Requiem for the Conqueror Read online

  "Sinklar, you're punishing yourself for something that's not your fault.

  Please, let me check into this."

  "I'd appreciate that, sir. But it won't do any good."

  The Head Regent raised an eyebrow. "I think I know the system. I may even have more pull than you think."

  "Then you know how emarrassing it would be for a waif like me to score at the head of the class—above all those aspiring scions of nobility. And I would, Head Regent. You know it ... and so do the admissions officers at the Regan University."

  The Head Regent watched him glumly. "Knowledge can be a dangerous thing, boy.

  Your study of political science, imperial history, and sociology—"

  "Have given me an in-depth understanding of how the Regan Empire works, sir."

  The Head Regent nodded in defeat. "Promise me one thing, Sinklar. Don't become bitter and hateful. Don't let this one disappointment fester and ruin your life. If for no other reason, do it for me."

  "Yes, sir. Blind anger and hatred are for the ignorant and the stupid. I'm neither." ;

  "No, you're not. But at times, Sinklar, you frighten me. What will you do?"

  "I don't know, sir." Sinklar paused, a sour smile on his lips. "Perhaps send an application to the Companions ... join the Star Butcher's forces. As I understand it, they value intelligence."

  The Head Regent went ashen. For the briefest moment, glittering resolve lurked in his eyes. Then he noted Sinklar's amusement, and sagged, saying hollowly,

  "Don't even jest about that. The last thing you need to concern yourself with is that cold-blooded villain and his band of vile scum."

  "But he is brilliant."

  "Brilliant? Yes, Sinklar, and without a shred of conscience or morality. My soul twists at the thought of him."

  Why, Sinklar mused, did I evoke such a response from the Head Regent?

  As the door slipped closed behind Sinklar Fist, the Head Regent took a deep breath and rubbed his tired eyes. He finally straightened and leaned back.

  "You heard all that?"

  One of the data cube racks along the wall swung open to reveal a sophisticated communications and listening post. A young woman in sienna robes stepped out.

  "He's a frightening young man. You know what we're dealing with: a time bomb.

  You know his potential, and on top of it there's everything we've packed into that brain of his. The Quantum Gods help us if the Regans ever find out how he really scored on that exam. Think of what they could do with him—no matter who his parents were."

  The Head Regent nodded and drummed his fingers on the desk. "What do we do, Marta? He's going to seek an outlet for that talent."

  She pinched her chin between thumb and forefinger as she paced before his desk. "What do you do with any problem child? Put him in the military."

  The Head Regent chuckled humorlessly. "Don't you think that's like shooting pulse rockets at a munitions factory?"

  Marta spread her hands wide. "I don't see any other , choice. For as long as I've monitored him, I can see trouble ahead unless we defuse it."

  "And you think putting him in the army will do that. Very well, call Bruen.

  Talk it over with him. If he agrees, I'll pull some strings." He shook his head. "But you'd better be right."

  Leonidas Andropolous stuck his stassa cup into the dispenser and watched the thick black liquid fill the cup. Then he leaned back in his squeaky chair and stared at the woman and two men—Vegans from the scarves they wore over their faces—who walked into his sparely furnished office. Years of practice as head of Myklenian Port Security had given him a sense for the sort of merchants and traders he dealt with. These he placed immediately: longtime spacers who didn't mind bending rules here and there—or breaking them outright if they thought the chance for profits outweighed the risks.

  Andropolous placed his cup in the warmer on the side of his desk and laced stubby fingers over his belly. The hum from the security monitoring computers in the next room could be heard through the wall.

  "Good day, I'm Colonel Andropolous, how may I help you?"

  The woman stepped forward and nodded slightly. She wore baggy coveralls, worn shiny on the knees and elbows and smudged here and there. A bright red scarf muffled the lower half of her face, but Leonidas could tell she was a striking woman. Wisps of pale blonde hair escaped the zero g cap she wore.

  The men looked like typical nigged merchants, the sort that patronized the dock bars and brothels and generally gave his men a hard time when they

  "whooped it up portside."

  "My pleasure Colonel," the woman told him in a commanding voice. "I'm Alexia Dharmon. I'm here to represent Captain Ruse of the Vegan merchantman, Trickster. We just grappled dockside and wanted to check in. We thought we'd see you first thing since we've heard the schedule might be a little rushed when it comes time to ship out."

  "You've heard the stories about war with Sassa." Andro polous drummed his fingers on the desktop. "You're not the first, and you won't be the last. I suppose you want an officer to accompany your people while they load? Conduct the manifest inspection on the spot? You know, it will cost you extra."

  "We're willing to pay, Colonel. It's worth it to us to cut our profit margins in the interest of time."

  He chuckled. "You know, you're all going to feel a little foolish when you make it back to Vega and find out the Star Butcher didn't attack and you paid all those exorbitant prices for nothing."

  She nodded. "That's part of the risk of doing business, isn't it, Colonel?"

  He picked up his stassa, sipped loudly, and punched his comm button with the other hand. Text flashed across his desk monitor. Andropolous raised an eyebrow. "According to our files, Trickster has a two-hundred credit defaulted payment from your last port call."

  Dharmon reached into the spacer's pouch at her hip and placed five golden coins on the desktop. "Five hundred credits Colonel—in gold, Sassan though it might be. I believe that should settle all accounts, cover any fines, interest, and collection costs." She leaned forward, blue eyes eager. "And we'll settle up in gold before we leave."

  "That's far more than is required at this time."

  He could ee the grim smile in her eyes. "Credit our account . . . any way you see fit, Colonel. We just want to make sure there are no problems with our departure."

  Andropolous smiled and slid three of the coins across the desk before palming them. He punched the comm button again, calling, "Theodora, please send two of your security staff up. They're to go on assignment immediately."

  Alexia looked at her two companions, both of whom had begun to grin through their scarves in a most predatory way.

  "So you really think it will come to war?" Andropolous asked as he leaned back in his chair again.

  Dharmon shrugged and rearranged the scarf that covered her mouth. "It would be a shame if it did. The merchants would just as soon see that Myklene remained sovereign. Trade's better that way. If the empire absorbs you, it'll take time to rebuild the economy. After that, you're just like everyone else. We'll only make money from haul fee, not from trade."

  Andropolous snorted and shook his head. "Tell that to your God-Emperor."

  "We did," one of the men growled. "Maybe our likes aren't sacred enough for his tastes."

  Andropolous shared the joke as his two security men entered the room. Each carried his inventory computer and scanner as well as a side arm, stun rod, and binders.

  "Thank you for coming so swiftly, gentlemen. I'd like you to meet ..."

  A loud pop sounded followed by a hiss—and the security officers dropped.

  "What the ..." Andropolous started forward, reaching for the comm alert, only to have Alexia grab his wrist and push him back into the squeaky chair. Wispy tendrils of gas choked him, and his strength began to drain away.

  "Don't worry Colonel. The gas won't hurt you," she told him as her competent fingers ran over his comm control. "It just paralyzes the neuro-musculature.
>
  You'll still be able to think, and, after a bit, to speak if we need you to."

  Andropolous could see past her to where the two men had kicked the door shut and now bent over his security team to pull the weapons from their belts. His horror grew as security systems fell one by one under Alexia Dharmon's commands.

  Dharmon glanced at a wrist monitor. "All clear. The gas has dissipated." She pulled the red scarf from her face, and with it, the small conforming gas mask.

  "Wha . . ." Andropolous croaked.

  "Wing Commander?" one of the men asked.

  She stepped back, motioning at the wall that separated his office from the computer room. "Go for it."

  In the edge of his vision, Andropolous could see the two men attack the wall with small vibraknives they pulled from their pouches—knives too small to have triggered the security detectors, but big enough to slice through wall panels.

  "Who ..." Andropolous croaked.

  The blonde woman leaned over him, checking the security readouts on his comm system. He could see the scar running across her cheek, hardly diminishing her startling beauty.

  To the men, she called, "No alarm, Ryman. So far, so good."

  "Who .. are .. ."

  She spun Andropolous' chair around, squatting on her heels before him. "Sorry about the damage Colonel, but you see, we're only the beginning of your troubles. And things will be getting a lot worse before they get better."

  "Can't ... get ... away . . . with . . ."

  "We're not here to get away. We're here to wreck your computers—and through them to introduce a virus into your entire defense network."

  Andropolous blinked, trying to understand.

  "Wing Commander, we're through!" one of the men called.

  "Be right there."

  Wing Commander? "Skyla . . . Lyma." Andropolous closed his eyes, weary to the core of his soul.

  "Very good, Colonel," she told him. Something pricked the skin on the back of his hand. "We're through now, so we won't need you anymore. Sorry you had to recognize me. The Companions don't take any chances."

  The chair rocked as she brushed past him. A foggy haze drifted up around Andropolous' thoughts. The last thing he remembered was the creaking of the chair.

  Staff assistants hurried back and forth across Myles Roma's tower office. The room he occupied as Legate to His Holiness, Sassa II, was large and sprawling, opulently furnished with thick carpeting and gleaming desks. Holo monitors filed all of one wall, constantly processing updated information and status reports—especially now that the fleet was assembling, troops were moving, and the incredible nightmare of logistics had snarled everything. The view from his engraved sandwood desk caught the eye, the spires of the Sassan capital building rose against the aqua sky. Behind him, the holographic image of His Holiness dominated the room. Not even the familiarity of years had gotten Myles over the feeling that the God-Emperor was staring watchfully over his shoulder at all times. Maybe it helped keep him honest.

  "A call has come in, Legate," an aide informed through the comm. "The Lord Commander is on secure line one."

  The Lord Commander? Roma made a distasteful face and straightened his saffron robe, cleared his throat, and resettled himself in an effort to hide his fat-swelled gut. He checked his reflection to make sure he looked the part of Legate, and twiddled the glittering rings on his fingers. Satisfied, he swiveled in his gravity chair and punched the button which dropped a privacy screen around him. Of all the Legate's duties, he hated dealing with the Companions the most. Something about Staff a kar Therma sent a quiver through his guts. When the Lord Commander stepped into a room, the effect could be likened to a shard of glass passing through a box of balloons.

  The holo generator flickered and projected the Lord Commander's image. Staffa kar Therma smiled and nodded ever so slightly, the gesture as formal as frost.

  He looked exactly as he should. Hard gray eyes took Myles' measure. The straight nose and square jaw befitted a merciless conqueror. As always, the Lord Commander's straight black hair had been gathered into a ponytail over his left ear and held in place by a jeweled brooch that glinted with multicolored rays. The top of a slate-gray battle suit could be seen and the long cloak that was kar Therma's trademark bunched on the muscular broad shoulders.

  "My Lord Commander," Myles greeted. "It's good of you to call. I hope this is a status update on your mobilization for the Myklenian attack?"

  "It is exactly that Legate." The cold voice sent a shiver up Myles' spine.

  Staffa continued, "You may tell His Holiness that the Companions will engage the Myklenian defenses within a matter of minutes. If you would be so kind as to hurry your mobilization and deploy at the earliest opportunity, we'll be ready to hand the planet over to you upon arrival."

  Myles sputtered as he jerked bolt-upright. "Attack! Now? But our forces are only half ready. You can't attack! Not until we're ready."

  Staffa's expression didn't change. "Legate, if you would like to argue the terms of the contract, you may do so later. If your admirals are going to throw petty fits of temper, you may deal with them."

  "But, Lord Commander, Sassan honor—"

  "Is not my concern." Staffa kar Therma paused. "If you have a problem, Legate, take it up with your emperor."

  "Take it. ... No! No, you can't do this! Attack, without our military forces.

  ... I refuse to let you."

  A nerveless smile crossed the Lord Commander's lips. "Do you wish to cancel the contract?"

  "Cancel the . . . No, of course not. We're just . . . His Holiness is going to be very displeased. He might . . . might ..."

  "Yes? You were saying?" A mocking glint lingered in Staffa's eyes, A twisting sensation of defeat grew in Myles' belly. He could feel the sweat popping out on his brow. "Just tell me, Lord Commander. Why did you act before we were ready?"

  An evil demon might have stared back at the Legate. "Because no one expected us to strike now—least of all you, or the Praetor's spies."

  "Are you insinuating that our security is—"

  Staffa leveled a gray-gloved finger, deadly menace in his eyes. "Don't use that tone of voice with me Legate."

  Roma's tongue stuck in his mouth and he recoiled in physical horror, his gravity chair rolling out of the privacy field and canceling its protection.

  "That is all I called to tell you Legate." Staffa narrowed his eyes. "Come as soon as your forces are ready. Myklene will be waiting."

  The holo flashed off and Myles trembled, aware that all eyes were upon him. He pulled a perfumed handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his damp face.

  He didn't try to pull his chair back, but rose on unsteady legs. "Get me His Holiness."

  His aides simply stared.

  "Now, by the Rotted Gods, NOW!"

  Staffa kar Therma, the Lord Commander of the Companions, sat alone, though surrounded by so many—a solitary man in gray enfolded by the instrument cluster pods that rose like petals from the raised command chair that dominated the warship Chrysla's bustling bridge. No expression crossed his face. Despite the hum of machinery, the constant murmur of voices, and the flashing of monitors, his gray eyes stared absently—lost in the depths of his thoughts.

  The duty officers who sat at their stations amidst multicolored computer consoles shot periodic glances his way. Each look reflected pride and confidence—or hinted at awed worship. Despite the quick glances, no one malingered. Weapons officers ran systems checks and the pilot reclined in a state of semitrance, her brain directly interfaced with the nav-computer as it fed her data on course and velocity. The engineers monitored the huge ship's power plant and support systems, vigilant attention on the readouts. The communications officer sat before the comm boards, leaning back with arms crossed while the logistics officer spoke quietly into his mike, coordinating with his subordinates.

  Surrounded by the muted whispers and hushed comm chatter, Staffa kar Therma remained alone. Hidden to all eyes but his, the instrum
ents of the command chair projected a holo image of an emerald planet against a background of hazy flickering stars. Scenes formed on the monitors of gleaming white cities, laughing men, women, and children—of a carefree society.

  Myklene. How many years have passed since they turned on me? Despite the lies I've told myself, was I ever happy there? That verdant world, Myklene, had borne him, taught him, and finally betrayed him. Even the man he'd loved and devoted himself to had turned against him; but that had been long ago. The angry youth who had been expelled from Myklene now returned as a hardened man, as a conqueror come back to repay an old debt. Emotions conflicted within Staffa's muscular chest.

  He pulled absently at his smooth chin, eyes thinning to slits. He'd come a long way since the day the Praetor had smuggled him off Myklene in defiance of the Council's wishes. They'd destroyed his happiness—such as it was.

  Happiness? When was I really happy? Once. Once. . . . The memory tried to slip through the tungsten-steel tough rein Staffa kar Therma kept on his thoughts.

  A beautiful woman's face with soft amber eyes and gleaming auburn hair formed in his mind and to avoid the pain he banished it like a ghost of floating mist on a hot sunny day. The terrible cry of a newly born child drifted through his memory. And with it came the haunting longing for the son he'd never known, the son who had been stolen from him.

  My fault. My failure. He'd slipped, allowed himself to feel, to share his life with another. Chrysla, the name cast honeyed tones through his soul. He'd loved her, known happiness for those few brief years before she'd been abducted. And to what fate? By whom?

  She'd borne him a son just before her kidnapping; and for the second time in his life, his heart had been broken. He'd searched, employed the finest investigators to find her, offered rewards. But Chrysla had vanished without a trace. In the years that followed, he'd exacted his revenge on a heedless humanity. Never again had he allowed himself to falter, to feel, or to share that sense of identity which was human. Instead, he'd fallen into the old patterns taught him by the Myklenians—and the only other human he'd ever loved.