The Battle for the Solar System (Complete Trilogy)

by Sweeney, Stephen

When he was eight years old, Enrique and his family had been returning from celebrating his older brother’s tenth birthday. They had been in a car, travelling along a motorway, when his father had noticed a tanker truck on the other side of the road driving erratically. He had taken precautions, deciding to slow down and switch lanes, to move them further away. Just as he had done so, the truck had swerved, crashing through the central reservation and tipping onto its side, careening towards them. The rear of the tanker had clipped their car and sent it tumbling, at speed, up the roadside embankment. After almost one hundred metres, it had come to rest back on the road, leaving a trail of shattered glass, and broken and crumpled chassis parts behind it.

  Emergency services had been quick to arrive at the scene. His mother, older brother and little sister had been pulled from the wreckage of the car, but were pronounced dead at the scene. Along with his father, Enrique had been air-lifted to the nearest hospital. However, despite the efforts of the emergency teams, his father had died en route, from massive internal bleeding.

  Enrique had survived with nothing more than a broken arm.

  After that he had been raised by his grandfather, an ex-military and spiritual man, who had never failed to impress upon him the ‘fact’ that someone had been looking out for him and that he had survived the crash for a reason. Spurred on by his grandfather, Enrique had enlisted in the CSN. One day, he said, he would find his place, find the reason he survived and go on to play a part in something important.

  It wasn’t, however, a story that he would often tell.

  “Figured the navy was something I would enjoy,” Enrique answered, with a shrug. “And besides, I was no good at anything else.”

  “Sounds like that should’ve been your reason,” Barclay said, laughing once again at Dodds.

  “You?” Heywood looked at Chaz. So did Dodds and Enrique.

  Though he’d known Chaz for around two months, Dodds didn’t feel like he actually knew anything about the man. Chaz was still a closed book in Dodds’ eyes, one that no one had managed to open. He wondered why Chaz was so silent, so closed up.

  “I used to fly interplanetary shuttles and landers,” Chaz said, dismissively. “After nearly ten years of doing that, I was ready for something else. The police force didn’t interest me – there’s too much corruption, they’re underfunded and the red tape and politics often prevents them from doing their job properly. It would’ve been far too a restrictive and frustrating experience, and I’d likely have only stayed with them a year at most. I decided my best bet was to apply to the navy, in a more hands-on capacity. Over the last eight years, I’ve been stationed in more than ten different star systems and learned to fly over half a dozen different spacecraft, including starfighters.”

  “Oh, okay,” Heywood said.

  Dodds noted the complete lack of sarcasm from Barclay and McLeod at the explanation. Chaz, for some reason, didn’t seem to warrant it. There was a lull in the conversation as everyone watched Chaz take a slow pull on his bottle, saying nothing else.

  “Girlfriend, wife, kids?” McLeod said, rolling his hand around.

  “None to speak of,” Chaz answered, after considerable pause.

  “He’s like your mate,” Enrique said, nodding at the fourth member of McLeod’s group, who had contributed little to the conversation that evening. “Man of few words.”

  “You alright there, PJ?” Barclay asked of the man, who seemed to be in a world of his own.

  PJ nodded, but still didn’t look as if he was fully with it.

  The other three went on to explain their reasons for enlisting, how Heywood’s family disagreed with his career choice, because he was basically being granted ‘a license to murder’. He had argued that he was actually being trained to protect and that the need to take a life was a wholly real and necessary part of that duty. His family had asked if he ever raised a thought for the people he gunned down. Barclay chipped in and said that, to him, the enemy were faceless anyway and may as well be robots, commenting that no one really thought about who they may have just killed. It didn’t matter to them that it may have been someone’s only child, a mother, a father of two, a brother or sister. At the end of the day, they were the enemy and that was all that mattered.

  “Can we change the subject?” Dodds asked, feeling that the once cheerful mood was threatening to abandon them.

  “I think I’m sobering up,” Enrique said.

  “Yes, let’s play,” McLeod pushed aside a couple of cards. “Deal me two more.”

  “Hey, do you know what I’ve been hearing lately?” a voice said.

  “Here we go,” McLeod started, looking slightly amused. “What have you been hearing, PJ?”

  Dodds looked up from his cards as the other players turned their attention to PJ, the man who had somehow managed to say even less than Chaz all evening.

  “I’ve been told that there’s actually no civil war,” PJ said, answering McLeod.

  “Ah! Apparently tonight’s story involves a conspiracy,” Heywood grinned.

  “What did you say?” Dodds asked PJ, lowering his cards.

  “There is no war,” PJ repeated.

  “You mean they’re just making it up?” Enrique said.

  “Not entirely, but they are definitely trying to cover something up. Something really bad’s happened over there and they don’t want people to find out about it.”

  “You think they’ve been attacked by aliens?” Barclay jested.

  “Don’t you start!” Heywood cut in.

  “Boys, ignore him,” McLeod added, nodding to PJ, “he comes out with this sort of stuff all the time.”

  “It’s true!” PJ insisted.

  “No, it’s not,” McLeod said, sounding a little angry. “Listen – explorers have been up and down the galaxy for decades and haven’t found anything more advanced than bacteria and a few tiny little microscopic plants. There aren’t any little green men out there.”

  Despite McLeod’s words, Dodds found himself a little intrigued. Maybe it was the combination of the beer and the whiskey. “Not aliens, then?” he asked.

  “No, something else,” PJ said. “But whatever it is, the Confederation’s getting us all ready to defend ourselves against some great invasion. Apparently, Mitikas has been completely wiped out, except for a load of refugees.” From the look on his face, he was completely serious.

  “Who told you that?” McLeod asked, looking extremely sceptical, “and whoever it was, tell them to stop smoking so much weed and go get themselves a girlfriend.”

  “No, really,” PJ protested, “and something else I heard was that the navy’s been pumping money into some top secret project. Some powerful new weapon, apparently.”

  Dodds felt his jaw suddenly slip, but forced himself not to meet his two wingmates’ eyes, nor say anything.

  “What for?” Heywood said.

  “Aw, man, don’t encourage him,” McLeod mumbled, “can we get on with the game now, please?”

  “That’s all I’ve been told, so it could be anything,” PJ shrugged. “All I know is that it’s costing them an arm and a leg.”

  “Think they’re building another battleship to replace Dragon?”

  PJ shook his head. “Don’t know, but apparently it’s the reason why the orbital ring here hasn’t been finished. They’ve diverted all the funding that was meant to go here into that secret project. It’s been going on for years.”

  Dodds was starting to think that PJ wasn’t quite as stupid as McLeod was making him out to be. He clearly knew a thing or two. How had he found out, though?

  PJ took a swig of his beer and then pointed his bottle at Heywood, “And since you mention Dragon, that goes along with the whole thing, too.”

  “How so?” Dodds asked.

  “Well, Dragon’s been stolen, right? But how exactly do you do that? You can’t just walk onboard and take the controls. You’d need a pretty big force to achieve something like that, and that’s even before you get anywhe
re near it. You’d have to either be superhuman or have someone on the inside.” He then lowered his voice and leaned a little closer to the table, before continuing. “And Commodore Hawke, right? Out of the fifty thousand-odd crew, how’d he survive? I mean, it’s not like the man would run off into the escape pods and leave his crew to defend Dragon alone. I’m not exactly the guy’s biggest fan, but I’ve gotta give him credit – a captain goes down with his ship, and you all know that Hawke’d sooner die on his feet, than curled up in a ball in a pod.”

  “Most likely he was wounded,” Heywood said. “The crew chucked him into the pod and shot him towards the nearest jumpgate. They needed someone to get away and tell everyone what happened, and top brass would be more likely to believe a warning coming from him, than some delirious petty officer.”

  Dodds couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. It didn’t really answer much. “That doesn’t explain what really went on, though,” he said.

  “No one knows exactly what was going on,” PJ shrugged, “and those who do don’t want to talk about it. But from what I’ve heard, Dragon was out somewhere near the Imperial-Independent border. So whatever’s going down is getting closer. Right now, they’re using whatever means possible to keep this from the public – changing names, controlling the media, rewriting reports and making people forcibly sign non-disclosure agreements over certain events. I’m seriously considering going AWOL, so I can head over to Mitikas and see for myself. I’d rather not wait around and end up being totally unprepared for whatever brought the empire down to come get us next.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake …” McLeod made a show of rolling his eyes.

  PJ went on, undeterred, “Haven’t you guys noticed how the CSN seem to be keeping us all on our toes, lately? The extra patrols, the arms training, making us hit the sims a lot more than usual? I’ve heard they’ve even started to call up the reserves, and apparently no one’s in jail at the moment, either. The places are empty, because they want everyone primed and ready. They need every man they can get, no matter what …”

  No matter what…? Dodds thought. He couldn’t help but turn to look at Enrique. One question answered.

  “Okay, look – weren’t you listening to the brief that Meyers gave?” McLeod growled, as though he was beginning to find his colleague’s words offensive. “There’s a war going on and it’s causing people to flee this way, which means an increase in the number of trouble makers. That’s why they’re keeping us alert, no other reason. So can we stop with the stupid conspiracy theories, please? There’s no secret project, there’s no mass invasion, there’s no … you know, weird, tentacled freaks with instantaneous obliteration guns on a mission to wipe out the entire galaxy. Seriously, who’s telling you all this?”

  “Hey, okay, I’m not saying anything else,” PJ said, putting his hands up in submission.

  “Good.”

  “Probably best I don’t, anyway. I heard that they assassinated the last guy who uncovered too much.”

  “Really?” Enrique asked, flabbergasted.

  McLeod put his head in his hands. It seemed that he was feeling that PJ was now winding up his audience unnecessarily, and was starting to get bored with the yarn, seeing its facts grounded in nothing more than rumour, speculation and hearsay. Dodds found himself partly in agreement. Anyone could have pieced such a story together from random bits of information floating around. And, frankly, some of it was starting to sound ludicrous. He picked up his beer and began to take a swig.

  “PJ, look – no one’s been assassinated by the navy,” McLeod said, largely into his hands.

  “They have,” PJ repeated, “the guy found out about Project X and what really went on in Mitikas. Can’t say exactly what happened, but they certainly made him disappear. I think his name was Bishop or Nurse or Dean or something like that …”

  Dean! How had … Dodds felt the beer leap back up his throat and he began to choke, spitting a mouthful onto the floor. He couldn’t believe it! PJ had just name-checked Patrick Dean! There was no way that was a coincidence! Whoever PJ had been talking to had the inside story.

  Dodds realised that everyone was staring at him. Even so, he knew he couldn’t discuss it. Not here, not now, and certainly not during this coughing fit.

  “You okay?” Enrique asked.

  “Yeah, just went down the wrong way,” Dodds said. Enrique gave him a few slaps on the back. Shortly after, PJ excused himself, claiming the beer was going straight through him.

  McLeod watched him go through irritated eyes. “Have fun booking your trip,” he muttered.

  “Think that’s all true what he said?” Dodds asked Enrique, once his coughing fit had subsided.

  “No idea,” Enrique said. “What do you think, Chaz?”

  “I think you boys should stop worrying and have another drink,” Chaz said, with clear amusement.

  Dodds considered things. Dean’s death had been very strange, and PJ’s mention of his name had to be more than mere coincidence, but perhaps McLeod did have a point. Maybe the man was simply exaggerating to amuse himself. He started coughing again.

  “Here you go,” said Heywood, presenting a fresh glass of whiskey, “that’ll clear your throat.”

  Dodds accepted it and downed the lot in one go. It actually tasted better than before, if that were possible. He picked up the bottle and poured himself some more.

  “Wanna help me finish this off?” he asked Enrique. “It’s not like we’ve got anything happening tomorrow,” he added.

  Enrique mulled it over for a moment. “Alright,” he said. “The way I’ve been playing tonight, I’d only end up drinking most of it myself, anyway.”

  A hand descended on Enrique’s shoulder. A man had appeared by the couch, a woman hovering behind him and looking on somewhat expectantly.

  “Excuse me, mate,” the man said.

  Enrique exchanged looks with Dodds, then said, “Er … what’s up?”

  “Sorry to interrupt your game, just a quick one – I hear that you’re the guy to talk to about getting hold of spare mattresses?”

  “You and your big mouth,” Dodds chuckled, pouring out some more whiskey and knocking it back.

  *

  The Officer’s Club was emptied a couple of hours later, with all the occupants being shepherded back to their quarters for an immediate lights out. Through his somewhat hazy vision, Dodds saw a couple of men being shouted at by a higher ranking officer. From what he’d heard, whilst they had been out drinking and enjoying themselves, they had missed their scheduled patrol. Apparently they weren’t the only ones, either. He could imagine that Meyers wouldn’t be pleased when he discovered what had happened.

  That was another question on his mind. Where was Meyers? He hadn’t seen or heard from the man in a few days. As far as he could remember, the last time he’d seen him was before their last patrol, two days ago. Was he on leave? Had something called him away?

  Ordinarily after a few drinks, Dodds found he slept like a log. Tonight, however, he couldn’t.

  “Enrique,” he called down to the bunk below him, a little louder than he intended.

  “Yeah?” Enrique said.

  “You ‘wake?”

  “Yeah. You feel sick?”

  “No, no, no,” Dodds said. “Wa’ just think’in.” He noticed just how badly his speech was slurring, and tried to concentrate. “Do you think tha guy was right?”

  “Wha’ guy?”

  “The guy that was talk’en about the shivil war.”

  “PJ?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Naah. He’s talking out ta his arse.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dodds lay there for a moment, contemplating. He noticed Estelle shifting in her bed, pulling the sheets around herself a little more. He then thought of a few things. “Yeah … bu… but, when yous think about it, it makes shense.”

  “How?” said Enrique.

  “Well, for one there’s … there�
��s that transmission we got t’other day. That bloke, right, he was really shcared. I doubt a civil war could be that bad to make someone as hyshterical as that. He was running away from somethings pretty nasty, I thinks.”

  “Okay,” Enrique said, though he didn’t sound too convinced, “anything else, like?”

  Dodds paused to consider all the possibilities. Even after the amount he’d drunk, he wasn’t about to bring up the subject of the ATAFs and the redirection of revenue to help support his argument. He realised, just as he had said it, that he probably shouldn’t really have mentioned the Dart pilot, either. No, it didn’t matter. He was sure that no one else was awake to hear him, anyway. He considered telling Enrique about Dean. It was weird that his name had been brought up tonight. Was it another Dean? Perhaps, but it all seemed too familiar. He then remembered the warnings given to him by Admiral Turner and the officer who had come to retrieve Dean’s body, and thought better of it.

  There was something there, though, in the back of his mind; a nagging feeling that had started after Dean’s name had been mentioned; one that hadn’t gone away, even after the last dregs of whiskey had been consumed. Was there a connection with what he had heard tonight? Dean was doubtless a piece of the puzzle, but was there something else, too? Had Dean said something that he had missed at the time? He momentarily thought back on their time at Xalan, of the footage they had viewed of the ATAF. All artists’ impressions and computer generated imagery, they had been told.

  Was it, Simon? Are you certain? Even the sims don’t do special effects that good. Are you sure some of it wasn’t real? And if it was, who were the pilots who had been flying those fighters…? Are you sure one of them hadn’t been Dean?

  Huh? Where had that come from? The thought ran through his head so fast that it was gone almost as soon as it had arrived. Damn. The whiskey was inhibiting his ability to think straight. He opted for a different reason to present to Enrique.

  “Well, then there’s Hawke,” he said.

  “Yeah, how?” Enrique said.

  “I swear that since they pulled him out of that escape pod, he’s become an even bigger arsehole—”