Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 5

Tybalt the Imperial Seventh, Ruler and Governor, Master of the Twenty Worlds of Man and the Imperium of Rega, wiggled uncomfortably as the interminable Council session droned on. He fought the urge to stand up and walk to the restroom — partially because his fidgeting kept the Councillors aware of his growing irritation, and because a ruler of his stature shouldn't fall prey to the harassment of his itchy hemorrhoids.

Tybalt and his Councillors sat in a high-vaulted conference room lit by crystal skylights. Ornately carved panels of Sypa ivory gleamed lustrously between burled sandwood beams. The air carried the scent of jasmine. The rising babble of the Councillors managed to drown the soft strains of a string quartet playing a soothing piece in the background. The conference table they sat around dominated the center of the room and sprouted monitors, comm equipment, and elbows. For the moment it looked like a disaster area as his busy Councillors worried over reports and argued vehemently.

Tybalt had inherited his father's muscular body — but unike his physically disciplined father, he'd begun to lose the battle against his growing belly. The rich black tones of his skin contrasted with the bright yellow suit he wore. Rubbing his cheek, the fleshy feeling of his jowls bothered him. In the end, his broad facial bones would work against him despite the long straight nose. He kept his hair medium length and covered it with a jewel-encrusted net of gold wire that scintillated with the finest treasures of the Etarian desert.

The compact holo unit clipped to his collar continued to feed the latest field reports from the Targan revolt. The rebels controlled most of the capital city of Kaspa. Tybalt

growled to himself and ground his teeth. Why now? Bloodshot curses! Of all the times for a conflagration, why did the Targans have to pick this moment? Everything teetered on the brink. And if Staffa had already signed an alliance with the Sassans against Rega? No, don't even think it!

He sipped from the cup of klav that rested in the heated holder by his right hand and decided that enough was enough. "Gentlemen, ladies, please." He held up a hand.

Twenty heads turned to look in his direction; some from where they bent over flimsies and maps; others looking up from comm monitors. The string quartet

sounded strangely alone as silence filled the room, marred only by the hiss of a new printout, adding mass to the clutter on the table.

"No matter what you wish to project with your predictive models, the facts remain. First, we must crush Targa— again. Second, no matter what the cost, our only hope for survival is to immediately place Staffa's cutthroats on our payroll."

The Minister of the Treasury shook his head vehemently. "Imperial Lord, I'm not sure we can bear it. The last time we hired the man it cost us the equivalent of three point five billion Imperial credits in precious metals and manufactured goods. In part, that drain on the treasury led to the current unrest on Targa since they've been bearing the brunt of paying the deficit for the last two years."

Tybalt nodded, knowing full well the extent of their financial troubles. At the same time, the Lord Commander had managed to do what neither he nor that Sassan god-goof could — maintain a full-time fighting force: a corps large enough that it drew on every government in human space for its support. And Staffa's elite strike force vigorously guarded its independence by providing its own equipment, ships, and training. The Companions relied on no one for supplies or strategic materials — though they often took that in payment for service. Cunning man, that Staffa. And I can't stand against him.

In a muted voice he added, "Lord Minister, would you prefer to pay Staffa — or fight him? With the Myklene situation under control, His Holiness will be looking for new lands to conquer. Considering the confines of the Forbidden Borders, where do you suppose he will find them?"

"We ought to make another attempt at the Forbidden

Borders," the Minister of Defense interjected, eyes going to the illumination overhead. He fingered his flat nose, and took a deep breath. He'd propped hairy arms on the table, a posture of no retreat. "That's the key. Find a way past that gravitational wall and we'll have room to expand."

"Another attempt, my Lord?" Tybalt questioned in the continuing silence. "How many ships have we lost against that energy-gravity barrier?"

"Over the last fifteen years," the Minister of the Treasury interrupted, "eighteen. If you figure the outlay for hardware alone, the sum is considerable." She accessed her monitor. "We have spent a total of forty-three million credits on—"

"I know the figures," Defense growled.

"Enough said." Tybalt closed the debate and steepled his fingers. "Whoever — whatever — is on the other side doesn't want us coming through. Further, so long as they have the technology to 'absorb' our mightiest assault ships, they will remain invulnerable. and on the other side of their 'wall'. Now, to get back to our current problem, we have no choice, gentle people, but to hire the mercenary."

The Minister of the Treasury's expression went foul. Her thin dark face accented the long nose that ended in a point over narrow lips. Looking glum, her black eyes stared sightlessly at an imaginary point beyond the walls. Manicured fingers thumped the table hollowly. "We might make a down payment without bankrupting the entire economy of the Empire."

And there, indeed, lay the rub. A cold chill went through Tybalt's mind. Worse yet, has anyone considered the problem of what to do with Staffa kar Therma when all of space is united? Where, then, will the Lord Commander take his blood-thirsting warriors?

Tybalt turned his attention to Defense. "Lord Minister, what chance is there that we could loot enough from the Sassan worlds to pay Staffa off?"

Defense's fingers rasped over his stubbly chin. The expression on his high-cheeked face pinched. "Little, I'm afraid. Sassa's already bled itself white to pay the Lord Commander for Myklene. I fear that financing a war that way will grind any captured world's economy back to the point that our investment to rebuild it would suck us dry— presuming we have the funds left to invest."

"Seconded," the Minister of Economics agreed, lifting a finger. Her green eyes smoldered as she studied Tybalt. "We can only spread technicians and

engineers so thin. Coupled with the drain on materials to rebuild entire planetary industries, we'll be stretched to the breaking point. Unless, of course, you would enslave our entire population to rebuild theirs."

Treasury added, "Which makes me wonder what purpose there is in conquest."

"Survival! So what do we offer the Lord Commander?" Tybalt frowned. "And tell me what happens if Staffa is retained by Sassa? How can we defend against his lightning strikes and his superior equipment? It's one thing to contemplate turning the terror of the Companions on the Sassans, quite another to embrace the idea of the Lord Commander's fleet bearing down on Rega." And if that's the case, there will be no Tybalt the Eighth.

The Minister of Military Intelligence cleared his throat. "If our condition is poor, the Sassans are in worse straits. On top of their wars and the expenses they've incurred with Staffa's Companions, they've destroyed many of the economies they desperately need to wage a prolonged war. We don't have figures yet on the casualties they suffered taking Myklene. Suffice it to say they were substantial."

"So now's the time to strike?" Defense wondered, his lips pursed, fingers absently combing his black beard.

In the following silence, the string quartet's music did little to soothe. Tybalt turned his eyes to Ily Takka, his Minister of Internal Security. Ily should have spoken by now. Instead she waited, watching, predatory.

"You must control the Targan uprising first," Ily took his cue. She ran long fingers through her raven black hair. 'To do less is to leave a gaping wound of revolution to bleed infection throughout the rear worlds." She gave them a quick smile, aware of her power and how they perceived it.

Ah, Ily! Tybalt hid his delight. He'd waited to hear her thoughts. Like an Etarian sand tiger, Ily always kept her talons fastened in some poor slob's flesh. In cold-blooded efficiency only Staffa kar Therma could rival her. Hmm! Perhaps. maybe with a litte planning and preparation it would be possible to secure the Lord Commander… or deny his services to the enemy.

Dazzled by the thought, Tybalt added, "Very well, we'll take care of Targa. My Lord of Defense, see to it that our 'gaping wound' is cauterized. In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen, your duty is to determine how to bind Staffa kar Therma to our side — before we all wind up learning to speak Sassan."

The Imperial Tybalt stood and gestured, indicating the meeting was adjourned. He avoided the explosion of conversation that immediately broke out and headed for the restroom and his tube of insumweed jelly. He'd have to take time so the surgeon could correct his problem. One surgeon for his tender itching anus — the other for Staffa kar Therma!

The heart inside Sinklar Fist's rib cage skipped a beat as the LC began shuddering and bucking against atmosphere. His mouth had gone dry in the rising heat. This time — no matter what they said — it wasn't a drill. Combat-armored troops like himself crammed the inside of the LC, the workhorse landing craft of the Regan military. Sink and his companions had been seated shoulder to shoulder and tipped slightly back to minimize g forces should the craft have to maneuver. Lines of narrow lights gave the place a ghastly white look, exposing the smudged deck plating cluttered with so many booted feet. The strakes had been drilled with lightening holes which cast curious patterns across the painted metal of the internal hull. Moisture from their breathing had condensed on the cold steel and ran down in dribbles or spatted periodically on his helmet and armor. Looking forward, only bubblelike helmets filled the view. Overhead, between the lights, a locker hung down sporting the ominous lettering, SURVIVAL GEAR.

Targa lay below them, a bitter world full of mad people, people who had risen in revolt and killed an entire garrison of Regan troops

Where had they obtained the weapons? Indeed, that had been the thousand-credit question. Among the troops, they had a good idea. Sassan spies, no doubt. The story made the rounds that smugglers had supplied the whole planet. Sinklar glanced at his companions. The brunette beside him,

Gretta Artina, had her eyes closed, fingers laced tightly about the barrel of her assault rifle. Her head tilted back against the crash webbing.

Sinklar studied the line of her jaw, admiring the texture of her smooth skin, seeing how the pulse raced under that fine neck. Where had she been last night when he lay awake, tossing and turning, knowing that others coupled frantically in the dark? His eyes dropped to the full swell of her breasts.

Sinklar looked hastily away, feelig the increasing vibration in the LC. Since the night he'd finally found his parents, his emotions had become a quagmire. Increasingly, Anatolia Daviura had risen from a maze work of conflicting feelings to dominate his thoughts. He'd dreamed of her blue eyes and yellow-blonde hair. The memory of her trim body lingered. More water dripped from above, spattering hollowly and bursting his reverie.

As with women, Sinklar wondered why had the Blessed Gods made him so strange, so weak and incompetent at this soldiering business? Worst of all — on top of being scrawny, underweight, and clumsy — people stared at his thin face. Just having a thin face didn't do it; they gawked at his eyes:

one gray, the other tiger yellow. Well, hell, sure, he could have had that surgically corrected, but curse it, that's how he'd been bom. Not only that, kids with his upbringing didn't get operations like that. even on Imperial Rega where the streets were supposed to be paved with gold.

Why couldn't he be like Corporal MacRuder, whom Gretta made eyes at? MacRuder was every inch a dashing soldier, and Gods Rot it, Gretta smiled saucily every time MacRuder winked at her.

The air had become thicker, coagulating with the odors of sweat and fear and making breathing difficult. Someone behind him broke wind, the sulfuric odor almost causing him to gag. Someone else laughed — a chittering nervous sound. The lights dimmed. Either the weapons were discharging or they'd switched to reserves to avoid detection. He blinked, fear moving in his gut like a living thing. His own bowels begged to loosen. The lights had gone red— battery power. Did that mean they were falling? Powered out?

Emulating beautiful Gretta next to him, he closed his eyes

and concentrated on the fear-sweat beading under his helmet and trickling down his bony face. The soft muttered prayers of an Etarian disciple whispered somewhere across from him.

"Thirty seconds, people!" the wall speaker announced flatly.

A vague whistle of air became audible as the panels around him jiggled. G force sought to pull him sideways against the girl. The ceiling began to rain. Sinklar Fist counted, knowing only that it would help cover his fear.

The final deceleration sought to strain him through his combat armor. His neck muscles tensed to fight the heavy pull. G vanished suddeny, making him snap his head. The LC bumped, bucked, and settled. Hydraulics whined and air moved.

"All right, people, let's move!" Sergeant Hamlish sang out in his bullhorn voice. "A Group! Establish a perimeter! B Group, expand it! C, back them up. D, prepare a flanking defense right! E, flanking defense left! F, support the ordnance team!"

Men and women jumped up around Sinklar. Foolishly, he slapped the quick release on the crash harness and pulled himself to his feet. He barely got his assault rifle up as Gretta moved out at a trot. He slung the heavy rifle up expertly, slipping the support strap over the carry hook so the weight no longer rested on his arms alone.

A Group had already piled out the hatch, diving for the rocky soil, their battle armor changing color to match the reddish-tan soil. Sinklar trotted forward, just like in the exercises, and dropped to the ground another fifty yards out. He blinked into the blackness, aware of the rich smell of the raw earth inches from his nose. Something whirred by his head. Insect? Night bird?

A wailing behind him indicated the LC had cleared its load and was lifting its deadly bulk into the blackness. With a quick glance he noticed that no stars dotted the black sky. He swallowed hard, realizing for the first time just how dry his throat felt. The air carried a cool tang, fresh and clear in his nostrils.

Sergeant Hamlish's quiet voice in his ear made him jump.

"Idiot!" Sinklar berated himself, "It's only your ear comm!"

"Fist!" MacRuder's retort sounded loud in the system. "Shut your mike off! We aren't interested in evaluations of your intelligence."

Sinklar colored red, a horrible shame rising to throttle his heart. Did he do everything wrong?

Hamlish ordered, "Group B, you're on the outside. Pair off and advance. We should be just over the hill from Kaspa. Secure the ridge up there and signal when you have a defensive position."

Sinklar scrambled to his feet, remembering finally to drop his IR visor. Like a falling veil, darkness became light in an odd-hued landscape. He could see MacRuder waving him over.

"Come on, Fist," MacRuder called confidently. "You gonna be all night? There's honors for first blood on this trip." The corporal turned and started forward.

First blood? Sinklar winced. He'd never been meant to be a soldier. Far better to remain home on Rega away from bugs and mud and guns and probe the fascinating secrets of the library. The worst blow of all had been cutting short Ndimensional quantum geometry so soon after he'd gotten the text. Fascinating relationships between.

His lungs started to labor — panting too soon. The assault rifle itself weighed twenty pounds. On top of that, the pack had to be another thirty.

The ridge proved no obstacle other than that it left Sinklar gasping, delirious from thirst, and exhausted. Flopped on the ground, wishing he could vomit, he heard MacRuder calling over the comm system, "B Group reporting Sergeant. All's well."

"Okay, people, dig in," MacRuder ordered, scrambling like a bug in the dark. He bent down over Sinklar. "You all right?"

"Yeah, short of breath is all."

"Look, you seem like a nice kid. Just stick with me, huh? I'll make sure you don't get in any trouble."

"Sure." Picking up the assault rifle, he followed MacRuder over the edge of the ridge and crawled under a full-leafed bush to stare at the winking lights of Kaspa where they spread out below him. The city sat in the bottom of a ridge-bordered bowl. Through the IR vision, the place looked like a shanty town. The surrounding peaks consisted

of cracked and sundered bedrock covered with scabby vegetation and thick-branched conifers on the slopes. Land turned on end — hell of a place to fight a war.

Kid? MacRuder had called him a kid? Well, he sure didn't make much of a soldier — and, damned right, he'd stick with MacRuder. The corporal seemed to know what he was doing.

No one had fired a shot yet. Maybe taking rebel planets was a piece of cake like they'd said?

He lay there in the darkness and thoughtfully fingered his combat armor. Rubbing the stuff between his fingers, i felt like a tough synthetic with a slick surface. In actuality, the material consisted of hollow composite sheaths of graphite and ceramic that enclosed hydrocarbon polymers in some threads, and oxycatalyst in others. Any impact capable of rupturing the composite caused an instant chemical bonding that stiffened the material into hard ablative plate, thereby spreading and absorbing the energy of a projectile or blaster bolt. When coupled with a vacuum helmet, the tight weave served as a pressure suit for space work.

Let's just hope it'll keep me alive, Sinklar thought to himself.

"All right, people," Mac called. "Let's go. Spread out and keep sharp. We got a city to take."

Sinklar headed down the ridge with the rest of B Group. By the breaking of dawn, they'd infiltrated to the Section 3 Post Office and established an occupation headquarters on the outskirts of Kaspa.

The postal building didn't look like much from an aesthetic perspective, but to a military tactician, the thick stone walls and small windows gave the place all the virtues of a redoubt.

"Hell! I thought we'd have a fight," MacRuder growled as he pulled his pack around to cushion his back against the stone of the hallway wall. The other troops had stacked rifles and piled duffels here and there around the open lobby.

"They don't look dangerous," Sinklar said thoughtfully as he studied the few pedestrians who hurried past outside, eyes downcast. The skies remained clouded over, hints of thunder in the rumbling gray-black overhead.

"Naw, the regulars are here," MacRuder mumbled over a half a ration bar.

Sinklar studied him thoughtfully. MacRuder looked like a soldier: square-jawed and handsome with a lump in the middle of his nose. Challenging blue eyes

stared out of a high-cheeked face while wisps of blond hair escaped the confines of the helmet. The man's muscular shoulders swelled the supple fabric of his armor.

Gretta Artina sat beside him, one arm locked in the corporal's. Sinklar had to work to keep from staring at her perfect features. Was she falling for MacRuder? Against a man like that, what chance did the likes of Sinklar Fist have?

Think about Anatoia, idiot She's safely out of reach— and you can dream about her unti you get home — assuming you survive Targa. Then you don't have to be heartbroken until you find out she married one of her professors and has a kid on the way.

MacRuder's voice intruded. "They might have thought the garrison was soft, but they've got combat troops here now. We'll make them think twice." Mac made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Still, somebody should have taken a potshot. I don't get it. It's like they just let us walk in here."

Gretta cocked her head, long brown hair shining in the faint light. "I wouldn't mess with Imperial firepower. What have they got out there? Untrained miners? So they have some pulse weapons and grenades? A couple of blasters in those hands are hardly enough to rout the might of the Empire."

"They wiped out the garrison," Sinklar reminded, ripping the seal off his energy bar. He watched as an old woman climbed the stairs hesitantly, her glance that of a scared bird as she cataloged the armored personnel resting along the halls. Kyphotic osteoporosis had curled her spine, giving her a hunched appearance. She clutched a large purse to her tightly bundled chest with age-spotted talon fingers — joints knotted from arthritis. She climbed one step at a time, making sure of her footing.

"Help you, ma'am?" MacRuder asked, speech slurred by the crunchy food bar as he stood and opened the thick glass door for her.

She nodded with frightened jerks of her birdlike head. "I… I need to see about. about my medical benefits,"

her voice came out frail and withered to match her agelined face.

MacRuder wiped a hand across his mouth and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "See Sergeant Hamlish in there." He indicated the room where once the Regan Postal Super had held court until the "Citizens' Committee" hauled him out and hacked him to pieces with mucking tools.

She avoided their eyes and nodded, hobbling painfully to the sergeant's room on brittle legs.

"Now there's a dangerous revolutionary," MacRuder said with a laugh. He ripped the tab out of the side of another energy bar. "So much for Targan resistance. We've got this place cowed, man!"

Sinklar frowned. "Yeah, maybe. You know, I was reading about the Sylene expedition Phillipia mounted when they were on their conquest jag a couple of centuries ago. The lesson—"

"Ancient history, Fist," Gretta told him. "What could a backwater war like that have to do with Imperial power?"

Sink lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Well, uh, there's lots of interesting things in history books."

"Like what?" MacRuder asked. "Cut and dried combat tactics? I mean, you read what somebody did a hundred ten counts ago and everybody who can read will know the tactics. You've got to think up new plans, constantly innovate. That's the key to the Star Butcher's success, you know. Think, Sink!" MacRuder pointed to his head and winked.

"Books, huh?" Gretta snickered. "You one of those Seddis, Sink?"

Color rose hot on his neck. As he became more flustered, it got worse. "No. I just studied is all… trying to gain entrance to the Regan University."

MacRuder laughed, mouth full of food. "Didn't get too far, huh? Man, you don't get to University unless you're a genius or you got noble blood in your veins — or an appointment signed by the Emperor."

"Yeah, I know. I thought I'd get it. I scored third in the Interplanetary trials."

His words evoked wide-eyed silence.

"Rotted Gods!" Gretta whispered. "Third! And they still didn't take you?"

Sinklar flushed and picked idly at his food bar. "No."

MacRuder shook his head. "They say why?"

Lie, Sink. You can't tell them why. From now on stick to the orphan story.

"No. Only that they were sorry. But. but I should not be discouraged from trying again next year."

Gretta's brow furrowed. "I knew a woman who made it. She placed eighty-sec…" She bit it off at the look on Fist's face. She took a deep breath and sighed. "Must have been political. Maybe an error in some office, huh?"

"Yeah, must have been."

The old woman came out of Sergeant Hamlish's office during the uneasy pause. Her heavy boots clicked across the floor as she passed. Her frightened glance met Sinklar's for a brief instant before she looked away. He pushed the door open for her and watched her hobble down the stairs, arms swinging for balance.

From the corner of his eye, Sinklar caught a glimpse of the sergeant heading for the men's toilet. Well, even sergeants had to go sometime.

"So what did you learn from your history of the Sylene wars?" MacRuder's manner had changed subtly.

"Don't concentrate your forces," Sinklar mumbled, thinking about the old woman hobbling rapidly across the uneven street.

Outside, loudspeakers blared yet another repeat of the terms of occupation as a military hover-craft, studded with heavy blasters and pulse cannon, passed over. The booming voice echoed, "Martial Law is currently in force. Persons needing travel permits, medical care, or police assistance must register with the military authorities. All comm requests will be handled in order of receipt. Remain calm and comply with military authority." And it went on, droning in the muggy air.

Sinklar chewed his lip and looked up at the brooding clouds. He had already started to hate Targa — and no one had even shot at him yet.

"Yeah, well, that goes against any axiom of military sense," MacRuder maintained. "Anyone knows that divide and conquer is the oldest rule in warfare. Strength allows defensive as well as offensive options that scattered troops—"

"Rotted Gods!" Sinklar cried, jumping to his feet. "Where's her purse?"

"What?" MacRuder's face twisted.

"Come on, let's go get her!" Sinklar grabbed up his rifle. "Lke Sylene, Mac. Hey! Somebody check the sergeant's office for that old woman's purse."

He charged down the stairs, eyes on the old woman as she scuttled around the corner of a gray-mortared building. Gretta and MacRuder followed along behind, resettling their helmets and hooking up their rifles.

Sinklar's feet hit the irregular cobbles on the street — but he couldn't remember what happened next. The world seemed to drop out from under him before it leapt up to smack him. He remembered rolling across the rough stone cobbles, time and space suspended in fire, and smoke, and fragments of bouncing mortar.

Stunned, ears ringing, he fought air ito his stinging lungs. He moved his legs and arms, aware they still worked. Numb, he got to his feet, weaving back and forth. The assault rifle had remained attached to the combat armor catches and dangled within reach. He groped for the weapon as violet light crackled past his head. Ducking, he dropped to one knee and fired a burst at the upper-story window the shots had come from. The front of the building jumped from the impact, dust flying from the cracks in the brick.

Sinklar turned, seeing MacRuder struggling to his feet. The postal building had been turned into dusty rubble. As Sinklar watched, one of the side walls teetered out and collapsed on the side street.

"By the Blessed Gods," Sinklar whispered. No one could have survived that. Somehow he got his wits together enough to pull Gretta up. Dazed, MacRuder gaped stupidly while blood ran out of his nose. Another shot ripped past Sinklar's ear. He charged for the far side of the avenue. Acting on instinct, he raised his rifle and blew the door before him apart, shoving his companions into the dark and the unknown.

"We play a deep game, Bruen." Magister Hyde drew an asthmatic breath, brows furrowed as he watched the inset monitor where the chestnut-haired woman systematically

demolished boulders with a pulse pistol. "The problem with psychological weapons is their inherent unreliability."

They sat side by side on a stone bench carved into the back of a rocky balcony that clung to the basalt cliff overlooking the Makarta Valley. The misty clouds had failed to defeat the inevitable sun for the first time in days. Now the valley burst with greenery and the sun warmed their retreat.

Bruen nodded soberly. "Circles within circles, my friend."

"Probability is one thing," Hyde interrupted himself to cough, "but the human brain? Hah! For centuries greater minds than ours have quested and poked and prodded, seeking the answers of the psyche. It makes me nervous to be cast in the lot of a god."

Bruen grunted at the monitor where Arta Fera, her lithe form outlined in the evening light, fired the last charge in the pulse pistol. Another of the rocks on the hillside exploded in a gout of dust.

"You think she hit the right one?"

Bruen moved to ease an ache in his hip. "Oh, it was. Look at the expression on her face. See the feral delight? No doubt about it, her instincts are fully developed. Now all they need is channeling, direction."

Hyde's voice dripped with distaste. "Spying! Like Imperial Security agents!"

"Now is an odd time to condemn our ancient pastime, Magister," Bruen countered sourly. Damn it, if only he didn't agree in this instance. If it were anyone but Arta, he'd…

I've become a senile idiot! There's no place for sappy sentimentality. She's not your daughter, she's no one, Bruen. A subject, a soldier for the cause. Wars are not won by generals who dote on their personnel!

"But she is one of ours," Hyde protested.

Bruen dropped his sagging chin into a palm and cocked his head, eying his old companion. He kept his voice soft, serious, forced to conform with what he knew was rational. "Is she really? After we placed her with the Etarians for so long, after we brought her so far, can you call her ours?"

Hyde blinked owlishly. "Well… er… she has done remarkably well on the exams. Her training — as you can

see — through subliminal quanta seeding has made her the most incredibly talented…"

"Tool," Bruen finished, his voice a blunt monotone. He shook his head, unwilling to meet Hyde's eyes. Instead he touched a stud and the holo of Arta Fera reloading her pulse pistol vanished.

Disappointed with himself, his eyes searched the pastoral heaven of the small valley that spread below them. Cattle grazed unmolested among coves of rich thick grass. Trees shrouded dark granite outcrops while multicolored flowers carpeted verdant pastures.

"We've done so much, my friend," Hyde reminded, consolingly. "After all these years, after all the sacrifice. "

"What's one more young girl, eh?" Bruen snorted sourly and rubbed his deep-set eyes. "Where does it stop, Hyde? Almost three hundred years, now, I've watched it. In my lifetime perhaps one hundred billion people have died in pain and misery, their planets blasted by war, scoured by radiation, disease, and climatic upheaval." He looked over, blue eyes mild. "I ask you, do you see any improvement in the human condition? At times I get the feeling we're some sort of malignant experiment."

Hyde placed a reedlike hand on Bruen's shoulder. "Remember our creed Brother. Life is knowledge and knowledge is energy. Energy is eternal, it can't be destroyed, only dissipated through entropy." Hyde coughed again, grimacing as he spit phlegm into the bushes behind him. "Death is an inevitability, but it isn't forever. Eventually it all goes back to God."

Bruen granted him a wry smile. "Forever, no. The universe continues to expand in places while other areas are drawn to the gravitational wells of the Great Attractors. So we're either at the crest of the expansion or the beginning of the contraction. Either way, the end won't come for another fifteen billion years or so." He pointed a crooked finger at Hyde. "How much suffering can you fit into fifteen billion years before we are all returned to Godhead?"

"Life is more than suffering, Brother. Life is also warm sunny mornings, birds singing, a comfortable—"

"Bah!"

"You're a bitter old man!" Hyde slapped his knees and

leaned back, his sagging pale face exposed to the warmth of the sun.

"Almost twenty thousand are dead in Kaspa. And here, you and I sit in the

sun and talk of pleasure? Our worlds are about to be plunged into a maelstrom. Within years, Brother, entire planets will be scorched to molten rock. What madness is ours?"

Hyde coughed again, working his mouth uncomfortably. "All the more reason for us to enjoy those few moments the present provides, Magister. Remember your creed. There is nothing beyond the HereNow. The past is simply stored energy in your mind. The future consists of probability horizons — the bouncing of the quanta toward an expected observation. What you fear is only described by those Quantum wave functions inside your mind. That future isn't real."

"Yet." Bruen paused. "So, like all reality, eventually you can trace it down to nothingness. I still fear."

Bruen caught movement in the valley and turned to see three horses emerge from a stand of trees several hundred yards away. They trotted to a small stream and dipped their heads to drink. In silence and appreciation, he watched them, aware of the thick white pillows of cloud that rose far to the north over Kaspa. Prophetic! Even now, according to his instructions, the resistance shoud be blowing up Regan command concentrations. More blood on his hands.

"I suppose it bothers me that we had no choice." Bruen laced his parchment-skinned fingers over a bony knee. "I don't like the feeling of being a pawn Brother. It appalled me when I watched the old Magisters fall under the sway of the machine. Nothing has changed since those days."

"Only now, you must deal with the machine." Hyde dropped his head, bloated features uneasy.

"I wonder who fools who?" Bruen granted with a dry cackle. "Which of us is really the manipulator, Brother?"

In a lower tone, Hyde added, "You're the only one we've got, Bruen. No one else has your strength. No one else is smart enough, strong enough, capable of dancing with such delicate balance."

"Indeed, well, I've fooled it this far — I think. Energy is forever, eh? Well, Brother, if you find me dead on my

pallet one of these days, what are you going to do?" Bruen cocked an eye at Hyde's bulky body.

The Magister coughed and spat again. "Die of my collapsing lungs on the spot so I don't have to place myself under that accursed helmet."

"Not a viable solution."

"Neither is your death." Hyde chuckled and ended up coughing again. "No, I'll kill myself before I sit in the chair and put those terrible wires over my head. The Mag Comm would peel my mind like an onion. and all would be for naught."

They sat in silence, Hyde brooding over his inadequacies. Why did it all seem so damned hopeless?

"We still haven't received word of which way the Star Butcher will jump." Bruen smiled as one of the horses, a dappled gray, dropped its head and lifted its tail, playfully pushing a muscular black to one side. In an instant, they were puffing and bouncing, trotting along in their equine game of tag. Horses had it so good on Targa.

"Predictions tend toward Rega," Hyde tilted his head back and pinched his nose, sniffing at his clogged sinuses. In a nasal voice he continued. "Rega appears to offer Staffa more than the Sassans would. The Lord Commander can't have much empathy with a bat-brained theocracy based on sybaritic sycophancy. That fat Sassan pustulation? A God? Staffa must laugh himself into fits at the idea." Hyde waved his swollen hands. "No. Rega, for all its faults, will at least appeal to Staffa's mutated sense of respect."

"An odd position, Hyde, to be second-guessing that man." Bruen moved to spare the insistent ache in his hip. "Of them all, he's the least predictable."

"Come, Brother," Hyde growled. "Staffa has no secrets. Money and status drive him. So does power. A simple — if brilliant — man. Sassa and Rega know the game is almost up. He who seduces Staffa with the greatest number of baubles and promises gets the whole of Free Space. He who misses the opportunity is lost."

Bruen objected, "You claim Rega has more to offer the Lord Commander than Sassa does. I concur; but consider this permutation. In the end, Staffa will have only one power to deal with. I don't think he'll be happy playing

policeman in the long run. His people can't take that drudgery. Staff a knows that."

"So?"

"So Staffa will prey on the winner." Bruen sighed as the horses raced out of sight.

"And it would be much easier to turn and destroy Sassan God-Emperors whom he has no respect for."

Bruen shifted again in an attempt to curry favor from his hip. "It would leave him feeling more comfortable."

"You talk as if the Praetor's creation is a human being."

Bruen touched the stud, the holo forming again to show Arta Fera inside the caverns of Makarta where she placed the pistol in the weapons rack. She stopped, an uneasy frown on her perfect forehead, as if she still couldn't comprehend her talent for destruction.

"Maybe he is. He loved once."

Hyde laughed loudy, ending in a fit of coughing. He wiped his eyes and stared at his old friend. "Becoming maudlin, Bruen?"

The Magister shook his head. "No, Hyde, old friend," Bruen responded sadly. "I just wonder what right two doddering old men like us have to meddle with the future of humanity. Are we saviors, Hyde… or puppets of evil and death?"