This hideaway was a particularly bleak refuge, thought Valerian, though it at least had the benefit of relative proximity to Umoja for covertly delivered supplies and a steady stream of news that wasn't weeks, if not months, out of date.

Valerian got up from his bed and stretched, thinking that perhaps he would go for a run, doing a few circuits of the orbital along its outer ring before returning to his medical digi-tomes of oncological research. Tethered in orbit above an inhospitable rock named Van Osten's Moon (despite the fact that it was not a moon, having nothing to orbit), Orbital 235 didn't even warrant a name, such were its remoteness and insignificance to anyone else.

He supposed he had only himself to blame for the tedium of the orbital: it was a destination he had picked from a list of suitable candidates after recognizing the name from an archaeological report penned by a Dr. Jacob Ramsey that Valerian had read two years ago. Ancient ruins had been discovered on Van Osten's Moon, and Orbital 235 had been shipped across space and converted from its original function as a base for mining operations to one of archaeological discovery.

The expedition had been abandoned due to lack of funding, and the ruins never fully explored, much to Dr. Ramsey's chagrin, from the frustrated tone of the report.

But Ramsey's loss had been Valerian's gain, and he had leapt at the chance to discover ruins that might be genuinely alien, having long ago discarded his collection of "fossils" unearthed in various gardens and riverbanks.

So far he'd made a single trip to the barren rock, a desolate craggy wasteland with the merest scrap of an atmosphere to its name, with an escort of soldiers to view the ruins.

The surface of Van Osten's Moon felt as though one were walking on something that ought to be a piece of something far larger, but where this intuition had come from, Valerian had no idea. The atmosphere was gritty and cold, like breathing in on a frozen winter's day. Though breathing apparatus was not required, the thin air made it all too easy to become light-headed and disorientated.

To avoid arousing the attention of the Confederate Exploration Corps, shipments of exploratory equipment were coming in piece by piece, and it would be some time before Valerian had assembled enough kit to begin a full examination of the ruins.

But what he had seen so far had been awesome in its breathtaking scale—"awesome" in the original sense of the word, as in "capable of producing awe, wonder, or admiration," not the watered-down colloquialism it had became, where a pair of new shoes could be called "awesome."

Perched on the edge of the world overlooking what might once have been an ancient seabed, the ruins towered over the mesas around them, spiraled nubs of broken-down towers and collapsed caverns that were too enormous and geometrically perfect to have been created by anything but an intelligent hand.

In everything Valerian saw, there was a curious fusion of the organic and the artificial: Weathered walls were laced with strange-looking alloys within the natural rock, and canyons, mountains, and caverns had been artfully engineered to their designers' needs. He found vast and airy caverns roofed by rounded, riblike vaults and curved tunnels that stretched deep into the surface of Van Osten's Moon.

Though he was glad the site had been left largely unexplored. Valerian had to wonder at the stupidity of the bureaucrats who had withheld funding for such a wondrous find.

The sense of scale and the seeming age of the site were astounding, the deterioration of the rock suggesting spans of lime more akin to geological ages rather than that of any time period comprehensible to humans.

Who had built the structures was a mystery, one that Valerian fell he could solve, had he but the resources and time. Though his father ensured that he and his mother were never short of money—the mineral find he had discovered just before their first meeting had turned out to be a seemingly never-ending source of funds, one that was now jealously guarded by a veritable army of soldiers, tanks, and goliaths—Valerian knew that time was against him.

With his father the most wanted man in the galaxy, it was only a matter of time until the hounds were snapping at their heels again and they were forced to move on. His mother's sickness had already forced him to halt his exploration of the alien ruins, but the actions of his father force him to leave them behind.

Either way, the end result was the same.

Valerian continued with his stretches, knowing that a hard run would work out some of his stress and anger toward his father. It was difficult to be angry with someone you hadn't seen for so long, but Valerian only had to think of his mother's condition and the familiar smoldering coal of his bitterness would flare into life once more.

A nervous knock came at the door to his room and he said. "Come in, Charles."

The door opened and a young man, only a few years older than Valerian, entered the room. He was dressed in an immaculately cut suit and his head was crowned with a shock of wild red hair that seemed at odds with the blandness of his features.

Charles Whittler had become part of their roving band of fugitives a year ago, an aide, servant, equerry, and general manservant who had arrived at the instruction of his father. Valerian was sure Whittler was reporting to his father, but what was not so clear was why.

Valerian played dumb, but for all that he did not trust Whittler: the man was a capable valet who attended to Valerian's needs with alacrity and competence.

“Good morning, sir," said Whittler. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all," said Valerian. “I was just about to go for a run."

“Ah, then I fear 1 may have come with a summons that might inconvenience you."

"What is it?"

"Your mother asks to speak with you," said Whittler.

Valerian made his way along the steel-walled corridors of the orbital, the fluorescent strips set into the ceiling and walls bleaching everything of life and color. It had once been a mining installation, and on such a facility visibility was more important than aesthetics, a concept Valerian could understand, even if he didn't subscribe to it.

Everything on board Orbital 235 was simple and functional, as was to be expected where space was at a premium and burly, largely unskilled men were expected to spend great deal of their time.

The air had a dry, recycled quality to it, and Valerian found himself wishing for the hundredth time to be back on Umoja, with its scented air and copper skies. He walked at a brisk pace, his body now in the throes of its teenage development and changing dally.

He was still handsome to the point of beauty, his skin flawless and his hair golden. His features were in transition from boy to man, but he could already visualize the form they were going to take and knew they would be perfect.

Whittler walked alongside him, his legs seeming to move at twice the speed of Valerian's just to keep up with him. He was slender and apparently fit, but there was little vigor to the man, a trait Valerian was blessed with in abundance.

"How was she when you spoke to her?" asked Valerian.

"Much the same, sir. Though there was a certain animation to her today."

"Really? That's good. Any idea why?"

"No, sir," replied Whittler. "Though she did receive a communique from her father."

"How do you know who it came from, Charles?" asked Valerian. "Did you look at it first?"

"I most certainly did not," replied Whittler. "The very idea! Your grandfather always sends a communication at the beginning of the month. It is the beginning of the month: ergo, it is from your grandfather."

"Beginning of what month? We're in space, Charles."