Prologue

(a.k.a. Epilogue for Part II)

It was hard to be here, to wait on a ship that did not so much as cruise through space. Rather than moving even at a snails' pace, the old Comitatus-class jumpship simply sat like some kind of fat, lazy beast eating up sunlight for a week before it hauled its mass some light years to feed again. Looking out from the observation deck, one could see the huge maw that was the solar sail. It glistened in the light of the closest star, with trails of light and energy dancing across the sheet like mad, burning sprites and racing back into the rod-shaped Drive Core at the ship's belly.

The light, which if not for the tinting would blind one in an instant, was amazing to see. Most would call it awe-inspiring, beautiful, heavenly, and divine. To Sigurd Wolf, the glow looked searing hot and angry. It was the star's warning and its lethal glow made the fierce Wolf Clan insignia look that much more menacing. It was a sign that, though bloodied, the Wolves were still a fearsome power.

'And I am one of them,' he thought.

Yet for all this light, his soul still felt lost in darkness. It had become easy over the long months of travel to forget that he was different. Sometimes, he found himself surprised to remember that he had not always been here. He had not always been a Star Commander, and his name had not always been Sigurd Wolf. In the back of his mind, now much stronger than ever, was an odd sense that he was just like them.

Right now, though, there was little he could do about it either way. He was trapped on this ship, and he was now and forever at the mercy of Akela Kerensky. Fortunately and yet surprisingly, the man had a great deal of mercy.

Sigurd frowned a little as he watched the sails emblazoned with sun-red wolves. He found it odd how placid Akela had been ever since they disembarked from the icy mudball of Tarion. In fact, he seemed in exceptionally good spirits most of the time, if somewhat preoccupied. Most often the Star Colonel was in his briefing room or sparring with Star Captain Melli. Though nothing was ever said to confirm it, Sigurd had concluded that she was Akela's coregn, or had heard that such a position also entailed sponsorship for a bloodname, and he was likely preparing her for just such an event. Akela also seemed to have some kind of project in the works.

It was uncomfortable to be left in the dark about this operation, but Sigurd was more concerned about what Akela planned for him. All the darkness, the doubt, and all the things he could not control were gnawing on his mind. He wondered just what this scheme of the Star Colonel's was. From the way Akela acted, Sigurd could only assume it was something important and also something that the Keshik would dislike immensely.

Sigurd did sense, however, that Akela's warning of the Green Keshik was a just one. He was not for an instant frightened of them; the worst they could do was kill him, and dying was not so bad. What he was adverse to, was the possibility that the Keshik would hinder his goals. Then again, he was not so sure he even knew what his goals were, anymore.

'I used to know. I used to be so sure of everything. It was all just cut and dry to me,' he thought. 'Now... I am not so sure. Akela is right. I do not know much about my mother... And I do not know much about myself.' He sighed, wishing just to complete whatever task he need perform in order to earn the information his superior held. Now that he was made aware of how ignorant and blind he had kept himself, he felt all the more tormented by what he did not know.

As if summoned, a familiar and quite pleased humm echoed behind him. "Enjoying the view, quiaff?" asked Akela.

The slow stop-and-jump travel had been quite kind to the Star Colonel's injuries, and he now stood with the same sure, commanding posture that seemed ingrained in every movement. Clanfolk, Sigurd had noted, were precisely as tough as they claimed to be.

"Just thinking, sir," Sigurd replied. He kept his tone even, but it would be a lie to say he was not still angry with his superior.

"You have a long road ahead of you," said Akela, looking very sternly out into the empty hall. He stroked his short beard in thought and frowned. "There is much to be done and only a short time to do it."

"What must we do, ovkhan, and what is our deadline?" asked Sigurd, confused.

Akela turned back to him. "When we arrive on Strana Mechty, we must refit and cleanse our wounds, so to speak. The Green Keshik will wish to review this Cluster and assess the events of our latest campaign. I have been discussing a few issues with them, but not all of them are yet convinced to see things my way. Not yet."

"Somehow...I get the feeling that this is where I come into the scheme."

The man just smiled placidly. "There is much for all of us to do. There is much training." He paused, glanced back at Sigurd, then gave a light monosyllabic grunt. "You, most of all, need training."

Sigurd bowed his head a little and grumbled a brief "aff". He balled his fist a little, then released it. 'Because I am freeborn,' he thought, 'I am at a disadvantage. I lack much of their training.'

"You need training because you will be scrutinized more closely," said Akela as if he had guessed Sigurd's theory. "What slight discrepancies or errors might be passable for a trueborn will not be tolerated for your case, I assure you. One slip, and I would not be surprised if the Keshik called for you to be strung up by your toes."

"The Keshik has not even met me," said Sigurd, "and already they hate me."

"You say that sarcastically, but I know. I have been in touch with my superior about you since you first arrived a prisoner. The reason you have not met the Galaxy Commander is because I have done my best to convince her of your worth while simultaneously ensuring that you live up to my promises."

Sigurd turned around at that. "So, then... they already know everything about me, quiaff?"

Akela's expression immediately transformed into one of blank innocence. "Everything? Hm. I would not say that..."

"What have you not told them?"

"What they do not know." He suddenly grinned. "Sorry, but it is my secret, and I was never good at sharing. Say, you have some training to do, quiaff?"

The abtakha gave his superior a suspicious look, then nodded. "Aff. I suppose I had best get to the gym."

"Yes," the older Wolf said. Then with a genteel smile he added, "And do try to trust me, cousin."

---

There was something deadly about being in a jumpship alone during the small slice of time when most of its passengers were asleep. Even the very phrase "graveyard hours" sent a little shiver down Sigurd's spine. Graveyards, he always thought, were a sick and disgusting thing. He started to push the thought out of his mind, only to be greeted by a worse train of thought and a faint howl in the back of his mind. As his quiet steps brought him into the open gym, he squelched both tracks of thought in bloodlust.

The gym was located on the grav deck, so he was free to remove his boots, the magnetic soles of which kept him anchored when moving through the rest of the ship. It was a good feeling to be able to plant his bare feet directly on the floor. It was easier, more natural to move. He stretched a little, rolling his muscles and flexing out all his joints. The stiffness and bruises he had suffered in fighting Akela had diminished enough to regain his full range of motion. Now that he was unhindered once more, he felt it time to start fighting again. It was time to prepare for whatever challenge lay ahead.

He tensed his muscles hard and slid himself into a ready position as he drew his knife. The abtakha cleared his lungs with a deep breath and darted forward on his right foot, simultaneously flipping his knife to an underhand position and slashing it across to his right side in an arc. As the blade came halfway through its path, he twisted his body, bringing his left forearm up to block and his knee up midway. He twisted again more sharply as he whipped his left foot down behind him and slammed his right leg into the air in front of him. With his left hand out behind him for balance, he pulled his right hand over and down in a spiking motion, plunging his blade through the air.

Behind him echoed the heavy steps of grav boots, and he immediately flipped the knife overhand and turned to face the intruder.

"Bondsman Scott."

The dark haired man nodded unenthusiastically, as he shoved his hands down in the pockets of his Laborer Caste jumpsuit. The uniform did not indicate his final place in Clan society, as all bondsmen were members of that Caste until proven otherwise. As far as Sigurd was concerned, however, it was going to be a very long time before Scott Mathews could be released from his current status.

'He never did grow up,' Sigurd thought as he watched Mathews with steel, unmoving eyes. Throughout the journey, he had tried to avoid the man as much as possible. He had let the lust for revenge overtake him back on Tarion; the only way he felt he could prevent himself from repeating that mistake was to stay away from the bondsman.

"I finished helping out Laborer Toth, sir," Mathews said in a very flat voice.

Ever since their fight, he had been very cold and also rather quiet. It was a stark change from the generally extroverted and talkative person Sigurd had always known him to be. About the only thing that had not changed since that fight was the man's rather anxious behavior. He also had a habit of flicking at the end of his pencils in the same manner he would knock ash off a cigarette. He was probably suffering withdrawal.

Sigurd nodded and let his hand drop to his side, though he still flipped the knife back and forth a little. "So, what of it?" he asked apathetically. "You want me to throw a stick so you can go fetch it? Entertain yourself."

"What I want, sir, is to talk to you."

"I do not care. Go. Leave me alone," Sigurd snarled. A sudden surge of aggressiveness coursed up his spine. "I can hardly stand to be on the same ship with you, traitor. So leave before I give in to my id and kill you."

"I'm no traitor!" Mathews barked, taking a deliberate step forward. His face grew uncharacteristically stern. "I've taken orders from you for months, and I'm sick of it. I'm sick of you growlin' at me every time I'm in the same room."

"Listen, bondsman—"

"Don't gimme that crap!" Mathews shook his head and glared at Sigurd. "I don't care what I get for this, but I'm tired of not sayin' anything. I'm tired of you blaming me for something I didn't do."

Sigurd grabbed him by the collar of his jumpsuit and slammed him back into the wall. "I will not tolerate this from you."

"No! You're gonna listen, and you're gonna listen good!" Mathews snapped back, pushing him away. "We didn't abandon you!"

"Then why did I spend six months in that jungle alone, fighting for my life?!"

"Because Pike set you up!"

Sigurd stumbled back a little, his eyes widening in surprise. He leaned back on one leg in a semi-crouched position, drawing his knife defensively. "You abandoned me to the Smoke Jaguars!"

The bondsman closed his eyes. "I can't fix what happened to you, but I didn't do it. I swear to you, Sigurd, I had no part in any of it. We looked for you for weeks. We threw everything we had into getting you back. We would've kept looking, too, but... one day," he said, choking a little, "we found your cooling vest. It was shredded to rags and it was covered in blood... After that, we just kinda didn't hold out much hope." Mathews reached down into his pocket and held out his fist to Sigurd. "Here."

Suspiciously, the Clan Warrior extended his open palm. Surprise flashed through his eyes as cold, rust-edged metal fell into his hand. "My dogtags."

"Yeah. I kept 'em for ya. Figured you'd want 'em back."

Sigurd drew back quickly and lowered his knife. "Alright, then. Tell me your story."

Mathews breathed a little chuckle as he leaned back against the wall. "You're gonna sock me for this, I know, but... it's kinda funny. Kinda funny, in a weird, twisted way. But anyhow, I found out later that it was Captain Pike. He'd been listening in on the comm, so when we pulled back to the ship like you ordered, he told the dropship captain to take off. He knew you were still out there with the Jags, man."

"Supposing this is true, why would he do that? I was commanding his second lance, and killing off commanders is bad for business. Besides, I could have made it back before the Jaguars got to the ship."

"Don't you get it? It was never about the mission. It was about a chance to kill you without anybody getting' too suspicious. Pike wanted you dead, man." Mathews sighed and closed his eyes, smirking a little. "See, here's the funny part... He thought you were a Clanner."

The abtakha drew back, his nostrils flaring slightly as he held his knife tighter.

"So," continued Mathews, sliding his fingers back through his dark chocolate hair, "it's all one big, vicious circle. I mean, if he'd left ya alone, the patch on your shoulder woulda said 'Sigurd Volsung'."

"Nein..." Sigurd murmured, sinking his teeth down on his lip a little.

"What?"

"I think... you are wrong about that."

Mathews opened his eyes and gave the other man a puzzled look. "Why? 'Cause you—"

"Because I am Clan. I have always been Clan." With that, Sigurd turned and walked out of the gym. A part of him wanted to scream, but instead he just smiled viciously and slid his knife back into its scabbard. Now he was beginning to see what Akela's cryptic words had meant.

'I owe nothing to the InnerSphere. I never did,' he thought.

In the back of his mind, he could see the nightmare wolf, the nebelung. The chain on one of its legs had fallen free, and its grey eyes were content.

---

Author's Notes: As promised, the story continues with Part III. This is the final part of the Nebelung trilogy, though that's not to say the characters will not be in further stories. This also planned to be the longest part of Nebelung yet.

As a heads up, I'll be taking just a little bit of liberty with who commands what units in the Wolf Clan touman. (But let's face it, if I stuck to using only canon officers then Akela could not technically be a Star Colonel.) So, I hope you'll all allow me some of leeway in this regard.

As always, I tremendously appreciate everyone's comments, critiques, and reviews. I personally feel that I've made a vast improvement in my writing since I began this project several years ago, but I'm always looking to improve even further. Your reviews really help me out, even if it's only to say you enjoy the story.

I'm hoping to stick to a fairly regular update schedule of a new chapter once a week, each Wednesday. Now, on with the show!