Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 23

Skyla Lyma reclined in the control chair surrounded by the

cockpit instrumentation of her personal yacht. Her inclination was to space full tilt for Targa, but a cooler voice argued for caution. Staffa would arrive on Targa long after she would, and in the meantime she'd have to pass the Regan ships quarantining the rebellious planet. If she tried that, she might fall into Ily's clutches, which in turn would condemn Staffa to capture when he arrived.

I could space straight for Rega and confront Tybalt. Skyla tapped a fingernail against her teeth as she watched the stars beyond the forward port. They seemed to move as a result of her ship's slight spin. How would Tybalt react to news that his lover had alienated the Companions? And what was Ily's game, anyway? Surely she knew that, lover or not, Tybalt would cut her off at the

knees for what she'd done to the Lord Commander.

"Damn right, she knows." Skyla studied the wheeling stars thoughtfully. "And she's got an agenda of her own. Damn it, if I could just have had an hour to talk to Staffa." But what would Ily be after?

Skyla smiled to herself as she remembered the look on Staffa's face when she'd stepped around that crate. Closing her eyes, she imagined his strong arms around her. With a desperate longing, she wished she could be in that crate with him instead of Kaylla Dawn.

"But it's better this way," she assured herself. "Two of us in the box would have meant we depended solely on the good will of the Seddi-which would have been suicide, despite Bruen's promises."

And she hadn't planned on being in the box when the Seddi opened it on Targa.

So what are you going to do, Skyla? You've got a Seddi hostage of unknown potential aboard your ship. The Regans are about to go berserk, and Staffa's in a box headed for a world in revolt to talk to people who've spent fortunes trying to assassinate him.

The long-range sensor tripped, bring Skyla upright in her chair. She adjusted the gain, refining the reading. She knew the reaction signature-Regan military, and pulling about forty-five g's from the radiation dispersion. Ily!

Skyla took a fix, then swiveled her receiver for another. Comparing the data, she frowned, then pulled up the navcomm plot. A cold shiver ran down her spine.

"No doubt about it. Ily's headed for Targa." And in that instant, Skyla knew what she was going to do.

Bruen stared at the hewn stone over his head. An eternal weight, it hung-foreboding and gray, cold and without feeling-a symbol of oppression. Butla Ret, dead? Their forces in total rout? How had Sinklar Fist managed to destroy them so decisively? Face it, old man. You've played the last gamble. What's left, Bruen?

The feeble light barely penetrated the gloom in the tiny quarters. The rays cast by the small lamp were absorbed by the gray stone, the illumination set low to reduce the strain on Hyde's eyes. The air lay heavy, warm, and damp as if to mirror Magister Hyde's rasping breath.

How much time do I have with my old friend? It should be a time for memories, for reliving the old days, for sharing jokes about victories and past loves. This is not a time for revelations-or for the death of dreams.

Hyde's sunken face had become a death mask, sallow flesh sagging over the hard bones of his skull. No flicker of change animated Hyde's expression while Bruen related this latest catastrophe-this defeat at Vespa-in half truths. The dying man listened quietly, sighing between gasping fits of coughing.

Sourness lay heavy in Bruen's stomach, a dead thinglike Seddi hopes.

"We should have killed him when he was a baby," Hyde wheezed, hardly able to lift a bird-thin hand from his sleep-

ing pallet. The tubes distorted his voice into something hollow, ghostlike. They ran from his lungs up through both nostrils and then to a suction pump which slowly filled a canister with the fluids inexorably draining into Hyde's lungs. The machine made an imperceptible whine-a reminder of mortality and

the close odor of death that the dark shade breathed upon Magister Hyde's soul.

Just one more small sorrow for all humanity at this last juncture.

Bruen rubbed his belly and scowled at the forbidding stone above. "It was my decision. He was a babe, a tiny defenseless infant at the time. I took one look at his odd eyes and watched him toddle across the room, pudgy hands reaching for this and that, and I spared him. Sent him to Rega to lose himself in the masses, no one the wiser. " He shook his head, "Maudlin of me, don't you think?"

"The quanta, Bruen," Hyde gasped. "An action, any action, changes reality. Who knows what would have been different if we'd simply cut his throat and stuffed him into a disposal chute to bleed."

"At the time, a Sinklar Fist alive had more bargaining power than a dead baby," Bruen reminded himself. "It was insurance to have him-"

"He was a monster! Even then!" Hyde gasped, breaking out in a fit of coughing. "A monster, Bruen. You knew what he was… where he came from! His legacy is… death!"

"Perhaps," Bruen agreed. ','But what a brilliant monster he is, old friend. And what little part we had in his development. Perhaps if we had kept him, trained him?"

"He is killing us!" Hyde rasped, coughing again, drool slipping from the side of his sagging mouth. killing… US.

"At ease, old friend." Bruen smiled, bestirring himself to take a rag and damp at his dying friend's mouth. "All is not lost by any means.9'

Hyde swallowed, pale hairless head rocking on the pillow. "No, maybe not," he whispered, barely audibly. "A reality changed, Bruen. Somewhere, a reality we all thought crucial has changed. Awareness?. Did someone become aware whom we have n d? Whose observations have ot perceive.

made a new reality? It wasn't ours, nor the Regans', nor Sassa's. "

"The machine, perhaps? We don't know the power of the Mag Comm. Could it, too, be a reflection of God Mind? An interesting statement about the nature of the observer, eh? If it is the machine, so much is changed." Bruen added, one hand on Hyde's shoulders. "But it seems that everyone who has planned, calculated a probability future, sees those very probabilities lying in ruin. Why? Where is the reality shaping coming from? I cannot convince myself it is the machine. To observe takes a spark from God."

"Fist!" Hyde gasped. "It is Fist! He has no reality. He just seems to react! He lives in Now. He forges no future! He is the only one predictable… and all that is predictable is that he will win-not where he will turn or how he will act!"

Bruen frowned, running a tired hand over his own sweatshiny bald head. "God mocks us. Fist has become the major player in this sad game, and we have insufficient data to make predictions about his behavior." He smiled fleetingly. "Would it not be puzzling and paradoxical to learn that he is better at our philosophy than we are?"

"Wretched," Hyde gasped. "Our forces?"

Bruen lifted a shoulder, pulling his lips into a reassuring smile. "We are reforming." I can't tell him Butla is dead. I can't tell him we are prostrate, defenseless, ruined. Let him die without knowing the worst. For the old days, I owe him that much. What a cruel joke life has played on dear noble Hyde-to crush a dream in these last failing moments. Perhaps Ican…. Yes.

Hyde's faded blue eyes held his for a brief instant before Bruen pulled his gaze away.

Hyde barely whispered, "Your smile is a lie. You never could lie outright-at least, not to me. One of your failings, eh? I always caught you at it. "

"There is no lie," Bruen continued, wanting to break down and cry. "We are hurt, true, but not defeated." Hyde hacked and coughed, eyes closed against the rub-

bing pain of the tubes in his throat. "Even this close to death, I hear between your words, my friend. Very well, I understand." Translucent eyelids flickered as Hyde asked,

"And the Lord Commander? After so much death and horror and disaster? He is. "

"Coming," Bruen said fervently. "Staffa is coming here to us at last." He hesitated. "Perhaps this time… well, we will see. I am no longer counting on probability." And you, blessed beloved friend of mine, will not live to see our final victory.

"No … can't count on probability," Hyde wheezed. "Staffa… sent to us… by his Wing Commander? Probability is turned upside down, my friend. The machine… wrong……

Bruen's strength crumbled, mind roaming to youngerless painful-times, reliving old arguments-and triumphsseeing the past unfolding. He and Hyde had rebuilt the Seddi, kept the vile machine at bay, countered the growing pains of two selfish empires. They had merely prolonged the respite before this final cataclysm which would sweep pestilence and death before it. The last flickers of light were dimming now. Rega prepared to launch itself on Sassa. The last moments of stillness before the storm were troubled by eddies of the coming sirocco.

"We did well, eh?" Hyde managed, as if sharing his thoughts. "All in all, Bruen, we did the impossible, you and 1. Trained generations of young people, added a little brilliance to an ultimately damned civilization."

"Yes, we did very well," Bruen agreed, voice hollow, remembering Hyde: young, vigorous, black-haired, and athletic. Seeing the young women's gazes following that straight virile figure through the corridors, his blue eyes flashing with spirit, his smile infectious.

"Let me rest now, Bruen," Hyde's voice whispered between wheezing breaths.". Rest… now."

Bruen patted his shoulder and turned to the door, hip hurting again. Outside, an Initiate perched on a stool, watching a monitor set into the stone of the corridor.

"He's dying," Bruen added listlessly, propping his suddenly unsteady bones against the cold unyielding rock. He closed his eyes, aware of what he must do — Weakness bored upward through his soul, hollowing, emptying.

The Initiate nodded her resignation. "I think he only has a few hours left. We could increase the pumping capacity,

but his lungs are already stressed by the suction. A hemorrhage now would…"

"And how are his… his dreams?"

The young woman pointed to a series of lines on the encephalogram. "Pleasant, Magister."

Bruen worked his tongue over worn teeth. "Then it:

would be good now." With faltering resolution, he reached out and moved a switch. He stared at the tiny piece of;

metal, numb at what he had done.

"Magister? That switch. "

"Yes," Bruen whispered as he turned his attention to the encephalogram. "That switch controls the pump. See how happy he is, my girl? See how he's dreaming of good things? Pleasant things? Is there a… better. better way. to. " The monitor went oddly misty in his vision. A hot throbbing knot grew in his throat.

Bruen hardly felt the woman's warm arm go around him. The words she called into the comm echoed meaninglessly in his head. He cried openly as Initiates and a Master carried him through the winding maze of passages on a stretcher he didn't remember being placed on.

He ignored them for the moment. He might never get another chance to live in his memories with Hyde — never get another chance to see his best friend healthy, smiling, strong, and young. Oh, so wondrously young!

"So I tried my best for him, for my Praetor," Staffa explained. Nothing remained but to talk. The featureless gray walls of the box pressed around them like a prison. Time had slipped sideways in this new reality measured only by sleep, talk, and eternal sameness. Nothing else intruded into their world. No sound, no vibrations. Time had ceased to exist in the eternal gray reality of the packing crate.

Kaylla sat in the corner, propped and supported by wadded insulating wraps. She stared fixedly at the far corner as Staffa talked.

Staffa hesitated. "After the wreck that killed my parents, I didn't have anyone left. No other family that I know of. The Praetor found me in the wreckage and took me, gave

me a home and food and a reason to be. I lived for that man. He gave me everything."

"And took everything from you, it would seem." Kaylla watched him through

hard eyes. "You never tried to find the rest of your family? I mean, people don't just spring from the air. Your parents had parents. There must have been someone. somewhere."

"Maybe there was. When I got older, I tried to access the net once. I thought I could find someone. It puzzled me that the data was sealed. The Praetor showed up shortly after that and gave me that sad smile he used to have. I remember, he asked it as a personal favor. 'Please,' he asked me. 'Don't pursue this. It would only hurt you. and through you. me.' "

Kaylla gave him a narrow-eyed frown. "And that didn't make you suspicious?"

Staffa leaned back and sighed. "Suspicious? I loved him. I… I trusted him."

"It sounds like your life as a child was a living hell."

Staffa shrugged and tapped a knuckle against the thick plastic of the box. "Maybe. The Praetor — and everyone else for that matter — always told me I was something special, always rewarded me when I excelled, led me on, caused me to push myself harder."

"And your parents? Didnt you have some good times with them before the aircar crash?"

"What can I say about them? Both were genetic scientists — quite bright in their fields." A sudden pain came lancing out of his memories. "But now I've watched you talk about your children." He pursed his lips, curious at the longing ache below his heart. "You talk about them with warmth. My. mother, well, she…" He gestured his incomprehension.

"No warmth?" Kaylla probed.

"Her voice never softened. You know, no emotion. She talked to me. well, academically. Like I was a student. Always, I was challenged. Did I know thus and such? Could I solve this problem?"

Staffa took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he struggled to remember. "I recall one occasion. We had gone to a party. At least that's what Father told me it was. I was very excited about the whole thing. Lots to eat and drink.

Games they wanted me to play. Machines to outsmart and puzzles to solve. There were lots of people — maybe even the Praetor. I was. Damn! It was so long ago!" He shook his head. "The memories keep fading."

"Think, Staffa, you were there; make it come out," she prodded, voice earnest with interest.

"People," he repeated, willing himself to see it all again, to remember the giant adult forms who bent to study him.". And they all talked about me. Yes, that's right. And I answered questions. All kinds of questions."

"Any other children there?"

Staffa frowned as he thought. "I don't think. No, no other children. Just me. And all those adults. Questions, so many questions. They asked them so quickly. And I remember afterward: Mother placed a hand on my shoulder and told me she was proud. I felt so tired after that. I… I told her I wanted to go home and sleep."

"Sounds like they put you through a test of some sort. Did your mother fawn over you? Beam with pride?"

"Her? She didn't beam. Not like when you talk about your little boy. No, she was reserved and, now that I think about it, more satisfied than anything else. I remember, she said, hat'll show the skeptics,' and she winked at my father."

Kaylla's eyes narrowed.

"Don't look so grim." He chuckled dryly. "All my life has been one testing program after another. I never lived any other way. Each day came with the knowledge that tomorrow I would face another challenge, another exam."

"What about your father?"

He lifted a shoulder. "So much has been blocked." He shook his head. "The sensations are similar to when I used to find a psychological trigger left by the Praetor — one of his mental booby traps."

Kaylla hissed her disgust. "They made you into a damn machine! What kind of parents did you have?"

"Well, my mother was small, thin. She had flaming red hair and my father was pale blond. I remember they sunburned so easily. They were—"

"That's not what I meant," Kaylla growled. "I mean, they acted like you were some sort of thing! Didn't they ever take you to the parades, or bring you toys, or send

you to a normal educational facility with other kids? What about your birthday? Didn't they have parties with your friends over? Didn't you ever spend time with other families on outings, or trips, or holidays?"

Staffa lifted his hands helplessly. "I don't. well, exactly know what you mean by all that. The first I knew about birthdays was after I joined the military. I'd been enrolled in flight school and navigation training. I thought birthdays were something only adults did."

"But didn't you have friends your own age when you were little?"

"No. I do remember a couple of times when I was around other children." He frowned deeply. "You know, they didn't have my. How do I explain this? I wanted to solve intricate puzzles. They wanted to make noise and engage in the most inane behavior. Running — as I recall— touching each other to see who chased who. Is there a purpose to children doing that?"

She squinted grimly. "How old were you then?"

"I don't know. I never knew how old I was."

"But you had to figure it out sometime."

Staffa flipped a hand. "I was told I was fourteen when I entered the military training academy. At least that's the age the Praetor filled the appropriate box with. I always estimated back from there. That date provided a framework."

"And how old were the other students?"

"Twenty-one, at least." Staffa shifted, uncomfortable, realizing how odd it all sounded now. He hurried to explain, "You see, I was always special, always by far the youngest. When you're sponsored by the Praetor, you get special treatment. And most of all, I always dominated the classes."

"You were always the best?" Kaylla asked, an eyebrow arching.

"Of course! But it isn't as if I didn't know about failure. I knew a couple of young men who failed out of various programs. I wasn't stunted or anything like that."

"And you were never second place, or third?"

"Of course not. It would have been unthinkable. To have come in second would have been… It wasn't allowable. If I had to, I'd study all night — every night. If there was

any chance another might surpass my ability, I sought out special tutors. Whatever it took, I did it."

"You couldn't let yourself be less than perfect?" She winced. "God, what a wretched way to live."

"Perfection is a goal to be striven for by all humans. Anything less is—"

"Terguzzi sumpshit!" Kaylla exploded. "Listen to you, Staffa! Do you hear what you're saying?" She squinted soury. "My God, we've been locked in here for what seems like an eternity now. I know you, Staffa! Probably better than I've ever known any other human being — except my husband. I know what you think. what you dream at night. I kick you awake so you'll quit whimpering and crying through your guilty nightmares. Your psychological composition is like so much wreckage. Your identity is in fractured shambles."

"I'm not in shambles!"

"What the hell do you call that little stunt where you tired to commit suicide! You exhibit the symptoms of a classic manic depressive, down one moment, and up the next. You make stupid decisions based on improper neural assessments of reality. You're hounded by a sudden understanding of guilt!"

"It's not guilt!" he lied.

"No? Then what the hell is it? You told me you went to Etaria in search of what it meant to be human? Well, you got a dose of it, Lord Commander, and what you found horrified you. Didn't it? Admit it!"

"To be a slave and deal with the collar isn't human—"

"The blaspheming hell, it isn't!" She curled her lip in disgust as she pointed with a callused finger. "No, Staffa, I think — whether you'll admit it or not — for the first time, you felt what it was to be human. Hear? You FELT! Suffered, thirsted, tasted all the wretchedness it means to be really human! What scared you Star Butcher, was the feeling of humanity. Just like me, or Peebal, or Koree. You realized you were human after all — and it scared the pustulant piss out of you!"

Her tone of insolence and disgust stirred him. He jumped to his feet, a surging rage building. He closed to stare into those defiant tan eyes. Nearly berserk from the scornful tongue-lashing, he reached for her.

"Now what, Staffa?" she asked, voice level and challeng ing. "Going to hurt me? Come to finish what you started at Maika? Going to add me to your list of ghouls?"

His hands began to shake as he knotted his shivering fingers into fists and gritted his teeth. The anger eroded like sand in surf. Her truth twisted within him as surely as if she'd knifed him.

Helplessly, he raised a hand and let it drop, turning away to hide his eyes. "Yes, I wanted to hurt you for using that tone. Sometimes I scream defiance at the universe, other times I whimper and shake. I was so strong once."

"Because you don't know who you are, Staffa kar Therma. You never had the chance to find out Anger? Sudden fear? Rushes of emotion? Your soul is crying out. Defiance? You want to reassure yourself you're someone to take seriously. Each wavering of emotion is a sign of the pain you bear because you were shut away from the human tribe for so long. An exile in your own mind."

She paused. Then she added, "Isn't that one of the reasons you killed so ruthlessly? Wasn't it a means of getting back at the human condition you'd never had the opportunity to share?"

He lowered his gaze to his hands, slowly flexing his fingers. Was that it? Did I take my rage out on all humanity to pay back the sins of the Praetor and my parents?

She shook her hair back, watching him pensively. "Selfawareness is painful. Most of us learn we're not gods when we're still children. You didn't learn until the Praetor gutted your godhood on Myklene — and you weren't really sure until that Etarian judge clapped the collar on you and threw you in the sewer with me."

She hesitated. "I don't envy you, Staffa. If you want to see this through, you're likely to find you don't like yourself very much."

He laughed, the sound bitter with irony. "I don't like myself now."

"This is the hardest part, here, now, locked away with me. On Etaria you had hatred and anger to keep you going. Here, you're trapped. You've got nothing here but four gray walls. your conscience. memories — and me."