The summons to Commander Fole's office in Camp Hastings had come out of the blue, as most orders did in the Marine Corps, but this one had the reek of importance to it and thus Arcturus had arrived early, even though he knew it would be a while before the commander deigned to see him.

The outer office was plain and stark, the only items of furniture an uncomfortable couch on which Arcturus sat, a pair of iron filing cabinets (that looked old and battered enough to have come from the Sarengo), and the desk and chair used by Lieutenant Cestoda. A few marine recruitment posters were stuck to the wall with thumbtacks, which seemed a little redundant to Arcturus, since anyone likely to see these posters would already be in the Marine Corps.

Arcturus stood and stretched. He'd been waiting for an hour and had already thumbed through a copy of Battle Flag, the magazine of the CMC. The paper version of the magazine had long since been replaced by digi-tome editions—and this copy had seen better days. Cestoda looked up in irritation as Arcturus rose to his feet.

"Something I can do for you, Captain?" asked Cestoda, as though Arcturus had violated some unwritten rule of the office.

"No," said Arcturus. "Just stretching my legs. Do you have any idea when the commander will be available?"

"Presently."

"That's what you said thirty minutes ago."

"Then you shouldn't have needed to ask again."

Arcturus approached Cestoda's desk and perched on the edge, knowing it would annoy the man. Sure enough, Cestoda glared at him, but Arcturus met his stare with one of his own.

"You are aware of the etymology of your name, I presume?" asked Arcturus, picking up a stylus from the desk. Cestoda snatched it back. "The what?"

"Etymology," repeated Arcturus slowly. "It means the origins of words and how they arrived at their current meaning. I was asking if you knew what your name means."

"It doesn't mean anything," said Cestoda. "It's just a name."

"On the contrary, my dear fellow, in times past, a man's name was what defined him. Many names came from a man's profession, such as Smith or Cooper, while others made reference to his disposition or appearance."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Ah, well you see, Cestoda is a class of parasitic flatworms that live in the digestive tracts of vertebrates and absorb food predigested by their host. They're ugly creatures, little more than a body with only a rudimentary head for attachment to their host. And one most common complaints regarding them is the nausea they cause. Just thought you ought to know."

Arcturus got up from Cestoda's desk before he could reply and moved toward the insulated window that looked out over the barren, blue-lit hinterlands of Onuru Sigma. The outlying buildings of Camp Hastings huddled beneath the cobalt sky, and beyond the defensive turrets, icy tundra spread out for hundreds of miles toward escarpments of glaciers that towered kilometers into the sky.

The sealant around the glass was degrading and the sulfurous chill of the planet's arctic temperatures stole what little heat the convectors were generating.

Arcturus studied his reflection, his features rugged and handsome in the tinted glass. His cheeks were well defined and he now sported a neatly trimmed goatee around his full mouth. His eyes were as piercing as ever they were, though far older than any twenty-four-year-old man's eyes should be, and his dark hair was thick and black. He smiled as he saw he was the image of his father.

A younger, handsomer version of his father, of course.

Though virtually every UNN broadcast was filled with images of Angus Mengsk—the Madman of Korhal, they called him—it had been a long time since Arcturus had consciously thought of his father. Almost five years had passed since he had seen his family and though he had not passed a single word with his father, he kept in regular with his mother and Dorothy.

His sister had just turned eleven, an age that made Arcturus feel very old indeed. It seemed like only yesterday Little Dot had been born, but now her conversations over the vidfone were filled with talk of boys and parties and how she hated not being able to leave the house without an escort of soldiers. The trouble on Korhal was on the verge of getting completely out of hand, and the pundits agreed it was only a matter of time until martial law was declared.

Arcturus wasn't worried for his father, who had chosen to live such a dangerous life, but he fretted constantly for his mother and sister. He had once promised Dorothy he wouldn't let anything happen to her, and Feld's warning that their safety couldn't be guaranteed still echoed in his imagination.

He turned as he heard a chime from Cestoda's desk and smiled at the irritated glance that ghosted across the man's features as he listened to Fole's voice through his earpiece. Cestoda looked up and said. "Commander Fole will see you now."

The commanding officer of the 33rd Ground Assault Division was a short fireplug of a man with a short temper and a quick manner that left many of his fellow soldiers floundering in his wake. His salt-and-pepper hair was kept cropped close to his skull and his skin was tanned the color and texture of worn leather from the rays of a hundred different suns.

An unlit cigar was clamped between his teeth and he chewed a wad of tobacco, a habit he'd picked up while stationed along the outer rim and never saw fit to discard when he'd returned to more civilized space. His uniform was immaculately pressed and decorated with enough stars to fill a decent-sized planetarium.

Arcturus snapped to attention and saluted the commander, who returned the salute without looking up from the papers arranged haphazardly on his desk. Another officer, one with the rank badge of a captain pinned to his white uniform, stood at attention beside the commander.

This captain was broad-shouldered and wore the power of his rank like a threat. His features were arrogant, rugged, and pugnacious. Arcturus disliked him instantly.

He guessed the man was around forty, which made him old for a captain, and his physique was impressive for a man his age.

"Sit down, Captain," said Fole. "I have a job for you."

"Yes, sir," said Arcturus, taking the seat in front of Fole's desk.

"This here's Edmund Duke," said Fole, jerking a thumb in the direction of the man standing beside him. "A captain in Alpha Squadron. His outfit is heading out to the Noranda Glacier vespene mine and I want Dominion section to go with them."

Arcturus nodded. He'd heard of Alpha Squadron, who were supposedly the most efficient fighters in the Confederacy—which meant the most brutal—and whose motto was "First group in, first group out." They were nicknamed the Blood Hawks, which spoke volumes for Arcturus's assessment. "Yes, sir. What's the mission?"

"Convince the miners it'll be in their best interests to move on and leave the place to us. The Kel-Morians have been busy around this system and the brass thinks something big's in the wind, which they ain't too happy about. We're to keep a lid on things and make sure those damn pirates don't get too uppity. You know, the usual."

"The usual," said Arcturus wearily. If Fole heard his tone, he didn't comment on it, but Arcturus could see Duke bristling.

"If you have Alpha Squadron, why do you need Dominion section?"

"Orders from on high are to combine some of our active squads. I'm thinking of attaching your men to Alpha, so I want Duke to carry out an evaluation in the field, make sure everyone's up to scratch."

Arcturus was horrified al the idea of Dominion section's coming under the command of Edmund Duke. Though he had never met the man before, he instinctively knew he was an arrogant blowhard. As he looked at Duke's smirking face, he realized he recognized him.