Imperial Guard (15 page)

“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-f 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 her.

“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!

Daniel Mizpala moved reluctantly down the spacious, richly adorned hallway. “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered to himself. But the null-grav telestrip continued to propel him relentlessly toward his destination.

He was not alone. One bodyguard stood on the telestrip three paces in front. Another stood behind, facing the way they had come. Two other bodyguards accompanied the chancellor on his right and left, but they had to trot, the telestrip being too narrow for three.

The old gentleman carried several small weapons concealed in various places beneath his outer clothing and on top of the lightweight but highly efficient body armor he had never learned to enjoy wearing. He was on his way to another governmental advisory meeting with the Emperor, and his nemesis, Kepec Mogul, was certain to be in attendance. He needed all the protection modern technology afforded.

A laser pistol was secure in a holster attached to the left chest of his armor. A lethally charged swagger stick clung upright to the middle of his back, the handle within easy reach behind his neck. A snub-nosed, armor piercing, projectile rifle was strapped inside his left leg. And a thirty-centimeter stiletto was tucked in a sheath inside his right boot.

His body armor was the best money could buy. It was made of biochemically produced Orb Weaver spider silk, which was stronger that steel but extremely lightweight and flexible. A reflective composition had been added that effectively scattered the beam of
handheld lasers. The Biorb itself displaced the impact of most projectile weapons and, being flexible, could cover the arms and legs as well as the torso. Even so, it was antisocial to cover the head, so Mizpala was aware that his defensive precautions were far from foolproof. But it would be worse than foolish to neglect them altogether.

Mizpala was of average height. His aging body was still well-proportioned and agile, but it stooped under the weight of armament and years of governmental intrigue with Kepec Mogul. His deep-set eyes, once fiery and full of righteous idealism, showed the strain of the contest and the many years of hope deferred. But his bushy brows and sweptback gray hair still betrayed a cunning and forethought nurtured and toughened in the crucible of political experience.

His mind wandered to the dreams he had had as a young man. Dreams of reforming the government to serve the common man rather than the powerful elite. Dreams of universal human rights. Dreams of making a difference in the corridors of power, amid webs of deceit and schemes of treachery.

How naive I’ve been!
he admonished himself. Rather than being able to pursue those dreams, his whole life had been consumed in simply holding back the night, trying to survive, attempting to halt the cultural slide into total barbarism. His dreams seemed as far away as ever.

He shook his head sharply in private rebuke.
Surely I’ve made some progress,
he thought.
Surely I’ve begun to lay a foundation. And, after all, today’s meeting might see a significant breakthrough.
Over the years Mizpala had learned to deny his optimism and minimize his expectations. Yet, as the telestrip moved him closer to his destination, he could not help but feel a little hopeful.

Today’s agenda featured the criminal activities of the Imperial Guard. The Guard was a standing force of elite troops specially designed to look after the Emperor’s interests and safety. Assassination attempts were commonplace, and military coups were a constant threat. The primary responsibility of the Imperial Guard was to protect its ward. They also existed to enforce the Emperor’s will on the people and even the nobility.

The problem was that they had grown too powerful and had begun to enforce
their
will, rather than the Emperor’s, on the people. Many were enforcing their own laws and growing rich because of it. Some ran protection rackets. Others dealt in illegal drugs or ran prostitution rings. Still others profited from black market activities. Henry the Strong was becoming concerned.

The Imperial Guard had become the most hated and feared group in the Empire. As far as Henry was concerned, the fear they engendered paid dividends
—to a point. It was the hate that concerned him. A popular uprising would be inexpedient at best, disastrous at worst.

Mizpala had long argued and jockeyed for a reform movement within the Guard. Today he might gain the Emperor’s ear, but he would have to bend all his cunning to accomplish the task. The bleak reality was that, as long as people such as the Moguls were able to so strongly influence the Emperor, the foundation for reform that Mizpala had laid would never be built upon and may, perhaps, be destroyed altogether.

The small entourage turned a corner in the hallway. Imperial Guardsmen lined each wall of the approach to the Consultation Chamber. As a last line of defense, a single combat droid held station on either side of the imitation oak doors that slid aside with quiet efficiency as the party drew near.

The six-sided chamber was brightly lit. Six-sided imitation oak tables were arranged in a semicircle, focusing attention on a similar table sitting on a raised platform at the far end of the room. Glancing to the right, Mizpala noticed that Mogul’s party was already seated.
Prompt as usual,
thought Mizpala.

He turned to the left and seated himself at his customary table on the right hand of the Emperor. The bodyguards formed a semicircle behind their lord. Henry was not due for another ten minutes.
Time for some last-minute strategy,
Mizpala thought as he straightened his notes.

*

According to royal prerogative, the Emperor entered the chamber last. No one else was allowed into the room after his appearance. Besides himself and Mogul, the first and second ministers respectively, three other heads of state were, or soon would be, in attendance.

Eric Schmidt was already present. A steady, albeit unimaginative, economics counselor, he was eloquent, self-centered, and obese
—not necessarily in that order. His multiple chins hung below protruding, pouty lips, and cunning eyes were hidden behind half-closed lids. Schmidt cared nothing for the poor, starving, or disadvantaged. He considered his economic policies to be successful as long as the privileged continued to amass wealth and the populace managed to eke out an existence. He had proven a persistent opponent to Mizpala’s reform agenda. But today the First Minister hoped for his support in this debate.

Monod Akard, not yet present, was a Mogul ally. The labor counselor had fluffy red hair and a prominently receding hairline. Schmidt’s nose was his most noticeable feature. It formed the point of an imaginary arrow that began at his receding forehead and ended at his receding chin. His soft, freckled face made him appear harmless and unassuming, but he could prove a most formidable adversary, which he often was to Mizpala. He exuded an aura of superiority and condescension and never took defeat kindly.

Also not yet present was Maxwell Papias, social counselor. He was strikingly bald, even though medical treatment existed for every cause of hair loss. He considered it a distinguishing characteristic and wore his lack of hair with an air of smugness. His smooth, shiny head and his unusually tall stature combined to make him a truly imposing presence.

Mogul sat with arms crossed, gazing steadily at his opponent with narrowed eyes. His broad, smooth, and flat, nondescript face betrayed his Asian origins. His high forehead was accented by sweptback, jet-black hair tied in a tail behind his head. Mizpala knew that he did not like the recent turn of events. All his reassurances to the contrary, his Emperor continued to nurture a growing apprehension about the Imperial Guard. Mizpala ignored him and continued rehashing his political strategy.

*

Mogul was ambitious. It was his goal to accrue power, money, and influence within the Empire and one day to sit on the throne. He shifted his gaze to the dais. The throne was genuine burnished oak, inlaid with jewels, topped by scarlet cushions made comfortably soft by the constant influx of warmed air circulating throughout its interior. Again he imagined himself taking his deserved seat there.

But Kepec Mogul was a patient man. If not in his lifetime, perhaps that goal would be achieved for one of his sons. The corruption and disarray of the Imperial Guard was one means to that end. He could not allow Mizpala to convince the Emperor that he must adopt a comprehensive program of reform.

He looked back at his bitter enemy with contempt.
So soft, so humanitarian, so self-righteous!
Mogul’s hatred for Mizpala was deep. Sometimes it consumed him.

Five times he had plotted Mizpala’s death, only to be foiled in each attempt.
Of course,
Mogul thought with a chuckle,
I could terminate Mizpala at any time.
With his left hand he gently and lovingly stroked the high-powered projectile gun strapped to the inside of his thigh.
But it would be counter-productive to be too obvious about it.
Mizpala’s death had to appear to be an accident or as a result of natural causes. Or it had to be incontrovertibly the work of someone totally unrelated to Mogul. Nothing could cast suspicion upon the Mogul family in any way, or his murder would be in vain.

The Emperor was no fool. He knew about the power plays among his advisors and the other nobility. Any hint of intrigue or rebellion could mean instant destruction.
So, as usual, I am reduced to verbal persuasion and petty disputation,
he mulled with disgust.

*

Mogul’s musings were interrupted by a stirring at the entrance. Papias and Akard had arrived within the last few minutes. The two combat droids now glided into the room and took up their positions. The doors slid shut for the last time. The lights dimmed slightly, except for those that lighted the dais—they increased in brightness. A concealed door behind the throne slid aside. A small, floating droid glided in. It moved in a programmed geometric pattern as its instruments checked for explosives or suspicious foreign objects. Satisfied that all was as it should be, it returned the way it had come.

Next, twelve Imperial Guardsmen moved silently and efficiently into the room, moving to either side, surveying the chamber as they did so. This was the “Royal Dozen,” a select group of the best and most loyal fighting men in the Empire. They drew to attention, and Henry the Strong, Emperor of All Known Worlds, strode into the room. His advisors rose and bowed their heads as he took his seat. “You may be seated,” he announced as he made himself comfortable.

A semi-circular, transparent shield rose between himself and his advisors. It had the unusual properties of being projectile proof yet it allowed sound to travel through it freely. Looking around the room, Henry began: “We’ve asked you here today to advise us as to how to solve the prolonged crisis regarding the Imperial Guard. A certain amount of graft and corruption is to be expected in any military organization, but now the situation has become critical. What have you to suggest?”

Mogul and Mizpala, along with Monod Akard were on their feet at once, bowing and seeking audience with exclamations of “Your Excellency!” Henry pointed to Akard. “We will hear from Counselor Akard first.” The adversaries resumed their seats, Mogul with a face of smug satisfaction, Mizpala with a grimace.

“Your Excellency,” Akard began, pointing his spear face at the Emperor, “it is beyond dispute that corruption exists within the ranks of the Imperial Guard. So your Excellency, as usual, is correct—some sort of action is definitely mandated.”

So far so good,
thought Mizpala.
But I can’t believe Akard is anything but Mogul’s stooge. Let’s see what drivel he has to entertain us with.

“But I caution against too radical a solution. I am sure you will agree that the judicious and considered approach will prove the safest and most effective course. Consequently, I recommend arresting one or two of the worst offenders and making an example of them. This will give pause to the others when they think of engaging in illegal activities. Meanwhile, we can take the time to carefully study the feasibility of new, even stronger regulations and how best to enforce them.”

Mizpala folded his hands and pressed his fingers against his chin.
Of course! The Band-Aid solution!
he scoffed inwardly.

“Thank you, Counselor Akard,” Henry said, nodding. “I suspect, however,” as he turned toward Mizpala, “that Minister Mizpala has another opinion?”

“Indeed, I have, your Excellency,” Mizpala said, rising to his feet. “Such halfway measures as suggested by Counselor Akard, and undoubtedly supported by Minister Mogul, would be a vain exercise of minuscule proportions.”

Mogul started forward at the mention of his name. He had not expected Mizpala to be so forward and candid, and he certainly did not appreciate being spoken for.

“Such solutions really accomplish nothing. They merely give the illusion of having done something to solve the problem when, really, they have done almost nothing at all. Please consider for a moment a course of action that would get at the root of the problem and eventually rid us of the reign of terror being propagated by many of these so-called Imperial Guardsmen.

“Some of them are, in fact, not Imperial Guardsmen at all. They wear the uniform as a means to guarding their own self-interests, not his Majesty”
—Mizpala bowed toward Henry—”and as an excuse for breaking the law, present company excepted, of course,” Mizpala added as he swept his hand respectfully toward the Royal Dozen.