sometimes wondered if he
had fathered both.
Benjamin was a blond Apollo. He was the darling of the younger
Legionnaires, who considered his father a historical relic. But did
they turn to Benjamin in the tight places? They did not. Benjamin
Storm tended to fold under pressure.
His mother and friends believed he was the Legion’s Crown
Prince. His father thought not. If the Iron Legion survived Gneaus
Storm, none of his children but Cassius’s favorite had what
it took to rule and fight a freecorps.
Benjamin could win loyalties with a word, with a gesture. He had
that knack for making each individual feel he was the only human
being in the universe Benjamin cared about. But could he inspire
faith?
Benjamin might command the Legion one day if his father did not
appoint a successor. For one commission. Storm could see his son
taking over on force of personality. He could not see him
succeeding in the field.
Benjamin could play Piper of Hamlin to his own, but those hard
cases across the battlefields, the Hawksbloods and van Breda
Kolffs, would cut up his charisma and spread it on their breakfast
toast.
Homer was Benjamin’s antithesis. He was dark of mind and
body, ugly, malformed, and congenitally blind. He repelled everyone
but his twin. Benjamin was his only friend. He followed his brother
everywhere, as if only Benjamin could neutralize the blackness in
his soul.
In compensation for her cruelties Nature had given Homer a weak
psionic ability that never did him any good. He was bitter, and not
without just cause. He was as sharp as anyone in the family, yet
was trapped in a body little better than a corpse.
Storm’s men saw the twins as living examples of the
dualities in their father. Benjamin had received the looks and
charm, Homer the hurt and rage and darkness of spirit.
Benjamin met his father’s eye and smiled his winningest
smile. Homer started sightlessly, unrepentant. He was unafraid.
There was no way to punish him more than life had punished him
already.
He expected nothing but evil. He accepted it.
Storm hurt for him. He knew the shadow that ruled Homer. It was
an old, ultimate companion.
At least once a day Storm turned to the book that time had
forgotten, rereading and contemplating the message of a Storm dead
four thousand years.
Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All
is vanity.
What does a man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the
sun?
Gneaus Storm, even more than had Homer, had watched the rivers
run into the seas, and knew the seas would never fill. Rather, they
grew shallower with the ages, and someday would disappear. What did
a man profit if, in the end, all his deeds were illusion? The Enemy
could not be overthrown. Its resources were infinite and eternal
and Storm knew he would only lose the long struggle.
Unlike the Preacher in Jerusalem, Storm refused to surrender. In
spite of everything, there could be victory in the spirit. If he
kept his courage he could scratch his memory on the cruel visage of
defeat. Either to surrender, or to go to his fate with laughter on
his lips. This was the only real choice he, or any man, was ever
given in this life.
“There’s a ship coming in,” he growled at
last. He jerked his arm upward. The ravenshrike fluttered into the
shadows. No one paid it any heed.
No one argued. The truth was evident in the display globes.
“Michael Dee’s ship, I believe. Contact him. Clear
him a path through the mine fields.”
The soldiers did not “yes sir” before returning to
work. They would try to impress him with their efficiency now.
Trouble lurked beyond the end of their watch.
“Traffic, contact the cruiser too. I want to speak to her
master. All defense systems, move to standby alert.”
“I have contact with Dee,” said the man on Traffic
Comm. “Clear channel, visual.”
“Thank you.” Storm seated himself at a visual
pickup. Cassius moved in behind him. Michael Dee’s fox face
formed on screen. Worry
had fathered both.
Benjamin was a blond Apollo. He was the darling of the younger
Legionnaires, who considered his father a historical relic. But did
they turn to Benjamin in the tight places? They did not. Benjamin
Storm tended to fold under pressure.
His mother and friends believed he was the Legion’s Crown
Prince. His father thought not. If the Iron Legion survived Gneaus
Storm, none of his children but Cassius’s favorite had what
it took to rule and fight a freecorps.
Benjamin could win loyalties with a word, with a gesture. He had
that knack for making each individual feel he was the only human
being in the universe Benjamin cared about. But could he inspire
faith?
Benjamin might command the Legion one day if his father did not
appoint a successor. For one commission. Storm could see his son
taking over on force of personality. He could not see him
succeeding in the field.
Benjamin could play Piper of Hamlin to his own, but those hard
cases across the battlefields, the Hawksbloods and van Breda
Kolffs, would cut up his charisma and spread it on their breakfast
toast.
Homer was Benjamin’s antithesis. He was dark of mind and
body, ugly, malformed, and congenitally blind. He repelled everyone
but his twin. Benjamin was his only friend. He followed his brother
everywhere, as if only Benjamin could neutralize the blackness in
his soul.
In compensation for her cruelties Nature had given Homer a weak
psionic ability that never did him any good. He was bitter, and not
without just cause. He was as sharp as anyone in the family, yet
was trapped in a body little better than a corpse.
Storm’s men saw the twins as living examples of the
dualities in their father. Benjamin had received the looks and
charm, Homer the hurt and rage and darkness of spirit.
Benjamin met his father’s eye and smiled his winningest
smile. Homer started sightlessly, unrepentant. He was unafraid.
There was no way to punish him more than life had punished him
already.
He expected nothing but evil. He accepted it.
Storm hurt for him. He knew the shadow that ruled Homer. It was
an old, ultimate companion.
At least once a day Storm turned to the book that time had
forgotten, rereading and contemplating the message of a Storm dead
four thousand years.
Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All
is vanity.
What does a man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the
sun?
Gneaus Storm, even more than had Homer, had watched the rivers
run into the seas, and knew the seas would never fill. Rather, they
grew shallower with the ages, and someday would disappear. What did
a man profit if, in the end, all his deeds were illusion? The Enemy
could not be overthrown. Its resources were infinite and eternal
and Storm knew he would only lose the long struggle.
Unlike the Preacher in Jerusalem, Storm refused to surrender. In
spite of everything, there could be victory in the spirit. If he
kept his courage he could scratch his memory on the cruel visage of
defeat. Either to surrender, or to go to his fate with laughter on
his lips. This was the only real choice he, or any man, was ever
given in this life.
“There’s a ship coming in,” he growled at
last. He jerked his arm upward. The ravenshrike fluttered into the
shadows. No one paid it any heed.
No one argued. The truth was evident in the display globes.
“Michael Dee’s ship, I believe. Contact him. Clear
him a path through the mine fields.”
The soldiers did not “yes sir” before returning to
work. They would try to impress him with their efficiency now.
Trouble lurked beyond the end of their watch.
“Traffic, contact the cruiser too. I want to speak to her
master. All defense systems, move to standby alert.”
“I have contact with Dee,” said the man on Traffic
Comm. “Clear channel, visual.”
“Thank you.” Storm seated himself at a visual
pickup. Cassius moved in behind him. Michael Dee’s fox face
formed on screen. Worry
Similar Books
