Imperial Guard by Joseph O'Day

combat. His final advice was, “Stick close to me, and do what I do.”
    The collection of vessels that made up the transport group had grown to model-toy size. Brogan had imagined a trim line of sleek ships nestled neatly together. But the picture presented to him now was a motley hodgepodge of unattractive freighters. The jumble of assorted shapes and sizes offended his instinctive sense of proportion and made him forget for a few moments the imminent danger.
    Each transport had been assembled in space by a different world, each reflecting a distinct culture. No two designs seemed to be alike. The only standard feature was the mandatory hatchway used to connect them together. The connection of these modules was necessary for en route inspection of the cargo. It was through these connecting hatchways that the assault teams intended to fight their way to the intruders’ ship. Due to the differing sizes and shapes of the freighters, however, the passageways were a veritable maze of torturous routes. Finding their way through safely would be a neat trick.
    Brogan watched the transports grow in size on the screen, ever conscious of his increasingly sweaty palms and his ragged breathing. Soon their target freighter filled the whole frame, and Brogan knew zero hour was imminent.
    “Contact with target in thirty seconds,” intoned the speaker.
    Everyone made last-minute adjustments and faced the hatch. Brogan began to wonder whether he really wanted an exciting life after all. The hard and boring work at home was becoming more and more attractive all the time. His chest felt like it was being squeezed, and his breaths came in labored bursts. Anticipation made his body throb with the pounding of his heart.
    An abrupt clang made him jerk convulsively, and a long, low moan followed, reminding Brogan of harpies come to witness the carnage. Actually the first sound was the docking, the second the activation of the tractor system.
    The hatch flew open with startling swiftness. Brogan’s throat tightened in a spasm. Unger leaped into the cavity, but the transport’s hatch failed to respond to his efforts. Turning and stepping to the side, he ordered, “M3, burn it down.”
    A blinding light emanated from the front panel of Mortimer 3 and quickly burned open a large section of the offending hatch. Allowing M3 to precede him, Ensign Unger dashed through, careful to avoid the hot, dripping slag. The rest of the contingent followed, with M4 bringing up the r ear. The passage came to a dead end almost immediately. Here a connecting corridor ran from left to right.
    Unger turned. “Seaman Murphy, take your squad with M4 down the right corridor. We will traverse the left. If you run into trouble you can’t handle, give a yell.”
    “Yes, sir. Alright men, let’s go.” Brogan scrambled out of M4’s way and followed Murphy with the rest of the squad into the corridor. There were five of them altogether: Murph, Crow, two other ratings, and Brogan. The lighting was dim, and they could not see very far ahead. Soon they turned a corner, and Brogan began to wish he knew what was going on and what to expect. But his worries were shattered by a blinding flash as M4 suddenly engaged in combat.
    Without warning, Crow stumbled backward, pinning Brogan to the deck. His bulk totally eclipsed Brogan from view. Clumsy oaf! Brogan thought as he tried to twist out from under him. How could anyone be so uncoordinated as to fall backward when they’re walking forward? It was then that he noticed the projectiles exploding on walls and ceiling. His throat thickened as he realized that Crow must be dead.
    Shadows danced down the corridor as three forms cautiously approached. Brogan remained still as they stopped beside the inert form of Murphy. “Hey, boss, this one’s still kickin’.”
    Brogan was startled that he was able to hear his adversary. They must be monitoring our frequency! This could mean big trouble for the assault party, even though they