"Then I'll need to make sure I win."

Arcturus knew he was hearing words of great import, but the sense of them washed over him. What was his father planning that might have him labeled a terrorist? The word itself was a powerful one, conjuring up images of secretive men who met in shadows to plot the death of innocents to achieve their diabolical ends.

The idea that his father might be such a man repelled Arcturus, and his previously solid notion of Angus Mengsk as a powerful and controlling, yet mostly benign, presence in his life now seemed as fragile as glass.

As these thoughts surged through Arcturus's head, he heard footsteps, realizing too late that they were approaching the door at which he listened. He turned away, but was too slow, and a heavy fist took hold of his shirt and dragged him into the dining room where they had met last night.

"Spying on me, are you?" roared Angus. "What did you hear?"

Arcturus struggled in his father's grip. "That you're a terrorist!" he shouted.

Angus spun him around and pushed him down into one of the chairs.

"You heard nothing, son," said Angus. "Those words were not meant for the likes of you."

Arcturus looked over to Ailin Pasteur. The man clearly surprised and worried that Arcturus had overheard their discussions.

"What are you going to do?" asked Arcturus. "Are you going to kill people?"

His father stared hard at Arcturus, and the father's cold gray eyes saw deep into the heart of his son.

Arcturus saw his father come to a decision within himself.

Pasteur saw it too and said. "Angus... are you sure?"

"Aye, he'll be eighteen soon. It's time he started acting like a man, so I'm going to treat him like one."

Arcturus felt a nervous thrill at his father's words, wondering if all those years of wanting to be treated as an adult were about to blow up in his face.

"Well, boy, are you ready to become a man?"

Arcturus hesitated for the briefest second before answering. "I am."

"Good," said Angus. "I'll respect that. But you have to understand that what I'm going to tell you can't leave this room."

Angus held out his hand to Arcturus. "Swear that to me and I'll tell you everything."

"I swear it," said Arcturus, shaking his father's hand.

"Very well," said Angus, taking a seat next to Arcturus and sitting with his legs crossed. "You know, of course, that I detest the corruption of the Confederacy with every fiber of my being, but it runs deeper than that. The Old Families control everything from their capital world of Tarsonis, and the entire apparatus of the Confederacy is geared to keep them in power, exploiting the planets under their control and stealing their wealth. Well, no more."

"You're going to fight the Confederacy?" asked Arcturus. "Why?"

"Because someone has to," said Angus. "They've overstretched their empire and, like a house of cards, all it needs is one push in the right place to make it fall. People are tired of the yoke of the Confederacy around their necks and rebellion's in the air—you can feel it."

"You're going to declare war on the Confederacy?" said Arcturus incredulously.

"Well, not war exactly," replied Angus. "Not yet, at least."

"Terrorism," said Arcturus. "Is that it?"

"I have no doubt some will call it that, yes, but if you think about it, what the Confederacy is doing can easily be construed as terrorism."

"Surely that's not the same thing?"

"Isn't it?" asked Angus. "Isn't the purpose of terrorism to kill and maim people so that whoever it's directed against will bend to your will? And doesn't the Confederacy engage in military operations designed to coerce people into bending to their will through fear?"

"But that's different," said Arcturus. "That's war."

Angus shook his head. "No, it's not. Afler all, the purpose of war isn't, or at least shouldn't be, about killing every last man in the enemy army. It's about killing enough of them that their leaders are more afraid of continuing the war rather than of surrendering."

"Then, by your definition, every act of war could be called an act of terrorism, since it's coercion through fear by the use of violence."

"Exactly," said Angus, pleased he had made his point.

"But you're still going to kill people," pointed out Arcturus.

"In war, people die. It's unfortunate, but inevitable," replied Angus. "I wish it were different, but the Confederacy has brought this on itself. Unlike them, however, we won't hurt innocent civilians: we'll only be targeting military installations."

"It's still wrong," said Arcturus. "People will still die and you'll have killed them."

Angus leaned back in his seat, his face lined with disappointment. "I thought you would be man enough to understand what needs to be done, Arcturus, but I can see I was wrong. You're still a child and you still think like a child, unable to see the truth of the world beyond your own selfish little bubble."

His father's words stung like red-hot whips, and Arcturus felt his resentment flare. He stood up and turned on his heel, marching toward the dining room door.

"Angus..." hissed Ailin Pasteur.

"Son," barked Angus. "You are never to speak of this. You understand me? Never."

"I understand," snapped Arcturus.

SUNLIGHT RIPPLED THROUGH THE CANOPY OF treetops and made the landscape glow as the convoy of silver groundcars sped along the road to Styrling. Altogether there were six cars, one conveying the Mengsk family, another Ailin Pasteur and his daughter, and the other four bearing armed men.

The cars were '58 Terra Cougars, an older model of groundcar, yet a mode of transport favored by many of Korhal's senators, thanks to the heavy steel undercarriage and thick side panels that had foiled more than one assassination attempt.

Two of the cars were equipped with turret-mounted Impalers, and the convoy moved at speed along the wide strip of road. Half a kilometer ahead, three vulture hovercycles ran point, herding what little traffic there was on the road out of the convoy's path.

This time of the morning, traffic was light, but Achton Feld was taking no chances and had ordered his men to shoot first and ask questions second—assuming anything survived grenade barrage from the vultures. The Confederacy had already tried to kill Angus Mengsk once, and Feld wasn't taking any chances that they might try again.

Arcturus watched the countryside flashing past, lush greens and sumptuous golds as the autumn tones blended together in a swirl of color like a painting left out in the rain. The Mengsk summer villa was built sixty kilometers to the south of Styrling and the countryside separating the two was amongst the most verdant and lush of Korhal, yet it was shrinking every year as the industrial complex of the city spread farther and farther.

His father had chosen the site precisely because it was far enough from Styrling to feel like he could escape the day-to-day running of his many businesses and the politics of the Senate, but close enough that he was never too far out of the loop.

Arcturus felt his mood sour with every kilometer that passed beneath the groundcar and brought him closer to the academy. His father sat opposite him, his face unreadable, though he smiled whenever Arcturus's mother looked at him. Dorothy was on her knees on the backseat next to him. Pontius clutched tightly as she peered out the polarized, armored glass of the window.

He smiled at the simple joy on her face, wishing he could go back to a time when life had been simpler. All Dorothy cared about was Pontius, sugary sweets, and being close to her father. She didn't yet have to worry about disappointing anyone or being farced into role she didn't want.

Little Dot would be the apple of Angus's eye no matter what she did, and Arcturus felt a twinge of irritation, but quickly shook it off, recognizing that it was foolish to be jealous of a four-year-old.