Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 6

In the darkness, Staffa kar Therma lay on his back. Around him the soft whispers of Chryslas humming presence should have reassured him. Instead he replayed that final moment in his mind when Chrysla's guns blew the Praetor's battleship into slag — and with it, the only woman he'd ever loved.

I killed her. How could I have known? He reached up to rub his eyes with thumb and forefinger. And my son? Does he live? Or did I kill him, too? The Seddi. the Seddi. would know.

\ What would his son be like? The old question that had plagued him for years nagged at his thoughts. He tried to sort out the emotions — and failed. Attempts at thinking rationally ended only in confusion, and he began to comprehend the conditioning that had been triggered by the Praetor's words.

"I understand now, old man, I was your experiment, wasn't I? That's where the pride in your eyes came from. You took an orphaned boy and used him as a behavioral experiment. With the training machines, you stifled my emotions, turned me into a biologica robot. Rational, logical, without a shred of emotion except the desire to succeed.

"My God, Praetor, what a cunning monster you were." Through the emotional haze, the pieces began to fall into place. But where did the reality lie? Had his brain been normal before, or had the psychological trigger released him from a conditioned state? He took a deep breath, stilling his thoughts, stifling the emotions, as he reviewed what he knew about brain physiology and chemistry.

Based on a complex interaction of physiology and chemistry, the brain created its own criteria for normal behavior. In doing so, it built a network of neural pathways that cre-

ated memory and allowed it to lea new adaptive strategies.

"And all of that has been overturned by the Praetor's hidden trigger." Staffa balled a fist and smacked the sleeping pallet. "So, what happened? The Praetor's words triggered a neural response that interacted with the brain's feedback to maintain chemical balance. But which state is the real me?"

And there was the real problem. Had the Praetor's conditioning denied him part of himself for all those years, or did the key words, "construct, machine, and creation" trigger an emotional imbalance calculated to destroy him in the end?

The answer lay moldering in the Praetor's grave.

The fact remained that the subliminal cues that stimulated his brain to slow production of corticosteroids, serotonin, acetylcholine, and norepinephrine had been given and the old balance had been upset.

Staffa stood and paced restlessly. The answer had to lie in the Praetor's last words. Sometime, in that discussion, the old viper would have given him a clue. Even amid the destruction of his world, the Praetor couldn't have resisted one final test, but what? Staffa replayed the conversation in the Myklenian hospital word for word. So much had been said, so many meanings tendered. But which phrase held the clue?

Staffa frowned and propped his chin on a fist. He'll bet on my pride and arrogance. Staffa smiled grimly. Yes, that's his way. The words, "no soul" recurred in Staffa's memory;

the old man had harped on that. "No responsibility to God?… I bred that out of you. banished it from your personality… a creature without conscience. money and power motivate yo. "

Staffa's expression hardened. "And what else is there, Praetor? How else does a man measure his worth? Power is the only measure… as you taught me so well."

The eerie squawl of his son's cry pierced the years, wailing, condemning. Staffa closed his eyes, only to be haunted by Chrysla's sad eyes. He couldn't avoid the gentle censure, the rebuke that lay in that yellow gaze. An invisible fist gripped his heart, squeezing as if to force the life from that throbbing organ.

"I didn't know he'd taken you," Staffa whispered to the specter. "No wonder you disappeared so thoroughly. In all of Free Space, only the Praetr could have bought such secrecy. I should have known, my love. I should have known."

His son's onely cry left his soul shivering. Guilt flooded him and mixed with the grief. Why is this happening to me?

The Praetor had claimed his conscience was reptilian. "And I told him I had no interest in conscience." The man who would unite all of Free Space in order to challenge the Forbidden Borders could only be burdened by conscience. "Don't you see, Praetor? The stakes are so high. As long as humanity is divided, as long as we feud and fight among ourselves, we'll never break this cage that binds us."

He shook his head, glaring up at his memories. "That's the essential point you missed, Praetor. You forgot that you taught me to dream — to aspire to ever greater things. I must rule Free Space."

. And you'll finally fail. fail. fail.

Staffa spun on his heel, powered by a sudden surge of adrenaline. A wicked smile spread across his hard lips. "That's the key, isn't it Praetor? Throughout that entire conversation, you mocked me, knowing full well that you'd conditioned sentimentality out of my personality — banished, as you so aptly claimed. That's why it surprised you that I loved Chrysla. She could have broken the conditioning in the end. You had to get her away from me. It would have ruined the experiment — tainted your 'greatest creation.' "

Staffa laughed sourly. "My Achilles' heel. Inhumanity. Lack of conscience. That's why you called me a machine." Staffa's eyes narrowed into slits. "You left me only half a man, Praetor."

But had those three words released all of him? Had they broken the conditioning completely? Anger blended with frustration. "You've got to find yourself, Staffa, or the Praetor will win in the end. If you'd see your dream come true, you must know what it is to be human, as the Praetor said, to 'feel the spirit that breathes within the species.' "

He filled his lungs, holding his breath to still the sudden

pounding anxiety in his heart. "Praetor, first, I will find my son, if he lives. And then I will find myself."

"Don't tickle," she warned as his fingers slipped in light caress along the silken cool skin on the backs of her thighs.

Drawing a deep breath, Tybalt the Imperial Seventh let it whistle past his lips. "Why do you do this with me? You don't love me, Ily."

She turned, flipping a wealth of gleaming black hair over her shoulder so she could face him on the rumpled sleeping surface. Her long legs had wadded the golden sheets to a crumpled pile during the heat of their passionate coupling. She moved closer, as if drawing on his body heat, and extended a muscular leg over his belly. One of her breasts flattened against his arm. The contrast between the firm whiteness of her skin and his rich black tones absorbed him for a moment.

He gazed into her piercing black eyes so close to his own.

"Maybe I ike the taste of power, Imperial Seventh," her voice came as sultry as the musk of her cooling body. "Maybe you represent the ultimate triumph."

He shuddered slightly as she began nibbling at his chest, her pointed tongue circling his nipple to send chilling thrills down his spine.

"And you never worry about the ramifications of discovery?" he managed, the words taking all his concentration. Thick black hair tickled his skin.

She laughed. "By whom? Your precious wife? The Empress knows already. Neither Mareeah Rath nor her fawning family pose any—"

They know?" A tingle of foreboding flickered to life below his heart. He stared through narrowed eyes at the rich Vermilion silks that draped above.

Ily laughed again, exposing white teeth while her eyes crinkled with humor. "Of course, Lord. Shhh! Don't worry. It's taken care of. No one will cross me Tybalt. No one!" Her expression hardened to emphasize that fact. "Perhaps you might not be in a position to threaten your wife — or her powerful family for that matter." Her tongue traced his upper lip as she moved onto him. Her breath carried a scent

of mint as she added, "On the other hand, the House of Rath fears one of its young lords might be arrested for treason, theft, graft, or any of a number of suitable charges. I'd see him convicted, Tybalt — and condemned to death."

A warm relief washed through him, replacing that momentary fear. "And should the Council suspect? The petty—"

"If you're not man enough to handle your own Council, you're not man enough to be Emperor."

"Indeed."

"Then what need have we to worry if we make love on the steps of the Imperial Regan Council buildings?" she whispered hotly as she brought his masculinity to life.

After she left him spent and exhausted he ran his fingers through her black hair and down to trace the bones of her shoulders and chest, circling those full breasts and massaging the nipples lightly. Her belly rippled with muscle as she moved.

"Tell me, Ily, what do you know of Staffa kar Therma? Tell me about your secret knowledge. Who is he? What's he like? What do we really know of him?"

She turned her head, cheek pillowed in the glossy blackness of her spilled hair. "The Lord Commander? Not much. He's one nut I'd love to crack Emperor of mine. Originally I thought he had a soft spot for Myklene and the Praetor. Hah! Fallacy laid to rest! Though they feared his power and banished him, they still put him in business. Gave him a ship and sent him off to prey on others. Yet he killed the Praetor — who made him what he is — with his bare hands."

Her eyes lost focus and her voice dropped to a mumble. "Killed the one who gave him everything. Indeed, I'd like to know what motivates a man like that."

"You've spoken to him. You must have some impression." Tybalt recalled images of the Lord Commander— deadly gray eyes, constantly controlled features never shadowed by emotion… a deadly human fortress.

She shifted next to him in the dim light. "I think he's the most fascinating man I have ever known."

"Present company excepted?" he asked, realizing the answer was oddly important to him.

Her eyes met his, black, bottomless, knowing. "Present company included."

No matter what I do, what I wear, how I attempt to dominate the situation, he always dwarfs me. ould that I could ever change myself, it is he I would emulate — and how I hate myself when I think that! No action would provide me more pleasure than the feel of an energy knife slipping through Staffa's heart.

Shamed, he clamped his jaws tight. Her honesty stung. "I could kill you for that, Ily."

"You won't though." Her heart-shaped face remained serene. "You value my skills too highly in the first place. in the second, you relish my company, for I'm the only other person in all of the Regan Empire who treats you like an equal and doesn't quail in their boots at your power. And lastly, you appreciate my honesty and candor."

How true. He could hate both Staff a and Ily for that— and he needed them both despite the fact that one day, each might have to be destroyed. No matter the cost. Ultimate power — and its preservation — was a lonely business.

"Perhaps you're right, dear Ily. Perhaps you are." But I don't want to dwell on that now, my hot bitch. "Then tell me, what do we make of Staffa and the Sassans?

She stretched her tawny body, working each muscle before she sat up and crossed her legs. She shook black hair over pae shoulders and propped her chin in her palms. "He's the key to the future With him, we can control all of Free Space. Perhaps with that control we can even marshal enough strength to challenge the Forbidden Borders.

"On the other hand, if he contracts to the Sassans, we'll lose in the end. We have no way to counter his strike capabilities. Nothing we put up will stop him."

He nodded, barely containing a belch. "My thoughts exactly." He crossed his arms loosely over his ample belly. "I have an idea." He searched her face intently as he spoke. "We'll make the Lord Commander the best offer we can. and I want you to take it to him."

"The head of Internal Security?" She cocked her head, perfect face lining as she turned it over in her mind.

How far can I trust you, Ily? Ah, see your eyes lightin? Indeed, you see the opportunities! What a delight you are, my sweet Cytean cobra. An explosive vixen in my bed, a constant foil in my Empire, you alone of all women are

worthy of me.

"Why not?" He flicked his hand absently. "I have my reasons, Ily. As you so ably articulated, I trust your honesty and candor. You're a beautiful woman; he might not suspect your intricate competence. See Staffa. Woo him to me. You know what's at stake. A discreet assassination, a bribed or compromised individual here or there, perhaps something more drastic might be called for. I leave it to your instincts."

And I shall take my own steps, my sweet lust. Though it grieves me, I must enslave you, turn you into a true tool.

"And I have a final reason for sending you, Ily." Her eyes were bright on his as she slowly smiled. "Yes, indeed, my love. In the event that all else fails, you may be able to assassinate the Lord Commander — and remove his threat for good."

Of course, yours shall be an Imperial symbol of authority. A badge perhaps? Yes, an unlimited credit and authority badge. Oh, delightful, Tybalt! How diabolically ironic. As I am bound to my power, so shall you be chained to yours, Ily. Caress it, sweet lover, for it is also death!

Oblivious, her smile grew, dimpling the smooth skin of her face. Slowly her white teeth began to show and her perfect breasts heaved with stifled laughter. "My Lord, Tybalt," she chuckled, "you have chosen better than you know. Staffa kar Therma is mine!".

As you are now mine! Tybalt smiled his agreement, allowing his fingers to trace the ines of her incredible body.

The wall beside Sinklar's shoulder exploded, the concussion slapping him out into the narrow alley. Only blind instinct made him crawl into the shadows as his stunned mind sought to compensate. Jangled nerves in his ears shrieked. Through the fog left of his senses, he could hear MacRuder's and Gretta's weapons ripping the air with their cackling discharge.

A hand patted his foot; a vaguely discerned voice caled to him through the haze; he barely reacted as hands grabbed him and pulled him up. His stumbling feet seemed to work of their own volition.

"What?" he asked, thinking it odd that his own voice

scarcely penetrated the shimmering fog. "What? Where are we? What's wrong?"

He remembered a doorway, steps that he suffered to climb in a dark winding staircase, supporting arms, and a small room behind a shattered door. He remembered wanting to vomit, dizziness, falling. and never hitting the

bottom.

Sinklar lay on a slab of freezing marble. He couldn't turn his head because someone was sawing his skull open to get at the brain, but he knew that his beautiful mother lay on one side, his father on the other. His body trembled with the vibration of the saw and he looked up — into Anatolia Daviura's wondrous blue eyes.

POK-BAAM! Concussion and falling dust brought Sinklar back from the muzzy gray dreams. The vibrations that his dream interpreted as a saw came from the floor he lay on.

"Damnation!" A sharp male voice stirred his memory as he fought to open eyes glued tight with rheum. Something sounding like tearing linen identified itself in his mind as a blaster being fired: Air molecules reacting with particles.

Silence.

He rubbed his face with encrusted fingers and rolled over, hearing grit crunch under his armor. Every bone felt pulled out of joint. The dull ache that had filled his dreams shot hot and angry through his head.

"Rotted Gods," he gasped. "What the. "

"Shut up," a woman's voice hissed from somewhere.

He blinked into the gloom to clear his sight. Rain pelted through half a roof to spatter on splintered timbers, crumbled masonry and sagging flooring. One ear seemed dead. Targa! The bombing, the flight through Kaspa to try and find their forces, the ambush… it all came back.

So black. A fragment of his memory stimulated him to reach for the IR visor. It slid halfway down and caught, leaving the world eerily half-visible. He had to tug it the rest of the way; but he could see. MacRuder huddled near a wrecked window, assault rifle ready, searching the blackness and storm. Gretta crouched by the blasted doorway, covering the stairs as she squinted down the sights of her assault rifle.

His bladder angrily demanded to be emptied.

A lance of violet light erupted from the stairway and out through the missing portion of roof. Sinklar understood. The Targans had blown it away. Gretta waited.

He tried to swallow. His tongue stuck in the dryness and gagged him. He felt for the water flask and pulled the flattened pieces from his belt. That was when he noticed his combat armor — blood caked, horribly battered with bits of metal and masonry siding sticking out at angles. The armor had saved his life.

Unabashed, he moved to the depths of the room and urinated against the remaining wall. MacRuder's rifle spurted a short rip into the darkness.

He crawled over to where rain had collected on the dirty floor and sucked up as much as he could from the pool that had formed. Grit stuck in his teeth; a foul aftertaste slimed his tongue. But soothing moisture trickled down his raw throat.

He rolled onto his back and let the rain wash his hot fevered face.

"How you feeling?" MacRuder asked, voice flat, emotionless.

"Like somebody pulled me through a singularity — sideways," Sinklar rasped. "What's the situation?"

" 'Bout as good as last time. Bad. We're up here and they can't get us until they bring up some heavy stuff. I don't think that'll be long either. Something's moving around down there." MacRuder didn't take his eyes off the streets below.

"They tried the steps twice," Gretta added. "I taught them better."

"This is a tower of some kind?" Sinklar asked, seeing bits of roofs through the blown away sections of wall.

"Yeah, take the high ground." MacRuder ran a muddy hand over his IR visor to smear at the rain. "Another great military axiom from Academy."

Sinklar crawled over to look. Their tower stood at the point of a V-shaped block. Across the street from them, and down, rain slashed the slanted roof for a subterranean warehouse access. Two poles supported a drooping banner advertising storage rates and the comm number to contact for information.

"What kind of night vision are they using? Active or passive?" Sinklar began pulling at his equipment belt. The concussion had hopelessly smashed most of the gear.

"Passive. Must be some sort of light amplifying system."

"Got a grenade left?"

"One. Why?"

"Want to get out of here before they set up whatever they've got that's big enough to blow us away?"

"You bet your rosy red rectum, scholar. What you got in mind this time?"

"Simple physics."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm hoping gravity still works. Only we have to create a diversion and blind them for at least thirty seconds."

"I see, passive night vision, huh? And I'll bet you can swipe a flare from Gretta, too."

Sinklar checked his ruined equipment and cursed under his breath. Scrambling, he crawled painfully to where Gretta Artina crouched to cover the stairway. "I need your flare unit and your survival cable."

"Got a plan? Heard you whispering with MacRuder over there. How you feeling?" She barely took time to glance at him before she sighted down the black stairwell again.

"They don't make words that gruesome," he whispered, taking the articles she pulled from her belt. "One ear doesn't work. Shattered the tympanic membrane, I think. That and I feel like I've been strained through a Myklenian wine filter. Everything aches."

"Yeah, well — listen, get us out of this mess, and I'll massage every square inch of your body." She gave him a quick grin and a wink.

"Maybe we'll just settle for dinner, huh?" he added lamely, aware of how unsettled he was by her attention.

"Just dinner?"

"Well, it's that I… You see, I was always involved with my studies and…" He didn't need this — not now! He turned to scuttle away only to feel her hand on his arm.

"Rotted Gods! You're a virgin

"Shhh! Someone might hear. Besides, what about MacRuder?"

"We'll talk about that later, scholar. For now, I like your style. You go to work. If we live through this, I'm going to turn your starship inside out!" She slapped him on the elbow to get him moving.

His muscles were trembling in protest by the time he made it back to MacRuder's crumbling window.

"Virgin, huh?"

"Why me? Here, hold onto this." He handed one end of the survival line to MacRuder. "She didn't have to bellow it all over the Gods' cursed city!" He made a knot and tied MacRuder's end off to one of his belt grapples. An angular chunk of mortar gave him the weight he needed and he used a piece of loose wire to bind it to the grapple.

"Now what?"

"Now I wish I'd spent more time at apple ball than at books." Sinklar frowned across the distance.

"So, what do you need? I used to pitch six-forty in league play."

"I should have known. Throw it over and between those poles." Sinklar handed him the grapple-wired mortar.

MacRuder made a perfect toss. The mortar carried the grapple across the space and tore loose from the thin wire when the line snapped taut. The grapple fell neatly behind the banner. Reeling the line in, it caught in the bottom of the fabric.

"Hope it don't tear," MacRuder grunted.

"Makes two of us," Sinklar agreed. "Get ready. Lift your IR visor or it will blind you just as bad as them when I light the fire. Understand the principle?"

"Yeah."

Crawling to the stairway, Sinklar sent Gretta after MacRuder. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his rifle and fired a series of bursts down into the blackness, blowing out the few bits of wall left from Gretta's defense. Blasting the mortar away opposite him, he prayed the roof wouldn't fall in and tossed the grenade out on a fifteen second fuse. He ripped his IR visor up, plucked up the flare pistol, and shot each of the flares up through the holes in the roof as he ran.

The bright light left him squinting. Gretta took hold and jumped, sliding down the line. MacRuder gripped the cable,

swallowing hard. The flares lit the surroundings, exposing running figures

in the street.

"Go!" He shoved MacRuder out and grabbed the line. He made sure his rifle was slung and umped out into open space, feeling friction from the line heating his gloves.

Gretta caught MacRuder and pulled him onto the narrow roof. Sinklar slid down on top of them. At that instant the grenade sundered the top of the tower, showering debris on the streets below. Angry shouts carried in the night. In a split second decision, he raised his feet, plowed into both of them, and they all slid, clattering down the rain-wet tin roof in a tangle of limbs as blaster fire ripped the night. One of the poles holding the tattered banner shattered.

"Run!" Sinklar growled, grabbing Gretta's hand and pounding off across the roof, jumping cable housing, ventilation pipes and recirculation fans. He could hear MacRuder thudding along behind. At each step, his head threatened to explode. Lances of agony tore up his frayed nerves and seared the bottom of his brain.

The clouds grayed with dawn, casting weak light where they huddled, shivering, on a mining laser supply company roof. They waited, belly down, mostly covered by a brick chimney. Cold, wet, and hungry, Sinklar studied the faces of his companions. "Hell of a rescue."

"Think they'll ever come to get us?" Gretta wondered, eyes baggy. Her face had streaked with mud and grime, etched by the places where sweat had run from beneath her helmet. A tangle of curly brown hair hung to one side of her face. Almost enough to mar her beauty — almost.

"Been two days," MacRuder sighed, red-rimmed eyes haggard. "That long since the bastards hit us."

"I'm out of charge for my rifle," Gretta said, curiously unconcerned.

"I'm close to out," MacRuder confided. "Maybe a shot or two left."

"And here comes trouble." Sinklar struggled weakly to get his rifle up as men streamed out along one side of the building. His first shot took a man's leg off.

MacRuder got a hit as the pursuers went to ground. "That's it. Gun's dead!"

"I'll hold them while I can." Sinklar squinted, seeing how perilously low his own weapon registered.

"Hey, Sink," MacRuder called. "I know I gave you a lot of grief for being. well, you know, different. I mean all your book learning kept us alive. Thanks, buddy."

Gretta added with a grin, "Get us out of this alive, Sinklar, and I swear, I'll kiss you on the spot and marry you to boot!"

"Yeah, right!" He blew a vent tube apart and killed the man hiding behind it. A whiff of smoke went up. Something in his mind reacted to that. What was it he should know about.

"Mac? Stil got your flare unit?" A sudden thought began to nag at him. Yes, that was it. Just a chance to even the odds a little.

"Here." He felt the flare unit pressed into his hand. Blaster bolts and the eerie tingle of pulse beams whirring around his head, Sinklar settled the flare tube on his rifle and fired a phosphorous flare into the exposed roof lining. Immediately, it began to billow black smoke as yellow flames licked out of the burning chemical. The roofing crackled and ignited.

"So they get us," Sinklar declared dully. "We'll keep them occupied for a while."

He got two more before they pulled the circle tight. A blaster bolt clipped his helmet and stunned him. Gretta and MacRuder tried to burrow into the roof, knives in their hands in the off hope anyone proved stupid enough to get close.

The roof jumped from a thundering blast. Big stuff here already? What for? Three marines with empty assault rifles?

A man screamed. The roof jumped and heaved again.

Ready to die, Sinklar blinked his eyes and swallowed dryly. Dazed from the hit to his helmet, he roared his rage and stood. Reeling on his feet, he sprayed blaster fire across the roof as men ran through swirls of smoke. Huge sections of the burning roof ripped and tore under heavy blaster fire. He was still bellowing, unaware his rifle had emptied, when the patrol craft settled next to him.

He turned, trigger still pressed to charge the armored vehicle — only to have MacRuder pull him down, shouting

in his good ear, "It's one of ours! Sink, they're on our side! They saw the

smoke and came to investigatr'

The Itreatic Asteroids: No more than tumbling rock, they had been the guts of a giant planet that had been sundered more than a half billion years ago. No one knew if the records of the first human scientists who had come to the Itreatic Asteroids still existed. Originally intrigued at the dense metal concentrations, they had determined exactly what gravitic forces had ripped the giant ancestral planet apart and spread the pieces far and wide to mingle with the suddenly homeless moons. Now the Itreatic Belt formed a giant band of dust and debris that circled the Twin Titans— a system composed of a pulsating RR Lyrae-type binary. The terrestrials had studied the suns — spectrally so poor in metals compared to the Itreatic Asteroid Belt — made their notes, and vanished into the curvature of time and space.

The blue giants continued to blast out immense light and radiation, sufficient to provide the Itreatic Asteroids with enough energy to support a colony on the metal-rich chunks of rock and free-tumbling crater-pocked moons. To them, Staffa kar Therma had originally come. With his wealth, he had hired the engineers, equipment, and technicians to build a colony. With mirrors they channeled and condensed the actinic light of the Twin Titans and melted and smelted some of the best alloys in Free Space. Zero g negativeatmosphere labs manufactured high temperature syalon ceramics stronger than the finest alloy steels. His labs had developed epitaxial fabrication and nanotechnology in order to craft thallium oxide superconductors so sophisticated that no one in Free Space could reproduce them, let alone offer a competitive product. The only n-faceted gallium arsenide computer components came from Staffa's labs.

To that far corner of Free Space — strategically blocked on three sides by the Forbidden Borders — the Lord Commander brought his fleets for rest and relaxation. Staffa's private domain — the Itreatic Asteroids had become a fortress haven.

Staffa sat in the command chair, watching as Chryslas null-singularity drive unbent the universe around the battle-

ship. Ahead, the Twin Titans appeared, a welcome beacon to calm the torments and doubts with which the Praetor had saddled him. The newly familiar mood swings continued to plague him as his mind sought equilibrium. Fatigue lay like a sodden weight on his soul. Where once he'd been of a single mind, doubt now vied with guilt and depression, then, within hours, he'd experience giddy optimism. With each mood swing, his brain would access forgotten neural pathways, behaviors triggered by the chemical codes.

/ could control it with drugs, but what would I do to myself? Am I nothing more than a machine — a monster? And if my son still lives? What legacy can I give him?

His gray eyes shifted to the screens to see the rest of the fleet, including the damaged Jinx Mistress, flickering into existence behind the flagship. It would be good to rest. The Myklene campaign — while short and succinct — had drained each and every crewmember. A tangible tension had crackled in the very air as they approached the target. Never had the Companions challenged the might of so great a power as Myklene. Success had hinged on a rapid all-or-nothing strike calculated to paralyze the mighty Myklenian fleet and demoralize the Praetor's huge defenses. That long jump in from Sassa had left even the best of friends emotionally wrung out.

"First Officer, alert the monitors." Staffa slouched in the command chair, elbow propped on one gray-clad knee. He could see where First Officer Lynette Helmutt leaned back in the comm chair, eyes closed in that semitrance of mental communication with the ship's computers.

The first officer's voice, instead of issuing from her throat and mouth, came through the comm speakers. Similarly, she had heard Staffa's voice through the ship's pickups. "Monitors alerted, Lord Commander. Deceleration initiated at 40 g. Consequent Delta V dump sequences initiated. We're roger 001 on course relay. Monitors report condition green at home and welcome back."

"Acknowledged, First Officer, send my regards." Staffa fingered the growth of beard that had begun to crop up on his cheeks. How long had it been since he'd had a beard? Thirty years? More? Time had treated him in such a manner that memories consisted of a kaleidoscopic rush of events and places and fights and political negotiations. All that is,

except that brief time he'd shared with Chrysla and the briefer moments with his infant son.

Time: the implacable foe — the greatest of allies. The growth of beard signaled a reminder that he'd need a treatment again before time sucked him up and spit him out an old man.

In the medical section of his labs in the Itreatic Asteroids, a large N-matrix computer held his personal body code. From it, growth hormone boosters were produced and injected in the bloodstream. Genetically perfect polymerase VII would be released along with an ionizing mutation antigen that would tag suspicious cells and repair mutated DNA. From his blood serum an antibody count and identification program would catalog any new antigens, determine their beneficence or evil, and clone antibodies to remove deleterious elements from his system. Such procedures kept him looking a healthy thirty — despite his eighty-seven years out and about in space.

He plucked absently at the stubble on his cheeks. Immortality assumed that life had a purpose. Which in turn assumed that continuing to live advanced that purpose. Given those assumptions, what could there be to life that he — the individual living it — did not immediately understand? Or could it be that simple survival was the only purpose for living — or the universe for that matter.

He pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. "Praetor, I. "

He got to his feet, gray cloak swirling about him. "First Officer, you have the helm. I will be in my quarters should you need me."

"Acknowledged, Lord Commander," the bridge speaker told him tonelessly.

He paced through the bridge hatch, choosing to walk the distance to his quarters instead of riding the shuttle. Who would his son be? Would he have Chrysla's beauty? Her glowing amber eyes? Would the young man look like him? Strapping, keen of mind? Or is he as deadly as I am — as single-minded of purpose. as cold and heartless?

"Staffa? What's the matter with you?" He sighed, seeking the key to his troubled thoughts.

Caught in his musings, he didn't notice Skyla as she

walked from the gymnasium, freshly showered, pale skin still flushed with the heat of heavy exercise.

"Everything all right?" she asked, matching his stride.

"I was pondering serious questions."

"Such as?"

He took a deep breath, staring into the depths of her crystal blue eyes. Fragments of memories swirled in his mind. Still he hesitated.

"Staffa, you're not yourself these days. It worries me. One minute you're sharp as a molecular edge, the next you're drowning in self-pity. You hide it very well, but I've made a habit out of studying you, learning how you think. I didn't make it to Wing Commander by my good looks. You want to tell me what's eating at you?"

At his reluctance, she shook her head in frustration. "Look, if you can't talk to me, who else is there? And beside that, when you act like this, I worry about the implications it will have on the command."

"Skyla, do you ever wonder why we're here?" He stopped before the hatch to his quarters. "Are we just accidents? Just organic moecules? Simple polypeptide strands hooked together like some intricate graphite sculpture? Where do we come from? Why do we have the shape we do? What purpose does it serve that we are born, grow, learn, struggle, sire, and finaly die? Is it only to produce the next generation' that we do so?" He palmed his hatch and gestured her inside.

"Sure, I've wondered. I just never thought I could find the answers. That's for people like the Seddi, I guess."

He spun around as soon as they passed the second hatch. "I Gods Rotted can't sleep anymore!" He shook his head. "I can't concentrate, can't think. All the ordered discipline in my mind. it's gone, turned random and chaotic. I have panic attacks for no reason. I start to sweat, can't breathe. I get dizzy and feel a pain in my chest. I suffer from bouts of clinical depression. So, yes, you're right. My ability to command is suspect."

She stood hip-shot, watching him soberly from beneath lowered brows. "Staffa, you've been different ever since Myklene. Sassa and Rega teeter on the brink of war. You've got to have every one of your wits about you. Pharmaceuticals can control what you're experiencing, you

know. But it's more than that. The Praetor did something, said something,

didn't he?"

"Pragmatic to the last, Skyla?"

"Damn right I am!" She shrugged it off and added quietly. "I know a little about physical psychology. When we get back, will you take something to keep your brain chemistry in balance? I'm worried about you, and I guess you. well, you're the only friend I've got."

Where did that anxiety in her voice come from? What fed that pained expression of hers? Rotted Gods, she really did care. The thought of it left him off balance. In defense, he stared at the incongruous fireplace.

She stood motionless, waiting.

He rubbed nervous hands together as he turned to face her. "I… I dream of odd things. You see, the old man picked the lock on some hidden box in my mind. Long ago I found that he'd set mental booby traps in my brain. Psychinstalled trip switches with hypnotic suggestions to unhinge me — to suddenly rob me of confidence or to bring sudden indecision, I found them over the years. One by one, I sorted out the subtle mental markers and deactivated them. Then on Myklene I learned the extent of the tampering he'd done to my mind. All right! I see it in your eyes. I'll drop by the psychiatric center and get a prescription."

Skyla exhaled her relief. "I understand why you killed him."

"Do you? What are the answers to those questions I asked in the corridor, Skyla? Is there a purpose to this life we lead? Are we doing anything but metabolizing, procreating, and surviving?"

She stalked across the rug, arms crossed defensively. "In my life — until I joined the Companions — I had to scramble to stay alive. For me, survival was everything. Maybe it still is. I try not to worry beyond a full belly, a warm secure bed, and a whole skin. If somebody has to get shot, I do my damnedest to make sure it's the other guy. What's more important than that?"

" don't know. Perhaps that's what I want to find out." He gave her a speculative glance. "Didn't you have someone when you were a kid… a family? A mother who held you? Relatives?"

She laughed bitterly. "Yeah! Sure! My mother was a

prostitute. She died when I was four. Or was I five? I did chores for the Sylene cribs until I was twelve. That's when I was sold — despite my free status. A most noble and generous man Stryker was. Even after my life in the cribs I wasn't ready for him. He bought me, raped my virginity away, and used me like a… Well, never mind. Careless of him. He should never have left an energy blade within my reach. I think the death warrant they put out on me is still valid.

"So I got to the street, and, by the Gods, I survived. I spent the days in hiding, the nights in running — anything to keep out of the clutches of the slavers and the police. That's where I learned the assassin's trade. I was young, pretty. They never believed an innocent like me could be a threat. I lived cold, hungry, and scared. and then I saw one of the Companions walking boldly down the main avenue."

She smiled, her expression softening. "Oh, Staffa, how I admired that bright uniform, the way those mining pigs shuffled to get out of his way. Even the bulls — the cops— moved away and saluted." She tilted her head, the whitegold of her braided hair hanging to one side. "It was old Mac Rylee, out on the town, looking for the best whorehouse planetside, as usual."

"I take it you conned him somehow or another?" Staffa remembered Rylee, the Companions' greatest barroom brawler.

"Sure did. Cut his purse right off his belt and handed it back to him. Told him that whoever he was, he needed my services."

"And he immediately tried to bed you!"

"And never succeeded." She grinned mischievously, azure eyes shining. "As a woman looking to make her way to the top, you never bed the man whose favor you'd win. You make it by being one hundred percent better than anyone else. Where another man would work four hours, you work eight."

"It paid off. You made it." He fingered one of the trophies on the wall. "I took a chance on you. I thought you had the right instinct for command. Do you have a conscience, Skyla? Do the things we've done ever haunt you? Does it bother you that so much blood is on our hands?"

She studied him, lips pursed. "I've always accepted your

goals as being legitimate. There have been times in the past when I've been unable to fathom your logic, but as things unfold I see the strategy behind it. Honestly, I can't see any other way to unite humanity than through warfare."

"The ends justify the means in your eyes."

"I never knew you involved yourself in questions of teleological ethics. Did some Seddi mystic get a hold of you? Is that why you've started asking questions like that?"

He settled down on the scarlet couch. "The enigmatic Seddi." The key to the whereabouts of my son. But how do I contact them? How can I ask them — who have tried so hard to assassinate me all these years — for help?

She straightened her legs and considered her words before speaking. "I knew one, an old man. At the time, he was running for his life, too. Gone to ground in the streets like so many of the rest of us criminal types. They wanted to kill him because he was Seddi. Authorities don't like radicals, especially if they're preaching human liberation. The bulls almost caught him once. They got a shot into him — low power. I got him away and cared for him until he died. He told me things I didn't believe. Things about how they talked to beings of light and asked questions of God himself. I remember he told me as he was bleeding to death that life was only illusion. Only now really existed— and it was all tied up with the nature of the quanta. To the Seddi, the quanta are a reflection of God's thought pervading the universe. God exists in an eternal now — and time doesn't mean anything. I thought he was raving since it wasn't an illusion that had ripped his side open. He mumbled on about the quanta, and chaos, and how they reflected God's. What's wrong, Staffa?"

He barely heard her, Skyla's words bending around his sudden images of Targa and the Seddi turmoil. / must go alone. Seek out the Seddi by myself. Any other way would be disastrous. And along the way, I can learn to deal with my new self, learn what it means to be human.

"Staffa?" Skyla asked again, but he was already laying his plans.