Requiem for the Conqueror

by W. Michael Gear

  The tension burst. Sinkar leapt from the chair, knocking it over in the process, glaring up at a disbelieving Mhitshul. "You all think I'm a god!

  Well, I'm not! Quit fawning over me like some sort of personal idol! Leave me alone!"

  Mhitshul nodded, mouth open. He turned, fumbling, spilling the cup of stassa as he bolted from the room.

  Sinklar stood with every muscle rigid as he stared at the door slapping back and forth, unlatched in Mhitshul's haste.

  He pressed his eyes shut, jaws locked, and bowed his head. He jammed fists against his ears to shut out the world around him.

  What's happening to me? Why is it all coming apart? This Seddi and I, we are stalemated. One moves, the other counters. Brilliant, yes . . . as brilliant as I am. Is this Bruen? Can I defeat him? Can I. . . .

  He took a ragged breath to stretch his weary lungs, aware of a blinding headache pounding behind his eyes. "Mac? I can't lose you! I won't. God, but I promised you all!"

  If only Gretta were here to soothe him, to put it all in perspective.

  He suffered a sense of desperation he'd never known before. A knot pulled tight in his chest as he looked at the haunting green mountain that filled his holo monitor. The

  ruby red passages of the Seddi seemed to pulse—veins and arteries of Seddi blood. Daunting, mocking.

  Staffa had come to dislike rock walls. To the Seddi they might provide a sense of security, but to him, the cramped quarters in a starship didn't place the same weight on the sou!. True, there might be less space aboard ship, but you could peer out at the stars and the endless vacuum of space. A starship moved—an artificial human environment heading someplace. In Makarta, he felt buried.

  Staffa rubbed his eyes. The first tendrils of fatigue had begun to wind familiar paths through his brain. He glanced up at Kaylla where she stared down at the map from the opposite side of the table. The walls around them were studded with monitors, and the overhead lights seemed much too bright.

  "Lord Commander?" An Initiate's face formed on one of the inset monitors.

  "We've got vibrations from all directions."

  Staffa turned to nod at the man. "Very good. I'll need a plot on the maps. If we can determine what Fist is up to, we can counter." He turned to another monitor. "Wilm? They're driling. Be ready for another strike." To Kaylla, he added gently, "You might want to wake the Magister."

  Kayla nodded and left as information began filling the monitors, plotting locations around the mountain.

  Staffa moved to yet another monitor and flipped a button. "Hello, Regans. How are things in the darkness?"

  "Who's this?" A suspicious voice asked.

  "Your captor."

  "Oh, well, let me cue you in on something, pal. You're caught between a rock and a hard spot, 'cause Sink is up there, and he's got more than enough power to rip this whole mountain apart. You up for five more Divisions, Seddi?"

  "Your name is?" Staffa inquired, thinking about those other five Divisions.

  Rysta's no doubt. The ones Fist had decapitated.

  "First MacRuder of the Second Targan Assault Division.

  You know, you still have the option to surrender. No more need to die."

  "That's right," Staffa agreed. "All your Fist needs to do is promise us transport off the planet and to let us go in peace."

  "Fat chance!" the voice in the darkness exploded. "After what you did to Gretta? After the way you made a machine out of that Arta Pera?"

  "Who?" Staffa noted that Bruen had entered, going stiff at the name.

  "Your assassin, Seddi. The one who killed Gretta. I saw the tapes of her body after your Arta was through. And I can tell you for a fact, friend. I'll die before I let monsters like you walk out of this rock."

  "So much for your assertion that no one else needs to die," Staffa responded caustically. "You should be running low on water. The IR batteries must be getting weak, too. Be careful. You've been trying to blow your way out with blasters. Keep an eye on the cracks in the rock overhead. You're in the part of the caverns which suffered quite a bit of damage in the orbital assault."

  "Yeah, well listen," MacRuder's voice came firmly. "We're the best Sinklar Fist has . . . and we don't surrender! We'll be here, waiting to clean your polluted—"

  "Enjoy the darkness." Staffa flicked the comm off. He turned to Bruen, eyebrows lifted. "Arta Fera? Once more, your assassin raises her ugly head.

  She must have really angered them."

  Bruen's bruise-mottled face went glum, showing his misery. "Yes, she had certain psychological behavioral implants." He sank into a chair and leaned thin elbows on the table. "A very dear girl, our Arta. We bred her specifically for you. Trained her, adapted her, did everything in our power to tailor her for you. Except the quanta shorted the whole thing and turned our success into tragedy, our enemies into allies. Everything worked out wrong."

  Staffa's eyes slitted. "Another human construct, Magister? Another piece of God molded to a specific purpose? Smacks of a high order of humanity, don't you think?"

  Bruen lifted a stooped shoulder in reply. "What would it be worth to save our species Lord Commander? When you

  don't deal in fleets and interstellar firepower, you must deal in deceit and subterfuge."

  He shook his head slowly, raising watery eyes to meet Staffa's. "I—like you—live in a hell of my own making, Lord Commander. I'm no pristine innocent.

  I go

  to my grave with Arta's dear face forever before me. The horror she lives is mine until she dies—which, hopefully Fist has attended to by this time. Last we heard, he was going to execute her. The fact that Ily showed up, and we are under siege, proves they didn't dispatch her until they milked her dry."

  "No poison capsule hidden on her body?"

  Bruen shook his head. "With a psychological trigger, you can't trust your agent to act in the manner you hope. At a man's first touch, she might have self-destructed before she accomplished her mission."

  Staff a paced the narrow room, tapping his knuckles on the chair backs. "Ily can make a rock talk. She knows everything your assassin knows. And if there's any possible advantage to keeping Fera alive, Ily will do it. If I was to make a bet, I'd say Ily has Arta in the collar now. Satisfied?"

  Bruen's eyes hardened. He countered with, "The damn things come from your factories."

  A cold wave washed through Staff a as, furious, he turned on the old man.

  "Don't get righteous with me, Magister! I can't even dicker a way out of here because Fist and MacRuder have been so alienated by Seddi politics that they'd slit their wrists before they'd let you out of here alive!"

  "And blame is meaningless here!" Kaylla interjected as she walked into the room and slapped the table. "The problem we face, gentlemen, is there, on the comm. Those vibration sources. I suggest we leave recriminations until another time."

  No man could look into those hard tan eyes without feeling foolish. Staffa shot her a measuring glance and jerked a nod.

  Kaylla's mouth twitched. "We had better consider the source. Fist has us. We can't break him. We know those are the facts. We're fighting for leverage—to save as many lives as possible here." She gestured. "In the future, we have to remember that. If we begin bickering, each argument is another rock tossed on all our graves." Bruen chuckled dryly. "Ah, Kaylla, you were always the brightest of my students. Why did you ever have to be so foolish as to fall in love and run off with that daring young ' man?"

  "The time for that is past too, Magister." She couldn't help shooting a quick glance in Staffa's direction. "Now, let's get back to work, shall we?"

  The Initiate's face formed on the screen again, a slight confusion on his features. "Sir, not all the vibrations are mining equipment. Some are drills."

  "And what would Sinklar Fist use a drill for?" Staffa asked, brow furrowed, ready to change the subject—to escape into the impossible present.

  Bruen's voice came gruffly, "Core samples to investigate subsurface deposits, t
ap a water supply, access geothermal energy, ventilation, seismic shots—"

  "As in placing a subsurface charge?" Staffa interrupted.

  "My God!" Bruen gasped, putting a thin hand to his chest. "They could mine the entire mountain, detonate it bit by bit. Blow strategic tunnels to isolate us."

  "Do we have drills capable of countering theirs?"

  "One or two," the Initiate called back. "Makarta wasn't a mine. We can't stop them all."

  Staffa studied the layout of Makarta again. "We'll have to decrease our area of defense. At the same time, we can use our units to counter drill. If we can place a charge and explode it, we should be able to damage their drill stem.

  They'd have to start a new hoe, wouldn't they?"

  "They'll do the same to us," the Initiate countered.

  Staffa glanced up. "But we're the target. We don't have to drill as far. We can set our charges first, closer to the caverns. We can surely slow them down, buy more time. Do it."

  "Yes, sir." The monitor went dead.

  "And what then?" Bruen asked. "Suppose you draw back—leave us with a tiny sphere to defend. We're still losing!"

  Staffa tilted his head back. "True, but we've made the best bargain possible.

  On the other hand, we have the ability to bleed this Sinklar Fist. If we can hurt him badly

  enough in the process, he might be more willing to compromise."

  Kaylla studied the sensor data the Initiates were collecting. "From the looks of things, he'll be able to tunnel down and free his people within a week. We have that long before we lose our bargaining chip."

  Using a spotting scope, Sinklar studied the mountainside from the top of his LC. Each of the rigs was working, the drilling machines boring into the heart of Makarta, the horde of mining machines eating tunnels into the mountainside.

  Occasionally, one stopped as the Seddi detonated a counter charge, but they had too many for the Seddi to stop them all. In time, he would bleed them dry.

  Below him in the valley, the total remaining manpower of Rysta's Divisions and his own, along with the Targan loyalists, practiced maneuvers and assault techniques.

  Mhitshul—still subdued from the day before—coughed respectfully at the hatch.

  "Yes?" Sinklar offered lamely, shamed by his previous emotional outburst.

  "Comm, sir. It's comingout of Mac's line, so we only have audio. The Seddi Commander, sir. He wants to talk about Mac."

  Sinklar followed Mhitshul down to the sally entrance and picked up the headphones. "Go ahead, Seddi."

  "We're becoming concerned about your trapped Division. MacRuder is worthy of our respect and trust. He's attempting to hold out down there, but they've been out of water for some time. By now they've begun to lose power for their IR visors. We also suspect that within a couple of hours their oxygen will be depleted. To be sure, they have a reasonable space down there, but six hundred people produce a lot of CO. I think they'll be getting hungry, too."

  "Then feed them, Seddi." Damn it, Mac! Sink's gut twisted and his fists knotted into balls.

  "Not our responsibility. We've got more than enough to do with your drills and mining machines. Wonderful surprises are in store for your people."

  Why did he have to sound so damn smug? "Our own surprises will more than make up for yours, I'm sure."

  "There is another way."

  Sink cocked his head, wary of the coming trap. "Go ahead."

  "Let us leave. I give you my word that every man and woman in Makarta will leave the Regan Empire—and never return."

  "Just like that? You think Sassa will take your kind?"

  "I wasn't thinking of Sassa. Call the Companions, see if they'll take the Seddi. Ask for Skyla Lyma, the Wing Commander. Tell her an old friend from Etarus makes the request."

  "I'm not a fool, Seddi. You're trapped, seeking to buy time. And why would I want your kind loose among the Companions? They'll be trouble enough without your agitation to spur them on."

  "I'm trying to stop the bloodshed!"

  "They why did you wait until now to seek a peaceful solution? No, I'm sorry, it's too late for you . . . too late for the Seddi."

  The controlled voice on the other end replied, "You're sure you won't just let us leave? Allow me to place a call to my transport? It would be so much easier all the way around. No one need die—let alone your six hundred down here who continue to extol your virtues and honors."

  Sinklar bit his lip, while his soul screamed—thank the Blessed Gods this wasn't visual. "As if you had a fleet. I'm sorry, but I've sworn on my honor to end your threat for once and for all. The way you die depends on your treatment of MacRuder's people. Harm them and—"

  "Their treatment is in your hands," the man returned easily. "We'd hate to think what would happen if you invaded and we were forced to retaliate."

  Sinklar paused, playing for time. "Who are you?"

  "That, as I told you, is unimportant."

  "I don't like dealing with faceless, nameless voices in the dark, Seddi. Are you the infamous Bruen?"

  "No, I'm not the Magister. Call me ... Tuff," came the reply. "A name I earned the hard way. And another thing. Allow me to make a point, Sinklar Fist. If you leave us in desperate straits, we'll have to take desperate measures to ptect ourselves. Keep in mind, the most deadly enemy is the one that has nothing left to lose."

  Sinklar closed his eyes. / remember warning Mykroft to avoid just such an impasse. I could blast this thrice-cursed rock . . . if only Mac and my people weren't down there!

  "I think this conversation is over," Sinklar whispered.

  "Remember, Sinklar, each action will cost you. Every meter you advance into Makarta will be on rock slippery with Regan blood. As they read the casualty figures to you, ask yourself if it's worth it."

  The line went dead.

  At Mhitshul's signal, Sinklar ordered, "I want you to send a section of that tape—where he identifies himself as 'Tuff'—to Commander Braktov. See if she can ID it. Send a duplicate to Ily. Her resources should pin the rascal down.

  If we know who he is, we might be able to find a weak point." Please, Blessed Gods, let me find that weak point— before Mac has to pay the price!

  "Sir? First?" a tech called. "I just got word from rig three. The Seddi must have drilled a counter-bore and detonated a charge. Rig three lost their laser bit and twenty meters of stem."

  "We have more stem and bits." Sinklar turned to Mhitshul. "Begin plotting where they defend. Keep track of our geophones. You might need to shut down operations periodically, but if we can hear where they're working, we can play their game. Surely their resources are more limited than ours."

  Mhitshul nodded, pain in his eyes.

  "And Mhitshul ..." Sink smiled wearily as he placed a gentle hand on his aide's shoulder. "I'm sorry about yesterday."

  Mhitshul sighed and smiled. "I know, sir. We're all worried sick about Mac."

  But all those lives aren't your responsibility. Sink dropped his head into his hands, imagining Mac and the rest down there in the darkness.

  "He wants me to find out whose voice is on the tape?" Rysta cried incredulously, shaking fists over her head.

  "Hell! That could take weeks! Insipid little bastard! I wanted to be out of here two days ago, but no, he loses half his command and can't get them out without blasting the whole of Makarta open. Fine job, this, Sinklar Fist!"

  She stormed around the bridge, noting to her satisfaction that even the fop, Mykroft, stayed out of her way. "Well, let's play that thrice-cursed tape!"

  The Communications First accessed the transmission and Sinklar's dicing with the mysterious Seddi who called himself Tuff echoed across the bridge.

  Rysta stopped her tirade, listening. "Rotted Gods," she mumbled to herself.

  "That voice does have a familiar ring to it."

  "The miners are ready to break through in Gamma Three, Lord Fist," a tech reported.

  Sinklar was in the portable office the mining engineers h
ad set up. In the center of the room, the holograph projected a spectral model of Makarta.

  Various threads of light indicated the tunnels and drill holes creeping into the guts of the mountain. Around the computer-laden walls, techs sat in squeaking seats, headphones on, eyes glued to monitors as they followed the attack on Makarta's geology.

  "Kap?" Sinklar called. "Move in. Blow the wall—and take your time. Bit by bit.

  Secure your sally and let us know what's happening."

  "Got you, Sink." Kap's voice called. "They're placing the charges now. Hang on."

  Minutes dragged by as Sinklar stared at the screen, seeing Kap's three Sections waiting by the bore as the mining machine exited and turned away on its clumsy tracks.

  "Shooting!" Kap called. From the monitor, there was no evidence of the blast, but Kap's people began moving in a Group at a time. They went cautiously, wary of any possible traps.

  "First?" A sergeant's voice came through the system.

  "Here," Kap returned.

  "We're inside. Uh, looks deserted. Kind of a funny odor in the air."

  "Fan out, see what you can find. Be careful. Don't bunch up," Kap ordered.

  Minutes passed with Groups checking in. More and more of Kap's units entered the tunnel.

  "Everything's quiet," the sergeant reported. "Not a peep out of the phones except for the drilling to the south of us."

  "Yeah," Kap agreed. "That's rig twelve."

  More silence.

  "We've got a barricade here." A pause. "Looks like some kind of containers piled up. I'm not picking up any IR readings. If there's anything alive, it's stone cold."

  "Stand by, I'll pull in some support. Hold on." Kap's voice sounded tired.

  They all sounded tired.

  Sinklar watched through gritty eyes as more of Kap's people trotted into the square hole drilled into the mountain. No resistance? Not a shot fired? Why?

  Sink's heart began to pound, sweat breaking out on his brow.

  "Kap?" Sinklar accessed comm. "Hold on. I smell a trap here. They won't let us have it that easy. Your people are ready for cave-in? Maybe the Seddi planted antipersonnel mines before they pulled out? Have you considered every eventuality?"