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  A KIND OF PEACE

  It all happened so quickly. One moment they were looking at an empty stairwell, the next they were under attack.

  A man and a woman. He was in dark battledress, a Bethel warrior easily discernible even as he flew through the air. She was in a short battle tunic, camo style, with the colours of Kyas. Both of them had blasters.

  There was confusion both amongst the front line warriors and back in the tech room. They had been dealing with a shapeless, invisible mass; now they had two flesh and blood warriors.

  Even as they hit the ground - he smoothly, she stumbling slightly but still keeping her feet - they began firing.

  An Abaddon BooksTM Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  [email protected]

  First published in 2006 by Abaddon BooksTM, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.

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  Editor: Jonathan Oliver

  Cover: Mark Harrison

  Design: Simon Parr

  Series Advisor: Andy Boot

  Editorial Assistant (eBooks): Jennifer-Anne Hill

  Marketing and PR: Keith Richardson

  Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley

  Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley

  Dreams Of InanTM created by Andy Boot

  Copyright © 2006 Rebellion. All rights reserved.

  Dreams of InanTM, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Properties Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

  ISBN (.epub format): 978-1-84997-010-5

  ISBN (.mobi format): 978-1-84997-032-7

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  A KIND OF PEACE

  Andy Boot

  CHAPTER ONE

  Year Zero - Period Three

  Jenna watched Simeon prowl up and down the deck of the Peta. A straight line from one side to the other, a turn on his heel and back again. If there had been a floor covering he would have worn through it. If the floor had been real he would have ploughed a furrow. In truth, the constant pressure was making that point more and more fragile, and she was having to devote more and more energy to keeping th floor intact.

  Which was why they were going more and more slowly. Which was making him more and more anxious. Which was making her more and more annoyed.

  "Simeon," she muttered through teeth gritted as much with anger as concentration.

  "Hmmm?" He paused mid-pace and turned his gaze on her. His eyes were burning with a light that seemed distant. Then he sniffed the air like a hunting dog. "We've slowed down, Jen..."

  She breathed through flaring nostrils, almost snorting in frustrated anger. Dragged from her bed, fed some ridiculous story and now attempting to penetrate the airspace of another land in violation of the treaty. And he was complaining about the fact that they had slowed down!

  "Simeon," she began, fighting the urge to shout, knowing the break in concentration could have dire consequences. "There are reasons. Good reasons. Why we have slowed. And you, are one of them. Scratch that. All of them."

  He gave her a peculiar, unfathomable look. Okay, she knew she had been speaking like a newscaster, but being so terse was the only way to say it without yelling.

  For one moment she could forget he was a warrior, standing before her in combat garb with weapons secreted in every fissure of the black fighting suit. With that expression, he looked like her pet: a ridiculous, stupid creature with an unswerving sense of loyalty and no intelligence to back it up.

  It was how she thought of anyone below her in rank. Nothing personal. Although he did seem to be an archetype at times.

  But at least the mood was broken.

  "Simeon, let me explain it as simply as possible. I cannot devote my full energy to maintaining direction and speed when I have to divert a considerable amount towards keeping the structure of the ship intact." She paused. He still looked like her pet, Fermy. Keen, but none-too-bright, struggling with the concept of not shitting indoors. Still, she'd trained the creature eventually. Lower ranks were just the same.

  She continued: "You! It's you. A holoship is like any material construct. It's prone to the same stresses and tensions. And you're putting a lot on the one spot, which I'm having to try and keep from dissipating under that pressure..."

  "...and that's why we've slowed down," he nodded as the idea sank in.

  She wanted to call him a 'good boy' and ruffle his ears. Instead, she said: "If you want to occupy yourself, tell me again why I'm doing this and risking the termination penalty. I don't think I could have been fully awake when I agreed to it..."

  Simeon grinned. This was something he could get his teeth into. Maybe if he went through it again, he could work out were he'd soiled in his own keep.

  And maybe he could work out how to put it right.

  Signing Day - Year Zero

  It was to be a momentous day. For over five hundred anums the war had raged between the two great nation states of Inan. Those smaller lands that relied on the big two for their trade, and for support in times of trouble, had been forced to take sides, to support one or the other. Generations had been born, grown, and died knowing nothing other than a state of attrition between the two halves of the world. Millions of people who had no conception of anything other than an 'us-and-them' state of being.

  It was no wonder that the peace had been a shock to the systems of individuals and nations alike. A complete turnaround in thinking was required. Those you had hated since the day you were born were now your allies. You were to embrace them, and their way of thinking. You were supposed to join as one and look to the future; a future where the wealth of Inan would no longer be squandered on war, but would be utilised to make a better life, a better standard of living, for all.

  From the outside, a noble and utopian aim. But what if you were on the inside, and had been educated from birth by the State and your parents to think the opposite?

  It was no wonder that everyone at the signing ceremony for the peace treaty seemed to be furtive, on edge, and distrustful. The delegations muttered in corners, casting suspicious glances at each other. It occurred to Simeon 7 - so named because he was the seventh son of a seventh son called Simeon - that in all probability the other delegates were probably moaning about the hardness of the castle beds, or the dreadful food. Certainly, that was all the delegation to which he was attached seemed to do... but that life-long distrust was a hard one to dismiss out of hand.

  It was for this reason that the venue for the peace conference, and the subsequent treaty signing, had been so hard to determine. Certainly, the largest nation states - Varn and Bethel - could not allow themselves to cede to the enemy by meekly travelling to the lands of their former adversary. Other nation states, although smaller, were closely allied to one or the other.

  It left one nation state: the continent of Praal. A barren, hard land with people of an equal disposition, they had somehow managed to keep themselves aloof for the best part of the five hundred anums, siding with one or the other at various time, depending on their own agenda.

  In truth, they were a primitive people compared to those of Varn or Bethel. T
echnology had proceeded at a slower pace in this land, as the inward looking populous had developed their magical skills. Simeon had spent sleepless nights looking out of his window in the castle (those damned beds - and he a warrior used to discomfort) working out how many units of warriors, how many land tramplers, and how many blaster ships it would take to lay waste to the country around. Not many. In truth, the land already looked like the victim of a scorched earth policy.

  But Praal had one thing that had enabled it to maintain independent status: magic. Whereas in other lands magic was an academic discipline confined for the most part to the academies, here it was a part of everyday life. Only the evening before, Simeon had witnessed a servant curse softly to himself after dropping a wine jug, and then mutter a few words, make a few gestures and somehow - in a manner that the eye could not quite catch - the jug had reformed.

  If Simeon had managed that back home, he would have been boasting of it for days. More likely he would have just made a spatial hole where the wine had spilled on the floor. Everyone said they could make magic, but it was like playing sport, or playing an instrument. Everyone said that the game you didn't see, the performance you hadn't heard, was their best. Here, it was a matter of course.

  So, as he had looked out that night over the sparse vegetation of the surrounding dry, hard lands and the winking lights of the distant town, with no building over ten storeys, he had realised why the people of Praal didn't care about technological advancement. Why they didn't care to ally themselves to one nation state, and why Praal was a perfect place to hold the peace talks.

  He glanced back into the room, and at his bed. Ruefully, he mused that magic was all very well, but it wasn't helping him get a good night's sleep, and he needed such a thing if he was to competently peform his duty at the signing. The chances of trouble breaking out were slender, but they were still there. That was why warriors were necessary.

  But a warrior who could not keep his eyes open, and whose stomach complained with indigestion at the appalling food, would be little use in a crisis.

  Particularly a warrior with something to prove.

  With a sigh he had retired to the hard wood base and lumpy, badly stuffed pallet that passed for a mattress. He tried to shut out the discomfort by thinking about Jenna. That didn't help. At that time he thought he would never set eyes on her again.

  With another sigh he consoled himself with the thought that if trouble were to erupt, the chances were that the other warriors present would feel as rough as he did right now.

  The talks leading to this day had been interminable for a warrior. What could these people find to talk about for so long? It was a simple matter: you didn't want to fight anymore, so you signed a piece of paper saying it was over and that anyone who started aggression would find the others united in coming down on them. Simeon didn't understand economics, but even he could see that all against one would soon isolate and wither the aggressor. Even if that aggressor were Varn or Bethel themselves.

  So what did they find to talk about for so long and at such length? So much hot air that, if it were harnessed, it could augment and surpass the clanking heating system that inadequately attempted to counter the freezing Praal nights.

  Like all the warriors who were there - a maximum of ten from each nation state - he spent much of his time hanging around, talking of past battles with his compatriots and casting aspersions on the prowess of the delegation in this corner or that. Just as the other warrior delegations were doing about his people, he was sure. They roamed the grounds, making sure to avoid each other lest pride or some imagined slight should cause confrontation. They had been warned severely about the costs of any such fracas. They ate too much of the inedible food through boredom, and suffered the dyspeptic consequences. They took too little exercise. Training was banned for fear of being seen as incitement. They drank the terrible teas and infusions, wishing they were wines and ales. These, too, had been banned for the obvious reasons. Not that this ruling seemed to apply to the politicians and diplomats who drank freely with their meals. They were the ones drawing up the peace, and yet they could get drunk and argue if they wished.

  Hypocrisy. Another reason why the warrior delegates were uneasy with their stand-down status in this place. Everyone knows that a diplomat, by his very contradictory nature, is the least diplomatic creature to crawl the lands on his scaly belly.

  Yet, despite the distrust and disbelief that radiated from the warrior delegates, the treaty was actually being agreed and drawn at a surprisingly rapid rate. When Simeon had expressed his surprise at this to one of his brother warriors, the thick-set and scarred visage had creased into a grin.

  "Why do you think they picked this shit hole? There's nothing else to do except come to an agreement with speed. Own up, Si, would you want to spend any longer than was necessary stuck here?"

  The answer was a definite no. Praal was an inhospitable land. The people were okay. Those he had encountered in the castle - either amongst the staff or in the Praal delegation - were friendly enough, if a little distant. They would answer your questions or comply with your requests, but would not engage you in any kind of conversation. There was something about the way that they spoke to you, the way that they looked at you. It was kindly yet condescending, as though you could not possibly understand what was going on in their minds.

  It should have made the warrior blood boil. It didn't. There was something about them, a sense of a greater knowledge that made you hold back. Fear wasn't really the word, but rather a kind of awed respect.

  The environment didn't help. If the outside was forbidding then the castle itself was no better or more welcoming. Built in a spiralling circular design with interior walls and corridors that twisted on each other as they ascended to the top level, much of the castle was lit artificially with only the sleeping quarters and some lower corridor levels having windows that admitted the soft pink glow of the sun.

  Within the walls of the castle even the artificial light and heating systems could add no warmth to the bare stone walls. To the touch the stone was numbing. Mined from the depths beneath the earth it was this stone, and the few other minerals which Praal held in its natural vaults, which formed the basis of their scant wealth.

  The sooner these talks were concluded and the peace signed, the happier the warrior delegates would be, and the sooner they could go back to their lands and away from this weird place.

  And now that day had come, Simeon watched as the politicians and diplomats were joined in the main hall by a group of shuffling, ancient men. Each was dressed like an academic, each in the fashion that reflected his homeland, and each sat at the right hand of his Chief Minister.

  A murmur of confusion spread through the hall. It echoed off the cold stone. The warrior delegates exchanged puzzled glances, shrugs of bafflement. Many of the diplomats looked equally at a loss: this was evidently something that the Chief Ministers and their advisors had kept to themselves.

  Simeon was not baffled. He already knew who these ancients were.

  He didn't, however, know that it was the last time that he would feel in full possession of the facts, and in control of his fate, for some time to come.

  A few days before, a rumour had spread through the warrior contingent from each nation state that a signing was nigh. In the meantime there was still daylight to be killed, although often the only way to know this would be to venture out into the scorching heat of day or freezing frosts of night.

  It was during one of these dead times when Simeon stumbled on the real reason for the treaty. Although, like a true warrior caste, he didn't realise this at the time.

  It was the seventeenth day of the last month in the old calendar. The day the peace was sealed was to be the first day of Year Zero. Many of the older warriors were making jokes about how it would make them seem younger to start counting their age again from zero. It was a feeble joke, and even though Simeon would be the last one to think of himself as a mental giant, still
he was a little smarter than those who found the joke still funnier at the hundredth time of telling.

  Daliel had tired of this too. The squat, heavy-set and scarred warrior was older than Simeon, but this did not make him keen to perpetuate the joke.

  "Being older just means I've heard more of that stupid humour," he murmured to the younger man, "let's take a walk before I break all protocol and start a fight. With my own men, at that." He chuckled, the sound reverberating in his barrel chest. "They can't demote me any lower, so I guess that'd be me out of a job. And how else am I going to support my wives and children..."

  This joke did make Simeon smile. Daliel had seen action in every part of the planet, and had - so rumour had it - left a string of women holding babies and looking for recompense, all searching for a warrior with a different name.

  Simeon welcomed the chance to escape the boredom, and also to spend time with the man he had first met as a fellow prisoner of war. Taken in different battles, both had ended up in the same encampment in the highlands of Kyas where they had served out their time farming crops for the nation state. Despite the island's proximity to Bethel they had been allied to Varn. Acting as a home for war prisoners had been a canny way of preventing decimation from the air, and had allowed them to continue the war with the much larger nation state. It also made repatriation easier when the hostilities ceased, pending the drawing up of the treaty.

  For reasons that neither man understood they had been taken from the same encampment and briefed as members of the same warrior delegation as soon as they had been repatriated.

  "I tell you this my friend, I preferred the farm and the lack of freedom to this place," Simeon whispered with an involuntary shiver as they climbed to the top level. In all the time they had been in the castle they had not observed the view from the rooftop observation post. It looked like this may be their last chance.