Interstellar Rebellion

"Red Alert!"

Captain Spiff dashed to the bridge of his sentinel frigate, shocked at what he found. Thousands of enemy warcraft descended on the capitol planet's defenses, seemingly out of nowhere.

Emperor Devane had ruled the galaxy for more than 2700 CR (Capitol Revolutions) with no hint of rebellion. Entire systems were wiped out for causing the slightest upset to the Emperor's mood. Coordinating such an attack must have taken years, yet his daily security briefing had offered zero hint of the possibility.

Spiff's final thought was to contemplate what promotion might be available were he to defeat these insurgents.

Titus

The emperor gave Titus the signal and he plunged his sword into the gladiator. Blood gushed from his neck, and he took his last gasp. The crowd chanted and Titus waved his arms in victory.

Titus’ master approached. “Well done, Titus. There hasn’t been a gladiator to match you, and I hope it stays that way.”

The ground began to rumble. The emperor’s statue fell in a heap, and people began tumbling to their deaths.

Someone in the crowd yelled. “Look at the mountain. It’s on fire!”

Mount Vesuvius spewed fire and rained pumice.

Titus would not fight another day.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Arena

He sat on the stone bench waiting his turn. All his training for the last ten years led up to this moment. He could hear the muffled roar of sixty-thousand screaming fans in the stadium above. If he won today, the Emperor would grant him his freedom and the citizenship.

His trainer signaled him to get ready. He picked up his shield and sword and walked to the platform that would slowly raise him to the arena floor. As his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, he saw the lions. A sudden foreboding flooded through his body. The crowd cheered.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

An Invitation

As Tom flipped through his mail, he hesitated when he came to a thick parchment envelope, intricately addressed with gold trim. This was certainly not a bill.

Breaking open the wax seal, Tom pulled forth a hand-inked letter in an elegant cursive, with the type of curls that indicated a tremendous sense of self-worth.

"Dear Thomas Pendergraph," the letter began, "Your presence is requested in the royal palace on the fifth of December..."

Tom scanned to the bottom of the correspondence. It was signed by the Emperor.

He tossed the letter into the trash bin with the other junk mail.

The Statement

He studied the statement in his hand, trying to focus only on the words, not on their meaning. He couldn't think about anything but the words.

He'd been the Emperor for as long as he could remember, since childhood. He'd never been just Glenn. He'd never heard that name spoken, and he'd rarely ever thought about it.

But after he read that statement out loud, Glenn was who he would be from now on.

The Emperor put down the statement and took off his glasses. He wondered how long it would be before the new emperor decided to execute Glenn.

The Ides Of March

Caesar was warned.

The first emperor of Rome, the ruler of Europe, Asia, and Northern Africa, the man who had broken the Republic, simply scoffed.

The old man had not been cowed in his presence, and Caesar, having grown accustomed to instilling fear, awe, and respect in even his closest associates, was vexed. Who would dare lay hands on Caesar? He derisively dismissed the warnings.

That evening, Caesar saw the old man on his way to the theater. "Well, the Ides of March have come," he remarked.

The old man, still defiant, responded, "Aye, but they are not yet gone."