The Honour of the Knights (First Edition)

by Stephen Sweeney

  “Captain, fighter support are asking whether or not they should engage the enemy forces,” a young man seated close to where Hawke stood asked of him.

  “Tell them to hold position,” Hawke said in a flat tone.

  “Sir, begging your pardon but I think we should offer our assistance,” the man protested. “Griffin just suffered a major attack and I don't think we should be just sitting here doing nothing.”

  “We wait, Lieutenant. Only one frigate has jumped into the system and we were expecting two. If we move forward now then we could be playing straight into the enemy's hands. We have already been tricked once by Dragon and we don't want to walk into another one of their traps.”

  “But, sir, if we remain here and wait for a frigate that might not even show up, then Griffin could be destroyed. I really think we should assist.”

  Hawke looked at him through cold eyes. “If you question by command one more time, Mr Parsons, I will find you guilty of mutiny and have you locked in the brig. Now follow my orders and tell those fighters to remain where they are.”

  “Yes, sir,” Parsons said, lowering his own eyes to his screen.

  “Sir, Griffin is requesting communications,” Hawke heard.

  “Put them on,” Hawke said, folding his arms and carrying a look of impatience. A holographic screen sprang up on front of him, Parks appearing on the display.

  “We could use your help up here, Anthony,” Parks said earnestly. “The additional fire power will help us to withdraw all the sooner. We will need to ensure that as many vessels as possible can be accounted for, including Grendel's Mother.”

  “I don't think that's such a good idea,” Hawke said. “Moving all our forces up front could leave us even more vulnerable. As already agreed Ifrit will hold position here to prevent enemy forces from being able to surround us.”

  “But... Are you serious?!” Parks spluttered.

  “My position is clear,” Hawke said. Ahead of him he could see small explosions dotted around Griffin were starfighter fell and missiles connected.

  Parks' face became stern. “Commodore Hawke, your commitment to this operation has been nothing short of disgraceful! You leave me with no choice but to force the chain of command - and as the senior officer in charge of this operation, I order you...”

  Parks stopped talking, his holographic image turning away as someone interrupted him. The communication came to an abrupt end.

  “They seem to have things under control,” Hawke said quietly, his face impassive. “Hold position,” he called to the bridge, not taking his eyes off the scene outside.

  An explosion appeared towards Griffin's bow and the carrier's once stable course began to deteriorate, many of the lights all about the ship flickering before they extinguished altogether.

  Hawke's nose was bleeding once again, but this time he did nothing about it, letting the blood trickle from his nose and drip down onto the floor of the bridge.

  “Hold position,” he whispered.

  XIII

  — A Light in the Dark —

  Parks opened his eyes to find that the bridge lay in almost complete darkness, and was filled with smoke. The events that had led him to finding himself sprawled out on the floor escaped him, and he realised that he must have blacked out for a few seconds. He noticed a man on the floor next to him, with a glazed look in his eyes. A trail of blood glistened as it trickled from his head. Parks became aware that he was staring into the face of O'Donnell, his CCMO. The man was dead. The commodore pulled himself to his feet and looked to the frontal viewport, to the continuing scenes of battle outside. He then remembered what had happened.

  * * *

  As Parks had spoken to Hawke, a member of the bridge crew had alerted him to a damaged Imperial fighter streaking towards them. Even in its damaged state the pilot had been a master of his craft and had managed to guide it straight towards Griffin's launch bay, whilst evading all the carrier's attempts to bring it down. As it had disappeared from view security cameras all about the flight deck had relayed the short, but terrible seconds that followed.

  Deck hands had watched horrified as the last bursts of the fighter's cannons had eliminated what remained of the bay quadrant's already weak shielding and sped down the launch tunnel towards them. There were cries of panic from the crew and awaiting pilots before people had fled in all directions, some attempting to take cover behind cargo containers, whose contents would offer nothing but a much swifter death. A missile had detached from the bottom of the fighter, slamming into the forcefield that lay ahead. With its last obstacle overcome, and with nothing left to stop it, the Imperial fighter had slammed straight in a row of waiting TAFs, all in the process of being rearmed, where it had gone on to do the most damage.

  Its unspent payload of missiles had exploded, along with its reactor. Unopposed, the blast had ripped its way across the entire deck, which - as was its nature - was stocked full of volatile equipment. The resulting chain reaction had impacted almost every area of the ship, including the bridge, the total damage being nothing short of astronomical.

  * * *

  Parks felt a warm flow on the side of his head. He placed his hand against his temple and, even in the half light of the bridge, could see the blood covering his fingers. His left arm was also aching from where he had fallen on it. From the bridge's frontal viewport he could see that the carrier was no longer aligned with the on-going battle and that the blast must have thrown them off course. The view was skewed, no longer aligned at an angle appropriate to the task.

  He turned back to the bridge itself, trying to see down its length, but finding that the smoke and haze was making it almost impossible to see what was happening around him. There was a sudden loud clunking noise, the sound of emergency systems engaging, and the bridge was filled with dim lighting allowing Parks to see the true extent of the damage: consoles sparked and smoked; people lay slumped forward in their chairs, burns all about their bodies where equipment had exploded in front of them. Parks hoped that for their sakes they were already dead. Others were struggling to their feet, some trying to wake the unconscious and checking them for injuries.

  “Talk to me, people!” Parks called, his voice a distant sound even in his own head, as he struggled to regain all his senses.

  “Here, Captain,” a voice answered. It was Liu. Aside from the bruising on his face and an injured left arm he looked none the worse for wear, more shocked than anything; though the inability to take his eyes off the dead, still form of O'Donnell was not helping.

  “Stay calm, Lieutenant,” Parks urged the man, drawing his focus away from the corpse. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, sir. Well, I am a little, but nothing I can't cope with, sir,” Liu managed, his eyes dropping once again to the corpse splayed out on the floor.

  Parks reached out and put a hand on the man's shoulder. “I need you to stay focused and maintain order here, Ali. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, you have the bridge,” Parks said. “I have to get to the flight deck and find out what the hell's happened.”

  “Yes, sir,” Liu said, managing to tear his eyes off O'Donnell.

  Leaving Liu to focus on getting the bridge back to order, Parks hurried to the stairwell, limping as he went.

  * * *

  Estelle stumbled down the poorly-lit corridors of the carrier's lower deck, trying desperately to locate the other Knights. She had been making her way towards the flight deck when the Imperial fighter had crashed on to it, plunging the entire ship into darkness.

  She had been lying on the bed vacated by Dodds when the call for pilots had come in. She started towards the quarters door when a loud explosion and the rocking of the carrier knocked her off her feet and sent her tumbling backwards, causing her to strike her head against one of the metal beds. The blow had not caused any serious damage, but had left her with a headache. She was now experiencing a dull ache that smarted with each step she took.

  Sh
e had to find Dodds, Kelly, Enrique and Chaz. She had decided to head straight to the flight deck in anticipation of finding them there. Other crew members were running and pushing past her, hurrying to deal with their own problems. As she continued her journey she discovered an emergency door was cutting off her most direct route. She doubled back, attempting to find another way around.

  “Estelle!” a desperate voice cried out to her. Along a smoky corridor, just off from the one she walked down, a woman lay on her back buried beneath wreckage that had fallen from the ceiling. From where Estelle stood the wreckage appeared to have trapped the woman's legs and one of her arms.

  Estelle started forward to try to help.

  “Be careful!” the woman shouted to Estelle as she approached.

  “Andrea?!” Estelle asked, startled as she saw who it was trapped beneath the collapsed steel. She gingerly walked forward, wary of any loose sections of the roof that may not yet have fallen, as well as dangling electricals.

  “Estelle, help me... No one will stop to help me... Please,” Andrea pleaded.

  Estelle looked around herself for a way to help her remove the wreckage, but could see nothing that could be of any assistance. “What happened?” she asked, kneeling down next to Andrea.

  “We were heading for the bridge, the others were... walking just in front of me... The wall ahead of us exploded. I managed to grab on to something, but the others...” she started to weep.

  “What happened?”

  “They were spaced! I couldn't save them, Estelle! Their faces... I watched them die,” she said through the sobs. “I tried to find another way to the bridge... and then the ceiling came down on top of me... Estelle, I can't move my legs... It hurts so much...”

  It had become apparent to Estelle that Andrea's legs had been crushed by the collapsed roof, and that the same fate had befallen the woman's trapped arm. She grabbed at some of the steel, trying to find a way to pry it loose. When it became clear that it was not going to budge she moved around to try another section. She only managed to move a handful of light parts before the heavier portions of the wreckage defeated her. Andrea watched her the whole time, coughing and sobbing. Estelle ducked down next to the woman, trying to see if there was a way to pull her out from under the mess. There was none.

  “I'm going to find help,” Estelle said, standing up. “I won't be long, I promise.”

  “Okay,” Andrea managed, gravely.

  Estelle hurried away, darting down the corridors looking for someone to assist her. Few paid her any attention, Estelle unable to get the words out before the person she tried to stop pushed past her, and those that did listen already had higher priorities. She wished that the others were here now. The five of them would have little trouble freeing the trapped woman. Even Enrique and Chaz would have had enough strength between them. Eventually, a man and woman followed her back to the scene.

  “Andrea,” she called, returning to the trapped woman's side. “I've got help. Don't worry, we'll have you free...” She stopped talking and knelt by the curly, haired blonde, seeing her eyes open, staring straight upward, a trickle of blood running from her mouth. “Andrea?”

  The woman who had followed Estelle knelt by her side and felt Andrea's neck. She then shook her head. “She's dead.”

  “Help me!” a hysterical cry came from behind. Estelle saw the woman next to her turn around, and then spring up to assist the owner of the voice. She heard those that had accompanied her to where Andrea lay urging someone to keep calm, before all three hurried from the scene, their voices fading away down the corridor as they went.

  Estelle saw none of it, her eyes focused on Andrea's face, racked with the guilt of the jealousy she had felt only hours earlier. She reached down and closed the dead woman's eyes, no longer wishing she could be in her place.

  * * *

  An out of breath Parks arrived at one of the flight deck's observation galleries; or at least, what remained of it. All access to the deck had been sealed off, blast doors preventing anyone from getting any closer to the source of the devastation that had crippled the carrier. Even the gallery refused to permit its occupants any idea of the destruction that lay beyond: thick blast screens covered the windows, allowing them to see no further than the inside of the room.

  The smouldering remains of terminals and computer screens, as well as shattered glass covering the ground, was all that remained to suggest what the gallery's purpose may have been. Everything around Parks was charred black, the damage spreading down the approaching corridor. The doors, which usually slid open automatically as they were approached, had to be pushed apart by hand. As on the bridge, people were attending to the wounded and trying to revive others.

  Kneeling down on the floor, just inside the doorway, was a woman attending to the injuries of a man propped up against a wall. His face was quite bloody, the result of a wound somewhere on the top of his head.

  “Captain,” he said upon seeing Parks enter. He pushed aside the woman's hand and attempted to get to his feet.

  “As you were,” Parks said, waving him back down. Though they were injured Parks had found that some of the carrier's crew still attempted to adhere to a certain standard of correctness. Right now he did not want either of these two to stand and salute.

  “What's the status of the flight deck?” he asked, though by the state of the observation deck he believed he already knew the answer.

  “Badly damaged,” answered the man on the floor, wincing as the woman tended to his wounded head. She was now making a clumsy effort to wrap a bandage around the affected area. “There is no hope of launching fighters until it receives some extensive repairs, and that won't be before we re-establish the force fields. The whole deck has been exposed to space. If we open it up then we risk depressurising the entire ship.”

  “Survivors? Anyone still alive down there?”

  “Not a chance. If they weren't killed when that damn fighter hit, then they would have been spaced straight after. We'll have lost everyone: pilots, attendants, the OOD and the junior, technicians and munitions handlers...”

  “Stay calm, man!”

  “Captain!” another voice came.

  Parks looked around as a man came bounding up the stairs to the remains of the observation room; it was the security officer who he had sent to fetch Andrea.

  “The Red Devils are dead, sir. They were spaced during the frigate's initial attack.”

  Though he knew the shock on his face was clear for all to see, Parks made no attempt to conceal it. This was news that he had not been prepared for. As it stood the entire plan to attack and retake Dragon had been nothing short of a total disaster. Even retreating would not be possible until the engines were brought back on-line, and abandoning the ship was not an option. The evacuees would be sitting ducks in their escape pods. Prisoners would not be taken, lives would not be spared. Even without full shielding or weapon systems they stood a much better chance of survival by remaining on the carrier and attempting to restore power, than floating around in escape pods in the middle of the battlefield.

  And minutes from destruction or not, Parks would never abandon Griffin.

  Regaining some of his composure, the commodore felt his shock turn to anger at his own stupidity. He turned to the man and woman on the floor next to him, “You two, once you are able, start organising an assessment of repairs needed to the flight deck. We must find a way to launch fighters. If we cannot get weapons systems or shielding back on-line then we will be totally defenceless.”

  “At once, sir,” the man said.

  “Come with me,” Parks said, looking at the bridge security officer. They started back to the stairways interconnecting the carrier's decks. “I want you to get as many crew members as possible to help with repairs, skilled in that field or not. The restoration of power to the engines, shields and weapon systems should be our number one priority.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In the meantime we must find a way t
o defend ourselves,” Parks continued. “Leviathan and Grendel's Mother will only be able to provide cover for so long against a dedicated attack on us. The ATAFs weren't on the flight deck and can still be deployed, but with the Red Devils dead we have no one to fly them...”

  “We can fly them, sir!”

  Parks spun around at the sound of the familiar voice, to see Estelle, Dodds, Enrique, Kelly, and Chaz all standing behind him; the five White Knights shining like a beacon before his eyes against the dark of the corridor. He looked to the security guard and gave his next order without even one second's hesitation,

  “Get them to the rear cargo hold.”

  XIV

  — The Knights' Charge —

  As he stood in Griffin's rear cargo hold, Dodds was at a loss for words. The footage that he had viewed of the ATAF back on Xalan had failed to fully convey the magnificence that he now felt radiating from the craft. Even in the dim ambience of the emergency lighting, the sleek black armour of the fighters seemed to gleam with elegance.

  He found himself drawn towards it, and approached to run his hand over the smooth curvature of the nose, his eyes wandering across every surface, absorbing every detail. He found it beautiful, but knew that that beauty concealed the fighter's nature. As he continued to gaze upon the craft, he began to understand how Estelle sometimes felt, striving always for moments like this. He caught the dim reflection of Enrique in the fighter's armour. The man was standing beside him, his face frozen with an equal look of reverence.

  The spacious cargo hold had been quite empty when the five starfighter pilots had entered it, containing only the ATAFs and equipment necessary to handle them. It was now beginning to fill with other personnel who had come streaming in to aid with the launch of the fighters. They buzzed around, for a time ignoring the White Knights and concentrating on what had to be done.