Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  At that juncture, the door opened and a white-haired man dressed in the crimson robes of the Regan judiciary stepped out, calling, "Erina, I'm off to tea. There are five briefs on my desk that I'd like you to refile. If there's nothing else, I'll see you in the morning."

  "There is something else," Sinklar blurted, jumping in front of the man.

  With remarkable agility, the secretary slipped around the desk to yank on the sleeve of Sinklar's new uniform, protesting, "You can't do this. If you don't leave this office immediately, I'm calling the—"

  "Now, Erina," the Judicial Magistrate waved her away, "I was in service to the Imperium once myself." He bent his eyes back to Sinklar. "Yes, Private, what is it?"

  Sinklar cast an evil glance at Erina as she backed away. "I'm Sinklar Fist, sir. I'm shipping out tomorrow ... to Targa."

  "Yes, I've heard about that. Nasty bit of trouble. Myself, I served in the Phillipian campaign. Won a medal or two. Ah, those were the days when a man could make a real contribution to the empire. We were strong then, back before the Star Butcher became such a power, but then, you didn't come to hear an old man ramble."

  "No, sir. I came to learn about my parents."

  The Judicial Magistrate studied him through pensive blue eyes. "I see. And what would I know about your parents?"

  Sinklar took a deep breath. "You sentenced them to death about twenty years ago, sir. Outside of that, I don't know a thing about them. The case was sealed after their execution and all records pertaining to them, and my family, were sealed as well."

  "And you want to know where you came from."

  "Yes, sir. Somehow, well, going off to war, it makes it important."

  "If the case was sealed . . . well, are you sure you want to know the details?"

  Sinklar jerked a nod. "I believe I'm well versed in the scope of human behavior. As a student of social history, there's not much left to surprise me."

  "Very well, Sinklar. I think my tea can wait for a bit. Come into my chambers.

  I'll look up the record and tell you what I can within the strictures of security regulations."

  Footsteps tapped on the cold stone of the cavern floor and echoed hollowly through the black shadows and around the groined ceiling.

  Magister Bruen heard the approaching steps from where he sat in a cone of light that illuminated his worktable and computer. He glanced up from the comm monito he studied and stroked his knobby chin. The air felt slightly damp, cool, and heavy. Here, in the depths of the temple, no other sound penetrated.

  The footsteps grew louder and Bruen could see the electric torch the young woman hed as it flashed yellow between the meter-thick columns, reflecting inscriptions and images carved in the gray rock. She threaded her way between the pillars of stone, a nymph of light in a stony underworld forest.

  She was a tall woman, her movements graceful as those of a dancer. Long legs moved in purposeful strides beneath a sienna Initiate's robe. She had pinned her hair back severely with a golden clip so it hung over her left shoulder in an aubum tumble. Long sensual fingers clutched the portable spotlight in a choke hold, leaving delicate fingernails bloodless.

  A striking beauty, the light accented pale cheeks to either side of a classic nose ever so lightly dusted with freckles. Her full-lipped mouth pinched as her amber eyes sought Bruen. Worry etched her high forehead. A knotted golden rope cinched the flowing robe around a delicate waist, the folds of the garment hiding the full swell of her breasts. Only under close inspection did the dark splotch at the hem of the garment betray its origin: blood.

  She's seen the fighting. No wonder her features are drawn and nervous. Very well, my child: it begins.

  She gasped in relief at the sight of him hunched over the blocky wooden table.

  He gave her a grin and a wink before he bent to frown into the yellow-toned monitor, pulling at his ear as he pondered the words displayed on the screen,

  "Blessed Gods, Magister! You're heref Her voice echoed in contralto relief through the endless cavern.

  Bruen—bald pate gleaming ivory—looked up from the comm monitor, blinking his light blue eyes. "Indeed. Would I be elsewhere?" He made a gesture with semitranslucent hands. "You think I would perhaps be chasing scarlet floozies in the bawdy houses down on D block?"

  "Magister!" she cried, shocked. "Only you would jest at a time like this! The whole city is in uproar! The miners are rioting in the streets! People are dying. How long do you suspect it will take before the Regan Fleet is overhead?

  Come, we must take you from the city. Now, Magister!" She bent to gather his cloak where it lay in a pile behind the bench.

  Bruen hiccuped and placed an age-wrinkled hand over his mouth She's such a beauty. Ah, would but that I were youner! To hell with humanity! I'd pack her up, and we'd be gone to some remote corner of the universe where I could ravish that. . . .

  Oh, never mind.

  He sighed and turned his head to the monitor. "That will be all for today, computer. Please note my place and correlate the notes I've made on the text.

  Forward a copy through Mag Comm to Magister Hyde in Vespa for his perusa, I'll be in touch as soon as possible." The screen went dead.

  He made a gesture with his hand. "Now, dear Arta Fera, what has brought you running breathlessly to my side? Only riots? I sincerely doubt it was love or desire for these old bones that has left you panting so."

  She shook her head, groaning in frustration. "Magister! Honestly, were you not the foremost scholar in Free Space, I'd ... I'd wring your neck! Come on, we've got to get out of here! Escape this insanity!"

  Indeed, Arta, would that you only knew. Escape, my dear? No indeed, I've no choice but to place your incredible beauty between the jaws of the lion.

  Aloud, he chuckled dryly. "Is this the respect the young attach to the older and wiser? Wring my neck, my dear? Don't some of the harlots on D block engage in such—"

  "Magister!" She had him on his feet, wrapping the robes about his body, tying them off so his knobby varicoseveined legs were free should they need to run.

  "Your preoccupation with whores and lewd behavior ill befits your esteemed position. You mind is the finest in all. . . . What are you laughing at?"

  He shook his head, grinning and chortling. "Ana just what do you suppose a scholar does in his off time, my dear? Especially an old man like me? Perhaps I . . . urn . . . investigate such behavior to gain an insight into the human condition. Hmm?" He bent down for a sagging black leather satchel, refusing to be tugged away without it. The

  grip safely in hand, he let her pull him along down the long dark halway.

  "You'll think nothing if we don't get you out of here! You dop't say such things in public, do you? You don't mention these . . . fantasies to your colleagues."

  "Bah!" He began to pant as she led him to the garage. The stitch of pain in his hip awoke to stick angry pins into his joint. "Position in society concerns you, dosn't it, dear Arta?" He smiled as she palmed the access hatch.

  "You worry too much. Social status is but an illusion. Instead, knowedge is the—"

  "But your teachings, Magister. If I thought for a minute you actually habituated such places and associated with those . . . those women, I'd. ..."

  "You'd what?" He looked into her flaring amber eyes. "Give up your studies?

  Turn down the wisdom of the ages? Cease to probe the mystery of the quanta? Go so far all because the illustrious Magister Bruen sported with prostitutes?"

  He raised an eyebrow, an amused grin rippling the wrinkles.

  "A man of your reputation and honors shouldn't—"

  "Bah! With my looks? Only a woman who was well paid would consort with the likes of me. No, they want young handsome men, virile with big . . ." At her horrified expression, a twinkle filled his eye. She took a deep breath, ready to launch into a new lecture; he deftly changed the subject. "And they are rioting in the streets again, you say? Have they forgotten the wrath of the Star Butcher so soon? They would provo
ke Rega into a reaction?"

  The door slid open as Arta Fera caught up his sleeve, cut short his musings, and dragged his withered body into the aircar that waited on the pad with open doors.

  "Yes," she grunted, irritated at his apparent lack of concern. "The idiots are parading with placards—demanding their rights as productive citizens of the Regan Empire. They claim they want representation—of all things! Imagine?

  Under the very eyes of the battleships they want rights! Who do they think they are?"

  "It isn't exactly a new concept. In fact, you can trace such maundering philosophies back to the original migrations from Earth. Of course, from there on back, the roots are lost—"

  "What? Earth? A myth, Magister. To me, rights and representation seem an excellent fertilizer from which to grow blaster fodder, blood, and pain. You know we'll be blamed for all these upheavals again!"

  Precisely, my dear. Let's shake you up a little. lie settled himself in the rear seat, the scuffed leather satchel on his lap. His fingers patted the soft leather contentedly as he began undoing the latches.

  She followed the flight-check procedures while he considered his options. Her competent fingers danced on the board, flicking switches to energize the system and set the flight comp for Makarta.

  He spoke in barely a whisper, nevertheless it froze her in the seat. "Of course, my dear, the blame is ours. That is exactly the purpose of this revolt."

  She turned to stare at him, mouth agape, amber eyes wide. "What?"

  He nodded soberly, watery blue eyes looking about the garage. "Well, who else do you suppose planted such an idea in the blocky brains of these mining dolts? Indeed, dear Arta, you won't allow me the diversion of shady ladies--so what's an old man with visions of glory to do?" He raised a fragile hand to his mouth in feigned shock, adding meekly, "Oh, dear. Along with harlots I can see you also object to my dabbling in revolution."

  "Blessed Gods!" Arta groaned as she lifted the car from the pad. Overhead the big doors slowly parted to reveal a wounded sky.

  She gasped as he set the thermal grenade launcher next to her on the seat.

  "That's . . ."

  "Yes, it is." This will be your first test, my girl. Now, Hyde, we will see if our labors were for naught.

  Bruen calmly pulled a second grenade launcher from the case and tucked it next to his side. From the corner of his eye, he could see her fighting to swallow, cringing away from the gleaming metal of the weapon as if it were some sort of venomous reptile.

  As they crested the steep temple roof he could see the extent of the damage.

  The city of Kaspa reeled with violence; pillars of smoke rose to either side.

  A flare of brilliant orange lit the low-hanging clouds where a fire raged through a phosphorous refinery, the billowing fumes manyhued with bright colors. Here and there about Kaspa, garish flames danced in macabre contrast to the low black clouds. Spatters of rain slashed at the windscreen as Arta shot the car forward.

  "They'll kill you if they find out, Magister. Think! What will happen to the people? What will happen to the temples?" She blinked at the thought, fighting back tears, mouth working. "They'll destroy us!"

  Wind and rain buffeted the vehicle, requiring all her concentration to keep the ride smooth and controlled.

  And what will you do, my precious beauty, when they turn on us? What resources do you have inside yourselp Are you ready for this seething cauldron we've created? Are you all we hoped you'd be? "Everything is going according to plan. Everything. "

  "Last time, blood ran in the streets like rainwater Magister." Her glance darted to the grenade launcher. '

  He studied her, noting the slim hands-white-knuckled where they gripped the control stick. As they passed above, she watched a fire racing through pressed-wood residential structures. People ran frantically into the streets, bent double under boxes of possessions they sought to save. She mumbled a quick prayer under her breath.

  The city looked shabby, the buildings squat and boxy. The slanting rain left the whole place gray and shiny in the downpour. He absently cataloged the flimsy structures so hastily rebuilt out of rubble and the cheapest of materials. Kaspa had become a city of squalor after the devastation wrought by the Star Butcher during the last rebellion. Beyond the city limits, mostly obscured by clouds, ragged mountains rose dark against the horizon. Here and there he could make out brooding stands of trees that mantled the lower slopes.

  He grunted a heavy sigh and patted the grenade launcher. "Blood and terror, death and misery. Revolution, dear girl, has no other price. It is bought through injustice, fear, and suffering. "

  "For what?"

  Does she have what we need? What if I'm wrong?

  "For the betterment of the human condition, dear girl. Civilization is like that. It wavers forever back and forth.

  Sometimes life becomes black and repressive—spawning tyrannies like the Regan Empire. At other times human society lives in periods of light and freedom where the soul wells and sings—except people never fully appreciate those times either. Complacency, Arta, is the unenviable legacy of any human endeavor. We become bored with what we have—and what we endure. The dreams grow stale in our minds. Good or evi, right or wrong, just or unjust, the conditions around us become expected—fatalistic, if you will."

  "And you stir that with blood?"

  "Only 'stirring'—as you put it—avoids stagnation. Without jumbling the pot there is no growth."

  She stared out over the city at the people running in the streets.

  Combat-armored troops were lashing the crowd with violet blaster fire. From somewhere, someone shot back. Bruen noticed the shiver that ran through her and sighed wearily.

  He spotted the cruiser first. A long lean thing, it dove out of the black swirling clouds. "Arta, we have visitors. The Civil Police are descending upon us, and, if I'm not mistaken, the wrath of Rega is emblazoned on the shield across the front of their aircar."

  Her shoulders sagged. The awkward posture gave her a gutted look.

  The aws of the lion, Arta. What now, sweet beauty? Pray to the Quantum Gods that I have made no mistake with you. Bruen ran gnarled fingers over the cold steel of his grenade launcher. But if I have. . . .

  The long black vehicle blared a warning as Arta slowed. She fought for control as she braked the aircar to the slowest speed whereby it would maintain stability in the stormgusting air. Rain battered loudly against the cab.

  A cold authoritative voice ordered: "Identify yourselves! Martial law has been declared. This is a state of emergency and you are in violation of the air transport codes."

  Arta picked up the comm phone, voice breaking. "Please, I'm taking my grandfather away from all this. We're just going to the country until this ghastly unrest is straightened out. That's all."

  And the pleading in her voice? Act? Or truth?

  Blaring speakers announced, "Open your door. You will be boarded by members of the Civil Police and escorted to a holding area.

  There you will be charged for violation of the air transport regulations and a violation of curfew."

  Arta bit her lip and reached over to unlock the door. "I'm sorry, Magister.

  I—I thought we could get away. When they see our robes. ..." Their Seddi gowns marked them as immediate suspects—suspects to be brain-probed.

  Bruen waited patiently, monitoring her expression, following her thoughts as they were mirrored on her wretched face. Had she forgotten the weapon on the seat beside her? Had fear so completely paralyzed her?

  The long black shape matched speeds and settled beside them. A port slid open and a grapple locked to their door. Arta tried to swallow, heedless of the rain that blew past to spatter the plastic seats and lash their robes. Across the space, a black-uniformed man prepared to cross. Bruen leaned forward to get a better view, his thin hand pulling at the wet door frame.

  "Oh, Rotted Gods," Arta moaned on the verge of frustrated tears. The young patrolman started across the wal
kway.

  Now or never, girl! Bruen clutched the launcher to his chest, eyes on Arta.

  She moved in a blur. The deafening BLAM left his ears ringing with concussion.

  A vile odor insulted his nose as acrid smoke blew in the open door. The aircar lurched drunkenly to one side.

  Without missing a beat, Arta fought the controls. Instinctively, she gripped the grenade launcher in one fist. Magister Bruen found himself struggling to keep from falling out the open hatch, his frail fingers slipping on wet upholstery.

  As Arta pulled the craft up, she stared out the still open door, apparently shocked to notice that the Civil Police craft was gone—only the ragged smoking remains of the boarding ramp still attached to the aircar. The metal along the edges looked melted and hissed vapor in the rain.

  "What was. ... I ... I didn't. . . ." She tried to articulate her disbelief.

  Slowly her eyes dropped to the grenade launcher. Wisps of smoke still rose from the ugly belled muzzle.

  With a bar pulled from the tool kit, Bruen began working the claws of the grapple loose, rain pelting his face as he cackled gleefully into the fury of the storm.

  Vindication! Blessed Gods, she's good. Never held a grenade launcher in her life—and she knew what to do!

  "Dearest Arta, if you'd be so kind as to depart from the area, they might have another cruiser in this part of the city. You worry about getting me to Makarta, dear. I'll attend to any official interruptions."

  "But, what ... I mean, where did the Civil Patrol ... I killed. . . . What the hell happened, Bruen?" She glared at him.

  "Look down, and go?" he ordered, making a motion with his hand as he pried the last of the grapple overboard and slammed the door shut.

  She dropped her gaze in time to catch a glimpse of smoking wreckage just as it plummeted through a rain-shiny slate roof in the residential district. The edifice shook with impact. As if in slow motion, the walls collapsed inward, folding around the vanished craft like the petals of some huge muddy-brown flower. A single man ran frantically from a door as the last of the wals collapsed.