The Honour of the Knights (First Edition)
The Battle for the Solar System : Book One
Stephen J Sweeney
13.03
ISBN 13: 9780955856198
ISBN 10: 0955856191
Copyright 2009 Stephen J Sweeney
www.battleforthesolarsystem.com
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
The Attribute of the Strong
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 It has since been superseded by the second edition, published in 2011 and available from all good eBook retailers.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 st
ate 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 th
e 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.