Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  Shiksta was muttering under his breath.

  "A military tribunal will consider each case separately," Braktov said. Those guilty of insubordination and violation of the Command Code according to the manual will be dealt with summarily."

  Sinklar faced the monitor as he rubbed his hands together. "Yes, that is our point. You see, we all are—as you say—guilty." He paused. "Look at it from our position. Innovative measures were employed on Targa to subdue the rebellion.

  And Commander, the rebellion is over. Finished. The capital as well as the major cities have been retaken. Order is restored and my Groups are patrolling the streets. The final pockets of resistance in the mountains are currently being subdued—most often peacefully."

  "Does this have a point Sergeant?" she groused, propping herself in her command chair, one shoulder raised.

  "It does Commander. I've been worrying about this conversation ever since Mykroft appointed me to Division First." He settled himself on the table edge, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, one leg dangling and swinging.

  "You see, I am willing to offer the Emperor a peaceful Targa. Further, I will guarantee it will stay that way so long as I'm viceroy here. In return, those of the First and Second Divisions who wish may return to their homes without censure or disciplinary action taken against them—and with full veteran's honors."

  "You WHAT?" Rysta bolted to her feet. "You bargain? With the Emperor?" She threw her head back and laughed, the sound a wicked cackle in the room.

  Sinklar waited her out until she chuckled herself to a stop.

  " do have the planet," he reminded calmly. "That's one reason. The second reason is that both Divisions have suffered heavily while on duty on Targa. The result of such suffering is that my people have a certain amount of investment to go along with their pride and skill. Rega is poised, ready to invade Sassa at this very moment." The shock in her eyes proved it-to his immense delight. "My people, therefore, have a great deal to offer the Empire. The Emperor not only needs warriors of the highest caliber, he needs a productive Targa to help feed his war industry."

  "But not at the price you want, Fist. Anything else?" A look of distaste crossed her face.

  "You refuse us a just settlement for being stranded here as a soak off for Imperial politics?"

  "We do," Rysta snorted.

  "Very well, we expected as much. Please forward our regards to the Emperor and let him know that we have every faith in his honesty and integrity. We attribute our problems to the Minister of Defense and Council politics which he was no doubt unaware of ... and hope the imperial Seventh will be concerned enough to see justice done to his loyal servants of the First and Second Targan Assault Divisions. We will continue to hold Targa in his name."

  Her hard eyes gleamed in the lengthening silence. Sinklar refused to drop his gaze. Behind him, Shiksta mumbled, "Damn right!"

  "You know, I've seen some brash bastards in my day, Fist," Rysta growled, "but I'm gonna enjoy bustin' your balls, boy, because you take first prize!"

  Sinklar raised a hand. "Please. There is nothing to be gained by Regan fighting Regan. Not at this late date. The Empire can't afford it.'9

  "Surrender, Fist!"

  "We are not in a position to surrender to anyone. We haven't-,,

  "You're about to get your asses kicked!" she roared, You think all those lives you're talking about are worth it?"

  "I definitely do not. Both the First and Second Targan Assault Divisions sincerely regret any and all casualties they would have to inflict on-"

  "You stupid peasant fool! You think your rabble can take veteran troops? There won't be a one of you standing when

  this is all over." She snorted in derision and added, "If you decide to come to your senses and change your mind, have your boys patch through to Gyton.

  This is going nowhere." Comm went dead.

  "Well, gentlemen, there it is." Sinklar sighed. "Mhitshul, I hope you got all that."

  "I did." The private rubbed his neck and flipped switches on the comm.

  "Then broadcast it. I want that conversation blared over the entire planet."

  Sinklar smacked a fist into a palm. "Send out a planet-wide alert. They'll be coming for us and I don't want our people caught sleeping."

  Mhitshul pressed a stud and spread his hands. "That's it, Sink. I sent everything. Do you want us to shoot at invaders on sight? "

  Sinklar frowned, absently aware he was chewing on his thumb. "Let's wait and see what happens in the-" "Message coming in." Mhitshul's fingers flew over the COMM.

  "Kap here, Sink!" his Section First's florid features filled the holo. "Got LCs dropping out of the sky like flies!" "You know the drill! Mhitshul, sound alert. We're being invaded."

  "All stations on," Mhitshul called. "Rotted Gods, I got signals coming in from all over!"

  "Get our LCs under cover. Scramble Battle Ops one!" Sinklar ground his teeth as he paced back and forth. "And pray to the pustulant Gods they follow the Holy Gawddamn Book to the letter again."

  Outside a siren blared a warning.

  "Reports are coming in." Mhitshul looked up as Shiksta left at a run, stopping only long enough to pull battle armor off the couch.

  "Give me status information as it comes in." Sink cocked his head. "Mac? You there?"

  . "Here, Sink," Mac's voice came in through static. "They're trying to jam.

  Good thing you relocated those transmission stations. Uh, I'd say we've got a whole Division landing on Kaspa alone!"

  Sinklar turned to look out the windows. Black dots filled the sky around him.

  "Same here."

  Mhitshul bent to the comm, occupied with codifying data.

  Without raising his head, he added, "From comm projections, it looks like five full Divisions."

  "Five Divisions? Rotted Gods! That's more than Rega wasted on a whole unfriendly revolution!"

  "Worst is yet to come Sink. I've got ID codes on the ones dropping. These guys are Regan regulars. Veteran Divisions, like from regular army—career soldiers." Mhitshul swallowed. "Just like she said they'd be."

  Sinklar reached up to scratch his ear. To the battle comm he called, "All right, people! This is it! Let's go! You all know what to do!"

  One by one Sections checked in.

  Sinklar turned to stare out the window where the LCs dropped like perverted rain from orbit. This fight will make or break us. Never have the stakes been so high. Never have so many hung on the line!

  "Got orbital fire support!" Ayms chimed in. "These guys are backed up all the way, Sink! Makes us a little mad thinking about the times we couldn't even get recon intelligence!"

  "Break and scatter! Move, Ayms! They'll have you on pinpoint! Go!"

  "We're gone!"

  "LC support!" Kitmon called in. "We're covering. Ayms ain't the only one getting orbital bombardment." A resounding bang came through comm. "We're breaking!"

  "Go, people, go!" Sink shouted, eyes closed as he envisioned the planet in his mind. He considered the data comm provided and built a picture of the invasion, filling the gaps by intuition.

  "We've got trouble here," Mac called. "We're harassing their landings. We could cut the hell out of them, Sink. On a one-toone fight, we'd clean them up and dump them away. Only problem is there are so many of them!"

  "Don't overextend," Sink called. "Mac, before you take casualties, pull out!

  Break and scatter! Group by Group! If we take them head on ... we lose! They have us outgunned, outmanned, with better transport and communication! We can't take them in a stand up fight. Move! Break off, Mac. Use your skills!"

  "Affirmative, Sink," Mac's voice sounded worried—more worried than Sinklar had ever heard it. "We're breaking!"

  Jaws grinding, Sinklar tapped his forehead with a clenched fist. Five Divisions? How did he counter five Divisions? Where could he find a weakness to exploit?

  Anguished, he looked up at the board, mind staggering, as he realized something was amiss. "Gre
tta? Where's Gretta?"

  "We're breaking!" Ayms called in. "There are just too many of them Sink! My Section can't face an entire gawddamn Division. We're breaking!"

  "Go!" Sink shouted. "Stay alive, Ayms! All of you, stay alive! Save your commands! Break and scatter, everybody! Go to ground. I taught you how to fight. Stay alive and make them pay. Use the Holy Gawddamn Book against them!"

  "That means us, too?" Mhitshul asked, looking up from the comm.

  "Yeah, that's us, too. Gyton will be setting up to blow this building off the map. Let's get out of here."

  "What about comm?" Mhitshul asked as he began gathering up the maps.

  "We've got an LC hidden in the brick factory, don't we?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Guess that will have to do for comm. Should give us planet-wide communications—and the ability to run if we need it. Best we can do. Surecan't defend this place with only three Sections in the city. Orbital will make this building into smoking junk if we do." He jumped to help stuff sensitive documents into the thick graphstic bag.

  "Any word from Gretta? She said to page her through comm," he asked as they started down the carpeted stairs, stopping only long enough to grab combat armor and weapons.

  "No, sir. Not a peep," Mhitshul replied over his shoulder.

  Sinklar's stomach flipped as icy fingers traced his spine. Fear, aching fear, a constant companion now, left him shaken. Had the whole of Free Space gone crazy that Regans were battling Regans?

  And worse, his command lay in shambles. Everything they had worked so hard to build—to turn themselves into a functioning unit the likes of which no one had seen for centuries—was broken, disorganized. A Division in chaotic retreat.

  As they pounded across the courtyard, a beam of violet ' light struck the top of the ops building, blasting the structure in a gout of light and fire.

  Concussion slammed them to the ground as fragments of mortar, steel, and duraplast ! rained.

  "Guess that was supposed to be us, huh?" Mhitshul | gasped

  "Yeah," Sinklar managed through a dry throat. "Guess it was. Let's get the hell out of here."

  Gretta? Where are you?

  Ily Takka lounged in the command chair as her military cruiser slid into formation with the Regan vessels orbiting Targa. Occasional flickers of violet laced the surface of the planet below. Studying the fleet, Ily could make out the slivers of projectiles accelerating away from the ships and heading planetward.

  "War?" Ily asked. "Targa is still that hot?" She pressed a stud. "Comm, get me the commanding vessel."

  Within seconds, a craggy female face filled the screen. Behind the elderly woman, the bridge crew could be seen as they coordinated the attack. A slight quiver twitched the corner of the Regan Commander's mouth, flint eyes hardening slightly with recognition.

  "Identify yourself," Ily ordered.

  "Commander Rysta Braktov of the Imperial Cruiser Gyton at your service, Lord Minister."

  "Looks like a battle is in progress, Commander." Ily cocked her head. "I had heard the situation here was slowly coming together."

  The Commander nodded. "The Targan rebellion is over. However, we have a slight problem with troop discipline. Rebellion on Targa, it seems, is catching."

  "Sinklar Fist?"

  "You know, then. Is that why Internal Security has picked this opportunity to grace us with a visit?" Rysta's politeness extended only to the questioning glint in her eye.

  "It is, Commander." Ily smiled. "Could you please update me concerning the situation?"

  Rysta nodded graciously, but her gaze could have scratched glass. "I would be happy to. You have arrived at the tail end of the action, I'm afraid. Yesterday at 15:00 hours we dropped five Divisions on Targa. Within the last planetary day we have consolidated compounds and are at the point of sending out Sections to locate and destroy the mutineers."

  Ily paused, lingering her chin. What does this mean? Could it be that following Sinklar Fist is simply another Riparian swamptoad chase? Fruitless?

  Is he really no more than an accident?

  "I see. Then you must have already inflicted heavy casualties on Fist's Divisions."

  Rysta hesitated, an oddly sour twist to her thin lips. "We are satisfied My Lord Minister."

  And the hesitation? "Commander, what, if you would be so kind, is your body count?"

  "Lord Minister, you, of all people, know the importance of proper channels. I have forwarded that information to the Lord Minister of Defense, who will no doubt be happy to—"

  Ily held up her escutcheon. "Commander, I believe you are familiar with the Imperial jessant-de-lis? Ah, yes, I can see from your expression that you are."

  "I ..." Rysta swallowed, demeanor crumbling. "I'd never thought to see such a'thing, Lord Minister."

  "Your casualty count Commander?"

  Rysta Braktov turned to her control comm and began accessing information through her headset. A grimness puckered the wrinkled skin around her mouth.

  She nodded finally and looked up. "My Lord Commander, we can verify one hundred and thirty casualties from Fist's forces."

  Ily rested her chin on her palm. One hundred and thirty? So few after a concerted assault from five Divisions— assuredly good ones at that? Perhaps I don't face disaster after all. "And your casualties Commander?"

  Braktov didn't hesitate—although her voice dropped. "Four hundred and thirty-three Lord Minister."

  Ily played long fingernails over her chin. "And I take it you have effectively crushed Fist's forces at such Pyrrhic costs?"

  Rysta worked her jaws before stating, "Most definitely. Ther command structure is fragmented. Individual Sections

  are isolated . . . and they are broken into yet smaller Groups which have no tactical cohesion. Fist's people are no more than a disorganized rabble. We only need time to sweep them up and centralize them for deportation and military justice."

  "Excellent." Ily paused. "I have one condition, Commander. You will bring me Sinklar Fist—alive."

  A shadow of relief crossed Rysta's face. "Gladly, Lord Minister. We shall have him for you shortly."

  "The other thing which cannot be tolerated is the possibility of an accident."

  Ily made a gesture with her hand. "Personnel on the ground get carried away in the heat of passion. Sometimes they don't realize that higher stakes than their own vengeance might be in the balance. Do you agree?"

  "I believe I understand."

  "Then please reassure your ground forces that the Minister of Internal Security will personally deal with anyone who, shall we say, allows Fist to be killed 'accidentally,' hmm?" Ily studied the woman through lowered lids.

  "He shall be delivered to you alive." Rysta's eyes glittered with pent up irritation.

  "See that he is." Ily broke the connection.

  She ran the spikelike nail of her index finger over the smoothness of her teeth. Pray to the Rotted Gods I am not wrong about you, Fist! If I am, my best bet is to take my cruiser, my jessant-de-lis, and run for Sassa! My life will be worth little with Staffa kar Therma and Tybalt after me.

  CHAPTER 25

  Sinklar shook his head to clear the fatigue from his ragged mind. Through the hidden LC's monitors, he'd watched the sun rise and set twice. And no word had come from Gretta. He arched up against the cushioned resistance of the LC

  command chair to ease the ache where the muscles in his back had knotted.

  During the long hours he had spent huddled here, men and women—his men and women—had fought for their lives. The small control cubicle had become a ceramic and steel prison. The comm equipment flashed with warning lights and requests for input. He had coordinated the entire resistance from this same cramped command chair. Through the forward view ports, he could see the first rays of light graying the windows of the brick fac tory where they hid.

  '

  "All right, Mac." Sinklar rubbed his jaw and felt stubble. "Now's as good as ever. Go for it. Draw them out; play decoy."
/>
  "Affirmative," MacRuder's voice came back—a reflection of tingling nerves and uncertainty. "Sink? Just in case. Take care, huh? If you make it out, tell my folks how I bought it. And Sink?"

  "Yeah?"

  Mac's voice softened. "You've been the best, old buddy. The Blessed Gods keep you. All my love to Gretta. If I miss the wedding . . . drink one for me.

  First Section, clear."

  "My best to you, too," Sinklar whispered, part of his mind numb at the risks being taken by people he cared about. He attempted the insane! During the sow and tenuous process of reestablishing communications with his scattered Sections, the plan had come to him—a thin nonsensical thing inconceivable in light of the Holy Gawddamn Book.

  A straw in the wind, they chased it—though their path ran between Death's teeth. So many would die.

  // only Gretta were here to tell me its all right.

  "Kitmon?" Sink asked, pulling his shredded concentration together. "Are you ready to hit the fifth Etarian?"

  "Affirmative. We've been scrambling channels to keep them baffled, but their jamming beams seem to be working out our relays. When they get around to jamming us completely, we've got mining lasers set up. We'll be using them so we can keep communications control with dots and dashes. It'll be tight, but I think we can fool them."

  "Sounds good. You know the situation better than I do. Take your best shot.

  Fire at will." Sinklar picked up his cup of stassa and drained it to the last nourishing drop. When had it gotten so cold?

  How long since I slept last? I've got five millimeters of stubble on my cheeks and someone poured a half a ilo of sand in my eyes. I need you with me, Gretta. I've never done this alone before. If anything's happened to you, they'll pay, and pay, and pay. ... He closed his eyes and drew a ragged breath.

  He forced himself to blink away the ache in his eyes in order to study the cramped monitor on the LC bridge. Time to check on the fighting up by the Raktan mines. "Hauws? Status report?"

  The voice came through a crackling battle comm. "We're into 'em Sink. We've punched right through their defenses. Plan's proceeding like clockwork. They seem to be giving a little too easily."