The Sunfire (9 page)

*****

Jon was seated in his usual place, behind his desk in his
office, idly spinning a knife, which was lying flat on the otherwise bare
table. With Miranda having rearranged his office, behind him was the invisible
energy field holding back the depths of space. Between the knife on the table
and the gaping void behind, it made for a very bleak impression. Jon was a firm
believer in visual stimulation during interrogation, as, often, an individual’s
imagination could conjure up far worse than Jon could possibly inflict. When
Jon heard the chime announcing Harkov’s arrival, he took a deep breath,
preparing to face his antagonist. “Come,” he called out.

As the door slid open to reveal Harkov, flanked on either
side by one of Gunny’s marines, Jon came face-to-face with him in person for
the first time since the Emperor’s death. Harkov had not changed significantly
since Jon last saw him on a view-screen several days earlier. However, this
time the situation was very, very, different. If anything he looked even paler
and more sickly looking, but his eyes still gleamed with the same arrogance and
over-confidence Jon had always associated with him.

That confidence quickly died when he took one look at Jon
and came to an abrupt halt. His face went completely ashen and, lifting a
trembling hand, he pointed at Jon. “You’re dead,” he stammered. “I saw your
ship collide with the
Imperial Star
. You’re dead.”

Standing from behind his desk, Jon replied in a grim voice.
“It was a strange thing because upon arrival in hell I found myself all alone,
so I decided to come back and retrieve you. I always promised I would see you
there first.”

Unsure if Jon was an apparition, resurrected from the dead
as he claimed, or simply a ghost, Harkov could only quake at the sight in front
of him.

“Take a seat,
Admiral
” Jon replied forcefully. The
two marines flanking Harkov pushed him into a chair on the other side of the
desk, opposite Jon. The two marines then took up position, one on either side
of Harkov. Jon re-took his seat and looked at Harkov thoughtfully while
spinning the knife, now resting between the two of them on the desk.

“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.