The Honour of the Knights - Stephen J. Sweeney (mobi reader android .txt) 📗

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 did 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 of 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 in 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 meters 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 he 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 into 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 through 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.

“<Hello there. My name's Chaz. What's yours?>” he asked with a warm smile. He spoke in a near-fluent Imperial dialect, keeping his voice calm and relaxed.

“<Ben,>” the boy said.

“<Nice to meet you, Ben. I'm looking for a friend of mine. I was hoping you might have seen her.>”

“<What's her name?>” Ben asked.

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. “<Her name's Clare.>”

“<No, I don't know her,>” Ben said, with a shake of his head.

Chaz decided to supply some more information. “<She's a tall woman, with straight black hair, very pretty. She's about my age. She wasn't born in the Empire, she comes from...>”

“<The Confederation lady who was chasing the man?>” Ben interrupted.

“<That's her,>” Chaz said, still smiling.

“<She's dead.>”

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.

“<They put her in the hospital with the other man she killed when they had a fight together. They were shooting each other a lot,>” Ben added.

“<Thank you, Ben.>” Chaz stood up; he had all the information he needed.

* * *

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