The soldier had penetrated her, grunting as he moved and groped her breasts, but her body had gone numb. Her gaze had riveted on the scene as the pulse rifles shot down her children. Only then had she shrieked out, "No!"
The man atop her had cuffed her, splintering her vision and thought. But the memory remained as man after panting man took her there on the ground, while Staffa kar Therma, broad back to her, watched her family being murdered.
Kaylla shook herself, shunting the memory back where it belonged. You have no time for self-pity. Bruen studied her closely, weighing, evaluating.
Kaylla concentrated on the stars overhead. Billions upon billions of children-innocents like hers-stared up at those same stars. They watched the eerie shimmering of the Forbidden Borders and feared as they heard parents talking about famine and war.
She took an uneasy step forward before meeting the old man's eyes. "Bruen, you're a vile beast. Now, you will tell me everything you know about the Mag Comm."
"You're not going to do it, are you? You're not going to fasten a collar around the neck of humanity? Sell us all to that filthy machine?"
Her gaze didn't waver. She lifted the belt comm to her lips, ordering,
"Nyklos? Bring an interrogation gurney to Magister Bruen's quarters."
"Affirmative, Magister Dawn. I'm on the way," Nyklos responded, a wary tone in his voice.
Bruen stared up with horrified eyes. "Do you ... I mean, you know who I am!
Are you mad, woman? You can't do this to me!"
"You abdicated Magisterial power to me when you resigned. I can do any damn thing I feel I need to in order to make governing decisions for the Seddi Order. " She sighed as she stared up at the stars. "And I haven't decided what to do about the Mag Comm. But I can't make that determination until I know everything you do."
"I will fight you, Kaylla. If you do this, betray me in this manner, I swear.
I will use whatever means I can to thwart you-and to destroy the machine!"
She studied him through hard tan eyes as she fingered her chin. "Then you will have to fight me, Bruen. "
His mouth hung half open as he shook his bewildered head.
Kaylla fought the sensation of illness in her gut, dreading what she would now have to do. "You asked if I was mad. Bruen, let me assure you, I'm not even close to insane-just incredibly desperate."
The woman lay encased in a white cocoon of gleaming siaIon, plastic, and metal. On the cathode monitor above the medical unit, the patient's name was listed:
Skyla Lyma, Wing Commander, Status A-7. Sedated.
Below that, columns of figures appeared under each of the test results tables being run by the complex machine.
The med unit enclosed most of the Wing Commander, but her head remained free.
The thick wealth of ice-blonde hair had been braided to manage its length and laid in a coil beside the machine. A faint scar roughed her cheek-legacy of a direct hit to her helmet during combat. She had a thin, straight nose, full lips, and delicate skin. In the depths of sleep, her laser-blue eyes were closed, though the orbs jerked and wiggled in REM sleep.
Skyla's flesh might rest in numb repose in the peace of the machine's induced relaxation, but her brain remained anything but tranquil. Despite the drugs dispensed by the med unit, nightmares crawled out of the depths of Skyla's subconscious, freed by the uninhibiting Mytol that slowly oxidized in her bloodstream. . . .
Tendrils of black mist curled before her, and unseen powers could be felt as they grew in the slowly churning blackness. Skyla's heart began to pound as cold fear charged anxious muscles. Pivoting on crouched legs, she searched for the presence that loomed and circled.
Mouth dry, Skyla backed from the miasma, feeling her way with her feet. Her hand dropped to the blaster at her hip-gone. She groped for her vibraknife, but frantic fingers slipped over her naked skin. Panic began to glow warmly in her gut and bright fear pumped with each beat of Skyla's heart.
She stifled the cry in her throat as she bumped a slimy brick wall. The roiling darkness sucked at her, seeking to draw her back, away from the moist security of the bricks. Panic tightened her throat, and Skyla ran, charging down the now familiar alley.
She knew this place-the seamy underside of Sylene.
Those rickety stairs ahead led to Big Annah's back door. The ones the politicians and scions of the community took to avoid being seen on the street out front. There, at the foot of those splintered steps, the head auditor from Jimco Mines had been found with his throat slit, purse missing, and-according to some-the information in his brain beyond revelation to the Board of Directors of Rega.
Skyla darted into the shadows of the stairs, nostrils bitten by the reek of urine, vomit, and spilled perfume. Behind her, the alley remained empty, sialon garbage crates overstuffed with packing materials, bottles, and other refuse generated by the brothels that lined either side of the alley.
The darkness, like evening fog, washed inevitably forward, and Skyla ducked from her cover to sprint down the alley, hauntingly aware that she wore nothing. Running with all her strength, she caught images of phantasmal hands reaching for her from the shadows. From above, she could hear men groan and women laugh. A sleeping platform squeaked vigorously as some john sought to wring every credit of pleasure out of his visit.
Out of breath, Skyla stiff-armed into a wall to kill her momentum before she burst out into the main avenue. There, back to her, stood one of the bulls-the local Sylenian police.
Tears had begun to streak down Skyla's face as she glanced over her shoulder, seeing the swelling blackness curling down, drowning the dimly lit entrances to the whorehouses. A misty rain began to fall out of the black sky.
"Blessed Gods," Skyla wept as she shivered.
The bull turned, head cocked as if he'd heard. At sight of her, a grim smile bent his mustache. "You're wanted for Stryker's murder, you pus-sucking bitch."
"No! I was born free! He raped me! Kidnapped me!" The bull started for her, grin turning into a leer. "Come on, girl. You're going in. You're going to wear the collar from now on. We know how to handle whore's trash like you. "
People had appeared out of the cold misty rain, pointing at her, laughing. Any chance for escape had vanished. "You're a pretty little cunt. aren't you? '
The bull stepped closer, hand dropping to his stun rod. "Maybe I'll do a little teaching of my own before I drop you off at the detention center. "
Skyla backed into the alley, casting a frightened glance over her shoulder to see the approaching black haze.
"This way," a hoarse voice whispered.
An old man lay among the boxes, his side clotted black with old blood and fluids leaking from torn intestines. With a ghoulish finger, he pointed to a square access tunnel next to a drain spout that sputtered dirty water.
" No," Skyla whispered, caught between the pursuing crowd and the lurking nemesis of the black haze. When she glanced back at the old man, Stryker leered at her from bulging dead eyes. A thick bib of sticky red blood drenched his chest, and at his crotch, blood and urine pooled under the wound she'd made when she castrated him.
"Get her!" the bull called to the crowd that surged down the alley. Wisps of black haze spiraled out of the cold rain, twisting and weaving, seeking to encircle her.
In desperation, Skyla dove headfirst for the square tunnel, squirming, crawling, fighting her way into the restricted space. Her breasts burned and ached where Stryker had abused them. A chafing pain gnawed in her vagina and anus. She spit, trying to clear her mouth of the taste of semen. Stryker!
Filthy . . . filthy beast! May pus drip from your accursed soul!
" Kill her! "the scream went up from the alley, but as Skyla crawled, the voices faded. Unable to look back, Skyla scrambled through the narrow crawlway, scraping her hips, shoulders, and elbows. Cold tickles stroked at her feet and ankles-the black haze licking at her.
Crying out, she banged her head on the brick, breath beginning to go stale in he
r lungs. The blackness closed in, slowing her, tightening around her wrists and ankles, bending her into a sitting position as the cold filtered through her flesh.
"No! "
She twisted and turned in the blackness, shivering with cold, while her fear percolated into her soul.
"Skyla?" the soothing woman's voice called. "I know you can hear me. "
' 'No, " Skyla whimpered, choking on her own horror. She sat on a simple wooden chair, the bindings eating into
her flesh. The metallic taste of Mytol lay heavy on her tongue.
"Open your eyes, Skyla. You know who I am."
Unable to refuse, Skyla blinked in the blinding lights, recognizing that black silhouette that stood before her. "Ily. Ily Takka. "
"That's right, Skyla. Now, you are going to betray Staffa . . . and the Companions. Tell me, Skyla. Tell me everything about Itreata . . . about the security . . . about Staffa . . . about you. . . . "
"No." Skyla's voice had begun to fade, as if her soul were leaving, growing thinner.
"Tell me, Skyla." I'No. "
Arta Fera laughed as she reached out from behind to stroke Skyla's hair. "Tell her, Skyla. I love you, you know. Tell her.'
Skyla shook her head dumbly.
"Tell her," Arta whispered sensually as she lowered her hand to stroke Skyla's breasts.
"You and Staffa are lovers, aren't you?" Ily asked. Unable to resist, her flesh burning under Arta's caress, Skyla croaked, "Yes."
Ily's smile widened as Skyla began to talk. Secrets poured out of her while her heart turned to clay. Skyla barely realized she was crying, her attention rapt on Arta as she wrapped her warm body around Skyla's. The woman began stroking, caressing, drinking the last of Skyla's soul through those burning amber eyes.
He stood silhouetted against the starry background, a mere shadow of a figure.
Feet braced, his gray-gloved hands linked behind his back, he stared out at the vast emptiness of space. The only source of illumination came from a thin crescent of reflected sunlight gleaming off the planet below. Most of the world remained masked in shadow; but, even from this orbit of eight thousand kilometers, speckles of light betrayed the locations of major cities.
The man remained motionless, gray eyes locked on the distance as he stared into the depths of his soul. His broad, thin-lipped mouth was pinched, and lines of tension ate at the corners of his eyes. A firm, straight nose accented a high brow and strong cheekbones. Long black hair had been pulled tightly over his left ear and pinned with a sparkling brooch. His gray formfitting suit-in reality, vacuum capable combat armor-caught a faint reflection of the light, creating a sheen that accentuated his perfectly muscled body. High black boots rose to his knees and a use-polished equipment belt hung at his narrow waist. Like charcoal gray mist, a cloak enshrouded him and seemed to rustle with a life of its own.
A faint hiss sounded as the hatch slipped open and a sliver of light widened into a trapezoidal square cast across the deck. A thick-figured man stepped into the hatchway and, in a hushed voice, called, "Staffa? They're ready."
The newcomer rubbed the white-shot beard that matted his throat. He, too, wore a combat suit decked with a gaudy red silk sash. A single black eye glinted as the man squinted, and propped a hand on the holstered blaster at his hip.
Worry etched his expression.
The somber figure in gray stood in silence a moment longer, then answered,
"Thank you, Tasha.
" Staffa? Are you all right?"
Staffa kar Therma, the Lord Commander of Companions, turned, the cloak drifting behind him. "I'm not used to concern in your voice, Tasha. "
The grizzled captain grunted and stepped closer. "I guess we're all still trying to make sense of the situation. All at once, everything's upside down."
"The joke of the quanta." Staffa sighed, staring at the polished deck beneath his feet.
Tasha hesitated. "You and me, we've been through a lot. Seen a lot. If there's something I can do. . . . I mean, well, Rotted Hell, you know what I mean."
"Yes, I know. " Staffa paced a step to the side, head down, frowning. "We've unified Free Space. Now, my old friend, we're faced with disaster. How could I have known a quake would level the Sassan Capitol?"
"Rotten luck."
"I used to anticipate such things." "You're not a god, Staffa. "
"No . . . just part of God."
Tasha's one good eye narrowed. "If you accept the Seddi teachings, I suppose.
But by their lights, we all are."
"And we'll all suffer because of the disaster on Imperial Sassa." Staffa clenched a gloved fist. "Our civilization is like a house of tapa cards, and it's tumbling down around us. Now, of all times, we can't afford a single mistake."
"You can't shoulder the entire burden, Staffa. "
"Can't I?- Staffa gave his companion a sidelong glance. "You know what we've done, Tasha. Can you calculate the gallons of human blood we've spilled? Can you quantify the suffering we've caused?"
"You didn't used to have a conscience."
"I wasn't a full human being then. And in the end, a conscience is a terrible thing to develop."
"We have faith in you."
"Faith." Staffa smiled wearily. "You can mention faith so soon after telling me I can't shoulder the entire burden? " Tasha stepped beside his commander and stared out at the stars. "How's Skyla?"
"Under sedation. Time will tell."
Tasha paused. "It hasn't all gone sour for you. Chrysla is back."
"Yes. My wife is safe. After all these years, who would have thought she'd step out of that lock-accompanied by MacRuder, no less."
Tasha shifted uneasily. "How are you going to tell Skyla? "
"I don't know."
Tasha propped a foot on one of the spectrometers. "You're not the same man who conquered Myklene. I don't know all the details about what happened to you on Etaria and on Targa, but that old Staffa, he'd have never even let me mention it, but . . . "
"No, he wouldn't have." A pause. "What's eating at you, Tasha? I . . . I can use all the help I can get."
Tasha fidgeted for a moment. "Look, I meant what I said. You can't shoulder all of the burden. Isn't that part of the problem? Suddenly you've got two women, a son who hates you, and two empires that are splitting at their seams and about to reach critical mass."
"That's a bit of an oversimplification."
"Well, it's just this. You've never promoted an idiot in your life." Tasha laced his scarred fingers together. "Ever since Myklene, you've been different. You brought the Seddi to live among us, and a lot of people wondered. Then, when Ily Takka grabbed Skyla, you acted, and a lot of doubts vanished. It's like this. I speak for all of us, for myself, Tap, Septa, Ryman, and the rest. We want you to know- that we're behind you. No matter what. We've stuck this far, and, right or wrong, you've done fair by every last one of us. It's a new game, Staffa. We're all smart enough to know that the old ways are gone. Count on us."
:'No matter what?" 'No matter what. "
Staffa placed his hand on Tasha's shoulder. "Thank you. Thank you all. "
Tasha shrugged uncomfortably. "Like I said, you never promoted an idiot into command. We'll handle anything you want us to. "
"You said they were waiting?"
Tasha nodded. "All the Regans are aboard. They're in the battle ops room of Deck C. "
"Then I had better not keep them waiting."
Staffa strode toward the hatch as Tasha asked, "How long since you got any sleep?"
Staffa shrugged. "I don't know." :'Get some rest, Staffa. "
'Yes, as soon as I can." He half turned, placing a hand on the hatch seal.
"You know, Tasha, I think I'm the tiredest man in the universe."
After the Lord Commander had gone, Tasha sighed and studied the slice of the Regan planet exposed beyond the terminator. "May your quantum God keep you, Staffa.
Despair and defeat lay heavily on Sinklar Fist as he walked uncertainly down the
curving corridor on Chrysla's C Deck.
He had wanted to be alone, begging off when Anatolia Daviura had offered to accompany him from his quarters to the conference called by the Lord Commander.
Conference? Is that what they called an unconditional surrender?
Sinklar glared up at the glassy boxes spaced at intervals along the glossy white corridor. Alone? Each of those optical centers tied into the ship's comm. No doubt a security officer watched every step he took.
As supreme commander of the Regan military, Sinklar Fist destroyed the stereotype of a seasoned combat commander. He barely looked old enough to shave, let alone to assume the responsibilities of leadership. His scrawny body consisted of little more than bone and sinew. An unruly thatch of black hair topped his head. His nose ended in a knob and looked bent, not because of violence, but as a joke of heredity. He wore a simple suit of Regan military issue combat armor that sported no insignia of rank.
Of all his characteristics, Sinklar's eyes were the most peculiar: one gray, the other tawny yellow. Haunted now, they gave the lie to the image of wet-eared youth and rank inexperience. Turmoil raged in those bicolored depths.
To many, Sinklar had been a statistical fiuke, his meteoric rise allowed only by circumstances of place and events. In the crucible of combat, he had flourished, leading his troops to incredible victories. His genius had sparked new strategies and tactics. By brilliant action, he had struck the blow that decapitated the Sassan Empire. In a matter of months, he had revitalized and retrained the Regan ground forces into an elite capable of challenging the Companions.
And in the realm of his personal affairs and Imperial intrigue, he had failed disastrously.