Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  The black Initiate's face brightened slightly. "Then the machine is not omniscient!"

  "No. We've known that for a long time. Indeed, we play a dicey game here. When it orders-as it has done in the past-we can do little to chart the margins of its power. When it questions, we can at least gain a glimmering of its abilities. "

  "So long as it isn't outsmarting us," Hyde reminded, convulsing in a coughing fit. He expectorated into a worn crock beside his bed.

  "That is always a possibility." Bruen blinked against the headache. If only the sessions with the machine didn't drain him so. "The Mag Comm, however, isn't the only one capable of misinformation. At lying, no one can beat a human!"

  "But the machine is acting uncertain?" Hyde continued between wheezing breaths.

  "Yes, it is. And that, old friend, is most unsettling. For the first time, the machine is beginning to formulate threats. Until we know the extent of its powers, we must heed them with a great deal of fear. "

  "And it ordered us to step up the war?" Hyde wiped a thin-skinned hand over purple lips to catch a spinner of saliva that leaked past.

  Bruen nodded. "Yes, not only that, but it slipped again. It knows a Regan Division under Sinklar Fist is about to take the field. We are not its only source of Free Space information."

  Hyde's face fell, dull blue eyes concerned. "Better to know-but too bad for all of that. Our position becomes even more tenuous. "

  Bruen nodded, looking up at the two young men, pondering.

  "You will need to contact Butla Ret," Hyde broke into another coughing fit.

  "He is the only one we can count on. He is the only one capable of taking the field. He must be our legs and arms now."

  "I will do so," Bruen patted Hyde's swollen legs. "Let us pray we are not too late, old friend. "

  "Yes," Hyde gasped, fluid-filled lungs heaving. "This should have come upon us fifteen years ago."

  "But it didn't," Bruen sighed. "We must deal with it now. " He looked up at the young men to emphasize his words. "If we make a mistake, young gentlemen, it will be our last.

  Skyla Lyma ducked into the pitch-blackness of the alley, aware of the stalker.

  She slipped silently through the darkness, feeling with her feet. Stealing to one side, she waited, sand-coated brick under her fingers as she felt her way along. Her nerves had been on edge ever since Ily Takka showed up at the Warden's pens. Curse it all, it had been too close. And as Ily flew off, she'd looked her right in the eye. If it hadn't been for the veil, I'd already be dead meat.

  From somewhere ahead, the delightful aroma of cinnamon and klofa wafted in the hot night air, filling the darkness with the promise of delightful pastries.

  A faint stir in the darkness brought Skyla to a crouch. She eased a vibraknife from her belt. Sand shifted under a boot to her right. Who? One of Ily's agents? Or just a footpad?

  Just a little closer.

  Darkness weighed heavily in the stifling heat. A trickle of sweat ran down the inside of her combat armor to tickle between her breasts. Her heart, battle-tight, rapped against her sternum.

  So black, so stygian. Where was he?

  Cloth made a soft rasping before her. A bit of blackness moved in the alley.

  Skyla took him, striking high with one steel fist while she kicked low for his legs. Fesh gave under her powerful blows. He grunted and fell as she stepped back, balanced, poised for a counter-strike that never came. His body landed with a soft thump. Catlike, she pounced, her vibraknife millimeters from his throat. The man gasped, trying to catch his breath.

  From her pouch, she took a small light, narrowing the beam to play it across his rugged features. Nyklos!

  He groaned, swallowing, blinking stunned brown eyes in the glare of her light.

  "Talk," she hissed. "And talk quick. You should be able to feel the blade against your neck. My patience is thin. I don't like rannies who follow me in the dark. Makes me suspicious."

  He nodded, eyes tight at the feel of air vibrating against his skin.

  "Talk!"

  "Just . . . just looking after you, sweet meat. I. ... Huh! Don't!" he yipped as she pressed down, seeing skin peel away like fat under a white-hot blade.

  "Then don't try me Nab." She crammed a knee into his crotch; his eyes glazed with pain. "Talk, ranny, or your voice will rise and you'll dribble your drink over your chest every time you swallow from now on!"

  "I was just . . . just trying to see where you went. That's all. You're . . . pretty. So pretty. Make a man proud to turn you's all." More skin peeled as he swallowed. Blood had begun to well under the vibraknife.

  "You're lying. You're looking at death Nab. And you don't care. Makes me even more suspicious." She drew the knife back slightly, eyes narrowing. "Why? Who are you working for that they could inspire that sort of loyalty? Or is it fear? Ily Takka, perhaps?" His expression hardened. "You don't like that idea?"

  "No, I don't," he said with more control than she would have expected under the circumstances. "Not Ily."

  She cocked her head. "You're no street hawker, for all your looks and talk.

  You carry yourself too well. You got professional written all over you. Want to fess?"

  A slight smile bent his lips. "Why don't you just cut my throat and we'll have it all over with."

  Skyla cocked her head, studying him speculatively. "If not Ily, then might we possibly share an interest?"

  "We might," Nyklos agreed quickly, swallowing again as a trickle of blood ran down the side of his throat. She recognized the game, playing for time, looking for an advantage. His voice held just enough truth to give him credibility.

  Skyla slipped one hand into her pouch and pulled out a gleaming vial. Most carefully uncapping it with her teeth, she placed the tube over his mouth.

  "Drink," she commanded. "It's Mytol. It'll make you talk."

  An instant before he tensed to throw her off, she blasted her knee into his crotch, spilling a little more than she intended into his suddenly open mouth as he bellowed in pain.

  "You Sylenian witch!" he exploded as she rolled away from his violent reaction. He writhed and contorted in the filthy alley sand.

  Skyla rocked to her feet, Mytol bottle capped and restored to her pouch. She ducked lithely aside as he staggered to his feet, still bent double, and rushed her, swinging a fist. She eluded him in the darkness.

  "Got to kill her," he panted under his breath. "Got to kill before . . . before. . . ." His next charge slowed awkwardly as he ran into the grimy brick wall.

  "Too late," Skyla told him easily. "You're mine now."

  "No! No. Can't. . . . can't. . . ."

  She waited as he stumbled this way and that in the darkness, then fell in a sodden heap. With her light, she checked his squinted eyes: unfocused.

  "Come now, Nyklos, you called me beautiful." She hesitated, unable to resist the urge to tease. "Am I?"

  "Yes," he muttered, voice thick.

  "The first time we met, I saw desire in your eyes. Do you desire me? Am I really that beautiful?"

  "Wing Commander, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen—and the deadliest."

  Wing Commander? That could be lethal, Nyklos, my amorous friend.

  "Good," she praised. "What are you thinking?"

  "Right now?" Nyklos asked, frowning his confusion.

  "Yes, now."

  "I was wondering why that bastard Staffa didn't take you for his own years ago." Nyklos flopped his head back and forth before his neck muscles relaxed and he couldn't move anymore.

  Skyla caught herself against the wall, suddenly unsettled.

  Her heart began to race as her mouth went dry. Damn it! Thrice cursed Mytol, anyway. I asked for that. Now get him bac on track before you make a fool of yourself.

  "Come, Nyklos, sit here next to me." She pulled him down to cradle his head in her lap. Too much Mytol. She tensed as his hand tried to grope her breast through the armor. To keep him under control she laced her fingers into his.


  "Now, Nyklos," she began conspiratorially, "you're going to prove I'm beautiful by telling me all about yourself."

  And pray to the Blessed Gods, you stay the hell away from Staffa and the way I feel about him.

  Nyklos nodded, and despite his thick slurred tongue, he began to speak. Skyla felt herself stiffen as his story spilled out. Shared interest? Indeed!

  "So, that's who you are, Nyklos," she added under her breath. Pieces began to fall into place.

  The screen on the comm monitor wavered and finally firmed into a coherent image. Skyla crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair she sat in. Nyklos stood beside her, still groggy from the Mytol, and delightfully compliant.

  From the outside, the house Nyklos lived in looked like any of the other Etarian homes on the block. The walls were brown clay and supported a flat roof of ceramic tiles. Only when she had stepped inside did Skyla find that Nyklos lived in a nest of communications equipment, monitoring devices, and comm equipment.

  Skyla returned her attention to the screen. It fuzzed and cleared into the face of a young woman with kinky black hair that made a halo around her head.

  At sight of Skyla Lyma, she straightened.

  "Greetings," Skyla gave her a smile. "I'm Skyla Lyma, Wing Commander of the Companions. Would you do me the courtesy of informing Magister Bruen that I would like to speak to him?"

  "How did you ... I mean. . . ."

  "Just do it."

  Skyla chuckled to herself, and tossed a small object into the air, catching it playfully. The object consisted of a white, ceramic replica of a human tooth.

  The picture in the monitor changed again, this time presenting an old man with a wrinkled face. Only a few wisps of white hair stood up from the age-spotted dome of his bald pate. He looked at her and blinked, as if to clear his head of sleep.

  Finally, he sighed and said, "I suppose that since you've gained access to this comm net, there wouldn't be much use in denying it exists, but tell me Wing Commander, just how did you find us, and what do you want?"

  Skyla pulled Nyklos into the range of the comm pickup. "Recognize your agent, Magister?"

  Bruen nodded, a tired look in his ancient eyes. "I do. That he's still alive leaves me a little worried, however."

  Skyla leaned forward and displayed the white tooth between forefinger and thumb. "Somebody goofed. I don't know if the crack shows on your monitor—the capsule did what it was supposed to. However, it seems that someone in your lab forgot to charge it with whatever the preferred Seddi poison is."

  Bruen rubbed an ancient hand over his face. "I don't suppose you wanted to talk to me about hollow teeth."

  "No, I wanted to talk to you about assassination. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Nyklos, here, was tagging along on my tail in hopes I'd lead him to the Lord Commander. Had I done that, he'd have killed both Staffa and myself, effectively decapitating the Companions."

  Bruen nodded slowly. "That is one of our primary strategic concerns."

  "You don't sound particularly contrite about it."

  The wrinkles tightened around his mouth. "Come, come, Wing Commander, you're no naive novice at the game of interstellar politics.

  We each have our respective goals. Ours would be served by your death and the dissolution of the Companions. You are pursuing your own aims—as are other political forces in Free Space. Or would you like to play games and mask the reality of the situation?"

  Skyla cocked her head. "If we're being blunt, why don't you tell me exactly what the Seddi goal is."

  "The restructuring of human epistemology." He raised an eyebrow. "You do know what that means, don't you?"

  Skyla leaned back, frowning. "You want to change the entire way that humans think about themselves and the universe they live in?"

  Bruen gave her a placid nod. "I admit it's a rather grandiose objective, but the Seddi believe that human suffering is rooted in a flawed epistemology—one which you and the Lord Commander both espouse. It's not just you, but the entire species which has come to believe that we must live in a universe controlled by unassailable political leaders. We absorb that idea through enculturation."

  "Wait, you just lost me. Enculturation?"

  Bruen placed his palms together and leaned forward, a gleam in his eyes.

  "Think seriously about a human infant, Wing Commander. It's literally an untrained animal. It doesn't know much of anything beyond the demands of its body, least of all how to behave properly in any given culture. Granted, behavioral genetics determines many aspects of personality and ability, but the intricacies of dealing with a society must all be learned. There is no genetic code in the DNA which tells an infant that eating peas with a fork is apropos behavior—especially not when using a spoon would be more effective.

  People from Ashtan learn very early that it is proper to belch as long and as loudly as possible to demonstrate appreciation for a good meal— much to the dismay of the traditional Regan who invites an Ashtan to his home for dinner.

  But we learn more than manners and social skills; we also soak up and integrate political ideology. Ask any Regan why Tybalt is the emperor, and he'll tell you that Tybalt is the emperor because someone has to be. That is enculturation: the process whereby an infant learns the values and expected norms of his society."

  "And the Seddi wouldn't want the everyday Regan to simply accept the old social dogma?"

  Bruen inspected her through narrowed eyes. "You're a quick study, Wing Commander."

  "Even if you could assassinate Staffa and myself, and Divine Sassa and Tybalt, you couldn't change the way people think about politics. Your goal is impossible. People don't just change the way they think about the universe overnight."

  "The Seddi probably have a more complex understanding of the problem than you might believe. We expect a significant change in the way humans think about themselves in another thousand years or so. This is a long-term project, one which depends on education and increasing the ability of people to question the baseline assumptions they make about life. We don't expect any quick fix."

  "Then Staffa and I had better get used to keeping our eyes open," Skyla told him with a grim smile.

  Bruen nodded serenely. "Which brings us to another hot topic of debate: the Lord Commander. I don't suppose you'd like to tell me why he dropped everything, threw two empires into turmoil, and ran off to Etarus incognito?"

  What do I tell him? Skyla fingered her chin as she considered. "Actually, he was on the way to Targa to see you."

  For the first time, Bruen straightened, interest in his watery eyes. "Is that a feint? Some sort of dissembling—"

  Skyla shook her head. "No, I mean it. He was headed for Targa to see you."

  Bruen's expression reflected a deep curiosity. He tapped thin fingers on something out of sight of the comm pickup. "Why would he place himself at risk, crossing a potentially hostile empire, to gain access to a planet in the throes of civil war to try and find a Seddi Magister who has been trying to assassinate him for years? That makes no sense— but then, a lot of what the Lord Commander has done in recent weeks makes no sense."

  "He is looking for his son." Skyla hesitated for a moment, then added, "And perhaps truth, Magister."

  A light of understanding kindled in Bruen's eyes. "Ah, then the key really is the Praetor. What did he say to Staffa? What happened in that room? Were you there?"

  Skyla's scalp crawled as she tensed. "You seem to know an awful lot, Seddi. Perhaps I should keep Nyklos here under sedation and take him back to Itreata. I've already determined that he's the center for your spy ring on Etaria. I wonder what other jewels he'd spill under a mind probe."

  Bruen barely acknowledged that he'd heard. His face had gone blank, lost in thought. Finally he looked up, eyes pensive. "Staffa's entire personality changed, didn't it? Mood swings, depression, irrational actions based on improper neural responses that had been masked for years?"

  Skyla bent forward to stare hostilely into the mo
nitor. "What are you getting at?"

  Bruen waved her concern away, a wry animation to his movements. "The dance of the quanta Wing Commander. The uncertainty principal that makes life so damned fascinating and unpredictable. After all these years, I would like the chance to talk to Staffa kar Therma." Bruen took a deep breath. "I am willing to offer the Lord Commander safe passage for the purposes of a meeting between the two of us. We can work out the details later."

  "And how do I know I can trust you?"

  Bruen shrugged. "We'll figure out something." Then he glanced absently away as he propped his chin on a translucent palm. "The problem is that Ily Takka is about to whisk him out from under both of us. We'll have to act fast—and together."

  CHAPTER 17

  "They what?" Sinklar thundered, pounding his fist into the hardwood. His Section Firsts gawked in disbelief as they straightened from the desk they'd converted into a map table. A foreboding silence filled the office. Through the dusty windows, they could see the tree-dotted hills rising beyond the square plots of farmland.

  "Gone," MacRuder told him from the door of the commandeered grain exchange office building. "The Minister of Defense recalled all transport to provide the Second Division,"—his expression soured—"what he called 'emergency strike capability.' "

  Sinklar cursed and leaned forward over the spread maps. He ground his jaws.

  Damn them

  Gretta exploded with, "Rotted Gods! We're halfway to Vespa with two thousand troops and no pus-dripping transport"

  The others erupted into curses as they shouted questions back and forth.

  "Quiet, people. I need to think." Sinklar took a deep breath. He controlled his rage and flexed his muscles to ease the tension. Then he dropped into the use-polished chair behind the desk. "So, the power play begins."

  He glanced down at the topo map, brow creased; he cataloged the distance to Vespa. Left in the middle of rough country, farms filled the valleys between rugged chains of mountains. A big mine lay within a half-day's march, but other than that, nothing.