The Last Praetorian (8 page)

*****

The atmosphere on the command deck of the
Imperial Star,
flagship
of the Imperial Navy was thick enough with tension to cut with a knife as the
two groups of fighters, one much smaller than the other, collided in a melee of
ships and gunfire.

“One down,” called out the tactical officer.

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Five.”  It was only when he realised that all eyes on the
command deck were focused on him that he added deflatedly. “Those are our
losses…” Indeed the Praetorian fighters were cutting a swathe through the
Imperial fighters, outmanoeuvring them, outshooting them, simply out-flying
them.  However, ultimately the numbers were on the side of the Imperial fleet
when first one of the Praetorian’s fell, followed rapidly by another and
another.

Suddenly another voice, almost forgotten, cut across the
room, “They’re letting him get away, the idiots!”  Commodore Harkov yelled
across the room, gesturing at the lone shuttle that was continuing on its
heading towards the FTL jump point.  “Get me the Commander of the fighter-group
on communications, right now!” He practically screamed. 

The communications officer pressed a few keys then nodded
towards the Commodore that the channel was open.

“CAG here,” came the terse response, it was obvious from his
voice that he was under significant strain.

“Break-off your engagement with the fighters, I want you to
intercept and engage the escaping shuttle,” the Commodore ordered
matter-of-factly. 

The channel went silent for a moment as the commander of the
air-group watched in disbelief as the Praetorian fighter in front of him
executed a roll that the Commander did not think physically possible for that
craft and promptly reduced one of his wingmen into dust.  Fortunately the CAG
managed to get off a lucky shot that pulverised one of the rear control
surfaces of the fighter.  He watched speechlessly as the fighter dipped, seemed
to lose control for a moment before recovering and diving straight into his
remaining wingman, both of whom disappeared into a raging fireball.

“Commander!”  The impatient Commodore insisted. “I gave you
a direct order!”

“Yeah, well you grab a fighter and come up and fly against
these guys,” the Commander complained.  “Anybody flying in a straight line for
more than an instant is going to be flotsam!”  With that he cut the channel and
got back to trying to stay alive, shaking his head at the stupidity of fleet
officers.

Pounding his fists against the console and the complete
incompetence of those surrounding him, Harkov once again ordered the
communications officer to open a channel, this time to the fleeing shuttle…

*****

The flight computer reported that they were only moments
away from the FTL jump point.  Jon gave one final glance at the aft sensors,
which reported that only a few of his squadron remained alive.  However, they
had done what duty demanded of them and bought the
Eternal Light
the few
minutes that it needed to escape.  Just as he was about to bring the FTL
engines on-line, the Commander recognised an incoming communication from the
Imperial
Star.
 Tempted to just ignore it, he instead activated the channel.

The Commodore was no longer smiling and the smirk had long
since left his expression.  Instead the Commodore was complete enraged,
obviously his careful planning and preparation had come to nothing.

“There is nowhere for you to run to Radec, nobody to help
you!  Give-up and I promise to kill you quickly.  I’ll even promise not to harm
Marcus’s daughter, as you seem to have a soft spot for her,” the Commodore
shrugged.  “I had plans for her, she was to become the first Empress in five
generations, a symbol of a new Empire, a better Empire.”

“Your Empire?”  Jon added scornfully, “I think not!”

“You run Radec and I will hunt you down, I’ll hunt you both
down like dogs and I’ll collect your head, Radec!” Harkov bellowed.

Radec just observed the contemptible officer for a moment,
before making a vow to himself.  Remembering the promise that Elsie made before
her death he vowed to find this disgusting animal; he would hunt for him for
the rest of his days if necessary, and he would kill him.

With a final glance towards the view-screen, Jon simply
replied. “I’ll be waiting for you.”  As he engaged the FTL engines Jon gave one
final long glance at the aft scanner it reported that the 58
^th
was
no more.  Jon was all that remained of the squadron, The Last Praetorian.

*****

As the Eternal Light disappeared into FTL a hush fell across
the command deck of the Imperial Star.  Every eye was on the Commodore to see
what his reaction would be, but all he did was to swivel around and walk
towards the exit of the command deck.  Half way across the deck he stopped and
turned back towards Captain Pendleton.

“Captain,” he ordered crisply.  “I want them found.  I’m not
interested in how many resources it takes or the cost, I want them found and I
want them dead.”  Pausing for a moment as if something suddenly occurred to him
he added, “and I want Radec’s head.  He once threatened me that he would behead
me personally, so I will re-pay the favour.  Bring me his head!”  With that the
Commodore left the command deck, leaving only silence in his wake.

Present Day (
Five Years later)

Terra Nova, Zeta Aquilae System

The stars shined brightly, with a pure cleansing white light
that seemed to banish the dark and cold of the vastness of space.   Sometimes
Jon could close his eyes and almost feel the stars reaching out to him. Bidding
him to join them, with just one small step his worries would vanish, forever. 
He felt that if he could only reach out, if only for a brief moment and be able
to grasp that light in the palm of his hands, to bring it into his body to let
the light cleanse him maybe he could escape this reality.

Should a person be forgiven for mistakes made in the
past?
Jon mused to himself.
 Do I even deserve forgiveness?

A polite cough interrupted his reverie, reminding him that
he had a guest and that guest was still waiting for his answer.  Jon sighed to
himself, once again wishing that the light could reach out to him and take him
back, back to when he had a purpose and a family....

Wrenching his thoughts back to the here and now, Jon turned
his back to the stars that he spent so much time lost in and viewed his guest.  The
Magistratus sitting across his desk had not moved in the intervening time; long
past his middling years – his grey hair was showing just a hint of white and he
was leaning heavily on his cane.  An ugly scar marred the right side of his
cheek and the pronounced limp in his right leg was noticeable, as he had
shuffled into the room.

I wonder what happened to you?  I doubt that you got
those falling out of bed one morning
Jon had thought to himself when the
Magistratus from the ‘Chamber of Commerce, Business and Shipping’ had made his
entrance a short while ago.

Observing the scarred man sitting across his desk it
occurred to Jon that he embodied everything that was wrong since the collapse
of the Empire.  A figurehead for an organisation that profited from human
misery.  With the death of the Emperor the Empire soon disintegrated, the once
mighty Imperial Fleet disbanded, until it reached the point that this far out
on the rim the fleet had mostly abandoned this sector.  As was often the case,
when there was no strong rule of law it attracted a certain stain of humanity,
ones with few moral scruples. 

Trying to keep the distaste from reaching his expression and
only succeeding slightly, he answered the question that had been put to him. 
“I am sorry but I must decline the offer, although I do agree that it sounds
extremely generous.”  It was obvious from the surprised expression that flashed
across his guest’s face – that it was not the answer that he had been
expecting.

“Could I inquire why you have decided to reject the chamber’s
extremely generous offer?” Mallart asked in his silky-smooth tone of voice. 
The tone had been irritating Jon ever since the meeting had commenced. He had
continually fought the urge to look over his shoulder to check that the
representative wasn’t trying to stick a knife in his back.

“Well,” Jon replied, “we could discuss the various growth
potentials for the business, my loyal customer base, etc. but what it really
comes down to is a cultural clash I am afraid.” 

“A cultural clash?” the representative replied in a
bewildered tone. “What sort of cultural clash?”

“It mostly has to do with the differing ways we conduct
business really,” Jon explained.  “For example we believe in fair business
negotiations, honest contracts and punctual delivery.  We do not threaten to
kill, enslave or otherwise kidnap our customers if they do not agree to our
terms of business.  We most certainly do not transport slaves, smuggle weaponry
or any other contraband goods and we most definitely don’t steal the
aforementioned goods if there is a greater potential for profit and then murder
the client.  As I mentioned, a culture clash I am afraid,” Jon explained
concisely, with a straight face, not letting any of the malice he felt show.
“Furthermore,” he went on to explain.  “I question how long I would actually
live to be able to spend that very generous offer, seeing that I hear of the
three previous companies that you have acquired two of the owners are now dead;
with the third missing.”  Jon finally let a hint of malice into his statement.  “Let’s
be honest,” he continued.  “The Chamber comprises the worst scum sucking,
murderous, thieving, raping bastards in this entire sector.  You can take their
offer back to them and shove it up their ass... and if one more of my ships are
attacked, one more member of my crew hurt there will be nowhere in this system
or the next to hide from me.  I will hunt you down one-by-one, turn your ships
into a pile of radioactive dust and cut you into so many pieces that it would
require a micro-singularity scanner to find a trace of you.  Now get off my
station!” Jon yelled.  “Before I stick you in an airlock and blow you out of it
myself.”

The Magistratus from the chamber blinked once in surprise
then with a resigned expression replied.  “Well as you have decided to turn
down the chamber’s generous offer it would seem that there is nothing else that
I can say.  I doubt that they will be coming back with another offer.  Good day
Mr Radec.”  With that he shuffled to the door, which slid open smoothly to
permit his exit. 

Jon confirmed that the door was fully closed before turning
back to the stars once again.  He would not have put it past the crafty old
bastard to shoot him in the back to save his employers the effort of hiring
somebody else to do it. 

Jon pounded on his desk in frustration, hard enough to
dislodge the mountain of paperwork, sending it spilling across the floor.  Jon
was not bothered in the slightest at the thought of somebody else trying to
kill him - they would have to get in line - but instead the knowledge that his
ships and people would be at additional risk and why?  Because he was a
stubborn fool who had always refused to back down in the face of threats.  He
had seen the Syndicate grow more and more powerful in this system. 
Threatening, blackmailing or just eliminating all rivals until only he
remained. 

Jon recognised that a reckoning was fast approaching with
the Syndicate, as it seemed that they had delivered their final warning. 
Shrugging to himself Jon was satisfied that he had given them fair warning of
his own.  If the Syndicate moved against Vanguard, they would quickly discover
that they had woken a slumbering dragon.  One that would destroy them, utterly.

Jon tensed as he heard the door quietly slide open but
relaxed again when he felt the presence of Paul Harrington – his chief of
operations.  When they had first met, years previously, while both had been
serving in the Imperial Navy, the blond hair and bright blue cerulean eyes had
taken Jon aback.  While the man was ten years his senior, he looked like he
belonged on the front cover of some surfing magazine, instead of leading an
Imperial Special Forces task group.  However, time and time again Paul had
surprised him, as behind the good looks and bright blue eyes was a tactical
mind that was second to none.  Between the two of them they had achieved
victories for the Empire that seemed so fantastic, many of them had just been
dismissed as fanciful rumours.  When Paul had offered him the position of Chief
Executive of Vanguard he had not hesitated in accepting… 

“Well, the Magistratus from the Chamber just shuffled past
me on the way out.  He did not look happy.  I take it you turned down his
offer?” he asked with a hint of a smirk.

“Damn right I did!” Jon said.  “Hell will freeze over before
I turn Vanguard over to that bunch of thieves,” he replied with venom.  “Anyway
what the hell is it with the name?  Who came up with the name ‘Chamber of
Commerce, Business and Shipping’ anyway?“

Paul just shrugged. “I hear that the Syndicate got together
and declared a cease-fire between themselves. It seems that they realised they
could make more money by stopping killing each other and focus on stealing,
murdering and extorting their way through the rest of the system.  I guess they
felt that the new name gave them a veneer for respectability; after all
The
Syndicate
has such negative connotations”.   Meanwhile Paul approached the
large viewing port in the office and was gently running his fingers across the
surface – causing energy ripples in their wake. 

“You know,” he mused, “everybody else on the station is
perfectly happy with Tri-Aluminium Silica windows, but not you.  What is it
with you and empty space…?”