Relic of Empire

  Myles fished out another antacid and swallowed it. “I don’t know if.... Yes, it’s possible. But if it’s a delaying tactic, it’s a Rotted clever one.” Myles winced, adding, “Forgive me, Divine One.”

  His Holiness seemed not to hear. Instead, his deeply set eyes focused on something outside of the holo pickup. “Curious, don’t you think, that the first time we have the ability to act successfully without the Lord Commander, he shows up attempting to talk us out of it?”

  “Most suspicious,” Jakre agreed. “We have a useit-or-lose-it opportunity-the first in our entire history-to unite Free Space under Your Holiness’ enlightened rule. And Staffa picks this time to tell us no?”

  Myles ran a finger around his collar, realizing it hung loose about his neck. The strangling feeling came from nerves. He didn’t have any tight collars anymore. “I don’t care to cross the Lord Commander. We’d better remember his remarks concerning Myklene.”

  “Or do we remember his total disregard for our honor by launching his assault on Myklene before we were ready?” Jakre countered.

  “He gave us his word that he was telling the truth,” Myles insisted stubbornly. “In all the years we’ve dealt with him, when has he ever lied?”

  “He could be banking on exactly that.” Jakre lifted a thin eyebrow. “The final conflict is upon us, Legate. I say we pursue it and cripple Rega before it rises like the siff jackal it is and hamstrings us. Tybalt’s assassination and the execution of their military leaders is too good a chance to throw away because a mercenary doesn’t want to lose his precious reputation as the scourge of space.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Sassa asked, a pensive look on his fat face.

  Jakre made a dissimulating motion. “I find Staffa’s vanity as plausible an explanation as any, Holiness. Place yourself in his position. How would you feel if suddenly random events had allowed one of your client states to operate effectively without you? And suppose you realized that Sassa could not only take the Regans, but could do it quickly and efficiently? Divine One, if you control all of Free Space, what role is there for the Star Butcher? I agree our economy is in shambles, but seriously, it’s that way because we bleed ourselves dry to pay the Companions.”

  “The man is a parasite,” Sassa agreed.

  “Once we consolidate Free Space under Sassan rule, there will be no role for Staffa and his butchers.” Myles watched the interchange with a curious tearing of emotions. How nice to believe Jakre right, that Sassan skill and courage could castrate the Regan tyrants and bring all humanity under the benign grace of His Holiness. Then again, Staffa’s words lingered in Roma’s mind. Don’t cross me!

  “I urge caution,” Myles interjected. “Too many aspects of this bother me. What happened to Staffa on Etaria? We have a holo of him walking into the Internal Security offices in Etarus. He’s with Ily Takka, and wearing a slave collar! Soon thereafter, the building practically blew up. Was that a hoax of some sort? Did Staffa really escape? How did he get to Targa? What happened in Makarta Mountain? We don’t have enough intelligence data to guess the Lord Commander’s angle in all this. Lastly, why did he evacuate the Seddi? The Seddi tried to assassinate Staffa for years, and now he harbors them?”

  “I think it’s apparent,” Jakre told him flatly. “Staffa doesn’t want us to unify humanity. I’ll let you list the reasons why that might be.”

  “Prudence,” His Holiness said softly, “is exhibited by the man who provides for any circumstance. Admiral, you will continue preparations for a military strike against the Regan Empire. Legate, I want you to scour those documents. See what they really mean. In the meantime, we’ll just have to see what happens.”

  Myles nodded his acquiescence and killed the connection. His appetite had died during the conversation. He stood, walking out from behind his desk to stare at the lights of Imperial Sassa. In the reflection of his window, he could see how his clothes hung on his body. At this rate, he’d need an entire new wardrobe within weeks.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Rysta Braktov growled.

  Sinklar narrowed his eyes grimly at he watched the monitor. He sat uncomfortably in Gyton’s command chair while the bridge crew bent over their duty stations. Rysta, her expression sour as rotten siva fruit, watched hostilely as she stood beside his chair. Around them, the three-sixty monitors displayed the Imperial planet of Rega. From space it appeared to be a peaceful sphere. Only when the planet’s communications were tapped did the truth become apparent.

  “Rotted Gods,” Rysta whispered as the holo showed a scene where people rioted before the Grain Commission. One of the upper windows shattered and burly men hung the Commissioner out. The man squealed like a wounded rabbit before they let him fall the four stories to the ground. When he landed, his body crushed a young boy who stood by the wall, shouting slogans and waving his fist.

  Sinklar cast a speculative glance at Rysta. “I think we’d better put a stop to it. “

  “Then why sneak in the way you did? Why not broadcast to the whole planet that you’ve come to take charge?”

  Sinklar gave the old commander a sly glance and lowered his voice. “Let’s say I wanted to obtain an understanding of the tactical situation before Ily knew we were around. Incidentally, my compliments to your crew. They’ve done a wonderful job masking our approach from the detection buoys.”

  “I feel like a Rotted pirate,” Rysta muttered. “I’ve got a sentry ship!” the Comm First called out. “They’re requesting identification.”

  Sinklar frowned. “What’s our highest clandestine operating code?”

  “You can’t!’ Rysta cried. “That’s against all the. . . . “ She stopped at the sight of Sinklar’s rising eyebrow.

  “Comm First, reply with our highest clandestine clearance. “

  The Comm First hesitated only long enough to exchange frustrated glances with Commander Braktov before she bent to her boards.

  “They’ll break you down to private-before they chop your head from your body.” Rysta barely controlled her loathing.

  “They. They who?” Sinklar steepled his fingers. “And, Rysta, if we lose, what difference will it make? If we don’t quell the rebellion on the planet, more than just ourselves will die.”

  “I haven’t made up my mind about you, Fist. Either you’re the brassiest bastard ever born, or you’re the slimiest. I thought Ily ordered you to contact her. Since we broke out of null singularity, you haven’t made a peep.”

  “No. I haven’t. Maybe her female charms didn’t overload my senses after all, hmm?” Sinklar paused. “And, Commander, Ily doesn’t order me to do anything.”

  Rysta grunted a begrudging approval.

  “Comm First? They buying it?” Sinklar asked. The woman looked up, listening intently to her headset. “So far. I’m sure they’re scrambling and frantic over there, but they haven’t sent anything else. Wait. I’ve got a request for visual. It’s coming in from one of the Orbital Defense platforms. Top clearance.”

  Sinklar tapped the armrest pensively, considering, then he got to his feet. “Commander. Take the chair. I assume you’d know anyone of importance in fleet security?”

  Rysta shrugged. “I might. Still, you never know. It’s a big fleet. “

  Sinklar laid a hand on her shoulder as they changed places. “Commander. You don’t have to like me, but we’ve seen what’s been happening on the planet. I don’t care what you have to do, but get us in without Ily knowing. Can you do that?”

  Rysta worked her jaw for a moment, the action rearranging the wrinkles on her dark face. “Rotted Gods.... I wish you’d.... Yes. If it will save lives.”

  Rysta took the chair, settling into it with familiarity. Her hard eyes pinned Sinklar. “You’d better know what you’re doing.”

  “We’re ready for visual,” Sinklar told the Comm First.

  The woman nodded and the main screen flickered to present an older man, white-haired, with steely gray eyes. The first words out of his mouth
were, “Rysta! So it’s Gyton coming with the squadron!” His sudden excitement died. “Blessed Gods, I’ve got orders to contact the Minister of Internal Security as soon as you check in.”

  Sinklar shook his head and Rysta took his cue. “Commander Bryn Hack, it’s good to see you again. Is this line secure?” Hack nodded, tension in his eyes. “Your clandestine code got you that, though Ily’s bloodhounds are no doubt sniffing as we speak. Listen, Rysta, things have changed here. Mathaiison, his Deputies they’re dead. Executed for treason. Ily’s involved in a power play. I think she’s trying to become empress.”

  “Pus-Rotted damnation!” Rysta started from her chair. “Ily executed the high command? What does that silly bitch think she’s doing? Inviting the Sassans to swing the sword while our jugular is exposed soft and white in the sun?”

  “I don’t know.” Hack wiped at his nose. “Listen, we’re all cut off from each other. The body of the military is intact, we’re just without coordination.” He paused and nervously licked his lips. “Rysta, what are you going to do? I mean, you’ve got ships, Assault Divisions ......

  Rysta took a deep breath. “Bryn, we’ve known each other for a long time. Can you cover? Buy us enough time to deploy around the planet?”

  Hack’s jaw trembled. Finally he jerked a nod. “If Ily finds out ... it’s my life.”

  Rysta gave him a weary smile. “It’s a lot of people’s.

  “Good luck. I’ll kill the net, fake a system failure or something.” The screen went blank.

  Rysta’s black eyes glinted, her thoughts far away. “What do you think? Will

  Orbital Defense be able to cover for us?”

  “Probably. Bryn used to be a combat officer. Knowing how the capital is starting to unravel must make his soul ache.”

  “Then I suppose we’d better get to work mending. If you’ll excuse me, Commander.” Sinklar gestured Rysta out of the command chair and resettled himself, ordering, “I need to talk to my Firsts.”

  One of the instrument cluster pads on the arm of the chair rose, splitting into a series of smaller screens. Mac, Mayz, Kap, Shiksta, and the rest of his command Firsts appeared.

  “All right, people, here we go again. We’re closing on Rega. Orbital Defense is trying to buy us time to get into position. If we do this right, no one will know anything is happening until we’re on the ground and in control. Mac, you and the First Targan are in charge of the capital. You know the objectives. Drop and take them. You might be on your own for a couple of days, but hang on. This isn’t Targa.” We hope. “Mayz, your responsibility is Trystia. Take the communications center, power plant, comin. centers, and so forth. “

  “Affirmative, Sink.” Mayz called.

  “Kap, you hit Vedoc with the Second Targan while Tupo subdues Rypan.”

  “Affirmative. “

  “Shik? You understand your part?”

  “Sure thing, Sink. Me and my people float around in the LCs and provide a fluid reinforcement for any hot spots. “ A wicked smile curled Shik’s thick lips. “Anybody starts to get hit, we fly to the rescue with the heavy stuff.”

  “Remember, people, we’re here to enforce order, not murder civilians.”

  “Affirmative,” Mac told him, refusing to look into the pickup. “How long to drop?”

  Sinklar looked up at the Nav First, an inquiring eyebrow raised.

  “Six hours, sir.”

  “You get that?” Sinklar asked. “Yeah,” Mac responded dully.

  “Any last questions?” Sinklar searched their faces, remembering other briefings, other fights. How many would he lose this time?

  “Don’t think so.” Mac seemed reserved, a curious sharpness in his expression.

  “Then I guess it’s a plan. Good luck, people.” A pause. “Mac? Could you hold for a bit?” What did that look mean? The other images faded, Mac’s growing larger in compensation. “You all right?” Sink asked as the last of the faces faded.

  Mac nodded, too quickly. “Fine, Sink.”

  “You’re not acting like.... Damn it, spill it. What’s wrong?”

  “Got a planet to take, Sink. I’ve got a lot to worry about. “

  The pieces fell into place in Sinklar’s mind. “And you’re more worried than anything about the plan I cooked up, right? You’re thinking about Makartaand how I was wrong there. Is that it, Mac?”

  MacRuder’s face reddened slightly. “I’m fine! It’s just pre-combat jitters. This is ... a-a different sort of fight. That’s all.”

  “Sure, Mac. Take care of yourself down there. If you get in any kind of a bind, let me know and we’ll drop on them like a ton of neutrinos. “

  “Got it, buddy. Now, if you’ll quit wasting my time, I’ve got to make sure these snotty veterans understand that we’ve got a job to do.”

  Sinklar gave him a reassuring wink and cut the connection. For long moments he stared at the blank screen. Mac? You never doubted me before. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, concentrating on the plan. Was he really up to a challenge of this magnitude? Targa had been a different nut, a mostly rural world with a tiny fraction of the population. Rega, on the other hand, was the most populated planet in Free Space. Ten billion people lived on the globe that now filled the forward monitors.

  Against that, I have the total combined strength of four Assault Divisions—and three quarters of them of questionable loyalty.

  “Second thoughts?” Rysta asked, reading his expression.

  Sinklar rubbed a hand over his face and puffed out a sigh. “Commander, I’ve been in this same situation for so long, you’d think I’d be used to it. What other choice do I have? Let the whole planet degenerate into chaos? You’ve seen the reports we’ve taped. Rega is about to fragment into civil war. In a couple of weeks, the basic systems will begin to fail. Power, comm, water and sewer, and food distribution will grind to a stop. I guarantee you, if you think the little disruptions Ily has fostered are trouble, you won’t believe the bloodbath that will result when all those people get hungry, thirsty, and the lights go off one black night. They’ll panic and blood will run in the streets like rainwater. “

  Rysta gave the forward monitor a sour squint. “Yes, I can imagine. I’ve seen it, boy. I’ve followed the Star Butcher through a world as crowded as Rega. I know what happens-and that’s after half the population’s been blasted dead from orbit. First things first, Lord Fist. I’ll help you control the planet. But then you’d better turn your thoughts to the Sassans.

  “You see, boy, Tedor and his Dupties have been executed. I suppose that’s charming Ily’s hand again.” Rysta’s hard exhale sounded like a hiss. “But she didn’t know what signal she’d send to the Sassans.”

  “She knew,” Sinklar told her in a soft voice. “She knew exactly what she was doing. She’s crafty as a Cytean cobra. In one master stroke, she’s eliminated the military high command so that I can take over and place my people in those positions.”

  “But Rotted Gods, Fist! The Sassans will fall on us like Ashtan bees on spilled Myklenian wine!”

  “Of course they - will. That’s part of Ily’s plan. A Sassan attack will solidify the population for her in a way no amount of policing, bribery, or coercion could. No one has time to worry about politics when their survival is at stake. Commander, she needs that attack to divert attention from her. By the time people can think about the government again, she expects to be fully entrenched and in charge.”

  Rysta’s crusty attitude cracked then, and she reached out to steady herself on the command chair. “Then what happens? We go to war with the Sassan Empire? Do you expect to treat them the same way you did Targan rebels and Regan civilians?”

  “Absolutely not.” He gave her a cold stare. “I intend to destroy their military, and with it, their will to resist. Then I’m going after that fat slug, Sassa.” “And hand it all to Ily?”

  Sinklar, insensitive to protocol, pulled his foot up into the command chair so he could prop his chin on his knee. “I’ll have
to deal with Ily, too. Somehow.” And it scares the hell out of me.

  Ahead, Rega gleamed like a beacon. The hard part had started for them all. Now they just had to waitand hope that they could get in before Ily was alerted. Otherwise, it would work like a rigged tapa game, and Ily would be holding all the cards.

  13:30 Tarcee Estate, Outside of Regan Capital:

  “Over the last two hundred years the aristocracy developed the Regan Military Manual. In the beginning they held the ‘Conference on the Rules of War’ to codify combat and how it would be conducted. In doing so, the elite devised a system whereby command-grade officers remained behind the lines in the safety of bunkers and conducted battle via communications and the status board. In doing so, they moved Sections and Groups around the battlefield like pieces on a gaming board. What they gained in safety, they lost in command flexibility. Group and Section Firsts could not initiate action without command approval. To allow such initiative threatened the established social order. A Corporal First might prove to have more combat acumen than a stately aristocrat from one of the old families—and such could not be permitted since it undermined the myth of aristocratic invincibility.

  “I ask you now, how many millions of people died as a result?

  “People, a battlefield is best understood as a fluid dynamic. Opportunities occur and vanish in moments. The situation changes by the second. Most of you are veterans, you’ve been shot at, seen Your friends and lovers killed before your eyes-and rarely have your commanders paid that price in blood. I’m here to change that. I’m here to win.

  “You see, it’s the blood, bone, and sinew of the fighting soldier that inevitably makes the difference on a battlefield, not family lineage. I’m counting on the combat initiative each of you posesses. Beginning today, we’re building a new Regan military machineand you can throw out that Rot-accursed manual. Today each of you accepts the responsibility for winning. “

  · Address given by Sinklar Fist to the Fifty-first Maikan Assault Division