Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  Skyla's worried about something. And Staffa . . . he's on edge, jumpy as I've never seen him.

  Only up close could a man see the light line of scar tissue angling across Skyla's cheek—such rude contrast to the delicate precision of her features and the promise of those full red lips. A beauty, indeed—and cold as the absolute zero of the Terguzzi ice sheets. Deadly as a Cytean cobra, Skyla had earned her position by ruthless efficiency.

  "My Lord Commander," Ryman greeted, knotting a fist over his heart in the eternal salute of the Companions.

  Staffa placed hands on hips as he studied the defensive layout Ryman had deployed. A tingle wiggled in Ark's stomach as he caught the distress in Staffa's face—the look that of a man preparing for battle . . . and wishing that he were somewhere else. Those wolf-gray eyes flickered to the door.

  A hesitation of ... Ryman denied the sudden hint of fear in Staffa kar Therma's eyes. Absurd! Perhaps the angle of the light. . . . Ryman stood straighter, ice tracing fingers through his guts.

  The Lord Commander spoke in a soothing, cultured tenor. "Well done, Officer Ark. Anything unusual? The prisoner is all right?"

  "Yes, sir." He swallowed, finding it difficult.

  "Nothing suspicious?"

  "No, sir. He ... the prisoner . . . only sent one communique, Lord Commander—and that was to your flagship the Chrysla, sir."

  "Very well." It sounded absent and Staffa's expression had gone slack. Could there have been a eraine of that pale flesh?

  like a chi11 lance' PPed through Ryman's soul. Who was this crippled man they guarded?

  The Lord Commander turned to Skyla in a swirl of gray cloak. "I'll see him alone, Wing Commander. If I ... I'll call should I need you."

  Ryman kept his eyes ahead, body at full attention, fist clasped tightly on his sternum. The Lord Commander hesitated at the door, the gray-gloved hand caressing the polished brass latch for several seconds before he pulled the portal open and boldly entered.

  Ryman glanced at the Wing Commander. Her pale features hinted of anguish despite the way she stood, back braced against the wall, arms crossed under those full breasts. Her worry-bright eyes unnerved him.

  Ryman moved his tongue over dry teeth. Concern? In Skyla? Bloodshot Gods'

  Staffa kar Therma waged war on his emotions, forcing his heart to be still when it tried to batter at the bottom of his throat. Fear? Of what? This . . .

  this wreck of a man? His gut tightened at the memories of those long gone days. Days of pain, days of endless struggle. Yes, Staffa. You fear him—with as much passion as you once loved him,

  The door slipped closed behind him, a shield against the worry-strained eyes Ark hadn't been able to hide. Is it that apparent? Have I so little control when it comes to facing this one old man?

  The room measured no more than eight meters across. Monitors projected holo after holo along the walls: Scenes of untamed country, green with vegetation; of buildings lancing white and silver ino a turquoise sky; of beautiful statues in manicured emerald parks. Others depicted happy people, or gala musical events. Familiar scenes, they plucked at Staffa's memories and called back the vanished days of his youth. Each of the projections portrayed Myklene as it had been before his forces crushed the Myklenian defense and rendered the planet helpless before the Sassan invasion.

  The medical unit stood in a far corner, illuminated by the greenish tint of Myk's sunlight—unique in that it emitted a higher percentage of light between 5000 and 5700 angstroms. The hospital unit consisted of a gleaming white box the ie of a large freezer chest. Rows of monitors filled one side while a retractable power lead and comm link trailed to a wall socket.

  The Lord Commander stopped, throat tight, skin flushed and hot. He steeled himself.

  The old man's head—a round ball of flesh and bone— stuck out incongruousy above the polished white of the hospital unit. From the Lord Commander's position, only close-cropped hair—graying now where once it had been black—and pasty skin remained visible. The ears curled like wilted chubba leaves, pink and fleshy. The aging flesh on the neck had gone flaccd, and withered muscle stretched from the mastoid into the white depths of the machine.

  Outside the armored window, a vista of wrecked and shattered city stretched forever, smoke rising in columns from twisted structures. Other buildings, unhurt, now sprouted banners in the delicate script of Myklene: pronouncements of the Sassan victory. Aircars crossed the turquoise sky, most bearing combat-armored personnel in Sassan gear. Larger vehicles bore prisoners en masse to detention centers as they were routed out of the public buildings and battered defensive positions. In the distance, cargo shuttles lifted skyward, shooting up through the gravity well to the orbiting Sassan Fleet.

  A single hoo hung before the hospital unit, unaffected by the shadows which should have been cast by the green sun. The old man watched a view from space, an up-to-date image of the planet now wreathed in smoke and fire. Music played, to a blasted empire.

  As if the Lord Commander's pounding heart betrayed his presence, the old man spoke, "So, it's you at last." The elder's voice had a cracked, strained quality, as if forced from the unresponsive mechanical lungs of the hospital machine.

  "The neutralization of several pockets of resistance delayed my—"

  "You're a liar, Staffa kar Therma."

  Staffa's fingers wove into the fabric of his belt, hands knotting. "No other man in Free Space would dare call me that."

  "Would you prefer that I call you what you are?" A pause. "Traitor fits my tongue perfectly. How about yours?"

  "You cast me out! You and your precious Myklenian Council. I could make your death . . . But you'd like that, wouldn't you Praetor?"

  "I cast you out?" He snorted his scorn. "If you'd remember, I saved your Rotted life!" The hospital unit whined as it turned, slowly rotating the motionless head toward the Lord Commander. As the profile filled, the true nature of the skull could be seen in the pain-racked flesh. The forehead bulged over a thick orbital torus. The fleshy nose protruded, hooking over a line-etched mouth, lips purple and swollen with age. Age spots dotted thin mottled flesh. The chin thrust in a walnut-stained knob below the broad face.

  Turning exposed a bruise on the left cheek.

  Human wreckage. Here lies my enemy. . . . And Staffa began to smile, his breathing easier. Who could fear this bit of crushed humanity? The Praetor lived by grace of pumps and filters. Intravenous alimentation filled his blood with the nutrients to sustain life while osmotic membranes oxygenated the artificial blood serving the remains of the spinal cord.

  The man he'd once feared—and loved—was gone, vanished forever in a blaster bolt he, Staffa, had triggered to destroy the Myklenian flagship. Through some miracle, the old man had survived, had been found by mop-up crews and identified.

  The old man's mouth moved, changing the pattern of parchmentlike wrinkles.

  "Humor, Staffa kar Therma? Amusement at what you've wrought?"

  The Lord Commander cradled an elbow and rubbed his chin as he considered the sunken face before him. Fear pangs receded as the reality of his victory began to wash deep within him. The work of the past had been erased— vanished into the smoke and violence of the present.

  Staffa walked to the wall, allowing the cloak to dance behind him in a taunting swirl. He slapped a palm on the holo control, and the walls went dead white—only the holo of the ruined world remained spinning slowly before the Praetor's eyes.

  "See what I have made of you, Staffa? The perfect conqueror! My greatest achievement. Yes, I've followed your career. Brilliant. I thought the Phillipian defense couldn't be cracked. Then you did the impossible off Ashtan—who'd

  have thought they'd fall for a feint on the marshlands? Only you could have orchestrated the decoy that destroyed the Maikan fleet. Yes, I studied each of your campaigns, knowing I'd have to fight you one day. One by one, I pored over your spectacular tactics until I could counter your every move."

  A holow, bitter laugh passed
the bloodless lips. "Too good, Staffa. I never had time to break you ... to buy you off and turn you against the Sassans."

  "I do not break. Nor do I buy off."

  "No?" A gray eyebrow lifted to crinkle parchment skin over the wide forehead.

  "No."

  The Praetor's smile went crooked. "One of the oldest of truths, Staffa, is that every man does indeed have a price. As do you, mercenary!"

  Staffa paced slowly forward, gray eyes locked with the Praetor's. He found enjoyment in the dulling brown that shadowed those once powerful orbs. He cocked his head. "Never, in all the campaigns I've fought, have I betrayed a contract."

  The corners of the ancient lips raised slightly, eyes gleaming. "No, you never have. A spotless reputation, don't you agree? But then, I forged you, Staffa.

  I took you as a young man and trained you, honed you to be the finest military commander anywhere. I gave you your values and strengths and cunning. I know you, Staffa. I am your creator!"

  "That was many years ago Praetor." He raised a shoulder. "I have—"

  "What a master forges, so can he break!"

  With a gray-gloved hand, Staffa gestured futility. "Brave and powerful words, Praetor. Yet I see your planet in ruins. Your people are captured—slaves for all intents and purposes. Your fleet is wreckage tumbling in vacuum, your armies scattered and decimated. And you Praetor, your life is at the mercy of this machine in which you lie. Your body is dead." Staffa wiggled his index finger. "With this, I could terminate your existence."

  The old man's smile broadened. "Not until you hear about your weakness, Staffa." As the smile faded, a shadow of frown deepened. "You don't wish me to fawn like all the rest and call you Lord Commander?"

  "I'll let it go, Praetor ... for old time's sake."

  "So noble of you."

  "And you had the ability to destroy me?" Staffa clasped his hands, feeling the armored cloth, warm and reassuring between his fingers.

  Aged eyes studied him thoughtfully. "Yes ... I do. You—"

  "Do, no less?" Staffa barked a short laugh. "You would call forth your legions? Recall your fleets from the dead? Raise your defensive platforms from orbiting slag? Return—"

  "Nothing so gross or wasteful." The Praetor's face caught a spear of light from the setting sun, illuminating his halfslitted eyes in a shaft of yellow-green. "I only need a few words. Nothing more."

  "Some key psyched into my mind when I was a youth? I know you did that, left deep psychological triggers. I found them, rooted them out laboriously, one by one."

  "All of them, Staffa?" The withered lips twisted again, cunningly. "We will see." The brows lowered. "Yes, indeed. But first tell me, you're the most feared man in all of Free Space. Legends have been spun about you Commander.

  From the Forbidden Borders to the gutter sumps of Terguz, no one has failed to hear of your name or fame. You've destroyed over thirty worlds. More than ten billion human beings have died because of you. You have enslaved entire populations. In places, men utter curses in your name. Among others, you're reviled as a demon from their versions of hell. Some hex you with magic.

  Others have paid fortunes to have you assassinated. Fear and hatred are your legacy, Lord Commander. Do you ever wonder about that? Lose sleep perhaps?

  Awake shivering in the nigt?"

  Staffa raised his shoulders in a shrug, palms up. "I am not paid to lose sleep. I am paid—and paid very well—to win."

  The Praetor nodded ever so slightly. "No soul, eh, Staffa? No responsibility to God? None?" He hawked and spat onto the polished floor. "No, indeed. I bred that out of you—banished it from your personality so long ago. A creature without conscience . . . without guilt. Only money and power motivate you." He cackled gleefully. "And, of course, your reputation!"

  "Does this have a point?" Staffa stepped to the window, rubbing hands along his arms as he stared out over the wreckage that had been the capital of Myklene.

  "You attacked before anyone expected, Staffa." A wistful note filled the old man's voice. "I didn't underestimate your fury—only your speed. Your plan to hit us before the Sassan fleet was even half provisioned . . . well, it was brilliant. Our spies had only heard vague rumors that you were working for Sassa. Even then, I knew our defensive platforms would have delivered a crushing blow to your fleet. You crippled us before we could—"

  "I played on your trust in spies," Staffa told him casually. "You expected a massed attack. You counted on Sassan vanity, knowing they'd demand to be present for the first assault to ratify their God-Emperor. Expectations are a weakness. A single unarmed freighter couldn't pose a threat to your massed defenses. Commando assaults from unassuming supply freighters never crossed your mind, did they?"

  The Praetor sniffed in irritation. "I wonder what would have happened if you'd misjudged and we'd wiped out your Special Tactics squads?"

  "Skyla wouldn't have let that happen. She personally orchestrated the sabotage of your computer systems. Timing was too critical. My fleet had to appear at exactly the right moment."

  "Yes, Skyla Lyma. A worthy second to your brilliance. Tell me ... are you lovers?"

  "No, Praetor, we are not. Never have been. She is her own woman—my second in command."

  "And as reptilian in conscience as you."

  "I have no interest in conscience."

  "So you've said—and proved." The Praetor sighed and shifted his gaze to the holo of the planet. "And now only two empires remain. Rega and Sassa. Each built with your skill and power. What now? Do you choose Tybalt and his Regans, or Sassa and their God-Emperor? Is this what you intended? Surely you knew it had to come down to two . . . and then to one. Has that been your design?"

  Staffa smiled and cocked his head. I only you knew, old man. "The Companions follow the tides of fortune."

  "Tides of fortune? My ass! And what of your cunning and ambition? I know you as no one else ever will. Don't toy with me, Staffa. You brought humanity to this—you and your Companions."

  "And if I did?"

  The Praetor leered evilly. "Then you made a terrible mistake."

  "Oh?"

  The od man squinted. "Let's dispense with the fencing, shall we? With the destruction of Myklene, two hungry empires face each other over a ragged border. Both are reeling, their economies starved to feed your war chest.

  Neither can meet your vampire price—not without bankrupting their blood-sucked economies. You will choose the winner . . . and then?"

  Staffa shifted, crossing his arms as he studied the old man.

  "Who, Staffa?" The Praetor stared at him. "I think you'll choose the Sassans—and then turn on them. After you bleed them dry in the fight against Rega, you'll become the ruler of human space—and you'll finally fail."

  Staffa lifted an eyebrow. "I'll play along with your game for the moment. Why would I fail?"

  "What will destroy you in the end is your own lack of humanity. The people will pull you down. Not armies . . . but human beings."

  The laugh built from deep in Staffa's gut. "The people? Those huddling masses of terror-ridden dolts who curse my name? You think they could do what no empire, no military force could? Be serious."

  The Praetor glanced out at the ruins of his capital. In a wistful voice, he added, "I am, Staffa. To you, human beings are pieces on a game board. You see them as chaotic forces, eddies and swells of turbulence following no predictabe course. But you're inhuman. A creation. If you would save yourself, Staffa, you must learn what it is to be human. You can't feel the spirit that breathes within the species— and because of that it will crush you one day."

  "Nothing will ever crush me."

  A subtle change invaded the hoarse voice. "Not even love?" A long hesitation.

  "You found that once, didn't you?"

  Staffa bit off a retort, settling the tightness in his lungs with a deep breath.

  The old man saw through his defense. "Captive girl, wasn't she? A strikingly beautiful slave destined to be sold to the whorehouses o
n Sylene. Except she was too beautiful for you to pass up. Another surprise you gave me, Staffa. I never thought your heart would allow you to love. I thought I'd killed that in you."

  The muscles along Staffa's back tensed and rippled. What's he after? How could he know? Chrysla, my beloved Chrysla. . . .

  The Praetor moved his lips. "Could you still have a trace of humanity hidden within you, Staffa? Even after all I did to you?"

  Staffa closed his eyes, emotions reeling. Images of her face filled his memories, the subtle smile, the love in her soft amber eyes.

  "Wonder how I know Commander?" the old voice wheedled. "Yes, indeed, how do I?

  How would I know you had a son by Chrysla? They were kidnapped from you almost . . . what? Twenty years ago? No trace of them ever showed up in spite of your threats ... or the reward."

  Staffa whirled, his cloak spreading like raptorian wings as he braced himself on the hospital unit. His hot face thrust inches from the Praetor's.

  It came as a forced hiss, "What—what do you know?" Iron fingers gripped the sagging flesh of the old man's jaw as Staffa twisted the head to meet his smoldering glare.

  The brittle jaw worked as the Praetor swallowed and gritted, "Nothing ... so long as you ... hold me like this. Release me, Staffa, and I'll tell you."

  Staffa peeled trembling fingers from where they dimpled the sallow flesh. A red flush remained to mark each spot, indicative of the bruise to come.

  The Praetor moved his jaw experimentally and studied the Lord Commander, thinly veiled irony in his expression. "I knew you'd turn against me, Staffa,"

  the voice began like fingernails on rusty tin. "Thirty years ago, I watched your fame spreading. You and I were already on a collision course. I could sense this coming. And I was the only one in all of Free Space who'd ever known you as a ... a vulnerable individual. Not a god, Staffa. A boy. More than that, a frightened child I once found in a wrecked shuttle.