Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  "No hunter teams." Gretta supplied, leaning on a chair, arms crossed as she studied the First. "Small units trained to look for Rebel activity and initiate action on their own."

  Mykroft's mouth fell open as he turned to stare. "That's absurd! You'd have a chaotic force loose! Who'd know where the others were? How would you coordinate a concerted defense? How would you mobilize? It's. . He shook his head, bewildered.

  "How many casualties on this planet to date?" Sinklar braced his feet, back arched as he met Mykroft's astonished eyes. "How many? Including the losses suffered by the First Division initially. And during the subsequent securing actions when the First Division was reinforced and resupplied. From your losses in the Second-assuming all who didn't make it out are dead? How many in total, Mykroft?"

  "Why, I . . . " Mykroft lifted his hands. "Assume two thousand seven hundred.

  Maybe more."

  Sinklar smiled in grim vindication. "Since I took command of the First, we've lost a total of twenty-eight men and women-some in training accidents. At the same time, we crossed a hostile landscape and doubled our manpower by enlistments. You sit secure in a city now mostly loyal and, if we could get weapons, we would be capable of controlling even larger areas."

  Mykroft blinked and said slowly, "You are ripe for the picking, Sergeant Fist.

  If you do not hand over command to me immediately, I will be forced to take action and have you placed under arrest ... or shot for disobedience."

  Mac started laughing and slapping his knee. Gretta's expression hardened.

  Mykroft reddened at the display. "This . . . this is outrageous! MacRuder, you're under arrest for conduct—"

  "Hold it, Mykroft. I think you're forgetting something." Sinklar's voice became cracked ice.

  "What's that?" Mykroft asked. "Your precious commission? Hah!"

  "No, not at all." Sinklar shook his head. "You're forgetting the First Division." He turned to Mac, who watched with glittering eyes. "Would you see to disarming the Second and supplying the loyal Division with those arms as far as they go?"

  "Done!" Mac turned on his heel, tossing off the drink by the time he made the door.

  "Just a Rotted moment, Sergeant. ..." Mykroft stopped as he noticed the pulse pistol Gretta pointed at his head.

  "That's right, First Mykroft," she told him levelly, "you just sit there in that chair and relax. We'll keep you alive and make sure you get back to Rega in one piece."

  "And we'll begin training the remains of the Second," Sinklar added as he rubbed his hands together. "I wonder if we can make a run on Kaspa. If any of the Second made it out and holed up, we might be able to spring them."

  "They'll shoot you for this, you know. Just what in cursed hell are you doing, Sinklar?" Mykroft fumed.

  "Winning the war," Sinklar told him assuredly. "And in doing so, attempting to save my neck when I have to face the Minister of Defense—or maybe even the Emperor. Mutiny, no matter what the circumstances, is a serious charge."

  Arta Fera leaned out of an upper window to fire a last bolt at the wobbling and overloaded LC that had dropped to pull the last of the Regan troops from the rooftop.

  She cursed and shook her rifle at the climbing craft. All in all, it had been a miraculous rescue.

  "So we don't get them all," Butla said thoughtfully as he lowered his field glasses. He stood in a window a half block away. The recognition of Arta Fera disturbed him.

  I still love her. If only. . . . No, she can't change what she is. Its too late for thoughts like that. We are both damned.

  "Well, we still hurt them," a squad leader added with a grin.

  Butla's expression lit warmly. "Only because of Arta. Her courage and skill took out the reactor and opened the munitions and weapons to us. Without them, we were a partially armed rabble."

  Butla turned from the window and picked up his blaster where it rested in a corner of the office. They had sold insurance from here once, the desks and comm terminals were dusty now. The chairs remained where they'd been the last time people had worked here.

  "Who could have predicted they would come back for the survivors?" the squad leader wondered as he stepped through the shattered door and started down the steps. "Their manual doesn't call for rescue missions like that. It says that to keep losses to a minimum, evacuated troops will establish a new perimeter and prepare for defense."

  Butla nodded, face impassive as he followed. "True. That was not Mykroft's rescue. That was Fist's." Butla rubbed the back of his neck and growled to himself, "So we can assume Mykroft is no longer in command of the Second. Or, if he is, he's allowed Fist to have his LCs."

  "Perhaps we shouldn't have taken time to execute the prisoners. We might have gotten the rest." As they stepped out into the street, the squad leader looked up at the now empty sky, face pinched with irritation.

  "So they saved a couple hundred men and women." Butla shrugged. "We'll wear them away. This revolution will be won slowly."

  Butla turned into an alley and located his aircar where it waited in a shabby garage. From a side compartment, he drew out a battlefield comm and extended the antenna. Within seconds he'd plugged into the power supply, and Bruen's ancient face filled the screen.

  Butla related the events of the battle the night before.

  "If only they hadn't shot up the other LCs when they left. Rotted Gods, what we could do if we had that kind of air capability."

  "The entire complexion of the war would change," Bruen agreed. "Except if we did have that kind of firepower, we would lose in the end."

  Butla laughed, the sound deep and resonant. "It would scare Tybalt. So long as we look like peasants out in the weeds, we have a chance to wear them down and achieve a political settlement. When we seriously become a military threat, we're in bad trouble. No, we're not ready for that . . . not yet anyway."

  "You said you could take Staffa if you had to," Bruen reminded. "You could, couldn't you?"

  "Ah, Magister, perhaps I could indeed. The question remains, however, what would I take him with?" His expression lightened and his eyes danced. "Perhaps I could capture one of those LCs and fly up to blast Chrysla out of space?"

  "You just might," Bruen added, voice soft, a cunning look in his ancient eyes.

  "You have taken the city, General. My compliments to you!"

  "And now we will leave it." Butla sighed, throwing wide his other arm and crying, "Farewell, noble Kaspa, queen city of Targa!"

  "You know that Sinklar Fist has asked to speak with us." Bruen rubbed his nose and shifted as if his hip hurt.

  "Let's see how we do in our assault on Vespa and the First Division." Butla paused thoughtfully, studying the old man. "I intend to break him, Magister.

  Just like I broke First Mykroft and the Second. It's been a long time since I fought a solid battle. I intend to win it."

  Bruen's face sagged. "See that you do, Butla Ret. We're out of time. Totally and completely out of time." The screen went blank.

  CHAPTER 21

  Ily Takka sat in the captain's overstuffed chair in his cabin aboard the Regan battle cruiser. People had been displaced all over the ship to make room for her—but then, where else did you put the Minister of Internal Security except in the finest quarters aboard? At the moment, knowing she had the finest living space in the cruiser didn't alleviate any of Ily's current difficulties. Especially since she stared into the secure-line holo projector which was filled with a very upset emperor.

  Tybalt the Imperial Seventh stalked back and forth before the comm pickup on far off Rega, venting his fiery wrath. "The entire Second Division is butchered! Butchered, Uy! The remnants that are left are in the hands of Sinklar Fist! He's your man, Ily, remember?" Tybalt popped a fist into his palm. "Well, that's fine, Ily. Just damn fine!" He gasped a breath, arms spread. "And Staffa, you say, was rescued by the Companions? He's been in the employ of the Sassans all along?" Tybalt threw his arms up. "What the hell have you done!"

  Fear shivered coldly in h
er gut as she looked into his angry eyes. From a pocket he pulled a metal object. To her trained eyes, it looked very much like a switch. Switch? For what?

  Do something, Ily! Save yourself! Quickly, or he'll replace you! How do I handle him?

  "Stop it, Tybalt!" Ily thundered as her mind cleared. Jumping to her feet, she flipped her long hair over her shoulder in disgust. She faced him, stimulating her own anger. "You're the Emperor, remember? Quit your damn sniveling and act like the man I used to know!"

  Guts, Ily, show him those guts that got you to the top so uickly. Mae it real good, because the jaws of the Rotted Gods are snapping at your heels. If you fail, the Etarian desert will be a picnic compared to what Tybalt will do to you—favorite bed snatch or not!

  She allowed heat to rush into her face. "Emperors are measured by how they handle a crisis. Well, this is it, isn't rt?" She pointed a finger at his face. "We don't have time for pouting matches or casting blame. But for the record, who was it who uncovered the fact that Staffa and the Companions had contracted with Sassa? What if we'd let matters be, followed the Lord Commander's instructions? Don't rage at me, Tybalt! I found the betrayal long before any fawning sycophant could have."

  Tybalt licked his lips, taking a deep breath. He ran anxious fingers through his crinkly black locks as he shook his head. "Maybe, Ily." He looked at her, eyes hard. "I have a lot at stake here. I can't afford any more disasters.

  You're on the thin edge. Don't bring me excuses!"

  "So you lost the Second Assault Division on Targa?" She lifted a hand, palm out. "When we laid that plan, we didn't know a Divisional sacrifice wasn't going to bring the Companions running. In war—"

  "It was the wrong damn Division!" he exploded. "Do you have any idea what it means to the military structure?" He swallowed and turned, hand on hip as he struggled to maintain his temper. "I'm faced with the entire might of Sassa . . . and the damn Companions!

  "And your military is turned upside down by this Sinklar Fist?" She chewed on that, chin resting on her thumb and forefinger. "That might not. . . . Wait!

  Tell me, how is this Fist doing ... on a tactical level, I mean? Why is he still alive? How did he get out of the mountains in the first place?"

  Tybalt slapped his sides with open palms. "I don't have the damnedest idea, but he took a Division of buffoons, louts, and with them, he stayed alive, took Vespa—and pac ifed it—and he's got what's left of the Second eatin out of his hand, too!"

  Ily considered, mind still racing to save herself. "And the military situation on Targa now?" ;

  "Desperate," Tybalt's lips quivered. He talked to her from his bedroom. How many times had she lain on that giant bed with him? "Orbital recon shows a massing of Rebel strength around Vespa. From the figures, from the field reports on Sinkar's tactics, Fist should be crushed in another twenty-four hours. We could help; orbital bombardment would play hell with the Rebel advance. In the end, though, Sinklar Fist is dog meat."

  Ily's voice dropped as she wondered absently, "And if he's not?" A glimmering of hope began to grow. Could it be possible? In times of disaster, often a solution presented itself—if only one were bright enough to see beyond preconceptions and snatch the opportunity out from under blindness.

  "Then he's another flaming Staffa kar Therma," Tybalt gritted, "because nobody else could pull his ass out of the fire about to break loose on Targa."

  "Don't back him up from orbit. Leave him to the Targans."

  "What?" he exploded as he lifted a clenched fist. "Ily, I warn you. ..."

  She smiled. "Pear not, Imperial Seventh. I am on my way to Targa. I will see this Sinklar Fist—if he survives."

  Tybalt gave her an uncertain look. "And in the meantime?"

  "Your Divisional Firsts are nervous about upheavals caused by this upstart Fist?" Ily raised a shoulder. "So be it. Those who complain do so because they are unoccupied. Sassa has the Companions. Why wait for them to use that advantage? We have surprise. We had best not lose it."

  Tybalt blinked. "You mean. ..."

  "Of course. I think Staffa kar Therma's treachery speaks for itself. To wait any longer is to prove ourselves fools worthy of defeat."

  He looked unhappy as he nodded. "Then you are off to Targa, and I am off to war. You had better be right this time, Ily. You won't get another chance."

  The holo went dead.

  Could Sinklar Fist be 'another flaming Staffa kar Therma'? f it's true, if he really has that kind of talent, Sinklar Fist may be our salvation! Ily hoped fervently that she was right as she pulled her g suit from the locker and signaled the commander for acceleration to Targa.

  "Well, beats bloody hell out of laying pipe in the desert," Staffa grunted, feeling the crate shiver as it was settled into place and secured by the hold grapples.

  Kaylla looked up from the thermal unit Nyklos had provided. It would generate heat and light from superconducting micro-generators. Strange shadows stretched across her face from the low angle of the yellow illumination. Her expression hadn't changed. Her eyes remained guarded, the set of her mouth hard and unforgiving as she sat on an emergency supply pack. To one side a waste disposal canister had been glued to the floor.

  He shook his head, rethinking the events that had propelled him from certain death in the desert to the inside of this small gray box. Skyla had come for him, and more, she'd done it on her own, without scrambling the fleet.

  His heart had leapt when she walked around that crate with Nyklos. For that lingering moment, he'd looked into her eyes and his soul had thrilled. Then, just as quickly, she'd been gone. What would it have been like, encased in this gray syalon box with her? Could he have told her how he'd come to feel about her? About how she'd filled his thoughts in the desert?

  Staffa picked up the satchel that lay in the corner and opened it. He gasped in wonder as he pulled his gray combat armor free and shook it out. "Where?

  How did Nyklos know? I can't believe he found it." He searched the interior of the case, finding his weapons and other personal items along with other supplies-Skyla's.

  Not Nyklos but Skyla. He chuckled warmly to himself. She'd found Broddus.

  Staffa's smile went grim as he imagined that encounter. Another tiny bit of justice, Koree.

  "Why didn't you tell me who you were?" Kaylla asked in a hollow monotone.

  Staffa retreated from his reverie and spread his hands as he took a deep breath. "Because it wouldn't have served any purpose except to make you more miserable than you already were. "

  "And living a lie was supposed to make me feel good?" He paced nervously, three steps up, three back-the length of his new domain. "In the circumstances of slavery and endless rape?

  Of course it was. We were out in that damned desert to die, Kaylla. Would you have wanted to spend those last weeks knowing who I was? What I'd done to you?"

  "You're a coward, Staffa kar Therma."

  He shrugged helplessly. "Then I am a coward. At least, for once in my life, I attempted to be a considerate one. "

  Kaylla slammed a fist against the resilient side of the crate. "Thrice curse you, Star Butcher, don't you know you're the embodiment of everything I loathed in life?" Her expression twisted. "I cared for you! Came to love you!

  Out there in the sand and the heat, you were all that was good and decent!

  Why? How? Damn you, for playing me for a fool!" She jerked her head away, tears streaming down her face.

  Staffa hung his head, an emptiness in his gut. "I can't change the past."

  "Oh, the irony of it," Kaylla continued. "After all the years I spent hating you with all of my heart and soul, I'm condemned to be locked away with you in this damned hell." She turned red-rimmed eyes on him. "I'd rather be dead in the sand with Koree and the rest."

  A long silence passed.

  He lifted an eyebrow. "I saw you talking to Nyklos. What did you tell him? He seemed ... indecisive."

  She shifted, taking an insulated wrap and pulling it around her shoulders.


  "Bruen had reservations. Your life or death were left at the discretion of either Nyklos or Tyklat. The Seddi have dedicated themselves to your assassination-spent years working on it." She stared absently into the corner of their small cubicle. "Nyklos asked me what to do. He needed to make a decision before Skyla showed up at the warehouse. It would be very easy, you see. They'd tell Skyla you were wounded in the fighting at the Internal Security building. When she bent down to look at your wound, she'd be shot in the back. I ... I told Nyklos to let you live."

  Staffa looked at his scarred hands, dirty again after the Ily's office. "You don't sound happy with your flight from

  decision." "I suppose not." She filled her lungs, making a clicking noise with her tongue. "I'll never forgive you for what you did to Maika. To my.... I ...

  I can't." Her mouth worked. "And I can't help but think of you in the desert.

  You were so kind to Peebal. You killed Brots ... Anglo.... Saved my life so many times."

  Staffa chewed his lip as he stared at his hands.

  "So I don't know what to do with you," Kaylla continued, voice quavering as she hugged herself. "I wonder if you are the same despicable demon who burned my planet to cinders, who commanded the men who raped me, sold me into the collar, and brutally murdered my husband and helpless children."

  "I am that man."

  Silence lay on them, oppressive, suffocating.

  The ship moved, the tug of acceleration growing stronger by the second. Staff a shifted to put his back against the same wall as Kaylla. In a matter of time they'd have to shift again to make a new section of crate into the floor. He plucked at the combat armor in his hands.

  He filled his lungs and sighed. "I suppose I should call you Stailla Kahn.

  You—"

  "No!" she snapped, fire in her eyes. "Never use that name with me. That woman is dead! DEAD! She died on Maika one horrible day three years ago. Me, I am Kaylla Dawn. I will continue to be until the day I die."

  He nodded acceptance. "And I am not the Star Butcher. He died with the Praetor one day on Myklene."