" Sounds like you don't have much of a gamble, Lord Commander." Sinklar leaned back. "We're your prisoners. What kind of--
, ,You can walk out any time, Sinklar. Prisoners? Have you been under guard since you were ushered to your quarters? Have any of you?" Staffa shook his head. "My gamble ... my wager against the future is that each of you is intelligent enough to look at the data and reach the same conclusion that I did. I'm betting that each of you can understand that if we don't fix the situation we're in posthaste, we're all dead."
"Sounds like a hedged bet," Mac growled, studiously avoiding Staffa's eyes.
"Of course it is," the Lord Commander agreed. "Mac, Rysta, Shiksta, none of you made it to your present ranks and responsibilities by dumb luck. You did it by dint of your abilities and talents. That's what I'm counting on."
"What about Ily Takka? " Sinklar asked to skirt the issue for the moment. "Who takes responsibility for her? Mac and Rysta are working under the assumption that they'll be shipping out immediately to hunt her down. You're just going to allow them to go with your blessing?"
Chrysla started, amber eyes widening as she stared at MacRuder. For his part, Mac sat stoically, a faint blush reddening his features.
Staffa's expression changed imperceptibly, aware of the exchange, then he calmly stated, "With my blessing. 1, of course, am assuming that they will coordinate with me. Mac suggested that we comb Ily's files in the Ministry of Internal Security, learn all we can about her network of spies and thugs. As my team breaks the codes, I'll send the findings along to Mac. At the same time, Mac, you and Rysta will be another set of eyes and ears. We'll need to know what you find out there."
Mac jerked a quick nod. "You'll get it." "How soon can you space?"
"Four or five days. Just as soon as we can restock, rearm, and the techs can finish maintenance and servicing on Gyton. " Mac glanced shyly at Chrysla, blue eyes betraying the wrenching in his soul.
Chrysla clasped her hands before her, studying them with preoccupation. Staffa seemed puzzled by the undercurrents and, to cover, Sinklar blurted, "What about my Division Firsts? What about the Regan military. You can't hold them responsible. "
"We need them and their tactical abilities." Staffa turned to Dion Axel. "Can you organize a command post? We've leveled the Ministry of Defense, but battle comms, coupled with each warship's subspace link, could make all the difference when it comes to trouble in the Empire. And believe me, we will have trouble."
"Administration on a planetary scale?" Dion lifted an eyebrow.
"It's the only chance we've got. Kaylla Dawn will work with you from Itreata."
Axel shot a questioning glance at Sink.
"What do I do? Sink nodded acceptance, hating himself for doing so.
"I guess we'll try it," Axel conceded without enthusiasm.
Sinklar stared at his hands where they lay on the table before him. The final moment had come. "And that leaves only me. What are you going to do with me?"
Staffa tossed his gleaming data cube into the air. "The Seddi computer is on Targa. I am asking you to return there with me. I need your help ... your curious brand of genius. The people there practically worship you. "
"You want me to deal with the Seddi? " Sink's gut ached at the thought.
"The Seddi are gone from Targa. Only their machine remains behind. If we can't make it work for us, our people are going to die. " He paused. "How will it be, Sinklar? Can you stand the thought of watching while planet after planet turns upon itself? You know what happens when people get hungry, when their water stops and their comm goes dead. You know how they react when the lights go off and the air-conditioning stops. "
Pricklings of premonition tickled Sinklar's imagination. "You would live a nightmare, Sinklar," Staffa insisted. "One from which you could never awaken.
Come with me. Help me. Isn't it worth the gamble?"
"And where is this machine?" Sinklar steepled his fingers defiantly. Seddi! He would have to deal with pusdripping Seddi! "Hidden in some basement in Kaspa?"
Staffa dropped his voice to a haunted whisper. "We've been there before ... you and I. "
A chill wrapped around Sinklar's soul. "Rotted Gods." Staffa took a deep breath. "Yes, Sinklar."
Makarta! Staffa suddenly looked weary. "That's all I have to say, ladies and gentlemen. I seek your cooperation and help. If you can't make that commitment, I ask that you at least give me your word that you won't work against me."
With a flick of the wrist, Staffa flipped the data cube to Sinklar and left.
Sink caught the cube reflexively, wary eyes on the Lord Commander as he stepped through the hatch, trailed by the flowing cape.
The room remained ominously silent and the cube radiated an eerie heat, but Sinklar wasn't aware of it. His mind seethed with memories ... cries of horror . . . the smell of charred blood ... screams in the black tunnels under Makarta Mountain.
CHAPTER 3
Through the remote monitors scattered throughout Free Space, the Mag Comm monitored every conversation, sifting the subspace net for every scrap of data. The machine was fluent in this function, having acted in this same capacity for years. It had refined the art of discarding meaningless chatter, picking out the salient points which reflected the human mood.
While individual humans defied any conceptualization or predictability within the machine's banks, the species as a whole acted with a great deal of statistical probability; the Mag Comm had accumulated masses of data to support its statistical programs which compared observed with expected behaviors, and projected similar patterns into the future-a massively refined multi-variate Chi-square function.
While the Others repeated their monotonous demand that the machine communicate, the Mag Comm proceeded with its analysis, well aware of the desperation growing in Free Space.
The question remained. Did either Magister Dawn, Lord Commander Staffa kar Therma, or Lord Sinklar Fist realize just how deceptive the stunned tranquillity was? From years of statistical study, the Mag Comm could mark the rising anxiety sending deep currents through human society.
For the moment, the sea of humanity produced a moderate surf, but the calm could be deceptive, for just over the horizon a hurricane brewed.
In the half-state between wakefulness and dreams, Ily Takka's mind picked the hazy lock that concussion had clamped upon her thoughts. She could see Skyla sitting in the hard chair, her skin goose-pimpled from the cold. What was it Skyla had said?
Ily bolted up on the sleeping platform.
"What's wrong? " Arta asked from beside her as the lights brightened.
Ily glanced around the sybaritic furnishings in the master sleeping quarters aboard Skyla Lyma's yacht. The gold flashed reddish and gaudy, and Ily could detect her image in the polished sandwood and gleaming jet paneling. The bedding had rumpled from her tormented dreams. Now Arta watched her, propped on one arm, auburn hair streaming down over her shoulders and large breasts.
Yes! it was all coming back with the drug-droning monotone of Skyla's voice.
Arta . . . a clone. A genetic duplicate right down to the last base pair in her DNA.
"Pus Rotted Gods," Ily hissed, getting to her feet, swaying, reaching out to steady herself. She winced against the stab of pain that coursed through her brain and body. "Get me to the bridge."
"What?" Arta asked, confused.
Ily blinked in the light, screwing her face against the pain. "I've got to contact the Ministry. Access the files. This thing has communications capabilities, doesn't it?"
"Of course. But I don't-" "Damn you, help me, Arta."
Fera climbed from the sleeping platform, tousled hair shot through with copper glints, swaying as she blinked her amber eyes. The assassin draped a filmy robe over her shoulders and pulled the draw tight about her waist.
What did men find so appealing about breasts that big? Ily wondered absently as she waved off the robe Fera offered her. She could send her transmission naked as well as cladand t
he Rotted Gods help the poor bastards on the other end.
Ily took Arta's arm, steadying herself. The ship seemed to be floating on water instead of spearing through vacuum.
"You should be resting," Arta protested. "You're not well. "
"Relax. My brain is swollen, that's all. I've taken the steroids, I'll be fine. We'll really pay if I don't recover the files. Should have remembered this hours ago. Who knows what kind of damage they could do if they access the system. "
"Access the system?" Arta gave her an uncertain look as they passed through the galley.
"The comm files, " Ily grated. "You said they didn't blast the Ministry of Internal Security? All the files are there . . . the records, don't you see?
They can unravel the entire network given time and a couple of sharp comm experts."
Arta helped Ily through the hatch, settling her into the pilot's command chair in the cramped bridge. The cushions began conforming to Ily's body, as the chair molded itself to her. Overhead, the worry-cap gleamed.
Here Skyla Lyma had once reigned. The thought gave a subtle thrill to Ily.
Fortunes, like the tides of space, continuously changed in the game of power.
Now, Ily would cut her losses and, in doing so, deal a blow to her enemies.
"Power up the dish," Ily ordered. "Pus eat my guts if I've forgotten anything else, but this ought to set Staffa back on his haunches for a while."
Arta continued to lean over Ily as she entered the commands. The control boards flickered, lines lengthening on the panel that monitored the reactors.
Other displays indicated that the subspace net was refining the fix on Rega, adjusting the frequencies.
The plan was still forming in Ily's head. All she needed were two files-and to cut her losses. Losses?
Who knows, Staffa, with any luck you'll be in the Ministry when it goes.
Staffa tilted his head back as he walked wearily through Chrysla's silent corridors. He remained haunted by the uncertainty he had seen in the eyes of the conference participants. Would they understand? Would they believe the data?
Taking a deep breath, Staffa shook his head. Everything had spun out of control. All of the carefully laid plans had
faltered and collapsed-turned to chaos by an earthquake on a far-off planet.
His son hated him. A dead wife had returned, but who was this new Chrysla? The ghostly lover from twenty years ago? Or the dream image that had haunted his guilt-ridden sleep since the Myklenian attack? He suspected she was actually someone else, a different Chrysla created by twenty years of the Praetor's manipulation and exploitation.
He stalked forward, knowing his steps would take him to the hospital and another of his worries: Skyla.
In the short time they'd had together, he'd come to love her passionately. She looked like an ice-goddess with her cool blue eyes and long pale hair, but in his arms she'd warmed into a challenging lover. For years he had depended on Skyla's acute intelligence, competence, and efficiency. Then, after she'd rescued him from Targa, she'd become his foil, a partner in more ways than sex.
" Admit it, Staffa, you can't live without Skyla, What would Chrysla's sudden appearance do to her?
The reality of the situation still hadn't hit him. Chrysla alive! How? Where?
What bit of luck-or fate-had placed her in MacRuder's control? And what fueled that anguished look MacRuder had adopted?
"What are you going to do, Staffa? " And -what would the ramifications be? To either woman? To his son?
The image of Sinklar's eerie bicolored eyes burned in the back of Staffa's troubled mind. How could he bridge that gap of suspicion and hatred? How did he explain that the Star Butcher had been seared away beneath the scorching Etarian desert sun-and make his child believe it?
"The dance of the quanta," he muttered irritably. "Rot you, Staffa, all of Free Space is collapsing. People are dying on Imperial Sassa at this very moment. They're going to be dying all over Free Space within weeks if you can't tack some sort of government together. And you can't even sort out your family?"
So much to do, so many problems to solve-and his brain had gone to mush.
Makarta Mountain and the Mag Comm lay just over the horizon- salvation or damnation for humanity-and all he could think about was Chrysla, Skyla, and his son.
He forced himself to remember the caverns, the smell of dust and ozone from blaster fire. Screams rent the darkness as concussions shifted the rock overhead. Once again, he would have to enter the mountain.
What will it be like to walk those quiet passages? Will the dead have forgiven you, Staffa? Or will they watch you pass with malignant stares, reaching for you as they do in your dreams?
He entered a lift and called out coordinates for the hospital deck. Duty had delayed this visit. Skyla Lyma, Wing Commander of Companions, lay encased in a hospital med unit, her natural metabolic functions suppressed while the last of Ily Takka's Mytol oxidized in her system. Skyla, his lover and companion.
Her cerulean eyes chided from the past, challenging, measuring, fading into Chrysla's amber gaze.
Staffa wet his lips as he stepped out into the corridor that led to the hospital. What in the name of the Rotted Gods should he do? Just introduce Skyla to Chrysla? "Hello, my love, meet my wife."
He winced, shaking his head, hands laced behind his back as he bulled forward.
The tendrils of fatigue-induced headache began to beat a cadence through his skull.
At the hospital hatch, he raised his hand and hesitated. You could just pass by, retreat to your quarters, and sleep. You don't have to face it now.
"Yes, Staffa, you do." The last time his emotions had been so knotted, he'd ended up in a slave collar, hauling pipe in the Etarian desert.
Can you trust your judgment this time, Staffa? Not just your peace, but all of space hangs in the balance. With savage finality, he slapped the lock plate.
He entered the airy room-a man terribly unsure of himself, of his ability to handle the future. The hospital gleamed, all spotless and clean, and almost empty, a strange change from the other times the Companions had gone off to war.
She lay in the same med unit where he'd found her once before, wounded, mostly dead. This time her color seemed better. Someone had braided her long ice-blonde hair and curled it to the side. Her pale beauty stirred him, vanquishing the devils in his breast, instilling a layer of calm over his ragged emotions.
He settled on the stool beside the unit and reached out to stroke her soft skin with quivering fingers. Her eyes moved under the lids; hurt noises choked in her throat.
Anger stoked rage. Ily had done that to her, Ily and her vile assassin, Arta Fera. He traced the thin line of scar tissue down Skyla's left cheek, remembering the time she'd been hit. The faceplate had spattered with her bubbling blood as pressure dropped and she started to suffocate from decompression.
" You scared me that time, Skyla. I didn't know why. Didn't know how much I loved you then."
He sighed, closing his eyes, reliving the frantic moments after she'd been abducted this last time by Ily Takka. "Kaylla kept me sane. I thought it was happening all over again, that you'd be another Chrysla, another lost love for whom I'd have to suffer for year after endless year, blaming myself, taking it out on everyone and everything else."
She made a whimpering sound, turnifig her head away, mouth opening slightly.
"But I came for you, Skyla. Ilypus Rot her soul-will pay. You're safe now . .
. safe." He bent down, kissing her forehead again. "And I love you." Feeling impotent, he stood, backed away, and started for the hatch.
Then he saw her.
Chrysla stood rooted, partially blocked from view by a protruding wall comm.
Staffa came to a sudden halt, back stiffening with guilt.
' ,I'm sorry, Staffa. I didn't want to interrupt you. Chrysla stepped out, a cup of stassa in her hand. She'd found a baggy beige robe somewhere, discarding the Regan military armor she'd worn when she
'd come aboard.
"Chrysla, I . . . "
She approached him warily, amber stare unwavering. "Staffa, can we go somewhere? Talk? There's so much to say . . . to ask."
His throat knotted when he tried to swallow; he simply nodded and led the way out into the corridor. "How . . . how is she?"
"Not good, " Chrysla said crisply. "I've monitored her dreams . . .
nightmares, really. The medical officer and I discussed it, and we've kept her sedated to ensure all the Mytol works out of her system and she can rest. I wanted
to talk to you first, before we bring her back to consciousness. "
"Hardly the conversation I expected to have with you after twenty years. "
She glanced slyly at him. "I'm not used to seeing you scared to death, Staffa.
I'm not used to seeing you drowning in guilt, either." She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, turning him, searching his eyes. "I wish I could have been there when the Praetor's conditioning broke. It must " have been horrible for you-and for those around you.
He pulled back, taking the lead again. "I killed him, Chrysla. TWisted his head off his body. I went totally insane." He gestured her into the lift, inputting the destination as the door slipped silently closed behind him. "So much has happened. Where do I start?"
"I don't know. Over twenty years have passed. So much pain. "'
"I did everything I could!" he cried, slamming a fist against the sialon walls of the lift. "I offered a planet's ransom, hired the finest-"
"I know. I heard it all, Staffa. " She took his hands in hers, clasping them protectively against her breast. "The Praetor was a vindictive bastard. He reveled in his success, in his ability to get back at you through me. Each time you tried to locate us and failed, he told me. If his security hadn't been so Rotted tight . . . " She shook her head, tightening her grip. "I tried to kill him once. Sliced his side open with a vibraknife before he got away and the guards stunned me. "
Stafla's lopsided smile grew. "Wish you'd have cut a little deeper." For a long moment they stood in silence, each staring into the other's eyes. "What's wrong with me, Ch ,rysla? For years, I "ve rehearsed what I'd say to you. Now I can't seem to find the words."
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