through a grove of young trees, their leaves painting mottled patterns on the faces of the walkway riders. A warm breeze rustled overhead and he thought he heard the quiet song of a nesting bird. It almost made him forget he was inside a climate dome.
His stomach complained suddenly and loudly, bringing disapproving glances from several of his fellow riders and serving to remind him that he had not eaten well since the loss of his ship. Food had taken on a secondary importance as he saved his money and, as a result, his already slim figure had taken on a thin gauntness that, coupled with the loose fitting, oil stained trackovers, gave him the appearance of the hungry poor still common on so many worlds, despite their high technological status.
Steve smiled broadly at one young woman whose eyes had remained on him longer than any other, and pressed a hand against his stomach, willing it to be still. He could eat after he had found a ship, if he had any money left.
It only took about ten minutes on the walkway to the first dealer on his list, but it felt like hours. He didn't like the walkways, he never felt safe on them. He knew they were overflowing with safety devices and that, since the introduction of this particular model some seven years ago, there had been no fatalities, but he could never get used to not having to walk.
Steve had spent his early life on the planet Earth, a planet where Reagold had failed to gain any significant market. When you travelled by foot on Earth you walked, just like they did centuries ago. And Earth was not alone in clinging to the old ways. Many of the planets Steve visited had either failed or refused to keep up with the new technologies, and just as many had over-invested in every technological marvel available. Steve was searching for a compromise. He liked technology, he trusted it, he made much of his living from it, but there were times when it went too far. The walkways were a good example. If he wanted to be in the open, he wanted to walk. If he was in a hurry, he wanted to sit in a vehicle. What he did not want to do was stand on a moving walkway that carried him too fast for it to be pleasurable but too slow for it to be urgent.
Someone should have spoken up against the excesses, the examples of technology for technology's sake, but no one, including Steve, wanted to take on the Reagold Corporation.
The walkway delivered him to the entrance of "Hart's New And Used Transport" where he was met by the fixed smile and slack handshake of one of a dozen sales staff lurking on the broad lot.
Fifteen minutes later he was back on the walkway. There had been nothing he could afford, not even on the "easy" credit terms the salesman had been trying to sell him. His stomach continued to grumble and he continued to try and ignore it.
Two hours and three more dealers later, and he found he couldn't ignore it any longer. He felt weak, he felt sick, and a pounding in his head joined his grumbling stomach to pass on the message. Eat something!
He asked the walkway to find the nearest cafe.
Chapter 3
The black wedge of the scanner resistant troop carrier scythed through the thick atmosphere of Milos IV, diving with unstoppable ferocity towards the hostile surface.
Locked into his harness, pressed back in his seat by the acceleration towards ground, Lieutenant Martin Lichfield of the Terramarine Corp., veteran of countless raids and battles, proud wearer of a dozen gallantry medals and, at thirty-five, youngest owner of the Diamond Service Award presented for bravery and leadership above and beyond the call of duty, closed his eyes and wished fervently that it would all end and he could be home on Earth with Sharon, his wife of twelve years.
He glanced down at the photo-wallet in his fist. It lay open at an image of Sharon smiling at the camera. In her arms she held a baby girl, just four months old. His daughter, Samantha. Seven years and one month after that photograph had been
His stomach complained suddenly and loudly, bringing disapproving glances from several of his fellow riders and serving to remind him that he had not eaten well since the loss of his ship. Food had taken on a secondary importance as he saved his money and, as a result, his already slim figure had taken on a thin gauntness that, coupled with the loose fitting, oil stained trackovers, gave him the appearance of the hungry poor still common on so many worlds, despite their high technological status.
Steve smiled broadly at one young woman whose eyes had remained on him longer than any other, and pressed a hand against his stomach, willing it to be still. He could eat after he had found a ship, if he had any money left.
It only took about ten minutes on the walkway to the first dealer on his list, but it felt like hours. He didn't like the walkways, he never felt safe on them. He knew they were overflowing with safety devices and that, since the introduction of this particular model some seven years ago, there had been no fatalities, but he could never get used to not having to walk.
Steve had spent his early life on the planet Earth, a planet where Reagold had failed to gain any significant market. When you travelled by foot on Earth you walked, just like they did centuries ago. And Earth was not alone in clinging to the old ways. Many of the planets Steve visited had either failed or refused to keep up with the new technologies, and just as many had over-invested in every technological marvel available. Steve was searching for a compromise. He liked technology, he trusted it, he made much of his living from it, but there were times when it went too far. The walkways were a good example. If he wanted to be in the open, he wanted to walk. If he was in a hurry, he wanted to sit in a vehicle. What he did not want to do was stand on a moving walkway that carried him too fast for it to be pleasurable but too slow for it to be urgent.
Someone should have spoken up against the excesses, the examples of technology for technology's sake, but no one, including Steve, wanted to take on the Reagold Corporation.
The walkway delivered him to the entrance of "Hart's New And Used Transport" where he was met by the fixed smile and slack handshake of one of a dozen sales staff lurking on the broad lot.
Fifteen minutes later he was back on the walkway. There had been nothing he could afford, not even on the "easy" credit terms the salesman had been trying to sell him. His stomach continued to grumble and he continued to try and ignore it.
Two hours and three more dealers later, and he found he couldn't ignore it any longer. He felt weak, he felt sick, and a pounding in his head joined his grumbling stomach to pass on the message. Eat something!
He asked the walkway to find the nearest cafe.
Chapter 3
The black wedge of the scanner resistant troop carrier scythed through the thick atmosphere of Milos IV, diving with unstoppable ferocity towards the hostile surface.
Locked into his harness, pressed back in his seat by the acceleration towards ground, Lieutenant Martin Lichfield of the Terramarine Corp., veteran of countless raids and battles, proud wearer of a dozen gallantry medals and, at thirty-five, youngest owner of the Diamond Service Award presented for bravery and leadership above and beyond the call of duty, closed his eyes and wished fervently that it would all end and he could be home on Earth with Sharon, his wife of twelve years.
He glanced down at the photo-wallet in his fist. It lay open at an image of Sharon smiling at the camera. In her arms she held a baby girl, just four months old. His daughter, Samantha. Seven years and one month after that photograph had been
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