The Szuiltan Alliance (The Szuiltan Trilogy) (2 page)

There was unrest and unease within the Leader's entourage, and if that unease spilled over into open rebellion, she did not intend to follow James Carlton into obscurity.

Chapter 2

"Welcome to the planet Festi ladies and gentlemen. If you look out of the transparent ceiling of the spaceport you will be able to see the twin suns of Jan and Sylve, named, so legend has it, after the daughters of the planet's founder Gregory Macintosh. You are able to look directly at these stars with the naked eye courtesy of Reagold Polarised Plastic..."

Steve Drake turned away from the ever-smiling Welcomedroid and pushed his way through the crowds that swarmed around the open foyer of Hart Spaceport. He might have been impressed by the programmed welcome speech, despite noticing the droid's flesh coloured paint was peeling, dragging jagged scars of dull metal across its face. He might have been interested in the barely disguised adverts for the Reagold Air Conditioning, Reagold Artificial Gravity Stabilisers and Reagold Weather Control Systems, even though the voice unit crackled, sparked and eventually emitted a commendable imitation of a belch before grinding to a halt with a delicate puff of smoke that curled gently towards the ceiling. He might have been, but he wasn't.

He had seen and heard it all before, on more planets than he cared to remember. For a Registered Trader, interplanetary travel was routine that quickly became tiresome.

This was, however, his first visit to Festi and, despite the marketing literature, it was a largely unremarkable world. There was no political unrest here, no struggle for freedom. The people were content, and the planet itself seemed to follow their example. The natural atmosphere was breathable, if a little harsh on unaccustomed lungs. The weather, the most interesting feature, was unpredictable and prone to violent storms, but no more than a thousand worlds around the known galaxy. If he had made the trip for a sightseeing holiday he would have wasted his money, but Festi had a reputation that had drawn him here, a reputation that had separated him from most of the little money he had. He hoped it proved worthwhile.

As a team of blue overalled maintenance men bustled around the still smiling, still smoking Welcomedroid, Steve grabbed his one item of luggage from the revolving luggage dispenser and strolled towards the main exit, his worldly goods slung over his shoulder in a small bag.

The spaceport was as unremarkable as the planet. He noted the pale-green walls, considered restful by the architectural psychologists all major construction projects had employed for the past two decades or more, the same marble-effect floor, the same constant stream of hologram-ads trying to sell him the latest Reagold products. He could have been in a spaceport on any one of hundreds of worlds he was familiar with. It eroded the excitement of discovering a new planet to the dull and commonplace. The cult of universalism reared around him on all sides, much of it branded Reagold.

"Excuse me sir."

Steve stopped and turned as the Customdroid detached itself from its almost hidden alcove and trundled squeakily towards him. The swirling silver 'R' of the Reagold Corporation gleamed on its metal forehead. As irritatingly pervasive as that logo was in this spaceport, it at least guaranteed some respite from the paranoia of those ports involved in The War. It made no difference whether the affiliation was with Earth or Aks, a legitimate trading mission was transformed into a maze of interrogations and investigations on so many worlds on the trading routes. The Reagold Corporation's slogan of
'If it's neutral it's Reagold
' might have been bad taste, but at least it afforded Steve some degree of relaxation.

"Is this all your luggage sir?"

Steve shrugged the bag off his shoulder and handed it to the two hinged arms that extended from the centre of the droid. He tried to ignore the smile, wondering why with all their advanced technology they could not do better than the unreal, fixed grin of so many robotic employees.

"Everything I own, just about."

The Customdroid pulled the bag open and quickly searched through the clothes and various items packed within. It looked up from its work. Steve could have sworn the smile broadened.

"You don't own much."

Steve bit his lip. He wanted to ask since when Customdroids were programmed with a sense of humour, but he could not be certain what else it had been programmed for and had no wish to experiment.

"Employed?"

"Trader."

"On a passenger flight?"

"My ship got caught in a space storm about a month ago, in orbit around Gia."

"Gia?" The droid tapped into the spaceport's data banks and answered its own question. "Out in the Sale system."

"Right."

"A space storm? Don't get many of them near planets. You're lucky to be alive."

"I wasn't aboard. I was planetside doing some trading."

"With your ship still in orbit?" The droid's electronic eyes blinked with apparent surprise.

"I went down by shuttle."

"Not many traders can afford ships with shuttles." The mechanical arms handed Steve his bag and retracted into the tubular body.

"I'm a good trader. I made money."

"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.