Anatolia rubbed her arms, frowning. "You don't really want to see them, do you?"
Sinklar bit his lip and looked away as he nodded. "You're a geneticist. You know what parents mean biologically. I know what they mean to me, psychologically."
She turned, accessing the comm terminal next to the door. "Come on, this way."
They walked for several minutes in silence, accompanied by the endless rows of caskets and the hum of the units that maintained them. Anatolia turned left and followed a narrow aisle. Overhead the lights automatically brightened as they approached and dimmed as they passed.
"Here," she told him, and pointed to two pull-out caskets at chest height. "Just pull on the handle."
Sink glanced at her, swallowing nervously. Then he reached for the handle. It chilled his fingers as he pulled the casket open to expose a man. "He looks alive."
"Perfect preservation," she told him as Sinklar studied the figure. The face was smooth-shaven, the eyes yellow. He looked intelligent and his expression betrayed a trace of sorrow. Sinklar could see an incision through the closecropped brown hair.
"After all these years," Sinklar whispered. "Hello, Father. I just had to fid you, know that you existed. I graduated first in my class and I scored third in the Interplanetary exams. I thought you should know that."
A pang filled his breast as he pushed the casket closed and opened the lower drawer. His mother stared up sightlessly, gray eyes half open. She'd been a striking woman
with raven black hair and delicate features — but young, so very young.
Sinklar smiled wistfully. "Thank you for giving me life, Mother. I'll never forget you. I'll make you proud of me."
Sinklar slipped the casket closed and felt himself sway. Everything inside felt hollow — a stillness of the soul.
He turned to Anatolia and smiled. "Thank you. I'll have a little peace now. Things will be easier. Let's go. I know you have to get back."
She nodded, letting him lead the way in silence. At the door, she paused. "Is that true, what you said about the Interplanetary exams?"
Sink nodded, wrapped in his own thoughts, trying to sort out his emotions. He did catch the interest in Anatolia's eyes.
"Sinklar," she began as she led him into the lab, "um, you wouldn't mind if I took a tissue sample, would you?"
"Once a scientist, always a scientist?"
She gave him a wry smile. "Something like that."
He rolled up the sleeve of his uniform. "Be my guest. On the condition that when you get the chance, you'll let me know what you find."
After she'd taken her sample and led him back to the lift that would return him to the station, she paused. "Sinklar, what did they do? I mean, how did they end up here?"
He held the door as he stepped into the lift and looked back. Anatolia had beautiful blue eyes. Now they watched him with soft understanding. // only I could have more time. How I'd love to spend it getting to know you. "Thank you for letting me see them. I'll owe you for that for the rest of my life."
"I wouldn't have missed it… for several reasons." She pursed her lips. "You don't have to tell me, but the information is in the records. All I have to do is look it up."
"And you will." He met her inquisitive stare. "Ony the worst of the worst are sent to this facility for study. My parents tried to kill the Emperor, Tybalt the Imperial Seventh. They were Seddi assassins."
With that he let the door slip shut on Anatolia's shocked expression, and the lift plummeted toward the station.
Chapter 5
Tybalt the Imperial Seventh, Ruler and Governor, Master of the Twenty Worlds of Man and the Imperium of Rega, wiggled uncomfortably as the interminable Council session droned on. He fought the urge to stand up and walk to the restroom — partially because his fidgeting kept the Councillors aware of his growing irritation, and because a ruler of his stature shouldn't fall prey to the harassment of his itchy hemorrhoids.
Tybalt and his Councillors sat in a high-vaulted conference room lit by crystal skylights. Ornately carved panels of Sypa ivory gleamed lustrously between burled sandwood beams. The air carried the scent of jasmine. The rising babble of the Councillors managed to drown the soft strains of a string quartet playing a soothing piece in the background. The conference table they sat around dominated the center of the room and sprouted monitors, comm equipment, and elbows. For the moment it looked like a disaster area as his busy Councillors worried over reports and argued vehemently.
Tybalt had inherited his father's muscular body — but unike his physically disciplined father, he'd begun to lose the battle against his growing belly. The rich black tones of his skin contrasted with the bright yellow suit he wore. Rubbing his cheek, the fleshy feeling of his jowls bothered him. In the end, his broad facial bones would work against him despite the long straight nose. He kept his hair medium length and covered it with a jewel-encrusted net of gold wire that scintillated with the finest treasures of the Etarian desert.
The compact holo unit clipped to his collar continued to feed the latest field reports from the Targan revolt. The rebels controlled most of the capital city of Kaspa. Tybalt
growled to himself and ground his teeth. Why now? Bloodshot curses! Of all the times for a conflagration, why did the Targans have to pick this moment? Everything teetered on the brink. And if Staffa had already signed an alliance with the Sassans against Rega? No, don't even think it!
He sipped from the cup of klav that rested in the heated holder by his right hand and decided that enough was enough. "Gentlemen, ladies, please." He held up a hand.
Twenty heads turned to look in his direction; some from where they bent over flimsies and maps; others looking up from comm monitors. The string quartet
sounded strangely alone as silence filled the room, marred only by the hiss of a new printout, adding mass to the clutter on the table.
"No matter what you wish to project with your predictive models, the facts remain. First, we must crush Targa— again. Second, no matter what the cost, our only hope for survival is to immediately place Staffa's cutthroats on our payroll."
The Minister of the Treasury shook his head vehemently. "Imperial Lord, I'm not sure we can bear it. The last time we hired the man it cost us the equivalent of three point five billion Imperial credits in precious metals and manufactured goods. In part, that drain on the treasury led to the current unrest on Targa since they've been bearing the brunt of paying the deficit for the last two years."
Tybalt nodded, knowing full well the extent of their financial troubles. At the same time, the Lord Commander had managed to do what neither he nor that Sassan god-goof could — maintain a full-time fighting force: a corps large enough that it drew on every government in human space for its support. And Staffa's elite strike force vigorously guarded its independence by providing its own equipment, ships, and training. The Companions relied on no one for supplies or strategic materials — though they often took that in payment for service. Cunning man, that Staffa. And I can't stand against him.
In a muted voice he added, "Lord Minister, would you prefer to pay Staffa — or fight him? With the Myklene situation under control, His Holiness will be looking for new lands to conquer. Considering the confines of the Forbidden Borders, where do you suppose he will find them?"
"We ought to make another attempt at the Forbidden
Borders," the Minister of Defense interjected, eyes going to the illumination overhead. He fingered his flat nose, and took a deep breath. He'd propped hairy arms on the table, a posture of no retreat. "That's the key. Find a way past that gravitational wall and we'll have room to expand."