Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  Sink noted two Groups leaving at a trot to cover the road approaches. "They know who's supposed to be in that convoy?"

  "Yeah. And you've got them nervous enough that they're unwilling to take any chances on it either."

  Sinklar nodded to his red-faced sergeant and grinned. "By God, might be hope for this outfit after all."

  Twenty minutes later, huge ten-meter-high machines moved into sight Bright yellow, marked with the Decker Mining Company logo, each sported a rifle team on its big roof.

  As the First Division came to look, MacRuder climbed nimbly down from the cab. A second man in civilian dress followed him.

  "Mission accomplished, Sink!" MacRuder grinned, slapping the huge graphite-fiber wheel. "Got twelve of these babies!"

  Smaller trucks and aircars moved in from the perimeter to settle in the co-op's dusty lot.

  "Who's he?" Sinklar asked, turning to the miner, a man who swallowed rapidly and looked scared.

  "Driver," Mac told him. "These things take a little knowhow. I'm not sure we're capable of just hopping in and going."

  Sinklar looked at the man and offered his hand. "My pleasure. I'm Sinklar Fist, First Targan Assault Division."

  "Nymes, sir. My pleasure, too," the man said in a blur. He swallowed again, running a tongue over dry lips. "You gonna kill us now?"

  Sinklar tightened his facial muscles. "Mac? What did you tell this man?"

  "Uh, that he was commandeered." MacRuder crossed his arms, his face going bland.

  "Nymes." Sink lifted an eyebrow. "What was Decker paying you to drive this thing?"

  The man looked puzzled. "Why, uh, ten ICs a day."

  "The Emperor offers you twenty—with additional overtime and bonus for hazardous duty."

  "Uh, double you say? And a bonus? And overtime?"

  "Mac?" Sink lifted an eyebrow. "We being fair?"

  "Sure thing. Sounds reasonable to me."

  "But I thought you guys. ..." The miner pursed his lips and frowned. "The stories we heard were that people were being killed all over."

  "Rebel propaganda. Look, talk it over with the rest. If you don't like it, just stay long enough to teach us how to use the machines and we'll fly you home and pay you for your time."

  Most of the drivers stayed. In fact, they were still driving when the First Targan Assault Division rolled into the streets of Vespa three days later.

  The fighting started that night and the First Targan Assault Division won its first pitched battle of the war three days later.

  Ily Takka took the diplomatic pouch from the courier and smiled her thanks.

  Kapstan, the Internal Security Director on Etaria had a nice office that filled half of the upper floor of the security building. A private bath—an Etarian luxury—was accessed through an ornate door on the left. The woodwork trim around the plaster walls had been intricately carved and stained in a deep red. Kapstan's desk was a huge thing with comm terminals, communications equipment, and various devices.

  Ily watched the special courier walk across the plush rugs of the office and close the hardwood door behind him. She opened the seal on the pouch and inspected the chem-coded message recorder. She nodded approval and lifted the small cartridge out. Had any other person touched the fragile recording, his or her body chemistry would have set off a reaction that would have destroyed the message.

  Ily leaned forward over the Internal Security Director's desk. The office around her looked glassy through the privacy screen she initiated. She inserted the cartridge and pressed the button. Tybalt the Imperial Seventh appeared on the monitor. His black skin gleamed in the light.

  "Dearest Ily," Tybalt began. "I must say, your prolonged absence is about to drive me insane. How right you were. There is no one to talk to." He sighed.

  "And how I miss you in my bed." He waved it away. "Anyway. On to business. We have taken action on all of your suggestions regarding the Targan affair. I think we have a perfect man to make a debacle of it.

  "In the first place, the Targans played right into our hands by assassinating Atkin . . . and Kapitol!" His eyes gleamed. "Mykroft and the Minister of Defense both roared when I told them to appoint a man from the ranks. The military is raising five kinds of Rotted stink, as you can well guess.

  "The fellow selected—raised from a Sergeant Third, of all things—is one Sinklar Fist. He had some sort of dazzling victory in the mountains and he's become very popular with the First Targan Assault Division. He's been spending most of his time going through the paperwork, of course, but he's received his orders from the Minister of Defense to take the field against the Rebels."

  Tybalt propped his chin on his knee and frowned. "Now here is the funny part about Fist. He's taking to the field with his troops. Defense threw a fit. As you know, it is totally against the regulations that a First enter the field." Tybalt shook his head. "Anyway, since the man is sacrificial, his actions don't matter. I explained the matter to Defense and he quieted immediately, seeing the final result will be a reinforcing of military protocol and tradition.

  "Needless to say, that aspect of the war will proceed quite nicely. We've offered young Fist—imagine if you will, his troops call him 'the First Fist. . . .' Where was I? Oh, yes. We've offered him our full support, even to indulging him in the time to 'train' his troops! What does the young man think they teach in academy and basic? But I diverge from the point of the message.

  He will fail within the next five weeks as we have given him the impossible mission of capturing the Rebel stronghold of Vespa—and doing it overland to boot. They'll chop him to pieces, his supply lines will be cut, and he'll lead the First Division to destruction. Perfect!"

  Tybalt smiled at the images conjured. He looked up. "Oh, by the way. Sassan spies have been all over. They're looking frantically for Staffa. Have you found him yet? Please, do get him under wraps and get back here. This place is dreadfully boring without you."

  The holo died.

  Ily leaned forward and tapped a button on the Director's desk. "Kapstan! Get your pus-rotted body in here!"

  The Director trotted through the door, a cadaverous figure in a formfitting black robe. His thin, humorless face had already turned pale from dread. "Good news from the Emperor, I hope?"

  She slitted her eyes and studied him as if gazing at some curious insect. The Director stiffened and clamped his jaws to keep them from quivering.

  "No, Kapstan. It wasn't the recall you hoped I'd get." She saw him wilt at her accusation and continued. "It's been a putrid week that I've been here! Are your people so incompetent that they can't locate a single man?" She slapped the table and jumped to her feet.

  "But the number of possibilities!" He spread his hands, palms up imploringly.

  "Just consider the number of interviews—"

  "I'm finished with your vile excuses!" she hissed. "If you had your channels set up, if you had your agents working efficiently, you'd have a file on every person landing on this sun-scorched and sand-blasted rock! Skyla Lyma got here, talked to the CV pilot, stepped on the shuttle and, by the Pustulant Gods, she disappeared Ily ground her teeth, jaw muscles standing from her pale flesh. "What must I think about an Internal Security Director who can't follow a subject planetside when he knows which pus-dripping shuttle the subject is on"

  She let her eyes do the rest. Kapstan's mouth worked in misery as the silence lingered. He looked down at his boots to avoid her gaze and finally defended,

  "The personnel responsible have been disciplined for their lack—"

  "Discipline ends with the final responsible party! That's you, Director!"

  He stiffened and paled.

  Despite Ily's frustrated rage, she enjoyed his discomfort. How many strong men had cowered before Director Kapstan's hard glare. How many had he broken and left as human wreckage? And in a few words, she had him ready to foul his neatly tailored britches.

  In the long silence Associate Director Tyklat tapped at the door. "Your pardon Director?" he called un
certainly, his nervousness evident from the expression on his long black face. "I think I found the subject."

  Ily turned to look, an eyebrow raised. "Where?"

  Tyklat entered and deposited a printout on the desk. "It came to me last night . . . er, this morning actually. After I'd exhausted everything else, I had the comm system search the court dockets."

  "I did that, already," Kapstan fumed. "If there'd been any listing of Staffa kar Therma, it—"

  "Shut up!" Ily ordered, her dark gaze probing Tyklat. Her voice dropped to an encouraging, "Tell me." She leaned forward, seeing the sudden excitement in his eyes. Good man this, he taes his ob seriously.

  "Well, I, uh, I mean the Director had already searched the dockets. I just widened the search, letting it run for any mention of the Star Butcher, Staffa, Companions, or Itreata."

  "And you found . . ." she prompted, flipping her long black hair over her shoulder. Kapstan began shifting from foot to foot.

  "I found an alleged madman who claimed to be Staffa kar Therma," Tyklat said, his brow creasing. "He was accused of being robbed and, according to his testimony, he killed two of the assailants. The judge thought he was raving and sentenced him to the Warden for public duty."

  "Rotted Gods! Staffa ... in the collar?" She chuckled wryly. "Have him brought to. ... No." She clapped her hands, thinking, running her tongue over her lips. "There's more to be gained if I go to him. Take me to him. I trust he's in the city someplace?"

  "He's—"

  "Take you to him? By all means Minister," Kapstan smiled, cutting off Tyklat and taking her arm. "I told you I'd have this handled quickly and competently."

  She froze, eyes gleaming as she looked into his suddenly shocked face. "Take your hand off my arm."

  "My apology Minister. I didn't think—"

  "No, you didn't."

  "Excuse me," Tyklat said, .bowing his head to leave.

  "Stay!" Ily ordered and the young man stopped, gaze flicking warily between her and the Director. "Officer Tyklat. You have demonstrated efficiency and dedication. I have a feeling you conducted most of this search. Correct?"

  He met her eyes and she could see the truth in his guarded expression. Very good, he wouldn't rat on a superior—even one as worthless as Kapstan.

  "By my authority, Tyklat, I place you in charge of Etarian Internal Security.

  Your duties start as of this moment."

  Kapstan's mouth dropped. "But I have a commission from the Emperior himself!

  You can't ..." his breath sucked in as he looked down.

  Ily's dart pistol hiccuped twice. Kapstan swallowed, terrified eyes going wide. His body slammed face first onto the thick rug. Ily dropped her tiny weapon into its belt holster and turned to Tyklat. "I believe you'll have time to clean your office later. Right now, take me to Staffa kar Therma."

  "Yes, Minister Takka." He bowed cautiously. Well, good. That placed another of her men in the Empire.

  The car met her at the main entrance. She extended her arm and was pleased to see he didn't hesitate to take it.

  "Tyklat, things are about to change drastically in the Empire. Are you aware of that?"

  He appraised her coolly. "I take it you mean in addition to the coming war with the Sassan Empire?"

  "I do." She studied him carefully as she pulled her long hair back over one shoulder. "There may be totally unexpected political upheavals. Tell me, where do you put your loyalty?"

  He nodded, smooth black skin glistening in the brilliant sunlight. "I think I understand Minister. You have elevated me to this position; I am duly grateful."

  "Discreetly done, Tyklat." She patted his arm.

  "I didn't get to be Kapstan's second through idiocy Minister." He kept his features straight, but she could see his hidden smile of triumph.

  "Call me Ily. Those whom I trust do. You will need to open two channels, one official—don't worry, Tybalt will approve your promotion—and one private. The second will be 'eyes only,' yours and mine. There may be irregular requests.

  Be prepared."

  "I understand. I shall not disappoint you." His mouth twitched with an unspoken question.

  She laughed, reading his interest. "You're my kind of man, Tyklat. I think you and I will do admirably together, and, yes, I do reward my people very, very well."

  The car settled at the entrance to the Warden's pens. A guard met them halfway, shooing away some brown-robed Etarian tart he'd been talking to. The woman walked off several steps and leaned against the wall, veiled face hidden. Lover, no doubt.

  "Staffa who?" the guard asked, eyes straying back to the woman he'd been talking to.

  Tyklat supplied: "Registration number seven six four nine two zero. I called and they said they'd have the slave ready to be picked up."

  The guard tapped a code on his wrist. "Desert duty. He's laying pipe on the new water line. Supposedly, it's an equipment breakdown."

  The guard shrugged. "Actually, the contractor wants too much money to string pipe. We can do it cheaper, if slower, with slaves. Besides, there's a surplus of bodies right now. Ever since the Maikan conquest we've been overcrowded."

  Ily could feel the Etarian woman's gaze on her as, face grim, Tyklat steered her back to the vehicle.

  Ily glanced back at the veiled woman and then forced her from her mind as she considered the guard's words. "A good way to rid yourself of surplus? The Lord Commander does not fit my definition of surplus."

  The aircar rose easily as Ily leaned back in the seat. She sighed. "Very well, assuming we have found Staffa, where could his Wing Commander be?"

  Tyklat rubbed a finger along his straight nose. His eyes, dark as her own, betrayed a slight mystification. "I'm not certain at this stage. To be honest, the Lord Commander was my first concern. The fact remains that he eluded us because we were looking in the wrong place for the wrong reasons." His thoughtful features wrinkled into a frown. "Maybe we've done the same with the Wing Commander— only based on different assumptions."

  Ily grimaced as they rose over the squat city. What an ugly place Etarus had turned out to be for all the glittering reputation of its whore temple.

  Flat-roofed brown buildings hugged narrow streets. A tourist town, it lived off the revenue brought from the men flocking to the Temple and the Priestesses. At the same time, believers came to receive instruction in prayers, devotions, and philosophy. That trade supported lodgings while small cottage industries made souvenirs. A spice trade came out of the desert as did minerals and precious gems.

  "We just don't know enough about Skyla Lyma," Ily decided. Another thought crossed her mind. "However, assuming we have found Staffa, I don't want him to know his Wing Commander is here. We have more leverage if he doesn't."

  "I understand."

  "Good." Ily paused, glancing at Tyklat. "You know, she is a very beautiful woman."

  "I've seen the official holos you provided." Tyklat laced his fingers together.

  "Believe me, they don't do her justice." Ily realized the and air had begun affecting her skin. Her mouth felt sucked dry. "Anything to drink in here?"

  He handed her a flask that clipped to the side of the seat.

  Refreshed, Ily pursued that thought. "When you find her, remember that she's a warrior of some considerable talent. She didn't get to be Wing Commander by wiggling her tail. She's dangerous and probably quite capable of whipping your best in hand-to-hand combat."

  Tyklat grinned. "We'll use stun rods and put a collar on her immediately."

  "And after that, Tyklat, keep her on ice. I want no word of her being under our control to leak out. I think you can appreciate the ramifications." She sat back, enjoying the thought. How far could she go with Staff a all to herself? "Indeed, if it proves that we don't need the inestimable Wing Commander, you may keep her for yourself. As I say, she is very beautiful—and I do reward my people."

  His smile grew. "With a collar on, she will be tame as a kitten."

  Ily allowed herself a short lau
gh. By the Rotted Gods, this had gone well after all. She was congratulating herself, feeling an uplifting surge of optimism as they circled over a thin line seemingly drawn in the white desert sands. As they dropped, the line turned into a long ditch, trenching machines springing into visibility as they closed.

  The dust that rose in a maelstrom about the car surprised her. She could see Tyklat's measuring eyes on her. "Your shoes, Ily. You might want to take them off. This is what we call the True Sand, the deep desert. Your long thin heels will sink in and you will look foolish. Of course, your bare feet will be most uncomfortable. The temperature of the sand often gets as high as three hundred and fifty degrees Kelvin." He spread his hands. "Or I could attend to it."

  She saw his curiosity. Without losing eye contact, she slipped her footgear off. "After you Director."

  He hadn't lied. Her skin felt like it was curling and blistering off her very bones. She kept her face straight and plodded after him, each burning step a trial. Despite herself, she had to squint in the blinding glare. Heat beat at her in a constant suffocating mass. Rotted Gods! They carried pipe in this?

  Her skin had gone completely dry and her lips had chapped. The hot wind that bled her of moisture teased and tugged at her long hair.

  They made it to a tent awning where three men waited to greet Tyklat. Ily found herself shaking an officer's hand. She caught his name: Anglo.

  "We have come for a slave," Ily told the officer coldly, seeing the glint in his eyes as he appraised her. Rotted Gods! Does he have no conception of who I am? Or has he been screwing the slaves until a woman is no more than meat? Her anger stirred.

  "We're a little short of those today Minister." Anglo grinned idiotically in his attempt to be suave. "If I may be of any other assistance—"

  "Get the slave called Staffa!" Tyklat ordered, his face hard.