The Last Praetorian (The Redemption Trilogy)

by Mike Smith

  “The 58th squadron is reversing course to intercept the approaching fighters. The Eternal Light is remaining on a direct course for the FTL jump point,” the officer reported humbly. If the Praetorians were prepared to sacrifice their lives for the occupants of the shuttle, the tactical officer was going to damn well show them some respect for their decision. The announcement stunned everybody on the command deck, which fell silent for a moment, as if also in respect for their sacrifice.

  “That’s suicide,” Pendleton uttered in disbelief. “They are outnumbered at least 9-1.”

  “They lost two fighters passing through the fleet,” the tactical officer reminded the Captain. “The odds are closer to 12-1. They are going to sacrifice themselves to buy enough time to allow the shuttle to reach the FTL jump point.”

  Nobody on the command deck had a response to that statement.

  *****

  Most fleet engagements of the past few hundred years had been determined in the first minutes of battle with the opposing forces still many hundreds of kilometres apart. Modern engagements were usually determine by who had the initiative, the most missiles and the best positioning. However, for the first time in most of the pilot’s memories this engagement was going to be determined ship-to-ship, pilot-vs-pilot. The Praetorians had long since expended all their missiles and the missiles carried by the fleet fighters were useless as they would not lock onto what the missiles considered friendly fighters. Hence this engagement was going to be determined by pilot skill. The Praetorian pilots were the pinnacle of pilot skill, each one considered an ace on his or her own merit, a veteran of dozens of combat engagements, never been beaten. Therefore as the Praetorian squadron dived into the flank of the approaching fighters it was like a hot knife slicing through butter and within an instant the fleet’s formation descended into complete chaos and a free-for-all ensued.

  *****

  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 58th 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.

  Chapter Three

  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…?”

  Unlike the other windows on the station, an energy field, much like the one on the flight deck, which could be easily raised and lowered to allow ships to dock, protected one full length of his office.

  Jon turned back to his desk, picking up the paperwork that now littered the floor. The paperwork that running a sizable company entailed. “As I have told you before I prefer the view; anyway I would get claustrophobic shackled to this desk without it,” Jon explained.

  Paul had known Jon a long time and had inkling to some of the ghosts in his past and hence let the matter drop, almost.

  “Hey! It’s no problem with me,” Paul responded with a grin. “I just want to know who is going to be signing my pay-check if we ever have a power failure in this section of the station.”

  “And here I thought you were gunning for the Chief Executive position.”

  “No way!” said Paul holding up his hands in defence, “The paperwork would kill me.”

  “Anyway,” Jon continued, “I like no
t having a window in my office, as I find that it helps keep the meetings shorter.” He had noticed the representative from the Syndicate frequently glancing at the missing window in irritation. While the energy barrier retained atmosphere and deflected the harmful rays from the system’s star just as well as a window, the gaping emptiness did cause a subconscious chill in most visitors, and they had no inclination to hang around to see just how reliable the stations energy distribution grid was.

  Meanwhile Paul had been scanning Jon’s remaining schedule for the day – when an item caught his eye and he frowned in consternation. “You are actually planning on going ahead and attending this meeting?” He said, spinning the data-pad around and pointing at one of the few remaining items on his schedule for the day. Jon glanced at the item confirming that his old friend was indeed referring to the meeting on Transcendence Station a couple of astronomical units (AUs) from the station.

  “Why not?” Jon replied, “It looks like a good prospect. They insisted on a face-to-face meeting to agree on some final details before they signed the contract.”

  “A prospect that we have never heard of before, that is offering us a huge sum of money and insists that the contract can only go ahead after a face-to-face meeting with you personally? This, straight after you have told the Syndicate that they can go to hell?” Paul replied with increasing tones of disbelief.

  “Well I will agree it is a little unusual,” Jon replied with an easy smile. “However, you cannot expect me to remain in my office, hiding under the desk waiting for the Syndicate to send somebody to kill me,” Jon said, tossing the data-pad back to Paul with a grin. “Anyway,” Jon went on pointing his thumb in the direction of the missing wall, “we could have a power failure in this section.”