The Battle for the Solar System (Complete Trilogy) Page 3

  “Hello? Can you hear me? What’s your name?” Gregory was still trying to get a response.

  Simon looked over the man once more, spotting the grey-boxed, yellow lettering on the left breast, beneath the squadron logo. “Apparently, it’s Dean,” he said, pointing to the emblem. “But that might not be his suit.”

  “We’ll just have to assume it is,” Gregory said, before continuing to try to wake the man. “Dean? Hello?”

  “Mum, first-aid?” Simon prompted his mother, who was still staring at the injured man. “He’s bleeding pretty badly.”

  “Better if we call an ambulance,” Sally said, “they’ll be able to handle this sort of thing better than we can.”

  “Good point,” Gregory said. “In that case, Simon, can you call someone in the navy? There’s got to be a number for this sort of thing, right?”

  “N … No! Don’t!”

  The three jumped at the voice. Dean’s eyes were once again open and the man was looking around desperately for who had just spoken.

  “Don’t?” Gregory asked.

  “Please … don’t.” Dean repeated. He looked frantic.

  “Why don’t you want us to call an ambulance?” Simon said.

  “Simon, ignore him,” Sally said. “He’s probably in shock. We have to get him to a hospital, or at least a doctor.” She began hunting 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 continued. “Let … me stay … here. Please!” He tried to haul himself off the couch, but seemingly couldn’t draw on the strength necessary.

  “Look, don’t move,” Gregory said, gently pushing Dean back down. He then swore as he saw the amount of blood that had seeped from unseen wounds in the man’s chest. “Sally, hurry up and get that first-aid kit! Simon, call the ambulance. I’ll say here with him.”

  Sally nodded and headed off towards the kitchen, Simon making his way into the hall to where the video phone hung on the wall. He tapped on the display to wake the device up, the screen filling with a number of colourful images. He located the emergency services icon at the bottom of the screen and the system began connecting the call.

  “What service do you require?” said the headset-wearing woman who answered.

  “Ambulance,” Simon said, “we’ve got a man here suffering from gunshot wounds,” he hastened to add.

  “What’s his condition?” the woman said, her fingers tapping away at some unseen device.

  “He’s talkative, but bleeding quite heavily. I’m not sure how many times he was shot, but he can’t walk or move a great deal. We had to carry him into the living room from outside the house.”

  “Are the wounds the result of a projectile or energy weapon?”

  Simon paused to think. He couldn’t remember seeing any burn marks on the flight suit, a sure sign that Dean had been hit by laser or plasma fire. Neither could he smell burnt clothes or wounds. It wasn’t an odour one quickly forgot.

  “Bullets,” Simon said.

  “Okay, thank you,” the operator said. “Where exactly are the wounds located?”

  “His torso; the chest, it looks like.”

  “Thank you. If you wait a moment, I’ll get this down and have it assigned.”

  Simon thought about the man on the couch. “Dean”, the flight suit said his name was. The name didn’t ring any bells. He didn’t know any Deans. He wasn’t even sure that he’d ever even met one during his ten years of naval service. He became aware that his father was hovering halfway out the living room doorway. He met his eyes and saw that, although he appeared patient, he was probably wishing they could act quicker to get this ordeal over with.

  “Has your mother found that kit yet?”

  Simon glanced down the hall towards the kitchen, seeing numerous cupboard doors swinging open. “Doesn’t look like it,” he said.

  “Does the man have a name?” the operator asked.

  “We’re not sure,” Simon said, glancing at his father. “We think it’s Dean.”

  The operator nodded and continued tapping for a moment, before she abruptly stopped. Something she was looking at had caught her attention, there was a curious expression on her face.

  “Could you hold the line for a moment, please?” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Is—” Simon began, but the woman disappeared from the screen before he had a chance to speak, her image replaced by the words Please Hold.

  “Simon, what’s happening?” Gregory asked, looking back in on the man lying on the couch. “Are they sending someone?”

  “She’s just put me on hold,” Simon said.

  “On hold?” Gregory squinted at the screen. He looked ready to come over and investigate, when the operator reappeared.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said. “Could you confirm your name and address for me, please?”

  Simon did so.

  “Good, someone will be with you soon. 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 his life will come from loss of blood. If you are able, dress the wounds and try to stem the flow. It could make the difference between life and death. Don’t move him from the house or attempt to bring him to us yourself. Do you understand?”

  “Got it,” Simon said.

  “Good. We’re dispatching someone now. Just remember to remain calm.”

  “How long before they get here?” Simon asked. Ten or fifteen minutes, he hoped.

  “They should be with you within the next thirty or forty minutes,” the operator said, quite nonchalantly.

  “Forty minutes!” Simon exclaimed. Dean could die in that time!

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re very busy tonight. Please just try to keep him calm, make him as comfortable as possible, and dress the wounds as I have advised.”

  Simon spoke his understanding and then ended the call.

  “What’s wrong?” Gregory asked, as Simon re-entered the living room.

  “They’re not going to be here for another thirty minutes, at least,” Simon said.

  “Thirty minutes?” Gregory said, horrified.

  “At least!”

  Gregory looked to the man on the couch, whose breathing was becoming more laboured. “We’ll have to take him ourselves,” he concluded.

  “No, they said not to move him; it could make things worse,” Simon said. “We’re going to have to do the best we can for him until they get here.”

  They then heard Sally swearing in the kitchen, cupboard doors slamming. She shortly re-entered the living room, looking quite frustrated.

  “I can’t find the bloody first-aid kit anywhere,” she said, unable to take her eyes off Dean. “What did the ambulance say?”

  Simon told her and she grew even more agitated.

  “What are we going to do?” she said. “Simon, can you call the navy? Get them to take care of him?”

  Simon hesitated. Something didn’t seem right. As if to compound his thoughts, Dean turned his head in his direction. The man said nothing, but his eyes seemed to implore Simon not to. Almost begging him.

  “Simon?” Sally prompted.

  “No,” Simon said, shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  His mother stared at him in disbelief. “Simon—”

  “No, we can’t. He asked us not to contact them.”

  “Then I’ll do it!” Sally snapped.

  “No, Mum! Didn’t you hear him? He told us not to!”

  “Simon, don’t talk to your mother that way,” Gregory said, a scowl on his face.

  “I’m … I’m just doing as I was asked, Dad,” Simon said.

  Gregory glared
at him. “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 not 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! I didn’t do it on purpose!”

  “But now you’re just going to let it happen here, instead,” Sally said, choking back tears. “Greg, help me find the box,” she said, before pushing past Simon and leaving the living room and three men behind her.

  Simon watched her return to the kitchen to resume pulling things out of cupboards. He felt worse now than before. Carrying Dean into the house had been bad enough. His mind had played tricks on him, dragging him away from Earth and back to Peri, where he had watched two soldiers carrying the bodies of a young woman and a middle-aged man into an APC. He had wanted to help back then, but his assistance had been unwanted. His hands had been in cuffs.

  He shook the thoughts from his head. Or, at least, as far away as they would go. They’d never truly leave him. He began after his distressed mother. She was right – he had to help her find the first-aid kits.

  “Simon, wait there a moment,” his father called.

  Simon turned back to the scene in the living room, watching his father undo Dean’s flight suit to try 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 the man’s chest, blood still seeping out with each breath.

  Gregory swore quietly, then stood and walked over to Simon. “Any idea why this guy doesn’t want us to call anyone?” he asked.

  Simon shrugged. “It’s possible that he’s involved in some kind of covert operation.”

  “Covert?” Gregory said, sounding a little bemused. “You mean he’s meant to be doing something in secret?”

  “Could be,” Simon shrugged, “or with very little exposure. Whatever it is, he doesn’t want certain people within the military finding out about it. Sometimes we do things that aren’t meant to become common knowledge, even within the service itself.” He looked at Dean, who was still drawing in ragged gasps of air. “Totally under the radar. What you don’t know, doesn’t hurt you. That sort of thing.”

  “Well, what does he expect us to do with him?” Gregory asked, in somewhat accusing tones.

  “Maybe he’s waiting for someone else to pick him up?”

  Gregory studied the man for a moment, then turned back to Simon. “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. He’s lucky to still be alive. 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, struggling to take each breath. Simon decided to try to discover what had happened while he still could.

  “Don’t worry, Dean, everything’s going to be okay,” he said. “You’ll just have a few scars to show your friends.”

  “Patrick,” Dean managed.

  Ah, so finally we have a full name. Patrick Dean. It was a start, at least. Simon noted the emblem of a cartoonesque golden retriever, tongue lolling from its mouth, on the outside of Dean’s flight suit. The squadron itself was named below. “Yellow Dogs, huh? I’m in the service myself at the moment, though it’s a little complicated right now.” And given the circumstances, Simon thought, Dean probably didn’t need to hear about that.

  Not a word from Dean.

  “Dogs, Dogs … Never heard of you guys,” Simon continued, trying to remain chatty and upbeat. “The Silent Kings, Drunken Bakers and Frozen Banshees, sure, but never the Yellow Dogs. I usually fly with the White Knights, myself.”

  At his words, Dean turned his head to look at Simon, his eyes filled with anguish. “A … TAF …” was all that Simon caught.

  “What?” Simon drew closer. “Say that again.” If Dean was going to say everything so quietly, then it was going to be difficult to understand anything over the sound of his mother’s distressed voice, carrying in through from the kitchen.

  “—you don’t know who’s done this to him,” she was saying, “they could come around here, looking for him!”

  “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 the non-aligned nations. You know how it starts – they come over here one by one, don’t get along, and then start blowing each other up.”

  There was a clatter and then a heavy crash, followed by swearing from his mother. Simon never often heard her swear, only ever in extenuating circumstances.

  “That man is going to die unless he gets to a hospital!”

  Simon forced himself to filter out the rest, intent on discovering what had happened to Dean and how he had come to be here tonight.

  The wounded Dean reached out and placed a limp hand on his shoulder. “A … T … AF … ject …”

  “You ejected from your TAF?” Simon said. What Dean was saying wasn’t making sense. If he’d ejected from his TAF, then how did he get all those bullet wounds? Had someone managed to shoot him whilst he was in the cockpit? Surely that wasn’t possible. Bullets would have a hard time getting through the toughened canopy, let alone the energy shields surrounding the fighter. But there was a thought – if he’d ejected, where was his TAF?

  “Where did you come down?” Simon pressed.

  Dean started coughing and took another deep breath. “Imperial war … wrong … all over …”

  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. Whatever Dean was trying to tell him, Simon hoped it wasn’t important.

  “Right, Simon, give me a hand here,” Simon heard his father say, as he reappeared in the living room. With him he carried a small first-aid box and a much larger medical kit.

  “You found them,” Simon said.

  “They weren’t in the kitchen,” his father said, “they were still outside, from after we had the school around and that girl fell out of the tree.”

  He dumped them both on the floor at the foot of the couch and together the pair did their best to bandage Dean, though it was clear from the outset that he would soon die unless proper medical attention arrived soon.

  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 standing in the doorway. He could make out the tears sliding down her face. He appreciated what she might 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. Dean couldn’t have been much older than himself, something which had most likely only made it seem ever the more possible in her eyes. She’d never liked that Simon had joined the military, a life spent flirting with death.

  Simon caught Dean’s eye as he continued to bandage.

  “Sudarberg,” Dean said all of a sudden.

  “What did he say?” Gregory asked, both he and Simon stopping their messy bandaging to list
en.

  “Sudarberg?” Simon asked.

  “Y … yes. Stay … a … way.”

  “Where’s Sudarberg?” Gregory asked.

  “I don’t know, I’ve never heard of it. Where’s Sudarberg? What’s Sudarberg? Why should I stay away from it?”

  Dean didn’t answer. He was struggling to swallow. A thin film of blood had started to coat his lips. He was coughing up blood.

  “This isn’t going well, Simon,” Gregory remarked under his breath, with a shake of his head.

  Simon looked over their efforts to preserve the man’s life, the result of their attempts far poorer than what he had originally envisioned. Whilst the medical kits contained a number of dressings and bandages, and solutions designed to stimulate and promote rapid blood coagulation, they simply weren’t enough to contend with Dean’s kinds of injuries, nor his sustained blood loss.

  The two persevered for a while longer, until Gregory threw in the towel. “Right, Simon, call your friends at the navy,” he said. “We’ve been at this long enough now and that ambulance could still take its time getting here. The navy might be far quicker. Whatever this guy is worried about, I’m not sure it’s worth dying over.”

  Simon conceded to what his father was saying and placed the call. There were no further objections from Dean. Either he no longer had it in him to fight back, or he was unaware of what was happening around him. Following the call, Simon sat with the man, attempting to get what little information out of him that he still could.

  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 late in the morning, and several men and women were carrying out final investigations of the perimeter of the family home. The ambulance that Simon had called had never arrived. Instead, a military medical transport had showed up in its place, 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 that morning were turned away.

  “He was lying there, face down in the dirt,” 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.”