The Galactic Empress' Bodyguard

by Ben Harrington

  Colton took a minute to look around, because he realized that as tired as he was, his mind was still too wired from his weird-ass day to sleep any time soon. Might as well snoop around an alien room for a while.

  There was a closet, which was nice. It was completely hidden until he walked near it, and then the doors just slid open like alien doors tended to do. Inside were more shirts (all identical) on hangers, more jackets (all identical) on hangers, more pants (also identical) on hangers, and a selection of ties that were subtle variations on the exact same shade of black.

  There was no underwear, he noted. Aliens must go commando.

  He took his gun from the holster, set it on the top shelf, let the door close. Not quite safe, but then again, neither was he.

  The shower was right next to the closet, and also appeared without warning as he walked past. He made the mistake of leaning in to check it out, which triggered a sudden spray of lukewarm water straight into the back of his head, and soaked his jacket pretty thoroughly.

  He took the jacket off, set it on the back of one of the chairs at the little square table in the middle of the room.

  Then he paused. Smiled. Sat.

  In the middle of the table was a pack of cigarettes, still wrapped. Same brand, same size, just the way he liked it. He picked it up, ran his thumb along the plastic wrap. Wondered if it was genuine, or something they'd cooked up, like the gun.

  Only one way to know for sure.

  And he wasn't going to do it.

  "What the fuck am I doing?" he asked a photo that wasn't there.

  There was faint chime, and a circular pattern glowed, faintly, on the door. Pulsed, then faded. Pulsed, then faded. Colton pocketed the smokes and headed on over.

  "How do you expect me to get any rest if you keep—"

  The rest of his sentence was cut short when the door slid open to reveal a pair of ash-skinned brawlers. There wasn't even a doubt about what they were here to do, because the closest one led with a swing, which hit Colton square in the jaw.

  He tumbled back, tried to get his fists up, but took another blow to his gut, and collapsed on the floor.

  The two of them took turns beating him: kicks to the stomach, fist pummeling his back. He tried to crawl away, but it didn't work — the room was too small to go far, and he was nicely boxed in.

  He could feel his ribs cracking, knew he wouldn't last long, so he did something a little stupid: when the next kick connected with his gut, he curled himself around the foot, grabbing it tight. The ash-skin tried to get free, which gave Colton just enough maneuvering room to break the motherfucker's ankle.

  As the first brawler tumbled backward in the table (breaking it in half, no less), Colton turned his attention to the second with a furious punch to the junk. By the way the guy howled, alien humans ain't that different from normal humans.

  Colton got to his feet, creaky and woozy, and grabbed the asshole's hair in his fist, and then whack! cracked his head on the wall so hard it left a mark.

  The first ash-face — now called Limpy — managed to drag himself upright again, careful not to step on his crooked foot, but not giving up the fight.

  Big fucking mistake.

  Evolution's a funny thing: tens of thousands of years of human evolution led to innovations like the very concept of hand-to-hand combat; all kinds of martial arts from all parts of the world — not to mention all the wild inventions around the rest of the galaxy. A million different ways to kill a man...

  ...but when the chips are down, that all goes out the window in favor of straight-up brawling.

  Colton and Limpy went at it like a pair of feral cats: no strategy, no pauses, no block-and-dodge-and-strike bullshit, just savage blows to the head and gut until one of them went down. And man, it was an even match. Colton's vision was swimming, but he kept on swinging. For a few seconds, he thought he might be turned around and wailing on the wall, but then he heard a yelp, and knew he was still on target.

  Things were going great — well, not great, but decent — until he heard the second dickhead grunt loudly, and felt the chair crash into his back... and his brain decided it was time for a little time out.

  When he opened them again, he was on the floor, tasting blood.

  When he opened them again, Limpy was helping Dicky to the door.

  When he opened them again, they were saying something vicious back at him. It took him a few seconds to process the words, by which point the door had closed and he was alone.

  "Go home, Earthie."

  He rolled onto his back, and hissed back a cry as every bone and muscle in his body went haywire. Blood was tricking down his throat, making him ill, and his right eye was swelling shut so fast, he could see the room going dark on one side.

  He took a breath. Another breath, and another, and with a grunt and a growl he heaved himself up to a sitting position. He caught his breath, drooled blood onto his lap.

  "OK," he said to himself, slurring like he was drunk. "Here we go."

  One leg, then the other, then a bruised hand on the wall, and he was on his feet. More or less.

  The closet opened, but he struggled he reach up to the top shelf. He fumbled around until he found his gun, dragged it down.

  He dropped onto the bed, sitting with back against the wall, facing the door. Caught his breath again. There was a lot of breath-catching to do. The room was spinning, but he wasn't ready to faint just yet. He loaded the chamber, kept the gun aimed at the door, and leaned his head back until a bruise touched the wall.

  "Try it again, motherfuckers," he slurred into the darkness. "Try it again."

  13

  Her binding was stuck.

  Locked in her room with a genetically-encoded laser field keeping her away from the rest of the world, Empress Ilina found herself in the worst of all situations: she couldn't get her clothes off.

  Bindings were nanotechnology zippers, more or less; the two sides were drawn to each other on contact, weaving together to form a bond as strong as (or stronger) than the rest of the fabric around them. All it took was a slide of the finger to bind or unbind them... except when it didn't work. And it didn't work with surprising frequency.

  Before she'd become Empress, Ilina would have asked one of her servants to help — as Crown Princess, she had a lot of servants. But now that she was at the pinnacle of power and everyone wanted to kill her, her servants could no longer be trusted, so she had to fend for herself.

  She found a mirror and tried to angle herself so she could see what she was doing (since the zipper started at her neckline, at the front, but tucked around to her side after passing her chest). All she could see, though, was that she was stuck. Unbound to the middle of her rib cage, and no further.

  "Pulta," she swore, and tried to pull it free the old fashioned way... which ended with her ripping the dress completely, and messily, down past her hips. She yelled in frustration, fighting with what was left, trying to get free. It was not a graceful exercise.

  She paused there, naked in front of the mirror, leaning in closer because something caught her eye: black dust, on her cheek. She brushed it with her thumb, and it came off easily. It took her a moment to realize what it was — the blowback from when the assassins had shot at her. Bits of wall or flesh, burnt in an instant and sent airborne. She wiped it all off, washed her hands aggressively. Too aggressively.

  A gentle chime signalled an incoming call, so she rushed to the dresser, pulled out the first nightgown she could find, and wrapped herself up enough to appear decent.

  The hologram shimmered to life, revealing a young man with a polished demeanour, and a gentle smile.

  "Torsten," she said, welcoming her youngest brother, "Still awake?"

  "Just getting up, actually," he said with a smile. "I was afraid I'd missed you for the day." His face twitched, revealing thinly-veiled concern.
"And I hear it was quite the day."

  She tried not to react. Torsten worried easily, and there was no reason to make it worse than it was going to be on its own. She poured herself a glass of wine, sat at the edge of an austere chair, keeping perfect posture as her role demanded.

  "There were some issues," she said, diplomatically. "But nothing we could not handle."

  "Is that your Royal We, or are you including Deo'ta, too?"

  She took a sip, grinned. "Equal parts, I suppose."

  Torsten winced, shook his head. "I won't tell you to be more careful, because I know you'll just ignore me."

  "Wise, brother. Wise."

  "You think it's Ryvik? This time, too?"

  She shrugged, kept her gaze low to avoid seeing how he felt about it. "He claims it's not, but he has lied to me before."

  "I still can't believe he'd actually try to kill you..."

  She frowned. "You say that like you doubt it. The evidence is overwhelming, Torsten. Whoever he was before, Ryvik is a traitor. And the laws are very clear."

  "I know," sighed Torsten. "I just wish I didn't." He straightened, taking on a new subject with a fresh attitude. "In other horrible news, the allium markets are running very hot this week. Too hot, maybe."

  She drank more wine, because talk of markets always required wine. "Supply is still constrained?"

  "Very," said Torsten. "We will start to see the ripple effects across the lower breadth soon. If it goes on much longer, there's talk of a recession."

  "In the lower breadth?"

  "Across the entire Empire," he said. "And that's just the start of it, too, because—"

  "Alright, alright," she said, waving him quiet. "What do we do to stop it? What's causing the problem?"

  Torsten subtly looked down at a handheld notepad, trying to skim his notes like they were a cheat sheet during an exam. "Seems to stem from... uh... Kgego."

  "Kgego?" she said, frown on her face. "How in heavens is Kgego the center of anything?"

  Torsten was trying to make sense of what she'd said: "Do we know Kgego?"

  "Father's summer home," she said. "The outcrop over the rainforest, remember?"

  At first, nothing; but then Torsten's memory seemed to kick into gear: "Oh! That was Kgego? I had no idea!" He laughed, reminiscing. "Father used to bring Rvyik and I rock climbing, and—"

  His voice drifted off at the mention of their brother's name, like it was the worst curse word in the language, suddenly, and he was still getting used to it. He cleared his throat and added: "The views are spectacular."

  She tensed, involuntarily, at that. Their father had tried to raise two tough young boys by bringing them out and seeing the most exhilarating parts of the galaxy, while leaving his precious daughter indoors to study politics and manners and decorum. All he accomplished was to make Ryvik even more petulant, teach Torsten how to sweet-talk his way out of tricky situations, and to make her wonder if he even loved her at all. Her face darkened at the thought of it.

  "Something wrong?" asked Torsten, obviously breaking one of the cardinal rules of the Empire by looking at her closely enough to notice such things.

  She sighed, leaned back in her chair. "I keep thinking I'm not prepared for this. For any of this. I spent my whole life learning to be an Empress, but the one person who had real insights... we never talked."

  "He was busy," said Torsten.

  "He avoided me," she countered. "And now here I am, barely holding on, just weeks after succeeding a man who oversaw the biggest peacetime expansion in the history of the Empire."

  Torsten shrugged like he understood, but still thought she was wrong, but was also afraid to say so directly. "He had a rough start, too. There was a civil war going on."

  "That he won," she said. "I don't even know who I'm fighting, let alone how to win. And I'm tired of always being on the defensive. Of living in this prison of a room all the time."

  Torsten didn't have an answer, and it showed on his face. "Father made his mark with the Siege of M'dakken," he said. "That set the tone for him, but again, he had a civil war he was fighting. Your enemies are harder to pin down, and you can't just go invading planets to make yourself look tough. Then you would have a civil war on your hands."

  She sighed, nodded. "I don't know how to do this job," she said, voice hollow.

  "It all comes down to one question," he said. "What kind of Empress do you want to be?"

  Her face twisted up in confusion and concern. She didn't even know the answer to such a simple question. "I... I don't know. What kind should I be?"

  "No one can answer that but you," he said. "But once you figure it out, all the rest will fall into place. Once you know who you are, every question will have a clear answer. It's the difference between drowning and swimming for shore: a goal gives you purpose, and a purpose helps you survive."

  She smiled, gathered back her composure. "Wise words, brother. You should be Emperor."

  He laughed. "Not a chance," he said. "I like the freedom to come and go as I please. You can keep the crown, and all the fretting about allium markets that goes with it."

  She laughed, too, and felt a little less awful than she had before. "Speaking of which, we must find a way to resolve that particular problem. I don't want my defining moment to be the economic collapse of the Empire."

  Torsten nodded sharply. "I'll have options ready by the time I arrive."

  She did a double-take: "You're coming back to Iffrysilia?"

  "Yes, I'm bringing my Imperial Cruiser in for some upgrades. Thought I'd remove the city-killing weapons systems, now that I don't need to impress Father anymore." He was about to laugh, before he realized how insensitive he sounded, so added: "Might use the space for a garden or something peaceful like that."

  "Father did love his mass drivers," the Empress said, faintly. "But I think a garden is a lovely idea."

  "It's settled, then," said Torsten. "I'll see you soon. Though I won't be able to stay long. I'm afraid I'm allergic to assassination attempts."

  She laughed. "It takes a toll," she said. "But at least now I have a bodyguard who seems to know what he's doing." She finished her wine. "We just need to teach him some manners."

  14

  "Oh dear," said Deo'ta, somewhere in the darkness.

  It was strange, because no matter what Colton did, he couldn't make out any shapes in the— wait, his eyes were swollen shut. He reached to touch his face when he realized he wasn't holding his gun anymore.

  He jerked forward, but was held down by stubborn hands. "Lay still, Captain," said Deo'ta. "We will get this sorted."

  The next thing he remembered was the sensation of being moved. It was different than the world spinning, because it was linear. He felt ill, very suddenly, but then passed out again.

  "Eeshi," said a woman's voice, somewhere in the darkness. "What happened here?"

  "We're not certain," said Deo'ta, voice distorting in and out like he was playing in a waterfall.

  "Picked a fight he couldn't win," said the woman, and Colton tried to sit up and tell her she was fucking wrong, that he did win, but then he passed out again.

  When his eyes finally opened, the world was bright. He tried to lift his arm to shield himself from the blinding awfulness of wherever-the-hell-he-was, but his arms were fastened down, bound tight. And tugging at them felt awful.

  "Whoa, slow down," said the woman's voice, and Colton finally managed to catch a glimpse of her: human, maybe five foot, with full lips turned up in a smart-ass smile. She pressed his forehead down, and he really had no choice but to relax.

  "Where am I?" he asked, throat dry and cracking.

  "Infirmary," she said. "I'm Dr Iko, your specialist. You were in rough shape. You had one whole rib that wasn't broken. Very impressive."

  "I was hoping for a complete set."

&nbs
p; "Better luck next time."

  He laughed, and laughing hurt... but oddly, not as much as it should have. He tried to angle his head to see the rest of his body, but his neck wasn't willing to play along.

  "How long have I been here? How long was I out?"

  Iko shrugged. "Longer than I'd have liked, but you were in pretty rough shape. It's been... about two hours."

  Colton frowned. Hours? Not days? Weeks? Hell, ribs took forever to heal... months would make more sense. He tried to pull his arms loose from their restraints, failed again, but realized in the trying that his bones felt solid. There was no way he got into that kind of fight without cracking things the wrong way around.

  "What the hell..." he wheezed. "What's—"

  "Shh," said Iko, putting a hand on his forehead. "I know it seems like magic, but this is how we do things in the civilized part of the galaxy. You'll get used to it eventually, if you survive that long."

  He laughed again. "Everybody hates Earthies," he said.

  "We don't hate you," she said. "We just don't think highly of you. Which reminds me: I've got good money riding on the theory you did this to yourself trying to have sex with the furniture."

  "Do I look like a table-fucker to you?"

  "Well, in the absence of wildstock..."

  He grinned at her. "You just became my new best friend."

  "Oh shit," she said. "I'm going to have to get vaccinated first."

  "You have vaccines against Earth diseases?"

  "Everything but the stupid."

  That made him laugh so hard, he started coughing. But it was worth it. It felt good to be happy again, for as long as it lasted.

  "Ah, good, you're up," said Deo'ta, arriving from the far end of the infirmary. "When you didn't show for breakfast, I began to worry, and then... well..."

  Colton nodded as best he could. "A pair of pale-faced assholes broke into my room last night and went to town on me. Broke one of their ankles, and the other guy... well... his face looks like I feel."

  "They'll be healed by now," said Iko. "Private healing bays are untraceable."