The Szuiltan Alliance (The Szuiltan Trilogy) (11 page)

A squadron of Police Craft darted overhead, heading towards the outer suburbs. Perhaps there was trouble again. Social unrest was on the increase and Ursa suspected that not all of it was motivated by social anger. There were undercurrents, suggestions of spies, agent provocateur, inciting youth violence, spreading rumours and, in particular, building the already ambivalent feelings towards Leader Carlton's treaty into an explosive renewal of the general hatred of Earth. Although she had no proof, Ursa suspected Mayor Lane's hand somewhere behind it all. He had his vision fixed firmly on the Leader's office.

Thoughts of the suburbs and the current social unrest brought with them, as they so often did, other thoughts and memories of pleasanter days, happier times before her undercover life and the constant stresses forced upon her.

In her time with the Aksian Special Forces she had travelled, posted to ex-colonial worlds favourable towards the Aksian position in either religion or distrust of Earth. Many of those planets were still surprisingly, pleasantly green, the human cities leaving space for grass and trees. Flowers grew naturally, not nurtured in specially maintained public gardens. She could not remember a time when Aks had been anything but urban sprawl.

The central city of Akasian spread over the face of the planet like a cancerous, pollution-oozing growth, devouring other cities in its hunger to expand, until there was only one city stretching across most of the planet’s surface. The buildings stopped only where they met the desert, the one natural area left on Aks, an area of nature that was too hostile to subjugate and populate. An area that was fighting back by slowly but persistently eating away at the outer suburbs, slowly reclaiming parts of itself, a reclamation that was permitted by the Aksian authorities. Aksians living on the edge of the desert relied on their government for their survival. Politicians on all sides could use that to their advantage.

The outer door of her home opened automatically as she approached, scanners implanted in the composite brick and plastic walls identifying her. Such systems were common in the relatively affluent Suburb 12. As she stepped into the alcove, the outer door closed behind her and an unseen but thorough retinal scan verified her identity. This, as far as she knew, was unique in Suburb 12 and, quite possibly, on the whole of Aks. It had been developed by the T.I.C. for its undercover operatives as a second level of security. Ursa was uncomfortable with it. The closing of the outer door sparked distant memories of a youth plagued by claustrophobia, and she would often disable it for weeks at a time before the fear of possible detection overcame the fear of the enclosed space. She waited agitatedly now for the verification to complete, knowing that it took only a second to do but unable to rid herself of the feeling of time stretching out interminably. She breathed a sigh of relief as the inner door swung open, realising only at that moment that her fists had been clenched so tightly that her fingernails had left deep indentations in her palms.

Her thoughts flicked back to her last meeting with her T.I.C. contact, a carefully arranged ‘chance’ meeting in a bar after work in full view of several of her colleagues. She had seen them smirking as this stranger flirted with her, bought her drinks and persuaded her to a quiet corner table. It amused them to see the harsh, plain, almost masculine Ursa apparently fall for the less-than-subtle approach of this man. She had been aware of them watching, passing close by, listening, eager to gather gossip for the next day at work. It had not concerned her.

They had spoken of trivial things, their conversation delving no deeper into politics than general comments about the unforgivable civil unrest in the outer suburbs and how important it was for the authorities to stamp hard on those responsible. Gradually her colleagues lost interest. By the time Ursa and the man she knew only as Richard stood up to leave the bar together, it raised nothing beyond a half-hearted smile and a whispered comment.

On the slow walk to the overland tram that would take her home, their conversation had switched to more serious matters, away from the curious attentions of others.

"The Council are now convinced that Suzex is involved," said her contact as they strolled beneath glowing street lamps.

"Any idea where he might surface in all this?"

"Not yet. There are some conflicting reports on that, but I've been told to advise you to look for anything that might indicate his presence here on Aks. It's very unlikely he'll ally himself with Earth, he was never that fond of it or its colonies. Aks, however, might give him some twisted satisfaction."

Ursa nodded. "I'll watch for it. Mayor Lane is becoming increasingly jumpy over this treaty business. If I were Suzex I'd work on him."

They had separated with a brief platonic kiss for the benefit of any onlookers.

Now, as the lights in her living room rose on her entry and then dimmed on her spoken command, she faced the situation she had always dreaded. She must break silence and make direct contact with the Council. This could not wait until her next meeting with Richard, and she had no way of finding him before then. The message to the Mayor, his reaction to it, had convinced her, sent a shudder of fear and excitement through her body. It had to be Suzex, here on Aks and conspiring with the Mayor. The Council must be told.

She crossed the carpeted floor of the living room quickly, stepping round the clutter of chairs and low table that indicated her lack of interest in interior design. At a further barked command, the window in the far wall faded to an opaque grey. The concealed panel in the wall slid open at her coded touch and she removed the communicator that lay within.

She hesitated. This was the first time she had done anything other than look at this communicator. She had never felt the need to directly contact the Council before, and the prospect made her hands tremble. It was dangerous. Such contacts, while secure from people listening-in, were not secure from general detection.

Taking a deep breath, trying desperately not to imagine Aksian scanners roaming the streets outside her door, she reached for the send button.

A noise outside, a strange shuffling, stopped her, finger poised almost touching the button. She strained to hear above the general background sounds of suburban life, traffic, doors opening and closing, a distant dog barking. Had she imagined it? Perhaps her nervousness about this communication was making her overcautious.

No. There it was again. A shuffling, scraping sound coming from the outer wall.

A cold block of fear settled heavily in her stomach.

She was pushing the communicator back behind the concealed panel when the explosion ripped a hole in the wall alongside the window, cracking the toughened glass, sending a shower of brick and plastic and glass cubes into the centre of the living room.

Ursa turned away instinctively, feeling the sharp stabs of pain as debris passed straight through her clothes and embedded itself in her flesh. The blast slammed her face first against the wall and she fell to her knees, already feeling the tickling sensation of blood running down her back and legs.

Through the concussion that scrambled her thoughts, she knew what she must do. She raised the communicator to smash it against the wall, the voice of one of her tutors calling out to her over the years... 
destroy all evidence that might lead back to the Council, even if it costs your life.

"STOP!"

The shout came from behind her. It was a voice she recognised, a voice that fuelled an anger so strong it overcame her fear and her shock.

She turned, her eyes taking in the Aksian soldiers clambering over the rubble, weapons raised and aiming at her. They had surrounded her in seconds, professional and expressionless as they pointed a dozen guns at the unarmed woman kneeling on her living room floor. But beyond the soldiers, beyond the weapons, she searched the room for the owner of that voice, knowing what she would see but not wanting to believe it. Her initial anger was subsiding in a confusion of pain and nausea but she had to see, had to know for certain.

He stepped out of the settling dust, a handgun holstered at his side, a smile splitting his face.

"Hello Ursa."

She spat dust and blood from her mouth.

"Richard, you bastard!"

She smashed the communicator against the wall, activating the vial of acid that would eat away all vital components, and heard a desperate shout of "alive" before the butt of a gun smashed into the back of her head and she lost consciousness.

Chapter 20

The space station Armistice turned lazily in orbit about the ex-colony world of Stain. It had been built soon after independence, when both funds and skilled technicians were at a low. Consequently its design, although sturdy, was simplistic and, even when it was built, old fashioned. Its tubular central hub sprouted legs like some hideously overgrown spider, and at the end of each leg small clusters of accommodation, recreation and business units gathered. The elegant, modern cruisers that lay idly nearby seemed out of place.

"The Aksian Leader has not arrived yet, but he is expected shortly," said Martin Lichfield, standing smartly to attention before the Controller's desk.

He had slipped into his new role with relative ease and found his comrades generally easy going and friendly, many of them ex-Terramarines like himself. Nevertheless, his new Commanders still seemed happier to assign him solitary duty, such as this information gathering and delivering exercise, rather than teamwork. Perhaps they were just being cautious? Martin suspected the real reason lay in a more physical source, one that stood just behind the Controller.

"He's late. Does that prove to you how much he really cares about all this?" spat Loadra vehemently. He strode away from behind the Controller's chair and turned on the thoughtful man who sat there. "I suspect treachery in this."

The Controller sighed. Perhaps, in the final analysis, Loadra would prove to be too difficult a case to turn around. Perhaps it would be easier just to eliminate him.

He swivelled his chair away from his religious advisor in case his expression revealed his dark thoughts.

"He is not late, Loadra, he is simply arriving after us. There was never any time set for our arrival, only for the signing, and that doesn't take place until tomorrow."

Loadra wanted to shout of the obscenity that was Aks and its bastardised religion, but he held back. He knew from previous encounters that there was no convincing the Controller on this basic issue. Instead, he turned his thoughts to another outrage, another source of anger and dismay.

"Why are we signing this damned treaty here, on 'Armistice'? Why Stain? It's an ex-colony world, allied, surely, with Aks. We are handing ourselves over to our enemies."

"You know the reasons, Loadra. If you choose to ignore them and twist the truth, that's something for your own conscience. Stain is neutral. She was one of the earliest colony worlds to achieve independence and our relationship with her has always been good. And she has never allied herself with Aks. She has remained strictly neutral throughout this bloody war."

"Aks should have been brought to one of our loyal worlds."

The Controller snorted in disgust. "Aks would never have agreed to such a thing, any more than we would have agreed to travel to a world supportive of Aks."

He turned his chair back to face Loadra.

"I can't decide whether you're just stupid or plotting something more devious with this constant complaining and feeble attempts at undermining the peace process."

Loadra reacted as if he had been slapped in the face. He stepped backwards and glanced towards Martin, who still stood to attention by the door to the Controller's cabin.

"Controller, I am shocked that you would suggest such a thing." Loadra bowed his head. "I am always your loyal servant and advisor."

Martin almost laughed. The man was so theatrical.

The Controller seemed to notice Martin for the first time since he had relayed the message. He waved a loose hand towards him.

"You may go. Inform me as soon as the Leader's ship is sighted."

Martin saluted, turned on his heel and marched out of the door. As it slid shut behind him he could hear the conversation start up again, the Controller's accusatory tones, Loadra's pleading obedience, sickening in what Martin saw as its fake loyalty. Surely the Controller could see through such thin and obvious acts? Then why was Loadra still his religious advisor? Why was he still in such an influential government position?

As he headed back towards the barrack quarters, walking now rather than marching, he wondered at how his attitudes had changed in such a short time. Loadra, the High Priest, had always been such a figure of authority and power, demanding respect from those under him. When Martin first joined the army he had been in awe of the man, in awe of the religion he preached so powerfully and with such emotion. Now there was doubt. He saw Loadra as little more than a scheming, lying, manipulative politician, and the religion that he had believed in for so long now continually showed its weaknesses and its uglier aspects. It was not that he doubted Larn, but he doubted those who represented Larn in this world. Nevertheless, he still believed in the Controller, and he believed that this treaty was right and necessary.

He was sick of killing people. At least the Controller seemed to share the horror of the ordinary soldier, the ordinary people, at the slaughter, whereas Loadra... well, Loadra seemed to cling relentlessly to the jihad philosophy, the holy war, that all Earthmen and women were indoctrinated in from early school days. To Martin the jihad was no more. There was no holy war, just bloody, murderous,
meaningless
war that bred slaughter and barbarism on all sides. They were told so much about the atrocities perpetrated by Aksian soldiers, but he had witnessed some of those the Earth army was guilty of. There could be no good side or bad side in war, only your side and their side, and one was a bad as the other.