The door slipped closed behind him, a shield against the worry-strained eyes Ark hadn't been able to hide. Is it that apparent? Have I so little control when it comes to facing this one old man?
The room measured no more than eight meters across. Monitors projected holo after holo along the walls: Scenes of untamed country, green with vegetation; of buildings lancing white and silver ino a turquoise sky; of beautiful statues in manicured emerald parks. Others depicted happy people, or gala musical events. Familiar scenes, they plucked at Staffa's memories and called back the vanished days of his youth. Each of the projections portrayed Myklene as it had been before his forces crushed the Myklenian defense and rendered the planet helpless before the Sassan invasion.
The medical unit stood in a far corner, illuminated by the greenish tint of Myk's sunlight — unique in that it emitted a higher percentage of light between 5000 and 5700 angstroms. The hospital unit consisted of a gleaming white box the ie of a large freezer chest. Rows of monitors filled one side while a retractable power lead and comm link trailed to a wall socket.
The Lord Commander stopped, throat tight, skin flushed and hot. He steeled himself.
The old man's head — a round ball of flesh and bone— stuck out incongruousy above the polished white of the hospital unit. From the Lord Commander's position, only close-cropped hair — graying now where once it had been black — and pasty skin remained visible. The ears curled like wilted chubba leaves, pink and fleshy. The aging flesh on the neck had gone flaccd, and withered muscle stretched from the mastoid into the white depths of the machine.
Outside the armored window, a vista of wrecked and shattered city stretched forever, smoke rising in columns from twisted structures. Other buildings, unhurt, now sprouted banners in the delicate script of Myklene: pronouncements of the Sassan victory. Aircars crossed the turquoise sky, most bearing combat-armored personnel in Sassan gear. Larger vehicles bore prisoners en masse to detention centers as they were routed out of the public buildings and battered defensive positions. In the distance, cargo shuttles lifted skyward, shooting up through the gravity well to the orbiting Sassan Fleet.
A single hoo hung before the hospital unit, unaffected by the shadows which should have been cast by the green sun. The old man watched a view from space, an up-to-date image of the planet now wreathed in smoke and fire. Music played, to a blasted empire.
As if the Lord Commander's pounding heart betrayed his presence, the old man spoke, "So, it's you at last." The elder's voice had a cracked, strained quality, as if forced from the unresponsive mechanical lungs of the hospital machine.
"The neutralization of several pockets of resistance delayed my—"
"You're a liar, Staffa kar Therma."
Staffa's fingers wove into the fabric of his belt, hands knotting. "No other man in Free Space would dare call me that."
"Would you prefer that I call you what you are?" A pause. "Traitor fits my tongue perfectly. How about yours?"
"You cast me out! You and your precious Myklenian Council. I could make your death. But you'd like that, wouldn't you Praetor?"
"I cast you out?" He snorted his scorn. "If you'd remember, I saved your Rotted life!" The hospital unit whined as it turned, slowly rotating the
motionless head toward the Lord Commander. As the profile filled, the true nature of the skull could be seen in the pain-racked flesh. The forehead bulged over a thick orbital torus. The fleshy nose protruded, hooking over a line-etched mouth, lips purple and swollen with age. Age spots dotted thin mottled flesh. The chin thrust in a walnut-stained knob below the broad face. Turning exposed a bruise on the left cheek.
Human wreckage. Here lies my enemy. And Staffa began to smile, his breathing easier. Who could fear this bit of crushed humanity? The Praetor lived by grace of pumps and filters. Intravenous alimentation filled his blood with the nutrients to sustain life while osmotic membranes oxygenated the artificial blood serving the remains of the spinal cord.
The man he'd once feared — and loved — was gone, vanished forever in a blaster bolt he, Staffa, had triggered to destroy the Myklenian flagship. Through some miracle, the old man had survived, had been found by mop-up crews and identified.
The old man's mouth moved, changing the pattern of parchmentlike wrinkles. "Humor, Staffa kar Therma? Amusement at what you've wrought?"
The Lord Commander cradled an elbow and rubbed his chin as he considered the sunken face before him. Fear pangs receded as the reality of his victory began to wash deep within him. The work of the past had been erased— vanished into the smoke and violence of the present.
Staffa walked to the wall, allowing the cloak to dance behind him in a taunting swirl. He slapped a palm on the holo control, and the walls went dead white — only the holo of the ruined world remained spinning slowly before the Praetor's eyes.
"See what / have made of you, Staffa? The perfect conqueror! My greatest achievement. Yes, I've followed your career. Brilliant. I thought the Phillipian defense couldn't be cracked. Then you did the impossible off Ashtan — who'd have thought they'd fall for a feint on the marshlands? Only you could have orchestrated the decoy that destroyed the Maikan fleet. Yes, I studied each of your campaigns, knowing I'd have to fight you one day. One by one, I pored over your spectacular tactics until I could counter your every move."
A holow, bitter laugh passed the bloodless lips. "Too good, Staffa. I never had time to break you… to buy you off and turn you against the Sassans."
"I do not break. Nor do I buy off."
"No?" A gray eyebrow lifted to crinkle parchment skin over the wide forehead.
"No."
The Praetor's smile went crooked. "One of the oldest of truths, Staffa, is that every man does indeed have a price. As do you, mercenary!"
Staffa paced slowly forward, gray eyes locked with the Praetor's. He found enjoyment in the dulling brown that shadowed those once powerful orbs. He cocked his head. "Never, in all the campaigns I've fought, have I betrayed a contract."
The corners of the ancient lips raised slightly, eyes gleaming. "No, you never have. A spotless reputation, don't you agree? But then, I forged you, Staffa. I took you as a young man and trained you, honed you to be the finest military commander anywhere. I gave you your values and strengths and cunning. I know you, Staffa. I am your creator!"
"That was many years ago Praetor." He raised a shoulder. "I have—"
"What a master forges, so can he break!"
With a gray-gloved hand, Staffa gestured futility. "Brave and powerful words, Praetor. Yet I see your planet in ruins. Your people are captured — slaves for all intents and purposes. Your fleet is wreckage tumbling in vacuum, your armies scattered and decimated. And you Praetor, your life is at the mercy of this machine in which you lie. Your body is dead." Staffa wiggled his index finger. "With this, I could terminate your existence."
The old man's smile broadened. "Not until you hear about your weakness, Staffa." As the smile faded, a shadow of frown deepened. "You don't wish me to fawn like all the rest and call you Lord Commander?"
"I'll let it go, Praetor… for old time's sake."
"So noble of you."
"And you had the ability to destroy me?" Staffa clasped his hands, feeling the armored cloth, warm and reassuring between his fingers.
Aged eyes studied him thoughtfully. "Yes… I do. You—"
"Do, no less?" Staffa barked a short laugh. "You would call forth your legions? Recall your fleets from the dead? Raise your defensive platforms from orbiting slag? Return—"