Relic of Empire

by W. Michael Gear

  “If you will be seated, Lord Fist will be with you in a moment.” The Staff Second hesitated, glancing uneasily at Rysta’s Marines. “Do you think they’re necessary?”

  Rysta propped her hands on her hips, “Tell me, office boy, when was the last

  time you received a Squadron Commander? Get out of here . . . and tell Sinklar to wipe your butt. I think you’re leaking. “

  The Staff Second burned bright red, stifled a rejoinder, and retreated with haste.

  “Obnoxious little squirt!” Rysta began to take a turn around the room. “Looks just the same as it did when Mathaiison was here. The main office is back of that door.” She scuffed the carpet with a booted toe to produce waves of rippling color. “Huh! Even the same carpet optical program.” She walked to the liquor dispenser and drew a crystal glass full of amber liquid, sipping. She smacked her lips, explaining, “Same Myklenian Scotch. You might want to help yourself to a glass. Now that Sassa’s taken them, you’ll never get another.”

  Mac walked over to look out through the giant tactite windows. “Well, I guess it’s all on the up and up. No one out there looked like they were nervous about anything rude happening.”

  At that moment, both the office door and the main entrance to the hallway opened, and people filed in. With dispatch, two heavily armed young men leveled shoulder weapons on Rysta’s Marines who stood dumbfounded. Other black-clothed agents quickly surrounded them, while one young man deftly closed the door.

  Mac started to back toward the window, his hand dropping to his pistol.

  “Don’t do it,” a blonde woman in black warned, her pistol shifting to cover Mac.

  Rysta chuckled, an acid irony in her expression. “So it turns out Ily got more than her venomous talons sunk into Sinklar.” She glanced at Mac. “Sorry. Guess your faith was a little misplaced about the boy.”

  “We’ll see,” Mac grunted, prickles of fear threading through him as he shot a glance at Chrysla. She stood very still, as if every muscle in her body had tensed.

  Mac twitched as the blonde woman stepped close and pulled his pistol from the holster.

  Mac asked, “What happened to Sinklar? Is he really Ily’s? Or is this just part of the power play?”

  The woman retreated, eyes on MacRuder. “The Minister will take that up with you.”

  :’The Minister?” Rysta asked. “You mean Takka.” ‘Yes, ma’am. Now, if you will each refrain from making any moves, we need to search you. After all, we wouldn’t want a missed weapon leading anyone to try anything silly.”

  Rysta exploded in a series of blistering curses as her Marines were disarmed, and the Internal Security agents relieved her of her use-worn blaster.

  Mac started forward as two of the men closed on Chrysla, clearly wary of the veiled woman. Before they could reach her, Chrysla lifted a hand, ordering, “That’s close enough.”

  “And who are you?” the blonde woman asked, her attention now on Chrysla’s impenetrable veil.

  A soft laugh issued as Chrysla reached up, slim fingers unhooking the veil and pulling it aside. As the shocked security agent backed a step, Chrysla’s eyes flashed. “Recognize me?” She stepped forward, reaching out to run gentle fingers along the agent’s face. The woman flinched but held her ground. “Yes,” Chrysla cooed, “I see you do.”

  “Lord Fera!” one of the young men gasped. “But Ithought. . - - “

  Chrysla spun on her heel, a finger darting toward him. “You thought? You thought what?”

  He swallowed hard, lifting his hands, heedless of the weapon he carried. “I ... nothing. Just that you were gone. Spaced for ....

  “Go on. “

  ‘Nothing! I mean, just the rumors.”

  ‘Tell me,” Chrysla ordered imperiously as she closed on the man like a hungry predator.

  “To abduct Skyla Lyma, Lord Fera. It was just a rumor. “

  As Mac stared in disbelief, Chrysla’s face contorted. “You have a very bad habit. “ She smiled wickedly. “But I won’t deal with it.” The young man gulped his relief. Then Chrysla said, “I’ll let Ily handle her own discipline. “

  The young man turned pale and began to shake. Chrysla spun on her heel, bearing down on the blonde woman. “Very well. I’m sure Ily’s waiting. You, accompany me and the prisoners.” She started for the ornate doorway.

  “Excuse me, Lord Fera, but the lift to the basement is back this way.” The blonde pointed toward the inner door.

  Chrysla turned and bore down on the woman, amber eyes burning. “Perhaps it never occurred to you, but the LC is faster-and just maybe I have need of it and the evidence inside it.” Her voice turned to ice. “Do you understand? Or are you another discipline problem ... one I might want to deal with myself?”

  “I understand, Lord Fera. To the LC!” The blonde woman had pulled herself to attention, but the corners of her lips twitched and desperation glazed her eyes.

  Chrysla lifted Mac’s pistol from the woman’s nerveless hand and nodded toward the door. “After the rest of you. “

  Heart pounding, Mac started forward, and practically jumped as he passed Chrysla, seeing the terror that lurked just behind her facade.

  The long march down the hallway left his scalp tingling. He crowded into the lift with a stone-faced Rysta, Blonde and one of her cronies, and finally Chrysla. The brief ride to’ the roof was marred only by the pounding of Mac’s heart.

  He stepped out, relief like a tonic at the sight of the LC.

  “You and you, come with me,” Chrysla pointed to Blonde and the young man who carried Rysta’s pistol. She turned as the next batch of security agents rose on the lift, the ashen-faced young agent among them. Chrysla pointed at the man. “The rest of you, escort him back to Ily, and tell her exactly what happened.”

  Salutes were snapped with acute detail to performance, although the young man in question began to tremble as his nerve deserted him.

  Meanwhile, Mac slapped the hatch control, his mouth gone dry with the strain. He climbed inside, every muscle powered by adrenaline.

  Rysta and her Marines entered warily, attention shifting between their guard and the hard-eyed Chrysla. Once inside, Chrysla slapped the control and the ramp slipped shut. She walked forward, eyes on the blonde officer. “You’re a very talented young woman. But I wonder if perhaps you’ve lost the ability to think for yourself. It’s a failing, you see.”

  And with that, Chrysla plucked the woman’s pistol from her belt, stepped back, and covered the young man who held Rysta’s weapon. “Tables are turned. If you move, I’ll kill you without the slightest hesitation.”

  Mac stepped forward and took his weapon from Chrysla’s hand, making sure to keep the agents covered, an apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry, folks.”

  Rysta growled under her breath as she retrieved her own weapon from the other agent’s unresisting hand. At her signal, the Marines were on both of them like hungry hounds, patting them down, turning up all kinds of curious equipment.

  “Pilot?” Rysta called to the comm, “Get us the hell out of here!”

  Mac dropped to where Chrysla sat on the bench, her bravado gone. She shook as he put a comforting arm around her. “Come on. We’ve got to get you forward. Maybe get a cup of stassa into you.”

  “If one of them even twitches,” Rysta ordered the Marines, “Blow a hand off. If they twitch again, blow a leg.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Mac helped Chrysla, supporting her with one arm as the LC rose. He got her into the command center, sliding her down on the bench.

  “Now what?” Rysta asked as she ducked in behind Mac.

  “Beats me.” He looked at Chrysla who gave him a weak smile. “But I think we owe you an awful lot.” “How’d you do that?” Rysta asked as she pulled a cup of hot stassa from the dispenser. “You left me flat-jawed amazed!”

  Chrysla took the stassa Rysta handed her and shook her head. “Mac said Arta

  Fera was my opposite. I just acted cruel, let myself
believe it. I had to gamble. I ... I couldn’t let myself be taken again. Not to undergo that. . . . “

  Mac exhaled, trying to unwind. “Yeah, well, we’ve got a ship, a Section, and who knows what else, because Ily’s got the rest.”

  “We got any Mytol in here?” Rysta ran a hand over her face. “Back yonder we’ve got two sources of information. I suggest we wring them out before Ily figures out what went wrong.”

  Mac dropped into the command center chair and settled the headset over his skull. He fiddled with the knobs, and called: “Attention, First Targan. This is Mac. First Targan Division, respond.”

  The comm crackled static, then a deep voice, obviously Shik’s, returned, “Situation Targa. Repeat, code Targa. “

  “Affirmative, Targa. Communications through LOS to Gyton. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Roger. Out.”

  Mac puffed a sigh. “We’re not the only ones left. We’ll need to get back to the ship. From there, we can locate Shik. See what’s left before we bust heads.” He glanced uneasily at Rysta. “We could be talking about civil war.”

  The Commander’s expression hardened. “If we have enough of the army, Mac. Otherwise, Blessed Gods help us.”

  Six hundred and twenty-five. Six hundred and twenty-six. Six hundred and twenty-seven.

  Skyla lay on her back, counting angles in her sleeping quarters. Angles could be found everywhere, in the mating of wall panel to wall panel, in the ceiling tiles, in the molding around the doorway. Angles, some hidden, others blatant.

  She could feel the yacht with a spacer’s finely tuned awareness as it shifted, inertia playing the eternal games with mass and energy.

  Don’t think about it.

  Six hundred and twenty-eight.

  A thump sounded from somewhere forward. The hum of the air-conditioning changed slightly.

  Six hundred and twenty-nine.

  The compensators for the artificial gravity adjusted, the coordinated pull reaching through Skyla to claw dully at her concentration.

  Six hundred and thirty.

  The angles were becoming more difficult to find. If only she could move, sit up. More angles would be exposed to her darting gaze. The EM restraints prohibited that. She had to lie here, stretched out like a piece of meat.

  That’s all I am. A piece of, meat. Thinking that triggered the memories. Here on this bed. Auburn hair twining with pale blonde, soft skin pressing against hers.

  Don’t think about it. Count!

  Where had all the angles gone? Her frantic search retraced the old pathways, hating the delicate scrollwork of the filigree, all inlaid with exquisite curls and curves. No angles there. But if she craned her neck, she could see the hidden cubbyhole, mocking now of her failed attempt at freedom.

  Six hundred and thirty-one. Six hundred and thirty-two.

  She made it up to six hundred and forty-three before she exhausted the angles.

  The yacht jerked and rocked, the dull clang of grapples carried through the hull and to her bed.

  Horror tried to etch her control with acid breath. Count! Rot you, count! Arta will protect you.

  It hadn’t been that bad. Skyla had just turned her mind off, following the patterns of movement she’d passively absorbed over the years. She remembered Arta’s tongue darting across hers, demanding. A kiss was a kiss, just as hungry and probing.

  Don’t think about it! Count!

  Where had all the angles gone? Sometimes they hid with a great deal of cunning, an angle within another, especially in molding. Had she counted them all?

  The air changed, the yacht hooked into the umbilical of the Regan Orbital Terminals. How many precious minutes remained?

  Count! Would Arta fulfill her promise?

  I earned my protection. I earned it well, Arta. I should have recorded your moans, the undulations of your body. The final defeat haunted her. It hadn’t been so bad. Not physically. Under other circumstances, she might have enjoyed it-but for the defeat it represented, and the desperation in her actions.

  I get to at least wear my uniform, don’t I, Arta? She clamped her jaw to keep it from trembling, a solitary tear breaking loose to creep down the side of her head and lose itself in her hair which was matted thickly beneath her.

  Six hundred and forty-four.

  Six hundred and forty-five....

  She found sixteen more angles in a data cube on the desk. She could imagine the angles on the far side, but they weren’t legitimate to count. Angles had to be seen.

  Ily waited down there. Closing her eyes, Skyla could imagine Minister Takka, black eyes wide with anticipation, her sleek black hair gleaming.

  We’ve shared a great deal, Ily. Hatred, desire for Staffa, and now, we have Fera between us. Which will she choose? You, or me? You who dominate? Or me, who has been dominated?

  Skyla closed her eyes, slowly shaking her head as she whispered, “Staffa, oh, how I’ve failed you. I tried to die for you, for all you’re struggling to achieve.” But nothing was left now. Only the husk of Skyla Lyma.

  She heard the steady tread of Arta’s padded feet in the hallway, but didn’t open her eyes. To look was to know. How much better to lie here, to pretend that none of it existed, if only for these last couple of seconds.

  The EM restraints suddenly slipped free. Still Skyla refused to move, to retreat from the fantasy of disbelief.

  “Skyla? We’re docked. Get up.”

  No. Let me lie here, pretend none of it ever happened.

  Fabric rustled and something slapped down on the bedding beside Skyla. Fera called, “There’s your uniform. Get dressed. We’re due down planet. Would have been early except for a proximity alert. Some Rotted freighter outside of its designated approach.”

  Skyla reached down, her fearing fingers touching the slick weave of her armor. She sucked at her lip with relief. Her last shred of dignity would be preserved, even as Ily pried betrayal from her mind.

  “I said, get up,” Fera reminded. “I’ll do everything I can to protect you. I promised.”

  Skyla opened her eyes. Arta stared down, an unfeigned concern in her eyes. Her full lips curled in a futile attempt to smile. “It was the collar, you know. If it hadn’t been for that, I never would have won.”

  Skyla nodded, all of her guts gone hollow as she fingered the tough fabric of her uniform. There were no more angles to count.

  The command center of the LC couldn’t have held another human being. The commanders had been packed in, shoulder to shoulder. Shiksta, Dion Axel, Rysta, and Section Firsts from the First Targan, including Boyz, Beeman, and the others except for Buchman. Mac stood, half-propped against the bulkhead. The air had gone slightly stale, heavy with the odor of too many human bodies and a tangible sense of desperation. But then, did anyone precipitate civil holocaust without second thoughts? And worse, all knew the cunning of the enemy they now faced.

  Shiksta, his big body wedged into the back of the booth, braced his elbows as he glanced back and forth. “Shall we get started?”

  Rysta clasped her hands togethers. “Might as well. Here’s the situation, people. Ily’s taken over. She showed no scruples when it came to executing Tedor and his Deputies, and she won’t blink twice over killing Sinklar and the rest of us. Some of you may have questions about my loyalties in this matter, and to be honest, I’m old style military. But times have changed and as much as I might resent that, I can’t stop’it. What I can do is pick the side that I think is the best for the people and the Empire. After that, I have a voice to try and shape the future as I see fit. I will not have that voice with Ily Takka, and further, I’d rather live under Sinklar Fist’s rule than hers.” Rysta grinned then, a glint in her eye. “Besides, as Mac learned during our last mission, you young kids need someone with a little experience before you go off half-cocked. I’m one of the oldest warhorses around.”

  Axel cleared her throat. “My position is much the same as Rysta’s. I’m a Regan veteran and most of you know my record. Quite honestly
, it hurt to be pulled from command, not just once but twice. After being humbled through that process, I began to reevaluate not just the role of our military, but our political system. Tedor may not have been a saint among men, and looking back, he was poor MD, but after Tybalt’s assassination-at Ily’s hand-I’m sure, we need to fix our goverm-nent.” Dion studied the intent faces around the table. “And I can tell you, this supposed reorganization to grant control to Mykroft is-“

  “Terguzzi sumpshit,” Mac barked, his anger piqued. I helped pull the rung from under him on Targa. The man’s an idiot.”

  “ But he’s learned the tactics,” Dion countered. That’s who we’ve run the last exercises against, and he finally won one against Ayms and me.”

  Mac shook his head with finality. “Ily can fool herself about his capabilities if she likes. I’ve seen him in the field. He doesn’t have the sense the Blessed Gods gave a brick.”

  “Pus-Rotted right!” Boyz chimed in.

  Rysta raised a hand. “I think we’re pretty much agreed that Ily must be stopped. The question is, what do we do about it? If anyone but Mykroft had been appointed, the loyal Divisions would already have been withdrawn and scattered to defang them. Eventually, Ily will discover Mykroft has omitted this detail and we’ll be neutralized one way or another.”

  ‘We have to act now,” Mac stated simply. “Our Divisions are the elite. Every moment we spend talking, our window of opportunity is shrinking. “

  “Right,” Shik agreed with a bulldog nod. “Ily’s got Sink in that damned Ministry. She’s got Kap and Mayz and Ayms. She took our people. I say we go bust them out-now! Before it’s too late.” Jaw muscles bunched under his smooth black skin. “Sinklar never let any of us down. We owe,him.”

  “How quickly can we organize? We’ll have to take the Ministry by means of a full frontal assault.” Rysta’s eyes slitted as she stared at an imaginary point above Mac’s head.

  “And we’ve got to have cover,” Mac added. “Let’s say we send the First Targan into the Ministry. Our other Divisions have to take defensive positions. Mykroft is going to throw something against us.”