Imperial Guard (7 page)

“D3366, we have a customer. Come out here and attend to him.” Immediately an ominous egg-shaped object floated out from behind the partition to join the administrator.

Taking the data chip and placing it in a cavity in the droid, he commanded, “Verify identity and status of subject.”

A very human sounding, though detached, voice responded. “Subject: Timothy Brogan, citizen third class; Origin: Cirrus; City: Ebinezer; confirming retina and digital patterns now.”

The droid moved to within a foot of Brogan’s face and extended a smooth, thin appendage containing a visualizer. Snaking the extension directly in front of Brogan’s right eye, the droid intoned, “Retinal patterns confirmed.”

The appendage whipped out of sight, and a plastic plate twenty centimeters square slid from the nose of the robot. “Please place your right hand palm down on the plate, Citizen Brogan.” Brogan did so.

“Digital patterns confirmed. Citizen Brogan is authorized for implantation procedure according to Imperial Decree No. 20-196.”

The official said, “Thank you, D3366. That is all.” The droid turned and rapidly disappeared in the direction from which it had come.

Turning to Brogan, the administrator said, “Do you wish to have the citizenship implant performed at this time? I have never had anyone refuse. It’s too dangerous these days not to.” The man began to ramble. “I can recall my father telling me how citizens never used to bother unless they were leaving Earth. Now it’s only the frontier citizens who come in without identity implants. My, how times change.”

Catching himself, he looked at Brogan. “Well, what’ll it be? Implant or no?”

“I’ll have the implant now. But first tell me why it’s dangerous not to have one.”

“Very good. D3366, administer the injection.”

Directing his comments to Brogan he continued. “D3366 will inject a tiny microscan into the skin behind your right ear. While he does that I will briefly answer your question. I’m a very busy man, you know,” he added with obvious self-importance. “You folks on Cirrus are out of the mainstream, aren’t you?

“Well, when citizens used to carry identity cards, many were stolen. They became quite useless eventually. If a person was clever enough, he could alter both the card and computer record, and the victim became a noncitizen while the thief (or his client) became the citizen. But the implants are much more secure . . . at least so far. Of course, the whole business can get very technical, so I’ll not bore you with details.”

Noticing the droid move away, he said, “Anyway, the implant is complete, and you may be on your way. D3366, please verify data.”

“Implant scan readout as follows: Timothy Brogan: citizen third class; Origin: Cirrus.”

“Very good. Sometimes the body chemistry blocks out some of the information, and we must make adjustments. You may proceed.” The administrator promptly turned away, taking the droid with him.

To his retreating back, Brogan called out a thank you and passed through the outer door. Unger was waiting for him.

“I thought you were on your way to town, sir.”

“Well, I figured someone ought to look out for this greenie and make sure he gets to the Academy in one piece,” Unger said with a grin. “Even if you could find the tubeway yourself, you’d probably end up going in the wrong direction. Anyway, I had to give you your gun. Here, put it on.”

Brogan secured the weapon around his waist with enthusiasm, taking it in and out a few times and cursorily examining it. “Let’s get going, dummy. I want to show you the glorious sights of Mexcity. The shuttle’s waiting for us, and I’m sure everyone’s impatient to get moving.” The two hurried to the shuttle and boarded in haste.

Mexcity was built on the ruins of Mexico City. As the territorial capital, it administered the Empire’s laws and taxes in what used to be the old American continents. Most of the territory to the north was uninhabitable and had been abandoned for more than two centuries when the survivors of the nuclear/biological holocaust moved south.

In the early years of the twenty-first century, hopes of nuclear disarmament had been high. America and Russia had reconciled and began to drastically reduce their arsenals of nuclear weapons. Meanwhile, however, the Islamic states and Communist China developed long-range delivery systems for their own nuclear and biological weapons.

The radical Islamic Jihad gained ascendancy in the Middle East and launched a preemptive strike against the United States. By secret agreement, the Chinese launched a simultaneous attack against Russia. Both countries retaliated with their reserve land-based nuclear missiles and their remaining nuclear submarines, totally annihilating coastland China and the Islamic states. But the major population centers of the United States and Russia were wiped out as well. Only in recent years had long-term programs begun decades earlier started to overcome sufficiently the ecological destruction caused by that war. People were now starting to push north again in an effort to resettle the vast reaches of the once-fertile continent that had fed most of the world for much of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

Originally, the Academy had been built on the edge of the North American wasteland—in what used to be the western part of Texas—because military training required wide-open spaces. Now, however, a town stood nearby, and civilization was beginning to crowd the area. The overcrowded Earth badly needed the new land, both as a release value for its burgeoning population and as a source of new farmland, which it was hoped would one day significantly reduce the need and expense of importing food from other planets.

Robot equipment and droids were already at work in the Great Plains, seeking to farm its fertile soil and repairing the biological damage, supervised at intervals by technicians working in the shielded environment of hovercraft. The effort, however, was not proving as effective as hoped. The land did not seem to respond kindly to long-distance farming.

The Emperor had a standing offer of citizenship for any who would settle the wilderness of the Great Plains. Many noncitizens, desperate for the chance to improve their existence, were willing to take the risk to escape the always unpleasant vicissitudes of the lower levels, but progress was slow.

“This is where we get off!” shouted Unger over the din. When they disembarked, the shockwave of the swarm of humanity blasted Brogan. As he plowed through the crush, he had the sensation of being suffocated.

“Is it always like this?” he shouted as he fought to keep Unger in sight.

With a grimace, the Ensign replied sardonically, “Wait’ll rush hour!” Then grabbing Brogan’s arm, he pulled him to the side of a building and said, “Here, we’ll stop off and get you something to help you adjust to your new environment.”

He pulled Brogan along, pushing and shoving toward a door lit with flashing lights. Once inside Brogan was temporarily blinded until his eyes adjusted to the darkened room. “This place is a real dive, but we won’t stay long.”

In the semidarkness they were jostled by a plainly dressed man as they tried to make their way to the bar. Unger turned swiftly, pistol in hand quicker than the eye could follow. An almost inaudible buzz dropped the pickpocket to the floor. Unger bent to retrieve his wallet and Brogan’s pay sack. “Stuff this way down inside your tunic,” he growled.

Most of the people in the room didn’t seem to be paying the least bit of attention to the altercation. Only those in the immediate area took notice, turning unfriendly eyes toward the representatives of the Empire. Unger’s gaze swept the immediate vicinity. “Somebody have a problem here?” His face communicated a potential threat.

Considering the odds not worth the risk, the locals turned back to their conversations, schemes, or transactions, and Unger pushed Brogan to a relatively deserted part of the bar.

Unger ordered two beers. “You got a lot to learn, partner. When you’re off ship on Earth, keep your money where it’s hard even for you to get at. Some of these characters can lift the shirt off your back without you knowing it. Either that or get a stash protector like I’ve got. When that pickpocket lifted my wallet, it gave my backside a mild shock. That’s the only way I knew what had happened.”

Brogan turned to look at the inert form still lying on the floor.

“He’ll come to in a few minutes,” Unger answered his unspoken question. He chuckled into his drink. “After the jolt I gave him, his nerves’ll be so frazzled, he won’t be able to pick pockets for days. Hey, try your beer.”

Brogan grimaced. “I never was able to acquire a taste for the stuff.”

“Oh. Well, let me order you something different. Barkeep! A shot of the local firewater, neat,” he yelled.

A huge man with an even larger paunch and perspiration stains on his shirt slapped down a shot glass. “Is this kid old enough ta drink,” he sneered. “Looks ta me like he ain’t outa diapers yet!”

“This ‘kid’ has killed five men,” retorted Unger casually. “You want to be the sixth?”

“Hey, ya cain’t treat
me
like that scum ya sent to dreamland. I’m a citizen, and . . .” lowering his face nose to nose with Unger, said, “I’m
protected
. Know what I mean?”

Unger backed down. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” The barkeep went back to his business.

“What
does
he mean?” Brogan queried.

“It means he’s paying off Imperial Guardsmen to give him protection. Those guys are bad news. You don’t want to tangle with them if you don’t have to. They just love an excuse to arrest and abuse anybody. They can even arrest nobility. ‘Course, if they do, they’d better be right.” As an afterthought: “Though sometimes they can fix even those mistakes.”

The Imperial Guard again,
thought Brogan. He tossed off his drink with indifference . . . and immediately gagged. His throat burned, sweat formed under his eyes, his scalp prickled, and he was afraid he would retch. “I’ve been poisoned!” he rasped.

Unger laughed. “It’s only Tequila, the native brew. Made from some sort of cactus, I believe. One thing’s for sure . . . It’ll get your mind off the crowds.”

Brogan felt a hand on his sleeve. As he turned a husky voice said, “Hey, honey. Buy me a drink?”

The speaker nestled closer, and a surprised Brogan found himself inches from a profound cleavage. The girl was dressed, if you could call it that, in a sparkling, satiny, deep plunge tunic that just barely covered her ample breasts. The outfit was completed by a knee-length skirt featuring a slit that ended far up her legs. Though her exposed skin was caked with powder, her presence was strangely tempting. Brogan slowly raised his eyes to her face and noted the stark hardness of her features, the emptiness of her eyes. He wondered briefly if he was looking at a person or an automaton.

“Well, sweet cakes, what do you say?” the woman persisted.

Before he could find his voice, Unger interjected, “You’re wastin’ your time, slut. We don’t get paid till tomorrow.”

The woman lost her smile and turned away to better prospects.

“Stay away from the girls in these bars,” Unger advised. “They can give you all kinds of diseases, and if you’re not careful you can lose everything valuable that’s on you. If you need a tumble, it’s safer to use the houses provided by the military.”

Brogan took a deep breath. “Seems I’ve got a lot to learn. I haven’t even . . .” He was cut short by a commotion at the door. Both men turned to see what was happening. Two men strode arrogantly into the dark and pungent room. The suddenly quiet throng opened a path for them as if by magic, except for one drunk patron whose back was to the approaching pair. One of the men promptly struck him with a thin, gleaming rod that, when not in use, was carried like a swagger stick under the arm. The effect far exceeded what Brogan had expected from such a light blow. The drunk was thrown six feet through the air, felling several bystanders as he landed. He lay writhing on the floor, opening and closing his mouth but making no sound.

The strangers came to a stop about ten paces inside the door. Their heads swiveled as they swept the crowd with coldly confident eyes. A wide, white belt and holster held a hand gun at each waist. Dark, scarlet body suits were tucked neatly into knee-high, brilliant white boots. A scarlet cape interfaced with white hung to the waist, and a white helmet, which covered the neck, topped off the uniform.

Leaning close to Brogan’s ear Unger muttered, “The scum use their neuro-whips like they were lords of the earth. Time to get outa here.”

Unger led Brogan as unobtrusively as possible to a rear exit. Once outside they hurried to the main thoroughfare. “You’ve just gotten your first look at the high-and-mighty Imperial Guard. Pray they have no business with you next time you see them.”

As they entered the busy street again, Brogan began to take note of his surroundings. Vehicular traffic soared overhead. Hawkers were selling their wares. Women with painted faces and scanty clothing were selling favors. Each block seemed to possess its own resident evangelist, offering to any who would listen a means of escaping the travails of this life. Nearly every race and nationality that Earth and her colonies could provide seemed to be represented in the mass of humanity. Modes of dress strange to Brogan and a mixture of languages made the scene exotic and exciting, but also unsettling.

Unger explained that a taxi could be hired by climbing to special third-level stands. But a taxi was beyond their means. The subway would get them to their destination more cheaply. When they reached the subway platform, two gangs of youths were assaulting one another with wild abandon.