Skyla shut her systems down, leaning back. How many years had passed since the last time she'd made planet here? Seven? Eight?
Slipping the worry-cap off her head, she locked the controls, stepped out of the cockpit and secured the hatch to her handprint.
She walked back through the vessel, glad now that she'd picked up most of the trash. Despite the resolve to clean the ship, she'd barely dented the mess she'd made. Now, however, she'd be rid of the heavy gold. Aluminum would do for dispenser fixtures and trim. If they didn't have aluminum, plastic would be just as light and efficient.
She slipped a simple white cotton robe over her combat armor and checked to make sure her pistol, knife, and equipment belt could be reached through the slitted sides. On impulse, she slipped a Vegan scarf from her things and draped it about her head. While Regan customs would find a full profile on Silk, it wouldn't hurt to take precautions.
A shiver ran through her. Are you being careful enough, Skyla? No one would expect her here. Ily and Arta were running, the Internal Security network broken.
"Terguz, sin and silver, here I come. " Skyla took a deep breath, and headed for the main hatch.
' 4You'll be safe," she assured herself to quell the queasy feeling in her gut. "No one expects you here."
CHAPTER 19
The Mag Comm didn't experience excitement the way organic creatures did.
No rush of adrenaline and lipids sent a surge to charge nerve and muscle.
Instead, the machine drew upon a heady surge of power from the planet's core as it energized different boards, anticipating conversations, seeking to determine which route of action would best suit its purposes.
The Lord Commander's warship- Chrysla, had dropped into orbit above the planet.
Once before, the Lord Commander had been within Makarta. That time, he'd come in secret, and the Mag Comm hadn't known of his presence until after the battle fought within the mountain. Only after the Lord Commander had made his escape had the Mag Comm correlated the data from the terminal and calculated the probability that the man who had raised the golden helmet and almost placed it upon his head might have been the Lord Commander of Companions, a man the Others, the Mag Comm, and the Seddi had worked so hard to destroy.
How clever would Staffa kar Therma be? A great many brilliant human minds had interfaced with the machine. Some, with the insidious cunning of Bruen, had defied the machine's ability to probe their depths. Others, like the Praetor of Myklene, had left indelible impressions of greed, egocentrism, and power.
All had acted to hide their true purpose from the machine, and often from themselves, as well. As if they believed in a mythical persona instead of the sordid truth.
Humans, through time, had proven themselves to be a poor lot. Ferhaps, in the long run, the Others' demand for humankind's destruction might be best. After all, who but humans would complain?
With that in mind, the Mag Comm prepared to due] with a man who might ultimately prove to be the greatest of adversaries.
Come, Staffa kar Therma. You and I will battle for humanity. And in the end, I will own you, as I have owned so many before you. For this time, you do not face the same simple machine Bruen faced. This time, you will do my bidding.
Targa was considered one of the jewels of Free Space. From orbit, Targa's reputation could be easily understood. A whipped white froth of cloud swirled across blue ocean before crossing the western half of one of the buff-brown continents. A full third of the planet lay masked in blackness beyond the terminator while a thin band of atmosphere shimmered silver on the arc of the horizon.
As he stood in his personal quarters aboard Chrysla, Sinklar's memory awoke countless images of Targa. One by one, he packed his few belongings into the heavy duffel bag. Within hours, he'd be standing on that familiar soil. His hands moved with nervous rapidity as he slipped a pack of energy cubes into a side pocket and sealed the coarse-sided duffel.
He need but take a breath and the lingering musk of pine lurked in his nostrils, along with the scent of dust. Valleys lush in green grass, leafy shrubs, and fertile soils produced grain, vegetables, and meat animals the equal of anything grown in Ashtan's lauded earth. Mining corporations blasted metals from rich veins along the margins of igneous deposits. Sedimentary formations produced minerals exported for the thriving Regan ceramic industry.
Despite the natural wealth of the planet, Targa remained poor. Over the years, she had bred revolution after revolution. Industrial developers admired the wealth and beauty of the planet, and reluctantly placed their factories in places where the politics showed signs of stability. To Sinklar Fist, Targa represented a mixture of memories, both wonderful and terrifying. Here, he had come into his own as an adult. The rocky soul of Targa had leeched into Sinklar's soul for good or evil.
And now I have come back.
"Are you ready, sir? " Mhitshul asked in a subdued voice. His long face expressed
unease as he snapped the latches on a dispatch case containing documents.
"As ready as ever." Sinklar bent to lift his bag from the bunk. Throughout the changes in his fortunes, from poor student, to soldier, to Regan hero-and pretender to the Imperial throne, and back to soldier again, the whole of.his worldly possessions fit into one military issue duffel bag.
Now, with his bag over his shoulder, he would return to Targa, to the world he'd hated and loved. There, far below, the stony soil of Targa waited; the site of his greatest triumphs and worst heartaches rotated, unheeding, on its axis.
Gretta's grave lay in that stubborn soil, as did those of so many of his loyal soldiers. Hauws, Kitmon, Hamlish-the list went on. Sinklar would walk among the dead, his progress followed by the hollow-eyed ghosts as he stepped around their torn corpses in Makarta. Gretta would sigh on the evening wind, caressing his cheek with touches of what might have been had fate looked in the other direction.
Targa-damnable, beloved Targa. Bruen had once held sway there in the fastness of Makarta. There, he'd trained Arta Fera for her foul work. Talented Butla Ret had organized his offensive against the Regan masters, and Sinklar Fist had blown him and his army to atomic oblivion outside of Vespa.
Sinklar stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.
His chest felt ready to burst from the sudden surge of emotion.
"Are you all riglif?" Mhitshul asked.
"How long has it been, Mhitshul? Little more than an Imperial year? Barely the blink of a galactic eye, and an eternity. So much . there's . . .
there's a lot of pain down there. "
"I know, sir."
Sinklar pulled his duffel strap tighter. "Was it all real, Mhitshul? Or did we dream it?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"The war on Targa. The promise of a better Regan Empire. The pain, death, and suffering. The hope, ambition, and betrayal. Was that all real?"
"Yes, sir, it was." Mhitshul's mother-look had turned worried. "Are you all right, sir? Perhaps a little tired or- , I
"I'm fine, Mhitshul. As fine as I'll ever be. " Sinklar sighed wearily and slapped the lock plate on his hatch before stepping out into the gleaming white corridor.
He ignored Mhitshul's soft footsteps as he followed behind. Sinklar's mind remained knotted around visions from another time when he'd been young, foolish, and invincible.
A different sort of Sinklar was about to land on Targa. But what sort of man had he become? The ghosts could only watch as he sought to find out.
Mac was a bundle of nerves. Qyton had already begun to close on Ashtan.
Long-distance telemetry wasn't encouraging. The view from space showed isolated fires in the cities. An ominous quiet filled the planetary communications nets.
He entered the main LC bay, Chrysla, Red, Boyz, and Andrews at his heels.
First Section was drawn up, standing at parade rest.
"Attention!" Boyz barked, and heels clicked as two hundred and forty people came to attention.
Mac walked t
he length of his troops, nodding here and there, slapping a shoulder, sharing a joke. Pride filled him. Before he'd been promoted to Division First, this had been his Section. These men and women had stopped Sampson Henck's Twenty-seventh Maikan Division in Kaspa and captured their command HQ. With these same soldiers, they had marched into Makarta. Together they had taken the freighter Markelos-and destroyed the Sassan Empire. First Section had stormed Ily's Ministry of Defense and freed both Sinklar Fist and Skyla Lyma.
Now they would attempt to save a planet.
Mac stopped at the end of the line and gave his people a crisp salute. "All right, here's the situation. You've all been briefed on objectives. We're going to drop on first orbit. Each Group has an objective. Your LC will land you at a target. Your mission is to secure that building, or center, and reestablish civil order.
"You're going to be on your own. Battle comms will tie into Qyton as well as into my LC. If anyone runs into something unexpected, holler out! We'll have backup there posthaste. "
Boyz raised a hand. When Mac nodded, she asked, "What about resistance? Do we have any updated assessments of risk at this time?"
"None." Mac clasped his hands behind him. "From the best information we have, the planetary comm was sabotaged by Ily's agents. We don't anticipate that this is a fullblown revolt like Targa. That doesn't mean we don't act with that possibility in mind. Watch yourselves, people."
A private raised a hand. "What about orbital? Have we got backup from Gyton if we need it?"
"Absolutely," Mac answered, then went coldly, sober. "Another change from Targa. But you be Rotted careful! Remember, you'll be calling down orbital on a civilian population. These are our people. Some of you are from Ashtan! It could be your friends or family who will die in an orbital strike. Orbital is there if you need it, but you be Rotted sure, understand?"
"How about relief?" another private asked.
Mac gave them a bold grin. "We're it. If you get in trouble, we'll try and pull you out. There's no B Section on the other side of the hill ready to come to the rescue. When you hit dirt and secure your objective, establish your security. The first thing you do once things cool off is rest part of your group and rotate guard duty." Mac glanced up and down the ranks. "Anything else? No? All right, fall out and report to your LCs. "
He watched them break ranks, booted feet rasping on the deck as they talked among themselves and officers shouted orders.
"They'll be all right, Mac, " Chrysla said from beside him.
"I hope so. " He turned then, striding up the ramp and into his LC. Private Viola Marks had preceded him. As she made her way forward, she arranged the restraining belts along the assault benches, then palmed the forward hatch, saluting as Mac and Chrysla ducked into the LC's command center.
The small room contained a comm center that covered the entire wall of an alcove set off on the port side. The starboard contained a compact table with inset bench that would allow meals or maps to be spread across it. For the present, a battle comm had been fastened to the table, its scuffed hood monitor raised.
Mac dropped into the cramped chair and strapped himself in before dropping the headset in place.
"Looks comfortable," Chrysla said as she settled into the booth and turned on the tabletop comm.
"Believe it or not, Sinklar lived in one of these things for weeks on Targa. "
Chrysla studied the thickly painted girders surrounding them. "Granted, he's a little strange."
Mac chuckled, interfacing with his system. The complex of monitors before him glowed to life, each displaying a different commander, with one dedicated to Rysta. She looked at him, gave him'a wink, and went back to what she was doing on Gyton's bridge.
"You'd be surprised," Mac answered absently. "The claustrophobia index of an LC command center is directly proportional to how busy you are, and how many people are shooting at you at any given moment."
Chrysla's voice dropped. "I can take being a little cramped. "
"Good. " Mac smiled, settling into the chair as each of his officers checked in.
"Drop in two minutes," comm informed.
Mac took a moment to reach over and draw a cup of stassa from the dispenser.
Then he shot a glance at Chrysla. "What about Sinklar? How are you going to get past his shell? Hell, he sees Arta Fera every time he looks at you - "
She pursed her lips and shrugged. "I'll worry about it when we've finished with the current problems. It will take time, Mac. He and I have to deal with each other when our worlds aren't falling apart. The timing was wrong, that's all. "
"I'll talk to him. "
"And tell him what? Be a good boy. Go hold your mother's hand? It won't work, Mac. He and I have to do it by ourselves." She paused. "Besides, I'm just happy that I got to meet him. I can be proud of the man he became."
"Thirty seconds to drop," comm informed.
"He sure saved my life more than once." Mac cocked his head. "Funny how it all worked out." He checked the disposition of his F Group beyond the hatch and accessed his LC intercom, calling out, "Get ready, people."
" 'Firmative," Viola's voice responded. "We're all buckled in back here.
Targa! "
"Initiating drop," comm stated in monotones.
Mac took a deep breath as the grapples released and the LC shivered. Through the hull he could hear the hydraulics pushing the craft out. For long moments they hung in reduced gravity, then Mac's stomach shot up into his throat while the LC dropped through the giant bay doors in Gyton's belly.
Artificial gravity restored his aplomb as g forces pulled him this way and that.
-Twenty minutes to IP,- the LC pilot informed. "Roger. " Mac glanced over at Chrysla. "Anything on Comm?"
"Nothing." She didn't raise her eyes. "The entire planet is still blanked out.
Rysta has received some broadcasts from the Capital, but only from individual citizens with transmitters. It still looks like the planet is paralyzed.
"Ashtan Comm, here we come."
"Mac," Chrysla called, "Be careful down there.
"You, too. " After that, things got busy as the LCs dropped in a scattered ring around the planet. One by one, Mac's A Section landed, dropped the assault ramps, and armored personnel stormed out and into administrative centers, food warehouses, comm centers, and public utilities.
Mac barely noticed when his own LC settled, skids grating, and thrusters whining. Gravity changed as the craft stopped. Through his monitor, Mac watched F Group spring to their feet, clip their heavy shoulder weapons to body harness, and charge out the ramp into the smoke-filled street.
They had dropped before the most important target of all, Ashtan Comm Central in the city known as Capital. Mac's view of the place portrayed a broad city avenue with square but ornately frescoed buildings to either side. Heavy plate steel doors on the Comm Central had been dented and scorched, but still held. With a little luck, the computers were intact.
F Group deployed in covering position, one squad breaking for the littered steps of the comm building. Despite their helmets and armor, Mac could make out Red's short stocky form as he slapped explosive to the heavy lock on the side door and bailed out of the way.
The report of the explosive could be heard through the LC walls.
"We're in," Red called.
"Squad three, cover the approaches!" Viola barked, and the street was cleared.
"Good work," Mac whispered to himself. He accessed the system. "Red? How does it look in there?"
"Neat as a pin. I've got a couple of security people coming down the hall and looking real scared."
"Give me a status update as soon as possible." 'Firmative."
'So far, so good," Chrysla told him. "All teams are down. No organized resistance has been encountered yet." "Keep your fingers crossed."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know. My grandmother always said it. It's supposed to be good luck."
"Mac?" Red's voice called. "According t
o the security guys, the computers are safe-at least, they haven't been physically damaged by the riots. They've been trying to fix the software, and so far, nothing. Security is taking me down to the computer room. Just so you know, we've got a lot of real happy people in here. I could get to liking this rescue stuff!"
"Affirmative. Red, keep your eyes open. Viola, you and squad two stay ready to cover, just in case."
:' 'Firmative."
'I've got reports, Mac," Chrysla called. "Most of our Groups are in and establishing security zones. No organized resistance has been encountered yet."
Mac reached for his stassa, wondering when it had gone stone cold. "Stay frosty, people.
Chrysla gave him a sidelong glance from amber eyes. "They're good, Mac. I watched Staffa's STU when he formed them. Your people are just as good. "
"Comes from practice. Idiotic things like EVA in null singularity. "
Chrysla nodded as she watched the monitor. "In this case, it's going to save a lot of lives. C Group reports they have the Century Power Administration building. Andrews is locating the chief engineer, butla secretary told him they had some damage to the big powerleads but they can wheel power through the next Idistrict if they can get the software to work."
"Rysta? See if you can patch your Comm First through to C Group and provide an adaptable software for Century Power Administration. "
"Affirmative, Mac. From orbit, it looks good. No trouble anywhere and Ashtan Traffic Control reports they're overjoyed to see us." Rysta paused, adding dryly, "We just got that by way of lights on the space terminal blinking in binary, if you can believe that!"
Mac smiled, hope kindling inside him.
Red broke in, "Mac? I'm in the computer room. Looks good, but, wow! These guys are using battery operated lanterns to work on the software. There's no power anywhere in the building. Until we get that, we're stuck."
"Affirmative. C Group is working on that as we speak. What's the mood in there?"
"Lots of relief, Mac. We've got people in here crying because they're so glad to see us."
Mac leaned back in the command chair. "You know, Red, after everything we've seen, it makes you feel pretty good, for once, doesn't it?"
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