Starfishers Volume 1: Shadowline by Glen Cook Page B

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 lines faded away. A pearly-toothed smile broke through.
    “Gneaus! Am I glad to see you. I was