The Fourth Guardian

by Geoff Geauterre

  The doors slammed shut behind them as they left the chambers of the president, yet several feet up the corridor they stopped, looked around, and then looked at one another.

  The general's aide whispered. “He is out of his mind."

  "Well, I don't know about you,” said the general cautiously. “But I'm going to obey orders. He says shoot rioters. I'm going to order they be shot. He didn't tell me what I was to shoot them with, so I better get on that now."

  With a marching stamp he and his five closest subordinates made their way to the end of the corridor leaving the two others behind.

  The general's aide and his intern looked at one another.

  "So,” said the intern grimly, his duties geared toward alien protocols, “the madness spreads."

  The aide looked over their shoulders and shook his head. “If someone questions the law, turn them into criminals."

  "Well, what about the council? Aren't they doing something about this? Letting Amaron take over control? It's against every provision written in the constitution."

  "We're talking about twelve old men in their second generation of rejuvenation treatments, and seven of them are rubber stamps. That leaves us one short if there's to be a legal challenge."

  The intern had to reluctantly agree. “It leaves the president in full control of the council, and the senate."

  Two days later another round of planet-wide riots were reported, following a gathering of a group calling themselves the questioners, demanding to know what had become of Him! A crowd of over two thousand marched down Central City's avenues leading to the government house, when several blocks away, they were met by black-clad Imperial guards. Without warning automatic stunners began to fire.

  People ran through the streets in a panic to get away from the chaos. That evening a curfew was declared, and mandatory sentences posted for the crime of gathering five or more people together in public at any time. Over seven hundred people were arrested in the first three days.

  Petitioners were told they needed to apply for special licenses, and heavy penalties were enacted if they failed to obey the new rules. President Amaron and his cabinet established themselves as the only ruling body for the government. Representatives on the senate turned in resignations and immediately after that, things got worse.

  The seventeen worlds populated by humans in the neighboring three stellar communities were given strict directions regarding the changeover. No leniency was to be tolerated.

  Given the “emergency,” martial law was now in place of civilian law. Taxes on credit balances were established as a direct result. The populace was told this was a necessity as elements within the financial world were subversives. Therefore, their resources had to be limited.

  Any citizen with information about these radicals was legally required to contact the authorities and surrender names. Businesses of every type were affected.

  Then something curious developed. Ilsmar Oman, the noted custom-smith and weapons maker came to work one day, three weeks after the riot was put down in downtown Reos, and was no sooner at work with apron and micro specs on, when the front door was blown open and a squad of riot police poured through.

  Before he even had a chance to demand to know what the devil they thought they were doing, he was bundled in a security grip-sack and hauled away.

  Upon hearing what happened, his daughter, a criminal attorney of no mean right, screamed a curse, and gathering a couple of high-priced friends, went to the court to establish bail, only to find that her father wasn't where she was told he'd be. The desk clerk, an old acquaintance, swore he'd never heard her father had been arrested.

  The three paused on the steps outside the building and contemplated what it meant, but it was the daughter who voiced her dark suspicions first.

  "The bastards are arresting everyone they think has leanings towards the questioners."

  "But that doesn't make sense,” said her colleague heatedly. “Ilsmar never dabbled in politics. He always kept to himself."

  "Careful,” her old law professor whispered. “First we need to find out if he's alive."

  Her face twitched. She hadn't thought about that. “I will find him no matter what I have to do!"

  "Hey now, little girl,” said her colleague, brushing a hand across a lapel and showing a hidden medallion, revealing a round emblem of light with a question mark in the center. “We need to move carefully, and I've a few friends in odd places. They might help."

  "But what can they do? These bastards are crazier every day. If they haven't killed him already, then he's on someone's death list, and you know what that means, don't you?” Her gaze skittered nervously around. “They've set up detention camps somewhere."

  "All the better,” her old teacher said softly. “It means manpower, supplies, and a lot of space. Someone has to know where that is. We'll figure out a game plan."

  A pleasant doorbell rang in the Fleesz neighborhood, and an old Fleesz opened the door panel quietly, twittering a delighted, reserved hello. She twittered back that she needed to see her father's partner, as soon as possible.

  What was the matter? Had her father been taken ill?

  No, she replied gravely. Her father was still in health, but if his partner didn't do something quickly, there was a slim possibility her father mightn't be much longer.

  Large astonished eyes blinked, and they were whisked inside without further ado.

  His Highness Lord Groop listened to the twittering of his servant and then bowed his head and pondered the matter. Clearly, this called for action. It was not a time for talking. That had already passed.

  "Send this message. By this even, a human, unbeknownst to his kind, made manservant of this house, was attacked and taken captive. All dealings with humankind and Fleesz will now be taken under advisement, only upon consideration with the Fleesz Council on Homeworld. Communications between human and Fleesz are to be sundered immediately following procedures for evacuation."

  "That is all, my lord?” asked the manservant, making adjustments to the sub-vocalizer he held.

  Groop nodded firmly. “Does the miss know of our true selves?"

  "No, my lord. She thinks we may have influence to help her, but her colleague is a companion of the questioners. He does not know we know this."

  "Very well. Bring her and her escorts to me."

  Groop waved distractedly. “Yes..."

  "Something more, my lord?"

  "Nothing ... only...” He looked warily around. “I've had this feeling lately of being watched."

  "My lord?"

  A sigh passed for whistle. “It doesn't matter. I'm sure I'm doing the right thing."

  Thus, within two stellar days the five great Fleesz families, and all their attendants, and all their attendants’ families, and all their friends, be they alien or business associates, lifted out of the human stellar communities with close to three trillion stellar credits’ worth of goods.

  On the day following, the stock market crashed. On the day after that, martial law, which everyone had been assured, was to have been a temporary measure, became “as conditions necessitate,” and riots turned into daily events.

  The seventh day brought with it a declaration that martial law was to be enforced on every human-held planet. Thus, on the eighth day, those even suspected of being “subversive,” became subversives. As far as they were concerned, enough was enough.

  Weapons started coming out into the open. An emergency order forbidding the carrying of arms was put into effect. So people carried them concealed. Another order was put out that all weapons, except those in the hands of the militia, were to be surrendered. Fifteen million in one city alone dared them to try. The order was not carried out.

  * * * *

  The pilot jerked up from her light dozing and squealed, pointing at the screen. The magnetic cloud they'd been swallowed in looked as if it were thinning. The chronometers worked again. Then they realized what happened, and it was grim.

&
nbsp; They had been frozen in time. A long time.

  Communications startled the bridge crew, calling for immediate attention. Someone was beaming in on a Galactic's band. Battle Maidens stiffened defensively. Galactics weren't known for making personal calls.

  Everyone glanced towards the command chair and saw how Shar-Mei was taking it. She took it well. She gestured for the enclosed mute-phone, cradled the instrument snuggly to an ear, smiled, and composed her features for the screen in front of her. It cleared, and her smile faded.

  The being making the call was not just saying, “How do you do?"

  He was giving instructions and expecting them to be obeyed. And before them, clearing from the magnetic mists, appeared an ovoid world class ship the size of a small planet. She gulped. It was nothing less than a Galactic battle probe.

  * * * *

  "Where is he?” she screamed.

  The head of the Nald household started up, heart falling where he sat at his desk, eyes bulging with astonishment.

  "Shar-Mei,” he croaked. “My—my dear, what a surprise! I, uh, I had no idea you were back! Heh, heh, heh.” He hoped his laughter sounded sincere. He was struggling with a state of shock. “What a pleasure."

  "Doral-I-Nald,” she intoned, advancing, leaving no doubt in their minds that what would happen was more than a serious breach of etiquette. “Here I take a measly seven years to clear up my obligations, and when I come back I hear my betrothed was promised to another, as if he were a rutting herd beast!"

  He opened his mouth to say something, but it wasn't any use. He could see she was enraged.

  "When it's discovered he has this worrisome attitude problem concerning monsters, and its only natural he feels it necessary to do away with them—what happens? Not only do you fail to protect your only son from that vile scum of Amaron's, but you actually stand by and let them exile him! Have you completely lost your mind?"

  "Shar-Mei, listen! We'd heard you were lost in space. That you weren't going to return. That there was no hope!"

  "And pray ... which brilliant source of information did you consult?"

  "Your father."

  A wrinkle appended itself to her already furrowed forehead. “We'll let that pass for the moment,” she said. “I want to know why you allowed those freaks down at the government house to manipulate you like this? It's not like you at all!"

  He gestured angrily. “If he'd kept his mouth shut, I could have done something, stolen him away, but the silly boy demanded a full trial. Then he was put on that blasted Block of Truth and everyone found out he was a Light Bearer, that's why!"

  Her face stiffened with disbelief, and then she broke out in wild laughter. “Don't be ridiculous! The Reg-I-Nald I know may be a lot of things, including a fool, but pure at heart isn't one of them!"

  Doral-I-Nald shook his head disagreeably. “Nevertheless, it's true. So true that when he confessed about the ‘necessity’ to do what he found himself doing, the damn machine lit up with such power his shackles melted, and everyone stumbled around for days, half blinded."

  She dropped into a chair and tried to put the pieces together. Now she understood the Galactic's interest in rescuing them.

  She kept getting the idea that there'd been a disaster, and as soon as she broached human territory, she had her communications back up and running ... but the news she picked up was about insurrections, questioners, demands, along with the fact that the central government had been taken over by the president and his council. None of it made sense. So she put in a call to Regis and found it was security locked.

  "No matter! He's my sworn betrothed. I knew he was to be my mate when we were children. Where did they send the silly ass? I'll go and collect him."

  "Shar-Mei, please,” he exclaimed, waving hands and coming around the desk. “He's not the same. Listen. In order to ensure his protection in exile the stupid bastards fiddled with him in a gene lab, and then found out it was uncontrollable. There's no telling what he's becoming. Getting close could be dangerous."

  "Are you saying,” she asked softly, fingers brushing along the grips of her cross-draw photonics, “you are unwilling to retrieve your own son?"

  "Er, no,” he objected. “It's not that. Not that at all.” He shrugged haplessly, gesturing. “Well, look around you. You know the chaos that's happening. But my house is largely unaffected. We're allowed to live in comparative peace since what was done, was, er ... done. None of my people have even been picked up."

  "I see."

  "But if there were the slightest hint that I was contemplating doing what those other crazies plan on, there will be no place safe."

  "Coward!” came a shrill cry from the doorway. “Black-hearted, sneaky, filthy little Ingworm—you! When I was ten I saw you stab your own grandfather in the back in that Tampus Market deal, and I've never forgotten how he looked at you when he learned you sold short, you dealer in innocent hearts!"

  Doral whipped around and found Synthis, his wife, a veritable image of outrage. He opened his mouth to demand that she take back what she'd said. It was not true, however, she was not finished.

  First, she cursed the floor he stood upon. He looked down and gulped, realizing that he was, after all, standing on a rare gift carpet her father, his father-in-law, had given him on the day of their joining. Nervously, he moved off it.

  Second, she damned everything he'd ever done for her, in the name of love, knowing now what that love was worth, which was less than nothing.

  And third, she had a few other things to say, voiced as razor cuts. “So that's what it was you never wanted me to find out was it?"

  Her sneer contained in it something alive with contempt and loathing. “After seven years of telling me you had everything in hand, now I learn it was all a stinking lie! And if it weren't for my beloved son's betrothed coming back from the grave to claim what is rightfully hers, I'd still be thinking you were a man. Ugh!” She shuddered, rubbing her arms. “The very sight of you turns my stomach!"

  He tried to calm the situation, as any diplomat would. “Now wait a minute, dear. You're just overwrought. You see—"

  "All I see is that creature you wanted our son to marry who turned on him like a scalded scorpii, betraying his sweet little secrets for blackmailing credits—may you rot in hell!"

  Then her eyes lit dangerously. “Speaking of which—!"

  "Hit the deck!” Shar-Mei shouted as she and Doral dropped on the floor and scurried around the desk. Synthis had whipped out a miniature photonic and fired. The desk exploded. Doral rolled and slid under a Nar-Neal couch, immediately grieving for its loss. The damn thing had cost a small fortune. Wriggling out the other side he felt a wash of heat spill over him. He groaned in agony, as much for an antique couch, as for himself.

  What in blazes, he muttered angrily, was Shar-Mei doing? Damn wench was a Battle Maiden for goodness sakes! Why wasn't she doing something? Damn all possessive bitches! He wished that if ever he found himself in another life he would turn into a hermit.

  Just then he eyed a handy escape route and reminded himself that there were other things to do besides complain, like, for instance, grabbing his ass out of there. He was about to dive through the one-way plate glassine window when he heard Shar-Mei's voice.

  "It's all right now, Doral-I-Nald. Your loving mate has gone."

  "You're sure?"

  "I believe she left word that if her son is not back at the time of full festival, no matter what you have to do, she will take out a contract on the business and have it destroyed."

  He leaped up. “She wouldn't!” Suddenly remembering his exposure, he went into a crouch and looked around for a vengeful mother. Not finding one lurking in firing range, he slowly straightened.

  "I'm not too sure she wouldn't,” Shar-Mei said thoughtfully. “After all, her side of the family is independently wealthy, you know. Just because you're mad with greed doesn't mean she has to be, does it?"

  He thought it best not to dignify that remark with a
n answer. Instead he puttered around salvaging what he could, which, considering the extensive damage, wasn't much, and then he sighted the gem of his collection lying broken. Hurrying over he bent down with an agonized cry, trying to cradle the pieces. His beloved Siii Vase! He looked closer. Damned if it didn't look purposefully smashed.

  "What is it you want of me?” he asked in a defeated voice. “And by the by, would you tell me how you got past the Imperial police who've been surrounding my place lately? How did you get onto the grounds without alerting them?"

  She smiled grimly. “I wouldn't worry about that. My people are entertaining them."

  A wary eye scanned her Battle Maiden's garb. Black as night, form-fitted, cross-draw holsters with combat designed photonics, power harness filled with energy cells in ready-at-hand pouches, strangling-grappling wire with multipurpose collapsible hooks, and a dozen accessories that might aid a soldier in her stellar duties.

  "Ah, yes, I understand what you mean."

  "First, you will tell me exactly what occurred at the trial, and then you will tell me who was involved in the decision-making process that lay behind it. I want the name of the judge advocate. I want to know where I can reach him, so he and I can discuss this case from every viewpoint, and finally, I want to know where Regis was sent. And another thing..."

  He toed through debris, looking for something, he didn't know, and grumped. “What is it?"

  "Lately, I'm not half as understanding as I should be."

  * * * *

  The party was another I-Nald success. Everyone present acted as if nothing extraordinary was going on in the outside world. As long as gracious hosts like the I-Nalds gave parties like this, everything would come out fine.

  Ground worms couldn't have taken them on for sheer one-sided blindness, and while Doral kept an eye out for several business associates, thinking to take advantage of the upheavals as only a wise merchant would do, he listened for every word.

  "Buy everything you can of Fleesz holdings, and then revert those stocks into Galactic platinums with blank bank accounts,” he whispered to his stockbroker.