Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 17

"They what?" Sinklar thundered, pounding his fist into the hardwood. His Section Firsts gawked in disbelief as they straightened from the desk they'd converted into a map table. A foreboding silence filled the office. Through the dusty windows, they could see the tree-dotted hills rising beyond the square plots of farmland.

"Gone," MacRuder told him from the door of the commandeered grain exchange office building. "The Minister of Defense recalled all transport to provide the Second Division," — his expression soured—"what he called 'emergency strike capability.' "

Sinklar cursed and leaned forward over the spread maps. He ground his jaws. Damn them

Gretta exploded with, "Rotted Gods! We're halfway to Vespa with two thousand troops and no pus-dripping transport"

The others erupted into curses as they shouted questions back and forth.

"Quiet, people. I need to think." Sinklar took a deep breath. He controlled his rage and flexed his muscles to ease the tension. Then he dropped into the use-polished chair behind the desk. "So, the power play begins."

He glanced down at the topo map, brow creased; he cataloged the distance to Vespa. Left in the middle of rough country, farms filled the valleys between rugged chains of mountains. A big mine lay within a half-day's march, but other than that, nothing.

"For one thing," MacRuder — still filling the door — told him, "we're stuck. And we're sitting ducks here. These little valleys might harbor enough farmland to supply this elevator and co-op, but the rocky timbered ridges around them are a haven for hit-and-run tactics."

Sinklar flipped on his comm. "Ayms? Kap? Report!"

"Got the boys billeted out here, First. Everything's quiet. Boring in fact. What's the news on the transport? What do I tell these guys?" Kap asked.

"Tell them we're staying here for a day." Sinklar rubbed the back of his neck. "Remember the drills we did outside Kaspa? I want small search and destroy squads out and around. This time, we play their game. Meanwhile, organize foraging parties. One from each Section. They are to bring in livestock, raid the farms, and shoot any wildlife. If it's kicking and red-blooded, it's edible."

"So when do we get out of here?" Ayms asked, voice somber.

"As soon as I think of a way. Tell the troops the Rotted Gods will starve before I leave 'em hung up to dry. Headquarters or hell take the hindmost!"

"Yes, sir. We're on it," Kap signed off.

Sinklar turned to the map. "We could walk. That would get us there within three weeks. But a long column would be easily picked to pieces. And how would we feed them all? The country isn't that rich!"

MacRuder stepped forward, a perplexed anxiety in his deep blue eyes as he ran a nervous hand through his blond hair. "I could take a squad back with the transport. We could, um, 'suggest' that they give us transport. A blaster under full charge can be real pus-stinking persuasive when you're looking down the other end."

"And they'd blow you to pieces." Pensively, Sinklar rolled his stylus between his fingers. "No, Mac, they'd be prepared for that."

Gretta's eyes slitted before she spoke, voice deadly flat. "You mean they did this on purpose?"

"Of course." Sink tapped the stylus against his chin, gaze switching from face to face. His mind raced as the possibilities unfolded in his mind.

"Stupidity!" Mac flared. "What good does it do the Empire to have the First Targan gutted and destroyed again? It's preposterous!"

"That would appear to be the question," Sinklar agreed, considering the situation, refusing to let his anger carry him away. "To allow the Division to be savaged and decimated again will give the Targans heart, a great psychological

and political victory. The Empire will be set back and the involvement here will escalate in cost and lives and material."

"Who profits from that?" Gretta moved behind him, hands comforting as she

massaged his shoulders.

"I'm not really sure." Sinklar patted one of her hands affectionately. Smile fading into frown, he added, "What we see here is a tiny part of the complete picture. No, our dilemma is not a tactical error. Somewhere — Rega, most likely — an Imperial defeat will benefit some party or destroy someone else. Who? Mykroft? I don't think so. He hated appointing me to this position."

The piece clicked into place. Sinklar's eyes lit. "Of course!"

"What?" Gretta demanded, leaning forward to stare into his eyes, suddenly hopeful.

"That's why they appointed me." Sinklar laughed bitterly and slapped a hand on his knee. "I'm a sacrificial goat! The perfect fall guy! Set up the First Division with raw misfits;

leave them stranded with a new 'green' commander; allow the Targans to blast us to pieces while the command falls apart, lacking food, supply, and relief; and finally, no one powerful or important gets the blame or shame of losing a whole Division to the Targans. We're expendable for political reasons."

Mac's mouth worked. "Rotted Gods! What are we fighting for? I mean, they can't just waste their own people like that, can they? We're Imperial citizens! What about all that rhetoric when they took Maika, and Riparious, and all the rest? What about the speeches on law and human rights and ethical responsibility?"

"Propaganda," Gretta guessed. "Face it, Tybalt built an Empire to promote his power and will. Only the Sassans stand in the way."

"And there's a missing factor in interstellar politics that hasn't been heard from," Sinklar observed, steepling his fingers.

"That is?" Gretta sank onto the corner of the desk, eyes soft as she watched him. Her long brown hair framed her face.

"The Companions." Sinklar tapped the map with his stylus. "How many wars has Rega fought without Staffa kar

Therma's people doing the majority of the work?" He raised an eyebrow. "For the past forty years, not one. Where do you think that asinine regulation of command personnel staying hidden in the rear came from? The Divisional staff has been appointed by political merit. In the last ten or fifteen planetary conquests, the Companions waged the war — not the Regans. We were just mop-up and defensive troops."

"And now Sassa has consolidated its empire." MacRuder lifted a thumb to his mouth and chewed the nail. "If the Star Butcher goes Sassan, where are we? Rega, I mean?"

Sinklar lifted his arms in an eloquent shrug. "I don't know. No one in the Regan Ministry of Defense knows anything about tactics or combat. The game plan was always supplied by the Star Butcher; his people oversaw the strategy and tactics while the political hacks took their commissions and were decorated for gallantry and efficiency in the Imperial Hall after the war."

"Pus-Rotted Gods," Gretta whispered, stunned. "We're vulnerable as sheep!"

"Bad analogy. Think of us — Rega, that is — in actual terms. We have a lot of combat veterans. They just aren't here. Significant, don't you think? Only two green divisions on this planet? Why not the hard-core veterans from Maika and Riparious and Etaria and Ashtan? No, this is either a diversion or bait, one of the two. Why hasn't the Star Butcher showed up to cow Targa? Is he working for Sassa or… maybe this war isn't hot enough to stir his interest? Or, could it be we're an example — misleading at that — to lull someone's perception of Regan power? Disinformation can be a potent weapon."

Sinklar's brows lowered, the smile twisting his grim lips. "So, if the war could be heated up — say a Division was lost — the Targans would organize. Individuals whose loyalties are wavering would see a chance and commit themselves to the Rebellion. Staffa would find a reason to take a contract. Thus, he would already be in Regan contract if a confrontation with the Sassans could be provoked. Or the Sassans might jump before they were ready."

"But what if the Companions are already contracted to the Sassans?" Mac asked pointedly.

Sinklar shifted in his seat. "Then this war would have

already been settled. Either Tybalt would have agreed to a political settlement to stabilize treacherous waters, or the veterans would have been here in such a massed force as to crush the potential for rebellion." He squinted

at the thought. "Rega could destroy the food chain here within three days by using the combined power of the fleet. No food — no revolution. Very simple. Works all the time."

"But there's only a token force orbiting," Gretta reminded.

"And if Staffa was in contract to the Sassans," Sinklar responded, "there would be military panic, frantic training, and no promotion of an unknown Sergeant Third to Divisional First."

Mac puffed a deep breath. "And that brings us back to this pus hole. Sink, I wasn't scared by the Targans. All they want to do is drive us away. Imperial politics? What the hell do we do about that?" He sighed and closed his eyes. "Rotted Gods! How do we fight the Minister of Defense, hell, even the Emperor, for all we know!" Mac paced, face working anxiously as his fists clenched and unclenched.

"First, Mac," Sinklar's gentle voice soothed, "relax. That's an order. The way to win is to think." He laced his fingers together and winked at Gretta. "The best way to defeat whoever is behind this is to derail their plans for the destruction of the First Targah Assault Division."

"What are you thinking?" Gretta took his hand.

"Oh, for starters let's get the hell out of here. That's first priority. Second is to take Vespa, and third, of course, is to win the war." And then, we deal with whoever set us up to die!

"My Section doesn't know how to fly in battle gear without an aircar or LC," MacRuder told him dryly, arms crossed.

"Neither do the others," Sinklar stared at the map. "Fifteen klicks north of here is the Decker Lucky Mack Mine." He lifted his gaze, amused. "Prophetic?"

MacRuder frowned. "How does having a mine fifteen klicks north of us keep the First Targan Division alive?"

"We have three company cars left for staff purposes, right?"

"Yeah." Mac nodded suspiciously.

"And we inventoried another five trucks here at the co-

op for hauling grain." Sinklar dropped his chin on his chest. "Can you take the Second Section up to the mine tonight? Load them in the cars and trucks and go? Might have to fight your way through, but get up there!"

"And bring back rocks?" Mac wondered. "Planning on smelting ore and building LCs from scratch?"

Sinklar looked up mildly. "Why take that much time? Just get me every belly-dump you can commandeer out of there. I figure those huge crawlers they use ought to be able to carry three hundred men apiece. After that, all we need to do is commandeer every aircar and truck we find along the way to use for foraging and fuel acquisition."

"Sink, you'll be the salvation of this pus-rotted command yet!" Mac let out a whoop as he ran for his Section.

Sinklar had lost himself in reflection when Gretta's warm hand caressed his neck. "For a moment Sink, I was really scared."

"For a moment? Do you have any idea of the odds against us?"

"We'd do better trying to breathe vacuum, wouldn't we?"

He filled his lungs and blew air out. "I suppose so. But we won't be cut up by the Targans while we starve here." He stood. "Come on, let's go see the troops."

It had become a nightly ritual. They walked past the silent buildings guarded by the various Sections. At the perimeter, a low challenge was growled out of the night. "Advance and identify yourself!"

Sinklar and Gretta, arms locked, strolled up as the guard flashed a light into their faces. "Oh, excuse me, sir, ma'am."

"Never let the ID of a person fool you," Sinklar smiled. "You're not standing here alone, are you?"

"No, sir," the guard said soberly. "Fips and Angelina have you covered with blasters right now. They're over there in the bushes like you taught us on drill, sir."

Sinklar studied the vegetation through his IR and picked up the two flankers. He nodded and patted the soldier on the shoulder. "Excellent work. My congratulations to you and your Section. Tell Hauws I said you're to be commended for vigilance and foresight. We'll do fine with troops of your caliber."

The man straightened, his chest puffing with pride. "Thank you, sir. We'll never let you down, sir!"

"They'd do anything for you, Sink," Gretta told him as they walked away. "I never would have believed it. You've worked a miracle with the First."

"Just sense. and the only option I've got." He shrugged. "Considering the odds against us, we've only got one asset."

"And that is?"

"We have one assault Division." He hugged her close. "Two thousand men and women, armed, and, hopefully, after we get to Vespa and settle the affairs on Targa we'll be as tough and disciplined as the blood-soaked Companions themselves."

"You tried to tell me all this when we were training outside Kaspa. I thought at the time it was just to build morale." She clasped his fingers in hers. "Now the search and destroy teams make sense. I love you, Sinklar Fist."

"And you thought I was crazy when we risked Fourth Section to recover those five privates cut off on the ridge that time the Targans hit us during training," he reminded lightly.

"Getting those people back won you the entire ourth Section. They'd walk through fire for you now." She studied him through the IR visor, eyes alive with speculation. "What made you think of that?"

He stopped to smell the fresh air and enjoy the woman who leaned against him. "It's symptomatic of the age, I guess. Tybalt has built a throwaway army. Ever since the beginning of the Imperial period, one hundred and fifty years ago, armies have been trained to strike a planet, stun it into paralysis, and wreck the ability of the people to resist. Call it shock war. The enemy was impersonal and a soldier's only duty was to cower in fear until his LC grounded, jump out with his rifle, and blast anything native that moved. If he lived, he went home and relaxed until the next time."

"But that only works when you conquer worlds," Gretta said. "The Star Butcher does the same, doesn't he? Stuns planets, that is."

"Not quite. His responsibilities include finding defensive weaknesses and he exploits his reputation. The other differ-

ence is that his people stay with him. He has their loyalty. The Companions function within a strict code of honor and duty to each other." Sinklar kissed her and added, "And they have never been defeated."

"The First has."

"And I intend to see that it never happens again," Sinklar said as they continued walking down along the creek bottom. Patches of deciduous trees mixed with grassy meadows.

"Who goes there? Advance and be recognized." A man rose from a ditch, waiting, blaster ready as they walked up.

"Were I an enemy who got this close, you'd be dead." Sinklar's voice sounded like cracked ice after he'd passed recognition. The soldier's shoulders dropped meekly. "Anyone within five feet of you, trained properly, could kill you with their bare hands."

"But I… I didn't think—"

"No, you didn't," Sinklar told him hotly. "By the corrupted Gods, man! How can I keep you alive if you act like a fool? I want to see you healthy and in one piece after this. Tafft knows better. You alone out here?"

"N-no, sir. Leeka's over there." He waved an arm at the darkness.

Sinklar scanned the darkness. "Where?"

"Uh, over the hill, sir."

"And if I had just killed you," Sinklar reminded, "this whole quarter would be wide open, wouldn't it? How many in your Section and the other Sections would die from your failure at this position?"

"Sergeant First Tafft told me not to worry. That I wasn't trained to think, just to shoot, sir." The soldier shifted nervously. "Corporal Mayz thought five perimeter guards was too few for the terrain. I agreed, but the sergeant told us to—"

"Corporal Mayz has sense," Sinklar mumbled stalking off into the darkness. "This is the final straw."

They found Mayz and her Group dug in on a hilltop. "Where's Sergeant First Tafft?"

"Down there, sir. In the flat at the bottom of the hill." Mayz jumped to her feet, saluting.

"And why are you up here while the other Groups are down there?" Sinklar asked, studying the corporal.

The woman swallowed, eyes darting to Gretta, expression tense through the IR visor. "Because of your lecture on the uses of terrain, sir. If the guard should fail, we might be able to hold this high spot until the others could recover."

"I think I understand Corporal. You will accompany me." Anger smoldering, Sinklar walked through a ring of snoring soldiers and kicked Sergeant First Tafft awake.

"Who the Rotted. Mister, you're in a pus-puke pool of…" Tafft fumbled for his helmet and slipped it on. Through the IR he met Sinklar's gaze as he glared down. "Oh, sorry, sir."

"Damn it, man, you've got isolated guards out there! The whole Targan resistance could infiltrate that perimeter and you'd be dead before you found your rotted helmet!" He propped his fists on his hips. "Mayz!"

"Sir!" The corporal snapped a salute.

"You will take command of Seventh Section immediately and attend to fixing the perimeter of this camp so our peo ple don't end up slaughtered like maggot meat! Tafft, you will assume the rank of Corporal Third pending how much you can learn in the meantime."

The Seventh sat up, halfway out of their bedding, stunned, as Sinklar turned to address them. "I've told you people time after time. My first concern is to inflict the greatest amount of damage to'the Targan resistance. My second concern is that one of these days I want to see each one of you step onto a transport home to your worlds and families. Neither I, nor the Empire, profits from your dead bodies. I punish for misconduct. You know that, it's in the manual. What you don't know is that I consider stupidity a killing offense. Tafft, you're lucky. I should have shot you. Prove to me — and these people — that you're worth our respect. And if anyone can run this Section better than Mayz, I'll promote him."

Gretta walked with him until he cleared the perimeter. Behind him, Mayz could be heard bellowing orders.

"Should have cleaned that outfit up a week ago," Sinklar mumbled under his breath.

"Told you so," she jabbed.

"Tafft looked like he was learning during training. Now I wonder if you weren't right. Maybe he was just playing the game."

"It's in his nature. Mayz will be after you within a week to promote someone else to corporal."

"Then she's got it." He took a deep breath. Curse it, did everything have to happen at once? "Come on, let's get back to the shelter and get some sleep. I've got a feeling it's going to be a long time before we get another chance to rest."

"Sink?" The call came urgently through the walls of the shelter. Sinklar blinked and sat up, seeing Gretta's eyes already open as she rolled off the sleeping pad, reaching for her assault rifle.

"Yeah, Kap?" He grabbed his helmet and clamped it on his head, enjoying Greta's body as displayed in her battle armor. So terrible that they had to sleep in armor these days. It made a mockery of love-making.

Sinklar raised the flap and slipped out to see Kap pointing northward where a long plume of yellow-gray dust rose toward the sky. He couldn't see the source because the treecovered ridges blocked it.

"From the mine," Sinklar guessed. "Any trouble around here last night?"

"Ayms' A Group caught a bunch of locals arming themselves in a barn. The corporal took your orders to heart and scared them pissless. Put a couple up against a wall and threatened to execute them. After he and the boys played debate about whether they were more use to the Empire alive or dead, he sent them home looking spit-slobbering scared and thankful for the clemency of Sinklar Fist."

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 uncertainly, 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 laugh. 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.

"We have no Staffa here."

Tyklat rapped out the registration number.

"Oh," Anglo's face began to smirk. "Him. I'm afraid you're a little too late." He pointed down the pipeline to the side of a slumped dune. Ily could see the pipe running into the mass of loose shifted sand.

"Yeah," Anglo said with a sigh. "Ole Tuff, he was at the head of the line. We've beendigging for a half hour now. It'll be a day before we get all that cleaned out."

Staffa? Buried alive? Ily's mind raced. Staffa dead would be better than Staffa loose. She had to know if the mysterious Tuff was the Lord Commander.

"You will remove that sand now," Ily told Anglo in a voice like slow poison. "You will remove it if you have to stop the commerce of this planet to do so."

Anglo gaped. "Look, Minister, you don't—"

"/ do! Tyklat, get the equipment here now! Officer Anglo, you get down there and dig! With your bare hands if necessary!

Ily's eyes went to the mountain of sand. Threats or not, what chance was there? A bitter acid taste formed in her mouth — a taste of defeat.

CHAPIMER 18

Blackness suffocated Staffa; it bled from the very air into his soul. The silence thundered, disturbed only by the pounding of his heart. Staffa tried to move only to find his legs trapped, pinned by the pressing weight. Kaylla's muscular body shivered in his arms. A painful awareness of her rushed through him; he smelled her hot skin next to his nose. Hugging her tightly, he reveled in the reassurance that he wasn't alone-not deserted in his sin and guilt.

"Can you move your legs?" he asked, hoping his voice wouldn't break.

Her muscles slid under smooth skin-a feeling of living flesh he cherished.

"No." Then, "We're buried, aren't we?" "Yes. "

"Will they get us out alive?"

"Maybe," Staffa mumbled. "Depends on how long it takes to dig us out… and how long the air lasts."

"I think I can push enough sand past to free my legs. Then we can dig you out."

They didn't speak as they worked to free Kaylla. Then together they scooped sand back to free his waist and thighs. He pulled himself forward and crawled to the center of the pipe.

"At least it's cool." After a pause Kaylla added hesitantly, "Hold my hand."

He felt around until he found her fingers. "How long would you estimate, Tuff?"

"Four hours. Maybe six at the most for the size of the pipe and our respiration rate. That's about right for the cubic footage. "

"We were in the middle of the dune." Her fingers tightened on his. "We're only slaves. The trenchers are miles

away. They won't have this moved until sometime tomorrow."

He chuckled hollowly, body sagging, glad for the rest if nothing else. "Then according to what Koree was telling me, we're spared the cowardice of death."

He could hear her swallow. "I remember his lectures in the university on Maika. He was one of my professors when I was young. I always admired him. It broke my heart to find him here.".

"We could save a little oxygen if we didn't talk." It began to cool off rapidly, the heat in the pipe radiating into the sand around them.

She moved over in that eternal primate desire to touch. "I don't want to die in silence."

He tilted his head up to stare into the stygian darkness and braced his head on the back of the pipe. "I guess I've always been alone. Except for once. I had a woman. A slave I freed."

"What happened to her, Tuff?" She snuggled closer, enfolding his arm in hers.

"Stolen away from me along with my son." His voice soured.

"She's Skyla?"

"No. Skyla was my… my friend, but ……

"But what?" At his silence she added, "I think, considering the circumstances, you can tell me. We aren't getting out of this one alive. "

"But I never knew how much I'd come to love her." He started to curse the wistful tone in his voice and stopped. In the name of the Pus Rotted Gods, what difference did it make? "I never told her. Never even allowed myself to… to admit it. Since I've been here, it's all come clear."

"What's she like?" Kaylla shifted, laying her head on his shoulder.

"Tall, her hair is pale blonde." He smiled in the darkness, enjoying a deep-seated warmth. "Her eyes are an incredible blue. She's the most beautiful woman in all Free Space. There's a hard humor in her manner-a cynicism I never understood until recently. She's intelligent, smarter than I am, it seems. And when she jokes, a devilish light fills those magnificent eyes.

He shook his head. "Ah, Kaylla, the things I should have done for her."

He put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, feeling her body warm and reassuring against his. "Tuff, you saved my life again — or tried to. Why?" "Justice," he whispered, thinking of Koree. "A small slice of ustice — and perhaps retribution. Atonement would be a better world." "Atonement for what?"

"I am not. " He bit off his confession. No, not here. Not in the last hours of life. She deserves a little peace. Instead he said, "During my life as a soldier, I was responsible for some vile things — things I have only barely begun to understand. Atonement is for those who have sinned." He stared emptily into the darkness. "Koree was right. So many have so much to pay for. I more than any other. You wondered about my nightmares? So much blood stains my hands… my conscience, I… I was a living monster, God's tool of injustice." And the Praetor's!

He shut his eyes, images of the past rising from the depths of his mind, people hurting, scared, dying. Their terror seeped in with the blackness. Like them, Staffa saw himself being bonded by the collar and herded into a transport to be sold here or there — never to see a wife or son again. The same pain he now lived.

She shrugged, moving against his shoulder. "No person can take the blame for all the misery and suffering. That's God's realm. Blame it on the times in which we live. Science has extended our lives. Existence is no longer short and sweet. Rulers become bored through time and seek something new — too often they find amusement in terror. My husband and I, we fought that on Maika. We enjoyed a shining brief instant of knowledge and art and freedom before the Star Butcher and the Emperor drowned it in blood."

Staffa squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, thankful for the cloaking blackness.

"I can die proud at least," she told him. "I never sold myself. When they took me, they did it after beating me senseless. When I could, I fought back and — on the whole—. it was a good fight. I made life a little easier for some, like Peebal. and you."

"Stop it!" Staffa cried, eyes shut tight, guilt and shame spreading through him in a flood he couldn't control. "Keep me out of this." He thrust her away and buried his head in his hands. "Don't shame me anymore, Kaylla!"

Her hand — callused and rough — felt warm on his shoulder. "Shhhh!" she whispered.

He sensed it as she shook her head. "Men. Rotted Gods, what am I saying?

I mean people, all people, condemn themselves for faults when they're about to die." She resettled, crossing her legs, grabbing up his hand. "Remember the Temple sewer? I was dead. A few minutes left before I would have fainted. You pulled that girl's body free and spared me. You have a good side too Tuff. No matter what you've done."

Silence.

"Why did you really kill Brots?"

"Because of what he did to you. Because I would free you from this hell and restore you to power on Maika."

She ran her hand up and down his arm, squeezing in appreciation. "Thank you Tuff. Tell me, does that mean you're in love with me?"

He knitted his ragged emotions together. "Yes, I have come to love you. I would make you happy if I had to come with a fleet and blast this worid apart to do so."

"And your Skyla?"

"My Skyla, I would. make my wife." Why did I never know before? "You, I would make my friend. Ask you to forgive. though it be impossible in the end."

She squeezed his arm again and leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the lips. "Thanks, Tuff. I guess I don't need to point out that your use of subjunctive is hardly necessary. From here, it looks like the end is pretty close, hence there is no impossibility about it. You're my friend forever. Forgive? What for? You've always been a man of honor and courage as long as I've known you."

Honor? Courage? If you only knew.

He couldn't push her away when she leaned against him. Exhausted and numb, he hunched in the dark and stared into infinity.

After several minutes she asked, "What happened that they made you a slave, Tuff?"

"I was robbed on the street and killed two 'citizens' in the process." Was it so long ago?

"You're kidding? Where?"

"Here."

She turned and he could feel her stare in the blackness. "Came to turn the whores in the Temple?"

He remembered the brag he'd made to the holo recorder in his quarters in the far off Itreatic Asteroids. Honesty? He owed her that. It soothed his soul. "I probably would have." An image formed of the pale girl he'd pulled from the sewer. "But mostly, I came to leam, to understand more about life — and to catch a vessel to Rega and then make my way to Targa to look for my son among the Seddi Priests."

"A scholar in search of trust and a son? And you found slavery. Come up with any answers yet, Tuff?"

"Some. Enough to leave me more confused than ever. Every time I think I find a truth, something comes along to turn that foundation to sand. As long as I was arrogant and perfect, I could pick and choose. Now, I can't define right… or justice… or anything." He barked an angry laugh. "And I have less idea of who I am — or what I am — than when I started. At least, back then, I had a myth to cling to, a facade I could accept as being myself."

"And now?"

"I'm a nameless slave — a convicted madman with a collar — dying in a buried pipe in the middle of the Etarian desert."

"Well, you won't die alone."

"No," he grinned aimlessly into the dark. "No, if I've done nothing else, I won't die alone."

They sat silent, lost in their thoughts. Staffa, bone weary, drifted off to sleep and the dream.

They came, easing out of the blackness. Mangled specters, they floated in gruesome death as they twisted in blood-crystallized vapor. Some screamed until their voices matched his memories. Some stood and stared, among them children with fear-glazed eyes. They awaited their deaths at his hands, lips pinched in pale faces. Women cursed him as they died, raped, bleeding, abused. Fists clenched as dam-

nation lanced from their bloody gazes. Through it all, Chrysla watched him

with hollow yellow eyes.

He writhed and started awake to pant in the cool blackness. The air had grown bitter and stale in their cramped pipe tomb.

A slight vibration shivered up through his buttocks and back. He blinked, feeling how much his ribs expanded with each breath. Kaylla's chest moved in long quick breaths next to his. A soft rasping could be felt through the sand.

"Kaylla," he whispered, fearful the sound might go away. "Someone's digging."

"Air's going, isn't it?"

He nodded. In silence they waited. His lungs increased their pace, filling fuller and fuller, always gasping more.

He didn't remember his consciousness fading out as the ghouls sifted through his thoughts. Planets died, men cried before him as blaster fire tore their bodies into fountains of gore. He watched a mother try to shield her daughter, a golden-haired girl, from a pulse rifle, watched them both disappear into pink mist.

The restless dead reached for him, tracing icy fingers over his shivering skin. Ghost breath blew coolly over his cringing soul as they chuckled their glee. This time, he wouldn't escape from their clutches. This time, their ice fingers gripped him tightly.

He screamed, feeling them pulling. pulling. down. ever down.

Butla groaned as the comm alarm brought him awake. What the hell time was it, anyway? He rolled over and pressed the button to answer the call. He blinked and rubbed a thick hand over his flat features and bull jaw as the screen beside his bed glowed to life in the darkness of his room. He started as Arta's features filled the comm monitor.

"Arta? Thank the Blessed Gods. I thought you were gone." He stifled a yawn as his heart quickened. "Where are you?"

"I watched them murder the Rebels." She cocked her head. "They must be punished."

He worked his tongue over his lips and stared, eyes narrowed. "We're working on that. Look, why don't you come home. I'll-

She shook her head slowly, eyes wary. "I know what the Seddi did to me. I'll never place myself within their grip again. As to Bruen, I'll find him again… someday." "Arta, don't-"

"I know you must make a strike soon. I am here. I'll be in touch. I have too many skills you need, I must kill to live, Butla. You know that. Tell me what you'need me to do. I'm good, Butla Ret, you taught me well."

"Arta, let's talk this-"

"I love you, Butla." She continued. "You were the only one who was good to me. I will always love you-only I can't have you, you know. I can't even see you again."

"Yeah," he grunted, heart dropping.

"Bruen condemned me to kill the ones I love," she whis pered as the screen went dead.

Butla Ret rolled back onto his sleeping platform, haunted eyes searching the dark ceiling overhead.

"Got two in the pipe!" The voice brought Staffa to drowsy awareness. His head ached terribly.

He blinked at the glare and turned to see a face peering from the end of the pipe. The light burned painfully into his squinting eyes.

Something grabbed the pipe. It rocked as mechanical whining sounded loud and grating. Gasping, he heard the sand being pulled away. Kaylla jerked awake with a cry.

"Who's in there?" Anglo asked, face sweaty. A handheld light blinded Staffa. "Thank God, it's you."

Lungs heaving, Staffa pushed Kaylla ahead of him. His muscles still shrieked from the beating Brots had given him. When he crawled out, he propped himself against the pipe and coughed. He blinked owlishly in the sunset, seeing a well-dressed woman in black striding down from the water tent. Heavy equipment roared and moved about him, coming to a stop amid swirling white dust' *A pile of sand-covered bodies had been laid to one side: Koree and

the rest of his team. Staffa shook his head and closed his eyes.

"You all right?" He turned to Kaylla to avoid thinking of the senseless deaths.

"I think. Head hurts." She glanced up to Anglo and revulsion returned to

her expression.

Anglo grinned happily, relief apparent in his oily expression. Did he enjoy disgusting and degrading Kaylla so much? Using her as a…. Staffa swallowed his anger.

"Only you could have made it out alive, Lord Commander." A woman's cultured tones brought him to his feet, whirling to face her. Beside her stood a dapper man, his face a curious blend of relief and worry.

It took him a second to place her. "Minister Ily Takka." Ily flipped her head to shift her glistening black hair off her shoulder. "You have led us a most unusual chase, Lord Commander. I must say, I never would have believed your capacity for trouble. But come, we must get you back the Itreatic Asteroids. We have serious business to discuss."

"With this slave?" Anglo asked, bewildered.

"This slave, Officer," Ily announced in a viper's voice, "is the Lord Commander, Staffa kar Therma! I believe in your local quaintness, you call him the Star Butcher?" She raised an eyebrow suggestively as Anglo paled.

Staffa glanced at Kaylla and a choking knot clamped at the bottom of his throat. Horror mixed with amazement on her stricken face. Stung by the, look of loathing she turned on him, he faced Ily.

"You have a collar override?"

The dapper man nodded and produced the controls. Staffa, triggered the override and turned to Kaylla. "I'm sorry. I would have spared you from knowing who I am." Then, nothing left to lose, he pivoted on his heel and killed Anglo in the most painful manner he knew.

Despite the flares that rose over Vespa, the city had gone eerily quiet. Sinklar's comm chattered as his Firsts completed the mop-up and establishment of security zones throughout the city. Thankfully, his people had taken very few casualties.

He stood on a balcony that jutted from one of the tallest buildings in Vespa and looked out over the quiet city. Here and there, lights had come on in the buildings-perhaps a better indication than any field report that the fighting was over. The breeze ruffled his hair as he stared thoughtfully over the shadowed rooftops and deserted streets.

"Sink? Mac here," his ear comm told him. "I think that's about it. The city is definitely ours. From where we're sitting, we can see what's left of the enemy fleeing into the mountains in commandeered trucks and buses. They're licked. "

"Affirmative. I want the patrols out and about. Just because they fled doesn't mean they won't be back." "Roger, I'm coordinating with Ayms and Hauws. Mean-

while, I've delegated teams to secure your building. Get some sleep, Sink. You've earned it."

"You, too, Mac. Sink out."

He turned at the sound of voices and the door inside closing. Gretta slipped her helmet off and stepped out on the balcony, letting the cool breeze blow through her hair "Quite a place." She jerked her head back toward the plush penthouse. "I just dismissed the comm crew in there. Told them to go get some rest. My Section is pretty well billeted. Thought maybe you and I might get some shut-eye, too."

Sink pulled her close and kissed her. "Great idea. Thought we'd stay here, use this place for the HQ. You get a pretty good view of everything from here. The balcony goes clear around and the windows can be masked. When you look at the office buildings around this one, they're perfect for observation and sniping posts. We can land LCs in that plaza down in front." He grinned. "And not only that, I've been having fantasies for hours about that big fluffy sleeping platform in the bedroom. "

She kissed him soundly. "Sounds great. A place like this ought to have a stupendous shower."

"Big enough for four."

"Let's make it two." She hesitated, looking out over the city. "You know, I never would have thought we'd do it. Back in the mountains, when they pulled the transport, I thought we were dead. Now look at us. We own this place."

"A presage of things to come," Sinklar promised as he looked up at the lights of the orbiting fleet. "No one leaves

Sinklar Fist or the First Assault Division to die in the backcountry." He grinned crookedly as he lowered his gaze to the darkened city that was his.

The next step would be to win the whole damned war.

Air travel had become too risky. Bruen rubbed his hip with a thin hand as a whooshing sound grew in the tunnel. Over the years, the Seddi had mapped much of the honeycomb of tunnels that wove through the Targan rock like

onorail that empty arteries. They seldom used the single in

ran between Kaspa and the hidden chambers of Makarta. Seddi resources had been funneled into other causes through the years and if the one car should fail, well, there were worse deaths than starving in the blackness of the tunnels, though not many. Sending out a rescue party would take weeks.

The hiss of the approaching car grew louder until it pulled into the lighted chamber. Butla Ret glanced up as he rocked to a stop and turned off the motor. He puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled and shook his head. "I'd started to wonder if I'd ever get here. "

"So had we," Bruen greeted.

Ret climbed out of the vehicle and followed Bruen through a winding maze of corridors hewn out of the rock. They entered a lighted room filled with monitors, several tables, and a couch where Magister Hyde lay under a warmer. Butla went over to take Hyde's weak hand.

Bruen ignored them as he walked to the pine table. Finally he turned. "I guess you know why we wanted to see you, Butla. "

The big assassin gave Hyde one last encouraging smile and moved into the center of the room. "I think so, Magister. "

"You have made a decision?"

Butla rubbed his hands together and nodded. "Yes, Magister Bruen. I will accept. It seems there is no other way. 11

Bruen cleared his throat. "Then you are now formally in command of the field operations of the Targan resistance." Hyde nodded in somber agreement from the couch where

he lay. His flesh had sunk around the skull like a death mask. "The quanta are making fools of us all, Butla. We thought the Star Butcher would be our greatest threat, and now he may be in the clutches of Ily Takka. Who knows what that might mean. Nothing is proceeding as we had planned. All of our predictive models are on hold. This new general of the First Assault Division is completely—"

"This Sinklar Fist?" Butla frowned. "He was promoted from sergeant. How could he…"

/ can't tell him who Sinklar Fist is, or about his heritage. "We don't know." Bruen lied as he lowered himself carefully into a chair. "At the time he was appointed, we were hesitant. Apparently the Regan Minister of Defense abandoned Fist to his destruction in the mountains between Kaspa and Vespa. Fist has turned the tables. We had begun massing in the hills around his position — but he evacuated, on mining equipment, of all things, before we could launch a strike. He not only refused to be destroyed, he took Vespa, butchered our counterattack with almost no losses, and has, through some magic of his own, incorporated the prisoners he took into his own corps of loyal irregulars."

Bruen avoided Ret's questioning gaze and pulled at his ear. Of course, we knew he was brilliant. After all, he's probably the most incredible mix of genetic material to come along in the eight hundred years of Free Space.

"There is always assassination," Butla mentioned casually. "Now that she's contacted me, I could send Arta after him — or go myself."

Bruen lifted an eyebrow. What are you hiding, Butla? You now something we don't. Why don't you speak? Or don't you trust us anymore? "Perhaps. Let us keep that option open. On the other hand, he will be most difficult to get to. His people are very loyal,"

"Perhaps," Butla's deep bass rumbled. "For the moment, the Targan forces are scattered, morale is down. I will repair that damage and then we shall see to this Sinklar Fist. and his First Division."

"We are placing our trust in you, Butla Ret," Hyde added, voice barely audible. "And perhaps. our last hope."

What do I do now? How will things work out on Etarus. Is there truly any hope for an alliance with the Companions? This is all changing too rapidly. We're on a wild ride, and the coaster is out of control.