Imperial Guard by Joseph O'Day Page B

homebred values struggled for supremacy. Finally, he lowered the rifle. “I think I’ll keep you alive for interrogation.”
    The girl, who had been dazed by the crushing weight of the marauder, groaned. Brogan jerked around to look at her, suddenly reminded of her presence. Lying somewhat in a fetal position, she raised her hand to her head. Brogan heard her mutter, “Not exactly the kind of adventure I had in mind.”
    Brogan reached down and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright, Miss?” Concern laced his voice. The woman rolled over with a grunt. Her hair was a tangle over her smudged face, but a shock of recognition eventually penetrated Brogan’s numbed mind.
    “Adriel?” This a question. “Adriel?” This a confession of disbelief.
    Adriel forced open her eyes and slowly focused them on the strained face of her rescuer. “Timothy,” she mumbled, “Timothy Brogan? Why are you here? . . . What are you doing? . . . Why are you in a spacesuit?”
    “That’s a long story that can wait. What I want to know is, what are you doing here?”
    “I’m supposed to be here,” Adriel replied groggily, shaking her head in an attempt to clear it. “I’m on my way to Earth to train as a nurse for our church’s relief work.”
    “Here let me help you up.” Brogan pulled the woozy girl to her feet. She leaned against him for support. Brogan decided he liked the feeling.
    Adriel’s head was beginning to clear, and she asked, “Timothy, what are you doing here—in a military suit—when you should be home helping with the harvest?”
    “I did help with the harvest. But it’s over now, and I’m on my way to the Military Academy on Earth to earn a commission in the Royal Fusiliers.”
    Adriel’s hand flew to her mouth. “You—you’re going to make a living by killing? Timothy, how could you?” Brogan stiffened and felt himself growing remote. Adriel looked around herself and saw the three men Brogan had shot to rescue her. “But I see I’m too late. Already you have blood on your hands.”
    Stung, Brogan replied coldly, “They killed a friend of mine, and they would have killed you as well —or worse,” he added ominously.
    Adriel stared at him in an uncertain silence.
    “That tears it!” Brogan turned away in disgust. “Don’t bother to thank me,” he flung at her as he pushed his way through the soldiers rushing to the scene. Adriel stared at his retreating back and wiped away the surging tears that caught her by surprise.
    Down on deck, Ensign Unger caught his attention. “Brogan! Where is the rest of your squad?”
    “Dead, sir—all of them. Shortly after we separated from the main force, they were killed by a group planning to attack you from behind.”
    “What about the attackers?”
    “They’re dead, too. I killed ’em. They thought I was dead, but I surprised ’em.” Brogan paused and got a strained look on his face. “I—I think I’m going to be sick.” With that he doubled over as waves of blackness and nausea washed out all trace of conscious thought.

4
    Brogan was on his knees, muttering as he polished the corridor handrails. “Might as well be hoeing melons back home,” he mumbled with disgust. The unexpected battle with the marauders had made the Shark short-handed. Therefore, when Brogan was released from sickbay, he was assigned crew duties like everyone else. But this kind of menial labor was not what he left Cirrus for.
    Until he passed out after the skirmish, he was unaware that he had been wounded when his detachment was wiped out. Shrapnel had embedded itself in his upper right leg, though the suit automatically applied pressure to the wound and sealed off his leg from the rest of the suit. Nevertheless, he had lost a good amount of blood.
    Brogan concentrated his energies on a particularly stubborn smudge. So far he had learned more than he cared to about the dirty details of ship life. He yearned for the exciting life he would experience at the