Sinklar took a deep breath, and gave a shrug of desperation before he faced the speaker.
"I am Sinklar Fist, First of the First Targan Assault Division, Lord Ret. I want to stop this battle and meet with you to discuss bringing this war to an end." Fist crossed his arms and gazed at the stat board expectantly, eyes strained as if trying to see through the map, to find his opponent in the wrinkles and contours of the holograph.
"Why should I deal, Sinklar Fist? My forces hold the strategic ground. We've taken the Vespa Ridge-the key to any defensive position in the valley." His deep booming voice sounded imminently reasonable.
Gretta winced at the sight of Arta Fera, who twisted with horror.
So many lives hinge on this… this crazy woman? Blessed Gods, help us! Sinklar continued, "And if I told you the ridge was mined, that your flanks are being pushed back within the blast radius, what would you say then?"
"That you are bluffing!" Butla's vibrant voice rang out. Gretta's expression mirrored worry as Arta reacted to
those deep ringing tones. A sudden light flashed behind the blazing amber
eyes, hope flickering where before there had been only insanity.
"Lord Ret, we've captured Arta Fera. Would you take her word? We caught her trying to bomb our headquarters." Sinklar waited, heart hammering. So much to bet on the sanity of a panicked assassin. I must be out of my mind! But who else would Butla Ret listen to?
Ret's voice was curiously subdued. "I would talk to her." Sinklar looked desperately, pleadingly, at the assassin. "Arta? Are you all right?" Butla asked gently.
Sinklar closed his eyes, oddly touched by the compassion and concern in Ret's voice.
Arta looked haunted, focused on some terrible memory. "Butla!" she shrieked in terror. "Don't listen! They want you to surrender! They can't hold against you! They are bluffing. Vile Regan liars!"
Gretta shook her head, a miserable dullness in her posture. No saving them now.
Sinklar spun on his feet, and Arta laughed triumphantly in his face.
"Do not harm her, Regan," Butla's voice came firmly over the comm. "We are coming for you. As long as Arta is treated with respect, we will act within the accords of honor. Harm her, and the streets will run with Regan blood. That I promise!"
"Wait!" Sinklar cried passionately, arms out as he faced the comm pickup. "At least talk to me! Butla? Butla Ret?" He paced back and forth while desperation pumped adrenaline into his system.
"He cut the connection," Gretta told him.
Arta smiled, eyes still glazed as she nodded, enjoying her victory. She seemed to gloat at Sinklar's misery.
Gretta craned her neck to glare at the woman, expression filled with loathing. "Enjoy yourself, you… wretched bitch. You love Butla Ret? I pray I never experience a love like yours. "
"We have no choice," Sinklar muttered in a dispirited tone. "The Targan forces are within the kill zone."
Gretta nodded and turned her attention from Arta's dancing defiance to inputting instructions to the Sections.
"Attention, all personnel!" Sinklar's voice rang out. "Duck and cover!"
"Shiksta?" Gretta's voice came hoarsely. "Detonate the mine. Destroy the Killing Ridge."
" 'Firmative," Shik's voice came back.
Arta turned to look with the rest. She was still smirking at the culpability of the Regans when a gout of brilliant light lanced beyond the outskirts of the city. Before her disbelieving eyes, clots of black rose in the lurid apocalyptic flash. Seconds later the ground shook. Then the shock wave battered the building, bouncing her couch.
"All units," Sinklar ordered, voice hollow, "Keep cover until the fallout has passed. When you read all clear, commence mop-up. Stay away from the hot spots. We'll begin evacuating casualties immediately."
Mouth open, Arta watched the oddly luminous cloud that rose over the plain. The air carried an odd rumble as the shock wave Dopplered off into the distance.
Her startled gaze went to the stat board to see the lights now gone dead. The realization broke over her in a cold wash.
Sink pinched the bridge of his nose, disgusted with the woman-disgusted with all of it. Shoulders sagging, he walked wearily from the room. He could feel Gretta's worried gaze, feel the horror that had possessed Mhitshul.
Arta Fera screamed then-the sound that of a demented animal in torment.
Sinklar closed his eyes and staggered, overwhelmed by the memory of his mother's pale face mocking him from her casket.
Chapter 23
Skyla Lyma reclined in the control chair surrounded by the
cockpit instrumentation of her personal yacht. Her inclination was to space full tilt for Targa, but a cooler voice argued for caution. Staffa would arrive on Targa long after she would, and in the meantime she'd have to pass the Regan ships quarantining the rebellious planet. If she tried that, she might fall into Ily's clutches, which in turn would condemn Staffa to capture when he arrived.
I could space straight for Rega and confront Tybalt. Skyla tapped a fingernail against her teeth as she watched the stars beyond the forward port. They seemed to move as a result of her ship's slight spin. How would Tybalt react to news that his lover had alienated the Companions? And what was Ily's game, anyway? Surely she knew that, lover or not, Tybalt would cut her off at the
knees for what she'd done to the Lord Commander.
"Damn right, she knows." Skyla studied the wheeling stars thoughtfully. "And she's got an agenda of her own. Damn it, if I could just have had an hour to talk to Staffa." But what would Ily be after?
Skyla smiled to herself as she remembered the look on Staffa's face when she'd stepped around that crate. Closing her eyes, she imagined his strong arms around her. With a desperate longing, she wished she could be in that crate with him instead of Kaylla Dawn.
"But it's better this way," she assured herself. "Two of us in the box would have meant we depended solely on the good will of the Seddi-which would have been suicide, despite Bruen's promises."
And she hadn't planned on being in the box when the Seddi opened it on Targa.
So what are you going to do, Skyla? You've got a Seddi hostage of unknown potential aboard your ship. The Regans are about to go berserk, and Staffa's in a box headed for a world in revolt to talk to people who've spent fortunes trying to assassinate him.
The long-range sensor tripped, bring Skyla upright in her chair. She adjusted the gain, refining the reading. She knew the reaction signature-Regan military, and pulling about forty-five g's from the radiation dispersion. Ily!
Skyla took a fix, then swiveled her receiver for another. Comparing the data, she frowned, then pulled up the navcomm plot. A cold shiver ran down her spine.
"No doubt about it. Ily's headed for Targa." And in that instant, Skyla knew what she was going to do.
Bruen stared at the hewn stone over his head. An eternal weight, it hung-foreboding and gray, cold and without feeling-a symbol of oppression. Butla Ret, dead? Their forces in total rout? How had Sinklar Fist managed to destroy them so decisively? Face it, old man. You've played the last gamble. What's left, Bruen?
The feeble light barely penetrated the gloom in the tiny quarters. The rays cast by the small lamp were absorbed by the gray stone, the illumination set low to reduce the strain on Hyde's eyes. The air lay heavy, warm, and damp as if to mirror Magister Hyde's rasping breath.
How much time do I have with my old friend? It should be a time for memories, for reliving the old days, for sharing jokes about victories and past loves. This is not a time for revelations-or for the death of dreams.
Hyde's sunken face had become a death mask, sallow flesh sagging over the hard bones of his skull. No flicker of change animated Hyde's expression while Bruen related this latest catastrophe-this defeat at Vespa-in half truths. The dying man listened quietly, sighing between gasping fits of coughing.