I, Mengsk

CHAPTER 13

VALERIAN'S EYES FLICKERED AND AILIN PASTEUR smiled as he watched the lad fight 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 inflated stories Juliana had filled 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 bafflement 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.

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.

Afler 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 firm 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, petrified 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 fighting aliens."

"So who was he fighting?"

"Thai'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 find 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 fleet 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 find 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 filling 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 off the light beside Valerian's bed. He made his way to the door and slipped from his grandson's room.

"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 first 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 offer.

No sooner had Ailin led the boy away than Juliana said something.

Arcturus didn't hear it.

His head was filled with the white noise of a million questions and the rush of blood around his body. The crackling of the fire was like the roar of a great inferno, and he fell 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...

"Answer me, damn you!" snapped Arcturus when she turned away from him and stepped close to the fireplace. 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 off 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 fighting 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 find 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 fire flashed to life in her eyes. "You don't think I had dreams too, Arcturus? Remember I had just started with that law firm as a paralegal? I was doing well therem and I had a promising career there until I fell pregnant."

"Not a very progressive firm if they fired you for something like that," said Arcturus. "You should have sued."

"They didn't fire 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 patency.

"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."

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 first. 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."

"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 flowing around his system, but whatever it was, Arcturus was surprised to find 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 wandered where he was. He was refreshed and his limbs felt gloriously rested. The prefabricated crew quarters of a mining claim or the cramped confines 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.

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 fled 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 confirmed 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 fine, 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, efficient and thorough, vibrating the particles of sweat and dead skin from him without peeling off another few layers of skin for good measure.

He shaved with a similarly efficient 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 look 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.

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 difference 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 dldn'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 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 selfish 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 fall 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 Pasleur'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 fired 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 wandered what Pasteur meant, but didn't press the point. If the man wanted to tell his secrets, he'd tell them in his own lime.

"Have you spoken to your family recently?" asked Pasteur.

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, bul 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 off 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 terrified 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 it 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 menially. "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."

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 figurehead 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 off Korhal for good."

"It sounds like they don't need any help then."

"Don't be so naïve," 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: rifles, 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 natural landscape, with the grass and trees constantly reflected 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 atomizer 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 finally 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 terrified 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 first 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."

"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 finds. 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 ruffling Valerian's hair. "Will you be all right?"

"Yeah," said Valerian, without looking up from his finds.

Arcturus nodded to Juliana, and saw the desperate hope in her eyes. "We'll be fine." 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 elan that was wholly natural and effortless, 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 different 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 unflattering 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."

"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 finds 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 definition. By Valerian's age, Arcturus was a fine athlete and had become proficient with the dueling sword.

Not that in this modern age of gauss rifles 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 finished 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 filled with color plates depleting 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.

A quick flick 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. Lois of guns, lots of girls, and plenty of shoot-outs with corrupt officials. Logan's a hard-talking, hard-fighting man who always gets the bad guy. Pretty simple stuff 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 fired 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 figured, Valerian had never actually fired one and had probably not even ever held a firearm. There was something about firing a weapon that appealed to the primal urge in everyone, male or female, and even avowed pacifists couldn't deny the thrill of unloading a powerful weapon—even if only into a paper target.

"Come on then," said Arcturus. "I've a gauss rifle 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 rifle 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 devotionm seeming only to notice the things he couldn't do.

The lessons with the gauss rifle and slugthrower had been a disaster, the savage recoil of the rifle 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 firing 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 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."

"But why do I need to be a swordsman?" Valerian had protested. "Surely no one fights with swards anymore now that we have guns."

"And if you find 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 fighting 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 leasl, 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 fireplace. He sipped his drink, its taste pleasant enough, and remembered his first 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).

He had sent a message to Korhal—tagged specifically 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 officers, 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 engulfing him as his finger 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 figures of authority, and it never got any easier telling them something difficult. Just as 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 became 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 Pasleur 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 UNN satellite feed via the Kitty Jay's console and, sure enough, the channel curried 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 fire 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 bay.

"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 fire one. The books you've been foisting on him are turning him into a flower-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, effeminate 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 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 fists, 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 benefit 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."

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 from 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!"

"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 cliffs 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 flowed with them.

As if he'd taken an emotional emetic, his humanity flowed 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 suffer 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 offered 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 fill 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, jusl like I always do," said Feld, shoring up his own walls against the grief with commendable discipline. "I passed through the biometric identifiers, 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 mother normally has a pot of java on, but I didn't smell it. That's normally the first 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 find?"

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 field 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 off. Arcturus! And we can't find 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 boattle of brandy.

An hour passed, maybe more, but Arcturus didn't feel the passage of time, his brain whirling in a million different 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 unaffected. His entire body was numb to its powers, and he drained half the bottle before hurling it into the fire with a splintering crash of glass.

"Waste of good brandy...." he hissed as the alcohol burned off in bright flames.

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 Pasleur 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 offer 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 fire. "Yes, a start."

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.

"Whal 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 certainly 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 find 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."

"Whay are you going to do?" asked Pasteur.

"I'm going to burn the Confederacy to the ground," hissed Arcturus.

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, deflecting 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 unflappable as he always did, no matter whether he was pouring tea or executing flawless 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 finally begun to fill 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 offer 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 flat of Master Miyamoto's blade struck him painfully on the bleep.

"Then what is it?" he yelped. Every time he failed to answer a question correctly, Valerian received a slinging 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."

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 еn 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 fire 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 fight?"

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 official 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 difficult to recall its teachings while trying to avoid a stinging slap from the flat 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 float 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 defile or enclosed space," Valerian said.

"Why?" A slash lo 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 finding a better path."

"Very good," said Master Miyamoto, easily deflecting 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, deflecting the blow and circling around to his right.

"Then he must train all his warriors in close-quarters combat," offered Miyamoto.

"No, for then he will lose his force to enemy fire," 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 effectiveness 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 finally 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-flagged 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 effort. 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 first arrived. Miyamoto had arrived a few weeks after Valerian and his mother had fled Umoja, informing Juliana that Arcturus Mengsk had retained him to become the boy's tutor in all matters martial and academic.

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 fulfill your potential."

"I bet he was good with a sword," said Valerian. "He looks like he could fight."

"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 fighting 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 fighting for the oppressed. The honorable man must always stand firm 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."

Valerian stripped off his training garments and dumped them on the floor 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 wale: warmed and Valerian stepped under ihe hot sprav.

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 flexed 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 filled with books, digi-tomes, an unmade bed, and sliver-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-fitting 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.

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 flash of a firefly 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 packet of his shin. The symbol was that of the Mengsk family, and Valerian bore it proudly whenever he was in a place of safely. 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 fixed 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 lo 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?

Why was that particular factory destroyed? Why was that particular official 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 suffering, Valerian fell 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 realizes he had been when they'd first met.

He recalled his mother tearfully telling him that his dad had called him bookish, effeminate, 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 fifth 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, gunfire, and the flash 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 spilt with stuttering flashes of fire. He'd taken a tumble as the man carrying him collapsed, but was picked up again, realizing at the same time that the first soldier had been killed.

They'd been hustled onto the dropship that was always prepped nearby, and as it lifted off in a screaming, rocking ascent, Valerian clung to his mother and said. "Mommy? Will Daddy ever come for us?"

"Yes, honey," she'd replied. "He will. One day."

As the pilot flew 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.

Al 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 indifference 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 offer 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 flutter 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 fell 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 finding it difficult 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.

Valerian heard the sound of someone crying and made his way quickly to his bedroom door. Something was definitely 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 flickering holographic image of the cine-viewer in the corner of the room.

Valerian's first 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 first news reports came through. Your dad's fine."

Relief flooded 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 flickering image of Korhal, watching the black disc of the world as nuclear firestorms raged across its surface with elemental 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-five 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 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 official 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.

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 benefit 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 insignificance 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 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 became, 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 artificial: 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 find.

The sense of scale and the seeming age of the site were astounding, the deterioration of the rock suggesting spans of lime 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 fell 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 find he had discovered just before their first 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 difficult 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 flare into life once more.

A nervous knock came at the door to his room and he said. "Come in, Charles."

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 Whittler 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 Whittler was reporting to his father, but what was not so clear was why.

Valerian played dumb, but for all that he did not trust Whittler: the man was a capable valet who attended to Valerian's needs with alacrity and competence.

“Good morning, sir," said Whittler. "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 1 may have come with a summons that might inconvenience you."

"What is it?"

"Your mother asks to speak with you," said Whittler.

Valerian made his way along the steel-walled corridors of the orbital, the fluorescent 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 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 dally.

He was still handsome to the point of beauty, his skin flawless 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.

Whittler 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 fit, 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 Whittler. "Though she did receive a communique from her father."

"How do you know who it came from, Charles?" asked Valerian. "Did you look at it first?"

"I most certainly did not," replied Whittler. "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 find it helps fix 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 Whittler'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 Whittler'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 fifteenth 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 finally claimed her, his mother had tried to dissuade him from wasting his time looking for a miracle cure.

"Sometimes fighting 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."

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 light. He discovered that not even the most advanced intrascopic lasers—devices capable of targeting specific areas of the body with precise amounts of heat—nor the latest drugs or even nano-brachytherapy could defeat this foe without first 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 Whittler, 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 look 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. Ir didn't care that bad things happened lo good people, and was entirely indifferent 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 filled 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 filled 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.

"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 fluted surface of the rock that was quite at odds with the chill of the air around him.

Sheer cliffs 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 fell 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 artifice 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.

Time he, and more especially, his mother, didn't have.

He'd managed to persuade Charles Whittler that he could travel to the surface of Van Osten's Moon without escort and had landed one of the orbital's two flyers al the mouth of the largest canyon complex on the surface.

He wore a pair of loose-fitting cargo pants and a heavy, insulated jacket. Over his back was slung a rucksack filled 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 off the ground and Valerian looked up to see the Orbital "s second lander flash 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 figure 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 first 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 figure.

Despite the thin atmosphere, his father seemed untroubled by his exertions, and maintained a steady pace toward him over the rough terrain.

He waved al 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 affected by that reality-warping effect.

Arcturus dropped over a fallen slab of rock and took a deep breath of the thin air.

"Bracing, isn't it?" said his father.

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 off 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 cliffs wreathing them in shadow and cold.

The surfaces of the rocks were smooth and glassily transparent, as though vitrified by intense heat and striated with what looked like gleaming metal. Perfectly round gemstones were buried within the bean 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."

"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 sufficiently 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 artificial 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 bean 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 first 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 flying buttresses supported hanging finials 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 flickering embers of electrical current. Gems pulsed with a faint glow, as though in time with an infinitely 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.

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 fleets could fit within this enormous cavern andm 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 fiction 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," confirmed Valerian, fighting 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."

"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 al his father and wipe the uncaring expression from his face with his fists, 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 sacrifice. 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 fill the void. We can do it, Valerian. I have an army behind me that is the equal of anything the Confederacy can field. 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 benefit of the Mengsk dynasty."

Arcturus shrugged. "I see no difference 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, effeminate, 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."

"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.

CHAPTER 17

DESTINY DANCES TO MY TUNE...

The words came back to Valerian as he watched the gigantic AAI halo-screen in the main commercial square of Gramercy City, capital of Tyrador VIII. Fully thirty meters wide and nine high, the artificial 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 different.

A flickering, 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 often thousand people filled the square—traders, shoppers, businessmen, refugees, criminals, and enforcers of the law—all silent and filled 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 magnificent tableau of stirring imagery, sweeping landscapes, and Wraith fighters flying 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 conflict 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 flight 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 flood."

An image of a Confederate battlecruiser on fire from stem to stern filled 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.

"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 firsthand 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, finally settling on a huge black flag bearing a symbol that had become familiar lo everyone over the last few years: a red arm holding a whip in its fist, the whip forming a circle around the arm.

The Sons of Korhal.

The camera lingered on the flag 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 halo-projectors firing 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 coffee 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 scuffed 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 confirmed 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. 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 certainly 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 first system shock had come with the news that the worlds of Chau Sara and Mar Sara had been destroyed by a fleet 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 оf psionic warriors. Though this latter race possessed technology far in advance of and just plain different 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 brushfire skirmishes flaring into full-scale revolts. And, of course, Arcturus Mengsk was there to fan the flames.

Refugees fled before the tides of this increasingly ferocious war, and conflicts revved up from terrorist attacks to full-fledged 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 Amiga Prime.

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 terrified people fled in thousands from the epicenters of the fighting 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 off 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 find 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 fight with sword, rifle, or rhetoric as the occasion and honor demanded.

But whether he would be the successor his father imagined...

Well, that was another matter altogether.

Valerian finished his drink and left the deserted coffee 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 first, 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 fallowed 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 lo 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 off 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-fitting 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 fitted 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.

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 lime 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 find 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 filled 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 finality 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."

"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 influence. 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 sacrifices necessary to realize them?

Valerian looked into his mother's sunken eyes, seeing the pain and sorrow that filled 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 sacrifice 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.

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 diffident tread of Charles Whittler, who remained his constant companion still. Accompanying Whittler was Valerian's grandfather, Ailin Pasteur.

"What is it, Charles?" asked Valerian.

"I'm sorry to intrude, sir, but we've just received confirmation from General Duke."

"And?" said Valerian when Whittler 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 al 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 fleet of Dominion warships parked in orbit around Umoja is an understatement."

"And what did Duke say?"

"Duke didn't say anything, sir," said Whittler. "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 Whittler, 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 first 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.

"Did it work?" asked the armored figure standing in the doorway of the ship's bridge. The voice was muffled by the helmet, but the aching need was clear.

"It worked," confirmed the tech in oil-stained overalls hunched over a battered, jury-rigged comm unit. "The stuff we got on Braxis was the real deal. I've been able to decode all the Dominion datalinks. We got it all: his flight plan, IFF codes, full manifest, and arrival point. Pilot's already plotting us a course.”

The figure nodded, hands curling into fists. "Good. Stay on it: listen for any more chatter."

"Will do."

The figure 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 flag of the Confederacy painted on several of the armored plates. A gauss rifle was slung over one shoulder and a long-bladed combat knife was sheathed in a leg holster.

The corridor's walls were denied from small-arms fire, 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 figure 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 figure 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 figure 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 rifle that lay across his lap.

"Everything?" he said, putting down the rifle.

"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.”

"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 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 rifle. "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 stifled 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 caffeine, 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 finest 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 bolstered 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 fine he looked.

She sat in her wheelchair, wearing the most flattering 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 al the riverbank last night, Valerian could see she had put on a little makeup.

Even those cast aside by his father still made an effort to look presentable for him.

Standing with them was his grandfather, Charles Whittler, and Master Miyamoto— resplendent in his finest fighting robes—and behind them a line of Ailin Pasteur's servants. It had been Whittler's idea to have the serving staff 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 Whittler. "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 Whittler had gotten off on the wrong foot and had never bothered to try and find the right one. He suspected his grandfather was unsure as to which of the Mengsks Whittler 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-flecked 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, flying figure-eight patterns above and below the larger ship. Valerian fell a hand lake his and looked down to see his mother staring in apprehension at the approaching flyers.

"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 fighter. 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 afford to be too choosy when it came to weapons of war. The other two ships were Wraiths, sleek air-superiority fighters 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 fit into the underground hangar, but the pilot contented himself with landing next to the platform's open hatchway. The Wraiths continued to fly overhead patrols as the gun cutter settled its heavy bulk onto the ground.

"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 w as hailed as the side hatch of the gun cutter rumbled open in a haze of steam. Smoke swirled as a dozen soldiers in combat armor jagged 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 finished 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 confidence 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 infirmity and things he could not call on his fearsome intellect and power to fight.

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 finally 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.

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 flattered," said Juliana, but his father had already moved on to greet Charles Whittler and Master Miyamoto, playing the role of the approachable man of the people. Valerian saw the falseness of it and wandered 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 staff 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 flooded his system.

Four Wraith fighters. Emblazoned with the flag 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 first fighter exploded as a stream of bright laser bolts stitched a path over its fuselage and ripped off its right wing.

The second Wraith avoided the initial volley of gunfire and was able to return fire. Amazingly, the pilot's shots impacted on one of the attackers, blowing out the cockpit in a shower of superheated blood and glass.

The enemy fighter spiraled toward the ground, plowing into the grass in a spectacular fireball, cartwheeling across the lawn, and smashing into the house, drowning out the screams of panic that filled 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 defiance was short-lived, however, as the remaining three Confederate fighters boxed him in and blew his craft араrt in a hall of laser fire.

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 first Wraith flew in low on a strafing run. Half a dozen of his grandfather's serving staff were scythed down, bodies blown apart from inside by the passage of violently hot lasers through their flesh.

Valerian dropped to the ground as the ruby bolts ripped up the ground on either side of him. He tasted earth and blood and smelted 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 firing upon the helpless targets below them.

His father's marines returned fire on the Wraiths as they fell back toward the house, but the pilots weren't worried about small-arms fire from the ground. Impaler spikes sparked from the fighters' fuselages or missed altogether, but they at least gave the semblance of a fight back.

The gun cutter that had brought his father to Umoja was powering up its engines, but before it could lift off it was struck by a withering salvo of gunfire from the predatory Wraiths. One of the engine nacelles exploded, spraying white-hot fragments in all directions.

Whickering, razor-edged shrapnel cut down fleeing 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 fit within.

With one of its engines blown off, 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 strafing run.

Valerian didn't waste time looking up and simply scooped his mother off 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 off, as though his every step carried it farther and farther away from him. His father's soldiers were painting the sky with Impaler fire, and Valerian 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 fight with gun and sword, but this was the first time he'd been exposed to real combat. Valerian handed his mother off to Charles Whittler, 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-floored vestibule that linked the main receiving rooms and the guest quarters. Along with his mother and father, Master Miyamoto, Whittler, and Ailin Pasteur, there were five 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 Whittler, 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."

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 lo 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.”

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 rifle. “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 flaming 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 flight after flight in their desperate hurry. Valerian heard gunfire 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 flinched at the sound of breaking glass and turned to see Master Miyamoto at an emergency fire point, hauling a trio of breathing apparatus facemasks from within. He handed one to Valerian and one to his father before fitting his own mask.

"Which way to the platform?" asked Arcturus, his voice echoing and artificial-sounding through the mask. "I don't remember the layout."

"That way," pointed Valerian, heading off 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 floor.

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.

"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 culler, 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 rifle 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 enfilade the enemy.

Eventually their attackers would realize that their target was not in the house. Once the enemy marines figured 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 rifles. The clock was ticking, but for what it was worth, they were ready.

Or at least as ready as five men could be to hold off thirty trained soldiers.

The heat in the cavern was stifling 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 off 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 fight a battle, but who ever got to fight a battle in ideal conditions?

And Valerian was willing to risk some respiratory difficulty 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 wandered 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 fired execution style, like those that had ended the life of his father's parents and sister?

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 firsthand.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and looked over to where Master Miyamoto crouched. His farmer tutor was staring at him, jabbing a finger down the corridor, and Valerian fell 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 finally here. But this time Valerian Mengsk wasn't running. This time he was fighting.

He shouldered his gauss rifle 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 fire, a meter-long tongue of fire blasting from the muzzle of his weapon. The first marine dropped, Master Miyamoto's expertly aimed fire punching unerringly through his visor and filling the inside of his helmet with iron spikes.

Valerian pulled the trigger, working his fire over the second marine. The recoil of the gauss rifle 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 rifle 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 firepower tearing through the marine's armor and spraying the wall behind him with blood. Valerian ducked back into cover as return fire sawed through the doorway. Impaler shots rattled from the metal around him and he flinched as a ricochet sliced across his arm.

He heard shouts and rose once more, sending a blast of fire toward the doorway.

Shots filled the air, smacking from the debris and rock walls as the enemy marines laid down a curtain of suppressive tire. 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.

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 fingers coming away bloody. A greasy fog bank of acrid smoke swirled upward from the grenade's detonation. Valerian felt around for his rifle, only now realizing it had been snatched from his grip by the blast.

More blasts of gunfire sounded, but he couldn't tell who was shooting.

He found his rifle 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 floor. 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 crossfire.

Valerian experienced a surge of exhilaration and fell 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 fighting: to protect his loved ones and save his own life.

But these marines? What were thеу fighting 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, fighting 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 lime.

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 floor as the enormous force of the blast roared over him.

Two of his father's soldiers vanished in a seething orange fireball and the gun culler 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 defiance was at an end.

He heard the sound of charging marines and the ripping-cloth sound of sustained gauss fire. 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 rifle 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, filled 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 flesh vaporized under the holocaust of cannon fire. 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 fire 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 firing 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 fell a hand seize his arm and, with his rifle 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 fire.

“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 off. 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."

"Either he did or he did not," said Miyamoto.

"He should be here by now."

"But he is not, so we still need to fight."

"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 first," said Miyamoto. "I will cover you."

Valerian didn't argue and slung his rifle over his shoulder, dropping to his belly and crawling toward the hole. He jumped as he heard a blast of gunfire, spinning around in time to see Master Miyamoto drop his rifle 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 off 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 rifle aimed unwaveringly at his chest. "I'm gonna enjoy killing you."

Valerian wanted to reach for his rifle, 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.

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 figures—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 flashed and the rifle 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 rifle and unloaded the last of his clip into her.

Most of his spikes flattened 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 finger pressed to the trigger, his breath heaving as the firing 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 culler's belly.

"Thanks," gasped Valerian, dropping the rifle 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?"

"Screw you, Mengsk," replied Emillian wllh 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 rifle. 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 fluid.

Lights flickered and fizzed, the electrics buzzing and spilling 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 effects 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 rifle. "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 benefit 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 rifle 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 filled the chamber.

Valerian and Arcturus were on their own now, and with only two gauss rifles 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 fighting 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 rifle. The marines saw them and charged.

Valerian and Arcturus opened fire 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 off a burst of fire and whipped back into cover. The roar of gauss fire filled the cutter's interior, a shrieking howl of metal slamming on metal. Once again, Valerian aimed his rifle 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 off the impacts and kept coming.

More fire sparked off 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 confidence, these were taking no chances, operating in pairs and covering each other's advance with suppressive fire.

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, rifles raised, and opened fire.

And the landing shaft was suddenly filled 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.

Al 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 floated above the landing hatch in defiance 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 fighting, 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 rifle 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."