“Are you okay?” Her concern had no effect on his anger, rising hot and viscous as molten lead.

“What do you think?” She never gave him the courtesy of his title—a right he tried to enforce but lost. Another defeat to inferiority. What was he becoming?

“I think you need rest more than company. I will tell ovKhan Clarke to return another day.”

Combat ensued within. The cool embrace of silence and the morbidness of his own thoughts, or the contemptuous twist to Sha’s mouth at such weakness? After all, the surat had already defeated him. What possible additional humiliation could simply allowing the nurse to exert her authority bring? None.

If that was true, why did his rage then burn hotter? It sat like a four-ton broken gyro within him, crushing weight and chaotic tumble bringing vertigo and nausea. He tried hiding, only to see himself reflected in the broken shards of a million spheres within. He had to face this. Though he would gladly die at this moment, he would not die in weakness. Not in front of Sha.

He pushed himself up against the inclined bed, pulled the covers from his swollen and bandaged chest, careful to move his right arm as little as possible.

“What are you doing?” the witch said, a crack in her facade showing real emotion for once. Concern? True concern?

He swung one leg out over the side of the bed and gripped the edge of the mattress with his left hand as bats fluttered wings through his vision. For a moment, he almost gave in, almost dove back to the cool depths of his own void. He suddenly missed the caress of his hair on his shoulders, knew it all had been shaved away after it burned off in the inferno of his cockpit. The right side of his head would never grow hair again.

Cold eyes beckoned, mocked, cajoled. What days of the witch’s humming and Jesup’s endless, futile banter failed to accomplish, the arrival of Sha’s spectral form achieved.

He swung the other leg out and down, until bare toes met unyielding, cold tiles; they talked about wanting you up and around as quickly as possible, yet they made the floor as unwelcoming as possible. The thought quirked his lips in a tiny smile.

“ovKhan, you must stop. Please. You will hurt yourself.”

His smile widened; she called him ovKhan. The first time since he arrived. The first.

He unclenched fingers to wave away her concerns. Thought about trying for the chair only three steps distant, but it suddenly felt like the gulf between stars, and his Kearny-Fuchida jump drive absolutely remained broken. This would have to do.

“Show my guest in,” he said softly. Whether because of the tone of his voice or the expression in his eyes, she immediately withdrew. He allowed himself to show his pain for the first time that day. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply through his nose and tried to forget about his body. To forget about what Sha would see, the leverage he would instantly have, upon entering.

Petr was a mess. The final firefight broke into his cockpit. A residual lance of photons slashed into his right arm, severing muscles and flash-boiling flesh all along the arm and chest, up onto his neck and most of the right side of his skull; his hair caught fire and burned away, further scarring his head.

As ovKhan, he could order the extravagance of new skin to be grown to replace the scarred, puckered mess of his scalp; he could be made new, as though his defeat never occurred. Yet something stayed his hand. Something pulled him out of his delirium long enough to order them not to automatically travel that road. He still couldn’t articulate what had happened, but he felt its importance. Something…

Sha walked into the room.

No gloating. No sarcastic smile. No satisfaction. Just his endless cool exterior. A face devoid of any emotion—not even a flicker at seeing Petr’s condition—and eyes as frigid as the depths of space.

Anything would’ve been better. Any emotion at all. But this nothing… Petr fought to control his rage. Losing control would do no good here, only make him lose more ground.

“You are up?” Sha said, his voice impossibly neutral. Almost inhumanly neutral.

Does he actually practice? “Aff.”

Silence. Hot eyes met cold and a silence sharp enough to shatter ferroglass stretched for several long minutes. Neither was willing to speak first. Surprisingly, Sha finally broke the silence with a barely perceptible nod; Petr didn’t for a moment believe he’d won anything.

What was the new angle? There had to be an angle.

“It is good to see you up. Clan Sea Fox has need of such warriors. Such leaders.”

“Did you not say you would remove such leaders as I, quiaff?” Petr flexed his leg and butt muscles to ease his discomfort, kept his shoulder as immobile as possible.

Sha, who stood only a single step inside the room, slowly shook his head; his eyes never once left Petr’s.

“Neg, ovKhan, those are not my words, but yours in my mouth. I know your body has been ravaged, but we know it will heal. I only hope your mind has not been compromised. I hope it will heal properly as well.”

Petr barked in harsh laughter. “My mind has never been better, Sha. Never. Those were the words you spoke. Are you denying them now?”

“I have never needed to deny my own words.”

Silence. Fire and ice. The minutes once more stretched and Petr began to suspect Sha’s strategy. Wear me down. Drag the conversation out as long as possible. Force me to show weakness. A very good strategy. He dug deep, launched his own attack.

“‘That is why you will ultimately be brought down.’ Those are your words, quiaff?”

Those cool, frosty eyes. “Aff.”

“Then how could I be putting words in your mouth?”

“Because you assumed I would be the one to do it.”

“And you will not?”

“I did not say that either.”

“You are not saying a whole lot.”

“When important words need to be spoken, they are usually few in number.”

Petr barked another laugh, used it to cover while resettling his shoulders, licking his lips against the pain. The dryness. He needed a drink.

“You are starting to sound like a philosopher. Warrior. Merchant. Philosopher. Who knew I would have such guests today?”

“Any great warrior is a philosopher, ovKhan. I would think you of all people would know that truth,” Sha replied. “The Founder understood it when he forged us. House Kurita and their bushido code know it. Are their warriors not poets and artisans as well? You can do much worse than be a philosopher. Especially when the philosophy you find leads you down a better path.”

“You still did not answer my question, Sha. Are you trying to lead me down a different path? A better path?” Petr smiled very unpleasantly.

“The answer, ovKhan Kalasa, already should have found you. I did not say I personally would remove you. I said that if you persisted in your selfishness, you would be removed. It is inevitable. As inexorable as the pull of gravity. The eventual death of stars. Our eventual demise as well.”

“Both? You are not immortal?” The sarcasm practically dripped off the walls.

“I have never entertained such grand thoughts, ovKhan. I am as much dust as the next warrior. I only hope to leave Spina Khanate with more glory and power than before. Better off.”

“Do you not mean Clan Sea Fox?” Petr probed.

’Mechs could shatter against such silence. Fire and ice.

“They are the same, quiaff?” Sha finally spoke.

“Aff. Yet I do not believe that to be the case for you, Sha. You accuse me of selfishness, yet you are the hypocrite. You are every bit as selfish as you accuse me of being. Clan Sea Fox is the whole, not Spina Khanate. Certainly not Beta Aimag.”

For the first time Petr could remember, something moved in the bleak arctic wastes of Sha’s eyes. He’d scored somehow.