Prologue: The Commander's Office

He sat in the recruiter's office, staring at the pin-neat desk, taking note of each of the items on it. A light pad. A stylus. A nameplate reading Cmdr. R. J. Novak--that last was a whimsical touch that wasn't really necessary. Anyone who came here would already know exactly who and what they were dealing with. The inclusion of the nameplate was meant to make the office more comfortable, to soften the slate-hard face of the Alliance commander as he strode into the room, steps long and decisive, then sat at desk, arms folded.

Keats wasn't fooled, but he didn't care. Hard was what he'd signed up for. War was hard. It didn't wear a nametag.

"Gabriel Keats." A pause. "I reviewed your records," the commander said finally, shuffling a few papers that he held in his hands. "Fine student; your focus was in the literary and dramatic arts. No real interest in the physical education program, though you don't appear to be in terrible shape. " He gave Keats a once-over. "You'd think you'd would go on to further their education. . .but, then, there is a war on. . .

"Normally I'd send a boy like you right to the front lines. No hesitation. But you're different. And you know why?" The commander said, voice both silky and stern; he was a real operator. He didn't wait for Keats to answer. "You're from Persephone, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Persephone's sided with the Indepedents, Keats. So you'll understand why your appearance here would disturb me." Keats could almost feel the smooth tones of the commander's voice. It didn't command obediece--it coaxed it out, nutured it with a warm tenor. He wasn't unreasonable; he was just concerned. He was on your side.

Keats liked him. He suspected everyone liked him.

"I, um, grew up in Bernadette. My dad. . .he shipped me out to my uncle's when the war started. He's serving on the Dortmunder. My dad, I mean."

"I know where he is," the commander said, voice now hard, matching his face with an abruptness that made Keats flinch. "I also know that you told your uncle, and everyone on Persephone, that you were leaving to join the other side."

"I had to!" Keats said, the emotion and nervousness in his voice betraying his young age. He took a deep breath and composed himself. "If I'd told them, my uncle would've stopped me. I don't like Persephone, sir, and if they want to make all the worlds like that, I don't want any part in it." His clenched fists trembled; though he'd been questioned this harshly before by his father, it still made him mad. But that was okay. He'd be the best damned soldier in the fleet, and then they'd stop. He'd be behind the decorative nameplace. He'd be the one standing in pictures with his father. . .

. . .he stopped mid-thought. The commander was smiling at him; the hard face seemed to melt into an expression of good will, of happy surprise. Keats knew that this was either a very good sign. . .or a very bad sign.

"So what you're saying is that everyone you know on Persephone thinks you're off to join the Independents."

"Yes, sir."

"And they'd never suspect that you'd have come here."

"No, sir; I kept my politics to myself, like my father taught me."

"Like your father taught you." The commander chuckled good-naturedly, and extended his hand. "Keats, I do believe I have a job for you."

Keats smiled--the earnest look made him seem even younger, sixteen or so, not an adult yet. He took the commanders hand, shaking it. "Whatever you have, sir, I'd be proud to do it."

"You misunderstand," the commander said, a sly smile crossing his face. "You won't be proud. But you'll do it, and you'll do it right."