A Beer and a Killing- Part Two

Marsh Creek was the only town for miles around, if town it could be called. It was the meeting place and trading centre for the inhabitants of the eponymous valley, an area of scattered communities and farmhouses doggedly developing the inhospitable land generation after generation. The town itself contained twenty thousand souls all told, many of whom worked in the large agricultural processing plant, at the edge of the town where crops were treated and then dispatched to Kridoval Gard, the chief – and only – city on Severa Secunda where they were sent onward and outward, far away through the skies to the ends of the province. Others commuted into Kridoval Gard to other jobs and trades, a few had local businesses; selling pesticides, treating livestock, fixing machinery and the like, typical of any small agricultural community on a minor planet in the recesses of the provinces. Dirva was under no illusions at his age, as to the relative importance of Marsh Creek or even his little world in general. Severa Secunda was the second largest asteroid of the Severa group of asteroids, a collection of some two hundred and forty nine rocks inhabiting a belt orbiting their medium sized star, one of the seventy six rocks that were inhabited. Severans were the backward peasants of the division, lacking the sophistication of the larger worlds, usually behind the times and seen as narrow minded and antiquated. Even Kridoval Gard, the limit of Dirva’s real experience, aside from a week spent as a young child on Castalata, the nearest major planet to them, was considered a backwater by the sophisticated Major Planeters. Marsh Creekers were always eager to hear news from elsewhere. Elsewhere was unconcerned for news of Marsh Creek.

Marsh Creek’s facilities in the dirtworn old square in the centre of the town were limited, but better than most other towns of its size on the asteroid could claim. There was the dilapidated old town hall, grey-brown, with rusty iron pillars; a smart, white fronted package dispatch centre, fresh and efficient seeming; a narrow Credit Organisation Office, a small software store, and lastly the two buildings of greatest significance.

The first was the grandest by far, a large white building dominating the square, as was its purpose. Shining aloft on the reddish gold roof, was stamped in ultraviolet light, a series of five concentric circles. The heavy golden doors were elevated from the square by twelve marble steps. It was a visible reminder of the authority it represented, an authority one took for granted; It was the local lodge of the Servants of Order. The second building was less grandiose, indeed it was quite shabby in appearance, but it was the best frequented of the town, alive and full of life throughout the day, excepting the hour it was shut for maintenance and cleaning. Successive owners had attempted to change its name and its atmosphere and all had failed; Whatever it said above the door it was always remembered in Marsh Creek as the Creek Palace. Here on the last night of the schedule, farmers, processors and traders would meet in droves to swap tales and sink ales, harass the female populace and challenge one another to drunken games, usually – though not always – in a friendly if unrefined manner. Tonight was the last night of the schedule and it was here that Dirva was heading.

As he entered through the doors, Dirva peered through the throngs of revellers that stretched across the packed floor, looking to see a familiar face. He pushed his way past a buxom brunette, her face vaguely familiar, her bosom almost painfully clamped into a tight lycra top, damp with spilt wine who giggled pointedly. Dirva was tempted to linger before casting eyes on a sallow and spirit-fuelled youth in overalls glaring at him from over her shoulder. He almost collided with a barely horizontal age-worn mechanic attempting to transport three half spilt tankards over to a table and then was almost collided with by a gangly spotty youth with his hand over his mouth running towards the refreshment rooms. Scanning through a gap in the crowds he suddenly caught sight of a face he knew by one of the drink vendors. “Hey, Lobor!”

A large youth with a shaggy mane of auburn hair turned from the vendor with two full tankards in his hands. Dirva approached him, a broad grin spreading across his face. “Lobor, good to see you. I wondered if I’d find anyone I knew here tonight. Though looking around, there seem plenty of people here I’d like to meet.” His gaze followed a pair of not unattractive young females who walked between the two young men as he spoke. His friend smiled forcedly. “I guess. How you been keeping yourself, mate? How’s your grandfather?”

“Oh fine, fine. Been fence-posting today, it’s really fun work, in this weather you know, pissing it down, losing tools, wading knee high in mud, the usual larks.” He looked down at himself, at his thin, wiry form, his small, finely formed fingers seeming ill crafted for back breaking toil. “I know our family have done it for generations, but I sometimes wonder if I’m cut out for Tresha farming. It killed my father didn’t it? Mind you, Grandums is an inspiration. Anyway, boy, you owe me a beer, I do believe, or is one of those mine?”

Lobor looked flustered. “No. No. Look hold these. Kridoval Pride, yes?”

Lobor turned to the vendor, inserted his credit card and pressed his hand against the DNA sensor. When the accepted signal came up he entered in the appropriate selection and reclaimed his card. Seconds later he lifted a glass window and handed Dirva his glass of beer.

“So, old matey, who’s your other drink for, who else is here?”

“Oh – A cousin – on my mother’s side. He’s a merchant from far abroad. Come to visit. He’s thinking of opening up some business here. And he wants to see the sights here in Marsh Creek.”

“Really? The glories of Marsh Creek? Well you can’t disappoint him. I’d better be introduced to him – As a representative of one of the oldest and most reputable families in the area a real respected Creekman.”

He chuckled, slapping his friend on the back. Lobor merely grimaced nervously. “Well we were catching up on a lot, I’m not sure-.” He paused seeing the mock offence on Lobor’s face. “OK, come and meet him, have a drink with us, I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

They narrowly avoided being drenched by a tankard of ale aimed by an irate and indignant redhead with smoldering green eyes at an intoxicated but surprisingly agile young trader who had decided to assess the marketable quality of her posterior without a prior appointment. Lobor led the way past a steward brutally dragging away a comatose farmer, to a secluded booth away from the general melee, where three men sat huddled and secretive, smoking and conversing in hushed tones to each other. As they approached, the middle one, a stern faced man with golden hair and a neatly trimmed beard, looked up.

“Who’s your friend then, Lobor?”

“Vostur, this is my old friend, Dirva Staser, a representative of one of the oldest Marsh Creek families. He’s eager to meet you. I told him you were a trader from abroad which aroused his interest. Indeed try as I might, I could not dissuade him.” As he said this he looked the man named Vostur in the eye. For a few seconds their gaze locked before the other man nodded slowly. “As you will. Welcome, Friend Dirva, drink with us. I am named Vostur Cadban, a trader in fabrics, these are my associates, Nidval and Praen. Dirva shook hands with the three. Vostur he noted was dressed well, though not ostentatiously as many traders, fond of exhibiting their own self made wealth so often were. He wore a blue silk cloak with a simple silver brooch and a finely textured linen shirt. Nidval and Praen looked altogether less respectable, clothed in worn leather shirts and dark canvass trousers, their guns visible at their belts. Nidval’s left eye seemed to have somehow melted in one corner, the loose lid twitching repeatedly above the bloodshot yellow ball beneath. He was a stocky man with a thick black beard and a calm almost detached presence. Praen by contrast was slim and alert, his eyes constantly sifting through the faces that rushed past, one hand on his glass, the other lingering constantly by his holster. Dirva thought he got the picture, knowing something of traders. There were traders and traders, and `associates’ could have variety of meanings. Those who did a covert trade in valuable cargoes often needed large retinues to ensure safe transport through some areas of the province. All of the group had a tankard in front of them. Vostur looked appraisingly at Dirva. He seemed to have an aura of calm and wisdom about him, yet in those clear unreadable eyes was a searching, penetrating gaze. He took a long, deep draught of his ale before wiping his mouth on his sleeve and slamming the glass onto the table. Outside the booth two cheering youths carried a girl playfully screaming over towards the stairs leading up to the first balcony. A steward started forward from his post, debating with himself whether or not to intervene, then changed his mind. A gaudily dressed party of workmates, free for one night of living according to company policy strode exuberantly by in search of a fresh venue. Dirva heard Vostur address him. “So Dirva, what’s your line then, are you a poor farmboy as well?”

Dirva turned, shifting position in his seat. “Indeed I am, we –my grandfather and I – farm Tresha farther up the valley, thirty miles up the road west of here, getting on for the Satrap Giddur pass. Ours is the oldest farm up there. Over four hundred cycles old, apparently.”

Vostur smiled, almost to himself, stroking the rim of his glass. “A man of family pride. Now there’s a thing you don’t often see these days. A long standing Marsh Creek family, then?”

Dirva’s chest began to fill although he was not conscious of it. He turned his mind to his grandfather sitting in the lobby of the farmhouse, pipe in hand pointing at the hologram of their ancestor, outlining their family’s past. “Rollo Staser was the first to grow Tresha here in Marsh Creek. They never said it could be done, but Rollo proved them wrong.”

Dirva decided not to mention that amongst some other old families it was said that Rollo succeeded only at the cost of embroiling his family in debt for four generations and that he had worked his pack of slaves to death in his drainage constructions. Certainly no Staser since had ever been able to afford the luxury of slaves. “There have always been Stasers on Severa Secunda. My grandfather maintains that Rollo’s grandfather Mirkas built the original town hall here.”

Lobor snorted. “Your grandfather makes half of it up I reckon. Not to lie, I don’t mean, but I’m sure these family tales grow in the telling. Like that Prince.”

Dirva winced. There had been a tale of his grandfather’s about a great uncle of his who had done much trade with the Pushtarin and been made a Prince by one of their Avatars or spiritual rulers. It turned out recently, they had discovered from a jewel dealer who had been among the Pushtarin, that Pindar Staser had simply taken a job as a temple doorman. Vostur smiled. “He could be right about the town hall, there would still be a record of its foundation, I’m sure, but your other statement can’t strictly speaking anyway, be true. There haven’t always been people on Severa Secunda.”

Dirva was silent. He looked out to the main floor, where a mixed party of youngsters danced to the vibrant strains that pumped out to fill the vast three tiered reaches of the Creek Palace. One of the stewards was engaged in a furtive conversation with a black cloaked individual. For a split second Dirva thought they were looking into their booth. Vostur continued. “How do you know Lobor, then?”

This time it was Lobor who spoke. “We’re old friends. When my mother taught us Academics, she also taught Dirva here. He sort of grew up with us. His parents both died when he was young and obviously his grandfather didn’t have the time with the huge Staser farm to run. We kind of graduated into youth together.” He looked round at the crowded alehouse. “In here as often as not. As soon as we got our own credit facilities.”



Vostur gave Dirva the benefit of his cool gaze again. “Parents died? That’s a tragedy.”

Dirva returned his stare levelly. “My mother was not a Marsh Creek woman. Father met her in Kridoval Gard. She was one of the Servants of Order. She gave that up to stay with him – well no.” He paused reflecting. His grandfather rarely mentioned this subject; It was taboo and only once had he told Dirva the full tale, as full as Dirva knew anyway, after they had shared a bottle of brandy after a long cold night attempting to limit storm damage to a collapsing cropstore. “She could not stay with the Servants if she went off with him. They made that clear. And she made her choice, whether she afterwards regretted it, I don’t know. To be honest, I suspect she did. Father was not really a Tresha farmer they say. He died of an implosion fever two schedules before I was born. Mother never really recovered, my grandfather had. She had chosen and her choice was taken from her. She had lost both her place with the Servants and my father. She was, I’m told beautiful in a cold intelligent way. But she never really settled here. She died within the cycle.”

He took a long sip of his ale and soon found he held an empty glass. When he put it down he found Vostur still looking at him. Then surprisingly, he put his hand on Dirva’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Dirva shrugged. “You can’t miss what you never knew you had.”

Suddenly the conversation was interrupted by the forceful thrusting of a half full glass on to the table. Looking up, Dirva saw a plump, bearded merchant with a long opulent green robe attached by a large golden buckle. Dirva smiled. “Sestias! Long time no see! How’s tricks?”

The bearded man replied by slapping both Lobor and himself around the heads with such force one might have thought he meant to knock them clean off, before seating himself at the table. Vostur and his associates exchanged glances with a degree of what Dirva himself felt to be annoyance. Nevertheless he turned to his newly arrived rotund acquaintance. “How’s trade? What’s going on outside in the galaxy?”

Sestias lit a cigarette. “It’s good news for you, I suppose. Tresha crops in Stilbor are bad this year. Some new virus they can’t recognise as yet. Prices are rocketing, so I guess you can make a tidy packet right now. But for me, well. You remember as how I had a wareship full of Silicon. Acting on information received, expecting to make a tidy profit? Not in Codushpur. Place is swamped in it. Was I fuming. Some clever flyboy with his fingers in the right pies is importing it from some new extraction facility, the Emperor alone knows where. I’ve heard six different locations, all light years apart. I could have ended up seriously out of pocket, if well, I hadn’t been lucky.”

The trader smiled with evident smug self-satisfaction. He had no intention of letting the audience know what cleverness he had used to nail down a credit saving deal, but he wanted them all to appreciate that he was clearly capable of such ingenuity. Sestias Gorobe was what was known as a `general trader’, a wheeler and dealer with an eye for the mainchance who cruised his battered fleet around the stars of the province buying where he found a bargain, selling where he found a profit, always of necessity keeping his ear to the ground. He was always good for news and willing to tell, although he maintained a pretence of reticence, claiming that it was bad form amongst traders to gossip with those outside their suspicious fraternity. Yet his vanity usually overcame such scruples and Dirva was eager for news of Codushpur, the provincial capital, a schedule’s journey away and a city he knew only second hand. One day, he always told himself, he would see it, a real bustling, cosmopolitan trade centre. “Anything new happening there in Codushpur that we need know about? New styles, new music, any new scenes?”

Sestias grunted into his beer. “I don’t have time to follow young trendy stuff. I keep telling you that. Not as far as I know, not how you mean. But yes, there is a different feel about. The place is edgy, very edgy as are a lot of the cities now. The Servants are out in force, watching you. Everywhere. Checking out your credentials, checking stock. Usually you can offer a bribe not to have your holds searched, not now. They’re not taking any chances. Getting on to a caravan now is more trouble than it’s worth. They seem genuinely uneasy, heretics it seems. There’s much whispered talk in taverns. The Zealots it seems are growing again. A brothel was detonated while I was there and they claimed it. Then there’s some crazy folk wearing blue cowls babbling on about their prophesied liberator, the Dahura, or something. But most of the talk is about The Heresy. Not a heresy, notice, The Heresy. Like this one is so big it needs no other description.”

He paused. Vostur and his associates were expressionless, Nidval with his head bowed over folded arms, Praen taut, as if ready to fire off. Lobor was eyeing them all with a look of disquiet. Dirva broke the silence. “What is this heresy then, did you get hear?”

“Don’t know. Don’t want to know. Going around making enquiries like that would not conceivably profit my business and would be a sure fire way to get the Servants on my back these days in Codushpur. I’m just trying to get rich and build my mansion. I buy goods. I sell them. I pay the Servants of Order and the Empire their due, I follow the Imperial Code to the strict letter of the law and live my life as free and as happy as any man can reasonably expect. If others have the time or the energy to devise heresies, well-.” He drained his glass. “That’s their bed of nails. Anyway, say hello to your grandfather for me, I see Gadgil Cesk over there starting another brandy and I believe he has some information I need.” The trader lurched off through the crowd. As he did, Vostur leaned forward. “A prudent man, in his own way. I wouldn’t mind betting he lives in as great luxury as he clearly wants us to appreciate he does.”

Lobor nodded, speaking for the first time in a while. “Sestias Gorobe? He certainly does. Keeps three mistresses, they say, out in the province. He has a contact almost everywhere. But he’s still a Creekman, born and bred.”

Vostur nodded. “Listen Dirva, it’s been great meeting you, it really has, but I fear we shall have to be leaving you. We have things to do, you understand.”

“Of course. Don’t let me keep you. Lobor can stay for a drink though, can’t you Lobor?”

Lobor slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry mate. I’m going to have to go as well. I want to show Vostur something, and well, you see, it’s a family thing.”

“Come on Lobor! I am practically family! Aren’t I? No secrets from me! Stay for one more and I’ll come with you. It’s my turn to by. For-.”

He never got any further, a sudden exclamation from Praen cutting him off. Turning to his right he saw why.



Dirva had only ever seen a few Servants of Order in his life. There was Kass Filkin, twenty miles up the road from the farm, a depressed middle aged drunk whose evident failure to rise in the ranks had resulted in his being posted back to his original community, who did the local rounds every few schedules in a spirit sodden haze to bring people up to date with new proclamations. He had seen a few groups of Servants in Kridoval Gard desperately looking for something to do that could somehow be classed as Imperial duties in the hours before they could decently go drinking and whoring. Now a column of seven were forcing their way through the crowd towards the booth, black capes flowing, laser guns visible. “Take it easy!” Vostur warned as his associates rose and reached for their weapons.

The leader of the column halted in front of them, his right hand pointedly resting on his gun. He was not a tall man, fresh faced and with flowing golden locks reaching to the middle of his neck, clean shaven and youthful. His eyes were hard however, and his expression was that of a man of ambition and promise, a man who served his cause vigilantly and devotedly. A second glance revealed the reasons which had made him the leader of the group. When he spoke it was a surprisingly silky yet expressionless tone. “You are, I hear, named Vostur Cadban.” He glanced around the company. Aside from the continuous thud of the music the area around the booth had gone silent. “And these must be your fellow traders.”

Vostur looked down into his beer. The more sober revellers led their incapacitated friends some distance away, peering over to the booth apprehensively. The owner, a florid faced man with jet black hair had appeared, leaning nervously against a vendor, his arms folded. In the balconies above faces leaned over, attempting to discover the distraction below. Vostur, still looking down, replied. “That is so, your honour. We are fabric traders come to see my boy relative. And his friend here, whom I have just met.” He looked up at the officer and pointed to Dirva. “I have just met him. Otherwise I know him not.”

The officer permitted himself a smirk. “You say. And this youth-.” He pointed at Lobor. “Your – relative. You know him, though? Come here to trade with him?”

Vostur merely stared back. Nidval and Praen both had their hands on their weapons. Observing this, the officer glared at them. “It may interest you to know, as indeed you really should know already, as everyone knows, that the Servants of Order are Omnipotent and Omniscient. We see all eventually. Acting on advice we took the liberty of searching your – relative’s – warehouse on his family farm. And impounded what we found there. And – And could you even begin to guess what we found there?” The expression in his voice seemed to have suddenly materialised. Nobody else spoke. “All very amateur material, very low quality, but unlawful artillery all the same. No one makes war but the Emperor. Or perchance you feared pirates? Or roaming bands of heretics? In which case the proper course of action would have been to have alerted us to the perceived threat. We protect, it’s our job – unless --- No! Surely not! It couldn’t be!” The irony in his voice dropped as he placed both hands on the table. “You are heretics! Could it be that you actually dare pit your infantile wits against the Celestial Son of Heaven? That you can possibly bring your deviant minds to deny the Truths of Order? You are nothing!” He spat. “I’ll see you blood-eagled in Kridoval Gard. On public holovision. Seize them.”

The first four men moved forward. “I think not!” growled Vostur as he leaped up raising his hand in an arc. In the same instant a solid beam of light seemed to burst forth from his palm, thrusting the four back. In the same instant Nidval and Praen leapt onto the table, firing at the remaining Servants who belatedly reached for their guns and returned fire. Screams erupted all around as the customers fled, dragging their inebriated with them. Even those in the balconies by now realised something was seriously wrong and fled to the side exists. Dirva looked over to Lobor who had produced a laser gun seemingly from nowhere and was watching the fray. Just in time he switched his attention over to the gold locked officer who was in the process of aiming his gun straight at Lobor. He did not have time to think. What he did next, he did because there was nothing else to do. In such circumstances are the defining moments of history to be found.

He had always known about his ability. That he could somehow, in a strange way only he seemed to understand, do things that ordinary people should never be able to do. Generate heat where there was none. Make holes in the ground without drilling them. Open combination locks. His grandfather had known and always told him to keep it secret. Not, he said that it was necessarily a bad thing, just not a thing to advertise if you wanted to lead a quiet life. It attracted the wrong sort of attention, he said. The gift was probably something he had got from his mother. Perhaps that instinctive feeling that deep down he never really cared for life as a Tresha farmer encouraged him to maintain his tricks. Or perhaps it was something that just could not be kept down. Either way, in that fraction of a second, Dirva pulled the entirety of his will as hard as he could. He felt the tingling all over, his mind racing, a buzz of energy pulsating through his body. He raised his hand. The jets of flame burst forth, shooting out wildly like dancing tentacles, engulfing the officer with his gun trained on Lobor. He heard the horrified screams of the last escaping patrons, even the stewards stampeding outside to safety. The flames kept coming. The officer dances wildly, flame licking every corner of him, gnawing away ravenously at the shiny black cape, his golden locks seemingly extended and flickering, the flesh around his tortured eyes darkening. A charred circle opened in the centre of his face to release a screech of unrepressed agony. The others seemed to have halted fighting. Pausing for breath Dirva turned the flame on to the remaining Servants. One attempted to fire at Dirva, but before he could he fell to a beam from Nidval’s laser gun. The two who could flee fled. Wearily, Dirva let the flame cease and collapsed, unconscious, to the ground. Beside him lay a charred and blackened carcass, it’s empty sockets and open mouth facing upwards in a final contorted expression of horror.