“Mustang said they’ll be here,” I say.

“Mustang said they’ll be here,” Sevro mocks in childish voice. “They better. Fleet can’t squat for long out there without being spotted.”

My fleet waits with Orion in orbit since Mustang took her shuttle to Nessus, the capital of Io. Fifty torchShips and destroyers hunkered down, shields off, engines dark on the barren moon of Sinope as the larger fleets of the Golds swim through space closer in to the Galilean Moons. Any closer and the Gold sensors will pick us up. But as it hides, my fleet is vulnerable. With one pass a measly squadron of ripWings could destroy it.

“The Moonies will come,” I say. But I’m not sure of it.

They’re a cold, proud, insular people, these Jovian Golds. Roughly eight thousand Peerless Scarred call the Galilean Moons of Jupiter home. Their Institutes are all out here. And it is only Societal service or vacations for the wealthiest among them that takes them to the Core. Luna might be the ancestral home of their people, but it’s alien to most of them. Metropolitan Ganymede is the center of their world.

The Sovereign knows the danger of having an independent Rim. She spoke to me of the difficulty of imposing her power across a billion kilometers of empire. Her true fear was never Augustus and Bellona destroying one another. It was the chance that the Rim would rebel and cut the Society in half. Sixty years ago, at the beginning of her reign, she had the Ash Lord nuke Saturn’s moon, Rhea, when its ruler refused to accept her authority. That example held for sixty years.

But nine days after my Triumph, the children of the Moon Lords who were kept on Luna in the Sovereign’s court as insurance toward their parents’ political cooperation, escaped. They were assisted by Mustang’s spies which she left behind in the Citadel. Two days after that, the heirs of the fallen ArchGovernor Revus au Raa, who was killed at my Triumph, stole or destroyed the entirety of the Societal Garrison Fleet in its dock at Calisto. They declared Io’s independence and pressured the other more populous and powerful moons into joining them.

Soon after, the infamously charismatic Romulus au Raa was elected Sovereign of the Rim. Saturn and Uranus joined soon after that, and the Second Moon Rebellion began sixty years, two hundred and eleven days after the first.

The Moon Lords obviously expected the Sovereign would find herself mired on Mars for a decade, maybe longer. Add to that a certain lowColor insurrection in the Core and one can see why they assumed she would not be able to devote the resources needed to send a fleet of sufficient size six hundred million kilometers to quash their nascent rebellion. They were wrong.

“We’ve got inbound,” Pebble says from her station at the shuttle’s sensor boards. “Three ships. Two-ninety clicks out.”

“Finally,” Sevro mutters. “Here come the bloodydamn Moonies.”

Three warships emerge from the heat mirage on the horizon. Two black sarpedon-class fighters painted with the four-headed white dragon of Raa clutching a Jovian thunderbolt in its talons escort a fat tan priam-class shuttle. The ship lands before us. Dust swirls and the ramp unfurls from the belly of the craft. Seven lithe forms, taller and lankier than I, walk down into the sand. Golds all. They wear kryll, organic breathing masks made by Carvers, over nose and mouths. Looks like the shed skin of a locust, legs stretching to either ear. Their tan combat gear is lighter than Core armor and complimented with brightly colored scarves. Long-barreled railguns with personalized ivory stocks are strapped to their backs. Razors hang from their hips. Orange optics cover their eyes. And on their feet are skippers. Lightweight boots that use condensed air instead of gravity to move their user. Skipping them over the ground like stones on a lake. Can’t get much height, but you can move nearly sixty kilometers an hour. They’re about a quarter the weight of my boots, have battery life for a year, and are dead cold on thermal vision.

These are assassins. Not knights. Holiday recognizes the different breed of danger.

“She’s not with them,” she says over her com. “Any Telemanuses?”

“No,” I say. “Hold. I see her.”

Mustang steps out of the craft, joining the much-taller Ionians. She’s dressed like them, except without a rifle. Joined by another Ionian woman, this one with the forward hunching shoulders of a cheetah, Mustang joins us atop the dune. The rest of the Ionians stay near the ship. Not a threat, just an escort.

“Darrow,” Mustang says. “Sorry we’re late.”

“Where’s Romulus?” I ask.

“He’s not coming.”

“Bullshit,” Sevro hisses. “I told you, Reap.”

“Sevro, it’s fine,” Mustang says. “This is his sister, Vela.”

The tall woman stares down her smashed-flat nose at us. Her skin is pale, body adapted for the low gravity. It’s hard to see her face past the mask and goggles, but she seems in her early fifties. Her voice is one even note. “I send my brother’s greetings, and welcome, Darrow of Mars. I am Legate Vela au Raa.” Sefi slinks around us, examining the alien Gold and the strange gear she carries. I like the way people talk when Sefi circles. Seems a little more honest.

“Well met, legatus.” I nod cordially. “Will you be speaking for your brother? I’d hoped to make my case in person.”

The skin to the side of her goggles crinkles. “No one speaks for my brother. Not even I. He wishes for you to join him at his private home on the Wastes of Karrack.”

“So you can lure us into a trap?” Sevro asks. “Better idea. How ’bout you tell your bitch of a brother to honor his bloodydamn agreement before I take that rifle and shove it so far up your farthole you look like a skinny Pixie shish kebab?”

“Sevro, stop,” Mustang says. “Not here. Not these people.”

Vela watches Sefi circle. Taking note of the razor on the huge Obsidian’s hip.

“I could give a shit and piss who this is. She knows who we are. And she ain’t got a little trickle goin’ down her leg standing toe to toe with the bloodydamn Reaper of Mars, then she’s got less brains than a wad of ass lint.”

“He cannot come,” Vela says.

“Understandable,” I reply.

Sevro makes a grotesque motion.

“What is that?” Vela asks, nodding to Sefi.

“That is a queen,” I say. “Sister to Ragnar Volarus.”