Read Hero! for Free Online Page A

build, the wrong color, black-haired, black-eyed. He had been the bastard son of the local madwoman. He had suffered abominably.
    At Doggoth he had been the mudslug, a contemptible, ignorant, incomprehensible peasant thrown in among the sons and daughters of the galactic aristocracy. They had considered that he spoke wrong, ate wrong, walked wrong, thought wrong. His mere existence among them had been inexplicable and inexcusable. They had despised him utterly, and done everything they could think of to drive him to despair and self-destruction.
    But the mudslug had proved to be smarter and stronger and tougher than any of them. He had surmounted every obstacle, triumphed in every contest, come first in every class. The officers had promoted nonentities over him, refused him recognition, treated him like garbage, done their worst on him—one of the many incidental skills he had gained was an ability to go without sleep for days at a time. His classmates had spurned him, cheated on him, mocked him, ignored him, insulted him. After his first dozen duels, he had begun attracting the suicides, and learned to maim instead of kill; after that he had been challenged less often. He had stubbornly refused to turn his gun on himself no matter how often that solution had been recommended, because the most important lesson he had learned at Doggoth was that he was better than anyone else at anything.
    That he had never forgotten.
    Recruits entered as frightened youngsters. The survivors emerged after six months or so as aristocrats in ensigns’ uniforms, ready to rule the world.
    Vaun had remained at Doggoth for five years, and never risen above the glorious rank of crewboy, second class. Had the Q ship Unity not arrived in the Ult system, he might be there still.
    He had certainly learned everything there was to know about automatic defenses and missile systems and electronic recognition signals.
    But he could think of nothing that would help him weasel his way into Forhil against Tham’s wishes.
    The Patrol had been perfecting its security systems for thirty thousand years.
     
    A S THE YELLOW of dawn began to contest with Angel’s cold blues for possession of the east, as the torch began its long descent from the ionosphere, Vaun’s thoughts drifted to Tham himself. Tham was a solid, dependable boy—reticent and secretive, but emphatically not the sort of nervy quitter who would jump into withdrawal without as much as a farewell com to his friends. His family was Patrol stock from time beyond measure—Vaun had heard him mention in passing that his ancestors had come from Elgith in the Golden Chariot with the holy Joshual Krantz. Of course, if everyone who made that claim was to be credited, then Golden Chariot had carried a crew of several billion, but when Tham said it, a boy believed.
    Tham had breeding, and more brains than most, and by definition toughness, for he had survived Doggoth. If he had a fault, it was that he was a nice guy—and nice guys never make the top. Early in his career, Tham had settled in as ComCom, chief of the Ultian Patrol’s Network Section, and he’d run it ever since, seeking nothing more.
    The Network Section handled interstellar communication. It should have been an important bureau in the Patrol’s organization, and the fact that it never had been showed just how much of a myth the Galactic Empire really was. Each planetary command ruled its own world in its own way, and for its own benefit, oblivious of what the others did.
    But if anyone knew what was really going on, it would be Tham.
    Tham had many friends, and Vaun felt entitled to include himself in that list. Tham was one of the very few high-ranking spacers who would treat Vaun as an equal—even now, after so long.
    They’d hunted together, drunk together, played together, even worked together, if you could rank Vaun’s public relations nonsense as work. Tham had visited Valhal innumerable times. It was less than six weeks since