Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 7

Skyla pushed back from her comm and tapped long fingers on the desk. She sat in her personal quarters where she'd been going through the daily reports. An unusual number of requests had been routed through her comm. By the Rotted Gods, hadn't Staffa taken care of anything?

She scowled at the monitor, then okayed projects and reports one by one. These were Staffa's responsibilities, not her. Worry built. Mental triggers? Depression? Conditioned memories and improper neural pathways? What did that imply about Staffa's ability to function as the leader of the Companions?

"He'll bring us through. He always has. and when he was under more stress than this." Despite her self-assurance, the nagging worry didn't subside.

She tapped in a request for more information on a materials request from Tap Amurka and then shut down the system. Standing, she paced for several seconds before asking the room comm, "Comm, give me a security patch. Where is Staffa right now?"

"Observation dome A-6," security replied.

Skyla pivoted on her heel and slapped her door patch. She burned up some of the frustration as she pushed herself forward with long strides. People saw her coming, recognized the look in her eyes and slipped out of the way.

She darted into the lift, slapped the controls, and stood with arms crossed, toe tapping as it hustled her across the complex. The keen edge of her anger was blunted by her anxious concern over Staffa's behavior. Damn it, of all the times for him to turn flaky, this wasn't it.

Why am I so worried about him? Because I meant it that day on Chrysla when I told him he was my best friend Rot it all.

"And you can't stand to see him this way."

She stormed into the A-6 dome to find Staffa sitting on one of the benches, staring out at the Twin Titans where they whirled around each other in a cerulean dance. The flickering of the bright light cast double shadows over the curve of the white wall behind his brooding figure.

Silently she slipped up behind him, aware of the preoccupied expression on his face. He didn't seem to notice, attention lost in his own thoughts.

"Staffa?"

He looked up then, vision clearing. "Yes?"

Skyla rubbed the back of her neck and tugged at her braid in frustration.

"I handled the daily reports. I also checked the medical records. You haven't been by psych yet. Are you still enjoying your binge as a manicdepressive?"

He smiled at that. "I suppose. No, I'm trying to deal with a new me. I'm learning, attempting to cope with who I'm becoming. I've been giving a lot of thought to the concepts of responsibility, trying to decide what I owe myself."

"What?" Damn it, Staffa, what happened to the old arrogance? The eerie premonition of trouble grew within Skyla. Give him time. He'll come around. Don't push. not yet.

"I want to know what people are like." He cocked his head, frowning. "I mean real people."

"And the Companions are made up of illusion? Ark seemed pretty real last time I looked."

"No, I mean people out there." He waved in the direction of Free Space. "You know that we'll end up ruling them, one day. You're smart enough to know what my final objectives are. But who are they? What are they like? You've known them. I haven't. I've lived all my life in a cocoon. On Myklene, I was chaperoned everywhere. I only dealt with the elite, the scholars, generals, Councillors, and scientists. I never had kids my own age to play with."

"What about when the Praetor smuggled you off planet? Weren't you on your own then?"

Staffa shrugged. "What of it? Even then I had my bodyguards — for that's all the crew was — just bodyguards to keep me out of trouble. And yes, we turned pirate for a while. Do you think I dealt with real people then? I was an armed robber, nothing more. My dealings with my victims

were at gunpoint, not exactly a social gala. Even as I began collecting the Companions, I still remained aloof. What did I care about who they were so long as they could perform. One by one, I removed the Praetor's bodyguards — for obvious reasons — and replaced them with my own security. In all my life, I've never walked down a street alone."

Skyla gave him a hard stare. "Yeah, well, don't. They'd pick you clean in a minute."

Staffa growled something to himself, and added aloud, "You and I have different thoughts concerning that. What could be different in dealing with Tybalt, or Sassa, or Roma? It's all negotiations, be they for a loaf of bread or the dispositon of an empire. Human thought patterns are the same, whether a free man's, a monarch's, or a mendicant's."

Skyla seated herself before him, taking his hands in hers. "Listen," she probed him with her blue eyes, seeing his frustration. "I've been out there. It's. Staffa, I can't explain. I guess it has to be experienced, but it's not like dealing with Sassa the God-Emperor. It's, well, the rules are different."

He nodded, but she wasn't sure he'd heard. "But people. trust, don't they? I've seen the holos where people do things without constantly… I guess I don't know how to say it."

"I think I understand. You mean like the Companions do. They have a code of behavior — shared values. Yes, and trust. Among the Companions, we care for our own, depend on each other. So do people out there, but you have to know the subtle rules of the game." She paused. "Staffa, what brought all this on?"

He glanced past her, seeing something in his mind. "My Achilles' heel."

"What?"

He gave her a ghost of a grin. "Nothing.

"Chrysla?"

He gave her a hollow look that wrenched. "Chrysla's dead."

"You don't know that."

He chuckled hoarsely. "I think I do. The source was rather explicit." His brow knitted. "You know, I've mourned her for so long it doesn't even bother me now. I

should be torn in two. but inside is only emptiness where she used to

be."

Skyla's heart skipped and she said gently, "Twenty years is a long time. What about your son?"

He glanced at her, the old steel in his eyes. "I'm going to find him. One way or another, I swear I'll do it."

"We'll find him." She wished she could mean that. After so many years and all of Staffa's resources, where else could they look?

Staffa's expression hardened. "You'll have to take responsibility for the Companions. Can you do it?"

Good. At least you know you're not one hundred percent. That makes things easier. "Of course. We've got some of the best psychological talent in Free Space here. They'll figure out what the Praetor's game was. I can handle the rest. If things get too busy, I'll delegate some tasks to Tasha." And I'll put that on record in case I have to haul you down to psych bound and gagged.

A grim smile curled his lips. "Good. I knew I could count on you."

"Always, Staffa." In more ways than you could know, and I'm going to find out what the Praetor did to you if I have to move stars and worlds to do it.

The room looked fuzzy when Sinklar first opened his eyes. He blinked to clear his vision and found himself in a medical rehab unit. Parts of his body prickled as if electricity were running through them. Most of his view of the rom was blocked by the white bulk of the machine, but he could see sickly green paint overhead. The soft murmur of voices and the periodic clicking of metal on tin trays could be heard in his good ear. A wad of cotton might have been stuffed in the other.

"About time," a familiar voice said from the side. "They said you'd be coming to about now."

"Gretta?" He turned his head and there she was, standing beside the unit, a relieved smile on her face. If anything, she looked better than he remembered. Her hair had been washed until it gleamed in the light, accenting the crystal blue of her eyes. Her skin had a healthy glow and the form-

fitting uniform did nothing to hide the seductive curves of her athletic body.

"The same. I just came by to see how you were doing. Mac's over at Division headquarters or he'd be here, too."

Sink swallowed and tried to ignore the funny feeling in his body. So many parts were numb. Nothing responded when he tried to move. Anesthetized? Or. He nerved himself and asked, "What about… I mean, am I all right? Is everything…"

She grinned, a twinkle in her blue eyes. "You're going to be fine. Everything's still attached to your body — and functional." Her manner grew serious. "And I want you to know that you and I still have a date coming."

"What about you and Mac?"

She reached up with a slim hand and pulled her long hair back. "Mac and I — we're friends Sink. I imagine we always will be. We've been through a lot." She reached down to stroke Sinklar's forehead. "Want me to be honest?"

Sinklar gave her a suspicious glance. "Well, I suppose so. I don't know. What are you talking about?"

To his immense pleasure, she continued to stroke his forehead. Her fingers felt delightfully cool. "Sink, my father is what you'd call a lower level bureaucrat on Ashtan. Until the day he dies, he'll continue to try and work his way up the ladder to be a middle level bureaucrat." She frowned. "I guess you'd say he lacks that spark, that innovative ability to seize opportunity and use it. Mac's like that. He's hard working, bright, but he'll always be the perfect lieutenant." She studied him through cool blue eyes. "I want more."

Sink wished he could squirm; unfortunately, the machine not only immobilized his body, but it pinned him in place like a biological specimen. "Why me? You're a beautiful woman. You could have anyone you wanted."

She snorted and shook her head. "Maybe I could. Did it ever occur to you that a woman might want to build a partnership with a man? I like you. You make me think. When I look into your eyes, I see a depth I don't see in many men's eyes. I think you're kind, and strong, and terribly attractive as a result. You can give me what I want out of life — and I think I can give you a lot in return. At least, I'd like the chance to find out if that's the case."

Sinklar squinted uneasily. "You make it sound terribly cold and calculating, like you were buying property or something."

Her grin brought dimples to her cheeks. "Given the way your mind works, what's a girl to do? I checked my arsenal of options and immediately discarded batting my eyes, wiggling my hips, or playing hard to get, and after what we went through, the delicate and frail female in need of protection would have come across a little silly, don't you think?"

The memory of Gretta coolly firing down a stairwell came to mind. He could recall the grim determination on her smudged face as she picked off assailants with practiced ease.

Gretta crossed her arms, leaned on the rehab unit, and studied him. "Besides, it's not like I'm making a proposal. We've got a lot stacked against us… like Targa, for one. We've got to stay alive. Second, I might not like you once I get to know you. And third, who's Anatolia?"

Sink jerked. "Huh? How could you know about her?"

Gretta lifted an eyebrow. "You talk in your sleep."

Sink felt himself blushing. "I only met her once. She's a behavioral geneticist on Rega."

"And you gave her a sample of genetic material, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"I thought you were a virgin."

"Not that kind of sample!"

"You in love with her?"

"NO!" Or was he? And if so, in love with what? A dream image?

Gretta grinned and bent down to kiss him on the forehead. "I've got to beat feet back to the barracks. I'll tell Mac you're doing fine. I checked with the staff here. They say you'll be out in another week or so." She grinned and added, "See you then. partner."

With a flip of her long brown hair, she disappeared around the curve of the white rehab unit.

"That true?" A gruff male voice asked.

"Huh?" Sink looked over at the burly man in the unit beside his.

"You really a virgin?"

Staffa slipped into the command chair of the single-seat CV courier vessel and looked up at the screen that dominated the overhead panels. Green lights glowed on each of the systems. The stat boards showed the vessel ready for spacing. Staffa powered up the reactors.

The CV consisted of nothing more than a cockpit with a small cargo bay, toilet, bunk, and canteen with a fold-out table to dispense food. The command nacelle perched at the tip of a 0.5 kilometer long tube forward of the drives. Behind the lean streamlined body, two fusion reactors rested beneath hydrogen fuel pods on either side of a large null-singularity generator. The CV had atmospheric capabilities and only the barest minimum of defensive shielding— adequate for fending off space debris and long-range intership fire.

He accessed the cargo monitor out of wary habit. The muffled shape of a big man lay tightly bound under wraps of Vermilion export canvas. Bound as he was, the captive would need an energy knife to cut his way free. Heavy straps secured the bundle against the bulkhead. Staffa's practiced eye had measured the dosage perfectly. He had taken no chances in ensuring his "passenger" wouldn't awaken until long after Staffa slipped away into the anonymous crowds portside. By the time anyone tied the Lord Commander to the hijacking of the CV, Staffa would be well on his way from Etaria to Targa — and the search for his son.

He hesitated to enter the initiation sequence as he looked up at the docking lights. That eerie sensation of premonition rilled him. He could imagine Skyla's initial panic when she realized he'd disappeared. Then she'd find the message he'd left on time delay. And, yes, she'd curse him up one side and down the other. Ah, how those azure eyes would bum — and the Rotted Gods help anyone who crossed her in that mood. A curious warmth filled Staffa's breast. She looked more beautiful when she was mad.

Pride filled him. He could leave the Itreatic Asteroids in

no more capable hands. Over the years, he'd come to depend on her, and never had it become more apparent than during the time since he'd faced the Praetor. Skyla had beefed up the security — enough that he'd had the Rotted Gods own time slipping away without security knowing. But then, a crafty fox like the Lord Commander always left himself an escape hole.

"Good-bye, Skyla. Take care of them."

He hit the clearance sequence and pressed the flight initiation program.

In the overhead screen he watched the lights and background of the dock slip away as the tractors pushed him out into the black vacuum. The square of white docking lights glared in contrast to the black skeletons of gantries and the rocky blue-gray surface of the asteroid, cratered from countless years of Itreatic bombardment.

"Son, I'm coming for you," he whispered. His expression tensed at the curious sensation of loss that deadened his soul. A tightness choked the back of his throat.

Careful, Staffa. That's emotion playing with you, dulling your judgment. Think clearly. It's all in your mind. Steeling himself, armor-suited fingers tapped course corrections into the main navigational comm. Satisfied with the mathematics, he reached up and caressed the smooth surface of the worry-cap. He could feel its subliminal warmth and pressure as he placed it on his head. Familiar sensations of the ship's movement and functions filtered tendrils into his mind.

One by one he ran through the checklist and triggered the lasers which fused hydrogen into helium in the reactors. Building thrust, he dialed the reaction to a fine stream and tightened the bounce-back collars that collided photons and particles in the reaction mass, shooting plasma rearward past lightspeed. The CV turned in a wide arc before lancing off into the interstellar depths — a violent jet of Cherenkov radiation and quantum distortion the only evidence of passage.

Myles Roma, Legate Prima Excellence of his Holiness Sassa the Second, nerved himself to smile at the honor guard of smartly dressed Companions. His stomach turned uneasily at their powerful presence. Behind each of the

stem expressions, behind the scarred faces (why didn't their medical personnel see to such disfigurements?) he just knew that they were sneering and snickering at his fat body. What did they expect? Should he appear as a starving pauper? Corpulence — in Sassa — was a sign of prosperity. Especially in times like these when so many worlds were starving.

He gave them another smile as he waddled past their tight ranks to the gravcar. And to think! Why each of them must have killed a hundred men with their cold-blooded hands alone. Not to mention the ones they had brutally blown apart. He fought his desire to shudder — and won.

It had been an honor when the Holy Sassa appointed him to this mission, but to stand face-to-face with these killers left a frightening sensation of vulnerability in his fat belly. Dealing with court intrigue on Sassa didn't compare to this.

Behind Myes Roma his band of attendants and courtiers flocked from the lock in carnival mood, happy at the chance to lord it over barbarians with their fine dress and refined manners.

Myles glanced about, seeking the Lord Commander, and stopped when a beautiful woman who stood at the head of the reception committee caught his eye and held it. His heart skipped a beat as he studied her. Hair like iced gold had been braided into a tight shimmering coil about her left arm. She wore formfitting white, stitched with glittering thread and remarkable Sylenian jewels — nothing else sparkled in so many brilliant colors. A golden choker hugged her graceful neck. With a start he recognized it to be a helmet field collar for a space suit. By the Holy Sassa, her whole outfit consisted of battle armor suitable for hard vacuum! At the same time, it displayed her body most remarkably. He tore his gaze from the swell of high breasts and let his eyes trace the narrow waist and flat belly, the swell of her hips, and then down those marvelous long, muscular legs. She had a lithe tigress look about her that fascinated him and caused his pulse to race.

He inclined his head and graced her with one of his finest smiles. She returned his greeting — and almost brazenly at that. Well, he would have to speak to the Lord Commander after they had concluded their business — or even before. What a pleasure it would be to have that incredibly beautiful woman attend to his needs. After all, the Legate admit-

ted to himself, the courtesans he'd brought with him would always be there.

This azureeyed jewel with so perfect a body would only be his so long as he was in the Lord Commander's base.

He waited patiently, eyes searching for the Lord Commander between bouts of speculation on the blonde beauty. To his surprise it was she who stepped forward when his company finally managed to organize behind him.

She walked up to the gravcar and her long-limbed grace only fueled his lust — her hips swinging just enough to entice without being blatant. Her movements, he realized, were not an affectation, but her nature. She bowed low, incredibe blue eyes meeting his without the least hesitation.

Her voice carried firmly through the room. "My Lord Myles Roma, Legate Prima Excellence to His Holiness Sassa the Second, I am Wing Commander Skyla Lyma. In the name of the Lord Commander, I bid you welcome to the holdings of the Itreatic Asteroids. As a token of the respect in which we hold His Holiness, we have taken the liberty of placing quarters at the disposal of yourself and your staff. The Lord Commander sends his regards and hopes that you will find all to your satisfaction. The Lord Commander sends his most sincere regrets and apologies as he was detained by his duties and responsibilities to the station and was unable to meet you in person. Should you need any assistance, feel free to ask for me and I shall insure your stay to be a pleasant one." She bowed again, hand to her shapely breast.

Myles Roma smiled easily. The Lord Commander was detained? Staffa did not come on the run to meet Sassa's Legate? Indeed? Did the mercenary upstart think… Or wait. Might it not be cunning on Staffa's part? Perhaps this was a means of raising the ante? A shrewd move by an expert businessman to drive a harder bargain for his services?

"We are most delighted Wing Commander. It is our pleasure to accept your fine hospitality. We look forward to long and profitable meetings with the Lord Commander and his officers. I fear, however, that it has been a tiring journey. Your offer of hospitality falls like rain on the tortured sands of Etaria and refreshes us with expectations."

She bowed again. "Then I shall not delay you Legate

Prima Excellence." She lifted a hand and the gravcar trundled past the saluting ranks of Companions and into the maze that made up the main station of Itreata. His face like a mask, Myles glanced uneasily at the polished white walls. Why do I have the feeling that she was lying?

Skyla Lyma stalked into the comm room and scowled around at the operators who bent over the banks. "Damn it! Where the hell is he?"

Monitors displayed various station functions while security personnel kept track of deep space detectors and security systems. Other technicians studied readouts from the power plants. The communications net shunted signals from all across Free Space over to the intelligence branch. As always, the place hummed, except now, Skyla could feel the tension.

One of the signal women looked up, headset covering most of a wealth of thick red hair. "Wing Commander, we've tried everywhere. I even took the liberty of sending a man to his private quarters." Her face tightened as if she fought the urge to wince. "We've got teams scouring the whole complex. Other teams are searching the factories, the storage casks, maintenance sheds. everything we can think of." She shook her head, baffled. "It's as if… as if he just dropped into hyperspace."

Skyla knotted a fist at her side, feeling foolish in the scintillating bejeweled battle armor. Worse, it reflected like a broken rainbow across the banks of computers. "Keep at it. We've got until tomorrow to get him down here to entertain that pus-gutted buffoon." Turning, she stalked out into the central corridor, caught a shuttle, and sent it streaking to her quarters.

She palmed the latch and stormed into her rooms with a boiling anger stewing in her heart. As the door snicked shut behind her, she allowed the other thoughts, the unthinkable ones, to surface. What if one of the assassins had finally gotten him? What if somehow, some way, someone had penetrated his security and. Rotted Gods, no! Her anger ebbed to be replaced by a fear she hadn't experienced in years.

She took a deep breath and held it, counting slowly until her racing pulse slowed. She unsnapped the helmet collar and ran her fingers along the sharp-angled jewels to release the suit. She peeled out of the lower half and glared at a pink welt of scar tissue running jaggedly down her leg. The healed wound had finally begun to lose the reddish tinge. Close call, that one.

To cover a budding fear, she forced herself to inspect her body in the reflective

surface of her suit rack. Not bad for thirty-five years of war and mayhem — and not a little battle damage in the process. True, some of the more damaging scars had been surgicaly corrected. And she kept herself fit — as if Staffa's Wing Commander could conduct herself otherwise.

Staff a. Where in hell are you? She moved to the comm and tried his quarters again. Worry fermented. "Damn you, Staffa. What are you doing? If this is another of your training drills…"

She dropped on the sleeping platform and laced her long legs into a lotus position. Back straight, she closed her eyes and slowly reviewed each conversation she'd had with him. Her unrest grew as she remembered his preoccupied expressions; the underlying tension in his body and posture; and the dissatisfaction in his voice.

The Praetor. It all goes back to that damned hospital room. Staffa, you can't see it because it's all in your mind. You think you're acting normally, but your thought processes are all screwed up.

She placed those thoughts to one side, called for a computer access. She scanned the medical records and cursed. She made another patch through.

"Psychology department, Andray here."

"Has the Lord Commander been in, Andray? Has he taken any of the prescriptions we talked about?"

"Negative, Wing Commander."

She cut the connection, patched through to security, and traced Staffa's every movement since she'd seen him last. She split the screen and noted each instance where Staffa had come in contact with people, asking for an update and security clearance for those personnel present. Two hours later, she'd drawn a negative. She had traced his path up to the time the Ashtan CV had left from a pharmaceutical

supply drop. Thereafter, no one had seen him. He hadn't accessed comm.

Could he have been abducted on the CV? She called up the records and watched the security files. Not once did the pilot leave the craft. Prom each of the cameras she watched the entire drop, never seeing the slightest impropriety, not even a hint of breached security.

Besides, unless they knocked him cold, not even a group of men could take the Lord Commander without a considerable disturbance. That gray combat armor could absorb a small blast. Only his head would have been vulnerable to a dart or gas.

Next she cataloged the arrival of the Sassan delegation with the same attention to detail. She even went so far as to monitor their conversations in the executive quarters she'd provided. The Legate, Myles Roma, talked nervously about Staffa's failure to meet him. She sneered when the Legate began talking about her, and shut it off when he got to the graphic details.

"Terguzzian maggot," she whispered. Unbidden, her mind formed an image of Staffa, gray eyes clear, body spare and lean. She remembered the intelligence in his eyes, the slight quivers at the corners of his mouth as he hid his humor from the others. Curiously, she recalled the way his face had looked when she had awak&ned in the hospital unit that last time. Idly she rubbed slim fingers across her palm. It came to her suddenly that he'd had his armored gloves off. His skin had been pressed against hers. How warm it had been.

She growled to kill the sensations the thought roused.

A wry smile curled her lips. Staffa — no matter how perplexing — was at least a man! Rotted Gods, am I going to have to pander to that Sassan pollution for long? If he tries to touch me, I'll break his maggot-eating neck.

"Get your thrice-cursed ass back here, Staffa!"

The Praetor… the Praetor… it all started with the Praetor. She stood and walked to her kit. The plastic cartridge felt cool as she pulled it from the bag. Turning, she walked to the dispenser where she drew a bulb of Myklene amber ale. She tapped the cartridge against her hip as she settled on the bed and cupped the ale. As she drank, she studied the gray plastic record chip in silence.

An hour later she continued to stare at the enigmatic cartridge. "If he hasn't shown up by this time tomorrow," she promised. She adjusted the gravity on the sleeping platform and ordered the light out.

Skyla stared into the darkness, rethinking each of the potential explanations for Staff a's disappearance. Aware of the tape, she realied her fingers were tapping anxiously against the fabric. Efforts at sleep proved fruitless, images of Staff a in danger drifted out of her subconscious. A deadly foreboding rose from the primitive depths of her mind:

visions of Staffa dead, his gray eyes popped from his head, blood spiraling, crystallized in decompressed corridors.

"Rot it all!" She sat up, the lights brightening at her movement. "Fantasies of the mind, Skyla. You're batty as a ring-nosed teenager!" Angered at her irresolution, she took the cartridge and slipped it into the comm. Her finger hovered over the button that would run the tape.

Before she could act, a voice from comm startled her. "Wing Commander Lyma? This is Comm Central."

"Thank God, you've found Staffa? Is he all right?"

"No, ma'am. We still haven't located the Lord Commander. We've just received communications from the security monitor beacons, ma'am. A Regan Imperial cruiser has emerged from light jump and is decelerating. They are asking for docking permission. They report they bear an official envoy from Tybalt the Imperial Seventh, and request an audience with the Lord Commander at his convenience."

"Holy Rotted Gods," she sighed wearily. "First the Sassans and now Rega." Her fingers knotted as she considered the ramifications. "Very well. Grant them permission. Let's see. Put them in at dock 16-A. That should couple with their lock design. Have staff make a blood-and-thunder preparation of the quarters — as far as you can get them from the Sassans. By the Etarian heretics, I hope they don't murder each other. If you can find any of the Companions still sober, we need another honor guard — and detail some of them to patrol the guest quarters. I don't want any trouble from either Sassa or Rega — and they'll have plenty of spies with them."

"We're on it Wing Commander. We'll keep in touch."

"Never mind. I'm getting dressed. I'll be right down."

She slipped into the jeweled armor again, pulling the tight

cloth over her legs and sealing it. Her worries about Staffa built. The two empires had reacted faster than even she had suspected. Both sides, reeling from internal strife, were anxious — unprepared though they might be — to plunge into a cataclysmic final confrontation.

A cold chill settled in her spine. She closed her eyes, biting her lip. Snapping the epaulet that held her braid in place on her shoulder, she straightened. With all space about to come loose, what would they pay for Staffa's loyalty — or his death?

As she palmed the door latch she demanded of the empty air, "Damn you, Staffa, where are you?

Ily Takka luxuriated in the bubbling hot water of the bath. The decadent opulence of Itreata had taken her by complete surprise. She'd expected some Spartan asteroid base with minimal gravity, slightly unbalanced miners bouncing off the walls, and hydroponic yeast cakes for food. Itreata, it turned out, had been built in a planetoid, a rogue moon — with 0.8 gravities and all the amenities of Rega — if not more.

Dy had more or less expected the presence of the Sassan envoy. That they had arrived first constituted a minor annoyance — but nothing more. That Staffa had failed to meet her at the dock, however, caused her unease. A clever move on his part, no doubt, which would be explained soon enough.

She swirled the water, letting her long black hair cover her breasts like an ebony mantelet. It amused her that her attendants — all male — suffered between their desire to stare and their fear of who and what she was. She got distinct pleasure from their discomfort and wondered if Staffa were watching.

On that odd chance, she purposely adopted a position meant to entice. Saucily, she moved through the water, displaying her perfect body, allowing her hair to wrap around her in a sensuous mist.

She ran the reception through her mind. Not badly done for having been called to order so quickly. The Companions had been truly impressive with their scars and their hard-

eyed gazes. One or two had been weaving on their feet. More than one had openly stared, allowing admiration to slip through their warrior's glare. All in all, it had affected her more than if they'd all been letter perfect. These were men — fighters first, not parade ground martinets — and they made no bones about it.

Ily shifted and stood up, allowing the water to drain off her as she threw her head back and filled her lungs. And what, pray tell, was the relationship between Wing Commander Lyma and Staffa kar Therma? Lovers? If so, Skyla would be a potential rival.

Ily stepped from the bath and into the fresher, enjoying the sensations of warm air on her skin. Dry, she allowed her men to dress her, almost laughing aloud. They fumbled over her, trying to do the job without touching her sacrosanct flesh. Using their confusion and orchestrated mistimings, she watched their expressions turn ghastly as their hands accidentally brushed her. Each drew back as if her flesh were fire; a tiny sadism she delighted in.

Her meeting with Skyla Lyma had been brief but disconcerting. She'd met that bow and looked into those of icy crystal blue eyes. This Skyla Lyma was no hot-squeezing bed fluff. Rather, Ily felt she had met a worthy opponent. Lyma had met her gaze with an equally measuring one that controlled and challenged; and that, Ily decided, could have an effect on the way she manipulated the Lord Commander. If the blonde wench were his lover as well as his military confidante, Ily's plans would have to be adjusted accordingly.

A subte tension had radiated from Skyla Lyma. Ily paused, finger on chin, brow creased. The Wing Commander had been unsettled — and not just by an unexpected visit from Rega. The very air in the station rippled with unease — with suspense. Coupled with the fact that Staffa had not come to greet her, that bespoke trouble of some kind. Among the troops? No, the Companions had stood easily and unconcerned. Rather, it had been among the officers and administrators. A political problem? And the Sassans had just arrived? Divided loyalties among the upper echelons perhaps? Some wishing to go Sassan — some siding with Rega?

Ily Takka's perfect mouth flickered momentarily in a sati-

sfied smile. Trouble meant leverage to a woman with her skills. Leverage meant advantage could be taken. Power may be up for grabs here — and I will-have it!

No, things in the Itreatic Asteroids were not going to go as smoothly as she and Tybalt had hoped. Of course, if the Wing Commander proved as formidable as she appeared, a drop of thrakis would solve that. Thrakis was a rare poison, and dreadfully expensive, but it left no traces which an autopsy could detect.

Bruen walked out among the trees, his steps crunching the long pine needles underfoot. The wind whispered among the branches overhead and he filled his nostrils with the vanilla scent of the pine-laden air. As he had hoped, Arta Fera stepped into view on the trail. She wore a loose black dress that didn't hide the charms of her young body. The leather belt at her waist held a olstered pistol— required dress for all Seddi now that revolt swept Targa. Shadows dappled her fine features and the sunlight that filtered through the pines gleamed in her chestnut hair.

Bruen stopped and rubbed a frail hand over his aching hip as he stared up through the green limbs to the little patches of sky. How pleasant the day had turned out. He caught Arta's shy greeting smile and turned to walk with her in silence until they entered a grassy meadow.

All in all, she'd been progressing beyond expectations. In the last five standard years, she'd had an entire education inserted in her fertile brain. Each day, she spent four hours under a brain cap, taking direct information from the Mag Comm. And what else has the machine implanted? What errifying secret might it have left triggered to a word or action?

Bruen had carefully reviewed each of her lessons from the tape. But, of course, he had no guarantee the Mag Comm didn't hold something back.

"You look pensive, dear girl." Bruen tried to stretch a friendly smile over his age-battered features as he caught the anxiety in her expression.

She pushed her red-brown hair back when the breeze teased it. "How do I tell you what I think, Magister? I don't

know myself. I… I'm confused. From the time I was a child. Well, they taught me to dedicate myself to the Blessed Gods. Now you tell me I am to be an assassin? It's. it's just inconceivable. If I didn't know you and trust your wisdom so, I'd…" She shook her head, mouth tight with frustration.

He nodded as he glanced up at the fluffy white clouds that drifted over the ridge-broken western horizon. "Why did the Etarians have you scrubbing the floors, dear girl? You're much too precious for that. It's a poor use for pulchritude at best."

Arta blushed and looked down; her fingers caressed the cool black fabric of her dress. "I was under penalty for unseemly behavior, Magister. I–I raised my voice when the High Priest turned my initiation down in favor of another."

How far can I push her? Is she ready for the next step?

He cackled angrily. "Hah! Etarians! And a good thing it was too, dearest. Don't you know they auction the girls for their 'initiation'? It's a gang rape, you know."

"Magister! It is not! It's the Blessing of the Service ritual!" She puffed in exasperation. "We all looked forward to the consecration of our bodies to the service of the Blessed Gods!"

"They auction you children off to the highest bidder," he corrected, voice tart. "It so happens your consecration coincided with the arrival of a Sassan Vicar. He liked darkskinned girls with more, um, more ample bodies than yours. The Blessed High Priest knew that if he'd auctioned you, he'd take a loss over what they could get on a more marketable piece of meat."

"You make it sound like. like whoremongering! You're blaspheming the Sacred Rites! It's a lie!"

"Whoremongering? I couldn't have said it better." He observed the sudden change in her eyes.

"You don't know! We serve the Goddess. What better way than by bringing pleasure to a man?"

"For a price, dear Arta, for a price. Isn't that what whores do? Wrapping it up in the silken gauze of religion is nothing more than—"

"Damn you, Bruen! Shut your lying mouth!" Her eyes glazed in amber fury and her face twisted.

Yes, she is ready. I can do no more with her. The time

has come to send her to Butla. Oh, Bruen, you doddering senile fool, you will miss her, too. You're too old for revolution.

Bmen pointed down to the pulse pistol that had centered on his belly, safety off. Color washed from her face, her mouth dropping open. The pistol, so rock-steady before, began to tremble before it fell clattering from er lifeless fingers.

"Call it what you will," he said, humbly, picking the weapon up and clicking the safety on before handing it back to her. "Not only would you raise your voice to the High Priest, you would have clawed the fat girl's eyes out."

The anger still smoldered, though tempered by shame. "Normally, Magister, I don't lose my temper like that."

"Oh?" A withered eyebrow went up. "Remember the day I told you you would make an excellent assassin? Itreatic teaching machines are very expensive. and extremely difficult to obtain, I might add. I most vehementy obect to you smashing such precious computers against large rocks. I believe it was a previously established fact that rock is more durable than n-dimensional superconductor. Fydor has tried valiantly to save bits and pieces, but he says the gallium arsenide chips are hopelessly fractured."

Her shouders fell along with her gaze. "I'm sorry. I… Oh, Rotted Gods, nothing, forget it! Wy am I so confused? What's happening to me?"

He chuckled gently and lifted her chin with a fragile finger. "It is that temper, dearest, which is your strength."

And it is that temper we have worked so hard to channel and dam in that beautiful mind of yours. Still, quantum func tions affect the mind. An unlucky random event, and the carefully set trigger could snap, initiating a catastrophic explosion. I must watch myself more closely. She is so very sensitive to sexual stimuli.

His arm around her shoulder, he led her to an unevenly canted bench under a sweeping Ponderosa branch. "Here, sit. Let's talk about assassination and death."

She pulled her long legs up under her robe. "I'm not even sure I could come right out and kill a person. I've never even killed a. "

"But I have, haven't I?" He glanced away, taking a deep breath. "You've learned all we can teach you here.

We're sending you to someone who can give you what we can't."

"Sending me away?"

He smiled to still her sudden panic. "He's the best, Arta. The time has come for you to learn from a master."

She closed her eyes. "Why, Magister? Why me? What makes you think I'll be an assassin?"

"Because it's your talent. You know the goals of the Seddi. You know how the universe works. The dance of the quanta are the reflection of God's thoughts — neither good nor evil. Those concepts are the creation of the human mind. To improve the lot of humanity, we must act to replace the tyrants who oppress the human condition with those who would nurture it and stop the suffering. Assassination is but one of the ways to achieve that end. More than once, you've asserted your desire to help us free humanity from the tyrants. Do you wish to renounce your vows? You can, you know. Simply tell me."

She shook her head. "No. I've studied the history too well. I know what's happened in the last two centuries."

He nodded sagely. "Yours is a special talent. We've seen it in you from the beginning."

"How do you know all this about me? Of all the people on all the worlds, do you watch each of them?"

His face crinkled into corduroy. "I wish we could. In your case, dearest girl, one of our agents spotted your fiery spirit the day you were sold to the Etarians. We spend a lot of time watching the slave markets. The potential there is surprising. The most interesting people sell their children into slavery."

She thought about that. "And do you know who my parents were?"

"Many people — in this wretched age of ours — have lost their parents."

She shuddered and jerked her head in a quick nod.

"You're fine as you are, precious Arta." He paused and pushed her away, seeing the upheavals his words had created. "Ah, to be young again. Maybe I could allow my virtue to slide and take advantage of your confusion? It's been so long since I've ravished a 'nice' girl! Since you don't approve of my dalliances with prostitutes—"

"Magister! You never give up!" she laughed nervously, color rising in her alabaster flesh.

"No, dearest, I never do." And if you could only know the curse of those words.

Andray Somsen sat before the monitor in Skyla's quarters with a foot pulled up so he could brace his chin on his knee. For long moments after the record cube Skyla had taken from the Myklenian hospital had played out, he sat in silence, a pensive frown on his blunt face.

Unable to stand it any longer, Skyla asked, "Well?"

Andray took a deep breath and gave her a sidelong look out of languid brown eyes. "How did you get the courage to play that tape? Knowing it was taken of the Lord Commander in a very private moment?"

Skyla bristled. "I didn't bring you up here to analyze me. I want to know what the Praetor did to Staffa in that hospital room."

Andray worked his lips and made a clicking noise with his mouth. "You know, I've made a study of Staffa — on the sly, of course. His coldly dispassionate approach to problems has always intrigued me. Hearing the Praetor call him a machine was very enlightening." Andray's eyes gleamed as he met her hot glare. "He was, you know."

"Was? Past tense?"

Andray nodded. "Computer, replay, please. Wing Commander, watch closely. This is fascinating. A study in psychological brilliance."

Skyla watched the scene in the hospital as Staffa and the Praetor talked.

"Freeze." Andray gestured at the monitor. "Here's where the Praetor gives the first clue about what he's done. He tells Staffa, 'I am your creator.' And this second claim, 'What a master forges, so can he break,' that's significant. Look at the old man. He's gloating, assured of success at what should be his last and most bitter moment in life— he's practically gleeful instead."

"And Staffa misses it all. He should be growing wary at this point." Skyla shook her head. "That's not like him."

Andray smiled humorlessly. "Precisely. You see, Staffa

has already begun to fall into the trap. The Praetor sprung it with the word 'creator.' With that, he pulled the first brick from the dam that bottled Staffa's emotions. Now, watch what happens."

The cube resumed its play.

"The Praetor brags again about his ability to destroy Staffa," Andray told her. "He sets him up, knowing full well how thorough the conditioning is in Staffa's mind. See? He's laying the foundations for guilt which will eat at the Lord Commander once the hypnotic conditioning is broken."

"Freeze," Skyla ordered, pointing at the screen. "What about this business of 'the people.' What's the Praetor trying to do here?"

Andray tugged at his ear. "It's a setup, a trap. No matter what, Staffa still respects the Praetor — and his old mentor is telling Staffa that he has a flaw. You know the Lord Commander as well as anyone, Wing Commander. What will his response be?"

"He'll act immediately to correct the deficiency." Skyla's gut crawled. "Blessed Gods, of course!"

Andray cocked his head. "That strikes a chord, does it?"

"He pumped me about. going out among the people." She propped herself against the desk, eyes closed. "That's what he's done. Staffa, you fool! You played right into his hands!"

"But he doesn't know that," Andray told her mildly. "This next part is critical. Chrysla and the infant have obsessed Staffa for years. Remember, his emotional responses were suppressed, inhibited, so Chrysla and the child became mythic in Staffa's mind. Therefore when the Praetor admits that he not only took Staffa's only happiness from him, but sold his son and enslaved and raped his wife, that pulls the final brick from the wall and the whole thing tumbles into nibble before an unleashed tide of conflicting emotions that Staffa doesn't have the ability to deal with."

"He didn't turn into a blubbering idiot," Skyla protested.

"Of course not. His brain has been trained to deal with problems in a highly sophisticated logical sequence — a left brain approach, if you will. Those established neural pathways kept him from going berserk, but those old behaviors

wont dominate forever. His brain is flooded with new stimuli that affect his ability to make decisions."

Skyla crossed her arms, teeth grinding. "Worse? Until he goes completely mad? Is that what you're trying to tell me? That Staff a…"

"No, Skyla." She tensed at the feel of his hand on her arm. "Think of it this way. As a result of the Praetor's tampering, Staffa has lived most of his life with half of a personality. Now, all of a sudden, the other half of himself has been released. The brain is a remarkable and plastic organ. There's an excellent chance that he'll be able to integrate this and come out stronger for it."

"An excellent chance? Not a certainty?"

Andray's gaze didn't waver.

Skyla gasped her frustration and paced nervously across the room. "And those last mental triggers? The ones hidden in the personality centers of the brain?"

"The last round in the Praetor's aresenal. He knew he had Staffa in shambles already. That was the coup-de-gras." Andray paused. "You know, the Praetor was brilliant in his own twisted way. He knew that Staffa would find the other triggers, but he knew that the one place Staffa would never look would be in his sense of identity. That part of Staffa's personality stood on a teetering foundation of rotten wood."

Skyla rubbed the back of her neck and shook her head. "What about Chrysla? If Staffa was such a mess, what did she ever see in him?"

"You don't know very much about her, do you?" Andray watched her pensively. "And I hear the resentment in your voice Wing Commander."

"What are you—"

"Whoa!" Andray raised his hands defensively. "Your secret is safe with me."

"I don't know what you're—"

"Chrysla," Andray changed the subject, "wasn't just a brainless beauty. At the time of her capture, she was completing course work in clinical psychiatry. Staffa fascinated her — and that doesn't mean she wasn't a very complicated and complex woman. She loved him with all of her heart, and she began to pick at the Praetor's conditioning."

Andray shrugged. "The problem was that she was a student and had no real experience."

"If you know all this, why didn't you work with Staffa?"

Andray gave her a cool look. "The reason there's a psychological department on the Itreatic Asteroids is because Chrysla wanted one. You see, I was Chrysla's professor before she ended up in Staffa's hands. Problem was, by the time I finally arrived here, she was gone. The Praetor had stolen her away. During the following years, would you have asked the Lord Commander to submit to psychotherapy?"

Skyla studied him through slitted eyes. "You know, I'm not sure I like you Professor."

He met her stare blandly. "You don't have to. I'd just as soon not be here, myself. You see, I've compiled fascinating data — all of which will rot here with me. Do you seriously believe the Lord Commander would allow a psychologist who'd studied the Companions loose?"

"So why did you come?"

Andray smiled sadly. "You never knew Chrysla. And perhaps, being a woman, you wouldn't understand. She had a magnetism that. well, I was in love with her."

"All that aside, what about Staffa? Where do you think he went?"

Andray stood and straightened his tunic. "From the tape, I'd say he's gone in search of his son. He'll try and contact the Seddi."

"What? They've been trying to assassinate him for years."

"That may be, but the Praetor said they have Staffa's son. And I remind you, he's not going to be thinking with his usual dispassionate objectivity. The mood swings will only get worse as his brain seeks to return to normalcy. If you wish to save him from harm, I suggest you find him— and quickly." Andray bowed. "Good day, Wing Commander."

Skyla stood rooted as the psychologist left the room. A terrible ache filled her chest.

Given the political situation in Kaspa, it took three days before Butla Ret's illegal aircar slid down out of the evening

sky above the hidden temple of Makarta. Bruen stood at the base of the cliff where a hollow in the rock protected the landing port and nodded to himself, a sinking in his breast carrying his heart ever lower.

"She's just a child," he whispered under his breath as the aircar settled lightly on the brightly lit pad.

Arta came from her stone-walled cell, her Initiate's robe wrapped tightly about her. A glowing goddess, she entered the main hall on light feet, ever curious eyes sweeping the occupants. She stopped as Butla Ret stepped out of the aircar.

Ret was a big man with skin as black as the deepest cavern. He bowed to Bruen, and said in a deep bass voice, "Greetings, Magister."

"It's good to see you, Butla." Bruen smiled and hugged his old friend. Then he stepped back, the words reluctant in his throat. "Meet Arta Fera."

Butla turned and walked around the girl, studying Arta with gleaming black eyes. His broad lips split in a wide smile to expose glistening white teeth. A dream might move so fluidly, soundlessly, his feet seeming to grace the floor for all his muscular bulk. A motion of poetry, he made a decision and nodded.

"Arta, my dear one," Bruen bowed, struggling to keep his voice steady. Curses and pollution, this was going to be harder than he thought. "Meet Butla Ret. He will be your teacher in the fine arts and weapons of assassination. Have you an objection?"

She looked at him frantically, only to see no guidance in his veiled blue eyes. "Magister, I… But so quickly? It's. No," she murmured, "I have no objections."

His heart felt like lead.

Butla Ret bowed, a somberness in his expression. His bull-deep voice sent vibrations through the very rock. "My pleasure, Arta Fera. I look forward to working with you. I swear upon my honor to do my very best to teach you my arts. Upon that word, I offer my life without hesitation or mental reservation whatsoever."

Some quantum seeded memory in Arta's mind triggered at the words. As if without volition, she repeated, "And I swear upon my honor to do my very best to learn your valued lessons. Upon that word, I offer my life."

Arta's eyes widened, first mystification, then understanding in her expression.

When she looked back at Bruen, it was with sober assessment.

"Gather your things, Arta. Butla will be taking you with him for now." Bruen glanced over to see Magister Hyde, his antique face drawn and serious. The elder's watery blue eyes remained neutral, but he nodded slightly.

Bruen stepped close, heart hammering at his thin sternum. "Go in health and high spirit, Arta. You are Seddi now. Butla will see to sending the Initiate's robe back to us. If you ever return here, you will wear First Order Master's dress."

Her eyes glimmered as she fought tears, then she reached up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, Magister. Watch your purse around those wicked women you like to lie about."

"Why, I…" Bruen stumbled, then he sighed, "Oh, bother."

Taking a breath, she turned to Butla Ret and ventured, "I hope I don't let you down, Butla Ret."

The deep-bass voice sounded subdued. "So do I, Arta Fera. For in my world there is no failure — only death."

Ret reached out and she put her hand in his. The Master Assassin led her to the aircar.

Bruen watched the craft rise and scuttle off to the north, and bloody Kaspa.

"What have we wrought, Hyde?" he wondered. His friend only lifted an age-sagged shoulder and coughed.

"Magister?" an Initiate called, coming from the cavern. "It is the Mag Comm, Magister. It calls for you,"

"It is going to ask about the girl." Hyde sighed and spat into the darkness. "I wish we hadn't informed it we were giving Arta to Butla."

"Yes, I suppose so," Bruen grunted, gaze still on the black sky where the aircar had vanished.

Hyde's faded eyes studied Bruen carefully. "You care too much for her Brother."

"Yes."

"You act as if you have just lost a daughter instead of a—"

Bruen lifted a tired hand, cutting Hyde's rattly voice off. "A daughter yes. That's exactly what she was. And tell me,

Hyde, how should I feel sending her off to become a tool of revolution? I'm sacrificing a child I love."

"It's war, Bruen," Hyde's answer came gruffly followed by a short spell of hacking. "If you haven't committed yourself to fight, you've served us poorly."

Bruen painfully lowered his eyes from the horizon. "No, old friend, I serve you well. But a man would expect some calluses to have formed on his soul by now. Instead of getting easier, this dispatching of youth becomes ever harder."

"The machine is waiting. What will you tell it?"

Bruen lifted a shoulder. "A version of the truth, Brother. And a bit of a lie."

Hyde rasped a breath into his lungs and shuffled for the portal. "I hope, for all our sakes, you can continue to mask your lies, Bruen. I've begun to worry about you."

"Because of the girl?" He followed Hyde's steps, wishing his hip didn't always hurt so.

"Yes."

Bruen nodded to himself. Indeed, I am a crotchety old fool, carried away with pathetic sentimentality for a psychological time bomb I myself have helped to program. And now the machine waits? Ah, indeed, Great One, our machinations knit in a deeper weave.

I miss her. It hurts.

Let the machine Deity cope with that. The Mag Comm never could understand or deal with emotion. Such illogical sorrow should confuse pustulant hell out of that soulless cybernetic beast.