Chapter 1 It was a sunny day in Palace City. Most of the megastructure’s citizens wouldn’t know it, buried deep beneath the gargantuan shield plates and the layers upon layers of urban accumulation, but Cross and Haytis were standing in one of the countless pristine courtyards of the city-sized citadel of the Gens Regime. This was the city’s summit. It was clean, safe, opulent, and perfectly receptive to the pleasant rays of Seat’s yellow star. This was the place that earned the city its palatial name. Both men were Hawks, characteristically slim, dark-haired, and almond-eyed with aquiline features. Cross was taller than Haytis, though, stronger of limb, with large eyes that could almost have belonged to a Wolf. His faced lacked any of Haytis’s gauntness, too, but Haytis had once looked better. He hadn’t been eating so well the last two years, since the day food started tasting like ash in his mouth. Cross was better liked by everyone – everyone of no consequence. He raised his blade, ready for the attack. He took a step forward and cut lazily, testing Haytis’s guard. Haytis retreated. Cross was aggressive. It was easy to lure him in. The courtyard was a good three hundred feet across, mostly marble tiling, lined with shrubbery, dotted with trees in brass planters. Far more than enough room for a duel; also plenty of room to see the premature end of their scuffle coming. Haytis deflected Cross’s third stroke and caught him in the face with a thrust. The steel smashed his lip and he stumbled back, spitting blood onto the tiles and touching his mouth with a wince. Behind him, Haytis could see the hall’s massive double doors swing open and a company of men hurrying towards them. “Two years you’ve hardly touched a blade, and you can still move like that,” Cross said, oblivious. He flashed a bloody grin and started forward again. “Be warned I’m about to take this much more seriously.” Haytis raised his hand. “Wait! We’re not alone.” Cross turned to look. “Damn.” He stuck his blade point down against the tile out of habit. “Halt!” Called the leader of the group. From just behind him, quickly overtaking him with a dignified half-jog, was the exact irate figure Haytis had least hoped to see. “Cease this madness at once!” “I suppose we picked too obvious a spot,” Cross said, turning to roll his eyes at Haytis. “Though by his tone you’d think we’d set fire to the place.” “We may have.” There were dozens of people following behind the five speed-marching Gateguard and one very angry Archon approaching them. Said Archon pushed out fully in front of the Gateguard. Between his extravagant gold-and-white robes, which almost glowed in the summer sunlight, the white hair at his temples, which almost glowed in contrast with his raven hair, and his golden eyes, which almost glowed with rage, he might have been a kind of avenging deity. “Have you completely taken leave of your senses?” “Wait,” Haytis said. “This is a misunderstanding.” Cross raised his hand. “It’s just a scratch, Father.” “They’re practice blades, blunted,” Haytis added quickly. “Completely harmless.” “Harmless?” Dorian Boothe’s tone was suddenly apocalyptically calm. “Ladies, gentlemen,” said the man behind him. Felix Gens-Orrum, the Grand Martial of Telekon and commander of the Gateguard. “This is a private scene, not a public spectacle. Kindly return to your refreshments.” “I see,” Dorian continued as the crowd began to reluctantly trek back across the courtyard. “You believed that this display was appropriate for an event of this nature?” Haytis felt himself cringing. “And therefore, harmless?” Dorian’s ire was mainly directed at Cross. And that, unfortunately, was unjust. But his tirade kept flowing. “Why, Cross, must you constantly invent new ways to humiliate me? And could you not at least restrict yourself to dinners and family gatherings on Taisedis? Rather than the very heart of Provincial Seat, in front of the Grand Martial, the Gateguard, half my fellow Archons, and assorted foreign dignitaries?” “Don’t blame Cross,” Haytis said as soon as there was an opening. He could hardly think of a worse spot for a confession – Felix staring down at him from his usual altitude, his father blazing with anger and flanked by half a dozen armored guards… ah, and to finish the picture, his brothers Lor and Lucian joined the scene, standing just behind Dorian and smirking. He had to physically force the next words out. “I… I’m sorry, Father. It was my idea.” Cross looked grateful. Dorian looked shocked. Lor raised an eyebrow. “We’d had an argument,” he went on, “and I thought a bit of sparring would be a good way to blow off some steam. Better than walking away angry at each other. I really didn’t expect to draw so much attention. Forgive me.” Felix stepped forward. He was a giant of a man. He could have been carved from stone by a craftsman enamored of the stereotypical features of the Line of the Wolf. Cleft chin, square jaw, eyebrows fixed in a perpetually intimidating arch. His armor was gold, red, and white, the Auran Tricolors, restricted only to men of high office even among the nobility. “Needless to say,” he said nonetheless, “I must report this incident to His Excellency. You should not have drawn blades in the Citadel without his permission. Even for a friendly round.” Haytis nodded. “I figured as much. Sorry, Felix…” “Grand Martial,” he said, frowning. “We aren’t friends, boy.” Dorian massaged his temples, then met Haytis’s eyes coldly. “I have become tragically resigned to such embarrassments at the behavior of my firstborn. But from you, Haytis, I expected better. What an insult to the lives lost to that miserable dueling fad, and Marco Gens’ titanic efforts to end it. Within sight of his funeral proceedings.” “I can see my intervention was never needed here,” Felix said, “and I had better return to the Regimen’s side.” “You have my sincerest apologies, Grand Martial,” Dorian said, bowing his head. “For this tremendous waste of your time.” Felix’s mouth twisted and he averted his eyes. Haytis imagined the forty-year-old orphaned bachelor had little tolerance for uncomfortable family interactions. “Unnecessary, Archon. Men.” He turned to leave. With much ostentation, his Gateguard followed suit, boots clicking on the tiles. Dorian rounded on his sons. “Dispose of these toys and return to the funerary hall at once. We will discuss this further upon our return to Taisedis. Much further. Lucian, come.” He briskly followed after Felix. Lucian backed away from his brothers with a shrug, then followed. Lor lingered. “You know, Cross,” he said, “if you’re trying to get yourself exiled so I can inherit ViaRay, I really appreciate the sacrifice. I’ll name a subsidiary after you.” “To my little brothers, I am a wellspring of joy and blessing.” Cross bowed with a flourish. He winced and straightened, probing at his bleeding lip. “And I am repaid with swords to the face.” Haytis sighed. “This whole disaster is my fault. The New God alone will know what he has in store for us back home. I’m sorry, Cross.” “As it happens,” Lor said, “I believe that we were already scheduled for an uncomfortable conversation, so at worst you’ve darkened the tone. I’ve started to suspect that Father really intends to…” “…Find a way to pass me over with minimal legal and public fuss,” Cross finished. “Don’t bother with suspicions, I know it for a fact. He intends to get us all in a room and get us to verbally agree to abide by some game of ‘meritocracy’ to determine his successor. He’s counting on my typical good nature and overconfidence to make me willing to sign away my birthright. And he’s not wrong.” He grinned, then winced again. Haytis frowned. He folded his arms. “That sounds much too specific for speculation.” Lor nodded. “Although highly specific fantasies are not out of character.” “The two of you forget that while you spend all your time mocking and beating me, I remain Lucian’s beloved and doting big brother. He read Dad’s mind and told me, as always.” “Hmph.” Lor turned up his nose. “Has his doting big brother warned him that the use of psychic abilities on an Imperial Archon is high treason?” “Relax, Lor, I’m fairly sure he’ll spare his favorite son the firing squad.” “Of course, but we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about Lucian.” Haytis wasn’t able to find their little exchange very funny. “Lucian actually reads Dad’s mind? I thought that was just a joke of yours.” “It is a joke of mine, but yes, he does.” Clearly Cross could see Haytis’s concern, and his expression became more serious. “It’s harmless, Haytis. If it was some malicious conspiracy, would I tell you about it so casually?” “Harmless?” Haytis caught himself echoing his father more closely than he preferred, and stopped. “Aren’t you worried he reads your mind?” Lor asked. “Our father shipped me off to Melae for two goddamned semesters. I have a grade two certification, and the instructors said I was one of the most talented students they’d trained.” “You’re a Boothe,” Lor said. “Haven’t you started to wonder why every lowborn you meet tells you you’re the most talented person he’s ever met?” “There does seem to be a pattern of some kind, but I thought it was due to the breadth of my talents…” “Besides which, Dad has a mental hardening certification too, and it apparently does nothing for him.” “He only made it to level one. The second level…” “This is serious, Cross,” Haytis interrupted. “Lucian is sixteen. He’s a kid. Impressionable. A psychic who gets caught reading minds without a warrant would be lucky to get life in prison. This isn’t something you get scolded for, no matter what family you’re from. You are going to ruin his life.” “He’s a very smart kid, Haytis. He’s not going to fuck around with strangers’ minds.” “For how long? You’re teaching him that his abilities are a tool to get what he wants out of other people.” “That’s what they are.” “By the Unborn, Cross, not in that way.” “Let’s put an end to this before the two of you end up in another duel,” Lor said. “Father will be wondering what’s taking so long.” “What about our swords?” Cross asked. “Just leave them. I’m sure someone will clean them up eventually. And you had better get yourself cleaned up before you show your face again. Quickly. They’re starting the respects in ten or fifteen minutes.” Haytis took a look at his rapier. The tip of the silver blade was still darkened just a little bit with a few drops of his brother’s blood. I had made up my mind to be done with these damned things. The New God would know they had brought him nothing but pain. Or, rather, been the instrument through which he inflicted pointless pain on others. He dropped the weapon to the ground. He vowed not to pick it up again.

People complain about right-wingers talking like Sephiroth, but what of the problem of left-wingers talking like Frankenstein's Monster?