by Mike Smith
“What do you want?” Harkov asked in a subdued voice, still staring at Jon with undisguised terror.
“I’ve already told you what I want Admiral. I want to see you safely back in hell, where you belong.” With that he snatched up the knife from the table, twisting it in the air between thumb and forefinger, before impaling Harkov’s hand with it.
Harkov could only stare incomprehensibly at the hilt of the knife, his hand pierced by the blade, which had buried itself a couple of inches further into the desk. Almost instantly, a wave of agony emanated from his arm, engulfing him. He tipped his head back and screamed deafeningly as he tried to draw his hand back, but was unable to. Gazing in horror and disbelief as the blood started to pool under his hand, which was trapped between the hilt of the knife and the table. Rivulets of blood ran across the surface, staining the desk blood-red.
“What are you doing?” He cried. “I’m a prisoner of war and under your Confederation Charter I should be well treated and unharmed.”
“I care nothing for the Confederation or its Charter,” Jon sneered, leaning forward until they were almost eye-to-eye. “This is my station! My home and I have the final decision as to what takes place here. The Confederation is weak, being run by spineless corrupt bureaucrats, incapable of making the slightest decision. It only exists because of the continued support of the fleet, a fleet that still answers to the Fleet Admirals. They are either more loyal to me than their political masters or they lie awake at night, terrified to close their eyes, in case when they open them I am standing there. Now don’t go anywhere.” With that Jon started searching through his desk, opening and closing drawers, with increasing frustration. “Where is that blasted thing,” Jon muttered aloud. “Seriously, I wish people would put back things once they had finished with them.” Finally it dawned on him that the pistol he kept in his desk was no longer there. He had offered it to Miranda a few days after she had arrived on the station.
Growling in frustration, Jon turned to one of the marines standing ramrod straight next to Harkov. “Sergeant-at-Arms, your sidearm, please,” Jon ordered.
With a look of consternation at his fellow marine, the sergeant withdrew the heavy pistol from its holster, offering it to the Commander, grip first. Then with another nervous exchange of glances the two marines took a step back from the Admiral. It was obvious he was not going far, at least physically. Metaphysically was an entirely different matter.
Chambering a round into the barrel and flicking off the safety, Jon drew a bead with the pistol directly at Harkov’s forehead. “I am not one for long monologues, so I’ll see you in hell Harkov.” With that he began to squeeze the trigger.
“No!” Harkov screamed, like a baby. “Marcus is alive!”
It was such an astonishing proclamation, that temporarily Jon released his finger from the trigger. “You’re lying,” Jon insisted, dismissing it as the last desperate plea for survival from a man who knew he was looking death in the face. “Even if the Emperor was still alive, you would have boasted about his capture years ago. You're a conceited bastard Harkov and you would never have been able to keep his capture a secret for long.”
“I said he was alive. I know where he is. I never said that he was in my possession,” Harkov babbled, aware his life was hanging in the balance.
“Where is he then?”
“Not until you give me your oath that you will release me, unharmed, if I tell you.”
Jon gritted his teeth in frustration. This snake always seemed to wriggle out of his grasp. “You have my word,” Jon cursed.
“Not good enough,” Harkov insisted, knowing that he had the upper hand, if only for a short time. “I already had your word that the shuttles leaving your station were unarmed and that was a lie.”
Jon felt like reminding the Admiral he had first given his word that the shuttles would be permitted to leave, unharmed, but viewing the futility of it he remained silent to see what Harkov’s demands were.
“I want you to swear on the life of Marcus’ daughter, Sofia Aurelius, that you will let me leave the station, alive and unharmed.”
Grinding his teeth together in frustration, red-faced with fury, Jon replied, “I swear.”
Harkov looked pointedly at the knife, still pinning his hand to the desk. With a grimace, Jon took the knife by the hilt and, with a sharp tug, pulled it free, taking some delight in the groan of pain from the Admiral. Leaning forward, Jon hissed, “Now I want to hear everything, and, if I hear one word of mistruth, well, we still have my original plan,” Jon tapped the pistol now resting on the desk, clearly pointing in the direction of Harkov.
*****
A few hours later Harkov left the office, once again flanked by the two marines. The Admiral had bandaged his hand with a torn strip of his sleeve, after Jon refused any medical assistance, reminding him that he had sworn not to harm him after impaling him with the blade.
In the meantime, quite a crowd had assembled outside his office, as word had spread around the station that Harkov was alone with Jon. There was more than one disappointed face to be seen as Harkov walked out alive. After all, the Commander did not have a reputation for leaving enemies alive in his wake.
After the Admiral had departed, Paul, Gunny and Miranda hesitantly approached Jon’s office, surprised to find the door opening at their approach. Peering into the office they were pleased to observe Jon in his usual position, back to the room, gazing out at the stars, deep in thought.
“He’s still alive?” Gunny broke the silence, not needing to state explicitly whom he was referring to.
“I decided to sleep on it,” came the non-committal response.
“Jon, are you okay?” Miranda asked worriedly.
Finally turning around to face his three most trusted confidants, he refused to meet their gaze, his expression—troubled. “Harkov told me some unsettling news,” he said.
The three of them exchanged worried glances, before Miranda ventured, “What news Jon?”
“I need to think and reflect on this first. Schedule a senior staff meeting for tomorrow. You all need to hear this.” With that he once again turned his back on the room, looking out into the depths of space. Troubled.
*****
The sword flashed towards Jon’s face. Only at the very last instant did he manage to deflect the blow with his own blade. However the force of the impact pushed him back, off-balance. The time it took for him to take a step back and regain his footing was all that was required. With a rapid riposte, the blade flew at him again, aimed at his shoulder. Jon was unable to ward off this blow, only having just regained his balance. The blade cut cleanly through uniform and flesh. With a cry of pain Jon stepped back, his hand touching the small cut.
“I thought you were meant to be teaching me how to wield a sword, not trying to kill me?” Jon snapped, wincing in pain, wiping the sweat from his brow. They had been at this for the past half-hour and Jon was already exhausted. Unfortunately his opponent had yet to break into a sweat. Standing a few inches taller, with a far stockier figure, a chiselled, angular face with a touch of grey in his hair, his opponent was a good twenty years older than him. Letting his sword rest, point down, on the ground to relieve his burning shoulder, Jon was forced to concede that the other man was also far fitter.
Gideon, the Praetorian Commander observed Jon with a bemused expression. “I have always believed that learning to wield a sword and not dying to be complementarily, boy.”
Jon eyed Gideon angrily. Ever since the Emperor had reassigned him to the Praetorian Guard, he was expected to attend these training sessions several times a week to learn how to fight with the Valerian sword from the famous Praetorian Commander. Not that Jon had ever actually held such a sword, he would only be able to claim that prize if he passed the final test and was accepted into the unit as an official Praetorian. The nature of this final test he had no idea and it did not help that Gideon continued to call him boy, even though Jon had repeatedly asked him to call
him by his name, or rank.
Frankly, after several weeks of this Jon was fed up. The rest of the unit treated their newest recruit with little more than contempt, only Lieutenant Elizabeth Sun, or Elsie as she had asked him to call her was barely civil. On top of this Jon had to endure these regular sessions of ritual humiliation. Jon had finally reached his breaking point and he wanted to quit. As far as he was concerned the Emperor could go find a new recruit. He had no idea why he was chosen in the first place. However, first he owed this old bastard some payback for all the hours of belittling, insults, cuts and welts he had received at his hand. Eyes turning a steel-grey with unrestrained fury, Jon snatched back up the sword.
“Fine. If you want to fight Gideon, let’s fight!” Jon roared, moving back towards Gideon, slashing at him furiously with the blade. Jon was under no illusion that in a duel with this man he could win. Indeed, he was going to lose, and badly at that. Gideon’s skill with the blade was legendary, the rumour being that he had never been beaten. Jon, however, had no intention of duelling with Gideon, for he had grown up in the slums and backstreets of Altair, where you fought with everything that you possessed just to stay alive.
Hence rushing at Gideon, slashing away and trying to put the Commander on the defensive, which only made the older man laugh. Having taken a combat stance, his feet planted wide apart, there was no possibility of him being taken off-balance and he easily deflected each of the blows.
“What did I tell you about letting your emotions get the better of you, boy?” He laughed. “You must fight with your head, not your heart.” So confident was he in his own abilities he used his free hand to point, first at his head, then his chest.
However, Gideon had misinterpreted Jon’s intentions, for he had no plan to try and push the old warrior off balance, instead all he wanted to do was get within striking distance of his other weapons. Gideon, seeing an opening in Jon’s defence, laughed again, pulling back with his sword to strike, but Jon struck first. So intent was the older man on Jon’s sword that he failed to notice his foot lash out, striking Gideon on the knee. With the wide combat stance, it was not enough to fell him, but the sudden pain did cause him to pause for an instant. Jon took advantage of the opportunity to lash out with his hand, catching Gideon’s sword arm in a tight grip. Stunned at the move Gideon glanced at the hand encircling his own, before turning has gaze back towards Jon. After that he only saw stars. For Jon’s head came crushing down on Gideon’s forehead, just above his nose, with a resounding crack. It was a testament to the old warrior that he still remained standing after receiving such a forceful blow, but with his ears ringing and sight blurred, he failed to see Jon’s blade descending towards his head.
However much Jon hated the old Praetorian Commander, he had no desire to kill the man. Hence it was the hilt of the sword that struck his head, not the blade.
Totally senseless, Gideon went crashing to the floor.
When he came-to a few moments later, shaking his head to restore his vision, he found himself looking into the flashing eyes of his antagonist. Feeling a sharp prick to the neck, Gideon cast his gaze downwards, following the blade that Jon held, the point touching his throat.
Leaning forward to emphasise the point Jon snapped. “I quit and don’t ever call me boy again.” With that he tossed the blade aside, turning his back on the Praetorian Commander.
Gideon could only stare in disbelief at the retreating man’s back, wondering what the hell had just happened? As the Praetorian Commander, he had never been defeated, never bested by a blade before. Yet this had just happened, at the hand of some new, young recruit, with barely a few week’s training.
When Marcus had first ordered him to train the boy, Gideon had glanced at his personnel file, and was unimpressed. The boy came from a poor background from Altair. Altair? Where the hell was Altair? While obviously courageous and loyal to the troops he commanded, Gideon viewed him as young and reckless, with little or no discipline. Definitely not the usual Praetorian material. Gideon had idly wondered why Marcus had chosen him.
Quit? Gideon laughed out aloud, calling out to the retreating officer. “I like you, boy. A big improvement over your predecessor, Sejanus.” Gideon touched the side of his head painfully, feeling the small cut from the hilt of the blade. Perhaps he would no longer refer to the officer as boy. He had earned that.
*****
Jon’s eyes snapped open. Wide awake with Gideon’s final words ringing through his head.
“I like you boy. A big improvement over your predecessor, Sejanus.”
That made it twice in as many hours he had heard that name mentioned. Wondering if it was just his imagination, Jon replayed the encounter with Gideon, many years before, over and over again in his head until he was convinced he had not been imagining it. Gideon had definitely used the name Sejanus. Perhaps it was just a coincidence? But Jon had never believed in coincidences. He made a mental note to bring up the name during the senior staff meeting later.
Glancing at the chronometer, Jon observed it was still very early in the morning. Now that he was wide awake he knew that it would be futile to try and get back to sleep. Anyway it was still several hours before the senior staff meeting was scheduled to commence and Jon had some unfinished business to take care of first.
*****
As it was so early the corridors were pretty much deserted. The station only ran a skeleton shift at this hour of day, especially as it was still on shutdown following the destruction of the Santa Maria and the arrival of Harkov’s fleet.
Thinking about Harkov, Jon finally arrived at his destination, the brig, where Harkov had been held prisoner for the past couple of days. The two armed guards, standing diligently at attention, both reached for their side arms as the door slid open. It was so early in the morning they were not expecting any visitors. Both returned the pistols to their holsters upon sighting the Commander.
“Return to your posts men, I am dismissing this security detail,” Jon ordered curtly.
The two guards eyed each other nervously, as they had strict instructions to guard the prisoner until relieved, but finally acknowledging the order from the Commander, saluted, and hurried from the brig.
Unlocking the door to the cell that contained Harkov, Jon could just make out his form, sleeping restlessly in the dim light. Kicking Harkov in the side, none too lightly, Jon roused him from his slumber. On seeing the Commander, Harkov scurried back into the corner of the cell. Recognising that even a coward like Harkov would probably fight if cornered and, as he was running on a tight time schedule, Jon ordered, “Harkov, get up. We are leaving.”
“Going where?” Harkov replied, looking at him suspiciously.
“I thought that you wanted to leave the station?” Jon inquired. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“No. No, I still want to leave. You remember your promise? Alive and unharmed?”
“I remember,” Jon said, nodding reluctantly. “Now come on, we do not have much time before somebody notices your absence.” With that Jon departed the cell, with Harkov scurrying quickly behind him. Fortunately the corridors were still empty and nobody saw their swift departure. Jon closed and locked the cell door, and after they walked through the door to the brig it slid shut behind them. Hopefully that would buy them more time before anybody noticed him missing.
“Where are we going?”
“The docking ring,” Jon replied lengthening his stride, praying to whichever deity might be listening they would not encounter anybody on their route. Fortunately their luck held and finally the two of them arrived in front of one of the airlocks on the docking ring. Jon motioned towards the open portal. “As per my promise, you are free to leave. Alive and unharmed.”
Harkov looked at the open door greedily, before turning to face the Commander one final time. “Your problem Radec is that you still believe in honour. You are a relic from the past and like all relics you will soon become extinct. You mark my words Radec; your honour
will be the cause of your downfall one day. Until we meet again!” Harkov exclaimed, hurrying through the airlock towards the waiting ship.
Only to find another closed airlock door, facing out into the deep emptiness of interstellar space. “What the hell?” He exclaimed whirling around just in time to see in horror the airlock door that he had just stepped through closing behind him. “Radec!” He screamed in terror, pounding on the door with his fists. “You gave me your word, your honour on the life of the Princess. You lying son-of-a-bitch!”
As Harkov stepped into the airlock, Jon activated the controls to cycle the airlock. Watching stone-faced as the door slid shut, observing through the small viewport the realisation and horror on Harkov’s face. “As promised Harkov,” Jon said softly, knowing that the other man could not hear him though the airtight door. “You are free to leave the station, alive and unharmed, but perhaps next time you might also request a ship.”
With that the outer airlock door cycled open. The explosive decompression pulling the screaming Harkov out into space.
Having thrown out the trash, Jon went in search of a cup of coffee. He was expecting the senior staff meeting to be a long one.
*****
Jon was already on this third cup of coffee of the morning, patiently sitting at the head of the briefing room table, waiting for the rest of the senior staff to file in.
David McNeill, the station’s Head of Security, hurried into the room, his face as white as a sheet, ten minutes late. “Commander,” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Harkov is missing. I have just interrogated the guards, they insisted that you dismissed them.”
All eyes in the room swivelled to face Jon.
“Everything is under control,” Jon replied unperturbed. “Please take a seat and I will explain.”
