Requiem for the Conqueror

  They didn't speak while they ate, wolfing down bite after bite. Sinklar couldn't help but gaze at her. His eyes traced the line of her jaw, his imagination wondering about the feel of her lips against his.

  "I've seen desire, Sink, But you're starting to drool," she said through a mouthful of energy stick.

  "Sorry. Didn't mean to. You're just. . . ."

  She erupted in a giggle. Then, in a low voice, she added, "Thank you, Sinklar.

  I've wanted to see that look in your eyes."

  Awkwardly, he wiped his mouth and leaned back, aware the chair creaked and groaned. He tried to change the subject. "I never suspected war would be so busy."

  She blinked owlishly and shook her head. "Never thought after they blew the post office that we'd live this long. Or this well!" Gretta laughed, lifted the last scraps of ration in grimy fingers, and dropped them on her tongue. "I remember watching a rat run by in Kaspa. Wanted to blast it on the spot."

  "Tough times back there." He didn't remember reaching for her hand.

  She stared at him through clear, unwavering eyes. "I ... I've missed you Sink."

  He tilted his head, realizing his toe rested on hers, moving back and forth through the heavy armor. "I was only in the hospital for two weeks. Those machines work marvels."

  She grinned at him. "You know, I thought you were a real nonentity when I first met you in training camp on Rega. All locked away in your head."

  He tried to shrug, but the stiffened armor wouldn't allow it. "Maybe I still am. Trying to keep us alive."

  "Alive," she mused, tightening her grip. "That's important to you. Why? Why do you care so much? Other officers, they just want to hang around in the rear and drink and talk war."

  Sinklar squirmed uneasily and stood, walking to the bedroll laid on the small bunk. With heavy fingers he unlatched the streaked, smoke-stained armor and slid out of the chest piece.

  Why does this make me so nervous? I'm coming to love this woman. Can't I share myself with her? Why is it so hard to let loose? I. ... I can't tell her everything. I can't. Too painful.

  He started awkwardly. "Goes back . . . back to being a kid, I suppose. I ...

  I'm. . . . Well, look at me. Always the runt. The skinny kid who reads all the time. Got two different colored eyes. I'm short, Gretta. Always been short.

  Not only that, I was raised by the State. In the old days, they called me an orphan. And there are other things. Things I didn't know until recently." He looked around, raising a hand helplessly as he leaned against the roughhewn rock and sighed.

  Why do you look at me like that? You just watch, and wait, really listening to what I say. No one has ever just listened to me—let alone a woman as beautiful as you. Why have I always been so lonely?

  He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "I ... I guess I look around now, and see all of us. The whole Division isn't anything but a bunch of ... nonentities. Wasn't that the word you used?"

  She blushed. "Sink, I—"

  "Hush. It's all right. I mean, that's why I care. We're non-people. Blaster fodder. You've heard that term? Well, that's us. Orders are," he mocked an official voice, " 'Second Section, hold that pass and allow no one to cross it!' " He pursed his lips and looked up, letting himself drown in those eyes. "And that's what we do. We died by the hundreds in the Kaspa Post Office. Did anyone investigate to find out why?"

  She shook her head, eyes on his, expressing a sudden pain at his harsh words.

  "No one cared why First Division was almost wiped out. We don't count, Gretta." His lips worked. "But me, I can make a difference now. Out there," he waved toward Kaspa, "something happened. I ... I came into myself. All the stuff I'd studied for all these years suddenly slipped into place. Now, Sinkiar Fist, the freak, can change things. In a small way, I can keep these men and women alive." He felt the fire in his eyes, watched her lips part as she nodded agreement.

  "Come sit here," he whispered. "Let me look at you, hold you."

  She stood up and paused while her fingers released her armor. "You're all I wanted you to be Sink."

  "I ... I want you, Gretta." He felt himself tighten. "From the time we came down in the LC, I couldn't keep my mind off you."

  She shook out her hair, slipping the armor off her legs so she stood before him in her padded undersuit.

  His eyes devoured her as she ran her finger along the quick release; her underwear fell away exposing her full young breasts, the curve of her tight belly leaving her navel and the tantalizing black V of her pubic hair in shadow.

  Sinkiar had trouble swallowing as she reached down, breasts swaying, to pull his remaining armor off. He stifled a joyous cry as she undid his undersuit.

  One warm palm burned on his chest as she pushed him flat. He winced as she fingered the angry scars on his side.

  "Oh, Blessed Gods," he whispered as her warm flesh slid over his on the narrow cot.

  Magister Bruen looked up from the report on the monitor. He rubbed a fragile hand across his wrinkled chin as he stared at the irregular rock overhead. The single light fixture threw an eerie glow over the chamber and cast shadows behind the spare furniture.

  He raised his voice, calling, "Magister Hyde?"

  Bruen's eyes searched the carved stone above his head as if the answer might be there, engraved into the very basalt. How could it have gone so wrong?

  "Yes?" There came a shuffling of feet and coth.

  "Staffa has turned down both the Sassans and Rega. They refused contract to both parties—for a year at least."

  A long silence followed before Hyde sputtered, "What? Impossible! It doesn't make any military sense. What motivates that man beyond death and mayhem?"

  Bruen stroked his chin. "We—and the machine—competely missed this possibility."

  Magister Hyde moved over and pulled out a chair, grunting as he settled into it. "You're sure? Perhaps he's playing for time—driving the price up? Perhaps the Myklenians hurt him worse than our intelligence indicated?"

  "Perhaps, honorable Magister," Bruen mumbled absently as his mind played with this new dimension of Staffa kar Therma's personality. How did it fit? He needed some key to slip this new piece into the puzzle. How could he make a picture when the pieces insisted on changing colors and shapes in the midde?

  Quanta at work.

  "Didn't predict he'd kill the Praetor, either," Hyde reminded, lost in his own thoughts. "That's when our predictions began to go awry." .

  Bruen slapped a withered hand on the monitor before him. "Indeed. Until then we had stayed within three degrees of freedom. But Staffa withdrawing from the table? Totally outside of any of our predictions." His wrinkled face creased in annoyance. "No, we didn't predict he would kill the Praetor. Accidentally, yes. But in person? Never."

  Hyde bent over the desk, pulling his robes up his skinny white arms so he could lean on his elbows without slipping. "So we have the key. The Praetor did something to him— said something."

  "If we accept that assumption, it could change everything. You know what sort of man the Praetor was—brilliant and diabolical."

  Hyde stared absently at the floor. "Yes, brilliant. A man to admire and hate.

  Working with him always left me feeling like I had been privileged and fouled at the same time."

  Bruen continued to frown at nothingness, lost in his thoughts. "The Praetor could have done anything, said anything. You don't suppose he bragged about Chrysla, do you? Have we underestimated that facet of his personality? We ensured that Chrysla died during the battle—I think. Our agent never got free of the Praetor's flagship to report. I would assume thrakis got her before the blasters did." Bruen made a useless gesture with his hand. "Rotted shame. She was such a beautiful woman . . . and the world is so short of beautiful women these days."

  "And the girl? Arta? Is there some way we can still use her to salvage this situation?" Hyde worked his toothless gums and rubbed his deep-set eyes.

  Bruen blinked and leaned back. "You read the report
. They succeeded in eliminating Atkin and his staff—in bed no less. With that vacancy, we can expect the Minister of Defense to appoint Kapitol to the First Division. He's earned it, you know. Kissed Tybalt's rosy red rectum enough times. With him in command of the First Division, he'll do everything in his power to hamstring Mykroft in the Second. There's been an incredible hatred between them. Should effectively reduce the Regan capabilities on Targa by the third." His eyes lit. "We might even get lucky and have them shooting at each other."

  "I read that report. The girl got more than a dose full of assassination,"

  Hyde reflected. "Not only that, but I worry. I perceive a sexual interest."

  Bruen grunted. "Butla knows. We talked."

  "You had counted on her remaining a virgin." Hyde looked at him dully.

  "Breached, will she react the way you hope she will?"

  "With Staffa going wild? I don't count on anything. The quanta are acting.

  Either that or we've missed a variable."

  "Or could it be the machine?" Hyde wondered.

  Bruen fought a shiver. Don't think it. Not now. Change the subject. Otherwise it will gnaw at Hyde. Drive him into the grave.

  Bruen tapped his lips with translucent-skinned fingers. "Do you suppose Staffa's turning rogue? Perhaps he's becoming a pirate? This way, he can keep the balance of power and play one against the other so neither can become strong enough to threaten him and his precious industry."

  "We investigated that years ago, Magister," Hyde reminded, with a pointed finger. He leaned against the rough stone of the cavern wall and shook his head. "The decision we made then—and I think it still holds—is that he would help the Sassans win. When the dust settled, he would declare himself Emperor with his Companions to back him up. Would you ignore two empires that could one day destroy you? No, you're like Staffa, Bruen.

  You'd take it all." Hyde waved his hands furiously, "Oh, sure, he's refused to dicker. I insist it's a ploy for time."

  "Then why has he disappeared?" Bruen wondered, enjoying the look of absolute astonishment in Hyde's fractured expression.

  "Assassination? Or . . ." Hyde gasped, "Oh, no! Perhaps he ... suspects?" Hyde ended up coughing and hacking.

  "I don't think so." Bruen indicated the monitor screen and accessed a program.

  "This is Staffa's speech to his command rank officers. Listen to him. Notice the expressions he uses."

  Bruen watched Hyde pensively as the tape played through to the end.

  "I still don't believe it!" Hyde slapped the table between gasping breaths.

  "What chances are there that this is some false trail ooked up to send us down the—"

  "Statistically and practically impossible. Subsequent to this being released by time delay—oh, Staffa was clever— the Wing Commander turned down both empires. Didn't even listen to their offers. And within ten hours Skyla took her private vessel and left the Itreatic Asteroids in search— we presume—of Staffa."

  Hyde had his eyes closed again, lost in thought. Moments passed before he asked, "And what does that tell us about Skyla? Does she know where Staffa is?

  What is her concern? Surely the Companions are in no trouble."

  Bruen lifted a shoulder. "They aren't lovers, so I doubt it's an affair of the heart. No, I would rather think it has something to do with Staffa's activities."

  "I have the latest figures. Our forces have enjoyed another ten percent enlistment. People are fleeing the cities to join the Rebellion in the back country. The Regan outposts have been harassed constantly and we've routed two entire Sections and inflicted heavy losses. Their ranks are wearing down—all but one, that is." Hyde clicked his long fingernails on the counter. "Care to guess whose?"

  "Sergeant Sinklar again?"

  "He is exceeding his projected curve much too early." Hyde leaned back and chewed on his finger.

  Bruen smiled wearily. "Yes, I know. Our people paid a lot to keep him out of their university. Now we may need him after all, depending on what Staffa does—and what happens with Arta."

  Hyde turned his head to stare. "I wonder how he kept from being killed. The quanta at work?"

  "Congenital ability," Bruen grunted. "Keep the pressure up on the invasion forces. Morale is dropping in the Divisions. Too many Regans are dying and not enough Targans. It's sapping them on the inside."

  "We captured an entire weapons dump full of rifles, heavy blasters, ten patrol craft, and a half dozen heavy assault vehicles," Hyde announced. He beamed a smile. "They set down in the wrong valley, it seems. We're not the only ones with bad luck. Our military capability took a quantum leap with that infusion of material. We can defeat an entire Division—if they're stupid enough to put one in the field."

  "So things look moderately good with the exception of Staffa."

  "If we just knew what he's up to!" Hyde cried. "The Lord Commander is the most important person in Free Space. The fate of all humanity rests on that man's shoulders. And we can't find him!"

  Bruen smiled wearily. "Easy, my friend. Calm yourself and consider this. Ily Takka, our single most dangerous adversary, left the Itreatic Asteroids after the Companions' refusal to deal."

  "So?"

  "So she never returned to Rega. Does that suggest anything to you?" Bruen nodded soberly as Hyde stiffened. "Exactly. Ily, too, is looking for Staffa—and Pates help us if she finds him first."

  CHAPTER 11

  "Next! State your name."

  Two guards pushed Staff a out into the courtroom. He braced his legs, glaring up defiantly at the court officers. Before him, a Judicial Magistrate and several clerks sat behind a tall hardwood podium. Galleries full of curious people lined the upper walls. Above the galleries, a groined ceiling rose.

  Light pods and security monitors nestled in the high niches. The whole place had been painted a pale green and an odor of unwashed bodies filled the air.

  He felt ludicrous wrapped in the towel they had given him.

  "Staffa kar Therma, Lord Commander of Companions," his stentorian tones rolled out over the room. A tittering of voices broke the sudden silence. The endless nightmares had given way to this, a differen kind of hell—but one with hope.

  It would be only a matter of time now.

  "Oh, yes," the Judicial Magistrate nodded, staring down at his monitor, "the madman." He looked up, a bored expression on his face. "You are charged with the deaths of two citizens. You are charged with assault on a public official.

  You are charged with vagrancy—being present in Etarus with no visible means of support other then preying upon the Emperor's citizens. I ask, have you an address, or proof of occupation?"

  "Five years ago, I could have burned this planet to slag. I should have done so," Staffa growled. "I would suggest in the meantime Magistrate, that you contact Wing Commander Skyla Lyma in the Itreatic Asteroids to verify—"

  "Enough!" the Magistrate thundered, his gavel slapping the room to silence. He worked his lips as he entered a notation into the comm. "I suppose you have an explanation as to why you murdered two citizens and why you were naked in a public place?"

  "They bbed me. I killed two before I lost consciou ness." Anger raged in a vortex under his throat; the inferno threatened to engulf him. His arms trembled as he waited before the elevated sandwood bench. He took time to glare his hatred at the hooting crowds in the galleries. They made a spectacle of him, Staffa kar Therma He imagined burning them all where they sat—vengeance against the ghosts that had begun to haunt his dreams.

  "Yes, so you say," the Magistrate ventured cynically. "But Civil Security only received reports that a madman was running naked and killing people. Who is your master?"

  "I have no master!" Staffa roared. A violent stab of pain scorched his spine and left him bent and contorted, his mind numb as he struggled to keep from falling. He groaned as a bailiff stepped back, the stun rod hanging easily from his hand.

  The Magistrate pointed a long white finger and added calmly, "This is a court of
law. I will brook no further outrageous statements, madman. You are a slave. Your body is covered with scars. I suppose you would have us believe those are your battle wounds?"

  Laughter and jeers rolled down from the galleries.

  Staffa pulled himself up to his full height and threw his head back, loose black hair in an unruly tangle. "Among my people, scars are a symbol of honor—of pride in service to the Companions."

  More screeches of amusement from above. Humiliation twined with anger; Staffa ground his teeth and his breathing went short.

  "And the Companions murder innocent citizens, I suppose?" The Magistrate scratched his head and sighed. "Yes, I know the reputation the Star Butcher has, madman. That he commits atrocities in the name of the Empire is not the concern of this court, however. From your appearance, it is obvious that you are an escaped slave. During your medical treatment for concussion, you broke a physician's arm and incapacitated two interns. That, madman, is assault of a public official. Since then, you have demonstrated uncontrollable rages and delusions, all of which make you—in

  the eyes of this court—a hazard to the Emperor's citizens. Further, you have admitted to the murder of two of those citizens. Have you a statement?"

  Staffa's anger surged as he knotted his fists, the muscles popping on his shoulders and arms. "You will pay, all of you."

  The judge continued, voice somnolent, "Be it known, therefore, Staffa kar Therma, that this court finds you guilty on all counts. Further, it is the option of the court to sentence you to death or slavery."

  Staffa stiffened, fear running white where anger had previously dominated. He began to tremble as he sensed the bailiffs stepping forward, stun rods ready.

  The Magistrate laced his fingers together and leaned forward. "Something tells me I should just execute you. However, you have absorbed a great deal of the court's time and the Emperor's resources. We kept you in stasis until your health improved. Perhaps a poor investment. I think it only fair that the people get something in return. I therefore sentence you to a lifetime of labor for the state. You will be remanded into the custody of the Warden of City Projects and fitted with a stasis collar. Are you familiar with a stasis collar?"