The Honour of the Knights (First Edition)

The Battle for the Solar System : Book One



Stephen J Sweeney


12.01.01

First published in 2009 by Stephen J Sweeney


Copyright © Stephen J Sweeney 2009


The right of Stephen J Sweeney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.


All characters in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.


ISBN 13: 9780955856198

ISBN 10: 0955856191


www.battleforthesolarsystem.com


Some Rights Reserved


The text of this novel, THE HONOUR OF THE KNIGHTS (THE BATTLE FOR THE SOLAR SYSTEM, BOOK ONE) (FIRST EDITION) is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommerical-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.


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For full details please see

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The entire text of this novel is available to read online at http://www.battleforthesolarsystem.com/books/knights/



Books by Stephen J Sweeney


THE BATTLE FOR THE SOLAR SYSTEM TRILOGY

The Honour of the Knights (First Edition)

The Honour of the Knights (Second Edition)

The Third Side

Untitled Book 3 (forthcoming)



Author's Note


This is the first edition of THE HONOUR OF THE KNIGHTS, the first book in the BATTLE FOR THE SOLAR SYSTEM trilogy, published in 2009. It has since been superseded by the second edition, published in 2011 and available from all good eBook retailers. Those interested in reading the whole trilogy should favour the second edition over this one.





For Dad






— Prologue —


It had taken only a matter of hours for the Kethlan system to become a tumbling sea of debris; the twisted and burnt-out remnants of a once glorious Imperial nation. An empire whose costly mistakes would for many years to come echo into every corner of the known galaxy. And with those mistakes would come death to billions of innocent, unsuspecting lives.

A starfighter hurtled through the scattered metal, the pilot desperate to find a way to stop himself from joining the ever growing population of this interstellar graveyard.

Jacques Chalmers was not alone in his frustration with the current situation, but he was doubtless one of the most panicked. He tried to steady himself as he began cycling once again through the available display options for his starfighter's radar system. His anxiety continued to grow with each passing second, every change of the screen doing nothing to abate it. He stopped midway through the calibration and glanced out of his cockpit.

The scene was the same as it had been a few moments ago and it brought him no comfort. He couldn't count the number of capital ships that dominated the Enemy's frontline. Twenty? Thirty? Fifty? In his years of service to the Imperial Naval Forces he had never seen anything like it, not even in archive war footage. The enormous forms of the battleships loomed like giants atop a hill, staring down upon a tiny village below. Then there were the Enemy starfighters themselves: hundreds at least, swarming about like a huge wall of locusts.

Knowing that he had already been flying straight for longer than was advisable, Chalmers altered his course to attempt to throw off any pursuers.


* * *


Not long before he had been standing on the flight deck of his deployment carrier, amongst the other pilots, his heart pumping in his ears, his hands sweating as he awaited the order to board his fighter.

Chalmers saw his friends run forward as their names were called out, scrambling into cockpits, pulling on helmets and performing last-minute safety checks. Though most hid it well, he was convinced they were all as nervous and scared as he was - knowing they could well be speeding only to their own deaths. As he watched his friends' fighters hurtle down the catapult, his commanding officer had addressed the last remaining pilots still standing on the flight deck.

“Right, listen up,” he started. “This is where we must make our stand. The Enemy cannot be allowed to advance any further. Tonight we fight the battle for Kethlan and for the Imperium; the battle for our survival. Hundreds of millions of lives are depending on our actions here. Make them proud!”

Hundreds of millions? thought Chalmers. Is that all that's left? A few months ago it was billions. This day had crept ever closer as cities, planets and then entire star systems had fallen to the Enemy; to those damned Pandorans; to the Senate's mistake. How many of his friends had he lost over these last few terrible months? Had they died fast or were they now suffering a fate far worse..?

As his CO continued to pump them up for the critical battle, Chalmers' head was filled with visions of row upon row of black-clad soldiers. A white emblem resided on their right arms and left breast, an all-encompassing full black helmet upon their heads, its smooth form negating all facial features. Two bright red oval spheres were set into an eye-level groove that ran all around, the “eyes” themselves slanted into a menacing and intimidating scowl. One of the soldiers turned to face him, the ruby-like eyes seeming to pierce his very soul. He felt his hand tighten on the flight helmet he held, swallowing hard.

“Daniels! Peterson! Foster! Brown! Rye...” a voice called out above the other sounds that filled the flight deck. Feet moved and Chalmers felt his stomach lurch. His name would be called soon. He felt a sense of doom. If the Empire could not stop the Enemy before, what hope did they have now? The Enemy's power had grown exponentially and they had crushed everything in their path with harrowing little effort. Chalmers was feeling forced to accept the truth: they were all that was left of the Imperial Naval Forces. This was a battle that could not be won; not now, not ever.

“... Tyler! Flynn! Chalmers! King! Golden! Blair...”

At the sound of his name, Chalmers felt himself move robotically, his mind screaming in protest against what his legs were doing. He ran over to the waiting starfighter, threw on his helmet and begun ascending the ladder into the cockpit.

Zombie-like he sank down into the seat, watching as if from outside his body as his hands buckled him in, his fingers flip switches, press buttons, acknowledge questions and confirmations on the screens before him. Moments later, his craft was taxied to the catapult and before long he'd found himself out in space and into the thick of battle.

At that moment, his worst fears had not only been altogether realised, but far exceeded.


* * *


Chalmers cancelled the radar calibration screen and instead opened a communications channel to his parent carrier.

“Centaur, this is First Lieutenant Chalmers.” He could hear the fear and tension in his own voice as he spoke and could not control it. “Has there been any update to the radar situation?”

“That's a negative, Chalmers, we're still working on it.”

Centaur's answer did nothing to ease his distress. “Any contingency plans? I can't see what the hell I'm supposed to be shooting at out here!”

“Again, that's a negative. Ops believes that enemy craft are masking their vessel signatures. We're working to decode it ASAP. We will keep you notified. Centaur out.”

Chalmers again looked down at his radar screen in frustration. In a normal combat situation the radar would differentiate between the participants with simple colour coding: green for friendly, red for hostile and white for unknown. His radar had been functioning as normal when he had launched, but only a few minutes into the battle every item on the screen had turned green. In that state it made it impossible to decipher hostile targets from friendly ones. To make matters worse, his opponents were flying the same craft as he and his squadron, so that even at visual range he could not be certain whether he was about to open fire on friend or foe.

“Jules!” he said, opening a communications channel to a life long team mate. He attempted to keep his voice steady as he spoke, trying his best to avoid drawing any of his allies into his own personal hell. “Is your radar any good?”

“Jacques!” the familiar female voice came back to him, sounding grateful to hear from a friend. “Where are you? I'm flying blind here! I can't see a thing!” The anxiety and distress was clear in her own voice. Chalmers had known Jules for years, she was almost like a sister to him. For him to hear her in such a state horrified him. He longed to open a video link, to look into her eyes and tell her that everything was going to be okay, that they would both get through this. But with his fighter in its current state, he dared not touch anything for fear it would make matters worse.

As he tried to think of how best to relay his present location to his team mate, he noticed that the radar had tagged the craft he was speaking to; a thin, blinking white rectangular box outlining the green triangle. For a brief moment his anguish subsided and he brought his craft around to face Jules' fighter. He could see her weaving and twirling in a similar fashion to his own meandering and confused flight, the cannons of her fighter as quiet as his own.

“Jules, check your radar. I'm...” Chalmers began. Jules' starfighter exploded before him, a pair of fighters peeling away from the wreckage that spread out like a firework. His small glimmer of hope melted as soon as it had first appeared and he felt the words he was about to speak become lodged in his throat. Though he had witnessed it so many times before, to see two fighters identical to his own open fire on and destroy an allied craft was still an awful sight to behold. It was not like combat against foreign craft, those of the Confederacy or Independent Nations, for instance. This was more personal, as though one was watching dear friends turn on each other again and again. For longer than was wise he sat staring at the sparking, spinning metal that continued to spread out. Chalmers took it as sign that the destruction he had witnessed over the last few months was edging ever closer to engulfing him.

“No...” the pitiful sound of his own voice finally escaped him. He felt his throat close up, but forced back the tears he could feel welling up and threatening to blur his vision. His fighter gave a heavy jolt as he was hit from behind and he banked hard, seeing a stream of bright green plasma streak past him.

In the wake of the attack, he tried to think. He could wheel around and go after the closest craft to him, hoping that he was opening fire on a hostile. However, he risked killing a friend who had assumed that he was the Enemy. A voice from his comms system drew his attention,

“All available support, this is Minotaur. We are sustaining heavy damage. Requesting immediate assistance!”

Chalmers felt the panic rising further within him and fought to control it. INF Minotaur was the Imperial flagship; a symbol of the Empire's glory. Historically, its very presence within a conflict zone was enough to spur the Imperial combatants on to victory. But a desperate request for help from the great battleship could only lower morale. He could not allow such a thing to happen. He pushed recent events behind him and looked around for the great capital ship. Even though he could not identify it on the cluttered mess of green that was his radar, its sheer size meant that he would have no trouble locating it with his own two eyes. He saw it hanging high above the planet Kethlan; the former Seat of the Emperor and the planet where he himself had been born.

He changed his heading, raising his velocity to maximum and sped forward. Even at this distance he could make out the explosions ripping across the hull, blooming before dissipating. Minotaur's laser and plasma cannons were firing indiscriminatingly in all directions, whilst volleys of return fire impacted further on its surface, the battleship's shielding all but destroyed.

As he drew closer to the once proud symbol of Imperial might, he came to realise that he was looking at the future. The official line from the Empire to their galactic neighbours was that they were entrenched in a civil war. To those within the Imperium itself the truth was far more shocking. Over three quarters of the Imperial armed forces had so far been defeated, more than a dozen of its star systems having fallen to the Enemy. Unless they could halt the advances of the Enemy here and now, it would not be long before the Imperium was lost forever, confined to the annals of time; and then the rest of the galaxy would follow. He wondered if the true story had come out, whether the Independent Worlds or the Confederacy had seen through their spin.

Though it had taken him longer than he wanted, even at full speed, he was within visual range of other fighter craft. As he entered the thick of combat, it dawned on him that he did not need his radar any more; he had only to aim for any craft that was firing upon Minotaur. He could see several dozen starfighters attempting to tackle Minotaur's attackers, their work cut out as they struggled against the far greater numbers of heavier fighters the Enemy flew. The lightly armed and shielded Jackals that he and his team mates piloted were almost all that remained of their complement, the majority of their own heavy-class fighters having been destroyed in combat months earlier. Though the Jackal was faster than the other starfighters and able to out-manoeuvre them, Chalmers was aware that in his current state of shattered nerves he would need a lot of luck if he wanted to exploit such capabilities to his advantage.

Picking out a target the Imperial fighter pilot aligned himself with the aggressor and opened fire. The shots sailed harmlessly past their target, leaving Chalmers to curse and attempt to calm himself down so that he could aim straight. His right hand was shaking. He took hold of it in his other and flexed his fingers. He tried to convince himself it was still possible that the Imperial forces might all somehow get through this, that they would secure a victory here today; that they could at last turn the tide and the nightmare that had started five years ago would end.

A steady bleeping from his on-board computer system dragged him from his dreams of hope. He recognised the sound as the lock warning and instinctively looked to his radar for the location and speed of the incoming threat. At the same time that he remembered his radar was useless to him, an explosion rocked his fighter, the sound of the missile lock warning cutting out, to be replaced by another, far more urgent tone. Though having rarely heard it before, Chalmers knew just what it meant. His starfighter's speed dropped off and the craft began to tumble, the engines no longer functional. Both his computer screens were flashing the word “EJECT”.

Chalmers reached up for the ejection control, his fingers wrapping around the handle. But he stopped short of pulling it, turning his attention once more to the scene outside. Bright green bolts of plasma flew in every direction; thick red, yellow and blue pulsing lines of various beam weapons sweeping around elsewhere; trails from missiles curling about the chaos as they hunted down their targets. Fighter craft circled Minotaur, continuing to open fire on the stricken battleship and each other. Minotaur's cannons were silent. He knew it was only a matter of time before it was completely destroyed.


* * *


From the bridge of the Imperial carrier, INF Chimera, Fleet Admiral Zackaria watched the last minutes of Minotaur's service to the Imperium unmoved. The destruction of the enormous battleship and the tremendous loss of life brought him no sadness nor regret. He turned to his second in command and spoke to him in a strange tongue. Minotaur was lost; it was useless to them. Let it burn. If they could not have this battleship, then they would just acquire another. One that was not so fragile; one that reflected the majesty of the Imperium; one that would help them to complete the Mission.

Commodore Rissard spoke his understanding of the admiral's request and moved to comply with it. Their short exchange over, Zackaria turned back to the scene of the soon to be concluded battle and continued to watch in silence.


* * *


“May... M...day!” Chalmers' weak comms crackled as Minotaur's final fleeting requests broadcast out to the overwhelmed Imperial forces. Though his fighter's screens were still flashing their suggested course of action, Chalmers knew there was no point in ejecting; he was dead already. Escape pods could be seen jettisoning themselves from Minotaur, their occupants doing nothing but prolonging the inevitable: prisoners would not be taken, lives would not be spared.

For him, there was nowhere further to run. Not that running had ever been an option. From this Enemy you could not run and you could not hide. With the acceptance of his death, Chalmers' panic finally subsided. He would soon be at peace with his friends. With that he released his grip on the ejection handle and let the tears trickle down his face.



I


— An Uninvited Guest —


Nearly six months had passed since Chalmers' death, the fall of Kethlan and the destruction of Minotaur; and on the other side of the known galaxy, Simon Dodds was awoken by the sound of someone, or something, thumping on the porch door of his parents' house. At first, he thought that the three loud thuds had been the result of the unlocked front door banging in the wind. Glancing out of his bedroom window, however, he saw the branches of the apple trees standing peaceful and serene in the moonlight of the cloudless night. Ignoring the disturbance, he turned over to catch some more sleep before the inevitable onset of his father's daily routine of dragging him out of bed to help work the fields, or deal with the orchards' tedious administration. Despite the fact that Simon was only staying with his parents for a short time - if one could count six months as short - his father was not about to permit him free food and lodgings without making him pull his weight. Maybe today he could try disappearing into town and hiding out in a bar for a few hours.

He had just shut his eyes again when another two thuds came from below, followed by the unmistakable sound of a man's distressed voice crying out for attention. It was followed by the sound of loud, uneven feet clumping down the porch steps and then scraping up the well-worn dirt track leading away from the house.

Now more or less awake, Simon took a look at his bedside clock. The illuminated green numbers informed him that it was just past four thirty; too early for any of the orchard's hired help to be turning up. With great reluctance he threw back the covers and pulled himself out of bed, making his way to the window. His bedroom was located at the front of the house, more or less above the front door. He shoved the window all the way open and leaned out to investigate the source of the noise, which had since ceased. No sooner had he stuck his head out the window when he spotted a figure sprawled on the ground, halfway up the track. He leaned further out and took a quick look around the surrounding area. Seeing no-one aside from the body, he drew back inside, turned around and gave a start.

“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 onto 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 bloodstains 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 onto 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 onto 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 the 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.”

Simon conceded to what his father was saying and, pushing protocol aside, he made the call. He then sat with Dean, attempting to get a little more information out of him whilst they waited for help to arrive. But Dean was done talking and less than twenty minutes later he was dead.


* * *


“Where exactly did you find him?” a representative of the Naval Investigation Services was asking the Dodds family. It was quite late in the morning and several men and women were carrying out final investigations of the perimeter of the family home. The ambulance that had been called had never arrived. Instead, a military medical transport had showed up, a number of heavily armed personnel accompanying the medical team into the house. In addition, a large area around the house and orchards had been sealed off, the workers arriving at the orchard being turned away.

“He was lying there, face down on the ground,” Gregory said, pointing at the spot where they had found Dean. “How much longer is this going to take? You've been here for bloody hours. I've got pickers and harvesters waiting to get to work.”

“I just need to ensure I have all the details down, Mr Dodds,” the rep said, tapping away at a hand held device with a stylus. “After you found him, what did you do next?”

“For the love of God, are you deaf?” Simon's father glowered.

“Dad, don't worry, I'll deal with this,” Simon said, seeing his father's last thread of patience about to snap. “Go and check that they're not destroying the house.” His mother and father departed and Simon 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. “According to your call records, you waited a good twenty-five minutes before placing the call to the nearest military hospital, regarding 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 other 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 rep, however, seemed satisfied. “Okay, that's fine. I can appreciate that it was a difficult position you found yourself in, but you made the right decision. I believe you're currently in the service of the Confederation Stellar Navy yourself?”

“That's right.”

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

“Second Lieutenant Simon Dodds,” Simon said.

The man tapped away at the digital assistant in his hand and waited for it to retrieve the information he was after. “Hmmmm. Says here that you've been a pilot for several years and that you are currently on suspension from active service; reinstatement not due for at least another six to seven weeks, pending the outcome of further hearings.” He tapped at the device and then whistled. “Court-martialed back at the beginning of December on two counts of involuntary manslaughter, as well as disobeying orders during...”

“Yeah, yeah, we get the picture,” Simon interrupted.

“So, that's 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 around, then back at the man in disdain. “What the hell do you think? I've been picking apples!”

“Cool it, Lieutenant.” More tapping. “You've not been anywhere else? Not left the country or the planet?”

“No.”

“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, eyes focused on the digital assistant.

“Where did it come down?” Simon asked, looking around a little confused. 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, then wouldn't there be some sign of its crash? And come to think of it, where was Dean's parachute?

“No, don't worry. There's no need to be concerned about that. Like I said, it's been taken care of.” The man raised his eyes from his PDA. “You're sure he didn't say anything else?”

Simon felt as though the man was trying to suggest that he might be trying to hide something. “No.”

“Okay. Thank you for your co-operation, Lieutenant. You can let your family know that we will be departing shortly,” the man said before powering down the PDA and slipping it back into his jacket. He pressed a button on a device in his ear and spoke to confirm he was finished.

Simon started off to re-join his mother and father, who were hovering by the porch and trying to see inside the house.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” the NIS representative called out to him, before jogging over to join the three. “Just one thing before we go...”

The three listened as he made one last point clear: no-one had come to the house that night and none of them had ever heard of a man by the name of Patrick Dean. Once they understood and agreed with what he was telling them, he then informed them, in rather pleasant tones, that they would have their couch replaced later that day, or early the next. Their living room had also been thoroughly cleaned, leaving no trace of the incident.


* * *


“Bloody pain in the arse,” Gregory grumbled as he and Simon tried to locate and organise any orchard workers who may have decided to return to work that afternoon, following the Navy's departure. Simon did not comment, the whole experience seeming a little surreal to him at this point. “Let's hope that it'll be another ten years before we see that lot again.”

The CSN returned just two weeks later.



II


— An Unwelcome Visitor —


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 known 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 of 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 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 quickly 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.

Dodds 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 sometime, 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 on 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 underway 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 a 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 onto 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.



III


— Reunion —


Dodds jumped to his feet as he heard the door of his assigned waiting room open, almost spilling the glass of water he held. He stood to attention and saluted Parks as the man entered.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Parks said. “Welcome back, Dodds; and welcome to the Indigo system, I might add.”

The room the pair stood in granted its occupants an appreciative view of the planet below them, something that Dodds had spent the last half-hour staring out at. He often made a habit of looking out at the stars, sometimes just for the view, but frequently because it helped him to think. He found the often tranquil views to be rather therapeutic.

“I trust you had a good journey here?” Parks said.

“Uneventful,” Dodds shrugged.

“You stayed out your entire suspension on Earth?”

“With my parents. I was giving them a hand with the business.”

Parks nodded and his eyes gave the young man a once-over. “Good to see you didn't come back soft and completely out of shape after all that time away. Too many do so after a few weeks of leave.” Parks came to stand with Dodds by the window and nodded to the planet far below. “Xalan. Where you will be spending the next three weeks training for the ATAF project. Myself and Admiral Turner will also be stationed there during that period to oversee your progress.”

“Who else will be there?” Dodds asked, figuring that he would not be the sole participant in the training program. He had a hunch that his old wingmates were on the surface.

“Aside from yourself and the White Knights, there will be two other teams of five who you will be undergoing the evaluations. At the end of the three-week period, the team who has successfully completed the evaluation and passed the final examination will be the one that will go on to pilot the ATAFs.”

“Got it,” said Dodds. Sounded easy enough.

Parks paused, then said, “This isn't an individual exercise, Lieutenant. Your success or failure during these tests will be governed by your ability to work as a team and follow orders.”

Dodds could feel Parks' stare boring into him even before he turned around to meet it.

“Don't screw this up, Dodds,” Parks said in a stern voice, his mood now a lot more serious than when he had first entered the room.

“I won't, sir,” Dodds said earnestly. Though Dodds enjoyed a good relationship with Parks - or maybe it was that the commodore just tolerated him better than most others - he was still only prepared to cut the young pilot so much slack.

“I sure hope you mean that, Lieutenant,” Parks said, walking towards the door. “Now, whilst you're here you may as well attend a medical examination before leaving for Xalan. Your team mates arrived a few days ago so they will be able to show you around. You should also know that since your departure we've lost Wells to an accident during training, as well as your own replacement. de Winter will introduce you to your new team mate when you arrive at your assigned housing block.” The door slid open as Parks approached. He hovered in the doorway, looking back at the second lieutenant who hadn't moved. “Come on. Get your gear together, Dodds, we have a lot to get through before we leave.”

Dodds picked up his bag and followed the commodore out, his head swimming with thoughts. It seemed a lot had happened since he had been away and the multiple deaths within his flight group had hit home. Not least because of the casual manner in which Parks had told him about it, as if there were greater concerns than keeping pilots alive. He wondered what other pieces of information the commodore might be holding back.


* * *




Wednesday, April 23rd, 2617


We've been stationed here at Xalan for three days now and I'm beginning to feel more settled. There hasn't been a lot happening so far, but Estelle is making us hit the simulators for hours on end. She's really cracking the whip, but I know this is a big thing for her. She had us on them for sixteen hours yesterday, first thing in the morning until last thing at night, with barely any time for lunch. I had to just get in there, shovel it down my throat and get back into the simulator suite. I thought Estelle was going to choke at the speed she wolfed hers down! She was acting like she hadn't eaten for weeks and like she didn't know where her next meal was coming from! She did the same thing at dinner, too! I'm sure that's not healthy. But there again something like this is a once in a life-time opportunity and she's determined to do whatever it takes for us to be the first to test out the Navy's latest creation. I can't say exactly what it is here or suffer the consequences.

We are getting our first briefing this afternoon and then tomorrow we'll start our formal training. I don't know any of the pilots from the others teams, but Estelle seems to know a girl called Andrea. According to her we were at flight school together years ago, but I don't honestly remember. I haven't seen her about since our arrival, but apparently that's intentional since they don't want the teams to all be mixed together.

We're in a mixed dormitory here, no separate rooms, so looks like we won't be getting any ritzy treatment even though we're involved in a special project. Luckily the room has been designed to accommodate quite a few people, and since there are only four of us we have plenty of space; so at least that won't be a cause of any tension.

Enrique is just getting on with it, as he does. With everything that's going on, he's not really found the time and space to practice his martial arts or the other things he does. He was a bit put out that there might not be anyone to partner with whilst he was here. Being a research facility there are of course some people here, but I think Enrique was bothered about “hitting nerds” as he put it.

Chaz, the new boy (he's actually a bit older than us, only known him a few weeks), said he'd spar with Enrique when they both got some free time, but Estelle soon put a stop to that. Think she's getting paranoid that one of them would hurt each other and then not be able to compete efficiently.

I'm still not too sure about Chaz. When he first turned up he introduced himself and dispensed all the normal pleasantries, but wasn't too keen on giving anything else away. He keeps his cards very close to his chest. As far as I can tell it was Commodore Parks' idea to assign him to our team. We, of course, didn't get any say in the matter and Estelle was quite concerned. But during the routine flight exercises before our transfer here he seemed to be a good fit. He's quiet though and seems to spend a lot of his time reading. He doesn't smile a lot either. I don't honestly imagine I'd have too much to do with him if he had not been assigned to the White Knights. He seems to be somewh...


As Dodds entered the room he saw Kelly Taylor stop writing in her digital journal, and look up.

“Dodds!” Kelly said. Dodds had changed out of his uniform for the medical examination. He now wore a blue naval shirt and dark slacks. The smart uniform that his mother had pressed and ironed in preparation for his meeting with three of the CSN's top brass now lay crumpled somewhere at the bottom of his bag. He had worn it twice in the space of six months, for the purpose of formal meetings, and was not keen on putting back on again any time soon.

“Hi, everyone,” Dodds said, slinging his bag onto a nearby bed.

“Hey, Dodds!” A tall, sandy blonde-haired man over the other side of the room got up and strode over to greet his friend. Dodds noticed when he entered the dormitory that Enrique had been propped up against the back wall, doing press ups on his head. He was dressed down in a white vest and thin trousers and Dodds guessed that he was doing the exercises to let off some steam. Another man, whom Dodds did not recognise, lowered the book he was reading to get a look at the long absent team member.

“Hey, Enrique, how you doing?” Dodds said, extending a hand.

“They said we should expect one more person to join the team, but I didn't expect to see your ugly face around here any time soon,” Enrique said with a chuckle, greeting his friend with a shake of hands, an embrace and a hearty slap on the back. “Made it back okay then?”

“Just,” Dodds smiled. “I think I would have been on the next shuttle to Earth if Hawke had had his way. Hadn't been back hardly five minutes before he was on my back.”

“Don't let him wind you up, mate,” Enrique said. He, too, had suffered his fair share of encounters with the commodore in the past, though in most cases on account of Dodds, one way or another. If Hawke possessed a list of personnel in the CSN that he most disliked, the pair could be certain that they would be tied for the top spot.

“Hey, how you doing, Kelly?” Dodds asked of the young woman who was untangling her legs and crawling off the bed she occupied. Kelly Taylor was a girl of average height, with a short face, long brown hair and brown eyes. Dodds often found her quite cute.

“I'm well, thanks,” Kelly said embracing him and giving him an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “Nice to have you back.”

If things had changed a lot within the Navy during Dodds' absence, then at least he could take comfort in the fact that his friends had remained the same; although the team had shrunk from its initial ten members down to five, and there was now a new addition.

“Where's Estelle?” Dodds asked.

“She'll be back in a minute. Think she went to check the simulation stats or something,” Kelly said, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, this is Chaz, the latest addition to the White Knights,” Enrique indicated the dark-skinned man who still lay on his bed at the far end of the room, reading. After briefly acknowledging the appearance of Dodds, he had turned his attention back to his book, looking quite uninterested in what was going on. Now, he put the book down and jumped from the top bunk. Dodds saw that Chaz was not only very tall, but built with it. He also appeared to prefer to shave his head.

“Pleased to finally meet you, Dodds,” he said, joining the others. “My name's Koonan; Chaz Koonan. Only been with the team for a few weeks, but I've heard a lot about you.”

“Nothing good, I hope,” Dodds replied with a wry smile, shaking the massive hand that Chaz extended towards him.

“Estelle assures me that you're a fine pilot,” Chaz said, dodging Dodds' attempt to engage him in some comedic banter. There was something in the man's voice that Dodds could not put his finger on. It was not unfriendly, but somehow neutral and a little indifferent.

“Where have you been transferred from?” Dodds asked.

“That's a long story...”

“Yes, and not one we currently have time for,” a voice came from the doorway. A slender woman with long, jet black hair that fell over her shoulders stood at the entrance to the dormitory. Her attire was a close match to that of Enrique's, a small white vest and black trousers. In her hands, she clasped a number of sheets of paper.

“Hi, Estelle. How are you?” Dodds said.

“I'm well,” she answered, somewhat pertly.

“Good...”

“Uh huh. Could I have a word with you out here?” she indicated out the door and then left the dormitory. Dodds looked at the others, who shrugged and then dispersed back to what they were doing before he arrived. Frowning, Dodds followed Estelle out of the small housing block they had been assigned to, incensed at the way she had spoken to him within the first minute of being reunited.

“Hey...” Dodds called after her, stepping out into the warm morning sun. Estelle turned around to meet his confused expression, her own a picture of happiness. She walked back to him and put her arms around the man, giving him a tight hug.

“I've missed you,” she said. “I didn't think you were ever going to come back.”

Dodds didn't know what to do, though a few moments later he hugged her back.

“After you were suspended from duty, I figured you'd give it a couple of months and then hang up your boots. You've not been in touch at all.” Estelle broke their embrace, looking up into his face with a warm genuine smile, her dimples showing up as she did so.

Dodds said nothing.

“Did you miss me?”

“Well... sure I did.”

“So why haven't you been in touch?” She swept some of the hair that had fallen over her face out of the way.

“I needed time to think. I just wanted to get a clear perspective on my life. What was all that about?” Dodds asked her, referring to the way she had yanked him away from the others whilst they were in the process of catching up.

“Sorry,” Estelle said. “Right now I want everyone to stay focused on what we're doing here, and not get caught up in emotional reunions that could have a negative effect on our progress and training. But it is good to see you,” she added as Dodds pulled a face. Estelle had a tendency to put her career before her friends, something that appeared to not have waned at all during his absence.

“Let's walk,” Estelle said. “I'll show you around and bring you up to speed.” The pair started down the brick path that led to their housing block, the walkway splitting and snaking its away all about the research campus to other buildings and areas contained within.

“Good to be back?” Estelle asked.

“It is, actually,” Dodds said with a bit of a sigh. “I spent five months on Earth with my parents, picking apples.”

“How's the business?”

“Steady. They think they'll have a good harvest this year,” Dodds stopped short of telling Estelle about how his parents had suggested he consider a career change to work their fields, instead of returning to the Navy.

They made their way down a set of wide stone steps, leading down to the lower areas of the campus and towards the main research buildings. The vast majority of the construction was made up of tall glass buildings. Small trees and lamp posts lined the paths they walked, complimented by grass.

Men and women dressed in everything from suits to casual entire and white lab coats walked past them, chatting to one another, drinking from polystyrene cups and going about their business.

“How's it going here?” Dodds asked. Parks had not been too forthcoming with details, only to let him know of the briefing that afternoon and the start of the program the following day.

“A little better than I expected, although there's still room for improvement,” Estelle said as she leafed through the sheets of paper she was carrying. Dodds saw that the pages were packed full of graphs, pie charts and other statistical information, each headed with a different pilot's name. He noticed she had already attacked them with a red pen, circling various numbers and writing scruffy and hurried notes. “We've only been here for a few days, but the training starts first thing tomorrow morning. You'll have to get into a simulator for the rest of the day to get back up to speed.”

Dodds frowned. “I'm not sure I'll be as bad as all that.”

“No, Dodds, you will be,” Estelle said. “There was a guy a few years back who broke both his legs. When he eventually got back into the seat it took him weeks to get used to it again. It's not like riding a bike.”

Dodds wasn't so sure. He had doubts that his time out of the cockpit, and away from the stick, would have impacted his flying standard as much as Estelle was suggesting.

“What did you think when they picked us to come here?” Dodds asked, changing the subject.

Estelle gave a small chuckle. “When they first told us that we were being transferred, I was worried we were going to get posted to border patrol duty.”

“That wouldn't exactly have been much fun.”

“Yeah. I couldn't think of anything worse. They've been shifting people over to the Temper system a lot lately. When did you actually get back?”

“Just this morning. I received a request from Commodore Parks to return to duty yesterday.”

“That was quick,” Estelle said. “You must have been pretty keen to get back here.”

Dodds started to saying something, then stopped walking.

Estelle studied him for a moment as he looked about. “What?”

Dodds sighed, then shook his head. “But I had to, didn't I? I have to make amends.”

“Hmmmmm,” Estelle scowled for a moment.

“I'm being serious, Estelle. Hardly a day goes by where I don't think about what happened.”

Estelle said nothing, but looked about the campus. She soon turned back to him, now appearing a little sympathetic. “How do you plan to do it?”

“I don't know,” Dodds shook his head again. “I'll find a way.”

“Well, if you ask me you could try just following orders.”

So I keep being told, Dodds thought.

Estelle said nothing more on the subject and the pair continued walking. They both knew that, whilst he was a good pilot, Dodds had a tendency to be reckless, and it was that recklessness which from time to time led to undesirable consequences.

Estelle began to point out some of the buildings on the campus: the housing blocks for the on site staff; a number of research buildings that they were not authorised to enter; a large lecture theatre, where they would attend the ATAF presentation; and a few large, square buildings that housed the simulators.

“Anything interesting happen whilst I've been away?” Dodds asked.

Estelle chuckled. “You mean aside from what happened to Dragon?”

“What happened to it?”

Estelle stopped walking. “You mean no-one's told you?”

Dodds' initial belief that Estelle was about to regale him with some useless trivia about the enormous battleship was quashed by the look on the woman's face. “Told me what?”

“It's been stolen! It hasn't been seen or heard from for months!”

“Dragon? The battleship?” he looked at her sceptically for a moment. “You're being serious, aren't you?”

Estelle nodded. “Didn't Parks tell you?”

“He seemed... distracted,” Dodds said, remembering how, after the two had departed the waiting room, Parks had seemed eager to return to other business, saying very little. “He didn't speak to me about anything other than getting through my medical and getting me down here. What happened?”

“It disappeared a few weeks after your court-mar... after you left,” Estelle said. Dodds noted how she doubled back and skirted around the touchy subject of his court-martial. Though she had not been on trial herself, he knew the many hours sitting in the courtroom, delivering evidence and being cross examined, was not an experience she had relished, wanted reminding of, or ever wanted to go through again.

“It just disappeared?” Dodds said. “That ship's not exactly small or defenceless. Did someone just take it out of dry dock?”

“It happened in Independent space, near the Independent-Imperial border. From what I've heard it was a hijacking.”

“What the hell was it doing all the way out there?” Dodds asked.

“No-one knows. Seems that information is classified,” Estelle said.

They came to a tall, circular fountain, water spraying out of the top. Estelle and Dodds joined a few people sat around it, enjoying a mid-morning break from their work, reading and chatting to one another. The two CSN pilots made sure they put a good amount of space either side of them so they could talk with a little more privacy.

“How do they know Dragon was hijacked and nothing else happened to it? Were there any witnesses or survivors?” Dodds asked.

“Only one: Commodore Hawke. He was captain at the time. And no, Dodds, he wasn't involved,” Estelle put in, as Dodds roll his eyes at the mention of the man's name. “They found him drifting through Confederation space in an escape pod, a week after they lost contact with the ship. The pod didn't have any food, water or medical supplies, and the stasis capsules had been smashed up. Hawke himself had been badly wounded and suffering from blood loss. He was lucky to be alive.”

“No-one else survived?” Dodds asked, mystified. Though he had never laid eyes on the vessel himself, having only seen it in archive footage and photographs, he knew enough about the Confederation Stellar Navy's flagship to know that the event of its theft was quite worrisome. Dragon was the largest and most powerful starship in existence, second to none. Owing to its size, firepower, starfighter and troop capacities, its mere arrival within a battle zone had been known to cause the opposing forces to make a hasty retreat or even surrender. Attempting to fight it was usually never worthwhile. It was so heavily armoured and shielded that the best defence against it was to be nowhere near it. If a battle was unavoidable, other capital ships, such as frigates and carriers, stood a much better chance of survival due to their own increased capabilities, though it would still be a somewhat one-sided battle. Dodds knew of only one other ship that stood a chance of taking on Dragon: Minotaur, flagship of the Imperial Naval Forces.

“No, there weren't any other survivors, he was the only one,” Estelle said, keeping her voice low.

“Did Hawke tell anyone what happened?”

“He says he can't remember much before waking up in the escape pod. He recalls a large boarding party appearing out of nowhere and storming all the major divisions simultaneously. Dragon was operating with a full complement, but they were completely overcome. Hawke believes they were in jump space at the time, so no-one is sure just how accurate his story is.”

“They were in jump? No, that's... well, it's not impossible, but it's extremely dangerous. They could have stranded both themselves and Dragon in the middle of nowhere.”

Estelle nodded. “I find some of it hard to believe.”

“You're not the only one. Exactly how did they get aboard in the first place? Who were these people?” They spoke for a while, discussing the possibilities, none of which Estelle had not already considered herself. They concluded that it may have been a faction from the Imperial civil war, though given Dragon's almost legendary status throughout the galaxy, even that seemed rather far-fetched.

After sometime, Estelle suggested to Dodds that they should leave the fountain. They started walking along the brick pathways, Dodds noting the sizeable wall that ran the entire perimeter of the campus, effectively shutting it off from the outside world. Though he had only been at the research centre a little under an hour, Dodds had counted no less than ten pairs of armed personnel patrolling the grounds. The young pilot said nothing as they continued to walk, still trying to put together the pieces of a large and complicated puzzle.

“Would have made your day if Commodore Hawke hadn't returned either, wouldn't it?” Estelle commented.

“You can't say you're very fond of the man yourself,” Dodds replied. Estelle had had her own brushes with Hawke, either as a result of her own actions or because of those under her command. Owing to her nature she was much more adept at handling such meetings, although those methods quite often came under many variations of “Yes, sir!”, “No, sir!”, “Sorry, sir!”, and “It won't happen again, sir!”.

“I find it's best to try and stay on the right side of him,” Estelle said.

“Which side would that be?” Dodds enquired.

“Just follow the chain of command, Dodds.” Estelle's voice was close to taking on a tired and irritable tone. “And please; don't either you or Enrique start leading each other astray. This is a fantastic opportunity we've been granted and we should all act like true professionals.”

Dodds decided it was time to let the topic lie. “So, what's the new guy like?”

“Chaz?”

“Yeah. I spoke to him before you arrived. He seems a little... distant?”

“He's very quiet,” Estelle mused. Dodds got the impression she was still trying to figure the man out for herself. “He's a good pilot, not as good as you or Kelly, but he still gels well with the team. He used to fly with a group called the Copper Beetles. His team have been shuffled around. They assigned him to the Knights and the others were transferred to Earth.”

“Guess I'll get to know him better during the training then,” Dodds remarked.

Estelle shook her head. “Wouldn't bet on it. He's been with us for three weeks and that's all I've managed to get out of him. He's nice though, if a bit grumpy. Likes to read, too.”

The pair had walked a fair way and Estelle suggested they head back. Dodds asked Estelle what she knew about the ATAF project, but it seemed that her knowledge on the subject was as good as his.


* * *


Returning to the dormitory, they found that Enrique, Kelly and Chaz were back in their original places. The accommodation of the campus was better than Dodds was used to: the dormitory was bright and spacious and, from the looks of things, sported much cleaner and improved washing facilities. He grabbed his bag from the bed and began to sort through his belonging, pulling things out and dumping them onto the mattress.

Estelle cleared her throat in an authoritative manner. She shuffled through the papers in her hands and then addressed the group as a whole,

“Okay everyone, listen up. We've still got a lot to do before tomorrow morning. The simulator results are extremely positive and we're all doing much better than we were yesterday on the advanced courses, but there's still room for improvement. We can get times down, minimise ally and ammunition losses... Kelly, could you stop writing for just one second until I have finished speaking, please?”

Kelly put down her digital journal, pushing it down the bed and out of reach for good measure, before giving the first lieutenant her undivided attention. Dodds feigned an irritation around his eye, looking away from his team mates as he saw Estelle's domineering side starting to creep in. Although Estelle liked to treat those in her command as friends, she was never afraid to pull rank to get the point across. Things had not changed much with her over the past five months either then.

“After lunch and the presentation, I want us to go back over simulation courses A4, A9, A15 and A19...” Estelle continued.

Enrique groaned and looked to the windows, at the warm afternoon sun that was streaming on through.

“We're not here on vacation, Enrique,” Estelle snapped at the man. “In fact, Dodds, you need to get on those sims ASAP to work out the rust. Enrique will go with you and give you a hand setting up.”

Enrique stifled another groan and pulled himself to his feet. “Come on, man, let's go,” he indicated to Dodds as he walked over to join him. Estelle flourished a red pen.

“I've not been over everything,” she said, tapping the papers. “But I'm sure after I'm done with these we'll be able to...”

“I'll go, too,” Chaz announced, swinging his legs off his bunk and jumping down. “I've never flown with Dodds before, so the sooner I see what he can do, the better we can exploit our strengths and cover our weaknesses.”

Estelle held a bemused look as the big man hurried towards Dodds.

“Yeah, good point,” Kelly said. “I think that having more familiar wingmates will help Dodds to get back up to speed much sooner than... uh... unfamiliar ones.” She hopped off her bed, and squeezed herself between Enrique and Chaz to get to Dodds, taking one of the man's arms and herding him out the quarters. “No time to waste now!”

Behind them, Enrique and Chaz hurried along and the four bustled out the dormitory, past Estelle who watched them go with a flabbergasted expression on her face.

“I'll meet you in the simulation suite just before lunch,” Estelle called after them as they disappeared down the corridor, towards the exit of the housing block.

“No, don't worry, we'll meet you in the refectory,” Kelly called back without turning around. “That was a close one,” she said in a low voice.

“Yeah, tell me about,” Enrique said, then turned to Dodds. “Seriously, mate, I can't believe she used to be your girlfriend.”



IV


— May the Best Man Win —


The simulator suite to which Dodds was escorted was contained within a large square glass building, its central expansive floor home to a large number of the systems. Each simulator itself was self contained, to guard against any visual distractions. The interior of each was an exact replica of the designated craft, with readouts and consoles all working as expected.

For the most part, the shiny white suite floor was devoid of anything except for the modules, whilst a high gallery of observation rooms and offices ran around the perimeter. Staff milled around inside, performing various tasks. After explaining their requirements to a staff member, Enrique and Dodds made their way over to a TAF module.

Dodds sat down in the seat and buckled himself in, the screens inside powering up to display a convincing astral scene all around him. The HUD activated and control consoles lit up as they prepared themselves. A sense of familiarity came back to Dodds. He reached forward and expertly configured the fighter's HUD to the way he preferred, before informing the simulation operator that he was ready to begin.

To his dismay, Dodds found that he was, just as Estelle had predicted, somewhat rusty on the simulator. The months away from duty had led to him forgetting some of the more intricate principles of space flight and combat, and he found himself stalling from time to time. But he focused and an hour later he well on the way to returning to his original form. He embarked on a series of courses, each designed to work on various aspects of his skills, from flight handling to basic target practice. After sometime, Enrique, Kelly and Chaz joined him on a simple training mission, working as a team to fulfil various objectives.

Dodds discovered during the course of the exercise that Chaz's alleged silence made the transition to the cockpit, and whilst the others would engage in all kinds of genial banter and teasing, Chaz's voice lent itself only when it was required of him. Despite this, Dodds found that the man was an accomplished pilot and worked well with the rest of the team.

The mission took the best part of an hour to complete, by which time they were all grateful for a break and some food.


* * *


Making their way into the refectory after Estelle joined them, Dodds felt quite out of place, the five pilots being the only military personnel present. The tables were packed full of casual and suit attired staff, a smattering of white coats here and there. More walked around carrying their meals on trays.

“Is there anyone else here?” Dodds asked as he sat down to eat whatever delights Xalan's research staff were given for lunch. He had yet to see any other servicemen and couldn't help but feel that he was missing out on something.

“Two other teams,” Estelle said, confirming what Parks had told him earlier, whilst holding up a fork full of mashed potatoes, dripping in gravy. “But we're being kept apart; something about the segregation enabling us to function better as a team and provide us with fewer distractions.”

“Sure it will,” Dodds replied as an attractive, petite brunette brushed past his chair, their eyes meeting for a brief moment. She looked away, but smiled as she continued walking.

Estelle tutted before going on to question Dodds as to his performance on the simulators for the rest of the meal, asking every conceivable question about his progress. She was quite disappointed to discover he had not brought back any analytics.

Finishing, the team stashed their trays on a rack and left the refectory, Estelle steering them in the direction of the central lecture theatre to attend the presentation.


* * *


The lecture theatre, like the other areas of the facility Dodds had visited that day, had a far larger capacity than their needs demanded. Positioned centrally in the rows of red steepled seating, and close to the front, were ten other people, who must have been the other teams.

“Ah, you must be... um... you are.. the White Knights?” a voice boomed out over the theatre speakers. A tall suited man stood behind the podium at the front, with his back to a large screen covering the wall. To one side of him sat two other men, one of whom was Parks. “If you're all ready then... er.. please take your seats and I will begin the... the presentation.”

“Come on, come on,” Estelle muttered, ushering her team into their seats.

“Estelle, we're early, relax,” Dodds said.

“Yeah, about fifteen minutes early,” Kelly said.

“Yes, but the other teams are already here,” Estelle replied, before insisting on dictating the seating arrangement so that she could sit herself in the middle of the team.

Dodds was already beginning to feel sorry for the others, having had to put up with her perfection-seeking attitude for three intense days already. Sadly, he knew that with their formal training starting the following day, it was going to get a lot worse before it got any better. And should they succeed in the evaluations and have the opportunity to pilot these new starfighters, Estelle could become unbearable.

“Now,” began the lecturer, “may I first welcome you to the Obex Research Centre here on Xalan and er... tulate... all...” His words became inaudible through his mumbling. The speaker looked around as Parks said something to him. He cleared his throat and went on.

“...congratulate you all on your selection to become the first to pilot the Confederation's newest and most advanced starfighter... um... My my my name is James Ainsworth and... er... I am the chief engineer on the ATAF project. This is Scott Mansun,” he indicated to the man seated just behind him, “the project leader, and you all know Commodore Parks.

“Right, um... I know you'll probably have a lot more questions, b... but, if you could hold off from asking them... erm... until the end of the presentation, and then Scott will... will gladly take them.”

“Probably a good idea,” Dodds whispered to Enrique, sat next to him.

Ainsworth studied the podium for a moment, appearing unsure about how it operated. He pushed a button and then jumped when it did not do as he had expected: his microphone cutting off and classical music beginning to stream in through the hall's speakers.

“Oh God, this is going to take hours...” Enrique murmured, as a befuddled Ainsworth, aided by Mansun, attempted to regain control of his presentation. There were some stifled chuckles from the other teams and Dodds wondered what Ainsworth must be like when the lecture theatre was full.

Ainsworth was a tall, thin-looking man with pasty white skin. His head was covered in lank, long blond hair that fell just short of his shoulders. A gold earring sparkled in the light as he turned his head. Dodds got the impression that he was the sort of man who had never quite found the strength to sever his ties with his earlier hedonistic years, even after embarking on what seemed like quite an illustrious career.

“I... I'm sorry about that,” Ainsworth said as the music ceased. “I'm not used to this theatre.” With the presentation back in his control, Ainsworth pressed the correct buttons on the podium and the lights began to dim.

Dodds looked over at the other teams as the light level lowered, seeing that, unlike the White Knights, the other two teams were both single-sex. Five men and five women were seated together and Dodds wondered if this was again part of the team selection. Maybe the Navy wished to discover if a single-sex team was more suited to the project and its long term goals. But there again, it could just be pure coincidence.

There was not one face amongst the team of women that he recognised. One turned her head in his direction, a contented smile on her face. She did not meet his eyes, however, and faced back to the front. He guessed she was doing the same thing that he was: sizing up the competition. Neither did he recognise any of the men; two olive-skinned men seated at the end of their row were whispering to each other.

The lights didn't shut off, but instead dipped only to a level in which they did not drown out the presentation screen at the front. Dodds hoped that he would not find himself with an elbow in the ribs from Estelle after falling asleep. He felt as though he was in a warm, comfortable cinema and he sensed the impending danger, even more so after such a filling lunch.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Advanced Tactical Assault Fighter, more commonly known as the ATAF,” Ainsworth began. “It is the... er... spiritual successor to the standard Tactical Assault Fighter which you all know so well, though with many enhancements as... as we are about to see. I'm sure that you will find the following presentation t-t-to be both very informative and impressive.”


* * *


The presentation started, the screen showing a sleek, black starfighter moving against a backdrop of planets, nebulas and starships. It appeared to be a mixture of artists' impressions and real footage of the fighter, as it weaved its way around other Confederation starfighters.

There were no official markings or identifiers on the craft, the black armour complimented only by silver trims on the wings, fins and body. Despite being more or less black, the definition of the fighter was not lost against the inky-darkness of space, the armour catching the light and softly reflecting the environment about it.

With the introduction over, Ainsworth went on to speak at length about the new fighter. He was keen to point out that the ATAF, though descended from, was quite different from its TAF cousin and was not just “a TAF with more guns”, as he put it. Over the next two hours, he detailed each and every aspect of the craft, focusing on enhancements which he thought the pilots would find most appealing: a HUD that featured a predictive targeting matrix, allowing the pilot to aim for where their opponent would be, rather than where they were; an arsenal that was made up of significantly more powerful armaments than its predecessor; a much higher acceleration rate and top speed; and a shield generation unit that was many times more efficient.

The detail of the each enhancement was accompanied by video footage, some of it set planet side, the rest in space. Whatever the backdrop, most involved something exploding in rather dramatic fashion.


* * *


With his presentation concluded, Ainsworth thanked his audience and moved away from the podium. No-one had attempted to ask any questions, but Dodds noticed that all around him people were gaping; all that was, with the exception of Chaz. The big man had sat through most of the presentation with a deadpan expression on his face, slouched down a little in his seat and his arms folded across his chest. He didn't look all that interested or even impressed at what he was being shown. Dodds wondered why. At the very least, he would have expected to see a flicker of curiosity. Maybe he held the same point of view as Dodds: something about this didn't look right.

“Dude, I'm finding this a little hard to swallow,” Dodds whispered in Enrique's ear.

“Which part?”

“Which part? Well, where do I start? The bit about the accelerator or that that flimsy-looking crate is better shielded than most of our carriers.”

“It's just the next evolutionary step up,” Enrique said. “They make these sorts of advancements all the time. You can bet they're already working on the successor to that one in a lab somewhere else, too.”

Dodds frowned.

“You've gotta admit, those things look pretty sweet,” Enrique added, with a nod towards the screen.

“You know, my Dad has a saying - Never believe everything you hear, and only half of what you see.”

“I don't think this is one of those cases, mate.”

“Okay, well, imagine this...” Dodds started. With all that they had heard that afternoon, this starfighter, when compared to any other, was in essence the equivalent of taking an ordinary ground soldier and strapping a tank cannon to their back. Said soldier would then be given a belt holding two dozen grenades, before being presented with two shotguns, two pistols and two machine guns. Not only would all the added weight be of no consequence to their ability to walk or otherwise move, nor in any way hinder their performance on the battlefield, but they would be able to run at the speed of a top class athlete and survive being shot many, many times before they were at last brought down.

Dodds hoped the image of such a man leaping, somersaulting and sprinting through a torn, urban landscape would look so ludicrous, as to sway Enrique's opinion. It didn't.

“Questions?” Mansun, having taken to the podium, asked. A flurry of hands went up, none of which belonged to Dodds.

“Yes, you. The young lady in the middle there.” A rather striking, tall woman with curly blonde hair stood up.

“First Lieutenant Andrea Kennedy, Red Devils, sir,” she introduced herself. “I'm aware that I'm probably about to ask the same question as everyone else -” she looked around briefly “- but I have to know: how it is possible that you have managed to outfit a single man starfighter with a plasma accelerator? I mean, we're talking about a weapon that is usually only found on cap ships and orbital defence platforms; something capable of cleaving a passenger vessel in two, with ease. The power requirements must be astronomical!”

Yes, how did you do that? Dodds wondered. That's not technically possible. A part of him was intrigued, but another part of him was feeling a little uneasy. A three-dimensional image of the ATAF was continuing its idle rotation on the screen behind Mansun and he couldn't help but feel that he was looking upon something that shouldn't be; shouldn't need to be.

“I thought you might want to know that,” Mansun answered Andrea with a wry smile. “But unfortunately I can't provide any more information right now. Let's just say that we have access to some of the best architects and engineers that the galaxy can currently offer. As a comparison, you must remember that we are also able to travel a distance of many hundred light years in the space of only a few hours, something that was also considered impossible until you knew the trick.”

“Well, I have to say that I‘m very impressed,” Andrea beamed. “You and your engineers have done an absolutely incredible job.”

“Thank you,” Mansun said.

“And may I just add, on behalf of myself and my team, that it will be an honour to evaluate the Advanced Tactical Assault Fighter for the benefit of the Navy,” Andrea said, with another radiant smile that was now mimicked by her team mates. “Thank you for giving us this opportunity.”

Mansun gave a small chuckle, but did not answer. The project leader clasped at the back of his neck with one hand and turned in the direction of the still seated Parks. He was clearly a little embarrassed and was attempted to avoid eye contact with his admirer.

Dodds looked over at Andrea again as the woman settled back down into her seat. He found her quite beautiful, with sharp features and smooth white skin. Even now, she continued to wear that very attractive smile.

Mansun gave a cough and collected himself. “Any other questions?” he requested. “If not then I will wrap up this portion of the presentation and move on to the program for the next three weeks.” A few more hands went up from all three teams, with various questions aimed at elaborating more on various aspects of the starfighter. After answering a good number, Mansun decided it was best to press on, lest they spend the remainder of the afternoon stuck in the lecture hall.

“I'm sure any other questions that you may have will be answered once the training begins tomorrow morning,” he concluded and began to discuss the schedule for the following days' training and eventual graded evaluations.

Leaving the theatre, herded once more by Estelle in her eagerness to get back the simulation suite, Dodds was left with one question that he had refrained from asking. It seemed to him that the Confederation was preparing to push the bounds of military force and technology in ways that had not been heard of for centuries; even more so during peacetime. His question was “Why?”


* * *


Dodds found the initial few days of the training quite straightforward. The group arrived at their simulation suite and were taken through a number of basic flight programs. The simulated ATAF cockpit layout was quite similar to that of a TAF and it did not take long for the team to get used to it.

Contrary to what Ainsworth had said, Dodds did feel that he really was flying a “TAF with more guns”, and it was not long before Estelle began pressuring the group to move on to more advanced techniques.

As the days progressed, the learning curve began to increase, until they came to realise that more than a week had passed and they were beginning their first ungraded training exercise. As with the standard simulator tests, they were required to undertake a series of missions, though within vastly inflated constraints: a simple dogfight against six opponents ballooned into a struggle against over three dozen; the enemy supply line hit morphed into a strike run against an Imperial frigate, complete with escorts; and their own escort mission transformed into a monstrous operation involving the protection of a crippled carrier against an onslaught of opposing forces.

Had the Knights been flying anything other than ATAFs, many of the tasks would have proven next to impossible. As it was, the benefits provided by the fighter permitted the pilots a much greater fighting chance; though not always.

“A rather unrealistic combat simulation,” the training supervisor assured them upon the team's first failure. “Doubtful that such a situation would ever arise in real life. When you're ready, you can attempt the mission again. Remember that most capital ships have some structurally vulnerable points. If you focus your attacks against those, then you should be able to bring it down with relative ease.”

Dodds clambered out of his module, the scene of the carrier breaking up still projecting itself about the interior. The cannons of the frigate they were supposed to be defending it from were still ravaging the surface as he joined Estelle by the training supervisor.

“Can we use the accelerators?” Estelle asked, trying to do something about her ruffled hair. Even though they had failed on their very first attempt, it was clear she was already becoming frustrated, wanting nothing more than to succeed on the first attempt, with flying colours. Dodds felt his shoulders sag and he turned wearily to Enrique, who let out a sigh, lowered his eyes to the floor and shook his head. Kelly also appeared drained, even more so than Chaz, both of their eyes starting to turn red. The strain of the non-stop exercises, staring at a screen for well over an hour at a time, and having to concentrate hard on everything was taking its toll. It was a long time to sit in a cockpit, simulator or not, without a break.

“No, I'm sorry,” the training manager shook his head. “But whilst they were a part of your initial training and familiarisation, the accelerators aren't a part of these ungraded exercises, or the final evaluations, I'm afraid. Should you successfully complete the evaluation, and set yourselves apart from the other teams, then you may have a chance to use them during real life training.”

Estelle made sure the Knights succeeded on the next attempt.


* * *


After many hours spent in the modules, the final few days were upon them and arriving at the simulation suite the group were met by Commodore Parks.

“Good morning, Knights,” he greeted them.

“Good morning, Commodore,” Estelle saluted.

“As you were. As I'm sure you're well aware, today will see the beginning of your last three days at this facility and also the first day of your graded evaluations. Regardless of the outcome of these tests, you will be transferred to Xalan's Orbital to await further instruction. Your destination from there will be determined by your performance here; and I have to say, Lieutenant de Winter, that so far your team has performed far better in these evaluations than any of the others. I am expecting good things from you over the next few days. Good luck, Knights.”

“Thank you, sir,” Estelle said, saluting the commodore once more as he left the suite. Estelle turned to her team, her eyes bright.

“Okay, everyone. This is it. Let's give it all we've got.”


* * *


Four days later the White Knights stood before Parks, Ainsworth and Mansun in a meeting room aboard Xalan's orbital station. As they waited before the commodore, Dodds glanced momentarily to Estelle, seeing the woman almost bursting with pride. She caught his eye and gave him a wink.

Parks looked up. “I will keep this brief,” he began. “Your performance throughout the entire evaluation period has been nothing less than exceptional; you exceeded expectations in almost every exercise.”

“Thank you, sir,” Estelle said.

Parks' face remained expressionless. “However, compared with the final test results of the other teams, you did not perform as favourably. I realise that this is not the news that any of you wished to hear after all the effort you have put in, and on no account should you hold each other to blame for this,” his eyes flickered to Estelle. “I'm sorry to say that as far as your participation in the ATAF project is concerned, you will not be proceeding any further.”

Estelle was devastated, that much was obvious to Dodds, even above the poker face that she had practised for years. Inside she must have been distraught. Enrique and Kelly disguised their feelings less well, disappointment written all over their faces. Rather strange, however, was that despite the fact that Chaz had put one hundred and ten percent into the ATAF evaluations, the big man didn't seem bothered about the end of their participation in the project. In fact he almost looked – relieved?

Parks continued. “This is by no means a reflection on your abilities; unless you were of a high calibre, you would not have been selected in the first place.”

“Thank you, sir,” Estelle said, somehow managing to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

Dodds, Enrique and Kelly echoed her words. Dodds had half expected another speech from Estelle, mimicking Andrea's speech in the lecture theatre and thanking the commodore for the opportunity to have taken part, but she said nothing more.

“Guess we're all heading back to Gabriel then?” Enrique said, half to Parks and half to his team mates.

“Actually, Mr Todd, from here all five of you will be transferred to the Temper system...” Parks began.

“What?” Chaz said.

Dodds jumped at the sound of the man's voice. Not least of all because he was not that used to hearing it, but also because of the sheer anger that seemed to flow from the man like red hot magma. He turned to look at the man, though he subconsciously leaned away. Chaz's eyes were narrowed, his face furious. He was almost shooting daggers at the commodore sat before him. Dodds glanced to his team mates, noticing that they appeared every bit as surprised at the man's sudden outburst. Kelly, in particular, looked like a scared rabbit. On the other side of the desk, a shocked Ainsworth had begun tense fidgeting, looking with apprehension over to Mansun.

“The border?” Enrique said, once the shock of Chaz's outburst had subsided enough for the added impact of the new destination to sink in.

“Yes, Mr Todd, the Confederation-Independent border,” Parks continued, ignoring Chaz. “As you have been told before we are currently suffering from a lack of personnel, and thus an inadequate supply of experienced starfighter pilots. You also need to remember that we are still counting the cost of the theft of Dragon. It's not just the loss of the battleship that's troublesome, but the disappearance of virtually all who were serving aboard. Those numbers include several hundred starfighter pilots, all of the highest calibre that the Confederacy could offer; a figure that, as I'm sure you can well imagine, doesn't replenish itself overnight, nor even within six months.

“Your experience and skills will therefore be invaluable within the Temper system. Given all that we cannot afford to have you stationed anywhere else at this time.”

“This is just in the short-term, sir?” Kelly ventured.

Parks shook his head. “No. Until further notice, you will be posted to Spirit, where you will fall under the general command of Captain Meyers. Preparations for your departure to the system have already been made, and your transport will be ready to go within the next quarter of an hour. Please ensure you are ready to leave at that time.” The man's voice had an edge of finality to it.

Spirit. Dodds racked his brain to remember it. He then discovered why he had buried it so deep: the planet was supposedly run down and dilapidated, nothing about it at all very appealing, not even the “notable” parts. Certain Confederation planets that were home to military interests were wrapped with a large orbital ring. Spirit's had been under construction for many years, but had never been completed. It had fallen into disrepair as a result. The orbital station that hung above the planet was all there was to service the CSN's needs and was almost unable to handle the demands placed upon it. Dodds suppressed a feeling of horror. What had he agreed to come back to?

Mansun stepped forward. “On behalf of the research and development teams at Xalan, I would like to thank you all for your work in helping us evaluate the ATAF,” he said, shaking their hands in turn. When he came to Chaz he let out a yelp, a clear look of discomfort on his face. Chaz's eyes were still narrowed and he looked to have a very tight grip on the man's hand. Mansun retreated back, nursing his injured fingers.

“Yes, I... er... would also like to thank you,” Ainsworth said. “Erm... than... thank you.” He gave a little wave, but refused to move away from the safety of the desk. Parks looked to him, but Ainsworth only gave a very slight shake of his head.

Parks turned back to the Knights. “Before you go: I shouldn't have to remind you that even though you are no longer active participants within the ATAF project the project is still classified,” he stated bluntly. “As before, none of you are to discuss your involvement or knowledge of the starfighter; it doesn't exist. Your personal records and other assignment papers will state that you have just transferred from Wolf 359 where you were working to ensure continued security of Naval interests.

“That is all, White Knights, you are dismissed. You will be informed when your transport arrives. Until then, please remain in your assigned waiting room; security will see you out. If there is anything you need before your departure, then please inform a member of personnel.”

The same tone of finality was still present as Parks finished and Dodds could not help but feel as if the commodore was blaming them for something. With some reluctance, the Knights saluted and turned to leave.

“Man, I can't believe they're sending us to Spirit,” Enrique grumbled.

“It must be some sort of mistake,” Kelly said. “They surely won't keep us there for more than a few weeks...”

“Is there a problem, Mr Koonan?” Parks' voice came from some way behind.

Dodds looked around to discover that, whilst the others had walked towards the door, where a couple of members of security were waiting to escort them away, Chaz had remained rooted to the spot. He was staring down at Parks and, from the concerned look on Ainsworth's face, he was not in the best of moods. Mansun, too, had taken a small step backwards in retreat, away from the big man who seemed to be radiating fury.

Enrique started back, but Kelly grabbed his arm, holding him with the others. From what Dodds had gathered, whilst Enrique maintained a better relationship with Chaz than anyone else, it was doubtful that he would be able to handle the man in his current state. The two security guards exchanged a quick look with one another, and their hands poised over the pistols at their belts, ready to move in in case of trouble. Parks remained sat at his desk, twiddling a pen in hand and staring unflinching back up into Chaz's enraged expression, his own quite still and impassive.

“No, sir,” Chaz said after a time, in a cold, bitter tone, the hands at his sides balled into tight fists.

“Good. Please don't keep your transport waiting, Lieutenant,” Parks answered, now meeting Chaz's glare with a stern look of his own.

With that, and without saluting, Chaz turned on his heel and marched out the door, past his four wingmates and the two security guards. He acknowledged none of them as he went, his brow furrowed, his eyes blazing, his fists still clenched firmly. They looked around to the commodore.

“Please escort the Knights to where they will await transport,” Parks prompted security, before turning his attention to some paperwork in front of him.


* * *


“Is Spirit really that bad?” Kelly asked Enrique, eyes on Chaz, as security led them to their assigned waiting room. Ahead of her, Dodds put his arm around Estelle, but she shrugged him off without a word, apparently preferring to wallow in her own misery. Chaz still strode ahead of the group, alone.

“I don't think that's what's upset him,” Enrique replied.



V


— The One That Got Away —


Wearing a surly expression, Estelle marched to the rear of the transport shuttle and slumped down into one of the seats, ignoring her fellow Knights and choosing instead to stare out the window. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dodds attempting to get her attention, before giving up and settling down into a seat further up the shuttle.

With the ejection from the ATAF project and her dreams in tatters, Estelle felt that her life was just about over. The greatest opportunity of her career, gone; just like that. She tried to remind herself that there was always someone, somewhere who was worse off than she; though right now she was having trouble picturing it.


* * *


At the edge of Imperial space, Natalia Grace had dragged a barely conscious, dying man down the corridors of her stricken vessel for what seemed like an eternity, doing her best to avoid the flames that continued to erupt all around her. Twice, she had been forced to change her route to reach the escape pods. The smoke was starting to thicken now, making it difficult to see and breathe.

To make matters worse, the man she struggled to bring with her had fought against her throughout the journey, attempting to shake her off. He had shouted at her to leave him, but she had insisted on bringing him with her. The man's clothes were bloodied, ripped and burnt in several places, the flesh beneath raw and charred. Natalia did not know the man's name and he had been unable to tell her.

Finally, she had made it to the escape pods. The ship that burned around her was not a large vessel and there were only a handful of pods to serve the crew. Here, there were just two. Both of them remained, none of the other crew - if any were still alive - having made it this far. Natalia had encountered numerous bodies along the way and it appeared that she and the man she had fought to bring with her were the last two people remaining alive on the ship.

The vessel gave a sudden, violent lurch, knocking Natalia off her feet. She struggled to stand as it continued to vibrate and shudder.

What the hell was that? she thought.

“... sh... ship's coming apart...” the voice of her unknown companion answered her thoughts, still lying on the floor where he had been deposited. Now that he appeared to be at least semi-conscious and talkative, Natalia hauled him over a bulkhead and, with some effort, managed to help him up into a sitting position. His breathing was heavy and rattling.

“... you've gotta get into... one of... those quickly,” he told her, gasping and staring at the escape pods. Natalia tried to help him stand, but he cried out in pain, pushing her away as best he could.

“Please, you have to get up!” she begged him.

“... i can't,” he whined back to her. “i can hardly... even breathe.” He looked into her eyes. “You have to go! Now!”

“No, I can't go on my own!”

“... if you don't leave soon... this ship will come apart... and you'll be sucked out into space... unless they decide to finish it off before then... you know they will... you, more than anyone... should know that... this... this ship is useless... to them now... they'll come for you when they're done with the others.”

Natalia knew he was right. The only reason their attackers had not destroyed the ship already was because they were tackling those who were still putting up a fight, and her own vessel was dead in the water. But as soon as they became aware that it was no longer usable, and not-at-all salvageable, they wouldn't hesitate to blow it to pieces.

“I can't go on my own,” Natalia repeated, tears streaming down her face. “I wouldn't know where to go or what to do. I've never flown a ship, let alone attempted to navigate in jump space.”

Through the flickering light, she could see a smile spread across the man's face. “... didn't... think you wanted me for my wit or good looks,” he said, attempting not to cough blood over her.

Natalia smiled back, though hers was filled with sadness. She knelt close to him and took his head in her hands, kissing him on the forehead.

“... in my top pocket is... my id card... please make sure it gets to my wife.”

“I will, I promise.” Natalia took the id card from him - it revealed his name to be David S. Porter - and slipped it into a zipped inner pocket of her jacket. She recalled the man now: he was always telling jokes to lift the spirits of all of those around him. He'd made her smile on a number of occasions.

She double-checked to ensure that all her other important data cards were safe and secure and still with her, before opening the door to one of the escape pods and stepping across the threshold. After everything that she had been through, she could not afford to get away only to leave all the reports behind. She could not remember all of what she had seen and done, and many others' hard work had been entrusted to her. She could not let them down.

From the rear doors, she could see straight through the pod to the cockpit windows at the front, the launch chutes of the main vessel open, revealing the vast emptiness of space beyond. It was then that she noticed the ship was spinning. Every now and again, scenes of the on-going battle would enter into her view, burnt-out debris from other craft tumbling by in the immediate outside space.

“... can you still see... the jumpgate?” she heard Porter ask behind her, his voice weak.

“Yes, yes I can,” Natalia replied. “But it looks like we're moving away from the entry point. I'm sure we were closer to it than that.”

“... it's not getting... further away... it's... getting smaller because it's closing... soon it will be unusable... you'll... have to hurry.”

Natalia hesitated. The thought of piloting a spacecraft, no matter what type, made her sick to her stomach; like attempting to cross a vast ocean, on a small raft using nothing but her own arms for paddles. Looking around the pod an idea struck her and she scampered back to Porter's side.

“... i can't come with you,” he managed again, as she tried to help him up once more.

“I can put you in one of the stasis capsules!” she enthused. “You'll be fine once you're under. And once we get to the other end, we can get you some medical assistance.”

Porter shook his head. “... those ones aren't... military-grade... they don't work like that... they just make you fall asleep... i'll die in there... and then you'll have to put up with a rotting corpse... until you get picked up.”

Natalia looked in anguish from her dying companion to the open pod.

“... the controls are clearly marked,” he assured her. “... the pods are designed to be simple to use... smart girl like you... should have no trouble working it out...” he coughed uncontrollably and there was more blood.

The ship rocked again, the shaking accompanied by a terrible grinding sound.

“Go!” Porter mustered enough strength to put emphasis on the word.

Natalia rushed back into the tiny, cramped pod, past the stasis capsules that lay like small beds opposite one another, and up to the front. She studied the control panel in the cockpit and discovered it was indeed very basic and straightforward. There was even a brass plate with engraved launch instructions on the main console. As Natalia looked out for the jump point a thought occurred to her.

“How can I reach the jump point with the ship spinning?” she asked, returning yet again to the pod's rear doors. David did not answer her; he was dead. The man's eyes were closed and he was slumped forward, quite still.

Natalia felt her heart rate increase, her breath coming quick. She was alone. Wasting no further time she hurried to the front of the pod and began working through the instructions on the plate one by one, pressing buttons and activating systems in the specified order. Behind her the rear doors closed and locked. As she continued various instruments sprang into life, screens and monitors lit up and started to tail system logs, statuses of essential parts and other texts. The final instructions on the engraved plate read,


Press 'Release' to release locking clasps

Press 'Launch' to fire engines

Ensure autopilot is engaged 100m from host vessel


Looking down the launch chute Natalia realised what she had to do and pressed the release button whilst studying the spinning scene outside. The now tiny jump point was coming into her view from bottom to top. The vessel was not spinning very fast, but her inexperience with starships had hit her confidence. She swore as she missed the second spin... and the third. On the fourth pass of the jump point, when it was more or less central in her view, Natalia pressed the launch button. She felt the engines engage and the pod shot forward. The jump point was now smaller than ever and she prayed that by the time she reached it, it would not have closed completely.

Looking behind her to the tiny rear door window, she caught a glimpse of what remained of the ship she had been travelling on. Compulsion overtook her and she moved over to the small viewport.

As David had said, her old ship was coming apart, small pieces breaking off all the time, severing the links between the larger sections. Around the vessel, Natalia could make out Imperial starfighters weaving between other stricken craft, explosions ripping across their hulls.

Her ships, her allies, her friends. She would never see them again. The tears came afresh and through her blurred vision she caught sight of an Imperial frigate reigning over the carnage. As she watched, she saw a starfighter deviate from its current course and move towards her pod. Her tears of sorrow became ones of fear and she gave a loud gasp. The starfighter approached and Natalia found she was unable to tear her eyes away from it.

Two green bolts of plasma issued from beneath its wings. Her pod was bathed in a brilliant light. Moments later, the exploding, stricken vessels, the frigate, and the fighter were gone, to be replaced by the blue haze of jump space.


* * *


“I think the Red Devils must have cheated. You saw the way Andrea was sucking up during that presentation. She was probably doing stuff like that the whole way through the evaluation,” Estelle continued to chew on the bone of the Knights' exit from the ATAF project.

The others said nothing, having since taken to just ignoring her. Enrique was slouched in his chair asleep; Chaz was back to his book; Kelly was taking the time to write in her journal; and Dodds was back to his favourite activity of staring out the window. The view was quite uninspiring, with nothing to see aside from jump space's blue haze.

Estelle's misery was further compounded by the fact that the transport the five now occupied was likely the last luxury they would be afforded before arriving at Spirit. It could comfortably hold twelve passengers, and was often used by high-ranking officials and members of senior command. With no-one having acknowledged her, Estelle slipped back into her own thoughts and went back over everything that they had done in the past few weeks at the research facility.

She could not think where they had gone wrong: her team had been up to scratch on the TAF simulators; even Dodds, following his lengthy absence from the cockpit, had performed well. There was no weak link anywhere as far as she could determine. The ATAF evaluations in the simulators themselves had gone without a hitch. The team had not lost a single member during any of the missions they had flown, an act that would have without doubt been a reason for instant failure. They had not conceded very many allied casualties during the assessments - in some cases, none at all; neither had they wasted very much ammunition. All she could think about was that they had not completed the tasks fast enough. Stepping into Parks' office she had been confident that the White Knights would be charged with piloting the ATAFs for whatever purpose the Confederation had in mind. But she had instead seen her dreams go slipping through her fingers.

“Well, welcome to the rest of our military lives,” Enrique said, shuffling in his seat, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes closed. Estelle half scowled at the back of his chair. The man was just pretending to be asleep, so as to avoid making conversation with her. It seemed that, although he too was disappointed, he had been quick to accept it.

Dodds had spent the time before the transport picked them up talking things over with Estelle and trying to reassure her that, like Parks said, it was not a reflection on her; although his efforts had done little to persuade her either way. Chaz had characteristically said nothing to the others following their meeting with Parks and had instead buried his head back in his book. No-one had since questioned him about it, a heavy cloud of rage still lingering over him.

“This is your captain speaking. We are now leaving jump space,” came a pleasant and cheery voice over the transport's intercom. From the way she had spoken throughout the journey, Estelle got the impression that the transport's captain was used to ferrying VIPs and didn't change the way she addressed her passengers, regardless of their rank or status.

With their impending arrival at their destination, Estelle leaned over to take a peak at Dodds, whose eye were glued to the window he sat beside.


* * *


Dodds watched out the window as the blue haze peeled away and the stars outside came rushing by. A massive, far-off transport vessel, its engines glowing with cyan hues, entered the meagre space afforded by his window and began to slow along with the stars outside. The effect was something of an illusion: the disengagement from jump space giving the impression of a rapid burst of speed.

Dodds was greeted by a view of Spirit not long after, the large blue and green ball looming in his window. As he'd heard a number of times before, the orbital ring that wrapped its way around the planet was far from complete, with sections missing here and there. Construction equipment drifted close by, looking as worn out and neglected as the ring itself. It appeared that work on the ring had been put on the back burner. As the planet slid from his view, the captain changing heading to bring the shuttle in line with their destination, Dodds could not help but feel that it was a fitting preview of things to come. After the initial excitement and great anticipation of his call back to duty, was this really what he had returned to? Maybe his father had been right all along.

As well as the ring, Dodds could make out the wheel-like form of the orbital station hanging high above the planet. It was the first station of its type that Dodds had ever seen, Xalan's own orbital station being more saucer-shaped with rounded tops and bottoms like most others. The design of Spirit's station looked as though it had wormed its way out of the reject pile. Either that or it was just cheap.

Kelly, seated in front of him, turned around with an ominous look on her face, her first impressions of their destination leaving much to be desired.

“Disengagement complete,” the transport's captain said as cheery as ever. “Welcome to the Temper system. We will be entering Spirit's orbit within the next twenty minutes, before landing at Spirit Orbital Station and completing our flight. I trust you will have a pleasant stay.”

Estelle went back to sulking.



VI


— An Admiral's Confession —


Commodore Parks' transport shuttle touched down on its appointed cliff-side landing pad, and the man made his way along a connecting jetty that led towards a number of tall buildings, set up against a small mountain range. The buildings that he walked towards were home to a number of research centres and offices, one of which had been designated to Admiral Turner for the duration of his stay on Xalan. Though the admiral had been present on Xalan during the three week ATAF evaluation program, he had, for various reasons, remained far from the Obex Research Centre, upon a different continent entirely; the ground that Parks now trod.

Despite being home to the Confederation's main research and development facilities, Xalan was also populated by a number of thriving cities. Civilian immigration and migration was rigidly controlled. On a planet such as Xalan, the Confederation were careful not to allow free movement and risk losing value research and findings to enemy, or even allied, hands.

Unlike Spirit, Xalan had no orbital ring, a standard orbital station sufficing. Even so, the planet was one of the most fortified throughout the Confederacy, a huge array of long-range planetary defence platforms circling a vast distance. Many of the platforms were automated and would open fire on any unidentified object that came into range, after issuing only a single warning.

Turner's office was high up, affording him a stunning panorama of the city. It was early evening when Parks arrived and the many lights from buildings and low flying vehicles could be seen twinkling in the fading light. Occasional patrol craft passed by his office window.

“Good evening, Commodore,” Turner said as Parks was shown in by the admiral's security.

“Good evening, Admiral,” Parks responded, saluting.

“Please leave us,” Turner looked to the security personnel who stood either side of the door inside his office. The pair saluted and left.

“Don't concern yourself with any standards of correctness, Commodore, I don't expect this to be a formal meeting,” Turner said once the door had shut. “Let me apologise for having you run around so much these past few days. I appreciate that the constant back and forth can be stressful and I myself find space travel so much more convenient. No need to worry about things like atmospherics.”

“That's quite all right, sir,” Parks said. “Whatever was needed to get the job done.” Parks had indeed been travelling a lot recently. Whilst in the Indigo system he had divided his duties between Xalan's many research centres and the orbital station, spending a fair amount of time being transported between all of them. The constant travel had begun to take its toll, but he was coping.

“Spectacular, isn't it?” Turner changed the subject, nodding to the view out of the window.

“I was about to say so myself,” Parks agreed, looking out at the bright lights of the city in the distance. “How do they manage to get any work done here with a view like that?”

“That's part of the reason we move most of them underground!” Turner chuckled. “Drink?” The admiral walked over to a cabinet and removed two spirit glasses. He picked up a near full decanter of whiskey and gave it a gentle shake, with a smile. “Imperial White Label.”

“How did you get that?” Parks asked, knowing that the contents of the vessel the admiral held were not only very expensive, but also difficult to get hold of.

The admiral smiled, pouring out a modest amount of the amber liquid into each glass. “It was confiscated from one of the local residents returning home. I saw it on the seizures list and decided to help myself. One signature and it was mine.”

Parks raised an eyebrow at just how blasé the admiral was acting. Never in his career had he seen the man behave in such a manner.

“Anything else?” Parks asked as Turner dropped a couple of ice cubes into each glass.

“No,” Turner waved a hand dismissively. “A man of my authority shouldn't abuse his position. So, knowing that, I just took the other two bottles.” The admiral smirked and handed one of the glasses to Parks. He then returned to his desk, sinking down into the comfortable black leather chair with a contented sigh. He then raised his glass. “Congratulations on a job well done, Commodore,” he said, before knocking back some of the liquor.

“Thank you, sir.” Parks took a small sip of the whiskey, never too sure if he would ever acquire a taste for it. The Imperials tended to like their drink strong, vodka being high on their list of exports. The spirit was drunk in vast quantities by asteroid and mineral miners all over the galaxy, the most popular being a brand known as Velda; coincidently made by the same company that produced the White Label whiskey. Parks had tried some on occasion and found it to be, in his own words, “lethal”. At close to one hundred and fifty proof it was not a drink to be taken lightly. It was also quite flammable and, as a consequence, banned in many bars throughout the Confederacy.

“Looks like we got our men then. Or, in this case, women,” Turner said cheerily. He rocked the whiskey glass in his hand, staring at the liquid within and watching the way it washed over and around the ice cubes.

Parks said nothing.

“You don't agree?”

“With all due respect, sir, I feel the Knights would have been a better choice.”

“Don't take it personally, Elliott, this isn't a competition,” Turner said with a small air of impatience. “You have to remember that at the end of the day we may in fact be doing them a favour.”

“There was very little in it,” Parks objected.

“In the test scores, yes. But I have doubts about their psychological profiles, Commodore and that is what will count. We only have nine months or so to convince those five women of the truly monumental task that we will be expecting them to undertake. For now, we may as well take the opportunity to celebrate one thing going right over the last six months. God knows we could use it with the prospect of never seeing Dragon again. I'd sooner have that battleship completely destroyed than in the hands of the Enemy.” The last part became something of an irritated mumble. He took another drink from his glass, leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling.

Parks, tired of standing, sat down in a chair adjacent to the admiral's desk. He recalled going over the results of the ATAF evaluation test scores and seeing the minimal differences between the Red Devils and White Knights. There were various aspects of the evaluation where the two teams had out-performed one another, leading to a very difficult decision. In the end, however, the Red Devils had just edged out the White Knights, leaving Parks with the painful task of reassigning the team to the border. The Silver Panthers had performed to a far lesser degree when compared to the others and Parks had returned them to their previous duties.

“What happens if the Devils refuse to go through with it?” Parks asked.

“That's why we need to be absolutely sure that they won't, Elliott,” Turner said in a gruff voice. “We cannot afford to have them pull another Patrick Dean on us. That little incident set us back well over a month.” He paused, staring into space, then said, “remind me: what was the official line on that incident?”

“That all members of the Yellow Dogs were killed during covert operations. There were no bodies to recover because they were all vaporised in starfighter explosions,” Parks recited.

“That's not a story we can spin out for another five pilots if they also decide to run,” Turner said. “I don't like the idea of keeping secrets from our own men, but if it means the difference between keeping the facts away from the general public and chaos on a quite literally galactic scale, then so be it.”

“And if the Devils do try to run?” Parks wanted to know.

“Then we will have to find another way,” Turner said.

But both Turner and Parks knew that there was no real other way and the tone of Turner's voice had already acknowledged that fact. In order for the ATAF project to successfully run its course from here on out, there could be very little room for deviation or stalling, meaning that both men would have to be dead certain of their every decision. But neither of them wanted to talk about it now, Parks himself figuring there would be plenty of time in the coming months. He decided to change the subject.

“I received word that the Knights arrived at Spirit early this afternoon, local time. They will begin routine patrols and counter piracy measures within the next few days.” He decided not to bother Turner with the details of the little incident with Chaz at the time he had informed the group of their new duty. He was sure that it would not have surprised the admiral in the slightest. It could be put into a report for his perusal at a later date.

“Under Aiden and Anthony?”

“Just Captain Meyers, but the commodore will also be around as needed.”

Turner nodded. “They will be in good hands with Aiden. He's a good man, if a bit soft. He seems to prefer the carrot to the stick nine times out of ten, which may be the reason he's passed over for promotion so often.” Turner drained his glass. “And the Red Devils?” He poured himself another small measure of whiskey.

Parks declined the offer of a top up, but noticed that Turner eyed him closely, as if suggesting the drink were needed. “The Red Devils will begin hands-on ATAF training operations in the pre-arranged location against some holographic units. After that, they will participate in simulated combat training against real pilots.”

“Just so long as they don't kill anyone,” Turner remarked. “I don't expect those other pilots quite know what they're in for, facing off against those fighters. They're in for one hell of a shock.”

Turner drank again from his glass and Parks looked down into what remained of his own whiskey. He had decided that he really was not very fond of it and in future he would only drink it out of good grace.

Turner cleared his throat and set his glass down on the table. “Now, Elliott, I have to confess I didn't just ask you here to share a celebratory glass of whiskey. You may be aware that I have been in the service of the CSN for most of my life, something the suits in Office have come to realise, too. So, it is with some regret that I have to inform you that in just over six weeks' time I will be retiring from service.”

“What?” Parks almost dropped his glass in shock.

“I know you believed that I was going to be around until the very end, but that hasn't been the case for quite sometime. Sorry for the deception.”

Parks was stunned. Everything now seemed quite urgent and the situation he found himself in threatened to overwhelm him. He pulled back his sleeve to look at his watch. He had lost all sense of time and was wishing that six weeks meant six months.

“But... sir, that's impossible... it's... surely it's a mistake?” Parks spluttered as he fought to control the mild terror that was rising within him.

Over the past few years Parks and Turner had worked very close together to ensure that the ATAF project would run smoothly. In the grand scheme of things they hadn't even completed the first phase of the project, the most important aspects were yet to come. Parks now felt it all to be for naught as the admiral passed all future responsibility on him.

Out of the window before him, Parks found that the darkening skies, and layers and layers of thick grey clouds, seemed very poignant at that precise moment in time. The man felt as though he had been left holding the baby, leaving him without any means of support or food, and bleak future prospects.

“I'm sorry, Elliott, and I wish there was more that I could do, but unfortunately my retirement has been forced upon me,” the old admiral said in regretful tones. “I have already deferred it by more than two years, so I am unable to play that card.” He rose from his chair and paced slowly back and forth in front of the window, looking again out at the beautiful cityscape. “The suits want me out. They're afraid that a man of my age will start to make mistakes and could then jeopardise the project. Ha! I may be old, but I'm not senile just yet. Whiskey?”

Parks became aware of the admiral hovering over him. He had disappeared into his own thoughts as he had attempted to digest the news that had hit him like a sledgehammer. He only nodded, seeing the whiskey as a buffer and immediate comforter. Turner topped up his glass.

“What's going to happen?” Parks asked after taking a good drink.

“You're going to finish what we started, Commodore. You're not going to give up or wind things down a notch just because I'm no longer able to participate in the project. What would you do if, for example, I were killed while in transit?”

The point was well made. Parks reflected that people often forgot that responsibility was often passed to them without fair warning. He would be able to make use of Turner's knowledge for the next six weeks.

“We still have until the end of June, Elliott,” Turner added. “There is plenty of time to ensure the transition. You know most of it anyway.”

Parks studied Turner as he spoke and for the first time he became aware that the admiral looked old and tired. His eyes betrayed a sense of weariness unusual in such a strong minded man. But with the revelation of his impending retirement his other features, the greyed and thinned hair, his thin face and wrinkles, no longer said “experienced”.

“Everything is changing, Elliott,” Turner said, a touch sadly. “We're becoming more and more like a federation every day. Current events are forcing us all to work much closer together than ever before and the government is only getting stronger for it. We're more tightly coupled now than at any time in the last century.” He was sitting once more in his chair and was leaning back, staring up at the ceiling again. Parks studied him as he did so, trying to see into his mind, to hear what the man might be thinking. “And whether the independent nations like it or not, with the gradual unifications of their governments and military forces they're making steps towards becoming a confederate state. Whether or not any of these things are good, only time will tell. Whatever happens, the galaxy will be a very different place in the next five or six years.”

The two men sat in silence for a time.

“Do you have any plans? For your retirement, I mean?” Parks asked. He was not very good at small talk, but felt that it could only serve to calm them both.

“Actually, yes!” Turner sat forward and smiled, now quite jubilant. “I'll be returning to Earth to see my new granddaughter. You may remember that my daughter was supposedly barren? As it happens she gave birth to a naturally conceived healthy young girl a few days ago, and I plan on being there with my family.” He took another drink; he was close to finishing his second glass. “To tell the truth I'll be grateful to spend as much time with them as possible. Should none of this work out in the end then I will prefer to have spent the time left with my family, rather than in some stellar graveyard. I hope you do not think that cowardly of me?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Despite our duties some of us did find time to start a family,” Turner muttered, looking into the bottom of his glass as he spoke.

“Some of us just don't seem to be able to get started,” Parks muttered back. For all his time in the Navy, Parks had never found time for romance or relationships and he knew Turner could tell that he had all but given up, more important things now driving him onwards.

“Strength to carry on, Commodore. We're only human after all.” Turner set his glass down on the desk, having drained it. “Admiral Jenkins will be taking over my duties following my departure. She is already aware of my situation and the status of the project. I suggest that before the end of the month the three of us take some time to get together and become more familiar with each other's core responsibilities and assignments. That should help to ensure that there are no shocks in store come the beginning of July. Until that time I will continue to retain full command over the CSN.”

Parks nodded an acknowledgement, taking another sip of whiskey.

“Now, I expect you have a lot to think about and do, so I will not take up any more of your time,” Turner said.

Parks rose and saluted, taking the hint. “Thank you for the drink, sir.”

“Funny how a bit of bad news can take away the taste of bad whiskey,” Turner chuckled.

Parks was under the impression that he had hidden his revulsion well. He made a mental note never to play poker against the admiral.

Turner, too, stood and saluted. “Safe journey. I have the utmost faith in you to see this through, Elliott. Remember that.”


* * *


Returning to his transport, Parks paused to take in the view once more. The high landing jetty provided a view of almost equal beauty to that of Turner's office. There he stood for a while at the cliff edge, feeling the cool breeze of the evening wind upon his hands and face, looking out at the cityscape and the light reflecting off twin moons, shimmering across the gentle waves of the calm ocean all about it.

He had seen more stunning sights during his lifetime, but tonight, at that particular moment, this was at the same time the most beautiful and most frightening sight he had ever seen: for it was a testament to the power of the human spirit, from their humble beginnings on Earth to a spacefaring race, spanning dozens of star systems across the galaxy; and with that a stark reminder of the penalty for failure.



VII


— Where the Action Is —


After many hours in flight, the Knights' transport at last docked with Spirit Orbital and the ever-chipper voice of the transport's captain informed the pilots that it was safe for them to disembark. There were grumbles from Estelle as they stepped out onto the flight deck, the initial impressions of the station itself no less than what any of them had expected. From the moment he stepped out of the transport Dodds at once noticed that the station presented an air of being run down, neglected and somehow trapped in the past.

“White Knights?” a deck attendant enquired. Estelle begrudgingly confirmed their identity. “Follow me. There is a shuttle waiting to take you down to the surface.”

Dodds started after the man with the others, catching the sound of chuckling as he did so. He looked around to see a group of service men and women, engineers and various other deckhands watched as he traipsed by, heads turning and grinning to one another. Dodds figured that the Knights were far from the first to feel somewhat repulsed by their new surroundings, and it must have been a great source of amusement for the current residents to see the reactions each time a new set of faces turned up.

Reaching the shuttle, Dodds slung his meagre bag of possessions inside before slumping down onto one of the steel benches that ran the length of the cramped interior. Though he tried to remain upbeat, something about his new surroundings was already attempting to break his spirit.


* * *


Touching down on the planet's surface, Dodds needed no further confirmation that their special treatment was well and truly over. Arriving at their mixed quarters, he and Enrique were dismayed to find they were crammed in with fifteen others. Their appearance at the doorway was greeted by cheers and whistles from their new bunk mates.

“Hey! It's the new guys!” came a cry from across the quarters.

“We've got ourselves a full house, boys!”

“Welcome to Action Central!”

“Hey, you! Think fast!” A ball was thrown towards Dodds. He fumbled the catch, letting it roll out of his hands and bounce around on the floor for a time, before its path was halted by the clutter it encountered there. It looked as though the base - or at least these quarters - was not big on discipline, with clothes and personal belongs scattered all about. It looked like a holiday camp for rowdy teenagers. Kelly poked her head between Enrique and Dodds, who had halted in the doorway. Estelle squeezed past all three and scanned the room.

“oh dear god,” Kelly said in a low voice. “I really wish I was back at Gabriel.”

“Uh huh,” Enrique answered.

“Please sleep next to me,” Kelly said to Enrique. Dodds noted that the men in the dormitory were already eyeing up the two women, and were being anything but subtle about it.

“Wouldn't want it any other way,” Enrique said.

Dodds was in agreement. After three weeks of his own personal space, and five months back home before that, this new regime was going to take a lot of getting used to.

Estelle coped a lot better, striding in, finding a spare bed and claiming it for her own, tossing the random items that occupied it onto another nearby bed. In the hours that followed it did not take her long to discover that she was the highest ranking officer in the dormitory (something that genuinely astonished her) and as a consequence one of the least popular.

At another time, in another place, Dodds would have advised her against flexing her muscles in the very first instance, but right now he was not in the mood.

Chaz found himself a bunk, acting as always with his trademark silence. With his locker filled with clothes, boots and other personnel effects the man kicked back, pulled out his book and disappeared into the pages.


* * *


“Welcome to Mandelah Naval Base, boy and girls; and welcome to Spirit. I'm Captain Meyers and while here you will be acting under my command,” the portly, ginger bearded man said.

The White Knights were seated within a small briefing room, alongside other new arrivals to the Temper system, some of whom shared their new quarters.

The group had been given a brief tour of the base and found that, even though Spirit had an orbital station, the overpopulation of available pilots meant that many of them had to be based on the ground. It also meant that in order to perform their duties, they would have to be transferred back up to the orbital station on an almost daily basis.

This would not have been the case if construction on the orbital ring had been completed, allowing for crew, service personnel and starfighters to be housed within, Estelle grumbled during the tour. As it stood, not even the craft that they would be required to pilot were stationed planet-side. Standard Confederation starfighters were not capable of withstanding the stresses that atmospheres would put upon them whilst attempting planetary leave or re-entry. All this, Estelle had also reminded them, slipping into a sulk, was not something that the ATAF suffered from. Dodds caught Chaz's eye and swore later he saw him crack a smile. For his moody exterior he was starting to find some mirth in Estelle's continued moaning.

Dodds suppressed a small sigh, folded his arms and tried to appear interested in what Meyers was saying. The captain was giving them an overview of what would be expected of them whilst they were stationed at Spirit.

“The Temper system is the principle route, and therefore the closest Confederation border world, to Independent World space,” Meyers went on. “In general terms this means that all sane traffic wishing to safely enter or leave Confederation-controlled space must do so via this system.”

“Why?” a female voice behind Dodds asked. He didn't bother to look around to see who was asking the question. “I mean, we can easily travel all the way from Earth to Kethlan in a single jump if we wanted to.”

“Not any longer, no,” Meyers said. “Owing to recent developments within the Mitikas Imperium, the Confederation is no longer permitting jumpgates, save for those along the border, to allow incoming or outgoing traffic to non-Confederate destinations.”

“So everyone is having to come through here instead?”

“For the foreseeable future, yes.”

“But the volume of traffic must be incredible!” the voice sounded quite taken aback.

“It is, yes, but it's a necessary precaution that the government wishes to take.”

Dodds had the image of an egg timer in his head, the grains of sand being the starships that were waiting - with strained tempers - to pass through the gates and move on to their destination.

“But what about everyone else? If they have their own jump drives they don't need to use the gates. Somewhere between ten and fifteen percent of all spacecraft can form their own jump points.”

Dodds met Enrique's eyes and raised an eyebrow at the comment from the well versed informant.

Meyers put up his hand and waved the woman down. “We'll get on to how we are tackling that in a little bit. For now, all of the Confederacy's navigation buoys are refusing to supply data on routes towards non-Confederate systems and, in particular, the Mitikas Empire. Without that data, space is once again as the sea was to early sailors on Earth: a treacherous place with little to no landmarks.”

“Until they learned to use the stars to navigate,” another voice chipped in.

“True,” Meyers began to chuckle. “But you'd have a hell of a time doing that up there.” He nodded towards the ceiling. “Now...”

“Excuse me, Captain, but what are the government taking precautions against?” yet another voice piped up.

“Mass immigration,” Meyers said simply. “The increased instability of the Imperial systems has led to a greater amount of traffic coming into Temper, and from there into further sectors of Confederation space. Most of these are traders attempting to find new avenues of business now that their old ones have closed. Unfortunately, organised crime is also suffering the same loss and you can bet that they will also come flooding in with them. Now...”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

Dodds found that Meyers was proving to be incredibly patient, given the continued interruptions. He'd heard that the man was like that though: very pleasant and accommodating; and that was also why he was still a captain and not a commodore. Heads turned around, following Meyers' eyes. Dodds looked about this time, seeing an olive-skinned man with a puzzled expression holding his hand in the air. For a moment Dodds thought he recognised him as one of the five men from the lecture theatre all those weeks ago, but realised he was mistaken. Meyers scratched at his beard as the man spoke.

“I'm sorry, Captain, but this sounds like a job for the local police, not the Navy.”

“True, but the police forces throughout Temper have come under increased stress whilst attempting to handle this issue and have requested our assistance. You should be aware that it could also soon no longer be a matter for the police; remember that this is also a game of politics: whilst relationships are now good with previously troublesome Independent World systems, a show of strength is no bad thing.”

“Sounds like they're turning us into the flood barriers,” Dodds heard Enrique whisper to Kelly. He noticed Kelly appear to snap awake, as if she had been daydreaming. He could relate: he was drifting in and out of the room himself, trying to think of a way he could escape to somewhere more interesting and not involving apples.

“So we're going to be making pre-emptive strikes against known pirate bases and insurgent strongholds?” the questioner asked, his face brightening at the prospect for some action. At the man's words the assembled pilots all became much more awake and alert. Dodds imagined that they, like him, were visualising scenarios in which they were performing important and heroic services to the Confederation, none of which went unnoticed, and all of which resulted in a great deal of action, grand recognition, and well-deserved promotion.

“Not at this point, no,” Meyers said, almost as if he was apologising. “For the foreseeable future you will all be assigned regular patrols within the Temper system.”

“Oh dear God, please just kill me now,” Enrique said under his breath and slid down in his seat.

“Make that a double,” Dodds requested, his own dreams of valour vanishing before his eyes. It was as if some twenty four hours previous he had been quaffing the highest quality Dom Pérignon, but was now being force-fed cheap plonk. Estelle, seated in front of the pair, turned around and shot them an angry glare that said, “Sit Up, Shut up and Put Up”. Enrique and Dodds pulled themselves both upright and attempted to stay focused.

Meyers, with the aid of a map of the Temper system, went on to list patrol routes, potential trouble hotspots, (Yeah, right, Dodds thought to himself) and schedules.

“White Knights?” Meyers asked as he ended the briefing with the flight roster.

“First Lieutenant Estelle de Winter, White Knights,” Estelle said, standing up and saluting.

“I wonder where she learned that one?” Dodds muttered sarcastically to Enrique, lowering his voice a lot more this time so as not to enrage his superior.

“Lieutenant, you will be performing your first patrol tomorrow afternoon at fourteen hundred hours. All route information will be provided to you on Spirit Orbital before the start of your patrol. You and your team should be ready one hour prior to commencement for transfer to orbit. So, thirteen hundred hours at landing zone D.

“That is all boys and girls. Please ensure you check the flight roster regularly, as it will change. Dismissed.”


* * *


Tuesday, June 10th 2617


I have to confess that I am actually enjoying my posting to Spirit a lot more than I first thought I would. When we were initially transferred here I thought it would prompt the end to my time in the Navy and I would hand in my resignation. I'm glad that I didn't as I would only have been disappointed with myself upon returning home. I haven't been in contact with my family for a few weeks now, not since arriving. But I don't expect they will be concerned.

When I first arrived here it was like my first day in the service all over again. That's what too much pampering will do to you, I guess. I figured that Spirit would be a dull, lifeless rock with nothing to keep me sane between the endless patrols. As a matter of fact there is quite a lot to do here and I've taken up running and some other activities with Enrique and Dodds. The planet is quite temperate, not as hot here as I would like (shouldn't expect it to get any hotter than 22c, I'm told) but it could be far worse.

We get most of our evenings free here, though not the weekends any more. The schedule of the patrols means that our days off vary, but we usually don't have to do more than five days on the trot. We don't have to patrol at night either because those stationed on the orbital handle that, although some of our patrols do end rather late and then we might have an early one the next morning. Today I've got another day off after four days of patrolling. There are a few towns nearby, but I couldn't be bothered to head into any of them. I felt like just unwinding and doing a bit of a work on my journal, so I went for a walk instead.

I've never been stationed on a planet that had an orbital ring before, at least, if I was, I don't remember being so. It's only half finished, but it is quite a beautiful and surreal sight. On clear days you can make out the ring from the ground, high in the sky. It's in a geostationary orbit, so it's pretty much the same thing every time, but it's still amazing to look at. Night times are spectacular, with portions of the ring lit up in the sky. I expect that once it is finished then it'll be even more so (although that's probably wishful thinking since I'm told it probably won't be for quite sometime).

Chaz seems to have come out of his shell a bit. They have a number of boxing and other martial art type classes here, so he and Enrique often go there together to practice. I'm not sure if there is much left for Enrique to learn, but he tells me that Chaz is helping him to hone some of his skills, so I guess there's a lot more to it.

He's still a touch grumpy though and doesn't have a lot to say, so you could probably imagine my surprise when he came over and spoke to me. I was sitting on my bed writing and he asked me if I wanted to go for a run with him. He hardly said a word to me while we were jogging, but we held a good pace together and he slowed when I needed to (I really need to work on my stamina). We spoke briefly afterwards, but it was mainly about the run. I decided not to talk about anything else though, didn't want to burn any bridges. We're still not sure what got him so upset with Commodore Parks. I saw that he got another one of his video disks a couple of days ago. He also received one when we were stationed at Xalan, but became really defensive when we asked him about it. I'm intrigued as to what's on them, but we've decided it's best not to ask him about it, just in case he stops talking to us again.

I do feel sorry for Estelle though. We might be enjoying ourselves here more than we expected to, but Estelle sees herself as being stuck in a rut. I think she put in a request for a transfer, but it was denied. I hate to sound selfish, but I'm glad. She's one of my dearest friends and I would hate to see her go. I can sort of understand what she's going through though. She really had her heart set on things back at Xalan and the transfer here (especially given Spirit's reputation) must have nearly killed her inside.


“Kelly?”

The word drifted through Kelly Taylor's head as she continued to work, failing to registering. It being her day off she had spent most of the day writing, the stylus strokes of her normal handwriting being transformed into characters on the screen. Just now something had broken her concentration and she struck through the word she had written to erase it, trying to regain her train of thought.

“Kelly? Hey!” an impatient voice called out, making the young woman jump. Kelly looked up from where she sat, cross legged on her bed, to see that Estelle had been demanding her attention.

“Sorry, Estelle, what did you say?” Kelly asked. She then noticed that Estelle was wearing her flight suit and felt a small twinge of panic in the pit her of stomach.

“I said hurry the hell up because you're going to make us late for our patrol! Our transport is waiting to go!”

“I... I thought we had the day off?”

“No, that's tomorrow! They changed the schedule this morning! Come on Kelly, you've only got a couple of minutes to suit up! We've got to get to landing zone G and that's not exactly next door!”

Kelly swore as she jumped off her bed and hurriedly began packing up her belongings. She cursed herself for being so busy that day reviewing her journal, correcting spelling and reading through past entries that she had neglected to check the patrol schedule. She tugged open her locker, pulling out her flight suit and boots, tearing off her clothes and throwing them to the floor.

She struggled to get into her flight suit as fast as possible, managing to get one leg in and then starting on the next. The flight suits were skin tight and did not slip on very easily; it was like trying to put on a wetsuit...

“Stop bloody staring, you perv!” Estelle's voice came. Kelly followed Estelle's icy glare to a man who had been reclining on his bed opposite, reading a book. He had since lowered it to take a look at Kelly as she stood in her underwear, but with Estelle glaring at him, he was once again returning to his reading material. Kelly saw Estelle turn back to her once more, her eyes still narrowed, and quickly turned away to concentrate on getting ready. She didn't want to hear any accusations roll off Estelle's tongue right now, she was more than capable of imagining what they might be, having heard them on occasions before: wondering how Kelly could be such a good pilot and yet so absent minded at other times, spending too much time scribbling in her journal when there were more important things - such as this - that she needed to pay attention to, and questioning why she kept a journal at all; no good would ever come from all the constant writing.

Thankfully, Kelly was just about done.

“Do the rest on the way,” Estelle suggested whilst Kelly's fingers attended to the various clips on her boots. Her boots more or less fastened, Kelly picked up her personal belonging and threw them in her locker before securing it. Although she got on well with the others in their shared quarters, she did not know any of them well enough yet to trust them. She had also written little comments about each of them in her journal that she thought they'd be better off not seeing.

“Okay, ready.” Kelly said, turning back to Estelle.

“Kelly, where's your helmet?” Estelle said.

Kelly looked at the floor, then her bed and realised that she'd left it inside the locker. She yanked it out and then secured the locker once more.

“Ready?” Estelle asked once Kelly finally appeared to be done. She did not wait for an answer before indicating that they had wasted enough time already.

“Where are the others?” Kelly asked, as the pair hastened down the various well lit corridors, dodging other inhabitants of the base as they sort to ensure they made it to the transport in time.

“They're there already. I came back to find you.”

“Sorry.”

“Just don't make a habit of it.”

They stepped out of the barracks, into the open air, where they stepped up their pace in order to reach the assigned pick-up point. The shuttle craft awaited their arrival, but Kelly could see the air around the engines shimmering, indicating that it was prepared to set off the moment the two women were aboard.

An air marshal stood by the side door watched their approach. “de Winter? Taylor?” he asked the pair as they arrived at the transport.

They nodded, somewhat out of breath.

“Good. Get inside. We almost had to go without you.”

The door shut and bolted behind them and they sat down on one of the two steel benches running either side of the length of the craft.

“Hey,” Kelly said to the rest of her team, once she managed to get her breath back. The shuttle was full today, all thirty places taken up. Kelly reached up and pulled the restraining harness down around her. The transport was far less glamorous than the one they had used when they had been ferried to and from Xalan, being a lot more cramped and uncomfortable with no view of the outside world.

“Journal?” Enrique, whom she had sat next to, whispered in her ear. She gave a sheepish nod in reply. It wasn't the first time - and unlikely to be the last - that her hobby had almost landed her in serious trouble.

“Prepare for takeoff,” the transport's pilot called back at them. The craft shuddered as the engines engaged and Kelly felt them leave the ground. The shuddering increased as the transport lifted them into orbit. She always hated this part. Even after several weeks of having to endure it, it still did not get any better. Around her others had a tight hold of their restraining bars, some with their eyes closed. She joined in. The journey to the orbital station was not long, and a short time later the restraining bars were disengaged.


* * *


“Today you will be patrolling route Delta D-15,” the Officer of the Deck said as he handed Estelle an electronic map of the route around the Temper system. “You should ensure that you hit all four check points at least once an hour.”

Dodds stole a glance over Estelle's shoulder at the route map to see if there was anything interesting on their patrol that day; even a minute piece of information that might make the next four hours a bit more bearable. There was nothing. For Dodds the patrols were now becoming a chore; a regular job that he dreaded going to each morning and which did nothing except take up his free time. He desperately wanted something to happen to break the monotony of the hours he spent in the cockpit. He had twice had to endure just over six hours in the seat, doing nothing but watching a jumpgate and its uninteresting traffic flow, with little more than an hour's break. It was just as he had feared after Meyers' briefing all those weeks ago and he had been mentally and physically exhausted after both of those. It was like being tortured to death.

The flight deck of the orbital station was never silent. Starfighters were for ever being returned to their bays or taxiing to the catapult, preparing for launch. Engineers and technicians were working to repair wear and tear, as well as performing general maintenance. Munitions handlers were moving heavy-laden trolleys around the deck, so that they could be loaded onto fighters.

A number of different craft occupied the bays here, the TAF being the most common. Next there was the two-seater Ray. Though the fighter was less nimble than the TAF, it benefited from greater defensive and offensive capabilities. On their patrols Chaz and Enrique would usually fly one together, availability allowing. Otherwise their flight group consisted exclusively of TAFs.

Several Rooks occupied other bays, though none of them had moved in all the weeks that Dodds had been stationed at Spirit, the fighters' main purpose said to be the defence of the station itself. The Rooks were almost never allocated to patrols, the easier to maintain TAFs and Rays being given that duty. Dodds was not fond of the Rook himself, the craft feeling far too bulky and sluggish in flight. It felt even worse in combat, where lighter and faster starfighters could outmanoeuvre it. Even so he had, at one time, looked upon the Rook in awe; there had been no denying it was a powerful craft. He now gave them little more than a sideways glance, aware that the crown belonged to another.

“Hot out there today?” Enrique said, as Dodds and Estelle continued to study the route map.

“Been all quiet so far, sir,” the officer replied.

The response did not surprise Dodds. Should have applied for that damn transfer, he thought. Though after Estelle had been denied her own request to seek adventure and excitement elsewhere - actually, in her case, recognition - he was pretty certain he knew what the answer to his would be: remain at Spirit until further notice. He was just going to have to lump it for the time being; he was not about to return to Earth with his tail between his legs.

Around Dodds others were finishing their patrols. He watched with envy as the appreciative pilots removed their helmets and left the flight deck to return to their quarters for a well-earned hot shower. He looked forward to being in their position later on. At least today's patrol was only three hours long.

He watched as Estelle clicked through the map a few times, scrutinizing each segment before handing it back.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Everything good?” the flight officer asked.

“Yep.”

No, thought Dodds.

“Okay, we'll see you back here at twenty hundred hours,” the flight officer replied, before heading off.

Only if I don't die of boredom in the cockpit first.

“Right, Kelly, I want you out there first,” Estelle said. “Takeoff and then hold position outside the orbital until we are all assembled. Got it?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Kelly said, shuffling off towards her waiting TAF.

“Best to make sure that she's actually with us and not bumbling about some place else,” Estelle muttered to the three men stood on the deck next to her. The four watched as Kelly's TAF accelerated down the catapult.

“Who's acting wing commander for this patrol?” Dodds said, as Estelle began to make for her allocated TAF.

“I am, Dodds,” Estelle answered with a flat, tired voice.

What a surprise, Dodds thought gloomily. On a patrol it was hardly a significant duty, but one that might help to lift his spirits a little. He thought of the irony of the name of the planet he was based. Two hundred and thirty five minutes to go. Two hundred and thirty if I'm really lucky.

An attendant signalled to Dodds that his TAF was ready and the young pilot traipsed his way over to the starfighter. One day of proper action was all that he wished for as he stepped up into the TAF's seat.

He secured his helmet, buckled himself in and then gave a thumbs-up to Enrique and Chaz, standing down on the flight deck, watching him. The two men were waiting for the all-clear to board the Ray they had been assigned for the patrol. Enrique gave Dodds a thumbs-up in return. Chaz gave him an almost invisible nod, Dodds only catching it because of knowing what to expect of the man.

With his TAF taxied up to the catapult Dodds waited to be granted clearance to launch. Staring down the illuminated tunnel, to the dark space outside, Dodds tried to gear himself for the next few thrilling hours ahead. He now understood why Temper was often referred to as “Action Central”.

“Lieutenant Dodds, this is Tower: you're clear for takeoff,” a woman's voice came over his cockpit's intercom.

“Yeah thanks, Tower,” Dodds replied. “I'll be sure to let you know if anything interesting happens; like we come across Dragon, hidden under a load of black tarpaulin.”

Please, just remind me I'm alive, he begged, as his TAF hurtled down the catapult and out the station. At least for just one day.


* * *


“He's coming back around!” Dodds cried, as the fighter he had been tailing barrelled and then circled around over his head. Dodds dipped his TAF out of the way before rolling around to continue his pursuit.

“I'm on him,” Kelly called, bringing the craft into her sights. She adjusted her speed to hold it there for as long as possible, so as to give her on-board computer time to lock a missile. Her opponent's movements were all over the place, swerving this way and that, Kelly herself doing her best to counter its erratic nature. She had only to keep the craft within her HUD for a few moments longer and then the missile would be ready to fire... The fighter accelerated away suddenly, shaking her off and diving straight down towards Enrique and Chaz who were already tailing another of the group's opponents.

The White Knights had been halfway through their patrol when they were alerted to a set of unidentified vessels travelling through their assigned route. Speeding into the vicinity they had sighted their quarry, the three craft bunched up close together and appearing to be in a hurry. Their trajectory put them on course with a jumpgate that would take them deeper into Confederation-controlled space, and the speed and formation of the craft suggested that they were trying to pass through undetected.

Estelle's requests for identification, destination and business purpose had been ignored, the three fighters maintaining their tight formation, but increasing their speed. Estelle had challenged them twice more before the craft had turned hostile. Based on their vessel of choice – a Dart, a cheap single seat, general purpose craft with innumerable available variants - she had concluded that they must be wanted criminals. She had gone on to order them to surrender several times before Dodds reminded her that it did not seem like they were the talkative type.

Kelly's eyes narrowed. Though the Dart that was once again in her sights benefited from upgraded offensive and defensive capabilities, she maintained that the only real advantage the long-bodied craft held over her TAF was its speed. Her on-board computer jingled and she loosed the missile even before the lock verification had time to flash across her HUD. It sped away from her, trailing blue and white particles as it twisted and curled to keep up with its target's frantic attempts to evade it.

That makes up for being tardy, I suppose, Kelly thought to herself as the Dart exploded before her in a shower of debris.

“Target down,” she reported.

“Good work, Kelly,” Estelle came back. “One down, two to go.”

“Got one right behind me,” Dodds said, feeling his TAF vibrate as particle bolts slammed into the rear, the shielding absorbing the hits.

Estelle made a quick assessment of the situation and standings. The death of their comrade had had a detrimental effect on the performance of the two remaining Dart flyers, whose flight had become far more sloppy, their confidence shaken.

“Enrique, Chaz, stay on your target; Kelly you assist them. Dodds, help me with the other one.”

“Got it,” Dodds confirmed.

The four Confederation fighters divided as Estelle had ordered and set after their targets. The Darts weaved and dived as the Knights tailed them, frequently coming close to collisions with their pursuers as they made snap changes to their headings. Plasma and particle rounds flew in every direction as the two sides attempted to bring one another down, none quite managing to hit home.

“Damn this crap HUD!” Dodds said as the Dart evaded another burst of his guns. After three weeks of benefiting from the ATAF's predictive targeting capabilities he now felt crippled without it, as though he was handcuffed to his seat. It was clear that the advantages the starfighter offered had spoilt him and he was finding it difficult to readjust. It dawned on him that this was the first time he had been in a combat situation - simulated or otherwise - since the evaluation program back on Xalan. The Dart skimmed through his sights. He fired and missed again.

“Why the bloody hell haven't they loaded the ATAF's combat software onto this damn crate?” he said.

“Careful there, Dodds,” Enrique said. “You're beginning to sound like Estelle.” He took his eyes off his systems for a moment, trying to guess which of the three TAFs he could snatch a glimpse of through the Ray's canopy might be Dodds.

“Shut it, mate, this is really starting to annoy me!” Dodds retorted.

The frustration in the voice made Enrique start to chuckle. He looked over at Chaz, sat next to him, whose face split into what Enrique recognised as a rare smile. It vanished almost as soon as it had appeared, the big man diverting the Ray's heading as the missile-lock warning sounded. His attempt at evasion came too late and the Ray rocked as the missile slammed into the topside of the fighter, both men feeling the heavy vibration coarse through their bodies.

“Sorry,” Enrique said for allowing himself to become distracted, before refocusing on the battle. Chaz called up a damage report. It indicated that both the top and frontal shield quadrants had collapsed, but were recovering slowly. As the missile had detonated the force of the explosion had driven its way through the shield and to the Ray's armour beneath. The damage incurred by the armour had not been insignificant, but not as critical as it had felt.

“Are you two all right?” Estelle asked.

“We've sustained moderate damage. Shielding is running at sixty percent efficiency,” Chaz reported back. “Nothing we can't handle.”

Estelle glanced at her radar, seeing a red triangle sitting right in the middle; almost right on top of her. A moment later the four pale grey rear fins and bright cyan glow of the Dart's single engine swept across her cockpit view. She immediately gave chase.

As she closed in on the fighter she saw something detach itself from one of the fins, the object arcing up around it. She swore as too late she realised what was happening, her on-board computer sounding the warning for only a couple of seconds.

Such was the range from its target that the missile completed its manoeuvre within a matter of seconds and slammed headlong into her TAF, creating a blinding white flash as the explosion blended in with the bright blue splinters from her collapsed shielding. The starfighter rattled with the impact, jostling Estelle in her seat and making the young woman lunge for the ejection handle. The expected prompt to bail out never came, however, the rattling ceasing a short time later.

“Estelle!” Dodds' voice sounded in her comms.

“I'm okay, I'm okay,” Estelle replied, thankful that her voice had not betrayed the terror she had felt upon seeing what she believed was her own death hurtling straight towards her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw an explosion.

“Target down,” Kelly once again reported. The Dart that had attacked Enrique and Chaz had pulled out of its dive and flown right in front of her, bringing itself dead on to her heading. It had aligned within her cross hairs and Kelly had only to pull the trigger. Her TAF's cannons had fired four times, the first pair of bolts slamming into the rear of the ship, followed by the second. The third pair completed the task whilst the fourth had disappeared into the explosion, striking remnants of the destroyed fighter.

“Hey, leave some for the rest of us,” Dodds said.

“This isn't a game, Dodds!” Estelle barked back. “Concentrate on taking down that last fighter.”

With his companions dead, and now even more out-numbered and out-gunned than ever, the final Dart pilot swung around, put full power to their engines and began to flee from the naval pilots as fast as they could, resuming their attempt to reach the far-off jumpgate.

The four fighters gave chase, each attempting to bring down the final fleeing craft. The Dart was fast, faster than the Knights, and it would soon be out of range of their guns; but not their missiles.

Estelle's targeting computer jingled. She declared her lock. The others acknowledged her. The missile armed and fired.

At the same instant her comms crackled into life. “I won't go back there! Please don't make me go back! I beg you!”

It was not a voice that she at first recognised and as the small red triangle on her radar screen started to blink, Estelle realised that it was coming from the fighter she had just fired at. “They can't be stopped! They'll kill me! They'll kill you! They'll kill all of us!! Please, just let me go! I just want to get away from them! PLEASE!” the voice continued as the missile devoured the distance between itself and the target it sought.

Something inside Estelle made her regret firing. There was terror in the man's voice; a terror that, for some unexplained reason, caused her a great deal of discomfort. It was the kind of terror that sounded as though it had been ingrained into the man's very soul. She looked down at the TAF's controls, seeking a way, any way, to put a stop to the missile that was seconds away from destroying its target. She found none and looked back to the final floundering manoeuvres of the Dart as the missile closed.


* * *


The craft exploded, killing its helpless occupant and leaving Estelle with questions that might now never be answered. She slowed her TAF and stared ahead at the tumbling clutter of alloys. The others joined her, Dodds and Kelly coming along either side, though not close enough to identify the faces within the helmets.

“Nice shooting, Estelle,” Dodds said, although his enthusiasm came across as somewhat subdued and muted, the rush of the battle dampened.

“What the hell was that all about?” Kelly asked.

“I... I have no idea,” Estelle replied. It sounded too real to have been a bluff. The man's final words had been almost hysterical and they were still going around in her head,

“I won't go back there...”

Go back where?

“They'll kill me! They'