camp in a storm of high- energy
bolts, ripping through dozens of the green- armored soldiers and exploding amongst the trucks
carrying the barrels of vespene gas.
One of the trucks detonated in a storm of razor- sharp fragments and spraying gas. Fires ripped
through the enemy ranks and the shooting ceased as men burned and died. A thunderous salvo of
air- bursting missiles hammered the enemy ranks, and bodies ew through the air as billowing
pillars of smoke and ame erupted skyward.
“Now!” shouted Arcturus, and his marines broke from cover to rush toward Duke’s stronghold.
With Arcturus leading the way, they formed a cordon of soldiers with gauss ries blazing to keep
the survivors’ heads down. Arcturus saw an enemy soldier pick himself up from the ground, and
shot him through the head with a burst of Impaler spikes.
More soldiers were climbing to their feet. Wraiths lacked a real punch when engaging ground
targets, but the shock and noise of the attack had given them some breathing room. Duke and his
men were pouring from the wrecked stronghold to join them, and under the covering re of the few
surviving goliaths, the Confederate force began to retreat from the ambush.
Something exploded next to Arcturus and he was slammed into the ground. His rie spun away
and warning lights ashed on the HUD of his visor. A long crack appeared in the plasteel, and the
acrid, rotten- egg smell of sulfur clogged his nostrils.
He pushed himself to his knees, and felt a series of ringing hammer blows on his side. He fell
back, seeing a pair of green- armored soldiers advancing toward him. They were good, disciplined
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
soldiers and walked their spikes into him, keeping him pinned with the weight of re. More red
icons ashed up on his visor, warning of imminent armor penetration.
Then one of the enemy soldiers fell, his faceplate a mask of red where a stream of Impaler rounds
had punched through in one sustained burst. Arcturus looked up to see Chun Leung standing over
him, Mayumi pressed tight into his shoulder as he calmly aimed at the second soldier and put him
down with another endishly aimed stream of spikes.
With the immediate threat neutralized, Leung slung his beloved rie over his shoulder and
oered Arcturus his hand.
“With respect, sir, this probably isn’t a good time to be having a lie- down.”
Arcturus wanted to laugh at the absurdity of this remark, but accepted Leung’s hand and hauled
himself to his feet. An explosion burst nearby, and no sooner had Arcturus gained his feet than he
saw a strange look enter Chun Leung’s eyes.
A froth of blood sprayed the inside of the man’s visor.
“Leung!” cried Arcturus, now seeing the plate- sized piece of shrapnel embedded in the back of
Leung’s helmet. As Chun Leung dropped to his knees, he held his rie out to Arcturus.
“Look after her,” said Leung, and pitched over dead.
Arcturus watched Leung’s helmet ll with blood, obscuring the man’s features, horried at the
sudden, random nature of his death. He clutched Mayumi tightly to his chest, and with a nal
glance at Chun Leung’s body, turned and ran after his retreating men.
“Captain Mengsk!” shouted a voice in his ear. “This is Lieutenant Wang in Wraith One Fox
Three. Over.”
“What is it, Lieutenant?” replied Arcturus, running backward and ring Leung’s gauss rie into
the regrouping enemy.
“Your dropships are inbound, but you better get your asses moving. I’m picking up a hell of a lot
of incoming contacts on your location. Ground and aerial units. Big stu, too, battlecruiser- sized.
Looks like these guys are playing for keeps.”
“Understood,” said Arcturus. “Can you give us any more cover?”
“I’ve got fuel and ammo for one more pass,” said Lieutenant Wang.
“Then that will have to do. Mengsk out.”
Arcturus found himself next to Edmund Duke, the man looking more angry than exhausted by
the day’s events. Duke looked over at him, glaring in unreasoning bitterness.
“You took your damn time!” was all he said.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus bit back an angry retort as the last of the goliaths nally toppled, its missiles cooking o
in the heat of the explosion and skittering across the ice as they were released from exploding
launchers. A vulture smashed into the ice after raking re from a volley of Impalers blew out its
engine. The hover- cycle exploded into a thousand pieces as it hit the ice and its pilot bounced
across the rocks, every limb in his body broken.
Arcturus hoped it wasn’t the same pilot who’d helped them earlier.
The mining complex was ablaze from end to end and Arcturus was amazed the whole place
hadn’t gone up in one enormous explosion. Looking at the towering glacier above the complex, he
saw dark shapes against the midnight blue of the sky.
Starships. Impossibly huge behemoths of neosteel descending from the skies on ery jets like
avenging angels. A eet of ships was coming in over the glacier and Arcturus knew that the conict
between the Confederacy and the Kel- Morians had moved on from skirmishes and raids. This was
something much, much bigger.
He caught up to the survivors of the attack as the howling, lurching forms of their dropships
swooped down into the crater, their pilots braving the storm of enemy re and the elements to
rescue their men.
“Angels on our shoulders,” said Arcturus, running toward the ramps of the dropships.
Arcturus stepped from the reeking, red- lit dropship almost as soon as it touched down on the
gridded landing platform of Camp Hastings. Marines staggered from the bloody, smoky interiors
to be met by medics and triage attendants. One dropship had crashed during the extraction, but as
Arcturus looked along the line of survivors, he was disappointed to see that Duke hadn’t been
aboard it.
The camp was in an uproar, as though someone had run an electric current through the entire
sta. Arcturus ripped o his helmet and took a deep breath. Even the foul smell of the air here
wasn’t as bad as that of the blood and sweat inside his helmet.
Chuck Horner, Yancy Gray, and Dia de Santo marched down the ramp to stand next to him.
Horner looked at the rie Arcturus carried.
“Chun Leung?”
Arcturus shook his head.
“Damn,” was all Chuck had to say about that.
Arcturus ran a hand through his hair, watching as SCVs went about the task of dismantling the
base. Ground crews were already dragging refueling lines out to the dropships and armored
marines were hauling silver steel trunks from the buildings to the large- scale yers.
“What the hell’s going on here?” asked Yancy.
“Looks like we’re bugging out,” said de Santo. “And in a hurry, too.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus had to agree with that assessment. Everywhere he looked, he saw military personnel
breaking down the base, packing up what could be recovered and destroying what couldn’t.
At the center of this controlled chaos, Arcturus saw Commander Fole, clad in a suit of powered
combat armor and directing operations with his customary brusqueness. Arcturus slung Mayumi
over his shoulder and marched up to him.
Fole saw him coming and nodded curtly. “Glad you made it out, Mengsk.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Arcturus. “What’s going on?”
“What does it look like? We’re pulling out of Onuru Sigma.”
“What? Why?”
“Because this conict just got hotter’n hell,” said Fole. “General Mah Sakai’s Kel- Morians are
bringing in battlecruisers and brigade- strength forces to push us o this rock.”
“Battlecruisers? Where did they get ships that large from?”
“Don’t matter how they got them, they got them,” snapped Fole as Edmund Duke trudged over
to join them.
Fole planted his hands on his hips and said, “Now you’re both here I can tell you the bad news.
Word from on high is that everyone’s term of service just got extended, so I sure hope neither of you
was planning on seeing home soon.”
“Extended?” said Arcturus. “Why?”
“Because, gentlemen, we are now ocially at war with the Kel- Morian Combine,” said Fole.
CHAPTER 12
ARCTURUS ADJUSTED THE DIALS AT THE SIDE OF the resonator, wiping a lm of
moisture from its screen as the green lines of the display shifted and danced. The gravimetric
readings were uctuating, and though he was sure there was a sizable deposit beneath his feet, the
machines just weren’t conrming what his instincts were telling him.
Looking up from the magnetic resonator, Arcturus cast his eyes over the dig site. Situated in one
of the deep, mist- shrouded valleys of Pike’s Peak, the cleared terrain was dominated by six tall
drilling rigs that cored the dense rock at the base of the river canyon.
Battered hab- units and storage bins were scattered across the drier parts of the valley oor while
men in SCVs worked the coring drills and chugging sifters worked night and day to separate what
came up.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Which, so far, was absolutely nothing of worth.
Arcturus knew he was risking a lot with this venture, having sunk most of the money he’d made
in the last two mines into this hunk of rock out in the far reaches of the rim. But so far his intuition—
which had served him so well in the past—hadn’t uncovered the vast seam of valuable minerals he
felt sure was buried far below the regolith. The shallower valleys were paying out for other
prospectors, but so far this deep one had failed to yield any treasures.
He swore and slammed his palm against the side of the machine as a voice behind him said, “I
keep telling you, Arcturus, there’s nothing in this valley worth a damn.”
“It’s here, Dia,” said Arcturus, looking up to see Diamond de Santo watching him, her hands
planted squarely on her hips. “I can feel it.”
Like Arcturus, de Santo wore the heavy- duty work clothes common to most outer rim
prospectors: heavy- weave trousers, a quilted jacket with numerous pockets, and a battered hardhat.
She wore her dark hair in dreadlocks now and had them pulled in a tight ponytail at the base of her
skull.
De Santo bent down to examine the resonator as a jerking sine wave wobbled across its display.
At last, Arcturus gave up on the magnetic resonator and stood up straight, wincing as sharp pain
ared in his lower back.
“Too much bending over,” said de Santo.
“You’re probably right,” agreed Arcturus, rubbing his hand over his grimy face and then through
his hair. There were strands of gray in it now and he knew there was only going to be more of them
in the future. He’d seen Angus on the UNN yesterday and his father’s hair had gone almost
completely silver, so he at least knew he’d likely not be bald when he got older.
“You ain’t a young man no more,” said de Santo, with a smile. “Nearly thirty.”
“I’m only twenty- eight,” said Arcturus. “I’m not over the hill quite yet.”
“Yeah, but you can see it from here. Soon it’ll be all downhill for you.”
“You’re in a cheery mood today, Dia. What’s the matter?”
De Santo shrugged, waving a hand at the work going on around them. “You need to ask?”
“Of course. What’s the matter?”
“Look around you, Arcturus,” said de Santo. “We’ve been here two months and we ain’t found a
damn thing worth sticking around for. I know you think there’s a big score in this valley, but there’s
nothing here.”
“There is, Dia. I’m sure of it,” said Arcturus. “I can feel it.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Oh, you can feel it, can you? Then how come the geological mapping, the gravimetric analysis,
and the rock assay reports all say the same thing? There ain’t nothing here, and you’re going to lose
everything if we don’t cut our losses and move on soon.”
Arcturus rounded on de Santo. “Our losses? I seem to remember it being mostly my money that
started this venture—bought all these machines on credit and hired the workers to use them. We
made a little on that rst venture, enough to pay back our creditors, and a lot on the following one.
You’ve done well for an ex- marine, Dia, but don’t think for a minute that you are taking the same
risks as me.”
“Damn, but you are one selsh son of a bitch, Arcturus Mengsk,” snapped de Santo. “I put all my
share of those two mines into this one, and I stand to lose as much as you. Man, I gured once we
got out of the Marine Corps you’d become less of an arrogant asshole, but you’re getting worse, you
know that?”
“Thank you for your candor,” said Arcturus. “Now was there anything specic you wanted or did
you just come out here to berate me?”
“A little of both,” said de Santo wearily.
“Fine, so you have expressed your opinion,” said Arcturus. “What else was there?”
“There’s a message arrived for you on the vidsys console. Figured you’d want to know.”
Arcturus took a deep breath, ghting down his annoyance at de Santo’s interruption, but
knowing, deep down, that she might be right.
“Fine,” he said at last. “Keep working the resonator, I’ll go see what it is.”
De Santo sat behind the surveying equipment’s display as he set o toward the central hab- unit,
where the crew gathered for meals and relaxation after the day’s labors.
He turned back as he walked. “Any idea whom the message is from?” he asked, expecting it to be
from either his mother or Dorothy.
“Signal origin code is Umoja,” said de Santo.
“Umoja?”
“Yeah, some guy called Pasteur.”
Arcturus shucked o his boots and jacket as he stepped into the entry hall of the hab- unit, letting
the ow of dry air cool him down after the humidity of the dig site. As he hung up his hardhat, he
saw that his palms were sweating and realized he was apprehensive.
What could Ailin Pasteur want with him after all these years?
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
It had been nearly a decade since he had seen the man, and their last words were not ones of
abiding friendship. Was it perhaps Juliana using her father’s console?
He hoped not. He’d taken Achton Feld’s advice literally and made a clean break with his
previous life when he’d left Korhal all those years ago. Through the hellish years of the Guild Wars,
he’d not thought of Juliana or returned home on any of his infrequent periods of leave.
Instead, he had entered the Marine Corps study program, earning himself innumerable
qualications in prospecting and mineral exploration in preparation for the day he could stand
before Brantigan Fole and resign his commission.
“Damn, but I hate to lose you, Mengsk,” Fole had said when Arcturus slid his discharge papers
across the commander’s desk. “The Kel- Morians are on the run, and it’s only a matter of time until
they got no choice but to surrender. You sure you don’t want to wait a while, son? You’re a colonel
now, but they’re gonna be handing out promotions like party favors when this is all over. You could
be a general if you wanted.”
“No, sir,” said Arcturus. “As appealing as that is, I’ve done my time and just want out.”
“What you gonna do with yourself, Mengsk? You’re a soldier. You were born to be a soldier. I
don’t think you’ve got it in you to be a civilian. Come on, son, the things we’ve done, the things we’ve
seen…How can you go back to being an ordinary joe after that?”
“With respect, sir,” said Arcturus. “It’s because of the things we’ve done that I’m leaving.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Fole, all civility gone.
Arcturus sighed. “I suppose I just don’t believe in what we’re ghting for anymore.”
Fole had glared up at him and, without another word, signed his discharge papers.
Arcturus shook o the memory and pushed open the door to the rec room. Inside, conditions
were spartan, the meager furniture battered from the many times it had been shipped around the
rim from potential claim to potential claim. In one corner sat an old cine- viewer where everyone
caught up on the latest broadcasts from the UNN or their favorite holodrama. A number of
mismatching chairs were gathered around a chipped Formica table, and a pool table—its felt faded
and duct- taped—sat in the corner.
Beyond a bead curtain was a small kitchen unit, and a communal ablutions block lay at the far
end of the quarters where Arcturus and a number of others slept and kept their few personal
belongings.
Against the far wall was the vidsys console, a battered unit they’d bought secondhand and that
had never quite functioned as the seller had promised. But it was serviceable enough, and Arcturus
had enough technical savvy to keep it running and allow his prospecting crews some eeting contact
with their homes.
A blinking red light ashed on the grimy, oil- stained panel of the console and Arcturus set
himself on the stool before it. Taking a moment to compose himself, he ran his hands through his
hair once more and wiped the worst of the grime from his face as he always did before opening any
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
communication. An unnecessary ritual, since the message would have been prerecorded, but
Arcturus never liked to begin anything without looking presentable.
Satised, he punched the red button, and the screen fuzzed with static before a grainy image of a
pair of three- pointed stars, locked together within a circle, ashed on the screen. For all his skill
with electronics, Arcturus had never been able to get the color to work properly, but he knew that
one of the stars was jet black, the other pure white.
This was the planetary icon of Umoja, and Arcturus took a deep breath as the image faded and
was replaced with the face of Ailin Pasteur.
The man had aged, his face deeply lined and his hairline having receded alarmingly. Arcturus
saw the years had been a burden to Ailin Pasteur, and that he carried their weight in his eyes.
“Hello, Arcturus,” said Pasteur.
“Ailin,” replied Arcturus, falling into the habit of most people when viewing such messages and
thinking that the other person was actually on the other end of the link.
“It’s been some time since we spoke, so I’ll keep this brief.”
The man might be looking aged, but his voice had lost none of its strength and Arcturus was
quietly impressed as Pasteur continued.
“Your mother told me you’d left the Marine Corps and that you’re working your way along the
outer rim territories as a prospector. Well, you always said that’s what you wanted to do, so I
suppose that counts for something. But a lot of things have changed since you left your old life
behind, Arcturus, things you need to face up to. I haven’t contacted you before now, because Juliana
asked me not to, but, like I said, things have changed.”
Arcturus’s brow furrowed at Pasteur’s words. What had changed?
“I need you to come to Umoja,” said Pasteur. “I know you probably won’t want to, but I’m
appealing to any shred of humanity you might have left in you. Come to Umoja, Arcturus. As soon
as you can.”
The image of Pasteur faded from the screen and Arcturus chewed his bottom lip as he
considered what he’d just heard. He replayed the message twice more, searching for the meaning
lurking behind Pasteur’s words, but he could detect nothing beyond their face value.
He shook his head and went into the kitchen to x a hot drink, and armed with a tin mug of
steaming, military- grade coee, he made his way to his quarters.
Something had changed, and it was something he was going to have to face up to…
What in the world could it be?
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The room Arcturus had taken within the hab- unit gave a narrow window into his personality.
He kept it as clean as was possible in a prospecting camp, which wasn’t very clean at the best of
times. A narrow cot bed sat against one wall, with a gunmetal gray footlocker at its end. Bundles of
clothes in need of washing were piled at the foot of the bed and a number of disassembled pieces of
electronic kit lay strewn on a collapsible table in the corner. The walls were largely bare steel,
though one wall had a gleaming gauss rie hung on cloth- wrapped bolts, and another boasted a
collection of curling holographic images tacked to it.
In one of these images, Dorothy waved to him and blew him a kiss. The image had been
captured on her thirteenth birthday and a cake bedecked with candles ickered in the foreground.
Dorothy was fast becoming the apple of every Styrling lad’s eye, with boys from all the moneyed
families queuing up to court her, only to be sent packing by her father and told to come back when
she turned twenty- one.
He reached out and touched the image, as he always did, and scanned the other images: one of
him at the graduation ball with Juliana, another of being presented his colonel’s stripes by Brantigan
Fole, and one of him standing heroically atop the glittering seam of minerals at his rst strike.
A nal image displayed the entire Mengsk family, standing on the balcony of the Mengsk
Skyspire. In this picture, Arcturus had just turned thirteen and his parents stood proudly behind
him, his mother holding baby Dorothy in her arms. Styrling’s silver towers spread out in back of
them. It was the last time Arcturus could remember being truly happy.
He cleared a space on the bed and sat on the lumpy mattress with his back resting on the wall
upon which hung the rie.
Arcturus sipped his coee and winced as it burned his tongue. He put the cup down to let it cool
and reached up to lift the gauss rie from the wall.
Mayumi. Chun Leung’s weapon.
He’d been reluctant to part with it after he’d left the Marines, feeling that it would be somehow
wrong to simply get rid of it or pass it on to someone else. He’d kept the weapon clean, and
maintained it as best he could, but he knew it was a far cry from the immaculate condition it had
formerly known.
Arcturus worked the action and began to disassemble the weapon for cleaning as he thought
back to the soldiers who had served under him in the CMC. Despite the constant reminder of de
Santo’s presence, he hadn’t consciously thought of Dominion section for some time, their faces
growing hazy in the labyrinth of his memory.
Chun Leung and Toby Mercurio had fallen on Onuru Sigma, killed as much by Duke’s
headstrong foolishness as the Kel- Morian trap, and Yancy Gray died on Artesia Prime when their
convoy had been attacked by a chittering wave of spider mines erupting from the ground. The lad’s
legs had been vaporized in the blast, and not even the skill of the combat medics could save him.
He’d died screaming in the back of a truck sloshing with blood.
Only Chuck Horner and Dia de Santo had survived to reach the end of their extended service
along with Arcturus. As Arcturus had expected, Dia mustered out and chose to accompany him to
the outer rim territories and help him pursue his dreams of becoming a prospector. She had
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
invested what little money she’d saved while still in the service and had become a pretty damn good
prospector, with a nose for when a nd was going to pay out and when it wasn’t.
“What else am I gonna do? Go back to Tyrador IX and work for rich folks? Not this lifetime,”
she’d said when he’d once asked her why she’d followed him out of the Marine Corps. He suspected
that wasn’t the full story, but hadn’t pressed her for details.
Chuck Horner had chosen a civilian life, and Arcturus was glad his second in command—who’d
reached a captain’s salary by the time he left—had come through the wars unscathed. Horner had
married a woman he’d met on leave and they planned to start a new life together.
Arcturus had shaken Chuck’s hand and wished him luck.
“Thanks, sir,” said Chuck as they parted on the docks above the gas giant Dylar IV. “I reckon we
could all do with a little extra luck now. My own self, I done believe I used a whole lot more’n I
could expect to see during this war, so any extra you got’s gratefully received. Me’n Carla are gonna
head out to Mar Sara, see if we can’t make a life for ourselves. She’s a bit young and idealistic, but I
guess we all were once.”
Arcturus never saw Chuck Horner again.
Captain Emillian had, of course, remained with the Marine Corps, but Arcturus had no idea
what had become of her since his departure. Despite her talk of hunting handsome doctors,
Arcturus knew Emillian was a career soldier and would no doubt see out her days in the military,
either dying on some nameless battleeld or mustering out on retirement.
The odds were vastly in favor of the former, but if anyone could buck those odds, it was Angelina
Emillian.
Arcturus and Dia de Santo had taken a ship out to the outer rim territories and set up their
prospecting and mining enterprise, taking jobs the bigger outts didn’t like the look of for one
reason or another, and had quickly made a name for themselves as skillful and dedicated players.
Their rst strike had enabled them to clear their debts and acquire bigger, more powerful drilling
machines, as well as more advanced survey equipment.
Their second strike had been considerably larger and netted them a hell of a payday, but
interference from both the Kel- Morian Combine and the Confederate Exploration Corps had
become too onerous, and Arcturus had sold the claim for a small fortune and headed farther out into
space.
The worlds at the very edge of the outer rim were less frequented and oered the potential for
even bigger unclaimed strikes, but by the same token, they were more isolated and vulnerable to
piratical bands or heavily armed competition.
With the money they’d made in their second strike, Arcturus and de Santo had bought an old
starship named the Kitty Jay and lled her with fresh equipment, skilled workers, SCVs, and even a
handful of ex- marines for protection. They had come to Pike’s Peak on the strength of prospectors’
tales and an old assayer’s report Arcturus had found buried within the data architecture of a
forgotten Confederate database.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
De Santo had balked at risking everything on such scant information, but Arcturus had been
insistent, and his instincts had never been proved wrong—yet. For as had been pointed out so
bluntly to him not twenty minutes ago, they had found nothing of worth here, and unless they hit
paydirt soon, their dwindling capital would soon be exhausted.
It was a depressing thought and Arcturus pushed it aside as he worked an oiled rag along the
length of the gauss rie. The weapon was as clean as it was going to get and he began reassembling
it, wondering if he’d be called to use it to defend this claim.
The Guild Wars—as the UNN snappily called it—was entering its fourth year and from what
Arcturus had seen of the ghting, he knew that Brantigan Fole was right.
The Kel- Morians were going to lose.
It remained to be seen what that meant for smaller outts like his, but Arcturus suspected that it
wouldn’t take long for the Confederacy to turn its attention to the unclaimed resources of the outer
rim.
Arcturus snapped the last piece of the weapon into place and clicked the magazine home.
He laid the rie across his knees and leaned his head back against the wall, looking over at the
holographs opposite him. He looked at the image of Juliana and himself smiling for the holocam
and smiled at the memory, wondering what Ailin Pasteur could want with him.
It likely wouldn’t be anything to do with his family or he’d have heard from his mother or
Dorothy. Perhaps something had happened to Juliana, but then why would Pasteur turn to
Arcturus?
He didn’t yet know whether he’d even heed the request to travel to Umoja. He owed Ailin and
his daughter nothing and had no obligation to make such a journey, but a nagging curiosity gnawed
at the back of his mind.
His train of thought was interrupted as he heard running footsteps along the corridor outside
and the sound of Diamond de Santo calling his name. He lifted the rie and placed it beside him on
the bed as de Santo burst into his room, her eyes alight with excitement and the breath heaving in
her lungs.
“Holy hell, Arcturus, you need to get your ass outside. Now!”
“What is it? What’s going on?”
“You were right,” gasped de Santo. “Goddammit it, but you were right. It’s unbelievable.”
“Slow down, Dia,” said Arcturus, swinging his legs o the bed and standing up.
De Santo threw herself at him, embracing him in a crushing bear hug.
Arcturus prized her grip from around his neck and held her at arm’s length. “Listen to me, Dia.
Slow down. What are you talking about? What’s unbelievable?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
She took several calming breaths before speaking, but Arcturus saw the thrill in her eyes and felt
an electric sense of excitement pass between them.
“The claim,” said de Santo. “You were right—there’s minerals right below us, but we couldn’t see
them. Turns out the resonators were getting some backscatter from a higher stratum of banded
ironstone.”
“Are you sure?” demanded Arcturus. “Have you checked?”
“Yeah, one of the drills brought up a core sample that showed a layer of magnetite and shale.
Once I adjusted the resonator to lter that out…Oh, man, you gotta see it. It’s the biggest deposit
I’ve ever seen. We’re rich, Arcturus!”
“Okay, you need to calm down, Dia.”
“No way, man. This is big, Arcturus. I never even heard of a seam this huge; it’s still gonna be
paying out when our grandkids are drawing their pensions!”
Four days later and the party still hadn’t stopped.
If anything, de Santo had underplayed the scale of the nd, and with the resonator properly
calibrated to reach beyond the banded ironstone layer, there seemed no end to the length, breadth,
and depth of the mineral seam. With Arcturus’s conrmation of the veracity of the nd, and the rst
samples brought to the surface, the assembled workers and marines had broken out the alcohol and
the party had begun in earnest.
Heavier drilling rigs were even now being built to more quickly exploit the enormous nd, and
Arcturus knew that this strike was going to make him a very rich man indeed. Richer than any
prospector in the history of the Confederacy had ever managed after a lifetime of exploration and
digging.
The rec room was lled with people: miners, assayers, and soldiers. The heavier drilling rigs
were due to go online tomorrow and the SCVs had made a good start on the construction of an
extraction renery, but tonight everyone was relaxing. This was likely to be the only time o anyone
was going to get in the next few months as they established a more permanent facility on the claim,
and everyone was making the most of it.
Arcturus sat on one of the chairs around the table, listening to the excited banter of his sta and
letting them congratulate him on the intuitive instinct that had led them to this windfall. Everyone
expected to get rich from this nd, and for once it looked as though that might actually be the case.
Bottles of alcohol were passed around and toasts raised to future fortunes. Arcturus listened to
his men’s grand plans about how they were going to spend their money and took a proered mug of
lethally strong hooch.
Dia de Santo sat next to him, smiling broadly and icking through the few channels they
received on the cine- viewer. Various images ickered in the corner of the room, adverts mainly, but
Arcturus sat up as a familiar face ghosted into focus onto the projection.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
He read the caption that scrolled along the bottom of the image and said, “Wait,” as he saw de
Santo reaching to change the channel. “Turn it up.”
The speakers crackled and spat, but eventually Arcturus heard his father’s voice, though the
sound of revelry in the rec room all but drowned him out.
“Quiet!” barked Arcturus, and the room was instantly silenced.
He stood and walked over to stand right in front of the viewer as the caption repeated across the
bottom of the screen.
Martial Law on Korhal as Senator Angus Mengsk Declares War on the Confederacy! Tarsonis
Promises Stern Measures of Retaliation!
On the viewer, Angus stood addressing a thousands- strong crowd from a podium erected on
what Arcturus recognized as the Martial Field. A sea of adoring faces stared up at his father as he
held forth on his favorite subject, the rampant corruption of the Confederacy. Though the UNN
had muted his words, Angus’s st hammered the air as he spoke, his call to arms answered by
deafening cheers from the crowd.
Arcturus saw his mother and Dorothy standing proudly behind his father as the announcer
spoke disgustedly of planetwide riots, the capture of the UNN tower, and attacks on Confederate
outposts that had seen thousands dead.
The view rotated between Confederate barracks on re, vast crowds of people on the streets
with brightly painted banners, and Angus shouting to the gathered followers like the ery
demagogue of some ancient re- and- brimstone faith.
Was this the reason Ailin Pasteur had wanted him to travel to Umoja?
What did Pasteur know that the UNN wasn’t reporting?
“Stern measures of retaliation,” he said. What did that mean?
Arcturus turned from the cine- viewer and marched down the corridor to his room. He pushed
open the door and began packing a bag, stung in the few clean clothes he had left.
Dia de Santo pushed into his room seconds later, her face betraying her worry. “What are you
doing, Arcturus?”
“I’m leaving,” said Arcturus. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Tell me you’re joking. You can’t leave now!”
“Just watch me.”
“We’re on the verge of digging out the biggest mineral strike this side of the Long Sleep and you
wanna leave? Damn it, Arcturus, we need you here. I need you here.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Don’t worry, Dia,” said Arcturus, reaching out and putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be back
soon. I’m going to take the Kitty Jay to Umoja, but I will be back, I promise.”
“Umoja? Why the hell do you need to go there?”
“I need to see Ailin Pasteur,” said Arcturus. “Then I need to make sure my family is safe.”
Arcturus stepped through a haze of steam and oilsmoke onto the surface of Umoja. Or at least
onto the heat- resistant ceramic landing platform that had just descended a few hundred meters into
the surface of Umoja. A drizzle of moisture clung to his skin like humidity and the heat bleeding
from the Kitty Jay’s engines warmed the air.
Traveling between worlds always made Arcturus uneasy. The unknown dimensions of deep
space and all that might lurk in its vast emptiness red his imagination with images of as- yet
unknown aliens and piratical corsairs.
As master of his own destiny, the placing of his fate in the hands of another, even one as qualied
as Morley Sanjaya—the pilot he’d hired when he’d bought the Kitty Jay—unsettled him greatly.
Though he could not y a starship, Arcturus felt sure that if he were to try, he would master it
quickly enough.
And make better time than the two weeks it had taken them to get here…
Ailin Pasteur’s private landing platform was empty and its underground walls were a mixture of
rock and metal, scorched black by the comings and goings of orbital craft. A ashing amber light
rotated above a shuttered blast door, and a low buzz of static poured from a speaker recessed in the
wall.
The light icked o and the blast door began to rumble upward.
A squad of men clad in combat suits of pale blue plate and carrying gauss ries marched out onto
the platform, followed by a man wearing a dark suit and a foul- weather cloak.
Ailin Pasteur.
The last time Arcturus had seen Pasteur had been at the Close of Session of the Korhal Senate,
where the man had berated him for how he had just treated his mother. With the benet of
hindsight, Arcturus now accepted that his actions might have been a little rash that day, which
bought Pasteur some goodwill.
Pasteur stopped at the base of the steps that led up to the landing platform.
“Hello, Ailin,” said Arcturus, slinging his suit- bag over his shoulder. “I’d say good morning or
good evening, but I don’t know which it is.”
“It’s evening, Arcturus,” said Pasteur. “Welcome to Umoja.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Though the words were said with formal politeness, Arcturus sensed the rancor behind them.
Was this some charade for the soldiers standing at Pasteur’s back?
“Thank you,” said Arcturus, stepping down from the platform and waving a hand in the direction
of the opened blast door. “Shall we?”
Pasteur nodded and turned on his heel, clicking his ngers at the soldiers, who quickly followed,
marching in lockstep behind them.
Pasteur led him into a series of rock corridors that looked as though they had been bored
through with fusion cutters. Arcturus noted the quality and type of the rock, smiling as he found
himself calculating the density of the rock and rate per hour that it could be excavated.
Walking alongside him, Pasteur saw the smile and said, “Something funny?”
“Not really,” said Arcturus. “I still have my prospecting head on. Look, tell me what this is all
about, Ailin. My outt’s just struck a huge mineral deposit and we need to get our operation up and
running before the Confederate Exploration Corps gets wind of it. So come on, what’s going on?”
“It’s better if you see for yourself,” said Pasteur.
Arcturus sighed. “If this has something to do with my family, then I want to know now.”
“Oh, it has something to do with your family all right,” snapped Pasteur, “but I promised I
wouldn’t say anything. And I am a man of my word.”
This last comment appeared to be particularly barbed, and Arcturus wondered what he had
done to deserve such animosity. But Pasteur would not be drawn on the subject and Arcturus left
him to his silence as they made their way deeper into the complex. They arrived at an elevator and
traveled to the surface within its gleaming, silver- steel interior.
The elevator emerged into the wide hallway of a sizable dwelling, not unlike that of the Mengsk
summer villa. The walls were white marble and the oor was a mixture of gleaming hardwood and
expensive- looking rugs. An iron screw stair led back down into the rock and a wide set of carpeted
stairs led up toward a second story.
A shining dome pierced with panels of stained glass surmounted the hallway, and a chandelier of
ickering candles oated beneath its curve.
“Very nice,” said Arcturus as Ailin Pasteur led him toward a thick wooden door.
Pasteur opened the door and indicated that Arcturus should step through.
Arcturus swept past and entered a long room set with expensive furniture and a crackling re
that burned beneath a wide mantel. The smell of hot coee and sweet fruits hung in the air, and
Arcturus saw Juliana sitting in a large chair beside the replace.
She looked up as he entered and her face transformed, surprisingly, with genuine pleasure at the
sight of him. In the intervening years, Juliana had grown up. Features that were girlish and
coquettish when he’d last seen her were now womanly and strong. Juliana had lost nothing of her
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
gure, and when she stood and straightened her dress, Arcturus was again reminded of the poise
and grace of his mother.
Arcturus stepped farther into the room, then pulled up short as he saw a young boy sitting on the
oor in front of the re. Dressed in dark trousers and a matching shirt, his shoulder- length golden
hair was pulled back in a small ponytail. Arcturus was no expert in such matters, but he guessed the
boy’s age at around six or seven.
The boy sat in the midst of a pile of colored plastic bricks, built as though he had decided to
construct a ruined city. Tiny toy soldiers were scattered through these ruins and Arcturus watched
the child move them while making shooting noises with his mouth.
“We have company,” said Juliana, and the child looked up.
Arcturus received a dazzling smile from the boy—and felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach.
Startlingly handsome, the child was blessed with high cheekbones, wide gray eyes, creamy skin,
and just the hint of a hawkish curve to his nose.
“What’s going on here?” hissed Arcturus as Ailin Pasteur shut the door behind him.
“Valerian,” said Juliana. “Say hello to your father.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Starcraft: I, Mengsk
BOOK 3.
VALERIAN
CHAPTER 13
VALERIAN’S EYES FLICKERED AND AILIN PASTEUR smiled as he watched the lad
ght the tiredness that threatened to overcome him. It had been a long day and emotions had been
running high as they awaited the arrival of Arcturus’s ship. His grandson had been excited enough
for all of them, which wasn’t surprising given the inated stories Juliana had lled his head with over
the last seven years.
Ailin sat on the side of Valerian’s bed, smiling as his grandson blinked furiously at the onset of
sleep.
“But I’m not tired, Grandpa,” said Valerian. “Why can’t I speak to my dad? I’ve waited all day for
him.”
“Then one more night’s sleep won’t hurt, will it? He’ll still be here in the morning.”
Ailin dearly hoped that was true, for if he’d learned anything about Arcturus from speaking with
Angus and Katherine, it was that their son was inclined to be capricious when it came to remaining
in one place for any length of time.
“He’s just like I imagined him,” said Valerian, and Ailin Pasteur fought to keep the worry from his
face. Juliana had built up the boy’s expectations of his father since his birth, despite Ailin’s warnings
to her not to do so. It was a source of constant baement to Ailin how Juliana could still hold a
torch for Arcturus, given how terribly he had treated her—albeit part of that mistreatment was
through ignorance of Valerian’s existence.
He still remembered the day Juliana had told him she was pregnant. Pride and joy were mixed
with anger and fear as he realized that Juliana wasn’t going to tell Arcturus that he was to be a
father. To this day he couldn’t understand or dent her reasoning, founded as it was on years of
adoration from afar. They had argued furiously about her refusal to tell Arcturus of her pregnancy,
those arguments only ending when Juliana had threatened to leave and never allow him to see her
child should he so much as breathe a word to any of the Mengsks.
Faced with such an ultimatum, what could any father do but accede?
In Juliana’s worldview, Arcturus had things he had to do on his quest for greatness, and she
couldn’t distract him until the time was right. Now that Arcturus had left the military, that time had
apparently arrived.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Though it had been galling to see his daughter give up on her nascent legal career in favor of
impending motherhood, Juliana was happy and he couldn’t deny the pleasure he took from seeing
that happiness.
When Valerian had been born, it seemed her joy was complete. Ailin adored the boy—but then,
Valerian was easy to love, blessed as he was with his mother’s grace and his father’s strong features.
As Valerian had grown, he began to display a quick wit and a devilish streak that Ailin knew only
too well from his trips to Korhal and previous encounters with the Mengsk family.
Only once or twice had Ailin sensed his daughter’s regret at her abandonment of her career, but
all she had to do was look into Valerian’s beautiful face and it was swept away in a rush of adoration.
After the sudden and shocking introduction to his son, Arcturus had gone quite pale and, for
once, been lost for a scathing retort. A master of reading people’s emotions, Ailin had seen the anger
building in Arcturus and whisked Valerian away from the ugly drama that was no doubt unfolding
below.
Valerian had protested, but Ailin had learned to be the rm hand in Valerian’s life that his mother
most certainly was not.
“Is Dad going to live with us now?” asked Valerian, breaking into Ailin’s thoughts.
“I don’t know, Val,” said Ailin, unwilling to sugar his response; Valerian’s mother did enough of
that. “He’s just arrived and I don’t know what he’s going to do.”
“Mum wants him to stay.”
“I expect you’re right, but try not to worry about it. Get some sleep, eh?”
“Where’s my dad been?” asked Valerian with the relentless curiosity of a child.
“He’s been in the army, Valerian.”
“Fighting bad men? Or aliens?”
Aliens. It always came back to aliens with Valerian. Ever since Ailin had—under protest—read
him a bedtime story about invading creatures from another world, the boy had been fascinated by
the idea that other life- forms might once have existed (or might still exist) somewhere in the galaxy.
Ailin and Juliana had taken Valerian as a young child—under armed escort, of course—to the far
canyons and riverbeds of Umoja in search of relics of those lost civilizations. Undaunted by his
singular lack of success, Valerian had nevertheless excavated a host of “ancient” artifacts—oddly
contoured rocks, petried bark, and the shells of dead creatures he proudly claimed to be the
remains of aliens.
“No, Valerian, I don’t think your father was ghting aliens.”
“So who was he ghting?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“That’s kind of hard to answer,” said Ailin, trying to think of a way to explain where Valerian’s
father had been and what he had been doing without upsetting the youngster. As much as Ailin
hated the institution of the Confederate Marine Corps, he did not want to rob Valerian of his
idealized image of his father before he’d even met the man properly and formed his own opinion.
Arcturus would disabuse the boy of any heroic notions soon enough anyway, he thought.
“I bet my dad’s a war hero,” said Valerian. “I bet he killed hundreds of men.”
“I’m sure he did,” said Ailin.
“But he’s not a soldier anymore, is he?”
“No, not anymore.”
“So what does he do now?” asked Valerian. “Mum just tells me he’s doing great work, but I don’t
really know what that means.”
“I’m told he’s been a prospector out on the fringe worlds since he left the army,” said Ailin. “Quite
a good one, too, by all accounts.”
“Is he rich?”
“I’m not sure, but from the sound of it, I think he might be soon.”
“Good,” declared Valerian. “I want to be rich too.”
Ailin smiled. “You know, we’re not exactly poor here, Valerian.”
“I know, but I want to nd aliens when I grow up and I’m going to need a lot of money to do
that, aren’t I?”
“I suspect you might,” Ailin said, laughing. “You’ll need a eet of spaceships, the best
archaeologists money can buy, and all sorts of tools.”
“Oh, I won’t need archaeologists. I want to do the digging myself.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” said Valerian. “If anyone’s going to nd aliens I don’t want it to be anyone except me.
Where would the fun be in that?”
“I suppose you’re right; I hadn’t thought of that,” said Ailin, pride and love lling his heart at the
excitement in Valerian’s face. “Now, go to sleep, Val. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Yes…,” said Valerian, pulling the covers tightly around him with a contented smile as his eyes
drifted shut. “I’m going to meet my dad tomorrow.”
Ailin Pasteur rose from the bed and turned o the light beside Valerian’s bed. He made his way
to the door and slipped from his grandson’s room.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Yes,” he said. “You’re going to meet your father. I just hope he’s all you hope for.”
Arcturus still couldn’t quite believe it. He was a father…?
He was a father?
How was the rst question that leapt to mind, swiftly followed by a mental kick to the backside.
How do you think it happened, idiot?
He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. He wanted to deny it, but the cast of
the boy’s countenance was unmistakable. Every curve of feature was that of a Mengsk and the
analytical part of Arcturus’s brain had seen that the boy was a handsome lad indeed, obscenely gifted
with the best genes his parents had to oer.
No sooner had Ailin led the boy away than Juliana said something.
Arcturus didn’t hear it.
His head was lled with the white noise of a million questions and the rush of blood around his
body. The crackling of the re was like the roar of a great inferno, and he felt the air in his lungs
rasping along his throat and from his mouth.
Juliana rose from her chair with a pained expression and crossed the room toward him with her
arms outstretched. Without thinking, he took her in his arms and held her as she rested her head on
his shoulder and whispered things he couldn’t understand.
He stood like that for several moments before the reality of the situation washed over him in a
tsunami of anger and betrayal. Arcturus took hold of Juliana’s arms and pushed her away, as though
she were contaminated with some vile plague.
“I have a son?” he said, striding away from her.
“Yes,” said Juliana, smiling broadly. “You have a wonderful son. His name is Valerian.”
“A good name,” said Arcturus. “Strong.”
Juliana nodded. “I knew you’d be pleased with that. It suits him too.”
Arcturus was pleased with the name, but more pressing concerns needed to be addressed.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” he said. “You kept this from me for all these years? Why would
you do that, Juliana? Why?”
She recoiled from his anger, and he saw the fear in her eyes. Normally such behavior would have
repulsed him, but now he relished it, wanting to hurt her for the insult of keeping a secret from him.
And what a secret…
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Answer me, damn you!” snapped Arcturus when she turned away from him and stepped close to
the replace. She held on to the mantelpiece and coughed into a handkerchief before turning to face
him.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” she said.
“Pleased? That you’ve lied to me and kept the fact that I…that we have a child together? What
the hell did you expect? That I’d be pleased with this? That I’d be happy to know I was a father just
when my life is taking o the way I’ve always dreamed?”
“That’s why I couldn’t tell you before now!” cried Juliana. “All those great plans and dreams you
told me—I knew I couldn’t get in the way until you were ready to realize them. I know you just
joined the Marine Corps to punish your father, and I couldn’t tell you about Valerian while you were
ghting in the Guild Wars.”
“Why not?” said Arcturus, spying a drinks tray on the sideboard and pouring himself a hefty
measure of something amber and pungent.
“Knowing you had a son would have made your life so much harder.”
Arcturus took a belt of strong liquor. “What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t want you thinking of anything except staying alive, Arcturus. I didn’t want to do
anything that might distract you and get you killed. But now you’re out of the military and I asked
my father to keep tabs on how you were doing.”
Arcturus poured himself another glass of liquor, deciding that it was some kind of brandy. He
hoped it was expensive and old.
“If you’ve been keeping tabs on me then you’ll know we just hit the biggest mineral nd I’ve ever
heard of. My mining crew are working it as we speak, and I should be with them. I’m on the brink of
achieving everything I wanted and you drop this in my lap. Well, thank you very much for that,
Juliana. Your timing is exquisite!”
A re ashed to life in her eyes. “You don’t think I had dreams too, Arcturus? Remember I had
just started with that law rm as a paralegal? I was doing well there, and I had a promising career
there until I fell pregnant.”
“Not a very progressive rm if they red you for something like that,” said Arcturus. “You should
have sued.”
“They didn’t re me, thank you very much,” snapped Juliana. “They wanted me to come back after
Valerian was born, but I wanted to devote myself to our child.”
“Very commendable,” said Arcturus, pouring a third drink. He could already feel the spikes of his
anger being worn smooth by its potency.
“Valerian is very like you, Arcturus. He’s brilliant, charming, and utterly determined in everything
he does. You’ll like him, I know you will.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus brushed that thought aside, still reeling from the idea of having a young son and the
fact that he didn’t know him at all. Seven years of the boy’s life had passed and until now, neither he
nor Valerian had ever laid eyes on the other.
“Does my father know? My mother? Dorothy?”
Juliana shook her head. “No, I wanted to tell you rst. It wasn’t my place to tell your family about
Valerian.”
“True,” said Arcturus, lapsing into silence for a moment as a thought occurred to him.
“What is it?” asked Juliana, seeing a dawning realization in his face.
“It was on Tyrador IX, wasn’t it?” he said.
“Can you remember any other time you slept with me?”
“Of course not. Don’t be so melodramatic; I was thinking aloud,” said Arcturus. “Give me a damn
moment to get my thoughts straight. You can’t spring something like this on me and expect me to
be rational just yet.”
He reached for another drink, then thought the better of it. He replaced the glass and began to
pace the length of the room, running a hand through his hair as he did so.
“Rational?” said Juliana. “What is there to be rational about? You have a son and you have a
chance to get to know him. To get to know me again. We can be a family now.”
“A family?” said Arcturus, halting before her. “I…is that what you want of me? To leave
everything behind and come and live on Umoja with you and the boy?”
“His name is Valerian.”
“I know what his name is, Juliana.”
“Then why are you afraid to say it?” she countered. “Are you afraid that if you say his name you’ll
have to acknowledge him? That he’ll become real to you?”
“No, of course not, don’t be absurd.”
“Then why won’t you say his name?”
“Valerian,” said Arcturus. “Valerian, Valerian, Valerian. There, are you happy now?”
Juliana slapped him across the cheek and he had to restrain the urge to slap her back. He
remembered a similarly stinging blow delivered by his mother. In hindsight, he’d realized he’d
deserved that one, and, he was forced to admit, he probably deserved this one too.
“I’m sorry, Juliana,” he said at last. “But I can’t leave everything I’m building to come and play
happy family with you. I just can’t.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Then what? You’re just going to leave like you always do? Run away instead of face up to
things?”
“I don’t run from things,” warned Arcturus.
“Of course you do,” said Juliana. “You joined the Marine Corps to run away from your father and
you ran away from me just when we were getting close. And now you’re going to run away from
your son. Your heir.”
Juliana’s words hit home like hammer blows as he saw the truth of them. Rather than facing up
to the events that stood at the crossroads of his life, he had turned from them and chosen the path of
least resistance. Would this be another such moment?
Arcturus stood on the brink of everything he had ever wanted, but what good was any of it if it
was built on foundations of shifting sand? Perhaps now was the time to take stock of his life and
look to his legacy. After all, his father had been only a couple of years older than Arcturus was now
when he had been handed his son.
“Very well, Juliana,” he said at last. “I’ll stay. I will talk to the…to Valerian. I’ll get to know him
and he will be my heir, as you say.”
She threw herself at him and wrapped her arms around him once more. “I’m so happy. I knew
that once you saw Valerian you’d want to be part of his life.”
Again, Arcturus prized Juliana from him, though with less force than the last time.
“Don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves now,” he said. “I said I’ll get to know him, but I still don’t know
if I’m ready to just give up on everything I’ve built.”
“I’m not asking you to,” said Juliana, cupping his chin in her hands and pressing her face close to
his. “Can’t you see that? You don’t have to give anything up. We can all be together. All of us. We
can have everything we ever dreamed of. All those grand plans you told me over the years? They’re
coming to fruition now. Right now. You just have to want to see it.”
Arcturus smiled.
Perhaps Juliana’s words had merit or perhaps it was the alcohol owing around his system, but
whatever it was, Arcturus was surprised to nd the idea didn’t horrify him.
Perhaps they could be a normal family after all.
Arcturus awoke with a thick head and a brief dislocation as he wondered where he was. He was
refreshed and his limbs felt gloriously rested. The prefabricated crew quarters of a mining claim or
the cramped connes of a starship weren’t exactly conducive to uninterrupted sleep, and he’d
forgotten just how nice it was to spend a night in a soft bed. He stretched and rolled his neck on the
pillow, enjoying the warmth and letting the aches of the last six months ease from his bones.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
He smiled, and then the blissful forgetfulness of waking was replaced with the cold, hard
remembrances of the previous night’s events as everything came rushing back.
Juliana.
Valerian.
His son…
The gentle ease of morning ed from his body and he pushed himself upright, looking around
the wood- paneled room, with its tasteful furniture, heavy curtains, and discreetly situated
technology. The functionality of the room was pure Umoja, and the sliver of dusty orange sky he
could see through the window only conrmed it.
Arcturus swung his legs from the bed, his earlier desire to wallow in the thickness and warmth of
the covers having evaporated once he remembered the purpose of Ailin Pasteur’s summons. At least
now he understood the source of the man’s less- than- friendly welcome.
Quickly and without fuss, Arcturus cleaned himself in the sonic shower, a ne, elegantly
designed machine. The brand wasn’t one owned by the Old Families; such independence was
typical of most homes on Umoja, suspected Arcturus. It was, little to his surprise, ecient and
thorough, vibrating the particles of sweat and dead skin from him without peeling o another few
layers of skin for good measure.
He shaved with a similarly ecient sonic razor and combed his hair, then dressed in a dark gray
suit with knee- height boots. The suit had been cleaned and pressed, the boots polished to a mirror
sheen. Ailin Pasteur’s servants were thorough, that was for sure.
“Time to face the music,” he said, and left the room, making his way along a marble- faced
corridor that opened out into the entrance hall he’d arrived in last night. The door to the sitting
room was open and Arcturus could hear voices coming from within. He recognized one as
belonging to Ailin Pasteur, and entered the room.
Sure enough, the Umojan ambassador was sitting in the same chair his daughter had occupied
the night before. He was talking to one of his functionaries, who took notes on a personal console
with a wand stylus.
Pasteur, his face an unreadable mask, looked up as Arcturus entered.
“Good morning, Ailin,” said Arcturus.
“Indeed,” replied Pasteur. “You slept well?”
“You have no idea,” said Arcturus. “After nearly a year of sleeping on top of rocks or camp beds, I
could have slept anywhere, but, yes, I was most comfortable, thank you.”
“Hungry?”
“Ravenous,” said Arcturus.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Pasteur nodded to his servant and the man bowed before withdrawing from the room and
shutting the door behind him.
“Where’s Juliana?” asked Arcturus.
“Outside with Valerian. Digging up the bottom of the garden, no doubt.”
“You don’t have groundskeepers?”
Ailin smiled, though there was no warmth to it. “I do, but that’s not what I meant. Valerian’s
quite the budding archaeologist. He loves digging in the earth almost as much as another young
man I remember.”
“Maybe he takes after me,” said Arcturus.
“I rather think he does.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“No, just sad for you that you’ve missed so much of Valerian’s life. The years when Juliana was
growing up were some of the happiest I’ve ever had, but you’ll never know that simple joy.”
“Hardly my fault, Ailin,” pointed out Arcturus. “I didn’t know he even existed.”
“Would it have made any dierence if you had?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. I am not blind to my own faults, such as they are, but I said I would
stay for a time and get to know the boy. And I’ll make sure he has the best of everything.”
“We can provide for him,” said Pasteur. “I am a wealthy man, Arcturus.”
“I know that, but Valerian is my son, and I will provide for him. I’ll not be beholden to any man,
Ailin, and I’ll not be accepting charity. Even if this claim I’ve found is worth only a fraction of what I
think it’s worth, I’ll never need to worry about money again. Therefore, neither will Valerian.”
“Very well,” said Ailin. “That’s good to hear.”
Arcturus heard the simmering resentment in Pasteur’s voice and said, “You can’t hold me
responsible for not being here. Juliana never told me of Valerian.”
“I know that, but whether she never told you or not, the simple fact remains that you weren’t.
You didn’t see her raise Valerian on her own, you didn’t hear her cry in the night, and you missed
everything a father is supposed to be part of. It’s hard for me to look at you and not pity you for all
you’ve missed.”
“Don’t pity me, Ailin,” said Arcturus. “I’ll not have your pity.”
“Very well, not pity, but regret. Juliana should have had you next to her through all this, but she
didn’t. And it wasn’t because she never told you about Valerian, it was because you shut her out to
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
pursue your own dreams. We’ll never know, but I suspect if Juliana had told you before now, you
would have turned your back on her and the baby. Am I wrong?”
“Probably not,” admitted Arcturus. “But I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“Yes, and that’s the only reason I’m maintaining a degree of civility to you. I know you, Arcturus
Mengsk. You are a selsh man who I believe cares nothing for anyone else. I think you could be a
very dangerous man, but you are the father of my grandson and I’m willing to give you another
chance not to disappoint me.”
“You’re too kind.”
“I’m serious,” snapped Pasteur, and Arcturus was struck by the vehemence in the man’s voice.
“You have responsibilities now and if you fail to live up to them, I’ll make sure you never see Valerian
again.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It is.”
“Well, at least we understand each other.”
Further discussion was halted as Pasteur’s servant reentered the room bearing a silver platter
laden with a steaming pot of sweet tea and a plate of pastries, cheese, and cold meat. The man held
the platter next to Arcturus’s chair and slender metallic legs descended from the platter’s base.
Pasteur thanked the man as he left the room.
“These are dangerous times, Arcturus,” said Pasteur once the servant was gone. “Battle lines are
changing—old wars are drawing to a close and new ones are beckoning.”
“Are you talking about the Guild Wars?”
“The Guild Wars are over,” said Pasteur. “The Confederacy knows it and the Kel- Morians know
it, they just haven’t accepted it yet. The Confederacy’s too powerful, and if the last shots haven’t been
red yet, rest assured they will be soon. And then the Confederacy will be looking for its next
target.”
“And what do you think that will be? Umoja?”
“Perhaps,” said Pasteur, “but there are steps being taken to protect Umoja.”
“What steps?”
“Steps I’d prefer not to talk about just yet,” said Pasteur.
Arcturus wondered what Pasteur meant, but didn’t press the point. If the man wanted to tell his
secrets, he’d tell them in his own time.
“Have you spoken to your family recently?” asked Pasteur.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Wondering at the abrupt change of topic, Arcturus said, “Not for a while, no, but that’s one of
the reasons I came. I saw the broadcast on the UNN about the declaration of martial law.”
“Yes, things have become very dangerous on Korhal.”
Arcturus poured some tea and helped himself to a cinnamon- topped pastry.
“So tell me what’s been happening,” he said. “I’ve watched the UNN reports of bombings,
terrorist atrocities, and attacks on Confederate militia, but I imagine they’re either wildly
exaggerated or half- truths. And every communication I’ve had from mother is so cryptic as to be
unintelligible.”
“She’s being careful,” said Pasteur, pouring himself a cup of tea. “Confederate intelligence agents
are monitoring everything that comes o Korhal, especially transmissions from someone in your
family. The Skyspire and the summer villa are almost certainly under all- round surveillance.”
“I know you and my father were behind most of the attacks against the Confederacy on Korhal,
but are you really that dangerous to them?”
“More than you realize,” said Pasteur. “Korhal is one of the most important worlds in the
Confederacy, a model of what the earliest colonists hoped to build in this sector. For decades, the
Old Families trumpeted Korhal as the jewel in their crown, an exemplar world that proudly
displayed all they could achieve. They thought Korhal’s example would be what would persuade
Moria and Umoja to join the Confederacy, but they were wrong. All it did was show us the yoke of
tyranny ever more strongly, and now that Korhal’s in rebellion, they’re terried that if their most
treasured colony could turn against them, others might be tempted to do the same.”
“Do you think my family is in danger?”
“I know they are in danger,” said Pasteur. “They’ve been in danger ever since your father’s Close
of Session speech at the Palatine Forum. But then you’d have known that if you had stayed long
enough to hear it.”
“Please, let’s not go down this road again,” said Arcturus. “It’s old news and frankly I’m bored
with your throwing it in my face. Tell me about my family.”
Pasteur sat back in his chair, visibly composing himself mentally. “You’re right. I’m sorry,
Arcturus, but I can still remember your mother’s tears that day. It’s not an easy thing to forgive.”
“She’s forgiven me.”
“She’s your mother,” said Pasteur. “That’s what mothers do.”
Arcturus studied Pasteur’s face as he spoke, seeing the deep lines around his eyes and the gleam
on his pate, where his hair was little more substantial than thin wisps of gray smoke. The years of
clandestine support for his father’s rebel faction on Korhal had not been without its price.
“Achton Feld’s a good man, but he doesn’t have the resources of the Confederacy. He’s worked
wonders in protecting your family and he’s been lucky as well as skilled, but your father’s enemies
only need to be lucky once and it’s all over.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus was shocked. He had no idea things were so volatile on Korhal. The reports
concerning his father had largely belittled his importance or depicted him as some kind of raving
madman, which, he now realized, should have told him immediately how seriously the Confederacy
viewed Angus.
“Do you think the Confederacy will try and kill him?”
“It’s possible,” said Pasteur. “Angus is such a valuable gurehead that they might attempt
something that direct, but I think maybe his very visibility is what will protect him. If there’s anyone
with a grain of sense in the Tarsonis Council they’ll know that it may do more harm than good to
target Angus.”
Arcturus snorted in derision. “Yes, and having sense is a quality the Council’s known for, after
all.”
“Hence why I believe things to be so dangerous. Your father and Achton Feld have amassed a
popular army that numbers in the millions—tough, disciplined, and loyal men. And the momentum
and support your father’s built up among the civilian populace and neighboring worlds means it’s
only a matter of time until the Confederacy’s forced o Korhal for good.”
“It sounds like they don’t need any help then.”
“Don’t be so nave,” said Pasteur. “This is just when the Tarsonis Council is at its most
dangerous, when it thinks it might lose Korhal and have no other option but force.”
“Are you talking about an invasion?” said Arcturus, incredulous at the prospect of Confederate
marines storming the planet of his birth.
Pasteur shrugged. “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Feld’s army is well trained and has the very best
weapons we could supply: ries, explosives, tanks, anti- air missiles, the works. Any invasion would
cost the Confederacy dearly and I don’t think that’s a risk they’re willing to take.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“Then there will be bloodshed like nothing we’ve ever seen,” said Pasteur.
CHAPTER 14
ARCTURUS FOUND THEM AT THE BOTTOM OF THE garden by the side of a river.
Valerian was industriously working within a small cove he had clearly dug by hand with a very small
shovel, while Juliana sat nearby on the grass. Walking out to meet them, Arcturus took a deep
breath of the faintly spicy Umojan air, enjoying the aroma of an atmosphere unpolluted by the
venting of the Kitty Jay’s engines or the reek of oil, scorched metal, or turned earth and rock.
Ailin Pasteur’s home on Umoja was large and well proportioned, fashioned from white steel and
wide panes of bronzed glass, with a pleasing symmetry and elegant design that complemented the
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
natural landscape, with the grass and trees constantly reected in the glazing. Arcturus knew that
such a dwelling would be both rare and expensive on a planet such as Umoja, where the climate was
often harsh and land at a premium.
The gardens before the house were kept green and lush by integrated water atomizers, and an
army of robot groundskeepers tended to the numerous hedges and covered arbors that dotted the
gently curved slope. The path Arcturus followed led down to a slow, meandering river at the far end
of the garden, and tucked discreetly out of sight behind a sweep of hedges was the landing platform
on which Arcturus’s ship had set down the previous evening.
They hadn’t seen him yet, Valerian too intent on his labors in the dirt and Juliana too involved in
watching her—their, he corrected himself—son at work. Valerian stooped to retrieve something
from the mud and proudly held it up for his mother’s inspection. She nodded and took it from him,
placing it on a tray beside a pile of books as Valerian nally spotted Arcturus.
“Dad!” he cried, dropping his spade and clambering from the cove.
Juliana turned at the sound of her son’s shout and smiled as she saw Arcturus. Valerian charged
over the grass toward him, and Arcturus realized he was more terried of this moment than he had
been when the goliath had had him dead to rights on Onuru Sigma.
Valerian launched himself like a missile and Arcturus caught him in his arms as the boy wrapped
himself around his neck, laughing like a lunatic. Arcturus was surprised at how light he was; the boy
weighed next to nothing.
“Dad! You’re here! I wanted to talk to you last night, but Grandfather said I was too tired, but I
wasn’t, I really wasn’t, I promise.”
Arcturus didn’t know what to say. He’d never had any problem speaking to Dorothy when she
was younger, but she was his little sister and he had known her and loved her since her birth.
Valerian was seven years old, and this was their rst meeting.
What do you say to your son when he’s seven years old and you’ve never met him?
“That’s quite all right, Valerian,” said Arcturus eventually. “I think your grandfather was right.
Anyway, I think I was too tired as well.”
Arcturus put Valerian down and was summarily led by the hand toward the excavated cove
where the boy had been working.
“I want to show you my dig,” said Valerian. “Do you want to see it? I’m looking for aliens.”
“At the bottom of the garden?”
“Well, not aliens exactly, but fossils of them. You know what fossils are?”
“I do indeed,” said Arcturus. “I do some digging myself, you know.”
“I know, my mum told me,” said Valerian. “She said you’re the best miner in the galaxy.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Did she now?” said Arcturus as they passed Juliana.
“Yeah, she said you were a big soldier and then you became a prospector and that you’re going to
be rich and that you’re the best miner ever and—”
“Valerian,” interrupted Juliana, “slow down. Show your father what you’ve found so far.”
“Sure, yeah,” said Valerian, dropping to his knees beside the tray of his nds. Arcturus knelt on
the grass beside the tray as Juliana brushed a strand of honey blonde hair from her face. Beneath the
sunlight, Arcturus noticed how pale her skin was, pallid and without the light golden sheen of
Valerian’s.
She caught his glance and turned away as though embarrassed.
“I think I’ll leave you two boys alone for a while,” said Juliana, pushing herself to her feet and
ruing Valerian’s hair. “Will you be all right?”
“Yeah,” said Valerian, without looking up from his nds.
Arcturus nodded to Juliana, and saw the desperate hope in her eyes. “We’ll be ne,” he said. “I’m
sure we can stay out of trouble for a little while, can’t we, Valerian?”
“You bet,” agreed the boy.
Juliana made her way back toward the house and Arcturus watched her go. Now that he was
over the initial shock of discovering that he had a son, he was reminded of his former desire for
Juliana. Ailin Pasteur’s daughter had always carried herself with an élan that was wholly natural and
eortless, but as Arcturus watched, he saw that elegance had all but vanished.
No, not vanished, but changed…
Had motherhood changed her, or was he simply seeing her through dierent lenses that time
and distance had crafted without his noticing? More the latter, he suspected, for, by any objective
reasoning, Juliana was still beautiful. In some ways more so.
Last night he had wondered if they might yet be a family, but if he was honest, the burning desire
he had once had for her was now cold and dead. The tactless light of day cast its unattering
illumination over the idea, and Arcturus knew that any such notion was wishful thinking at best,
dangerous delusion at worst.
Arcturus desired an heir, that was certainly true, but a family life…?
He turned back to Valerian as the boy said something.
“I’m sorry?”
“I think this is alien,” said Valerian, holding up a piece of shell that even Arcturus could see was a
cracked shard from the shell of one of the domesticated Umojan insect creatures.
“Yes, I think it is. Probably a giant, winged monster from another galaxy.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“You really think so?”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Arcturus, lifting a piece of fossilized bark. “And this looks like it’s a scale
from some kind of alien lizard, don’t you think?”
Valerian nodded sagely. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. A big, man- eating lizard that could
swallow a whole squad of soldiers in a single bite. Did you see anything like that when you were a
soldier?”
Arcturus shook his head. “No, I didn’t, but I’m quite glad about that. I don’t think I’d have
wanted to be swallowed whole.”
“Well, no, I suppose not,” said Valerian. “That would be stupid.”
Arcturus took a closer look at his son as the boy rummaged through his nds and held each one
up for his inspection. Though he bore the genetic hallmarks of a Mengsk, Valerian did not have the
physicality of Arcturus or Angus. The lad was thin, much thinner than even Dorothy had been at his
age, and his arms were skinny and without denition. By Valerian’s age, Arcturus was a ne athlete
and had become procient with the dueling sword.
Not that in this modern age of gauss ries and missiles Arcturus had much use for an archaic
weapon like a sword, but the harsh lessons had taught him balance, honed his muscles, and
provided him with a proper appreciation for the martial arts. Given Juliana’s disposition, it was
unlikely she had encouraged such pursuits, and the sheen of sweat on Valerian’s brow was testament
to his lack of stamina.
“Are these your books?” asked Arcturus as Valerian nished showing him the junk he’d pulled
from the riverbank.
“Yeah, they were Mum’s, but she gave them to me to keep.”
“May I?” asked Arcturus, reaching for the books.
“Sure.”
Arcturus lifted the top volume, a thin picture book on archaeology, complete with diagrams of
animal skeletons and geological strata. He remembered reading this book as a child and seemed to
remember giving it to Dorothy.
As he examined the next book, Valerian said, “That’s my favorite. Mum gave me that for my last
birthday.”
The book was leather- bound, its cover edged with gold thread and its title printed in elaborate,
cursive script.
“Poems of the Twilight Stars,” read Arcturus, opening the book and turning its pages. The
interior was lled with color plates depicting fantastical beasts and verses of escapist nonsense that
talked of ancient beings that walked between the stars in ages past. He read one of the poems, a
ridiculously trite piece composed of numerous rhyming couplets that used childishly overblown
similes.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
A quick ick through the book revealed that every single poem was similarly hokey and worthy of
nothing but utter contempt. This was what Valerian was reading? A quick examination of the
spines of the other books revealed one to be a guide to understanding your inner soul, while the
other was a history book of Umoja.
At least that was something worth reading.
“This is yours?” asked Arcturus, holding up the book of poems.
“Yeah, I’ve read them all, but that one’s my favorite. Mum reads it to me before I go to sleep at
night.”
“And this is the sort of thing you like? No military books or adventure stories?”
“I’m not allowed books like that. Mum says that the galaxy’s a horrible enough place as it is,” said
Valerian. “She says I don’t need to read that kind of thing. She says it’ll just upset me.”
“Does she now…?”
“Yeah, she likes that one too.”
“But you’re a young boy; you should be reading action and adventure stories. Space battles and
heroes. My father gave me Logan Mitchell—Frontier Marshal when I was about your age. It’s a
classic. Have you read it?”
Valerian shook his head. “No, what’s it about?”
“It’s about a man called Logan Mitchell who keeps law and order on one of the fringe worlds.
Lots of guns, lots of girls, and plenty of shoot- outs with corrupt ocials. Logan’s a hard- talking,
hard- ghting man who always gets the bad guy. Pretty simple stu really, but it’s good fun and full
of blood and guts.”
“Why would I want to read about blood and guts and shoot- outs? That sounds horrible.”
“I thought most boys liked reading things like that.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Valerian. “I don’t like guns.”
“Have you ever red one?”
“No.”
“Would you like to?”
Arcturus saw the gleam in the boy’s eyes and smiled.
Like most people who professed to dislike guns, Arcturus gured, Valerian had never actually
red one and had probably not even ever held a rearm. There was something about ring a
weapon that appealed to the primal urge in everyone, male or female, and even avowed pacists
couldn’t deny the thrill of unloading a powerful weapon—even if only into a paper target.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Come on then,” said Arcturus. “I’ve a gauss rie and a slugthrower on the Kitty Jay. It’s time you
learned something about being a man.”
Valerian lay back on his bed, struggling to hold back tears of frustration and disappointment as
he rubbed analgesic ointment into his shoulder where the butt of his dad’s gauss rie had bruised
him black and blue. If Valerian hadn’t already hated guns, he would have learned to despise them
thoroughly during the time his father had spent with him.
The last seven days had to rank as the greatest and worst week of Valerian’s life.
The greatest because his dad was here and he was just as he had pictured him: tall, strong, and
handsome. Everything his dad said sounded clever and important, even if a lot of it was beyond
Valerian’s understanding.
The worst because nothing Valerian did seemed good enough for him.
Valerian had greeted every day as a chance to win his dad’s approval, and every day he hoped he
was going to grow up just like him. He found himself trying to adopt his dad’s mannerisms, his
walk, his posture, and even his speech.
It was just a pity that his father paid little or no attention to Valerian’s many acts of devotion,
seeming only to notice the things he couldn’t do.
The lessons with the gauss rie and slugthrower had been a disaster, the savage recoil of the rie
knocking Valerian onto his back and the bucking pistol spraining his wrist. The guns were loud and
even when he managed to hold them straight, he couldn’t hit any of the targets his dad set up at the
edge of the river.
Every failure seemed to irritate his dad, but no matter how he concentrated, squinting down the
barrel and pressing his tongue against his upper lip, he could not get the hang or love of ring a
weapon.
Not only that, but his favorite books had been consigned to the trash and replaced with freshly
uploaded digi- tomes of economics, history, technology, and politics—things he wasn’t interested in
and which didn’t have any aliens in them.
They were confusing and used big words he didn’t understand. None of them had any stories in
them, apart from the history ones, but even they were really boring and didn’t have any pictures of
the bits that sounded like they might have been exciting.
The one thing Valerian did enjoy was the sparring with wooden swords, which he and his dad
engaged in on the lawn before the house. The weight of the sword was unfamiliar, but his dexterous
hands could move it quickly and nimbly around his body. Though he was bruised and sore at the
end of each of these sessions, his dad would look at him without the more usual expression of
disappointment and nod.
“You’re fast,” said his dad, taking his arm and squeezing it hard, “but you lack power. You need to
build up your strength and stamina if you’re going to be a swordsman.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“But why do I need to be a swordsman?” Valerian had protested. “Surely no one ghts with
swords anymore now that we have guns.”
“And if you nd yourself without a gun, or you run out of ammunition? What will you do then?
Anyway, learning how to use a sword isn’t just about ghting with one, it also teaches you balance,
speed, coordination, discipline. All things you sadly lack, I’m afraid.”
That had stung, for it was harsh and unnecessary. His grandpa had argued with his dad after
Valerian told him what had been said. Valerian had heard them shouting at each other from behind
the closed door of his bedroom.
Grandpa had left the house yesterday, and though Valerian didn’t know what was going on, he
had seen that his grandpa looked really worried. His mum told him that the Ruling Council of
Umoja had been called to an emergency sitting (whatever that was) and that something very
important was going on.
She didn’t say what that might be, but Valerian could read his mum’s moods as easily as if she
had spelled them out, and he could tell she was worried.
As well as what was worrying her about Grandpa, he knew she wasn’t too pleased with his dad,
either. But she had kept her opinions to herself, as far as Valerian knew.
At least, he hadn’t seen them argue.
With Ailin Pasteur gone from the house, Arcturus helped himself to another measure of the
man’s brandy and sank into one of the leather seats before the replace. He sipped his drink, its taste
pleasant enough, and remembered his rst sip of brandy: the night the Confederate assassins had
come to kill them at the summer villa. Thinking back to that night, Arcturus remembered sitting in
the dining room and talking to his father, and felt a sudden, and wholly unexpected, pang of
nostalgia for those long- ago days.
Back then everything was simpler, he mused, then realized this kind of thinking was just the rosy
mist of memory softening problems that, at the time, had been huge and calamitous. Time, he knew,
had a way of distorting the truth of experience, embellishing past pleasures and diminishing
hardships.
Though he was still a young man, Arcturus felt old now. Part of that was no doubt the fact that
he had a son, a factor surely designed to make any man feel as though he had advanced in age—if not
maturity—by an order of magnitude.
Arcturus wondered if his own father had felt like this when presented with his newborn son. He
didn’t think so, since Angus would have had nine months and more to get used to the idea.
Fatherhood had been sprung on Arcturus like a bolt of lightning from an open sky.
The idea had taken root, though, and instead of railing against the idea of a son, Arcturus had
begun to feel that perhaps it was for the best he now had an heir (and had skipped the messy years of
nappy changing and midnight feeds).
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
He had sent a message to Korhal—tagged specically for his mother and Dorothy—telling his
parents of this latest development, though it had taken him several days to work out exactly how to
tell them of Valerian’s existence without casting himself in an unfavorable light.
That hadn’t been easy.
Arcturus had fought Kel- Morian pirates, been shot at by angry miners, and faced furious
superior ocers, but composing himself to record a message to send home and inform his family he
was now a father had been the most nerve- wracking experience of his life.
Arcturus remembered when he’d been about eight or nine and had broken one of his mother’s
ornamental dancers with a poorly thrown padball. He’d sweated for days to pluck up the courage to
tell her he’d broken it.
The sensation engulng him as his nger hovered over the Record icon on the vidsys was
uncomfortably familiar to the cold dread he’d felt as he stood before his mother’s drawing room
bathed in a guilty sweat.
He smiled, realizing it didn’t matter how old you were—your parents would always be gures of
authority, and it never got any easier telling them something dicult. Just as you would always be
their child, no matter that you grew up, fought battles, made a life for yourself, and perhaps even
started a family of your own.
The evolutionary dynamic between parents and their children was inescapable.
In any case, he’d sent word of Valerian to Korhal and three days had passed without a response,
which surprised him. He had expected his mother to respond more or less instantly to the news that
she was a grandmother.
And Dorothy…she was now an auntie. If anyone should have reacted with glee, he would have
expected it to be her. Arcturus knew Dorothy would love Valerian. But what kind of relationship
could he expect to have with the boy? Would they bond or would they remain distant, as Arcturus
and his own father had?
The last week had given him an inkling as to how their relationship would go, and it was not a
pleasant realization to discover it would likely be one of disappointment. The boy was weak and
displayed no aptitude for the skills and enthusiasms a man needed to prosper.
Arcturus would journey to Korhal soon to formally present Valerian to his family, and the boy
would need toughening up if he was to become a worthy successor.
In the meantime, he’d received word from Diamond de Santo regarding the claim, and the news
was all good. The initial core samples brought up by the rigs was about as pure as it ever got and the
yield from the rocks was like nothing any of the workers had ever seen. Arcturus smiled as he
recalled the excitement in de Santo’s voice as she spoke of the value of the claim. She’d also
mentioned a rumor going around the inter- guild networks that the Guild Wars were in fact over:
that the Kel- Morians had lost.
Arcturus hadn’t heard anything of that news, since Ailin Pasteur had no cine- viewers in his
home, claiming they showed nothing but Confederate propaganda and mindless, brain- rotting
melodramas anyway. Arcturus could sympathize with that view, so he’d connected remotely to a
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
UNN satellite feed via the Kitty Jay’s console and, sure enough, the channel carried the triumphant
news of the defeat of the Kel- Morians.
Images of marching marines and hundreds of gleaming siege tanks rolled across the screen and
the gushing announcer spoke of the craven capitulation of all enemy forces, as though the
Confederate military machine had just defeated the most bloody regime imaginable instead of a
loose alliance of pirates and miners.
Was this why Ailin Pasteur had been called away?
Bored—and slightly disgusted—by the relish the UNN was taking in its paymasters’ victory,
Arcturus had disconnected with the feed and returned to Pasteur’s home to pour himself the brandy
that warmed him as surely as the crackling re in the hearth.
Arcturus was enjoying this rare moment of solitude when he heard Juliana enter the room behind
him. He recognized the hesitancy of her step and knew it signaled another argument about the boy.
“What is it, Juliana?” he said without turning.
“Your son is in tears again,” she said.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Why are you being like this?” said Juliana, coming around the chair to stand before him.
“Like what?”
“Why are you being so hard on Valerian?” she asked, ignoring his question. Her face was hard
and pinched with anger. “Can’t you see he adores you? Even though you belittle him every time you
see him. He’s just met his dad and all you can do is tell him how bad he is at everything.”
Arcturus put down his brandy, angry with her now. “That is because he is bad at everything. He
can’t even hold a gun, let alone re one. The books you’ve been foisting on him are turning him into
a ower- wearing believer in universal harmony, and he’s as skinny as a rake. There’s no meat on his
bones and he gets tired after even light calisthenics. If I’m hard on him it’s because I’m trying to
undo the damage your mollycoddling has done.”
“We love him here, Arcturus,” said Juliana. “We don’t force him to do what we think he should
do. I thought you, of all people, would respect that. Our son is free to choose what he wants to learn
and what he wants to be passionate about.”
Arcturus shook his head. “That’s just the kind of woolly- headed nonsense that’ll leave him
unprepared for life beyond this cozy little bubble you’ve built around him. You’re raising a bookish,
eeminate weakling, Juliana. The galaxy is a hard, ugly place and if you carry on raising him like
this, he’ll not survive when he has to face it alone, do you understand me?”
“I understand all right,” snapped Juliana. “You want to make a carbon copy of yourself!”
“And would that be so bad?” retorted Arcturus, surging to his feet. “At least I’ve made something
of myself. I’ve gone out into the galaxy, gained real experience, and forged my destiny with my own
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
two hands. What’s the boy ever going to manage on his own? He’s a Mengsk and he’s made for
great things, but he’ll never amount to anything like this.”
“Whatever he wants to do with his life is up to him,” said Juliana. “We can’t choose the path of his
life for him.”
“Utter rubbish,” said Arcturus. “Children need discipline, and you have conspicuously failed to
give him that. He’s too young to know the right path when he sees it, so it behooves us to make sure
we put him on it.”
Juliana balled her sts, and Arcturus saw the strength he thought she’d lost resurface in her. “I
wish you could hear yourself, Arcturus. I really wish your younger self could hear what you’re saying
now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Everything you rebelled against when you were younger, that’s what you’ve become. You’ve
become your father.”
“Don’t be foolish, Juliana; I am nothing like my father.”
She laughed bitterly. “For someone so clever, Arcturus, you can be so blind. I listened to all the
things you’d tell me over the years, the grand plans for the future and your ambitions for greatness,
and I believed them. I think on some level I still believe you will do great things, but you won’t be
doing it alone anymore. You have a son, and he needs his father.”
“And I’m doing what a father needs to, Juliana. I’m giving him the benet of my experience to
turn him into a man.”
“He’s only seven—let him be a child,” pleaded Juliana. “Does he need to grow up just yet?”
Arcturus was about to deliver a withering reply when the door opened and one of Ailin Pasteur’s
servants entered. Immediately, Arcturus could sense the man’s urgency.
“What is it?” asked Juliana, turning and snapping at the man.
“A communication for Mr. Mengsk,” said the servant.
“A message?” said Arcturus. “And you had to interrupt us for that? I’ll open it later.”
“No, sir,” said the man. “It’s not a message, it’s a real- time communication from Korhal.”
Arcturus frowned. To communicate in real time between worlds was incredibly expensive and
could only be done by those with access to the most powerful and advanced equipment.
“From Korhal? Is it my mother?” he asked.
“No, sir, it’s a Mr. Feld,” said the man. “And I’m afraid he says he has some bad news.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus cradled the brandy bottle in his lap, knowing that draining the last of its contents was
the wrong thing to do, but not caring for right and wrong anymore. His tears had long since dried,
but the grief still tore his heart with cold steel claws. The words Feld had spoken echoed within his
skull.
They’re dead…all of them…
They were etched into his memory with a permanency that could never be erased.
It was impossible, surely.
No one could have penetrated the security around them.
No one could have defeated the manifold security systems that protected them from harm.
It was impossible.
They killed them. Oh, God, Arcturus…I’m so sorry…
He’d known something was wrong the minute he’d seen Achton Feld’s face. His image on the
vidsys had been grainy and static- washed, the signal degraded after so immense a distance
piggybacking along myriad relays, boosters, and carrier waves.
A communication like this was the equivalent of your fone ringing in the middle of the night and
jerking you from sleep with a deep, gnawing fear in your belly. No one foned with good news in the
dark; no one went to the expense and trouble of a real- time communication with good news.
“What is it, Feld?” Arcturus had said, sitting in front of the vidsys unit he’d used to send the news
of Valerian’s birth to Korhal.
“I’m sorry, Arcturus, I’m so sorry…,” said Feld, tears running down his cheeks.
“Sorry…? For what? Listen, Feld, spit it out. What’s wrong?” said Arcturus, a lead weight of cold
fear settling in his stomach.
“They’re dead…all of them…,” wept Achton Feld.
“Who?” said Arcturus when Feld didn’t continue.
“All of them…” sobbed Feld, struggling to form the words. “Angus…your mother. Even…even
Dorothy.”
Arcturus felt as though a great black void had opened up inside him. His hands began to shake
and he felt cold. His mouth was dry and his mind stopped functioning, unable to process the reality
of what Feld had just said.
“No,” he said at last. “No, you’re wrong. This can’t be right. You’ve made a mistake. You must
have made a mistake, Feld! They can’t be dead! No, I won’t allow it!”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“I’m so sorry, Arcturus. I don’t know how it happened. Everything was normal…All the security
systems were functional. They’re still functional…I just don’t know.”
Arcturus felt his limbs go numb, as though they were no longer his to control. A rushing sound,
like the sea crashing against the clis below the summer villa, roared in his head. Feld’s mouth
moved on the screen, but Arcturus no longer heard the words. His hands pressed against his
temples and tears of grief, anger, and sucking, awesome loss owed with them.
As if he’d taken an emotional emetic, his humanity owed from him in his tears, and every petty
feeling he’d ever harbored toward his family, every feeling of compassion, and every shred of
restraint was washed away in a tide of hot tears.
The sheer, unimaginable scale of what had happened settled upon him. It was too much. No one
could suer such a crippling loss and remain whole. The power of his grief tore through him like a
hurricane, breaking chains of restraint, honor, and mercy, scouring away all thoughts except one
shining beacon that oered a ray of hope, a slender branch of survival to which he could cling.
Revenge.
The people that had caused him this hurt were going to die. All of them.
Arcturus knew that killings like this could only be the work of the Confederacy.
Only they had agents with the skill and gall to perpetrate something so heinous.
Only they had the temerity to think they could get away with it.
Well, Arcturus Mengsk was going to disabuse the Confederacy of that notion.
What was it his father had said?
When all you have is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail…
The diamond clarity of the thought swept away the drag of his grief and he took a great draft of
air, feeling himself ll with righteous purpose as he did so. His tears ceased and his back
straightened.
“Tell me what happened,” said Arcturus, his voice icy and controlled.
“I…They’re dead, isn’t that enough?” said Feld. “You need to come back to Korhal.”
“Oh, I’ll be coming back soon enough,” promised Arcturus. “But tell me what happened.”
Feld saw the urgent need in his eyes and nodded, wiping a hand across his face. Arcturus was
impressed. Say what you liked about Achton Feld, he was a professional.
“I came up in the morning with the daily security brief, just like I always do,” said Feld, shoring
up his own walls against the grief with commendable discipline. “I passed through the biometric
identiers, swiped my card, and went through into the penthouse. Angus is usually waiting for me,
but he wasn’t there this morning, which immediately made me suspicious. Katherine…I mean, your
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
mother normally has a pot of java on, but I didn’t smell it. That’s normally the rst thing I notice,
you know? The smell of fresh java. But not this morning. I knew something was wrong, so I made a
sweep of the apartment.”
“What did you nd?”
Feld took a deep breath. “I couldn’t see anyone. There was no sign of forced entry—I mean
nothing. But the door to the balcony was open.”
“And?” said Arcturus, when Feld didn’t go on. He could see it was taking all of Feld’s self- control
to keep speaking, and Arcturus prepared himself for the worst. His jaw tightened. He’d already had
the worst…what else could there be?
Feld nodded. “I went out on the balcony. And that’s where I found them. The damn force eld
had shorted out and they were just lying there…like they were asleep. Your mother, Dorothy, and
your father. Dead.”
“How did they die?”
“Does it matter?” snapped Feld. “Why the hell do you need to know something like that?”
“I need to know,” said Arcturus. “I don’t know why, I just do…”
“They were shot,” said Feld. “Katherine and Dorothy were shot. One in the heart and one in the
head.”
“And my father? Was he shot too?”
Again Feld paused, his face averted as though unwilling to meet Arcturus’s gaze. “No, he wasn’t
shot. He was decapitated.”
“What?” cried Arcturus. “Decapitated? What are you talking about?”
“You heard me,” shouted Feld. “They cut his damn head o, Arcturus! And we can’t nd it. The
sick bastards took it with them!”
He’d terminated the communication soon after, telling Feld to wait to hear from him, that he’d
be in touch to sort out what their next move would be. He’d marched from the room and returned
to the drawing room where he’d lately been arguing with Juliana and swept up the bottle of brandy.
An hour passed, maybe more, but Arcturus didn’t feel the passage of time, his brain whirling in a
million dierent directions as he tried to process the gaping emptiness in his soul.
He took mouthfuls of the brandy, the liquor as potent as ever, but seeming to leave him
unaected. His entire body was numb to its powers, and he drained half the bottle before hurling it
into the re with a splintering crash of glass.
“Waste of good brandy…,” he hissed as the alcohol burned o in bright ames.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
He heard the door open behind him.
“Arcturus,” said a man’s voice. “I’m so sorry. I came as soon as I heard.”
He turned to see Ailin Pasteur and Juliana standing at the entrance to the room, as though afraid
to intrude on his grief, but happy to watch from the sidelines. His heart twisted with contempt.
Juliana’s face was streaked with tears and she held Valerian close to her. The boy’s eyes were
wide and fearful, not quite comprehending what was going on. Valerian untangled himself from his
mother and came over to stand next to Arcturus.
“Is your mum and dad dead?” he asked.
Arcturus nodded. “Yes, Valerian, they are. And my sister, too.”
“How did they die?” asked Valerian.
“Hush, Valerian!” said Juliana. “Don’t ask such things.”
“The Confederacy killed them,” said Arcturus, his voice low and threatening. “They killed them
because my dad spoke out against them. They killed them because they are animals.”
Valerian reached out and hesitantly put his hand on Arcturus’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry they’re dead,” whispered Valerian.
Arcturus looked into his son’s eyes and saw the honest sincerity of a child, his expression
uncluttered by adult notions of propriety or reserve.
“Thank you, Valerian,” he said.
Ailin Pasteur approached and guided Valerian back to his mother. He took the seat opposite
Arcturus and said, “Whatever you plan to do next, I can promise you that you’ll have the support of
Umoja.”
“Like my father did?” said Arcturus bitterly.
“More than that,” said Pasteur. “Arcturus, I’ve just come from an emergency sitting of the Ruling
Council, and in the wake of the Kel- Morians’ defeat, Councilor Jorgensen has announced the
formation of the Umojan Protectorate. It will be an organization to keep our colony free from
Confederate tyranny, to resist their expansionist policies and oer a safe haven to those who stand
for freedom.”
“Very noble of you,” said Arcturus. “If a little belated.”
“You might be right,” admitted Pasteur, “but it’s a start.”
“A start…,” said Arcturus, staring into the crackling re. “Yes, a start.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
A sudden, terrible thought lanced into Arcturus’s brain with the force of an Impaler spike, and he
looked over at Valerian and Juliana. Fear clenched in his guts and took the breath from him.
“What is it?” said Pasteur, seeing the urgency in his eyes.
“Juliana…you and Valerian have to leave,” said Arcturus, rising to his feet. “Right now.”
“What? I don’t understand, what are you talking about?”
“They know,” said Arcturus, pacing the room, his thoughts crashing together like a convoy of
groundcars rear- ending one another. “Or if they don’t yet, they will soon.”
“Slow down, Arcturus,” said Pasteur. “Who knows what?”
“The Confederacy,” snapped Arcturus. “The message I sent to my family about Valerian. If
they’re good enough to defeat Feld’s security systems without breaking a sweat, then it’s a
mathematical certainty they know where I am and that I have a son. We’re loose ends, and the
Confederacy doesn’t like loose ends when it comes to murder.”
“You think they’d come here? To Umoja?” said Juliana, holding Valerian even tighter.
Arcturus laughed, the sound hollow and coming from the bleakest, emptiest part of his soul.
“Don’t think for a moment they won’t. They will do whatever it takes to destroy their enemies. You
have to get out of here and stay on the move or they’ll nd you. And that can’t be allowed to happen.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Pasteur. “We are well protected here.”
“Ridiculous?” said Arcturus. “If my family’s killers can penetrate the Skyspire’s security, they will
simply walk in here and kill you all in a heartbeat. No, the only way to evade people like that is to not
be here when they come for you.”
“He’s right, Daddy; we need to go,” said Juliana, her voice brittle with fear, though Arcturus
knew that fear was for Valerian and not herself. “I won’t let anything happen to Val.”
Pasteur hesitated and then nodded reluctantly. “I’ll have a ship here within the hour.”
“Stay on the move,” warned Arcturus. “Don’t stay in any one place too long.”
“You’re not coming with us?” said Juliana.
“No,” said Arcturus. “They don’t know it yet, but the Confederacy has just created the greatest
enemy they will ever know.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Pasteur.
“I’m going to burn the Confederacy to the ground,” hissed Arcturus.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
CHAPTER 15
THE SWORD CAME AT HIM IN AN ARCING LINE of silver and Valerian twisted his
wrists to bring his own weapon up to block. The blades connected with a shriek of steel and he spun
from the reverse stroke as Master Miyamoto’s sword darted forward. Valerian’s sword came down,
deecting the stroke as he backed away from the relentless attack.
Sweat ran down his face in runnels and his breathing came in short, sharp gasps. In contrast,
Master Miyamoto looked as serene and unappable as he always did, no matter whether he was
pouring tea or executing awless sword movements.
Dressed in a simple cream- colored keikogi and hakama, Master Miyamoto was as unreadable as
ever, no trace of expression betraying his intended movements in this dangerous ballet called a
sword bout.
Valerian wore identical training clothes, though tailored for his smaller, nine- year- old frame,
which had nally begun to ll out as he grew older and took more exercise. He was still slender and
ascetic- looking, but the last two years had seen his shoulders and arms begin to strengthen and
oer promising hints of the man he might become.
They were alone in the garden; Master Miyamoto allowed no one to observe their training, not
even Valerian’s mother. Roughly built walls of high stone enclosed the garden, a rectangular
courtyard of gently swaying plants, freshly tended herb patches—and a slate- paved sparring area
next to the eastern wall.
A fountain gurgled peacefully in the center of the garden and the cold air was thin, scented with
the earthy smell of ripe crops. This region of Icarus IV always smelled, due to the loamy richness of
the soil that made it such a fertile world for agriculture, and the faint yet unmistakable hint of
chemical fertilizer.
Birds perched on the high walls, the only spectators able to observe Valerian’s grueling training
rituals, and their twittering conversations were like a chorus of amused theatergoers enjoying a boy’s
humiliation at the hands of a fencing master.
“What is the meaning of victory?” said Miyamoto, slowly lifting his sword up and back.
“To defeat your enemy,” said Valerian, circling as Master Miyamoto slid sideways.
“No,” said Miyamoto, launching a lightning- fast thrust toward Valerian. “That is not enough.”
Valerian averted the attack, his speed impressive, and slashed his sword at his trainer’s side. His
blade struck empty air and he realized he’d been lured into the attack as the at of Master
Miyamoto’s blade struck him painfully on the bicep.
“Then what is it?” he yelped. Every time he failed to answer a question correctly, Valerian
received a stinging rebuke from Master Miyamoto’s weapon.
“It is to destroy him,” said Master Miyamoto. “To eradicate him from living memory. You must
leave no remnant of his endeavors. Utterly crush his every achievement and remove from all record
his every trace of existence. From such defeat no enemy can ever recover.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Master Miyamoto’s sword looped around his body in a series of perfectly executed maneuvers
that, had Valerian attempted them, would have seen him limbless, earless, and dead.
“That,” said Master Miyamoto, “is the meaning of victory. You would know this if you had paid
attention to the books on your father’s reading list. Or the one I gave you.”
“I read that one,” said Valerian, returning to the guard position and bowing to Master
Miyamoto.
“Not closely enough. Again.”
Valerian nodded and once more dropped into the en garde position, his long blade extended
before him. After three hours of training with Master Miyamoto, Valerian’s arms burned with
fatigue and his chest felt as though a re had been set in his lungs.
Master Miyamoto returned Valerian’s bow and the two of them circled one another, their swords
shining in the afternoon sun.
“The enemy comes at you in a great horde,” said Master Miyamoto. “How do you ght?”
Valerian cast his mind back to the text his tutor was referencing. It was a treatise recovered from
the data vaults of the Reagan, the supercarrier that had brought the colonists to Umoja. Supposedly
written by an ancient warrior king of Earth, its words were instructions in the arts of war,
diplomacy, and personal discipline.
The book had no ocial title, but Master Miyamoto called it The Book of Virtues, and seemed
to know its text verbatim. Valerian had read the book, as it was high on the list of approved texts his
father had set him, but he found it dicult to recall its teachings while trying to avoid a stinging slap
from the at of Master Miyamoto’s blade.
“Quickly,” said Master Miyamoto, his sword raised to strike. “Do not think. Know!”
Valerian lifted his blade, letting his mind oat back over the many evenings he’d sat at his desk
with the pages swimming before his tired, gritty eyes. He had read the book a dozen times or more,
and as he let his thoughts concentrate on the tip of his tutor’s sword, the words came to him without
conscious thought.
“It’s best to try and direct them into a narrow dele or enclosed space,” Valerian said.
“Why?” A slash to the body.
“So that their numbers work against them.” A rolling block.
“How will they do that?” A thrust to the chest.
“Crowded together, those at the front will impede those behind.” A parry and riposte.
Valerian shifted left and launched his own attack. “The push from the rear will prevent those at
the front from retreating or nding a better path.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Very good,” said Master Miyamoto, easily deecting Valerian’s attacks. “And what of balance?”
“It is the key to success,” said Valerian, smiling as yet again the words came easily to him.
“Why?” repeated Master Miyamoto, parrying a clumsy attack and rolling his blade around
Valerian’s sword.
“A leader who puts his faith in his guns will be outmaneuvered,” said Valerian, deecting the
blow and circling around to his right.
“Then he must train all his warriors in close- quarters combat,” oered Miyamoto.
“No, for then he will lose his force to enemy re,” countered Valerian.
“Very good. So what does it mean to have balance?”
“It means that every element of an army must work in harmony, so that its eectiveness is greater
than the sum of its parts.”
Master Miyamoto nodded and lowered his blade. He spun the weapon quickly and sheathed it
in the scabbard at his belt.
“We are done for the day,” he said.
Valerian was relieved, for his body was aching, but he was also disappointed, for he had nally
begun to appreciate the lessons of The Book of Virtues and how to access them while he trained. It
was just a beginning, but it was an important beginning, he felt.
He returned Master Miyamoto’s bow and sheathed his sword, running his hands through his
blond hair. He wore it long, pulled tightly into a ponytail during sword practice, and its golden hue
was no less bright than it had been when he was a youngster.
Master Miyamoto turned on his heel and made his way along a stone- agged path toward the
fountain at the garden’s center. He took a seat on the ledge around the fountain and dipped his hand
into the cold water.
Valerian followed the swordmaster and sat next to him, taking a handful of water and splashing
his face.
“You are improving,” said Master Miyamoto. “It is good to see.”
“Thank you,” said Valerian. “It’s hard work, but I think I’m beginning to get it.”
“It will take time,” agreed Miyamoto. “Nothing good ever comes without eort. I remember
telling your father the same thing.”
Valerian’s interest was suddenly piqued, for Master Miyamoto had never spoken of his dad
before now, save when he had rst arrived. Miyamoto had arrived a few weeks after Valerian and his
mother had ed Umoja, informing Juliana that Arcturus Mengsk had retained him to become the
boy’s tutor in all matters martial and academic.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
His mother had been furious at his dad’s presumption, but the matter was not up for discussion.
Master Miyamoto had only been persuaded to leave his position at Styrling Academy to teach the
boy for an exorbitant fee, and only Valerian’s desire to win his father’s approval had persuaded
Juliana to let Miyamoto stay.
“You taught my dad to use a sword?” asked Valerian.
“I did.” Miyamoto nodded. “He casts a long shadow, Valerian, but it is my hope that you will be
able to escape it and fulll your potential.”
“I bet he was good with a sword,” said Valerian. “He looks like he could ght.”
“He was a fair swordsman,” conceded Miyamoto. “He was strong and won most of his bouts
before even a single blow was struck.”
“How?”
“There is more to ghting than simply wielding a sword,” said Miyamoto. “More often than not,
a man is defeated by his own doubts.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In any contest of arms where life and death rest on the outcome, most men’s fear will see their
opponent as stronger, faster, and more capable,” explained Miyamoto. “Such doubts only serve to
make it so. To win, you must have utter belief in your abilities. No doubt must enter your mind.”
“Is that what my dad did?”
Miyamoto stood, as though deciding that he had said too much. “Yes, your father had complete
faith in his abilities. But victory is not the only measure of a man.”
“It isn’t?”
“No, there is honor. A man may lose everything he has, yet still retain his honor. Nothing is more
important. Always remember that, Valerian, no matter what anyone else tries to teach you. Even
your father.”
“Honor is more important than dying?”
“Absolutely,” said Miyamoto. “Some things are worth dying for.”
“Like what?”
“Defending noble ideals or ghting for the oppressed. The honorable man must always stand
rm before tyrants who would dominate the weak. The abuse of power must always be fought, and
men of honor do not stand idly by while such evils are allowed to exist.”
“Just like my dad,” said Valerian proudly.
Master Miyamoto bowed to him. “No,” he said sadly. “Not like your father.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Valerian stripped o his training garments and dumped them on the oor of his bedroom. He
grabbed a towel and made his way into the bathroom, turning on the tap and stepping back from
the tub as chilly water gurgled and spurted from the showerhead. Eventually the water warmed and
Valerian stepped under the hot spray.
Over the last year he and his mother had spent on Icarus IV, Valerian had gotten used to a liquid
shower as opposed to the sonic ones he’d grown up with on Umoja. The hot water soothed his
muscles and refreshed him in a way the vibrational removal of dirt molecules and dead skin from his
body just couldn’t. Even though it was wasteful to use water this frivolously, Valerian decided it was
entirely worth it.
He stepped from the shower and began toweling himself dry, stopping for a moment to look at
himself in the full- length mirror on the back of the door. Though he was young, his body was
developing quickly and his upper body strength was growing every day. Accompanied by a squad of
soldiers, he ran every other morning, jogging around the patrolled perimeter of the Umojan
agrarian complex—a distance of some six kilometers—and was pleased with his increased
endurance.
He exed and posed in the mirror, enjoying the fantasy that he was some dashing interplanetary
hero like his dad. Despite Master Miyamoto’s words, Valerian was proud of what his dad was
doing.
Valerian returned to his bedroom, a cluttered space lled with books, digi- tomes, an unmade
bed, and silver- skinned trunks full of clothes. His collections of fossils, rocks, and alien artifacts
were proudly on show in a number of display cabinets and a number of antique weapons were hung
on the wall.
They had belonged to the previous owner of the mansion in which they now dwelled—surely the
most salubrious accommodation they’d stayed in since leaving Umoja—and Valerian had liked them
so much, he had left them there. He’d asked Master Miyamoto if he could train with some of the
more exotic- looking weapons—a falchion, a glaive, or a falx—but his tutor had forbidden him to
touch any more weapons until he was competent with a sword at least.
Still, it did no harm to have them around, as many were plainly hundreds of years old and gave
him a connection to times long gone. In a small way, they made it easier to hold on to the concept of
alien civilizations existing in forgotten ages of the past. The concept of millions of years ago was
almost impossible to grasp, but a few hundred years was easy, and by such small steps he could
imagine larger spans of time.
Valerian cleared a space on his bed and dressed himself in loose- tting trousers and a blue shirt
of expensive silk. He settled back on the bed and lifted the copy of The Book of Virtues Master
Miyamoto had given him and began to read. Unlike the majority of Valerian’s other books, this was
an old- fashioned one of paper pages bound together within a leather cover, which bore an
inscription on the inside in letters he couldn’t read.
Master Miyamoto had said his own father had written the words on the morning of his death.
Only after much cajoling had Master Miyamoto told Valerian what the words meant.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Valerian’s tutor had lifted the book, and though he clearly knew the inscription by heart, his eyes
had nevertheless followed the path of the words on the page; his voice choked with emotion as he
read his father’s valediction.
“What is life?” read Master Miyamoto. “It is the ash of a rey in the night. It is the little shadow
which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.”
Valerian had found the words wonderfully uplifting and looked down at the wolf head picked out
in gold thread over the breast pocket of his shirt. The symbol was that of the Mengsk family, and
Valerian bore it proudly whenever he was in a place of safety. On those rare occasions they ventured
into public, he had been warned not to display anything that might link him to his dad.
Given how his dad was portrayed in the media, that was a sensible precaution.
It had been two years since he had seen his father, standing on the underground platform where
his ship, the Kitty Jay, was berthed.
It was a moment of confused emotions for Valerian. He had been sad to see his dad leave, but,
even as a youngster, he had sensed the tension between his mum and dad and grandpa. He sensed a
familiarity to the drama before him: his dad leaving and his mother left behind, with his grandpa
there to deal with the emotional fallout. Even though he hadn’t thought of that moment in such
terms, he’d sensed the reality of them as though they’d been spelled out.
His father had knelt beside him and xed him with his gaze.
“I would have liked to spend more time with you, Valerian,” said his dad.
“Yeah,” agreed Valerian. “I’d have liked that.”
“There is much to be done if you are to be a worthy heir, but I have work to do and you cannot be
part of it yet. You are not strong enough or wise enough, but you will be. You are going to hear a lot
of bad things said about me in the coming years, but I want you to know that none of it will be true.
What I’m doing is for the good of humanity. Always remember that.”
And Valerian had remembered it.
Despite his mother’s reservations, Valerian eagerly watched every report on the UNN
concerning his dad. He saw bombings, assassinations, and the spread of revolution throughout the
sector. Some of those reports were plainly so ridiculous that even a nine- year- old could see through
them, but others appeared to be unvarnished truth that needed no embellishment.
Images of burned bodies and mangled corpses being carried from wrecked Confederate
buildings that had been torn apart by explosives. Burning Confederate vehicles targeted by one of
the many insurgent groups that were slowly, but surely, accreting under his father’s banner and
leadership.
Factories belonging to the Old Families were bombed, each target carefully chosen to cause
maximum disruption to the economic infrastructure of the Confederacy. Of course, none of the
news broadcasts spoke of this, but Master Miyamoto made Valerian always look to answer the most
important question of all when looking at his dad’s handiwork: Why?
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Why was that particular factory destroyed?
Why was that particular ocial killed?
Each question forced Valerian to think beyond the simple, bloody facts of the act itself and to
search for deeper purpose than simply the causing of harm. Though it was hard watching so many
images of death and suering, Valerian felt sure it was for a higher cause. These people were part of
the Confederacy and they had murdered his dad’s parents and sister in cold blood.
Master Miyamoto had urged Valerian not to see things in these black- and- white terms, but
such deeper considerations stood little chance of recognition in the face of a youngster’s loss. High-
minded ideals were all very well until you were put to the test of having to hold on to them in the
face of personal tragedy.
The Confederacy had robbed his dad of his parents and his sister, and Valerian had lost two
grandparents and an aunt he had never met, never got the chance to know, and now never would. If
that wasn’t worth some bloodshed, then what was?
Valerian knew that his dad was wanted throughout Confederate space, a wanted terrorist and
murderer, but these were labels hung on him by his enemies, so Valerian didn’t pay them much
attention. He knew who his dad was and knew that when he saw him again—whenever that might
be—he would not be the disappointment he now realized he had been when they’d rst met.
He recalled his mother tearfully telling him that his dad had called him bookish, eeminate, and
weak, an admission she later regretted, but which could not be taken back. In that moment,
Valerian had made a personal vow to himself that he would never be thought of that way again, and
had thrown himself into physical exercise as though his life depended on it.
There had been some communication with his father, but it had all been done through his
grandfather, and was sporadic at best. Icarus IV was the fth place they had lived in two years and
looked like it wouldn’t be the last. Valerian tried not to get comfortable in any once place, knowing
an imperious command could be delivered at any time, instructing them to move on.
Valerian’s grandfather would sequester yet another outlying Umojan outpost or colony to hide
them and the process would begin again.
The necessity of this was brutally demonstrated when Valerian had once complained about the
need to move incessantly and begged his mother to not uproot them again. She had agreed not to
move on for a little longer, but one night Valerian had woken to the sound of shouting soldiers,
gunre, and the ash of explosions.
“Not a word, not a whimper, Val my darling,” said his mother, dragging him from his bed and
handing him over to an Umojan soldier in battered combat armor. Valerian’s memories of that night
were confused and fragmented, but he remembered being carried through the night, its darkness
split with stuttering ashes of re. He’d taken a tumble as the man carrying him collapsed, but was
picked up again, realizing at the same time that the rst soldier had been killed.
They’d been hustled onto the dropship that was always prepped nearby, and as it lifted o in a
screaming, rocking ascent, Valerian clung to his mother and said, “Mommy? Will Daddy ever come
for us?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Yes, honey,” she’d replied. “He will. One day.”
As the pilot ew them to safety, Valerian had lain with his head in his mum’s lap for hours, letting
her stroke his golden hair and soothe away his worries. He heard her crying and pretended to be
asleep, letting her think she had succeeded.
Valerian never again complained about their need to keep on the move.
It was hard to be always on the move, but as hard as it was for him, with no real friends and no
sense of stability to his life, he knew it was harder still for his mum.
She tried to hide it, and denied it whenever he brought it up, but Valerian knew she was quite ill.
Exactly what was wrong with her he didn’t know, but he could see the gray pallor of her skin and
the way the weight seemed to melt from her bones, no matter how much she ate—which wasn’t very
much at the best of times.
At night, he heard her racking coughs and cried as he thought of her pain and his inability to do
anything about it. Through all of this, Valerian’s most pressing question was Why. Why did his dad
not come to see her?
He knew his grandfather must have sent word to him that Juliana was ill, but the weeks and
months passed with no sign of his dad. Didn’t he care?
It was hard for Valerian to reconcile the mounting evidence of his dad’s indierence to their
plight against the image he’d cultivated since a youngster.
The subject of his mum’s illness was always quietly dismissed whenever he brought it up, but
Valerian knew that if whatever was wrong with his mum was serious enough to warrant its being
kept from him, it must be extremely serious indeed. A succession of physicians had come and gone,
but none of them appeared to oer anything that stopped his mum’s terrible, hacking cough or
enabled her to put on weight.
He’d heard words like “long term,” “inoperable,” “terminal,” “nonviable,” “immedicable,” and yet
others he didn’t understand, but the meaning was all too clear. As each doctor arrived, Valerian felt
a utter of hope, but as each one left, that hope was crushed. Evidently, his grandfather was not
about to give up, even if it seemed his dad already had.
Valerian felt his anger grow and tried to suppress it.
One of the few teachings of his dad that had stuck was that anger was a wasted emotion.
“Angry people do stupid things, Valerian,” his dad had said. “Speak when you’re angry and you’ll
make the best speech you’ll ever regret. So when your anger rises, think of the consequences before
you act.”
He put down his book and closed his eyes, trying to calm his seesawing emotions, but nding it
dicult with all the noise coming from downstairs. It took a second to dawn on him that the noises
from downstairs were not normal for this time of day, and he sat up as he caught a measure of the
urgency in them.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Valerian heard the sound of someone crying and made his way quickly to his bedroom door.
Something was denitely going on, so he made his way downstairs, heading toward the large room
at the rear of the house that served as a warm gathering place in the evening.
He heard shouted oaths and more crying, and a cold hand seized his heart as he suddenly
wondered if something had happened to his mum. Valerian broke into a run and skidded into the
room from which the sounds of crying were issuing. The room was full of people, all staring in rapt
attention at something displayed on the ickering holographic image of the cine- viewer in the
corner of the room.
Valerian’s rst feeling was relief as he saw his mum standing in the center of the room; but then
he noticed that there were a lot of people here who looked as though they’d just been given the
worst news imaginable.
A few heads turned to face him, their faces streaked with tears, then quickly turned back to the
unfolding drama on the cine- viewer. The image was fuzzy and dark, but from here it appeared to be
showing a large black ball.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Why is everyone so sad?”
“Oh my darling, Val,” said his mum, rushing to him and sweeping him up in a hug. “Oh honey, it’s
Korhal.”
“Korhal? The planet dad comes from? What about it?”
His mum pulled back, as though not sure she should tell him what was going on.
“It’s okay, Mum,” he said. “Just tell me.”
“Korhal’s gone, honey.”
“Gone? How can a planet be gone?” said Valerian. “It’s too big to be gone.”
His mother struggled with her words, her eyes streaming with tears. “I mean…not gone, exactly,
but…”
“The Confederacy has launched a thermonuclear strike against Korhal,” said Master Miyamoto,
appearing at his mum’s side. “A thousand Apocalypse- class nuclear missiles, according to a military
press release.”
Valerian felt his stomach lurch and terrible fear freeze his limbs. “Korhal’s destroyed? Dad? Is
Dad dead?”
“No! No, he’s alive,” said his mum. “We had word from your grandfather not long after the rst
news reports came through. Your dad’s ne.”
Relief ooded him and he disengaged himself from his mum’s arms as everyone in the room
continued to watch the image on the cine- viewer. He stood before the ickering image of Korhal,
watching the black disc of the world as nuclear restorms raged across its surface with elemental
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
fury. The once bountiful and green world was now a superheated sphere of blackened glass and
phantoms.
Even with his limited understanding of the physics of nuclear detonations, Valerian knew that a
thousand missiles was an inordinate amount of overkill. Such an overwhelming attack would have
killed every living thing on the planet’s surface.
“How many people lived on Korhal?” he asked.
“More than thirty- ve million,” said Master Miyamoto. “All dead.”
The thought of such devastation was humbling. That so many people could be wiped from
existence in such a short period of time was unbelievable.
What manner of madman could ever think to unleash such wanton destruction?
“The Confederacy did this?” asked Valerian.
“Men without honor did this,” replied Master Miyamoto.
CHAPTER 16
FLAMES BURNED WITH A GREENISH GLOW FROM the bombed- out munitions
plant, but Valerian couldn’t tell if the color was the result of ignited chemical spillage or a fault of the
cine- viewer. Fire crews fought a futile battle with the blaze and medics dragged screaming men and
women from the wrecked interior of the building.
Valerian felt no sympathy for these people—they were employees of the Old Families and
therefore part of the system that maintained the bloated, corrupt form of the Confederacy, the same
men who had destroyed Korhal six years ago.
The image panned from the blazing plant to a sandy- haired young man standing at the edge of a
perimeter enforced by Confederate marines clad in full combat armor and looking eager to use the
heavy gauss weapons they carried.
“Another atrocity unleashed by Arcturus Mengsk and his Sons of Korhal that forces us to
number the dead in the thousands,” said the reporter, his voice appropriately outraged, and mixed
with not a little relish, thought Valerian. “An unknown number of bombs placed with uncanny skill
throughout the Ares munitions factory has resulted in its complete destruction. There’s no word yet
from ocial sources of the number of people murdered in this latest act of terrorism, but one thing
is certain: It will be high. Back to you, Michael.”
Valerian muted the sound and shook his head as the image of the burning factory was replaced
with the neon- lit, chrome interior of the UNN studios on Tarsonis. The broadcast was a few days
old and he was under no illusions that much of what the reporter had said was true, which was a
rarity these days.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The Sons of Korhal…
An appropriate name, thought Valerian, one apparently coined by his father in the wake of the
nuclear attack on Korhal as he began rallying fragmented and scattered bands of revolutionaries to
him in his bid to topple the Confederacy. Those ragtag soldiers had been molded into an army that
was—if what he was hearing from his grandfather was true—proving to be a grave threat to the
continued existence of the current regime.
Though to hear the reports of the UNN, Arcturus Mengsk was a madman, a lunatic who made
raving pronouncements over the airwaves of his supposed divinity and the alien creatures that used
mind- controlling drugs on the Tarsonis Council.
On those rare occasions where the UNN played snippets of his father’s broadcasts, they were so
chopped up, edited, or manipulated that even a child could tell they bore no resemblance to their
original content.
It had been eight years since Valerian had last seen his father, eight years of forced relocations
and moving from planet to planet as they kept one step ahead of Confederate assassins and kill
teams. Whether or not such killers were still after them was a moot point—it did not do to take
chances when their lives hung in the balance.
This hideaway was a particularly bleak refuge, thought Valerian, though it at least had the
benet of relative proximity to Umoja for covertly delivered supplies and a steady stream of news
that wasn’t weeks, if not months, out of date.
Valerian got up from his bed and stretched, thinking that perhaps he would go for a run, doing a
few circuits of the orbital along its outer ring before returning to his medical digi- tomes of
oncological research. Tethered in orbit above an inhospitable rock named Van Osten’s Moon
(despite the fact that it was not a moon, having nothing to orbit), Orbital 235 didn’t even warrant a
name, such were its remoteness and insignicance to anyone else.
He supposed he had only himself to blame for the tedium of the orbital; it was a destination he
had picked from a list of suitable candidates after recognizing the name from an archaeological
report penned by a Dr. Jacob Ramsey that Valerian had read two years ago. Ancient ruins had been
discovered on Van Osten’s Moon, and Orbital 235 had been shipped across space and converted
from its original function as a base for mining operations to one of archaeological discovery.
The expedition had been abandoned due to lack of funding, and the ruins never fully explored,
much to Dr. Ramsey’s chagrin, from the frustrated tone of the report.
But Ramsey’s loss had been Valerian’s gain, and he had leapt at the chance to discover ruins that
might be genuinely alien, having long ago discarded his collection of “fossils” unearthed in various
gardens and riverbanks.
So far he’d made a single trip to the barren rock, a desolate craggy wasteland with the merest
scrap of an atmosphere to its name, with an escort of soldiers to view the ruins.
The surface of Van Osten’s Moon felt as though one were walking on something that ought to be
a piece of something far larger, but where this intuition had come from, Valerian had no idea. The
atmosphere was gritty and cold, like breathing in on a frozen winter’s day. Though breathing
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
apparatus was not required, the thin air made it all too easy to become light- headed and
disorientated.
To avoid arousing the attention of the Confederate Exploration Corps, shipments of exploratory
equipment were coming in piece by piece, and it would be some time before Valerian had assembled
enough kit to begin a full examination of the ruins.
But what he had seen so far had been awesome in its breathtaking scale—“awesome” in the
original sense of the word, as in “capable of producing awe, wonder, or admiration,” not the
watered- down colloquialism it had become, where a pair of new shoes could be called “awesome.”
Perched on the edge of the world overlooking what might once have been an ancient seabed, the
ruins towered over the mesas around them, spiraled nubs of broken- down towers and collapsed
caverns that were too enormous and geometrically perfect to have been created by anything but an
intelligent hand.
In everything Valerian saw, there was a curious fusion of the organic and the articial:
Weathered walls were laced with strange- looking alloys within the natural rock, and canyons,
mountains, and caverns had been artfully engineered to their designers’ needs. He found vast and
airy caverns roofed by rounded, riblike vaults and curved tunnels that stretched deep into the surface
of Van Osten’s Moon.
Though he was glad the site had been left largely unexplored, Valerian had to wonder at the
stupidity of the bureaucrats who had withheld funding for such a wondrous nd.
The sense of scale and the seeming age of the site were astounding, the deterioration of the rock
suggesting spans of time more akin to geological ages rather than that of any time period
comprehensible to humans.
Who had built the structures was a mystery, one that Valerian felt he could solve, had he but the
resources and time. Though his father ensured that he and his mother were never short of money—
the mineral nd he had discovered just before their rst meeting had turned out to be a seemingly
never- ending source of funds, one that was now jealously guarded by a veritable army of soldiers,
tanks, and goliaths—Valerian knew that time was against him.
With his father the most wanted man in the galaxy, it was only a matter of time until the hounds
were snapping at their heels again and they were forced to move on. His mother’s sickness had
already forced him to halt his exploration of the alien ruins, but the actions of his father force him to
leave them behind.
Either way, the end result was the same.
Valerian continued with his stretches, knowing that a hard run would work out some of his stress
and anger toward his father. It was dicult to be angry with someone you hadn’t seen for so long,
but Valerian only had to think of his mother’s condition and the familiar smoldering coal of his
bitterness would are into life once more.
A nervous knock came at the door to his room and he said, “Come in, Charles.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The door opened and a young man, only a few years older than Valerian, entered the room. He
was dressed in an immaculately cut suit and his head was crowned with a shock of wild red hair that
seemed at odds with the blandness of his features.
Charles Whittier had become part of their roving band of fugitives a year ago, an aide, servant,
equerry, and general manservant who had arrived at the instruction of his father. Valerian was sure
Whittier was reporting to his father, but what was not so clear was why.
Valerian played dumb, but for all that he did not trust Whittier; the man was a capable valet who
attended to Valerian’s needs with alacrity and competence.
“Good morning, sir,” said Whittier. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” said Valerian. “I was just about to go for a run.”
“Ah, then I fear I may have come with a summons that might inconvenience you.”
“What is it?”
“Your mother asks to speak with you,” said Whittier.
Valerian made his way along the steel- walled corridors of the orbital, the uorescent strips set
into the ceiling and walls bleaching everything of life and color. It had once been a mining
installation, and on such a facility visibility was more important than aesthetics, a concept Valerian
could understand, even if he didn’t subscribe to it.
Everything on board Orbital 235 was simple and functional, as was to be expected where space
was at a premium and burly, largely unskilled men were expected to spend a great deal of their time.
The air had a dry, recycled quality to it, and Valerian found himself wishing for the hundredth
time to be back on Umoja, with its scented air and copper skies. He walked at a brisk pace, his body
now in the throes of its teenage development and changing daily.
He was still handsome to the point of beauty, his skin awless and his hair golden. His features
were in transition from boy to man, but he could already visualize the form they were going to take
and knew they would be perfect.
Whittier walked alongside him, his legs seeming to move at twice the speed of Valerian’s just to
keep up with him. He was slender and apparently t, but there was little vigor to the man, a trait
Valerian was blessed with in abundance.
“How was she when you spoke to her?” asked Valerian.
“Much the same, sir. Though there was a certain animation to her today.”
“Really? That’s good. Any idea why?”
“No, sir,” replied Whittier. “Though she did receive a communiqué from her father.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“How do you know who it came from, Charles?” asked Valerian. “Did you look at it rst?”
“I most certainly did not,” replied Whittier. “The very idea! Your grandfather always sends a
communication at the beginning of the month. It is the beginning of the month; ergo, it is from your
grandfather.”
“Beginning of what month? We’re in space, Charles.”
“I keep a record of the diurnal rotations on Umoja and Tarsonis to keep track of our time relative
to them. In such dislocated circumstances, I nd it helps x oneself if there is a predetermined point
of reference to cling to.”
“You’ve traveled a lot in space?”
“More than I have cared to,” was Whittier’s noncommittal answer.
Valerian wanted to ask more, but felt he would get little in the way of an answer that meant
anything, so let the matter of Whittier’s previous travels go and concentrated on the summons
issued by his mother.
Juliana Pasteur was not a well woman, and her health had only deteriorated over the last six
years. After his fteenth birthday, Valerian had demanded to know what was wrong with her, and at
last she had told him the truth of what the doctors had discovered, though sometimes he wished she
hadn’t.
His mother had been diagnosed with a carcinoid tumor, a rare cancer of the neuroendocrine
system. The cancer had arisen in her intestine and grown slowly over the years, which was why it
had taken so long for her to suspect there was more wrong than she realized.
By the time she’d consulted a physician, the cancer had already spread to her liver and begun to
attack other parts of her body with unthinking biological relentlessness. Its progress had been slow,
but steady, robbing her of her vitality and stripping the meat from her bones. Not even the most
advanced surgical techniques could defeat the cancer without killing her in the process.
Valerian had cried with her as she told him and gently guided him through the same reactions
she had experienced: denial, shock, anger, sadness, guilt, and fear.
She was going to die, and had made her peace with that.
It was more than Valerian could do.
He had immediately ceased his visits to the surface of the planetoid they circled and thrown
himself into researching his mother’s condition, despite the apparent hopelessness of the endeavor.
Perhaps because she had been told she could live for several more years before death nally claimed
her, his mother had tried to dissuade him from wasting his time looking for a miracle cure.
“Sometimes ghting to hold on to something you love can destroy it in the process,” she had said
to him one evening, holding him as he cried. “Let’s enjoy the time we have left, Val. Let me watch
you grow and live your life. Don’t waste it chasing windmills.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
But nothing she said to him could penetrate his need to do something, no matter that this was an
enemy he had no means to ght. He discovered that not even the most advanced intrascopic lasers
—devices capable of targeting specic areas of the body with precise amounts of heat—nor the latest
drugs or even nano- brachytherapy could defeat this foe without rst killing its victim.
Valerian, however, was a Mengsk, and he did not give up easily, requesting fresh digi- tomes and
the latest researches from the top medical institutes on Umoja and Tarsonis (via safe routes to avoid
compromising their security, of course).
“Sir?” said Whittier, and Valerian started. He hadn’t realized they’d reached his mother’s room,
and wondered how long he’d been standing here.
“Are you going in?” asked Whittier.
He took a deep breath. “Yes. Of course I’m going in.”
Valerian sat beside his mother’s bed and held her hand, wishing he could pass some of his own
vitality on to her. He had plenty to spare, so where was the cosmic harm in evening the balance? But
the universe didn’t work that way, he knew. It didn’t care that bad things happened to good people,
and was entirely indierent to the fate of the mortal beings that crawled around on the debris of
stars, no matter what those who believed in divine beings might claim.
His mother sat upright on her bed, her skin pale and translucent, as though pulled too tightly
across her skull. Her hair fell around her shoulders, its golden luster now the sickly, jaundiced
yellow of a chronic smoker. She was still beautiful, but it was a serene beauty bought with the
acceptance of death.
Valerian found it hard to see her, fearful that if he looked too long he might lose grip on his
emotions. At times like this he cursed his father for the lessons of emotional control.
“Have you been to your ruins today, Val?” she asked.
“No, Mum,” he said. “I haven’t. I don’t go to them anymore, remember?”
“Oh yes, I forgot,” she said, waving a bony arm before her. “I have trouble remembering things
now, you know.”
Valerian looked around the room, its austere functionality putting him in mind of a mortician’s
workspace. He hated the reek of defeat that lled the room.
“Are you thirsty?” he asked, in lieu of something meaningful to say.
She smiled. “Yes, honey. Pour me some water, would you?”
Valerian lled two plastic cups with tepid water and handed one to her, making sure she had it
held in both hands before releasing his grip. She lifted the cup to her gaunt face and sipped the
water, smiling as she handed it back to him.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Charles told me you received a message today.”
“I did,” she said with a smile that served only to make her face look even more cadaverous than it
did already. “It’s from your grandfather.”
“What does he have to say for himself this month?”
“He says your father is coming to see us.”
The cup of water fell from Valerian’s hands.
The spire of rock soared above Valerian like the horn of some massive, buried narwhal, its
surface pitted and worn smooth by uncounted centuries. He ran his hand across the surface, feeling
tingling warmth through the uted surface of the rock that was quite at odds with the chill of the air
around him.
Sheer clis of curving rock arched up overhead, a natural canyon that Valerian suspected had
once been roofed by ribbed beams of stone, but which now lay scattered and broken at his feet.
Frozen, gritty winds howled as they funneled through the canyon, lamenting the fall of so mighty
a structure, and Valerian wondered what great catastrophe had occurred here to cast it down. The
sky rippled through the thin atmosphere, stars pulsing in the far distance, their light already
millennia old.
He pulled his thick jacket tighter about himself and adjusted his goggles as he descended the
loose- rubble- and- scree slope that led to the colossal cave mouth ahead. He had ventured within
this cave before and felt a deep sense of connection to the past within its shimmering, hybrid walls.
To know that long- forgotten hands had crafted this palace with ancient artice was an
electrifying sensation—proof that life had existed in the galaxy long before the arrival of human
beings. The secrets that might yet be buried here were beyond measure and Valerian longed for the
opportunity to plumb the depths of those mysteries, both for the sake of knowledge and for the
rewards it would bring.
Valerian paused as he took a moment to savor the solitude, smiling to himself as he realized that
this was probably the most alone he had been in his entire life. He was the only human being on this
rock, and the freedom of that sensation was intoxicating.
The news that his father was coming to Orbital 235 had made Valerian surly and irritable. He
found himself unable to concentrate on his researches, and his mother had even berated him—
something she almost never did.
The only peace he found was on the surface of Van Osten’s Moon, alone with his thoughts and
the ruins of a forgotten race of alien builders. What had brought them here and what had become of
them? These were mysteries Valerian felt sure he could unlock were he but given the time.
Time. It all came back to time.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Time he, and more especially, his mother, didn’t have.
He’d managed to persuade Charles Whittier that he could travel to the surface of Van Osten’s
Moon without escort and had landed one of the orbital’s two yers at the mouth of the largest
canyon complex on the surface.
He wore a pair of loose- tting cargo pants and a heavy, insulated jacket. Over his back was
slung a rucksack lled with a comm unit, surveying equipment, and food and water. He wore a
slugthrower in a shoulder holster and his favorite sword was belted at his hip. He wanted solitude,
but he wasn’t about to venture into alien ruins without taking some precautions.
The journey down the rocky canyon had been easy going so far, but his breath was still tight in
his chest, and he slipped the mouthpiece of a small aqualung canister over his nose and mouth.
A squall of dust blew o the ground and Valerian looked up to see the Orbital’s second lander
ash overhead, circling and coming in to alight at the mouth of the canyon. He cursed at the
interruption and had half a mind to just carry onward, to hell with the new arrival, but he forced the
thought down.
The lander touched down without fuss and within moments, the side hatch opened and a tall
gure emerged into the twilight world of Van Osten’s Moon.
Valerian recognized him immediately, and his heart hammered on the cage of his ribs.
There was no mistaking the powerful cut of the man, even from this distance.
His father.
Arcturus Mengsk descended the ladder and began the trek to meet his son. Valerian saw that the
man was dressed similarly to himself, with heavy- duty work wear and rugged boots. Like Valerian,
his father carried a pack over his shoulders and moved with the natural assurance of a man used to
being in control.
As his father approached, Valerian took the time to study him. Arcturus’s hair was still dark, but
the rst signs of gray were appearing at his temples and in his beard. Only in his mid- thirties, his
father’s ongoing war against the Confederacy was evidently aging him prematurely—though he was
still an imposing, proud gure.
Despite the thin atmosphere, his father seemed untroubled by his exertions, and maintained a
steady pace toward him over the rough terrain.
He waved at his son and, despite himself, Valerian waved back.
His mother had once told him that people often found themselves going out of their way to
please his father for no reason they could adequately explain. Valerian wondered if he too had been
aected by that reality- warping eect.
Arcturus dropped over a fallen slab of rock and took a deep breath of the thin air.
“Bracing, isn’t it?” said his father.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Valerian removed the aqualung canister and said, “That’s it? That’s your greeting after eight
years?”
“Ah, you’re angry,” said Arcturus, pausing and taking a seat on a smooth boulder. “A natural
reaction, I suppose. Do you need to berate me for a while before we talk as men? It won’t do any
good, but if you feel you must, then go ahead.”
Valerian felt the angry outburst he had planned to deliver wither in his breast and the angry
retort on the tip of his tongue become stillborn.
“Right,” he said. “I might as well get mad at these rocks for all the good it would do.”
“Words spoken in anger are just hot air, Valerian. They rarely hurt, so what’s the point of them?
There are no words as ultimately destructive as those which are ultimately considered.”
“You’d know about that,” said Valerian. “The UNN is making you look like some kind of crazed
madman.”
Arcturus waved his hand. “No one believes what’s on the UNN anyway, and the more they vilify
me, the more people are waking up to see that I have the Confederacy worried.”
“And do you? Have them worried?”
His father stood and came over to him, looking him up and down as though inspecting a prime
specimen of livestock. “Oh, I’d say I do. The Confederacy is about to fall; I can see the cracks
widening with every day that passes. My father and your grandfather knew what they were doing,
but they weren’t thinking big enough.”
“And you are?”
“Very much so,” said Arcturus, nodding in the direction of the cave mouth Valerian had been
heading for. “Now what say you show me what’s been occupying your time on this barren rock?”
Valerian nodded and set o without another word, picking his way down the slope toward the
yawning cave. Its scale was immense and it took them a further hour to reach the bottom of the
canyon, the towering clis wreathing them in shadow and cold.
The surfaces of the rocks were smooth and glassily transparent, as though vitried by intense
heat and striated with what looked like gleaming metal. Perfectly round gemstones were buried
within the heart of the rock.
“Fascinating,” said his father. “The surface has an igneous look to it, but appears to be
metamorphic. Do you know the substance of the protolith?”
“No,” said Valerian, suddenly wishing he knew more about the formation of rock and had more
specialist equipment here. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“Ah, no, I suppose you wouldn’t,” said Arcturus. “Metamorphic rocks come about when a
preexisting rock type, the protolith, is transformed into something altogether new.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“What sort of thing could cause that change?”
Arcturus pressed his hand against the rocks, resting his forehead on the smooth face of the stone.
“Usually it’s caused by high temperatures and the pressure of rock layers above, but tectonic
processes like continental collisions would do it as well. Any suciently large geological force that
causes enormous horizontal pressure, friction, and distortion could cause this, but I don’t think
we’re looking at any natural phenomenon here.”
“Why not?”
“Because whatever caused this transformation—if it even was a transformation, didn’t take place
over geological spans of time; I think it happened virtually overnight. But then, I’ve just arrived. I’m
sure you’ve looked more deeply into the geological formations already.”
Valerian hadn’t had the chance to go any deeper than observational study, but suspected his
father already knew that, and was bandying about his knowledge in an unconscious display of
superiority.
“Of course,” said Valerian, attempting to reassert his power. “My studies have shown that this
formation is a blend of natural forces and articial engineering. See here, where the natural camber
of the rock has been molded and interfaced with what looks like some kind of metal reinforcement.”
Arcturus looked closely at the rock Valerian indicated. “Yes, like a neosteel rebar in plascrete.”
Valerian waved his father onward. “Come on, let’s go inside; it’s quite something. You’ll not have
seen anything like it.”
“Don’t be so sure—I’ve seen a lot these last few years.”
“Nothing like this,” promised Valerian.
His father stood in the center of the cave, though to call it such was to vastly diminish its
unbelievable, incomprehensible scale. It was a gargantuan cathedral of light and stone and metal,
fashioned deep in the heart of a mountain by an ancient race of gods. For surely no beings but gods
could have hollowed out so massive a peak and not have it collapse in the millions, probably billions
of years since they had rst devised the means of its construction.
Gracefully curving ribs of rock soared overhead, each one thicker than the hull of a battlecruiser.
Corbels the size of siege tanks jutted out of the walls and airy ying buttresses supported hanging
nials and graceful descending archways of stone. Distance rendered them slim and delicate, but
Valerian guessed most were at least twenty meters thick.
The very walls seemed to shimmer with internal bioluminescence, scads of light darting along
the lengths of metal set in the stone like ickering embers of electrical current. Gems pulsed with a
faint glow, as though in time with an innitely slow and inaudible heartbeat.
Fluted stalactites descended in tapering spears, penetrating the roof like an inverted crown of ice
pushed through the mountain’s summit. A light mist hung in the upper reaches of the enormous
cavern, a cloud system that kept the air moist and reduced the internal humidity.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The interior of the cave seemed to point even more conclusively to a deliberate hand in its
creation, its scale making a mockery of any such human constructions. Entire eets could t within
this enormous cavern and, for all Valerian knew, perhaps they had.
“It’s incredible,” said Arcturus, and Valerian was surprised to hear genuine emotion in his voice.
“I’ve never seen the like.”
“Told you,” said Valerian, pleased he had been able to surprise his father.
“And you think this is alien?”
“Don’t you?” replied Valerian, surprised at the question.
“I suppose it’s possible,” conceded his father, “but even if it’s true, what does it matter? Whoever
built this is long dead and gone.”
“Aren’t you curious about who built it? What great secrets we might learn from them?”
“Not especially. They are nothing but dust now and no one remembers them. How great could
they have been?”
Valerian’s frustration at his father’s obstinate refusal to grasp the enormity of such revelations
grew with every word Arcturus uttered, and his temper began to fray. He realized he’d been sucked
into his father’s reality by the man’s apparent interest in the ancient cave. Valerian shook himself free
of it as all the things he had wanted to say to his father suddenly rushed to the forefront of his mind.
“Where have you been all these years?” he blurted. “Why did you never come for us? Didn’t you
care for us?”
His father turned from his contemplation of the vast cavern, its majesty forgotten in an instant as
he saw that the pleasant ction of a father and son bonding was at an end.
“It was too dangerous,” he said simply. “The Confederacy wants me dead and if they knew where
you were, they would use you to get to me. There’s no great mystery to it, Valerian.”
“My mother is ill,” said Valerian. “Did you know?”
“Yes, I know.”
“Do you care?”
“Of course I care,” snapped Arcturus. “What kind of childish question is that?”
“Childish? Is it childish to wonder where you were when the mother of your son is dying?”
“Ailin told me your mother’s cancer was inoperable,” said Arcturus. “Is he right?”
“He is,” conrmed Valerian, ghting to control his anger and hurt. “And all this running from
planet to planet and moon to moon isn’t doing her any good. It’s just making her worse.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“And what would it have achieved if I had come rushing to your side, save put you both in
danger?” said Arcturus. “Did you want me to come and help you hold your mother’s hand as she lay
on her deathbed? Is that it? Well, Valerian, I’m sorry, but that would have achieved nothing. I have
greater concerns than comforting you. Or your mother.”
Valerian wanted to launch himself at his father and wipe the uncaring expression from his face
with his sts, but he kept his anger locked tightly within himself. Though he hated to admit it,
Valerian found himself admiring the man’s ability to think logically and focus in the face of what
would have broken the composure of a lesser man.
But still, he had things to say to his father that needed saying, regardless of whether or not they
would penetrate his armor of conceit.
“Greater concerns? Like overthrowing the Confederacy?”
“Exactly,” said Arcturus. “And such a goal requires sacrice. We have all lost people in the course
of this war, son, including me: my parents, Dorothy, Achton.”
“Who?”
“He was my father’s head of security, and a good man.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was on Korhal when the missiles hit.”
“Ah.”
“But their deaths will gain meaning when the Confederacy lies in ruins and you and I step in to
ll the void. We can do it, Valerian. I have an army behind me that is the equal of anything the
Confederacy can eld. It’s only a matter of time until they break and we can rule what they leave
behind. But we can do it right, and found an empire for the good of humanity.”
“The good of humanity?” spat Valerian. “You mean the benet of the Mengsk dynasty.”
Arcturus shrugged. “I see no dierence between the two,” he said.
“And you’d want me beside you?” said Valerian, trying to keep the hope from his voice.
“Of course,” replied Arcturus, coming over and gripping his shoulders. “You are my son and you
are a Mengsk. Who else would be worthy to stand at my side as my successor?”
“You didn’t think so before,” pointed out Valerian. “I heard what you said about me. You called
me bookish, eeminate, and weak.”
“Words spoken in anger long ago,” said Arcturus, dismissing the hurt his words had done with a
wave of the hand. “But look at you now! You have done me proud, boy. And I’m impressed; I can’t
pretend I’m not. You have achieved a lot since I saw you last.”
“I didn’t do it for you, Father,” he said. “I did it for me.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“I know that, and that’s good. A man should never do anything to impress others; he must always
do things on his own and for his own sense of validation.”
“And what if I don’t want to your successor?” said Valerian. “You’ve been controlling my life from
afar for so long now, I think you’ve gotten used to the idea that I’ll always jump at your command.
Well, I’m not like that, Father. I am my own man and I make my own decisions.”
His father smiled and nodded, letting go of his shoulders and sitting on a nearby hunk of fallen
rock. “I remember saying something similar to my father long ago.”
Valerian felt the anger drain from him and took a long drink of water from a plastic canteen he
removed from his pack.
“Did it do you any good?”
“Not really,” said Arcturus, accepting the canteen from Valerian. “I called him a terrorist and a
murderer, but now I’ve done far worse than he ever did. I guess if someone does something truly
terrible to you, it’s easier to justify your retaliation, no matter how vile it is. The Confederacy killed
my family and obliterated my homeworld; what could I possibly do that would approach an atrocity
of such magnitude?”
“I don’t know,” said Valerian. “I don’t think I want to know.”
“Then what do you want, Valerian?”
“I want to be part of your life, but I want to make my own destiny.”
“I said that to my father too,” replied Arcturus. “However, I have since found that time and
history have a way of sweeping us up and making use of our talents, irrespective of what we might
want.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that destiny will sometimes force us down the road it intends for us and there’s nothing
we can do about it.”
“Is that what you think happened to you?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because destiny dances to my tune,” said Arcturus.
Valerian laughed at that, but the laugher died when he realized his father wasn’t joking.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
CHAPTER 17
DESTINY DANCES TO MY TUNE…
The words came back to Valerian as he watched the gigantic AAI holo- screen in the main
commercial square of Gramercy City, capital of Tyrador VIII. Fully thirty meters wide and nine
high, the articial advertising intelligence projected an image atop a shimmering podium before a
giant skyscraper.
Normally, the AAI advertised clothes, soft drinks, or the latest model of groundcar, but today
promised to be quite dierent.
A ickering, three- dimensional image of his father’s face hovered over the podium, for once
speaking to those who watched without interference from Confederate censors or UNN editors.
Upward of ten thousand people lled the square—traders, shoppers, businessmen, refugees,
criminals, and enforcers of the law—all silent and lled with nervous excitement as they listened to
the words blaring from the speakers set within the podium.
The voice of Arcturus Mengsk spoke over a magnicent tableau of stirring imagery, sweeping
landscapes, and Wraith ghters ying in formation.
“Fellow terrans,” began his father, his voice booming its pronouncement like that of a stern but
magnanimous god. “I come to you in the wake of recent events to issue a call to reason. Let no
human deny the perils of our time. While we battle one another, divided by the petty strife of our
common history, the tide of a greater conict is turning against us, threatening to destroy all that we
have accomplished.”
Valerian watched the faces of the people of Gramercy City around him, feeling slightly in awe of
being in so vast a crowd. Until recently, the largest number of people he’d seen gathered in one
place had been a dozen or so servants in his grandfather’s home on Umoja, which seemed so long
ago it was like another life.
Taking refuge on Tyrador VIII had been Valerian’s idea—hiding in plain sight in the midst of a
populous planet, though given the fate of the Confederacy in recent months and this current
announcement, it looked like their enforced ight was now at an end.
“It is time for us as nations and as individuals to set aside our long- standing feuds and unite,”
continued the stentorian voice of his father as the image on the screen changed to mighty
battlecruisers sweeping majestically over Korhal. “The tides of an unwinnable war are upon us, and
we must seek refuge on higher ground, lest we be swept away by the ood.”
An image of a Confederate battlecruiser on re from stem to stern lled the viewer and the
crowd cheered, a collective outpouring of decades of repressed anger and frustration.
Valerian’s father continued. “The Confederacy is no more; whatever semblance of unity and
protection it once provided is a phantom…a memory. With our enemies left unchecked, who will
you turn to for protection?”
The montage of images moved on as the cheering continued, the shattered Confederate vessel
replaced with juddering shots of what Valerian now knew were a protoss ship and a snapshot of a
zerg higher organism drifting in space.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“The devastation wrought by the alien invaders is self- evident. We have seen our homes and
communities destroyed by the calculated blows of the protoss. We have seen rsthand our friends
and loved ones consumed by the nightmarish zerg. Unprecedented and unimaginable though they
may be, these are the signs of our time.”
Flashing, violent images of battling Wraiths sped across the screen, though what they were
shooting at wasn’t clear.
“The time has come, my fellow terrans, to rally to a new banner,” demanded his father. “In unity
lies strength; already many of the dissident factions have joined us. Out of the many, we shall forge
an indivisible whole, capitulating only to a single throne. And from that throne I shall watch over
you.”
A tingle ran up Valerian’s spine, but he couldn’t tell whether it was one of relief or dread. His
father’s words had sounded more like a warning than a promise of protection. The image returned
to the soaring spires that were even now being rebuilt on Korhal amid the ashen devastation of the
Confederates’s spiteful attack. The camera closed on the buildings, nally settling on a huge black
ag bearing a symbol that had become familiar to everyone over the last few years: a red arm holding
a whip in its st, the whip forming a circle around the arm.
The Sons of Korhal.
The camera lingered on the ag as his father delivered his closing words. “From this day forward
let no human make war upon any other human; let no terran agency conspire against this new
beginning; and let no man consort with alien powers. And to all the enemies of humanity, seek not
to bar our way, for we shall win through, no matter the cost.”
Static formed a glittering column of white noise as the voice of Arcturus Mengsk faded and was
replaced by the unwavering symbol of the Sons of Korhal.
Valerian turned away from the enormous AAI as he heard the familiar snap and sizzle of the
holo- projectors ring up to repeat the message once more. Valerian had no need to hear it again; he
had memorized the words as soon as he’d heard them.
He turned and made his way along the crowded thoroughfares, pushing against the tide of
jubilant people making their way toward the central square. Valerian found a side street he knew,
and on it a small coee house he frequented. The shop was empty when he reached it, and Valerian
helped himself to a hot drink, making sure to leave a few credit notes on the scued wooden bar.
He took a seat by the window and watched the cheering crowds pass by, their faces alight with
joy. Valerian knew that the people here would, for a while, remember this day with golden
memories: the day the hated Confederacy was overthrown and replaced with…
Well, no one had been sure until today who would step into the void of authority left by the
Confederacy’s sudden, shocking demise.
No one except Valerian Mengsk. He had known exactly who it would be.
Today’s sectorwide broadcast had only conrmed it. His father had declared himself Emperor
Arcturus Mengsk I of the Terran Dominion, but no one was yet sure of the legitimacy of his claim.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Valerian had heard some people talk of elections, while others cried out in support of a man who
had, until recently, been condemned throughout human space as a terrorist.
Never more was the aphorism about history being written by the victors about to be proven
correct.
Destiny dances to my tune…
In the three years since he had heard his father speak those words, Valerian had come to
understand his ultimate aim. He’d seen his suspicions turn to certainty as, over and over again, his
father had defeated every force the Confederacy sent against him with a combination of guile, brute
force, and displays of utter ruthlessness that still had the power to stagger Valerian when he thought
of them.
Indeed, the last year had seen a multitude of changes, all of which had come with such
unprecedented speed that it was hard to process them with any degree of comprehension.
Humanity’s rst system shock had come with the news that the worlds of Chau Sara and Mar
Sara had been destroyed by a eet of ships belonging to an alien race known as the protoss.
The second had followed soon after when it became apparent that both worlds had been
destroyed to ensure the destruction of a second alien species, a species whose name soon became
synonymous with wholesale destruction and parasitic infestation of world after world: the zerg.
Valerian’s initial excitement concerning the now indisputable evidence of alien life had been
dampened somewhat with the realization that neither the protoss nor the zerg were likely
candidates as the builders of the ancient structures—he’d decided they were temples of some sort—
that he’d explored on Van Osten’s Moon.
The zerg were a vile agglomeration of genetically mutable creatures driven by bloody instinct
and an insatiable hunger to devour, while the protoss were a strange, aloof race of psionic warriors.
Though this latter race possessed technology far in advance of and just plain dierent from that of
the terrans, it did not seem likely they were a resurgent branch species of the temple’s builders.
The news that humanity was no longer alone was greeted with horror in some quarters, religious
ecstasy in others. Some people wanted to greet these new arrivals with open arms and hearty
welcomes, while others—savvy to the current zeitgeist—armed themselves for war. This latter
group were to be proved the more perceptive.
With the arrival of these alien races, open warfare ignited throughout Confederate space, with
local brushre skirmishes aring into full- scale revolts. And, of course, Arcturus Mengsk was there
to fan the ames.
Refugees ed before the tides of this increasingly ferocious war, and conicts revved up from
terrorist attacks to full- edged planetary battles throughout the sector. Thousands were dying
every day and calamity followed calamity for the Confederates as they lost their grip on their colony
worlds one by one.
Then came the destruction of Antiga Prime.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The truth had been suppressed, of course, but Valerian had it on good authority from his
grandfather that the great Arcturus Mengsk had used stolen psi- emitter technology to lure the zerg
to the Confederate colony to defeat his enemies, which had in turn drawn the protoss there to scour
the planet bare of all life.
The terror that had followed this catastrophe spread through what remained of the Confederate
colonies like a virus through a fringe world shantytown. The stream of refugees became a raging
torrent, and freighters crammed with terried people ed in thousands from the epicenters of the
ghting to the outer rim territories.
Valerian remembered his mother’s reaction to the news of his father’s complicity in the death of
Antiga Prime, seeing her visibly sag at what the man she had once loved was becoming. Valerian
had realized some time ago that his father’s once noble ideals of throwing o the yoke of
Confederate tyranny and ending the corruption of the Old Families had withered and been replaced
with a desire for an empire of his own.
His mother despised what his father had become, but Valerian secretly admired the single-
mindedness with which Arcturus pursued that one ambition, knowing that one day it was destined
to be his.
The thought still struck an ambivalent chord within him.
Not long after the destruction of Antiga Prime, his father had ordered Valerian and his mother
to nd a new refuge, one far from the core worlds of what remained of the Confederacy. It was
typical of his father to send such a blunt message, but Valerian had sensed something deeper behind
it, as though some terrible event was about to be set in motion that required Valerian and Juliana to
be as far from it as possible.
He hadn’t known what that was until news reached them of the fall of Tarsonis, capital world of
the Confederacy. Like Antiga Prime before it, Tarsonis was overrun by the zerg, drawn there by his
father to destroy his enemies—the Old Families who had murdered his parents and sister and
consigned millions people to death on Korhal.
As acts of vengeance went, Valerian had to admit it was a masterstroke.
Bold, without mercy, and unstoppable.
The Confederacy died with Tarsonis. It had been the linchpin of human space for so long that
without it, the colony worlds folded and collapsed, leaving Arcturus Mengsk’s Dominion
triumphant in the ruins of his enemies’ defeat.
No sooner had the Confederacy fallen than his father had made contact, telling him that the time
was approaching when he would bid Valerian step into the light as his son.
Valerian couldn’t deny the attraction of that idea, for he was now eighteen and ready to take his
place on the galactic stage as a force in his own right. He was his own man now: intelligent, erudite,
charming, and capable, able to ght with sword, rie, or rhetoric as the occasion and honor
demanded.
But whether he would be the successor his father imagined…
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Well, that was another matter altogether.
Valerian nished his drink and left the deserted coee shop.
“Time to go home,” he said.
In the end, it was another six months before Valerian was to see his father again, the demands of
building the Dominion from the ashes of the Confederacy taking longer and placing more demands
on the newly installed emperor than had been foreseen. Valerian hadn’t minded at rst, content to
spend time back on Umoja at his grandfather’s house with his mother now that they were free of the
need to move from place to place to avoid Confederate kill teams.
But as the weeks turned to months, his impatience grew and the enforced idleness of life on
Umoja began to grate on him. He was the son of an emperor, yet had nothing of importance to do.
His mother’s condition had progressed, with every remission followed by a resurgence of the
invisible sickness that was consuming her. New technologies had slowed her descent but hadn’t
been able to stop it, and the doctors had solemnly informed him that she could last only another six
months at most. They had been saying that for years, though, and his mother had surprised them all
with her dogged tenacity and courage.
Between periods of caring for his mother, Valerian’s days were spent honing his already fearsome
skills with a blade and gun under the stern gaze of Master Miyamoto. His old tutor had
accompanied him back to Umoja and had declared Valerian the best student he had ever taught.
He devoured every digi- tome he could get hold of, learning everything he could of the protoss
and zerg. He scoured the information networks for any sign of fresh alien ruins, but in the aftermath
of war, archaeology was no one’s priority save his.
On this evening, Valerian walked behind his mother in the gardens of his grandfather’s house,
following the path toward the river, which glittered like molten copper in the sunset.
She had bid him accompany her to the riverbank and they had set o as the servants prepared the
evening meal. Juliana ate little these days, but Valerian’s appetite was as hearty as ever.
He wore a form- tting suit of charcoal gray, knee- high boots of gleaming black leather, a
double- breasted jacket with more than a hint of the soldier to it, and a scarlet cloak draped around
his shoulders. His hair was unbound and fell about his shoulders in a cascade of gold, the image of
his mother’s in her prime.
Now that there was no reason to hide his ancestry, and every reason to display it, Valerian
proudly wore a bronze wolf- head medal of the Mengsk family upon his breast.
His mother sat in an automated wheelchair, controlling its movements with an alpha wave
reader tted just behind her right ear. Returning to Umoja had done more to restore his mother’s
constitution than all the years of drugs and painful chemotherapy. Intramuscular nanostimulators
had prevented her muscles from atrophying completely, and it was wonderful to see some of her
vitality restored to her. Even though Valerian knew she could not last much longer, he loved that
she smiled again now that she was home.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The air was clear and crisp, the umber sky warm and like honey over the distant horizon as the
day drew to a close. The scent of the air was heavy, and Valerian took a deep breath, instantly
transported back to his boyhood and a time where he was innocent of the wider scope of the galaxy
around him.
“It’s good to be home, isn’t it?” said his mother, her voice thin, but stronger than it had been in
many years. “Back on Umoja, I mean.”
Valerian nodded. “Yes, though I still nd it hard to think of anywhere as home now.”
“I know, honey,” said his mother. “And I’m sorry—it was no way to grow up, being shunted from
pillar to post like that.”
“It was hardly your fault. After all, what choice did we have?”
“I know, but I want you to understand that I wish I could have given you a normal childhood.”
“‘A normal childhood’?” said Valerian. “What is that, anyway? Does it even exist?”
“Of course it does. I had a perfectly normal childhood growing up here.”
“I guess,” said Valerian as they rounded a bend in the path next to a stand of poplars and the river
came into view. “And I remember this place fondly—though too much has happened for me to think
of it as home anymore.”
“That’s sad,” said Juliana, pointing to an irregular chunk taken out of the otherwise smooth
course of the riverbank. “You remember that little cove there?”
Water had since lled the cove, where it gamboled in miniature whirlpools, but Valerian
remembered kneeling in the mud with a small shovel and a tray of unearthed treasures.
“Yes,” he said with a smile. “I remember. I used to dig there for alien fossils.”
“I was so proud of you,” said Juliana. “I am proud of you, Valerian. You’ve grown up into such a
wonderful, handsome boy. My heart almost breaks every time I look at you.”
“Mother, don’t go on!” said Valerian, embarrassed by her praise, but enjoying it nonetheless.
“I mean it,” she said, more urgently this time. “I might not have much time left and there are
things I need to say to you, my darling boy. And I wanted you to remember something good from
your childhood before I say them.”
“What is it?” he asked, instantly alert as he sensed nality at the implication of his mother’s words.
“You’ve had to grow up so quickly, and I know that’s been hard on you, but you’re going to have
to grow up some more soon. I’m not going to be around much longer—”
“Quiet, Mother,” said Valerian, keeling beside her and taking her hand. “Those doctors don’t
know what they’re talking about. Not one of them has been right about your condition. You’ve
confounded them all and I know you’ll outlive every one of us.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“You’re so sweet,” she said, running a hand along the side of his face, “but we both know that this
will get me in the end, no matter how fast I run.”
“Please,” said Valerian, his voice trembling. “Don’t talk like this.”
“I have to; I’m sorry,” said Juliana, tears welling in the corners of her eyes.
“Why?” cried Valerian.
“Because soon your father will be here and I’m not strong enough to stand up to him anymore, if
I ever was.” This last comment was said bitterly and seemed to give her the strength to continue.
“Your father is a dangerous man,” said his mother. “And I don’t just mean to his enemies. He uses
people, Valerian. He uses them and he chews them up and when he’s done with them he spits them
out. I wasted my life believing in him, and my heart would break if I thought you were about to
become the same kind of man he is. I gave up my dreams for your father, thinking he needed me and
that he’d come for me when the time was right, but he never did.”
“Why are you saying these things, Mother? I don’t need to hear them.”
“Yes,” she said, squeezing his hand with all her strength. “Yes, you do. You have to be strong
enough to resist your father’s inuence. By all means admire him—he has many admirable qualities
—but don’t try to be like him, no matter what happens. Be your own man in all things and don’t let
him maneuver you like one of his chess pieces.”
Valerian felt the strength of her purpose pouring from her with every word, as though she were
channeling every last bit of her energy into making sure he understood her. He could understand
the cause of her bitterness toward his father, but did she truly appreciate the grand designs his
father had set in motion, and the sacrices necessary to realize them?
Valerian looked into his mother’s sunken eyes, seeing the pain and sorrow that lled them, and
suddenly thought that maybe she understood the price of his father’s ambition all too well…
“Do you understand me?” she said urgently. “Please tell me you understand.”
“I understand,” said Valerian, though in truth he did not. “I do. Father may be many things, but
he wouldn’t sacrice his own son to further his ambitions.”
“I hope you’re right, Val,” she said, opening her arms and taking him into her embrace. “I really
hope you’re right.”
They sat in silence for many minutes, holding on to one another and letting cathartic tears fall
without inhibition. Valerian took a breath, then released his mother’s skeletal frame.
“I love you, Valerian,” she said. “My wonderful, handsome boy. You are the best thing I have
done with my life.”
Valerian tried to answer her, but his throat was too choked to speak, his mind too overwhelmed
at the thought of losing his mother.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and dabbed away the last tears with the heel of his palm.
This was not the way of a Mengsk, he thought. A Mengsk was stronger than this, his heart a
fortress…
Valerian turned as he heard the crunch of gravel on the path behind him, recognizing the
dident tread of Charles Whittier, who remained his constant companion still. Accompanying
Whittier was Valerian’s grandfather, Ailin Pasteur.
“What is it, Charles?” asked Valerian.
“I’m sorry to intrude, sir, but we’ve just received conrmation from General Duke.”
“And?” said Valerian when Whittier did not continue.
“He wasn’t too happy about keeping his ships beyond the outer shipping markers. He demanded
to bring his ships into Umoja’s orbit before allowing the emperor to descend to the planet’s surface.”
“And I told him to shove his demands up his ass,” said Ailin Pasteur.
Valerian was shocked at his grandfather’s outburst, knowing he detested expletives as a sign of
poor upbringing and a lack of vocabulary.
“I’ll bet that went down well with Duke,” said Valerian.
He’d never met Edmund Duke, but his grandfather had told him of his reputation and how he’d
defected to the Sons of Korhal when his ship crashed amid a ravenous zerg swarm.
Valerian had taken an instant dislike to him, recalling the teachings of Master Miyamoto and his
notions of honor. As antiquated as such beliefs might be now, they still had a hold on Valerian’s soul.
“I don’t care how it went down,” continued his grandfather. “The Ruling Council is concerned at
the direction Arcturus is taking his Terran Dominion. To say we’re unhappy at the idea of a eet of
Dominion warships parked in orbit around Umoja is an understatement.”
“And what did Duke say?”
“Duke didn’t say anything, sir” said Whittier. “It was the emperor himself who sent word.”
Valerian’s head whipped up at the mention of his father.
“The emperor agreed to the Umojan conditions,” said Whittier, and Valerian could hear the
sycophancy in his aide’s voice.
“So when will he get here?”
“He will travel to us aboard an in- system gun cutter. He has arranged to be here rst thing in the
morning.”
Valerian nodded and watched the sun set over the horizon, the descending orb bathing the
landscape in a russet glow the color of blood.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Did it work?” asked the armored gure standing in the doorway of the ship’s bridge. The voice
was mued by the helmet, but the aching need was clear.
“It worked,” conrmed the tech in oil- stained overalls hunched over a battered, jury- rigged
comm unit. “The stu we got on Braxis was the real deal. I’ve been able to decode all the Dominion
datalinks. We got it all: his ight plan, IFF codes, full manifest, and arrival point. Pilot’s already
plotting us a course.”
The gure nodded, hands curling into sts. “Good. Stay on it; listen for any more chatter.”
“Will do.”
The gure turned and made its way along a metal- framed corridor that led deeper into the
starship, the CMC-300 Powered Combat Suit emblazoned with the red and blue ag of the
Confederacy painted on several of the armored plates. A gauss rie was slung over one shoulder and
a long- bladed combat knife was sheathed in a leg holster.
The corridor’s walls were dented from small- arms re, scorched by the impacts of ship- to- ship
lasers, and corroded from bio- organic weapons of the zerg. The interior of the ship had clearly seen
better days.
It was a miracle the ship was spaceworthy at all, considering the damage it had taken during the
battle around Tarsonis when Mengsk had unleashed those hellspawn monsters on them all.
The gure made its way into the depths of the ship, passing barrack rooms where Confederate
marines cleaned their armor and stripped their weapons down for the hundredth time. There was
no garrulous banter between these warriors anymore; the fall of the Confederacy and death of
everything they held dear had seen to that.
At last, the gure came to a metal doorway and rapped a heavy gauntlet on the shutter.
“Come in,” said a voice with a laconic, almost liquid accent.
The gure entered the room and removed the armor’s helmet.
Captain Angelina Emillian shook her head and ran a hand through her tousled hair.
“We got what we need,” she said, addressing the man who sat on the edge of the room’s only bed.
His white uniform jacket was unbuckled, revealing a hairless, slab- muscled chest, and he polished a
large rie that lay across his lap.
“Everything?” he said, putting down the rie.
“Yeah,” said Emillian. “The codes we got on Braxis are still active. They don’t know we hit the
base at Boralis yet, so they haven’t bothered to change them.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Excellent work, Angelina,” he said, standing and buckling his jacket. “Assemble the marines and
warn them this one’s going to be hard. When we launch your dropship, you’ll be going in hot. We
won’t be able to extract you unless you kill him.”
“That don’t matter,” said Emillian. “As long as that bastard Mengsk is dead I don’t care.”
“I know,” he said. “Believe me, I understand hatred very well.”
“I trained him, did you know that?”
“Yes,” he said. “And that’s why I know you’ll kill him. You’re better than him.”
Emillian nodded toward his rie. “You sure you don’t want to go in with us? I know how you like
to use that bad boy.”
“Not this time,” he said. “Our new allies are readying another mission as well as the assassination
of Mengsk, and I need to help them coordinate.”
“Oh? And where might that be?”
“The shipyards at Dylar IV,” said Samir Duran.
CHAPTER 18
THE LAST TIME VALERIAN HAD WAITED FOR HIS father on Umoja, he had been
seven years old. He remembered his wide- eyed optimism at the thought of meeting the heroic man
who stood head and shoulders above lesser mortals. This occasion shared similarities with that day,
in that Arcturus Mengsk was now literally head and shoulders above lesser men.
Emperor Arcturus Mengsk the First. It had a strange sound to it, as though it had not yet settled
and was yet to earn its rank as a title.
Valerian stied a yawn and wished he’d been able to sleep last night. He’d told himself it was
simply that he’d drunk too much caeine, but he knew it was the thought of his acknowledgment as
the emperor’s son that had caused his sleepless night. With the resources of the Dominion at his
disposal, nothing would lie beyond his grasp. He could lead archaeological teams back to Van
Osten’s Moon or any number of sites that had recently come to light.
The day had dawned bright and warm, as though Umoja itself were preparing to welcome the
new emperor, and the sun was a bloated red orb in the coppery sky. Valerian stood on the lawn
before his grandfather’s house, dressed in his nest suit and boots, with his ubiquitous scarlet cloak
that accentuated his broad shoulders like armor. His sword was slung low by his left leg and a
handcrafted blaster pistol was holstered on the opposite hip. He presented a perfect image of an
emperor’s son, and despite his mother’s reservations about today, he could see she was pleased with
how ne he looked.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
She sat in her wheelchair, wearing the most attering clothes that could be tailored for her
painfully thin form. Her hair was washed and cleaned and, even after all she had said about his
father at the riverbank last night, Valerian could see she had put on a little makeup.
Even those cast aside by his father still made an eort to look presentable for him.
Standing with them was his grandfather, Charles Whittier, and Master Miyamoto—resplendent
in his nest ghting robes—and behind them a line of Ailin Pasteur’s servants. It had been
Whittier’s idea to have the serving sta stand ready to greet the new emperor, and though Valerian’s
grandfather had balked at the idea of putting on such a dog- and- pony show, Valerian had
persuaded him that it couldn’t do any harm.
“The great emperor likes to make us wait,” grumbled Pasteur.
“Well, the Ruling Council did make him halt his ships beyond the outer marker,” pointed out
Whittier. “And gun cutters aren’t exactly the fastest ships. A battlecruiser would have arrived here
much sooner.”
His grandfather mumbled something under his breath; Valerian didn’t catch it, but could guess
its substance. Ailin Pasteur and Charles Whittier had gotten o on the wrong foot and had never
bothered to try and nd the right one. He suspected his grandfather was unsure as to which of the
Mengsks Whittier owed his loyalty, proving to Valerian that Ailin Pasteur was a shrewd judge of
character.
“There,” said Master Miyamoto, pointing to a spot of light in the orange- ecked clouds.
Valerian looked up, feeling his heartbeat shift up a notch as he saw the glowing cruciform shape
of an aircraft dropping through the atmosphere. Two lighter ships swooped protectively around it,
ying gure- eight patterns above and below the larger ship. Valerian felt a hand take his and looked
down to see his mother staring in apprehension at the approaching yers.
“It’ll be all right,” said Valerian.
She looked up at him with a weak smile. “Remember what I told you,” she said.
“I will,” he promised.
The shapes resolved themselves from the clouds and Valerian saw that the central craft was a
heavy gun cutter, a wide- bodied, pugnacious- looking aircraft long ago rendered obsolete by the
development of the Wraith ghter. But it had range and was capable of interplanetary travel within
a system, so had never quite vanished from the inventory.
With the losses taken in the war against the Confederacy, he guessed his father could not aord
to be too choosy when it came to weapons of war. The other two ships were Wraiths, sleek air-
superiority ghters that could engage ground and air targets with equal lethality.
The gun cutter slowed its descent and rotated in to land, its ventral thrusters kicking in as it
approached the ground. Its bulbous engine nacelles were too wide to allow the craft to t into the
underground hangar, but the pilot contented himself with landing next to the platform’s open
hatchway. The Wraiths continued to y overhead patrols as the gun cutter settled its heavy bulk
onto the ground.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“That’s never going to grow back,” grumbled Pasteur as the cutter’s jets seared the grass.
“You use robots to tend the garden, so where’s the harm?” said Valerian with a smile.
“Not the point,” replied his grandfather. “Lack of respect for others is what it is.”
Further discussion was halted as the side hatch of the gun cutter rumbled open in a haze of
steam. Smoke swirled as a dozen soldiers in combat armor jogged down the assault ramp and took
up the position of honor guard on either side of it.
A shape appeared in the smoke and Valerian smiled at the theatricality of his father’s emergence
into the Umojan sunlight.
Emperor Arcturus Mengsk wore a long brown duster edged in gold thread and a brocaded
internal lining. His suit was styled like a marine’s dress uniform and nished with a glittering, wolf-
head belt buckle. His boots were polished and a long sword was buckled at a rakish angle on his
hip.
As Arcturus marched down the ramp, Valerian saw his father had aged, the silver in his beard
and hair more pronounced than when he had last seen him. Yet for all the signs of maturity, his
father was still a year shy of forty and carried himself with the condence and power of a man half his
age.
Everything about him radiated his absolute belief in himself, and Valerian knew that though in
any other man this would be arrogance, with his father it was simply a statement of fact.
The soldiers fell in behind Arcturus as he crossed the lawn toward them with a purposeful stride.
Valerian noticed the shock in his eyes at the sight of Juliana. In that one, quickly masked window,
Valerian caught a glimpse of his father’s fear of inrmity and things he could not call on his fearsome
intellect and power to ght.
Valerian’s grandfather stepped forward to meet Arcturus, his ambassadorial mask slipping into
place as he shook hands with a man with whom he had run the gamut of emotions: admiration,
mistrust, anger, forgiveness, and nally mistrust again.
“Arcturus, welcome to Umoja.”
“I remember the last time you said that to me, Ailin,” said Arcturus. “You didn’t mean it then and
I suspect you don’t entirely mean it now.”
“So long as you are here in peace, then you are welcome,” replied Pasteur.
“Ever the diplomat, eh?” said Arcturus, turning to greet Valerian.
His father came forward with his arms open and his face alight with genuine pleasure. “My boy,
it does my heart good to see you. You look well, very well.”
“I am, Father,” said Valerian, embracing him and enduring a series of hearty slaps on the back for
his trouble. His father was at his ease with such comradely gestures, but Valerian had always found
them awkward and forced.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Valerian broke the embrace and his father turned to Juliana.
“If you dare say I look well, I’ll take that sword and stick you with it,” she said.
“I was going to say that it was good to see you,” replied his father. “But you look better than I was
led to believe, so that’s good.”
“I’m attered,” said Juliana, but his father had already moved on to greet Charles Whittier and
Master Miyamoto, playing the role of the approachable man of the people. Valerian saw the
falseness of it and wondered how others could not. Perhaps he was more like his father than he
knew, able to see through the charade as if it were his own.
At last his father stepped back and said, “You are all very dear to me, my friends, and it means a
great deal, after all we have been through together, that we should meet like this in the wake of my
great triumph.”
Arcturus came forward and put his arm around Valerian, pulling him forward to stand at his side
before the assembled onlookers.
“We live in momentous times,” said Arcturus. “But going forward together, we can achieve
anything we desire. Father and son, we will build a better world for everyone.”
Polite applause rippled from the serving sta and Valerian dearly wanted to believe his father’s
words, feeling somewhat swept up in the grandeur of his vision for the future.
Only Master Miyamoto looked unimpressed, staring in consternation at the sky.
“Are those yours?” he said, shading his eyes from the sun.
Valerian followed Miyamoto’s gaze, and a hot rush of adrenaline ooded his system.
Four Wraith ghters. Emblazoned with the ag of the Confederacy.
Diving in on an attack run.
“Everyone inside!” shouted Arcturus.
The assembled crowd needed no encouragement and bolted for the house.
The two Wraiths tasked with patrolling the skies above the emperor reacted as soon as their
pilots realized the codes they were receiving on their IFF threat panels were a lie, but by then it was
already too late. The rst ghter exploded as a stream of bright laser bolts stitched a path over its
fuselage and ripped o its right wing.
The second Wraith avoided the initial volley of gunre and was able to return re. Amazingly,
the pilot’s shots impacted on one of the attackers, blowing out the cockpit in a shower of
superheated blood and glass.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The enemy ghter spiraled toward the ground, plowing into the grass in a spectacular reball,
cartwheeling across the lawn, and smashing into the house, drowning out the screams of panic that
lled the air. Shattered glazing and buckled steel caved inward and black smoke billowed upward
from the wreckage buried in the structure of the house.
The Dominion pilot’s deance was short- lived, however, as the remaining three Confederate
ghters boxed him in and blew his craft apart in a hail of laser re.
Burning wreckage fell into the river, sending up huge spouts of water as it crashed.
Valerian grabbed his mother from her chair and carried her close to his chest as he ran for the
house, knowing there wasn’t time to get her to safety with more dignity. Sizzling bolts of energy
sawed across the lawn as the rst Wraith ew in low on a strang run. Half a dozen of his
grandfather’s serving sta were scythed down, bodies blown apart from inside by the passage of
violently hot lasers through their esh.
Valerian dropped to the ground as the ruby bolts ripped up the ground on either side of him. He
tasted earth and blood and smelled the stink of seared meat. His mother cried out in pain and he
rolled onto his side, seeing her lying helpless next to him. The Confederate Wraiths screamed
overhead, their wing- mounted weaponry ring upon the helpless targets below them.
His father’s marines returned re on the Wraiths as they fell back toward the house, but the
pilots weren’t worried about small- arms re from the ground. Impaler spikes sparked from the
ghters’ fuselages or missed altogether, but they at least gave the semblance of a ght back.
The gun cutter that had brought his father to Umoja was powering up its engines, but before it
could lift o it was struck by a withering salvo of gunre from the predatory Wraiths. One of the
engine nacelles exploded, spraying white- hot fragments in all directions.
Whickering, razor- edged shrapnel cut down eeing men and women in a bloody storm as the
gun cutter lurched sideways. It plowed a huge furrow in the ground, throwing up sprays of earth
and clods of mud as its one remaining engine roared into life and spun it around on its axis.
The gun cutter lurched one last time and vanished from sight, tumbling down into the open
shaft of the landing platform it had previously been too big to t within.
With one of its engines blown o, that was no longer a problem.
Valerian heard someone shout his name and looked over the corpse- strewn lawn toward the
house, seeing his father and grandfather crouched in the shelter of a recessed doorway. Both men
were furiously beckoning to him as the Wraiths circled around for another strang run.
Valerian didn’t waste time looking up and simply scooped his mother o the ground and ran as
fast as he could to safety.
“Oh God, Val, I’m so scared!” she cried.
“Don’t worry,” he gasped. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The house suddenly seemed impossibly far o, as though his every step carried it farther and
farther away from him. His father’s soldiers were painting the sky with Impaler re, and Valerian
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
risked a glance over his shoulder as he heard the distinctive, chopping- air sound of a dropship on a
fast insertion run.
A heavy lander in the colors of the Confederacy was dropping rapidly through the clouds, a
midsized assault boat capable of carrying around twenty to thirty soldiers, depending on their
loadout. Valerian forced himself to run faster, and suddenly he was at the doorway.
His father grabbed him and hauled him into the house. The breath heaved in his lungs and his
heart rate was racing like never before. From eight years of age, he had trained to ght with gun and
sword, but this was the rst time he’d been exposed to real combat. Valerian handed his mother o
to Charles Whittier, who set her down on a carved wooden bench as Ailin Pasteur slammed the
door shut and engaged the mag- lock.
They were in the east wing hallway, a terrazzo- oored vestibule that linked the main receiving
rooms and the guest quarters. Along with his mother and father, Master Miyamoto, Whittier, and
Ailin Pasteur, there were ve soldiers and a handful of weeping domestics.
“What the hell is going on, Mengsk?” demanded Ailin Pasteur. “Who is trying to kill us?”
His father took a breath and placed his hands on Valerian’s shoulders, his relief at his son’s
survival plain for all to see.
“There has been some…opposition to the institution of my reign,” he said, turning and drawing
his sword as his soldiers formed up around him. “I can only assume that this is a manifestation of
that opposition.”
“Opposition?” exploded Ailin. “This is more than bloody opposition—those men are going to kill
us!”
Arcturus laughed in Pasteur’s face. “Kill us? Don’t be foolish, Ailin.”
“This isn’t a fortress, Arcturus. That door isn’t going to keep them out for long.”
“They’re not going to kill us, Ailin,” repeated Arcturus.
“You sound very sure,” snapped Pasteur.
“I am,” replied Arcturus. “I may die one day, but it won’t be today. Not at the hands of fools who
can’t accept they’re beaten. Charles, what’s the comm situation? I need reinforcements.”
Charles Whittier, still holding Juliana Pasteur upright, had one hand pressed to his ear, in which
was nestled the blinking light of a comm bead.
“All the local networks are jammed, sir,” he said. “Our assailants appear to have cast an
electromagnetic pulse net around us, and I do not believe any of the house comm units are strong
enough to burn through it, at least not before we are dead. Also, I’m picking up hundreds of
channels of white noise across a wide spectrum. Even if someone could pick up our broadcast,
there’s too much interference for anyone to understand the signal.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus nodded. “They’re using a Cassandra scrambler. So we can’t expect any local help, then.
Well, we’re going to have to look elsewhere for aid.”
“There is nowhere else,” said Ailin Pasteur.
“There’s always somewhere else you can turn,” said Arcturus.
As his father spoke, Valerian pressed himself to the outer wall and looked through the glass panel
at the side of the door. Flying shrapnel had punched a neat hole in the glass and he saw the
Confederate dropship hammer into the lawn, its skids gouging great chunks from the soft earth. Its
assault ramp dropped and a host of armored marines emerged. They spread out and began moving
cautiously toward the house in pairs.
“Incoming,” he said, turning back to face his father. “Marines. At least thirty.”
His father nodded and addressed Ailin Pasteur. “Do you have a refuge here? A safe room?”
“Yes, in the central service core.”
“Get to it. Take Valerian, Juliana, and Charles and two of my soldiers,” ordered Arcturus. “Lock
yourselves in and wait for the cavalry. Understood? You three soldiers and Miyamoto, you’re with
me.”
“Arcturus,” cried Juliana. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to get us some help,” he said. “The only comm unit strong enough to penetrate a
Cassandra screen is on the gun cutter. If we can get to it, I can call in Duke and his boys.”
“I’m going with you,” said Valerian. “I’m not running.”
“No,” said his father. “You’re getting to safety.”
“I’m going with you,” repeated Valerian. “That’s the end of it, no argument.”
Arcturus looked set to dispute him, then saw his determination. Valerian felt his heart soar at the
pride he saw in his father’s eyes.
“The cutter went down the landing shaft, yes?” said Arcturus.
“Yeah,” said Valerian. “Its engine blew out and it fell in.”
“Which means we can reach it from the house.”
“Arcturus, that’s insane!” said Juliana. “Edmund Duke’s ships are too far away to reach us in time
and for all you know the cutter’s comm unit is destroyed.”
“If I know Duke, he’ll be halfway here already,” said Arcturus. “Sorry, Ailin. You didn’t really
think I’d leave my ships that far out, did you?”
“Damn you, Arcturus,” said Pasteur. “You go too far.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus gave a hollow laugh. “If Duke gets here in time, you’ll be glad I do.”
Valerian straightened as his father turned and handed him a gauss rie. “You ready?”
He racked the slide of the weapon. “I’m ready.”
His father led the way and Valerian, Master Miyamoto, and the three marines dashed after him.
The aming wreckage of the crashed Wraith blocked their initial route through the house, but
Valerian guided them around it to reach the concealed elevator in the main hall.
The power was out, so they took the stairs, clattering down ight after ight in their desperate
hurry. Valerian heard gunre from above and paused in his descent, torn between his desire to
follow his father and his need to protect his mother.
He realized he hadn’t even said good- bye, and took a step back up the stairs.
“Don’t be foolish!” shouted Arcturus. “We can only help them by reaching the cutter.”
Valerian hesitated, but he knew his father was right and headed down once more, taking the
stairs two at a time. Eventually they reached the bottom and emerged into the system of corridors,
maintenance caves, and stores of the landing facility.
Wretched smoke billowed and heaved throughout the underground complex, and sprays of
water drizzled from the sprinklers set into the roof. Valerian coughed at the acrid stench of burning
fuel, rubber, and plastic, pressing his hand over his mouth to avoid the worst of it.
He inched at the sound of breaking glass and turned to see Master Miyamoto at an emergency
re point, hauling a trio of breathing apparatus facemasks from within. He handed one to Valerian
and one to his father before tting his own mask.
“Which way to the platform?” asked Arcturus, his voice echoing and articial- sounding through
the mask. “I don’t remember the layout.”
“That way,” pointed Valerian, heading o down a side corridor, running bent over to keep out of
the smoke. His eyes still stung from the fumes and his mouth tasted of tar, but he couldn’t deny the
exhilaration he felt going into battle alongside his father.
Valerian negotiated them through the network of tunnels until they arrived at the blast door that
led out onto the platform. The neosteel door had been torn from its mounting by the enormous
impact of the gun cutter’s fall and lay buckled on the concrete oor.
They clambered over the shattered door and entered the cavern of the landing platform. The gun
cutter lay canted at an angle, its fuselage torn open where it had been peeled back by the rock walls
of the shaft. Smoke billowed upward from its remaining engine toward the bright oblong of
daylight, and burning pools of fuel collected beneath the wrecked craft.
“We’re going to have to be quick,” said Arcturus.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Damn right,” agreed Valerian. “I don’t want to get blown to bits by an exploding gun cutter,
thank you very much.”
“Yes, it wouldn’t be a very epic way to meet your end, would it?” said his father. “Let’s make sure
we don’t then, eh?”
With that, his father began clambering up the slope of twisted metal and debris toward the tear
in the fuselage. As he reached the gaping wound in the side of the cutter, he turned and called down
to Valerian.
“Keep watch above us and back along the corridor. If our enemies pick up the signal from the
cutter you can be sure we’re going to have company…”
CHAPTER 19
VALERIAN FOUND COVER BEHIND A TWISTED SHEET of the gun cutter’s
fuselage, training his rie down the length of the passageway they had come from. Master
Miyamoto took up position across from Valerian, and his father’s three marines found cover that
would allow them to enlade the enemy.
Eventually their attackers would realize that their target was not in the house. Once the enemy
marines gured out where their quarry had gone and what they were doing, they’d throw everything
they had at them.
Valerian and his soldiers had dragged piles of debris back toward the cutter to form rudimentary
barricades and shared out what ammunition they had for the gauss ries. The clock was ticking, but
for what it was worth, they were ready.
Or at least as ready as ve men could be to hold o thirty trained soldiers.
The heat in the cavern was stiing and sweat ran down Valerian’s face inside his facemask. His
breathing sounded incredibly loud and his peripheral vision was practically nonexistent. In
frustration, he tore the mask o and dropped it next to him.
The air was tight and oxygen- depleted, but much of the smoke from the wrecked cutter was
being vented up through the wide landing shaft. Not the best conditions in which to ght a battle,
but who ever got to ght a battle in ideal conditions?
And Valerian was willing to risk some respiratory diculty to actually see the men he was going
to have to kill.
He wiped a hand over his face, trying to keep his breaths shallow, and blinked regularly to keep
his eyes moist. He could just about make out the echoing sound of gunshots and wondered where
they were coming from. Had his grandfather and Charles managed to get his mother to safety while
his father’s marines fought back? Or was he hearing echoes of shots being red execution style, like
those that had ended the life of his father’s parents and sister?
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
The thought that his mother was in real danger almost sent him running back along the corridor,
but he forced himself to remain where he was. Allowing emotion to rule his actions would only get
him killed and that would do no one any good, least of all himself.
He glanced up toward the cutter. What was taking so long?
Was the comm unit broken? Was his father even now trying to repair it?
How long had passed anyway?
Valerian found he couldn’t even begin to guess how long it had been since the attack began. It
felt as though several hours had elapsed, but he suspected that it was one at best. The elasticity of
time in a combat situation was something he’d read about, but had never expected to experience
rsthand.
He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and looked over to where Master Miyamoto
crouched. His former tutor was staring at him, jabbing a nger down the corridor, and Valerian felt
his mouth go dry as he heard the clatter of boots and the bark of shouted orders.
This was it. The enemy he’d run from all his life was nally here.
But this time Valerian Mengsk wasn’t running.
This time he was ghting.
He shouldered his gauss rie and licked his lips as he saw shadows moving through the ruptured
aperture of the blast door. Risking a quick glance back at the cutter, he silently willed his father to
get a damn move on.
A pair of Confederate marines ducked around the edge of the torn doorway. Master Miyamoto
rose from cover and opened re, a meter- long tongue of re blasting from the muzzle of his weapon.
The rst marine dropped, Master Miyamoto’s expertly aimed re punching unerringly through his
visor and lling the inside of his helmet with iron spikes.
Valerian pulled the trigger, working his re over the second marine. The recoil of the gauss rie
was fearsome, designed to be absorbed by a powered combat suit, which Valerian conspicuously
wasn’t wearing. The roar of the weapon was deafening, but Valerian kept the rie on target,
knowing that his target’s armor would defeat all but the most concentrated clusters of impacts.
The man fell as the three soldiers opened up as well, the additional weight of their repower
tearing through the marine’s armor and spraying the wall behind him with blood. Valerian ducked
back into cover as return re sawed through the doorway. Impaler shots rattled from the metal
around him and he inched as a ricochet sliced across his arm.
He heard shouts and rose once more, sending a blast of re toward the doorway.
Shots lled the air, smacking from the debris and rock walls as the enemy marines laid down a
curtain of suppressive re. Valerian heard something skitter across the ground and his heart leapt
into his mouth as he saw a gently wobbling oval disc come to rest no more than a few feet from him.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Without thinking, he dropped to one knee and scooped up the grenade, lobbing it back the way
it had come. It exploded an instant later, the noise agonizingly loud and the wave of overpressure
swatting him onto his back. He scrambled to his knees, coughing and trying to force the air to
return to his lungs.
Valerian heard screams and cries for medics, sounding tinny and impossibly distant. He felt
warm wetness in his ears and reached up, his ngers coming away bloody. A greasy fog bank of
acrid smoke swirled upward from the grenade’s detonation. Valerian felt around for his rie, only
now realizing it had been snatched from his grip by the blast.
More blasts of gunre sounded, but he couldn’t tell who was shooting.
He found his rie and swept it up. The top portion of the barricade he’d been sheltering behind
had been torn away by the explosive force of the detonation. Valerian realized if he’d stood to throw
the grenade back, his upper body would have been vaporized.
Perhaps seven marines were lying screaming on the ground, ripped open and their guts spilled
out over the oor. Fragments of armor and ruptured body parts littered the ground, but it was
impossible to tell exactly how many men had died. Shouting marines tried to drag their wounded
comrades to safety, but Valerian and Miyamoto gave them no respite, cutting them down in a
deadly crossre.
Valerian experienced a surge of exhilaration and felt the urge to laugh well up within him with
almost uncontrollable force. Amid all this killing and death, the sensation was ludicrous, and he
suddenly realized how ridiculous this notion of battle was. Men who had never met were trying to
kill one another.
Valerian knew why he was ghting: to protect his loved ones and save his own life.
But these marines? What were they ghting for?
A fallen regime that had lied to them and probably erased the truth of their own lives with
invasive brain surgery.
That was no reason to die, yet here they were, ghting a battle to the death.
As he was contemplating such weighty thoughts, a trio of grenades arced into the chamber.
Valerian saw them coming and dropped, cursing at his stupidity. The middle of battle was no place
to meditate on the absurdity of war, yet it had seemed the most natural thing in the world at the
time.
Strange what the mind will do in times of stress, he thought.
Clearly the marines had learned their lesson and the grenades exploded almost as soon as they
landed. Grenades explode up and out, so Valerian pressed his face to the oor as the enormous force
of the blast roared over him.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Two of his father’s soldiers vanished in a seething orange reball and the gun cutter lurched
dangerously as the blast’s shock wave dislodged the rubble holding it in place. More choking clouds
of smoke billowed upward, and Valerian knew their deance was at an end.
He heard the sound of charging marines and the ripping- cloth sound of sustained gauss re.
Impaler spikes zinged from sheet metal and neosteel armor plates and the last of his father’s soldiers
cried out in pain as he was brought down.
Valerian coughed and rolled to his feet. He’d hung on to his rie this time and, though he knew it
was futile, aimed it toward the marines assaulting their position.
A continuous roaring howl, like the thunder of the mightiest storm front, lled the enclosed
landing platform chamber. Valerian dropped to his knees with his hands pressed against his ears at
the overwhelming, unbelievable volume.
The marines in front of Valerian disintegrated in a storm of blazing light, chewed up by
hypervelocity slugs and exploding like wet, red sacks of meat. He looked up to see the dorsal-
mounted cannon turret of the gun cutter spewing shells from its quad- barreled weapon mount.
Armor and bone and esh vaporized under the holocaust of cannon re. The sheer killing power of
the guns at such close range was utterly terrifying.
Valerian could just make out his father sitting behind the weapon, working its re over their
attackers in merciless arcs. Even as he watched, sparks and ricochets hammered the upper fuselage
of the cutter, and Valerian looked up to see half a dozen marines ring down into the landing
platform’s shaft from above.
The armored Plexiglas of the turret held long enough for his father to drop out of the gunner’s
compartment, but within seconds the interior was a shattered ruin of broken plastic and metal.
More shots rained down from above and Valerian ducked back as Impaler spikes hammered into
the ground beside him.
He felt a hand seize his arm and, with his rie raised, swung to face his assailant.
Master Miyamoto slapped the barrel away and Valerian let out a shuddering breath at how close
he’d come to cutting the man down in a point- blank burst of re.
“Need to get into the cutter,” gasped Miyamoto. Blood streamed from a cut on his head and his
robes were soaked with red at his shoulder and hip.
“You’re hurt.”
“I know,” replied Miyamoto, with typical brevity. “Nothing I can do about it, though.”
Valerian nodded and pressed himself against the buckled hull of the cutter. They couldn’t break
from cover—the marines on the surface would pick them o. Valerian could hear more shouts
coming from beyond the doorway.
“These ones don’t know the cutter’s turret is out of action,” hissed Miyamoto, guessing why none
of their enemies were showing themselves. “That will not last. We need to move.”
“Yeah,” agreed Valerian. “Damn it, I hope my father got a message through to Duke.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Either he did or he did not,” said Miyamoto.
“He should be here by now.”
“But he is not, so we still need to ght.”
“Always the teacher, eh?” said Valerian, scrambling around the edge of the cutter, keeping low
and making sure he didn’t expose himself to the marines up top.
“Always there is more to learn,” countered Miyamoto. “The man who thinks he knows everything
in fact knows nothing.”
Valerian let out a laugh, though there was a slightly desperate quality to it. Despite the
precariousness of their situation and the undoubted pain of his wounds, Master Miyamoto still
found the time to dispense a bon mot.
“There,” he said, bending over and pointing to a hole ripped in the cutter’s underside. “We can
climb in through there.”
Master Miyamoto nodded, glancing back toward the doorway for any signs that their attackers
were moving in.
“You go in rst,” said Miyamoto. “I will cover you.”
Valerian didn’t argue and slung his rie over his shoulder, dropping to his belly and crawling
toward the hole. He jumped as he heard a blast of gunre, spinning around in time to see Master
Miyamoto drop his rie and sink to his knees with a gaping, raw wound in his stomach.
His former tutor’s eyes were shut and his face was serene as he crumpled to the ground beside
him. Valerian looked up and saw a marine in scarred and dented armor behind Miyamoto, and
raised his hands.
Entire plates had been torn from the marine’s combat suit and Impaler impacts and shrapnel
scoring covered almost every inch of the armor. The marine’s helmet had been ripped o and blood
clotted the cropped hair. The hair was blonde, and Valerian realized that Miyamoto’s killer was a
woman in her early forties, and even through the mask of blood, grime, and sweat, he saw she was
exceptionally attractive.
Was it better to be killed by a good- looking marine or an ugly one?
The thought made him smile, and he giggled in her face.
“Man, you are one crazy son of a bitch,” said the marine, limping toward him with her rie aimed
unwaveringly at his chest. “I’m gonna enjoy killing you.”
Valerian wanted to reach for his rie, but knew he would be dead in a heartbeat if he so much as
twitched a muscle in its direction.
He was dead anyway, and they both knew it.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
As she approached, her eyes narrowed and she let out her own bark of laughter.
“I don’t believe it,” she said. “You’re Mengsk’s kid, aren’t you? With that face, you gotta be related
to him somehow. Hell, we got ourselves a twofer!”
“I am Valerian Mengsk,” he said proudly. “Son of Emperor Arcturus Mengsk the First.”
“That gures—you got that same damned arrogance.”
Valerian tensed. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why are you doing this?”
“What do you care who I am? I’m going to kill you is all you need to know.”
“I want to know the name of my murderer,” he said.
“Angelina Emillian,” she said. “I recruited your old man into the Marine Corps and taught him all
he knows. So you might say I’m making up for that mistake now.”
Emillian brought her weapon up and said, “So long, Valerian.”
Before she could pull the trigger, a blur of silver steel ashed and the rie exploded as Master
Miyamoto sliced his sword through the magnetic accelerator pack with the last of his strength.
Valerian blinked away the brilliant afterimages as Emillian staggered and dropped her useless
weapon, drawing the combat knife sheathed on her leg.
She leapt at him with a feral snarl of rage.
Valerian swept up his rie and unloaded the last of his clip into her.
Most of his spikes attened themselves on her breastplate, but a squirting spray of blood arced
from her neck and she landed next to him with a gurgling scream. Valerian kept his nger pressed to
the trigger, his breath heaving as the ring mechanism whined and the magazine clicked dry.
“Nice shot,” said a voice behind him, and he turned his head to see his father emerge from the
hole in the cutter’s belly.
“Thanks,” gasped Valerian, dropping the rie and looking over to Master Miyamoto.
Valerian could see the man was dead and silently thanked his tutor for saving his life.
His father squatted next to Angelina Emillian, and Valerian could almost read the expression on
his face: part anger, part regret.
“I never expected to see you again,” he said, and Valerian was amazed to realize the marine wasn’t
dead. His Impaler spikes had punctured her neck and ripped open her carotid artery. She was still
alive, but had moments left at best.
“I kinda wish you hadn’t…,” she gasped, her words wet and gurgling.
“You died for nothing,” said Arcturus. “You know that, don’t you?”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
“Screw you, Mengsk,” replied Emillian with a cough of blood. “It don’t matter now anyway—the
UED are going to clean your clock but good.”
“Who?” said his father. “Who are the UED?”
Emillian turned her head toward Valerian. “Damn, I was right about you, Mengsk. I knew if you
had kids they’d be trouble…”
“Angelina, who are the UED?” demanded his father.
But Angelina Emillian was dead.
The inside of the cutter smelled of fuel, burned meat, and iron. Valerian coughed a few times,
then slammed a fresh clip of Impaler spikes into his rie. The craft’s keel was buckled, and sections
of deck plating had popped from the framework. Sparks crackled worryingly from broken panels
and spurting cables frothed with leaking hydraulic uid.
Lights ickered and zzed, the electrics buzzing and spitting as the cutter’s batteries shorted in
and out. The contents of stowage lockers were spilled over the deck: playing cards, canteens, fresh
magazines, and the personal eects of the marines who had accompanied his father to Umoja.
Valerian braced himself against a groaning stanchion. “Did you get a message to Duke?”
“I think so,” said his father, looking through a tear in the cutter’s side.
“You think so? Don’t you know?”
His father shook his head, quickly checking the load on his rie. “With a Cassandra scrambler it’s
hard to tell what goes in or out, but I think Duke heard me. I certainly heard him swearing enough
to make me think he knows what’s going on.”
“Do you think he’ll come?”
“I do, yes. Edmund Duke may be many things, but while he believes he’ll benet from his
association with me, he’ll be loyal. And right now, he knows I’m his best shot at making something
of himself.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Valerian, joining his father at the torn bulkhead.
“I’m sure I am,” said his father. “If Edmund has a grain of sense, he’ll have been keeping his sensor
suite trained on Umoja since I left the command ship. With any luck, he’ll have come running as
soon as he picked up the weapons’ discharges.”
Valerian cocked his rie as they heard the sound of voices from outside.
He peered through a shrapnel hole and saw marines, ten of them—fully armored and loaded for
bear—negotiating their way through the blasted debris that lled the chamber.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Valerian and Arcturus were on their own now, and with only two gauss ries between them,
Valerian knew they didn’t stand much—or indeed any—chance of defeating their foes. He decided
there were worse ways to end his allotted span than to die ghting next to his father.
“We won’t stop them all,” said Valerian.
Arcturus grinned. “Speak for yourself.”
Valerian nodded, emboldened by his father’s attitude, and shouldered his rie.
The marines saw them and charged.
Valerian and Arcturus opened re at the same time, their Impaler spikes hammering the nearest
of their attackers. The marine stumbled and fell, but his armor protected him from injury. Valerian
ducked back as a spray of spikes hammered the cutter, tiny pyramids punched into the internal skin
of the fuselage by their impacts.
His father squeezed o a burst of re and whipped back into cover. The roar of gauss re lled
the cutter’s interior, a shrieking howl of metal slamming on metal. Once again, Valerian aimed his
rie through the ruptured hull of the cutter, opening up on a red- armored marine as he clambered
over the remains of one of their juryrigged barricades. Impaler spikes hammered the man, but he
shrugged o the impacts and kept coming.
More re sparked o the cutter’s hull and Valerian knew they could not hope to stop these
marines. Where their previous attackers had come at them with fatally misplaced condence, these
were taking no chances, operating in pairs and covering each other’s advance with suppressive re.
Valerian slammed in a fresh magazine, his last, and took a deep breath.
This was it, this was the end, and what better way to go out than in a blaze of glory.
He looked over at his father and saw the same determination to make their ending one worthy of
remembrance.
“You ready?” he asked.
“I’m ready,” replied Arcturus.
They whipped around together, ries raised, and opened re.
And the landing shaft was suddenly lled with a cascade of incandescent bolts of blistering light
that slammed down from above. Percussive explosions bloomed skyward and the cutter rocked
backward as a wave of heat and pressure washed over it.
The tremendous impacts shook the damaged vessel so violently its keel split in two. Arcturus
and Valerian were thrown to the deck as the streaming torrent of light hammered the world beyond
the interior of their refuge to oblivion.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
At last the waterfall of molten light ceased and Valerian blinked away the starbursts behind his
eyes. His ears rang with the concussion of the explosions, but he was alive, and that was something
he hadn’t expected.
His father lay across from him, looking dazed but otherwise unhurt.
“What the hell?” gasped Valerian, seeing nothing but blackened walls and complete annihilation
outside.
Arcturus laughed. “Told you…,” he said.
Valerian looked up.
Blocking the light from the open shaft was an enormous steel behemoth that oated above the
landing hatch in deance of the laws of gravity.
As a monstrous, rippling heat haze surrounded its engines, Valerian covered his ears against the
teeth- loosening rumble. The insignia of a red arm holding a whip on a black background was
emblazoned on either side of a cavernous docking bay, and it took Valerian a moment to realize he
was looking at the underside of a Dominion battlecruiser.
A voice, heavily accented and with a thick drawl, blared from an external loudspeaker.
“Someone order a heroic rescue?” said General Edmund Duke.
In the immediate aftermath of the ghting, no clue could be found as to how these Confederate
diehards had managed to learn the particulars of the emperor’s visit to Umoja. Nor could any light
be shed on the identity or allegiance of the UED that Angelina Emillian had spoken of before her
death—though this mystery would have a bloody answer soon enough.
Arcturus promised Ailin Pasteur that a full and thorough investigation would be undertaken,
and while no direct accusations were made, it was clear the emperor suspected the Umojans of a
degree of complicity in the attack.
More Dominion ships were on their way to the emperor, and in response, capital ships of the
Protectorate were en route to persuade him that it would be in his best interests to withdraw them
as soon as possible.
The survivors of the attack gathered in Ailin Pasteur’s cavernous dining room, shaken and
bloodied, but glad to be alive. When Valerian saw his mother he raced toward her, dropping his rie
and embracing her as she wept tears of joy to see him alive.
“I thought you were dead,” she sobbed.
“I’m a Mengsk,” he said. “We don’t die easy.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Starcraft: I, Mengsk
ENDINGS
BUT FIRST WE HAVE TO BURY HER…
Valerian sat in the leather armchair before the dying coal re, swirling another tawny port in his
glass as his father poured himself another rich amber brandy. That wasn’t his usual drink of choice,
but he’d always drunk brandy when in Ailin Pasteur’s home and didn’t see any need to change now.
The funeral service of Juliana Pasteur had been brief, but dignied, attended by the majority of
the Umojan Ruling Council and a few of the emperor’s closest advisers. Ailin Pasteur had read his
daughter’s eulogy and no one had been surprised when he did not ask Arcturus to say anything.
Valerian had planned to speak, but when the moment came he had been unable to move, such
was the weight of grief pinning him to his seat.
His mother’s death was the most painful thing Valerian had ever endured.
It had taken a further eighteen months after the attack on her father’s house for her to die, her last
breath taken a month before Valerian’s twenty- rst birthday. It had not been an easy death; her last
year had been spent conned to bed with only infrequent bouts of lucidity.
Valerian had spent those months at her side, holding her hand, mopping her brow, and reading
passages from Poems of the Twilight Stars. Often she forgot who he was or believed him to be her
long- lost love, Arcturus: her great and glorious prince.
That had been hard to bear, for she recalled a man who no longer existed, if he ever had.
Her last morning had been glorious, the sun a brilliant bronze disc in the sky and the wind fresh
o the river, carrying scents of far- o provinces and the promise of undiscovered countries.
Valerian had opened the curtains and said, “It’s wonderful out there today.”
“You should go for a run,” replied his mother. “It’s been so long since you went outside.”
“Maybe I will,” he answered. “Later.”
She nodded and propped herself up in bed.
Though her illness had robbed his mother of much of her former beauty, the copper light from
the newly risen sun bathed her in a pearlescent glow that most healthy people, never mind cancer
suerers, could only dream of.
“You look beautiful today,” said Valerian.
She smiled and said, “Sit with me.”
Valerian sat in the chair next to her bed, but she shook her head. “No, on the bed.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
He did as he was bid and she slipped her arms around him, pulling him to her as she had done so
many times when he was a little boy. She stroked his golden hair and kissed his forehead.
“My dear boy,” she said. “You are everything I wished for. Do you remember that day beside the
river before the attack on your grandfather’s house?”
“Yeah, I remember. What about it?”
“Do you remember what I said to you there?”
“I do,” he said, wary as to where this conversation was going.
“You’ve been so good to me since then, honey, but it’s time for you to live your own life now. You
can’t be tied to me anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that it’s time for you to be your own man now, Val,” said his mother urgently, and he
could hear her heartbeat utter like a caged bird in her chest. “You tried so hard to make me better
and fought against something that can’t be fought, but it’s time to let go.”
“No,” he said, tears gathering in his eyes as he held her tightly.
“You have to,” said Juliana. “Acceptance is the only way you can defeat death, my beautiful boy.
I’ve made peace with it and now you have to as well. Tell me you understand…”
Valerian closed his eyes, unwilling to say the words, but knowing that she was right. He had
fought against the inevitable for so long that he had forgotten there was nothing he could do to
prevent it. His mother was dying and part of him would die with her, but so long as he lived, part of
her would live on.
That was her legacy to him. Her goodness and her compassion had always been part of his
character, her life and beauty and vitality part of his soul. But so too was his father’s ruthlessness and
determination to succeed at any cost. Those qualities passed on by his parents had blended within
him to make him who he was, and only now did he understand what that meant.
He was neither his mother nor his father; he was Valerian Mengsk, with all the qualities and
faults such a state of being entailed. The things he had inherited and learned from both of them
would forever guide his steps, but the nal choice of where his life would lead was down to him.
“I understand,” he said, and he knew she felt the truth of his words.
“I know you do, my dear. You make me so proud.”
“I love you,” he said as tears streamed freely down his face.
“I love you too, Valerian,” said his mother.
Those had been the nal words she said to him, her heart nally giving out as she held him on
that last glorious morning on Umoja.
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Valerian had stood and folded her arms in her lap, smiling at the serenity he saw in her, the lines
of care, worry, and pain erased from her face in death. She was at peace, and she was beautiful.
His father had come to Umoja a week later and they had circled one another like the largest
wolves in a pack, each gauging the other’s strength as mourners arrived for the funeral. Now, with
the burial concluded and the guests sipping expensive wine and eating canapés, father and son
retired to Valerian’s study.
“Your grandfather spoke well,” said his father, pouring a glass of brandy and taking the seat
opposite Valerian. “It was a moving eulogy.”
“Yes, but you’d expect that,” said Valerian, his voice hollow and empty, “what with him being a
politician.”
“I suppose so,” agreed Arcturus.
“So?” said Valerian, when his father lapsed into silence. “You were going to tell me of Korhal. Of
your father. And my mother.”
“Yes,” mused Arcturus, swilling brandy around his glass. “Are you sitting comfortably?”
His father then went on to speak for several hours, telling him of his youth on Korhal, his time
with the Confederate Marine Corps, and what had transpired between him and Juliana. Valerian
had been surprised by his father’s candor, but soon realized that Arcturus Mengsk had no need to lie
to anyone anymore.
His father had done most of the talking, but as the tale had caught up to the present, Valerian
had spoken, injecting his father’s story with his own memories. At the conclusion of the narrative
both men lapsed into silence.
It was a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, simply a space between two men who had not yet
decided what to say to one another.
Valerian broke the silence rst. “I won’t be like you,” he said.
“I’m not asking you to be like me,” said his father, taking a mouthful of brandy. “I never wanted
that, I just wanted you to be someone I could be proud of.”
“And are you? Proud of me.”
His father considered the question for a moment before answering. “Yes. I am proud of you. You
are intelligent and have courage, two qualities that will get you far in this galaxy, but you have more
than that, Valerian. You have greatness within you, just as I do, and everything we have talked about
today only rearms my belief that we Mengsks are made for greater things than the common herd
can expect of their lives.”
“I am my own man, Father, and I’ll not live my life in your shadow.”
His father chuckled. “Nor do I expect you to. Ah, Valerian, so many of the things you say remind
me of the arguments I had with my father all those years ago.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Arcturus stood and drained the last of his brandy. “Sometimes I think we’re doomed to repeat
the mistakes of our fathers throughout eternity.”
“I won’t make the same mistakes you made,” promised Valerian.
“No, I’m sure you won’t,” agreed Arcturus. “You’ll make new ones.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be, son,” said Arcturus. “Now come on, pull yourself together: We have an
empire to build.”
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI
Starcraft: I, Mengsk
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hailing from Scotland, GRAHAM MCNEILL narrowly escaped a career in surveying to join
Games Workshop in 2000, where he worked for six and a half years as a games developer. In 2006,
he took the plunge to become a full- time author, which seems to be going pretty nicely. As well as
fourteen novels, Graham has written a host of science ction and fantasy short stories and comics.
He lives in Nottingham, United Kingdom.
You can check out Graham’s work, what he’s up to, and where he’ll be by going to his website at:
www.graham- mcneill.com
ORGANIZED BY CLOCKLI |
|
狗仔卡
发表于 2013-8-30 22:37:30
QQ好友和群
QQ空间
腾讯微博
腾讯朋友
收藏
分享
淘帖
顶
踩
提升卡
