The Fourth Guardian

by Geoff Geauterre

  She shrugged equitably. “He's a man. I'll tie him around my little finger and beckon in the direction I want him to go."

  "Spoken like a true Battle Maiden,” he commented dryly. “When in doubt, take it by force."

  An eyebrow arched. “Any complaints?"

  "Hardly. Just figuring out the sleeping arrangement."

  A pink blush suffused her from neck to scalp, and she turned to bark commands at a gawping soldier caught eavesdropping.

  * * * *

  Situated in the hub of the city's main audience chambers at the government house, a thousand lights glowed from lanterns, and the banners from a hundred worlds flew overhead. Representatives from every corner of the galaxy had come to pay their respects to the Light Bearer and his mate-to-be, where along with her parents, and his parents, the huge floor was surrounded by Battle Maidens and Imperials with rifles at the ready.

  With the overhead crystal dome open to the deep blue star-studded skies above, the specialist infiltrators of the dreaded Silhouettes meandered, and even Battle Maidens gave them their due, keeping out of their way.

  "So, tell me, Light Bearer,” blustered an ex-representative and spy, who at one time wasn't sure if he was to be executed or brain-wiped. “Now that you've been unanimously elected, a first time in our history, what are your plans, other than marriage, of course."

  He slid a nervous glance at the glowering mate-to-be, remembering too well how someone was constantly demanding someone's head on a pike. He was utterly disgusted that Amaron had made good his escape with his remaining cabinet ministers.

  "Well, I'll tell you,” said a happy Reg-I-Nald as he looked at Shar-Mei dressed daringly in shimmering cloth made of black crystals, outlined in scarlet red with silver piping. “First, of course, there's the honeymoon."

  "The galaxy is large, Light Bearer. Where will you go?"

  "NuunSaa, honestly, if I told you that, I'm afraid my mate wouldn't feel comfortable unless she knew you were dead."

  NuunSaa skittered his glance across the table and was met with the baleful glare of a full-fledged Battle Maiden in tributary gown—just begging him to ask!

  He fluttered, hands wringing nervously. “Well, heh, heh, of course, you know I wish your every happiness, and” he bowed, “yours as well, my dear."

  She gave him a look that would have frozen him in aspic if it could. “Lose yourself,” was her response.

  "Ah, yes, and if you'll excuse me?” He stood, inclining his head to the select group. “I think I can be useful in the kitchen."

  Shar-Mei grated to Reg-I-Nald, when NuunSaa was out of hearing range, “And I still say that leaving that kind of snake around, alive, is a mistake, mark my words."

  Her mother shook her head and looked apologetic. “This is what comes of having a daughter turn into a Battle Maiden. You really must forgive her bad manners.” She glared across the table, where her husband loosened his collar. “But I'm sure I know where that predilection for violence comes from!"

  Father and daughter shared a look of understanding.

  "I'll take all the blame,” he murmured.

  Fathers whose daughters took after them were always guilty. Everyone knew that.

  * * * *

  Doral-I-Nald turned enquiringly to his son. “You know, I never had gotten a chance to ask, but where are you going for your honeymoon?"

  Reg-I-Nald looked at Shar-Mei-nu-Nald and received a nod of approval this time.

  "It seems Shar-Mei promised a certain Tmmll, a Yeti of some lineage, and a great, great uncle of a certain Egon of my acquaintance, that she would help him and his people get their lot together."

  "Wait a moment,” his father said. “I don't understand. Isn't interfering in outré affairs forbidden? What I mean to say ... isn't that what got us all in trouble in the first place?"

  But Reg-I-Nald and Shar-Mei shook their heads smiling. “Don't worry about that. It's all right, really. What we're going to do is allowable under the circumstances. The Yeti are offshoots of the humanoid chain, but until recently they were a dying breed. What they need is room to expand. We're going to give them a planet to do it on."

  He looked to his beloved and made a silent kiss she caught with her own lips. “Besides, Shar-Mei gave them her word. And I think it's only fair I help. After all, they're my friends, too."

  "And, of course,” Shar-Mei added with a nudging look. “We can't forget the Cetaceans."

  Reg-I-Nald frowned. “Yes, there's that to consider, also."

  "Did I hear you mention Cetaceans?” asked Olam Pww stiffly. “You are aware of the difficulty we've all had dealing with their kind, and what they're prone to do when antagonized?"

  Shar-Mei's father looked concerned. “That sort of thing sounds like a pretty tall order. Finding a ready-made planet for a pack of near humanoids, and then solving the difficulties of a Cetacean culture offshoot. How are you going to manage?"

  Shar-Mei reached over and patted his hand. “Father, you've never seen a Yeti. The kind of planets they require are in abundance. Harsh climates aren't a problem for them. I've got this idea that once they are established on their own home world, they will thrive."

  "Thrive on what? Snowballs?” Always the pragmatist, he wanted to know the worth of these people.

  Reg-I-Nald chuckled. “You'd never believe it, looking at them, but they're naturals when it comes to electronics."

  "Hmm,” murmured the elder Nald. “That would mean they'll need guides, books, teachers, raw material.” He licked his lips. “Along with transport, accommodations, accessories. I might be able to help for a modest fee."

  He looked up. “We are talking large numbers, aren't we?"

  "Give or take about three thousand. More when we make contact with their southern cousins in the forests. Their territory has diminished over the last three hundred years."

  "Allow me then,” said his father with a glint of avarice in his eyes, “to offer a bid. I'll undercut the competition by ten percent, provided we get a first contract-trade agreement."

  "Have you no shame?” Synthis hissed.

  "When it comes to making hard credits, my dear,” he replied smoothly, “then, no."

  Shar-Mei and Reg-I-Nald exchanged looks.

  "Next, you'll want cargo rights to ship out a world full of whales!"

  "And why not?” asked a surprised Doral, looking at Synthis as if she were taking leave of her senses, for after all, they were a merchant house, weren't they? “Don't whales deserve a lift now and then? And if I play my cards right, I'll get in good with the Cetes Prime himself.” His eyes widened with possibilities. “And who knows,” he whispered, “where that will take us?"

  "You're incorrigible!"

  "If I recall correctly, wasn't that one of the reasons you threw your other suitors out the door?” He turned back to his son and daughter-to-be. “They bored her to tears, poor girl. It was only right I came along, saved her from a fate worse than death."

  The “poor” girl's mouth dropped open, but she didn't know what to say to such a bald-faced lie. They both knew how he'd schemed and baited and trapped, until he had her in an impossible situation, having eliminated everyone else in the field through bribery, chicanery and threats.

  "But speaking of Cetaceans?” asked Shar-Mei's father, the lure of credits drawing him, as well. “What are your plans?"

  "Well, for one thing, it's still difficult to talk to them,” said his son. “I get the impression they're satisfied with the implementations we've already established, making it a crime to attack them, but why they're not insistent on establishing their own rights is still a puzzle."

  "They are creatures of six dimensions, not three, or four,” said Olam Pww loftily. “Their brain patterns perceive life and death as ocean-going concepts. Thus do they scale events, even their own demise, in multi-dimensions. The passage of themselves in one plane is merely a presage to another."

  Reg-I-Nald blinked. “I see ... they're response is multi-dimensional also?"


  "Of course. As is their revenge."

  Everyone at the table shuddered, knowing what the other was getting at.

  "It looks like my work is cut out for me."

  "And when you finally get back?” asked Doral. “What then?"

  Shar-Mei smiled. “When we get back, my husband will be President of the Council, but instead of implementing law without analyzing repercussions or oversight, we have a different idea."

  It was a statement that elicited a silence one would have had trouble cutting through with a torch. The sounds of merry-making dimmed as Doral thumbed up a privacy curtain.

  "Are you saying you intend doing away with representative rights?"

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that,” said his son lightly. “There's a great deal worth keeping. I'm just going to cut out the stuff that has no merit."

  "I see,” quipped Doral. “And when is all this going to take place?"

  "Well, let's see.” He looked into a vision. “We'll be on Earth implementing evacuation of Yetis, solving the problem of intercultural relations with the humans and the ocean life around them. That will mean getting the International Rescue Services recognized as an interplanetary, and then an interstellar organization, and that will take a little time. Many will have to be trained, schooled, adapted to new environments, and then, of course, I want to show Shar-Mei some of the sights."

  "But how will you manage things here?"

  "Oh, that. I'll have lots of help there."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, that leaves you and mother, along with Shar-Mei's father and mother, along with a few trusted liaisons and military people to run things. You shouldn't have that much trouble until we get back."

  "What?"

  "And if there's any real difficulty...” He turned to Olam Pww and the still unnamed alien observer across the table, and that being's tendrils stilled as he realized he was suddenly the center of attention. “Perhaps one of the Galactics might be brought in for assistance?"

  The being grumped uncomfortably. It was against standard policy to serve two masters. There wouldn't be an easy solution, so it worked on some way out of its dilemma.

  Olam Pww covered his mouth with a huge paw to hide his grin. The other had used blackmail to coerce bringing him as an unofficial Galactic observer, and now he was paying the price.

  "What are you talking about?” Doral hoped that someone would explain what his son was getting at—he sure couldn't. “Does anyone know what he's talking about?"

  "I do."

  Everyone focused on the Light Bearer's mother.

  "I know exactly what he's talking about, and if my husband weren't such a businessman with his head stuck in a cashbox, he'd realize it, too. It means our responsibilities towards the people are to change."

  She eyed her son seriously. “That's what you and Shar-Mei want, isn't it?"

  "Afraid so, yes. Right now, there aren't many we trust. And I have this idea it was a test of sorts...” He weighed the unnamed alien observer. “So you'll have to manage."

  She pursed her lips tightly. “Right. If it has to be done, then we're the ones to do it."

  The unnamed alien spoke, for as an elect of his cadre, he saw something that caused him to pursue the matter further. A tentacle extended, touching the Light Bearer's mother on the shoulder.

  "It is most strange,” the vocoder around his neck said with scratching tones. “Perhaps the Guardian strain is not as rare as thought. Perhaps...” The razor-thin lips parted, drawing a breath that hissed. “Perhaps the lady would honor us by stepping upon the Block of Truth?"

  "No way!” exploded Doral-I-Nald angrily. “It's hard enough living with her the way she is!"

  Synthis twisted around with a glare and promised, silently, that he would pay for that remark. Laughter rang out as the privacy curtain was let down and sound flooded into their world, filled with joy and noise.

  It betokened a new age where the Light Bearer, his consort, and their parents would act together as a force for justice.

  Thus, for the fourth time in ten thousand years, a Guardian of Light was to maintain the rule of law. It was yet another beginning.

  "But there's still Amaron to deal with,” fretted Shar-Mei, fingering the crossed dragon tails of her gown, which hid two slim vibro blades.

  "Trust me,” soothed Regis, his voice carrying only to her ears. “That problem will be dealt with, I assure you."

  * * * *

  The pilot's voice came over the intercom in softly muted tones. “President Amaron, we're at our destination and preparing to land."

  The person an entire sector was hunting, grunted, roused himself and swung his chair up from its reclining position.

  Then he glanced around as others did the same, and grimaced. It had been a mistake taking some of them with him. When they learned that his sanctuary had been prepared months in advance, and that it already held over a thousand Imperial shock troops, it could be embarrassing. Then he shrugged. No matter. They would be needed to build that force into an army, which could later be used as guerrillas later.

  "Well,” he summed up, “it looks like we've got a battle on our hands from here on out."

  The grey-clad Psych Interrogator who planted so many moles in the system, fingered the butt of a photonic in his belt.

  "Will the base be enough to launch a new front?"

  Amaron shook his head. “Not at first, no. But given time, and when more of the military desert to restore a legal governing body, and that following the excesses of a new administration still feeling its oats, we'll build it back so no one will ever shake us from it again."

  "But what will happen,” asked one in a subdued voice, “if they don't rally to us? What then?"

  Amaron shrugged. “We'll have many options, have no fear. We can approach the pirates, gather more force, build and rebuild until we have an armada. And if necessary, we'll even use atomics."

  Dead silence.

  "I know,” he admitted sourly, “the Code of Arcturus forbids it. But in this circumstance we can defend their use. We're putting down insurrection and rebellion. We should have no..."

  His eyes widened as he saw who was coming towards them down the aisle, and sensing that something wasn't right, the psych interrogator shouted, leaped from his seat to swing around with a photonic in his hand, and dropped dead, the center of his face exploding in a rain of tissue and brains.

  "Well, gentlemen,” announced a cheery voice.

  They looked up to see a smiling General Marcroft, the man they had once thought was their greatest plant in the armed forces, and then found out what it meant to deal foul with Silhouettes.

  The five beside him moved as one, their weapons aimed with a fixed purpose no one cared to challenge.

  "I hope I haven't kept you waiting?"

  Amaron's white face tensed, waiting for the same fate as his prior companion lying in the aisle. However, such was not the case.

  Marcroft sat in the vacated seat and rested a boot on top of the corpse's body.

  "Now then, isn't this cozy?"

  No response.

  "You know,” he told them quietly, “I had thought of a dozen ways to deal with this problem, and seriously considered death by torture."

  Amaron's associates licked lips and dug deeper into their chairs, striving to figure out some way to avoid the inevitable.

  "But then my people convinced me that when all this comes out, my hands must be spanky clean. Clean, that is, if the Silhouettes are to keep their present position in the new government, and even ‘he’ expressed an interest in the way we solve our problems."

  Marcroft chuckled gently. “Would you believe the fellow even wanted an evaluation concerning his own difficulties? Can you imagine it?"

  "Well, traitor,” spat Amaron. “Are you going to toy with us and then murder us, or wait until you think you can get us to beg for our lives, you worthless scum!"

  Marcroft weighed the twenty-seven survivors of one of the w
orst hate-inspired revolutions to have plagued the human-sectored worlds and told them what he had in mind.

  "This is a quiet place, and the flora and fauna are of a very interesting variety. You could spend many thought-provoking months cataloging them. In any event, considering your penchant to put people in their place, it would be an avocation I'm certain you would approve and enjoy."

  Then his smile slowly changed into something less pleasant. “We're going to give you the entire planet to play with, for as long as you want, with all the supplies you need."

  An ex-councilor, asked which world they were landing on. It certainly wasn't the place they intended.

  "I'm glad you asked that question. As such, it was never given a name actually, more a designation and coordinates. But there is enough land space to set up entire estates, and even fiefdoms if you prefer. However, to be honest, a good deal of that would be swamp. And then, you'd really have to work at building things, but that is entirely up to you."

  Derendorth, an unshaved, pallid ex-councilor, who once ran the Office of Governmental Public Relations, took a deep breath. “So, it's to be a test, is it?"

  "A test?” Marcroft looked at him, wondering. “Why, yes, if you like, that's what it is. A test. And when you've passed it, you may gain everything you deserve. A test with a reward."

  The man seated next to Amaron was having difficulty with his sleeve, so a Silhouette reached over his shoulder and snapped the arm up, revealing the slim power holster and the flat rectangular gun it held.

  "Now, now, Horwissth,” he chided. “you know better than this. Or weren't you apprised that battery weapons in a negatively induced field won't work as you might expect. Here, allow me."

  The apparatus was ripped off his arm. “There now,” Marcroft soothed. “and a nice little bit of work this is, too."

  He gave it closer examination and realized he was looking at the creation of a master craftsman. Then he frowned. The name inscribed on the inset was that of a gunsmith he'd heard about. One who was killed as he tried to lead an escape from a detention camp. Now he'd have to look up the man's family to return it.

  Amaron had little to say after his first outburst and looked straight ahead as if the others didn't exist.