The Last Praetorian

The “Imperial Star”—Flagship of the Imperial Navy, Epsilon Indi System

On the bridge of the Imperial Star Commodore Harkov tapped his fingers irritably against the armrest of the captain’s chair. The owner of such chair was hovering just as impatiently behind, but for much different reasons.

“What is taking them so long?” Harkov demanded loudly.

“I assume your informing them of Emperor Aurelius’ death has thrown them into a certain amount of disarray,” Captain Pendleton responded, with more than a hint of his irritation showing. The Commodore had appeared only moments before and summarily demanded his seat. The nerve of the man! Obviously the Commodore had no concept of bridge etiquette, or he just did not care.

“Sirs!” The ships tactical officer called out. “They are moving again!”

“Finally!” Harkov exclaimed.

Finally! Pendleton thought. I can have my seat back!

Faced with such poor options—either to continue forward into an ambush or to reverse course back towards a now hostile fleet—Jon elected for the latter, on the assumption, if nothing else, it would take the fleet by surprise.

The element of surprise is a formidable advantage in combat.

The voice of Jon’s flight instructor came to mind as he rolled the shuttle back around, on a reverse course, and rapidly accelerated. The remaining ships of the 58th Squadron, caught by surprise by the abrupt manoeuvre, took a few moments to reorientation themselves before accelerating once again into escort formation around the shuttle.

“Combat Formation! Arm Weapons!” Jon ordered over the squadron’s encrypted tactical channel, as he continued to accelerate, far beyond the possible speed of a standard shuttle, still pointing directly towards the now-oncoming fleet.

“What’s going on Commander?” Elsie demanded to know. “Why are we returning to the fleet?”

“It’s an ambush, Elsie.” Jon explained. “The fighter complement from the fleet is waiting for us in the edge of the asteroid belt.”

Elsie’s expression just tightened on hearing the news. It was a testament to their faith in their Commanding Officer none questioned his explanation. Their CO had saved their lives more than once with his insight and none were going to question him now. “But how to get through the fleet?” Elsie queried. “We will be cut to pieces by their guns.”

Jon glanced at the navigation computer, which indeed confirmed the route to the next nearest FTL point would take them directly through the fleet. Jon dared not risk a more indirect route, as he knew at any moment they would lose the element of surprise and the fighters ahead would be recalled.

“Arm your missiles!” he ordered.

“Sirs!” The ships tactical officer called out once again. “They have changed course!”

“What?” Harkov demanded, darting to his feet and moving towards the tactical officer. “How? Why? What is their new course?” he demanded, spitting out the questions in rapid fire.

The officer checked the ship’s sensors once again before replying, in a confused tone. “They have reversed course. They are on an intercept course with the fleet.”

The Commodore was confused for a moment before relaxing. “So…Radec decided to follow orders for once in his life, they are returning to the fleet.” Harkov allowed himself a moment to envisage having Radec within chains, kneeling at his feet once and for all.

What fun that we will have together, Harkov thought, already picturing Jon’s face contorted with pain, and his screams, begging him to stop…

“Sir,” the tactical officer interrupted his imaginings. “The squadron is continuing to accelerate towards the fleet. They are not slowing down. Time to intercept five minutes and decreasing. They have just armed their weapon systems! They are going to attack!” The office exclaimed in alarm, throwing a worried look at the senior officers.

“What?” Harkov roared, whirling to face Captain Pendleton. “Launch fighters to intercept them!”

Suddenly all thoughts of his chair flew from Pendleton’s mind as, bathed in cold sweat, he replied, “We don’t have any fighters to launch Commodore. You ordered all available fighters for the ambush. Hail the fighter-group in the asteroid belt and order their immediate recall! They are to make best speed and intercept the Praetorian squadron.” Even as he said the words he knew their fighter cover would arrive too late, far too late. However, their fleet was not defenceless. “Order missile batteries one through three to target the incoming squadron and fire as soon as they have a lock!” Captain Pendleton ordered, at last feeling as though he was starting to get a handle on a situation that had started to spiral out of control.

“Sir!” The tactical officer cried out. “All missile batteries report negative missile lock. Sir, the missiles will not lock onto our own fighters!”

Shocked, Pendleton fell back into his chair in disbelief. The missile targeting computers had specific blocks to avoid hitting a friendly ship by accident. Each missile would take hours to reprogram and they did not even have minutes before the fighters would be on top of them. Closing his eyes he wondered, what else could possibly go wrong?

“Missile Launch!” The tactical offer yelled out in fear. “Incoming fighters have launched missiles!”

Spoke to soon, Captain Pendleton thought to himself despairingly…

As Jon nervously watched the minutes count down on the navigation computer before they intersected with the fleet he began to plan their next steps. Right about now the fleet would discover their missiles would be useless against the incoming fighters. However the ships’ gun batteries were a different matter. They would be cut to shreds as they navigated through the fleet unless…

“Arm your missiles,” he ordered. “Let’s give the fleet something else to shoot at.” While Jon knew perfectly well he could not shoot at the fleet, nothing was stopping him shooting at where the fleet would be. The navigational computer plotted the intercept coordinates, based on the fleet’s current speed and heading. Uploading the target coordinates to the rest of the squadron, Jon waited until they were less than fifty kilometres from the fleet before ordering, “Fire!”

The squadron was momentarily blinded as, one after another, wave after wave; the squadron released their missiles in the direction of the oncoming fleet. Upon launch the missiles accelerated away from the squadron until no missiles remained. Within the space of a few moments one-hundred and twenty high explosive missiles were racing toward their target.

Then suddenly, the strangest thing started to happen. Almost as if the missiles started to run out of energy, they began to slow, first one, then another, until all the missiles’ velocity had dramatically decreased. Inch by inch, meter by meter the squadron started to catch up to the missiles.

Reviewing the ships sensors carefully, Jon confirmed all the missiles were following the correct flight profile. Soon they would be within range of the fleet’s guns so the squadron began to disperse, to avoid bunching up and giving the fleet an easy target.

“God damn it!” Harkov raged, pacing up and down the command deck like a caged tiger. Turning on the tactical officer he demanded. “So we cannot launch missiles at them, but they can at us? Would you like to explain this?”

The tactical officer just shrugged helplessly and uttered, “They’re Praetorians.” Having only recently graduated from the fleet naval academy, the young officer had been surrounded by the rumours of the enigmatic and mysterious Praetorians.

Praetorians swords can slice through anything…

Praetorians can tell when you were lying…

Praetorians are invincible…

Pretty much everybody in his graduation class was in awe of the Praetorians, and he could not believe his luck when he was assigned to the Imperial Star, the flagship of the Imperial Fleet, home to the Praetorians. However, reality has a bad habit of setting you down with a bump. The first Praetorian he encountered was cold and arrogant. The second, worse. Within the span of a week his dreams of meeting and becoming one of these mythical warriors was dashed on the rocks of reality.

The Commodore made a lot of sense when he explained how the Empire had become rotten at the core. The Emperor, surrounded by his Praetorians, had become decadent and corrupt, leading the Imperium to ruin! They had to be replaced, so that the Empire could still be saved.

However, Commodore Harkov’s speech seemed a world away now, and the stories of the legendary Praetorians suddenly became far more frightening when facing them. Having just watched them miraculously avoid the ambush cleverly devised for them, how they were immune to the fleet’s weapons but could impossibly use their own. For a moment he wondered what the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach was before finally recognising— it was fear. Fear of these invulnerable warriors who had never been beaten. Fear he had made a dreadful mistake siding with Harkov…

“Guns!” The word filtered through the young officer’s thought process, interrupting his contemplation of the Praetorians.

“Excuse me, sir?” The young tactical officer stammered, glancing in the direction of Pendleton, who was still collapsed into his chair deep in thought and where the exclamation had originated.

“The ship’s guns are tied into our own targeting system, is that not correct?” Pendleton insisted.

“Yes, sir,” the tactical officer confirmed. “All the ship’s guns are tied into the ship’s central targeting system…” his voice trailed off as he finally got what his commanding officer was thinking. “…And we can reprogram our system to mark the fighters as hostile,” he confirmed excitedly.

So much easier to reprogram one system, than hundreds of smaller ones spread throughout the missiles in the fleet

“We would have to rely upon the smaller, point defence weapons. They have less range but would be able to better target the incoming fighters,” he exclaimed confidently.

Pendleton just nodded in agreement, before snapping his fingers. “Quickly, reprogram the targeting computer and bring the guns online, before the fighters get within range.” With a quick flourish of his fingers the tactical officer made the changes and held his breath.

“Guns are online and tracking the incoming targets, sir,” he exclaimed in relief. It was only when he double-checked the tracking sensors he realised the guns were tracking all the incoming targets—both missiles and fighters.

Uh Oh.

As the squadron came within range of the fleet’s guns they continued to disperse and started jinking up, down, left, right, all in random patterns to help confound the fleet’s aim. However, as they got closer and closer to the fleet, the gunfire became more and more accurate until first one missile then another started to explode in a huge pyrotechnic display.

The missiles launched from the squadron minutes before were weapons designed to target fighters. These targets were small, agile and quick to escape, hence these weapons were designed to fragment prior to exploding, scattering dozens of deadly bomblets throughout the area. The original squadron of twelve fighters had grown to over one-hundred and thirty targets for the fleet computers to track following the launch of the missiles. As each missile began to explode, showering the area with smaller bombs, the number of targets the ship’s gun began to track increased exponentially, first two-hundred targets, then four-hundred, then eight-hundred. As the Praetorians blasted through the Fleet, sensors were tracking over a thousand individual targets. Unable to track so many, finally the guns just fell silent, their targeting computers stuck in an infinite loop, and then the squadron was through the fleet and escaping towards the FTL entry point.

Jon breathed a sigh of relief as the squadron finally escaped from the far side of the fleet. However, checking the sensors, their squadron had not come out unscathed. They had lost two fighters to gunfire from the fleet before their guns had fallen silent. Jon allowed himself a momentary pang of grief, for he knew all the Praetorians personally. Both of them had loved ones and family back at home. Knowing it was his actions, his decisions, that had resulted in their loss made it no easier. He had to push the guilt and blame aside for a short while, to focus on the problem at hand. Meanwhile Jon noticed that the speed of the Eternal Light had suddenly started to fall dramatically.

Instantly he ran a full diagnostic of the shuttle and cursed vehemently upon seeing the results. Slower and bigger than the surrounding fighters, the shuttle had taken a beating passing through the fleet. Jon had hoped that the heavier armour surrounding the shuttle would protect them, but it had not. The flight computer reported catastrophic damage to the port engine, which the computer had shut down, the shuttle was continuing to limp forward on the remaining engine but their velocity had fallen by half. Jon had no need to check the aft sensors to know that the fleet’s fighters were now gaining rapidly on the Praetorians.

Commodore Harkov subconsciously ducked as the Praetorian fighters scattered around the Imperial Star, at times seeming to pass mere feet from the command deck. And then, in a blink, they were gone.

“Report!” Harkov roared across the command deck.

“Two targets destroyed, Commodore!” The tactical officer reported. He felt he was, unfairly, on the receiving end of most of the Commodore’s short temper. “Remaining squadron is setting a straight course for the FTL jump point,” he said in a calmer voice. At least the Praetorians were no longer heading in their direction. Suddenly the tactical computer updated with the latest squadron heading and velocity, and the young tactical officer had to blink a couple of times to ensure he was not imagining things. “Sir,” the officer reported cautiously. “The shuttle is losing speed. I think we managed to damage it. The squadron is now also reducing velocity to keep in escort formation.”

In a flash the Commodore was at his side. “How close are our fighters?” he asked hurriedly. Running both trajectories through the computer, it seemed an eternity before the computer spat out the numbers. The fleet’s recalled fighters would intercept the Praetorians in a little over two minutes at present velocity. Five minutes before the Praetorians could escape into FTL.

“I’ve got you now, you bastard!” Harkov gloated in glee.

At almost the same instant as the computer on the Imperial Star, the flight computer on the Eternal Light was reporting exactly the same result. They were all going to die. Three minutes and a little less than one-hundred seventy kilometres from escape.

The communication from Elsie was not unexpected but for the first time in his life Jon felt the weight of command bearing down on him.

“Lieutenant… Elsie.” He acknowledged his second-in-command reluctantly.

“What is your situation?” she inquired brusquely, avoiding his gaze.

“Damage control computer reports the port engine is damaged beyond repair and it has been shut down.”

“Tactical computer reports the fleet’s fighters will intercept us in a little less than two minutes,” Elsie reported, matter-of-factly.

Jon had no response. The squadron continued to fly onwards in tandem, in silence for a few moments more until Elsie shifted her gaze to Sofia and uttered the words that Jon had been expecting, but dreading to hear.

“We all swore an oath.”

Jon closed his eyes in despair. They had all sworn the same oath. To protect the Emperor and his family, at all costs, at any cost. Jon was not a man to take such an oath lightly, and neither were his squadron, his friends…his family. Refusing to open his eyes and stare into the face of his second-in-command, refusing to order their deaths, he just whispered. “I cannot order you to do this.” Finally opening his eyes, he stared at Elsie, who offered him a soft smile.

“I would never ask you to make such an order, Jon.” Finally looking across at Sofia, who seemed frozen in shock. She added, “Princess, it’s been…fun.” Sofia looked up, surprised at the kind words from the Praetorian.

“Sofia. You can call me Sofia…anytime,” she replied.

“Sofia,” Elsie replied, seeming to try out the name before she nodded in thanks. For a moment it seemed to Jon that an unspoken communication passed between the two women, then after a small nod from Sofia, Elsie once again turned her gaze towards Jon.

“Good Luck, Commander! I think it’s time that the Praetorians taught this bunch of idiots how to fly. I’m amazed that they haven’t collided into each other by now.” She laughed as the communication ended and Jon watched on the sensors as one by one the Praetorians flipped their fighters and accelerated back towards the incoming fighters; leaving the Eternal Light to finish her journey.

Alone.

As a young boy the tactical officer on the Imperial Star remembered sitting on his grandfather’s knee, being told endless stories of acts of great heroism and bravery. Of soldiers refusing to surrender, fighting to the last man and woman because they knew their cause was just and right. Of parents standing between their children and those who would harm them, of many selfless acts of heroism and courage. Never in his life did he think he would observe such an act until he watched on the sensors as, one-by-one, the Praetorian fighters reversed course to engage the oncoming fighters. Sacrificing their lives to allow the lone shuttle to escape.

“The 58th squadron is reversing course to intercept the approaching fighters. The Eternal Light is remaining on a direct course for the FTL jump point,” the officer reported humbly. If the Praetorians were prepared to sacrifice their lives for the occupants of the shuttle, the tactical officer was going to damn well show them some respect for their decision. The announcement stunned everybody on the command deck, which fell silent for a moment, as if also in respect for their sacrifice.

“That’s suicide,” Pendleton uttered in disbelief. “They are outnumbered at least nine-to-one.”

“They lost two fighters passing through the fleet,” the tactical officer reminded the Captain. “The odds are closer to twelve-to-one. They are going to sacrifice themselves to buy enough time to allow the shuttle to reach the FTL jump point.”

Nobody on the command deck had a response to that statement.

Most fleet engagements for the past few hundred years had been determined in the first minutes of battle with the opposing forces still many hundreds of kilometres apart. Modern engagements were usually determine by who had the initiative, the most missiles and the best positioning. However, for the first time in most of the pilot’s memories this engagement was going to be determined ship-to-ship, pilot-vs-pilot.

The Praetorians had long since expended all their missiles and the missiles carried by the fleet fighters were useless as they would not lock onto what the missiles considered friendly fighters. Hence this engagement was going to be determined by pilot skill. The Praetorian pilots were each considered an ace on his or her own merit. Veterans of dozens of combat engagements, they had never been beaten. Therefore, as the Praetorian squadron dived into the flank of the approaching fighters, it was like a hot knife sliding through butter and, within an instant, the fleet’s formation descended into complete chaos and a free-for-all ensued.

The atmosphere on the command deck of the Imperial Star was thick enough with tension to cut with a knife, as the two groups of fighters, one much smaller than the other, collided into a melee of ships and gunfire.

“One down,” called out the tactical officer.

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Five.” It was only when he realised that all eyes on the command deck where focused on him that he added belatedly. “Those are our losses.”

Indeed the Praetorian fighters were cutting a swathe through the Imperial fighters, outmanoeuvring them, outshooting them, simply out-flying them. However, ultimately, the numbers were on the side of the Imperial fleet when first one of the Praetorian’s fell, followed rapidly by another and another.

Suddenly another voice, almost forgotten, cut across the room, “They’re letting them get away, the idiots!” Commodore Harkov yelled across the room, gesturing at the lone shuttle continuing on its heading towards the FTL jump point. “Get me the Commander of the fighter-group on communications, right now!” He was practically screaming.

The communications officer pressed a few keys then nodded to the Commodore the channel was open.

“CAG here,” came the terse response. It was obvious from his voice that he was under significant strain.

“Break off your engagement with the fighters. I want you to intercept and engage the escaping shuttle,” the Commodore ordered matter-of-factly.

The channel went silent for a moment. The commander of the air-group watched in disbelief as the Praetorian fighter in front of him executed a roll the Commander did not think physically possible for that craft and promptly reduced one of his wingmen to dust. Fortunately the CAG managed to get off a lucky shot, pulverising one of the rear control surfaces of the fighter. He watched speechlessly as the fighter dipped, seemed to lose control for a moment before recovering and diving straight into his remaining wingman. Both ships disappeared into a raging fireball.

“Commander!” The impatient Commodore insisted. “I gave you a direct order!”

“Yeah, well you grab a fighter and come up and fly against these guys,” the Commander complained. “Anybody flying in a straight line for more than an instant is going to be flotsam!” With that he cut the channel and got back to trying to stay alive, shaking his head at the stupidity of fleet officers.

Pounding his fists against the console at the complete incompetence of those surrounding him, Harkov once again ordered the communications officer to open a channel, this time to the fleeing shuttle.

The flight computer reported that they were only moments away from the FTL jump point. Jon gave one final glance at the aft sensors, which reported that only a few of his squadron remained alive. However, they had done what duty demanded of them and bought the Eternal Light the few minutes it needed to escape. Just as he was about to bring the FTL engines on-line, the Commander recognised an incoming communication from the Imperial Star, tempted to just ignore it, he instead activated the channel.

The Commodore was no longer smiling and the smirk had long since left his expression. Instead Harkov was complete enraged his careful planning and preparation had come to nothing.

“There is nowhere for you to run to Radec, nobody to help you. Give up and I promise to kill you quickly. I’ll even promise not to harm Marcus’s daughter, as you seem to have a soft spot for her,” the Commodore shrugged. “I had plans for her, She was to become the first Empress in five generations, a symbol of a new Empire, a better Empire.”

“Your Empire?” Jon added scornfully, “I think not!”

“You run Radec and I will hunt you down, I’ll hunt you both down like dogs and I’ll collect your head, Radec!” Harkov bellowed.

Radec just observed the contemptible officer for a moment, before making a vow to himself. Remembering the promise Elsie made before her death, he vowed to find this disgusting excuse of a man, hunt for him for the rest of his days if necessary, and he would kill him.

With a final glance towards the view screen, Jon simply replied, “I’ll be waiting for you.” As he engaged the FTL engines Jon gave one final long glance at the aft scanner. It reported the 58th was no more. Jon was all that remained of the squadron.

The Last Praetorian.

As the Eternal Light disappeared into FTL a hush fell across the command deck of the Imperial Star. Every eye was on the Commodore to see what his reaction would be, but all he did was to swivel around and walk toward the exit of the command deck. Half way across the deck he stopped and turned back to Captain Pendleton.

“Captain,” he ordered softly but firmly. “I want them found. I’m not interested in how many resources it takes, or the cost. I want them found and I want them dead.” Pausing for a moment, as if something suddenly occurred to him, he added, “And I want Radec’s head. He once threatened to behead me personally, so I will repay the favour. Bring me his head!”

With that the Commodore left the command deck, leaving only silence in his wake.