Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  They crossed a line of sief dunes and dropped in a whirlwind of blowing sand beside a ditching crew. A hovercraft could be seen skimming in from the north, a long load of pipe dangling below it.

  "Out," Morlai muttered.

  Staffa winced as the sand burned into his raw feet. Kaylla had no such trouble; her bronzed legs and callused feet seemed inured to the terrain.

  Staffa could feel his white flesh turning red.

  "Morlai! About time." A redheaded officer walked out from under a tarp. "What took you?"

  "Picked up a new man and had a plugged sewer."

  The redhead put a hand on Moa's shoulder. "Glad you finally made it. Have your people load the bodies. Cave-in this morning. Took half an hour to bank the sand and dig them out."

  Six corpses, five men and one woman, lay bloating in the hot sun. Staffa followed Kaylla's lead as she bent to pick up the first one's feet. One by one they carried them to the aircar.

  "Must have been deep in the trench," she told him, grunting.

  "How's that?" Staffa asked, slinging the third body into the aircar.

  "If it's shallow," she told him blandly, "they blow out a pocket and bury them. If it's deep, they pull tem out to clean up the trench. Morlai will kick them overboard halfway back to town."

  "You seem unconcerned. It could be us next time." He bent to pick up the last.

  "Might," she agreed. "Incidentally, this guy we're carrying was the Maikan ambassador to Tybalt. How's that for justice?"

  Staffa looked into the sand-packed features of the man.

  A curious foreboding began to corrode his self confidence. Death came so easily among slaves.

  "Then he's one you can't blame on the Lord Commander," Staffa muttered as he followed her back to the shade of the tarp while Moriai talked to the redhead.

  She gave him a shrug. "Maybe not," she sighed, "but if I could have any wish, I'd like to see him here in this pain and heat and filth."

  Perhaps you have more of God's ear than you know, Kaylla.

  That night, looking up at the star-shot heavens, he saw a ship move into orbit and remembered Kaylla's words. The stars mocked him in the desert silence. He rolled over on the sleeping mat they'd given him and curled into a fetal ball.

  His last exhausted thoughts lingered on Skyla and how the light gleamed in her ice-blond hair.

  The ghosts, the shades of the restless dead, didn't come until later. Terror brought him bolt upright in the sand. Blinking, he looked around, skin prickling as if ten thousand eyes stared in hatred.

  Gasping in deep breaths, he realized that only Kaylla watched him, her eyes slitted where she lay in a hollowed spot several meters away.

  Pinching his eyes shut, he settled himself again. Damnation by the dead—horrid as it was—weighed less than the hatred of the living. The dead had ceased to feel.

  In the swirling midst of assaults and flanking fire, the Rebels died or fell screaming; but for the most part they ghosted away, scaling the mountain, taking bone-breaking paths down the rocks by sneaking past the Regan fire control positions and vanishing into the night. And at last, Sinklar ringed the remaining Targan core and demanded their surrender, his net drawn closed.

  Dust and smoke burned the morning sun blood red. Sinklar squinted down toward where the last of the broken Rebel force had fled, trailing wounded and dead off into the smoke-purpled shadows west of the pass. The scenic setting had been sundered. The rough country off to the west look oddly pastoral compared to the devastation

  wrought in his immediate vicinity. None of the pines remained. The brush had been scorched to ash. The rock had been scrubbed by blaster bolts and gravity disruption. The very earth had been churned.

  He pulled his flask from his hip and tipped it so the last drops of energy-rich drink dribbled onto his hot dry tongue.

  "Shiksta?" he rasped, vocal cords strained from the orders he'd bellowed during the heat of the fray.

  "Here, Sink." That brief statement carried an incredible eloquence of exhaustion and strain and drained emotion.

  "Did you get Kaspa? Did you raise headquarters?" Sinklar settled himself on a blaster-cracked rock, hardly aware of the heat radiating into his battle armor. Below him, Gretta followed her people as they combed the rocks for wounded or stunned Rebels. The blasters occasionally crackled in the still dusty air. Or, on rarer occasions, some dazed Rebel got prodded to his feet to be sent staggering under guard toward the perimeter to join the two hundred and some captives.

  "Got them Sink. Somebody's confused. I can't get Division first Atkin. They keep wanting to transfer me to Second Division instead."

  "Rot them all! We've got wounded to evacuate! Sinklar shouted into the morning air. "We've got over two hundred prisoners!"

  "I know that, sir. I told them. They said they'd send a couple of LCs out."

  Shiksta's voice had gone dull, too tired to care if his sergeant raged at him.

  "A couple of LCs?" Sink's anger deflated into despair. He dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his gritty grime-smudged face. A couple of silly LCs? He needed a thrice-cursed squad! How long since he'd slept? His belly thundered with hunger. His head hammered with a sudden ache behind his swollen eyes.

  He must have dozed because Gretta's hand on his shoulder brought him wide awake, blinking and starting in the bright morning light.

  "You all right?" she asked as she took his hands in hers. Her blue eyes looked pale and haggard in the sunlight.

  He nodded numbly. "Tired."

  "LCs are here. Mac put the wounded on the first and loaded a batch of prisoners on the second. They called for more to complete the evacuation." Her expression soured. "They want you in Kaspa—soonest."

  He sighed, wondering if the odor of smoke and death would leave a permanent taste in his mouth. On a sudden impulse he asked, "Want a chance at a hot bath, clean armor, and maybe a night on a real sleeping platform?"

  "Thought you'd never ask!"

  They slept during the flight into Kaspa.

  Sink supervised the unloading of the wounded before he and Gretta stepped out into the bright Kaspan sunlight. The LC had set them down in front of the same hospital Sinklar had stepped out of, how long ago? Could it truly have been only a matter of weeks?

  Gretta came to stand beside him, and only then did he realize she was weaving on her feet. Her brown hair looked ratty and disheveled. Her armor had been smudged and scorched. In places the ablative material flaked off like scale.

  When she looked at him, her features were haggard, those marvelous blue eyes eclipsed with red.

  Two corporals approached at a trot. "Sergeant Fist?" one chirped, snapping a salute. "Would you accompany us, sir?"

  "Can I clean up?" he asked, looking down at his charcoal-and-blood streaked armor. The stuff had stiffened into an unforgiving hull from relentless impacts. His stink of sweat, gore, and fire stung even his own inured nose.

  "I'm sorry, sir. First Mykroffs orders, sir," the corporal added stiffly.

  "Mykroft? What's he got to do with this? Atkin's my—"

  "Division First Atkin is dead, sir. Has been for over a week." The corporal's black eyes narrowed skeptically.

  "Why didn't anyone tell us?" Sinklar wondered. No wonder we couldn't get supplies, couldn't get our wounded evacuated. Somebody's gonna pay for that.

  "All right, let's go," Sinklar grunted, keeping his fuming anger banked. Atkin dead a week? With no replacement? What sort of political tail-chasing was going on anyway?

  "I'll find a place for us," Gretta promised as they said good-bye.

  Sinklar followed his escort across the compound. When he entered the main building, noncoms stopped and gawked at his battered uniform and hard eyes before whispering behind their hands. News of the fight must have already rippled through the superstructure. But then, considering their isolation, he might have just fought a minor skirmish compared to what was happening around the rest of the planet.

  They stopped outside a plush top-
floor office and Sinklar heard his name announced. A Staff Fourth appeared at the door and took his salute with a

  "This way, Sergeant" and a motion.

  He followed the man across thick pile carpet to an inner door and past a corps of secretaries bent over their comm sets. An ornate door opened into the inner sanctum. Sink stepped into a grandly furnished room the likes of which he'd never seen.

  Second Targan Assault Division First Mykroft waved off Sink's nervous salute.

  Mykroft had a dapper build, his frame slight and bony despite the padded uniform. Thinfaced, with pursed lips, he stood stiffly, long nose quivering, eyes hostile. He wore a trimmed mustache and his face— despite medical regeneration treatment—was beginning to show age. That made him old, perhaps two hundred?

  "Sergeant Fist," Mykroft greeted, unwilling to shake hands. Battlefields were dirty places at best. And I'd soil the First's manicured hands.

  "Yes, sir." Sinklar kept himself at attention, eyes forward. An uneasy fear built to dwarf last night's. Rotted Gods, he was tired. He tried to keep from swaying on his feet.

  "Drink?" Mykroft asked.

  "No, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm afraid it would put me to sleep on my feet, sir."

  The corner of Mykroft's mouth twitched as if he fought a smile. "A cup of stassa then?"

  "That would be fine, sir." Sinklar let his eyes wander ever so slightly so he could catalog the room. Very nice! From the pictures on the wall, it had been a mining company headquarters once. Now he knew how a First lived— offices, all plush and gleaming metal, the windows overlooking the mountains to the west. Sinklar noted the column of smoke rising in the peaks to the west. With a shock, he realized it marked his battlefield.

  "Yes," Mykroft observed as he handed him the stassa.

  "We watched last night. Considering the distance, you made a remarkable display."

  "It was impressive up close, too, I assure you," Sinklar said flippantly.

  Rotted Gods! I am tired. Watch your mouth, Sink. This is a spider's web.

  I don't understand Mykroft's kind of politics. He took a deep breath, steeling himself.

  First Mykroft laughed and settled himself on the corner of his desk. "At ease, Sergeant. This isn't any sort of a disciplinary meeting or inquest. So speak your mind freely."

  Freely? I'm no fool First Mykroft. What's your motive? Why am I here?

  Sinklar studied the First, knowing his bloodshot eyes and soot-blackened face must give his features a macabre look.

  "With your permission, sir, what happened to First Atkin?"

  "He was assassinated Sergeant. It happened in the middle of the night. Both Atkin and Second Nytan were brutally murdered—knifed in their sleep. Nytan's aide slept through the whole thing. It was done silently, effectively. We've only a vague clue as to who the assailants were. A dark-skinned man and a woman with yellow eyes."

  Mykroft walked to the window, fingering his chin. "You can understand why we didn't make much of the news. The Targans, of course, attempted to demoralize our troops. And the intelligence information stolen by the assassins led directly to the attacks which decimated Third and fifth Sections—and to the attack which you seem to have repulsed so admirably last night."

  He turned, piercing eyes on Sinklar's. "Tell me Sergeant, how did you manage?

  From the latest figures, you took two hundred and thirty-seven captives, killed another three hundred and sixty Targans . . . and lost how many men?"

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Taking a deep breath, Sinklar supplied, "We have sixtythree wounded and twenty-one dead, sir." It made him wince, almost half his force.

  Mykroft nodded thoughtfully. "Orbital reconnaissance is studying the fleeing groups of Rebels now. They seem completely dispirited. I must say, Sergeant, you have achieved a most amazing victory."

  "Thank you, sir." Sinklar sipped the stassa, feeling its warmth stealing through his body, perking up his nerves. "We used topography to our benefit."

  "Your troops did very well, Sergeant. They were green two weeks ago." A pause.

  "Luck?"

  "No, sir. Two weeks of constant combat does have a certain steadying effect, sir. We also ran training seminars during the day whenever we felt we had a modicum of security. It was my. . . . Well, I must admit, sir, we made it up as we went."

  Mykroft pursed his lips, trimmed mustache sticking out at an odd angle. "I see. Not exactly in the manual is it?"

  "No, sir."

  "But results do speak for themselves," Mykroft added, a thin eyebrow arching.

  "If you say so, sir."

  Mykroft studied him through slitted eyes. "At this juncture, let me tell you we have received most unusual orders, Sergeant Fist. I have been given the discretion—by the Emperor himself—to pick the successor to command the First Targan Assault Division. It is a token of the Imperial Seventh's concern that he is taking extraordinary measures such as these. He wants a man promoted from the ranks. Do you understand the. ramifications of such an appointment?"

  Sinklar blinked, breath catching in his throat. "Rotted Gods, sir, half the command structure would feel themselves slighted!"

  Mykroft nodded and poured himself a snifter of Myklenian brandy. "You are indeed as perceptive as your personnel file suggests, Sergeant. I can see that a major mistake was made when University declined your admittance and the Minister of Defense opted to simply draft you as a private rather than training you to be an officer. Perhaps we can remedy that situation."

  "Sir?" The implications blew coolly through his mind. All my goals, simply dropped into my hand like a gift? Beware, this is more than it seems. Where is the trap? How am I to be sacrificed?

  Mykroft settled on the corner of the Vermiion blackwood desk and sipped his brandy. "Sergeant, know that I myself do not approve. I believe in the chain of command rising within the traditions of the service. Continuity is maintained that way."

  "Yes, sir."

  "But I don't have any choice." Mykroft's disgust invaded his voice. "The Emperor, in his wisdom, and for his own reasons, has adopted this plan of promotion. It will turn most of the command structure on its ear. Jealousies will rage. Every sort of back-stabbing, accusation, and recrimination will result," he waved his irritation, "and I'm not sure the Empire can afford that at the moment."

  Sinklar's fingers tightened on the stassa cup.

  Mykroft read his reaction and allowed himself a cynical smile. "And who, among the command grade officers in the First Targan Assault Division would you recommend for that command, Sergeant Fist?"

  Careful! This must be done very delicately.

  Sinklar took a deep breath and set the cup on the desk. He moved his tongue to dampen his suddenly dry mouth, exhaled, and nodded. "First Mykroft, I am not in a position to judge my counterparts for either command competence or political ability. I can't make an evaluation, and, therefore, must abstain from offering advice."

  "Very good Sergeant." Mykroft's eyes narrowed as he thought for a minute and sipped his brandy. "You know, for your considerable youth and ineperience, Sinklar, you would make a formidable adversary given a couple of decades of involvement in this business. You have a natural acumen."

  Sinklar said nothing.

  Mykroft cocked his head. "If I had any doubt before, Sergeant, I think it just vanished." He stood and paced across the deeply piled rug, dark gaze rising to Sinklar's. "I hope you understand my reservations concerning this. I don't have to like it, but I will obey orders." His voice lowered menacingly, "And I suggest, Sinklar Fist, that you remember who put you in this position. I would not like to be the one to cut you off at the knees and destroy you. It would reflect on my judgment. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Mykroft studied him hostilely, moving his head in slow assent. "See that you do Division First."

  Gretta had rented a small room in one of the barracks reserved for personnel in transit. The room consisted of a sleeping platform, toilet and shower, comm terminal and sm
all work desk. Despite being baffled by the sudden change in his status, Sinklar had fallen asleep halfway through his description of the meeting with Mykroft.

  When Gretta stirred, he jerked awake, half expecting battle to be raging around him. Only when he realized he was safely in the Kaspan barracks, did he slump back onto the platform and sigh.

  "I don't understand it," Gretta told him as she stretched lithely on the sleeping platform. "It's all too fast—too unbelievable."

  Sinklar blinked to clear his eyes. The dim glow through the window meant night had fallen. He looked at his chronometer and yawned. Two hours to the reception ceremonies.

  "Way too fast," he agreed. "No, I'm being placed in the middle of a political maelstrom for some reason known only to the Emperor. But, by the Rotted Gods, what are they doing? And why? It's a prescription for disaster on Targa."

  She ran light fingers down his scarred arm, eyes pensive. "So what are you going to do about it?"

  "Love you . . . and do my best."

  "We still have two hours," she told him, bending forward to kiss his shoulder.

  "We were both so exhausted we just came in here and collapsed. There's time to see what love on a platform is like."

  He nodded and pulled her close, lips meeting hers passionately.

  When they finally lay spent, he let his fingers trace the curve of her breast while his mind attacked the problem of his promotion. Three months ago, he'd been a scared private making his first combat drop. Now, all of a sudden, the Emperor had catapulted him to command of the First Targan Assault Division.

  Only the Minister of Defense and Tybalt had authority over him. And what did he do with Mykroft, who might back him to the hilt or cut his throat depending on which way events turned?

  "I have a war to win while I stand with one foot on melting ice and the other in vacuum. By Blessed Etarus, it doesn't make any sense." He slammed a fist into the platform.

  Gretta hugged him close. "I doubt any other man in the Empire could handle that dilemma as well."

  Sinklar smiled his thanks and struggled to recall historically similar circumstances.