The Sunfire (2 page)

However, before he could get any acknowledgement, another
urgent call rang out across the bridge from the Operations Officer. “Launch! I
have multiple missile launches from the enemy contact. Tracking. Time to impact
thirty seconds.”

“Tactical?” Ferguson called out.

“I’ve got them, no worries. Weapons are on-line, tracking,
tracking, weapons free, weapons free.” The Tactical Officer called out, passing
ultimate fire control over to the ship’s computer.

The point defence guns, which covered the bow of the
powerful cruiser, orientated themselves towards the direction of the incoming
missiles. As soon as the missiles came within range, the guns opened fire.
Targeting the nearest missile first, then the next and the next. Within the
space of a couple of seconds the incoming missiles were reduced to fragments as
they were all torn asunder by the crushing gunfire.

“Captain,” the Operations Officer called out, after the
bridge officers released a sigh of relief that their training and equipment had
paid-off and that the incoming missiles were no longer a threat. “I am
detecting another energy spike, this one is massive. The enemy ship is powering
up their FTL engines to escape.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Ferguson disagreed,
furious the unknown ship had fired upon them. “XO are we in weapons range yet?”

“Bow particle beam cannons are just within maximum firing
range,” the XO confirmed.

“Then target their engines. Do not destroy the ship, but I
don’t want them escaping. We need that ship in one piece and the crew to
interrogate.”

“Firing now,” the XO confirmed, as one of the massive
particle beam cannons on the very front of the ship orientated towards the
escaping vessel. Now within range, a beam of light, brighter than any sun, shot
out from the
Sunfire
, striking the stern of the target. While too
distant to actually penetrate the hull, the beam vaporised the power transfer
conduits and engines. The engines immediately shut down and the
Sunfire
started to close rapidly on the now drifting ship.

“Direct hit,” the XO called out. ”Target is no longer
accelerating and their reactor is powering down, looks like we immobilised
them.”

“Good job people.” The Captain congratulated his crew.
“Let’s get a boarding party ready. I want them heavily armed just in case.”

However, Ferguson’s next words were cut off as the ship
pitched hard to port, the crew desperately holding onto anything within reach
to avoid being thrown clear across the bridge.

“Report!” Ferguson shouted.

“Weapons fire from the enemy contact, sir. Looks like a
couple of dorsal mounted rail-guns. Minor damage reported, mostly to our bow
point defence guns. Looks like the enemy guns cannot penetrate our thick bow
armour.”

“Take out those guns,” Ferguson hissed, furious with
himself. He had got so caught up in the excitement of disabling the enemy
vessel, he had not considered they might still be a threat to his ship and
crew.

“Direct hit. Enemy gun emplacements have been destroyed
Captain.”

“Very well, bring us in closer and prepare a boarding
party.”

Those were the last words that Captain Stephen Ferguson,
Commanding Officer of the
Sunfire
ever uttered.

History has demonstrated, over and over again that many of
the greatest human tragedies were not the result of a single fatal mistake.
Instead such disasters were the result of several small, unfortunate events
happening in sequence.

The terrible fate that befell the
Sunfire
and her
crew was no different. The first mistake in the tragic sequence of events that
followed was the failure of the ship’s crew to reduce speed after disabling the
enemy vessel. This resulted in the ship being far too close to the enemy
vessel. In such ship-to-ship combat, distance is essential to give crews time
to react to events. Hence the crew of the
Sunfire
had no such time to
act when the enemy weapon was finally deployed.

The sole missile was ejected from the aft missile battery of
the enemy ship and immediately went to full speed. Launched from such a short
distance, it could hardly miss. The ship’s sensors detected the launch almost
instantaneously and, with the
Sunfire’s
point defence systems still on
automatic, the computer immediately targeted the missile with the bow guns.
However, many of these were still inactive, damaged by the earlier gunfire from
the enemy ship, the next step in the unfortunate sequence of events that had
already doomed the ship and crew.

The few active defence guns within range targeted the enemy
missile, fired, but missed, the closest shell passing within inches of the
missile and its deadly payload. Had this been any ordinary missile the
remaining guns would have had time to destroy it, or the heavy bow armour of
the massive warship would have mostly contained the blast. Unfortunately this
was no ordinary missile, and it detonated a few hundred meters from the bow of
the
Sunfire
.

Upon detonation the thermonuclear reaction immediately
started and began emitting high-energy neutrons on an exponential scale. The
theory of neutron bombs had been well understood since their invention in the
mid-twentieth century. Unlike normal fission weapons, the explosive energy from
a neutron bomb was miniscule. Instead its deadly effect was the result of the
enormous radiation it released
—
deadly to any living
organism. Such were the horrific effects of these weapons that every nuclear
non-proliferation treaty signed ever since had banned them.

While the warship’s systems had been shielded against the
radiation and electromagnetic pulse of a nuclear explosion, none of this was
enough to save the crew of the
Sunfire,
as within seconds the entire
crew had been exposed to radiation levels a thousand times greater than any
lethal dose. Those lucky enough to be nearer the hull and exposed to greater
levels died within a heartbeat. Those further away and somewhat shielded by the
ship’s hull took several agonising seconds to die.

In a final act of perhaps divine justice, as the Tactical
Officer collapsed against his console, with his last dying breath he triggered
the
Sunfire’s
own missile batteries. Dozens of missiles sped from their
launch tubes, streaking towards the immobilised enemy warship. While these were
only armed with conventional high explosive warheads, they were more than
adequate for the task at hand. Impacting along the length of the enemy ship
they tore through the armoured hull. Compartments explosively decompressed
until eventually the missiles penetrated the very heart of the enemy vessel. As
the shielding around the fusion reactor was breached, the core detonated,
vaporising the enemy warship, leaving behind only the lifeless
Sunfire
to continue her final journey alone.

A ghost ship.

*****

Even tens of thousands of kilometres away, the sensors on the
Eternal Light
easily picked up the sudden burst of high-energy neutrons.
Immediately Jon was almost blinded by the sudden flash of light. It was only
the ship’s quick action to reduce the contrast of the cockpit windows that
saved Jon from permanent blindness. The massive flare of light was followed
quickly by a second, smaller burst. He had seen enough similar blasts in his
life to recognise a reactor core breach. With a frantic hammering on the
controls Jon opened a communication channel to the
Sunfire
but there was
no response, only static. Reversing course, ignoring subtlety, Jon increased
power to the engines to maximum. Even then the two-hour wait until he arrived
at the last known position of the
Sunfire
was one of the longest of his
life. However, by then he was too late.

Even twenty kilometres distant from the ship, sensors
sounded a radiation warning. It was far too dangerous to proceed any closer.
While Jon repeatedly tried to hail the warship without success, the
Light’s
sensors reported minimal external damage to the ship, except for the deadly
levels of radiation.

It would take many years before the ship would be safe to
approach.

Closing his eyes in despair, Jon let his head fall back
gently against the pilot’s seat. The soft seat of the shuttle, moulded to the
contours of his body, seemed to console him against the terrible loss.

After a few moments of silent grief for the loss of so many
people, so many good friends, Jon focused on the controls in front of him and
established a connection between the
Sunfire’s
main computer and the one
on the ‘
Light
. With a few more deft touches of the controls, Jon brought
online the main self-destruct routine for the warship. Ordinarily such actions
would have been completely impossible, as these programmes were highly
restricted, only accessible from within the
Sunfire
and only by the
Captain or senior bridge officers. However, while the
Sunfire
was a
Confederation Navy warship, her heart, and main computer, belonged to the now
disbanded Imperial Navy.

Having once been the Praetorian Commander, the right arm of
the Emperor, Jon had command codes to all Imperial ships, access far beyond
what many would believe even existed. Fingers hovering over the execute
command, Jon took a final moment to admire the beautiful ship as she glided
through the depths of space, starlight sparkling across her bow. Like himself,
the ship was a throwback to an earlier age, a relic, a survivor from a bygone
era.

Angrily Jon cancelled the programme and instead started
rapidly transmitting new orders to the ship’s flight computers. With a short
burn of the main engines, the massive ship fell into a stable orbit on the dark
side of one of the smaller moons, orbiting the second planet of the System.
Slowly, one-by-one, the lights of the great ship extinguished, until eventually
it was just another patch of darkness floating around the small moon
—the
Sunfire
now
the final tomb and resting place of the
brave crew.

Once Jon could no longer see the ship, he powered up the FTL
engine for the shuttle, turning the prow to point towards a far more distant
star
—
home. With a final flash of light the
Eternal
Light
disappeared into FTL, leaving no trace of the terrible events that
had taken place.

Present Day (Three years later)

Planet Tartarus, Sigma Draconis System

On a startled cry his eyes flew open, his breath coming in
short, fast gasps, as if a huge weight was bearing down upon his chest. His
memory of the nightmare was already receding, but he could still remember being
unable to draw breath, the cold and dark closing in upon him, suffocating.

He stayed still for a long time. Lying in the same bed he
always woke up in, staring up at the same bare, featureless ceiling, waiting
for his breathing to even out and his heart to stop beating wildly in his
chest. Anyway, why the rush to get out of bed? His day would follow exactly the
same routine it had every day for the past five years, ever since he had been
interned in this apartment.

He had spent the first few weeks inspecting every inch of
the apartment, until he could picture it from memory. The small, sparsely
decorated bedroom, with the soft, comfortable mattress, white linen sheets and
thick shag pile carpets. The bedroom led into the spacious combined
living-dining room area, where he spent most of his waking hours. With a
comfortable sofa, coffee table and small dining table that could easily fit two
—
but he rarely invited guests over. One wall of the room was
taken up by a massive projection displaying soothing outside scenes. From the
trickling noise emanating from underneath the bedroom door, he guessed it was
the small stream, winding its way through the luscious green meadow this
morning.

He snorted in amusement at the joke.

He knew for a fact the outside landscape was no pleasant
green meadow, but something more akin to
Dante’s Inferno
. For Tartarus,
as a recently formed planet, relatively speaking at a little over one million
years old, was still highly active, with numerous volcanoes spread along the
edges of the planet’s many tectonic plates. The lethal cocktail of gasses
emitted, including carbon dioxide, sulphur dioxide, methane and carbon
monoxide, weren’t conducive to supporting wonderful green meadows and woods.
The planet could barely sustain life, and anyone not using a respirator
definitely would not survive for long outside.

Finally, deciding he had been lying in bed long enough, he
quickly rolled out, getting to his feet. Suddenly small bright lights were
floating in his vision, impairing his sight, and his head started to spin.
Reaching out, he leaned heavily against the bedside table, until his sight was
restored and he once again felt stable enough to stand on his own two feet.
These dizzy spells were becoming more and more frequent, and he knew it was not
just as a result of his advancing years.

When he had been first brought to this planet, many years
earlier, he had been frequently tortured because his captors believed he knew
deep, dark, cosmic secrets, including startling truths about the nature of the
galaxy and the meaning of life. He laughed out loud to himself. All the
torturers had managed to succeed in doing was bringing him to within an inch of
his life. Finally they had given up, obviously viewing his life as more
valuable than any secrets they might have extracted. Then his captors had
thrown him into this apartment. But a jail was still a jail, no matter how
comfortable it appeared to be. The door was securely locked and he knew for a
fact there were two armed guards stationed outside twenty-four hours a day, or
however long a complete rotation was on this this god–forsaken world.

Now he was awake he indulged in a long, hot shower, in which
he lingered. After all it was not his hot water and with a little luck one of
his captors was currently experiencing a short, sharp, shockingly cold shower.
Later he towelled himself off, staring at his face, reflected in one of the few
mirrors in the apartment. The mirror was not glass; he had checked. During one
of his bouts of depression he had tried using a chair to smash the glass, only
for it to resolutely refuse to break. He assumed it was some sort of highly
polished alloy, firmly affixed to the wall.

He was sad to note only a few strands of dark hair now
remained, the rest having long since turned grey, whether from old age, the
enforced imprisonment or his torture, he had no idea. Similarly his green eyes
seemed dim, and the once-smooth face now showed signs of aging, along with a
few days’ worth of stubble.

Glancing down at his hands, he muttered to himself, “Let’s
give it a try this morning. After all, you need to look your best, if any
ladies care to dine here tonight.” Although he knew they never would.

Carefully picking up the razor, holding it lightly, he
started to run it across his cheek, slowly trimming his whiskers. However,
after only a few strokes, his hand began to shake. A few more attempts and the
hand suddenly started to spasm, the razor dropping into the small sink. “Maybe
tomorrow then,” he sighed, turning his back on the small on-suite bathroom to
find some clothes.

Sometime later, dressed and looking a little more
presentable, he sat on the comfortable sofa, gazing at the sole datapad resting
on the low coffee table in front of him.

“So what is it this morning, reading or writing?” He asked the
empty room. Unfortunately the room was of little assistance in answering this
question. “Writing it is then,” he said jovially, picking up the datapad and
staring at the few sentences he had managed to write over the intervening
years.

The Imperium or more commonly referred to as “The Empire”
was founded circa 2312AD (Old Earth calendar). Arguably the most powerful and
enduring geo-political structure since the Roman Empire’s repressive form of
government, almost two thousand years earlier.

After staring at the words for almost half an hour without
any new inspiration, he threw the datapad back onto the table in frustration.
He had first thought of the idea of writing a book on the history of the Empire
a few years into his incarceration. After all, he felt, he was more than
eminently qualified and had ample time on his hands, but he just could not seem
to get past the first few sentences.

Reading also held little interest to him. His captors
limited the library accessible on the device to classic literature, nothing
more current. He had been engrossed in
Meditations
for quite some time
,
written by his namesake almost three thousand years earlier, but for some
reason
Julius Caesar
also seemed to hold some sort of morbid
fascination. He was about to reach for the datapad once again to work on his
book when the door suddenly opened, surprising him.

Is it breakfast time already? How time flies.

Even more surprising was who followed behind his breakfast.
A tall officer, dressed in a dark uniform with silver epaulets. He looked the
complete opposite of an officer in the Imperial Navy. It was not his uniform
that drew the prisoner’s gaze, it was his face. This was the man who was
responsible for his capture, his on-going incarceration and torture. It was for
these reasons, and more, that he detested him with an almost fanatical passion.
However, at the same time, there was also a longing for the sight of this man,
his antagonist, as over the past five years this was the only man who had ever
spoken a single word to him. The only person to give him a hint, even an
inkling of events transpiring beyond these four walls.

“You don’t mind if I join you for breakfast this fine
morning?” he asked, casually slipping into one of the two chairs set around the
small table. It was obviously a rhetorical question.

Taking a seat opposite him, the prisoner’s eyes scanned the
table, which was adorned with the usual fresh breads, fine fruits, jams, tea
and coffee. They certainly didn’t want their most prized possession starving to
death. Reaching forward for the coffee, he attempted to pour himself a cup, but
once again his fine muscle control failed him and more coffee spilt across the
table than went into his cup.

“Let me,” the immaculate officer insisted. Smoothly taking
the pot of coffee and filling his cup for him. The captive could only nod his
head in thanks, while still looking at the food covering the table. However,
one could only gaze at a table for so long, and finally he lifted his head to
stare at his antagonist.

With dark-brown, almost black eyes, his dark mop of hair and
immaculately groomed, short, pointed beard, Alexander Sejanus’ rise within the
officer corps of the Imperial Navy had been nothing short of meteoric. The only
son of a rich industrialist’s family, they had spent their money lavishly on
him, sponsoring his admission into the Imperial Academy and then paying for his
even more rapid promotions. At the same time using their wealth and connections
to cover up for some of his more depraved excesses.

It was at this point the officer had first caught the older
man’s eye, just as he started to give some serious thought to his own
succession. At the time he had been drawn to the young officer’s obvious
strengths; his keen intellect, ambition and wealthy background. Overlooking or
perhaps just ignoring his more negative traits, he elevated him to the elite
Praetorian Guard, and Sejanus had exceeded his wildest expectations, but at a
cost. For the rumours and depravities surrounding the officer refused to
disappear and, indeed, seemed to become more excessive over time. Until a point
was reached when they could no longer be ignored and Sejanus had to be stripped
of his rank and position, dishonourably discharged from the Imperial Navy.

However, it was none of these things that drew his gaze to
the other man. Instead it was the long, sheathed Valerian sword resting at his
side, the ornate hilt just poking above the low table. As always he averted his
eyes, refusing to dwell upon the mistakes of the past, instead focussing on the
warm bread roll he was slathering with one of the jams he was particularly fond
of.

However, very little went unnoticed by Sejanus and he
laughed. “Having second thoughts, old man?”

“That I didn’t follow advice or my better judgement and have
you hung, drawn and quartered when I had the opportunity?” The prisoner
responded mildly. “Absolutely.”

The only response from Sejanus was a tightening of his jaw,
sign of his frustration at once again not being able to get a reaction out of
the older man. The only time he had ever managed to make even a dent in the
thick veneer of the other man’s expression was when he had gleefully informed
him of the destruction of the Praetorian Guard, the elite military unit who
protected the Emperor and his immediate family. Then, only for a brief instant,
had the prisoner’s expression wavered and he had the pleasure of seeing the
shock on his face. However, even that short triumph was ruined when the crafty
old fox had soon realised not all had died, but one had escaped.

Sejanus had to suppress the incandescent rage he felt toward
that incompetent fool, Harkov. Always strutting around his bridge like a
goddamn peacock
—
the pompous idiot. Always making
proclamations and declaring himself to be the next Emperor. Harkov had only one
task to carry out, only one. To ensure the complete and utter destruction of
the Praetorian Guard. And he could not even manage that. He had the full might
of an Imperial Navy Taskforce to ensure their annihilation, but even that had
not been enough. With his incompetency the officer had allowed the Praetorian
Commander and Princess Aurelius to escape. Well, at least Harkov was no longer
a thorn in his side, hence his presence at breakfast that morning.

“I brought some news I thought you might be interested in
hearing,” Sejanus mentioned aloud, as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
Knowing the old man must be desperate for news, any news. He knew it was a
petty thing, but still it gave him a small ripple of pleasure, to see the eager
look on his captive’s face.

“Oh? Pray tell. Any luck attempting to complete the job you
left half-finished and finally kill Commander Radec?” This statement was
delivered with a wizened cackle.

Once again Sejanus had to fight to keep the anger from his
face. He constantly wondered how this old man, permanently sealed in this room,
with absolutely no contact with the outside world, seemed to so accurately
identify his continued frustration. He had spent years trying to track down the
location of Radec, who seemed to have vanished as quickly as he had appeared.
Only resurfacing some eighteen months prior on a remote station named
Terra
Nova
, the head of Vanguard Shipping, a small logistics company operating
far out on the Rim. Sejanus had spent most of the past year fruitlessly trying
to put an operative in place who could eliminate the Commander. All to no
avail. The station was impenetrable, the crew equally so. Sejanus idly wondered
what it was about the man that seemed to instil such devotion in the people
surrounding him, so none could be brought or bribed.

The only opportunity that had arisen was when Radec made a
rare trip off-station to a civilian trading post called
Transcendence.
That operation had been an unmitigated disaster when the Commander and an
unknown civilian had killed several of the assault team and managed to escape.

Sejanus refused to rise to the old man’s gloating, although
it mattered little. His silence was enough to answer the question. The prisoner
just gave a short bark of laughter, going back to spreading the jam across his
warm roll.

“I thought you might be interested in news regarding Admiral
Harkov?” Sejanus was pleased to note that the knife the man was using to spread
the jam stilled.

“How’s the old boy doing?” Came back the disinterested
response.

“Not well. He’s dead.”

“That's unfortunate,” the old man replied, placing the knife
carefully back down on the table and finally looking Sejanus in the eye once
again. “I was hoping to have a chance to talk to him one final time. When I
could look him in the eye, before ordering his execution. I hope he died
painfully?”