How long could the fleet stand to have him locked away in his compartments? Already rumors were flying from ship to ship. Was the command in jeopardy of being paralyzed? And there's the answer to your professional self.
Images of a cool-eyed Staffa formed. She could see him, sitting in this very chair, involved in the orchestration of the thousand details that plagued a critical assault. His keen mind played the random factors like the master of tactics he was. No matter how she tried, she could never match
his intuitive understanding of combat. In the midst of an assault gone wrong, Staff a always managed to detect a weakness, some tiny vulnerability in the defenses which he ould exploit.
How many times had he snatched victory from the gaping, foul-odored jaws of defeat?
Very well, I owe him. I respect him.
She accessed the comm, feeling a curious hardness in her breast. One by one, she posted orders she felt necessary and authorized them under Staffa's name. Not a little frightened by what she'd done, she took a deep breath to still her taut nerves and swiveled the command chair. Rotted Gods, what if he cuts my throat for insubordination?
"First Officer. The watch is yours. I'll be in the Lord Commander's quarters if you need anything." She jumped to her feet, grateful for the feeling of blood returning to her cramped legs. Adrenaline powered, she trotted to the access tube, ordered the car to deck two, and felt it accelerate. How long had it been since she'd had a good night's sleep? Weeks? Her brain felt prickly and hot inside her skull. Fatigue mixed with worry over Staffa's reaction when she told him she'd issued orders as his.
She slowed as she approached Staffa's private rooms. Only once had she been in his sanctum sanctorum. How long ago had that been? Ten years? No, longer. Almost twenty now. The details formed in her quick mind.
A man, thin and tall with white hair, had met Staffa in a planetside tavern on Ashtan and placed a sack of gold at the Lord Commander's feet. "I can't find either one, Staffa," the visitor had said. "Therefore, I return your money. All of it." And he'd turned and left, while a wretched hollowness had flooded the Lord Commander's grim face.
A newly promoted officer, she'd watched him drink himself into a stupor. With the first officer's help, she had carried a vulnerable and muttering Staffa kar Therma to the shuttle and back to the ship. Never again, not once after that incident, had his iron control ever wavered.
Standing before his hatch she steeled herself, suddenly unsure, unwilling to intrude on this new and unsettling Staffa. A quick wry smile crossed her lips; she committed herself and palmed the hatch.
Thirty-two slowly counted seconds later the speaker asked, "Yes, Wing Commander?"
She looked up at the security monitor, crossing her arms, face stiff. "Staffa, we've got to talk. Just you and me."
She waited, eyes hardening as she stared at the lens.
To her surprise, the door slid back. She hesitated for a split second, then walked boldly into the air lock. The second portal passed her into the room she'd seen before. It had changed slightly; behind gravity restraints, a new rack of weapons hung on the walclass="underline" Targan. Other trophies from various campaigns had been added to the crimsonwalled main room. The fireplace looked old, as did the red leather gold-embossed couch. The Vermilion boar's head still threatened from the wall as did the Etarian sand tiger.
Two huge doors stood to either side of the fireplace. Ornate carvings graced their exteriors, and, she thought, both came from the high cathedral on Ashtan. The right one opened and Staffa appeared, standing there, arms crossed defensively as he studied her through red-rimmed eyes. For the first time in years stubble stood out on his cheeks. A gray robe enfolded him, a color he had affected so many years ago after — she suddenly realized — that drunk he'd had on Ashtan.
"You look like hell," she told him, walking to the dispenser and filling two bulbs with Myklenian single-malt whiskey.
"Thank you."
She handed him one of the bulbs and settled herself on the corner of the big couch. Where did she start with this man — this friend and commander who had filled so many of her years with challenge and activity. What did she say now? Hey, Chief, why are you hurting? Want to tell me why you ripped a man' head off down there? You got a reason for driving the troops nutty worrying about you, Boss? What?
"Staffa," she began, deciding to try a frontal assault, "I don't know what happened down there, but it's affecting—"
"Have the Sassans been in touch about the penalty?" He sipped the whiskey, swallowed, and paced to the wall where he stared thoughtfully at the Targan weapons.
"Just now," she told him. "Admiral Jakre was very pleased, Rot his black mind. Invited me to a private dinner and seduction."
He stared absently at the fireplace. "Going to take him up on it?"
"That Terguzzi sump scum?"
"He's an admiral."
"He's a fat maggot. Besides, I command more actual power than he and his Holy God-Emperor put together." She watched him curiously. "They're doomed without us, Staffa. You know that. You've seen them. Their empire was built upon our power. They'll hold that empire so long as they can afford to outbid their enemies for our blasters, ships, and troops. Only the manufacturing wealth of Sassa and the loot of conquered worlds has allowed them to meet our price — just as the Regans have done."
She paused for a moment, then added: "Staffa, we've destroyed the only other pretender to power. Myklene is gone. Now it's Rega or Sassa. Who will it be?"
He turned the drinking bulb in his hand. "I don't know."
Tension wound through her chest. A dull ache formed at the base of her brain. Skyla mentally berated herself as a fool even as she prickled with curiosity. She cocked her head as she studied him. Memories like gossamer strands filtered through her mind: his gray glinting eyes on hers;
the shared intimacy and tension of command; the moments of desperation, and then triumph when impossible odds fell before them. She lowered her gaze, oddly sobered by what she'd shared with Staffa. Twenty years in the pressure cooker of command couldn' just be shed like worn-out battle armor. The implications left her off balance.
"What's wrong, Staffa? What happened in that room?" she blurted.
His mouth went tight as he met her challenging stare. She could see his throat work. "The Praetor was my… He was the man who. " He shrugged and tonelessly added, "It was a long time ago. He took me in as an orphan and taught me to be what I am today."
The tension in her chest tightened into a knot around her heart. "Rotted Gods. You mean he was your. "
"Father? No. Call him my… my mentor. A more suitable word, perhaps."
"Pustulant Gods!" Is that what this is all about? "Why did you take the contract?"
He clasped his hands behind his back and paced carefully across the floor. "They threw me out. Years ago. You knew I was Myklenian. I–I took the contract to repay them. And him." He exhaled and shook his head. "I didn't. didn't know I'd have to face him. Tried to kill him in the fighting." His face paled and he closed his eyes. "But instead I killed. killed…"
He shivered violently and Skyla stiffened. After a long silence she said, "There's more, isnt there?" All these years, and I scarcely know you.
He started to say something and bit the words off. "Do you want to tell me about it?" "You know, Skyla, I'd allow no one else to come in here and question me like you're doing."