Requiem for the Conqueror

  He seemed to reel on his feet.

  "What, Staffa? Who did you kill?"

  He wet his lips, jaw trembling. In a hoarse whisper, he gasped, "Love . . . my son . . . my. . . ."

  He rubbed his face.

  "Staffa? What did you mean just now. What are you trying to—"

  "What is it really to be human?" he cried, smacking a fist in his palm as he whirled to face her. "What should a person feel? What should we be? I—I don't feel anymore! I don't know who I am! Chrysla's dead! I killed her! And I can't . . . can't grieve." His expression went flat. "Can't even blame myself anymore."

  "Chrysla? Staffa, she wasn't on Myklene, was she?"

  He paced restlessly back and forth, speaking as if he hadn't heard. "They call me murderer and hate me and curse me from one Forbidden Border to the other.

  It's said that my legacy is fear, death, and terror.I killed the only thing I ever loved'

  Skyla watched in amazement as a single tear crept down Staffa's cheek.

  He swallowed hard and said in a numb whisper. "I've lost my way, Skyla. I don't know who I am anymore."

  Sinklar Fist stepped off the shuttle at the biological research center station. He entered through the revolving doors, found the right lift, and punched the button for the thirty-fifth floor. A curious excitement and dread left him feeling hot and nervous. So much had begun to come clear. Now, he half wished he could drop this insane quest. In only four hours he had to be at the assembling point for his unit. From there, the Blessed Gods alone knew how long it would be before he slept again.

  The lift beeped to indicate it had reached its destination. The doors slipped silently open and Sinklar stepped out into a foyer at the intersection of four long hallways. A security guard looked up from the desk that rested under a cone of white light. She studied him curiously as she stood.

  "Hello. Um, I'm Sinklar Fist. I was wondering if there was anyone in the Criminal Anatomical Research Labs?"

  She cocked her head, lifting an eyebrow. "At this time of night? Are you serious?"

  Sinklar gave her a crooked smile and walked up to the desk. She looked about twenty-five, maybe younger. The dark brown uniform set off her blonde hair. He let her large blue eyes distract him for a moment.

  She smiled. "I don't think you came all the way up here to gawk at me—but I enjoy the compliment anyway. Uh, what can I do to help you—" she scanned his uniform— "Private?"

  Sinklar frowned, wondering how to begin. "I wanted to see someone in the Criminal Research Lab. I understand that they . . . well, keep the specimens there for research."

  She nodded. "That's right. We call that anatomical forensics. Actually, that's my area of study. I just work nights to make a few extra credits. The life of a student isn't exactly a rich one."

  "Neither is that of an anatomical forensics examiner . . . or a soldier. It might surprise you, but I was a student until the draft notice came a couple of days ago. I ... well, wish I still was."

  "And you want to see the lab?"'

  "The specimens actually."

  She gave him a critical inspection. "You don't look like the ghoulish type."

  "Neither do you," Sink countered. "The human body is a fascinating field of study. A lot of questions remain unanswered, like where our species came from.

  How it evolved to its present state. The range of human behavior is almost inexplicable." He saw her eyes light with shared understanding.

  "Your field of study was anatomy?"

  He shook his head. "Sociology, history, gaming theory, military tactics, comparative behavior, that sort of thing. But the study of forensics fascinates me. There just hasn't been time to study everything I want to." He paused. "So, what do I call you?"

  "I'm Anatolia Daviura. Listen, I could talk to one of the professors about showing you around. If you'll leave your number—"

  "Can't. Going on active duty tomorrow. I guess we're going to war on Targa."

  Her expression pinched. "Oh, sorry to hear that."

  Sink shrugged. "It's every citizen's duty. I just thought someone might be working late tonight. You never know. Maybe something I see here could make a difference on Targa."

  She hesitated for a moment. "If we hurry ... I mean I can't leave the desk for long. Well, I could take you into the lab. I've got clearance. But we couldn't linger."

  Sink smiled. "I promise not to keep you."

  She gave him a conspiratorial smile as she led him down the dim hall.

  "How'd you get into this field of study?" Sink asked as she palmed a heavy metal door and led him into a room that smelled of chemicals and hummed from air-conditioning. Scanning electron microscopes, desks, centrifuges, and the gleaming clutter of scientific instruments filled the place. Comm terminals stared at him with cathode eyes.

  "I started in behavioral genetics," she told him. "The problem of deviance fascinated me. Why do some people harm others? What's the genetic substructure for violence? Where did it come from? Is there a way to eliminate the genetic root for criminal behavior from the human species without affecting our adaptive ability or initiative? Working here lets me deal with actual deviant specimens—study the DNA of known criminals to compare it with DNA in normal people."

  She fingered a button and a double door parted in the middle to slide into recesses in the wall. "The inner sanctum. This is where we store the specimens."

  Sink walked into the room. Rack after rack, like data cubes in the library stacks rose from floor to ceiling in line after line for as far as he could see down the aisle. Heavy powerlead ran into each stack to power the caskets.

  "How many are there?"

  "Somewhere near four thousand."

  "How would you find . . . say a certain specimen?"

  Her look grew suspicious. "Do you have one in mind?"

  Sinklar nodded. "Two, Tanya and Valient Fist. My . . . my parents."

  "Blessed Gods!" Anatolia took a step back, eyes wide. "And all that business you told me about your studies?"

  Sinklar turned anxious eyes on her. "It was true. I didn't lie to you. It's just . . . well, I was raised as an orphan of the state. All I ever knew was that my parents had been convicted of treason and executed. I've been paying for their crime all of my life. Now, I'm going off to war. I wanted to know where they were. That's all. I talked to the Judicial Magistrate who tried the case and sent them here. He told me where they were—and what they'd done."

  Anatolia rubbed her arms, frowning. "You don't really want to see them, do you?"

  Sinklar bit his lip and looked away as he nodded. "You're a geneticist. You know what parents mean biologically. I know what they mean to me , . . psychologically."

  She turned, accessing the comm terminal next to the door. "Come on, this way."

  They walked for several minutes in silence, accompanied by the endless rows of caskets and the hum of the units that maintained them. Anatolia turned left and followed a narrow aisle. Overhead the lights automatically brightened as they approached and dimmed as they passed.

  "Here," she told him, and pointed to two pull-out caskets at chest height.

  "Just pull on the handle."

  Sink glanced at her, swallowing nervously. Then he reached for the handle. It chilled his fingers as he pulled the casket open to expose a man. "He looks alive."

  "Perfect preservation," she told him as Sinklar studied the figure. The face was smooth-shaven, the eyes yellow. He looked intelligent and his expression betrayed a trace of sorrow. Sinklar could see an incision through the closecropped brown hair.

  "After all these years," Sinklar whispered. "Hello, Father. I just had to fid you, know that you existed. I graduated first in my class and I scored third in the Interplanetary exams. I thought you should know that."

  A pang filled his breast as he pushed the casket closed and opened the lower drawer. His mother stared up sightlessly, gray eyes half open. She'd been a striking woman with raven black hair and delicate features—but young, so very youn
g.

  Sinklar smiled wistfully. "Thank you for giving me life, Mother. I'll never forget you. I'll make you proud of me."

  Sinklar slipped the casket closed and felt himself sway. Everything inside felt hollow—a stillness of the soul.

  He turned to Anatolia and smiled. "Thank you. I'll have a little peace now.

  Things will be easier. Let's go. I know you have to get back."

  She nodded, letting him lead the way in silence. At the door, she paused. "Is that true, what you said about the Interplanetary exams?"

  Sink nodded, wrapped in his own thoughts, trying to sort out his emotions. He did catch the interest in Anatolia's eyes.

  "Sinklar," she began as she led him into the lab, "um, you wouldn't mind if I took a tissue sample, would you?"

  "Once a scientist, always a scientist?"

  She gave him a wry smile. "Something like that."

  He rolled up the sleeve of his uniform. "Be my guest. On the condition that when you get the chance, you'll let me know what you find."

  After she'd taken her sample and led him back to the lift that would return him to the station, she paused. "Sinklar, what did they do? I mean, how did they end up here?"

  He held the door as he stepped into the lift and looked back. Anatolia had beautiful blue eyes. Now they watched him with soft understanding.I only I could have more time. How I'd love to spend it getting to know you. "Thank you for letting me see them. I'll owe you for that for the rest of my life."

  "I wouldn't have missed it ... for several reasons." She pursed her lips. "You don't have to tell me, but the information is in the records. All I have to do is look it up."

  "And you will." He met her inquisitive stare. "Ony the worst of the worst are sent to this facility for study. My parents tried to kill the Emperor, Tybalt the Imperial Seventh. They were Seddi assassins."

  With that he let the door slip shut on Anatolia's shocked expression, and the lift plummeted toward the station.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tybalt the Imperial Seventh, Ruler and Governor, Master of the Twenty Worlds of Man and the Imperium of Rega, wiggled uncomfortably as the interminable Council session droned on. He fought the urge to stand up and walk to the restroom—partially because his fidgeting kept the Councillors aware of his growing irritation, and because a ruler of his stature shouldn't fall prey to the harassment of his itchy hemorrhoids.

  Tybalt and his Councillors sat in a high-vaulted conference room lit by crystal skylights. Ornately carved panels of Sypa ivory gleamed lustrously between burled sandwood beams. The air carried the scent of jasmine. The rising babble of the Councillors managed to drown the soft strains of a string quartet playing a soothing piece in the background. The conference table they sat around dominated the center of the room and sprouted monitors, comm equipment, and elbows. For the moment it looked like a disaster area as his busy Councillors worried over reports and argued vehemently.

  Tybalt had inherited his father's muscular body—but unike his physically disciplined father, he'd begun to lose the battle against his growing belly.

  The rich black tones of his skin contrasted with the bright yellow suit he wore. Rubbing his cheek, the fleshy feeling of his jowls bothered him. In the end, his broad facial bones would work against him despite the long straight nose. He kept his hair medium length and covered it with a jewel-encrusted net of gold wire that scintillated with the finest treasures of the Etarian desert.

  The compact holo unit clipped to his collar continued to feed the latest field reports from the Targan revolt. The rebels controlled most of the capital city of Kaspa. Tybalt growled to himself and ground his teeth. Why now? Bloodshot curses! Of all the times for a conflagration, why did the Targans have to pick this moment?

  Everything teetered on the brink. And if Staffa had already signed an alliance with the Sassans against Rega? No, don't even think it!

  He sipped from the cup of klav that rested in the heated holder by his right hand and decided that enough was enough. "Gentlemen, ladies, please." He held up a hand.

  Twenty heads turned to look in his direction; some from where they bent over flimsies and maps; others looking up from comm monitors. The string quartet sounded strangely alone as silence filled the room, marred only by the hiss of a new printout, adding mass to the clutter on the table.

  "No matter what you wish to project with your predictive models, the facts remain. First, we must crush Targa— again. Second, no matter what the cost, our only hope for survival is to immediately place Staffa's cutthroats on our payroll."

  The Minister of the Treasury shook his head vehemently. "Imperial Lord, I'm not sure we can bear it. The last time we hired the man it cost us the equivalent of three point five billion Imperial credits in precious metals and manufactured goods. In part, that drain on the treasury led to the current unrest on Targa since they've been bearing the brunt of paying the deficit for the last two years."

  Tybalt nodded, knowing full well the extent of their financial troubles. At the same time, the Lord Commander had managed to do what neither he nor that Sassan god-goof could—maintain a full-time fighting force: a corps large enough that it drew on every government in human space for its support. And Staffa's elite strike force vigorously guarded its independence by providing its own equipment, ships, and training. The Companions relied on no one for supplies or strategic materials—though they often took that in payment for service. Cunning man, that Staffa. And I can't stand against him.

  In a muted voice he added, "Lord Minister, would you prefer to pay Staffa—or fight him? With the Myklene situation under control, His Holiness will be looking for new lands to conquer. Considering the confines of the Forbidden Borders, where do you suppose he will find them?"

  "We ought to make another attempt at the Forbidden Borders," the Minister of Defense interjected, eyes going to the illumination overhead. He fingered his flat nose, and took a deep breath. He'd propped hairy arms on the table, a posture of no retreat. "That's the key. Find a way past that gravitational wall and we'll have room to expand."

  "Another attempt, my Lord?" Tybalt questioned in the continuing silence. "How many ships have we lost against that energy-gravity barrier?"

  "Over the last fifteen years," the Minister of the Treasury interrupted,

  "eighteen. If you figure the outlay for hardware alone, the sum is considerable." She accessed her monitor. "We have spent a total of forty-three million credits on—"

  "I know the figures," Defense growled.

  "Enough said." Tybalt closed the debate and steepled his fingers.

  "Whoever—whatever—is on the other side doesn't want us coming through.

  Further, so long as they have the technology to 'absorb' our mightiest assault ships, they will remain invulnerable . . . and on the other side of their 'wall'. Now, to get back to our current problem, we have no choice, gentle people, but to hire the mercenary."

  The Minister of the Treasury's expression went foul. Her thin dark face accented the long nose that ended in a point over narrow lips. Looking glum, her black eyes stared sightlessly at an imaginary point beyond the walls.

  Manicured fingers thumped the table hollowly. "We might make a down payment without bankrupting the entire economy of the Empire."

  And there, indeed, lay the rub. A cold chill went through Tybalt's mind. Worse yet, has anyone considered the problem of what to do with Staffa kar Therma when all of space is united? Where, then, will the Lord Commander take his blood-thirsting warriors?

  Tybalt turned his attention to Defense. "Lord Minister, what chance is there that we could loot enough from the Sassan worlds to pay Staffa off?"

  Defense's fingers rasped over his stubbly chin. The expression on his high-cheeked face pinched. "Little, I'm afraid. Sassa's already bled itself white to pay the Lord Commander for Myklene. I fear that financing a war that way will grind any captured world's economy back to the point that our investment to rebuild it would suck us dry— presuming we have the funds
left to invest."

  "Seconded," the Minister of Economics agreed, lifting a finger. Her green eyes smoldered as she studied Tybalt. "We can only spread technicians and engineers so thin. Coupled with the drain on materials to rebuild entire planetary industries, we'll be stretched to the breaking point. Unless, of course, you would enslave our entire population to rebuild theirs."

  Treasury added, "Which makes me wonder what purpose there is in conquest."

  "Survival! So what do we offer the Lord Commander?" Tybalt frowned. "And tell me what happens if Staffa is retained by Sassa? How can we defend against his lightning strikes and his superior equipment? It's one thing to contemplate turning the terror of the Companions on the Sassans, quite another to embrace the idea of the Lord Commander's fleet bearing down on Rega." And if that's the case, there will be no Tybalt the Eighth.

  The Minister of Military Intelligence cleared his throat. "If our condition is poor, the Sassans are in worse straits. On top of their wars and the expenses they've incurred with Staffa's Companions, they've destroyed many of the economies they desperately need to wage a prolonged war. We don't have figures yet on the casualties they suffered taking Myklene. Suffice it to say they were substantial."

  "So now's the time to strike?" Defense wondered, his lips pursed, fingers absently combing his black beard.

  In the following silence, the string quartet's music did little to soothe.

  Tybalt turned his eyes to Ily Takka, his Minister of Internal Security. Ily should have spoken by now. Instead she waited, watching, predatory.

  "You must control the Targan uprising first," Ily took his cue. She ran long fingers through her raven black hair. 'To do less is to leave a gaping wound of revolution to bleed infection throughout the rear worlds." She gave them a quick smile, aware of her power and how they perceived it.

  Ah, Ily! Tybalt hid his delight. He'd waited to hear her thoughts. Like an Etarian sand tiger, Ily always kept her talons fastened in some poor slob's flesh. In cold-blooded efficiency only Staffa kar Therma could rival her. . . . Hmm! Perhaps . . . maybe with a litte planning and preparation it would be possible to secure the Lord Commander ... or deny his services to the enemy.