by Peter Nealen
“Faced with a threat of the magnitude of the Unity, we hardly dare to be terribly picky in our choice of allies, do we?” Mansooneej said with a touch of a sneer. “I know that you Caractacans get terribly touchy about your honor, but when six more systems along the edge of the Callast Bubble fell within the last five hundred hours, beggars can hardly be choosers.”
Scalas looked down at him, searching those blithe golden eyes. “That sounds very pragmatic and wise,” he said, “until the allies that you didn’t dare look too hard at stab you in the back. Worse yet, you find yourself fighting them once the war is over, only they’ve gotten stronger while you’ve expended much of your strength. The Brazen Fellowship is made up of the kind of men who will hold back, just in case.”
Mansooneej sniffed. “The rivalries of military brotherhoods are hardly the Alliance’s concern, is it? Besides, I know how stiff-necked you Caractacans can be.” He turned to Rehenek. “I know that you value the Brotherhood’s advice, General Commander, but it would be best to remember that not everyone you will deal with in the war to come shares their code of honor. And the Brotherhood cannot win the war all on its own.”
Rehenek sighed. “As much as I might find his attitude objectionable,” he said with a glare at Mansooneej, who bowed his head slightly, as if embarrassed, though Scalas saw the glint in the sefkhit’s eyes as he did so, “Enir is right. Certain compromises must be made, or we will be the most honorable dead men and slaves in galactic history.” He turned to Mansooneej. “Shall we?”
Mansooneej bowed again, gesturing toward the air sled. Rehenek started to climb in, looking back at Scalas. “Are you coming, Erekan?”
Scalas glanced again at Mansooneej, who was watching him keenly. There was something disquieting about the sefkhit, something that set his teeth on edge.
Maybe it was the fact that Mansooneej’s advice would be repeated with bland, superior voices by so many now within the Brotherhood’s ranks. He could hear echoes of Dunstan’s sneer in Mansooneej’s voice. Dunstan, who had abandoned his post after arguing against going to the Valdekans’ assistance altogether, arguing that it was pointless to defend those who needed it, simply because of the odds. Dunstan, who had lost his ship and a sizeable fraction of his Century through reckless disobedience, and had then been transferred rather than disciplined on Kaletonan IV for desertion as he should have been.
Perhaps there was still hope though. Rehenek still insisted on his friendship for the Caractacan Brotherhood, and perhaps, if they stayed the course, those of the Brotherhood who still adhered to the Code in all ways would be able to steer him toward victory with honor.
“Of course,” he said. He swung up into the sled, brushing past Mansooneej as he did so, and turned his face toward the dome of the old Brasakhalian Senatorial Palace where it gleamed against the sky.
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ALSO IN SERIES
1. THE FALL OF VALDEK
2. THE DEFENSE OF PROVENIA
3. THE ALLIANCE RISES
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About Peter Nealen
Peter Nealen is a former Recon Marine, a veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, and something of an aspiring renaissance man. He has long been a reader of history, philosophy, folklore, science fiction, and fantasy, and is the author of fifteen published novels and several short stories in the action adventure and supernatural thriller genres.
Check out his other books on Amazon