Pride was a Flaw. He knew this, but he also knew that emotions were a natural product of the chemicals in his body. Discipline could dull emotion but not remove it. And it was logical to feel pride at a time like this. Evolution would create some reward for being an attentive father, and the most common tool of evolution was biochemistry.

He smiled, barely. His kind did not smile often. But, looking at his new daughter and his wife, he allowed himself a small indulgence. His wife was strong. His daughter would be strong as well, he was certain.

His wife glanced up at him for a second before being drawn back to her child. In that brief moment, he sensed the same pride and discipline, a mirror of his own thoughts. His wife was an excellent warrior, but she too was imperfect. No one was without Flaws, else they'd not be here.

He permitted one more instant of weakness, and then clamped down hard. Just because all were Flawed did not mean you gave up easily. "Has her number been recorded?"

The Records attendant nodded. "Six Seven Eight Three Oh One Nine Seven Two. Born healthy and alert." The number was a combination of the date and a small permutation of her parent's numbers, the sole pretense at "naming" a child, and the only way to guess who had given birth to her, once she was Weaned.

"Very well. Bring the training clubs." His wife, Three-two, took a long breath, savoring the child for one last moment. It was somewhat harder for mothers, he knew. But she was strong. Three-two looked up at him with nothing but steel in her eyes, and nodded.

The attendant quickly returned with a dull black rectagular case somewhat larger than her forearm. She laid it upon the cold, grey, featureless table and spread its two halves open to reveal a red velvet interior, a sudden intrusion of color in the room. Within two depressions lay the training clubs. The light reflected lazily from their lacquered surfaces, revealing small ridges and grooves.

He reached inside and removed the clubs without hesitating, even as the numbing cold reached him through his thick, leathery skin. His own clubs were several orders of magnitude more painful to handle.

His wife held Seven-two's hands toward him, arms straight. Even in this somewhat awkward pose, his daughter remained silent, her eyes searching his face holding nothing but trust. A faint smile brushed her lips.

Trust was a Flaw. This was the first step to removing that Flaw, before it took root and blossomed into lethal Codependance. It would go far toward removing her beautiful smile, too, he thought with a touch of regret. But it Must Be So. To foster a Flaw was to foster Weakness. No greater sin could there be.

He extended the clubs and, with his wife's help, folded Seven-two's hands around them. She inhaled sharply, eyes widening in suprise and alarm, and then began to howl. Tears quickly streamed down her face as she struggled weakly to remove her hands from her father's grip. No tears formed on her parents' faces to match her own. Their tears had been abandoned long ago, during their own Weanings. Alongside her wailing, Seven-two's parents began to recite the Scriptures, chanting in unison. Seven-two paid no attention, but she would learn them in time. She had an entire lifetime of Training and Testing ahead of her.

"Pacifism is a tool of Weakness. Weakness seeks always to propagate. In many shadows does it hide, in many forms does it seek to disguise itself..."

Bae-Tiss roared. The various wall hangings, shelves, and ornaments shook violently. Even the structural supports of the bedroom seemed to tremble at the terrific din. Small hriss-den servants ducked their heads and scurried about, hiding in corners and under the large table, shoving and tripping each other in their panic, their long-bred instinct to avoid the sources of such terrible sounds overriding any intelligence they might still have.

An that's as it should be, Hral-Tor thought with a smile. The weak tremble when the strong are angry.

An irreplaceable Karin vase vibrated itself from its pedestal and shattered on the floor. A fine dust hung in the air like the departing spirit of the vase on its way to Hell. Several of the hriss-den moaned and covered their heads with their long, flapping hands. They would be held responsible for the destruction, unless the joyous occasion heralded pardons. It had been known to happen.

It really was a shame about the vase, whose creators had all perished a thousand years ago when the Span-Ti had obliterated the Karin homeworld and exterminated the few remaining slaves, a typical happening during the reign of Sy-Tan IX, forever may his name be cursed. Typical, and wasteful. The Karins had been excellent craftsmen and would have made wonderful servants. Sy-Tan had been known for his short-sightedness as well as his psychotic rages.

But the vase was not all that important. A new Span-Ti Warlord was being born. Hral-Tor was a father! No vase could be as impossible to replace as a son. Perhaps he would gather the Horde for a Raid and acquire some new artifacts and servants, in celbration of the event.

Bae-Tiss howled and thrashed in her blankets, throwing shredded bits of cloth to the floor. The bowl of water by her head went crashing down as well, skidding to a halt just a few inches from Hral-Tor's left foreleg. Only the bowl's dolemn-hardened construction saved it from the fate of the vase. Hral-Tor kicked the bowl into the cluster of huddled servants under the table, and smiled to hear some cries of pain. His eyes never left his wife, though. It was of no more importance to him which hriss-den had been struck than which would be punished for the vase. The bowl gave him a moment's thought, though, in the midst of all the chaos. Warlords were most often inspired to peotry during battle, he knew well.

The bowl is simple and dull, yet it survives a mighty blow while the vase shatters under nothing more than its own weight. An that's as it should be. The simple warrior survives, the graceful artist is slain. That's nature's law. The only true law.

He shook his head. Poetry might strike some Warlords, but Hral-Tor was more likely to do no better than simple ironic thoughts. Better to concentrate on his wife. Bae-Tiss arched her back almost an forearm's length from the mattress and flailed her arms in an attempt to find something, anything to destroy. Thick, sharp claws cut grooves into the floor and threatened to rend the flesh of her midwife. Tsala-Ha silently avoided the danger with a practiced ease, attempting to hold Bae-Tiss to the mattress. Tsala-Ha had been with the family for several generations and was as used to this as anyone could be. She had delivered Hral-Tor himself, long ago. His own mother had been even stronger than Bae-Tiss, though not so tempermental.

He looked into Bae-Tiss's eyes and grinned, revealing one of the most fearsome sets of teeth ever encountered in half a galaxy's ravagings. The teeth of a Span-Ti never stopped growing, from the day one was born to the day one died. Hral-Tor's teeth were famous for their length and number even among Span-Ti, for he had lived a long time, victor in more battles than any living Warlord.

"You think this is funny, you bastard son of a tran-fucking whore? When I get out of this bed, I'll show you how pleasurable it is to have your offspring forced through your groin! I'll...Rhhrraaagh!"

Hral-Tor just smiled even wider. While his wife was quite capable of carrying out her threat, he guessed her mood would improve substantially once the birthing was done. And if not...no day was complete without violence, and to kill or be killed by one's own wife was a day-to-day possibility for most Span-Ti. An that's as it should be.

Suddenly, Tsala-Ha bent forward and obscured his wife's body from him, and Bae-Tiss began one long, high howl, like a mourning hriss-den, or a bat'ia in heat. Her muscles tightened until only her head and hind-feet were touching the mattress. As her cry reached its crescendo, her right hand shot forth and pierced Tsala-Ha's chest with a loud scrunching sound. The wetnurse's eyes widened and she choked out a small black stream of blood. Suddenly the room was still. Bae-Tiss panted and wheezed, small sounds in comparison to the earlier cacaphony.

Tsala-Ha turned slowly to face her lord and whispered, "Great and Mighty Hral-Tor, whose footsteps shake the ground, your son has entered the world. My death can only hint at his greatness. Be proud, for he will wade in the blood of more enemies even than you have slain. His name shall be Oh-Den."

Her form crumpled to the ground, and Hral-Tor beheld his firstborn son amidst faint sounds of choking and gasping. Oh-Den cried, and though his voice was small after that of his mother, the room seemed to shiver once again.

A soft white light filled every corner of the room, silent aside from the faint hum of machinery and quiet breathing. Holographic projectors displayed a pristine scenario on every wall, each one carefully designed to produce an optimum calming effect on the current occupants of the room.

Beth stirred weakly in her bed. Some patients had to be restrained by the thick alloy straps, little different from manacles, hanging from the bed in testimony to the terrible energy some prospective mothers still possessed during childbirth. Beth's condition, however, was the rule rather than the exception. The thin synthetic blanket covering her body was enough to restrict her movement. She attempted to cry out in pain, but her lungs produced only a whimper.

Beth slid her eyelids closed and inhaled slowly. A fragrance drifted lethargically through the room, almost imperceptible. Like the holograms, it was intended to soothe patients, but it seemed...heavy...filling her nostrils and settling into her lungs whatever her will, clinging to her like film, pressing down on her. She coughed once, a tiny sound. It caused more pain than relief, and Beth moaned once, a prayer for release.

Immediately a small monitor arrived at her side and began taking readings from the electronic equipment surrounding her bed. "The time has come", it spoke in a voice just warm enough to seem human. "Your child is ready."

Beth moaned softly and shifted again. The blanket was smothering her, crushing her body. She longed to be free, free of this room, free of the child inside her. He had been extremely reluctant to leave her body, but in the end technology had prevailed, as it usually did. A complicated treatment of chemicals and physical stimulation was standard procedure for childbirth these days; Beth really couldn't be bothered to remember the details.

The birth was unextraordinary. Machines kept the child alive, pumping fluids, filtering breath, monitoring signs, manipulating muscles and joints. It would be months before he would be large enough to leave the special environment provided for him, but Beth would need almost as long to recover anyway. Beth sighed, longing for physical contact with her son, and her husband. It was very improper of Azzie not to be here when she needed him, but she had almost expected it of him. Unlike Beth, Azzie was always the exception to the rule. He constantly seemed to introduce chaos into their lives, determined to keep the peaceful nature of humanity from their lives. Depending on her mood, his knack for disorder could either repel or attract her. Right now, it was too irritating to dwell on. No use in creating further strife. Azzie makes enough for us all.

Beth drifted gradually into a dreamless slumber with a faint smile pressing her lips into a curve. She wondered idly whether her son, Micheal, would be like his father.

Chapter 1