Alien Alliance Box Set

out in the ‘Ring of Five’. Two of the five were terraformed worlds in the star system. Yet three more potentials sat on the horizon. ETA 15 years, Regers figured, though two of those were moons of the inner planets.
A security guard in grey uniform walked up to him, giving him the evil eye. A taser hung from his belt, a compact E2 at waist level. Regers saluted the man, gave him a cursory inspection, an oily grin, wiped back the lank locks of greasy hair from his sweaty brow. The guard moved on, glowering a cautionary warning.
Yeah, good day to you too, you pudgy, nosy fucker.
On the schedule billboard, the red leader text scrolled below the flight list.
Flight RA546 cancelled? Jesus, what the hell? That wouldn’t do. The Cyber Corp recruitment gig was scheduled in two days. Not a good time to miss a connection this big.
Regers caught the nearest airport attendant by the shoulder. “Hey, what’s the quickest way to Phallanor Hub from here, Chief?”
The figure spun around and he saw it was a woman who stared coldly at him. “Take the hovercraft across the Layling Strait to the Mixed Territories. They’ll have feeder flights to Mantos. From there you can catch a hyperjump to Phallanor. Don’t know what’s got into these government people. Always some war on, or sanctions, prohibition, labor strike or transport freeze. What’s the rush?”
But Regers was already moving out of the terminal toward the public transpo depot that would grant him passage on a hovercraft.
* * *
Waiting in line before the glass doors, Regers caught the buzz of angry talk in the gathering throng. Same old strife—feuds broken out between Balden and the border territories of Pandor. A trade embargo merited extra measures, extending to international flights and now offworld jumps. Regers grinned a knowing leer. That would teach him for booking flights out of Axus City in Pandor. The planet was still finding its feet after being terraformed by Balden in the last decade. The continent’s rich corporate-run management, all Balden Boys, held all the yols and oversaw all land and commercial development while the southern continents, Pandor and South Ganalasia, supplied the labor.
Suffering from masses of bug bites and mild crotch rot, Regers’d gotten a bum deal from that last assignment and wasn’t sure the yols secured in an anonymous holo account had been worth it. Now this embargo was in place and a moratorium on outgoing flights from Axus almost ensured he’d miss the Cyber Corp interview.
A beat-up bus arrived at the terminal. The tail pipes coughed up diesel fumes. It looked as if the vehicle had seen better days, as if it had taken one too many tight corners around trucks and other buses at high speed.
The local freyas pushed to board, sun-browned, sweat-sheened, all smiling teeth with broad cheeks, aquiline noses and oval faces. Freyas—they had an agenda in mind—short, but sharp-tempered, many only coming up neck high. Poor by circumstance, plantation workers and local fruit pickers, of cotton, tobacco, coconuts and bananas. The plains around Axus formed the breadbasket of Pandor in these hot climes. They could pack a lot of them on these buses, and they chattered now in their bright voices, clicking tongues, honking noses while they spoke in rapid bursts. Chickens, goats, pet rabbits, crying babies, sweat, oil, onion and garlic, the whole kit and caboodle. All rose in one sour, overpowering wave. Some folk chose to ride on top of the bus with the baggage. The baggy-eyed driver allowed it. Only way they could all fit. The bus belched out more toxic fumes and clattered off down the chewed-up asphalt, burning rubber, grinding gears and gorging on more fuel, as it navigated the main route toward the Ularean Sea.
Regers picked his way down the aisle with his leather duffel bag. He secured a seat to the left middle. A fat man had appropriated the window seat, wafting sweat and smoking a stinky, dogeared cigar. He chewed on it as if it were candy and laughed words Regers did not understand, babbling on in a rough low voice to his crony beside him across the aisle. Inevitably, he leaned across Regers’ lap. Regers soon tired of the game and stood up, relinquishing his seat. A slim youth quickly snatched it up with a smile, not minding in the least the fat man and his jabber. Regers gripped one of the handholds, a sagging loop of canvas strung from the ceiling. He tilted his gaze out the grime-hazed window where he glimpsed savanna and bush clumps speeding by. Small groves too, leading to larger forests, and plantations where bow-backed workers dotted the fields.
An attractive olive-skinned woman, two seats down, made room and urged Regers to sit next to her. Regers obliged, gave her a brief nod and direct eye contact and slid his bag under his legs, one foot blocking the aisle.
Here was a welcome treat for the eyes after the hell and blood of the last working days. Ordinarily he’d go in for more of a classic woman like this after hours, a few smooth moves here, a few lines leading to a subtle innuendo, casual arm draped around the bronzed shoulder, a hint of the cash he’d made in the last venture and due to collect at any holo bank. This sordid environment, with the smells, noise and bumps of the road seemed not the place for it.
She cast him a sly, interested look with a ripe-lipped smile, her tanned cheeks shining in robust health. Her upraised elbow revealed well-formed breasts, her small movements of hand combing lustrous brown hair with the liquid grace of a cat, a practiced elegance lost on most of the younger maidens her junior by some five or ten years.
“Appreciate you making space for me,” Regers said.
“You heading to Mantos?” she asked.
“Yeah, seen a lot of folk jammed up