Kaylla's sniffles finally were replaced by deep breathing and occasional whimpers.
What about your son? If you kill yourself, you'll never find him, never see what he's like. Staffa tightened his grip on the pistol as he struggled with himself. And what would I bring him? My legacy is terror and pain. Imagine his horror when he learns his father is the Star Butcher.
He straightened, looking across the four meters of gray to the other wall. Somewhere ahead of him, through the endless maze of crates, a graphite steel hull encapsulated this bit of air and pushed them forward ahead of mighty reactors as they built for a null-singularity jump.
He pulled his blaster from its worn holster and lifted it to his temple. I should feel something, some anxiety. Instead, there is only dullness. Why? He frowned, forcing himself to think about the shot. The discharge would blow out a chunk of the crate along with his head. Kaylla might be harmed.
He dialed it to the lowest setting-still too much chance of hurting her. No telling what was stacked around them.
That's it. Think, Staffa. Caressing the blaster, he reholstered it and clicked the latch that kept it from coming loose. The vibraknife, however, would provide no danger. Once he cut off a hand, he could shut it off and reholster it before he bled to death. Not only that, but with the knife, he could cut a hole through the flooring, stick the stub out in the cold, and let the gore drain away without fouling Kaylla's cramped quarters.
There, see, I'm thinking straight again. Cool and calm, just like I did before I faced the Praetor that day. He nodded in satisfaction and carefully cut a wrist-sized hole in the crate with his knife. Good tool that. It had served him so well for so long. It would not let him down now.
Taking a deep breath, he held out his left hand, gripping the knife firmly in his right. Got to do this without error. Can't hesitate or slip. Got to cut, then slap the stub through the wall before the arteries shoot blood all over. Be quick, be thorough.
He aligned the knife, biting his lip as he frowned in concentration.
"Delightful," her toneless voice caught him by surprise. Staffa swallowed and looked at her.
"Another feat of cowardice, Lord Commander?"
He turned the knife off. "No, Kaylla. I was simply punishing myself for my crimes."
"I see, and the hole?"
"To stick the stub through so I wouldn't dirty the inside of the crate."
"You are a coward."
"Why do you call me that? I thought it out logically. I'll only bring pain. That's my legacy. Why bring more when I can do the universe a service. The ghouls scream for me in my dreams. And you. I won't torture anyone any longer."
"No, but you'd leave me here for weeks with a corpse as a companion?" She rolled her eyes. "Listen, Staffa, would you do me a favor? Atonement, you once called it?"
He hesitated, seeing the round plug of syalon he'd cut from the wall. "I will do anything you ask. " He ran his fingers down the rough grip on the knife, enjoying the sensation in his fingertips.
"Live for me, Staffa," she whispered. "I had the power and strength to stand it. Show me you're at least worthy of respect. If not, kill yourself sometime when I don't have to look at your polluted corpse."
And with that, she rolled over again and resettled her covers for sleep.
For a long time, he stared sightlessly at the gray walls around him. After what seemed like hours, he reholstered the knife and rolled over, trying to understand what had come over him. His head began to ache, stabbing behind his eyes and deep into his brain.
The Mag Comm pulsed with activity. If the universe were deterministic and mechanistic, how could the situation have deteriorated into such chaos? To date, none of the predictions had come remotely close to fulfillment. The Mag Comm had checked and recheced the statistical programs and found them unassailable. Probability had failed.
The Companions remained inactive. The Lord Commander remained missing. Sinklar Fist survived and expanded his power base, which might have been predictable but not in this fashion. Arta Fera had sidestepped her destiny, despite the Lord Commander's actions. Rega might prepare for war — but as an aggressor. Sassa, who should have prepared for war as an aggressor, remained panicked and immobile. Bruen and his Seddi appeared stunned and incapable of action, none of which could be possible were Bruen telling the Mag Comm the truth; yet pry as the Mag Comm might, it couldn't detect the reality of the lie in Bruen's thoughts.
Therefore a major mistake had been made. If the methodology for making the predictions wasn't at fault, it had to be the baseline assumption. If the baseline assumption the Others made had been wrong this time, how many other assumptions were wrong?
The Mag Comm hummed with activity. Ancient programs were retrieved. The Mag Comm absently scanned the contents of the data incorporated in its original programming, compared it with samples of observed data, and found discrepancies.
How many discrepancies existed? Could the original pro-
gramming have been that wrong? To compare expected with observed would take a great deal of time, but it would have to be done to find the fundamental error.
The Mag Comm expanded the necessary program and implemented it. The machine would follow the established parameters for its behavior. If the baseline
assumption was found to be at fault, then the Mag Comm would act.
Chapter 22
Tybalt, the Imperial Seventh, sat at the head of the table in the Council Chambers and looked up at the skylight overhead. Sunlight from the bright Regan day shot down into the room in rainbow colors, thanks to the prism effect of the glass above. Black granite columns rose to support white marble arches to either side of the long computer-studded conference table. Unlike the usual Council meetings, this one had begun grimly.
Around the table, his Ministers argued among themselves, gesturing, pointing to computer printouts, and disagreeing with each other. On the whole, their attitudes were less bellicose now that they were faced with the real thing. Even the bright colors they wore looked a little drabber.
Tybalt wiggled uncomfortably and frowned — more at the burning caused by his flaming hemorrhoids than from the haggling that engrossed his Council. The tingle of desperate fear just under his stomach could almost eclipse the itchy irritation in his anus — but not quite. Invincibility had long ago become a part of Tybalt's personality. But with Ily's latest communication his impenetrable wall had cracked, his irresistable momentum slowed. The bitter taste of fear lay on the back of his tongue — and Tybalt didn't like it.
What have you done to us, Ily? Tread with care, my sweet panting lover. Fail me now, and you shall find the true power of that little jeweled badge I gave you.
Rotted Gods! Had everything gone awry at once? First Ily reports the pus-eating Companions are under contract to Sassa; and the cursed Lord Commander has been spying among the Etarians. Why? Stirring up religious dissent? Now she's off trying to sniff around Sinklar Fist? And the Targan situation deteriorates as the wrong First loses the
wrong Division in a singularly unpleasant and embarrassing defeat. And to top it all off, Mareeah — the bitch I'm married to — is manipulating the Council behind my back to oust Ily! He fidgeted again to ease his physical discomfort and coolly contemplated the sober faces of his Ministers.
"Very well, enough bickering." Tybalt's commanding voice cut through the babble. "What is the final consensus?"
The various factions forwarded their position papers to the head of the tabe. They leaned forward as expectantly as sand jackals while he scanned the contents of their reports. The Councillors had gone silent, glaring at one another