Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 15

Skyla stepped into the dark tave and waited a moment for her eyes to adust to the lack of light. The place consisted of a long room lined with recessed tables on one side and a long enameled bar on the other. She counted seven men at the bar, all drinking from large tumblers. At her entrance, the men tued to stare, some with eyes gleaming. Assuming a shuffling walk, she crossed the worn stone-and-mortar flooring and caught sight of the landlord unpacking disposable drinking mugs behind the bar in the rear.

Skyla had been wary since she'd caught other tendrils of interest creeping through the city, tendrils directed toward finding a gentleman traveling incognito. She'd seen the agents asking at the inns and lodges. Now every nerve prickled with the sensation of danger. Her sources — always eager to talk to a beautiful woman — had divulged that powerful parties were looking for a tall dark-haired man with scars on his body and plenty of money. Skyla's fear had grown. Worse, she'd checked her registry to find an Imperial hold on her docking orbit.

Every scrap of information she had retrieved pointed to the Regan secret police. A frigid band constricted her heart. The very air of Etarus reeked with the subtle scent of Ily Takka — and Staffa had vanished without a trace. Of that, Skyla could now be sure; but the street hadn't failed her. Whispers

of a gray suit of combat armor circulated through the networks and pipelines of the secret markets.

Inquiry had brought her here, to this dimly lit hole, this den of black marketeering and strong drink.

"You need help or do you want to turn?" the landlord asked, studying the veil she had adopted. "You gonna work the pukes, you gotta pay the house fifteen percent."

"Perhaps you can do the helping," she answered, ignoring the insinuation of prostitution. "I have a friend in need."

The landlord racked the last of his mugs before wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He leaned over the bar and gave her a hostile inspection. He hadn't shaved his thick face, and red veins traced his nose. "A lot of people need help."

A rough-dressed man lifted a hand. "Help the lady. She's no Nab."

Skyla turned and curtsied. "The Blessed Gods keep you, ranny."

"What kind of help is your 'friend' interested in?" the landlord asked casually, keen eyes on her veil as he tried to penetrate her cover.

"Discreet help," Skyla replied levelly. "Perhaps you could lend information on where I could find a trader of durable garments?" She pushed a credit onto the bar. With a casual move, the landlord swept the 1C from palm to pocket. "Follow me."

He led her to a rickety dark stairway and faced her with heavy fists propped on his waist. "All right, give. What are you after?"

She cocked her head, staring at him through the veil. "My client is in need of battle armor. I understand a man resides here who has offered such a suit into the channels. My. client desires discretion in this area. It is also understood the suit is vacuum capable. Correct?"

The landlord squinted and crossed his arms tightly before jerking a nod. "I might be able to help. But now it's your turn to understand. the man who owns it wants an even two thousand credits for his suit."

"Too high. Military surplus vacuum capables are going for twelve hundred."

The landlord grinned to expose gaps in his teeth. "You know your market. In this case, what's for sale ain't military surplus. We're talking class here." He made a decision. "Go on up. First door to the right. I assume you have the money with you?"

Skyla gave him a cynical laugh. "You think I'm a Nab? Would I take the chance of having the Civil Security find me in the sewer with an empty purse and a slit throat?"

"No, I suppose not," the landlord laughed heartily and pushed past her to go back to his duties.

The molded plastic stairs creaked under her weight as she climbed up the narrow spiral. Dusty light bars cast eerie yellow shadows to show the way.

At the top, she found a narrow plastered hallway. She reached the first door on the right, palmed the lock, and waited. Though she couldn't see any monitors, she could sense the security system. They would have already found the pulse pistol, tool kit, and vibraknife at her hip. They would have counted the two hundred credits in her purse and noted the titanium pins that held her left femur together.

"Name?" a voice asked from the speaker overhead.

"Call me C." The door opened and Skyla stepped into a lighted room famished far better than the crummy tavern would have suggested. Was this where the small fortune Staffa carried ended up?

A muscular man stepped through a far door. Skyla's trained eye immediately detected the energy shield separating them.

"Yes?"

"I've come to make an offer on the combat armor you have." Skyla crossed her arms and stood, feet apart in an easy attack posture. "You are called?"

"I am Broddus." He frowned, heavy brows creased. "I don't like dealing with shadows who come armed into my house."

"I don't like dealing with men who hide behind security screens. Makes me wonder what they could do to my side of the room while remaining in complete safety."

He laughed, teeth shining. "Noticed that, huh? Not everyone would pick out the slight haze. You're no casual customer."

"No, I am not."

"Very well. I turn off my security, you unveil and leave your weapons on the table. That done, we share a cup of stassa and discuss your offer for the gray combat suit. I warn you, however, the twelve hundred you mentioned for military surplus isn't enough for this suit. It is most unusual."

"I see. So you monitored that discussion."

"I monitor everything."

Skyla pulled back her veil and his eyes widened with sud-

den interest. She pulled her weapons from under her robes and laid them on the table.

He motioned her ahead and she stepped down into a sunken lounge tastefully decorated with hanging plants. A tinted skylight cast soft rays on the light blue cushions that padded the place. The air carried the perfumed odor of sandwood. She took a seat as he poured two cups of stassa. Handing her one, he padded into a back room and returned bearing. Staff a's combat gear.

Skyla's anguish built. She willed herself to calm and stood, keeping her head down, unsure of her facial control, forcing herself to finger the fabric.

"Most. unusual," she managed.

"Yes, got it from a rich Nab," Broddus told her absently.

She swallowed and realized he'd become distracted by her hair, worn loose in shimmering silver-gold waves for exactly the purpose it now served.

"How much?"

He mistook her tone for awe. "Two thousand. Firm."

She tensed as he leaned forward to take in her scent. His voice dropped. "But for a woman as beautiful as you. I might bargain."

She looked up, off guard, eyes wide.

"You are a fascinating woman, you know." His mouth curved into a smile as he traced the lines of her face with narrowed raptorian eyes.

"And the owner of the suit?" she asked meekly, disgust building, giving her control of her frayed emotions.

Broddus shook his head. "I fear he'll not be making claims."

"Dead?" Oh, Staffa, I'm not too late! I can't be!

He shrugged, "As good as. Killed two of my friends. Civil Security charged him with murder and assault and sentenced him to slavery. He'll not be back to claim ownership."

A quiver of relief rushed through her. There was a chance, an ever so slight chance.

"How much for the combat armor and the weapons he carried?" She soothed her tortured mind and allowed an eyebrow to rise suggestively. "There may be some. bargaining latitude on my part."

He considered, licking his lips. "Take off your robes. Per-

haps I can sweeten the pot." The dominating smile widened, expression daring her.

Skyla chuckled to herself. Here was her game! He didn't think she'd do it. Unabashed, she unpinned her robe and let it slide down her pale flesh to a tangle on the floor. Clad only in her weapons belt, she could see his intake of breath.

"My price is dropping," he whispered. "I doubt you can get down to two hundred credits though."

"That's down payment. There will be more. later." And she saw his interest peak. "Thirteen hundred. and me." She let her fingers linger on his skin as she handed him the two hundred ICs from her belt purse.

His face had gone hot. He nodded, a nervous tic in his cheek as he noted the scar along her long muscular leg. "Come this way. Or do you want it here? I'll consider the suit sold and take my first. payment."

She walked ahead of him into a sleeping room. Her practiced eye picked out the security monitors — a poorly done job. She turned to face him as he entered. "If you're recording this, we drop the price to just me. I know what you can get for a holo of my action."

He stopped, a frown on his face. "Now, wait a minute, sweet meat. "

She laughed him to silence. "You don't know who I am, do you? Where have you beenail your life, in the streets of Etarus?" Direct hit. His face reddened.

He rubbed his chin, thinking.

"You seem to know the security system. If it would make you feel better, you turn it off." He.extended an arm as he drank in her body. "But I'll warn you, I want full measure."

"And I'll give it." Oh, will I give it! She stepped to the head of the sleeping platform and opened a box. Deftly she flipped off the switches and looked around, mouth pursed. She walked to a statue mounted on the wall and moved it, exposing a second box. That, too, she opened to flip three toggles. Satisfied, she turned, seeing his anger-hardened eyes.

"Your first payment?" She filled her lungs and adopted a wide legged posture, her head thrown back, taunting. "Come and get it."

"By the Rotted Gods, I will," he growled, starting for her, peeling off his tunic in the process.

Skyla's first kick caught him under the ribs on the right side. She spun, hammering him hard under the mastoid with an elbow, danced, and dislocated his keecap with another kick.

She dropped on him, knee first, as he hit the floor gasping for breath. She rested a forearm across his neck and stared into his dazed eyes. "You forgot to ask why I called myself, 'C.' Interested?"

She let up a little on his throat while he gasped another breath, eyes fear-glazed and frantic.

"C stands for Companions." She let that sink in. "The man you sold into slavery was Lord Commander Staffa kar Therma."

He trembled and she nodded. "Yes, I see you know what that means. Now, stand up." She released him and backed away, waiting, ready to strike again.

He limped to the sleeping platform, eyes miserable. "I–I didn't know. He. looked like a Nab who… It was an honest mistake!"

Skyla stood impassively. "The Lord Commander's weapons. Where are they?"

Broddus swallowed, gray shading his features. "Top drawer. My side. Something's wrong with my side. Feels real funny."

Skyla picked a walking stick from the wall and hooked the drawer, pulling it open from an angle. She approached cautiously, wary of booby traps, before she lifted Staffa's possessions from the cavity.

"You were very presumptuous." Skyla turned, settling Staffa's weapons belt over her own. "I didn't lie to you. Holos of our business dealings would have made you rich. Uy Takka, the Regan Minister of Internal Security knows I'm here, somewhere. She would have paid a fortune for such information." She smiled. "But then you won't be reporting it, will you?"

"N-no. N-never. My word… I give it… I'll never…" he stammered, blinking back tears. "It was a mistake! Just a mistake!"

Skyla frowned, studying him. She walked to the drawer and pulled a laser from among his other weapons, fingering it thoughtfully. Broddus began whimpering and shaking his

head. Eyes wide he clutched his mottling right side. He'd gone white now, and not just from fear.

Skyla checked the charge and triggered the weapon. Smoke curled from the sleeping platform.

"What are you. Rotted Gods! NO!" He lost control of his body, sinking

onto the sleeping platform.

"Where's the rest of Staffa's money?"

"In my belt purse, hanging on the right of the wardrobe! Take it. Don't hurt me!"

She pulled the door open with the cane and found it. Only two thousand credits remained. Turning, she slipped the credits into her pouch and calmly walked up to stare into his frightened eyes.

"You are aware of the Etarian practice of dealing with thieves, I suppose." She bit back the impulse to spit into his face.

His eyes closed for a second and he swallowed loudly. His nod was a bare quiver.

"If you move, I will kill you. Just that simple. Have you the courage to live? Death would be much easier."

"Live." His face contorted the track of the tears leaking down his cheeks.

"And you will tell the world what happens to those who dare cross the Companions?"

"I. I. " He began sobbing.

She triggered the laser on low power. He screamed when it touched his flesh. With great art, she carved the Etarian symbol for a thief into his forehead, burning deep to etch it into the frontal bone.

"Death is easier," she reminded, heart tightening.

"I want to live!"

Without a second's hesitation, she burned off his right hand; the coherent light cauterized the stump as he screamed deafeningly.

"Live well, thief. Remember the Companions — and the time you robbed Staffa kar Therma." She hesitated at the door, seeing the pale cast to his features. Her first kick had ruptured his liver. Death lingered but minutes away."… And gave the Lord Commander over into slavery!"

She bundled Staffa's combat suit into an empty pack she found in the main room and pulled her robes on, readjusting the veil. Grabbing up her weapons, she slipped out

the door and descended the stairs to the main room. A few eyes looked her way, seeing the pack. No one said anything.

In the street, she turned her tracks toward the little shop where she had rented a small room in the rear. On the way, she studied her back trail. No one. She had to move fast. Broddus might live long enough to tell.

/ should have killed him outright! Getting soft, Skyla. No, not that at all. Dead, he'd have had no time to suffer. Let him die knowing he's a broken man.

She hurried to her small room, trading a jest with the owner, and locked her door. After reshuffling the packs, she donned her combat armor, satisfied by the reassuring tug of her blaster on her hip. She slipped the coarse robes of an Etarian matron over her shoulders and pinned the veil in place. With Staff a's suit and gear packed on top of her white gossamer gown, she took up the packs and left; her steps turned toward the Warden's central slave quarters.

She shook her head as her heart pounded hollowly. "Oh, Staffa, what have you done?" She bit her lip, wondering how he'd managed to stand slavery and degradation.

She could see him, suffering one indignity after another, his wild rages caused by the Praetor's mind traps bringing him to grief after grief. They'd make him suffer for his pride. Stun rods, floggings, perhaps even mutilation.

"You were never taught about the street, Staffa. For all your power and reputation, you never understood the way humanity works. Pray to the Blessed Gods I am not too late!"

The giant, Brots, had arrived arrogant, dominating, his eyes piggish and deep-set in his flat face. Unlike the others, he wore the collar with a disgraceful pride. The first day, he'd begun to test the system by muscling the weaker slaves out of the way. Anglo had been rotated for Morlai, so, for the moment, Kaylla enjoyed some relief.

That night, Staffa suffered a severe bout of depression. Alone in his misery, he didn't realize how long Kaylla had been gone. Suddenly worried, he began to prowl; within minutes he saw her limping in from the dunes. She stopped short of camp, body bent and tired as she settled on the

white sand. The Etarian moon hung low, but enough illumination remained to see defeat as she hung her head. Her shoulders began shaking with sient sobs.

She didn't hear the soft grinding of sand beneath his feet. Staffa settled beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. Tension and fear possessed her as she recoiled from his touch.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Just. just leave me alone!

Even in the pale light, he could see her swollen lips. She resisted when he placed his fingers under her chin and lifted. The side of her face was puffed out. Dark bruises mottled her neck.

"Who?" Pent rage broke loose.

"Tuff, don't. It's only trouble!" Her hands twisted around the scanty cloth she still had left to cover her body. "Promise me? Leave it be, Tuff." The desperate need in her voice drove him to nod and pat her shoulder tenderly.

And he waited.

Brots took the position opposite Staffa the next day, and between the two of them, they bore the front portion of pipe.

"Later," he heard Brots call to Kaylla in his heavy throaty voice. A shiver rippled down her tanned back.

Eyes slitted, Staffa took Brots' measure. The fellow weighed in about a hundred pounds heavier than he did. Huge arms bulged with muscle thick as a wrestler's thigh. Irritating arrogance reeked from Brots' beastly leer. Staffa found himself locking eyes with the giant all through the hot day. The air crackled with challenge.

That night, Staffa watched. Kaylla got to her feet just after dark and ghosted silently away as she normally did to relieve herself in private. Staffa turned his gae to where huge Brots slept and saw the giant's head come up. When Kaylla slipped over the dune, Brots rose to his feet — moving to intercept her.

Staffa pursued like a sand leopard as the huge man plodded over the dune crest, eyes on Kaylla's tracks.

"Hey! Well, see who I find in the dunes again!" Brots' thick voice frayed Staffa's temper.

Kaylla's voice carried her sudden fear and resignation.

"Please, I'm tired tonight. Anglo's back tomorrow. He doesn't like the goods used. It will be worse for you."

"On your back and spread, woman. Now! Do it or you'll hurt the worse for it."

Staffa stepped out from behind the dune. "You ever touch her again, Terguzzi scum sucker, and I'll kill you." He'd settled himself, toes gripping the still hot sand. Every nerve tingled as the gut-twisting anger surged. Come on, Staffa begged silently, let me destroy you, you bastard.

Brots rubbed his hands and grinned as he advanced.

They met, thumping hollowly, grunting as they came together and fought across the sands: Staffa with all the tricks in his long experience, Brots with brute strength and animal zeal.

The desperation and guilt burned free, Staffa kicked, struck, and lashed insanely into that giant body. The beating he took fed every frustration and injustice from Broddus' deceit to the hell that burned from each humiliation and the suffering in the sun. He fought, powered by the guilt that obsessed him. He fought for Chrysla and Kaylla, for Peebal and the rest. Staggering blows landed by Brots goaded him with pain that freed his berserk strength.

Staffa unleashed a brutal blow with his elbow, catching Brots under the chin. The man's head snapped back with a crack. Staffa pistoned a hardened palm to the man's nose, and shot stiff blinding fingers into an eye. His skill prevailed as he broke the big man down, dislocating a kneecap first, breaking a wrist next. Finally he targeted the weaving mass of flesh and lashed out, catching the big man in the throat with a perfectly timed kick.

Brots wavered on his feet, huge chest heaving as a rasping wheeze gurgled from his throat. Staffa stepped back, took a run, and panted a fist deep in the giant's solar plexus. On agile feet he back-heeled Brots to the sand. Staffa dropped to grab the huge head. Work-toughened muscles rippled and bulged under sun-blackened skin. Staffa heaved against the thick corded muscle of the giant's neck while sausagelike groping fingers found a choke-hold on Staffa's windpipe.

For long moments, they heaved, muscles cracking and pulling, sweat streaming down gleaming skin. Their faces

contorted with hate. Brots' neck strained. Staffa's vision "\ shimmered as his throat crushed under those thick lingers.

Vertebrae cracked loudly in the night. Brots' big hands spasmed before they loosened and thumped into the sand.

Breath tearing at his throat, Staffa swallowed living pain and staggered away before he fell and rolled on the hot sand. He coughed in agony as he massaged his swollen throat.

"You all right?" Kaylla asked, cradling his head as he blinked dully into her pale face.

"I… think," Staffa croaked, chest heaving. Something damp — a tear — landed on his face. He lifted a spent arm to | give her a reassuring pat.

"Why?" she asked, voice oddly hoarse. "Why kill for me?"

He swallowed again, the sensation like a splintered stick being pulled down his esophagus. He pulled her close, holding her gently while his thoughts reeled. "You're. worth more."

They lay there together, Kaylla curled protectively in his shaking arms.

"We've got to get back," she told him finally.

Staffa glanced at Brots's limp body. "Better get him buried first. They'll see him from the air."

Together they dragged the' big man to a slip face in a crescentic dune and cascaded unstable sand over him.

Walking back, Kaylla asked, "What do we say?"

Staffa smiled, wincing at the beating the big man had given him. "That he told us no collar would hold him. That he could beat any desert anywhere and they could let the Rotted Gods chew his abscessed ass before he'd stay a slave."

Hand on his shoulder, she said, "In the end, he would have killed me, you know. It was in him."

"I think of Skyla… if she were here. If I never get out of here, and she's ever in this kind of situation, maybe someone will. Rotted Gods, what am I saying?" He ended with a self-reproving growl, irritated and embarrassed by this new softness. "C'mon, it's a long hot one tomorrow. Get some sleep."

She glanced up at him in the moonlight and nodded.

"Your Skylas a lucky woman Tuff." Then she walked off to find her place in the sand.

Morning came too early. Staffa stood, wincing at his bruises. Every joint ached as if it had been pulled from its socket. His throat burned, the trachea fevered under swollen flesh. He took a step, reeling on his feet.

Staffa squinted his eyes in the blinding glare of the sun where it hung over the horizon. His dry mouth gagged him. Aching limbs shrieked pain into the base of his brain. Brots had hurt him. Numbly, he came to the realization that the big man might have killed him after all. The agony in his body, coupled with the night's exertion, might keep him from getting through this day.

Gasping stifling air into his wounded lungs, Staffa glanced down at the bruises on his rib cage. His elbows looked like swollen roots and his fists had scabbed, only to bleed when he flexed his hands. He staggered to his place by the pipe.

"Whoa!" the tail man called and Staffa threw his weight into slowing the heavy pipe. He stumbled and almost fell, catching his balance by grueling effort of will.

In agony, he followed Kaylla's directions to align the long tube.

"Yup!" came the cry, and Staffa collapsed under the weight of the yoke.

He blinked, feeling heat radiating from the hot steel.

"Tuff?" The worry in Kaylla's voice cut through his misery. "Come on, get up. We've got a whole day."

Staffa ground his teeth and levered himself up.

Koree, another of the crew, suddenly bent down, hand under Staffa's arm. "For today, maybe I'll pair with Tuff."

Staffa's bruised voice rasped. "Yeah, maybe today I need it." Why did this man offer help? What was his purpose?

Koree: another misfit. Skin and bone, the man nevertheless suffered here in the sun with the rest of them. Frail and fragile, Koree — like Peebal — wouldn't last long as a slave on Etaria.

Staffa nodded his thanks to Kaylla. Her tan eyes had grown grim. She slapped him on the back encouragingly as they returned for another length of pipe.

"That true," Koree asked, "what they say about Brots?"

"What's that?" Staffa whispered to save his voice as he concentrated on his

wobbling feet.

"That he run off?" Koree gnted under the weight of the pipe, ropy muscles straining. "He took part of my food. He took from all of us."

"So?"

"So we all noticed you're hurt. That's all. Many of us saw Kaylla's bruises. Yesterday, you and Brots. well, you love Kaylla. We all do. Today, Kaylla stands straight again. You're hurt and Brots is gone. We'll have our fa share of food and water again."

Staffa coughed hoarsely. "Bastard hurt her. Now, if I could just get Anglo."

Koree hawked brown phlegm and spit into the sand. "Injustice, friend Tuff, is the reality of existence. God made the universe that way. It's unfair that we can only find a hero once in a while to handle bits and pieces of justice."

"I'm no Rotted hero."

Koree ignored him. "Brots is only a symptom of the sickness infecting mankind. Anglo is a fragment, but he repesents a larger malignancy, one you and I, friend Tuff, cannot cure."

"Why not? If I could get my hands on his scrawny neck…"

"He's only a fragment — and killing him would kill all of us when the collars shorted," Koree panted. "That, friend Tuff, is poor social surgery atbest. Therefore, here, we, at least, must suffer until we find the strength to die. Others will have to do the surgery in another time."

Staffa stumbled along, trying to keep his breath. When they dropped the pipe he looked at Koree. "You think it takes strength to die?"

Koree bent to the task of pulling the yoke strap from the sand. "In our situation, yes. Why do we fight so hard to live? What do we do here but suffer? If you accept that there is purpose in the universe, is it suffering? Can we expect that tomorrow the Empire will fall and we will be freed? No, my friend. I wake every morning with dread. Every moment I suffer, feeling my health sucked away with the sweat of my body. I will break someday. When? Tomorrow? No. Next week? No. But the week after? The week after that? And when that happens, Anglo or Morlai will cut off my life and perhaps you will carry me to the side and push hot white sand over my body. That is my future."

"Then why keep going?"

"Life is addictive. God made the universe that way. Like a drug, life fills us and leaves us brimming with an illusion of hope. People experience enough successes to nourish more hope. They forget the disappointments because hope is a more enjoyable opiate than despair. We, however, have no such reinforcement here. Somewhere on this endless pipeline death waits. Perhaps the only true underlying reaon we stagger on is that we're goaded by curiosity. When will it come? How long will I last? I ask you, is life worth living if that is the only entertainment?"

"You can always lie down and let Anglo make an end of it," Staffa reminded. "The collar doesn't cause pain. The disorientation is only limited to a minute or so. You talk of God and injustice. Why? The universe is neutral."

"Is it?" Koree shot him a sideways glance as they staggered under the immense weight. "Suffering and injustice are built deep into the structure of the universe. Entropy is the fuel of progress. Each of the world ecosystems — there are no exceptions — is based on competition. Some life-form eating another, competing for resources at the expense of its brethren. Why? Any species of plant or animal — if not preyed upon by others — preys upon itself. Is that just?"

"And you say this is God's work?" Staffa grunted, short of breath.

"Not the God you think of in terms of Etaria or Sassan Emperors — but the real God. The creator and manipulator of the universe. The God who isn't at all interested in prayers, or sacrifices, or temple contributions."

"The Seddi God."

"We can use that term to distinguish him, friend Tuff."

They pounded past the end of the pipe and fought sideways, lining up the length under Kaylla's watchful eye.

On the way back, Koree continued. "God built injustice into the system to avoid stagnation. Injustice entails suffering. Any aware organism will respond, trying to make its life better — alleviate the suffering, if you will. Choices are made, observations which, for the moment, establish that which is. Freeze the dance of the quanta. Reality is changed; knowledge is acquired. God gains from knowledge. He learns about reality, different reality, from each

of the micro phase changes recorded in a bit of eternal energy."

"Yet you wait to die. Why not end the suffering now? You yourself have said

you only await the end. Your hope is gone."

"But I am a coward," Koree reminded. "I am afraid to take that action."

"I've seen a lot of death. Fear made no difference. The brave died as dead as the cowards."

"True, but how many had the choice to take their own lives?"

"Many." Staffa stooped to dig a hole under the pipe for the carry strap.

"Why did they have that choice?" Koree countered, grunting as they staggered under the yoke for yet another trip.

"Because they feared my… my troops more than they feared death." Rotted Gods! What had he almost said?

"Then my thesis rests," Koree asserted. "Men are cowards at heart. Cowards are unjust, acting according to God's will. Creating more suffering, you see. And we are the worst cowards of all since we could escape misery so easily, Lord Commander."

His heart spasmed. He stumbled and Koree groaned, struggling to support the burden. The little man sank to his knees as Staffa fought to lift his half of the yoke and succeeded, the whole company suddenly out of pace.

"What. what did you call me?"

Koree, panting from the sudden strain, fought his way ahead until he regained his voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't think. I thought I recognized you days ago, but the beard makes a difference. Your ability to kill Brots confirmed it. No other man but a practiced professional could have dispatched him without serious damage."

Staffa glanced uneasily behind him, happy to note that no one seemed to have heard.

Koree continued to talk as if nothing had happened. "I was once a professor of human behavior at the University of Maika. For years I studied the trends of government in the Empire and wrote learned papers on why Tybalt did what he did and what motivated you and your Companions. I had a rare holo of you on the wall."

Staffa's anguished body — for the moment at least — reveled in a rush of adrenaline-backed fear.

Koree said sympathetically, "I shall not tell Tuff, my friend. Your business here is your own. I trust that you, too, have fallen as I myself fell. To me, that is another small slice of justice in an unjust whole." He paused. "But tell me. Why did you. No, how could you do the things you did? Did you never wonder at the rights and wrongs of your actions? Please, I mean no insult or censure. I ask strictly from an academic curiosity to know what motivated you."

Staffa bowed his head to hide the worry in his eyes.

"I don't need an answer right now, friend Tuff." Koree's voice came softly. "If you decide not to tell me, that is your prerogative." He laughed brittlely. "And you might decide to kill me to ensure my silence — which is fine. You spare me the misery of waiting to die, and I would only ask that you do it skillfully and painlessly."

Staffa bit his lip, blood rushing in his ears. They said no more as they carried length after length of pipe toward a towering dune, bisected by the trench.

Injustice? Suffering? God's work? He blinked to stifle the pain lancing hot behind his eyes. His tender ribs sent stitches through him. All his life, he'd dealt misery to someone. Entropy? Had he fed on that? He'd been a predator, true, but how did he expect humanity to survive the coming cataclysm when Sassa and Rega, each determined to survive, collided head to head? In God's unjust universe, where did right lie? Baffled, he turned his raw red eyes to glare at poor staggering Koree.

"I don't like that dune," Kaylla said warily, as they walked back to a new pipe stack the hovercraft had dropped. "I'll breathe a lot easier when we pass it." She looked back over her shoulder at the defiant white dune. "It's a man killer, Tuff."

What did he say to Koree? He thought about that as they worked ever closer to the sheer-walled ridge of sand. Kill him? Was that what the scholar was after? A quick end? And if he had recognized Staffa, who else could? The patter of fear sucked even more energy from his dehydrated body.

Staffa remained silent during water break. Anglo, having arrived, allowed them a longer than normal sit in the shade

to drink while he took Kaylla into the dunes, anticipation in his eyes. For the first time, Staffa noted the hatred in each of his fellow's eyes as they stared at the dune Anglo led Kaylla behind.

Emotion — a violent storm — filled Staffa's breast when she finally returned, mouth pursed bitterly. She waited until they were walking back down the trench to spit into the scorched sand.

Fear for his own safety and vile hatred for Anglo twisted and ate inside Staffa as he fought to keep his tired body upright.

God's work? If so, God was a bastard. And so was Staffa kar Therma. He'd helped build this living hell. He had gleefully sacrificed souls to it.

I could die so easily. It would only be just in an unjust universe. How true Koree's words are. Have I come to this horrid existence to finally know the roots of Truth? Is this what people, those mindless clods who compose the masses, feel? Do they. No. Only a few are ever driven to find ultimate Truth. The rest would fawn over their Blessed Gods, or their Sassan Emperors, and look no deeper.

God, whatever you are. This I swear upon my soul. If I live, I will seek you out. I will find my son, and I will change the lot of humanity! I'll break your rotted Forbidden Borders. I'll find a way to change humanity — and if I die in the process, that energy Koree talks about will make it back to you some day and you will know that one man, at least, dared to defy you!

"I did what I did because I was trained for it," Staffa told Koree as they moved into the shadow of the unstable dune. Blessed shade came only at the expense of the towering danger.

"I was taught and trained to be a mercenary by the Praetor of Myklene. It was drilled into me from the time I was five," he continued, noting Kaylla's frightened glance going to the sheer walls on either side of them. Tiny grains and streamers of sand — whipped from the top by the wind— trickled down the sides in a constant purr to settle on their damp bodies in a gritty dusting of sweat-streaked gray.

"Like a tool," Koree mused. "Did you ever have friends your own age? Ever get out into the city?"

"No," Staffa told him dully. "I only associated with my

teachers — constantly studying, practicing, learning. My goals were to improve until I could outperform my instructors. To that end, I devoted every waking moment." Staffa barked a short laugh. "I succeeded by the time I was twenty-three."

"And at what cost to yourself, my friend Tuff?"

"I don't know. I don't even know why I tell you this."

"Such talk is new to you?"

Staffa almost feH again. He waited until he had his footing. "About myself, yes." Too tired; he wasn't in control. Fear built.

Koree fought to get his breath. "You must have had a lonely life, my friend."

The call "Whoa!" came from behind. They had no breath left for talk as they stumbled and staggered to set the pipe straight.

They hurried, everyone aware of the ominous wall of sand that rose over them. Staffa's exhaustion increased, each step in the loose sand sapped him further, draining his very life. Rotted Gods, for the ability to simply stagger to the side of the trench and collapse!

Cursing, they placed the yokes and staggered up with the last of the pipe sections.

Have you become the confessor of my sins, tiny fragile man? Are you my route to salvation? You, who I could break with one hand? Why do you, who are so fragile, seem so strong and terrible now?

To cover his discomfort, Staffa continued to speak. "I always turned to my study and training. I lived with military problems. How do I take this planet? How can I counter these defenses? They were my reality."

"And what landed you here, Tuff?"

"The questions of a dying old man," Staffa whispered.

They were laboring in the shadow of the dune when the hovercraft approached with a new stack of pipe dangling beneath. The pilot, making a poor job of it, slowed too quickly. The cable swayed crazily as the craft dropped rapidly, heavy pipe thumping into the sand beyond the dune. Staffa felt the impact through his feet.

Years of combat had ingrained split-second reactions. Twisting from under the yoke, his terror-galvanized muscles

sped him forward. He braced himself and yanked the tug rope to pul Kaylla backward. Staffa caught her, pinned her arms to her sides with panic-lent brute strength. Hugging her tightly, he catapulted their bodies into the

end of the tube. A half second later, thousands of tons of sand avalanched down to bury the world.