Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 4

Even the secretary had ceased to shoot periodic glances at Sinklar Fist. He sat in one of the polished chairs placed along the Judicial Magistrate's waiting room wall. Like all waiting rooms, this one had comm terminals with official programming, news, and entertainment. Hours ago, Sinklar had reprogrammed the unit for library access, called up the text on multidimensional geometry that he'd been studying, and lost himself in the text.

it came as a surprise, therefore, when the secretary called, "Sir? Private Fist?"

Sinklar saved his work on his pocket comm and jumped to his feet. "Yes? Is he ready to see me?"

She gave him one of those glassy smiles employed by receptionists across the universe and said, "I'm sorry, sir. But the office is closing. I'm afraid the Judicial Magistrate won't have time to see you today."

Sinklar stalked over to her desk and leaned down, panic in his breast. "But you don't understand! I'm shipping out tomorrow. Going on active duty. I've got to see him. This might be the only chance I get.

The plastic smile remained in place like a mask. "I'm sorry, sir. That just won't be possible. You've got to understand, the Judicial Magistrate has a very busy schedule and for him to take time to review such an old case is — "

At that juncture, the door opened and a white-haired man dressed in the crimson robes of the Regan judiciary stepped out, calling, "Erina, I'm off to tea. There are five briefs on my desk that I'd like you to refile. If there's nothing else, I'll see you in the morning."

"There is something else," Sinklar blurted, jumping in front of the man.

With remarkable agility, the secretary slipped around the

desk to yank on the sleeve of Sinklar's new uniform, protesting, "You can't do this. If you don't leave this office immediately, I'm calling the—"

"Now, Erina," the Judicial Magistrate waved her away, "I was in service to the Imperium once myself." He bent his eyes back to Sinklar. "Yes, Private, what is it?"

Sinklar cast an evil glance at Erina as she backed away. "I'm Sinklar Fist, sir. I'm shipping out tomorrow… to Targa."

"Yes, I've heard about that. Nasty bit of trouble. Myself, I served in the Phillipian campaign. Won a medal or two. Ah, those were the days when a man could make a real contribution to the empire. We were strong then, back before the Star Butcher became such a power, but then, you didn't come to hear an old man ramble."

"No, sir. I came to learn about my parents."

The Judicial Magistrate studied him through pensive blue eyes. "I see. And what would I know about your parents?"

Sinklar took a deep breath. "You sentenced them to death about twenty years ago, sir. Outside of that, I don't know a thing about them. The case was sealed after their execution and all records pertaining to them, and my family, were sealed as well."

"And you want to know where you came from."

"Yes, sir. Somehow, well, going off to war, it makes it important."

"If the case was sealed. well, are you sure you want to know the details?"

Sinklar jerked a nod. "I believe I'm well versed in the scope of human behavior. As a student of social history, there's not much left to surprise me."

"Very well, Sinklar. I think my tea can wait for a bit. Come into my chambers. I'll look up the record and tell you what I can within the strictures of security regulations."

Footsteps tapped on the cold stone of the cavern floor and echoed hollowly through the black shadows and around the groined ceiling.

Magister Bruen heard the approaching steps from where he sat in a cone of light that illuminated his worktable and

computer. He glanced up from the comm monito he studied and stroked his knobby chin. The air felt slightly damp, cool, and heavy. Here, in the depths of the temple, no other sound penetrated.

The footsteps grew louder and Bruen could see the electric torch the young

woman hed as it flashed yellow between the meter-thick columns, reflecting inscriptions and images carved in the gray rock. She threaded her way between the pillars of stone, a nymph of light in a stony underworld forest.

She was a tall woman, her movements graceful as those of a dancer. Long legs moved in purposeful strides beneath a sienna Initiate's robe. She had pinned her hair back severely with a golden clip so it hung over her left shoulder in an aubum tumble. Long sensual fingers clutched the portable spotlight in a choke hold, leaving delicate fingernails bloodless.

A striking beauty, the light accented pale cheeks to either side of a classic nose ever so lightly dusted with freckles. Her full-lipped mouth pinched as her amber eyes sought Bruen. Worry etched her high forehead. A knotted golden rope cinched the flowing robe around a delicate waist, the folds of the garment hiding the full swell of her breasts. Only under close inspection did the dark splotch at the hem of the garment betray its origin: blood.

She's seen the fighting. No wonder her features are drawn and nervous. Very well, my child: it begins.

She gasped in relief at the sight of him hunched over the blocky wooden table. He gave her a grin and a wink before he bent to frown into the yellow-toned monitor, pulling at his ear as he pondered the words displayed on the screen,

"Blessed Gods, Magister! You're heref Her voice echoed in contralto relief through the endless cavern.

Bruen — bald pate gleaming ivory — looked up from the comm monitor, blinking his light blue eyes. "Indeed. Would I be elsewhere?" He made a gesture with semitranslucent hands. "You think I would perhaps be chasing scarlet floozies in the bawdy houses down on D block?"

"Magister!" she cried, shocked. "Only you would jest at a time like this! The whole city is in uproar! The miners are rioting in the streets! People are dying. How long do you suspect it will take before the Regan Fleet is overhead?

Come, we must take you from the city. Now, Magister!" She bent to gather his cloak where it lay in a pile behind the bench.

Bruen hiccuped and placed an age-wrinkled hand over his mouth She's such a beauty. Ah, would but that I were youner! To hell with humanity! I'd pack her up, and we'd be gone to some remote corner of the universe where I could ravish that.

Oh, never mind.

He sighed and turned his head to the monitor. "That will be all for today, computer. Please note my place and correlate the notes I've made on the text. Forward a copy through Mag Comm to Magister Hyde in Vespa for his perusa, I'll be in touch as soon as possible." The screen went dead.

He made a gesture with his hand. "Now, dear Arta Fera, what has brought you running breathlessly to my side? Only riots? I sincerely doubt it was love or desire for these old bones that has left you panting so."

She shook her head, groaning in frustration. "Magister! Honestly, were you not the foremost scholar in Free Space, I'd… I'd wring your neck! Come on, we've got to get out of here! Escape this insanity!"

Indeed, Arta, would that you only knew. Escape, my dear? No indeed, I've no choice but to place your incredible beauty between the jaws of the lion.

Aloud, he chuckled dryly. "Is this the respect the young attach to the older and wiser? Wring my neck, my dear? Don't some of the harlots on D block engage in such—"

"Magister!" She had him on his feet, wrapping the robes about his body, tying them off so his knobby varicoseveined legs were free should they need to run. "Your preoccupation with whores and lewd behavior ill befits your esteemed position. You mind is the finest in all. What are you laughing at?"

He shook his head, grinning and chortling. "Ana just what do you suppose a scholar does in his off time, my dear? Especially an old man like me? Perhaps I. urn. investigate such behavior to gain an insight into the human condition. Hmm?" He bent down for a sagging black leather satchel, refusing to be tugged away without it. The

grip safely in hand, he let her pull him along down the long dark halway.

"You'll think nothing if we don't get you out of here! You dop't say such things in public, do you? You don't mention these. fantasies to your colleagues."

"Bah!" He began to pant as she led him to the garage. The stitch of pain in his hip awoke to stick angry pins into his joint. "Position in society concerns you, dosn't it, dear Arta?" He smiled as she palmed the access hatch. "You worry too much. Social status is but an illusion. Instead, knowedge is the—"

"But your teachings, Magister. If I thought for a minute you actually habituated such places and associated with those. those women, I'd…"

"You'd what?" He looked into her flaring amber eyes. "Give up your studies? Turn down the wisdom of the ages? Cease to probe the mystery of the quanta? Go so far all because the illustrious Magister Bruen sported with prostitutes?" He raised an eyebrow, an amused grin rippling the wrinkles.

"A man of your reputation and honors shouldn't—"

"Bah! With my looks? Only a woman who was well paid would consort with the likes of me. No, they want young handsome men, virile with big. " At her horrified expression, a twinkle filled his eye. She took a deep breath, ready to launch into a new lecture; he deftly changed the subject. "And they are rioting in the streets again, you say? Have they forgotten the wrath of the Star Butcher so soon? They would provoke Rega into a reaction?"

The door slid open as Arta Fera caught up his sleeve, cut short his musings, and dragged his withered body into the aircar that waited on the pad with open doors.

"Yes," she grunted, irritated at his apparent lack of concern. "The idiots are parading with placards — demanding their rights as productive citizens of the Regan Empire. They claim they want representation — of all things! Imagine? Under the very eyes of the battleships they want rights! Who do they think they are?"

"It isn't exactly a new concept. In fact, you can trace such maundering philosophies back to the original migrations from Earth. Of course, from there on back, the roots are lost—"

"What? Earth? A myth, Magister. To me, rights and representation seem an excellent fertilizer from which to grow blaster fodder, blood, and pain. You know we'll be blamed for all these upheavals again!"

Precisely, my dear. Let's shake you up a little. lie settled himself in the rear seat, the scuffed leather satchel on his lap. His fingers patted the soft leather contentedly as he began undoing the latches.

She followed the flight-check procedures while he considered his options. Her competent fingers danced on the board, flicking switches to energize the system and set the flight comp for Makarta.

He spoke in barely a whisper, nevertheless it froze her in the seat. "Of course, my dear, the blame is ours. That is exactly the purpose of this revolt."

She turned to stare at him, mouth agape, amber eyes wide. "What?"

He nodded soberly, watery blue eyes looking about the garage. "Well, who else do you suppose planted such an idea in the blocky brains of these mining dolts? Indeed, dear Arta, you won't allow me the diversion of shady ladies-so what's an old man with visions of glory to do?" He raised a fragile hand to his mouth in feigned shock, adding meekly, "Oh, dear. Along with harlots I can see you also object to my dabbling in revolution."

"Blessed Gods!" Arta groaned as she lifted the car from the pad. Overhead the big doors slowly parted to reveal a wounded sky.

She gasped as he set the thermal grenade launcher next to her on the seat.

"That's. "

"Yes, it is." This will be your first test, my girl. Now, Hyde, we will see if our labors were for naught.

Bruen calmly pulled a second grenade launcher from the case and tucked it next to his side. From the corner of his eye, he could see her fighting to swallow, cringing away from the gleaming metal of the weapon as if it were some sort of venomous reptile.

As they crested the steep temple roof he could see the extent of the damage. The city of Kaspa reeled with violence; pillars of smoke rose to either side. A flare of brilliant orange lit the low-hanging clouds where a fire raged

through a phosphorous refinery, the billowing fumes manyhued with bright colors. Here and there about Kaspa, garish flames danced in macabre contrast to the low black clouds. Spatters of rain slashed at the windscreen as Arta shot the car forward.

"They'll kill you if they find out, Magister. Think! What will happen to the people? What will happen to the temples?" She blinked at the thought, fighting back tears, mouth working. "They'll destroy us!"

Wind and rain buffeted the vehicle, requiring all her concentration to keep the ride smooth and controlled.

And what will you do, my precious beauty, when they turn on us? What resources do you have inside yourselp Are you ready for this seething cauldron we've created? Are you all we hoped you'd be? "Everything is going according to plan. Everything. "

"Last time, blood ran in the streets like rainwater Magister." Her glance darted to the grenade launcher. '

He studied her, noting the slim hands-white-knuckled where they gripped the control stick. As they passed above, she watched a fire racing through pressed-wood residential structures. People ran frantically into the streets, bent double under boxes of possessions they sought to save. She mumbled a quick prayer under her breath.

The city looked shabby, the buildings squat and boxy. The slanting rain left the whole place gray and shiny in the downpour. He absently cataloged the flimsy structures so hastily rebuilt out of rubble and the cheapest of materials. Kaspa had become a city of squalor after the devastation wrought by the Star Butcher during the last rebellion. Beyond the city limits, mostly obscured by clouds, ragged mountains rose dark against the horizon. Here and there he could make out brooding stands of trees that mantled the lower slopes.

He grunted a heavy sigh and patted the grenade launcher. "Blood and terror, death and misery. Revolution, dear girl, has no other price. It is bought through injustice, fear, and suffering. "

"For what?"

Does she have what we need? What if I'm wrong?

"For the betterment of the human condition, dear girl. Civilization is like that. It wavers forever back and forth.

Sometimes life becomes black and repressive — spawning tyrannies like the Regan Empire. At other times human society lives in periods of light and freedom where the soul wells and sings — except people never fully appreciate those times either. Complacency, Arta, is the unenviable legacy of any human endeavor. We become bored with what we have — and what we endure. The dreams grow stale in our minds. Good or evi, right or wrong, just or unjust, the conditions around us become expected — fatalistic, if you will."

"And you stir that with blood?"

"Only 'stirring'—as you put it — avoids stagnation. Without jumbling the pot there is no growth."

She stared out over the city at the people running in the streets. Combat-armored troops were lashing the crowd with violet blaster fire. From somewhere, someone shot back. Bruen noticed the shiver that ran through her and sighed wearily.

He spotted the cruiser first. A long lean thing, it dove out of the black swirling clouds. "Arta, we have visitors. The Civil Police are descending upon us, and, if I'm not mistaken, the wrath of Rega is emblazoned on the shield across the front of their aircar."

Her shoulders sagged. The awkward posture gave her a gutted look.

The aws of the lion, Arta. What now, sweet beauty? Pray to the Quantum Gods that I have made no mistake with you. Bruen ran gnarled fingers over the cold steel of his grenade launcher. But if I have.

The long black vehicle blared a warning as Arta slowed. She fought for control as she braked the aircar to the slowest speed whereby it would maintain stability in the stormgusting air. Rain battered loudly against the cab.

A cold authoritative voice ordered: "Identify yourselves! Martial law has been declared. This is a state of emergency and you are in violation of the air transport codes."

Arta picked up the comm phone, voice breaking. "Please, I'm taking my grandfather away from all this. We're just going to the country until this ghastly unrest is straightened out. That's all."

And the pleading in her voice? Act? Or truth?

Blaring speakers announced, "Open your door. You will

be boarded by members of the Civil Police and escorted to a holding area. There you will be charged for violation of the air transport regulations and a violation of curfew."

Arta bit her lip and reached over to unlock the door. "I'm sorry, Magister. I–I thought we could get away. When they see our robes…" Their Seddi gowns marked them as immediate suspects — suspects to be brain-probed.

Bruen waited patiently, monitoring her expression, following her thoughts as they were mirrored on her wretched face. Had she forgotten the weapon on the seat beside her? Had fear so completely paralyzed her?

The long black shape matched speeds and settled beside them. A port slid open and a grapple locked to their door. Arta tried to swallow, heedless of the rain that blew past to spatter the plastic seats and lash their robes. Across the space, a black-uniformed man prepared to cross. Bruen leaned forward to get a better view, his thin hand pulling at the wet door frame.

"Oh, Rotted Gods," Arta moaned on the verge of frustrated tears. The young patrolman started across the walkway.

Now or never, girl! Bruen clutched the launcher to his chest, eyes on Arta.

She moved in a blur. The deafening BLAM left his ears ringing with concussion. A vile odor insulted his nose as acrid smoke blew in the open door. The aircar lurched drunkenly to one side.

Without missing a beat, Arta fought the controls. Instinctively, she gripped the grenade launcher in one fist. Magister Bruen found himself struggling to keep from falling out the open hatch, his frail fingers slipping on wet upholstery.

As Arta pulled the craft up, she stared out the still open door, apparently shocked to notice that the Civil Police craft was gone — only the ragged smoking remains of the boarding ramp still attached to the aircar. The metal along the edges looked melted and hissed vapor in the rain.

"What was… I… I didn't. " She tried to articulate her disbelief. Slowly her eyes dropped to the grenade launcher. Wisps of smoke still rose from the ugly belled muzzle.

With a bar pulled from the tool kit, Bruen began working

the claws of the grapple loose, rain pelting his face as he cackled gleefully into the fury of the storm.

Vindication! Blessed Gods, she's good. Never held a grenade launcher in her life — and she knew what to do!

"Dearest Arta, if you'd be so kind as to depart from the area, they might have another cruiser in this part of the city. You worry about getting me to Makarta, dear. I'll attend to any official interruptions."

"But, what… I mean, where did the Civil Patrol… I killed. What the hell happened, Bruen?" She glared at him.

"Look down, and go?" he ordered, making a motion with his hand as he pried the last of the grapple overboard and slammed the door shut.

She dropped her gaze in time to catch a glimpse of smoking wreckage just as it plummeted through a rain-shiny slate roof in the residential district. The edifice shook with impact. As if in slow motion, the walls collapsed inward, folding around the vanished craft like the petals of some huge muddy-brown flower. A single man ran frantically from a door as the last of the wals collapsed.

"Holy Gods! What did I do?" Gulping air, she slapped the throttle forward.

In the back seat Magister Bruen hummed softly to himself as he wiped the water from her thermal grenade launcher.

Skyla Lyma stretched her long legs as she sat in Chrysla command chair and wished she could get up and pace to restore circulation, or do anything except carry on this conversation with the Sassan admiral whose image filled the main bridge monitor.

Chrysla's spotless bridge gleamed in the overhead lighting. Polished deck plating and well maintained duty stations reflected the pride the Companions had in their flagship. And it didn't stop with hardware. First officers bent to their monitors while various techs murmured softly to the computers. Behind her the Ground Tactics Team coordinated mop-up activities on the planet below. Two officers manned the Traffic Contro station, ensuring that only cleared vehicles approached — and even those under Chrysla's watchful

eye. Holographic monitors denoted ship's status, and repair work where Myklenian hits had been scored. Across from Skyla, the face of Imperial Admiral Iban Jakre filled the main bridge monitor.

Pompous ass!

"We are very pleased," Jakre's oily voice droned on. "I understand the Lord Commander's regrets at the unfortunate demise of the Praetor. The financial remuneration satisfies His Holiness completely. We do not consider it a breach of contract. In fact, we are more than pleased with the services rendered."

And well you ought to be! Staffa sent your God-Emperor a planet's ransom for breaking contract and killing that vile invalid. She ran slim fingers lightly over the stassa cup in her right hand. Idly she wondered if anyone anywhere had ever paid so much for a man's death.

"We're pleased with His Holiness' understanding, Admiral."

Iban studied her with the all too familiar look she'd come to expect from men. The change of voice from official to intimate hardly surprised her.

"If you could find the time Wing Commander, I would be more than honored to enjoy your presence. Perhaps you would allow me to extend His Holiness' hospitality for dinner aboard my flagship?" He inclined his head, eyes glittering. "We could make it a personal affair, perhaps dispense with the ritual of office for once. Relax."

You're almost drooling, Sassan pig. She kept her face neutral. "Thank you for your kind offer Admiral. Unfortunately, I am in charge of fleet supervision while the Lord Commander is off-duty. I'm sure you understand. We have some battle damage to repair — wounded to attend to — and our schedule is tight. We have another offer of employment which the Lord Commander is presently negotiating." Just to remind you we're free mercenaries Admiral faggot! "I echo the Lord Commander's appreciation for your kind offer." As if you'd invited him!

Iban nodded, a perfect example of a pained administrator. "I do understand. I look forward to your company, Wing Commander, when your duties are, shall we say, less demanding." He pressed palms together sensually, the fivejeweled rings sparkling on his fat fingers. His belly had

begun to expand and sag where his tired muscles were failing to hold it in. "I'm sure that a woman of your skill and a man of my position must have many things in common. I'd not want the Lord Commander to misperceive my intentions, but you are a free agent, are you not Wing Commander? Perhaps Sassa could make you a very attractive offer?"

Not for that! She smiled graciously, fingers tightening on her cup, and added, "Of course. Do understand, however, that my first obligation is to the Lord Commander. I doubt Sassa could afford my salary."

Jakre giggled. "I would love the opportunity to discuss that with you."

She forced her smile. "One of the first rules of the Companions is that we never close the door to options. For the moment, however, I must decline."

"But if—"

"Admiral, please forgive me, I have duties to attend to. I'll be in touch."

He made a deprecatory gesture with his hand and ducked his head in a semblance of a bow. "I hope to hear from you soon, Wing Commander. Sassa offers many opportunities for a woman of your talent."

"Until then Admiral." She killed the connection, casting a deadly glance at the monitor. Nerveless, pus-gutted sycophant! He and his kind were the Sassan Empire. How long could they hold it without the military might of the Lord Commander? How long would it last past the raping of the treasuries of their conquered words? They fawned over their God-Emperor — and worse, they had sold it to the people with such zeal they'd come to believe in Sassa's divinity themselves. In an Ashtan pig's eye!

She turned her attention to the stat board and noted the progress made by the repair crews workig on Jinx Mistress. The vessel would be space-worthy in another day — testament to the Companions' technical abilities. She okayed the progress report, realizing that Staffa usually got to such matters before she did.

Her attention shifted to the far monitor where Myklene turned, a lime crescent on the screen. Little patches of black — smoke from burning cities — mixed with the cloud

cover. Beyond the terminator, red eyes of fire-lit smoke could be made out. The legacy of war.

Damn it, Staffa, what happened in that hospital room down there? For almost half of her forty years Skyla had followed the Lord Commander, studying him

like she'd studied no other human being. And in all those years, I've never seen you go berserk like that.

Since his return to the ship, he'd locked himself away in his quarters and she'd attended to the administration of the fleet, receiving orders from him via comm — and only one at that: the order to reimburse the Sassans for the death of the Praetor.

She tapped long callused fingers on the command console, thoughts twisting around the scene in the Myklenian hospital. At Staffa's scream they'd burst through the door, expecting to see him dying, expecting Myklenian or Sassan treachery.

And there he'd stood like some avenging angel, literally twisting the Praetors head off his body. Staffa had shrieked ike a man being crushed alive.

From the moment he'd returned to the ship, Staffa had disappeared into the depths of his private rooms. His comm had remained ominously silent. Skyla tilted her head, eyes narrowed. That wasn't like him. Her nerves prickled with that old familiar premonition of trouble. What had that dying old man done? What power had he used to goad Staffa into killing him? The Praetor? Who had he been, and more important, what had he been to Staffa?

"It's none of your business, Skyla," she growled under her breath.

Or was it? She reached into her equipment belt, tracing absent fingers along the tape she'd extracted from the hospital unit. She'd kept her wits and thought to check. Hospital units always had recorders built into the machines to enable physicians to review treatment, visitors, or any events which might help or harm the patient.

Do I play it? Skyla pursed her lips and frowned at the image of Myklene where it filled the monitor. Betray Staffa's privacy? No, leave it be for now.

She frowned up at the overhead plates and twisted the end of her long white-blonde braid where it curled over her shoulder. The murmur of voices around the bridge sounded

normal. They'd all dropped into routine again. One eye on the Sassans and the deep-space sentry buoys — just in case— the other on the repairs.

So, what do I do now? Wander down and make a fool out of myself trying to check on him? How in Rotted Hell do you deal with a man like the Lord Commander when you're prying into his personal life? She slipped the stolen tape from her pouch and inspected it. Nothing more than a plastic cube with bits of binary data embedded — and a potential snake's nest of trouble for her if Staffa ever found out she had it.

Her professional self urged her to leave him alone and let him work out whatever bothered him. That didn't dim her desire to go to him, to see if she could help in any way as a… a friend would do.

And who would I call friend? Careful, Sy la. You have only yourself — no one else. Staffa's capable of fighting his own demons. You've come too far to compromise yourself for trie emotion.

She leaned on her elbow, chewed her callused finger, and ran her thumb lightly along the rough scar tissue on her cheek. He'd saved her life that time. A shot had cracked her helmet and she'd been face-to-face with death from decompression as her nose bled and her lungs expanded fit to burst her ribs no matter how fast she exhaled. Even the eyes in her head had started from' their orbits. He'd risked himself to get her under pressure. His face had been the first thing she'd seen when she'd come to on hospital deck. She'd always wondered at the gentle worry that had softened his expression. He'd held her hand in a most paternal manner. Then, as soon as the report came that she'd live, he'd hardened, grinned at her, and left to finish smashing the Maikan defenses into charred rubble.

How long could the fleet stand to have him locked away in his compartments? Already rumors were flying from ship to ship. Was the command in jeopardy of being paralyzed? And there's the answer to your professional self.

Images of a cool-eyed Staffa formed. She could see him, sitting in this very chair, involved in the orchestration of the thousand details that plagued a critical assault. His keen mind played the random factors like the master of tactics he was. No matter how she tried, she could never match

his intuitive understanding of combat. In the midst of an assault gone wrong, Staff a always managed to detect a weakness, some tiny vulnerability in the defenses which he ould exploit.

How many times had he snatched victory from the gaping, foul-odored jaws of defeat?

Very well, I owe him. I respect him.

She accessed the comm, feeling a curious hardness in her breast. One by one, she posted orders she felt necessary and authorized them under Staffa's name. Not a little frightened by what she'd done, she took a deep breath to still her taut nerves and swiveled the command chair. Rotted Gods, what if he cuts my throat for insubordination?

"First Officer. The watch is yours. I'll be in the Lord Commander's quarters if you need anything." She jumped to her feet, grateful for the feeling of blood returning to her cramped legs. Adrenaline powered, she trotted to the access tube, ordered the car to deck two, and felt it accelerate. How long had it been since she'd had a good night's sleep? Weeks? Her brain felt prickly and hot inside her skull. Fatigue mixed with worry over Staffa's reaction when she told him she'd issued orders as his.

She slowed as she approached Staffa's private rooms. Only once had she been in his sanctum sanctorum. How long ago had that been? Ten years? No, longer. Almost twenty now. The details formed in her quick mind.

A man, thin and tall with white hair, had met Staffa in a planetside tavern on Ashtan and placed a sack of gold at the Lord Commander's feet. "I can't find either one, Staffa," the visitor had said. "Therefore, I return your money. All of it." And he'd turned and left, while a wretched hollowness had flooded the Lord Commander's grim face.

A newly promoted officer, she'd watched him drink himself into a stupor. With the first officer's help, she had carried a vulnerable and muttering Staffa kar Therma to the shuttle and back to the ship. Never again, not once after that incident, had his iron control ever wavered.

Standing before his hatch she steeled herself, suddenly unsure, unwilling to intrude on this new and unsettling Staffa. A quick wry smile crossed her lips; she committed herself and palmed the hatch.

Thirty-two slowly counted seconds later the speaker asked, "Yes, Wing Commander?"

She looked up at the security monitor, crossing her arms, face stiff. "Staffa, we've got to talk. Just you and me."

She waited, eyes hardening as she stared at the lens.

To her surprise, the door slid back. She hesitated for a split second, then walked boldly into the air lock. The second portal passed her into the room she'd seen before. It had changed slightly; behind gravity restraints, a new rack of weapons hung on the wall: Targan. Other trophies from various campaigns had been added to the crimsonwalled main room. The fireplace looked old, as did the red leather gold-embossed couch. The Vermilion boar's head still threatened from the wall as did the Etarian sand tiger.

Two huge doors stood to either side of the fireplace. Ornate carvings graced their exteriors, and, she thought, both came from the high cathedral on Ashtan. The right one opened and Staffa appeared, standing there, arms crossed defensively as he studied her through red-rimmed eyes. For the first time in years stubble stood out on his cheeks. A gray robe enfolded him, a color he had affected so many years ago after — she suddenly realized — that drunk he'd had on Ashtan.

"You look like hell," she told him, walking to the dispenser and filling two bulbs with Myklenian single-malt whiskey.

"Thank you."

She handed him one of the bulbs and settled herself on the corner of the big couch. Where did she start with this man — this friend and commander who had filled so many of her years with challenge and activity. What did she say now? Hey, Chief, why are you hurting? Want to tell me why you ripped a man' head off down there? You got a reason for driving the troops nutty worrying about you, Boss? What?

"Staffa," she began, deciding to try a frontal assault, "I don't know what happened down there, but it's affecting—"

"Have the Sassans been in touch about the penalty?" He sipped the whiskey, swallowed, and paced to the wall where he stared thoughtfully at the Targan weapons.

"Just now," she told him. "Admiral Jakre was very pleased, Rot his black mind. Invited me to a private dinner and seduction."

He stared absently at the fireplace. "Going to take him up on it?"

"That Terguzzi sump scum?"

"He's an admiral."

"He's a fat maggot. Besides, I command more actual power than he and his Holy God-Emperor put together." She watched him curiously. "They're doomed without us, Staffa. You know that. You've seen them. Their empire was built upon our power. They'll hold that empire so long as they can afford to outbid their enemies for our blasters, ships, and troops. Only the manufacturing wealth of Sassa and the loot of conquered worlds has allowed them to meet our price — just as the Regans have done."

She paused for a moment, then added: "Staffa, we've destroyed the only other pretender to power. Myklene is gone. Now it's Rega or Sassa. Who will it be?"

He turned the drinking bulb in his hand. "I don't know."

Tension wound through her chest. A dull ache formed at the base of her brain. Skyla mentally berated herself as a fool even as she prickled with curiosity. She cocked her head as she studied him. Memories like gossamer strands filtered through her mind: his gray glinting eyes on hers;

the shared intimacy and tension of command; the moments of desperation, and then triumph when impossible odds fell before them. She lowered her gaze, oddly sobered by what she'd shared with Staffa. Twenty years in the pressure cooker of command couldn' just be shed like worn-out battle armor. The implications left her off balance.

"What's wrong, Staffa? What happened in that room?" she blurted.

His mouth went tight as he met her challenging stare. She could see his throat work. "The Praetor was my… He was the man who. " He shrugged and tonelessly added, "It was a long time ago. He took me in as an orphan and taught me to be what I am today."

The tension in her chest tightened into a knot around her heart. "Rotted Gods. You mean he was your. "

"Father? No. Call him my… my mentor. A more suitable word, perhaps."

"Pustulant Gods!" Is that what this is all about? "Why did you take the contract?"

He clasped his hands behind his back and paced carefully across the floor. "They threw me out. Years ago. You knew I was Myklenian. I–I took the contract to repay them. And him." He exhaled and shook his head. "I didn't. didn't know I'd have to face him. Tried to kill him in the fighting." His face paled and he closed his eyes. "But instead I killed. killed…"

He shivered violently and Skyla stiffened. After a long silence she said, "There's more, isnt there?" All these years, and I scarcely know you.

He started to say something and bit the words off. "Do you want to tell me about it?" "You know, Skyla, I'd allow no one else to come in here and question me like you're doing."

"Staffa, you and I, we've…" Her face rushed hot, embarrassing her, stirring anger. "A lot of blood's behind us. A lot of hard times. That's why I… There's the fleet, too. It's…" She stopped her tongue-tied stammering. "Damn it! I've had to issue orders in your name!"

His laugh gentled, warmer this time, and she looked up to see the old amusement in his eyes, displacing — if only for a moment — the dullness.

"It's Rotted well not funny. Snap out of it, Staffa!" "Snap out of it? What have we do" ne to ourselves, Skyla?" he asked, taking a gulp of the whiskey and pacing like a caged hunting cat. She could see the thick muscles bunching and swelling under his robe, as if powered by the trouble that possessed him. "Are we really so inhuman? The Praetor asked me if I had a conscience. Since then I've wondered."

"Our business doesn't call for conscience — only success. Even the Sassans didn't believe you could crack Myklene. Myself, I've tried to anticipate your tactics — and would have led us to disaster had I been the one to initiate the attack. You've always been the best, Staffa. Isn't that enough?"

"Perhaps. He gave me everything — and he took it all away. No matter who fired the shot that killed. " He shook himself like a wet dog, shaking off the thought. Then he tossed off the whiskey and flipped the bulb into the fireplace. "Called me his 'greatest' creation. That's why he

cared. I was no more than the pinnacle of his success. A construct." He stared into the distance in his mind before adding, "I killed. "

She watched his color drain, a ghastly expression molding his pale features. He seemed to reel on his feet.

"What, Staffa? Who did you kill?"

He wet his lips, jaw trembling. In a hoarse whisper, he gasped, "Love. my son. my. "

He rubbed his face.

"Staffa? What did you mean just now. What are you trying to—"

"What is it really to be human?" he cried, smacking a fist in his palm as he whirled to face her. "What should a person feel? What should we be? I–I don't feel anymore! I don't know who I am! Chrysla's dead! I killed her! And I can't. can't grieve." His expression went flat. "Can't even blame myself anymore."

"Chrysla? Staffa, she wasn't on Myklene, was she?"

He paced restlessly back and forth, speaking as if he hadn't heard. "They call me murderer and hate me and curse me from one Forbidden Border to the other. It's said that my legacy is fear, death, and terror. / killed the only thing I ever loved'

Skyla watched in amazement as a single tear crept down Staffa's cheek.

He swallowed hard and said in a numb whisper. "I've lost my way, Skyla. I don't know who I am anymore."

Sinklar Fist stepped off the shuttle at the biological research center station. He entered through the revolving doors, found the right lift, and punched the button for the thirty-fifth floor. A curious excitement and dread left him feeling hot and nervous. So much had begun to come clear. Now, he half wished he could drop this insane quest. In only four hours he had to be at the assembling point for his unit. From there, the Blessed Gods alone knew how long it would be before he slept again.

The lift beeped to indicate it had reached its destination. The doors slipped silently open and Sinklar stepped out into a foyer at the intersection of four long hallways. A security

guard looked up from the desk that rested under a cone of white light. She studied him curiously as she stood.

"Hello. Um, I'm Sinklar Fist. I was wondering if there was anyone in the Criminal Anatomical Research Labs?"

She cocked her head, lifting an eyebrow. "At this time of night? Are you serious?"

Sinklar gave her a crooked smile and walked up to the desk. She looked about twenty-five, maybe younger. The dark brown uniform set off her blonde hair. He let her large blue eyes distract him for a moment.

She smiled. "I don't think you came all the way up here to gawk at me — but I enjoy the compliment anyway. Uh, what can I do to help you—" she scanned his uniform— "Private?"

Sinklar frowned, wondering how to begin. "I wanted to see someone in the Criminal Research Lab. I understand that they. well, keep the specimens there for research."

She nodded. "That's right. We call that anatomical forensics. Actually, that's my area of study. I just work nights to make a few extra credits. The life of a student isn't exactly a rich one."

"Neither is that of an anatomical forensics examiner. or a soldier. It might surprise you, but I was a student until the draft notice came a couple of days ago. I… well, wish I still was."

"And you want to see the lab?"'

"The specimens actually."

She gave him a critical inspection. "You don't look like the ghoulish type."

"Neither do you," Sink countered. "The human body is a fascinating field of study. A lot of questions remain unanswered, like where our species came from. How it evolved to its present state. The range of human behavior is almost inexplicable." He saw her eyes light with shared understanding.

"Your field of study was anatomy?"

He shook his head. "Sociology, history, gaming theory, military tactics, comparative behavior, that sort of thing. But the study of forensics fascinates me. There just hasn't been time to study everything I want to." He paused. "So, what do I call you?"

"I'm Anatolia Daviura. Listen, I could talk to one of the

professors about showing you around. If you'll leave your number—"

"Can't. Going on active duty tomorrow. I guess we're going to war on Targa."

Her expression pinched. "Oh, sorry to hear that."

Sink shrugged. "It's every citizen's duty. I just thought someone might be working late tonight. You never know. Maybe something I see here could make a difference on Targa."

She hesitated for a moment. "If we hurry… I mean I can't leave the desk for long. Well, I could take you into the lab. I've got clearance. But we couldn't linger."

Sink smiled. "I promise not to keep you."

She gave him a conspiratorial smile as she led him down the dim hall.

"How'd you get into this field of study?" Sink asked as she palmed a heavy metal door and led him into a room that smelled of chemicals and hummed from air-conditioning. Scanning electron microscopes, desks, centrifuges, and the gleaming clutter of scientific instruments filled the place. Comm terminals stared at him with cathode eyes.

"I started in behavioral genetics," she told him. "The problem of deviance fascinated me. Why do some people harm others? What's the genetic substructure for violence? Where did it come from? Is there a way to eliminate the genetic root for criminal behavior from the human species without affecting our adaptive ability or initiative? Working here lets me deal with actual deviant specimens — study the DNA of known criminals to compare it with DNA in normal people."

She fingered a button and a double door parted in the middle to slide into recesses in the wall. "The inner sanctum. This is where we store the specimens."

Sink walked into the room. Rack after rack, like data cubes in the library stacks rose from floor to ceiling in line after line for as far as he could see down the aisle. Heavy powerlead ran into each stack to power the caskets. "How many are there?"

"Somewhere near four thousand."

"How would you find. say a certain specimen?"

Her look grew suspicious. "Do you have one in mind?"

Sinklar nodded. "Two, Tanya and Valient Fist. My. my parents."

"Blessed Gods!" Anatolia took a step back, eyes wide. "And all that business you told me about your studies?"

Sinklar turned anxious eyes on her. "It was true. I didn't lie to you. It's just. well, I was raised as an orphan of the state. All I ever knew was that my parents had been convicted of treason and executed. I've been paying for their crime all of my life. Now, I'm going off to war. I wanted to know where they were. That's all. I talked to the Judicial Magistrate who tried the case and sent them here. He told me where they were — and what they'd done."

Anatolia rubbed her arms, frowning. "You don't really want to see them, do you?"

Sinklar bit his lip and looked away as he nodded. "You're a geneticist. You know what parents mean biologically. I know what they mean to me, psychologically."

She turned, accessing the comm terminal next to the door. "Come on, this way."

They walked for several minutes in silence, accompanied by the endless rows of caskets and the hum of the units that maintained them. Anatolia turned left and followed a narrow aisle. Overhead the lights automatically brightened as they approached and dimmed as they passed.

"Here," she told him, and pointed to two pull-out caskets at chest height. "Just pull on the handle."

Sink glanced at her, swallowing nervously. Then he reached for the handle. It chilled his fingers as he pulled the casket open to expose a man. "He looks alive."

"Perfect preservation," she told him as Sinklar studied the figure. The face was smooth-shaven, the eyes yellow. He looked intelligent and his expression betrayed a trace of sorrow. Sinklar could see an incision through the closecropped brown hair.

"After all these years," Sinklar whispered. "Hello, Father. I just had to fid you, know that you existed. I graduated first in my class and I scored third in the Interplanetary exams. I thought you should know that."

A pang filled his breast as he pushed the casket closed and opened the lower drawer. His mother stared up sightlessly, gray eyes half open. She'd been a striking woman

with raven black hair and delicate features — but young, so very young.

Sinklar smiled wistfully. "Thank you for giving me life, Mother. I'll never forget you. I'll make you proud of me."

Sinklar slipped the casket closed and felt himself sway. Everything inside felt hollow — a stillness of the soul.

He turned to Anatolia and smiled. "Thank you. I'll have a little peace now. Things will be easier. Let's go. I know you have to get back."

She nodded, letting him lead the way in silence. At the door, she paused. "Is that true, what you said about the Interplanetary exams?"

Sink nodded, wrapped in his own thoughts, trying to sort out his emotions. He did catch the interest in Anatolia's eyes.

"Sinklar," she began as she led him into the lab, "um, you wouldn't mind if I took a tissue sample, would you?"

"Once a scientist, always a scientist?"

She gave him a wry smile. "Something like that."

He rolled up the sleeve of his uniform. "Be my guest. On the condition that when you get the chance, you'll let me know what you find."

After she'd taken her sample and led him back to the lift that would return him to the station, she paused. "Sinklar, what did they do? I mean, how did they end up here?"

He held the door as he stepped into the lift and looked back. Anatolia had beautiful blue eyes. Now they watched him with soft understanding. // only I could have more time. How I'd love to spend it getting to know you. "Thank you for letting me see them. I'll owe you for that for the rest of my life."

"I wouldn't have missed it… for several reasons." She pursed her lips. "You don't have to tell me, but the information is in the records. All I have to do is look it up."

"And you will." He met her inquisitive stare. "Ony the worst of the worst are sent to this facility for study. My parents tried to kill the Emperor, Tybalt the Imperial Seventh. They were Seddi assassins."

With that he let the door slip shut on Anatolia's shocked expression, and the lift plummeted toward the station.