by Joseph O'Day
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 partit
ion 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.
“D3366, we have a customer. Come out here and attend to him.” Immediately an ominous egg-shaped object floated out from behind the partition to join the administrator.
Taking the data chip and placing it in a cavity in the droid, he commanded, “Verify identity and status of subject.”
A very human sounding, though detached, voice responded. “Subject: Timothy Brogan, citizen third class; Origin: Cirrus; City: Ebinezer; confirming retina and digital patterns now.”
The droid moved to within a foot of Brogan’s face and extended a smooth, thin appendage containing a visualizer. Snaking the extension directly in front of Brogan’s right eye, the droid intoned, “Retinal patterns confirmed.”
The appendage whipped out of sight, and a plastic plate twenty centimeters square slid from the nose of the robot. “Please place your right hand palm down on the plate, Citizen Brogan.” Brogan did so.
“Digital patterns confirmed. Citizen Brogan is authorized for implantation procedure according to Imperial Decree No. 20-196.”
The official said, “Thank you, D3366. That is all.” The droid turned and rapidly disappeared in the direction from which it had come.
Turning to Brogan, the administrator said, “Do you wish to have the citizenship implant performed at this time? I have never had anyone refuse. It’s too dangerous these days not to.” The man began to ramble. “I can recall my father telling me how citizens never used to bother unless they were leaving Earth. Now it’s only the frontier citizens who come in without identity implants. My, how times change.”
Catching himself, he looked at Brogan. “Well, what’ll it be? Implant or no?”
“I’ll have the implant now. But first tell me why it’s dangerous not to have one.”
“Very good. D3366, administer the injection.”
Directing his comments to Brogan he continued. “D3366 will inject a tiny microscan into the skin behind your right ear. While he does that I will briefly answer your question. I’m a very busy man, you know,” he added with obvious self-importance. “You folks on Cirrus are out of the mainstream, aren’t you?
“Well, when citizens used to carry identity cards, many were stolen. They became quite useless eventually. If a person was clever enough, he could alter both the card and computer record, and the victim became a noncitizen while the thief (or his client) became the citizen. But the implants are much more secure . . . at least so far. Of course, the whole business can get very technical, so I’ll not bore you with details.”
Noticing the droid move away, he said, “Anyway, the implant is complete, and you may be on your way. D3366, please verify data.”
“Implant scan readout as follows: Timothy Brogan: citizen third class; Origin: Cirrus.”
“Very good. Sometimes the body chemistry blocks out some of the information, and we must make adjustments. You may proceed.” The administrator promptly turned away, taking the droid with him.
To his retreating back, Brogan called out a thank you and passed through the outer door. Unger was waiting for him.
“I thought you were on your way to town, sir.”
“Well, I figured someone ought to look out for this greenie and make sure he gets to the Academy in one piece,” Unger said with a grin. “Even if you could find the tubeway yourself, you’d probably end up going in the wrong direction. Anyway, I had to give you your gun. Here, put it on.”
Brogan secured the weapon around his waist with enthusiasm, taking it in and out a few times and cursorily examining it. “Let’s get going, dummy. I want to show you the glorious sights of Mexcity. The shuttle’s waiting for us, and I’m sure everyone’s impatient to get moving.” The two hurried to the shuttle and boarded in haste.
Mexcity was built on the ruins of Mexico City. As the territorial capital, it administered the Empire’s laws and taxes in what used to be the old American continents. Most of the territory to the north was uninhabitable and had been abandoned for more than two centuries when the survivors of the nuclear/biological holocaust moved south.
In the early years of the twenty-first century, hopes of nuclear disarmament had been high. America and Russia had reconciled and began to drastically reduce their arsenals of nuclear weapons. Meanwhile, however, the Islamic states and Communist China developed long-range delivery systems for their own nuclear and biological weapons.
The radical Islamic Jihad gained ascendancy in the Middle East and launched a preemptive strike against the United States. By secret agreement, the Chinese launched a simultaneous attack against Russia. Both countries retaliated with their reserve land-based nuclear missiles and their remaining nuclear submarines, totally annihilating coastland China and the Islamic states. But the major population centers of the United States and Russia were wiped out as well. Only in recent years had long-term programs begun decades earlier started to overcome sufficiently the ecological destruction caused by that war. People were now starting to push north again in an effort to resettle the vast reaches of the once-fertile continent that had fed most of the world for much of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.
Originally, the Academy had been built on the edge of the North American wasteland—in what used to be the western part of Texas—because military training required wide-open spaces. Now, however, a town stood nearby, and civilization was beginning to crowd the area. The overcrowded Earth badly needed the new land, both as a release value for its burgeoning population and as a source of new farmland, which it was hoped would one day significantly reduce the need and expense of importing food from other planets.
Robot equipment and droids were already at work in the Great Plains, seeking to farm its fertile soil and repairing the biological damage, supervised at intervals by technicians working in the shielded environment of hovercraft. The effort, however, was not proving as effective as hoped. The land did not seem to respond kindly to long-distance farming.
The Emperor had a standing offer of citizenship for any who would settle the wilderness of the Great Plains. Many noncitizens, desperate for the chance to improve their existence, were willing to take the risk to escape the always unpleasant vicissitudes of the lower levels, but progress was slow.
“This is where we get off!” shouted Unger over the din. When they disembarked, the shockwave of the swarm of humanity blasted Brogan. As he plowed through the crush, he had the sensation of being suffocated.
“Is it always like this?” he shouted as he fought to keep Unger in sight.
With a grimace, the Ensign replied sardonically, “Wait’ll rush hour!” Then grabbing Brogan’s arm, he pulled him to the side of a building and said, “Here, we’ll stop off and get you something to help you adjust to your new environment.”
He pulled Brogan along, pushing and shoving toward a door lit with flashing lights. Once inside Brogan was temporarily blinded until his eyes adjusted to the darkened room. “This place is a real dive, but we won’t stay long.”
In the semidarkness they were jostled by a plainly dressed man as they tried to make their way to the bar. Unger turned swiftly, pistol in hand quicker than the eye could follow. An almost inaudible buzz dropped the pickpocket to the floor. Unger bent to retrieve his wallet and Brogan’s pay sack. “Stuff this way down inside your tunic,” he growled.
Most of the people in the room didn’t seem to be paying the least bit of attention to the altercation. Only those in the immediate area took notice, turning unfriendly eyes toward the representatives of the Empire. Unger’s gaze swept the immediate vicinity. “Somebody have a problem here?” His face communicated a potential threat.
Considering the odds not worth the risk, the locals turned back to their conversations, schemes, or transactions, and Unger pushed Brogan to a relatively deserted part of the bar.
Unger ordered two beers. “You got a lot to learn, partner. When you’re off ship on Earth, keep your money where it’s hard even for you to get at. Some of these characters can lift the shirt off your back without you knowing it. Either that or get a stash protector like I’ve got. When that pickpocket lifted my wallet, it gave my backside a mild shock. That’s the only way I knew what had happened.”
Brogan turned to look at the inert form still lying on the floor.
“He’ll come to in a few minutes,” Unger answered his unspoken question. He chuckled into his drink. “After the jolt I gave him, his nerves’ll be so frazzled, he won’t be able to pick pockets for days. Hey, try your beer.”
Brogan grimaced. “I never was able to acquire a taste for the stuff.”
“Oh. Well, let me order you something different. Barkeep! A shot of the local firewater, neat,” he yelled.
A huge man with an even larger paunch and perspiration stains on his shirt slapped down a shot glass. “Is this kid old enough ta drink,” he sneered. “Looks ta me like he ain’t outa diapers yet!”
“This ‘kid’ has killed five men,” retorted Unger casually. “You want to be the sixth?”
“Hey, ya cain’t treat me like that scum ya sent to dreamland. I’m a citizen, and . . .” lowering his face nose to nose with Unger, said, “I’m protected. Know what I mean?”
Unger backed down. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” The barkeep went back to his business.
“What does he mean?” Brogan queried.
“It means he’s paying off Imperial Guardsmen to give him protection. Those guys are bad news. You don’t want to tangle with them if you don’t have to. They just love an excuse to arrest and abuse anybody. They can even arrest nobility. ‘Course, if they do, they’d better be right.” As an afterthought: “Though sometimes they can fix even those mistakes.”
