The Szuiltan Alliance (The Szuiltan Trilogy) (33 page)

In the months since Lichfield's appointment by the Controller, he had made every effort to ignore the Lieutenant and treat him like the piece of furniture he was.

"I have no problem with it."

"It has been suggested that perhaps your previous personal involvement with Lichfield could be a liability to us in our negotiations with Reagold's representative."

Loadra glanced at the other two priests, silent but gloating.
They will pay for this!

"Lieutenant Lichfield is a soldier and I treat him like any other soldier in that position. When he is there I ignore him. When he is not I don't miss him. I don't believe my judgement or skill is in any way impaired by his presence. Those who suggest otherwise do not
truly
know me."

"But surely the humiliation caused you by the appointment of this Lichfield as a member of the Controller's personal guard is compounded by this latest appointment?" said Helione.

"Some might see it so," answered Loadra, his voice calm, in control, with no hint of the anger that began to seethe inside.
Now they join the fray themselves
, he thought.
Their confidence borders on arrogance, unless there are others in the Council who think likewise?

"How do
you
see it? Don't you feel humiliated all over again?" This time it was Conia who spoke, the slight whine in his voice irritating to Loadra’s ears, as always.

"You keep using the word 'humiliated', yet I never felt that way. I was angry, certainly, that the mutinous Lichfield should be promoted when I requested him, at the very least, dishonourably discharged, and I have no doubt that the Controller's intention
was
to humiliate me, but I found it little more than a mild irritant, a slight loss of face. Nothing more."

Perhaps not the complete truth, but close enough, and the alterations suite my needs.

"Perhaps we can return to the subject of this recent appointment?" said Zeina, and Loadra thought he detected a note of annoyance in his voice.

So, the Leader of the Council dislikes the interruptions from these other two. Interesting and potentially useful.

"The area of concern is twofold," continued Zeina. "First, your reaction and ability in the face of the situation, and second, what wider implications there might be."

Loadra nodded an acknowledgment towards Zeina.
Let him know I understand his anger at these others and that I agree with him.

"I have already described my reaction, and I don't believe my ability is in any way impaired by Lichfield's presence." Loadra's voice was low, generating a sense of calm in the room. The tension that had been building was stripped away by the control in his tone. He was determined to appear above any personal likes and dislikes that may be involved in this confrontation. He held the most senior position a High Priest could hold, barring Leader of the Council, and he would show how such a person should behave, with dignity and composure.

"And what of the general implications of this appointment? What does it tell us about the Controller and his motives?" Zeina's voice imitated the tone of Loadra's, two senior High Priests radiating calm and control.

Let Helione and Conia reflect on our similarity
, thought Loadra gloatingly,
the unspoken bond between holders of high office.

"The Controller obviously sought to cause me further loss of face, and perhaps to push me into an ill considered reaction. He has failed on both counts."

"Is Lichfield spying for the Controller?"

Loadra smiled, pleased at how this conversation had turned into a two-hander, excluding Helione and Conia as if they were beneath consideration.

"He is undoubtedly reporting back, it would be unthinkable if he didn't, but I don't believe him to be a spy in the sense you mean. His reports will be from simple observation. Lichfield is a soldier, a
uniformed
soldier, and from what my sources tell me, he holds the dislike of clandestine operations that many of his kind do. I think it highly unlikely that he would involve himself in any such arrangements."

"I agree. My sources tell me the same."

His
sources? For a moment Loadra was surprised, but then he allowed himself a small metaphorical shrug of the shoulders. Of course Zeina would have his own spies, both within the priesthood and the Controller's government.

"And you assure me," continued Zeina, leaning towards Loadra to emphasise the importance of his words, "That you are in complete control of yourself where this Lichfield is concerned? That you harbour no grudges, no desire to harm or discredit him in any way? Such moves would seriously impair your usefulness to us."

"I am aware of that, and I assure you there are no such thoughts in my head. Lichfield does not concern me." A slight bending of the truth, but not even Zeina's trained eyes and mind would be able to detect it beneath the veneer of sincerity he generated.

"I knew as much, Loadra, but I needed to hear you say it." Zeina turned to the others. "I am satisfied. Thank you for your concerns, they have been noted and I hope this resolution allays your fears. You may go."

The dismissal was abrupt and almost impolite. Zeina was making his own feelings on the accusations raised against Loadra obvious. Helione and Conia were not in a favourable position.

The two priests mumbled farewells and left the room quickly and quietly.

"I apologise for all that, Loadra, but they had followed the correct channels for expressing a concern. I had to follow it up so as to lay it to rest."

"I understand Zeina. I am glad that you're satisfied with my answers," said Loadra, taking another sip of his coffee, this time savouring the flavour, the aroma.

"I never doubted you old friend," said Zeina. "We have been on the Council for a long time, you and I. Too long to allow ambitious young priests to come between us with silly questions." Zeina paused, took a drink of his coffee. "However, while you're here, there are some other questions that I would value your thoughts on."

"Certainly," said Loadra, relaxing back into the leather chair, his muscles finally losing the tension that he had been largely unaware of.

"We have received some information that suggest the Szuiltans and the Aksians are planning something big, something more than the normal skirmishes in space."

"Do your sources suggest what kind of something?"

"One source suggests they will invade Earth itself."

"Preposterous!" snorted Loadra. "They wouldn't dare. It is strictly forbidden."

"I agree. I feel they will step up the attacks on our merchant vessels en-route to Sellit with trade. They will try to do to us economically what they have failed to do militarily."

"Sellit has never shied away from sending its traders into war zones. I doubt they could seriously hurt us."

"What if they destroyed Sellit?"

Loadra sat forward, considering the idea carefully.

"Surely they wouldn't. Sellit is neutral. Attacking a neutral planet like that would have all kinds of repercussions throughout the free and colonial worlds."

"Nevertheless, Leader Lane has made an alliance with these aliens for some reason. He is too power hungry to just hand it over. And their priesthood makes no noise about these new arrivals."

"The Aksian priesthood does as its Leader commands. They have no individual rule, nothing away from the government."

"We have contacted Sellit with our fears, just in case, although most of the Council are in general agreement with your thoughts."

Both sipped their coffee, allowing the soothing effects of the drink to take effect. Loadra put into words what both of them were thinking.

"I can't see this new alliance being any sort of real threat to us."

Chapter 50

Steve woke to a strange scrabbling noise at his ear. He opened one eye, stared for a moment at the ten legged Aksian insect wandering aimlessly nearby, and squashed it with the flat of his hand.

I feel terrible!

He rolled onto his back, his head screaming against the movement, and his foot kicked one of the two empty MBP bottles that lay about him. His stomach threatened to empty its contents and he clasped a hand over his mouth until the threat receded. There was not much in the way of food in there, but what there was he wanted to keep.

Why do I do it? Every morning for, what, five weeks? Feeling like shit. Just about surviving until the next bottle is brought to me.

They had kept him well supplied, although he suspected their motives were more to keep him out the way than any form of friendship or kindness.

As his eyes adjusted, painfully, to the semi-gloom he took note of the activity around him. The rebels were preparing for another raid. He could see them checking weapons, smell the oil and grease used for maintenance, almost taste the atmosphere of excitement and fear. They all knew the risk of never coming back. They all faced the uncertainty, the threat of it all ending for them in just a few hours' time. All except him. He had never been on a raid, never been asked and never volunteered. He was there on sufferance. He was there because he had arrived with a Trading Inner Council agent. He was there because he was the town drunk, and every town, even the nomadic town-like community of the rebels, should have their object of ridicule and disgust.

Perhaps I feel like shit because I am shit? I don't belong here. I'm a trader! I'm not an agent or a rebel, just a trader. I should be on my ship, trading, buying, selling.

"What the fuck am I doing here?" he mumbled, his voice hoarse, his words cracked by the foul tasting dryness in his mouth.

A young girl, barely in her mid-teens, glanced up from where she was cleaning an old but reliable automatic handgun. She did not speak, but her eyes made Steve turn away. Her thoughts were clear.
I don't know either, and I don't care.

He had made an effort. He assured himself that he had tried. After the fiasco at the spaceport, the bloodbath that had lost a lot of popular support for the rebels, when he had woken from his unconsciousness, having been carried to safety by the T.I.C. agent woman, Ursa, he had tried to join them, tried to become one of them. He was rebellious by nature, always looking to buck authority, and there was a hatred within him at that early stage, a hatred for the Aksian government who had tried to kill him at the spaceport, and a hatred for the Szuiltans they seemed determined to ally themselves with, the Szuiltans who were implicated in Jack's murder. It had seemed natural that he would join the rebels, natural until that first raid.

The raid had gone smoothly. He had been frightened, but no more than many of those around him. It had seemed a simple objective, to break into local shops at night, steal the provisions they needed, and at first it had gone smoothly. But then the alarm had been tripped, the security had arrived, the shooting had started. Steve had never fired a gun in anger in his life. He had trained on the firing range, a normal part of growing up for an apprentice trader, but he had never had to shoot at anyone. He had frozen. A young man, veteran of many such raids, had been shot dead near him and he had never rid himself of the thought that he might have saved him. He had seen the man who pulled the trigger. Perhaps he could have fired first?

He pushed himself up on his elbows, fighting the nauseating swirling of his head.

Why do my hangovers feel so much worse now than they used to? Am I getting old, or is it the circumstances? Do I really care?

"I'm never going to drink again." He belched, only just keeping down the vomit that rose in his throat.

This time the girl spoke. "You say that every morning, and every night your face is in those bottles again. Why don't you just keep quiet, crawl into a corner and die or something?"

At one time, Steve would have railed against such words, snapped back with some rich insult or witty line. Now he just belched a second time and failed in his battle against the vomit, turning onto his side and spraying the crushed carcass of the insect he had killed.

He heard the girl moving away from him.

I don't blame you. I don't blame you at all.

He coughed, feeling the burning in his throat, spitting indefinable bits onto the floor.

I never considered myself a drunk
, he thought through the sickening haze, the broiling cloud that alcohol smothered his mind with.
A heavy drinker, yes, but never a drunk. Larn forgive me, that's what I've become! Perhaps the girl was right? Perhaps I should just crawl away somewhere and die.

He forced himself into a sitting position, not noticing as his hand splashed into the pool of vomit at his side. He needed some water, something to wash the taste from his mouth, ease the acid burn of his retching. He was aware he needed to wash too, but that was secondary. Somewhere there was a basin, a bathroom perhaps.

Where are we today? I can't remember getting here. I don't know where we are.

His surroundings, what he could see of them through the gloom and the hangover, seemed to suggest a cellar. The walls were plain brick, the floor stone. Broken shelves stood against one wall and there were ghostly prints on the adjacent brick where a workman's tools had formed a barrier against dust and grime. He could make out a suggestion of steps at the far end of the room and finally, not too far from him, a washbasin with a small cracked mirror above it. It was stained almost black and a steady drip splashed monotonously onto the stone floor, the water seeping into cracks, no doubt undermining the foundations of the building.

He stumbled to his feet, almost fell, regained his balance and slowly walked to the basin. He turned the taps, splashed water onto his face, into his mouth, and noticed, for the first time, a door alongside the basin, leading to a small alcove of a room, and the arguing voices within.

"All you're doing is existing from day to day and scoring the odd point off the government with a raid on nonessential government subsidiaries," snapped Ursa, her patience wearing increasingly thin as the discussion continued.