Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 1

Captain Theophilos Marston grimaced and blinked, as if the action would restore his ability to think clearly after fiftythree hours on duty. He walked down the curving corridor of the officer's deck, hands clasped behind him, thankful that the soft light from the overhead globes didn't irritate his gritty eyes. Fatigue lay like a mantle on his bowed shoulders. Worry ate at his guts with needlelike teeth. The sound of his heels echoed along the deck plate as he passed through the soft white light cast by the panels.

And I expect to get some sleep? He grunted evilly to himself. Who am I trying to fool?

Then he whispered wryly, "Only yourself."

The ship hummed in gentle reassurance. He and the crew had scrambled to make Pylos ready for the holocaust that lay ahead. She gleamed now, polished from stem to stern, engines powered up, the mighty batteries charged for combat. His crew had drilled and prepared until each person functioned at peak efficiency.

"And now we wait?" Marston shook his head. His bridge First had informed him that the Praetor himself had come aboard with the last shuttle.

The Praetor? On Pylos? And without fanfare? Why? Is he about to cut and run? Leave Myklene to its fate? Or is this all some elaborate drill?

Marston stopped before the hatch to his personal quarters and paused, hand half raised to palm the latch. On impulse he pivoted on his heel and walked

to the observation dome for one last look at Myklene, his home planet.

He entered the dimly lit blister and sat off to one side where the railing lay in shadow. Below him, Myklene glistened in the greenish light of its sun, Myk. How delicate it looked, pristine and fragile.

Marston rubbed his tired face. The skin felt like a mask. Did his world really hang in the balance? Was the Praetor's intelligence network correct? Did the Star Butcher and the Sassan empire prepare at this very moment to destroy his home?

At first the soft rustle of gauzy fabrics didn't register in Marston's foggy mind, then he looked up. She didn't see him as she walked into the observation blister and paused, placing thin hands on the railing and staring out at the planet. Gleaming auburn hair had been gathered in a curling ponytail that hung down to her waist, and the fine fabrics she wore conformed to the sensual curves of her lithe body.

Marston swallowed hard, the last vestiges of fatigue vanishing with the racing of his pulse. God, what a beauty! He must have gasped, for she turned, startled eyes flashing. And such eyes! Large and tawny-yellow, they seemed to grow in her delicate face until he saw nothing else.

What would a man do to see such eyes glisten for him?

She blushed then, raising a hand demurely and murmuring, "Excuse me."

She turned to leave, the motion fluid.

"No! Wait!" Marston took a step toward her, hand outstretched.

She glanced shyly at him. "I must go. I'm not supposed to be here."

"It's all right. I'm the captain. It's my command. my ship." As he stepped closer, he fell farther under the spell cast by those unique jasmine eyes. He stared, breathless and rapt. What gave her such incredible magnetism? The loose gauzy gown couldn't hide the wondrous curves of her body. Her delicate skin glowed with health and life. A vestige of caution reminded him that he was gawking. Shamed, he forced himself to concentrate on her face — and saw the terrible sadness that possessed her. It engulfed him, opening a pit in his stomach.

"By the Blessed Gods, who are you?"

The faintest of smiles crept around her lips. "I can't tell you that. It would be dangerous Captain. even for you."

"How did you get here? This is a military vessel, subject to the strictest security."

She slipped slender fingers into the small pouch on her belt and lifted a laser-coded security card. "I came with the Praetor."

Marston nodded uneasily as he took the card. The Praetor's crest flashed

as it caught the light. Even as he held it, the corners of the card began to discolor: chem-coded so the ID couldn't be faked. Her security status ranked her ID which made her a virtual slave to the Praetor. A chill settled on Marston's soul.

She took the card back and stepped past him to stare down at the planet. "I must go now. He'll miss me. I slipped away for. one last look."

/ should call security, send her back to the Praetor's quarters. But he didn't. Then Marston caught her alluring scent and gripped the railing to steady himself. He searched for words, desperate to talk about anything that would keep her close. "You know that we may well be in combat within days."

"I know."

Why does she sound so sad? Who is she? "I suppose you're aware of the situation."

The weary sorrow in her expression melted im. "Staffa's coming."

Marston studied her from the corner of his eye. She'd said the Star Butcher's name with a wistful longing. "That's what we're told. But I assure you, you'll be safe here. The Lord Commander has never tried to crack a nut like Myklene before. We're not some half-starved backward planet. He has no concept of our power, or the capabilities of our orbital platforms. The finest technology has gone into making them the most sophisticated and deadly defensive weapons in all of Free Space. His tactics won't do him any good here. He's outgunned, and our tracking and targeting capabilities are like nothing he's ever dealt with."

Marston's soul swelled when she turned her doe-eyed gaze on him. Hard-bitten veteran though he was, he'd already fallen in love with her. He battled the desire to enfold her in his arms, to carry her off to his cabin and.

"Staffa knows that Captain." How could she talk about the man with such tenderness?

"Then he knows he'll be crushed if he tries us."

She placed a pale hand on his shoulder and an electric

thrill shot through him. "Run, Captain. Leave this place. Save yourself while you have time."

He forced a laugh. "I think you grossly overestimate the Lord Commander's chances, my lady. I give you my word, no matter what happens, I shall make sure you're safe. You needn't fear his slavers."

Her smile went crooked. "Believe me, Captain. I have no fears of Staffa. And slavery comes in many forms and fashions." Grief brightened her eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if perhaps the only true freedom lies in death."

"My lady. can I help you? Is there something I could—"

"No, Captain." Her amber stare melted him. "But I thank you for your offer. It's too late to help me. But you still have time to flee, and perhaps to save yourself."

"Staffa kar Therma could never take Myklene. For the first time, he'll have to tackle a superior force head-on. I grant you, he's taken world after world — but never an advanced military power like Myklene."

"I hope the Blessed Gods give you a moment to remember your brave words, Captain."

"Here, look." He pointed to spots of light above the curve of the planet; they gleamed greenly against the starclustered darkness of space. "Those are the most powerful weapons platforms in all of Free Space — and perhaps beyond the Forbidden Borders. We can track, pinpoint, and hit as many as six thousand moving obects at once. It's all controlled by a master computer complex on the planet so even if we lose a platform, the others will compensate immediately."

At the doubt that troubled her perfect face, Marston grinned. "I'll tell you what. If the Star Butcher is foolish enough to attack, and if you're frightened, use this—" he handed her a medallion from his pouch—"and go down to the emergency evacuation pods. That's the safest place on the whole ship."

Her delicate fingers closed over the medallion, glimmerings of hope lighting her porcelain face. "It's a pass?"

He nodded. "The Praetor will have to okay it, since you've only got a ID clearance — use it only in an emergency."

She flashed him a brief smile that sent pangs through his

heart. "You're a blessing Captain. But I have to go. If I don't, the Praetor will. Well, that's not your problem. I look forward to seeing you soon."

"Who are you?" he asked as she swept past.

She paused at the hatch and looked back. "You can call me… no, I owe you, Captain, and, considering what is coming, perhaps it makes no difference anymore. My name is Chrysla, but forget I ever told you." She disappeared through the hatch.

"Chrysia — a wonderful name." Marston fingered his chin, barely noticing the grimy freighter that followed the traffic pattern toward the Port Authority. No matter what rumors of war crackled in subspace, the traders still flocked to Myklene, perhaps hoping to snatch a last minute cargo of Myklenian luxuries. He glared at the old scow and shook his head. Profiteers betting that Myklene would fall — that their last cargo would bring them uncounted wealth.

"But you've bet wrong, friend."

Marston glanced one last time at the planet and started for his quarters. A trace of a frown ate into his forehead. Chrysla. He'd heard the name before. Why did it sound familiar?

The shiny syalon door to the Head Regent's office slipped open with a faint hiss and Sinklar Fist straightened his dustblue student's jacket on his bony shoulders before striding through. The ceramic heels on his cheap boots clicked hollowly on the hard tiles.

Tall windows filled the spacious room with light. Data cubes rested in racks along one wall; the floor reflected a mirror polish. The Head Regent's desk dominated the room like a hulking flat-topped crab. A spiraling crystal sculpture poised like a lance on one corner of the desk and a commmonitor complex rose like a curved claw from the other.

Sinklar stopped before the desk, barely curbing the urge to spring from foot to foot with anticipation. He looked scrawny, and a thatch of unruly black hair crowned his long face. Given a few more years, he'd become a handsome young man, but, for the time being, the gangliness of the ate teen years dominated his frame. The most peculiar of his many peculiar traits were his eyes: one gray, the other yellow.

The Head Regent looked up from the monitor he studied and smiled warmly. "Sinklar. Good to see you, son."

"Yes, sir. I understand the scores are in for the Interplanetary exams, sir."

The Head Regent's smile weakened and he ran a freckled hand over the dome of his bald head. "They are, Sinklar." He paused, mystification creasing the wrinkles of his face. "But I don't understand what's happened."

Sinklar stepped forward, leaning on the forbidden territory of the Head Regent's desk. "How did I place? By the Blessed Gods, sir, tell me!"

The Head Regent pulled a flimsy from the top of a stack and stared at the printing with a scowl. "Third in the empire, Sinklar." He handed the sheet across. "But, Sinklar—"

"Third" Sinklar let out a whoop, leaping with joy as he studied the blocky letters on the printout. "I've done it!"

"Sinklar?"

"Third! I told you Head Regent! It felt right when I took the exam. I just knew I—"

"Sinklar!"

He turned, the flush of excitement fit to burst his skinny breast. "Sir?"

The Head Regent sighed and leaned back in his chair, a sadness in his eyes. "They turned down your application to the university."

Sinklar took a step forward. "They. what?"

The Head Regent shook his head. "I don't know why. I got the exam results this morning and called immediately. Nothing like this has ever happened before. I don't. wel, I'm sure it's a mistake."

Sinklar gaped, ebullience fading. "Turned down?" He shook the flimsy in his bony fist. "But I'm third. Third in all the empire! How can they?"

"I'm sure it's a mistake. I've got calls in—"

"No." Sinklar looked down at the crumpled sheet in his hand. "It's my background again, isn't it?"

"Sinklar, you can't—"

"Yes, sir. I can." He glanced up, the heat of anger rising. "It's like always, isn't it? The enrollment will consist of the

silver-spooned children of the nobility. The few positions remaining will go to wealthy merchants and the governors."

"Sinklar, I'm sure it's a mistake. That's all."

"Mistake? Sir, there's no room among the elite for a ward of the state. It's because of my parents again, because of what they did. Why do I have to pay for what they did? I never knew them! I only know where they're buried — and what the court records state. We Regans document everything, but I'm a random factor, a freak in the system." Sinklar dropped his head, pulling the flimsy through his numb fingers. "I understand too well Head Regent. We wouldn't want the fair-haired sons and daughters of Lord Ministers and governors in the university rubbing elbows with the likes of me, would we?"

"Sinklar, please." The Head Regent fumbled nervously with his hands. "I'm sure it's a mistake. The empire needs people with your incredible brilliance. Don't do this to yourself."

Sinklar balled up the flimsy and tossed it at the disposal bin. "It's not your fault, sir. You took a chance on me and I did the best I could for you. But, you see, sir, I'm different — and it isn't just my eyes that set me apart."

"Sinklar, you're punishing yourself for something that's not your fault. Please, let me check into this."

"I'd appreciate that, sir. But it won't do any good."

The Head Regent raised an eyebrow. "I think I know the system. I may even have more pull than you think."

"Then you know how emarrassing it would be for a waif like me to score at the head of the class — above all those aspiring scions of nobility. And I would, Head Regent. You know it… and so do the admissions officers at the Regan University."

The Head Regent watched him glumly. "Knowledge can be a dangerous thing, boy. Your study of political science, imperial history, and sociology—"

"Have given me an in-depth understanding of how the Regan Empire works, sir."

The Head Regent nodded in defeat. "Promise me one thing, Sinklar. Don't become bitter and hateful. Don't let this one disappointment fester and ruin your life. If for no other reason, do it for me."

"Yes, sir. Blind anger and hatred are for the ignorant and the stupid. I'm neither.";

"No, you're not. But at times, Sinklar, you frighten me. What will you do?" i

"I don't know, sir." Sinklar paused, a sour smile on his lips. "Perhaps send an application to the Companions… join the Star Butcher's forces. As I understand it, they value intelligence."

The Head Regent went ashen. For the briefest moment, glittering resolve lurked in his eyes. Then he noted Sinklar's amusement, and sagged, saying hollowly, "Don't even jest about that. The last thing you need to concern yourself with is that cold-blooded villain and his band of vile scum."

"But he is brilliant."

"Brilliant? Yes, Sinklar, and without a shred of conscience or morality. My soul twists at the thought of him."

Why, Sinklar mused, did I evoke such a response from the Head Regent?

As the door slipped closed behind Sinklar Fist, the Head Regent took a deep breath and rubbed his tired eyes. He finally straightened and leaned back. "You heard all that?"

One of the data cube racks along the wall swung open to reveal a sophisticated communications and listening post. A young woman in sienna robes stepped out. "He's a frightening young man. You know what we're dealing with: a time bomb. You know his potential, and on top of it there's everything we've packed into that brain of his. The Quantum Gods help us if the Regans ever find out how he really scored on that exam. Think of what they could do with him — no matter who his parents were."

The Head Regent nodded and drummed his fingers on the desk. "What do we do, Marta? He's going to seek an outlet for that talent."

She pinched her chin between thumb and forefinger as she paced before his desk. "What do you do with any problem child? Put him in the military."

The Head Regent chuckled humorlessly. "Don't you think that's like shooting pulse rockets at a munitions factory?"

Marta spread her hands wide. "I don't see any other,

choice. For as long as I've monitored him, I can see trouble ahead unless we defuse it."

"And you think putting him in the army will do that. Very well, call Bruen.

Talk it over with him. If he agrees, I'll pull some strings." He shook his head. "But you'd better be right."

Leonidas Andropolous stuck his stassa cup into the dispenser and watched the thick black liquid fill the cup. Then he leaned back in his squeaky chair and stared at the woman and two men — Vegans from the scarves they wore over their faces — who walked into his sparely furnished office. Years of practice as head of Myklenian Port Security had given him a sense for the sort of merchants and traders he dealt with. These he placed immediately: longtime spacers who didn't mind bending rules here and there — or breaking them outright if they thought the chance for profits outweighed the risks.

Andropolous placed his cup in the warmer on the side of his desk and laced stubby fingers over his belly. The hum from the security monitoring computers in the next room could be heard through the wall.

"Good day, I'm Colonel Andropolous, how may I help you?"

The woman stepped forward and nodded slightly. She wore baggy coveralls, worn shiny on the knees and elbows and smudged here and there. A bright red scarf muffled the lower half of her face, but Leonidas could tell she was a striking woman. Wisps of pale blonde hair escaped the zero g cap she wore.

The men looked like typical nigged merchants, the sort that patronized the dock bars and brothels and generally gave his men a hard time when they "whooped it up portside."

"My pleasure Colonel," the woman told him in a commanding voice. "I'm Alexia Dharmon. I'm here to represent Captain Ruse of the Vegan merchantman, Trickster. We just grappled dockside and wanted to check in. We thought we'd see you first thing since we've heard the schedule might be a little rushed when it comes time to ship out."

"You've heard the stories about war with Sassa." Andro polous drummed his fingers on the desktop. "You're not the first, and you won't be the last. I suppose you want an officer to accompany your people while they load? Conduct the manifest inspection on the spot? You know, it will cost you extra."

"We're willing to pay, Colonel. It's worth it to us to cut our profit margins in the interest of time."

He chuckled. "You know, you're all going to feel a little foolish when you make it back to Vega and find out the Star Butcher didn't attack and you paid all those exorbitant prices for nothing."

She nodded. "That's part of the risk of doing business, isn't it, Colonel?"

He picked up his stassa, sipped loudly, and punched his comm button with the other hand. Text flashed across his desk monitor. Andropolous raised an eyebrow. "According to our files, Trickster has a two-hundred credit defaulted payment from your last port call."

Dharmon reached into the spacer's pouch at her hip and placed five golden coins on the desktop. "Five hundred credits Colonel — in gold, Sassan though it might be. I believe that should settle all accounts, cover any fines, interest, and collection costs." She leaned forward, blue eyes eager. "And we'll settle up in gold before we leave."

"That's far more than is required at this time."

He could ee the grim smile in her eyes. "Credit our account. any way you see fit, Colonel. We just want to make sure there are no problems with our departure."

Andropolous smiled and slid three of the coins across the desk before palming them. He punched the comm button again, calling, "Theodora, please send two of your security staff up. They're to go on assignment immediately."

Alexia looked at her two companions, both of whom had begun to grin through their scarves in a most predatory way.

"So you really think it will come to war?" Andropolous asked as he leaned back in his chair again.

Dharmon shrugged and rearranged the scarf that covered her mouth. "It would be a shame if it did. The merchants would just as soon see that Myklene remained sovereign. Trade's better that way. If the empire absorbs you, it'll take time to rebuild the economy. After that, you're just like

everyone else. We'll only make money from haul fee, not from trade."

Andropolous snorted and shook his head. "Tell that to your God-Emperor."

"We did," one of the men growled. "Maybe our likes aren't sacred enough for his tastes."

Andropolous shared the joke as his two security men entered the room. Each carried his inventory computer and scanner as well as a side arm, stun rod, and binders.

"Thank you for coming so swiftly, gentlemen. I'd like you to meet…"

A loud pop sounded followed by a hiss — and the security officers dropped.

"What the…" Andropolous started forward, reaching for the comm alert, only to have Alexia grab his wrist and push him back into the squeaky chair. Wispy tendrils of gas choked him, and his strength began to drain away.

"Don't worry Colonel. The gas won't hurt you," she told him as her competent fingers ran over his comm control. "It just paralyzes the neuro-musculature. You'll still be able to think, and, after a bit, to speak if we need you to."

Andropolous could see past her to where the two men had kicked the door shut and now bent over his security team to pull the weapons from their belts. His horror grew as security systems fell one by one under Alexia Dharmon's commands.

Dharmon glanced at a wrist monitor. "All clear. The gas has dissipated." She pulled the red scarf from her face, and with it, the small conforming gas mask.

"Wha. " Andropolous croaked.

"Wing Commander?" one of the men asked.

She stepped back, motioning at the wall that separated his office from the computer room. "Go for it."

In the edge of his vision, Andropolous could see the two men attack the wall with small vibraknives they pulled from their pouches — knives too small to have triggered the security detectors, but big enough to slice through wall panels.

"Who…" Andropolous croaked.

The blonde woman leaned over him, checking the security readouts on his comm system. He could see the scar running across her cheek, hardly diminishing her startling beauty.

To the men, she called, "No alarm, Ryman. So far, so good."

"Who.. are.. "

She spun Andropolous' chair around, squatting on her heels before him. "Sorry about the damage Colonel, but you see, we're only the beginning of your troubles. And things will be getting a lot worse before they get better." "Can't… get… away. with. "

"We're not here to get away. We're here to wreck your computers — and through them to introduce a virus into your entire defense network."

Andropolous blinked, trying to understand.

"Wing Commander, we're through!" one of the men called.

"Be right there."

Wing Commander? "Skyla. Lyma." Andropolous closed his eyes, weary to the core of his soul.

"Very good, Colonel," she told him. Something pricked the skin on the back of his hand. "We're through now, so we won't need you anymore. Sorry you had to recognize me. The Companions don't take any chances."

The chair rocked as she brushed past him. A foggy haze drifted up around Andropolous' thoughts. The last thing he remembered was the creaking of the chair.

Staff assistants hurried back and forth across Myles Roma's tower office. The room he occupied as Legate to His Holiness, Sassa II, was large and sprawling, opulently furnished with thick carpeting and gleaming desks. Holo monitors filed all of one wall, constantly processing updated information and status reports — especially now that the fleet was assembling, troops were moving, and the incredible nightmare of logistics had snarled everything. The view from his engraved sandwood desk caught the eye, the spires of the Sassan capital building rose against the aqua sky. Behind him, the holographic image of His Holiness dominated the room. Not even the familiarity of years had gotten Myles over the feeling that the God-Emperor was staring watchfully over his shoulder at all times. Maybe it helped keep him honest.

"A call has come in, Legate," an aide informed through the comm. "The Lord Commander is on secure line one."

The Lord Commander? Roma made a distasteful face and straightened his saffron robe, cleared his throat, and resettled himself in an effort to hide his fat-swelled gut. He checked his reflection to make sure he looked the part

of Legate, and twiddled the glittering rings on his fingers. Satisfied, he swiveled in his gravity chair and punched the button which dropped a privacy screen around him. Of all the Legate's duties, he hated dealing with the Companions the most. Something about Staff a kar Therma sent a quiver through his guts. When the Lord Commander stepped into a room, the effect could be likened to a shard of glass passing through a box of balloons.

The holo generator flickered and projected the Lord Commander's image. Staffa kar Therma smiled and nodded ever so slightly, the gesture as formal as frost. He looked exactly as he should. Hard gray eyes took Myles' measure. The straight nose and square jaw befitted a merciless conqueror. As always, the Lord Commander's straight black hair had been gathered into a ponytail over his left ear and held in place by a jeweled brooch that glinted with multicolored rays. The top of a slate-gray battle suit could be seen and the long cloak that was kar Therma's trademark bunched on the muscular broad shoulders.

"My Lord Commander," Myles greeted. "It's good of you to call. I hope this is a status update on your mobilization for the Myklenian attack?"

"It is exactly that Legate." The cold voice sent a shiver up Myles' spine. Staffa continued, "You may tell His Holiness that the Companions will engage the Myklenian defenses within a matter of minutes. If you would be so kind as to hurry your mobilization and deploy at the earliest opportunity, we'll be ready to hand the planet over to you upon arrival."

Myles sputtered as he jerked bolt-upright. "Attack! Now? But our forces are only half ready. You can't attack! Not until we're ready."

Staffa's expression didn't change. "Legate, if you would like to argue the terms of the contract, you may do so later. If your admirals are going to throw petty fits of temper, you may deal with them."

"But, Lord Commander, Sassan honor—"

"Is not my concern." Staffa kar Therma paused. "If you have a problem, Legate, take it up with your emperor."

"Take it… No! No, you can't do this! Attack, without our military forces… I refuse to let you."

A nerveless smile crossed the Lord Commander's lips. "Do you wish to cancel the contract?"

"Cancel the. No, of course not. We're just. His Holiness is going to be very displeased. He might. might…"

"Yes? You were saying?" A mocking glint lingered in Staffa's eyes,

A twisting sensation of defeat grew in Myles' belly. He could feel the sweat popping out on his brow. "Just tell me, Lord Commander. Why did you act before we were ready?"

An evil demon might have stared back at the Legate. "Because no one expected us to strike now — least of all you, or the Praetor's spies."

"Are you insinuating that our security is—"

Staffa leveled a gray-gloved finger, deadly menace in his eyes. "Don't use that tone of voice with me Legate."

Roma's tongue stuck in his mouth and he recoiled in physical horror, his gravity chair rolling out of the privacy field and canceling its protection.

"That is all I called to tell you Legate." Staffa narrowed his eyes. "Come as soon as your forces are ready. Myklene will be waiting."

The holo flashed off and Myles trembled, aware that all eyes were upon him. He pulled a perfumed handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his damp face.

He didn't try to pull his chair back, but rose on unsteady legs. "Get me His Holiness."

His aides simply stared.

"Now, by the Rotted Gods, NOW!"

Staffa kar Therma, the Lord Commander of the Companions, sat alone, though surrounded by so many — a solitary man in gray enfolded by the instrument cluster pods that rose like petals from the raised command chair that dominated the warship Chrysla's bustling bridge. No expression

crossed his face. Despite the hum of machinery, the constant murmur of voices, and the flashing of monitors, his gray eyes stared absently — lost in the depths

of his thoughts.

The duty officers who sat at their stations amidst multicolored computer consoles shot periodic glances his way. Each look reflected pride and confidence — or hinted at awed worship. Despite the quick glances, no one malingered. Weapons officers ran systems checks and the pilot reclined in a state of semitrance, her brain directly interfaced with the nav-computer as it fed her data on course and velocity. The engineers monitored the huge ship's power plant and support systems, vigilant attention on the readouts. The communications officer sat before the comm boards, leaning back with arms crossed while the logistics officer spoke quietly into his mike, coordinating with his subordinates.

Surrounded by the muted whispers and hushed comm chatter, Staffa kar Therma remained alone. Hidden to all eyes but his, the instruments of the command chair projected a holo image of an emerald planet against a background of hazy flickering stars. Scenes formed on the monitors of gleaming white cities, laughing men, women, and children — of a carefree society.

Myklene. How many years have passed since they turned on me? Despite the lies I've told myself, was I ever happy there? That verdant world, Myklene, had borne him, taught him, and finally betrayed him. Even the man he'd loved and devoted himself to had turned against him; but that had been long ago. The angry youth who had been expelled from Myklene now returned as a hardened man, as a conqueror come back to repay an old debt. Emotions conflicted within Staffa's muscular chest.

He pulled absently at his smooth chin, eyes thinning to slits. He'd come a long way since the day the Praetor had smuggled him off Myklene in defiance of the Council's wishes. They'd destroyed his happiness — such as it was.

Happiness? When was I really happy? Once. Once. The memory tried to slip through the tungsten-steel tough rein Staffa kar Therma kept on his thoughts. A beautiful woman's face with soft amber eyes and gleaming auburn hair formed in his mind and to avoid the pain he banished it like a ghost of floating mist on a hot sunny day. The

terrible cry of a newly born child drifted through his memory. And with it came the haunting longing for the son he'd never known, the son who had been stolen from him.

My fault. My failure. He'd slipped, allowed himself to feel, to share his life with another. Chrysla, the name cast honeyed tones through his soul. He'd loved her, known happiness for those few brief years before she'd been abducted. And to what fate? By whom?

She'd borne him a son just before her kidnapping; and for the second time in his life, his heart had been broken. He'd searched, employed the finest investigators to find her, offered rewards. But Chrysla had vanished without a trace. In the years that followed, he'd exacted his revenge on a heedless humanity. Never again had he allowed himself to falter, to feel, or to share that sense of identity which was human. Instead, he'd fallen into the old patterns taught him by the Myklenians — and the only other human he'd ever loved.

Love led to pain. and failure. Do not love. Allow no vulnerability of the soul. Strength was the only virtue. No other heritage belonged to humankind. Survival meant power, no matter how much blood had to be spilled.

"Staffa?" her soft voice drifted through the veiled memories of shattered dreams.

First, she taught me how to love — then she taught me how to grieve. Staffa glanced up at the main bridge monitor which displayed fleet status as the Companions readied for the first assault. In a matter of hours Myklene would reap the rewards of Staffa kar Therma's homecoming.

And what if I have to face him again? What if I have to look into his eyes? Speak to him? Staffa ground his teeth and balled his fists. Then I shall do so as a master to a servant. Yes, Praetor, the roles will be reversed this time.

Except Staffa couldn't stifle the quake of fear deep in his gut.

The comm near Captain Theophilos Marston's ear buzzed, followed by, "Sir, we have a security alert from the

planet. Something's gone wrong, with the computers down there."

He jerked a rheumy eye open and sat up on his sleeping pallet while the last skeins of his dream of the beautiful amber-eyed woman slipped away. "What the hell do you mean, something's wrong with the computers? On the planet?

What does that have to do with us?"

"Uh, sir, it's something wrong with the security system. Alarms are going off all over the planet. It started with one or two here and there. When personnel checked them out, they couldn't find anything wrong. Now the whole planet's ringing with alarm klaxons. It's mass confusion."

Marston rubbed his face and shook his head. "I suppose the deep space buoys are involved?"

"Yes, sir. That's why we thought it necessary to wake you, sir."

"Great, just great. Thought the system was supposed to be foolproof."

By the time he'd dressed, grabbed a cup of stassa, and made it to the bridge, pandemonium reigned. Officers shouted into their headsets, bridge status monitors flickered on and off or displayed static-ridden snow.

"What the hell's this?" Marston demanded, waving his stassa cup before him.

"Planetary systems, sir," his watch officer told him.

Marston met his watch officer's worried eyes and dropped into the command chair. "Shut that down. Cut the downlink. Isolate us. I want ship's systems only. Whatever's gone wrong down there is their problem. Rotted Gods, this is no time for a software failure. I want ship's eyes to the sky."

A subtle panic stole through Marston's heart as he watched the bridge monitors firm up with solid images. The deep space scanners probed out into the vacuum, mass detectors providing fuzzy images that slowly solidified into patterns depicting solar wind, occasional vessels headed outbound, and the usual clutter that orbited Myklene.

"Nothing incoming," the weapons control officer called.

Marston squinted up at the monitors and the clear sky they indicated. "Why is this happening now? It just doesn't make sense. By the Rotted Gods, if the Star Butcher chose this moment to strike, we'd be just about defenseless. What

happened down there? They let some idiot loose with an idea, or what?"

"I guess it started with security." The watch officer twirled the gold braid that hung down from her epaulets. "You know how it is. One computer's hooked to another. We'd just better hope this Star Butcher scare is exactly that. It will take hours to sort this mess out."

"Relax, people," the intelligence officer called from his station. "We know the Sassans are preparing for war, but they're still weeks away from operational readiness. Not even Staff a would move before the Sassans were ready. Sassa II would throw a fit if his troops weren't included on the first strike. He'd have Staffa's head for it."

Marston tried to blink the cobwebs of exhaustion out of his weary brain. Would he? If Staffa wanted to strike first, what would the Sassan God-Emperor do about it? What could he do? Throw a tantrum? Blast the Lord Commander with a bolt of lightning?

"On the ball, people. I don't like this. Something's sour in my gut. I want the crew at combat quarters — now!"

The intelligence officer swiveled around from the monitor. "With all due respect, Captain. I think that's unnecessary at this stage. The Praetor himself is aboard. I assure you, if anything were about to happen, I'd have—"

"I've got incoming!" the weapons control officer called out. "Deep space contacts, three. no, five. eight. Rotted Gods! There's a dozen incoming. no, twenty or thirty!"

Marston's heart skipped and a dryness formed in his throat as he glanced up at the monitor. The deep space scan had already begun to plot vectors on the incoming vessels.

"Comm Officer! Sound a full-scale alert! We're about to be attacked!" Marston wheeed his chair around and began checking his systems as the klaxons wailed throughout the ship.

"Sir!"

Marston swiveled his chair around to face the comm officer. The young woman's face had gone pale and pasty. Her voice trembled as she told him, "They don't believe me, sir. They say they've got false alarms going off all over the planet."

Marston sat stunned for a moment. He could feel the chill

creep into his heart. "Get me the Praetor, before we're all dead."

On the screen, the deadly dots of light had begun to fan out, changing vector in a deadly dance of offensive tactics.

Division Commander Dimeter Anaxoulos wove anxious fingers into his thinning white hair and tugged until it hurt. Never had he faced such a rat's nest of computer malfunctions. The entire security and defense net had gone schizophrenic. For the last one hundred and fifty-six years, he'd pursued his career as a military commander, and he'd never seen a system go so batty. Each of the monitors in the control room of his orbital platform winked on and off while communications lines scrambled, cleared, and scrambled again.

"What the hell are they doing down there?" he demanded as he stalked back and forth. "Don't the thrice-Rotted fools know we're on alert?"

"Sir?" the comm tech called.

"Damn it, not now. I've got more important things—"

"Sir! I've got the Praetor on priority laser link from the flagship Pylos. He demands to speak to you now."

Anaxoulos caught himself and nodded. He glanced up at the monitor in time to see the Praetor's withered face form. "Praetor, thank the Blessed Gods, we've got a—"

"Shut up, Dimeter. We're under attack. Isolate your systems from the planet and prepare to defend Myklene. Check your monitors, and coordinate your fire. The security malfunction is a diversion. I've got a means at my disposal to buy some time." The Praetor's expression twisted sourly. "Provided I can reach Staffa in time Meanwhile, destroy them. Kill them all Commander."

The screen went blank.

"You heard him!" Anaxoulos shouted. "Delink, and turn our…"

He never finished. Even as he spoke, the monitors cleared and he could see the closing vessels. "Weapons control! fire. Charge all batteries, tie into the system, and fire!"

For long seconds Dimeter Anaxoulos waited, then the complicated targeting computers sorted out vectors, and the

lights dimmed as energy bolts lashed out from the giant orbiting platform. Mass detectors quavered from the aftereffects while the sensors fuzzed from the radiation of the discharges, but one by one, the incoming dots reestablished on the screen, unscathed, closing the distance incrementally.

"I don't. " Anaxoulos gripped the console edge to brace himself. "Shoot! By the Blessed Gods, target and shoot!"

The weapons officer grimly applied himself to the task. Seconds passed as bolt after bolt flashed toward the stars at the speed of light; and with each one, it became apparent that something had gone terribly wrong, for the shots played randomly through the vacuum.

Anaxoulos hunched as if kicked in the stomach. "What. How. "

"The master computers," the weapons tech told him in a dead man's voice. "They did something to the master computers. Somehow, some way, they sabotaged the system."

Dimeter Anaxoulos screamed his rage, bowling the weapons officer out of the way as he clawed at the control console, sending shot after shot harmlessly into space. Finally, in defeat, he cried. He was still crying when the first enemy strike blasted his orbital platform.

"I've got a message from the commander of the Pylos, Lord Commander."

Staffa kar Therma swiveled in his command chair. The three-sixty screens surrounding him reproduced every angle of the battle that raged around Myklene. Each of his ships darted through Myklenian space, streaks of light marking their bombardment of the ravaged defenders. One by one, his assault ships dropped low over the planet, dispersing ground assault teams. Smoke rose in rolling columns over Myklenian urban centers.

He could remember each of those cities. He needed only to peel back the curtain of memory to see them as they'd been in his youth. A pang speared his heart. This had been home once before theyd turned on him and his talents. And had Chrysla been left for him, she might have talked

him out of crushing thi final link with his past. Perhaps he would have felt pity for the people who had once been his. Now, as he watched the planet burn, only an emptiness filled his breast. A shattering of dreams.

Praetor, today you reap what you have sown. Your son has returned — and broken your bac.

"Lord Commander?"

Staffa glanced at his comm officer. "Yes?"

"The commander of the Pylos, sir. Do you wish to speak to him?"

Staffa nodded, and a face formed in the main monitor on his command chair. The bridge behind Theophilos Marston had gone dead — power shorted. Smoke wreathed the air and emergency sirens wailed in the background. Marston looked stricken as he grabbed a console to steady himself. He wore a space suit in anticipation of decompression.

"Lord Commander, I am Theophilos Marston of the flagship Pylos. I beg of you Lord Commander, stop your assault! We're helpless. The lives of millions hang—"

"I'm well aware of your situation, Captain." Staffa said coldly and leaned forward, savoring the moment. "I also remember the lessons you once gave me on strategy and tactics. I believe your exact words were, he purpose of war is to render the enemy incapable of resistance by whatever means are possible. He must be crushed physically, mentally, and spiritually. Only then can the vanquished be subjected to the yoke of a new political authority.' "

Marston winced, a pained expression on his face. "Yes

•. yes, I remember those words. But, Lord Commander, don't you have any pity left for your people? For the innocents? Surely you have some family on Myklene. Surely there is space in your heart for the millions of innocents you are killing. What of the children, the elder—"

"What of them?" Staffa raised an eyebrow and steepled his fingers. "My profession is not compassion, but conquest."

"But I also taught ethics, Lord Commander. Surely you remember—"

"I have no interest in ethics Captain. Only results."

Marston reached out, imploring. "Stop the slaughter, Lord Commander. We are beaten! We can't resist further!"

"Are you finished?"

Marston gaped, unable to comprehend. He shook his head. "No. The Praetor is on board. He would like to speak with you. Please, hold the channel open and I'll—"

"I have no wish to speak with him Captain. Good day— and good-bye." Staffa killed the connection, tension rising in his gut. The Praetor, on Pylos. / can't face him. Not even after all these years.

Staffa overrode the target acquisition computer, refining the image resolution until Pylos filled the monitor. Atmosphere leaked from wicked rents in the hull. Flashes of lights indicated explosions as more of the hull ruptured. She lay dead in space, no further threat. Except for the man inside your cursed hull.

Staffa thumbed the main battery, watching the violet beams home in. Pylos burst apart like a rotten melon under his guns. One by one, Staffa targeted the escape pods that jettisoned from the wreckage, and blew them into plasma.