Requiem for the Conqueror

  "For one thing," MacRuder—still filling the door—told him, "we're stuck. And we're sitting ducks here. These little valleys might harbor enough farmland to supply this elevator and co-op, but the rocky timbered ridges around them are a haven for hit-and-run tactics."

  Sinklar flipped on his comm. "Ayms? Kap? Report!"

  "Got the boys billeted out here, First. Everything's quiet. Boring in fact.

  What's the news on the transport? What do I tell these guys?" Kap asked.

  "Tell them we're staying here for a day." Sinklar rubbed the back of his neck.

  "Remember the drills we did outside Kaspa? I want small search and destroy squads out and around. This time, we play their game. Meanwhile, organize foraging parties. One from each Section. They are to bring in livestock, raid the farms, and shoot any wildlife. If it's kicking and red-blooded, it's edible."

  "So when do we get out of here?" Ayms asked, voice somber.

  "As soon as I think of a way. Tell the troops the Rotted Gods will starve before I leave 'em hung up to dry. Headquarters or hell take the hindmost!"

  "Yes, sir. We're on it," Kap signed off.

  Sinklar turned to the map. "We could walk. That would get us there within three weeks. But a long column would be easily picked to pieces. And how would we feed them all? The country isn't that rich!"

  MacRuder stepped forward, a perplexed anxiety in his deep blue eyes as he ran a nervous hand through his blond hair. "I could take a squad back with the transport. We could, um, 'suggest' that they give us transport. A blaster under full charge can be real pus-stinking persuasive when you're looking down the other end."

  "And they'd blow you to pieces." Pensively, Sinklar rolled his stylus between his fingers. "No, Mac, they'd be prepared for that."

  Gretta's eyes slitted before she spoke, voice deadly flat. "You mean they did this on purpose?"

  "Of course." Sink tapped the stylus against his chin, gaze switching from face to face. His mind raced as the possibilities unfolded in his mind.

  "Stupidity!" Mac flared. "What good does it do the Empire to have the First Targan gutted and destroyed again? It's preposterous!"

  "That would appear to be the question," Sinklar agreed, considering the situation, refusing to let his anger carry him away. "To allow the Division to be savaged and decimated again will give the Targans heart, a great psychological

  and political victory. The Empire will be set back and the involvement here will escalate in cost and lives and material."

  "Who profits from that?" Gretta moved behind him, hands comforting as she massaged his shoulders.

  "I'm not really sure." Sinklar patted one of her hands affectionately. Smile fading into frown, he added, "What we see here is a tiny part of the complete picture. No, our dilemma is not a tactical error. Somewhere—Rega, most likely—an Imperial defeat will benefit some party or destroy someone else.

  Who? Mykroft? I don't think so. He hated appointing me to this position."

  The piece clicked into place. Sinklar's eyes lit. "Of course!"

  "What?" Gretta demanded, leaning forward to stare into his eyes, suddenly hopeful.

  "That's why they appointed me." Sinklar laughed bitterly and slapped a hand on his knee. "I'm a sacrificial goat! The perfect fall guy! Set up the First Division with raw misfits; leave them stranded with a new 'green' commander; allow the Targans to blast us to pieces while the command falls apart, lacking food, supply, and relief; and finally, no one powerful or important gets the blame or shame of losing a whole Division to the Targans. We're expendable for political reasons."

  Mac's mouth worked. "Rotted Gods! What are we fighting for? I mean, they can't just waste their own people like that, can they? We're Imperial citizens! What about all that rhetoric when they took Maika, and Riparious, and all the rest?

  What about the speeches on law and human rights and ethical responsibility?"

  "Propaganda," Gretta guessed. "Face it, Tybalt built an Empire to promote his power and will. Only the Sassans stand in the way."

  "And there's a missing factor in interstellar politics that hasn't been heard from," Sinklar observed, steepling his fingers.

  "That is?" Gretta sank onto the corner of the desk, eyes soft as she watched him. Her long brown hair framed her face.

  "The Companions." Sinklar tapped the map with his stylus. "How many wars has Rega fought without Staffa kar

  Therma's people doing the majority of the work?" He raised an eyebrow. "For the past forty years, not one. Where do you think that asinine regulation of command personnel staying hidden in the rear came from? The Divisional staff has been appointed by political merit. In the last ten or fifteen planetary conquests, the Companions waged the war—not the Regans. We were just mop-up and defensive troops."

  "And now Sassa has consolidated its empire." MacRuder lifted a thumb to his mouth and chewed the nail. "If the Star Butcher goes Sassan, where are we?

  Rega, I mean?"

  Sinklar lifted his arms in an eloquent shrug. "I don't know. No one in the Regan Ministry of Defense knows anything about tactics or combat. The game plan was always supplied by the Star Butcher; his people oversaw the strategy and tactics while the political hacks took their commissions and were decorated for gallantry and efficiency in the Imperial Hall after the war."

  "Pus-Rotted Gods," Gretta whispered, stunned. "We're vulnerable as sheep!"

  "Bad analogy. Think of us—Rega, that is—in actual terms. We have a lot of combat veterans. They just aren't here. Significant, don't you think? Only two green divisions on this planet? Why not the hard-core veterans from Maika and Riparious and Etaria and Ashtan? No, this is either a diversion or bait, one of the two. Why hasn't the Star Butcher showed up to cow Targa? Is he working for Sassa or ... maybe this war isn't hot enough to stir his interest? Or, could it be we're an example—misleading at that—to lull someone's perception of Regan power? Disinformation can be a potent weapon."

  Sinklar's brows lowered, the smile twisting his grim lips. "So, if the war could be heated up—say a Division was lost—the Targans would organize.

  Individuals whose loyalties are wavering would see a chance and commit themselves to the Rebellion. Staffa would find a reason to take a contract.

  Thus, he would already be in Regan contract if a confrontation with the Sassans could be provoked. Or the Sassans might jump before they were ready."

  "But what if the Companions are already contracted to the Sassans?" Mac asked pointedly.

  Sinklar shifted in his seat. "Then this war would have already been settled. Either Tybalt would have agreed to a political settlement to stabilize treacherous waters, or the veterans would have been here in such a massed force as to crush the potential for rebellion." He squinted at the thought. "Rega could destroy the food chain here within three days by using the combined power of the fleet. No food—no revolution. Very simple.

  Works all the time."

  "But there's only a token force orbiting," Gretta reminded.

  "And if Staffa was in contract to the Sassans," Sinklar responded, "there would be military panic, frantic training, and no promotion of an unknown Sergeant Third to Divisional First."

  Mac puffed a deep breath. "And that brings us back to this pus hole. Sink, I wasn't scared by the Targans. All they want to do is drive us away. Imperial politics? What the hell do we do about that?" He sighed and closed his eyes.

  "Rotted Gods! How do we fight the Minister of Defense, hell, even the Emperor, for all we know!" Mac paced, face working anxiously as his fists clenched and unclenched.

  "First, Mac," Sinklar's gentle voice soothed, "relax. That's an order. The way to win is to think." He laced his fingers together and winked at Gretta. "The best way to defeat whoever is behind this is to derail their plans for the destruction of the First Targah Assault Division."

  "What are you thinking?" Gretta took his hand.

  "Oh, for starters let's get the hell out of here. That's first priority.

  Second
is to take Vespa, and third, of course, is to win the war." And then, we deal with whoever set us up to die!

  "My Section doesn't know how to fly in battle gear without an aircar or LC,"

  MacRuder told him dryly, arms crossed.

  "Neither do the others," Sinklar stared at the map. "Fifteen klicks north of here is the Decker Lucky Mack Mine." He lifted his gaze, amused. "Prophetic?"

  MacRuder frowned. "How does having a mine fifteen klicks north of us keep the First Targan Division alive?"

  "We have three company cars left for staff purposes, right?"

  "Yeah." Mac nodded suspiciously.

  "And we inventoried another five trucks here at the co-op for hauling grain." Sinklar dropped his chin on his chest. "Can you take the Second Section up to the mine tonight? Load them in the cars and trucks and go? Might have to fight your way through, but get up there!"

  "And bring back rocks?" Mac wondered. "Planning on smelting ore and building LCs from scratch?"

  Sinklar looked up mildly. "Why take that much time? Just get me every belly-dump you can commandeer out of there. I figure those huge crawlers they use ought to be able to carry three hundred men apiece. After that, all we need to do is commandeer every aircar and truck we find along the way to use for foraging and fuel acquisition."

  "Sink, you'll be the salvation of this pus-rotted command yet!" Mac let out a whoop as he ran for his Section.

  Sinklar had lost himself in reflection when Gretta's warm hand caressed his neck. "For a moment Sink, I was really scared."

  "For a moment? Do you have any idea of the odds against us?"

  "We'd do better trying to breathe vacuum, wouldn't we?"

  He filled his lungs and blew air out. "I suppose so. But we won't be cut up by the Targans while we starve here." He stood. "Come on, let's go see the troops."

  It had become a nightly ritual. They walked past the silent buildings guarded by the various Sections. At the perimeter, a low challenge was growled out of the night. "Advance and identify yourself!"

  Sinklar and Gretta, arms locked, strolled up as the guard flashed a light into their faces. "Oh, excuse me, sir, ma'am."

  "Never let the ID of a person fool you," Sinklar smiled. "You're not standing here alone, are you?"

  "No, sir," the guard said soberly. "Fips and Angelina have you covered with blasters right now. They're over there in the bushes like you taught us on drill, sir."

  Sinklar studied the vegetation through his IR and picked up the two flankers.

  He nodded and patted the soldier on the shoulder. "Excellent work. My congratulations to you and your Section. Tell Hauws I said you're to be commended for vigilance and foresight. We'll do fine with troops of your caliber."

  The man straightened, his chest puffing with pride. "Thank you, sir. We'll never let you down, sir!"

  "They'd do anything for you, Sink," Gretta told him as they walked away. "I never would have believed it. You've worked a miracle with the First."

  "Just sense . . . and the only option I've got." He shrugged. "Considering the odds against us, we've only got one asset."

  "And that is?"

  "We have one assault Division." He hugged her close. "Two thousand men and women, armed, and, hopefully, after we get to Vespa and settle the affairs on Targa we'll be as tough and disciplined as the blood-soaked Companions themselves."

  "You tried to tell me all this when we were training outside Kaspa. I thought at the time it was just to build morale." She clasped his fingers in hers.

  "Now the search and destroy teams make sense. I love you, Sinklar Fist."

  "And you thought I was crazy when we risked Fourth Section to recover those five privates cut off on the ridge that time the Targans hit us during training," he reminded lightly.

  "Getting those people back won you the entire ourth Section. They'd walk through fire for you now." She studied him through the IR visor, eyes alive with speculation. "What made you think of that?"

  He stopped to smell the fresh air and enjoy the woman who leaned against him.

  "It's symptomatic of the age, I guess. Tybalt has built a throwaway army. Ever since the beginning of the Imperial period, one hundred and fifty years ago, armies have been trained to strike a planet, stun it into paralysis, and wreck the ability of the people to resist. Call it shock war. The enemy was impersonal and a soldier's only duty was to cower in fear until his LC grounded, jump out with his rifle, and blast anything native that moved. If he lived, he went home and relaxed until the next time."

  "But that only works when you conquer worlds," Gretta said. "The Star Butcher does the same, doesn't he? Stuns planets, that is."

  "Not quite. His responsibilities include finding defensive weaknesses and he exploits his reputation. The other difference is that his people stay with him. He has their loyalty. The Companions function within a strict code of honor and duty to each other." Sinklar kissed her and added, "And they have never been defeated."

  "The First has."

  "And I intend to see that it never happens again," Sinklar said as they continued walking down along the creek bottom. Patches of deciduous trees mixed with grassy meadows.

  "Who goes there? Advance and be recognized." A man rose from a ditch, waiting, blaster ready as they walked up.

  "Were I an enemy who got this close, you'd be dead." Sinklar's voice sounded like cracked ice after he'd passed recognition. The soldier's shoulders dropped meekly. "Anyone within five feet of you, trained properly, could kill you with their bare hands."

  "But I ... I didn't think—"

  "No, you didn't," Sinklar told him hotly. "By the corrupted Gods, man! How can I keep you alive if you act like a fool? I want to see you healthy and in one piece after this. Tafft knows better. You alone out here?"

  "N-no, sir. Leeka's over there." He waved an arm at the darkness.

  Sinklar scanned the darkness. "Where?"

  "Uh, over the hill, sir."

  "And if I had just killed you," Sinklar reminded, "this whole quarter would be wide open, wouldn't it? How many in your Section and the other Sections would die from your failure at this position?"

  "Sergeant First Tafft told me not to worry. That I wasn't trained to think, just to shoot, sir." The soldier shifted nervously. "Corporal Mayz thought five perimeter guards was too few for the terrain. I agreed, but the sergeant told us to—"

  "Corporal Mayz has sense," Sinklar mumbled stalking off into the darkness.

  "This is the final straw."

  They found Mayz and her Group dug in on a hilltop. "Where's Sergeant First Tafft?"

  "Down there, sir. In the flat at the bottom of the hill." Mayz jumped to her feet, saluting.

  "And why are you up here while the other Groups are down there?" Sinklar asked, studying the corporal.

  The woman swallowed, eyes darting to Gretta, expression tense through the IR visor. "Because of your lecture on the uses of terrain, sir. If the guard should fail, we might be able to hold this high spot until the others could recover."

  "I think I understand Corporal. You will accompany me." Anger smoldering, Sinklar walked through a ring of snoring soldiers and kicked Sergeant First Tafft awake.

  "Who the Rotted. . . . Mister, you're in a pus-puke pool of. ..." Tafft fumbled for his helmet and slipped it on. Through the IR he met Sinklar's gaze as he glared down. "Oh, sorry, sir."

  "Damn it, man, you've got isolated guards out there! The whole Targan resistance could infiltrate that perimeter and you'd be dead before you found your rotted helmet!" He propped his fists on his hips. "Mayz!"

  "Sir!" The corporal snapped a salute.

  "You will take command of Seventh Section immediately and attend to fixing the perimeter of this camp so our peo ple don't end up slaughtered like maggot meat! Tafft, you will assume the rank of Corporal Third pending how much you can learn in the meantime."

  The Seventh sat up, halfway out of their bedding, stunned, as Sinklar turned to address them. "I've told you people time after t
ime. My first concern is to inflict the greatest amount of damage to'the Targan resistance. My second concern is that one of these days I want to see each one of you step onto a transport home to your worlds and families. Neither I, nor the Empire, profits from your dead bodies. I punish for misconduct. You know that, it's in the manual. What you don't know is that I consider stupidity a killing offense.

  Tafft, you're lucky. I should have shot you. Prove to me—and these people—that you're worth our respect. And if anyone can run this Section better than Mayz, I'll promote him."

  Gretta walked with him until he cleared the perimeter. Behind him, Mayz could be heard bellowing orders.

  "Should have cleaned that outfit up a week ago," Sinklar mumbled under his breath.

  "Told you so," she jabbed.

  "Tafft looked like he was learning during training. Now I wonder if you weren't right. Maybe he was just playing the game."

  "It's in his nature. Mayz will be after you within a week to promote someone else to corporal."

  "Then she's got it." He took a deep breath. Curse it, did everything have to happen at once? "Come on, let's get back to the shelter and get some sleep.

  I've got a feeling it's going to be a long time before we get another chance to rest."

  "Sink?" The call came urgently through the walls of the shelter. Sinklar blinked and sat up, seeing Gretta's eyes already open as she rolled off the sleeping pad, reaching for her assault rifle.

  "Yeah, Kap?" He grabbed his helmet and clamped it on his head, enjoying Greta's body as displayed in her battle armor. So terrible that they had to sleep in armor these days. It made a mockery of love-making.

  Sinklar raised the flap and slipped out to see Kap pointing northward where a long plume of yellow-gray dust rose toward the sky. He couldn't see the source because the treecovered ridges blocked it.

  "From the mine," Sinklar guessed. "Any trouble around here last night?"

  "Ayms' A Group caught a bunch of locals arming themselves in a barn. The corporal took your orders to heart and scared them pissless. Put a couple up against a wall and threatened to execute them. After he and the boys played debate about whether they were more use to the Empire alive or dead, he sent them home looking spit-slobbering scared and thankful for the clemency of Sinklar Fist."