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    BattleTech: The Founding of the Clans Trilogy (BattleTech Box Set #4): BattleTech
    BattleTech: The Founding of the Clans Trilogy (BattleTech Box Set #4): BattleTech
    BattleTech: The Founding of the Clans Trilogy (BattleTech Box Set #4): BattleTech
    Ebook1,145 pages11 hours

    BattleTech: The Founding of the Clans Trilogy (BattleTech Box Set #4): BattleTech

    By Randall N. Bills

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    About this ebook

    THE COMPLETE STORY OF THE FOUNDING OF THE CLANS!

    THIS BOX SET CONTAINS THE FOLLOWING NOVELS:

    FALL FROM GLORY

    100 million dead.

    500 million wounded.

    One billion homeless.

    The worst war in human history is over—and has left the Star League shattered. Jealousy and infighting from the five Great House Lords over who will be the next First Lord has the entire Inner Sphere already teetering on the brink of all-out conflict again.

    Against this grim backdrop, Aleksandr Kerensky, commanding general of the Star League Defense Force, faces a terrible choice. Stay, and see the mightiest military ever known subsumed into the Great Houses, lighting a conflagration that may burn even brighter than the terrible Amaris Coup. Or do the unthinkable…

    To save the Inner Sphere, Aleksandr—along with his sons, Nicholas and Andery—must leave it behind. He marshals the largest fleet ever assembled to carry millions of people on thousands of JumpShips to head into the unknown. Exodus!
    But though the Great General strives to make a fresh start for his people far from the Inner Sphere, old habits and allegiances are difficult to leave behind. Soon the Kerenskys and their followers face threats both external and internal as they search the endless black for a new world upon which they can forge a Star League-in-Exile…or die trying.

    VISIONS OF REBIRTH

    General Aleksandr Kerensky is dead. The Pentagon Worlds are in flames. The dream of a Star League-in-Exile is over, shattered by civil war. Amid the chaos, Nicholas Kerensky leads those who will follow him into a second exodus to the world of Strana Mechty.

    Yet unlike his father, Nicholas Kerensky must choose a different path: He wants to do away with all that was, and create an entirely new order. However, the bounds of society that go back millennia cannot be shed so easily. Resistance must be overcome, and blood must be spilled before Nicholas' dream can be achieved. But without his brother Andery's help, the entire venture is doomed before it even begins.

    Brothers, however, don't always share the same goals. And as more aspects of civilization are purged in the relentless forging of this new society, Andery fears the worst of human nature will arise. Can he find a way forward and stay by his brother's side or will Nicholas' ultimate vision be realized as everything Andery stands against?

    LAND OF DREAMS

    Two thousand light years from Terra, two brothers leave behind the shattered dreams of their father, the great General Aleksandr Kerensky. For a second time, war drives them into the dark and cold of the void, as the raging conflict engulfs the Pentagon Worlds and the nascent Star League-in-Exile.

    For nearly fifteen years on the world of Strana Mechty—the land of dreams—Andery Kerensky has watched his elder brother Nicholas shape an all-new society of warriors that follows their ilKhan with near religious fanaticism. And despite the costs already paid in blood for that transformation, Andery knows the worst is yet to come. For Nicholas will stop at nothing to mold his followers into something never-before-seen in human history. And all with one singular goal: to return to the Pentagon Worlds and punish those that destroyed their father's dream.

    Can Andery continue to be his brother's conscience, even as Nicholas' final hammer blows forge the Clans into the great and terrible society it is poised to become? Or will the titanic assault of Operation Klondike, and the Clans' return to the Pentagon Worlds, shatter what Nicholas has built entirely? And just how far will Andery let Nicholas go to pursue his zealous quest of a united Clan Homeworlds…

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCatalyst Game Labs
    Release dateOct 30, 2024
    ISBN9798227457530
    BattleTech: The Founding of the Clans Trilogy (BattleTech Box Set #4): BattleTech

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      Book preview

      BattleTech - Randall N. Bills

      BattleTech: The Founding of the Clans Trilogy

      BATTLETECH: THE FOUNDING OF THE CLANS TRILOGY

      (FALL FROM GLORY, VISIONS OF REBIRTH, LAND OF DREAMS)

      BATTLETECH BOX SET #4

      RANDALL N. BILLS

      Catalyst Game Labs

      CONTENTS

      BattleTech: Fall From Glory

      Acknowledgments

      Foreword

      Prologue

      Book One

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Interlude I

      Book Two

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Interlude II

      Book Three

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Interlude III

      Epilogue

      Notable BattleMechs

      BattleTech: Visions of Rebirth

      Acknowledgments

      Foreword

      Prologue

      Book One

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Interlude One

      Book Two

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Interlude Two

      Book Three

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Interlude Three

      Epilogue

      Notable BattleMechs

      BattleTech: Land of Dreams

      Acknowledgments

      Foreword

      Prologue

      Book One

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Interlude One

      Book Two

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Interlude Two

      Book Three

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Interlude Three

      Epilogue

      Notable BattleMechs

      About the Author

      Battletech Glossary

      BattleTech Eras

      The BattleTech Fiction Series

      BattleTech: Fall From Glory

      It would all be blackness without you.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      To all the Catalyst Game Labs crew, from employees to the demo team to our freelancers and volunteers, and of course, to their families that either join in or at least put up with all of us (far, far too large a list to call out individually). Working with such an amazingly talented and passionate group of family and friends, stretching in many cases across two decades with no sign of stopping, has been absolutely brilliant. Despite the frustrations and hardship of work in the adventure hobby game industry, you all keep me charged with creative energies, and always pushing to see what comes next. Thank you.

      FOREWORD

      In 2004, I was at the Essen Game Fair, working with the great Fantasy Productions crew. (After the close of FASA Corporation in early 2001, Fantasy Productions formed FanPro US and acquired the license from WizKids to continue tabletop game and fiction publication; I was employed as the FanPro US BattleTech Line Developer from 2001 through 2007, while working many of those years also full-time for WizKids.)

      I was feeling pretty good. We’d published numerous BattleTech sourcebooks by this point, including a new Technical Readout, keeping the line alive and starting to grow it again. And we were starting to work on the material that eventually would see publication in the Dawn of the Jihad sourcebook, which would launch the line into a whole new era.

      During a long, relaxing evening there, we began talking more and more about fiction and the stories we might tell. And the idea coalesced that despite everything written about the Clans at that point, there was no fiction that delved into that history and fully explored those origins. A trilogy was formed in that evening. A series of novels that would open on 5 November 2784, as the SLDF prepared to jump away from New Samarkand into the unknown, and would end decades later after Operation Klondike. It was a crazy, ambitious project, but one we all felt would finally cover this chapter of lore as it deserved. What’s more, it would be a wonderful homage, in my own way, to what is still my favorite BattleTech novel, Heir to the Dragon.

      The first novel, Fall From Glory, was published in German in 2006, followed a few years later by the second, Visions of Rebirth. The details—and the secrets—from those books were folded appropriately into a variety of sourcebooks that would see publication after the fact, including one of my all-time favorite sourcebooks, Operation Klondike. Unfortunately—and much to my chagrin—the third book was never written, and the years slipped by as I kept exceptionally busy in a variety of ways.

      I’m just as busy now, of course, if not even more so. However, Loren Coleman used the Kickstarter as a way to challenge me to finally finish off this grand, epic tale. A challenge I accepted. But as I delved into these stories once more, and came face-to-face with the characters I’d embraced all those years ago, I realized there was a little more I wanted to explore. A little more I wanted to tell. So while I worked with the wonderful Sharon Turner Mulvihill to re-edit the entire series (she was the primary editor at both FASA and WizKids), we also worked to nip and tuck and even expand as necessary, creating what we hope is the definitive edition of these books. Being able to draw a few of the new elements crafted in those previous sourcebooks back into these expansions was particularly satisfying. In the case of the novel you’re reading now, the first of this trilogy, I took the opportunity to fold in some interludes that I hope will bring the story of these wounded characters to life with greater passion and understanding.

      It’s been far, far longer than I ever imagined. But as we begin the journey to finish this long-awaited chapter of BattleTech, I am reminded of how much joy I find in this work. I am always so humble and grateful to be a part of this fantastic community and work alongside such creative people. To share a love of this universe, and to have had a hand in expanding it in such great, wonderful ways.

      I hope you enjoy the reading as much as I did the creation!

      —Randall N. Bills

      February 2021

      PROLOGUE

      MCKENNA-CLASS WARSHIP MCKENNA’S PRIDE

      NADIR JUMP POINT, NEW SAMARKAND

      BENJAMIN PREFECTURE

      DRACONIS COMBINE

      5 NOVEMBER 2784

      Gaijin. Filthy gaijin and their ships.

      Raymond Sainze curled his lip in disgust; among his own for the moment, his true feelings painted his features before re-ordering into the blank neutrality of a good House Kurita officer. A good Kuritan noble. A good ambassador.

      He almost chuckled. How Mother would laugh and laugh at the idea of her fifth son acting as an ambassador for all House Kurita, despite the impropriety and reprimanding looks from her husband. Underneath it all, though he tried, Raymond failed to completely hide from the real meat of it.

      They were gaijin, and his disgust was real. Yet, as his shuttle passed into shadow, the sun’s radiance clicking off like a light switch, his fear jumped its track to dread. The jump sails of the gathered fleet blocked out the star that should have been visible from the forward cockpit screen.

      What are they doing here?!

      The short-range shuttle ceased its forward thrust and flipped end-over. Raymond’s stomach throbbed in his throat and he longed to release the five-point restraining harness. To feel the soothing balm of microgravity; the power of total control over one’s spatial surroundings. His brothers considered Raymond’s posting to Shiro’s Hope, New Samarkand’s Olympus-class space station (despite the inherent honor of serving at the original capital of the Draconis Combine), a slap in the face; a backwater posting for a forgotten son. But he couldn’t care less. It had gotten him what he wanted: as far from the center of his family’s power as possible and the space habitation he craved, despite the years of MechWarrior training.

      His deep-brown eyes (black to a casual glance) squinted under the weight of several gravities as the shuttle poured on the thrust, bleeding away velocity. He almost reprimanded the pilot, then realized the man likely felt as much fear as he. Wanted this trip done with; after all, it only took three weeks to gain an audience with the general.

      His lips pulled into a sneer before he could smooth it away once more. He would never call him the Great General. The man did not hail from the Combine, and so would never achieve such a distinction. Ever.

      The minutes bled away like the shuttle’s velocity, and soon the deep-throated clang of ice-cold metal rings coupling rang out, vibrating the hull of the vessel like a Buddhist bell.

      Unbuckling his restraints, Raymond eased into an upright position as his magnetic slips caught, and casually made his way toward the egress hatch in the rear; no floating in front of gaijin. He swept his right hand back through his (prematurely!) salt-and-pepper hair and ran his hands down the immaculate white coat of his dress uniform. He adjusted the single medal on his left breast—if you could call a trinket for simply serving on Shiro’s Hope a medal—then glanced to make sure the black pants ballooned the proper degree before vanishing into the knee-high red boots; actually magnetic boots, but perfectly mirroring the ground-pounders’ footwear.

      A perfect Kuritan officer.

      He quirked a smile, but as his eyes fell to the flash of light playing across the House Kurita symbol on the tunic’s belt, it slowly slid from his face, like pond scum revealing the fresh water beneath. I’m doing this. I’m representing House Kurita. This invasion fleet, which can crush anything we might possibly throw at it, is sitting at my station. My system. Is in my jurisdiction. What I do, what I say, might just decide the fate of the Dragon. For the first time in long years, his lackadaisical attitude was swept away by a surge of fear. Under a torrent of what might happen if he failed.

      Composing his features and stretching as high as his one point six meters allowed, he watched the hatch un-dog and moved through, stepping onto the McKenna’s Pride, flagship of the entire fleet.

      On the other side, a pair of Star League Defense Force space marines waited. Their uniforms, dark blue with red highlights, stood out starkly in the gray-clad corridor that marched off into the distance. Their visored helms and vicious needler rifles held at ready turned them into faceless drones; army ants for a giant hive. And at the center, the queen—or king, in this case.

      One of them stepped forward quickly and before Raymond could object, extracted a small electronic device from a thigh pocket, which he ran all across Raymond’s body; a steady amber glow at its base likely informed the man Raymond carried no weapons. Though he should be insulted by such a breach of etiquette (of course an ambassador would not be armed) he thought better of protesting. After all they have been through, perhaps he would feel the same as these marines. Protect the general at all cost.

      They began the measured march required of magnetic boots in microgravity. Raymond’s impression of an anthill only strengthened, as he spotted personnel from every branch of the SLDF. The olive drab of infantry and armor crews; the aerospace pilots in their flight suits with the unique semi-exoskeleton; a bevy of khaki-wearing naval personnel, some in their white and purple dress uniforms; several security officers; and lest he forget, of course, the space marines: a cornucopia of personnel moving quickly and with purpose.

      Something’s up. He could feel it. It thrummed through the ship as though the interplanetary drives had awakened within the bowels of the metal beast. As they continued to burrow deeper into the vessel, the energy, pent up and ready for discharge, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Though he scorned his elder brother’s need to ground-pound in mudslinging combat, his training had involved a raid or two; enough for him to know what it felt like when a military operation had reached its peak.

      Are they getting ready to attack? Have I come too late? Gunned down as I see New Samarkand obliterated from orbit and the infection of these gaijin spread within the body of the Combine, blasting, shriveling and destroying the greatest star empire in the Inner Sphere? Raymond normally left such hyperbole to his subordinates (or brothers), but right then, right at that moment, he became a true Combine officer, with all its baggage of superiority to other nations, including the toppled Star League and their now extraneous Star League Defense Force.

      After almost fifty minutes, two things dawned on him. One: they were purposely taking the long route to the bridge. He’d studied the McKenna-class WarShip, and like all such craft, they were basically floating skyscrapers, with each deck perpendicular to the engines so the crew could take advantage of gravity under thrust. Because of that, there were several lifts for rapid movement between decks. Regardless of its mammoth, 1.4-kilometer length, as the small craft had docked amidships, they should have reached the bridge already. Instead, they were traversing stairs and emergency ladders.

      Two: he had seen close to two thousand individuals already, keeping as near a running tally as possible; four times the crew complement, even with the additional fighter- and small-craft crews…and he had only seen a portion of the entire craft!

      What are they doing? Do they want me to see this? Or do they not care and the general is simply trying to put me off? Such actions did not seem like the general, not from what he’d read.

      The journey dragged on for another interminable half-hour. The dead silence of his guards—they almost managed to move in their magnetic boots without so much as a susurration of metal on metal—began to unnerve him. More tricks? More dissembling for the ambassador? That explanation didn’t feel right either.

      Finally, Raymond began to recognize corridors from his study of stolen, half-finished blueprints. One moment they moved down a lightly populated corridor, and the next they moved into a main thoroughfare, practically clogged with personnel moving in a steady stream; on the right toward the bridge, on the left away.

      The beating heart. Or the brain. Oxygen in, oxygen away. Bloodstreams filled with red people cells, carrying information as oxygen to the nerve center of it all. The simile fit like a glove with the bio he’d studied of the general. A man of infinite patience. A man who managed to run the largest and most effective military force ever created by mankind, and yet could find the time to listen to an individual soldier’s request. His façade of Kuritan superiority slipped momentarily as he saw the faded ink on the dry page brought to dynamic life. Such a man…

      He shook his head as they moved seamlessly into the flow. Still, just a man…still just a gaijin.

      Reaching the bridge, Raymond tongued the roof of his mouth; cotton and mothballs. He swallowed in a dry throat. Not from fear (of course not), but from the endless climbing; not used to such long-distance exertions when lifts or floating were the norm.

      The bridge spread out like an amphitheater, with several concentric levels reaching down toward a mammoth holotable dominating the center. Dozens of personnel manned stations all around the bridge, while the stream of personnel brought information not so much to the center, but to many of the individual officers and technicians all around the bridge.

      Anthill indeed. And who kicked it?

      In a mental exercise to bring calm, Raymond continued to gaze around the bridge for almost a full minute before he could stand it no longer. His eyes, like moths to a flame, finally freed of his will, fluttered down toward that central ring.

      The slightly built, bald-headed man appeared unassuming. According to the myths, according to the propaganda Raymond’s own government had been spewing for weeks, ever since the armada had begun to mobilize at New Samarkand, the general should’ve been a three-meter-tall giant, with lightning-bolt eyes and beard of fire, perhaps even a forked tongue. Instead, a calm man in the uniform of the Commanding General of the SLDF consulted with one officer—an admiral by his rank insignia—and a select half-dozen others.

      Raymond waited patiently as one of the marines disengaged from his side and moved smoothly through the bridge traffic, coming to a halt by the holotable. Several minutes passed as the marine waited to be noticed. Finally, instead of Aleksandr or the admiral, another officer, tall, almost emaciated in his commodore’s livery, broke away from an individual who tweaked Raymond’s interest (had he met him before?) and spoke with the marine. The marine exchanged words with the officer and pointed at Raymond. Both the admiral and Aleksandr glanced in his direction as well, but with different expressions: the one distaste, the other patient expectation.

      The commodore pointed and the remaining marine began escorting Raymond toward the cleared area that appeared almost off-limits. The rattle of computer keys, low babble of voices and thrum of electricity eddied in the room like ocean currents, a cresting wave of information to his ears; he catalogued everything and filed it away. Could be useful.

      As he neared the holotable, it dawned on him not a single eye had turned away from their work. The highest ranking military noble of the Combine on station was here as ambassador, and he might as well have been the lowliest tech. The muscles across his shoulders bunched involuntarily at such intensity. At such ant-like precision and dedication.

      Operation underway, no doubt about it. Raymond, trying to master his unease, reached the holotable and found himself looking down on the general. Though slightly discombobulated, he fell into the rituals of an ambassador; courtly courtesy learned at his father’s knee, regardless of how out of practice he might be.

      "Shitsureishimashita Sainze-san." Raymond almost swallowed his tongue as Aleksandr Kerensky spoke to him nearly fluently (his accent off, of course, but with the correct intonations). The general even beat him to a low, respectful bow. Of course. His years as a gunslinger against our warriors, not to mention the recent failed diplomacy on Luthien. Though caught off guard by the general’s straight shot to the heart of it—especially considering his own society’s love of beating around the bush for hours—Raymond summoned his veneer and bowed deeply.

      I apologize for taking you away from your busy station. The soft yet firm voice held a warmth echoed by his azure eyes. I’m sure you would like to know what my fleet is doing in your system.

      A PPC bolt to the head could not have more firmly stripped Raymond of thought and words. After trying to extract that exact information for endless weeks, to have the general bring it up in such a casual, companionable way knocked him completely off his game. Though he hated looking stupid, he could not help it; he simply didn’t know how to respond. Had been expecting vacillations, platitudes and the normal games of nobility. Not this straight shot from the get-go.

      The light skein of wrinkles around Aleksandr’s eyes deepened into the convoluted surface of a raisin, while a light chuckle escaped his lips. From another man, such laughter would have been an insult; a smirch against Raymond’s honor demanding retribution, regardless of his usual disdain for such arrogance. Yet the general managed to include himself in his mirth, as though he laughed at the entire situation and his own inability to come out and tell Raymond and House Kurita for long weeks why they occluded their sky until it blocked the very sun from Shiro’s Hope with their thousand-plus jump sails.

      I really must apologize. I know all too well what I have put your great nation through. Nevertheless, my advisors painted a picture of what might happen should our intentions become known prematurely; a picture I could not ignore. Kerensky nodded at Raymond, and then turned to the holotable. A quick glance—he could not yet tell whether such information would be revealed to him or not—showed the Samarkand system, and the nearly two thousand JumpShips and WarShips clogging it. Yet in that glance he could tell something did not add up; the image failed to match the one he had left on Shiro’s Hope.

      Finally, mustering the will to speak, he responded. Why are you here?

      Ah, so you can speak. Raymond turned toward a new voice. A young man—the one who had tweaked his memory—in the uniform of an SLDF MechWarrior took a single step toward him and stopped; his blue eyes (chips of ice in a harsh-planed face) raked across him. Dismissed him.

      Raymond returned the look, though he managed to rein in his own distaste to better effect. Who is this? Have I met him?

      Nicholas, that is not how we treat an ambassador from a Great House, Aleksandr said.

      Raymond inwardly cursed himself for a fool. The blue eyes, the blond hair, the same large nose; I should’ve recognized the general’s first-born son instantly.

      Perhaps if they had treated you with more respect, I would be more inclined to return the favor. Though the voice carried the same timbre as the father’s, the warmth present in the senior’s tone was missing in the junior’s. Stripped away by his time on Terra during the Amaris Coup?

      Though Aleksandr frowned at his son, it did not seem to affect Nicholas in the slightest; Raymond had the feeling such a frown would’ve had any other soldier in the SLDF leaping and bowing in obsequiousness. But a father. That was different. He knew all about that, but the coldness reminded him of his own older brothers. Raymond used such detachment when necessary, but something told him Nicholas held nothing else within. Only coldness.

      Please forgive my son for his harsh words.

      There is nothing to forgive.

      Aleksandr nodded at the standard ambassadorial phrase, given whether meant or not. But you need to know what we’re doing here.

      Hai.

      Well… Aleksandr paused, drawing it out and glancing around the bridge; the father proudly looking at his children, but tinted with sadness. A look of pity, as though he watched his children march into a great unknown.

      He finally turned back toward Raymond. We are leaving.

      That took him off guard, again. Leaving? I do not understand.

      He shrugged, as though he could not explain it any better. We’re leaving. He spread his arm toward the holotable, inviting Raymond to take it in. Without a moment’s hesitation he stepped up to the table. And immediately knew what had bugged him. Already over half of the radar signatures he had seen from the bridge of Shiro’s Hope were gone. As he watched, more began to bulk with a spike in their energy reading and then disappear. He gasped involuntarily at the proximity of the jumps. A dozen more plumped with hyperspatial fields and then vanished. More. The speed of the exodus practically bulged his eyes and he glanced slowly up at the general.

      We became experts at close-proximity and non-standard jumps during the Liberation of Terra, Aleksandr said. A bitter smile turned his visage dark. We had to be.

      Raymond tried to compose himself. Where are they going?! Are they jumping to invasion points in the Combine? Toward the capital of Luthien? He swallowed in a mouth abruptly filled with bile; the extinguishing pips on the holotable reminded him too easily of the worlds this fleet could snuff out as easily as fingers pinching out a candle flame.

      His horror-stricken expression must have spilled across his face, for Nicholas barked sarcastic laughter. Just like a House noble. Always thinking about yourself, always believing you’re the target. You’re the center of the universe.

      Nicholas! Aleksandr said.

      "No, Father, I will not be quiet! He knows absolutely nothing of our intentions, and yet automatically assumes we are after his precious Combine. His arrogance is that of the House Lords. It’s what shattered the Star League and pushed us to this." His angry voice echoed across the bridge, causing a momentary hitch in the ambient sounds before they picked up again; his blue eyes managed to blaze heat and crackle with ice all in one hard, hawk-like gaze.

      And how was the League different? A new voice intruded upon the discussion. All eyes shifted toward a young man (teenager still?), with dirty-blond hair, eyes so dark blue they appeared violet, and slim, almost effeminate features. Strangely enough, though Nicholas surely appeared as his father had decades ago, Raymond immediately picked out the newcomer as a Kerensky. Something in the voice (not as warm as the father, nor as harsh as the brother) and something in the eyes; he lacked the defining nose, though. More like the mother?

      Please, Andery, not that tripe again, Nicholas said, disgust practically choking off his words.

      Wasn’t the League just as selfish as any of the Houses? Just as ready to protect itself?

      Of course it had to protect itself. It herded these arrogant, petulant House Lords. They’d just as soon eat it as support it. Will eat it.

      Raymond moved his head back and forth to follow the discussion. Though the words were heartfelt, they lacked the true animosity of spontaneity. After so many political and ideological arguments with his own brothers, he recognized a long-standing row between siblings.

      More—and he felt stunned by the sudden insight—Raymond knew Andery might believe what he said, yet he also took his point of view simply to play devil’s advocate. To play off his brother’s true animosities and hatred. To try to temper them, perhaps?

      As the verbal battle unfolded for another few minutes, Raymond’s eyes met Andery’s for a heartbeat and something leaped across the distance. A sense of camaraderie. After all, though he could understand Nicholas’s need to rebel, Andery’s lot as second in line, as the one struggling to find his place—something as plainly visible to Raymond as the still incredibly potent remains of the SLDF—Raymond could empathize completely.

      Boys, Aleksandr spoke. Though he did not raise his voice, they both cut off instantly; the commanding general who at one time ordered the lives of trillions, who had fought and won the largest war in history, filled that word. Raymond would have stopped at that command as well. This is unseemly and unnecessary in front of our guest.

      He’ll see it soon enough, Father, Nicholas replied under his breath, as he withdrew several steps to stand alone. The harsh lines of his face showed a young man well acquainted with solitude.

      "I apologize for such behavior, Sainze-san."

      There is nothing to forgive. As the trite phrase tumbled from his lips, he latched on to what Nicholas had just said. Wait. What did he mean? He glanced over at Nicholas, then turned back to Aleksandr and raised his eyebrows.

      The general sighed heavily while a tone rang down the length of the vessel. As though he carried a giant weight, he sought Raymond’s eyes, held them strongly with his own blue gaze. "We’re leaving, Sainze-san."

      "Hai. You are leaving the Combine. Toward House Davion?"

      No, toward safety. The Houses, regardless of my efforts, I fear are on the verge of a war that will make the Liberation of Terra seem like a Golden Age of War. Despite the situation, the words pulled at him, the anguish coating Kerensky’s voice cascading down and around him. In the general’s timbre and the weariness that dragged down his jowls, Raymond lived the collapse of the Star League from the general’s point of view. His life’s work torn down and trod upon by those who could not recognize the pearls in their hands.

      And this army cannot be allowed to stay in the Inner Sphere. The House Lords cannot be allowed access to such destructive power. We move beyond the bounds of the Inner Sphere, beyond the known Periphery, to find sanctuary and wait out the coming storm.

      The words seemed to cut Raymond’s senses away from him: the solid deck plating below his feet; the continual din of the bridge. Even the echoes of a nearing jump sequence: all ceased to be. He struggled to speak. You are leaving?

      It did not seem possible. The hero of the Inner Sphere…running away? Despite his own earlier internal disparagement, this still seemed monstrous somehow. The general abandoning the Inner Sphere to its own devices? How could this be happening?

      Yes. Aleksandr paused as an even more bitter emotion warped his features. "I couldn’t refuse your request for an audience any longer without risking some foolish gambit on your part. But we’ve a timetable to meet and it doesn’t allow for a single misstep, including the time to see you safely away.

      "It pains me to say this, Sainze-san, but you’re coming with us."

      The words simply did not register. Raymond wondered if his Star League English had left him in the craziness of the moment. Then the tone sounded down the length of the WarShip one last time. Unlike the thirty-minute countdown on any JumpShip he’d been on, this had been less than five minutes; everyone around him grabbed their stations, with many closing their eyes.

      We became experts… The general’s words bounced around inside his brain, a steel pinball smashing at his awareness.

      Horror swept through him as the true import of the words flooded his consciousness. Raymond glanced quickly at the holotable and to his panic found a scant dozen blips still in-system, each beginning to plump as their Kearny-Fuchida hyperdrives engaged and they tore a hole in reality to jump toward a thirty-light-year-distant system.

      Hatred and accusations flared his eyes wide as he met the general’s tired yet firm stare.

      Right is its own defense, Aleksandr said, and the words stretched and spun out until they filled the universe…

      …and darkness descended.

      BOOK ONE

      "It is better to have dreamed a thousand dreams that never were than never to have dreamed at all."

      —Alexander Pushkin

      CHAPTER

      ONE

      MCKENNA’S PRIDE

      EXODUS ARMADA

      DEEP PERIPHERY

      17 JUNE 2785

      Andery tried to lurch into a sitting position.

      Sweat slicked his body like scum; cold, clammy, uncaring. Panting, the sleeping restraints across his skin burning like fingers of fire, he fumbled with their release catches. Finally free, he jerked upright, only for the inertia of the move to bounce him into the air. He squirmed, a fish out of water, body spasming, trying to find a handhold. His arm banged into the wall, throbbing pain coursing down its length; he managed to grasp the edge of the bed despite his numbed fingertips. Disoriented, slightly frightened, and still trapped in the netherworld between asleep and awake—between the anticipation of the second hand clicking forward and the event itself—Andery immediately forgot the nightmare that had woken him so terribly.

      You know, after this long, you really should learn how to wake up from a power nap between work shifts without waking the dead.

      A light bloomed, its petals slashing away at the darkness. Orienting himself toward the glow like a sunflower to morning rays, vertigo undulated through him in a quick and dirty sine wave; Andery hung almost upside down, his still aching arm clinging to the bed while his body wafted slowly back and forth, a balloon tied on a string in a soft breeze.

      Though any orientation in microgravity could be generated, the human brain had millions of years of evolution to think in specific spatial relationships. Up and down, side to side. And when one of your bunkmates currently knelt in front of his bunk staring over his shoulder and up at you, upside down—regardless of acclimatization, the mind tended to fall back into old pathways and genetic design.

      Shaking it off, running the litany Windham Khatib had taught him, he smiled sheepishly. Sorry, Windham. Didn’t mean to interrupt your prayer. He pulled himself down until his other arm could grasp the bed, then flexed, sending his body into a jackknife that oriented him to the deck of their berth.

      No worries. I was finished anyways. As Andery re-seated himself on his bunk, Windham stood, made sure his magnetic slips held, and began to dress for morning services for the Church of the Crucifix. Windham glanced his way. The litany work? Something must have shown on his face.

      Affirmative. As always, Windham smiled at his answer; he’d never asked why Andery used such a unique phrasing, and Andery’d never divulged.

      Though Windham was eleven years older than Andery’s own eighteen years, the two appeared similar: Windham’s darker eyes and thick, black hair and beard (something Andery would never have) guaranteed they didn’t look like siblings, however.

      As always, Andery found it fascinating to watch Windham carefully, meticulously get dressed. First his saccos, then the stole and the pall, with its lengths hanging down in front and back. Finally, the zone to cinch the vestments and finish the ensemble. The man’s faith was evident in the care he took in putting on his clothes, outer symbols of his inner beliefs. Windham once told Andery his clothing was actually an abbreviated form of the full regalia (something he’d only wear once a temple had been built), which still amazed him to no end.

      Windham glanced up to see Andery watching him closely. Would you care to join the service? We’d break thirty. As usual, his tone held a warm, peaceful element. Something Andery wished he might sample someday…but not today.

      Thirty! Growing.

      Yup. May be small, but we’re strong. You never did answer my question. Twinkling eyes met amused ones.

      Not today. But you keep asking.

      You know I will.

      Wouldn’t expect anything less.

      Good day.

      Thanks. To you as well. Windham left in a flourish of bright brocade and a handful of discreet incense pellets, which even unlit left a spicy aroma prickling the nose. Andery began making preparations for his own day.

      Though he was starting to smell—amazing how acclimated his olfactory system had become—bathing day for his quarter’s quadrant fell tomorrow, not today. He flexed his arm several times, the muscles still groaning over the hard smack on the wall, and sidled to his feet, faced the bunk, swinging his left leg under the bottom to hold him in place. Unlatching the bed, he lifted up the mattress to reveal his personals; grabbed socks, boxers, and a clean jumpsuit. A moment later, he was depositing his dirty clothes in a small hamper under the bunk—cinching the bag closed to keep anything from floating away—then dressed and pulling on his magnetic slips. He popped a dissolving teeth-brushing lozenge, checked to make sure the bed met even his father’s standards, and strode carefully, purposefully out of his berth.

      Hopefully he’d actually get some sim time in today. If he had to listen to old man Jacoby drone on one more time about combined-arms tactics, he’d go nuts.

      On third watch, the corridors remained relatively free of personnel; certainly not the hubbub of first, or even second. He’d spent the first six months on first watch and decided enough was enough with so many. He didn’t actively dislike people; he didn’t skulk in dark corners like Nicholas seemed to. He also knew the Pride had it easy compared to most of the other 1,349 JumpShips in the fleet. Not to mention the thirty Potemkins and their 750 DropShips, or the other 371 WarShips.

      No, he just needed fewer people around. Less humanity as he learned how to deal with this new life.

      It also kept him (for the most part) out of the machinations around him. They may have signed on to the general and his dream, but for many of the warriors, moving endlessly through space as the only universe they had ever known dwindled further and further, month after month…well, tensions had begun to rise.

      And for the civilians…even worse.

      Cadet, heading to the mess?

      Andery almost jumped out of his skin. Captain Jes Cole had managed to sneak up behind him, even though he’d been moving at a good clip. Surreptitiously, he tried to determine whether she’d been floating down the hallway; against the rules, since even in such light traffic you never knew when someone would enter your corridor. Then again, she was a ground-pounder.

      Probably why she looked so fit; her finely honed muscles and skin tone fit her physique to an exacting degree. Her sea-green eyes and cascading ringlets of liquid fire she called sorta red topped off the whole package. Andery felt privileged to call her friend.

      Affirmative. Then off to class.

      You and affirmative, she said, putting on her serious face, something that brought a smile to his own every time. She returned it. You always sound so serious.

      He shrugged, never sure how to respond to such a remark. He didn’t think of himself as serious, so why would others? The shrug was not simply for them, but him as well. If he couldn’t understand his own brother, how did he expect to understand other people?

      Jacoby must love you, she continued. "How are his lectures? Any better?"

      Interesting. Even he didn’t believe his tone.

      Liar.

      He shrugged sheepishly. After all, you didn’t bad-mouth your teachers, regardless of the makeshift nature of the classes set up for those like him, with plenty of sim time but no actual attendance at an SLDF academy due to the recently ended war.

      We may be forging into uncharted waters, but young men and women still need to be taught, still need to be cadets; have order in their life. And you cadets will have such order. He could practically hear Jacoby’s sonorous voice in the corridor, widening his smile.

      You hear about the meeting? she said, changing the subject in her mercurial fashion.

      What meeting?

      "On the Hermes."

      Though he tried to stop it, the exhalation escaped anyway; hot mint dumped into his nostrils from the dissolved lozenge. Her soft punch to his shoulder was never really soft. Don’t you sigh at me.

      What?

      You know exactly what I’m talking about.

      No I don’t.

      She raised her right fist again, and he held up his hands, conscious of his fingertips still tingling from her last love tap; Paul Harraway (one of his other bunkmates) had once described her friendly punches that way, and it stuck in Andery’s mind.

      You did sigh.

      He almost sighed again, then thought better of it. Affirmative.

      Contrary to what she thought, he didn’t always use it, but knew in this case it would likely defuse her frustration; spark a smile instead of another love tap.

      I formally apologize. I did indeed sigh.

      They passed out of the corridor and into the mess hall. More appropriately, a series of rooms that wound, interconnected, around the kitchen area and fit in between some of the larger cargo holds, the interplanetary drive and the compact core of the KF drive.

      A mere two dozen people populated the immediate room, as well as a half dozen more in the interconnected room he could see up ahead. They walked to the head of the food line (no one there), each grabbing a collapsible plastic box with magnetic strips and stuffing various food bladders through the lidded opening.

      The meeting, she prodded.

      Andery’d hoped she would forget. Okay. What meeting?

      Her face leaped, even more animated than usual. "Some of the officers on the Hermes, from other ships as well, have organized a meeting to hear out those civilians who would like to know where they’re going. Where we’re all going. Sounds like it will be pretty large."

      They found an empty table, its cool metal benches sending shivers up their spines, and settled in; boxes before them, hands dipping in to draw out the first of the bladders. Though some of the personnel on board (crew didn’t count, of course) had begun talking about the food as if it mattered, Andery simply didn’t care. Squirted it into his mouth through the nozzle and swallowed without thought; sustenance. Point A to Point B.

      She nudged him after his third bladder without a response. He tried to pantomime his hunger, but her eyes brooked no such dissembling; she knew him well enough to know how he felt about the food he ate. Finally, he rubbed his tongue against his teeth to remove the last of what he assumed someone thought tasted like pot roast, and spoke. Captain⁠—

      She short-punched him in the rib with her elbow, sending a woof of air whistling through his teeth, all without breaking off draining her own food bladder. She finished as he straightened back up. I believe I’ve told you at least once before, I’m Jes. At least when it’s just us.

      Yeah, once or twice. He rubbed his ribs and eyed her reprovingly. He never could figure out what she saw in him; why she felt like carousing with a minted officer so green he reeked.

      Seconds ticked away. Well?

      You going to hit me again?

      If you call me captain when we’re alone.

      I’ll remember that, he said, placing the empty bladder into the box.

      You better. The meeting?

      You’re relentless.

      That’s what they say.

      He couldn’t help a chuckle, her bright tone at odds with the rather savage love tap she’d just delivered. Her bright eyes laughed in return.

      He sobered precipitously as he remembered the subject of the conversation. Cleared his throat of any remaining paste.

      Jes, this meeting… He paused, hung his head, unsure of how to continue. Of how to voice his concerns, his distaste. A thought surfaced, and he twisted to a new tack. Why do you want me there?

      Deep blue met sea green as their gazes fought for several moments. Andery could almost see the conflict within her; something shifted, a resolve firmed and she spoke, I’ve never lied to you before, and I’m not about to now.

      I appreciate that. He tried to keep the irony from his voice, but couldn’t tell how successful he’d been; at least she didn’t give him another love tap.

      I want you there because you’re Andery Kerensky.

      He had been expecting it, had braced himself for it, and yet it still struck like a left hook from an Atlas; a massive metal fist propelled by one hundred tons of myomer and actuators. The pain every bit as acute.

      He swallowed past a throat too tight with suppressed emotion. Felt the moths fluttering in his stomach, turning the food pastes into offal prematurely. Fingers lightly caressed his arm, bringing his unseeing but open eyes back into focus; the pity on her face felt worse than the proverbial ’Mech slug.

      He unstuck his mouth. Why not ask the general himself to attend?

      You know that wouldn’t work. Everyone knows what the general has done for us. Too many still feel reverence for him. Even though he’s known for being open to hearing what others have to say, we have to be able to talk openly. To discuss what we have committed ourselves to.

      A little late for that, don’t you think? He shifted, the edge of the bench hitching his single-suit up too much; he half stood and pulled it down before reseating himself.

      She shook her head, jade fire boiling in her eyes. "No, it’s not. We’re not talking mutiny. Far from it. We just want to know where we’re going. What the plan is. Yes, this may be a military operation, but we’ve millions of civilians with us, all who volunteered to accompany the general at his request. She paused, glanced around to see several civilians even on this vessel, which was the beginnings of a rotating journeyman practice among the ships, sharing personnel, energy and ideas. Keeping the vessels wedded together. This stopped being just a military operation before he ever left the Inner Sphere."

      In many respects he agreed with her, though he refused to show it. Always devil’s advocate. Then what about Nicholas? If the general can’t be in attendance, I’m sure Nicholas would be willing. He had long ago divorced himself from the oddity of referring to his father as some nameless general.

      Then again, for the SLDF, there was only one general.

      He’d be worse than the general.

      What are you talking about? Andery began, automatically coming to his brother’s defense, though he knew what she would say. He would let everyone talk.

      Yeah, he would. But he’d also stare at every person who spoke as though making a mental catalog of who needed to be added to a list. She averted her gaze, as though afraid to say the words, despite their friendship. He simply weirds people out, Andery.

      Exactly what he thought. He’s a good man, Jes. He was, despite Andery’s own reservations. And he’ll be a good commander.

      I don’t doubt the first part, though I question the second. But that’s neither here nor there, Andery. He won’t work. You, however. You’re a son of Kerensky, and they won’t be afraid to speak in front of you.

      The self-deprecating laugh slipped out before he could stop it. Because I’m the son they won’t recognize. Most of them wouldn’t recognize me from Amaris⁠—

      The slap came quick as lightning, ringing out in the room; tingling offshoots spreading away from his rapidly reddening cheek. Too stunned to even move, Andery stared at Jes as though she’d sprouted wings.

      "You will never use that name in my presence, Andery Kerensky. If you are smart, you’ll never use that name again."

      The vehemence in her voice took his breath away for another moment, before indignation brought it back in a rush. Hiding from a thing will not change that thing. You cannot change the past, and hiding from it will not change it, but likely bring it back instead.

      Now it was her turn to throw a sarcastic laugh and half smile in his direction; the mirth failed to light her eyes. One of your father’s dead Russian philosophers?

      No. You know I don’t go in for that. All Andery. Because Amaris did what he did does not mean we should erase his name from use. Doing so will only cause the likes of him to return.

      She stared at him, as though truly attempting to digest his words. In the end, however, he could see Jes’s own feelings battle down his logic, burying it under the blood of too many dead friends, and the atrocities seen during the occupation. Regardless. For me, then, I ask you not use his name in my presence.

      He rubbed his cheek, the tingle of the slap still fresh, and tried to lighten the mood. I’ll be sure not to.

      She reached over and lightly caressed his cheek. I’m sorry about that. But you infuriate me. You sell yourself short. You may live in the shadows of giants, but you cast your own, whether you know it or not.

      For a moment she seemed laid bare to him, as though her feelings were stronger than he believed; the open window closed quickly, leaving him wondering whether he’d seen anything at all.

      "You have many friends, Andery. And those friends are yours. Just Andery, not Andery Kerensky. Nevertheless, I believe it’s right, what this meeting will accomplish. And I’d like to see you there. Ten days, on the Hermes."

      Without another word, she stood, scooped up her box and moved toward the repository. He slowly pushed his own food box across the table, the scrape of its magnets like fingers on a chalkboard, and propped his hands together; plopped his head into them.

      Will I ever be anything but a Kerensky?

      He knew his father and brother would likely be furious if he attended the meeting. He had signed on for third watch just to avoid such events and entanglements. And yet, to cast a solitary shadow…to have that, to come into his own. He felt the wash of her emotions again.

      Ten days? Maybe he just might.

      CHAPTER

      TWO

      MCKENNA’S PRIDE

      EXODUS ARMADA

      DEEP PERIPHERY

      23 JUNE 2785

      The jogging felt good.

      Though not workout-obsessed like his brother, Andery still felt the pleasure of lactic acid building up in his muscles until it burned with a sweet ache. Arms pumping at his sides, the rhythm of feet pounding a staccato across the nearly empty gym in this portion of the grav deck; good, clean sweat slicking his blond locks, pasting them to his forehead; now and then a burning sting as a salt-filled droplet met the corner of his eye. Just the pressure of gravity alone felt worth the extra strain put on a body still trying to figure out what to do with so much weightlessness.

      Though it had been almost a year since he’d had sex, Andery realized exercise felt very similar. Is that why Nicholas exercises so often?

      Though slightly ashamed at the jab—if you wanted to take a dig at someone, you did it to his face and reaped the consequences—he laughed out loud. The sound jounced and careened merrily around the gym portion of the seventy-five-meter spinning pipe, seemingly eliciting a response.

      And what makes you laugh, little brother?

      He stumbled, almost spun into the ground, startled to hear a response, much less Nicholas’s deep voice, which practically haunted Andery with its too-close shades of their father’s commanding tone.

      Something I’ll never have.

      Only a nearly gymnastic-style leap and skip kept his legs firmly under him and pumping forward. He glanced over his shoulder to find Nicholas’s slim but well-muscled frame quickly catching up to him on the number three grav deck.

      Just enjoying my workout. He tried to keep his voice level; fought with it. Failed.

      I hope I didn’t interrupt.

      Of course you did. You take your exercise during watch two, which is why I do watch three. Not at all. Didn’t expect to see you, or anyone I might know, right now. There, that sounded like it worked.

      Been having trouble sleeping.

      Really? Did the watch change affect you? Andery responded, trying for casual.

      Nicholas moved abreast and the two siblings fell into an easy pace, their height and build similar enough to allow them to subconsciously mimic each other’s stride and rhythm.

      No. From before. About a month now.

      Andery knew Nicholas’ nightmares dated back years, from the time of the Terran occupation and the atrocities he’d seen. Mom managed to shield me from the worst, but not him. Yet they were taboo, you didn’t mention them. For him to actually bring it up…

      Have you seen a doctor?

      Harsh, bitter laughter cracked. When have doctors ever been good for anything?

      Andery had no response, too many of his own memories of that time flooding out.

      The clean huffing of physically fit men running accompanied pounding feet; minutes slid by smoothly, unnoticed, like the continually spinning grav deck.

      The silence strained, yet Andery didn’t know how to respond. Unsure of why his brother suddenly felt the need to confide. It had been years since either of them had been able to do that. Breathing deeply through nostrils flaring in an attempt to pull in as much oxygen as possible, Andery finally responded; knew he had to. Nicholas had actually come to him, after all.

      What do you think it is? He’d discarded the first question that came to mind: What can I do to help? Their last big fight occurred over that simple phrase: offering help. Nicholas, it appeared, needed no one’s help, least of all his little brother’s.

      Not sure. This place. The Exodus. The growing tensions of some of the ships; among some of the officers and civilians. Who knows?

      Andery’s heartbeat almost doubled, making him momentarily dizzy; the spike of adrenaline from Nicholas’s words made the vein near his left eye bulge with blood.

      I know you just switched to second shift. What about trying third? Andery hated himself for suggesting it—terrified Nicholas might accept—but better than keeping him on the previous subject. Better than allowing him to pursue any of those trains of thought. The seed of worry, however, had sprouted and begun to grow at a furious rate. Along with the worry came a grafted seed and its own small, but malignant plant: suspicion. Why was Nicholas here?

      Not sure, little brother. Perhaps.

      Though Andery knew a violent storm raged behind those cool blue eyes, Nicholas still moved liked a machine; his even pace and fluid movements almost unnerving. As though his voice and mind were separate from his body. Very disturbing.

      So, what have you been up to lately?

      The seed of suspicion sprouted at least an inch, extruding several bulbs. Out of the corner of his eye, Andery could see Nicholas still moving in machinelike trance, his eyes hardly blinking, his voice sounding as though it were coming from a man lying back in a hammock, with a longneck between his legs.

      He cleared his throat. Surviving. Taking the cadet classes and trying to learn how to be an engineer at the same time.

      One of Father’s better ideas. Keep us all occupied, preparing for eventual landfall.

      Affirmative. Andery actually managed to crack Nicholas’s façade with their age-old prank-talk.

      I hear you’re doing well, Nicholas said. Very well.

      Father taught us to learn. The first lesson. You didn’t mention the cadet classes. Have my martial skills so disappointed you?

      Andery began to feel an ache in his side, a hitch caused him to wince fractionally at every footfall, his voice showing the strain of the workout.

      True. Still, you’ve been tapped by the engineer to teach other journeymen in your class. I’m proud of you.

      Andery almost fell flat on his face once more, the compliment so unnatural.

      It looks good for us.

      He giveth with the one hand and taketh away with the other. Andery’s gut clenched hard and he came to a sudden halt. Never a single unqualified compliment. Never Andery, but Andery Kerensky. It looks good on us. On Father. On me. He bent over, panting as sweat slid freely across his face, hiding the bitterness that surprised even him.

      With a dash of his hand across his forehead, he removed the sweat and swept away the bitterness, replacing it with the standard nonchalance he’d cultivated for years. His only defense against his brother’s ice and father’s disapproval.

      Nicholas slowly walked back toward him. Stopped, huffing only slightly. Though Andery tried to convince himself he’d been working out almost a half-hour longer, it didn’t help.

      What we do reflects on us. Reflects on Father. The deep eyes seemed to pierce him, tried to pull him inside out, running roughshod through his thoughts.

      You came here, at this hour, to tell me that? I know full well what my actions are capable of doing. You, of all people, should know that.

      I do, brother. Which is why I felt the extra need to come. You do know the consequences of your actions. Much more than many in this fleet, I’d wager. Though a half-smile cracked his lips, it never reached his eyes.

      Andery tried to distract himself, redirecting his frustration, by beginning to stretch out. Dropping to the floor, legs spread and repeatedly bowing toward first his left leg, then center and then right, kept him focused. Allowed him to purposely turn his eyes and face away from his brother.

      One, two, three. One, two, three. The rhythm went unbroken for exactly seven cycles before Nicholas interrupted. You can’t protect me!

      Stunned, Andery glanced up, eyes wide at the loud, almost bellowing statement. What are you talking about?

      The Exodus. It cannot survive without Father. Without a Kerensky.

      Andery felt disconcerted. What segue was that? But the look on Nicholas’s face told him his brother found nothing odd in his own leaping thoughts. For several painful heartbeats, Andery contemplated responding to the first, disturbing outburst, but realized it might lead directly into another fight. Whether he liked where this conversation was headed or not, his brother had still come to him. A first in far too long. He’d work to keep that if he could.

      I think you go too far, Nicholas, he finally responded, his muscles stretched to painful tautness as he resumed his after-workout workout; he’d always found that amusing. A work out to work out to work out. His muffled voice floated up from his bent-over position.

      What, they’d just turn back? No, they’d keep going. You overestimate Father’s influence here, I think.

      The silence of a crypt descended, broken only by the light popping of distended ligaments. Finally noticing, Andery glanced up to find the ice-chip eyes boring into his own. He managed not to shiver, but remembered Jes’s words: He weirds people out.

      He weirds me out, and he’s my own brother.

      You will not say such things.

      Andery lowered his head and rolled his eyes thinking of Jes and her aversion to even mentioning Amaris.

      Have you turned as well?

      The vehemence in Nicholas’s voice shattered his own reverie like a Gauss slug through armor. Looking up into the harsh planes of his face and eyes too old for his age, Andery realized the storms that tormented his brother were very close to the surface right now. Just underneath, waiting for Andery to say something, do something, to unleash them.

      He immediately slipped into his best nonchalant act; a well-worn and -used costume that brought familiarity and a sense of strength, despite the apparent lackadaisical attitude. What are you talking about?

      A meeting is coming. A meeting of those who have turned against our father. Who have turned against the Great General. Turned against The Dream.

      The buds of suspicion flowered jaggedly into twisted thorns that ripped and tore. He knows. Nicholas knows. Not just about the meeting, but about the invite. Behind his wall, he caught his breath, panted with anxiety.

      And if he knows, Father knows!

      That thought almost shook apart his carefully built façade. With superhuman concentration, he managed to keep it intact. To stay enfolded in its safe embrace.

      Yes, I have heard of it. Denying it would only worsen the repercussions. But doesn’t that seem a little much? I mean, do you think they’re really traitors? From what I’ve heard, they simply wish to discuss things. To try to deal with civilians who are not coping well with the order of a military regime.

      Though his head shook, Nicholas’s eyes almost appeared not to move, as though they were holes torn into reality; mirrors to another dimension. You’re naïve, Andery. Little brother, his previous tone of light banter now filled with the coldness mirrored in the wasteland of his eyes. They have turned, and you would do well to watch yourself. What you do reflects upon us. Just remember that.

      He weirds people out. Andery shivered.

      Nicholas stood over him like an Atlas; a giant of cold metal and no mercy. From one moment to the next, the arctic tundra blossomed under bright sunshine as a smile swept across Nicholas’s features, quick as ball lightning.

      "Perhaps

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