The Galactic Empress' Bodyguard

by Ben Harrington

Colton looked to them both with utter grieving sincerity in his eyes. "And if we don't?" he asked.

  Ugero's eyes narrowed. "We will. End of story."

  There was a strange whirring sound out over the canyon, and they all turned in time to see a surge of light at the dragonfly's tail, and then the wings folded back into a sharp, triangular shape...

  ...and it took off like a bat out of hell. Before Colton could even gasp, it was out of sight.

  He turned to Piro and Ugero, mouth hanging open. "What the..."

  Piro seemed impressed. “They’re built to travel four times the speed of sound,” he said.

  Ugero leaned over, whispered: “How much you wanna bet we never see him again?”

  36

  The Empress waved her hand and the courtiers fell back — they were having trouble keeping up, anyway. When she was sure there was enough privacy on offer, she gave Deo’ta a subtle nod.

  “Are we sure this is safe?” she whispered.

  “Not at all, you Majesty,” he said. “But refusing your brother’s invitation seems the worse option. Besides, if he is in the shuttle with you, it is less likely he will have it shot down.”

  “Comforting,” she said. “He could just as easily kill me himself, in person. I’ll be right there next to him.”

  Deo’ta’s eye twitched. “He could be tried for regicide, in that case.”

  “Has an Emperor ever been convicted of regicide before?” she asked.

  An uncomfortable pause. “No, your Majesty.”

  “Wonderful. How far out are your loyal guards? Will they get here in time?”

  “I believe so,” said Deo’ta, pausing outside a final door without letting it open. “I have left word for them to meet us on the surface... though I admit a planetside extraction will be considerably more complicated than sneaking you off an Imperial Cruiser.”

  “Dangerous, you mean,” she said.

  He bowed a little further. “Danger can be overpowered, your Majesty. Chaos is the true enemy. It feeds on resistance. It devours good men whole.”

  The Empress had a nagging feeling something else was wrong. Something else he wasn’t telling her. And she finally realized what it was: “Captain Shaw,” she said. “You know something.”

  She was right. It was obvious by the way he looked away, like he was afraid of the consequences of delivering bad news. But he’d done so countless times before, between herself and her father, so why...

  She stiffened. “You know about us. About our...”

  He waved her off, apologetically. “There is no need for her Majesty to explain her—”

  “It was a... we...” She shook her head, trying to put it into words that would make sense to her old self. The version of her before Kgego. She forgot what that Empress felt like. “It was a stressful time,” she said.

  “Chaos,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “That.”

  “And nothing more? Nothing deeper?” he asked, getting as close to making eye contact as he dared.

  She swallowed slowly, searched her feelings for an answer she already had, and said: “Of course not.”

  He took a sharp breath, stood a little closer. “I am relieved to hear that, your Majesty. Because I was able to access the incident report from your rescue, and... I now have confirmation Captain Shaw never boarded the shuttle. And... I have reason to believe a weapon was discharged. At him. Unprovoked.”

  Her heart stopped beating. “Is he...?”

  “I am trying to find out, your Majesty. But we must assume the worst. That he—”

  The door opened unexpectedly, and standing there was Torsten, in his full regalia, an amused smile on his face. “I was just about to go find you,” he said. “Is everything OK?”

  The Empress and Deo’ta did their best impressions of normal people, smiling and nodding like the fate of the Empire didn’t hang in the balance.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Deo’ta, bowing again. “I was helping her Majesty with some trivia about Kgego. For her speech.”

  “Ah, good,” said Torsten. “The nuggets that sell the pitch. Good thinking.” He bowed to his sister. “Shall we?”

  She followed him down the final passageway to the airlock, along a vibrant carpet laid out in her honor. The shuttle itself was richly-appointed, full of gold and allium and other luxuries that seemed like overkill, on such a simple vessel. She had a strong sense of what his Imperial style would be, and it made her sick.

  They settled into seats in the rear of the ship. A servant poured them wine; she waited for Torsten to sip his before trying hers. Paranoia was overwhelming her, and she struggled to keep it from showing on her face.

  “So,” he said, lounging comfortably. “You feel ready for this?”

  She gave a weak smile. “I haven’t felt ready for anything since father died.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “It’s like... I’m always grasping at things just beyond my reach, somehow.”

  She nodded, said nothing. Grasping at things beyond his reach was something he enjoyed. She fought the urge to throw her glass at him, pummel him with her fists until the guards... until his guards... until she was...

  “What am I complaining about,” he said, breaking the spell. “I’ve got it easy, next to you. I don’t know how you do it, sister. After everything you’ve been through, you still seem unfazed.”

  She sipped the wine. A small sip. “It’s a facade,” she said.

  “Well, it’s a good one. And a needed one. Father had that talent, too. He could always stand before a crowd and say just the right thing, and make the worst catastrophe seem... trivial. He produced calm. That is the core of a great Emperor.”

  She kept her gaze low, to avoid seeing how he reacted, because she was afraid she couldn’t stand to see his face when she said: “Do you think you’ll make a good Emperor, Torsten?”

  He said nothing. Said nothing, didn’t breathe, even. She felt the urge to peek, to see his face, but that would surely give it all away. So she kept her eyes down, and waited for whatever came next.

  “An Emperor’s a funny thing,” he said, finally. “Absolute power, infinite resources, almost nothing holding you back except whatever rules you can’t talk your way around. It’s as close to being a god as you can get in this life. Divine reality.”

  He finished his wine, poured himself more. “But then... it comes with responsibility. This planet’s starving, that planet’s failing, these factions are warring, those factions are too cozy, or not cozy enough, or just so normal the very sight of it raises alarms, and...” He drank. A lot. “Ignore the problems, and they get bigger, stronger, more dangerous. So don’t ignore them. Try to solve them. Try to save the galaxy from itself, even if it doesn’t want to be saved. Even if it resents being saved.”

  He finished the second glass, set it aside. “At the end of the day, you have everything you could ever want, but no peace to enjoy it in.”

  She looked at him, watched his face, and realized that despite his words, his expression wasn’t that of resignation and despair, but a kind of hopeful optimism. Like all that trauma he’d just described was something he aspired to. Because he thought he could beat it. He thought he could have it all.

  “Would you do it?” she asked. “If you could?”

  He smiled, sighed. “It’s not a question of ‘could’, sister. It’s a question of ‘must’.” He raised his empty glass to her. “And it’s a question that doesn’t need answering, so long as you’re here.”

  37

  Colton had a dragonfly strapped to his back, a Kgegan helmet squeezed over his skull, and an overwhelming sense of dread everywhere else. He stood at the edge of the tallest peak, overlooking the city from a staggering height, and shivered.

  “There’s a storm brewing between us and Sirra-zo,” said Piro, as the last of the conne
ctors were attached around his chest. “So we’ll have to veer south, then west, and hopefully miss the worst of it.”

  “What does that do to our schedule?” Colton asked.

  Piro shook his head. “There’s still a chance.”

  “Just a chance.”

  Colton wanted to scream. He double-checked his gear, tweaked his visor, and got ready to jump. He knew he had to wait for the others to get ready, because he had no idea where he was going, or how to get there... but he needed to do something. He needed to be in action, to be making a difference.

  “Preflight check!” called a soldier from behind.

  Piro answered: “Fuel levels are—”

  “All good!” Colton shouted. “Let’s go!” He backed up a few steps, got ready to leap.

  “Colton!” shouted Piro. “Do your preflight check or—”

  “We don’t have time for that! We don’t have time for any of this!”

  Piro grabbed his shoulder, turned him around forcefully. “I know what this means to you, Colton. I do. But if you leap here before you’re ready, you’re not just killing yourself. You’re killing her, too.”

  “And if I stay, if I don’t protect her...” He felt his jacket pocket, felt the cigarettes there. “I can’t live with that.”

  He pulled free, headed back for the edge.

  “Five minutes!” shouted Piro. “Just five minutes!”

  “If we get there five minutes late, she’ll be dead!” Colton yelled. “You do what you’ve gotta do. I’m leaving!”

  He grabbed the controls at his sides, pulled them closer, wrapping his hands around them, lacing his fingers into the oversized holes that helped maneuver the dragonfly. He’d had only the quickest of tutorials with it, but there was no time to practice. Sink or swim. Time to go.

  “Colton, wait!” Piro shouted.

  But Colton didn’t wait. He leapt off the edge of the cliff, eyes locked on the horizon, and he squeezed the ignition.

  Nothing happened.

  He squeezed again, and then with the other hand, but still, nothing changed. The jets didn’t fire, the suit didn’t lift.

  He was falling.

  A very long way.

  He shook his arms violently, trying to jerk the thing awake, but suddenly his visor was filled with text he couldn’t read, warning of dangers he already knew were coming up fast.

  He smacked the two controls together and let out a primal scream, and—

  —landed, very hard, atop a hovering shuttle.

  His whole body ached from the impact, made both better and worse by the ill-fitting helmet and gear he was wearing. He had a hard time catching his breath... or, in fact, seeing straight. He yanked off the helmet with trembling hands, and rolled to his side, to see the hatch at the top of the shuttle was open, and a familiar face was grinning at him.

  “You do know Earth-humans can’t fly, right?” said Dr Iko. “You’ve heard that before? No? OK. Just checking.”

  *

  The shuttle was cramped with so many Kgegan soldiers aboard, but at least it was safer than the dragonfly suits they still wore — because taking the things off was too complicated for Colton’s schedule.

  “How did you find us?” he asked Iko, who sat in the pilot’s seat despite the fact the shuttle was flying itself.

  “Deo’ta got the coordinates from the shuttle rescue and told me to start there. I figured it’d take a while to search such a big area, but then I saw a bunch of lunatics on a stupidly-tall mountain and figured that had to be you.”

  Ugero laughed, patted Colton on the back. “She knows you well.”

  Piro leaned in to the navigation console, drew a line with his finger that was much wider and more roundabout than their current course. “We should keep low, take a coastal route to the city. If we’re too direct, they’ll know—”

  “It’s taken care of,” Iko said with a grin. “This shuttle is registered to Deo’ta himself, which gets us diplomatic immunity and free passage planet-wide.”

  Colton wasn’t buying it. “But if Torsten’s willing to kill the Empress, why would he care if—”

  “Because just like doctors, advisors like Deo’ta are too valuable to lose.” Iko tapped her temple. “The stuff Deo’ta’s got in his noggin, that’s what keeps the Empire alive, and Torsten knows it. He can take the throne without Deo’ta, but he can’t keep it.”

  Piro shared Colton’s misgivings, but from a different angle: “And we’re sure we can trust this Deo’ta?”

  Colton answered that one: “He’s the one who hired me to protect the Empress.”

  Ugero gave a sour face. “Not so smart after all, is he?”

  One of Piro’s men successfully unlatched the chest-brace of his suit, and started to wriggle out of it— before Piro stopped him.

  “Not yet,” he said. “This shuttle will get us there faster, but we still need a game plan for when we arrive.”

  Colton agreed: “We can’t land too close to the city center without raising suspicions. We can’t come in hot. We need to surprise them.”

  Ugero powered up one of his very big guns. “I like surprises.”

  Piro pointed to four of his men. “You four, clear Kgitoga boulevard, from the amphitheater to Second Square.” He pointed to another two. “You two, Second Square to the Palace of Justice.” He nodded to Ugero. “We’ll secure the building and await the Empress’ arrival.”

  Colton scratched his chin. “How do I get there?” he asked. “Is there a particular—”

  “You’ll know,” said Piro.

  “But—”

  “Trust me, Colton. When you see it, you’ll know.”

  Ugero still hadn’t given up his big gun. “But just to be clear,” he said. “We can still get hot, even if we don’t come in hot.”

  Piro laughed, shook his head. “Turn it off, Ugero. Save it for later.”

  Ugero frowned, looked down at the gun. “Turn what off?”

  “Don’t play around,” said Piro, gesturing to his fox-ears. “I can hear the plasma core boiling.”

  Ugero showed the gun: it wasn’t glowing. It was completely inert. “That’s not me.”

  They all looked around, a sudden dread filling the room. Colton looked to the navigation console, and his face dropped.

  “Oh shit.”

  38

  The Sirra-zo amphitheater wasn’t as elaborate as the one in the capital, but what it lacked in design, it made up for in grandeur. Its nearly-100,000-seat capacity was carved out of an ancient crater — from the asteroid impact said to have brought life to the planet.

  Rather than a stage to one side, the ancient Kgegans had decided upon an interesting layout, where the speaker was dead-center in the middle of the structure, atop an elevated stage, addressing the audience from all sides. It had inspired a certain interactivity in their arts, and a distinct caution to their politics. If you pissed off the crowd, you had nowhere to run.

  And the Empress had nowhere to run.

  Backstage was technically under the stage, and lit only by flickering candles, which only added to her sense of foreboding. She could hear the assembled Kgegans above — and, of course, a contingent of galactic reporters hoping to cover the new Empress’ first major policy speech. Or, as it happened, her assassination.

  Torsten helped re-set the shoulders on her cloak. This one was made of Kgegan furs, a gorgeous rust color that reminded her of the apartment. Of Botoba, of Yara and Derra. Of better moments. When Torsten finished, the cloak felt impossibly heavy.

  “There,” he said with a smile. “Perfect.”

  “How long?” she croaked, cleared her throat and tried again: “How long?”

  He checked his notepad: “Ten minutes. Would you like to run through your speech?”

  She shook her head, stared at her reflection in one
of the tall mirrors around the room. She looked like an Empress. The kind you see in paintings, long after they’re gone. Killed by a hidden bomb. A sniper’s shot. A poisoned sip.

  “Torsten,” she said. “I...”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like you to join me on-stage.” To limit the tools his assassins could use, she hoped. How much did he trust his marksman?

  His face changed from pleasant nothingness to concern. “On-stage?”

  “At my side,” she said. “As a show of... of solidarity.”

  “I wasn’t aware anyone doubted that about us.” He took her hands in his. “What’s this about?”

  She wanted to run screaming, to tear her hands away and strangle him, to call the whole thing off and have him executed for treason... but all she could do was give him a shy smile. “Nerves, I guess. It’s a lot of people.”

  “It is,” he nodded. “I don’t know how father did it.”

  “The strength of his convictions,” she muttered, but he didn’t seem to hear.

  “But listen,” he said. “If it would help, I would be honored to stand by you.”

  She blinked. She hadn’t expected that. “Fine,” she said. “Good. Yes, good. I’ll—”

  His notepad flashed, and he looked down, his face quickly changing from casual nothingness to concern. “Oh dear,” he said. “I’m sorry, sister, I have to go.”

  Her voice caught in her throat. “Go? Where? Why?”

  “It’s...” he said, paging through text. “It’s complicated. I’ll explain later. Just... good luck up there. I know you’ll make a mark.”

  He gave her a quick, distracted bow and dashed out the door.

  The Empress turned to her mirror, hands pressed on either side, and nearly collapsed. Her breath was tight, too frantic, too dizzying. She felt like vomiting, felt like screaming, felt like she was going to die.

  And she was going to die.

  Torsten was leaving. He wasn’t just not joining her onstage, he was leaving the entire complex. Whatever he had planned, it would leave a mark.

  She unfastened the cloak and let it fall to the ground. Her dress was too restricting, but at least it was light. She looked around for something to use as a weapon, something to help her fight her way out. She settled on a candlestick — wild-shaped, like vines, and heavy. She tested the weight of it, imagined using it to fight off a guard. A well-armed, highly-trained guard.