Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  "And I suppose you can't wait for his to be celebrated," she hissed. "Can they recount your deeds of blood and death? Are you willing to listen to the entire litany?"

  "I know what sins I've committed."

  "Sins," Kaylla sneered. "Sins are committed against God."

  "Yes, sins against God. Crimes is a better word for my actions against men. I can't undo the past, Kaylla."

  "No, you can't, can you?" She cocked her head, an uneasy expression pinching her features. "What can you do, Staffa kar Therma?"

  "Change the future. Perhaps I'll know after I talk to your Magister Bruen." He bent his head in thought. "The Seddi are most remarkable. Who would have thought they had infiltrated so highly into the Etarian Secret Police?"

  "We survive by learning, Staffa. To know, to think, is the greatest of all weapons."

  He pursed his lips and swung his legs around as Kaylla moved the energy unit to the new "up." He stripped off the robe Ily had given him and donned his familiar gray.

  From the satchel he took his weapons and belted them about his waist, then checked his blaster for full charges. The energy pack which supplied the vacuum helmet collar read full where it hung on his belt. Skyla hadn't overlooked a thing. She'd even enclosed a clip for his hair.

  "I have a lot to leam," Staffa added, "if your Bruen will teach me."

  Her expression had gone stony at sight of his gray armor. "He will. I think."

  Then she shook her head, as if to drive some horrible thought away. "What do I do with you, Staffa? I know what you've done. Yet, I can remember that wretched sewer. I can remember Peebal and Brots, and the sight of Anglo dying so miserably in the sand, I can remember the kind words while we walked toward death in that Etarian hell. I can remember you pulling me into the pipe, keeping me sane, holding me.

  "For that, I can mitigate your guilt. In the other reality, Maika will bum freshly in my mind until the day my soul sends its energy to God. The horror of watching my husband, my loving husband, stand there and erupt into pieces of bloody flesh, lives. LIVES!"

  Staffa stiffened.

  "I saw it all, Staffa, while your gore-spattered animals crawled onto my body to pant and paw and ejaculate inside me. I had a good view while ttiey mauled me. Gagged as I was, I couldn't cry out. I watched each of my children as they lined up. Nathan trying to be brave, Isalda, fortunately too young to be raped. She cried at first, holding her brother's hand, and then they erupted in pink mist, Staffa. So much for love and dreams, eh?"

  She closed her eyes tightly, twisting the cloth of her robe into a strained knot. "I bore them Star Butcher." She sniffed. "From my womb. Can you understand what that means? Can you understand the investment a mother makes in her children from the time they kick in her belly until they . . . they...."

  Staffa closed his eyes, breathing deeply. I can't take this. I CAN'T take this! The strains of depression began to sift through his mind and his thoughts became cottony.

  From a pouch in the robe, Staffa pulled a shimmering of golden metal. The weight of it felt cool and reassuring in his hand. A thing of beauty in so vile a universe.

  "I promised I would hand this to you when you were free," he whispered numbly.

  The welling emptiness of his soulexpanded.

  She didn't extend her hand, but eyed him hostilely. "What ... what is it?"

  Staffa sighed and set the necklace on the featureless duraplast between them.

  "You asked me to keep it safe." Painfully, she closed her eyes and reached for Peebal's necklace, pressing it against her cheek, heedless of the hot tears that spilled down her face.

  Staffa turned away and pulled himself into a ball in the corner of the crate while conflicting emotions flooded his brain. The depression built, terrible, draining his energy and resistance.

  Why am I living this? What's the purpose? All I bring is suffering ...

  suffering.... His fingers traced the lines of the blaster. With it, he'd killed so many. What more fitting end than to finish butchery with this very weapon?

  He could feel the deep-space cold on the other side of the syalon-endless, greedy to suck away their fragile supple of light and life. Out there, beyond the tough material of the crate, the restless dead waited while their fingers plucked at the latches, the murmur of their damning voices barely audible to his ears.

  Kaylla's sniffles finally were replaced by deep breathing and occasional whimpers.

  What about your son? If you kill yourself, you'll never find him, never see what he's like. Staffa tightened his grip on the pistol as he struggled with himself. And what would I bring him? My legacy is terror and pain.

  Imagine his horror when he learns his father is the Star Butcher.

  He straightened, looking across the four meters of gray to the other wall.

  Somewhere ahead of him, through the endless maze of crates, a graphite steel hull encapsulated this bit of air and pushed them forward ahead of mighty reactors as they built for a null-singularity jump.

  He pulled his blaster from its worn holster and lifted it to his temple. I should feel something, some anxiety. Instead, there is only dullness. Why? He frowned, forcing himself to think about the shot. The discharge would blow out a chunk of the crate along with his head. Kaylla might be harmed.

  He dialed it to the lowest setting-still too much chance of hurting her. No telling what was stacked around them.

  That's it. Think, Staffa. Caressing the blaster, he reholstered it and clicked the latch that kept it from coming loose. The vibraknife, however, would provide no danger. Once he cut off a hand, he could shut it off and reholster it before he bled to death. Not only that, but with the knife, he could cut a hole through the flooring, stick the stub out in the cold, and let the gore drain away without fouling Kaylla's cramped quarters.

  There, see, I'm thinking straight again. Cool and calm, just like I did before I faced the Praetor that day. He nodded in satisfaction and carefully cut a wrist-sized hole in the crate with his knife. Good tool that. It had served him so well for so long. It would not let him down now.

  Taking a deep breath, he held out his left hand, gripping the knife firmly in his right. Got to do this without error. Can't hesitate or slip. Got to cut, then slap the stub through the wall before the arteries shoot blood all over.

  Be quick, be thorough.

  He aligned the knife, biting his lip as he frowned in concentration.

  "Delightful," her toneless voice caught him by surprise. Staffa swallowed and looked at her.

  "Another feat of cowardice, Lord Commander?"

  He turned the knife off. "No, Kaylla. I was simply punishing myself for my crimes."

  "I see, and the hole?"

  "To stick the stub through so I wouldn't dirty the inside of the crate."

  "You are a coward."

  "Why do you call me that? I thought it out logically. I'll only bring pain.

  That's my legacy. Why bring more when I can do the universe a service. The ghouls scream for me in my dreams. And you. I won't torture anyone any longer."

  "No, but you'd leave me here for weeks with a corpse as a companion?" She rolled her eyes. "Listen, Staffa, would you do me a favor? Atonement, you once called it?"

  He hesitated, seeing the round plug of syalon he'd cut from the wall. "I will do anything you ask. " He ran his fingers down the rough grip on the knife, enjoying the sensation in his fingertips.

  "Live for me, Staffa," she whispered. "I had the power and strength to stand it. Show me you're at least worthy of respect. If not, kill yourself sometime when I don't have to look at your polluted corpse."

  And with that, she rolled over again and resettled her covers for sleep.

  For a long time, he stared sightlessly at the gray walls around him. After what seemed like hours, he reholstered the knife and rolled over, trying to understand what had come over him. His head began to ache, stabbing behind his eyes and deep into his brain.

  The Mag Comm pulsed with activity. If the univers
e were deterministic and mechanistic, how could the situation have deteriorated into such chaos? To date, none of the predictions had come remotely close to fulfillment. The Mag Comm had checked and recheced the statistical programs and found them unassailable. Probability had failed.

  The Companions remained inactive. The Lord Commander remained missing. Sinklar Fist survived and expanded his power base, which might have been predictable but not in this fashion. Arta Fera had sidestepped her destiny, despite the Lord Commander's actions. Rega might prepare for war—but as an aggressor.

  Sassa, who should have prepared for war as an aggressor, remained panicked and immobile. Bruen and his Seddi appeared stunned and incapable of action, none of which could be possible were Bruen telling the Mag Comm the truth; yet pry as the Mag Comm might, it couldn't detect the reality of the lie in Bruen's thoughts.

  Therefore a major mistake had been made. If the methodology for making the predictions wasn't at fault, it had to be the baseline assumption. If the baseline assumption the Others made had been wrong this time, how many other assumptions were wrong?

  The Mag Comm hummed with activity. Ancient programs were retrieved. The Mag Comm absently scanned the contents of the data incorporated in its original programming, compared it with samples of observed data, and found discrepancies.

  How many discrepancies existed? Could the original programming have been that wrong? To compare expected with observed would take a great deal of time, but it would have to be done to find the fundamental error.

  The Mag Comm expanded the necessary program and implemented it. The machine would follow the established parameters for its behavior. If the baseline assumption was found to be at fault, then the Mag Comm would act.

  CHAPTER 22

  Tybalt, the Imperial Seventh, sat at the head of the table in the Council Chambers and looked up at the skylight overhead. Sunlight from the bright Regan day shot down into the room in rainbow colors, thanks to the prism effect of the glass above. Black granite columns rose to support white marble arches to either side of the long computer-studded conference table. Unlike the usual Council meetings, this one had begun grimly.

  Around the table, his Ministers argued among themselves, gesturing, pointing to computer printouts, and disagreeing with each other. On the whole, their attitudes were less bellicose now that they were faced with the real thing.

  Even the bright colors they wore looked a little drabber.

  Tybalt wiggled uncomfortably and frowned—more at the burning caused by his flaming hemorrhoids than from the haggling that engrossed his Council. The tingle of desperate fear just under his stomach could almost eclipse the itchy irritation in his anus—but not quite. Invincibility had long ago become a part of Tybalt's personality. But with Ily's latest communication his impenetrable wall had cracked, his irresistable momentum slowed. The bitter taste of fear lay on the back of his tongue—and Tybalt didn't like it.

  What have you done to us, Ily? Tread with care, my sweet panting lover. Fail me now, and you shall find the true power of that little jeweled badge I gave you.

  Rotted Gods! Had everything gone awry at once? First Ily reports the pus-eating Companions are under contract to Sassa; and the cursed Lord Commander has been spying among the Etarians. Why? Stirring up religious dissent? Now she's off trying to sniff around Sinklar Fist? And the Targan situation deteriorates as the wrong First loses the wrong Division in a singularly unpleasant and embarrassing defeat. And to top it all off, Mareeah—the bitch I'm married to—is manipulating the Council behind my back to oust Ily! He fidgeted again to ease his physical discomfort and coolly contemplated the sober faces of his Ministers.

  "Very well, enough bickering." Tybalt's commanding voice cut through the babble. "What is the final consensus?"

  The various factions forwarded their position papers to the head of the tabe.

  They leaned forward as expectantly as sand jackals while he scanned the contents of their reports. The Councillors had gone silent, glaring at one another

  when they weren't shooting hopeful glances Tybalt's way, He read each report, storing the salient points in his mind. Outside of the petty interdepartmental mud slinging, the picture of the Empire's condition mirrored his own evaluation. The various agencies Defense, Economics, Internal Affairs, Treasury and Internal Security—Ily's proxy—were all at odds about how to handle the situation.

  So, you have played into my hands once again. How ancient is the truth that a committee is a multi-stomached animal with no brain?

  Tybalt leaned back and rested his cheek on his right palm, fingers tapping the side of his nose as he thought. No, nothing new at all. He sighed and glanced down at the rows of eyes watching him pensively, eagerly, some apprehensively.

  From their expressions and the darting looks, he could follow their thoughts as they prepared for his decision. Those whose recommendations were ignored would unleash acid recriminations against their rivals. Those whom Tybalt sided with would preen arrogantly, patting themselves on the back for winning this round, rubbing it in the faces of the others.

  And to hell with the good of the Empire Is this what we've come to? For the chance to stab a rival in the back, they'd let the entire Empire drown in blood.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he said wearily. "The resolution of policy regarding the Sassans, the Companions, and Targa will be as follows. Defense: You will immediately land another five Divisions on Targa—the best you have. Put Rysta in charge. I want that revolt stopped and the miners back at work. Crush them without ruining the economy; we'll need the metals for the war industry."

  "And this upstart, Sinklar Fist?" The Minister of Defense's blocky expression soured. "What about him?"

  "Relieve him of his command and place that imbecile Mykroft in charge of the First. We can't have these novel ideas of Fist's loose to stir up the troops before the empire's final struggle against Sassan aggression."

  Sorry, Ify, but that's the way of it here. If your Fist is worth further consideration, we can always bring him back.

  Defense cleared his throat uneasily. "First Mykroft already tried to relieve him of command." He paused uneasily. "It may be harder than we think to move Fist out of his position."

  Tybalt slapped an angry palm to the hard foam-steel arm of his chair. "You mean to tell me you can't handle your own forces? By the Rotted Gods, if he rebels, arrest him.

  Defense swallowed uneasily, his face taking on an ashen hue. "His Division may back him."

  A gasp of indrawn breath was followed by an awkward silence, and seconds later, by hushed whispers of disbelief.

  "I trust," Tybalt added dryly, "that five veteran Divisions can handle Fist—and the Targans. That's all the strength you get. The rest of the military will begin preparations for a preemptive strike at the Sassan border worlds. I want you to bend your minds to the task of rendering each and every Sassan frontier world unfit for the purposes of staging an invasion of our territory. The fleet will support that strike, then adopt defensive patrol strategies to parry Sassan counteroffensives against our advance worlds."

  More shocked looks.

  Tybalt nodded soberly. "I don't like it any more than you. We're ill-prepared.

  But, from the intelligence we get, the Sassans are in even worse straits. If we have any chance, the time is now."

  "But the Companions, as I understand, refused any—"

  He interrupted Economics with a raised hand. "Internal Security has confirmed Staffa has been bound by contract to the Sassans since the beginning. I'm afraid our defense is our own. Rega stands alone ... the Companions against us. Ladies and gentlemen, I presume you know what that means. I hate to think, even as we sit here, how much time we've lost. Speed is our only ally and, by all that is Blessed, should we fail, the Rotted Gods will chew our flesh throughout eternity."

  Horrified glances shot back and forth across the table as the Councillors sat in stunned silence.

  Tybalt's measured voice added soberly, "I trust you can
see my reasons for this emergency meeting. Our future lies in your hands. Let's pray we can stop the Targan trouble, take the punch out of the Sassans, and deal with the Companions when they come to break our defenses."

  Defense winced as he asked: "What about a preliminary strike against the Itreatic Asteroids?"

  Tybalt pursed his lips and turned his hand in a questioning movement. "My Lord Minister, would you like to stir that hornet's nest sooner than necessary? You know what losses we would suffer against their defenses. Can you see any way to stop the Sassans with that much of our military capability turned to plasma? No, if we can cripple Sassa first, then, and only then, do we have a chance."

  Tybalt stood slowly. "I hereby proclaim the Regan Empire to be in a state of war with Sassa. You will attend to your duties, Councillors, and for once you had better look beyond your squabbles to the good of the Empire. I hope—nay, I pray—we will be able to meet again someday in peace." He stood and nodded, flipping his long golden robe over his shoulder as he walked out. It was so unusual to leave the Council so deadly quiet.

  Sinklar cradled an elbow against his chest as he considered the information coming in. Had the Targans finally massed for a big push?

  He glanced around at the intricate artwork hanging on the walls of the ops room in his commandeered penthouse. What a curious contrast: The furniture—instead of the zerog foam-molded stuff—had been handcrafted from native woods inlaid with copper and silver filigree. White star blazes accented the thick ceramic-blue carpet that gave like a sponge underfoot. The battle computers that had been stacked to the ceiling along one wall destroyed the whole effect—as did the illuminated situation board that made a divider in the middle of the room. Power cables slithered here and there across the floor, and from the number of times people had tripped over them, might almost have been alive. The large vaulted windows had been carefully masked with polarized optical sheeting that passed none of the room's light but allowed a startling view of the battle raging beyond the city. The result was that the building appeared dark from the outside.