Imperial Guard (4 page)

Timothy dashed out of the yard and did not see the tears gleaming on his mother’s cheeks. She stood rooted by the door, watching him until he was out of sight. Then slipping inside, she returned to a sleepless bed.

*

His breath exploded rhythmically from his burning lungs, searing his tortured throat. His chest felt on fire. All he could think about was the pain he felt from head to foot and from skin down to bone. His breath tore steadily yet spasmodically from his parched mouth and rent the air as he vainly fought to replenish his body’s oxygen. He was glad his stomach was fairly empty, else he’d have lost its contents long ago.

Not much farther now,
he told himself through the haze. When he took the effort to lift his head, he could see the spaceport in the distance. For thirty clicks he had been running and walking, and time was getting short. It must be almost 6:30 by now. He had considered taking a short cut across the wheat field, which would have carved nearly five clicks off the trip. But the freshly cut stubble would have torn the skin of his bare feet to shreds.

As he stumbled forward at the limits of his endurance, he shifted his pack on his raw shoulders and prepared to sprint the last leg of the race.
One foot in front of the other. Don’t stop. Keep going. Only a few more steps.
With sheer effort of will he forced his legs to keep pumping. Suddenly, out of the fog of his exhaustion, the silhouette of the guardhouse rose up to meet him. He slowed to a stumbling walk and nearly fell down. His legs had turned to rubber.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

Timothy Brogan stopped and slumped over, his hands on his knees, breathing harshly. “I’m . . . Timothy . . . Brogan,” he gasped out, feeling the bile rise in his throat, “reporting . . . for shuttle . . . transportation . . . to Earth.”

Coming forward a few steps, his weapon at the ready, the guard took a closer look at the solitary figure. “To Earth? What’s a ragtag hayseed like you going to Earth for?” he sneered. “To provide some comic relief?”

Though still out of breath and groggy, Brogan felt the stirrings of anger. “I’ve been accepted . . . in the Fusiliers. . . . This is my last chance . . . to get to . . . the Military Academy,” he panted out.

The soldier guffawed. “That’s a good one!” Again he laughed gruffly, slapping his leg. Then he sobered quickly and advanced on Timothy in a threatening manner. “Go on! Get outa here before I stop thinking its funny.”

Brogan failed to see the humor in the situation. Time was running out, and this buffoon was going to ruin his last chance. Beginning to catch his breath, he straightened up and said, “Captain Darkhow ordered me to report here . . . by 0630 hours, on the 15th,
private!”
He began to weave with vertigo, wishing he had something to grab hold of.

“You gonna be smart about this, huh? Just where does a hick like you get off talking down to me like that? I think I’ll just
—”

The guard was interrupted by a sharp question from behind. “What’s all the ruckus about out here?”

The Corporal of the Guard came up to stand beside the private. “Who are you?” he ordered, looking at the intruder.

Brogan could not believe how immaculate the COG appeared. The creases on his trousers were sharp as a knife and not a wrinkle showed anywhere. His few ribbons sparkled in the reflected light. His boots shone. Timothy became conscious of how ragged and unkempt he looked. He clutched at his clothing and looked from soldier to soldier.

“Come on, boy. Speak up!” the COG enjoined.

Glancing back to the speaker, Brogan screwed up his courage and said, “Sir, I have orders here from Captain Darkhow to report to this gate at 0630 hours on the 15th.” Offering the orders, he added, “I’m a candidate for the Imperial Military Academy.”

Looking at Brogan skeptically, the corporal took the crinkled paper and scanned it. “That paper is wrinkled almost as much as you are,” the private scoffed with a vicious laugh.

The COG glared at him. “Be quiet, private!” The soldier snapped to attention. “Your job is to guard against unlawful entry, not to harass people or make Imperial policy!”

Turning to Timothy he said, “Your papers seem to be in order, Mr. Brogan. If you’ll come with me to the guard shack, I’ll check on the status of the
Shark.”
Brogan followed obediently.
Some shack,
he thought with awe as he entered behind the corporal.
This is more grand than our house!

“Have a seat while I give ’em a shout.”

Turning to the transmitter, he called the interstellar ship. “
H.M.S. Shark,
this is COG, Gate Three.”

Presently a voice replied, “This is
Shark,
Gate Three. State your business.”

“I have a recruit here reporting for trans-shipment to the Imperial Military Academy. Are you ready for boarding?”

“Roger, Gate Three. Send him on over.”

“
Shark,
he seems a little short on gear. Do you have any on board he can use?”

“Negative, Gate Three. Issue him equipment out of your stores. I’ll send an ensign over to administer the oath of allegiance.”

“Roger,
Shark
. Gate Three out.”

Turning to Brogan, the corporal stuck out his hand. “I’m John Manazes.”

Rubbing his wet, dirty hand on his equally soiled trousers, Brogan gripped the soldier’s hand. “Timothy Brogan. B-but you know that, don’t you?” he said, grinning.

“Come on.” Manazes smiled back. “Let’s see if anything in here fits you. But first jump in there and grab a quick shower,” he said, pointing to a doorway. “You’ve got three minutes.”

*

“These are the finest clothes I’ve ever seen,” marveled Brogan as he put on his army issue four minutes later. He picked up the leather shoes and stroked them. “Nobody around here wears shoes in the summer months. There just isn’t enough leather. The hunters got here ahead of us and killed off most everything that was good for making leather. And the imported simulated stuff is too expensive.”

“Listen, I know how it is. I’m from a frontier world myself—New Brazil. We’re not all like Private Cruz. He’s Earth born. Thinks himself superior to offworlders.” Timothy started feeling more at home.

He was dressed and waiting when the ensign arrived. Turning on a small recorder, the ensign said, “I am about to administer the oath of allegiance to the Emperor. Is there any reason you cannot take this oath?”

“No, sir.”

“As a commissioned officer in the Imperial Navy, I am empowered to induct you into the Armed Forces of his Imperial Majesty, Henry III. Raise your right hand, and repeat after me. ‘I do solemnly swear to defend with my life the person of his Majesty, the Emperor, and all his possessions. I pledge to defend the citizens of the Empire as directed by the Emperor himself or by my superior officers. I freely subject myself to the
Uniform Code of Military Conduct
as prescribed in the Covenant of 2226. All this I pledge on my most sacred honor.’“

After repeating the last phrase, Brogan added, “so help me God.”

“That was not required,” noted the ensign.

“It was for me, sir,” replied the new recruit.

“It is permitted,” he said, picking up the recorder and handing it to Manazes. “Take his fingerprints, then his retina and voice patterns.” Turning to the new recruit, he said, “Welcome aboard, Private Brogan. I’m Ensign Dar Unger. We need to get moving ASAP. The
Shark
is due to depart soon.”

In a few minutes Brogan and Unger were on their way to the ship. When they had left, Cruz sidled up to Manazes and asked, “What’s the idea of making me look like a fool in front of a country bumpkin?”

Giving him a glance, Manazes replied, “Cruz, you
might
live long enough to make corporal, but I doubt it.”

“What d’ ya mean? What’s wrong with havin a little fun?”

“If I were Private Brogan, I would hold it against you. If he makes it through the Academy, he might make it hard on you some day. But even if he doesn’t, what does a little kindness cost after all?”

“Aw, Corporal,” he guffawed, “you been hangin’ around these goody-goody Mennonites too long.”

“Maybe. But I’m a corporal and you’re a private, so get back to your post!” Manazes could hear him muttering as he went back to duty.
Probably just as well I can’t hear what he’s saying,
he reflected.

The shuttle carrying Brogan and Unger lifted free of the planet’s surface. Brogan was surprised at the smoothness of the flight. But he knew that soon their speed would be calculated in kilometers per second and that their destination was the orbiting space station where the imminently departing scout ship
Shark
was docked. “This is just like riding in a flyer,” he commented to Unger.

Unger turned to face him. “It is smooth, isn’t it? Before gravitonics were discovered, the early astronauts had to undergo high acceleration pressures. I understand it was very unpleasant. I’m glad those days are gone.”

“So am I,” agreed Brogan. Excitement and confidence began to shimmer within him.
Now I can begin to do some really important things!
The still tingly sensation of the antiseptic shower and the texture and smell of his freshly donned uniform made him feel like a new person. And, indeed, he felt as if he
was
on the threshold of a new life.

“It must be exciting to patrol in a scout ship,” he said to the ensign, who occupied the seat next to his.

“So I thought before shipping out. As a matter of fact, it’s been pretty dull. If it weren’t for the fact that this is my first flight—I just graduated from Navigator’s School—it would be an absolute bore.” He clasped his hands over his head and looked up to feign boredom. “I just haven’t had anything to do! Because this is a milk run, all the jumps and astronavigation computations have already been recorded. All I have to do is recompute each one and check it against the record.”

“Do you think we might run into trouble with space marauders?” Brogan asked expectantly, recalling a scan he had read once.

Unger looked at him with an expression of disgust. “Are you kidding? Nobody, let alone marauders, would be the least bit interested in our transports or our cargo! Wait’ll you see ’em—just a bunch of old scows, a collection of space junk!”

At that moment, the cabin lights indicated that docking was imminent, and their attention was distracted by preparations to disembark. Soon they were moving aboard the
Shark,
and Brogan looked around in boyish wonder. Everything was spotless, nothing out of place. It was like the feeling you have when you enter someone’s house for the first time and everything is so immaculate you can’t believe it’s lived in.

“Hey, you! Greenie! Step this way!” A Navy rating was waving to them down the left corridor. He was dressed in the traditional dark blue inherited from the time when navies roamed the seas.

Jerking his head to the left, Brogan instantly replied, “Yes, sir!” and started down the corridor with the ensign beside him.

“Don’t call me ‘sir’!” came the response.

Unger distracted him by pulling his sleeve and whispering, “I’ll see you later, Brogan.”

Timothy watched with regret as he started down the right corridor, then brought his attention back to the figure on his left. “Yes, s . . . uh, what do I call you?”

“I’m Chief Petty Officer Mitchell. Call me CPO Mitchell or just ‘Chief’ for short. Save your ‘sirs’ for the officers. They expect it.”

“Yes . . . Chief.”

“That’s better. Now, first thing, we need to get you checked out for a suit.”

“But, Chief, I’ve already got lots of uniforms . . . right here in this bag they gave me at the guardhouse.” Brogan dropped his duffel off his shoulder with a thump.

The chief dragged his hand down his rough face with a stifled groan. Striving for patience and pasting on a smile, he carefully explained. “Listen, Greenie. That
bag
is called a ‘sea bag’ or a ‘kit’. The
suit
I’m talking about is a
space
suit, or as the Navy regs call it, ‘one each extra-vehicular, self-contained, life support, vacuum atmosphere, G33 suit.’ So we call ’em
suits
for short.” Cocking his head and still smiling, he put his hands on his hips and asked in an artificially effeminate voice, “Now, do we have any further objections, Greenie?”

Brogan gulped. “No, sir . . . uh, I mean, Chief.”

Pointing to his right the chief yelled, “Then get your butt through that hatch, and quit wastin’ my time!”

Brogan doubled over, snatched up his kit, and leaped through the opening. But seeing the disassembled suits laid out before him, he exclaimed, “Hey, somebody took ’em all apart!”

Once again Mitchell rubbed his hand across his face in disbelief. “We store ’em like that on purpose, so we can fit big, stupid lugs like you. We wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable now, would we?” he grinned sarcastically. “Now step over here, and see how this torso fits.”

Soon Brogan was outfitted in a complete suit. Each piece fitted into its proper place, securely and tightly. If a part did not match the length of an appendage properly, the chief quickly slipped it off and replaced it with another until he had a perfect fit.

“Does the helmet fit OK?” Brogan nodded. “Good. Now, take it off, and hold still.”

Mitchell took a small tool and ran it lightly over all the seams, except at the joints. This was the sealing tool. When Brogan disembarked at Earth, the tool would be reversed to disassemble it for someone else to use. In this way, spacesuits could be recycled and reused for years. Brogan felt like a seamstress’s model. He was getting sweaty, and it was difficult to remain steady.

“Now pay attention,” the CPO said when he finished. Brogan blinked sweat out of his eyes and made an effort to do so. “When you get to the squad bay, you will practice putting on this suit until you can do it in the dark. You just might have to one day. Understood?” Brogan nodded but began to think that maybe farm work wasn’t so bad after all.

“Now, you are right-handed, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Good. This unit is equipped to receive a weapon in the right hand. If we ever come under attack, the armorer will issue you a weapon and explain how to use it. Since you’ve had no prior weapons training, you will use it only when and where directed. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Are there any questions?”

“No, Chief.”

During the sealing, a seaman had entered the compartment and was standing at ease to the side. “Then Seaman Murphy here will show you to the squad bay . . . where you will practice putting on your suit. He will supervise you. Dismissed,” the petty officer intoned in the same long, drawn-out style practiced for centuries.

Picking up Brogan’s kit, Murphy made his way down the corridor with Brogan in tow. Soon they were in the squad bay, and Brogan discarded his suit. Suddenly he realized he was famished.

“Seaman Murphy?” he asked tentatively.

The young black man looked up. “Hey, just call me Murph. That formality business is just for the officers.”

Brogan grinned. “Murph it is. Listen, I haven’t eaten in over fifteen hours, and I’m so hungry I could eat a horse! Is it possible to get a bite to eat somewhere?”

“Well, mess isn’t for another hour and a half,” the seaman responded as he flopped down on his bunk, hands behind his head. “And anyhow, you got orders to practice that suit of yours.”

Laughing as Brogan’s face turned sour, he reached over his head into a wall compartment. “Here, have a snack bar
—that should tide you over. Catch!”

Brogan clumsily roped in the bar as it flew over his head. While growing up on Cirrus, snack bars had been only for special occasions. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

When he had finished relishing the bar, Brogan began his suit practice. His first effort was expectedly clumsy and tentative, and Murphy was obviously enjoying his chance to have a few laughs at the expense of a back-world bumpkin. But he soon discovered that the best procedure was to begin with the legs, move to the torso, and finish with the arms. In no time, he was able to work smoothly and systematically. Eventually, Murphy’s smugness was replaced with the vaguest stirrings of respect. He had to admit that, after only a few tries, Brogan could now don and discard his suit as quickly as anyone on board.

The new recruit was stowing his gear in his locker when the bells sounded for mess. Murphy led the way, and once there Brogan bumped into Unger again. “Hey, Brogan. How would you like to come with me to the Navigator’s Ward Room? We have a viewing screen there, and you could get your first live look at Cirrus before departure.”

“You bet!”

Once in the Ward Room, Unger activated the screen, and Brogan caught his breath as the globe of Cirrus filled the wall. The blackness of space set off the blues, browns, greens, whites, and oranges of the planet. It was similar to Earth in many ways, but different in just as many others. There were differences in plant and animal life, as well as geography. Not quite half of Cirrus was covered by oceans, and therefore the oxygen content was lower. It was also 1.2 times the size of Earth. Because of these factors, the average indigenous Cirrus man or woman was stronger and had more endurance than his or her terrestrial counterparts.

Brogan became pensive as he gazed at Cirrus.
Planet of my birth,
he reflected,
will I ever see you again?
The question came unbidden to his mind, but Brogan could not answer it. Now that he was leaving Cirrus behind, he was afraid he might one day regret his decision.

“You know,” said Unger, breaking into Brogan’s thoughts, “from up here, I think Cirrus is even more beautiful than Earth.” Brogan had seen Earth only in pictures and film, but he had to agree. It was a beautiful sight.

Afterward, Unger showed him around the ship. One room was much like another, but to Brogan everything was new and exciting. Presently a klaxon sounded. “That’s the first warning for disconnect to start our trip back to Earth. We’d better get to our respective stations.”

“Right.”

*

Brogan saw a lot of Unger and Murphy as the days went by, and friendships formed quickly. But he also encountered those with whom friendship seemed out of the question. One was named Cromartie
—“Crow” for short.

The second day out from Cirrus, Murphy and Brogan were in the mess hall. They had gotten their meals, searched for a place to sit, and put their trays down opposite Crow. Crow was the type with overdeveloped muscles and underdeveloped intelligence. His hulking frame was topped with a bullet-shaped head. He had closely-cropped platinum-colored hair, deep-set, uninteresting eyes, a pale complexion, and thin lips.

“Hi, Crow,” greeted Unger, “how you doing?”

Crow grunted in response, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth.

Unger grinned and turned to Brogan. “Crow isn’t the communicative type.” Looking back at Crow, he said, “This is Brogan, a new recruit from Cirrus.”

Crow expelled his mouthful of food across the table and pushed back his chair. “Cirrus!” he bellowed. “That’s a good one. The service gettin’ that desperate? Welcome to the twenty-third century, hayseed. What century are you from, anyway?” Crow grinned coldly at his own joke.

Brogan and Unger were trying to divide their attention between Crow and the fragments of his dinner that ended up in their plates when Crow reached over and poked a finger in Brogan’s shoulder. “What makes you think you’re good enough ta be in the Fusiliers, pretty boy?”

“Hey, take it easy, Crow,” interjected Unger. “Back off.”

“Stay outa this, fly boy. I just wanna see what junior here is made of.”

“Look,” said Brogan, “I don’t want any trouble. Why don’t we just try to be friends?”

“What fer? Why would I want to be friends with somebody from a hick planet?”

“Come on, Brogan,” Unger said getting to his feet, “let’s find another table where the air smells a little better.”

In assent, Brogan stood and picked up his tray, but at that moment, Crow leaned across the table and gave Brogan a push. Brogan went sprawling, tray and contents flying into the air and landing on top of him. Crow stood on the other side of the table guffawing. “Look at the greenie! He can’t even stand up without tripping over his two left feet!”

Brogan’s face darkened. The thin lips of his normally wide, straight mouth grew even thinner. He knocked the tray away and lurched to his feet, facing Crow across the table.

“Well, come on, hot shot,” Crow motioned to him. “You wanna make somethin’ of it?”

Unger took his arm, “Come on, Brogan, forget it.”

Brogan shook off his grip and leaned over the table. “Yea, I want to make something of it,” he said. Gripping Crow’s tray, he launched its contents all over his uniform. Crow swore loudly. In a rage, he leaped the table, and Brogan backpedaled. But before Crow could inflict any damage, several bystanders restrained him.

Unger took charge. “Look you two, unless you want the MPs to treat you to some extended time in confinement, you’d better cool off!”

Crow shrugged off the men holding him back. “OK . . . this time. Just keep that greenie outa my way!” With that Crow turned around and stomped off.

Brogan’s heart was pounding in his chest, but he expelled a sigh at his reprieve.
That was pretty stupid, Brogan. You could’ve gotten yourself slam-dunked real good. Remember, you gotta be thinking all the time!