Pax Imperia (The Redemption Trilogy)

by Mike Smith

  Jon shuddered at the sight of his eyes and quickly tore his gaze away.

  Exiting the small shower room, he noticed somebody had removed his clothes and had laid out a fresh uniform, under the Admiral’s orders he assumed. Once dressed in the white uniform of the now long disbanded Imperial Navy, with his sword at his waist, Jon was surprised to see the cleaned black cloak resting on his bed. He could still smell the dust and ashes on it but, still feeling cold, Jon wrapped the cloak around him and left the dark, empty apartment behind.

  He wandered aimlessly along the corridors of the ship for hours upon end, not knowing what to do, but unable to face the empty apartment again. He felt tired, but didn’t want to sleep, as he knew he would only have nightmares.

  Without even realising it, he came to a plain door, which was exactly the same as countless others on the ship. However, this door was labelled ‘Briefing Room 3’ and, checking that it was empty, he slipped into the spacious room.

  The room was similar to those back on Terra Nova, with a massive, solid wooden table, taking up most of it. A number of chairs were neatly arranged around the room, with an expensive communication console, combined with the controls for the holo-projector and audio system, situated in one corner. The far end of the room was taken up by a floor-to-ceiling window, from which the stars were clearly visible, like glittering diamonds hanging from a black canvas.

  Jon liked the room, as the large windows did not make him feel claustrophobic. As he walked around the table, running his finger idly across the flawless surface, something started to bother him. The whole room was too neatly arranged, everything perfectly aligned and not a spot of dust anywhere, unlike the surface of Eden Prime.

  Pulling one of the chairs from under the table he easily lifted it up off the floor and, with an effortless heave, threw it against the wall. Frustrated when it just bounced off the wall, unblemished, he picked up another one, also throwing it. And another, and another, and another, but all remained undamaged. In anger, he turned to the communication console, ripped it from its desk and tossed it across the table. This gave him some satisfaction as, bouncing off the table with a resounding crack, the glass shattered into a thousand small pieces.

  Walking around the room, with the glass cracking underfoot, Jon observed that the table was now the only undamaged item left standing.

  This infuriated him, as it sat there so serenely, without even a scratch marring its pristine surface. It seemed to personify everything wrong with the room.

  With a cry of rage, he stepped up to the table, lifting it with all his strength to try to topple it over, but it weighed too much. However hard he strained, he could not lift the table and it just sat there, defiantly.

  With a scream of anger directed at the table, he withdrew his sword from his side, lifting the blade high up in the air, above his head. The point of the blade pointing firmly downwards, towards the table. He took every emotion, every feeling inside him; imagining it flowing through him, out of him, into that blade. Meanwhile the blade started to glow brighter and brighter, as if it were feeding off the emotions coming from its master. Finally, when it seemed as if the blade was going to tear itself apart from the energy contained within, he slammed it straight down, putting his entire strength into the blow. The blade cut through the inch-thick, solid oak table with almost no resistance at all. He left the sword embedded in the table and moved back to the large viewport, resting his forehead against the cool surface, feeling exhausted, drained and empty.

  After a few minutes he watched two glittering stars falling though the depths of space. It took him a while to realise that it was his own tears, running down the pane of glass.

  *****

  It was some time later when a very weary and exhausted Admiral Sterling stepped into the room. It had taken a while for the crew to track down their wayward Commander. He thought Jon probably needed some time to himself after the ordeal and trauma he had been through. Unfortunately now he had to be disturbed, as some difficult decisions needed to be made. While the crew was looking for the Commander, Sterling had held confidential briefings with the other Fleet Admirals, updating them on the on-going crisis and trying to come to some sort of consensus about the next plan of action. Unfortunately, they had not been able to come to any agreement. He had only managed to convince a small majority that his plan was the only one that had any chance of success, and hence the purpose of this visit.

  The first thing he noticed on entering the room was the scene of devastation, as if a tornado had swept through it. He had to step around a number of upturned chairs and what seemed to be the remains of a communication console, with glass now scattered everywhere. Finally he came to a halt in front of the briefing room table, astonished to see the Valerian sword embedded in it. Bending down, Sterling glanced under the table and saw that the blade had indeed penetrated several inches through it. He remembered the quartermaster once describing the table, assuring him that it was authentic ironwood oak. According to him, the one inch thick table should comfortably stop a blast from a pulse rifle. Sterling made a mental note not to anger the Commander in future, if he could possibly ever help it, dreading to think how easily that sword would slip between his ribs.

  Looking around, he was unable to spot the Commander’s white uniform, and was about to leave when he spotted movement from the corner of his eye. A patch of darkness next to the large viewport shifted slightly. When his eyes finally adjusted to the little light in the room, he could just make out the outline of a figure, as it turned to face him.

  The bottle of expensive Scotch that he had been holding fell to the floor, bounced and rolled under the table. However, he failed to notice. His concentration focused entirely on the shadowy outline now facing him. Unable to draw breath and his eyes wide in fear, Sterling could only stare at the figure who had recently risen from the dead, or so he assumed. He could not see how anyone could possibly have survived the bombardment, let alone miraculously transported himself unnoticed aboard his flagship.

  Then he started to notice little things in the subdued light. This figure was slightly taller than Marcus, the face just as pale but lacking the lines of the older man. But it was the piercing eyes staring out from under the dark hood that finally convinced him. These were not the emerald-green ones he remembered, but dark grey, almost black in their intensity. But for just an instant Admiral Frank Sterling could have sworn that Marcus Aurelius was standing before him. For the similarity was terrifying, the same poise, the same expression, the same aura his old master used to project.

  He found himself almost falling to one knee in his presence, but he caught himself just in time, using the edge of the table to support his weight as he retrieved the bottle from under the table. In this short time he tried to stop trembling, regain his composure and focus on the task at hand once again, what he had originally come here to do.

  “Join me for a drink?” he asked, raising the bottle of Scotch in his hand. “I know I shouldn’t be drinking on duty, but hell, it doesn’t seem likely I’m going to be off duty for a long time to come and, after the sort of day that we’ve just had, well, we deserve it.” He picked up two cut glass tumblers that had miraculously survived the earlier destruction from the floor and, after brushing the broken glass out of each, dropped them onto the table. He poured a generous amount into them, before pushing one glass in the direction of the Commander. Looking aside for a moment, he righted one of the nearest chairs, before gratefully sitting down. Taking a large gulp of the amber liquid, he pretended not to notice the trembling of his hand, instead feeling the warm glow as the burning liquid hit his stomach.

  Looking up from the drink, he noticed the Commander glancing around, as if disorientated for a moment, before also righting a chair and taking a seat. The glass in front of him remaining untouched.

  “Gunny told me where they found you and what they saw. I am sorry Jon, I really am. I knew Sofia for many years, first as Marcus’ daughter and then later as the Co
nfederation President. She was a fine woman and I know that Marcus was proud of her. I’ll miss her,” he added sadly, looking down at his glass, before taking another sip. However, he could only allow himself a short time to mourn her loss, as he had to move quickly and convince the man seated opposite him of what was necessary, before any more people died. “But we cannot afford the luxury of dwelling on the past. We need to focus on the here and now,” he insisted.

  Sterling looked up, but the Commander was still gazing at him, almost as if he were not there and he was simply looking through him. “We need your help,” he added a moment later.

  Jon finally focused on the man in front of him, as the words slowly sank in. “My help?” Jon replied, in a voice heavily laden with surprise and tinged with disbelief. “What the hell do you need my help for? You’re the Admiral. Find the people that did this and make them pay.”

  “We’ve already found the person that carried out the attack,” Sterling replied, refusing to look him in the eye, but instead, deliberating whether he ought to have another glass or not. “That is one problem. The bigger issue at hand is that the Senate is gone. There is nobody left, nobody to take charge and nobody to lead.”

  Jon just leaned back and laughed, but there was no humour in his voice, just hurt and pain. “There has never been a shortage of people wanting to rule. Some of the Senate must have survived, who would have been off the planet at the time? Find one of them and, if not, just find some datapad tapping bureaucrat. Give him or her the new job title and congratulate them on their newfound promotion.”

  “It’s probable that a few members of the Senate survived, although most were in the Senate at the time. However those who did survive are the prime candidates for instigating the attack. They will all be placed under close investigation.”

  “Then find somebody else. There can be no shortage of candidates.”

  “There is no shortage of candidates,” Sterling agreed. “But none of them have the experience to take command of the fleet. The relationship between the fleet and the Senate has always been tense. Now that most of the Senate has been wiped out, many in the fleet view this as the perfect opportunity for a change in leadership. They will not acknowledge some political lackey who is parachuted into the role.”

  “Find somebody else then,” Jon snapped, getting to his feet. None of this was his problem, the little he had cared about the Confederation had died along with Sofia and Marcus. “Find somebody in the fleet to rule. You would be an ideal candidate Frank. You’ve been around politicians and bureaucrats for so long, that you have even started to sound like one of them.” Jon turned aside, so that the Admiral would not see the look of irritation on his expression. He had not meant that, but the urge to lash out at each and every one was so strong at that moment.

  “I am not a viable candidate,” Sterling went on, ignoring the perceived insult. “Too many officers in my own fleet think I was involved in the conspiracy to wipe out the Senate. Not to mention the other Fleet Admirals, who would never follow me. I have discussed this with them, and a few of us did agree on one candidate. Not a politician or a bureaucrat, but somebody who was once in the navy and has command experience. A person beyond reproach, of impeccable credentials, who already has a pre-existing claim to the position.”

  “Fine,” snapped Jon reaching for his sword. “Offer him or her the role, pass on my congratulations to them.”

  “Very well,” Admiral Sterling sighed. “Commander Jonathan Radec, following a vote of the Fleet Admirals and a small majority, you have been chosen to command the Confederation Fleet. To rule over the Imperium until such time that a democratically elected government can be formed from the people, by the people, and for the people. Congratulations.” Sterling raised his almost empty scotch glass, in mock salute.

  About to reach for his sword, Jon instead whirled round to face the Admiral, wondering what sort of sick joke he was playing. One glance into his face and eyes, told Jon that he was serious. “You must be joking,” he muttered.

  “I’m absolutely serious,” Sterling replied, his gaze unflinching. “I have discussed it with all the remaining Fleet Admirals. There was no other candidate that they would accept.”

  “The Fleet Admirals would never accept me,” Jon insisted, his voice rising in anger.

  “Not all of them, no,” Sterling agreed. “But a slim majority of them did and enough to ensure that the remaining Admirals had no other option but to agree. With a slim majority of the navy in agreement, the remaining Admirals did not have enough ships or firepower to disagree, and they would be destroyed if they moved against us. They might not like the decision, certainly did not agree with it, but they have to abide by it.”

  At Sterling’s calm description of the situation, Jon’s anger and frustration grew beyond bounds. Did Sterling and the other Admirals not understand? He did not want the role. He would never accept it. “I don’t care who voted for what. I refuse,” Jon snapped angrily. “Have another vote and find another applicant, one that is more willing.”

  Ignoring the refusal or just pretending not to hear it, Sterling carried on indifferently. “We also considered the political situation, when choosing any other candidate. Anybody else drawn from the fleet would look too much like a coup by the military. You are the perfect choice. Officially a civilian, as you do not belong to the Confederation Navy, plus you are the legal son-in-law of the last Emperor, Marcus Aurelius, and husband of Sofia, the present Confederation President.”

  “Don’t say her name,” Jon screamed, interrupting him. “You don’t have the right! Suggesting that I would ever use them for my own personal gain disrespects them and everything that they ever stood for.”

  “It is for them that I ask this of you,” Sterling replied softly. “If you don’t agree to this, then everything they ever did, everything they ever tried to achieve is going to be lost, forever. Destroyed in the fire of a civil war that is soon going to engulf every planet in the Confederation. Unless we move quickly, it is soon going to become apparent there is a power vacuum at the very heart of the Confederation, which is going to draw people to it. People who do not care who has to die for them to attain that power.”

  The Admiral’s words echoed those of the young man Jon had met several hours earlier, on the planet, before everything went to hell.

  “Thousands will die in the process; they care not, viewing us simply as pawns. We are just pre-planned moves on a chessboard to these people. However, the game is soon going to come to an end and, when it does, they will simply wipe the board.”

  At the time Jon just dismissed them as yet another crazy conspiracy theory, but with recent events he had started to believe maybe there was more to it than that. “I cannot help you, not with this. I am sorry Frank. Ask anything else of me and I will agree, but not this—” Jon finally replied after a silent pause.

  “I don't understand,” Sterling said confused. “You can do this. For over five years you stood at the side of the Emperor. You gave the necessary orders to carry out his wishes. You stood at Sofia’s side after we all thought Marcus was lost and helped her to pull everybody back from the abyss. You know that you can do this, so why do you refuse to help now?”

  Turning to look at the Admiral, Jon allowed some of the pain and despair to show in his expression, before explaining. “Because this was always to be my fate, my destiny. Something that, when I realised it, I fought against with every inch of my being, and that fight almost cost me everything.”

  “I don’t understand. What you are talking about? What fate? What destiny?”

  Jon took a deep breath, before telling Sterling the secret he had kept locked in his heart for so many years. One that only Sofia had eventually discovered, while she was imprisoned. “I was to be the next Emperor,” Jon confessed, in barely a whisper. “That was why Marcus chose me. Picked me to be Commander of the Praetorian Guard, to stand constantly at his side. Not to protect him, but to learn from him. For I was to be more than j
ust his guard, but his chosen successor too, his son. He planned to bequeath everything to me, including his daughter. Sofia was to be my reward for accepting the position.”

  Even now, many years after he first realised the truth, the pain had not lessened. Just as painful as the day that he first found out, when his whole world came crashing down around him and he lost what was most important to him, Sofia.

  Sterling could only stare at the Commander in bewilderment. Marcus had never said anything to him about it. Yet, a hundred small clues and hints, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, suddenly slotted into place and Sterling knew that what the Commander said was true. He wondered though if the Commander had not got the entire plan backwards.

  “I think,” he replied thoughtfully. “That Marcus saw in you something special, which he had never seen before, not in all the many thousands of people he had met. An ideal he recognised in himself—the need to do good, to help others, to put their needs before your own.”

  Sterling remembered one fleet engagement, many years before, while Marcus had still been Emperor. He had been observing Marcus, as he in turn had been watching Jon and Sofia discussing something. Sofia had laughed at something Jon had said and, for just a brief moment, he had recognised something in Marcus’s expression—love. The love of a father staring at his son with pride. He had been shocked to recognise the expression so clearly, for he had understood it, and had worn the same expression the day that he pinned the Captain’s insignia on his own son-in-law.

  “Marcus loved you, Jon,” Sterling insisted. “He loved you, not as a trusted confidant or a solider, but the same way a father loves his son. Have you ever considered that Marcus didn’t care about you taking his place, but only for you and Sofia? That he saw you as his son, because he could see the love that you held for his daughter? That all he ever wanted was for you to both be happy.”