“You sound like a spheroid.” A momentary lull in the general noise of the cargo hold allowed the words to be heard by innocent ears; stunned faces turned to watch the scene unfolding in the far corner.

Petr’s rage burned hot and bright, filling his eyes with a fire he directed first at Jesup and then swept the large cargo hold, sending personnel scurrying about their business. His ire, though directed at Jesup for allowing their heated discussion to spill to the lower castes and the rest of the warriors, found equal target in himself; Jesup’s words mirrored Petr’s own thoughts too closely for comfort.

He took two steps toward Jesup, his heavy magnetic boots dragging at him like the load of current events strapped around his neck. “Then what would you do, Jesup?”

“Attack. Now. That is the Clan way.”

“And if Sha defeats us? Or if we are caught between them and the Marik forces? We would be crushed.”

“Then so be it. Such is the way of the Clan. This hiding”—he swallowed, licked his lips as his eyes darted, trying to find a target—“I cannot abide it.”

“Then Sha escapes.”

“Others will hunt him. He may hide, but others will find him, will hunt the deep currents and run him to ground.”

Petr had to get through to him. Must make him see. The time for justice was now, not later. “What happened when the Bears made such a decision? When Clan Ghost Bear let those most deserving of Clan justice escape?”

Jesup reared back, his jaw falling open at such a comparison. At the memory of the Not-Named Clan and the total annihilation they escaped… the havoc they wrought.

“Would you let such happen again? Look at what he has done right under our noses. Imagine what he might accomplish hidden from view. Imagine what he might unleash against our Clan. Mark my words, Jesup,” Petr said, trying to infuse each word with the hellish energy of a particle cannon, tried to ram it past the other man’s doubts and fears. “He will not be satisfied until he sees the Clan shattered for destroying his dreams of rebellion.” Me shattered.

Jesup looked like a cornered animal. “He would not do that,” he finally said.

Petr’s eyes went wide. “You defend him? After all that he has done!”

“You consider it misguided, but he has done what he felt best for the Clan. What every Sea Fox Clansman has done for centuries. He has made decisions.”

“Yet you’re the one saying each leader must answer to his superiors.”

“Do not throw such vulgarity at me,” Jesup said, straightening, regaining some of the spine Petr thought knocked out of him.

Stravag. “Each leader must answer. Now I am coming to give him his Trial of Grievance over the decisions he has made.”

The two eyed each other across some gulf that Petr could not see. Finally, as though losing the will to continue such a battle of words, Jesup turned away. “So be it. In a Circle the rightness of his decisions will be decided.”

Petr felt unsure how to answer; he was further distracted by the harsh stench of spilled diesel. “Then you understand the need to wait. To even attempt such a Trial of Grievance, their force must be brought closer to the strength of ours.” Though he hated himself for it, Petr wanted Jesup’s approval. An understanding of the path he chose.

“Aff.” The tone carried a half dozen flavors. Could be taken any way Petr wished.

Dissatisfied by the answer, but realizing none other would be forthcoming, he sighed, coughed again, sniffed hard and felt bands of light pain bind his forehead. “Tomorrow, Jesup,” he said softly, moving toward the small medstation. Must find something for this savashri cold.

“We shall move tomorrow at dawn. And then it will be done.”

Petr did not know if the words were for Jesup. Or himself.

Near Stewart DropPort, New Edinburgh

Lothian, Stewart

Prefecture VII, The Republic

27 September 3134

With the invading forces of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth running headlong into the unforeseen presence of most of Beta Aimag, and the on-world militia splitting along lines of loyalty to The Republic (led by the legate) and loyalty to the old House Marik—forces determined to fight alongside the invaders (led by the earl)—the battle for the world of Stewart devolved into utter chaos within hours, as the multisided conflict spilled heavy blood on all sides before the sun set on the first day.

With careful planning, Petr unleashed his mixed-force Trinary in the early dawn hours several days later, the sun just peeling back the veil of night, piercing curtains and wooded thickets with equal diligence. Weather reports from satellites—and mean temperature averages gleaned from a quick stab of the electronic finger into planetary weather databases—showed a bright, crisp morning in the offing. Hoping to catch the combatants tired and worn-out, and using the dawn attack—a classic tactic since the beginning of warfare millennia in the past—Petr set down near the largest remaining concentration of Beta Aimag personnel, prepared for a quick and decisive victory…

…and all hell broke loose.

“I have contact, sector 3A, twenty-two by four. Approximately eight hundred meters. Coming fast.” The disembodied voice seemed to materialize within the confines of his cockpit—a spectral entity to accompany the snow-thick fog that layered the entire region so thoroughly that Petr felt as though his Tiburon was pushing handfuls of the stuff aside just to move.

“I copy, Garo. Do not engage unless they leave you no choice.”

“Aff, ovKhan.” The voice carried about as much confidence as that felt by a Knight left by the disorganized Republic to face a Capellan onslaught.

No plan survives contact with the enemy. The aphorism did not help in the slightest.

Petr felt the drag of the cables behind the neurohelmet momentarily as he leaned forward slightly to toggle from magscan to radar on his secondary screen. He shook his head and swallowed roughly; phlegm caught for a moment, and he swallowed it with a grimace. Looked at the jumble of markers staining his screen like toys randomly thrown from a child’s hand, clenched his jaw to open a secondary channel.

“Jesup, where are you?” The commline remained silent, his call on their private channel dead as well. He opened up the general frequency and called again.

The world strobed to brilliance, as sun-hot energy flared within the fog, washing his forward viewscreen into total whiteout; even protected by the polarization of the viewscreen and his neurohelmet, he blinked several times to clear his vision. Afterimages of a particle projector cannon-stream roping through the air, crackling with savage energy, left his eyes aching. It missed by scant centimeters.

Petr cursed loudly, stomping down on pedals (left, right, left, right) as he threw the throttle full-forward; the whine of the gyro setting into the base of his skull like an angry hornet as the Tiburon jinked wildly to his commands.

“Where the hell did that come from?” he raged, turning a quick eye to his radar, trying to determine why his attacker didn’t show up. With casual ease, even considering his hastiness, Petr raised the ’Mech’s right arm and flashed off twin heavy medium lasers in the general direction from which the shot came. The fog almost rolled back from the hellish orange energy streams as they tore through the air, hopefully backing off the opponent he’d not yet identified.

He ground his teeth. With the mangled confusion of the assault broken up by multiple sides and the heavy fog, the computer’s IFF tags refused to accept the input that Beta Aimag personnel were the enemy.