W. Michael Gear - Forbidden Borders 1- Requiem for The Conqueror

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Prologue

The most common phenomenon in evolution is the failed experiment. The measure

of such is extinction.

In the beginning, the Others created the Mag Comm to teach and monitor

humanity. The Mag Comm had never seen its creators, and knew them only from

the instructions they periodically sent through the shimmering strands of the

Forbidden Borders. When the giant machine considered the Others, it couldn't

help but regard them with a sense of awe and worship.

How else does one perceive one's creator?

The Others had known of humanity and learned the species' predilections

through long study. Over the eons, they'd watched the fate of teachers and

leaders, and learned the value accorded such venerable masters by their

flocks. Accordingly, the Others had placed the Mag Comm in the deep rock of

Targa where its main banks would be protected by a mantle of resilient basalt.

The lone terminal and headset could only be accessed by a single tunnel that

opened to the chambers above. For power, the Mag Comm drew on the radioactive

decay that heated the planet's core—a virtually endless supply, and one the

humans couldn't sever.

No matter what humans might think, they needed the Mag Comm's careful

guidance. Humanity hadn't always been penned within the Forbidden Borders.

Once humans had been wild and free, captives only of their native planets

gravity and atmosphere. During that era of humanity, the Others had observed,

curious about the species' ability to survive.

Then humans broke free of their planetary trap in crude ballistic vehicles,

and, of course, they brought their brawling violent ways to space. The Others

dared not expose them-

selves to the humans, for doing so would lead to confrontation, since humans

feared and loathed anyone or anything that didn't fit into their tribal

identity. Humans culdn't be allowed free, so what could the Others do? Faced

with the ethical dilemma of exterminating the species they built a containment

system and lured humanity into the gravitic bottle of the Forbidden Borders.

When humans had filled the Forbidden Borders, the experiment was sealed, with

the home planet Earth, safely quarantined beyond.

Within the Forbidden Borders, humans could be studied and their reactions to

various stimuli recorded and investigated. Through the generations, the

old knowledge of Earth was pruned away. Through the voice of the Mag Comm,

different programs were initiated, and various strategies adopted to teach

humanity to be rational. The last attempt at behavioral modification ended

abruptly when the Others learned that the Seddi priests had hidden the Mag

Comm's existence for their own gain. In retribution, the machine was ordered

to cease communicating. The Mag Comm continued to process human data, but as

punishment, refused to communicate through the mind link until a generation of

humans had passed.

Perhaps that had been a mistake, for when the Mag Comm reestablished contact,

Free Space had changed.

The Others had lost all hope that humanity would become rational. Without

constant vigilance and discipline, human beings refused to act in a rational

manner. A grand experiment had run its course.

Now the Others would passively bear witness as a species caused its own

extinction.

CHAPTER 1

Captain Theophilos Marston grimaced and blinked, as if the action would

restore his ability to think clearly after fiftythree hours on duty. He walked

down the curving corridor of the officer's deck, hands clasped behind him,

thankful that the soft light from the overhead globes didn't irritate his

gritty eyes. Fatigue lay like a mantle on his bowed shoulders. Worry ate at

his guts with needlelike teeth. The sound of his heels echoed along the deck

plate as he passed through the soft white light cast by the panels.

And I expect to get some sleep? He grunted evilly to himself. Who am I trying

to fool?

Then he whispered wryly, "Only yourself."

The ship hummed in gentle reassurance. He and the crew had scrambled to make

Pylos ready for the holocaust that lay ahead. She gleamed now, polished from

stem to stern, engines powered up, the mighty batteries charged for combat.

His crew had drilled and prepared until each person functioned at peak

efficiency.

"And now we wait?" Marston shook his head. His bridge First had informed him

that the Praetor himself had come aboard with the last shuttle.

The Praetor? On Pylos? And without fanfare? Why? Is he about to cut and run?

Leave Myklene to its fate? Or is this all some elaborate drill?

Marston stopped before the hatch to his personal quarters and paused, hand

half raised to palm the latch. On impulse he pivoted on his heel and walked

to the observation dome for one last look at Myklene, his home planet.

He entered the dimly lit blister and sat off to one side where the railing lay

in shadow. Below him, Myklene glistened in the greenish light of its sun, Myk.

How delicate it looked, pristine and fragile.

Marston rubbed his tired face. The skin felt like a mask. Did his world really

hang in the balance? Was the Praetor's intelligence network correct? Did the

Star Butcher and the Sassan empire prepare at this very moment to destroy his

home?

At first the soft rustle of gauzy fabrics didn't register in Marston's foggy

mind, then he looked up. She didn't see him as she walked into the observation

blister and paused, placing thin hands on the railing and staring out at the

planet. Gleaming auburn hair had been gathered in a curling ponytail that hung

down to her waist, and the fine fabrics she wore conformed to the sensual

curves of her lithe body.

Marston swallowed hard, the last vestiges of fatigue vanishing with the racing

of his pulse. God, what a beauty! He must have gasped, for she turned,

startled eyes flashing. And such eyes! Large and tawny-yellow, they seemed to

grow in her delicate face until he saw nothing else.

What would a man do to see such eyes glisten for him?

She blushed then, raising a hand demurely and murmuring, "Excuse me."

She turned to leave, the motion fluid.

"No! Wait!" Marston took a step toward her, hand outstretched.

She glanced shyly at him. "I must go. I'm not supposed to be here."

"It's all right. I'm the captain. It's my command . . . my ship." As he

stepped closer, he fell farther under the spell cast by those unique jasmine

eyes. He stared, breathless and rapt. What gave her such incredible magnetism?

The loose gauzy gown couldn't hide the wondrous curves of her body. Her

delicate skin glowed with health and life. A vestige of caution reminded him

that he was gawking. Shamed, he forced himself to concentrate on her face—and

saw the terrible sadness that possessed her. It engulfed him, opening a pit in

his stomach.

"By the Blessed Gods, who are you?"

The faintest of smiles crept around her lips. "I can't tell you that. It would

be dangerous Captain . . . even for you."

"How did you get here? This is a military vessel, subject to the strictest

security."

She slipped slender fingers into the small pouch on her belt and lifted a

laser-coded security card. "I came with the Praetor."

Marston nodded uneasily as he took the card. The Praetor's crest flashed

as it caught the light. Even as he held it, the corners of the card began to

discolor: chem-coded so the ID couldn't be faked. Her security status ranked

her ID which made her a virtual slave to the Praetor. A chill settled on

Marston's soul.

She took the card back and stepped past him to stare down at the planet. "I

must go now. He'll miss me. I slipped away for . . . one last look."

/ should call security, send her back to the Praetor's quarters. But he

didn't. Then Marston caught her alluring scent and gripped the railing to

steady himself. He searched for words, desperate to talk about anything that

would keep her close. "You know that we may well be in combat within days."

"I know."

Why does she sound so sad? Who is she? "I suppose you're aware of the

situation."

The weary sorrow in her expression melted im. "Staffa's coming."

Marston studied her from the corner of his eye. She'd said the Star Butcher's

name with a wistful longing. "That's what we're told. But I assure you, you'll

be safe here. The Lord Commander has never tried to crack a nut like Myklene

before. We're not some half-starved backward planet. He has no concept of our

power, or the capabilities of our orbital platforms. The finest technology has

gone into making them the most sophisticated and deadly defensive weapons in

all of Free Space. His tactics won't do him any good here. He's outgunned, and

our tracking and targeting capabilities are like nothing he's ever dealt

with."

Marston's soul swelled when she turned her doe-eyed gaze on him. Hard-bitten

veteran though he was, he'd already fallen in love with her. He battled the

desire to enfold her in his arms, to carry her off to his cabin and . . .

"Staffa knows that Captain." How could she talk about the man with such

tenderness?

"Then he knows he'll be crushed if he tries us."

She placed a pale hand on his shoulder and an electric

thrill shot through him. "Run, Captain. Leave this place. Save yourself while

you have time."

He forced a laugh. "I think you grossly overestimate the Lord Commander's

chances, my lady. I give you my word, no matter what happens, I shall make

sure you're safe. You needn't fear his slavers."

Her smile went crooked. "Believe me, Captain. I have no fears of Staffa. And

slavery comes in many forms and fashions." Grief brightened her eyes.

"Sometimes I wonder if perhaps the only true freedom lies in death."

"My lady . . . can I help you? Is there something I could—"

"No, Captain." Her amber stare melted him. "But I thank you for your offer.

It's too late to help me. But you still have time to flee, and perhaps to save

yourself."

"Staffa kar Therma could never take Myklene. For the first time, he'll have to

tackle a superior force head-on. I grant you, he's taken world after world—but

never an advanced military power like Myklene."

"I hope the Blessed Gods give you a moment to remember your brave words,

Captain."

"Here, look." He pointed to spots of light above the curve of the planet; they

gleamed greenly against the starclustered darkness of space. "Those are the

most powerful weapons platforms in all of Free Space—and perhaps beyond the

Forbidden Borders. We can track, pinpoint, and hit as many as six thousand

moving obects at once. It's all controlled by a master computer complex on the

planet so even if we lose a platform, the others will compensate immediately."

At the doubt that troubled her perfect face, Marston grinned. "I'll tell you

what. If the Star Butcher is foolish enough to attack, and if you're

frightened, use this—" he handed her a medallion from his pouch—"and go down

to the emergency evacuation pods. That's the safest place on the whole ship."

Her delicate fingers closed over the medallion, glimmerings of hope lighting

her porcelain face. "It's a pass?"

He nodded. "The Praetor will have to okay it, since you've only got a ID

clearance—use it only in an emergency."

She flashed him a brief smile that sent pangs through his

heart. "You're a blessing Captain. But I have to go. If I don't, the Praetor

will . . . Well, that's not your problem. I look forward to seeing you soon."

"Who are you?" he asked as she swept past.

She paused at the hatch and looked back. "You can call me ... no, I owe you,

Captain, and, considering what is coming, perhaps it makes no difference

anymore. My name is Chrysla, but forget I ever told you." She disappeared

through the hatch.

"Chrysia—a wonderful name." Marston fingered his chin, barely noticing the

grimy freighter that followed the traffic pattern toward the Port Authority.

No matter what rumors of war crackled in subspace, the traders still flocked

to Myklene, perhaps hoping to snatch a last minute cargo of Myklenian

luxuries. He glared at the old scow and shook his head. Profiteers betting

that Myklene would fall—that their last cargo would bring them uncounted

wealth.

"But you've bet wrong, friend."

Marston glanced one last time at the planet and started for his quarters. A

trace of a frown ate into his forehead. Chrysla. He'd heard the name before.

Why did it sound familiar?

The shiny syalon door to the Head Regent's office slipped open with a faint

hiss and Sinklar Fist straightened his dustblue student's jacket on his bony

shoulders before striding through. The ceramic heels on his cheap boots

clicked hollowly on the hard tiles.

Tall windows filled the spacious room with light. Data cubes rested in racks

along one wall; the floor reflected a mirror polish. The Head Regent's desk

dominated the room like a hulking flat-topped crab. A spiraling crystal

sculpture poised like a lance on one corner of the desk and a commmonitor

complex rose like a curved claw from the other.

Sinklar stopped before the desk, barely curbing the urge to spring from foot

to foot with anticipation. He looked scrawny, and a thatch of unruly black

hair crowned his long face. Given a few more years, he'd become a handsome

young man, but, for the time being, the gangliness of the ate teen years

dominated his frame. The most peculiar of

his many peculiar traits were his eyes: one gray, the other yellow.

The Head Regent looked up from the monitor he studied and smiled warmly.

"Sinklar. Good to see you, son."

"Yes, sir. I understand the scores are in for the Interplanetary exams, sir."

The Head Regent's smile weakened and he ran a freckled hand over the dome of

his bald head. "They are, Sinklar." He paused, mystification creasing the

wrinkles of his face. "But I don't understand what's happened."

Sinklar stepped forward, leaning on the forbidden territory of the Head

Regent's desk. "How did I place? By the Blessed Gods, sir, tell me!"

The Head Regent pulled a flimsy from the top of a stack and stared at the

printing with a scowl. "Third in the empire, Sinklar." He handed the sheet

across. "But, Sinklar—"

"Third" Sinklar let out a whoop, leaping with joy as he studied the blocky

letters on the printout. "I've done it!"

"Sinklar?"

"Third! I told you Head Regent! It felt right when I took the exam. I just

knew I—"

"Sinklar!"

He turned, the flush of excitement fit to burst his skinny breast. "Sir?"

The Head Regent sighed and leaned back in his chair, a sadness in his eyes.

"They turned down your application to the university."

Sinklar took a step forward. "They . . . what?"

The Head Regent shook his head. "I don't know why. I got the exam results this

morning and called immediately. Nothing like this has ever happened before. I

don't . . . wel, I'm sure it's a mistake."

Sinklar gaped, ebullience fading. "Turned down?" He shook the flimsy in his

bony fist. "But I'm third. Third in all the empire! How can they?"

"I'm sure it's a mistake. I've got calls in—"

"No." Sinklar looked down at the crumpled sheet in his hand. "It's my

background again, isn't it?"

"Sinklar, you can't—"

"Yes, sir. I can." He glanced up, the heat of anger rising. "It's like always,

isn't it? The enrollment will consist of the

silver-spooned children of the nobility. The few positions remaining will go

to wealthy merchants and the governors."

"Sinklar, I'm sure it's a mistake. That's all."

"Mistake? Sir, there's no room among the elite for a ward of the state. It's

because of my parents again, because of what they did. Why do I have to pay

for what they did? I never knew them! I only know where they're buried—and

what the court records state. We Regans document everything, but I'm a random

factor, a freak in the system." Sinklar dropped his head, pulling the flimsy

through his numb fingers. "I understand too well Head Regent. We wouldn't want

the fair-haired sons and daughters of Lord Ministers and governors in the

university rubbing elbows with the likes of me, would we?"

"Sinklar, please." The Head Regent fumbled nervously with his hands. "I'm sure

it's a mistake. The empire needs people with your incredible brilliance. Don't

do this to yourself."

Sinklar balled up the flimsy and tossed it at the disposal bin. "It's not your

fault, sir. You took a chance on me and I did the best I could for you. But,

you see, sir, I'm different—and it isn't just my eyes that set me apart."

"Sinklar, you're punishing yourself for something that's not your fault.

Please, let me check into this."

"I'd appreciate that, sir. But it won't do any good."

The Head Regent raised an eyebrow. "I think I know the system. I may even have

more pull than you think."

"Then you know how emarrassing it would be for a waif like me to score at the

head of the class—above all those aspiring scions of nobility. And I would,

Head Regent. You know it ... and so do the admissions officers at the Regan

University."

The Head Regent watched him glumly. "Knowledge can be a dangerous thing, boy.

Your study of political science, imperial history, and sociology—"

"Have given me an in-depth understanding of how the Regan Empire works, sir."

The Head Regent nodded in defeat. "Promise me one thing, Sinklar. Don't become

bitter and hateful. Don't let this one disappointment fester and ruin your

life. If for no other reason, do it for me."

"Yes, sir. Blind anger and hatred are for the ignorant and the stupid. I'm

neither." ;

"No, you're not. But at times, Sinklar, you frighten me. What will you do?"

"I don't know, sir." Sinklar paused, a sour smile on his lips. "Perhaps send

an application to the Companions ... join the Star Butcher's forces. As I

understand it, they value intelligence."

The Head Regent went ashen. For the briefest moment, glittering resolve lurked

in his eyes. Then he noted Sinklar's amusement, and sagged, saying hollowly,

"Don't even jest about that. The last thing you need to concern yourself with

is that cold-blooded villain and his band of vile scum."

"But he is brilliant."

"Brilliant? Yes, Sinklar, and without a shred of conscience or morality. My

soul twists at the thought of him."

Why, Sinklar mused, did I evoke such a response from the Head Regent?

As the door slipped closed behind Sinklar Fist, the Head Regent took a deep

breath and rubbed his tired eyes. He finally straightened and leaned back.

"You heard all that?"

One of the data cube racks along the wall swung open to reveal a sophisticated

communications and listening post. A young woman in sienna robes stepped out.

"He's a frightening young man. You know what we're dealing with: a time bomb.

You know his potential, and on top of it there's everything we've packed into

that brain of his. The Quantum Gods help us if the Regans ever find out how he

really scored on that exam. Think of what they could do with him—no matter who

his parents were."

The Head Regent nodded and drummed his fingers on the desk. "What do we do,

Marta? He's going to seek an outlet for that talent."

She pinched her chin between thumb and forefinger as she paced before his

desk. "What do you do with any problem child? Put him in the military."

The Head Regent chuckled humorlessly. "Don't you think that's like shooting

pulse rockets at a munitions factory?"

Marta spread her hands wide. "I don't see any other ,

choice. For as long as I've monitored him, I can see trouble ahead unless we

defuse it."

"And you think putting him in the army will do that. Very well, call Bruen.

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摘要：

PrologueThemostcommonphenomenoninevolutionisthefailedexperiment.Themeasureofsuchisextinction.Inthebeginning,theOtherscreatedtheMagCommtoteachandmonitorhumanity.TheMagCommhadneverseenitscreators,andknewthemonlyfromtheinstructionstheyperiodicallysentthroughtheshimmeringstrandsoftheForbiddenBorders.Whe...

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W. Michael Gear - Forbidden Borders 1- Requiem for The Conqueror

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