The Szuiltan Alliance (The Szuiltan Trilogy) (4 page)

Steve smiled and, with a final wave of goodbye to the salesman, hurried out of the office. He ran to The Seven Deadly Sins as the first snap of lightning ripped across the horizon.

He was back in business.

Chapter 6

"Quick in. Quick out. No mercy. No time for sightseeing or evaluation. If it moves, kill it!"

The words of the Terramarine Corp. Field Commander reiterated in Martin's head as he led his Unit through the mist shrouded marsh that covered almost sixty percent of Milos IV's surface. The heavy moisture had insinuated its way through his uniform, coating his skin with wet heat and discomfort. His rifle was slippery and he gripped it in fists clenched so tightly his fingers ached. Thick tangles of twisted vegetation  caught around his ankles making each step an effort of muscle and determination.

Glancing back at the men and women of his Unit, he recognised the expression of battle weary resignation on their faces and knew it was reflected on his own. They had all seen too much and done too much in this war with Aks to execute a raid with anything other than an overriding desire to get the job done and get home safely. The enthusiasm that infected so many new recruits had been stripped from them in that first bloody conflict with a squad of Aksian Marines on a far distant planet. The replacements for the twelve dead that day had since had their own illusions abruptly shattered in what might be mere seconds of a deadly firefight.

He signalled for the Unit to spread out to either side of him, noting with a grim satisfaction the efficient way in which they carried out his order. If he had to go into battle, these were the men and women he would choose to go with.

The marsh merged into jungle, thick and dark. Martin felt the tension grip even stronger. He hated jungles, not knowing whether the enemy were behind the next web of branches you pushed through, the near impossibility of hearing troop movements over the constant animal noises and birdcalls. Nevertheless, he did not allow their careful pace to slow.

They had been advancing in silence for almost fifteen minutes when he saw the first indication of the Aksian listening station they knew to be located in this jungle. It was also the first indication that his Trailbreakers were as silent and efficient as ever. He moved past the sprawled bodies of the two Aksian soldiers, barely noticing their cut throats or the blood that soaked into the ground around them.

Five years ago he and Sharon had laughed at the prospect of him in the army. Didn't they know he felt ill at the sight of blood? The brutal changes that the war with Aks had brought about in his personality were not unfamiliar to him. He chose not to think of it. But he knew that, next leave, he and Sharon would once again argue about how withdrawn and callous he had become. He couldn't talk to her. How could he explain to someone who had never experienced this? The nervous energy that maintained his body on the edge of action. The stomach churning knowledge that with the first shot fired you could be dead. The atrocities he had seen. The atrocities he had been ordered to do. So he withdrew, held it deep inside, knowing that one day, however hard he tried to control it, there would be an explosion, an outpouring of all the hate and fear and anger he struggled to contain. He prayed to Larn that he hurt no one else in that moment of release.

A Trailbreaker appeared silently from the surrounding mist and, in the sign language shorthand that they had all been instructed in at basic training, gave him the information he needed to know.

Listening post directly ahead. Six Aksians. Two standing guard outside the building. Four inside.

Martin passed his orders among the Unit. He wanted this quick. No heroics. No casualties. No survivors.

He crouched low, following the Trailbreaker towards the target, wondering whether others felt this terrible sickness before every raid. Was he alone in fearing for his life every time? It didn't get easier. You just got better at hiding it, from yourself as much as everyone else.

He swallowed hard. He had a job to do. He had men and women depending on him. He was responsible for their lives. He couldn't let his own fear endanger either them or the mission.

The Trailbreaker slowed, joining his companions waist deep in a stream that snaked its way through the marsh. The far bank provided the cover they needed to group and prepare for the assault.

Martin waded in after them, struggling to cause as few splashes as possible, gritting his teeth against the anachronistically cold water, runoff from one of the two snow-capped mountains on Milos IV they had seen during embarkation.

He joined the Trailbreakers as the rest of his Unit slipped quietly into the water. He could feel his legs already numbing in the icy stream and he knew he couldn't keep the Unit there too long.

Pulling himself up the far bank, peering through the entangled weeds at the edge, he could see the Listening Post. Nothing more than a small prefabricated hut in an equally small circle of cleared ground. Two armed Aksians stood outside, watching the jungle with casual disinterest. They never really expected to be discovered, especially with an apparent peace on the way.

That nagged at his mind. The peace. Why were they on this awful planet preparing to kill the enemy when the enemy were talking peace? But the order had come from Commander-In-Chief Markland. The only person above Markland on the whole planet was the Controller, although Martin suspected that the High Priest of Larn had more than a small influence on matters. There was no point in disputing the orders. They were clear. His job was clear. The politics behind it were not his concern. So why did he worry? Perhaps even his intense military training and all his recent experiences could not totally eradicate the intellectual, scholastic mind?

He needed to be home with Sharon.

He focussed, pushing everything but the immediate from his mind.

The distance and lack of cover left no room for subtlety. Surprise and sheer firepower were on their side. That should be all they needed.

He waved his Unit up onto the bank, wondering again whether he was the only one to be afraid. He gave the signal for all out attack, raising his arm, counting down on his fingers.

Three.... Two.... One!

The Unit surged over the bank.

The two Aksian guards were the first, ripped apart by the opening storm of bullets, explosive shells shattering limbs and staining the mist with a faint sheen of blood.

The prefabricated walls of the hut began to shatter under the pounding as the Unit advanced. Martin saw an Aksian appear in the doorway. There was no time to see if he was armed. Martin had no idea how many other weapons were turned on that man, but he knew with sickening certainty that his own punched a hole the size of a fist in his chest. There was no anger in the shot, only resignation to the facts of war.

Not surprisingly, the Trailbreakers were the first to reach the building as the hail of bullets ceased. Martin motioned his people down as three grenades were tossed into the interior. The Trailbreakers dived for cover, explosions blowing holes in the walls.

Under cover of the resulting smoke, Martin and two others entered the building, spraying the floor and walls with bullets.

He heard the sobbing as he called for cease-fire. Amazingly someone was still alive.

He kicked aside rubble, advancing on the sound, his gun raised and ready to fire. The orders had been clear. No survivors.

One final piece of wreckage and there she was. A young girl, probably in her early teens, blood on her face, one leg nothing but a bloody stump, a wound in her stomach seeping onto the floor.

Martin's finger tightened on the trigger and then stopped.

She reminded him of his daughter, Samantha.

It was ridiculous. She didn't look like Samantha. The face was all wrong. Even the hair was the wrong colour, a deep black instead of Samantha's gingery blonde. But she reminded him of Samantha, or how Samantha might have been had she lived, and he couldn't,
wouldn't
pull the trigger.

A round of fire from behind ripped the girl's face apart, blood spattering his uniformed legs.

He turned, stunned more than angry, and met the steady gaze of the woman Trailbreaker.

Her eyes said it all. Martin had disobeyed orders.

Chapter 7

The Seven Deadly Sins ploughed its way through the upper atmosphere of Sellit with all the grace of an elephant stampede.

Steve Drake, exhausted and hungry, tried to relax into his command seat and concentrate on one of the many Science Fiction classics stored in his book reader. Arthur C Clarke’s 2001 A Space Odyssey. As ancient history it missed the mark by a couple of decades, but on this, his fifth re-reading, it still entertained and amused him. A strange monolith on the moon? An alien race of such noble and grand a purpose? Unfortunately the real universe was much more mundane.

The on-board computer relayed the usual messages, details and requests for landing permission to the control computer of Sellit's one and only spaceport. He couldn’t help thinking that a psychotic computer similar to HAL might just liven up the tedious routine of space travel.

It was not a particularly long journey from Festi to Sellit, but The Seven Deadly Sins had made it seem longer than usual, with its occasional hiccups and eccentricities that, he hoped, would become endearing with familiarity.

The command seat squeaked and threatened to tip as Steve reached a steadying hand for the main console.

Around him, the bulky grey control units hung bolted to the walls, some more securely than others. The steady lights on the main display board told him that everything was working fine, but he couldn't help feeling that, if he leaned too heavily in some areas, those lights would start to go out, or at the very least blink alarmingly.

He swivelled in the chair, cursing as his knees cracked against the underside of the main console. This was not the most spacious of control rooms he had ever worked from and the equipment was hardly state-of-the-art, but she was his and he could always modernise and redesign her once the money started to roll in again.

He put down his book reader and turned on the view screen. It crackled, flashed, buzzed and died. He leaned towards it, raising his fist to deliver the most tried and trusted method of repair he knew when the screen crackled once more and jumped to life. He settled back, content that the threat had been enough, and smiled at the view. Sellit. His home.

It was a small world and Steve was vaguely aware that 'Sellit' was not its true name. Somewhere, buried in the legal records, was the legal name of this planet, a name conjured from the unimaginative mind of the scientist who had first noted these co-ordinates as the probable site of a habitable world. Steve could never remember it, and had not met anyone else who could. The name 'Sellit' had been coined by the early traders who based themselves there and it had stuck. Even the trading documents bore that name, the dull truth buried, hopefully forever, in history.

The natural gravity on the surface was similar to the Earth's Moon, but as the long ago accepted standard for gravity was Earth's, a standard disputed for some time now by those adapted to living on worlds with lighter or heavier gravitational pulls, all the buildings and travel tubes on Sellit were artificially maintained at something near the Earth standard. It made the transition from the induced gravity aboard ship to the equally induced gravity of the planet less traumatic on a trader's system.

This was the home base of the Space Traders' Foundation, and all reputable, and many not-so-reputable, traders were registered in the Foundation's computers. All legal trading in the known galaxy was cleared through the massive computerised and manual administration of Sellit Central Control, a system made workable only by the traders' complete neutrality and independence from other galactic worlds and conflicts.

It was this neutrality that had caused a crisis of conscience in a young Steve Drake when, at the age of seventeen, he had signed on as an apprentice to a crusty old trader, more pirate than businessman, whose failing health had forced him to seek younger help. The moral issues involved in trading with Aks, his home planet's enemy, had weighed heavily on his immature mind and he had come close to resigning from the profession. It was the calming influence of the old trader that had changed him. The trader had seen a potential in the moralistic teenager and had invested time and effort into persuading him to stay.

When the old man's health had deteriorated so much that he could no longer face the rigors of space travel, Steve had run the trades for him. When the old trader had died, his will left his ship and his trading contacts to Steve. It had been the start the young man had needed.

Within eight years of that shaky beginning, he had become a trader in spirit as well as name and had traded with Aks regularly and without conscience. Now, all previous political and emotional ties were all but forgotten. His only planetary home was Sellit. His only allegiance was with the Space Traders' Foundation.

"Where did you pick up the space debris Steve?"

Steve jerked from reminiscing as the joking voice crackled from the communicator. Even scrambled and distorted by the control room speaker it was still unmistakable.

Steve smiled and sat forward, almost falling as the seat threatened to overbalance.

"You shouldn't judge by appearances. She handles great."
As great as any lump of rust can be expected to handle
, he added silently. "You baby sitting the computer again? Jack Holt, the intrepid trader, facing danger and excitement every working day."

The voice on the speaker laughed, a sound made strangely chilling by the damaged circuitry.

"Not all of us can go flying off around the galaxy, Steve. Someone has to stay home and do the housework. As for the computer... what if it went wrong? You'd all be landing on top of each other, which reminds me... Suzy's been waiting for you to come back."