Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 24

Each LC had a command control module immediately behind the flight deck. There an officer had access to communications, observation, and weapons. Prom a circling LC he could monitor and orchestrate an entire battle. Computer equipment filled one wall while a fold-down table created work space or dining area, and the bench behind that could be slept on.

Sinklar felt the LC move. Through the command monitor, he watched dust boil out below as the craft rose above the gutted Regan military compound in Kaspa. The blackened pile of burned corpses piled in the center of the plaza spoke eloquently of the fate of the prisoners taken from Mykroft's Division: Targan retribution for Mykroft's execution of the Rebel prisoners that day in the square. Must have been a gruesome bonfire.

The LC rose and began a lazy turn to the south. Sink watched as the city dropped away beneath his craft. So much had changed since the first time he'd seen Targa through his night glasses. Now he left Kaspa again — this time under his control.

His Groups had retaken the city; resistance had been minimal and halfhearted. The "pacification" of Kaspa really amounted to little more than a meeting with business leaders and the heads of the mining labor committees. News of the defeat of the Rebel forces at Vespa had taken more fight out of the radical elements than another three Divisions could have accomplished.

"All right, Mac," Sink said into the comm, "we're up and on the way back to Vespa. The city's yours. Take care of it." He turned from the monitors that displayed Kaspa and glanced at Gretta. A pensive expression molded her face as she watched the charred corpses fall behind.

"We're on top of it, Sink," Mac's voice assured. "Take care of yourself. There's still a lot of passion loose. No telling what the Seddi might do in retaliation. More than one conqueror's won the war — and fallen to an assassin's knife the next day."

"Affirmative."

"Anything else?"

"Get a detail to haul those corpses out and bury them somewhere." Sink cut the connection and gripped Gretta's hand firmly. "War's over except for the shouting and flag waving and the small matter of mopping up the Seddi main temple. Makarta, wonder where that is?"

Gretta pulled glistening long brown hair over her shoulder to nervously twist it into a shining dark strand. "I'll bet Sylenian ice to Riparian mud your Arta Fera knows." She lifted an eyebrow suggestively.

Sinklar laughed. "A fascinating woman, that one. I don't know why, but there is something compelling about her. I. call it familiarity. Something…"

"I call it sex," Gretta grunted. "For some reason — phero mones, perhaps, or those eyes of hers? — men seem to find her a sexual magnet. I can't see it, but men take a first look and then stop dead in their tracks to stare — oblivious of the rest of the world. I thought it prudent to change the guard to females. The men we had down there kept drooling all over themselves."

Gretta considered him seriously before she asked, "You going to be wandering down to interrogate her about the mysterious Makarta?"

Sink glanced out the view port and pursed his lips. The Targan countryside flashed below: Ephemeral drainages in dendritic patterns cut rough jagged ridges of gray and brown rock; mottled masses of conifers blotched the northern slopes in dark green.

"No," he told her. "I don't ever want to see her again. She cost us too much. Cost Targa too much. I can't figure. How could she kill her lover that way? I heard the scream all the way down the hall. Eerie, inhuman, like some wretched nightmare."

"She thought we were bluffing. Not an entirely unreasonable assumption." Gretta settled herself into a drop couch, a frown starting to trace her forehead. "Now that I hear

you're not sexually infatuated with her like the rest of the men, I can feel sorry for her. Think of the guilt, of what it must feel like to have caused the end of everything. Must be a horrible weight to bear, all that blood and death. The end of her Seddi cause. All her fault."

"I've seen her on the holos," Sink agreed, turning back to the view port. "I think she's snapped. I don't know very much about such things, but maybe some of the psych personnel could do something with her."

Gretta pursed her lips, face pensive. "Perhaps. When we get back, I might wander down to talk to her. Maybe I can say something that will break her open — get her to feel something. If I can talk to her, maybe she'll tell us where we can find this Makarta."

Sink rubbed his chin. "Leave her alone. There's something very wrong about her. I can't put my finger on it. Something. frightening." He frowned, grappling with his image of the woman. And so Rotted familiar. Why do I feel like I now her? There's some memory I can't place. deep in my mind.

"Any word from the fleet yet?" she asked, diverting his attention.

"Just the order that I relinquish command to Mykroft and submit myself for arrest." He grinned maliciously at her.

"And will you?"

"What? Let Mykroft undo all the good I've done? Rotted Gods in the temple, he'd have Targa burning within two days! No, I think I have a better bargaining position here, in charge of the Regan assault forces and my Targan irregulars." He looked out at the ragged mountain peaks they were passing over. "My position will be even better when I have the Seddi in my hands. The word is out. I want to meet with their leadership. I can end this once and for all."

"What is this obsession with the Seddi?"

He smiled absently. "It goes back to Rega and my. Nothing, never mind. The fact of the matter is that we've committed treason. Our only hope is to hand Tybalt this entire planet. The defense structure is going to want to hang us by the heels and bleed us to death drop by drop for having the audacity to win. We're a long way from being anywhere near safety." And it scares me to death.

She nodded, still staring thoughtfully as she wound her thick hair about her fingers.

The Vespa plain appeared below as the high steepled peaks dropped away into

an alluvial valley, now green with spring growth.

"Makarta," he mused. "What I'd give to be able to find it."

"Anything?" Gretta asked.

"Hmm?"

"You'd give anything to find Makarta?"

"I suppose." Sinklar pictured Targa in his mind. Where could the Seddi have hidden their major temple? Under one of the cities?

The LC swooped down, coming to a neat stop before the headquarters building. Sink stood, lost in his thoughts as he absently collected his gear. The ramp dropped with a hydraulic whine and he walked out into the warm sunshine. Beyond his command center, the rhythm and pulse of Targan life had reestablished itself. The mines were working— true, on reduced crews — but production could still be claimed to be a reality. Produce flowed into the cities and supplies and goods flowed back out. The dead were still being buried, but men and women could look about for a new beginning — though uncertain what it all meant.

"I'll be up in a bit," Gretta called, reaching over to give him a sound kiss on the lips. "If you need me for anything, call through the comm."

He nodded, her words already half-forgotten as he considered the Seddi. They remained the key to Targa. Why had they plunged their planet into such a bloodbath? What had they hoped to gain? With the resources available on Targa, they hadn't stood a chance. What fool reasoning could have filled Seddi heads to egg them headlong into certain defeat?

And how much of this growing preoccupation is rooted in your parents' death? They were Seddi assassins — just like Ana Fera. Had they been trained here? Had they, too, walked the streets of Vespa? Had they known the location of Makarta?

He climbed the stairs, mind on the problem, heedless of the salutes the guards threw him, oblivious to the awed

shine in their eyes, the extra care they took to look profes sional as he passed.

"I'm missing something," he muttered to himself. "There's a key element in their actions which I don't understand. A linchpin, which will make everything clear."

He paused, hand on the door to the ops room, head cocked. "Unless they're total zealots. Could they possibly have fought a war on faith? Believed in some mystical hocus-pocus? Supernatural intervention?"

He chewed his lip and frowned, shaking his head as he opened the door and passed into his penthouse ops room. Mhitshul and Shiksta were pouring over a pile of correspondence and marking notations on maps.

" 'Nuther call from fleet, sir," Mhitshul said, looking up from the pile. "Figured you'd be here soon enough, so I didn't patch it through." He marked his place, stood, and moved to the comm Gretta normally handled. Within seconds he patched through to an orbiting ship high overhead.

A block-faced woman, gray-haired and with a grizzled look, stared back at him through the comm monitor. She had flinty brown eyes. Her nose was crooked and age spots dotted her forehead. Her mahogany skin had lined with age. A sour tension was reflected in the set of her thin bloodless lips.

"Sergeant Sinklar Fist?" Her voice grated as if the vocal cords had been damaged.

"First Sinklar Fist of the First Targan Assault Division," he told her, emphasizing "First," seeing the hard glint filling her eyes. Not good, career military, this one — and a doubly seasoned veteran to boot. "And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Commander Rysta Braktov of the Imperial Regan Assault Cruiser Gyton. You are hereby ordered to relinquish all military command to First Mykroft and place yourself under arrest. To fail to do so immediately will outlaw you as a criminal and you will be executed on sight."

Sinklar nodded, knowing Shiksta and Mhitshul had frozen. "I see. Commander, I am not in a position to relinquish my command at the present moment. I face a dilemma you can no doubt understand."

"And that is?"

"Were I to follow your recommendations, the planet

would rise in instant rebellion against Mykroft. The Targans hate him. In

fact, that is why I originally requested an LC from orbital to retrieve him from the planet. The Targans would give anything for his head."

Sink paced before the screen. "At the same time, both the First and Second Targan Divisions have reservations about their future treatment. We have been, shall we say, inconsistent in obedience to the Minister of Defense. The reasons, I'm sure you're familiar with. We didn't die when we were supposed to." His wry smile and raised eyebrow did nothing for her expression.

Shiksta was muttering under his breath.

"A military tribunal will consider each case separately," Braktov said. Those guilty of insubordination and violation of the Command Code according to the manual will be dealt with summarily."

Sinklar faced the monitor as he rubbed his hands together. "Yes, that is our point. You see, we all are — as you say — guilty." He paused. "Look at it from our position. Innovative measures were employed on Targa to subdue the rebellion. And Commander, the rebellion is over. Finished. The capital as well as the major cities have been retaken. Order is restored and my Groups are patrolling the streets. The final pockets of resistance in the mountains are currently being subdued — most often peacefully."

"Does this have a point Sergeant?" she groused, propping herself in her command chair, one shoulder raised.

"It does Commander. I've been worrying about this conversation ever since Mykroft appointed me to Division First." He settled himself on the table edge, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, one leg dangling and swinging. "You see, I am willing to offer the Emperor a peaceful Targa. Further, I will guarantee it will stay that way so long as I'm viceroy here. In return, those of the First and Second Divisions who wish may return to their homes without censure or disciplinary action taken against them — and with full veteran's honors."

"You WHAT?" Rysta bolted to her feet. "You bargain? With the Emperor?" She threw her head back and laughed, the sound a wicked cackle in the room.

Sinklar waited her out until she chuckled herself to a stop.

" do have the planet," he reminded calmly. "That's one

reason. The second reason is that both Divisions have suffered heavily while on duty on Targa. The result of such suffering is that my people have a certain amount of investment to go along with their pride and skill. Rega is poised, ready to invade Sassa at this very moment." The shock in her eyes proved it-to his immense delight. "My people, therefore, have a great deal to offer the Empire. The Emperor not only needs warriors of the highest caliber, he needs a productive Targa to help feed his war industry."

"But not at the price you want, Fist. Anything else?" A look of distaste crossed her face.

"You refuse us a just settlement for being stranded here as a soak off for Imperial politics?"

"We do," Rysta snorted.

"Very well, we expected as much. Please forward our regards to the Emperor and let him know that we have every faith in his honesty and integrity. We attribute our problems to the Minister of Defense and Council politics which he was no doubt unaware of… and hope the imperial Seventh will be concerned enough to see justice done to his loyal servants of the First and Second Targan Assault Divisions. We will continue to hold Targa in his name."

Her hard eyes gleamed in the lengthening silence. Sinklar refused to drop his gaze. Behind him, Shiksta mumbled, "Damn right!"

"You know, I've seen some brash bastards in my day, Fist," Rysta growled, "but I'm gonna enjoy bustin' your balls, boy, because you take first prize!"

Sinklar raised a hand. "Please. There is nothing to be gained by Regan fighting Regan. Not at this late date. The Empire can't afford it.'9

"Surrender, Fist!"

"We are not in a position to surrender to anyone. We haven't-,

"You're about to get your asses kicked!" she roared, You think all those lives you're talking about are worth it?"

"I definitely do not. Both the First and Second Targan Assault Divisions sincerely regret any and all casualties they would have to inflict on-"

"You stupid peasant fool! You think your rabble can take veteran troops? There won't be a one of you standing when

this is all over." She snorted in derision and added, "If you decide to come to your senses and change your mind, have your boys patch through to Gyton. This is going nowhere." Comm went dead.

"Well, gentlemen, there it is." Sinklar sighed. "Mhitshul, I hope you got all that."

"I did." The private rubbed his neck and flipped switches on the comm.

"Then broadcast it. I want that conversation blared over the entire planet." Sinklar smacked a fist into a palm. "Send out a planet-wide alert. They'll be coming for us and I don't want our people caught sleeping."

Mhitshul pressed a stud and spread his hands. "That's it, Sink. I sent everything. Do you want us to shoot at invaders on sight? "

Sinklar frowned, absently aware he was chewing on his thumb. "Let's wait and see what happens in the-" "Message coming in." Mhitshul's fingers flew over the COMM.

"Kap here, Sink!" his Section First's florid features filled the holo. "Got LCs dropping out of the sky like flies!" "You know the drill! Mhitshul, sound alert. We're being invaded."

"All stations on," Mhitshul called. "Rotted Gods, I got signals coming in from all over!"

"Get our LCs under cover. Scramble Battle Ops one!" Sinklar ground his teeth as he paced back and forth. "And pray to the pustulant Gods they follow the Holy Gawddamn Book to the letter again."

Outside a siren blared a warning.

"Reports are coming in." Mhitshul looked up as Shiksta left at a run, stopping only long enough to pull battle armor off the couch.

"Give me status information as it comes in." Sink cocked his head. "Mac? You there?"

"Here, Sink," Mac's voice came in through static. "They're trying to jam. Good thing you relocated those transmission stations. Uh, I'd say we've got a whole Division landing on Kaspa alone!"

Sinklar turned to look out the windows. Black dots filled the sky around him. "Same here."

Mhitshul bent to the comm, occupied with codifying data.

Without raising his head, he added, "From comm projections, it looks like five full Divisions."

"Five Divisions? Rotted Gods! That's more than Rega wasted on a whole unfriendly revolution!"

"Worst is yet to come Sink. I've got ID codes on the ones dropping. These guys are Regan regulars. Veteran Divisions, like from regular army — career soldiers." Mhitshul swallowed. "Just like she said they'd be."

Sinklar reached up to scratch his ear. To the battle comm he called, "All right, people! This is it! Let's go! You all know what to do!"

One by one Sections checked in.

Sinklar turned to stare out the window where the LCs dropped like perverted rain from orbit. This fight will make or break us. Never have the stakes been so high. Never have so many hung on the line!

"Got orbital fire support!" Ayms chimed in. "These guys are backed up all the way, Sink! Makes us a little mad thinking about the times we couldn't even get recon intelligence!"

"Break and scatter! Move, Ayms! They'll have you on pinpoint! Go!"

"We're gone!"

"LC support!" Kitmon called in. "We're covering. Ayms ain't the only one getting orbital bombardment." A resounding bang came through comm. "We're breaking!"

"Go, people, go!" Sink shouted, eyes closed as he envisioned the planet in his mind. He considered the data comm provided and built a picture of the invasion, filling the gaps by intuition.

"We've got trouble here," Mac called. "We're harassing their landings. We could cut the hell out of them, Sink. On a one-toone fight, we'd clean them up and dump them away. Only problem is there are so many of them!"

"Don't overextend," Sink called. "Mac, before you take casualties, pull out! Break and scatter! Group by Group! If we take them head on… we lose! They have us outgunned, outmanned, with better transport and communication! We can't take them in a stand up fight. Move! Break off, Mac. Use your skills!"

"Affirmative, Sink," Mac's voice sounded worried — more worried than Sinklar had ever heard it. "We're breaking!"

Jaws grinding, Sinklar tapped his forehead with a clenched fist. Five Divisions? How did he counter five Divisions? Where could he find a weakness to exploit?

Anguished, he looked up at the board, mind staggering, as he realized something was amiss. "Gretta? Where's Gretta?"

"We're breaking!" Ayms called in. "There are just too many of them Sink! My Section can't face an entire gawddamn Division. We're breaking!"

"Go!" Sink shouted. "Stay alive, Ayms! All of you, stay alive! Save your commands! Break and scatter, everybody! Go to ground. I taught you how to fight. Stay alive and make them pay. Use the Holy Gawddamn Book against them!"

"That means us, too?" Mhitshul asked, looking up from the comm.

"Yeah, that's us, too. Gyton will be setting up to blow this building off the map. Let's get out of here."

"What about comm?" Mhitshul asked as he began gathering up the maps.

"We've got an LC hidden in the brick factory, don't we?"

"Affirmative."

"Guess that will have to do for comm. Should give us planet-wide communications — and the ability to run if we need it. Best we can do. Surecan't defend this place with only three Sections in the city. Orbital will make this building into smoking junk if we do." He jumped to help stuff sensitive documents into the thick graphstic bag.

"Any word from Gretta? She said to page her through comm," he asked as they started down the carpeted stairs, stopping only long enough to grab combat armor and weapons.

"No, sir. Not a peep," Mhitshul replied over his shoulder.

Sinklar's stomach flipped as icy fingers traced his spine. Fear, aching fear, a constant companion now, left him shaken. Had the whole of Free Space gone crazy that Regans were battling Regans?

And worse, his command lay in shambles. Everything they had worked so hard to build — to turn themselves into a functioning unit the likes of which no one had seen for centuries — was broken, disorganized. A Division in chaotic retreat.

As they pounded across the courtyard, a beam of violet ' light struck the top of the ops building, blasting the structure in a gout of light and fire. Concussion slammed them to the ground as fragments of mortar, steel, and duraplast! rained.

"Guess that was supposed to be us, huh?" Mhitshul | gasped

"Yeah," Sinklar managed through a dry throat. "Guess it was. Let's get the hell out of here."

Gretta? Where are you?

Ily Takka lounged in the command chair as her military cruiser slid into formation with the Regan vessels orbiting Targa. Occasional flickers of violet laced the surface of the planet below. Studying the fleet, Ily could make out the slivers of projectiles accelerating away from the ships and heading planetward.

"War?" Ily asked. "Targa is still that hot?" She pressed a stud. "Comm, get me the commanding vessel."

Within seconds, a craggy female face filled the screen. Behind the elderly woman, the bridge crew could be seen as they coordinated the attack. A slight quiver twitched the corner of the Regan Commander's mouth, flint eyes hardening slightly with recognition.

"Identify yourself," Ily ordered.

"Commander Rysta Braktov of the Imperial Cruiser Gyton at your service, Lord Minister."

"Looks like a battle is in progress, Commander." Ily cocked her head. "I had heard the situation here was slowly coming together."

The Commander nodded. "The Targan rebellion is over. However, we have a slight problem with troop discipline. Rebellion on Targa, it seems, is catching."

"Sinklar Fist?"

"You know, then. Is that why Internal Security has picked this opportunity to grace us with a visit?" Rysta's politeness extended only to the questioning glint in her eye.

"It is, Commander." Ily smiled. "Could you please update me concerning the situation?"

Rysta nodded graciously, but her gaze could have

scratched glass. "I would be happy to. You have arrived at the tail end of the action, I'm afraid. Yesterday at 15:00 hours we dropped five Divisions

on Targa. Within the last planetary day we have consolidated compounds and are at the point of sending out Sections to locate and destroy the mutineers."

Ily paused, lingering her chin. What does this mean? Could it be that following Sinklar Fist is simply another Riparian swamptoad chase? Fruitless? Is he really no more than an accident?

"I see. Then you must have already inflicted heavy casualties on Fist's Divisions."

Rysta hesitated, an oddly sour twist to her thin lips. "We are satisfied My Lord Minister."

And the hesitation? "Commander, what, if you would be so kind, is your body count?"

"Lord Minister, you, of all people, know the importance of proper channels. I have forwarded that information to the Lord Minister of Defense, who will no doubt be happy to—"

Ily held up her escutcheon. "Commander, I believe you are familiar with the Imperial jessant-de-lis? Ah, yes, I can see from your expression that you are."

"I…" Rysta swallowed, demeanor crumbling. "I'd never thought to see such a'thing, Lord Minister."

"Your casualty count Commander?"

Rysta Braktov turned to her control comm and began accessing information through her headset. A grimness puckered the wrinkled skin around her mouth. She nodded finally and looked up. "My Lord Commander, we can verify one hundred and thirty casualties from Fist's forces."

Ily rested her chin on her palm. One hundred and thirty? So few after a concerted assault from five Divisions— assuredly good ones at that? Perhaps I don't face disaster after all. "And your casualties Commander?"

Braktov didn't hesitate — although her voice dropped. "Four hundred and thirty-three Lord Minister."

Ily played long fingernails over her chin. "And I take it you have effectively crushed Fist's forces at such Pyrrhic costs?"

Rysta worked her jaws before stating, "Most definitely. Ther command structure is fragmented. Individual Sections

are isolated. and they are broken into yet smaller Groups which have no tactical cohesion. Fist's people are no more than a disorganized rabble. We only need time to sweep them up and centralize them for deportation and military justice."

"Excellent." Ily paused. "I have one condition, Commander. You will bring me Sinklar Fist — alive."

A shadow of relief crossed Rysta's face. "Gladly, Lord Minister. We shall have him for you shortly."

"The other thing which cannot be tolerated is the possibility of an accident." Ily made a gesture with her hand. "Personnel on the ground get carried away in the heat of passion. Sometimes they don't realize that higher stakes than their own vengeance might be in the balance. Do you agree?"

"I believe I understand."

"Then please reassure your ground forces that the Minister of Internal Security will personally deal with anyone who, shall we say, allows Fist to be killed 'accidentally,' hmm?" Ily studied the woman through lowered lids.

"He shall be delivered to you alive." Rysta's eyes glittered with pent up irritation.

"See that he is." Ily broke the connection.

She ran the spikelike nail of her index finger over the smoothness of her teeth. Pray to the Rotted Gods I am not wrong about you, Fist! If I am, my best bet is to take my cruiser, my jessant-de-lis, and run for Sassa! My life will be worth little with Staffa kar Therma and Tybalt after me.