There was an old saying that there were no certainties in life save death and taxes. Sabatine Blackburn had spent long years contemplating death. Years with knuckles pressed white against flight yolks, years pressing herself into the dirt and praying to Minerva, Mars, and anyone else who would listen, that the cavalry would make it on time. Lonely hours strapped into crash webbing as particle beams rattled the hull of the fragile collections of electronics and explosives that carried men through the stars. Taxes had been less of a concern.

The warmth of the afternoon was a pleasant companion as Sabatine plucked opal fruit from her trees. Each fruit came away with a little snap as she pulled it free and set the small darkly reflective fruit into the pannier she had slung over her shoulder. She was a curious mishmash, her features squarish and romanesque, with her short hair held back by a red bandana and a gray sleeveless farmer’s smock, she could have been any peasant in the Empire. The navy surplus fatigue pants and heavy infantry boots, as well as the tattoos her smock left uncovered, told a different story. There were other signs as well, the muscles of her body were not those developed by a lifetime of laboring in an orchard, for all that was her current occupation.

Opal fruit trees stretched off in both directions in neatly ordered lines, running nearly a hundred feet down toward the stream bank where she had built a small dam out of stones and industrial plasticiser. The blades of a small windmill turned, lifting water from the pool to water the trees. The broad heart shaped leaves of the trees made shady corridors that channeled the breeze. Nearly two entire acres were now dedicated to opal fruit, which were her principal cash crop.  Potatoes, carrots, corfu, trevet, and a few other food crops were planted in neat rectangular beds, adding their more intense green to the panorama.  Small walls of stacked river stone, less than two feet tall ringed the trees. These were to discourage the local ungulates, though the sacrificial trees she had planted down by the woods did a better job of simultaneously dissuading pets and luring fresh meat to her gun. Sabatine sat the full pannier down and covered the gleaming fruit with wax cloth, then picked up a rake to gather the last few fruit from the top most boughs.

 The sound of a buzzing engine drew Sabatine’s attention to a battered ATV rattling down the dusty track that linked her hundred acres to the Via Ateria. A driver and two passengers clung to it as it pulled around in front of her home. The house was a standard colony pod which had been improved by the addition of a wrap-around pouch and an open second story roofed with glazed tile. It was somewhat dwarfed by a large modular shed of corrugated iron that emanated the soft background hum of a fusion generator. Stretches of dirt, yet to regrow their covering of grass, telegraphed the location of recently buried conduits.

The atv rattled to a stop and the three men disembarked, two of them hopping from the sideboards while the third struggled to cut the engine. All three men were armed, though one of them probably felt like the pistol under his cloak was concealed. They swaggered over towards her, marching through her carrots in their haste to show her how much contempt they held her in.

“Mistress Blackburn,” one of them, a beefy looking man in early middle age, called in a surprisingly nasal voice. Sabatine watched them skeptically, leaning on her rake as they tramped through her vegetables. He clearly thought of himself as the leader, but it was hard to imagine that the little possy had enough structure to be in need of such a lofty office.

“Something I can do for you gentlemen,” she prodded, impatient to be done with whatever game they were playing at so she could get back to gathering her opal fruit. If she hustled she could be finished with this in time to take a swim before the sun went down. She whetted her lips at the thought of some of the passable beer she had brewed last winter.

“We missed you at the Ketcharch’s feast, we had hoped the whole community would show up to celebrate his elevation,” Nasal-voice scolded with false disappointment. Sabatine gave them a weary look. These puffed up dregs and their amateur theatrics. Truthfully she had forgotten about Ketcharch Gorm and his damned Founder’s Day celebration. She had little to do with the community, save for the factor that sold her opal fruit for her and an occasional shipment of tech from the star port. 

“I’m not interested in local politics.” she tried. “Now If you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot to do.”

“It isn’t about politics,” Nasal-voice wheedled, “it is about respect.” He leaned up against one of the trees, clearly not understanding that the sap in bark would give him a serious burn once the sun photo metabolized it.

“We made it clear that everyone was supposed to bring a gift,” Nasal-voice continued, his words growing harder as he finally made his way to his point. Sabatine turned slightly to show her shoulder tattoo. It was a Lily atop a large stylized letter M, with the letters SPQR in pride of place.

“I don’t pay taxes, remember, I already did my service,” she reminded him. Nasal-voice and his goons bristled. Local toughs didn’t like it when the Galactic toughs showed up. It wasn’t necessarily smart to rub their faces in it, but she hadn’t spent the last ten years putting Mercedez Vilantre on the Imperial throne to be pushed around by rank amateurs.

“You aren’t in the fucking Legion anymore!” Nasal-voice snapped. “Maybe it is time you realized that. This is the Ketcharch’s territory and don’t get a pass because of some fucking tattoo!” 

“Ill take it under advisement,” Sabatine said solemnly, hoping against hope that the thugs would just give up and leave. Judging by the nostril flare, that wasn’t going to happen.

“You won’t just take it under advisement! You will…” Nasal-voice began. Sabatine’s hand shot out and seized the wrist of one of the goons who was reaching towards the basket of opal fruit. The thug froze in shock and Nasal-voice’s eyes widened with anger.

“Look here Mars,” Sabatine said in resignation. Nasal-voice went for his gun. Sabatine wrenched the thug’s thumb back with a sickening crack. The thug screamed in agony as Sabatine yanked him forward, tripping him over the low stone wall. Her other hand whirled the rake in her massive left handed arc that drove the metal tines into the second henchman’s face. Blood flashed red in the sunlight as he reeled back, clawing at his bloody face. Nasal-voice pulled a showy chrome pistol free of his cloak. The rake spun like a bo-staff cracking into the gunman’s wrist and sent it spinning away into the carrots. Broken thumb half pushed himself up off the wall, just in time for his face to meet the sole of her boot, driving his head down into the stone with a crack that sprayed blood and teeth from his mouth. Nasal-voice was back peddling fast, but not fast enough to avoid the straight armed lunge the drove the end of the rake into his solar plexus. The wind exploded out of his chest and he went to his knees, eyes building. These rubes might think they knew something about violence, but even bar fighting in the Legion taught one more about the actual practice. Sabatine brought the rake back up into a guard, then drove it down hard into the back of Broken-teeth-and-thumb’s head. The thin bone crunched and the thug thrashed and then went lip, a pool of blood spreading out into the dust.

“No!” We can work this out,” Nasal-voice, wheezed, trying to scramble backwards away from Sabatine.

“Sure we can,” Sabatine agreed, stepping over the wall and pressing the flat of the rake against his throat. Further words choked off as she closed his windpipe, his fingers scrabbling at the bloody tines.

“Look..here..Mars!” she grunted leaning her whole weight on the rake until she felt cartilage pop and collapse. Leaving Nasal-voice gasping his last, she picked through the ruin of her carrots until she found the pistol he had dropped. Rake-to-face was desperately trying to get the ATV started, blood masked his face, one of his eyes torn away by the blow of Sabatine’s improvised weapon. Sabatine thumbed back the hammer and fired. It took her three shots to bring him down with a shot to the chest. He slithered off the ATV and collapsed to the ground in a heap. Sabatine looked down at Nasal-voice who was turning an unhealthy shade of purple. Sabatine sighed. Now she was never going to finish in time to take a swim.