The Sunfire Read online

  “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.

  Chapter One

  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.