Requiem for the Conqueror Read online

  Love led to pain . . . and failure. Do not love. Allow no vulnerability of the soul. Strength was the only virtue. No other heritage belonged to humankind.

  Survival meant power, no matter how much blood had to be spilled.

  "Staffa?" her soft voice drifted through the veiled memories of shattered dreams.

  First, she taught me how to love—then she taught me how to grieve. Staffa glanced up at the main bridge monitor which displayed fleet status as the Companions readied for the first assault. In a matter of hours Myklene would reap the rewards of Staffa kar Therma's homecoming.

  And what if I have to face him again? What if I have to look into his eyes?

  Speak to him? Staffa ground his teeth and balled his fists. Then I shall do so as a master to a servant. Yes, Praetor, the roles will be reversed this time.

  Except Staffa couldn't stifle the quake of fear deep in his gut.

  The comm near Captain Theophilos Marston's ear buzzed, followed by, "Sir, we have a security alert from the

  planet. Something's gone wrong, with the computers down there."

  He jerked a rheumy eye open and sat up on his sleeping pallet while the last skeins of his dream of the beautiful amber-eyed woman slipped away. "What the hell do you mean, something's wrong with the computers? On the planet?

  What does that have to do with us?"

  "Uh, sir, it's something wrong with the security system. Alarms are going off all over the planet. It started with one or two here and there. When personnel checked them out, they couldn't find anything wrong. Now the whole planet's ringing with alarm klaxons. It's mass confusion."

  Marston rubbed his face and shook his head. "I suppose the deep space buoys are involved?"

  "Yes, sir. That's why we thought it necessary to wake you, sir."

  "Great, just great. Thought the system was supposed to be foolproof."

  By the time he'd dressed, grabbed a cup of stassa, and made it to the bridge, pandemonium reigned. Officers shouted into their headsets, bridge status monitors flickered on and off or displayed static-ridden snow.

  "What the hell's this?" Marston demanded, waving his stassa cup before him.

  "Planetary systems, sir," his watch officer told him.

  Marston met his watch officer's worried eyes and dropped into the command chair. "Shut that down. Cut the downlink. Isolate us. I want ship's systems only. Whatever's gone wrong down there is their problem. Rotted Gods, this is no time for a software failure. I want ship's eyes to the sky."

  A subtle panic stole through Marston's heart as he watched the bridge monitors firm up with solid images. The deep space scanners probed out into the vacuum, mass detectors providing fuzzy images that slowly solidified into patterns depicting solar wind, occasional vessels headed outbound, and the usual clutter that orbited Myklene.

  "Nothing incoming," the weapons control officer called.

  Marston squinted up at the monitors and the clear sky they indicated. "Why is this happening now? It just doesn't make sense. By the Rotted Gods, if the Star Butcher chose this moment to strike, we'd be just about defenseless. What happened down there? They let some idiot loose with an idea, or what?"

  "I guess it started with security." The watch officer twirled the gold braid that hung down from her epaulets. "You know how it is. One computer's hooked to another. We'd just better hope this Star Butcher scare is exactly that. It will take hours to sort this mess out."

  "Relax, people," the intelligence officer called from his station. "We know the Sassans are preparing for war, but they're still weeks away from operational readiness. Not even Staff a would move before the Sassans were ready. Sassa II would throw a fit if his troops weren't included on the first strike. He'd have Staffa's head for it."

  Marston tried to blink the cobwebs of exhaustion out of his weary brain. Would he? If Staffa wanted to strike first, what would the Sassan God-Emperor do about it? What could he do? Throw a tantrum? Blast the Lord Commander with a bolt of lightning?

  "On the ball, people. I don't like this. Something's sour in my gut. I want the crew at combat quarters—now!"

  The intelligence officer swiveled around from the monitor. "With all due respect, Captain. I think that's unnecessary at this stage. The Praetor himself is aboard. I assure you, if anything were about to happen, I'd have—"

  "I've got incoming!" the weapons control officer called out. "Deep space contacts, three . . . no, five . . . eight. . . . Rotted Gods! There's a dozen incoming . . . no, twenty or thirty!"

  Marston's heart skipped and a dryness formed in his throat as he glanced up at the monitor. The deep space scan had already begun to plot vectors on the incoming vessels.

  "Comm Officer! Sound a full-scale alert! We're about to be attacked!" Marston wheeed his chair around and began checking his systems as the klaxons wailed throughout the ship.

  "Sir!"

  Marston swiveled his chair around to face the comm officer. The young woman's face had gone pale and pasty. Her voice trembled as she told him, "They don't believe me, sir. They say they've got false alarms going off all over the planet."

  Marston sat stunned for a moment. He could feel the chill creep into his heart. "Get me the Praetor, before we're all dead."

  On the screen, the deadly dots of light had begun to fan out, changing vector in a deadly dance of offensive tactics.

  Division Commander Dimeter Anaxoulos wove anxious fingers into his thinning white hair and tugged until it hurt. Never had he faced such a rat's nest of computer malfunctions. The entire security and defense net had gone schizophrenic. For the last one hundred and fifty-six years, he'd pursued his career as a military commander, and he'd never seen a system go so batty. Each of the monitors in the control room of his orbital platform winked on and off while communications lines scrambled, cleared, and scrambled again.

  "What the hell are they doing down there?" he demanded as he stalked back and forth. "Don't the thrice-Rotted fools know we're on alert?"

  "Sir?" the comm tech called.

  "Damn it, not now. I've got more important things—"

  "Sir! I've got the Praetor on priority laser link from the flagship Pylos. He demands to speak to you now."

  Anaxoulos caught himself and nodded. He glanced up at the monitor in time to see the Praetor's withered face form. "Praetor, thank the Blessed Gods, we've got a—"

  "Shut up, Dimeter. We're under attack. Isolate your systems from the planet and prepare to defend Myklene. Check your monitors, and coordinate your fire.

  The security malfunction is a diversion. I've got a means at my disposal to buy some time." The Praetor's expression twisted sourly. "Provided I can reach Staffa in time Meanwhile, destroy them. Kill them all Commander."

  The screen went blank.

  "You heard him!" Anaxoulos shouted. "Delink, and turn our ..."

  He never finished. Even as he spoke, the monitors cleared and he could see the closing vessels. "Weapons control! fire. Charge all batteries, tie into the system, and fire!"

  For long seconds Dimeter Anaxoulos waited, then the complicated targeting computers sorted out vectors, and the

  lights dimmed as energy bolts lashed out from the giant orbiting platform.

  Mass detectors quavered from the aftereffects while the sensors fuzzed from the radiation of the discharges, but one by one, the incoming dots reestablished on the screen, unscathed, closing the distance incrementally.

  "I don't . . ." Anaxoulos gripped the console edge to brace himself. "Shoot!

  By the Blessed Gods, target and shoot!"

  The weapons officer grimly applied himself to the task. Seconds passed as bolt after bolt flashed toward the stars at the speed of light; and with each one, it became apparent that something had gone terribly wrong, for the shots played randomly through the vacuum.

  Anaxoulos hunched as if kicked in the stomach. "What . . . How . . ."

  "The master computers," the weapons tech told him in a dead man's voice. "They did something to the ma
ster computers. Somehow, some way, they sabotaged the system."

  Dimeter Anaxoulos screamed his rage, bowling the weapons officer out of the way as he clawed at the control console, sending shot after shot harmlessly into space. Finally, in defeat, he cried. He was still crying when the first enemy strike blasted his orbital platform.

  "I've got a message from the commander of the Pylos, Lord Commander."

  Staffa kar Therma swiveled in his command chair. The three-sixty screens surrounding him reproduced every angle of the battle that raged around Myklene. Each of his ships darted through Myklenian space, streaks of light marking their bombardment of the ravaged defenders. One by one, his assault ships dropped low over the planet, dispersing ground assault teams. Smoke rose in rolling columns over Myklenian urban centers.

  He could remember each of those cities. He needed only to peel back the curtain of memory to see them as they'd been in his youth. A pang speared his heart. This had been home once before theyd turned on him and his talents. And had Chrysla been left for him, she might have talked him out of crushing thi final link with his past. Perhaps he would have felt pity for the people who had once been his. Now, as he watched the planet burn, only an emptiness filled his breast. A shattering of dreams.

  Praetor, today you reap what you have sown. Your son has returned—and broken your bac.

  "Lord Commander?"

  Staffa glanced at his comm officer. "Yes?"

  "The commander of the Pylos, sir. Do you wish to speak to him?"

  Staffa nodded, and a face formed in the main monitor on his command chair. The bridge behind Theophilos Marston had gone dead—power shorted. Smoke wreathed the air and emergency sirens wailed in the background. Marston looked stricken as he grabbed a console to steady himself. He wore a space suit in anticipation of decompression.

  "Lord Commander, I am Theophilos Marston of the flagship Pylos. I beg of you Lord Commander, stop your assault! We're helpless. The lives of millions hang—"

  "I'm well aware of your situation, Captain." Staffa said coldly and leaned forward, savoring the moment. "I also remember the lessons you once gave me on strategy and tactics. I believe your exact words were, he purpose of war is to render the enemy incapable of resistance by whatever means are possible. He must be crushed physically, mentally, and spiritually. Only then can the vanquished be subjected to the yoke of a new political authority.' "

  Marston winced, a pained expression on his face. "Yes . . yes, I remember those words. But, Lord Commander, don't you have any pity left for your people? For the innocents? Surely you have some family on Myklene. Surely there is space in your heart for the millions of innocents you are killing. What of the children, the elder—"

  "What of them?" Staffa raised an eyebrow and steepled his fingers. "My profession is not compassion, but conquest."

  "But I also taught ethics, Lord Commander. Surely you remember—"

  "I have no interest in ethics Captain. Only results."

  Marston reached out, imploring. "Stop the slaughter, Lord Commander. We are beaten! We can't resist further!"

  "Are you finished?"

  Marston gaped, unable to comprehend. He shook his head. "No. The Praetor is on board. He would like to speak with you. Please, hold the channel open and I'll—"

  "I have no wish to speak with him Captain. Good day— and good-bye." Staffa killed the connection, tension rising in his gut. The Praetor, on Pylos. I can't face him. Not even after all these years.

  Staffa overrode the target acquisition computer, refining the image resolution until Pylos filled the monitor. Atmosphere leaked from wicked rents in the hull. Flashes of lights indicated explosions as more of the hull ruptured. She lay dead in space, no further threat. Except for the man inside your cursed hull.

  Staffa thumbed the main battery, watching the violet beams home in. Pylos burst apart like a rotten melon under his guns. One by one, Staffa targeted the escape pods that jettisoned from the wreckage, and blew them into plasma.

  CHAPTER 2

  Special Tactics Officer Ryman Ark waited with the cool efficiency of a professional. He had placed the rest of his team throughout the hospital building, but this critical corridor he'd taken for his own. Around him, his men and women lay prone behind shimmering energy barriers capable of deflecting pulse as well as particle fire. No one moved, no one made a sound.

  Why are we here? Why did the Lord Commander put his best Special Tactics Unit here . . . to guard one crippled old man? Who is he?

  Ark shifted his gaze from the gleaming white corridor and checked the status displays projected by his sophisticated battle helmet. At his mental command varicolored holos appeared, providing him with information beyond the capabilities of his human senses. He focused the helmet's scanning receptors on the end of the long hallway and dialed up the sensitivity. The corridor looked like any other: White walls reflected soft fluorescent light from square ceiling panels; the polished floor tiles gleamed; steel doors had been placed at fifteen meter intervals. The auditory sensors amplified only the hum of the air conditioning.

  The Lord Commander had ordered all rooms to be vacated—all but the one Ark and his team guarded. And what the Lord Commander ordered, the Companions accepted as inviolate law, no matter what the sense of it might seem at the moment.

  But to put us here? There's still fighting out there. We ought to be using our talents to crack the last of the defensive positions. ot Gods rotting here, guarding a dying old man and an empty hospital.

  The sophisticated detection equipment in Ryman's helmet picked up faint vibrations: the sound of footsteps ap-praching. Ryman checked his IR monitor and noted the gradual increase in heat from beyond the blind corner. Rescue attempt?

  "On deck, people," Ark whispered.

  Ryman's crack Special Tactics Unit tensed behind their energy barriers.

  He used his comm to check with the other personnel scattered through the hospital. "This is Ark. Any trouble? Anyone pass through security?"

  "Negative, STO. All quiet. Nothing cooking."

  "Well, I've got visitors; be sharp, people."

  So who'd passed the guards on the lower floors? Must be somebody of ours.

  Ryman licked his lower lip. But then, he hadn't made Special Tactics Officer by accepting anything at face value.

  He lowered the combat shield over his dark-skinned face. Dressed in camouflaging armor, he crouched behind the shielding—a muscular man with the grace of a trained athlete. The IR image in the rifle sight tinged with heat.

  At that moment two familiar figures swept around the corner.

  "Hold your fire," Ark ordered. In the holo monitors pro jected to the side of his vision he noted that none of his troops even quivered, their respective defensive areas covered by the ugly belled nozzles of assault rifles.

  Professional, by God!

  "Halt!" Ark's voice boomed down the hall.

  The man and woman stopped short, balanced and ready in a predatory stance.

  Ark studied them through his instruments. It figured that the Lord Commander would appear unannounced like this. It kept his people frosty. Ryman studied his commander with the same interest that always possessed him. Staffa kar Therma met his stare over the distance. The ice-blonde woman beside him stood dressed in space whites. Wing Commander Skyla Lyma had dropped her Vegan disguise after they'd gained access to the Myklenian computer system.

  The Lord Commander nodded slightly, and a hard smile of approval barely touched his lips. A glistening gray combat suit fit skintight over his trim body, covering every inch from boot tops to neck. What looked to be a golden choker—in reality the field generator for a vacuum energy helmet—snugged around his throat. The cloak pinned at his shoulders seemed alive as it swirled behind him. A thick weapons belt held a pistol, grenades, comm unit, climbing tackle, and vacuum suit energy pack snugged around lean hips.

  Knee-high black boots gleamed.

  Staffa's clean-shaven face had a handsome look, blocked on the bo
ttom by a square jaw that accented broad thin lips. The nose jutted straight, perfectly proportioned under the smooth brow. Long black hair had been gathered in a ponytail over the left ear and hung over his shoulder—held in place by a shimmering multicolored gem. Ark knew the imperious command in those glinting gray eyes. Through the magnification in his scope, they pierced him. Lines had tightened at the edges of the eyes, giving Staffa's face an expression of tension.

  Ryman Ark fought a shiver. That aura of power chilled men's souls like some pervading miasma. But then, what sane man wouldn't feel that in the presence of the deadliest man in Free Space?

  Ark noted the quick flicker of gray-gloved fingers as they moved in the Companion's sequence of identification.

  "Advance, sir." Ryman stood and allowed the assault rifle to hang easily in his hands.

  The Lord Commander strode forward, the gray cloak billowing behind his tense body. And yes, his expression looked strained, pale, almost a grimace.

  What in the name of the Rotted Gods is wrong?

  Ryman shifted his wary glance to the woman who walked with predatory ease at Staffa's side. Skyla Lyma reminded Ark of an ice leopard. She had that fluidity of movement and the wary balance of a huntress. Skyla missed nothing, her glance darting to each of the energy barriers, and then to the disposition of Ryman's men where they remained crouched behind ready rifles.

  She nodded—a barely perceptible movement—her silverblonde hair swinging in the long braid that hung looped over her left shoulder. In her glistening white armor, she appeared the perfect complement to the tall man in gray. Her authority among the Companions was second only to the Lord Commander's.

  Ryman studied the classic lines of her face and wondered.

  Her features were perfect—those you might expect of an Etarian Priestess. A gymnast would have coveted her perfectly toned body and the resilient power betrayed by her movements. Skyla would be the envy of any man's fantasy and desire—until he looked into those chilling eyes. With a gaze that cut like azure crystals, she inspected him, peeled back his soul, seeking any anomaly.