The spell broken, Sinklar examined her. Young, her auburn hair draped in glorious waves over her shoulders to contrast with her amazing amber eyes, straight nose, and high forehead. She had perfect cheekbones over a delicate jaw, flawless tanned complexion slightly reddened by the excitement of the battle. The muscles of her flat stomach rippled. Her breasts strained at the formfitting suit she wore as if possessed of a desire to be free.
But her eyes, seemed so… familiar! A sudden realization hit him: She's a Seddi assassin — just like my mother once was! He frowned, lips parting as he studied her. A warmth rose in his breast. But for the irony of time, this
could have been his mother. Would Tanya Fist have had that same wild sensuality? Pate wrapped about him.
"Sink?" Gretta called with an unfamiliar tension. "There's a war on."
Sink walked back to the board, aware of Gretta's sharp scrutiny. He tilted his head in a questioning manner and Gretta's throat burned red as she turned back to the situation board. Jealous?
"Ayms," Sink called to the comm, "your people are on deck now; time to hit them back. If you and Kap can roll their flank up against the ridge while Hauws and Kitmon push back their side, we've got them right where we want them." He rubbed his chin nervously. Why did the Targan assassin seem so familiar?
"Well, that's it," Gretta finished wearily. "We make it or break it in the next half hour." She turned her attention to the assassin. "So you're the saboteur? What do we call you?"
The woman blazed with barely caged anger. "I am Arta Fera. I was only out for an evening stroll. Your man here got a little too zealous."
"With a satchel charge powerful enough to put us all in orbit?" Sinklar asked. "You were most professional, so I assume you're in contact with the Targan resistance, possi bly with the Seddi themselves. Perhaps we can all come to terms and stop this nonsense."
"I thought you'd be older. You don't look like much of a Division First."
"You don't look like much of an assassin, either. I always thought an assassin would be older, less. obtrusive." Is that a Seddi trait? To use beautiful women, women like Tanya Fist?
Arta bit her lip and looked away. "I take it I am to be executed. Or would you use me as a bargaining piece when our forces overrun your positions?"
Sinklar considered as he kept one ear on the combat reports coming in through the comm. "I suppose that depends on the next half hour. I don't know who their First
,is, but he's very good. I detect a sure hand, a bright mind behind their movements and training. We should have had him in position an hour ago. He's handled the battle quite adroitly. "
She laughed. "He's a comm repairman by trade. He is also the man who will break your Regan rule on Targa!" "A comm repairman?" Sinklar pondered as he turned his
attention to the blaster fire that streaked the horizon beyond the shielded windows of the penthouse. "I pray then that he survives. Talent like that is too good to be wasted. I would like to make him one of us."
"One of you?" Arta laughed at the absurdity of it. "Regan scum-sucker, he's fighting for Targa!"
Sinklar spun on his heel and he extended his hands toward her. The woman's lips parted as he whispered softly, "So am 1, Arta."
She swallowed and took a serious look at the stat board. The back-lighted orthographic photo glowed with colored lights to indicate Rebel and Regan movements. From the number of red positions, the Rebels had taken a major interfluvial ridge immediately outside of town. At the same time, the Rebel forces on the wide plains were being pushed inexorably back on the impregnable defenses of the ridge. The outlying perimeters of the fight surrounding Vespa seemed more or less stable. Defensively, the ridge dominated, the strategic key to the whole valley-and Targans held it.
"This comm repairman, what's his name?" Sinklar asked, softly. "I want to talk to him before it's too late."
"His name is Butla Ret." She gasped, a crimson flush supplanting her tan.
Sinklar's intuition triggered at the tone in her voice. "He is your lover?" Would he be the modern analog to my father? Is that the pattern? If I see him, will I see a version of Valient Fist? Will I see my own origins?
"That is no concern of yours!"
He dropped to one knee, searching her face as his fingers took her bound hand. Arta shivered suddenly as though a surge had passed from his flesh to hers.
He implored her, struggling to touch her very soul, "Arta, will you help me? We can stop all this. His death serves no one. Not me, not Targa, not anyone. Will he
listen to an appeal from you? Could we stop the fighting long enough so he
and I could meet? Maybe talk about a solution?"
She shut her eyes to escape his mesmerizing stare and bit her lip, as if pain might fight his soft insistent tones. Somehow she forced herself to resist. "No, Regan. It's out of the question. "
"I'm not your enemy, Arta. I don't want to destroy him." Or am I only seeking to preserve a tenuous link to my past? She twisted her head away. Struggling, voice quavering,
she asked, "Destroy him? How, Regan? He's got the ridge!"
Sinklar stood and moved away. Arta blinked, her breathing coming more evenly. Gretta's gaze followed the woman's as she looked back across the room to the situation board. Even a fool could see the gradual erosion of the Targan flanks around the ridge.
"That ridge," Sinklar said sadly as he pointed at the Targan position on the situation board, "is a death trap. Deep in the guts of the rocks we buried the reactor from a power unit taken from a crippled LC. As soon as we can roll the flanks back far enough, we will tell the Rebels what their situation is and demand their surrender." He turned to pin her with his oddly colored eyes. "I would rather take them alive." Maybe learn the secrets of who you are-find the key to my parents.
Gretta hunched in the chair, nervous gaze darting back and forth between Arta and Sinklar.
"Not Butla," Arta whispered, voice thick with dread. "Rotted Gods, no!" The amber eyes glazed crazily, setting a horrible shiver playing along Sinklar's spine. A warning triggered in his subconscious. She's teetering on the edge of something I don't understand. Beware, Sinklar, she's dangerus-more dangerous than anyone you've ever met.
"Will you contact him… save him and his troops? I need them, Arta. Targa needs them. Alive." Sinklar bent down beside her again, gaze boring into hers.
She swallowed, expression haunted. "I will… talk to Butla Ret. " -
"Don't let her, Sink," Gretta warned. "She's not sane. Something is terribly wrong with her."
Sink rubbed the back of his neck. "It's our only chance,
Gretta. To save them, turn them to our side, I'll take a chance. How long until we're in position to destroy them?"
"From the way they're falling back, we could probably establish contact with the blast perimeter at any time." Gretta replied. "Should I attempt to make contact with this Butla Ret?" I
"If you would." He smiled wistfully. "Let's see if we can t bring the killing to a stop."
Arta's glazed attention followed each of Gretta's moves as she began keying different channels into the comm, sending on all frequencies. A panicked expression flickered across the prisoner's face.
The minutes passed slowly as Arta studied the ridge, ominous where it dominated the stat board. Her perfect mouth came open as she stared, transfixed.
"This is Butla Ret. Who are you? What do you want? A deep bass filled the room.
Sink walked up to the comm as he composed his words. "Sinklar?" Gretta called, voice firm, pointing at the shivering assassin. Fera looked berserk as she writhed on the couch. Mhitshul had begun to sweat, licking his lips nervously.