Requiem for the Conqueror

  Rysta leaned forward, an eager expression lighting her old brown eyes. "All the more reason to kill him now."

  "No."

  "But one orbital shot would render the whole planet. ..."

  Rysta didn't finis when Ily turned a hostile glance her way.

  Ily steepled her fingers as the silence stretched. "Commander, I don't think you understand the political intricacies of the coming Sassan campaign. We are faced with the final confrontation. Rega stands alone. We face Sassa . . . and the Companions. Do you think you could take the Lord Commander by using the tactics in the book?" At the tightening of Rysta's expression, Ily smiled.

  "No, I didn't think so. Tybalt and I both agree that Rega must win—no matter whose tactics we use. Once Sinklar Fist rolls over the top of Sassa, there will be one Empire in Free Space—and it will be Regan."

  Ily lifted a challenging eyebrow. "And there won't be a need for a large standing army, Rysta. Internal Security will handle the rest—and we don't need formal rules of war." Rysta Braktov looked like she'd swallowed Riparian slime.

  * * *

  "First? Sinklar?" Mhitshul's gentle prodding brought Sinklar awake. He started, automatically reaching out for a comm that wasn't there. Instead his aide stood in the narrow passageway of the LC. Despite the faint light Sink could see that a dumb misery filled Mhitshul's eyes.

  "What? What's wrong? What do we need to do? Whos in trouble?" He spun around to stare at the smudged hull plate behind and above him. He could feel the cushion of an acceleration cot beneath him and his feet had gone to sleep from the cramped position.

  "First Fist," Mhitshul began, looking at the deck below his feet. "There's something—"

  "Wait!" Sinklar sat up, rubbing his hot red eyes with dirty fingers. "How'd I get here? I was at the comm, taking the reports. What happened? We get hit?"

  He blinked, screwing his face into contortions to bring it awake.

  "No, sir," Mhitshul told him soberly. "It was over. You were nodding off—asleep on your feet. I explained the situation and Mac took contl. I carried you over to the drop couch, covered you with a blanket and let you sleep."

  "How . . . how long?" Sinklar pulled his wrist around to look at his chronometer. "Blessed Gods, ten hours?

  "Everything on the planetary level is fine, sir," Mhitshul told him gently.

  "The Minister of Internal Security would like to meet with you to discuss the resolution of this situation with a minimum of further conflict. She claims she has been sent with authority from the Imperial Seventh himself . . .

  Tybalt. She has the power to conclude any kind of deal necessary which will work to the benefit of all."

  Sinklar puffed a sigh of relief and winced as returning circulation shot pins and needles through his feet. "My God, we won," he added wearily. "We won, Mhitshul."

  "Yes, sir," the man still looked subdued, biting his lip, staring at the floor.

  "And Hauws? He's. ..."

  "Dead, sir. Private Buchman confirmed it. Section First Hauws was fatally wounded when they destroyed the Third Ashta headquarters. We took the surrender of the remaining Sections of that Division just before you passed out, sir.

  Sinklar slumped back against the cool metal plate. Hauws, who should have been conducting public health inspections, dead? Why are we living this shit?

  "Sir? Buchman has gone back for the body. Maybe we can—"

  "Where in hell are we?"

  "Vespa, sir. We're inside the brick factory again. Seems like there hasn't been tme to find a different headquarters."

  Sinklar nodded. "No, I suppose not. Where's Gretta? Has she checked in yet?"

  Mhitshul swallowed hard. "Well, that's just it, sir. We don't know. No one's seen her."

  Sinklar closed his eyes, dullness constricting around his heart. He forced his mind to clear and replayed that entire flight back from Kaspa. They'd parted in front of the LC before the headquarter and. . . . "Wait, she said something about the Seddi assassin. Anybody checked the old Internal Security headquartes?"

  Mhitshul shook his head. "No, sir."

  "Let's go!" Sinklar pulled himself to his feet, grabbing a blaster from the rack. "What happened to the guards that were down there?"

  "U, that would have been Seventh Section. I'll have Mayz send them back to duty."

  Lost in his worry about Gretta, Sinklar trotted down the ramp, aware of the number of people swarming around portable tables that had been set up.

  Evidently, the brick factory now served as planetary headquarters. The place buzzed with talk, shuffling feet, the clicking of comm keys, and the scraping of chairs on the gritty concrete floor. The high ceiling amplified the bustle.

  The room went quiet as they spotted him. Sinklar stopped short, aware of their awed attention. All eyes were upon him as they stood in their scorched and battered armor. Plastaheal had been slapped across lacerations and bums. An occasional suit arm bung empty, or a person leaned on crutches, pale but mobile.

  But their faces, they had such curious expressions. Some thing possessed their eyes, some sharpness. New wariness and deep pride had etched their raptorian features. They were changed, forged into something different than the bumpkins he'd inherited with the First Targan, or the bro ken remains of the defeated Second Division. Here and there, Targan Rebels stood shoulder to shoulder with Regan former enemies, all looking at him in that same keen man ner. He could sense the glow, the sharpening of breath, an increase of color in cheek and brow. A spark seemed to leap electrically from eye to eye and a radiance infused every one of them. Possessed . . . possessed by what?

  A voice broke the silence, clear, echoing from the arched roof so high overhead. "LONG LIVE SINKLAR FIST!"

  They erupted in a roaring swell of sound, "LONG LIVE FIST! LONG LIVE FIST!" It rolled, booming in the big hall.

  He lifted his hands, having to wave them to bring order. "It was you who did the impossible, not I."

  "SINKLAR! SINKLAR! SINKLAR!" they exploded, the booming shout rattling the rafters overhead.

  Sinklar stood paralyzed until Mhitshul appeared beside him and took his arm.

  He let himself be led through the crowd that parted magically before him.

  Still the roaring salute pounded the air as the press shouted his name over and over.

  "I don't understand," he muttered as Mhitshul ushered him through a side door.

  "What are they doing?"

  "They know you saved them, sir. You defeated five of the best Regan Divisions the Emperor has. Rega is suing for peace with us. The Lord Minister, Ily Takka, is landing tomorrow to seek an audience with you." Mhitshul swallowed, eyes still downcast. "How many men would challenge an Emperor for the likes of them?"

  Sinklar winced. "It . . . had to be done. Not just for them, for all of us."

  The cell block stood silent and empty when they arrived. A terrible premonition grew in Sinklar's breast. Mhitshul unslung his blaster as Sinklar activated the main door control. Three long days had passed since the Regan attack. During that time, no one had attended the cells.

  "Sir?" Mhitshul called. "Wait, please. I've taken the liberty of having a squad sent over. Just a precaution, sir."

  Sink sot him an irritated look. "When did you start call-' ing me sir all the time."

  Mhitshul colored. "Just seemed appropriate, that's all."

  "If Gretta's locked in here somewhere, I'm going to find her. You coming or not?"

  "But the risks. ..."

  "Gretta?" Sinklar bellowed as he walked down the cell block. His heart pounded in his chest. She wouldn't have come here. By the Blessed Gods, what would have driven her to. ... "Makarta!"

  He sprinted down the line of cells, remembering that final conversation.

  "Gretta thought she could learn the location of Makarta from Arta Fera."

  He slid to a stop before the maximum security door and slapped a palm to the lock plate. The cell door slid back to reveal an empty cell.

  "Maybe the interrogation ro
om?" Mhitshul suggested.

  "Where's that?"

  "This way."

  Sinklar entered the control center. The cameras still monitored the main interrogation room. Arta Fera sat in one of the chairs, arms crossed, eyes closed as if she were asleep.

  Sinklar panned the camera and stifled a cry. Members of Mayz's Section came trotting down the hallway as Sink stopped before the security door and stared at the lock. "Quick, what's the code for this?"

  Mhitshul spread his arms. ,

  "Blast it open!" Sink ordered, and stepped back.

  "Wait!" A woman came forward, pressing a code into the lock.

  As the heavy door slid open, a sickening odor drifted into, the hallway. The amber-eyed woman sat cross-legged on a chair in the corner, her features peaceful as she smiled at Sinklar Fist.

  He glanced down. Familiar brown hair lay like a mantle around the bloating corpse in the center of the floor. ;

  CHAPTER 26

  Myles Roma disliked worry—and lately he had begun to spend way too much time doing what he disliked. His stomach had begun to send painful signals that all was not well with his digestion and he'd lost nearly ten kilos.

  Night had fallen beyond his tower office, and the holo image of His Holiness Sassa U stared down over his shoulder. Myles rubbed his tired eyes and glanced out over his sandwood desk desk at the lights of the capital. The endless hours had become routine. No wonder he'd lost weight.

  Not only had Divine Sassa placed him in charge of the Myklenian rehabilitation, but the whole problem of the Companions had been dumped in his lap, and now, on top of every thing else, mysterious reports of Regan mobilization were coming in via his spy network.

  Myles bent over the reports once more, keeping place with his finger as he skimmed the intelligence reports. Targa continued to fester in the Regan rear.

  No one knew Staffa's whereabouts in either the Sassan or Regan Empires. He almost passed the report from the agent in Etarus off as innocuous, but mention of Ily Takka caught his eye.

  Myles plucked the report from the desk, reading it carefully. Ily had been making enquiries on Etaria regarding a missing person. She had been seen ushering two slaves into the Internal Security building—and within moments the place had practically blown up. The new Director of Internal Security had ordered a state of emergency and sealed the planet for two days and Ily had spaced immediately afterward for an unknown destination.

  Myles tapped his fat chin with ring-bejeweled fingers ile he thought about it.

  With no little hesitation, he punched the comm button. When his secretary's face

  formed, Myles ordered, "See if our agent monitoring Etarus got a photo of the slaves accompanying Ily Takka."

  "Yes, Legate. It will be but a moment."

  Myles glared at the reports still piled on his desk. The Regans were being uncharacteristically sloppy. Feint? Did all those rerouted transports mean that they wanted Sassa off-balance, or were they really mobilizing for war?

  His secretary interrupted his thoughts. "The agent did get a holo Legate. I'm patching it through."

  Myles bent down to peer at his monitor. He watched as Ily Takka arrived via aircar at the main door of the Internal Security building. A black man stepped out of the vehicle followed by Ily, a filthy slave woman, and a big man with wild black hair and a sand-covered, scarred body. As they climbed the stairs, the man hesitated for an instant and glared in the direction of the camera.

  Myles froze the photo. "Enlarge section G-15 on the screen please." As if he looked through a zoom lens, the image of the man grew until Myles stared into Staffa kar Therma's eyes—and yes, curse it all, he wore a slave collar!

  Myles swallowed hard, baffled by the ramifications. "What does this mean?

  Staffa in the collar? And Regans mobilizing for ..." He swiveled in the overstffed chair, punching yet another button. "Get me Admiral Jakre."

  Myles waited for long moments until Jakre's face filled the monitor. "Admiral?

  I have some—"

  "Really, Legate, I'm at the Vermilion Club, halfway through a delightful supper. If this can wait, I'd greatly appreciate—"

  "I think the Regans are planning to strike the border worlds. Something's happened. I think Ily Takka has abducted the Lord Commander. Get your thrice-cursed body down here, Admiral! We may not have much time."

  Ily Takka stepped down from her LC to face a small handful of battered men and women. They stood warily, watching her with suspicious eyes. These were Sinklar's terribe forces? They wore glazed and stained armor that had been charred by blaster fire and now flaked off before her eyes. Some moved with difficulty in armor so hardened as

  to be useless. Nevertheless, they wore it as a badge—and not one looked away from her commanding gaze.

  Ily stopped on the ramp, looking around as the breeze tugged her hair and brushed her face with a soft caress;

  sunlight stroked bright and warm on her skin. A pleasant odor of vegetation and rich earth drifted on the moving air. The plaza shimmered dusty and brown, surrounded on all sides by red brick buildings of local manufacture. Drab and utilitarianly efficient, the architecture had nothing in common with the usual Imperial style.

  The military personnel recaptured her attention. They waited, feet braced, heavy blasters resting insolently in the grip. One young woman met her stare, antagonism in her face. A plastaheal patch covered one cheek and strands of blonde hair blew in ill-disciplined wisps about her hard expression.

  Dangerous: her intuition flared a warning.

  Ily stiffened her back and walked forward.

  A young man stepped out to meet her, slapping his charred and smudged armor with a flat hand. Brownish spatters of dried bood speckled the right side of his stiffened armor. A Division First's chevron had been glued ludicrously to his arm band. She met his eyes, found them roiling with challenge, and began to bristle.

  "Minister Takka?" he asked, youthful tones shrouded in undercurrents of threat.

  "Yes, and you are?"

  "MacRuder. If you will proceed straight ahead into the headquarters, ma'am.

  We'll make you comfortable until the First can speak to you."

  Ily froze, hackles, rising. "Until? Am I to understand I have to ... to wait for Sinklar Fist?"

  MacRuder tensed. The blasters in the hands of the others clattered hollowly on hardened armor as they changed positions. MacRuder's jaw muscles rolled under smooth skin. Passionate blue eyes burned into hers. "Yes, ma'am. The First suffered a loss recently. We all did."

  The young warriors around her shuffled, casting angry glances her way. By the Rotted Gods, look at them. See how their eyes blaze! Fists "loss" is theirs.

  They're really loyal to him. No wonder things went so wrong for us on Targa.

  She nodded. "You realize, MacRuder, that I am here on the Emperor's business. We would like to bring this problem to a quick and satisfactory solution."

  "The First will see you at the earliest opportunity," MacRuder replied, motioning her ahead.

  She glared at the soldiers. Their animosity had risen to a boil.

  / am alone down here! The thought sobered. Rotted Gods! Watch your temper, Ily. One flare could leave you very dead at the hands of these savage children!

  "What is your rank, MacRuder?" Ily asked causally as she eyed his chevron. She resumed her march toward the brick factory, gut tightening at the way the soldiers followed with blasters pointed at her back.

  "First of the Second Targan Division, ma'am," he replied smartly.

  "MacRuder, you realize you and your Sinklar Fist are in a great deal of trouble, don't you?"

  A grim smile played across his lips as he laced his fingers behind his back.

  "Minister, we've been in a great deal of trouble since we dropped on this planet."

  "You might never got off," Ily reminded coolly, hearing a hissed retort from the guard behind.

  "You, Mhitshul!" MacRuder snapped. "Stow it!"

  Instant obedience.
This is no rabble—no matter what we would think. What causes the burning craziness in their eyes? They look so . . . fanatical!

  "The First will discuss the situation with you, Minister."

  "You know, his rank as First was never officially acknowledged. The Emperor might simply have him demoted to Sergeant. If charges are not proffered. You have very little chance of—"

  "Gods Rotted Regan bitch!" someone behind her growled through gritted teeth and the skin on Ily's back crawled.

  "At ease, people," MacRuder barked. He turned to Ily, gnarled finger stabbing at her. "A piece of advice Minister. We're not hot on Rega at this particular moment. They left us to die here."

  "I'll keep that in mind." Ily gave him one of her coldest stares.

  MacRuder nodded. "See that you do."

  She entered the scarred door to the brick factory. Stepping inside, she crossed her arms, surveying the interior of the big building.

  Dusty shafts of light filtered through high windows onto bustling people in armor and civilian garb. The air hummed with a constant din as people talked back and forth or shuffled materials and papers. Others sat with heads bent over comm monitors. Piles of brick forms had been removed from stacks along the wall to prop up tables, create shelving, or just to to provide more space. The huge furnaces along the wall gaped at the frantic invasion in cold silence.

  The reality struck her. "You run the planet from a brick factory? This is your military headquarters?"

  Her gaze turned to a blast-pocked LC—a looming island in the center of the floor—armored personnel with blasters stood vigilantly around the streamlined craft, all with that same tigerish wariness.

  "Our headquarters took a direct hit from space," MacRuder explained, voice clipped. "We took the next best thing available and haven't had time to move."

  She let her lip lift slightly to goad him. "I have come to a brick factory to negotiate with unmannered rabble for a planet?"

  "Mhitshulf" MacRuder whirled and hissed. "Lower that weapon or I'll have your ass!" •

  "You heard what she said," the private's voice carried a deadly timbre. "We won't let her talk like that."