Imperial Guard

by Joseph O'Day

  “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.

  3

  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 spacesuit, 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!

  Unger turned to Brogan and slapped him on the back. “Good going, Brogan, you passed your first test. It wasn’t real smart, but it was gutsy. Come on, let’s get some more grub.”

  *

  The days wore on, and the novelty of Brogan’s surroundings wore off. He pondered how consistently his assignments landed solidly on the dull side of boring as he labored over yet another stultifying task. He and Murphy were busy tightening down bolts in the engine room when the klaxon sounded a pattern Brogan had never heard before.

  Looking at Murphy, Brogan saw a mingled expression of astonishment and apprehension. Lurching to his feet he leaped over Brogan, knocking him off balance, and raced down the corridor. Not knowing what else to do, Brogan followed as best he could.

  As they were running, the klaxon ended and a voice came over the intercom: “Battle stations! Battle stations! This is not a drill! I say again, this is not a drill!” Brogan felt his chest tighten and his scalp begin to prick. In the crush of personnel, he focused all his attention on catching Murphy.

  As he rounded a corner, he glimpsed Murphy diving into their squad bay. I didn’t have to keep up with him after all, thought Brogan with disgust. But when he entered the bay, seamen were everywhere, frantically donning their spacesuits.

  As he calmly slipped on his own suit, he found himself grateful for the mandatory practice. He did not know what was about to happen, but he was sure he’d feel safer once he was into his suit. Part of him secretly hoped to get in on the action.

  Just then an officer appeared in the door. “Report to hatch four!” he shouted. “The armorer there will issue you your weapons. Let’s move! Hustle!”

  As they were on their way, the intercom cackled once again into life. “Now hear this! Now hear this! All assault personnel report to assembly points immediately!”

  The effect of this command was to strip the ship of everyone not absolutely essential for ship operations, namely, maneuvering, fire control, and atmosphere breech control. It sent the crew hurrying like so many ants to their various duties.

  A number of men had already assembled by the time Brogan arrived at hatch four. He was pleased to see that Unger was among them. The ensign immediately began to organize the newcomers into squads. Brogan was assigned to Murphy’s squad, which he was glad of, but he was not happy that Crow was also in his squad.

  “Oh, no!” Crow exclaimed. “We don’t have ta be saddled with this amateur, do we? He’s liable to get somebody killed!”

  “Stow it, Cromartie!” Unger said. “Try to be a professional for once. We need all the manpower we can get.”


  An old chief warrant officer plodded down the corridor. In his wake were four droids and a small sled, all supported by null-grav units. The sight reminded Brogan of an ugly mother duck leading her ugly ducklings, and he suppressed a grin.

  “All right, men, listen up. I understand there’s a new recruit here, so it won’t do any harm to review these weapons for everyone.”

  Lifting a short rifle with a disproportionately large canister in front of the trigger guard, the armorer began his monotonous monologue. “This is a naval shipboarding assault rifle, G76. It weighs seven kilos, is one meter long, and fires 3.6mm projectiles. It will fire 1,000 such projectiles without reloading. Sustained depression of the firing mechanism, or trigger, will cause the G76 to fire a three-round burst every nine-tenths of a second. If the firing mechanism is pressed briefly, then released, it will fire one three-round burst only.”

  Because of the disaster suffered by the Arcadian in a boarding skirmish—the hull was so badly breached by lasers that all hands were lost—boarding parties were forbidden by Imperial command to use laser or radiation weapons. Only droids were authorized to employ laser fire.

  The historical development of the personal laser weapon was plagued with many problems. Chief among them were safety concerns. In the early years accidental death, injury, or dismemberment of the user himself or another person occurred more often than anyone cared to admit. The recurring problem of unanticipated long-range death or destruction due to the undiminished effectiveness of laser fire over long distances was another problem. Two eventual developments largely resolved such disasters.

  First, instead of firing a laser beam of destructive energy, when the trigger was depressed it activated a tight but harmless beam of light that served as a targeting locator. The user then pressed a button that fired a brief, destructive pulse of light rather than a beam of continuous duration.

  A second development related to the effective distance of the destructive pulse. Most handheld lasers were now effective to only two hundred meters. The heavier weapons, however, boasted longer effective distances. But in spite of these developments, laser weapons were still considered too risky for shipboard use.