The Honour of the Knights (First Edition) (2 page)

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 —

N
early 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.