Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  The Itreatic Asteroids: No more than tumbling rock, they had been the guts of a giant planet that had been sundered more than a half billion years ago. No one knew if the records of the first human scientists who had come to the Itreatic Asteroids still existed. Originally intrigued at the dense metal concentrations, they had determined exactly what gravitic forces had ripped the giant ancestral planet apart and spread the pieces far and wide to mingle with the suddenly homeless moons. Now the Itreatic Belt formed a giant band of dust and debris that circled the Twin Titans— a system composed of a pulsating RR Lyrae-type binary. The terrestrials had studied the suns—spectrally so poor in metals compared to the Itreatic Asteroid Belt—made their notes, and vanished into the curvature of time and space.

  The blue giants continued to blast out immense light and radiation, sufficient to provide the Itreatic Asteroids with enough energy to support a colony on the metal-rich chunks of rock and free-tumbling crater-pocked moons. To them, Staffa kar Therma had originally come. With his wealth, he had hired the engineers, equipment, and technicians to build a colony. With mirrors they channeled and condensed the actinic light of the Twin Titans and melted and smelted some of the best alloys in Free Space. Zero g negativeatmosphere labs manufactured high temperature syalon ceramics stronger than the finest alloy steels. His labs had developed epitaxial fabrication and nanotechnology in order to craft thallium oxide superconductors so sophisticated that no one in Free Space could reproduce them, let alone offer a competitive product. The only n-faceted gallium arsenide computer components came from Staffa's labs.

  To that far corner of Free Space—strategically blocked on three sides by the Forbidden Borders—the Lord Commander brought his fleets for rest and relaxation. Staffa's private domain—the Itreatic Asteroids had become a fortress haven.

  Staffa sat in the command chair, watching as Chryslas null-singularity drive unbent the universe around the battleship. Ahead, the Twin Titans appeared, a welcome beacon to calm the torments and doubts with which the Praetor had saddled him. The newly familiar mood swings continued to plague him as his mind sought equilibrium. Fatigue lay like a sodden weight on his soul. Where once he'd been of a single mind, doubt now vied with guilt and depression, then, within hours, he'd experience giddy optimism. With each mood swing, his brain would access forgotten neural pathways, behaviors triggered by the chemical codes.

  I could control it with drugs, but what would I do to myself? Am I nothing more than a machine—a monster? And if my son still lives? What legacy can I give him?

  His gray eyes shifted to the screens to see the rest of the fleet, including the damaged Jinx Mistress, flickering into existence behind the flagship. It would be good to rest. The Myklene campaign—while short and succinct—had drained each and every crewmember. A tangible tension had crackled in the very air as they approached the target. Never had the Companions challenged the might of so great a power as Myklene. Success had hinged on a rapid all-or-nothing strike calculated to paralyze the mighty Myklenian fleet and demoralize the Praetor's huge defenses. That long jump in from Sassa had left even the best of friends emotionally wrung out.

  "First Officer, alert the monitors." Staffa slouched in the command chair, elbow propped on one gray-clad knee. He could see where First Officer Lynette Helmutt leaned back in the comm chair, eyes closed in that semitrance of mental communication with the ship's computers.

  The first officer's voice, instead of issuing from her throat and mouth, came through the comm speakers. Similarly, she had heard Staffa's voice through the ship's pickups. "Monitors alerted, Lord Commander. Deceleration initiated at 40 g. Consequent Delta V dump sequences initiated. We're roger 001 on course relay. Monitors report condition green at home and welcome back."

  "Acknowledged, First Officer, send my regards." Staffa fingered the growth of beard that had begun to crop up on his cheeks. How long had it been since he'd had a beard? Thirty years? More? Time had treated him in such a manner that memories consisted of a kaleidoscopic rush of events and places and fights and political negotiations. All that is, except that brief time he'd shared with Chrysla and the briefer moments with his infant son.

  Time: the implacable foe—the greatest of allies. The growth of beard signaled a reminder that he'd need a treatment again before time sucked him up and spit him out an old man.

  In the medical section of his labs in the Itreatic Asteroids, a large N-matrix computer held his personal body code. From it, growth hormone boosters were produced and injected in the bloodstream. Genetically perfect polymerase VII would be released along with an ionizing mutation antigen that would tag suspicious cells and repair mutated DNA. From his blood serum an antibody count and identification program would catalog any new antigens, determine their beneficence or evil, and clone antibodies to remove deleterious elements from his system. Such procedures kept him looking a healthy thirty—despite his eighty-seven years out and about in space.

  He plucked absently at the stubble on his cheeks. Immortality assumed that life had a purpose. Which in turn assumed that continuing to live advanced that purpose. Given those assumptions, what could there be to life that he—the individual living it—did not immediately understand? Or could it be that simple survival was the only purpose for living—or the universe for that matter.

  He pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. "Praetor, I. . . ."

  He got to his feet, gray cloak swirling about him. "First Officer, you have the helm. I will be in my quarters should you need me."

  "Acknowledged, Lord Commander," the bridge speaker told him tonelessly.

  He paced through the bridge hatch, choosing to walk the distance to his quarters instead of riding the shuttle. Who would his son be? Would he have Chrysla's beauty? Her glowing amber eyes? Would the young man look like him?

  Strapping, keen of mind? Or is he as deadly as I am—as single-minded of purpose . . . as cold and heartless?

  "Staffa? What's the matter with you?" He sighed, seeking the key to his troubled thoughts.

  Caught in his musings, he didn't notice Skyla as she walked from the gymnasium, freshly showered, pale skin still flushed with the heat of heavy exercise.

  "Everything all right?" she asked, matching his stride.

  "I was pondering serious questions."

  "Such as?"

  He took a deep breath, staring into the depths of her crystal blue eyes.

  Fragments of memories swirled in his mind. Still he hesitated.

  "Staffa, you're not yourself these days. It worries me. One minute you're sharp as a molecular edge, the next you're drowning in self-pity. You hide it very well, but I've made a habit out of studying you, learning how you think.

  I didn't make it to Wing Commander by my good looks. You want to tell me what's eating at you?"

  At his reluctance, she shook her head in frustration. "Look, if you can't talk to me, who else is there? And beside that, when you act like this, I worry about the implications it will have on the command."

  "Skyla, do you ever wonder why we're here?" He stopped before the hatch to his quarters. "Are we just accidents? Just organic moecules? Simple polypeptide strands hooked together like some intricate graphite sculpture? Where do we come from? Why do we have the shape we do? What purpose does it serve that we are born, grow, learn, struggle, sire, and finaly die? Is it only to produce the next generation' that we do so?" He palmed his hatch and gestured her inside.

  "Sure, I've wondered. I just never thought I could find the answers. That's for people like the Seddi, I guess."

  He spun around as soon as they passed the second hatch. "I Gods Rotted can't sleep anymore!" He shook his head. "I can't concentrate, can't think. All the ordered discipline in my mind . . . it's gone, turned random and chaotic. I have panic attacks for no reason. I start to sweat, can't breathe. I get dizzy and feel a pain in my chest. I suffer from bouts of clinical depression. So, yes, you're right. My ability to command is suspect."

  She stood hip-shot, watching
him soberly from beneath lowered brows. "Staffa, you've been different ever since Myklene. Sassa and Rega teeter on the brink of war. You've got to have every one of your wits about you. Pharmaceuticals can control what you're experiencing, you

  know. But it's more than that. The Praetor did something, said something, didn't he?"

  "Pragmatic to the last, Skyla?"

  "Damn right I am!" She shrugged it off and added quietly. "I know a little about physical psychology. When we get back, will you take something to keep your brain chemistry in balance? I'm worried about you, and I guess you . . . well, you're the only friend I've got."

  Where did that anxiety in her voice come from? What fed that pained expression of hers? Rotted Gods, she really did care. The thought of it left him off balance. In defense, he stared at the incongruous fireplace.

  She stood motionless, waiting.

  He rubbed nervous hands together as he turned to face her. "I ... I dream of odd things. You see, the old man picked the lock on some hidden box in my mind. Long ago I found that he'd set mental booby traps in my brain.

  Psychinstalled trip switches with hypnotic suggestions to unhinge me—to suddenly rob me of confidence or to bring sudden indecision, I found them over the years. One by one, I sorted out the subtle mental markers and deactivated them. Then on Myklene I learned the extent of the tampering he'd done to my mind. All right! I see it in your eyes. I'll drop by the psychiatric center and get a prescription."

  Skyla exhaled her relief. "I understand why you killed him."

  "Do you? What are the answers to those questions I asked in the corridor, Skyla? Is there a purpose to this life we lead? Are we doing anything but metabolizing, procreating, and surviving?"

  She stalked across the rug, arms crossed defensively. "In my life—until I joined the Companions—I had to scramble to stay alive. For me, survival was everything. Maybe it still is. I try not to worry beyond a full belly, a warm secure bed, and a whole skin. If somebody has to get shot, I do my damnedest to make sure it's the other guy. What's more important than that?"

  " don't know. Perhaps that's what I want to find out." He gave her a speculative glance. "Didn't you have someone when you were a kid ... a family?

  A mother who held you? Relatives?"

  She laughed bitterly. "Yeah! Sure! My mother was a prostitute. She died when I was four. Or was I five? I did chores for the Sylene cribs until I was twelve. That's when I was sold—despite my free status. A most noble and generous man Stryker was. Even after my life in the cribs I wasn't ready for him. He bought me, raped my virginity away, and used me like a. ... Well, never mind. Careless of him. He should never have left an energy blade within my reach. I think the death warrant they put out on me is still valid.

  "So I got to the street, and, by the Gods, I survived. I spent the days in hiding, the nights in running—anything to keep out of the clutches of the slavers and the police. That's where I learned the assassin's trade. I was young, pretty. They never believed an innocent like me could be a threat. I lived cold, hungry, and scared . . . and then I saw one of the Companions walking boldly down the main avenue."

  She smiled, her expression softening. "Oh, Staffa, how I admired that bright uniform, the way those mining pigs shuffled to get out of his way. Even the bulls—the cops— moved away and saluted." She tilted her head, the whitegold of her braided hair hanging to one side. "It was old Mac Rylee, out on the town, looking for the best whorehouse planetside, as usual."

  "I take it you conned him somehow or another?" Staffa remembered Rylee, the Companions' greatest barroom brawler.

  "Sure did. Cut his purse right off his belt and handed it back to him. Told him that whoever he was, he needed my services."

  "And he immediately tried to bed you!"

  "And never succeeded." She grinned mischievously, azure eyes shining. "As a woman looking to make her way to the top, you never bed the man whose favor you'd win. You make it by being one hundred percent better than anyone else.

  Where another man would work four hours, you work eight."

  "It paid off. You made it." He fingered one of the trophies on the wall. "I took a chance on you. I thought you had the right instinct for command. Do you have a conscience, Skyla? Do the things we've done ever haunt you? Does it bother you that so much blood is on our hands?"

  She studied him, lips pursed. "I've always accepted your goals as being legitimate. There have been times in the past when I've been unable to fathom your logic, but as things unfold I see the strategy behind it. Honestly, I can't see any other way to unite humanity than through warfare."

  "The ends justify the means in your eyes."

  "I never knew you involved yourself in questions of teleological ethics. Did some Seddi mystic get a hold of you? Is that why you've started asking questions like that?"

  He settled down on the scarlet couch. "The enigmatic Seddi." The key to the whereabouts of my son. But how do I contact them? How can I ask them—who have tried so hard to assassinate me all these years—for help?

  She straightened her legs and considered her words before speaking. "I knew one, an old man. At the time, he was running for his life, too. Gone to ground in the streets like so many of the rest of us criminal types. They wanted to kill him because he was Seddi. Authorities don't like radicals, especially if they're preaching human liberation. The bulls almost caught him once. They got a shot into him—low power. I got him away and cared for him until he died. He told me things I didn't believe. Things about how they talked to beings of light and asked questions of God himself. I remember he told me as he was bleeding to death that life was only illusion. Only now really existed— and it was all tied up with the nature of the quanta. To the Seddi, the quanta are a reflection of God's thought pervading the universe. God exists in an eternal now—and time doesn't mean anything. I thought he was raving since it wasn't an illusion that had ripped his side open. He mumbled on about the quanta, and chaos, and how they reflected God's. . . . What's wrong, Staffa?"

  He barely heard her, Skyla's words bending around his sudden images of Targa and the Seddi turmoil. I must go alone. Seek out the Seddi by myself. Any other way would be disastrous. And along the way, I can learn to deal with my new self, learn what it means to be human.

  "Staffa?" Skyla asked again, but he was already laying his plans.

  CHAPTER 7

  Skyla pushed back from her comm and tapped long fingers on the desk. She sat in her personal quarters where she'd been going through the daily reports. An unusual number of requests had been routed through her comm. By the Rotted Gods, hadn't Staffa taken care of anything?

  She scowled at the monitor, then okayed projects and reports one by one. These were Staffa's responsibilities, not her. Worry built. Mental triggers?

  Depression? Conditioned memories and improper neural pathways? What did that imply about Staffa's ability to function as the leader of the Companions?

  "He'll bring us through. He always has . . . and when he was under more stress than this." Despite her self-assurance, the nagging worry didn't subside.

  She tapped in a request for more information on a materials request from Tap Amurka and then shut down the system. Standing, she paced for several seconds before asking the room comm, "Comm, give me a security patch. Where is Staffa right now?"

  "Observation dome A-6," security replied.

  Skyla pivoted on her heel and slapped her door patch. She burned up some of the frustration as she pushed herself forward with long strides. People saw her coming, recognized the look in her eyes and slipped out of the way.

  She darted into the lift, slapped the controls, and stood with arms crossed, toe tapping as it hustled her across the complex. The keen edge of her anger was blunted by her anxious concern over Staffa's behavior. Damn it, of all the times for him to turn flaky, this wasn't it.

  Why am I so worried about him? Because I meant it that day on Chrysla when I told him he was my best friend Rot it all.

  "And you ca
n't stand to see him this way."

  She stormed into the A-6 dome to find Staffa sitting on one of the benches, staring out at the Twin Titans where they whirled around each other in a cerulean dance. The flickering of the bright light cast double shadows over the curve of the white wall behind his brooding figure.

  Silently she slipped up behind him, aware of the preoccupied expression on his face. He didn't seem to notice, attention lost in his own thoughts.

  "Staffa?"

  He looked up then, vision clearing. "Yes?"

  Skyla rubbed the back of her neck and tugged at her braid in frustration.

  "I handled the daily reports. I also checked the medical records. You haven't been by psych yet. Are you still enjoying your binge as a manicdepressive?"

  He smiled at that. "I suppose. No, I'm trying to deal with a new me. I'm learning, attempting to cope with who I'm becoming. I've been giving a lot of thought to the concepts of responsibility, trying to decide what I owe myself."

  "What?" Damn it, Staffa, what happened to the old arrogance? The eerie premonition of trouble grew within Skyla. Give him time. He'll come around.

  Don't push . . . not yet.

  "I want to know what people are like." He cocked his head, frowning. "I mean real people."

  "And the Companions are made up of illusion? Ark seemed pretty real last time I looked."

  "No, I mean people out there." He waved in the direction of Free Space. "You know that we'll end up ruling them, one day. You're smart enough to know what my final objectives are. But who are they? What are they like? You've known them. I haven't. I've lived all my life in a cocoon. On Myklene, I was chaperoned everywhere. I only dealt with the elite, the scholars, generals, Councillors, and scientists. I never had kids my own age to play with."

  "What about when the Praetor smuggled you off planet? Weren't you on your own then?"

  Staffa shrugged. "What of it? Even then I had my bodyguards—for that's all the crew was—just bodyguards to keep me out of trouble. And yes, we turned pirate for a while. Do you think I dealt with real people then? I was an armed robber, nothing more. My dealings with my victims were at gunpoint, not exactly a social gala. Even as I began collecting the Companions, I still remained aloof. What did I care about who they were so long as they could perform. One by one, I removed the Praetor's bodyguards—for obvious reasons—and replaced them with my own security. In all my life, I've never walked down a street alone."