Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  Mac shuddered at the certainty in Staffa's voice. His face contorting with despair, MacRuder managed numbly, "A few hours?" The hotness behind his eyes welled into tears. "Oh, Sinklar," he whispered, heedlessly, "don't let us die in here! Not in the darkness."

  "I'm sorry," the firm voice continued. "I would. ... I would save you if I could. We have a tunnel running within five meters of your cavern. We might be able to blow it."

  "Then what?"

  "That's up to you. Would you come out unarmed?"

  Mac bit his lip to forestall tears of frustration. The total blackness around him closed in, deepening the bone-grip ping despair.

  "How do we know it's not a fake? That you're not trying to pull a fast one?"

  The calm voice asked, "I give you my word—just like I understand from the Seddi that Sinklar gave his word to Butla Ret."

  Mac's guts turned runny. To comm he mumbled miserably. "We. . . . Yes. Yes."

  "You'll hear our tapping. That's where the charge will be placed. Clear your people away from the area."

  Sinklar paced with the relentless persistence of a condemned man as he stalked the vacant engineering office. The holo in the center of the room mocked him with its colorful display of Makarta. Around the walls, the computer monitors stared at him like blind eyes.

  As if addicted, he glanced continually at his chronometer. The agonizing crawl of minutes acted on his soul like some sadistic torture. Angrily he shook his head and cursed. Desperation tugged at the corners of his control. Mac's going to die . . . and I can't do a damned thing to stop it!

  "Section First Mayz, report!" he gritted to the comm, aware his voice was cracking from the strain. Inexorably, minutes ticked by on the chronometer.

  "We've stepped up assaults First," Mayz's voice barked tensely over the sounds of combat. "We've punched through with a mining machine. They were waiting for us. We can't force it. The casualties are—"

  Damn ( Sinklar thundered, something snapping in his mind. "We're out of time!

  They'll die in there!"

  "Sink!" Mayz cried desperately, "We're already dying in here! We can't take that corridor without exposing ourselves to explosives and Seddi fire! Morale is dropping! I can't order my—"

  His veins stood out rom the side of his neck. "You will order your people in there! You will get Mac out of that trap! DO YOU HEAR ME?"

  "And I said we can't Mayz cried. "We love Mac, too, you know! Damn it Sink, we're just as desperate as you— but how much of our blood would Mac and the others want?

  Sinklar's throat choked on silent sobs. Hot tears ran down his cheeks. His fists knotted as his muscles strained impo tently. In a hoarse voice, he ordered, "Pull out, Mayz. Get our people out of there."

  He cut the connection. Through the shimmer of tears, he could see Mhitshul looking at the floor, face ashen as he turned to leave.

  The comm flickered to life, filling with Rysta's craggy dark features. "Fist?"

  "What do you want?" Jaw thrust forward he glared, fits clenched at his sides.

  Rysta didn't hesitate. "You have one hour to evacuate your troops before I follow the Emperor's orders." The screen went dead.

  He pulled his blaster from his belt and blew the comm apart. Desperation and impotence lent him fury and spurred him to wreck the portable office.

  Dazed, he grew aware of the charred wreckage around him. Physically exhausted, he pulled himself up, drained, devoid of emotion, and staggered out into the blazing midday sun. On legs gone leaden he forced himsef to cross the rocky soil to the LC ramp. There he leaned against one of the hydraulic tubes and gazed emptily at Makarta Mountain.

  "Mac? I ... I have to go."

  Head hanging, he turned and made his way into the LC. He ducked through nto the cockpit and stared down at his thin-boned hands. Mhitshul and the pilot sat in the command chairs, heads bowed, silent, nervous.

  His voice cracked. "Mhitshul? I. . . ."

  He tried to swallow, to overcome the knot in his throat. "Order. . . . Order a general evacuation. Get our peope out and get us into orbit." Strength gone, he leaned against the bulkhead, body sagging under its own weight.

  The hidden warrens of Makarta trembled. Taut threads of violet ripped and crackled as sections of rock disintegrated behind Staffa. Pulse fire prickled within inches of his scalp. He felt the raw tingle of a UV burn where a close miss had passed his cheek.

  The air was heavy, charged by the energy rippling through it. Death crouched in the dark corners, leering over the bleeding corpses strewn through the dimly lit tunnels.

  Huddled low in a reading carrel, Staffa settled his blaster, waiting. The Regan shifted position in the narrow rocky nook to take another shot. Staffa's bolt hit home with a solid pulpy sound, catching the corner of the man's shoulder where it protruded. Staffa's follow-up shot blew the man in two as he fell screaming. Across the tunnel, Wilm's blaster fired as he saw a target.

  A concussion echoed hollowly in the darkness from somewhere behind the Regan position as another remote fragmentation bomb exploded. Someone screamed horribly. The racket of combat was deafening in the close confines of the tunnels.

  The dead lay awkwardly sprawled, sightless eyes staring among exploded body parts and bits of sodden red meat. They called to Staffa like the ghouls in his dreams, promising the horror to come.

  He blinked, shaking his head to clear it of the image.

  Two more Regan assault troops sprinted into Staffa's sights, tumbling into the knot of bodies as seeking threads of violet blew them apart. A woman kicked gruesomely— head missing above the neck—and went still.

  Veils of smoke choked the corridor, vying with the smell of bued human meat.

  Blood pooled slickly across the polished stone floor.

  "Pull back!" someone bellowed from the pungent darkness. "All Groups, pull back! Evacuate! Now! Double time."

  Firing began to break into isolated rips and detonations. Staffa caught a glimpse of a Regan dashing madly for the rear. Sporadic shots and pulse hums died to be replaced by the patter of running armored feet as they left the tunnels to the silent and the dead.

  "Now what?" Wilm wondered from his position across the hall.

  Staffa grunted, pulling himself up. He peered hesitantly around the corner, finding nothing but the fragmented corpses. From somewhere in the pile of bodies, a casualty moaned faintly.

  "Fist is cutting it awfully close," Staffa decided, glancing down at his chronometer. "Blow the renegade tunnel to the surface. Maybe Rysta isn't as punctual as I remember her to be. Let's see if we can't get a couple of people out of here. Go! Hurry!"

  Wilm's broad-boned dark face reflected his hopelessness. "Hope you were right about MacRuder's Regans." He left at a run.

  "They ought to be docile," Staffa decided, taking a flying leap to safety behind a pockmarked pillar of stone. He turned, sprinting down the passage until he found a functioning comm unit. Punching in, he waited.

  Kaylla's face formed, soot-streaked, haggard. "The fighting stopped. Why?"

  "They're ready to use the heavy stuff from space." Staffa raised an eyebrow.

  "And MacRuder's people?"

  Hard tan eyes met his. "They're coming out, one at a time. So far, no cheats.

  They seem willing to take their chances on getting out of here."

  "Wilm is blowing the renegade tunnel. Maybe some of us can get clear in time.

  Even so, the grav-effect will be severe-probably lethal, no matter what."

  She nodded. "What about Bruen?"

  "Wilm is seeing to him. He'll be taken out after the scouting party determines how safe the escape tunnel is. I'm on my way."

  "Staffa," she asked tensely, "there isn't much chance, is there?"

  "There's always a ...... Seeing the glint in her eye, he sighed. "No, there is very little chance. You've seen orbital capabilities firsthand. Rysta will be thorough."

  MacRuder hurried along the line of waiting men and women, surprised that the Seddi ignored t
hem for the most part. Grim faces met his glance everywhere.

  What a blessing it was to squint in the bright lights, to breathe air that put zip back in the lungs--even if it carried the pungent sting of death and blaster ozone. His head began to ache wretchedly.

  Moving along the ranks, Mac winked at a grim face, patted a sagging back, cheered a forlorn expression as he worked forward. Then the tan-eyed woman in brown robes caught his eye. A blaster poked his way, slung level at the hip by a shoulder strap. She noted his shoulder insignia, eyes narrowing.

  "You're MacRuder?" she asked in a knowing contralto, eyes coldly hostile.

  "I am." He straightened, studying her. In any other place and time, she'd have made any man look twice.

  "Kaylla Dawn." Her voice was clipped. "We've sent a party to blow the escape tunnel. Might I have a word with you?"

  MacRuder nodded and followed her to one side.

  She appraised him, searching his face as if to read his soul. "I'll be honest, MacRuder. The chances are not good. Fist's Divisions have withdrawn. We don't know how long we have left, but from Staffa's estimation, not long enough."

  "I see."

  "I hope you do," she said. "For one thing, we've got one narrow tunnel out of here. The Regans, blasted the others during their retreat. For another, we can't take the time to guard all of your people and carry out a fast evacuation. If fighting breaks out.... Well, consider it. Are you willing to cooperate ... or should we all die?"

  "We'll cooperate." Hell, I didn't even have to think about that, lady!

  "Good," she stated flatly. "Please inform your comanders. "

  M "Just a minute." Mac raised a hand, stopping her. "How bad are our chances?"

  She lifted one of her broad shoulders expressively, face tight. "Ask Sinklar Fist. From what Staffa says, there is no real hope. The orbital bombardment will no doubt encompass this entire area. How far and how fast can all these people go on foot in mountainous terrain?"

  Mac filled his lungs and nodded. "We won't have to die in the dark. That's something, at least."

  A shuffling began at the front of the line, men and women moving forward, eyes flickering this way and that, aware escape lay just ahead.

  What a fragile thought. Who am I kidding? I know what those ships up there can do.

  A ripple moved through the crowd as a big man dressed in stained gray combat armor—now charred and hardened—pushed through. Mac recognized the brownish stains. Spattered blood. The big man had been in the thick of it.

  The man's long black hair had been gathered over his left shoulder in a ponytail. He had a curiously handsome face, brow high, nose long and straight over tight bloodless lips. Piercing gray eyes pinned Mac's as the big man approached. But when the gray warrior looked at Kaylla, regret welled, dulling the sharpness.

  Then those gray eyes were pricking at Mac's soul again. The voice carried a tenor of command. "You're MacRuder? Do you have a portable battle comm?"

  "We do. Or did. We left it back in the hole," Mac heard himself responding automatically. This guy might have even more charisma than Sinklar, Mac admitted to himself. Then the voice clicked in his memory: Staffa!

  "Get it. If we open a line to Fist, we may be able to stall, gain time so some of us can make it away."

  "It'll take two people. The thing's heavy."

  Staffa turned. "Kaylla, see to getting everyone out. Don't leave anyone behind. If nothing else, the gravitational pulse will be merciful . . . and quick."

  The Lord Commander pivoted on his heel and strode purposefully back toward the caverns. Mac followed, issuing orders to his sergeants along the way.

  He cringed at the thought of going back into that stygian blackness. In the darkness overhead, stone shifted and grit trickled to patter on the rock flooring.

  "Sink," he prayed under his breath. "Don't cut loose yet. Just a little longer, Sink. Kill us outside! Please? Just a little longer!"

  Rysta looked up from the targeting comm. as Sinklar Fist walked onto the bridge. Indeed, what a different man he

  was. His incredible magnetism drew every eye on the bridge. From the perspective of years, Rysta studied him, noting the haggard tightness of those odd gray and yellow eyes, the set of exhaustion in his face. A glittering desperation possessed him now. He was a man driven and hounded—a dangerous man.

  Every time she saw him, he became someone different. Rysta shivered, feeling a chill play along her spine. A barely throttled pain gleamed in his eyes. His glance fell on her, bringing a tightness to her chest—the feeling of a stiletto poised over her heart.

  "We are clear Commander." There was a note of finality in his curious voice.

  "I want you to know, First, that I dislike hitting our people as much as you do. The orders came straight from Tybalt."

  The corners of his mouth quivered as his back arched slightly. Tension rippled across the busy bridge, tangible, menacing.

  He replied in a barely audible whisper that reminded her of a threat. "I know."

  Rysta didn't remember putting her hand on the worn service blaster at her belt. She did it instinctively, and the smooth butt of the weapo comforted her. Once before, in the eyes of an Etarian sand leopard, she'd seen that same look.

  His awkward, high-pitched voice startled her as he added, "You have your orders. Go ahead. Condemn my people. Kill them." He swallowed, mouth twitching, before he turned and walked stify from the bridge.

  Someone muttered behind her.

  Rysta took a deep breath and blew it out. "Power up. Targeting is locked on.

  Let's melt that rock and be on our way."

  The Weapons First called, "Main bombardment batteries are powering up."

  "Commander?" The Comm First called, "We've got people on the surface down there. They blew out a section of ountain."

  "Weapons First, you may fire when ready," Rysta ordered.

  "And if I get comm from the surface?" The Comm First asked.

  Rysta hesitated, looked back at the hatch Fist had just left through, and said, "Ignore it. Damn it, we've got our:t orders. Just kill them all."

  "Powered up!" Weapons First noted. "Batteries locked."j Rysta's breath hissed through her worn teeth. "Farewell,(•

  Lord Commander."

  CHAPTER 33

  Muscles pumping, Staff a struggled up the long slanting tunnel. He could sense MacRuder's strength sagging under the heavy battle comm they labored to carry to the surface. Distant light beckoned escape at the end of the square adit.

  Mac tripped and staggered, almost dropping the load.

  "Hold it a minute." Staffa settled the heavy piece of machinery to the cut stone as MacRuder slumped. The Regan hung his head, gasping pants torn from a strained throat.

  "Outta steam," MacRuder wheezed. "Sorry, didn't know I—"

  "Go on," Staffa added gently. "I can carry it from here."

  "But that's. . . ." MacRuder clamped his mouth shut as Staffa heaved, lifting the burden, arms barely spanning to either handle.

  "Go," Staffa grunted, pushing forward.

  MacRuder nodded, plodding ahead, keeping out of the way.

  Daylight stabbed blindingly even though the sun lay on the purple mountain rim of the western horizon. The crystal air soothed, a balm of freshness that carried no stink of death and combat, no metallic odor of blood or acrid sharpness of punctured intestines.

  Staffa fought for breath as he stumbled out of the shaft and settled the heavy equipment onto a mat of flowers, bruising the soft carpet of greenery.

  Practiced fingers flipped on switches, checking power, and folding out the antenna. He clutched the mike, adjusting the dish to send over 360.°

  "Rysta!" he called, eyes searching the heavens. "For God's sake, don't fire!

  This is the Lord Commander! We've got most of your Division here. We're outside. You hear?

  Don't fire!" His jaw muscles rippled as he waited for a response.

  Silence. "Rysta! Damn you, you can have me! You hear? I know w
hat Tybalt's orders are! By the Blessed Gods, what's the purpose of all these people dying for me?" His heart stuttered in his chest.

  "Listen, Rysta, why kill the better part of an entire Division? It's not worth it! I give you my word, I surrender! No tricks! Spare these people!"

  Frantically, he looked around, seeing the thick knot around him-mostly armored Regans. They watched him, hope shining on every face. Some held hands; some hugged each other. Others stood somberly, heads down, awaiting the inevitable.

  Here and there, people sat, fingers laced into plants and soil. Others, wounded, lay gasping, some beyond caring.

  "Rysta? Gods Rot you, answer me!"

  Across from him MacRuder panted, worry bright in his blue eyes. Kaylla chewed her lip, brow furrowed. Bruen held his face in his hands.

  "Rysta!" Staffa bellowed into the comm. "Answer!" MacRuder bent over the transmitter, studying the readouts. "It's sending. No doubt of that."

  Bruen pulled his head up; his hip hurt him, his bruised head was livid in the white sunlight. "I, too, will surrender. This was all my doing."

  "Rysta?" Staffa continued. "The Seddi leader, Magister Bruen, will surrender.

  Just don't kill your own people!" The muscles in his chest and shoulders bunched as he slammed a palm into the comm. "Damn it, you don't shoot after a surrender! Section fifty-four, paragraph eight of the Regan Military Field Manual orders you to cease fire!"

  He searched the skies, wondering.

  "Nothing," MacRuder said softly. "Nothing is coming in. Not from above anyway."

  "Rysta?" Staffa gritted. "If you want begging, all right, I'm begging!

  Whatever you want, you get." He closed his eyes, feeling his face go hot. That it should come to this, the Lord Commander begging.

  He thrust the mike at MacRuder. "You try. They're your people."

  As MacRuder's quavering voice beseeched the skies, Staffa walked off several steps and shook his head, waiting for that brief moment when the world turned upside down into oblivion.