Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  She palmed the latch and stormed into her rooms with a boiling anger stewing in her heart. As the door snicked shut behind her, she allowed the other thoughts, the unthinkable ones, to surface. What if one of the assassins had finally gotten him? What if somehow, some way, someone had penetrated his security and. . . . Rotted Gods, no! Her anger ebbed to be replaced by a fear she hadn't experienced in years.

  She took a deep breath and held it, counting slowly until her racing pulse slowed. She unsnapped the helmet collar and ran her fingers along the sharp-angled jewels to release the suit. She peeled out of the lower half and glared at a pink welt of scar tissue running jaggedly down her leg. The healed wound had finally begun to lose the reddish tinge. Close call, that one.

  To cover a budding fear, she forced herself to inspect her body in the reflective surface of her suit rack. Not bad for thirty-five years of war and mayhem—and not a little battle damage in the process. True, some of the more damaging scars had been surgicaly corrected. And she kept herself fit—as if Staffa's Wing Commander could conduct herself otherwise.

  Staff a. Where in hell are you? She moved to the comm and tried his quarters again. Worry fermented. "Damn you, Staffa. What are you doing? If this is another of your training drills. ..."

  She dropped on the sleeping platform and laced her long legs into a lotus position. Back straight, she closed her eyes and slowly reviewed each conversation she'd had with him. Her unrest grew as she remembered his preoccupied expressions; the underlying tension in his body and posture; and the dissatisfaction in his voice.

  The Praetor. It all goes back to that damned hospital room. Staffa, you can't see it because it's all in your mind. You think you're acting normally, but your thought processes are all screwed up.

  She placed those thoughts to one side, called for a computer access. She scanned the medical records and cursed. She made another patch through.

  "Psychology department, Andray here."

  "Has the Lord Commander been in, Andray? Has he taken any of the prescriptions we talked about?"

  "Negative, Wing Commander."

  She cut the connection, patched through to security, and traced Staffa's every movement since she'd seen him last. She split the screen and noted each instance where Staffa had come in contact with people, asking for an update and security clearance for those personnel present. Two hours later, she'd drawn a negative. She had traced his path up to the time the Ashtan CV had left from a pharmaceutical supply drop. Thereafter, no one had seen him. He hadn't accessed comm.

  Could he have been abducted on the CV? She called up the records and watched the security files. Not once did the pilot leave the craft. Prom each of the cameras she watched the entire drop, never seeing the slightest impropriety, not even a hint of breached security.

  Besides, unless they knocked him cold, not even a group of men could take the Lord Commander without a considerable disturbance. That gray combat armor could absorb a small blast. Only his head would have been vulnerable to a dart or gas.

  Next she cataloged the arrival of the Sassan delegation with the same attention to detail. She even went so far as to monitor their conversations in the executive quarters she'd provided. The Legate, Myles Roma, talked nervously about Staffa's failure to meet him. She sneered when the Legate began talking about her, and shut it off when he got to the graphic details.

  "Terguzzian maggot," she whispered. Unbidden, her mind formed an image of Staffa, gray eyes clear, body spare and lean. She remembered the intelligence in his eyes, the slight quivers at the corners of his mouth as he hid his humor from the others. Curiously, she recalled the way his face had looked when she had awak&ned in the hospital unit that last time. Idly she rubbed slim fingers across her palm. It came to her suddenly that he'd had his armored gloves off. His skin had been pressed against hers. How warm it had been.

  She growled to kill the sensations the thought roused.

  A wry smile curled her lips. Staffa—no matter how perplexing—was at least a man! Rotted Gods, am I going to have to pander to that Sassan pollution for long? If he tries to touch me, I'll break his maggot-eating neck.

  "Get your thrice-cursed ass back here, Staffa!"

  The Praetor ... the Praetor ... it all started with the Praetor. She stood and walked to her kit. The plastic cartridge felt cool as she pulled it from the bag. Turning, she walked to the dispenser where she drew a bulb of Myklene amber ale. She tapped the cartridge against her hip as she settled on the bed and cupped the ale. As she drank, she studied the gray plastic record chip in silence.

  An hour later she continued to stare at the enigmatic cartridge. "If he hasn't shown up by this time tomorrow," she promised. She adjusted the gravity on the sleeping platform and ordered the light out.

  Skyla stared into the darkness, rethinking each of the potential explanations for Staff a's disappearance. Aware of the tape, she realied her fingers were tapping anxiously against the fabric. Efforts at sleep proved fruitless, images of Staff a in danger drifted out of her subconscious. A deadly foreboding rose from the primitive depths of her mind: visions of Staffa dead, his gray eyes popped from his head, blood spiraling, crystallized in decompressed corridors. . . .

  "Rot it all!" She sat up, the lights brightening at her movement. "Fantasies of the mind, Skyla. You're batty as a ring-nosed teenager!" Angered at her irresolution, she took the cartridge and slipped it into the comm. Her finger hovered over the button that would run the tape.

  Before she could act, a voice from comm startled her. "Wing Commander Lyma?

  This is Comm Central."

  "Thank God, you've found Staffa? Is he all right?"

  "No, ma'am. We still haven't located the Lord Commander. We've just received communications from the security monitor beacons, ma'am. A Regan Imperial cruiser has emerged from light jump and is decelerating. They are asking for docking permission. They report they bear an official envoy from Tybalt the Imperial Seventh, and request an audience with the Lord Commander at his convenience."

  "Holy Rotted Gods," she sighed wearily. "First the Sassans and now Rega." Her fingers knotted as she considered the ramifications. "Very well. Grant them permission. Let's see. . . . Put them in at dock 16-A. That should couple with their lock design. Have staff make a blood-and-thunder preparation of the quarters—as far as you can get them from the Sassans. By the Etarian heretics, I hope they don't murder each other. If you can find any of the Companions still sober, we need another honor guard—and detail some of them to patrol the guest quarters. I don't want any trouble from either Sassa or Rega—and they'll have plenty of spies with them."

  "We're on it Wing Commander. We'll keep in touch."

  "Never mind. I'm getting dressed. I'll be right down."

  She slipped into the jeweled armor again, pulling the tight cloth over her legs and sealing it. Her worries about Staffa built. The two empires had reacted faster than even she had suspected. Both sides, reeling from internal strife, were anxious—unprepared though they might be—to plunge into a cataclysmic final confrontation.

  A cold chill settled in her spine. She closed her eyes, biting her lip.

  Snapping the epaulet that held her braid in place on her shoulder, she straightened. With all space about to come loose, what would they pay for Staffa's loyalty—or his death?

  As she palmed the door latch she demanded of the empty air, "Damn you, Staffa, where are you?

  Ily Takka luxuriated in the bubbling hot water of the bath. The decadent opulence of Itreata had taken her by complete surprise. She'd expected some Spartan asteroid base with minimal gravity, slightly unbalanced miners bouncing off the walls, and hydroponic yeast cakes for food. Itreata, it turned out, had been built in a planetoid, a rogue moon—with 0.8 gravities and all the amenities of Rega—if not more.

  Dy had more or less expected the presence of the Sassan envoy. That they had arrived first constituted a minor annoyance—but nothing more. That Staffa had failed to meet her at the dock, however, caused
her unease. A clever move on his part, no doubt, which would be explained soon enough.

  She swirled the water, letting her long black hair cover her breasts like an ebony mantelet. It amused her that her attendants—all male—suffered between their desire to stare and their fear of who and what she was. She got distinct pleasure from their discomfort and wondered if Staffa were watching.

  On that odd chance, she purposely adopted a position meant to entice. Saucily, she moved through the water, displaying her perfect body, allowing her hair to wrap around her in a sensuous mist.

  She ran the reception through her mind. Not badly done for having been called to order so quickly. The Companions had been truly impressive with their scars and their hard-eyed gazes. One or two had been weaving on their feet. More than one had openly stared, allowing admiration to slip through their warrior's glare. All in all, it had affected her more than if they'd all been letter perfect. These were men—fighters first, not parade ground martinets—and they made no bones about it.

  Ily shifted and stood up, allowing the water to drain off her as she threw her head back and filled her lungs. And what, pray tell, was the relationship between Wing Commander Lyma and Staffa kar Therma? Lovers? If so, Skyla would be a potential rival.

  Ily stepped from the bath and into the fresher, enjoying the sensations of warm air on her skin. Dry, she allowed her men to dress her, almost laughing aloud. They fumbled over her, trying to do the job without touching her sacrosanct flesh. Using their confusion and orchestrated mistimings, she watched their expressions turn ghastly as their hands accidentally brushed her. Each drew back as if her flesh were fire; a tiny sadism she delighted in.

  Her meeting with Skyla Lyma had been brief but disconcerting. She'd met that bow and looked into those of icy crystal blue eyes. This Skyla Lyma was no hot-squeezing bed fluff. Rather, Ily felt she had met a worthy opponent. Lyma had met her gaze with an equally measuring one that controlled and challenged; and that, Ily decided, could have an effect on the way she manipulated the Lord Commander. If the blonde wench were his lover as well as his military confidante, Ily's plans would have to be adjusted accordingly.

  A subte tension had radiated from Skyla Lyma. Ily paused, finger on chin, brow creased. The Wing Commander had been unsettled—and not just by an unexpected visit from Rega. The very air in the station rippled with unease—with suspense. Coupled with the fact that Staffa had not come to greet her, that bespoke trouble of some kind. Among the troops? No, the Companions had stood easily and unconcerned. Rather, it had been among the officers and administrators. A political problem? And the Sassans had just arrived? Divided loyalties among the upper echelons perhaps? Some wishing to go Sassan—some siding with Rega?

  Ily Takka's perfect mouth flickered momentarily in a satisfied smile. Trouble meant leverage to a woman with her skills. Leverage meant advantage could be taken. Power may be up for grabs here—and I will-have it!

  No, things in the Itreatic Asteroids were not going to go as smoothly as she and Tybalt had hoped. Of course, if the Wing Commander proved as formidable as she appeared, a drop of thrakis would solve that. Thrakis was a rare poison, and dreadfully expensive, but it left no traces which an autopsy could detect.

  Bruen walked out among the trees, his steps crunching the long pine needles underfoot. The wind whispered among the branches overhead and he filled his nostrils with the vanilla scent of the pine-laden air. As he had hoped, Arta Fera stepped into view on the trail. She wore a loose black dress that didn't hide the charms of her young body. The leather belt at her waist held a olstered pistol— required dress for all Seddi now that revolt swept Targa.

  Shadows dappled her fine features and the sunlight that filtered through the pines gleamed in her chestnut hair.

  Bruen stopped and rubbed a frail hand over his aching hip as he stared up through the green limbs to the little patches of sky. How pleasant the day had turned out. He caught Arta's shy greeting smile and turned to walk with her in silence until they entered a grassy meadow.

  All in all, she'd been progressing beyond expectations. In the last five standard years, she'd had an entire education inserted in her fertile brain.

  Each day, she spent four hours under a brain cap, taking direct information from the Mag Comm. And what else has the machine implanted? What errifying secret might it have left triggered to a word or action?

  Bruen had carefully reviewed each of her lessons from the tape. But, of course, he had no guarantee the Mag Comm didn't hold something back.

  "You look pensive, dear girl." Bruen tried to stretch a friendly smile over his age-battered features as he caught the anxiety in her expression.

  She pushed her red-brown hair back when the breeze teased it. "How do I tell you what I think, Magister? I don't know myself. I ... I'm confused. From the time I was a child. . . . Well, they taught me to dedicate myself to the Blessed Gods. Now you tell me I am to be an assassin? It's . . . it's just inconceivable. If I didn't know you and trust your wisdom so, I'd. ..." She shook her head, mouth tight with frustration.

  He nodded as he glanced up at the fluffy white clouds that drifted over the ridge-broken western horizon. "Why did the Etarians have you scrubbing the floors, dear girl? You're much too precious for that. It's a poor use for pulchritude at best."

  Arta blushed and looked down; her fingers caressed the cool black fabric of her dress. "I was under penalty for unseemly behavior, Magister. I—I raised my voice when the High Priest turned my initiation down in favor of another."

  How far can I push her? Is she ready for the next step?

  He cackled angrily. "Hah! Etarians! And a good thing it was too, dearest.

  Don't you know they auction the girls for their 'initiation'? It's a gang rape, you know."

  "Magister! It is not! It's the Blessing of the Service ritual!" She puffed in exasperation. "We all looked forward to the consecration of our bodies to the service of the Blessed Gods!"

  "They auction you children off to the highest bidder," he corrected, voice tart. "It so happens your consecration coincided with the arrival of a Sassan Vicar. He liked darkskinned girls with more, um, more ample bodies than yours.

  The Blessed High Priest knew that if he'd auctioned you, he'd take a loss over what they could get on a more marketable piece of meat."

  "You make it sound like . . . like whoremongering! You're blaspheming the Sacred Rites! It's a lie!"

  "Whoremongering? I couldn't have said it better." He observed the sudden change in her eyes.

  "You don't know! We serve the Goddess. What better way than by bringing pleasure to a man?"

  "For a price, dear Arta, for a price. Isn't that what whores do? Wrapping it up in the silken gauze of religion is nothing more than—"

  "Damn you, Bruen! Shut your lying mouth!" Her eyes glazed in amber fury and her face twisted.

  Yes, she is ready. I can do no more with her. The time has come to send her to Butla. Oh, Bruen, you doddering senile fool, you will miss her, too. You're too old for revolution.

  Bmen pointed down to the pulse pistol that had centered on his belly, safety off. Color washed from her face, her mouth dropping open. The pistol, so rock-steady before, began to tremble before it fell clattering from er lifeless fingers.

  "Call it what you will," he said, humbly, picking the weapon up and clicking the safety on before handing it back to her. "Not only would you raise your voice to the High Priest, you would have clawed the fat girl's eyes out."

  The anger still smoldered, though tempered by shame. "Normally, Magister, I don't lose my temper like that."

  "Oh?" A withered eyebrow went up. "Remember the day I told you you would make an excellent assassin? Itreatic teaching machines are very expensive . . . and extremely difficult to obtain, I might add. I most vehementy obect to you smashing such precious computers against large rocks. I believe it was a previously established fact that rock is more durable than n-dimensional superconductor. Fydor has tried valiantly to save bits and piec
es, but he says the gallium arsenide chips are hopelessly fractured."

  Her shouders fell along with her gaze. "I'm sorry. I ... Oh, Rotted Gods, nothing, forget it! Wy am I so confused? What's happening to me?"

  He chuckled gently and lifted her chin with a fragile finger. "It is that temper, dearest, which is your strength."

  And it is that temper we have worked so hard to channel and dam in that beautiful mind of yours. Still, quantum func tions affect the mind. An unlucky random event, and the carefully set trigger could snap, initiating a catastrophic explosion. I must watch myself more closely. She is so very sensitive to sexual stimuli.

  His arm around her shoulder, he led her to an unevenly canted bench under a sweeping Ponderosa branch. "Here, sit. Let's talk about assassination and death."

  She pulled her long legs up under her robe. "I'm not even sure I could come right out and kill a person. I've never even killed a. . . ."

  "But I have, haven't I?" He glanced away, taking a deep breath. "You've learned all we can teach you here.

  We're sending you to someone who can give you what we can't."

  "Sending me away?"

  He smiled to still her sudden panic. "He's the best, Arta. The time has come for you to learn from a master."

  She closed her eyes. "Why, Magister? Why me? What makes you think I'll be an assassin?"

  "Because it's your talent. You know the goals of the Seddi. You know how the universe works. The dance of the quanta are the reflection of God's thoughts—neither good nor evil. Those concepts are the creation of the human mind. To improve the lot of humanity, we must act to replace the tyrants who oppress the human condition with those who would nurture it and stop the suffering. Assassination is but one of the ways to achieve that end. More than once, you've asserted your desire to help us free humanity from the tyrants.

  Do you wish to renounce your vows? You can, you know. Simply tell me."

  She shook her head. "No. I've studied the history too well. I know what's happened in the last two centuries."