of his thoughts.
The duty officers who sat at their stations amidst multicolored computer consoles shot periodic glances his way. Each look reflected pride and confidence — or hinted at awed worship. Despite the quick glances, no one malingered. Weapons officers ran systems checks and the pilot reclined in a state of semitrance, her brain directly interfaced with the nav-computer as it fed her data on course and velocity. The engineers monitored the huge ship's power plant and support systems, vigilant attention on the readouts. The communications officer sat before the comm boards, leaning back with arms crossed while the logistics officer spoke quietly into his mike, coordinating with his subordinates.
Surrounded by the muted whispers and hushed comm chatter, Staffa kar Therma remained alone. Hidden to all eyes but his, the instruments of the command chair projected a holo image of an emerald planet against a background of hazy flickering stars. Scenes formed on the monitors of gleaming white cities, laughing men, women, and children — of a carefree society.
Myklene. How many years have passed since they turned on me? Despite the lies I've told myself, was I ever happy there? That verdant world, Myklene, had borne him, taught him, and finally betrayed him. Even the man he'd loved and devoted himself to had turned against him; but that had been long ago. The angry youth who had been expelled from Myklene now returned as a hardened man, as a conqueror come back to repay an old debt. Emotions conflicted within Staffa's muscular chest.
He pulled absently at his smooth chin, eyes thinning to slits. He'd come a long way since the day the Praetor had smuggled him off Myklene in defiance of the Council's wishes. They'd destroyed his happiness — such as it was.
Happiness? When was I really happy? Once. Once. The memory tried to slip through the tungsten-steel tough rein Staffa kar Therma kept on his thoughts. A beautiful woman's face with soft amber eyes and gleaming auburn hair formed in his mind and to avoid the pain he banished it like a ghost of floating mist on a hot sunny day. The
terrible cry of a newly born child drifted through his memory. And with it came the haunting longing for the son he'd never known, the son who had been stolen from him.
My fault. My failure. He'd slipped, allowed himself to feel, to share his life with another. Chrysla, the name cast honeyed tones through his soul. He'd loved her, known happiness for those few brief years before she'd been abducted. And to what fate? By whom?
She'd borne him a son just before her kidnapping; and for the second time in his life, his heart had been broken. He'd searched, employed the finest investigators to find her, offered rewards. But Chrysla had vanished without a trace. In the years that followed, he'd exacted his revenge on a heedless humanity. Never again had he allowed himself to falter, to feel, or to share that sense of identity which was human. Instead, he'd fallen into the old patterns taught him by the Myklenians — and the only other human he'd ever loved.
Love led to pain. and failure. Do not love. Allow no vulnerability of the soul. Strength was the only virtue. No other heritage belonged to humankind. Survival meant power, no matter how much blood had to be spilled.
"Staffa?" her soft voice drifted through the veiled memories of shattered dreams.
First, she taught me how to love — then she taught me how to grieve. Staffa glanced up at the main bridge monitor which displayed fleet status as the Companions readied for the first assault. In a matter of hours Myklene would reap the rewards of Staffa kar Therma's homecoming.
And what if I have to face him again? What if I have to look into his eyes? Speak to him? Staffa ground his teeth and balled his fists. Then I shall do so as a master to a servant. Yes, Praetor, the roles will be reversed this time.
Except Staffa couldn't stifle the quake of fear deep in his gut.
The comm near Captain Theophilos Marston's ear buzzed, followed by, "Sir, we have a security alert from the
planet. Something's gone wrong, with the computers down there."
He jerked a rheumy eye open and sat up on his sleeping pallet while the last skeins of his dream of the beautiful amber-eyed woman slipped away. "What the hell do you mean, something's wrong with the computers? On the planet?
What does that have to do with us?"
"Uh, sir, it's something wrong with the security system. Alarms are going off all over the planet. It started with one or two here and there. When personnel checked them out, they couldn't find anything wrong. Now the whole planet's ringing with alarm klaxons. It's mass confusion."
Marston rubbed his face and shook his head. "I suppose the deep space buoys are involved?"
"Yes, sir. That's why we thought it necessary to wake you, sir."
"Great, just great. Thought the system was supposed to be foolproof."
By the time he'd dressed, grabbed a cup of stassa, and made it to the bridge, pandemonium reigned. Officers shouted into their headsets, bridge status monitors flickered on and off or displayed static-ridden snow.
"What the hell's this?" Marston demanded, waving his stassa cup before him.
"Planetary systems, sir," his watch officer told him.
Marston met his watch officer's worried eyes and dropped into the command chair. "Shut that down. Cut the downlink. Isolate us. I want ship's systems only. Whatever's gone wrong down there is their problem. Rotted Gods, this is no time for a software failure. I want ship's eyes to the sky."
A subtle panic stole through Marston's heart as he watched the bridge monitors firm up with solid images. The deep space scanners probed out into the vacuum, mass detectors providing fuzzy images that slowly solidified into patterns depicting solar wind, occasional vessels headed outbound, and the usual clutter that orbited Myklene.
"Nothing incoming," the weapons control officer called.
Marston squinted up at the monitors and the clear sky they indicated. "Why is this happening now? It just doesn't make sense. By the Rotted Gods, if the Star Butcher chose this moment to strike, we'd be just about defenseless. What
happened down there? They let some idiot loose with an idea, or what?"
"I guess it started with security." The watch officer twirled the gold braid that hung down from her epaulets. "You know how it is. One computer's hooked to another. We'd just better hope this Star Butcher scare is exactly that. It will take hours to sort this mess out."
"Relax, people," the intelligence officer called from his station. "We know the Sassans are preparing for war, but they're still weeks away from operational readiness. Not even Staff a would move before the Sassans were ready. Sassa II would throw a fit if his troops weren't included on the first strike. He'd have Staffa's head for it."
Marston tried to blink the cobwebs of exhaustion out of his weary brain. Would he? If Staffa wanted to strike first, what would the Sassan God-Emperor do about it? What could he do? Throw a tantrum? Blast the Lord Commander with a bolt of lightning?
"On the ball, people. I don't like this. Something's sour in my gut. I want the crew at combat quarters — now!"
The intelligence officer swiveled around from the monitor. "With all due respect, Captain. I think that's unnecessary at this stage. The Praetor himself is aboard. I assure you, if anything were about to happen, I'd have—"
"I've got incoming!" the weapons control officer called out. "Deep space contacts, three. no, five. eight. Rotted Gods! There's a dozen incoming. no, twenty or thirty!"
Marston's heart skipped and a dryness formed in his throat as he glanced up at the monitor. The deep space scan had already begun to plot vectors on the incoming vessels.
"Comm Officer! Sound a full-scale alert! We're about to be attacked!" Marston wheeed his chair around and began checking his systems as the klaxons wailed throughout the ship.