Imperial Guard (6 page)

What was it the murderer had said? “. . . take them from behind”? Maybe I’ve eliminated their ace in the hole. We may get through this yet.

Brogan had just learned that he could kill as efficiently as the next man, and he would not forget. The marauders burned down Murphy in cold blood, mercilessly, contemptuously. Brogan would not forget.

As he plodded steadfastly but cautiously down the corridor, sounds of battle grew louder. A short distance ahead, the walls seemed to open into a larger area. Approaching the end of the corridor at a crouch, Brogan saw that a catwalk began where the passageway ended. Taking off his helmet, he peered around the corner to the left. Below him, he saw four figures retreating toward him. They were firing at the men from the
Shark
. But his fellow crewmembers were not returning fire. He wondered why when he remembered that he had turned off his comset. He put his helmet back on, opened the faceplate, and flipped the switch.

“. . . that passage to the right. Everyone else, hold your fire. They have a civilian hostage.” Brogan made out the form of a woman held in front of the three marauders and, therefore, in the line of fire. They were backing up toward the steps leading up to the catwalk.

All the shooting had stopped, and an uneasy truce prevailed. As the trio backed up the stairs, Brogan ducked out of sight into the recesses of the corridor. As they edged nearer, he waited and listened through the open faceplate. Once they were in the corridor, Brogan leaped to the middle and shot the two men nearest before they knew what was happening. The third, who was holding the girl, could not turn without also turning the woman. As he started to do so, she began to struggle fiercely, and he stumbled backward, off balance, against the bulkhead on the right. In an effort to overbalance him, the slender girl lifted both legs high off the deck. Taking opportunity, Brogan immediately blasted the marauder’s legs, and the kidnapper fell heavily onto his victim.

Brogan raced over and rolled the man off his hostage. He pointed his weapon at the man’s face, his finger indecisively stroking the trigger. His anger screamed vengeance while his homebred values struggled for supremacy. Finally, he lowered the rifle. “I think I’ll keep you alive for interrogation.”

The girl, who had been dazed by the crushing weight of the marauder, groaned. Brogan jerked around to look at her, suddenly reminded of her presence. Lying somewhat in a fetal position, she raised her hand to her head. Brogan heard her mutter, “Not exactly the kind of adventure I had in mind.”

Brogan reached down and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright, Miss?” Concern laced his voice. The woman rolled over with a grunt. Her hair was a tangle over her smudged face, but a shock of recognition eventually penetrated Brogan’s numbed mind.

“Adriel?” This a question. “Adriel?” This a confession of disbelief.

Adriel forced open her eyes and slowly focused them on the strained face of her rescuer. “Timothy,” she mumbled, “Timothy Brogan? Why are you here? . . . What are you doing? . . . Why are you in a spacesuit?”

“That’s a long story that can wait. What I want to know is, what are
you
doing here?”

“I’m
supposed
to be here,” Adriel replied groggily, shaking her head in an attempt to clear it. “I’m on my way to Earth to train as a nurse for our church’s relief work.”

“Here let me help you up.” Brogan pulled the woozy girl to her feet. She leaned against him for support. Brogan decided he liked the feeling.

Adriel’s head was beginning to clear, and she asked, “Timothy, what are you doing here—in a military suit—when you should be home helping with the harvest?”

“I did help with the harvest. But it’s over now, and I’m on my way to the Military Academy on Earth to earn a commission in the Royal Fusiliers.”

Adriel’s hand flew to her mouth. “You—you’re going to make a living by killing? Timothy, how could you?” Brogan stiffened and felt himself growing remote. Adriel looked around herself and saw the three men Brogan had shot to rescue her. “But I see I’m too late. Already you have blood on your hands.”

Stung, Brogan replied coldly, “They killed a friend of mine, and they would have killed you as well
—or worse,” he added ominously.

Adriel stared at him in an uncertain silence.

“That tears it!” Brogan turned away in disgust. “Don’t bother to thank me,” he flung at her as he pushed his way through the soldiers rushing to the scene. Adriel stared at his retreating back and wiped away the surging tears that caught her by surprise.

Down on deck, Ensign Unger caught his attention. “Brogan! Where is the rest of your squad?”

“Dead, sir—all of them. Shortly after we separated from the main force, they were killed by a group planning to attack you from behind.”

“What about the attackers?”

“They’re dead, too. I killed ’em. They thought I was dead, but I surprised ’em.” Brogan paused and got a strained look on his face. “I—I think I’m going to be sick.” With that he doubled over as waves of blackness and nausea washed out all trace of conscious thought.

Brogan was on his knees, muttering as he polished the corridor handrails. “Might as well be hoeing melons back home,” he mumbled with disgust. The unexpected battle with the marauders had made the
Shark
short-handed. Therefore, when Brogan was released from sickbay, he was assigned crew duties like everyone else. But this kind of menial labor was not what he left Cirrus for.

Until he passed out after the skirmish, he was unaware that he had been wounded when his detachment was wiped out. Shrapnel had embedded itself in his upper right leg, though the suit automatically applied pressure to the wound and sealed off his leg from the rest of the suit. Nevertheless, he had lost a good amount of blood.

Brogan concentrated his energies on a particularly stubborn smudge. So far he had learned more than he cared to about the dirty details of ship life. He yearned for the exciting life he would experience at the Academy, but he took solace in the fact that he would not have to endure this tedious work much longer. Docking with Earth Station would occur in only a few hours, and Brogan was eager to see an end to his mundane drudgery.

As he labored on the railing, his mind wandered once more to Adriel. They had known each other at school, but Adriel was a year older and seemed not to notice him. He had always thought her to be rather attractive, however, and often wished he had been older. He pictured her in his mind
—her small, perky nose, her wide-set brown eyes flecked with gold and slanting slightly upward to either side, her high cheek bones, the wide, slender mouth that curled up at the edges, her firm chin, the auburn locks that fell to her shoulders—and a body to match.

But her attitude on the transport had been a rude awakening. It still irked him to remember how unappreciative she had been.
It was just my luck to have rescued a proper lady. A girl from one of the pleasure worlds would have been appropriately grateful.
Brogan smirked at his thoughts.

Still, she showed a lot of spunk trying to get free of that marauder.
He couldn’t help admiring her for that.

The marauder whose life he spared turned out to be the leader’s right-hand man. Under the influence of interrogation drugs, he fingered one of the petty officers on the
Shark
as their mole. It had been the mole’s job to make sure the
Shark
was far enough away from the transports to make the raid successful. Brogan had been correct in his suspicion. But when the mole saw that the
Shark
was going to arrive in time to make a battle of it, he sent an encrypted message to the marauders, informing them of the plan of attack and the radio frequency being used by the assault troops. It was a miracle any of them had gotten back alive.

The interrogators had also learned the object of the attack. What they thought were marauders were really rebels against the Empire, not privateers. Their goal had been to disrupt and inconvenience the Empire by depriving Earth of a massive grain shipment while at the same time diverting it to rebel troops and sympathizers. They had almost succeeded.

A couple days after the skirmish, when Brogan had recovered enough to receive visitors in the sick bay, his musings were interrupted by the entrance of the captain and his exec. Brogan was startled and a bit disconcerted. He had not seen the captain as yet, and his arrival unnerved him. He struggled to sit up, but the captain said, “At ease, Private Brogan. Just relax, son. You’ve earned it.” Brogan eased himself back with apprehension.

“I have some things I need to tell you,” Captain Kebler informed him.

“Uh . . . yes, sir, Captain.”

“I just wanted to take the time to thank you properly for the fine job you did in the boarding. That was uncommon good thinking and unusual bravery for a young recruit. Therefore, I’m recommending you for the Navy Commendation Medal. That and the Purple Heart should put you a step ahead at the Academy.”

Brogan was astonished. “Thank you, sir. I—I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, son. You earned it. Oh, another thing. Ensign Unger has told me of your desire to be a Navy pilot. Well, it probably won’t do much good, but I’m also forwarding my recommendation that you be assigned to the Naval Academy instead of the military. And I’ve given you a promotion
—from recruit private to regular private. Regular privates get paid. Ensign Unger will give you the details and show you how to send some back home if you want.

“Once again, you have my sincere thanks for a job well done. Good luck at the Academy. Perhaps our paths will cross again someday.” Captain Kebler and the exec shook his hand and made their departure.

The commendations he had received were something to be proud of. Brogan continued to find it all too much to believe. Still, he missed Murphy and regretted his loss deeply.

Brogan’s daydreaming was interrupted by a boisterous shout. “Hey, Brogan!” Looking up he saw Unger approaching. Brogan was grateful for any distraction from his tedium.

“I’m supposed to brief you on your new promotion pay. But before we do that, why don’t you come with me to the Navigator’s Ward Room and watch Earth approach with me?”

“Sure thing, sir. I’d be glad to. But I’ve got to finish up this railing. I shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Fine. Meet me in the Ward Room in half an hour then.”

*

Unger and Brogan sat in the Ward Room while the ship approached Earth. Since there was not much to see yet, the two men began to talk about Brogan’s pay.

“In addition to the many other odd jobs that no one else wants,” began Unger laconically, “the junior officer
—me—gets stuck with being pay officer. So tell me, what do you want done with the pay that’s due you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know how much I’m getting.”

Unger smiled. “A regular private in his Majesty’s Fusiliers draws a grand total of ten Imperial credits per standard Earth month,” he replied officiously.

“Ten credits a month!” exclaimed the incredulous private. “Why, my father hardly ever saw half that much!”

“Well, that’s the pay rate. You can receive the whole amount or assign part of it to a family member. Let’s see now,” said Unger, verbalizing his mental arithmetic, “ten credits should get you to the Academy and settled in. After that you should get by easily on three credits a month.”

Brogan recalled how drab and tired his mother always looked. And his brothers and sisters had next to nothing to wear. Some extra money could make an amazing difference in their lives.

“I’d like to send some money to my mother.”

“OK. How much?”

“I’ll send the seven credits a month.”

Unger leaned over the console that housed the monitor to the ship’s computer. “I’d like the pay record of Private Timothy Brogan, serial number 15-315-706-12.” The information appeared instantaneously.

“The computer shows that you have thirty-three credits due you when we reach Earth. Here are the options: You can keep out the ten credits to get you started and send the balance of twenty-three to your mother, then set up the allotment. Or I can go ahead and set up the allotment now, in which case you will receive 12C when we land at Mexcity. I recommend the latter. It will reduce the possibility of screw ups.”

“Anything you say,” laughed Brogan. Right now he felt like he was leading a charmed life.

“Good. I’m sure you’ll find some way to spend the extra two credits,” he said with a wink. “Oh, by the way, the captain said to give you this.” The ensign pulled a holster and belt out of a cabinet.

“This is a stun gun. It’s part of the spoils we took from the rebels. It uses a modulated frequency broadcast to stun the victim. You can make minor adjustments to the pattern by turning this knob, here. I recommend you keep it set where it’s at. A tighter band is more effective. The nifty thing about this particular stun gun is that the grip is programmable. Whoever’s palm pattern is programmed into it is the only one who can use it. If anyone else tries to grip it, it gives them a nasty jolt.”

“That’s great!” gushed Brogan as he reached to take it.

“Whoa! Not yet, fella. I have to hold on to it until we disembark. Crewmembers are not allowed to carry weapons except in emergencies. But you’ll be glad to have it on Earth.”

“Is it that bad down there? Father always said it was a wicked place, but I thought he was just exaggerating.”

“Well, I don’t know about wicked, but I do know that Earth is a dangerous place for the unwary. Noncitizens have very little to lose by breaking the law, so a lot of them survive by committing crimes. Some manage to steal or extort enough to buy their citizenship.”

Unger cupped his chin in his hand and stared out at the approaching planet. “Earth is crowded. Life is cheap. In the lower levels a person can be bought or sold for a handful of credits. Some even sell themselves into slavery just to escape their poverty . . . or death by starvation.”

Brogan had read plenty about Earth while he was growing up. But never had anyone so gripped him with the somber and grim realities of humanity’s home planet. “Aren’t there any police? Can’t the Emperor do anything about all the suffering?”

“Oh, yes . . . the police. The Imperial Guard they’re called. And they’re very efficient if they choose to be. But they’re not civil police; they’re military police. They’re supposed to spend most of their energies protecting the Emperor’s person, sovereignty, and interests. The local police have more than they can handle and never venture into the lower levels. As a rule most people have to stick up for themselves. Lots of citizens carry their own weapon or hire a personal guard. But only first-class citizens are allowed to carry
lethal
weapons.”

“Here. Before I put the stun gun away, let me program it for your hand so it will be ready for disembarkation.”

Unger took Brogan’s hand and performed the necessary functions, but Brogan wasn’t paying attention. He was distracted by the view screen. “Hey, what’s that?” he exclaimed. Ahead was a large collection of ships moving in various directions around an imaginary center.

“That’s rendezvous point Bravo,” rejoined Unger. “We’ll leave the transports there and go directly to Earth. The transports stop here or at one of the other five rendezvous points in orbit until they receive their landing coordinates. Look,” he said pointing, “what do you think of Earth?”

Brogan looked intently at the green, blue, and brown planet streaked with the white flecks of circling clouds. He felt a strange awe and a sense of homecoming as he gazed at his heritage. “It’s beautiful,” he breathed.

The ship lurched as the
Shark
, which had turned on its tractor system upon reentry into normal space, disengaged from the transport group. Leaving them behind, the escort ship continued on to the rendezvous point.

Brogan began to feel intermittent sensations of falling, punctuated with periods of increased gravity. “What’s happening?” he asked.

“That’s normal deceleration gambol. We’re decelerating so rapidly that the ship’s computer can’t keep the internal gravity constant. But we can tolerate that a whole lot better than if they failed altogether. We’d be plastered all over the wall.”

Once Unger mentioned it, Brogan remembered reading about deceleration gambol while in school. Even though ships had plenty of time to decelerate gradually once they came out of jump drive, it was quicker to travel at top speed for as long as possible, then decelerate as rapidly as the computer was capable of controlling.

Brogan excused himself to finish packing his things. Once the ship was docked, he joined Unger, with the greater part of the
Shark
crew, aboard the shuttle that would transfer them to Earth. Once on the planet, Brogan fell into line at the Mexcity debarkation center to undergo the scrutiny of the verifications officer. Everyone leaving the spaceport had to pass through the VO.

Whereas the Emperor was not very concerned about who left Earth, he was extremely cautious about who came in. Ever mindful of the possibility of a coup, the number of military personnel on Earth at any one time was strictly monitored. Shore leaves were canceled and ships ordered back into space if the computers ever indicated an imbalance. The Emperor tried to keep his Fusiliers busy elsewhere so that their commanders would not have time to plot a means of replacing him in the royal palace at Rio.

The VO line was moving rapidly now, and soon it was Brogan’s turn to pass through the doors. But as he began to step through, a speaker blared at him: “Subject has no citizenship identification. Please verify.”

A slight, balding man with a weak chin came out from behind a partition and looked Brogan over with the myopic eyes of a long-time administrator. Noting Brogan’s uniform, he asked in a detached and dry tone of voice, “May I see your orders?”

The private handed over the battered orders written by Captain Darkhow. The official sneered at the paper. “Orders written on paper instead of a scan? How quaint.” He began to read the contents. “Cirrus, eh? Well, that explains it. We don’t get many from there. But that’s just as well, I suppose.”

Snatching a small scanning device from his desk, he said, “Well, let’s see if we can find where this Captain Darkhow hid the data chip.”

He ran the device over the page. “Ah, here it is, cleverly concealed in the official seal.” The VO snipped it out.