Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 2

Special Tactics Officer Ryman Ark waited with the cool efficiency of a professional. He had placed the rest of his team throughout the hospital building, but this critical corridor he'd taken for his own. Around him, his men and women lay prone behind shimmering energy barriers capable of deflecting pulse as well as particle fire. No one moved, no one made a sound.

Why are we here? Why did the Lord Commander put his best Special Tactics Unit here. to guard one crippled old man? Who is he?

Ark shifted his gaze from the gleaming white corridor and checked the status displays projected by his sophisticated battle helmet. At his mental command varicolored holos appeared, providing him with information beyond the capabilities of his human senses. He focused the helmet's scanning receptors on the end of the long hallway and dialed up the sensitivity. The corridor looked like any other: White walls reflected soft fluorescent light from square ceiling panels; the polished floor tiles gleamed; steel doors had been placed at fifteen meter intervals. The auditory sensors amplified only the hum of the air conditioning.

The Lord Commander had ordered all rooms to be vacated — all but the one Ark and his team guarded. And what the Lord Commander ordered, the Companions accepted as inviolate law, no matter what the sense of it might seem at the moment.

But to put us here? There's still fighting out there. We ought to be using our talents to crack the last of the defensive positions. ot Gods rotting here, guarding a dying old man and an empty hospital.

The sophisticated detection equipment in Ryman's helmet picked up faint vibrations: the sound of footsteps appraching. Ryman checked his IR monitor and noted the gradual increase in heat from beyond the blind corner. Rescue attempt?

"On deck, people," Ark whispered.

Ryman's crack Special Tactics Unit tensed behind their energy barriers.

He used his comm to check with the other personnel scattered through the hospital. "This is Ark. Any trouble? Anyone pass through security?"

"Negative, STO. All quiet. Nothing cooking."

"Well, I've got visitors; be sharp, people."

So who'd passed the guards on the lower floors? Must be somebody of ours. Ryman licked his lower lip. But then, he hadn't made Special Tactics Officer by accepting anything at face value.

He lowered the combat shield over his dark-skinned face. Dressed in camouflaging armor, he crouched behind the shielding — a muscular man with the grace of a trained athlete. The IR image in the rifle sight tinged with heat.

At that moment two familiar figures swept around the corner.

"Hold your fire," Ark ordered. In the holo monitors pro jected to the side of his vision he noted that none of his troops even quivered, their respective defensive areas covered by the ugly belled nozzles of assault rifles. Professional, by God!

"Halt!" Ark's voice boomed down the hall.

The man and woman stopped short, balanced and ready in a predatory stance.

Ark studied them through his instruments. It figured that the Lord Commander would appear unannounced like this. It kept his people frosty. Ryman studied his commander with the same interest that always possessed him. Staffa kar Therma met his stare over the distance. The ice-blonde woman beside him stood dressed in space whites. Wing Commander Skyla Lyma had dropped her Vegan disguise after they'd gained access to the Myklenian computer system.

The Lord Commander nodded slightly, and a hard smile of approval barely touched his lips. A glistening gray combat suit fit skintight over his trim body, covering every inch from boot tops to neck. What looked to be a golden

choker — in reality the field generator for a vacuum energy helmet — snugged around his throat. The cloak pinned at his shoulders seemed alive as it swirled behind him. A thick weapons belt held a pistol, grenades, comm unit, climbing tackle, and vacuum suit energy pack snugged around lean hips. Knee-high black boots gleamed.

Staffa's clean-shaven face had a handsome look, blocked on the bottom by a square jaw that accented broad thin lips. The nose jutted straight, perfectly proportioned under the smooth brow. Long black hair had been gathered in a ponytail over the left ear and hung over his shoulder — held in place by a shimmering multicolored gem. Ark knew the imperious command in those glinting gray eyes. Through the magnification in his scope, they pierced him. Lines had tightened at the edges of the eyes, giving Staffa's face an expression of tension.

Ryman Ark fought a shiver. That aura of power chilled men's souls like some pervading miasma. But then, what sane man wouldn't feel that in the presence of the deadliest man in Free Space?

Ark noted the quick flicker of gray-gloved fingers as they moved in the Companion's sequence of identification.

"Advance, sir." Ryman stood and allowed the assault rifle to hang easily in his hands.

The Lord Commander strode forward, the gray cloak billowing behind his tense body. And yes, his expression looked strained, pale, almost a grimace.

What in the name of the Rotted Gods is wrong?

Ryman shifted his wary glance to the woman who walked with predatory ease at Staffa's side. Skyla Lyma reminded Ark of an ice leopard. She had that fluidity of movement and the wary balance of a huntress. Skyla missed nothing, her glance darting to each of the energy barriers, and then to the disposition of Ryman's men where they remained crouched behind ready rifles.

She nodded — a barely perceptible movement — her silverblonde hair swinging in the long braid that hung looped over her left shoulder. In her glistening white armor, she appeared the perfect complement to the tall man in gray. Her authority among the Companions was second only to the Lord Commander's.

Ryman studied the classic lines of her face and wondered.

Her features were perfect — those you might expect of an Etarian Priestess. A gymnast would have coveted her perfectly toned body and the resilient power betrayed by her movements. Skyla would be the envy of any man's fantasy and desire — until he looked into those chilling eyes. With a gaze that cut like azure crystals, she inspected him, peeled back his soul, seeking any anomaly.

Skyla's worried about something. And Staffa. he's on edge, jumpy as I've never seen him.

Only up close could a man see the light line of scar tissue angling across Skyla's cheek — such rude contrast to the delicate precision of her features and the promise of those full red lips. A beauty, indeed — and cold as the absolute zero of the Terguzzi ice sheets. Deadly as a Cytean cobra, Skyla had earned her position by ruthless efficiency.

"My Lord Commander," Ryman greeted, knotting a fist over his heart in the eternal salute of the Companions.

Staffa placed hands on hips as he studied the defensive layout Ryman had deployed. A tingle wiggled in Ark's stomach as he caught the distress in Staffa's face — the look that of a man preparing for battle. and wishing that he were somewhere else. Those wolf-gray eyes flickered to the door.

A hesitation of… Ryman denied the sudden hint of fear in Staffa kar Therma's eyes. Absurd! Perhaps the angle of the light. Ryman stood straighter, ice tracing fingers through his guts.

The Lord Commander spoke in a soothing, cultured tenor. "Well done, Officer Ark. Anything unusual? The prisoner is all right?"

"Yes, sir." He swallowed, finding it difficult.

"Nothing suspicious?"

"No, sir. He… the prisoner. only sent one communique, Lord Commander — and that was to your flagship the Chrysla, sir."

"Very well." It sounded absent and Staffa's expression had gone slack. Could there have been a eraine of that pale flesh?

like a chi11 lance' PPed through Ryman's soul. Who was this crippled man they guarded?

The Lord Commander turned to Skyla in a swirl of gray

cloak. "I'll see him alone, Wing Commander. If I… I'll call should I need you."

Ryman kept his eyes ahead, body at full attention, fist clasped tightly on

his sternum. The Lord Commander hesitated at the door, the gray-gloved hand caressing the polished brass latch for several seconds before he pulled the portal open and boldly entered.

Ryman glanced at the Wing Commander. Her pale features hinted of anguish despite the way she stood, back braced against the wall, arms crossed under those full breasts. Her worry-bright eyes unnerved him.

Ryman moved his tongue over dry teeth. Concern? In Skyla? Bloodshot Gods'

Staffa kar Therma waged war on his emotions, forcing his heart to be still when it tried to batter at the bottom of his throat. Fear? Of what? This. this wreck of a man? His gut tightened at the memories of those long gone days. Days of pain, days of endless struggle. Yes, Staffa. You fear him — with as much passion as you once loved him,

The door slipped closed behind him, a shield against the worry-strained eyes Ark hadn't been able to hide. Is it that apparent? Have I so little control when it comes to facing this one old man?

The room measured no more than eight meters across. Monitors projected holo after holo along the walls: Scenes of untamed country, green with vegetation; of buildings lancing white and silver ino a turquoise sky; of beautiful statues in manicured emerald parks. Others depicted happy people, or gala musical events. Familiar scenes, they plucked at Staffa's memories and called back the vanished days of his youth. Each of the projections portrayed Myklene as it had been before his forces crushed the Myklenian defense and rendered the planet helpless before the Sassan invasion.

The medical unit stood in a far corner, illuminated by the greenish tint of Myk's sunlight — unique in that it emitted a higher percentage of light between 5000 and 5700 angstroms. The hospital unit consisted of a gleaming white box the ie of a large freezer chest. Rows of monitors filled one side while a retractable power lead and comm link trailed to a wall socket.

The Lord Commander stopped, throat tight, skin flushed and hot. He steeled himself.

The old man's head — a round ball of flesh and bone— stuck out incongruousy above the polished white of the hospital unit. From the Lord Commander's position, only close-cropped hair — graying now where once it had been black — and pasty skin remained visible. The ears curled like wilted chubba leaves, pink and fleshy. The aging flesh on the neck had gone flaccd, and withered muscle stretched from the mastoid into the white depths of the machine.

Outside the armored window, a vista of wrecked and shattered city stretched forever, smoke rising in columns from twisted structures. Other buildings, unhurt, now sprouted banners in the delicate script of Myklene: pronouncements of the Sassan victory. Aircars crossed the turquoise sky, most bearing combat-armored personnel in Sassan gear. Larger vehicles bore prisoners en masse to detention centers as they were routed out of the public buildings and battered defensive positions. In the distance, cargo shuttles lifted skyward, shooting up through the gravity well to the orbiting Sassan Fleet.

A single hoo hung before the hospital unit, unaffected by the shadows which should have been cast by the green sun. The old man watched a view from space, an up-to-date image of the planet now wreathed in smoke and fire. Music played, to a blasted empire.

As if the Lord Commander's pounding heart betrayed his presence, the old man spoke, "So, it's you at last." The elder's voice had a cracked, strained quality, as if forced from the unresponsive mechanical lungs of the hospital machine.

"The neutralization of several pockets of resistance delayed my—"

"You're a liar, Staffa kar Therma."

Staffa's fingers wove into the fabric of his belt, hands knotting. "No other man in Free Space would dare call me that."

"Would you prefer that I call you what you are?" A pause. "Traitor fits my tongue perfectly. How about yours?"

"You cast me out! You and your precious Myklenian Council. I could make your death. But you'd like that, wouldn't you Praetor?"

"I cast you out?" He snorted his scorn. "If you'd remember, I saved your Rotted life!" The hospital unit whined as it turned, slowly rotating the

motionless head toward the Lord Commander. As the profile filled, the true nature of the skull could be seen in the pain-racked flesh. The forehead bulged over a thick orbital torus. The fleshy nose protruded, hooking over a line-etched mouth, lips purple and swollen with age. Age spots dotted thin mottled flesh. The chin thrust in a walnut-stained knob below the broad face. Turning exposed a bruise on the left cheek.

Human wreckage. Here lies my enemy. And Staffa began to smile, his breathing easier. Who could fear this bit of crushed humanity? The Praetor lived by grace of pumps and filters. Intravenous alimentation filled his blood with the nutrients to sustain life while osmotic membranes oxygenated the artificial blood serving the remains of the spinal cord.

The man he'd once feared — and loved — was gone, vanished forever in a blaster bolt he, Staffa, had triggered to destroy the Myklenian flagship. Through some miracle, the old man had survived, had been found by mop-up crews and identified.

The old man's mouth moved, changing the pattern of parchmentlike wrinkles. "Humor, Staffa kar Therma? Amusement at what you've wrought?"

The Lord Commander cradled an elbow and rubbed his chin as he considered the sunken face before him. Fear pangs receded as the reality of his victory began to wash deep within him. The work of the past had been erased— vanished into the smoke and violence of the present.

Staffa walked to the wall, allowing the cloak to dance behind him in a taunting swirl. He slapped a palm on the holo control, and the walls went dead white — only the holo of the ruined world remained spinning slowly before the Praetor's eyes.

"See what / have made of you, Staffa? The perfect conqueror! My greatest achievement. Yes, I've followed your career. Brilliant. I thought the Phillipian defense couldn't be cracked. Then you did the impossible off Ashtan — who'd have thought they'd fall for a feint on the marshlands? Only you could have orchestrated the decoy that destroyed the Maikan fleet. Yes, I studied each of your campaigns, knowing I'd have to fight you one day. One by one, I pored over your spectacular tactics until I could counter your every move."

A holow, bitter laugh passed the bloodless lips. "Too good, Staffa. I never had time to break you… to buy you off and turn you against the Sassans."

"I do not break. Nor do I buy off."

"No?" A gray eyebrow lifted to crinkle parchment skin over the wide forehead.

"No."

The Praetor's smile went crooked. "One of the oldest of truths, Staffa, is that every man does indeed have a price. As do you, mercenary!"

Staffa paced slowly forward, gray eyes locked with the Praetor's. He found enjoyment in the dulling brown that shadowed those once powerful orbs. He cocked his head. "Never, in all the campaigns I've fought, have I betrayed a contract."

The corners of the ancient lips raised slightly, eyes gleaming. "No, you never have. A spotless reputation, don't you agree? But then, I forged you, Staffa. I took you as a young man and trained you, honed you to be the finest military commander anywhere. I gave you your values and strengths and cunning. I know you, Staffa. I am your creator!"

"That was many years ago Praetor." He raised a shoulder. "I have—"

"What a master forges, so can he break!"

With a gray-gloved hand, Staffa gestured futility. "Brave and powerful words, Praetor. Yet I see your planet in ruins. Your people are captured — slaves for all intents and purposes. Your fleet is wreckage tumbling in vacuum, your armies scattered and decimated. And you Praetor, your life is at the mercy of this machine in which you lie. Your body is dead." Staffa wiggled his index finger. "With this, I could terminate your existence."

The old man's smile broadened. "Not until you hear about your weakness, Staffa." As the smile faded, a shadow of frown deepened. "You don't wish me to fawn like all the rest and call you Lord Commander?"

"I'll let it go, Praetor… for old time's sake."

"So noble of you."

"And you had the ability to destroy me?" Staffa clasped his hands, feeling the armored cloth, warm and reassuring between his fingers.

Aged eyes studied him thoughtfully. "Yes… I do. You—"

"Do, no less?" Staffa barked a short laugh. "You would call forth your legions? Recall your fleets from the dead? Raise your defensive platforms from orbiting slag? Return—"

"Nothing so gross or wasteful." The Praetor's face caught a spear of light from the setting sun, illuminating his halfslitted eyes in a shaft of yellow-green. "I only need a few words. Nothing more."

"Some key psyched into my mind when I was a youth? I know you did that, left deep psychological triggers. I found them, rooted them out laboriously, one by one."

"All of them, Staffa?" The withered lips twisted again, cunningly. "We will see." The brows lowered. "Yes, indeed. But first tell me, you're the most feared man in all of Free Space. Legends have been spun about you Commander. From the Forbidden Borders to the gutter sumps of Terguz, no one has failed to hear of your name or fame. You've destroyed over thirty worlds. More than ten billion human beings have died because of you. You have enslaved entire populations. In places, men utter curses in your name. Among others, you're reviled as a demon from their versions of hell. Some hex you with magic. Others have paid fortunes to have you assassinated. Fear and hatred are your legacy, Lord Commander. Do you ever wonder about that? Lose sleep perhaps? Awake shivering in the nigt?"

Staffa raised his shoulders in a shrug, palms up. "I am not paid to lose sleep. I am paid — and paid very well — to win."

The Praetor nodded ever so slightly. "No soul, eh, Staffa? No responsibility to God? None?" He hawked and spat onto the polished floor. "No, indeed. I bred that out of you — banished it from your personality so long ago. A creature without conscience. without guilt. Only money and power motivate you." He cackled gleefully. "And, of course, your reputation!"

"Does this have a point?" Staffa stepped to the window, rubbing hands along his arms as he stared out over the wreckage that had been the capital of Myklene.

"You attacked before anyone expected, Staffa." A wistful note filled the old man's voice. "I didn't underestimate your fury — only your speed. Your plan to hit us before the Sassan fleet was even half provisioned. well, it was brilliant. Our spies had only heard vague rumors that you were working for Sassa. Even then, I knew our defensive platforms would have delivered a crushing blow to your fleet. You crippled us before we could—"

"I played on your trust in spies," Staffa told him casually. "You expected a massed attack. You counted on Sassan vanity, knowing they'd demand to be present for the first assault to ratify their God-Emperor. Expectations are a weakness. A single unarmed freighter couldn't pose a threat to your massed defenses. Commando assaults from unassuming supply freighters never crossed your mind, did they?"

The Praetor sniffed in irritation. "I wonder what would have happened if you'd misjudged and we'd wiped out your Special Tactics squads?"

"Skyla wouldn't have let that happen. She personally orchestrated the sabotage of your computer systems. Timing was too critical. My fleet had to appear at exactly the right moment."

"Yes, Skyla Lyma. A worthy second to your brilliance. Tell me… are you lovers?"

"No, Praetor, we are not. Never have been. She is her own woman — my second in command."

"And as reptilian in conscience as you."

"I have no interest in conscience."

"So you've said — and proved." The Praetor sighed and shifted his gaze to the holo of the planet. "And now only two empires remain. Rega and Sassa. Each built with your skill and power. What now? Do you choose Tybalt and his Regans, or Sassa and their God-Emperor? Is this what you intended? Surely you knew it had to come down to two. and then to one. Has that been your design?"

Staffa smiled and cocked his head. // only you knew, old man. "The Companions follow the tides of fortune."

"Tides of fortune? My ass! And what of your cunning and ambition? I know you as no one else ever will. Don't

toy with me, Staffa. You brought humanity to this — you and your Companions."

"And if I did?"

The Praetor leered evilly. "Then you made a terrible mistake."

"Oh?"

The od man squinted. "Let's dispense with the fencing, shall we? With the destruction of Myklene, two hungry empires face each other over a ragged border. Both are reeling, their economies starved to feed your war chest. Neither can meet your vampire price — not without bankrupting their blood-sucked economies. You will choose the winner. and then?"

Staffa shifted, crossing his arms as he studied the old man.

"Who, Staffa?" The Praetor stared at him. "I think you'll choose the Sassans — and then turn on them. After you bleed them dry in the fight against Rega, you'll become the ruler of human space — and you'll finally fail."

Staffa lifted an eyebrow. "I'll play along with your game for the moment. Why would I fail?"

"What will destroy you in the end is your own lack of humanity. The people will pull you down. Not armies. but human beings."

The laugh built from deep in Staffa's gut. "The people? Those huddling masses of terror-ridden dolts who curse my name? You think they could do what no empire, no military force could? Be serious."

The Praetor glanced out at the ruins of his capital. In a wistful voice, he added, "I am, Staffa. To you, human beings are pieces on a game board. You see them as chaotic forces, eddies and swells of turbulence following no predictabe course. But you're inhuman. A creation. If you would save yourself, Staffa, you must learn what it is to be human. You can't feel the spirit that breathes within the species— and because of that it will crush you one day."

"Nothing will ever crush me."

A subtle change invaded the hoarse voice. "Not even love?" A long hesitation. "You found that once, didn't you?"

Staffa bit off a retort, settling the tightness in his lungs with a deep breath.

The old man saw through his defense. "Captive girl, wasn't she? A strikingly beautiful slave destined to be sold to the whorehouses on Sylene. Except she was too beautiful for you to pass up. Another surprise you gave me, Staffa. I never thought your heart would allow you to love. I thought I'd killed that in you."

The muscles along Staffa's back tensed and rippled. What's he after? How could he know? Chrysla, my beloved Chrysla.

The Praetor moved his lips. "Could you still have a trace of humanity hidden within you, Staffa? Even after all I did to you?"

Staffa closed his eyes, emotions reeling. Images of her face filled his memories, the subtle smile, the love in her soft amber eyes.

"Wonder how I know Commander?" the old voice wheedled. "Yes, indeed, how do I? How would I know you had a son by Chrysla? They were kidnapped from you almost. what? Twenty years ago? No trace of them ever showed up in spite of your threats… or the reward."

Staffa whirled, his cloak spreading like raptorian wings as he braced himself on the hospital unit. His hot face thrust inches from the Praetor's.

It came as a forced hiss, "What — what do you know?" Iron fingers gripped the sagging flesh of the old man's jaw as Staffa twisted the head to meet his smoldering glare.

The brittle jaw worked as the Praetor swallowed and gritted, "Nothing… so long as you… hold me like this. Release me, Staffa, and I'll tell you."

Staffa peeled trembling fingers from where they dimpled the sallow flesh. A red flush remained to mark each spot, indicative of the bruise to come.

The Praetor moved his jaw experimentally and studied the Lord Commander, thinly veiled irony in his expression. "I knew you'd turn against me, Staffa," the voice began like fingernails on rusty tin. "Thirty years ago, I watched your fame spreading. You and I were already on a collision course. I could sense this coming. And I was the only one in all of Free Space who'd ever known you as a… a vulnerable individual. Not a god, Staffa. A boy. More than that, a frightened child I once found in a wrecked shuttle.

Can you remember? Can you recall how you cried over the crushed corpses of your parents?"

Staffa denied the memory of that day while his fist knotted and trembled.

The Praetor eyed the blasted city beyond the armored window. "Do you remember,

Staffa? Can you recall the conversations we shared? How you became the son I never had? You loved me then and I… I loved you."

Silence stretched as Staffa bit his lip; the stinging pain kept his concentration pure. This man had. Memories began to flash through his mind in ghostly images: Times when there had been laughter, joy, and security; life without assassins and blood and ships that flared death into the star-frosted emptiness of space; warm rooms, teachers, and breakfast in bed. The crushing loneliness, loneliness so terrible that only his studies relieved it.

"Ha!" the elder exploded, breaking the spell. "How powerful you became! Too powerful for Myklene. You frightened the Council. They wanted you eliminated. Only a degenerate society allows predators to stalk unleashed in its midst." He paused. "But I couldn't let them destroy you. I risked everything. Had you smuggled away. Gave you a ship, and, in the way I predicted, an occupation. I wonder if the old devils ever thought such innocent action would bring their destruction?"

"What of my wife and son?" Staffa thundered, slamming his fist against the hospital unit with force enough to jerk the Praetor's head.

"You know the term 'Achilles' heel'?" The brown eyes studied him thoughtfully.

"It's old. I don't know the origin. It refers to a vulnerability, one unknown to most others."

"Your weakness Commander! Your vulnerability. I took them! I stole your Chrysla away! Don't!" he cried as Staffa approached. "Harm me, and you shall never know their fate!"

Staffa stopped short, quivering hands already reaching for the old man's head.

"W-where?"

The old man nodded in enjoyment. "First, I will bargain."

"At peril of your LIFE!"

"For the disposition of my life."

Staffa trembled. The contract! His honor demanded that he fulfill every letter of the agreement between the Companions and the Sassan ruler. To compromise his honor for this vile…

"I-1 … accept. WHERE ARE THEY?" Staffa's senses cleared in the rush of adrenaline. The age freckles on the old man's face stood out like sunspots against the grainy sweat-filled pores on sallow tan. Hard blood vessels laced a blue-red maze under delicate skin.

A ghastly chuckle was followed by, "Your son is out there- somewhere. I don't know exactly. I gave him to the Seddi. Part of an old bargain I'd made. A child… for a child. I think they took him to Targa. That was before you… Well, you know."

Wretched chill formed at the base of Staffa's brain to drain down his spine. Targa! Where the Companions had killed millions suppressing the Seddi revolt. He saw again the mounded rubble, the piled corpses of rotting dead littering the war-torn streets. His son? One of those? "H-how long. ago?"

.. "Eighteen years. Maybe ten months before you blasted the place. " And then, "There were survivors, you know. No one ever caught up with the Seddi."

Fragments of thoughts refused to coalesce. A vision of particle beams raking Targa's scabby topography surfaced in Staffa's mind. He remembered the bridge lights dimming as the gravity flux generators surged and the monitors showed a city crumbling into wreckage. Another vision showed a diving LC attack ship firing bolt after energy bolt into an urban area, fountains of fire and debris rising in the hellfire.

"That's where I'd start looking," the Praetor mumbled on. "Left him with the Seddi-but you'd better hurry. I hear they're in trouble again. You know how the Seddi operate-like a cancer in a restless host. Targa's seething."

Staffa's voice grated like a skid on sand. "And Chrysla? She was left there, too?" No, not my Chrysla, not her. Had her soft flesh been left to rot with the rest of the Targan dead? Could one of those bloody chunks of meat have been her?

"No. Commander. But first, you will never let the

Sassans have me. That is our deal-my price, if you will. I don't want them raping my mind with their probes. Understood?"

Staffa worked his lips, relief washing through him. He closed his eyes, aware

of the sweat beading on his face. "I promised them that if you survived the combat…. Part of the contract that you'd…. I signed. My honor."

"Honor? What care I for your honor? No. You'll kill me." The Praetor laughed humorlessly. "I still control you, Staffa. "

"Never!" "Then you'll never know the whereabouts of Chrysla, Commander."

"Damn you! Tell me, Praetor. Tell me!" "You will not allow the Sassans-"

"ALL RIGHT!" Staffa lunged for the hospital, sliding the heavy unit across the floor as if it were a reading stand. "Whatever you want. But where?"

The Praetor smiled thinly, enjoying another small victory. "She was here, Commander," he uttered

softly. "On Myklene."

Staffa closed his- eyes and took a deep breath, relief flooding as powerfully as a tide across the desert sands of Etaria. "I kept her in my palace. None of her needs went unattended. "

"Where is she now? Where did you send her?" After all these years, he and Chrysla….

"I had hoped to dicker with you, Commander. As I say, you have one weakness-your family. Outside of your desire to see me destroyed, only your obsession with her could overcome your precious honor when it comes to contracts. I use my weapons well."

"By the Rotted Gods, Praetor, where is she?"

"She was on the Pylos. I had her in my quarters. I thought I'd have time to contact you before the fighting, to use her as a bargaining… "

"Your flagship… was… destroyed." I blew Pylos apart. With my own hands, I triggered the guns… thinking I was destroying you, old man. Realization left him devastated… as butchered internally as the city beyond the window.

A slight nod. "Your ship… I believe you call her the Chrysia-how ironic-blew her into plasma, Commander."

Staffa pulled himself upright, gutted, and started for the door. The room seemed to reel as if it rested on gimbals. Chrysla? No… not this. He could imagine the scene: decks rupturing; metal twisting and shrieking; violent plasma jetting hot and deadly; Chrysla's final scream.

"Our deal, Commander!" the Praetor called frantically. Staffa looked back with dead eyes. His voice stuck in his throat. "I have a contract with the Sassans."

One final betrayal of this man he had once loved.

"You have no soul, Staffa. And now, I damn you." The Praetor's lip quivered and a knowing glint sharpened in his eyes. In a perfectly modulated voice, he said, "You are my creation. You're a machine… a construct of human flesh. Did you hear me, Staffa? I said you're a machine. A construct. A creation."

A surge, like a jolt of electricity, coursed through Staffa's brain. His body flushed and he staggered. Bracing against the wall, he stared at the Praetor through tearing eyes. "What… did you. "

"The last of the mental triggers, Staffa." The Praetor watched him from half-lidded weary eyes. "I hid that trigger in the deepest part of your psyche-the sense of identity. I expected you to find the others, but I knew you wouldn't search your sense of self. It's too frightening-even for you. So I left my final weapon there… and with it, I damn you to the hell of your own devising. May God rot your inhuman self. Staffa, you are a man accursed."

"I am no more than you made me." Staffa rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the sweat that beaded on his skin. His thoughts faded and slipped away. Damn the treasonous old bastard! What had he done? A thousand voices wailed in Staffa's head. His imagination spun image after image of Chrysla dying in agony as Pylos blew apart and decompressed around her.

The Praetor beamed at him, suddenly crafty. "Then it won't hurt you to know your Chrysla was a most remarkable woman. She provided me with a great deal of warmth in my last years. You know, she had a mole on her right breast-just under the nipple. When we would lie together,

sweaty and loose jointed, after making love, I would kiss it just-2'

The look of triumph in the old man's eyes barely registered as Staffa leapt, catlike, to the top of the hospital unit, reaching down to grab the Praetor

by the corners of the jaw, steel fingers ripping up and out, crushing the tongue against the roof of the old man's mouth as he twisted. The vertebrae popped hollowly. Possessed, Staffa continued to twist, hardly aware of the blood that leaked onto his fingers. Thews bulging on his arms, Staffa heard himself screamthe sound of a wounded animal.

He swayed, a gray mist washing from his vision in tattered streaks. Breath sobbed in and out of his lungs. He blinked aware for the first time that the door gaped open. Skyla and Ryman Ark crouched to either side, rifles ready, expressions haunted by the sight.

He tried to think, to sort out what had happened and why, but the thoughts wouldn't form. Something hidden in my mind-something keyed by the phrase. How did I miss it? How badly will it affect my judgment?

Staffa turned and started for the door, his brain numb, as if drugged. Behind him, the gruesome remains of the Praetor stared sightlessly into the greenish-yellow rays of the sunset of an empire.