Star Runners

by Clayton J Callahan

  “And who the fuck are you?”

  “Me? I’m just a service worker in a donut shop. Now, I once was a professor of political science at Marstown U. until the funding got cut. Now, I’m just a store clerk. But I’m a store clerk who’s never going to stop reminding people what a bad turn humanity has just made. Why? What’s it matter to you?”

  Malone slowly shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.” Then, he turned to the assembled marines and said, “Squad, he’s all yours.”

  As one, the troops stormed the counter in a wave attack. The poor schmuck didn’t even bother to run. He simply stood there as Corporal Gambino grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into the wall. What followed was a standard beat down. The former professor was thrown to the ground and stomp kicked mercilessly by the assembled marines. The man screamed and howled at all the appropriate knocks and concussions, but never begged or pleaded with them to stop.

  From the coffee urn, Malone stood by and watched the fracas. He was a big enough man to admit he’d been wrong, even to himself. And here it was, the proof he’d been mistaken. The missions would not end after all. The tragedy and the blood would scar young marines as badly as it had the old. Because, where there was one civilian willing to stand up to the new order there would be more. And he knew it.

  Reaching into his pocket, he took a chew of Triple Plus A and placed it under his tongue. Soon the warm feeling of well-being would wash over him, but not before the clerk screamed his last.

  “Brave son-of-a-bitch,” the gunny commented. “Too bad he was on the wrong side of history.”

  The End

  Badges of Authority

  Odd really, how when an empire fails it is not its core but its far outposts that manage to hang on the longest. And in many examples, such as Roam’s former British colony, the outposts become then new core of new civilizations.

  Harriett the Scholar

  ***

  The planet Tlaloc rotated gracefully 450 kilometers below, its sun cresting the horizon, sending diffuse beams of red light refracting through the oxygen-neon atmosphere—spectacular.

  Lord Rodger gazed out the window of his apartment on Alexandria Station wondering, as he often did if humanity had any real chance out there in the black. “Space can make one feel so small,” he mused. But it wasn’t just the grandeur of the cosmos that made him feel so small, his attention couldn’t help but be focused on the 50,000-ton warship now docking near the station’s central hub. To no one in particular he said, “A bad way to start a week if ever there was one.”

  It was Sunday, January 30th, 3025 AD, by coincidence the anniversary of his first marriage.

  “Do we have visitors?” Sheila asked as she rolled over on the bed.

  Rodger turned and looked over his shoulder; Lady Sheila was well into her fifties and still beautiful in every way. A good woman from a fine family. Naturally, she was from a fine family, her father a count, the marriage arranged to elevate Rodger’s family back on Capital. True, his mother advanced to dame soon after the wedding, but there were other reasons for the marriage as well. After the death of Rodger’s first spouse, his mother thought Sheila would help him get back on his feet. And indeed, she had.

  Lady Sheila was as good a partner as he could have hoped to find, smart, loyal and most important of all, a good friend.

  “My dear,” he sighed. “I regret to inform you; it’s the Agamemnon. Duke Flavious’s flag ship has come to pay us a visit.”

  She sat up in the bed. “Duke Flavious? What would a duke be doing at a frontier outpost like this?”

  He shrugged. “I’m sure I have no idea, my lovely. But I expect we’ll find out soon.”

  She rose out of bed and advanced on the closet. “This is no time to wear your service uniform with those faded epaulets.” She reached for the purple coat, resplendent with medals and decorations. “I had your new braid sewn into the collar, but the pants still have the soldier’s red stripe, not the gold of a sector governor.”

  Lord Rodger smiled. He’d been sector governor for over ten years now and had added only gray hair and a few wrinkles to his ensemble. But out here, few would recognize the proper marks of imperial rank even if he did wear the correctly colored stripe. “I think that will do. He’s not likely here to pull a surprise uniform inspection.”

  Lady Sheila gave a sardonic snort. “Inspections of any kind have been in short supply these past years. Coups on the other hand, they’ve been rather common.”

  “What?” he said. “Only thirteen coups in twenty years. How bad could that be?”

  “Bad enough when four of them have been in the past eighteen months,” she replied. “Earth vendors must be selling ‘season tickets’ to Imperial coronations by this point.”

  “Capital, dear.” He admonished. “It’s called ‘Capital’ now. First Edict of Empress Mi Lin the XI.”

  “Capital then. You always did know how to use your words carefully, Rodg.” She looked him in the eye. “Use them carefully now. I commanded a warship or two in my day. That dreadnought could knock Alexandria from the sky with only half its arsenal.”

  “I will, my dearest. Stay here; I’ll deal with his Grace, the Oaf of Terra, and see what reason he’s selected for this visit to our humble corner of the galaxy.”

  She smiled. “Capital, Rodg. He’s the Oaf of Capital.”

  Chuckling, he replied, “Too right, darling.”

  Leaving her in her nightgown, he exited the executive apartments in his full dress uniform. As he emerged into the main corridor, four Azanti guards rendered precise salutes, which he returned with a respectful snap of his wrist. Addressing the two-meter tall blue aliens, he ordered, “See that Lady Sheila is not disturbed, and summon War-master As-Shok to the primary docking bay.”

  Lipless mouths spat, “Yes, My Lord.” As thick blue tails thumped the deck in submission to their master. Lord Rodger spun on his heels and proceeded down the wide corridor of the ancient space station. It was a long walk. Station Alexandria was hundreds of years old and kilometers wide and deep. He passed a human tech crew repairing a service terminal and waved off their salutes so they could continue their tasks. Alexandria was the last of the outpost stations, established by Emperor Justinian the IX to secure the frontier against the Boffin threat. Decades ago, all of the other outposts had succumbed to war, economic depravations, or the simple lack of proper maintainece. Lord Rodger insisted his crew keep pace with the station’s many breakdowns and could be said to be winning that war at least.

  As he strode down the carpeted passageways with their intricate imperial designs, his mind raced over what in the universe could have prompted Duke Flavious to pay a call. Station Alexandria hadn’t been visited by an imperial warship in six years, and never in living memory had a flagship come within a light year of the old station.

  Lord Rodger turned the last corner by the docking bay entrance to see his Azanti captain dutifully waiting for him. With a reverent salute, the alien said, “War-master As-Shok, reporting as ordered, My Lord.”

  Rodger returned it, looked his friend in his orange eyes, and extended his hand. “As-Shok, I think you’re putting on weight.”

  The giant blue beast shook his hand and twisted his mouth into something that could curdle the blood of most humans, but Lord Rodger knew it to be a smile. “My Lord, ever since I rose to war-master and added the white sash to my accouterments, you have been making that joke. Can you, perhaps, give me a time when I can expect you to find it old?”

  Rodger chuckled. “Probably not. Are we still scheduled for the Qua-Delok ceremony at midnight tonight? Or am I confusing that with next week?”

  “It is tonight, My Lord. We have three promotions from warrior to fight-leader and ten who are ready to assume the rank of warrior.”

  “It will be a privilege to be there, As-Shok.” Rodger said with a nod. “Now, is the honor guard ready?”

  “Of course, My Lord. The Third Cohort took up positio
ns outside the primary airlock before the IWS Agamemnon finished making hard dock.”

  “Then, let’s not keep his Imperial Grace waiting.” The two old veterans passed through the outer hatch into the main docking chamber to find eighty Azanti warriors standing in two neat rows with plasma rifles at port arms. When the senior battle-master saw Rodger and As-Shok enter, he called the troops to attention simply by raising his power sword from his blue-sashed waist to his over-muscled shoulder. The entire cohort moved as one; eighty rifles rose in salute and not an orange eye looked left or right.

  “They look superb, As-Shok. You should be very proud.”

  “Hmm, I see one of them has yet to learn how to tie a black sash. I will have his trainer ‘discuss’ the matter with him. But how they look is only so important, My Lord.”

  Rodger nodded and gave the old refrain, “It is how they fight that matters.”

  “There are none in this sector who have ever spoken ill of their prowess,” As-Shok stated flatly.

  His commander couldn’t disagree and let out a chuckle. “That’s because there are none who have spoken at all after engaging them in battle.”

  “The dead say very little,” As-Shok agreed. “It is no surprise that raiders are now choosing other sectors to ravage. I heard the Spinward Expanses are all but overrun.”

  Rodger merely nodded. Truth was truth.

  The Agamemnon’s airlock slid open to reveal two imperial security officers with plasma pistols drawn. Their eyes swept the bay briefly before one pressed a stud on his wrist, obviously signaling to the duke that it was safe. Emerging from the hatch came a middle-aged noble with impeccable blond hair and a close-cropped beard. Rodger was surprised the Duke wore the grey uniform of a common spacer, without rank or adornments of any kind. Flavious had a reputation for flash and spectacle that this outfit belied. He also had a reputation for rash decisions and arrogant behavior, but Rodger was prepared to discover the truth in that for himself.

  As his master approached, Lord Rodger bowed. “Your Grace, welcome to Imperial Station Alexandria. We are humbled by the honor you bestow upon us.”

  Duke Flavious gazed upon the silent gauntlet of Azanti warriors, regarding their weapons and armor with a discerning eye. His bodyguards followed at a respectful distance but never holstered their pistols; not that it would do them much good. Kilo for kilo there wasn’t a human being alive who matched a fully trained and armed Azanti warrior. Mankind itself was almost enslaved by them in the Great Azanti War almost three hundred years ago. And even after the war, Azanti raiders remained a threat for a century or so. It was only once Azanti technology declined beyond repair that the emerging Imperium of Mankind recruited them as shock troops.

  The duke regarded Rodger for a moment, forcing his inferior to maintain the stiff bow a little longer. “Arise, Lord Rodger and meet your brother in blood royal.”

  That took Rodger aback a bit. “Brother in blood royal” was an old term for a fellow noble; a very outdated term from the Rebellion Era that implied an “us against them” dichotomy. “You are welcome to my sector, Your Grace. I would like to introduce you to my captain, War-master As-Shok.”

  As-Shok remained on his knees, his head dipped in a slight bow.

  “Arise, War-master,” Flavious said with a grin. “These are some fine warriors you command.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” As-Shok said with pride. “They have served the empire well.”

  Flavious’ grin turned feral. “I’m sure they have and will again. How many are under your command, War-master?”

  “One thousand twenty-six, Your Grace, with seventy-one recovering from training injuries, eight stricken with illness in sickbay, and thirty-nine on punishment detail.”

  Rodger said, “They are the pride of the frontier, Your Grace. This sector has experienced less bandit activity than any other for well on five years now.”

  “So I’ve heard, Lord Rodger. The entire empire slips into chaos, but your sector is quiet and secure. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

  Rodger smiled. “Thank you, Your Grace. They fight hard and train harder, as noted by the seventy-one in sickbay. I seriously doubt any human could survive their schooling. In fact, there is a Qua-Delok later today if you wish to attend.”

  The duke’s brows knitted together. “I beg your pardon?”

  As-Shok spoke up. “An advancement ceremony, Your Grace.”

  Flavious shrugged. “If I must. But first, Lord Rodger, let us retire to your office. We have some things that we must discuss in confidence.”

  * * *

  The office visit did not go well.

  After leaving his noble guest’s company, Lord Rodger stormed back into his apartment, his mood so dark it rivaled a black hole. His liquor cabinet proved a handy victim for his temper, and he assaulted it almost at a charge. He attempted to pour himself a drink but succeeded only in shattering the crystal decanter on the floor.

  His wife emerged from the gym in her old karate ghee, a glisten of sweat on her forehead. “So,” Sheila began, “the duke was not pleasant company?”

  “No, My Lady, he was not!” For a moment, all Rodger could do was simmer in his own impotent rage. Sheila activated the floor sweep, and as the broken crystal was automatically cleaned up, she then poured her husband a glass of Maelan’s on the rocks. He took the glass gently and whispered, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, darling,” she replied. “Now, tell me what the trouble is.”

  He gave a heavy sigh, drained the glass, and silently asked her for another. She obliged and he began, “Being a Duke is not quite high enough for our brother in blood royal. Flavious has greater ambitions still.”

  Sheila moaned. “Another would-be emperor?”

  “Exactly,” he replied. “That great warship of his is all that is left of the Eighth Fleet. The rest were either destroyed or too badly damaged to jump out of the Altir system. He boasts that Countess Allison’s fleet no longer exists and he got the better of the fight. All hail the victorious hero.”

  “The better of the fight?” Sheila gasped. “That’s at least thirty warships destroyed. Over ten-thousand imperial spacers dead.”

  Rodger nodded. “Such are the costs of civil war.”

  Sheila shook her head and poured herself a drink. “This is horrible; can no one stop it?”

  “Well, Flavious certainly thinks he can. Only he can straighten out the autocracy, bring the Parliament of Nobles to heel, and restore order to the empire. I’m not sure which part is scarier, his actual plans or the fact that he believes in them so. Until his pretty ass sits on the iridium throne, he dresses as a common spacer, because only he can understand the common man.” Rodger shook his head. “As if he’s ever spent a moment in the company of a commoner. A man like Mark would’ve chewed him up and spit him out. Even in dungarees, he’s still a pretentious twit.”

  “And what are these plans he believes in so, Rodg?”

  Rodger finished his second drink and stared at the empty glass. No, he would not need a third. The warm embrace of the alcohol began to calm his nerves. “My dear wife, he proposes to transfer the Azanti Guard of Alexandria Station to his command aboard the IWS Agamemnon. Then, with his war-weary crew, shall he proceed boldly to Capital and use As-Shok’s warriors to fight his way into the palace and arrest the emperor for ‘treason.’”

  “Fight his way into the palace?” Sheila wiped the sweat from her brow. “I used to train with the Imperial Palace Guards back in my cadet days. They’re only human, but there are horrendously formidable defenses around that perimeter. As-Shok’s warriors would be horribly mauled, and that’s if they took the easy way in.”

  “Yes, but they just might be successful,” Rodger commented dryly. “Even if only a hundred of them survive, that would buy Flavious enough time to park his buttocks on the throne. All hail Flavious Rex, the third emperor this year.”

  “Oh, fear not, my love.” Sheila finished her drink in an unladylike gulp.
“There would be another a month later.”

  Rodger nodded. His wife was right indeed, too right. “And As-Shok and all our Azanti friends would lie dead before the crown could be plucked from the next gutter by next ambitious twit. As-Shok’s been loyal to me, to us, to this station for over twenty years now. He was the one who led the assault on Graneck that liberated the slaves of Touban. He was the one…it was he, that brought Mark’s body home after the attack by the terrorists of Ra.”

  Sheila put her arm around her husband. “It’s not easy, even after all these years. Is it?”

  “No.”

  They sat in silence. Sheila got up and put the glasses in the sanitizer. “You’re not my first husband, and I am not your first spouse. I understand, Rodg. I’ll make the preparations for a state dinner for our ‘guest.’ Why don’t you take a few minutes to talk with Mark? After all, dear, it’s your anniversary.”

  * * *

  Rodger walked two decks down and entered the holographic chamber. Mark was dead, literally stabbed in the back by a blackheart while attempting negotiations. But Mark lived on…after a fashion. After all, in the twenty-seventh century, everybody lived on as long as their file never became corrupted. Rodger took a seat in the middle of the white, luminous room and toggled the controller. The chamber turned black then shifted into the form of an ancient country inn. Old wooden walls adorned with ancient shields surrounded him and a thatch roof appeared above. Mark was always a bit of a medievalist and enjoyed such anachronisms; a boyish fascination with the knights and damsels of days long gone. In the corner appeared a massive fireplace and in the chair beside Lord Rodger, his dear dead husband.

  “Hello, Rodger, happy anniversary.”

  He closed his eyes. This wasn’t Mark he had to remind himself. Mark was gone. This was just a picture, his personality preserved in holographic memory. “Hello, Mark, how have you been?”

  The image of Mark spread his hands and shrugged.