"Ryman, I have duties." She settled next to him on the sleeping platform. "I don't get away much. But when I do, I want to see men, real men who take life seriously, not the perfumed flaccid bureaucrats I have to deal with every day. "Where does this scar go?" She ran a finger lightly along his black skin to where the puckered seam disappeared into his sleeve.
Ryman grinned and stripped his uniform off. Ily ran her hands over his muscular flesh as he turned his attention to peeling her out of her gown. To her surprise he took his time, building her response, timing himself to her needs. Despite herself, she closed her eyes, letting his movements bring her to an unexpected climax.
Life was like that. Take bounty when it presented itself. To her amazement, another hour passed as Ark deftly continued to explore her body. Within another hour — practically exhausted — she managed to slip mytol into his scotch.
Weary and flushed, she sat up on the rumpled platform. "You have remarkable endurance Ark," she whispered,
pawing through her things, all the while aware her body felt loose-jointed and tender where she'd coupled too violently.
"Yes, Ily," he responded woodenly. Mytol did that to a man.
She set up what appeared to be a music system and turned on the audio. Satisfied with the subtle tones of the Jakeid symphony — and also satisfied that it threw a privacy screen over the room that not even the best bugs could penetrate — she crawled next to him, snuggling close to his drugged body. Rotted Gods, even drugged he rose to her embrace again! Did the man ever tire?
Her mouth next to his ear she asked. "Where is the Lord Commander?"
"Gone," he answered muzzily.
"Where?"
"Don't know."
"Guess, dear Ryman. Tell me where you think."
"Fishing. and whoring. and tasting the pleasures of the many worlds."
"Is that a joke?"
"No, Staffa's on vacation."
"Seriously?"
"Uh-huh. Said to wait for a year. He'd be back and we'd go to war then. Make more money. Allow the empires to stabilize so we'd be guaranteed they didn't collapse economically and leave us high and dry."
"Do you believe that?"
"Yes."
"Do you think anyone could find him? Is there a special way to get in touch?"
"Skyla might. No other way to get in touch. Not through comm anyway. I'd know."
"Is Skyla his lover? Are they close?"
"No."
"Why did Staffa go away just now, Ryman?"
"Been upset."
"About what?" She frowned. What the hell did that mean?
"Something about when he killed the Praetor. Never the same since then. Worried."
Slowly, with the skill of thousands of hours of interrogation, Ily pieced together a picture of the Lord Commander's
last trip home. "Thank you, dear Ryman. You sleep now. In the morning, you will remember none of this — only how much scotch we drank and how terrible
your hangover is."
He immediately began to snore.
She lay there with a racing mind as she tried to correlate the different parts of Ryman's confessions. Skyla might be able to find Staffa? And just how did she manipulate Skyla? The Wing Commander wouldn't fall for any frolic in the zero-g with any man, no matter how good looking.
Ily got up and made her way to the bath, aware that everything had become turmoil. That Staffa would refuse a Contract was one option she never would have considered. But I'll find you Lord Commander — and you won't have your Companions around when I do.
Staffa kar Therma took one last glance at the monitor that displayed the Etarian docking station and settled the worry-cap on the pilot's head. The man remained in the grip of a drugged sleep. With the worry-cap interacting with the pilot's brain, the man's expression changed.
Staffa chuckled to himself, imagining the pilot's reaction when he awakened to fin himself ten light-years from Itreata and safely docked at Etaria.
From his bag, Staffa pulled a brown trader's toga over his gray armor and snapped his possessions closed. From a pouch he took a Regan unlimited travel passport.
Like a ghost, he moved to the lock, palmed the hatch, and stepped out into the main orbiting station over Etaria. A curious unease filled him. He swallowed hard and steeled himself. How long had it been since he walked alone through a crowd of strangers? Had he ever? Chiding himself for a fool, he drowned the fear with the arrogance that had carried him through the years and stepped into the crowd. Looking like any other Etarian supplicant, he shuffled through the long lines of entrants, got his voucher stamped, and boarded one of the massive shuttles.
What awaits me? What do I know of this reality of common men? He blinked his eyes and swallowed dryly, the sudden lurch of fear leaving his palms sweaty. Easy, Staffa, it's a panic response. Emotion can be controlled.
What a strange feeling to be packed so close to so many people. They all seemed so… oblivious to each other, as if they were totally secluded, locked away within themselves. The bald man next to him met his gaze. He appeared to be an inoffensive sort. A trader from the cut of this clothes.
"First time to Etaria?" the bald man asked mildly.
"No. I was here several years ago. Probably five by his planet's time."
"Not much has changed. You're here to go to the temple?"
Staff a nodded.
"Yeah, five years ago." The man licked his lips and shook his head. "That was when the Butcher showed up. Didn't need to do more. People panicked and the Priests capitulated to the Regans."
"The Butcher?" Staffa tensed.
"Yeah, you know, the Star Butcher, the baby burner, Staffa kar Therma, may the Rotted Gods eat his intestines by the slow inch!"
With iron control Staffa fought the desire to reach over and break this man's neck. "He unified Free Space between two governments where efore there had been chaos."
"Sure, at what cost?" The trader hesitated, looking at his suddenly shaking hands. His voice came in ragged spurts. "My — my family lived on Phillipia. I'm the only one who. lived. They even killed my children. And. and what they. they did to my… my sister before they. before they. "He shook his head, bowing his face down into his hands. "God, I hate him. If I could ever get the chance, I'd. "
Staffa's anger turned and twisted. Be calm, he told himself. But to sit here and listen to this whining. "Excuse me. I see an old friend." Staffa, teeth grinding, sought the rear of the shuttle and a different seat.
Such as you, human, have little right to question the actions of leaders. What is your family against the sprawl of human destiny in Free Space?
He barely heard the merchant from Vermilion who sat next to him babbling about the delights of the temple and wondering if the Etarian Priestesses were as beautiful as they claimed.
Face set, curious at the anger that still burned in his breast, Staffa waited stoically as the shuttle descended. The Praetor's words haunted him. "More than ten billion human beings have died at your hands. In places, men utter curses in your name. Among others you are reviled as a demon from their versions
of hell."
What if they did? Who were these people he killed? Had they all been like that weakling trader? Then perhaps the species was better off without them.
He looked about him, suddenly conscious of the shuttle's vulnerability. How many craft like this one had died under his guns? How many had he seen fleeing a doomed planet before he gave his order to destroy it. How many had his weapons ripped open in explosive decompression — the corpses of men, women, and children frozen in horrid death, tumbling in an eerie and gruesome orbit.
He hardly felt the shuttle touch down. Senses reeling, he got to his feet and shuffled out with the crowd. His mind seemed stuck on the memories, the crowd but an abstraction out of time and place.