The Honour of the Knights (First Edition)

by Stephen Sweeney

  “They... didn't make it,” Natalia said. She reached into the jacket she was in the process of zipping up and handed over the id card that had belonged to Porter, along with a few others.

  “I'm sorry,” Nel said, shaking her head.

  “We did manage to complete our mission. We hit and destroyed all the targets,” Natalia announced, and once more handed over a number of small data cards containing her own and other peoples' mission reports.

  “You mean you hit all the targets that we knew about,” Nel said. “The situation is far more dire than any of us could ever have imagined. We've essentially shut the gate after the horse has bolted,” she added at the sight of Natalia's face.

  “How many more...” Natalia began.

  “We'll discuss that later,” Nel said, gesturing for Natalia to follow her. “Let's get you cleaned up and checked out first.”

  At the news that her mission had only been a partial success, Natalia felt her world collapsing around her. She had been through so much, had lost so many friends and risked everything to accomplish her goals. And now it seemed to have all been for nothing. A sense of despair washed over her and she felt as though she might vomit and pass out. Sensing Natalia's anguish growing Nel attempted to comfort her and then, after taking one last look back at the escape pod, the pair left the hanger.

  * * *

  The Grace Report - Summary

  The galactic state that was once known as the Mitikas Empire is no more. All that remains of their once glorious empire are many crumbling, dead and lifeless cities. All of these cities displayed the same characteristics: signs of intense battles, with bodies and other human remains left to litter and rot in the streets. All manner of vehicles have been stripped for parts and the bodies of the dead looted for their weaponry, ammunition and other consumables. The destruction ranges from street level combat involving troops and tanks, to mass destruction from nuclear strikes. The only life that appeared to be present in previously human occupied areas were stray animals. Most ran away from us, but every so often we would be attacked by a former resident's pet; the animal either very distressed and confused, or having turned feral.

  Extermination has occurred on a planet wide scale, even the smallest of towns and settlements in the most remote of areas being thoroughly cleansed. If there are any survivors I did not see them, and it is doubtful that they would survive very long without core dependencies.

  Although my mission priorities prevented me from approaching the Imperial home world of Kethlan, I have been able to determine that the bulk of the Pandoran's force is still concentrated in and around the adjoining star systems. They appear to now be executing a mop up operation before, I suspect, moving on to their next target of Independent World space.

  With the information I have gathered from studying the movements and behaviour of the Pandoran forces I now feel I can build an accurate picture of what we are facing: unlike traditional military systems there does not appear to be anything in the way of a chain of command or ranking scheme within the Enemy, aside from the notable exception of Admiral Zackaria and Commodore Rissard. Command is assumed within smaller detachments of personnel on either an ad-hoc or best-fit situation. They all cooperate and mutually agree with this arrangement, with no challenges ever made for leadership. Lower ranking personnel (that is to say anyone below Zackaria and Rissard) could be described as being ant-like, since they work very much as a team for the overall benefit of the entire structure. No task is too big, too small or too demeaning for any of them. They all go about their duties in a very uniform, regimented and almost mechanical way. They do not slouch, swagger or ever slack off.

  To add further to this structure there does not appear to be any kind of law (military or otherwise) at work. One does not seem needed since, as already stated, everyone works together as one cohesive unit. There is no stepping out of line and no misbehaviour apparent. No one acts out of personal gain, but only to benefit the whole. Having said that there is neither punishment for failure nor reward for success. There is no apparent social structure - They do not make friends or enemies within their own ranks, and both men and women, young and old are equal in all circumstances.

  Physiologically the Pandoran soldiers are nothing short of incredible. Damage to skin and tissue is repaired with amazing speed; seconds rather than days. Broken limbs can be mended within a matter of minutes. Even small imperfections in the skin are repaired, leaving all the soldiers with perfect features. They could almost be described as beautiful. This miraculous healing ability does not, however, extend to extreme conditions. Severed limbs, for example, cannot be re-grown. Severed body parts such as fingers, noses, ears, etc. are repaired as well as can be, and the affected area is then grafted. The reason for this has not been determined, however it is the Enemy's one Achilles Heel. A shot to the head, through the brain, or even a well placed shot into the heart is enough to stop them. It is my current belief that, whilst repairable, the accuracy of repair may be within doubt and therefore not within the scope of the Enemy's healing abilities.

  I have also been able to confirm that all Pandoran soldiers benefit from physical argumentation. In hand-to-hand combat all combatants display incredible strength, far greater than normal. Their outward appearance is deceptive of this strength, with all soldiers appearing to be no better built than ordinary ones. This incredible power is present within both men and women with little to no difference in ability. They also display unbelievable dexterity and exceptionally fast reflexes. In addition, all Pandoran soldiers benefit from greatly increased height - six foot five inches being the approximate average. At this time I cannot offer an explanation for this and can only assume it is a psychological attribute aimed at intimidating the opposition. I can confirm first hand that if this is the case it is truly effective. A charging, hundred strong regiment of these soldier, fully armed, would strike a degree of unease into even the most hardened of opponents.

  Psychologically the Enemy are, once again, remarkable. Their knowledge of how to command and operate all manner of Imperial weaponry, vehicles and vessels appears to be without limits. A soldier can know all they need to about a weapon without any prior experience or the need to practice with it beforehand. They are able to maximise the weapon's full potential whilst at the same time compensate for its limits. So far we have not been able to clarify whether or not this knowledge extends outside the bounds of Imperial engineering, and it could well be that a period of learning would be necessary in order to operate new and unfamiliar technology. I would hazard that this period of learning would be considerably shorter than normal.

  They are code talkers. This makes it near impossible for us to decipher what they are saying to one another, whether it be in a combat situation, a standard communication or otherwise. The cipher code itself seems to also shift on a regular basis. The schedule for this change has never been determined, since it itself seems to be subject to a form of encryption. It is doubtful that we will ever be able to crack their tongue, and whilst they are all able to speak English, they do so only in extreme cases.

  Their primary goal is not to conquer, but to destroy without prejudice. With what I have garnered so far we should be very, very concerned about the Pandoran's desire to press on from the Imperial systems and into Independent World space. They are beginning a mass salvage operation and will favour disabling or crippling their adversaries in combat with a view to killing the occupants of the vessel and adding it to their ranks.

  They do not appear to have the knowledge of building spacecraft themselves, but are very adept at repairing and modifying craft. Because of this, a large number of their forces will remain planet bound for the foreseeable future but, as stated earlier in my report, the number of mobile forces are not insignificant. Unless we can find a way to slow the speed of their advance then I anticipate that they will be ready for a full strike against neighbouring IW systems within the next six months, if not sooner. And when they do I think we can expect th
e same approach that they took to the Imperial worlds: prisoners will not be taken, lives will not be spared. They are heartless, cruel and without pity; the perfect killing machines.

  A conflict with the Enemy is both inevitable and unavoidable, and for such an eventuality we should immediately prepare. Some will believe that we are facing an alien invader, and that humanity's first encounter with an extra terrestrial life form will be our last. Others will think that the dead are walking as the Enemy rise from wounds that would have killed an ordinary man.

  But as we now know the truth is far worse than any of those, and a side of the story that we should endeavour to keep from as many as we can, for as long as we can; including the ATAF pilots, who may well represent our only solution.

  And the less they know, the better for all of us.

  XXVII

  — The Honour of the Knights —

  Simon Dodds ran down the corridors of the medical unit, reaching the door at the other end and finding it locked. He looked out through the oval window to see refugees lying, scattered and unmoving, on the floor of Arlos starport's central hall. The hall was dark and somehow foreboding; as if the gloom itself was responsible for the fate of the men, women and children that lay dead on the ground.

  Movement caught his attention. Out of the corner of the window he could see the backs of his fellow Knights as they darted among the corpses, attempting to get back to the airlock. He opened his mouth to shout, but no matter how hard he tried no sound came out. He banged a hand fiercely against the glass, hoping to attract their attention, but they did not seem to hear him and disappeared from view.

  He backed away from the door before giving it a hard kick, causing it to fly open. It banged shut behind him as he crossed the threshold, an echoing clicking sound telling him that it had locked once more.

  Running out into the central hall he could not see his friends, even though they had been there a few moments earlier. The refugees who covered the floor lay still and unmoving, but their eyes seemed to be locked on to him, following his every move.

  He started off in the direction of the airlock, skipping over the bodies as he went. Something grabbed his leg. He looked down to see one of the dead holding him fast, the other arm flailing as it tried to find something else to grab on to. He tried to shake it off, but for all his efforts he found he could not. As he continued to do so he heard the echoing click again and, with a terrible sinking feeling, he turned his head in the direction of the noise. The medical unit door creaked open.

  A woman wandered out, looking confused and rather dishevelled. She was tall, with shoulder length lank, black hair, and wearing a torn white vest that was soaked with blood around the belly. Her face was pale, her hands hung by their side, her mouth a little open.

  Dodds recognised Barber at the same time she seemed to recognise him, and the woman began to lurch her way over to where he remained trapped, barely lifting her knees and dragging her feet in a quite horrible and unnerving fashion. At her approach, Dodds struggled harder against his captor. He tried to cry out for his friends, but again he could manage nothing but a hoarse whisper.

  As Barber approached, Dodds noticed the corpses on the floor beginning to crawl towards him, becoming a sea of dragging bodies. All were silent, save for the sound of body parts slapping on the ground. Another hand closed around his leg and the owner tried to pull themselves up. He took the only action he could and began punching wildly at the faces of those that held him. Grips were released and he sprang free, resuming his journey back towards to the airlock to join his friends.

  He rounded the corner and saw them standing, with their backs to him, in the chamber. They were affixing helmets and ensuring they were ready for the evacuation into space. The doors were already sealed.

  Dodds sprinted up to the door and began thumping on the thick glass, shouting as best he could. Still there was no sound, not from his throat and not from his hand hitting the glass. His wingmates remained oblivious to his presence. Dodds looked around, back down the corridor and saw a throng of figures lurch around the corner. Dozens of ruby-red eyes fell upon him as the group turned, the refugees having donned the round head gear of the black clad soldiers. Their clothes were blood soaked, their limbs perforated from multiple gun shots, and they had him cornered.

  Pandoran, Pandoran, Pandoran.

  The words came as a flat, eerie chorus, reverberating off the walls and seeping into his bones, threatening to draw out his very soul.

  Dodds realised there was nowhere for him to run; his back was against a wall. He panicked and turned around. He banged on the window again, harder than before, but both he and the glass remained as muted and uncommunicative as ever. The chamber was bathed in flashed red hues and he watched in horror as the outer airlock doors opened and his fellow Knights drifted out into space, their backs to him the whole time; never once turning to see their friend; never once offering to help him. They had left him.

  He turned back around and a strong hand closed around his throat. Barber held him in an iron grip, staring at him with a kind of perverse fascination. The black helmeted refugees began to cluster around behind her, their numbers creating an impenetrable wall.

  As Barber held up a blood stained, rusty old scalpel, Dodds desperately tried to wrench her hand off him.

  It wasn't me! It wasn't me! I didn't do it! he tried to say. Barber lowered the scalpel toward his belly and moments later he felt the warmth of blood running down his stomach, as the blade drove deep...

  * * *

  Dodds woke, finding himself on the top bunk of the bed he had fallen asleep on. He was sweating profusely. He had no idea of how long he had been asleep, nor how long it might be before Griffin and the other two carriers returned to Spirit, but right now he was happy to lay where he was and wait. Although it had only been a dream, in light of what he had experienced that day it had not seemed all that far detached from reality. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and decided he would rather remain awake for the remainder of the journey home.

  He glanced down at Enrique and Kelly who were both sleeping deeply on their beds. His eyes wandered across the other beds, seeing that Estelle and Chaz, too, lay in the same positions they had when they collapsed on to the mattresses. It looked like he was the only one suffering from bad dreams.

  Following their titanic and exhausting final battle the Knights had landed back on Griffin, where Parks had seen to it that they were given their own private quarters, so they could rest undisturbed. No more cargo holds for them. They had all taken a short nap before being called to eat a meal, before heading back to their quarters to sleep for the remainder of the journey.

  For all they had witnessed that long day, no one spoke one word of their experience. They ate in silence, the failed retake of Dragon, the fight aboard Arlos starport, and the treachery of Hawke remaining unbroached. Whether it was due to exhaustion Dodds could not say.

  He exhaled and stared up at the ceiling. Today had been one of the hardest and most testing days of his life. But he had emerged from it unscathed. Thoughts turned over in his head. Two months ago he had made himself a promise: he would return to duty and put things right, no matter how long it took. And although he had made errors along the way, he considered that today he had done a few things right. He had saved lives, lots of them; he had done everything that had been asked and required of him; and this time - this time - he had seen to it that when taking matters into his own hands, the ends had justified the means.

  But the question remained: was he redeemed? Of all the questions in his head, this was perhaps the one that was easiest to answer: No. No, he was not. Poppy Castro and Stefan Pitt were still dead, and no matter what he did he could not bring them back. He had taken their lives unlawfully and that was a fact that he would have to live with for the rest of his life. Maybe one day their families would forgive him, and then at last he would be able to forgive himself.

  He closed his eyes again; but still their faces remaine
d.

  * * *

  The three carriers exited jump space and arrived back in the Temper system, not far out from Spirit. Estelle and Chaz woke first, sitting up and trying to shake off the sleepiness in their heads. Dodds clambered down from his bunk as the announcement of their arrival back at Spirit repeated itself over the carrier's PA. He woke Enrique and Kelly, letting them know they were almost home and would soon be able to disembark.

  But as the five attempted to leave they were once again asked to remain where they were by a number of familiar looking personnel, who stood guard outside their quarters. After being stuffed into the cargo hold for several hours earlier, the Knights knew better than to object. Whilst they waited they sat around in a group and made lazy conversation about anything but black clad soldiers, traitors and refugees.

  Sometime later Omar Wyatt arrived to escort them away, leading them to what remained of Griffin's flight deck where the group would be transferred to Spirit Orbital. Griffin's corridors were quite empty, the vast majority of the surviving crew having already disembarked. The deck was just as quiet, only a handful of service personnel in attendance. The five boarded the transport alone, still saying very little to one another.

  Dodds wondered to himself what was next for him and his wingmates. After proving themselves in real combat situations with the ATAFs, would they now go on to take on the role that had previously been assigned to the Red Devils? Or would they just go back to performing their routine patrols around Temper and other Confederation border systems? As the transport docked with the station, Dodds decided that his questions were best left to be answered in the next few days. He had far too much to think about as it was.

  The rear door of the shuttle opened and the Knights began to depart the craft, seeing the flight deck of Spirit Orbital swamped with men and women. Several dozen heads whipped around to see who the occupants of Griffin's final transport were and at once a cry went up. “There they are! It's them! Look!”