"Another attempt, my Lord?" Tybalt questioned in the continuing silence. "How many ships have we lost against that energy-gravity barrier?"
"Over the last fifteen years," the Minister of the Treasury interrupted, "eighteen. If you figure the outlay for hardware alone, the sum is considerable." She accessed her monitor. "We have spent a total of forty-three million credits on—"
"I know the figures," Defense growled.
"Enough said." Tybalt closed the debate and steepled his fingers. "Whoever — whatever — is on the other side doesn't want us coming through. Further, so long as they have the technology to 'absorb' our mightiest assault ships, they will remain invulnerable. and on the other side of their 'wall'. Now, to get back to our current problem, we have no choice, gentle people, but to hire the mercenary."
The Minister of the Treasury's expression went foul. Her thin dark face accented the long nose that ended in a point over narrow lips. Looking glum, her black eyes stared sightlessly at an imaginary point beyond the walls. Manicured fingers thumped the table hollowly. "We might make a down payment without bankrupting the entire economy of the Empire."
And there, indeed, lay the rub. A cold chill went through Tybalt's mind. Worse yet, has anyone considered the problem of what to do with Staffa kar Therma when all of space is united? Where, then, will the Lord Commander take his blood-thirsting warriors?
Tybalt turned his attention to Defense. "Lord Minister, what chance is there that we could loot enough from the Sassan worlds to pay Staffa off?"
Defense's fingers rasped over his stubbly chin. The expression on his high-cheeked face pinched. "Little, I'm afraid. Sassa's already bled itself white to pay the Lord Commander for Myklene. I fear that financing a war that way will grind any captured world's economy back to the point that our investment to rebuild it would suck us dry— presuming we have the funds left to invest."
"Seconded," the Minister of Economics agreed, lifting a finger. Her green eyes smoldered as she studied Tybalt. "We can only spread technicians and
engineers so thin. Coupled with the drain on materials to rebuild entire planetary industries, we'll be stretched to the breaking point. Unless, of course, you would enslave our entire population to rebuild theirs."
Treasury added, "Which makes me wonder what purpose there is in conquest."
"Survival! So what do we offer the Lord Commander?" Tybalt frowned. "And tell me what happens if Staffa is retained by Sassa? How can we defend against his lightning strikes and his superior equipment? It's one thing to contemplate turning the terror of the Companions on the Sassans, quite another to embrace the idea of the Lord Commander's fleet bearing down on Rega." And if that's the case, there will be no Tybalt the Eighth.
The Minister of Military Intelligence cleared his throat. "If our condition is poor, the Sassans are in worse straits. On top of their wars and the expenses they've incurred with Staffa's Companions, they've destroyed many of the economies they desperately need to wage a prolonged war. We don't have figures yet on the casualties they suffered taking Myklene. Suffice it to say they were substantial."
"So now's the time to strike?" Defense wondered, his lips pursed, fingers absently combing his black beard.
In the following silence, the string quartet's music did little to soothe. Tybalt turned his eyes to Ily Takka, his Minister of Internal Security. Ily should have spoken by now. Instead she waited, watching, predatory.
"You must control the Targan uprising first," Ily took his cue. She ran long fingers through her raven black hair. 'To do less is to leave a gaping wound of revolution to bleed infection throughout the rear worlds." She gave them a quick smile, aware of her power and how they perceived it.
Ah, Ily! Tybalt hid his delight. He'd waited to hear her thoughts. Like an Etarian sand tiger, Ily always kept her talons fastened in some poor slob's flesh. In cold-blooded efficiency only Staffa kar Therma could rival her. Hmm! Perhaps. maybe with a litte planning and preparation it would be possible to secure the Lord Commander… or deny his services to the enemy.
Dazzled by the thought, Tybalt added, "Very well, we'll take care of Targa. My Lord of Defense, see to it that our 'gaping wound' is cauterized. In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen, your duty is to determine how to bind Staffa kar Therma to our side — before we all wind up learning to speak Sassan."
The Imperial Tybalt stood and gestured, indicating the meeting was adjourned. He avoided the explosion of conversation that immediately broke out and headed for the restroom and his tube of insumweed jelly. He'd have to take time so the surgeon could correct his problem. One surgeon for his tender itching anus — the other for Staffa kar Therma!
The heart inside Sinklar Fist's rib cage skipped a beat as the LC began shuddering and bucking against atmosphere. His mouth had gone dry in the rising heat. This time — no matter what they said — it wasn't a drill. Combat-armored troops like himself crammed the inside of the LC, the workhorse landing craft of the Regan military. Sink and his companions had been seated shoulder to shoulder and tipped slightly back to minimize g forces should the craft have to maneuver. Lines of narrow lights gave the place a ghastly white look, exposing the smudged deck plating cluttered with so many booted feet. The strakes had been drilled with lightening holes which cast curious patterns across the painted metal of the internal hull. Moisture from their breathing had condensed on the cold steel and ran down in dribbles or spatted periodically on his helmet and armor. Looking forward, only bubblelike helmets filled the view. Overhead, between the lights, a locker hung down sporting the ominous lettering, SURVIVAL GEAR.
Targa lay below them, a bitter world full of mad people, people who had risen in revolt and killed an entire garrison of Regan troops
Where had they obtained the weapons? Indeed, that had been the thousand-credit question. Among the troops, they had a good idea. Sassan spies, no doubt. The story made the rounds that smugglers had supplied the whole planet. Sinklar glanced at his companions. The brunette beside him,
Gretta Artina, had her eyes closed, fingers laced tightly about the barrel of her assault rifle. Her head tilted back against the crash webbing.
Sinklar studied the line of her jaw, admiring the texture of her smooth skin, seeing how the pulse raced under that fine neck. Where had she been last night when he lay awake, tossing and turning, knowing that others coupled frantically in the dark? His eyes dropped to the full swell of her breasts.
Sinklar looked hastily away, feelig the increasing vibration in the LC. Since the night he'd finally found his parents, his emotions had become a quagmire. Increasingly, Anatolia Daviura had risen from a maze work of conflicting feelings to dominate his thoughts. He'd dreamed of her blue eyes and yellow-blonde hair. The memory of her trim body lingered. More water dripped from above, spattering hollowly and bursting his reverie.
As with women, Sinklar wondered why had the Blessed Gods made him so strange, so weak and incompetent at this soldiering business? Worst of all — on top of being scrawny, underweight, and clumsy — people stared at his thin face. Just having a thin face didn't do it; they gawked at his eyes:
one gray, the other tiger yellow. Well, hell, sure, he could have had that surgically corrected, but curse it, that's how he'd been bom. Not only that, kids with his upbringing didn't get operations like that. even on Imperial Rega where the streets were supposed to be paved with gold.
Why couldn't he be like Corporal MacRuder, whom Gretta made eyes at? MacRuder was every inch a dashing soldier, and Gods Rot it, Gretta smiled saucily every time MacRuder winked at her.