Although the CSN's reappearance at the Dodds household was by no means discreet, the first Simon knew about it was due to the sound of his father cursing at the top of his voice and striding with great displeasure towards the Confederation transport craft that had landed close to the house. It had touched down in one of the orchards belonging to the family, damaging the valuable crop and sending his father into a rage.

Simon had been sitting in the study at the time, pushing a pen around various pieces of paper. At the sound of his father's cursing he left the house, seeing the CSN representative that was making his way up the track; the man removing a white envelope from within his jacket. Simon's father strode past him, caring little for what he had to say and only about what was happening to his field.

"Second Lieutenant Simon Dodds?" the man in full naval dress and sporting a pair of dark glasses asked, as Simon hurried after his father.

"Yeah?" Simon answered, both men now 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 piece of folded paper within. Though the letter was brief, the message was clear: it called for his immediate return to duty. His suspension was over, even though he had only served five months of the six he had been handed. Odd. Suspensions often ran far longer, whilst the Confederation Stellar Navy considered reinstatement of personnel. Stranger still was that the request had been made in the form of a personal letter. A video call was far more usual. The Navy's presence at the family home, to hand deliver said letter, further compounded the supposed urgent nature of the request.

"Do I have to leave right now?" Simon asked, lowering the letter.

"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 said.

Simon looked again at the letter, trying to extract some more information; trying to read what was not there. As he did so he vaguely heard the messenger telling his father that the family business would be compensated for any untoward damage to his field.

"A CSN inspector and maybe even a government inspector, if need be, will be dispatched to assess the possible damage."

"No, that's not good enough," his father bellowed back at the dark glasses wearing man, who raised both hands in a defensive gesture. "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 disregard for the honest working man..."

Workers handling various pieces of farming equipment and clutching baskets brimming with apples were looking from their employer to the naval delegate.

"As I said sir, I am sorry for any damage that we may have caused..."

"And yet you are still not shutting off those damn engines!" Gregory said in disbelief, throwing his hands up in the air. The shuttle's engines were burning the grass behind it and Simon could only guess at the long term effects it might have on the crop.

The Dodds family owned several orchards and were proud to be one of the few remaining large scale organic farms remaining in Ireland. Much of the produce was sold to be used in premium organic juices. Others worked their way into stores throughout western Europe. Though rather impressive, Simon had had enough of apples for the time being.

***

He spent much of the afternoon stuffing clothes into a bag in preparation for his departure early the next morning. His father's voice had drifted up the stairs to his room as he did so; the man expectant of not only a very large cheque from the CSN, but an even bigger apology.

Gregory was still seething over the CSN's visit to his orchard when Simon joined his parents at the table for dinner. The true extent of the damage had become clear once they had departed and it wasn't good. He shot Simon a dark look as he settled into his chair, the young man quite aware that his father was holding him partly responsible for the events of the past couple of weeks.

"You know they 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. You could just stay here," his mother commented as she deposited three plates of chicken, rice and salad on the table.

"Your mother's right," his father muttered again, not giving Simon a chance to speak. "You should have 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 receiving them. Other people would be doing the work. I've been there, 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. This again. "Dad, you were never in the Navy," he said, rolling his eyes. It was the same thing his father had said to him the day he had told them of his plan to become a pilot in the CSN. He sometimes wished he had a brother or sister, if only to have someone on which to deflect unwanted attention.

His father 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 was not 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 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 did not want to leave, having become comfortable back at the orchard, with his family close by. But a bigger part of him was set in the decision to return. Even his father's attempt at emotional blackmail could not dissuade him from responding to the CSN's request. Though he could just as well have refused it and then terminated his service, he did not. He owed it to himself to put things right.

***

Simon made his goodbyes and left first thing the next morning, the transport waiting for him further down the road this time. He had been summoned not to another planet in Sol, but to another star system within the Confederacy know as Indigo.

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 of his seat, displayed their planned route, overlaid across the galactic map he had seen so many time before. A great number of inhabited and uninhabited star systems were dotted all over the chart: the Confederacy, home of 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, on the left, comprised a far greater number of systems, all snuggled together like fish that had been dragged up in a net; and then there were the Independent Worlds, running between the two huge nations like a gulf or a river, keeping them apart and acting like a buffer of sorts. Here and there throughout the declared independent space, star systems were marked as belonging to the Empire from where it had spidered out and captured some during the latter days of its expansion.

His eyes lingered on a few of the systems that were labelled in a larger type than others: Sol and Alpha Centauri within the Confederacy; Alba, one of the more powerful and prosperous of the Independents; Krasst and Kethlan of the Empire, their lettering and stars rendered in red hues. For some reason the colour looked a little ominous, compared with the whites and blues. He turned his mind to other things.

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 service within the Navy was 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?

But during the trip Simon had found himself still arguing against his father's alternate explanation for his summons back to duty: what if he really was going to be discharged? Even though at the end of his hearing five months ago he had been handed a suspension due to "lack of evidence" - the testimonies of four eye witnesses, for some reason, did not count - he was still not one hundred percent sure. 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.

Simon had looked out at the stars whilst his transport craft had awaited clearance to jump from Sol to Indigo and thought back upon the events that had led him to where he was in now.

***

It was whilst flying with his own wing, the White Knights, and under the command of Commodore Hawke, a man whom he had failed to see eye to eye with ever since the first time the two had met, that Simon had disobeyed a direct order, with disastrous consequences.

On a tiny Confederation planet, little larger than Sol's own Pluto, a large separatist faction from an Independent World state had secreted themselves. Despite knowing the planet to be home to many planetary explorers and independent research groups, the Confederation had allowed them to do so, intending to strike and bring to an end their repeated acts of aggression once they were all together. When the time had come the Confederation's armed forces had launched a large scale operation with the intention of simultaneously evacuating the explorers and eliminating the enemy. As night had fallen landers had touched down and ground troops and vehicles had streamed out. Large drop ships broke the atmosphere and deployed fighter craft, Simon and the White Knights amongst them.

Though it had started well the operation ran into difficulty when reinforcement enemy fighters had arrived in the conflict zone without warning. Following their appearance Hawke had ordered the air support to pull back. He was 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 friendly fire to and from the surface increased.

As the squadrons 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 and prevent further losses. His efforts had resulted in his own fighter sustaining heavy damage and dropping from the sky. He had ditched not far from a rescue point. In the confusion - and with the desire to get back from the advancing enemy lines as quick as possible - Simon had retrieved a weapon from a downed soldier and headed back towards the extraction zone.

Along the way he had been surprised by a group of men and women who had run into him. His own survival instinct had kicked in, 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 and the hands of those that were trying to help them that he realised who he was shooting at.

For the unlawful killings of Poppy Castro and Stefan Pitt, the blatant disregard for orders, and the loss of a Tactical Assault Fighter he could have flown home, the court-martial had suspended him from duty for six months. He had returned to Earth, tail between his legs, to stay out the time with his parents and get away from everything.

The whole experience was one that he never wished to go through again.

***

After several hours his transport arrived in the Indigo system and not long there after docked at Xalan Orbital Station where he was to meet with the senior command.

Time to be known as Dodds again, Simon thought as he picked up his belongings. An attendant met him as he exited the transport and led him from the landing deck to a lift and, from there, down the various corridors to his appointment. The escort rushed him along, giving Dodds no time, or place, to stow his bag.

"Second Lieutenant Simon Dodds to see the Admiral," Dodds' escort informed one of the two female security guards standing outside the meeting room. She communicated the message to another standing within. The door was opened.

"Fleet Admiral Turner is waiting for you inside," the woman said, gesturing for him to go forward.

"Admiral Turner?" Dodds repeated, feeling his mouth go dry.

"Yes, sir. Fleet Admiral Turner."

They didn't bother to put that into the letter, Dodds thought, before realising his jaw had become slack and that his mouth was hanging open. He shut it and cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said and entered the meeting room.

***

Walking up to the front he set his bag down, removed his cap, and saluted the three men seated behind a long, well polished wooden table.

"Second Lieutenant Simon Dodds reporting as requested, sir," Dodds presented himself. He stood before the three men 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 well polished black shoes, which he had become quite conscious of in the last couple of minutes, for some reason. Perhaps it was because of the clamorous clopping they made as he walked, announcing his arrival much more than he would have liked.

There was no answer from any of the men behind the table. The admiral, seated in the middle, continued his unhurried leaf through a number of pieces of paper in front of him, apparently deciding to make him wait on purpose.

Simon recognised all three of the men in front of him: Commodore Parks and Commodore Hawke sat either side of Turner, both waiting patiently for the admiral to begin. Behind the desk, a window that made up the entire back wall permitted Dodds a view of the twinkling stars outside. He forced himself not to be distracted by the sight. Aside from the four men only two others occupied the room, both armed security personnel by the closed door at the other end, rifles drawn and pointed down.

He waited some more. Turner continued to turn pages. Dodds started to get the impression that what was about to be discussed was quite confidential. After some time Turner looked up from his reading, gathering together the papers.

"Before we begin, Lieutenant Dodds, I have a question I want to ask you." The admiral clasped his hands together on the desk before him.

"Yes, sir," Dodds said.

"Tell me: what does the name "Lieutenant Commander Patrick Dean" mean to you?"

"He's a TAF pilot, sir. Flies with the Yellow Dogs. He was recently injured in the line of duty," Dodds said truthfully.

"Wrong answer, Dodds," Turner said with false patience. "I'll ask you that again. Who is Lieutenant Commander Patrick Dean?"

Dodds noticed that all three of the men were staring fixated at him and he became thankful for the cap that he held by his side, his grip tightening on it. He grasped the direction that the admiral's question was leading him and, remembering what he had been told the morning of Dean's death, supplied his next answer.

"I don't know, sir. I've never heard of him."

"Excellent. Neither have I," Turner said, sitting back up straight. The man appeared satisfied with the point he was making, it now very clear in Dodds' mind. "Shall we get this under way then?" the admiral asked of the two other officers before turning back to Dodds.

"There are three reasons why you have been brought out here today, Lieutenant," began Turner. "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 met. You should have had sufficient time during this 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 whilst at the same time telling Dodds to silence his own, "Naval human resources are at an all time low and we need every man and woman we can get a hold of. You may be aware of the on-going problems we are facing securing Confederation interests against increasing insurgency, as well as the not so insubstantial threat posed by the Imperial civil war. The war is now causing unrest in a number of Independent World star systems; unrest and disturbance that could eventually spill over into Confederation controlled space. Should that happen we can be assured that immigrants will come pouring into many of our own systems, bringing refugees, criminals, bounty hunters and even more insurgents along with them. 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, focusing in on the former Independent worlds that had been swallowed up by the Empire. He could not quite imagine the same thing happening in reverse to the Confederacy, as Turner might well be suggesting. He might not know a great deal about the history of the galaxy, but he assumed that the Confederation was a little more stable than most other places; 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 and as such the Confederacy, as well as number of Independent nations, have begun the recall of all diplomatic staff. You may hear talk of parts of the Empire having been bombed back into the stone age, but for now the Confederation will not be sending forces into any part of the region in an attempt to bring about stability."

Dodds had heard about the issues that were plaguing the Empire, the events now a regular feature on news broadcasts. The trouble was that, since it had become such a regular feature of the news, he had almost stopped paying attention to it altogether. It was like background noise to him.

His eyes swept over Parks and Hawke sitting either side of Turner. Each both looked straight at him, as Turner did, their faces inexpressive. They were both in their forties and of similar height, although Parks looked thinner than Hawke, both in the body and face. Strands of silvery grey hair were quite prominent throughout Parks' thinning black hair, but absent from Hawke's. Turner by contrast was quite an old man. Dodds thought he was somewhere in his early sixties, close to retirement age.

Dodds had noticed when he entered the room that Parks seemed to have aged a good ten years since he had last seen the man, looking older than Hawke, despite being six or seven years younger. Strangely Hawke appeared much healthier by comparison. Fresh faced, the man was almost glowing.

"And finally Lieutenant 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 Navy's latest technological endeavour. It is not a decision that I entirely agree with -"

Parks turned his head only a minute amount to acknowledge the accusing look he was given by Admiral Turner.

"- but your flight profile along with your usual ability to work well within a team made you fit the bill."

"Thank you, sir," Dodds said. "It will be an honour to take part."

Turner gave an unconvinced snort, then said, "Tell me, Lieutenant, has anyone discussed with you anything about the ATAF project?"

"No, sir. No one 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 evaluations. I must warn you that to do so would result in a punishment far worse than a mere suspension from service. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I believe that is all I wish to say," Turner concluded, sliding the papers in front of him back into their folder. "I did not intend for this to be a long meeting, so I will wrap things up here. Unless there is anything further that you wish to add, Commodore?" He looked to Parks who shook his head. "Commodore?" His attention turned to Hawke.

"I must once again reiterate my objection to this man's reinstatement into active service, Admiral!" Hawke spat. "The man is a cocky, arrogant insubordinate who is a danger to himself, his squadron and the Navy's very reputation."

Dodds gave an inward sigh. It felt as though the commodore had spent several hours before the meeting rehearsing the line, so as to deliver it without error for maximum effect. The moment Dodds had entered the meeting room and seen Hawke seated alongside Turner and Parks he knew there would be problems.

"I do not doubt for even one second that he will continue to mock the chain of command within weeks of being back in control of a starfighter," Hawke went on, glaring at Dodds. "It would be better for all of us if the man were reassigned to logistics where he..."

"Yes, that will do, Commodore, I am fully aware of your objections," interrupted the admiral, waving him down. "Thank you for repeating your original statement, but I read it clearly the first time."

Hawke turned back to look at Dodds, a dark scowl across his face. "No, I have nothing further to add, Admiral," he finished dryly.

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 that subtle, malicious satisfaction; the very same pleasure that Dodds had seen register during his court-martial, the moment the guilty verdict had been brought against him. But not now. He had been denied such delight today and would have to find it another time, in another place. And preferably with someone else.

Dodds' eyes were drawn to a crimson-red substance that was gathering just above the commodore's top lip and noticed that Hawke's nose had started to bleed. Hawke too became aware of the flow and rummaged around in a pocket for a handkerchief, producing it just as a drop of blood slid down from his nose and splattered without a sound on to the table in front of him.

Dodds watched the man place the handkerchief under his nose and tip his head back, attempting to control the flow, though Hawke kept his eyes on him as he did so. It was not as though his nose was gushing, but it was obvious it was more than a few drops. Dodds found it strange that, though Parks and Turner looked over to the man to see what the cause of his sudden discomfort was, they gave it no more than a common courtesy before they turned back to the starfighter pilot stood before them.

"Good. We must press on gentlemen, time is not a commodity we can currently afford to waste," Turner said. "Lieutenant Dodds, I am hereby returning you to duty. Commodore Parks will brief you shortly." He gestured to one of the guards standing by the door who strode forward to Dodds' side. "Mr Sears here will escort you to a suitable waiting room where the commodore will meet you. You are dismissed, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir," Dodds said, saluting before replacing his cap, picking up his bag of meagre belongings and making to leave.

"Lieutenant Dodds," the admiral's voice called to him as he crossed the room.

"Sir?" Dodds stopped halfway to the door and turned around to face the table again.

"With regard to the statement that Commodore Hawke gave: whilst the Navy does indeed need every good pilot it can get I will have absolutely no qualms whatsoever with immediately dismissing from service any pilot whose actions put the lives of others at risk; or whose reckless actions result in critical mission failures, directly or indirectly. Do not let your selection into the ATAF project and the early end to your suspension make you believe you are invincible, Lieutenant. The day you do a good job I will be the one to let you know. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, sir. Fully, sir," Dodds said, saluted once more and left the meeting room.

The text of this chapter - from THE HONOUR OF THE KNIGHTS (THE BATTLE FOR THE SOLAR SYSTEM : BOOK ONE) (FIRST EDITION) - is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License
with the following attribution:

© 2009, Stephen J Sweeney | www.battleforthesolarsystem.com

This means that you are free to copy and share this chapter, but may not alter, sell or create
other works based on it, without the written consent of the author.

Purchase a paperback copy
Amazon.co.uk | Book Depository UK | Book Depository US | More...