Requiem for the Conqueror

  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.

  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 wh
o 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.