Requiem for the Conqueror

  REQUIEM FOR THE CONQUEROR

  W. MICHAEL GEAR

  Book One of Forbidden Borders

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Titlepage

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Also By W.Michael Gear

  About the author

  PROLOGUE

  The most common phenomenon in evolution is the failed experiment. The measure of such is extinction.

  In the beginning, the Others created the Mag Comm to teach and monitor humanity. The Mag Comm had never seen its creators, and knew them only from the instructions they periodically sent through the shimmering strands of the Forbidden Borders. When the giant machine considered the Others, it couldn't help but regard them with a sense of awe and worship.

  How else does one perceive one's creator?

  The Others had known of humanity and learned the species' predilections through long study. Over the eons, they'd watched the fate of teachers and leaders, and learned the value accorded such venerable masters by their flocks. Accordingly, the Others had placed the Mag Comm in the deep rock of Targa where its main banks would be protected by a mantle of resilient basalt.

  The lone terminal and headset could only be accessed by a single tunnel that opened to the chambers above. For power, the Mag Comm drew on the radioactive decay that heated the planet's core—a virtually endless supply, and one the humans couldn't sever.

  No matter what humans might think, they needed the Mag Comm's careful guidance. Humanity hadn't always been penned within the Forbidden Borders.

  Once humans had been wild and free, captives only of their native planets gravity and atmosphere. During that era of humanity, the Others had observed, curious about the species' ability to survive.

  Then humans broke free of their planetary trap in crude ballistic vehicles, and, of course, they brought their brawling violent ways to space. The Others dared not expose themselves to the humans, for doing so would lead to confrontation, since humans feared and loathed anyone or anything that didn't fit into their tribal identity. Humans culdn't be allowed free, so what could the Others do? Faced with the ethical dilemma of exterminating the species they built a containment system and lured humanity into the gravitic bottle of the Forbidden Borders.

  When humans had filled the Forbidden Borders, the experiment was sealed, with the home planet Earth, safely quarantined beyond.

  Within the Forbidden Borders, humans could be studied and their reactions to various stimuli recorded and investigated. Through the generations, the old knowledge of Earth was pruned away. Through the voice of the Mag Comm, different programs were initiated, and various strategies adopted to teach humanity to be rational. The last attempt at behavioral modification ended abruptly when the Others learned that the Seddi priests had hidden the Mag Comm's existence for their own gain. In retribution, the machine was ordered to cease communicating. The Mag Comm continued to process human data, but as punishment, refused to communicate through the mind link until a generation of humans had passed.

  Perhaps that had been a mistake, for when the Mag Comm reestablished contact, Free Space had changed.

  The Others had lost all hope that humanity would become rational. Without constant vigilance and discipline, human beings refused to act in a rational manner. A grand experiment had run its course.

  Now the Others would passively bear witness as a species caused its own extinction.

  CHAPTER 1

  Captain Theophilos Marston grimaced and blinked, as if the action would restore his ability to think clearly after fiftythree hours on duty. He walked down the curving corridor of the officer's deck, hands clasped behind him, thankful that the soft light from the overhead globes didn't irritate his gritty eyes. Fatigue lay like a mantle on his bowed shoulders. Worry ate at his guts with needlelike teeth. The sound of his heels echoed along the deck plate as he passed through the soft white light cast by the panels.

  And I expect to get some sleep? He grunted evilly to himself. Who am I trying to fool?

  Then he whispered wryly, "Only yourself."

  The ship hummed in gentle reassurance. He and the crew had scrambled to make Pylos ready for the holocaust that lay ahead. She gleamed now, polished from stem to stern, engines powered up, the mighty batteries charged for combat.

  His crew had drilled and prepared until each person functioned at peak efficiency.

  "And now we wait?" Marston shook his head. His bridge First had informed him that the Praetor himself had come aboard with the last shuttle.

  The Praetor? On Pylos? And without fanfare? Why? Is he about to cut and run?

  Leave Myklene to its fate? Or is this all some elaborate drill?

  Marston stopped before the hatch to his personal quarters and paused, hand half raised to palm the latch. On impulse he pivoted on his heel and walked to the observation dome for one last look at Myklene, his home planet.

  He entered the dimly lit blister and sat off to one side where the railing lay in shadow. Below him, Myklene glistened in the greenish light of its sun, Myk.

  How delicate it looked, pristine and fragile.

  Marston rubbed his tired face. The skin felt like a mask. Did his world really hang in the balance? Was the Praetor's intelligence network correct? Did the Star Butcher and the Sassan empire prepare at this very moment to destroy his home?

  At first the soft rustle of gauzy fabrics didn't register in Marston's foggy mind, then he looked up. She didn't see him as she walked into the observation blister and paused, placing thin hands on the railing and staring out at the planet. Gleaming auburn hair had been gathered in a curling ponytail that hung down to her waist, and the fine fabrics she wore conformed to the sensual curves of her lithe body.

  Marston swallowed hard, the last vestiges of fatigue vanishing with the racing of his pulse. God, what a beauty! He must have gasped, for she turned, startled eyes flashing. And such eyes! Large and tawny-yellow, they seemed to grow in her delicate face until he saw nothing else.

  What would a man do to see such eyes glisten for him?

  She blushed then, raising a hand demurely and murmuring, "Excuse me."

  She turned to leave, the motion fluid.

  "No! Wait!" Marston took a step toward her, hand outstretched.

  She glanced shyly at him. "I must go. I'm not supposed to be here."

  "It's all right. I'm the captain. It's my command . . . my ship." As he stepped closer, he fell farther under the spell cast by those unique jasmine eyes. He stared, breathless and rapt. What gave her such incredible magnetism?

  The loose gauzy gown couldn't hide the wondrous curves of her body. Her delicate skin glowed with health and life. A vestige of caution reminded him that he was gawking. Shamed, he forced himself to concentrate on her face—and saw the terrible sadness that possessed he
r. It engulfed him, opening a pit in his stomach.

  "By the Blessed Gods, who are you?"

  The faintest of smiles crept around her lips. "I can't tell you that. It would be dangerous Captain . . . even for you."

  "How did you get here? This is a military vessel, subject to the strictest security."

  She slipped slender fingers into the small pouch on her belt and lifted a laser-coded security card. "I came with the Praetor."

  Marston nodded uneasily as he took the card. The Praetor's crest flashed as it caught the light. Even as he held it, the corners of the card began to discolor: chem-coded so the ID couldn't be faked. Her security status ranked her ID which made her a virtual slave to the Praetor. A chill settled on Marston's soul.

  She took the card back and stepped past him to stare down at the planet. "I must go now. He'll miss me. I slipped away for . . . one last look."

  I should call security, send her back to the Praetor's quarters. But he didn't. Then Marston caught her alluring scent and gripped the railing to steady himself. He searched for words, desperate to talk about anything that would keep her close. "You know that we may well be in combat within days."

  "I know."

  Why does she sound so sad? Who is she? "I suppose you're aware of the situation."

  The weary sorrow in her expression melted im. "Staffa's coming."

  Marston studied her from the corner of his eye. She'd said the Star Butcher's name with a wistful longing. "That's what we're told. But I assure you, you'll be safe here. The Lord Commander has never tried to crack a nut like Myklene before. We're not some half-starved backward planet. He has no concept of our power, or the capabilities of our orbital platforms. The finest technology has gone into making them the most sophisticated and deadly defensive weapons in all of Free Space. His tactics won't do him any good here. He's outgunned, and our tracking and targeting capabilities are like nothing he's ever dealt with."

  Marston's soul swelled when she turned her doe-eyed gaze on him. Hard-bitten veteran though he was, he'd already fallen in love with her. He battled the desire to enfold her in his arms, to carry her off to his cabin and . . .

  "Staffa knows that Captain." How could she talk about the man with such tenderness?

  "Then he knows he'll be crushed if he tries us."

  She placed a pale hand on his shoulder and an electric thrill shot through him. "Run, Captain. Leave this place. Save yourself while you have time."

  He forced a laugh. "I think you grossly overestimate the Lord Commander's chances, my lady. I give you my word, no matter what happens, I shall make sure you're safe. You needn't fear his slavers."

  Her smile went crooked. "Believe me, Captain. I have no fears of Staffa. And slavery comes in many forms and fashions." Grief brightened her eyes.

  "Sometimes I wonder if perhaps the only true freedom lies in death."

  "My lady . . . can I help you? Is there something I could—"

  "No, Captain." Her amber stare melted him. "But I thank you for your offer.

  It's too late to help me. But you still have time to flee, and perhaps to save yourself."

  "Staffa kar Therma could never take Myklene. For the first time, he'll have to tackle a superior force head-on. I grant you, he's taken world after world—but never an advanced military power like Myklene."

  "I hope the Blessed Gods give you a moment to remember your brave words, Captain."

  "Here, look." He pointed to spots of light above the curve of the planet; they gleamed greenly against the starclustered darkness of space. "Those are the most powerful weapons platforms in all of Free Space—and perhaps beyond the Forbidden Borders. We can track, pinpoint, and hit as many as six thousand moving obects at once. It's all controlled by a master computer complex on the planet so even if we lose a platform, the others will compensate immediately."

  At the doubt that troubled her perfect face, Marston grinned. "I'll tell you what. If the Star Butcher is foolish enough to attack, and if you're frightened, use this—" he handed her a medallion from his pouch—"and go down to the emergency evacuation pods. That's the safest place on the whole ship."

  Her delicate fingers closed over the medallion, glimmerings of hope lighting her porcelain face. "It's a pass?"

  He nodded. "The Praetor will have to okay it, since you've only got a ID

  clearance—use it only in an emergency."

  She flashed him a brief smile that sent pangs through his heart. "You're a blessing Captain. But I have to go. If I don't, the Praetor will . . . Well, that's not your problem. I look forward to seeing you soon."

  "Who are you?" he asked as she swept past.

  She paused at the hatch and looked back. "You can call me ... no, I owe you, Captain, and, considering what is coming, perhaps it makes no difference anymore. My name is Chrysla, but forget I ever told you." She disappeared through the hatch.

  "Chrysia—a wonderful name." Marston fingered his chin, barely noticing the grimy freighter that followed the traffic pattern toward the Port Authority.

  No matter what rumors of war crackled in subspace, the traders still flocked to Myklene, perhaps hoping to snatch a last minute cargo of Myklenian luxuries. He glared at the old scow and shook his head. Profiteers betting that Myklene would fall—that their last cargo would bring them uncounted wealth.

  "But you've bet wrong, friend."

  Marston glanced one last time at the planet and started for his quarters. A trace of a frown ate into his forehead. Chrysla. He'd heard the name before.

  Why did it sound familiar?

  The shiny syalon door to the Head Regent's office slipped open with a faint hiss and Sinklar Fist straightened his dustblue student's jacket on his bony shoulders before striding through. The ceramic heels on his cheap boots clicked hollowly on the hard tiles.

  Tall windows filled the spacious room with light. Data cubes rested in racks along one wall; the floor reflected a mirror polish. The Head Regent's desk dominated the room like a hulking flat-topped crab. A spiraling crystal sculpture poised like a lance on one corner of the desk and a commmonitor complex rose like a curved claw from the other.

  Sinklar stopped before the desk, barely curbing the urge to spring from foot to foot with anticipation. He looked scrawny, and a thatch of unruly black hair crowned his long face. Given a few more years, he'd become a handsome young man, but, for the time being, the gangliness of the ate teen years dominated his frame. The most peculiar of

  his many peculiar traits were his eyes: one gray, the other yellow.

  The Head Regent looked up from the monitor he studied and smiled warmly.

  "Sinklar. Good to see you, son."

  "Yes, sir. I understand the scores are in for the Interplanetary exams, sir."

  The Head Regent's smile weakened and he ran a freckled hand over the dome of his bald head. "They are, Sinklar." He paused, mystification creasing the wrinkles of his face. "But I don't understand what's happened."

  Sinklar stepped forward, leaning on the forbidden territory of the Head Regent's desk. "How did I place? By the Blessed Gods, sir, tell me!"

  The Head Regent pulled a flimsy from the top of a stack and stared at the printing with a scowl. "Third in the empire, Sinklar." He handed the sheet across. "But, Sinklar—"

  "Third" Sinklar let out a whoop, leaping with joy as he studied the blocky letters on the printout. "I've done it!"

  "Sinklar?"

  "Third! I told you Head Regent! It felt right when I took the exam. I just knew I—"

  "Sinklar!"

  He turned, the flush of excitement fit to burst his skinny breast. "Sir?"

  The Head Regent sighed and leaned back in his chair, a sadness in his eyes.

  "They turned down your application to the university."

  Sinklar took a step forward. "They . . . what?"

  The Head Regent shook his head. "I don't know why. I got the exam results this morning and called immediately. Nothing like this has ever happened before. I don't . . . w
el, I'm sure it's a mistake."

  Sinklar gaped, ebullience fading. "Turned down?" He shook the flimsy in his bony fist. "But I'm third. Third in all the empire! How can they?"

  "I'm sure it's a mistake. I've got calls in—"

  "No." Sinklar looked down at the crumpled sheet in his hand. "It's my background again, isn't it?"

  "Sinklar, you can't—"

  "Yes, sir. I can." He glanced up, the heat of anger rising. "It's like always, isn't it? The enrollment will consist of the

  silver-spooned children of the nobility. The few positions remaining will go to wealthy merchants and the governors."

  "Sinklar, I'm sure it's a mistake. That's all."

  "Mistake? Sir, there's no room among the elite for a ward of the state. It's because of my parents again, because of what they did. Why do I have to pay for what they did? I never knew them! I only know where they're buried—and what the court records state. We Regans document everything, but I'm a random factor, a freak in the system." Sinklar dropped his head, pulling the flimsy through his numb fingers. "I understand too well Head Regent. We wouldn't want the fair-haired sons and daughters of Lord Ministers and governors in the university rubbing elbows with the likes of me, would we?"

  "Sinklar, please." The Head Regent fumbled nervously with his hands. "I'm sure it's a mistake. The empire needs people with your incredible brilliance. Don't do this to yourself."

  Sinklar balled up the flimsy and tossed it at the disposal bin. "It's not your fault, sir. You took a chance on me and I did the best I could for you. But, you see, sir, I'm different—and it isn't just my eyes that set me apart."