Partisan of Pelgraff (The Yrden Chronicles Book 7)

By D.A. Boulter

Rodney Fenton knows when to let things be, to not complain. His wife, Brenda, apparently did not.

When their Damarg Overloards on planet Pelgraff come to pick up Rodney for something Brenda has done, the one-time collaborator goes on the run using a dead man's name. He ends up with the very Resistance people whose ideology he hates, including the wife of the man whose name he now wears.

Death from either side seems a not unlikely end, so Rodney must pick his way through the minefield of an insurrection, hoping that his next mistake won't be his last one. If fortunate, he will escape from both sides, still living. If not, well, death isn't the worst that could happen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.A. Boulter
• Release date: Jul 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215505328

Book preview

Partisan of Pelgraff

(Book 7 of the Yrden Chronicles)

D.A. Boulter (c) 2021

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events are fictitious and any similarity to people, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright (2020) by D. A. Boulter, all rights reserved

Cover Design by D.A. Boulter

Image: by Daxiao_Productions (from Depositphotos.com)

Other Smashwords books by D. A. Boulter: D.A. Boulter's Smashwords Page

Courtesan

Pilton's Moon / Vengeance Is Mine

The Steadfasting

Prey

Enemy of Korgan

Ghost Fleet

In The Company of Cowards

A Throne At Stake

Trading for the Stars (The Yrden Chronicles Book 1)

Trading for a Dream (The Yrden Chronicles Book2)

One Trade Too Many (The Yrden Chronicles Book 3)

Trading for War (The Yrden Chronicles Book 4)

Pelgraff (The Yrden Chronicles Book 5)

Trading In Secrets (The Yrden Chronicles Book 6)

D.A. Boulter’s blog: http://daboulter.blogspot.ca/

D.A. Boulter can be contacted at: mailto:[e-mail]

CHAPTER 1

Rodney Fenton awoke to an all-too-familiar sound in the street – that of a door being kicked open. Harsh Damargian voices shouting in Pagayat ordered the occupants of the row house onto the street. In his mind, he cursed the Yrdens for bringing trouble from the stars to Pelgraff. If they had only left well enough alone.

Beside him, his wife Brenda stirred. He put a hand out to stop her from leaving the bed, but she brushed it aside and rose.

It won’t do any good, he said. And if they see you watching, they may come here. Just let it be.

These are our neighbours, our friends, Brenda replied. And you don’t even want to know what will become of them?

Rodney already knew what would become of them – and why. They had disobeyed the edicts of their Damarg overlords. They had foolishly shown defiance, or lack of respect, or one of a dozen other things that would have the State Police coming to the door at the crack of dawn.

They’ve rousted the Wilburs, Brenda whispered, but loud enough for him to hear the anguish in her voice. Why she bothered to whisper, Rodney didn’t know. The Damargs couldn’t hear her even if she spoke in her normal tones – not with the window closed.

Come back to bed. You’re doing yourself – and us – no good by standing there, where any might see.

Yes, stay away from the windows. Comply with all requests. Smile at those who now made the rules on Pelgraff. Show deference. And, above all, have nothing to do with the Resistance. Don’t read their pamphlets, ignore their graffiti, say nothing that would have anyone think that you harboured even the veriest of warm thoughts towards them.

Do that, and you could live a comfortable life. Maybe not as comfortable as before the Damargs had come to the planet, but one with enough freedoms that you could pretend that you lived in normal times.

My Heart! Brenda exclaimed in horror. They’ve lined Fred and his son up against the wall and—

The rattle of rifle-fire interrupted her. Rodney heard a choked sob, and wondered why she put herself through the wringer every time something like this happened. Old Granny Wilbur, Tammy – Fred’s wife – and his two young daughters would lose their housing. They would be sent on the 4:30 train from Grensel to the resort town of Phashing, where, after the two hour and thirteen minute ride, their Damarg guards would take them off and enter them into the Phashing camp, where they would work to atone for the sins of Fred and Andrew.

Unless, of course, one or more of those four had informed the Damargs of the sins of their men. In that case, the Damargs would quietly move the family to another city or town where no one would know them, and there they would re-enter society, as ears of the Regime.

How can you just lie in bed? Brenda asked. Those –

Hey! he interrupted, alarmed. Not even in our own bedroom!

She glared at him, but revised her comment. Those … Damargs … are putting Granny Wilbur, Tammy, and the girls into a truck. Have you no feelings?

And what good are my feelings? He flung the blanket and sheet from him. He would get no more sleep this morning. What good would it do for me to open the window and shout invective down? What good will it do for our family if I complain at work about the … uh … actions—

Brutality! she snarled.

"Okay, about the alleged brutality that I witness? He shook his head as he drew on his pants. Then he put just a modicum of anger into his voice. Do you know what good it would do? It would cause what you have just seen to happen again, but at this address. You and Thomas would take the 4:30 to Phashing and everything we’ve worked for would come crashing down. Our belongings would get dumped into the street for others to pick through. Our furniture – including the dresser that your father lovingly crafted for you – would become the furniture of the next family to occupy this house."

They heard a crash from the street. He didn’t have to go to the window to know what caused it. The Damargs had begun throwing belongings out the front windows.

Those poor people, Brenda sobbed.

You want to do ‘those poor people’ a favour? Rodney asked. Get out there as soon as the police leave. Find the Wilburs’ most precious stuff and bring it here. Maybe one day you’ll be able to return it to them.

She rounded on him, just like he knew she would.

What kind of person have you become?

It rolled off him like an errant falling leaf landing on a rail when the wind blew.

The practical kind. He began buttoning his shirt.

Look at that!

Sighing, Rodney walked over to the window and glanced out. He had seen it all before. The Wilburs’ belongings lay in piles on the sidewalk and street. The police filed out of the row house and entered their vehicle.

Better get down there, or you’ll miss the good stuff, Rodney said. He took a closer look.

See that ornamental box? I believe that came from the Jory house last month. Guess Fred and Tammy decided to keep it for Ms Jory, eh? Now, you can do the same. Ms Jory will, no doubt, thank you once you return it to her.

To his surprise, Brenda didn’t argue with him. Instead, she grabbed her robe.

You are right. Someone has to do something, and if I can return a memory, then it will be worth it.

She practically ran down the stairs, and beat the other neighbours to the strewn valuables and clothing of the latest occupants of 463 Estevan Street.

As they pecked through the piles like scavengers, Rodney smiled. He knew that someone watched, and it wouldn’t hurt his own status with the Overlords when it became known that his wife took part in the new custom of the day – no matter that Brenda had a very different reason than avarice for her actions. She merely did exactly as he had suggested.

Fred and Andrew had died because they supported the Resistance – probably belonged to the Resistance. Their public execution would deter others from that foolish endeavour. And, as traitors to the State, it seemed only proper that what they had be divided among more worthy citizens.

Rodney went down the stairs and began cooking his own breakfast. No help for it. If he didn’t do it, he would go hungry this day. His dutiful wife, being a good citizen of Grensel, had other duties to attend to.

Good morning, Dad.

Come get your breakfast, Thomas. He ruffled his son’s hair as the boy walked by him to sit at the table. Your mother has other things to take care of at the moment.

I heard the shots.

No, you didn’t. And, if anyone asks, you know nothing about it. You woke up, ate your breakfast, and went to school, just like any other day.

But, Dad, I heard—

A dream, he said, staring intently at his son. And if you actually did hear shots, then someone got what they had coming to them. Do you understand?

His son lowered his gaze to his plate. I understand.

Good. He ruffled Thomas’ hair again. When you get a little older, you will realize the necessity. And you will thank me for keeping you and your mother safe.

After Thomas had eaten breakfast with his father, the boy left for school. A few minutes later, Brenda came back into the house with the treasures she had saved – Ms Jory’s box among them.

I’m putting these things in the basement.

What did you get?

Photograph albums, Ms Jory’s box, Ms Wilbur’s wedding dress. The important things.

No money, of course. The Damargs would have seen to that. Nothing, in fact, that his family could use. Well, that was Brenda.

I’m off to work.

She didn’t even wish him a good day. Women, he suspected, rarely understood the difference between what they wanted and what was possible. He understood all too well.

* * *

Good morning, Tro Starren, Rodney greeted his Pagayan fellow worker. And how are you this beautiful day?

The sun shines, the harvest proceeds, the Tro Starren replied. His dark face showed no emotion, and Rodney wondered if that reflected Tro Starren’s character or if he merely schooled his face so no one could read it – not a bad habit in these times.

Ah, Tro Starren, the third member of their little triumvirate said. Could you give me a hand with a box?

Of course, Nate. Tro Starren flexed his fur-backed hands

Rodney grinned. The Pagayan would likely do all the work. Built much like Old Earth gorillas, a full-grown male Pagayan could easily lift and carry loads that would break all but the strongest and fittest of humans.

Nate came back in, smiling. A little late today, Rod?

A little. Trouble across the street this morning. Anything come up? Yes, he had arrived a little later than usual, but still twenty minutes early.

Actually, yes. Overseer Lanash would like to see you in about an hour.

For just an instant, Rodney froze. But, no, there could be nothing to it other than business. He would likely have some questions about scheduling.

Any idea on what subject? Rodney asked, as if it concerned him not at all. Any derailings lately?

Nope. Everything running about as smoothly as ever. Nate retook his seat, pulled out a file, and began perusing its contents.

Rodney looked bleakly down at his own files. He suspected that Nate knew exactly what Overseer Lanash wanted, but hoped that by sending him in unprepared, Rodney might fail to deliver, giving Nate an opportunity to shine – and perhaps replace Rodney sometime in the near future. Not likely.

He rose from his seat and walked over to the coolbox, pulled out a flask of cindra berry juice, and poured himself a glass.

On his way back to his seat, he covertly looked at the file that Nate studied. Extra rolling stock in reserve? Rodney almost laughed out loud. Knowing where every car and every engine was came with the job. He would not get caught out there.

The hour passed slowly. At five minutes to the hour, he rose and walked down the hall to Overseer Lanash’s office.

Come in, Tro Fenton, Lanash said in Pagayat. Sit.

Thank you, Overseer Lanash, Rodney replied in the same language. Few Damargs ever learned a human language and went out of their way to ensure that no humans learned Damargian. How might I be of service?

Lanash considered Rodney for a moment, drawing it out, trying to make the human uncomfortable. But Rodney had experienced this many times before, and he well knew his worth to the Damarg Regime – both here on Pelgraff and back in the Empire. He waited calmly for the Overseer to explain.

We have repaired the Grensel Food Services production line.

Excellent news. Rodney made the Damarg hand gesture for stupidity. Two dead – and for what? They stopped the line for two days. Idiots.

Four dead, Lanash corrected him.

Rodney presented a blank face. Let Lanash reveal his surprise when he would. Four? I had heard two. He gave forth with a small laugh. It does not make them any less the idiots.

Your neighbours, I believe, Lanash said.

Ah, that explains the police action this morning. Looks like Wilbur’s family is headed for Phashing on the 4:30.

If our investigation does not reveal that they gave knowing support, yes.

Any idea who might be my new neighbours? And he had just dismissed the Wilburs as if they held no importance to him – which they didn’t.

You have no sympathy? Lanash asked.

Why should I have? The civil war ended years ago. We must spend our energies rebuilding, not trying to change history. If these fools put in half as much effort trying to improve things rather than destroy them, everyone would be better off – and we would have four fewer burials this week.

Rodney smiled at the Damarg. But you have not brought me in to ask about my opinions – which you already know. So, how might I serve you?

Lanash bent his wrists and raised his two forefingers, then brought them down sharply, pointing at Rodney. Which meant that he had scored points.

The harvest goes well, and the Empire has indicated its pleasure. We need to ship more food off-planet, and you will need to adjust the train schedules accordingly – as well as ensure that the product reaches the spaceport.

Spaceport. Little more than a landing field. Not too much better than before the war, when only the Yrdens brought down trade goods and took up packaged food supplies. The Damargs had replaced the Yrdens, and not much had changed for the average Pelgraffen in that regard.

I foresee no problems. What amounts are we looking at, and what rate will the fleet require of me?

Lanash presented him with the file. He opened it and almost widened his eyes at the amount of foodstuffs leaving – including cindra berry juice, which the Damargs coveted.

Yes. That might require a few minor scheduling changes, but nothing that I can’t quickly accomplish. I’ll have the new schedules ready for your approval before we close for the day and ready to go into operation tomorrow.

Excellent.

But the look on Lanash’s face suggested that he knew something that Rodney did not. Slightly worried, Rodney returned to his office and desk.

This is what Overseer Lanash demands, he said to his two workmates. He outlined the capacity required and how that would affect the regular traffic. We’ll just pull the cars from Yard Two … what is it?

Nate looked both worried and smug about being worried. So, now Rodney understood. Nate had advance information on what Lanash required, and had done something to prevent Rodney fulfilling those requirements in a timely manner.

We don’t have twenty extra cars in Yard Two, Nate said. I sent thirty cars to Bechtine late last night – an emergency order. Someone blew up some of the rolling stock there.

And you didn’t think to tell me? Rodney controlled his anger. It wouldn’t do to have Nate believe he had scored a hit. That lacks a certain … professionalism, don’t you think?

He saw that the barb had gone home. Nate’s face tightened.

But it’s not a matter of concern. He picked up the comm. Hello, Tro Tinall, how soon can you send twenty cars and two engines my way? It’s Priority One. What? No faster than that? Well, do your best. He closed the comm. Nate looked smug again.

Tro Tinall will have twenty cars coming our way in one hour. They’ll be here late this afternoon. He watched the shock on Nate’s face with more than a little satisfaction. One of his engineers had to pick up something in town, so he couldn’t meet the forty-minute target for a priority one request.

Tro Starren exchanged a glance with Rodney, and he gave a minute nod.

If you ever reach my position with the railway, Nate, you might want to have reserves at your command. Try to remember that.

I will, said the shaken man. He stood to leave.

Oh, and another thing, if you have the time.

Always have the time for you, Mr Fenton.

So, the rebuke had kicked Nate into formality. Just as well. He could use a lesson in power and how to wield it.

Yes, just one little thing. Overseer Lanash is no fool. He sees more than you might think. Where did you think you could get the twenty cars from?

Fear etched itself onto Nate’s face. Now he knew that Rodney knew what he had done – and why.

Where? demanded Rodney.

A subdued Nate said, Bromly.

Bromly, eh? Call them up. Ask if they have the twenty cars you need.

But we don’t need them now.

Call them!

Nate reacted as if scalded. He picked up the comm. After a few seconds, the blood drained from his face.

Well?

Overseer Lanash sent them to Trigang to be loaded with an emergency shipment.

Rodney considered his pale-faced underling. So, had you succeeded in causing me to fail Overseer Lanash, you would have offered your solution, only to find it without merit. How would he have reacted to your failure to keep your promise?

Nate’s hands shook, and he hid them behind his back. But Rodney had seen. And the man couldn’t conceal the tongue that came out to moisten dry lips.

Like I said, Overseer Lanash is no fool. Play games at your own peril. Now, see that the scheduling changes get sent to all.

Yes, sir.

Young fool, Tro Starren offered, once Nate had gone off on his assignment.

Yes, but it could have gone badly. We’ll have to watch him carefully. Or, perhaps a word to Lanash will get him transferred.

Tro Starren winced. You wouldn’t…

Rodney considered that for a moment, and then shook his head. No, I guess I wouldn’t. He would pay too great a price for his lapse. But he has used up my goodwill for him. Once more and he will truly regret it.

CHAPTER 2

Rodney regretted few things in his life, but one of them involved his wife. He couldn’t get her to see how it paid to support the new Damarg regime. He shook his head. The woman had even suggested that he give up his job and do something that didn’t directly benefit their new rulers.

And, once again, she brought it up. This time at supper. His baleful looks did nothing to shut her down. Not that he minded the debate, but it should not happen in front of Thomas, who should see his parents united.

Someone has to see that the trains keep to their schedules. Would you rather that they ran into each other, killing Pagayans and humans alike, as well as Damarg citizens? Would you prefer that the harvests rot in the fields and that the populations of cities like Grensel itself starve?

As usual, she had no answer for that.

Someone has to do the job—

But not you!

He shoved a fork-full of pasta into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. He had to admit that she made good sauce. But the conversation ruined the experience.

And why not me? I ensure that things run efficiently. And my employers value me for that.

How can you not see it?

See what?

They don’t value you. They accept you – but only so long as it benefits them.

He laughed. And what employer – human, Pagayan, or Damarg – does differently? If I screwed up the scheduling and train transportation ground to a halt because of it, would I be fired any more quickly than if I ordered the wrong supplies for a human or Pagayan enterprise and shut that company down?

Brenda looked at their son and frowned at the way he played with his food.

Thomas, eat up. A lot of children don’t have it this well.

The boy set down his fork and looked at her defiantly. But Rodney, sensing that here lay a chance to show a united front, intervened.

It’s okay, Thomas. You don’t have to eat that. He paused for a moment, getting a smile from his son and a frown from his wife. He then repeated the sentence, You don’t have to eat that … now.

His son’s smile faded.

You can have it for breakfast tomorrow, he said calmly. And you don’t have to eat it then, either. When you come home for lunch, you’ll find it still waiting. And you still don’t have to eat it. However, I think that by supper tomorrow you’ll be hungry enough to finish it. Now, do as you mother says.

Thomas pressed his lips together, but lowered his gaze and began chewing furiously.

May I be excused? he asked after the last morsel had disappeared from his plate.

Of course. Don’t forget to brush your teeth.

Brenda waited until he had disappeared upstairs before saying, You didn’t have to be quite so brutal about it.

He sat for a moment, stunned.

I backed you up, he said, hurt. He needs to learn about reality. You can philosophize with him all you want about how wasting food is morally abhorrent, but he now knows that he eats what we put in front of him or he doesn’t eat at all. He paused a moment for emphasis. And he ate it – which is what you wanted, right?

You’ve changed, Brenda said. Working under the Damargs has changed you.

He finished his own meal before responding to that.

"Yes, I’ve changed. Before the war, I didn’t