The Battle for the Solar System (Complete Trilogy)

by Sweeney, Stephen

  As Lee and Dawes’ limp bodies slumped to the floor beside him, Short’s eyes grew wide and he started to back away from Hawke, looking behind him to two men stood by the bridge’s lift doors. Hawke swung the pistol towards Short.

  “Security—” Short started, before Hawke pulled the trigger and sent him to join Lee and Dawes on the floor.

  Hawke’s eyes darted over the other occupants of the bridge, marking out all those present. Sudden movement caught his attention. The two security guards, stood at the far end of the long bridge, guarding the lift, had broken into a run towards him. They were still reaching for their side arms as they came. Hawke was quicker. “Drop them!” he called, training his pistol on the pair.

  The two ignored him, withdrawing their guns and levelling them at Hawke. “Sir, please drop your weapon,” one said, his voice firm.

  “Drop them, now!” Hawke responded.

  “Put the gun down, sir!” the same guard repeated.

  Hawke said no more and Cox caught the flashes of two instantaneous red beams of the laser discharge, felling both of the bridge’s security. Hawke’s wrist seemed to have moved only a fraction as his aim shifted from one man to the other.

  Hawke then looked to the remaining crew. “All of you, get down on your knees and put your hands on your heads,” he spat to the entire bridge. “KNEES! NOW!” he shouted when no one moved. Hawke swung the gun, menacingly.

  It passed in Cox’s direction and he felt himself dropping to the floor as his legs gave way automatically, his hands flying to the top of his head. The tone in Hawke’s voice told him that the man probably wouldn’t hesitate to use the gun again, given half the chance. In the floor’s dim reflection, Cox saw the engineer lowering himself down next to him, and for a time he dared do nothing but stare at the same spot on the floor. He then gingerly raised his eyes to look out the frontal viewport.

  The transports were still streaming from Dragon, making their way towards the main launch bay of Ifrit. Hawke continued to mark the crew as they knelt on the floor, watching each of them for the slightest attempt at escape or attack.

  It wasn’t long before the first wing of transports started to enter Ifrit’s launch bay, setting themselves down inside. Even as they did so, more could be seen departing Dragon, forming a long caravan of shuttles, reminiscent of those departing Spirit earlier that day. These transports, however, Cox knew carried with them scores of Imperial soldiers, deadly weaponry, and God-only-knew whatever else. The sight of the continuous streams did nothing but fill him with a terrible sense of dread and foreboding.

  What would happen when they arrived? Why was this happening? What did Hawke plan to do? The questions raced through Cox’s mind. Though, for some reason, he felt his fear starting to slip away, a greater emotion building within him. He looked down the bridge, along the rows of crew that were on their knees. He noted one young man who was trembling. The youth made a snap glance in the direction of the lift.

  No! Stay where you are! Cox wanted to shout to him. Don’t do it! You won’t make it!

  But it seemed the man had already made up his mind. He leapt to his feet and started towards the lift, arm outstretched, reaching for the call button. He managed no more than a few feet before Hawke felled him, the instantaneous, thin red beam of the laser cutting its way through the back of his head. The young man crashed forward across the floor, legs buckling under him, his arms splayed out as he went down. Like the others that had fallen to the shots, he gave no cry as he fell, but those kneeling close by flinched at the sound of his body slamming down.

  Hawke’s point was made. The bridge became silent.

  Some time later, Cox saw activity in one of the monitors, feeding in from Ifrit’s flight deck. The first of the transports had touched down and had begun to open up, the passengers like none he had ever seen before. They were clad almost entirely in black, save for a splash of white on their left breast and right arm, together with a pair of red eyes set into their helmets.

  The soldiers spilled out of the shuttles, rifles raised to secure the area. They spoke no words, but gestured to the deck’s occupants to place their hands on their heads and get down on their knees. The various maintenance workers, pilots and other service personnel did as they were ordered, without challenge or hesitation. It didn’t take long for the soldiers to secure the area, and not before long they were beginning to permeate their way into all other areas of the ship.

  “Sir, the Admi—” a woman’s voice came over the carrier’s PA system.

  “Escort him up to the bridge,” Hawke said, without waiting for her to finish.

  A short time later, the bridge’s lift doors opened and Cox saw four figures occupying the elevator car. One of them looked like a member of Ifrit’s security team. The woman was being held under the arms by two tall black-clad figures, the same as those he had seen in the monitor. He now saw that the white mark on their arms and breast appeared to be some kind of emblem. The two soldiers stepped out of the lift and unceremoniously tossed the woman’s body down onto the floor. She appeared to have been shot in the back of the head, her blonde hair wet, sticky and matted with blood from the wound. Though he couldn’t be sure, Cox guessed that she had attempted to get to the man whom the two soldiers were escorting. The soldiers then stood to attention either side of the lift doors, presenting their rifles and making way for the last person to depart.

  A tall, bald man exited, walking slowly, like a king at a procession, so that everyone could see him. It took a few moments for Cox to realise who it was – Admiral Jason Zackaria. The man was clothed in formal Imperial naval dress, the condition of his uniform verging on perfection; wrinkle-free and decorated to great splendour. 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. Though surrounded by his enemies, he walked with gentle calm down the bridge’s central aisle, the soles of his dark gleaming shoes clopping on the floor as he went. Now the only sound on the bridge, the echoes seemed to perfectly punctuate his entrance. Hawke remained where he was, returning his pistol to the inside of his jacket, and waiting for the admiral’s approach.

  Whereupon, he saluted.

  Cox gave a start, reeling from what he had just seen; though the shock paled with what he felt next, when the two men began speaking. The language seemed unnatural and alien, Cox unable to make out a single word. It sounded nothing like any recognisable Imperial dialects Cox might’ve expected, not even with the admiral’s accent. Yet it rolled off Hawke’s tongue effortlessly, his grasp and command of the dialect seeming perfect. There was something else there, too, something that didn’t quite sound like normal human speech. It was all wrong. Everything was wrong.

  The two men spoke at length, Hawke doing most of the talking, Zackaria seeming to ask questions every now and again. After a time, Hawke gave a short nod, the only thing that Cox could readily identify – the conversation was over.

  Hawke readdressed the bridge crew. “I have negotiated the surrender of Ifrit. From here on out, I will fall under the command of Fleet Admiral Zackaria. As for the rest of you – we no longer have any more need for a full serving crew. You are all now redundant.”

  Heads were raised 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, all of which had awareness of the same thing – they were going to 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.

  No, Cox thought, it couldn’t end here! He had to do something! He might not be able to save Ifrit or guarantee that the crew could escape the enemy forces that surrounded them, but one thing he could do was ensure that Hawke didn’t celebrate his victory here today. His fear was almost gone, and now he knew what this new feeling was that had replaced it – anger. Taking a tigh
t grasp of the screwdriver that he had hidden when Hawke had ordered everyone to the floor, he ensured that 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 he suffocated, or drowned in blood, or whatever else 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 grandiose cry or final comment as he went at the commodore. He moved fluidly, neither faltering nor stumbling, his leap from his kneeling position on the floor towards Hawke verging on perfection.

  But the weapon never found its target, Cox’s world instead dissolving into a blur of intense pain, confusion and unfulfilled heroic deeds.

  *

  For a time, all was black. He vaguely sensed the world around him, but was unable to focus, struck with a numbness that affected his entire body. The dizziness then cleared and he came to, feeling total agony. He raised his head as best he could, trying to will away the stars 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, and came to a staggering conclusion.

  As he had leapt towards Hawke, the screwdriver 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, and with one quick and powerful twist, the man had broken his arm and sent the screwdriver tumbling from his grasp. Zackaria had then spun him around and thrown him across the bridge.

  It seemed too unreal to think of it, but he distinctly remembered the sensation of travelling through the air. And that was something he struggled with even more, for he hadn’t travelled just a few feet with the throw, but the entire remaining width of the bridge itself. He must have flown a distance of well over twenty metres, his feet leaving the floor by several themselves. He thought that had the wall at the opposite side of the bridge not stopped him, he may have travelled even further.

  He couldn’t believe what had just happened – the man was over sixty years old! And yet he had, with seemingly very little effort, disarmed and tossed him across the bridge, as if he were nothing more than a small animal.

  Cox couldn’t stand, no matter how hard he tried. His legs wouldn’t respond. He must’ve broken his spine, he could hardly even move his arms. He could hear screaming, as well as the sound of gunfire. People were running. He could see their forms darting about and cowering, as they tried desperately to escape. The two soldiers that had arrived on the bridge were killing the crew.

  He then became aware of a pair of black shoes just in front of him. Hawke. He turned pleading eyes up to face the man, imploring him for mercy. Hawke’s face, however, was pitiless.

  “Thank you for all your hard work over the years, Mr Cox,” Hawke said, once again withdrawing his pistol, “but your services are no longer required.”

  “Captain …” Cox pleaded, as the gun was aimed at his head.

  But Hawke said nothing more, and simply pulled the trigger.

  XXIV

  — A Hard Truth to Accept —

  An excerpt from A GIFT FROM THE GODS by Kelly Taylor

  Friday, June 13th 2617

  The morning of June 13th 2617 was the last time that many of us saw Anthony Hawke. After that, he was seen only briefly by Elliott Parks and Sima Mandeep during the assault on Mythos, at the start of the Pandoran’s push beyond the Mitikas Empire.

  We always maintain that the crew of CSN Ifrit fought valiantly against their invaders. But like those of Dragon and all the other vessels that were hijacked by the Pandoran army during their campaign, they were no match for the black-suited soldiers. Even today, after everything that I have been through, I still can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for the crew serving aboard Ifrit. To know that your captain, a person in whom you had placed so much faith and trust, had sentenced you to such a terrible fate must’ve been a truly horrific experience. The Pandorans slaughtered each and every one of them, dumping their bodies out into space and taking control of the vessel, following Zackaria’s orders to the letter; for it was his command that they adhered to, what they believed in, and what they would obey until the day they died. He was their leader, their single point of contact and the infallible dictator of the Mission. This, again, is the one single reason why Zackaria remained at the top of the galaxy’s Most Wanted list – he could’ve halted the Pandoran war machine with a single word.

  I still sometimes wonder if we’d all have been better off knowing everything there was to about their army, before the start of what was to become the Pandoran War. It would become a reoccurring question in the next seven-and-a-half years, and never one that any were truly capable of answering. On the one hand, to know everything they were capable of, where they had come from, what they wanted, what they adhered to and who they followed – essentially everything within The Grace Report – would’ve served us well. On the other hand, the Great Panic of 2618 was proof enough of the need to keep the truth concealed. It was for this reason that the Independent nations and the Confederacy collaborated on controlling the media and doctoring news reports, as well as taking more extreme measures, such as the assassination of the Yellow Dogs. It was also why the eventual leaking of the Report was so damaging, as it revealed just how much information had been kept secret.

  Still, the information would’ve proven invaluable to us as we searched Arlos starport for the missing Barber. But that was why Parks sent Chaz along with us, to protect us should we encounter any members of the Pandoran army. He knew that even though Chaz could run away, he wouldn’t. He’d already tried many times before and had always failed. The threat of not seeing his family again would also keep him on the right side of the information line, and stop him from exposing too much. A cruel thing to do to a man.

  Arlos starport could perhaps have been seen as a forerunner for how much of the rest of the galaxy would go on to be between 2618 and 2624 – throngs of refugees, along with bags and bags of personal belongings, packing out orbitals, starports and all manner of other transit stations, as they tried to flee from the Pandoran menace. Although the effects of my concussion didn’t come to a head until much later in the day, it caused me considerable distraction as I patrolled the groups of people, trying to find Barber. I was lost in thought as to why they were all here and why my father’s ship had been berthed outside the station. Had I been in a better frame of mind, I may have been able to put two and two together far quicker, and realise that the people were being ferried away from Imperial space; Gloucester Enterprises’ involvement in all this being their access to a tremendous fleet of ships and the substantial transportation capacities that they subsequently offered. Cargo containers take up considerable amounts of space; people, less so. However, I did not get around to asking my father about this for another six months, because my injury made me forget all about it.

  One thing I didn’t forget, however, was the moment Enrique and I shared whilst keeping watch for intruders to the mortuary, guarding the entrance to the medical wing. My head had started to throb once more from the blow I’d suffered and I asked Enrique to take a look, to see if there were any further signs of physical trauma. He found nothing, but as he moved away our eyes met, as if for the first time, and I saw something in them that I’d never seen before. I knew Enrique cared for me a great deal, but I’d never considered how much my death might affect him. I’m told by many that he wept when he saw the Imperial fighter collide with me, convinced, like so many others, that I had been killed. It took him years to admit just how long he’d been in love with me. Under different circumstances, I may have acted on it. But we were in that corridor to do a job, and so I dismissed him back to the door. A good thing I did, too.

  It was Chaz who eventually discovered the whereabouts of Barber. He had taken his time searching the groups, lookin
g for just the right person to engage. He singled out an orphaned boy, whom Chaz said appeared to be far more receptive to him than anyone else. I partly recall seeing the boy myself. I now believe that the reason that Chaz singled him out to speak to was because he reminded him of his son.

  Chaz wasn’t entirely fluent in any Imperial dialects, but he knew enough in each to be able to piece together enough to get his point across. A little like how someone might substitute Spanish words with Portuguese.

  His anger flared at the discovery of Barber’s death, and in the hours that followed he became a very different man – a fighter, a survivor, a tactician, and both dexterous and masterful in those arts. Exactly the sort of man that the Confederation had coerced him into becoming.

  *

  “Something’s happened to her,” Dodds said to Estelle, as the two walked side by side amongst the huddles. “She would’ve found us by now. We’re not exactly being inconspicuous.”

  Despite Parks’ statement that their contact wouldn’t be jumping up and down and waving her arms, Dodds had reached the conclusion that by this time Barber would’ve spotted the team moving around the hall and made herself known to them. He and Estelle continued to walk through the ranks of refugees, once again trying to spot anything significant they may have missed. Most of the people there 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 responded violently to the enquiries, either shouting and throwing things, or leaping up and taking a swing at the pilots.

  “Then again, she may have already left,” Dodds added.

  “No, I think you’re right – something’s happened,” 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.” She looked about, then said, “But having said that, it’s probably worth another look. I’m going to check upstairs again. Let me know if you find anything.”