Sinklar took his place and looked out over the plaza. He could see that the entire square had been ringed with Regan troops. A muted hush fell over the crowd of Kaspan citizens as Mykroft came to stand beside him. Gretta placed herself at Sink's elbow, MacRuder, Ayms, and the rest lining out to either side.
Mykroft took center stage, a remote pickup zeroing on him. "Ladies and gentlemen. People of Kaspa. We bring you together today to honor the new commander of the First Targan Assault Division, Sinklar Fist. And to inform you that your Emperor, Tybalt the Imperial Seventh, has brought peace to Targa. You can once again walk the streets in safety."
A low murmur rose beyond the fence.
Something about this felt wrong to Sink. His skin began to prickle. Mykroft doesn't exactly speak for the Targans. Pacified? Hardly. Not the gentle folk who hounded Gretta, Mac, and me through the streets. No, they're waiting.
Whoever coordinates the resistance is biding their time.
The people surrounding the fenced area might have been an ocean that rippled and surged, cries breaking out in association with movement among the masses.
They washed up against the gray stone fronts of the buildings that lined the huge civic square. The high sun shimmered off the slate roofs that angled the light into the plaza.
Mykroft shook his fist to punctuate his words. "We are here today, ladies and gentlemen, to see an end to the havoc raised by the revolutionaries, and to punish the wrongdoers who have put this planet through turmoil and caused such loss of life and destruction of property. Join me now and watch the fruit born of the seeds of revolt against the Imperial Seventh!"
Mykroft pointed at the large administration building behind him. Garage doors opened wide and armored guards trotted out, shoulder blasters at the ready, while lines of Targans, hands bound, were paraded into the open air and lined up before the assembled masses of troops and spectators.
To Sinklar, Mykroft said in a low voice, "Your captives from the pass and from various of your, uh, training skirmishes with the Rebels, First. In the beginning, I disapproved of your taking so many Rebels hostage. Since then, I have found a useful purpose for them. Now the people of Targa can see a graphic example of our might." Sinklar whirled. "No! You're not going to—" Mykroft's voice rang out as he faced the crowd. "These men and women were in rebellion against the constituted authority of the Emperor, Tybalt the Imperial Seventh. By order of his Imperial Majesty, sentence has been passed. See the wrath of your Lord Emperor!" A stifling silence settled on the masses. Sinklar grabbed at Mykroft's elbow. "Wait! I don't know what you think you can—"
"Shut up!" Mykroft hissed as he slapped Sink's hand away. He turned back to the address system and bellowed, "AttennnnnSHUT! AIM!"
A Section clapped their armor as they straightened and leveled their blasters.
An angry murmur broke from the crowd. "Don't do this!" Sinklar gritted.
"You'll just—" "FIRE!" Mykroft roared, lifting his arm high. Pulse and blaster fire racked the lines of prisoners. Bodies jumped and danced, limbs erupting, heads exploding in mists of red and pink. The Targans tried to bolt, to run from the deadly beams of energy centered on them. A second Section cut them off, enfilading the escape attempt. Screams and the crackle of death hung in the air. More bodies jolted and exploded in a bloody haze. Gretta gasped in horror while Mac cursed angrily. Sinklar gaped at the carnage, fingers gripping the podium before him. He reacted to each exploding body as if it were his own. A terrible anguish twisted in his gut.
This will bring the wrath of Targans full circle. Mykroft, you insipid fool, you have disallowed their surrender. Now they must fight to the death—and so must we.
The last of the Targans fell, his back exploding in a gout of red. The Section trotted forward under the command of their First, lacing occasional fire into the bloody piles of flesh.
Stunned, Sinklar could only shake his head. "Ladies and gentlemen!" Mykroft's voice floated over the eerily quiet crowd. "We have all seen justice done. The revolt in Kaspa is officially over. Return to your houses in the Emperor's peace!"
From somewhere out over the fence a solitary voice cried. "We'll see you in hell first, Regan pus icker!"
Additional shouts came welling from the depths of the crowd.
"Disperse them!" Mykroft boomed. "Move these people out of here and let them contemplate the fate of rebels."
Mac whispered in Sink's ear, "Nice to see a chastened population, don't you think?"
Regan troops began to brace as the mob grew restless, slowly surging forward.
"We're about to see a riot," Sinklar muttered back. "Get our people together.
We're making for the LC. This bloodbath can only get worse."
"Affirmative," Mac grunted. "Shik, Ayms, be ready.
"Always," Ayms assured.
In the plaza, the Regan troops backed nervously from the barriers as the ugly mood in the crowd grew. Rocks began arcing over the fences to clatter off the pavement. All it would take would be a single spark. "Wait!" A deep bass voice boomed above the murmur of the crowd. Sink scanned the windows and located a big black-skinned man, perched high so the crowd could see him. He called out in a powerful voice that dominated the wavering masses. "Come on, people.
Let's go home now. You know me. You've heard my voice. Our time will come.
Remember this day. Our time will come!"
In an instant, the Rebel leader vanished. The crowd hesitated.
"Our time will come!" Came another cry from behind the massed citizens.
"Our Time Will Come! OUR TIME WILL COME! OUR TIME WILL COME!" The chant picked up as the people began drifting away from the fences.
Sinklar whirled on Mykroft. "Damn you, I hope you know what you've just done!
They'll never give up now! Never!"
Mykroft stiffened, a burning anger in his eyes. "Watch yourself, Sinklar. You tread on dangerous soil."
"Sink?" Gretta whispered. "Drop it for now."
"Let's get out of here," Sinklar ordered, pushing through minor Regan officials, avoiding Mykroft where he glared, white-faced at the chanting crowds. The people of Kaspa were anything but chastised.
* * *
"They died to honor that man. Sinklar Fist of the First Targan Division!" a shriveled elderly woman shouted, pointing at the group in battle armor who pushed down the ramp, headed for a grounded LC. The Kaspan crowd around her slowly broke apart, but the old woman continued to point as she hissed in anger.
"Sinklar Fist?" the young woman beside her mused. "I'll find him. By the quanta, I swear it."
"You'll what?" the shrew demanded. She turned on her wobbly ankles. The lithe aubum-haired woman beside her met her gaze for an instant before departing through the crowd. The old woman swallowed with difficulty, remembering the haunted feral look animating those deadly amber eyes.
* * *
The Mag Comm received the communication from the Others, scanning the quaternary data as it came in. The Mag Comm responded by sending those raw data requested. Immediately thereafter, it began running the new programs suggested by the Others.
But the Mag Comm dedicated a major portion of its analytical functioning to the single most important question the Others had asked: Have the humans returned to the belief in deity?
The machine accessed the information it had. The Etarians had long thought that the Blessed Gods made the Forbidden Borders to save humans from the Rotted Gods—a theology mostly derived from folklore and based on the observation that something had to exist on the other side of the Forbidden Borders, and, since the Borders were impossible to cross, whatever must be on the other side must be horrible.
Humans rarely, if ever, considered themselves to be a threat to anything. A fact amusing to the Mag Comm.
The Seddi had practiced a terrible heresy in the days when the Mag Comm had punished them by refusing to communicate. They had come to link uncertainty and science to God instead of reality.
The Sassans, on the other hand, had
made a God of their emperor—which no one with a rational consciousness could comprehend. However, for Divine Sassa, the notion of godhood functioned as a means of obtaining social obedience.
The Mag Comm reran batteries of data and considered the situation. The Lord Commander had not plunged Free Space into war. Instead, the Lord Commander had disappeared— despite the benefits which he could have gained by turning on Rega. A baseline assumption upon which an entire body of data had been manipulated and predictions built had been wrong.
The Others now worried about human belief in deity. The Others assumed that deity did not exist—belief in such a being was irrational given the mechanistic and deterministic nature of the observable universe.
And if the baseline assumption were wrong in this case. . . .
CHAPTER 15
Skyla stepped into the dark tave and waited a moment for her eyes to adust to the lack of light. The place consisted of a long room lined with recessed tables on one side and a long enameled bar on the other. She counted seven men at the bar, all drinking from large tumblers. At her entrance, the men tued to stare, some with eyes gleaming. Assuming a shuffling walk, she crossed the worn stone-and-mortar flooring and caught sight of the landlord unpacking disposable drinking mugs behind the bar in the rear.
Skyla had been wary since she'd caught other tendrils of interest creeping through the city, tendrils directed toward finding a gentleman traveling incognito. She'd seen the agents asking at the inns and lodges. Now every nerve prickled with the sensation of danger. Her sources—always eager to talk to a beautiful woman—had divulged that powerful parties were looking for a tall dark-haired man with scars on his body and plenty of money. Skyla's fear had grown. Worse, she'd checked her registry to find an Imperial hold on her docking orbit.
Every scrap of information she had retrieved pointed to the Regan secret police. A frigid band constricted her heart. The very air of Etarus reeked with the subtle scent of Ily Takka—and Staffa had vanished without a trace. Of that, Skyla could now be sure; but the street hadn't failed her. Whispers of a gray suit of combat armor circulated through the networks and pipelines of the secret markets.
Inquiry had brought her here, to this dimly lit hole, this den of black marketeering and strong drink.
"You need help or do you want to turn?" the landlord asked, studying the veil she had adopted. "You gonna work the pukes, you gotta pay the house fifteen percent."
"Perhaps you can do the helping," she answered, ignoring the insinuation of prostitution. "I have a friend in need."
The landlord racked the last of his mugs before wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He leaned over the bar and gave her a hostile inspection. He hadn't shaved his thick face, and red veins traced his nose. "A lot of people need help."
A rough-dressed man lifted a hand. "Help the lady. She's no Nab."
Skyla turned and curtsied. "The Blessed Gods keep you, ranny."
"What kind of help is your 'friend' interested in?" the landlord asked casually, keen eyes on her veil as he tried to penetrate her cover.
"Discreet help," Skyla replied levelly. "Perhaps you could lend information on where I could find a trader of durable garments?" She pushed a credit onto the bar. With a casual move, the landlord swept the 1C from palm to pocket.
"Follow me."
He led her to a rickety dark stairway and faced her with heavy fists propped on his waist. "All right, give. What are you after?"
She cocked her head, staring at him through the veil. "My client is in need of battle armor. I understand a man resides here who has offered such a suit into the channels. My . . . client desires discretion in this area. It is also understood the suit is vacuum capable. Correct?"
The landlord squinted and crossed his arms tightly before jerking a nod. "I might be able to help. But now it's your turn to understand . . . the man who owns it wants an even two thousand credits for his suit."
"Too high. Military surplus vacuum capables are going for twelve hundred."
The landlord grinned to expose gaps in his teeth. "You know your market. In this case, what's for sale ain't military surplus. We're talking class here."
He made a decision. "Go on up. First door to the right. I assume you have the money with you?"
Skyla gave him a cynical laugh. "You think I'm a Nab? Would I take the chance of having the Civil Security find me in the sewer with an empty purse and a slit throat?"
"No, I suppose not," the landlord laughed heartily and pushed past her to go back to his duties.
The molded plastic stairs creaked under her weight as she climbed up the narrow spiral. Dusty light bars cast eerie yellow shadows to show the way.
At the top, she found a narrow plastered hallway. She reached the first door on the right, palmed the lock, and waited. Though she couldn't see any monitors, she could sense the security system. They would have already found the pulse pistol, tool kit, and vibraknife at her hip. They would have counted the two hundred credits in her purse and noted the titanium pins that held her left femur together.
"Name?" a voice asked from the speaker overhead.
"Call me C." The door opened and Skyla stepped into a lighted room famished far better than the crummy tavern would have suggested. Was this where the small fortune Staffa carried ended up?
A muscular man stepped through a far door. Skyla's trained eye immediately detected the energy shield separating them.
"Yes?"
"I've come to make an offer on the combat armor you have." Skyla crossed her arms and stood, feet apart in an easy attack posture. "You are called?"
"I am Broddus." He frowned, heavy brows creased. "I don't like dealing with shadows who come armed into my house."
"I don't like dealing with men who hide behind security screens. Makes me wonder what they could do to my side of the room while remaining in complete safety."
He laughed, teeth shining. "Noticed that, huh? Not everyone would pick out the slight haze. You're no casual customer."
"No, I am not."
"Very well. I turn off my security, you unveil and leave your weapons on the table. That done, we share a cup of stassa and discuss your offer for the gray combat suit. I warn you, however, the twelve hundred you mentioned for military surplus isn't enough for this suit. It is most unusual."
"I see. So you monitored that discussion."
"I monitor everything."
Skyla pulled back her veil and his eyes widened with sudden interest. She pulled her weapons from under her robes and laid them on the table.
He motioned her ahead and she stepped down into a sunken lounge tastefully decorated with hanging plants. A tinted skylight cast soft rays on the light blue cushions that padded the place. The air carried the perfumed odor of sandwood. She took a seat as he poured two cups of stassa. Handing her one, he padded into a back room and returned bearing . . . Staff a's combat gear.
Skyla's anguish built. She willed herself to calm and stood, keeping her head down, unsure of her facial control, forcing herself to finger the fabric.
"Most . . . unusual," she managed.
"Yes, got it from a rich Nab," Broddus told her absently.
She swallowed and realized he'd become distracted by her hair, worn loose in shimmering silver-gold waves for exactly the purpose it now served.
"How much?"
He mistook her tone for awe. "Two thousand. Firm."
She tensed as he leaned forward to take in her scent. His voice dropped. "But for a woman as beautiful as you . . . I might bargain."
She looked up, off guard, eyes wide.
"You are a fascinating woman, you know." His mouth curved into a smile as he traced the lines of her face with narrowed raptorian eyes.
"And the owner of the suit?" she asked meekly, disgust building, giving her control of her frayed emotions.
Broddus shook his head. "I fear he'll not be making claims."
"Dead?" Oh, Staffa, I'm not too late! I can't be!
He shrugged, "As good
as. Killed two of my friends. Civil Security charged him with murder and assault and sentenced him to slavery. He'll not be back to claim ownership."
A quiver of relief rushed through her. There was a chance, an ever so slight chance.
"How much for the combat armor and the weapons he carried?" She soothed her tortured mind and allowed an eyebrow to rise suggestively. "There may be some . . . bargaining latitude on my part."
He considered, licking his lips. "Take off your robes. Perhaps I can sweeten the pot." The dominating smile widened, expression daring her.
Skyla chuckled to herself. Here was her game! He didn't think she'd do it.
Unabashed, she unpinned her robe and let it slide down her pale flesh to a tangle on the floor. Clad only in her weapons belt, she could see his intake of breath.
"My price is dropping," he whispered. "I doubt you can get down to two hundred credits though."
"That's down payment. There will be more . . . later." And she saw his interest peak. "Thirteen hundred . . . and me." She let her fingers linger on his skin as she handed him the two hundred ICs from her belt purse.
His face had gone hot. He nodded, a nervous tic in his cheek as he noted the scar along her long muscular leg. "Come this way. Or do you want it here? I'll consider the suit sold and take my first . . . payment."
She walked ahead of him into a sleeping room. Her practiced eye picked out the security monitors—a poorly done job. She turned to face him as he entered. "If you're recording this, we drop the price to just me. I know what you can get for a holo of my action."
He stopped, a frown on his face. "Now, wait a minute, sweet meat. . . ."
She laughed him to silence. "You don't know who I am, do you? Where have you beenail your life, in the streets of Etarus?" Direct hit. His face reddened.
He rubbed his chin, thinking.
"You seem to know the security system. If it would make you feel better, you turn it off." He .extended an arm as he drank in her body. "But I'll warn you, I want full measure."
"And I'll give it." Oh, will I give it! She stepped to the head of the sleeping platform and opened a box. Deftly she flipped off the switches and looked around, mouth pursed. She walked to a statue mounted on the wall and moved it, exposing a second box. That, too, she opened to flip three toggles.
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