“No!” Tedor Mathaiison cried. “It’s lunacy! She’s crazy! She wants to kill us all!”
“Silence the prisoners,” the head Judicial Magistrate ordered and a privacy field dropped over the screaming Tedor Mathaiison, once Minister of Defense for the Regan Empire.
The broadcast began, the Judicial Magistrates reading the charges while the producer filled in with segments of the confessions obtained-in some cases, creatively edited into the most damning context possible.
Ily watched from the rear. No, Tedor, you weren’t nearly the treasonous corrupt bastard I had to make you into. You were always concerned with serving the Emperor-but now, you must serve the state in a way only a man of your reputation and status can.
“As a result of the above cited evidence,” the head Judicial Magistrate droned on, “this board must find the defendants guilty on all charges brought against them. It is further the decision of this board that the only suitable punishment for the corruption and license uncovered by this investigation is death. This decision has passed and been ruled reasonable and just. “
Ily glanced at the Defense Minister and his Deputies who sat in shocked immobility. She gestured to the tech and nodded, knowing the producer had begun to run the prerecorded piece where she coolly asked for clemency for the condemned.
“You can’t do this!” Tedor burst out, unaware that the privacy field had lifted. “That treasonous bitch wants to destroy us all! Ily, you vile, polluted whore! You despicable Cytean serpent!”
Ily leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Perfect. The moment Mathaiison burst out, the cameras had shifted, cutting her plea off , sealing Tedor’s doom. No popular support would remain for him now. He’d locked the last hasp on his tomb.
A bailiff stepped forward from the wings, a pneumatic syringe in one hand. The head Judicial Magistrate stepped down from the podium, following the bailiff who made his way to each of the captives. Despite the screams and pleas, the bailiff touched the pneumatic pistol to each neck. The bodies jerked against the restraints as the lethal dose discharged; then they slumped nervelessly while the Judicial Magistrate took vital readings with a monitor he had taken from his robes.
The last in line, Tedor Mathaiison, called out, “May the Rotted Gods chew your filth-encrusted soul, Ily! I curse you, you pustulous-“
The pistol made a spitting sound against his neck. Tedor stiffened and then went loose limbed in the restraints.
The Judicial Magistrate took the reading of his bodily functions, entered the notation into the record, and nodded. He turned his attention to the holo camera and stated matter-of-factly, “I pronounce sentence to have been carried out. This case is closed to the satisfaction of the people.”
A tech lifted a hand, snapped his fist closed, and made a downward slash of his arm, indicating the broadcast was over.
Ily walked off the set, a warm joy spreading through her. Let the people ponder what they’d just seen. She had them now-right where she wanted them.
Personal Quarters Seddi Warrens
Itreatic Asteroids
3889-17-7 SC: 22:30
Dear Hyde:
I needed to write you this letter in hopes that perhaps we weren’t wrong about the quanta, about the eternal condition of nature and God Mind. By this gesture, I hope that through some permutation of the quanta, You’ll understand, and I can touch your pure and wonderful soul again-dead and peaceful though you may be.
All of our plans have turned to dust and blown away on the interstellar wind. As I search about me, I see no evidence that we had any impact on humanity at all. We might never have been. How did it go so wrong? Was it the machine, that thrice-cursed Mag Comm? Was it the dance of the quanta? How could we have Predicted that Staffa kar Therma would become aware? I have studied the events, talked with Staffa, and through the benefit of hindsight, can see what went wrong. We take awareness, consciousness, sentience, or whatever you wish to call it, to be a given. Infants are born with dazed minds that begin to gel in childhood, are molded through adolescence and solidify in adulthood. The occurrence is so routine, so mundane, we never question the importance of the process.
In ignorance, we set the wheels in motion to trap and kill Staffa. Mighty armies were fielded, the politics of vast empires were manipulated, and innocent human beings girded themselves for war, shedding their blood and squandering their lives as a result of our intrigue. Nevertheless, we went down to horrid defeat, and why? Was it mismanagement of resources? Was it strategic miscalculation? Disinformation?
No, old friend, our crushing defeat occurred because one man, one lone human being, was suddenly jolted into awareness.
Dear dead Hyde, knowing that now, what weight can any of us place upon a human soul?
· Excerpted from the personal diary of Magister Bruen
CHAPTER 3
“Excuse me,” the woman’s sensual voice severed Governor Zacharia Beechie’s thoughts from his paperwork and brought him to full attention.
She stood in his office doorway, dressed in a wraparound cloak that concealed her body. Most of her face had likewise been obscured by a gauze veil-but not enough to hide her striking beauty or those incredible amber eyes. She made an excellent addition to his abnormally drab office with its worn furnishings and scarred computer, scuffed tile floor, and battered gray duraplast records casings. Being governor of a newly defeated planet-especially one razed as hard as Myklene had been—offered little opulence.
“Yes?” Beechie straightened unconsciously, sucking in his gut and squaring his shoulders in the process. He wished he had time to run his fingers through his thinning hair.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Captain, but I’m here to apply for a travel visa. I-I’m Marie Attenasio.” Beechie felt himself blush slightly. He’d become in-
ured to the suffering in the aftermath of the Myklenian conquest, but some terrible hurt was reflected in those magnificent eyes. The sight of her stirred curious feelings-the sort engendered by the sight of a wounded fawn.
He forced his mind from the image. After all, a military governor had to steel his heart. What did that cursed baggy garment hide, anyway? If the clothing’s purpose was to camouflage her magnificent body, it only did a halfway job-but then, what sort of attire could mask all those curves?
“A travel visa? I’m sorry, ma’am but you’re Myklenian. Travel for Myklenian citizens of Divine Sassa’s-“
“I’m not Myklenian, Captain.” Her words carried a honeyed sadness. “I was stranded here during the war ... barely escaped with my life as it is, and I’d like to get off this miserable rock. My problem is that my quarters-along with my identification-were blasted to cinders during Sta ... the Star Butcher’s attack. I’ve spent months scrambling to stay alive and making my way past every official in your government to get to your office.”
Her eyes seemed to deepen, to draw his soul from its impregnable redoubt. “Yes, well, I see. Your nationality, then?”
“Ashtan, Captain.
“But that’s.... Blessed Gods, you’re a ... a Regan!”
She shook her head sadly, eyes losing focus as she recalled the past. “I wasn’t born Regan. Tybalt the Imperial Sixth conquered my world, Lord Captain. I have no allegiance to either empire.” Her gaze lowered and Beechie thought she paled beneath her veil. “Everything I ever had has been taken from me ... one way or another.”
“Then what do you wish, lady? If you have nothing, what could you hope to find on Sassa?”
“What I wish to do is get to Sassa where I can access my financial resources and reestablish myself.” “You have an account in Sassa?” Beechie brightened, beginning to see a way he could help her ... and perhaps earn her favor. After all, he was leaving within three days, transferred back to receive a promotion and reassignment.
A weary smile warmed her eyes. “Actually, the account is in Itreata, but I understand I could draw on it from Sassa.”
Beechie lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Let me get this straight
. The Companions keep your currency for you?”
Her sure nod carried more weight than her words.
“Oh, I assure you they do, Captain. Will you help me get to Sassa? You would be very well rewarded.”
Beechie nodded despite his sudden reservations.”I could escort you myself. “ He waited, heart stumbling in his chest.
She made a gesture of acceptance with her hand, the movement graceful and delicate. “Captain, that would be delightful. If you only knew how hopeless I’ve become. “ Beechie knew. The tone in her voice communicated to his very soul. He stood, offering his hand. At her touch, he almost gasped, letting himself fall into those wondrous amber eyes, wishing he could soothe the terrible hurt he saw there. “The pleasure is mine. Would you ... I mean, could I fix you dinner? Tonight?”
She hesitated, taking his measure, the action that of fear and mistrust. How many times had she been betrayed by men? A righteous anger stirred in Beechie’s breast.
“I give you my word. I mean you no harm.” Despite the honesty he forced into his words, he could see tension build.
Desperation vied with fear before she finally whispered, “I would be delighted, Captain. You’re at the compound?”
He swallowed hard. “Ask for me, Marie. I’ll have a clearance for you. Say, about the eighth decant?” “I’ll ... very well. At the eighth decant.” She smiled uneasily, then turned away and he noticed the limp. Aware of his attention, she said softly, “I had a hard landing during the fighting-another reason it’s taken me this long to find my way to you.”
Beechie tugged anxiously at his uniform as she limped down the hallway. His guts knotted against the need to accompany her, to protect her from the violent world beyond the guarded halls of the administration building. Why? How did she draw so effortlessly on that masculine-need to both desire and protect?
“Blessed Gods,” he whispered, “I’m in love.” Then he shook his head. Yes, he’d take her to Sassa. He had that authority. Perhaps, somewhere along the way, he’d see those marvelous amber eyes glow for him. Beechie walked over and dropped into his chair, a Puzzled look on his face. Despite his notorious reputation as a work addict, he couldn’t force his mind back to duty. Elbows propped on his desk, he stared absently at the ceiling panels.
Myles Roma, Legate Prima Excellence to His Holiness, Sassa “,ignored the sour sensation in his belly and leaned his head back in the cushioned seat as his aircar followed the torturous route through the small Sassan military spaceport on the outskirts of Imperial Sassa. If he’d cared to open his eyes, he could have looked past his driver’s head to see the rear of Admiral Than Jakre’s car-and the flashing lights of the escort beyond that as they wound through the maze of massive domes, multifloored barracks, and towering skeletal gantries.
Instead Myles preferred to keep his eyes closed and drown himself in worry about the coming reception. The very mention of Staffa kar Therma shot sparks of inadequacy through Roma’s fragile sense of selfidentity. But having to deal with the man face-to-face? Myles shivered.
“Have you been under a lot of stress recently?” his personal physician had asked, peering up from the medical comm chart he meticulously tapped information into.
Stress? Myles winced at the thought. It had all started with the Myklenian contract. Staffa kar Therma and his Rot-cursed Companions had struck Myklene before the Sassan fleet had been even halfequipped for war. When Jakre’s fleet finally arrived, Staffa had virtually handed the planet over—or at least what was left of it. Single-handedly the Lord Commander had destroyed the most powerful defensive system in Free Space without Sassan aid—or, as some glibly said, in spite of it.
Blame for the loss of Sassan dignity had never been officially mentioned, but Myles had been dispatched immediately to personally oversee the continuation of contract with the Companions for the inevitable war with Rega. Who could have predicted that Staffa, the most powerful mercenary in Free Space, would have turned down not only Myles’ offer, but that of the Regan she-viper, Ily Takka, as well?
Myles groaned to himself. From there, things had gone from bad to worse. Was Rega preparing to strike Sassa? Could a preemptive strike keep the Regans off balance long enough so Sassan forces could consolidate and crush their rival once and for all? And in the middle of it, Staffa had just up and vanished without a trace.
No wonder I’ve lost thirty kilos!
The Legate reached a bejeweled hand into his purse and brought forth a perfumed handkerchief to wipe his sweaty face. Everything had come undone. All the predictions made over the years by various strategists and scholars had gone suddenly awry after Staffa killed the Myklenian Praetor. Unsubstantiated reports hinted that Staffa had literally ripped the man’s head from his body-in violation of contract.
Myles took a deep breath, stomach roiling at the memory of the Lord Commander’s imperious nature. If a human could be crossed with a reptile, something like kar Therma would be produced. With a shudder, Myles remembered the times he’d stared into those pitiless gray eyes and felt his soul shrivel.
Rotted right he’d been under stress-and that was before Tybalt’s assassination and the gamble Jakre and His Holiness, Sassa II, had made to go to war against the reeling Regan Empire. The information was obviously classified, so he hadn’t said anything to his physician; he’d just given the man the sort of look he’d have given an insect that crawled out of his dinner salad.
And now I have to go and greet Staffa kar Therma?
Once again I have to be polite and charming while he makes my skin crawl. I’d sooner be in the same room with a Riparian blood leech.
Myles tapped his chubby, ring-encrusted fingers on the armrest and brightened. Perhaps Skyla Lyma, the gorgeous Wing Commander of the Companions, would accompany Staffa. Myles smiled and conjured her image. He’d met her on Itreata, and fallen into imme’diate lust. What a handful she’d be. Or would the feelings of insecurity engendered by Staffa’s presence, burst Myles’ bubble of sexual desire, too?
The aircar barely bumped as it slipped through a security hatch and settled in the restricted area behind the main terminal. In the glare of the hot lights, gray walls rose to either side and armed marines watched warily from the catwalks overhead. The canopy hissed slightly as it rose. Myles unlatched the side panel and grunted while he shifted his bulk to the antigrav that a lieutenant hustled up for him. Jakre gave Myles a weak smile as he was seated on his own antigrav. Flanked by armed security agents, they rode through arched halls painted with precise military dedication to be as boring as possible.
Tall windows and straight rows of black duraplast seats marked the arrival gate as they exited from the access tunnel. Puffy clouds obscured Sassa’s faintly green sky and the landing field had been cleared of all other craft for security reasons. The empty concrete pad stretched away for nearly two kilometers. Myles pulled his antigrav up next to Jakre’s and looked over the room. It measured no more than fifty paces in any direction.
An honor guard of twenty waited patiently at attention along the drab wall nearest the gate. Gleaming weapons were placed at parade rest and their scarlet and white uniforms looked splendid. Still more security personnel-both Sassan and Companion-hustled back and forth with monitors and communications devices.
“Five minutes,” Jakre muttered, his long face illconcealing his tension. The admiral brushed at his resplendent turquoise and white uniform with whitegloved hands. He glanced surreptitiously at Myles, squared his shoulders, and attempted to pull in his more than ample gut.
“What’s happened?” Myles asked softly. “When I went to Itreata, Staffa refused to see me. I assumed at the time that he was playing shrewd, driving up the price. Now Tybalt is dead at the hand of a Seddi woman assassin-“
“If we can believe Ily Takka,” Jakre growled.”,and we have the ability to crush Rega once an for all and extend His Holiness’ benevolence over all humanity. Yet at this moment, Staffa comes to us! Why?”
“I can’t second guess the Star
Butcher.” Jakre shook his head, casting a suspicious glance at the cloudy skies beyond the armored windows. “I’ve heard that Staffa got mixed up with that revolt on Targa. The intelligence is muddled, but he was there. Ily and this child general of hers, this Sinklar Fist, almost killed kar Therma. Skyla Lyma scrambled the Companion fleet and arrived in time to pull the Lord Commander out of the trap. I don’t know how the Seddi are mixed up in it, but Staffa evacuated all of their unholy priests.”
Myles slipped a hand into his purse, withdrawing an antacid which he quickly gulped. “Staffa? With Seddi heretics? They’ve been trying to assassinate him for years. It has to be some ploy, some trick we can’t fathom yet. Staffa does nothing without achieving gain . . . or cutting some poor bastard’s throat in the process. “
In a dry voice, Jakre suggested, “Maybe he’s converted. “
Myles failed in his effort to crack a smile. “Not even the Seddi god would claim the Star Butcher.”
Jakre raised a snuffbox to his nose and sniffed. “Were I a demon, and I knew Staffa had joined my legions, I believe I’d slip away at the first moment and consign myself to the Rotted Gods’ digestive tracts for the rest of eternity.”
“I doubt even the Rotted Gods could protect you from Staffa. “
“You make him sound like he’s more than human.” Myles held his tongue.
A lieutenant strode up and saluted Jakre, saying, “Security check in, sir. We have the base closed up tight in accordance with the Lord Commander’s instructions. Six shuttles have just disembarked from Chrysla. We thought there would only be three.”
Jakre nodded. “That’s his security. Five of those shuttles are decoys-just in case someone’s waiting with a loaded blaster somewhere. Staffa leaves nothing to risk ... as his enemies have learned to their dismay.” Myles absently placed a protective hand over his belly. “A great many people would pay dearly to know that he was dead, Admiral. He is the perfect mercenary, without remorse, without feeling. When u look into his eyes, all you feel is ... cold.”