The aircar slowed near a rear entrance to the temple. Staffa looked up at the huge buff sandstone building and remembered the graceful marble columns and the cool air inside. Last time he'd strode imperiously in through the front entrance, his STO teams having already secured the building.
Morlai stretched and yawned after he climbed out. He didn't look like an impressive sort with his fleshy face and bare scalp. His belly bulged over his belt and he inspected Staffa from lackluster hazel eyes.
"What's your name, slave?" the driver asked, motioning Staffa from the car.
"Sta…… He shrugged, nervous, scared at what he'd
almost said. "I guess it doesn't matter who I was anymore. What would you call a man like me?"
The driver pointed him toward the entrance, talking as they walked. "Well, let's see. You're big-bull strong, judging by the muscle packed in your shoulders.
Been used hard to get all them scars. You're a tough one, huh?"
Staffa shrugged.
"Call yourself Tuff." Morlai laughed from deep in his belly. "Yeah, that's a good one. Tuff."
Staffa glared at him through cold gray eyes.
Morlai noticed, and added, "Listen, Tuff, this is the way the system works. You're not here because you're a nice guy. Me or any of the boys can kill you with one thought. Got it? That's all it takes. Just the right thought patterns and you're dead. Simple little thing to think those thoughts and I don't have to physically lift a finger. Now, we have a certain series of jobs to do. None of them are nice; none of them are easy." The flat hazel eyes appraised him neutrally. Staffa grunted in reply.
The warden grinned maliciously. "If a robot can't do it, we use you boys." Then he made a deprecating gesture. "Look, we're not monsters. Some people say we're foul enough to work for the Rotted Star Butcher himself, but we're only doing a job that we get paid for like anyone else. You help us get our work done, and we'll treat you the best we can-even get you a bottle every_ now and then. Give us grief, Tuff, and we'll make your life a living hell-or leave you dead and not worry about it."
Staffa shook his head as they descended a narrow, rockwalled stairway. In the dank underbelly of the temple he'd once dominated, Staffa stepped into a dimly lit room. Water dripped from the gray ceiling panels and the air carried a wretched stench. Two dirty men in collars stood over a turbulent pool that lapped out onto the floor. Another officer, arms crossed, slowly shook his head as he studied the surging water. Beside them, a wet machine of some sort rested. One of the inspection panels hung open to expose the circuitry.
Morlai called, "Got a new one, boys. Meet Tuff. What's the trouble, Anglo?"
Anglo had close-cropped dark hair and stood a little shorter than Staffa. His uniform was the same khaki as Mor-
lai's. A black leather belt at his waist was studded with pouches and shiny equipment. Anglo looked up, tension in his hard eyes. "Kaylla's down there. She's been gone a long time. Rotted Gods, hope we don't have her stuck in there, too."
Morlai gave Staffa a speculative glance. "You look fresh, Tuff, want to see if you can get Kaylla out? Then when you get her back up, swim back down and pry loose whatever's plugging the drain."
Staffa swallowed, eyes going to the two dirty slaves and then back to the officers. Anglo started to frown. No, don't get them mad. Take the chance on the water.
His gut churned as he stepped to the edge of the black roiling pool and the realization hit him: sewage. His flesh cringed as he lowered his feet over the edge and felt the cool liquid ripple over his warm body.
Something soft bumped the top of his foot as he slid in. His testicles knotted and he slipped in up to his chest before his feet touched greasy bottom.
"Hurry up!" Anglo yelled. "Kaylla's been gone almost three minutes! Water's backed up into the temple baths. Go!"
Staffa gave the man one lingering glare, and filled his lungs. Fouled water rushed into his ears as he ducked. The current pulled him along in the darkness. How much time did he have? Worse, how would he get back? His head bumped slimy surfaces as his buoyancy tried to float him.
I'll die in here. My son, my son, have I failed you, too?
Sharp angular points of rock ate into Sinklar Fist's chest, belly, and thighs. Sink studied the broken ridge tops through his starlight goggles. So soon after sundown, the IR visor had shown him only a mixture of hot spots. He'd come to know each nook and cranny of the topography the way he'd once known his narrow cot in the school dormitory on Rega.
"Sink? I'm moving up now," Gretta's voice came through his earphone.
"Take your time, love. I don't like the feel of it out
there." Once more he was acting in violation of the manual — the "holy gawddamn book", as they had all taken to calling it. Field commanders — like sergeants — were supposed to remain in sheltered positions beyond risk of exposure to enemy fire.
And just how the hell could he keep his knowledge of the fighting or changes in field tactics current while sitting on his ass in a bunker?
For two solid weeks now, they'd cut the pass off and reduced the Rebels to long circuitous routes of supply through the broken country to the north or south. The beleaguered Third and Fifth Sections — now replaced, reinforced, and totally demoralized — should have been guarding those areas. Those Sections had suffered being overrun twice and had been repeatedly decimated. Only orbital bombardment had forced the retreat of the Rebels during the reoccupation of those positions.
Sink forced his thoughts back to the battlefield and imagined Gretta moving through the dark. He could visualize her hips swaying gracefully, her keen eyes alert to the night. They ought to be in bed instead of out here about to be shot.
The Blessed Gods alone knew how he could live without her.
Gretta, please, be careful! I promise, we'll have better days ahead.
With great care, he propped himself on his toes and slid forward, letting the sharp rock eat different holes in his skin. Damn armor was flexible as silk until it got ruptured.
So much had changed that night they made love. Mostly, however, his bed was filled only with her memories. She had duties to her troops — sharing their billet was a corporal's responsibility. But those few moments when they could get away, he treasured as among the most precious in his life.
His thoughts settled on her amused expression and he remembered her dark brown hair hanging tauntingly about her perfect face while her blue eyes teased him with hidden secrets. He liked to simply sit and look at her, to admire and enjoy, lest through some magic, she vanished.
Something shifted out in the night. He blinked and
stared, trying to see whether he'd actually caught a movement. There. A head rose to stare in the direction of Gretta's sally.
"A Group, you've got a bandit perhaps thirty meters and two-twenty degrees from your point. Hold up."
"Roger, Sink," her cool voice came back.
"B Group, if you can make another 200 meters you should have a Rebel position in a crossfire. When Gretta opens up, they should fall back right into your arms."
"Roger, Sink. We're on the advance," Mac's tense voice came through.
Morale had soared at his decision to go out into the night after the Rebels who harassed them continuously. For the operation, he had taken his best companies, A and B, dreading the need to expose Gretta, knowing it would look like favoritism if he didn't. He might even have taken that risk, but she'd have known why — and he wouldn't risk her anger.
Another movement. He studied the figures who appeared as if springing from the very ground. A cave or tunnel? The mountains, they had learned, were riddled with vents from ancient vulcanism. The Rebels deftly began setting up a mortar, placing the tube and handing out boxes of rockets.