Liberation of Worlds

By Neil Davies

One year on from the invasion of Earth and the Szuiltans are in control, effectively ruling both Earth and Aks. Martin Lichfield is leader of the largest rebel group on Earth. Steve Drake and Ursa Mirram are on the run on Aks. The traders of Sellit are preparing their navy for war and searching the galaxies for the legendary Miar Shrilor. Humanity is getting ready to fight back, but will it be too late as the Szuiltans show signs of evolving and their President instigates plans for the future survival of the Szuiltan race.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neil Davies
• Release date: Feb 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310530227

Neil Davies

I am fifty two years old and I have Parkinsons disease. This affects my mobility quite a lot but not my mind . I write my poetry as a way of keeping my sense of humour alive.I have been writing for quite a few years and my poems range from humourous things my daughters and granddaugher have said to obscene jokes transfered into rhyme and the meaning of life .I hope you enjoy your purchase. Please comment on my verses I would love to hear from you.Neil

Book preview

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

Earth Controller, he liked the sound of it. Just over a year ago he had been the Commander of a Szuiltan battle cruiser, poised above the Palace, disgorging troops onto the already defeated Earthmen below. Now he was Earth Controller.

He oozed over the chair, the desk, not bothering to levitate, preferring the feel of solid human objects against his surface. He flowed onto the window, sensing the change in texture, revelling in the variety.

On Szuilta, everything is the same: smooth, functional, designed for our use. Here it's so different. Humans have such strange design sense, such exciting use of materials. It may be difficult to operate, but it all feels so wonderful!

He thought of his crew, still inside the battle cruiser that had now settled in the natural forest, destroying miles of foliage in the process, flattening trees, killing animals. He felt a momentary sensation of displeasure at that. He was certain that the forest would provide even more textures, even more strange feelings, but what was left was protected by the auto-security systems aboard the cruiser. He could not venture there without first notifying the ship's crew, and that would take away the privacy he needed to truly enjoy these new sensations, these new experiences.

These things are private to me.

He found the concept strange, perhaps even frightening. Fear. It was one of many emotion he had never experienced.

Yes. Emotions. That's what these sensations are. Real emotions. How strange!

He became aware of a flickering, a pulsing light on the desk. Someone waited outside to see him.

Duncan. Only my Personal Advisor would be allowed to approach the door.

He slithered off the glass of the window and levitated to the desk, a slight swelling on his right side lengthening into an appendage some two feet long. The end shimmered into a rough semblance of the fingers on a human hand. One 'finger' jabbed the Open button on the desk.

Duncan Jameson was a small man in his mid thirties, timid and submissive in nature. He entered the Controller's office nervously. His lank black hair hung about his head, almost hiding eyes that shifted, darting here and there. Every now and then he would itch idly at a scar on his left forearm, or rub a finger over liver spots on the back of his hands, or squeeze the fingers of one hand with those of the other. He was seldom completely still.

The Controller knew this man had been a lowly clerk in the previous Controller's offices, and he knew how he had quickly offered his services to the conquerors of his planet. It had been decided to use him, although they knew him to be untrustworthy and a coward.

Controller, said Duncan as he entered. I await your instructions for the anniversary celebrations.

Even the voice is weak, thought the Controller. Oily. Reeking of betrayal and scheming.

The Controller pulsated for a moment and the globe, which had been lying quiescent in a corner, now rose into the air, squirming within the confines of its form. It spoke.

Yes, the celebrations. I trust all the preparations for the street parties are completed? We want the people of Earth to enjoy the anniversary of their subjugation.

And what of the other matter, Controller? What of the rebels in the mountains?

Why is he so eager that we mount an operation against these rebels? Does he fear that they would kill him if they were ever successful? He is certainly a traitor to his race.

I have not decided about the rebels yet, Duncan. They do not bother us. The most they do is steal food from small shops and market traders. They do not pose a threat to our new administration.

But they may turn at any moment...

Enough! snapped the Controller, the translator globe distorting with the venom in the word. I have said we will do nothing for the moment and that is the end of the matter.

It is surely more than the fear of reprisal. I shall instigate investigations as soon as possible, after the celebrations.

What of the priesthood? asked the Controller.

The Larnian priesthood was eradicated along with the Earth military after the invasion, Controller, said Duncan.

Please, Duncan, do not treat me like a fool. The globe floated closer to the human advisor as the Controller pulsated more rapidly.

Duncan recognised the signs of increased agitation, perhaps even annoyance, from his Szuiltan master and sought to placate him.

I assure you I intended no such thing, Controller. I was simply stating the facts...

"The facts that we tell the populace, Duncan, but I want the real truth. I know that, just as there were soldiers who escaped our detection, there were priests who also escaped."

The globe drifted closer to the window again and the Controller's pulsating slowed to its normal, gentle speed.

I know, continued the Controller, that the soldiers are no worry. Soldiers are paid to do a job. Take that pay away and most, if not all, will cease being soldiers. The priesthood, however, is a different matter altogether. They are fanatical men and women who follow their belief through conviction. I have no doubt that they continue to meet, in secret. That they hold their services, practise their religion.

There are rumours, conceded Duncan.

What is their strength? That is what I need to know. What is their strength and what support do they have from the populace?

I am not sure, Controller. I will speak to my contacts and see what they can discover.

Contacts, thought the Controller. He means spies, but he will never say it.

Duncan paused, turned to leave, paused again.

What is it Duncan? You seem to have something else to say.

Duncan turned back and swallowed hard.

Well, I know it's not my place, but...

He is sweating! I can actually see the sweat on his forehead. Fascinating how human secretions betray their inner emotions.

The priesthood remains strong, it’s true. But perhaps one reason is that two of their most eminent High Priests are still alive, in captivity. They remain an inspiration to those still free. Duncan swallowed nervously. I have heard it said that, in their private services, they pray for the release of these High Priests.

I see, said the Controller, the globe succeeding in expressing thoughtfulness. Each update to the Operating System brought more sophistication. "Obviously your spies, sorry, contacts, have already been busy. Are you suggesting I order the execution of these High Priests?"

Duncan said nothing. He scratched at the scar on his arm with renewed vigour, swapped to squeezing his fingers, his eyes always downcast.

He is afraid to say it, but the answer is yes. Was he a follower of the Larnian faith before he was my advisor? I must ask him sometime, but now would not be right.

Prepare my transport, Duncan. We shall visit these High Priests and then we shall see.

He floated back towards the window, looking longingly out to the remains of the forest, wondering for a moment about the strange new sensations he seemed to experience at the view. A shuffling of human feet behind him, anxious, perhaps even frightened, focussed his concentration back on the subject of the captive religious leaders.

Remind me of their names, Duncan.

Duncan coughed, looked up momentarily from the floor.

High Priests Zeina and Loadra, Controller.

The Floating Prison Fortress PC439 was less than an hour by the Controller's car, a small tram-like shuttle that travelled a respectable two feet off the ground, high enough to avoid small obstacles and rough roads, low enough not to have to worry about air traffic clearance. As dawn broke over the mass of water, still known locally as the Irish Sea, the car skimmed over the Rees Bridge into what had once been High Priest Loadra's official residence. It now served as barracks for the twelve thousand or so Bosen and Aksian troops stationed there.

The Fortress was anchored off the coast, clearly visible from the bridge as a great grey ghost rising out of the morning mist, sharp and angular, as violent in its design as the regime within was rumoured to have been. It had not always been anchored there. Until the invasion it sat mid-Pacific, far from any prying eyes. Orders from the new Controller had brought it to its new home. Szuiltans preferred their prisoners nearby.

Tell me again the colloquial name for this Fortress, said the Controller, floating centrally in the car, oblivious to acceleration and deceleration and the occasional swing round a bend.

"Iron Island, Controller," said Duncan, glancing nervously at the four Bosens seated at the rear.

The globe, undulating just above Duncan's head, seemed to snort.

But it is not made of Iron, nor is it an island.

The Szuiltan rolled until Duncan had the conviction it was facing him.

I will never fully understand the human mind, said the globe, translating the Controller's thoughts.

The car approached Iron Island safely, skipping over a sea that was flat and calm, courtesy of local weather control. Duncan, watching out of the front window, saw the edifice for the first time and felt a shudder trickle down his spine. It was as ugly, ghost-like and violent close up as it had been partially obscured by the mist. Most of it was low, square, squat, but spires and towers thrust upwards at random intervals, harsh and jagged.

They were guided to the Fortress and into a secure parking area beneath the surface, a great empty area, dark and cold, damp. Waiting for them was the Szuiltan governor and his party of six Bosens.

Formalities were dispensed with quickly. Duncan had realised quite early in his new position that the Szuiltans, while having a very definite hierarchical and formal culture, were nevertheless principally a functional race.

He followed the now combined party as they entered a lift and rose at a stomach churning speed into the belly of the manmade monster. For a moment he marvelled at himself, at the way he coped with being the only human in the group, at the way the cloying odour of so many Bosens in an enclosed space did not cause him to turn and vomit. Not so long ago these things would have been a matter of great will power. Now, although they still required a conscious effort, they came easily.

I suppose man is capable of almost anything with enough practice and the right motivation.

The practice had been forced upon him. The motivation was to stay alive.

He was vaguely aware that the two Szuiltans in the lift were talking in their strange, incomprehensible language. He found the sound unpleasant, his mind conjuring images of drowning men, gurgling their lives away in a desperate attempt to reach the surface. The apparent liquidity of the Szuiltans only added to the image and he shuddered.

Are you cold? said the globe by the Controller's undulating form.

N...n...no, stammered Duncan, feeling a panic and guilt that reminded him of his compulsory military service.

Yes, this is like the army. They order. I obey. If I don't follow the rules, I will be punished. Why didn't I control that shiver?

You seemed cold just then. Please ensure that you do not fall ill. I have need of you in the days to come.

Yes Controller, said Duncan, relieved. He had been so afraid that he would be asked to explain his shiver, and he knew he could not lie to the Controller.

The human seems nervous, perhaps unstable, said the Szuiltan governor, speaking in their native tongue, a tongue whose origin in a Reagold research laboratory was all but obliterated by numerous modifications and mutations.

He is the nervous type, agreed the Controller. However, I find him useful to have around. The humans I have to deal with seem more comfortable if I have a member of their race on my staff.

Perhaps you should find another human then? This one still seems unreliable.

In time I will. But for now he suits my purpose. He may be a little unreliable, but he is pliable without any great effort, and I do not feel he is in any way a danger to me or our plans.

The governor did not answer, silently leading the group out of the lift as the doors slid open.

Duncan had expected them to head for the governor's office. Instead, they made straight for the maximum-security cells.

I should have realised, he thought with some bitterness. Functional as always. No thought for luxuries or niceties. Just work.

He noted the swirling 'R' of the Reagold Corporation on the security 6 ruids they passed in the corridor. He could not help but admire a corporation who would not let the small matter of a planetary invasion and take-over interfere with a pre-formed marketing strategy. They had been determined to break the Earth market, and now it seemed they had succeeded.

Loadra and Zeina were both in meditation when the group entered their joint cell. Duncan was shocked at their gaunt appearance, both men dangerously undernourished, starved even, showing signs of weakness and sickness. They still wore their High Priest robes, but they were tattered and dirty. The smell was almost unbearable, overpowering the Bosen stink with ease. A smell of urine and faeces. It was obvious that the Szuiltans did not adhere to the previous regime's codes of treatment and sanitation in its prisons.

I am looking for something memorable to round off the anniversary celebrations, said the Szuiltan Controller to the governor. I thought perhaps that these two might provide an interesting diversion?

The Lord Larn will strike down the abominations before me, said Zeina suddenly, his eyes wide, staring. The alien spawn of the devil will be destroyed by the one true god!

Does he say such things often? asked the Controller, oozing closer to Zeina.

Yes, said the governor. The other one says nothing, but this one is seldom quiet. We ignore him. It seems the simplest thing to do.

And you, shouted Zeina, pointing directly at Duncan. You traitor, bastard of the devil's spawn, defiler of all that is holy, slave to abomination! You shall suffer for all eternity in a terrifying hell of Larn's own choosing!

Duncan stepped back, unnerved by the High Priest's outburst. He had never been a fanatical believer, but, like most Earthmen, he had a basic belief and a genuine respect for the priesthood. Zeina's words frightened him.

He seems to have upset your human, said the governor, intrigued by the observation.

Yes. The Controller flowed around the High Priest. I noted the effect. It seems to me that there would be a danger in allowing this man a public airing of his rantings. If he had a similar effect on a larger scale, it could cause some problems.

He seems to serve little purpose in that case, said the governor. There is no point in keeping him locked up in here.

I agree, said the Controller. May I?

Certainly. The governor backed away, as did the Bosens in the room.

Duncan's eyes darted uncertainly. What was happening? What had they been saying?

The Szuiltan Controller erupted, a sudden flow of viscous, semi-liquid splashing into High Priest Zeina's face. It spread, solidifying, oozing over his head, his shoulders, so rapidly that the movement was barely visible.

Duncan screamed, involuntarily, clamping his hand over his mouth to prevent a further outburst.

What is he doing? He's killing him! Larn forgive me, but there's nothing I can do.

He looked towards the other High Priest, but Loadra's eyes were closed and his meditation seemed, if anything, deeper than before. If he knew what was happening, he refused to acknowledge it.

In seconds, Zeina's struggles ceased and he slumped to the floor, completely encased in the Szuiltan Controller's gelatinous form.

Duncan stepped closer, thinking the horror was, at last, finished. He was mesmerised by Zeina's dead body, quite visible through the stretched, translucent form of the Controller. Then, as he watched, the High Priest's face seemed to de-focus, become fuzzy, making it difficult to distinguish the individual features. Duncan rubbed his eyes, looked again, but it was no illusion. Zeina's face was melting, slowly perhaps, but undoubtedly melting, globules of flesh dripping, as he watched, down onto the priestly robes. He tried to look away but found he could not. The rest of the body shrivelled, collapsing in on itself.

Duncan finally turned and vomited in the corner of the cell as the Szuiltan Controller's digestive juices continued their work.

CHAPTER 2

You have disappointed me Jason, said Braben, sitting forward in his chair, speaking quietly into the communicator. There was no visual. The call was private and scrambled.

Jason Rawlings, sitting among the rubble of a building in one of the outer suburbs of Akasian, took a deep breath to calm his nerves. It was necessary to be cautious with Braben. The man had influence and power. He glanced around the dark street, towards the opening of the half-ruin that was the home of his particular rebel group for the night. No one in sight. It was safe to talk.

I'm sorry sir. He swallowed, coughed to clear his throat. I really have tried, but things got messy here after the Szuiltans took over.

A whole year, Jason. One whole year. Yet Drake is still alive.

Agent Mirram and Drake disappeared in the night. Jason spoke quickly, aware he was rushing his words but unable to control the nerve induced babble. They left me and the other two without a word. I had no warning or I would have followed.

He paused. There was no response from the communicator. Perhaps he needed to explain further?

Mirram didn’t like me, maybe didn’t trust me. Plus, I think this John character forced things a bit. The jealous type. Mirram and Drake were spending more and more time together. He felt so hot, although the night had seemed pleasantly cool when he stepped out into it. I've tried to find out where they went. That’s why I left the other two and started moving round the various rebel groups. But they're so tight on security here, so paranoid about traitors...

Stop, said Braben, his voice sharp and angry even through the distortion of the communicator.

In his private quarters on Sellit, Braben leaned back into his chair and took the offered glass from Baxter. He closed his eyes for a moment, tried to relax. The delay had seemed unimportant at first, but now...

I understand the problems Jason. His voice was calm, controlled. There was nothing to be gained from losing his temper with this Agent. I have not pursued this matter earlier because the initial need for my orders seemed to have abated. However, circumstances have changed once again and I need you to carry out my instructions, immediately.

"I don't even know where Drake is right now, said Jason. He could be with any of the groups scattered around, or they could be out on their own somewhere."

I don't care about the difficulties Agent Rawlings, said Braben, his tone once again sharp, officious. It was your failure to carry out my order originally that has led you to these difficulties. I suggest you solve them and complete your mission before I have to send someone else to do it for you.

Jason wiped a hand over his face, slick with sweat. The meaning in Braben's words was clear. If he sent another Agent to do the job, that job would include the elimination of him too.

Yes sir. I will see to it immediately. This time Drake will die, I promise.

Braben clicked the communicator off without another word.

Do you think he'll do it? asked Baxter, taking the seat opposite Braben.

All I'm certain of is that he'll try. Have another Agent lined up, just in case. Chivers is beginning to kick up a fuss again, pushing for a reopening of this Drake matter. If the Council agree, I don't want Drake around to answer questions.

What about Agent Mirram? said Baxter. It would seem that she and this Drake are together. What if she tries to interfere?

Braben took a drink, thought for a moment.

Who does she report to?

As far as we're aware, she doesn't report directly to anyone, said Baxter. She lost her own equipment when she went on the run. Any communications have been either through Agent Rawlings or through contacts with the rebel leaders.

"Good. I don't want Chivers getting to talk to her either."

Do we eliminate her too?

No. Braben took another drink, savouring the flavour, the slight buzz in his head that told him it was beginning to take effect, gently soothing his mind towards more pleasant thoughts. She doesn't know anything. Her death would create more problems than it would solve.

But if she should get in the way?

Braben shrugged. Then there is no alternative.

There was definitely a two-way communication from Councillor Braben's room, Councillor.

Chivers looked at the young man who spoke, lifting a finger to her scar. It ached today. A sure sign of stress.

Anything else?

The man shook his head. Sorry Councillor. It was scrambled, not one of our standard scramblers. I can't tell you what they said or even who was talking...

But you're certain there was a two-way conversation via a scrambled communicator from Councillor Braben's room just now?

Without any doubt Councillor.

Chivers tried to relax. She sat on a tall stool at a long window in her private quarters, overlooking the Central Park of Sellit, the only area of concentrated greenery on the planet. The location was a sign of the respect and honour she received for her years of service, first as a trader, then as a Councillor. She turned to look at the young comms-specialist once again,