The door slipped open, and Staffa pulled free before heading down the familiar corridor to his private quarters. He slapped the lock plate and waited while the double hatches of the air lock slid back.
Chrysla followed him into the room beyond. A fireplace dominated the far wall-hardly the furnishings expected inside a warship. She stood in awestruck silence, then hurried
to the huge ornate doors that stood on either side of the fireplace. She traced the elaborate carvings with reverential fingers. "The cathedral doors from Ashtan!" She smiled wistfully. "I remember as a child, touching the heads of the Blessed Gods. But then I rode on my father's shoulders. "
Staffa's smile died as he walked to the side of the room where the opulent dispenser had been set in the trophystudded wall. Goblets, sculpture, weapons of all sorts, hung behind gravity barriers-spoils of his campaigns.
Chrysla pivoted on her heel, taking in the room before she strode to the red leather couch beneath the Etarian sand. tiger's head and seated herself. "You didn't used to be so ostentatious. "
He poured two bulbs of Ashtan single malt and frowned as he walked over to hand her one. "After the Praetor kidnapped you, nothing seemed the same.
Looking back, I know I avenged myself on all of Free Space. I thought to clear most of this out, but Skyla . . . "
Her expression sobered. "Staffa, relax. It's all right. We've got a lot of baggage to sort through. You're nervous. You look like you're about to collapse. Sit down and talk to me. How long has it been since you've slept?"
"I don't know. Days." He dropped into one of the overstuffed grav chairs, gaze locked on the cut crystal of the drinking bulb. "I thought I'd killed you during the Myklenian attack. The Praetor told me . . - "
"He told you what he thought was the truth. For all he knew, I should have been dead." Her lips curled into a crafty smile. "Fact is, you did save me, Staffa. Only you could frighten the Praetor so badly that he'd forget his security. I got to talk to the captain of the Pylos. He gave me a pass. Just before your attack, I made my way to the escape pods." She averted her eyes.
"I had to . . . well, let's say I did what I had to to get by the officer in charge. I knew the Praetor would try to use me to buy you off."
She wiped at her nose, passion in her eyes. "I couldn't let him, Staffa. All those years, I knew you'd come eventually. So did he. 'As inevitable as gravity,' he'd say. I didn't care what you did to Myklene, I just wanted out-even if it meant death. "
"So you triggered one of the pods?"
Her fingers tightened on the drinking bulb. "I evacuated the second the alarm klaxons wailed."
Staffa exhaled, eyes closed as he recalled his actions that day. "I shot her apart, Chrysla. The second Marston hailed us and said the Practor was aboard, I started shooting. I couldn't face him, couldn't look into his eyes.
I thought I could kill him first. Rot him, he had as many lives as a Riparian eel."
"I didn't land so well, Lord Commander. Broke my leg when I hit dirt. Then I had to live in the aftermath of your conquest. The Sassans are pigs when it comes to governing a conquered people. "
"Those days are over."
Silence stretched. Chrysla cocked her head. "Tell me about Skyla Lyma. "
He took a deep breath. "Skyla grew up among the cribs on Sylene. Her mother worked the houses until her death. After that Skyla made do, running errands, cleaning, anything for a meal. When she turned twelve, one of the matrons sold her to a man. She killed him that night. Took to the streets. She saw Mac Rylee one day, admired his swagger, and cut his purse off his belt. When she handed it back to him, she said she could be of service to the Companions. Mac brought her aboard, and she worked her way up to Wing Commander. Then, after Myklene . . . after the Praetor broke the conditioning, I went a little crazy.
"
He glanced away, recalling, "She came after me, Chrysla. Risked her life and saved mine more than once. Now, I .
An unaccustomed heat rose at his collar.
Chrysla sipped her whiskey, a pensive look on her perfect features. "It's been twenty years, Staffa. I didn't return with the hope that we could start where we left off. We need time to clarify who and what we are. You've just found a part of yourself you didn't know existed, and you love Skyla Lyma. "
She slipped off the couch and knelt to place a hand on his. "And, yes, I see the uncertainty tearing you apart when you look at me-but the feeling I get is that you're seeing a ghost come to life."
He lowered his gaze, watching the swirls in the amber liquid. "You obsessed me for twenty years. I lived for you. Then when I thought I'd killed you . . . "
"You're literally dripping with guilt. Is that where it comes from?"
"Partially. You came to symbolize it. More than that, I lived with my victims out there in the desert. Realized what I'd done."
"The blame isn't all yours, Staffa. The Praetor bears a lion's share of it."
He lifted an eyebrow. "He's taken his own contribution to God Mind. 1, however, have come to understand the Seddi philosophy. I did what I did, Chrysla. I can't shift the responsibility-even knowing how the Praetor programmed my mind. I have to make my own atonement."
She tossed off her single malt and stood. With careful fingers, she turned the drinking bulb so the light glinted through it. 'For twenty years, I clung to a dream image of a Staffa kar Therma who would descend like a predatory bird and free me from my slavery." She studied him from the corner of her eye. "Now I don't know who you are, or even what I want. I make no claims, Staffa, beyond your protection. "
'You may have whatever you wish, Chrysla
"Will you let me work with Skyla? She's hurting, Staffa. I've only caught glimpses of her nightmares, but whatever Arta and Ily did to her, it will leave scars - "
He lurched unsteadily to his feet. "Arta Fera is a clone. An assassin created from your cells - She looks just like you, sounds like you."
"I know. Mac told me all about her." Chrysla tossed the drinking bulb up, catching it neatly. "Let's say I have a score to settle with Arta." She paused. "And I want to get to know this woman you love."
"'Chrysla, are you sure you-"
"Do you doubt my ability as a psychologist, Staffa? Or just my motives?"
He placed the drinking bulb on the counter next to the dispenser, then faced her. "Do you know how serious the situation in Free Space is?"
"I do. Mac filled me in."
"Mac seems to have taken very good care of you." "He's a kind and caring human being."
"He's barely more than a boy."
"Then you know little about him, Staffa. He's old beyond his years, and I think I hurt him more than he's ever been hurt before. " Her gaze shifted, a bittersweet sadness in her expression. "I miss him."
Her look haunted him, piercing through the lost years with reminders of when it had been directed at him.
She seemed to come back to the present and gave him a wistful smile. "May I work with Skyla?"
A feeling, like that of suffocation, led him to draw a deep breath. "Rotted Gods, I feel trapped! Yes! Help her! " Chrysla walked up to him-the image that of a million
lingering dreams. She hugged him, pulling him close. "Thank you, Staffa. I'll do the best for her that I can." Involuntarily, his lips lowered to hers, the kiss so sweet
and tender, ancient stirrings unwound from their slumbers, He would have kissed her again with an ever greater hunger, but she pulled back.
"Staffa, you're tired and harried. For your sake, and for Skyla's, don't make a decision you might regret later. We both need time. Let's not rush into anything." For an instant she traced the lines of his face, her touch featherlike and as reverent as that of a pilgrim at a shrine. A terrible longing grew in the depths of those wondrous amber eyes. Then the guarded wariness veiled her soul and she headed for the hatch, calling, "Good night, Staffa. "
After she'd left, he slumped, exhaustion eating to his very bones. "Good night, Chrysla."
He unsnapped his cl
oak and let it fall before he passed the decorated cathedral door to the sleeping quarters he'd shared with Skyla. He dropped onto the bedding, vacant stare focused on the past, on what might have been had it not been for the Praetor.
On the computer files floor, deep within the Regan Ministry of Internal Security, a bored STO sat in one of the comm officer's chairs and waited while a code breaking sequence chewed away at the security system that guarded Ily Takka's secrets.
As the program picked and prodded, occasional lights would flicker on the control panel and the monitors would dutifully inform the observer that yet another program had
begun its run. After another futile attempt, failure would be reported and yet another program initiated.
Thus, the STO barely looked up when a sequence of banks lit up above him.
Something new was being tried.
The thought never occurred to the STO that it might have been an outside order which initiated a search through the system.
CHAPTER 4
An antique hologram hung on the wall behind Marvin Hanks. There the visage of his great-great-grandfather stared out over the estate's common room with raptorial eyes. The old man had been thin-faced, mahogany-skinned, dyspeptic, and bald. He had also been the Phillipian leader who had first turned his eyes to the neighboring stars and given birth to the notion of Phillipian hegemony.
Some, in those long gone days of glory, had called the old man a pirate.
Others had thought him a patriot.
To Marvin, the old man had been the stuff of family legend. He'd been suckled on tales of Phillipian power, of the first conquest of rebellious planets, and of the glory which should have been Phillipian were it not for the infamous treachery of the Ty-balts and Rega.
Like a Riparian pin warble, the memory had eaten its way ever deeper into Hanks' soul, driving, aflame with pride in the lineage and honor that should have been his. Past glories, once missed, generally vanished forever. Yet, at this precise instant, when Hanks had just been elected to the Provisional Council of Elders, the advisory body which served at the Regan Administrator's will and pleasure, a miracle had occurred. In the fumbling confusion of the Regan fall, an opportunity might exist for those who would grab it.
Even as he thought, Marvin Hanks' comm buzzed.
" This- is Councilman Hanks, to whom am I speaking?" The face of the Administrator formed, the old woman distraught, wringing her hands.
"Councilman, thank the Blessed God. You must act immediately. I've received a communication from Rega, from the occupation forces there. Minister Takka has vanished. We're requested to look
for her. You know ... if she should seek to make planet here. To hide."
Hanks smiled, unpleasant memories of the Director of Internal Security lurking like poison in his memories. "I think I do see, Administrator. I think I can help, that is, if you're willing to send me a writ of Carte Blanche. Emergency powers for this period of instability. Do that, and I'll handle Internal Security for you. "
She nodded, the patrician lines of her face deepening. "It will be forthcoming, Councilman. And I welcome your assistance - I won't forget - "
He smiled, nodding plans, falling into place. "No, I'm sure you won't."
"It's not all that different from combat," Sinklar decided as he chewed on the end of his laser pen. He paced before the comm monitors that covered one entire wall in his personal quarters aboard Chrysla. Each of the monitors displayed different graphs, figures, and projections covering everything from starship manufacture to plastic curios for the tourist trade.
' 'I'll take your word for it, " Anatolia pulled her long blonde hair out of the way and leaned back. "I'm glad you can make sense out of this."
Sinklar threw his pen onto the desk and settled into the gravchair beside her.
The wall comm continued to spit out strings of numbers as it followed the different permutations Sinklar had input into the program to modify Staffa's data. If a fault lay within the program, some evidence should appear. To his experienced eye, the conclusions remained the same. Either they performed a miracle, or starvation was imminent. The empires could produce enough food to feed all the mouths, but how could they distribute it efficiently?
Sinklar pulled at his knobby nose, avoiding Anatolia's concerned gaze. On the far wall, the holo filled the niches with a Targan landscape while the odor of pines lingered.
Targa ... pines . . . death ... Makarta! "Sinklar? What about us?"
"Huh?" Phantoms stared back from the depths of his memory. Hundreds of good people-people who had trusted him-lay dead inside that accursed rock.
"What's next for us?"
"We might try legalizing cannibalism. That'll solve two problems at once. A: fewer mouths to feed, and B: something to put in the mouths that are left."
The dead in Makarta might have been the lucky ones.
"I meant about us, about you and me. Where do I fit?" He tore his attention away from the monitors, trying to change his mental orientation. "What are you talking about? "
Pain quickened in Anatolia's bright blue eyes. She wore spacer's whites, a baggy utilitarian garment covered with pockets. The suit detracted from the charms of her full bust, trim waist, and long legs. A tumble of golden hair, freshly washed and fluffed, fell to her mid-back, glinting in the light. Now she crossed her arms, brow lining with a frown.
She gave him a cool appraisal. "I'm a geneticist, not an economist. "
"I'm well aware of that. " Makarta continued to plague him. The terrible memories shaded out of the gray mist, seeking to re-form. Makarta had been his first mistaketrying to take it by frontal assault. How many mistakes had followed?
"You know, you surprise me sometimes. Sinklar, I have a career on Rega.
Theoretically, I should be able to walk back into the lab and go back to my studies. Ily's gone, and you've got Professor Adam under arrest. You don't need me anymore. "
Within Makarta's blasted tunnels and warrens, the dead lay in heaps, rotting.
Did the sightless eyes still stare into the darkness? Did flesh still cling to the bones? Did skeletal hands reach out in the dark?
"Sinklar, I can take a hint. How many times haven't you answered your comm when you knew it was me calling? Not only that, but you don't hear the tone in your voice when I'm irritating you."
"You're not irritating me," he insisted stubbornly. Mistakes that began at Makarta led up to that night on Rega when his testicles overloaded his brain.
He could see it as plain as sunlight. Ily had lifted her head, black eyes challenging as she stood naked before him. Images jumbled: Ily's raven hair cascading around him as she arched her back, tightening around him; the firmness of her breasts in his hands; her frantic undulations as she reached climax.
"You're gone again!" Anatolia cried, throwing her arms up and leaping from her seat to pace anxiously.
"I'm sorry. " . . . And after that night, Ily Takka had played him like a fool. Each time they'd been together, Sinklar had fallen deeper and deeper into her web of lies, sex, and deceit.
Anatolia shook her head. "I told myself it was the stress you've been under. I know what it's cost youto lose Rega, Sinklar. But I don't know if that's all of it. Maybe it's time for me to leave. "
Sinklar cocked his head, waving his hand as if to bat away the memories.
"Leave?"
She leveled a measuring stare at him. "I've heard your soldiers talk about Targa, about how you kept them alive. You gave them a dream to believe in and a cause to fight for. I know you loved Gretta, how her murder affected you. If you hadn't been hurting, hadn't been vulnerable and alone, Ily would never have blinded you to what she was doing. Rot you, Sinklar, what's happening to you?"
"I'm finding my limits."
"Limits? Is that what you believe?" She shook her head, tears at the corners of her eyes. "You've got a decision to make. Either you can wallow in your defeat, and fail all of your troops-and me-or you can face your mistakes and tackle the fu
ture head-on. "
At the scorn in her words, he ground his teeth. She didn't understand.
"Despite my reservations, I fell in love with you, Sinklar. " Anatolia knotted her fists, lips quivering. "I won't stay around to watch you self-destruct."
"What are you talking about? You can't just . . . I mean, I need you! You keep me .
"Want to finish that?"
He jumped nervously to his feet. "You keep me sane. I got you into a lot of trouble down there. I want to make up for it, repay you somehow."
Her expression cooled and she carefully straightened her clothing, running the fabric through her slim fingers. "I see. Well, don't concern yourself, Sink.
The scorecard's
even. " She walked slowly to the hatch, eyes on the floor. "Don't worry about any security for me. I'm not going to make a peep to anyone about what I know.
You have the file on your DNA, and the sample I took from Staffa is here on Chrysla.
"Wait! What are you-" "Good luck, Sinklar."
He stared in disbelief as she walked out the hatch, startling Chrysla as the woman approached in the hall. "Anatolia!" Sinklar called, "I .
She turned. "Yes?"
He glanced at the startled Chrysla, and rekindled more memories, those of Arta Fera, amber eyes glazed as she knelt over Gretta's decomposing body. The words he had been about to say evaporated in his throat.
As if she read his indecision, Anatolia laughed to herself, called, "Take care, Sink," and continued down the corridor to her quarters.
Sinklar gritted his teeth backing away, mentally repeating, This woman is not Arta. Her name is Chrysla. She's your mother, for God's sake!
"I could come back later," Chrysla told him awkwardly. Sinklar wavered, desperate to race after Anatolia, then exhaled and slapped the bulkhead. "No, it's all right. What can I do for you?"
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather postpone this?" Chrysla glanced meaningfully toward Anatolia's hatch. "I'm not exactly running a perfect record for meetings today. "
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