"Ah, I remember, Praetor." Staffa's face worked. "You came to me after I won first place in the Myklenian Games." His thumb ran absently over the angular insets o the chalice. "Remember that day Praetor? Remember the pride in your eyes? Remember how I ran to you? Hugged you?
"I'd been so lonely. worked so hard. Trained for months that I might see you smile." Staffa sniffed against the pain. "Did you know what it meant to me? How young and fragile I was then? All that sacrifice, I made for you. The pain, the sweat, the constant aching, I suffered, trying so hard. All for you.
"Young men are. No, I was. alone. alone that way. An orphan, you see? I had no one but you, Praetor. In you — and you alone — I placed my trust and my faith." The eweled relief cut his flesh. Chrysla's soulless eyes probed through the haze of his memory. Using all of his concentration, he forced her back and reconstructed the Praetor's face instead.
"For you / would have died!" His mouth worked dryly. "After all those years, struggling for you. After all those years when you took care of me! After all that loneliness. After my need to have you notice me… be proud of me… you. " Staffa stggled to fill his aching lungs. "Then I won the Games. I saw the triumph in your eyes, Praetor. Triumph. And you placed your hand on my shoulder and called me… son."
A bittersweet memory. "Yes, your greatest creation, Praetor." He sipped the brandy again, flicking on the holo display over his head. "What made me so different? Isn't my body the same as everyone else's? What makes me a monster, and not the next man?" Chrysla's expression saddened as her ghostly image shifted in the gloom around him.
He stared listlessly at the gleaming chalice. "A monster? How many men have created a monster all their own? Answer me that Praetor?"
An image of Myklene formed over the sleeping platform, spinning slowly, gouts of smoke pooling over the continental land masses, winter spreading beneath the palls, marching across sun-starved lands.
"See, we still share visions, Praetor." He chuckled dryly, aware of the censure in Chrysla's expression. She'd never allowed him to dwell on failure. But now… what was left?
Staffa dropped his gaze back to where he clutched the fabulous chalice. "And so I have killed everything I ever loved. With my hands I broke your age-rotten neck, Praetor." He lifted a hand, looking at the intricate dermatoglyphics on the palms, studying the loops and whorls on the finger pads as he moved his digits. "And Chrysla, my Chrysla, I triggered the shot that blew you apart. I was so close… so very close and never knew."
With that, he hurled the chalice across the room and smashed a priceless sixth-century Etarian offering bowl into angular shards. The brandy left a spattered smear of liquid that dripped down the walls.
"I damn you to a hell of your own devising!" the reedy voice repeated in his mind. "You have no soul… no soul… no soul. " the voice wound on, insinuating itself in Staffa's thoughts, weaving into his very essence. "Construct. Machine. Creation. No God," the voice hammered at him again and again.
"But perhaps the Seddi have my son? Where?" Dumbly he blinked before dropping his head into his hands and bending double, shoulders shaking at the impact of the words. "Chrysla? Where is he? He's all that I have left of you. I I
You're inhuman… you have no soul…. "What did you do to me, Praetor? Who am I?"
"Seek your son." Chrysla's voice seemed to whisper from the air. "Seek your son."
Chapter 4
Even the secretary had ceased to shoot periodic glances at Sinklar Fist. He sat in one of the polished chairs placed along the Judicial Magistrate's waiting room wall. Like all waiting rooms, this one had comm terminals with official programming, news, and entertainment. Hours ago, Sinklar had reprogrammed the unit for library access, called up the text on multidimensional geometry that he'd been studying, and lost himself in the text.
it came as a surprise, therefore, when the secretary called, "Sir? Private Fist?"
Sinklar saved his work on his pocket comm and jumped to his feet. "Yes? Is he ready to see me?"
She gave him one of those glassy smiles employed by receptionists across the universe and said, "I'm sorry, sir. But the office is closing. I'm afraid the Judicial Magistrate won't have time to see you today."
Sinklar stalked over to her desk and leaned down, panic in his breast. "But you don't understand! I'm shipping out tomorrow. Going on active duty. I've got to see him. This might be the only chance I get.
The plastic smile remained in place like a mask. "I'm sorry, sir. That just won't be possible. You've got to understand, the Judicial Magistrate has a very busy schedule and for him to take time to review such an old case is — "
At that juncture, the door opened and a white-haired man dressed in the crimson robes of the Regan judiciary stepped out, calling, "Erina, I'm off to tea. There are five briefs on my desk that I'd like you to refile. If there's nothing else, I'll see you in the morning."
"There is something else," Sinklar blurted, jumping in front of the man.
With remarkable agility, the secretary slipped around the
desk to yank on the sleeve of Sinklar's new uniform, protesting, "You can't do this. If you don't leave this office immediately, I'm calling the—"
"Now, Erina," the Judicial Magistrate waved her away, "I was in service to the Imperium once myself." He bent his eyes back to Sinklar. "Yes, Private, what is it?"
Sinklar cast an evil glance at Erina as she backed away. "I'm Sinklar Fist, sir. I'm shipping out tomorrow… to Targa."
"Yes, I've heard about that. Nasty bit of trouble. Myself, I served in the Phillipian campaign. Won a medal or two. Ah, those were the days when a man could make a real contribution to the empire. We were strong then, back before the Star Butcher became such a power, but then, you didn't come to hear an old man ramble."
"No, sir. I came to learn about my parents."
The Judicial Magistrate studied him through pensive blue eyes. "I see. And what would I know about your parents?"
Sinklar took a deep breath. "You sentenced them to death about twenty years ago, sir. Outside of that, I don't know a thing about them. The case was sealed after their execution and all records pertaining to them, and my family, were sealed as well."
"And you want to know where you came from."
"Yes, sir. Somehow, well, going off to war, it makes it important."
"If the case was sealed. well, are you sure you want to know the details?"
Sinklar jerked a nod. "I believe I'm well versed in the scope of human behavior. As a student of social history, there's not much left to surprise me."
"Very well, Sinklar. I think my tea can wait for a bit. Come into my chambers. I'll look up the record and tell you what I can within the strictures of security regulations."
Footsteps tapped on the cold stone of the cavern floor and echoed hollowly through the black shadows and around the groined ceiling.
Magister Bruen heard the approaching steps from where he sat in a cone of light that illuminated his worktable and
computer. He glanced up from the comm monito he studied and stroked his knobby chin. The air felt slightly damp, cool, and heavy. Here, in the depths of the temple, no other sound penetrated.
The footsteps grew louder and Bruen could see the electric torch the young
woman hed as it flashed yellow between the meter-thick columns, reflecting inscriptions and images carved in the gray rock. She threaded her way between the pillars of stone, a nymph of light in a stony underworld forest.
She was a tall woman, her movements graceful as those of a dancer. Long legs moved in purposeful strides beneath a sienna Initiate's robe. She had pinned her hair back severely with a golden clip so it hung over her left shoulder in an aubum tumble. Long sensual fingers clutched the portable spotlight in a choke hold, leaving delicate fingernails bloodless.