The Szuiltan Alliance (The Szuiltan Trilogy) (19 page)

“Steve, please understand. This is vitally important. The Inner Council…”

“What ‘inner council’?” interrupted Steve, raising his voice. “I’ve no idea where this idea of some mystical ‘inner council’ has come from Jack but it doesn’t exist. I’ve been a trader long enough to know what’s going on and my guess is the only ‘inner council’ is inside your head. Don’t drag me into your madness.”

Jack kept his voice calm, hoping to placate his friend, gain his trust and cooperation.

“All I’m asking you to do is keep your eyes open and remember what you see. There’s nothing wrong in that is there?”

“To you it’s only looking, but I’ll know it’s spying. Sorry Jack, we’ve been friends a long time but I’m not putting my licence under threat.”

Jack fell silent, defeated. He knew he had taken a risk in telling Steve the truth and it had backfired. He would need to tell the Council when they got back to Sellit. Steve would need debriefing, possibly even some memory wiping, although that was a risky procedure. Knowing Steve’s volatile nature, however, that risk might be something they just had to take.

Chapter 32

Martin stood stiffly to attention in one corner of the Controller's room aboard 'Armistice'. His expression was grim, his mind a bitter turmoil of emotions. He had made a powerful enemy in Loadra through no effort on his part. The Controller continued to use him against the High Priest, as if tempting him into anger, goading him into an action that would leave the Priesthood back on Earth no choice but to withdraw him from the position of Religious Advisor to the Controller. Was that really what the Controller wanted?

The High Priest had arrived several minutes earlier, at the Controller’s personal request, and now stood with the Controller and his other advisers and ministers by the opposite wall. They discussed the coming events, the signing of the treaty in less than three hour's time, and yet still Loadra found time to glare with hatred towards Martin.

Prepare to be hated
. The words of his commanding officer on the occasion of Martin's promotion to Lieutenant returned to him.
Your soldiers may hate you, everyone hates those who can give the orders, but as long as they respect you they'll obey
.

The small ceremony had taken place in Commander Bryant's office on the fortress moon of Primary-Keep, an artificially created world set in orbit around Earth, almost directly opposite the natural satellite of the moon. Present, other than Martin and Commander Bryant, had been a junior minister from the Controller's government and several reporters. The minister would not normally have attended such a routine event had Martin not been offered the promotion after a well publicised and morale boosting battle on some distant planet that Martin had already forgotten the name of, even by the time of the ceremony. A ministerial presence was felt necessary, especially with the media coverage expected. For the briefest of moments Martin had been a media and public hero. Needless to say, it had faded as quickly as it had risen and he suspected no one even remembered who he was back home now.

Your soldiers must do what you ask without any hesitation or question. Behind your back they will call you every name you can think of and several that you can't, but they will kill anyone outside of their ranks who dares to do the same. Respect, it all revolves around respect
.

Respect. That was what Martin was lacking now. No one respected him. His companions in this specialised force treated him politely but always as an outsider, a partygoer who had been invited by the host for all the wrong reasons. The Controller saw him simply as a pawn, something to be used to further his own ends. And Loadra hated him, considered him to be a traitor and both untrustworthy and next to useless. He missed the respect he had always enjoyed in the Terramarines.

Loadra also felt that he had lost respect. The respect of his fellow advisors to the Controller, and the respect of the Controller himself. It comforted him slightly to know that his Priesthood still maintained their respect both for him and for the task he undertook as their ambassador when the Controller travelled.

Ambassador. Yes, that was what he had been during the meeting with the employee of Reagold. He had been the Larnian Priesthood's ambassador. Now he played the part of religious advisor to the Controller. There had always been times when the two threatened conflict with each other but now, in his constantly active, almost chaotic, mind they were at war. The Controller planned an end to hostility with the heretics on Aks while the Priesthood planned for whatever steps were necessary after such a treaty was signed. It seemed, at times, as if the Controller was trying to destroy the uniqueness and self-imposed quarantine of the true Larnian faith on Earth while the Priesthood strove to maintain the truth in whatever way might be necessary. It was proving difficult for him to reconcile the two. And, as if that were not enough, the Controller continued to bait him with the presence of that damned traitor, Lichfield.

He felt helpless, and that fuelled his anger even more. There was nothing he could do until the treaty was signed and they had returned home. He wished he could just drift unknowingly through the approaching ceremony. He wished he could ignore the humiliating travesty that the Controller would undoubtedly call his ‘triumph’ on his return.

"Are you listening Loadra?"

The Controller's voice startled him out of his thoughts and he realised, with some shame, that he had missed several minutes of conversation.

"I'm sorry Controller. My mind was elsewhere." Loadra bowed slightly in apology, a gesture normally reserved for priests of equitable stature.

"Do try and concentrate Loadra," said the Controller, a deliberate trace of exasperation in his voice. "And do you think you could try and make sure that your mind, for what little it may be worth, is here with us during our discussions?"

Martin suppressed a smile. He had never held any great personal affection for priests, even when he followed the faith as blindly as most did on Earth. It amused him to see such a senior member of the clergy put in his place so easily.

Further amusement was abruptly curtailed by the communicator inside his ear.

He glanced quickly at the other two members of the Controller's personal guard standing inside the room and noted, from their brief nods, that they too had received the message.

Senior Stain military officer entering corridor.

The message had gone on to say that the automatic scan initiated on anyone entering the corridor leading to the Controller's quarters indicated that this was General Clark, a long-serving member of the Stain military and the man in charge of the security for the treaty delegates. He was accompanied by three soldiers, all on file as belonging to the Stain military. All four were unarmed, their small arms having been removed by the Stain guards at the entrance to the corridor. It was a strictly observed rule that only the Controller's own men should be armed in this vicinity.

The discussion in the room ceased as the Controller was informed by one of Martin's colleagues of the officer's imminent arrival.

"Let him in," said the Controller, seating himself in the chair behind his desk.

Martin watched cautiously as the door opened and General Clark entered. His three soldiers remained outside the open door, flanked by two of the Controller's guard.

"General Clark, what a pleasant surprise. And how unusual of you to call unannounced in this way," said the Controller. "I trust everything is in order for the ceremony?"

Later, it was difficult for Martin to say what first aroused his suspicion. Perhaps the hesitation in answering? Perhaps the faint sheen of sweat on the General's forehead? The slightly glazed expression? He did know that, in the split second before chaos broke loose, the General reminded him of the religious fanatics he had encountered during his time with the Terramarines. He was moving towards the General before anyone else noticed anything wrong.

General Clark's mouth opened as if to reply to the Controller's question but no sound came out, only a thin dribble of blood from one corner. His chest heaved, his tunic bulged and tore as a hole was punched through his chest from the inside.

Martin ploughed into him just as the explosion of gore erupted, bone shrapnel ricocheting off the walls and the Controller's desk lamp. He just had time to notice the strange ball-like object that emerged from the mess that had been General Clark's chest before he crashed to the floor, momentarily stunning himself.

He was aware of shouting, of panic and anger. The ball was a weapon, he had guessed as much, and, presuming the target was the Controller, his charge on the General had at least diverted it. One of the Controller's advisors lay sprawled across the desk, his head nothing but a bloody pulp where the ball had struck. The ball itself lay in pieces, shattered by gunfire from one of Martin's colleagues moments after it had struck its victim.

There was more shouting now, and faces were turning towards the door.

Martin watched as one of his colleagues, a taciturn young man he knew only as James, blurred behind a mist of blood as a succession of gunshots peppered his chest and stomach. As he fell, leaving the Controller vulnerable, Martin pushed himself to his feet, his instincts taking over.

He was aware of his other colleague rushing towards the Controller to take him out of harm's way.

They're trying to kill the Controller. I won't allow that to happen!

He assessed the situation in a moment, his Terramarine training clicking into place like the well practised routine it was. The soldiers that had arrived with Clark had turned on the Controller's guard. One lay dead on the floor, the other two now had weapons. The sources of those weapons also lay dead in the corridor outside the door.

Martin moved in, surprising the first soldier by the simple directness of his attack.

He grabbed the hand holding the weapon and pushed it aside just as the finger tightened on the trigger. A shower of sparks burned his leg as the bullet embedded itself in the floor. He ran straight into the man, his forehead smashing the soldier's nose, his knee rising and catching him in the groin. He pushed the man backwards towards the other soldier, feeling the
thud thud
of the bullets entering his human shield. He lashed out with his foot, managing only a slight connection with the firing soldier's knee, but it was enough to stagger him, long enough for Martin to thrust aside the now dead body he had been holding and pull his Terramarine combat knife from his belt.

The 8 inch long, 2 inch wide serrated blade entered the soldier's body at the base of the rib cage. Martin pushed it upwards, jerked it sideways and down, slicing him open in one smooth movement. As the dying man fell to his knees, Martin pulled the serrated edge of the blade across the exposed throat. A cascade of blood tumbled from the wound, staining the carpet as the man fell forward, dead.

Martin stood, knife in hand, and began calming himself, bringing himself out of the rage and violence that had driven him through the last few moments. He watched as his colleague who had wrestled the Controller to the relative safety of the floor, crossed to where the third soldier lay in the corridor and pumped two bullets into the back of his head.

Just making sure.

Martin knelt, wiping the blood from his blade on the tunic of one of the dead soldiers, and then stood again, sheathing the knife once more at his belt.

For the first time since the attack had started he became aware of the alarms screaming through the space station. The rest of the Controller's guard was already arriving, forming a blockade to prevent any further intrusion.

He turned towards the Controller, admiring the way the target of this messy assassination attempt had composed himself so quickly. There was still a trace of shock there, without a doubt, but more notable was the angry, questioning look in the eyes. The question was obvious.

Who was responsible?

Chapter 33

Carina woke with a start at the first crashing alarm.

Where am I? What is this place?

For a moment she was disoriented. Her surroundings were unfamiliar, the smells, the feel of the bedclothes, the items around her, and the sound...
what is that awful noise?

Rapidly, the memories returned. The preparations to leave Aks. The Leader's cruiser. The space station Armistice. The treaty. It was due to be signed today. Leader Carlton's ultimate political victory. A favourable treaty with Earth.

What is that noise?

She became aware of other noises, of shouts, the bark of military orders, and then she recognised that continuous, overpowering sound. An alarm. There was a station-wide alarm screaming its warning to everyone. But a warning about what? What was happening?

She climbed out of bed and was standing naked before the room's wardrobe when the door slid open and two of the Aksian soldiers assigned to the Leader rushed in.

She did not flinch, did not make any attempt to hide her nakedness.

"What’s the meaning..."

"I apologise, but this is an emergency Marm."

She knew the soldier who spoke, she had seen him on the journey here several times, and she was surprised at his use of the official term 'Marm'. It had been many years since she had been addressed in such a way. Most of those who spoke to her knew her by her first name. Those who didn't seldom spoke anyway. She was faintly annoyed that his eyes remained firmly on her face. All very proper and courteous, all very hurtful to her pride.

"I’m not dressed." She spoke with a smile, the humour in the situation not lost on her, and immediately wished that she hadn't. Both soldiers' expressions were serious, deadly so, and she realised that she must listen to what they said. When she spoke again her voice was flat and professional, a request from the Leader's official mistress.

"Tell me."