SotU Chpt 1

=Chapter 1=
==State of the Union==
St Marinus House, Zaniah III
Skye Province, Lyran Alliance
6 December 3062
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For a moment, Peter saw stars and then he felt the sand-covered stones of the yard beneath his back.
"It's fortunate you have a thick head," Brother Keith informed him, bringing his stave up to rest position. "Even with headgear, you take enough knocks that I'd be afraid you were losing what wits you have."
"Not as many as I used to." Taking a deep breath, Peter kipped up and recovered his feet, his own stave still in his hand. Dropping it when he fell had been a habit it took weeks to get out of but by now it was ingrained. "Again. Please."
The monk shook his head in disbelief but he readied his stave. "I suppose repetition may teach you something in the long run," he warned. "But it may be painful."
"The lessons that stick often are."
The staffs were plastic not wood - Zaniah III wasn't entirely without trees but wood wasn't something that could be readily replaced, at least this far from the major settlements, so more durable materials were preferred - and they cracked against each other with pleasing force and sound to Peter.
Up, across, he thought, reading the pattern of Brother Keith's moves. Now to try left and -
Keith twisted his stave and brought it up against Peter's right hand, pulling the blow enough that it stung but didn't break the fingerbones. It certainly could have if he'd chosen too.
With a cry, Peter sprang back, shifting to a one-handed guard as he shook the injured fingers.
"Enough?" the monk asked mildly, but with a note of mischief in his voice.
"I'll be fine," he snapped back and immediately regretted the tone. "I'm sorry."
"Mmm. Perhaps not the best idea to continue. If you want something to pound on, Peter, there are weight-bags in the gymnasium that will serve."
The kind tone stung worse than his hands. "I'll take that advice. Perhaps after I wrap my fingers."
"Yes, that would be wise." Keith put aside his stave and took Peter's hands. "Bruises alone, but still worth taking care of. Remember, son, your body is a temple of the Lord."
"Is that in scripture?" It didn't ring a bell for Peter even after six years in which the library of Saint Marinus House had been his primary source of reading material.
"The book of Keith hasn't been canonized yet." The older man smiled gently. "No doubt they'll get around to it someday. Go wrap your hands, Peter. We both have other things to do."
Peter bowed respectfully as Keith took both staves to put away. "Am I getting better?"
"Yes, Peter. With a few more decades to work on your temper you'll be safe to be around with a six foot pole."
Unbuckling his headgear, the redhead shook his head and felt it slip free from his sweaty hair. "Better than being dangerous, I suppose."
Keith's smile was sincere. "Any fool can be dangerous to themselves and everyone around them."
And if I can't wield a simple staff judiciously, how can I use a BattleMech responsibly? Or the political power I inherited? Questions like that had haunted Peter for six years now, they'd brought him here and he had yet to find answers.
The door before him opened well before he could reach it and another monk looked out. "Ah, Peter. Are you done?"
"Yes, Boniface. Brother Keith is free now if you want him."
The other man shook his head slightly. "No Peter, the Abbot's sent for you."
"For me?" He'd seen Abbot Giles often, but it was rare for the old man to summon him directly. Running the remote abbey was a constant labor, albeit one that had been in the abbot's safe hands for longer than Peter had been alive. While Brother Giles made time for younger members of the community, it largely had to fit in around his schedule. A summons suggested something more formal. "I see, thank you."
He entered the door and turned left towards the wing of the monastery where the Abbot's offices were, but Boniface caught him by the elbow.
Startled, Peter tore his arm free without thinking. "What?"
The smaller man drew back a half-step. "He wants to see you in the infirmary."
"Oh." He felt rather than saw Keith's disappointed eyes on him. "Thank you again, Brother. And my apologies. I'm... on edge again. But it's no excuse."
"We all have our trials, Peter," the man said soothingly. "Will you share your concerns in with us in prayer?"
"Perhaps." Which meant no. It wasn't that he didn't trust the monks, Peter told himself as he went up the steps dug into the mesa, leading up to the infirmary. But the community welcomed mechwarriors from all across the Inner Sphere, men and women born into realms that were often at each other's throats. Admitting what had driven him here wouldn't just be talking to fellow Lyrans and Suns citizens like Keith or Giles. How would someone like Boniface, who hailed from the Free Worlds League and on the League's border with the Lyrans at that, feel in learning Peter had come within hours of starting a war between the League and the Federated Commonwealth?
Of course, there had been a war since, but that one wasn't Peter's fault. Relations could easily be ruined again if his actions came to light, right when Inner Sphere was at something like peace. And that would assuredly be on his conscience.
The infirmary was, like much of the Abbey, a mix of monastic asceticism when it came to comfort and modern technology when it came to functionality. One of the beds had a curtain drawn partially about it, but Peter could see the stand of an IV drip in place through the gap.
"I'm sorry, Abbot. I've no idea who she is." The owner of the voice stepped out from behind the curtain, looking back. The habit was the same as that worn by all the monks, but from the greying blond hair, Peter realized that this was Brother Peter - a cause for some confusion since Peter had arrived. The monk had adopted the name of Christ's first disciple when he took his formal vows - his birth name was Aldo, which had been a popular boy's name on Skye early in the century - only two weeks before Peter arrived. "Ah, Peter."
"Yes, Brother Peter. The abbot sent for me."
"I did, yes." The bald abbot followed the brother out. "Thank you for your time, brother. I'm sorry to have taken you away from your prayers."
''
"I'm only sorry I wasn't able to help." The Skye mechwarrior-turned-monk gave Peter a friendly smile and exited past him.
Abbot Giles turned to look back behind the curtain. One eye was cast into shadow for a moment, and Peter was reminded again of another face, a more famous one. Add an eyepatch and long white hair and that white face would have been a brother to Anastasius Focht's. He'd wondered for years if there was a connection but declined to enquire. Brother Giles, like so many of those here, had come here to leave outside ties behind. Peter owed it to them to respect that. "We have a guest, Peter."
"Not a new resident?" Peter asked
Giles shook his head. "I'm not sure. Brother Morgan found her outside the monastery when he was bringing in supplies. She may have been wandering the desert for some time."
"Lost?" Peter asked, rubbing his jaw. And why call on him? And Brother Peter for that matter?
"Perhaps. She's dehydrated and hasn't regained full consciousness."
"How can I help, sir."
"There are no sirs here, Peter." Giles chided him gently. "We are all brothers and sisters at St Marinus. I am merely wondering if you might be able to identify her."
"Me?"
"Yes. She's said a few words, disjointed and mumbled. I wondered if they might shed some light on her presence." He gestured for Peter to come around. "The two that are clearest are 'Peter' and 'Brother'."
That clarified that. Peter followed the abbot around the curtain. "I don't think either of my sisters would actually come... here...?"
Despite that he'd half-wondered if he'd see the red hair of his younger sister Yvonne on the pillows on the bed. Instead he saw characteristically sharp Steiner features beneath a salve he recognized as used for heat and abrasions, surrounded by a shock of blonde curls. "Dear God."
"Hmm. It's been many years since I saw royalty," Giles murmured. "And holos never quite convey the familiarity. I take it then..."
"Y-yes." Peter crossed the room and examined the face more carefully. She could have fit in seamlessly among his cousins from Gallery. Or... "May I?"
"May you what? Examine her? Within proprietary, young man."
With great restraint, Peter didn't point out that he was closer to thirty than twenty. That was still less than a third of the abbot's years. Instead he gently rolled back one eyelid and saw not the grey of his mother or grandmother's eyes but instead a warmer blue he recognized from his father, or the mirror.
Katherine, immensely proud of their maternal heritage, had considered them the one flaw in her perfect image as a Steiner.
"Oh my God."
Giles rested one reassuring hand on Peter's shoulder. "You know her?"
"It's been years for me too... but she's the spitting image of my elder sister." Katherine Steiner-Davion
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