Still, it bothered him to be surprised by a conflict. It suggested his understanding of the man might not be as complete as he thought. He had to know more. “Why is this so important? Did you name the ship?”

“Nah. She was christened with that name long before I had her, and fought through a couple wars with it on her hull. She’s got a history, this one.”

“But you didn’t name her.”

“And neither will you. Listen here, Duck. You plan to stay on this ship, or any ship, for a while, you should understand there’s a bond between us spacers—a tradition. Goes back longer than your SwordSworn”—he sneered a bit at the name, knowing full well that Aaron’s faction was brand new—“or your Republic, or your Star League, or your precious House Davion. Goes back to ships that sailed the water, and boats made out of wood and reeds.

“We men and women who sail the black abyss know how small we are, know that no matter how mighty we build our ships or how big we think we are, it could swallow us up like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“You could call us superstitious. Me, I say we know there are forces bigger than we are—forces you got to respect if you want to live, if you want to bring your girls and boys back to port safe, to hug their spouses and babies again.

“A ship what changes its name is cursed. No good ever comes of it. You want a cursed ship, then fine, you change its name to anything you want. But it ain’t going to be my ship that you curse.”

“But Tyrannos Rex. You know what it means, don’t you?”

“Tyrant King, King Tyrant, Terrible King, something like that. I’m not much for Latin. It’s all Greek to me.”

“I’m trying to piece together a coalition here, with me in charge. You see how that could be a problem for me?”

Clancy considered for a moment, running his tongue under his upper lip, so his moustache undulated like a silver caterpillar. “You know what I think? I think that a man with such aspirations… I find out he changed the name of his ship from such a thing, I’d have to wonder, what’s he trying to hide? Maybe his true nature? Changing that name don’t make it go away, or the worries that make it troubling to you.

“But a man shows up with a ship named like that, puts that name right out there for everyone to see. Well, you ever hear the tale of the elephant in the room—the one nobody talks about? You put their greatest worry right there on the side of your flagship, in two-meter-tall letters. And they got to think, ‘Would he do that if he had anything to hide? Only a good, just, honest leader could get away with that.’ And there, your elephant’s gone. See what I mean?”

Aaron grinned. Damned if Clancy wasn’t right. “It stays Tyrannos Rex. then, and we’ll use its name proudly and without shame. If my enemies make something of it, then I’ll simply feign innocence, and they’ll look like petty fools.” He chuckled, “Did you ever think of going into politics, Captain?”

He grinned back. “Duck, I’d change the ship’s name first.”

Erik waited impatiently in the small armored shuttle for the pressure outside to equalize. The pilot, a skinny lieutenant who was clearly bored with such a mundane assignment, sat at the helm station, humming some pop tune and passing the time fiddling with the ship’s more arcane systems. He’d kept to himself on the way over, and Erik wasn’t much inclined to make small talk with a junior officer.

He’d just started coming to terms with his uncle’s death, and what it might mean for his place in the SwordSworn, and now things had been cast into a new sort of uncertainty.

Though he felt guilty to admit it, even to himself, Aaron’s death would have created a power vacuum, one that might have pulled Erik several rungs up the ladder. Not to the top, certainly, but possibly to a place of independence and security.

The light over the door turned green, and the double doors of the lock automatically cycled open. A DropShip crewmember appeared outside, a metal snap hook at the end of a line in her hand. She snapped the hook to a ring just outside the lock, then gave the line a sharp tug. An automatic winch on the other end whirred, pulling the line taut. He saw that the other end was anchored next to a handrail, which in turn led to an interior airlock.

It appeared the bay had once been a ’Mech bay, though much of it was now equipped for cargo. A few ’Mech gantries were left intact though: some empty, some holding LoaderMechs, and one containing the Duke’s white-and-gold Black Hawk.

He was startled to see the condition it was in—the paint scratched and scarred, laser and impact damage on the flanks, arms, and legs, much of the armor sheared away. The areas around the jump jet nozzles were blackened and partially melted. Bits of some kind of dried vegetation clung to every join and crevice. Most startling was the center panel of the cockpit—a shattered wreck with a hole in the middle. It was difficult to see how his uncle had survived. It obviously had been a close call.

One more shell or laser shot in the right place—

The woman outside the lock gave him a little wave, then pushed off sharply from the deck, sailing away into the depths of the ship.

Erik had no idea if he’d have been included in the Duke’s estate—the misreporting of his death had not taken events that far. Certainly, it would have been expected, given their close relationship and Aaron’s lack of heirs, that he’d receive some substantial inheritance. But he had no assurances of that, and he had to wonder. Their relationship was often troubled, especially in recent years.

He sighed, and started climbing down the line in the direction of the airlock. His mind quickly slipped back into what might have been.

An inheritance would have been only a bonus. Erik could have traded on his position, his past relationship to the Duke, the respect he had won in the military sector, and his citizenship to find a place for himself. It had been his experience that once one reached a certain social status among the elite, one never suffered from material want, even if one didn’t have a penny.

Even without trading on his father’s money and influence, having a member of a great family like the Sandovals begging on a street corner—or even working in some common job—would be an embarrassment none of the family elders could tolerate.

Someone would have found a board seat on a major company for him—one with a handsome stipend, stock, and other benefits attached. He had little doubt he could have these things today, were it not for the assumption that he was already provided for by Aaron.

The thought filled him with an unaccustomed resentment, and guilt. What sort of person was he, that he would resent his uncle just for living?

These thoughts haunted him as he wandered the corridors of the great ship, looking for his uncle’s quarters. He’d somehow assumed he’d be met at the airlock, but that hadn’t happened.

He occasionally spotted crewpeople going about their business, usually in a hurry, and often just out of earshot. He looked in vain for someone he recognized: Ulysses Paxton, his uncle’s bodyguard, or the lovely Deena Onan, whom he was always glad to see, even in the darkest of circumstances.

But they were nowhere to be found, and Erik was quickly lost. Finally, he spotted a face that was, if not familiar, at least recognized. The man crossed a corridor junction a few meters in front of him, and was almost out of sight before he noticed the gray beard. “You there! Hold on!”

The man had already vanished, carried on by his own momentum, but it was only a few seconds before he reappeared, peering around the corner of the junction. “Well, if it isn’t the Duck’s boy.”

Erik was in no mood for this, and an impertinent commoner was a natural target for his aggravation. “Listen here—Gus is your name? I’m nobody’s ‘boy,’ except my dear departed mother’s. I’m looking for the Duke.”