by Neil Davies
"And now?"
"After a month without any work?" He swung his bag over his shoulder. "You've just searched what I have left."
"Well, you've come to the right place if you're looking for a good second-hand ship. We have the best dealers in the galaxy right here on Festi."
Steve smiled. "That's why I'm here."
He watched the Customdroid reverse into its alcove with a wave of a metal arm in his direction. The programming was getting more sophisticated. Much more improvement and droids would be hosting chat shows on holovision. Then again, would anyone notice?
As he walked away he heard the squeaky wheels start to roll again and that pleasant but commanding voice say "Excuse me sir" as another visitor to Festi faced the apparently trivial but probing questioning of the droid's Artificial Intelligence circuits. There could be no doubt that the Reagold Corporation believed in demonstrating its technological lead over their business rivals at every opportunity. As a trader, Steve could admire that. As a visitor, newly disembarked from a seven-hour flight aboard a crowded passenger liner, it pissed him off.
He stepped out of the spaceport into a warm summer's day. Fishing in the pocket of his trackovers, a light but tough one-piece suit much favoured by traders and designed from a merger of tracksuit and overalls, he pulled out a pair of sunglasses, slipped them on and headed for the nearest walkway, studiously ignoring the Reagold logo emblazoned on the control panel.
The weight and heat of his body triggered the travel computer and he spoke his destination into the voice recognition unit, trying to relax as he was carried at a safe, but speedy, rate towards the outskirts of Hart, capital city of the solitary land mass on Festi, an island in the poisonous, salt encrusted ocean that covered almost three quarters of the surface.
The walkway was, in fact, hundreds of separate walkways, each able to travel independently of the others and, by means totally beyond Steve's comprehension, to carry different people in different directions to destinations that may be miles from each other simultaneously.
Someone had once tried to explain to him over a bottle of MBP, a particularly rancorous wine with the full exotic name of Milestone's Blossom Paradise, known colloquially as Mind Buggering Purgatory, the intricacies and inherent technical beauty of the walkway's computer, the largest multitasking computer ever built. Steve had nodded politely while failing to understand a word, and had continued to drink until he had lost consciousness. It was something of a habit with him.
He was travelling through a grove of young trees, their leaves painting mottled patterns on the faces of the walkway riders. A warm breeze rustled overhead and he thought he heard the quiet song of a nesting bird. It almost made him forget he was inside a climate dome.
His stomach complained suddenly and loudly, bringing disapproving glances from several of his fellow riders and serving to remind him that he had not eaten well since the loss of his ship. Food had taken on a secondary importance as he saved his money and, as a result, his already slim figure had taken on a thin gauntness that, coupled with the loose fitting, oil stained trackovers, gave him the appearance of the hungry poor still common on so many worlds, despite their high technological status.
Steve smiled broadly at one young woman whose eyes had remained on him longer than any other, and pressed a hand against his stomach, willing it to be still. He could eat after he had found a ship, if he had any money left.
It only took about ten minutes on the walkway to the first dealer on his list, but it felt like hours. He didn't like the walkways, he never felt safe on them. He knew they were overflowing with safety devices and that, since the introduction of this particular model some seven years ago, there had been no fatalities, but he could never get used to not having to walk.
Steve had spent his early life on the planet Earth, a planet where Reagold had failed to gain any significant market. When you travelled by foot on Earth you walked, just like they did centuries ago. And Earth was not alone in clinging to the old ways. Many of the planets Steve visited had either failed or refused to keep up with the new technologies, and just as many had over-invested in every technological marvel available. Steve was searching for a compromise. He liked technology, he trusted it, he made much of his living from it, but there were times when it went too far. The walkways were a good example. If he wanted to be in the open, he wanted to walk. If he was in a hurry, he wanted to sit in a vehicle. What he did not want to do was stand on a moving walkway that carried him too fast for it to be pleasurable but too slow for it to be urgent.
Someone should have spoken up against the excesses, the examples of technology for technology's sake, but no one, including Steve, wanted to take on the Reagold Corporation.
The walkway delivered him to the entrance of "Hart's New And Used Transport" where he was met by the fixed smile and slack handshake of one of a dozen sales staff lurking on the broad lot.
Fifteen minutes later he was back on the walkway. There had been nothing he could afford, not even on the "easy" credit terms the salesman had been trying to sell him. His stomach continued to grumble and he continued to try and ignore it.
Two hours and three more dealers later, and he found he couldn't ignore it any longer. He felt weak, he felt sick, and a pounding in his head joined his grumbling stomach to pass on the message. Eat something!
He asked the walkway to find the nearest cafe.
Chapter 3
The black wedge of the scanner resistant troop carrier scythed through the thick atmosphere of Milos IV, diving with unstoppable ferocity towards the hostile surface.
Locked into his harness, pressed back in his seat by the acceleration towards ground, Lieutenant Martin Lichfield of the Terramarine Corp., veteran of countless raids and battles, proud wearer of a dozen gallantry medals and, at thirty-five, youngest owner of the Diamond Service Award presented for bravery and leadership above and beyond the call of duty, closed his eyes and wished fervently that it would all end and he could be home on Earth with Sharon, his wife of twelve years.
He glanced down at the photo-wallet in his fist. It lay open at an image of Sharon smiling at the camera. In her arms she held a baby girl, just four months old. His daughter, Samantha. Seven years and one month after that photograph had been taken, his daughter had died of Meningitis. It was a disease that had been eradicated centuries ago on most of the colony worlds, but the billions put into the war effort on Earth had to be taken from somewhere, and the only healthcare the government were willing to fund was that which treated the injuries of war. There were always enough surviving children to provide the military machine with its next generation of soldiers.
He gripped his rifle, praying to Larn that the treaty they had all heard rumours about would finally finish this seemingly eternal war between themselves and the ex-colony world of Aks.
His pre-military studies told him that the exact cause, the spark that ignited the hostilities, was unclear but dated some hundred years previous, at the end of the Great Cultural Collapse that had spread like a barbaric plague through most of the known galaxy. Aks had gained independence almost two hundred years before, but as the relatively peaceful reign of the academics and artists had fallen and the might of the military, politicians and priesthood had risen, effectively smothering the Galactic Renaissance in its all embracing fist, a general antipathy between the two worlds had deteriorated into all out war. His military tutors during training pointed to Aks as the aggressor, but Martin had been in the minority of academics attending one of the few universities left standing by the religious, political and military machine before his compulsory five year term in the armed forces, and his own studies indicated a much more even-handed sharing of blame.
He missed the freedom of academic life, hated military routine, but was far too smart to show anything other than complete obedience and patriotic devotion to his duty. He had three months of his term left. He just hoped he could survive them.
Flipping to the back of his photo-wallet,
he smiled at another image, older than the first, reviving memories of an earlier, less troubled time in his life.
Three boys on the edge of their teens, standing, arm in arm, on the bank of a river. Sharon had taken that picture, that's how long he had known her. He looked at the faces and remembered the names easily. They had been friends almost since they were born. How could he ever forget?
Martin stood in the middle, in love with Sharon even then but too shy to tell her. His smile broadened as he remembered how he had refused to swim in the river, not because he was afraid of the water but because he was embarrassed to reveal his slowly developing body in front of Sharon. On his left, looking serious as always, was Jack Holt. He, too, had refused to swim in the river, but they had always just put that down to him being a miserable sod. On his right, laughing at the camera and dressed only in swimming trunks, was Steve Drake. Steve and Sharon always swam together and Martin had been insanely jealous. But Steve was his best friend, had been right through school, and nothing, not even Sharon, could change that.
It was funny, looking back on it, but he had always assumed that Steve and Sharon would get together, but then Steve and Jack had left Earth for the romance of the Traders and he had headed for academia. No one had been more surprised than he was when Sharon followed him, although, he remembered with a quiet laugh, it had still taken him more than three years to pluck up the courage to ask her to be something more than just a friend.
"Prepare to disembark."
The metallic voice snapped through the whine of the engines and Martin closed the wallet and fastened it into his breast pocket.
Around him, the thirty men and women under his command were performing last minute checks on weaponry and the air masks they needed to breath the thick atmosphere. He hurriedly checked his own. Everything seemed in working order. That at least gave him an edge in surviving this raid.
A screen above his head crackled and flashed and showed him brief glimpses of their target.
Milos IV was the poor relation of the Milos system. There were no cities on its inhospitable surface, it's thick atmosphere made it financially inadvisable for civilian settlements. In fact, it had almost been overlooked by the Earth Fleet in its ponderous journey through this sector of neutral space, until the faint signal had been intercepted.
At first the origin of the transmission had been thought to be Milos III, a fertile and heavily populated planet and therefore protected under the 4009 Agreement, but further investigation had revealed Milos III to be merely a relay station and the origin was traced to Milos IV. The signal was in a known Aksian code. The Commanders needed no other proof. The Terramarines were sent in.
Now, as Martin rested his hand on the quick release button of the safety harness and tried to steady his nerves, ready for disembarkation, he cursed the careless operator who had sent the signal with the Earth fleet so nearby. He had been on R&R aboard the leisure ship and looking forward to a peaceful journey, feeling happier with each new rumour about the approaching treaty. He had not been ready to go on yet another raid.
The troop carrier hit the ground hard, sliding to a bone juddering halt at the end of a four hundred yard trough. The braking distance was short for something moving so fast, but then the braking power of the machine was immense and showed little regard for those strapped inside.
Even before the carrier had finally settled its weight into the marshy ground, the rear door had unhinged itself and splashed down into the surrounding water, forming a ramp for the troops to disembark.
Martin was first, as was only right given his senior position. There was always a moment after the landing when he sat there, stunned and aching from the impact, but then the adrenaline kicked in and his training screamed at him to move.
He hit the quick release button and his safety harness snapped back, retracting into the seat behind him. All around he was aware of the others doing the same, and the resulting sound was like a flock of birds taking flight.
He headed down the ramp at a trot, sinking into the marsh without hesitation, dragging his feet through the water until he found a small patch of more solid ground. He didn't look behind him. He didn't have to. He knew implicitly that his Unit would be following him.
The first to reach his side were the Trailbreakers, two men and one woman who had been extensively trained in tracking, observation and silent killing skills. The cold, emotionless professionalism in the eyes of a Trailbreaker far surpassed anything Martin had ever seen in any other soldier, however dedicated, and it always unnerved him. Were Trailbreakers born that way or could human beings really be trained to be that ruthless?
Without a word, the Trailbreakers indicated the direction they would head and had soon disappeared into the mists. Martin didn't argue. The Trailbreakers would have studied the maps carefully. If they thought the target was in that direction then Martin had no hesitation in following them.
He signalled for the rest of his Unit to fall-in and acknowledged the thumbs up from the troop carrier pilot. She would be waiting there for them when they had finished the job.
Chapter 4
The Earth Controller left the Church of Larn refreshed. He always found the half hour service relaxing and peaceful, the antithesis of the world he ruled. Was it too much to ask that they could live without the ever-present threat of planetary genocide hanging over them? The Agreement of 4009, signed by one of his predecessors some fifty years ago, forbidding deliberate attacks on civilian targets, had kept the number of non-combatant casualties relatively low, but its hold was tenuous. There had been increasing pressure in the last four years or so to break The Agreement and launch a full scale invasion of Aks, much of it from unnamed but undoubtedly high ranking officers in the military. He thought it strangely fitting that it had been their growing militaristic rumblings that had pushed him even further along the road he had already falteringly set foot on. The road to peace. A complete cessation of hostilities with Aks.
He looked back to the warmly lit room he had just come from, The Church of Larn, specially commissioned by himself when this great Controller's Space Cruiser was first built. Through the open door he could see the mihrab, the pointed niche in the wall, moving to his right. The ship was turning and the mihrab's computer automatically tracked the quibla, the direction of prayer. This had been the greatest innovation of all for the Controller. It was vital that he faced the correct way when in prayer, towards the holy planet of Earth.
He turned back to face the long corridor, not attempting to conceal his heavy sigh as Loadra, High Priest of Larn and Religious Advisor to the Controller, stepped from the door at the far end. The Controller's entourage of lesser advisors and armed security parted as the grey robed figure strode through them, long black hair flowing behind him like the tail of a wild beast, equally black eyes flashing above a long straight nose.
Loadra stopped before the portly form of the Controller, his mane of hair in stark contrast to the Controller's bald head, effectively blocking the way forward. The Controller creased a smile across his face, his many years in politics lending the expression a sincerity he did not feel.
"Loadra. I didn't see you at the service?"
The High Priest's voice was a snarl of contempt. "I have no need of these shallow rituals for the masses. I pray to Larn in my own, deeper way and he warns me of the foolishness of your actions."
The Controller's smile faded. "We are on the course to peace Loadra, and nothing you can say will change that."
"This war is a Holy War!" Loadra raised his fist in anger. "The Aksian heathen must be crushed!"
"The Aksian heathen, as you call them, are followers of Larn just as we are. It is the official religion of the whole galaxy."
"They have perverted the true religion with their own laws and rituals. They sanction whores for their leaders. They twist the words of Larn for their own ends. It is a blasphemy that must be rooted out and destroyed."
The Controller shook his head, pinching the br
idge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, holding back the building headache.
"There’s no use in talking, Loadra. The Treaty is prepared. It just waits for our signatures. Hostilities must cease.”
He looked for some understanding, some acceptance in the other’s eyes but found none.
“You know I am a true believer, but the safety of my people must come before these religious differences." He pushed his way past the High Priest. "We can discuss this further in my quarters if you wish. I will not discuss policy in a ship's corridor with a man more full of anger than sense!"
Surrounded by his ever-present entourage the Controller stormed off towards the door at the far end of the corridor.
Loadra turned to watch him go. He was sworn to advise and follow the Earth Controller, but he was also a High Priest of Larn and equally sworn to follow his faith. There was much to think about.
Chapter 5
Steve felt better after a quick meal of Festi's homegrown egg, bacon and mushrooms. It was unlikely that the eggs came from chickens, or that the bacon came from pigs, and the mushrooms had produced a not unpleasant tingling sensation at the base of his neck, but he didn't care. It was food and it was edible.
He didn't really take much notice of his surroundings until he had finished eating, but as he sat back and sipped at some local hot beverage he had not even asked the name of, he glanced around the small, dark cafe.
There were few other people at the tables. An elderly couple sat in a far corner, drinking whatever Steve was drinking. A middle aged man in a suit, strangely out of place in the surroundings, smoked a cigarette and idly watched the table's extractors suck the smoke away in a fascinating spiral. The man who had served him his food and drink stood behind the counter and behind him, narrow windows looked out onto the walkway. Steve suddenly remembered his reason for being on Festi.
He rose from his table, leaving the drink unfinished, and walked to the counter.