Madame Guillotine

Contents
01
02
03
04
05
06
07
08
09
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
Epilogue
Get a free, exclusive short story
Other Galaxy’s Edge Books
About the Authors
Honor Roll


MADAME GUILLOTINE
BY JASON ANSPACH
& NICK COLE


Copyright © 2019
by Galaxy’s Edge, LLC
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
All rights reserved. Version 1.00
 
Edited by David Gatewood
Published by Galaxy’s Edge Press
Cover Art: Trent Kaniuga
Interior Design: Kevin G. Summers
For more information:
Website: GalacticOutlaws.com
Facebook: facebook.com/atgalaxysedge
Newsletter: InTheLegion.com


In Memory of Mandie Patterson-Almond


01
Reaper 66
The skies over downtown Detron were turning into a hot and muggy stew—a fitting atmosphere for a long, swollen day that seemed to be on the cusp of something violent and dangerous. In the streets below Reaper 66, Republic marines were engaged in heavy riot control action, trying to keep order against the Soshies—who had taken to the streets to air an unending litany of grievances against the Republic, the powers that be, and the forces that protected those powers. The irony that those forces also protected the Soshies themselves was apparently lost on them.
The protests started three weeks ago. A series of anti-government marches that blossomed into something that looked too much like a full-blown war zone. Sections of the city were no longer under control of the planetary government. Arson, rampant looting, and a spree of homicides—“payback killings” between rival gangs and cartels—all went unaddressed. It was sensational, and the media took notice. Opinion pieces demanded Republic action, each with a slant aimed at pointing out the failings of whichever House of Reason faction they didn’t quite agree with.
Below Reaper 66, everything looked tired, burnt-out, and spoiling for a fight. Masses of people in makeshift Soshie ninja gear—black pants and shirts, black fabric wrapped around heads to conceal identities—and marines in full kit angled toward each other along the streets and broad avenues, the marines in orderly columns, the Soshies in the chaotic spacing of a mob. Each side had their preferred form, and those struggling for power had their preferred solutions. Education and shared standards of living for some, austerity and no-tolerance crackdowns for others.
A few had been pushing for the Legion to come in and make peace. Everyone knew they could do it. But nobody wanted them there—not really. When the Legion showed up, things got too final, and odds were no one would end up happy.
But none of that was Reaper Actual’s problem. Not at the moment.
The Soshies in their red-and-black gear, waving banners demanding everything they could think of—more pay, more services, and lots of free everything—they weren’t the problem either, as much as they truly wanted to be. Not for Reaper Actual, and not for the marines below. A lot of them were students. Young kids convinced that only they knew and could do the right thing. That kind of fire burned out with heavy doses of reality. And time.
The kids weren’t the reason the marines sent frantic exchanges over the comm system warning that things might be going from bad to worse. As the NCOs drove their hullbusters forward, the marines were well-prepped for the maelstrom of thrown debris and homemade incendiaries they encountered. They had shields and inferno-quenchers capable of putting a fire out almost instantly.
No, the real issue was the professionals mixed in with the idealistic marchers.
The pros.
The professional agitators could be counted on to show up whenever and wherever there was dissatisfaction with, and disobedience against, the Republic. It was the pros who made things dangerous for those playing out their little tableaus on the street, tableaus featuring such familiar roles as Chanting Rioter and Tip-of-the-Government’s-Spear Enforcer. The pros came with toys, training, and violent intent.
Three days earlier a marine spotter had been shot from the roof of a building by a sniper using a military-grade weapon. The sergeant had died on the scene, despite the riot gear protecting him and the medevacs on demand in the air above.
A day later, a marine officer had been wounded while sitting in the command cupola of a wolverine. That one was avoidable. The officer should have been inside with the hatch sealed, but the guy was a point and had been acting as though this were some victory parade over the local quelled populace. Arrogantly playing the role of Conquering Military Commander instead of witness to a riot growing rapidly out of hand and getting worse by the hour.
The point’s wolverine, a tank that still sported jungle camouflage from its training exercises on Cononga, took an RPG to its rear driver-side. The kind of weapon not usually doled out to the Soshie picketers. The blast wounded the officer, but even that probably wasn’t the shooter’s goal.
The crowd, who had no sense of familiarity with war or the weapons of war, assumed that, somehow, the marines had used the rocket. Never mind that it was a marine tank that was now smoking, partly crippled from the blast. Some responded by running, but a lot of them grew feral, almost savage, and surged into the stunned marines who had busied themselves with seeking to give aid to the wolverine’s crew.
As the crowd engulfed the marines, that emboldened others, who pressed in at the smell of blood. But rioters don’t match up well with marines in a straight-up fight. And despite the overwhelming numbers, the marines were able to beat back their attackers, who crumbled with each punch or swing of a weapon—or sometimes at just the threat of being hit.
The marines had requested permission to open fire with their N-4s.
The request was refused.
Eventually another unit came in and dispersed the mob with House of Reason–approved tear gas.
Several marines had been wounded, some critically. But no one died. Not even the point. But he did make all the news streams that evening. And soon House of Reason delegates and Senate