The Battle for the Solar System (Complete Trilogy)

by Sweeney, Stephen

  He rounded the corner leading to the airlock corridor and saw his wingmates standing in the chamber, their backs to him, affixing helmets and ensuring they were ready for evacuation into space. The doors were already sealed.

  Dodds sprinted up to the door and began thumping on the thick glass, shouting as loudly as he could. Still there came no sound, neither from his mouth, nor from his hand as it struck the glass. None of his wingmates looked around at him, Estelle, Enrique, Kelly and Chaz unaware of his presence.

  A noise came from behind and Dodds looked down the corridor to see a throng of figures stumbling around the corner. Each wore an all-encompassing, thick, black helmet on their heads. Dozens of ruby-red eyes fell upon him as the group turned. Their clothes were blood-soaked, their limbs perforated by multiple gunshot wounds.

  They were coming for him … and they had him cornered.

  Pandoran, Pandoran, Pandoran.

  The words came as a flat, eerie chorus, reverberating off the walls, seeping into his bones and threatening to draw out his very soul. He panicked and turned around, banging on the thick airlock window harder than before, pleading for his friends to help him. But both he and the glass remained as muted and non-communicative as ever. The chamber was suddenly bathed in flashing red hues and he watched in horror as the outer airlock doors parted and his team-mates drifted out into space. Their backs remained to him the whole time, never once turning around to see his face, never once offering to help him. They had abandoned him.

  Dodds turned around as a strong hand closed about his throat. Barber held him in an unbreakable grasp, staring at him with a perverse fascination. The black-helmeted refugees began to cluster around behind her, their numbers swelling to create an impenetrable wall. Barber then held up a bloodstained, rusty scalpel, and Dodds tried desperately to wrench her hand off him.

  It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it! he tried to say.

  But his words were hollow, and moments later, Barber lowered the scalpel to his stomach. He heard the tearing of his flight suit, the cool of the port’s air as it rushed in, and then the warmth of blood running down his stomach as the blade drove deep …

  *

  Dodds woke with a start, finding himself on the top bunk of the bed he’d fallen asleep on. He was sweating profusely, but at least he was back on Griffin; at least the nightmare had ended. He had no idea of how long he’d been asleep, nor how long it might be before Griffin arrived at Spirit, but right now he was happy to wait. Although it had only been a dream, in light of what he had experienced that day, it hadn’t seemed all that far from reality. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and decided he’d rather remain awake for the remainder of the journey home.

  He glanced down at Enrique and Kelly, who were both still fast asleep on their beds. Estelle and Chaz, too, were sleeping, occupying the same positions they’d had after collapsing onto the mattresses earlier. Their breathing was soft and even. Apparently, he was the only one suffering from bad dreams.

  Following their final battle in Phylent, Parks had seen to it that the team were given their own private quarters, allowing them to rest undisturbed. No more cargo holds for them. A short nap had followed, before they had been called to the galley to eat a meal. After that, it was 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 experiences. They ate in silence, the topics of the failed retake of Dragon, the fight aboard Arlos starport, and the treachery of Hawke remaining unbroached. Whether it was due to exhaustion, Dodds couldn’t say. Right now, he didn’t care.

  He exhaled and stared up at the ceiling. Today had been one of the hardest and most testing days of his life, yet he had emerged from it largely unscathed. Thoughts turned over in his head. A little over two months ago he had made himself a promise that 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 made a great deal of progress towards that goal. He had saved lives, many of them; he had done everything that had been asked and required of him, and more; and this time – this time – he had seen to it that when taking matters into his own hands, the ends had justified the means. And, moreover, he’d done it right.

  Hadn’t he?

  Then what was this feeling of emptiness inside him? After all that he’d seen, experienced and done, for all the lives he’d saved, for all the actions he’d taken, and for all that he’d stood in defence of, shouldn’t he feel more fulfilled? More satisfied?

  Perhaps even … redeemed?

  Of all the questions in his head, this was perhaps the easiest to answer. No. No, he shouldn’t. A do-over might have been what he desired, what he wanted. But it wasn’t what he needed.

  The simple fact was that eight months ago, Poppy Castro and Stefan Pitt had died by his hand, and no matter what he did he could never bring them back, nor undo the past. That was something he would have to live with for the rest of his life.

  He rubbed his wrists. He now knew what he had to put in the letters that he had started, but had never been able to finish. It was all so obvious.

  “Dear Mr and Mrs Castro,

  I write to you today knowing that nothing I ever do or say can ever bring back your daughter, nor undo the events of the past. I understand that I have taken so much from you already, but I would beg that you grant me one request, and that is to look into your hearts and find a way to forgive me …”

  As if there had ever been anything else.

  He would finish them tomorrow, post them the following week, and hope that the families would accept his request for forgiveness. And then, at last, he might be able to forgive himself.

  Poppy, Stefan, I’m so, so sorry.

  He closed his eyes again, but still he saw their faces.

  *

  Some hours later, Griffin exited jump space and arrived in the Temper system, not far out from Spirit. Dodds clambered down from his bunk as the announcement of their arrival repeated itself over the carrier’s PA. He woke Enrique and Kelly, as Estelle and Chaz sat up and rubbed the sleep from their eyes, letting them know that they were almost home and would soon be able to disembark.

  It was some time before they were permitted to leave their quarters, but eventually Omar Wyatt arrived to escort them away. Griffin’s corridors were desolate, the vast majority of the surviving crew having already disembarked. The largely devastated flight deck was just as quiet, only a handful of service personnel in attendance.

  As the five boarded the transport, Dodds wondered what was next for them. After proving themselves in real combat situations with the ATAFs, would they now go on to fulfil the role that had previously been assigned to the Red Devils? Or would they return to performing their routine patrols around Temper and other Confederation border systems? The shuttle wasn’t long docking with the station, and Dodds decided that these were questions that could be answered another time. 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, before halting as they saw the flight deck of Spirit Orbital swamped with men and women. Several dozen heads whipped around, and at once a cry went up.

  “There they are!” a man close to the shuttle called, pointing.

  “Where?”

  “There!”

  “It’s them! Look!”

  The enormous crowd surged towards the five pilots, giving them little room to move any further. A handful of coastguards, the orbital station’s security staff, attempted to contain the crowd, but met with little success. Even the waving of a firearm did little to dissuade the throng from pressing forward.

  As hands were thrust forward to be shaken and he was clapped on the back, Dodds realised what was happening. All these eager people were the other participants of Operation Menelaus, the crew complements of Griffin and Levitation. They had all waited here for one reason – to meet the mysterious fighter pilots th
at had turned the tide of battle and fought back against almost impossible odds. He took the hands in turn and shook them, accepting the congratulations and meeting the questions that were poured on. For the first time in many hours, he found himself unable to keep from smiling. Such recognition; this was truly a privilege.

  *

  Parks watched the scene unfold from an observation room, reluctantly aware that he wouldn’t be able to keep the Knights a secret forever. Whether they had been brought off first or last, it was doubtful that someone wouldn’t eventually have recognised them. He watched as the coastguards that had been assigned to clear the flight deck and sneak the Knights away were overwhelmed by the crowd. One looked up at him, a defeated expression on her face. She shrugged. Parks made no gesture. At least the Knights were safe.

  “That’s a sound that neither of us could honestly say we were expecting,” Turner commented behind him, as the volume of cheering rose.

  “No,” Parks said, turning away from the window. “I doubt even the return of Dragon would’ve triggered such a response.”

  Turner stood at the rear of the room, away from the windows, waiting for Parks to present him with the data card the Knights had retrieved from Barber. Aside from Turner and Parks, the only other occupants of the observation room were a team of six coastguards, one of whom stood holding a large metal case.

  “Seriously, Commodore, how the hell did we miss Hawke?” Turner asked, sounding angry with himself, Parks and the CSN in general.

  “None of the usual signs of infection were present to begin with, sir,” Parks said. “They only appear to have fully manifested themselves within the past few hours. It may well have been a result of being in a combat situation with the Enemy; although it could’ve been some kind of dormant sleeper system.”

  “And we quarantined him for a month?”

  “More like eight weeks.”

  Turner swore, then said, “If that’s the case, then it’s very worrying. How many more could’ve slipped through the net?”

  “All the standard tests came back negative. There was nothing in his blood, and the retina and brain scans were as expected. For all intents and purposes, he was the same man who went out there. He was perfectly normal,” Parks said, repeating a belief the two men had once held.

  Turner tutted and shook his head. “When we pulled him out of that escape pod, my gut feeling was to suspend him immediately. Or, at the very least, hold him back from direct involvement in critical operations. But as you know, we need every good man we can get our hands on and I couldn’t risk removing someone like that from service.” Turner started to pace, looking down at the floor. “Aside from his refusal to cooperate during the operation, did he do anything else to rouse suspicion?”

  “No,” Parks said. “He even went so far as to take down the Bastone, after it jumped into the system to ambush us.”

  “Did you get a good look at that frigate?”

  “There wasn’t really much time,” Parks sighed. “Hawke destroyed it almost as soon as it arrived.”

  “Then it was probably part of the ruse. I’d bet good money that it was worthless to them, anyway. It was probably completely unmanned, in a poor state of repairs, and ready to fall apart any day now. You’re going to have to sharpen up about these sorts of issues, Elliott.” He paced some more, appearing quite contemplative. “Do we know if Hawke was acting alone on Ifrit? Was anyone else involved?”

  “It’s difficult to be certain,” Parks said. “From what we’ve been told by the survivors, Hawke surrendered Ifrit to the Enemy and allowed them to come aboard. After that, the Enemy started to systematically kill off the crew. We found the survivors hiding in the ventilation units near the power cores. They weren’t even aware that Hawke had survived.”

  Turner grunted his dismissal of the survivors’ statements. “They’ve been quarantined, too?”

  “Yes, sir. For two months.”

  “Make it three.”

  Parks nodded and went on, “The Enemy abandoned Ifrit when Zackaria and Hawke were spaced. They picked both of them up in transports and fled Phylent, along with Dragon and the frigates that had joined it. It looks like Hawke’s been held in high regard for quite some time; certainly up there with Julian Rissard.”

  Turner stopped pacing and looked up. “You didn’t think to destroy the transport before Hawke and Zackaria could escape?”

  “I … hesitated, sir,” Parks said, apologetically. He had been in two minds over the course of action to take. He had conceded that holding back on destroying the transport and leaving both men to escape was, in his opinion, the lesser of two evils. Allowing Zackaria to live would permit him to continue with leading the anticipated assault against the rest of the galaxy, though an assault that could be halted if Zackaria could be reasoned with. Killing him, however, would likely extinguish all hope of preventing the Pandoran army’s advance for good. It seemed not to matter which choice he made – at the end of the day, people were going to die. The deciding factor here was just how many. It all came down to numbers. Whilst there was no reason to believe that upon capturing Zackaria they could expect him to cooperate, there was no harm in trying. It would’ve made everything that much easier, though.

  Turner let slip a small sigh. “I’m sure it wasn’t without good reason, Commodore. I may have acted in exactly the same way had I been in your place. For now, it is important that we establish whether or not Hawke was acting of his own free will.”

  “I will have a full background check made against him immediately, as well as the survivors from Ifrit,” Parks said.

  “We need every detail, Commodore,” Turner said, sternly. “If there is even the slightest shred of evidence to suggest that this thing no longer affects so-called ‘purebred Imperials’, then everything changes – we’ll have a full blown galactic pandemic on our hands, and we need to be sure that we are able to control this thing.”

  Both Parks and Turner looked to the six other men occupying the room, aware that they should conduct the rest of the conversation in more private and secure surroundings.

  “Someone should probably tell his wife, too,” Turner added.

  There came a chorus of Hip Hip Hooray! and Parks glanced back down to the flight deck, where the Knights were still receiving praise for their day’s work. He thought of how the five pilots had twice overcome next to impossible odds, in the space of just a few hours. It seemed that they truly were the right people for the job, which was both a blessing and a pity.

  “I never doubted their potential, Elliott,” Turner commented.

  “Neither did I,” Parks said.

  “Now,” Turner prompted, “I believe you have something for me?”

  Parks turned away from the scene, fishing the data card out of a pocket and presenting it to Turner. The admiral picked up a portable device that lay on a table next to him and inserted the card into a slot in the base. The device jingled, the screen informing them that it was accessing the card, before setting about decrypting the data. Not long thereafter, it displayed the contents.

  Several dozen textual commands ran the length of the screen, along with options to manipulate the card and its data. The device itself was little more than a screen, the surface touch-sensitive. Turner’s fingertip hovered over the screen for a few moments, before he tapped at the only piece of text that mattered to them –

  Operation Sudarberg

  More words filled the screen. Amongst the text present were sections entitled ATAF, with subsections labelled Overview, Schemas, Phase Analysis and Implementation.

  Parks watched as the admiral continued to tap through various sections and subsections of the data. Images of the ATAF, concepts and blueprints flashed across the device’s screen, and Turner moved quickly through them, not lingering long on any of the sections. Neither he nor Parks needed to see it all in detail; they knew what they were looking at, having seen it almost every day for the past four years.

  One section, entitled Parti
cipants, caught Parks’ eye briefly. He saw names and identifiers –

  Yellow Dogs

  Patrick Dean (WC)

  Hugh Sanderson, Clinton Oliver

  Nelson Winward, Cody Ferandez

  Red Devils

  Andrea Kennedy (WC)

  Liza Poutre, Roxie Bridgewater

  Julianne Goodbody, Tara Bartz

  White Knights

  Estelle de Winter (WC)

  Enrique Todd, Kelly Taylor

  Chaz Koonan, Simon Dodds

  Silver Panthers

  Yong Sarden (WC)

  Foster Noth, Lyman Teabo

  Wm Alto, Ed Romas

  And then it was gone.

  Finally, Turner tapped through to the Implementation section. An animation began to play out on the screen, starting with an overview of the Mitikas Empire. Five star systems, Mekel, Carthege, Haylahe, Atlante, and Codexa, were highlighted. They were positioned close to one another and situated near the centre of the nation. As the animation played through, the galactic map expanded out to reveal the entirety of Imperial space, as well as a small number of Independent systems, running the border. Five pale yellow spheres expanded from each of the five highlighted star systems, engulfing many of the visible entities. Statistics and other various items of information began to fill the screen, though Turner didn’t wait for it to complete.

  “Good work, Commodore,” he said, powering down the device. He removed the card and placed it into a small plastic container. He then beckoned forward the coastguard holding the large metal case and placed the data card inside. The case was absurdly large for the tiny object that it had been brought to carry, though the data it contained was well-deserving of the protection.

  For the time being, at least.

  Both Parks and Turner knew that it would be closely guarded until its retrieval could be fully confirmed by government officials, after which it would be destroyed.

  “We have also obtained full combat statistics for the ATAFs,” Parks said. “They are currently being correlated on Griffin. I should be able to have them sent to you within a few hours.”