Gregory waved his glass of red wine dismissively, but said nothing.
“And the request is urgent,” Simon reminded him, not touching his food until he could gain some sort of support for his decision.
“You’ll be back here in a few days,” his father said, sipping the wine and reaching for a small granary roll.
In truth, his father wasn’t being negative about Simon’s ability or intentions to continue his career within the navy. He had just become used to having Simon around for the last few months. Simon had been in the service of the Confederation Stellar Navy for close to ten years, and his mother and father had missed seeing him grow into an adult.
Or at least that’s what his mother had told him as she stood at his bedroom door that night, after his father had turned in. At that time, a small part of Simon didn’t want to leave, having become comfortable back at the orchard, with his family close by. It was true – he could have a life here, make new friends and quite easily start over. And from the way some of the workers took a shine to him, he’d not be lonely for female company, either.
But a bigger part of him was set in the decision to return to service. Even his father’s attempt at emotional blackmail couldn’t dissuade him from responding to the CSN’s request. Though he could just as well have refused it and then terminated his service, he didn’t. He owed it to himself to put things right. He owed it to the families of those he had killed.
He rubbed at his wrists where the cuffs had been, even though there were no marks there. No visible one, anyway.
*
Simon made his goodbyes and left first thing the next morning, the shuttle that had come to collect him waiting further down the road this time. The interior of the transport was like that of a small private jet, if not quite as luxurious. A small screen, fixed to the left side of his seat, displayed their planned route, overlaid across a map of the known galaxy. A great number of inhabited and uninhabited star systems were dotted all over the chart.
The Helios Confederacy, home to Earth, lay on the right-hand side, its systems grouped quite closely together, though there were a few stragglers here and there. The Mitikas Empire, to the far left, comprised a far greater number of systems, all snuggled together like fish that had been dragged up in a net. Then there were the Independent worlds and states, running between the two huge nations like a gulf or a river, keeping them apart and acting as a buffer of sorts. Here and there throughout the declared Independent space, star systems were marked as being members of the Mitikas Empire, having been captured and integrated into the empire during the latter days of its expansion.
Simon’s eyes lingered on a few of the systems that were labelled in a larger type than others – Sol and Gabriel, his former post, two of the more prominent members of the Confederation; Alba, one of the more powerful and prosperous of the Independents; Krasst and Kethlan of Mitikas, their lettering and stars rendered in red hues. For some reason, today the colour looked a little ominous compared to the whites and blues of the Independent and Confederate systems. He turned his mind to other things.
The captain of the shuttle had informed him of their destination once he had boarded, and he had been surprised to discover that he had been summoned not to a location within Sol, but to Indigo, another star system entirely. With the knowledge that the system he was travelling to was several hundred light years from Earth, Simon was confident that his reinstatement was assured. It was a long way to bring someone only to tell them that their services to the navy were no longer required. And, surely the only reason they were bringing him all the way out there was because they needed him back as soon as possible?
Despite this, Simon found himself considering his father’s alternate explanation for his summons back to duty. What if he really was going to be discharged? It was possible that the committee and top brass needed him to come all the way out there so they could discharge him in the correct manner, being too busy to travel themselves? An absurd notion, yes, what with the possibilities of delegation, but he could never be entirely sure of how these things really worked.
Or perhaps what they’re going to do is lock you away, like they should’ve done to start with.
Simon looked out at the stars as his transport craft awaited clearance to commence the jump from Sol to Indigo, and thought back upon the events that had led him to where he was now.
*
It was while flying with his own wing, the White Knights, and under the command of Anthony Hawke, a man whom he had failed to see eye to eye with since they first met, that Simon had disobeyed a direct order. It had had disastrous consequences.
A large separatist faction from an Independent world state had hidden themselves on the tiny Confederate world Peri, a planet barely any larger than Sol’s own Pluto. Despite knowing the planet to be home to many planetary explorers and non-aligned research groups, the Confederation had allowed the faction to do so, intending to strike once its members were all together, thus bringing an end to their repeated acts of aggression. When the time came, the Confederation’s armed forces had initiated Operation Clean Sweep, with the intention of simultaneously evacuating the explorers and eliminating the enemy. As night had fallen, landers had touched down, ground troops and vehicles streaming out. Large dropships had broken the atmosphere and deployed fighter craft, Simon and the White Knights amongst them.
Though it had started well, the operation had run into difficulties when reinforcement enemy fighter craft had made an unexpected appearance in the conflict zone. Following their arrival, Hawke had ordered the air support to pull back, concerned that the additional aerial combat would have a detrimental effect on the success of the mission, endangering the ground teams as the risk of fire to and from the surface increased.
As the squadrons had pulled back, Simon had witnessed two of his wingmates being brought down and, frustrated with the way things were going, had looped back around to try to prevent further losses. His efforts had resulted in his own fighter sustaining heavy damage and dropping from the sky. To his credit, and against all odds given the state of his craft, he had managed a rough ditch not far from a rescue point. In the confusion – and with the desire to get away from the advancing enemy lines as quickly as possible – Simon had retrieved a weapon from a downed soldier and headed towards the extraction zone.
It was at that point that he made his terrible mistake.
Whilst fleeing, he had been surprised by a group of men and women who had run into him. His survival instinct had kicked in immediately, causing him to open fire. It was only after blood had splattered the ground, soaking into the dark sand, colouring small rocks and pebbles, and covering the bodies of his victims, that he realised who he was shooting at.
For the unlawful killings of Poppy Castro and Stefan Pitt, the blatant disregard of orders, and the avoidable loss of a Tactical Assault Fighter, the court-martial had sentenced him to twelve years in prison. However, unofficially, he had only been suspended from duty for six months. Despite this, Simon had returned to Earth a broken man, not sure if he could ever face combat ever again.
Less than five months later, however, it looked as if he was being made to do so, whether he liked it or not.
*
After several hours travel, his transport arrived in the Indigo system, and not long after docked at Xalan Orbital Station, where he was to meet with Commodore Parks. Simon picked up his belongings and started out, readying himself to be known once again as ‘Dodds’. An attendant met him as he exited the shuttle and led him from the landing deck to a lift. Various corridors, doors and security checkpoints followed, the escort rushing him along, giving him no chance or place to stow his bag, which he lugged along behind him.
“Second Lieutenant Simon Dodds to see the admiral,” the escort informed one of the two security guards standing outside the meeting room.
Admiral?
The message was communicated to someone standing within, after which the door was opened.
“Fleet Admiral Turner is waiting for you inside,” one of the women guarding the door said, gesturing for him to proceed.
“Admiral Turner?” Simon repeated, feeling his mouth go dry.
“Yes, sir. Fleet Admiral Turner.”
Great. Yet another thing they’d neglected to put into the letter. Simon realised that his jaw had become slack. He shut his mouth and cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said, and entered.
*
Dodds strode up to the front of the room, halting before the three men seated behind a long, well-polished wooden table. The door he’d come through clicked shut behind him as he set his bag down and removed his cap.
“Second Lieutenant Simon Dodds reporting as requested, sir,” he presented himself, saluting. He stood in full naval dress – a pair of dark blue trousers and blazer, with gold trims and buttons. On his feet he wore a pair of gleaming black shoes, of which, for some reason, he had suddenly become quite conscious. Perhaps it was because of the clamorous clopping sound they made as he walked, announcing his arrival far more than he would’ve liked.
There was no response from any of the men behind the table. The admiral, seated in the middle, glanced briefly at him, before he continued to leaf through a number of sheets of paper in front of him, with seeming deliberate slowness.
Behind the desk, a window that made up the entire back wall permitted a view of the twinkling stars outside. Dodds forced himself not to be distracted by the sight. His eyes tracked over the three men in front of him. Elliott Parks and Anthony Hawke sat either side of Turner, both waiting patiently for the admiral to begin. Aside from the three senior officers, only two other people occupied the room – both armed security personnel, guarding the closed door at the other end, rifles drawn but pointed down. Dodds started to get the impression that what was about to be discussed was confidential. After some time, Turner gathered together the papers and looked up, clasping his hands together on the desk before him.
“Before we begin, Lieutenant Dodds, I have a question,” Turner said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me – what does the name ‘Lieutenant Commander Patrick Dean’ mean to you?”
“He was a TAF pilot, sir. He flew with the Yellow Dogs and was recently fatally injured in the line of duty,” Dodds said earnestly, recalling the events of the day he had encountered the wounded man.
“Wrong answer, Dodds,” Turner said, with clear false patience. “I’ll ask you again – who is Lieutenant Commander Patrick Dean?”
Dodds noticed that all three men behind the desk were watching him carefully, and he felt his grip nervously tighten on the cap that he held by his side. He grasped where the admiral’s question was leading him, remembering what he had been told the morning of Dean’s death. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never heard of him.”
“Excellent,” Turner said, “neither have I.” He sat up straight, appearing satisfied with the point he had made.
What is it about Dean? Dodds wondered. So many questions.
“Shall we get this underway, then?” the admiral asked of Parks and Hawke, before turning back to Dodds. “There are three reasons why you have been brought out here today, Lieutenant; none of which should be allowed to go to your head.
“First and foremost – it is after considerable discussion that we have decided that your suspension from duty has been sufficient. You should have had adequate time during that period to reflect upon your actions and realise just how serious and costly your mistakes were.”
“Yes, sir,” Dodds said, straightening. “During my suspension, I spent a lot of time—”
“Secondly,” Turner continued, raising his voice and hinting for Dodds to silence his own, “human naval resources are at an all-time low, and we need every man and woman we can get. You may be aware of the ongoing problems we are facing securing Confederation interests against increasing insurgency, as well as the not so insubstantial threat posed by the Mitikas civil war. The war is now causing unrest in a number of Independent star systems; unrest and disturbance that could eventually spill over into Confederation-controlled space. Should that happen, we can be assured that immigrants will pour into our own systems, bringing refugees, criminals, bounty hunters and even more insurgents along with them. There is potential for rising anarchy in some of our less well-defended systems, and so, in order to pre-empt such an event, we need to increase naval presence along our borders.”
Dodds saw the map he had studied for the last few hours once more in his head, and focused on the former Independent worlds that had been swallowed up by the empire. He couldn’t quite imagine the reverse happening, the Confederacy fragmenting and becoming a cluster of unrelated independent nations, as Turner seemed to be suggesting. He might not know a great deal about the history of the galaxy, but he assumed that the Confederation was more stable than most other places, and considerably more so than some of the Independents. The image evaporated as Turner continued speaking.
“This is a point that needs to be understood by all naval personnel – the relationship between the Imperial Senate and the emperor is now strained beyond repair. As such, the Confederacy has begun the recall of all diplomatic staff, as have a number of Independent nations. You may hear talk of parts of the empire having been almost entirely annihilated, but despite this the Confederation will not be sending forces into any part of the region in an attempt to bring about stability.”
Dodds had heard a lot about the issues plaguing the empire, the events now a regular feature of many news broadcasts. The trouble was that since it had become such a common item, he had almost stopped paying attention to it altogether. It had become background noise to him.
Simon glanced at Parks and Hawke. Each looked straight at him, as Turner did, their faces impassive. They were both in their forties and of similar height, although Parks appeared somewhat thinner than Hawke, both in the body and face. Strands of silvery grey were quite prominent throughout Parks’ thinning black hair, though absent from Hawke’s. Dodds also noticed how Parks seemed to have aged dramatically in the few short months since he had last seen him. Parks now looked older than Hawke, despite being a good six or seven years younger. In strange contrast, Hawke appeared much healthier. Fresh-faced, the man was positively glowing. Turner was the eldest of the three. Dodds was sure Turner was somewhere in his early sixties, close to retirement.
“And finally, Lieutenant,” Turner went on, “it is my privilege to inform you—”
Dodds detected a hint of sarcasm in the admiral’s voice.
“—that you have been recommended and subsequently selected for participation in the CSN’s latest technological endeavour. It’s not a decision that I can say I entirely agree with—”
Parks turned his head only a minute amount to acknowledge the somewhat reproachful look he was given by Turner.
“—but your flight profile, along with your usual ability to work well within a team, meant you fit the bill.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dodds said. “It will be a privilege to take part.”
Turner gave what sounded like an unconvinced snort, then said, “Tell me, Lieutenant, has anyone discussed with you anything about the ATAF project?”
“ATAF, sir?”
“Advanced Tactical Assault Fighter.”
“No, sir. I don’t think anyone has ever mentioned it to me.”
“As it should be,” Turner said. “The project is strictly on a need-to-know basis and, as of this moment, you are not to discuss it with anyone not directly involved in the test evaluations. To do so would result in a punishment far worse than a mere suspension from service. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. That is all I wish to say,” Turner concluded, sliding the papers in front of him back into their folder. “I didn’t intend for this to be a long meeting, so I will wrap things up here. So, unless there is anything else that needs to be added …”
“I’m sorry, Admiral, but I must o
nce again reiterate my objection to this man’s reinstatement into active service!” Hawke suddenly spat, not leaving Turner’s question hanging for long. “He is cocky, arrogant, and insubordinate, a danger to himself, his squadron and the navy’s very reputation. The suspension he received for his offences was far too lenient a punishment. He should rightly be spending the rest of his life behind bars.”
Dodds sighed inwardly. The moment he had entered the meeting room and seen Hawke seated alongside Turner and Parks, he’d known there would be problems.
“I do not doubt for even one second that this man will continue to mock the chain of command if back in service,” Hawke went on, glaring at Dodds. “If his services to the navy truly are required, then it would be better if he were reassigned to logistics, where he—”
“That will do, Commodore. I am fully aware of your objections,” interrupted Turner, waving him down. “There is no need for the repetition of your original statement; I read it carefully when you submitted it. Now, aside from that, is there anything else you wish to add?”
Hawke looked back to Dodds, a dark scowl across his face. “No, Admiral, I have nothing further to add.”
Dodds felt a small sense of relief swell within him. How Hawke loved to gloat. Should Turner have agreed with the man’s suggestion, Hawke’s eyes would have been filled with malicious satisfaction, the very same pleasure that Simon had seen register during his court-martial, the moment the guilty verdict had been brought against him. But thankfully not now. Hawke had been denied such delight today. He’d have to find it at another time, in another place. Preferably with someone else.
Dodds’ eyes were drawn to a crimson mark that had appeared just above Hawke’s top lip, and noticed that his nose had started to bleed. Hawke, too, became aware of the flow and rummaged around in a pocket, producing a lily-white handkerchief just as a drop of blood slid down from his nose and splattered soundlessly onto the table in front of him. The man placed the handkerchief under his nose and tipped his head forward, waiting for the bleeding to stop, keeping his eyes on Dodds as he did so. It wasn’t as though his nose was gushing, but it was obvious that it was more than a few drops.
The Battle for the Solar System (Complete Trilogy) Page 5
