"Yes, sir."
"But I don't have any choice." Mykroft's disgust invaded his voice. "The
Emperor, in his wisdom, and for his own reasons, has adopted this plan of promotion. It will turn most of the command structure on its ear. Jealousies will rage. Every sort of back-stabbing, accusation, and recrimination will result," he waved his irritation, "and I'm not sure the Empire can afford that at the moment."
Sinklar's fingers tightened on the stassa cup.
Mykroft read his reaction and allowed himself a cynical smile. "And who, among the command grade officers in the First Targan Assault Division would you recommend for that command, Sergeant Fist?"
Careful! This must be done very delicately.
Sinklar took a deep breath and set the cup on the desk. He moved his tongue to dampen his suddenly dry mouth, exhaled, and nodded. "First Mykroft, I am not in a position to judge my counterparts for either command competence or political ability. I can't make an evaluation, and, therefore, must abstain from offering advice."
"Very good Sergeant." Mykroft's eyes narrowed as he thought for a minute and sipped his brandy. "You know, for your considerable youth and ineperience, Sinklar, you would make a formidable adversary given a couple of decades of involvement in this business. You have a natural acumen."
Sinklar said nothing.
Mykroft cocked his head. "If I had any doubt before, Sergeant, I think it just vanished." He stood and paced across the deeply piled rug, dark gaze rising to Sinklar's. "I hope you understand my reservations concerning this. I don't have to like it, but I will obey orders." His voice lowered menacingly, "And I suggest, Sinklar Fist, that you remember who put you in this position. I would not like to be the one to cut you off at the knees and destroy you. It would reflect on my judgment. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Mykroft studied him hostilely, moving his head in slow assent. "See that you do Division First."
Gretta had rented a small room in one of the barracks
reserved for personnel in transit. The room consisted of a sleeping platform, toilet and shower, comm terminal and small work desk. Despite being baffled by the sudden change in his status, Sinklar had fallen asleep halfway through his description of the meeting with Mykroft.
When Gretta stirred, he jerked awake, half expecting battle to be raging around him. Only when he realized he was safely in the Kaspan barracks, did he slump back onto the platform and sigh.
"I don't understand it," Gretta told him as she stretched lithely on the sleeping platform. "It's all too fast — too unbelievable."
Sinklar blinked to clear his eyes. The dim glow through the window meant night had fallen. He looked at his chronometer and yawned. Two hours to the reception ceremonies.
"Way too fast," he agreed. "No, I'm being placed in the middle of a political maelstrom for some reason known only to the Emperor. But, by the Rotted Gods, what are they doing? And why? It's a prescription for disaster on Targa."
She ran light fingers down his scarred arm, eyes pensive. "So what are you going to do about it?"
"Love you. and do my best."
"We still have two hours," she told him, bending forward to kiss his shoulder. "We were both so exhausted we just came in here and collapsed. There's time to see what love on a platform is like."
He nodded and pulled her close, lips meeting hers passionately.
When they finally lay spent, he let his fingers trace the curve of her breast while his mind attacked the problem of his promotion. Three months ago, he'd been a scared private making his first combat drop. Now, all of a sudden, the Emperor had catapulted him to command of the First Targan Assault Division. Only the Minister of Defense and Tybalt had authority over him. And what did he do with Mykroft, who might back him to the hilt or cut his throat depending on which way events turned?
"I have a war to win while I stand with one foot on melting ice and the other in vacuum. By Blessed Etarus, it doesn't make any sense." He slammed a fist into the platform.
Gretta hugged him close. "I doubt any other man in the Empire could handle that dilemma as well."
Sinklar smiled his thanks and struggled to recall historically similar circumstances.
He cataloged each of the men and women who had shared his predicament. A surprising number had been sacrificial sheep. So very very few had survived. Would he?
A plan began to surface in his mind.
His Hoiness Sassa, The Divine Illumination, didn't look pleased. Neither did Admiral Jakre. None of which boded well for Myles Roma.
His Holiness' room measured over one hundred paces in length with high ceilings that sparkled with the honeyed tones of the Sassan sun which were carried to the room through a fiber optic system that rainbowed the light. Pearlescent walls shimmered in the glow, and the solid gold trim had been done in filigreed patterns that burned. A thick Nesian rug covered the floor and rippled in scarlet waves.
"The Lord Commander wouldn't even see you?" His Holiness asked, raising a hairless eyebrow. Sassa II looked like a poor excuse for a God. The man was a mountain of flesh — and not much of it muscle. Sassa never went anywhere unless it was on antigrav. For one thing, his heart couldn't have taken the strain. For another, his legs would only hold him up long enough to get from one antigrav to another, or into and out of his bath.
"Divine One, I have no explanation. Wait… I can see it in your eyes. It's not me Lord. Staffa wouldn't see Ily Takka either."
Sassa cocked his hairless head, the sparling overhead light gleaming off his pale scalp. His colorless eyes, set deep in the heavy flesh of his face, evaluated Myles dispassionately — much the way Holy Sassa might look at a slab of meat while he decided whether he'd eat it or throw it away. Then he placed his fat palms together, gemencrusted fingers scintillating in the light. "Didn't it occur to you that you might have been duped? That Ily's reaction might have been a sham, a diversion?"
Myles licked his fat lips and shook his head. Ily's angry eyes still bued in his memory. "No, Divine One. I swear, something is very wrong. Call it… well, a feeling. I can tell you, Ily Takka was enraged — not making a cunning scene, but enraged. The Wing Commander looked worried, tense. Why would Skyla Lyma act like that when she was simply telling us the Companions wouldn't accept contract? She had no reason on our account."
"Skyla wouldn't worry if the hounds of hell came after her," Jakre added from the side. "Divine One, My intelligence units tell me that something happened after Staffa talked to the Praetor. He acted very peculiarly when he killed the Myklenian leader — pulled the man's head off his body. Such a display of emotion is unlike the Lord Commander. I'm also bothered by the amount of remuneration he paid."
"Surely you can't complain! By the Divine, he paid a planet's ransom." Myles wrung his hands nervously.
"Exactly," Jakre agreed soberly. "Considering his smashing success at Myklene, would you have pressed Staffa over such a triviality as killing the Praetor? No, it's as if… as if he's punishing himself."
His Holiness Sassa II grunted irritably. "You may be pleased Admiral. I am not. The Companions acted before we were ready. Their action belittled the role of our elite shock troops in the Myklenian campaign. When we finally arrived, it was to find a broken world."
Jakre shot Myles an uneasy look.
"However," Sassa continued, "I am willing to forget an affront every now and then. Magnanimity is one of the blessings of the Divine, mercy a virtue. In the meantime, Myles, I want you to coordinate our intelligence services. We know that Rega currently has problems of its own with Targa. Revolt brews there like a Divine wind. Monitor the events. And find out why Staffa declined contract!"
Locating the pilot of the CV proved no problem when Skyla arrived in orbit over Etaria. Using false documents, she placed her vessel in parking orbit and shuttled to the main terminal. As was the case with any spaceport, scuttle-