Bannon would see that day.
****
Bannon ran his fingers through his dark hair, pulling it back. The figure on the screen tapped a finger repeatedly.
“I’m busy, make this quick,” Bannon said.
The man on the screen raised both eyebrows. Bannon despised everything about the man right up to his perfectly parted hair. The annoying and permanent false smile grated Bannon’s nerves.
“Bannon, the separatists are moving quickly. A vote is pending soon, my people tell me the public will vote to leave without even a single shot being fired. They will no longer be a viable scapegoat. What’s the holdup?”
“An operation of this magnitude takes careful planning and attention to detail, do not presume to hurry me.”
“Listen, Lord Praetor, if they get that vote, I don’t get what I want and you don’t get what you want. If your attack comes off, the separatists will be blamed. That will give us the excuse we need to authorize a military intervention. We keep the Border Worlds in check and you get to cause some serious damage to a USS target. That is what you extremists do isn’t it.”
Bannon opened his mouth to rebut the man’s assertions about their motivations, but thought it better the fool be left with his assumptions.
“Your concerns are noted. I assure you, the operation will be executed in less than 35 days. Marginally longer than our original estimated time window.”
“See to it, Bannon.”
Bannon closed the comm link. Too bad the United Star Systems wasn’t populated with fools of the magnitude of his contact. It would have made the coming war far easier.
The intercom beeped.
“Lord Praetor Bannon, the target is within range.”
Ah, the target . . . he would enjoy this. He exited his personal quarters and walked with a brisk pace for the command center.
****
The massive warship dwarfed her helpless prey. The largest ship in the Imperial fleet measured 1500 meters from bow to stern. It bristled with the latest laser turrets and missile batteries. Her armor as thick as an asteroid.
A mere ten thousand kilometers ahead a large transport ship carrying six thousand Imperial Slaves drifted—disabled moments ago by a precision laser strike.
“Lord Praetor, the ungrateful, are disabled. Awaiting further instruction,” the weapons officer reported.
Praetor Brutus Bannon stood staring at the 3d holo-display, his hands clasped behind his back hidden by his flowing red cape. Imperial Slaves enjoyed more privileges than even United Star Systems citizens . . . why should any of them rebel against their adoring masters?
Yet here they were six thousand of them, huddled in fear aboard a doomed transport. A transport bound for the Border Worlds Alliance and the “haven” of the United Star Systems. Didn’t these wretches understand they could have been ordinary slaves sold on the black market?
The Emperor felt these “small” legions of absconding slaves did little to influence the psyche of the others. Brutus disagreed. If these ungrateful few escaped without fear of reprisal, it may set a trend. And he would not have escaping Imperial Slaves become a trend.
“Ship to ship,” Brutus ordered.
“Link established, Lord Praetor,” the young centurion replied.
“This is Lord Praetor Brutus Bannon. By attempting to abscond Empire space, with Imperial Citizen Property, you have committed an act of treason against the Empire and the Emperor himself. I am charged to ensure this act is punished and the punishment will deter future misguided attempts to flee.”
The comm was silent for a moment and then it crackled to life.
“This is Joniah Quinn, I speak for the occupants of this vessel. We surrender to the authority of the Empire and are prepared to submit to the authority of our owners. Please provide assistance, we have critical damage and a coolant leak in the engineering section.”
“There will be no surrender. The maximum punishment for your transgression is death. Your judgment is hereby delivered and your punishment is summary.” Bannon turned to the weapons officer. “Sub-Lieutenant, lock weapons onto that ship’s reactor. Stand by to fire.”
“Please no!” the man’s voice cracked. “We’ve surrendered, we have at least a thousand children on board, you must—”
“I must do nothing.”
Lord Commander Quintus Scipio stepped forward. “My Lord, the Emperor would frown upon such an extreme action. It may only incite or inspire widespread armed rebellion.”
No doubt, the Lord Commander’s thoughts had turned to the Imperial Slave rebellion fifty years ago. A short but brutal uprising. When it was all over, the Empire culled nearly half of all Imperial Slaves. Brutus turned to face the upstart Lord Commander. His black eyes bored into the subordinate.
“What the Emperor doesn’t know will not hurt him. The absconding vessel detonated their core rather than return to the Empire. That will be your official report.”
Scipio swallowed hard. “My Lord, I must ins—”
“Silence, Scipio! Or a similarly twisted tale might befall you! Weapons officer?” Brutus called.
The young officer looked uncomfortable. “Locked and awaiting your order, My Lord.”
“Very well then. The order is given. Fire.”
Phalanx’s main laser battery briefly ignited space dust and other particles as it burned into the hull of the transport and quickly found the reactor. Moments later, a blinding but brief flash filled the holo-viewer. Thousands of pieces of scattered debris—organic and inorganic—drifted outwards from the obliterated transport.
“Scipio, see to it the necessary reports are taken care of appropriately,” Brutus said.
He didn’t hear an acknowledgement.
“Helmsman, signal the fleet, resume course and execute. Continue onto Atlas Prime. Conceal Phalanx in the X-1501-D nebula on arrival. Those are your orders. Carry them out efficiently and precisely.”
The helmsman acknowledged.
“Scipio?” he called, still staring at the holo-display of the wrecked transport ship.
No response, the Lord Commander had left the bridge. A possible sympathizer. He would have to monitor him closely. Brutus swept his cape behind him as he turned for the exit to the command center. They were three weeks from Atlas Prime. When the operations officer alerted him to the absconding slaves, he immediately changed course. Imperial border patrols must be full of sympathizers—like Scipio—too many of these transports “slipped” by.
He would deal with this problem later. The real mission took precedence.
Chapter 11 – Phoenix
Star Runner
Rigel
Aaron guided the craft manually through the atmosphere, triggering a direct burn into low orbit. The two atmospheric fighter craft, which buzzed them earlier, banked for another pass. He’d ignored their calls to land immediately, when Star Runner deviated from the flight path to the hospital.
A piercing alarm informed him of a weapons lock. Undoubtedly, the scrambled fighters now had authorization for the use of deadly force.
He glanced at her before he refocused on the tactical readout. “Lieutenant, what defenses does this thing have?”
Her face looked a little flush and sullen. The feel of atmospheric combat differed in many ways compared to deep space. Likely, in this situation, she felt helpless. He could empathize with that feeling.