The Honour of the Knights by Stephen J. Sweeney (books to read to be successful .TXT) 📕

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