Allies and Enemies: Exiles (Series Book 3)

By Amy J. Murphy

If you're going to start a war, know what's at stake.

Ironvale. Splitdawn. Poisoncry.
Three bloodthirsty guilds that control the decaying corner of space called the Reaches. This balance of power exists at a tipping point. One nudge and chaos reigns.

Sela Tyron is willing to supply that nudge to help her partner with an important rescue. Even if it means trusting a shifty double-agents. Or turning herself into an assassin.

Suit up. Time to join the fight.

If you love gritty, epic space opera like The Expanse or Firefly, this third installment in Allies and Enemies series is custom made for you. Voted a Dragon Award Finalist for Best Military Science Fiction Novel by Dragon Con.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy J. Murphy
• Release date: Mar 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370518562

Amy J. Murphy

Amy J. Murphy is not a Jedi. (Although she’s married to this Scottish guy that claims to be one.) But, she is a fantastic liar. She discovered this power at an early age and chose to wield it for good instead of evil. (The evil part remains highly tempting.) With this power, Amy writes space opera books with kickass heroines. These books are sometimes confused for military science fiction which is an easy mistake to make. She’s ok with this as her debut novel, Allies and Enemies: Fallen, was a finalist for the 2016 Dragon Award for Best Military Science Fiction or Fantasy Novel. It so happened that her third book, Allies and Enemies: Exiles, was named a 2017 Dragon Award finalist in the same category. At some point, she infiltrated the ranks of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA). When not geeking out at science fiction conventions, she lives in Vermont with the aforementioned Scotsman/Jedi and two canine overlords. Most recently she’s been named a 2017 Kindle Book Award Finalist and her work appeared in the Amazon best-selling space opera anthology, Orphans in the Black.

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Amy J. Murphy

Part One

One

J ust let me do the talking. Splitdawn Guild’s got its own twisted logic. You got to know how to handle them. Asher Corsair’s deep voice rumbled down from the command loft to where Jon stood in the center of the Cassandra’s common passage.

Jon heard a series of metal clanks, followed by a muttered curse as the man tinkered with something unseen. He reappeared at the loft’s edge then hopped down to the lower deck, not bothering with the ladder. The hulking Binait half-breed reeked of fuel-cell vapor, a change from smelling of scorch rum. Smears of grease darkened his chin and forehead. Corsair had been in a constant state of motion the entire morning, working like a man possessed to prep the ship for the journey from the quiet fishing colony of Narasmina to Splitdawn Guild’s stronghold, a first step toward getting Erelah back.

Jon stepped up to him, leaned into his face. "My sister trusted you with the jdrive. You have no right to use it like some sort of game piece."

Relax, Veradin. I’ve got this. Corsair maneuvered past him in the narrow space. Go practice standing around looking official.

Jon dogged after him, drawing up short as Corsair stopped to examine the exchange console. What’s to stop the Splitdawn from just taking the device from us?

The fact that it won’t be there. His voice was distracted as he traced over the lines and coupler nodes with a proficiency that Jon found surprising.

Then where is the jdrive?

Corsair turned from his inspection and made for the cargo bay. Safe. I took care of it.

Jon growled with irritation. It was not just the man’s purposeful vagueness, but the dismissiveness that drove it in deeper. Corsair exuded a constant smirk of the psychic variety. During his time with the Regime, Jon had known officers like him: self-assured braggarts with little compunction for the consequences their actions had on the Volunteers that served under them.

Jon felt a scowl build. My sister chose him?

He’d known the man for nearly four weeks standard since Corsair had found them on Hadelia with a wild story about Erelah’s resurrection from the dead. He’d seen little to understand the nature of attraction between Erelah and Corsair, yet his sister had apparently trusted the Binait to seek out Jon, her only living family. His genetics were the key to ending the destruction being laid waste to her body—a lasting gift from the experiments performed on her by the Sceeloid-Eugenes hybrid, Tristic.

And now Sela Tyron, his Ty, had forged some sort of partnership with this man. Overnight, the two had gone from trading barbs and insults to colluding on a plan that was…

Insanity. Jon did not realize how tightly he was clenching his jaw until he spoke. He fell in with Corsair’s wake as they plunged into the chaos of crates in the cargo bay. There has to be another way!

Finally, Corsair said.

Jon followed his gaze. Sela strode up the Cassandra’s ramp. At her approach, a pair of dockworkers looked up from settling a pallet laden with velo cells onto the rust-pocked decking. They exchanged nervous glances and practically charged down the ramp, giving Sela a wide berth as she climbed the steep slope to the interior. Over her shoulder was slung a heavy field kit that Jon recognized as the modest assemblage of all their possessions. Life in the Reaches was hardscrabble. As a former infantry officer, Jon had considered himself adaptive to living with fewer resources, but he had not been prepared for the continual sense of desperation that came with it. Their recent stay in the relative sanctuary of Narasmina—even though sullied by the discovery of Erelah’s apparent abduction by an entrenchment of Humans deep in the Thermalyea Fray—had made him realize how lean his life with Sela had become. It stung and burrowed at his pride.

Told you he’d do this, Corsair scoffed. The comment was directed at Sela. He paused in his tangent long enough to tuck a grimy toolbox under one massive arm before making for the small flight of stairs to the common passage.

At least hear me out, Jon said.

To his credit, Corsair stopped at the top stair. You’re not going to talk me out of this.

Sela looked from Corsair to Jon. She met his gaze. The corner of her mouth twitched in a way that suggested guilt or discomfiture. Corsair’s plan has a high probability of success.

The humiliation tightened against Jon’s chest like a lead cast. They’d gone around him to configure this plan. From Corsair it made sense, but from her, it burned. He was late to the table. This was rolling forward no matter what came out of his mouth, and he knew it.

Jon fought the urge to curl his hands into fists. It was a struggle to keep his voice low and even. "What you’re proposing will pit the Guilds against each other. It will—not might, will—start a war. The three Guilds have created a balance here. It’s not up to us to tilt the Reaches off its axis."

So what if it does? I’m good with that. System could use a little shake. The shrug in Corsair’s voice was plain. Was everything a game to him?

The man was arrogant, but not entirely stupid. He had to realize that the jdrive’s ability to circumvent the Poisoncry-controlled flex points in the Reaches would be viewed as a threat to their power base. As a relative newcomer to this forgotten corner of the Known Worlds, Jon had heard that the technophiles of Poisoncry Guild held a reputation for ruthlessness. Poisoncry protected what was theirs with a nearly paranoid zeal. Although she’d never deigned to explain why, even Sela had seemed spooked by their control over Hadelia, the run-down, overworked planet that had marked the site of their introduction to this lawless and stunted region.

"My sister wouldn’t be ‘good with that.’ " Jon mimicked Corsair’s casual tone.

"You gonna speak for her now? Corsair dropped the toolbox and lunged back down the stairs with sudden fierceness. Jon took a half-step back. After how many years? And after all the things done to her by Ravstar, by that monster, Tristic? Where were you then, big brother?"

Jon coiled, ready to dive at him. Their grappling at the bunker two days ago had left him sore and bruised, but that was little deterrent.

Sela slipped between them in one easy move. She placed her palms against Jon’s chest, not pushing, but keeping him in place.

You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand. He glared past her shoulder at Corsair.

"Oh, I more than understand." The Binait’s jaw was tight and angry.

Destabilization of the truce among the three Guilds is a high probability. Sela locked eyes with him. But the only means to entice Splitdawn Guild to aid in your sister’s rescue operation is to offer something of value in exchange. The jdrive is the only thing we have. What action they choose to take with it is an uncontrollable variable.

"Uncontrollable variable? Are you even listening to what you’re saying?" he scoffed.

I’m aware of my words, yes. Her stare darted low and to the right, something she did when she was trying to shield him from something.

He lowered his voice. "We can do this, Ty. You and me. We’ll find a way to get into the Human outpost where they’re holding Erelah. We’ve run insertion ops before." Jon nearly grimaced at how weak, how desperate it sounded, especially in front of Corsair.

With a full squad of nine, she corrected. A stealth corvette. And the power and might of the Regime at our backs.

"Corsair can hire mercs. It wouldn’t surprise me if he knows a dozen. And Erelah once outfitted this Cassandra with the jdrive. Jon said. That’s as good as any stealth ship. We can arrive on top of the Human installation before—"

Radiation, Corsair cut in. Thermalyea Fray is flooded with it. The jdrive will turn this ship inside out if we get within half a million klicks of the ball of rock where they’re dug in.

"How can you know that?" Jon challenged.

I know because Erelah knows. His voice suggested there was a deeper layer to it. And believe me: any mercs I know, you wouldn’t want.

We have to at least try, said Jon.

And die, Sela answered. A scenario in which your sister remains a captive. Something in her expression was like watching an animal in misery. Every other scenario I’ve considered holds a high probability of failure.

Jon ran a hand through his hair. He stared blindly across the cool shadows of the cargo bay and out into the tropical Narasmina sun, thoughts in a desperate race. Something new tugged at his attention.

The question seemed obvious now. Why Splitdawn? He asked Corsair. Why not Ironvale? I thought you were one of their guildsworn. Wouldn’t you want your own Guild to have the jdrive? I’m sure it’d get you some sort of boon.

Corsair didn’t take the bait. Something like bleak amusement filled his voice when he answered: "That’s right. I was guildsworn to Ironvale. Was."

Meaning what?

Meaning Ironvale doesn’t like their spies colluding with pirates. He shrugged. It wasn’t really about that, anyway. Not that they’d care for an explanation.

Jon gaped.

The Ironvale Guild masters would likely execute him on sight, Sela volunteered.

"How did my sister even meet you?" Jon asked.

"Want all the intimate details about me and Erelah, big brother? Corsair stepped closer, challenging. His voice dipped into a low growl. I could tell you. Or you could get your ass in motion and hear it from her yourself."

Even as he continued to stare at Corsair, Jon felt Sela’s hand on his shoulder. She leaned against his neck and whispered their communal sin. Jon, we both deserted the Regime.

That was different, he wanted to say.

But Corsair wasn’t done. "We’re wasting time, Captain. Every second we’re not on a hard burn to Splitdawn is a second Erelah doesn’t have—even less if those Human skews on that outpost open her stasis box. So, please, let’s mouth some more if it means your pride stings less."

Then tell me this, Jon pressed. When we get her, where do we take her that’s safe? That has what we need to fix what Tristic’s done to her? Your splicer is dead. The men that took Erelah saw to that.

I’ve put Kelta to it. She’ll be sure Erelah will have a place to go and everything she needs. I trust her. So should you.

Cordial and refined, the elderly Kelta seemed nothing more than a duty-bound retainer who treated Corsair more like a son than a ward. Jon knew nothing more than that. Now he asked him to trust the unfamiliar woman with his sister’s life—all of their lives.

And that’s all I get to know? Jon threw his hands apart, fingers splayed. I’m her brother.

Corsair’s shoulders stiffened. For a moment, the animosity slipped away, and Jon saw something else behind those clever maroon eyes: a grim acceptance. "Erelah will be safe. Even if it means my life."

Two

The soldier Tyron’s colors were a fascinating swirl of blood red and seething orange. Mim had never seen anything like it before. It was magical and frightening in the same breath, like when the summer storms would blow in from the sea, a heavy purple knot of twisted, angry clouds pulsing with light and grumbling monster sounds.

That’s what Tyron was. A person-shaped thunderstorm filled with anger. The only time the storm was still when she was with the handsome man, Jon, and even then it muted under the rust-colored hues that Mim associated with protectiveness. It was almost as thick as the colors that lingered between Asher and Erelah. Almost.

From her hiding place, Mim watched Tyron. The woman’s spine was rod straight. Only her arms and hands moved as she cleaned the bright silver weapon. Her angry colors were tucked neatly inside her lines, churning but under check, muted like when Erelah prayed at the tiny altar of the Fates in the garden in a soft, secret pattern of words. Mim guessed that cleaning the weapon was a kind of prayer for this woman too.

Kelta said Tyron was a soldier, but she was not like the enforcers that stood on the street corners of the markets and chased the pickpockets away. Those were rounded, soft-bellied men.

Kelta had also said not to speak unless Tyron talked to her first. Kelta’s colors offered a worrisome flourish, distracted with sorrow. For days, the house had been drenched in the same colors of loss since the men had taken Erelah. Tyron’s arrival was the first change in that.

Instead of sitting in the warm sunlight to clean the weapon, Tyron had tucked herself in the shadows of the massive cargo bay like she was afraid the world would see her. Maybe that was the point.

State your purpose. Tyron did not look up from the weapon in her hands. There was a minuscule motion followed a noise that was almost musical: a rasp of oiled metal then a sharp click. It was a beautiful sound, in a precise and dangerous way.

Mim drew herself up. Kelta doesn’t like weapons in the house.

I am not in your house. The woman looked her over with keen amber eyes. But you are on my ship. We leave soon. And you should not be here.

Kelta had also said to be courteous to our guests. Mim stared at the woman, locked up, suddenly afraid. She did not want to run away, like a big baby. Spying on her had been more comfortable, intriguing. But being the center of Tyron’s attention felt dangerous, like balancing along the top of the rock wall in the garden, daring gravity to grab you.

Mim wanted to say something mean and strong. But her tongue sat in her mouth like a stupid rock.

Tyron got up in an easy, cat-like move, nesting the gleaming gun into a holster at her hip. She was impossibly tall, like a war god from one of Mr. Thonn’s stories about the Expanse. She stood over Mim. What do you really want, little spy?

The denial was a knee-jerk reaction. I’m not—

You entered through the midship hatch and hid in the spinward corner, unannounced. And you’ve been watching from your location for over four minutes. Tyron folded her arms and peered down at her. If not spying, then what?

Mim took an involuntary step back, then forced her feet to stay in place. Don’t be a baby.

I heard Kelta give you specific instructions not to interact with me. That’s insubordination. A punishable offense.

Don’t tell. She blurted the words. Scared baby.

Tyron shrugged, a twitch of her shoulders, indifferent. Her eyes moved over Mim in assessment. What purpose would it serve to inform on an eight-year-old?

For this, Mim had no response. The question hung somewhere in the area between reprieve and threat.

I’m nine. The practiced lie flew out. She drew herself up to the balls of her feet, hoping to look taller.

The woman’s keen gaze held hers. Waiting.

Mim swallowed. Eight.

Why so eager to be older, little spy? The question had depth to it. It brought a flush of colors with it: gray-sorrow and a strange green-want; confusing against the tireless, churning sea of red. Do you not like this life? There are people here to protect you, care for you. She gestured in the direction of the cluster of unchanging houses on the hillside that ringed the port.

It’s fine. Mim twisted, half-shrug, half-fidget. But I want to be an infiltrator…a guildsworn…like Asher. I’ll fight pirates and see the stars.

Stars are just points on a chart. Pirates kill people. Even little girls.

I can learn to fight. I’ll be good at it. Like Asher. Like you. She prattled on, filling the strange stillness the woman exuded. I’m learning to read High Eugenes and Guildspeak. I can remember lots and lots.

The woman greeted this with a snort. A personal ripple of amusement. Then: Do you intend to talk your enemies to death?

I don’t always talk. I can be stealthy. I’m good at keeping secrets too. Like when Kelta told me not to talk about the baby’s colors on Erelah’s tummy— Mim bit her lip, realizing her mistake. Tyron had gone positively rigid. It was the silence between a bolt of lightning and the ensuing rumble of thunder.

Complete your last statement.

She backed up. I forgot.

Unlikely. Eyes narrowed, Tyron stalked closer. She assessed Mim anew. "You’re a Binait female. You see things others cannot. What did you see in Erelah?"

Mim shook her head as she drew her shoulders up, making herself smaller. But Tyron knew. Something had made a connection inside of that roiling sea of murderous reds. It was a sharp spike of dull sickly yellows of jealousy and envy, raw and bleeding and full of hate, but more complex and unnameable.

Erelah is pregnant. I assume Corsair is the father. Tyron did not yell or snarl, but the low damning quality in her voice was somehow worse. Correct?

Mim nodded, desperate to obey. The precursor to tears made her throat swell.

When Tyron spoke again it was with an odd hitch, making her voice raw: You should leave, little spy. There’s nothing for you here.

The meaning shaped the words into something more, something far too grown up to be seen from here, but she followed the sorrow in their colors. It was ache and loss and too big to see its edges. Mim stepped away, watching Tyron, a dark figure against the bright of the world outside. Finally, the tears did come, and she dashed back home.

Three

Splitdawn lay claim to two worlds in a brown dwarf system: Skalri, home to its Citadel and seat of power, and the other unimaginatively called Hull, a place of ice and misery.

It came as little surprise to Jon when Corsair brought them to the great meeting lodge of the latter.

To Jon, the lodge and the people in it could have easily come from a tome about the days of the Expanse, when men thought themselves warrior kings and the worlds were ripe for conquer. Shields bearing the crests of dozens of fallen Kindred lined the high ceiling, some of them positively ancient. Frayed and faded war banners hung from the walls.

Jon suppressed a sneeze. Braziers pumped out the musty smell of glorywood, the traditional incense burned during treat. Its scent was said to please the Fates and ward off the temptation to deceive from either party. But even if he, Corsair and Sela meant harm to these people, it would be suicide. He counted eight men and women in powered armor to each side of the chamber—an honor guard, he guessed. Servants and hangers-on gathered and murmured in the dim corners. They watched with an unnerving avidness, hungry for a show.

Maxim Agrippa, sixteenth Imperator of the Splitdawn Guild, dominated the space, seated on high upon a carved throne of mimic-stone.

In the Reaches, the Splitdawn Guild was known for their powered armor, and Maxim’s was meant to be the shining example of it. His suit’s metal was a smoky black, polished to a high gleam, except for a small nick or dent here or there. Jon got the impression it was intentional, meant to be a testimony to past combat. But it seemed artificial, all for vanity, because it did not match the face of the man peering out with disdain over the chest plate etched with Splitdawn’s gold sun-and-dagger sigil. Maxim’s face was soft at the edges. His long dark hair was shaved close to the sides of his head, the remainder gathered back into coarse ropes adorned with metal beads and precious stones.

All of it rang false, like a man trying too hard to impress.

To hear Corsair tell it, Splitdawn was jointly ruled by Maxim and his twin sister, Tove. It appeared that no one had bothered to tell Maxim of this. Standing beside her brother, Tove seemed an unfinished work, as if the Fates had become distracted during her creation and had gone to work on her brother instead. She was slight of frame, her shoulders canted at an angle, frozen forever in an uncertain shrug. It was very likely that her station had kept her alive. Among these warriors who prize physical prowess and strength, Jon guessed that her appearance was an embarrassment. Her ashy brown hair was clipped short. Her features were plain, to match her clothes: no power armor, only a simple black tunic. The gold badge of her office decorated the left chest: also the Splitdawn sigil of a sun pierced by a dagger.

Jon realized he’d been staring at the woman. His eyes met hers—the keen, dark bronze of high Kindred. Jon dipped his chin, turning his attention to Corsair’s broad back.

Corsair moved with leisure to the front of the other petitioners, as if he had every right to be there. All eyes seemed to be on him: remarkably sober, clad in the colors of his Kindred, wearing the sigil of his house gods on his sleeve. Jon was grateful to be considered a peripheral character in this farce. He, like Sela, was presented as Corsair’s retainer, props in his play. It brought another stinging hitch to his pride.

He sensed Sela shift beside him. When he met her gaze, it was the unreadable expression he remembered from long ago briefing rooms on the Storm King. What did she think of all this ceremony and hollow posturing? Perhaps she had reached the same assessment well before they’d been corralled into this meeting hall hung with mementos of the conquered and the dead.

He took the moment to admire her slim-fitting clothes. The lines mimicked the curve of her low back, the taper from shoulders to waist. Her thick blonde hair was neatly coiled at the base of her neck. Like he, she was dressed in the colors of Corsair’s house—red and pale gold, not the rich amethyst of Veradin Kindred. That was a daydream that had belonged to someone else, an idealistic captain in love with his second, with no idea what twists awaited him on his Path.

Jon fought the urge to sway impatiently. He counted backward from ten as they waited their turn among the crowds of petitioners for the Imperators’ favor.

Finally, Maxim scowled at them in naked appraisal, but he was slow to complete his measure of Sela. Jon sidestepped until his shoulder brushed hers, the move driven by a crazy spur of primitive jealousy. He felt the reprehension in her stare. The slight twitch of her brows was the closest she’d come to an eye roll in this situation.

Corsair. Who are your…attractive…friends? Maxim’s High Eugenes sounded lazy, bored.

Jon registered a flicker of movement from Tove’s side of the dais. A tall, rawboned woman dressed in battered power armor, hair arranged into ropey tendrils piled in a row down the center of her scalp, appeared at the twisted Imperator’s elbow. She knelt in deference to her Imperator as the smaller woman whispered in her ear. The armored woman glanced up at Jon only once before returning to the line of honor guard. He could not escape the feeling that their exchange had been about him.

Maxim regarded Corsair once more. Sela was forgotten. A mild improvement over the company you’ve kept of late.

Someone in the shadowy corner of the room issued a raspy chuckle.

Have you come to swear your allegiance to Splitdawn, now? We do love fish. He pointed at the Corsair sigil: a sea demon battling a dragon.

This encouraged more chuckles from the onlookers.

The barb rolled off Corsair. His posture softened, and he shifted his weight to one foot. A look flashed between them that hinted at a sullied history. I’m here to treat. To ask your favor.

Oh? Maxim’s smile was poisonous, indulgent. Why not go to your Ironvale brethren?

Asher Corsair is renegade, brother. He’s disavowed of Ironvale. Tove’s voice was like a rusted hinge, a testament to the angry scar around her throat. To treat with him is an insult to our Ironvale allies.

Maxim flexed his neck, nostrils flared as he shot a venomous look at Tove. She found sudden interest in the floor.

Corsair did not flinch. What is between me and Ironvale stays just that. I’ll make right with them…eventually. He said it with finality, like a terminal diagnosis. Unless…you’re afraid of them. Is that it?

Maxim stiffened. The room was quiet enough to hear the whir of servos in the powered armor. Jon realized Corsair’s play: Maxim, for all his posturing, would not want to look weak nor seem to take the counsel of his plain, rice-water sister.

Let’s hear it. Maxim gestured, a commanding flick of his gloved fingers, like humoring a child.

Humans that dwell in the Thermalyea Fray invaded my home. They’ve taken something valuable from me. I aim to get it back.

Maxim scoffed. A pirate that’s a victim of theft. How poetic.

Corsair ignored this. I need a single team, one of your torch squads, and a stealth vessel.

Anything else? A commission in my army? Perhaps you’d like to bed my sister? Maxim taunted. He feigned sudden recollection at his gaffe. Oh. Wait. Even someone like you has standards.

I just want what’s been taken from me. These Human invaders make their home in your territories. You are obligated to address it.

Don’t presume to remind me, boy! It was a sudden flood of vitriol, then Maxim sat back just as quickly.

Tove spoke: We would know of such invaders. The Imperators of Splitdawn keep their lands well.

Not well enough, it seems, Corsair replied, his gaze steady on Maxim. Don’t pretend you do not know the Sceeloid outpost there has been taken.

Enough! Maxim stood. His armor granted him a full head of height over Corsair. "Leave here now, Lord Corsair. He scowled at them. Before I do Ironvale a favor and return you to them…along with your friends."

Four

The walk from Maxim’s audience chamber back to the landing platform was the longest of Asher’s life. Each footfall drove doubt further into him, an unfamiliar sensation.

Wedged between Splitdawn’s heavy armored corvettes and other ships dotting the landing platform, the Cassandra was a shabby old whore. As he approached the ship, Asher thought they’d either shown courage to arrive in such a decrepit thing, or a foolish lack of decorum. Either worked.

Yet under it, he felt an alien sense of pride swell. He realized the emotion belonged to Erelah. She had loved the vessel, calling it a classic design

He pushed his doubts aside. There were no other plays than this one: a grisly last drive into a suicidal run to try at getting Erelah back on their own. A wrong step would get them all killed and might actually make things worse for Erelah

…and the baby.

Once more he stumbled over the idea. Ever since Kelta had told him, Asher felt like he was finding something unfamiliar in a common spot, tripping over it, each time having to re-examine it and find a new place to put it. But he realized it now needed a space of its own.

Was I right to tell you? Kelta’s voice was hesitant, soft. She set a trembling hand on his shoulder. He could sense her stare and imagine the worry and ache on her face.

…and I’m sure that was part of the plan as well, Veradin said. His face was ruddy with anger.

Asher blinked, looking up from the coated decking of the platform. He received the distinct impression that the comment was part of a much longer diatribe from the man, one that he’d been ignoring. The gist, the tone of it was enough for him to follow. And it was a reaction that he’d been expecting. Of course, Veradin didn’t understand. His brain just didn’t work like that. It was still stuffed with the pretend rules of principles