Ailin Pasteur approached and guided Valerian back to his mother. He took the seat opposite Arcturus and said. "Whatever you plan to do next, I can promise you that you'll have the support of Umoja."

"Like my father did?" said Arcturus bitterly.

"More than that,” said Pasteur. "Arcturus, I've just come from an emergency sitting of the Ruling Council, and in the wake of the Kel-Morians' defeat. Councilor Jorgensen has announced the formation of the Umojan Protectorate. It will be an organization to keep our colony free from Confederate tyranny, to resist their expansionist policies and offer a safe haven to those who stand for freedom."

"Very noble of you," said Arcturus. "If a little belated."

“You might be right," admitted Pasteur, "but it's a start."

"A start...." said Arcturus, staring into the crackling fire. "Yes, a start."

A sudden, terrible thought lanced into Arcturus's brain with the force of an Impaler spike, and he looked over at Valerian and Juliana. Fear clenched in his guts and took the breath from him.

"Whal is it?" said Pasteur, seeing the urgency in his eyes.

"Juliana...you and Valerian have to leave," said Arcturus, rising to his feet. "Right now."

"What? I don't understand, what are you talking about?"

"They know," said Arcturus, pacing the room, his thoughts crashing together like a convoy of groundcars rear-ending one another. “Or if they don't yet, they will soon."

"Slow down, Arcturus," said Pasteur. "Who knows what?"

"The Confederacy," snapped Arcturus. "The message I sent to my family about Valerian. If they're good enough to defeat Feld's security systems without breaking a sweat, then it's a mathematical certainly they know where I am and that I have a son. We're loose ends, and the Confederacy doesn't like loose ends when it comes to murder."

"You think they'd come here? To Umoja?" said Juliana, holding Valerian even tighter.

Arcturus laughed, the sound hollow and coming from the bleakest, emptiest part of his soul. "Don't think for a moment they won't. They will do whatever it takes to destroy their enemies. You have to get out of here and stay on the move or they'll find you. And that can't be allowed to happen."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Pasteur. "We are well protected here."

"Ridiculous?" said Arcturus. "If my family's killers can penetrate the Skyspire's security, they will simply walk in here and kill you all in a heartbeat. No, the only way to evade people like that is to not be here when they come for you.”

"He's right, Daddy; we need to go," said Juliana, her voice brittle with fear, though Arcturus knew that fear was for Valerian and not herself. "I won't let anything happen to Val."

Pasteur hesitated and then nodded reluctantly. "I'll have a ship here within the hour."

"Stay on the move," warned Arcturus. "Don't stay in any one place too long."

"You're not coming with us?" said Juliana.

"No," said Arcturus. "They don't know it yet, but the Confederacy has just created the greatest enemy they will ever know."

"Whay are you going to do?" asked Pasteur.

"I'm going to burn the Confederacy to the ground," hissed Arcturus.

CHAPTER 15

THE SWORD CAME AT HIM IN AN ARCING LINE of silver and Valerian twisted his wrists to bring his own weapon up to block. The blades connected with a shriek of steel and he spun from the reverse stroke as Master Miyamoto's sword darted forward. Valerian's sword came down, deflecting the stroke as he backed away from the relentless attack.

Sweat ran down his face in runnels and his breathing came in short, sharp gasps. In contrast, Master Miyamoto looked as serene and unflappable as he always did, no matter whether he was pouring tea or executing flawless sword movements.

Dressed in a simple cream-colored keikogi and hakama, Master Miyamoto was as unreadable as ever, no trace of expression betraying his intended movements in this dangerous ballet called a sword bout.

Valerian wore identical training clothes, though tailored for his smaller, nine-year-old frame, which had finally begun to fill out as he grew older and took more exercise. He was still slender and ascetic-looking, but the last two years had seen his shoulders and arms begin to strengthen and offer promising hints of the man he might become.

They were alone in the garden: Master Miyamoto allowed no one to observe their training, not even Valerian's mother. Roughly built walls of high stone enclosed the garden, a rectangular courtyard of gently swaying plants, freshly tended herb patches—and a slate-paved sparring area next to the eastern wall.

A fountain gurgled peacefully in the center of the garden and the cold air was thin, scented with the earthy smell of ripe crops. This region of Icarus IV always smelled, due to the loamy richness of the soil that made it such a fertile world for agriculture, and the faint yet unmistakable hint of chemical fertilizer.

Birds perched on the high walls, the only spectators able to observe Valerian's grueling training rituals, and their twittering conversations were like a chorus of amused theatergoers enjoying a boy's humiliation at the hands of a fencing master.

"What is the meaning of victory?" said Miyamoto, slowly lifting his sword up and back.

"To defeat your enemy," said Valerian, circling as Master Miyamoto slid sideways.

"No," said Miyamoto, launching a lightning-fast thrust toward Valerian. "That is not enough."

Valerian averted the attack, his speed impressive, and slashed his sword at his trainer's side. His blade struck empty air and he realized he'd been lured into the attack as the flat of Master Miyamoto's blade struck him painfully on the bleep.

"Then what is it?" he yelped. Every time he failed to answer a question correctly, Valerian received a slinging rebuke from Master Miyamoto's weapon.

"It is to destroy him," said Master Miyamoto. "To eradicate him from living memory. You must leave no remnant of his endeavors. Utterly crush his every achievement and remove from all record his every trace of existence. From such defeat no enemy can ever recover."

Master Miyamoto's sword looped around his body in a series of perfectly executed maneuvers that, had Valerian attempted them, would have seen him limbless, earless, and dead.

"That," said Master Miyamoto, "is the meaning of victory. You would know this if you had paid attention to the books on your father's reading list. Or the one I gave you."

"I read that one," said Valerian, returning to the guard position and bowing to Master Miyamoto.

"Not closely enough. Again."

Valerian nodded and once more dropped into the еn garde position, his long blade extended before him. After three hours of training with Master Miyamoto, Valerian's arms burned with fatigue and his chest felt as though a fire had been set in his lungs.

Master Miyamoto returned Valerian's bow and the two of them circled one another, their swords shining in the afternoon sun.

"The enemy comes at you in a great horde," said Master Miyamoto. "How do you fight?"

Valerian cast his mind back to the text his tutor was referencing. It was a treatise recovered from the data vaults of the Reagan, the supercarrier that had brought the colonists to Umoja. Supposedly written by an ancient warrior king of Earth, its words were instructions in the arts of war, diplomacy, and personal discipline.

The book had no official title, but Master Miyamoto called it The Book of Virtues, and seemed to know its text verbatim. Valerian had read the book, as it was high on the list of approved texts his father had set him, but he found it difficult to recall its teachings while trying to avoid a stinging slap from the flat of Master Miyamoto's blade.

"Quickly," said Master Miyamoto, his sword raised to strike. "Do not think. Know!"