Requiem for the Conqueror

  "What do you mean? They just retreating without a fight?"

  "No. They shoot good enough. I don't know. Just a hunch."

  Sinklar turned to the comm, twisting the resolution controls. The battlefield terrain around the Raktan mines clarified as the comm accessed cadastral survey data. Sink plotted Hauws' movements against the suspected Regan position. The Third Ashtan Division under First Weebouw would have formed a defensive perimeter according to the book—and they should have fought like mad dogs to keep that same perimeter. Sink squinted at the comm-generated image and thought for a second.

  "Yeah," Sink leaned forward in sudden understanding. "Of course! Hauws?

  Listen, there's a valley ahead of you, right?"

  "Sure is. They seem to be falling back for it. If we can concentrate them in that valley, take the ridges around it, we'll have them with their britches around their—"

  "Don't! Repeat, do not! Hauws, it's a trap. They'll have you! You'll be like targets on the training range! They'll paste you from orbital. Uh, let's see, page 95 of the Holy Gawddamn Book. 'Concentration of the enemy forces for orbital attack through misdirection.' Remember? Can you swing right? Break their flank? Maybe pull them apart, split their forces? Ruin their balance, and you can make a fast drive for the mine offices."

  "I remember. You're right. We're gone!" The staccato of blaster and pulse fire practically drowned Hauws' voice.

  For long moments Sinklar glared at the comm and tried to imagine Hauws'

  Section as they maneuvered against Weebouw's Veteran Ashtan troops.

  Then the comm crackled as Hauws' excited voice cried:

  "Etarian Priest crap, Sink! I'm starting to think these guys are made of butter. Each Group sits around until the Section First tells them where to move. Then they go. No initiative. Yeah, we're putting the claws to them. They didn't think we'd break right. You called it again, Boss!"

  Sink chortled, half-silly with exhaustion. "Don't get to underestimating them.

  They might have some guts to make up for that command deficiency."

  "Sink?" Hauws' voice was barely audible as a jamming sequence from orbit tried to tie down their band. "We're making headway. Group C just got them flanked.

  We're pushing through."

  "Excellent, Hauws. They should have to pull another two Sections to reinforce that flank. Keep it up, pal, you're buying victory!"

  "Yeah. But we're bleeding for it, too. It doesn't come free."

  "I know. Try and keep in touch." Sinklar rubbed his face with a gritty hand.

  He noticed Mhitshul had refilled his stassa cup. A go pill lay beside it. How many more could he take before the drug began to blur reality and make his decisions suspect?

  Hauws was taking casualties? How many? Just how much would this Regan idiocy cost the First Targan in precious blood? Could they make it work? Was the price in blood worth a futile attempt to defeat five Regan Divisions simultaneously on seven different fronts?

  "Kap? Report, Kap!"

  Crackly silence.

  "Ayms? You there, Ayms?"

  Nothing.

  "Rotted Gods, they've jammed us completely." Sinklar used a thumb and forefinger to rub his eyes as he struggled to keep his mind from going numb.

  All those men and women had to rely on themselves now. He couldn't help. They knew the plan, where to go, how to do their jobs. But so many things happened.

  Battlefields went random from the first shot fired. How many would die? How many? He cradled his head in his hands as the words repeated in his head.

  "How's it look?" Shiksta's scabby voice called, breaking Sink's mental haze.

  The crackle of Shik's big gravity flux guns sounded through the comm.

  Sinklar exhaled wearily. "Hanging by a thread. Right now, it could go either way. They've managed to cut communications with three Sections and are pinning the rest down."

  "Uh." Shiksta hesitated. "What was the fancy word you used? Command overload paralysis? They heard of that yet? Want me to send a guy out with a white flag? You know, maybe remind them that they're supposed to get all confused right about now and seize up so we can beat the shit out of them?"

  Sinklar started to snap a reproof as Shiksta's words penetrated his over-tight mind. Instead, a chuckle rose to his lips. "Yeah, Shik, you do that, huh? And in the meantime, I'm going to act like the Seddi and pray for a stinking miracle!"

  Skyla made a final check of her ship's systems and stood, running fingers through her hair to massage her scalp after removing the weight of the worry-cap. The cockpit controls

  gleamed at her in reassuring patterns. Beyond the view port, the stars directly ahead shimmered like violet lances as her craft sped for the Itreatic Asteroids.

  She passed through the hatch and locked it carefully, seeing Nyklos hunched over one of the comm monitors. A cup of stassa rested forgotten by his right hand. He glanced up and smiled as she stepped into the small galley.

  "Hungry?"

  "Always," he told her. "You know, I could get used to being your prisoner."

  She shot him a reproving glance and tapped instructions into the dispenser, deciding on Riparian catfish in a hot pepper sauce for herself, and an Ashtan dolma for Nyklos. Then she stuck her cup under the stassa dispenser and settled into the overstaffed cushions across from him. Damn it, why did he have to look at her with that wry appreciation?

  "Course is set for Itreata?" Nyklos asked with an intimate smile.

  She toyed with her cup, rocking it on the base so the hot liquid rolled around the brim. "It is. I gave it a lot of thought. Consider what we know. Targa is embargoed, and we have but the foggiest of ideas about how the revolt is progressing there. We know Ily spaced for Targa, and the most likely explanation for that is that somehow she got an inkling that Staffa's headed'there. I'm not going to leave Staffa's fat frying in Ily's fire."

  "So you're going to Targa with the entire might of the Companions behind you?

  You know, if I didn't already love you. ..."

  "Stop it."

  Nyklos chuckled. "You were the one who used the Mytol. But seriously, the Companions moving on Targa will provoke Tybalt. What do you expect the poor man to do? You could be starting a major war."

  Skyla took a deep breath. "Then I start one. I won't be the person to fire the first shot. We're supposed to have free passage through Regan space for nonmilitary activities."

  "And a fleet of Companions headed for a world in revolt is a nonmilitary activity?" Nyklos raised a bushy eyebrow and his mustache twitched.

  Skyla gave him a frosty glare that appeared to have no effect. "I'll take that gamble. Meanwhile, I have a question of my own. Why haven't you tried anything yet? You seem to be a model hostage. You haven't even jiggled the door to your room. I don't like complaince from people like you. It makes me suspicious."

  He smiled at some private thought, then said, "Quite honestly, something's gone wrong on Targa. I don't have the faintest clue as to what it might be, let alone the details. It's just a feeling. You know, the sort of intuitive hunch you get when the wording changes in the communiques. Magister Bruen is no one's fool, but I can sense that he's worried. Everything's falling apart—and it started with Staffa's behavioral aberration." He met her gaze.

  "If helping you leaves me in a position to help the Seddi, I'll take that chance."

  "And if it doesn't?"

  "I'll deal with that problem when it comes." Nyklos sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe the quanta are playing us all for fools. I should be dead back in that alley. I remember cracking that tooth, waiting for the poison, stalling for it to take effect. Someone goofed and I'm alive. In this instance, you haven't used the information you gained against us. Fortuitous?

  Random chance? You tell me the odds. You're supposed to be the enemy."

  "But everything's changed—or has it?" Skyla waited patiently.

  Nyklos didn't budge. "You tell me. What are the final goals of the Companions?

&nbs
p; Domination of Free Space?"

  Skyla steepled her fingers. "What if the Companions did exactly that—crushed the Regans, and wheeled in a lightning blow and broke the back of the Sassan Empire? What would your reaction be?"

  Nyklos twisted the end of his mustache with pensive fingers. "That would depend on Staffa. What happened, Skyla? Why did the Lord Commander—the man with a conscience like Terguzzi ice—suddenly slip away to Etarus to be mugged in an alley, convicted of murder, and condemned to the collar. What happened to him out there in that desert? The man who jumped into my aircar wasn't the arrogant Lord Commander I'd studied for years. Tell me, Skyla, give me the best information you can, because a lot could hinge on what I report to Bruen."

  The chime rang, and Skyla stood long enough to pull the steaming trays from the dispenser. She slipped into the seat again and faced Nyklos over her tray. "That's a little onesided, don't you think? I divulge information on the Lord Commander of the Companions, and what do I get in return? You're not exactly a trusted confidant, Nyklos."

  He stared soberly into the donna that sent delightful smells into the air before nodding. "All right, here's why I want to know. If something happened to Staffa, something that changed his personality, it could have a dramatic effect on Seddi relationships with the Companions."

  "We don't need you," Skyla reminded.

  Nyklos leaned back and crossed his arms. "That depends, Wing Commander. If your goal is the final conquest of Free Space, what next? Is it the Lord Commander's plan to become the despot he's always resembled? If so, yours will be one of the shortest-lived empires ever. Oh, we've run the projections.

  Staffa's lack of humanity will bring about his demise in short order. He's a conqueror—a man who breaks, not builds."

  "So you wait us out."

  Nyklos shook his head. "It's not that simple. What do you know about systems analysis?"

  "Enough."

  "Then you know that humanity mght be able to survive one more war—the one that unifies Free Space. But the holocaust that a revolution against the Star Butcher would set loose? We've run the predictions over and over and the results are the same—extinction on worlds like Sylene and Terguz and Formosa.

  Some enclaves of humans will proba bly survive in places like Targa, Sassa, and Rega, but the natural resources have been so depleted that civilization will never arise again. Those people will be condemned to live as subsistence farmers among the ruins."

  "Assuming your model is correct."

  The expression on his face didn't change. "We'll give you the data. Check it, run it any way you like."

  "Then why not simply assassinate Staffa and myself, hope the Companions fall apart, and that Rega and Sassa can slug it out for the remains."

  "To the Seddi, the idea of living under a Regan or Sassan government is only slightly more acceptable than being under the heel of the Star Butcher."

  "And your interest in Staffa?"

  "He's the key to Free Space. Tell me, Skyla, what happened to send him running to Etaria and disaster? Why would he do something so dumb? He blew every projection we had. "

  "Staffa wanted to learn what it was to be human, Nyklos. "

  The Seddi operative sank slowly back into the seat. "In that case, he got a belly full. He's probably in for more trouble when he arrives on Targa."

  "Seddi treachery?"

  "No, Magister Bruen gave his word, but I do know the war on Targa is getting pretty vicious."

  Sampson Henck, First of the Twenty-seventh Maikan Assault Division, shook his head as he stared at the situation board where it dominated one wall of the commandeered headquarters building in the center of Kaspa. Fifty years of career service had given him a cynical squint. He liked to consider the Twenty-seventh Maikan as one of the pillars of the Regan military establishment. The fact that it hadn't been deactivated after the Maikan conquest was proof of its worth to Henck. Now he rubbed his jaw as he studied the board, trying to get a handle on the means of destroying his fleeing foe with the most economic and efficient means.

  Lights marking troop positions moved through the warehouse district where the Fourth Section ran in support of their point Group. Pustulant rot, chasing the miserable Targans had pulled his people half out of town! Ashtan prairie goats ran slower!

  Henck growled to himself as he paced over to the window to stare out at Kaspa.

  "What the hell are they doing? These renegades act like they don't have the intelligence the Blessed Gods gave to a rock! They just shoot ... and when they draw a response, they run. Where's the sense in that? It's lunacy!"

  "Attention Fourth Section. We have a Group drawing fire five blocks ahead of you. Move out and support!" the Staff Second ordered where he listened to the comm. chatter.

  "I don't understand." Henck pointed to the map of Kaspa. "What possible purpose could they have in trying to take that industrial district? It's strategically indefensible. All we have to do is send a Section in after them, and they're

  out-further from the center of town than before!"

  "Sir, suppose we let them have it?" His Staff Second glanced nervously at him.

  "Every time we react to their attacks, we find only a Group or so, all fleeing through the streets. Like you said, there's no rhyme or reason to it. They can't tie up our Sections for more than a short firefight-they don't have the strength. Besides, we've chased them clear out of the city. We control all the territory between our Group perimeter and the headquarters compound."

  Henck fingered his throat. "So it would seem. To threaten us now, they'd have to mount a major offensive to roll our forces back; and with orbital recon, we know for a fact they don't have a Division out there hiding in the hills." And that's what it would take to recapture this city. A bloodrotted Division. He made his decision. "Sure, it's a meaningless exercise, but have the Fourth drive them out of those warehouses. What the Rotted hell, the exercise will do them good. "

  "Yes, sir." The Staff Second turned to his comm. "Section First Paulus? You'll order your Section to clean out that warehouse area."

  Henck grinned to himself as he stared up at the situation board. The rebellious Targans were scurrying like Riparian salamanders. Demoralized and dispirited, his troops need only corral the treasonous bastards before shipping them back to Rega for trial. "Kaspa is ours."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Hectic there for a bit, though, shuffling Sections and Groups back and forth like a tapa game. They could have cut us to pieces more than once had they had the firepower and personnel. "

  "They still hurt us too badly," the Staff Second reminded as he logged the commands into the master book. "For as disorganized as their Groups seem to be, we took too many casualties. "

  The Staff Second frowned as he tapped a stylus against the comm casing. "You know, the other bothersome thing,;

  is that we had to counter their Groups with full Sections. On a Group to Group basis, they shot the dripping pus out of us! Broke every defensive formation.

  How did they do that?"

  First Henck tugged at his earlobe as he glared at the situation board. His entire Division had been spread out until it resembled a thin ring around the outskirts of town. A nagging worry made him suck at his lower lip. "I don't like this. They don't have air capabilities to match ours . . . but we might want to bring some of our strength back to support—"

  A violent explosion battered the headquarters compound. Gravity flux shook the building with enough force to pitch Henck to the floor.

  Dust and ceiling panels rained from above. The situation board wobbled before it crashed onto the Staff officers and shattered. The room went dark. The comm—proofed against such things—sent eerie colored shafts of light through twisting dust. For long moments, Henck lay stunned, nerves spasming, brain reeling with aftereffects. His heterodyning ears picked out the sound of the Staff Third hacking and coughing as he puked.

  Henck got to his hands and knees, working his jaw to clear his ears of the wretched ringing
.

  "Blood and dung!" the Second spat. "That was a close one."

  "Get me orbital," Henck grated. "They should be able to follow that one back to the projector. I want that position burned down to molten slag."

  Staff Third tried to climb up to the comm board, wavering and staggering as he careened to the wall where he leaned limply. Glass crunched under his weight.

  The pounding of feet could be heard on the lower floors, loud in the sudden silence. Somewhere a blaster crackled. Shouts broke out.

  "What the corrupt hell?" Henck squinted in an attempt to focus his eyes. His scattered thoughts refused to coordi nate, but he knew instinctively that something had gone terribly wrong.

  Staff Second had rolled over to sit up, head cradled in his hands. "Wish to God that grav shot had missed. My skull's splitting!"

  More blaster fire erupted in the hallway. Henck gasped as his stomach heaved and he vomited the last of his disorientation into the dust from the cracked ceiling. He looked up as the door splintered inward from a pulse shot that sent slivers and pieces clattering through the debris on the floor.

  Something's very wrong. I've got to act ... get my wits together and . . .

  and. . . .

  "Rotted Gods!" the Staff Third blared as he looked through the hole blown in the door. His mouth dropped open, eyes wide, expression contorted by horror as his fingers settled on his pistol butt. For some reason, he couldn't seem to get the coordination together to pull his weapon.

  The sight engraved itself forever on Henck's brain as he watched the last security guard's body buck and explode in a haze of pink before the remains plopped limply to the floor. A severed arm flopped into the room.

  He was still blinking as the black snouts of blasters poked around the corner.

  Then armored soldiers appeared behind them.

  "You! First Henck!" a sharp voice called. "Yeah, we know who you are. You've got five seconds to put your hands over your head! Surrender, or die, friend!"

  Henck started to shake his head, hearing other boots beating their way in from the back. The rear door, too, splintered under pulse fire. More grimy, armored soldiers came crashing in, blasters backed by stony expressions. They covered the room, heavy weapons shouldered, eyes hot and angry.