Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  A semicircle of grim-faced men and women watched him, weapons at the ready, clearly nervous. Young to middleaged, they wore either buff or bronze robes.

  Then the old man stepped forward and drew his attention.

  Old? No, indeed, ancient better described his thin reedlike body, sunken within white robes. His bald head gleamed like a pale orb. lesh hung on his face and neck in wrinkled folds. Yet the eyes glittered with a vibrant strength to belie the age and worry in his features. He clasped birdlike hands before him in a stoop-shouldered unassuming pose.

  The old man smied and bobbed his head before speaking in a reedy voice. "After all these years Lord Commander, welcome to Targa."

  "Magister!" Kaylla cried reverently as she walked unsteadily forward to stand before the old man. Then she placed her arms around him in a gentle, loving hug.

  The Magister's face lit, a gleam in his eyes, as he pulled her close, patting her back, running his fingers through her hair.

  "Dearest Stailla, you have returned to us! How wonderful to see you. But wait, could it be? You've come back to finally warm my bed at night?" he cackled.

  "And here I'd finally given up hope that you really loved me."

  She pulled back, but as she saw his dancing eyes, her man-horror melted to be replaced by an anxious laugh. She shook her head, clucking her tongue. "You never change, do you Magister Bruen? Honestly, one of these days—"

  "Magister," the black-skinned man interrupted pointedly. "We must get out of here, it's no longer safe to. . . ."

  Bruen lifted a hand, sighing, and turning to Staffa. "If you would Lord Commander, we have much to discuss, and I'm afraid the building is under surveillance."

  Staffa still stood in the crate, legs braced in a combat stance. His eyes darted warily to each of the guards.

  "Lower your weapons, people." Bruen stepped forward, offering his hand. "Come, Lord Commander, I offer you my word that you shall not be assassinated while in my presence. Please, holster your weapon."

  Staffa stared into the old man's watery eyes and nodded, reholstering the blaster. A wry smile curled around his lips. "A man in my position can't be too careful, Magister. You might say the rug has been pulled from under my feet more than once in the last couple of months."

  Bruen grinned. "I have a great many questions to ask you. You, no doubt, have a great many to ask me. The Seddi have worked long and hard to bring you into our talons. Now, we find, after all these years and all our careful plots, you come not as a corpse, but perhaps as an ally?" The old man shook his head in amazement. "You've always been special, Lord Commander. Once again, you have defied prediction. It has been hinted that you became aware. If that is indeed the case, the ways of the quanta— and God—treat us all like the fools we are."

  "I imagine we're fools more often than not."

  "Come, follow me to the office, and we'll sit over a cup of stassa and talk."

  Bruen pointed out the way and Staffa wound through stacks of gray syalon crates to a small office that jutted out from one wall. The entire way, the nerves in his back prickled. How many weapons covered his every move? Did snipers lurk among the shadows overhead?

  And what if they did? Death had been his companion from the moment he'd set foot on Etaria. Each moment after Broddus gassed him had been borrowed.

  Bruen opened the door to the office. It contained four desks, computer consoles, stacks of manifest flimsies, and a stassa machine on a counter to the rear. Windows looked out into the warehouse on one side and outside on the other. Staffa stepped over to look out onto an empty street. From the angle of the sun, night would fall soon. A scarred

  wooden door was the only barrier to freedom—assuming they didn't have the street covered with sharpshooters, too.

  Bruen grunted as he settled into a desk chair and rubbed at his hip. "I'm not as young as I used to be."

  "None of us are," Staffa said quietly.

  Kaylla stepped into the room and stood uncertainly, wary glance shifting between Staffa and Bruen.

  The Magister looked up, a pensive expression on his face. "Lord Commander, what happened on Myklene? You saw the Praetor—and then everything changed."

  Staffa narrowed his eyes. What should he say?

  "You have to start somewhere, Staffa," Kaylla reminded. "Or else all those words in the crate were meaningless."

  Staffa took a deep breath. "Yes, he and I met—and I found out the extent to which he'd manipulated my life. He called me his greatest creation, a construct. It was as if. . . ."

  "A floodgate had opened in your mind," Bruen finished. "And you suddenly discovered that you didn't know who or what you were."

  Staffa stepped forward, placing knuckles on the desk and staring down into Bruen's placid eyes. "You know a lot about me."

  "I know a lot about the Praetor," Bruen countered, refusing to flinch under Stafs hard gaze. "I know how brilliant he was when it came to biotechnology, genetics, physiological and developmental psychology, and a host of other disciplines. About Staffa kar Therma, I know relatively littleexcept that your behavior is not the same as it was before the conquest of Myklene."

  Staffa straightened and turned away, a tidal rush of emotion loose inside.

  Bruen continued, "You left Itreata to find out what had gone wrong with you, didn't you? Your behavior became erratic, illogical, and unpredictable. And all the predictions went askew—everything for naught."

  "For naught?" Staffa crossed his arms, leaning against one of the desks. "I don't understand."

  Bruen raised his eyebrows, altering the patterns of wrinkles on his face. "For the moment that doesn't matter. It's the future we all must face now. Things have changed. I must find out how much. Who are you now Lord Commander? What are your plans for the Companions, for the future? What has the Praetor done to you? Should the Seddi trust you? Or destroy you?"

  "Why should I trust the Seddi?" Staffa countered. "You've been trying to assassinate me for years."

  "And you have systematically worked to crush the hopes, aspirations, and dreams of billions while you ground them under your steel boot."

  "Excuse me," Kaylla said, stepping forward. "I doubt either side is free of sin. Magister, you were right when you said the future is the important challenge for the moment. I think the Lord Commander understands the threat to humanity—and after the sands of Etaria and the weight of the colar, I believe he shares an empathy he never had before."

  Bruen clapped his hands, looking up at Staffa. "Well said, Master Kahn." He didn't see Kaylla flinch at the words. "Very well Lord Commander. What are you here to do?"

  Staffa glanced at Kaylla, a weary smile on his lips. "I'm here to find my son.

  The Praetor left him in your hands many years ago. When I have done that, I'm going to return to Itreata and seek to repair the damage to Free Space. My ultimate goal remains unchanged. I intend on unifying humanity and breaking the curse of the Forbidden Borders. What has changed are the mans by which I will attain that end." Staffa smiled grimly. "The conqueror is dead, Magister Bruen. Perhaps the liberator has been bom."

  Bruen turned his old blue eyes on Kaylla. "Do you believe him?"

  She nodded, a hard glint in her own eyes. "I do, for the most part." At Bruen's questioning look, she added, "Words are easily spoken, Magister. I've heard the Lord Commander's words. I'll wait to see his actions."

  "But a decision must be made based on what he says." Bruen cocked his head.

  "Do we give him a chance Master Kahn?"

  Staffa tensed, aware of the stinging pain that title had to cause Kaylla. He met her somber gaze, guts in a knot as he waited for her answer.

  She took a deep breath. "I think we should. If we don't, everything we believe in, all of our philosophy, is nothing more than vulgar hypocrisy."

  "Magister," the dark man called, as he struck his head in the door. "I can't get Hyrim. His line is cut off."

  "Fist!" someone yelled in the warehouse. "He's onto us! Him and that Regan raptor!"


  "Wilm? We had better be gone from here," Bruen told the black man. "Bring the car around."

  Wilm disappeared, slamming the door behind him.

  Bruen sighed and stood up, wincing at the pain in his hip. "It appears Lord Commander, that we must get you safely to Makarta. From there, we will see to firming up our relations, contacting your Wing Commander, and finding the records about your son."

  "I'd rather work on my own."

  "I understand that Lord Commander, but Ily Takka is on Targa, and I fear she's breached our security. Would you rather trust me for the moment, or her?"

  Wilm stopped a groundcar before the door and Bruen stepped out into the slanting sunlight. Staffa followed Kaylla as she climbed in and settled on the cushions. Two of the guards lifted Bruen into the seat with reverent hands.

  "Go!" Wilm called. "I have a report. There are troops closing!" He turned, motioning. "The rest of you, scatter! Cover us if you can!"

  Wilm leapt aboard after plucking up a shoulder blaster. Staffa's head jerked back as the car accelerated and the fans blew gravel and dust out behind them.

  "I'm sorry," Bruen began apologetically. "We had no idea you would be walking into a hornet's nest. You see, Sinklar Fist has taken the planet—a feat beyond any of our expectations. Further, he has one of our assassins in custody who.

  . . . Well, she was supposed to kill you Lord Commander."

  Staffa tore his squinted gaze from the brick-lined street they accelerated down to stare at the old man.

  "Left!" the driver, a blonde woman, shouted as she sloughed the craft to the right at the first intersection.

  Wilm leveled his blaster, the weapon ripping a long charge into a formation of combat armored men and women who spilled out of an adjoining street.

  Reflexes triggered, Staffa climbed high in the seat and braced himself, his own blaster flashing controlled shots into the scrambling troops.

  The car swerved, blaster bolts tearing jaggedly through the air around them.

  Staffa fought for balance and barely caught himself as they slid around the curve and scattered yet another detachment of troops trotting toward them.

  Flattening himself over the rear of the vehicle, Staffa laced fire to cover their retreat. His shots hit home with that phenomenal accuracy which had always been his.

  A pulse of air patted his back and tickled his spine with the familiar sensation of a thermal grenade launcher discharging its payload of death. A split second later, the end of the street expoded in fragments of brick, boiling dust, and flying glass.

  "Not so bad for an old fart!" Bruen cackled gleefully, as he struggled to pull his grenade launcher up off the seat where he'd braced it.

  "How did they know that was our warehouse?" Wilm wondered.

  Tne car pitched sideways as the woman expertly guided it around yet another corner. Staffa caught a quick glimpse of worry in Kaylla's eyes as they careened past a delivery vehicle and dived into a lighted and tiled tunnel.

  Bruen pointed and said, "There, I think." The woman shot the car through the light traffic to slow next to a service hatch.

  "Quickly!' Wilm called, aad jacked the hatch open.

  Staffa bodily picked Kaylla up and tossed her into the blackness before turning to help the old man.

  "You, Star Butcher." Wilm pointed a hard finger. "You don't touch a hair on that man's head! You hear?"

  "Hair?" Bruen wondered from where he had propped himself in the hatch. "On my head? Begone, Wilm!"

  Before Staffa could open his mouth, the car flashed down the tunnel.

  "Please," Bruen called, seeing the stiffness in Staffa's face. "Close the door. Master Wim is nervous given the current Regan harassment. Do forgive him. Enemies do not become allies overnight without a few problems; and we do have a long way to go yet today."

  Staffa looked at the old man, struggling to balance his violent emotions, and ducked gracefully through the crawl space before sealing the hatch. The place smelled musty with the odor of damp rock. The air carried a chill. In the darkness, he could hear Bruen shuffling. Lights flickered to life in the ceiling.

  "Now, let's see," Bruen mused as he tottered down the cement-lined tunnel, ducking under thick bundles of cable and conduit. "Oh my, it's been so long."

  His voice carried a note of confusion. "Who would have thought. . . ."

  Staffa had to crouch in the narrow space. He looked nervously behind him at the closed hatch. Kaylla moved in Bruen's wake, bent low to keep her head out of the thick nest of wiring.

  "Allies?" Staffa asked uncertainly.

  "But, of course," Bruen added amiably. "It appears that one of our people, u, you'd know him as Nyklos, had the misfortune to follow your Skyla Lyma into an alley in Etams. Alas, he should know that any man who follows a beautiful woman into a dark alley is in trouble beyond his means. To our chagrin, she managed to slip a little Mytol past Nyklos' resisting lips—and, of course, you know the inevitable result of that! Worse, his self-destruct didn't work. He babbled like a baby."

  Staffa grinned maliciously to himself, imagining the scene, as Skyla took matters into her own hands. Odd, Nyklos had appeared to be in one piece when Staffa saw him on Etarus. Perhaps Skyla was slipping in his absence?

  Bruen continued chattering, "Lyma considered the fact that we, too, were seeking you, as was Minister Ily Takka. At that juncture, Lyma, through her control of Nyklos, placed herself in contact with me. It seems she had a favorable opinion of the Seddi for some reason and wanted to open a dialogue to determine our mutual interest."

  Staffa cocked an eyebrow. "So you told her you were trying to assassinate me?"

  Bruen scowled at him. "That would hardly have been appropriate. She informed us that you were bound for Targa to find your son. We informed her that, for the moment, we would consider ourselves allied with the Companions to get you here. I considered it worth the risk. If nothing else, I wanted to find out why you suddenly went off on a tangent. At best, you'd be safely in our control. With Skyla's help we got you free of Ily, and Stailla, here, told us—"

  "Magister," Kaylla's voice came low and firm. "You will no longer call me that. I am now Kaylla Dawn. That other woman died on Maika."

  Bruen's bald head gleamed in the glare of the overhead bulbs. "Of course. Yes

  ... I suppose she did. Very well, getting on with my story. Kaylla, here, vouched for you." He shook his head. "I must say, that set us back some.

  Nevertheless, since we had been trying to get at you for years—"

  "Trying to get at me?" Staffa asked. "That's something of an understatement for assassination, isn't it?"

  Bruen ignored the comment as he brushed dust and grime from a brick. He chortled as he fingered the corners and the piece slid back into the wall.

  More Stygian darkness lay beyond the tiny square. Without hesitation or attention to white robes, he dropped to all fours in a cracking of ancient joints and crawled painfully into the darkness, mumbling under his breath.

  Kaylla gave Staffa a measuring look and scurried through after Bruen. Staffa shook his head with resignation as he, too, ducked into the hole. He had to hunch his broad shoulders through the limited space. Once passed, the square of stone moved easily back into place.

  "Drat!" Bruen's rasping voice grunted. "Light's dead. Hum. Seems we've forgotten so many of our practices over the years. Safety is a curse that way.

  It lulls, causes a person to forget the old precautions."

  Kaylla's voice came from the darkness, "Do you have some sort of vehicle in here?"

  "That's right."

  Staffa started to stand up, cracking his head on low-hanging rock. He felt around, grumbling under his breath, "Should have had Skyla meet us with the fleet! Could have gone anywhere we wanted that way!"

  "And started a war," Bruen informed absently from the darkness.

  "A war? Who would dare fire on a Companion ship in Regan space?"

  "Any other Regan ship," Bruen muttered. "Oh! Yes, you've
been out of contact.

  Indeed, you have a lot of catching up to do."

  "I don't understand. You mean—"

  "Ah-ha! Here it is!" Bruen cried from farther away.

  Staffa, one hand warily placed over his head to trace the rough cold stone, the other feeling through the darkness, moved toward the sound. Smooth plasteel met his groping fingers. Another groundcar? Here, in this impossible darkness?

  Something thumped and the vehicle trembled under his fingers before humming to life. The headlamps dazzled in the darkness, as they pointed into a black forever. To either side, irregular rounded rock confined them.

  "Targa," Bruen informed as he climbed into the driver's seat, "was once a highly volcanic planet. Several millennia ago, humans first located the system and noticed the extremely high carbon dioxide content in the atmosphere.

  Vulcanism does that, you know. Frees C02 from the rock. Their predictive models indicated that with the introduction of certain terrestrial species, they could reduce the greenhouse effect and make Targa habitable. They began by seeding the atmosphere with algae. No one expected such quick success. This world became the first human foothold in the area we now call Free Space. Of them all, Targa is the oldest human planet. All the plant and animal species here come from Earth."

  "I thought Earth was a myth." Staffa climbed into the cramped vehicle to sit next to Kaylla.

  "Oh, no myth," Bruen waved a hand, the movement eerie in the instrument glow of the control panel. They started moving forward in the damp darkness. "We don't know exactly what happened; the records were severely censured, but Earth lies out there, somewhere beyond the Forbidden Borders. "

  "So whoever controls Earth controls the Forbidden Borders?"

  "No. They came later." Bruen told him. "At least we think they did. We don't know why or bow or when. Something cut us off, purposely-but I miss my point.