Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

"It is my considered opinion, therefore, that we have nothing to gain, at this juncture, by joining either side. The final conflict would, in my eyes, bring nothing but a dark age of anarchy." He lifted a finger. "And where, good commanders, would we spend our pay? Who would buy our computers, our ceramics, or our metals if all the economies were broken and shattered?"

  Skyla could see somber nods around the room.

  "Nor is that the only consideration." Staffa continued pacing, hands clasped behind him, head down in thoughtful pose. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm tired. I want to take some time off and relax."

  Staffa braced his feet. "People, I've watched our performance. There have been too many close calls in the last couple of years. If we do decide to choose sides, I want us all in top form, with fresh minds and reflexes. A hasty judgment now could lead to disaster. I want you all to think about where we're going, and what the future brings. I need you to give me your best thoughts—and you can't do that while you're exhausted."

  Skyla frowned to herself. That wasn't the plan, Staffa. The idea was to turn quickly, to consolidate all of Free Space into one empire while they were off balance. What the hell has gotten into you? But she knew.

  He propped hard fists on his hips and laughed from deep in his belly as he swung around to face them. "We've stabilized it all, now let's take a year or so and see how things work out. Tasha, how long has it been now that you've pestered me because your garden gets started, you get flowers about to bud, and we're off to war for a few hundred Titan revolutions? Septa, you complain your children are strangers. Take some time and beat some obedience into that boy of yours. If he skips much more school, he'll never be able to fly a mining tug out of a shuttle hangar. Ryman, I know for a fact you piddle with a new power generating theory in your off-time aboard ship. Work on it now. I authorize any assistance you need from the labs."

  As if Staffa knew where she'd be standing, his gaze met hers. "Skyla," that warm voice soothed her, "you've borne the brunt for too long. I've seen the weariness in your eyes. Take some time for yourself and relax. By the Rotted Gods, you've been the glue that holds us together." He paused and his voice softened. "I don't like the tension I see in you these days. Let the governing council handle the administration for a while You've had too many close calls.

  I wouldn't. . . ." Her heart skipped as he smiled and waved it away. "Just take some time for yourself. You've earned it."

  The tenderness in his words shocked her. Wouldn't? Wouldn't what, Staffa? Want to lose me? Her thoughts reeled as she rubbed her palm where his skin had touched hers.

  Staffa turned, as if embarrassed, and paced back across the screen. "And as to the envoys who come begging, tell them no. It would be too easy to be manipulated into facing another Companion."

  "As far as the administration of the Companions, you all know the contingency plans. Some of you will find supplemental instructions on your private comms.

  "And me, I've already left to taste some fleshpots, buy some rugs, drink some ale, and sire some bastard brats. Not only that, I've never been fishing. I am going fishing. I hear the white sharks make an incredible challenge to a rod and reel on Riparious. We're all rich. Let's enjoy some of it for a while." He shook a finger. "But don't get fat! We're not stuffed Sassan maggots, and we'll have to go back to work in a year or two—so keep your skills up. I'll be back if anything looks threatening. So expect me!" The holo went blank.

  Stunned silence.

  A verbal avalanche rushed at her with everyone talking.

  "Quiet! One at a time." Skyla hollered as she got to her feet.

  Tasha stood up, a mountain of muscular flesh. He tugged at his ragged gray beard with a scarred hand, his single black eye searching faces. He pursed his lips and swallowed. "It is my studied opinion that we heed Staffa's advice.

  He's right about my flower bed. He's right about our money. What good is it to be a rich man if I don't spend it before I die?"

  Ryman Ark got to his feet next, a fist on his belt as he gestured with his other hand. "Not only that, but I think Staffa's right about the political situation. Face it, Sassa's in ruins. Rea is ready to collapse from its own weight. They went too far too fast. I could see us going to war, losing a couple of ships and a lot of good people, and finding out there was no one left to pay us. No, Staffa makes sense. In a couple of years, the empires will have stabilized.

  As long as they have each other to face, they'll have an incentive to compete . . . and we all know what that brings. In the meantime, we can make a financial killing while they buy battle computers and build ships. We might suck in some new technology, too, through their innovations. I say we tell them we aren't interested."

  One by one they stood and spoke: The consensus was the same.

  Skyla collected herself and motioned to be heard. "Very good Companions." She gave them a predatory smile she didn't feel. "I'll go break the news to that fat Sassan and that hungry Regan bitch. I think we'll have more than enough entertainment around here when they go home to tell His Holiness and the Imperial Seventh that we're not playing this round."

  They all laughed.

  "All right, I guess that's it for now, people." She waved them toward the door, calling, "Tasha? Tap? Could I see you for a moment in my quarters?"

  On the way out, Skyla heard Amrat saying, "White shark fishing? Sounds like my quaff of ale. If it's good enough for Staffa, I'll give it a try."

  Riparious was going to be deluged by fishermen looking for eighty foot sharks.

  Tap and Tasha fell in behind Skyla as she stepped into the corridor. The Lord Commander, as usual, had touched each of them with his usual genius.

  "There's only one thing I can't figure," Tasha was saying. "This business of going off by himself, that's not like Staffa."

  "What's he going to do about security, Skyla?" Tap asked. "He say anything special to you?"

  "Let's get to my quarters, gentlemen. There are Sassan and Regan ears on Itreata."

  "They couldn't get an ear up here." Tap protested.

  "Maybe," Skyla said. "But I wouldn't underestimate Ily Takka. Call it woman's intuition."

  By the time she led them into her private quarters, both Tap and Tasha looked as wary as hunted bears. Palming the latch to close her door, she turned and crossed her arms over her chest.

  "Tap? Tasha? Staffa's in trouble—and we've got to help him. This entire operation has to be handled with discretion and finesse. As soon as the empires realize he's alone and vulnerable, without Companion protection, what lengths do you think they'll go to get their hands on him?"

  "Rotted Gods!" Tasha whispered. "Has the Lord Commander taken leave of his senses?"

  Skyla jerked a short nod. "You might say that—and the first thing I've done is put extra security on Professor Sornsen. I'm making the records about what the Praetor did to Staffa available to you—eyes only. Now, gentlemen, we'd better get to work. This might well be the most important mission we've ever tackled.

  We've got to find Staffa without tipping anyone that we're looking for him—and find him before anyone else does."

  Cold fury settled like a web over Ily Takka's thoughts. While she fumed, a second part of her mind found the irritation amusing. To put it simply, she wasn't used to waiting on anyone! Let alone a barbaric mercenary.

  To calm herself, she fingered the badge of authority Tybalt had given her.

  Unlimited power—second only to the Imperial Seventh's—came from that small metal standard bearing the Imperial jessant-de-lis escutcheon of Rega. With it, she could command fleets, destroy worlds, to the point that her word became Rega's. Just the touch of that token of authority sent a shiver of anticipation through her.

  She entered the small conference room and hesitated when she found the repugnantly obese body of Myles Roma—Legate for that simpering homosexual Sassan selfproclaimed god—had already seated himself. Worse, his people crowded all around. Somehow, they made way for her. She knew her eyes flashed with
anger as she took the second seat—next to the Sassan. A third, obviously Staffa's, stood empty on the other side of the table. Her people attempted to crowd into the already stuffed room, creating pandemonium.

  At that juncture, a cleverly disguised door behind the table opened and Wing Commander Skyla Lyma stepped out. A sudden quiet filled the room. The shuffling, cursing, and open threats between Sassan and Regan vanished.

  The Wing Commander cleared her throat. "I think if the various aides would be so kind as to clear the room, I can handle the business at hand with the two delegates." And she stood, back stiff, blue-violet eyes impassive.

  Ily caught her anger just before it exploded. She burned a look of disgust into the fat Sassan and turned. "I'm not sure the Sassan Legate is capable of dealing with the Companions on his own, but I am. If my people would follow the Wing Commander's request?"

  One cool stare from her black eyes and they seemed to evaporate from the cramped quarters. Ily turned her frigid gaze on the Legate and raised an eyebrow.

  Myles Roma swallowed nervously. He wrung his hands and ooked up at the Wing Commander. "This is most unusual! I must protest! In the first place we came to speak with the Lord Commander. In the second, we are here to conduct private negotiations. You would have me discuss business before this . . . this house spy—and without my staff?"

  Skyla Lyma had crossed her arms. Her stare—Ily could appreciate it—should have melted the blubbery white worm.

  To make gain from this strategic setback ly said, "I was candid Wing Commander. I can handle myself. If the Legate truly needs so many to—"

  "Out!" Roma cried, waving a pudgy hand at his entourage.

  Ily narrowed her eyes in triumph. Yes, handling this insipid lard-thing would be ike cutting hot fat with a molecular wire.

  Amid squeals, groans, and complaints, the Sassan herd departed. Skyla extended an arm to lightly touch the wall and the door slid closed. Ily noticed the sudden discomfort the Sassan displayed as his eyes—sunk deep in their fat—considered the possible implications. Fool! Did he think the Companions guaranteed no security to diplomats in conference?

  Ily allowed herself to relax and pulled a document pouch from her belt, aware of the impact it had on the quivering Legate.

  Skyla settled herself in the remaining chair and laced her fingers together on the table. "The Lord Commander and

  the Companions would like to extend our appreciation to your respective governments. . . ."

  Ily waved it aside. "I take it that the Lord Commander will not see us in person. May I ask why?"

  The Wing Commander's eyes went icy. "You may."

  The pause lengthened while Roma began to sweat. His odor, Ily discovered, even cut through his too-thick perfume. At last she added, "Why?"

  "He's not here."

  "I beg your pardon?" Myles Roma wheezed. "Not here? Not here to meet with the Legate Prima Excellence of his Holiness—"

  "You weren't invited here Legate," Skyla reminded sharply. "We hadn't anticipated that your arrival would come so soon after the Myklenian campaign.

  We've tried to extend every courtesy to you as we would hope you—"

  "And we would grant the Lord Commander an instant hearing with His Holiness—"

  "And we would do the same with the Lord Commander!" Skyla roared back, slapping a callused hand on the table. "If he were herer In the awkward silence, Ily asked professionally. "May I ask where he is?"

  "Fishing."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Skyla's stiff expression turned from Roma to her. "You heard me. Even Companions take time off. We're human. The Lord Commander is enjoying his leisure. You just missed him. He has instructed me to offer his sincere apologies, but the Companions are not hiring their services at the present time ... to anyone."

  Ily leaned back, hearing the Legate's intake of breath.

  "You haven't even heard our offer!" Roma cried.

  Skyla sighed. "It might be worth our while if you offered some way to penetrate the Forbidden Borders. Outside of that, we've enough money to see us through for a couple of years. You would offer planets? We have the Itreatic Asteroids. Power? That we control already. Perhaps you would give us each a world to govern? Well, possibly you might entice one or two of the command officers—but it would have to be a good world. Myklene perhaps? No, I can see it in your eyes. We're not worth that good a world."

  Ily laughed sourly. "So, you would tell me that with both empires united and the final conflict on the brink of arising, two envoys arrive willing to sell their souls to hire you— and the Lord Commander casually says, 'Sorry, not interested.' " Her keen mind began peeling away the layers of potential deceit. Of course, the bastard was driving the price up! Perfectly played!

  Skyla pulled two packets from her belt and shoved them across the table.

  "That's right. The Lord Commander's reasons are detailed in these communiques.

  Please see that your respective governments receive and consider them. You will see our reasons for declining service at this time."

  The Wing Commander stood.

  "This is simply preposterous!" Roma exploded. "I can't imagine anyone refusing to—"

  "Do you sincerely expect to gain favor by bellowing like a Vermilion fog rhino?" Ily asked incredulously.

  He turned, bulk bouncing like jelly. "On the day we march into the Imperial palace on Rega, Witch-woman, I shall be looking for you. Neither your assassinations nor the terror you wield so wickedly will save you from the wrath of God, His Holiness, on that glorious day!"

  Ily met his fury with a sober stare. "I look forward to it, my Lord Legate."

  And with a nod to Skyla, she got to her feet and palmed the door which let her into the crowded hallway where her people—on one side—glared at the Sassans on the other.

  As soon as she reached her quarters, she ripped open the seal on the diplomatic packet and scanned the contents. Very well, so Staff a had given them good solid reasons for avoiding a war. What did that mean in the end?

  She patted the pages against her black Myklenian silks and considered the ramifications. No, there must be a deeper meaning to all this. Staffa had gone fishing? Ludicrous, a false lead. No, canny Staffa has to be biding his time, driving the price up, building desperation among the empires.

  She grinned and turned to the comm. "Access to Wing Commander Skyla Lyma, please. This is the Regan Minister."

  Lyma's face formed on the holo. "Yes, Minister? I'm afraid we will not take any offers if that's why you called."

  Ily's diplomatic smile fell easily into place. "It isn't Wing Commander. I was only thinking, having read the Lord Commander's excellent brief on the political situation in Free Space, I can see that we in the service of Tybalt the Imperial Seventh have been remiss. I am empowered, in the name of the emperor, to request that Rega be allowed to establish an embassy in the Itreatic Asteroids.

  The Wing Commander shook her head, eyes frigid. "It has long been a policy of the Lord Commander to deny such embassies. I think you can perceive the changes it would make in our mandatory neutrality. We will not make the polarization of our people possible through exposure to anyone's propaganda."

  Ily nodded. "A wise policy, I'm sure. However, please take our proposal to the Lord Commander. Inform him we would offer the equivalent of one hundred thousand Imperial credits per year for use of Itreatic facilities and services."

  Ily enjoyed the hesitation in the Wing Commander's eyes. She'd offered enough to buy a governorship to a major planet. An embassy would be a first step to binding the Companions to Rega.

  "I'm sorry," Skyla told her at last. "It's out of the question."

  Ily nodded, her smile perfect. "We understand." And one of these days, blonde beauty, I will watch you writhe. "Thank you for your time Wing Commander." She hesitated, another angle forming in her mind. "How do we ... I mean, you will provide the services of the Companions for minor security problems so long as they are unrelated to the basic disagreem
ents between the empires, won't you?"

  "You are referring to the Targan uprising?"

  Ily studied those cool blue eyes. No, there were no pretenses here. Ily relished the sensation as her own smile became genuine. What pleasure this ice-haired beauty would provide. Here, finally, she faced an opponent worthy of her craft and cunning. "Of course, Targa is a current problem area."

  Skyla nodded. "I will raise the issue with the Lord Commander. If there is any interest, I will inform you. But please remember that we have just returned from a trying campaign. Most of our people are weary. Will your offer remain open?"

  "Of course." Ily felt a tingle of hope. If the Targan situation were allowed to disintegrate, it would be a perfect opportunity when the Companions grew bored with humdrum station life. All it would take would be a prolonging of the civil war there. Something more to inflame the peo ple, to spur them on. Perhaps an arms shipment to the rebels? The sacrifice of several Regan army corps to hearten the Targan opposition? Indeed, if it flared enough, the Companions would hear. A plea would do more for the curious vanity than a straight-out offer of gold and jewels.

  "Thank you for your time Wing Commander." Ily nodded politely and killed the connection.

  And where was Staffa? Fishing? Really? There was one way to find out, she thought, and studied her reflection appraisingly before stepping out into the corridor.

  Men—be they dock hands or Companions—would always talk to a seductive woman.

  Only certain sections of the station were open to her and her escort.

  Nevertheless, within an hour she was leading Special Tactics Officer Ryman Ark into her quarters, laughing and lowering her eyes as his hands explored her body.

  "Now why," Ark asked, as he accepted a bulb of Scotch, "don't the Regans send you by more often?"

  "Ryman, I have duties." She settled next to him on the sleeping platform. "I don't get away much. But when I do, I want to see men, real men who take life seriously, not the perfumed flaccid bureaucrats I have to deal with every day.

  "Where does this scar go?" She ran a finger lightly along his black skin to where the puckered seam disappeared into his sleeve.