The Battle for the Solar System (Complete Trilogy)

by Sweeney, Stephen

  “I just need to ensure I have all the details down, Mr Dodds,” the representative said, tapping away with a stylus at some sort of PDA-like device. “After you found him, what did you do next?”

  “Oh, for the love of God!” Gregory glowered. “Are you deaf? You’ve asked me that twice already!”

  “Dad, don’t worry, I’ll deal with this,” Simon said, seeing the last lingering thread of his father’s patience about to snap. “Go and check that they’re not destroying the entire house.” Simon watched as his grumbling father departed with his mother, and then turned back to the representative. “We brought him inside and called for an ambulance. The medical services told us it would be over half an hour before they could get to us, so we attempted to patch him up ourselves.”

  The man nodded and tapped some more. “According to your phone records, you waited a good twenty-five minutes after that before placing the call to the nearest military hospital about Lieutenant Commander Dean’s condition. Why did you wait so long?” He kept the device in his hand held up. Simon suspected it was recording everything that was being said.

  “I considered that he may have been taking part in a classified mission and I needed to be sure I wouldn’t be putting the operation or its participants at risk, by drawing attention to his presence.” Simon stopped short of telling him about Dean’s objection to the call for an ambulance or other medical assistance.

  The representative, however, seemed satisfied. “Okay, that’s fine. I can appreciate that it was a difficult position you found yourself in. You made the right decision, though.”

  Simon exhaled a little. For a moment it had felt like he was back in court.

  “Am I right in believing that you’re currently in the service of the Confederation Stellar Navy yourself?” the representative said.

  “That’s right,” Simon said.

  “Could you please state your full name and rank?”

  “Second Lieutenant Simon Dodds.”

  The man tapped away at the digital assistant in his hand and waited for it to retrieve the information he was after. “Hmm. Says here that you have served for just under ten years and been a part of the White Knights squadron for quite some time.” Another tap. “It also says that you’re currently on suspension from active service. Reinstatement not due for at least another six to seven weeks, pending the outcome of further hearings.”

  “Yep,” Simon said, hoping the NIS representative would finish there. He didn’t, and there was more tapping at the device, followed by a whistle.

  “Court-martialled back at the beginning of December, on two counts of involuntary manslaughter, as well as disobeying orders during—”

  “Yes, yes, we get the picture,” Simon interrupted, testily.

  “So, this all correct?”

  “Yes,” Simon said, trying not to glare.

  “May I ask where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing for the last four-and-a-half months?”

  “I’ve been working here.”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  Simon looked at the man with disdain. What kind of stupid question was that? “What the hell do you think? I’ve been picking apples!”

  “Cool it, Lieutenant. I’m just trying to get all the facts here.” More tapping. “You’ve not been anywhere else? Not left the country or the planet?”

  “No. That’s actually part of the conditions of my suspension.”

  “Fine,” the representative said. “Did Dean speak much before his death?”

  “Only to tell me that he had ejected from his Tactical Assault Fighter, though I never heard it come down. It’s pretty quiet around here, so I’m sure it would have woken me up. He didn’t manage to tell me how he got all those bullet wounds, either.”

  “The TAF has been taken care of,” the man stated bluntly, without raising his eyes from the digital assistant.

  It has? Simon felt a little puzzled. “Where did it come down?” he asked, turning about. He half-expected to see a plume of smoke rising from somewhere in the distance. “Not in one of the orchards?” If the TAF had come down, wouldn’t there be some sign of its crash? And come to think of it, where was Dean’s parachute? That was another thing unaccounted for.

  “There’s no need to be concerned about that, Lieutenant. As I said, it’s been taken care of.” The man raised his eyes from his PDA. “Now, you’re sure he didn’t say anything else?”

  Simon felt as though the man was suggesting that he might be trying to hide something. “I’m sure.”

  A further, seemingly intentional, pause from the NIS representative.

  Simon remained silent. He wasn’t about to add anything.

  “Very well,” the rep said, before powering down the PDA and putting it away. “Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant. You can let your family know that we will shortly be departing.”

  Simon went to rejoin his mother and father, whilst the representative fiddled with a device attached to his ear and spoke to confirm he was finished. Simon saw that his parents were hovering by the porch, trying to see inside the house. The navy had brought a great deal of equipment with them and Simon hoped that they weren’t causing any damage. He imagined that his father would lose his mind if anything more were to happen.

  “Have you seen Socks?” Simon’s mother asked him. “She must be absolutely terrified.”

  “Didn’t she go upstairs? Maybe she’s hiding under one of the beds—”

  “Oh! Excuse me, Lieutenant,” the NIS representative called out, interrupting him. “Just one thing before I go …” He joined the three by the porch and made one last point clear – no one had come to the house that night and none of the Dodds family had ever heard of a man named Patrick Dean. Once they had confirmed they understood and agreed with what he had told them, he informed them – in rather chatty and pleasant tones – that they would have their ruined couch replaced later that day, or early the next. Their living room had also been thoroughly cleaned, leaving no trace of the incident. It would be as if nothing had ever happened.

  *

  “Bloody pain in the arse,” Gregory grumbled as he and Simon tried to organise the orchard workers who had returned, following the navy’s departure. Sally was attempting to coax Socks down from a tree that the cat had fled into. “Let’s hope that it’s at least another ten years before we see that lot again, eh?”

  Simon said nothing. Given everything that had happened that morning, he wasn’t entirely sure he could promise his father that.

  II

  — An Unwelcome Visitor —

  Simon stared down at the small sheet of paper on the desk in front of him, aware that he had been doing little else for a good thirty minutes now. In all that time, he had managed to write just five words.

  Dear Mr and Mrs Castro,

  After that, he hadn’t known how to proceed. And how exactly did you, when you were writing a letter to the parents of a daughter you had killed?

  He had mulled over several opening lines – “I am writing to you to express my deepest sympathies …” No, that wasn’t right. “I want to tell you how sorry I am that …” That what? That I killed your daughter? No matter how many times he went over it in his head, he simply couldn’t find the right way to convey his feelings. He wanted to write to the families of both Poppy Castro and Stefan Pitt, and tell them how truly sorry he was for what had happened. He wanted to let them know that, if he could do so, he would give anything to turn back time and set things right. He had said as much in the courtroom, already. Even so, from their reaction he was very certain that they hadn’t been willing to accept his apologies.

  He thought of that day in the courtroom. The dream he had experienced two weeks ago hadn’t been wholly accurate – more a muddled amalgamation of the events of that day, combined with his own feelings of guilt. Twelve years at a penal colony was what the Judge Advocate had really sentenced him to. Some had called it too lenient; some, too harsh. Simon felt it was fair. The reaction o
f his victim’s families had been an invention of his own imagination. They weren’t aware of what had really happened, of how he had actually been driven to a starport, handed a bag of his personal possessions and told to pick out a destination for which he would spend the next six months on suspension. Commodore Elliott Parks had been there to see him off, but had offered little in the way of an explanation. No one had told the Castros or the Pitts. For all they knew, he was behind bars on some desolate waste of a planet, counting down the months and years until the day he would be free. Eleven years, seven months.

  He looked around the small study of his parents’ house. Much like the rest of the family home, it was decorated in a late twentieth century style. The floors were wooden, and a number of bookcases, stacked high with numerous novels, hardback reference manuals and photo albums, gave off an air of maturity. Colourful paintings and decorative plates hung on the walls and occupied other shelves, side-by-side with ornamental statues. A couple of candelabra-styled lights hung down from the ceiling. A clock, set upon the mantelpiece of the hearth, ticked quietly away.

  All these things were in place to promote a traditional, old-school look-and-feel to visitors and investors in the Dodds’ Orchard. As he was running an organic farm, Simon’s father had wanted his home to be in-tune with and reflect the philosophy of their business. Of course, many of the modern workings of the house were in existence, though they were carefully hidden behind the fittings and fixtures.

  Simon gazed at the furnishings of the room, hoping they might bring about some sort of inspiration for how he should write his letter. When they failed to do so, he turned on the radio. Maybe the lyrics of a good song would help.

  “… no let-up in the civil unrest, with fierce fighting continuing throughout much of the empire. Charlie Brunswick sent us this report –

  “The bombs continued to rain down on the capitals this week, as the emperor’s forces attempted to flush out the Senate’s loyalists and drive them away from inhabited planets. The scenes of Imperial warships facing off against one another, as we have already witnessed countless times over the past months, are looking unlikely to ease any time soon. The war is now close to entering its fifth year and there doesn’t seem to be any end in sight to the fighting. The picture is looking ever more bleak for the civilians caught up in this political strife as, just last night, the truce negotiations between Fleet Admiral Zackaria and the Ministerial Envoy Extraordinaire broke down, with both sides once again failing to reach an agreement. The negotiations, which began earlier last week, were thought to be going well. But it seems that the Senate are unwilling to in any way alter, let alone abandon the stance they hold that—”

  Simon clicked off the radio. No, news of the unending conflict within Mitikas certainly wasn’t helping. If anything, it was making it even more difficult to write. He twirled the pen in his hand, drummed his fingers, sighed and then gave up. Maybe he should try drafting it on the computer, first …

  “Simon?”

  Or, maybe he could even ask his mother for help. “Yes?” he called back.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the study.”

  His mother poked her head around the door. “What are you doing in here?”

  Simon hesitated. Actually, he didn’t really want his mother to know what he was doing. He wasn’t meant to contact the families, either. “Just … trying to write a letter,” he said.

  “To Estelle? Or Enrique, or another of your team?”

  “No,” Simon said, turning the sheet of paper over. “To someone else.”

  “Have you seen what’s happening out front?”

  “No?”

  “Looks like someone from the navy might be here to see you. Dad’s not happy.”

  Simon heard the sound of his father’s angry voice coming from somewhere beyond the front of the house. Great. It seemed like the letter would have to wait for another day. He rose from his chair and headed outside to see what was happening.

  *

  If the Confederation Stellar Navy’s reappearance at the household was meant to have been discreet, then Simon’s father had well and truly blown their cover. Gregory Dodds was cursing at the top of his voice and striding with great displeasure towards the naval transport craft that had landed close to the house. From the looks of things, it had touched down in one of the more spacious orchards, most likely damaging the valuable crop planted there, thus sending his father into this rage.

  A representative from the shuttle was making his way up the track towards the house, removing what looked like a white envelope from within his jacket. He was wearing a formal uniform and sported a pair of dark glasses. If he was dressed to impress, then it’d had little impact on Gregory, who strode past him without a second glance, caring little for what he had to say and only for what was happening to his field.

  “Second Lieutenant Simon Dodds?” the representative asked, as Simon hurried after his father.

  “That’s me,” Simon said, as they both began following Gregory down the track, in the direction of the transport.

  “This request came in from CSN HQ for you today. I should advise you that it is urgent.”

  Simon took the envelope from the man and removed the single slip of folded paper from within. The letter was brief, but the message was clear – it called for his immediate return to duty.

  His suspension was over. He couldn’t believe it. Already? But why? He had only served five months of the six he had been handed. Odd. If anything, he would’ve expected his suspension to have run for far longer, whilst the CSN considered his reinstatement. Stranger still was that the request to return to duty had been presented in the form of a personal letter. A phone call would’ve been far easier and more appropriate. And why hand-deliver it? Was it really that urgent?

  “Do I have to leave right now?” Simon said.

  “No,” the man shook his head. “But I’d suggest you be prepared to do so early tomorrow morning.”

  “Was the request made on behalf of anyone in particular?” Simon said, turning the piece of paper over a few times.

  “I believe it was Commodore Parks,” the delegate confirmed. “Excuse me for a moment, Lieutenant.”

  Simon turned again to the letter, looking back over the request and trying to find some kind of explanation.

  “I can assure you, sir, that a CSN investigator, and maybe even a government inspector if need be, will be dispatched to assess the possible damage,” he vaguely heard the messenger saying to his father, assuring him that the family business would be compensated for any untoward damage to his field.

  “No, that’s not good enough!” Gregory bellowed back. “That’s an organic field! We don’t use chemicals or machinery to pick the produce. We do everything by hand, and you have gone and contaminated the entire region with your blatant stupidity! I can see you did your research before showing up! Another great example of military intelligence!”

  Simon noted that workers handling various pieces of farming equipment and clutching baskets brimming with apples were looking from their employer to the naval delegate. His father really did know how to make a scene.

  “As I said, sir,” the officer continued, “I am sorry for any damage that we may have caused—”

  “And yet you are still not shutting off those damn engines!” Gregory said, throwing his hands up in the air in disbelief.

  The shuttle’s engines were slowly cooking the grass beneath it, and Simon could only guess at the long-term effects it might have on the crop and the subsequent impact to the business. The Dodds family owned several orchards and were proud to be one of the few upscale organic farms remaining in Ireland. Much of the produce was sold to be used in premium organic juices. The rest worked their way into stores throughout Western Europe.

  As impressive as it was, Simon had had quite enough of apples for the time being. And right now, there were more important things he needed to be doing with his life.

  *

&nb
sp; Simon spent the afternoon stuffing clothes into a bag, in preparation for his departure. Before departing, the delegate had informed him that, should he choose to respond to the request, he should be ready to leave first thing the following morning.

  If he chose to.

  Simon wasn’t actually too sure about that last bit. He was pretty certain that option was actually something of a fallacy.

  His father’s voice had drifted up the stairs to his room as he had packed. From what he caught, Simon could tell that he was expectant of not only a very large cheque from the CSN, but also an even bigger apology. The true extent of the damage had become clear once the CSN had departed, and it didn’t make for pleasant viewing.

  His father was still seething over the visit when Simon joined his parents at the dinner table. He shot Simon a dark look as he settled into his chair, leaving him in no doubt that his father was holding him at least partly responsible for the events of the past couple of weeks.

  “You know they probably only want you to come back and sign something so they can get shot of you,” Gregory muttered.

  “I doubt that,” Simon said, taking a sip of orange juice.

  His father tutted. “Well, even if they don’t, you should give it up, anyway. Get yourself a proper job.”

  “You don’t have to go, you know,” his mother commented, as she deposited three plates of chicken, rice and salad on the table. “You could just stay here.”

  “Your mother’s right,” Gregory muttered again, not giving Simon a chance to speak. “You should’ve just worked here, instead of joining the navy. You wouldn’t have to worry about promotions, gruelling exercises, crap food or even chances of getting killed. You could be giving out the orders, instead of taking them. Other people would be doing all the work. I’ve been there myself, Simon. It’s not worth it.”

  Simon paused in the process of cutting into his chicken and set his knife and fork back down on the table. “Dad, you were never in the navy,” he said. “You worked as a finance trader for a bank in London. You spent a good twelve years doing that, mostly in the same office.”