Chapter One: A beer and a killing

The pale sun was setting over the putrid marshes, green clouds of vapour rising hazily out of the decomposing slime towards a dark green sky. Scattered clumps of tentacled brown fungus trees dotted the horizon casting long shadows over the black and dank festering pools which punctuated the flat wastes. In between them grew patches of unhealthy yellow grass, sometimes growing waist high, each blade scarce thicker than a man’s hair. Occasionally the creaking warble of an insect was heard, but aside from that the twilight was dead.

Dirva Staser shivered in the cold as he attempted to balance the fence post in one hand and a drill and metal bracket in the other. He was attempting to find a solid position in the soil to drill a hole for the bracket; he knew from experience how a bracket inserted in the wrong place could slide and he did not want to do this job again in a hurry. The local winter would soon be approaching and he had heard rumours that the Weather System was unable to cope with the projected storms. Certainly the aroma blowing down from the pass was decidedly unpleasant and there was still much to be done in this field before he could call it secure. Behind him stretched a plain of developed land, irrigated by black drainage ditches spaced a few yards apart, leading off to the black service ditch lined with concrete running parallel to the side of the newly resurfaced road which led back to the farmhouse. In between these ditches grew the luxuriant stems of a blue leafed crop, closely packed and growing proudly and firmly, the finest crop of Tresha in the division. To the rear lay acres of testimony to man’s never ending triumph over the many environments he conquered, in front lay the work yet to be done.

Cursing, Dirva pulled his foot out of the mud he had just waded knee deep into and stepped onto what seemed a solid clump of earth. A trickle of icy liquid had oozed into his boots, the original impervious nature of the material having worn away through wear and tear. A bloodfly bit his ankle. He reached for his remote control and pointed it at the nearest roadside lamp. The sunlight had all but vanished and he needed to see what he was doing. Critically, he eyed the line of twelve posts he had already laid that afternoon. He judged the position to be about right. He switched on the drill and seconds later there was a hole in the earth ready to accommodate the bracket. Peering down, he slid his hand down the sheer sides of the hole to check that the soil was firm all the way down. Then, lowering the bracket into the space, he reached into his coat for the sealing gun. It was not there. He swore. It must have fallen into the marshes when he slipped a few moments ago. Peering down into the slime around him, he saw nothing. It had to be below the surface. A sudden gust of cold spattered flecks of black mud onto his overalls. Another insect had begun to dance along his spine. He really did not relish the idea of rooting about in the oozing filth for the sealing gun. Fortunately he knew something he could do instead, something as effective. Turning, he placed his hand on the bracket. In a matter of seconds a red glow appeared around it and a faint smell of burning was discernable. Exhaling forcefully, he lifted his hand. The bracket was sealed in place. For the first time that afternoon a smile played on his lips, his blue eyes lit in triumph. He brushed the long, unkempt brown hair off his face and lowered the post into the bracket. After a couple of turns it clicked. Dirva stood up slowly, wiping the sweat off his face. Eyeing his watch, he clicked his teeth. A well earned meal was called for. Picking up the red metal case of tools he walked back to the road, eyes on the ground all the while. Once he was on the concrete track he pointed his remote into the dusky distance. A series of playful beeps, vaguely reminiscent of a child greeting a long absent father, or a faithful pet rushing towards its owner responded. He smiled and walked across the concrete track to its source, a black four wheeled buggy made of a light synthesised alloy, whose doors slid open to allow him into the driving seat. Dirva threw in his tools and jumped in, almost concurrently setting the motor. Within a fraction of a second the buggy, known affectionately by Dirva as Bobo, was gliding noiselessly along the road home. Dirva reached down his back to crush the hapless insect which had spent the last few minutes tickling his armpit, in doing so almost careering off into a service ditch. He honked his hooter at old Busil Fadtath leaning on his pesticide machine swigging cider and veered right at the crossroads to head home. In the sky above, gloomy green clouds began to obscure the dull sun for good. It would not be a starry night, no nights on Severa Secunda were.

Soon he could see the farmhouse in the distance, a motley collection of mainly dark brown sprawling buildings. The house, as were most in the area, was built of grimestone, practically the only stone on the satellite that could be used for building. The original building had been built over four hundred cycles ago by his ancestor, Rollo Staser whom his grandfather claimed had been the first to grow Tresha in the Marsh Creek area at a time when all serious agriculturists claimed it was impossible. However, time, patient biochemistry and improvements in the Severa Secunda weather system had made the crops the envy of the region. His grandfather always said being a Staser was an honourable thing to be on Severa Secunda.

The later buildings had grown up since in a disorganised fashion as the Stasers had become more comfortably off and extended their homestead to fit pillars of the local community. The newer buildings were of a variety of sizes and shapes, vehicle stores, warehouses, control rooms and a packing plant. There were also the various accessories built to suit the trends of the time in which they were built and which now stood obsolete and disused or converted to another use. The whole impression therefore, was a mixture of functionality and pretension, a home for men who never really had the time to play the gentlemen they aspired to be.



Dirva parked Bobo outside a warehouse and went to the front door. As he placed his palm against the sensor the door opened. He entered into a warm lobby illuminated by a pale red haze emanating from the silicon walls. In the ceiling a bright white sphere glowed above a glittering life-size hologram in the centre of the room, depicting a tall, weatherworn man with keen, cunning eyes, Rollo Staser, preserved in likeness for as long as his progeny survived. Around, on the walls hung various replicas of works sometime in the past judged great art, some abstract, some depictive of great legendary events of which Dirva only knew the barest threads of the tales the long forgotten artist had hoped to capture; The Signing of the Codex of Order, The Capture of Sorsos, Villartion before the Elders of the Ogrim. Even his grandfather, who seemed to know any historical story worth knowing could say little of the themes of these paintings; he doubted any of his ancestors had been much better educated. Turning through an archway on his left he came upon his grandfather seated on his purple divan, smoking his weedpipe, his face vacant to the world.

“Thirteen posts up in South Field, Grandams.”

His grandfather reacted slowly, pushing a fall of ash off his shirt. “Good.”

“I’m looking to finish the fencing before midday tomorrow. I’m hoping the engineers should come to survey on – let’s see, middle of next schedule some time. You happy with that?”

Grandfather Staser puffed for a few seconds, never looking up from his thoughts. “Yep.” “I’ll just get some supper then, shall I?” He looked down at the bowl beside his grandfather’s feet. The remains of a bright pink creamy substance could be observed. “That’s interesting. What is it?”

Seconds passed, punctuated only by pipesmoke. “Some new dish from Loquaces province – Is it Loquaces? Probably. Anyway I caught it on the stock lists. It’s logged in the system at D796. It’s quite good.”

Dirva nodded and left through another arch, leaving the elder Staser to continue his reverie.

Removing his coat, which was sticking to his arms, he advanced towards a large blue-grey unit with a large screen and key pad on the side of it in the centre of the room. He scanned through the list of meals on the screen till he came to one – D796, Loquacian Borroworm stew – preparation time three minutes – and selected. Going over to a panel of buttons in the wall, he keyed in a combination known to himself and was rewarded by what he regarded as the melodious sounds of one of his favourite musical compositions pumping through the sonic ducts of the ground floor of the building. In the next room he heard the disapproving harrumphs of his grandfather. Dirva smiled laconically to himself as he unplugged his boots and placed them on the shelf.

After a few moments a series of beeps were heard from the unit. Dirva opened a drawer underneath the screen and pulled out a bowl filled with the pink, creamy stew.

“Looks good, Grandums.”



He returned into the other room to join his grandfather, who was sitting on the divan, arms folded, head bowed, lost in thought. Dirva shoveled a packed spoonful of the stew into his mouth and nodded approvingly. The older man looked up at him and raised his eyes upwards. “I suppose you’ll want second helpings of that.”

Dirva nodded ferociously, attempting to reply with a well stoked palate. “Mm. Gorgeous, yes. Why, are you fond of it?”

The older man smiled wryly. “I’ve been trying to hide it from you, let’s put it that way. It is good stuff, but not cheap. I don’t know exactly where Loquaces province is, but it’s a long way from here and they certainly sting you for it.”

Dirva gave a mock frown. “Greedy old man! I feel almost obliged to have second helpings now. It’s been a shitty day out there. And I didn’t decide to quit at Hour Fourteen either, like some others not a million light years away.”

The old man leaned forward and held his nose. “A shower wouldn’t go amiss either.”

“I know. That comes next. I thought I’d pop into Marsh Creek for a couple of tankards a little later on. You know, swap a bit of gossip and that, see what’s new. Might hear some more on whether the Weather System will hold out through the winter.”

His grandfather nodded. “You’ve learned one thing anyway, my boy. You have plausibility. You always have a reason thought out for anything. And when it comes to an excuse for a drink, you know them all.”

Dirva grinned. “I had a fine teacher, remember? I won’t be out too long. Back to make an early start tomorrow, anyway. I was just hoping maybe Lobor or Stubby Fadtath might be there.”

“Take care. Don’t waste too many credits.”

Dirva smiled wistfully. “And what are credits for?”

He laughed at his own remark, less amusing than the laughter he gave it justified while his grandfather only shook his head.