"He didn't turn into a blubbering idiot," Skyla protested.
"Of course not. His brain has been trained to deal with problems in a highly sophisticated logical sequence — a left brain approach, if you will. Those established neural pathways kept him from going berserk, but those old behaviors
wont dominate forever. His brain is flooded with new stimuli that affect his ability to make decisions."
Skyla crossed her arms, teeth grinding. "Worse? Until he goes completely mad? Is that what you're trying to tell me? That Staff a…"
"No, Skyla." She tensed at the feel of his hand on her arm. "Think of it this way. As a result of the Praetor's tampering, Staffa has lived most of his life with half of a personality. Now, all of a sudden, the other half of himself has been released. The brain is a remarkable and plastic organ. There's an excellent chance that he'll be able to integrate this and come out stronger for it."
"An excellent chance? Not a certainty?"
Andray's gaze didn't waver.
Skyla gasped her frustration and paced nervously across the room. "And those last mental triggers? The ones hidden in the personality centers of the brain?"
"The last round in the Praetor's aresenal. He knew he had Staffa in shambles already. That was the coup-de-gras." Andray paused. "You know, the Praetor was brilliant in his own twisted way. He knew that Staffa would find the other triggers, but he knew that the one place Staffa would never look would be in his sense of identity. That part of Staffa's personality stood on a teetering foundation of rotten wood."
Skyla rubbed the back of her neck and shook her head. "What about Chrysla? If Staffa was such a mess, what did she ever see in him?"
"You don't know very much about her, do you?" Andray watched her pensively. "And I hear the resentment in your voice Wing Commander."
"What are you—"
"Whoa!" Andray raised his hands defensively. "Your secret is safe with me."
"I don't know what you're—"
"Chrysla," Andray changed the subject, "wasn't just a brainless beauty. At the time of her capture, she was completing course work in clinical psychiatry. Staffa fascinated her — and that doesn't mean she wasn't a very complicated and complex woman. She loved him with all of her heart, and she began to pick at the Praetor's conditioning."
Andray shrugged. "The problem was that she was a student and had no real experience."
"If you know all this, why didn't you work with Staffa?"
Andray gave her a cool look. "The reason there's a psychological department on the Itreatic Asteroids is because Chrysla wanted one. You see, I was Chrysla's professor before she ended up in Staffa's hands. Problem was, by the time I finally arrived here, she was gone. The Praetor had stolen her away. During the following years, would you have asked the Lord Commander to submit to psychotherapy?"
Skyla studied him through slitted eyes. "You know, I'm not sure I like you Professor."
He met her stare blandly. "You don't have to. I'd just as soon not be here, myself. You see, I've compiled fascinating data — all of which will rot here with me. Do you seriously believe the Lord Commander would allow a psychologist who'd studied the Companions loose?"
"So why did you come?"
Andray smiled sadly. "You never knew Chrysla. And perhaps, being a woman, you wouldn't understand. She had a magnetism that. well, I was in love with her."
"All that aside, what about Staffa? Where do you think he went?"
Andray stood and straightened his tunic. "From the tape, I'd say he's gone in search of his son. He'll try and contact the Seddi."
"What? They've been trying to assassinate him for years."
"That may be, but the Praetor said they have Staffa's son. And I remind you, he's not going to be thinking with his usual dispassionate objectivity. The mood swings will only get worse as his brain seeks to return to normalcy. If you wish to save him from harm, I suggest you find him— and quickly." Andray bowed. "Good day, Wing Commander."
Skyla stood rooted as the psychologist left the room. A terrible ache filled her chest.
Given the political situation in Kaspa, it took three days before Butla Ret's illegal aircar slid down out of the evening
sky above the hidden temple of Makarta. Bruen stood at the base of the cliff where a hollow in the rock protected the landing port and nodded to himself, a sinking in his breast carrying his heart ever lower.
"She's just a child," he whispered under his breath as the aircar settled lightly on the brightly lit pad.
Arta came from her stone-walled cell, her Initiate's robe wrapped tightly about her. A glowing goddess, she entered the main hall on light feet, ever curious eyes sweeping the occupants. She stopped as Butla Ret stepped out of the aircar.
Ret was a big man with skin as black as the deepest cavern. He bowed to Bruen, and said in a deep bass voice, "Greetings, Magister."
"It's good to see you, Butla." Bruen smiled and hugged his old friend. Then he stepped back, the words reluctant in his throat. "Meet Arta Fera."
Butla turned and walked around the girl, studying Arta with gleaming black eyes. His broad lips split in a wide smile to expose glistening white teeth. A dream might move so fluidly, soundlessly, his feet seeming to grace the floor for all his muscular bulk. A motion of poetry, he made a decision and nodded.
"Arta, my dear one," Bruen bowed, struggling to keep his voice steady. Curses and pollution, this was going to be harder than he thought. "Meet Butla Ret. He will be your teacher in the fine arts and weapons of assassination. Have you an objection?"
She looked at him frantically, only to see no guidance in his veiled blue eyes. "Magister, I… But so quickly? It's. No," she murmured, "I have no objections."
His heart felt like lead.
Butla Ret bowed, a somberness in his expression. His bull-deep voice sent vibrations through the very rock. "My pleasure, Arta Fera. I look forward to working with you. I swear upon my honor to do my very best to teach you my arts. Upon that word, I offer my life without hesitation or mental reservation whatsoever."
Some quantum seeded memory in Arta's mind triggered at the words. As if without volition, she repeated, "And I swear upon my honor to do my very best to learn your valued lessons. Upon that word, I offer my life."
Arta's eyes widened, first mystification, then understanding in her expression.
When she looked back at Bruen, it was with sober assessment.
"Gather your things, Arta. Butla will be taking you with him for now." Bruen glanced over to see Magister Hyde, his antique face drawn and serious. The elder's watery blue eyes remained neutral, but he nodded slightly.
Bruen stepped close, heart hammering at his thin sternum. "Go in health and high spirit, Arta. You are Seddi now. Butla will see to sending the Initiate's robe back to us. If you ever return here, you will wear First Order Master's dress."
Her eyes glimmered as she fought tears, then she reached up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, Magister. Watch your purse around those wicked women you like to lie about."
"Why, I…" Bruen stumbled, then he sighed, "Oh, bother."
Taking a breath, she turned to Butla Ret and ventured, "I hope I don't let you down, Butla Ret."
The deep-bass voice sounded subdued. "So do I, Arta Fera. For in my world there is no failure — only death."
Ret reached out and she put her hand in his. The Master Assassin led her to the aircar.
Bruen watched the craft rise and scuttle off to the north, and bloody Kaspa.
"What have we wrought, Hyde?" he wondered. His friend only lifted an age-sagged shoulder and coughed.