He looked across the field. Yep, that was Vagabond all right. The old piece of junk looked as decrepit as ever. Why didn’t Lulu just trade it in for a newer ship? A few years, a few payments, and it would be theirs. Then he remembered it would probably take Lulu’s crew a lot longer than that to pay off a new ship. After all, they weren’t smuggling beer.
Jack saw Public Protectors marching towards the ships, steel-blue uniforms looking snappy with their scanners at the ready. Jack reached into his jacket pocket for his manifest. Another inspection and another medical exam were all that stood between him and that bath.
Then he saw the old maintainer truck.
It had just passed Sundancer when smoke suddenly burst out of its engine compartment. He watched the driver get out and checked under the hood. From where Jack stood, it looked like a ruptured coil...no big deal. But the driver looked like he was about to have a heart attack. Old trucks like that are bound to have some breakdowns so Jack wondered what the guy was stressing about. Hell, only one or two of the Public Protectors even paid much attention to it. Then Jack noticed how the driver’s eyes kept darting to the Vagabond.
Lulu stood by Vagabond’s gangway watching the whole affair, trying to be cool, but Jack knew her better than that. She was shaking. Then, Jack saw people crawling out of the near side of the truck. Not people, exactly, mutants, four of them, two adults and two children. Their cloths were ragged and their bodies malnourished. A king, a queen and two of a kind—and Jack knew he was in the wrong suit. Chad, his wife Emma and their two kids were hiding behind the busted down truck.
Crap, this wasn’t going to end well.
They were less than twenty meters from freedom, but the Public Protectors were getting closer. Jack looked toward the customs men as they approached and made up his mind.
No, not well at all.
Captain Jack Galloway strode to the Sundancer’s port side access life-support panel. Whispering softly, he said, “I’m gonna’ miss you, honey. I’m gonna’ miss you a lot.”
Risk is part of life. The only question is which risks are worth taking and which aren’t.
A lump rose in his throat.
Grabbing the release handle firmly, he gave it a sharp pull, and his contraband flowed all over the docking pad in a waterfall of golden suds. Rocket Fuel Beer, the best brew in the entire galaxy, flowing over Jack’s shoes and lapping against Sundancer’s landing gear. Protector Johnson stopped in his tracks, and his eyes became wide as shot glasses as the precious brew cascaded upon the ground.
Jack didn’t dare look at the broken down truck. His eyes focused on the men in the steel-blue uniforms. Waving as the lawmen approached, he mumbled, “That’s right you goons, just keep looking at me and my pretty beer. Keep looking over here.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of light as the sun shone briefly on the Vagabond’s rising gangway. A minute later he heard the engines of the old freighter roar. Then, strong arms pushed him to the ground and he fell with a splash. Bathing in a puddle of suds, he felt the beer soaking into his pants and his jacket as his hands were bound behind his back.
And as the Vagabond ascended into the sky, it cast a shadow over Prisoner Jack Galloway. He felt the momentary cool shade touch his face while Protector Johnson’s voice commanded, “You are under arrest! Do not resist. Obey all commands. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand. I sure hope you enjoy drinking Isis Piss from now on, buddy.”
Mind your own business, stop fighting other people’s wars. Some things Jack would never learn. Pursing his lips, he took a deep sip of the foaming beer from the puddle around him. He figured he might as well enjoy it now. After all, there ain’t no beer in jail. At least it was the good stuff.
THE END
Victory Parade
Unlike the fragile Confederation that preceded us, the Human Star Empire shall endure until the stars themselves grow cold! We are no weak democracy, with its tolerance of subversive journalists and other malcontents. As imperials, we resurrect and embrace humanity’s true nature. Strong nobles leading loyal subjects without the dithering and hand wringing of the former toppled system will take humanity beyond its former bounders and make us truly great again!
First Emperor Hathar The Bold
***
The Gunnery Sergeant entered the old squad room with a special spring in his step. “This is a great day, marines. A great day indeed. Not only is it payday by the way, but we got something to celebrate what’s been waiting a long time to come. Who’s up for a little R&R in the pleasure dome tonight?”
Corporal Gambino jumped to his feet, the first to raise a cheer, followed by the rest of the squad. They were all waiting in their dress black and green uniforms with shoes perma-shined and golden belts as bright as the noonday sun. “First round on you, Gunny Malone?”
“What? Do you think I’m made of credits, Corporal?”
Gambino just smiled.
“All right, seeing as how there’s just the twelve of ‘ya.”
The squad raised another cheer, and Malone beamed. These were some of the best troops he’d ever led. He’d served with most of them for nigh on three years now and found them all to be hard working grunts, and dependable in a fight. This allowed him to be more relaxed with junior NCOs like Gambino than the Corps generally allowed. But most importantly of all, he never had any reason to doubt the loyalty of these marines.
“But before we go,” he prefaced, “I want all of ya’ to head to the arms room and draw plasma pistols. I can’t say all of the locals will be happy with what just went down back on Earth, and I don’t want any of them to get it in their head that they can mess with marines under the new order any more than they could have under the old, right?”
In unison, the squad replied, “Right, Gunny!”
The squad filed out, each marine drawing a sidearm to be worn in the ornate holsters that matched their gold dress uniform belts. They also took the time to remove the four-pointed star of the Confederation from their left sleeves to happily abandon them on the arms room counter. Thus, in a jovial mood, they set out for the excitement and diversion of the Mars Pleasure Dome; three stories of bars, casinos, and brothels awaited just a tram ride down from Marine Dome to the east end of New Dayton.
Outside the domes, Mars provided a training environment to test any marine's metal. However, inside, could be equally challenging. On any given Saturday night, a jar-head could barely stay sober; much less avoid the ever-present Shore Patrol’s billy-clubs. Of course, there would be no Shore Patrol tonight or any other night from now on. The old Confed’ Navy had finally been put in its rightful place by Commandant Hathar Livingston himself. No longer were the Marines subordinate to the Navy or any other branch of government.
The squad had a lot to celebrate indeed.
“Get in; get in, you laggards.” Malone waved them into the tram car as if it were an armored fighting vehicle. “I told you I’d pay for the first round but not your damn fare.”
Gambino asked, “Why should we pay? Ain’t we running the show now?”
“Only in matters up on high, Gambino. We still gots to keep in good relations with the common folks. Start treating them like shit and we’ll have real problems down the line.”
Filing in, the squad took their seats and strapped in; at speeds of over two hundred kilometers an hour, it was best to follow the safety protocols on Martian Public Transit. Of course, this made their trip markedly short. Soon the tram doors opened to the neon and liquored sights and sounds of the Mars Pleasure Dome.
As they debarked, a thin haze of vapors assaulted their noses. Nicotine, Cannabis, Triple Plus A, and a dozen other odors wafted up from the streets three stories below. The public speakers were playing patriotic songs for a change such as Proud Defenders and United by Humanity. This got the marines pumped up, and Gambino even did a sort of mock dance as they strutted down the avenue.
The first bar they hit sat right off the tram
line, and it was there that Malone made his promise good. “One beer a piece, everybody. Just one and then you’re spending your own goddamn money.”
Cold brews in hand, they raised a toast. “To the Commandant!”
But Malone corrected them. “Don’t you people mean, ‘to the First Citizen’?”
“Is that the new title?” one of the privates asked.
Gambino answered, “Yeah, dumbass, it’s been all over the news. Where’ve you been?”
Laughter and backslapping followed, and the squad took their seats at tables in the middle of the room. Fortunately, the civilians who’d occupied those tables offered no resistance, and many seemed to invite the marines to take their seats.
And as the golden beverage trickled down his throat, Malone felt a genuine sense of relief. “I’ve gots to tell you all; I’m just damn glad it’s all over. The stupid ‘peacekeeping’ missions, the deployments to piss-ant colonies nobody gives a shit about, and all the Confed’ Senate’s infighting and foul-ups, missed pay due to mismanagement, all of that shit’s finished and done. Things are going to run properly from here on out. Now we got a new chance to make this galaxy work the way it ought to work.”
Gambino raised his glass. “Preach it, Gunny!”
Malone looked up from his table and noticed some commotion at the bar’s entrance. A group of young men were pushing into the place, and the bartender was pointing at the assembled marines. To his troops, the gunny said, “Okay, everybody, be cool and keep your hands off your holsters until we find out what all this is about.”
The gang of young men approached the squad while dragging a beaten man behind them. The tallest of the youths seemed to be the leader and said, “We’ve a…we’ve got a little present for you, Marines.”
Malone raised an eyebrow. “Oh, do you now?”
The lead punk laughed and then turned to the beaten man. “That’s right; we caught one of those Confed’ losers trying to get to the spaceport. Jimmy here, he recognized him as the chief commissioner at the courthouse.” And with a vicious smile, the tall guy added, “He’s all yours.”
Gunny Malone shook his head. “Thanks, but we’re not the right people to be taking in prisoners right now. The Military Police station is two levels down and to the right. This is all law and order, see? We gots to do all this on the up and up. First a fair trial and then he gets what’s coming. Understand?”
The leader nodded. “Sure, we just thought you’d like to have some fun with him first.”
“I hear you. But tonight we’re having all the fun we can stand. Two levels down and to the right. You can’t miss it.”
The young leader gave Malone his best attempt at a military salute which Malone half seriously returned. The former Confed’ commissioner was summarily dragged out the door leaving Malone to enjoy his beer in peace. “Yes, sir,” he said to himself, “things are shaping up just fine.”
Gambino asked, “Why didn’t you just let us have a bit of fun. Those kids could ‘a dragged that Confed’ pansy off to the station later.”
Malone took a sip of beer and mulled the question over for a moment. “Because the Confed’ was running when they caught him. He was trying to get to a ship they said. It’s not like he’d be sticking around to challenge us or the new ways. Besides, those punks already worked him over good, so I figured there wouldn’t be much point in smacking him around again.”
“Well,” Gambino muttered, “I hope they all don’t run away.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“’Cause…I don’t want to miss my chance to kick the shit out of some Confed’ sap.”
The squad shared a good chuckle at that one while Malone slapped his corporal on the back. When the beer glasses all drained dry, Gunny Malone lead his merry little band out of the bar and into the streets. He knew of a place with dancing girls not far away and wanted to see if his favorite gal was working that night. As for his marines? They didn’t seem to care where they were going, as long as there was booze to be had and mischief to be made.
Getting through the crowded streets proved more challenging than he anticipated, however. Random folks kept stopping them to shake their hands or pat the uninformed folks on the back. “Good job, Marines!” they would say or, “Long live Hathar!” It was all Malone could do to keep his troops together in all the hustle and bustle. One of the tourists even slipped some Triple Plus A into Gunny’s palm and wished him a good trip.
Finally, after the hundredth distraction, he found the stairs to the second level and there it was. The Pet’s Palace sat right off the main drag and coincidentally, one floor above the Military Police Station. Imagining the Confederation Commissioner getting processed and slammed in a cell just below his feet added to his enthusiasm as they walked up to the club’s front door.
“This is it, everybody,” Malone announced. “The best place on Mars for one that’s wanting.”
The marines shuffled in to be bombarded by the loud music and garish decor. Everywhere the eye turned there was a sight to behold. Vulgar, sexual, brightly colored and wild, The Pet’s Palace did not disappoint, and Malone soon found himself sliding into one of the overstuffed chairs by the main stage. Although his favorite dancer seemed to have the night off the other gals proved equally entertaining. After a few shots, Malone even allowed one of the club’s ladies to unbutton his tunic and pin one of his medals onto her bra. His troops would have mocked him endlessly for that back at Marine Dome, but just then they were all too schnockered to notice or care.
For the next several hours, Gunny Malone didn’t care about a darn thing either. He felt safer than he had in years. All those peacekeeping missions had left scars that often pained him still. The sight of half-starved children, uncovered atrocities, and mass graves, added to the joyful thrill of incoming fire, marked a twenty-year career defending something nobody seemed to care about anymore. But now that was all past, and he could look forward to retirement knowing that young troopers like Gambino wouldn’t have to live the life he’d led. At last there would be peace and unity among the stars.
Sometime after midnight, Malone decided it was time to round everyone up and pour some coffee into his marines before returning to base. Although he never did get his medal back, the gunnery sergeant managed to button up his tunic and straighten his belt before they left. After all, one must keep up appearances when out in public streets.
Staggering out of the bar, the squad took a right and another left until they came to an all-night donut shop. Malone checked the time and discovered it was already well past two in the morning. “Come on everybody; we need to get halfway sober before we get back to base. Remember, first formation is at seven-hundred hours same as always.”
Grumbling, the squad shuffled into the donut shop and took their seats in the booths that lined the walls. Malone went to the counter to order coffee and donuts for the inebriated lot. The man behind that counter, however, proved to be less than friendly.
Before Malone could even say “hello,” the civilian demanded in a crisp tone, “What do you want?”
Shouting from his booth, Gambino answered for the squad. “What do you think, dumbass? Donuts and coffee. How about you just give us a dozen assorted and a big urn of joe, huh?”
“Sure,” the clerk replied. “And why don’t I just give you the rest of the galaxy to go with it? Or is the galaxy not enough for you guys?”
Gambino looked like he was going to lunge at the guy when Malone put his hand on the corporal’s chest and stepped forward. Fixing the civilian with a dead stare, he said, “What’s your problem, dude? This is a donut shop, and we’re here for droughts. No need to get pissy about anything, right?”
“Sure right.” The guy began loading up a tray with donuts and pouring coffee into a carafe. When he’d gotten everything ready, he placed it all before the marines and said, “That will be forty-seven credits.”
The troops got up and took the food while Malone reached for his credit chit. “Here you go.�
��
The civilian took the money but offered no thanks. Taking their seats, the squad began to relax a bit. Gambino filled everyone’s disposable cup with coffee and offered one last toast for the evening. “To the First Citizen and all his marines!”
The troops gave a hangovered hurrah and sipped their java. And as they put their cups down a tray was heard crashing to the floor. Looking up they saw the clerk giving the lot of them a side-eyed glare. Gambino locked eyes with him and challenged, “Ain’t you gonna join us in toasting the marines?”
“Why?”
“Because,” Gambino answered, “We just saved the whole human race, see? It’s a new galaxy, and we’re the ones what brought it to you. Your welcome.”
The civilian threw down his cleaning rag and puffed out his chest. “Oh, and a big thanks we citizens owe you. I’m sorry, did I say citizens? I meant subjects—subject to the whims of a dictator who couldn’t give a damn about us we are. Remember that freedom you used to defend; the freedom of speech, of religion, of thought, of the press? Raise your cups and toast to the end of all that as well why don’t you? But know you’re toasting the end of all that matters in our society.”
Gambino stood up. “I don’t care for the way you’re talking, mister! What gives you the right to speak against the likes of us?”
“Nothing,” the clerk replied. “Nothing but the natural rights of every man to speak his mind.”
Rising back to his feet, Malone walked up to the civilian. In a low voice said, “Buddy, you’re cruising for a bruising. Now, why don’t you shut up and let my people enjoy themselves? We just had a great victory. You don’t want to spoil it do you?”
The clerk smiled. “General, that’s exactly what I want to do. You think this is a great victory? Well, you’re right. It’s a victory for oppression. It’s a victory for dictatorship. It’s a victory for fascism, and if nobody else ever tells you that, at least you’ll remember one man who did.”
Star Runners Page 18
