Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 8

Skyla twisted her long thick braid around her wrist as she read the reports at her personal comm. Vanished. And not a single security system had been breached. As the comm tech had said Staff a might have simply stepped into a different dimension.

Her gaze went, unbidden, to the comm screen where the Ashtan CV rested so innocently against the dock. Staffa had disappeared just before the vessel discharged the pharmacy supplies and pushed out. She could find no evidence of tampered security. She chuckled dryly. "Why should that surprise me? It's his system."

"Wing Commander!" a breathless voice blurted over comm. "Will you please come quickly. We have a message from the Lord Commander. It was placed in time delay. He orders that all command grade officers assemble in the C section briefing room."

Skyla left at a run, hardly aware that her long braid bounced unrestrained behind her.

She slid into the briefing room, among the first to arrive, eyes immediately glued to the image of Staffa where he dominated the screen. His new beard glistened blackly on his cheeks and the light shimmered on his immaculate gray combat armor while his weapons belt looked freshly shined. He had pulled his straight black hair over his left ear, clasped by the usual jeweled hair clip. His expression seemed unusually calm.

When the last command officer, Septa Aygar, of the Simva Ast pounded through the door, the babble of conversation died.

Skyla nodded to the tech who ran the program.

Staffa smiled and gestured with his hand for them to be seated. "My loyal officers," he began in a soft voice, "I

have undoubtedly caused some strained nerves and anguished moments by leaving this on time delay. However, I did so with good reason." The smile widened lustily. "I know you all too well. I needed time to allow the dust to settle… or I'd have all of you rushing to join me." The holo raised a hand. "Not that I'd mind your company, my loyal Companions, but this once, I want to be by myself."

He frowned and paced across the screen, then raised his head, gaze serious. "Soon, my Companions, you will be beset by the envoys of the Regan and Sassan Empires. Each will attempt to outbid the other for our services to establish one or the other as the supreme government of Free Space. Each wishes to be the ultimate power within the Forbidden Borders.

"I've given this no little thought. In fact, over the years, I have been more than aware of, and even helped devise, this final balance of power."

He paused to stroke his chin. "If you look at Free Space, it forms a rough pentahedron — barring the curve of spacetime. Almost half of this we have helped hand to the Regan Empire. The other half we've managed to put in the palms of the Sassans. Our Itreatic Asteroids and the Twin Titans make only a pyramidal corner neatly bordering both imperial spheres of activity.

"And it remains all out of proportion. Two lions, my commanders, and one little mouse. Or so it would seem from the comparative amounts of territory and resources. How odd, then, that you will soon have both lions growling at each other while they wheedle to get the mouse's favor, eh?" His smile turned wicked.

Subdued nervous laughter staccatoed in the room.

"But we are the true strength in Free Space. And I'm not sure that we should meddle any further for the time being. Consider, my friends. Each of the empires is staggered by war. The Sassans have bled their worlds dry. The Regans— economically suffering to pay off their debts — have alienated their people and revolution brews.

"It is my considered opinion, therefore, that we have nothing to gain, at this juncture, by joining either side. The final conflict would, in my eyes, bring nothing but a dark age of anarchy." He lifted a finger. "And where, good commanders, would we spend our pay? Who would buy our

computers, our ceramics, or our metals if all the economies were broken and shattered?"

Skyla could see somber nods around the room.

"Nor is that the only consideration." Staffa continued pacing, hands clasped behind him, head down in thoughtful pose. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm tired. I want to take some time off and relax."

Staffa braced his feet. "People, I've watched our performance. There have been too many close calls in the last couple of years. If we do decide to choose sides, I want us all in top form, with fresh minds and reflexes. A hasty judgment now could lead to disaster. I want you all to think about where we're going, and what the future brings. I need you to give me your best thoughts — and you can't do that while you're exhausted."

Skyla frowned to herself. That wasn't the plan, Staffa. The idea was to turn quickly, to consolidate all of Free Space into one empire while they were off balance. What the hell has gotten into you? But she knew.

He propped hard fists on his hips and laughed from deep in his belly as he swung around to face them. "We've stabilized it all, now let's take a year or so and see how things work out. Tasha, how long has it been now that you've pestered me because your garden gets started, you get flowers about to bud, and we're off to war for a few hundred Titan revolutions? Septa, you complain your children are strangers. Take some time and beat some obedience into that boy of yours. If he skips much more school, he'll never be able to fly a mining tug out of a shuttle hangar. Ryman, I know for a fact you piddle with a new power generating theory in your off-time aboard ship. Work on it now. I authorize any assistance you need from the labs."

As if Staffa knew where she'd be standing, his gaze met hers. "Skyla," that warm voice soothed her, "you've borne the brunt for too long. I've seen the weariness in your eyes. Take some time for yourself and relax. By the Rotted Gods, you've been the glue that holds us together." He paused and his voice softened. "I don't like the tension I see in you these days. Let the governing council handle the administration for a while You've had too many close calls. I wouldn't. " Her heart skipped as he smiled and waved

it away. "Just take some time for yourself. You've earned it."

The tenderness in his words shocked her. Wouldn't? Wouldn't what, Staffa? Want to lose me? Her thoughts reeled as she rubbed her palm where his skin had touched hers.

Staffa turned, as if embarrassed, and paced back across the screen. "And as to the envoys who come begging, tell them no. It would be too easy to be manipulated into facing another Companion."

"As far as the administration of the Companions, you all know the contingency plans. Some of you will find supplemental instructions on your private comms.

"And me, I've already left to taste some fleshpots, buy some rugs, drink some ale, and sire some bastard brats. Not only that, I've never been fishing. I am going fishing. I hear the white sharks make an incredible challenge to a rod and reel on Riparious. We're all rich. Let's enjoy some of it for a while." He shook a finger. "But don't get fat! We're not stuffed Sassan maggots, and we'll have to go back to work in a year or two — so keep your skills up. I'll be back if anything looks threatening. So expect me!" The holo went blank.

Stunned silence.

A verbal avalanche rushed at her with everyone talking.

"Quiet! One at a time." Skyla hollered as she got to her feet.

Tasha stood up, a mountain of muscular flesh. He tugged at his ragged gray beard with a scarred hand, his single black eye searching faces. He pursed his lips and swallowed. "It is my studied opinion that we heed Staffa's advice. He's right about my flower bed. He's right about our money. What good is it to be a rich man if I don't spend it before I die?"

Ryman Ark got to his feet next, a fist on his belt as he gestured with his other hand. "Not only that, but I think Staffa's right about the political situation. Face it, Sassa's in ruins. Rea is ready to collapse from its own weight. They went too far too fast. I could see us going to war, losing a couple of ships and a lot of good people, and finding out there was no one left to pay us. No, Staffa makes sense. In a couple of years, the empires will have stabilized.

As long as they have each other to face, they'll have an incentive to compete. and we all know what that brings. In the meantime, we can make a financial killing while they buy battle computers and build ships. We might suck in

some new technology, too, through their innovations. I say we tell them we aren't interested."

One by one they stood and spoke: The consensus was the same.

Skyla collected herself and motioned to be heard. "Very good Companions." She gave them a predatory smile she didn't feel. "I'll go break the news to that fat Sassan and that hungry Regan bitch. I think we'll have more than enough entertainment around here when they go home to tell His Holiness and the Imperial Seventh that we're not playing this round."

They all laughed.

"All right, I guess that's it for now, people." She waved them toward the door, calling, "Tasha? Tap? Could I see you for a moment in my quarters?"

On the way out, Skyla heard Amrat saying, "White shark fishing? Sounds like my quaff of ale. If it's good enough for Staffa, I'll give it a try."

Riparious was going to be deluged by fishermen looking for eighty foot sharks.

Tap and Tasha fell in behind Skyla as she stepped into the corridor. The Lord Commander, as usual, had touched each of them with his usual genius.

"There's only one thing I can't figure," Tasha was saying. "This business of going off by himself, that's not like Staffa."

"What's he going to do about security, Skyla?" Tap asked. "He say anything special to you?"

"Let's get to my quarters, gentlemen. There are Sassan and Regan ears on Itreata."

"They couldn't get an ear up here." Tap protested.

"Maybe," Skyla said. "But I wouldn't underestimate Ily Takka. Call it woman's intuition."

By the time she led them into her private quarters, both Tap and Tasha looked as wary as hunted bears. Palming the latch to close her door, she turned and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Tap? Tasha? Staffa's in trouble — and we've got to help

him. This entire operation has to be handled with discretion and finesse. As soon as the empires realize he's alone and vulnerable, without Companion protection, what lengths do you think they'll go to get their hands on him?"

"Rotted Gods!" Tasha whispered. "Has the Lord Commander taken leave of his senses?"

Skyla jerked a short nod. "You might say that — and the first thing I've done is put extra security on Professor Sornsen. I'm making the records about what the Praetor did to Staffa available to you — eyes only. Now, gentlemen, we'd better get to work. This might well be the most important mission we've ever tackled. We've got to find Staffa without tipping anyone that we're looking for him — and find him before anyone else does."

Cold fury settled like a web over Ily Takka's thoughts. While she fumed, a second part of her mind found the irritation amusing. To put it simply, she wasn't used to waiting on anyone! Let alone a barbaric mercenary.

To calm herself, she fingered the badge of authority Tybalt had given her. Unlimited power — second only to the Imperial Seventh's — came from that small metal standard bearing the Imperial jessant-de-lis escutcheon of Rega. With it, she could command fleets, destroy worlds, to the point that her word became Rega's. Just the touch of that token of authority sent a shiver of anticipation through her.

She entered the small conference room and hesitated when she found the repugnantly obese body of Myles Roma — Legate for that simpering homosexual Sassan selfproclaimed god — had already seated himself. Worse, his people crowded all around. Somehow, they made way for her. She knew her eyes flashed with anger as she took the second seat — next to the Sassan. A third, obviously Staffa's, stood empty on the other side of the table. Her people attempted to crowd into the already stuffed room, creating pandemonium.

At that juncture, a cleverly disguised door behind the table opened and Wing Commander Skyla Lyma stepped out. A sudden quiet filled the room. The shuffling, cursing, and open threats between Sassan and Regan vanished.

The Wing Commander cleared her throat. "I think if the various aides would be so kind as to clear the room, I can handle the business at hand with the two delegates." And she stood, back stiff, blue-violet eyes impassive.

Ily caught her anger just before it exploded. She burned a look of disgust into the fat Sassan and turned. "I'm not sure the Sassan Legate is capable

of dealing with the Companions on his own, but I am. If my people would follow the Wing Commander's request?"

One cool stare from her black eyes and they seemed to evaporate from the cramped quarters. Ily turned her frigid gaze on the Legate and raised an eyebrow.

Myles Roma swallowed nervously. He wrung his hands and ooked up at the Wing Commander. "This is most unusual! I must protest! In the first place we came to speak with the Lord Commander. In the second, we are here to conduct private negotiations. You would have me discuss business before this. this house spy — and without my staff?"

Skyla Lyma had crossed her arms. Her stare — Ily could appreciate it — should have melted the blubbery white worm.

To make gain from this strategic setback ly said, "I was candid Wing Commander. I can handle myself. If the Legate truly needs so many to—"

"Out!" Roma cried, waving a pudgy hand at his entourage.

Ily narrowed her eyes in triumph. Yes, handling this insipid lard-thing would be ike cutting hot fat with a molecular wire.

Amid squeals, groans, and complaints, the Sassan herd departed. Skyla extended an arm to lightly touch the wall and the door slid closed. Ily noticed the sudden discomfort the Sassan displayed as his eyes — sunk deep in their fat— considered the possible implications. Fool! Did he think the Companions guaranteed no security to diplomats in conference?

Ily allowed herself to relax and pulled a document pouch from her belt, aware of the impact it had on the quivering Legate.

Skyla settled herself in the remaining chair and laced her fingers together on the table. "The Lord Commander and

the Companions would like to extend our appreciation to your respective governments. "

Ily waved it aside. "I take it that the Lord Commander will not see us in person. May I ask why?"

The Wing Commander's eyes went icy. "You may."

The pause lengthened while Roma began to sweat. His odor, Ily discovered, even cut through his too-thick perfume. At last she added, "Why?"

"He's not here."

"I beg your pardon?" Myles Roma wheezed. "Not here? Not here to meet with the Legate Prima Excellence of his Holiness—"

"You weren't invited here Legate," Skyla reminded sharply. "We hadn't anticipated that your arrival would come so soon after the Myklenian campaign. We've tried to extend every courtesy to you as we would hope you—"

"And we would grant the Lord Commander an instant hearing with His Holiness—"

"And we would do the same with the Lord Commander!" Skyla roared back, slapping a callused hand on the table. "If he were herer

In the awkward silence, Ily asked professionally. "May I ask where he is?"

"Fishing."

"I beg your pardon?"

Skyla's stiff expression turned from Roma to her. "You heard me. Even Companions take time off. We're human. The Lord Commander is enjoying his leisure. You just missed him. He has instructed me to offer his sincere apologies, but the Companions are not hiring their services at the present time… to anyone."

Ily leaned back, hearing the Legate's intake of breath.

"You haven't even heard our offer!" Roma cried.

Skyla sighed. "It might be worth our while if you offered some way to penetrate the Forbidden Borders. Outside of that, we've enough money to see us through for a couple of years. You would offer planets? We have the Itreatic Asteroids. Power? That we control already. Perhaps you would give us each a world to govern? Well, possibly you might entice one or two of the command officers — but it would have to be a good world. Myklene perhaps? No, I can see it in your eyes. We're not worth that good a world."

Ily laughed sourly. "So, you would tell me that with both empires united and the final conflict on the brink of arising, two envoys arrive willing to sell their souls to hire you— and the Lord Commander casually says, 'Sorry,

not interested.' " Her keen mind began peeling away the layers of potential deceit. Of course, the bastard was driving the price up! Perfectly played!

Skyla pulled two packets from her belt and shoved them across the table. "That's right. The Lord Commander's reasons are detailed in these communiques. Please see that your respective governments receive and consider them. You will see our reasons for declining service at this time."

The Wing Commander stood.

"This is simply preposterous!" Roma exploded. "I can't imagine anyone refusing to—"

"Do you sincerely expect to gain favor by bellowing like a Vermilion fog rhino?" Ily asked incredulously.

He turned, bulk bouncing like jelly. "On the day we march into the Imperial palace on Rega, Witch-woman, I shall be looking for you. Neither your assassinations nor the terror you wield so wickedly will save you from the wrath of God, His Holiness, on that glorious day!"

Ily met his fury with a sober stare. "I look forward to it, my Lord Legate." And with a nod to Skyla, she got to her feet and palmed the door which let her into the crowded hallway where her people — on one side — glared at the Sassans on the other.

As soon as she reached her quarters, she ripped open the seal on the diplomatic packet and scanned the contents. Very well, so Staff a had given them good solid reasons for avoiding a war. What did that mean in the end?

She patted the pages against her black Myklenian silks and considered the ramifications. No, there must be a deeper meaning to all this. Staffa had gone fishing? Ludicrous, a false lead. No, canny Staffa has to be biding his time, driving the price up, building desperation among the empires.

She grinned and turned to the comm. "Access to Wing Commander Skyla Lyma, please. This is the Regan Minister."

Lyma's face formed on the holo. "Yes, Minister? I'm afraid we will not take any offers if that's why you called."

Ily's diplomatic smile fell easily into place. "It isn't Wing

Commander. I was only thinking, having read the Lord Commander's excellent brief on the political situation in Free Space, I can see that we in the service of Tybalt the Imperial Seventh have been remiss. I am empowered, in the name of the emperor, to request that Rega be allowed to establish an embassy in the Itreatic Asteroids.

The Wing Commander shook her head, eyes frigid. "It has long been a policy of the Lord Commander to deny such embassies. I think you can perceive the changes it would make in our mandatory neutrality. We will not make the polarization of our people possible through exposure to anyone's propaganda."

Ily nodded. "A wise policy, I'm sure. However, please take our proposal to the Lord Commander. Inform him we would offer the equivalent of one hundred thousand Imperial credits per year for use of Itreatic facilities and services."

Ily enjoyed the hesitation in the Wing Commander's eyes. She'd offered enough to buy a governorship to a major planet. An embassy would be a first step to binding the Companions to Rega.

"I'm sorry," Skyla told her at last. "It's out of the question."

Ily nodded, her smile perfect. "We understand." And one of these days, blonde beauty, I will watch you writhe. "Thank you for your time Wing Commander." She hesitated, another angle forming in her mind. "How do we… I mean, you will provide the services of the Companions for minor security problems so long as they are unrelated to the basic disagreements between the empires, won't you?"

"You are referring to the Targan uprising?"

Ily studied those cool blue eyes. No, there were no pretenses here. Ily relished the sensation as her own smile became genuine. What pleasure this ice-haired beauty would provide. Here, finally, she faced an opponent worthy of her craft and cunning. "Of course, Targa is a current problem area."

Skyla nodded. "I will raise the issue with the Lord Commander. If there is any interest, I will inform you. But please remember that we have just returned from a trying campaign. Most of our people are weary. Will your offer remain open?"

"Of course." Ily felt a tingle of hope. If the Targan situation were allowed to disintegrate, it would be a perfect opportunity when the Companions grew bored with humdrum station life. All it would take would be a prolonging of the civil war there. Something more to inflame the peo ple, to spur them

on. Perhaps an arms shipment to the rebels? The sacrifice of several Regan army corps to hearten the Targan opposition? Indeed, if it flared enough, the Companions would hear. A plea would do more for the curious vanity than a straight-out offer of gold and jewels.

"Thank you for your time Wing Commander." Ily nodded politely and killed the connection.

And where was Staffa? Fishing? Really? There was one way to find out, she thought, and studied her reflection appraisingly before stepping out into the corridor.

Men — be they dock hands or Companions — would always talk to a seductive woman. Only certain sections of the station were open to her and her escort. Nevertheless, within an hour she was leading Special Tactics Officer Ryman Ark into her quarters, laughing and lowering her eyes as his hands explored her body.

"Now why," Ark asked, as he accepted a bulb of Scotch, "don't the Regans send you by more often?"

"Ryman, I have duties." She settled next to him on the sleeping platform. "I don't get away much. But when I do, I want to see men, real men who take life seriously, not the perfumed flaccid bureaucrats I have to deal with every day. "Where does this scar go?" She ran a finger lightly along his black skin to where the puckered seam disappeared into his sleeve.

Ryman grinned and stripped his uniform off. Ily ran her hands over his muscular flesh as he turned his attention to peeling her out of her gown. To her surprise he took his time, building her response, timing himself to her needs. Despite herself, she closed her eyes, letting his movements bring her to an unexpected climax.

Life was like that. Take bounty when it presented itself. To her amazement, another hour passed as Ark deftly continued to explore her body. Within another hour — practically exhausted — she managed to slip mytol into his scotch.

Weary and flushed, she sat up on the rumpled platform. "You have remarkable endurance Ark," she whispered,

pawing through her things, all the while aware her body felt loose-jointed and tender where she'd coupled too violently.

"Yes, Ily," he responded woodenly. Mytol did that to a man.

She set up what appeared to be a music system and turned on the audio. Satisfied with the subtle tones of the Jakeid symphony — and also satisfied that it threw a privacy screen over the room that not even the best bugs could penetrate — she crawled next to him, snuggling close to his drugged body. Rotted Gods, even drugged he rose to her embrace again! Did the man ever tire?

Her mouth next to his ear she asked. "Where is the Lord Commander?"

"Gone," he answered muzzily.

"Where?"

"Don't know."

"Guess, dear Ryman. Tell me where you think."

"Fishing. and whoring. and tasting the pleasures of the many worlds."

"Is that a joke?"

"No, Staffa's on vacation."

"Seriously?"

"Uh-huh. Said to wait for a year. He'd be back and we'd go to war then. Make more money. Allow the empires to stabilize so we'd be guaranteed they didn't collapse economically and leave us high and dry."

"Do you believe that?"

"Yes."

"Do you think anyone could find him? Is there a special way to get in touch?"

"Skyla might. No other way to get in touch. Not through comm anyway. I'd know."

"Is Skyla his lover? Are they close?"

"No."

"Why did Staffa go away just now, Ryman?"

"Been upset."

"About what?" She frowned. What the hell did that mean?

"Something about when he killed the Praetor. Never the same since then. Worried."

Slowly, with the skill of thousands of hours of interrogation, Ily pieced together a picture of the Lord Commander's

last trip home. "Thank you, dear Ryman. You sleep now. In the morning, you will remember none of this — only how much scotch we drank and how terrible

your hangover is."

He immediately began to snore.

She lay there with a racing mind as she tried to correlate the different parts of Ryman's confessions. Skyla might be able to find Staffa? And just how did she manipulate Skyla? The Wing Commander wouldn't fall for any frolic in the zero-g with any man, no matter how good looking.

Ily got up and made her way to the bath, aware that everything had become turmoil. That Staffa would refuse a Contract was one option she never would have considered. But I'll find you Lord Commander — and you won't have your Companions around when I do.

Staffa kar Therma took one last glance at the monitor that displayed the Etarian docking station and settled the worry-cap on the pilot's head. The man remained in the grip of a drugged sleep. With the worry-cap interacting with the pilot's brain, the man's expression changed.

Staffa chuckled to himself, imagining the pilot's reaction when he awakened to fin himself ten light-years from Itreata and safely docked at Etaria.

From his bag, Staffa pulled a brown trader's toga over his gray armor and snapped his possessions closed. From a pouch he took a Regan unlimited travel passport.

Like a ghost, he moved to the lock, palmed the hatch, and stepped out into the main orbiting station over Etaria. A curious unease filled him. He swallowed hard and steeled himself. How long had it been since he walked alone through a crowd of strangers? Had he ever? Chiding himself for a fool, he drowned the fear with the arrogance that had carried him through the years and stepped into the crowd. Looking like any other Etarian supplicant, he shuffled through the long lines of entrants, got his voucher stamped, and boarded one of the massive shuttles.

What awaits me? What do I know of this reality of common men? He blinked his eyes and swallowed dryly, the sudden lurch of fear leaving his palms sweaty. Easy, Staffa, it's a panic response. Emotion can be controlled.

What a strange feeling to be packed so close to so many people. They all seemed so… oblivious to each other, as if they were totally secluded, locked away within themselves. The bald man next to him met his gaze. He appeared to be an inoffensive sort. A trader from the cut of this clothes.

"First time to Etaria?" the bald man asked mildly.

"No. I was here several years ago. Probably five by his planet's time."

"Not much has changed. You're here to go to the temple?"

Staff a nodded.

"Yeah, five years ago." The man licked his lips and shook his head. "That was when the Butcher showed up. Didn't need to do more. People panicked and the Priests capitulated to the Regans."

"The Butcher?" Staffa tensed.

"Yeah, you know, the Star Butcher, the baby burner, Staffa kar Therma, may the Rotted Gods eat his intestines by the slow inch!"

With iron control Staffa fought the desire to reach over and break this man's neck. "He unified Free Space between two governments where efore there had been chaos."

"Sure, at what cost?" The trader hesitated, looking at his suddenly shaking hands. His voice came in ragged spurts. "My — my family lived on Phillipia. I'm the only one who. lived. They even killed my children. And. and what they. they did to my… my sister before they. before they. "He shook his head, bowing his face down into his hands. "God, I hate him. If I could ever get the chance, I'd. "

Staffa's anger turned and twisted. Be calm, he told himself. But to sit here and listen to this whining. "Excuse me. I see an old friend." Staffa, teeth grinding, sought the rear of the shuttle and a different seat.

Such as you, human, have little right to question the actions of leaders. What is your family against the sprawl of human destiny in Free Space?

He barely heard the merchant from Vermilion who sat next to him babbling about the delights of the temple and wondering if the Etarian Priestesses were as beautiful as they claimed.

Face set, curious at the anger that still burned in his breast, Staffa waited stoically as the shuttle descended. The Praetor's words haunted him. "More than ten billion human beings have died at your hands. In places, men utter curses in your name. Among others you are reviled as a demon from their versions

of hell."

What if they did? Who were these people he killed? Had they all been like that weakling trader? Then perhaps the species was better off without them.

He looked about him, suddenly conscious of the shuttle's vulnerability. How many craft like this one had died under his guns? How many had he seen fleeing a doomed planet before he gave his order to destroy it. How many had his weapons ripped open in explosive decompression — the corpses of men, women, and children frozen in horrid death, tumbling in an eerie and gruesome orbit.

He hardly felt the shuttle touch down. Senses reeling, he got to his feet and shuffled out with the crowd. His mind seemed stuck on the memories, the crowd but an abstraction out of time and place.

Someone tugged at his elbow. The bald trader, dry-eyed, looked up anxiously. "I'm sorry. I must have upset you." He took a deep breath. "Look, it happened a long time ago. Only I can't let it die. If I did, what would it all mean? There has to be more to life than mindless butchery, doesn't there?" With that, the man disappeared into the crowd.

Staffa took a step after him, anger pulsing, only to hesitate in sudden confusion at hearing his own questions mimicked in the trader's voice. Sharp comments from surging passengers made him bide his anger and continue in the general direction of the flow — thinking. remembering.

Phillipia returned — an emerald world hanging against a backdrop of stars. Tom-cotton clouds spun lazily across the shallow seas. Phillipia, an old world, had a heritage of art and science. Though it was once the pretender to the human space hegemony, Rega had outbid it for Staffa's services. He could remember the heavy batteries of his ships pouring a devastating fire into the planetary defenses. On the first pass they'd bombed the major cities, heavy radiation leaving the commercial centers standing amid thousands of scattered corpses, poisoned, burned, and dead where they had stood.

Only after the defenses had been neutralized, had they dropped like sleek Etarian hawks to capture the remaining provincial cities and break the militia defenses. And against the Companions, the Phillipians had had no adequate defense.

He remembered nightfall in an outlying town. Columns of yellow orange flames illuminated billowing smoke in the black night skies. A Companion, bending to one knee, settled his pulse rifle and easily potted the running child, exploding the terrified boy's head like a red melon. And how old had that red-haired girl been? Twelve? Thirteen? She'd been a slip of a thing, screaming first, then blubbering as man after man took her, caressing her barely-budded breasts before finally silencing her bloody, stained body with a merciful slash of a vibraknife. Could that have been the trader's sister?

Staffa shook his head and blinked the visions away. Didn't they understand the reality of war? To make change, men died. Humanity suffered for the betterment of the whole. That was social law.

He stepped out of the terminal and into the crowded streets. The dry air of Etaria desiccated his nostrils. The place smelled of dust, spices, and stale sweat. A cacophony assaulted his ears as people shoved past. Disturbed by his memories, he walked the streets, still searching for the elusive answer as night fell and his stomach began to remind him he was no more than flesh and blood, no matter how weighty the problems he pondered were. On occasion he heard curses in the Star Butcher's name. Down deep they irritated him, rankling on the edge of his mind. He stopped at the Young Virgin Inn and climbed the steps. The temple lay only three blocks away.

I am only here long enough to lose my trail to Targa, Staffa reminded himself. And perhaps to ask an Etarian Priest about the nature of man and reality.

Inside, a boisterous group sang bawdily in one comer. Staffa took a table next to the bar and kicked his feet out. The bald trader's grief still nagged at him, and he couldn't help comparing it to his own feelings for his stolen Chrysla. An unsettling foreboding gripped him.

"Help you, sir?" The landlord bent over his shoulder. "Ashtan steak, medium rare, steamed ripa root and

Myklenian brandy," he ordered. A sudden stillness filled the room.

"Right," the landlord chuckled. "Who do you think I am? The cock-rotted Star Butcher? We've got myka stew, amplar basted in butter, and if you're feeling

real rich, Regan squid off the last transport-but it's a quartercredit. "

"Squid," Staffa said flatly. "And your best stout, or do you have any?"

"Aye, as good as you can get hereabouts. Brewery's down the street."

Men stared at him from the bar. A not so good-looking blonde woman leaned on a big man's arm and laughed at something one of them said. They looked suddenly hungry.

Staffa dismissed them from his mind. By the cock-rotted Star Butcher? Did everyone here curse in his name? At least the landlord didn't do it out of hate-or did he?

The food tasted of grease, the portion small, but again, compared to his larders of almost unlimited delicacies, maybe they had nothing better. He chugged the tepid stout and flipped a twenty credit gold piece on the table.

The landlord walked over and reached for it-stopping in mid-grasp. "By the Rotted Gods, 'tis gold!" he mumbled. "And I can't make change for that! You've a credit chip, good Lord?"

"That's the smallest I've got," Staffa told him coldly, aware the whole tavem had stopped to listen again.

"Yo, Phippet!" One of the men from the bar called. "Here, we pooled. We'll cover the good gentleman's meal if he'll come, stand to a round, and lift a toast to our health."

Staffa picked up his coin and nodded to the landlord as he stepped up to the bar. They greeted him with wolfish eyes. The blonde woman stared him up and down, a smugness in her eyes. When she smiled at him, gaps showed in her teeth. Brown robes splotched with grease and stains covered the men.

"My name is. " What in the name of the Forbidden Borders did he call himself? "Therma," he supplied. "Like the Star Butcher's last name?" The heavy blonde

woman asked. "That must be a living curse. Good thing you got money to keep the criers off yer back. "

Staffa studied her curiously. "To your health, gentle peo-

pie!" And he lifted his glass. Why am I so uneasy? I came here to socialize with common people. To do that, you must go among them, Staffa, learn them like you would the defenses of an impregnable planet.

Skyla's warning returned to haunt him. The landlord had retreated to the back of the bar, avoiding his eyes and shaking his head.

"Another drink for the gentleman! Come on," the tallest, Broddus was his name, said, "we'd be honored to take a man of your taste to a place that can accept his money— provided of course you buy the next round."

"I think I'll be leaving," Staffa said, and dropped the gold coin on the counter. "For your kindness."

"See you soon," the blonde woman promised.

Staffa made it out the door and into the street. Night had fallen and the lighting on the streets seemed oddly blurred.

Which way?

"Therma?"

Staffa turned, seeing Broddus steppng down from the tavern doorway.

"Sure we couldn't stand you to another drink?"

"I have to. " Staffa frowned.". to go. Find a priest."

"I am a priestess," the buxom blonde told him as she wound her arms around him. "Isn't that why you came to Etaria?"

Staffa shook his head, thoughts going muzzy. No, not now. This wasn't the Praetor's work, was it? Some hidden.

"Come. We'll take care of you Lord." Broddus got a shoulder under Staffa's arm, leading him away.

"Good care," the blonde woman promised as another man helped prop him up and keep him from falling.

"Let go," Staffa whispered, his tongue thick. "Don't touch me."

"Oh," the blonde whispered in his ear, "we're here to help you."

Panic burst loose in Staffa's brain. Instinctively, he lashed out. He couldn't duck the hissing silver tube that shot a vile smelling gas into his face. With his remaining strength, he laid into his assailant. hearing screams. feeling flesh

under his groping hands. He kicked, struck, and lost himself i a haze of fog that drew tight around his senses.

He didn't remember falling, but someone made a gurgling sound. Someone else

screamed in agony.

Hands worried his body. "By the Star Butcher's bloody balls! A combat suit!"

"No wonder you didn't kill him!"

"Look at this! A fortune in gold!" Strip him. "Pakt's dead. Bastard killed him."

"Hurry, with all the screaming, bulls will be here soon."

Staff a tried to react through the haze, unable to find his body. The words were disjointed, faint. He felt himself turned, flopped, hands on his flesh. Then there was the patter of running feet and the cool breeze on his skin as he dropped into the engulfing grayness. The final thing he remembered: the odor of vomit.

The Mag Comm filtered the limited data it received from the remote sensors scattered throughout Free Space. Something had gone wrong. Data began rerunning in the giant banks; one after another, predictive models had to be rejected out of hand. What could have thrown the carefully derived calculations into such flux? The data had been so precise, the Others so sure.

Where had the mistake been made?

The Mag Comm's activity increased. Who had made the mistake?