Майкл Гир - Requiem for the Conqueror

Why are we here? Why did the Lord Commander put his best Special Tactics Unit here. to guard one crippled old man? Who is he?

Ark shifted his gaze from the gleaming white corridor and checked the status displays projected by his sophisticated battle helmet. At his mental command varicolored holos appeared, providing him with information beyond the capabilities of his human senses. He focused the helmet's scanning receptors on the end of the long hallway and dialed up the sensitivity. The corridor looked like any other: White walls reflected soft fluorescent light from square ceiling panels; the polished floor tiles gleamed; steel doors had been placed at fifteen meter intervals. The auditory sensors amplified only the hum of the air conditioning.

The Lord Commander had ordered all rooms to be vacated — all but the one Ark and his team guarded. And what the Lord Commander ordered, the Companions accepted as inviolate law, no matter what the sense of it might seem at the moment.

But to put us here? There's still fighting out there. We ought to be using our talents to crack the last of the defensive positions. ot Gods rotting here, guarding a dying old man and an empty hospital.

The sophisticated detection equipment in Ryman's helmet picked up faint vibrations: the sound of footsteps appraching. Ryman checked his IR monitor and noted the gradual increase in heat from beyond the blind corner. Rescue attempt?

"On deck, people," Ark whispered.

Ryman's crack Special Tactics Unit tensed behind their energy barriers.

He used his comm to check with the other personnel scattered through the hospital. "This is Ark. Any trouble? Anyone pass through security?"

"Negative, STO. All quiet. Nothing cooking."

"Well, I've got visitors; be sharp, people."

So who'd passed the guards on the lower floors? Must be somebody of ours. Ryman licked his lower lip. But then, he hadn't made Special Tactics Officer by accepting anything at face value.

He lowered the combat shield over his dark-skinned face. Dressed in camouflaging armor, he crouched behind the shielding — a muscular man with the grace of a trained athlete. The IR image in the rifle sight tinged with heat.

At that moment two familiar figures swept around the corner.

"Hold your fire," Ark ordered. In the holo monitors pro jected to the side of his vision he noted that none of his troops even quivered, their respective defensive areas covered by the ugly belled nozzles of assault rifles. Professional, by God!

"Halt!" Ark's voice boomed down the hall.

The man and woman stopped short, balanced and ready in a predatory stance.

Ark studied them through his instruments. It figured that the Lord Commander would appear unannounced like this. It kept his people frosty. Ryman studied his commander with the same interest that always possessed him. Staffa kar Therma met his stare over the distance. The ice-blonde woman beside him stood dressed in space whites. Wing Commander Skyla Lyma had dropped her Vegan disguise after they'd gained access to the Myklenian computer system.

The Lord Commander nodded slightly, and a hard smile of approval barely touched his lips. A glistening gray combat suit fit skintight over his trim body, covering every inch from boot tops to neck. What looked to be a golden

choker — in reality the field generator for a vacuum energy helmet — snugged around his throat. The cloak pinned at his shoulders seemed alive as it swirled behind him. A thick weapons belt held a pistol, grenades, comm unit, climbing tackle, and vacuum suit energy pack snugged around lean hips. Knee-high black boots gleamed.

Staffa's clean-shaven face had a handsome look, blocked on the bottom by a square jaw that accented broad thin lips. The nose jutted straight, perfectly proportioned under the smooth brow. Long black hair had been gathered in a ponytail over the left ear and hung over his shoulder — held in place by a shimmering multicolored gem. Ark knew the imperious command in those glinting gray eyes. Through the magnification in his scope, they pierced him. Lines had tightened at the edges of the eyes, giving Staffa's face an expression of tension.

Ryman Ark fought a shiver. That aura of power chilled men's souls like some pervading miasma. But then, what sane man wouldn't feel that in the presence of the deadliest man in Free Space?

Ark noted the quick flicker of gray-gloved fingers as they moved in the Companion's sequence of identification.

"Advance, sir." Ryman stood and allowed the assault rifle to hang easily in his hands.

The Lord Commander strode forward, the gray cloak billowing behind his tense body. And yes, his expression looked strained, pale, almost a grimace.

What in the name of the Rotted Gods is wrong?

Ryman shifted his wary glance to the woman who walked with predatory ease at Staffa's side. Skyla Lyma reminded Ark of an ice leopard. She had that fluidity of movement and the wary balance of a huntress. Skyla missed nothing, her glance darting to each of the energy barriers, and then to the disposition of Ryman's men where they remained crouched behind ready rifles.

She nodded — a barely perceptible movement — her silverblonde hair swinging in the long braid that hung looped over her left shoulder. In her glistening white armor, she appeared the perfect complement to the tall man in gray. Her authority among the Companions was second only to the Lord Commander's.

Ryman studied the classic lines of her face and wondered.

Her features were perfect — those you might expect of an Etarian Priestess. A gymnast would have coveted her perfectly toned body and the resilient power betrayed by her movements. Skyla would be the envy of any man's fantasy and desire — until he looked into those chilling eyes. With a gaze that cut like azure crystals, she inspected him, peeled back his soul, seeking any anomaly.

Skyla's worried about something. And Staffa. he's on edge, jumpy as I've never seen him.

Only up close could a man see the light line of scar tissue angling across Skyla's cheek — such rude contrast to the delicate precision of her features and the promise of those full red lips. A beauty, indeed — and cold as the absolute zero of the Terguzzi ice sheets. Deadly as a Cytean cobra, Skyla had earned her position by ruthless efficiency.

"My Lord Commander," Ryman greeted, knotting a fist over his heart in the eternal salute of the Companions.

Staffa placed hands on hips as he studied the defensive layout Ryman had deployed. A tingle wiggled in Ark's stomach as he caught the distress in Staffa's face — the look that of a man preparing for battle. and wishing that he were somewhere else. Those wolf-gray eyes flickered to the door.

A hesitation of… Ryman denied the sudden hint of fear in Staffa kar Therma's eyes. Absurd! Perhaps the angle of the light. Ryman stood straighter, ice tracing fingers through his guts.

The Lord Commander spoke in a soothing, cultured tenor. "Well done, Officer Ark. Anything unusual? The prisoner is all right?"

"Yes, sir." He swallowed, finding it difficult.

"Nothing suspicious?"

"No, sir. He… the prisoner. only sent one communique, Lord Commander — and that was to your flagship the Chrysla, sir."

"Very well." It sounded absent and Staffa's expression had gone slack. Could there have been a eraine of that pale flesh?

like a chi11 lance' PPed through Ryman's soul. Who was this crippled man they guarded?

The Lord Commander turned to Skyla in a swirl of gray

cloak. "I'll see him alone, Wing Commander. If I… I'll call should I need you."

Ryman kept his eyes ahead, body at full attention, fist clasped tightly on

his sternum. The Lord Commander hesitated at the door, the gray-gloved hand caressing the polished brass latch for several seconds before he pulled the portal open and boldly entered.