by Joseph O'Day
The Imperial Guard again, thought Brogan. He tossed off his drink with indifference . . . and immediately gagged. His throat burned, sweat formed under his eyes, his scalp prickled, and he was afraid he would retch. “I’ve been poisoned!” he rasped.
Unger laughed. “It’s only Tequila, the native brew. Made from some sort of cactus, I believe. One thing’s for sure . . . It’ll get your mind off the crowds.”
Brogan felt a hand on his sleeve. As he turned a husky voice said, “Hey, honey. Buy me a drink?”
The speaker nestled closer, and a surprised Brogan found himself inches from a profound cleavage. The girl was dressed, if you could call it that, in a sparkling, satiny, deep plunge tunic that just barely covered her ample breasts. The outfit was completed by a knee-length skirt featuring a slit that ended far up her legs. Though her exposed skin was caked with powder, her presence was strangely tempting. Brogan slowly raised his eyes to her face and noted the stark hardness of her features, the emptiness of her eyes. He wondered briefly if he was looking at a person or an automaton.
“Well, sweet cakes, what do you say?” the woman persisted.
Before he could find his voice, Unger interjected, “You’re wastin’ your time, slut. We don’t get paid till tomorrow.”
The woman lost her smile and turned away to better prospects.
“Stay away from the girls in these bars,” Unger advised. “They can give you all kinds of diseases, and if you’re not careful you can lose everything valuable that’s on you. If you need a tumble, it’s safer to use the houses provided by the military.”
Brogan took a deep breath. “Seems I’ve got a lot to learn. I haven’t even . . .” He was cut short by a commotion at the door. Both men turned to see what was happening. Two men strode arrogantly into the dark and pungent room. The suddenly quiet throng opened a path for them as if by magic, except for one drunk patron whose back was to the approaching pair. One of the men promptly struck him with a thin, gleaming rod that, when not in use, was carried like a swagger stick under the arm. The effect far exceeded what Brogan had expected from such a light blow. The drunk was thrown six feet through the air, felling several bystanders as he landed. He lay writhing on the floor, opening and closing his mouth but making no sound.
The strangers came to a stop about ten paces inside the door. Their heads swiveled as they swept the crowd with coldly confident eyes. A wide, white belt and holster held a hand gun at each waist. Dark, scarlet body suits were tucked neatly into knee-high, brilliant white boots. A scarlet cape interfaced with white hung to the waist, and a white helmet, which covered the neck, topped off the uniform.
Leaning close to Brogan’s ear Unger muttered, “The scum use their neuro-whips like they were lords of the earth. Time to get outa here.”
Unger led Brogan as unobtrusively as possible to a rear exit. Once outside they hurried to the main thoroughfare. “You’ve just gotten your first look at the high-and-mighty Imperial Guard. Pray they have no business with you next time you see them.”
As they entered the busy street again, Brogan began to take note of his surroundings. Vehicular traffic soared overhead. Hawkers were selling their wares. Women with painted faces and scanty clothing were selling favors. Each block seemed to possess its own resident evangelist, offering to any who would listen a means of escaping the travails of this life. Nearly every race and nationality that Earth and her colonies could provide seemed to be represented in the mass of humanity. Modes of dress strange to Brogan and a mixture of languages made the scene exotic and exciting, but also unsettling.
Unger explained that a taxi could be hired by climbing to special third-level stands. But a taxi was beyond their means. The subway would get them to their destination more cheaply. When they reached the subway platform, two gangs of youths were assaulting one another with wild abandon.
When Unger began directing them around the skirmish in apparent unconcern, Brogan turned to him and said, “Sir, shouldn’t we do something about this?”
“One more thing you have to learn about Earth, Private, is to mind your own business. If we got involved, any number of unpleasant things might happen, including a full-scale riot. Hurry! The train’s about to pull out. Get on!”
Underground transportation had become quite popular during the time of the Great Conflagration and the ensuing one hundred years of sporadic global warfare that followed. Impressed by the security of underground transportation the Empire had expanded the system to cover most of the world.
As the tram continued on its way, Unger and Brogan passed the time watching another pickpocket ply his trade. After several successful lifts, he was buzzed down by a man whose wallet was apparently protected. Within seconds, several opportunists relieved the thief of all his ill-gotten gain.
The tubeway they were traveling soon joined the subway system at a large underground station. As they disembarked, Unger said, “Well, kid, this is where we part company. Next time I see you, I expect you to be a shave tail lieutenant of Fusiliers.”
“Thank you, sir, for all your help. I won’t disappoint you.”
Brogan boarded the train and watched the ensign recede in the distance, his last link with all that was familiar. Briefly, Brogan felt apprehension about the future he had chosen.
5
Brogan screwed up his face as he tried to wriggle deeper into the stinking mud at the bottom of the ditch. He winced as another shell exploded close to his head. Never again will I complain that life is boring! he chided himself. He contemplated with irony the recent dramatic turn of events.
Just a few, eternal weeks ago, he had been sitting at his desk, staring with disgust at the hated paperwork scattered in semi-disorganized stacks. He was irked that computers had never completely succeeded in delivering the promised paperless society. His first assignment upon graduation from the Academy had been a letdown. For four years he had been subjected to rigorous discipline and training, surviving physical, verbal, and psychological abuse from sergeants and peers alike, relishing the challenge of the academic curriculum, and looking forward to testing his manhood, cunning, and know-how on the battlefield . . . only to become a pencil-pusher and paper-shuffler.
Upon graduation from the Academy all newly commissioned officers attended the specialty school of their choice, though the choice was almost never entirely their own. This included men selected for a commission from the enlisted ranks. A long-dead but wise Emperor decreed that at least 35 percent, but no more than 50 percent, of all officers on active duty be selected from the enlisted ranks. This was calculated to prevent an elitist officers corps from forming into a potential political force. It served the added function that a significant portion of the officers had a real understanding of the status and feelings of the enlisted men.
Brogan had chosen Combat Infantry Officers School (CIO School) for his fifth year of training. In some ways, this was his toughest year. CIO was a grueling experience of fierce struggle and strenuous mental activity. But it paid dividends. The graduating officers were experts in the use and handling of every weapon employed by the infantry. They were lean and mean in every traditional sense. Hard as nails and versed in every form of combat, from hand-to-hand martial arts to the heaviest land-based technological weaponry, they were fierce and efficient warriors. Each class experienced a certain attrition rate due to casualties, but this was considered a small price to pay for the high quality of infantry officer graduated. The individual was, after all, considered expendable for the sake of the greater glory of the Empire.
Brogan’s first assignment had been to the Sahara Supply Depot. There, well below the desert floor, the Emperor cached his huge stockpile of weapons—everything from handheld rifles to mega weapons, such as the gamma pulse cannon, meant for use against entire planets. But the paperwork was unbelievable. Brogan often wondered if his influential nemesis, Carl Mogul, had had anything to do with burying him there.
One day he had been struggling through minutiae and ente
ring data on the computer when he was distracted by someone entering his office. Taking note of the collar bars, he jumped to his feet and rigidly saluted the officer. “Good afternoon, sir!”
Halfway returning the salute the Lt. Colonel asked, “What’s the matter, Lieutenant? Don’t you recognize the old man who got you into this mess?”
“Capt . . . uh, Colonel Darkhow? Why, it’s been a long time, sir. What brings you to this God-forsaken corner of the world?” Brogan added as he shook the proffered hand.
“Tell you later. Meanwhile, how ’bout you and me playing a little handball while we hash over old times?”
Brogan’s antennae began to rise. What ‘old times’ are you talking about, you old buzzard? But Brogan was more than ready for any relief from his mundane duties. “Sure, that would be great!”
As they headed for the gym, they talked about the Academy and compared notes on CIO School and the many changes that had taken place since Darkhow was there. Brogan fancied himself a tough handball player, but once on the court, he was duly humbled as Darkhow thumped him two games out of three. But Brogan was secretly smug about the fact that Darkhow was drenched in sweat while he was only breathing hard. Slapping Brogan on the back, he said, “What do you say we hit the showers?”
They walked down the hallway to the locker room, hurriedly shucked their clothes, and shoved their heads under the cool, pulsating beads of water. After a minute or two of relaxation, Darkhow gripped Brogan by the triceps and motioned for him to move closer. Bending toward Brogan, he whispered hoarsely, “They got bugs everywhere anymore. That’s why I didn’t want to talk in your office. So far, though, they haven’t developed a bug that can pick whispers out of shower noise. Most of the time secrecy isn’t all that necessary, but it drives the Imperial snoopers wild not to know what I’m doing,” he added with a chuckle.
Brogan grew pensive but remained silent.
The Colonel paused dramatically. “The reason for my visit is to ask you to join with an expeditionary force I’m forming up. A civil war is in progress on Peru II in the Rigal Sector. I have the assignment of raising a regiment to reinforce the task force sent out there last year. I’m talking to you in secret because this fight has political overtones, and it’s probably best that there be no evidence of an offer or an acceptance.
“I’m looking for a few outstanding men for this regiment, and you’re one of ’em, if you accept. If you refuse, my visit will be passed off as a social call. I wouldn’t blame you if you did—civil wars can be a damned, bloody mess. If you’re not on the right side, or if you don’t win, it can get real embarrassing.”
Brogan cut in eagerly, his blood pounding in his ears. “Sir, I’m honored to be asked to serve under your command. I’m in!”
Darkhow appeared unsurprised. “Right. Here’s the scoop. Daniel Mizpala, First Minister to the Emperor, has been charged with resolving this conflict. He’s in a power struggle with Minister Kepec Mogul.”
“Mogul causing trouble?”
“Oh, he’s always causing trouble. He wants to install his son, Carl, in his place when he retires. Speaking of whom, I wondered why he arranged to have you sent here after graduation.” Bingo! exclaimed Brogan silently. “Then I realized he would hate anyone who hailed from Cirrus. His father always did despise the treaty Henry made there.”
“That’s not the only reason Carl hates me,” Brogan volunteered. “When I was a plebe and he an upperclassman, he braced me and my roomie when he found a Bible my mother gave me lying on my desk. I never really read it or anything, but he picked it up and was going to confiscate it as contraband, since we’re not supposed to have anything at the Academy except military issue. Well, he was telling me what he was going to do to me and my book when I reminded him of Article 231 of the Uniform Code of Military Conduct of 2226.”
“That the Article,” Darkhow queried, “that guarantees freedom of religious expression by military personnel?”
Brogan nodded. “And 231j specifically prohibits destruction of religious artifacts for hazing purposes. That stopped him in his tracks while he used his scan to check it out. He got real antsy when he found out that he could be court-martialed and drummed out of the army for what he was about to do. He threw the Bible on my desk and told me to forget about it. But he never let me forget the grudge he held. He made my life good and miserable until he graduated.”
“That and the fact you’re from Cirrus would have iced it for him.” Darkhow reflected for a moment. “Well, it sounds like you’ve got several good reasons for throwing in with us. If we win out, it could mean rapid promotion for you, son. And if we don’t, you certainly aren’t any worse off than you are now. But,” the Colonel added after a pause, “I don’t aim to lose.”
“Well,” Darkhow boomed, raising his voice, “how does it feel to lose at handball to an old fart like me?”
On Peru II Brogan grinned at the memory. But another close blast and the feel of cold, clammy mud brought him back to reality. He didn’t understand why his company’s captain had chosen to fly the convoy so low over the jungle trail. It certainly isn’t what I’d have done. The airborne convoy had been ambushed only minutes ago, and all the flyers were down, none able to escape to bring aid. Brogan had no idea how many men were left. They were all pinned down, scattered over the jungle on one side of the trail.
The radio remained silent. What is the captain doing? thought Brogan angrily. He should’ve been issuing orders long before now. A thought suddenly occurred to him. Maybe he’s dead . . . or maybe my comset’s busted.
Brogan spoke urgently into his helmet com unit. “November Eagle 6, this is Eagle 3. Do you require a situation report?”
No answer. “Eagle 6, this is Eagle 3. I say again, do you require a situation report?”
A reply cackled into his ear. “Eagle 3, this is Eagle 6 Alpha. Regret to inform you, Eagle 6 has joined the ambush.”
“Say again, 6 Alpha. Eagle 6 has joined the ambush?”
“That’s an affirmative, 3. He shot Eagles 5, 4, and 6 Alpha, then hightailed it outa here. They’re KIA; I’m WIA. That means you’re in command Eagle 3.” Brogan jerked out of the mud as though struck with a fist. A shell rent the earth two dozen meters away, but Brogan didn’t notice. His mind was racing, calculating, assessing the situation.
In command . . . Gotta think fast . . . Salvage a hopeless situation. Come on, get it together, Brogan. This is what you’ve been trained for. You gotta be thinking all the time! The facts . . . What are the facts? We were betrayed and hit the ditch. Most of the officers are down. Position precarious. Captain Jantsen—now the enemy—already has a good idea of the convoy’s deployment. He would certainly make good tactical use of that knowledge. Our best hope lay in immediate attack. Must gain the initiative ASAP!
Brogan bellowed into the comset. “This is Eagle 3. I am assuming command of the company. All NCOs will assume command of troops nearest their position. We will commence assault on my command. Grenadiers will fire three rounds of smoke at the ambush positions, then anti-personnel grenades in front of our advance. Check your weapons.” He waited a few seconds, then, “Fire smoke . . . NOW!”
Instantly smoke billowed from the steaming jungle foliage. Advancing would not be easy. Slippery mud and dense vegetation made the footing treacherous, and the enemy was laying down deadly fire. They picked their ambush location well, thought Brogan with grim admiration. But not well enough.
“Laser droids, move out west-northwest!” he commanded over the com unit. A line of egg shaped robots began moving in the proper direction, searing the jungle with their bright knives of light, maintaining perfect formation.
Brogan paused to check his own laser rifle. This was no shipboard assault. They could use all the heavy stuff they wanted here. Pushing himself to a crouch, Brogan shouted, “Let’s go, November Eagle!”
Rising like phantoms from the smoke and mist, the remains of Eagle Company formed a ragged assault line. The jungle was thrown into stark
relief by the blazing light of laser weapons. Someone had manned one the anti-aircraft batteries and rent the air overhead with heavy laser blasts, adding to the glare of the handheld weapons. The other big gun was a useless lump of glowing metal.
The line began to falter as man after man twisted in agony to the ground. Brogan could hear the moans of the dying and the cries of the wounded. “Squad leaders, keep that line moving,” he yelled into the com unit, trying to shut out the carnage in order to prevent more. “Leave the wounded!” Brogan knew they had to break the enemy lines on the first assault or they would all be dead.
Stumbling over a red-hot droid, Brogan’s heavy combat boot was burned through, searing his foot. Ignoring the pain, he yelled, “Squad leaders, move up your men. You want to live forever?”
Brogan could hear the sergeants urging, cursing, and encouraging their men up the hill. Long hours of combat training were beginning to pay off. Slowly the enemy fire dwindled until it became sporadic resistance. Only a few positions were now returning fire.
“First Platoon, fall back and secure the wounded,” Brogan ordered. Medics began to tend the wounded with the aid of First Platoon. It was absolutely critical to reach as many of the wounded as possible while they still drew breath. With the advanced state of medicine, almost all those treated, no matter how badly wounded, survived. But if they were already dead, no medicine in the universe could save them. The three remaining platoons proceeded to mop up enemy resistance.
Before the ambush was sprung, Brogan had been riding in the rear of the flyer convoy and, as a result, had been deposited on the extreme left of the assault force. Now, as he exploded through the brush, he fell onto a trail down which enemy soldiers were fleeing. Turning his rifle to the left, he burned them down. Turning quickly back to his right, he saw his men spilling onto the trail, taking care of the resistance in the other direction. Soon the path was clear of enemy soldiers.
