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up. That thought had crossed Zhoh’s mind, that Rangha might have called him to his death. His wife’s father wanted him dead. He dropped that thought from his mind, knowing that he shouldn’t even have considered that.
    At least, he shouldn’t have had to allow distractions along those lines. Yet here he was, on this blighted planet with no real chance of war glory ahead of him.
    Zhoh also knew the installation was larger than he’d imagined earlier. A lot of resources had gone into the construction.
    Angrily, he wondered if it was all a waste. The commanding officer in charge of the Phrenorian army on Makaum wasn’t known for his abilities in the field. General Rangha wasn’t even a blooded warrior.
    Finally the lift doors opened onto another hallway that was narrower than the one above. A dozen warriors stood on guard along the way. They wore particle beam rifles and pistols and patimongs , and dressed in raintai, the ceremonial armor of warriors who guarded the Phrenorian primes.
    The distinctive armor was constructed from a spyrl’s blood-­kin warriors fallen in a victorious battle, symbolic of the glory their forebears had won. The armor pieces were all deep purple and blue, thick layers of chitin processed with sul’kala oil made from the apodemes that attached a Phrenorian’s muscles to his exoskeleton and made him stronger.
    Zhoh struggled to keep his anger and contempt under control. As a general recognized by the primes, Rangha could choose to have his private guards wear the armor, but doing so could be to honor the warriors that had pledged to lay down their lives before their general’s. Or such a show could be considered boastful.
    Zhoh considered the present choice as boastful. General Rangha had achieved his rank through privilege from the Empire based on his bloodline. Sometime in the distant past, one of Rangha’s ancestors had been a hero to the Phrenorians, a warrior who had made a name for himself in battle against harsh odds. His descendants had been partitioned out of dangerous ser­vice to continue breeding strong warriors.
    That way of thinking was changing these days. Defeating the Terrans was proving to be more difficult than the Empire had at first believed. Warriors died quickly in battle against the Terrans. Although the humans were more fragile with their soft bodies and thin bones, they did not quit or turn away from a fight. Zhoh would never respect the Terrans because there remained so much weakness in them, but he would acknowledge their ferocity and dedication to battle.
    If the war against the Terrans was to be won quickly, Phrenoria needed to bring out their best warriors now. Zhoh had championed that line of rationale for the last six years, until the time Sxia, his wife, had delivered their malformed brood only months ago.
    That old anger settled in over the new and Zhoh got control of himself as he walked at the lieutenant’s side. Their footsteps echoed in the hallway. One day Sxia would pay for her betrayal, and her father would bleed for the political favors he had pulled in to salvage his daughter’s future and bury her genetic defects. She would never again have a brood. That had been taken from her, and blame for that had also been placed at Zhoh’s feet.
    Zhoh would have no other wife, and there would be no children to carry on his name so that he would be forever remembered. His present hadn’t been the only thing that had been taken from him. His future had been stripped away as well.
    None of the guards looked directly at Zhoh, but they all took notice of him. Some tightened their grips on their weapons, but not enough to be offensive about it. He was a renowned warrior, one who had killed hundreds of his opponents, and no few in personal combat. They were wise to be wary of him. Zhoh took a shadow of satisfaction at that.
    Sibed stopped in front of an inset door. Massive hinges on the side gave an