Short rose from his seat. “Commodore Hawke, it is my belief that you are no longer functioning with the best interests of Ifrit, her crew or the Confederation at heart.” He started towards the front. “It is also my belief that your judgement have been adversely affected by recent events and that you are no longer capable of making rational decisions. As second-in-command of Ifrit, I am exercising my authority to hereby relieve you of your post.”
Hawke turned from his admiration of Dragon, wearing a tired expression, as though his crew had now become a bother unto him. The two others that Short had been speaking with stood up with him, flanking his sides, as they strode towards the carrier's captain.
Hawke's face darkened, his expression became quite grim, and in a cold voice he said, “Return to your seat, Commander.”
Short continued as though not hearing the words. “Lieutenant Lee, Lieutenant Dawes, please escort Commodore Hawke from the bridge and confine him to quarters,” he said to the man and woman who walked by his sides.
Hawke said nothing more. With lightning relaxes he reached into his jacket and produced a laser pistol. He trained the weapon on both Lee and Dawes and, before either of them could react, shot them both neatly in the foreheads. Their limp bodies slumped to the floor.
Cox jumped back. The need to escape the bridge was now very urgent. He saw that the rest of the bridge crew appeared to share his thoughts, many having left their seats and now standing. Cox was unable to comprehend what had just happened: the speed at which Hawke had not only produced the weapon, but then dispatched Lee and Dawes, had left him in a state of total shock and confusion.
As Lee and Dawes dropped down beside him, Lieutenant Short's eyes grew wide with fear and he started to back away from Hawke, looking behind him to two men stood by the bridge's lift doors. Hawke then trained the pistol on Short himself.
“Security...” Short started, before Hawke pulled the trigger and he too collapsed in a heap on the ground, blood from all three of the dead beginning to seep from the wounds in their heads.
Hawke's eyes darted over the others occupying the bridge, marking out all the men and women who, though standing, remained rooted in shock. Movement at the other end of the aisle grabbed his attention and he focused the pistol to meet the new threat. “Drop them!” he called to the two security guards who stood at the far end of the long bridge, next to the lift, who had just broken into a run towards him. “Drop them, now!”
The two men obeyed without question, throwing their guns aside and raising their hands in surrender. Even though they were a great deal further away than Short had been, the two security personnel were clearly not prepared to test just how fast or accurate Hawke could be.
“Everyone, down on your knees, hands on heads,” Hawke spat to his entire bridge.
No one moved.
“KNEES! NOW!” Hawke shouted, waving the laser pistol about. It passed in Cox's direction and the man found himself dropping to the floor as his legs gave way, his hands flying to the top of his head. The tone in Hawke's voice told him that the man was in no mood trifled with. In the floor's dim reflection, Cox saw the engineer lower down next to him. A few moments later he gingerly raised his eyes from the floor to look at Hawke.
Behind him the transports continued to stream from Dragon, making their way towards the main launch bay of Ifrit. Hawke continued to mark the crew as they got down on the floor, watching each and every one of them for the slightest attempt at escape or attack. In the face of what had just happened however, none of them were about to dare, some preferring to stare down at the floor than at Hawke's rage-twisted expression.
It was not long before the first wing of transports started to enter Ifrit's launch bay, setting themselves down inside. Even as they did so more could be seen departing Dragon, forming a huge caravan reminiscent of those departing Spirit earlier that day. The image of the transports streaming towards the Confederation carrier, no doubt carrying with them scores of Imperial soldiers, deadly weaponry and God only knew whatever else, did nothing but fill all its witnesses with a sense of dread and terrible unease.
What would happen when they arrived? Why was this happening? What did Hawke plan to do? The questions raced through Cox's mind. Though for some reason he felt fear starting to pass, being edged out by a new feeling: anger. He looked down the bridge along the rows of crew that were on their knees. He noted one young man who he could see was trembling. The man made a quick snap look at the lift. Cox wished he could tell the man to stay where he was, but he had already made up his mind. Cox saw him leap to his feet and start towards the lift, arm outstretched, reaching for the call button.
He managed but a few feet before Hawke felled him, the thin red beam of the laser cutting its way through the back of his head. The young man crashed forward across the floor, legs giving way beneath him, his arms splayed out as he went down. Like the others that had fallen to the shots, he gave no cry as he fell, but those who continued to comply with Hawke's command flinched at the sound of his body slamming down. Still they kept their hands on their heads, facing the floor, looking down at the dim reflections of their own worried faces staring back at them.
* * *
The occupants of Ifrit's flight deck stood by powerless as the first of the transports opened up, the passengers like none they had ever seen before: they were clad almost entirely in black, save for a strange white emblem on their left breast and right arm, and a pair of scowling ruby-red eyes affixed into their helmets.
The soldiers spilled out of the craft, rifles raised to secure the area. They spoke no words, but gestured to the deck's occupants that they should, like those on the bridge, place their hands on their heads and get down on their knees. The various maintenance workers, pilots and other service personnel did as they were ordered, terrified by the sight before them.
It did not take long for the soldiers to secure the area, and before long they were beginning to permeate through into the other areas of the carrier.
* * *
“Sir, the admiral...” Cox heard a woman's voice come over the carrier's PA system.
“Escort him up to the bridge,” Hawke said without waiting for her to finish.
After a time the bridge's lift doors opened, and Cox turned to see who was entering the bridge. Four figures stood within the elevator car as the doors parted, one of them a member of Ifrit's security team. The woman was being held under the arms by two tall soldiers, who stepped out of the lift and tossed her body down on the floor, bringing the bridge's body count up to five. She had been shot in the back of the head, her blonde hair wet, sticky and matted with the blood that had poured from the wound. He guessed she had attempted to get to the man whom the two soldiers were escorting.
Now on the bridge, the two soldiers stood to attention either side of the lift doors, presenting their rifles and making way for the last person to depart.
Zackaria strode down the long aisle towards Hawke, the commodore returning the laser pistol to the inside of his jacket. He was clothed in formal Imperial naval dress, the condition of his uniform verging on perfection: crease free and decorated to great spender. A long, blood red cloak rippled gently behind him as he walked, falling about a foot clear of the floor and fastened about the shoulders by a gold chain that ran just under his neck. Though surrounded by his enemies, he walked with calm down the bridge's central aisle, the soles of his dark gleaming shoes clopping on the floor as he went. They seemed to perfectly punctuate his entrance, being now the only sound besides the tense breathing of the crew.
Hawke remained where he was, waiting for the admiral to approach, whereupon he saluted.
Cox was shocked; even more so when the two men began to speak. The language was strange and he could not understand a single word, yet Hawke's command of the dialect appeared perfect. It rolled off his tongue effortlessly, and sounded nothing like the Imperial dialects he was expecting, even with the admiral's accent. And there was something else there, something that d
id not quite sound like normal human speech.
* * *
The two men spoke at length, Hawke detailing much of what he knew and what his plans were: they would take Ifrit to Phylent, draw Griffin into a false sense of security and then destroy it. When the ATAFs returned from their errand they would be met by Ifrit and the remains of Griffin, the former having arrived too late to save the carrier from its fate. The Knights would then return to Ifrit, giving the admiral everything: the ATAFs, the pilots and the means to study, reverse engineer and construct more. They would then be unstoppable; and finally Zackaria would be able to complete his Mission.
* * *
The discussion over, Hawke readdressed the bridge crew. “I have negotiated the surrender Ifrit. From here on out I alone will fall under the command of Fleet Admiral Zackaria. The Empire no longer has need for any of you; you are all now redundant.”
Heads looked up in shock, eyes darting from the two men that stood at the front of the bridge to the two black clad soldiers that marked the lift doors. Cox met many eyes as he looked to those knelt on the floor, and they all said the same thing: their worst fear was upon them, they were going die. Even if they could escape the bridge and make it down to the flight deck, there was no telling just how many soldiers would be waiting for them down there.
But for Cox, that was the last straw. He had to do something about this. He might not be able to save Ifrit or guarantee that the crew could get away from the enemy forces that surrounded them, but he would make certain that Hawke did not celebrate his victory here today.
Grasping the screwdriver that he had secreted in his hands when Hawke had ordered them all down on the ground, he ensured the shaft was fully exposed. Just like Hawke's neck. He started to build himself up; preparing to drive the tool into the man's throat; to rip it apart so that the man suffocated or drowned in blood or whatever would happen when he drove the implement home. And after a few moments of mental preparation, he was ready.
He made no sound as he moved. No heroic cry or final comment as he went at the commodore. He moved fluidly, as only one might under such circumstances, in one final attempt to bring about justice. He did not falter nor stumble, his leap from his knelt position towards Hawke verging on perfection.
The next few seconds became a blur of pain and confusion. It started with a solid grasp of the arm in which he held the small weapon. It was followed by a loud snapping noise, a spinning of his world, and ending a tremendous amount of pain, the screwdriver flying from his hand, its task unfulfilled. He felt himself crash against both a wall of the bridge and then the floor.
For a time his world was black. The dizziness then cleared and he came to, feeling total agony. He lifted his head as best he could, trying to will the stars away that were filling his vision. He couldn't move his legs; they were unresponsive and useless. Even lifting his head felt like a monumental task. He fought to piece together what had happened to him...
As he had leapt up, the handle of the tool held tight in his hand, his heroic intents had been thwarted by Zackaria. Without a word the admiral had caught his outstretched arm about the wrist, as he drew back in preparation to plunge the implement into Hawke's neck. With one quick and powerful twist, he had broken the helmsman's arm and the screwdriver had tumbled from Cox's grasp. Zackaria had then spun the man around and thrown him in the direction he had been heading.
He remembered feeling the sensation of travelling through the air, but it was something he struggled with; for he had not travelled just a few feet with the throw, but the remaining width of the bridge itself. He had flown a distance of well over ten meters, his feet leaving the floor by several themselves. The height baffled him. He may have travelled much further, if the wall on the opposite side of the bridge had not halted his advance.
He couldn't believe what had just happened: the man was over sixty years old! And yet he had, with precious little effort, disarmed and then thrown him across the bridge, as if he were nothing more than a small animal.
Cox could not stand, nor move his legs, no matter how hard it tried. He became aware of a pair of black shoes in front of him, and turned two pleading eyes up to face Ifrit's captain, imploring him to find mercy.
But the pleas passed straight through the man.
“Thank you for all your hard work over the years, Mr Cox,” Hawke said, his face pitiless. “But your services are no longer required.” He once again drew the laser pistol, pointed it at Cox's head, and pulled the trigger.
* * *
With the carrier under his command Zackaria ordered that the crew be killed and their bodies dumped out in space. There were to be no exceptions: prisoners would not be taken, lives would not be spared.
They fought valiantly, but Ifrit's crew were no match for the invaders. The black clad soldiers slaughtered each and every one of them, showing no mercy as they followed their leader's orders to the letter. For Zackaria's command was what they adhered to; what they believed in; and what they would obey until the day they died.
XXI
— A Hard Truth to Accept —
After much searching around within the starport, the Knights had made very little progress in finding Barber.
“Something's happened to her,” Dodds said to Estelle, who walked by his side. “She would have found us by now, we're not exactly being inconspicuous.” Despite Parks' statement that the woman wouldn't be jumping up and down and waving her arms, they had reached the conclusion that Barber would have made herself known to them by this time. They continued to walk through the ranks of refugees, once again trying to spot that which they may have missed. Most of the refugees had refused to speak to them, and those that had spoken had been unwilling to help, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. A few had even made violent responses to the enquiries, either shouting and throwing things, or leaping up and taking a swing at the Confederation pilots.
“I think you're right,” Estelle said. “But we can't leave until we find her. Keep looking and let me know as soon as you find out anything.”
“Nothing on the upper floors?”
“No, everyone is down here. I think they're waiting to get out of here. But having said that I'm going to check again.”
“Right,” said Dodds and left Estelle to start off on another round of searching.
* * *
Chaz continued his own walk amongst the ranks of refugees. Those he passed were still not used to his presence, and acted as though he was an executioner, seeking out the next prisoner for the gallows. Many turned their eyes away.
Unlike his fellow Knights he had not spoken to anyone since arriving, having instead taken his time to pace the huddles, searching for just the right person to make contact with. Now he believed he had found them and stopped in front of a little boy who had been watching him the whole time. Compared to the others, the boy did not seem in the least perturbed by Chaz's presence; more curious. Sitting alone, he must have only been about six or seven years old, maybe younger.
Chaz crouched down in front of the boy, who still had not taken his eyes off him. Unlike so many of the others in the port, the boy did not pull back or try to hide himself, though many of those near him did, shuffling back and crushing up against one another in Chaz's presence. No one came to assist the little boy or take him away.
Chaz had been correct in his assumption that the boy was all alone, a heavily stuffed bag containing a few items of clothing sat next to him was his only apparent possession. What had become of his family and friends Chaz did not need to guess at. Nevertheless, the boy in front of him appeared to be quite brave and one of the few people who may offer a helpful response. Before all that, however, there was one small hurdle that needed to be overcome. Chaz stole a glance over his shoulder to see if his team mates were anywhere close by before he started talking.
“
“
“
Chaz smiled to himself. It amused him that the boy was assuming that was all the information he would need. His mind wandered for a scarce few seconds. I bet you're just like that, he thought, before returning to the job in hand. “
“
Chaz decided to supply some more information. “
“
“
“
Chaz's smile slipped. The little boy did not seem to notice or, more likely, could no longer feel sympathetic towards those suffering from loss, it being an all too common occurrence for him.
“
“
* * *
Still wandering about, trying to find someone who might be able to help him, Dodds saw Chaz striding in his direction. As he approached Dodds noted a look of anger on his face and took a step backward. It was the same expression Chaz had worn when Parks had reassigned the five Knights to the Temper system. The man's fists were balled, his eyes, though narrowed, blazing. If the security guards on Xalan Orbital had shown reluctance in tackling Chaz back then, Dodds knew that right now it would be like confronting a fifteen-hundred-pound grizzly bear.
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