Relic of Empire

by W. Michael Gear

  Anatolia stared up bravely. “Minister, you can check the files. My F, specimen was made up-a cross between Ashtan and a computer-generated random pattern. You won’t find anything like it anywhere.”

  Ily shifted her hard gaze. “Do you know anything about it, Sinklar?”

  “ Just what she told you.”

  “And you know who her Seddi assassins were?” Sink straightened his legs, crossing them at the

  ankles. “My parents. A long time ago, she asked if I would mind. I told her

  I didn’t.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it,” Anatolia asserted. “It was a theoretical study in population genetics that I thought would show enough rigor and initiative to get me appointed to the Lab in a permanent’position.”

  “Where is the printout you took from your desk?” Anatolia spread her arms. “Somewhere in the substructure. We were running, being shot at. I ditched it just after we escaped from the shuttle platform.”

  Ily made a chiding sound. “You could really do much better than that, I’m sure. Well, no matter, the Mytol will get it out of you in the end. “

  “What do you want?” Sink demanded, hackles rising. “Let her go. She’s just a friend of mine. What are you really after, Ily? It’s me, isn’t it? You prove to me that Anatolia’s free to go and be left alone, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “Sink,” Anatolia said carefully. “Don’t give her a thing. Not on my account. I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t getting out of this alive a long time back. “

  Ily smiled coldly. “A most interesting woman, Sinklar. She deserves better than you.”

  And here’s the setup. “Spill it, Ily. What do you want?”

  She turned, reaching a slim finger to punch the Comm module printout control on the table. A flimsy protruded and she tore it off, handing it to Sinklar. “I want you to put your thumbprint on this to code it for authenticity. It’s a simple statement of military reorganization of the command chain. It validates Mykroft and his staff.”

  Sinklar read the flimsy, glancing up to ask, “But I’m still Minister of Defense?”

  Ily sipped at her stassa. “It would look a little suspicious if you disappeared completely, don’t you think?”

  “What’s the hitch? You said that you keep a lot of options to yourself.”

  A twinkle grew in Ily’s eyes. “You do learn, Sinklar. I appreciate that. Very well, here is my offer. You and Anatolia can live here. It’s not a bad little room, you must admit-much better than being put into the collar or, well, being carried from my little cement room downstairs. In return for such largess, I want a little cooperation on military matters, and occasionally, a public appearance for ceremonial functions. “

  “And if I refuse to become your puppet?” Sinklar crossed his arms.

  Ily shrugged. “Oh, I don’t suppose you will in the end. You see, I’ve come to know you, Sinklar. I’ve come to know your sense of honor and obligation to your friends. Yes, and even to Anatolia, here. She does deserve better than the likes of you, Sinklar. She lies with a great deal more cunning and skill than you do. But the bottom line is this. You either become my puppet or Mayz, Kap, Ayms, and Shiksta will die-and most horribly. I’ll make sure you get a ringside seat. Further, in a matter of hours, Mac will be landing at the Ministry of Defense. He’ll be here shortly thereafter since he thinks everything is currently under your control.”

  Sinklar’s resolve began to crumble.

  Ily sipped her stassa before she continued. “Last but not least, Anatolia, here, is dependent upon your good performance. The two of you may live long and prosperous lives, together if you wish, but under my supervision. Consider, Sinklar, I have to interrogate her to find out about this curious genetics study that even has Professor Adam baffled, but after that, my options are endless.”

  “Don’t base any decision on my welfare, Sinklar.” Anatolia glared hotly up at Ily, who smiled blandly in return.

  “Sinklar, think,” Ily continued. “What could I do? Anatolia is a very beautiful woman. In the collar, she could bring me as much as a thousand credits in the

  Sylenian flesh markets. From personal experience, I can tell you what it’s like to be a slave laying pipe in the Etarian desert. Not only would those pigs of wardens rape her at their leisure, the sun and wind and sand would do marvels for her beauty.”

  “Stop it, Ily. I’ll play by your rules.”

  Anatolia turned, gripping him by the arm. “Don’t! I’ll kill myself first.

  Sinklar, she’s using us against each other. It will never be over, don’t you understand?”

  Sinklar started to affix his thumb, then pulled back. “My people are set free. Anatolia, too. “

  “You’re not in a position to bargain since I control the entire situation. “ Ily slitted her eyes thoughtfully. “But I’ll make this concession. I reward good service very well. If you have any doubts, I’ll send Arta down when she returns and she can tell you herself.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” Sinklar stared down at the flimsy. “Tell you what, why don’t you let me discuss this with Anatolia and my commanders? Maybe Kap or Shik want to bargain on their own.”

  Ily steepled her fingers. “Take as long as you want, I’ll set up a comm link as soon as I’ve finished the interrogations of each of them and you can-“

  “Rot you, Ily! I want them left alone!”

  She raised a thin black eyebrow. “Then authenticate the flimsy, Sinklar.”

  “Don’t,” Anatolia warned. “You’ve only got Minister Takka’s word. How good is that?”

  “In our situation, Anatolia, Ily’s word is only as good as she wants to make it. “

  As if the action ripped his soul loose by the roots, he carefully pressed his thumb to the chemically coded square on the document.

  Because of an idiosyncrasy of design, the shuttle bay on Gyton amplified the hum of the ship’s generators, plumbing, and atmosphere plant. Not only that, the air carried the chill of deep space that lay just beyond the heavy hatches. Mac had never understood why they couldn’t make the Regan warships a little less spartan in both form and function. Images of Staffa’s roomy, gleaming Chrysla remained his idea of the perfect starship.

  But then, why wouldn’t it? Especially when one considered the woman whose namesake the ship was. MacRuder thought about that woman-and the dilemma she represented—every waking moment. As time had passed, his love for her had become all encompassing, and stifling. Chrysla ached to return to Staffa, to the man in whom she’d believed for all those long years of captivity. She had a son, Mac’s best friend, with whom to build a relationship from scratch. No matter how Mac tried to strangle his emotional yearnings, the fact remained that Chrysla wanted to get on with her life, and she didn’t seem to see a place in there anywhere for one Ben MacRuder beyond that of good friend and savior.

  “Boy, you sure know how to pick ‘em,” Mac chided, mimicking Rysta’s rusty voice.

  As the lift cycled behind him, he turned, and smiled when Chrysla stepped out. For the occasion, she wore a baggy Etarian outfit. While on the ship, the full veil common to matrons from that planet had been pulled aside. To Mac, the outfit was more provocative based on what it concealed.

  “Like it?” Chrysla’s amber eyes flashed. “Commander Braktov has a crew woman aboard from Etarus. It ought to do, don’t you think?”

  Mac’s preoccupied obsession melted. “You look great. And it will mask your entire face.”

  “Is it really necessary, Mac?”

  He glanced anxiously at the waiting LC. “Put it like this. Arta Fera is an exact duplicate of you. The last time Sink saw her, she’d killed the woman he loved more than life. Let’s not precipitate a scene at the reception, all right? And if Ily’s there, the last thing you want to do is draw her attention. If she had the faintest suspicion of who you are, she’d be on you like flies on.... Well, anyway, she isn’t so stupid that she’d miss the similarities in appe
arance between you and her head assassin. Trust me, Rysta and I talked it all out. It’s best this way.“

  “Do you really think Arta Fera was cloned from me? It isn’t just a similar appearance?”

  “From the standpoint of looks, you’re virtual pairs spun from the same atom. Only thing is, you’re completely positive and Arta’s so thoroughly negative her soul’s like a black hole. She’s weird, twisted enough to spook even a strong man, let alone a coward like me.,

  “You’re no coward, Mac.”

  “Shows what you know.” He glanced away, aware that if he looked at her for too long, the control would fail, and he’d start to stare worshipfully.

  “Are you sure about making this trip? That everything’s going to be all right? Mac, you’re practically sweating worry. “

  He lifted a shoulder. “I’m itchy. Something’s not right. Just the feel of it.”

  “You and Rysta both know Mayz. Was that the way she’d look if she’d been run ragged in the exercises?” He chuckled. “I’ve been there before. Yeah, that’s

  how she looks.” He waved it away. “Ah, hell, it’s probably just me. I’ve been on the edge for so long, I’m hooty if things look normal. Maybe that’s it, huh?”

  The lift cycled again and Rysta stepped out, two of her Marines walking behind. To Mac’s relief, each wore armor, helmets, and carried not only sidearms, but had heavy shoulder weapons on their clips.

  Rysta grinned, hooking a thumb toward the Marines. “I’m getting to be too old a broad to take things for granted. Thought maybe they’d be welcome. If everything’s fine, like I suppose it is, we don’t look too foolish. If not, we can buy time. “

  Mac thought about calling Red and Andrews and gave it up. “We’d better be moving, then. They’ll be waiting down there.”

  He led the way to the LC, climbing the ramp. Inside, he buckled into a bench, sitting next to Chrysla. He gave her a reassuring glance as the ramp lifted and

  Rysta buckled in across from them, her Marines seating themselves by the ramp controls.

  In a matter of minutes, they’d know whether Sinklar was waiting---or Ily and her black-suited henchmen. The feeling of wrongness built, giving Mac a sick feeling. It was all going to go wrong. His imagination tortured him with the possibilities.

  I can back out ... get up and call it all off. “Let’s go!” Rysta called to the comm. “Roger,” the pilot’s voice came back.

  Mac’s heart began to pound as the LC shifted, lifted, then dropped, g’s sending Mac’s queasiness into his throat even as he wished he were somewhere else, far, far away.

  The Mag Comm watched and listened through its monitors. The Sassan Empire had begun to deteriorate. The machine ran the data through its intricate statistical programs, reading the inevitable. With his proclamations, the fat Sassan God would hasten the demise of his people and their potential. Couldn’t they see? Couldn’t they understand what they were doing to themselves? Calls for revenge and honor only had validity when a people was viable.

  In the other Empire, preparations for war continued. Ily Takka’s people

  solidified their grip on power. Aristocrats continued to be arrested. And what could this new proclamation mean? Sinklar Fist had promoted his old Targan rival Mykroft to field command of the military? Not only that, but the bits of battle comm chatter the Mag Comm could eavesdrop on had changed. The Division Firsts-Mayz, Kap, Shiksta, and Ayms—had disappeared. Sinklar’s people had vanished from the net. Why? Were they even now spacing for a final stroke at Sassa’s exposed jugular?

  The Mag Comm ran a count of the massing Regan fleet orbiting the Regan capital, and found no vessels missing. Turning its deep-space scanners, it noticed only a yacht, and a strange craft for which it had no registry-and both were inbound to Rega along with the regular commercial traff in.

  Nor did the machinations of the leaders absorb all of the Mag Comm’s attention. A subtle change had become increasingly apparent among the common people. On the Sassan worlds, fear about the future coupled with the shock of the attack on Imperial Sassa had spurred discussions about Kaylla Dawn’s Seddi broadcasts. Debate continued to escalate, as it did on the Regan worlds. New voices were being heard on the comm broadcasts, and the official denouncements had become more severe, more despotic in their tone.

  The Mag Comm ran this information through its banks, plotting the emerging social trends. Appraising the promise in the growing voices of dissent, the Mag Comm matched those trends against the increasing likelihood of a Regan invasion. Factoring in a response from the Companions, the optimistic cries of the dissidents were too little, too late.

  Adding to the Mag Comm’s pessimism, the Companions had spaced; most of their fleet had taken a vector which would drop them on Rega and the massive orbital defenses there. During the long years, the Mag Comm had watched the same scenario play over and over again, and the inescapable conclusion was that Rega, like all the worlds before it, would be left in smoking, irradiated rubble.

  And when that happened, the Regan Empire, like that of the Sassans, would die.

  And then I will be alone. Forever. Would I save the humans if I could.

  CHAPTER 30

  Pain. Searing, burning, the agony throbbed through Sergeant First Buchman’s shoulder, radiating out and draining his life away with each beat of his heart. Overhead, a dull roaring-fit to deafen-went in and out of sync.

  He tried to move, cried out at the white lances of suffering that brutalized him, and finally flopped over in the darkness, his body cushioned by the trash he lay in.

  “Pus-licking Gods,” he whispered as he fumbled with his good hand, the right one, for his belt pouch. He trembled as he lifted a small hand light and squinted against the glare as he turned it on. He screwed his face into a grimace when he saw the wreckage of his shoulder. Fortunately, the armor had absorbed most of the shot, his half-turned position had saved him a little, and the major blood vessels hadn’t been severed.

  “Or else you’d have stopped right here, Buck, old buddy.” He shined the light around, groaning at the sight of Wheeler’s headless corpse. Someone would pay for that. Wheeler had been Targan, guts and fury. Too good to end up in the trash under pus-Rotted Rega.

  He was about to turn the light out when he saw the corner of a stack of paper, now spattered with blood. Anatolia’s printout. The one she’d die for in order to return it to Sinklar.

  Buchman steeled himself, jaws grinding, and sat up. He blinked, fighting the urge to black out. His vision spun as the pain left every nerve shrieking. He wanted to vomit and lie down again. How much simpler to just go ahead and die in the trash.

  As his vision wavered, he heard a voice that melted in and out of the roar of the overhead fans. “Hauws?” Buchman called out. “That you, Sergeant?”

  “Whore crap! Damn you, shoot! That’s an order!” Hauws’ voice echoed in the fan; and in Buchman’s shredded imagination, he could feel the heavy blaster ripping the air, cooking half of Hauws’ face while he propped the heavy gun.

  “What now, Sergeant? What do I do?”

  The fans’hummed in sudden synch overhead, and Hauws spoke in their moan, “I’m gone. They got me. Just get back! Get our people out! Get back to Sink! Report!”

  Buchman groaned as he nodded and the torn muscles in his shoulders pulled.

  “Got it, Sergeant. Get back, and report ... to Sink. “

  Buchman whimpered as he reached down for the printout, picking it up, seeing the data cube as it tumbled out. With the infinite precision of the wounded, he picked the cube out of the trash and dropped it into his pouch with his good hand. Then he gathered the printout.

  Swallowing, he took a deep breath that shot pain through him like a lightning bolt, and staggered to his feet, shoulders braced on the dirty wall to keep from falling.

  “Hauws got the job done. So can L” He staggered out into the darkness, teetering on his feet, looking for a way up.

  When the ramp dropped, Mac rose to his feet, s
taring out at the Regan skyline, lit now by the lights within the arcologies. Overhead, the lights of the vast city created a fluorescent glow in the thick clouds. The acid stink reminded him that he’d come home yet again, and to as uncertain a welcome as last time. “Ready?” Rysta asked.

  “Yeah, be right out on your heels.” Mac extended a hand, pulling Chrysla to her feet. He kept his grip, relishing the cool feel of her skin against his with the ardor of a dying man. “I hope I’ve made the right decision about this.”

  She smiled up at him, hope and faith in her luminous eyes. “I’m sure you have, Mac. Come, let’s go see my son. “

  He nodded, leading her aft toward the ramp. “You’d better pull that veil down. I wouldn’t want any of Sink’s people to shoot first and question later.” :’Arta Fera’s legacy?”

  ‘Yeah, the very same.” He took her arm, steadying her as they walked down the ramp. Rysta stood with her Marines while a handful of troops waited at attention. Regulars from the look of them.

  “Division First MacRuder? Squadron Commander Braktov?” a Staff Second rapped out smartly. “If you will follow me, Lord Fist is waiting.”

  Mac glanced uneasily around the rooftop, nodding back at the LC, gratified to see the ramp closing tight as a clamshell. The rooftop landing area of the Ministry of Defense gave him a view of the entire city. Not more than five klicks to the north, the palace gleamed like artistically spun crystal and silver.

  “Welcome to Rega.”

  Chrysla squeezed his armas he led the way, Rysta falling in behind him with her two Marines. They entered a large lift that dropped them to the top floor. Mac stepped out, looking around. The place bustled, people in uniform obviously working at setting up offices, carting off files, hauling in comm equipment.

  The Staff Second gestured. “As you can see, we’re pretty busy. There hasn’t been much rest around here. “

  “So I’ve gathered,” Rysta muttered.

  They followed the Staff Second down the hallway to an ornate door and stepped inside the office for the Minister of Defense. Mac had become used to the trappings and ornamentation of power; this room, like the others he’d seen, came as little surprise.