His secretary interrupted his thoughts. "The agent did get a holo Legate. I'm patching it through."
Myles bent down to peer at his monitor. He watched as Ily Takka arrived via aircar at the main door of the Internal Security building. A black man stepped out of the vehicle followed by Ily, a filthy slave woman, and a big man with wild black hair and a sand-covered, scarred body. As they climbed the stairs, the man hesitated for an instant and glared in the direction of the camera.
Myles froze the photo. "Enlarge section G-15 on the screen please." As if he looked through a zoom lens, the image of the man grew until Myles stared into Staffa kar Therma's eyes — and yes, curse it all, he wore a slave collar!
Myles swallowed hard, baffled by the ramifications. "What does this mean? Staffa in the collar? And Regans mobilizing for…" He swiveled in the overstffed chair, punching yet another button. "Get me Admiral Jakre."
Myles waited for long moments until Jakre's face filled the monitor. "Admiral? I have some—"
"Really, Legate, I'm at the Vermilion Club, halfway through a delightful supper. If this can wait, I'd greatly appreciate—"
"I think the Regans are planning to strike the border worlds. Something's happened. I think Ily Takka has abducted the Lord Commander. Get your thrice-cursed body down here, Admiral! We may not have much time."
Ily Takka stepped down from her LC to face a small handful of battered men and women. They stood warily, watching her with suspicious eyes. These were Sinklar's terribe forces? They wore glazed and stained armor that had been charred by blaster fire and now flaked off before her eyes. Some moved with difficulty in armor so hardened as
to be useless. Nevertheless, they wore it as a badge — and not one looked away from her commanding gaze.
Ily stopped on the ramp, looking around as the breeze tugged her hair and brushed her face with a soft caress;
sunlight stroked bright and warm on her skin. A pleasant odor of vegetation and rich earth drifted on the moving air. The plaza shimmered dusty and brown, surrounded on all sides by red brick buildings of local manufacture. Drab and utilitarianly efficient, the architecture had nothing in common with the usual Imperial style.
The military personnel recaptured her attention. They waited, feet braced, heavy blasters resting insolently in the grip. One young woman met her stare, antagonism in her face. A plastaheal patch covered one cheek and strands of blonde hair blew in ill-disciplined wisps about her hard expression.
Dangerous: her intuition flared a warning.
Ily stiffened her back and walked forward.
A young man stepped out to meet her, slapping his charred and smudged armor with a flat hand. Brownish spatters of dried bood speckled the right side of his stiffened armor. A Division First's chevron had been glued ludicrously to his arm band. She met his eyes, found them roiling with challenge, and began to bristle.
"Minister Takka?" he asked, youthful tones shrouded in undercurrents of threat.
"Yes, and you are?"
"MacRuder. If you will proceed straight ahead into the headquarters, ma'am. We'll make you comfortable until the First can speak to you."
Ily froze, hackles, rising. "Until? Am I to understand I have to… to wait for Sinklar Fist?"
MacRuder tensed. The blasters in the hands of the others clattered hollowly on hardened armor as they changed positions. MacRuder's jaw muscles rolled under smooth skin. Passionate blue eyes burned into hers. "Yes, ma'am. The First suffered a loss recently. We all did."
The young warriors around her shuffled, casting angry glances her way. By the Rotted Gods, look at them. See how their eyes blaze! Fists "loss" is theirs. They're really loyal to him. No wonder things went so wrong for us on Targa.
She nodded. "You realize, MacRuder, that I am here on
the Emperor's business. We would like to bring this problem to a quick and satisfactory solution."
"The First will see you at the earliest opportunity," MacRuder replied, motioning her ahead.
She glared at the soldiers. Their animosity had risen to a boil.
/ am alone down here! The thought sobered. Rotted Gods! Watch your temper, Ily. One flare could leave you very dead at the hands of these savage children!
"What is your rank, MacRuder?" Ily asked causally as she eyed his chevron. She resumed her march toward the brick factory, gut tightening at the way the soldiers followed with blasters pointed at her back.
"First of the Second Targan Division, ma'am," he replied smartly.
"MacRuder, you realize you and your Sinklar Fist are in a great deal of trouble, don't you?"
A grim smile played across his lips as he laced his fingers behind his back. "Minister, we've been in a great deal of trouble since we dropped on this planet."
"You might never got off," Ily reminded coolly, hearing a hissed retort from the guard behind.
"You, Mhitshul!" MacRuder snapped. "Stow it!"
Instant obedience. This is no rabble — no matter what we would think. What causes the burning craziness in their eyes? They look so. fanatical!
"The First will discuss the situation with you, Minister."
"You know, his rank as First was never officially acknowledged. The Emperor might simply have him demoted to Sergeant. If charges are not proffered. You have very little chance of—"
"Gods Rotted Regan bitch!" someone behind her growled through gritted teeth and the skin on Ily's back crawled.
"At ease, people," MacRuder barked. He turned to Ily, gnarled finger stabbing at her. "A piece of advice Minister. We're not hot on Rega at this particular moment. They left us to die here."
"I'll keep that in mind." Ily gave him one of her coldest stares.
MacRuder nodded. "See that you do."
She entered the scarred door to the brick factory. Step-
ping inside, she crossed her arms, surveying the interior of the big building. Dusty shafts of light filtered through high windows onto bustling people
in armor and civilian garb. The air hummed with a constant din as people talked back and forth or shuffled materials and papers. Others sat with heads bent over comm monitors. Piles of brick forms had been removed from stacks along the wall to prop up tables, create shelving, or just to to provide more space. The huge furnaces along the wall gaped at the frantic invasion in cold silence.
The reality struck her. "You run the planet from a brick factory? This is your military headquarters?"
Her gaze turned to a blast-pocked LC — a looming island in the center of the floor — armored personnel with blasters stood vigilantly around the streamlined craft, all with that same tigerish wariness.
"Our headquarters took a direct hit from space," MacRuder explained, voice clipped. "We took the next best thing available and haven't had time to move."
She let her lip lift slightly to goad him. "I have come to a brick factory to negotiate with unmannered rabble for a planet?"
"Mhitshulf" MacRuder whirled and hissed. "Lower that weapon or I'll have your ass!"
"You heard what she said," the private's voice carried a deadly timbre. "We won't let her talk like that."
Shivers of ice danced up and down Ily's spine like frosty breath.
"I gave you an order, Mhitshul," MacRuder's voice dropped.
"Yes, sir!" Mhitshul cried, facial muscles jumping as he grounded his weapon, eyes forward. "You heard what she said, sir. About us… about him."
"I heard," MacRuder growled, tendons popping from the back of his fist where he gripped his olstered pulse pistol.
"I apologie." Ily added — a feeling of gravel in her throat.
The analytical portion of her mind noted the way they said, "him." Had they come to worship Sinklar Fist? Was "e even greater than she had hoped?