Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  Dazzled by the thought, Tybalt added, "Very well, we'll take care of Targa. My Lord of Defense, see to it that our 'gaping wound' is cauterized. In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen, your duty is to determine how to bind Staffa kar Therma to our side—before we all wind up learning to speak Sassan."

  The Imperial Tybalt stood and gestured, indicating the meeting was adjourned.

  He avoided the explosion of conversation that immediately broke out and headed for the restroom and his tube of insumweed jelly. He'd have to take time so the surgeon could correct his problem. One surgeon for his tender itching anus—the other for Staffa kar Therma!

  The heart inside Sinklar Fist's rib cage skipped a beat as the LC began shuddering and bucking against atmosphere. His mouth had gone dry in the rising heat. This time—no matter what they said—it wasn't a drill.

  Combat-armored troops like himself crammed the inside of the LC, the workhorse landing craft of the Regan military. Sink and his companions had been seated shoulder to shoulder and tipped slightly back to minimize g forces should the craft have to maneuver. Lines of narrow lights gave the place a ghastly white look, exposing the smudged deck plating cluttered with so many booted feet.

  The strakes had been drilled with lightening holes which cast curious patterns across the painted metal of the internal hull. Moisture from their breathing had condensed on the cold steel and ran down in dribbles or spatted periodically on his helmet and armor. Looking forward, only bubblelike helmets filled the view. Overhead, between the lights, a locker hung down sporting the ominous lettering, SURVIVAL GEAR.

  Targa lay below them, a bitter world full of mad people, people who had risen in revolt and killed an entire garrison of Regan troops Where had they obtained the weapons? Indeed, that had been the thousand-credit question. Among the troops, they had a good idea. Sassan spies, no doubt. The story made the rounds that smugglers had supplied the whole planet. Sinklar glanced at his companions. The brunette beside him, Gretta Artina, had her eyes closed, fingers laced tightly about the barrel of her assault rifle. Her head tilted back against the crash webbing.

  Sinklar studied the line of her jaw, admiring the texture of her smooth skin, seeing how the pulse raced under that fine neck. Where had she been last night when he lay awake, tossing and turning, knowing that others coupled frantically in the dark? His eyes dropped to the full swell of her breasts.

  Sinklar looked hastily away, feelig the increasing vibration in the LC. Since the night he'd finally found his parents, his emotions had become a quagmire.

  Increasingly, Anatolia Daviura had risen from a maze work of conflicting feelings to dominate his thoughts. He'd dreamed of her blue eyes and yellow-blonde hair. The memory of her trim body lingered. More water dripped from above, spattering hollowly and bursting his reverie.

  As with women, Sinklar wondered why had the Blessed Gods made him so strange, so weak and incompetent at this soldiering business? Worst of all—on top of being scrawny, underweight, and clumsy—people stared at his thin face. Just having a thin face didn't do it; they gawked at his eyes: one gray, the other tiger yellow. Well, hell, sure, he could have had that surgically corrected, but curse it, that's how he'd been bom. Not only that, kids with his upbringing didn't get operations like that . . . even on Imperial Rega where the streets were supposed to be paved with gold.

  Why couldn't he be like Corporal MacRuder, whom Gretta made eyes at? MacRuder was every inch a dashing soldier, and Gods Rot it, Gretta smiled saucily every time MacRuder winked at her.

  The air had become thicker, coagulating with the odors of sweat and fear and making breathing difficult. Someone behind him broke wind, the sulfuric odor almost causing him to gag. Someone else laughed—a chittering nervous sound.

  The lights dimmed. Either the weapons were discharging or they'd switched to reserves to avoid detection. He blinked, fear moving in his gut like a living thing. His own bowels begged to loosen. The lights had gone red— battery power. Did that mean they were falling? Powered out?

  Emulating beautiful Gretta next to him, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the fear-sweat beading under his helmet and trickling down his bony face. The soft muttered prayers of an Etarian disciple whispered somewhere across from him.

  "Thirty seconds, people!" the wall speaker announced flatly.

  A vague whistle of air became audible as the panels around him jiggled. G

  force sought to pull him sideways against the girl. The ceiling began to rain.

  Sinklar Fist counted, knowing only that it would help cover his fear.

  The final deceleration sought to strain him through his combat armor. His neck muscles tensed to fight the heavy pull. G vanished suddeny, making him snap his head. The LC bumped, bucked, and settled. Hydraulics whined and air moved.

  "All right, people, let's move!" Sergeant Hamlish sang out in his bullhorn voice. "A Group! Establish a perimeter! B Group, expand it! C, back them up.

  D, prepare a flanking defense right! E, flanking defense left! F, support the ordnance team!"

  Men and women jumped up around Sinklar. Foolishly, he slapped the quick release on the crash harness and pulled himself to his feet. He barely got his assault rifle up as Gretta moved out at a trot. He slung the heavy rifle up expertly, slipping the support strap over the carry hook so the weight no longer rested on his arms alone.

  A Group had already piled out the hatch, diving for the rocky soil, their battle armor changing color to match the reddish-tan soil. Sinklar trotted forward, just like in the exercises, and dropped to the ground another fifty yards out. He blinked into the blackness, aware of the rich smell of the raw earth inches from his nose. Something whirred by his head. Insect? Night bird?

  A wailing behind him indicated the LC had cleared its load and was lifting its deadly bulk into the blackness. With a quick glance he noticed that no stars dotted the black sky. He swallowed hard, realizing for the first time just how dry his throat felt. The air carried a cool tang, fresh and clear in his nostrils.

  Sergeant Hamlish's quiet voice in his ear made him jump.

  "Idiot!" Sinklar berated himself, "It's only your ear comm!"

  "Fist!" MacRuder's retort sounded loud in the system. "Shut your mike off! We aren't interested in evaluations of your intelligence."

  Sinklar colored red, a horrible shame rising to throttle his heart. Did he do everything wrong?

  Hamlish ordered, "Group B, you're on the outside. Pair off and advance. We should be just over the hill from Kaspa. Secure the ridge up there and signal when you have a defensive position."

  Sinklar scrambled to his feet, remembering finally to drop his IR visor. Like a falling veil, darkness became light in an odd-hued landscape. He could see MacRuder waving him over.

  "Come on, Fist," MacRuder called confidently. "You gonna be all night? There's honors for first blood on this trip." The corporal turned and started forward.

  First blood? Sinklar winced. He'd never been meant to be a soldier. Far better to remain home on Rega away from bugs and mud and guns and probe the fascinating secrets of the library. The worst blow of all had been cutting short Ndimensional quantum geometry so soon after he'd gotten the text.

  Fascinating relationships between. . . .

  His lungs started to labor—panting too soon. The assault rifle itself weighed twenty pounds. On top of that, the pack had to be another thirty.

  The ridge proved no obstacle other than that it left Sinklar gasping, delirious from thirst, and exhausted. Flopped on the ground, wishing he could vomit, he heard MacRuder calling over the comm system, "B Group reporting Sergeant. All's well."

  "Okay, people, dig in," MacRuder ordered, scrambling like a bug in the dark.

  He bent down over Sinklar. "You all right?"

  "Yeah, short of breath is all."

  "Look, you seem like a nice kid. Just stick with me, huh? I'll make sure you don't get in any trouble."

  "Sure." Picking up the assault rifle, he followed MacRuder over the e
dge of the ridge and crawled under a full-leafed bush to stare at the winking lights of Kaspa where they spread out below him. The city sat in the bottom of a ridge-bordered bowl. Through the IR vision, the place looked like a shanty town. The surrounding peaks consisted

  of cracked and sundered bedrock covered with scabby vegetation and thick-branched conifers on the slopes. Land turned on end—hell of a place to fight a war.

  Kid? MacRuder had called him a kid? Well, he sure didn't make much of a soldier—and, damned right, he'd stick with MacRuder. The corporal seemed to know what he was doing.

  No one had fired a shot yet. Maybe taking rebel planets was a piece of cake like they'd said?

  He lay there in the darkness and thoughtfully fingered his combat armor.

  Rubbing the stuff between his fingers, i felt like a tough synthetic with a slick surface. In actuality, the material consisted of hollow composite sheaths of graphite and ceramic that enclosed hydrocarbon polymers in some threads, and oxycatalyst in others. Any impact capable of rupturing the composite caused an instant chemical bonding that stiffened the material into hard ablative plate, thereby spreading and absorbing the energy of a projectile or blaster bolt. When coupled with a vacuum helmet, the tight weave served as a pressure suit for space work.

  Let's just hope it'll keep me alive, Sinklar thought to himself.

  "All right, people," Mac called. "Let's go. Spread out and keep sharp. We got a city to take."

  Sinklar headed down the ridge with the rest of B Group. By the breaking of dawn, they'd infiltrated to the Section 3 Post Office and established an occupation headquarters on the outskirts of Kaspa.

  The postal building didn't look like much from an aesthetic perspective, but to a military tactician, the thick stone walls and small windows gave the place all the virtues of a redoubt.

  "Hell! I thought we'd have a fight," MacRuder growled as he pulled his pack around to cushion his back against the stone of the hallway wall. The other troops had stacked rifles and piled duffels here and there around the open lobby.

  "They don't look dangerous," Sinklar said thoughtfully as he studied the few pedestrians who hurried past outside, eyes downcast. The skies remained clouded over, hints of thunder in the rumbling gray-black overhead.

  "Naw, the regulars are here," MacRuder mumbled over a half a ration bar.

  Sinklar studied him thoughtfully. MacRuder looked like a soldier: square-jawed and handsome with a lump in the middle of his nose. Challenging blue eyes stared out of a high-cheeked face while wisps of blond hair escaped the confines of the helmet. The man's muscular shoulders swelled the supple fabric of his armor.

  Gretta Artina sat beside him, one arm locked in the corporal's. Sinklar had to work to keep from staring at her perfect features. Was she falling for MacRuder? Against a man like that, what chance did the likes of Sinklar Fist have?

  Think about Anatoia, idiot She's safely out of reach— and you can dream about her unti you get home—assuming you survive Targa. Then you don't have to be heartbroken until you find out she married one of her professors and has a kid on the way.

  MacRuder's voice intruded. "They might have thought the garrison was soft, but they've got combat troops here now. We'll make them think twice." Mac made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Still, somebody should have taken a potshot.

  I don't get it. It's like they just let us walk in here."

  Gretta cocked her head, long brown hair shining in the faint light. "I wouldn't mess with Imperial firepower. What have they got out there? Untrained miners? So they have some pulse weapons and grenades? A couple of blasters in those hands are hardly enough to rout the might of the Empire."

  "They wiped out the garrison," Sinklar reminded, ripping the seal off his energy bar. He watched as an old woman climbed the stairs hesitantly, her glance that of a scared bird as she cataloged the armored personnel resting along the halls. Kyphotic osteoporosis had curled her spine, giving her a hunched appearance. She clutched a large purse to her tightly bundled chest with age-spotted talon fingers—joints knotted from arthritis. She climbed one step at a time, making sure of her footing.

  "Help you, ma'am?" MacRuder asked, speech slurred by the crunchy food bar as he stood and opened the thick glass door for her.

  She nodded with frightened jerks of her birdlike head. "I ... I need to see about. . . about my medical benefits,"

  her voice came out frail and withered to match her agelined face.

  MacRuder wiped a hand across his mouth and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  "See Sergeant Hamlish in there." He indicated the room where once the Regan Postal Super had held court until the "Citizens' Committee" hauled him out and hacked him to pieces with mucking tools.

  She avoided their eyes and nodded, hobbling painfully to the sergeant's room on brittle legs.

  "Now there's a dangerous revolutionary," MacRuder said with a laugh. He ripped the tab out of the side of another energy bar. "So much for Targan resistance.

  We've got this place cowed, man!"

  Sinklar frowned. "Yeah, maybe. You know, I was reading about the Sylene expedition Phillipia mounted when they were on their conquest jag a couple of centuries ago. The lesson—"

  "Ancient history, Fist," Gretta told him. "What could a backwater war like that have to do with Imperial power?"

  Sink lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Well, uh, there's lots of interesting things in history books."

  "Like what?" MacRuder asked. "Cut and dried combat tactics? I mean, you read what somebody did a hundred ten counts ago and everybody who can read will know the tactics. You've got to think up new plans, constantly innovate.

  That's the key to the Star Butcher's success, you know. Think, Sink!" MacRuder pointed to his head and winked.

  "Books, huh?" Gretta snickered. "You one of those Seddis, Sink?"

  Color rose hot on his neck. As he became more flustered, it got worse. "No. I just studied is all ... trying to gain entrance to the Regan University."

  MacRuder laughed, mouth full of food. "Didn't get too far, huh? Man, you don't get to University unless you're a genius or you got noble blood in your veins—or an appointment signed by the Emperor."

  "Yeah, I know. I thought I'd get it. I scored third in the Interplanetary trials."

  His words evoked wide-eyed silence.

  "Rotted Gods!" Gretta whispered. "Third! And they still didn't take you?"

  Sinklar flushed and picked idly at his food bar. "No."

  MacRuder shook his head. "They say why?"

  Lie, Sink. You can't tell them why. From now on stick to the orphan story.

  "No. Only that they were sorry. But . . . but I should not be discouraged from trying again next year."

  Gretta's brow furrowed. "I knew a woman who made it. She placed eighty-sec...." She bit it off at the look on Fist's face. She took a deep breath and sighed. "Must have been political. Maybe an error in some office, huh?"

  "Yeah, must have been."

  The old woman came out of Sergeant Hamlish's office during the uneasy pause.

  Her heavy boots clicked across the floor as she passed. Her frightened glance met Sinklar's for a brief instant before she looked away. He pushed the door open for her and watched her hobble down the stairs, arms swinging for balance.

  From the corner of his eye, Sinklar caught a glimpse of the sergeant heading for the men's toilet. Well, even sergeants had to go sometime.

  "So what did you learn from your history of the Sylene wars?" MacRuder's manner had changed subtly.

  "Don't concentrate your forces," Sinklar mumbled, thinking about the old woman hobbling rapidly across the uneven street.

  Outside, loudspeakers blared yet another repeat of the terms of occupation as a military hover-craft, studded with heavy blasters and pulse cannon, passed over. The booming voice echoed, "Martial Law is currently in force. Persons needing travel permits, medical care, or police assistance must register with the military authorities. All comm requests wil
l be handled in order of receipt. Remain calm and comply with military authority." And it went on, droning in the muggy air.

  Sinklar chewed his lip and looked up at the brooding clouds. He had already started to hate Targa—and no one had even shot at him yet.

  "Yeah, well, that goes against any axiom of military sense," MacRuder maintained. "Anyone knows that divide and conquer is the oldest rule in warfare. Strength allows defensive as well as offensive options that scattered troops—"

  "Rotted Gods!" Sinklar cried, jumping to his feet. "Where's her purse?"

  "What?" MacRuder's face twisted.

  "Come on, let's go get her!" Sinklar grabbed up his rifle. "Lke Sylene, Mac.

  Hey! Somebody check the sergeant's office for that old woman's purse."

  He charged down the stairs, eyes on the old woman as she scuttled around the corner of a gray-mortared building. Gretta and MacRuder followed along behind, resettling their helmets and hooking up their rifles.

  Sinklar's feet hit the irregular cobbles on the street—but he couldn't remember what happened next. The world seemed to drop out from under him before it leapt up to smack him. He remembered rolling across the rough stone cobbles, time and space suspended in fire, and smoke, and fragments of bouncing mortar.

  Stunned, ears ringing, he fought air ito his stinging lungs. He moved his legs and arms, aware they still worked. Numb, he got to his feet, weaving back and forth. The assault rifle had remained attached to the combat armor catches and dangled within reach. He groped for the weapon as violet light crackled past his head. Ducking, he dropped to one knee and fired a burst at the upper-story window the shots had come from. The front of the building jumped from the impact, dust flying from the cracks in the brick.

  Sinklar turned, seeing MacRuder struggling to his feet. The postal building had been turned into dusty rubble. As Sinklar watched, one of the side walls teetered out and collapsed on the side street.