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trouble they would never find.
    “Mouse,” Storm growled, stopping suddenly. “What the hell are you doing here?”
    “I sent for him,” Cassius replied in that cold metallic voice. Mouse shuddered. He was imagining it, of course, but Cassius sounded so deadly unemotional and lifeless . . . “I contacted my friends in Luna Command. They arranged it. The situation . . . ”
    “The situation is such that I don’t want him here, Cassius. He has a chance to go his own direction. For God’s sake, let him grab it. Too many of my children are caught in this trap already.”
    Cassius turned as Storm resumed walking. “Wait in my office. Mouse. I’ll bring him around.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Mouse began to feel what his father felt. An air of doom permeated the Fortress. A sense that great things were about to happen hung over them all. His father did not want him involved. Cassius thought he belonged. Mouse was shaken. A clash of wills between the two was inconceivable, yet his presence might precipitate one.
    How could the Fortress be in danger? Combat simulation models suggested that only Confederation Navy had the strength to crack it. His father and Cassius got along well with the distant government.
    Alone in the Colonel’s inner office he began to brood. He realized he was mimicking his father. And he could not stop.
    Was it Michael Dee?
    The foreboding was almost palpable.
     
----

Twelve: 2844 AD
    Costumed to the ears, wearing the heavy, silly square felt hat of a Family heir, Deeth stood beside his mother. Guests filed past the receiving line. The men touched his hands. The women bowed slightly. Pugh, the twelve-year-old heir of the Dharvon, honored him with a look that promised trouble later. In response Deeth intimidated the-ten-year-old sickly heir of the Sexon. The boy burst into tears. His parents became stiff with embarrassment.
    The Sexon were the only First Family with a presence on Prefactlas. They had the most image to uphold.
    Deeth recognized his error as his father gave him a look more promising than that of Dharvon w’Pugh.
    He was not contrite. Hanged for a penny, hanged for a pound. The Sexon kid would have a miserable visit.
    The evening followed a predictable course. The adults began drinking immediately. By suppertime they would be too far gone to appreciate the subtleties of his mother’s kitchen.
    The children were herded into an isolated wing of the greathouse where they could be kept out of the way and closely supervised. As always, the supervision broke down.
    The children shed their chaperones and got busy establishing a pecking order. Deeth was the youngest. He could intimidate no one but the Sexon heir.
    Sexon fortunes would decline when the boy assumed his patrimony.
    The Dharvon boy had a special hatred for Deeth. Pugh was strong but not bright. Only by malign perseverance did he corner his prey.
    Deeth refused to show it, but he was terrified. Pugh was not smart enough to know when to quit. He might do something that would force the adults to take official notice. Relations between the Dharvon and Norbon were strained enough. Further provocation could escalate into vendetta.
    The call to supper, like a god out of a machine, saved the situation.
    Why did his mother invite people with grudges against the Family? Why was a social slight less easily forgiven than a business beating?
    He decided to become the richest Sangaree of all time. Wealth made its own rules. He would change things around so they became sensible.
    Deeth found the meal unbearably formal and ritualistic.
    It was a dismal affair. The alcohol had had its effect. Instead of raising spirits and stirring camaraderie, it had eased restraints on the envy, jealousy, and tempers of the Families the Norbon were excluding from the Osirian market.
    Deeth struggled to keep smiling down that long table of sullen faces. The meal progressed lugubriously. The faces grew more antagonistic.
    During the desserts the senior