I Sec-clear.codel
3142,2,11:40 Aboard Regan Cruiser Gyton
From: Division First Mykroft, Second Targan I.
To: Tedor Mathaiison, Minister of Defense, Capitol Building, Rega.
Dear Tedor:
It is my desperate duty as a loyal servant of the Empire and a military officer to send you this report. In violation of regulation, I have been dismissed from command of the Second Targan Assault Division by order of Sinklar Fist, and by the authority of the Minister of Internal Security, lly Takka. Commander Braktov has assented, but I believe with reservation and under protest; however, she will not disobey since Minister Takka carries the jessant-de-lis-Tybalt’s personal authority.
It is my earnest hope that this message reaches you soonest, for I fear we must all guard ourselves. Beware, my friend, for Ily sees Tybalt’s assassination as her chance to ascend the throne of the Tybalts. Give her no opportunity to arrest you, for if you disappear into her warren, your chances of leaving will be pitifully few. Surround yourself with your most loyal Division for security, and prepare yourself and your troops.
This last is the most difficult for me to Communicate, for it will mean my life, but then, what is a life compared to an empire? And I fear I have been ruined beyond redemption by the events on Targa and my part in them. Death is by far the preferred alternative to dishonor. Thus it is with heavy heart and the greatest sincerity that I urge you to prepare the planetary defenses and destroy this fleet as it approaches. Sinklar Fist, on whom you have received more than one of my reports, has built a rebel army, and with it, intends to take the Empire for his own. If you have any love for the empire, for our very way of life, now is your time to strike. Blast this Sinklar Fist and his Rotted legions from space, or humanity will ever curse your name for the plague inflicted upon them. You MUST act!
Your Humble Servant,
Mykroft
· Communication intercepted by Internal Security four hours after the arrest of Tedor Mathadson. Missive used as evidence to gain the conviction of the former Minister of Defense on charges of treason. Regan Imperial Archives.
CHAPTER 2
Sinklar Fist sat at the fold-out desk in the commander’s cabin and tapped his chin with an uneasy finger as he stared at the comm monitors which filled the wall across from him. Around him, Gyton hummed and made the mechanical sounds common to all military starships. The humid air carried a metallic scent that barely masked the odor of humanity. The cabin appeared typically martial and spartan. Ivory paint had been slapped on the bulkheads until they appeared lumpy from years of o-ver-painting. A narrow bunk with g restraints abutted one wall. As befitted Sinklar’s rank, a narrow door in the corner opened on a cramped toilet, sink, and shower. Combat armor hung from a quick-release across from the bed. A single war bag rested in the hoops at the foot of the unslept in bunk.
Brain numb, he gazed vacantly at the monitors, painfully aware that his usual brilliance had deserted him. Cartographic displays delineated various features of the planet Rega, some at larger scale than others. The screens detailed cities, topography, power lines, water and sewer systems, media stations, governmental buildings, and security installations.
Sinklar screwed his thin face into a grimace and pinched the bridge of his nose with a nervous hand, as if he could squeeze some sense into his muzzy brain. He wore loose-fitting space whites that seemed a size too large.
At first glance, he looked little more than a gangly boy barely past his adolescence. A shock of thick black hair in need of both cutting and combing framed his features. The knobby nose didn’t quite fit his face squarely. The jaw was strong, giving him a determined look. But the eyes drew the most attention, rivetingone tiger amber, the other steel gray. Beyond that, his body had an undernourished quality, the legacy of his proximity to youth.
But on closer inspection, his features betrayed a grim seriousness that belied his chronological age. Lines had begun to form at the corners of his mouth. And when a person looked into those eyes, they’d see a soul hardened and harrowed, as if it had drunk too deeply of life’s bitterness.
Sinklar shook his head, trying to free himself of the memories that slipped up from his subconscious. Gretta Artina’s ghost lingered, reminding him of the love they’d shared and the grief he now bore. The hate-filled eyes of the Seddi assassin, Arta Fera, glowed amber from the shadows, dangerous and damned.
“Come on, Sinklar,” he muttered irritably to himself. “You’ve got a perfect operation to plan ... or else a lot of people are going to die. “
At the words, he arched, glaring at the monitors. Makarta Mountain lay just days behind him. Makarta-the fortress of the Seddi. He could imagine those black stone hallways, see the bodies wretchedly sprawled in death. Smell the reek of corrupting flesh on the musty air of the mountain tomb. From desiccated eyes, the dead stared across time and space and into his uneasy soul.
What could I have done differently?
Gretta’s gentle laughter echoed in the halls of his memory. He closed his eyes, imagining her hands. She’d stand behind him, massaging his knotted shoulders while she spoke in soothing tones: “You gonna win this one, Sink? Or just waste your time fooling around with ghosts?”
He slapped a hand down on his desk, jumped to his feet, and resumed the ritual pacing he’d adopted: the four steps out and back allowed him by the confines of the cabin.
Makarta had become a debacle. First he’d trapped the Seddi inside the mountain, and then the Seddi had trapped Sinklar’s own people and held them hostage down there in the bowels of their winding warrens. The only way to effect the release of Mac’s trapped Sections had been to mount one bloody assault after another on the stubborn defenders.
Sink knotted his fists, remembering that final order from Rysta Braktov: Evacuate!
Muttering a curse, he palmed the lock plate and stepped through the hatch into the gray-painted corridor. Nervous energy pumped in his veins as he passed under the glowing light panels. Cables and conduit packed the ceiling in a ropy mass. The soles of his boots whispered on the deck plate. Reinforcing strakes arched around the corridor like rib bones-and he walked through the serpent’s belly.
How could he plan when his thoughts twisted like an Ashtan tornado? If only he could put everything that had happened during the last months into perspective. Gretta had always helped him do that, and now he ached for her steadying words. She’d loved him-and been murdered by the Seddi assassin. He hadn’t even had time to grieve, to feel the warmth looted from his life and soul. Immediately thereafter, Mac had almost died in Makarta Mountain-from Regan guns, guns Sink now commanded aboard Gyton. Sinklar’s gut went hollow as he remembered those last moments. He’d been so close to failure ... impotent for the first time in his life.
The words uttered by Staffa kar Therma haunted him: “. - - Each action will cost you. Every meter you advance into Makarta will be on rock slippery with Regan blood. “
And Rysta Braktov’s voice had cackled: “I have an order from Tybalt the Imperial Seventh ... your six hundred are well worth the price. My orders are to destroy the Seddi fortress ... and I will do so. “
How could Sinklar have known he was matching wits with the Star Butcher? The Lord Commander’s link with the Seddi still vexed him. What did the Companions and the Seddi have in common? And what had that mysterious conversation with Staffa meant? Staffa kar Therma claims to be my father! The thought whirled senselessly around in his mind.
“Unless it’s another Seddi trick, some sort of psychological game they’re playing.” He ground his teeth. Were that the case, it was working; try as he might, he couldn’t order his thoughts as he once had. Maybe he needed to go drag Mac out of bed to talk it overbut Mac had more than enough on his mind. MacRuder had the chore of retraining the remainder of Rysta’s Divisions-Divisions Sinklar’s troops had mauled on Targa. Somehow, Mac had managed to do the impossible, overcoming most of the festering resentment felt by those veteran ranks. Mac’s magic seem
ed to be a mixture of iron-fist diplomacy, calculating reason, and the sobering reality that Regan blasters had taken potshots at the Star Butcher himself. Relations with the Companions hadn’t exactly been amicable when Staffa’s fleet pulled the Lord Commander out of the trap at Makarta. If anyone knew the awesome fury the Companions could unleash, Rysta’s veterans did. And it scared hell out of them.
The Rotted Gods knew what kind of mess they’d find Rega in when they exited null singularity. The entire empire might be in flames. Sinklar tapped his forehead with a knotted fist, trying to anticipate. For an ally, he only had Ily Takka, the cold-blooded scheming Minister of Internal Security. And he trusted her about as far as he could see past an event horizon -
Sink, you’re in some serious shit—as usual. And you’d better get your brain into overdrive, or you’re going to think the war on Targa was paradise compared to what’s about to break loose.
He took the first left and passed two crewmen, aware of their gaping stares as he marched on. They don’t know what to think. I’ve gone from an outlaw to a Lord—and their empire is teetering on the edge of the abyss. He stepped out into one of the observation blisters and walked past the spectrometer and scopes to the transparency with the idea that he could gaze at the stars. He found nothing but an infinite blackness. A weary smile bent his lips. “Fool, you’re in null singularity. There’s nothing to see because light doesn’t exist. “
“That’s right.
Sinklar spun on his heel to see the old woman where she sat in a shadowed observation chair. “Commander Braktov. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you when I came in. What are you doing here?”
Rysta Braktov gave him a sour smile. “The same thing you are, I suppose. I used to come up here to see the stars. It became a habit. I come here for peace now—especially when the ship’s in null singularity. It’s the one place no one has a reason to come to except, it would seem, for yourself.”
Sinklar’s eyes adjusted to the gloom and he could see her better. She had to have passed her second century of life. Despite rejuvenation treatments, her dark brown skin had wrinkled and gray shot through her hair. The commander’s uniform she wore, however, looked crisp, letter perfect. Nor could anyone underrate Rysta Braktov after one look into those gleaming black eyes.
Sinklar rubbed the back of his neck, wishing the action would dissipate the strain in his soul. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
As he turned to leave, she chuckled dryly and called, “Oh, no bother.” A pause. “Besides, it’s your ship now ... Lord Fist. “
Sinklar stopped. The way she’d said “Lord” rankled. He braced both hands on the spectrometer that separated them and said, “Perhaps we should settle some things between us. I can understand and accept your feelings about me, Commander, but we’re going to have to work together when we reach Rega.”
She snorted angrily and thrust her jaw forward. “Rotted Gods, Sinklar, do you have any idea what’s happened? The Emperor’s been assassinated! Rega is on the verge of collapsing internally while Sassa waits out there eager for the chance to cut our throats! The Lord Commander of Companions, the Star Butcher, may be contracted with Sassa—or maybe with the thrice-cursed Seddi! And back on Rega, who’s about to seize power? Ily Takka, the Minister of. Internal Security, that’s who! Now, boy, she might have pulled your balls out of the crusher on Targa, but when it comes to an ally, I’d trust a Cytean cobra before I’d allow myself to blink in the same room with Ily. “ A pause. “Or are you just another of her lackeys? Is that it? Did she wiggle her cute ass until your testicles overloaded your brain?”
“I’m not the young fool you think, Commander.” Rysta waved as if to shoo a fly. “No? Well, tell me something, Lord Fist. What are you really after? What’s your angle in this damned mess?”
“Commander, maybe I’d better fill you in about what just happened on Targa. The Seddi Magister, an old man called Bruen, plotted and initiated the Targan revolt for reasons I’m still not completely sure of. I was among the first troops dropped to retake the planet. I got to see the whole thing from start to finish. The entire operation was a screwup. The leadership was incompetent, the training we received, ludicrous. Mac, Gretta, and I survived purely by luck. The Targans killed over ninety percent of my Division on the first day because of sheer command stupidity! Ninety percent!
“Then some damned jackass gave us green replacements to fill the ranks. I was promoted to Sergeant First and sent out with a Section to hold a pass against overwhelming enemy forces. Well, I threw the damned book away and devised my own tactics, Commander. Because of that, my Section held its position and dealt the rebels a severe setback.
“About that time, the Seddi assassinated my Division First. So what happened? Tybalt-playing some silly political game with Ily Takka-put me in charge of the First Targan Division. And do you know why? Because we were a soak off! Tybalt sought to gain a political advantage through a Regan defeat on Targa. They sent us into the countryside, withdrew our transport and supply, and waited for us to conveniently die. “
Rysta’s expression had hardened. “But you didn’t.” Sinklar shook his head. “You bet we didn’t. We made it up as we went, and we reorganized the Division command structure. Then we took the rebel stronghold of Vespa and broke the back of the rebellious Targan forces in a pitched battle.”
Rysta poked a hard finger at him. “And you went beyond your authority when you tried to contact the Seddi. That wasn’t-“
“Wasn’t what? Reasonable?” Sinklar’s lips twisted. “Maybe you forget that this was just before that idiot Mykroft had his entire Division wiped out by the rebels. He held a dance, remember? And the Targans picked that moment to attack. Then the damned fool fled to me, and demanded I turn over my command to him. “
“And you refused!” Rysta sat forward, bristling. “That’s mutiny, Fist!”
“Mykroft had no authority over the first Targan Assault Division. “
“And if he had, would that have made any difference?”
“Not one damned bit. Do you think I was about to let him waste my people the way he did his own? Not on your life. The final straw was when you arrived overhead and dropped five veteran Divisions ... not to subdue the rebels, no, to kill me and my people, Rysta. We’d become a threat, but we didn’t die. We whipped five of the best Divisions in the Regan Empire.” Rysta glared at him.
“You wanted to know my angle ... what I’m after?” Sinklar returned stare for stare. “Our motto is ‘Never again.’ That’s what I’m after. I’m going to make sure that people like Mykroft and Atkin, and the rest of the sycophants, are never given the opportunity to butcher people the way they did on Targa. The system’s pus-stinking rotten, Commander! I didn’t like being left out to die-and I swear on the bodies of my dead soldiers, I’m going to change it. One way or another. “
“Given the vituperation of your tirade, I suppose you lump me in with your sycophants. You still hate me for making you withdraw from Makarta, don’t you?”
Sinklar took a deep breath and faced the black nothingness beyond the transparency. “Hate, Rysta? Yes, I suppose so. Six hundred of my people were trapped with the Seddi in that Rotted mountain-and you gloated when you got the order to kill them.” He looked down at his hands. “Do you expect me to forget the tone in your voice? Your glee at the thought of destroying me?”
“You and your Divisions are a contagion, Fist.” He bent down to peer into her eyes. “Why, Rysta? Because we fight war with the same thorough efficiency that the Companions do? No, it’s not that, is it? Admit it, Rysta. We scare hell out of you because we’re turning your world upside down. We’re making a mockery of the aristocratic privilege you lived for. Well, I don’t give a rat’s ass for Imperial society or what it stands for. Anything that might have meant to me has been washed away in Targan blood. Your edifice of state elite and alabaster aristocracy is cracked and trembling, Commander. And I’ll do everything in my power to send the pieces crashing down.”
/> Her lip twitched as she met his stare. “I hope I’m around to see you fall, boy. I want to laugh and grind my heel in your face as I walk past. Damn you! Don’t you understand what’s happening? Everything that’s good ... our very way of life is at stake here! There has to be honor and ritual to war. We’ve got to have rules for combat, War must be done orderly. Without it, we’re savages! Beasts!”
“Don’t feed me that crap. I’ve been on the front lines, Commander. I’ve watched people I loved blasted and bleeding. I’ve seen the agony, and war’s bestial. It’s Rotted damn butchery for the privates! You hear? Screw you and your command aristocracy, sitting back in the bunkers sipping sherry and staring at the situation board! Crawl down in the trenches with the rest of us and dirty your hands with blood, mud, shit, and terror! “
Rysta shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “You don’t understand. “
Sinklar relented as he straightened. “Yes, I do, Commander. You feel like a plant ripped from the soil. Your Emperor, Tybalt the Imperial Seventh, is dead without an heir. Rega is about to come unglued as the people panic-unless order can be imposed somehow. Staffa kar Therma is in league with the Seddi for sure, and possibly with the Sassan Empire. Your military establishment-which was built on Staffa’s power-is suddenly antiquated and comic when placed against the Sassan threat. The nice cozy future has gone suddenly black and terrifying. Nothing’s predictable anymore. War has become too real, Commander. Your entire life’s work is suddenly meaningless. Everything you’ve believed in has gone hollow.
Rysta’s head had bowed until she propped it with tired arms. Silence stretched between them. “Rysta,” Sinklar whispered, “it doesn’t mean defeat. The Empire still needs you. Instead of fighting for the old order, for the aristocracy and the nobles, you could fight for the people. Think about it.”
He turned and left, the image of her ingrained in his mind: a broken and defeated old woman humped over in the chair.