The fate of the smuggler

Nikita T

The fate of the smuggler

Prologue

En Cloud sat on the beach, gazing at the water. Not far from him, perched on the trunk of a fallen tree, Feta sat with her eyes narrowed, watching tiny crabs scuttle across the sand. The girl was trying to capture a fleeting moment gifted to her by nature.

She wanted to finish her drawing before these clumsy red and brown creatures, hurrying toward the sea, vanished beneath the salty, lightly frothing waves.

The waves seemed light and airy. Warm rays played with the glints on the water, magnifying the colorful fish and the red and brown crabs that sought refuge from the sudden danger posed by the girl and her companion.

They reminded her of a childhood spent somewhere far away in space, at the other end of the galaxy, when she was but an innocent child.

Vague memories came to her of parents who took her to the seashore, where she played with similar translucent, foaming waves washing over sandy shoals, observing the myriad inhabitants of the deep.

Feta took out her sketchbook and tried to apply vibrant colors to her drawing, hoping to breathe life into the blue-green sea that remained black and white on the page—a sea into which, for some inexplicable reason, she had not yet infused vitality.

The pencil glided over the thick sheet of papyrus, tracing the image before her eyes. The sea changed. Now it seemed alive and moving. The sky and waves merged with the landscape her companion was watching as he sat a short distance away.

En Cloud had done his best to provide her with everything she needed, bartering papyrus and pencils for the water he now possessed. He had seen such drawings before. The Commander knew that Feta possessed a divine talent bestowed by the Creator, and the drawing would turn out remarkably truthful and realistic.

To him, this act was incomprehensible. No one had taught the girl this craft; she acquired her skills through intuition. It was a true miracle. Long ago, in another life, he too had tried to learn to draw, but nothing had come of it. Apparently, he lacked the natural aptitude. But for Feta, everything came easily and simply. It seemed that everything she looked at or touched flowed seamlessly onto her drawing.

It was chilly, and he wrapped himself in the waterproof sea suit he had brought along. A cold sea breeze blew from the north, making the suit quite appropriate.

His gaze was fixed beyond the horizon, where the salty seawater splashed. The ebb tide was due to begin soon. The sea pulled and called to him. But swimming in such weather was unwise; one could easily catch a cold.

The water would rush onto the sand, hiding the crabs and fish from the curious girl's sight, then recede. The scene was mesmerizing and sat in stark contrast to the recent events unfolding across the reaches of the neighboring galaxy.

It was these events that occupied all his thoughts...

En Cloud was not so much a soldier as he was a poet and philosopher, and thus he loved to reflect on the past and future of this world, which was full of contradictions and irreconcilable conflicts.

Gradually, his thoughts returned to reality...

The Empire was constantly expanding, and such lost worlds, where one could hide from the war and ponder the state of the universe, grew fewer and fewer each year. Naturally, there were very few uninhabited planets left where one could bask on warm sand right now, watching a translucent sea wave.

On most planets, open bodies of water were non-existent. There, water was either locked within minerals or held in a gaseous state, making the spontaneous emergence of not only intelligent life but even simple bacteria impossible. Yet even in such remote and inhospitable worlds, settlers managed to survive, seeking to escape the massive hive-cities where living conditions were even more grueling.

In the large, urbanized cities, the poor were not considered human; they had to survive in harsh conditions, struggling to feed their families. Meanwhile, officials constantly increased taxes and the cost of the meager resources they were forced to use.

Leaving the civilized worlds, these same poor souls became colonists, attempting to terraform the climates of these hostile planets. They sought to extract water and other resources necessary for survival by every known means.

The settlers built underground bunkers or installed impact-resistant glass domes over their primitive dwellings, where they tried to grow various crops and raise livestock.

Some succeeded and grew wealthy. Others were less fortunate and perished before reaching their goals. Their places were immediately taken by other settlers, and the cycle repeated. Everyone had their own destiny, and everything depended on their knowledge, the natural characteristics of a given planet, and the settlers' diligence.

However, even where there was water, fierce conflicts erupted over it.

And more often than not, the victors in these skirmishes were not the colonists or temporary settlers, but common Imperial mercenaries. They were better organized and possessed more powerful weaponry. They had excellent leaders who knew their trade, hardened in battles against humanoids on the Empire's frontier.