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She leaves, squeezing Ragnar’s forearm as she passes. I didn’t know they were familiar. Ragnar follows along, hanging back like a hesitant shadow as Sevro and I speak on the way to the hangars.

“So it is done?” I ask Sevro.

He shrugs. “I sent it.”

“You spoke to him?”

“A holoNet dropCache,” he says. “I send a message. They get it. Hopefully.”

“You mean you don’t know if they got it?”

“How should I know? I said I sent it. Followed protocol.”

I curse quietly. He whistles that damn tune he sang Pliny. I swat at him. We turn a corner and pass six dozen Gray special ops troopers heading for the tubes at a jog. Six Obsidians follow behind them, opening their palms to Ragnar and me as signs of respect.

“You see what they were wearing? SlingBlades on their armor.” Sevro smirks over at me. “It spreads.”

“Have you thought about what happens if your father is down there?” I ask.

“No,” he says, losing his smile. “No, I haven’t.”

37

War

The forward hangar bay is massive. A giant cave in the belly of my ship crawling with men and women of all Colors. Six hundred meters in length. Along its left side are hundreds of spitTubes. Each row is accessed by a network of giant causeways where men in starShells can walk. Thousands stand ready to disperse, grouped according to legion.

The alarm for battle stations warbles throughout the ship. Orion’s voice rasps over the intercom. Beyond the hull, Roque, now the youngest fleet commander in a hundred years, will be breaking our armada into fleets to engage the Bellona over Mars. Squadrons of ripWings and wasps pour forth. Blues flying to their deaths. Gold squad leaders in their midst. All to carve a hole large enough for the leechCraft to swarm onto the enemy hulls

. Some Praetors hoard their soldiers to fight off enemy waves that make it aboard their ships. Others launch full attacks. It’s a gamble either way. Can’t think of it. Victra, Roque, and Orion have that responsibility. I have my own.

I pause, looking out at the hangar. “What if Ares isn’t real?” I ask quietly.

“What the hell you talking about?” Sevro asks.

“What if it’s just a Gold trick? Someone pulling strings to make Society go the way they need it to go. What if it’s all a lie?”

Sevro looks at me for a long moment, then he hops up on a banister and howls at the top of his lungs down at the hangar bay.

The bay howls back.

It comes from Grays. It comes from Obsidians. It comes from Oranges. It comes from Reds working on tubes. And it comes from the Golds who requested transfer to my ship.

“That’s no lie.”

And that’s when I see the standards of the legions fall, replaced with something new. Gone are the pyramids of the society. Gone are the laurel and the scepter and the sword and the book. Gone is Augustus’s lion. Instead, the high golden standards that the legions carry to battle are peaked with wolves and slingBlades.

These legions are mine.

I feel something buzzing in those around me. A sort of physical fanaticism. It did not buzz in the Golds quite like this. The Golds love me because of the victory and glory I bring. These other Colors love me for something far different, something far more potent. Any other conquering Gold would have vented the ship, but I did not because they chose me instead of the Golds who once were their masters. I gave them that choice.

Sevro grips my arm. “Do you understand that you must fight differently today?”

“I get it, Sevro.” I try to shake off his hand.

“You don’t.” He pulls me to look at him and shoos Ragnar back. “Every move you make today will be recorded and broadcast to every part of the Solar System. This battle is to make the fleet yours.” His voice drops to a harsh whisper. “The Sons will spread it. Jackal will spread it. House Augustus will spread it. Act like a god, get followed like a god. Register?”

“Win or lose, this is still Augustus’s fleet,” I say.