The Honour of the Knights (First Edition)

by Stephen Sweeney

  “Who is it?” his father asked him. Gregory Dodds, also awoken by the commotion, had wandered into his son's bedroom. Simon noticed that he clutched a shotgun in one hand, no doubt in preparation for whomever 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 the man's chest with a soft blue light.

  “There's someone outside,” Simon said.

  “Where?”

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

  Simon's father shoved past to see for himself and, just as Simon had done, took a quick glance around to see if there was anyone else about. Satisfied that the figure was the only probable source of the disturbance that had woken the family he turned once more to his son.

  “We'll go and have a look. I'll have your mother get ready to call the police.”

  Simon nodded in agreement. “Here,” he said, reaching out to take the shotgun from his father.

  His father pulled back, pushing Simon's hand away from the weapon and giving him a distrustful look. “You've got to be joking!”

  “I'm not going to shoot you in the back, Dad,” Simon said. “You've got to start trusting me again.”

  “Just put some clothes on,” Gregory answered, leaving Simon's room.

  Simon pulled on the previous day's clothes, that he picked up off a chair, and laced up some boots before joining his father on the upstairs landing. By all appearances his father had made a similar decision with his attire and the pair made their way down the stairs and opened the front door.

  * * *

  The figure in the dirt remained motionless. Leaving his father to guard the front door, Simon hurried up the track and knelt down next to the body.

  “Hey,” he said, giving the man a gentle shake about the shoulder. The man let out a groan and Simon wondered if he was a drunkard who had staggered up to the house searching for a place to sleep. He then discovered that the unpleasant, sticky wetness he felt on his hand was not vomit or alcohol; it was blood.

  “He's hurt!” Simon called to his father, looking at the blood and dirt that clung to his fingers. His father quickened his step, joining his son by the body. Simon became aware of the man's attire and realised that he was wearing a somewhat loose fitting Confederation Stellar Navy flight suit. He rolled the man over on to his back carefully, discovering the front of the suit to be torn and bloody.

  “One of your bloody lot,” his father muttered, 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. The wounded man's eyes fluttered open and his gaze fell upon the two that knelt over him. He tried to speak, but the effort seemed too great, only a whisper escaping his lips.

  “Hey, you okay?” Simon asked, speaking in a loud and clear voice. The man gave him no response, his eyes starting to close again.

  “Can you stand?” Gregory asked, but there was no reply. “Let's get him inside the house,” he suggested. Simon watched as he trotted back up the worn track to relieve himself of the shotgun, before returning to his side.

  “Ready?” Gregory asked.

  “Ready.”

  Simon lifted the man under the arms, his father taking his legs, the pair ignoring the groans from their unexpected guest. They made it back to the house, Simon noticing for the first time the dark red blood stains 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 through the door and carried the man into the living room. She had pulled on a thin dressing gown over her night dress. She was a tall woman, with blonde hair and, at this moment, a shocked expression. A cat, that had been enjoying a blissful doze on a chair, lifted its head and then shrank back as it saw the stranger in the men's arms. It jumped down from its resting place and darted out the room, past the three men, the bell on its collar tinkling as it went.

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

  “He's been shot,” Simon added as he and his father deposited the heavily breathing man on to the couch. Sally did as Gregory requested, bringing the shotgun inside and propping it up against a wall in the hallway, the ammunition counter projecting a blue hue on to a small spot on the wooden floor where it was placed. Sally moaned as she saw where the two men had set the man who had woken them.

  “Greg, you're going to get blood all over the couch,” she said.

  “Well, we can't exactly just dump him on the ground,” Gregory said.

  Simon noted a couple of splotches of blood on the wooden floor.

  “We need to get him comfortable.”

  “Who is he? Where did he come from?” Sally said.

  “He's CSN, Mum,” Simon said. “Do you know where the first-aid kit is?”

  “Hello? Can you hear me? What's your name?” Gregory was still trying to get a response.

  “It's “Dean”, Dad, it says so on his suit,” Simon said, pointing out the lettering on the left breast beneath the squadron logo. “Mum, first-aid? He's bleeding pretty badly,” Simon prompted his mother who was staring at the injured man.

  “I'll call an ambulance,” Sally said.

  “And you can call one of your friends at the Navy straight after,” Gregory added to Simon. “There's got to be a number for this sort of thing, right?”

  “N... No! Don't!” the stranger named Dean cried out, looking around for who was speaking. The three jumped at his voice.

  “You need medical treatment. We have to get you to a hospital or a doctor,” Sally said, looking about the living room. “Where's the handset?”

  “The handset?” Gregory said.

  “For the phone.”

  “I don't know. It's probably fallen down the back of the couch again. Just use the video screen in the hall.”

  “No... no doctors! No Navy!” Dean protested, finding strength to talk. “Let... let me stay... here! Please!”

  “Hey, calm down,” Simon said. “You're in shock.”

  Dean looked quite distressed as Sally left the living room and walked out of his view, his breathing becoming erratic.

  “Where's the first-aid?” Simon asked his father.

  “Your mother knows,” Gregory answered. “We'll get it after she's called the ambulance.”

  “Simon,” the young man heard his mother call from out in the hall. He left his father with Dean and found his mother floundering in front of the video phone that hung on the wall. “I can't remember how we do this. That's why I wanted to use the handset instead of this stupid thing.”

  “Just tap the screen anywhere and then press the “Emergency Services” icon,” Simon prompted. He positioned himself within the doorway of the living room, so that he could both keep an eye on their guest and jump in to assist his mother should she need it.

  Sally tapped the touch-sensitive screen to bring the phone out of its sleep state, the device lighting up and displaying icons and options. She stabbed at the “Emergency Services” icon and hugged at herself as the screen informed her the video phone was connecting. Before long it did so. From his skewed angle of the screen, Simon could just make out the headset wearing blonde woman who answered the call.

  “What service do you require?”

  “Ambulance,” Sally said, then hastened to add, “We've got a man here suffering from gunshot wounds.”

  “What's his condition?” The woman's fingers tapped away at an unseen device.

  “He's bleeding quite heavily. Not sure how many times he was shot, but he can't walk and can barely speak. We had to carry him into the living room from outside the house.”

  “Are the wounds the result of a projectile or energy weapon?”

  “I... er... I don't...”

  “Are there any burn marks? If it was an energy weapon then in most cases you
'd be able to smell the burnt clothes and wounds.”

  Sally glanced over to Simon.

  “Bullets, Mum,” he said.

  “Bullets,” Sally repeated.

  “Okay, thank you,” the operator confirmed, maintaining her calm. Simon could see his mother ringing at her dressing grown quite hard.

  “Has he been shot in the arms, legs, torso, or head?” the woman wanted to know.

  “His body. The chest, it looks like.”

  The woman at the emergency services tapped away and then paused, looking down at something for a few moments, a curious expression on her face. “Could you hold the line for a minute, please? Thank you.” Her image disappeared, to be replaced with the medical services logo.

  “Simon, she's just hung up,” Sally said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “It's gone back to this,” Sally indicated the logo occupying the display. Simon was about to start over to investigate when the operator who had answered the call re-appeared on the screen.

  “Could you confirm your name and address?” she requested. Sally did. “Okay, good. Someone will be with you within the next thirty or forty minutes. Now listen carefully: please don't move the victim since you could cause him additional trauma. The bullets may have missed vital organs, so we don't want to do anything that could result in further injury. The biggest risk to their life will come from loss of blood. If you are able, dress the wounds and try to stem any blood loss. It could make the difference between life and death. Don't move him from the house or attempt to bring him to us yourself.” The operator hung up.

  Sally swore and came back into the living room.

  “What's wrong?” Gregory asked.

  “They're not going to be here for another thirty minutes, at least.”

  “Thirty minutes?” Gregory said, horrified.

  “At least!”

  “We'll have to take him ourselves,” Simon said.

  “No, they said not to move him, it could make things worse,” Sally said, wringing her hands. “We're going to have to do the best we can for him until they get here. I'll find a first-aid kit. Simon can you call the Navy?”

  “No, he said not to,” Simon said, shaking his head.

  His mother stared at him in disbelief for a second. “Simon...”

  “No, I can't. He asked us not to contact them. Didn't you hear him?”

  “Simon, don't talk to your mother that way,” Gregory said, a scowl on his face.

  “I'm just following protocol, Dad,” Simon answered.

  Gregory glared at his son. “Oh, so now you decide that it's time to start doing as you're told...”

  “I always do as I'm told.”

  “You could've fooled me...”

  “Oh for God's sake, stop it you two, just stop it!” Sally said. “Don't start having that conversation again, especially now. I've heard it every day for the last five months.”

  “I'm just trying to do the right thing,” Simon said.

  “And why couldn't you have done the right thing then?”

  “It was an accident, Mum. Those people were just there. It's not as if I decided to shoot them all on purpose. I didn't go out of my way to take their lives.”

  “And now you're just going to let it happen here instead,” Sally said, choking back tears and pushing past Simon, leaving the living room and the three men behind her. Simon watched as she walked in the direction of the kitchen and began pulling things out of cupboards in a search for sufficient medical supplies. He began to start after his distressed mother.

  “Simon, wait there a moment,” his father called. Simon turned back to the scene in the living room, watching his father undoing Dean's flight suit and trying to get a better look at his injuries. The extent of the damage was clear even before the white vest Dean wore beneath the suit was pulled up. Two dark holes were prominent in Dean's chest, blood still seeping out with each breath. Gregory stood and walked over to Simon.

  “Why doesn't this guy want us to call an ambulance or the Navy?” Gregory asked.

  Simon shrugged. “It's possible that he's involved in some kind of covert operation.”

  “Covert?” His father screwed up his face. “You mean he's meant to be doing something in secret?”

  “Yeah. Or with very little exposure. Whatever it is, he doesn't want certain people within the Navy finding out about it.” Simon looked at Dean, who was still taking heavy gasps of air.

  “Well what does he expect us to do with him?” Gregory asked in somewhat accusing tones. Gregory studied the man for a moment. “Do you know him?”

  “No,” Simon shook his head. “I've never seen him before in my life. Honest,” he added, seeing the unconvinced look his father gave him. They returned to Dean and knelt down next to the couch.

  “Looks like he's been shot in the chest and shoulders. You stay here with him. I'll help your mother find some bandages and something to plug up the wounds.”

  Dean was staring up at the ceiling and breathing hard, struggling to catch his breath. Simon decided to try and discover what had happened whilst he still could.

  “Don't worry, mate, everything's going to be okay. You'll just have a few scars to show your friends.”

  Dean said nothing.

  “Confederation Stellar Navy, eh? I'm in the service myself, although it's a little complicated right now.”

  Just in case you're wondering why a twenty-nine-year-old is still living at home with his mum and dad, Simon thought to himself.

  Dean still said nothing, his eyes remaining fixed on the ceiling.

  “Yellow Dogs?” Simon noted the emblem of a cartoon dog, tongue lolling from its mouth, on the outside of Dean's flight suit. “Not heard of you guys. I usually fly with the White Knights.”

  At Simon's words Dean turned his head to look at the young man, his eyes filled with anguish.

  “A... TAF... ject...” he tried, the effort of speaking appearing quite great.

  “What?” Simon drew closer. “Say that again.” Simon could hear his mother's distressed voice carrying through from the kitchen as she spoke to his father, evidently quite upset by what she had been dragged into.

  “... you don't know who's done this to him. They could come around here looking for him,” she was saying.

  “We didn't see anyone else outside,” Gregory said.

  “But how did he get here? Did he drive? Where's his car?”

  “He's a pilot. Maybe he parachuted?”

  “So where was his parachute? Where did his plane or whatever it was come down?”

  “I don't know, Sal.”

  “We don't even know if he is who he says he is. For all we know he could be one of those terrorists from Mitikas. You know how it starts - they come over here one by one and then start blowing each other up.”

  There was a clatter and then a heavy crash, followed by cursing from his mother.

  “That man is going to die unless he gets to a hospital.”

  Simon forced himself to filter out the rest. He was intent on discovering what had happened to Dean and how he had come to be there. The wounded pilot reached out and placed a limp hand on his shoulder.

  “A... T.. AF... operation...” the man tried again.

  “You ejected from your TAF?” Simon asked, trying to make sense of what Dean was saying. If he'd ejected from his TAF how did he get all those bullet wounds? Had someone managed to shoot him while he sat in the cockpit? That didn't make any sense. Bullets would have a hard time getting through the toughened canopy, let alone the energy shields surrounding the fighter. “Where did you come down?”

  The man started coughing and took another deep breath. “Imperial war... wrong...” was all he could manage.

  Simon didn't know what he was talking about. The Imperial civil war was wrong? Of course it was, lots of people had lost their lives in that unending conflict. Dean was making very little sense.

  “Right Simon, give me a hand here.” Gregory reappeared in the living
room, carrying a small red first-aid box and a much larger medical kit. He dumped them both on the floor at the foot of the couch and together the pair did their best to bandage the man, but they both knew that he would die without proper medical attention.

  As Simon bandaged the bullet wounds in the man's chest, in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood, he noticed his mother in the doorway. She was still distressed and he could make out the tears sliding down her face. He was well aware of what she must have been thinking: one day it might be her son in the same position, being patched up by friends, or strangers, as they did their best to prolong his life for what might well prove to be only a few minutes. He smiled back at her, to let her know it would be okay. Following naval protocol or not, he now regretted the way he had spoken to her. Dean could not have been much older than himself, something which had likely compounded her anguish.

  The wounded pilot never took his eyes off Simon as he and his father tried to make him comfortable and stable.

  “Sudarberg,” Dean said all of a sudden, still staring at Simon.

  “What did he say?” Gregory asked, the two men ceasing their messy bandaging to listen.

  “Sudarberg?” Simon asked, leaning closer to Dean.

  “Y... yes. Stay... a.. aw.. way.”

  “Where's Sudarberg?” Gregory asked.

  “I don't know, I've never heard of it. Where's Sudarberg? Why should I stay away from it?” Dean didn't answer, but panted, struggling to swallow.

  “This guy is going to die unless we can get him to a hospital soon,” his father remarked. Simon looked over their attempts to preserve the man's life, their efforts far poorer than what he had originally envisioned. Whilst the medical kits contained a number of dressings, bandages and solutions designed to stimulate rapid coagulation, they were not enough to contend with Dean's kinds of injuries, nor his sustained blood loss. They persevered for a while longer, until Gregory threw in the towel.

  “Right, Simon, call your friends at the Navy,” Gregory said. “We've been at this for ages now and that ambulance could still take quite a while to get here. The Navy might be able to get here quicker. Whatever this guy is worried about, I'm sure its not worth dying over.”