The Last Praetorian
Chapter Thirteen

Terra Nova, Zeta Aquilae System

It was much later that evening, after the Eternal Light had docked and its cargo was safely transferred to Terra Nova that Jon was secretly reviewing reports in his quarters. He was coming around to appreciate Miranda’s suggestion of filing reports electronically, as this allowed him to neatly circumvent the doctor’s explicit orders that he should be recuperating and in no way, or form, be working. Having been unceremoniously booted out of his own office by Miranda he had quickly converted his quarters into a new office; after all he had plenty of room, as it previously only consisted of a bed, chair and table.

Poring over the daily reports filed while he was off-station, he looked up in complete astonishment as Miranda breezed into his personal quarters unannounced.

“By all means, come in. Make yourself at home,” Jon commented derisively. “You know I could have just finished a shower, and was prancing around in here naked.”

Miranda’s eyes brightened at the prospect, and she replied flirtatiously, “I can always come back a bit later…”

Jon just rolled his eyes in disbelief. He had initially been shocked, upon awaking in medical, to hear that Paul had abdicated his responsibility in favour of Miranda.

Although Paul was perfectly in his right to decide who was in charge during Jon’s absence, initially Jon had been surprised at the decision. He still clearly remembered Paul’s reservations from their late evening drinking session at Paul’s apartment. However, it would seem Miranda’s hard work, dedication and passion had even brought around their cynical operation’s chief. The additional responsibility had also done wonders for the newest member of the senior staff. Jon still remembered the angry, untrusting, young pilot who had awoken in medical, demanding to know when she could return home. The news about her family and the recordings from the Syndicate outpost had cut any lingering ties to the Syndicate. Meanwhile, her rotation through the various departments had expanded her horizons and brought her into close contact with the various department heads, who she had quickly managed to win around. Jon still chuckled upon remembering the expression on Gunny’s face when she challenged him to arm wrestle.

The change in Miranda had been just as dramatic, and as her self-confidence began to grow, a wicked sense of humour emerged.

Probably a little overconfident, Jon thought observing the bold young woman who had just strolled into his quarters unannounced.

“You have plans for the evening?” Jon inquired, motioning towards her bold wardrobe choice. Wearing a bright red silk blouse, a black pencil skirt that nicely showed off her endless legs, and with her hair tied back in a braid she looked more like a fashion model than the interim CEO of Vanguard.

“Dinner and drinks with the senior staff tonight,” Miranda replied, reclining in the only other chair in the room, a small couch Jon had only included so Paul could have a seat when they did drinks in his quarters.

“What? Dinner and drinks with the senior staff? I never had dinner and drinks with the senior staff.”

“Exactly my point,” Miranda insisted. “Hence why dinner and drinks with the senior staff is long overdue. Everyone has confirmed they will be there tonight.”

Eyeing the young woman and her bold ensemble, Jon could well understand how the entire male complement of the senior staff would be jostling to be first in line to dinner. Jon briefly wondered if there was time before dinner for a quick memo to all senior staff stating anybody caught ogling the new boss would be first out the airlock in the morning.

“You are welcome to join us…” Miranda tentatively proposed.

Jon would have choked at the proposition if he had been fortunate enough to be eating at the time. Unfortunately he had not eaten yet, so had to settle instead on giving her a surprised look and replying, “Unfortunately I have a prior engagement, but please you go ahead.”

It was Miranda’s turn to give him a quizzical look. “By a prior engagement, you mean that you are eating dinner in your quarters—alone. The same thing you do every evening, except when you and Paul are getting roaring drunk together, or you are unconscious in sickbay after being stabbed?”

Damn. Busted.

Jon just shrugged depreciatingly. “You know the old saying, the loneliness of command.”

Miranda just stared at Jon in frustration. She had been totally confident as she strode into his quarters she would be able to entice him to come to the party. Even if she had been advised otherwise by everybody on the station, from Paul downwards.

Jon, meanwhile, was contemplating an evening socialising with the senior staff with something akin to a panic attack. Going along to dinner, he had the option of acting like a wallflower the entire evening, avoiding any sort of conversation at all. The alternative was to engage his senior officers in small talk.

“Hi Jon, how are you?” “Good thanks; the knife wound is healing well.”

“Been seeing anybody recently?” “No, not since I betrayed and then abandoned my last girlfriend. You might have heard of her, no? She is now the Confederation President.”

“How is business?” “Not bad after going into business for myself. You see my last boss was murdered when I should have been protecting him, and I then got my entire squadron killed, and the boss’s daughter almost raped and killed.”

Jon went completely pale at the thought, focusing on keeping his stomach firmly under control, since it felt like somebody had just dropped a hot lead ball into it.

Belatedly recognising Jon’s expression, Miranda realised the entire idea had been ill conceived, but dammit the senior staff had earned themselves a break. Not everybody was a hard, relentless, unfeeling machine like Jon. As soon as she had thought it, Miranda wished she could take the thought back, realising it was not true. Jon had feelings, probably a lot stronger, deeper ones than most. He just buried them deep inside. Miranda wondered what it would take to get an emotional reaction from the man sitting across from her. A man Miranda realised she had developed her own strong feelings for.

“There will be dancing afterwards, you do know how to dance don’t you?” Miranda tried one final time, this time she got a reaction however, just not the reaction that she had been expecting.

Surprise flared in Jon’s eyes, followed closely by shock, then hurt. “No, I don’t dance,” Jon finally replied, turning his head away. “I haven’t danced in a long time,” he whispered softly to himself, lost deeply in the past, both real and imaginary.

“Then now is a good time as any! I need to practice before the party, as I am a little rusty. Just one dance, please?” Miranda asked taking Jon’s hand in hers, pulling him to his feet. For a moment Miranda thought that Jon was going to pull away, but she had his hand in a firm grip, and knew Jon was too much a gentleman, too much an officer, to push her away. Instead Jon firmly, but gently, closed his hand around hers and stepping away from the desk before moving in closer and encircled her waist with his other hand.

Somewhat taken by surprise at the smooth move, Miranda was about to propose they wait a minute while she put some music on when, much to her surprise, Jon started to move. They glided around the dark quarters, the only light coming from the stars shining through Jon’s viewport. Miranda was mesmerised, as Jon seemed to set a pace matching a rhythm playing in his head, sometimes slowing almost to a halt, at other times propelling her swiftly across the room.

If this were his idea of not being able to dance, I would love to see something he is good at!

Taking the opportunity during one of the slow portions, Miranda looked up into Jon’s eyes and was astonished to see the emotion shining there. Love, sadness, regrets and pain. Miranda had never seen such expressions on Jon’s face before. His misty grey eyes always seemed to obscure whatever he was thinking or feeling. But for a brief moment the mist seemed to clear and it felt as though Miranda could look down, into his very soul, and the depth of pain and anguish she saw there took her breath away.

Finally the song in Jon’s head seemed to slowly wind down, and they danced in ever-smaller circles, until they finally came to a rest, with Miranda pressed intimately against him. Still Jon stared into Miranda’s eyes, as if preoccupied. Slowly, ever so slowly, Jon lowered his mouth towards Miranda’s waiting lips. Miranda let her eyes flutter shut, awaiting his warm lips, when suddenly a loud chime interrupted the moment.

Startled, Miranda’s eyes flashed open to replace Jon looking at her with surprise and confusion. Shaking his head, as if to clear his mind, Jon released his hold on her and took a step away. “Come!” he called, his voice sounding rough to Miranda’s ears.

Jason stepped into his quarters, his eyes instantly taking in the scene; the two of them barely a foot apart, in the middle of Jon’s quarters, both wearing flushed and heated looks. This time it was Jason who wondered what he had interrupted.

“Sirs?” he inquired carefully, not sure how he should address the pair. But Miranda peeled away, disappearing into the washroom, leaving Jason and Jon alone. Jon’s gaze followed the younger woman to the washroom before the door quietly slid shut, and again he shook his head, as though trying to awake from a particularly surreal dream. Jon turned his attention back to the Lieutenant.

“I’m sorry for arriving unannounced,” Jason apologised, once again glancing at the washroom, again wondering just what he had interrupted. “But this is extremely important.”

Jon was curious at what the intelligence officer wanted to discuss, as Jon could not remember the young man ever being this agitated before. Jon motioned towards the empty seat Miranda had been occupying moments before. Jon could not exactly remember what had happened after that. He remembered dancing with Sofia? Miranda? He could not be exactly sure, as everything seemed to blur together.

Jason ignored the offered seat and started to anxiously pace the length of the room, as he explained. “Commander, we have only just managed to break the encryption protecting the Syndicate computer core that the marines recovered.”

For a moment Jon was confused about what the young officer was referring to. Finally he recollected the original, primary purpose of the raid on the Syndicate outpost was to retrieve the computer core for intelligence. Honestly, Jon had completely forgotten about the computer core, as it had been overshadowed by recent events, namely the rescuing of the captives, the collapse of the Syndicate throughout the inhabited systems and their recent retaliation.

“We’ve uncovered intelligence regarding an imminent attack on the station,” Jason went on to explain.

“We are already aware of that, Lieutenant,” Jon replied with a sigh. “We already halted that attack, killed the Syndicate shock troops and destroyed their captured ship.” Jon explained, amazed that Intelligence could be so blind to events unfolding around them.

Jason just blinked once in surprise. “Not that attack Commander, that was just the diversion to distract us. I’m talking about the fleet currently on route to here. Its objective is you!”

It was Jon’s turn to blink in surprise, before motioning once again to the chair. “I think you had better take a seat Lieutenant and explain. From the beginning this time.”

Meanwhile Miranda splashed cool water onto her flushed cheeks, staring at her own, wide-eyed face, reflected back at her in the mirror. She was asking herself what the hell had just happened, or nearly just happened. Following Paul’s revelations about Jon during their discussions in his office, while Jon had been recuperating in medical, Miranda had set herself the challenge of breaking him free from his self-imposed isolation.

Hence, taking every opportunity presented, Miranda spent time with him, often on the pretence of getting his opinion on a certain decision, continually trying to involve him in the social fabric of the station. However, Jon seemed to rebuff her at every turn, always having an excuse or other pretext at hand to avoid the particular occasion, until this evening. For some reason her request for a dance seemed to completely slip past all the defences he had built. And the dance! Nobody had ever held her like that, looked at her with such complete adoration or had he been?

Sure Jon seemed to be present, in body at least, but his mind, his spirit, and his heart? Miranda feared they were many years away, in distance or time, she did not know. What she did know was, for a moment, just a brief instant, she had managed to make a crack in his thick emotional armour and was able to peer inside and see the real Jonathan Radec. What she had seen left her wanting more. So much more.

While Jon came across as cold, aloof and uncaring, Miranda now knew this was just his defence mechanism to stop anybody getting too close, too personal. From the brief glimpse she got of the real person, she could see a warm, understanding, caring man. Somebody who would respect her for who she was, support her and be a partner in every possible meaning of the word.

Miranda pitied this princess, who having reached the pinnacle of power in the Confederation, having every advantage, every privilege was still unable to retain this man. Therefore confident she would not make the same mistakes as this other woman, Miranda dried her face and, confirming her hair was still immaculate, left the washroom to determine what news Jason had to bring them. Somehow she doubted it was good.

Jon looked up at the sound of the door sliding open and Miranda re-entered the room, a warm smile meeting his concerned gaze. Miranda gave a slight nod in response to Jon’s unvoiced question inquiring if she was okay. Jon stood at her approach and once again offered her his hand in an unconscious peace offering at brushing her off so coldly upon being interrupted earlier.

Gladly taking the offered hand Miranda was about to inquire to the reason for the lieutenant’s earlier interruption, when Jon explained.

“It looks like I will be joining you and the senior staff this evening after all.” Upon the raised eyebrow from Miranda, Jon expanded. “It would seem that somebody wants me dead.”

“In that case they should take a ticket and get in line. What is it about you that everybody who ever meets you wants you dead?”

“Not a clue,” Jon replied with a shake of his head. “Just my winning personality, I guess.”

Still hand-in-hand, the young couple exited Jon’s quarters, heading in the direction of the senior staff briefing room, with the young intelligence officer in tow, eyeing their joined hands speculatively.

“And you are sure that it’s Jon, personally, they are after?” Paul interjected, after Lieutenant Edgar quickly recounted the story once again for the benefit of the now present senior staff.

It had been quite an evening of shocks for the senior staff. They’d arrived expecting canapés and drinks with the new, interim CEO and had been stunned at the sight of the new boss entering on the arm of their previous boss. Then dinner and drinks were cancelled since there was an emergency situation—yes, another one—as they had a fleet of incoming, hostile ships tasked with the sole objective of taking Jon, dead or alive. The consensus among the group was dead was probably the preferred option.

“Perhaps you should start again, from the beginning, uh, again,” Jon stated, scratching his chin, wondering if that phrase actually made any sense.

Sighing out aloud, Jason finally took a seat, as the constant pacing up and down was starting to make him feel dizzy. Taking a deep breath, he started to explain, again. “My team and I have spent the past several weeks working on the encryption mechanism protecting the computer core retrieved by Gunny and his marines from the Syndicate outpost.” Jason tipped his head towards Gunny in deference to his team’s heroic actions.

“The computer core was heavily damaged during the retrieval—”

“Not our fault,” Gunny protested mildly. “The laser cutters were taking too long, so we fell back on the tried and trusted method of blowing the doors. We did have Syndicate reinforcements breathing down our back, and our ride was departing.”

“I’m sure Gunny and his marines did the best job they could under very trying circumstances,” Jon suggested mildly, encouraging Jason to continue.

“Next time could I suggest a screwdriver…?” Jason grumbled, but carried on anyway. “Along with the physical damage to the core, it would seem syndicate personnel were busy trying to erase the contents of the core remotely. Frankly it’s miraculous my team managed to retrieve anything.”

“We all gratefully appreciate the absolutely stellar effort on behalf of you and your team,” Miranda interjected before Jon could respond. “However, perhaps we could actually get to the crux of the matter? I’ve been led to understand imminent doom will be arriving shortly and would hate to die in breathless anticipation, not actually knowing why.”

Jon had to cover the smirk spreading across his face with his hand, as he could not have put it better himself. It was obvious Miranda had been spending way too much time with him, and his sarcasm had started to rub off on her.

“Anyway,” Jason continued, giving Miranda an angry glare. “As requested, getting to the point, most of the data core was too badly damaged or just plain erased to recover much. However, we did manage to retrieve something from the communication sub-routine. It would seem whoever coded it introduced a bug into the encryption/decryption algorithm and the pointer for the decrypted voice stream was not being correctly destroyed and hence was missed by the memory resident garbage collector.” The sea of confused faces peering back along the length of the table, suggested to Jason the majority of the room did not understand a word of what he’d just said.

“It wasn’t deleted properly and we recovered some of the voice communications from the buffer,” Jason summarised. General nods from around the table at least acknowledged understanding of the summary. “Fortunately we managed to strike lucky with regards to one of the messages. We don’t have any visual, just the audio stream and it’s fragmented. The stream does not have any markers denoting origin, destination or timing and it’s difficult to put into context but the content of the message is clear. They clearly refer to the Commander, several times, in particularly unflattering terms.”

There was a couple of knowing smiles and nodding of heads around the table in sympathy. Most people who knew Jon, after meeting him had come away calling him very unflattering names.

“The participants in the call also referred to the recent attack, referring to is as an initial surgical strike against the leadership, to disorientate, demoralise and paralyse our command structure in preparation for the final assault. They do not go into much detail regarding forces and timing, beyond that it would take time to gather the fleet although they make it clear Terra Nova is the intended final destination, with the primary objective being the Commander’s capture, or death.” With these final words the Lieutenant fell silent, the room deathly quiet as they considered the enormity of the situation facing them.

Leaning back in his chair Jon voiced his thoughts aloud. “Well it does answer some unanswered questions. For example, why they cut power to my quarters. At the time I thought it an act of stupidly, as by doing so they lost the tactical element of surprise. However, if I was their main objective all along it makes sense. We had just assumed their target was Vanguard and the station, but that raises a new question.”

“Why you,” Paul interjected.

Jon nodded thoughtfully. “While I obviously drew enough attention from the Syndicate that they sent an assassin after me,” Jon nodded his head in Miranda’s direction warmly. “To which I am in the Syndicate’s debt,” he added with a wink.

Miranda just laughed.

“Perhaps there is a clue within the message, with the constant use of your rank?” Paul mused. “It’s interesting it is the only way they refer to you, not by your first name, last name, or even by your company title. That could be meaningful.”

Thinking for a moment, Jon shook his head discouragingly. “I’m not sure what we can infer from it, while we refer to each other by rank frequently, it’s a force of habit. Having been in the navy so long I do it subconsciously. Outside of amongst us, I never use it. I simply refer to myself by name or use my company title.”

“That’s my exact point.”

“You think that one or more of the participants on the call was ex-navy?” Jon asked surprised, as the thought had never occurred to him before.

“Not necessarily ex-navy, but ex-military certainly. After all, we were not the only ones to replace ourselves unemployed after the Confederation disbanded the Imperial Fleet.”

Jon looked at his chief of operations morosely. It was bad enough to be facing a significant but unknown threat to their existence, but it would be an order of magnitude worse if the Syndicate were now also employing disbanded Imperial forces.

“Well this is all idle speculation at the moment,” Jon stated emphatically. “Let’s not go borrowing additional trouble. Lieutenant, is there any additional intelligence you or your team can offer? The makeup of the fleet that is on its way perhaps?” Jon inquired wishfully of the young intelligence officer.

“No sir,” Jason replied emphatically. “My team and I are trying to compile a list of Syndicate ships that have escaped the Confederation, however it’s an endless task as we never had a comprehensive list of their ships in the first place. To many dummy corporate fronts, unregistered owners, cross-ownership deals. It would take a lifetime to untangle that mess, although I would refer to their use of the term fleet with some concern, as this does suggest a significant number of ships. By now they must have at least some idea of our capabilities and have prepared accordingly.”

“A very sobering thought. Thanks Jason,” Jon replied. “What are our options, people?” Jon addressed the question to the remaining senior staff.

“Let them come,” Gunny replied confidently. “We have kicked their arses every time we have encountered them, I have no reason to doubt this time will be any different. We have been forewarned, so they have already lost the tactical element of surprise, and we have enough time to dig in. My marines are waiting—bring ’em on!”

“Thanks Gunny,” Jon responded dryly. “I’m glad that you’re on our side.”

“While I have full confidence in Gunny, our marines and David’s station security,” Paul hedged. “We have to face the fact we are no longer in the Imperial Fleet and we are just not equipped to dig in and wait for reinforcements. At some point they are going to be able to muster enough ships to simply overwhelm our station defences and us. At that point they don’t even need to board the station, they can just shoot holes in us from a distance, until we surrender or there are none of us left alive. David, you were working on some different tactical scenarios several weeks back, trying to guess the Syndicate response. I would suggest those are still valid. What did you come up with?”

As all eyes on the room turned to face Lieutenant McNeill, and he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “My team and I worked up several tactical scenarios,” he explained. “These varied in size from a single ship, executing a covert infiltration of the station, up to a full division-sized assault.”

Jon rolled his eyes sarcastically. “I think I suggested at the time that a full divisional assault, with up to one thousand armed assailants was most unlikely,” Jon interjected.

“We had to consider all the various tactical scenarios, sir,” David responded stiffly.

“I hope you did not discount invasion by armed hostile aliens then.”

“No, sir, there was a tactical scenario for that.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No sir.”

All that could be heard in the silent briefing room was the dull thuds as Jon repeatedly banged his head against the table in despair. Rubbing his now sore head Jon finally replied. “Look, I think we are once again veering off the topic here. What’s your point Paul?”

“We need to request assistance from the Confederation Navy.”

“No.”

“Is that your pride speaking, your personal animosity for the Confederation—a Confederation you helped found, I should remind you—or because you recently found out Sofia is now in charge of the aforementioned Confederation and you do not want her involved?”

Jon eye’s turned dark and he gave his executive officer an angry gaze.

“One minute, back up a bit, you were also involved in the founding of the Confederation?” Miranda asked in complete disbelief. “Is there any significant historical event over the past twenty years that you were not intimately involved in?”

Jon momentarily tore his eyes away from his executive officer, who he had already decided was going to receive an earful from him as soon as they were in private. “It’s not relevant.”

The look of astonishment on Miranda’s face told Jon exactly what she thought of that response. “What do you mean it’s not relevant? How can your involvement in the birth of the Confederation, the greatest political act since, since, the founding of the Empire, over five centuries ago, not to be relevant?”

“We’re getting off the topic again,” Jon replied. He realised he had been saying that a lot in the past hour, but they still had not formulated a response to the current imminent threat. “While I am in charge we are not going to involve the Confederation Navy, and that’s final!”

“While you are in charge…” Paul parroted, angling his head towards Miranda, seated at the head of the conference table.

“So if standing and fighting is not an option, nor is involving Confederation military, what other options are open to us?” Jon inquired, purposefully ignoring Paul’s earlier quip.

“In a number of the tactical scenarios that we ran through the computer, defeat was pretty much guaranteed,” David said. “In those scenarios the suggested course of action was to retreat…” suddenly it occurred to David that with the calibre of the people sitting around the table the word retreat was just not a word in their lexicon and he finally settled upon, “…tactically withdraw.”

“We’re just going to run away and give them Terra Nova, our home?” Miranda responded in disbelief, voicing the thought that was obviously on many a mind around the table.

“Better to live today and fight another day,” David replied uncomfortably, aware there seemed to be little enthusiasm for this option around the table. “There is no honour in getting needlessly killed,” he added.

“Nobody is taking Terra Nova,” Jon said firmly, to nods around the table. “At least not intact. However, we need to remember there are almost three-hundred lives at risk here, and almost a third of the inhabitants of the station are woman and children. I will not put them at risk. Not even for my personal pride,” Jon stated angrily, throwing his operations chief’s words back in his face.

Paul meanwhile had the good grace to look aside, ashamed that he had doubted his old friend.

“Hence, we hope for the best but prepare for the worst,” Jon quoted the phrase most military commanders had lived by since the dawn of modern warfare. “We prepare for the full evacuation of the station, and I mean the full evacuation,” Jon put the emphasis on the last two words giving Gunny a penetrating gaze. “That includes you and your marines Gunny. We are not going to have any heroic, suicidal last stands while I am still in charge. When the Syndicate fleet arrives we will re-evaluate the tactical situation, and if it’s hopeless we withdraw.” Jon met each of his senior staff’s gazes, one-by-one, to ensure they all understood. “Nobody and I mean nobody takes Terra Nova from us,” Jon emphasised. “If it comes to that I’ll drop the magnetic containment for the fusion reactor and they can try and capture the remaining dust fragments of the station for all I care.”

While nobody relished the orders, the senior staff all acknowledged them, understanding while they were all emotionally attached to the station, which they had all come to call home for the past few years, it was not worth their lives.

Acknowledging the nods around the table, albeit some of them hesitant, Jon finally turned back to Jason. “Do you have a copy of the audio recording you recovered from the Syndicate computer core?”

“Yes sir, although it’s not particularly good quality. We had to put it through the computer’s scrubbers several times to try and piece it back together.”

“Let’s hear it,” Jon ordered.

Retrieving a datapad resting on the table in front of him, Jason tapped on the device several times, retrieving the audio file before piping the output via the room’s audio system. An ear-splitting screech of static filled the room, the sound of a thousand fingernails being run down a board simultaneously, and all the occupants in the room visibly winced.

“Sorry,” Jason replied, adjusting both the audio output, and the volume.

The static faded as quickly as it had arisen, to be replaced by a clipped voice. “I thought you told me to never contact you directly on this channel.”

“I did tell you to never contact me on this channel, Mallart,” another deeper, rougher voice replied. “That did not preclude me contacting you...”

“We think that the first voice belongs to Magistratus Mallart, one of the Syndicate inner-council,” Jason interjected helpfully.

“You think?” Jon replied sarcastically. Once this latest crisis was over Jon vowed he was going to take Jason and his team on a well-deserved, all expenses paid vacation. He and his team had done miracles over the past few months, but seriously, they needed to get out more.

The audio stream broke up at this point and nothing could be understood for several seconds, but eventually the quality improved again and the voices could be understood.

“What of the latest regarding news on Vanguard? Was your assassin successful?” the unknown voice demanded impatiently. Jon was not sure if he was imagining it, but the voice sounded anxious.

“I am unsure of your obsession with this particular problem,” Mallart replied evasively. “Vanguard is a minor annoyance, nothing more. We will deal with them, as we have dealt with all of the others who have rejected our offers.”

“So your assassin failed, just as I predicted,” the voice gloated arrogantly. “I warned you that sending her after the Commander was an effort in futility, he is an exceptionally skilled pilot.” The compliment came across more as a curse.

“Radec was lucky, that was all. We already have another operation underway; we are assembling our finest enforcers—”

“I’m not interesting in hearing about your failures, Mallart!” the voice thundered. “You have already failed us once. You will not do so again. Your finest are like buzzing flies to this man, he will crush them just as easily. Marcus chose this man personally. He had the elite of the Imperial Navy to choose from, yet he chose this man to protect him and his daughter. Does this not tell you something? Does it not give you some indication of the calibre of this particular individual? Still you treat him as an annoyance. I have already indulged you once, and you failed spectacularly. Send your enforcers. They mean nothing to me, and they will fair equally as well. I will deal with the Commander, personally.”

“I thought your involvement was going to wait, the plan we agreed on is not yet complete. Operations for the final colonies are still only at the planning stage, we need more time. And what of the Confederation? If they discover our plans, their forces will move against us.”

“The Confederation Navy will have bigger problems on their hands. With their planets in flames, their populace crying out for protection, they will be forced to divert more and more of their fleet. Eventually they will be spread so thinly they will be defenceless and then we will strike. The plan will continue apace. I will assemble the fleet and we will crush them. Commander Radec and Vanguard will become just a footnote in history. History is written by the victors, nobody cares about the losers.”

As the audio recording came to an end, the silence in the room was broken by a lone voice. “The fleet en-route will consist of at least a dozen frigates, two destroyers, three heavy cruisers and a star-carrier. At least that is what it used to consist of.”

Jason’s mouth fell open in astonishment, and it took him several moments to replace his voice, as he stared in amazement at the Commander, who had uttered the words. “How in the Emperor’s name can you determine that from a simple audio recording?”

Jon glanced at his hands, white from the force he had been using to grip the edge of the datapad, as the recording had progressed. With a conscious effort, he pried his fingers from the device before looking up and responding to the Lieutenants question. “Because I recognise that voice, which has haunted me for the last five years. That voice ordered the death of our Emperor. That voice ordered the death of the Praetorians. That voice ordered the mercenaries sent to kill Sofia and I. That is the voice I have spent years looking for, that I followed using every report, every rumour, and every scrap of intelligence. That voice is the one that I have sworn, on the lives of all those he destroyed, that I would hunt down and silence, forever.”

Focusing once again on the occupants of the room, having been consumed by memories that Jon thought long buried he clarified, “The voice belongs to Commodore Harkov, previously Admiral Harkov, before being stripped of that rank by the Emperor after his desertion during the battle of Rigel. The Commodore, the entire 4th fleet, including the star-carrier Imperial Star vanished soon after the assassination of the Emperor and my escape with Sofia. The Commodore and the fleet were never seen again, although I followed up on several rumours. Sofia and I speculated at the time the original plan was that the Empire was meant to have disintegrated after the death of Emperor Aurelius, as there was no clear line of succession, no chain of command for the Imperial Fleet.”

“But it didn’t happen that way.” Paul interjected.

“No,” Jon replied. “When Sofia and I finally arrived at Eden Prime, she made the decision to abdicate, allowing the Empire to become a true Confederation. Sofia’s final command was for the remaining fleet Admirals to all sign the Confederation Charter, thereby forever placing the Imperial Fleet under the direct command of the Senate. As you all know, the Senate soon disbanded the Imperial Fleet, I assume because they still did not trust the military leadership, and replaced it with the Confederation Navy. Hence the Empire never disintegrated, but instead transformed into the Confederation we have today. There was never the civil war we assume the Commodore was hoping for, to allow him to seize power.”

“So you and Sofia disrupted the Commodore’s plan,” Paul observed insightfully.

Jon just shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps. This was all just speculation on our part during one evening.” Jon fell silent, preoccupied by the good memories of that time. Sofia and him, still entwined in the sheets from their last bout of lovemaking, her head resting gently on his bare chest, as he brushed away a sweaty strand of hair, which had interrupted his prior journey of kissing downwards from her neck…

Realising Paul had been asking him a question, Jon shook his head to banish the pleasant daydream.

“I said, does this change anything?” Paul repeated the question.

Jon let the question bounce around in his head for a few moments. Did it change anything? The tactical situation remained unchanged. They still had a fleet of hostile ships on the way, which could arrive at any minute. At least they now had some idea of how many ships to expect, assuming even a detachment of the 4th fleet arriving, far more than they could possibly ever hope to fight. Yet, this changed nothing—and everything.

While the situation was still hopeless, Jon had no intention of running away, not now. Jon had spoken truthfully when he told his crew he had sworn an oath to replace this man and stop him. He had spent years futilely searching, following every possible lead, all to no avail. Now the object of his search was coming here, to him! No, Jon had no intention of leaving. Finally he would be able to have his revenge for all the loved ones this man had taken, all the lives he had destroyed, everything he had lost…

With growing concern, Paul recognised the fanatical gleam in Jon’s eyes, one that he had not seen in many years. Like many of the senior staff, Paul had first met Jon during their time in the Imperial Fleet, where their paths had crossed frequently, mostly while on clandestine operations ordered by the Emperor. However, even before meeting Jon in person, Paul had heard the whispers in the fleet about the new commander of the Praetorian Guards. The word fanatical was the one Paul had most heard used to describe the young Commander, and he could understand how most people had mistakenly assumed so.

Upon first meeting Jon, Paul had braced himself for the worst. Hearing the rumours, he had assumed he would be dealing with a raving, fanatical zealot, suicidal and intent on carrying out the Emperor’s wishes, whatever the cost. Instead Paul found himself dealing with a smart, determined officer. Paul discovered the fanaticism most people labelled the Commander with, was instead a passionate belief in the underlying principles of the Empire, and its leader the Emperor. Furthermore, Paul was astonished to discover the Commander had a unique ability to use that belief to inspire those around him, to share it, and, as a result, those around him trusted in him completely. To the point Paul knew they would follow him into hell, because they trusted he would bring them all back.

During his time with Jon, through some of the darkest times of his life, Paul came to understand the source of this man’s belief. For what perhaps even Jon did not realise was that he had come to love the Emperor. A person who half the Empire detested as a dictating tyrant and the other half only tolerated, as the alternative was even worse to contemplate, Jon had come to love him as a father. Paul could never comprehend how, or why, though he had made some educated guesses over the years. A beautiful princess with flaming red hair and emerald green eyes came first to mind.

Anyway, for whatever reason, Jon believed in these ideals and was determined they would succeed. Hence the fall of the Empire shook those beliefs and ideals to his core. With each successive corruption or bribery charge laid at the Confederation Senate, a little piece of Jon’s faith and spirit was chipped away, until all that was left was a shadow of his former self.

As far as Paul was aware there were only two reasons why Jon still fought for his beliefs and ideals. The first was the love Paul knew still resided in Jon’s heart for Sofia. Occasionally he would still see the spark in his old friend’s eyes and a sad smile grace his face, and he knew Jon was still thinking about her, fighting to make the galaxy just a slightly better place for her, and maybe one day her children. The other reason…well, Paul did not need to see the hate smouldering across the table in Jon’s eyes to guess the second reason.

“Jon?” Paul prompted again.

“Nothing changes,” Jon replied ominously.

“And the no suicidal final stand edict?” Paul inquired, gave Jon a sceptical look.

“The discussion is finished. Dismissed,” Jon ordered to the stunned officers.

“What about—”

“I said dismissed!” Jon growled, chopping his hand thought air to make it clear the subject was now closed.

The senior staff all gazed towards Paul with various concerned expressions. A moment later Paul gave the staff a nod, to acknowledge the order and, slowly, one by one, the senior officers filed out of the meeting room, until finally only Paul and Jon remained.

“I said dismissed, Captain,” Jon ordered focusing his angry stare at Paul.

“I’m no longer a Captain, and I resigned from the Navy, don’t you remember?” Paul replied mildly. “It means that you can’t go ordering me about.”

Evidently Jon had forgotten that technicality, as instead he ground his teeth together in frustration, that they were going to have to have this conversation.

“Jon, we have known each other a long time, I have never questioned your decisions.”

Until now.

“This is not our fight anymore, call the Confederation Navy, call the Senate, hell, call Sofia. It was not so long ago. A lot of them still remember you, and they respect you. They will listen to you. The Emperor is dead Jon, this personal crusade of yours is not necessary.”

“NO!” Jon screamed, leaping from his chair, slamming his fists into the table with such force that it trembled. “It was my fault! I knew that Harkov was a snake and did nothing. My fault! I swore an oath to defend the Emperor and failed. My fault! I swore that I would protect Sofia—”

“And you did, you have.”

“No! You do not know how many times I came close to losing her. All because of Harkov. All because I failed in my duty. Well I am going to make sure that bastard does not harm anybody else. I’ll send him back to the deepest, darkest pit of hell, where he crawled out from. My only regret is that I’ll not have the pleasure to gut him first, and watch him drown in his own bile.”

“Marcus would not have wanted this for you or Sofia.” Paul suggested in barely a whisper.

“That’s the first thing that you have said that I happen to agree with. No, I’m almost certain this is not what Marcus was planning.” Jon replied bitterly. “The man has been dead for almost five years and I still cannot seem to escape from under his shadow.”

Paul eyed the younger man speculatively, wondering what Jon meant by that comment. “That’s why you left Sofia? Because of something Marcus said or did before he died?” Paul speculated aloud. He had been telling Miranda the truth that he had no real idea why Jon left Sofia, but if it were something Marcus had said or did, that would make some sense. Except Marcus had been dead for months when Jon finally turned his back on Sofia, after the signing of the Confederation Charter on Eden Prime. Soon after that Jon disappeared into his self-imposed exile, only reappearing a few years later to accept Paul’s offer of leading Vanguard. It just didn’t make any sense, and it was obvious Jon was not going to enlighten him, as he simply averted his eyes, muttering about history being left in the past.

“And what of all the others on the station, Jon?” Paul threw back in his face. “Remember that there are almost three-hundred lives at risk here. I will not put them at risk? What happened to that lofty goal?”

Jon stared at Paul furiously before replying, “I’ll deal with Harkov myself, nobody will be ordered to stand at my side when that fleet arrives.” With the final word, Jon stormed out of the briefing room, his anger a palatable cloud swirling around behind him.

Paul watched with a worried expression as the door slid shut in his wake. Unfortunately the rest of the crew did not share Jon’s lack of self-worth. Paul knew with absolute certainty not one member of the crew was going to leave if Jon insisted on remaining behind to face the fleet alone. Paul remained in the briefing room long after Jon’s departure facing some very unpalatable decisions.

It was late into the night, station time, with his wife and children long since retired to bed, when Paul tiredly sat down at his desk, his hand hovering over the communication console.

Paul had never knowingly betrayed Jon, except for that one time when emotion had overcome reason. However, Paul had long since come to terms with that mistake, viewing the years of self-regret and guilt surely were punishment enough for the act. Anyway, Paul recognised that one day he would have to face Jon with the truth, and that encounter alone was likely to repay any remaining debt, with interest. Paul vowed that when the day came, he would ensure Jon was nowhere within reach of his sword. Jon was dangerous enough on an average day, however with that blade in his hand Jon was the epitome of death. Even Paul, no stranger to death, had been horrified at the sight of Jon, blade in hand scything through enemy troops as if they were simply blades of grass falling in the wind. No. Paul was going to make absolutely certain Jon was nowhere near that weapon when he told him.

It did not help Paul’s conscience much to realise he was not disobeying a direct order, as such. Jon had ordered him not to involve the Confederation Navy. Well, that did not preclude Paul from informing anybody else. If they just happened to pass on the message, well, that was out of Paul’s hands.

Only slightly mollified by this minor distinction, Paul activated the communications console. The next problem was how to get the message to the intended recipient, as Paul was fairly sure her private channel was not listed in any public database. Paul accessed a not-so-private database, the Confederation Navy Data-net. Of course Paul did not have any official access to such a secure system but, fortunately, budgetary cuts to the Navy meant it was simply a rebranded version of the old Imperial Navy data-net and that Paul practically owned. Accessing the database, using one of the old system administrator accounts, Paul quickly looked up the private communication channel for Sofia Aurelius.

Unfortunately that turned out to be the first of many problems. The second was quickly apparent when he tried initiating a call, only to be informed by the software agent monitoring Sofia’s private channel she was currently unavailable and if he would like to leave a message, this would be passed on at the earliest possible opportunity.

Paul growled in frustration. For all he knew Harkov could be arriving at any moment and people would start dying, rapidly. He had to get a message to Sofia immediately. His eyebrows arched in deep thought. Paul had similar software agents running on his own personal channel, obviously. Most people did. While communications technology progressed, the pressing desire of some people to sell others worthless crap unfortunately had not diminished in the slightest. Hence his personal software agent was only programmed to accept a limited number of calls, from specific people or locations. However, Paul had programmed in certain overrides, certain key words or phrases. Paul assumed Sofia had done likewise, but what could he use to get her attention? Thinking about the words and phrases Paul had programmed—his wife Carol, the kids names, birthdays, Jon—Paul thought back to the last time he had seen Sofia, remembering her devastated expression after Jon had left. No, Paul was sure Sofia had loved Jon…

Then the answer hit him like a brick. Re-opening the communication channel, when, once again, the software agent prompted him to leave a message, this time he did.

“Commander Jonathan Radec, 58th Squadron, Praetorian Guards.”

The software agent immediately vanished from the screen, leaving a blank grey visage. Suddenly the channel connected and Paul was staring into the stunned green eyes of the last Imperial Princess—Sofia Aurelius.