"Nothing so gross or wasteful." The Praetor's face caught a spear of light from the setting sun, illuminating his halfslitted eyes in a shaft of yellow-green. "I only need a few words. Nothing more."
"Some key psyched into my mind when I was a youth? I know you did that, left deep psychological triggers. I found them, rooted them out laboriously, one by one."
"All of them, Staffa?" The withered lips twisted again, cunningly. "We will see." The brows lowered. "Yes, indeed. But first tell me, you're the most feared man in all of Free Space. Legends have been spun about you Commander. From the Forbidden Borders to the gutter sumps of Terguz, no one has failed to hear of your name or fame. You've destroyed over thirty worlds. More than ten billion human beings have died because of you. You have enslaved entire populations. In places, men utter curses in your name. Among others, you're reviled as a demon from their versions of hell. Some hex you with magic. Others have paid fortunes to have you assassinated. Fear and hatred are your legacy, Lord Commander. Do you ever wonder about that? Lose sleep perhaps? Awake shivering in the nigt?"
Staffa raised his shoulders in a shrug, palms up. "I am not paid to lose sleep. I am paid — and paid very well — to win."
The Praetor nodded ever so slightly. "No soul, eh, Staffa? No responsibility to God? None?" He hawked and spat onto the polished floor. "No, indeed. I bred that out of you — banished it from your personality so long ago. A creature without conscience. without guilt. Only money and power motivate you." He cackled gleefully. "And, of course, your reputation!"
"Does this have a point?" Staffa stepped to the window, rubbing hands along his arms as he stared out over the wreckage that had been the capital of Myklene.
"You attacked before anyone expected, Staffa." A wistful note filled the old man's voice. "I didn't underestimate your fury — only your speed. Your plan to hit us before the Sassan fleet was even half provisioned. well, it was brilliant. Our spies had only heard vague rumors that you were working for Sassa. Even then, I knew our defensive platforms would have delivered a crushing blow to your fleet. You crippled us before we could—"
"I played on your trust in spies," Staffa told him casually. "You expected a massed attack. You counted on Sassan vanity, knowing they'd demand to be present for the first assault to ratify their God-Emperor. Expectations are a weakness. A single unarmed freighter couldn't pose a threat to your massed defenses. Commando assaults from unassuming supply freighters never crossed your mind, did they?"
The Praetor sniffed in irritation. "I wonder what would have happened if you'd misjudged and we'd wiped out your Special Tactics squads?"
"Skyla wouldn't have let that happen. She personally orchestrated the sabotage of your computer systems. Timing was too critical. My fleet had to appear at exactly the right moment."
"Yes, Skyla Lyma. A worthy second to your brilliance. Tell me… are you lovers?"
"No, Praetor, we are not. Never have been. She is her own woman — my second in command."
"And as reptilian in conscience as you."
"I have no interest in conscience."
"So you've said — and proved." The Praetor sighed and shifted his gaze to the holo of the planet. "And now only two empires remain. Rega and Sassa. Each built with your skill and power. What now? Do you choose Tybalt and his Regans, or Sassa and their God-Emperor? Is this what you intended? Surely you knew it had to come down to two. and then to one. Has that been your design?"
Staffa smiled and cocked his head. // only you knew, old man. "The Companions follow the tides of fortune."
"Tides of fortune? My ass! And what of your cunning and ambition? I know you as no one else ever will. Don't
toy with me, Staffa. You brought humanity to this — you and your Companions."
"And if I did?"
The Praetor leered evilly. "Then you made a terrible mistake."
"Oh?"
The od man squinted. "Let's dispense with the fencing, shall we? With the destruction of Myklene, two hungry empires face each other over a ragged border. Both are reeling, their economies starved to feed your war chest. Neither can meet your vampire price — not without bankrupting their blood-sucked economies. You will choose the winner. and then?"
Staffa shifted, crossing his arms as he studied the old man.
"Who, Staffa?" The Praetor stared at him. "I think you'll choose the Sassans — and then turn on them. After you bleed them dry in the fight against Rega, you'll become the ruler of human space — and you'll finally fail."
Staffa lifted an eyebrow. "I'll play along with your game for the moment. Why would I fail?"
"What will destroy you in the end is your own lack of humanity. The people will pull you down. Not armies. but human beings."
The laugh built from deep in Staffa's gut. "The people? Those huddling masses of terror-ridden dolts who curse my name? You think they could do what no empire, no military force could? Be serious."
The Praetor glanced out at the ruins of his capital. In a wistful voice, he added, "I am, Staffa. To you, human beings are pieces on a game board. You see them as chaotic forces, eddies and swells of turbulence following no predictabe course. But you're inhuman. A creation. If you would save yourself, Staffa, you must learn what it is to be human. You can't feel the spirit that breathes within the species— and because of that it will crush you one day."
"Nothing will ever crush me."
A subtle change invaded the hoarse voice. "Not even love?" A long hesitation. "You found that once, didn't you?"
Staffa bit off a retort, settling the tightness in his lungs with a deep breath.
The old man saw through his defense. "Captive girl, wasn't she? A strikingly beautiful slave destined to be sold to the whorehouses on Sylene. Except she was too beautiful for you to pass up. Another surprise you gave me, Staffa. I never thought your heart would allow you to love. I thought I'd killed that in you."
The muscles along Staffa's back tensed and rippled. What's he after? How could he know? Chrysla, my beloved Chrysla.
The Praetor moved his lips. "Could you still have a trace of humanity hidden within you, Staffa? Even after all I did to you?"
Staffa closed his eyes, emotions reeling. Images of her face filled his memories, the subtle smile, the love in her soft amber eyes.
"Wonder how I know Commander?" the old voice wheedled. "Yes, indeed, how do I? How would I know you had a son by Chrysla? They were kidnapped from you almost. what? Twenty years ago? No trace of them ever showed up in spite of your threats… or the reward."
Staffa whirled, his cloak spreading like raptorian wings as he braced himself on the hospital unit. His hot face thrust inches from the Praetor's.
It came as a forced hiss, "What — what do you know?" Iron fingers gripped the sagging flesh of the old man's jaw as Staffa twisted the head to meet his smoldering glare.
The brittle jaw worked as the Praetor swallowed and gritted, "Nothing… so long as you… hold me like this. Release me, Staffa, and I'll tell you."
Staffa peeled trembling fingers from where they dimpled the sallow flesh. A red flush remained to mark each spot, indicative of the bruise to come.
The Praetor moved his jaw experimentally and studied the Lord Commander, thinly veiled irony in his expression. "I knew you'd turn against me, Staffa," the voice began like fingernails on rusty tin. "Thirty years ago, I watched your fame spreading. You and I were already on a collision course. I could sense this coming. And I was the only one in all of Free Space who'd ever known you as a… a vulnerable individual. Not a god, Staffa. A boy. More than that, a frightened child I once found in a wrecked shuttle.
Can you remember? Can you recall how you cried over the crushed corpses of your parents?"