Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 25

Sinklar shook his head to clear the fatigue from his ragged mind. Through the hidden LC's monitors, he'd watched the sun rise and set twice. And no word had come from Gretta. He arched up against the cushioned resistance of the LC command chair to ease the ache where the muscles in his back had knotted. During the long hours he had spent huddled here, men and women — his men and women — had fought for their lives. The small control cubicle had become a ceramic and steel prison. The comm equipment flashed with warning lights and requests for input. He had coordinated the entire resistance from this same cramped command chair. Through the forward view ports, he could see the first rays of light graying the windows of the brick fac tory where they hid. '

"All right, Mac." Sinklar rubbed his jaw and felt stubble. "Now's as good as ever. Go for it. Draw them out; play decoy."

"Affirmative," MacRuder's voice came back — a reflection of tingling nerves and uncertainty. "Sink? Just in case. Take care, huh? If you make it out, tell my folks how I bought it. And Sink?"

"Yeah?"

Mac's voice softened. "You've been the best, old buddy. The Blessed Gods keep you. All my love to Gretta. If I miss the wedding. drink one for me. First Section, clear."

"My best to you, too," Sinklar whispered, part of his mind numb at the risks being taken by people he cared about. He attempted the insane! During the sow and tenuous process of reestablishing communications with his scattered Sections, the plan had come to him — a thin nonsensical thing inconceivable in light of the Holy Gawddamn Book.

A straw in the wind, they chased it — though their path ran between Death's teeth. So many would die.

// only Gretta were here to tell me its all right.

"Kitmon?" Sink asked, pulling his shredded concentration together. "Are you ready to hit the fifth Etarian?"

"Affirmative. We've been scrambling channels to keep them baffled, but their jamming beams seem to be working out our relays. When they get around to jamming us completely, we've got mining lasers set up. We'll be using them so we can keep communications control with dots and dashes. It'll be tight, but I think we can fool them."

"Sounds good. You know the situation better than I do. Take your best shot. Fire at will." Sinklar picked up his cup of stassa and drained it to the last nourishing drop. When had it gotten so cold?

How long since I slept last? I've got five millimeters of stubble on my cheeks and someone poured a half a ilo of sand in my eyes. I need you with me, Gretta. I've never done this alone before. If anything's happened to you, they'll pay, and pay, and pay… He closed his eyes and drew a ragged breath.

He forced himself to blink away the ache in his eyes in order to study the cramped monitor on the LC bridge. Time to check on the fighting up by the Raktan mines. "Hauws? Status report?"

The voice came through a crackling battle comm. "We're into 'em Sink. We've punched right through their defenses. Plan's proceeding like clockwork. They seem to be giving a little too easily."

"What do you mean? They just retreating without a fight?"

"No. They shoot good enough. I don't know. Just a hunch."

Sinklar turned to the comm, twisting the resolution controls. The battlefield terrain around the Raktan mines clarified as the comm accessed cadastral survey data. Sink plotted Hauws' movements against the suspected Regan position. The Third Ashtan Division under First Weebouw would have formed a defensive perimeter according to the book — and they should have fought like mad dogs to keep that same perimeter. Sink squinted at the comm-generated image and thought for a second.

"Yeah," Sink leaned forward in sudden understanding. "Of course! Hauws? Listen, there's a valley ahead of you, right?"

"Sure is. They seem to be falling back for it. If we can concentrate them

in that valley, take the ridges around it, we'll have them with their britches around their—"

"Don't! Repeat, do not! Hauws, it's a trap. They'll have you! You'll be like targets on the training range! They'll paste you from orbital. Uh, let's see, page 95 of the Holy Gawddamn Book. 'Concentration of the enemy forces for orbital attack through misdirection.' Remember? Can you swing right? Break their flank? Maybe pull them apart, split their forces? Ruin their balance, and you can make a fast drive for the mine offices."

"I remember. You're right. We're gone!" The staccato of blaster and pulse fire practically drowned Hauws' voice.

For long moments Sinklar glared at the comm and tried to imagine Hauws' Section as they maneuvered against Weebouw's Veteran Ashtan troops.

Then the comm crackled as Hauws' excited voice cried:

"Etarian Priest crap, Sink! I'm starting to think these guys are made of butter. Each Group sits around until the Section First tells them where to move. Then they go. No initiative. Yeah, we're putting the claws to them. They didn't think we'd break right. You called it again, Boss!"

Sink chortled, half-silly with exhaustion. "Don't get to underestimating them. They might have some guts to make up for that command deficiency."

"Sink?" Hauws' voice was barely audible as a jamming sequence from orbit tried to tie down their band. "We're making headway. Group C just got them flanked. We're pushing through."

"Excellent, Hauws. They should have to pull another two Sections to reinforce that flank. Keep it up, pal, you're buying victory!"

"Yeah. But we're bleeding for it, too. It doesn't come free."

"I know. Try and keep in touch." Sinklar rubbed his face with a gritty hand. He noticed Mhitshul had refilled his stassa cup. A go pill lay beside it. How many more could he take before the drug began to blur reality and make his decisions suspect?

Hauws was taking casualties? How many? Just how much would this Regan idiocy cost the First Targan in precious blood? Could they make it work? Was the price in blood worth a futile attempt to defeat five Regan Divisions simultaneously on seven different fronts?

"Kap? Report, Kap!"

Crackly silence.

"Ayms? You there, Ayms?"

Nothing.

"Rotted Gods, they've jammed us completely." Sinklar used a thumb and forefinger to rub his eyes as he struggled to keep his mind from going numb. All those men and women had to rely on themselves now. He couldn't help. They knew the plan, where to go, how to do their jobs. But so many things happened. Battlefields went random from the first shot fired. How many would die? How many? He cradled his head in his hands as the words repeated in his head.

"How's it look?" Shiksta's scabby voice called, breaking Sink's mental haze. The crackle of Shik's big gravity flux guns sounded through the comm.

Sinklar exhaled wearily. "Hanging by a thread. Right now, it could go either way. They've managed to cut communications with three Sections and are pinning the rest down."

"Uh." Shiksta hesitated. "What was the fancy word you used? Command overload paralysis? They heard of that yet? Want me to send a guy out with a white flag? You know, maybe remind them that they're supposed to get all confused right about now and seize up so we can beat the shit out of them?"

Sinklar started to snap a reproof as Shiksta's words penetrated his over-tight mind. Instead, a chuckle rose to his lips. "Yeah, Shik, you do that, huh? And in the meantime, I'm going to act like the Seddi and pray for a stinking miracle!"

Skyla made a final check of her ship's systems and stood, running fingers through her hair to massage her scalp after removing the weight of the worry-cap. The cockpit controls

gleamed at her in reassuring patterns. Beyond the view port, the stars directly ahead shimmered like violet lances as her craft sped for the Itreatic Asteroids.

She passed through the hatch and locked it carefully, seeing Nyklos hunched over one of the comm monitors. A cup of stassa rested forgotten by his right hand. He glanced up and smiled as she stepped into the small galley.

"Hungry?"

"Always," he told her. "You know, I could get used to being your prisoner."

She shot him a reproving glance and tapped instructions into the dispenser, deciding on Riparian catfish in a hot pepper sauce for herself, and an Ashtan dolma for Nyklos. Then she stuck her cup under the stassa dispenser and settled into the overstaffed cushions across from him. Damn it, why did he have to look at her with that wry appreciation?

"Course is set for Itreata?" Nyklos asked with an intimate smile.

She toyed with her cup, rocking it on the base so the hot liquid rolled around the brim. "It is. I gave it a lot of thought. Consider what we know. Targa is embargoed, and we have but the foggiest of ideas about how the revolt is progressing there. We know Ily spaced for Targa, and the most likely explanation for that is that somehow she got an inkling that Staffa's headed'there. I'm not going to leave Staffa's fat frying in Ily's fire."

"So you're going to Targa with the entire might of the Companions behind you? You know, if I didn't already love you…"

"Stop it."

Nyklos chuckled. "You were the one who used the Mytol. But seriously, the Companions moving on Targa will provoke Tybalt. What do you expect the poor man to do? You could be starting a major war."

Skyla took a deep breath. "Then I start one. I won't be the person to fire the first shot. We're supposed to have free passage through Regan space for nonmilitary activities."

"And a fleet of Companions headed for a world in revolt is a nonmilitary activity?" Nyklos raised a bushy eyebrow and his mustache twitched.

Skyla gave him a frosty glare that appeared to have no

effect. "I'll take that gamble. Meanwhile, I have a question of my own. Why haven't you tried anything yet? You seem to be a model hostage. You haven't even jiggled the door to your room. I don't like complaince from people like you. It makes me suspicious."

He smiled at some private thought, then said, "Quite honestly, something's gone wrong on Targa. I don't have the faintest clue as to what it might be, let alone the details. It's just a feeling. You know, the sort of intuitive hunch you get when the wording changes in the communiques. Magister Bruen is no one's fool, but I can sense that he's worried. Everything's falling apart — and it started with Staffa's behavioral aberration." He met her gaze. "If helping you leaves me in a position to help the Seddi, I'll take that chance."

"And if it doesn't?"

"I'll deal with that problem when it comes." Nyklos sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe the quanta are playing us all for fools. I should be dead back in that alley. I remember cracking that tooth, waiting for the poison, stalling for it to take effect. Someone goofed and I'm alive. In this instance, you haven't used the information you gained against us. Fortuitous? Random chance? You tell me the odds. You're supposed to be the enemy."

"But everything's changed — or has it?" Skyla waited patiently.

Nyklos didn't budge. "You tell me. What are the final goals of the Companions? Domination of Free Space?"

Skyla steepled her fingers. "What if the Companions did exactly that — crushed the Regans, and wheeled in a lightning blow and broke the back of the Sassan Empire? What would your reaction be?"

Nyklos twisted the end of his mustache with pensive fingers. "That would depend on Staffa. What happened, Skyla? Why did the Lord Commander — the man with a conscience like Terguzzi ice — suddenly slip away to Etarus to be mugged in an alley, convicted of murder, and condemned to the collar. What happened to him out there in that desert? The man who jumped into my aircar wasn't the arrogant Lord Commander I'd studied for years. Tell me, Skyla, give me the best information you can, because a lot could hinge on what I report to Bruen."

The chime rang, and Skyla stood long enough to pull the steaming trays from the dispenser. She slipped into the seat again and faced Nyklos over her

tray. "That's a little onesided, don't you think? I divulge information on the Lord Commander of the Companions, and what do I get in return? You're not exactly a trusted confidant, Nyklos."

He stared soberly into the donna that sent delightful smells into the air before nodding. "All right, here's why I want to know. If something happened to Staffa, something that changed his personality, it could have a dramatic effect on Seddi relationships with the Companions."

"We don't need you," Skyla reminded.

Nyklos leaned back and crossed his arms. "That depends, Wing Commander. If your goal is the final conquest of Free Space, what next? Is it the Lord Commander's plan to become the despot he's always resembled? If so, yours will be one of the shortest-lived empires ever. Oh, we've run the projections. Staffa's lack of humanity will bring about his demise in short order. He's a conqueror — a man who breaks, not builds."

"So you wait us out."

Nyklos shook his head. "It's not that simple. What do you know about systems analysis?"

"Enough."

"Then you know that humanity mght be able to survive one more war — the one that unifies Free Space. But the holocaust that a revolution against the Star Butcher would set loose? We've run the predictions over and over and the results are the same — extinction on worlds like Sylene and Terguz and Formosa. Some enclaves of humans will proba bly survive in places like Targa, Sassa, and Rega, but the natural resources have been so depleted that civilization will never arise again. Those people will be condemned to live as subsistence farmers among the ruins."

"Assuming your model is correct."

The expression on his face didn't change. "We'll give you the data. Check it, run it any way you like."

"Then why not simply assassinate Staffa and myself, hope the Companions fall apart, and that Rega and Sassa can slug it out for the remains."

"To the Seddi, the idea of living under a Regan or Sassan

government is only slightly more acceptable than being under the heel of the Star Butcher."

"And your interest in Staffa?"

"He's the key to Free Space. Tell me, Skyla, what happened to send him running to Etaria and disaster? Why would he do something so dumb? He blew every projection we had. "

"Staffa wanted to learn what it was to be human, Nyklos. "

The Seddi operative sank slowly back into the seat. "In that case, he got a belly full. He's probably in for more trouble when he arrives on Targa."

"Seddi treachery?"

"No, Magister Bruen gave his word, but I do know the war on Targa is getting pretty vicious."

Sampson Henck, First of the Twenty-seventh Maikan Assault Division, shook his head as he stared at the situation board where it dominated one wall of the commandeered headquarters building in the center of Kaspa. Fifty years of career service had given him a cynical squint. He liked to consider the Twenty-seventh Maikan as one of the pillars of the Regan military establishment. The fact that it hadn't been deactivated after the Maikan conquest was proof of its worth to Henck. Now he rubbed his jaw as he studied the board, trying to get a handle on the means of destroying his fleeing foe with the most economic and efficient means.

Lights marking troop positions moved through the warehouse district where the Fourth Section ran in support of their point Group. Pustulant rot, chasing the miserable Targans had pulled his people half out of town! Ashtan prairie goats ran slower!

Henck growled to himself as he paced over to the window to stare out at Kaspa. "What the hell are they doing? These renegades act like they don't have the intelligence the Blessed Gods gave to a rock! They just shoot… and when they draw a response, they run. Where's the sense in that? It's lunacy!"

"Attention Fourth Section. We have a Group drawing

fire five blocks ahead of you. Move out and support!" the Staff Second ordered where he listened to the comm. chatter.

"I don't understand." Henck pointed to the map of Kaspa. "What possible purpose could they have in trying to take that industrial district? It's strategically indefensible. All we have to do is send a Section in after them, and they're

out-further from the center of town than before!"

"Sir, suppose we let them have it?" His Staff Second glanced nervously at him. "Every time we react to their attacks, we find only a Group or so, all fleeing through the streets. Like you said, there's no rhyme or reason to it. They can't tie up our Sections for more than a short firefight-they don't have the strength. Besides, we've chased them clear out of the city. We control all the territory between our Group perimeter and the headquarters compound."

Henck fingered his throat. "So it would seem. To threaten us now, they'd have to mount a major offensive to roll our forces back; and with orbital recon, we know for a fact they don't have a Division out there hiding in the hills." And that's what it would take to recapture this city. A bloodrotted Division. He made his decision. "Sure, it's a meaningless exercise, but have the Fourth drive them out of those warehouses. What the Rotted hell, the exercise will do them good. "

"Yes, sir." The Staff Second turned to his comm. "Section First Paulus? You'll order your Section to clean out that warehouse area."

Henck grinned to himself as he stared up at the situation board. The rebellious Targans were scurrying like Riparian salamanders. Demoralized and dispirited, his troops need only corral the treasonous bastards before shipping them back to Rega for trial. "Kaspa is ours."

"Yes, sir."

"Hectic there for a bit, though, shuffling Sections and Groups back and forth like a tapa game. They could have cut us to pieces more than once had they had the firepower and personnel. "

"They still hurt us too badly," the Staff Second reminded as he logged the commands into the master book. "For as disorganized as their Groups seem to be, we took too many casualties. "

The Staff Second frowned as he tapped a stylus against the comm casing. "You know, the other bothersome thing,

is that we had to counter their Groups with full Sections. On a Group to Group basis, they shot the dripping pus out of us! Broke every defensive formation. How did they do that?"

First Henck tugged at his earlobe as he glared at the situation board. His entire Division had been spread out until it resembled a thin ring around the outskirts of town. A nagging worry made him suck at his lower lip. "I don't like this. They don't have air capabilities to match ours. but we might want to bring some of our strength back to support—"

A violent explosion battered the headquarters compound. Gravity flux shook the building with enough force to pitch Henck to the floor.

Dust and ceiling panels rained from above. The situation board wobbled before it crashed onto the Staff officers and shattered. The room went dark. The comm — proofed against such things — sent eerie colored shafts of light through twisting dust. For long moments, Henck lay stunned, nerves spasming, brain reeling with aftereffects. His heterodyning ears picked out the sound of the Staff Third hacking and coughing as he puked.

Henck got to his hands and knees, working his jaw to clear his ears of the wretched ringing.

"Blood and dung!" the Second spat. "That was a close one."

"Get me orbital," Henck grated. "They should be able to follow that one back to the projector. I want that position burned down to molten slag."

Staff Third tried to climb up to the comm board, wavering and staggering as he careened to the wall where he leaned limply. Glass crunched under his weight.

The pounding of feet could be heard on the lower floors, loud in the sudden silence. Somewhere a blaster crackled. Shouts broke out.

"What the corrupt hell?" Henck squinted in an attempt to focus his eyes. His scattered thoughts refused to coordi nate, but he knew instinctively that something had gone terribly wrong.

Staff Second had rolled over to sit up, head cradled in

his hands. "Wish to God that grav shot had missed. My skull's splitting!"

More blaster fire erupted in the hallway. Henck gasped as his stomach heaved and he vomited the last of his disorientation into the dust from the cracked

ceiling. He looked up as the door splintered inward from a pulse shot that sent slivers and pieces clattering through the debris on the floor.

Something's very wrong. I've got to act… get my wits together and. and.

"Rotted Gods!" the Staff Third blared as he looked through the hole blown in the door. His mouth dropped open, eyes wide, expression contorted by horror as his fingers settled on his pistol butt. For some reason, he couldn't seem to get the coordination together to pull his weapon.

The sight engraved itself forever on Henck's brain as he watched the last security guard's body buck and explode in a haze of pink before the remains plopped limply to the floor. A severed arm flopped into the room.

He was still blinking as the black snouts of blasters poked around the corner. Then armored soldiers appeared behind them.

"You! First Henck!" a sharp voice called. "Yeah, we know who you are. You've got five seconds to put your hands over your head! Surrender, or die, friend!"

Henck started to shake his head, hearing other boots beating their way in from the back. The rear door, too, splintered under pulse fire. More grimy, armored soldiers came crashing in, blasters backed by stony expressions. They covered the room, heavy weapons shouldered, eyes hot and angry.

"First Henck, do you surrender?" the man called, stepping through the wreckage of the main door. He wore a Section First's chevron on his arm. Others poured in after him, surrounding Henck and his officers where they stared up in stunned disbelief.

Suffering to lift his hands, Henck nodded, dazed. How could this possibly be happening? Another urge to vomit, unrelated to the gravity flux, curled around his gut.

The young Section First grinned before he pulled up one of the spilled chairs and sat down before the comm. He pressed a stud and talked confidently into the system:

'Sink? Hope you can hear me. Mac, here. We've got

Kaspa. Looks like the Twenty-seventh Division is history, Boss." Mac paused as a faint voice that Henck coudn't make out replied. Then Mac added, "Tell Shiksta that shot was perfect! Building shielded us from most of it, but we're a little woozy."

Henck tensed and trembled as strong hands pulled him to his feet. His mind reeled as other hands stripped off his weapons and armor. The floor felt cold on his unsuited feet as they tied his hands with binding straps and led him out into the cool Kaspan night.

Hauws — with the remains of his Group — staggered up the steep slope, gasping and panting. Smoke-streaked and filthy, they stumbled upward through the gray-black angular boulders that littered the slope. Between them hung a huge four-man blaster that they toiled to lift over the rocks and fallen trees. Hauws had broken away from his Section with twenty men and women. Fifteen of those lay dead on the slope below — picked off one by one by blaster fire and bombardment.

"Down!" Private Buchman screamed — and they flopped to the ground just as a high whistle ended in a loud crackbang! Shrapnel chipped fragments off the rocks they huddled in, while a haze of yellow-green vapor hissed, marking the ghostly shrapnel trails.

"Don't breathe!" Hauws ordered as the poison gas laced the air around them. "Faces in the dirt!" They waited while the streamers of vapor drifted to the east with the breeze. Anxiously, Hauws lifted his head, peering around with owl eyes.

"That's it. Lets go!" He slapped the man next to him. "C'mon, c'mon!"

"Blaster's all right," another private reported. "All systems are go!"

"Let's roll, people!" Hauws bellowed, grabbing up his carry handle, feeling the heavy weapon lift unevenly.

"Fred's dead," Johey called. "Looks like a bit of that poisoned shrap got him in the leg."

"Keep away from that shit!" Hauws ordered. "Don't get

close to that hole, one whiff — or even a touch of that tainted shrapnel — will kill you as dead as Freddie! Let's move."

They struggled up the slope, fighting time and gravity as the sun slanted toward the horizon. In the back of each mind lay the knowledge that the Third Ashtan was trying to line up another long shot like the last one.

Behind them and below, masked by the pine-thick brushchoked draws and gullies under the ridge, periodic concussions and faint flickers of laser and blaster light lashed back and forth as the other two Groups of Hauws' Third Section fought a desperate rearguard action to buy them time, to hold off the hordes.

"Another fifty meters, people," Hauws gasped, back cracking under the weight, lungs fire-pained. Sweat trickled in itching tracks down his face. Heat and stink rolled off his tired staggering body.

"Think. Sink's still… out there?" someone puffed.

"He. better be," Hauws panted and coughed. " 'Cause if the damn Regans… got him… I'm gonna make. somebody pay."

"Damn right," another panting, staggering soldier agreed.

They heaved and struggled for footing in the loose dusty colluvial gravels near the top. Slipping and cursing, they wound between the scrubby pines.

Fifty yards to their left, the air crackled as pines and firs exploded into toothpicks — rock and dust blasting out and up in an earth-shaking upheaval that battered them to the ground.

"Regan bastards!" Hauws spit, blinking in the dust as rocks and debris cascaded around him. He looked up, eyes red in his black-skinned face. His voice came in wheezing gasps, "Blessed Gods, just get us to the top of this pusrotted ridge. Just that far. Then give us time for one lousy miserable shot with this heavy son of a bitch and I'll come screw the daylights outta each and every one of your little Priestess girls for the rest of my life!"

Smaller pebbles and grit were settling on them now. "C'mon, another fifty meters, people!" And they staggered on, aware that hostile IR sensors were seeking from down below. Hopefully, for the moment, those seekers would be

fooled by the hot spot where the particle gun had riven the mountain.

"Ten meters," Hauws gasped, his throat making whistling noises. His muscles had become quivering rubber under the strain, his feet slid in the loose dirt. "By the Foul Bastard's balls, my throat's never been this dry in all my life." Then, "Five meters!" And they were at the crest.

"Johey," Hauws grunted, "Take point. See what's on the other side. "

" 'Firmative.

They pulled and wedged the big blaster behind a solid looking outcrop, unslinging shoulder weapons and crouching in the rocks as the private, face sweat-shiny, mouth open as he panted, crept over the top.

"C'mon," Hauws whispered under his breath. "C'mon, kid. Get back and tell us it's okay!" He clenched his fist, jerking it up and down nervously, while he looked around, noticing the incredible beauty of the place-if it just weren't full of people trying to kill him.

The ridge exploded below, blasting more timber and rock to drop from the dust-streaked sky.

"Crap!" Hauws hollered. "C'mon! Let's yank this thing over the other side! They've got the range, next one's gonna cook us!" The three of them, heaving, faces red, lifted the gun and struggled over the crest, stumbling, cursing, muscles tearing as they gulped air.

"Set! Let's roll!" Hauws barked, grin spreading as he saw the Regan Command headquarters: five dull gray buildings poking out of the far hillside above chutes of tailings. LCs were parked in neat rows along one side. A combat corn dish thrust up above the largest structure.

"C'mon, people! Let's go. One shot now, just one shot!" They spun the blaster, Private Buchman dropping into the gunner's seat, settling the sighting mechanism on the buildings across the valley.

"Charge is up!" Hauws hollered. "Five shots is all we got! Make them straight, Buchman!" He looked nervously at the way the gun sat on the sloping weathered soils. Not good, oughta have a better foundation.

A blaster bolt cackled past Hauws' shoulder, popping hollowly as it blew Private Rypmar's head off, showering bloody bony fragments around.

"Whore crap!" Hauws barked, as he threw himself into the low-lying skin-prickly shrubs. Pulling his blaster up, he cursed, seeing Johey's broken body where it had slid another ten meters down the slope.

"Shoot! Buchman, shoot!" Hauws hollered as he sighted on a Regan soldier scrambling up the slope below. He pressed the firing stud. The man's right arm exploded. The air above Hauws' back tore like an amplified sheet as the big gun cut loose. He felt the vibration along his sweaty back while he laid down a suppressing fire, blasting trees, powdering rocks, hoping to keep the advancing Regan Group from closing.

Again Buchman shot. Hauws took time to get a brief glimpse of a second building erupting in fragments and fire. The one with the combat comm had already been turned into smoking rubble.

"First!" Buchman's voice shrilled frantically. "The damn gun's sliding!"

"Terguzzi crap!" Hauws flung himself up over the rocks, heedless of a blaster bolt that almost clipped his side and left the armor cracked and flaking away.

He threw himself against the sliding gun and dug his heels into the loose stuff, aware of the hum of power. With all his strength, he braked the gun's slide.

"Shoot, Buchman. Get your sight picture-and shood" "But the radiation will-"

"Damn you! Shoot! That's an order!"

The sight in Hauws' left eye burned out as the blaster discharged and another building ripped apart in a gout of fire and death.

At the same time, chunks of the mountain to either side ripped and bucked as the Division guns were turned toward their position.

The fourth shot cooked the meat in Hauws' cheek. He howled curses into the wind, his one good eye blurred by tears and pain.

"Last shot," Buchman called. "I'm taking the largest of the buildings!" The blaster ripped the air and the tearing sound deafened Hauws., sending him A concussion blasted Hauws into the air

spinning-the gun and Buchman lost in the haze. He

smacked the ground, bounced, rolled, and stopped against a rock.

Searing agony shot up his leg while his body quivered in high frequency shock. A curiously calm academic feeling settled on his shrilling nerves.

"Been hit," he croaked. "Been hit hard." He blinked his one good eye clear of tears and looked. The hamburgered place where his leg ended at mid-thigh didn't frighten him like he'd always thought it would. The distance his pulver ized arteries shot blood fascinated him as red splattered the sunset-colored rocks.

Buchman appeared beside him, bending down, reaching.

"Get outta here," Hauws told him in a frog voice. "I'm gone. They got me. Just get back! Get our peope out! Get back to Sink! Report!" The mountainside wirled in his vision and he threw up without feeling it.

He couldn't seem to keep the world in focus. "Oughta be home culturing bacteria." He remembered the olive trees on Ashtan, and the coffeehouse that never could pass inspection — but still made the richest coffee in the world. He tried to see, but the gray shimmering grew black. "Got 'em Sink," he told himself, voice dwindling. "Got the bas tards in the end."

Ily Takka tapped her foot in irritation as she waited for the shuttle lock to sound an all clear. The thick doors hissed slightly as they finally opened — interstellar cold vaporizing moisture in the air as she stepped into Commander Rysta Braktov's Gyton.

The warship's lock looked just like every other military lock. Oval and featureless except for the armored Marine guard and the color-coded control panel. The Marine glanced at the jessant-de-lis, input his clearance, and saluted as the final door hissed back to allow her into Gytons lateral corridor.

Ily snapped a return salute to an officer and followed his stiff back as he led her through the spartan corridors of the star cruiser. The pace smelled of lubricant, humans, and synthetics. A pervading hum filled the air — a constant for Regan batte craft. Every surface had been painted in either

white or gray. The officer stopped before a wardroom hatch and pressed a stud to open a final door. The meeting room proved as sterile as the rest of the ship.

Rysta Braktov sat at the head of the small table where she scowled into a desk-mounted monitor. Acceleration helving and monitors filled the walls in a no-nonsense manner. Only one other chair module had risen from the floor

across from Rysta.

"You asked for a meeting?" Ily reminded, coming to the point, standing, arms crossed, before the small table.

Rysta looked up, moving her mouth as if she had a sour taste in it. "Want something to drink Minister?"

"Myklenian brandy?"

"This is a warship Minister," Rysta reminded dryly. Then she turned and slapped a wrinkled palm to the comm access. "Duty First, bring a bottle of our best — whatever's left — and see that we are not disturbed unless something impossible develops down there." Rysta removed a headset from her brow and the monitor went blank.

"I take it all is not well on Targa. You haven't killed Sinklar Fist, have you?" Ily barely acknowledged the officer who entered and left an expensive looking flask on the table. The door behind her slid shut as he left.

"Please, be seated Minister Takka," Rysta ran gnarled age-spotted hands over her dark face, momentarily stretching and rearranging the wrinkles. She looked haggard, grayshot hair disheveled. The hard squint in her eyes betrayed a weariness. "I'm past being formal. Let's just get to the point and find a solution to this damn mess one-on-one, all right?"

"You look tired," Ily offered as she settled into a seat.

Rysta leaned forward to prop her head between both palms. "Minister. I'll be honest. I've served the Imperium since before Tybalt's father took the mantle on Rega. I've seen Ministers come and go… watched the Empire grow and expand. I've been awarded citations, enjoyed state dinners in the company of the Emperors, and the Lord Commander himself offered me a commission among the Companions."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Ily tapped a stud on the table. A freefall cup appeared and she poured the

liquor-an amber Ashtan whiskey. Through it all, Rysta watched, but her keen edge had been blunted.

"You've kept track of the battle down there?" Rysta asked.

"A lot of fighting has been going on. We haven't been able to get all the communications. Your jamming doesn't only affect Fist's rebellious Division, it bleeds into our systems. We know the general pattern."

Rysta took a breath. "Then you know that somehow, some way, that little bastard is pulling the rug right out from under us." She-shook her head. "I don't get it. Fist's Targan Division is defying every law of warfare-and by eggs and ions, he's cutting our throats. Unethically, to be sure, but a cut throat bleeds whether it's slit by an emperor or a thief."

"He's succeeding in taking the command staff?" Ily mused, a light enjoyment touching her heart. "Succeeded," Rysta grunted. "The Third Ashtan Assault

Divisional headquarters was just blown away. Seems the Section they faced-yes, I said Section-dragged a four-man blaster up an impossible cliff and wiped out Weebouw and all his staff. What was left of the Targan Section melted.away into the trees, surrounded the Ashtan positions, and started closing on the Section commands. They're wiping them out now-while the Third Ashtan sits in the hills waiting for orders that won't come."

Rysta hissed derision. "Oh, we hurt them. Of their two hundred we killed almost one hundred and seventy-five, but the fact remains-"

"And how much of the Third Ashtan did they get?" Ily interrupted.

"Almost five hundred combat personnel, not including Division and Section command staff."

"And then?"

"We're not sure. An LC showed up. One of Fist's. We don't know what happened then, but there's been no further communication. After each and every Divisional command down there was captured or destroyed, our troops went silent. We've been broadcasting queries since we lost the Third Ashtan. Nothing."

"And now what?" Ily lifted an eyebrow.

Rysta dropped her eyes. "You know what this means?"

"For all intents and purposes, Sinklar Fist has destroyed five Regan combat Divisions." And I have the tool I need to place me on the Regan throne! Sinklar Fist, for all your odd looks and your funny eyes, you are the most precious human in Free Space!

Rysta tilted her head back and exhaled. "Yes, he's done it. It's against all the odds. It's against any military axiom we know." She slapped a bony hand into a hard palm. "They established laws for the conduct of war years ago! This Fist is… barbaric! A damn criminal butcher! If he gets away with this, the whole of Free Space will suffer."

"You've called the Emperor?" Ily wondered, beginning to see Rysta's problem. No wonder she related her illustrious career. Old school to the hilt, Rysta had to stop this new genie before he wisped out of the Targan bottle.

Smoking brown eyes met hers. "No, I haven't. I thought perhaps it would be worth discussing the present situation with you. You carry the jessant-de-lis."

"And you want authority?"

Rysta pursed her lips, pulling her old body up straight. "What I want is to finish this. Rega, right now, can't, can't allow Sinklar Fist to win. Everything we've built would tumble into chaos. The very nature of war is being-"

"And you can prevent it?"

Commander Braktov nodded, the action making her sagging flesh wiggle. "I don't like it, but I think we have extraordinary circumstances." She patted a horny palm on the duraplast table. "The decision didn't come easily. It will mean the sacrifice of a lot of good men and women. Veteran troops the Emperor will need in the struggle against Sassa, but we must be willing to-"

"No., Rysta leaned forward intently. "Minister? I don't think you understand the grave nature of the situation down there. Sinklar Fist, with an untrained Division, just-"

"No." Ily repeated, sipping her liquor. "That is the last thing you will do."

"What? How can we conduct war in the future if just any old barbarity is allowed? How can we get trained responsible people to take command of the military… knowing they might die as a result? Do you have any idea of what you9re proposing? It's… it's insanity if-"

"Commander, consider." Ily crossed her legs and leaned back. Her fingernails tapped out a staccato on the drinking bulb. "Sinklar Fist just destroyed the combat capabilities of ten thousand veteran personnel with roughly two thousand thinly spread troops of his own."

"There were more," Rysta pointed out. "He had Targan revolutionaries he'd recruited."

"And who were mostly unarmed," Ily rejoined. "He also only had the use of five LCs and no orbital intelligence or bombardment. Now, using your own misfortune as a guide, how much damage do you think he could do to the Sassans given the advantages of Regan technology and crack veteran combat personnel?"

"He destroyed most of those on the ground down there," Rysta growled. "Weebouw. Henck. Damn." She blinked as her mouth screwed up. She shot a pained look at Ily. "Your thrice-cursed Sinklar Fist killed a lot of my good friends. Capable and competent commanders."

"Then I suppose we had better talk to him sometime soon," Ily decided. "Lord knows, if we don't, he'll have the troops he captured down there recruited, too, and next thing we know, he'll be marching up the Grand Hallway and into the Imperial Court."

Rysta leaned forward, an eager expression lighting her old brown eyes. "All the more reason to kill him now."

"No."

"But one orbital shot would render the whole planet…"

Rysta didn't finis when Ily turned a hostile glance her way.

Ily steepled her fingers as the silence stretched. "Commander, I don't think you understand the political intricacies of the coming Sassan campaign. We are faced with the final confrontation. Rega stands alone. We face Sassa. and the Companions. Do you think you could take the Lord Commander by using the tactics in the book?" At the tightening of Rysta's expression, Ily smiled. "No, I didn't think so. Tybalt and I both agree that Rega must win — no matter whose tactics we use. Once Sinklar Fist rolls over the top of Sassa, there will be one Empire in Free Space — and it will be Regan."

Ily lifted a challenging eyebrow. "And there won't be a

need for a large standing army, Rysta. Internal Security will handle the rest — and we don't need formal rules of war." Rysta Braktov looked like she'd swallowed Riparian slime.

"First? Sinklar?" Mhitshul's gentle prodding brought Sinklar awake. He started, automatically reaching out for a comm that wasn't there. Instead his aide stood in the narrow passageway of the LC. Despite the faint light Sink could see that a dumb misery filled Mhitshul's eyes.

"What? What's wrong? What do we need to do? Whos in trouble?" He spun around to stare at the smudged hull plate behind and above him. He could feel the cushion of an acceleration cot beneath him and his feet had gone to sleep from the cramped position.

"First Fist," Mhitshul began, looking at the deck below his feet. "There's something—"

"Wait!" Sinklar sat up, rubbing his hot red eyes with dirty fingers. "How'd I get here? I was at the comm, taking the reports. What happened? We get hit?" He blinked, screwing his face into contortions to bring it awake.

"No, sir," Mhitshul told him soberly. "It was over. You were nodding off — asleep on your feet. I explained the situation and Mac took contl. I carried you over to the drop couch, covered you with a blanket and let you sleep."

"How. how long?" Sinklar pulled his wrist around to look at his chronometer. "Blessed Gods, ten hours?

"Everything on the planetary level is fine, sir," Mhitshul told him gently. "The Minister of Internal Security would like to meet with you to discuss the resolution of this situation with a minimum of further conflict. She claims she has been sent with authority from the Imperial Seventh himself. Tybalt. She has the power to conclude any kind of deal necessary which will work to the benefit of all."

Sinklar puffed a sigh of relief and winced as returning circulation shot pins and needles through his feet. "My God, we won," he added wearily. "We won, Mhitshul."

"Yes, sir," the man still looked subdued, biting his lip, staring at the floor.

"And Hauws? He's…"

"Dead, sir. Private Buchman confirmed it. Section First

Hauws was fatally wounded when they destroyed the Third Ashta headquarters. We took the surrender of the remaining Sections of that Division just before you passed out, sir.

Sinklar slumped back against the cool metal plate. Hauws, who should have been conducting public health inspections, dead? Why are we living this shit?

"Sir? Buchman has gone back for the body. Maybe we can—"

"Where in hell are we?"

"Vespa, sir. We're inside the brick factory again. Seems like there hasn't been tme to find a different headquarters."

Sinklar nodded. "No, I suppose not. Where's Gretta? Has she checked in yet?"

Mhitshul swallowed hard. "Well, that's just it, sir. We don't know. No one's seen her."

Sinklar closed his eyes, dullness constricting around his heart. He forced his mind to clear and replayed that entire flight back from Kaspa. They'd parted in front of the LC before the headquarter and. "Wait, she said something about the Seddi assassin. Anybody checked the old Internal Security headquartes?"

Mhitshul shook his head. "No, sir."

"Let's go!" Sinklar pulled himself to his feet, grabbing a blaster from the rack. "What happened to the guards that were down there?"

"U, that would have been Seventh Section. I'll have Mayz send them back to duty."

Lost in his worry about Gretta, Sinklar trotted down the ramp, aware of the number of people swarming around portable tables that had been set up. Evidently, the brick factory now served as planetary headquarters. The place buzzed with talk, shuffling feet, the clicking of comm keys, and the scraping of chairs on the gritty concrete floor. The high ceiling amplified the bustle.

The room went quiet as they spotted him. Sinklar stopped short, aware of their awed attention. All eyes were upon him as they stood in their scorched and battered armor. Plastaheal had been slapped across lacerations and bums. An occasional suit arm bung empty, or a person leaned on crutches, pale but mobile.

But their faces, they had such curious expressions. Some thing possessed their eyes, some sharpness. New wariness and deep pride had etched their raptorian features. They were changed, forged into something different than

the bumpkins he'd inherited with the First Targan, or the bro ken remains of the defeated Second Division. Here and there, Targan Rebels stood shoulder to shoulder with Regan former enemies, all looking at him in that same keen man ner. He could sense the glow, the sharpening of breath, an increase of color in cheek and brow. A spark seemed to leap electrically from eye to eye and a radiance infused every one of them. Possessed. possessed by what?

A voice broke the silence, clear, echoing from the arched roof so high overhead. "LONG LIVE SINKLAR FIST!"

They erupted in a roaring swell of sound, "LONG LIVE FIST! LONG LIVE FIST!" It rolled, booming in the big hall.

He lifted his hands, having to wave them to bring order. "It was you who did the impossible, not I."

"SINKLAR! SINKLAR! SINKLAR!" they exploded, the booming shout rattling the rafters overhead.

Sinklar stood paralyzed until Mhitshul appeared beside him and took his arm. He let himself be led through the crowd that parted magically before him. Still the roaring salute pounded the air as the press shouted his name over and over.

"I don't understand," he muttered as Mhitshul ushered him through a side door. "What are they doing?"

"They know you saved them, sir. You defeated five of the best Regan Divisions the Emperor has. Rega is suing for peace with us. The Lord Minister, Ily Takka, is landing tomorrow to seek an audience with you." Mhitshul swallowed, eyes still downcast. "How many men would challenge an Emperor for the likes of them?"

Sinklar winced. "It. had to be done. Not just for them, for all of us."

The cell block stood silent and empty when they arrived. A terrible premonition grew in Sinklar's breast. Mhitshul unslung his blaster as Sinklar activated the main door control. Three long days had passed since the Regan attack. During that time, no one had attended the cells.

"Sir?" Mhitshul called. "Wait, please. I've taken the liberty of having a squad sent over. Just a precaution, sir."

Sink sot him an irritated look. "When did you start call-' ing me sir all the time."

Mhitshul colored. "Just seemed appropriate, that's all."

"If Gretta's locked in here somewhere, I'm going to find her. You coming or not?"

"But the risks…"

"Gretta?" Sinklar bellowed as he walked down the cell block. His heart pounded in his chest. She wouldn't have come here. By the Blessed Gods, what would have driven her to… "Makarta!"

He sprinted down the line of cells, remembering that final conversation. "Gretta thought she could learn the location of Makarta from Arta Fera."

He slid to a stop before the maximum security door and slapped a palm to the lock plate. The cell door slid back to reveal an empty cell.

"Maybe the interrogation room?" Mhitshul suggested.

"Where's that?"

"This way."

Sinklar entered the control center. The cameras still monitored the main interrogation room. Arta Fera sat in one of the chairs, arms crossed, eyes closed as if she were asleep.

Sinklar panned the camera and stifled a cry. Members of Mayz's Section came trotting down the hallway as Sink stopped before the security door and stared at the lock. "Quick, what's the code for this?"

Mhitshul spread his arms.,

"Blast it open!" Sink ordered, and stepped back.

"Wait!" A woman came forward, pressing a code into the lock.

As the heavy door slid open, a sickening odor drifted into, the hallway. The amber-eyed woman sat cross-legged on a chair in the corner, her features peaceful as she smiled at Sinklar Fist.

He glanced down. Familiar brown hair lay like a mantle around the bloating corpse in the center of the floor.;