By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE- out of TIME.

—From Dreamland, Edgar Allan Poe, 1844, OEE

Prince Morgan Valori was locked hand-to-hand in personal combat, and the last thing the Third Heir wanted was to go down in front of his two older brothers. Both combatants stood within a circle barely large enough to stretch from one of their outstretched fingers to the other, and forcing the other down to the floor or out of the ring –without, of course, stepping out himself– was the object of the competition; similar to Ancient Old Empire Earth Eastasian Sumo, but in a much smaller ring, and played by much healthier men. The young prince’s brothers stood witness to the round, but were no help whatsoever. Morgan didn’t expect their actual help, but they didn’t have to enjoy his humiliation so!

Crown Prince Alexander snickered, “He’s only using one arm, Morgan!”

Ohy-ga Morgan,” Damson piped in, using the Celtic term for ’young boy’ to further goad his brother.

Don’t react, Morgan, he told himself, just don’t. They are trying to infuriate you, throw you off your concentration. Don’t let them win. And for pride’s sake don’t let your old uncle win, either!

The sounds of their laughter, as well as the sounds of the opponents’ feet slamming the springy wood floor whenever one or the other was forced back a step, echoed off the wooden walls of the Valori Family Royal Dojo. When Morgan was last in here—as well as most of the times he’d been in this room whilst growing up—he had a sword in his hand. However, decorum decreed it to be bad form for anyone to point sharp steel at the Heir Apparent, so today they met to practice standing wrestling so that all three princes could participate. It was the first time in nearly three years Morgan had seen both of his older brothers at the same time. An hour before, Morgan had stepped off his Uncle Crispin’s “diplomatic” transport, The Xanthippe, having returned from accompanying his uncle on a diplomatic mission. Alex had arranged for his youngest brother to go along, on what was supposed to be an uneventful trip. It had turned out to have been anything but uneventful.

How was Uncle Crispin so easily overpowering him? How could a seventy-year-old man with one working arm –and one over-powerful titanium limb hanging useless now–, dressed like a pansy in an eighteenth-century British navy officer’s uniform, not fall to the perfection of the twenty-one-year-old’s youth and vigor?

Morgan had to admit the Steel Duke did strike an imposing figure, despite his ridiculous outfit. Steel-gray hair topped a strong skull which stood a half-a-head taller than the Prince, and Morgan himself was no gnome! Chromed titanium plate covered a quarter of the remainder of the duke’s body as well. It completely composed his left arm, which the Duke had disabled before the match out of fairness.

“Morgan,” Damson laughed. “You out-rank Uncle Crispin in the Royal line...why not simply order him to yield?”

The heir apparent laughed, and Morgan became furious. How dare they mock him so? Simply because they were older? His entire life he’d been cast in the role of Third, last, less important, and he resented it. Morgan felt the Celtic rage blossom from his depths, as he pushed with all his might against his uncle’s one natural arm and chest. Fire seemed to ignite within his solar-plexus, burn right up his core, and erupt behind his eyes.

Morgan blinked.

When Morgan opened his eyes, he was behind his opponent, and his uncle fell to the dojo floor with a startled curse.

“What the Hell, Morgan?” Alexander piped up, not laughing anymore. “You can’t win, so you decide to cheat? And against your own uncle?”

“I didn’t cheat!” Morgan insisted, still in shock from finding himself behind his opponent, wondering if he’d blacked out for a moment.

“I would never accuse you of such, young Morgan,” his uncle called from the floor, “but I could not fail to notice you’re no longer standing before your valiant opponent.”

Alex observed, "I admit, I missed what you did there, but you had to have stepped out of the ring in order to end up behind him, Morgan...you lose.”

“The point,” Damson—his red-headed middle brother—informed Morgan, “is to force the other guy onto his back, Morgan. Stepping out isn’t cheating: it’s surrendering. You stepped out from before him, out of the circle.”

“I don’t cheat, and I never surrender!” Morgan tried to sound emphatic…but the truth was, he wasn’t certain himself what had happened.

“Granted, it was fast, Morgan,” Alex said, “but obviously, you must have used one of your fancy sword-fighting moves to spin behind him. Uncle Crispin didn’t fall through you, after all!”

Had he taken the step? Had his body done—of its own accord—what his mind refused to allow it to do?

Morgan cooled, depleted. “Fine, ah-kone oh!” The Gaelic version of ’touché’. “Match to Duke Crispin.” Morgan reached down to his uncle, still on the floor, offering his hand. “Even if I do have to help him off the floor!”

“Ha!” Duke Crispin released. “I may be old as the Nebulae, but even with my metal arm disabled, I can still take a pup like you, young Morgan!”

Nevertheless, his uncle accepted the hand graciously, and let Morgan help him stand. Duke Crispin smiled warmly at the youngest of the Valori princes, but Morgan noticed he did it when he was sure the older two couldn’t see his face. How well his favorite uncle knew him, he thought.

“Well, well.” Alex said, “That trip mother sent you on with the Steel Duke here, must have been a joy!” Alex commented sarcastically.

At that remark, Morgan and Crispin exchanged another secret look.

“And right after you finally escaped your forced servitude with the Star Knight as well.”

"I didn’t spend three years serving Admiral Orionis’ coffee, brother," Morgan insisted. "You might have heard of my many successes in hunting Black Dragon Clan pirates whilst aboard his rail cruiser."

"Oh, yes, you’ve taken quite a few pirate heads, haven’t you, Morgan?" Damson agreed. "Also tried taking the head of at least one of your Star Gladiator competitors, a very dangerous pretty young socialite, as I recall."

"Kyrie Saturai? Ha." Morgan laughed at that. "She’s older than me, and more dangerous than you seem to comprehend. I am also not entirely convinced her Phoenix Corp is innocent of aiding Black Dragon scum in their marauding efforts.

"In fact, I am on the trail of one more interesting case. Potentially, a Black Dragon pirate right here on Alaria!"

"One who escaped the Marches father called, and has been hiding in the shadows these thirty years since? What, are they spying on senior-citizen pai gow games in Atlantea?" Alex mocked.

The Duke, conspicuously over the age of sixty, coughed meaningfully.

"No, in fact, a spy planted by the Dragons, within the last decade," Morgan responded.

"Well, that’s unacceptable." Now he had Alex’s serious attention.

Damson said, frowned. "It’s bloody ridiculous, is what it is."

"Wait, wait, Dams." Alexander waved for Damson to back off. "Morgan, where does this lead come from?"

"Intercepted laser-com traffic, believed to be one Dragon raider trying to track down another Dragon agent...one right here on Alaria."

"Why was it ’believed to be’ a Dragon message?"

"Because it was encoded in a long-since cracked Dragon Clan code."

"Why would they use an old code?"

"They may have thought the intended recipient lacked the newer clan code."

Alex was fascinated, "What was the message?"

"Only two words: Dragon Spawn."

"Sounds like a hoax to me." Damson seemed to want back in the conversation.

"Really?" Morgan replied.

"Sure, some bored kid from a minor house, serving out his house’s pledged years in the Sentinel force, having a bit o’ fun."

The Duke was pulling his jacket on. "Because that’s what you would have done?"

"Still," Alex decided, turning his attention back to Morgan, "this bears investigation."

"I will follow up on it as soon as I return from the races, Alex."

"Yes, see that you do. And you’ll have all our thanks."

"Maybe a knighthood?" Morgan smiled.

Alex’s eyes widened, "You want Victoria to pin the Blood Red Roses on your lapel?"

Damson’s hands went up in emphasis, "They don’t make Royals into Knights of the Rose, Morgan!"

Duke Crispin coughed conspicuously.

"Have you met our uncle," Morgan pointed out, "Sir Duke Crispin Valori, Dams?"

"That’s not what I mean...er," Dams stumbled a bit. "I mean the direct line are not knighted, Morgan. It would be crass...and redundant; you’re already a prince. You could take command of any naval vessel. You could direct fleets with your name alone"

"If we had any," Duke Crispin complained.

"It’s true," Alex stated. "Prime Minister Victoria will not likely lay Roses on your collar, brother."

Damson snorted.

"But you could knight me, couldn’t you, Uncle?"

"I certainly could, my boy; any knight can make another." Uncle Crispin replied, "And certainly will not." He smiled apologetically at the young prince. "I’m sorry, Morgan; it’s against tradition, ah-stohr.” That last bit, Morgan knew, was Gaelic for ’my treasure’, a term of honest affection.

"What if I save all Alaria from a vile Black Dragon plot to destroy everyone?"

Both his brothers laughed, Duke Crispin did not. "Then you would only be doing your duty as a prince, my Prince."

Damson took up, “You just can’t catch a break, Number Three!”

“Don’t call me that!” Morgan insisted, by rote.

“Maybe you’d prefer I call you ’Morgan Blackskull’?”

In answer, Morgan simply tipped an imaginary hat as part of an elaborate bow to his middle brother. “I will not complain if you do, Dams; maybe I should change my name to that, permanently?”

“Saints be praised! Would you?” Damson came back, letting his normally hidden brogue slip-out. “Where did you even get that name, anyway, Morgan?”

“It’s brilliance, actually, Prince Damson.” Duke Crispin answered for Morgan, re-adjusting his Victorian Earth-inspired outfit. “My corvette racing name was The Black Duke, and though it was all well before any of you three were born; I can assume you have heard I ruled the circuit, and played as hard as any Star Gladiator ever?”

“Of course, uncle-mine, you were a legend.” Damson bowed to the Duke. “Everyone knows that’s how you got all banged-up.” Damson flicked a finger on Crispin’s exposed titanium shoulder, causing a startlingly resonant ring.

Crispin didn’t say a word, but shot an evil look at the twenty-six-year-old, with a cold glass lens encased in a short steel tube which projected slightly, where his left eye once sat in his skull.

Morgan stepped up. “Blackskull is a reference to my being the black-prince...”

“More like black-sheep!” Dams commented.

“...And in honorarium to the former Valori family racing champion, I am choosing a theme related to his.”

“British naval?” Crispin asked, intrigued.

“Just the opposite, Uncle.”
“French Napoleonic?” the Duke guessed.
“Too formal, Uncle; something a little freer of boot.”
The Duke raised his one remaining human eyebrow.
Morgan continued, for him alone, “Blackskull will have a reversed Eighteenth Century pirate theme. All white freebooter outfit with black knee-boots, and a black pirate skull on the chest.”
“That’s…touching, young prince. You chose to go with my exact Earth time period, and water-navy theme! It’s a bit…flashy, though.”
“Well, it’s not all bright blue and white frills, with braided gold rope and brass buttons!”
“Touché, Morgan.” The Duke smiled proudly.
“Why,” Dams asked, “all the costumes and fake names, anyhow? Doesn’t it all seem a bit...well, gaudy?”

“It’s all part of the show.” Alex actually responded before Morgan managed to. “Showmanship, style, flare, it’s all part of the game, right uncle?”
“Some say it matters as much as the racing itself, Crispin added. “I predict that the Valori family will soon have a second legendary Star Gladiator, with thralls of fans across the quadrant screaming your name in praise.”
“That is entirely my department, Old Man Silver.”

“Uncle Dyssan!” Morgan exhaled. His other uncle’s appearance could mean only one thing, his work must be finished.

“Indeed it is!” The fiftyish-year-old man in the sliding wood doorway stated. “Your steed awaits, young Gladiator!”
“Yes!” Morgan nearly jumped right off the floor with the welcome news. “Then I will make the Cantus Day Races!”
“Indeed, you’d better!” Dyssan emphasized. “I have some startling-new engine specs to lay upon your bright-brow, Morgan, down in my lab, of course.” Uncle Dyssan waved an arm, encased in a sleeve of a traditional white lab-coat; crazily-spiked black hair on his uncle’s pale head waved with it.
“And I still think you should have taken my suggestion of Gladiator name and theme: Morgan Longhand, based on Lugh Longhand, and my ship… your ship, could have been named the Silver Spear! There’s still time to change it! Who’s your favorite uncle, after all…?” Dyssan turned to lead Morgan back toward the elevator. He rattled on as he left.
Morgan was about to follow him, when Alex stepped into his path, with the serious expression he’d been known for since their father died. “Don’t forget to present yourself to Mother. I believe she is arranging a ride for you, to the races.”
“I don’t need a ride, Alex; I will take my new ship!”
“The corvette is for racing in the Star Gladiator Tournament, Morgan, not for ferrying you to the event. Royal decorum…remember?"
"Well, then," Morgan put forward, "why can’t Uncle Crispin take me in the Xanthippe?"
"I’m sorry, my boy," The Steel Duke replied. "I will be there for you, but your mother wants her prince to show up in one of Alaria’s Sentinel warships, some point of honor or pride for the nation, you know. I will be available after the race, however, to ferry Valori’s new racing legend home again."
“And just because you are away from supervision," Alex took up once again, "you are not to start playing with swords again, and causing scenes which cast the Valori family in a bad light, Morgan,” the Heir Apparent commanded.
Morgan felt his face flush with a mix of anger and embarrassment. “That woman… that woman insulted me, and all of us! She had no right even being at our family’s ball!” If Morgan hated anything more than Phoenix Corporation, and what it stood for, it was Kyrie Saturai. She had become the very public face of Phoenix, the single person everyone held as the company’s vibrant young representative on the Star Gladiator racing circuit. She was also a bitch, Morgan thought.
“But her uncle, the most powerful corporate CEO on all of Alaria, did,” Alex stated. “And she was his guest!”
“Which brings to mind exactly what Gordon Xycor was thinking…and if his mind is finally going.” Morgan retorted.
“Probably wanted her to meet a dashing, available Valori prince…” Damson piped in, again. “Which she did…and he tried to skewer her with a sword!” Damson finished.
“One last time, brothers-mine, it was her fault, and she started it! Furthermore, I’m not available.” Certainly not for that bitch, Morgan finished silently.
“And Crispin here had to end it before you killed a girl,” Alex stated, “Now I know why mother sent you away with him.”
“Mark my words, that’s no girl, Alex! I don’t even think she’s human!” Morgan insisted.
“She looks pretty damn good to me, Morgan!” Dams kept on.

“My point exactly: no-one should look that good on the outside, yet be so ugly on the inside!” Morgan argued.
“I think you resent a beautiful woman who doesn’t throw herself at your feet, these days, Morgan!” Damson mocked. “…Maybe if father hadn’t decided to take you to Poseidon to become a man, all by himself…” he speculated.
“Dams! Shut-up!” Alex commanded.
The room came to a sudden silence.
So, thought Morgan, there it was. Three years Morgan had known his brothers, maybe his whole family had blamed him for his own father’s death. When he was being honest with himself, Morgan feared they might have the right of it.
He had wondered how long it would be before one of his brothers brought up the sensitive topic of Morgan’s role in their father’s death. However, he was surprised it was Dams who did so; he’d been half-expecting his eldest to bring it up.
Morgan flashed back to the day, three years back, when the Black Dragon Pirates had killed their father in an assault on the ship he and his father had shared. Their transport had been forced down near Poseidon’s ice-cap. Morgan had been knocked unconscious, the few Royal Guards aboard had been killed in the crash, forcing the King to face dozens of Black Dragon raiders alone, and he’d ultimately been killed by them.

Morgan knew his brothers blamed him.
An uncomfortable silence had fallen, but Morgan only realized it a few beats late.
Before Morgan noticed him moving, Sir Duke Crispin Valori, Knight of the Blood Red Roses, was there, between Morgan and the others. “What happened to your father was tragic, and we still are not completely certain of the source of the Intel which led to the ship’s interception.

“However, after the incident, Morgan was sent for three years of military service in the Sentinels, under the tutelage of my fellow knight Sir Orionis. Throughout his term, Prince Morgan served with distinction, if not happiness.
“At your request, Your Highness, upon Morgan’s return I took him along with me on my outing to open diplomatic ties between the Trade Alliance and the people of Miranda. On that journey, I tested Prince Morgan, Your Highness, and found him not wanting.” The Duke reported to the Crown Prince, with the utmost gravity in his voice. Morgan could tell his brothers knew never to test the Steel Duke when he spoke with such authority. It made the two older princes stand up straight, and the mood instantly became formal.
“All right, mighty Duke,” Crown Prince Alexander responded, with nary a hint of irony, “Thank you for your service, Sir Knight, and for your report.”
Whilst the two continued to speak in private, Damson took Morgan’s arm and dragged him a few feet off. “You know I don’t blame you…Morgan. Right?”
Morgan just nodded, not knowing what to say now.
“What the Seven Hells happened out there, Morgan?” Damson asked with renewed interest in the trip he and his uncle had just returned from. “I haven’t heard the Steel Duke use that tone of voice since… since the State funeral.” Morgan well knew, when any of them said “State funeral,” exactly what they referred to. Father’s funeral ceremony.
“I slew a dragon.” Then Morgan smiled, and walked off to join his other uncle.
Morgan left the dojo, taking the up elevators to his Uncle Dyssan’s research lab in the Valori Temple’s East Tower.
“…Or Morgan Fierce-Striker, or Morgan Sword-Shouter, or…” Dyssan had been going on, not noticing he’d been alone the whole time.

Morgan simply smiled silently, the best thing to do when Uncle Dyssan got onto one of his rants. Several times growing up, Morgan had actually slipped out entirely, wondering how long it would take his youngest uncle to realize he was talking to himself again. Not that Doctor Dyssan was ever known to be averse to talking to himself.

"Alternatively, Morgan Lighthand, or Light-Bringer!”

“God, that would be pompous, Uncle,” Morgan finally interrupted. “I’d rather just be a simple pirate.”

“Pirate! Like some Black Dragon scum…”

“Now, Uncle, you know I have no love of those pirates!” Morgan’s anger acted of its own accord. “After what they did to my father, I have killed more Black Dragon pirates than either of my older brothers, and I’m only twenty-one.” Morgan calmed himself with an effort.

“I’m sorry, my boy. I didn’t mean…”

Things on and nearby Alaria were for the most part peaceful—despite the near lack of a true Alarian military fleet—due to the fact that the thousands of Alarian lordly Houses, and even corporations, each kept either in-house militia, or hired mercenaries. Any House that stepped out of line far enough –which generally meant conducted or sponsored violence on Alaria itself—would be met by the guns of hundreds of its fellow Houses uniting to obliterate them, if the King called a March upon them.
Outside the immediate vicinity of Alaria herself, things got more chaotic. The term ’pirate’ might be applied to any number of different kinds of armed groups; anything from a group of overly aggressive scavengers, desperate out of work mercenaries, all the way up to the great organized crime syndicates, triads, rogue corporations and exiled Alarian Houses. Morgan had spent most of the past three years engaged with each of these whilst attached to the Sentinels, under Admiral Orionis.

“I know what you meant." As quickly as the anger had struck, it was replaced by excitement. "Now show me my ship!”

Doctor Dyssan Valori pressed a button on a lab computer panel, and a wall fell into the floor. Morgan actually gasped. Forty feet of length, twenty in width, counting the gracefully flattened cylindrical engines shaped like almonds attached to a much larger almond shaped, smooth shining silver work of art. There was not a sharp edge for the eye to see, nor weld, rivet, or seam.

“If you went with Morgan Longhand, the ship could be Aenbharr, or Areadbhar, or Gae Assail…”

"Beautiful…" Morgan uttered.

“It’s what’s inside that counts, young prince.”

“Of course, because I will be inside!” Morgan laughed. “Seriously, though, Uncle, I may be the next rising star on the circuit, but you are the Valori’s secret weapon!”

“I think you should call her the Long Hand, or the Longsword, or the Sliver Spear, or the…”

“Her name,” Morgan paused, “is Eidolon!”

“In honor of Conrad Eidolon, the freebooter who settled Poseidon?” Dyssan asked.

“Yes, uncle. He saved Alaria after the Cantus finally vanished, earning the opportunity to become Alarian royalty. He could have been king, but refused to unseat our family.”

Doctor Dyssan quieted. He seemed to stare into space, Morgan thought. Finally, he said, “Yes that will do nicely, Morgan. That will do indeed.” His voice became a distant monotone. “Her name shall be the Eidolon. She will be your pale horse, and death will ride in her wake. She will see you through it all. Time after time.”

What the layers of Hell did that mean? the prince wondered. Sometimes, you simply had to give art its due, and in Morgan’s opinion, its due seemed to be a large part of an artist’s sanity. He quietly let Doctor Dyssan ‘See’ until his ‘Vision’ was done.

Morgan would be racing the Eidolon, not going to war in her! While—yes—fighting was involved in Gladiator corvette racing—but only in the final heats, and rarely did it end in deaths. The corvettes’ weapons were mostly for the show, not killing. Missiles were glorified fireworks, and lasers were tuned to the visible spectrum, not the destructive variety.

"She...your Eidolon, will be lifted into the corvette bay of your military escort cruiser.

"But first, my prince, before I let you pilot her, I have one more neural to administer..."

"What!" Morgan barked, instantly angry again. "I thought we were done with that crap." Morgan refused to let on, even to the doctor: these past weeks of neural harmonization with the new corvette core system had caused him dizzying –sometimes violent– headaches. None of the other pilots ever complained of such a reaction, and the third prince would be damned if he’d be the first crybaby pilot of House Valori. "Uncle, I...I don’t want to...to take the time required for that just now... Can’t we finish up after my first race?"

"Certainly not, my dear boy! The previous treatments were merely to allow the core controller to react to your thought patterns with the utmost alacrity and subtlety. This final treatment is a necessity to align your base neural cortex to the engines themselves...which have just this morning been completed, after all."

"But, Uncle...wasn’t that the reason you flew out to my duty stations every month?”

"I am sorry, my dear boy. You absolutely cannot be allowed to attempt piloting her until your whole being is in alignment with her engine-power pattern. This will be the creation of a new being, so to speak. Neural synchronization of man and technology, this is the secret of Valori superiority in the field. Morgan, this is the one thing setting us apart from –better than– our key competitors, such as Phoenix Corp. You do want to dominate Phoenix Corp, do you not?

"Of course I..."

"Then you must submit to this one, final, tuning..."

"Fine!" Morgan gave in. One more fifteen-minute session, he could recover from the half-hour of disorienting headache in the royal cabin of whatever Sentinel ship would be his escort.

Morgan stepped to and sat on the synch seat, as he had a dozen times beforehand.

“You must go to that race, Morgan, and you must stay there for the full run of the tournament…no matter what occurs! Do you understand me, boy? No matter what! Do you?”

“Yes, Uncle, I’ll stay.” However, this was new. Uncle Dyssan was clearly referencing his earlier ’vision’. Weird, Morgan thought, but it seemed to have passed. His uncle turned back to him, started activating the sychtron’s neural recognition software as if nothing amiss had occurred.

Morgan certainly wasn’t planning on coming home early. He was planning on winning, and partying afterward!

"All right, uncle; one last synch." Dyssan locked wrist, ankle, and forehead bands, and finally moved the VR helm into place over the prince’s head. "Just get me out of here quickly this time, I have some final prep to finish before boarding..."

With all the equipment in place, the neuralhelm over his head and face, Morgan could only hear his uncle step to the control console, and announce, "Oh, I am sorry, my dear boy, this one will require significantly more than four hours."

"Wha...?" Morgan began to protest, but the good doctor had already activated the sequence, and Morgan spiraled down inward, into a complete immersion environment of semi-consciousness.

This was the worst alignment ever. Morgan felt as if his mind were being torn apart, and reassembled again. Trapped in the neural matrix, he couldn’t even scream.

Next Chapter: A Violent Past...A Violent Future