She brought the blunt side of a Meursault in front of her eyes. The laser blasts to her face stopped but immediately resumed on a different part of her armor. However, it was better than nothing.

  She was just about to hold a lance out in front of her to ward off whatever was ramming her when she was tossed through the air yet again. This time she was ready and gathered her senses enough to roll over her shoulder as she landed so she ended up on her feet.

  Temple, it turned out, was some kind of alien she had never heard of or seen before. In her armor, Lancelot towered over a normal human. Temple was twice her height. His skin was dark grey and brown and the only clothes he wore were shorts and a vest. Every other part of him revealed skin that had some kind of naturally occurring thick shell around it. While he had two legs and two arms like a human, his proportions were out of skew. His feet were wide and flat like a table’s surface. His arms were long enough to almost touch the ground when he was standing upright, and they too were massive in width. Except for his small mouth and eyes, Temple’s face was also covered in a shell-like armor, and Lancelot guessed he got his name from the top of his head, where a series of small horns protruded in a spiral like an ancient temple.

  She had a preconceived notion of monsters such as the one in front of her either roaring or stomping the ground. It was a stereotype that Temple didn’t live up to. He wasted no time bellowing or trying to intimidate. Instead, he charged her again.

  “Stop,” she tried to say.

  Before she could, Temple was upon her and his own momentum drove him straight through both of her vibro lances.

  “No,” Thrice yelled, seeing his friend hurt.

  Lancelot de-ignited her lances. Not out of kindness but because it was the quickest way to get them back. As soon as she saw where Thrice was standing—easy to note because of the stream of laser blasts hitting her—she re-ignited one of the lances, reversed her grip on it, then used all of her strength to throw it like a javelin.

  Thrice was fast, but he wasn’t capable of the superhuman speed it would take to jump out of the way and to safety. The vibro lance tore threw his leg. When he tried to get back to his feet, the length of the energized lance scraped against the ground, sending sparks flying until it caught against the corner of the landing platform, ensuring he couldn’t get away.

  Lancelot strode across the deck, a sword pointed toward either of his blasters.

  “If you want to keep your hands, do not fire again.”

  Thrice obeyed the command. “You killed my co-pilot.” His grin was gone. In its place was a look of hatred. “Why?”

  It was an absurd question. Out amongst the stars, where space pirates preyed on everyone weaker than themselves, where gangsters and criminals tried anything and everything they could to rob, steal, and kill, Thrice already knew the answer. His problem was that he assumed the galaxy would get everyone else but not him. Until it did.

  Lancelot reached down and de-ignited the lance sticking through Thrice’s leg. With its handle back in its sleeve, she said, “You’re friend is still breathing. Get to your feet”—she extended a hand to help him up—“and get him some help. Your ship will be waiting for you on Sceptor-Major.” She considered something, then added, “Unless someone steals it before you get there.”

  The pilot hobbled over to Temple and put his arms around the monster’s neck. As Lancelot walked up the ramp, she saw the giant alien nod as Thrice spoke to it.

  The answer to Thrice’s question was simple. Why had she done what she did? Because someone had stolen her own vessel and it forced her into doing the same. She could have understood his outrage if he was a farmer living on a remote settlement. But he was a guy who, from his smile and confident walk, was familiar hanging around the sleaziest holes in the galaxy. He should have known his luck would run out eventually. It did for everyone.

  Soon, it would for Arc-Mi-Die.

  17

  For years, Hector had been master of his own domain. Any time he had a moral dilemma, either in the correct action to take or advice to give, he had been able to retreat into the introspective calm of his mind and determine what he should do. Recently, however, he was unsure of everything.

  In order for the Round Table to be created, he had agreed to fight in one final battle. In doing so, he had been responsible for the deaths of many soldiers, both on his side and the other side. It was something he had vowed to never again do but it had been for the greater good and so he did it. Almost immediately, however, the Round Table had changed from a perfect idea to a flawed reality. The representatives couldn’t agree on anything. One of the few times they did pass a motion, it was to send—over Hector’s opposition—the fleet off to threaten other planets to join them. Now, the people were clamoring for a general to rule over them after they had fought so hard to do away with kingdoms and empires. None of it made any sense.

  Portia could try to help him come to terms with everything, but his wife always saw the good in people. Rather than take a realistic stance, Portia gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Cash and Cimber were the exact opposite. The few times Hector had tried to get their opinions, he soon realized how little faith the two men had in those around them. Cash always predicted the worst. Cimber thought everyone in the galaxy was innately corrupted and capable of evil.

  No longer trusting his own ability to judge situations and people, not having a confidante who could be objective and balance themselves between optimism and pessimism, Hector found himself confiding more often in Pistol.

  “Do you ever miss Vere?” Hector asked, knowing what the answer would be.

  The android’s face remained unmoving except for his mouth. “I am incapable of missing someone.”

  “I’ll miss her enough for the both of us then,” Hector said, wishing he could ask her how to make the Round Table function the way she had envisioned.

  Typical of Pistol’s social programming, doing his best to provide the type of response that would be appreciated, he said, “If I could miss someone, she would be the person.” Then, for good measure, the humor setting trying to alleviate the downcast mood, added, “Certainly not Fastolf, that’s for sure.”

  In Hector’s backyard, he and the android were situated between a pair of fruit trees with ripe green orbs that were ready to pluck and eat. With the stars above them, Hector turned off his hover disk and allowed himself to lower toward the ground until he was laying on his back. With the intense light from his energy disk off, he could appreciate the brilliance of the night sky and the constellations. The view, of millions of tiny dots, allowed him to free his mind, reminded him how insignificant the problems of mortals were in the greater scheme of things. A couple feet away, Pistol remained standing, his eyes glowing faintly as he watched a small bug climb up his arm.

  Without taking his eyes away from the sky, Hector said, “Do you think Julian will accept a crown if it’s offered to him again?”

  A pin prick of light circled Pistol’s irises, a loop of yellow running around as he processed an answer based on the limited information available to him.

  “It is impossible to know for sure. History has shown that promises of power make people act out of their normal character. Of the one thousand, two hundred and sixty-seven instances I know of in recorded galactic history in which someone was offered power to rule, one thousand, two hundred and fifty-one of them eventually accepted.”

  Hector groaned and shook his head. This was where Portia would tell him that if anyone could beat those poor odds, it would be Julian. Of course, it was also where Cash and Cimber would say that ambition was a ladder that knew no limits, especially not for a career-minded general.

  The problem was that having any leader at all, well intentioned or not, was against what Vere wanted when she created the Round Table. She never would have permitted a single person to rule over the collective kingdoms that had unified under one banner.

  “The galaxy’s weight is too much for any one man to bear,” Hector said. “My soldiers didn’t die for one person to rule them. I didn’t lose my body for that.”

  Pistol’s eyes flashed as he tried to interpret the words into a working metaphor he could make sense of and reply to.

  “It’s getting late, sir. You should sleep.”

  Voiced by anyone else, Hector would assume it was the speaker who actually wanted to depart and get some rest. Knowing Pistol needed no sleep, Hector appreciated the concern.

  “I don’t sleep anymore,” Hector said. “How can I when all of this is happening?”

  Portia’s silhouette appeared at the doorway. She told him a group of representatives were there to see him.

  Hector pushed himself upright. “This late? Who?”

  “Cash, Cimber. A few others.”

  Pistol lowered the volume of his audio before asking if Hector would like him to remain there. Hector sighed and tapped a button on the edge of his belt. His energy disk burst into life, immediately lifting him upright and two feet off the ground.

  “That won’t be necessary, Pistol. Thank you, though.”

  “Good night, Hector.”

  “Good night, Pistol.” To Portia, he said, “Tell them they can come out here.”

  18

  It wasn’t the way Cash preferred to do things. He prided himself on being calculating, respectful, patient. To show up at Hector’s door when most people would be sleeping was a slight he would need to seek forgiveness for. Portia’s narrowed eyes and her curt tone as he entered their home had reminded him of how unusual his behavior was.

  “Thank you, Portia,” he said, offering a pained smile to let her know he appreciated the situation. “I promise we won’t be long.”

  He and Cash and the other two representatives they had brought walked through the main room and out the double doors that led to the backyard. There were no lights on, which made Hector’s energy disk resemble a spotlight.

  “I’m sorry, Hector,” he said. Turning, he saw Portia had already closed the door behind him. “But we need to talk.”

  “Who have you brought?” Hector said, not particularly welcoming.

  Cimber stepped closer so Hector could identify him. Each of the visitors were wearing hoods, which had also no doubt been part of the reason Portia’s greeting was cold. Hector’s as well.

  “And these two?” Hector asked, motioning to the other two men hidden behind robes in the darkness.

  “Better not to say right now,” Cash said.

  Hector’s tone changed, and Cash knew it was because the man didn’t want to be a part of anything that had to be secretive—or worse, treacherous.

  “Well, can you at least tell me if I know them?”

  “Of course. They are good men, like yourself. Like Cimber and I.” Seeing that Hector didn’t intend to reply, Cash continued, “Everyone will suffer under tyranny.”

  The war hero’s enormous shoulder’s tensed. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  Unperturbed, Cash said, “The four us have had an honest talk. The people may be glad to submit to oppression in the form of a crown, but we will not. We have sworn an oath to protect the Round Table. And we will carry out that oath—at any cost.”

  “Gentleman,” Hector said, leaning forward slightly so his energy disk moved him closer to them. His voice lowered. “You know me. You know I’ll do everything within my power to protect the Round Table. But the way you talk is...”

  “Necessary,” Cimber said.

  Hector sighed. “They offered him a crown and he refused three different times.”

  “His reputation grows by each day,” Cash said. “Everyone is talking about him possessing the Sword in the Stone. Most people are foolish enough to think it really is a sign that he is meant to lead the Round Table.”

  Hector shook his head.

  Cash reached out and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The people are calling him much more than general or ruler. Some are calling him king. Some call him Julian the CasterLan. I guess it’s only appropriate: he does have the CasterLan family blade. Some are calling him the rightful heir to everything Vere started.”

  “That’s ridiculous, she never—”

  “Regardless, all of them are saying he was meant to rule the Round Table.” When Hector didn’t say anything, only shook his head, Cash repeated, “I’m sorry, I know he’s your friend. But we have to do something.”

  19

  To get to Sceptor-Major, Lancelot had to fly through the main portal in the Plusodien Sector. To do that, she had to take Thrice’s ship, the Ronan, past the remnants of the Tantula-7 colony.

  “Not pretty is it?” a voice said from behind her.

  Being that she was unfamiliar with the ship and its controls and thought it likely that someone could have been hiding aboard the vessel, Lancelot jumped and spun.

  The woman with the brown robes, her face hidden, was standing in the doorway of the cockpit. Lancelot’s hands moved away from the handles of her Meursaults.

  “Can you please announce yourself next time?”

  Rather than answer, Lancelot’s guest stared at the immense destruction outside the ship.

  “What happened?” Lancelot said.

  “Arc-Mi-Die happened. He sent another Excalibur vessel here and it detonated, taking everything with it.”

  The woman reached a hand out and let it rest on the empty co-pilot’s seat. Lancelot turned and, to her surprise, saw human skin. It was healthy and smooth and cream colored. Part of Lancelot had always suspected that Mortimous and this woman, hidden beneath cloaks, were nothing more than skeletons covered by cloth and a hood.

  “You’re flesh and blood,” Lancelot said, almost asking.

  The woman’s smile was audible. “But also much more than that. All of us are.”

  “Will you teach me how you appear and disappear?”

  “All in due course,” the figure said. “First, you have to give up all worldly struggles. Only then will you have a chance to see them.”

  “Them?”

  “The Word, the beings that live outside of time and space. The closer one gets to living and thinking like Mortimous—understanding the few things that are truly important in the galaxy—the closer one gets to being like them. He learns from them. I learn from him. One day, you might learn from me.” The woman had an audible smile when she added, “The galaxy is a miraculous place.”

  “Says the person who just saw a colony destroyed for no good reason.”

  “That’s why you must kill Arc-Mi-Die.”

  The Ronan soared toward the portal. It was only a dot of light in the distance but Thrice’s ship was so fast that the ring of energy doubled in size within seconds.

  “Lady,” Lancelot said, her already cold tone resonating through the voice modulator of her helmet, “trust me, I’m working on it.” Then, the portal getting even larger, added, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m piloting a ship I’ve never been in before. I need to find out how to lower the tinder walls before I become space dust.”

  When she turned the next time, the figure was gone.

  20

  “I don’t understand,” Hector said, hovering backward so the closest tree was within arm’s reach and he could steady himself against it. “This has to be some sort of mistake.”

  “It’s no mistake,” Cimber said in a low growl. “He’s going to take over as emperor and the people are dumb enough to welcome him into the role.”

  “We have to act fast.” Cash said, stepping closer to Hector so he could keep his voice low. “His son is nearly as beloved as he is.”

  Hector squinted in confusion. “Talbot?”

  “If he outlives Julian, we’ll find ourselves with an Emperor Reiser, just not the one we planned for.”

  “This is crazy,” Hector said, holding both hands out to ward away the notions being put before him. “Julian is being welcomed home as a war hero. He happens to be the person in possession of the Meursault. You and I both know treasure seekers were exploring the old tunnels. It was a matter of time until someone found it. The important thing is he rejected the people’s plea when it was put before him.”

  He stared at the hooded men behind Cash, neither of them willing to show their faces as the group put forth grisly suggestions in the middle of the night. Tilting his energy disk forward, Hector moved in between the four representatives.

  “If the Round Table is in danger, I’ll be the first to eliminate that threat. I’m no butcher, though. And I know that as much as you, Cimber, and you, Cash, are worried, that you aren’t wrathful either.” He let out an exasperated breath. “And now Julian’s son as well? Are you all crazy? What you aren’t thinking of is the possibility that your act won’t sway people from wanting a leader—if that’s what they really want.” He groaned, not believing it could actually happen.

  “That’s why we have to kill Talbot as well,” one of the men in the shadows said.

  Hector flexed his arms. His neck bulged with vein and muscle. His voice low, he said, “If you come to my house and speak like that, at least have the guts to remove your hood and let me see who you are.”

  The representative who had spoken lowered his head and backed slightly away.

  “That’s what I thought,” Hector said. Then, to Cimber and Cash, “I’ll talk to Julian myself and see what’s he’s thinking.”

  Cash sucked air in between his teeth. “My friend, do you really think he would tell you if he was planning on taking a crown? He knows how you feel. I imagine he would hide it from you, of all people, as long as possible.”

  Cimber, his hands curled into fists and looking directly at Hector, said, “In the old days, you wouldn’t find out until the king or the emperor ordered men to round up anyone who could cause problems. That was how people like Julian let people know they were interested in ruling.”