by Neil Davies
"Please. Don't. I know you ... love me," he stumbled over the words, "but I... I don't..."
He stopped, unable to state what must be obvious to her. Why didn't she end his struggling? Why didn't she just say she understood? But why should she? She was making him suffer. Making him say it. Could he really blame her?
He took another deep breath and closed his eyes, gripping the neck of the MBP bottle tighter than ever.
"I don't love you Suzy. I never have. Don't you see?"
He had expected to hear the sobbing by now. He had thought she'd be in despair, or enraged, or something. He wasn't ready for the silence.
He opened his eyes and looked up at her for the first time since he had started talking.
There was a faint smile on her face as she stood up and activated the panel by the apartment door. The door slid open with a faint hiss.
"Well. Thank you for explaining it all to me Steve."
Her voice was calm, quiet, unusually so. It disturbed him.
"Don't you want to say anything to me?"
He was confused. He had been ready for the outburst of strong emotion. The tears. The rage. He had not been ready for this.
"What were you expecting me to say? Did you expect me to beg you to stay? To say that maybe, in time, you could grow to love me? To shout at you for using me as a cheap fuck? What's the point? It's over. I've known it for some time and now you've finally had the courage to tell me. Thank you. Now, please go."
He stood up slowly, unsure whether to take her at her word, and went to place the bottle of MBP back on the bedside cabinet.
"Take it, please, with my compliments. That must be about the only friend you have."
He held onto the bottle and made for the door, hesitating as he reached her, turning to say something, anything, but she was looking away, and he realised she did not want to hear it, whatever it was he might have said.
He stepped into the corridor and the door slid shut behind him.
After a moment’s hesitation, he headed towards the bar. What little money he had could not be better spent, at that moment, than on another bottle of MBP to supplement the one in his fist which, he was sure, he would soon finish.
In some strange way he was hurt by her reaction.
Where were the tears? Perhaps I misjudged her feelings for me? Perhaps I was being too conceited? It wouldn't be the first time. But she said she loved me, didn't she? Was that just something she said to make me feel wanted? Are there others she says that to when I'm away on trading flights?
His pride was hurt. He didn't like the feeling.
He decided not to stay. It was better for both of them if he left. That's what he told his conscience, but he could not totally eradicate the feeling that he was simply a coward, running away whenever he could rather than face an awkward situation.
He hoped Jack had been wrong about the scarcity of jobs. He didn't want to stay on Sellit any longer than absolutely necessary.
Chapter 11
Mayor Roger Lane was anxious, nervous in the car without his usual entourage of chauffeur and bodyguard, but it had long ago been agreed that he would come alone to the meeting.
The meeting.
It was so long since those first tentative approaches that he found it difficult to remember who had made the first move. Did it matter? It seemed to him that there had been a mutual convergence of ideas and desires. They had been lucky to find each other, if you chose to believe in luck. He believed in Larn and the power of the Larnian faith, the true Larnian faith, not that bastardised abomination practised by Earth. It was Larn who had brought them together, and it was Larn who would see him through his fear. This was jihad, holy war, and nothing could prevent the truth from ultimate victory.
The air car sped him through the skyways of the inner suburbs and out past Suburb 95, where the buildings began to thin and the surrounding desert's patient and inexorable invasion of the city limits became obvious. Sand crawled up the empty shells of buildings, fanning out in treacherous drifts that could bury a man in seconds.
The economic impact of the war was perhaps most blatant out here, where the money stopped and the poor and disadvantaged battled daily with the desert for survival. Many of these buildings, mere skeletons of structures that had once reached tall, had never been rebuilt since the early surface fighting. Others had simply been abandoned as their owners moved further into the city or were buried where they fell.
Sand clattered like gunfire against the car as the Mayor turned into the rising winds of the desert's regular afternoon sandstorm. He flew blind, unable to see as the drizzle of sand became a deluge and then a raging torrent, a river of airborne sand that, according to legend, could strip the flesh from a human in less time than it took to die from the wounds inflicted. Too many people lived out here on the edge of the city for the Mayor to believe that, but it still sent a shudder of cold fear through his body.
He tried to relax, letting the car’s drive computer navigate the storm, weaving past unseen obstacles as it carried him deeper into the desert on its pre-programmed route.
The first ruins of the ghost town faded into misty view as the car passed out of the worst of the storm, leaving the full ferocity driving towards the suburbs far behind him. Brick, concrete, steel and plastic jutted from the sand, jagged skeletons of what had once been the vibrant outskirts of a frontier town. Further down the main street, sand drifts reaching almost to the top of battered signposts and broken streetlamps, more substantial buildings had withstood the onslaught of the desert slightly better, empty husks and crooked, crumbling facades in equal measure on either side. The computer guided the car round one corner, then another, moving away from the remains of the centre of town to the sand-filled bowl of a grand plaza and, at the rear, his destination, a small but once fashionable hotel which, despite its brick and plasteel façade being pockmarked by sand, had stubbornly refused to be beaten by the desert.
The car came to rest in what had once been the foyer, rivulets of sand trickling off the surface as the door swung open and the Mayor stepped out. He was nervously aware of the tail-end of the storm that continued to clatter against the walls, but what little did find a way in through the empty frame of a door or a widening crack in the structure got little further. It seemed safe.
Ahead of him stretched a curving staircase, black and scarred with age, tattered remnants of a once luxurious carpet hanging like flayed skin from the bones of the wooden steps. The top of the stairs faded into darkness, but he could just make out broken railings and the suggestion of pillars. Around him was the foyer, empty of the furniture that had once filled it, full of the atmosphere of dead and near-forgotten memories. The reception desk stood almost complete along one wall, broken by rot and the sheer weight of time. There was no one in sight. He was alone. Perhaps he was early?
He put his hand on the car door to push it shut.
"Leave it!"
His hand froze, moved shakily away from the door handle. He could not tell where the shout had come from, it had echoed too much in the empty interior.
"Move away from the car."
He took several steps backwards, nervously glancing around the foyer. Where was the voice coming from? Where could he be hiding?
They descended on the car apparently out of nowhere, four men holding raised weapons which the Mayor recognised, with a cold block of fear in his stomach, as government issue, hand-held, explosive projectile weapons. Had Carlton discovered his intent? Had he been betrayed? If Carlton knew of his plans he was dead! His legs threatened to buckle under him and he struggled to keep them steady.
Two of the grim faced men stopped near him, their weapons pointing steadily at his head. The other two approached the car cautiously but quickly. One searched the interior while the other stood a little way off, his weapon levelled at the car. They checked the exterior in the same fashion, always one covering the other. Apparently satisfied, they stepped back and holstered their guns. The two guarding
the Mayor did the same.
"I do apologise Mr Mayor, but we have to be careful. There are government spies, loyal to Carlton, everywhere at the moment. He’s grown paranoid since the announcement of the impending treaty with Earth. I hope we didn't frighten you?"
The voice came from a tall, broad man who now strolled casually from the deep shadows somewhere behind the reception desk.
"I was a little startled," said the Mayor, regaining some of his composure as he recognised the intermediary he had met with several times before. He had not realised, until he straightened his back and forced some sense of authority into his posture, that he had been literally cowering with fright.
"The weapons made me unsure." He coughed to clear his throat. "They look..."
"Government issue? Yes, I know. We got them from a shipment that went 'missing' a few months back. It wasn't difficult, and they're good weapons."
The man stepped clear of the shadows and smiled at the Mayor.
"Now that the formalities are over shall we go to meet my employer? He's quite anxious to meet with you I'm sure."
The Mayor, now fully recovered, nodded and followed as the man turned and strode towards the staircase.
The stairs creaked as they ascended into the darkness of the upper floor, an uncomfortable nervous fluttering unsettling the Mayor's stomach.
Most of the doors to the upper rooms were closed, the numbers faded and unreadable, but one or two stood open, black holes in the dark walls of the corridor. The Mayor passed these cautiously, nervously, not wanting to look into their deep darkness, afraid of who or what may leap out at him.
They walked through two sets of rotting fire doors, hanging loose on their hinges but not yet fallen, to a doorway surrounded by a faint corona of light. Without a word, the man leading the Mayor pushed the door open and gestured for the Mayor to enter.
Squinting against the sudden brightness, the Mayor edged past the armed man and, as his eyes adjusted, focussed on the other man sitting behind the desk in the centre of an otherwise empty room.
He was certain this was the man he had come to meet and, although he felt he should say something in greeting, his mouth was dry, his throat constricted. He was in awe and fear of this man, this legend before him.
The man rose from behind the desk, tall and powerfully built, broad shoulders lifting long black hair into gentle curves, a gentleness at odds with the sharp, angular face and long blade of a nose. A deep scar ran from the cleft of his chin, past the corner of his mouth to his left eye, pulling the lid half shut, giving that side of his face a dull, sleepy look. His age was difficult to determine, but he was at the very least in his middle years. He smiled, the smile of a shark, a predator, teeth bared in a greeting that was equally a warning.
"Mr Mayor, glad to meet you at last." His voice was deep and booming in the empty hotel. "My name is Suzex."
Chapter 12
Corridor Twelve had colour.
It was the first thing that struck Jack when he stepped from the travel tube. It might be little more than a few coloured wall panels and the occasional aesthetically pleasing minor work of art but, after the sparseness of Corridor One and the tube, it was a luxury for the eyes.
The day-to-day bustle of the T.I.C. could be seen here, people hurrying from one place to another, armed security guards outside important rooms, small clusters of anonymous but powerful people discussing the outcome of recent meetings. On Corridor Twelve there were no offices, only conference rooms. It was one of several such corridors in the complex, but Corridor Twelve was where the Council met.
Calming his nervousness, deliberately playing down his expectations, Jack submitted to a brief security scan outside 5A and then walked through the now open door.
The walls, floor and ceiling were bare, clinical, clean, the distinction between them hardly apparent, producing a dizzying sense of floating rather than standing on a solid floor. No cameras, no listening devices, no security surveillance equipment dotted the walls. This was truly a clean room.
Dominating the floor space was a large, circular table, recently polished, furnished with carafes of water, glasses and a small, digital minute taker, currently, Jack noted, switched off.
The full Trading Council, ten men and women of varying ages, sat around one side of the table, facing Jack.
He recognised Councillor Braben, the leader of the Council and a man who had risen through the administrative channels to his current position; Councillor Chivers, one of the pioneering women traders who had successfully crushed the traditional sexist barriers that had existed in the profession at the time; Councillor Jareth, another ex-trader, and Councillor Smitheson, the only outsider to sit on the Council. The mythology was that Smitheson had first travelled to Sellit as a diplomat from one of the old colony worlds to attempt to persuade Sellit to allow his home world to enter into trade with others directly. The outcome had been his switching allegiance to the traders. Like most converts, he was among the most zealous when it came to protecting Sellit's trading rights. Jack didn't know the others by name, but it was clear they were as much a part of the Council as their more notable companions.
With the full Council facing him, he knew for certain that this was no trivial recall to duty. This was important. He was quietly satisfied. He had not been given a tough assignment for almost a year, having been temporarily 'rested' after a particularly violent assassination attempt had been made by a terrorist group on a visiting VIP Jack and nine other T.I.C. agents had been protecting. Seven had been killed, as had all the attackers. Jack had been badly injured, spending six months confined to a hospital bed. On his release, he had been on an official vacation of indeterminate length. It seemed that vacation was now over.
"Mr Holt. Feeling fit?" Councillor Braben, a broad stocky man in his late forties, was the first to speak. He smiled and indicated a seat by the table.
Jack sat in the offered seat.
"Yes sir. Fit and ready."
"Good." Councillor Braben thrust a bio-chip across to him. "On there are some details of a world called Szuilta. You've heard of it?"
"Vaguely. Unsociable lot aren't they? Don't like humanoids or something?"
"Correct. Up until about four years ago we'd never even heard of them. I'm sure you remember the fuss in the press? A new alien race discovered? Anyway, contact has been a bit hit and miss ever since. No one that we know of has ever seen a Szuiltan. The few dealings we've had with their planet have been done through their computer globes and some ape-like creatures called Bosens, some sort of slaves we think."
"And now there's a problem?" asked Jack. "I presume something's happened otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"We've heard rumours, just rumours mind you, that they are interested in the Aks-Earth war," said Councillor Chivers, her voice slurring slightly with the heavy scar that pulled the right hand corner of her mouth down. "They seem to have a special hatred of Earth and, well, the rumours have it that they're plotting to help Aks in some way. Our agent on Aks was unable to get more details, although she did mention the name Suzex."
"Suzex?” Jack repressed a shudder. Every agent in the T.I.C. had heard of Suzex.
"As you know, he was one of our best agents before he went bad. All some time ago now, in the days of Miar Shrilor, the Lescight." The speaker was one of the Councillors that Jack had not recognised, a tall and rather elegant man in his middle years.
"Apparently Suzex is back in business of some kind," cut in Councillor Braben. "And, unfortunately for us, Miar Shrilor has disappeared into the centre of the galaxy. If past experience is anything to go by, Shrilor's the only one who can stop Suzex, the only one Suzex was ever afraid of."
"Am I to find Shrilor?"
"We have people on that. We have another task for you. We want to know exactly what's going on out there and to do that we want you to go to Szuilta. We've held over one of their few trading orders and you are going to take it. However, you are no longer a registered
trader. As far as the official Sellit files are concerned you are no more than a Clerical Officer and those files are not exactly secure."
Jack calmed the churning in his stomach, a flutter of nerves and excitement. To investigate the homeworld of the only truly alien intelligence mankind had ever encountered? He could not have hoped for a better assignment.
“You have agents who are still active traders. Can I ask why I was chosen?”
"You have been off our active lists for the past year,” answered Braben, “so, if by any chance the Szuiltans have access to our files, you are not on the rotor of current agents. But we still need to find a trader, someone you could persuade to let you go along for the ride. Someone who would never suspect the real reason for the trip."
Jack nodded and smiled. He knew just the right person.
Chapter 13
The bottle looked good. Very Good. Focusing on it was becoming difficult but it still looked good. Steve Drake lifted the bottle to his lips and gulped another mouthful of MBP. He had long ago forsaken the glass for the more direct route.
He sat at a corner table of The Tradesman's Entrance, the largest bar on Sellit. It was almost empty, too early in the evening for even the hardened drinkers that many Space Traders were to have found their way there. Two tables away a licensed prostitute was helping her latest trick to his drunken feet and to one of a dozen or so travel-tubes that would take them straight to a private room. Over the far side, almost lost in the gloom that passed for discrete lighting, two traders were engaged in a lively and probably pointless discussion that involved a large number of pointing fingers, shaking heads and an occasional hand slammed onto the table. Steve vaguely recognised them and they paused long enough to return his half-hearted wave. There were a handful of other patrons, mostly sitting by themselves, and three, maybe four, waitresses weaving through the tables, almost predatory as they watched for plates to be finished, glasses or bottles to be emptied. The barman cleaned glasses, arranged bottles, and generally busied himself with whatever it was bar-persons did when there was no one to serve.