The Battle for the Solar System (Complete Trilogy)

by Sweeney, Stephen

  Chalmers had made an effort to assist, changing his heading, raising his velocity to maximum and speeding towards it. But he never made it. His fighter had been struck by a missile that he had been unable to see coming, and his Jackal had fallen into a spin. His hand had flown to the ejection handle, his fingers curling around it, but not completing the action. His fighter had turned over and over, the screens and sirens screaming at him to eject, but he had paid them no attention. Instead, he had gazed with sorrow upon the form of Minotaur, hanging high above Kethlan, the former Seat of the Emperor, the place where Chalmers himself had been born.

  Escape pods could be seen jettisoning themselves from the once-mighty ship, their occupants doing nothing but prolonging the inevitable – prisoners would not be taken, lives would not be spared. Bright green bolts of plasma flew in every direction. Thick red, yellow and blue pulsing lines of various beam weapons swept around elsewhere. Trails from missiles curled throughout the chaos as they hunted down their targets. Fighter craft still circled Minotaur, continuing to open fire on the stricken vessel and each other. Soon after, Minotaur’s cannons fell silent, the running lights extinguishing. It wouldn’t be long until it was completely destroyed.

  Chalmers had looked to the one other ship that he could see – INF Chimera. He knew that up there, at the front of the bridge, stood Fleet Admiral Zackaria. He would be watching the last moments of Minotaur’s service and the impending fall of Kethlan, unmoved. Neither would bring him any sadness or regret. He would seek a new battleship, one that wasn’t so fragile, one that reflected the majesty of the imperium, one that would help them to complete the Mission.

  Chalmers’ comms had crackled weakly, as Minotaur’s final fleeting requests had broadcast out to the overwhelmed Imperial forces. His fighter’s screens had continued to flash their suggested course of action, but Chalmers knew there was no point in ejecting – he was dead already. There was nowhere to run, his back was against a wall. Not that running had ever been an option. From this enemy one could never run and could never hide. They would always catch up eventually. Maybe not in one year, nor five, nor six. Maybe not even in ten. But they would, no matter what you did. It was only a matter of time.

  Mitikas was gone. The rest of the galaxy would soon follow.

  Chalmers accepted his death, let his fear subside. He would soon be at peace, soon be with his friends. And with that thought he released his grip on the ejection handle and waited, letting tears trickle down his face.

  I

  — An Uninvited Guest —

  Simon Dodds met the eyes of Marshall Ryder, as the Judge Advocate re-entered the courtroom. Ryder sat down and eyed Simon for a short while, giving him that same withering look he had upon his initial address, only hours earlier.

  “Would the accused please stand,” Ryder said.

  The time had come. Simon felt himself get to his feet automatically, and, although he had prepared himself mentally for the conclusion of the trial, knowing that there could only ever be one outcome, his legs still felt somewhat weak and unsupportive beneath him. He resisted the urge to turn his head to his team-mates, who he knew were still sat behind him. He didn’t want to risk meeting their sorrowful eyes. Nor did he wish to risk meeting the eyes of his victims’ families, a number of which, he could be certain, would be filled only with malice. Here, at the front, he need only face forward.

  The judge considered him for a few moments longer, before turning to the formally dressed men and women seated to his left. “Has the jury reached a verdict?” he asked.

  “Yes, Your Honour,” a woman said, as she rose from her seat.

  “And what say you?”

  “On the charge of the manslaughter of Stefan Pitt, by gross negligence whilst in possession of a firearm, and furthering from a result of the failure to obey the orders of his commanding officers, we find the accused …”

  The woman paused. Dodds swallowed. He didn’t want to hear the single word he knew was coming.

  “… guilty.”

  The silence that followed was almost deafening. The verdict seemed to leap from the woman’s mouth and strike him hard in the chest. Already, he felt winded and tense, his stomach tight and his lungs empty.

  The woman went on, “On the charge of the manslaughter of Poppy Castro, by gross negligence whilst in possession of a firearm, and furthering from a result of the failure to obey the orders of his commanding officers, we find the accused …”

  Another pause.

  “… guilty.”

  Simon didn’t like the way she provided an intermission before delivering the verdict. He would have pleaded guilty to the charges if he hadn’t been virtually ordered not to by his lawyer, and hearing someone declare what he himself already believed to be true somehow made it feel ten times worse.

  “You monster,” he heard from somewhere behind him. Again, he resisted the urge to turn his head. He recognised the voice. It belonged to the mother of Poppy Castro, the young research assistant that he’d killed during a crucial naval operation, the action for which he now stood trial.

  “My poor little girl,” Poppy’s mother continued. “I hope you burn in hell,” she added, before she began to sob.

  Simon’s eyes flickered across the three men sat alongside Judge Advocate Ryder. Fleet Admiral David Turner had fixed him with a hard stare, one that said that he deserved no less. Commodore Elliott Parks’ expression was much the same, though it was coupled with disappointment. Commodore Anthony Hawke’s was the most unsympathetic of the three. Despite being on show for all the court to see, the expression was one of glee, of satisfaction that Second Lieutenant Simon Dodds had been found guilty of manslaughter, that he would finally be expelled from the navy, thrown into prison and be out of Hawke’s hair forever. Hawke was gloating, as he always did at times like these. Simon was confident that if Hawke had been given the chance to verbally vent his contentment about the decision, he wouldn’t have hesitated to do so. But for now, all he was allowed was that sneer.

  “Thank you, officer,” the judge said, and motioned for the spokeswoman to sit back down. To Simon, he said, “Lieutenant Simon Dodds, it is the decision of this court that you are guilty of disobeying direct orders, of gross negligence whilst in possession of a firearm around civilians, and of the manslaughters of Stefan Pitt and Poppy Castro, as a result of said actions. The evidence against you is overwhelming and I am left with no choice but to apply sentence as I see fit.”

  He reached for his gavel and held it above the sound block. There was a noticeable pause before he gave the sentence, as though he was still unsure exactly what it should be. He glanced momentarily in the direction of the fleet admiral, before focusing on Simon. “Effective immediately, you will begin a six month suspension from service. You are to collect all your personal effects and depart Fort Dyas, without delay.”

  Simon waited for the rest. It never came.

  “That is all,” the judge said. “Guardsman, take him away.” He struck his gavel once on the spherical block.

  That was it? After everything he’d been through and all the charges and evidence brought against him, the court-martial had sentenced him to nothing more than a six month suspension from service? He could hardly beli—

  “WHAT?” a cry came from behind. “He just gets to walk away?”

  This time Simon turned, seeing the Pitt and Castro families on their feet, looks of total horror on their faces. It was Poppy’s mother who had spoken again. Her husband was trying to calm her. “That bastard murdered my daughter and you suspend him from service? Knowing you lot, he’ll be back on duty and continuing his killing spree within three months!”

  Simon caught the looks of surprise on his team-mates’ faces – Estelle de Winter, Enrique Todd, Kelly Taylor and Jonathan Wells all looked to be struggling to understand the sentence themselves.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! Ryder struck the sound block a number of times as the noise in the court increased, calling for silence.

&nbs
p; “You’re handing out a licence to murder, Judge Ryder!” Mrs Castro cried, over the strikes. “You’re an insult to those robes!” Her cries were joined by random shouts from other members of the two attending families.

  Judge Advocate Ryder’s brow was creased with thunderous anger. Hawke looked to be reeling slightly, himself. He clearly hadn’t expected this; as, it seemed, had any of them. Simon noticed that, oddly, Turner and Parks remained somewhat impassive, as if this came as no surprise to them at all.

  The gavel struck down hard several times. Ryder raised his voice. “Mrs Castro, I have warned you once already today! If you continue to speak to me in such a manner, then I will—”

  “MONSTER!”

  Simon heard the commotion of someone moving close by and looked back around to the court attendees in time to see one of the family members launching themselves towards him. The man struck him full on, knocking him awkwardly into the table he had sat at, before the two toppled over and onto the floor in a tangled heap.

  “Order! Order!” shouted Ryder.

  A fist struck Simon twice in the face, and through his dizzying world he became aware of security personnel drawing weapons and moving in to deal with his attacker, all the while hearing the gavel striking the sound block over and over.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  *

  Simon awoke in his old bedroom in his parents’ home. The bedsheets were coiled tightly around him, as if he had been struggling against them. He had been dreaming. He hadn’t really been back in that courtroom, reliving some of the worst hours of his life. That had been five months ago. None of the repetition had been real.

  He heard the thuds again. Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Someone or something was thumping on the porch door at the front of the house. It seemed that the thuds of the judge’s hammer had been real. This must have been what had roused him. At first, he considered the three loud thuds to be a result of front door being left unlocked, and banging in the wind. With his bedroom located at the front of the house, more or less directly above the porch, being woken like this wasn’t all that uncommon. Glancing out of his bedroom window, however, he saw the many branches of the apple trees of the orchard standing peaceful and serene in the bright moonlight of a cloudless sky.

  After a moment, he figured it was nothing. Maybe Socks had been causing a commotion whilst chasing a rat. Ignoring the disturbance, he turned over to catch some more sleep.

  Bang! Bang!

  He opened his eyes again as another two thuds came from below, followed by the unmistakable sound of a man’s voice, crying out for attention. It sounded hugely distressed. It was followed by the noise of loud, uneven footsteps clumping down the porch steps, before scraping up the well-worn dirt track leading away from the house.

  Now more or less awake, Simon took a look at his bedside clock. Just past four-thirty in the morning. Too early for any of the orchard’s hired help to be turning up. With great reluctance, he threw back the covers and pulled himself out of bed, making his way to the window. He shoved it all the way open and leaned out to investigate the source of the noise, which had stopped. No sooner had he stuck his head out the window then he spotted a figure sprawled out on the ground, halfway up the track.

  A bloody drunk! He thought they didn’t come around here anymore. Not since the last time, when they had been chased out of the gate and down the road by “that crazy old farmer”, wielding a shovel and smacking them over the backs of their heads. His father had been given a police caution for that one.

  Simon leaned further out and took a quick look around the surrounding area, to see if anyone else was about. No one; just the body. He drew back inside, turned around and gave a start. Standing behind him was his father, Gregory. Seemingly the disturbance had also woken him, and he had wandered into Simon’s bedroom to take a look for himself. Simon noticed that he clutched a shotgun in one hand, no doubt in preparation to deal with whoever it was he believed was attempting to break into their property. It wouldn’t have been the first time. His father had already activated the weapon, a digital counter towards the rear of the gun gently illuminating his chest with a soft blue light.

  “What is it?” Gregory asked.

  “There’s someone outside,” Simon said. “I think it’s either another drunk or a homeless guy.”

  “Where?”

  “Halfway up the track, face down in the dirt.”

  Gregory shoved past to see for himself, leaning out the window just as Simon had done, in order to see if there was anyone else about.

  “We’ll go and take a look,” Gregory said, drawing back into the room. “I’ll have your mother get ready to call the police. I’m not putting up with anything like the last time.”

  Simon nodded in agreement. “Let me take that,” he said, reaching out to take the shotgun from his father. Gregory pulled back quickly, pushing Simon’s hand away from the weapon.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Gregory said, with a deeply distrustful look.

  “I’m not going to shoot you by accident, Dad,” Simon said.

  “Just put some clothes on,” Gregory answered, before returning to his own bedroom.

  “Who is it?” Simon heard his mother ask, as he began to pick the previous day’s clothes off a chair and pull them on.

  “Not sure,” Gregory said. “Me and Simon are going to take a look.”

  “Be careful.”

  Simon laced up a pair of old boots, before joining his father on the upstairs landing. Now ready, the pair made their way down the stairs and out the front door.

  *

  The figure in the dirt remained motionless as Simon and Gregory left the house, and, leaving his father to guard the front door, Simon hurried up the track to the body.

  “Hey, you okay?” he said, kneeling down next to the man and giving him a gentle shake about the shoulder. The man let out a groan, but gave no other response. For a moment, Simon considered that he had staggered up to the house searching for a place to settle down and sleep. Finding none, he had given up and walked only a few paces back up the track, before vomiting all over himself and passing out cold. Prat. Either that, or he was covered in beer. Hopefully it wasn’t urine. Simon then discovered that the unpleasant, sticky wetness he felt on his hand was neither vomit or alcohol – it was blood.

  “Well?” Gregory called, starting forward.

  “He’s hurt!” Simon called back, looking at the blood and dirt that clung to his fingers. His father quickened his step, joining Simon by the body. It was only then that Simon became aware of what the man was wearing – a flight suit. Simon carefully rolled the man over onto his back, discovering the front of the suit to be torn and bloody.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Gregory said, kneeling down.

  “Looks like he’s been shot,” Simon said. Even though it was still before sunrise, he was able to make out the dark patches of blood glistening on the suit. He assumed that they marked gunshot wounds; the suit wasn’t lacerated in a way that would suggest it had been slashed with a blade. The wounded man’s eyes fluttered open and his gaze fell upon the two that knelt over him. He opened his mouth to speak, though he gave little more than a throaty whisper.

  “What’s that he’s wearing?” Gregory asked.

  “It’s … a flight suit,” Simon said, equally mystified. “Hey, you okay?” he tried once more, aware of its inadequacy, but unsure what else to ask. Still, the man said nothing, his eyes starting to close again.

  “Can you stand?” Gregory asked.

  No reply.

  “Right,” Gregory turned to Simon, “let’s get him inside.” He trotted back up the worn track to relieve himself of the shotgun, before returning to Simon’s side. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Simon lifted the man under the arms, his father taking his legs, and between them the two began to carry their unexpected guest inside, ignoring the groans and general sounds of discomfort that followed. They made it back to the hou
se, Simon noticing for the first time the dark red bloodstains on the outside of the door, where the man had thumped on the white painted wood.

  “Oh God!” Simon’s mother breathed as they struggled in through the front door and into the living room. She had pulled on a thin dressing gown over her night dress.

  “Let’s put him on the couch,” Gregory suggested.

  As he shuffled over, Simon saw Socks lift her head. The cat had been inside the whole time, enjoying a blissful doze on a chair. At the sight of the stranger in the men’s arms, she got to her feet and shrank back, before jumping down from her resting place and darting out the room, the bell on her collar tinkling as she went. Simon heard her jangling all the way up the stairs, and wished it really had been her that had been causing the noise.

  “Sally, shotgun’s just inside the porch, could you fetch it inside?” Gregory said.

  “What’s happened to him?” Sally asked, bringing the shotgun inside and propping it up against a wall in the hallway.

  “He’s been shot,” Simon said, as he and his father set the heavily breathing man down.

  “You’re going to get blood all over the couch,” Sally said.

  “Well, we can’t exactly just dump him on the floor,” Gregory said. “We need to get him comfortable.”

  Simon noted a couple of splotches of blood on the wooden slats and edges of the rugs. A small trail was leading from the couch, back out the front door.

  “Who is he?” Sally said.

  “We don’t know,” Simon said. “I think he’s with the navy. That’s definitely a naval flight suit he’s wearing.”

  “The navy?” Sally said, sounding perplexed. “But where did he come from?”

  Simon hesitated. Good point. Where had this man come from? Drunk and homeless people could be accounted for – they just wandered the road. But a naval pilot? One thing was for sure – they weren’t going to get any answers by standing around and asking each other. “Mum, do you know where the first-aid kit is?” he asked.