Imperial Guard by Joseph O'Day Page A

were using short-range communications as an extra precaution against the other force hearing them . . . or so they thought. Now Brogan knew that communications were out and that he was isolated, totally on his own.
    “Well, finish him off and let’s get going. If we’re going to catch up with the other party and take them from behind, we’ve got to get movin’.” A light flashed, and Murphy’s prostrate form melted into the deck.
    Something snapped inside Brogan. He felt a rage he had never before experienced. Suddenly his mind became crystal clear. Carefully freeing his right arm from under Crow, he flipped the selector switch to D and took aim at the nearest figure. Pressing the trigger, he shifted from man to man as each three-round burst exploded from the muzzle. The third marauder managed to get off a defensive shot before the last burst felled him, but it smoldered harmlessly into the inert body of Crow.
    Silence blanketed the corridor as Brogan finally freed himself and clambered to his feet. Warily he checked the enemy bodies, but all were dead . . . and so were the rest of his squad. Anger still roiled within him as he gazed at the place where Murphy used to be —an anger laced with the emptiness of loss. His second friend since leaving home was gone—gone suddenly, violently, and irretrievably. Brogan knew instinctively that he would never be the same again.
    Turning away from the corpse-littered battleground, he came upon M4. It and another droid had fused each other into still glowing lumps of metal. Carefully stepping around them, he continued in the direction he had been taking before the encounter.
    Brogan’s mind was racing. What should I do now? He had not been privy to the combat strategy, so he would have to play it by ear.
    What was it the murderer had said? “. . . take them from behind”? Maybe I’ve eliminated their ace in the hole. We may get through this yet.
    Brogan had just learned that he could kill as efficiently as the next man, and he would not forget. The marauders burned down Murphy in cold blood, mercilessly, contemptuously. Brogan would not forget.
    As he plodded steadfastly but cautiously down the corridor, sounds of battle grew louder. A short distance ahead, the walls seemed to open into a larger area. Approaching the end of the corridor at a crouch, Brogan saw that a catwalk began where the passageway ended. Taking off his helmet, he peered around the corner to the left. Below him, he saw four figures retreating toward him. They were firing at the men from the Shark . But his fellow crewmembers were not returning fire. He wondered why when he remembered that he had turned off his comset. He put his helmet back on, opened the faceplate, and flipped the switch.
    “. . . that passage to the right. Everyone else, hold your fire. They have a civilian hostage.” Brogan made out the form of a woman held in front of the three marauders and, therefore, in the line of fire. They were backing up toward the steps leading up to the catwalk.
    All the shooting had stopped, and an uneasy truce prevailed. As the trio backed up the stairs, Brogan ducked out of sight into the recesses of the corridor. As they edged nearer, he waited and listened through the open faceplate. Once they were in the corridor, Brogan leaped to the middle and shot the two men nearest before they knew what was happening. The third, who was holding the girl, could not turn without also turning the woman. As he started to do so, she began to struggle fiercely, and he stumbled backward, off balance, against the bulkhead on the right. In an effort to overbalance him, the slender girl lifted both legs high off the deck. Taking opportunity, Brogan immediately blasted the marauder’s legs, and the kidnapper fell heavily onto his victim.
    Brogan raced over and rolled the man off his hostage. He pointed his weapon at the man’s face, his finger indecisively stroking the trigger. His anger screamed vengeance while his