Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 3

Magister Bruen's steps scuffed hollowly as he entered the cavernlike chamber. He paused, a thin hand braced on the gritty rock of the wall, and took a second to rest before walking out among the waiting people. The nagging ache in his hip reminded him of the long descent to this lowest level. He panted and wiped at his age-lined forehead, refusing to look at the shining machine that dominated the far wall with its banks of gleaming lights.

Overhead panels sent a soft white glow down to illuminate the ancient rock walls of the Seddi cavem. It filled the recessed hollows with diffused rays that feathered the shadows into a gray haze.

Bruen ignored the ominous flashing signal on the huge computer. Others of his party filed down the passageway behind him. Magister Hyde's wheezing gasps sounded too loud in the rocky confines. To this hidden chamber under neary two kilometers of honeycombed Targan rock, came somber-robed men and women. No one spoke as they stepped out of the stair-lined tunnel.

The brown-robed Initiates crowded nervously along the walls, anxious eyes shifting as the two elders in white Magister's robes passed to stand before the gleaming machine.

Bruen cast a loathing glance at the brushed metal and multicolored lights of the Mag Comm. He hated it, could feel its miasma permeating the very air. What do you want of us now? Slippery fingers of fear tugged at his soul. A queasy tightness cramped his gut.

Magister Hyde, resplendent in white robes, stood beside Bruen and pulled nervously at his fingers. As if the Mag Comm recognized their presence, the lights flickered in unfathomable patterns. Bruen considered the monster. Where had the machine come from? Who had originally

built it in the long forgotten recesses of the past? It represented a technology the Seddi hated and couldn't live without. In the silence, a faint shuffling of sandaled feet scuffed the stone floor. The air carried a metallic tang mixed with the taint of human sweat.

Magister Bruen rubbed his rounded belly, grimacing at the shimmering mass of the golden wired helmet resting in the holder next to the reclining chair — the single piece of fuiture in the cavern. He looked nervously toward Magister Hyde and the sober-faced Initiates flanking him. Bright worry filled Hyde's eyes. A worry Bruen hoped his own features didn't reflect.

Bruen could see himself in the mirror-bright surface of the machine's metal — a small man, rounded, squat, arms and legs rubbery from years of scholarship and teaching. His drawn face displayed his age, each line of his deeply etched visage a hash mark of the passing years. The march of decades had sagged his flesh, adding to the dissipation of his now frail body. His Seddi robes made of coarsely woven Targan cloth were off-white and hung loosely about him. His head had lost all but a few wisps of snowy hair over the years. Now, his bald pate gleamed.

Only his eyes betrayed the unquenchable spirit that drove him now — despite his advanced years — to stand in the vanguard of events. Events which would forge humanity in a vortex of fire, blood, and pain — or destroy them all.

"Too old," he had muttered to himself so often, "and too Rotted much is at stake to get out."

He lived the curse of an. old man: to hold to ideals; to dedicate one's life to the destiny of the species and an unattainable abstract. And then, when the final moments came, the Fates laughed as the warrior — girding for the final battle — looked in the mirror to find himself past his day. So old, so tired. The moment had finally come. leaving humanity an old, old man for a champion.

Existence proved bitter fare at best.

The machine remained a frightening enigma with its meanings hidden in the banks upon banks of mysterious boards forged in the distant past by a lost technology. Bruen filled his ancient lungs and experienced a stitch of pain in his brittle ribs.

A distasteful task this — one that came of being the highest ranked Magister of the Seddi priesthood. The huge comm had called from its lair deep under the temple in Vespa. Normally, the machine ran programs for Seddi scholars who studied social reality. For those endeavors the Mag Comm employed complicated statistics Bruen's colleagues barely understood; but they used them to plan covert Actions throughout Free Space, predicting trends of behavior, manipulating data, producing historical facts for their consumption and illumination.

Behind those panels lay their only ally in the coming conflagration.

Ally? Of what sort? Bruen swallowed nervously, ignoring the pain in his feet.

The summons light-a glaring angry amber-blinked on and off, calling to him to communicate.

Bruen stared uneasily at the huge computer. After all the years the Seddi records claimed it had functioned passively, why had it awakened? Why had it developed an interest in the doings of men? What motives beyond Seddi ken did it now advance?

The Seddi had cared for the Mag Comm for centuries, keeping careful track of the periodic maintenance. They had recorded in detail each of the repairs they had asked the machine to lead them through. For centuries, the Mag Comm had been a giant passive machine, answering questions, responding to programmed data. Then it had changed. Bruen had been in this very room when the Mag Comm flashed to life, as if totally aware in an instant, printing commands, flashing lights, asking questions. The shocked Seddi had answered, falling under the huge Mag Comm's sway, becoming its servants.

Bruen-an Initiate then, young, full of religious ambition and vigor-could recall those days with crystal clarity. At first he'd thought it a miracle to see the machine come to life, long dead lights gleaming brightly, a low pervading humming growing in the dim recesses of the subterranean cavern.

Heart in his throat, he had run for the upper chambers, panicked and shouting for the Magisters. When a human watches a God come to life before his very eyes, existence is forever altered.

And the works of the Seddi had been transformed.

What have you made us? What is your purpose? The old unsettling questions prickled like thorns in Bruen's mind. And now I have to face you again. Do you know what we've plotted? Are you playing with us even now? How can mere men hope to stand against you and your powers? As if we had even the slightest

comprehension of what those powers are.

He couldn't put off the inevitable any longer. Bruen grunted a sigh and settled himself in the velvet-contoured chair near the shimmering helmet. He wet his lips as he Closed his eyes. Once again he had to trust his cunning and control-place himself in jeopardy. The future of humanity would hang on his abilities to deceive.

"Easy. Patience, Bruen, old man," he mumbled to himself. I must control myself. Compose your thoughts, Bruen. Stifle that fear. Therey There, feel your mind gain control. Soothe yourself, Bruen, old man. Yes. You must be careful. As always. No failings, no slips of thought. So much is at stake. Careful. Careful. Careful.

Under his breath he began humming the mantra the Mag Comm had taught them. He had to will himself to resist, building strength, rehearsing an epistemological framework for his thoughts. The mantra became a form of self-hypnotism; he shut down portions of his mind, keeping his thoughts ordered. The machine must read only "right thoughts'-thoughts following the systemic framework of the "Teachings of Truth."

Through endless repetition, he invoked the dogma the Mag Comm had ordered them to adopt after the awakening. As an Initiate he had watched the changes in the Magisters. They had fallen completely under the spell of power and knowledge, reveling in communication with the Mag Comm. So much of his life had been dedicated to…

No! Stifle that, Bruen. Sing the Mantra. I am of the Mag Comm. The Mag Comm is the Way of Humanity. The Way…. The Way…. The Way…. The Teachings are of Truth. Through Right Thoughts come emancipation. The Way…. Right Thoughts…. The Way….

Falling deeply into his mind, he hardly felt himself reach for the helmet and lift it lightly over his head.

The Way…. Right Thoughts…. I am of the Mag

Comm. We are one. I practice the Teachings of Truth. am of the Way.

"Greetings, Magister Bruen." Jangling words rang through his mind.

Invasion! A rape of privacy

No, it is The Way. We are One. He allowed himself to submit, feeling self-induced pacifism flood his thoughts.

"Greetings, Mag Comm." Bruen's thoughts formed the ritual answer, exalting in Right Thoughts.

"You have progress to report?"

"Yes." He opened his mind, following the dogma of the Truth teaching mantra. "Myklene has fallen. The Lord Commander killed his patron, the Praetor. The Sassan Empire now controls Myklenian space and resources."

"So quickly? Our predictions indicated kar Therma would need longer to prepare." A pause. "This is most unfortunate. The permutations of this new data must be analyzed. Do you have any estimate of the Lord Commander's combat losses?"

"From preliminary reports, less than three percent."

Bruen waited for several moments before the reply came:

"It appears our assessment of Myklene's strength was grossly overestimated."

"I think not."

"Elaborate, please."

"We believe our assessment of Staffa kar Therma's military genius was grossly underestimated. Even our sources in the Sassan high command were caught by surprise by Staffa's speed. Special tactics teams infiltrated and threw the Myklenian defense into turmoil, sabotaged their computer defense net, and then Staffa hit them. Each strike increased the Myklenians' confusion until the Sassan regulars could arrive and deliver the crushing blow."

"Then we must act swiftly. Any other course is now denied us."

"Events are progressing with greater alacrity than we anticipated. Rega has begun to react, calling up their military reserves. The critical time has come."

"So, your civilization is about to fall." Haunting tones reverberated through Bruen's mind, echoing off the camouflaged was of his blocked thoughts.

"That is correct."

"And you have taken countermeasures?"

"We have. Everything has been done as you instructed. Your plans are ours."

"You followed my instructions exactly? Explain, please."

"Targa is poised for revolt. Given the rapidity of the Lord Commander's victory over Myklene, we can still incite the revolt and proceed as planned. The revolt will serve to keep Rega off balance. We also expect that the child will be tested to determine if our aspirations will be fulfilled. To date, our agents have been successful in manipulating the child's circumstances. We're dealing with remarkable brilliance, you know. The child may be the foundation for the new order. We have followed your directions, but there is a risk. Random events cannot be biased. To do so would skew the results of the test. The child will surviv — or die— depending on instinct and intelligence."

"Or through random chance?"

"Quantum functions cannot be predicted. Survival will depend on many random variables." Bruen agreed, calming himself, stifling his mind, careful of the control he exercised. The mantra rhymed to cover unorthodox thoughts.

"You know I find Seddi preoccupation with uncertainty principles to be a serious flaw. Such obsession left you impotent and too self-absorbed in the past to allow right action."

"Accidents — you must agree — do happen."

Silence!

Shying away from dangerous ground, Bruen let himself drift with the mantra.

"And the clone?"

Bruen winced. "I sometimes wish you exhibited less, sall we say, honesty, Mag Comm. The word 'clone' hardly reflects—"

"Does the taxonomic label not fit?" came a logical response. "Clone: a being created by artificial manipulation of the genetic material to produce a viable—"

"Yes, yes!" Bruen sighed. "Very well. Yes, the clone is progressing most satisfactorily. We are very pleased. The deep training seems to have implanted without the personality disorders we anticipated. We notice a distinct subliminal reaction to stimuli which exceeds our expectations. The clone carries all the survival skills we hoped to impart. In fact…"

He allowed his unease to eak and moved awkwardly to cover his reserve.

"You are concerned, Bruen?"

"A weapon of such devastating potential should always be viewed with concern. Only a fool sleeps soundly over a primed explosive."

"We are talking about a human, Bruen. Not a primed explosive."

"And which is more deadly?"

"The human with its imagination and intellect. I have no doubts." Mag Comm seemed to hesitate. "To make the point, I would refer you to recent history. You will recall the shambles the Seddi and all Free Space were in when I reestablished contact?"

"Yes, Lord Mag Comm," Bruen responded automatically, feeling the dogmatic epistemology unrolling in his subconscious mind.

"That was the unleashed, uncontrolled power of the human imagination, Bruen. Chaos. Wild. Undirected passion. Loose entropic waste! You had lost Right Thought and the ordered development that comes with it."

The violence of the pronouncement cowed Bruen. In defense, he slipped deeper into the mantra, surrendering his resistance, submitting further to the Mag Comm.

"Yes, I see you remember well. Your mind is open to me. I read the following of the Way. Right Thought is yours. That is good, Bruen. You have done well for your kind."

"Through your help Great One," Bruen intoned. "Blessed is your guidance. Blessed was the day you returned your Grace to mankind to give direction and build the new order. We, your lost children, thank you and worship you."

"You worship through your service, Bruen." A pause. "Is that not so?"

Did he detect a note of sarcasm? Bruen allowed his thoughts to flow, following the intricate logic provided by the Mag Comm so long ago. Within moments, he felt the approval of the huge machine, calming him, stroking his thoughts with positive reinforcement.

"Yes, you are acting according to the Teachings of Truth, Bruen." Another pause. "/ have manipulated the data you have provided concerning the Lord Commander and evalu-

ated the conclusions. I find no reliable data to indicate any deviation from the original strategy is necessary at this time. Staffa kar Therma no longer has a useful role. His actions defy prediction, and, therefore, cannot be

countenanced. You must neutralie him. To do otherwise will unleash his ultimate control of Free Space. And what will that control bring o humanity?"

"Destruction. Death. Total slavery and chaos," Bruen intoned wordlessly, following the pattern of Mag Comm logic.

"Excellent, Bruen! You have your agents in readiness?"

"We do. The Lord Commander will bring his fleets to Targa, Great One." Bruen swallowed, allowing the plan to unroll in his mind. "When he comes to drown our voices in blood again — then Lord, we will strike."

"My compliments, Bruen. You understand the danger posed by the Lord Commander's continued existence. He is a cancer in your society. Like any threat to health and peace, such a disease must be excised from the flesh and the True Way must heal the wounded body of humanity. I read the intricacies of your planning and intrigue. You, my Magister, are more than I could have hoped for. Blessed is your name, Bruen. You shall be the salvation of the human species. You shall bring to all people the Teachings of Truth."

"I am humbled, Great One!" Bruen cried out, sensing the righteousness of the words.

"The time has come to act. You are to trigger the Targan revolt immediately."

"Yes, Great One. I shall unleash the wrath of the people against the Regan tyrant."

"Blessed is your name, Bruen. I will call for you when I have more information. Continue, Bruen — and thank you for your dedication to the Way. The fate of yor species hinges on your success in this venture."

"So many lives—"

"Your species hangs in the balance. What is it worth to you? The threat must be countered — even if a planet is bait. To fail is to invite extinction."

For a brief instant, Bruen's mind filled with a scene of sterile planets and dead cities: silent, only the ghostly ruins of human habitations remaining, lifeless, eerie in the hollow displays in his mind.

His unbalanced thoughts reeled as the Mag Comm withdrew and left him drained and trembling. Bruen blinked, awed at the emptiness in his mind.

Suffering from the aftereffects of the communication, Bruen lifted the feathery weight of the golden helmet from his sweaty head. Arms shaking, he would have dropped it had Magister Hyde not rushed forward to place the headse on the holder. He became aware of the alcove, of the anxious faces of the Initiates. Vertigo began to recede.

"Is everything all right?" Hyde asked, fleshy face lined with concern.

"Y-yes, it is," he lied. Unnerved, he felt his mind returning to normal. "I–I must get back to Kaspa." He smiled weakly. "You've seen the figures, Magister. What choice does the machine leave us? What choice do our own projections leave?"

"Then we…" Hyde shook his head, wagging the layers of fat that hung in long jowls from his cheeks. His faded blue eyes went dull. "It ordered us to. "

"Yes, Brother Hyde," Bruen whispered hollowly. "Our lot is to drench our world in blood and misery one more time."

Hyde wrung his hands nervously. "But so many will die. And to what purpose? A trap? For one man?"

"No buts," Bruen added wearily, pulling himself up in the hands of the Initiates. "Or do you have another idea? We've been through this time and again. We have no choice, old friend."

Bruen wobbled on his feet, refusing to look back at the Mag Comm, feeling its insidious presence nonetheless. He was only thankful that, in years past, they had managed to "accidentally" eliminate the Mag Comm's external sensors located within its chamber, leaving it the helmet as its sole means of observing and communicating with them. "We've looked at the risks, attended to the odds. We have only ourselves to rely on."

"And that God-cursed machine," Hyde added.

Bruen closed his eyes, rubbing thumbs into his temples. The subtle beat of a brain-wrenching headache pulsed behind his eyes. It always happened after the Mag Comm withdrew.

"Yes," he added feebly. "And the God-cursed machine, too."

Blessed Gods, let me live long enough to see this through! I must do something, must lay a trail, somehow, to see that insidious machine destroyed should

I fail!

The voice sang hollowly in Staffa's head. "How ironic. blew her to plasma…" The Lod Commander turned and pinched his eyes closed, feeling the weight of the words threading tendrils through his memory.

"I killed her. The only woman I ever loved. / KILLED HER!"

"You have no soul, Staffa. You are a machine… construct of human flesh… a machine… a creation…" The Praetor's voice echoed in ghostly waves, forcng Staffa kar Therma to press knotted fists against the sides of his skull and pound mercilessly at his temples to still that reedy voice.

"Damn you! Damn you Praetor!" he howled into the stillness of his private chambers. Around him, the familiar walls glared back in eloquent silence. Trophies and mementos hung in their usual places — booty from battles fought and won. Monuments to his strategic and tactical brilliance. Now they seemed tawdry, sullied by the memories of blood from which each had been plucked.

His ship, Chrysla, named for her, mocked him in the irony of her death.

Staffa ground his teeth, hearing the grating slide of moar on molar. He ground them harder, trying to drown out the wicked satsfaction in the Praetor's knowing voice. In a sudden burst of energy, Staffa curled and rolled to vault from the sleeping mat. He landed lightly on bare feet, and whirled in a combat stance, nervous, pulse racing at the voice in his memory.

How had it happened that way? How had the old man beaten him so soundly? / did it to myself. Her blood is on Y hands!

He threw his head back, gasping breaths of cool air. "Damn you, Praetor! May the Rotted Gods gag on your pustular corpse! How did you bring me to this?

In anger, he shook his head, enjoying the sensation of his loose hair as it fell about his face in a black aureole. A mind trap, a deeply buried conditioned response that caused him to access improper neural pathways in the brain that would arouse an emotional response — flooding his brain with chemicals that clouded objective, logical analysis of data.

"I can't trust myself to think clearly — and I've only barely touched the surface of what he might have released."

The Praetor mocked, "May God rot your inhuman self. Staffa, you are a man accursed. accursed. accursed…"

"True."

His eye caught the gleam of the dispenser. He stuck a golden Regan chalice under the tap and numbly watched as Myklenian brandy drained amber into the vessel. Could he drown that cackling shade's voice in a haze of alcohol?

"Indeed, Praetor. Accursed from the moment I laid eyes on you." The bitterness in his voice moved him, mocked him, turned in his gut, "Would that my body had joined my parents that day, eh Praetor?"

Idly he sipped the brandy, barely aware of its body, of the rich smoothness of a drink valued all across Free Space.

Unwanted, fleeting glimpses of a younger Praetor — laughing, as he offered his hand during personal combat training — flashed through Staffa's mind. A kaleidoscope of sights and sounds, sensations and memories swept him. He closed his eyes, reliving those days.

"We were… we meant so much to each other. once." He recalled the encouragement, the praise, yes, and even love. "And still we brought ourselves to meet finally like. like beasts!" A painful numbness cramped his fingers where they gripped the jeweled handle of the golden chalice. "What have you wrought Praetor?"

The Praetor's voice snapped in Staffa's brain.". A hell of your own devising!" Staffa winced. "You have no soul, Staffa. no responsibilities to God." Each burning word engraved itself in letters of fire to brand his soul.". You are reviled as a demon."

Staffa forced himself to swallow, bringing the chalice to his fevered forehead."… Hell," a choked whisper uttered from Staffa's throat. "And I killed you, Praetor." He shook

his head, an image of long ago ghosting among his battered thoughts. As I

killed her.

He could feel Chrysla staring at him through those magical eyes. The grief began to well, threatening to engulf him. Instead, he forced himself to think about the Praetor.

"Ah, I remember, Praetor." Staffa's face worked. "You came to me after I won first place in the Myklenian Games." His thumb ran absently over the angular insets o the chalice. "Remember that day Praetor? Remember the pride in your eyes? Remember how I ran to you? Hugged you?

"I'd been so lonely. worked so hard. Trained for months that I might see you smile." Staffa sniffed against the pain. "Did you know what it meant to me? How young and fragile I was then? All that sacrifice, I made for you. The pain, the sweat, the constant aching, I suffered, trying so hard. All for you.

"Young men are. No, I was. alone. alone that way. An orphan, you see? I had no one but you, Praetor. In you — and you alone — I placed my trust and my faith." The eweled relief cut his flesh. Chrysla's soulless eyes probed through the haze of his memory. Using all of his concentration, he forced her back and reconstructed the Praetor's face instead.

"For you / would have died!" His mouth worked dryly. "After all those years, struggling for you. After all those years when you took care of me! After all that loneliness. After my need to have you notice me… be proud of me… you. " Staffa stggled to fill his aching lungs. "Then I won the Games. I saw the triumph in your eyes, Praetor. Triumph. And you placed your hand on my shoulder and called me… son."

A bittersweet memory. "Yes, your greatest creation, Praetor." He sipped the brandy again, flicking on the holo display over his head. "What made me so different? Isn't my body the same as everyone else's? What makes me a monster, and not the next man?" Chrysla's expression saddened as her ghostly image shifted in the gloom around him.

He stared listlessly at the gleaming chalice. "A monster? How many men have created a monster all their own? Answer me that Praetor?"

An image of Myklene formed over the sleeping platform, spinning slowly, gouts of smoke pooling over the continental land masses, winter spreading beneath the palls, marching across sun-starved lands.

"See, we still share visions, Praetor." He chuckled dryly, aware of the censure in Chrysla's expression. She'd never allowed him to dwell on failure. But now… what was left?

Staffa dropped his gaze back to where he clutched the fabulous chalice. "And so I have killed everything I ever loved. With my hands I broke your age-rotten neck, Praetor." He lifted a hand, looking at the intricate dermatoglyphics on the palms, studying the loops and whorls on the finger pads as he moved his digits. "And Chrysla, my Chrysla, I triggered the shot that blew you apart. I was so close… so very close and never knew."

With that, he hurled the chalice across the room and smashed a priceless sixth-century Etarian offering bowl into angular shards. The brandy left a spattered smear of liquid that dripped down the walls.

"I damn you to a hell of your own devising!" the reedy voice repeated in his mind. "You have no soul… no soul… no soul. " the voice wound on, insinuating itself in Staffa's thoughts, weaving into his very essence. "Construct. Machine. Creation. No God," the voice hammered at him again and again.

"But perhaps the Seddi have my son? Where?" Dumbly he blinked before dropping his head into his hands and bending double, shoulders shaking at the impact of the words. "Chrysla? Where is he? He's all that I have left of you. I I

You're inhuman… you have no soul…. "What did you do to me, Praetor? Who am I?"

"Seek your son." Chrysla's voice seemed to whisper from the air. "Seek your son."