Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 11

"Next! State your name."

Two guards pushed Staff a out into the courtroom. He braced his legs, glaring up defiantly at the court officers. Before him, a Judicial Magistrate and several clerks sat behind a tall hardwood podium. Galleries full of curious

people lined the upper walls. Above the galleries, a groined ceiling rose. Light pods and security monitors nestled in the high niches. The whole place had been painted a pale green and an odor of unwashed bodies filled the air. He felt ludicrous wrapped in the towel they had given him.

"Staffa kar Therma, Lord Commander of Companions," his stentorian tones rolled out over the room. A tittering of voices broke the sudden silence. The endless nightmares had given way to this, a differen kind of hell — but one with hope. It would be only a matter of time now.

"Oh, yes," the Judicial Magistrate nodded, staring down at his monitor, "the madman." He looked up, a bored expression on his face. "You are charged with the deaths of two citizens. You are charged with assault on a public official. You are charged with vagrancy — being present in Etarus with no visible means of support other then preying upon the Emperor's citizens. I ask, have you an address, or proof of occupation?"

"Five years ago, I could have burned this planet to slag. I should have done so," Staffa growled. "I would suggest in the meantime Magistrate, that you contact Wing Commander Skyla Lyma in the Itreatic Asteroids to verify—"

"Enough!" the Magistrate thundered, his gavel slapping the room to silence. He worked his lips as he entered a notation into the comm. "I suppose you have an explana-

tion as to why you murdered two citizens and why you were naked in a public place?"

"They bbed me. I killed two before I lost consciou ness." Anger raged in a vortex under his throat; the inferno threatened to engulf him. His arms trembled as he waited before the elevated sandwood bench. He took time to glare his hatred at the hooting crowds in the galleries. They made a spectacle of him, Staffa kar Therma He imagined burning them all where they sat — vengeance against the ghosts that had begun to haunt his dreams.

"Yes, so you say," the Magistrate ventured cynically. "But Civil Security only received reports that a madman was running naked and killing people. Who is your master?"

"/ have no master!" Staffa roared. A violent stab of pain scorched his spine and left him bent and contorted, his mind numb as he struggled to keep from falling. He groaned as a bailiff stepped back, the stun rod hanging easily from his hand.

The Magistrate pointed a long white finger and added calmly, "This is a court of law. I will brook no further outrageous statements, madman. You are a slave. Your body is covered with scars. I suppose you would have us believe those are your battle wounds?"

Laughter and jeers rolled down from the galleries.

Staffa pulled himself up to his full height and threw his head back, loose black hair in an unruly tangle. "Among my people, scars are a symbol of honor — of pride in service to the Companions."

More screeches of amusement from above. Humiliation twined with anger; Staffa ground his teeth and his breathing went short.

"And the Companions murder innocent citizens, I suppose?" The Magistrate scratched his head and sighed. "Yes, I know the reputation the Star Butcher has, madman. That he commits atrocities in the name of the Empire is not the concern of this court, however. From your appearance, it is obvious that you are an escaped slave. During your medical treatment for concussion, you broke a physician's arm and incapacitated two interns. That, madman, is assault of a public official. Since then, you have demonstrated uncontrollable rages and delusions, all of which make you — in

the eyes of this court — a hazard to the Emperor's citizens. Further, you have admitted to the murder of two of those citizens. Have you a statement?"

Staffa's anger surged as he knotted his fists, the muscles popping on his shoulders and arms. "You will pay, all of you."

The judge continued, voice somnolent, "Be it known, therefore, Staffa kar Therma, that this court finds you guilty on all counts. Further, it is the option of the court to sentence you to death or slavery."

Staffa stiffened, fear running white where anger had previously dominated. He began to tremble as he sensed the bailiffs stepping forward, stun rods ready.

The Magistrate laced his fingers together and leaned forward. "Something tells me I should just execute you. However, you have absorbed a great deal of the court's time and the Emperor's resources. We kept you in stasis until your health improved. Perhaps a poor investment. I think it only fair that the people get something in return. I therefore sentence you to a lifetime of labor for the state. You will be remanded into the custody of the Warden of City Projects and fitted with a stasis collar. Are you familiar with a stasis collar?"

Staffa's lip jerked as he nodded, eyes slitted.

"You will repeat for the record of the court that you know what a stasis collar is and how it works."

Rotted Gods, he knew how the system worked. The damned stasis collars were manufactured by his own labs in the Itreatic Asteroids

He forced himself to say: "The stasis collar works on the principle of damping neural and physical activity at the molecular level. In effect, it stops nerve impulses and blood flow in a man's neck while the collar field is activated. Too long a stasis leads to nerve damage, suffocation, or potential embolism, heart failure and brain deterioration through oxygen starvation. The field generation comes through a directional gravitational—"

"Let the record show the defendant understands the stasis collar." The Magistrate made an entry into the record and called, "Next!"

Staffa bellowed, "Is there no justice here? You will not even check to see if I am who I say I am? What sort of—"

He screamed as two stun rods brought him to his knees and left his muscles contorting in agony, his brain seared with pain.

The Magistrate looked down, mildly annoyed. "Let me give you one last thought, madman. I was present in the temple five years ago when your namesake, the Lord Commander, conquered this world for the Emperor. I will recall until the day I die the words he uttered to the Etarian High Priests. He said, 'Don't come to me calling for justice. Your claims of fairness and humanity mean nothing, nor do I care for your precious conventions or beliefs. Your very existence teeters at my whim. Anger me not Priest, and speak not of right, or justice, or grievances. If you have complaints, take them to the Emperor! "

The beard! If he saw me, he knows what I look like. Is the beard! He raised trembling fingers to the thick growth on his cheeks and found it matted with filth.

The Magistrate shook his head at Staffa's obvious shock then he waved. "Bailiffs, take him out and deliver him to the Warden. Next!

What followed became a nightmare of pain and rage as he made attempt after attempt to reach the bailiffs. Each time they stunned him into shivering meat until he finally walked where they wished him to, staggering with exhaustion. His teetering mind turned one threat over another as he swore his vengeance on this planet of human putrefaction.

Spears of pain shot through him again as they shocked him half-unconscious. His body bounced hollowly off the filthy floor and his head smacked loudly on the concrete. Lights shot through his vision. He could not physically resist as the cold alloy of the collar fastened around his neck.

"Get up." The order barely penetrated his abused mind.

"I said, get up! A foot smashed his kidney.

Fury — rather than compliance — brought him weaving to his feet. His lungs burned as they heaved. The two bailiffs stood back, out of his reach, stun rods ready. As if they needed them. He realized with a shock that his legs were totally absorbed with the effort to simply hold him up. They could have pushed him over with one hand.

He, Staffa kar Therma, whom Sassa and Rega quailed to please, stood impotent. The shock of it drained him of fur-

ther resistance and left him as psychologically numb as his body had been

under the discharge of the stun rods. His voice caught in his throat like a lump as he looked down at his trembling hands. A white-hot ache lashed through his bruised brain.

"Listen, madman," the tall bailiff told him. "The stasis collar is plugged into the broadcast net controlled by the Warden's officer. That's the shiny thing you see sticking out of their heads. You understand?"

Staffa nodded, blinking, trying to get his mind to function.

"Good. Because if anything happens to him — like if he dies — the sending unit jams and your collar activates. If that happens, you die with him. Understand how it works? You take very good care of your officer; his life is yours. You make him mad, and he can kill you with a thought, or punish you until you behave."

Staffa nodded again. How many men, women, and children had he sold into slavery? Rotted Gods, he knew how the system worked.

The smaller bailiff told him in a casual voice, "This is a taste of it."

Staffa's vision swam as he crumpled to the floor; his spinal cord had shorted. Haze shimmered behind his eyes and he felt nothing beyond taste, hearing, sight, and the cold hard stone against his cheek. His head might have been severed from his body: His lungs went slack; his heart stopped; the blood slowed in his veins and brain. Pressure dropped in the carotid arteries. Insane terror scrambled his thoughts.

In an instant, his body tingled into a pins-and-needles existence. Feeling, blessed sensation, returned to his flesh;

his lungs began to heave and he could swallow. No, no pain at all, just the fear and the helplessness of imminent death and total incapacity. He closed his eyes and felt a strange burning and blurring of his vision as tears welled hotly.

How long had it been since he'd cried? Like a still holo, the image grew: A nightmare scene as he unstrapped from the seat and walked forward. He could hear helium hissing from ruptured lines. Burning insulation made a pungent stink in his nose. The cabin door had ruptured and buckled on impact so he looked in to see the twisted bodies of his

parents where they lay in the wreckage. Mother had landed on her side, ripped open and spilled by a jagged sheet of metal. His father had smeared on the tactite screen, body pulped into an inhuman shape.

Had he cried since that day?

"Get up, slave," the bailiff called. "Get up… or we'll let you have it again. You're under the same as a death sentence. We're under no compulsion to keep you alive. Get up. "

Staffa rolled over and nodded miserably. "Wait. just a second. Let me… catch my breath." He took three gulps of air and fought his way to his feet, body wailing in protest. Ashamed, he wiped his eyes, blinking the tears away, wondering where sanity had gone in the universe.

"That way." The tall bailiff pointed, a stasis control in his hand. Staffa started down the ramp, strength beginning to return. This time only one bailiff followed.

"Threw my own words in my face," Staffa mumbled numbly, remembering the Magistrate's parting comment. He recalled that day, the sunlight bright and yellow as it spilled into the courtyard. The priest looked up at him from where he'd been thrown, whining, at Staffa's feet. He'd said those very words then, eyes flaying the quivering priest. He'd wanted to break the Magistrate's neck-but the judge had repeated it nowhere near as haughtily as he had when he'd faced that priest.

What has happened to me?

He traced nervous fingers over the collar around his neck. The alloy felt smooth, featureless. The circuits and power packs were built into the metal. The collars had been around since before his birth, but those had been cruder, necessitating that the slave be plugged into a charger every so often lest the power packs run down. To overcome that, he had suggested to his engineers that they build a unit that charged from the very body it commanded. True to their instructions, they'd built a system which took a slow trickle of body heat and converted it for the power packs.

Band now my own innovation enslaves me.

An aircar waited outside a rear security door.

"Enjoy yourself… Staffa," the bailiff told him with a wry grin and left.

"Come on!" the officer at the aircar grumbled. "Get in.

We don't have all day. " The warden who sat in the aircar looked like an

oversized gnome. His bald head had been tanned by the sun and he wore a khaki uniform. "I'm Morlai, sort of in charge of you and the team you'll be working with. I share the duty with Anglo. I'm the nice guy. We're due in the desert and we've got a mess at the temple to fix first. "

Staffa climbed in, noting the smooth plastic insert behind Morlai's ear. A silver wire rose to a small antenna that lay flush with the officer's scalp.

He barely saw the city they passed through. His mind continued to stagger as it struggled to find a centering point. What sort of world was this? What sort of empire had he done so much to build? There had to be justice for a man of his…. Take it to the Emperor!

He rubbed his eyes and stared dully at his fingers. Incomprehensible! They were dirt encrusted! He looked down at his body for the first time, seeing the smears and grime that caked his flesh. Familiar scars crisscrossed his muscular flesh, some disappearing into the stained towel they'd given him. It smelled of urine and stale sweat. His feet hurt where the tender skin had chafed, unused to treading on the gravel and sand.

How could this happen to the Lord Commander? What had possessed Broddus to rob him in the first place? Why had the man…. Gold, of course. So much could be bought with gold. Like empires, some maleficent part of his mind added. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, refusing to believe.

Why wouldn't the Magistrate check my claims? Why didn't he believe me? He forced his reeling mind to think. A naked man covered with scars is found in a back alley with two dead men next to him. And this is the Lord Commander, the hated Star Butcher? rve been damned by my own beard! But it isn't right!

Staffa chuckled to hide the sinking in his chest. He never let holo images of his features out for security reasons. What lengths would those he'd destroyed go to. to…. Oh, Rotted Gods! A creeping cold iced his thoughts as he stared dully at the tendons that popped from the backs of his hands.

Putrid Gods! What if someone did recognize him? What

a pompous fool he had been! He'd stood there, before that Magistrate and claimed, CLAIMED to the whole Empire that he was Staffa! A man entire planets had paid to have murdered, stood buck-naked before a public audience and offered himself like a sheep!

Staffa, you've got to start thinking again. You're not yourself. The effects of the Praetor's conditioning are affecting your judgment. But understanding that intellectually and coping with it were two different matters.

His throat went dry and his heart hammered. Praise the Blessed Gods they'd thought him crazy! He shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench. How long would that last? How long until someone mentioned the fact that the Lord Commander had gone on vacation to parts unknown? Etaru sporting its renowned whore priestesses-was a logical place for any man to go. What price would his head bring? If one of those observers in the court even suspected, how much could that information alone be sold for?

Memories of the bald man on the shuttle plagued him. What lengths would even that disturbed and pained individual go to in order to destroy the man who'd taken his planet and killed and savaged his family?

"My legacy is fear," Staffa whispered dully. I must escape! I've got to get loose-get away!

How? How did he break the collar so much of his own time had gone into forging? His fingers traced the metal, warm now, feeding off his flesh like some malevolent parasite.

The aircar slowed near a rear entrance to the temple. Staffa looked up at the huge buff sandstone building and remembered the graceful marble columns and the cool air inside. Last time he'd strode imperiously in through the front entrance, his STO teams having already secured the building.

Morlai stretched and yawned after he climbed out. He didn't look like an impressive sort with his fleshy face and bare scalp. His belly bulged over his belt and he inspected Staffa from lackluster hazel eyes.

"What's your name, slave?" the driver asked, motioning Staffa from the car.

"Sta…… He shrugged, nervous, scared at what he'd

almost said. "I guess it doesn't matter who I was anymore. What would you call a man like me?"

The driver pointed him toward the entrance, talking as they walked. "Well, let's see. You're big-bull strong, judging by the muscle packed in your shoulders.

Been used hard to get all them scars. You're a tough one, huh?"

Staffa shrugged.

"Call yourself Tuff." Morlai laughed from deep in his belly. "Yeah, that's a good one. Tuff."

Staffa glared at him through cold gray eyes.

Morlai noticed, and added, "Listen, Tuff, this is the way the system works. You're not here because you're a nice guy. Me or any of the boys can kill you with one thought. Got it? That's all it takes. Just the right thought patterns and you're dead. Simple little thing to think those thoughts and I don't have to physically lift a finger. Now, we have a certain series of jobs to do. None of them are nice; none of them are easy." The flat hazel eyes appraised him neutrally. Staffa grunted in reply.

The warden grinned maliciously. "If a robot can't do it, we use you boys." Then he made a deprecating gesture. "Look, we're not monsters. Some people say we're foul enough to work for the Rotted Star Butcher himself, but we're only doing a job that we get paid for like anyone else. You help us get our work done, and we'll treat you the best we can-even get you a bottle every_ now and then. Give us grief, Tuff, and we'll make your life a living hell-or leave you dead and not worry about it."

Staffa shook his head as they descended a narrow, rockwalled stairway. In the dank underbelly of the temple he'd once dominated, Staffa stepped into a dimly lit room. Water dripped from the gray ceiling panels and the air carried a wretched stench. Two dirty men in collars stood over a turbulent pool that lapped out onto the floor. Another officer, arms crossed, slowly shook his head as he studied the surging water. Beside them, a wet machine of some sort rested. One of the inspection panels hung open to expose the circuitry.

Morlai called, "Got a new one, boys. Meet Tuff. What's the trouble, Anglo?"

Anglo had close-cropped dark hair and stood a little shorter than Staffa. His uniform was the same khaki as Mor-

lai's. A black leather belt at his waist was studded with pouches and shiny equipment. Anglo looked up, tension in his hard eyes. "Kaylla's down there. She's been gone a long time. Rotted Gods, hope we don't have her stuck in there, too."

Morlai gave Staffa a speculative glance. "You look fresh, Tuff, want to see if you can get Kaylla out? Then when you get her back up, swim back down and pry loose whatever's plugging the drain."

Staffa swallowed, eyes going to the two dirty slaves and then back to the officers. Anglo started to frown. No, don't get them mad. Take the chance on the water.

His gut churned as he stepped to the edge of the black roiling pool and the realization hit him: sewage. His flesh cringed as he lowered his feet over the edge and felt the cool liquid ripple over his warm body.

Something soft bumped the top of his foot as he slid in. His testicles knotted and he slipped in up to his chest before his feet touched greasy bottom.

"Hurry up!" Anglo yelled. "Kaylla's been gone almost three minutes! Water's backed up into the temple baths. Go!"

Staffa gave the man one lingering glare, and filled his lungs. Fouled water rushed into his ears as he ducked. The current pulled him along in the darkness. How much time did he have? Worse, how would he get back? His head bumped slimy surfaces as his buoyancy tried to float him.

I'll die in here. My son, my son, have I failed you, too?

Sharp angular points of rock ate into Sinklar Fist's chest, belly, and thighs. Sink studied the broken ridge tops through his starlight goggles. So soon after sundown, the IR visor had shown him only a mixture of hot spots. He'd come to know each nook and cranny of the topography the way he'd once known his narrow cot in the school dormitory on Rega.

"Sink? I'm moving up now," Gretta's voice came through his earphone.

"Take your time, love. I don't like the feel of it out

there." Once more he was acting in violation of the manual — the "holy gawddamn book", as they had all taken to calling it. Field commanders — like sergeants — were supposed to remain in sheltered positions beyond risk of exposure to enemy fire.

And just how the hell could he keep his knowledge of the fighting or changes in field tactics current while sitting on his ass in a bunker?

For two solid weeks now, they'd cut the pass off and reduced the Rebels to long circuitous routes of supply through the broken country to the north or south. The beleaguered Third and Fifth Sections — now replaced, reinforced, and totally demoralized — should have been guarding those areas. Those Sections had suffered being overrun twice and had been repeatedly decimated. Only orbital bombardment had forced the retreat of the Rebels during the reoccupation of those positions.

Sink forced his thoughts back to the battlefield and imagined Gretta moving through the dark. He could visualize her hips swaying gracefully, her keen eyes alert to the night. They ought to be in bed instead of out here about to be shot.

The Blessed Gods alone knew how he could live without her.

Gretta, please, be careful! I promise, we'll have better days ahead.

With great care, he propped himself on his toes and slid forward, letting the sharp rock eat different holes in his skin. Damn armor was flexible as silk until it got ruptured.

So much had changed that night they made love. Mostly, however, his bed was filled only with her memories. She had duties to her troops — sharing their billet was a corporal's responsibility. But those few moments when they could get away, he treasured as among the most precious in his life.

His thoughts settled on her amused expression and he remembered her dark brown hair hanging tauntingly about her perfect face while her blue eyes teased him with hidden secrets. He liked to simply sit and look at her, to admire and enjoy, lest through some magic, she vanished.

Something shifted out in the night. He blinked and

stared, trying to see whether he'd actually caught a movement. There. A head rose to stare in the direction of Gretta's sally.

"A Group, you've got a bandit perhaps thirty meters and two-twenty degrees from your point. Hold up."

"Roger, Sink," her cool voice came back.

"B Group, if you can make another 200 meters you should have a Rebel position in a crossfire. When Gretta opens up, they should fall back right into your arms."

"Roger, Sink. We're on the advance," Mac's tense voice came through.

Morale had soared at his decision to go out into the night after the Rebels who harassed them continuously. For the operation, he had taken his best companies, A and B, dreading the need to expose Gretta, knowing it would look like favoritism if he didn't. He might even have taken that risk, but she'd have known why — and he wouldn't risk her anger.

Another movement. He studied the figures who appeared as if springing from the very ground. A cave or tunnel? The mountains, they had learned, were riddled with vents from ancient vulcanism. The Rebels deftly began setting up a mortar, placing the tube and handing out boxes of rockets.

"We're at the base of the big rock," Mac's voice came softly.

Sinklar checked the position. "Rebels are seventy-five meters ahead of you on the ridge. Can you see the flattopped pine from your position?"

"Roger."

"They're just on the other side of that. I make it five Rebels with a mortar. They have a rat hole there, so be careful."

"Roger."

"Gretta, continue your advance. Careful now. See if you can get your hands on that mortar and the rounds to go with it. Be fun to shoot some of their stuff back at them. Gods know, our side doesn't supply us half of what we need."

"You've got it Sink. It'll be our pleasure!"

A POP-BOOM! sounded from back in the direction of the perimeter. The nightly shelling came right on schedule.

Also according to plan, he could hear the muted kackakacka of Shiksta's ordnance returning fire and making a racket to cover the advance of Sinklar's attack.

More movement.

"Hold!" Sinklar called. "Rotted Gods! There's ten, twenty, no, make that fifty, hell, a hundred or more!"

"Where?" Mac demanded.

"Coming up the crest of the ridge. They must have been massing down there on the other side. Looks like just small arms. Wait, there's a four-man portable blaster with a genset. They're moving up. Looks like they're. Yeah, okay, they tied up with the mortar crew. I don't see any advance party out. They must think we're still back in camp hiding in our hoes."

Stunned, he watched the massing troops. What should they do? Pull back? The odds began stacking higher and higher against them. What did it mean? Why were there… A major strike! The Targans were going to make an attempt to overrun the pass. Experiencing tendrils of uncertainty, Sinklar made up his mind.

His voice went dry. "Hang tight, people. Let them advance. We've got surprise and position; they'll be skylined on the ridge."

"Roger," Gretta and Mac answered in unison.

Listen to the confidence in their voices. Rotted souls, they believe in me. All that trust. What if I'm wrong? What if I lose them through some foolish error. some arrogant decision?

Behind him the pops and bangs of the bombardment had grown in pace, enough to trigger that sense of something gone wrong. Sinklar opened his mike again. "Ayms, you been listening?"

"Roger."

"Be ready. I think you're about to take a major hit from the Rebels." He chewed his lower lip, considering the risks. "Ayms, can you and the troops hang on? If you can hold out for an hour, I think we can take this bunch, double back, and catch your assault from the rear. We can break these guys."

Silence stretched for a long minute before Ayms' voice came back. "Sink? We talked it over. We'll hold the fort. I think we could keep them out with half the men we've

got now. Hauws says the soil organisms here are making the troops meaner. We'l keep them from being bored. Keep in touch." "Thanks, Ayms."

Sinklar smiled into the night, checking on the advance of the Rebel strike force. "We can see them." Gretta sounded hoarse. "Hang on," Sinklar whispered, noting where Gretta's people waited in relation to the advancing Rebels. Fear made his bowels turn runny. How good was the Rebel night vision gear? Would they see Gretta's people hiding in the rocks?

"Got them Sink," Mac whispered. "We're spreading out. working up. We'll wait for Gretta to open the ball unless some guy walks down on top of us."

Sinklar's heart began to pound. Adrenaline rushed to make his arms feel light as he pulled his assault rifle up and squinted through the scope. There're too many of them. This is suicide! Checking the advance, they were no more than sixty meters from his position, well into the jaws of the trap. Too late. Can't pull out. They'll see us any second. "Hit them," he gritted into the mike, hating himself. "Fire!" He heard Gretta's order, terse and crisp. Sinklar triggered his blaster, lacing the advancing Rebels, heart in his throat.

Once green troops Second Section had turned deadly. A week of dirty battle had honed them and steeled their nerves. Blaster fire raked the advancing Rebels, catching them completely by surprise. At the same time, eyes dazzled by the brightness in the starlight scope, he could see three figures in combat armor sprinting for the mortar crew. His heart filled with warm pride. Gretta hadn't forgotten the mortar.

The Rebels were firing back ineffectually as they tried to compensate for their confusion and the havoc wreaked by Gretta's devastating fire. Sinklar almost whooped when the Rebels broke and ran — right down the throat of MacRuder's B Group. From there it turned into a massacre. "Ayms?" Sinklar called into the mike. "Are you there?" A long silence was punctuated by the sounds of violent combat from behind him.

His heart skipped when Ayms' voice finally answered, high-pitched; "Rotted Gods, Sink! There's a million of them out there! The rocks are literally too hot to touch — through battle armor no less. We're taking that much fire!"

"Are you holding?" Sinklar's belly churned and his breathing strained as sweat began to bead inside his helmet. "Can you hold, Ayms?"

"How the hell do I know? Hell, yes! I think. Barely. I didn't know we'd have

to fight off half of Targa! Get your ass back here!" A pause. "Uh, sir." It came contritely and Sinklar laughed, partially from hysterical relief.

"Advance and clean up," he ordered A and B Groups. "Ayms is in big trouble."

"Roger," Gretta called. "We're moving on the ridge now. Not much left. We're shooting the dead to make sure they stay that way. These guys have Regan blasters, so we're packing equipment as we go."

"Good thinking. Detail a team to bring that four-man gun along. Mac? How you doing?"

"We're moving up the ridge Sink. We got most of the final resistance. What we didn't get ran like rock-foxes. Shot most of them in the back in fact. They were covering and our guys just let them walk up and cut them down."

Sinklar nodded, suffering that curious elation of victory coupled with dread that his comand was dying behind him.

He shouldn't have worried. Either the Rebels knew less about war than the Regan army did, or else they got confused and botched the battle plan. Moving Groups A and B, Sinklar did the impossible that night. He managed to trap nearly a thousand Rebel troops between his fortified camp on one side, a cliff on the other, and the sheer mountain flank on the third. Placing his two crack Groups on a commanding ridge to fire into the defenseless Rebel rear, Sinklar blocked the exit. He cut them to pieces with a neatly coordinated assault from his camp while A and B held off three suicidal counterattacks by the frantic Rebels.

or long bloody hours, blaster bolts streaked violently through the blackness. The air hummed and jumped with pulse fire. Trees flamed in torches of yellow-orange while men and women screamed and died in macabre firelight. Fragments of hot rock and blasted dirt jumped and pattered

in the din. A brush fire raged through the fight to fry the wounded, their screams hideous in the night. To the? shocked combatants it would have been no surprise had they learned that the tortured hell of the Rotted Gods had I broken loose in the universe of men.