The Fourth Empire s-3

by Mack Maloney

  The race was on. The air cars whooshed down the track, their nose guns blazing. Many of those unfortunates out in the open were cut down immediately; those who were able to move quickly did so, but in terror, for their lives were surely about to end. Go as fast as you can; while killing as many human targets as you can; that was the aim of the race.

  Only the strongest were left alive after the first few seconds of this bloody competition. Anyone hit but not killed was usually dispatched by one or more air cars lowering themselves to barely ground level and incinerating the wounded by the flames of their rocket exhaust. Points were given for this, too.

  Those survivors naturally ran in the direction away from the advancing air cars. Farther down the track, at the last turn, large blue barriers made of a cardboardlike substance had been set up. Those human targets still alive were now faced with trying to break through these barriers, weakening further with each one. The air cars were on them quickly though, firing their ray guns at the last few souls and then crashing through the blue screens themselves.

  Now it was a mad dash for the finish line; the human targets were simply the obstacles. There was much crashing and sideswiping, but finally, at a time of just thirty-nine seconds, a sinister-looking all-black air car staggered over the finish line. Its nose was both bloody and smoking, its frame dented and charred. Its driver alone had killed more than 250 of the unfortunates sent out on the track. A huge cheer went up as it broke through the last blue barrier and came to a split-second stop before the imperial reviewing stand.

  The crowd erupted again as the rest of the air cars crossed the finish line. The winner was taken from his car and brought before the Emperor. He was handed a box full of money and the girl who had carried the cup of blood to Michael to begin the race.

  The Emperor bestowed a sloppy, slurred benediction on the winner and then went back to drinking himself stupid. The crowd roared again. Bedlam returned. The other air cars sulked off the track. The first ever Earth Race was over.

  The gruesome festivities would continue every day for the next month.

  The goal was to use up the 100,000 people that had been rounded up around the Earth to provide human prey for the racers. Selected capriciously, with no consideration to age or gender, these random souls died for no more than the new Emperor's perverse entertainment. And anyone who tried to rescue these unlucky people, anyone who tried to hide them, or tried to save their lives after learning of their selection, paid with their own.

  Thus was life under Brother Michael.

  Now that the very first race was over, all that remained was the task of clearing the 666 dead bodies from the track. This job was left to the dozen sanitizing squads that had spent the whole time in holding pens at each end of the arena, sweating beneath the broiling sun.

  Another horn went off. The doors to these holding pens opened, the cleanup squads waiting for the final word to go to work.

  There were forty-three persons per squad. Standing at the rear of holding pen number two, equipped with large metal hooks that would be used to pick up the dead, were Hunter and Joxx, living the most horrific part of the mind ring compendium so far. They had witnessed the whole gory spectacle, Hunter for the thirty-seventh time, still wincing at the sickest parts, Joxx in stunned silence, not quite believing what his eyes were seeing. Not quite believing the gruesome, cruel display was real. He was getting his education at light speed now.

  A whistle was blown, a gun was fired. The signal for the cleaners to get to work.

  "Is it always our fate to pick up and dispose of the dead?" Joxx asked Hunter wearily.

  Our hero didn't reply.

  He simply nudged Joxx forward, and they trotted out onto the track and went about their grisly jobs.

  Flash!

  It was dark inside the catacomb.

  Cold, too, even though it was still very hot up on the surface, ninety-five feet above.

  It was five years later. Hunter and Joxx were now dressed in threadbare combat suits. They were two of several bodyguards protecting the thirty-six men sitting around a crude table in the middle of the dank, underground compartment. This place was located in the most isolated ring of tunnels cored out for drainage beneath the massive sports arena. The men at the table were all dressed in rags. They wore scraggly beards, and their hair was matted and unwashed. They looked like just three dozen of the billions of indigent beggars who had sprung up on the streets of Earth and throughout the Galaxy, one more consequence of the brutal regime of the still-new Second Empire.

  Appearances were deceiving though; these men were not beggars. They were all high officers of the old Earth Forces, the huge army that had once provided on-planet security for Emperor Jimmy. These men had once worn silver braids on their shoulders, their tunics weighed down with dozens of space medals. They had commanded thousands of spaceships and millions of men. They had maintained peace and stability on Earth, proudly protecting the crown jewel of the First Galactic Empire. But all that had been swept away once darkly enlightened Brother Michael arrived on the scene.

  Each man here represented one of the thirty-six original geographic regions of the Mother Planet. Under the brutal thumb of the new regime, it had been just a question of time before what happened to the millions of heads of state across the Galaxy happened to them: victims of a purge of astronomical proportions. They all knew it. So they had gone underground. Literally.

  The name of the group was the 36 Coalition. Its goal was to somehow put an end to Brother Michael's brutal dictatorship on Earth and across the Galaxy. They'd been meet-ing secretly ever since Michael appeared so dramatically five years before, to upset the thousand-year rule of Emperor Jimmy. Many of the thirty-six officers had taken on thankless jobs, such as cleaning up the sports arena after the bloodlust games were completed. Menial labor was a perfect cover for their seditious activities.

  Though they'd been able to maintain contact with other groups with similar aims across the Galaxy, just how to overthrow the murderous Michael was a deep dilemma. There was no question that popular support would be theirs if and when any move was made. And many military units would come over to their side, too; as many as half of the Second Empire's forces would oppose Michael if given the chance. They were sure of this.

  But how to do it? No one had been sure. Michael was never far away from his personal army of goons. They even slept together, all in one big bed. Michael's movements were always unpredictable. He was smart enough not to leave Earth. And rarely did he stray from the huge palace he'd built for himself in the big hole he'd uncovered at the tip of another New York island once known as Manhattan. But he did attend social functions thrown by his entourage, and these were frequent, almost every night.

  The 36 Coalition had always had a notion to hit Michael at one of these soirees. But they didn't know if they were powerful enough to succeed in the first crucial minutes and hours after such an attack on the Emperor. Would the Empire survive, or would it collapse? If it collapsed, it might not ever rise again. That was a chance they couldn't take. So, the group needed a spark, a bright light, something or someone to show them the way, to rally the Milky Way and to prevent the entire Galaxy from devolving into chaos if the deed was ever really done.

  And as it turned out, on this very hot day, that ray of hope finally seemed to shine on them.

  "This might be an auspicious moment," one officer declared now, starting the secret meeting. "A guardian angel of sorts has been delivered to us. And not a second too soon." The others moved in a little closer around the table.

  "After hearing so many rumors, our operatives have finally found him," the man told them with no little drama. "He was wandering the countryside on the Emerald Isle. He was preaching to the few souls left alive over there. And we have confirmed that he is who he says he is. He is the younger brother of Michael and Jimmy. He has the power. He has the vision. If we can clear the way for him, even partially, he will step in. He will act."

  The group
erupted in a spontaneous cheer. This was nothing less than a miracle — and just the sort of thing they'd been waiting to hear. They had declared themselves a coalition a handful of years ago, when they had first tentatively come together. Suddenly, now it seemed to mean something.

  The discussion progressed in hushed tones for the next hour. Occasionally, it grew heated; other times, it became quiet and almost routine. The group began working on the skeleton of a plan, a variation of one of their many earlier ideas. Hunter and Joxx simply listened in as a plot was hatched.

  "It's just that last bit scaring me," one officer said now. He was from the part of Earth once known as Russia. "Michael has boasted about being immortal so many times. I'm wondering if anything can really bring an end to him."

  "There's a difference between living forever and impossible to kill," another replied. "Our friend Jimmy must have told us a hundred times that he, too, could last forever— and look what happened to him. He might still be alive, but he is long gone. Besides, we have an unbreakable plan here. And we know the undercurrent of hate for Michael is pervasive across the Galaxy. And we have the perfect person to fill the void.

  "Let us just do it then!"

  Flash!

  It was one month later, the biggest party of the year. The Saturnalia before the Earth Race.

  It was being held as always inside a huge orange-tinted hall located at the center of the dumpy, city that was still known as New York. This hall was so cavernous, its windows so dirty, and its lighting so dingy, it was just about impossible to see from one end to the other.

  There were small forests of scraggly can-can plants surrounding the building. All one needed to do, if they dared, was walk up, pick off a leaf, and light it up. Euphoric confusion was the usual result. It was said Michael lit up an entire tree of this stuff every day, this after downing as much as a case of wine — all before breakfast. While the euphoria part was debatable, no one argued that his regimen didn't cause him much confusion. It was the same for the small army of goons that surrounded him.

  A long line of invited guests was streaming into the orange building now. It was a hot evening, and the neighborhood was rife with foul odors, especially the smell of the dead still buried underground. The party list was made up mostly of high military officers and Second Empire diplomats, guaranteed to be an angry, boisterous, intoxicated crowd. Surly guards were stationed at every doorway, scanning everyone for weapons, from ion-powered pistols and hand-carried sonic guns to the ubiquitous daggers. Most guests gave up their arms willingly; others only after an argument or even a struggle. Only the extremely belligerent were led away by the guards, though. Everyone else was allowed inside.

  The members of the 36 Coalition arrived in masterful disguise. They were dressed not as military officers but as priests, right down to the stiff collars and large silver crosses worn around the neck. The First Empire's substantial religious component had not been purged by Michael in his five years of rule; he was far too superstitious to do that. But it had been substantially reduced, and the holy men that remained weren't really holy at all, just the opposite in fact. For the conspirators then, this was the perfect masquerade.

  They arrived in groups of twos and threes, arm in arm, as most religious people traveled. As the main flow of guests was passing through the front entrances, the three dozen officers went in through the back. Some had to be relieved of their weapons at the door—everyone was packing on Earth these days, including the clergy. A few of the conspirators even put up a minor struggle before agreeing to disarm, but this was all part of the plan. Dressed exactly as they were — priests again! — Hunter and Joxx walked into the party without a blink from the guards, just as Hunter knew they would.

  Once inside the grubby, expansive hallway, the officers linked up again. Trying to remain inconspicuous, they drank the putrid red wine and pretended to inhale the cancan, but most important was that they kept their heads.

  They were on hand for about twenty minutes when the Emperor Michael showed up, unannounced as usual, surrounded by his ring of bodyguards, who always seemed just as intoxicated as he, if not more. This party was in anticipation of the sixth annual Earth Race. The topic of conversation around the room had to do with rumors that the first race was supposedly fixed yet again this year, that some of the drivers were being tipped off which of the 666 human targets sent out on to the track were older, more feeble, or ill, and therefore easier to shoot down. It made for many intriguing arguments, all of which grew more intense as the wine began to flow.

  A presentation of sorts was on the agenda. The previous winner was on hand to relinquish his trophy, during which Michael would give him yet another box of money. It took a long time to get everyone in the room to pay attention as the small ceremony began. The Emperor was standing with the fifth-year winner, rings of goons and drunken military officers nearby, as shouts for order rang up and down the hall.

  Finally Michael began slurring a small but rambling speech. When it was over, the old winner handed him the trophy, and Michael handed him his money. The man took his box of cash and walked right out of the building without another word.

  Michael shrugged and turned around to accept another glass of wine from his bodyguard. He found himself facing a half-dozen priests instead. They were here to offer a prayer, one said. Michael burped in reply, not quite remembering this part of the ceremony. That's when each conspirator removed the large silver cross from around his neck and quickly removed a piece of wax adhered to its lower tip. This revealed a sharpened razor-edged point.

  "God Bless you," the first conspirator said. With that, he plunged his sharpened cross into Michael's chest. Michael grunted once and then looked down to discover another sharpened cross sticking out of his thorax. Then, quickly, came another. And another. And another. And another.

  The rest of the priests set upon Michael's coterie of goons, stabbing them viciously and retrieving their weapons. A massive gunfight broke out. The majority of guests panicked and charged for the exits, blocking the way for any of the security troops to get inside. The drunken bodyguards made easy killing for the thirty-six officers. A slash across the throat, a thrust to the stomach, and they were gone.

  Through it all, Michael just stood there and shuddered as more sharpened crosses plunged into him. A handful of surviving bodyguards finally managed to surround him and blink him out of the party and then straight off the planet.

  All this had taken place not five feet away from where Hunter and Joxx had put themselves. In fact, Michael looked them both in the eye as he was quickly fading away.

  According to the mind ring, his last words to his would-be assassins were, "I think this means war…."

  Flash!

  Hunter and Joxx were standing at the bottom of a large hill.

  It was nighttime. The air smelled of summer.

  Joxx breathed in deeply. This place was a welcome change from the gruesome, scary nature of Brother Michael's imperial city.

  They climbed the hill swiftly. At the top was a patch of soft, high grass and a view that stretched for miles. Below them was a small town, a lake, a river. A building like a high school. Above them, all those stars.

  "An interesting setting," Joxx told Hunter, breathing in again. "A curious one as well."

  Hunter looked around, very familiar with the pastoral setting now.

  "You wouldn't understand," he said. "But this place looks a lot like another place that was once very special to me."

  Indeed it was almost a dead ringer for a hill he'd once spent two nights on, wide awake, looking at the stars, waiting. Possibly this place was the inspiration for its twin.

  He thought now what he'd thought the last three dozen times he'd come here in the mind ring trip: I wonder if I can see her house from here.

  Joxx began to press him on this subject, but stopped. His instincts, though numbed from this crazily assembled mind trip, still hummed enough to know that this was a topic he'd best not pester his host
about.

  He knew that much about Hunter by now.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the new setting sink in.

  Finally Hunter spoke: "As far as I could determine, the night that Michael was stabbed, a series of coups against his regime took place at key locations throughout the Empire. The rebels managed to gain control of many strategic parts of the Galaxy, thanks to what the 36 Coalition did here on Earth. Lots of fighting followed, during which Michael's security thugs got him off the planet and sped him to a safety way, way out on the Seventh Arm. He stayed there for a few years, building up his forces and finally beginning a march back to Earth. The 36 Coalition built up its forces as well, and went out to meet them."

  Hunter pointed toward the constellation once known as Ursa Major.

  "Do you know that part of the sky?" he asked Joxx.

  "Certainly, the majority of key stars can be found below the Four Arm," Joxx replied. "I've been there once or twice."

  "Then watch closely," Hunter told him. "In three… two… one…"

  There was a sudden bright flash slightly to the left of the tail of the star formation. It burned for a few seconds, then faded away.

  Joxx began to ask a question, but Hunter raised his hand and stopped him. Another flash. This one not far from the first. Then came another, and another.

  The Solar Guards' commander knew enough about space warfare to realize what he was looking at was a battle of major proportions being fought with weapons whose muzzle flashes were firing off at close to Supertime speed. Only that way could these powerful bolts be visible from the Earth.

  "They will call it the Battle of Alpha Nebula," Hunter told him. "The first real clash of forces loyal to Michael and those trying to prevent his return to Earth. It was a big win for the 36 Coalition."

  Flash!

  Same hill, same view, about a month later.

  Joxx was still shaking off the effects of the unexpected jump.

  "Up there," Hunter said, pointing toward the group of stars once known as Hercules. "Know it?"