Imperial Guard

by Joseph O'Day

  Soon the surly Imperial Guardsman arrived with Johnston. “Lieutenant Josh Mogul reporting as ordered, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. I have a vital assignment for your platoon. I suspect that an enemy force has dug in somewhere in advance of our line of march. It will be your task to take low-level flyers and advance ahead of the main column, scouting the terrain in an attempt to expose the enemy. Should you fail to make contact with rebel forces, you will continue into the mining village of Carrera and secure it until the rest of the company arrives. Any questions?”

  “You bet I have questions!” Mogul’s face was puckered up, and his posture was tense. “What do you think you’re doing sending me on a suicide mission? You got no right trying to kill me off just ’cause you hate nobility.” Mogul had caught wind of the rumor of Brogan’s long-standing feud with Carl Mogul, and Josh had interpreted that to mean that Brogan hated all Moguls and would do anything to get back at the family.

  Brogan’s face darkened at Mogul’s blatant insubordination. “I do not tolerate such an attitude in any of my officers, nobility or not! It is your duty to obey orders and take risks the same as everyone else. I do not look favorably on cowardly displays in my command!”

  Mogul took a step forward and clenched his fists. “You calling me a coward?”

  Brogan used all his will power to maintain composure and professionalism. “I’m not calling you anything, mister. I’m giving you a chance to obey orders. If you choose not to, you will be court marshaled and escorted back to main base to be locked up while you await trial. Which is it to be, Lieutenant?”

  Mogul looked around, unsure of himself. Slowly his features softened as he began to realize that he would not be able to bully his commanding officer. He would just have to think of some other way out of this. Suddenly he saluted Brogan and said, “I’ll deploy my men at once, sir.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant. Carry on.”

  Mogul turned on his heel and hurried off to organize and brief his men. Brogan, though full of misgivings, began to feel hopeful. Come on, Brogan, how could anyone mess up this assignment? It’s as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. Still, he couldn’t shake the premonition of disaster.

  “Johnston, give the men a half-hour rest break. We’ll move out again after we’ve given Mogul time to clear the next two kilometers.” The terrain in this part of Peru II was a military challenge. It was forested, piedmont-type country broken by streams and rivulets and clogged with underbrush, briars, and saplings. The continual gullies and knolls made great potential concealment for enemy units. Droid sweeps and lasers were not very effective. Visual and thermal surveillance from the orbiting laser platform was not much help either. This time they had to advance the hard way.

  After half an hour, Brogan made radio contact with Fourth Platoon and discovered that they had progressed about one and a half kilometers. Switching on the command channel, Brogan ordered the platoon leaders to close up their columns and move out. He wanted to make it to Carrera, still about eight clicks away, before nightfall.

  Alpha Company of the Imperial Fusiliers moved out with the precision of action that comes from long practice. Each move and rush was performed as if it had been rehearsed, and indeed it had. Alpha Company was the best on Peru II. It had a high percentage of veterans who were constantly drilled in the science of warfare. They were well trained and well fed. They were the elite.

  They faced an enemy that was competent yet ill equipped. But Alpha Company had not become complacent or overconfident. They practiced their trade as if they were up against the fiercest foes in the galaxy. First Platoon advanced with Brogan’s command staff in the center. Second Platoon had the left flank and Third Platoon the right. Second and Third Platoons moved forward about a half-click away from the central column. Fourth Platoon had been given orders to deploy into three vanguard groups, one in front of each of the advancing columns. Mogul was in the center group.

  By the time Alpha Company had covered four kilometers, Brogan began to breathe a little easier. Flankers had still reported no enemy contact, and the orbiting platform’s periodic, routine checks had also come up empty. Suddenly Johnston, who was in the van of the Platoon, stopped, and confused movement and voices brought Brogan to the alert.

  He ran forward and shouted, “What is it?”

  “Captain,” the XO shouted urgently. “We’ve run into Fourth Platoon! They’ve stopped. They’re not sweeping in advance of the company!”

  Brogan felt a chill of fear. “Form a perimeter! Dig in! Link up! ASAP! Your lives may depend on it!” Brogan was furious and more frightened than he had ever been in his life. He fired off additional orders, trying desperately to assume some sort of defensive position. I should have never put Mogul on this job! he chastened himself.

  Brogan had a sinking feeling in his gut. But he was a superior leader. Never showing his apprehension, he continued thinking at lightening speed, doing what he could to retrieve some advantage from their rapidly deteriorating position. He had to assume that enemy troops were nearby and already alerted to their position.

  Brogan screamed at his aide. “Find Mogul, and get him over here! Now!” The aide took off running while First Platoon began defensive preparations.

  “Com! Alert Second and Third Platoons of our situation. Have them close up with our column and set up a defensive perimeter. And call those droids in from their flanker positions.”

  Brogan turned and saw Mogul being escorted toward him. He started toward him with long strides. “What are you doing here, Mogul? Your dereliction of duty has put this unit is extreme jeopardy.”

  Mogul’s face was full of hate, and his tone of voice was belligerent. “I figured I’d taken enough chances for awhile, so I stopped my group. But the other two vanguard groups are still advancing. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Johnston!” Brogan turned toward the XO. “Put this officer in restraints and place two guards over him. He’s under . . .”

  Brogan never finished his sentence. The whole world, it seemed, dissolved into flame and flying debris. The ground trembled, and the entire area was torn apart by intense bombardment. Brogan was thrown violently to the ground. He wanted to shout orders, but his mouth wouldn’t respond, and he couldn’t move his body. In the back of his head a dark cloud threatened to overtake his last vestige of consciousness.

  He wanted to tell Johnston to fall back before it was too late. Their hurried defenses were incomplete and now useless. But he couldn’t make his mouth work. Johnston ordered a medic to Brogan’s side. The medic treated Brogan’s wounds, but he was only dimly aware of it. His mind was screaming at Johnston to retreat and regroup. But the XO hesitated too long. When he finally ordered the retreat, the rebels were overrunning their positions.

  The medic now gone, either to retreat or to tend to someone else, Brogan watched in horror as the enemy troops mopped up the last vestiges of resistance. He watched Johnston and those near him dissolve in a blast of light from a heavy laser rifle. Brogan tried to block out the jubilant voices of the victors as they coursed through the trees blasting the stragglers. He had never felt so agonizingly helpless in his life.

  Brogan tilted his head and looked down his cheek. An officer came into view—a major. “Check the bodies,” he ordered. “If you find any alive, kill ’em! Let that be a lesson to all who side with the tyrant.”

  As he surveyed the carnage, the major’s gaze passed over Brogan’s prostrate form, then jerked back to focus on his face. They locked eyes. The major threw up his arm. “Wait a minute! That one there, the officer, take him to our righteous medicos. They’re always complaining that we don’t bring them enough Imperial troopers to practice on,” he sneered. “Let ’em test their skills on this specimen. Anyway, who knows? If we keep him alive, he might come in handy some day.”

  Rough hands rolled Brogan onto a self-propelled stretcher, and for the first time he felt agonizing pain. The black cloud hovering at the back of his m
ind swept over him as in a storm, and the once sturdy soldier knew no more. But before losing consciousness, Brogan thought he saw a Fusilier slipping unnoticed through the trees—a Fusilier with red pips on his collar.

  *

  The dreamy recollection dissolved, and Brogan felt himself falling deeper into the void, falling and spinning through darkness. Slowly the darkness lessened, and he saw a pinpoint of light far, far away. But the light grew at an astonishing rate of speed, as though Brogan were traveling faster than he ever had before. Suddenly overwhelming brightness fell upon him, and Brogan wondered why he wasn’t blinded by it. He came to rest on a floor of marble that seemed almost transparent. Everything gave the impression of translucence, as though this place had no real existence, specially made for his benefit for a brief space of time.

  As Brogan turned to survey his new surroundings, his eyes fell on a magnificent throne of pure ivory. On the throne was a form emanating a light so dazzling that he could not look at it. As he turned his eyes away, he noticed others present. They were facing the one on the throne with rapt attention, seemingly impervious to the intense light. Brogan thought that he should know what they were doing, but he did not.

  Then, as if by a prearranged signal, all those present turned and focused their attention on the solitary, bewildered figure of Timothy Brogan. Instantly Brogan felt like a worm pinned to a dissection tray, small and insignificant. A huge golden scale appeared before the throne, suspended in midair and perfectly balanced. The figure on the throne spoke, and a voice of supreme authority filled the place.

  “No record of Timothy Brogan has been found in the sacred Book. Let him, therefore, be judged according to his deeds, as all must be who are not covered by the holy covenant.”

  Brogan was seized by a fear and apprehension greater than any he had ever known. He knew implicitly that his eternal destiny hung in the balance. One by one witnesses stepped forward to condemn him. True, he had tried to live a decent life and to stand up for what was right. Sure, he had done the right thing and waited till after harvest to run away from home. But he had run away. He had faithfully and unselfishly sent the bulk of his salary back home for years but had rejected what was most important to his family.

  The memories began crowding in—memories of lies and deception toward his parents, of ambition for the wrong reasons, of his rejection of the faith, of sole reliance on his own intellect and abilities, of living for himself. Before this Brogan felt he had accomplished a lot with his life, but they were now revealed to him as wasted years of self-pursuit. The balance came crashing down against him, and his fate was sealed.

  His whole being filled with dread at the prospect of what lay ahead. Desperately he snatched at ways to change the inevitable, but he came up empty. He longed for a second chance. But why do I deserve one?

  Brogan answered his own question. Because it’s me! But he knew that this would not suffice. He awaited the verdict.

  “The candidate is not covered by the covenant,” the voice from the throne declared, “and Timothy Brogan is found wanting by the judgment. Let the evidence be recorded. Woe to Timothy Brogan!”

  “Woe! Woe! Woe!” intoned the others.

  Suddenly a voice broke through the sentencing. “You saved my life once. Can’t I do the same for you? Don’t give up, Timothy!”

  It was Adriel! Brogan’s surroundings disappeared in a flash, and once again he was hurtling through the void. He landed in warm softness and slowly opened his eyes. His blurry surroundings began to take shape, and he looked upon Adriel sitting beside his bed, holding his hand, talking to him.

  She jumped up smiling when she saw him awake and pulled her chair closer to the top of the bed. “Oh, Timothy, I’m so glad you’re awake! I was afraid we were going to lose you!”

  Brogan was still disoriented from his dream and still wasn’t sure that he really was awake. But he looked admiringly at the woman before him and thought again how beautiful she was. Her auburn hair was caught in a ponytail to keep it out of her oval face. Her brown, gold-flecked eyes danced with happiness to see him come out of his coma. Her small nose ended in a slight, mischievous bump, but her strong chin and high cheekbones bespoke determination and competence. Much to his delight, she still had hold of his right hand.

  “It’s good to be awake,” Brogan rasped through a parched throat.

  “Oh, let me get you something to drink.” Adriel dropped Brogan’s hand, jumped up, poured some water in a cup, and brought it over to her patient. She helped him quench his thirst and once again folded her five-foot-six inch, supple frame into the chair. But she did not take Brogan’s hand again. Suddenly she yawned.

  Incredible, thought Brogan, she even looks good when she yawns.

  “It’s especially nice to wake up to something so lovely,” he said out loud without realizing he was doing so. Adriel blushed and turned away. “What happened to me anyway?” Brogan asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious and changing the subject. He looked down his chin.

  “I’m afraid you got pretty banged up,” Adriel responded cautiously. But she looked at him frankly.

  “It’s alright. Just tell it like it is. I think I can take it.” Brogan tried to grin.

  “It’s bad. I wish I didn’t have to be the one telling you.” Adriel paused. “Your left arm was mangled and shredded pretty badly. The good news is that it was still in one piece. The bad news is that there wasn’t much left except bone. But the prognosis is good,” she continued cheerily. “The doctors performed surgery and successfully spun new webs for arm muscles.”

  Brogan tried lifting his left arm but couldn’t. “Your arm is encased in a regenerative biopack,” Adriel explained. “It contains the chemicals, medication, and environment necessary to grow your arm back to its normal condition.” Biopacks provided the controlled environment necessary for the growth of new muscles, sinews, ligaments, skin, blood vessels, and even nerves, once thought to have been unregenerative. But great strides had occurred in medicine and genetics over the centuries.

  The biopack housed the complex technology that convinced the appropriate cells to reproduce and replace what should be there normally. “You’re going to have to carry it around for a long time, but eventually your arm will be as good as new. You also sustained several less serious wounds on your legs and torso. But these should be healed up in a couple months. All in all, I’d say your survival has been nothing short of miraculous.”

  Brogan concurred. “I think you’re right—literally.” He settled his head back on the pillow.

  “What do you mean?” Adriel leaned closer. He caught her warm scent.

  Brogan forced his thoughts back to his dream. “Just before I woke up I had the strangest dream.”

  “Tell me about it,” Adriel encouraged.

  Brogan hesitated but then related it to her, but not without some misgivings. Adriel continued to encourage him every time he faltered in his tale.

  “Wow!” Adriel breathed when he had finished. “That was some nightmare!”

  “You said it!” agreed Brogan. “I don’t mind telling you, I thought I was a goner.”

  “Timothy, do you believe that when you really do die, you’ll have to stand before God to give an account of your life?”

  “I guess so.”

  Adriel hesitated, then forged ahead. “Do you think you’d fail it like you did in your dream?”

  Brogan was silent for a few moments as he contemplated the ceiling. “Probably,” he sighed. “Look, Adriel. I appreciate your trying to help, and I really appreciate everything you’ve done to save my life. But I’d just as soon not talk about this any more right now.” Brogan expelled a lung-full of air. “I’m tired. I think I’ll rest some now.”

  “OK, Timothy. But about saving your life—you can just call us even. You go ahead and rest, and I’ll be back to see you another time.”

  Adriel stood up, smoothed her white, one-piece jumpsuit, and walked toward the door. “Adriel,” Brogan called after he
r.

  “Yes,” she said swirling around.

  “Uh, I really would like it if you did come back to see me some more,” Brogan said awkwardly.

  Adriel smiled. “Of course I’ll come see you again. You can’t get rid of me just because you don’t want to talk to me.” She laughed and bounced out the door.

  Adriel, true to her word, made sure she spent some time with Brogan every day. They talked about home and Cirrus, how the war was going, what Adriel had been doing since leaving home, and Brogan’s adventures, especially the tragedy at Carrera. As they talked and shared their lives, they got to know and admire each other. Their friendship grew.

  But still Brogan did not want to talk about “religion” as he called it. His military tragedy and his near-death experience had turned his world upside down. His confidence was shaken, and he felt adrift on a sea of uncertainty. He told Adriel that he needed time to sort things out, and she allowed him the space to do that.

  As the weeks passed he felt himself more and more attracted to Adriel. At first he thought it might be unconscious gratitude for her ministrations and her company. But he decided that it was more than that, and he hoped that Adriel felt the same way. What was disconcerting to him, however, was that he sensed a distance between them, as though she were saying “This far and no farther” in terms of their relationship. She was friendly enough and seemed to enjoy and welcome Brogan’s friendship. But she did not flirt with him or lead him on in any way.

  Brogan began to be frustrated. “Who would be interested in a man who’s all chewed up, anyway?” he muttered to himself one day after she left. “Or maybe it’s because I’m a killer who’s not good enough for little miss high and mighty righteous.”

  As soon as he said it, Brogan was ashamed of himself. He knew that was not fair. Nevertheless, he was feeling sorry for himself. His military career might very well be over. He was a POW and might still lose his life before it was all over. Regardless, he would be a cripple for months. And he hadn’t seen his family for years. By now everybody probably thought he was dead. And now he couldn’t even get a girl interested in him. What a mess my life’s turned out to be, he thought bitterly, after all my highfalutin dreams!