CHAPTER ONE

The seventh year of the war proceeded much as the previous six had. Though the Centauri Confederacy had reasserted control of Proxima Prime in less than two months, the insurgency was still underway. The fighting had moved from the plains and mountains and into the cities where technology and numbers counted for little. Every month the troop ships arrived and as they dropped off new recruits, the casualties returned on the very same vessels. The one thing that did change was that this was the first year in which the insurgents fought and held off conventional military forces in open battle. With their capture of the Bone Mill they were able to establish a strong defensive position up to a kilometre underground. It was the true beginning of their revolt and one that would see the Proxima System engulfed in the fire of crusade and holy war.

Reports of the Proxima Emergency

Spartan was hurt, really hurt. He hadn’t felt this much pain in years and even then he hadn’t been in danger of dying in such a degrading manner. As he lay on the ground he could feel the dull ache across his shoulder and chest from the impact, it took him superhuman effort to stay conscious. The arena floor burned his feet and as the pain kicked in his vision started to blur. He lifted his left arm and as soon as he moved the muscle he could feel the sharp pain in his ribs, it was like a knife being thrust deep into his flesh. He forced himself past the pain and wiped his brow, making him concentrate on the fight he faced. At the very least he had broken ribs and as for his shoulder, he had no idea. Anyway, it didn’t really matter, as he was about to suffer far worse if he didn’t move. He struck his hand against his chest, hitting the valve that released a dose of drugs into his bloodstream instantly numbing the pain in his body. In licensed matches these kinds of drugs were never needed but this kind of fight could lead to death, and in these circumstances he was more than happy to put something into his blood to give him a fighting chance.

Forcing his eyes open, he saw the dull metal mace heading for his head. With every ounce of energy he had left he rolled to the right. The weapon smashed down into the ground, missing his body by inches. He kept rolling and then forced himself up into a sitting position.

“Now I’m pissed!”

He dragged himself off the floor and up to face his opponent.

Maximilian was his name, or at least, that was his fighting name. The man was massive, an image of a Greek god, he stood over two metres tall. His torso was puffed out with thick muscles and blood dripped from a gash across his stomach. Of all the opponents Spartan had faced, this one had caused him the most trouble. In fifteen minutes of gut wrenching combat they had both broken bones and cut flesh, yet they were still fighting.

Like all the combatants he had his own unique armour and equipment. He was armoured but not completely, as a fully armoured man was boring to watch. The crowd wanted to see mismatched opponents using skill and knowledge to best their adversaries. His lower were legs covered in titanium greaves, as was as his chest and shoulders. The metal gleamed with a dull iron finish and each plate was fitted with short studs that resembled spikes. On his head was a thickly armoured helm with metal plates reinforcing the sides and two rounded spikes that pushed out to make him look like an iron image of a hellish demon. The helm was the same colour as the rest of his armour and in the wrong light he looked like an armoured Minotaur of ancient myth. On his right hand he wore a studded metal gauntlet in which he grasped a dull metal maul. The gauntlet was slightly broken from the previous fighting but enough of it remained to protect the back of the hand and knuckles. The maul was a simple weapon but easily capable of braining a man or denting metal armour. It was solid metal and nothing other than an iron works would be able to damage it. On his left arm was a hexagonal metal shield with a runic symbol of relevance to him only, along with the symbol of a half-naked woman draped around the rune.

Spartan straightened his back, feeling the muscles and joints in his body clicking and crunching. For a moment he felt old but it was just tiredness and the pain of the fight. He moved his left leg forward into his fighting stance, much like a nineteenth century boxer. As he looked around the arena the bright lights made it feel like he was on some ancient desert battlefield. Sweat dripped from every part of his body and he could feel a trickle of blood on his brow. He looked down, spotting his weapon on the ground. Unlike Maximilian, he wore just one piece of armour. It protected his right shoulder and part of his chest but no more. It might look like this left him at a disadvantage, but without the helmet he had better visibility and wasn’t bogged down by the shield and armour. Without giving his opponent time to stop him he reached down and grabbed his weapon. It was a metal rod about a metre long with a cast iron sphere welded to each end. It was crude but devastating when used by a strong man like Spartan. He grasped the weapon in the middle with both hands, a wide gap between each of them. He looked around, the bright glare from the lights still almost blinding him before he raised the weapon and gave out a roar.

The arena burst into applause and excitement as he turned to face all directions while keeping a wary eye on his opponent. This display was not just for the audience. He needed a moment to get his breath back. His ribs were making breathing difficult, without adequate air he wouldn’t be able to match the machinelike technique and brute force of Maximilian. Even more important this display was annoying, really annoying, to the shield-carrying monster standing just a few metres away.

With a roar Maximilian had had enough and bounded towards him, his shield pushed out in front and his maul held high. It took just three mighty steps for him to get close enough for Spartan to put his simple plan into action. He dropped his weapon low and then swung it up and to his right so that it caught the lip of the shield. The mass of iron ball at the tip easily smashed the shield away from the giant, simultaneously exposing the monster’s stomach. Spartan kept the weapon moving and brought the other end up high into his stomach, delivering a bone crunching smash. With speed and agility he leapt to his left and tilted his body just far enough away to avoid the maul and delivered another crippling blow against the back of his leg. With a groan the man crashed to the ground face first moaning in pain. A great cry burst out in the arena as Spartan raised his weapon with a pained smile.

“That’s three down, two to go,” he muttered to himself, the realisation that he still had more work to do hit him.

A siren blared followed by a muffled and crackling voice over a loudspeaker system. The lights flashed and then changed colour, bathing the area in a dark purple that transformed the mood to something deadly and sinister. Spartan hated it when they did this. It might impress the crowds but all it did was make his life much harder. It did mean that he had about thirty seconds before the next fighters entered though. He looked around, staring intently at the crowd above looking in awe at the savagery of the pit. All around the perimeter he could see racks of display boards, undoubtedly showing the latest odds for the scores of illegal gamblers that flocked there. They weren’t the only people who came to the fights. Like the arenas of Rome there were many men and woman that simply adored the fighters. These modern gladiators had the same violence and virility that excited their ancestors thousands of years before. There were plenty who would pay good credits to spend a few hours with them after a major event like this one.

“Nothing changes.” Spartan turned his attention back to the arena and the promise of yet another bloody spectacle.

With a shrill howl the siren announced the next fight was about to begin. At the far end of the arena a pair of heavy iron gates started to rise. There was no reason for them to be so slow and noisy other than that creating a further illusion of delay and suspense. This whole place was a pantomime of blood and showmanship.

The strobe lights flashed continually as the gates clunked open and his two opponents stepped out. As the first moved into the light a great roar went up through the crowd. Spartan knew immediately who it was. Keira! Nothing got the crowd worked up more than a scantily clad woman with armour and a weapon. She took a few paces forward so that she was standing directly in the beam of one of the main spotlights. She was tall, perhaps two metres and sported long green hair. She wore a folded metal skirt decorated with flecks of blue and gold powder to give it an expensive, unusual look. As expected she was fitted with a metal reinforced corset providing dubious protection, but it certainly appealed to the crowd. Of more interest to Spartan was her choice of weapon, an iron ball swung from a metal rod.

“Shit!” Spartan swore but not loud enough for the rest of the fighters to hear.

It didn’t matter though as the second fighter had now arrived and for the first time he was faced with having to fight two women at the same time. She was much bulkier than the first woman. Her upper body and head were covered in exquisitely carved golden armour. He didn’t recognise this one but the expensive armour made him wonder what was so special. Her legs were bare and for just a moment Spartan was distracted before he drew himself back to the fight.

“Come on, man, concentrate you idiot!”

From behind her back she pulled out two small objects that looked like half size maces. For a few seconds Spartan breathed a sigh of relief, until she shook them. With a sudden noise they extended to double their length and crackled with blue sparks. They were electro mauls and illegal outside of the police. They were potentially lethal, especially when placed near the skull or nervous system. Spartan had personally seen deaths in the arena from these weapons.

“Great, they never play fair do they?” Spartan laughed as he swung his own weapon in front of him and moved towards the two women.

The woman in the gold armour started moving the two mauls around her body as if in some kind of ritual dance, the other started to swing the iron ball over her head in a wide circle. The bright sparks flashed on the mauls, creating colourful lines and arcs as she spun them in a web of defensive patterns around her body. It might look pointless but he had seen this method before and it very easily confused and disorientated an opponent.

A loud blast on the horn indicated the start of the fight. Without hesitating Spartan moved to Keira and her circling iron ball. It was his intention to remove one of the women from the fight as soon as possible rather than have to fight both of them at the same time. He lifted his weapon up high, catching the chain connecting the weapons together. As they entangled he rushed in to strike her. He expected to hit her with the reverse end but before he could make contact the woman with the powered mauls was on him. The first strike missed but the second caught his left arm sending a sizzling spark through his flesh. It forced him to release his hand as he jumped back in pain. The weapon was obviously on its maximum setting so he had to be careful as it had the potential to confuse him enough to be struck by Keira. If they could both reach him this fight, and possibly his career, would be over.

As he staggered back she struck him again and again, each heavy impact numbed his muscles forcing him to his knees in pain. As Keira untangled their weapons the other woman moved up to stamp down on his head. It was his chance and with a quick movement he grabbed her ankle ripping it to the right. She lost her balance and collapsed. Spartan picked up one of her mauls striking her hard across the exposed parts of her body, the shocks sending her into spasms. He grinned and then remembered Keira. Instinct told him to move and as he jumped back he raised his newly stolen mauls above his head. It was a simple move he always made after a major attack or defence when he needed to recover to a safe distance for body protection. This was a lesson that early fencing masters had learned and it was a lesson not wasted on him.

It was the right choice as the iron ball came smashing down towards his face. The maul in his right hand took most of the impact but it still sent him flying across the arena.

“Keira! Keira! Keira!” The audience rallied behind the woman as she continued swinging the weapon over her head.

Spartan moved back and checked his weapons. The one in his right hand had stopped sparking, presumably damaged from the impact of the iron ball. The other still seemed to be working, just his luck.

Keira stepped closer, keeping the weapon swinging at just the right distance to threaten him but not too close to be entangled. Spartan moved and kept moving to maintain distance between the two fighters.

“Spartan! This time you’re going down!” she shouted as she released the weapon.

The heavy iron ball rushed towards him and it was only with a superhuman effort that he was able to slide to the side to avoid the strike. As he regained his footing the ball swung back and she continued swinging it. She had developed a wicked technique that allowed her to both swing the weapon in wide arcs as well as to hurl it forward like a heavy iron cannonball from an eighteenth century warship.

He ducked and dived as the ball swung ever closer to him. His reactions were fast and it was almost impossible to strike him without leaving herself exposed. Then he spotted the opening. The iron ball moved just a little too far. He leapt forward past the ball and grabbed the chain. He could see the fear in her eyes. Then the lights cut out.

Shouting came from above in the crowd, though whether it was from missing the fight or feeling cheated at the prospect of losing their winnings he couldn’t tell. Then the screaming started. Spartan stood still, as his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He could still make out the shape of Keira in front of him but little else. A flash came from above and several of the red emergency lights came on. They were low power but they did provide a dull red glow. He stared intently at the woman stood in front of him, they were both transfixed on their entangled weapons but the commotion above made it perfectly clear that for now the fight was off.

A loud blast echoed across the arena and the shape of a man tumbled down to the soft earthen floor. Spartan released his weapon rushing over to check him. As he approached a sickening feeling welled up inside. The body was a cop, but not just any cop. It was a man from the Advanced Tactical Unit. Spartan lowered himself down to look at him more closely. Like all ATU officers he wore the latest powered tactical armour giving them good protection. The armour also contained built in communications, analysis and air supply for riot duties. This wasn’t the kind of gear a normal officer would wear, it was something you would expect when raiding an arms factory or for taking out a terrorist cell. What worried him even more was that he had two massive holes in his chest. Each was the size of his fist and neatly burned through the armour and out the back. The inside of the man was fused as though molten metal had been neatly poured into the wounds. The sides of the flesh were seared.

“Fuck!”

Keira ran over, examining the body before turning to Spartan.

“This man has been hit with a military issue thermal blast, probably at close range from a shotgun, you know they’ll screw us for this?”

“Keira, what the hell do you know about military issue hardware?”

“Jackass!” She rushed over to the side of the pit. She moved fast, it was hardly surprising, he’d seen her move in previous fights and she was well known for her agility and physical prowess.

Two more bodies, this time from the spectators, dropped down into the pit. Spartan tried to move as a volley of shots hit the ground. It looked like they weren’t taking any prisoners and in the open space there was no cover.

“You coming?” Keira called as she climbed up onto the metal gate and towards the lower edge of the viewing gallery. She dropped some of her armour down to allow her to move more freely.

More gunshots blasted across the site as extra ATU officers arrived and engaged in battle with whoever they were after. They could either stay in the pit and risk being shot or take the opportunity to try and get somewhere safer before any more of them arrived. Maybe they were after the gamblers or whoever ran the illegal fights. Who knew? The one thing Spartan did know was that he didn’t want to be around when they switched the lights back on. It was ten years with no parole for unlicensed blood sports. They might not be legal but if you wanted the real thing you had to go underground, it was only there that real weapons and cruelty could be shown in all their glory. More important to Spartan was that he only needed two more fights to pay off his indentured service and be free of the bastards. He reached the ledge to find a waiting hand from Keira. He dropped down and into the viewing area. There were several bodies on the floor with scores of people running and screaming as they made for the exits. Around the computer displays and gambling terminals no less than a dozen men with advanced weapons were holding back double the number of ATU officers.

“This place is a goddamned warzone!”

“No shit!” Spartan swore as he looked for a way out.

At the other side of the room and right between the violent crossfire was a small door to a refreshment area. From memory Spartan was pretty sure it led to a shuttle bay where they could probably catch a ride. From the main entrance more black-armoured officers arrived. These guys meant business and wore even heavier armour than the first batch. Every square inch of their skin was covered with a special mixture of metal and plastic that could stop all but the mightiest of weapons.

The defenders in the club didn’t seem too bothered and they responded with even more fire. Sparks flew from the police armour as bullets, shells and armour-penetrating darts hammered into the group. The three at the front engaged their shields as a batch of extending plates popped up from their armour giving them bulletproof riot shields. Their arms and hands remained free.

Several of the gamblers threw themselves at the police as they desperately tried to smash their way through the line of armour to the entrance and safety of the street. It was useless, only an armoured vehicle could smash its way through.

Spartan watched this battle with a mixture of concern and fascination. He could see the police were going to win the engagement and he didn’t want to be around when that happened. He needed to get out and fast. As if to encourage him to do something the chair next to him and Keira blew apart, the blast from one of the police weapons smashing it to dust. Keira ducked back, trying to keep down and away from the fire.

“Come on, we need to make it across!” Spartan made to move.

Keira refused and kept her head down and out of the way of the firestorm. Spartan took a step forward before a flash shell landed near his feet. The blast was massive and threw him hard into the gambling terminals. As he tried to regain his composure he spotted a number of the police moving in on him. A flash came from one and he waited for what seemed a lifetime to feel the pain of the impact, but nothing hit him. Instead, a scream told him something terrible had happened.

Spinning around he spotted Keira falling backwards with a gaping wound in her chest. He staggered forward to reach her but one of the ATU officers grabbed his arm and forced him to his knees.

“Give it up asshole! You’re coming with us!”

The man was one of the newly arrived heavily armoured officers. Either his attitude or his armour gave him the kind of arrogance that only those immune to prosecution seemed to have. Spartan had never been a big fan of the police and this man had really pissed him off.

“Fuck you!” The wounded gladiator grabbed the man around the lower body and lifted him a good metre from the ground. With superhuman effort he smashed the man down onto the gambling terminals in a great flash of sparks and glass.

More of the officers ran in as the gun battle continued all around. Lifting a chair he swiped the first in the face and a second in the torso. He was like a raging madman and even several shock mauls wouldn’t stop him. With the first few down he rushed towards three officers that had just arrived and were drawing their firearms. With instinct, brought on by over eighteen months of gladiatorial combat, he rolled low and snatched a firearm from the first man. He was taken completely by surprise as he was disarmed and spent his last few seconds looking down where his rifle should be. As the other two turned Spartan blasted him in the chest.

The police firearms were a new design and created specifically to end violent situations quickly but without killing the subject. Normally they would use weapons like shotguns but there were too many fatalities. Even safe rounds such as the beanbag shells were just not enough to end a situation peacefully without harm to the victim or the officer.

Incredibly thought Spartan, the weapon did its job. Each trigger pull released a bright yellow flash propelling the new rubber based heavy slug round. It might have been classified as non-lethal, but the shock from its discharge must have broken a good number of bones as the man was propelled through the air. He fired several more rounds, as the man continued on his trajectory before he smashed into a pile of chairs and tables. Without breaking sweat, Spartan lifted the carbine-sized weapon high slamming it into the jaw of the second man who staggered back several metres before reaching the edge of the fighting pit.

Spartan knew immediately that he was screwed. It was as if the entire world was slowing down as the officer almost wanted to fall over the edge. He tried to grab him but another officer slammed a weapon into his stomach forcing him to the floor. The last thing he saw as a maul struck his head was the falling police officer tumbling over the edge into the fighting pit.

*

Spartan couldn’t see. He tried to move his aching arms but they appeared to be lashed or shackled. He tried to move but his restraints stopped all but basic movement. There was a flash of light and his eyes burned with the pain of a newly born day. As he adjusted to the brightness he realised he was in a large room. All around him were scores of people in uniforms though no one was familiar to him. At the front was an overweight man in an official uniform who was flanked by several armoured guards. On one side was the bright purple banner of the Confederacy, the loose organisation that held the scattered fragments of humanity together throughout Alpha Centauri, Proxima Centauri and the old Solar System known as Sol.

The man, presumably the Judge, gave a signal and the room went quiet.

“I have heard the testimony and I am satisfied that the evidence put forward by the ATU unit present gives a fair legal summary of the situation. Does the defence team have any additional evidence that is contrary to that provided by the ATU?”

Spartan, still dazed looked about the room for any friendly face. He noticed one man in a dark suit standing to draw the Judge’s attention.

“Judge, if I may?” he asked formally.

The Judge gestured towards him and then sat down.

“The evidence brought against my client has not been proven. Yes, he was present at the site and, yes he was involved in the violent entertainment. Our main argument is that the ATU officers opened fire on the spectators and on those in the arena. It was a botched operation and by all accounts resulted in over twenty deaths, including six well-trained and equipped officers. It should never have happened and if the operation had been properly planned and executed, we wouldn’t be here today. My client was simply caught up in a vicious exchange where he was forced to fight to try and escape with his life. Our plea from the start has been one of self defence and that is a right every citizen has in law.”

“Nonsense! When a man breaks the law he forfeits his rights to due process, you will be well aware of the Citizens Charter! The ATU have provided video evidence of his culpability in the attack of many police officers and the manslaughter of Officer Riley, who was forced to his death in a terrible fall. This evidence was taken from the video feeds of every officer present. We have seen what was taking place. We are not talking about the usual televised combat sessions, this was unlicensed, murderous combat with weapons and equipment designed to maim or kill. Every officer who entered that building took a great risk for the public good and many paid the price,” the Judge responded.

Spartan hadn’t seen the footage, at least he didn’t remember seeing it. But one thing was very certain. He knew a set up when he saw it.

“No way I’m getting out of this one,” he muttered.

“Not only did the accused physically attack multiple officers present at the scene, he also managed to steal police equipment and turned it on them. We have the medical reports on the internal injuries and damage caused by his direct actions.”

Some seated near Spartan looked at him, thinking they heard him speak but he just gave them a long hard stare. It was a hollow victory but it was something. The Judge continued.

“Based on the evidence presented, even after taking into account your argument of self defence, I have come to my decision.”

It was a grim indictment of the way the legal system had evolved, in that Spartan’s attorney just sat down and let the Judge continue. Spartan turned his head in disgust as he watched his rights torn up in front of his face.

“I have taken into account the difficult situation that the accused is in financially, but this desperation does not justify turning to illegal and dangerous combat. I am also convinced of the fact that the police raid was not initiated because of any specific actions of his. The raid was due to an undercover operation, that I am glad to report has resulted in over thirty arrests and the closure of six separate establishments, all of which were running the same form of gladiatorial entertainment. I believe him to be out of control and until he is properly re-educated, a man like this has no place in public and must be relocated to an area better suited to his character.”

A murmur spread through the audience and cameras seemed to almost lean towards the Judge as they waited for the verdict.

“Based upon the crimes committed, the injuries caused and the death of a good police officer, I give Spartan two options and it is for him to choose one of them. Either he will face ten years for manslaughter and a following sentence of ten years for unlicensed gladiatorial combat at an unlicensed arena…..”

Before he could continue, a volley of shouting came from the public gallery, as well as from the gathered press.

“Silence!” the Judge shouted as he brought down a heavy hammer that issued sparks across his desk. “I also offer Spartan the chance to redeem himself and his character by a term of service with the Interstellar Military. This term of service is to be no less than ten years and will involve a potential posting to countering the insurgency throughout Proxima Centauri.”

He turned to Spartan and stared at him for several seconds.

“The choice is yours, Mr Spartan.”

As the Judge sat down the two guards next to Spartan lifted him up so that he faced him. The attorney in the suit approached and stood to his right.

“I’m sorry, Spartan. We managed to get your murder sentence revoked but there is no way out of this manslaughter charge. We can go for the prison option and then go to appeal, but with the current waiting list for justice you could be in for two or three years before we could even consider going ahead. Alternatively the military option has risk, but based on your track record it could make you,” he said apologetically.

Spartan looked around, he couldn’t believe the situation he was in. Just a few weeks ago he was fighting for his life in a bloody arena just to pay for his mistakes years before. Indentured service meant he had to fight at twelve events and he only had two left before he was free. Now he was being offered a choice between prison or the military. He looked at the people around him and then at the Judge.

The room went quiet as everybody listened intently to his decision.

“You don’t give me much of a choice,” stopping as he gave the matter one last thought.

“You must decide or I will be forced to make the decision for you,” said the Judge firmly.

Spartan looked around the room one last time. He would rather die than be forced to prison. Some might think his months working in the pit-fighting world were akin to prison, but he could leave anytime he wanted. He only stayed to pay his debt. It wasn’t easy to stop an armoured-up, heavily equipped gladiator from leaving if he truly wanted to. He needed the work as much as the organisers needed him to fight. Twenty years would take away the best years of his life. By the time he came out what would he be able to do? At least with a full tour of duty under his belt he would have access to free education, state welfare, support and who knows, maybe even a career. He took a deep breath.

“I choose the ten years military service.”

“Good, I am in no doubt that your skills will prove useful in fighting the insurgency!” he sneered.

“It is the ruling of this court that Spartan will forgo his sentence and instead offer himself for voluntary service in the Confederate Marine Corps for a term of service of no less than ten years. He will join one of the military recruitment transports where he will be transformed into a man the Confederacy can be proud of. The journey throughout the System is long but it needs to be. By the time you have made several passes through the sector you will be fully trained and capable of any military posting. It is an efficient system where you train as you travel. The Marine Corps is always looking for strong and resilient young men and woman to serve, and though this man has shown poor judgement he has proven an ability to stand firm and to fight when the situation demands it. A full term in the service of the Confederation will strengthen his character and mould him into a citizen befitting this fine society.”

Spartan thought the Judge was now just enjoying himself with his little speech and was tempted to add his own thoughts to the proceedings, but the man continued with even more.

“It is of course assumed that to fully compensate the state for the damage he has caused he will give up a good and vigorous decade of training and service. If he fails to complete the full term for any reason, other than honourable discharge due to battlefield injury or similar, he will forfeit this verdict and be transferred immediately to a maximum-security prison to carry out the remainder of his sentence. Spartan, you will undergo two weeks additional medical assessment and care prior to your shipping to your boot camp. We need to ensure your injuries are fully healed before sending you on your way.”

Spartan thought carefully. So, if he had an accident in training, faced a court martial or for any reason messed up, he could potentially find himself being thrown into prison.

“Case dismissed!”

CHAPTER TWO

The Personal Defence Suit (PDS) is the standard set of clothing, camouflage and tactical armour in one comprehensive package for use by CMC Marines. It can be easily augmented with a zero gravity manoeuvring pack or sealed for operations in limited atmospheres. It is lightweight and covers the entire surface of the individual. In trials, the armour has sustained damage from thermal and kinetic energy weapons and been able to operate even after sustaining over fifty percent damage. Variants such as the Combat Engineer Suit (CES) feature thicker armour, powered tools and augmented strength for use in the sapper role.

Equipment of the Confederate Marine Corps

Spartan stood in the departure lounge, a large hall where about a hundred new recruits were waiting for their various boarding shuttles to arrive. At one end were a variety of displays, some showed boarding times others news and information. Spartan wandered over, watching several of the people operating the displays. Like most public access points there were no buttons or screens to touch, the entire system was body driven and much like the combat training simulators he had used. A woman in her early thirties was running through various news stories on a large display. Using her upper body and hands, she moved and slid the stories as though they were stacks of paper or video files to play. Next to her a man of a similar age scrolled through a list of flights and was looking more agitated as he went on. Something caught Spartan’s eye, it was live footage from the security feed. He looked down at the scrolling ticker text underneath about a suicide attack and it was coming from Proxima Prime.

“Oh shit! Have you seen this?” one of the recruits shouted.

Several more recruits wandered over to watch the details of the story. With a deft movement the woman enlarged the video and increased the volume. At the same time she slid over several more video feeds of the same event.

A man turned to Spartan. “Have you seen this shit? Apparently one of our compounds was hit last night.”

“I heard they took out the wall with a suicide bomber and then stormed the place. According to the feeds the entire garrison was wiped out,” said another.

Spartan looked at the video, saying nothing. The display showed a burning compound with a collapsed guard tower and several buildings still burning. Inside the base was an upturned armoured vehicle, one of the heavily protected transports used to ferry troops and supplies throughout the warzone. What really caught his attention wasn’t the casualties or even the damage. It was the small section saying over a hundred weapons had been stolen. Spartan thought to himself, with those kinds of weapons they could attack and expect to damage or destroy any structure, person or vehicle in the area.

As interest in the story faded the woman flipped to another one. It was about the offensive to take the Bone Mill, a nickname given to the rocky underground mining complex owned by the Metallurgical Research & Mining Company on the northern continent of Avagana. Since being overrun by the insurgency spearheaded by the Zealots, it had been turned into an impenetrable fortress. He watched the report for a while, interested in the detail of a conflict he’d never really given much thought to. According to the article the underground research was invaluable along with the rich mineral supplies and the difficulty of getting people that far underground. From what he could see it looked like an underground hell that seemed to eat up marines. Based on the fact that he would soon be shipped off for combat, it might be an idea if he did a little homework beforehand.

From the information on the screen it appeared nobody knew why they were so desperate to hold onto the huge underground mining facility. It had originally been dug almost a kilometre underground to mine many of the precious minerals buried there. The resources were valuable but that had never interested the Zealots in the past. A year ago it was still operated by the state mining company, then something happened. Nobody knew what, but in days most of the crew had been killed and the place was taken over by more than a hundred Zealot fighters. By the time the military arrived their numbers had swelled to thousands and they were already sealing the access points to the structure. It was if they were trying to protect something very important. No matter how many marines the Confederation sent in, they were always repulsed and suffering heavy casualties.

The mining plant was built on the most recently developed landmass on the planet. Also it was where many of the Zealots had moved to in the hope of work and to avoid contact with the more urbanised area of the planet. It hadn’t taken long for their extreme form of religion to burst into open revolt. When that was quickly crushed it turned it into the home of the insurgency. As well as scores of mines there were five major cities and hundreds of small towns and villages that had sprung up in the last ten years. In seven years the open countryside had become a wasteland with people staying in the urban areas to avoid moving in public where possible. Armoured convoys transported the workers and materials across the many roads and barely a day went by without hearing of another bomb attack on a major transportation route.

The Bone Mill had now taken on almost mythical proportions as the coalition had been besieging it for over ten months. The ticker said the total casualties in the battle had exceeded seven hundred and questions were being asked about the feasibility of securing such a formidable objective. With most of the access points blocked and thousands of metres of rubble making digging difficult, it fell to the marines and infantry to fight a slow, bloody battle as they claimed it one inch at a time.

He watched the screen a little while longer, there was an interview between two military experts about why the campaign was failing. The first, a woman in her thirties was looking agitated.

“Look, since the Zealots turned to terrorism we have been fighting a losing battle with extremists. Their numbers have increased each year, what are we doing to stop them?”

A man in his fifties wearing a smart brown suit grinned. “What are we doing? Well, since the start of the trouble the military has successfully repressed their capacity to wage war. They were only able to fight for a matter of weeks before they were contained and most of them were sent to the camps for trial.” The woman interrupted.

“Rubbish, if we’re doing so well then why can’t we take the one place they have decided to fight for? The Bone Mill has been holding us off for months and the attacks on transports and supplies moving into the area are increasing.”

“It is true the operation in the Avagana is challenging. But apart from insurgent bomb and suicide attacks we have the situation contained. When we finally take control of the facility the backbone of their resistance will be smashed and I can see the end of the emergency following shortly after.”

“This isn’t limited to just Avagana though, is it? We have had attacks in cities across Proxima Prime and the number of piracy and hijacking incidents off-world has increased. If you ask me I’d say the problem is spreading and at some point soon this local emergency could turn into a system-wide issue with long term implications,” she added.

Spartan was getting bored and decided to head to the viewing gallery. The war, emergency or policing action, whatever they were calling it now seemed more complicated. He could see that the Zealots were extremists and the signs of their attacks on civilians across the Confederation were well known. What he didn’t understand was exactly what the military were going to do about and more specifically, what they were going to want him to do about it.

He entered the observation area and moved towards the windows. It was a round room about twenty metres in diameter projecting out from the main lounge. There were long comfortable chairs and Spartan sank down looking out into the blackness. The bright glow of the planet Prometheus below made spotting the stars almost impossible. Its black and red surface showing signs of the fiery hot surface, a place where only the most well prepared research laboratories and factories could survive, deep inside the solid rock. Not that it mattered as he was more interested in the light glinting off the ships that were moored and waiting.

The nearest vessel was a massive war barge, the CCS Vengeance. She was an old ship and had seen action in the first war fought in this system that had finally united the disparate colonies into one Confederation of mutually supportive organisations. At least that’s how the history books reported a war that cost over three billion lives. Although originally classed as a heavy cruiser she was old and by modern standards outdated. She wasn’t fast enough to serve in the line as a main ship but was still easily capable of moving at the speed of transports and civilian liners. She was still massively powerful and had been re-designated as a war barge, a vessel more suited to the slower work of escort and defence that was now probably of more use than the vessels in the main Fleet.

Since the start of the emergency she was one of the first vessels reactivated for use by the Confederation Fleet to provide escort for the troop convoys. She was nearly a kilometre long with thick plate armour. What really caught his eye was the thirty-metre gash in her port side. Apparently a suicide bomber had steered a pilot barge directly into her flank and the damage would put her out of action for at least six months. Any other ship would have been lost in the attack, but not the Vengeance. Although she’d fought other similar vessels in the war, she had never sustained major damage, leading many to think of her as the luckiest ship in the Fleet even after the incident with the suicide attack. Over two hundred people were killed in that disaster. This had led to many people wanting to give the Zealots concessions. It was futile though, everything he had seen about the Zealots suggested they wanted nothing other than the spread of their idea of brotherhood. It sounded like indoctrination to him. Spartan began to wonder if enlisting rather than years in a cell was the best option for him. He turned his attention to another ship off to the right.

Through the thick glass he could just make out the shape of his new home waiting about three kilometres away. She was the CCS Santa Maria and from what he could tell she was hardly the flagship of the Fleet. The information pack he received on his enlistment said that fifty years ago the eight hundred metre long craft was a colony transport to move settlers. In more recent years, she had transferred to the Navy and refitted for a variety of military roles, the latest being marine training and transportation. Due to the nature of their deployment they would be on a journey of roughly two hundred and forty days before reaching their destination. Somebody had worked out that rather than spending half a year training recruits and then having to wait another half a year just to get them to theatre, this could be halved by doing the training on the way. It was an interesting idea and in theory was more efficient. What it didn’t take into account was that not everyone would pass and be able to do their job.

“What happens if a thousand recruits left but only a hundred were able to serve as marines?” Spartan thought to himself.

Then he thought of the display on the suicide attack. It was simple really. Everybody would have to fight. They didn’t have the numbers or the capability to return them home. In the end this deployment was a one-way posting. The only people going home were veterans and casualties, anyone else would be buried on the planet.

He looked back at the large grey vessel in the distance. She was one of over a dozen ships waiting on the outer pylons of the dock. The ship contained two rotating cylindrical sections providing an equivalent of Earth’s gravity. The long cylinders were wrapped in thick plated bands at regular intervals. The middle section contained massive storage hangars originally used for raw materials and supplies intended for colony development. Now they carried military hardware and weapons, as well as housing a few dedicated zones for the dreaded zero-g training. Though not equipped for combat she did carry basic defensive measures against smaller vessels and missiles and a small amount of firepower from the gun batteries mounted on the rotating cylindrical sections. These were kinetic railguns but their effectiveness in action had never been tested.

As Spartan watched he could just see the multitude of tugs, shuttles and transports moving back and forth from the major vessels in dock. This place might be big but from what he had heard their destination drop-off point at the Titan Naval Station was much bigger. A shrill whine came over the tannoy system with the latest announcement. It was the message he was waiting for.

“Shuttle seven two nine is ready for departure. All recruits for the Santa Maria are to report in fifteen minutes. Please proceed to your shuttle.”

With military precision the doors to the vehicle pool opened and glowing symbols along the wall indicated the path to take so that even the most dim-witted of the new candidates could find their way along the path to the waiting shuttles. As he walked along the path a trio of men pushed past, jostling to get to the shuttle first. One of them crashed into Spartan, almost throwing him to the floor.

“Hey!” Spartan reached out and grabbed the last of the group by the shoulder.

“What’s your problem, pal?” said the man with undisguised contempt as he tried to pull away. He was roughly the same height as Spartan and sported a neatly trimmed ginger beard and moustache.

“My problem is you.” He straightened himself up prepared for a confrontation.

The other two men stopped and came to their friend’s aid, standing either side of him. They were exactly the kind of people he expected to find here. Well built, probably college sports jocks sent away for a tour on the frontline. After one year’s posting they’d come home and expect a cushy state job where everybody would crow over their service. The tallest, a man wearing a name patch of Burnett, stepped forward. He was almost a head taller than Spartan who was hardly a small man himself.

“Hey, Matt, this guy causing you grief?” He turned to Spartan.

He knew what was coming and also from years of experience you never, ever let your opponent get the drop on you. He also knew that a distraction was always a smart move for the first part of any offensive action.

“Burnett? Isn’t that a girl’s name?” he said with a grin.

The man was obviously used to being ridiculed, curled his face up in anger and opened his mouth as if to spout some clever line.

Spartan knew this was his moment and without hesitation slammed his knee hard into the man’s crotch. Burnett was taken completely by surprise and hit the ground groaning in pain. Spartan took one step back and lifted his hands so that his palms faced the group. To the untrained man it looked like he was worried or trying to plead with them. For anybody with knowledge of martial skills though they would instantly note the similarities to the basic training of systems like Krav Maga.

Matt, the man that had started it all took a step forward, sensing that Spartan wanted to avoid a fight. As he moved closer the number of people heading for the shuttles slowed as some of them stopped to watch the unfolding event. At the far end of the corridor a number of men in black body armour were making their way towards them.

He attacked, as far as Spartan was concerned he may as well have written down on a sheet of paper what he planned to do. He moved his feet first, instantly giving advance notice of his intentions. Then he made the classic mistake of pulling his arm back to deliver the strongest punch he could muster. He obviously lacked any real fighting skill and as his fist flew forwards Spartan sidestepped and pulled his arm from the side. He grasped the wrist from the back and put his hand on the man’s elbow forcing him to the ground. The armlock looked like a classic police move and immediately forced the man to the floor.

“Let him go!” shouted an electronically enhanced voice.

Spartan knew when the voice of authority had arrived and this time it was in the shape of two armoured Military Policemen. They bore a striking similarity to the men he’d fought at the illegal fight and for a moment he was tempted to continue where he had left off. Then his brain kicked in and he recalled he’d only just got away with not going to prison. Spartan let the man go, leaving the two men on the floor. The third man lost control and was prancing about like a man high on drugs, probably trying to psyche himself up to fight him.

“Step back, hands in the air!” The second officer unclipped his shock maul, no doubt preparing himself for violence.

Spartan took a step back and raised his hands slightly, showing deference to the police, but not raising them too high to suggest guilt. The third man was having none of this and moved towards Spartan, presumably thinking he was vulnerable.

“Quit while you’re still standing, pal!” he said with a snigger, adding the ‘pal’ for dramatic effect.

The man just couldn’t see the situation for what it was and rushed forward. The first officer flipped out his maul and slammed it into the charging man’s stomach. He went down hard, straight to the floor. Spartan just stood there, saying nothing. The second officer moved up to Spartan looking at him carefully, noting the marks and scars on his face.

“You looking for trouble here?”

“Not today,” replied Spartan sarcastically.

The first officer laughed as he helped lift the men from the ground. “Get this out of your system, you’ve got plenty of time to sort this out, the trip to Prime is at least thirty-five long weeks. Lots of time to get acquainted.” He then pushed them on.

The three men staggered along with Spartan following at a safe distance as the officers walked discreetly behind them. He was safe for now but as always he wasn’t making friends.

As he reached the end of the corridor the crowd of people split into three smaller columns as they moved off to different parts of the shuttle. It was a big craft, much bigger than he’d expected. By his guess it could carry about two hundred people. He stepped inside noting almost all the seats had been taken. The three troublemakers were already sitting down and one was holding his nose, blood still dripping slowly from his exposure with the floor. The ginger-haired man smashed his hands together Spartan gave him a smile. It was futile but it made him feel better, for now anyway.

He spotted a seat a few rows back next to a Hispanic looking woman who was muttering to herself. Making his way across the craft he sat down and pulled the harness over his chest. Turning to the woman he held out his hand.

“Spartan, pleased to meet you.”

She looked at him and then turned away, looking out of the window.

“Fair enough, you haven’t hurt my feelings, I’m sure we’ll get to meet again during basic.” He looked back to the rest of the passengers.

In front of each line of seats were a series of pods hanging down with video displays. Each one was showing a commercial for the Confederate Marine Corps and no matter how hard he tried, Spartan couldn’t contain himself and he let out a laugh. On the screen a single marine had just sheltered a child from a rain of bullets and then lifted the child to safety.

“Fucking Marine Corps propaganda!” shouted one of the men further inside the shuttle.

“Why are you here, Spartan, if you think this is so funny?” the woman next to him asked.

From the confined position in the shuttle he could only just make out her long, curly hair. She looked tiny compared to most of the hulking men there but Spartan knew from experience that a short woman was just as capable of knocking you down as a two-metre wrestler. If she knew what she was doing.

“It was this or prison.”

“Prison? Did you make the right decision?”

He looked at her, confused by her question before spotting her wicked grin. Spartan laughed, appreciating a normal conversation that wasn’t about to devolve into a fistfight.

“How about you then?”

“Foreclosure. They threatened to come in and take everything. The Judge ordered me on one tour to cover my debt or they will close my home down and take away my family.”

“The asshole, looks like they nailed us both in the ass. What’s your name?”

“Teresa,” she replied, but added nothing else. She sat for a while before asking the question she was dying to know the answer to.

“So, did you do it?” she asked coyly.

“Well, I’ve done quite a bit,” he answered with a grin. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

“Funny. You know what I meant. Why were you in court?”

Before he could answer the door slid shut with a sucking sound and the craft started to vibrate a little. The voice of the pilot came over the sound system.

“Captain Tyrol here. We are due for departure in thirty seconds. Please ensure your harnesses are fitted. We will be leaving the platform shortly and no harness means you’ll drift and get hurt. All crew confirm status. Have a good flight.”

Around the shuttle the crewmembers wandered about, checking the harnesses and hitting a few buttons near the seals on the doors. When they were satisfied they moved to their own seats and hit a sequence of controls. With a clunk the interior lighting switched off and was replaced by a dull glow from the transfer lights. There was a final sound and a hiss from manoeuvring thrusters. Spartan looked from his window and noticed they were drifting from the station dock. As the shuttle altered its course he could immediately feel the difference. Now they had broken free of their tether they were free floating in the zero gravity environment, it didn’t appeal to Spartan at all.

“Crap!” he muttered as he grasped his harness to ensure he didn’t drift out of his seat. The woman next to him laughed.

“So much for the mighty Spartan, I thought your scars meant you had seen action. Maybe you’ve just seen the wrong kind of action?” she laughed again.

“Nice.” Spartan closed his eyes for a moment. With them shut he could concentrate on calming himself down and getting used to the feeling. It didn’t take long and from what he had heard it was pretty common to feel a little nauseous in this situation. They had been in space for several minutes now and he didn’t expect the journey would be that much longer. He gave it a few more seconds before opening his eyes. The Hispanic woman was staring right at him.

“You okay?”

“No problem,” Spartan answered with a forced smile.

“Now, what did you want to know?”

“What happened to you, Spartan?”

“I got screwed over just like you and they gave me a choice. No way was I going to prison, so here I am.”

They sat in silence watching through the small windows as they approached the Santa Maria. It was clear how massive and old the ship was. The outer hull was marked with age and there were signs of damage and wear on many sections. They moved past the bow of the large ship and then alongside the habitation sections. These parts of the ship rotated but it wasn’t where they were heading. Their speed reduced even further as they reached the loading area. A great hangar door was already open waiting for them. With great precision the pilot moved the shuttle in sideways and towards a platform. It took almost two minutes for them to be in the exact position before he lowered the craft. With a gentle clunk the magnetic seals locked it in place. From the wall a number of tubes like great tentacles pushed and headed towards the entry points on the shuttle. They slowly reached the body of the craft they linking with another clunk. Outside the main hangar door started to shut. Spartan gave one last look at the life he was leaving behind and then it was gone, the only light came from inside the shuttle.

“Welcome to the CCS Santa Maria. Please make sure you hold the rails as you leave. There is no gravity until you enter the first level of the habitation ring. Hope you enjoyed your short ride,” said the pilot over the intercom system.

Almost as soon as the intercom switched off there was a loud gulping sound as the pressure normalised, then the door opened. Through the gaps the flexible access tubes led to the habitation section. The tube was wide enough for two people to walk abreast. Not that this was going to happen as they were all struggling to use the lowered hand rails in the zero gravity section of the ship. Spartan, now feeling comfortable in this environment let his legs drift and pulled himself along with his upper body. Looking back he noticed Teresa doing the same. As he expected she was much stronger than she looked. It took almost a full minute to reach the end of the tunnel and the bright light of the arrivals area.

Spartan paused as he reached the end, for a moment confused by what he saw ahead. As he entered the habitation ring he could see it rotating around him, people were all around the perimeter, though he was in the centre and still experiencing weightlessness. Ahead of him was a marine sergeant who was moving people down a series of ladders to the surface. He moved up to the marine who raised his hand to stop him.

“Wait. The ladder will take you down to the grav zone. You’re gonna feel weird when you get hit by full on gravity again, so take it slow and wait if you feel nauseous.”

Where he was waiting were four ladders, each rotating very slowly so that he could easily grab onto any of them. He chose the one to his left and noted that he was already moving up slowly. Reaching out he grabbed the metal rung and swung his feet up onto the frame. At this point he was barely moving. Lowering himself down Spartan nodded and then started to work his way down the ladder. Although the section only rotated at about three complete revolutions a minute it was still moving at a considerable speed. Looking up he noticed Teresa was following close behind. He concentrated on the ladder and kept moving down until he finally reached the other section. He jumped down and was glad to feel the force of gravity pulling him to the outside of the vessel. He looked up to see the centre section where he had started seemed to be rotating though he knew it was actually him moving around it. He thought about it a little more, especially the idea that maybe he wasn’t moving and maybe it was the centre section, then he gave up. Physics wasn’t his forte and thinking about it for any longer he thought his head would explode.

There were over a hundred recruits now in this area and they were all busy looking around their new home. Though they were standing in what was essentially a big wheel, as they looked along the ship they could see the habitation section was just the other twenty metres or so that rotated around the main hull of the ship. It made sense, as the space in the centre would be a total waste if used as a zero gravity area to float around in. Teresa jumped down next to Spartan.

“That wasn’t so bad now was it?”

“Yeah, bloody great!”

“Okay recruits, this is your last day as a civilian!”

Spartan turned to see a tall black man stood in his Marine Corps dress uniform. You have your berth numbers on this board and I suggest you get your gear unloaded. The time is set to Proxima Standard Time. That makes it fourteen hundred hours. We will re-assemble here in one hour for your introduction!”

Spartan approached the board and searched for his name. He noted he was in a section with three other men, none of them sounded familiar. Lifting his small backpack onto his shoulder he turned back to Teresa who was also reading the board.

“See you around, look after yourself.”

Teresa smiled back, “Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.” She turned back to the screen.

Spartan moved off down the slightly curved corridor, reading the numbers on the berths as he went. Some of the doors were already open and he glimpsed a number of people putting their gear away. He reached his and noticed the door was shut. Pulling hard it swung open to reveal a small berth with two bunk beds one on each side and a small table in the middle. Against the far wall was a video terminal that had strong similarities with the screens back on the station. As he entered the room, it flickered and a three-dimensional face appeared.

“Welcome recruit. These are your quarters for the duration of your training. In this room you have adequate storage for your clothing and personal items. Communal showers and toilet facilities are between each eight berths. Video communications are available free of charge for all Marine Corps personnel but with the usual ten second security delay. Please exercise caution when using any outside communication devices. We are at war and information must always be guarded. Your briefing will take place in fifty-one minutes,” said the voice before it went silent.

Another man entered the room, a tall black man with dark hair and a tattoo of a knife on his neck. Spartan scanned him quickly, instantly noting the way he moved and carried himself. Behind him were the final two men, a pair of Hispanics in their late twenties. The black man spoke first with a thick German accent.

“Marcus,” he said, shaking Spartan’s hands and then moved forward to one of the lower bunks. Spartan’s gear was already on the top bunk to the right. The next two men entered, the first ignored everyone but the shorter one looked a little more agreeable.

“Jesus, and you?”

“Spartan.”

“You Greek?”

“No,” came the reply, in his usual sardonic manner.

“Oh, okay. Well, I guess I’m on the left.”

With the four men now in the cabin, the artificial intelligence system reactivated and repeated the message Spartan had already listened to. He looked around, spotting the sprinklers system, fire extinguishers and fire axes. There was little that encouraged him as to the safety of the place. In fact, everything he had seen so far told him this vessel was far from the safest place he’d been in.

With a dull rumble through the massive vessel they could all feel the main engines on the ship start up. There was a slight rattle coming from one of the air vents. Jesus lifted himself up on the bunk bed and struck it with the palm of his hand, it changed nothing.

“Oh, man, that isn’t going to annoy me is it?”

It wasn’t clear whether Spartan was more irritated with Jesus or the vent but he quickly climbed up and smashed the bottom of his fist at the grate. It made a crunching sound and the rattle stopped instantly.

The German nodded his head in satisfaction grinning as he looked at the dent in the metalwork. “Yeah, I like your moves.”

Spartan turned around with the room now quiet. “Me too.”

The other Hispanic got up from the bunk bed and moved to Spartan. He was a good deal shorter but that didn’t seem to bother him.

“Hey, man, I know you, yeah, Spartan,” he said excitedly.

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Yeah, you’re that gladiator guy I saw on the news. You were fighting on one of the stations around Prometheus right? They said you killed a cop.”

The German took a step back, staring warily at him. “Is that true, you a cop killer?”

“What does it matter, we’re all here for the same reason, we were too stupid to do something better.”

“Maybe, but I’d still like to know if I’m sharing with a cop killer.”

“It was an accident, if it wasn’t they’d have electrocuted my ass!”

“Accident my ass,” said Jesus, as he jumped back onto his bunk.

“You looking to make an issue of it?” Spartan sounded more than a little annoyed.

“Just wondering, man, just wondering,” smiled Jesus.

CHAPTER THREE

The Confederate Marine Corps serves as an amphibious force-in-readiness that is able to conduct operations both in and from space. As outlined in Title 32 of the Confederation Constitution and as originally introduced under the Confederation Security Act of 147b, it has three primary areas of responsibility:

These are the seizure or defence of ports, docks, and naval bases as well as land operations to support naval campaigns by the Centauri Confederate Navy fleet.

The development of tactics, techniques and equipment as used by amphibious landing forces.

Such other duties as the office of Command in Chief may direct.

History of the Marine Corps

The CCS Crusader was the newest and most powerful warship in the entire Fleet and for Lieutenant Erdeniz it was a dream posting. Of almost one hundred warships in the Fleet the Crusader was the place every crewmember wanted to serve on. Unlike the previous ships, the Crusader was the first battlecruiser to be built. The name had been used in the twentieth century and was a series of warships that were often of similar performance to battleships but armed with even more powerful weapons. In this respect she was similar but the emphasis was on speed. She carried much the same amount of weaponry as the larger battleships but had bigger engines and less substantial armour. It was all part of the Navy’s new plans for faster ships that could respond to security incidents in the shortest time possible. With the increase in speed they would be able to protect the convoys from hijacked vessels’ suicide attacks where problems could pop up anywhere in the System with no advance notice. Recent experience had shown the heavier, slower ships were easier to avoid and no armour could protect a vessel against a determined attack. The Crusader looked liked two upturned World War II battleships with their hulls fused together. There was no obvious top or bottom and there were a dozen rotating bands along the hull providing full and half gravity. With a crew complement of over two thousand, as well as over two hundred heavily equipped marines, the vessel was the ultimate form of force projection. Against the civilian transports and tenders it was a vessel of epic proportions in every way.

Lieutenant Erdeniz had graduated from the academy only a year before but was already stationed at one of the ship’s massive weapon batteries. From his position, he commanded a ring of twenty-four weapons. They were divided into four batteries, each managed by a squad of six gunners, loaders and engineers. On this particular day, he was working with just one of the squads and their single weapon system.

He checked his screen as he worked on the configuration of a new weapons load out for his battery. Though the ship carried a variety of ordnance, the primary weapons were railguns. These were so large they could only be mounted in vessels such as this one and required massive nuclear generators to provide for their thirst for energy. He had modified enough ammunition for the entire battery and one test. He could get permission for no more.

The railgun weapon system was a fully electrical gun sending a conductive projectile along a pair of metal rails using the same principles as the homopolar motor. The system was first proposed in the early twentieth century but hit problems due to the massive power requirements. The railgun’s batteries used two sliding contacts that permitted a large electric current to pass through the projectile. This current then interacted with the strong magnetic fields generated by the rails accelerating the projectile to an incredibly fast speed. Anything hit by the speeding ammunition would be torn apart by the sheer kinetic energy. Lieutenant Erdeniz had proposed a variant on one normal solid shot used to provide a weapon with similar characteristics to the canister rounds used by wooden sailing ships.

Today was a very special day, as he would test his creation in front of a panel of senior officers from the crew of the ship. He wore his dress uniform and it was a decision he was already regretting. He might be a lieutenant but in front of these officers he felt like a child. He had been proposing this new weapon system for three months and it had taken weeks of permission forms and testing before they would even consider his suggestion. If he could make it work he could expect an immediate promotion. Of course, if for any reason the system didn’t work he could be looking at all manner of problems, not least a black mark on his record that might prove impossible to remove. There was also the very tiny possibility that if the system failed it could cause expensive damage to the weapon systems. That would immediately put an end to his chances of promotion in the future.

Lieutenant Erdeniz stood up stiffly as more of the officers entered the gunnery section. His crew stood smartly to attention, as did he. The room was cramped and although the men did a good job at keeping the place clear and smart it still looked like an old steam ship’s engine room. It was hardly a place befitting these high rankers.

General Rivers approached and shook his hand. He was tall and had the reputation of a man with years of active service and combat to go with it. He had been busy in the last few years fighting the many pirate groups popping up and had achieved some important victories.

“I’ve read your recommendations and I like your work. I know there are many who say the weapon is pointless and that it saps energy from the main projectile, but I’m convinced it could have a use.” He then stepped back.

Another officer, Captain Jackson, was less than impressed and stood nearby but said nothing. He’d been arguing for the use of high explosive based weapons and if Lieutenant Erdeniz’s system didn’t work, they might well look to him.

“Please proceed,” said the General.

Lieutenant Erdeniz moved his hands in front of the display and a three dimensional model of the battlecruiser appeared. He moved to the side and explained the situation.

“In this simulated engagement we see a vessel is approaching, it is actually approximately five thousand metres away but it could quite easily be five hundred. The vessel is based upon collisions we have faced recently,” he said as calmly as possible.

The group watching seemed unexcited at the task so far, so Erdeniz turned to his crew to get it moving more quickly.

“What is the estimated damage of impact from that vessel?”

“Based on its current velocity we are looking at a forty percent loss of Section B with around twenty decks destroyed. This will cut the power to all batteries forward of Section C,” replied Ensign Harris.

Erdeniz returned to the screen as the model showed the ship crashing into the side of the warship and causing catastrophic damage.

“As we know, the armour of this vessel is thinner than the battleships, especially in these zones. At this speed we are looking at the very best, a heavily damaged barely operational warship and at worse a crippled vessel.”

“Okay, son, we appreciate the problem, can you show us your weapon now?” said the agitated Captain.

Erdeniz nodded and proceeded to start the weapon sequence.

“I will fire two shots from this main gun. The first is our standard heavy shot and the second my canister variant. If you will all watch this screen, I have sent out two camera drones to monitor the demonstration.”

On cue the screen flickered and multiple views appeared on the wall that gave the impression of a large window they could all see out. The illusion also allowed him to make the approaching vessel appear much closer that it really was.

“The first shot, our standard eight hundred millimetre armour piercing round is loaded and ready.” There was a clunk as the seals were shut.

Erdeniz flipped a hatch open to reveal a series of buttons and a red glowing button the centre.

“Gun ready?”

“Aye,” replied his crew.

“Fire!” He hit the launch button.

There was a loud buzz through the floor of the room as the weapon system accelerated the massive man-sized round along the rails and out of the gun port fitted on the side of the hull. The external camera couldn’t capture the shell itself as it moved at such an incredibly high speed. From the gun port however a plume of superheated plasma gushed out, much like the gun port on a medieval warship.

The second camera showed the almost immediate impact on the approaching ship. It struck the outer hull and tore a metre-wide gash before blasting through the vessel and out through the other side.

“As you can see, the shell is easily capable of penetrating any current armour types. The big problem is that it passes clean through the ship.”

“So why not just fit a proximity fuse on the shell and explode it inside the target?” asked one of the officers.

“A good point and one we have already tried. The issues are with the shells themselves. At these massive speeds we have to use electronics to get the timing right. By the time the shell hits the hull and triggers the explosive it has already passed through the ship. Electronics can calculate the distance but all military vessels are fitted with electronic jamming equipment that can detonate the shell before it gets anywhere near the ship. My weapon system uses a simple preset mechanical timer that causes the shell to split a given distance from the ship, the default being when it reaches the distance of one hundred metres. Once activated the shells breaks into seventy two separate shards, each one travelling just a few degrees off the original line of fire.”

“Okay, I’m sold on the idea, let’s see it in action!” The General said with a half-hearted grin.

Erdeniz turned back to his crew, about to check the weapon was loaded when the door opened and in walked Admiral Jarvis. She was in her early forties and rarely seen anywhere near the gun decks of the ship. As Admiral of the Fleet, she had her flag on this vessel but she had an entire fleet to manage. It was an unprecedented honour to have her here. As she entered, the rest of the officers stood to attention. The Admiral moved directly to Erdeniz ignoring everyone else.

“Your report makes interesting reading, Lieutenant, is your experiment ready?”

“Yes, Admiral, we were about to fire a test round.”

“Excellent, continue.” She remained in the same place, right in the centre of the room.

Erdeniz turned to his gun crew who by now were looking even more nervous than he was. He doubted they had ever seen so many officers in one place.

“Canister round loaded and ready?”

“Aye!” came the reply once again.

“Fire!”

The same buzz as before and as far as the officers could tell the system also worked exactly the same until they spotted the damage on the approaching ship. All along the side were a vast number of craters and chunks of metal in a cloud of dust and debris. The crew stood back, watching the screens as the debris moved away to reveal the targeted vessel.

Erdeniz prayed and prayed, hoping that his efforts would be vindicated. It had cost a lot of manpower and materials to get this test. He looked at the centre of the screen as the automated camera tried to focus on the many targets, then it cleared.

“Holy shit!” said the General.

The debris had shifted far enough now that the approaching ship could be seen in great detail. First, and foremost, the entire middle section was torn to shreds. A great hole, easily five times the size of the original shell impact had cut through and torn the backbone of the ship apart. Additional small holes were scattered across multiple sections leaving many parts of the vessel either completely blasted off or hanging down in chunks.

They all burst into applause, much to the relief of Erdeniz who watched with a mixture of pride and happiness. It had taken a lot of effort but finally the Canister Round was ready for experimental use aboard the newest ship in the Fleet. Admiral Jarvis moved until she stood directly in front of him.

“Good job, Lieutenant, I had a feeling this was going to work. According to your research paper you took many ideas from the British, specifically Admiral Nelson?”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“When I was a cadet I was assigned the Battle of the Nile as my research project. Nelson showed what daring and cunning could do, even when outnumbered. He liked to get close and I can see why you thought of this for our vessels. We have a major weakness and I think you might be on the way to fixing at least a part of it. How soon can you modify our weapons and will the ammunition types be interchangeable?”

“The software is simple to change. I can do that from here. The ammunition needs a slight modification. With the facilities here I can organises stocks of rounds in about three days. Certainly enough for a few volleys.”

“Excellent. I want this gunnery crew and all their guns to have access to this ammunition. We will trial it over the next few weeks. If it goes as well as your tests I think we’ll be seeing the Sanlav Round being deployed through the Fleet.”

He saluted as the Admiral left the room. As she left Erdeniz allowed himself to bask in the glow of success at the success of his weapon test and even better, the fact that the Admiral knew his name. Perhaps things were starting to look up for Lieutenant Sanlav Erdeniz.

*

Onboard the CCS Santa Maria it was the third week of training and contrary to his expectations, Spartan was actually starting to enjoy himself. In the first two weeks he had already gone through the gruelling ordeal of Gym, Mathematics and English Assessment as well as the start of basic drill and training.

In the first days they had split the recruits up into squads and platoons. He was getting to know his other platoon companions quite well. They didn’t all get on of course, there was the odd rumour about why he was there, but on the whole there was a certain level of respect for each other.

As expected he did much better on the physical than the mental side but it wasn’t as bad as he thought. Either that or perhaps the competition wasn’t as far advanced in the learning stakes as he thought they might be. He easily passed the initial assessment for combat training which meant it was more likely to lead to a frontline posting. He much preferred that to the other posts on offer such as intelligence, command or engineering. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in an office dying of boredom while the rest of the recruits got to experience the full life as a marine. If he had to spend ten years doing this then he was going to give it his damned best.

He stood in line along with the rest of his training platoon. There were thirty-six of them and now technically classed as privates though the drill instructor called them all ‘recruits’. The term marine was only applied after completing training and being accepted by the Sergeant as fit and able. The title had to be earned, at least that’s what he kept saying. The group was diverse in every way. There were blacks, Hispanics, men and women. The age range was also surprising, from early twenties right up to some in their forties.

The training hall was in yet another part of the full gravity section of the ship and to all intents and purposes looked like any other training hall, apart from a slight curve in the floor. Along the walls was a selection of training tools, weights, equipment and even firearms, though they were locked in cabinets. There were no windows and the light was bright, really bright. As they stood to attention their Drill Sergeant approached, he matched almost every stereotype he’d ever heard of. The man was clean-shaven, a good two metres tall with the trim and muscled body of a man who took his job very seriously. He strolled in front before stopping in the centre and turning to face them.

“Okay, ladies, today is close quarter combat day. I am going to instruct you in the sophisticated art of using every part of the body as a lethal fighting machine. In the Marine Corps it is every marine’s duty to be able to defend himself whether you are armed or not.” He looked directly at Spartan.

Without saying anything he moved up to him and walked back and forth, examining him in detail. Like the rest of the recruits, Spartan wore a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. His body was unlike any of the others there. Some were bigger and others undoubtedly stronger but none had the mixture of muscles, fitness and scars that he carried.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Spartan!” he answered quickly.

“In the CMC it is polite to refer to me as Sergeant, Sir or Drill Instructor! Now, shall we try that again?”

“Spartan, Sir!”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of you. You’re some kind of gladiator, bet the girlies get excited when they see you.” He sneered and then shouted.

“Recruit Spartan, three steps forward!”

Spartan, without hesitating stepped ahead and the instructor walked around him.

“This is an example of a marine’s body. He looks strong, is fit and has the marks of a man who has seen action. There is one thing that makes him different though. He works alone, he is not part of a team and he fights for pleasure or money! He might look like a marine but a marine his is not!”

“You, you, you and you! Forward!” He pointed at the four weakest members of the platoon.

The two women and two men moved ahead, each looking nervous as they stood unprotected at the front.

“You four are pathetic, look at you!” The Sergeant shouted at them.

A giggle came from the back of the group where Jesus was pushed into the back row.

“Stop! Who did that?” The instructor marched up the line but nobody responded.

“So help me, God, you have five seconds or the entire platoon will suffer. Who did that?”

“I did,” came a sheepish response from Jesus.

“I did?”

“I did, Sergeant,” said Jesus as he remembered the correct form.

The instructor grinned to himself for a moment before continuing. “You snivelling piece of shit. You think learning to be a marine is funny? When you are face down in the dirt fighting those Zealot bastards are you gonna be laughing then? Let me tell you, son. In my last tour I saw smart asses like you get themselves cut in half by improvised explosives. And there was nothing anybody could do to help them! One marine is an asset and an entire platoon is unstoppable. If you treat them with contempt you treat the Corps with contempt, now get your ass to the front!”

Jesus moved quickly and joined the other four recruits. Spartan was still stood alone and said nothing though he wasn’t convinced he was going to like what came next. The drill instructor rubbed his hands together with glee.

“Now, let’s find out what you have. You are going to learn an important lesson today and if you’re smart you’ll stay out of the medical bay. You’re going to show the platoon how to bring a man like Spartan down!”

Jesus looked at Spartan and back at the drill instructor. “What the fuck?”

The instructor moved right in front of him, his look of humour having vanished.

“What’s the matter, pretty boy? You worried the big man will treat you like his bitch? What if you five are unarmed and face an enemy? You gonna cry to momma or are you going to stand up and be a marine? There are five of you. Now, get in there and show us you have what it takes!”

Spartan knew it was coming and turned to face the five of them. He was by far the biggest, but they still had the advantage of numbers, and who knows what skills or training they might have.

“I’m waiting!” barked the instructor.

Jesus, obviously feeling the pressure rushed forward as the other four looked on in a mixture of fear and confusion. The distance was only five metres but by the time he was close enough to reach Spartan, it was clear to everybody how it was going to go. Jesus ran right up to the man, presumably expecting to throw him to the floor. As he reached grabbing distance, Spartan lowered his body slamming his shoulder into the man’s stomach. The impact and speed of the strike forced the air out of his lungs nearly knocking him out. With him doubled over, Spartan brought his left elbow down to strike on his back and it was over. Jesus lay face down on the floor and Spartan stood up to face the other four. The drill instructor stood smiling as he watched.

“Bravo, bravo. An excellent lesson in what not to do.” He turned to the four that were left. “Well?” he asked sarcastically.

Three of the group inched forward but the fourth, the younger of the women, stayed back not sure as to what she should be doing. The tallest of the three was a well-built middle-aged man and he made the first move. He stepped closer though unlike Jesus he adopted a traditional boxing stance. His left foot was forward and both his hands held up to protect his face.

Spartan moved towards him, quickly closing the distance until they were within easy punching range. Unlike his opponent, Spartan had his hands much lower and he looked relaxed, almost unready. The black haired woman, with the younger man, moved to his flanks. They obviously felt more confident with the more experienced man taking the centre position. Spartan noted the way the man moved, he’d had a decent amount of boxing training at the very least. Spartan threw a couple of light jabs to get his hands up and then took two strong steps to the right to face the younger man. His face turned to stone as Spartan smashed his fist hard into the man’s jaw and sent him tumbling to the ground. Spartan turned quickly back to face the boxer when the dark haired woman moved nearer. She was trying to do something though it seemed she didn’t know what.

The boxer moved in and caught him with a punch to the arm, then moved in to try for a hit to his head. Luckily, Spartan’s reactions were fast enough that he was able to avoid the second strike but not fast enough to stop the woman jumping on him. She hung onto his shoulder and her weight pushed him off balance.

Spotting the turn of the tide the woman hit him repeatedly on the side of the head with her hands as the second woman ran over to join in, trying to hold him down. He struggled and fought but between the two of them and the big guy he couldn’t move. The man lowered himself down and punched him twice in the stomach, instantly making him gasp for air. It wasn’t enough though, Spartan had been in much worse positions. Sensing his foes thought they had the upper hand he grabbed the first woman with his legs in a strong pincer like movement. She cried out as he squeezed her, following up with a head-butt to the boxer.

He stumbled backwards but managed to stand up straight. The woman he’d locked with his legs was easily dealt with as he kicked her in the side, rolling her away from him. Blood ran down from the boxer’s nose, dripping from his lip to the floor. With this brief respite Spartan was able to strike the second woman with the base of his fist and then release himself from his position on the ground. She tumbled backwards, clutching her left arm that was at the very least dislocated. Jesus was still lying on the floor as the kicked woman lay groaning.

“Enough!” The Drill Instructor shouted.

Spartan relaxed a little as he lifted his body up straight and waited for whatever was coming next. With a couple of hand gestures three medics ran in, each checking on the injured recruits though none bothered to head for Spartan, not that he was that concerned, he barely even considered that a fight.

“As you can see, even a man like Spartan can be brought down by the coordinated use of appropriate numbers. A man called Lanchester created a set of laws for calculating the relative strengths of a predator and prey pair. These laws have been used ever since to help calculate the combat effectiveness of units when placed together and we can confirm their accuracy from real world testing. Place two men of the same skills together and the fight can go either way. Place two on one side and how often does the paired team win? Twice as likely as before or more?”

The room was silent as the recruits listened though not really knowing what to say. The Drill Sergeant walked around them, pretending to listen for answers.

“It is simple, very simple. The combat power of a unit increases by a much, much higher factor as the numbers increase. Two against one can easily expect to win four out of five matches, often more. This is because when working together you massively increase your individual effectiveness!”

Walking along the line, he stopped at Spartan.

“Even more importantly it means that two average fighters can take on and beat a better one. That is why you work together and do not do what Jesus did here and run out on your own. There is no glory in letting down your squad. You get me?”

“We get you, Sergeant!” came the chorus from the recruits.

“Now, while these newbies get some basic medical attention I am going to introduce you to the fine art of combat. You will learn to breathe, move, strike, punch, kick, block, throw and stab. By the time I have finished with you, you will be able to fight no matter what your condition is or what weapons you have. You are a marine at all times and you are expected to fight like a marine at all times!”

He moved over to the wall and gave a signal. The room darkened and a series of images popped up. Each image showed various fighting moves though some looked antiquated and from unfamiliar cultures.

“Now, what we have here is a selection of images from fighting manuals going right back to the middle ages. Note how they are standing, how they move and throw their opponents. In the last few thousand years the human body has changed in almost no discernable fashion. What was true for a Roman soldier at the time of Christ is true today. You can break an arm, sever an artery or crush a windpipe. This is true for all of humanity and it will remain so for a good time to come. These images are from the manuals of those before us who knew EXACTLY what they were doing.” He paused, looking at a weedy looking man.

“You, recruit snot brain, here now!”

The man looked around before realising he was being pointed at. He then rushed to the front and stood at attention in front of the Sergeant. The instructor reached down and pulled out a standard issue marine’s knife and placed it in his hand.

“Stab me, son, right in the heart!”

The man was obviously terrified of either messing it up or hurting the instructor, so simply stood there, and doing nothing.

“Do it, boy or I’ll try it on you!”

With a scream the man pushed it forward aiming for the centre of the man’s chest. With a simple move the Sergeant grabbed the man’s arm pulling him past before he snapped it up behind him. The man dropped to his knees whimpering.

“Now, look at the image on the right, it is from a late twentieth century riot police training film. Notice how the officer is restraining the man. That’s right, ladies, he’s using the same damned technique.”

“Back in line, boy!” He looked around he group.

“You!” he said as he spotted the big German.

The man moved to the front without the fear and hesitation the younger man had. The Sergeant passed him the knife.

“Stab me here, down through my collar and in…..” he was unable to finish his sentence as the man was already moving to strike him.

The Sergeant incredibly lifted his right arm, struck the inside of the German and brushed the knife hand away from him. Then he brought up his left, slamming the back of his fist into the German’s jaw. It sent a cloud of blood from his mouth and into the faces of the recruits stood behind him. The German staggered back as he lifted his hand to his mouth. Another medic ran over and placed a pack on his face before moving to the back.

“Image four, this one is from a medieval fighting manual by a man called Talhoffer. Note the way he has displaced the knife attack and then struck his attacker in the jaw. These people knew their business. A punch, stab or strike is the same the galaxy over and you have months to perfect your skills. Now look at the rest of these images. In the fourteenth century the German fencing masters taught a complete system for a warrior to be able to fight in all circumstances.” As he spoke a sequence of images appeared from the manual.

“Each man would learn how to fight without a weapon. He needed to know how to stop a knife attack, a very common weapon that all would carry, how to throw a man down or how to break limbs. He was then taught to use a sword, a two handed sword, a long knife like a machete, spears, pole arms. I think you get the picture.” As he finished the lights came back up.

One of the marines approached from one of the storerooms with what looked like a toolbox and placed it on the ground. The drill sergeant reached inside and pulled out a large fighting knife.

“This here is the M11 Bayonet. As well as doubling for a bayonet on your rifle it is also designed to be one hell of a fighting knife.” He flipped the knife around so everybody could see the tip.

“It features a sharp, heat hardened point that helps penetrate the body armour that many of our adversaries will be wearing. The serrations near the handle help improve its function as a utility knife, so you will want to look after this fine piece of equipment. The M11 Bayonet is made from high carbon steel and is capable of functioning without breakage in operating temperatures in excess of -25 to 135 degrees farenheit. This means we can use this weapon in all environments where we expect trouble, and then some.”

Leaning down he pulled open the lid to reveal scores of the blades, each neatly packed away inside their sheath. He pulled another out and waved it at the recruits.

“This is your first piece of gear and you will respect it. Wherever you go and whatever duties you are carrying out you will always carry this weapon with you.” He stood up. “Now, each of you take your knife and get back in line.”

It took less than a minute for them all to take their knives before they were back in position. The Drill Sergeant waited for a short while before continuing.

A group of marines walked in, pulling behind them a set of six life-size dummies attached to stands. The dummies were perfect doubles for humans apart from lacking any discernable clothes. They positioned them in a neat line facing the recruits and then left the room. The Drill Sergeant walked along the line of dummies, looking at the various nicks and marks from where they had been used scores of times before. In a move that surprised the recruits he flipped his own knife from his sheath and stabbed the first in the collar, then the same on the other side and then slashes across the throat before returning the blade. He stopped, tucked in his shirt and then turned to the recruits.

“You might think this weapon is a waste of time in this decade of advanced armours, state of the art rifles and space travel. But let me tell you, a knife can be used silently and discreetly. It can be hidden if you are captured and may be used for hundreds of non-combat related roles. If you can kill with a knife you can kill with a rifle!” He took a few more steps before halting and continuing his speech.

“Today we are going to start with knife training. First, you will learn how to stab and cut at the important parts of the body. When you are ready, I will then teach you the defences to all these attacks. Are you ready?” he shouted.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant!” the group stood to attention and shouted in chorus.

CHAPTER FOUR

The exact origins of the Zealots are still uncertain and their appearance on Proxima Prime has never been explained. Many colonists brought their sects and religions to their new homes but this cult quickly spread through the workers in the mining community. From there it spread like wildfire in the impoverished sections of society until they exploded into violence. Their demands have always been simple. They are a brotherhood that provides moral and physical guidance, their way is the one true way and it is their duty to help others come to that realisation.

It took less than six months for the cult to build their first bomb and to claim their first victim. After the Ontario incident, it took just weeks for similar attacks to spread. The message is clear. The Zealots will accept full conversion, nothing less. In the years and months that followed the terms insurgents, terrorists and Zealots came to mean the same thing.

A Brief History of the Zealots

This was no fancy yacht or military ship, the TS Younara Glory was one of the largest transports in the shipping industry. A single shipment from this vessel promised massive profits for the company and this was no doubt why their competitors were all racing to produce vessels of a similar capacity.

Since her launch four years ago, she spent her time ploughing the trade routes of Proxima to deliver her cargo of freshly mined minerals and materials. The ship was nearly two kilometres long and almost entirely automated. In theory the entire operation could be conducted without human intervention of any kind. In fact, there were many reasons why taking humans out of the loop entirely would be advantageous. Nonetheless, with such a high price tag on both the vessel and the cargo it was a requirement for any shipping insurance that a small crew was present at all times. If nothing else, should the ship end up crashing into a station there would be humans to blame, assuming any lived of course. A computer or mechanical failure could cause all kinds of problems in deep space and a crew could provide options a computer system might overlook. For those who might be aesthetically minded, she would appear to be an ugly ship. The basic shape was like a giant bell with the rear of the ship massively larger than the front. The great mess of metal expanded in all directions to provide for the numerous storage areas for the raw materials. All around the outer rim additional gantry sections provided mountings for cranes and tooling to use in the movement and extraction of storage containers. Towards the front were three lifeboats, all accessible from the crew’s habitation module, each able to carry all the members of the crew.

At the rear were a dozen massive engines, each running continually to provide the thrust for the return voyage. The ion thruster was a very common form of advanced electric propulsion used for spacecraft propulsion. The basic principle was that they created thrust by accelerating ions. The electrostatic ion thrusters used Coulomb force and worked by accelerating the ions in the direction of the electric field. The ion engines were commonly used on this type of vessel. They were extremely efficient and could provide continuous, reliable thrust over years and years. The only downside to these engines was that they took weeks to be able to start pushing such a mass through space. This was why the Younara Glory followed a continuous elliptical orbit that was beautifully timed to allow her to pass both collection and delivery points on her voyage without stopping. This was a major feat of navigation as it required the vessel to match the orbital stations positions long enough to move materials before moving on. For the time when the ship needed extra power at short notice the manoeuvring engines were available. These huge power plants were even more substantial than the ion drives. But they had couldn’t provide the continuous power of the ion engines and would burn up all their fuel in less than a week compared to the forty year power plant lifespan of the ion system. This long, monotonous journey was why so much automation was required, and why the crews were able to command such high salaries.

Down the side of the vessel was a thick double white stripe, the famous symbol of the Trans Shipping Corporation. At the front was a large rotating wheel, much like a Catherine Wheel. It added a peculiar look to the already angry looking vessel. This section provided all the facilities the small number of crew would need for a twelve-month assignment.

She had been in transit now for two months and was coming to the end of her voyage. The twin stars of Alpha Centauri burned brightly but at this distance the refinery and space dock were impossible to see. It would take another week for them to reach Proxima Prime, the largest colonised planet in the Proxima Centauri System though they were not visiting the planet. The drop off point was the Titan Naval Station, a massive complex that had been built into Kronus, one of the planet’s smaller moons. At some point in the past it looked like any other rocky satellite, but decades of engineering, terraforming and heavy work had turned it into a habitable and busy colony in its own right. From space, the surface of the moon looked completely manmade.

It was one of the most important ports and transport hubs in the entire System with a combined civilian and military population in excess of two million people. All major freight and passenger transport vessels used the Station when on long journeys or transporting major cargos. Due to its orbit around Proxima Prime it also served as the perfect jumping off point for anybody looking to leave the planet. At any point in the day there were at least a dozen shuttles moving between the planet’s surface and the moon base. With around one quarter of normal gravity it was much easier to build and maintain craft, as opposed to trying to get them through the planet’s atmosphere and all the problems that entailed. The Titan Naval Station was also home to the Proxima Squadron, the elite and most well trained part of the Confederation Fleet and responsible for the defence of this area against terrorism, piracy and hijacking. The Proxima Squadron was based around two battleships and over a dozens frigates and transports. It had the numbers and firepower to settle any problems or disputes that might arise.

The huge transport was a tiny spec in comparison to her destination docking point. At the front of the vessel the crew module contained several small rooms including a canteen and kitchen, fitness room and navigation centre. At first glance, it might appear over generous but after the first week it was well known how irritable and troublesome a crew could be.

The crew were sitting around a small round table in the mess. It was dark and cramped but there was little space available to them that wasn’t packed full of cargo. On the centre of the table was the usual collection of artefacts signalling the closing stages of a card game where the players had taken things possibly a little too far. The large pile by far was the luxury food items, closely followed by coins and then a spurious pile of oddities that must have been added as the desperation stakes climbed.

Captain Thomas checked his cards, it wasn’t going well for him. The last card had put him in the unenviable position of having to withdraw and he was less than impressed. Dropping his cards onto the table he looked at Casey, his adversary rubbed his head.

“I fold!”

Casey smiled and made to move forward to grab his winnings when he was interrupted by the emergency alarm. As the sound reverberated around the room, the lighting cut to emergency mode. As with most vessels of this kind the low level red lighting used minimal power and didn’t interfere with night vision as much as the normal harsh lights.

“What the hell?” said Jackson, as he looked around.

“Shit, that is a bad sound, I know that!” Traci replied with a slight hint of sarcasm.

Captain Thomas, the older but experienced officer was the first to stand and made his way out of the door. He ignored the rest of the crew as they tried to catch up. This was his first emergency on this ship and being as they travelled along a clear and safe transit route it must be serious if the computer system was reporting it. As they made their way through the corridors, the ship’s built-in computer system was activated.

“Proximity Alert! Proximity Alert!” The message repeated as they entered the bridge area.

The screens were all live and Captain Thomas jumped into his chair, waving his hands as he moved through the pages of data. He stopped on one that displayed a number of small objects.

“I’m getting readings on twelve small vessels, they look like life pods to me,” said Jackson.

Wilkinson arrived and checked his screens. “I have life readings in all of them, it looks like two people per pod.”

“Two per pod? That is strange, can you confirm that?”

He continued looking through the screens of data on the various displays, checking on the communication and navigation logs for signs of trouble. One entry got his attention, it was concerned with a missing tug. Bringing up the story it appeared a vessel had disappeared in this same area two weeks ago. The crew compliment was forty-two including several passengers.

“Sir, I’ve got a report here on a missing vessel, it could be them, if so they’ve been out here for some time.”

“We don’t really have the space for them but we can’t leave them out there. Wilkinson, get down to the airlock and help them in. Mathews, get the bots out and bring in the pods.” The Captain ordered.

The only woman in the crew, Traci, was the medical officer and doubled as the security chief. She moved to the weapons’ locker on the wall with a look of someone who always expected the worst.

“Traci, get down to the airlocks and help Wilkinson, they may have casualties amongst them.”

She flipped open the cupboard and removed a firearm. It was a civilian issue C14 carbine fitted with ultra low velocity rounds designed for use against unarmoured targets. Anything more could risk a breach in the habitation section and a breach quite simply meant death. The weapon was quite rounded, partially for aesthetics and to ensure it didn’t catch or damage anything important when being used in space. Military grade firearms were only available on military vessels and even then usually issued prior to action, due to the inherent danger of weapons in space. She moved into the side corridor that led down to the main access section and airlocks. The room was hexagonal shaped and equipped with four airlock seals. As she reached the computer terminal between two of the seals she felt the clunk of the first of the pods pushing against the sprung section.

“Weird?” She checked all the valves prior to starting the airlock sequence. The changes in pressure could be fatal and must be normalised safely prior to anybody coming aboard.

Wilkinson was already lowering a set of doors that operated as beds or seats as he checked the status of the pods on his hand-held computer.

“I don’t get it, these readings show they are over a minute away, the bots have only just started.”

A loud noise hit the side of the section and then a dull throbbing sound started pounding on the furthest airlock door. It sounded like a badly aligned motor or a wheel on an automobile that wasn’t properly balanced.

“Get back!” Traci shouted as she moved away from the airlock and back into the corridor. She pulled the carbine from her shoulder and held it in front of her. It seemed like any other weapon apart from having a much wider muzzle and a magazine that held six shots. The wider muzzle was due to the large, low velocity rubberised slug the weapon fired. She reached out to a panel on the wall revealing an intercom system and hit the button.

“Captain, what’s going on out there? We’ve got something at the airlock already. Captain, please respond, we’ve got a situation down here!”

There was no response and they stood in silence, watching the airlock with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Traci hit her fist on the seal button and an additional seal came down in the middle of the corridor, cutting them off from the airlock section in case of a breach.

Then the airlock seals blew. The pressure change was not as great as she would have expected but it was enough to make her stumble as the section shook from the movement. The entire section was temporarily flooded with a mist that blocked visibility up to the sealed area.

“You okay?” Wilkinson asked her as he held onto the wall.

“Yeah, what was that?” She tried to check the screen to her right. The display was showing garbage, as though the software had crashed or been jammed. Another series of blasts shook the habitation part of the ship and they were forced to hang onto the sides of the shaft. Casey’s head appeared at the far end as he shouted down.

“We’ve got breaches in the loading bay, Jackson is checking it out. You okay down there, Traci?”

“Yeah, I’ve closed the shaft seal for now, looks like one of them must have hit an airlock mount, the pressure just shifted, nothing too serious though.”

There was another clunking sound followed by noises at the bridge. Casey turned and disappeared from view. There was a shout then nothing.

“Come on! The bridge!” Traci shouted as she rushed along the shaft to the Captain and Casey. As she rounded the corner she came face to face with Casey. His hands were low and holding his stomach. A dark red patch spread across his clothes and then she noticed the tip of a weapon extending from his flesh. With a sliding sound it disappeared and he slumped forward. Wilkinson jumped ahead, catching the dying man as he fell.

Traci lifted her carbine to her shoulder and quickly scanned the room. Just beyond where Casey had been standing was a man in a long flowing robe. She could just make out sections of scale-like armour, though they were so thin it looked more like a patterned tunic. The man’s head was covered in the traditional hood of the Zealots.

Without pausing, she fired a round directly at the man. He was taken by surprise and it hit him squarely in the chest, kicking him back almost a metre before he managed to straighten himself up. He looked down at the hole the bullet had made on his robe and with a snort ripped it off, exposing his body armour in all its finery.

Though Traci had never met one, she had heard of the Zealot infiltration teams from the security briefs they held every six months. These men were notorious for their attacks on civilian transports but never this far from the planet. He didn’t appear to be carrying any firearms though he did have a short, savage looking blade attached to his right arm. It was serrated along its back edge and reminded her of something from a pirate adventure in books she had read as a child.

“He’s dead.” Wilkinson stood up and grabbed an emergency axe from the wall. “This bastard is mine!”

The axe was light and balanced for single hand use. As he swung the weapon the Zealot leapt to the side, parrying it with a single neat move and then counter slashed into Wilkinson. The technique was perfect and left a great wound from his thigh to his armpit. Wilkinson cried out in pain before collapsing near the Captain’s chair. It was then that Traci spotted the Captain’s body slumped in the chair. He had multiple wounds on his torso.

The man turned to Traci, a foul sneer forming on his lip.

“What is a woman doing working as crew on a commercial vessel? Do you not have a family to attend?” he said angrily.

“A family? What the fuck!” She cried out and then emptied the rest of the carbine’s ammunition into the man. Though they were obviously incapable of penetrating his armour they could certainly incapacitate anyone they struck in the face.

The shots were well aimed and the first struck him in the cheek causing a superficial but bloody wound. The subsequent rounds hammered around his head and shoulder but he managed to twist bringing his left arm up to absorb the impact. As the kinetic energy blasted him backwards she rushed in, the carbine held high and with the butt facing forward. As she moved ahead she heard screams coming from below, presumably the loading bay. She reached the wounded man who moved to get up from the floor. Her combat training kicked in and she didn’t give him the chance to get up as she slid down and slammed the carbine into his face. There was a sickening crunch as the weapon crushed his nose and sent blood spraying into her eyes. It wasn’t enough though and she struck again and again until he moved no more.

Traci rolled away from the bloody body of the man and looked back towards the badly injured Wilkinson who was still crying in pain from his wicked wound.

“Wilks, hey, Wilks!”

He was in too much pain to notice her shouts and continued to roll back and forth in pain. Traci moved along the slippery floor until she reached the hurt man. As she bent down to help she spotted two figures stood in the room staring at her. They were dressed the same as the first man but didn’t wear cloaks. Each carried the same vicious looking blades in their hands and both had seen their dead brethren in the corner of the room. Traci stood up, still holding the now damaged carbine and lifted it up, ready to fight.

The man to the left reached down to a pouch on his right leg and pulled out a heavily modified pistol of unknown manufacture. Like the rest of their equipment it had a blade fitted to the muzzle with ridges running along the barrel. Traci knew it was over and rather than wait she rushed. The men were taken by surprise and her speed truly was impressive. Her first three steps brought her almost within striking range before the man fired. The first bullet struck her in the shoulder and then more spread across her chest. She collapsed just in front of the men, blood pouring from her wounds. She tried to get up but it was no good, she was finished. As she slumped down she heard the intercom crackle, it was Jackson.

“I’m hurt, some guy just broke in and tried to space me. I need medical attention down here. Hurry, please hurry!”

Traci tried to speak and then the darkness crept over her eyes and her pain vanished.

*

They had just finished a gruelling three-hour mixed martial arts session and Spartan was exhausted. He stood in the shower, both hands hanging low as the water poured out and down his back. He’d not been expecting showers but the water reclamation and recycling system on the ship seemed pretty efficient, certainly better than no showers. Around him the rest of his platoon were doing the same. At first it had been odd, but after weeks of training he and the rest of the mixed unit were too tired to really care anymore. As far as he could see a line of naked men and woman simply used the opportunity to relax. As he washed away the sweat and grime he spotted the Hispanic woman he’d first met when leaving the station.

“Teresa,” he muttered to himself as he remembered her name.

After just a few seconds he went across the shower block, moving the odd person who always seemed to get in the way. As he approached he felt a pang of embarrassment as he saw her naked. Her skin was dark and the water ran down her making her body glisten. Her black hair seemed longer in the shower, it ran down to her shoulders and for some reason all Spartan could think about was that surely it was against regulations. He was about to speak when he noticed her looking at him.

“Spartan, you okay there?” she said with a smirk.

He stood for a moment, a little surprised before regaining his composure.

“Of course, what are you doing here? You’re not in this platoon, are you?”

“Haven’t you noticed you’re down a man? Apparently, somebody has been getting a bit physical in the close quarter combat classes and they needed somebody new, I’m a replacement for your platoon. I volunteered.” She smiled at him as he laughed.

“Ah, I see. Am I supposed to be flattered?”

Teresa turned back to the shower, letting the water run over her face for a little longer before turning back to him.

“Maybe.”

“Anyway, how is the training going? We have Harris, he’s got a major hard on for bayonets,” she asked as she brought the subject back to their training.

“Yeah, same for us, these guys do like their little knives! We’ve done some marksmanship with the training rifles and loads of physical training.”

Teresa came out from under the shower, moving a little closer to Spartan. “Physical training, huh?”

The buzzer on the wall indicated the end of their shower. The water cut abruptly with just warm steam spreading through the room.

“L48 Rifle training to start in eight minutes,” came the voice before the system went silent.

The recruits left the shower area, drying themselves and getting dressed. Teresa and Spartan stood at the end of the block. Teresa noticed some of the scarring running down Spartan’s back.

“God, what caused that?”

Spartan stopped and tried to work out where she was looking. “Which one?” he asked, finding it difficult to identify the exact injury.

Teresa reached out and ran her hand along a scar from his shoulder to his ribs. Her unexpected contact made him jump a little.

“Ah, yeah, that one. It was from one of my last fights before I volunteered.” He put extra special emphasis on the last word.

“What kind of weapon could have done it?” she asked, genuinely interested.

“You’d be surprised, it was a blunt mace fitted with dull studs. It wasn’t supposed to cut the flesh, that was supposed to be part of the deal but somebody, I don’t know who rigged the fight and replaced the stubs with small spikes.”

“Christ! How did you get out of that one?” she asked as she pulled on her top.

“Well, at first I didn’t. The wound was massive but the guy was cocky. He made the mistake of getting too close to check on his handiwork.”

“I take it you explained this to him?” She stood there grinning at him.

Spartan looked away and at the recruits leaving the room, he took in a deep breath, remembering the bloody fight and the injuries involved. It was strange, at the time he had hated every single minute of it, but now that he looked back to the events just months ago he almost missed the action.

“Something like that.”

*

It had taken over a month for the CCS Santa Maria to make her way around the storms that surrounded the planet Prometheus. Spartan had heard the Marine Corps actively recruited from the gangs and captured criminals. In fact it was the only reason the ship made the dangerous journey, to collect the toughest and most violent men in the Proxima System. Apparently now they were in open space the vessel spent most of its time coasting so that training could begin. They could fire up the engines and be anywhere in the sector in no more than a few weeks but they had another dozen stops and new recruits arrived with each new planet or station they passed by. Spartan barely noticed any of this though, he was determined to make amends and if this meant being a Marine then he was damned sure he was going to be the best!

Training had now progressed to the firearms stage and Spartan was starting to feel the competition. Unlike most of the recruits, he had little experience with shooting and actually found the action of waiting and taking careful aim to be less than exciting. All of his combat experience had been in the brutal close quarter brawling of the illegal pit fights. In those fights it was all about individual combat, fighting skill and attitude. There were few that could face him in a fight and expect to win, but that didn’t involve the use of firearms. This was a total change for him and he was having a problem getting around to the idea that even the weakest, most inexperienced recruit could bring him down with a standard issue firearm.

The Drill Sergeant was certainly not going any easier on them. But at least he seemed to have a minor measure of respect for the improvements in discipline and close quarter combat they had worked on. They had already been issued with their weapons, though it had been made clear from the start that they were being loaded with safe ammunition that would cause no more than bruises.

This was the largest training hall on the ship and reinforced with three layers on the outer hull proofed against all the weapons they used. Even if anything did go wrong there was an additional section fitted outside, but that had apparently never happened. They had already trained in this section and the space was big enough to conduct anything up to platoon-sized actions, with or without weapons. Now, the one end was equipped as a firing range although Spartan had seen it previously equipped as a mock village and tunnel sequence for use by the recruits.

The Sergeant stepped forward and held a weapon up in front of him.

“This here is the L48 rifle. It is the standard ranged weapon of every marine and you will carry it wherever you go. It is available in both rifle and carbine versions. The default round is 12.7mm, this makes it a large calibre weapon but with improvements in recoil reduction, you will notice almost no different to the 10mm training round. The selector will choose proximity modes on the bullets giving you flexibility in combat. As with every marine rifle the M11 bayonet will easily fit without affecting the balance of the weapon.” He walked down the line.

“Each magazine carries twenty rounds of variable operation ammunition. You will not waste these. In combat, you must make every round count. If you need greater firepower, we still have the modular 6mm module that will allow you to fit the smaller calibre box magazine to both the rifle and carbine variants. These are recommended for close quarter assault roles only or for use in sealed environments where armour penetration could be a problem. For most occasions, you will want the flexibility of the new 12.7mm VO rounds. These will give you the most tactical advantages.” He held up one of the rounds.

“Now, watch carefully whilst I demonstrate the use of this damned fine piece of equipment!”

He lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed down the range. At the far end was a line of cardboard shapes that looked very roughly man sized. He squeezed the trigger and fired a single round. There was a muffled report as the round blasted from the weapon and smashed straight through the target’s head leaving a milk bottle-sized hole.

“Now, that was the standard mode and uses none of the advantages of the new VO rounds. The next mode is what we call armour-penetrating mode. It will trigger a small explosive blast at a distance of one metre behind the first object it strikes. This means you can put a round through a wall or lightly armoured vehicle and still take out the man inside,” he said with a wry grin.

The Sergeant flicked the selector on the side and fired again at the next target. This time there was a sheet with a gap behind and then another target set up. The round ripped through the first as before and then a short distance behind spread a cloud of silver dust on the target.

“Obviously we do not use live weapons, unless we want to get blasted into space. Now don’t worry too much. From what I have been following you will get plenty of opportunity to put these weapons to the test against our Zealot friends.”

Turning back to the range, he flicked the switch to the last mode.

“Now, this is the pièce de résistance for the L48. For those of you with the IQ of a drainpipe that means this is the single best feature of this great weapon.”

A dull grumble spread through the group though it was a fair split down the middle, half unimpressed with the criticism, the rest not quite sure what had just been said.

“What do you do when Z-Man is hiding in a bunker or building of some kind? Sure, you could pop a round through the wall but that assumes you can penetrate it. The L48 is good but it isn’t magic. Reinforced concrete and heavy armour can stop a weapon but this guy can hit round a corner.”

A murmur of surprise continued through the group.

“Just watch!” The Sergeant swung the weapon around.

At the far end of the hall was a mock wall with a small window beyond which was another target. The Sergeant waved his hand and one of his assistants pushed the man-shaped target down into a crouching position so that it couldn’t be seen through the window.

“Note how our cowardly foe keeps his head down so we can’t hit him. Well, tough shit pal!” He pulled the trigger. The gun fired and from their perspective the students could see a cloud of silver dust behind the wall. The Sergeant signalled to his assistant who then lowered the wall so the recruits could see the target covered in powder.

“What you see here is the laser rangefinder capability being integrated with the advanced projectile. The way this works is simple. Aim for the outer wall that your guy is hiding behind. Hit the range button, this will set the sight for your weapon. Then hit the armour penetration mode, the same mode you used at the start. The shell will explode one metre behind the range you selected. Recruits, to your places!”

They spread out into the twelve places designated for the marksmen. Spartan lay down in the third and checked his weapon as he had been taught. The gun was certainly far from new but it appeared intact and nothing was broken or missing, as far as he could tell. He checked the chamber was clear and the magazine was out of the weapon. One final check ensured the gun was on safety before he put up his hand to signal he was ready.

“This will be a precision round. Each of you has a twelve-round training magazine. You will be presented with a random selection of targets and will have to choose the correct weapon mode to claim the kill. Once you take out the target the next will load in automatically. There are ten targets, that gives you two spare. I want to see spare rounds by the end of the shooting. Understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant!” came the chorus in response.

“Make ready!”

The targets loaded into position, the first being a simple man-sized target, nothing fancy. The recruits readied their guns, aiming carefully but waiting for the signal.

“Fire!”

A volley of fire like that of a Napoleonic battle erupted down the line as the guns fired in unison. Every single target was knocked down and the second targets moved in to replace them. This time they faced the man behind a wall. The change in target resulted in a few of them pausing whilst they considered what to do, followed by a ragged volley of gunshots. Only half of the targets changed and it became instantly clear that it was a trick round. The figures behind the walls were positioned off to one side. Only those that selected the armour-penetrating mode, or the laser rangefinder with the extra metre selected, hit the man first time. It was all a bit confusing.

Spartan was having fun and so far he’d hit two out of two, he seemed to be in the top few of the group. The third target popped up, it was two men, one next to the other. Without thinking he fired one round then another. As the target dropped a bunker appeared. It seemed to only take about thirty seconds and the shooting was over.

“Clear your weapons and show me what you have left!” The Sergeant shouted.

Each of the recruits made their weapons safe and then ejected the spare training rounds from the chamber and magazine. Of the twelve recruits only one had two spare rounds, the rest were a mixture.

The Sergeant walked along the line, stopping at each recruit, berating them for their shooting. When he reached Spartan he looked less than impressed.

“What is this?” he asked sarcastically.

Spartan had the weapon laid out before him but with no spare rounds.

“I hit them all, Sergeant,” answered Spartan, though he was starting to realise he had done something wrong.

The Sergeant moved to the next shooter, it was the ginger-haired man from the incident when he first arrived. The man held up two rounds.

“I’d be so impressed if you’d actually hit the ten targets, look again.”

The recruits all looked down the range to find one of the targets still standing. As they watched, the Sergeant whipped out his pistol and fired a single shot down the line, striking the head of the target. It fell back and the course was finally complete. The Sergeant moved back to Spartan.

“You wasted rounds on targets that one round could easily have done. Remember number three? The one with two guys stood close together?”

Spartan nodded, realising what was coming.

“You fired at each. Why not used the timed-mode with range finder? One shot, two kills. The round can easily take out three or four targets in one go. That means a shot like Ginger here can still get kills even if he misses. You understand?”

“Yes, Sergeant!” answered Spartan.

The Drill Sergeant turned to the ginger man and raised his eyebrow.

“Uh, yes, Sergeant!” he added, looking a little sheepish.

“Back in line, next group front and centre, let’s see if you can do any better!”

As Spartan moved back in line, he walked past Teresa who moved to take his position. As they passed she gave him a single raised eyebrow. He turned his head and watched her as she moved into place and lifted the rifle to her shoulder.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Centauri Confederacy at its height consisted of three star systems, scores of colonised planets and hundreds of moons. The first to be colonised was Alpha Centauri, two stars, and after decades of exploitation, it had become the industrial and commercial heart of the confederation. The Proxima Centauri was the next major system to be colonised by humanity following the great expansion but also the greatest in terms of population and development. The jewel of the system was the planet named Prime, the largest planet in the Confederation. Colonised in the image of old Earth it was the most populous planet and boasted a lifestyle that centuries before would have been idealised as the utopian dream of plenty.

Proxima Prime

The rec room was packed as the recruits spent their limited free time relaxing and chatting before moving on to yet another drill or exercise. The room was about twenty metres long and contained chairs, a few tables on one side and a set of computer displays. A steady batch of recruits took turns to make use of the time to contact loved ones or simply chat to anybody other than the same faces they saw every day.

Spartan, Jesus, Marcus and Teresa were sitting around one of the tables. Marcus and Jesus were arguing whilst the others looked on in amusement.

“Bullshit, little man.” Marcus laughed as he spun his computer tablet in front of him. “No way can a man in this old metal armour be able to move and fight like that, no dammed way!”

Jesus waved his hand and brought up a video sequence showing a man in a substantial metal suit of armour. He was covered from head to toe and wielded a huge sword that was almost as tall as the man himself.

“Look, it says here the armoured knight could fight on foot or horseback and that the sword was well balanced, agile and could even be held in the middle when fighting armour,” said Jesus.

“Look, you put that much metal on a man and all you can do is just stand there and not get hurt. I’d bet good money that most of that gear is ceremonial shit, nothing to do with combat.”

Teresa frowned at them both before turning to Spartan.

“You’ve used more armour than anybody else, what do you think?”

Jesus spun the tablet around so Spartan could get a good look at the armour. He examined it in detail, moving the image around so he could see it from all sides and even zooming in to look at the thickness.

“Yeah, it could be done,” he said dismissively.

“Ok, genius, would you like to expand on that?” asked a dubious Marcus.

“Not really,” said a grinning Spartan.

“So we should just take your word for it then?”

“You should, Jesus, but something tells me you’re not going to.”

“Come on, man, tell us why you think this huge lump of metal is anything more than some fancy outfit for a rich dude.” Jesus said as he settled back into his chair.

“Don’t make the assumption that just because this gear is old it wasn’t designed for a purpose. Some armour is ceremonial, other is for combat and some armour fits somewhere in the middle. Armour has been used since biblical times and we’re still using it today.”

“Nice speech, granddad. Is that it?”

“Alright, Marcus, if you insist.” He took in a lung full of air.

“Look at the armour first of all. Yes, it has embellishments but not overly so. The joints are in the same places we have for our personal armour. The thickness of the metal is much less than you would expect for something designed to protect your body. Look at the fluting, the angles and the extra plating to protect the joints. See the vulnerable gaps, like the armpit, there’s extra flexible chainmail. This is the work of a man, maybe many men that are expert craftsmen and experts in their trade.” He moved away from the image and then displayed another similar suit of armour.

“Look at this one. It is a little later and much less ornate. The description here says it’s munitions grade armour. That is basically the equivalent of the kind of stuff we have. Note all the joints and plates are in the same place. Yes, the metal isn’t as pretty and it doesn’t have the fancy fittings, but to all intents and purposes it does exactly the same job.”

“Yeah, so you say. But what about in practice? Can you move, duck and cut with a weapon wearing that.”

“Why not, Marcus? When I was fighting we used all kinds of armour. Back then it was just as important to put on a good display as it was to protect parts of the body. When you are fighting for your life you will push yourself further than at any other time. Yes, armour and padding will slow you down and wear you out, but you practice as much as possible to reduce the problem. I’ve worn body armour that probably weighed a lot more than anything you’ve shown me there. As for that weapon, look at the blade and at the craftsmanship. Don’t assume for a moment that it wasn’t a deadly weapon.”

He leaned back with a look of self-satisfaction. Teresa smiled but added nothing as she watched Marcus and Jesus for their reactions.

“Yeah, if you say so. The weapon, come on, no fucking way!” Marcus said.

“In my experience weapons are very much designed around the kind of enemy you expect to face. If you’re fighting unarmoured people then something that can cut will work fine. If they are wearing thicker clothing or armour you’ll need something that is better for penetration. A spear point will pierce armour more easily than the edge of a sword, also don’t forget,” he added before being interrupted.

A loud sound came from the end of the room followed by a commotion as though somebody had just dropped something valuable. Spartan instantly stopped talking and turned to the direction of the noise.

“Hey, have you seen this?” came a cry from the end of the rec room.

A number of the recruits started to move to the end with just a few of them staying where they were. One woman waved her hands as she accessed visual feeds and then moved a selection to the entire section of the shorter wall. The video feeds split up into one large view plus a dozen smaller ones, all showing the latest news feeds. Spartan and Teresa joined them, Jesus stood up on his chair to look over the crowd. With the amount of noise from the recruits Spartan couldn’t make out the voice on the report. He moved closer, brushing aside the few people not listening.

“The fuckers have captured Titan Naval Station! They are saying it is another Pearl Harbor!” shouted one of the men excitedly.

“No way, man, that’s bullshit!” replied another.

“Who?” Yet another shouted.

“The Zealots, they’ve done it this time, they’ve hit the biggest naval station in the sector! How the fuck can we get to the planet if they’ve taken control of Titan?” cried a tall man in the middle of the crowd.

Spartan was now close enough and could see the story for himself. The video showed the massive base, along the top and bottom the scrolling ticker detailed facts and figures. The first to catch his attention was that it confirmed terrorists had captured the loading station and dock. Even more worrying was the section that explained how three transports, one of them a massive cargo vessel, had been crashed in a massive suicide attack on the naval facilities there crippling several vessels, as well as destroying much of the marine barracks.

“That’s our biggest station in the system. Last I heard there were about two million people there,” Spartan said.

“Not just the people, that’s the home of the local fleet, it’s our drop-off point in less than a month for fuck’s sake. They’re saying the terrorists have crippled the Resolution and taken control of Victorious, that’s a fucking battleship, man!” Someone called out.

“That isn’t possible,” said Teresa, “no way could a ship that big be taken over by half-trained terrorists.”

She turned her tablet around and brought up a rotating image of the warship. Along the one side were columns of data. “Come on, it says there are always at least three hundred marines on board the Victorious as well as her crew.”

“Maybe they had help from the inside?” suggested Jesus.

“There must be other ships in the area!” Marcus suggested.

Spartan moved nearer to one of the secondary displays and scrolled though more stories. His heart was pounding because one thing experience had taught him was that when things went wrong, they usually ended up on his lap. On the second screen, he had the official information from Naval Intelligence that confirmed much of what was in the news. It was incredible. He took a few breaths before turning back to Marcus and Teresa. As he started to speak a number of the other recruits crowded in to listen.

“The latest Intel confirms that the fighting on Proxima Prime has expanded to the eleven transit stations and that a full scale rebellion at the Titan Naval Station is underway. One Admiral has either been assassinated or may be involved. The shipyard was hit first, then the garrison. A dozen ships escaped but several warships are unaccounted for and they are holding over one thousand military personnel hostage on the Station.

“What about the civilians?” asked one of the recruits.

“Some managed to escape on freighters and ferry vessels but most are still trapped there.”

“No way, man, no fucking way!” Jesus was watching the burning buildings on the main screen. The volume was turned up so they could hear the story from the reporters at the scene.

“Three hours ago over a dozen coordinated attacks in the capital destroyed the parliament building and the central stock exchange. Fires are still burning at the headquarters of the Council Chambers,” said the voice.

“Fuck me, did you see the residential zone?” asked Teresa.

Jesus stepped to one of the small feeds and moved back to the cameras pointing into the residential area. On this part of the city were scores of tower blocks, some reaching nearly two hundred metres tall and featuring beautiful spires pointing up in the sky. One of the buildings was ablaze and the top third of another had collapsed. The ticker along the bottom said over eight hundred people were trapped in the burning building.

As the recruits watched a series of additional explosions ripped across the city as more buildings were hit until columns of smoke and bright flashes could be seen in all directions. Overhead a multitude of rescue craft rushed around, landing on buildings to evacuate people while others were trying to fight the fires.

The door to the room opened and in walked the Drill Sergeant. The recruits all stood to attention though nobody remembered to switch off the displays. He marched in, flanked by two of his men. As he moved along the room he stopped and stared at the displays, the glow of the fires reflecting on his face before he gave a hand gesture to his two marines. They moved forward and deactivated them, throwing the area into silence.

“You have all seen we are in a real situation here. As of one hour ago the insurgents on Proxima Prime announced their intentions to spread a holy war through every moon and colony in the Confederation. So far it has spread to most of the cities on the planet and three Titan Stations, including Titan Naval Station. This is serious shit, if Confed doesn’t respond fast we could be cut off from Proxima Prime and that leaves the civilians completely exposed.”

One of the marines at his side passed him a tablet that was glowing with scrolling data and images. He looked at it and then at the recruits.

“As of fifteen minutes ago Confed military forces have been put on full alert. This policing action has been officially designated a warzone and we are in the damned middle. The Zealots have been declared enemy combatants and we are authorised to use all weapons and forces at our disposal to end this emergency, once and for all! Today is the first day of the Proxima Emergency and we will see it through to the end!”

Several of the recruits cheered but most were silent, waiting for the rest of his news, each convinced that there was something much bigger and much worse waiting for them.

“When you joined most of you were going to end up on the front lines fighting on the northern continent of Prime. It was supposed to be the last stronghold of this bastardised radicalised movement. We’ve been treating this as a glorified policing action to keep the civilians calm and the politicians happy. Bullshit! It hasn’t worked and now it is spreading fast. We were wrong, seriously wrong,” he said ominously.

He started to pace in front of the assembled Marines.

“We should have learnt our lesson from the last war, religion and politics breeds problems. You all know what happened with Carthago and Terra Nova don’t you?”

The recruits fidgeted, uncomfortable at the question and not one lifted their hands. The Drill Instructor looked as though he was about to blow a fuse when Teresa spoke.

“My family are from Carthago, Sir.”

He marched up and stopped directly in front of her, examining her carefully from head to toe.

“Name?”

“Recruit Teresa Morato, Sir!”

“Tell me, what do you know about the last war? Who started it?”

“I, uh, I don’t know, Sir. It was something to do with colonisation of Proxima I think.”

The Drill Instructor appeared to relax slightly in front of the marines.

“Exactly. The problems started when the two largest colonies, the conservative farming planet Carthago and the industrious Terra Nova, disagreed on colonising Proxima. The arguments were long and complicated but it ended with their friends and allies fighting though the System. This has happened many times in the past. The main factions sit back and let their allies do the work until one day, when the tide starts to turn, the two big players have to wade in.”

“Tell me, Recruit Morato. How would you describe Carthago today, after all the years of war and strife?”

“It is a poor planet. Most of the cities were levelled in the Great War and many are still in a bad way. There are frequent terrorist actions and it is the most violent colony outside of the stations around Prometheus.”

“What about religion?”

“Most are underground and meet in secret. The major sects were banned or abandoned the colony during the exodus after the war.”

The Drill Instructor stood upright and looked around the group for anyone else.

“Who has been to Terra Nova?”

Several hands went up and like a lurcher he moved in to one of the nervous looking men at the back.

“Name?”

“Recruit John Jenkins, Sir.”

“You look pretty, you a Doctor or something?” he asked sarcastically.

“My family run a factory on Terra. I studied there before enlisting, Sir.”

The Drill Instructor shook his head in despair.

“Look what my beloved Corps has been forced to turn to. Tell me, Recruit Jenkins, what is Terra Nova like?”

“It is the richest and most cosmopolitan colony in the Confederacy. There are people and money and all kinds of opportunities.”

“Religion?”

“It is practiced but not the same as on Carthago. It is more of a meditation circle or social club on Terra. The old religions of Carthago are thought to be barbaric and ancient, religions for the common, bestial man.”

The Drill Instructor nodded in agreement.

“There you have it. Even today we have different people, different values and religion is at the core. The biggest mistake we made was driving the old religions underground. Now we can see they are stronger, more numerous and violent than before. Look at Terra Nova. Peaceful, soft and rich while the angry and backward world of Carthago continues to rot. This is the world you are about to face. It is cruel and full of intolerance. You will be Marines and you will uphold the traditions and values of the Corps and the Confederacy that thousands died to create. Do you get me?”

“We get you Sir!” came the chorus back to him.

He walked along the recruits, looking at each of them in turn with a look of satisfaction on his face.

“Every one of you has passed basic training and you are already three-quarters though the commando course. You have done well, damned well and I would be proud to take any of you into action with me.”

The group were obviously surprised, this being the first praise they’d ever heard from him.

“We have changed course and will be meeting with the Fleet assembling on the Rim. We will arrive in less than a week. After that we head for the Titan stations and the war. I can’t tell you how long this fight will go on for or how difficult it will be. What I can tell you is that in one week, whether you like it or not, you will be marines and you will be baptised in fire and finally earn your title of marines!”

A cheer rang out through the room as the Sergeant paced back and forth. It went on for almost a minute before he ordered them to stop.

“I don’t know the exact details yet but I do know that Confed will aim to stop this revolt and fast. The Titan stations control all access to Prime and if we lose Prime we lose the most important planet in the entire System. I need you to work hard and get yourselves ready. Whatever you’ve been doing, do more. Only some of you will have completed the full commando training but that isn’t going to keep you from combat. I will be assigning those of you that pass the course specific duties when the time comes but for now remember, every marine is a rifleman and you will perform your duty the same as every other marine.

“You will all assemble in the aft training hall in thirty minutes, it is time for your zero-g squad exercise and based on the news you have all just heard you are going to want to get lots of zero-g time in. This will be the up-scaled version of last week’s exercise. There is already a full company of recruits from Bravo Company getting dug in. It will be your job to clear the training course of all hostiles with minimal casualties. Full briefing in thirty minutes.”

He walked to the door and turned back.

“Hoorah!” he shouted, instantly followed by an enthusiastic response from the recruits.

*

Lieutenant Erdeniz sat in his quarters reading the reports that were still coming in about the attacks on Proxima. He had family in the capital but after four hours of nearly continuous effort, he couldn’t make contact through any of the regular channels. Less news was getting out from the main communication satellites, whether that was due to weather, technical or hostile actions he couldn’t tell. The last message from the centre of the capital said the city was under martial law and the Army were clearing the streets. The briefing with the command staff had confirmed that the CCS Crusader was heading to the Rim to meet with as many ships as could be mobilised. Reports indicated that the Titan Naval Station was now under insurgent control and protected by over twenty vessels, though this was not confirmed. It also said that the smaller orbiting transit stations had been attacked but it wasn’t clear if all or some were now under insurgent control. Either way Prime was being blockaded and it would be hard, if not impossible, to get to the planet’s surface or to escape without facing attack by vessels waiting at the stations. Confed had been seriously caught with their pants down this time, and as usual, it would fall to people like him to pick up the pieces.

The rumble of the engines was much more prominent than normal and he could feel it through the deck. He had only thirty minutes break before he was to return to the gun decks for additional testing and practice. The Captain had already informed them that action was imminent and that this would be the first time the Fleet had been used in anger in over thirty years. Although his room was deep inside the vessel, he did have a virtual window that gave the illusion of facing the hull of the ship. He could make out the infinite number of stars and he thought to himself how wondrous it would be to be able to travel fast enough to visit them. So far, no vessels had been able to travel faster than light. There were still plenty of books and movies being made based upon the assumption it would happen but after many generations nothing had changed. The journey from Earth to Alpha Centauri still took just under ten years and though the transports still plied their way between the old and the new world, it wasn’t fast enough for them to expand into the real recesses of deep space.

The sound of his door alarm buzzed and he pressed the intercom button without even taking his eyes off the screen.

“Ensign Harris here, Sir, I have the firing results for you.”

Erdeniz hit the button and the door slid open neatly. In walked the Ensign with his computer tablet in his hands. His uniform was a little scruffy and Erdeniz was already feeling irritable when he saw the man enter.

“You could have sent it to my account you know!”

“Yes, Sir, I needed to bring you something else though.”

“Really?” he replied sarcastically.

There was something strange about Harris he thought, his face looked clammy and there was something else, yes, the real difference was in his demeanour. He always appeared subservient to authority but for some reason he looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Erdeniz put it down to the stress or concern of the upcoming action with the insurgents. He made to reach forward to take the tablet when he noticed something on the Ensign’s foot. He looked closer, noticing the dark red stain. It looked like fortified wine or maybe blood. He smiled to himself as he though of claret and its double meaning before it dawned on him.

“What happened to your foot?” he asked though his pulse was already telling him something very bad was about to happen.

The Ensign looked directly at Erdeniz, his expression changing to anger or more likely contempt. He remembered the look from his micro expression classes during his psychology modules. It was the look of a man who was suddenly showing his true feelings and they were like nothing he had ever experienced face to face before. He recoiled slightly at the man’s expression.

“Shit!” he muttered as he reached for the alarm on the wall.

The Ensign rushed forward, drawing a roughly made blade from inside his tunic. The blade was narrow, almost like a stiletto. It had the look of a weapon that had been fabricated from something on the ship. It certainly wasn’t military issue. It had no discernable edges but did have a vicious point that could probably penetrate even the thickest clothing. It was like a cross between a stiletto and a prison made shiv.

With the weapon held high he jumped forward, covering the distance in no time at all and stabbed hard. As he moved he cried out, shrieking in some unintelligible language. Erdeniz reacted quickly but it wasn’t quick enough and as he turned the blade struck him in the shoulder. The pain was excruciating and he screamed out at the same time as hitting the button. The alarm triggered immediately as he slumped to the floor. The blade had penetrated its entire length and blood was already pouring profusely from the wound. He tried to move but something heavy smashed into the side of his head and he found himself lying on the floor. The room started to blur and he was convinced he was dying.

“Get up you idiot!” he shouted in his mind, desperately trying to keep his eyes open, not wanting to give the man the opportunity to finish him off.

The pain was agonising but he kept at it, finally able to roll onto his front and reached around to the blade. As he turned, he half expected the next final blow but the Ensign was busy rummaging through his personal terminal, scrolling through his classified data. Erdeniz reached to his thigh and clicked open the holster, withdrew his sidearm and pointed it at the Ensign.

“Get back from the terminal, Ensign!”

He tried to stand but the pain ripped though his body, the knife still jammed into his body. The Ensign ignored him and continued to work on the computer. Erdeniz flipped the button on his pistol that automatically loaded in a ship safe round. The rubber tipped round could easily kill an unarmoured man at this range and there was no possibility it could penetrate the skin of any part of the ship or damage the major circuits or equipment inside. Hearing the noise from the gun Harris turned and looked directly at him. He snarled and then ran at Erdeniz, taking him by surprise.

“Fuck me!” he cried as he fumbled with the pistol. The man was on him by the time he’d collected his senses and as the two fell backwards he emptied every round from the pistol into the charging man. As they crashed into his desk items flew everywhere and his head smacked hard on the metal frame. This time he didn’t get back up as the blackness closed in on him.

*

Spartan and Marcus used their thrusters to move towards the access hatch. As they hit the button on their suits, small puffs of gases ejected from the suits’ miniscule exhausts and helped them manoeuvre in precise detail. These were generally used by engineering crews working on the outside of ships but sometimes also by marines when conducting boarding operations or working on the outside of stations in zero-g gravity situations.

The training area was a massive purpose built environment that used to be a storage compartment for materials and supplies. The total size was similar to a football ground and big enough to conduct detailed combat scenarios in a gravity free situation. The current layout matched the access sections of the Titan Naval Station and contained mock airlocks, shafts and rooms. Their platoon had split into three squads, each of twelve men. They had already taken a number of casualties trying to reach the cover of the structure. The defenders had set up secure firing positions so they could cover access points to the base. Marcus reached out, holding onto the metal railings near the airlock hatch and attached the override mechanism. All the recruits in the other two squads were wearing their standard Personal Defence Suits along with their manoeuvring modules. Spartan and his squad had swapped their gear for the combat engineer rig. These suits were much thicker and bulkier than the usual armour but they were also equipped with heavy-duty hydraulic gear and close range weapons. Spartan moved to the side of the door and slammed the armoured fist like a battering ram into the metal.

“What are you doing, man, I’m nearly done!” Marcus shouted through the intercom.

He struck the metal three more times before he had ripped open a hole big enough to use his other fist on. Just a few more pulls and he had torn open a hole that was wide enough to go through.

“Keep on the door, old man, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve mined it,” he said with a grin.

Teresa and Marcus followed him inside the shaft and lowered themselves to the side so they could activate their grav boots. These gave them grip on the metal surface but they had to be careful, there were plenty of items they wouldn’t stick to and there was still the lack of gravity to contend with.

A volley of rubber tipped bullets rushed down the corridor, silent in the vacuum of space. Several of them struck Marcus but the impact failed to register. His heavy cutting tools absorbed the impact.

“You see what I meant earlier? This suit has three times the protection on the front. Perfect for boarding actions.”

“Yes, nice, I can see that, Spartan!” Marcus said, he couldn’t stop a little smile escaping.

The shaft shook and Spartan could see three recruits drifting from one of the other access hatches, a series of sparks and smoke indicating the door had blown out with an improvised charge.

Teresa banged her armoured hand against the side of the shaft as he shouted. “Nice work! Looks like it’s just us left then.”

Jesus entered the shaft and activated his boots, following him were four more recruits, the rest had been picked off on the way in.

“Damn, we lost four then, trying to get here,” said Spartan to himself. “This is Charlie Squad, anybody from Alpha or Bravo still in action?” he asked over the secure communications channel.

“Two of us are pinned down near the medical station, rest of my squad is wasted!” came a familiar voice, he was sure it was Burnett.

“That you, Burnett, who else is with you?”

There was a pause for a few seconds, “Just me and Matt.”

Spartan looked at Teresa and Marcus who grinned back at him.

“Hang in there, stay in cover, we’re coming from the loading airlock. ”

The heavy suits were slow, much slower than the normal suits, but there was nothing they could do to speed things up. As they reached a few metres from the half-open door ahead two recruits popped their head outs and opened fire. Marcus leaned to the side lowering his left arm to reveal a very quick modification he had done. He’d strapped the three L48 rifles that he, Spartan and Teresa had been issued with to the metal mountings and run a cable inside his suit. He had also fitted the optional small calibre, close assault module and ammunition boxes. It was ridiculous overkill but the result was mightily impressive. He pulled the trigger and the three weapons opened fire with their small calibre rounds.

It was a surreal sight as the rapid flashes signalled the discharge of the silent weapons. Hundreds of rubber tipped rounds blasted through the shaft and easily hit the recruits as well as another two that were moving in to reinforce them. Even funnier was that the bullets forced the recruits backwards and along the shaft as they lost their grip.

“Yeah!” Spartan shouted, as he pushed ahead and into the junction room that led to different parts of the station.

He stomped ahead to the shaft directly ahead. With this route now secure, the four new arrivals each in their normal armour made quick progress into the shafts and proceeded to move in on the enemy command room. By splitting apart the four recruits would be able to strike the target area from four directions. Marcus and Teresa moved up to the flanks of Spartan.

“I’m receiving complaints from the defenders that some of you are ignoring your hits,” came a voice over the intercom, it was the Drill Sergeant.

“Bullshit, the front armour on these suits is proof for twenty millimetre anti-tank rounds,” said Spartan abruptly.

“Indeed, somebody has done their homework, continue,” came the reply.

“Spartan Unit in position,” Marcus said with a sly smile.

“Spartan Unit? You kidding?” Teresa laughed.

Spartan looked at them both, turning his head before looking back at the last door. He spoke quietly. “On the other side of this door is a ten metre shaft that leads directly into the Command Centre. Jesus, give us the word when your team is in position.”

Jesus was positioned a short distance away and moving to follow the four other recruits. He turned giving a hand signal as he disappeared into one of the small shafts.

Spartan lifted his armoured arms in front of the suit. Because of the tools and hydraulics, as well as the added armour, it was like a complicated heavy metal shield that could easily protect the wearer from most of the incoming fire. Teresa did the same, pushing the metal in front of them for protection.

“We’re in position,” came the message from Jesus.

Spartan nodded, looking at the two standing next to him.

“Okay, I rip open the door then we push the armour forward. As we distract them, you drop in on the flanks and take them out one at a time. Remember, single shots, keep in cover and take them out. Understood?”

A chorus of affirmative gave him his answer. Spartan slowly pushed the hatch forward with his hands, knowing the door may be rigged with a charge. He pushed the blades from his hand into the metal wrenching the side of the hatch away. As the door drifted off he was surprised to find no charges set.

“Bet they left it open for us to walk into,” said Teresa as she looked about for the enemy.

“Follow me!” Spartan pushed ahead and into the shaft.

They followed Spartan closely, both looking for signs of trouble. Marcus brought up the rear and ensured they weren’t attacked from behind.

As soon as they reached the end of the shaft they were in the Command Centre. Literally as soon as Spartan’s foot clunked into place, the room lit up with the muzzle flashes of the dozen surviving recruits. Round after ineffectual round clattered off their armour. Teresa moved up to Spartan’s left and raised her arms, deflecting most of the rounds from her thickly armoured suit.

“Now!” Spartan shouted.

It was over almost as soon as it had begun. The hatches in four different places popped open and flashes of movement indicated the rounds blasting the survivors. In just five seconds, the defenders were out of the fight. The avalanche of fire stopped and everything seemed to stop moving.

“Jesus, take your unit and get Burnett and Matt secured.” Spartan ordered.

“Affirmative.”

Back in the Command Centre, the three recruits moved inside, checking for survivors. The so-called killed defenders kept to the sides and out of the way of the exercise. Spartan saw a reflection and made to move his hand when Teresa spotted movement behind them. She moved quickly, looking to place her heavy frontal armour between Spartan and the enemy but she wasn’t fast enough. As the men opened fire though Marcus intercepted them. He was slightly to the side and had been checking one of the hatches. He opened fire with his improvised assault arm that was still fitted with the modified weapons and hit the two attackers with over a hundred rounds.

A light flashed inside Spartan’s suit, indicating a hit to a valve. A computerised voice spoke, indicating he had suffered a critical hit.

“Cease fire. End of exercise!” came the order over the intercom. “All recruits report to the briefing room in thirty minutes for debrief, out!”

“Man, that guy needs to learn to lower his blood pressure!” said Marcus.

The three looked at each other, only Spartan’s suit failure light flashed.

“Well, two out of three isn’t bad,” Teresa said.

The briefing room was packed with the exhausted recruits. The competitors sat together, but apart. It was incredible how one group of people could feel as much friends as they were enemies. That was the price of competition Spartan thought to himself.

The Drill Sergeant entered the room and marched up in front of them.

“That was an interesting exercise and I’m pleased to say some of you survived to tell the tale. The defender team suffered one hundred percent casualties. That is thirty-two out of thirty-two killed in action. Before you get excited, only nine survived from the attackers but that is still damned fine odds for this mission.”

He walked along the line, looking at each of them in turn before stopping.

“Will the survivors please stand up.”

Two groups of people stood up, Burnett and Matt at one end and Spartan’s group at the other.

“Now look here, nine recruits, nine fighters, some of whom probably wanted to slam the others’ heads against the bulkhead managed to achieve a total victory against an enemy that was dug into a superior position. Outstanding!”

He continued walking along the front of the group, this time paying attention to those standing.

“What’s your name, marine?” he asked.

Some of the recruits looked at each other in surprise, it was the first time they had heard him use that word.

“Teresa Martinez, Sergeant!” The Drill Sergeant extended his hand and shook hers before turning to the rest of the group.

“This marine performed above and beyond the call. She used initiative, overcame difficulties and even put herself in the line of fire for another marine. I could ask no more of any one of you. Hoorah!” he shouted with a smile.

The rest of the recruits stood, shouting in congratulation to the survivors and the sense that on that day they had in part, achieved some measure of respect from their Sergeant.

“You earned yourselves a day’s leave. In twenty-four hours you undergo your final test. Those of you who pass will become a marine. Some of you, if you score highly enough, will even join the commandos. Dismissed!”

The recruits filed out of the hall and headed in different directions, some to their quarters and others to the two recreation rooms. Unlike previous training activities, this one seemed to have encouraged them to intermingle as the recruits swapped stories on the complex operation they’d just worked through.

Spartan, Jesus, and Marcus walked down the main corridor towards their usual rec room. As they passed the first set of berths, Teresa appeared at the doorway.

“Hey, Spartan!”

He walked up to the door, placing one hand on the bulkhead.

“Inside!” she shouted with a grin.

Reaching out she grabbed Spartan and yanked him so he fell through the open door. As he stumbled to the floor she slammed the door shut.

Marcus looked at Jesus with a look of surprise on his face.

“Bastard!” laughed Jesus.

CHAPTER SIX

For millions of years the massive planet of Proxima Prime had been circled by over a hundred natural satellites. When the first colonists arrived they built several small outposts on the more habitable moons with the greatest on the moon Kronus, named after mighty Greek Titan. As the planet below was colonised a number of further manmade transit stations were built so that ships, people and materials could be moved freely to and from the planet. Following their role in the Great War, each of the twelve stations was improved with extra ports, habitation sections, defences and garrisons. The moon of Kronus with its low gravity, thick atmosphere and abundance of raw materials became the Titan Naval Station. This was the largest and most powerful military and industrial site in the Proxima System and the most populated moon in the Confederation.

The Twelve Titans

Spartan, Jesus, Teresa, Marcus and a dozen other marines stood on the observation platform on the outer ring of the section. This section was separate to the rotating ring by a short shaft and airlock to the rest of the ship. The windows were small and polarised in case of flares but the view was still incredible. Along the one side were several chairs and even a small table, it was almost civilised. On the wall was a picture of the Santa Maria from her early days as a colony ship. There was a large hydroponic section towards the sterns that Spartan didn’t ever recall seeing on the current ship. It must have been removed to make way for more fuel or storage. From their slowly rotating position they had a panoramic view of the Fleet and it was a sight to behold. The view gave them three rotations a minute and at that speed they needed to concentrate on one thing at a time. It was easy to feel sick, even in space. The Santa Maria had been their home for some time that they had almost forgotten what anything else looked like. Unlike their own ship, they were now surrounded by ships originally built as weapons of war and the difference in their looks was marked. Unlike converted ships, the true warships were built with their fragile crew and fuel sections heavily armoured and protected. The other massive difference was use of space. On a military ship there was no space for luxuries and anywhere that had more than was required could be used for storage, extra armour or simply removed. Without the practicalities of looks of a commercial ship, the warships looked rough and almost insect like from the outside. Extra mounts, gantries and modifications were present on all of them and the older the ship usually the more modifications and changes had taken place. They all carried the symbol of the Interstellar Navy on their bows and each vessel was marked with its vessel code and name. Also present was the massive number of antennae that seemed to protrude from every single side of the ships. Communication was critical in space and no expense spared on the electronics and jamming equipment. Another key feature of the warships was their obsession with multiband radar systems. In space, it was necessary to monitor for objects of all sizes. At high speed an object the size of a melon could tear great holes through even a battleship. The quicker the Captain knew of danger, the quicker he could avoid it or turn the Point Defence System (PDS) against the threat. The PDS was part of every military ship and now many of the civilian vessels. It comprised a multiband radar installation and a series of low-tech kinetic weapon turrets. These were essentially modern versions of the machine guns and automatic cannons of the twentieth century. In space, they fired a cloud of solid shot in the direction of a threat and had a modest chance of destroying or damaging the target. They were cheap, reasonably effective and a requirement on any vessel travelling the troubles trade lanes of the Proxima Centauri System.

Normally they could just see a small number of the tiny escort cutters that circled all transports that travelled through the Confederation. Transports were vulnerable as they had minimal weapons and armour and carried large numbers of crew and marines. This made them very desirable targets. The cutters were always on the lookout for the small and hard to spot craft that could threaten so many lives. Times had changed and the view today was very different, it almost had the look of an epic painting from the Great War.

There hadn’t been much time but the Confederation had managed to assemble seventeen vessels including the Battlecruiser CCS Crusader, the escort carrier Wasp with her complement of eight heavily armed gunboats and shuttles, four cruisers and six marine transports that included their own Santa Maria. The Wasp was due for retirement and had been built to use in the war but arrived just a few months too late. Though she had seen long service, she had never been involved in any major action.

It wasn’t the most powerful fleet the System had ever seen but it certainly had access to substantial firepower and had the capacity to conduct a great variety of space and ground based operations. The group of six marine transports had taken on extra troops en route. They now had of over nine hundred marines per vessel, as well as a small number of elite Special Forces commandos, the best marines in the entire military. Each of the marine transports was a mirror of the Santa Maria, but they all had peculiarities in their engines and basic internal layout. On board, they carried the usual mixture of unarmoured shuttles, assault landing craft and heavily armoured troop transports. The landing craft were small but optimised for high-speed combat operations, whereas the transports were able to carry company-sized units directly into the fight. More vessels were on the way from Alpha Centauri and if they waited they could add another two battleships and an extra two-dozen warships. But it would be months before they arrived with the journey time of over three hundred days. Confed had demanded immediate action to retake the transit stations and Titan Naval Station. The marines had been given no more information, as the battle plan was being kept secret and known only to the senior commanders in the Fleet.

“What do you think the plan is?”

Spartan sighed, as he watched the ships moving outside.

“I doubt it will be anything fancy, Marcus. The Fleet has been assembled fast and we’re already on our way aren’t we? What worries me is that it doesn’t take a genius to work out that if you take something that belongs to somebody else they are gonna want it back. We can pussy foot about but I doubt they are stupid. No matter the plan they will be ready and this is gonna get messy, fast.”

“Wow, you’re a real optimist today you know that. I heard from one of the ensigns that we changed course nearly two days ago but he wouldn’t say to where. It looks like the Fleet is going somewhere, the question is where?” asked Teresa.

“Hmm, let me think, Titan Naval Station maybe?” said Jesus sarcastically.

The group stood in silence for a moment but Spartan was unusually quiet. He was staring out at the ships in the Fleet.

“What’s wrong?”

“Teresa, I just can’t believe that an underground movement that has been able to hold off an entire division of infantry on Proxima and then has taken over the orbital bases and stations, is going to be a push over. They obviously have a plan and I doubt it is to sit and wait for us.”

“From what I’ve seen on the news they’re blockading Prime and starving the cities and the military of aid. It’s not easy to tell exactly what’s happening, they’re stopping most broadcasts from the surface so we’re only getting part of the story,” Jesus added.

“What I don’t get though is why they even need external aid or support? They’re a goddamned planet, surely than can just carry on with or without anything else coming in,” Marcus said.

Corporal Williams, one of the marines from third platoon was nearby and heard the discussion. He called over to them.

“I know three guys that are in frontline down at the Bone Mill. The last I heard from them is that the Zealots have attacked a lot of the transport and are destroying or taking over much of the storage and production facilities. It isn’t far off a civil war down there and yet they are still fighting in that shit hole of a pit.”

“I didn’t know it had gone so quickly. How have they been able to turn things against us so fast?” asked Teresa, genuinely concerned.

Williams wandered over, checking over his shoulder when he reached them. “This goes nowhere else now, right?”

They all moved closer, keen to hear whatever gossip he’d uncovered.

“From what I’ve heard the trouble on Prime was an inside job. The Zealots have got support right up to the top, my source said it goes right to the Council!”

“Bullshit!”

“Shut the fuck up, man, I said to keep this to yourself. Look, Marcus, believe me or not, you have to admit it is pretty crazy that a bunch of religious fanatics have gone from blowing up the odd transport to a full military takeover of stations, cities and warships in just a few months. You know they have at least one battleship guarding Titan Naval Station, right? What if they’ve got more?”

“What if they turn the guns onto the Station?” Spartan asked.

“Yeah, man, you’re right. If they do that what can we do? We send in a hundred marines and they destroy the place. Whatever they’re planning it had better be good,” said Jesus.

In the Combat Information Centre (CIC) the senior commanders of the Fleet were assembled. The room was circular in shape and they were stood around a large table on which a three dimensional model of the Proxima System was displayed. At this distance, it showed all the planets and collections of moons and satellites. The first thing that was obvious was that Prime and her number of stations was the most significant part of the sector. Kerberos was a close second and that planet featured over a dozen inhabited moons and mining stations. There were certainly plenty of other planets and moons but none the equal of the jewel of the Confederation, Prime. In the corner the Admiral stood as a veritable army of intelligence chiefs, ships’ captains and marine commanders crowded in. The Admiral walked to the centre of the room, flanked by her two marine bodyguards.

“Good evening, I will keep this brief as we’ll have much preparation to do. We are seventeen hours from Proxima Prime and the situation remains fluid on both the transit stations, Titan Naval Station and on the planet’s surface. Before we go over the details of the plan we will examine the latest intelligence.” She signalled to Anderson.

“In the last twenty-four hours we have managed to get three vessels close enough to scan the area around Prime. What we have found is quite frankly shocking. All of the transit stations are either under enemy control or have been destroyed.” He paused for a moment as a murmur of surprise followed this news.

“Three of the stations, Titan’s 3, 4, and 10 were destroyed in a mixture of sabotage and suicide attacks. Casualty estimates from the three stations are in excess of two hundred thousand people. The cruiser Acropolis has been crippled and there is currently a major action on board. We assume the crew are attempting to fight off attempts to board her but for now she is dead in space. As for the Proxima System, the rest of the planets are stable and, though there have been some disturbances on some of the moons and stations, we have been able to calm things down. Out here in the Rim things are a little wild, but they always are and this is something we will deal with later.”

He pressed a button and the three dimensional model zoomed out to show the Confederation Systems. With a move of his hand, the model zoomed out further to show a series of star systems, a number of light years away.

“Due to the obvious communication delays we have no news on the new colonies at Epsilon Eridani, Gliese 876 or Procyon. We have sent detailed information to them but it will not get there in time to help us nor could they send help even if they wanted to. We can only hope that they have not experienced the same devastation that we have.”

With another movement, he brought the star system of Alpha Centauri into view. Its two stars and scores of planets were a rich source of mineral to the Confederation as well as supporting most of the colony worlds and moons.

“We have received word from the forty-two colonies at Alpha Centauri that so far nothing untoward has happened. Military forces have been put on alert and it looks like we might be able to contain this to Prime and the stations. A fleet is being assembled and the 3rd and 4 th

Marine Regiments have been reactivated in case this goes any further. If, and this is a big if, we can contain this problem, we should be able to stop it right here. If for any reason the revolt spreads outside of Prime a general call to all reservists will go out and the Confederation will be placed on a war footing. Finally, Sol. As with our other distant colonies, we cannot get word to them anytime soon and have sent the same data packets as we sent to Procyon. In short, this immediate situation concerns the colonies in Proxima Centauri. These are all in range of both our forces and the insurgency.”

He pressed a few more keys and the map returned to the planets and its moons.

“Now, current figures show nine stations are occupied. The estimate for occupying forces is around fifty to a hundred insurgents per transit station, with at least five hundred clustered around the naval facilities and habitation zones at Titan Naval Station. This means a lowest estimate of around fifteen hundred of them on the stations alone. From this number we can see the movement must have inside support, they cannot have transported this many people without us noticing, that’s what Military Intelligence say anyway,” he said seriously.

With another sweep of his hand, the display zoomed down to the surface of the planet. “As for Prime we have a problem. Most communications to and from the planet have been blocked. The Acropolis was trying to collect data via direct data streams when she was hit by three suicide attacks from captured vessels. They were able to send us a large volume of encrypted data before being cut off. From what they sent we know that a large uprising has started in most of the smaller towns and agricultural areas. So far, the cities are under Confed control but there are reports of heavy fighting at the power plants, transport hubs and ports. All operations at the Bone Mill have been halted until the situation is resolved. For now those units are being redeployed to where they are needed most. Elements of the 7th and 12th Regiments are holding the area in case the insurgents try to take advantage of the situation,” he said finally.

As he stepped backed a man in a dark, flowing uniform devoid of any insignia, replaced him.

“I represent the logistical service on Prime and have details on the weapons and equipment that has been confirmed as used in the field.”

Though most there were not familiar with his garb the more experienced of the officers knew immediately he was from one of the Special Forces intelligence units on the planet.

“Firstly, the Zealots are fighting in much larger numbers than any of our estimates have shown. They are more ruthless than ever before. Even when attacking the primary polar power plant on Prime, they continued until all of them were killed. They attacked with eighty members and did not stop. They are well motivated and our estimates place their planet-side strength anywhere between four and twenty thousand. This figure does not include the unknown number at the Bone Mill. I don’t want to confirm or deny this, but there are estimates by field agents that enemy numbers could be five times this number,” he said calmly.

The mood in the room was electric. What had been expected to be a thousand people in total was turning into a full scale uprising of kind not seen since the Great War.

“Now, weapons, equipment and tactics. It is clear that the Zealots have been massing supplies and equipment for years. To date, we have come across everything from knives to military issue shotguns and rifles. They are using body armour, most of which is home produced and not effective against our L48 rifles. They are vastly more experienced in hand-to-hand combat and in every engagement where they have been close enough to use edged weapons they have overwhelmed our forces. They are competent with knives, maces and even swords. Some of their close quarter weapon designs are completely new to us. We have reports that these devices are quite capable of punching through the chest armour of a marine,” he added, followed by a long pause.

“Finally, vehicles. We have seen evidence of homegrown vehicles, mainly land based and a few aircraft in the north. In general, they seem to prefer ground combat but are capable of hijacking or capturing craft of all kinds. They have the knowledge and skills to repair, modify and operate everything from trains to warships. This suggests knowledge from within our existing security structures,” he said before stepping back.

“Before General Rivers explains our plans I would like a full update on the Fleet. Please keep this short as time is critical!” The Admiral ordered.

*

Lieutenant Erdeniz lay in his hospital bed gazing out of the windows. He knew they weren’t real, but the view was a direct feed from outside and it was good to see something other than the white walls of the room. He had only recently woken up and the drugs were still swirling inside his body, making him feel as though he had been drinking for the last twenty-four hours. As he lay there the door opened and in walked a captain, flanked by a guard. He marched up to the side of the bed and removed his hat.

“How are you feeling, son?” he asked.

Erdeniz tried to focus on the man but the drugs dulled his senses and it took a few seconds for him to be able to properly focus.

“Uh, um, I’m feeling much better, Sir,” he said with much effort.

“Good man. I can’t stay long, we’re waiting for information on the plan to come through from CIC. I was asked by the Admiral to tell you that she is very grateful for what you did.”

“I, I don’t understand,” came the weak reply.

“When you were attacked it was an attempt by the Zealots to take over the ship. Two of them tried to break into the Admiral’s quarters when you triggered the alarm. Over a dozen officers were already dead when you set it off. Another twenty seconds and the entire command staff would have gone too. You have our thanks, you have literally saved this crew and this vessel,” he said with a smile.

Erdeniz was still confused and didn’t fully understand what the man was saying but at least it didn’t sound like he’d done something bad.

“Now, get a little rest, I will send somebody along later to check on you. Good job!”

Returning his hat to his head he exited the room smartly and closed the door behind him.

*

General Rivers approached the waiting marines in the main hall of the Santa Maria.

“As Commander of the 6 th Marine Regiment I have been given command of the ground element of the operation to retake control of all the stations around Prime.”

On the screen in front of the assembled marines he brought up the massive Titan Naval Station that was built into the largest of Prime’s moons.

“As you can see, the Station is well guarded by the Battleship Victorious and the crippled Resolution. We cannot even consider an operation to take the Station until these vessels have been eliminated.”

Hitting a button the image changed to an aerial view of the plan.

“The Fleet will split into three squadrons, the first two will move in and take control of the eight transit stations and hopefully draw some of the vessels away from Titan Naval Yard. Each of these stations is small, some are simple docks and shipyards, others are used to move civilian traffic. We need to take them all back and fast. By hitting them simultaneously, the enemy will not be able to reinforce each other. A single group will then move in to engage the battleship as the commando unit heads to the naval yard eliminating the main guns. Once the primary defences are down we will move in and launch a coordinated assault on the Station itself. This is where you come in.” He pointed to the assembled men and women.

“If we cannot stop this warship the entire operation will be called off. I cannot stress to you how important it is that we succeed. We have the best ships for this part of the mission and I have no doubt we will be successful. The real crux of the operation will rest on the regiment’s task of capturing Titan Naval Station. The Station is operating at one quarter normal gravity and looks like the toughest assignment I have seen in my years in the marines.”

“This unit has been tasked with the most dangerous mission of all and I will not hide from you the difficulties you face. I will say that it is a testament to your training and skill that this ship has been chosen to lead the attack. As the rest of the Fleet engages the enemy, you will spearhead an overwhelming assault on the Station itself. Each platoon has specific objectives including securing the dock and shipyards. Those who have completed the commando training will join the team that will move into the command areas and secure the guns prior to the arrival of the marine transports. The main assault cannot go ahead until the guns are silenced. Small landing craft are fast enough to hopefully make it but our larger transports will be turned to dust before they reach five kilometres from their objectives.”

The officer turned to the marines, noting their eagerness to get stuck in.

“I know your training has been cut short but from the reports I’ve seen you are in the best shape we could hope for. You are fit, equipped and ready to do your job. Under normal circumstances we would wait but this situation is spiralling out of control. We have support from the gunboats of Wasp and this should be enough to provide adequate cover to get inside. Your squad leaders have their specific plans, please get a few hours rest, contact your loved ones, do whatever you damned please just be in the shuttle bays and ready for combat operation in four hours. Good luck, marines!”

As the marines were dismissed, Spartan and his group moved to the side of the area. Have you checked the boards? Which group are we going in with?” he asked.

“No idea, come on, let’s find out!” Teresa said as she ran off to the end of the hall where a large screen showed the roster and the combat teams. There were dozens of them, each assigned certain equipment and shuttles for their missions.

“Yeah, here we are!” shouted Jesus.

“What is this?” Marcus looked less than impressed.

Spartan stepped in closer, reading the board. Next to their names and half of their platoon was the assignment to the Commando Support Group.

“Support Group? What kind of gay shit is this?”

“You can be such an idiot, Marcus!” Teresa was reading the board.

“Teresa is right, Marcus, the CSG is part of the Commando Team that is going for the hostages. The support group’s job is to provide fire support and assistance as required. This is the highest you can get on your first mission,” said Spartan.

“We’d better go and get ready then, we need to meet the Commando Team and go over the mission before we board.”

“Yeah,” added Jesus as he made his way to his quarters.

Spartan turned to head off but Teresa grabbed his shoulder, turning him back around. “How long do we have?” she asked placing a special emphasis on the word ‘we’.

Spartan looked up at the clock and back at her. “I think we can manage thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes, hmm,” she said with a grin. “Yeah, I think that will work!”

Pulling his arm Teresa dragged Spartan off down the corridor and towards her quarters, much to the amusement of the rest of the squad.

*

Over half of the Fleet had already moved off leaving the battlecruiser CCS Crusader, the Santa Maria and a small number of cruisers, destroyers and gunboats in reserve. This strike force was the main force designated for the attack on Titan Naval Station and though it looked formidable to Admiral Jarvis it was a fraction of what she wanted for such a risky operation. Along the gun decks of the warship the gun ports were all open and the weapon system of each ship was ready for action.

In the Combat Information Centre of the CCS Crusader, General Rivers and Admiral Jarvis poured over the latest report on the operation. Most of the officers had now gone and there were less than a dozen people in the room, all of which were working through screens of information and managing the large collection of vessels.

Lieutenant Nilsson, a dark brown haired officer with distinctive, green-flecked brown eyes turned from her communications desk.

“Admiral, I’m receiving urgent messages from Titan Naval Station, the insurgents are calling for assistance from their comrades. Shall I jam their communications?”

“Negative, we need to split them off as much as we can, let the message through.”

The Lieutenant turned back to her display and continued to monitor communication between the ships. On the main three-dimensional tactical map the Admiral followed the open stages of the operation. They were only four hours in and the first wave were in battle around half of the small stations.

“Reports from Bunker Hill say that all five transports have started their ground assault. So far they have taken thirty-seven casualties and now have control of two stations. Resistance is stronger than expected but they are making solid progress. Captain Jones estimates around three hours to capture the remainder of the stations.”

“Good, that is a very good start,” replied the Admiral. She turned and looked at the tactical display, watching the movement of the vessels in orbit.

“Any news on Titan Naval Station, any movement?”

Lieutenant Nilsson connected to her opposite numbers on the other vessels, quickly collating data. “Negative, no movement on the vessels guarding the Station.”

“As expected, they are waiting for our main strike.” The Admiral picked up the intercom. “Captain Matthias, are your ships ready?”

“Affirmative, Ajax, Hector and Achilles are in position and weapons batteries are charged and ready.”

“Good work, Captain, send in your cruiser wing to Titan Naval Station immediately, we need to let them think this is the main attack. Pray to the gods that they take the bait and engage your forces. Do not leave the area until you have taken fire. I know this is a big request but I need you to take enough fire to warrant a withdrawal, make it look good, Captain.”

There was a brief pause before the Captain of the cruiser group returned.

“Understood, Admiral, we will put on a good show. We won’t leave the area until they think they are winning.”

“God speed, Captain,” said the Admiral replacing the intercom. General Rivers turned to her.

“If they are ready when we jump in we’ll face their full numbers before we can bring our guns to bear. We need to be patient, every minute we can add to their return trip will give us just that bit of extra time to deal with Victorious.”

“I understand, General, and I am aware of the difficulty your troops are facing on the stations. We will move in as soon as I am confident we have a chance of breaking through.”

The massive battlecruiser rumbled and a series of vibrations rattled through the warship. General Rivers turned to Lieutenant Nilsson who was evidently concerned.

“It’s the forward gun batteries, they are charging up their capacitors prior to battle. We can’t charge up all the batteries at once, not even on this ship,” he said with a stern grin.

The Admiral moved past the General, facing the communications officer.

“Lieutenant Nilsson, can you put me on the battlegroup’s intercom, it is speech time,” she said with as much humour as she could muster in such a serious situation.

“This is Admiral Jarvis. Approximately one hour ago elements of our task force began the first stages in the operation to retake the transit stations orbiting Proxima Prime. Our battlegroup, spearheaded by Crusader, will start our attack in less than ninety minutes. All medical teams are to report to their sections, marines will prepare to repel boarders and all gunners please check and recheck your weapons. This will be the first capital ship engagement since the Great War and if it is anything like historic encounters, we can expect heavy damage and casualties on both sides. Admiral Jarvis, out.”

She replaced the intercom and turned back to the tactical map. The display showed two-dozen vessels in position near the outer ring of stations around the planet. Several faster colours indicated the gunboats from the carrier Wasp. It was their job to provide cover from any potential attacks by smaller vessels. She turned back to the General.

“If for any reason we are unable to regain control of the Station I have been given full authorisation to neutralise Titan Naval Station and every soul on it. Her face showed that this wasn’t an option she really wanted to consider.

“Destroy the Station, do we even have the firepower to do that?”

“I have asked our engineers to run simulations and all they can tell me is that if we can mass all of our firepower on the Station we can render it useless after about sixty minutes of continuous bombardment. We can’t do anything more than make it unsuitable for life, General.”

“Perhaps if I could get commandos onto the Station they could place a number of thermite plasma charges at key locations and do the same job. It won’t be pretty, Admiral, but if the Crusader is busy we might not have the luxury of turning all the guns on the Station. What about the hostages?”

“We are to rescue them of course, unless this puts the Fleet in a position whereby we cannot end this revolt. Either way the capture of Titan Naval Station will be resolved, one way or the other,” she said as she turned back to the displays.

*

Spartan and Teresa were both laid out and relaxed. Spartan held a bottle of water in one hand as Teresa sat looking out of the projection window at the Fleet. With their gun ports open the ships looked much rougher than normal, it was a sight she had not seen before. Between the capital ships the gunboats and shuttles moved back and forth, ferrying people and weapons prior to the battle. The Crusader was a sight to behold and she couldn’t imagine any vessel being able to stand up to her bulk. She was mesmerised by the rotating bands that ran the length of the ship, each one bristling with open ports and slowing the ship to fire in any direction from above or below or front port or stern. The weakest section in terms of firepower was the bow and stern where the warship was fitted with just a single weapon battery, much like a bow chaser on an old-fashioned tall ship.

“How can any ship stop the Crusader? Just look at her, Spartan,” she said as she stared at the majestic shape of the battlecruiser.

Spartan rolled over, looking out at the massive warship.

“She is impressive but from what I’ve been reading so is the Victorious. That old warship was actually involved in the Great War. She is responsible for the crippling of two other battleships and even survived a ramming by a cruiser. All of the advantages of the Crusader are going to be wasted in this battle. She has lighter armour, the same weapons and the only real improvement is the better engines. On paper I’d give the edge to Victorious,” he said with a hint of regret.

“You’re assuming that they even know how to operate the ship or have enough crew to man her.”

“True, but you’re also assuming that none of the crew had a hand in the takeover to start with. If that’s so then we could be about to attack an experienced and prepared battleship,” he said as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. “I just hope the Intel guys have done their homework,” he sighed.

The two pulled on their fatigues in silence as they considered the current operation and the part they had yet to play. Their clothes were scattered around the berth and it took them a few minutes to get ready. Teresa moved closely to Spartan, looking carefully at his face.

“Don’t do anything stupid now, I would like to see you come back,” she said with a smile.

“No problem, I have absolutely no intention of letting some religious crazy get in my way, you just watch yourself. We have unfinished business!” he said as he swung himself out of the room and into the corridor.

It didn’t take long and they were soon moving down the main corridor where scores of other marines were collecting their gear and boarding their craft. Marcus and Jesus along with another eight marines were waiting in a group at the far right, separate to the rest of them. Spartan and Teresa moved over. Most of them were wearing their full PDS gear and the rest were in the process of fitting on their armour and checking their weapons for the hundredth time.

“We’re supposed to wait here for Colonel West. He’s leading the commando operation. You ever met the guy?” asked Marcus.

“Nope, never heard of him,” answered Teresa.

“You have now,” said a short, scrawny looking man who appeared behind Spartan.

The man stood with a group of a dozen similar looking men and one woman. Though they wore normal Personal Defence Suits, they had a slightly different camouflage pattern to the rest of the marines and their equipment was certainly older and well used. The officer stepped forward and shook each of their hands.

“This is my team, I take it you’ve gone over the mission briefing. Normally we wouldn’t take newbies on a first mission but our numbers are small and we need every man we can get. We will go in first, you’ll provide backup and a tactical reserve. This doesn’t mean you’ll be sitting back in the shuttles, you are just as important as the rest of the unit. Stay together and keep an eye on the guy next to you.” He looked around the group of fresh marines.

The tannoy system blared loudly across the ship.

“All units to your posts, we are loading the shuttles. I repeat, all to their station, it is not a drill!” came the order and it was repeated over and over.

“Let’s go!” The Colonel shouted as his team moved down the shaft and towards the waiting shuttles.

As they moved off Spartan lifted his hand and smacked his hand onto Teresa’s outstretched palm.

“Good luck!” she said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Though not the most famous, the CCS Invincible was a ship with a history that was unique to any other vessel in the Fleet. During the Great War she was the last battleship to engage another battleship in open battle. Most engagements were fought by carriers and cruisers, but by a chance encounter she had run into the rebel warship, the Redoubtable. This battle between two equals has been studied for generations, as to the power and the futility of putting two such behemoths against each other. After more than twenty hours of continuous battle and over twelve thousand casualties there was still no victor. Both vessels were quickly disabled and unable to leave the area and neither captain would surrender his vessel. It wasn’t until the arrival of the fourteen ships of the Kerberos Squadron that the battle could be decided. Five of those ships were also lost until the Redoubtable was finally destroyed.

The shattered but still operational hulk of the CCS Invincible and the remnants of the Kerberos Squadron were present at the signing of the armistice. The old ship is a relic of the Great War and is still moored at the Fleet Headquarters in Alpha Centauri. A visit to the ship is part of the required training for all naval cadets.

Ships of the Interstellar Navy

In the Combat Information Centre of the CCS Crusader it was decision time and the Admiral and her staff were getting nervous. As every minute passed the chances of a decisive and relatively bloodless conclusion slipped away. From inside the bustling room a dozen officers moved back and forth, updating the tactical display and coordinating actions between the numerous ships involved in the battle. Hundreds of officers both on the ground and aboard the myriad of vessels involved in the operation did their best to keep everything moving smoothly.

The ground assault on the smaller manmade stations had now been raging for over two hours and there were no signs that the rest of the transit stations would be falling anytime soon. Though much smaller than the massive Titan Naval Station, each was the home to hundreds or thousands of people and couldn’t be simply destroyed from orbit. The stations circled the planet of Prime at different altitudes with the most remote being hundreds of kilometres from the planet. They offered a variety of landing platforms, refineries, ports and shipyards for Prime. Though Titan Naval Station was massive, most of the inhabited areas were situated on the nearside of the moon that faced Prime. The bulk of the population was clustered around the civilian port and naval yard.

As expected, resistance had been heavy but the arrival of volunteer fighters from the planet had not been spotted. On several of the stations there were hundreds of additional fighters and though their skills were limited, they were easily able to hold off and keep the attacking marines busy. These last minute volunteers showed no regard for human life and they were happy to be used as human bombs or simply to draw the marines’ fire to expose their positions to the more experienced Zealot fighters. The latest reports put the attacking marines’ casualties now at over a hundred and as each minute went by more figures came in. The only black mark so far was that one shuttle with eighty-two civilians and twelve marines had been lost due to a suicide bomber making her way inside. The craft had almost reached the transport when her vest detonated. At least the shuttle hadn’t made it inside the transport or it could have easily caused many more casualties. The one piece of good news was that over eight hundred civilians had been rescued by the operations on the smaller Titan stations and were already being shipped by shuttlecraft to the waiting ships. It was bloody work but they appeared to be making progress.

Of even more of a serious concern to the Admiral, was that the cruiser wing had just moved into range of the Naval Station. This was a risky gambit as the battleship had lots of options available and the last thing she wanted was to have to slug it out with an almost impregnable vessel right next to the Station. If they could get her to move the assault would have been pulled off. She prayed the defenders would take the bait. On the tactical screen she watched the line of three cruisers moving in formation to the Station. The three cruisers were powerful ships and easily capable of taking on several similar sized vessels or even one of the stations on their own. A ship like the Victorious however was another matter. The only people capable of producing a vessel of that size and power were the shipyards and engineers of the Confederation Navy. She didn’t enjoy the irony of having to face a ship that had been built and designed to be almost impregnable for the very people that would now have to attack it.

“Captain Matthias, give me a sitrep,” she ordered.

“Affirmative, Admiral. We are twelve kilometres from the Station and so far have been ignored. There is massive electronic and radar jamming in the area and we are having a hard time scanning for power signatures and weapons. We can see their disposition though and it looked like we might be in luck,” he said.

General Rivers moved closer, examining the tactical display and then looked back at the Admiral.

“I don’t like it,” he said.

“Understood, Captain, take your ships in, just don’t get too close that you can’t leave. We are twelve minutes behind you. Good luck,” she added.

“Thank you, Admiral, out,” he said and the intercom went silent.

*

On the deck of the cruiser CCS Achilles, Captain Matthias watched the massive Titan Naval Station through the glass. At first glance it looked just like a moon, but on closer examination the huge jetties, gantries and cranes could be found on almost every section of the surface. Around the orbit of the moon were large numbers of ships though most were small freighters and transports. What he was more interested in were the two warships the heavy cruiser CCS Resolution and the battleship CCS Victorious. The first ship was still venting gasses. It looked like it had sustained heavy damage. Victorious however appeared completely unscathed.

“Engineering, I need everything you have on the warships, stat!” he shouted to the three officers on his right. The men were sitting in front of a large display that presented masses of data on both the cruiser wing and the enemy vessels.

The three cruisers were vessels of the Achilles class and had been in service for over forty years. Each carried thick armour down the flanks and batteries of railguns in sections along their lengths. They were also equipped with over a hundred point defence weapons designed to protect against torpedoes and missile impacts as well as to defend against small ships, boarding pods and landing craft.

“Sir, it appears both vessels are powered up and ready,” said the first man.

“Ready?” said the Captain to himself.

“Wait, I have movement on the Victorious, yes, she’s moving out of her berth,” he said excitedly.

Captain Matthias grabbed the intercom to inform the Fleet of the good news.

“Admiral, Admiral?” he asked, but there was no response.

“Captain, our communications are being jammed this close to the Station. We need to withdraw from their electronic counter measures range,” explained the second officer.

“No, we need to buy the Fleet time, we have to get the ship as far from the Station as possible. If we fight at this distance the marine landing craft won’t get within ten kilometres of the Station. Have you seen the point defence grid on that thing? She could wipe out every shuttle and boarding party we send in minutes,” he said.

The Captain moved back to the forward window of the bridge where he had a good view of the Station and the enemy. It was a dangerous mission but one he was sure his wing could achieve. He turned and gave the order.

“It’s time, send them in.”

He nodded and quickly pulled down the intercom and called over to the communications officers.

“Put me on a secure ship-to-ship channel with Ajax and Hector,” he said. The officer connected the vessels in seconds.

“Follow attack plan Charlie, maintain distance and engage Victorious. It is imperative that we keep clear of her broadsides. Stay at range and if possible aim for her engines, God speed to you all.”

In seconds, the three massive cruisers fired up their engines and moved into a column as they manoeuvred into position to orbit the battleship. Unlike the heavier ships, the cruisers were designed for much higher speeds and their manoeuvrability and acceleration was impressive. Within moments, the bright glow from their engines propelled them forwards and into action.

The vessels were huge but still only one quarter the size of the Victorious. Normally they would be commanding small patrols and even fleets but hunting down capital ships was a job for a mixed force that would include carriers, cruisers and gunboats.

As the three fast moving cruisers adjusted their course, a series of bright flashes along the bow of the old battleship indicated the start of the battle. The battleship was easily double the width of the cruisers and its heavy armoured prow hit batteries of weapon ports. From such a close range the first volley hit almost instantly, the solid projectiles tearing through the Achilles, the lead ship of the cruiser wing. As the heavy metal projectiles struck the starboard flank of the ship it rocked from the impact. Each shell was the size of a man and tore huge chunks from the side. A lesser ship would have been cut in half, but the thick, multi-layered armour plating absorbed at least some of the initial attack.

“Jesus!” Captain Matthias shouted as he saw a large number of red lights flashing on his displays.

Throughout the room the displays were flashing with all kinds of critical data. From his view on the bridge he could see great chunks of the ship torn off and drifting into space. A crack appeared in the glass and without even checking with the crew, the computer system brought down the blast shutters to prevent any chance of as breach.

“Damage report!” he barked.

Lieutenant Jones, the senior engineer, was stunned by the damage he could see on his screen and it took him a few seconds to compose himself.

“Sir, we’ve taken four hits to the lower weapons decks. I have breaches and decompression in twelve compartments, twenty-seven casualties already reported, more coming in. One battery is out of action.”

“Tactical!” shouted the Captain.

“Sir, in this position she is currently only able to bring her forward guns to bear. If we cross her T we can maximise our firepower and reduced potential damage,” said Lieutenant LeMarche.

“Why are they coming straight at us? If they simply presented their broadside they could fight us off with just a few volleys?” he shouted.

“Sir, You are assuming they have a competent crew, what if they can barely control the ship? It would explain their direct line attack and exposing their bow. If they keep going like this there is a chance we could cripple her.”

“A cruiser wing defeating a battleship, now that would be a first.” The Captain said to himself as he smiled.

As he considered the battle, another volley of smaller calibre shells peppered the hull of his cruiser. They were probably the point defence systems being directed to add fire. They were unable to penetrate the thick armour of the Achilles but they did give the Captain hope as to the skill and experience of his opponent.

“Cross their T and put a broadside down their throats!” he shouted the order as he held on firmly to the grab handles as another impact rocked the ship.

The CCS Achilles was the first ship in three formations and as she turned hard to her left she exposed her entire right flank to the approaching battleship. The Ajax and Hector moved into the same position, following the Achilles like a line of elephants holding each other’s tails. The formation had its benefits though. Just as the wooden tall ships of old, these modern ships of the line had the greatest number of weapons running along their length. This meant that they could do more damage firing sideways than head on. The current formation allowed all three ships to bring all their guns to bear on the enemy. There were other benefits too. The weapons all the vessels were using were solid shot electric railguns. This ammunition could easily penetrate the deck and afterdeck of even a fully armoured ship. By hitting the enemy from the front, the shot would punch through the bow and run a long way through the vessel. The return fire from the battleship however would only be able to strike the flanks of the cruisers and damage whatever lay between the sides of the ship.

As the Achilles reached an almost perfect ninety-degree angle from the Victorious she opened fire. Each gunport fired in sequence and the entire flank of the cruiser disappeared in a bright blast of venting plasma gas. The wave of heavy projectiles was accelerated out of the gunports and towards the closing enemy vessel. As the torrent of heavy shells slammed into the ancient battleship the other two cruisers added their own volleys. The first counterattack by the three ships sent over fifty heavy projectiles and over half struck exactly where they needed to.

“I’m detecting multiple impacts on their bow and port quarter, substantial damage to their forward guns I think, there’s certainly no sign of return fire,” said Lieutenant LeMarche.

“Excellent, that is more like it. How long till the next volley?” he asked.

“Thirty seconds, Captain,” came the immediate reply. “We could continue the volleys but it will leave us vulnerable while we recharge the main batteries,” he explained.

“No, I want our cruiser wing to turn to sequential fire, I want a continuous rain of metal on her, don’t give their crew time to think. If what I think is true, they are inexperienced and we need them to make sure they are unable to come up with a suitable plan. Keep poking and prodding them and she’ll stay with us,” he ordered.

Although a full volley or broadside was massively powerful, it did leave the ship with a full complement of guns that were unloaded and that meant each ship was unable to return fire for a good half a minute. That was enough time to suffer major damage or even loss of a ship. The sequential fire option was simple, each battery fired its weapons in turn so that by the time the last battery fired the first was recharged and ready to fire. From space it looked like each gun was taking it in turn to fire. Though it was much less effective in the short-term, it did mean a vessel could keep up firing on a ship without pausing. This type of fire was generally reserved for fighting against smaller vessels or when fighting multiple opponents, as it gave a higher rate of fire and the option to spit fire quickly and easily. This battle was different though, they needed to annoy the enemy so that they could draw her away from the Station.

As the Achilles’ weapon batteries reached their capacity the firing resumed and Captain Matthias watched in satisfaction as shot after shot blasted out into space and against the Victorious who was still moving towards them at ever increasing speed. The other cruisers began firing and the gulf between the four ships filled with the ultra high-speed projectiles. A small number of shells came back from the enemy, but it appeared Lieutenant LeMarche was correct and most of their forward guns were non-functioning and presumably destroyed.

Captain Matthias checked his tactical display noting that his cruiser wing had already moved two kilometres away from the Station and the battleship was still following. It was bloody work but it appeared the plan was working.

“Sir, if we don’t change course the Victorious will be on us in less than sixty seconds,” said Lieutenant LeMarche.

The Captain double-checked his screens before turning over to engineering.

“What is her status?” he barked.

“Sir, based on the number of guns inoperative on the front port and bow section I would suggest we have removed a quarter of her guns. She does have dorsal weapon batteries but they are not firing either. Maybe they do not have a full crew or her systems are not all working?” he replied.

“Interesting, we might have a chance here,” said LeMarche. “We could turn and draw her away. If we do that, we complete our objectives for the Fleet and the mission. We risk less but she could simply turn back. If we stand and return to volley fire we could cripple her and remove her from the fight completely,” he added.

As the gunfire continued and the ship rocked from the high-energy weapons the Captain considered the possibilities.

“I say we take the middle road. We fight for a little longer and see if we can cripple or slow her down enough to give us options. I see this as a golden opportunity. One way or another, Victorious will have to be dealt with. If not by us, then maybe one of our marine transports will have to contend with her guns. I will not have that. At the very least, we can hurt her before we leave. Reload the guns and resume volley fire. I think we have her attention now. It is about time we really hurt her!” he growled.

“Captain,” he nodded and began relaying the orders to the ships.

Captain Matthias turned back to his communications officer.

“Have you been able to make contact with the Admiral yet?” he asked.

“No, Captain, we are still too close to the Station.”

“How much further?” he demanded.

At this speed, another ten to eleven minutes, Sir,” he explained before turning back to the display.

A series of lights flashed across the bridge and panic set in with the engineering officers and tactical.

“Captain, we’ve got a problem!” cried Lieutenant LeMarche. “She’s accelerating towards Ajax!”

The mighty battleship was now only a short distance from the three cruisers and had altered course slightly towards the middle ship, Ajax. Volley fire from the cruisers now pounded her hull.

“Captain, my scans show her prow has been badly damaged though most of her weapon systems appear undamaged. She is far less damaged than our results suggested. Either she is unwilling or unable to use them. Wait, I’m detecting a power surge, she is running at over 120 per cent charge, she is going to fire a double broadside,” he added.

“Dear God!” shouted LeMarche, as he realised the battleship was about to unleash every weapon it carried. “They are not damaged, Captain. Instead of firing she’s been slowly topping up her weapon banks so she can fire both sides at once. There is a chance the surge could destroy her and us with her!” he shouted.

“A suicide attack? Are you sure? That old ship could easily fire a few doubles before taking damage!”

The communications officer tried to reach the other two cruisers to warn them to move to full power but it was too late. The battleship steamed through the three kilometre wide gap between Hector and Ajax, her right hull facing Ajax and her left Hector. Time seemed to slow as the officers watched in horror as the battleship positioned herself perfectly to attack two ships at the same time. There was a terrible flash as both of her flanks were covered in venting plasma. Every single weapon that still worked opened fire. Hundred of rounds smashed through the bow and bridge of the Hector. At least four entered the command centre, instantly killing the captain and his officers. The rest of the shots ploughed through the entire length of the ship, tearing through section after section. In less than thirty seconds the ship was left a burning hulk with hundreds of crew already rushing for the lifeboats. She was of no use to anybody anymore.

The Ajax fared only slightly better as her engines absorbed most of the weapons’ fire. The overwhelming barrage of metal tore the engines and fuel storage tanks apart, instantly leaving the vessel with nothing more than manoeuvring thrusters. Some of the rounds penetrated as far as the port batteries and set off a chain of explosions through the length of the ship. The fires were serious but the ship was still able to move and incredibly returned fire with a number of the surviving weapon batteries.

On board the Achilles Captain Matthias was stunned. In just seconds his wing had been reduced to only one functioning ship, one heavily damaged and one crippled. The Victorious was already slowing down and turning around to bring her alongside the damaged Ajax.

“Sir, we have only two decisions, either we turn and give assistance to Ajax or we go full burn, save the ship and warn the Fleet,” LeMarche said.

Captain Matthias said nothing; his attention focussed on the crippled Hector. He knew many of the officers and he couldn’t believe the damage she had sustained so quickly. As he watched, a bright green flash tore through the centre of the Hector that split the vessel in two.

“My God!” he cried, still unable to comprehend what had happened.

“Sir, we must decide, now!” LeMarche shouted, finally shocking him out of his stupor.

“Captain, I’m through to the Admiral, relaying tactical data now,” said the communications officer.

Captain Matthias stood up straight, his expression serious. He turned to LeMarche.

“They know the situation and the Victorious is away from the Station. Turn us around and engage her stern. I want this bastard’s engines and I want them now!” he shouted.

LeMarche moved to the tactical display and coordinated the battle between the remaining two ships as the Captain moved to the window, watching the battle in all its terrible glory.

The Ajax, though unable to escape was still quick and in less than twenty seconds her port side was facing the starboard side of the Victorious as the two ships faced off. Both vessels pounded each other with salvo after salvo, both taking damage from the massed batteries of railguns. The Achilles turned hard to her left and once again crossed the T of the mighty battleship. This time though they timed their salvos to hit slightly off centre so that they ran down the flanks of the ship, rather than impacting on the reinforced prow. The damage was impressive but as the debris drifted it was clear that the Victorious could take this kind of fire for hours. Small fires burned at points inside the outer structure but the massive vessel was intact and all of her broadside batteries were operational. As the broadsides continued, it quickly became clear that Ajax couldn’t take much more. Half of her guns were out of action and fires were running along her entire length.

“Sir, message from the Ajax, they have breaches in engineering, they are advising us to leave the area,” said the Lieutenant.

Captain Matthias swore, angry that he was about to lose his only other vessel and her huge compliment of crew. “Double charge the guns and bring us in close, I want to hit her close and hard!” he barked.

As the warship moved in closer to the battle the three ships disappeared in a cloud of projectiles and plasma gas.

*

“We need to move faster!” argued Admiral Jarvis as she watched the tactical display as her group of ships moved in towards the Titan Naval Station. The Fleet had almost completed the trip from where they had been assembled at Kerberos and would reach Prime shortly.

“Any more news on the Achilles? Is she still in the fight?” she asked.

“Unknown, Admiral, just static and interference. Whatever is going on we’ll find out in about thirty seconds,” answered Lieutenant Andrews, the tactical officer, as the Fleet moved ever closer.

The Fleet, headed by the mighty battlecruiser was heading directly for the Station and the Admiral could only hope that the cruisers had done enough to clear their way in. As they reached within one thousand kilometres their sensors were able to burn through the perimeter and provide some tactical data.

“We’re showing the Achilles and the Victorious are still fighting. Achilles is heavily damaged and venting fuel. Ajax is evacuating, Hector is gone. Can’t get through to Titan Naval Station yet, no signs of capital ships in the area though,” said Andrews.

As the Fleet moved ever closer, the flashes of battle were now visible from most of the ships. News of the loss of the Hector had spread through the rest of the Fleet like wildfire and some were undoubtedly concerned as to the ability of the CCS Crusader to hold off such a well renowned warship. They were already slowing as they reached just fifty kilometres from the Station.

“Admiral, the Victorious is changing course, she is heading our way. Achilles is burning,” said Andrews.

“It’s time,” she said to herself as she signalled to Lieutenant Nilsson to put her on with the Fleet.

“This is Admiral Jarvis. We are at our objective. The Station is clear but we are facing a fully operational Victorious. All group leaders begin your attack, she must be stopped, no matter the cost. Marines are clear to start your landings. Stay close to your escorts, this is going to be rough. I repeat, all offensive actions are authorised. Good luck,” she said in a calm voice.

As her orders spread through the Fleet, the bulk of the vessels turned to face the damaged battleship Victorious. Only the Santa Maria and Santa Cruz, with almost two thousand marines on board, and their group of four escort gunboats continued on their trajectory towards the Titan Naval Station. The gunboats were from the deck of the CCS Wasp and carried a dozen men and massive firepower. Today these four craft were configured for point defence. Each one carried additional defensive pods to protect against incoming projectiles and missiles. They pushed out in front of the Santa Maria.

The CCS Crusader, though new, had not been tested in battle before and this was her first opportunity to prove herself against the toughest opponent she could ever expect to face, a CCS battleship.

Spartan and Teresa were sitting towards the rear of their marine landing craft. It was cramped and much smaller than they expected. It carried a full platoon of marines inside its thick armoured structure as well as extra supplies, spare weapons and some heavy equipment. Everything a commando unit could need to establish a beachhead for the rest of the marines.

It was shaped like an angry wasp, its legs stuck up below and its power plants mounted high above the fuselage. Unlike the gunboats it was lightly armed with just defensive weapon mounts fitted around the body, each one designed to be operated by the marines onboard. Spartan and Teresa had been commandeered to control the right-hand door gun though the name was somewhat of a misnomer. The weapon was a twin -barrelled machinegun, an improved version of the same weapon used generations before in the ground wars on Earth. It might be low tech but it was reliable and functioned both on the ground and in the vacuum of space. The combat landing craft were unpressurised so only those in sealed suits could either crew or travel in them. The front of the craft was rounded and massively thick, apparently in tests it could sustain a single impact from a capital ship mounted railgun and against lighter weapons could easily absorb substantial fire over the short time it took to reach ground or ship based targets.

As they moved from the safety of the CCS Santa Maria they travelled past the massive ship from the left side and moved alongside as the rest of the assault craft joined them. As they moved into position, one of the gunboats came nearer, it was easily five times the size of the landing craft and bristled with weapons. Though the craft looked huge it was miniscule in comparison to the Santa Maria which in turn was dwarfed by the size of the battlecruiser CCS Crusader.

From their position they had a clear view of the ongoing battle of the two juggernauts, the Crusader and the Victorious. The two ships were several kilometres apart and bombarding each other with volley after volley. The great bulk, as well as the thick armour of each vessel, precluded any quick victory and as they hammered away at each other the small number of other craft circled around, trying to assist but without drawing too much attention from the wounded warship. After a dozen broadsides the ships looked no further from the end of their battle than when they started.

Slightly off to the right of the two titans the bright flashes continued from the wreck of the Hector at it continued to burn and tear itself apart. Though the ship was destroyed, scores of lifeboats continued to burst out from the damaged sections as the crew desperately tried to avoid the savage inferno of the dying cruiser.

The blazing hulk of Ajax drifted slowly towards the battle but with the damage it must have sustained it was going nowhere fast.

Seated ahead of Teresa and Spartan was the rest of their improvised squad of commandos, waiting for their landing. Each was fully equipped with their sealed suits, weapons and additional equipment. Marcus and Jesus were part of the next squad on the other side of the landing craft and like them, they had been assigned a door gun. Half of the marines were new recruits from the Santa Maria and though they were all keen to get stuck into action, they also looked nervous, really nervous.

The craft shook and the passengers would have rolled to the rear if it weren’t for the sturdy straps that kept each of them firmly in their positions. Another reason for the heavy-duty harnesses was that they kept the marines secure when travelling in gravity free space. Contrary to what a few of the recruits had thought, modern science had not solved the problem of artificial gravity other than some basic improvements, such as the rotating habitation sections on the capital ships.

Colonel West, in his own distinctive armour, moved along the loading section checking on each of the marines. He certainly looked the part, with his scarred but well cared for armour and a customised L48 rifle on his back.

“We are doing one pass of the docking area. It looks like they have units guarding all the main approaches and have set up anti-aircraft emplacements near the habitation domes. So we’re going to have to go in hot and stabilise the situation. First, the gunboats will move in and clear a path through the anti-aircraft mounts, we’ll follow and take the docking hub. The rest of the commando units will land at the key points along the hub and loading area. We have four landing craft bringing in our commando company. One landing craft will also bring in an engineering platoon to help with any problems we might face. Once we’re inside, our job is to head to the Command Centre so we can shut down the Station’s weapon system. Once captured, we need to hold the area and wait for reinforcements. With these down the blockade on Prime will be lifted. Even more importantly, it will allow us to land transports and shuttles to take off survivors. We are expecting anything up to four hundred thousand people here and who knows how many casualties. Until the rest arrive we can expect to be outnumbered by at least ten to one, so we must move fast and hard. Until the weapon systems are offline we can only get a small number of landing craft in. We can’t take the entire Station on our own, not even with five hundred could we do it in the time that we have. We have to get the guns offline so General Rivers can bring in the cavalry. Understood?” he asked.

“Now don’t try and bring civilians to the landing craft, we cannot take anybody without a sealed suit and that will probably just be us. Leave the rescue to the jarheads following us in. We do the fighting, the rest of the marines clear up, no exception!” he ordered.

The marines all nodded, some of them hitting their helmets with their ammunition clips. The Colonel then moved further to the front so he could check on their progress. The first wave of the assault consisting of four shuttles and two gunboats went ahead and were just a few kilometres from the Station. Inside their craft a red light started to flash, from their training Spartan knew it meant they were expecting hostile fire.

“Incoming!” shouted one of the commandos at the front over his headset.

A number of fist-sized holes appeared in the outer skin of the landing craft as a long burst of heavy weapons fire raked the craft. Streaks of projectiles blasted past the craft as they moved ever closer. Spartan ducked back, flinching from the incoming fire. The landing craft was heavily armoured as they were designed to get troops to the ground when under fire but these projectiles were substantial. They were obviously expecting trouble.

The nearest gunboat travelled a little further ahead and its weapon pods activated, each one sending clouds of tiny flechette rounds into space that tore the incoming fire to dust. If they had been in atmospheric flight the sounds of weapons fire would have been deafening. But in the silent vacuum of space though there was nothing, just the vibration of the weapons fitted to the ships and the continuous sparks and flashing of them blasting away.

More holes and sparks tore down the left side of the gunboat and then a massive blast tore away one of the thrusters and sent it drifting away from the shuttles.

“Did you see that?” Teresa shouted but her voice was wasted as the intercom system lowered the volume through the built in headsets.

Spartan nodded but he was feeling less confident about this assault by the minute. The small group of craft were less than a kilometre from the Station and as they turned a little to the left Spartan was granted the perfect view of their target. At first it looked like any other moon. It was large and every part of its surface covered in structures, buildings, gantries and shipyards. It served as a colony, naval base, military barracks and transportation hub. Large parts of the colony were burning, presumably from the initial uprising and suicide attacks he had heard about on the news channels. As he watched, he noticed a streak of yellow from several sections of the surface. He squinted, trying to work out what they were before realising they were moving and heading towards them. He turned to warn Teresa but it all happened too fast. As the cloud of incoming fire bounced off the shuttle, the gunboat swung back to rejoin the formation. More fire clattered around both craft and then with a mighty orange flash the gunboat disappeared in a fireball that showered the shuttle with debris and sparks. Spartan was torn from his harness and thrown across the deck against the wall. As soon as his helmet hit the wall he was knocked out cold and slid down to the floor.

Teresa unbuckled herself and crawled along the floor to the unconscious Spartan, the buffeting shuttle shaking her about. More projectiles struck the craft and as she reached out to him three bullets tore through the hull and ripped through her right arm. The velocity of the rounds spun her around and she reached out, grabbing the harness with her left arm.

Marcus spotted the trouble and with great difficulty managed to drag himself over to Teresa. He pulled a sealant pack from the wall and carefully managed to clamp it over the wounded area and the shattered armour. It automatically sealed the gaps and re-pressurised her suit.

“Medic!” he shouted before Teresa really started to feel the pain.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The most famous incident that involved the IMC was the defence of the Confederation Council during the uprising on a desert platform on the planet of Kerberos. The situation was initiated following a trade dispute between a mining company and a transportation guild. During negotiations representatives from the guild brought over four hundred mercenaries from the Rim to capture the Council’s delegation. A single platoon from the warship Spiteful defended the council members until radio contact was lost. When reinforcements arrived, it took them over an hour to work through the bodies of two hundred and twelve mercenaries until they found the bodies of the marines in the main chambers, surrounding the dead council members. It was a terrible loss for the Corps but a day that the Sixth Marine Company has honoured every year since the action. It was from this battle that the elite Guards unit was created with the very role of protecting Confederation officials.

Great Battles of the Confederate Marine Corps

At a distance from the Titan Naval Station, the bloodiest space battle in generations had been continuing for almost half an hour. The massive hulks of the old battleship CCS Victorious and the battlecruiser CCS Crusader had slowed down and were engaged in an epic duel of broadsides. Standing at a distance of several kilometres apart there was almost no chance of their weapons missing and each deadly volley killed scores of crew and smashed great chunks out of the flanks of the vessels. Both ships were trailing debris and fire could be seen at various points in their superstructures but that wasn’t anywhere near enough to stop them fighting. The CCS Crusader had placed herself carefully between the enemy vessel and the Titan Naval Station. Her powerful engines and improved mobility over the heavier, slower battleship allowed her to maintain this position, effectively blocking much of the marine assault group that was making its way to the moon.

In the Combat Information Centre, Admiral Jarvis examined the engineering displays as the battle continued around her. Every few moments she lifted her eyes to examine her deadly foe on the projection display on the main wall. By a simple piece of engineering the external camera feeds could recreate the bridge windows from within the armoured safety of the centre deep inside the ship, and it gave the impression she was actually on the bridge of the ship. The damage reports and casualty figures were astounding but so far the newest capital ship in the fleet was doing her job. General Rivers had already left the ship and transferred to the Santa Maria to help conduct the action against Titan Naval Station. Stood next to her was Commander Anderson, her executive officer.

“Admiral, we’ve taken heavy damage but all our systems are still operational. We are matched in armour and weaponry but we’re still not using our trump card, our speed,” he said.

“I know, Commander. But we have to keep all of her attention away from the Station though. As soon as General Rivers confirms the commandos’ mission, we can reconsider our options here.”

“What if we could damage her engines or at the very least reduce her ability to manoeuvre?”

“Like the Bismarck? Yes, I see what you are thinking. She was one of the German Navy’s key battleships in the Second World War. Antiquated aircraft damaged her steering, and that made her vulnerable to attack by other warships who then sank her. See what you can do, Commander, in the meantime I want every gun turned to her decks. Smash her!” she ordered.

“Admiral,” The officer replied before returning to the tactical display.

“Lieutenant Nilsson, put me through to General Rivers.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The connection was almost instant and a pang of pride made her pause for a moment as she considered the speed and quality of her crew. Under no circumstances would she simply throw away this ship and her crew.

“General Rivers, I need an update on your operation, are we on schedule?” she asked.

There was a short delay before the crackling reply came back.

“Admiral, we have started the commando operation. The first landing craft have arrived at the Station and is under very heavy fire,” explained the General.

*

The loading ring on the Station was littered with debris as the first two platoons of commandos exited their damaged and scarred landing craft. Marcus and another of the commandos helped pulled Spartan and Teresa into cover next to the landing craft before fanning out with the rest of the unit to secure the landing zone. Only two craft had landed so far, the amount of defensive fire having forced the next wave of two craft to redirect to a landing zone almost a kilometre away from where they had landed. The skill of the pilots was exceptional though and the fact they had managed to land at such high speed, and in once piece, was a testament to their training. The moon had a low level of gravity and a thin atmosphere that required the use of respirators at the very minimum. Not that any of this was a problem for the marines who had training in a variety of gravity scenarios.

The landing area looked much like a waiting lounge in an airport with large open areas and lines of counters for checking in supplies or people. There was also considerable damage within the structure and obvious signs of battle from when the station was seized by the Zealot insurgents. Several heavy haulers, large wheeled vehicles, had crashed into a far wall and some improvised barricades were all that remained of the last ditch attempt to hold onto the place. The marines had fanned out as they pushed their perimeter fifty metres away from the landing craft. Almost as soon as they landed, they had seen fighters rushing out to stop them. The door gunners had held them off spectacularly but a small number of survivors were dug in at the far end of the building and pouring a withering hail of projectiles at the exposed marines. Colonel West and his squad pushed forward and took cover behind a burnt out loading truck, meanwhile the rest of the commandos kept their heads down behind any cover they could find.

Spartan’s head was pounding but he could make out the signs of movement. As he tried to focus a series of blasts shook the ground and large debris flew through the bay. It was a bizarre scenario as materials, that on a normal gravity world would barely move, now scattered through the open area as if they were devoid of mass. His focus was almost back to normal and what he could see took him by surprise. Tracer fire whistled past him as the defenders did their best to halt the marines exit from the landing area. Their own return fire was much lighter as they tried to spot their enemies who were well dug in over two hundred metres away. As he pulled himself up he spotted Teresa slumped against the side of the landing craft, protected from the incoming fire.

He moved over, examining her shoulder and spotting the emergency aid pack on her suit. Her eyes looked different, probably due to a mixture of drugs pumping through her body.

“How you doing?” he asked as he checked for any other wounds.

She rolled her head, obviously dazed and unable to do much of use.

“I, uh, my,” she said before drifting off again.

Inside his helmet the voices of the squad leaders rocked back and forth as the pinned down marines tried to get out of their difficult position.

“More have arrived, there are about fifteen of them behind the barricades in the access corridor ahead. There’s also another group of about fifty coming from the primary habitation ring to the right. Can anybody get to the door guns?” asked the Colonel.

Before anybody could speak the second group unleashed a hail of fire as they ran and bounced along in the low gravity to the marines. As the group rushed ahead the defenders from the barricades stood up and also rushed ahead, joining them in a full assault on the marines’ positions.

Spartan, who was just a few metres away from the craft glanced back, checking the vessel. It was heavily damaged and he could see scores of holes along its front and sides. His eyes moved along its length until he came to the weapon mount on the door. There were more holes and a black scorch mark where the gun should be.

“Colonel, Spartan here. The gun on the starboard side is missing. It must have been lost in the landing. I’ll check the other side,” he said as he climbed inside the craft.

“Don’t bother, it is over eighty kilos, you won’t be able to do anything useful with it,” came back one of the sergeants.

The sound of weapon fire from the marines was now massive as they tried to repel the wave attacks of the suicidal attackers. At least two grenades sailed inside their perimeter, three commandos were badly wounded and knocked out of the fight. More volleys of gunfire blasted across the open area with the odd round striking the thick armour of the landing craft.

Spartan had different ideas though and jumped to the other side of the craft, finding the lower gravity allowed him to take steps he could never normally take. He landed and had to hold on to avoid flying straight out the other side. The weapon mount seemed intact, as did the twin-barrelled machine gun fitted to it. He pulled the locking pins and then with great effort forced the weapon from its mount. Even though the reduced gravity made it feel just over twenty kilos it was still a weighty item. He moved back to the other side of the craft, though now much slower with the added weight and bulk of the weapon system. As he jumped out he met around twenty fanatics with cudgels, knives and other improvised weapons. They had somehow crept around and were trying to outflank them. They were only a few metres away and Spartan, without thinking pulled the trigger on the weapon system. A massive muzzle flash erupted from the gun as it poured hundreds of large calibre explosive rounds at the unarmoured attackers. The impact was instant and brutal as limbs, heads and torsos were smashed apart by the finger-sized projectiles. Even more sickening was that as each round impacted on their flesh it triggered a tiny explosive that had enough power to vaporise the flesh within ten centimetres in each direction. The flanking attack was over as soon as it had began and Spartan found himself pinned against the side of the landing craft, the massive recoil on the weapon forcing him back.

He looked out at the trail of gore he had created and then down to Teresa who was looking up, her eyes a little clearer and a wicked grin on her face.

“You crazy son of a bitch!” she laughed.

There was no time for conversation as the Colonel was quickly voicing his concerns on the intercom.

“They’re going to overrun us, use everything you’ve got, we have to drive them back!” he barked.

Spartan pulled himself from the wall and after checking Teresa was in a secure spot, moved around the landing craft and to where the thin line of commandos was pinned down. He moved ahead and dumped the weapon mount on top of a shattered hydraulic loader. Colonel West turned to him and then pointed at the enemy.

“Marine, is that thing working?” he asked loudly.

Spartan nodded and with great effort leaned against the gun, doing his best to brace against the expected recoil and then pulled the trigger. As before, the muzzle blast was vast. The guns were not designed for use by infantry, their expected role was fire support during landing or evacuation. Though the recoil was great, this time Spartan controlled the bursts, easing off before it became too great and knocked him over. His first two bursts were a little high but the subsequent ones were deadly. The three closest insurgents who were heading to the landing craft, were shredded into pulp and the ones behind them scattered trying to find cover from the heavy machine gun. It was all pointless though, as Spartan hunted down each and every one of them. The large calibre explosive rounds made easy work until all that remained was one fighter who was pinned behind one of the wrecked loading trucks. The Colonel raised his hand, indicating an immediate ceasefire. As the weapons stopped and the dust and debris cleared, the carnage of the battle became clear. Blood and bone littered the ground as burn marks and small fires ran throughout the structure. One of the new recruits stood up, for a moment forgetting about the lone fighter. Before he could move, a single round pierced the front of his helmet and slammed him backwards, instantly killing him.

Colonel West lifted his L48 rifle and locked in the range to the sniper’s cover. With a quick flick of the weapon he fired off three large calibre explosive rounds. He ducked back down as the projectiles hit. Just as in the training exercises the weapon did its job beautifully but this was the first time Spartan had seen the effects of the live rounds. The man had hidden safely behind the thick metal, but the Colonel had fired slightly above him. As the projectile appeared over his head, there was a flash and the upper half of the man vaporised in a spray of blood and organs. Colonel West did a quick scan of the area and then stood up.

“Marines, move it, we are nine hundred metres from the Command Centre. Go, go, go!” he screamed at them.

The officer and his squad rushed ahead and were quickly followed by the rest of the marines except for two who stayed behind to tend the wounded. Spartan dumped the now empty weapon mount on the ground and jumped back to Teresa. She was already getting up, the drugs must have been working, as she almost seemed back to herself. One of the marine medics moved over, checking her injuries with a scanner.

“You should stay with the landing craft, the damage is serious but not fatal,” he explained.

“Good,” she replied as she pulled her rifle from her shoulder down into a low position.

“Ready?” she asked.

Spartan knew better than to argue and quickly moved ahead to follow the rest of the marines who were pushing on. With the lower gravity Teresa was able to keep up without straining her injured shoulder as much as she would have expected, it seemed the painkillers were masking much of the pain.

The survivors of the two squads pushed on and apart from sporadic fire from the odd hidden insurgent, they made quick progress from the loading bay and deep into the main corridor leading to the central plaza. From there, there were multiple paths leading to the commerce exchange and main Council Chamber that operated as a kind of central governmental building for the Station. Colonel West examined a detailed structural model on the display in his helmet, checking for the access points and possible weaknesses. The Military Command Centre was built onto the back of the Council Chambers. They would either have to fight through the building, or work their way around the back and through the Naval Academy to reach the Command Centre. His decision was cut short as they rounded the final corner. A flurry of gunshots blasted towards them from a hastily erected barricade that was flung across the entire front side of the square. One marine was cut down and Colonel West only avoided fire by jumping high and throwing himself over a wall as he hit it a metre off the ground.

The area in front of the Council Chambers was a vast square, packed with now ruined monuments and waterfalls. It was the most photogenic part of the Station and often used when visiting dignitaries arrived. Along the one side at least a dozen vehicles were abandoned and being used as part of the barricades. From the upper floors of the concrete neoclassical building a number of shooters fired rifles and carbines from windows and openings.

Colonel West kept going, knowing that if they held back they would be picked off, one by one. As he moved, the remnants of the two squads moved with him, each marine spreading out and firing from the shoulder as they bounced and ran. It was a peculiar sight to see, as they skipped, ran and jumped, because of the reduced gravity in the Station. Multiple explosions indicated rockets being fire at them as they pushed ahead. Three marines were killed by the time they reached the barricades, but then the situation changed completely.

The Colonel was first over the next wall and crashed down between two Zealots. He slammed his rifle butt into the first, the impact smashing his face and forcing him back several metres. As more marines leapt over the barricades, he moved to his left and fired three rounds into the next fighter’s chest. The rounds shattered his torso and sent chunks of flesh across the ground as the man was brutally slaughtered. The Colonel turned, making sure the rest of his men were in position. As he looked around he noted with satisfaction that the marines were doing well. Bayonets, knives and rifles were all used as the two squads hacked and blasted their way through the line. Spartan, Teresa and three more marines appeared at the far left of the barricade and with just a handful of shots eliminated the Zealots trying to retreat inside the Council Chambers.

“Don’t stop, keep up the pressure!” The Colonel shouted as he rushed ahead.

As the officer entered the large arched entrance there was a bright flash and the entire front section of the building collapsed in a series of explosions and flashes of fire. The force of the blast knocked most of the marines to the ground and Spartan was shielded from the explosion by one of the pillars directly in front of him. As he edged closer, he could see over a hundred fighters pouring out of the council building through the breaches in the now shattered structure. He stood firmly, lifted his rifle to his shoulder and started to fire, each round shredding the Zealots as they rushed out to attack. Teresa moved up and joined in, adding her fire to the surge of fighters. The rest of the marines dragged themselves up but several were cut down before they could even stand. Rather than engage in a firefight the crowd of fanatics overwhelmed the marines and within seconds the entire section in front of the Council Chamber devolved into a murderous melee. In the ruins, the mortally wounded Colonel dragged himself clear of the rubble and looked down at where his legs should be. The improvised explosives had torn them away as well as leaving a gaping wound in his flank. He tried to draw his pistol from his thigh holster but his arm refused to obey. He turned his head and watched in a mixture of awe and dread as Spartan and the surviving marines fought their desperate and bloody battle. His last image was of Spartan swinging a bladed weapon of some kind and cutting down two Zealots in one blow.

“You crazy son of a bitch!” he muttered before passing out.

*

The battle between the two great naval juggernauts continued and it appeared that the older battleship was taking slightly more damage. The battle was hardly one of skills and tactics. It was simply a battle of engineers, gunners and firepower as each ship tried to put out more firepower than the other over a given time. The old battleship was starting to inch its way back to the Naval Station but with the damage both ships were taking neither could move quickly.

“Admiral, she’s moving, we can’t shield the Station from this range,” said Commander Anderson.

Admiral Jarvis examined the tactical screen in detail as well as the engineering section. She had her hand raised to her face and it looked as if she was trying to mentally crunch a large volume of numbers.

“How many marines do we have on board?” she asked.

The Commander was taken aback for a moment, as his brain seemed to block the answer to such a simple question. He shook his head as the numbers returned.

“Uh, three companies of marines, most of them are assisting in the medical bays,” he replied.

“What do you think of our reports on the experimental Sanlav Rounds?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Sanlav Rounds? The experimental canister shots, Admiral?”

The Admiral nodded as she waited for his thoughts.

“Well, from the reports they seem excellent at damaging or destroying light to medium armour at range. What they lack in depth penetration they gain in a wider damage pattern. What are you thinking, Admiral?” he asked unsure what to expect.

“We need to keep her from the Station but we won’t do it with guns alone. My suggestion is a simple one but it has been done well enough in the past. We double-charge batteries, use our speed to close the distance and give her a broadside at point-blank range. With that amount of fire we should be able to reduce her crew numbers, if not her weapon system, and clear the way for a boarding party,” she said.

“Boarding party? You mean to take her?” he said incredulously.

“No, no, we don’t have the time or the manpower for that. All we need to do is disable her engines.”

“Or her power plant, Admiral. Without power she will be dead in the water and weaponless,” he added.

“Excellent, so we rake her flank, board her and then cripple her power plant. Outstanding!” she said with a grin.

The Admiral turned from her executive officer and towards Lieutenant Nilsson.

“Lieutenant, get me Lieutenant Erdeniz, I believe he is on the gun deck,” she ordered.

*

Deep in the fighting decks of the Crusader the gun crews maintained the weapon systems and kept the ship in the battle. Lieutenant Erdeniz, although still wearing his bandages from injuries sustained in the attempted revolt on the ship, was standing at his post. Though there were metres of armour and two more decks between him and the CCS Victorious it was still a terrifying experience. In the last twenty minutes there had been two major breaches and the second one had vaporised one of his gunners before his eyes. This part of the ship was superheated and everybody working there was dripping in sweat.

His information on the rest of the ship was limited but he had seen the medical figures and it was clear to all onboard that the medical bays were to be avoided unless absolutely critical. His best guess was that they had already sustained two or three hundred dead with about the same number injured. It was high losses and as each member of the crew was removed from action the workload for those left increased. His crew of twenty-four engineers, gunners and loaders had already been whittled down to nineteen with one battery knocked out of action, three dead and two badly wounded.

“How are we doing?” he asked as he moved along the gantry checking on the three remaining gun batteries.

“Third battery is running hot, we’ve got maybe four or five volleys left and I’ll need to swap the rails out,” replied Gunner Thomas.

“Are you sure, can you reduce the power and keep them running?” asked the Lieutenant.

“Well, we could but that will cut the velocity down to half, Sir,” he replied as he turned, waiting for an answer.

“Do it, we can’t afford to take any chances in this fight. Maintenance can wait, right now every gun needs to keep firing!” he gave the order.

The wall-mounted intercom alarm started to blare, indicating that the command staff needed to speak with him. He moved off the gantry and down to the main command terminal.

“Lieutenant Erdeniz here,” he said loudly.

*

Spartan was covered in blood, his armoured suit was a bizarre mixture of camouflage pattern, dirt and the red streaks of gore. His L48 rifle was on the floor, its clip expended and the bayonet had snapped and was embedded in one of the insurgents’ chests. He had his left arm locked around the throat of one man as his right wielded a vicious looking machete that he had torn from one of the many fanatics that had attacked them. One of the few surviving men suddenly rushed towards him and with a fast, almost callous, slash he removed the attacker’s head clean from his torso. Following up with a slick twist on his left arm he broke man’s neck, dropping him to the ground like a piece of discarded garbage. Teresa was down on one knee as she smashed her rifle butt into the side of a wounded fighter’s head before lifting the weapon up and putting two rounds into another. Off to the left Jesus, Marcus and three other marines were fighting the last four fanatics, easily cutting them down with their weapons.

There were now only twelve commandos still able to fight and as they staggered forward, they dragged the rest of the wounded marines into cover. The bodies of many of them were buried deep under the scores of dead fanatics. As they were tending the casualties Marcus found the badly wounded Colonel West. The man’s body was shattered, his legs torn away and a huge trail of blood all around him. Marcus dropped to one knee, checking the officer’s suit for any signs of life. Incredibly he picked up a faint pulse.

Sergeant Williams limped over and knelt down next to the wounded man.

“Sir, Colonel, can you hear me?” he called.

The Sergeant reached out gently shaking him. The Colonel moved but he was unable to speak. Spartan looked back at the wounded and then ahead to their objective, noting they were now only a short distance away. He was torn between helping this officer and getting the mission done.

“Sergeant, we have to shut off those guns. The only way the Colonel is getting out alive is if we can get the rest of the regiment here.”

As if to remind them of the urgency of their situation a small group of insurgents appeared from the far right of the plaza and moved towards the their position. They were a mixture of well-equipped Zealot fighters and lightly armed fanatics, probably reinforcements from the surface. The group fired a few shots as they rushed ahead, the projectiles ricocheting from the walls around them. But without stopping and correcting their aim the fire was sporadic and inaccurate. A heavy weapon tore chunks from the wall behind them and one of the rounds hit Marcus below the knee, it sent him crashing to the ground crying out in pain.

The Sergeant put his hand on Spartan’s shoulder.

“Do it, we’ll watch your back!” he said, before turning around and helping the wounded Marcus into a ragged firing line behind the rubble and bodies. He quickly placed an emergency first aid pack on his shattered leg and then started firing at the approaching enemy. Two of the less seriously injured men helped to move the badly wounded Colonel to cover before joining the firing line.

“Everybody else come with me, we have work to do!” Spartan shouted.

The filthy and blood spattered marines moved on, with Spartan, Teresa and Jesus taking the lead through the now ruined building. Though most of them were still carrying their L48 rifles, Spartan and two others were holding a mixture of close quarter weapons. In this cramped and filthy environment they appeared to be just as useful. Once they were through the entrance they rushed along the main foyer and then down the side corridor. According to Spartan’s tactical display this would take them to the rear yard and on to the Command Centre. There was a chance that this part of the building would be booby-trapped, they could only hope that the first blast and collapse had already triggered any further devices. Either way it didn’t matter, time wasn’t on their side. If they waited any longer they would be overrun as more of the insurgents made their way to the area and surrounded the small number of marines. They needed to get the weapons offline and help get the reinforcements into battle as quickly as possible.

Two Zealots lay in wait and as they reached the back entrance, they opened fire. As the bullets flew around them Spartan rolled to one side just as Jesus and Teresa hit the attackers with well-aimed shots. They didn’t stop and in seconds they were in the open and running in a loose line to the gatehouse at the front of the Command Centre. It was normally protected by a strong perimeter wall and gate, but now there were multiple breaches and none of the usual security. Spartan slid into cover behind the ruins of the wall and focused his helmet-mounted optics on the Command Centre. Zooming in he examined the defences and sighed in anger as he hit the communication trigger on his helmet.

“This is Private Spartan, our commando unit has made it to the Command Centre. Colonel West is down, there are twelve of us left,” he said on the radio.

The radio crackled with a broken signal from the Santa Maria.

“Spartan, good work. Third platoon is pinned down, the engineers have made it to the side-loading bay at the Command Centre, one hundred metres from the secondary entrance. If you can get to them they should be able to find you a way in.”

Spartan turned to his right, squinting through the dust and debris. He couldn’t see any movement, then he spotted the five armoured engineers stomping towards the Command Centre. All five were covered in dents and scorch marks and they had obviously had a very difficult time making it this far.

“I see them, we’re on the way!” Spartan said, as he indicated to the rest of his squad.

They were instantly moving around the compound and towards the engineers. The defenders had already noticed the noisy, armoured marines and were pouring fire into them. One rocket blasted past and impacted near the leading marine and sent him crashing to the ground. He was up fast though and kept moving ahead. They were only twenty metres away now and Spartan contacted the closest on the intercom.

“4th Squad, can you bring down the wall?” he asked.

The lead marine in the heavy armour turned briefly to see Spartan and his squad emerge from the debris and fan out around the engineers.

“Nice to see you!” he said with a genuine sound of happiness in his voice. “If you can keep their heads down we’ll do the rest,” he said.

The arrival of the extra manpower gave them the cover they needed and with one final push the engineer unit surged ahead, leaping over the ruined perimeter wall and up to the thick masonry of the Command Centre. The defenders tried to hold them back but concentrated fire from Spartan’s squad kept their heads down.

The first marine slammed his armoured fist into the stone around the secondary doorway and ripped a metre long section from it. The second moved in and after several strikes tore a hole large enough to crawl inside. The two then grabbed the sides of the breach and tore them back, making a large hole in the wall to expose the dozen or so defenders to the wrath of the marines. As soon as the hole appeared, Jesus and Teresa tossed grenades inside. They rushed ahead, taking cover each side of hole. From inside they could hear panic as the unarmoured defenders tried desperately to avoid the weapons.

With a crump the hole filled with dust and bright flames rushed out. Spartan entered first and found only three dazed men still standing. He slashed the first across the throat as he struck the second with his fist. The heavy impact sent the man stumbling backwards and into a chair before he collapsed to the ground. Spartan pushed on inside as Teresa leapt in and dealt with the final man. Seeing the woman approach the fanatic gave her a wicked snigger and took a step forward to strike. Teresa simply blasted his leg, sending him crashing to the floor. Before he could try to respond she dropped down and embedded her bayoneted L48 rifle into his heart.

The two moved inside and the rest of the commandos followed. Several of them dealt with the wounded in their own particular style before the area was fully cleared. As Spartan stood in the room, he could see a long hallway decked with computer systems. However, none appeared to be connected to the high security weapons system. From his blueprints it said the weapon system was placed right here in its protected environment. He moved along, checking each as he went while the rest of the commandos spread out to secure the centre. Reaching the end he found a large iron-coloured blast door with a red light flashing next to it. A glowing sign above it simply read ‘Weapons Control’.

“Shit!” swore Spartan, as he realised there was no way he could get through such a massive structure, certainly not in hurry.

“Come on, we need a way in, this is what we’re here for!” he shouted.

Teresa took a step forward before looking up to Spartan.

“How about the engineers?”

She moved closer as she looked around the perimeter of the door, trying to find a weakness. The door was extremely well made and there were no discernable gaps between the wall and the metal of the door itself.

A hissing sound came from the door and to their astonishment it lifted up to reveal the control room with all of its systems undamaged and fully operation. They both turned back to see Jesus sat at one of the desks and working on the computer terminal.

“Jesus?” asked Spartan.

“Hey, man, like I told you, I’ve got skills!” he said laughing.

Spartan smiled and then stepped inside the room, their primary objective. He sat down in front of the main computer system and scanned the options available to him. From there he could access the landing grid, point defence weapons and orbital guns. He tapped on the orbital guns and a menu appeared offering him a variety of options from powering up, testing and firing sequences. He selected the offline mode and a message popped up along with a series of images showing each of the guns disarming and reverting to safe mode. Satisfied that it was working he called back the Santa Maria.

“Spartan here, we’ve accessed the Weapons Control Centre, the system should be fully offline in less than one minute,” he said with satisfaction.

“Excellent work. Private, the cavalry are on the way. Get your people back to the loading bays, we will have shuttles there for you shortly.”

Teresa turned to Spartan and gave him a thumbs up, things were starting to go their way.

CHAPTER NINE

Since the founding of the new colonies the status of Old Earth and its solar system became less important. The colonies at Alpha Centauri quickly matched and then surpassed the old world. As further colonies spread through the Centauri Constellation the balance of power shifted leaving Earth as a distant backwater. Though it was still the centre of old culture and knowledge it transformed over generations into just one of many backwater systems inhabited by those unable or unwilling to leave. Following the Great War, the Centauri Confederation was founded with each colony world being made an equal of the next. In one swift move, Old Earth became just another colony in an alliance that no longer even shared its name.

The Decline of Earth

The guns were silent and like a swarm of locusts the assault transports and shuttles from the Santa Maria and the Santa Cruz filled the gulf between the ships and the Titan Naval Station. A total of sixteen hundred heavily equipped marines were spread in over thirty craft. The transports were the largest, each one carrying a full company of marines and their heavy weapons. The shuttles brought in small, more specialist squads as well as equipment and medical supplies. Another hundred marines were waiting onboard the Santa Cruz as a quick response team in case of emergencies. As they approached the Station they split into small groups, each one targeting key parts of the complex where survivors were likely to be. As the craft reached a kilometre from the Station a small amount of defensive fire erupted, primarily from small arms and a handful of larger calibre weapons. No craft were lost and within seconds the first wave crashed down on the surface and released the eager troops.

At the Command Centre, Spartan and the surviving commandos had done sterling work though they had no time to enjoy it. So far, they had brought the guns down and the Station’s computer systems were being used to pinpoint the surviving population. They had already transmitted the life sign scans of the habitation and naval facilities, but there was no way to determine whether they were friendly or hostile. That was something the advancing marines would have to discover for themselves.

There was still sporadic gunfire outside the Command Centre but with the late arrival of the third commando squad they had been able to establish a strong perimeter to protect the site. The engineers were also still moving chunks of masonry to reinforce their position until they were able to leave. With the arrival of the missing squad was also Lieutenant Daniels, a young but aggressive officer whom Spartan had never seen before. He had immediately taken charge of the situation and had shown a degree of deference to Spartan and the work of his group.

“Captain Mathews here, we have evacuated Colonel West and most of your wounded by shuttlecraft,” came a transmission to the Lieutenant.

“Thank you, Sir, we are well entrenched but are still under sporadic attack,” he explained.

“I have four companies of marines making their way to you. You can’t leave yet though, I have orders from General Rivers. From the data sent over by Private Spartan it would appear the closest habitation section to you is housing approximately two hundred people. Can you put him on, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Sir, I have the data right here,” replied the officer as he lowered his voice, obviously trying to keep the conversation to himself.

“No, I need it from the source and as I understand it, Spartan and his unit have been working through the data for the last twenty minutes!” he said and his tone was becoming strained.

“Uh, yes, Sir, one moment,” said the officer as he was walking back along the corridor and into the large computer suite.

“Spartan, Captain Mathews for you,” he said.

Spartan was slumped in a large chair as he worked through the screen of data. Jesus was in his element and had already patched in the security feeds and climate control monitors to help gauge the level of people and resistance at key points in the Station. He was currently tracing a series of energy spikes in the Station power plant and so far none of them could work out why they were happening or where large segments of the power was being sent. Spartan hit the button on his built-in intercom, instantly patching him into the radio conversation.

“Spartan here, how can I help you, Sir?”

“Spartan, we’ve secured the first survivors and are moving into the zones you’ve provided the data for. I’ve received word from the General that suggests the energy surges you’ve identified are coming from the fusion plants in the naval yard,” he explained.

Spartan turned to Jesus.

“Jesus, can you bring up the power schematics of the naval yard and forward them to the General?” he asked.

“Doing it!” Jesus replied as he skimmed through the screen on his terminal.

As Spartan turned around, he wondered to himself where the man’s computing skills had come from and why he was in the Marine Corps. Of course, it was pretty simple though, a man who could work these systems could earn a fortune both legitimately or otherwise. He had no doubts on the direction Jesus would have taken. He allowed himself a small grin as he called back to the Captain.

“Captain, we’re sending the data to the General, I think you might be right, though. It seems there is a lot of energy building up. You think they have something down there?” he asked.

“One moment, Spartan, we’ll be with you shortly, please let the Lieutenant have your men hold your fire, we’re approaching your compound,” said the Captain.

Spartan lifted himself up from the chair and bounded towards the damaged doorway.

“Lieutenant, the marines are here, Captain Mathews has asked you ensure our men watch their fire.”

The two men went outside and to the improvised firing line where the commandos had established a strong outer perimeter. Spartan dropped down behind the rubble and scanned the distant debris. He could see the odd movement as the insurgents redeployed in their attempts to work their way around them. As he watched a smoke trail rush towards them and crashed into the side of the Command Centre. The blast tore a hole several metres wide and brought a pile of dust and debris down into the outer compound.

Spartan picked up his reloaded L48 rifle and fired a series of short bursts, each cluster of rounds striking at any point where the muzzle flashes appeared. A group of four Zealots broke cover, attempting to close the distance, but the impact from the large calibre shells slammed the first to the floor. As he dropped the first man to the ground two more bullets exploded at the preset distance sending shards of metal into the torsos of the other three.

More groups appeared from their hiding places as if a number of beaters were moving prey to the waiting hunters. Then a series of yellow flashes and a great cloud of dust signalled the arrival of the rest of the marines. As they came from out of the rubble Spartan could see scores of the men bounding forward towards the Command Centre. In the centre of the group a man carried a small flexible regimental standard. It was a bizarre look of modern personal protection suits and archaic symbols of a medieval battlefield. The horde of marines easily cut their way through the disorganised Zealots and moved up and around the Command Centre. A small group led by the Captain approached Lieutenant Daniels who immediately stood to attention and saluted. He looked to his side, looking at the perimeter and the dirt and blood-splattered commandos.

“Sterling work, people, outstanding!” he said beaming.

Teresa appeared at the entrance of the building, shouting over to Spartan.

“We’ve got a problem!” she shouted and then ducked back inside.

Spartan turned from the firing line and rushed in through the doorway, closely followed by the two officers. As they moved towards the computer room, the first thing that was evident was that half the displays and computer systems were offline. As they watched a number of the screens shutdown.

“We’re losing them, one by one,” Jesus said as he frantically tried to isolate several of the systems before the lot went down.

Crackling in their headsets signalled a message from General Rivers.

“All company commanders, this is an urgent message. We are detecting explosions in the main reactor cores. According to our calculations, the insurgents are triggering a station-wide series of explosions that will destroy it. You have no more than forty minutes to get your people and as many survivors off as possible. I repeat, you have forty minutes to evacuate. We’re sending every shuttle we can find to you. Get out of there!” he barked.

Captain Mathews rubbed his jaw as he considered the situation.

“General, what is the status on the civilian population?” he asked.

“So far we have taken off sixty-two percent of those we are aware of. There are still three habitation zones, including yours, left to clear. We have spotted insurgents all around your position, expect heavy resistance if you try to reach them, just don’t be late!” said the General.

“Can we do it?” asked the Captain.

“We can’t clear the habitation area and get back to the landing craft in forty minutes, we have to choose one or the other,” answered Spartan.

“How about we wait at the habitation zone for reinforcements to pick us up?” Lieutenant Daniels asked.

“You’re assuming there is anybody that can reach us in time,” replied the Captain before calling to the Santa Maria.

“General, how long till those reinforcements get here?”

“We have a final shuttle group on its way, it will be landing in approximately thirty minutes.”

“Can you redirect everybody to the Central Habitation Zone Plaza? There is enough space to land shuttles and we can evacuate the entire section from there,” asked the Captain.

“Interesting, yes, it should be possible. I’ll see if I can get a few transports to redirect to you, good luck, Captain.”

“There won’t be enough transports to take off all the marines and the civilians,” said Lieutenant Daniels.

“There is another option,” said Spartan.

“All squad commanders prepare to move out,” said the Captain before turning to Spartan. “I’m listening,” he said.

“Give the Lieutenant one of your companies to clear the route back and get the landing craft. If they can do it in less than thirty minutes, they can get the rest of the landing craft and meet us at the central plaza. That should give us enough capacity to load the civilians and get out of here.”

“Can you get back with one company?” asked the Captain.

“Yes, Sir, no problem,” replied Lieutenant Daniels.

The Captain thought about the plan but only for a few seconds, decisive action was needed.

“Okay, Lieutenant, make your way back and get the boats to the plaza.”

Daniels turned and ran outside, though he was a lower rank than would be expected, he was a commando junior officer and the marines instantly recognised him as such. It was just seconds before the company were moving away and back towards the landing craft.

“Ok, Spartan, the rest of us will split into three groups, I’ll take the two main groups directly to the habitation zone, it’s two, three minutes tops from here. I want you to take two squads plus the rest of your commandos and take the right sector. You’ll be entering through the ruined bar and then hit them from the side. Get in there hard and fast, we don’t have much time,” he said.

“They aren’t my men,” Spartan said as he prepared his gear.

“They are now, Spartan, I’m giving you a temporary field promotion to Sergeant, now get going!” he said with a grin.

“Sir!” shouted Spartan before turning to see a grinning Jesus staring at him.

*

The CCS Crusader approached almost point blank range of the damaged battleship Victorious. Both vessels were still moving ever closer to the Titan Naval Station and it was critical that the battleship was stopped, one way or the other. A boarding action between two such vessels had never been attempted but that wasn’t going to stop Admiral Jarvis. As the battlecruiser moved into position her guns were silent. Unknown to the crew of the Victorious she was charging up her weapons for one final, overpowered volley of fire. This meant she was exposed to four more volleys of fire before she was in position.

As the two massive ships approached to within two hundred metres, a final broadside from each ship crashed into both vessels. At this range the damage was horrendous and hole after hole appeared along the length of the battlecruiser. It still wasn’t enough though and the leviathan slid into position, her gun ports waiting to unleash their deadly new weapon. This time the Crusader made use of her double-charged railgun to fire the modified and lethal close range Sanlav round. It was the first test of the weapon and at this range the damage was nothing short of impressive. Like a giant shotgun the railguns blast a wide dispersal, that at such a short range tore chunks from the outer plating along the entire length of the battleship. With a massive cloud of debris blocking the view, the magnetic couplers powered up, drawing the vessels towards each other. In less than twenty seconds the two ships crunched together and like a privateer in the seventeenth century the Crusader jammed herself tightly against the enemy vessel. The only way the two ships would now be sprung apart was if both took their couplers offline and this was something that could be decided by the first ever capital ship boarding action.

In the Combat Information Centre Admiral Jarvis watched her screens as the Sanlav rounds did their work. Several of the weapon batteries were taken offline by the brutal overloaded attack, but it had done its work. As well as tearing the great chunks out of the outer skin of the Victorious, the weapon had created a screen of dust, debris and plasma that gave her the cover she needed for her boarding action.

“All marine units, boarding action is a go, commence your assault. Good luck!” she exclaimed over the intercom.

From key points along the hull of the Crusader a dozen landing craft rushed out to transport their precious cargos of marines to the battleship. There were only three hundred marines and another two hundred volunteers from the crew in the attack but they were all targeting one point on the ship, the power core, the only target they could assault with any hope of slowing the warship.

*

Lieutenant Erdeniz kept his head down as the landing craft he was in dashed across the short distance between the two capital ships. He and the rest of the passengers all wore sealed suits, but the gear he wore was the bulky variant designed for extra vehicular activity when working on the ship. It was not the closer fitting personal protection suits of the marines. Most of the decks’ gunnery crews had been selected to provide assistance to the marines during the boarding action. It was the duty of all crew to practice basic hand-to-hand combat and marksmanship for such eventualities but he had never expected he would have to help in such a situation. Unlike the marines he was armed with a thermal shotgun, a powerful close ranged firearm but it was nothing as effective as the L48 rifles and carbines carried by the rest of the marines.

With a jarring impact the landing craft smashed through the damaged outer skin of the battleship and continued on until embedding itself fifteen metres inside the wrecked metal. Their objective was specifically chosen so they could insert the marines directly into the crew area of the ship. The front of the landing craft pushed though the sidewall of one of the service corridors. The onboard sensors indicated a partial pressurised area, but it was still failing and like most of the ship, lacked gravity.

The bow doors opened to reveal the damage and the marines were already out, each using their hands or their manoeuvring thrusters to push on inside. According to the schematics of the battleship they should be near the main engineering hub that connected to key parts of the ship.

It was hard work to fight through the debris as well as trying to manage the lack of gravity and the bulky suit. As he moved, he positioned himself over the corridor and then activated his grav boots. With a clunk, he found himself walking on the surface though it soon became clear he was upside down as he pushed forwards. About ten metres ahead the marines gathered around a sealed door. From the plans, it was one of the many sealed sections of the ship. One man was already running a bypass on it whilst the rest had their weapons at the ready. With a jarring sound, the door slid across to reveal the main access corridor that led to the engineering hub. As they made to move inside a series of bright streaks rushed past him. Lieutenant Erdeniz jumped to the sidewall as the projectiles blasted past. One of the marines took multiple rounds in the chest. The impact of the weapon’s fire propelled him backwards.

“Go, marines!” The sergeant shouted over his intercom.

The first group pushed ahead, each man firing his weapon as he went. It was a surreal sight as the violence of the battle compared with the silence of space. The lack of sound didn’t cut the noise of the shouting and orders that constantly blared through his intercom.

*

Spartan and his small group of marines and commandos had made good progress in working their way across the Station. So far, they had run into just three insurgents and each had been dealt with quickly and quietly. After the bloody work of landing at the Station, the commandos seemed almost relaxed as they worked their way through the ruins of the old bar. Being so close to the habitation zone, they had to be as quiet as they were able and that meant using close quarter weapons or silencers when possible. As they moved past the ruined wooden bar several men and a bloodied woman leapt from cover. They managed to drag one of the marines down to the ground and proceeded to stab at him repeatedly with a stiletto-like knife. Spartan waded in, slamming his heavy boot into the woman’s chest and sending her flying back against the side of the bar. One of the commandos grabbed the arm of the closest man and jammed his fighting knife into his collar. He then pulled the blade out and struck several more times before letting the body slide to the floor. The rest of the squad made quick work of the rest before pushing on to the far side of the bar. As they reached the back section they moved more slowly, each well aware that on the other side could be scores, even hundreds of people. They inched along until Teresa found a crack in the wall that gave him a large enough gap to look though. As he peered inside his helmet-mounted headset crackled.

“I’m at the landing zone, there is a group of about forty insurgents on your way, we picked off the last few but the rest made it past us, watch your backs. We should be airborne in five minutes, will meet you at the rendezvous,” said Lieutenant Daniels on the intercom.

Spartan looked back, he couldn’t see any trouble but he wasn’t taking any chances. He sent four of the marines back to the rubble to keep an eye on their rear.

Looking back inside through a small gap in the wall he could see hundreds of people huddled in groups throughout the courtyard section of the habitation zone. The area was like a large dormitory with lots of rooms surrounding an open courtyard. Three or four Zealots guarded each group and there were large numbers of more guarding the doorways that led into the zone. Also there were more of them higher up, probably armed with sniper rifles to cover the courtyard.

“Captain, we’re in position, have you received our tactical data?” he asked.

“Good work, Sergeant, we will assault the four main entrances. We’ll start with a flashbang storm and then rush it. As soon as the firefight begins, I need you to clear the snipers and then move to the guards around the prisoners. Assault starts in twenty seconds.”

“Understood, Sir,” replied Spartan.

*

The boarding party had pushed past the lightly defended engineering hub and had progressed to just thirty metres from the power plant core when they came across heavy resistance. Dug in all around the engineering section almost thirty Zealots had rushed to defend the critical core of the ship. Unlike their normal aggressive tactics, they held back with each one taking cover and doing their best to hold off the marines. They ducked behind the thickly armoured coolant tanks and pipes that ran all through this sector of the ship. The battle looked bizarre as most of them were using their grav boots to stand on the walls, floor and ceiling. It made the battle both fluid and highly confusing to Lieutenant Erdeniz. Volley after volley poured down the corridor and every time one of the marines tried to push ahead, they were blasted back by the weapons’ fire.

“Shit!” barked the sergeant on the intercom. “We need heavy weapons here, we’re pinned down,” he shouted, though none of the marines seemed to know what to do. They were going nowhere.

Lieutenant Erdeniz leaned around the corner and fired several shots from his thermal shotgun. It looked impressive but he had no idea if he hit anything. He looked at the clip, noting he had only half the clip remaining. It was useless, at this rate they would end up surrounded. He looked around in the vain hope of finding something more dangerous than his shotgun. It was then that he saw the technician’s terminal behind the blast hatch on the left side of the corridor.

“Sergeant, I might be able to short out the coolants units, it could give us the break we need,” he called over the radio.

One of the marines tried to help the Lieutenant to the other side but another volley of shot blasted down hitting him in the arm and throwing him back in pain. The Sergeant could see what was happening and without hesitating, gave the order.

“Give him covering fire, now!” he ordered.

Seven marines pushed out from behind cover, each of them firing shot after shot at the enemy. Their fire was inaccurate and the Lieutenant saw only one of the enemy take a hit to the torso, before he was manhandled across the corridor and in front of the terminal. More fire blasted behind him that caught the Sergeant and another marine directly in the face.

Lieutenant Erdeniz did his best to ignore the ongoing carnage and pulled open the hatch. He needed the use of his hands and had to release several of the EVA seals on his suit to release his arms. They were still sealed inside his skin-tight protective suit but nothing like the armour the marines wore. One good stab with a knife could penetrate the skin of this clothing. He looked at the display carefully. Though he couldn’t shut down the power plant he could alter the controls that regulated part of the power grid and cooling. Luckily, his computing skills were significant enough for him to isolate and boost the coolant controls to overload. Warnings came up immediately but he easily overrode them and embedded a lockout on the engineering panel. Only a senior officer could override his work and even then the officer would have to make it down to engineering. It wasn’t perfect but he had bought them some time.

Turning to the rest of the marines and crew from the battlecruiser he gave a hand signal so the men ducked down and kept out of the line of fire. Corporal Jones moved up from further along the corridor, he held his L48 carbine at the ready.

“How long, Lieutenant?” asked the Corporal.

“Fifteen seconds!” Lieutenant Erdeniz shouted back.

“Take cover, when the tanks blow everybody move forward, no matter the cost. We have to secure the power plant!” ordered the Corporal.

They all pulled themselves into any cover they could find as the odd single shot tore down the corridor. There were now dozens of marines and crew all huddling down as they waited for the coolant tanks. Fifteen seconds passed and nothing happened. The Corporal turned to the officer, he was about to start shouting when a great burst of gas rushed down the corridor.

“Go!” he shouted, and in moments the corridor was packed with scores of people trying to fight their way into the area. Fire scattered around them but the mixture of gas, steam and debris gave them enough cover to get a handful of marines into position.

Lieutenant Erdeniz moved ahead as bodies tumbled about him from both sides. He grabbed onto the wall pulling himself clear of the carnage and kept tugging until he reached the far side of the room where the defenders had been holding out. Further ahead was a dark room with a dull red glow flashing in sequence. He recognised it immediately. The Corporal had somehow survived the devastation and pulled himself up to Lieutenant Erdeniz.

“Is that it?” he asked.

Lieutenant Erdeniz nodded at the Corporal who sighed with relief.

“Get the thermite charges here now, everybody else clear the route to the boats, once they’re set we are out of here!”

The two dropped to the deck and, using their grav boots, made quick progress into the room. All around them were huge pipes and glowing tanks that surrounded the reactors. Though the actual reactors were safe, about fifty metres further inside they could easily cripple the ship by removing the coolant and generator links from the rest of the ship. By Lieutenant Erdeniz’s best calculations the reactor could manage three to four minutes once the link to its coolants supplies was removed. His plan was to overload the weapons grid at the same time. The strain should help to superheat the reactor and cause catastrophic damage.

A team of four engineers from the crew moved into the room, each of them carrying a crate of mining thermite charges. They were all experts at their jobs and it took less than a minute to rig the charges and set them with a three-minute timer. As Lieutenant Erdeniz set the timer the Corporal stopped him.

“You sure that’s enough time for us to get out?”

“We can’t take the chance, any less and they could get down here and disable the charges,” replied the Lieutenant.

The marine nodded and helped the men to the corridor where they started to make their way back to the boats.

*

With a mighty flash all four entrances to the habitation zone lit up. The flash bangs were commonly used before an assault but not usually in this quantity. The Captain was taking no chances and as the dust settled, his unit charged through the gaps. The defending Zealots were momentarily taken by surprise and the marines were able to fight through the first line and work their way into the open area. Shots from above picked off a handful but their fire was not enough to hold back the tide. With the flash bangs being the signal, Spartan and his commandos rushed in from the rubble of the bar and moved into flanking positions. The expert marksmanship of the commandos quickly stopped the snipers and with their flanks protected, the rest moved in and targeted the Zealots guarding the civilians. A number of them turned on them, gunning down as many as they could before the marines were able to stop them. It was bloody work but luckily the commandos were fast and efficient and they were able to cut down the guards before too many of the civilians paid the price.

As the first groups were led to the safety of the landing shuttles and transports, Spartan and his squad kept pushing forward. A room at the end of the open space was showing on his scanner as holding a large number of people and he could hear screams coming from inside. Jesus made it first but as he ran inside a great shotgun blast blew him right back out of the door. His armoured suit protected him from the worst effects of the shot but it was still enough to put him out of the fight for a few seconds. Spartan pulled up next to the doorway and Teresa took the other side. He popped his head around the corner briefly and back again.

“Looks like three guys behind the table and about twenty to thirty hostages,” he said over his radio.

“Drop your weapons, soldier, and come in!” came a voice from inside.

“Fuck you!” Spartan shouted.

“Do it, or we start shooting!” the man shouted back.

Spartan placed his weapon on the ground and slipped into the open, walking slowly into the room. As he entered he could see the three masked men, each wearing the armour and garb of the Zealots. They carried bladed weapons and one wore an explosive vest. In his hand he held a trigger device of some kind.

“Show us your hands!” shouted the man with the vest.

Spartan lifted his hands, pushing them forward so they could see them. In his right hand he held a flash grenade and in his left he held a detached pin. He tilted his left hand and the pin dropped to the floor. As the three men spotted the weapon, a look of fear spread over their eyes. The man stood to the right took a step back, pointing at the pin.

“Pick it up, do it now!”

Spartan leaned forward a little, looking for a moment as though he was complying. As he moved, the grenade dropped from his hand and started to roll towards the men. The man with the vest looked to his two comrades. Just as the grenade reached their feet it ignited, the bright flash filling the room and instantly blinding those without protection. As the men lifted their hands to protect their eyes, Spartan lowered his hand and pulled out his combat knife. With lightning fast reaction, he threw it ahead and struck the suicide bomber directly in the forehead. He slumped backwards, dead before he hit the ground. Spartan didn’t wait though and leapt ahead, smashing his elbow into the second man. As his arm connected, Teresa entered the room with her L48 rifle raised to her shoulder. She fired two rounds into the third man’s chest and then another to his head as he was blown backwards. She turned to her left in time to see Spartan snap the neck of the man. It was over as soon as it had started. He looked up at the group of crying civilians, they had been there weeks and looked terrified. Holding out his arm, he beckoned them to him. More commandos entered through the door and helped lead them out and to the waiting shuttles and transports.

“Captain, area secure, we’re coming out,” said Spartan with a feeling of satisfaction.

The fires were already spreading and as the last of the shuttles left a series of explosions ripped through the naval yard. By the time Spartan’s shuttle reached a safe distance over half of the craft were already onboard the two marine transports. As usual, there was no sound as they moved away but it was clear from the smoke, fires and flashes that the surface of the Station was slowly being ripped apart from the inside. It was a selfish and cruel way to deny the Naval Station to the Confederation but at least they had eliminated the blockade and rescued most of the civilians. When the fires cleared, they would return and Titan would be rebuilt.

*

On board the Victorious the marines and crew fought their way to the outside of the ship as the remaining defenders tried to halt their progress. It was too little too late though, and as they reached the boats that could still move they boarded them and made their way back. Of the nearly five hundred marines and crew that had boarded the ship only three hundred and twelve made it back alive, the rest were killed, wounded or trapped on the massive vessel. As the last of the functioning boats left the ship, the thermite charge ignited.

The mining charges were a pyrotechnic composition of a metal powder and a metal oxide, which produce an exothermic oxidation-reduction reaction known as a thermite reaction. Though not explosive in the traditional sense they did produce short bursts of extremely high temperatures focused on a very small area for a short period of time.

As the incredible temperatures melted through the coolant pipes, they even managed to melt a section of the outer casing of the main reactor. It wasn’t enough to cause a critical reaction but it did create a breach that sent deadly levels of radiation though the vessel. As the ship started to lose power, most of its weapon systems started to go offline as well as the docking couplers. In less than five minutes, the ship was powerless and drifting, its engines out of action and a deadly poison moving slowly through every section of the vessel.

*

Admiral Jarvis watched with satisfaction as the boats made their way back to the battlecruiser. With the couplers released, the two ships drifted apart though the debris and chunks of shattered metal still hung like a cloud between them. She turned to her XO.

“How many left?”

“Two more boats, they are leaving for the loading bays now, Admiral. One moment, okay, we are clear,” he said.

“Get us out of here, fast!” she ordered.

With a great shudder the damaged but intact battlecruiser started to build up speed. As they reached the first kilometre away the first flashes from the rear quarter of the Victorious started to spread along sections of the old warship. A bright glow about a hundred metres from the stern of the battleship indicated the overloaded power core exploding. It was less than she expected but the results were exactly what she needed. Part of the hull tore away and the fires became worse as ammunition supplies and coolant mixed together. More explosions rocked the length of the ship, but no lifeboats were launched and no guns fired. The ship was far from destroyed, but she drifted like an ancient hulk with no signs of power or life to be seen.

“She’s dead in space and still they won’t leave her.” The Admiral said quietly to herself.

Her XO stepped up, examining the tactical display. “It looks like the bulk of her crew are moving to this area on the ship, what do you think it is, some kind of escape vessel?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” replied the Admiral as she watched the screens. “Orbit at one hundred kilometres and load the guns, if she tries anything I want her finished, once and for all!”

CHAPTER TEN

The formation of the Zealots can be traced directly back to the great exodus of peoples following the Great War. What started as a political dispute quickly spread to trade and religion and involved every faction, company and colony. With the signing of the armistice and the formation of the Confederacy, many of the more extreme religious movements were forced to the frontiers or newly colonised planets. Though there was no official persecution there were many citizens who blamed religious groups for the violence in the later stages of the war. It was these disparate groups that found work in the quiet, dark places of the Confederation.

Origins of the Zealots

Spartan was absolutely exhausted. Every muscle in his body ached and his brain was pounding from the constant exertion and stress of the assault on Titan Naval Station. In the sealed environment of the shuttle, he could at least relax, but being strapped down into his seat was not ideal. Next to him was Jesus whilst Teresa was at the rear of the craft being tended by two of the onboard medics. Apparently, her injuries were serious but not critical. It was important however for them to remove her battle-damaged armour and attend to the wound directly. The emergency aid she had received during the battle had kept her in the fight but it was no substitute for actual medical care. From his view through the small windows on the flanks of the craft he could see the flickering lights of fires and explosions that were rattling through the hull of the battleship. News of the boarding actions and her crippling had spread through the boats and ships of the Fleet quickly as expected. As he watched the dying vessel in the far distance, he pulled himself back at the sight of the bright hull of the CCS Santa Maria. He had been so transfixed on the fires that the marine transport had almost appeared out of nowhere.

“Sergeant, we have an urgent transmission from Captain Mathews for you,” came a voice over the boat’s loudspeaker system.

“When it rains it pours, man!” said Jesus with a mischievous look.

Spartan leaned to his side and hit a button on the seat that activated the microphone system. He looked about the shuttlecraft, the eighteen marines were all part of the unit that had just escaped from the Station. Most had removed at least part of their armour but two still kept their helmets on, either because they were too tired and possibly because of the everlasting fear of all spacecraft-based infantry that they might end up in a vacuum without their sealed suits. The normally clean camouflaged armour they each wore was now scratched and burnt and many had streaks of blood from the battle on the moon.

“Captain Mathews, you’re on loudspeaker. Are you onboard the Santa Maria?” he asked. There was a short pause before the speaker crackled and the Captain’s familiar voice filled the craft.

“We’re here, Sergeant, a damned fine piece of soldering there. The figures coming in are impressive, a lot of good people were saved down there,” he said.

“A lot didn’t make it back as well, Sir,” replied Spartan.

“Very true and nobody will forget that, trust me. That is going to have to wait though. Right now I have an urgent job for your team and you’re not going to like it,” answered the Captain.

Jesus looked at Spartan and then back to the small number of sore and tired marines that were scattered about the craft. Some were injured, but none too seriously. They all looked like they could fall asleep at any moment.

“We’re ready, what’s the problem, Sir?” Spartan asked but he hesitated, almost not wanting to know what it was.

“A transport has managed to escape from the Victorious and was trying to make a dash out of the System. The Crusader was already moving away from the danger zone when she was spotted. Gunboats from CCS Wasp have already disabled her engines but she’s now drifting towards Prime. With no propulsions, she can’t pull away from the gravitational pull. We were going to leave her to burn up in the atmosphere, but we’re picking up a large number of life signs on board. I know it’s a risk but we can’t take the chance until we know who is on board,” he said.

“Zealots?” asked Jesus.

“Maybe, we estimate thirty to forty people and as far as we can tell they are the only people to make if off the Victorious.”

“Interesting, it could be their command crew, maybe even senior members of the Zealots,” Spartan said thoughtfully.

“Perhaps, Sergeant. But it could also be another hostage situation or even worse, some kind of a trap. I know your people have been through a lot but you’re the last shuttle to get back. It will take another thirty minutes for us to get anybody else to the vessel. According to the computers, they will hit the atmosphere at about the same time. Your shuttle could do it in eight.”

“Understood, we’ll be there, Sir,” Spartan answered.

“Thank you. Watch your backs and get back quickly. Spartan, when you’re finished meet me on the Santa Maria, we have other business to discuss,” he said before leaving.

Spartan was surprised by the last part of the message but the operation came first. He turned to the rest of the marines who had overheard the entire conversation. Two of the commandos were already loading rounds into their magazines.

“I know this is above and beyond, men.”

“Not a problem,” said one.

“Yeah, not like we’ve got anything else to do!” said another with a laugh.

“Ok, Jesus, can you get a tactical display up here so we can see what we’re up against?” he asked.

Without getting up, Jesus took a computer tablet from the side of his seat and patched into the shuttle’s systems. In just a few moments he brought up a three-dimensional model on the forward wall.

“Yeah, its a standard T9 armoured transport, the same kind of boat we use for transporting marines. It does look as if it’s had some modifications,” he said as he skimmed across its outline.

“What’s that on the front?” asked one of the marines.

Spartan had already undone the straps holding him into his seat and was moving to his armour that was clipped into a mount on the wall. He moved to the front of the craft where the image was projected and looked closely, the section he was looking at was bigger than he had seen on the boats from the Santa Maria. He scratched his jaw as he tried to work out what it was. It wasn’t just the nose, the entire vessel looked like it had been roughly bodged to do a particular job.

“I don’t know. It might be extra armour. Anybody else know?”

“Wait, if you follow the line along the side you can see it is thicker all around the hull, I’d say she’s been reinforced and sealed for some reason,” said the marine.

“Sealed, as in from the inside or to keep us out?” asked Spartan. The marine shrugged.

“I don’t like it. Either they have sealed it to keep something from getting out or they really don’t want us going in,” said Spartan.

“ETA three minutes,” came the voice of the pilot over the speaker system.

Spartan looked back at the group and then the image of the craft before making up his mind.

“Well, we don’t have the luxury of time. Here’s the plan. First, we’ll move alongside her and set up an airlock seal. We’ll clamp down hard on her and make sure we’ve got a secure, pressurised access point to her cargo section. Next, I will lead a few armoured engineers in, that way if they have any surprises we’ll be ready for them. They will have a very hard time damaging those units. The rest of you will follow and help secure the vessel. It is critical we maintain a solid seal, we don’t want anyone dying in there, well, not until we find out who they are,” he said with a smirk.

Spartan pulled himself along the craft until he reached the equipment section. There were three sets of engineer’s armour mounted on the wall. Each was painted in dark grey, with the sharp edges of the digging tools painted in yellow and black stripes.

Spartan moved to the side, stepped into a suit and started clamping down the sections onto the mounts fitted to his personal protection suit. Though it added bulk to his body, it only increased his total size by about twenty percent. As he powered the system he twisted his right hand, checking the movement of the armoured hand and attached bulldozer type blades.

Jesus now reached him and started to attach the equipment on the second unit to his suit.

“If you go in with just the suits you’ll have no weapons,” said Peterson, one of the commandos who had fought alongside them on the Station.

Spartan activated his left arm and swung it in front of him, the edges on the digger blade were the size of man’s torso. “I always have these!” he said with a wicked grin.

“Yeah, I heard about some crazy guy using them during training, let me guess who that was,” he laughed.

“Have you used one before?”

“Of course, Spartan, combat engineering is a required course for all advanced commando recruits. You’d know that if you did the full training,” he said sarcastically.

As the three prepared their equipment Teresa pulled herself along the side of the craft to them. She was still not wearing her armour and once they started the boarding action she’d have to stay in one of the pressurised compartments in case of any breaches.

“Spartan,” she said. He turned around, only just avoiding hitting her with one of the heavy blades.

“How are you doing now, Teresa?” he asked.

“Not great, Spartan, the medics say I’ll need surgery to fix my shoulder. Part of the bone is shattered and the tissue needs work. I’ll live though.”

She reached out and put her hand on the thickly reinforced armour around Spartan’s shoulder.

“Just watch yourself in there, I’ll see you on the ship,” she said and then pulled herself back.

As she moved to the safety of the emergency pressurised compartments, Spartan did final checks on his equipment. The last thing he wanted was a poorly fitted strap or plate to fail in what could be a major combat operation.

The shuttle slowed as the pilot adjusted their course. With expert skill, he spun them around so that the access hatches on the right of the shuttle faced the matching points on the other craft. It was a delicate manoeuvre as both craft were now spinning slowly as they moved ever closer to the outer orbit of the planet. One incorrect move and the two craft could collide and even at a relatively slow speed could cause damage. The other problem was that they were now perilously close to the outer atmosphere of Proxima Prime. If they suffered any kind of technical problems, they would face the same fate of the transport, a quick and fiery journey as they were cooked alive.

“You’ll have six minutes, no more and then we’re gone. Don’t be late!” said the pilot as they bumped gently into position.

For a few seconds a dull vibration hammered around the craft as the magnetic seal was created. A series of metal brackets pushed out and fixed them to the outer skin of the transport, the link was strong and only a power failure on the shuttle could pull them apart. A flexible tube extended from the shuttle to the doorway on the transport and affixed itself around the door. As the pumps started up the tube pressurised and a link was formed. With the airtight seal ready, the final task was normalising pressure and opening the door. It took just seconds as the experienced marines bypassed the outer security door and cut the seals on the inner door, opening up access to the loading bay of the vessel.

The inside of the vessel was pitch dark though the marines couldn’t tell if it was intentional or simply down to power failure. Spartan switched on his lighting and the two shoulder-mounted lamps lit up the area in front. Inside it seemed to be full of a light mist that shifted and spread through the airlock. With the powerful lamps burning through the mist they looked like yellow beams that were seeking prey. For a moment Spartan worried it might be a kind of weapon and was about to hit his alarm button for the shuttle crew. His fears were averted however when he spotted one of the damaged generators for the landing gear on the boat. From the cracks along its length the same mist pumped out slowly, it was probably damage sustained during the craft’s escape from the burning battleship. Feeling a little more relaxed his spoke though his intercom to the rest of the marines and the crew on the shuttle.

“The doorway is secure, no obvious power in the transport. Engineers follow me, marines wait until we have cleared the first section,” he said.

He took a step forward and his grav boots clunked down on the metallic surface. Each step he made triggered a small light in his helmet that told him whether he was attached to the surface or not. It had been drummed in to him to ensure one light was always on, indicating that he had one foot anchored at all times. So far, everything looked safe. As he continued onwards, he constantly moved his lamps to check every dark corner. The small lights were mounted on a motorised pintle that allowed them to rotate in any direction. As he moved his eyes, the sensors in his helmet followed his retinas and moved the lamps accordingly. From inside the suit it gave the impression that the lights came directly from his eyes.

“Loading bay is clear, I’m now moving on to the passenger section.”

As Spartan moved slowly forward, Jesus and Peterson followed. Their engineer’s armour was bulky and slow, but they provided plenty of cover for the rest of the conventionally armoured marines to enter the craft behind them. At the end of the loading bay was a large metal blast door. To the side of the door there was a panel and a series of buttons. He moved to touch it when Peterson’s hand blocked him.

“Sorry, Sergeant, you don’t want to press that one, it’s the cargo access panel. The passenger panel is this one,” he said.

The marine pushed a button on the much lower panel and with a shudder the large metal door started to lift upwards. The speed was slow and Spartan took a step back in case anything came out from the gap to grab at them. As he moved back, he lowered his arms, the sharp blades waiting for anything to appear.

“Marines, hold your fire, watch for hostiles!” ordered Spartan.

The three at the front lowered their arms and pushed the sharp digging blades in front of them. Around the three armoured suits a number of the other marines pushed though the gaps, each one holding up their L48 carbines and rifles. After a few more seconds, the door thumped into position and revealed the large passenger area. It was designed to carry hundreds of passengers though there were no signs of people yet.

“I can see nothing. Anybody else?” asked Jesus.

“Wait, what’s this?” asked Spartan as he took a few steps forward.

Several metres inside the craft were a number of crates and containers. They were stacked two or three high and filled nearly half of the entire open space. They were all strapped in with a series of thick straps, ropes and chains and gave the impression they had been loaded in a hurry. Some of them were damaged and a few of the larger ones were open. A first Spartan thought they reminded him of coffins but then he spotted the symbols on the side. Moving closer he checked the details, the first one was from a medical centre on Prime.

“Sarge!” shouted one of the marines, as several shadows flickered across the wall to the right.

Jesus tried to track the movement but they were too fast and disappeared behind one of the crates. He checked on his helmet-mounted display and picked up two more shapes but again, by the time he had them in his sights they vanished behind the crates.

“Did anybody see that?” asked Peterson.

Before anyone could answer one of the larger crates ripped open and a man-shaped object tumbled out towards the marines. Spartan stared in fascination at what looked like a flailing man as he drifted weightlessly towards them. He looked at him carefully and quickly realised the man was simply drifting, there were no signs of life or movement from him.

“What the hell?” shouted one of the marines.

As the body drifted towards them Spartan pushed out his armoured arms and caught the body. He pulled it closer towards him, examining it in fascinated detail.

“I don’t get it, it is a man but look at his hands and face,” he said.

Jesus and three of the other marines moved closer. Expanded and grotesque muscles distorted his limbs but his skull appeared thicker and extended. The man’s jaw bulged to the rear and scars ran down his cheeks. Spartan looked at his hand and noticed the thick, powerful fingers and a series of serrated blades attached to the back of the arm that extended out and past the fingers. It was like some kind of bizarre experiment that had fused weapons and a mutated beast. They looked in some of the damaged crates and could see more of the bodies.

“I’ve got movement,” said Peterson.

He took a step to the side, making room for more of the marines to enter. The lightly armoured marines filled the gaps and scanned the area, each holding up their firearms and looking for anything remotely hostile.

“Okay, this isn’t good, patch me through to Captain Mathews,” said Spartan as he spoke directly to the pilot of the shuttle.

“Mathews here, what have you found?” asked the officer.

“I don’t know, Sir. There are bodies here but they are distorted or changed in some way. The crates say they are from bio labs on Prime. One of them is from a military base on Kerberos, how the hell did they get like that?”

“Distorted in what way?” asked a concerned Captain Mathews.

“The muscles are thicker, the neck and jaw are enlarged and the body here has scars down the face. They are all wearing some kind of reinforced plating, it looks almost like crude armour, Sir,” he explained.

“Armour? I don’t like it, get your people out of there, now!” he shouted.

Spartan stared intently at the body, trying to ascertain what madness could have created such a thing. As he looked at his face he noticed the eyes, both were bloodshot and staring straight ahead. Then he remembered, the eyes were closed a moment before. As the realisation dawned on him, the grotesque man reached and grabbed at Spartan’s face.

“Fuck!” he screamed as he staggered backwards and crashed into the wall. More of the shapes started to move and before Spartan could even try to straighten himself the creatures were all over the marines.

Jesus pushed himself forward, trying to stem the assault but there were simply too many of them. One crawled over his armour and then repeatedly stabbed at his helmet with a piece of twisted metal. The first strike jarred his head and the subsequent strikes forced him to lose his footing and drift inside the craft. He waved his left arm, desperately trying to knock the crazy man from his armour.

The regular marines opened fire where they could, each burst of fire ripping into the rough armour of the enemy. The metal absorbed much of the impact, but the marines’ fire was accurate and continuous. Four of the creatures were killed outright, but their wounded kept coming. One spun off the ceiling and swung both of its arms as it tried to hack at the marines. One of its blades took a chunk out of a marine’s face as the second became stuck in another’s chest.

Peterson, seeing the terrible carnage all around, stomped forward and using his armoured digging tools on his arms managed to cut a swathe through the group. One flew from the wall and grabbed at his right arm. He took three steps and then crushed it hard against the side of the transport. It howled and released him long enough for his right fist to force his blade deep into the thing’s throat. Blood pumped out and drifted in thick blobs through the boat.

Spartan pushed himself up, slamming his metal arm hard into his attacker.

“Marines, back to the shuttle!” he cried.

As they retreated the creatures continued their attack, each one biting, tearing and hacking at anything they could reach. Jesus and three marines were struggling under a mass of the creatures and Spartan tried desperately to reach him. One marine was cut clean in half right before him and another was tossed aside like a rag. He grabbed Jesus and yanked him away from the mass of blood and gore. One of them tried to grab at his face but Spartan’s left arm held its neck and neatly snapped it in two. He looked back at Jesus, noting the holes and damage across the armour. He kept moving back towards the access hatch with the surviving commandos provided covering fire. As they fell back into the shuttle one of the marines hit the large red seal button on the wall and the airlock doors slammed down.

Spartan staggered two more paces and then stopped. His breathing was laboured and his armour was splattered in blood, though how much was theirs and how much belonged to the marines he didn’t know.

“We’re clear!” he shouted into his intercom.

The pilot was obviously waiting for the signal and in seconds they had broken free and were accelerating from the transport and its deadly crew.

As Spartan pulled himself out of his armour, Teresa grabbed him.

“Are you okay, are you hurt?” she asked in a desperate tone.

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” he said as he looked at the pitiful remnants of the mission.

“A lot of us didn’t come back,” he said in a grim tone.

Teresa searched the faces of the marines who had made it back.

“Where is Jesus?” she cried. Spartan simply turned his head.

*

In the medical bay of the Santa Maria scores of marines were undergoing emergency medical aid. Teresa was on one of the examination beds while a medic examined her shoulder.

“You were very lucky, the aid pack stopped the bleeding and the bone is only partially damaged. I’ve applied a temporary seal and the pins will need to stay in until the tissue sealant kicks in. You’ll need to return in thirty-six hours for me to remove the pins,” she said before turning to wave another injured marine forward.

Teresa stood up and Spartan helped her put her jacket back on.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better, it could be a lot worse though,” she replied.

The two walked along the main corridor and into the mess hall to find mass celebrations going on. News of the final victories had spread through the ships and it was clearly going down well. Two more cruisers had just arrived and the rumour was that army transports wouldn’t be far behind. After hours of bloody combat, both in space and on the stations, the battle was finally over. With the civilians rescued, the Fleet had moved into a high orbit and established a strong blockade over the planet.

Spartan was moving ahead and towards the marines when he spotted Captain Mathews and a few of the commands chatting near a computer terminal. The officer quickly spotted Spartan and waved him over. The two walked over as the din from the rest of the marines continued in the background.

“How is the shoulder, Private?” Captain Mathews asked Teresa.

“It is pretty stiff. They will be looking at it tomorrow, right now they’ve got many more serious injuries to deal with. It’s not life threatening, just a real bitch!” she said.

“Glad to hear that,” he said before turning to Spartan.

“I’m sorry about your boarding party, it was a tough call but we had to know who was on board. How many of you got back?” he asked with a concerned look.

“I lost seven marines back there plus the rest have got a variety of wicked injuries. I don’t know what those things were but they came from somewhere and nothing would stop them, Sir,” he said quietly.

Captain Mathews was watching the marine’s camera feeds on his tablet as Spartan continued to talk. The picture was fuzzy and showed little detail on the attackers as they moved constantly in the darkness.

“Well, we’ve been hearing rumours from Prime about various things going on at the Bone Mill as well as other Zealot strongholds through the Confederation. It’s a shame you weren’t able to bring any of them back for study. Still, your video feeds will be better than nothing.”

“Better than nothing? What the…” Teresa shouted, but Spartan lifted his arm, gently keeping her away from the officer.

“That wasn’t the way I meant it, I have nothing but respect for the tremendous work and sacrifice you have all given. You have done the Corps and your unit proud. I’ve recommended you all to the General and I know he has something big planned..” he said before being interrupted.

“Have you seen the news?” shouted a marine as he ran past.

Teresa turned and watched him join a growing number of the crowd clustered around the large screens in the hall. Each screen was several metres wide and could be seen from halfway down the room. The sound in the room started to drop as more of the marines quietened, each of them enthralled by the video feeds.

“Come on,” said Spartan.

He moved off to examine the large screens and whatever news was getting all the attention. Teresa, Captain Mathews and the rest of the commandos followed him. As they reached the screens they stopped, each of them too busy watching to speak.

The screens were showing three repeating feeds, all of them from ground units in the trenches around the Bone Mill. A voice running over the top explained the material had been received in the last hour. The first screen shook quite badly and it was evident that the camera was mounted on a soldier somewhere. From the view, a group of five soldiers stood chatting when a series of explosions blurred the view. As the feed refocused and the dust cleared the other soldiers were getting up off the ground, though the man carrying the camera must have been hurt or killed as the camera remained stationary and on its side. A series of streaks moved past the camera and one of the soldiers waved his arms before a large number of hooded figures leapt into the trench. Each of the figures carried evil looking edged weapons and proceeded to slash and hack at the soldiers. Only one of them managed to get off a shot before he was knocked down and decapitated right in front of the camera.

An audible gasp rushed through the group of marines as they watched the Confederation soldiers being cut down in such a brutal and callous way. More Confed troops moved into the trench to try and retake it but even though they slaughtered dozens of the enemy, sheer weight of numbers pushed them back until the video feed showed nothing but crowds of the hooded, sinister figures.

They started to chatter when the second feed showed the terrible scale of what was happening. The feed said it was from an aerial reconnaissance drone directly above the Bone Mill. All around the perimeter a series of flashes and explosions signalled the start of the assault. From all across the structure swarms of the men came out in a bloody charge. The camera zoomed in to show at least ten of them leaping past soldiers as they were firing weapons and hacking with axes and blades.

The final feed was from a fixed camera mount on a vehicle near the battle. As the attackers moved in the camera zoomed in and paused on a group of three of them. The nearest one was biting into the shoulder of a soldier and another was in the middle of cutting down a fleeing civilian. Both were wearing a motley collection of metal plated armour that covered various parts of the body. It wasn’t pretty but certainly did the job of making them look terrible and dangerous.

“What the fuck is that?” shouted one of the watching marines.

“Zealot bastards!” shouted another.

Spartan was in shock, the attackers were exactly the same as the ones he had just been fighting on the transport. He turned to the Captain who was transfixed by the screens.

“Sir, that is what we found on the transport. They are strong, really strong and they can take a lot of punishment. Those soldiers aren’t going to stand a chance,” he said.

Captain Mathews reached down and pulled out his tablet. He looked at it, whatever he saw drained the blood from his face and within a few seconds he was already moving away from them.

“I need to go, Sergeant, we’ll be in touch,” he said before rushing off along with his group of commandos.

Spartan and Teresa looked at each other, before they could speak the loudspeakers throughout the hall burst into noise.

“This is Admiral Jarvis. Congratulations on an excellent operation. I can confirm that the stations have been neutralised and Confed forces are back in control of this sector!” she said. There was a short pause before she continued but in a much slower and more sombre tone.

“As you have probably heard, a massive and coordinated planet-wide offensive has begun on the surface of Prime. Initial reports say over ten thousand fighters have already broken out from the Bone Mill and more are appearing from underground facilities across the surface. We do not have clear information on the attackers but they have already overrun three army barracks and one marine brigade is conducting a fighting withdrawal to the Carlos spaceport. Infantry reinforcements are due to arrive in three hours. The marine battle group is being placed in reserve whilst it is re-equipped and re-supplied at the Kerberos naval yard. The rest of the Fleet will maintain the blockade around Prime and provide humanitarian assistance where required.”

More feeds from the planet showed the terrible carnage the horribly altered, or mutated, people were causing. They used firearms but when they were close enough they seemed to delight in using edged weapons and even worse, they were able and willing to use their hands and teeth to literally tear people apart. It was foul and sickening and an enemy that made the Zealots pale into insignificance.

Teresa turned to Spartan as the marines around them erupted in excited shouting and arguments. “What the hell are they?”

Spartan said nothing. He just stood there dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe that there were more of those things still around. Based on the massive strength and capacity for absorbing damage he could already see the threat they posed. Finally he spoke.

“They must be a new weapon the Zealots have been working on, they are stronger and more dangerous than any man I’ve had to face, we’ve got a big, big problem.”

A marine officer pushed through the throng of people, handing out papers before reaching Spartan, he looked at Teresa and then back to Spartan.

“Sergeant Spartan?” he asked. Spartan nodded, saying nothing.

“I have papers from Captain Mathews. It says you are to join these marines on the Santa Cruz as part of the new Commando Company. You need to be fast, they are shipping out in twenty minutes.”

“Commando Company, what about me?” asked Teresa.

The officer showed her the list, she spotted her name on the paper. “That’s me,” she said.

“Ah, yeah, it says you’re to go too, you need to report to your new commander when you get to the Cruz,” he said before turning to head back to the mass of marines.

“Wait!” shouted Teresa as she grabbed the officer’s arm. He turned but looked flustered at being grabbed.

“Which commander?” she demanded.

“Um, General Rivers, he is taking command of the ship for something special. Don’t ask me what, I’ve no idea,” he said as Teresa made to interrupt him.

“That’s it?” Spartan asked him.

“He’ll tell you more when you get there I’m sure,” he said before finally turning and rushing off.

“General Rivers, why is he in charge of one ship, Spartan?”

“Who knows, we’d better hurry though or we’ll never find out!” said Spartan as they made their way to the transport level and the waiting shuttle. Scores of marines were already on board and they had to queue just to get on. After a short wait they climbed aboard and headed to their designated positions. Spartan noticed many more marines rushing about on the Santa Maria, some were heading to their quarters and others went to waiting shuttles.

“I thought this was over, we’ve done enough fighting to last a whole career!” Teresa said as she buckled herself into her seat.

Spartan turned his head in disagreement as he pulled the harness down tightly.

“No chance, this is just the start, and from what I’ve seen it is about to get very bloody,” he said with a grimace.

“All crew to their stations, we leave for the Santa Cruz in sixty seconds,” the pilot announced over the loudspeaker system.

The crew were already closing the door and going through the safety procedures prior to leaving the main hangar section of the ship. From inside the shuttle Spartan couldn’t see outside into space yet, but he could see several of the other shuttles preparing to leave. One of them must have just arrived from one of the warships, as it brought dozens of injured marines sprawled out on bloody stretchers. The marine transports seemed to be able to do just about everything.

For a brief moment Spartan felt a pang as he realised that he was leaving his home but then he remembered what it was actually like inside. He could manage without it. Teresa smiled at him, noticing he was lost in his thoughts, before lightly thumping his arm.

“I bet you’re wondering about your decision to join up now right?” she asked him.

Spartan thought back to the courtroom and the choice he had made. Right now, he wasn’t so sure on his decision. Still, it wouldn’t be long before his first year was up, only nine more to go.

“Well, I wasn’t, but now you’ve got me thinking about it!” he said with a mischievous look.

TEARS OF KERBEROS

By Michael G. Thomas

PUBLISHED BY:

Swordworks Books

Copyright © 2011 by Michael G. Thomas

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

CHAPTER ONE

The first victory for the Centauri Confederacy was the bloody and costly Siege of Titan. Though the Zealots and their supporters had been pushed out, the revolt on the planet below had taken a violent and terrifying turn for the worse. Throughout the Confederacy the ships and people of the Confederate Military mobilised and prepared for the coming storm, the war that would move from an insurgency to the bloodiest conflict since the Great War.

Reports of the Proxima Emergency

Spartan should have been resting. It was four days since the events on board the Titan Naval Station and his wounds had barely healed. He was still covered in bruises and the stitches on his arm could do with another week of healing. Since returning to the Fleet he had been suffering from recurring headaches, apparently a common symptom of prolonged combat in close environments. It didn’t matter though, events had changed and taking a break was for somebody else right now. The insurgency down on the planet of Prime had taken over most of the Northern colony of Avagana and the other six colonies were experiencing a variety of suicide attacks and hijackings. What had started as a violent insurgency against the state was quickly starting to look like the first stages of civil war. Spartan wasn’t a career soldier by any means. His life just a year ago had been completely different. He was a well-built man but unfortunately a series of poor decisions had resulted in him fighting in the underground pit fighter circuit. The fights were illegal in the Confederacy but the money was good and he needed the cash to pay of his substantial debts. A bungled police raid had left him with a dead police officer at his feet and a choice between the military or prison. With the insurgency moving fast he was already starting to think he had made another bad decision.

The briefing room was packed on board the CCS Santa Cruz with Marine Corps officers and intelligence staff, as well as officers from other ships in the Fleet. Due to his recent experiences fighting the enemy shock troops he had been asked to attend, though from what he could see he was the lowest ranked person in the room. The ship was the sister of the vessel Spartan had served on board for many months but this was his new home. Unlike the other transports in the Fleet this one was dedicated to the transportation, support and supply of the elite commando companies. Every member of the commandos was selected from combat veterans with experience in the harshest of conditions. Spartan may have seen action in the bloodiest operation for the last fifty years but he had still only seen one action. Most of the marines sat there had a whole ten-year stint in the marines and a good half of them were back for another ten years.

General Rivers, an imposing figure dressed in his finest regalia, approached the front of the room. He was flanked by two marine guards, both in full armour and carrying L48 carbines in front of them on three point slings. Their armour covered them from head to toe and was completely sealed to allow them to move and fight in regions without atmosphere or pressure. Behind him marched Lieutenant Colonel Blake, leader of the commando company on board the ship and conspicuous by his camouflaged fatigues that he always wore. After the actions of the last weeks they were taking no chances with security and the armoured bodyguards were stationed all over the ship. He was an experienced warrior and had played an important part in the operations to remove the Zealot threat from the Titan Naval Station and transit stations in orbit around Proxima Prime.

“Please be seated,” said General Rivers.

The room quietened as he stepped to the side and brought up a large display of the Proxima Centauri System, one of the three star systems in the Confederacy, the other two being Alpha Centauri and Sol, the old world that included the original capital of Earth. In the centre of the screen was the star, around it tracked the eleven planets of the system. Prime was the largest inhabited planet in the Proxima System and her naval station was the most significant outside of Alpha Centauri. The industrial planet of Kerberos was a close second in size to Prime and featured over a dozen inhabited moons and mining stations. The display focused in on Prime and stayed there as the General approached the microphone.

“This crisis has transformed from an insurgency on a small number of colonies to a general uprising that could threaten the very Confederacy. I have received word from Terra Nova that an assassination attempt on the President and key members of the Council was averted. We have only just heard, but due to the delay between Terra Nova and Proxima this took place two months ago. Since then we are receiving only sporadic transmissions, so for now we are on our own,” he said seriously.

A hush spread through the hall at the news. The General lifted his hand for quiet. He continued.

“The good news is that there is no general support for the Zealots throughout the Confederacy. Their support base appears limited and if we act hard and fast we should be able to resolve this situation before it spirals. Our colonies are stable and the Fleet is under our control, but things can change and it is our job to protect the men and women of the Confederacy against any threat, from outside or within. Do not underestimate them though. They have been able to strike at ships in the Fleet and political figures on the ground. All Confed units have been activated and the reserves are being mobilised for a long campaign. Right now we need to stabilise the front lines, protect civilians and stop the attacks before the uprising spreads further. I will leave you in the hands of Lieutenant Colonel Blake who will explain the current tactical situation and outline your next operations. Good luck, I wish you well.”

Lieutenant Colonel Blake took his place and saluted the General who marched off, still escorted by his personal guard.

“The operation to clear the satellites around Prime was a resounding success and the moon of Kronus and the Naval Station is under our control. Our losses were high but the objective was completed quickly and effectively. Starting today the engineering team is already clearing the damage on the Station and we expect it will be capable of receiving ships in less than a week.”

Several of the marines cheered before spotting the stern look on the officer’s face.

“That is the good part, I’m afraid the situation down on Prime is much worse. We have important and very difficult work to do. As you are aware, most of the battlegroup that took part in ground operations on Kronus is undergoing resupply and medical attention. These forces are at the shipyard and medical station at Kerberos where they are expected to rejoin the battle if needed within two weeks. The last reinforcements from Alpha Centauri arrived two days ago and are already on the ground on Prime and are continuing the fight. The 3rd and 4th Marine Regiments have taken positions alongside those on Avagana. With the problem of communications with Terra Nova we can’t expect any more help. As most of you know, the journey is forty-five weeks, so unless they are already on the way we are now without reinforcements. We have other problems, real problems,” he said in a serious tone.

The officer zoomed in onto the continent where it showed the key mines, settlements, cities and transportation hubs. On the left side of the display was a large complex that was cantered around a huge city and surrounded by settlements, tower blocks and industrial sites. He zoomed out slightly so that the site of the Metallurgical Research & Mining Company showed along the side.

“Avagana, the Northern continent of Prime and home of its largest colony. As most of you are aware this is also the location of the Bone Mill.”

He paused for a moment as those watching immediately recognised the most feared warzone in the System. In the last year a secretive religious group known as the Zealots had overrun the underground facility. Since then the Confederacy had been fighting to retake it. Several days before a force of genetically altered shock troopers had smashed out of the site and launched a lightning offensive against the marine and infantry units that encircled it. In hours hundreds of marines were dead and the enemy was advancing on the towns and settlements in the region. The name Bone Mill had come from the bitter underground combat between marine units and the insurgents. It signified the savage attrition that had seen few gains and hundreds of lives lost on both sides.

“You are all aware of the genetic threat the enemy pose since they unleashed what may only be described as their shock troops. We can only assume they have been developing this technology for some time, or that they have help from a third party, as until now their numbers have been small and their mode of operation discreet. These new shock troopers are something completely different and with them has arrived a new chapter in this struggle,” he said as he waved over to Spartan.

Spartan felt a lump in his throat as he noticed everybody else in the room looking towards him. He had expected to be asked questions but the direct signal from the officer had still caught him by surprise.

“Private?” He beckoned to the front of the room where he was standing.

Spartan stood and made his way to the front, he could hear muttering and whispers from those present as he walked past. Although his combat experience on Kronus was undisputed, there was always jealously, and the fact that a mere private was being given the floor would do little to ingratiate him with them. He walked past the last row of officers and up to the Lieutenant Colonel. He stopped and saluted smartly.

“If you could provide us with your observations of the enemy,” he said quietly.

The officer then took a step back so that Spartan stood alone. He moved to the mic and started to speak but his voice had gone completely dry. One of the marines stood nearby tilted his head, indicating for him to look to his right. He turned quickly and spotted the tray and the glasses of water, two sips and he felt much better. He cleared his throat and started again.

“Following the actions on Kronus, my team was tasked with boarding a small vessel escaping the scene of the battle. After boarding and securing the outer sections these creatures attacked us. They definitely look human, though I’m not sure how or what has changed them. Their muscles are thicker and the jaws and bones have expanded and strengthened. The ones we faced were able to break through armour and also absorb heavy trauma from our weapons’ fire.”

Spartan turned back and took another sip of water. Before he could continue, two of the officers in the room stood up.

“Yes?” Spartan asked.

“Captain MacArthur, Bravo Company. From your encounter would you not describe them as animals, or are you saying they are a modified or mutated form of human?”

“I couldn’t say where they are from, it is clear that they are capable of using weapons and working as a group. I didn’t hear them speak or communicate, but I was kind of busy,” he said with a grin.

A gentle laughter ran about through the hall and Spartan finally started to relax. The Captain sat down but the second officer was still standing. Spartan couldn’t quite make him out but he wore the fatigues of one of the combat units.

“Are these the same creatures as the ones that broke out of the Bone Mill?” he asked.

“From what I have seen I can confirm that these are the same creatures that we saw on Prime.”

Spartan turned to the officers behind him and then stepped away from the microphone. The Lieutenant Colonel approached him and spoke quietly.

“Thank you, Private, you may return.” He then continued to speak from the podium. Spartan went back to his seat.

“As you can see, these troops are tougher than anything you have faced before. They are hard to kill and have the strength and ferocity to match. How they are controlled or where their loyalties lie is unknown to us, just as their origins are. What we do know is that while the uprising consists of just tens of thousands of people, the number of these new shock troopers is much more. The initial waves were more than twenty thousand and more still keep emerging from under the ground. What we can’t tell is whether they are modified human subjects or if they have been built from scratch. They are capable of using a variety of tools and weapons, including edged weapons and firearms. From the specimens brought back by our forces it seems these things may be human in some way and that they have been engineered to do a specific job. That job is war and they are damned, damned good at it!” he said loudly.

On the screen a profile of one of the creatures appeared, it showed the reinforced armour, tougher muscles and also several video sequences of them in close combat. They moved fast and were capable of biting or ripping people apart without the use of weapons. One image also showed a creature wearing armour and carrying a projectile weapon on its shoulder. Another showed a group of people, some of them wearing the robes of the Zealots but many more looked like civilians, though all were armed in some way.

“The combat situation is grave. Our forces in Avagana have been hit on multiple fronts and always from the underground facilities controlled by the Zealots. We are seeing a mixture of enemy units and not all the civilians appear to be Zealots. Whether this means their support base is spreading or that these are a less extreme version of the group we cannot tell. What we do know is that after the initial attack all military units have been forced on the defensive. Our forces have been trying to hold back the assaults to keep the towns and cities clear. I can tell you all that this operation to halt their advance has failed. The enemy continue to emerge from the Bone Mill and the many mines and tunnels that it is connected to over an area of three hundred square kilometres. We can only assume they have the ability to construct these soldiers at a fast rate. Alternatively, they may have been holding them in hiding all this time and are moving them through the many uncharted caves, tunnels and manmade shafts that exist down there.”

The image changed to show a much closer view of the planet.

“We have launched three raids into the underground sites to obtain intelligence. Every single one of these has failed and more of these creatures keep emerging. We have therefore been authorised to conduct a series of air strikes to neutralise the entire complex before their numbers become unmanageable. This however will only stop the reinforcements of the enemy, those in the field must still be dealt with,” he explained.

The display zoomed in to a snaking river along which straddled a massive city and port.

“This is New Carlos, capital of the colony and home to over thirty million people. It is one of the newest mega cities in the Confederacy and the largest city on Prime. The Governor is missing and presumed dead following a series of suicide bombings. We have already started to evacuate the smaller towns and mining outposts but we don’t have enough aircraft to complete the evacuation. The order has already been issued that all citizens should move to their nearest city. There are nine major cities in the colony and all have been hit to varying degrees.”

The map zoomed out and each city was highlighted in red to show the dispersal of the population. The continent was substantial, almost the size of North America on Earth. After pausing on the wider view for a few seconds, the map rolled out into a flat two-dimensional display showing the entire planet’s surface. Thick green lines split the planet up into the Seven Colonies of Prime.

“Our military garrisons in the colonies are already mobilising army units to help with the fighting but it will take hours, in some cases days, for them to reach Avagana. There is also the problem of escalation, if the troubles spread to the other colonies on Prime the military forces could be easily pinned down.” He moved the map to zoom in to the mega city.

“New Carlos cannot fall. Apart from the population of the colony at present in and around the city, it is also connected directly to the Carlos Spaceport. It is the largest transport hub in this part of the Avagana Colony and the most important one on the planet. There are road, rail and water links from this point that lead to the other colonies on Prime. It is one of the few sites that can handle the heavy transports and landers in the Fleet. If the enemy takes New Carlos they will control the pivotal section of the planet. Even of more concern, they will wipe out or assimilate every citizen in the area. In the last forty-eight hours Confed forces have been assisting the civilians in a general evacuation of the regions around the Bone Mill and the remote towns along the coast of Avagana. They are directing them to the cities. There is a problem though.”

The map zoomed to a section below the city showing icons where the various units were situated. A line of black ran in a broken line along with multiple red blocks moving towards the area.

“Three of the towns west of this point have been overrun and their citizens are running for New Carlos. Elements of the 7th Marine Regiment are trying to hold back the enemy as the civilians fall back to the city. So far they are holding but our best estimates are that they will last for only two, maybe three hours. With that back door open the enemy will stream into the undefended sections of the city. I think you can image what happens from there,” he said solemnly.

The room was now completely silent as the marines started to understand he gravity of the situation. The creatures that had been unleashed on the population by the Zealots were smashing their way through the Confed cordons and heading for all the populated zones. It was all going far worse than any of them had expected. He continued.

“Reports from the overrun town of Carnaz indicate that the Zealots are not wiping out population centres. When the shock troops took the town they killed anyone who opposed them but left the civilian population. Their new shock troops have been in the field now for four days and show no signs of stopping. When the troops moved on they left the area for the Zealots to secure. Once they arrived they started to sort through those that were left. Troublemakers are being sent to camps for whatever nefarious plans they might have, the rest are staying in their homes. This is consistent with our understanding of their plans. It would appear they wish to replace the leadership of Prime, not the population. This leads our intelligence units to conclude that there may be a more significant threat than just the Zealots behind the attacks. It appears there is a large political element behind the uprising.”

On the screen the display shifted to show multiple military units and their commanders’ profiles. One man stood out amongst them all, a sixty-four year old army general.

“General Shears, Commander of all planetary forces on Prime has taken command of New Carlos and is mustering a mixed force of army, marines and city militia to help defend the city. He has already mobilised over twelve thousand fighters but he needs more time. They have only been able to fortify twenty percent of the perimeter and the enemy has now reached the outskirts of the city. We have conducted air operations against them but they are too close for us to risk bombardments that near to civilians. They are moving fast on the defences but not fast enough to do the job, that is where you come in!”

“The Santa Cruz and our commandos are to spearhead a dangerous operation to blunt the enemy assault to give General Shears enough time to finish the basic defences for the city. At the same time three army transports have just arrived from Alpha Centauri. They will follow us in and provide reinforcements for General Shears in the upcoming siege. This will be a hit and run operation, we do not have the numbers to hold them indefinitely. Just get in there fast, cause as much mess as you can and then get out. I have a list of missions for you all to carry out but for now this is the priority. Briefings have been sent to your computer units. Have your squads ready for drops in sixty minutes!”

As he walked off Spartan looked around the room, noting the number of marines running in different directions. Since his transfer to the ship he hadn’t actually taken part in a combat mission. He moved from his chair and headed for the door before being cut off by the approaching officers. One of them, a tall man with a rough face and a smile stopped in front of him.

“Sergeant Spartan,” said Captain Mathews. He looked at the marine noticing his rank was back to private.

“Sir,” said Spartan as he saluted.

The Captain was in charge of Alpha Company and they had met during the action to retake the Naval Station. He had been instrumental in getting Spartan promoted to start with.

“I see your rank didn’t stick. Well, don’t worry about it, there’s plenty of work to do and work in the Marine Corps usually means quick promotion. That was a damned good job back on Kronus. As you might expect though, it’s not going to get any easier.”

“Understood, Sir.”

“How is Teresa? Her injuries?” He looked genuinely concerned.

“She’s doing well, the doctors say she will be fit for duty in a four to five days.”

“Fast, very fast. I’m impressed, she’ll be an asset to the unit.”

“Yeah,” said Spartan as he thought about his closest friend in the Fleet.

They were close, very close but the constant training and action over the last days had made it difficult to spend any real time together. He hoped a lull in the fighting would give them a chance to take some leave, but when that might happen he had no idea. They started to make slow progress towards the door before the Captain stopped.

“How is the new unit going? I know you’ve been thrown in the deep end but we need the quickest and strongest for the commandos. We have a habit of getting through people pretty fast!” he laughed.

“They’re not the easiest people to get on with, Sir. I’m not complaining, it’s just the way it us with a new unit. A combat operation will clear things up I’m sure,” he answered wryly.

“Indeed. Now, I understand you’ve already worked with Lieutenant Daniels?”

Spartan inhaled, his facial expressions did him a disservice as he tried to look as impassive as he could. The officer certainly wasn’t the worst Spartan had met, but he lacked experience and at their last encounter he had felt a certain amount of rivalry that shouldn’t exist between a ranker like him and an officer.

“Yes, Sir, he led one of the units in the final assault on the Naval Station.”

“I know he’s a little green but his training and combat record is exemplary. He has been assigned temporary command of one of the engineering platoons. Based upon your experience with the armour, and with him, I would like you to take a position in his platoon as second sergeant. The rest of your squad has been assigned to him and is already going over the briefing.”

“I assumed my promotion was just a temporary rank, Sir? I’ve only just finished basic training and I thought the move to the Cruz was to be part of my training as a commando. I was told when I arrived on the ship I was to be returned to private in my new unit.”

“You’ve already completed most of the commando training and your combat experience and the operations over the next weeks will either make or break you as a commando,” he said.

Spartan’s current status was confused as he had only just been promoted. The battle to take the Station had been Spartan’s first military operation, and though it lasted just hours he had probably been involved in more action than most marines would face in an entire career. Even so, when he had landed he was no more than a private. Due to the heavy losses in the assault he had been given a battlefield promotion to sergeant. He had acquitted himself well enough for an immediate transfer to the commando unit aboard the Marine Transport ship CCS Santa Cruz. Captain Mathews continued.

“Daniels’ unit is the newest one here. Most of the NCOs are either on the way here or were injured in the fighting on Kronus. There is nobody else with the kind of experience the unit needs. You have the position for now if you want it.”

“For now?” asked Spartan.

“Well, once we’re fully reinforced there will only be so many positions available. Traditionally the post is based partially on service time and partially on merit. You’ll have to compete with the old timers. My suggestion is just keep doing what you do well and I’m sure the job will be yours. Think of this as an opportunity to make your rank more…permanent,” he said with a look that told Spartan exactly what he needed to hear.

The Captain stepped in a little closer as if he had something important he needed to say but didn’t want to be overheard.

“A number of the officers have mentioned your tactical use of the engineers in combat and we have already been authorised to assign Daniels use of the full company’s worth of equipment for this operation. It will give him enough equipment for a full platoon. We’ve only used the gear for sappers’ work so far but you have already proved the combat effectiveness of the armour and strength, both on the ground and in zero-g environments. I think the Lieutenant would appreciate your support in their use on the drop. The techs on board have already started to modify some of the armour based on your exploits. Apparently, Spartan, you retrofitted weapons during one of the training exercises?”

“Well, I’m not sure that using gaffer tape to strap training weapons to engineering gears really qualified as retrofitting, Sir.”

“Really? You have a lot to learn then!” the Captain laughed.

The two men continued towards the side of the hall, only a few marines remained, some were making notes or discussing the upcoming operation with their officers.

“Did you say an entire platoon, Sir?” asked a surprised Spartan, still unsure as to what was going on.

“Yes, I’ve recommended the entire platoon will be armoured for this operation. Take it from me, with the numbers you’ll be facing you’ll want the armour and the weapons! This isn’t a permanent unit, we just need as much fighting power on the surface as we can get.”

A marine approached them and waited patiently for the Captain to turn to him. He handed over a datapad and the Captain gave it just the quickest of glances.

“Sergeant, I must go. Get to Daniels in Section 3F and do whatever you need to get this mission done. Remember the briefing, New Carlos must not fall! Good luck on the mission, let me know how the armour works out!”

Without waiting for a reply the Captain marched off and out of the briefing room. Spartan stood on his own looking around. He’d only just joined his new unit and this new promotion wasn’t going to win him any friends. He lifted his datapad and checked for the location of Section 3F where the unit was preparing for action. It wasn’t far away, just three sections down the ship and after the armoury. He left the room and entered the side shaft that ran the length of the ship. There were no windows on this part and it was just as well, as the movement of the stars when viewed from the rotating section of the vessel were known to cause nausea and sickness. As he marched down the shaft he noticed the large number of marine commandos equipping for combat. These units were normally based on the Furious Battlegroup but most of the ships were still being prepared for the conflict and the battalion had been rushed to the frontline on numerous transports and craft. The downside was that a large part of the heavy equipment was still back at the naval base on Kerberos. For now the CCS Santa Cruz was the new home for the 5th Reconnaissance Battalion of the Confederate Marine Corps. Though it lacked space for the heavy armour and weapons of the unit it did have a number of landing craft and shuttles on board, as well as the engineering equipment and armour that Spartan would be making use of.

The entire unit usually made use of light armoured vehicles and gunships to deliver small teams into combat. The 5th was an elite battalion of the Marine Corps and consisted of over a thousand men and women, the best the Marine Corps had to offer. It was made up of a Headquarters and Services Company, three commando companies and finally the elite Force Reconnaissance Company. The battalion provided reconnaissance and surveillance for the rest of the Corps. They were also trained in close quarters battle (CQB) tactics and other special missions. They were expected to be able to carry out any operation with speed and efficiency. There was no mission they couldn’t complete, or at least that is what they said repeatedly to themselves.

Spartan walked past two women who were in the process of fitting on their Personal Defence Suits. These were the standard set of clothing, camouflage and tactical armour used by all CMC Marines. It was lightweight and covered the entire surface of the marine. As he moved away from them and to the automatic door that led to the next section his mind shifted to Teresa. They met when first joining as recruits and they had become much more than just close friends. In the combat landing on the Naval Station she had taken serious wounds. The ground fire had been much stronger than expected and many marines had been killed trying to establish a beachhead. She was recovering fast and he really wanted to see her but time wasn’t on his side. He would have to check in on her on his return.

The door slid shut behind him and he continued on to the final section where his platoon was assembling. The entrance to the hangars and loading bays was much more utilitarian in appearance than the rest of the ship. Weapon lockers and stowage containers were everywhere. Along the left side of the corridor were dozens of mechanical suits designed for use in repairing and maintaining the ship, or for use on combat operations with the engineers company. These military suits were similar to the sealed Personal Defence Suits but much thicker and bulkier. Known as the Combat Engineer Suits or CES they were of much sturdier construction and also equipped with heavy-duty hydraulic gear, digging implements and cutting tools. Some of the suits were fitted with close range weapons but, since Spartan’s training and combat experience, in the last few days the equipment was already being heavily modified. As he walked past the fifth suit he noticed something odd about it. He stopped and looked carefully, trying to work out way it was so familiar.

“You okay, Marine?” asked one of the fitters.

Spartan looked at the man and then again at the suit. “Yeah, this one looks familiar.”

“Well, it should do, it’s one of the suits used for the boarding action a few days back. I’ve patched some of the holes and welded in the plating as recommended by the report put together by Private Morato.”

“Teresa recommended this? Strange, she never mentioned it.”

“Yeah, the reports we were given from the survivors of the Titan mission said the suits were vulnerable to hits on some of the hydraulic sections and also there’s thinner plating near the ribs. We’ve not had time to fit in all the recommendations but we have sealed the biggest weaknesses and fitted the weapons as per the comments in the report,” explained the man as he continued making adjustments.

Spartan continued on towards the group of marines at the end of the room. There were two platoons getting ready. The first was from Charlie Company and were readying their weapons and armour. Each marine wore a PDS suit and carried the marine’s standard issue L48 12.7mm assault rifle. The weapon used a twenty round magazine of variable operation ammunition and it was equally suited for short and long-range work. It had proven itself against a variety of enemies and types of armour. One marine in each squad carried the 6mm module and box magazine that modified the standard L48 rifle into a support weapon that could unleash massive quantities of lower calibre ammunition. It was normally used on board ships where hull penetration could be an issue.

Several of the marines acknowledged him as he walked past the first group and up to where his own platoon was assembling. The unit was made up of three squads and led by Lieutenant Daniels. He was busy discussing some piece of equipment with the crew Chief. Spartan stopped and saluted.

“Sergeant Spartan, glad to see you’re finally here. I thought we’d lost you.”

“I’ve just finished speaking with Captain Mathews, he requested I join your unit, Sir.”

“Yes…he did,” answered Daniels.

The officer turned away and finished his discussion with the Chief before turning back to Spartan.

“Contrary to what you might think, I am glad to have you here, Spartan,” he said as he handed over a datapad. “As you can see, we are to be dropped into the most violent and dangerous part of the battle on the surface.”

Spartan examined the maps and dispositions in detail. The datapad viewed the events in real-time and the scale of the battle was enormous. The main part appeared to be about five hundred metres from the city limits where a collapsed tunnel forced the focal point of the enemy assault. Scores of marines and infantry were battling in the rubble but, even as Spartan watched, the enemy shock troopers were smashing their way through the thin lines of defenders.

“How are the defences along the city limits coming along?” he asked.

“We are working fast, but if they break through the outer marker they will be inside the city in minutes. We need to clear an area of two hundred and fifty metres wide for an hour so heavy weapons and minefields can be set up. General Shears is sending five companies of city militia to help but they will not be able to hold the line until the defences are finished.”

One of the crew ran up to them and spoke directly to Spartan. The man was short and covered in grease and oil from working on the machines.

“Your suit is ready, Sergeant.”

Spartan nodded and turned back to the Lieutenant. “How long till we start the drop?”

Daniels checked his watch before replying. “We will be over the drop point in eleven minutes, we start the drop immediately, you’d better get ready.”

“Will do, good luck, Sir,” Spartan said as he delivered a crisp salute.

As Daniels moved off to get himself ready the first three CES units stomped past. Each was much bigger than a man and looked like an armoured monster. They were all painted in grey but a few carried the personal markings and patterns of the squad and unit commanders. Spartan approached his own unit and pushed his legs inside. Two of the crew helped to fit him in as they clamped down the seals and plates around his body. It wasn’t a vehicle, more a heavy and augmented suit that was perfectly suited to hostile environments. As the metal rings around the neck locked into place he felt the air pressure change as the suit fully sealed. Through the metal reinforced visor he could see the crew hammering with tools as the last sections were clamped into place. One woman stopped in front of him and peered inside his helmet.

“Sergeant Spartan, your suit has been modified as per the specifications in Private Morato’s paper. The welding and repair tools have been removed. We have retained one utility blade on the left arm mount and the right is fitted with twin L48 carbines. Both are loaded with 6mm box magazines and are linked through to the digging controls on the right panel.”

Spartan looked about inside the suit and found the small bank of recently added switches. The job wasn’t pretty but for just a few days’ work it was impressive.

“Good work, I’ll let you know how it all works out!”

The woman banged her wrench on the helmet as a signal it was clear to move. Two more CES units marched past and Spartan moved in behind them as they filed ahead. Walking along the left side of the column of armoured marines were the men and woman of Charlie Company. In comparison their PDS suits looked puny and weak.

The massive airlock door was open. It led to the loading bay for the landing craft. Each craft was heavily armoured and designed to carry a full platoon of over forty marines. In this particular action the CES units took up twice the space of a marine. Three of the mighty machines were waiting with their side ramps down for their passengers to board. The marines filed in, the CES units first and the rest of the marines squeezing in around them. Spartan approached the third craft and found he was the second CES unit to board the vessel. As he attached the clamps to his suit one of the marines spotted him.

“Hey, Sergeant, thought you’d abandoned us!” shouted Harrison.

He was one of the few marines he’d met in the last few days since arriving on the ship. He was a jovial character and one hell of a card player. Wherever Harrison was, Anthony always seemed to be there as well. Spartan looked around and sure enough he could see the other man. Then he saw two people he thought he’d managed to avoid for months. Burnett and Matt, two of the recruits from when he first joined.

“Spartan?” The first one asked.

He just looked at them. “Sergeant Spartan,” he answered.

Burnett approached and looked through his helmet. “What’s your first name, dude?”

“Sergeant,” he answered as he unclipped his right armoured hand swinging it around in front of the two marines.

“What are you doing here?” A third man approached, he was tall and wearing a fire-scorched suit. It was a mark of pride to repair the damage but not to remove the marks on the exterior of armour. This man had seen some trouble. Spartan recognised him and relaxed.

“It’s me, Marcus. A few of us were shipped over earlier today to fill out some of the units in the 5th. I take it you’ve already met these two?” he laughed.

The two marines had already moved away and were talking to each other quietly. They’d found themselves in a fight with Spartan on the very first day and he had no doubt they were still looking for some kind of payback from the bloody nose he gave them. Marcus on the other hand was a different person altogether. They’d fought together on the Station and Marcus was injured during the assault.

“What about the leg, I thought you’d been hit?”

“Yeah, still hurts. Took a 9mm round in the calf. They patched me up though, managed to avoid any serious damage. Somebody up there still likes me!”

The lights in the craft began flashing and the doors started to close shut.

“Secure all gear and personnel, combat drop in sixty seconds,” came the voice over the speakers.

With a loud clunk the doors shut and sealed. Almost as soon as they had shut the outer doors on the hull of the ship slid open to reveal the planet below. Spartan looked through the small slits running along the side of the craft to see the planet moving. The section the landing craft was on still rotated around the exterior of the ship. As he watched the planet appeared above and arced downwards. It was odd but the system was simple. The clamps would be released, the outwards force on the rotating section would cast the craft out into space, much like a person letting go on a merry go round though at much slower speeds.

“5, 4, 3, 2…1,” came a computerised voice.

With a shudder the craft released from the ship and pushed off towards Prime. From gaps running along the sides of his craft Spartan watched the other two landing craft launch and move into position along side them. Over twenty more were assembling in the little flotilla that would carry three full companies of commandos and CES units into action. A slight kick indicated the engines firing up and the craft accelerated into orbit and on its long arcing path through the atmosphere.

CHAPTER TWO

The development of capital ships started after the end of the Great War after one of the outer colonies in the Alpha Centauri had done the unthinkable and split from the Confederacy. For a time it looked like others would follow the example of Carthago and another war would split apart the fragile alliance. With eight rebel warships under their command they looked impregnable. It took an emergency flotilla to be assembled from every vessel still operational in the Alpha Centauri System and a violent battle that lasted three days before Carthago yielded. Since that fateful year the Confederate Navy has ensured it always controls larger, faster and more powerful vessels than those of the individual colonies.

Origins of the Battlecruiser

The CCS Crusader, the newest and deadliest ship in the Confederation military had just reached the outer markers around Kerberos, one of the eleven planets in the Proxima Centauri Star System. She was the flagship of the Confederate Navy and on her way home from the epic Siege of Titan after sustaining heavy damage and massive casualties. The battle had been unlike anything in the last fifty years and the repairs to the ship would probably takes months of hard work. The vessel moved into orbit around Kerberos as it steamed dust and debris from the dozens of damaged sections.

From space the planet of Kerberos gave off an odd greenish blue glow. Many people in the Confederacy considered the planet to be the most Earth-like of all the worlds but it was actually very different. The gravity and atmosphere were comparable but the air was much thinner. This made it difficult for the elderly or people with respiratory problems. This was one of the many reasons why the limited surface area had been built on so fast, creating insulated buildings with improved air supplies. Since it had been colonised the single super continent had been built up with thousands of tall buildings, a testament to the massive factories and workshops dotting the landscape.

Kerberos was an industrial world and although the factories and shipyards in Alpha Centauri were more famous for their quality and size, the new worlds in Proxima had proven cheap and competitive. The exports from the new colonies on Kerberos and Prime were almost reaching the same quantities of the old worlds. This growing competition increased the demands on the neighbouring planets and moons for raw materials. The massive increase in manufacturing had its problems though. The increase in mining and transport had created more than a few accidents. Even more of a problem was the never-ending scourge of pirates and organised crime. The riskier the businesses the more unsavoury the people involved were. Though Kerberos wasn’t the most populated of the planets it was where much of the technology and heavy equipment in the Proxima System was manufactured. Massive shipyards in orbit built transports and passenger liners that ploughed their way through the busy shipping lanes. One of the largest shipyards contained the half completed hulk of the sister battlecruiser to Crusader. This new vessel had already been lengthened by ten percent. This was to accommodate a set of hangars to carry either a number of gunboats or transports for marine detachments. A frigate was moored a short distance away keeping a watchful eye over the building project.

The main shipping lanes had already been cleared to allow the remnants of the Fleet to move into position around the orbital shipyards. Normally the vessels would have stayed at the Titan Naval Station at Prime but the Station had been badly damaged during the battle and subsequent sabotage. It was quicker to limp to Kerberos than wait for the docks and yards to be repaired sufficiently to allow work on the warships. What normally would take a matter of seven or eight hours had taken the ship three days. The Crusader was massive, though in space its size was only apparent when she approached other vessels. The hull looked as if it was wrapped in a series of bands rotating in unison around the structure of the ship. These bands along the hull provided full and half gravity to the vessel and its crew. She normally travelled with a full complement of over two thousand personnel and two hundred heavily equipped marines. Following the battle with the captured battleship CCS Victorious, the Crusader had sustained very heavy damage and the casualties amongst the crew were terrible. One of the reactors was still leaking and over half of her weapon systems were burnt out or destroyed.

Commander Anderson, the ship’s Executive Officer, was in command and his face showed sheer exhaustion from the last few days’ events. He was a man of slender build, with a freckled face and light brown unkempt hair. Like many of the naval officers he wore smartly trimmed sideburns and a small moustache. His uniform hadn’t been changed since the battle and it was crumpled and grubby. A dark bloodstain had smudged along the chest though it wasn’t clear whose blood it was. He was an experienced officer and had previously served with the Navy Cutter squadrons out in the wilderness on the Rim. It was an area of space that divided the colonised planets of Proxima and the outer gas giants. Much like the asteroid belt in the old Solar System it was packed with millions of tumbling rocks and asteroids, some the size of small planets and moons. The Rim was the heart of the mining and refining operations for many private corporations. With its many hiding places it had also become a haven for pirates and organised crime. There had once been a naval station there but it was destroyed in the Great War and never rebuilt. Commander Anderson had earned his reputation in a year-long campaign where he had led a wing of six cutters in the region. Operating from a modified frigate the group had captured over thirty known criminals as well as shutting down two of their bases. It had earned him the reputation as an aggressive but highly successful leader. He was a rising star in the Fleet. Becoming the executive officer on the CCS Crusader, the flagship of the entire Confederation Fleet, had been a great honour and the high point of his career. One day he hoped to command a vessel like the Crusader into battle at the head of a fleet. But for now he was babysitting the warhorse as she made her slow progress to the yards.

In the last few days the tense and critical role of helping to manage such a massive vessel had turned into something much more exciting. Instead of managing crew rosters and weapon systems, he had been thrown into something much more violent than anything he had experienced so far. As well as assisting in the running of the tactical operations during the Siege of Titan, he had also been on the bridge during the epic battle with the rebel battleship CCS Victorious. The battle had lasted a long time and hundreds and hundreds of crew had been lost in the desperate broadsides and boarding actions. Though Crusader had emerged the victor the ship had sustained 427 dead and 719 wounded. Only 42 of the entire 200 man marine force on board had survived boarding actions and violent broadsides of the battle between the two massive capital ships. This meant the warship had lost over half of her crew, though many of the injured were still manning their posts as she limped home. The ship was now more a slow moving memorial to the dead and injured than a deadly warship capable of facing any known vessel.

Until two days ago, Admiral Jarvis had still been aboard helping to organise the evacuation of the damaged and crippled warships. The Admiral had not been happy at sending the heavily damaged ship away, but with leaks in the reactor there was a chance the ship would lose power and end up dead in space. More ships were on their way from the rest of the Confederacy but it would be days before anything the size of the heavy cruiser or a battleship would arrive. Vessels of this size could conduct all kinds of missions from orbital bombardments to blockade management as well as the job they were mainly built for, combat against other vessels.

With space operations now focused on the blockade of Prime and the transport of personnel to the surface she had since transferred her flag to the escort carrier CCS Wasp. This vessel was almost as large as the Crusader but it was optimised as an escort carrier. As well as being able to handle the heavy gunboats used to escort shuttles and landing craft, it was also designed to operate as a command ship for amphibious operations. From there the Admiral could work alongside General Rivers in coordinating the action on and around Prime.

Hovering around the battered ship like a swarm of angry flies were gunboats of the Kerberos Squadron. This unit had already sent most of its warships to assist in operations at Prime. A number of the smaller vessels had remained, as well as the scores of gunboats that helped protect the infrastructure and ships orbiting the planet. The gunboats were tiny when compared to the warship but their size was deceptive. Each craft contained masses of weapons and electronic jamming equipment. In sufficient numbers they could take on small warships like cutters and frigates. Against civilian craft just one or two was enough to force a course change or demand inspections.

On board the Crusader lights started to flash on the communication panel. Lieutenant Nilsson, a dark brown haired officer with distinctive, green tinted brown eyes, examined the data coming from her communication desk. At first she thought it was one of the many malfunctions stemming from the damage they had sustained in battle. It quickly became clear that the indications were pointing to a narrow band burst transmission from the planet’s surface. She turned to the Executive Officer.

“Sir, I’m picking up encoded traffic on narrow band from the planet below.”

The Commander walked towards her desk and examined the data himself. His face contorted in confusion.

“I don’t understand. Narrow band is focused at a specific point. How are we picking it up unless it is meant for us?”

“It must be, Sir, unless it’s an accident.”

“I don’t think so. There’s a lot of space out here and the odds are miniscule. If it weren’t for us then who would it be for in this orbit? Can you decode it?”

I’m working on it, Sir, just give me a moment…” she replied, as she worked fervently on the system.

A series of coloured bars flashed on the display until a group of visual locks were removed to reveal a final security layer. Lieutenant Nilsson sighed before turning back to him.

“The message is encoded in a book-based cipher, only part of it makes sense without the code book, I have forwarded it to your datapad.”

Commander Anderson picked his pad up and entered his security code to gain access. He was surprised to find just a few lines of information from a source he didn’t recognise. There were details of several civilian ships and something or somebody called ‘The One’ and a list of nine buildings on the planet below. He recognised one of them as the Presidential Complex. Beneath the lists were two lines, both in some form of a cipher and one he had not seen before. At the top of the message was a coded word, presumably the name of the subject or certainly an identifying code. He didn’t recognise any of the words but the first line would be a good start. He was about to hand the material back for analysis when he noticed a prefix code used on board the Confederation ships and depots for access to low security areas. It was changed daily and this code had only been initiated in the last four hours.

“Gods!” he swore to himself.

He fumbled as he highlighted the code at the start of the document and transferred it back to Lieutenant Nilsson.

“The message has been encoded with an unknown cipher. This could be a serious breach. I need you to find out who it was intended for as quickly as possible!”

She looked at the text and started feeding it into various analysis tools but the data didn’t match any of the known Naval coding systems. She started the polymorphic analysis engine normally used to assess and monitor electronic jamming and sensory data. The computer system was the most advanced in the Fleet and could handle multiple wide band data streams and decode them in real-time. At first the system appeared stuck then it started to pick up key parts of the cipher.

“Commander, it shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

A light on the ship-to-ship communication channel started to flicker and she tapped the voice communications unit to activate audio. The authorisation signature of the Admiral popped up on her terminal. She turned around and caught the attention of Commander Anderson.

“Sir, incoming transmission from Admiral Jarvis.”

The Commander signalled for her to put the message through.

“Admiral,” he said as her image appeared on the screen.

“Commander, I take it you’re taking good care of my ship?” she asked with barely a smile.

“Of course,” he replied.

“I have just received word from General Shears on the surface of Prime that the colony of New Georgia is siding against us.”

“Against us? I don’t understand, Admiral.”

“It would appear that the sentiment of the general public, or at least their politicians, is that Confed Forces have no business on Colony territory. I suspect some of them must be colluding with the Zealots.”

“That could explain how they have been hiding so many troops underground for so long,” he said scratching his chin.

“Perhaps. Either way it looks like the troubles on the surface are about to become a whole lot more complicated. The official line from New Georgia is that they have declared the presence of Confederation Infantry as an occupying force on their territory. They have given all military units on Prime a twelve-hour ultimatum to leave or be interned. The other five colonies are in an emergency session of the Council of Seven, I don’t know how it is going to pan out, but knowing how this is starting to unravel I think we could be facing ground war.”

“What can I do, Admiral?”

“I need this to go private.”

Commander Anderson lifted a headset from the computer terminal and flicked a switch that closed off the audio from the main speaker system.

“We’re secure.”

“Good. I have an intelligence team on Kerberos that I am waiting to hear from. They are investigating a potential terrorist cell with intel on the insurgency. I am expecting to receive important information in the twenty-four hours…” she said before the Commander interrupted her.

“What are you expecting them to find?”

“There have been rumours for some time in certain circles that something is going on between the mega corporations on Kerberos and the left-wing religious faction and their militant off-shoots.”

“Interesting. We have already received an encoded narrowband transmission from the surface, we are in the process of accessing the data now,” he said.

“ I doubt that will be my contact on Kerberos, he’s not due to commence his operation for at least another hour. Who else knows about the signal?” she asked quickly.

“Just myself and Lieutenant Nilsson.”

There was an audible sigh from the Admiral before she continued.

“Good, make sure it stays that way. The situation here is very delicate, as is the intelligence operation on Kerberos. When you have the data contact me, I need to know how far this goes and what contacts the groups on Kerberos have made. Good luck, Commander, we will speak soon.”

“Understood, Admiral,” he said as he replaced the headset and turned back to the Lieutenant.

*

The ride through the lower atmosphere of Prime was rough and Spartan was forced to grip the thick metal handrails, as the clamps holding up his suit didn’t seem to be doing the job. One of the other CES suits had already broken loose and crushed the arm of one of the marines waiting patiently for the landing to commence. His shouting had echoed through the pressurised interior of the landing craft. It did little to help ease the tension that always preceded an operation like this one. Unlike travelling through space, the friction of the lower atmosphere was thick and created massive amounts of heat along the body of their landing craft. These parts of the flight were always dangerous, as any weakness in the skins of the craft could let in the heat and destroy the craft in an instant. That, plus the knowledge of the battle waiting ahead, was the ultimate sobering thought for Spartan. A final shudder came from the craft as it settled into a lower speed and more conformable flight.

Though Spartan had been in the Marine Corps for less than a year he had seen two combat drops already. One had been a contested landing on the moon of Kronus, the home of the now infamous Titan Naval Station. His second operation had been a much smaller one, though ultimately more dangerous action in space. He, along with a small unit of marines, had boarded a craft escaping from the burning hulk of CCS Victorious. On both occasions he had seen many good marines die and that had been just a few days earlier. He had expected to find some action in the Corps but nothing had led him to believe he would be facing three operations in less than five days!

“I’m gonna need a damned vacation!” he muttered to himself.

A crackle followed by a high-pitched whine indicated an impending announcement. That or the equipment had just malfunctioned.

“Marines, we hit the ground in four minutes. Hold on, we’re going in hot,” came the voice of the pilot.

On the wall behind the cockpit was a video display with maps and communication feeds to the units already in action. It had been switched off during the rough trip through the atmosphere, as the signal was unusable during re-entry.

“Man, can you see that shit?” Marcus was examining the moving map.

Spartan looked closely. It showed the outer perimeter and about a hundred people fighting in a series of ruined buildings. Blasts from charges and grenades flickered along the line but the greater numbers of shock troops were starting to break through. At two points in the line breaches had been made.

“They aren’t going to last long against that,” said Spartan.

The screen flashed and was replaced with the face of Lieutenant Daniels, the leader of the platoon. He was sat up front with the pilots in the most heavily armoured section of the craft.

“Marines, you’re about to land in the most violent warzone I have seen in my military career. I have also received word of trouble spreading through the other colonies on Prime. New Carlos is the largest city on the planet and the most important inhabited region in this entire System. It is imperative that you clear the outer markers so the engineer teams can establish a firm perimeter. This is a tough assignment. That is why we’ve been chosen. Stand strong and listen to your platoon commanders. Watch your comrades and remember your training. Good luck!”

The message flickered and then cut back to the map.

“Another message from our fearless leader!” said one of the marines as he banged his rifle magazine on his head.

“Sixty seconds!” the pilot shouted.

A hiss spread through the craft as the vessel depressurised. Although the marines were all wearing fully enclosed suits, the craft were always pressurised to provide full protection for the crew and passengers in case of any equipment or armour faults during space operations. It was also common for the craft to carry unarmoured passengers, especially when used for medical evacuation or transport missions. The system was fast and in just seconds the indicator on Spartan’s suit confirmed the status of the vessel. The metal shutters clunked open a few centimetres, giving each of the marines their first view of the warzone. As the shutters moved into position the escape hatches and access ramps disarmed, ready for landing under fire. The last thing the marines needed was to be trapped on board stuck in a firefight.

On both sides of the craft were great clouds of black smoke from the many fires spread around the countryside and outskirts of the city. On the sides of the landing craft were door guns, each one a large calibre projectile weapon capable of shredding a man. They were used to fend off light aircraft or to provide ground support during a landing. Spartan had used one in the low gravity ground conflict on the Naval Station and had experienced the devastating firepower of the weapons firsthand. With their speed reducing, the gunners moved to their exposed positions along the sides of the craft. The weapons unlocked from their secure, armoured lockers where they were kept safe during re-entry.

Jackson looked up to Spartan who was busy checking the settings in his suit.

“You ready, man?”

“Hell, yeah!” he said with a grimace.

“Is Daniels coming down with us or is he staying with the ship?” Marcus asked.

As if to answer the question the figure of the Lieutenant appeared. He wasn’t wearing any armour and for a moment Spartan and Marcus were confused. Then the Lieutenant turned and pulled himself inside his CES armour. Two of the marines helped seal him in.

“Hell, do you think he could have left it a bit later?”

“Maybe he was hoping to stay with the boat, Marcus?” said one of the marines who had been listening to the side.

“Hey, I’ve served with the Lieutenant, I’ve seen him in action and I know where his loyalties lie. Now button it, Marine!” growled Spartan.

He turned away from the annoyed marine and looked down at his tactical display. It showed the health and positions of the entire platoon, as well as links to the other marine units in the air and on the ground. He tapped a button and most of the data vanished to show his own platoon and the dangers in their immediate area. The last thing he needed was an information overload in a hostile area.

A great roar rushed from the vessel’s engines as they reversed thrust to slow their descent at the very last minute. It was comparable to the kick felt when an aircraft reversed its thrusters when landing.

“Ten seconds!”

The door gunners were already engaging targets but from where Spartan stood he had no idea what they were firing at. The clatter of weapon fire hit the hull of the craft like rain but none of the rounds penetrated, they must have been rifles and pistol ammunition. That was a good start.

They must have hit the ground hard as the seal on the right of the boat holding him upright snapped clean off. It took a superhuman effort on his part not to smash against the bulkhead. As he straightened up, the side door dropped down with a heavy thud and the unit was instantly exposed to the ongoing battle. Without pausing he flicked the seal switch to release his suit and then bounded for the door. The suit was frustratingly slow, no quicker than a man moving at a jogging pace. He went through the doorway and jumped the two-metre drop to the ground scanning the perimeter as he landed. In front were the ruined residential zones that ran out from the outskirts of the city. Most of the buildings were only a few storeys tall but a few were much bigger. A concrete flyover ran from one side to the other, he couldn’t see any traffic on it.

Already there were scores of fighters, some marines, some army and many more were volunteers from the city. Most were firing from the windows of buildings, others looked to be running back into the city. A loud noise came from behind and Spartan turned to see his landing craft lift up and then blasted off away from the battlefield. As it moved away the full scale of the battle was revealed to him. Scores of buildings had been demolished. Amongst the rubble dozens of marines were fighting a desperate battle against a great horde of the enemy shock troopers. Mixed in with the bio-engineered soldiers were a number of militia and Zealot fighters. The Zealots were in much smaller numbers than Spartan had expected. Even so, with these enemy numbers he was amazed the defenders had lasted so long.

“Frontline is collapsing, all commando units move to the perimeter and stabilise the line!” came the order.

“First platoon follow me!” Spartan shouted over his radio unit.

The armoured units from his craft moved into a loose line next to him as more arrived into the thick of the action from the other landing craft. But in less than twenty seconds he had enough to start his counterattack. Each of the CES units looked like an armoured monster, bristling with armoured plates, hydraulics and weapons. Spartan moved as quickly as the suit would allow him towards the brutal battle ahead. With the first two-dozen CES units were two platoons of lighter armoured commandos who spread out firing their L48 rifles at any targets they found. The precise rifle fire flicked along the line, as each shot picked off the enemy units one at a time. The commandos with the assault variants of the L48 provided suppressing fire as the rest moved forward. Spartan reached the rubble first to find three marines fighting one of the shock troopers. One was missing an arm and the other two were desperately stabbing away at the thing with their bayoneted rifles. He pushed past them and slammed his hydraulically powered arm hard into the creature’s chest. The strength of the suit was impressive. With one move the creature was knocked back several metres where it crashed into four more of them. As he lifted his right arm he faced them and held down the trigger. Normally the recoil from the L48 rifles would be heavy, but with the weapons mounted directly onto the suit’s chassis the unit absorbed the bulk of the recoil. Both weapons fired together bathing the enemy in scores of small but deadly flechette rounds. The creatures were instantly shredded, but many more were moving in to attack.

In the distance Spartan could see the cracks and holes in the ground where the creatures were coming from. It was easy to see why the Air Force had botched up the defence of this segment of the city. By staying underground, the enemy had avoided the bombs and emerged right inside the perimeter of the city. They must have been planning this for months. He turned to the left and then the right, calculating their numbers to be at least two hundred with more still climbing out from the rubble. The rest of the CES units had followed his example. They crashed hard into the enemy line where they had blunted the assault. Great streaks of flame poured from the weapons as they did as much damage as they could as quickly as possible. The lighter armed commandos moved forward and took up positions in the rubble.

Something grabbed at his left leg and as Spartan looked down he saw Lieutenant Daniels approaching. He kicked a creature away before tearing it apart with his linked rifles. Scores of the creatures rushed forward as more continued to crawl out from the rubble. Spartan spotted one trying to get past him and slammed the cutting blade on his left arm into the thing’s head. It was neatly slashed off, the body slid down in a mushy mound of gore.

“You okay, Sergeant?” asked Lieutenant Daniels.

Another two creatures leapt at Spartan. Just as they reached within inches of his suit, he pulled the trigger and blasted both of them to shreds of flesh.

“All good here, Sir,” Spartan replied as the smoke flittered away.

Fire from a hundred metres away started to hit their positions. One round struck Spartan’s visor, jolting him back. As the fire continued most of the commandos and the original defenders dragged themselves behind any cover they could find. Spartan examined the enemy positions ahead and quickly found the dozens of enemy troops firing their weapons. Around these fighters were scores of the shock troops, each one staying low to the ground as the small arms battle continued. One of the troopers stood up and waved something in the air. Spartan tried to get a better view on his display when he saw a smoke trail rushing through the air.

“Get down!” he shouted on the radio.

He looked around but the size of his suit prevented him from doing any more than just lowering himself. The missile struck one of the CES units further down the line and impacted in the centre of its torso. With a great flash the unit exploded, probably aided by the large amounts of ammunition fitted on its back. The explosion and shockwave hit those nearest to it as the smouldering wreckage crashed to the ground.

“Here they come!” Marcus shouted.

From the craters and gaps in the ground a great horde of the enemy climbed up and rushed en masse towards the loose defensive line the marines had established. The charging mass continued to fire their weapons, as they moved more rockets and missiles blasted the line to strike the defenders. The power of the L48 rifles was impressive and each large calibre round stopped a man in his tracks. With the special ammunition they were capable of armour piercing or exploding at set distances. Flashes and bursts ripped from the line as their gunfire did its work.

Spartan locked his armoured feet firmly on the ground, lifted his cutting blade and proceeded to add his own fire to the battle. He was aware of the strengths and limits to the suit but right now he could operate as a stable, armoured fighting platform. Aiming carefully he fired short bursts, each one knocked back two or three hostiles. Some of the enemy had actually made it to the line and he could see several marines stabbing back at them with bayonets as they continued to fire. He fired a long burst along their front line but they kept coming. Two creatures leapt through the air towards him as more appeared at a ruined building to the right. He slashed at the first one and its mutilated body crashed into his armoured head, knocking him backwards. The second one landed on his weapon arm and started to hack at him with a hardened metal weapon that looked like an axe. The impact forced him back and with a grinding screech he collapsed to the floor. As he hit the ground he flailed out with his arms and legs, desperately trying to keep them off him. Five marines rushed over and added their own fire to the action and managed to clear them off Spartan before his suit was torn open. He rolled over and lifted himself up to see the enemy were falling back to cover.

“All unit commanders report in,” came the voice on the comms network again.

The audio channels were filled with chatter as each company and platoon commander reported their current status. Spartan noticed that over half the units had been hit hard in that first assault.

“Sergeant, we lost five CES units in that attack. At this rate we’ll be out of marines in less than thirty minutes,” said Lieutenant Daniels over the secure line.

Spartan was about to reply when an urgent message came in from the monitoring ships in orbit.

“This is General Rivers. We’re picking up comms traffic that New Georgia is sending forces to help liberate Carlos from our forces. The other five colonies are still debating but it looks like Avagana is on its own for now. We’re sending five companies of reinforcements to the Southern perimeter, ETA forty minutes.”

“Lieutenant Daniels here, we need immediate air support, Sir, the front line is fracturing and casualties are heavy!”

“I know, we’re monitoring the action from here. They are throwing everything they have in the South. If you can hold until relieved we will have a chance. I’ll have ground support with you in less than ten minutes, good luck, Marines,” he said as the radio unit clicked off.

Bullets and missiles continued to pound the line but for now it looked like the enemy were content to pour fire into the defenders, rather than risk another full frontal attack. Though it looked less decisive their greater numbers were slowly taking their toll with the sheer weight of bullets.

“Sir, we have to get out of this fire, we’re getting creamed!” Marcus shouted.

Spartan looked around their position, instantly spotting the many dead commandos and a number of the CES units burning or heavily damaged. Another missile streaked across the battlefield and slammed into the arm of a unit, the blast tearing it off but leaving the unit still standing and operational.

“Maybe the suits weren’t such a great idea, they’re sitting ducks!” said Daniels bitterly.

“You’re both right,” said Spartan as he quickly assessed the situation. “If we stay here we die. These suits are designed for close-up work, in this kind of firefight we’re not going to last long.”

“I take it you have a suggestion, Sergeant?”

“Yes, Sir. I suggest the commandos stay here and provide covering fire, the CES units should advance and assault their positions.”

“Assault their positions? You mean a full frontal attack against greater numbers?” he asked incredulously.

“Yeah, he’s right. We’ll be much safer the closer we are to them,” Marcus said.

The Lieutenant considered Spartan’s proposal, though he knew in his heart that their options were limited. Either they stayed on the line until there was only a handful left, they retreated or they moved forward. If they stayed the enemy would assault them again when their numbers were lowered sufficiently.

“Okay, let’s do this!” Daniels said as he checked along the line. He wasn’t completely sure it would work but any action was better than waiting to die. He called his units on the tactical net.

“CES units, on my mark you will advance to the enemy, everybody else keep your heads down!”

Two of the units turned to look towards the Lieutenant, surprised at the order to advance in such adverse conditions. Both of them were splattered with blood and scratches ran along the sides of the armour. Lieutenant Daniels suit was painted differently to the rest and distinctively marked with tiger strikes on the lower body. The defending marines kept up a withering fire on the enemy but it was clear a change of tactics was in order. Small groups of the units emerged from what little cover they had found and moved towards open ground. As they prepared for the attack plinks of small arms fire bounced off their thick armour.

“Watch for friendlies out there!” shouted Spartan as he surveyed the assembled platoon.

They looked impressive, each machine a great lump of hardened metal. The battle had already taken its toll and of the entire platoon, only twenty-nine of the armoured suits were still operational. The rest were either destroyed or immobilised.

“Follow me!”

Spartan jumped down from the piled up debris and onto the rough open ground that separated the two sides. As he moved ahead the rest of the ragged line of machines went forward as fast as they could. More rockets and bullets blasted past and a freak missile destroyed at least one unit. Continuing on they fired long bursts to keep the enemies’ heads down. Incredibly they made it across the open space with no casualties, although all the suits had sustained a level of damage. Spartan and Daniels hit the enemy front line almost simultaneously. With frenzied savagery they smashed and hacked their way through the shock troops and Zealots alike. As the rest of the platoon arrived it became clear that this was the perfect battleground for the armour. The shouts and screams from both sides were drowned out by grenades and the fire of weapons.

The battle to hold New Carlos was well under way.

CHAPTER THREE

Prometheus was the most unusual and certainly the most dangerous planet in the entire Confederacy. Being the closest planet to the sun it was uninhabitable and no attempts were ever made to sustain life. It was however a rich and valuable source of iron and heavily mined for its resources. Reinforced and shielded ships ploughed their way to the planet and through the Proxima System carrying their wares. What made Prometheus even more deadly though were the terrible storms that forced vessels to take an indirect approach to the fiery world. Risking the storms was tantamount to suicide.

Birth of Prometheus

It was almost midnight on Kerberos yet the lights from the buildings still cast a dull glow across the street and over the nearest buildings. It was a wide road with good access for the many large vehicles that ploughed their way around the colony with their raw materials and goods. At this time of night, when the air became cooler, it could become difficult to breathe. Special Agent Johnson pulled a small cylinder from his pocket and inhaled a mouthful of oxygen. He tried to keep it to a minimum but after all this time waiting outside he was starting to feel the strain. He had been assigned a colonial ATU team for protection and he was acutely aware they were getting tired waiting for something to happen. Normally he would have made use of local police units but this was part of a large operation spread across the city. Officially he worked for Yama’s Special Crimes Division but was in fact an agent for the Confederacy’s top-secret Naval Intelligence Department. He had been contacted directly by Admiral Jarvis with special orders from Naval Intelligence to keep this operation secret. It had never happened before and therefore told Johnson that this raid was much bigger than anybody realised. He’d left the headquarters two hours ago along with three other teams on similar operations.

Kerberos was becoming a troublesome place with so many companies, organisations, unions and religions all vying for power to the detriment of each other. Even the team he was assigned with had the feel of a group that might just as easily stab him in the back rather than help him. The Confederacy was very important to Johnson. It provided him with a career and a purpose in a troubled part of the colony. Though he kept hearing negative press about the organisation, all he had seen were people trying to help and keep the people safe and secure. Something very big and very important was going on tonight and Johnson was determined he would find out what it was.

One of the street lights flickered and he pulled back into the shadows to keep out of sight. The three other ATU agents with him were each trying to be as discreet as possible. Johnson lowered the night vision on his helmet so he could monitor the movement of their suspects as they moved down the street. The intelligence from their contact said that a new terrorist cell was expected to meet one of the many industrialists on the planet with links to the Zealots. If true it could indicate a growing alliance between important figures on Kerberos and the religious insurgents throughout the Confederacy. The industrialist was already in the club and being watched by their contact, though he was disappointed to find they had no audio or visual feeds into the building.

“Suspect is using his comms gear,” came the voice of his contact on the inside.

“Understood,” said Johnson quietly.

The team had been waiting for over an hour for this meeting to take place. With the trouble on Prime threatening to travel off-world the success of their mission was even more critical. Johnson was busy thinking about the many different permutations of what was going on when a small black car arrived. It was unmarked and as it stopped outside the building another pulled up behind it. Johnson whispered into his headset.

“Wait, all units hold position.”

The door opened and out stepped four men in black suits. They looked like the usual thugs the criminal groups in the city used, but they could equally be legitimate bodyguards for an important dignitary. Three more men exited the second vehicle, each one looked just the same as the previous four. The group spread out, two stayed with the car and the other five moved out to key areas on the street.

“Crap!” muttered Johnson to himself.

As the men fanned out another two people emerged from the second car, one was a man in a light grey business suit, the second a woman wearing an evening dress. The two walked the short distance from the car to the entrance of the bar and went inside.

“Sir, message from Fleet for you,” said one of the men as he handed over his communication link.

Johnson lifted the headpiece and tapped the decrypt key on the handset. A series of tones came down the line as the connection was authenticated from his headquarters in the city.

“Special Agent Johnson, this is a recorded message from Admiral Jarvis. Intelligence obtained from the Titan Naval Station indicates several cells on Kerberos. We suspect possible planetary government collusion. I have attached identity ciphers for cleared personnel. Do not share the intelligence you discover on your operation with anyone outside of this circle. Report back to me when you have news, good luck,” the voice crackled and then repeated the message.

Johnson looked down at the communication unit and the identity keys it displayed. He pulled out his field datapad, a smaller device than the standard models used in offices, copying the data over. As soon as it completed the recorded message and data associated with it, it was automatically deleted. He removed the headset and handed it back to the security officer.

“Are we going in?” asked one of the officers.

Johnson lifted his hand to signal for them not to move before speaking quietly over the radio system.

“No, we don’t move till we get the word from our contact inside,” he said firmly before turning back to the surveillance of the building.

“Nobody moves until I give the word!”

*

The great hulk of the CCS Crusader pushed on into orbit around Kerberos. Some of her weapon systems were now functional but switched off to conserve power. The last attempt to activate them had shorted out two decks and triggered a series of blasts that took four hours to contain. Most of the bridge staff was helping engineering sections throughout the vessel as they tried to keep the almost crippled vessel in one piece.

On the bridge of the ship Commander Anderson stared out through the virtual windows to survey the planet below. Kerberos was an odd place, a mix of industry, crime and religion. It should have been the perfect place, but money and greed had corrupted the planet more quickly than any had ever expected. It was still a mighty workshop capable of producing anything from computers to starship engines. A small group of gunboats rushed past as they made their way to an unknown objective. He noticed the weapons covering the small craft. They were mighty and just one could cause a real problem to even a warship if given the chance.

Lieutenant Nilsson slammed her hand onto her communication terminal before realising the rest of the command staff was watching her. Lieutenant Carver, the ship’s navigator, turned around to see what the noise was before returning to his duties. She sat up straight with a sheepish looking expression on her face. Commander Anderson was busy checking the battle reports from Prime when he heard the fuss.

“Problem, Lieutenant?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

The officer turned around to face him but she still looked confused.

“While the brute force tools are working, I’ve been checking on the source of the transmission and also tracked its movement. From the logs the signal did hit us first, but was switched off and then reactivated thirty seconds after we passed.”

“So? Maybe they had more data to send?” answered the Commander.

“Maybe. Here’s the weird thing though, Sir. If they intended on continuing communication with our ship, why didn’t they maintain their target lock with us? I’ve checked and they didn’t redirect their transmission to follow our trajectory.”

“It didn’t move to track us? Are you positive?”

“Sir, I have tracked the path of the signal and, based on the time of transmission and our course, it is certain they were continuing to transmit at the exact same location.”

A few metres away Lieutenant Carver moved several objects on his plotting display. He was busy tracking orbiting objects, ensuring their course wouldn’t be interfered with by any debris or unexpected objects. Even though Kerberos was a well establish colony there was always the chance of drifting space junk, discarded satellites, fuel containers or even freak meteors that could spell disaster for any kind of vessel. He had served alongside the Commander in their operations out on the Rim and he had a reputation as an outstanding mathematician. Commander Anderson walked over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned in surprise.

“Commander, sorry, Sir, I didn’t see you there.”

The Commander pushed his datapad in front of him and showed the path of the signal that led from Kerberos. “Lieutenant, plot me a destination point for the signal, using the time and reference point from this data.”

“Sir.” The Lieutenant transferred the data from the datapad to his screen. As he moved the information on the screen he scrunched up his face as though something was confusing him. “You know this signal is sending bursts of encoded traffic to a point in the Rim?”

“No, Lieutenant, that is why I asked you to check,” answered Anderson sternly.

“Sorry, Sir. I’m calculating the exact trajectory now.”

There was a short pause as he checked the ship’s navigation system against the latest mapping details. On the screen he displayed a two dimensional chart with the planet of Kerberos on the left and the beam rushing off to the right. First it moved through where their ship had been, then it continued out of the planet’s orbit and out further into the System.

“Apart from us it is aimed at nothing else in orbit. Tracking it further through the system…” he said, as the beam kept moving.

The chart zoomed out as the beam moved further and further until the millions of bodies in the Rim appeared. The beam entered the outer section of the Rim and stopped.

“The Rim?” he asked to himself.

“Makes sense, Commander,” said Lieutenant Nilsson who was watching from her screen.

“Thank you, Carver, as you were.” The Commander turned and walked back to Lieutenant Nilsson, who was checking her own data on the Rim. Once the Commander was close enough she spoke quietly.

“The signal must have been intended for somebody or some group in the Rim.”

“But who? The Rim isn’t fully charted. It’s a mixture of asteroids, mining stations, refineries and space stations. Is there any way of getting a more precise location from the source of the signal?”

“No, Sir, the best I can manage is the Alpha Three segment of the Rim, but that still includes over three thousand space bodies. It could even be a ship out there,” she said.

“Maybe the signal is routine?”

“Routine with a narrow band encoded transmission? I don’t think so, Sir. The only people with the equipment for that kind of long range transmission is the Confed Navy or one of the main government departments on Kerberos. If it was military traffic, it would be sealed with the standard ciphers so that only our own command staff could access it. I think it much more likely it was sent by someone else. It can’t be a coincidence that the encoding is much stronger than used for civilian traffic, yet is not using military ciphers. My opinion is that this is either important military data to somebody that doesn’t want to be found or, more likely that somebody on Kerberos is communicating with a group out on the Rim and they don’t want anybody else knowing about it.”

Commander Anderson checked the log as he examined the route taken by the beamed transmission. He was all too familiar with the Rim and the complexity of finding even a base or ship, let alone an individual person. It was known through the Proxima System that if you wanted to disappear or renege on a deal you would hide out in the Rim, as you would never be found. The downside was that it was crawling with unsavoury characters that were usually best avoided. Until he had more information it would be useless trying to investigate this further.

“Okay, good work, Lieutenant. Let me know when you have more data on the decryption. Keep this between us.”

As Lieutenant Nilsson continued her work on the encrypted data packet the damaged vessel continued its plodding course to the shipyards over Kerberos.

*

The light flashed on Johnson’s communicator, it was the signal that the target was in position. He took a deep breath and then gave the hand signal to move in. At first nothing happened, it was as if none of the men were ready, but in fact it was the adrenalin kicking in and slowing the burst of activity. His unit fanned out as the spotters and their snipers took out the guards in the street with tranquiliser slugs. The shots were accurate and in less than two seconds the street was clear and the entry team rushed across the street. Johnson was second at the door waiting to the side as two armoured ATU men moved into assault positions. With a flicker the fanned-out metal shields extended from their armour to provide additional protection. They stepped a small distance apart to give the third man space to wield his ram. It was a heavy tool and contained a built in pneumatic pump that could smash through almost any door. With a low thump it smashed the exterior door from its hinges and the way was clear.

“Go, go, go!” shouted Johnson.

The two at the front went in quickly, each carrying a thermal shotgun at the ready. The orders were to avoid hostilities if possible, but in these situations it could easily turn violent. These weapons were deadly at close range but wouldn’t break through the outer walls and possibly injure innocent bystanders. Johnson followed closely behind them with his pistol drawn and at the ready. The hallway was dark, the only lighting from red strip lights running along the ceiling. A loud throbbing beat from the sound system made normal discussion almost impossible. As they reached the end of the hallway they came to the door that led to the staircase. It went up to the second floor and into the main dance floor and club. Sat in a kiosk to the right was a scantily clad woman, presumably there to take cash from the patrons. She grabbed something from the wooden unit to her side and swung it around at the ATU officers. The first managed to dodge out of the way but the second took a direct blast from the firearm. Johnson jumped to grab her arm. With a hard pull he smashed her hand on the unit and the pistol dropped to the floor. More ATU officers arrived and one of them secured her with manacles escorting her out of the building.

Johnson checked his map on his small datapad. According to the data sent by his contact the suspect was thirty metres across the dance floor, sat at a round table and flanked by two guards. He nodded to his men and without waiting they went up the staircase and towards the wide glass entrance leading into the dance hall. As they reached the last few steps Johnson pulled out his pistol.

“Non-lethal,” he whispered over the radio system.

The two armoured officers checked their weapons were set to the low power settings before indicating they were ready.

From the glass doorways they could see the lights moving about but it was impossible to see what else was happening.

“Go!” said Johnson.

The first officer pushed the door slightly open and then tossed a stun grenade inside. As soon as it reached the centre of the room it flashed. The pulse was strong and would incapacitate anybody in the room. Without waiting the three were inside the dance hall, but it was quickly obvious something was very wrong. There were no dancers and the only people in the room were already on the floor, face down as though they had been told to get down. Johnson ran to the table to find his contact slumped across the table with his datapad smashed on the ground.

“Shit!”

The rest of the team moved in and secured the area, each checking for signs of the suspect.

“Sir, blood!” called one of the officers as he pointed out a dark trail running out to the side of the room and stopped at a wall.

“Get that music off!” shouted Johnson as he examined the wall. He tapped his pistol and could easily tell it wasn’t thick. Pulling it back he struck the wall and the pistol smashed through the thin layers. Pushing his hand into the hole he found he could slide the section of wall to the side. It revealed a messy room full of smashed computer terminals and papers. He was about to enter when a man in a suit appeared from behind a stack of machines and opened fire with an old fashioned shotgun.

Johnson’s reactions were only just quick enough to save him but the ATU officer behind took the full brunt in the chest, flying back two metres before crashing down hard. Johnson leaned around the gap and fired three rounds at the man but he had already vanished. From his position Johnson could see the window was open and outside were the rusty metal railings of the fire escape.

“Fire escape!” he shouted and ran into the room to give chase.

As he reached the ledge the man was already down the first part of the metal staircase. He fired a shot to try and make him stop. There was no way the man was going to wait though and he kept moving. Johnson squeezed himself out of the window and onto the iron gantry that led to the staircase. As he rushed down the steps he could make out the shape of the man below.

“In pursuit of suspect, I need the fire escape cut off, block the street. He is armed and prepared to use force!”

The suspect was crouching near the ledge and as Johnson emerged he fired a blast of lead shot that managed to catch his right leg. It was a near miss but a few of the tiny pieces of lead managed to take chunks from the close fitting armour he wore under his suit and made him lose his balance. With a flailing action he tried to grab the railing but it was too little too late. He crashed down and rolled down three steps. Johnson looked up to see then man, he was dark skinned and had serpent like tattoos on his cheeks. The man lifted the shotgun and pointed it at Johnson.

“No, wait!” he shouted but the man didn’t hesitate, he pulled the trigger but nothing happened other than the click of the hammer.

The man muttered and then turned to continue his run to the bottom of the fire escape. Johnson lifted himself up but the pain in his back and legs told him the fall had hurt him more than expected. He heard shouting and leaned out over the side to see the man running across the lane. Taking careful aim he pointed the weapon low and squeezed off two shots. The first missed but the second struck the man above the knee.

“Suspect is down, where are you?” shouted Johnson into his radio gear.

He supported his weight on the metal railings and moved the last few steps to the ground below. In the darkness it wasn’t easy to focus in the shadows. He paused for a second to take a quick gasp of oxygen, the last rush had really taken it out of him. He then went over to the slow moving body of the suspect.

“Freeze!” He lowered his pistol and pointed it at the man’s head.

The man stopped and rolled over to look directly into Johnson’s face, the pain from the wound was evidently becoming worse. He grabbed for a concealed blade but Johnson was ready for that and quickly kicked it away. The agent knelt down next to him and put pressure on the wound.

“I want…” he said before noticing the frothing at the man’s mouth.

He grabbed at the man and tried to force out whatever was there but it was too late. In just seconds the poison had done its work and the man lay dead. Johnson slumped down next to the body, the raid had failed and their suspect was dead. There was still no sign of his backup and that was starting to worry him. He looked over to the body of the man, noticing the tattoos again. They were the mark of the secretive Church of Echidna, an organisation that was connected to the Zealots and attacks throughout the System. He checked the man’s pockets but found nothing other than some shells for his weapon. He pulled back the jacket reaching down to the trouser pocket only to find a pouch on the man’s belt. Johnson instantly recognised the feel.

“Datapad!” He pulled out the valuable electronic device. Holding it in front of him he ran his finger along the top to activate the unit. With a flicker of light blue text it powered up and waited with some kind of icon-based security panel. Then he heard footsteps.

“About dammed time!” he said as he looked up from the body.

The shape in the distance was of a man in a long coat and wearing a wide brimmed hat. The man was coming towards him, then he realised he was pointing a weapon. Jumping back he avoided the blast from the man’s pistol. Then he was gone. Johnson gave chase but his back and leg were still causing him pain.

“Special Agent Johnson, in pursuit of shooter. He’s coming around to the side street. Where are you?” he shouted.

The man disappeared through a dark archway in the wall that led to a courtyard at the side of the main building. He approached the arch area with care and popped his head inside then back out, it looked clear. Keeping his pistol raised he slipped through the arch to find an empty courtyard.

“What the hell?” He angrily keyed the radio again, “Johnson here, what’s going on?”

There was a crackle followed by one of the ATU agents. “We’re in the alley, where is the body?”

Johnson shook his head, he simply couldn’t believe the incompetence of these men he had been assigned. He gave one last look to the courtyard and then turned back though the arch and into the alley. As he moved closer he could see three of the ATU men, all stood in their armour with their weapons ready for danger. He approached the first who stood waiting for him.

“He was right here!”

The man looked down then back to Johnson. “Maybe he was just wounded and got away?”

The second officer stepped closer. “Did you find anything?” he asked.

Johnson looked at him, something was clearly wrong with this situation. Not least, because all three of the ATU men had their hands on their shotguns and looked ready to shoot. He instantly felt nervous and decided to take no chances.

“Nothing, this raid was a disaster! Let’s get back to Headquarters, I’ve got paperwork to file,” he said angrily.

As the officers turned to return to the street Johnson noticed a look of satisfaction between the two of the men. He pushed his hand inside his armoured jacket, checking the recovered datapad was still there. He was right, there was definitely something suspicious going on and he was going to find out what it was, wherever the evidence took him.

*

Teresa finished her lunch and pushed the tray to one side. From where she sat she could look out through the windows to the planet below. Well, in reality she was looking at the wall as the computer systems were set to replicate the exterior view on the walls of the secure section inside the rotating section of the ship. As she looked out at the planet of Prime below she could see specks of grey as the Fleet sent more vessels to the surface. In the last hour she had counted over a hundred craft heading down from the transports and capital ships of the Navy that were scattered around the planet. One of the transit stations was already being used as a drop off point for materials and supplies for the war effort. She was ever amazed at the speed and ingenuity shown by the armed forces when facing a crisis.

Unlike the operation on the moon of Kronus a few days before, the combat operations around Prime were now no longer just the domain of the Marine Corps. The heavy transports of the Confederate Army had now arrived. Though their numbers were much greater than those of the marines they were normally used for static garrisons, security operations or for bulking up the numbers in major combat operations. The fact they had arrived signalled a change in the campaign and not one for the good. The Army was notorious for its poor discipline and corruption in the Officer Corps, well, that was what she had heard anyway. From what she had seen on the intelligence reports being sent around the ship they were going to need every soldier and marine they could find to keep Prime under control. If that meant making use of the Army so be it. The Marine Corps could hardly be expected to do all the work, there were only so many of them.

The canteen was much quieter than normal with the marines busy fighting down on the surface. She was still fuming at her visit an hour earlier in the medical bay. She had originally been told she would be able to report back for duty in a couple of days, but it seemed the surgeon had botched the work and most of it had been redone. The damage wasn’t life threatening but the bullet impacts could have caused long-term damage without the operations. The extra work meant she couldn’t return to her unit for combat operations for at least another forty-eight hours until the stitches had healed. The medical bay was well equipped and rather than having to wait weeks for the wounds to heal she needed a matter of hours for the process to start. It still felt too long and the thought of her comrades fighting when she was stuck in orbit was driving her stir crazy. It wasn’t that she was desperate for battle or was trying to contain some kind of bloodlust. She just hated being on her own on a new ship, with few people she knew and nothing to do. She and Spartan had spent months on the marine ship CCS Santa Maria as they completed their basic training. Her new posting was essentially the same but there were enough differences for her to feel uncomfortable.

Two marines from the Signals Unit walked past with towels draped over their shoulders. As with all the marines on the ship they were expected to keep themselves fit, both mentally and physically. Maybe a bit of physical exercise would help.

“Hey, you off to the gym?” she asked.

“Yeah, time for some sparring,” said the first man.

The second man turned to her. “You wanna join us?”

He quickly noticed the bandages just showing along her collar. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were injured, you take a hit or something?”

“Yeah, on the landing at Titan, took a few rounds in the arm.” She stretched the injured limb.

The two men sat down facing her and quickly introduced themselves.

“I’m Corporal Kowalski, this is Private Bishop, we just arrived with the new recruits from boot camp on Carthago.”

“Teresa Morato.”

She looked at the two men, noting they were both in their thirties and had the assuredness she’d seen on the more experienced marines on the ship. Bishop had a dark tattoo running down the side of his face and disappeared into his tunic.

“You’re not recruits though, right?”

“Hell no,” replied Bishop. “We’re part of the Guard Unit down on Carthago but we were transferred nine months ago to come to the Proxima System. We heard it was supposed to be the new paradise!”

“Hell, they got that wrong!” laughed Kowalski. “We’ve been training rookies for the last nine months and were supposed to be transferring to Kerberos when our taskforce arrived here. Instead most of us were sent to Prime to help with the siege down there.”

Teresa said nothing, her mind obviously elsewhere. She gazed at them before realising they were waiting for her to speak.

“I, uh, my family is from Carthago,” she mumbled.

“I thought Carthago citizens weren’t allowed to join up because of the troubles?” Kowalksi asked.

“My family helped the Confed resistance so I was given an exemption to serve to pay my family’s debts,” she said bitterly.

“What do you mean?” asked Bishop.

Teresa said nothing and it was clear the subject was one she didn’t want to continue. The two marines sat uncomfortably before Bishop broke the silence.

“Isn’t that where they reckon the Church of Echidna got started back with the early colonies?”

Kowalski shrugged and pulled out his datapad. He brought up several pages on the Church and its early history.

“Says here the Church was founded by some of the early colonists from Earth. They were a kind of minority monotheistic cult that suffered a schism which turned violent. After the Great War they scattered through the Systems, with many of them going on the long voyage to the new colonies in Proxima. Apparently they tried to unify their church with the colonial governments but were forced to stop. Since then parts of the more conservative wings of the church have broken away to continue the fight with violence while the rest preach peace and tolerance.”

“Tolerance my ass!” laughed Bishop. “Did you join up at Carthago then?”

Teresa turned her head in disagreement as she remembered what had happened. The memories were still fresh, the long drawn out illness of her husband and her years of work trying to earn enough money in the poverty stricken world of Carthago. She looked up and Bishop and answered though her voice was slower and obviously upset.

“No, I joined a mining operation out near Prometheus.”

“Prometheus? That’s the new colony on the fire world. Hell, that’s the closest planet to the sun right?”

“That’s wild. I’ve heard that place is rough. Aren’t most of the stations there full of strip bars and underground arenas?” asked Kowalski.

“Yeah, something like that. It’s where Spartan and I were volunteered for training. It takes a long time to get to Prometheus, why do you think so much illegal activity goes on out there? If you avoid the storms and stop at Agora and Hydra like we did, it takes nearly thirty weeks journey just to get back to Prime.”

“I’ve been thinking of spending some of my vacation leave there, but the trip is too long. Isn’t there a faster way?” Bishop asked.

“I’ve heard a direct trip avoiding the storms can be done in about half that, but if the storms kick up you’ll have to wait for a gap. Might be days but sometimes months. You can risk running the storms but apparently half the ships that try it are destroyed, if you make it through then it can be done in less than a week.” Kowalski explained.

Bishop rested one had on his face as he listened. Then it dawned on him.

“Wait a sec, Teresa, did you say you were on Kronus, during the siege?”

“Yeah, you could say that. We’d only just finished basic and got sent on our first operation,” she said with a grimace.

“No way! I’ve been in the Marine Corps for more than six years and never even drawn a pistol in anger. You get here as a rookie and they throw you into the fire. I heard it was rough down there. A few guys from our unit were on one of the transit stations during the battle.”

“Did you see any of the Zealots while you were there?” asked Kowalski.

“Forget that, man, have you seen any of their super soldiers?” Bishop interrupted.

“Super soldiers? You mean the bio-engineered shock troopers they are using?” she asked with a crooked smile. “No. A friend of mine called Spartan was on a boarding action with a small team when they found the first of them.”

“The ship that tried to escape from the Victorious, right? We were told that unit got pretty messed up,” Kowalski said.

“Yeah, when they got back they showed me the video feeds from the boarding action. Those things are evil. I don’t know how they created them but they are faster and stronger than anything I’ve seen before.”

Teresa leaned back to stretch, she hadn’t exercised for two days and her muscles were starting to feel it. At least now she had somebody to talk to. It was the most interesting thing that had happened since the marines had returned to Prime.

“I don’t want to sound rude, but if you’ve only just completed basic, how the hell did you get on the Santa Cruz? You know this is a commando ship now, right?”

“You don’t say, Bishop. A few of us had already completed most of the commando training before we landed on Kronus. The unit I was with was involved in the frontal assault of the station. Apparently a lot of the commando units took heavy casualties in the first waves. They started picking a few from each unit to make up the numbers.”

“So marine to commando in less than a week, nice going!”

“How about you two, Bishop?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I assume you’re going to the surface?”

“Yeah. As soon as the next wave of landing craft is ready we’ll be going down to the surface. The LT said we’ve got about ten hours for the boats to be repaired and loaded for the next run.”

The whistle indicating the start of the next watch on the ship caught their attention. The two marines looked around the canteen, noting they were the only ones still there.

“We’d better get to the gym before chow,” said Kowalski as he stood up from the table. “Nice talking to you, we’ll see you around I hope.”

Teresa went to join them but the pain struck hard and fast in her shoulder. “Bitch!” she swore and staggered off to her quarters.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Confederate Navy Fighter Wings were the elite fighting arm of the Navy and contained the best trained pilots in the Fleet. Though most squadrons were based at the Naval bases and battlegroups around Terra Nova a few squadrons did play their part in the Proxima Emergency. Operating from escort cruisers and carriers the men and women of the Fighter Wings made use of the two most advanced craft in the Fleet. The MK II Lightning twin-engine interceptor and the Thunderbolt MK I a four-engine torpedo bomber with enough firepower to cripple a frigate.

Thunder and Lightning

Marcus had already been forced to abandon his CES suit due to damage sustained in a rocket attack on the front line. With the armour now stacked along with other damaged or unused ordnance, he was forced to duck for cover as a mortar shell exploded nearby. He still wore his Personal Defence Suit but, compared to the thick metal armour he’d previously worn, he now felt naked to the enemy fire that clattered about their defensive positions.

“Sniper!” shouted one of the marines from the outer wall.

Marcus was already in a foxhole when the first round hit, it managed to miss him by just a few centimetres. Dirt and chipped stone smashed against his armour but thankfully the thin armoured sections easily brushed off the impact.

“Thank the Gods!” he whispered to himself as he held his body down low. The civilians would find this kind of combat far more gruelling, as they had almost no armour of any kind. Even loose debris was causing them problems, let alone the artillery fire from the enemy. More shots flicked past and he winced as a large calibre bullet whipped close to him and embedded in a nearby wall. The battle had altered from a grinding full-scale assault to one of sniping and rocket attacks, where every few minutes screams and shouting indicated yet another person had been hurt or killed.

The city of New Carlos was coming to the end of its fifth day in the siege, yet the damage all around suggested it had been like this for weeks, maybe even months. What had started as a bloodthirsty hand-to-hand battle around the outer suburbs of the city had now pushed pack into the commercial spaces, where the larger buildings and road systems provided ample cover for friend or foe alike. It was here the new defensive line had been erected, built upon the blood of the commandos and marines who had given their lives to buy enough time for the defences to be built. Spartan and the surviving commandos took cover behind the concrete and debris the citizens and engineers had spent the last six hours preparing. It was rough but the marines had done their job and given the city time to prepare a perimeter that was capable of standing, at least for the short term. The enemy had not assaulted the line for almost an hour and the defenders were not wasting a minute of it. Holes in the ground were quickly converted to slit trenches while bricks, dirt and debris were made into mounts and cover from fire.

With the commandos helping to guard the perimeter defences, Spartan and other still working CES units had help demolish the smaller buildings to create additional cover. Right now he was near what used to be a small office complex that had already been occupied by a score of volunteers from the city. They were keen but had almost no idea what they were doing. Still, they were better than nothing. The effect of the citizens doing their part was proving to be a great boost to the morale of the beleaguered city.

Marcus climbed out of his foxhole and rushed the short distance across the open ground till he reached the concrete parking structure the commandos were using as a reasonably secure forward base. As he reached its relative safety, he dropped down next to Spartan who was out of his CES and smoking a cigarette.

“You need to keep your head down,” Spartan laughed.

“Really? Yeah, thanks for that.”

Two more marines settled near them, one a dark skinned veteran called Tex who was recruited from one of the many gangs on Prometheus, the other a moody looking corporal, Travis.

“Spartan, a few of the guys said you were from Prometheus too. How did they get you to join up?” asked Tex.

Marcus jumped in as Spartan continued to smoke, enjoying the break from the backbreaking labour of the recent fighting.

“You’re from Prometheus and you haven’t heard of Spartan?” asked Marcus with feigned surprise.

“The only Spartan I know of was a cop killer, that ain’t you, right?” he answered with a sly grin.

Marcus looked over to Spartan nervously, knowing of his background and propensity to rely on brute force to resolve the most basic of issues. There was no response from him. It was as if he hadn’t heard a word.

“Spartan ain’t no cop killer. He was on the fighting circuit when the place got busted. You know, the clampdown raids from almost a year ago.”

“Shit, man, he was in the raids? My group got busted at the same time!” said Tex.

Spartan turned to look at him. Tex moved closer but Spartan stared into his eyes blowing a puff of smoke into the man’s face.

“I never saw the fighting circuit, I thought it was all underground shit on Prometheus?” asked Travis, now intrigued by the whole conversation.

“Spartan here was the champion in nearly a dozen fights, weren’t you?” Marcus placed his hand on Spartan’s shoulder.

The rattle of anti-aircraft weapons pulled their attention away to the horizon where streaks of tracer fire raced up into the sky. A wing of four Thunderbolt fighter bombers screeched overhead, each craft leaving a light grey trail of smoke behind it. The aircraft had deployed their wings and weapon pods for atmospheric flight and looked deadly from this distance. Pale yellow streaks indicated the automatic cannons of the aircraft were strafing the insurgent positions outside the boundaries of the city.

“Army aircraft?” Spartan asked.

“Yeah, the ground pounder must be on the way.” Marcus was watching the aircraft move off into the distance.

Spartan flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette as he took one long puff then dropped the stub to the floor. His helmet was off but he was still in his standard Personal Defence Suit. There wasn’t a chance he’d be caught without any armour. So many of the wounded had suffered their injuries from rubble and shrapnel.

“Look!” shouted one of the other marines sitting on a ruined wall.

They saw a line of yellow flashes in the distance. A few seconds later a crump of exploding napalm bombs washed over their defences.

“Yep, it’s the Army alright!” said Marcus.

“And they thought we were subtle!” Spartan laughed as he stood up.

He moved over towards where his CES armour was leaning against the wall. It was now scratched and dented on almost every section. The visor had a centimetre long crack along the left side where a missile fragment had struck him. He pushed his feet down inside the unit, the armour adjusted and began clamping down around him. This was the part that Spartan always hated. No matter how many times he was reassured by the engineers and artificers, there was always the possibility that the armour could continue its movement and crush the body or limbs of the marine inside. Apparently it had never happened but that didn’t alter the way Spartan felt. He pushed his back into the suit and took a deep breath.

“Here goes nothing,” he said quietly.

As his back touched the metal a series of whining motors pushed the metal and rubber mounts up to link and interface with his PDS suit. It took less than twenty seconds before the entire unit was clamped around his body and encased him in heavy metal. Next to him Marcus was halfway through the same procedure when they noticed a small group of commandos approaching.

The three at the front of the group were wearing CES suits and Spartan instantly recognised the paint scheme of his commanding officer.

“Sergeant!” shouted Lieutenant Daniels as he examined the high ground along their position.

“Sir?”

“Get a squad up there with heavy weapons. How is the perimeter looking? Any sign of them?”

Spartan moved his eyes to select options on his communication gear so he could speak with his squad commanders. The bulk of the suit was controlled using the built-in head display and the controls fitted inside the arms. Most of the suit was powered up but it took a few seconds for all the system to kick in. A few lights flickered and then settled, but he noted he had two warnings on the hydraulic levels for the left arm. He’d already had it checked by the unit’s artificer and there was nothing they could do until he was back at a fully equipped repair shop. Still, the last thing he needed was for one of his limbs to seize up in battle.

“Corporal Thomas, put your squad on top of the office complex. Establish an observation post and get some heavy weapons up there.” He turned back to Daniels. “Sir, the perimeter is looking solid. We have linked up with the rest of General Shears’ forces on our right flank.”

Daniels approached him, his armoured suit now starting to grind as the wear of combat and constant use was have an adverse affect on the moving parts. Spartan could see a small number of people at the highest position on the outer wall. The wall was built around a partially demolished housing block now covered in mounted machineguns and mortars. Right in the centre was a large battle standard of one of the cities militia units. It contained the emblem of the city, the Purple of the Confederacy. There were at least twenty small holes punched through it where enemy fire had ripped into the fabric, yet it still stood tall and bright. It was a sign to everyone that this part of the line was secure and held not just by the military but by citizens of New Carlos itself. Daniels stopped in front of him, his armoured torso grinding to a halt. He looked back at the flag and then to Spartan.

“I don’t understand, they’ve been hitting us for hours, why aren’t they attacking the line now?”

Spartan checked the tactical display in his suit. It wasn’t as detailed as the information you would expect to find in a command centre, but it did show a physical map of the terrain and colours markers for all known friendly and hostile units. He examined the enemy’s dispositions before replying to the Lieutenant.

“Well, based on their last two attacks, I’d say they’re looking for another way in. The last attack was a disaster for them, Sir. Maybe they are waiting for darkness?”

“Perhaps.” The Lieutenant rechecked their position. “I don’t like it. We have a strong defensive line here but not much of a reserve. What if they are working out a way to go over or under our lines?”

“They could have access to more tunnels, Sir?” suggested Spartan.

“We should probably get some of the tech teams from the General’s staff to do a full subterranean survey of the city. Good plan, Sergeant. In the meantime assemble a small group, a mixture of CES, commandos and anybody else you can find. Set up a reserve outpost back there, on the overpass.” He pointed at the raised roadway half a kilometre away. “If anyone tries anything I want to make sure we have someone I can depend on when it goes to hell!”

“Sir!”

Spartan understood the well-hidden complement the officer had made. How intentional it was he had no idea. Spartan looked back at the front line and the scores of people carrying rubble, supplies and ammunition. Even though there was an obvious lull in the battle, it could end at any time. He was secretly glad for a few minutes respite from the frontline where so many marines had already been picked off in the fighting and where he knew another attack was imminent.

*

In high orbit above the surface of Prime was the Confederate Fleet, recently bolstered by a dozen newly arrived small frigates helping to reinforce the ever growing blockade around the planet. Streams of transports transferred their cargos to the transit stations before returning on their long voyages to the refineries, military bases and outposts of the Confederacy. Smaller craft made the dangerous trip through the thick atmosphere of Prime to deliver people, supplies and weapons to those on the ground. The most recent arrival was the heavy armoured transports of the Army, with their own frigates providing escort.

The most powerful vessel remaining at the blockade was the CCS Wasp, commanded by Captain Hardy. Though he commanded the ship it was now the home of the battlegroup and Admiral Jarvis had transferred her flag aboard, following the evacuation of the Crusader for emergency repairs at Kerberos.

Wasp was nothing as intimidating as one of the Confederation battleships but she was still a mighty vessel, bristling with weapons and carrying a variety of combat craft. Deep inside the armoured hull of the ship Admiral Jarvis, now accompanied by General Rivers, stood around the tactical display as they examined the situation on Avagana.

Throughout the CiC the dozen officers monitored communication channels and data traffic as they helped coordinate the massive operation on the ground and in space. The tactical map showed an updated model of the planet’s surface and the ongoing operations. One of the displays crackled and the image of General Shears appeared. He was in charge of the combined ground based forces of Prime, though with the disputes in the colonies most of his forces had now evacuated to Avagana.

“Admiral,” said the old General as he straightened himself at the sight of his opposite number.

General Rivers, the overall commander of ground operations in the sector moved closer so that he appeared next to the Admiral.

“General, what is the situation in New Carlos?” asked General Rivers.

General Shears looked at the Marine Corps officer with disdain. Though they were both senior officers there had always been a level of disagreement between planetary colonial forces and the space based Confederate Marine forces. The rivalry often spilled into spats between officers.

“The city is secure, for now. I have deployed forces to the city perimeter and have established a command centre and reserve deployment area at the Space Port.”

“And the rest of Avagana?” asked Rivers.

“Only one city was fully overrun, my colonial forces are dealing with that problem. Right now I’m more concerned with the garrisons throughout the Seven Colonies. The last signal from Fort Wellington was that rebel forces had surrounded the fort and were demanding their surrender.”

“Yes, we’ve been monitoring the situation from up here. The city defence forces and some of the army units are not responding to our signals right now. We suspect some may have been infiltrated or attacked,” said Admiral Jarvis.

There was a long pause from the General, as he spoke quietly to somebody off camera, then turned back to the camera.

“My forces are loyal, if you are unable to contact them it is because somebody is jamming them. What about my reinforcements?” he said angrily.

General Rivers looked less than impressed with the response from the General.

“Listen, General Shears, we have three divisions of infantry preparing for combat landings. One is being dropped to the West of New Carlos. They are being landed along with armour and close air support. The other two will help secure the East Coast and the cities between there and New Carlos.”

Admiral Jarvis checked her computer display for the progress of the Army transports. From her figures they were about an hour away from starting their operations.

“How does that help me?” demanded General Shears, “I need more men for the defence of the city!”

“No, General. You must hold with what you have. The Army has the numbers and firepower to clear the open ground. Watch the perimeter and hold. We anticipate Army forces will link up with New Carlos in approximately seventy-two hours,” Rivers explained.

The man lowered his head in disagreement then cut the signal.

“Well, he’s a pleasant fellow,” said a grinning Admiral Jarvis.

“I don’t like it.” General Rivers looked worried. “He has a reputation for being a bit of a hot head and he really doesn’t like the idea of regular army units stealing his glory for retaking Avagana.”

“What do you think he will do?”

“I don’t know but you can be sure it won’t be well thought out. Can you get back to him?”

With a gesture from Jarvis the communications officer walked over and saluted.

“I need to speak to General Shears again, urgently!”

The man saluted and moved back to his console. He hit a number of buttons as he tried to break through the jamming coming from the surface.

“Sir, we are being jammed from the source, I can’t burn through to New Carlos or the General,” he said apologetically.

Movement caught her eye as she looked out through the virtual windows on the walls. The glint of light had come from the column of six heavy infantry transports of the Army. They each carried thousands of soldiers as well as scores of tanks and ground support aircraft. The hangar doors were already open and the mechanical loading gear was pushing out the huge Landers that would deposit the men one company at a time. Each one looked like a large ant with their multiple sections and large legs that were currently folded away prior to re-entry through the atmosphere. They would deploy the legs as they landed.

Another of the massive Army ships was releasing a dozen strike aircraft. These machines were based on the shuttles used by the marines but were optimised for high-speed close air support. The craft contained a crew of a dozen personnel to operate the myriad of weapon mounts and missile systems. The largest of all the craft was the Assault Lander, a large vehicle that had all of its transport capacity removed and replaced by batteries of artillery and heavy guns mounted along one side of the craft. As it pushed away from the transport its engines fired up pushing the Lander into a lower orbit prior to its landing.

Although the Navy had the bulk of the ships, the Army operated the planetary defence forces which included a small fleet of transports and light escorts. Many battles were fought over who was responsible for different operations, the Army trying to wrestle control of orbital bombardment and support, with the Navy maintaining the long range ships and assault troops of the Confederation. All warships were under the command of the Navy, much to the annoyance of the Army commanders. This was a consequence of the events during the Great War.

General Rivers moved up alongside her and watched the flotilla.

“It’s a wondrous thing watching the Army deploy,” he said with a hint of amusement.

“Indeed. They move at a snail’s pace but when they do arrive they hit like a ton of bricks. They won’t know what’s hit them,” replied the Admiral.

She didn’t look terribly impressed at the sight of the monstrous vessels unloading their military cargos. The arrival of the Army would also mean the involvement of petty squabbles and politics. She would much rather the simple command and control of Navy in space and Marines on the ground. It was never going to be that simple though she thought to herself.

“Admiral, I will need to coordinate this action.” He turned smartly to rejoin his combat staff that were already plotting the landing sites and targets to strike.

Admiral Jarvis stayed at her post as she continued to track the progress of the Fleet. The number of vessels in orbit around the planet was growing by the day but there were still gaps in the line and vessels could break through with enough speed if they timed it right. Since the Station had been retaken, over thirty attempts had been made for various craft to break orbit. Most were transports carrying refugees but three had been suicide craft and one had even been loaded with a full complement of the shock troopers.

“I’m picking up movement from low orbit. Medium sized transport, ETA twelve minutes,” said the tactical weapons officer.

The officer hit a key on his terminal as he checked the configuration of the vessel. It didn’t take him long to find the correct ship in the database and in seconds he had crosschecked it with Confed Naval records.

“Sir, it’s an Icarus Class medium transport, she’s heading right for us!”

Captain Hardy moved to the centre of the bridge. The Admiral commanded the Fleet, but it was still his ship and he knew how to get the most out of his crew. Jarvis nodded as he carried on.

“Are they showing on IFF?”

“Negative, Sir, there are no transmissions coming from the vessel. They are still accelerating.”

The IFF system was the Identify Friend of Foe system that was a requirement of every vessel, be it civilian or military. Each time a craft made a journey its logs and codes were updated. This allowed customs and military forces to establish the origins and allegiance of a vessel when at range. It might seem draconian, but with the kind of distances the ships passed it wasn’t always possible to easily identify a craft before it was too late.

Hardy turned around and wiped his forehead.

“Admiral, I recommend full alert, this craft could cripple any one of our ships. If they hit the transports we’ll lose thousands!”

“The transports, how do they know?” Without waiting for an answer the Admiral pulled the intercom close to her mouth.

“Action stations! We have incoming craft! Set Condition Red through the Fleet. All ships have permission to open fire on unidentified vessels within twenty kilometres!”

“Where is our CAP?” she asked.

“Combat Air Patrol is already on a course to intercept, they will be in range in sixty seconds,” said one of the officers.

“Put me on with the lead pilot.”

With a few clicks of the buttons Admiral Jarvis was on with the pilot of the closing fighter. On the screen in front of her the data for the Lightning MK II Fighter appeared. It was a small two-man craft equipped with automatic cannons and anti-ship missiles. The Lightning Fighters were carried aboard many of the carriers in the Fleet, as well as some of the escort cruisers where a few small craft were handy for use in customs duties or ship defence.

“Lieutenant Jacobs, Fourth Interceptor Wing, closing on unidentified craft.”

“This is Admiral Jarvis. Are you detecting any signs of life or any transmissions coming from the craft?”

There was a short pause punctuated by the crack and hiss of static. The officers in the CiC of the Wasp kept quiet, each waiting for the word.

“Admiral, the vessel is already damaged, she’s leaking fuel and it looks like the port hull has been shredded by anti-aircraft fire. She was hit trying to get from the surface, I can’t tell who did the shooting though.”

“I need to know if it is a threat. Can you see inside the craft?”

The pause was much longer this time and as she waited, Admiral Jarvis looked over to General Rivers. He had already helped plan the dispersal of the ground forces from the first transport but many more were unloading and they were right in the path of the craft.

“I can see inside. The passenger section is full of containers of some kind. Can’t quite tell from here,” there was a pause before he continued, “there is nobody at the helm, I repeat there…” he said but the transmission was mysteriously cut off.

“Damn!” growled Captain Hardy. “Who else is out there?” he demanded.

The weapons officer checked the rest of the approaching units but could find no one who could reach the vessel before it was in range of the Fleet. He cycled through the attack wing. The nearest ship was too far away to fire its weapons, but they might be able to get a visual. He sent a coded signal to the leading fighter’s computer receiving an acknowledgement and video feed almost immediately. As the video popped up the pilot of the vessel spoke.

“Admiral, I’m picking up debris ahead, it looks like Jacobs is down. The unidentified vessel is still approaching.”

On the video screen the cameras on the small fighter zoomed in to show the faint outline of the damaged, but rapidly approaching transport.

“What do you want to do?” asked Captain Hardy.

Admiral Jarvis looked at the screen but she didn’t really have to think too hard. The lives of the sailors, marines and soldiers in the Fleet were too much to risk for one vessel that appeared hostile. Without hesitation she spoke directly to the Captain.

“She is hostile. I can’t risk it. Destroy her and quickly!”

“Yes, Sir!” replied the Captain as he moved to the weapons officer’s console.

Admiral Jarvis continued speaking with the pilot of the fighter. “Get out of there, she’s hostile. I repeat. She is an enemy combatant!” The pilot responded with a simple acknowledgement.

“Permission to fire, Sir?” asked the Lieutenant.

“Do it!” ordered Captain Hardy as he watched the view screen.

It seemed like an age as the weapon system activated. All around the ship were small weapon mounts, each fitted with medium power railguns and rapid-fire projectile weapons. Against a target as small as the transport, the aircraft carrier would have to make use of the point defence turrets. Each one had a maximum range of twenty kilometres, but could launch a devastating barrage of explosive shells that could hold off scores of missiles or attacking fighters.

“She’s in range, opening fire!” The Lieutenant hit the automatic defence system.

Lights started to flash along the console as the weapon systems took turns to lock and fire at the ship. First one, then forty separate turrets fired bursts of shot at the craft. From their position on the ship they could see the grey trails from the shells as they blasted out into space and towards the unseen target. The defensive fire stopped almost as soon as it had started. In the distance a tiny yellow flash indicated the weapons had hit something.

“Report!” called out the Admiral.

“Target is off the board, we’re clear, Sir,” said Captain Hardy.

The officers breathed a sigh of relief. Another attempt to break the blockade had failed, though at the loss of a good pilot.

“General Rivers, you are clear to continue ground operations.”

“Aye, aye, Admiral.”

Admiral Jarvis took a few steps back and sunk into her chair. With the ground operation still ongoing and the frequent attempts to get near her ships, it felt as if everyone was aiming to make her life as difficult as possible. She could only hope that the arrival of the Army would give the forces on Avagana a chance to recover lost ground and push out the rebels once and for all.

*

Spartan watched the black shapes emerge from the clouds. According to his tactical display the approaching vessels were the heavy Landers of the Army. Around these massive vessels were dozens of the small Lightning MKII fighters. A few seconds after the first emerged the dark shapes of more Landers appeared behind them. The roar from their engines took a short time to reach the ground but when it did it was mighty.

“Where are they going?” asked Marcus.

Spartan checked his tactical map, there were no details for the Army units anywhere near his position. He clicked a button to contact Lieutenant Daniels.

“Sir, are the Army units deploying in this area?”

“Negative, Sergeant. I’ve just been in touch with Captain Mathews, he is further down the line and establishing a high bandwidth link with the Fleet. Apparently the Army units are being landed outside of the cities to start sweeping actions against the enemy.”

Spartan zoomed out on his map until he could see some of the others settlements still occupied by Confed units.

“So what about us, Sir? Any reinforcements coming our way?”

“Our orders are to maintain the perimeter and the city defences until relieved by the Army. For now the marine units are to operate as a defensive bastion.”

Spartan wasn’t impressed. Everything he had learnt and been taught during basic training had shown him that the marines were flexible and well-equipped units designed for movement and rapidity. He couldn’t understand why the slow moving behemoth that was the Army, was to be given the job of field combat operations, when the more flexible marines were stuck in the rubble defending the cities. To him it seemed to be a complete role reversal.

Another noise indicated yet more Landers as they roared off into the distance. Smoke trails snaked up from the ground towards one of the massive vessels as two shoulder-mounted missiles rushed towards the hot engines of the Landers. Spartan cringed at the thought of the hundreds of soldiers plummeting to their deaths with the loss of such a major vessel. He needn’t have worried though as a wing of Marine Corps electronic warfare jets whistled past and engaged the missiles with their point defence weapons. At the same time the Lander emptied over a hundred ultra hot flares that scattered around the craft to distract the missiles. The fire from the fighters was rapid and accurate. With two brief explosions the threat was neutralised and the Lander was able to continue its journey in safety.

Marcus climbed up the rubble to Spartan’s side to get a better view. The difference in mass between them was considerable with Spartan looking far more bulky in the armour. Checking the open plane was secure, Marcus turned back to Spartan.

“How is Teresa doing?”

“Teresa, yeah, well it was going well. But since the landing on Titan I’ve only seen her a few times,” he said in a low tone.

“What’s the story with her? Last time I spoke to her she told me where to go when I asked her about home!” he laughed.

“Yeah, sounds like her. She doesn’t talk about her home much. I know she hasn’t been back for a few years. She’s travelled the System for work, I think this was her last choice.”

“Last choice, I’ve heard plenty of people saying the same, though some here actually volunteered. Can you believe that?”

Spartan was lost in his thoughts, thinking back to his time on Prometheus where he had worked as an illegal pit fighter on the many stations in the System. His debts had since been wiped due to him joining the Marine Corps, but that didn’t remove the memories of the many fights he’d had. He liked the fighting but not the people involved. It was laced with gambling, prostitution and drugs. He had managed to avoid the worst of it but there were memories he would like to forget, things he never wanted to remember.

“Never believe what?” Spartan asked, completely forgetting or mishearing most of what Marcus had said.

“Forget it. I think we’ve got more important things to think about. Look!” he pointed out to the horizon.

In the far distance a dust storm was gathering and making its way to New Carlos. Spartan looked around his position, checking on those nearby and the combat units who were starting to relax.

“To your posts, incoming!” he shouted.

The voice commands were instantly transmitted to each of the CES units and speakers fixed to the exterior of the suit sent the audio to everybody within a hundred metres. Nearby he could see Lieutenant Daniels on top of the outer wall checking the approaching storm.

“Sir, any intel on this?”

“Lieutenant Weathers just reported that two Thunderbolts have been brought down. It looked like someone triggered a series of seismic charges along the front line between us and the landing zones for the Army.”

“I don’t understand. Why would they do that?”

“No idea, Sergeant, if you ask me I reckon they’re trying to create cover for an attack on the Army or us, maybe even both. One thing I do know, that dust storm is coming our way and when it hits it will hit fast. Satellite feeds show it will be here in the next three minutes. I suggest we all get undercover, fast!”

“What about the perimeter lines? If we all take shelter we’ll leave the line open.”

“Shit, you’re right. Get the civilians and militia into cover. All armoured units on the front line. Try and keep your heads down and ride the storm. Let’s just hope the Zealots don’t get through our lines!” The approaching storm started to drown out his voice.

Spartan shouted at the marines, commandos and civilians, doing his best to clear them from the open ground and trenches into areas with cover from the elements. Small groups of marines in their PDS suits ran to the outer line and replaced some of the militia units who had been taking their turn there. A few CES units fired up their power units and stomped forward into their pre-prepared pits for possible battle. In the distance the other companies of marines and civilians did the same. Marcus, Davis and Humphreys, all men from his own company, lay down along the rear of the rubble wall and watched the storm through the scopes on their L48 rifles. Spartan moved up ten metres behind them locking his armoured legs into position, ready and braced for the storm. To his right a group of a dozen marines rushed forward to occupy another section of the wall. From where he stood he could see two companies of marines covered a wide front.

“This storm had better be over fast or this battle will be finished before it starts!” he said to himself.

The swirling dust and debris was now only a hundred metres from the outer wall and the noise was already as loud as the battle they had fought when first landing at the outskirts of the city.

“Here is comes! Brace yourselves and watch for…” Captain Mathews’ voice was cut off as the swirling dust and dirt became a thick fog.

A man tumbled past as Spartan covered his face and fell over backwards. The winds caught his suit but the mass and weight of the armour kept him secure but he didn’t feel completely safe. His right leg slid back a few centimetres so he pushed it down harder into the ground. He turned back just in time to see the ground around him disappear as he collapsed thirty metres underground, buried under masses of dust and rock.

“Shit!” he shouted as his visor was covered in rocks.

He had just enough time to hit the seal button, which brought a thick metal shutter down over the visor to protect the vulnerable hardened glass. As it dropped down the visibility in the suit vanished until the internal lights kicked in to illuminate the interior of the helmet. He tried to move his arms and legs but all four were locked into place. For a second he started to panic then he remembered his training, his people knew where he was and the suit was easily capable of staying secure and sealed for hours of use. At least, he hoped so.

CHAPTER FIVE

The needs for aircraft of all sorts never diminished, even after mankind spread through the worlds of the new Confederacy. These machines comprised transports, strike craft and fighters and all were optimised for operations in a variety of atmospheric conditions. The Marine Corps and Navy concentrated on multi-role variants of common designs, the Army on their specific roles of ground attack and transportation. Unlike the craft used by the Navy, all Army combat aircraft were for atmospheric flight only, with even their versions of the Thunderbolt fighter being fitted with greater weapon loads and tracking pods at the expense of the ability to fight in space.

Aircraft of the Confederate Armed Forces

The CiC was dark and the temperature slightly cool. Unlike most of the sections of the ship it was quieter, just the sound of low voices and tapping on computer displays. The limited illumination came from the subdued tones of the red tube lights fitted along the walls. The computers and display screens gave off multiple colours that flickered around the room, casting hard shadows on the faces of the operators. This was the beating heart of the battlegroup, and from this one room many ships, fighters and ground-based units were coordinated with skill and precision. In the centre of the room was a three dimensional tactical display that currently displayed the disposition of the ground combat units on Avagana. There were already thousands of marines, commandos and army personnel fighting across the continent as well as small garrisons trapped inside their forts in the other colonies. New Carlos was still under attack but the forces of the Army and their heavy armour were rapidly retaking the open ground around the city. In just seven hours two cities had been relieved and two armoured columns were making their way to relieve New Carlos, over a day ahead of schedule.

The heavy armour of the Army was proving decisive, as were the heavy artillery and overwhelming firepower of the unstoppable battalions of soldiers. They were less flexible than the marines but well equipped for the grinding attritional combat of major field operations. With the newly arrived air support from the Thunderbolt and Lightning fighters the ground war was certainly turning around fast. With the arrival of these news forces General Shears had taken over command of all field Army units on Avagana. He was conducting a pincer movement around the northern and southern approaches to the city. According to his estimates the region would be completely pacified by the end of the day. At this rate the Marine Corps forces could be withdrawn to the transports in orbit and on the ground.

In the CiC, Captain Hardy watched over the Fleet, ever watchful of the potential for danger from either the surface or from new vessels arriving from space. On his display he watched the latest batch of landing craft and transports drop down from orbit. The army transports seemed to be able to disgorge an almost unlimited number of infantry and aircraft. Hardy wondered to himself how things may have gone if the Army had been able to land at the same time as the Marine Corps? Still, the whole point of the Marines was that they were fast, flexible and powerful. If they had relied just on the Army, Avagana would have fallen days before.

He noticed the ship’s log on the side of one view screen now listed scores of vessels that had tried to pass through the blockade. Some had tried to head for the surface but most were making a break for open space. This number of civilian traffic was going to be a problem if it kept increasing at this rate, as more and more of the fighters were having to be used to help screen craft attempting to flee the warzone. Though craft heading from Avagana were being watched carefully, it was perfectly legal for vessels to travel to and from the other six colonies, and these were the most worrisome.

The heavy metal door slid open and in walked Admiral Jarvis, flanked by two armed guards. They were both commandos with over a decade’s experience in space and ground combat operations. The marines wore full PDS suits and were therefore covered in armour from head to toe. Each man carried an L48 carbine with the small calibre module fitted for use in interstellar operations.

The use of the standard large calibre L48 round would be devastating in the confines of such a vessel in space. These men were the only fully equipped units on the ship. The rest would have to break out weapons from the lockers, if and when an emergency occurred. As they entered the CiC, the two additional guards that protected the sensitive part of the ship stepped aside and saluted. Unlike the two marines accompanying the Admiral, these men wore no armour, only standard issue combat fatigues and pistols. The use of heavier weapons was being strictly controlled due to the possibility of infiltration and hijacking throughout the Fleet.

Admiral Jarvis moved directly past them and to the table where General Rivers was checking the campaign details. Her guards stood close by but not too close as to be obtrusive. News had arrived only a few hours earlier of an attempt to secure the bridge of the CCS Santa Maria. Fortunately, her marine guards had managed to prevent casualties. Since then there was a crackdown on all with links to a number of religious factions and left-wing militant organisations.

Captain Hardy and General Rivers stood to attention as she approached.

“Admiral, you received my message?” asked the General.

“Indeed I did. Army units are pushing back the Zealots and their allies. I don’t see the problem.”

General Rivers hit a few buttons so that the map pulled backwards and towards the coast. Much of the coastline was rocky and packed with large, almost insurmountable cliffs. Three points were flagged on the display where the coast flattened and led to sheltered coves and beaches. Around these areas were large numbers of the enemy moving to the water. Further inland were the rapidly advancing armies of the Confederacy who were snapping at their heels. The coloured markers also indicated a number of utility aircraft landing near the enemy forces.

“What am I looking at?” she asked.

“These are the retreating troops from the attacks in the South. They have been beaten in open battle and are retreating cross-country to the sea. General Shears has ordered several of the armoured units to pursue them, the remainder are helping with the relief of the outposts and cities,” he pointed at the moving icons on the map.

“These aircraft appear to be chartered flights that are taking away the retreating units. Most are small, no more than three of four crew but there are a few larger cargo craft that can move a few hundred at a time,” explained the General. “Right now I am more interested in securing the colony.”

Admiral Jarvis examined the display. “Well, it does mean they will live for another day but for now the security of Avagana is the most important factor. So far this is all good news, what about their shock troops? Are they falling back too?” she asked impatiently.

“This is one of the problems,” he zoomed in closer to the waterline. The view enlarged to show numerous vessels, some as small as rowing boats, others the size of passenger vessels, as they helped people aboard. Some of the larger ones were launching their own aircraft to help bring people away from the shore.

“Who are they?”

“We aren’t sure yet but the news feeds are saying some of the relief agencies from New Georgia are helping evacuate refugees and civilians from the fighting. Two of the Churches are also funding ships to help them leave the area.”

On one of the screens was a video feed from a Navy reconnaissance jet as it blasted past the beach. The cameras clearly showed the numbers of people making their way to the boats and the large number of infantry on the beach helping them board. The soldiers were not Confederate troops, their uniforms were a grey colour and their craft were common to the militia forces of the Seven Colonies.

“Okay, I see the problem. We have civilian forces, as well as what I am sure will be described as peacekeepers, helping to clear them from the battlefield. You realise this will allow them to regroup to continue the fight in the future? Even so, we can’t end this revolt without directly engaging their vessels on the coast or in international waters. Any engagement with forces of the colonies will result in hostilities between us and their combined ground forces.” She moved the map across to track the movements of the ships. “I assume a full scale conflict between Avagana and the six colonies is a war we cannot win?”

“Not a chance. At present we are winning, their forces are retreating and we are seeing successes across the continent. If the other six colonies declare open support for the uprising we will face the combined forces of their militaries as well as mobilised militia, the religious orders and whatever shock troopers have survived. That’s assuming they don’t have more hidden away. Also, I would expect the rest of the colonies in the System would come down on one side or another. The entire sector would be ripped apart by civil war, all of this just so we can stop their beaten forces from retreating,” he added tersely.

Admiral Jarvis checked the disposition of the naval assets on the ground, specifically the marines and the limited number of aircraft they had deployed. She looked back at the map of the planet and the six hostile colonies that seemed to be doing everything possible to cause a rift between them and the Confederation Forces. The more she thought about the situation the more she was convinced the other colonies were trying to provoke a shooting war on the surface.

“So it would be in the interest of the insurgents to provoke us into attacking other colonial forces. They could use this to try and drag us, and the rest of the colonies, into a shooting war. We need to be careful. Once they take the survivors away from Avagana, where are they taking them?”

“Well, our reconnaissance handlers on the ground say the civilians are being taken to lots of different locations, some to New Georgia, others directly to the ports for transfer to liners trying to break the blockade.”

Captain Hardy interjected at the mention of the blockade.

“Admiral, in the last hour we have intercepted seventeen transports. Each claim they are carrying refugees from the combat area. We’ve turned three back but the rest were clear. No unauthorised personnel, no weapons and nobody from the religious orders that we know of.”

Admiral Jarvis turned back to the General.

“What about their new pets? Surely their experimental warriors aren’t just queuing up and climbing aboard the boats? Everything I have seen so far suggests they are well motivated, strong and able to fight for much longer than regular units.”

“Indeed not. At first we thought they were falling back to the coast, but it seems they aren’t heading for the coast at all. It’s the Zealots fanatics, foreign fighters and other volunteers who are trying to escape along with a number of civilians. Of course it is often hard to tell the difference between them, it’s not like they all wear a blue uniform! Most of the shock troops are making their way back underground and into the many catacombs and tunnels they have been working on. We started to try holding them back, but it’s safer all round to let them retreat than trying to destroy a cornered animal. The Air Force has had a field day mopping up as they fall back. A large contingent of them is working their way over ground and underground to the Bone Mill.”

Admiral Jarvis moved the map over to the infamous site and examined the aerial shots with interest. It was heavily pockmarked from battle and bombs, over two-dozen armoured vehicles were still belching smoke from recent battle.

“I thought the Bone Mill had already been bombarded? Why bother retreating to a smoking hole in the ground? Wouldn’t it be better for them to just expend their forces in a final push on the cities?”

“It has, that doesn’t stop them making their way back. I have given orders for them to be pursued back to the site but under no circumstances must we try to stop them. We’ve given them one clear route out of the battle area and they are taking it,” he said as he ran his finger along the display. The map zoomed in to the immediate area around the Bone Mill.

“When their forces are contained we will collapse the site once and for all!”

“Bury them alive, General? What about the connecting tunnels? From what we have seen they have extensive underground tunnel networks that travels miles in each direction. How will you pacify them?”

“I have a squadron of Thunderbolt fighters armed with low yield tactical neutron bombs on standby. Once they are secured at the Bone Mill, the strike will destroy the primary structure and the weapon will kill everything within a twenty kilometre radius.”

“So you’re going to nuke them. Are you happy with using the nuclear inventory from the Fleet? The nuclear option is always one of last resort. What if the colonies respond in kind? We don’t want to start a nuclear exchange,” she said in a concerned tone.

“I haven’t taken the decision lightly. Under the circumstances I think it is the best and most humane way to resolve the problem. A single strike will eliminate this genetic threat, as well as destroy whatever they have underground that has allowed them to create the creatures to start with. The neutron bombs have a much smaller area of destruction, under a kilometre. The radiation damage is short lived and should clear most of the tunnels with little residual radiation. The only other option is with conventional weapons, that will require a prolonged bombardment and is easily avoided by digging down deeper or taking the more remote tunnels.”

A red light started flashing on the communications desk. At the same time a continuous drone started to drown out the sound of conversation in the room. It was a sound that was heard only a few times a month and indicated narrowband data from High Command. The communications officer handed a datapad to Captain Hardy who read it then turned and marched directly to the two senior officers. His face was flushed, whether it was from the stress of the operation or the material he had just read, they couldn’t tell.

“Admiral, I have a secure transmission from Fleet Headquarters, it has just finished decoding. I think you will want to see it.”

“Of course,” she said almost dismissively, “thank you, Captain.”

She picked up her datapad and examined the contents of the message. It took only a few seconds to read before she sighed and lowered it to her side. The General looked at her, waiting for some comment on the news. She handed him the datapad but continued to explain the contents anyway.

“The signal is a delayed communication from Fleet HQ at Alpha Centauri. Apparently there has been a violent coup attempt on Terra Nova. Over thirty officers killed along with a number of the Council. The infiltration was by Fleet personnel who are currently being interrogated. The coup was led by separatists from Carthago and it says here that the movement is spreading. Some of the colonies are already debating secession from the Confederacy.”

“Good God, I thought we had it bad enough in this System,” General Rivers sighed.

“There’s more, they are warning that several militant monotheistic groups are planning something major and they think genetic manipulation will play a big part in it. Raids on laboratories on the Confederate Research Stations have shown collusion between some of the top biologists, one of whom has been selling data to a terrorist group.”

“We could have used this information weeks ago before this started,” said a very irritable Captain Hardy.

General Rivers read down the information on the datapad until he came to the last section of text. “It says all traffic from AC has been halted and any ships en route to Proxima have been turned around. A general quarantine alert for the Proxima System has been put into effect until the crisis is resolved.”

“I don’t understand, Admiral, why are they blocking us?” the Captain asked.

“It is simple. Until the contamination is halted in the home System, they want to shield us from any fallout. They are assuming of course that nothing will have happened here.”

“A fat lot of good that will do us now. We are already facing a potential civil war between the colonies here if we don’t resolve the situation quickly. What worries me is how much better or worse are they faring compared to here? If you ask me I think Proxima is taking a hell of a beating right now. We’ve had hijackings, satellite occupation, capital ship engagement and now a full-scale ground war on Prime. How can it get any worse?”

“ You’re making a joke I assume, General?” said the Admiral sternly. “As I’m sure you are aware, the situation can always get worse!”

The General looked a little uncomfortable at the rebuking before changing the subject. “How long ago was the message sent?”

“Sixty-two days. Anything could have happened since then, hell the entire System could be overrun with Zealots and in the middle of a full-scale colonial war. We need information and we need it fast!” She turned to her communications officer.

“Lieutenant, check the relay link to Fleet HQ on Terra Nova!”

The officer flicked a few buttons and then scanned the various frequencies used by the communication facilities throughout the stations and ships of the Fleet. At first it appeared everything was normal, then the officer realised something wasn’t right. He tried a few more channels but they were all the same. Moving his hand across the screen he added various filters to the data streams but nothing changed the seemingly random nature of the noise. He turned back with a look of surprise on his face.

“Sir, nothing, just static. It’s like the signal is being jammed with digital noise. Every single channel is the same, from the main feed down to the wideband data streams. I’ve tried clearance filters and noise reduction and the system can’t find anything.”

“So whatever is going on at Terra Nova, Admiral, we can assume they will not be sending us any help?”

“Quite possibly. Either way, General, with no communications, intelligence or supplies we’re pretty much on our own.”

Admiral Jarvis examined her tactical display as she checked on the status of the systems and ships scattered through the Proxima System. She turned to her communications and tactical officers.

“I want a full update on the readiness of all Confed units in the entire System. I need to know the status of every single ship, transports, supplies, stations and personnel. Make sure you include Army and Auxiliary vessels, include everything!”

General Rivers turned and spoke to one of the armed guards before turning back to the Admiral.

“I’ll get my field commanders to gather reports on all our units and outposts.”

Admiral Jarvis looked at the display zooming out to view the whole System. Coloured dots indicated friendly vessels, lines and discs showed the various shipping lanes and orbits. A flashing circle showed where the CCS Wasp was located around the planet of Prime. Although many of the vessels were centred on Prime, many more were scattered about the System. She started to count them but gave up once she had reached fifty ships of destroyer class or larger.

Up until now most of the ships in action were being used in ad-hoc formations to conduct limited operations. If this campaign were to go on any longer she would need to establish a number of new fleets and squadrons based on the assets available in the System.

“We’re on our own here and we need to start planning for a long campaign,” she said quietly to herself as she worked out the optimum placement for the vessels.

*

Johnson had been sat at his desk for the last two hours and was having a hard time trying to extract the data from the recovered datapad. Normally he would have handed in the evidence but with the way things were looking right now in Yama, the capital of the colony, he would rather keep it to himself. On one of the video screens to his right he had three feeds running. Two were general aggregate lists of news and reports, the third was a live signal direct from the Parliament Building in the centre of the city. There were always areas of competition between the colonies, but from the rhetoric on the floor of the house he was noticing a trend between the conservative religious parties and those of the ruling liberal coalition. There had already been a failed vote by the opposition to send peacekeepers to Prime to halt the Confed forces in their counteroffensive to clear the colony of Avagana.

Johnson turned back to the datapad and the data he had already extracted onto his computer. At first glance the data cartridges appeared to be blank, but examination under his forensic tools had reveal multiple hidden partitions behind the actual wiped data. It was a clever ruse and would stand up to most examinations. Moving the data to his computer had required him to disable several of his own firewalls but it was a risk worth taking. As he moved some of the data to a secure section of his computer system he heard someone approaching. With a deft flick he moved the data and slid over a virtual folder that contained mugshots over the top. He turned to see Agent Petoskey stood over his shoulder.

“You seen the news?” he asked.

Johnson double-checked his screen before turning to the man.

“Yeah, I’ve got the live feeds running here,” he replied as he pointed to the displays.

“Right, you see what the Confeds have been doing? Just got a report that they are attacking civilians with strike planes. Bastards!”

Johnson could feel the question inside the statement. Petoskey was one of the many nationalistic Kerberons who seemed to hate anything off-world. The only thing worse than the Primes to them was the long arm of the Confederate armed forces getting involved in the business of the Kerberos Intelligence Unit. He had no illusions that as a member of Confed Naval Intelligence, seconded to the local unit, his life would be in serious jeopardy if Petoskey suspected he was anything other than a Kerberon loyalist.

“Yeah, a bloody business. Bet you’re glad you’re not on the exchange programme with Prime, right?” he laughed.

“You’re right there!” replied Petoskey as he turned back and walked along the open plan office.

Johnson glanced again before returning to his computer screen. Luckily the data was hidden but a small icon bobbed up and down along the corner of the screen. He gave a quick glance around the office before tapping it to expand a message from one of his old contacts in the Defence Department. He didn’t waste time with extended niceties, he’d sent his contact a message almost an hour ago saying he needed to call in a favour. This was it. With a twist of his right hand he selected positions of the encoded data and dropped it into an encrypted container and sent it to his contact. A single message popped up telling him to wait. Johnson didn’t like this part. The longer it took, the longer there was for somebody to notice what he was up to. Voices came from further inside so he increased the volume on his screens and turned to watch the news from Prime. Along the scrolling ticker it said the video link was from a fishing vessel moored half a kilometre from the shoreline of Avagana. The camera zoomed in to show lines of people in their hundreds waiting to be taken away by small boats. Two strike aircraft blasted past and a cry ran up through the passengers as they ducked to avoid the backwash and possible fire. Nothing happened and the craft simply rushed out along the horizon before disappearing from view.

Beep. A low tone indicated another message had arrived, it was his contact. According to the message it said the data was an agenda for a meeting due to take place on one of the stations along the Rim. Only one person was named.

“Typhon?” said Johnson below his breath, he had heard of this man, though from memory there was little known outside of his almost mythical status.

Johnson brought up a secure terminal screen and checked his security database for all information relating to the man known as Typhon. The first page to be found was related to the most recent mention of the man at a rally on Prime. Supporters of the Church of Echidna had placed a plaque at a bombsite in honour of the man bit it had been removed almost immediately. The name appeared to have been mentioned at several other terrorist sites on the planet where it had been used as a chant.

He scrolled through the information till he reached a file from an informant in one of the state owned mines on Avagana. It said a meeting had been attended by known members of the Crimson Brothers, a left wing radical organisation with links to trade unions throughout the seven colonies of Prime. They had originally been one of the smaller unions but after the riots they had split off and become radicalised. The meeting had been convened to plan an attack on the rail system in the name of Typhon and his holy mission.

“Holy mission?” asked Johnson before realising how loudly he had spoken. He looked around, no one was paying any attention.

He refined his search parameters but could find nothing related to the mission, other than some snippets about the darkness beyond the Rim and something else about preparing for the mission. A series of death threats had been received five months ago to the Trade Ministry from a group purporting to be the Yama Defence League. He pulled up another page that described the group. They were a far-right street protest movement which opposed the spread of the Church of Echidna, Church law and Zealot extremism on Prime and Kerberos.

Johnson leaned back in his chair. It was odd, there seemed to be a good number of groups on Kerberos, some with grievances against the state with others more interested in interfering with each other’s business. Prime had become the physical battleground of the troubles but it looked like Kerberos was becoming much the same only in a more clandestine and sinister way.

A message popped up, indicating that the rest of the data had been decrypted. He read it carefully. Most of it made little sense as it contained several quotes from scriptures but one but was of great interest. There was mention of a meeting between the factions, and even more importantly, it stated it would be held by Typhon and his children.

“Holy crap!” exclaimed Johnson as he nearly fell from his chair.

If what he was reading was correct, he had discovered a datapad with information relating to a meeting off-world between the leaders of multiple factions and the quasi-spiritual leader of the revolt, known as Typhon. He grabbed his datapad and hit the options to request a secure feed to his contact on the CCS Crusader. Before his pad would connect to the communication system he had to work through the fractal encryption subroutine, an add-on that was fitted only to the equipment used by members of Naval Intelligence. With the correct code entered it connected to the Naval Intelligence subsystem that was piggybacked onto the primary communication channel from the security headquarters.

“If I’m right this meeting could be between all the major players in the crisis,” he said quietly as he waited for the system to connect.

Looking at his screen he dragged the icons of each of the factions, groups and people until he had a small group surrounding Typhon in the middle of the screen. He looked at it thinking how many different people and links there were. This group could hold the key to the war and maybe even a peace in the System. They also contained people at every level of government and society throughout Proxima. He turned to his left checking the status of his datapad, it was taking longer than expected. He just hoped there weren’t any issues with the monitoring of his signal or data traffic. It was still interrogating the servers and checking for a secure channel. As he waited he re-looked at the groups mentioned in the message. It implied many more would be there but their names were in code.

“Who are Typhon’s children?” he asked as his datapad connected to the CCS Crusader.

With a flicker the screen changed on the pad as it transformed to a writing surface ready for him to communicate through. Normally he would use visual and audio communication, but with something this sensitive he could not afford to risk himself or the person he was speaking with directly.

*

“Sir, message from the surface from an unknown source, it says it is an urgent priority communication,” said Lieutenant Nilsson.

“It’s okay, let it through,” Commander Anderson ordered.

He had been waiting for a signal for some time now and he was beginning to think Admiral Jarvis had been a little too optimistic to expect important information so soon. He checked his datapad and selected the correct codes to establish a secure text link with the intelligence contact on the surface. The icons jumped around and then lined up as the cipher was confirmed. The code for the Admiral’s agent was valid and the first piece of information to arrive stunned him. It stated that Typhon, the almost mythical religious figure of many of the religions and cults through the System, would be attending a meeting of major organisations in the next forty-eight hours.

As he read the message it occurred to him that it could be no coincidence that he had picked up a signal to a site out on the Rim that referred to The One. He remembered reading a report some months ago that linked the term along with two of the most extreme organisations on Kerberos. If this intelligence was correct, this could be the breakthrough they had been waiting for. Maybe the meeting and the signals to the Rim were connected.

“I’ll take this in my sea cabin, XO, you have the bridge,” he said as he marched out of the room.

As he left he walked the short distance to his sea cabin. It was located close to the bridge so that he could be called from sleep or attending to administration instantly. He opened the door and quickly went inside, closing it firmly to ensure he was alone. The cabin was sparsely equipped, containing just a bunk, desk, toilet facilities and a computer terminal on the wall. It was an improvement over the accommodation used by most of the crew, but only marginally so. The Captain of the ship also had access to far more civilised quarters at the in-port cabin further aft. When he had the time this area was more lavishly furnished, with a separate bedroom and combination sitting room and office.

He brushed his hand across the computer system and selected the options that would initiate a connection with the Fleet at Prime. As the system went through its connection protocols he poured himself a glass of water. The purification system on the battlecruiser had sustained heavy damage, so like everyone else he had to make do. In the corner of his quarters was a plastic container with four litres of lukewarm water. It wasn’t great but it was better than going thirsty. Like most of the vessels in the Fleet, this one was capable of displaying the exterior as though the wall was a window. He could see the dark side of the planet below as well as the glint of light from the orbital shipyards just a few hundred kilometres away. In less than an hour the ship would be docked and the injured crew taken away for treatment. The repair work on the ship could take months, maybe even years.

A tone from the computer display signalled the connection was complete. He moved in front of the screen where the image of Admiral Jarvis awaited him.

“Admiral, I have transmitted a copy of the intelligence received from your contact in Yama. The data indicates a high level meeting between multiple enemy assets in the next two days. I feel there may be a link to the previously intercepted signal with regards to something taking place out on the Rim.”

There was a pause as the signal travelled the massive distance. As he waited he checked the intelligence from the previous message. The indicators were all there, a number of high-level delegates, mentions of both the One and Typhon, plus an undisclosed location.

“Commander Anderson, your concerns confirm the analysis conducted by my own team here. There are strong links between Typhon and several pseudonyms that we believe refer to him. This meeting is of great interest to me. We have never been able to infiltrate any of the insurgency cells far enough to obtain top-level intelligence on the command structure of the enemy. Please pass on my orders to our contact at Yama and monitor the situation. I will take care of the operation in the Rim personally. Good work, Commander.” The display went black.

The Commander took another sip of water before pouring the rest of it back into the container. There was no sense in wasting such a valuable commodity when the resources of the vessel were so limited. The voice of the XO sounded from his cabin’s intercom.

“Commander Anderson, I have the pilot tug requesting permission to lead us into the shipyard.”

“I’ll be on the bridge shortly, give them permission.”

“Sir,” came the reply.

Anderson straightened his uniform and opened the door to leave his cabin when his video communication unit started up with an urgent communication. He shut the door and moved back inside to check the message. The video lit up to show the face of the Admiral again.

“Commander Anderson, I have just checked your data and it correlates directly with the intelligence from our other units. I think you know how significant this is to current operations. I need you to finish up your work on the Crusader immediately and arrange to get our contact out of Yama. You need to take the fastest shuttlecraft you have and rendezvous with this ship at the attached coordinates. I have already started to assemble a team to join you. I will forward a full briefing pack along with the latest intelligence for you within the hour.”

The Commander said nothing as he digested what she had just said. He already had masses of work to do with the Crusader and this sounded like a mission unsuited to his skills.

“I, I don’t understand Admiral. The Crusader needs my attention and I fail to see how my knowledge will be of use in a small intelligence operation.”

There was a delay as before and while he waited he stood patiently waiting for the details. The images of the Admiral continued to move but he knew he was looking at a feed that was transmitted minutes ago.

“Commander, this mission is of the highest priority. The location is out on the Rim and you are the most experienced officer in this sector for that region of space. This isn’t a request, I need you in the team!”

He understood immediately what she was saying. The intelligence had pointed to the Rim and with the rest of the data he was obviously going to be continuing the investigation in the murky waters of the Rim. It was some time since he had been there and he was well aware of how dangerous it could be to anybody that was inexperienced.

“Understood, Admiral, I will make preparations to leave immediately.”

CHAPTER SIX

Contrary to most people’s expectations, the use of close quarter weapons was never anticipated until the uprising was well underway. In the decades since the Great War it had become clear that armour and firepower were the highest priority for the valuable marines and soldiers of the Confederacy. In the confines of spacecraft and the underground caverns around the Bone Mill on Prime, the use of high quality edge and thrusting weapons turned the battle into something that hadn’t been seen for hundreds of years. A war, that relied on martial prowess and skill as much as ranged weapons and training.

Edged weapons in the Emergency

Teresa lay in her bunk watching the ships through the virtual window. There were very few marines left on the ship, most had been shipped off and only two companies had stayed back as a reserve. They had already been called out four times and on the last mission she had assisted in what could have been a very ugly one. She had finished writing her section for the after action report, something she was not normally expected to do. On this particular occasion there had been a problem with a diplomatic envoy. It had occurred when the team boarded the civilian liner to find a colonial security unit blocking their access to the rest of the ship. Now technically there was nothing wrong with this as a diplomatic vessel was normally granted full privileges by all Confederation vessels. Due to the heightened security in the crisis however, the Fleet under Admiral Jarvis, had full jurisdiction over any vessels in Confederation Space. Luckily they had been able to force their way inside, but two marines had been slightly injured and it was the violence on a non-military vessel that required her input on the operation.

Teresa looked over at her datapad and the report she had just added her information to. The last section had been written in haste and she was starting to regret the language she had used with regards to the official on the ship. She rolled over to grab the pad and inadvertently hit the send button by mistake.

“Oh…great, just what I need!” she muttered to herself at the rather unfortunate incident.

As she lay there considering the chewing out she could expect when her report arrived, she thought about how Spartan and the others were doing on Prime. She had not seen him for some time now and the last she heard his unit had been dropped into the heaviest fighting around New Carlos. The news on the battle was that it was going well, but she wouldn’t be able to relax until she knew the marines were on their way back to the Santa Cruz. It was weird being alone on what now felt like a ghost ship.

She turned back to her window display and looked out to the planet and spacecraft. One of the newly arrived frigates drifted by and she watched in awe of the mighty ship. Teresa had been reading about the ships, along with lots of other military hardware, during her rest and recuperation aboard the Santa Cruz. From memory she knew it was only a fifth the size of her own craft and was built for combat whereas hers was both a training craft and troop transport. The armour was thick and she could see the multiple layers of thick slabs draped over the more vulnerable parts of the ship. She was far from an expert, but from the reading she had done the armour was a mixture of multiple layers as well as ablative and reactive armour. The frigate was equipped with a number of railguns as were most of the warships in the Fleet. She was also configured with the new, much smaller phalanx weapon systems, a variant of the normal point defence turrets. She understood these turrets could track and hit targets from a railgun with a range of over kilometre. In theory the ship could actually stop kinetic shells before they could hit the armour. Even more importantly, the frigates could provide massed defensive firepower for the larger ships. This was something very new and until the last month had been a very low priority. With the epic battle around Kronus, Admiral Jarvis had pulled in every frigate she could find to help protect the vulnerable transports and capital ships. They had yet to be tried in battle but they were needed none the less.

She shook her head, thinking that she was starting to act like a spaceship spotter, one of those pasty nerds that sat at spaceports taking down the names of ships and their registration numbers to store and check with their friends. She shuddered at the thought, that was not her!

She looked back outside where a number of civilian ships were waiting as security teams checked them before being allowed to the leave the planet’s orbit. There was something different going on and the movement caught her attention. As she watched, a military shuttle with a Thunderbolt escort of fighters manoeuvred alongside the hulk of the marine warship. She realised it must be somebody of importance to be coming aboard with such a number of people.

A loud buzz echoed through the cabin as the officer on duty announced the departure in one hour of another boarding party for a civilian liner. As Teresa watched the ships moving past, her video display activated to show an image of Commander Malone, the XO of the Santa Cruz.

“Private Morato?” he asked.

Teresa stumbled out of her bunk and stood up firmly.

“Sir,” she muttered as she tried to look a little less haphazard.

“Your presence is required urgently in the briefing room in ten minutes,” he said before cutting the feed.

Teresa relaxed for a moment before looking around her bunk for the rest of her clothes. She found her blouse quickly trying to put it on and then pulled on her combat boots. As she dragged on the second boot she stumbled and then reached out, catching the side of the bunk just before she crashed to the floor. She managed to avoid hitting anything major she did knock her datapad off the desk. It crashed to the floor with a sound that suggested something not so good had happened to its internals. She straightened herself up and lifted the unit, noting the scratches and marks down the one side. She turned it around to see three cracks along the screen along with a service error on the front.

“Oh…crap!” she swore as she dumped the unit on the desk and then reached around for the rest of her clothes.

*

Spartan stood on his own, his CES suit was smashed to pieces and lay around him. It was odd but somehow he was stood atop a massive building, the tallest structure he could see, perhaps half a kilometre tall. He was so high that there were actually clouds around and below his level. The walls of the building were of smooth granite and marked with the holes, pits and scratches of a structure that was worn from decades of exposure to the elements. He looked up at the series of glowing masts and aerials that looked like the extended lines of the spines on a porcupine. Several microware and narrow band dishes were also fitted that pointed out to the horizon.

Spartan was confused. He had no idea where he was or even how he had reached such a high position. He looked down to see he was wearing the armour he had worn months ago during his time as an illegal pit fighter on Prometheus. The breastplate was of gleaming bronze and his legs were protected in metal greaves. He was the epitome of a classical hero. As he looked he noticed the weapons in his hands. It was bizarre because a few seconds ago he was sure he had empty hands. In his left hand was a large metal shield, it was round and covered in odd runic symbols along its face. In his right hand he carried a mace, a savage looking rod of iron with a flanged head made of even heavier metal and sharp edges.

As he stood on the metallic structure surveying his surroundings he saw a number of the dreaded shock troopers. The horribly mutated and genetically altered monsters were the ultimate warriors. Faster, stronger and able to fight longer than any man, they were the new breed of soldier though their origins and allegiance were still a mystery. The first turned towards Spartan and then with a scream it rushed for him. It leapt forward, moving an incredible distance and was quickly joined by a second. They moved faster and with more power than he had ever seen, as if they could float through the air towards him. He slammed his shield into the first but it was easily twice the size and mass of him. The impact knocked him backwards a full metre yet he was able to maintain his posture with his shield out in front. The creature slammed some kind of crude edged weapon down, hitting like a hammer on the thick shield. Spartan was forced to bring his right hand over to help support the shield as more blows struck down. His front foot slipped and he crashed to the ground. Knowing he would die if he stayed there, he flailed out with his right hand and managed to strike the ankle of one of the warriors. It fell down backwards and in a flash Spartan felt he could win. Rolling to the side he narrowly avoided an attack and then resumed his stance, shield in front and mace held behind him, cocked and ready to swing at the enemy.

“Now you die!” hissed the creature.

Spartan wasn’t sure he had heard one of them speak before, but took the opportunity to strike the wounded one that was trying to stand up. As his mace crashed into the thing’s head he was covered in blood, the spray plastering his face and body armour. Like a screaming banshee the second jumped through the air and smashed into Spartan’s shield. He managed to hold the impact but as he moved back his feet were unable to find purchase on the gravelled surface. Then he felt something strange beneath his right heel. He glanced back to check realising it was the emptiness of nothing. He was on the edge of the tower and just centimetres from a long, painful fall that would result in death.

“Come on!” shouted Spartan but there was something odd about his voice, it was as if the very sound was being sucked from his lungs and left him feeling cold.

The creature pounded away and Spartan was once again forced to protect his body with the heavy shield. Spotting an opening he swung his mace and dealt a savage blow to its shoulder. Sensing victory he pushed his shield up to its head and swung the mace low into its stomach. It impacted with force but before the creature collapsed it managed to stumble forwards. Spartan tried to grab at his attacker but it was too late. He fumbled and then fell. The sick feeling of dropping into a great pit washed over him and he seemed to move faster and faster.

He opened his eyes, still screaming loudly before realising he was asleep or perhaps unconscious. There was something odd and unlike anything he’d felt since being knocked unconscious during his pit fighting on Prometheus. His head was pounding, it felt like a drum was pounding repeatedly next to his ears. His eyes strained at the brightness of the light. It reminded him of the movies he’d seen where prisoners were dragged out in front of their captors and forced to talk by starving them of food or shining bright lights into their faces. He shook his head and looked around but could see nothing other than the bright blurred background. He had completely forgotten where he was and for a moment he panicked. His arms and legs were stuck and he couldn’t see anything that resembled the real world. Perhaps he was strapped down, in fact he couldn’t even tell if he was vertical or horizontal.

As he tried to move his memories started to flood back. The thoughts of the battle he had been fighting, the numbers of marines and CES units fighting a bloody hand-to-hand battle in the city of New Carlos. He strained his eyes, still the light wouldn’t clear. He kept still and thought back to the very last thing he could remember. He’d been waiting for the enemy to attack when the terrible storm hit. Yes, the storm. It had been violent and with the cover provided by the dirt and dust the enemy had tried one last desperate assault. He could remember now, the images of the violent storm that had tossed men and machines aside. Calming down he looked inside his armoured visor, looking for any indicators that could give him a clue as to what was happening. Something shook him and a small amount of dust poured though a crack in the side of the visor.

“Fuck!” he tried to spit the dust out of his mouth.

Another violent shake rattled his armour and suddenly he was blinded by more light as it entered in through the side of the helmet. He tried to raise his arms but, with no working motors and the ground still holding him encased, he couldn’t move. He was about to shout when the bright light started to ease back until he could make out dark shapes. Some of them were moving and then it dawned on him. Somebody was digging him out, the question though was, who? He pulled his left arm back inside the suit and reached for the self-destruct system. If it was the Zealots there was no way in hell he was letting them take him prisoner. He flicked the switch and activated the system. All it needed was four taps on the button with the correct timing and the suit would detonate, killing him but hopefully taking a few of them with him. It was a small explosive charge, anything more powerful could cause damage to friendly units or transport ships if there was an accident. It was easily enough to exact a little vengeance however.

“Come on you bastards,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “I’m waiting for you.”

*

Teresa hurried along the corridors of the CCS Santa Cruz as she made her way to the briefing room. She had pulled on her uniform but didn’t have the time to sort out her hair or to attempt anything more formal than her basic gear. She just hoped it was something important like a fire rather than a formal occasion. If it were the latter, she would be in big trouble!

As she moved past the files of marines she started to worry that something bad had happened. Maybe it was her family, maybe Spartan? Who knew, all she did know was that the message was unexpected and the waiting was killing her. As she rushed down the walkways a number of marines were forced to jump out of her way, one almost striking his head on a bulkhead before a sergeant pushed out his hand to stop him.

“Hey! Watch your step, Private!” he barked.

Teresa signalled an apology with her hand but kept going at the same speed. The entrance to the briefing room was only a short distance ahead and as she rounded the corner she came to an abrupt halt. At the entrance to the room was a group of four armed marines, each watching both sides of the corridor for signs of trouble. She moved towards them but before she could reach within fifteen metres, one of them turned and closed the distance.

“You Teresa Morato, Private?” he asked.

“Yeah, that’s me. What’s going on?”

The marine guard held out a scanner for her identity card. With a quick scan he had her details including a detailed colour photo and all her basic statistics. He looked for a few seconds as he satisfied himself that she was who she said she was.

“Just go in,” the guard indicated towards the door.

Teresa looked back, concerned at entering a room that was guarded so heavily. As she got nearer she felt a pang of worry as she considered this might be related to the numerous rumours of marines being rounded up with any kind of suspicious past, for security reasons. She needn’t have worried though for when she entered the room there were just a handful of people. One of them was Admiral Jarvis, to the right were four marines including Bishop and Kowalski, the two marines she’d already met. To the side of the room was a virtual presence device that allowed a projected image of the faces of two more men. One was a Naval Commander in his service uniform, the other appeared to be wearing plain clothes. The door shut behind her and they all looked at her before the Admiral indicated for her to approach.

“Private, I understand you were wounded during the operation on Kronus? Are you fit for duty?” she asked.

For a moment Teresa considered answering no. She still had some time left before she was supposed to rejoin the combat unit but this group had the look of something different, something unusual and that always got her attention.

“I’m fit and ready for duty, Sir,” she said quickly.

Admiral Jarvis smiled as she turned back to the others.

“Good, if you’ll come with me to the display, I have something to show you.”

The small group moved to the centre of the room where a flat table-based computer had been set up. Above the table was a projected model of the Rim and its thousands of moons, rocks and stations. Admiral Jarvis spoke first.

“As you are no doubt aware, you are all here for a mission of the utmost importance. Each one of you has been selected for a reason deemed necessary for the completion of the mission. When you leave this room you will be taken to an unmarked shuttle that will rendezvous with a vessel that is already on its way to the Rim. I need not tell you that this mission is top secret, you will report directly to me and me alone! ”

The Admiral looked at the group of five people, checking their expressions and gauging their commitment to the operation. Satisfied they had understood the gravity of the situation she continued.

“This entire sector is being split apart by a combination of forces, some of which we are only now beginning to discover. The primary insurgency has been from several of the militant religious groups. We are now seeing movement from separatists on some worlds with potential support from corporations on Kerberos. What we don’t have is any full idea of their overall plan, and even more importantly, we have no idea which person or group is coordinating these actions against the Confederacy. What I can tell you is that this action is a clear and present danger to the peace and stability of our very way of life.”

She turned back to the display and the map zooming in to the specific sector of the intelligence collected by the Crusader.

“Somewhere in this area is a meeting of leaders, possibly even those behind the command of this emergency. Your mission will be to locate the source of the gathering and to infiltrate it. In the last hour we have narrowed the area down to three stations and seventy asteroids in Sector 3G. Once you are in range you should be able to narrow your search even more.”

Pressing several buttons the map pulled back until finding a tiny dot in the middle of open space. The display zoomed in to show a medium cargo vessel, one of the thousands that trawled the system carrying minerals, supplies and equipment. There was nothing especially interesting about the ship.

“This is the Tamarisk, she is a modified transport that we have equipped as a Q Ship.”

“Q Ship?” asked Bishop with a confused look on his face.

“Yes, she is to all intents and purposes a conventional unarmed transport with the usual number of crew and cargo sections. As a Q Ship she has been fitted with concealed weapons, enough to almost match a gunboat in combat, she will be your transport to the Rim. You might wonder why we aren’t just sending a number of military vessels into the area, I will let Commander Anderson of the CCS Crusader explain.”

On the virtual presence equipment the face of Commander Anderson remained impassive. As they waited Teresa stepped forward so that she was within earshot of Bishop.

“Why did they choose us?” she whispered.

Bishop turned and signalled for her to keep quiet as the voice of Commander Anderson came through the communication unit.

“The Rim is the most dangerous region of space in this entire sector. I have conducted several campaigns in the past there and can confirm that any naval vessels reaching within three hours of the Rim will be detected and reported. If we want to get in quietly for an intelligence gathering operation we will have to make use of conventionally registered commercial vessels. The Tamarisk was damaged in a collision three months ago and has been modified during her repairs. The plan is simple. We will all rendezvous on the Tamarisk in the next twenty-four hours and continue to the Rim where we have arranged to complete a deal with an equipment trader called Antonius from Carthago. That is where you come in, Private Morato,” he said as he looked towards her.

“Me?”

“Yes. We have checked your background and you have the accent, knowhow and local knowledge of Carthago to help us get close. We will need you to elicit the trader’s trust so that we can gain access to the more sensitive locations in the area,” the Admiral answered.

She continued. “You have all been chosen for your exemplary combat and service records. You will travel as the ship’s crew and carry only civilian and black market weapons. It is your job to provide escort for the team and firepower if anything goes wrong. Commander Anderson will be in charge of the operation and you will be assisted in your task by Agent Johnson from Naval Intelligence.”

She moved the map into a wider view to show the entire sector with the burning star of Proxima Centauri circled by the many planets of the System. Each of the planets and component colonies appeared as various shades of purple, red patches showed where fighting, attacks or trouble had been reported. It was obvious was that Prime was the heart of the current troubles. Kerberos had several patches but it was also obvious it could follow in the same direction of Prime.

“As you can see, the entire System is balanced upon a knife edge and just one more major incident could create a domino effect that we will not be able to manage. Even more important is that we believe there will be no more reinforcements from Alpha Centauri, certainly not for a number of months. This means the only forces at our disposal are those already in the Proxima System.”

The room was briefly quiet before the Special Agent joined in.

“I have received additional intelligence that I will share with the team when we meet on the Tamarisk. It is of course imperative that nobody is aware of your mission or where we are going. Admiral, I must make arrangements prior to our rendezvous.”

Admiral Jarvis moved directly in front of the camera fitted to the virtual presence device.

“I will speak with you upon your arrival, God speed.”

The image on the display flickered and then vanished. The face of the Commander expanded and filled the remaining space.

Admiral Jarvis turned to the group, looking specifically at Teresa.

“A shuttle is already waiting for you. Take the C Deck, it is unmonitored all the way to the craft. Once you reach the Tamarisk and have been briefed by Commander Anderson I will speak to you again. You must take no additional items with you, no clothes, nothing of a personal nature.”

The Admiral walked towards the further wall where a number of boxes were stacked. She lifted the lid of the first and pulled out a set of overalls placing them on the table.

“There are clothes and equipment for each of you along with papers and identity chips. Do not leave this room until you have removed everything you are wearing and replaced it with the gear we have selected.”

Bishop, Kowalski and the other two marines stepped forward and started checking through the boxes. Each had their own box with everything they could imagine they might need including a spare set of clothes. Teresa joined them and was mortified to see that unlike the marines she had clothing and paraphernalia of a ship’s captain. She turned back to the Admiral.

“I, uh, don’t understand. Why?”

“It will be clear when you have time to read the full briefing pack waiting for you in the shuttle. Your background in mining and the troubles on Carthago will give you the credibility we need for a rogue trader in this part of the Confederacy.”

Teresa raised one eyebrow, obviously a little surprised at the role given to her and also a little apprehensive at the responsibility she had been granted. She turned back to the box and with a tug pulled her green vest off to put on the clothes left out for her.

A hand tapped her on the shoulder, it was Bishop who was staring at the partially clad woman. The look on his face was a mixture of amusement and also a serious reminder about the mission.

“I think you need to change everything,” he said with a wink.

Teresa looked down, realising she was wearing her issue sports bra. Like most of their gear it was a faded grey colour, much like the colour the armour and equipment of the Marine Corps was painted in. She turned her head in annoyance and then in one quick movement pulled the bra above her head. Bishop looked a little surprised and perhaps uncomfortable as he turned back to his own box.

Teresa smiled to herself, finding the whole situation rather amusing. That was until she examined the rest of the clothing, it was less than perfect.

*

The light started to fade and Spartan was finally able to see through a few gaps in the dust covered visor. He could make out shapes moving about and could only guess they were people. But which ones he had no idea.

“Spartan?” somebody shouted.

He strained to hear as he tried to make out the sounds. The grinding and hammering of machinery came from all around him. Then he felt dizzy, before a jarring impact made him realise he had just fallen down. He shook his head and prepared to hit the button to trigger the internal charges.

“Spartan, it’s Marcus. Are you okay?” came the voice again.

Spartan eased back on the controls, it looked like he might be alright after all. He tried to peer through the visor but he was evidently on his back and looking up at the sky. The sound of electric motors and a buzzing from his right arm confused him.

“We’re opening up the suit, hang in there, buddy!”

The buzzing sound continued until with a clunk the armour around the inside of his right arm popped open to reveal his skin to the cool air of Prime. More whines and clunks came from around the suit as the damaged sections were removed. The torso section pulled open in two parts and helping hands pulled him out of his suit and into the open air. Already his eyes were becoming accustomed to the light. The nearest was a marine, he could tell by the distinctive shape of the PDS suit.

“Holy shit, Sarge, we thought we’d lost you in the middle of the storm!” he said with obvious relief.

Spartan shook his head and looked around, getting his bearings. He was almost exactly where he had been standing when the storm him. Around the area a number of the shock troopers’ bodies were being dragged away, while other vehicles were helping to clear the rubble and masonry from the storm and battle.

“What happened? Did we win?”

Marcus moved up closer to Spartan, placing his hand on his shoulder to help stabilise him.

“Better than that, the storm was their last attempt to break the siege. We broke them on the walls and their survivors tried to escape across the plains,” he said before being interrupted by another marine.

“Escape? You kidding me, the Air Force has been bombing the crap out of the area for the last hour. Nobody is getting out of there alive,” he said with undisguised glee before turning back and continuing his work.

Spartan’s eyes were now back to normal and as he looked about the scene of the battle, he was amazed at the carnage and death. Bodies from both sides were stacked up as well as abandoned equipment and weapons.

“How is our CES platoon, Marcus?”

“Not great, I think only a couple of the units are still working, I’ll tell you what though. If it hadn’t been for them we would have broken. No way could we have held off the attack in that storm. I saw some of your guys taking on two or three of those troopers and come out on top,” he beamed at Spartan.

He turned back to see his damaged and scorched armour on the ground. There were multiple holes in the framing and some of the panels were torn from falling debris and projectile fire. He bent down and examined the visor with its many scratches and holes.

“You were lucky, if it wasn’t for that suit you would have been crushed like the three marines that were dragged down with you.”

A trio of Thunderbolt fighters blasted overhead, each one leaving a supersonic shockwave in their wake. Spartan could see the fuel tanks and extra missiles slung under their wings and they moved off to continue harassing the retreating forces.

A small group approached from the left, it was marines and civilians as well as an army officer. They were moving slowly down the line speaking to the officers and NCOs as they went. Spartan recognised Lieutenant Daniels in the middle. Like Spartan he was no longer wearing his CES suit and had reverted to the standard issue PDS. As Spartan watched them the officer noticed him and, after saying a few words to those around him, made directly for him. As he came nearer Spartan noticed he wore a bandage around his right shoulder.

“Sergeant, damned pleased to see you made it!”

He lifted his arm to salute but was stopped by a spasm of pain that sent pangs through his body.

“Sir, what happened to your shoulder?”

“Oh, yeah, my war wound!” he laughed. “In the middle of the storm part of the apartment block behind us collapsed. Some of the masonry hit our machine gun post and I took a fragment on my suit. It bloody well hurt too! I’ll tell you what, without the suit I’d be a dead man. I owe you that one.”

A man holding a satellite radio ran over to him. “Sir, I’ve got Captain Mathews for you.”

Lieutenant Daniels signalled to Spartan that he needed a moment before turning to the man and the radio. As he started a long conversation with the Captain, Spartan turned back to Marcus and two more marines who’d wandered over.

“Holy shit, you should have seen the hole that took you. Man, that was some crazy business,” said the first.

The second was pointing to a massive breach in the outer barricades.

“Just after you vanished a dozen guys came through that hole. We don’t know what they used but it blasted a hole five metres wide.”

“How did you stop them?” he asked, genuinely interested in hearing their stories.

“Well, a mix of guts, stupidity and luck! One of them had thrown a demolition charge up into our position. James here, our illustrious private, managed to grab it and tried to throw it back from his position on the OP. When he threw it the pack got stuck on the framing out there,” Marcus said as he pointed to an open space with a crater in the ground. “Luckily for us, it exploded as they came up from the breach and brought down half the structure on their heads.”

“You lucky son of a bitch!” said Spartan, now laughing at the story.

“Hey, Sergeant!” shouted Daniels from a few metres away. “You’re not going to believe this!”

“What do you mean, Sir?”

“We’ve just received word from Kerberos that a Summit has been called between the colonies of Proxima as well as with representatives from the militant organisations.”

“So?” asked Spartan who looked nonplussed.

“So?” responded Lieutenant Daniels. “The Zealot leadership has announced an immediate ceasefire while the summit takes place.”

“Ceasefire? Here, on Prime?” Marcus asked surprised.

“Yes, as of fifteen minutes ago all fighting on Prime has stopped. Peacekeeping forces from the other six colonies here are still taking away any survivors from the insurgents. We have orders to let them leave, right now we need to consolidate our hold here.”

“Am I getting this right?” asked James. “The war is over?”

“Not the war, but for now we have a break. I have orders from Captain Mathews to collect all our people and equipment for extraction in sixty minutes. Looks like we’re going home to the Cruz!”

“Back to the Cruz?” asked a surprised Spartan.

“Indeed,” Lieutenant Daniels replied with a wry smile.

Spartan looked around him, at the equipment and fires that were still burning. There didn’t seem to be much of a city left but he knew they had done well. All he could hope for now was a break from the fighting. Even a few days would be nice.

“Hey, brother, I know what you’re thinking!” said Marcus as he slapped his hand down onto Spartan’s arm. “Santa Cruz here we come!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Two years before the outbreak of the Great War a religious controversy erupted through the colonies of mankind. The argument started with a simple schism of the Church of Man, the largest of the cults on Terra Nova. The problem was the display of icons and their use. Until the schism it was normal practice for icons to only be kept in the churches. When the Bishop of the City of Echidna declared icons could be carried by anyone the schism was formed. His martyrdom saw the birth of the new religion and the first of the religious conflicts.

The Iconoclast Controversy

The journey to rendezvous with the Tamarisk had been slightly shorter than expected. Even so, twenty hours in a cramped shuttle with the four marines had been a trial in itself and Teresa needed some space to move. As they reached within ten kilometres of the ship, the display at the front of the shuttle changed from the automated navigation page to a video communication relay with Commander Anderson who was already onboard.

“Greetings, I hope your journey was uneventful.”

The video showed the officer but from his surroundings the ship looked less than spacious. Commander Anderson was actually stooping under a bulkhead so that he could see the screen. It didn’t inspire confidence in Teresa and her hope for more space to move around in. From the port window she could see the ship getting closer. The engines of the vessel were on full burn as the transport propelled towards the Rim and their destination. Only a fast craft like their shuttle had a chance of meeting them in time without slowing down the Tamarisk and risking the mission.

“Agent Johnson is already onboard and I have taken delivery of items of equipment that should prove useful to our mission. That is all for now, we will discuss this in more detail upon your arrival. Please watch the gravity when you come aboard, due to the acceleration we are operating at a few percentage points over normal. Anderson, out,” he said and the screen cut to black.

“Short and sweet,” said Kowalski.

“Just like Teresa!” laughed Bishop.

Teresa turned to the two of them and gave them a look that stopped their amusement in their tracks.

From inside the shuttle the Tamarisk was definitely less than inspiring. She was an old ship by any standards and though she had been well repaired, no effort had been made to beautify the vessel in any way. The outer hull was pockmarked with scratches and marks from her many voyages. The shape was unusual, as the vessel looked like three spheres joined together by a series of gantries running along the outer parts of the ship. As they moved ahead she could see that the spheres were just the last third of the ship. The remaining middle of the ship consisted of a dozen rectangular sections designed for carrying mechanical parts and supplies. Only the front of the vessel appeared remotely friendly, with its rounded nose and many windows installed for the crew and passengers. From the datasheets Teresa had been reading on the way, she knew the ship could carry up to thirty passengers at a time. It contained enough sleeping room and storage for this number for up to six months.

“No rotating sections? I take it the ship is a zero-g environment craft then?” Teresa asked as she leaned over to Kowalski and Bishop who were sitting in front of her.

“You’ve never been on a clipper before?” asked a surprised Kowalski.

“No, why would I?”

“True. Still, clippers work like any of the high-speed ships that we use to move people and materials through the System. They’re just the same as the colony ships and military transports.”

“I don’t understand, same in what way?”

Kowalski looked at the other marines with a look that told Teresa it was a question you shouldn’t need to ask.

Private Williams, the youngest of the group and an avid reader of anything technical or military, turned around in his seat so he could see Teresa. He looked at her for a moment before receiving a withering stare. He looked nervous, something Teresa found amusing for a marine.

“Uh, the high speed ships are all designed to be able to move their cargos quickly through the System. This is usually used for volatile or time critical items, sometimes even the military use it for the rapid transfer of troops to a warzone. It is expensive and not all the ships are equipped to travel in this way.”

“Explain it to me, please?” she said in a tone that Bishop and Kowalski instantly recognised as the dry sarcasm she used with them. Williams hadn’t noticed though and launched into a simplified description.

“If you want to travel between two places in the Confederacy you will need speed, a lot of it or it could take you months or years depending on your destination. Many ships will just accelerate to a certain speed and then coast using Ion thrusters to maintain a speed to their destination. That is how most of the heavy transports work. In fact some never technically slow down, they follow a continuous path on their elliptical courses through Proxima. They have to be loaded and unloaded at speed by other craft.”

“Yeah, and what about the high speed ships?”

“Oh, right. Well, to go farther these ships spend all of their time accelerating. So they leave and fire their engines and keep them on till they reach the halfway point. Then they rotate around and fire the engines in reverse and continue for the other half.”

“Ah, that’s why we have gravity in this shuttle?” asked Teresa.

“Uh, yeah, you only just worked that out?” Bishop laughed.

Barca, the fourth marine in the group leaned into the conversation.

“I’ve always wondered about that actually. Most of our ships have rotating sections to provide artificial gravity for long journeys. What happens with the high-speed ships? Surely constant acceleration will create a g force that will effectively create an amount of gravity.”

“Holy crap, you actually studied?” laughed Williams.

“You’re a funny guy, Williams,” responded Barca.

“Well, that is why the ships tend to used a linear, fixed acceleration. For ships carrying crew it is normal to stay on a 1g burn. So the ship maintains a continuous level of acceleration that is approximately 1g in thrust. Providing the ships are designed for the trips the rear of any inhabited sections will become the floor. You might have noticed the signing on the marine transports that implies you could walk in multiple places depending on the orientation of the ship. If the vessel is coasting or moving at low levels of acceleration we use the rotating sections. Once the ships speed up the rotating sections can be stopped and the gravity is provided by the thrust alone.”

“Interesting. We didn’t do that on the Santa Maria when we made our way to Prime,” said Teresa.

“That doesn’t surprise me, the Maria is also used as a training ship. You will have spent most of the journey coasting while picking up new recruits and supplies. You signed up in Prometheus as well, right?” he asked.

Teresa nodded.

“Well, it is very dangerous to use the high speed transport option in an area like Prometheus. Hell, I know a few decades ago an army transport tried a direct run to the planet and was lost with all hands in the storms. I think a few thousand died in that incident.”

“Look, we’re nearly there,” said Bishop.

The marines watched the vessel, the computer handling the entire operation as the shuttlecraft approached the side of the ship. The process appeared painfully slow but the marines knew that both craft had been accelerating until this point and at incredibly high speeds. With a sickening feeling in their stomachs the primary engines of the shuttle cut off in synchronisation with the Tamarisk. At first the larger ship appeared to drift ahead but minute adjustments by the shuttle’s computer helped them maintain the speed.

“Crap, weightless again,” Bishop moaned.

With the two spacecraft now travelling at a constant speed the shuttlecraft moved sideways, the small manoeuvring jets helping to nudge the craft inside.

“Uh, are they going to let us in?” asked Kowalski.

As if on cue a large metal shutter raised to reveal a cramped hangar space. Teresa noticed two more craft already stowed inside. One looked like a civilian shuttle, similar to the one they were in but far older and undoubtedly much cheaper. Clamped next to the shuttle was what looked like a Marauder a larger version of the Thunderbolt fighter that could carry extra crew. She turned to Bishop.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“You bet your ass it is. I never thought I’d see one, the Marauder is pretty rare these days. Most have been scrapped or converted back to Thunderbolts. I guess they think we might need something with a pit of a punch.”

Their shuttle moved slowly inside the hangar space and alongside the other craft. No sooner were they past the shutters, they started to close again. The blackness of the hangar was lit by the interior lights of their shuttle alone. Teresa sat quietly, waiting for their automated docking to complete. Their craft rotated a full ninety degrees before approaching one of the landing clamps to the rear of the space. With a final clunk the shuttle shook and a series of green lights flashed around the airlock and various displays on the walls. Teresa made to move before Bishop’s hand held her shoulder.

“No, not yet, we are still coasting. Wait till we get the double green before getting up.”

Teresa looked at him, a little confused as to what was going on. Then a shudder shook through the shuttle and she could feel herself being pushed back into her seat. She felt heavier and heavier until finally they must have been back to normal gravity. A hiss echoed through the passenger area as the airlock opened to a small doorway leading into the hangar. Releasing her harness Teresa expected to float out, completely forgetting the entire point of what had just happened and instead found she was pinned in her seat. She looked over at the amused face of Williams.

“The acceleration, remember?” he laughed.

Teresa stood up and walked to the doorway, her legs aching from sitting for so long. As she passed through the airlock she reached the open space of the hangar and looked around inside the darkened area. Bishop was out next, quickly followed by the others as they yawned and stretched.

“Well, we’re here,” said Kowalski.

A noise came from the far wall, followed shortly by a metal hatch opening up. A dull yellow light poured in and hurt their eyes for a few seconds as they adjusted to the brightness. Through the light stepped two men, both in civilian clothes. The scrawny man at the front Teresa recognised as Commander Anderson. She straightened up and saluted, the other marines quickly followed.

“Welcome to the Tamarisk,” said the Commander. “Before we get started you need to get rid of that habit. As of from now you are a civilian crew on a civilian ship. Until our mission is completed there will be no saluting, mentioning of rank or following of naval protocol. Understood?”

“Sir!” came the unanimous reply.

Commander Anderson just stood there. He said nothing before turning to the stranger to his right. The man was dressed in civilian clothing and wore a light waistcoat that was marked and scruffy.

“This is Johnson, from Kerberos.”

“You’re the Special Agent Admiral Jarvis spoke of?” asked Teresa.

“Not today, just called me Johnson.”

Teresa nodded, the changed protocol on the ship finally starting to sink in.

“Follow me,” said the Commander as he turned and walked back through the doorway. Johnson followed immediately behind. Teresa looked back at the other four marines who smiled nervously, then turned and went through the doorway and into the ship.

*

Lieutenant Daniels was first off the assault shuttle. He turned and shook Spartan’s hand before stepping down to the hangar floor.

“Good work again, Sergeant, we’ll meet for a full debriefing in an hour,” he disappeared along with the scores of other people piling out of the other craft.

Spartan was next off and as his feet hit the cold metal he felt a pang of relief to be back aboard the old ship. Several of the craft had already arrived prior to them with the wounded and urgent passengers, which Spartan noted there were many. He stepped to one side and counted in the men from his platoon as they moved in slowly, there were only nineteen. Roughly half of the unit was dead or wounded. Thankfully he noted that the bruised, but implacable Marcus, strolled out and shook his hand.

“Spartan, thought I’d lost you on the way up,” he said happily.

Several marines were carried past on stretchers before Spartan spoke.

“I spoke to Lieutenant Daniels on the extraction. He said the Santa Cruz is joining the rest of the marine units at Kerberos for reinforcement and medical attention.”

“Kerberos? What about the fight on Prime? We can’t just leave the colony.”

“True, but garrison duty and engineering is the job of the ground pounders. Right now we are in no shape for continued combat operations. Have you seen the casualty reports? By all accounts our units should be pulled out of the line for six months or more.”

Tex and Travis, two of the marines that he had spent some time with on Prime, climbed out and joined the little group. Tex was starting to warm to Spartan, though Travis as usual was still quiet. The day before they had landed on Prime, Spartan had been training with the two of them. Being a new arrival to the commandos he hadn’t fitted in very well. It wasn’t helped by the fact that some thought he’d had a lucky break in the fighting on Kronus, seeing as they all had long and distinguished careers in the Marine Corps prior to selection for their elite unit.

“Spartan, that was some crazy ass shit going on down there!” laughed Tex.

Spartan looked at him and smiled. Even in all this blood and trouble he was glad to see the entire ship no longer viewed him as a lucky break. He had proven he had the skill and the drive to be worthy of the commandos. He suspected with the casualties they had sustained and the growing problems throughout the System that his skills would be needed very soon.

“When you’re done I want to see you in the mess, we have things to discuss!” he said before the two men left the hangar.

James O’Reilly was the last man out and Spartan recognised him from the action prior to the storm. As he walked past, Spartan tapped him on the shoulder. The marine looked startled and stared into his eyes before moving on, ignoring everyone.

“That’s not good.”

“Yeah, you can say that again, Marcus, I need to speak with Daniels, we’ve got a few marines here that need some attention. We got hit bloody hard down there, much harder than we should have. I’d really like to know what the hell is going on. Why is there this revolt and who is behind it? No way are those shock troopers a small experiment, they had thousands of them,” said Spartan, his brow tightening.

“I know what you mean. Some of the guys back on the surface reckon it is some kind of a feud between some of the groups that first came out here. Personally I think that’s a crock of shit. Somebody has something to gain out of this, I bet the Zealots, the troopers and the rest of them are all somebody else’s pawns.”

The two left the space in the hangar and made for the airlock that led into the main walkways of the Santa Cruz. As they walked through the large airlock it automatically sealed behind them. It was immediately obvious that things were not looking good. There was a lot of blood on the floor and marine medics were running back and forth as they carried blood packs and supplies.

“Shit, this is bad!” said Marcus.

“Yeah, like I said, this isn’t some simple religious revolt. We’ve got a much bigger problem on our hands,” muttered Spartan.

“Well, no way are we going back into action like this. When can we expect to be reinforced?”

“Who knows? From what I’ve seen they keep sending us in. Maybe somebody will take a look at the figures and realise we aren’t immortal.”

“Speak for yourself,” laughed Marcus, “Come on, I don’t know about you but I need a drink.”

They walked on past the first airlocks and bulkhead doors that led to the sickbay and recreation area. Marcus started to talk before noticing he was on his own. Turning around he saw Spartan reading a message on his datapad.

“What is it?”

Spartan said nothing for a short while longer as he continued reading whatever it was that he was looking at. Marcus became more concerned when he noticed Spartan’s face tense up. He’d already seen that down on the scarred battlefield of New Carlos. Spartan looked up from the pad.

“It’s from Captain Mathews, he wants to see me about Teresa,” he said slowly.

“Teresa? I thought she was still recuperating from her injuries?”

“Yeah, so did I.” Spartan looked about, getting his bearings.

“Hey, where is he?”

“He wants to meet me in his quarters, Marcus, alone.”

The two stood for a moment before Spartan made to move. Marcus grabbed his arm before he could leave.

“Listen, I’ll be waiting in the rec room. You come and see me right away, understood?” he said firmly.

Spartan nodded, saying nothing before rushing off down the corridor.

*

General Rivers surveyed the tactical display of Prime in great detail. No matter how the battle was going he always seemed to be at the map, watching the minute detail of the action and contacting the field commanders at regular intervals. As he stood there he looked worried, as though he was waiting for something terrible to happen. He turned around to face the video-link with General Shears on the surface below.

“General Rivers, I understand your concerns. I can confirm that my local forces have now fully secured the colony. As we speak, we are assisting with rebuilding efforts on the main highways and transport links. New Carlos will be back in business in less than six months,” he said dismissively.

“I am well aware of the tactical situation. You have still not answered my questions. Why have you sent all marine forces away from Avagana? The commandos needed to come back of course, they are for specific operations but our other units and specifically the 12th Regiment, have been playing a critical part of defending the colony. Are you sure that Colonial and Confederate Army units are sufficiently equipped and positioned to defend Avagana against any possible attempts to attack it?”

“Of course, and I cannot fail to see the implication that your precious marines are more valuable and more important to the defence of Prime. We of course appreciate the efforts and sacrifices of all Confederate Military forces, including the Navy, Marine Corps and the Army. With the peace talks on going, and no hostile forces in the colony, I see no reason why the marines need to stay here. We still have support from the Army, and I am happy to continue assisting with their use and deployment on Prime. We are better equipped to conduct long term operations here than you are, if we need help we’ll be in touch,” he then signed off.

The entire room was silent. Those who heard the conversation were keeping their heads down, the rest carried on as though none of them had seen anything happening. Nothing could hide the fact that General Rivers was furious. He slammed his fist down onto the table in a rage that grabbed the attention of every crewmember in the CiC.

“That arrogant son of a bitch!” he roared.

Almost simultaneously with his outburst the door to the CiC opened and in walked Admiral Jarvis and her ever-watchful bodyguard.

“General, I see you and our friends on the surface have come to an understanding?” she said with a wicked smile.

The General looked as though he had something to say and then did his best to curb his voice. It was one thing to lose his temper when shouting at the table, quite another to lose his temper in front of the Admiral.

“Something like that. It would appear General Shears is convinced he can maintain and defend Avagana unassisted by the Marine Corps. I am concerned that he is trying to politicise the situation rather than ensuring the region is cleared and kept cleared.”

“I understand exactly, General. Even so, I think it might not be a bad thing for us to regroup away from, what I’m sure you will agree, is a meat grinder of an operation. Confederate Forces are spread thin throughout Proxima and with no sign of reinforcements, I am inclined to try and maintain a flexible reserve in case of any more emergencies. After all, only the marines and the Fleet can respond quickly and strongly in a short period of time. Let General Shears have his moment in the sun, for now we have the big picture to concentrate on and there are a few things that will have to change.”

“Change?” asked the General.

“With us having no contact with Alpha Centauri our chain of command stops in this room. All military forces in this sector need to be assembled and more importantly, an understanding must be reached between the civilian governments of the colonies and our forces. We must work together. It is not a case of us versus them. If we are not careful we could end up doing the job of internal policing, and if that happens we will soon become the enemy rather than the friend of our citizens.”

General Rivers considered her comments for a few seconds. He understood how the military could be transformed from friend to enemy in a matter of days. He also had an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that they were damned either way. They could use a heavier hand to protect citizens or they could step back now that a ceasefire had been declared and hope that hostilities wouldn’t recommence.

“I agree with your assessment, Admiral, though I have my reservations about the intentions of the politicians on both Prime and Kerberos. These uprising have substantial technological and financial support. This cannot be coming from grassroots terrorist support mechanisms. I suspect those behind the troubles are much higher up than that.”

He paused as he considered what he had just said, some of which had only just occurred to him. If there was someone, or at least a group behind the troubles, what would they have to gain? Why would they have pulled strings for a ceasefire? He could only assume they needed time to rebuild before attempting further uprisings and coups. He looked back to Admiral Jarvis.

“What are you proposing?”

“Well, as you know the marines have been sent to Kerberos for a period of rebuilding and re-equipping. They are also being sent there so that we can make a statement as the peace talks are ongoing.”

“Yes, nothing implies power more than a battlegroup parked in orbit,” he grinned.

“Quite. There is something else and I know you won’t like it,” she said seriously, “I could do with you being the official representative at the peace talks on Kerberos.”

General Rivers looked at her impassively. His protests were easy to gauge, he was a combat veteran and military leader, not a politician. He fidgeted before replying.

“I’m sure you can work out where my opinions on this matter lie?”

“Indeed. Nonetheless I need a senior commander who is respected by both the military and civilians. Your defence of religious buildings seven years ago will undoubtedly be remembered by the more militant on Kerberos, and perhaps help in the negotiations. I have already checked the details of the talks and there will be representatives from all the colonies and outposts in Proxima, as well as the leaders of the major industries in the sector plus a dozen more from the religious factions and paramilitary groups.”

“Admiral, what exactly are you hoping I will be able to achieve at such a gathering?”

“Well, as for political organisation, they can decide to do whatever they want. Our duty is to protect the Confederacy and to ensure that the legitimacy of the Confederate Armed Forces is adhered to throughout the colonies.”

“What if they attempt concessions to the religious factions, primarily those on Prime?” asked the General.

“That is nothing to do with us. It isn’t the role of the Armed Forces to interfere in the affairs of the colonies, only to act to protect our citizens and the structure of the Confederacy. The Santa Cruz and her escorts are already setting course for Kerberos, I suggest you transfer there. I understand proceedings are due to take place in the next twenty-four hours at Yama. You will have full command of the forces around Kerberos, including the communication and intelligence facilities as well as the marines.”

“I…don’t understand, Admiral. You are staying here and you want me to assume control of our forces at Kerberos? In these circumstances wouldn’t it be better for us to stick together?”

Admiral Jarvis turned her head in disagreement.

“Under normal circumstances I would completely agree with you. However we have multiple problems that cannot be dealt with by moving our forces to Kerberos. Right now I need our troops given full medical aid and reinforcement at Kerberos. Until this is done the entire battlegroup will be a spent force. As an added bonus, by placing the marine transports and escorts in orbit, it will provide a handy reminder to the talks on the surface that the Confederate Fleet is keeping a watchful eye on proceedings.”

“I understand that, Admiral, but you are not planning on joining the Fleet in orbit at Kerberos?” he asked in a confused tone.

Admiral Jarvis adjusted the tactical display to show the ship dispositions in the Proxima System. She pointed to the large gas giant Khimaira that was surrounded by a number of stations and outposts.

“ I will be taking the rest of the Fleet to assemble at the navigation point off Khimaira. As you know we have a naval refuelling and supply outpost there. I am assembling all capital ships and their escorts to assemble. Smaller vessels will maintain their current operations, especially those involved in anti-piracy and installation defence. I have heard rumours of dissent in some of the crews of the squadrons based at Orthrus and Agora. By bringing the Fleet together I can isolate those that are suspect. It is my intention to root out any threats and quickly. My single biggest concern is that small groups might try and split off when they are needed, even worse they might even turn on us.”

The Admiral turned from the display and looked directly at the General, her face impassive, but resolute.

“It is imperative that by the time the talks on Kerberos are over we have the entire Fleet secure, loyal and ready to assist in whatever decision is made. One thing I can promise you is this, the crisis is not over, not by a long shot.”

*

Spartan stood outside Captain Mathews’ door and paused before knocking. His heart was pounding as he imagined all kinds of terrible scenarios that could involve Teresa, terrorists, combat or even medical problems. Last time he’d seen her was when she was still in the sickbay after having had additional surgery to her shoulder. Spartan was familiar with how operations could go wrong and the idea of infections or other complications weighed heavily on his mind. Unable to wait any longer he lifted his hand to knock but the door swung open to reveal the Captain.

“Sergeant, come in,” he said as he beckoned inside his quarters.

Spartan stepped inside but couldn’t contain himself.

“Is she alright?”

The Captain shut the door and turned to face him. “She’s fine. Please sit, we need to talk.”

The room was a modest affair but much better than the quarters the enlisted men had to use. There were three chairs to one side and a bunk running along the far wall. The Captain indicated a chair to Spartan before sitting down himself. Spartan sat down, at least partially placated that nothing terrible had happened.

“I didn’t realise that you and Private Morato were so close,” he said as he watched Spartan.

“We’ve become good friends since well before Kronus, Sir. Last I heard she was still recovering from her wounds. Where is she?”

“Okay, that is the question isn’t it? First of all, her recovery is going well. She isn’t fully healed but is certainly well enough to return to non-combat based duties. I’m afraid that she isn’t on board the ship though.”

“Where is she?” demanded Spartan, now starting to feel a little agitated.

“As I said, she is okay. She has joined a reconnaissance patrol and will be back in about a week. It is a routine op but I’m sure you appreciate that for reasons of OPSEC I cannot go any further. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m not privy to the information either. I know you want you know more but that’s all I can offer.”

“Why her? I don’t understand, Sir. Surely the battalion has trained reconnaissance units for that kind of work?”

“That is all I know. Who knows, maybe she has certain skills? Maybe it was an emergency and there were no other units on board. In the end it doesn’t matter, she’s gone for a short time and will be back upon completion of her mission.”

Spartan said nothing, he was evidently lost in thought and the Captain had neither the time nor the inclination to turn the discussion into something resembling a social conversation. He decided to revert to something Spartan always seemed more comfortable with.

“Tell me about the CES suits and New Carlos? I have a report due from Lieutenant Daniels, but I’d like to hear from you.”

Spartan looked about the room as he gathered his thoughts.

“Well, initially they performed well. The modifications fitted by the technicians proofed them against most small arms fire. Once in combat the weapons were adequate for most of the tasks we used them for. There were some problems with the suits, mainly to do with speed and size,” he started.

“Tell me about their battlefield effectiveness? How significant were they, let’s say against an equivalent number of marines in PDS suits?”

“There is no comparison, Sir. When we were hit, the marine line almost broke several times. The CES units were able to hold the line against overwhelming numbers. Their increased firepower and ability to take damage meant they could hold where three times their number would have been needed. At close range they are vastly superior. The enhanced power in close combat allows one man to take on several shock troopers.”

“Okay, that is promising. What about the problems, then?”

“The single biggest weaknesses were durability and size. With them being modifications of our basic gear, we still suffered from gaps in armour and several exposed critical systems. The size makes them easier to spot and hit with heavy weapons. Several took direct missile strikes, though I saw at least one lose a limb and keep going. There is also the longevity issue. At the end of just over a day’s worth of fighting most of the suits had broken down or been made unusable due to damage, fatigue or failure.”

“So how would you sum them up for use by the battalion?”

“Well, Sir, I think Lieutenant Daniels would be the best person to answer that question.”

Captain Mathews smiled inwardly, noticing the deference to Spartan’s new commanding officer and also that a level of respect must now exist between them. It was a given fact in the battalion that units meshed together best when flung together in difficult times.

“Indulge me, I’d like to hear your opinions, from a sergeant’s point of view.”

“Okay. In my opinion the CES suits offer the equivalent of light armour or tanks for the marines. They give us a piece of heavy protection that can assist in the assault of objectives or to provide mobile defensive positions, as at New Carlos. They excel in close combat however, that is where their strength, power and firepower can be used more effectively. They are too vulnerable and resource intensive for normal operations. If we all used them we would have half the battalion out of action in a few days, Sir.”

Captain Mathews nodded as he listened to Spartan. He was very interested in the development of the weapon system and Spartan’s comments would be of help for his plans.

“Based on these experiences, I am intending on pushing command for the option for the requisition of more of the suits from Fleet stores for conversion to a number of roles. I would appreciate your assistance in their development, if you’re interested?”

“Definitely, I think with additional modifications we can produce a piece of equipment that will make the battalion even more powerful and effective than before.”

“Excellent. Now, there is another more pressing matter and again one in which I could really use your help,” he said with a hint of intrigue to his voice.

“Let me guess, you’ve found something and you need a team to investigate?” asked Spartan with a smile.

“Not quite, actually, it concerns Kerberos.”

“Kerberos, the industrial world? What is going on there, Sir?”

“That is a very good question. As you know there are peace talks and negotiations over some kind of Colonial settlement in this sector. The negotiations range on all topics from religious freedoms to changes to the electoral process, it even goes up to the autonomy of some colonies from what I hear.”

“What does any of that have to do with us?”

The Captain looked a little uncomfortable, perhaps surprised by the speed in which Spartan had identified the crux of the problem.

“For the most part you are correct, it has nothing to do with the military. That is providing nothing changes with respect to the sovereignty of colonies or the basic structure of the Confederacy. We are sending a representative from the military to stand by any decision or to ask any questions that are relevant to the military command.”

Spartan looked at him, waiting expectantly for some kind of a punch line, then it dawned on him.

“You want me to be the representative?” he asked incredulously.

“You?” he laughed.

Spartan looked a little taken aback.

“You have many sterling qualities, Sergeant, but diplomacy probably isn’t one of them. No, what I need is your experience, your instincts and if required, your fighting skills. I want you to be our representative’s personal guard on the planet.”

“Me? Who would I be guarding, Sir?”

“General Rivers, head of the Marine Corps forces in this sector.”

“I don’t understand, Sir. Yes, it is a great honour, but why me? We have many more experienced marines on board, I can vouch for many of them…” he started before the Captain raised his hand.

“There are already enough guns there from multiple groups, each with different agendas. I have been tasked this duty by the Admiral herself and she wants me to deal with it outside of the normal channels. I need somebody that hasn’t been in the Corps too long and the Zealots, or whoever else is involved, might already have their claws into. There is a chance the situation could get dicey down there and if that happens, well, we need someone used to handling things a little differently to the way we do. You are unpredictable and your close quarter combat skills are reportedly the best in the battalion.”

Spartan said nothing, he felt as though yet another bomb had exploded nearby. Since arriving at the Titan Naval Station he seemed to be thrown from one operation to the next without a chance for a break, rest or to even try and order the events in his mind. At this rate he thought his head might actually explode!

“Will I have a team?”

“There will be a Marine Guard Unit on the shuttle and the Confederate Guard’s Company will as always provide personal protection for all official Council members. When on the planet the Kerberos military will provide an honour guard for the General. An additional combat unit from the Santa Cruz would be considered a major snub to their forces. It is best if we keep our numbers to the minimum.”

“I could do with an extra pair of eyes on an assignment like this,” Spartan replied, his voice implying it was more a request than a suggestion.

“I see. Who did you have in mind?”

“Well, Marcus Keller, one of the privates from the Santa Maria came back with the rest of our unit. He has seen some rough action and I know I can trust him.”

“I’ll check him out prior to the mission, if he is okay you can have him. One last thing, you will be travelling with a third person, Lieutenant Carter. He’s a member of the Personal Protection Unit on the Santa Cruz, but knows nothing about our little conversation. He is trustworthy as far as any marine officer is and the operation will be conducted under his command, anything else could look suspicious. Just remember, the only person you need to look after is the General, and the only person you can trust is yourself. Now, Carter is already with the General and briefing him on the operation.”

“Understood, Sir.” Spartan paused, considering the enormity of the responsibility he would be undertaking, “I should probably go and see the General then.”

Captain Mathews turned his head in disagreement.

“No, let Carter have a few hours to get settled in. It’s important he feels its his operation. General Rivers is aware of your role and if push comes to shove, he will defer to you, not the Lieutenant.” There was just a hint of a question in the statement.

“I think I understand, Sir. How long before we reach Kerberos?”

“From our current position out here we will be there in about twenty hours. Enough time to get some rack time. That sounds like a good idea, remember, trust nobody!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ten years prior to the uprising on Proxima the first of the colonisation fleets were sent. These three fleets were massive undertakings, each one taking years to assemble and thousands of tonnes of materials to build. It was always the intention of the Confederacy to continue expansion and the foundation of new colonies on Epsilon Eridani, Gliese 876 and Procyon were part of the long term strategy to help spread mankind amongst the stars.

The New Colonies

Spartan lay in his bunk, his body aching and his mind crying out for a few hours rest. Try as he might, sleep avoided him. The bizarre nature of his latest mission still worried him, the twists and turns of the short briefing he had with Captain Mathews had created more questions than answers for him. On the one hand he had been chosen, well, apparently chosen, to help protect the General. On the other being officially seconded to a lieutenant he’d never heard of, but wasn’t to trust. The talks were already underway between the Council members present in the Proxima System and various military organisations and departments were providing security. He had read and re-read the organisational charts and was still confused as to the jurisdiction of each section. As he understood it, each colony in the Confederacy returned between one and three councillors depending on their size. These councillors represented the colonies at all gatherings of the Council and for the voting on all decisions that affected the colonies. In this sector the Assembly Building on Kerberos was one of the potential locations that could be used to assemble the Proxima councillors for debate and discussion. A similar assembly could be convened in Alpha Centauri, though decision in one sector had to be ratified in the other for them to be valid. With no contact with the old world colonies, it appeared Proxima was looking to resolve these problems alone.

He thought about the old worlds in Alpha Centauri. He’d never been to them, they were a long way away and unless a citizen had the funds or was in the military, you were unlikely to ever visit them. What did intrigue him was that the Alpha Centauri colonies were over a hundred years older than anything in this sector. Their planets were better developed and the military forces more substantial and capable. As expected the politics and society of the old worlds was more conservative and far less tolerant of some of the more left wing organisations and religions that had tried to flex their muscles over the years. The formation of the Confederacy some ninety-eight years ago was supposed to have removed the heavy-handed rule of the old worlds. It was to be replaced with a more open, tolerant system of mutually independent colonies held together by an agreement of law, trade and defence. At least, that was what he had learned at school. His experience in the last few years had shown him that many people in the new colonies had a strong distrust of the Confederacy or in fact anybody outside of their own colony. Quite how this affected his mission he wasn’t sure. In the end he decided to concentrate on this one job, protection of the General. He would leave the rest to anybody that could be interested.

As he tried to forget about what was to come, he then found he was unable to shake off his experiences of the combat on Prime. In the past he’d been involved in many fights, some of them for money, others to just stay alive, but nothing could have prepared him for the violence he had just witnessed. Every time he closed his eyes the sounds and smells of the battle flooded back to him. The room was dark, lit only by the dull red lights that marked the bulkhead and hatches out of the room. Opposite him the bulk of Marcus, the massive German marine he’d met months ago, was fast asleep. There were two other marines in the room but Spartan couldn’t remember their names. The events had been so extreme he was starting to lose track of people, even time. He sat up and reached out to the water canteen near the bunk. It was lukewarm but still quenched his thirst.

He had spoken in private with Marcus about the mission but he didn’t seem particularly inspired by the news. In fact he’d just listened in agreement before heading to his bunk for sleep. Spartan could only imagine either the man was exhausted or that he didn’t care where he was sent. Of all the people he knew on the ship, Marcus was the most dependable in a fight. He would have chosen Tex next if he’d been allowed more in his team, but Mathews had insisted that the bodyguard unit had to be no more than three people. In some ways Spartan felt he had been given a major honour, but if anything went wrong on Kerberos the life of the most senior marine officer in the entire sector would be in his hands.

He looked at the clock on the wall. He had another four hours before he needed to be ready to meet the General and his team to go over the final details of the operation. He considered getting up and ready before a stabbing pain in his temple told him he needed to drink more water and rest a little. One more sip and he dropped back to the bed, he was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

*

The Assembly Building was the official debating chamber for the Kerberos Colony and also one of the locations used by the Proxima Council when critical decisions had to be made. Since the founding of the Confederacy it had been used in this context only three times, even then it was just to clarify and then vote on decisions already made by the Council in Alpha Centauri based on Terra Nova. It was large and comprised of three rectangular buildings situated around a circular rotunda that lifted up above the structure. It was made of pale stone and the inside was adorned with sculptures and artworks of the birth of the colony over two hundred years ago and more recently, the Great War and the creation of the Confederacy that had followed it. The Centre Chamber, the largest occupied part of the building, was made up of three layers of seating in a wide circle, creating enough space for up to a hundred representatives. The design was intended to cope with all the colonial members from the many planets, moons and station colonies in the Proxima Star System. Normally it would be made up of the local members of the Kerberos Assembly but today it was packed with most of the sector officials or their representatives. The fighting on Prime was a terrible event. Most of the members were keen to voice their concerns and do what they could to facilitate an agreement to stop the fighting and unrest that had already torn Prime apart. There were also the unresolved issues of the secular colonies that had plagued many of the colonies for years, in one or two cases going back to the actual founding of the Confederacy after the Great War.

Inside the main Assembly Building almost a hundred people were listening to a speech by President West of Kerberos, who was also one of the three councillors from the Kerberos Colony. He had been one of the key drivers behind some kind of a peace agreement. He’d also made a great deal of the fact that the Assembly would be convened to come to a long lasting and equitable arrangement between the colonies and their respective belligerent factions. Normally the meeting would be run by the Speaker but today was a special occasion, the first to ever take place in the colony under the authority of President West. For something this important the President had needed to take personal control.

*

Light was fading in Yama City and as often happened the coolness of the night was amplified by the light patter of rain on the stone walkways of the new city. The city lights were garish, most coming from the downward facing street lighting. A substantial amount also came from the many lights and equipment set up by the scores of news crews and reporters that had arrived for the momentous event.

As the groups outside continued chanting, those inside prepared for the critical gathering. The leaders of Proxima’s colonies and the many other groups were still in closed session inside the massive structure. A number of video screens and speaker systems were already being erected so that the people in the rain could see what was happening inside. So far only two of the great screens were in position and although one kept crackling the second showed a clear picture of the hall. Around this display a number of at least fifty people pushed and shoved for a better look.

The cold and wet the weather seemed to do little to dampen the enthusiasm of the Kerberos citizens. The stoic members of the public stood outside the Colonial Assembly Building waving their placards and shouting in support of their representatives. Most of them outside were common citizens, many of whom toiled in the factories and industries covering the surface of the single planetary colony. Scores of them wore masks or filter tubes in their nostrils to help with the lower oxygen content of the atmosphere. Though Kerberos was one of the newer colonies it was wealthy. But the crowds in the streets appeared not to have benefited from the massive increases in trade and production in the last thirty years. At least a dozen people carried placards from the new Socialist Worker Party that aimed to improve the lot of those working in the heavy industries. They advocated common ownership and cooperative management of the means of production and allocation of resources in the colony. Another group from one of the lesser-known Disciples of Christ decried the breakdown in morality of the colonies and pushed their own arguments of piety, absolution and belief in the old idea of the Trinity.

Most of the placards complained about simple domestic matters such as job security, cuts in social spending and the profits of the mega corporations that did most of their work on the planet. One group stood out more than the rest. About thirty members of the Church of Echidna had assembled around an icon of the half woman half-snake goddess they worshipped. The icon was a bizarre fusion of monotheism and pagan mythology. It was the largest church on Kerberos but so far no religious groups had been given access to the Assembly. One man in the traditional robes of the Church pushed ahead and moved up the marble steps to the entrance of the building. Alongside him were three men in hooded robes, it was not clear who they were as their clothing covered their faces. A line of riot police blocked his path.

“You can’t come in, only Colonial and Confederate representatives,” said the officer in charge.

“I am an official representative of the Church of Echidna, our presence has been requested at the Assembly,” the man said.

The officer looked down at his datapad, checking the details of those with permission to move through the barrier. It took a few seconds and as the wait dragged on a few more of the Church members moved forward carrying the icon with them.

“I have you and three assistants on the list, you can come through,” the officer moved aside to let the man and his three assistants in.

As they moved forward the people with the icon tried to follow them into the building.

“Hey, that thing has no business in the Assembly!” shouted somebody in the crowd.

“They have the right to enter!” shouted another.

A substantial number with placards starting shouting their support for the Church followers, some even pushed ahead to help protect the icon. At the same time angry disagreements spread like wildfire through the crowd.

“Barrier!” A police officer shouted to the rest of his men.

The police responded quickly and in less than twenty seconds the loose groups of officers formed up into a tight line of armour and shields. Their state-of-the-art body armour produced full head, torso and limb protection. Each of them wore additional plating around the important joints and organs. The hardened black armour gave them the appearance of giant beetles, an impression that was reinforced by their oversized helmets. As well as providing around the head defences the helmets were equipped with drop down shoulder and neck protection against overhead blows and missile strikes. This should be enough protection against all but military grade weapons, but that didn’t stop each of them from carrying a large transparent rectangular shield. They were slightly concave to provide additional strength and rigidity, the marks and scratches along their fronts easily demonstrated their frequent use. Facing outwards the armour provided a powerful and secure barrier to protect the Assembly and the important dignitaries inside.

In the commotion someone near the icon started to scream. It wasn’t obvious who it was but a number of people starting to run about and a few fell over. Sergeant Travis, on the watch for potential problems, gave a quick hand signal to his officers. Some of them were unable to see him due to the number of protestors pushing up to the line. Already they were starting to push and shove against the armoured line.

“We have a situation at the icon, Charlie Squad secure the icon and its group. Help them inside the line,” he said into the intercom link fitted into his helmet.

Almost instantly half a dozen policemen broke from the line and surged ahead towards the icon. A few of the protestors thought they were the intended objective and tried to stop them from passing. As two of the men dealt with the immediate problem, the other four police officers pushed their way to the icon, but it was too late. With a flash the icon and a dozen of the followers disappeared. The effect was as though a massive rock had been dropped into a pond. The immediate area around the icon was engulfed in a featureless void that swiftly turned into an angry cloud of pressure and debris. The massive blast ripped through the crowd, the shockwave knocking many to the ground and sending dirt, blood and debris in every direction. Those nearest to the blast were torn to pieces and the ones just a short distance away suffered terrible wounds and burns. The blast was so powerful it managed to catch a handful of the police who were closest, even managing to rip the helmets and shields from the first two. One of the officers, a man called Harris and the oldest of the riot police, took the brunt of the blast onto his chest’s body armour. Incredibly none of the debris penetrated but the power of the blast catapulted him twenty metres through the air and into the street, where he landed hard on his back. The entire area around the building erupted into screams and shouting as people who could walk did their best to escape the scene. Their running turned to panic and in moments the scene became one of chaos.

Sergeant Travis, leader of the police unit lifted himself from the ground and wiped the dust from his visor. As he stood he found himself engulfed in a thick cloud that obscured his vision. He looked back to see one of his men on his back with a piece of metal embedded in his chest. The man had obviously died from the violent impact.

“Sergeant Travis, we have an incident here, explosive device at the Southern entrance to the Assembly Building. Officers down, civilians wounded. Need ATU and medical assistance immediately!”

“Understood, aerial medical unit inbound, ETA seven minutes,” came the reply.

The Sergeant moved along to check on the rest of his unit. Luckily the armour and shields of the men had protected them from the worst of the attack but there were still many injuries. He walked towards three of his men as one was wrapping a cloth around a bleeding wound on his leg.

“Gardner, get the rest of your squad down to the street level. We need this area cordoned off. Jenkins!” he shouted.

He waited for a moment before his redoubtable second in command appeared.

“What is your status?” asked Sergeant Travis.

“I’ve got four injured, they are being taken care of now, luckily nothing too serious. The three squads from the Ninth Precinct are unhurt, I’m still checking on the rest.”

“Good, good. Get the three units down to the street fast! We need medical attention for the injured. Keep one squad back to protect the Assembly.”

As he watched the dust cloud started to settle revealing over twenty bodies plus more people still staggering away from the crowd. In the middle of the bodies were the charred remains of the religious standard. Incredibly it was still intact but had suffered damage and scorch marks from the attack. Around the damaged icon were the bodies of the members of the Church, each one dressed in their traditional garb and all badly mutilated by the blast. From the boundaries of the area small groups of people emerged, some were bleeding, others may have just arrived. At the sight of the partially burnt icon they started to swoop back in as bodies were still being carried away.

“Cordon off the icon, get those people away from there!” he shouted.

Sergeant Travis moved down from the line and towards the relic, doing his best not to slip and fall on the blood. Small numbers of police joined him as they tried to create a protective screen around the clump of bodies by the relic.

A man lifted a stick in the air and waved it over his head.

“Zealots out, Zealots out!” he cried before being dragged down by the mob.

Travis tried to push his way through to the man, but was too late as he was already being dragged off by four burly men, who then promptly disappeared into the darkness.

“Dispatch, we need that backup now. The Assembly Building is not secure, I repeat the Assembly is not secure!” he said firmly into his radio.

There was no response from the set. He tried again but the numbers of people moving back into the area was just too much, with a hand signal he instructed his men to fall back to their original positions outside the building. As they moved back the crowd plucked and grabbed at the ruined icon, though whether for souvenirs or as relics he couldn’t tell.

Jenkins rushed over to him.

“Sir, we’ve got a problem around the corner. A car has been crashed into our command centre and a device set off. They managed to get everybody out but they have had to fall back to the Assembly perimeter. Something big is going on here!”

*

“Fellow representatives, as you are all aware, in the last year events have conspired to bring violence and disorder to the colonies of the Confederation. The causes are many and in some cases are still being discovered. In calling this Assembly it is my hope that we can rebuild the road to real peace and lasting security throughout the sector. We can be strong, safe and productive if we work together. I am fully aware that there have been two previous attempts to resolve the grievances between the religious organisations on Prime and the political structures of the Confederacy. They both failed and it is now our job as citizens of the Confederacy to ensure we do more than lay out another road map. We owe this to every man, woman and child in the sector!”

A round of applause spread gently through the building. It was hardly the resounding roar he may have hoped for but it was at least audible. There was always the possibility he would have been shouted down and that would have been a disaster. As the noise dulled he prepared to continue.

“Starting today…” he said before being interrupted by the first bomb blast.

From inside the substantial stone building the explosion sounded like a dull thud but it was clear something bad, if nothing else by the number of security officials rushing to the doors and balconies to see what was happening.

“Please be calm, we are checking on this disturbance. Stay where you are, there is no cause for alarm,” the President said in a reassuring voice.

The sound of alarms was barely audible and the sound of police hovercraft flying over the building was hard to disguise. The recognisable blare of police sirens ran from one side of the building to the other as more police vehicles swept in around the building. A police officer hurried around the outer walkway of the hall until he reached the President, he leaned in and spoke briefly before handing him a datapad. The President looked at it for a moment, the officer headed back as the President stood up to speak. Some of the representatives started to get up, either to see what was happening or to try and find safer surroundings.

“Please be calm, this situation will be dealt with shortly. I have just received this report from the local police officers providing security for this important gathering. It is believed that an unknown attacker has triggered an explosive device in the crowd. There have been many casualties but it is unknown whether they or this Assembly was the intended target,” he said sternly.

One of the door burst open along the lower side of the hall and in ran three men, each of them dressed in drab grey overalls and carrying a bloodied body between them. A number of security people ran to stop them. They weren’t fast enough to prevent the first man from speaking.

“It was the police, they killed the Echidna representatives in the street…in cold blood!” the man shouted before he was dragged to the ground.

As the security men tried to restrain him one of the men managed to fight free and pushed out into the middle of the hall. In one hand he carried an object, it looked like a small metal ball about the size of a man’s fist. Several people spotted his movement and started shouting, assuming it was a bomb. He was evidently about to speak or do something with the item when one of the guards jumped forward and struck him with his baton. It was a heavy strike and intended to hit the man in the arms but in the struggle he was struck in the temple. In an instant the man collapsed to the ground, blood running from the wound to his head.

As he hit the floor the object dropped from his hand and rolled into the crowd. Some of the spectators ducked down behind their seats but the rest stared on intently, fascinated by the spectre of what might be. As the object stopped they could see it presented no real threat.

“What is it?” shouted one.

“A snake or something, a figurine,” said another.

Muttering and shouting spread before a man in the robes of the Church of Echidna stepped inside. Several of the dignitaries bowed as he passed, showing due reverence to the leader of the Church on Kerberos. The man moved out into the open area. As he approached the fallen object the security guards stepped back. Either they had been ordered to back off or they could see the situation for what it was.

“Order!” shouted the President but it was no good.

Pandemonium erupted in the hall with officials from each of their worlds trying to get a better view of what was going on. One of the trade representatives turned and quickly left and was followed by a small number of followers to the nearest emergency exit. At the same time two guards in dark suits and armed with carbines approached the President, flanking him on both sides to protect him from any potential threats.

“Delegates, please be seated, this disturbance will be dealt with shortly!”

The robed man stopped and knelt down to pick up the object. As he held it the people attempting to leave the building turned and watched. From outside a number of shouts and cries could be heard, presumably from the gathering protests. The man lifted up the object and turned to face the President.

“President, this is part of the Icon of Echidna, the ancient relic of our religion and our most revered symbol. We intended to present the icon to the Assembly as a sign of our respect to the people of Yama City. Sadly it appears this is the only part of the relic that has not been destroyed by the fires of violence or of the greed of material gain. I, the Bishop of Yama, offer this small piece of Echidna to the proceedings,” he said before walking to the small altar at the back of the room. He placed it down carefully. A number of the delegates started to clap and more than a dozen men shouted and cheered him.

Behind him the security units dragged these other men away and out through a small doorway to the side of the building. It was standard procedure, after all, they were not allowed inside the hall. But from where the delegates sat it looked as though the security forces and police were beating or arresting people at will.

Ambassador Drusilla from Orthrus stood from her seat and spoke out through the loudspeaker system, her anger obvious.

“This is intolerable. We were told this was an open debate between representatives of the colonies and all the religious groups. These attacks on our brothers in the Church of Echidna will not go unpunished! Your state lackeys are attacking legitimate protesters outside!” she cried.

The Ambassador sat down, giving a brief glance to her opposite number from the Agora colony. Shouting and arguments spread through the many groups inside the building. The President tried to placate them but it was too little, too late. He might be the President of this colony but in the Assembly there were plenty of factions who considered him nothing more than a regional puppet. The ambassador for Agora pressed the button in front of his seat to indicate he would like to speak to the Assembly.

“As the elected representative of Agora I would like to ask the Bishop of Yama to offer his thoughts and considerations on the problem in the Confederacy. I think it might be useful to hear some free speech and discussion away from the politics of this chamber,” he said in a sarcastic manner.

A chorus of agreement echoed from some of the people inside, even so a number declined to join in, some even turning their heads in disagreement.

The Bishop lifted his hand to thank those who wished to hear him speak. As he stood the Assembly quietened down, each curious to hear what the most important religious figure in the colony had to say.

*

The shockwave from the shuttle rippled past the craft as it emerged into the atmosphere. Now travelling at thousands of miles per hour the heat from the massive amount of friction superheated the ceramic plates fitted along the hull of the craft. This was always the most dangerous part of landing forces planet-side. Just one break in the ceramic plates and the hot gasses would tear inside the craft, melting away the metal alloys and vaporising the vessel in a matter of seconds.

“Can’t we go faster?” asked an irritable General Rivers.

“ETA eleven minutes, Sir, any faster and we’ll burn up on re-entry,” explained the co-pilot.

The marine assault shuttle was one of the standard craft from on board the CCS Santa Cruz. Like many of the vessels in the battlegroup, it showed the marks and scars of battle from the last week. This particular shuttle had sustained over a dozen bullet strikes during the evacuation at the Titan Naval Station and then debris and storm damage during the contested landings on Prime. Though most of the damage had been repaired, the paintwork was in a terrible state and one of the gun mounts on the side of the craft was still out of action. However, it was still the least damaged shuttle on the ship.

“You’re that desperate to meet a load of arguing politicians?” asked Spartan.

The General smiled but looked as if he had a great deal on his mind. Spartan thought about the news he’d recently seen and was already starting to lose count of the number of factions, interests and people in the troubles. He wondered sometimes if there was some kind of hand behind it all. Surely this amount of strife didn’t just come about by chance? The more he thought about it, the more he realised that his entire life seemed to consist of events that should never happen and included people he would never expect to meet. It was strange, he had only been involved in a small number of missions but was already beginning to feel like a veteran. This was his fourth assignment since the Fleet had been rushed into action. The first had been on the moon of Kronus, the second when he was part of the team that interdicted a transport trying to escape the epic space battle around the Naval Station. His most recent action on the surface of Prime had exposed him to more violence and combat than any marine could expect in an entire career. Still, at least he had been given a twelve-hour break before meeting the rest of their unit. It wasn’t much but after Prime he needed a break, any break just to calm his nerves and to rest his weary body. It wouldn’t be long before he met the rest of the team so they checked their communications gear, procedures and plan for the major contingencies that might occur on Kerberos. He still couldn’t believe the speed of the assignments coming his way. He could only hope that upon his return he would finally get some rest. By the time he was back it couldn’t be long before Teresa and her team returned to the Santa Cruz and that was a part he was really looking forward to.

“Uh, Sir, we have reports of violence outside the Assembly Building. Looks like there has been some kind of bomb attack,” said the co-pilot.

“Give me that,” replied the General, ever keen to get the information directly from the source.

The co-pilot handed over the datapad. A ribbon type cable kept it connected to the main computer system due to the large bandwidth required for the system and the encoding used. Unlike other datapads, this one would be useless unless connected to a main system like this one.

“What does it say?” Spartan asked looking more interested than worried.

Lieutenant Carter, still wearing his long black trench coat, had his own datapad and was busy sat in the corner as he assessed his own data feed. Spartan looked over to him, noticing how the man kept to himself and shared only the minimum with either him or the General. It might be nothing, but Spartan’s instincts told him that this was a man he had no reason to trust.

“As I expected the Council meeting has been used as an excuse for any group or faction with a grudge to come out of the woodwork. It looks like a religious icon of some kind was dragged up to the perimeter outside the Assembly Building. There was at least one explosion nearby, the casualties include police officers, members of two churches and a large number of civilians.”

“Why? What is the point, Sir?”

“I don’t know. The only thing I do know is that it is being used as just more negative PR towards the Confederacy.”

“What the fuck has this got to do with the Confederacy?” asked an irritable Marcus.

The General looked over to the man who instantly straightened, suddenly realising who he was talking to.

“Sorry, Sir,” he said as he rubbed his brow.

“Incredible as it might seem but there are many in the colonies, especially those on the newer worlds like Kerberos here, where the Confederacy means subservience to a higher authority. It is nonsense of course, almost all planetary affairs are controlled by a colony’s own government but that doesn’t stop the public from pointing the finger. On Kerberos we are blamed for food prices, wages, morality and then when it goes wrong we’re accused of brutality and intervention in colonial affairs,” the General explained.

Spartan sat there, a thin grin appearing on his face.

“What’s amusing you, Sergeant?”

“You, Sir, you’re starting to sound like a politician already,” he laughed.

“Oh…crap…that’s all I need!” laughed General Rivers.

The shuttle rocked a little as it hit turbulence. From their height they could now see the lights of the city below but much of the detail was obscured by the clouds and rain. A roar from the jet engines indicated that the craft was lowering its speed as it swooped down low towards the principal military base in the colony. It was a far cry from the large naval base on the planet, but time was of the essence, and right now the General needed to get inside the Assembly before anything else bad happened.

“We’re two minutes from the landing pad, please ensure your belts are fitted and don’t release them till the landing light is lit in front of your seating,” said the pilot over the intercom.

The craft bucked and shook again as more thick air shook it during its descent. Like most of the craft used by the Marine Corps the shuttle was designed with rotating jet nozzles so that it could perform short take off and vertical landings. It was more fuel efficient to land conventionally like an aeroplane but the smaller military base wasn’t equipped with a long runway. As the engines altered their direction the forward speed of the craft altered drastically.

“What the hell is that?” Marcus was watching from the starboard window.

Lieutenant Carter shouted from his position further back and as Spartan looked a number of rounds ripped past the man, luckily managing not to hit anybody.

Spartan leaned over to see a line of yellow dots arcing out into the sky.

“Get down!” he shouted.

Without hesitating the marines pulled their heads down into the classic brace position. It wasn’t a moment too soon as a dozen medium calibre machine gun rounds tore into the fuselage and blasted across the interior of the craft. Incredibly none of the fire hit the passengers, but they did manage to cause a series of flashes and sparks on one of the jet nozzles fitted to the side of the craft. The shuttle lurched to the right as the loss of power forced it to veer sharply. Another burst of fire tore a hole in the side of the craft and a great surge of air gushed out of the vessel.

“Fuck me!” shouted Spartan as he found himself being forced to the side of the craft, held into position by the sturdy straps on his harness.

“Sir, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, where is Carter?” asked the General.

Spartan looked around the craft but he could only see Marcus, General Rivers and a red pattern across a damaged section of the aft of the vessel.

“Look’s like Carter bought it,” Marcus said with little hint of concern.

“We’re going down, brace for impact! Mayday! Mayday! Marine Transport One is making an emergency landing!” the pilot shouted, his voice loud enough from the cockpit for the passengers to hear.

“It never bloody stops!” Spartan grabbed onto the seat, waiting for the inevitable grinding smash of the impact.

CHAPTER NINE

The rise of the Church of Echidna throughout the Confederacy saw an explosion in the worship of artefacts from the destroyed church on Terra Nova. The most revered relic of all was the icon of the entwined woman and snake. Though originally an allegory for the sins of mankind it had taken on the significance of the cross used in early Christian worship.

Holy Icons

From inside the large cockpit at the front of the Tamarisk the crew sat and watched the vessel’s autopilot help navigate through the treacherous shipping lane of the Rim. Like the asteroid belt back in the old Solar System of Earth it was packed with rocks the size of small moons, debris and scores of space stations. To make matters worse the groups and companies that worked out in this part of space were constantly moving raw materials and their stations around. This had the effect of transforming the environment in a matter of months.

Special Agent Johnson and Commander Anderson were both sifting through the data collected by the dozens of scanners, ultrasonic and infrared monitors and radio traffic loggers. So far they had established that none of the seventy asteroids in sector 3G were occupied, one had been used as some kind of base in the past. There was a slight possibility there could be some data or evidence on board but according to their intelligence, whatever was happening would be taking place in person. It would therefore have to be on one of the stations. On the screens in front the three stations were shown as three-dimensional models, each with all of its surface detail modelled as a vector graphic. They were all the same size and one in particular appeared to be taking on substantially more traffic than the other two. The station off to their left was nestled in amongst a dozen asteroids and much of its power system was offline.

“Our contact is waiting on the main station, it is known as Alpha Three in this area and according to the latest Confed report it is a known place for smugglers and organised crime,” said Agent Johnson.

“We should be shutting this place down, not sneaking about.”

“That will come another day, Kowalski. For now the stations are assets, vital intelligence assets that we need to milk for information,” said the Commander.

They sat looking at the displays, watching the movement of the shipping and containers in the area. It was like a complicated game of chess with scores of pieces moving about, far more than they could expect to track.

“We have a lot of data to track in this area, any thoughts before we proceed?” Anderson asked the rest of the crew.

Bishop answered, eager to voice his opinion.

“I don’t like this area. If anything goes wrong we will have to spend over an hour on autopilot to try and force our way clear of the debris field before we can even think about pushing the engines. There’s a good chance we could be cornered.”

“True but if we’re smart we should be able to get in and out without anybody even knowing we were there,” Teresa was examining the screen.

“What about the actual meeting, where is it most likely to be in this area?” asked Anderson. “How about the Alpha Three Station?”

“No way would it be on the busy one, which would be obvious. If you look at the other two stations they are definitely trying to appear as if they’re almost totally inoperative. That one,” Bishop pointed to the station to their left, “is very suspicious.”

Agent Johnson turned his head in disagreement, he was obviously unimpressed with the suggestions by the crew so far.

“Well, what do you think, Johnson?” asked the Commander.

“Well, in my experience the best place to hide something is in plain view. The derelict station is the obvious place for something clandestine. If it were me, I would hold the meeting at the busiest location. It is easier to hide in a crowd and easier to escape if something goes wrong. Ever tried to sneak about on your own? If you do the same with a hundred other people you will find it a lot easier.”

Bishop slowly nodded in agreement. “Yeah, actually, scrub what I just said. That makes a lot more sense. If you think about it, when we do our sniper training we never hide in the obvious place. If you are in a field with one building you set up near the building, not in it.”

“I’m inclined to agree, Bishop,” said Commander Anderson. “Either way we still need to land and meet our contact on the busiest station. If you’re right, Sir, it will save us a lot of time,” he said as he flicked a few switches on the computer console.

“I suggest you all go and get ready, we’ll be landing within the hour and we have to get a move on. Remember, we are a civilian crew and we’re here to arrange to sale of our goods on the black market.”

The all went further back inside the craft as Anderson continued to check the data on the communication traffic throughout the Rim.

“Commander, you might want to hear this, it sounds like there’s been trouble on Kerberos,” said Johnson.

“Put it on.”

He flicked a few switches and the inside of the craft was quickly filled with the sounds of police units coordinating their actions. The video screen at the front of the passenger section flicked on, showing four separate video feeds of the events unfolding on the surface.

*

Spartan looked back at the wreckage of their shuttle. The skill of the pilots was outstanding, not only had they landed safely but they’d been able to bring the shuttle down to within a hundred metres of the emergency fire tenders based at the last third of the short runway. Before they had jumped clear of the burning shuttle the tenders were already there, spraying fire retardant foam and stopping the heat from reaching the volatile fuel or ammunition stores.

General Rivers stood to one side as he checked the survivors.

“Where did the fire come from?” asked a furious Spartan.

The General said nothing, he just looked over the wreckage and then at his men.

“That was some damned good flying, guys,” he shook the hands of the pilots.

He then turned back to Spartan and Marcus who were waiting each side of him with their side arms drawn, waiting for an attack. Behind them the tenders continued working on the burning wreckage. Off to the right a group of three armoured transporters drove down the runway towards them. All three were unmarked and painted in a dark grey that almost looked black in the rain.

“Get back!” Spartan ordered as he moved forwarded adopting the weaver stance with his left foot forward and right shoulder back. It was the most stable and mobile position to shoot in and allowed him a degree of movement if required.

Marcus moved up alongside him, lifting his L48 carbine pulling back the bolt to load in a round. The weapon was much more powerful than it suggested and was easily capable of tearing through the armour of even the PDS suits of the Marine Corps.

The vehicles pulled up with a screech. A clunk sound from the middle one indicated somebody was about to get out. The two men pointed their weapons in the direction of the sound, waiting for the inevitable firefight. As the door opened a small number of marines in the ceremonial armour of the 6th Marines Guards Company jumped out and moved in and around the General. Spartan had heard of the unit and recognised their flamboyant armour from some of the artwork on the Santa Maria. Much like the Praetorian Guard on Ancient Earth this elite unit operated on colonial territory only and their specific role was not of the protection of high-ranking Confederation civilians and military commanders. One of the men with sergeant’s stripes on his shoulder moved forward and saluted to the General, he ignored Spartan and Marcus who blocked his path.

“General Rivers, Sergeant Jones, Commander of First Platoon, 6th Guards. We are to provide you with armoured escort to the Assembly Building!”

The General tapped his two guards on the shoulders, letting them know they could lower their weapons. He moved forward so that he was positioned in front of the Sergeant.

“These are my personal guards and they’ll be staying with me.”

“Understood, Sir, this way,” replied the Sergeant as he pointed inside the middle vehicle.

The General followed him, Spartan and Marcus moved in quickly behind. As the three climbed up inside the belly of the thickly armoured vehicle the rest of the marines returned to the vehicle. General Rivers sat back and looked around at the number of computer screens and people inside the vehicle.

“Who attacked my shuttle and what are you doing about it?” asked the General.

“That isn’t why I’m here, Sir. I’ve already checked and Kerberon police units are in pursuit of two vehicles, one of which they believe was responsible in shooting down your shuttle. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Bullshit, Sergeant, luck had nothing to do with it. My pilots put the bird down with a dead computer system and half the jets out of action. Now tell me about the Assembly, is it still going ahead?”

The Sergeant appeared unconcerned at the outburst from the General. He turned around and pulled a wired datapad from a unit along the side of the vehicle. As he leaned towards the General they must have hit a bump in the road and he shuddered a little. He handed the pad over and then explained.

“Some of the delegates have asked for a recess until the security situation is resolved. As I understand it there’s going to be a one day break while the security cordon is extended.”

“Good,” the General turned to Spartan.

“This may actually work to our advantage. I need time to go over the information presented to the Assembly before making my statement. This will give us a better chance to prepare for any surprises in the next few days.”

With a screech the transport swerved slightly as it rounded a corner at high speed. The Sergeant looked at one of the screens before turning back to General Rivers.

“We’re entering the Presidential Compound now, Sir. If you need our assistance just call us with a Code Red Thirteen. We are no more than sixty seconds out,” he was staring at Spartan.

Spartan and Marcus looked at each other before looking back at the stern face of the marine Sergeant. They couldn’t work out if the man was checking for character traits or if he was just playing games. Either way it didn’t matter as the vehicle came to a stop and the door was opened to reveal a line of six guards leading to the main entrance of the Presidential Palace. Spartan was out first but he had placed his sidearm back in his holster. Marcus was next, followed by the General. As they left the vehicle the three of them moved out of the rain and towards the lit entrance of the building. They passed the men and went into the foyer where a grand staircase led up into the main suites. The ground floor was decorated in exquisite marble with numerous paintings and artworks adorning the walls. Spartan was slightly distracted by all this as the figure of the President of Kerberos approached. He instantly felt out of place, but a quick glance over to Marcus reminded him that they needed to concentrate on their mission.

General Rivers moved quickly forwards and Spartan had to increase his pace to catch up with him. The General stopped in front of the President.

“Mr President,” he said seriously.

The President sighed, he appeared relieved to see the arrival of the old General. What he hoped General Rivers could do Spartan could only imagine.

“General Rivers, you’ve arrived at a most opportune moment.”

The President indicated for him to follow. The two men went through the open space and to a pair of wooden doors at the side of the room. As they stepped inside the President made to pull the door shut. Spartan pushed his foot inside so the door couldn’t be closed. The President turned to the General.

“They cannot come inside, we have confidential state business we must discuss.”

The General looked at him briefly before turning to Spartan.

“It’s okay, just stay close. I have my bleeper,” he held up the small metal cube to show him.

“As you wish, Sir, we’ll wait here.” Spartan was less than happy with the arrangement.

The President nodded at the two men and then closed the door. Marcus looked over to Spartan and grinned.

“Shit, man, you just know this mission is gonna turn sour.”

“Yeah, why do I think you might be right?”

*

“Tamarisk, I have you on a landing trajectory,” said the traffic controller in the bowels of the Alpha Three station.

“Roger, autopilot is locked in, we’re in your hands,” replied Commander Anderson.

It was a difficult approach as the large rotating station was almost impossible to land on manually. The approach had to be handled between the computer systems on both the ship and the platform. It was a tense moment, as any mistake or mechanical failure could result in the Tamarisk crashing into the structure and causing massive damage to both. Anderson was waiting inside the main hangar along with the rest of the crew. The Tamarisk was much too large to land on the station and instead would dock with one of the dozens of quays that stuck out from it. As an added bonus it meant the ship would be a safe distance from most of the people there should anything go wrong.

Teresa stood in her new garb and no matter how hard she tried to relax she just couldn’t get used to the idea of her as some kind of rogue trader. When she had read the briefing material she assumed the trader was an elaborate name for a businessman in a suit. Contrary to what she had thought, the role required her to play a mixed character that included trader, pirate, gunrunner and mercenary. She wore a pair of tight black jeans that hung down low on her hips. Her midriff was bare and the skimpy top was an odd black and white striped design giving an almost metallic effect. Over this she wore a loose black leather jacket with a low-slung holster on her side. It was silly, but since putting on the clothes she had felt more exposed and certainly more noticeable, hardly qualities she could imagine that would be of use on their mission.

Agent Johnson had insisted that for them to fit in they would need a rough character that could pass as a displaced Carthago citizen, as many of them on the station were. When you heard the accent most people assumed trouble and it was one of the reasons she had tried to lose hers over the years. Agent Johnson had shown her photographs of a known bounty hunter they had apprehended six months earlier and she’d spent the last hour working on her clothes and makeup to get the right look. It wasn’t perfect but it didn’t need to be, just as long as they didn’t look like customs or military personnel.

“Now remember your cover. You are an unregistered transport with medical supplies to sell on. You have contacts with the Santiago family on Carthago, known dealers in drugs and medical aid packages. Our contact is a fixer, he will expect about twenty percent to get you a good deal. You have to sell the Carthago crime family line or he’ll think it’s a customs raid. If that happens we’re screwed,” said the Commander.

Teresa looked at the rest of her team. The marines were dressed in their overalls, playing the part of her crew and they didn’t appear overly impressed with their lot. Bishop was armed, apparently it was common to carry weapons openly on the station so to be any different would probably draw attention. On his back he wore a leather sheath that carried a heavily modified and cut down thermal shotgun. It was illegal on any colony in the Confederation.

A loud noise echoed through the ship and some of the fittings and mounts on the walls shook.

“That will be the mooring. Now remember, your first job is to fit in. If you are found out you’ll be dead in seconds. Assuming you can pass off as the first, you can then concentrate on the second. Find out where the meeting is and get that information to me ASAP. As soon as I have a location I can send in our UAVs to infiltrate the place and collect data. The escape code word is blackwatch. You hear that and you are out, immediately! You got that?”

The side door started to open, as the light from inside the station began to enter the Commander retreated back inside the vessel to join Agent Johnson. The last thing they needed was for somebody like the Commander to be recognised. It was well known that Confederate Navy personnel never visited these kinds of places, at least not if they wanted to go home alive. A kind of uneasy truce existed between these badlands areas and the more civilised parts of the sector. Providing the traders and black marketers stayed away from the main civilian shipping lanes, the Navy would stay away. Any pirate attack though could expect a response from a Navy cutter squadron. When that happened scores of people could expect to die or be sent to the hard labour camps.

The Commander vanished into the blackness of the ship. The low level lighting proved perfect for hiding in and unless teams boarded the ship he should be perfectly safe hidden away inside. The door continued to open until it revealed a small landing bay with a ramp leading down to the entry section of the station. Teresa went out with her hand on her holster. Her four crewmates stepped out behind her following in a loose group. When they were ten metres away from the craft the door behind them shut. It moved surprisingly quickly and the team was left exposed and vulnerable. They stopped for a moment and Teresa looked around, her hand on her hip near her pistol. She was looking for both the way inside and any potential trouble.

“There!” Bishop pointed to a dark area a short distance away.

He was pointing at a series of four large plates that could be metal doors. Each one was smooth and fitted with thick metal ribs adding additional rigidity to the metal.

“This is some heavy shit,” said Kowalski.

“Yeah, this is much heavier than the rest of the plating. It’s like the material we fit to the nose sections of our landing craft so we can land under fire. With this kind of protection you could withstand rocket and missile attacks. Put it this way, you’re not getting in unless they want you in,” added Barca.

“Hey, remember where you are,” muttered Teresa, she knew there could be listening devices installed in this part of the station.

For a moment she was concerned they may not be granted entry, she’d assumed they were doors but nothing happened. She looked back at her crew.

“How do we get inside?” asked Kowalski.

As if to answer his question the nearest door started to move with an agonizing grinding sound of heavy metal gearing. The door slid sideways to reveal the metre-thick alloy it was built from.

“Man, they built this place to last!” said Barca.

The door continued moving until a gap of three metres was created. A great hiss from inside sent a warm wind through their clothing as the pressure stabilised. From the lightly lit area outside the doorway it was hard to see inside the darkness of the station. Without hesitating Teresa went forwards and her crew followed her inside.

“Holy shit!” Williams said as they moved into the bustling heart of the station.

Though it looked busy on the outside nothing could have prepared them for the two-layered main walkway that ran as far as they could see. Along the sides of the walkway were stalls selling all manner of goods, from food and clothes to weapons and electronics. From where they stood there were easily two hundred people and probably as many again in the stalls and shops.

“I never knew…” Kowalski’s voice was cut off by a short man in a black suit who stopped in front of them.

“Never knew what?”

“What’s it to you, little man?” asked Teresa, instantly sensing the potential threat posed by failing to fit in at such an early point.

The name is Antonius, I’m a trader here though I think you already know that. I assume you’re Atia?”

Teresa looked at him for a moment. The man was well dressed and the two men stood nearby were certainly his hired muscle. She was tempted to grab him and beat the information she needed out of him, but that wasn’t very subtle and also assumed he even had the information.

“Yeah, I’m Atia. I understand we have some arrangements to discuss.”

The man looked at her, spending a little too much time staring at her bare midriff before returning to her face.

“I have somewhere quiet we can talk, there’s no need to bring your posse with you though, you’re all safe here,” he said with a smile, though to Teresa it had the look of a sneer.

“I don’t think so. My deal. My rules. Where I go, my crew goes,” she said firmly.

The man shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by her disagreement. He turned and indicated for them to go with him. Teresa nodded to her team and they all followed.

The man moved off down the main street and past a number of the stalls before turning off to the right. There was a large space, big enough for two stalls that led to a small doorway guarded by another two men. These were wearing custom private security firm armour and both carrying L48 carbines, military issue. Teresa stopped in front of the men and stared at their gear. The short man turned back intrigued by her interest.

“A problem?” he asked.

“I’m just curious. Why do your men have military issue L48 carbines?”

“You’re familiar with military hardware then?” he asked with a hint of suspicion.

“You can bet your ass I am. We’ve been looking for a shipment of the new L48a carbines for a customer on Prime. You got any?”

“L48a, never heard of them.”

“Ah well, your loss. Shall we get to business?” asked Teresa before realising she may have overstepped her bounds.

Antonius looked at her again, his face giving little away. He turned back to the door the guards opened for him.

“This way,” he beckoned and then disappeared inside.

Teresa looked around, there was of course a chance this could be a set up but they’d only find that out by going in. With a deep breath she stepped inside, her hand waiting on the holster just in case. It was a dark room, much darker than the aisle and stalls in the rest of the station. In the centre was a desk, lit by just one small light hanging from the ceiling. Antonius sat down behind the desk. From the darkness behind him were two tall men, again dressed in the best armour money could buy and armed with the illegally obtained L48 carbines. Antonius indicated that Teresa should sit down.

She lowered herself down, the other four crewmates staying behind her like a schoolyard gang waiting for a fight.

“Now, to business. Our mutual contact tells me you’re interested in a trade for weapons. A risky business trading in weapons.” He pulled out a cigar from one of the many drawers fitted in the desk. No one else in the room said anything and Teresa just looked at him, long and hard. She was trying to look like a hardened trader but it was really something she knew nothing about. One of the guards pulled out a lighter and as he did so Teresa and Bishop whipped out their weapons to point at Antonius. He started to laugh.

“I like your reaction, you’re a little edgy though, yes?”

“And you’re a little overweight, shall we cut to the chase?” said Teresa finally.

He stopped laughing and stared at her eyes, looking for something.

“No need to be rude now is there?”

He pulled out a datapad and placed it on the table.

“Here is what I have, four hundred L31 rifles and four hundred thousand rounds of ammunition. How about you, what did you bring to the table?”

Teresa thought for a moment, she knew her ship contained no goods of note, just the computer equipment, weapons and ammunition they would need for their operation. She also guessed that the station scanners had already checked the ship and had a rough idea of the amount of gear on board. At least she hoped so. She thought back to what Agent Johnson had said. The best place to hide something was in plain view.

“Nothing,” she said with a smile on her face, “just information.”

Antonius puffed two rings of smoke at her before removing the cigar.

“Information? This should be interesting.”

*

The door to the anteroom opened and out walked the President, quickly followed by General Rivers. As they were going past the General slowed for a second so he could speak with Spartan.

“We’ve got a situation here, we are about to release a statement and I need you to be ready.”

Spartan nodded but he had no idea what the rush was. Marcus joined him as they followed the pair though the main foyer and then towards a corridor. From memory Spartan thought this route led directly to the Assembly Building, but he wasn’t completely sure.

“Listen, the Bishop of Yama started a speech ten minutes ago, without the presence of the President. He says he has a proposal to solve the problems of the Confederacy and something tells me it is going to be a problem.”

“I don’t understand, Sir, why haven’t you been allowed to speak yet?”

“Spartan, you’re not the only one wondering about that. The President has sent a security team to remove the Bishop.”

“Remove? Isn’t that a bit risky?” asked Marcus.

“He has a point, with all the cameras in the Assembly it will look like he is being silenced,” Spartan added.

“Perhaps, it isn’t my call though.”

They moved into the main Assembly Building through one of the doorways on the higher level. As expected the Bishop was addressing the crowd. Luckily the President seemed to have done the sensible thing and hadn’t sent his security forces to remove him. He did however go to his own podium and gave the signal to cut the amplification to the Bishop. As the electrical system lost power, the Bishop’s voice continued but at a greatly diminished volume.

“I apologise for interrupting but this session is supposed to be closed until the security situation is resolved,” said the President.

Some of the representatives started to shout and complain at the sudden removal of the Bishop’s platform. One even went so far as to try and gain entrance to the media booth to reactivate the audio system. One of the guards pushed her back and a small scuffle broke out.

“Mr President, I meant no disrespect. Some of the delegates asked to hear my thoughts on the current predicament and as a man of morality and faith I felt compelled to speak. Perhaps we should all go outside to discuss this if we are not welcome in this chamber?”

A great chorus or shouting and anger erupted among the members still present. Almost half of the representatives that were present during the explosions had left. The Bishop lifted his hand, calling for silence and incredibly those in the room did as he requested. General Rivers had already assessed the situation and decided to strike fast before the opportunity was lost. He walked down to the podium being used by the Bishop and pushed out his hand to shake the Bishop’s.

With a forced smile the Bishop took his hand. “Bless you, my son,” he said.

“Thank you, Bishop. I’m sure many here would like to hear you speak, as would I,” he said as he turned to the cameras.

“I do have an urgent message on behalf of Admiral Jarvis of the Confederate Navy, who is also the senior representative of the Confederacy in this sector. Once I have conveyed this message I’m sure the President will be able to get the Assembly back on course for discussion.”

The Bishop looked a little irritated at the interruption but with so many cameras now pointing at the two men he appeared to give ground. Perhaps sensing it would be a good idea to get this out of the way rather than spend the time having a publicised debate. He stepped to one side and looked off to the side of the room where a number of the Church members were seated. He turned back, his face already changing to an expression of anger. He lifted his hands and pushed the General back and away from the podium.

“Admiral Jarvis has brought death and destruction upon our people. The good citizens of Proxima have for too long been worked to the bone for the benefit of your Admiral and your precious Confederacy. Today we have a proposal that will improve the lives of our citizens forever and it will start by the dissolution of the Confederacy!” he shouted.

General Rivers stood in silence, completely surprised by the outburst from the apparently calm and collected Bishop. Spartan had already stepped forward to ensure no one else came too close to the General and guards for the Bishop did the same. A great commotion came from the side of the room as black armoured guards rushed and in and surrounded the Bishop. The President walked to the podium, flanked by his own guards though with so many armed men it was starting to give a very dark and dangerous impression.

“Bishop, General Rivers, I suggest we keep this discussion for tomorrow when the Assembly convenes,” he said, trying to stay as neutral as he could manage.

With a flick of his wrist the security units moved in on the Bishop and forcibly pulled him from the podium. As soon as he started to struggle, the cameras and press were on him. As they tried to get closer a number of the guards did the same with the press and in less than five minutes the building was empty of all but the most die hard supporters of the President. He was still stood at the podium, surrounded by his guards.

“Mr President, that is not what I wanted,” said General Rivers.

“Neither did I, but this Bishop has been preaching an end to capitalism and an end to secularism for the last decade. He cannot and must not been given a platform to continue his message of hate.”

“I understand, you do realise this is going to get a lot worse?”

“How can it get any worse, General?”

The General shook his head. “Are you serious, Mr President? In my experience things can always get worse, a lot worse. If you want to control this thing you need to diffuse the platform he has built for himself. Announce something substantial that will make his sermons appear impotent. Whatever you do though, do it fast!”

“Come with me, I think I need a drink right now!” said the President.

General Rivers sighed as he realised the President wasn’t likely to do anything significant in the next few hours. The President started to walk away when an advisor approached and started whispering to him. General Rivers, sensing it was important moved closer.

“Yes?” asked the advisor.

“Don’t you ‘yes’ me! What is the problem?” demanded the General.

The President nodded to his advisor, giving him the go ahead to speak.

“Well, General, we’re getting information from the public network stream that the church of Echidna is going to make an announcement prior to the opening of the Assembly Building tomorrow morning. They say it will change Kerberos and Proxima forever and we can expect a demonstration of their power.”

“Power? Pah!” snorted the President. “This is just more rhetoric, we’ve had this for years now. Their announcement will be just another social programme or more likely, an attempt to reclaim their tax concessions for the Church.”

“Sir, the stream indicated that a large number of groups will…” started his advisor before being cut off.

“Look, Wilkins, I’m getting a little bored with these people. Notify the security staff and report back to me at five thirty in the morning. Let them have their talks and streams. It will keep them busy while we get ready to deal with the real problems tomorrow. There are more important issues at stake than one Church!” He stomped off along with his guards.

“Idiot!” muttered General Rivers to himself before turning to Spartan.

“I need a secure link to Admiral Jarvis and fast, something is coming and if I’m right we’re going to need one hell of a plan to get around it.”

He acknowledged the General as he watched the President disappear around the corner, still complaining as he went.

*

The early morning light had already started to burn through the cloud cover when the Bishop and his entourage arrived outside of the Assembly Building. The crowds had increased overnight and they now numbered in the thousands. Most were there to hear the message from the Bishop about improvements to their lives and the promises the Church had made in the last few hours. A token number of police were scattered along the perimeter of the Assembly Building. At first glance it looked like a soft hand with regards to policing, in reality most of the riot police were deployed within the compound waiting for the word to move to where they were needed most. Mixed in with the crowd were the scores of press, some with cameras, others with microphones and all waiting for the word from the single most important person on Kerberos that day, the Bishop of Yama.

He stood up on top of the burnt relic of the Church, so recently damaged and scarred by a bomb attack. This ancient relic was already becoming even more important in its damaged state than it ever had been as a survivor from the Iconoclast Controversy so many years before.

“Good people of Yama. I come to you today as a humble man, a man of the Church and a man of peace. I am not here to stir up hostility or resentment. I am here to help turn your lives into those of joy and fulfilment. Let me tell you a terrible story, one of intolerance, depravity and the base desires of men in power. I am in touch with our brothers on every colony, ship and station in Proxima and they all tell me the same thing. When will they end? I tell you all, the time is coming!” he cried.

CHAPTER TEN

Titan, the old moon of Saturn was the first major body to be colonised in the earliest days of space travel. Its atmosphere and abundant resources quickly helped turn it into a hub from which many more stations and eventually colonies could be built. The computer failure of the habitation system demonstrated early on that over reliance on technology could have catastrophic consequences. Over a million people died in that terrible tragedy, one that has still never been fully explained.

The Lost World

Teresa was still sitting at the table, facing Antonius. In front of them was a datapad that contained military schematics and data on a number of pieces of equipment.

“Where did you get this?” Antonius asked as he thumbed through the diagrams.

“You know I can’t reveal my sources. Let’s just say the friends I have are certainly not on good terms with the users of this kind of gear.”

“And what was it you wanted?”

“That’s more like it. I need six hundred metric tonnes of food and medical supplies, about the same amount you would expect on a single military resupply drop.”

“Six hundred? Why do you need that much?” he asked suspiciously.

“None of your business, I have a need for that kind of aid package, if you’re interested in what I have to offer, this is my price.”

The man sat at the table, silent as he assessed the deal in front of him. From where Teresa sat she couldn’t believe the man would go for it. Six hundred metric tonnes could buy several armoured vehicles. It all depended on how much the man wanted the data. He looked at the datapad again, looking intently at one of the items.

“This datafile has the official signature seal of the Avagana Colonial Militia. Have you been there recently?”

“Maybe, why all the questions?”

“Well, I’m starting to think we might have some friends in common. What are your thoughts on the military peace keepers on Prime?”

For a second Teresa almost argued with him, her face betrayed her though. It was obvious she disagreed and try as she might she couldn’t disguise her anger.

“I see, so you’re no great lover of our vaunted friends in the Confederate Military,” he said as he started to relax.

Teresa took a breath, she may have messed up but it had worked to her advantage. She had given the impression she had feelings, strong feelings about those on Prime, it wasn’t her fault he had misread her emotions.

“The occupation on Avagana is good for business if that’s what you’re asking,” she decided to add.

“I think we both know you want those supplies for the rebels on Prime. Many would call that treason. Perhaps I should mention this to our friends in the Confederate Navy?” he added with a mischievous smile.

Teresa was now starting to enjoy this, their conversation had moved on to an almost flirting position as Antonius became a little less suspicious of her. She twisted slightly, knowing it gave him a better view of the gap in her jacket and down to her breasts. She immediately spotted his eyes moving.

“Your friends! You really want those Navy assholes wandering around the station? I have an empty ship, you’re the ones with supplies and the dodgy goods.”

Teresa looked about and then leaned forward.

“I’ll tell you what. I have a few more meetings to make, I know a man who might be able to help with your shipment. If you play your cards right you might even get a permanent arrangement out of it,” he said.

“Sounds good, we’ll be at the bar when he’s ready to talk.”

“If he’s ready to talk, I think you mean.”

Teresa stood up and grabbed the datapad, tucking it inside the leather pouch carried by Bishop.

“Whatever you say,” she said dismissively.

Teresa moved to the doorway, her crewmates moving aside for her but still keeping a watchful eye over Antonius. As she reached the door she turned back just for a moment, smiling.

“Don’t take too long, my customers don’t have much time, if you know what I mean.”

She turned and left the room, closely followed by the others. Rather than stopping she continued walking along the wide walkway, gazing at the stalls as they moved. Once they were out of earshot Bishop spoke quietly.

“Are we in?”

“Maybe, he obviously thinks we are running supplies through the blockade. The question is, will he talk to anyone higher up and if he does, will that get us the leads we need to crack this thing wide open?”

They moved past a few more stalls until reaching a pair of well-worn wooden doors. A drunk staggered out and crashed into Kowalski. Bishop grabbed the man and pushed him on his way.

“I guess this is the bar then?” he said with a laugh.

“Come on, we have some waiting to do,” said Teresa.

Inside they found a long wooden bar with a tattooed man serving drinks. Half a dozen men and two women sat at tables drinking and on the wall an antiquated video display showed video feeds of events on Kerberos. Teresa plonked herself down on a barstool. The rest of her crew spread out with Barca and Williams heading for the pool table at the rear. The barman looked up.

“You’re not from around here?”

“Quite. Whisky,” she said sarcastically.

As the drink arrived a weasel-looking man entered the bar and looked about. As soon as he spotted Teresa he slunk over and dropped down next to her. The man lifted his hand and the barman wandered over, putting a drink in front of him, but saying nothing. The man took a swig and then turned to Teresa.

“Vasili, Antonius says you are involved in supplying the rebels.”

Teresa threw back the whisky and instantly regretted it, but at least it helped calm her already frayed nerves.

“Really? He says a lot doesn’t he?” she laughed.

The man looked around the room, checking for any problems before leaning in closer. He smelt like cinnamon but where he would have got that smell she had no idea.

“Look, we have a few interested parties on the station. This regime is going down and fast. There are going to be opportunities people with the contacts and the knowhow. You interested in upping the stakes and making some real money?”

Teresa looked over to Bishop who was busy watching them from a discreet distance.

“Hey, Bish, you interested in a bit more money?”

“Always,” he came over and sat next to the man. “What do you have in mind?”

“Is it true, you have access to military grade blueprints?”

Teresa waved over to Kowalski who was now holding the satchel containing the encrypted military datapad. He pulled out the device and handed it to her. Before she switched it on she looked at the man for a moment before sliding the switch and turning it on. The first image to pop up was a technical schematic for the CES armour suits.

“Fuck, is that what I think it is?”

“Well, it ain’t no pizza oven,” said Bishop.

The man looked at the details, soaking in the facts and figures.

“Hey, this doesn’t come cheap, we paid a heavy price for this information,” Teresa said as she pulled back the datapad.

“That armour is the stuff I’ve heard about on Avagana. Those fascist bastards used it to kill civilians, you know that right?” he asked vehemently.

“Yeah, yeah, I know what they used it for. Now, what did you have in mind?” she asked.

“Well, there are some people here that could do with this kind of intel. To the right person I reckon we could make some serious money, I mean serious,” he inched closer.

“We?” asked Bishop.

“I can get you a meeting with one of the groups from Avagana. You need to be quick, they won’t be here for much longer, there’s a price though.”

“How much?” asked Teresa as she glanced at Bishop who was already placing a bug in the man’s clothes.

“If I arrange a deal I want a fifty percent stake.”

“Fifty percent, fuck off!” Bishop shouted who then turned away, feigning anger.

“Come on, we have things to do,” Teresa stood up and dropped some cash on the bar for the bartender.

“Okay, easy now. Forty percent plus a look at the files,” he countered.

Teresa turned towards him a little closer so that her skin was almost touching his face.

“I’ll give you forty percent if you can arrange a meeting within the hour!”

“An hour? No way can I do something that fast!”

“Look, we have arrangements with another supplier, you make your arrangements or we move on. I don’t have the time to mess about, it’s up to you,” she made to leave.

“Hey, how do I contact you?”

“My ship, the Tamarisk, don’t leave it too long though.” Then they were gone.

As they went down the corridor Teresa started to speed up. Bishop was alongside, sensing something was wrong. He was about to speak when she pulled over to the side and retched, vomiting onto the metal floor. As Bishop held her, Barca approached.

“I’ve got a message from Anderson, he says he’s picking up traffic from one of the bars two floors up. According to the station plans it’s unused.”

Teresa wiped her face and coughed a little before speaking. “Show me.”

Barca passed the moving map to Teresa and she tracked the bug’s movement and the new location.

“That has to be the place. Tell Anderson we’re going in, he needs to have the ship ready in case we need to leave in a hurry.”

Back in the main hallway they moved further along until they reached the door that led to different levels. Bishop went in first, closely followed by the rest of them. Teresa was last in and she quietly pulled the door behind her. The stairwell was dark and obviously little used. As they waited Williams checked his scanner for a better way to reach the area.

“The stairwell is blocked one level up. I’ve got a ventilated shaft running two metres outside the bar. Close enough for the UAVs?”

“It’ll have to do. Come on, get them in position, I need to speak with Anderson.” Teresa pulled out her radio.

“Anderson, we’re in position. We’re sending in the UAVs now, are you tracking the bug?”

“He’s entered the area now, send in the bugs. Once they are in position, get back to the ship.”

Williams knelt down and took out a plastic box, laying it out on the floor. He opened the lid carefully to reveal four small metallic objects, each one the size of a finger. He looked up at Teresa who quickly gave him the nod. He took the first object out, twisted the cap and then placed it on the ground. Almost as soon as his hand was clear a wafer thin membrane extended from its side and then started to gently buzz. It rocked to the side and then took off hovering at head height. He quickly did the same to the rest of the units and in seconds all four were hovering near them.

“Okay, they are set to take the air ducts to the floor and then spread out. We need to wait until they reach whatever is going on. Everybody watch the door and stairs, if anybody comes in put them on the ground and shut them up,” Teresa ordered.

*

Inside the Tamarisk Commander Anderson and Special Agent Johnson were busy watching the display panels. An additional screen showed a schematic of the station. Flashing dots showed the position of Teresa, her team and the bugged man. The first four screens all showed very dark images as the four miniature-robotic spies made their way to wherever the bugged man was heading.

“What do you think they’ll find?” asked the Commander.

“Well, based on the intel we’ve received so far, I would guess anything from weapons and arms dealers for the insurgents, right up to a meeting between officials. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

On the schematic a number of blue dots started to move about the station.

“What are those?” asked Anderson.

“That isn’t good, the security system monitors the private security firms protecting the different organisations at the station. Something has spooked them. Look, they’re making their way to the stairwell.”

“Shit, they must have rigged them with sensors!” Anderson grabbed the intercom system.

“Private Morato, we’ve got incoming, two security groups moving in on your position. I recommend you get into the main aisle and make your way slowly to the ship.”

“Sir, the UAVs are not in place yet. If we leave we will not be able to send them new commands.”

“They have their location data, let’s just hope it’s the right place. That isn’t a suggestion, Morato, it’s an order, now get your people out!”

“Yes, Commander.”

He then looked back at the schematic, noting that the security teams went directly past Teresa and her group and towards one of the bars. It looked like it must have been a false alarm, or perhaps there was some unrelated incident. He looked back at the other four feeds and noted the first aerial vehicle was making its way through a narrow tunnel and to the air filter near the old club. On the video stream he could make out the grating in front of the robot but nothing the other side. With the poor light it was hard to tell if that was down to dirt or it was simply empty. He turned to the second robot and was surprised to see a clear view into a large room packed with dozens of people.

“Holy shit, are you getting this?” shouted the Commander.

“Already recording the data, Sir. Look, do you recognise Colonel Tyrol of the Agora Militia?”

“The bastard, he must be working with them!”

They were stood in a loose group around a central figure who wore thick robes that covered his entire body, leaving just a hint of his beard showing. The rest of the room was dark but the movement of shadows suggested there were more people along the perimeter.

“We are at a critical stage in the operation. Send a team and secure the ship, we’ll take the data and dispose of her crew,” said one man.

“I agree, it is too risky to involve anybody else, bring Antonius to us, we will have to explain to him why we do not allow strangers within our midst,” spoke another.

The man in the middle of the room lifted up his hands, indicating he wanted them all to be quiet.

“As you know, the struggle on Prime has expended our first wave of soldiers. More are being converted at our sites throughout the sector but we must have more time. With Kerberos out of the picture we can pick off each of the Confederate Colonies one at a time. In less than a month there will be enough converts to unleash against any single colony with a guarantee of victory.”

A cheer echoed through the chamber, the volume forced the robot to reduce the recording level to avoid excessive noise.

“Now, our plan is already in motion, in the next hour you will see a demonstration of the Church’s power and with it the dawn of the Union.”

Commander Anderson pressed a few buttons to zoom the video feed in so he could get a better view of the meeting. As he moved in he noticed something familiar about the man in the robe. He moved in closer and took a still image from the feed, connecting it to the vessel’s copy of the security database. It quickly found a match.

“Holy shit, that’s the Bishop of Yama! I thought he was on Kerberos for the protests.”

“Are you sure it’s him?” asked Special Agent Johnson, who looked again. “It is him, but that’s a holographic display, see it’s flickering. He’s not actually on the station!”

Anderson pointed at the data on the screen in front of him. As he looked he noticed the expression on Johnson’s face.

“What is it?”

“President West, they’re going to launch a coup, listen!”

He turned up the audio on the feed coming from the second robotic device. They listened to the details before Commander Anderson turned it down. He reached out and pressed a few keys to combine the data into a compressed packet for transmission. It only took a few seconds before it was ready. The communications relay was automatically tracking the correct destination point in case they needed to send data back in a hurry. He hit the key to find it immediately blocked.

“They know!” Johnson pointed at the screen.

A number of men ran in with scanners and one appeared in front of the second UAV before the video feed cut out.

“The signal is blocked, we need to get out of Dodge!” said Anderson as he rushed to the cockpit and strapped himself in.

As he began the start up procedure Agent Johnson shouted back along the corridor to the Commander.

“They’re eight metres away and moving slowly, they must be trying to leave discreetly.”

Anderson pulled the intercom from the ceiling of the craft so he could speak directly with the team.

“Morato! Blackwatch! Get your ass here and fast, we’ve got serious problems!”

*

Spartan sat in the anteroom alongside Marcus. They had been there for over two hours as an emergency session was being held between President West and his security council. The announcements of the colonial secession were spreading like wildfire on every single media outlet. From where they were positioned they could easily hear the shouting and chanting outside the building as large numbers of the public had congregated to protest against the Confederacy or against the breaking up of the old institution. Every few minutes the sound of police sirens and vehicles indicated yet more incidents between the groups as they argued and sometimes fought outside the building.

Marcus leaned over, speaking quietly. “What do you think is going to happen here?”

“What do you mean?” replied Spartan, not entirely sure which problem he was referring too.

“Kerberos, do you think they will secede as well? Just listen to them out there. I reckon they’ll lynch him either way.”

“No, have you seen President West? He looks like a diehard Confederate to me, but I don’t think he’s the problem though. You saw the video feeds. There are plenty of people that want him and us out. In my experience people often want change just for the sake of it.”

The two men were silent, Spartan listened to the sounds outside as he looked at his datapad to check the media feeds. Every channel was showing the same, the protests and violence in the streets outside.

“Look at them,” Spartan showed the device to Marcus.

“As soon as West tells them the official line there is going to be uproar, I guarantee it,” said Marcus.

“You’re probably right. With most of the colonies of Prime, Orthrus and Agora already gone, if Kerberos leaves as well what will happen with the Fleet? What will happen to us?”

A loud chorus of shouting and chanting could be heard though the walls.

“Listen to them, can you believe the fuss they’re making out there?”

“I don’t know, that sounded like it was inside the building to me,” said Spartan as he look around. The Marine Guards seemed unperturbed by the sounds.

Spartan approached the two guards waiting at the bottom of the wide grand staircase that led to the visitor apartments. He could see the two men were talking to each other. As soon as they spotted him they stopped and the nearest turned to him.

“Everything okay, Sergeant?”

“Yeah, did hear noise inside the building?”

“It’s okay, there was an attempt to break the perimeter wall on the North side. We’ve already cleared the area and arrested the hooligans. Just a few broken windows,” he said reassuringly.

Spartan turned to move back. He wasn’t sure though, something wasn’t right and right now he couldn’t put his finger on it.

*

Teresa was first up the ramp and inside the ship. Once safe she moved to the side and turned back to watch the rest of her team join her. Bishop was next and closely followed by the other three. Only Williams was left when the guards appeared. A blast of gunfire erupted and clattered against the metal body of the ship. Two rounds struck Williams, one in the leg and the other in the stomach. A spray of bright blood splattered forward and onto the ramp. He collapsed to the ground as the others jumped to safety.

“Get him in!” Teresa shouted as she pulled out her pistol and squeezed off a dozen rounds in quick succession.

The guards ducked into cover, trying to avoid the barrage of fire from the pistol. Bishop and Barca pulled carbines from the weapons’ mount near the top of the ramp and proceeded to fire short bursts. The guards, now taken by surprise with their accuracy and firepower, started to retreat. Kowalski rushed down the ramp, a bullet impacting just a metre from him as he grabbed Williams by the arm. He started to drag his lifeless body along the ramp. As he moved a long, slick pattern of blood ran down the metal, it didn’t look good.

“Get in, we need to move!” Anderson ordered over the speakers fitted throughout the ship.

More rounds rattled around the bodywork of the spacecraft and Barca had to drop his carbine so that he could come out and help drag Williams inside.

“Bishop, keep their heads down!” shouted Teresa.

She grabbed another carbine from the weapons’ rack and then dropped to her knees, aiming at the guards who were still returning fire. As she was about to pull the trigger one of the men stood up and fired a short burst that missed by just a fraction.

“Bastard!” she cried and in one quick motion, she selected the range finder and launched a large calibre explosive round in the man’s direction. As it rushed past the cover used by the guards it armed itself, then exploded in a small flash. The impact blasted the two men, one was already killed by the blast and the other smoked from the heat. The man tried to move back to safety but Teresa sent another round into his chest. It sent him flying through the air, killing him instantly.

With the fight temporarily over Teresa reached down and helped them drag Williams inside. She hit the seal button to force the door shut. As it slammed into position she could still hear the sound of small arms fire bouncing off the vessel. She looked down at Williams but he was already dead. His eyes were lifeless and she saw the hole in his chest. She lifted her hand to her face, angry with the guards and with herself, for losing one of their team.

“Get strapped in, we’re out of here!” Anderson shouted over the speakers.

Bishop had already secured the body and was strapping himself in at the communications console. Teresa strapped in next to him. Agent Johnson was still trying to isolate the source of the jamming so they could send their signal. Before Teresa could speak a great clunking sound indicated they were clear of the station. The rumble from the engines started up and the familiar feeling in her stomach of the change in G forces returned. For just a second she thought she might throw up but calmed down at the last moment.

“I’m still trying, but they must have sensors fitted amongst the asteroids out here to create an area-wide signal dampening field. It will be three minutes, maybe four before we can send a signal.”

Commander Anderson, who was still in the cockpit, assisted the autopilot in working on the most direct route out of the Rim. The ship was already building up speed, but in this treacherous part of space they were unable to accelerate to the maximum. The short corridor joining the communication panel and the cockpit was only six metres long. Teresa could see Commander Anderson from where she sat.

“Bishop, get the weapon system ready, I think we might have company!”

Teresa looked at the navigation screen, quickly picking up a number of merchant vessels and at least one gunboat that was moving into position to intercept them.

“How are we going to get past them?” she asked. “They’ll just destroy us from long distance before we can escape!”

Johnson smiled at her as he started sending ghost signals to some of the approaching ships, making it more difficult for them to track and lock on their ship.

“This ship has more than a few surprises. Get to the communications array, we’ll be in the clear for transmission shortly.”

“Brace for impact, we have two gunboats on a strafing run!” shouted Anderson, his voice bouncing through the crew sections of the ship.

Before they had time to respond, the clatter of canon rounds thudded through the forward section. Incredibly none of the rounds were able to cause any significant damage but to the casual observer the exterior of the ship did sustain carbon scoring and fractures to some of the fake metal skin.

*

Spartan and Marcus were still watching the video feeds of the protests when a direct communication announcement came on Spartan’s datapad automatically closing the media feeds. The outer rim of his device glowed red, he hadn’t even seen this before.

“What the hell is that?” asked Marcus, instantly suspicious.

Spartan lifted up the pad to see a request for a cipher to decode a classified message that had been repeated and bumped down from the orbiting CCS Santa Cruz. He checked the sender before pressing anything and noted it was anonymous, at least that’s what it said. For a moment he considered doing nothing but there was a good chance it was important and the fact it came from the ship must mean it had some kind of providence.

“Screw it!” he said and quickly input his cipher codes.

The display flashed and turned to an image of a bloodied Teresa.

“Teresa!” said Spartan, a little louder than he intended.

Marcus moved over, looking at the video. “What has she got into now?”

The video was a one-way transmission and sent some time ago due to the time difference between locations in the sector.

“This is Private Morato of the Confederate Marine Corps,” she started before the video feed crackled and started to phase shift.

In the background a number of people were rushing about and sparks and flashes suggested there was some kind of ongoing violence or emergency. As the picture settled Teresa reappeared and continued.

“Our mission to the Rim has revealed a plot centred on Typhon, leader of the…” the image disappeared and the audio crackled for several seconds again, “intend to assassinate President West…” the audio dropped out again.

“A coup? What the hell!” Marcus looked around, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

“Guards Company…assassinate President…church” the audio finally cut out completely.

For a short while the video feed continued, Spartan tried as hard as he could but he couldn’t work out what she was saying. He could however make out the background was the bulkhead section of a ship of some kind. It wasn’t military, or at least not like any ship he had been on yet. Then the image cut as suddenly as it had started to be replaced with a message indicating it was the end of the transmission. Spartan was stunned. It might have been the image of Teresa, or more likely the message, but for the briefest of moments he was paralysed with the arrival of the information.

“Spartan? Come on, what’s the plan?” asked an anxious Marcus.

It was as though a switch had been flicked inside Spartan’s brain as he suddenly started to glance around the anteroom and at the Marine Guards stationed at all the key locations.

“I tell you what we’re going to do, we’re going to get the General and the President out of here!” he said as quietly as he could.

“How though? If the Guards are in on the plan then what friends do we have left?”

“Shit, you’ve got a point, come on!”

The two turned to the door that led to where the meeting with President West and his Cabinet was taking place. Spartan placed his hand on the door and turned the handle, nothing happened. He pushed the door and still it remained firmly shut.

“Hey, what are you doing?” said one of the Marine Guards as he approached.

“We need to get inside!”

The marine raised his carbine and pointed it at Spartan, as he did so the other five Marine Guards in the open room did the same.

“Oh man, this is bullshit!” swore Marcus.

Spartan put his hands out in front in a gesture of compliance and moved slowly towards the man.

“We just need to speak with the President, something has come up,” said Spartan again, this time even firmer in his tone.

“I don’t care what you want, he is being taken care of, you just stay here and keep out of…” he didn’t get to finish as Spartan ducked to the side and jumped in, grabbing the carbine. He swung it around to strike the man in the head. The guard slumped to the floor as Spartan lowered the weapon, pointing it at the rest of the marines.

“Get it open!” Spartan shouted to Marcus who was already kicking the door to try and open it. Finally becoming frustrated he pulled out his sidearm and emptied three rounds into the frame before it finally buckled.

“Go!” Spartan shouted and with all the speed they could muster the two rushed inside.

As Spartan emerged into the room he was shocked to find it deserted. Not a single member of the Cabinet or even the President was there. The two spread out, looking for any signs of the men in the large meeting room. A shape appeared at the door and Spartan put two rounds into the open space, discouraging anybody from entering for now.

“They won’t wait long, we need to find them!” Marcus said as he looked behind each of the desks and chairs.

Another man approached the doorway and this time he entered the room. Spartan did his best to not kill the man and put a round into his upper leg, the man dropped, crying out in pain.

“Here!” Marcus called out as he found a false wall at the back of the room. With a tug he pulled it open to reveal several bodies slumped across the desks. In the middle of the room lay the bloodied body of President West as well as three Marine Guards.

“Oh shit, Marcus, it’s a setup!”

They ducked into the second room and took cover among the already shattered decks and tables. As they waited it was evident a terrible scene of violence had taken place in the last hour. Marcus checked the President for a pulse before turning back to Spartan.

“He’s cold, they must have done this just after they went in, how did we not hear it?”

Part of the wall to the side turned white and they were knocked backwards by the violent blast. As Spartan tried to get up four men in black body armour of the Guards Unit formed a line. Each of them was pointing a thermal shotgun at him. Spartan shook his head, trying to clear the fuzziness from the stun grenade. He looked to his right, Marcus was unconscious and slumped across a desk.

“You bastards!”

He started to lift his weapon when General Rivers entered the room. For a second Spartan thought he might be behind the assassination but then he saw the cuffs on his wrists and the gag on his face. Two more armoured guards flanked him. As Spartan watched in shock the men rushed forward to secure him. With his instincts kicking in he emptied the pistol into the first but the pistol wasn’t powerful enough to penetrate the thick armour and they were instantly on top of him. He punched and kicked with all his strength but there were too many. In just under a minute they had him knocked to the ground and unconscious.

*

Admiral Jarvis stood in the CiC of the CCS Wasp, waiting for news from Commander Anderson. In the last ten minutes a number of jammed data packets had been received but there was too much corruption for her people to obtain much solid information. She was starting to become impatient.

“Captain, any news from the Fleet at Kerberos?”

Captain Hardy spoke briefly with the Communications Officer before turning back to her.

“Nothing, Admiral, the last update was the regular sitrep one hour ago.”

She stood, examining the disposition of the ships on her display. Already a number of vessels were heading to Kerberos and Prime to reinforce the ships already there.

“Put me through to the Crusader, they must have heard something by now!” she said, her patience finally running out.

“Sir,” the Captain gave the orders to his crew.

The officers moved about, realigning their communication arrays to receive the narrowband encrypted data channels. There was something wrong, Admiral Jarvis could tell by the crew’s body language that they were having problems.

“What is it?” she asked finally.

“All channels to Kerberos are being jammed, Admiral,” replied the Communications Officer.

“Jammed, by whom?”

“I…uh…don’t know, Sir. The signal is being overlaid with an unencrypted video stream, it is being played out on all frequencies.”

“Put it on,” ordered Captain Hardy.

“The main display slid away from the strategic map and to a standard definition colour video stream of a podium behind which hung the banners of the Church of Echidna.

“What is this nonsense?” she demanded.

There was no time to answer her as a man in a robe stepped up to the podium and removed his hood.

“I, Typhon, Bishop of Yama City and head of our good Church and the people of Kerberos welcome all with open hands. I thank you,” he said as he lifted his hands.

Admiral Jarvis turned her head in disbelief at the platform being used by this man.

“Fellow Kerberons and citizens of Proxima. I have been asked to speak by the Vice President of Kerberos. Within the last few hours a terrible event has occurred. Not content with violence and depravity on Prime, the agents of the Confederacy have struck in this very city. President West and a number of his key advisors have been assassinated by a well organised and savage assault by agents of the Confederate Navy,” he said as he waved to someone off camera.

Six men in black armour appeared and dragged the bloodied and bruised shapes of General Rivers, Spartan and Marcus into view.

“God no!” exclaimed Admiral Jarvis.

“These men are responsible for this terrible crime and they will be sent to an undisclosed location where they will await their trial. Even more incredible is that the operation was under the direct command of General Rivers, one of the senior Confederate Commanders in Proxima!”

The guards dragged the prisoners out of the view of the camera so that the Bishop was the only person remaining in shot.

“Due to these terrible events the Vice President has chosen to remain hidden until our security forces can guarantee his safety. His first order however is to establish the Church as a moral oversight to his administration. Though a terrible night, this change in policy to the atheist and abhorrent regime of the past should gives us cause for joy. For decades our good people have slaved under the tyranny of big business. Workers earn little, yet work longer and harder as the rich become richer. Human morality has become shameful with even our own leaders living in shame and decadence. Today the partnership between the government of Kerberos and the Church announces its intention to help any colony to become a safe and prosperous place to live outside of the greedy paws of the Confederacy. No more will our citizens be forced to fight wars on foreign lands for an oppressive regime.”

He paused, waiting as if there was a momentous addition to his speech. The silence extends to almost ten seconds before he continued.

“How many of our colonial brothers have been forced to join the military? Some because of debts to oppressive companies, others for so-called crimes against the state. This duty of service and war is a crime against humanity and we have been working tirelessly for the last five years on the creation of an alternative to this service. Our loyal citizens should never have to fight in another war or die in another battle. I am therefore proud to announce the wonder that is the Biomech. A biological machine that will provide our people with safety and security, while removing the risk of war to our citizens,” he said with a gleam in his eye.

From the right hand side of the camera stepped two of the shock troopers. They seemed almost identical the ones that had fought on Prime. They looked like normal people, just bigger and more substantial. They both wore a minimalist level of armour, much like the tight fitting PDS suits of the marines. Their heads were covered with metal masks that conveniently covered their mutated muscles and jaws. In perfect synchronisation the two warriors dropped to one knee and bowed to the camera. As they remained totally still, a man in the robes of the Zealots approached the Bishop and spoke quietly before turning and moving out of view. The Bishop then looked up and smiled at the camera.

“We have received word following the discussions between the Chief Ministers of Kerberos and those of the Colonies of Prime, Orthrus and Agora. They have all announced their intention to secede from the oppressive capitalist regime of the Confederacy. I call on all military forces to join us and return Proxima to the people. From today, any city or colony joining our union of peace and brotherhood will be provided full protection against military intervention, piracy and organised crime through the deployment of our loyal Biomechs,” he signalled to both shock troopers who then stood and left.

“Peace to you all,” said Typhon as he placed his hand on his heart.

The video feed cut off abruptly. Admiral Jarvis continued staring at the video display in disbelief. She had sent General Rivers as a representative and now the situation in Prime seemed to pale in insignificance to this new threat in the sector.

“The jamming has stopped, Admiral,” said the Communications Officer.

Captain Hardy approached the Admiral, standing in front and looking for a moment as though he was going to draw a weapon. Instead he pulled out a datapad, he pressed one button and handed it to her.

“While the feed was coming in we managed to decode some of the data coming from the Rim. It is Commander Anderson and he says he has information on the coup on Kerberos.”

Admiral Jarvis looked down at the datapad, checking the details for herself. When she finished reading she moved back to her strategic map and reached out, touching each of the seceding colonies and tapping them. The colours of the sites turned grey until little remained in the System that appeared loyal to the Confederacy.

“What are your orders, Admiral?”

Admiral Jarvis stood silent, looking at the map as if she expected some great solution to present itself. It wasn’t to be though. She turned to the Captain.

“We will stop this before it can spread,” she said firmly.

Moving across the CiC she reached the communication array.

“Record this message and send it out to every combat unit in the sector!”

The officer sitting at his desk looked quickly at Captain Hardy who immediately gave him the nod. He pressed a few buttons and then handed the microphone to the Admiral.

“This is Admiral Jarvis, Supreme Commander of all Confederation Units in Proxima. A military coup has been staged on Kerberos by terrorist forces. I am placing all Units on maximum alert! All personnel are to report to their stations. Any attempts to enter Confederation facilities will be responded to with lethal force.”

She paused, realising the decision she was making could have catastrophic consequences for the region.

“As the legal representative of the Confederacy, I declare any acts of secession to be illegal and against the articles of the Confederacy agreed to by every colony in this sector. Any attempts to break the articles will be met by the full force of the Confederate Military!” she said and then slammed down the intercom.

The entire room was silent, the officers either waiting to hear what she had to say next or just waiting for their orders. Admiral Jarvis turned back to examine the display and the ever shrinking influence of the Confederacy. As she looked at the screen she called over to the Communications Officer.

“Get me through to Commander Anderson, we need information!”

“Aye, Sir,” said the man as he proceeded to try and link directly to the Tamarisk.

“This is it then?” asked Captain Hardy, his face showing obvious horror at the situation.

“No, it isn’t. We are facing the greatest threat since the Great War,” she said sternly.

“War? We’re already fighting a war, Sir,” said the Captain.

Admiral Jarvis turned back to him, her eyes burning with anger at the situation.

“This war hasn’t even begun!”

FIRES OF PROMETHEUS

By Michael G. Thomas

PUBLISHED BY:

Swordworks Books

Copyright © 2011 by Michael G. Thomas

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

CHAPTER ONE

The first Biomechs were encountered during the campaign to retake the Titan Naval Station. It wasn’t until the ground offensive on Prime however, before their true potential was realised. What started as small-scale usage of suicidal fighters quickly turned into the tactical use of the larger models in assault operations. The Biomech itself became an army of options and opportunities.

Evolution of the Biomechs

Kerberos was quiet, much quieter than any of the military personnel could have expected. Almost three months had passed since the end of hostilities in the Proxima Centauri System between the Confederate military and the insurgents under the guidance of the Church of Echidna and her militant allies. Though open warfare had stopped there were still sporadic skirmishes and suicide bombings as the insurgents did their best to spread fear and terror in the civilian population. None of the underlying issues had been resolved and the entire sector had settled into a period of uneasy truce, a kind of space based phoney war where both sides were preparing and waiting for the resurgence of battle. Of the eleven planets in the System the four that were colonised had seceded from the Confederacy. Many of the others teetered on the brink of joining either through fear of what might happen if they didn’t or simply because they lacked faith in the Confederacy to keep them safe. Fort Hood and Confederate military outposts on the other colonies were on full alert and had been since the attacks on the Titan Station that precipitated the start of open hostilities. Of the colonies that split from the Confederacy, none recognised the authority of the Army, Navy or Marine Corps and most had given demands for military forces to leave. Their occupation of colony land was considered an act of war that could lead to the continuation of the war. Admiral Jarvis, the Supreme Commander of all Confederate forces in Proxima Centauri, had given the order than no state land or bases were to be relinquished and that support would be provided to any forces needing assistance.

To the men and women at Fort Hood, deep in the heart of the enemy camp, these seemed to be empty words. With just a small number of combat troops the fort couldn’t be expected to hold out for long if a concerted attack was launched against them. Common sense dictated they evacuate the base and move their units into orbit, but the Navy was refusing to move them. As they waited they could only hope the threat of full-scale colonial warfare between the Confederate colonies and the secessionists would stop both sides pushing for what could become a genocidal conflict. Colonel Towers, an imposing figure and commander of the base, stood in front of a paper map of the area and traced out a number of geographical features not far from their walls.

“If you look here there are four locations where units can be concealed close enough to strike at the walls. We can reach two of them with indirect fire but these two are a real problem. I want remote gun systems positioned here, and here,” he explained as he pointed to the locations on the map.

“What about the cover on the access road to the south?” asked one of the lieutenants.

“That’s already covered. We have a foot patrol out there right now setting up a checkpoint and OP. With these areas covered we should get at least fifteen minutes warning of any ground approaches to the base.”

“Captain, will this give us enough room to get your air units down safely for resupply?” he asked looking across to the small group of Navy personnel stood in the corner.

Captain Erdeniz stepped forward and examined the air corridor provided by the defensive weapons and counter measures. It was his job to ensure the meagre air support they had available was able to bring supplies and aid in when needed. But as the noose around them tightened it was becoming more and more difficult.

“It isn’t perfect but it is big enough to get the small craft down in one piece. If we need to evacuate in a hurry we’ll have to bring in the big birds, for that we’ll need suppression aircraft to keep missiles off our backs, Sir.”

The Colonel turned to look at the assembled officers.

“The situation here is going to hell, I think you all know that.” The rest of the officers were surprised by his candour and at least one chuckled at his comments. The Colonel tried to spot the laughing man but the room quickly quietened down, much to his dismay.

“You’ve seen the reports, the same as I have. The insurgents are thick as thieves with the so-called Church and a good number of the unions here. With offers of free medical support, work for those that want it and free housing it’s not surprising the masses are going for it. Hell, if I hadn’t seen how they are doing this I might even be interested myself. Be under no illusions, gentlemen, the enemy can only achieve their objectives by turning the colonial population into docile servants who will do what they are told and when. One day they will understand this and then it will be much too late.”

“Sir, I don’t see what politics has to do with Confed military forces? Can’t we just leave them to it?” asked a junior officer.

“Leave them to what exactly? Evict us from our bases and disband all colony militia forces so that their biological monstrosities can take over. A population that is unable and unwilling to defend itself will cease to be free. Mark my words, any colony falling for the promises of these people will turn into a slave worker’s paradise in just months. It gets worse though, they do not seek to simply remove us,” he said shaking his hands in anger, “these bastards want to replace us! They hate us with pure, unreasoning hatred and they will not stop until our very way of life is destroyed. You saw the video of the fighting on Prime. They will take by force that which they cannot take by the ballot paper.”

He signalled to one of the Naval Intelligence officers standing at the front.

“Sir, if you look at the big picture it is clear the merging of the political parties, and the sidelining of religions outside of the Church, is creating a dictatorial one party system on Kerberos. This model is spreading through the colonies of Prime and outwards to the other worlds. The bottom line is that it’s easy to just say yes. The enemy is offering an end to hunger, unemployment, illness and even the requirement to defend yourself. The offer is to turn humanity into soft, docile cattle. We have studied our enemy in detail and it gives me no pleasure to inform you that this insidious danger is the greatest threat the Confederacy has ever faced. Even worse, our citizens are welcoming it with open arms!”

The Colonel acknowledged of the officer’s comments and then returned to his position. His body language suggested he was trying to inspire but it looked more like he was preaching. It wasn’t helped by the fact that of all the officers in the room, he was the only one that had yet to face the enemy in battle.

“As you know we have been given the order to stand. This is a Confed base and we are not handing it over to insurgents, religious fundamentalists or some Kerberon nutjob who thinks he is the second coming of Christ. This base has already been given a final ultimatum by representatives of this Church of Echidna who say they are operating as intermediaries on behalf of the Kerberos government. That’s bullshit, as you already know there is no government here anymore! They are just puppets for this religious cult that will not stop until every colony does the same. I’ve received word from the Fleet and they confirm that since the deadline passed every base in the System has been waiting. So far nothing has happened. Return to your units and recheck their readiness. Something is coming, I can smell it and when it does we need to be ready to act.”

A chorus of salutes and agreements echoed inside the small room and was followed by the removal of the men as they rushed to check on their troops. The first planet to secede had been Kerberos and it was generally considered to be the second planet in the System. Since the rise of the Church it had taken on greater importance to the level that it was now seen as the hub, the centrepiece of the new secessionist movement.

As the officers streaked out a grubby looking soldier rushed in carrying a map. His uniform was that of one of the scouting units with tiger stripes camouflage pattern and light equipment optimised for speed and discretion.

“What is it, Corporal?” asked the Colonel.

“Our patrol in Sector Five has come under attacks from colonial units from Yama City. Our unit made it back but we lost a squad out there, Sir.”

“What the hell! Why did you leave them?” he shouted as he stormed to the doorway leading to the open compound. The young soldier chased after him.

“We were ambushed by almost hundred people. Rocket fire destroyed our first APC, we were lucky any of us made it out alive!”

Colonel Towers stopped and looked down at him. His face was contorted in anger and worsened as he spotted the patches on the soldier’s arm indicating his last two tours of combat.

“Let me tell you, son. Just because you’ve been out in the dust getting your ass shot off by some local bushwhackers, it doesn’t give you the right to abandon your men out there.”

“But, Sir!”

“Don’t ‘but, Sir’ me, soldier! I know my duty and we never, ever leave our men behind. Now come with me, we have work to do!” he shouted as he continued onwards. As he stomped off a solider leaned over from the top of one of the watchtowers.

“Colonel, there’s a vehicle heading towards us!”

The watchtower was located in the corner of the barracks and was the tallest structure in the entire base. It was raised about five metres higher than the perimeter wall, but like the rest of the compound was only recently built and lacked the thicker walls and strong defences normally seen on military bases. The entire compound was initially only supposed to handle up to a thousand personnel. Now it was overpopulated, containers and vehicles were packed into the smallest of spaces as the units posted to smaller camps had flocked to this larger site. A sergeant, recognisable by his beret and shoulder stripes, marched out into the open parade ground near the walls and started barking orders. He was quick and efficient, in less than two minutes the walls were manned and the troops were ready. From one of the concrete bunkers rushed a four-man squad to the reinforced gateway and took up positions around it. They were not like the frontline combat units that had been fighting the insurgency the last months. They lacked the close fitting armour of the Marine Corps or even the heavier, more old-fashioned carapace suits still used by regular army units. These men and woman wore their standard combat fatigues with basic protective armour vests and plating over the key body parts. Two hundred years ago this kind of gear would have been considered common, now it was barely adequate for riot control. The Colonel stood fuming as the combat units waited for the inevitable fight. He had work he wanted to do and dealing with another non-issue was the last thing he needed. Two of his guards moved out of the command centre and took up positions behind him. Sergeant Wilkinson stopped in front and saluted.

“Sergeant, what is it?”

“Sir, a small group in an armoured vehicle. They’re flying a white flag and approaching our gate.”

“Why are you wasting my time with this nonsense, Sergeant? Captain Erdeniz is in charge now. Find him! I have more important things to do than chasing locals waving flags!”

“Where the hell is Captain Erdeniz?” he demanded, only for the young man to appear before him from the weapon stores. It was obvious he had been collecting gear as on his shoulder he carried a standard issue L48 carbine. He was a naval officer who, along with hundreds of navy crew, had been sent to the surface for leave while the warships were repaired and patched up. Though the fighting had ceased for some time the troubles were far over. Following the epic space battle at Prime there were hundreds of dead and wounded personnel. Far more than could be managed in the space docks and stations operated by the Navy. The sporadic bases and barracks on the colonies were still officially Confederate territory and like foreign embassies they were considered sovereign soil.

“I’ve just received word that a unit has been hit out on the lower checkpoint. Watch the walls and don’t let anybody in, I will deal with the checkpoint incident and bring back our boys. I am leaving you in charge, don’t let me down.” He tapped the officer on the shoulder and then marched off.

Captain Erdeniz was stunned and forgot to even reply. As a naval officer he was used to commanding groups of gunners, or assisting in engineering and technical operations. Commanding the potential defence of a major fortified base on hostile territory was something he had never trained for. This Colonel must have something of a death wish. Rumour on the base was that he had missed out on the fighting and had something to prove. From the shouting display he heard it seemed the man had a real chip on his shoulder.

“Asshole, it’s people like you that get people like me killed!” he muttered as he chased after the officer.

“Colonel!” Erdeniz shouted, but the Colonel was already too far away to hear him as he approached the landing pad where three Cobra Transports sat with their engines running.

From the outside the Cobra MK II looked like an angry bug. The wings lifted up high with four powerful engines fitted on rotating mounts to provide vertical take off and landing capability. It had no obvious weapon systems fitted and could easily have been a civilian craft if it wasn’t for the camouflage pattern and military markings. The craft was only capable of atmospheric flight and had a range of just a few hundred kilometres. It was small, barely big enough to carry eight men, but its speed and agility made it perfect for rapid insertion and extraction of troops. The front of the craft was bulbous and appeared to contain more glass than metal. The looks were deceptive though and this craft more than any other was the favourite vehicle used by Army Special Forces for the last twenty-three years. The engines were already powered up when the Colonel arrived and the sound was high pitched, almost screeching. The Colonel jumped inside to be given an intercom headset so that he could speak and hear over the noise of the engines.

“Sir, we’re heading to the checkpoint now. Last contact was three minutes ago. According to the radio operator multiple vehicles hit them and rocket fire has destroyed their transport. The unit retreated to a depot building where they are trying to hold back the attackers. The last message was on an open channel and said they were being overrun and needed immediate assistance,” explained the co-pilot.

“Come on then, they haven’t got time and neither have we!” barked the Colonel as he strapped himself in, the pilot turned to speak to him.

“Uh, Sir, it isn’t necessary for you to come with us.”

“Did I ask your opinion, Lieutenant? I will not let any of my boys be taken by those snake obsessed bastards, now move it!”

”Sir!” The pilot hit full power. “What about support, Sir? Transmitting on an open frequency is against regulations and could indicate their position has already been overrun.”

“Bullshit. Are you trying to scrub the mission? Either you get me there or get out!”

The co-pilot looked over to the pilot who gave him a whimsical look before turning back to continue on the flight.

As the craft blasted away Captain Erdeniz was left covering his face from the dust. He looked about, trying to assess the situation and quickly walked over to the Sergeant who seemed to know what he was doing. Fort Hood was certainly no vacation spot but it did provide a relatively quiet place for over six hundred injured men and woman to rest and nurse their wounds. The fort was positioned on the outskirts of Yama City on the planet Kerberos and over twenty kilometres from any other settlements, yet the young Captain felt thousands of kilometres from the calamity that had been taking place in recent months.

“Good work, Sergeant, I’ll take a look,”

“Be my guest, Sir.”

Captain Erdeniz moved up the rough steel ladder near the main entrance much more quickly than the local enlisted men would ever have expected, taking a high position so that he could examine their immediate surroundings. As he stood at the high point he felt like a commander on an ancient Earth battlefield waiting for an unruly horde to come rampaging towards them. In his hands he held a pair of image-stabilised binoculars. They were low tech but in this area the highly magnified image was just what he needed. Through their lenses he watched the approaching vehicle at close magnification. The vehicle was six-wheeled and looked like one of the transports used by the Marine Guards unit on the planet.

“Sergeant, get ready, this could be trouble! I want the perimeter sealed and get air support on standby. This is probably just another scouting party but it could be something much bigger!”

Erdeniz looked very different to the rest of the infantry on the base. He was slight and until recently had been a mere lieutenant on board the flagship of the Confederate Battlefleet in the Proxima sector. His posting aboard the Battlecruiser Crusader had given him ample opportunities to indulge his interest in unconventional weapon systems. Prior to their action at Titan he had successfully tested a form of canister rounds for the ship’s railguns. He was far from ordinary, though due to his exemplary service and bravery he had been promoted to captain and put in charge of the primary gun decks on the warship. In theory this was a major achievement, but he was still convinced it more likely substantial losses suffered retaking the Titan Naval Station made it inevitable that many officers would be promoted to replace those killed or wounded. His two weeks leave on Kerberos however had been anything but relaxing.

“Captain, shall we get a drone up?” shouted the Sergeant.

Captain Erdeniz paused for a moment. The base was already low on ordnance. Zealots had destroyed a large number of the unmanned robotic drones in a raid three weeks earlier, leaving just four. It was just too risky not to use them though so he gave the order before turning back to his view through the binoculars. The vehicle was about five kilometres away now and kicking up a dust trail behind it. As he examined it more clearly he spotted a number of other small vehicles following behind it.

“Put me through to the Colonel!”

Before he could be answered a great flash from the centre of the base indicated one of the rocket-assisted drones was being launched to around a thousand metres. As it hit its preselected height the jet engine kicked in and the robot raced off into a circular path over the base. In less than ten seconds a series of pulses on the Captain’s electronic datapad signalled an active video feed. The device on his belt was standard equipment for officers in the military and was a ruggedised version of the common computer and communications kit used on many colonies. It combined an encrypted communication system along with live video feeds, encryption tools and command control for many of the base’s automated systems such as fire suppression and surface to air weapons.

He pulled up his pad and entered his hex based security code to gain temporary access to the system. It was a nuisance but after several risky operations it was deemed critical that no digital systems stayed connected and authorised for more than twenty minutes to avoid their use by the enemy. The display flickered as several windows appeared with maps, videos feeds and tactical overlays for the entire area. On the right hand side an icon flashed from command, he tapped it to reveal a full size video link to the Colonel.

“Captain, I’ve only just left. What’s the problem?”

“Sir, we have multiple targets converging on the approaching vehicle, I recommend you return to the base before they are able to bring portable surface to air weapons within our deployment zone.”

“I don’t see the problem. If they are hostile then open fire. If they are friendly, look after them. Don’t call me again, Captain, unless you have actual news to report, out!”

“Asshole,” muttered Erdeniz under his breath reviewing the video feed from the drone.

“Sergeant, you getting this?”

The Sergeant had his datapad resting on the wall as he surveyed the distant dust patterns. He looked down before turning back to the Captain.

“Yes, Sir, it looks to me like the lead vehicle is being chased.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well, I’ve been chased before and if you look at the speed they are moving they aren’t worried about taking chances.”

As if to emphasis the point a series of cracks from rifle fire echoed through the open and quiet valley.

“Stations, keep your heads down, boys!” shouted the Sergeant as he lowered himself, keeping a careful eye on the vehicle.

Captain Erdeniz double-checked the drone feed and with a deft tap brought the video camera in for a closer look on the nearest vehicle. The truck filled the screen showing about a dozen people, as well as masses of boxes and crates lashed to the bed at the rear. There were no obvious weapons though no doubt the boxes could conceal all manner of evil. He double tapped and then pulled the zoom back into a wide-angle mode. He quickly spotted over twenty vehicles, some were just small three-wheel affairs, others were much larger and all carrying armed citizens.

“This isn’t good.”

From his position along the wall he could see half of the base. To his left the wall went back several hundred metres until it rose up slightly on a small hill. Behind him was the main command centre and barracks building and to the side of that the motor pool where around twenty armoured vehicles waited. Although some were fully operational, most were being worked on by the engineers. To the side of the command centre was the landing pad for light aircraft. The walls were now manned by an entire company of soldiers, mostly Army but with a smattering of Navy and Marine units mixed in with them. A second company was split between working on the vehicles and patrolling the rest of the perimeter. A small contingent from the Army manned the mortars and base defences. Turning back to the approaching trouble he tapped the intercom unit on his ear.

“Platoon commanders check in,” he ordered, waiting for confirmation of the tactical deployment of his perimeter forces.

“2nd Platoon in position, light machine guns ready to go, Sir.”

“3rd Platoon, we have two squads on the walls, third will be ready in less than a minute.”

He waited for a moment, waiting patiently for 1st Platoon, nothing happened though.

“1st Platoon, where are you?” he demanded.

There was still no reply and for just a second he worried they may have gone rogue. This had happened on two other bases, where combat units had defected to the local forces. This was usually down to money or pay but some just didn’t have the stomach for what could be a bloody last stand. As he tapped the intercom to call again an apologetic voice was on the comms channel.

“Sir, 1st Platoon is now on the wall, we had a slight, ah, ammunition problem.”

“Really? Well, check your feeds and watch your angles. We’ll deal with this later.”

“Captain, they’re in range!” shouted one of the men from the tower.

On the datapad the perimeter of the base showed up as a green vector image with triangles indicating friendly units and small circles showing automated or sentry controlled weapon systems.

“Standard rules of engagement, fire if fired upon. Watch for friendlies and keep an eye on your buddies,” he said, trying to be as calm as possible.

“Launch the floaters!” called one of the lieutenants.

The unflattering nickname was for the special artillery shells that were launched up several thousand metres and then loitered in a shallow glide for up to fifteen minutes. A simple tap on a command datapad would send the shell back to the ground with an accuracy of a few centimetres vaporising the target with a precision high explosive warhead. It was a simple system giving the forward commanders the closest thing to their own air cover but with immediate availability. A series of low thuds signalled their launch though they were impossible to see or even track as they hurtled skywards. The clatter of bullet impacts spread along the outer wall as a burst of fire from the approaching vehicles struck the reinforced concrete and metal structure.

“Shall we respond, Sir?”

Captain Erdeniz wasn’t convinced though.

“Hold fire. I repeat, hold your fire! That might not have been aimed at us. Wait until the truck is inside our fire zone. If anything else passes the three hundred metre barrier you are clear to respond,” he said as he moved along the wall.

“Sir, they’ll be at the gate in thirty seconds!” shouted the Sergeant.

Captain Erdeniz lifted himself up higher as he watched the truck move to the gate. For a few seconds he thought it might crash directly into the armoured door and he braced himself for impact. Luckily the driver jammed the brakes on at the last minute and the vehicle swung around and stopped in a cloud of dust and debris. From the back a number of scruffy looking civilians as well as three men in police uniforms jumped out. One looked up to Captain Erdeniz and signalled with his hand to get his attention.

“Lieutenant Inspector James Cooper, requesting sanctuary!” Without waiting he started to help the people from the back of the truck.

Captain Erdeniz shouted down to the men in the courtyard to open the gate. His attention was drawn back to the approaching horde as the large number of vehicles rushed headlong towards their position. The nearest were two and three-wheel vehicles. All were civilian and carrying far more people on them than their design intended. Behind them were now more than twenty trucks and large wheeled vehicles. Some appeared to be police issue, the rest a mix of civilian and commercial, all with people on them and many of them armed.

“Get ready!” shouted the Sergeant.

A chorus of safeties being clicked off and bolts pulled back indicated the conversion of the defenders from a static force to one ready to repel any and all attackers. Captain Erdeniz looked back to his datapad and the video image from the small drone circling overhead. The back of one of the trucks was carrying a fixed weapon mount, it was primitive, possibly a relic from the Great War but still capable of shredding through the concrete and steel wall of their compound. Then he spotted it. The truck following it carried a similar fixed weapon mount, but it was a twin surface to air missile system of the type fitted around the Presidential Palace to protect against missile and aircraft attacks.

“Crap!” he muttered as he grabbed his intercom.

“All units…” he started before the clatter of bullets and cannon rounds peppered the wall forcing him to the ground to take cover. As he fell he dropped the datapad and almost landed on it. Luckily for both of them the device was sturdy and protected by a laminate layer of metal and rubber. As he grabbed the device two soldiers carrying rifles moved around him.

“I’m okay, not a problem!” He assumed they thought he must have fallen.

One of the machineguns on the tower opened fire and in less than three seconds the entire wall lit up with scores of carbines and rifles adding their fire to the approaching vehicles. An unguided rocket whistled overhead and crashed down into the centre of the base, hitting an already damaged truck. Captain Erdeniz looked at the drone video on his datapad to check the tactical situation. From the feed he could see the enemy dismounting and taking up positions several hundred metres from the compound walls.

“All units! Hold your fire! Watch for muzzle flashes and hit them with long range ordnance. Everybody else keep your heads down!”

One thing he knew from naval combat was that using all your fire at the first opportunity just wasted ammunition and gave away valuable information to the enemy. They had the better cover and the longer ranged guns. In this scenario it was in their interest to let the enemy do the work.

“Unit commanders, check your datapads for target identification and acquisition.”

A chorus of acknowledgements came across the tactical network as their precarious position was quickly shared along the personnel defending the perimeter. More fire bounced along the wall though the sturdy material easily absorbed the small arms fire.

The main compound gate opened along with a series of tones to let the guards know the base was being opened. As soon as a gap a metre wide appeared a stream of women and children rushed inside. Captain Erdeniz shouted down from the wall, waving at the barracks infirmary.

“Corporal Weather, get them to the infirmary and check them out!”

The Corporal waved to three other men who helped escort the party away as yet more rushed inside.

“Sir, this man says he needs to speak with you!” shouted the Corporal pointing to the nearest ladder for the man to climb.

As the last of the fourteen civilians made it inside the marines quickly sealed the doorway and returned to their positions. More shots came in and the video feed displayed two groups of the enemy making their way closer to the walls by staying low in the rocky depressions.

“Lieutenant Jones. Permission to access the floaters?” asked the leader of 3rd Platoon.

“Do it,” replied the Captain over the intercom before selecting the open channel.

“All weapon systems authorised, clear the perimeter!”

With that simple command the access to the base automated weapons mounts, artillery and drones was immediately turned over to the platoon commanders. It was quick and efficient and the results almost instant. Three explosions about three hundred metres out caught the first group moving into position. The aerial floating shells struck without warning and instantly halted that attack. As more shells were launched from the automated launch system a man in partial police clothing reached him on the wall.

“Captain, I’m Special Agent Johnson, attached to Naval Intelligence. I need to speak with the Fleet as soon as possible, I have urgent information for Admiral Jarvis.”

“The Admiral?”

A rocket propelled grenade slammed into the wall and blew out a chunk of masonry that blasted two men from the wall. One landed hard and didn’t appear to be moving.

“Medic!” shouted Erdeniz, though he didn’t need to as a group of marines were already heading to the injured men. The man that had hit the ground hardest was crying out. Erdeniz turned back to the newly arrived agent who was also watching the casualties with a morbid curiosity.

“It’s the quiet ones we need to worry about. You said you needed to speak to Admiral Jarvis?”

“Yeah, you know her?”

“I should do, I’m part of the Crusader’s crew and we have met a few times.”

“Really? Interesting. Anyway, thanks for taking us in, we hit a spot of trouble!” he said with a lopsided grin.

Several more rounds clipped the wall a few metres from where they stood but already the amount of fire was decreasing. As each of the floating artillery shells launched downwards less of the attackers were inclined to push forward.

“I can get you a signal to the Crusader in orbit. She’ll have to bounce the signal to the office of the Admiral. What is it about?”

“I can’t say, I’m sorry but it is too delicate. Let’s just say that this information is critical to the Confederacy, that’s why we were trying to get to you.”

“What about the people with you? What’s going on?”

“They are two of my colleagues who I can trust and their families. When they discovered we were still in contact with Naval Intelligence they stormed our police headquarters. Either we bugged out or we would have died with the rest.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“You’ve not heard? Colony defence has been handed over to the Biomechs under the command of Echidna operatives. All paramilitary personnel have been forced to hand in their firearms and report to work placement centres for allocation of new duties.”

The datapad on the Captain’s side started to emit a tone indicating a new message from command. He lifted his hand to pause their conversation. As he examined the screen it cut to a video link to the Cobra MKII Colonel Towers had left off on. The Colonel was speaking into the device as he hid behind what looked like a piece of blackened metal.

“Captain, it was an ambush, they were already dead. My God, all of them!”

The video picture started to shake and it looked like the Colonel was moving but it was soon obvious that the ground near his position was shaking. Flashes followed by the familiar crump of heavy weapon fire erupted and the picture went dark grey. As the image went a series of howls and low noises, as if from a wild creature, came over the speakers.

“What the hell is going on down there?”

Johnson looked unfazed by the sounds and sights of what was happening on the display.

“It’s Biomechs, once you hear them you never forget them, Captain.”

For a brief moment the picture on the datapad changed, the Colonel had either moved it or it had been knocked aside. As the image stabilised it was clear what had happened. Several bodies in Confed uniforms lay scattered about the rubble. The bloodied face of the Colonel filled a third of the screen and in the background stood three Biomechs, three metre tall monstrosities, each bristling with tight fitting armour and weapons. The screen flashed and the feed went dead. Captain Erdeniz turned his head in anger before straightening his back and tapping his intercom.

“Platoon commanders, meet me in the command centre. Squad leaders, hold your positions and watch your zones. Nobody, and I mean nobody, comes anywhere near the base, out!”

He moved to the ladder and started to climb down. Special Agent Johnson approached and pointed down to the ground as though he was asking a question.

“Yeah, come with me, I think we have things to discuss.”

CHAPTER TWO

The origins of Spartan are still a mystery. Few records exist other than the brief mentions of his upbringing and family. The first confirmed records concern his time as a pit fighter where he achieved fame and notoriety as one of the toughest and most versatile on Prometheus. Many doubt his meteoric rise to glory could ever have occurred without this strong lesson in combat and resilience.

The Rise of Spartan

Spartan couldn’t see in the pitch black of the room, but he could smell the dampness and sweat that reminded him that his situation wasn’t improving. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out, his throat was parched and nothing other than a few croaks staggered out of his mouth. His head was pounding a mixture of either a long drinking session or because he had been pounded in the head by somebody’s fists. As he struggled to remember, a light was switched on that for half a minute completely blinded him. He lifted his hands to shield his eyes to find he was chained and shackled to the wall.

“What do you want?” He tried to shout but again it came out as a muffled groan.

“Sergeant Spartan, terrorist, murderer and soldier of the fascist Confederacy. Have you made your decision?” A blurred shape of a man stood in front of him. Spartan struggled to remember, just a mixture of lights and faces with pain and violence thrown in. He needed a more time to collect his thoughts. As he desperately tried to think the voice continued.

“For your own safety we have moved you from Kerberos. Where you go from here is up to you. We already know you work for the Confederate Marine Corps. Those days are over now, Spartan. The days of the Confederacy are numbered, soon the dawn of a new, civilised and equal age will spread through Proxima.”

At the mention of Proxima some of Spartan’s memories flooded back. The uprising and insurgency orchestrated by the Zealots, the militant wing of the Church of Echidna and the collaboration of the Marine Guards unit on Kerberos. Finally, he remembered finding the murdered President and his cabinet at Yama City. He swallowed several times, trying desperately to clear his throat.

“I…I remember…”

“You remember? Good, then you can tell us. What does Admiral Jarvis plan to do about the secession of the colonies on Kerberos, Prime, Orthrus and Agora?”

“I’ll tell you what she told me…” He turned to look at the changing shape of the man facing him.

“Good, I thought you might change your mind. So, tell me, what does she plan to do?”

Spartan simply stared at him, saying nothing.

“Well, what does she have to say to us?” he asked again, this time more firmly.

“Fuck you!” Spartan shouted and then spat on the floor. The man took a step forward, presumably to strike Spartan but somebody stopped him before he could get close enough. Another two men appeared, one wearing some kind of wide headgear approached him as the rest spoke quietly to each other.

“The Confederacy has gone, Spartan. The only holdouts in this entire sector are Avagana and a handful of the smaller colonies through the Rim, Prometheus and the gas giants. With the habitable planets now free how long do you think it will be before the rest join us?”

“Join you? Who the fuck is you?” laughed Spartan. “You’re a bunch of old religious nobodies that want to line your own pockets. You’ll replace the Confederacy with your own ideology!”

The small group of men had stopped talking and all moved around Spartan. The tallest spoke first.

“The Church of Echidna offers a new union for those who seek the redistribution of power and wealth to the people. Before this year is out every colony in Proxima will join our family, that shouldn’t concern you though. For your crimes our leaders have decreed you and your friends should suffer.”

The man with the hat continued.

“A man with your skills could be of great use to us. This is your last chance to avoid a terrible and just fate. Fight with us or die in the pit fights like the rest of the dogs! Your choice!”

“Just kill me and get on with it!” Spartan was already trying to work out how he could turn the situation to his advantage. Planning and strategy had never been his strongest points but he was strong and his reactions generally excellent. He was convinced he could at the very least cause a lot of damage if he could get his hands free. As he twisted his arms it was obvious the chains were much too tight for him to wriggle out of. He looked about the room, his eyes now almost fully adjusted to the light. It was a small room and more people were tied up just the same as he was. He recognised the shape of General Rivers in the corner though he wasn’t moving. He was about to turn back to his chains when he spotted a glimpse of movement. It was small, so small that if he hadn’t already been looking at the old General he never would have seen it. The man blinked with just the one eye. Spartan squinted, making sure he had seen correctly, then the General did it again. Spartan nodded gently and then moved his eyes away from him and back to the guards.

“What about them?” He looked towards the other prisoners.

“That is none of your business, murderer!” said one of the men.

Spartan glanced again at the prisoners, looking for signs of people he might know.

“Come on, did you set them up as well? You bastards!”

The man started to laugh, it was a low chortle but the self-satisfaction was evident. As he continued Spartan could feel his heart increasing in rhythm, his blood felt like it was going to boil with pent up rage and anger. He pulled hard at the chains and succeeded in doing nothing other than giving his tormentors more to laugh about.

“You should save your energy, you will need it where you are going. As for the rest of them, well, they’ve all told us what we need to know. They will be meeting with the slavers shortly. Either they work in the mines or fight in the pits. One way or the other they’ll be dead in a few months…” he said and then looked deep into Spartan’s eyes, “…as will you!”

Spartan thought back to his comrades back in the Fleet, so many of them had been killed or maimed in the fighting. Of all of them though he missed Teresa the most. He’d met her during his training on the Santa Maria that at the time had operated as both a training and transport ship for the Marine Corps. She had been injured in the battle to retake the Titan Station from the insurgents. With all the trouble since then he’d been unable to spend much time with her and after the debacle on Kerberos he was doubtful he’d ever see her again. It was that final thought that pushed him to try something, anything that could get him away from wherever he was.

“I’ll join…”

The men stopped talking for a moment, each of them looking down at him. They waited for him to speak again. Spartan coughed, took in a deep breath and continued.

“If you’re right, what do I have to lose?”

The tall man leaned in closely again, this time Spartan could see the spittle dripping from his mouth as he leered.

“If you join us you will have to turn on your precious Confederacy. Can you do that, soldier?”

“I don’t care about the Confederacy, I want to see Teresa again.”

“Teresa?” asked the man in the hat.

“Private Morato, it seems she was his lover on his ship…” He then turned away to say more but Spartan couldn’t hear.

As the group spoke Spartan looked back into the room to look for anything he could do or grab that might help him. The walls were bare metal and the only objects were the dark plates on the one side of the wall that he assumed must be one-way mirrors. If so this was a cell of some kind, though according to them they had left Kerberos. It must be a prison transport vessel then, he thought to himself. He started shouting.

“Look, get me out of these and I’ll do whatever you want, I can’t take this any longer!”

He lifted his arms so that the chains went taut and rattled as they scraped along the floor. The man with the hat said a few more words until the tall man seemed to be in agreement with him. He then returned to Spartan and placed a key into the lock. Leaning forward he grabbed Spartan by the arm and lifted him up. He groaned a little from the pain in his left leg, an injury he didn’t even realise he had. From the corner of his eye he spotted two men in the ceremonial armour of the guard unit that betrayed the President back on Kerberos. He tried his best to hide the contempt he felt towards the traitors.

“Now, Spartan, if you are to join us we must first…” said the tall man before he realised what was happening.

With a speed that surprised them all, Spartan delivered a savage uppercut to the man that connected under his chin and knocked him out cold. Moving before the guards could intervene he grabbed the second man and locked his arm, twisting him in front as a human shield.

“Let him go!” shouted one of the guards as they entered the room, both pointing their carbines at him.

Spartan looked at their gear, noting that they were using L48 carbines with the small calibre box magazines fitted. They had limited capability and were perfect for military use on ships where penetration was an issue. He felt a pang of anger towards them with their pretence of being an elite and loyal part of the Corps, when the only thing they had in common with his compatriots was the equipment. The man squirmed, trying to move away from Spartan but a simple squeeze on his left arm forced the man to keep still, Spartan’s strength being much more than he could cope with. At the end of the room he could make out General Rivers, he looked unconscious but Spartan knew better. In the last few seconds the man had already turned slightly towards him and winked, letting him know he was ready.

As the guard moved a little closer he reached just a metre from the sitting figure of the General. Spartan gave him a gentle nod and like a coiled up snake he struck. His hands were still bound but his lower body was free. With all the power he could muster the officer smashed his foot into the back of the guard’s knee. With a crack the marine tipped backwards and collapsed to the ground, firing a short burst as he fell. Spartan took the chance and pushed his prisoner forward as he dropped low and ran to the fallen man. The second guard tried to get off a shot but the stumbling man crashed into him, blocking his line of sight for just long enough to allow Spartan to reach him. Though his body ached from the hardship he had endured he found new strength. Sliding along the floor he crashed into the man quickly grabbing his head and twisted his neck, snapping it instantly. He picked up the man’s carbine, flicked the safety off and as he turned aimed it at the guard.

“Drop it!”

The rest of the men that had been speaking to Spartan ran from the room leaving just the guard. As they rushed away he could hear their footsteps becoming fainter and fainter. Both had a clear shot available to them though Spartan was acutely aware that he was totally unarmoured whereas the guard wore a full personal defence suit, also known simply as a PDS. It was a complete self-contained body armour package that tightly moulded to the wearer’s body. Armour was provided to all key parts of the body and was proof against small calibres and shrapnel. The suit was also tied into the digital battlespace system used by the Confederate military and this provided up to the minute tactical information, mapping and communications.

“We have more armed guards on the way. Drop the gun or I’ll put you down!”

“Fuck you, if I drop the gun you’ll shoot!”

The two stood in silence carefully looking at each other, waiting for the hint of a movement to indicate that one of them was about to shoot. On the ground the General was trying to wriggle free but his chains were not going to break, no matter how hard he tried. Spartan needed to do something fast before the rest of the guards turned up. He could go for speed but there was a good chance he would be shot even if he fired first. The carbines could spit out small calibre rounds in massive numbers, then how could he help General Rivers? If he were dead he’d never see Teresa again. With that final thought he made his decision and turned the muzzle away from the guard.

“Okay, okay…I’m putting it down, don’t shoot!”

The guard was taking no chances and tensed slightly, expecting something bad to happen. He pulled slowly on the trigger, ready if the moment required it. Spartan knelt down lowering himself slowly to the ground. Pushing his hands out he placed the carbine on the floor and then stood up, pushing his hands out in front in a gesture of compliance. The man moved forward.

“Stay there!”

Spartan’s hands were head height but as the man approached he lowered his hands very slowly until they were at his waist. As if in surrender, he maintained the stance with his hands pushed out and the palms facing the man. For a moment it looked like the guard was going to wait, but gaining the upper hand seemed to go to the man’s head and slowly but surely he moved closer to Spartan.

“Hands! On your head…Now!”

The guard lifted his carbine up higher on his shoulder, aiming a little lower into the middle of Spartan’s chest.

“Come on…… two more steps!” whispered Spartan to himself.

As soon as he was near enough Spartan pushed his body out to the left and snapped forward. His right hand grabbed the side of the carbine and pushed it away a few centimetres. Almost as soon as his hand hit the metal a blast of flame roared from the muzzle and multiple rounds flew out to the reinforced metal bulkhead. Stepping towards the startled guard, Spartan smashed his left hand up in a hammer grip underneath the carbine. It looked almost like a showpiece move as the carbine flipped up and around so that the muzzle now faced the guard. Spartan released his grip and took hold of the weapon, their roles now reversed he made no attempt to stall for time and simply pulled the trigger. The first few rounds took chunks out of the man’s chest armour so he held down the trigger. As the rounds hammered home they tore a hole in the plating. The guard was blasted backwards by the weight of fire before slumping down to the ground.

The General called out from the far end of the room.

Spartan didn’t wait and he moved directly to him.

“Are you hurt, Sir?”

“No, just get me out of these things, we need to move!” Fire had already returned to the eyes of the veteran commander.

Spartan pulled his chains taut and told him to get back.

Pointing the weapon at point blank range it only took two rounds to shred the chains and to free the General. As soon as they fell away he moved forward and started to strip ammunition from the dead guard. Spartan took two more clips from the second fallen man and checked for anything else that might be of use. As he rummaged through the suit he was dismayed to find the man carried nothing other than his personal weapon and a side arm. Thrusting the pistol into his belt he turned back to the prisoners, many of whom were now watching them though none said anything. Spartan knelt down to the first, a haggard looking man with a bruised face.

“Why are you here?”

“I…uh…no idea. I was working in the steel mills when these creatures attacked us. I’ve never seen them before, they killed some of our people before men in armour arrived and took us prisoner. We’ve been here for weeks now…might be longer, I can’t tell you anymore.”

As Spartan listened to the man he tapped him on the shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s going on, are you able to fight?”

The man, weakened both physically and mentally, tried to move but lacked the willpower to push himself.

“Stay there, we’ll do what we can.” Spartan stood up and looked about the room.

“Spartan, we need to go!” General Rivers said impatiently.

Spartan was tempted to leave but a nagging doubt in his mind told him to check. He moved along the rest of the prisoners, looking for anyone who might be able to help. As he passed the weak wretches he noticed a number of them watching him, some with anger in their eyes. Halfway a long he spotted a familiar face.

“Marcus?” The man said nothing so he knelt down and shook him, he was covered by a blanket. Spartan pulled it back it reveal he was covered bruises and cuts.

“Bastards!”

He stood up and called out.

“We’re going to fight our way out of this place. If anybody wants to join us lift your hands. If you stay here all I can promise you is a slow death at the hands of these animals. Who will fight with us?”

A few hands went up, yet half of the prisoners failed to respond. Some were simply too weak, the rest were probably scared or had no idea what was going on. It didn’t really matter. Right now he only needed people who were of use. Spartan moved along the line, destroying the chains with the carbine. When his job was done he looked back to see five haggard but motivated men stood waiting to hear the plan. General Rivers was near the half open door and looking down the dark corridor, waiting for the inevitable arrival of more guards.

“How many weapons have you got?”

The General turned back and waved his carbine at Spartan who then turned to the five men.

“Check the guards, see if you can find anything else.”

The men moved like a pack of wolves and stripped any equipment they could find from the two bodies. It didn’t take long though for them to show just one knife and a pistol. Spartan remembered he had an extra pistol in his belt, taken from the first guard. He reached down and pulled it out.

“Here, take this one.”

A short man, probably in thirties but actually looking much older, reached out and took the weapon. As it was placed in his hands he pulled out the magazine, checked the rounds, replaced it and cocked the weapon.

“You’ve done this before?”

“Army Special Ops, back in the day,” he replied before moving over to the General to watch the door.

Spartan was relieved that they had at least one other person with combat training. He looked down at the still unconscious figure of Marcus. His gut told him to get moving but the thought of leaving a comrade as loyal as Marcus pulled at him.

The General calling for them to leave snapped Spartan out of his thoughts.

He paused just for a second. It was simple, if they were victorious he would come back, if not, well, it wouldn’t matter then would it?

He checked the magazine on his own carbine and drew back the bolt, pulling another round into the chamber. The bullets looked odd, as they were a self-contained caseless bullet and propellant. Perfect for use in all atmospheres and temperatures producing no wasted materials when used. Spartan moved forward and joined the small group assembling near the door.

“Have any of you seen the rest of the ship? Any information we can use?” the General asked.

The man Spartan had spoken to previously raised his hand.

“I’ve been down the corridor. They took me there for tests a few days ago. About thirty metres down on your right, the soldiers came from a room a bit further along. Other than that I don’t know.”

“Right, Spartan, I suggest we get ourselves some more weapons. We could try for the soldiers’ room, probably a barracks of some kind. Either that or we try for blades in the room where they did the tests.”

“I say we hit the barracks room and fast. A few knives won’t help once they get here and they’ve been gone for several minutes. There could be more on the way already, Sir.”

Rivers agreed and without waiting Spartan moved off, the carbine lifted to his shoulder and ready to shoot. The two men with pistols followed along with the other three men and General Rivers brought up the rear. The corridor was plain, though a number of unusual markings were placed every few metres on the walls and coloured lights ran along the floor. Spartan stopped, raising his hand. General Rivers and the ex-soldier dropped down to the floor. The other four quickly copied them, sensing danger but unsure as to what they should do. Further down the corridor great noises came, it sounded like men shouting and it was becoming louder. From around the corner at the end, near to where the expected soldiers’ room was, four soldiers appeared. Rather than checking first they rushed into the corridor and started running towards the room with the prisoners, therefore directly towards Spartan’s group.

“Now!” shouted Spartan.

Aiming low he pulled the trigger and immediately felt the continuous shake of the weapon on his shoulder. The smaller calibre recoil was modest and he was able to release a thirty round burst that struck the first three soldiers with unnerving accuracy. The ex-soldier aimed carefully and squeezed off three rounds, the first hit the weapon of the first approaching guard but the second two struck the same man in the chest. It was a short but violent burst of fire and in seconds the three guards were down and groaning in pain. Spartan moved forward, still keeping his carbine tucked into his shoulder and aimed ahead, ready for any potential threat. The fourth man had ducked back and inside the room but in his haste had not shut the door.

Without hesitating Spartan ran inside to find the soldier pulling a weapon from the rack on the wall. The room was small and contained bunks for six people, no more. Spartan rushed towards him, firing his carbine until it ran out of ammunition. The solider staggered back under the weight of the bullets but was still standing when Spartan reached him. Lifting his weapon he slammed the butt of the gun hard into the man’s stomach, forcing him to double over. Lifting the weapon he brought it down like a club onto the back of his head. Looking around there were a number of thermal shotguns on the weapons rack as well as two lockers of ammunition and a large amount of clothing and armour. He moved forward only to be interrupted by pistol fire. He half expected more guards to enter the room but instead General Rivers and two of the prisoners came in.

“The corridor is clear for now. What have you got?”

Spartan looked at the General and grinned, “Guns, ammunition and even better…”

He picked a piece of hardened black material from the wall and pulled it over his chest.

“Riot armour!” answered General Rivers with a matching grin.

The armour looked like something you might use for sport. It featured a simple padded muscle chest plate with matching shoulder pads and upper arm protection. Spartan pulled two straps, instantly tightening the fit around his body.

“They’ve got eight sets in here, more than enough for everyone!” Spartan pulled more from the racks.

“Put it on, guys, it’ll keep you alive longer.”

Spartan moved to the weapons rack and checked the shotguns. They were standard police issue but he was surprised to see the Kerberon Police stamps on some of them. He thought of mentioning it to the General but decided against it. Right now they had more pressing problems than where the weapons came from. They needed to fight their way to safety. Whether that was on this vessel or off somewhere else he didn’t know.

“Here, take this one, you get seven shots before you need to reload,” He tossed the first shotgun to the closest of the prisoners.

As the man examined the weapon Spartan pulled more of the guns down and loaded them ready for action. Although they were shotguns they still used conventional box magazines for the ammunition. He was surprised to find such a variety of ammunition types, including the full power thermal charges that were reserved for use by Special Forces or armoured tactical units. He grabbed a shotgun and three clips, throwing his carbine over to the soldier who looked amazingly happy to get his hands on a conventional firearm. With the group all armed Spartan looked over their small party. Each man wore the riot armour and carried a mixture of carbines, pistols and shotguns. It wasn’t ideal but they were at the very least armed and equipped to a level that they could protect themselves.

“Follow me,” said General Rivers, who then moved out into the corridor and proceeded to move along slowly. Spartan was next, his shotgun low and pointed forward, the rest followed, each of them checking behind, nervously expecting to be ambushed at any moment.

“Plan, Sir?”

“No plan, just keep moving forward till we have options.”

Spartan carried on, happy with the options so far. As they reached the end of the corridor it veered off at a right angle to the right and then back to the left into what appeared to be a large open space. From their position in the corridor it wasn’t entirely clear what the room was for, but their only option was to keep going towards it. Rivers moved his finger to his mouth and then moved quietly forward. He turned to the right and then left into the room. As he disappeared Spartan followed immediately behind. As Spartan emerged into the room he stopped in his tracks. Out in front it expanded into a space the size of a sports hall. Lines of cylinders in long rows ran the full length of the area. The cylinders contained a light blue fluid and from where they stood they could see dark, humanoid shapes inside each one.

“What the hell is this place?” asked General Rivers.

Spartan turned his head, he had no idea but then he spotted movement. It was the men who were questioning him before the breakout. They were standing around a panel at the far end of the room and furiously talking to someone. As Spartan watched them one saw him and called out.

“Go!” shouted Spartan and he ran in the direction of the men.

Two metal doors slid upwards and in rushed more men, some armed and a few in armour. As Spartan ran a round whistled past his head and he instinctively dropped to his knees and slid along the floor. He crashed down alongside one of the cylinders and without pausing lifted his shotgun and aimed at the newly arrived men. Two of them were clearly members of the crew as they wore overalls and carried well-worn carbines. With a single shot Spartan blasted the closest with a thermal shell. The power of the weapon was devastating and burnt its way through the man’s chest and shoulder. He dropped down screaming in pain, he had only seconds left to live. More shots blasted through the hall as the prisoners scattered. Only the ex-soldier had the training and instincts to take cover and return fire. His short bursts on the carbine confirmed to Spartan that he had told the truth about being in the Army. Though Spartan was now pinned down by pistol fire he watched with satisfaction as two men tried to rush the soldier only to be cut down in a long accurate burst that struck both of the men in the face.

“Nice,” whispered Spartan to himself as he readied to do the same.

He was about to move when a loud clunk came from the cylinder he was hiding next to. With a hiss a great torrent of lukewarm liquid rushed out onto the floor and all over him. As he wiped it from his face he spotted the dark shape of whatever was inside the container. For just a second he thought it was one of the prisoners then he recognised the large, terrible form of biomechanical shock troopers he’ d last seen on the surface of Proxima.

“Oh, shit!” he shouted as the thing lunged at him, slamming a moistened and dripping fist in his direction. Only Spartan’s close combat experience and training could have prepared him for the speed of the attack and he avoided the first blow by just a few centimetres.

He rolled over to his side as the fighting continued on around him. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the prisoners take multiple hits from a carbine, each of the rounds opening up a bright red patch where it struck. He was unable to help though as he jumped to his feet saw the great beast in front of him. Unlike those he had fought on the colony of Avagana on Prime, this one was unprepared for military operations. It was completely naked and pale from its time inside the cylinder, for the first time he was able to see the grotesque and mutated form of the thing. At first glance it looked like something children might describe as an ogre or troll. It stood over two metres tall and its torso was wider and thicker than any man’s. All of its muscles bulged with pent up power and its face was contorted and twisted into that of a brute. The neck was thickened and the mouth harder and predatory in look.

“Kill him!” One of the men near the computer displays shouted to the creature.

Spartan reached for his shotgun but the monster stamped down hard, its weight easily damaging the weapon and moving it beyond reach. Spartan looked about only to see more of the cylinders venting fluid onto the floor. General Rivers and the soldier were behind cover and still engaged in a shootout with the rest of the enemy forces. The other three ex-prisoners cowered in cover, occasionally returning fire but adding little to the battle either way. General Rivers spotted Spartan’s predicament and fired a single thermal shell at the creature before being forced back into cover by a fusillade of shots.

Unlike the impact against the crewman the thermal shotgun was only able to cause superficial damage to the creature and seemed to enrage it even more. He jumped forward and delivered a series of powerful punches that slammed into the creature’s ribs. Each strike felt like Spartan was hitting a punch bag yet there appeared to be little effect. He changed tack and swung his fist up into an uppercut that hit the thing in the jaw. It was like punching metal and the impact must have broken several bones in his fingers as he winced in pain.

“My turn!” the creature roared in a barely understandable growl.

Spartan was so surprised to hear it speak that he failed to duck against the slow but powerful strike. The first hit Spartan in the chest and knocked him backwards several metres before he slumped to the ground. He felt as though his heart had stopped, the power was immense and it was incredible that the blow hadn’t smashed clean through his sternum. Spartan was no weakling however and though still in pain lifted himself up, moving back to fight. The gunfire had stopped but he was unable to take his attention away from the monster. It staggered towards him, swinging its arms to catch him. This time Spartan was ready and as the strikes came in he ducked and swerved to avoid them, hitting it in the face and throat as he desperately looked for any kind of weakness.

The creature roared in anger as it missed Spartan time and time again. This time it waited and as Spartan struck it lifted its massive hands and blocked the attack, grabbing Spartan and locking his arm. It was a contest of muscle now and though Spartan was probably the toughest marine in the entire Corps he was nothing compared to this beast. He tensed his muscles, desperately trying to avoid having his arm snapped back. As this grudge match continued the creature pushed its other arm against Spartan’s throat and pushed hard. The combined pressure on his arm and neck was devastating yet still Spartan refused to give in.

“Spartan, the knife!” General Rivers shouted from somewhere in the background.

A flurry of gunshots immediately followed and then silence, just the noise of the two titans battling it out in a simple struggle of brawn. Spartan tried to remember about the knife, then recalled taking one from the room when the others took the guns. He lowered his still free left arm and felt for the knife. It was in his belt as expected, he grabbed the hilt just as his vision started to blur. Dots and speckles danced around his eyes and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he would lose consciousness.

“Die!” he cried out as he used every last ounce of strength to push the arm back to give him access to the creature’s face. With a single powerful thrust he stabbed upwards and into its throat and up into the brain. As soon as the blade embedded itself he felt a shudder through the creature. Its grip on Spartan loosened and he struggled free only to fall backwards onto the floor. He shook his head to see the monster falling down towards his face.

“Oh fuck!” he cried and rolled over to his right, narrowly avoiding the weighty bulk of the creature as it collapsed in a dead heap next to him. Spartan was surprised that he had actually brought down one of the monsters using just a knife and his bare hands. Then he noticed the complete lack of gunfire and could only hope it meant they had cleared the room. He stood up and looked around the open space only to find the soldier, General Rivers and one of the prisoners all with their hands on their heads and guarded by security guards. Spartan made to move towards them when he sensed something to his left. He turned to spot the great bulk of three more of the biomechanical creatures.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

With a roar the three rushed towards him and though he lifted his hands to protect his face the last thing he saw was what looked like a fleshy freight train smashing towards him. He was unconscious before his body even touched the floor.

CHAPTER THREE

The datapad and associated hardware was the brainchild of the Fairwater Corporation. Though not the more advanced hardware, it did become successful upon its introduction to the Confed military as the front end to strategic and tactical systems. The civilian models sold well due to their military credentials and though the innards constantly improved the outside appearance and functionality remained the same. The reasons for its lack of change ultimately became its reason for widespread acceptance.

Computer Science 101, 7th Edition

Teresa held her breath, her heart pounding away as she watched the burnt out wreckage of a freighter drift inch by inch past her window. According to the ship’s computers this part of the debris field was supposed to be clear, but with no power being sent to the manoeuvring thrusters they had to wait and pray the ship didn’t get too close. Sitting next to her were her fellow marines, Anderson and Bishop who waited in silence, each of them thinking the same as the hulks of metal followed their course. There was always the faint possibility that their calculations were wrong in some way and it was for this nightmare scenario that Commander Anderson had his hand waiting on the emergency thrust button. It would take several seconds to warm up and the boost of power would draw attention to any vessels within a day’s travel. They had already been tempted to use thrust to move out of danger but that would potentially negate their mission and expose them to even more danger. They had to be patient, it was going to take an hour to slip through the debris field but it was worth it. By taking this route they had avoided the automated customs drones that patrolled the shipping lanes leading to the inner planets of Proxima.

Kowalski leaned forward. He was the resident computer and electronics expert. Thin and wiry he gave the impression of being nothing but a tech nerd. However, in their recent combat actions on the Rim had shown he could handle himself in a situation, even though he was obviously more comfortable with a computer than a rifle.

“You okay, Teresa?”

“Yeah, just thinking about Spartan and the others.”

“Don’t you worry about them, Marcus and Spartan are a pair of tough bastards and General Rivers, well, you know his reputation.”

Teresa did her best to smile back but it wasn’t easy to hide her feelings. It felt as though her guts had been ripped out. A friendly chat or joke would do little to hide the fact that Spartan had been gone for more than two months and there were no guarantees they would ever see him again. He wasn’t just her friend, they were much closer than that and if it hadn’t been for the uprising on Prime and the Naval Station on the moon of Kronus they would be together right now. The more she thought of the fighting the more she started to really hate the Zealots and their self-righteous dogma that had started all the trouble in the first place.

Commander Anderson was watching the craft slip past.

“Look, can you see the markings on the side of the wreckage? That’s from an old Navy cutter, you can see part of the registration mark near the burn marks.”

“How did we lose a cutter out here?”

“Good question, Bishop, I haven’t heard of any losses in the last few weeks. She must have been lost in counter piracy operations before the start of the uprising.”

They watched the wreckage, each looking for any signs that might indicate what had caused the vessel’s demise. It was like looking at a dead animal, both disturbing and also surprisingly interesting. Behind and around the craft a large amount of broken metal and debris drifted with it. As they passed through the material the tiny pieces sounded like rain on the roof of a house.

Kowalski looked over to the Commander.

“If any of that crap makes it inside the engine inlets or any of the moving parts out there you know we’ll be in a world of pain, Sir?” He added the ‘sir’ as an afterthought.

“You’d better hope nothing gets inside then.” Anderson examined the outside of their ship with the external camera mounts.

The crew was an odd little bunch. Anderson, the XO of a major capital ship had been given the use of the Tamarisk, along with the small crew, to investigate a gathering of insurgents out on the Rim. The mission had been partially successful but the information they had uncovered reached Kerberos too late to stop the coup and assassination of the President of the colony and his staff. Of that mission the four surviving marines Bishop, Teresa, Barca and Kowalski were still with him after he had requested they be assigned to his latest mission. Sadly one of the marines, a tough, burly man called Williams had been killed during their escape from the Rim. The only other member of their crew had been the Kerberon, Special Agent Johnson. He’d returned to his unit on Kerberos, though Anderson suspected that was on the orders of Naval Intelligence. The small group had bonded well since being thrown together for their first mission. Now that their new mission had been deemed critical by the Admiral of the Fleet they had an extra incentive to get the job done as quickly and efficiently as possible. It was well over a month since they’d returned after their violent escape from the Rim and their voyage home to rejoin the Fleet. The return journey itself had proven almost as epic an undertaking as the mission itself. Since their arrival back on their home ship, the CCS Santa Cruz, Teresa and the rest of the team hadn’t wasted a single minute while trying to discover the location of Spartan.

So far the only clue was an audio recording handed to them by loyalists in a merchant fleet. There was no information other than that they had found the item on a transport heading from Kerberos. The destination was unknown though Teresa suspected it would be either the Rim or the inner planets, possibly Prometheus. They were the most violent and also the least policed parts of the Proxima Star System, the best places to hide all manner of goods, people and business.

As she sat there in silence she lifted up a headset and listened to the small segment of audio the technicians at Naval Intelligence had managed to salvage. At first the audio appeared to be just noise, it was more like the wind sound you could hear when lowering a window on a car. As the microphone adjusted for the ambient noise however the sound lowered until the clip became almost silent. Then the voices of three men started in low tones.

“Come on, they’ll be back to check on him any second, pass it…” said a voice before it distorted in a loud crackle.

There was a loud roaring sound as the person evidently spoke directly into the unit, before the software adjusted the recording level again to compensate.

“This is General Rivers of the Confederate Fleet. I am with Private Keller and Sergeant Spartan. Forces in collusion with the separatists have imprisoned us on Kerberos, following their assassination of the President. We are being transported to an unknown destination.” Others voices then started trying to hush him.

Teresa listened closely, trying to pick out t heir voices. She had listened to the clip dozens of times but even now was finding it difficult t o pickup any of the individuals in the room. Naval Intelligence had already confirmed there were three voices, one positively identified as General Rivers. She was listening for Spartan and couldn’t tell one way or the other. The voice continued.

“We have not performed planetary re-entry, I repeat, we are not on a planetary…” again the voice cut out.

A loud thud could be heard followed by shouting. Nothing intelligible could be heard though it was obvious a struggle was going on in the room or storage space that the prisoners were being held in. As the noise became louder she could hear occasional words from other people, not all were in English and some of the accents were Kerberon and Promethean. Naval Intelligence has been able to confirm the accents but not where they were being held.

Teresa concentrated even harder now and the last part, and for her the most important part, of the audio played. The sound in the room lowered, presumably because they had been overcome. Somebody must have been getting closer to the recording device.

“…will co-operate or die, the choice…fight…” and then the voice faded.

A short burst of static followed and then the file stopped.

Teresa had listened to the last line so often it felt as though it had burnt into her mind. The most important line to her though was the “co-operate or die”. It was surprisingly clear and the accent was definitely from the Rim territories. Intelligence hadn’t been able to identify the individual speaking but they had done the next best thing, they had found the man’s voice on other recordings taken from surveillance the previous year during a narcotics operation. The group had been broken up but it was known they were still running guns from Kerberos to Prime where their weapons had been used in the insurgency and eventually the mass uprising.

It didn’t matter to Teresa though what had happened, all she wanted to know was where they were and more importantly to her, where Spartan was. She hadn’t realised how important he was to her until the news had hit her on his arrest and then sudden disappearance. She had decided weeks ago that being reunited with Spartan was her single goal and she would not stop until she had him back. If that meant going against the Fleet’s orders, so be it. Luckily for them all, the mission they were on had so far proved compatible.

The latest information had suggested that a weapons trade would be conducted anytime in the next twenty-four hours and this point was a strong candidate for the loading of the goods. The debris field followed a steady orbit around the burning star but of more importance to traders and dealers it provided an unlimited source of hiding places. Their current course would take them directly to a recently used drop off point platform, a small but spacious manmade station about a hundred metres in diameter and perfect for storing goods to be collected by a buyer. There were hundreds of similar storage spots, many more out on the Rim, but intelligence confirmed that members of the group associated with who had taken General Rivers and his team were supposed to be heading this way.

To maintain the element of surprise they had to slip into the area avoiding all manner of black market dealers and pirates. Their ship was after all only a heavily modified cargo hauler, not a ship of war. It had taken them over a week to get into position in this treacherous area without using the main shipping lanes. The only chance they had of reaching the small drop off platform, without alerting the many spies loyal to the separatists, was to slip past the security patrols with no running engines and most of their systems offline.

The great hulk of the derelict craft continued to tumble its way past them, though from where they sat its course appeared to take a lifetime. Anderson watched it move along the thick, reinforced window before it continued on to the left of the ship. As it moved to a safe distance the crew breathed a sigh of relief.

“Bloody hell, that was close.”

“You don’t say, Bishop. Are we likely to run into more derelicts on this route?”

Bishop pulled up a navigation chart on the computer system and rechecked their position.

“Well, Sir, we’ve managed to avoid the main shipping lanes for the last week. We should drift into position about five hundred kilometres from the drop-off platform. Assuming we make it that close without being detected, we should be able to land a boarding party via the shuttle before they can get their people onto their ships and away.”

A red light started to flash on the tactical display, shortly followed by a low tone.

“What the hell?” Teresa muttered.

“Sir, we’ve got trouble. I’m picking up two vessels, ten kilometres out and moving fast,” said Bishop.

“Have they spotted us?” asked Commander Anderson, the senior ranking member of the crew and leader of their operation.

Bishop clicked his fingers to get the attention of Kowalski who was already scanning the electronic signals emanating from the approaching craft.

“I’m on it!”

He flicked between each page of data, checking for their power levels and readiness of weapon systems. From the look on his face he looked less than happy.

“This isn’t good, this isn’t good at all. The sensors show the transport is prepping a shuttle. There’s a lot of activity coming from inside, I’d say there are a number of people on board and they are getting ready for something. No major power systems switching on, doesn’t mean they won’t have projectile weapons already loaded and waiting though.”

He then brought up a detailed schematic of a civilian ship. It rotated about on the screen and several pages of data and specifications scrolled upwards. Kowalski read a few lines before turning to the rest of the crew.

“Right, I’ve got the ship’s specs. She is a Centaur Class transport. A light hauler used mainly on the shipping runs from the Rim to the refineries and industrial colonies. According to the data she has a crew of three and can transport up to a dozen passengers plus assorted cargo. The other vessel has the same electronic signature but there’s a lot of interference coming from her engineering coils. Either she’s damaged or her power plant has been upgraded in some way.”

“Engines? Maybe it’s a modified version, like a tug?” Bishop suggested.

“That isn’t really necessary though, unless she’s been altered with more substantial manoeuvring thrusters of course. Either way we’ll find out soon enough, the transport is moving into a position alongside us. They’ll be here in less than two minutes!”

The public wideband channel on the emergency communications panel flashed to show an unencrypted transmission had been picked up on the emergency transponder. Without intervention the equipment transferred the data to the screen. At first is showed a simple arrangement of coloured bars before fading away to show a man’s face. It was a one-way signal, presumably from the approaching vessels and didn’t use the normal communications system present on board the Tamarisk.

“This is Ramillies, your transport is encroaching on a private meeting. We can only assume your intentions are hostile. Open your cargo bays for inspection and prepare to be boarded, resistance will be met with accordingly.”

Commander Anderson gave the screens a quick look before turning to his small crew. His face showed concern but he was far from panicked.

“They aren’t coming to inspect us, if they knew who we were though they’d already be shooting. I’ve seen the reports on these groups in this area. You’ve seen the wreckage of the cutter as well. They seize the ship and tow it to the nearest yard where they strip the tech, move the goods and then usually kill the crew. If you’re lucky you get sent off to the slavers on the Rim or Prometheus. The carcass of the your ship will then either but towed away for scrap or if it is a military vessel they usually dump it.”

“Bullshit, they’re not taking us!”

“I never suggested otherwise, Teresa. I don’t think any of us is in the mood to just hand over such a sweet ship as ours,” he said with a wicked smile.

Barca, who until then had been silent, joined in. “Now we find out if those modifications are worth the effort the tech guys put into them.”

He was the shortest of the marines, with the exception of Teresa, but had the broad build and attitude of a man who had been bullied and harassed over the years for his size. After several years service in the Marine Corps he was as tough as they came, even if that came at the price of his less than inspiring social skills.

“Bishop, get on the weapons platform and make sure you’re ready. Barca! Teresa! Break out the weapons and then get down to the hangar bay. If any of them manage to get inside it’s your job to make sure they get no further. There are carbines and thermal shotguns on the rack, you know where they are.”

Teresa nodded and immediately started to untie herself from her position in front of the computer system. As she extricated herself Commander Anderson then turned to Kowalski.

“Can you jam their transmissions once the shooting starts? If we lose our cover we might as well have not bothered coming here.”

“Can do, Sir, when we get within one hundred metres I’ll drop a dampening net in this section. Nothing will get in or out until we power down the field. There is a problem though, the kind of power we’ll be putting out will make us stick out to any other vessels in this area. If they have friends they’ll be onto us in minutes.”

“Perhaps, but once the shooting starts that will happen anyway. The trick is to keep it short, fast and violent.”

Kowalski snorted to himself, “Fast and violent huh? That’s my speciality!”

He shouted after Bishop who was already pulling himself along the inside of the ship towards the weapon control console that was a few metres further back in the habitation section.

“Bishop, do not under any circumstances start the targeting matrix up until I give you the word. Once they know we are armed and ready they’ll know the game is up.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s not my first time, Kowalski.”

He pulled himself over to the weapon control system and strapped himself into the chair. Directly in front were a dozen screens as well as the manual overrides for the mechanical weapon systems. Though the Tamarisk was a civilian transport she had been heavily modified into what was known as a ‘Q’ ship. By removing sections of the cargo areas a variety of weapon systems had been fitted. Hinged plates and shutters covered the weapons and the additional armour that had also been installed. The middle part of the vessel, and by far the largest, was the central spine onto which six large containers ran lengthwise along a hexagonal joint. From the front it looked like the ship was almost cylindrical due to the containers that were fitted to the top, bottom and sides. The containers were the parts of the ship that had been modified the most, though from the outside she just looked like an old, slightly out of date haulage vessel. In reality she had the firepower to take on a ship of the same size, possibly even larger, even more importantly she had surprise on her side. At least, that is what they hoped.

“Sixty seconds, Commander,” said Kowalski, his voice slightly higher pitched than before.

Barca and Teresa were at the main sealed bulkhead doorway that led into the cargo area. They were both wearing their work suits, much like the PDS armoured suits used by the marines but less sophisticated and lacking the communication equipment and defences of the military. The suits were equipped with mounts for a variety of tools, the exteriors of both were well worn and pockmarked with dents and scratches. They had originally been a dark red colour but over time had faded and several repair patches did nothing to enhance the looks of the gear. In reality they were extremely well maintained but to the untrained eye they were industrial and outdated compared to the more recent suits and body armour. Neither of them were wearing helmets, though Teresa was already removing one from the wall mount and Barca was busy checking the seals on his own before he pulled the helmet down onto his head. When on the ship it was fine to have the external automatic visor in the upright position. This just left the reinforced glass visor fixed in place to maintain a full sealed environment in the suit.

Taking some effort they unlocked the sealed section and then pulled their weightless bodies inside the internal spine of the ship. It was several metres wide, easily large enough for the two of them, and ran the entire length of the ship. As they moved down it they they passed the first entry section where a doorway led into each of the containers. The doors formed a hexagonal ring and they were all sealed with traditional wheeled seals. These ships could carry all manner of containers and equipment, so it was imperative that the connections between the ship and the cargo were both strong and sealed. The worst fear on any of these vessels was that of opening a hatch to find nothing but the void and a painful death on the other side.

Teresa called to Barca, “Get weapons. We’ll cover the corridors from behind those storage lockers.”

Just inside the shaft was a locked cabinet which she quickly opened to reveal a weapon rack containing a dozen weapons. Most were ultra low calibre pistols for use on ships, but there was also a modified thermal shotgun and an unusual riot carbine with built in shotgun slung under the main barrel. It had been important from the start that they carried only weapons ever used on the civilian market or likely to have been purchased on the black market. Having a ship full of L48 rifles or carbines would be an easy giveaway that they were a marine party.

Barca leaned forward and grabbed the shotgun and then one of the pistols that he then stuffed into his belt. As Teresa took her own set of weapons a series of clunks rattled through the hardened metal of the ship. Barca looked to Teresa who was busy checking the carbine.

“What the hell is that?”

“Sounds like the container motors starting up, they’ll be needed to open the flaps to the weapon systems.”

A low whine came from the wall as the internal speaker system activated.

“They are approaching on the port side. I’m opening the clear containers for them to inspect. The armed units will stay closed for the next thirty seconds,” came the familiar voice of Bishop who was still manning the weapon controls.

“Anderson here. Remember the plan. When I give the order we hit the dampening field. With their signals jammed we will have a small window. Kowalski estimates we will have about thirty seconds, forty top, before they can power up and get far enough away to burn through our blocks with their transmissions. If they can get away from us the mission will be exposed and we’ll be back to square one. Bishop will eliminate the engines on both craft with the first volleys of fire. Assuming we succeed we’ll proceed with the capture of their ships. Minimise casualties, we need prisoners and intel. Don’t kill them and don’t destroy the ships. That goes for you especially, Barca. Capture, don’t destroy!”

Barca looked over to Teresa and grinned before pulling down the darkened visor on his helmet. Much like a welding mask the helmet visor could adjust to all levels of light, making them perfect for welding work or accidental exposure to the full burning glare of the sun. They were now both fully equipped, ready for battle and potentially for extra vehicular activity (EVA), movement outside the ship in the vacuum of space. With a final check on the internal doors they moved back and took up positions behind cover, planting their feet inside the railing to anchor themselves down. From this position they had a full arc of fire that covered the entire length of the spine. If anybody managed to board through the cargo or engine areas they would have to pass through this corridor.

Teresa tapped a button on the wall to activate the ship’s internal communications system.

“We’re in position, the spine is secured and the doors are locked down. We’re ready!”

Bishop and Kowalski both turned and looked towards Commander Anderson for the final word on the operation. He in turn looked back and double-checked the range to the approaching craft.

“Okay, Kowalski, you have the numbers, as soon as they hit the marker you release the field and then help Bishop with the weapons. Ready?”

Both marines nodded before turning back to their view screens.

“Okay, both vessels are coming into range in 5…4…3…2…1,” he said as calmly as possible.

On the screen the tug had changed course slightly and was moving above the crew area at a slow crawl. The transport craft however was in place directly parallel with the Tamarisk and her cargo doors were already starting to open.

“Here goes nothing!” cried Kowalski as he hit the release button.

A low buzz travelled through the ship as the modified dampening field fitted by the Naval engineers powered up and then released its electronic screen. There was nothing to actually see but Tamarisk’s own sensors and diagnostic screen indicated a block to all data transmission and reception, as well as communication on anything other than hard wired data lines. Kowalski did a quick wide band check and immediately found attempts to transmit from the enemy craft.

“Okay, they’re blocked, do your work!”

Bishop triggered the unlock mechanism, clunks and shudders travelled through the great hulk of the ship. From the outside it looked simply like more of the cargo doors were opening. There was a good chance that the hostile vessels’ own crews would be more confused than anything else. With their systems jammed it could easily be solar disruption or equipment failure. It wouldn’t matter anyway. As soon as the weapons opened fire it would be clear what was happening.

“Dragging out the guns!” Bishop shouted as he hit the ready button.

In four of the containers sat pairs of 40mm flak guns. These ancient relics from the early Navy warships were the least advanced weaponry in the Fleet. In fact they would have been equally at home on board ocean-based shipping in the twentieth century. The only concession to later designs was that they were all equipped with auto-loading hardware and gyroscopic motorised mounts. Once the doors were fully open the pairs of guns moved forward two metres so that the barrels protruded from the containers like a series of radio masts. The barrels of each weapon were over a metre long and the ammunition boxes were packed with both armour-piercing and high explosive rounds, each selectable via the weapon control systems inside the ship.

On the tactical display Bishop had two targeting patterns already loaded in. The guns in three of the four containers had a direct line of sight to the targets and in less than two seconds had pivoted into position and loaded armour-piercing rounds. The high explosives might do better against these kinds of lighter armed vessels but they wanted prisoners, not destruction.

Commander Anderson watched over the unfolding drama and spotted the manoeuvring thrusters already adjusting on the tug. So far they still had the element of surprise. He took a deep breath.

“Fire!”

Bishop, on hearing the order hit the button for the firing pattern to commence. The vibration rippled through the ship as the large weapons opened fire. On the bridge of the Tamarisk Commander Anderson had a perfect view of the approaching vessel. It was positioned about a hundred metres off the port side and a dozen 40mm shells had already struck the engines and after section. Sparks and flashes scattered along the rear of the ship and at least one round must have struck a fuel or chemical tank as a blinding flash tore out a large chunk and split it in two.

“Holy shit!” swore Bishop as he watched the screen.

The guns fell silent on the flank only for the weapons to pivot around and join in with the other four guns already blazing away at the tug. Either the craft was extremely lucky or it was equipped with additional armour as after sustaining over a hundred rounds it was still intact and its engines were starting to light up.

“Bishop!”

“I’m on it, Sir!” Bishop ran his fingers over the control systems for the weapons. He made minor modifications and set one of the guns to fire a series of high explosive rounds. With a short burst of clattering fire another thirty shells ripped through the craft on its engines all along the hull. As sparks and flashes danced about on the screen he noticed a hatch opening on the underside of the craft. As he zoomed in the colour literally drained from his face.

“That’s no tug, look!” he called as he sent the video feed to the other displays.

Before any of them had anything to add a series of blue muzzle flashes appeared from the hatch. The internal alarms responded instantly as a dozen holes appeared in the hull of the Tamarisk. Both vessels continued to rake each other with fire as they stood off at short distance.

“We’re taking damage throughout container four and the sleeping quarters have been breached,” said Kowalski as he checked the status of all sections of the ship. “I’ve lost control of half the guns, they must have cut through the control units after one of the first hatches.”

Commander Anderson poured over the schematics of their ship before spotting the point Kowalski was referring to. It was a large armoured control unit mounted in the spine of the ship, deep behind armour and the protection of the containers.

“What the hell? That’s where Teresa is.” He grabbed the intercom.

A loud crash came from inside the ship and a series of flashes and sparks raced across the computer displays.

“Commander, they are in two of the containers!” Teresa’s voice was cut off by the sound of gunfire.

Another massive volley from the Tamarisk finally cut its way through the hull armour of the tug vessel and a small explosion must have cut her power as the ship went dark, its weapons either destroyed or offline. Either way, both of the enemy ships were drifting without power and they appeared defenceless.

“Bishop, get down there and give them a hand, we can’t let them get inside, one thermal charge and we’re screwed!”

“Yes, Sir!” There wasn’t a moment’s pause as Bishop tore off his harness and pulled down his helmet from the mount next to the display. Clicking it into place he pushed off and moved back towards the hatch leading down to the spine. He didn’t bother grabbing a weapon as he was already wearing a C9 automag in his thigh holster, a common black market weapon that was available at almost every station and platform in the Confederacy. He undid the seal and pulled open the hatch that led directly into the airlock section, the final divider between the crew and passenger section and the cargo and transport part of the ship. As the door closed behind him the hatch in front opened up to a blazing firefight between Barca and Teresa and a number of armoured men. He was forced to pull himself out of the way as a series of low velocity slugs pattered away at the door.

“Get out of the way!” shouted Teresa who was busy blasting away from behind the pockmarked cover she had set up.

He pulled himself up against the wall and looked along the corridor to the sight of five men, all in military issue body armour. It was the old specification carapace system that fifty years ago was the standard gear used by marines and soldiers in the armed forces. It was much thicker and more cumbersome than the PDS now used. In many ways it was better suited to large-scale ground warfare with its greater resilience to weapon fire and fragmentation. There were still some units being equipped to reserve units in the army, though the marines had phased out using them.

Bishop pulled out his automag and flicked the catch to ready it for combat. Unlike most of the weapons now used it still used a manual bolt and firing pin system like twenty-first century weapons. Aiming carefully he pointing it at the two men who had just climbed out of the container hatch. The first looked back and quickly moved out of the way fire. Barca pushed himself up adjusting his position so that he could bring down fire onto the head of the nearest man. He pulled the trigger releasing a long burst of fire that was so fast it sounded like a zip being undone. It wasn’t as powerful as the military grade weapons they were used to, but the sheer weight of fire caught both men and knocked them back. As one struck the wall he lost his grip on his rifle and tumbled back into the open space in the corridor. The second man tried to hang on but ended up spinning around. Not wanting to miss the opportunity Teresa leaned out from her cover and took careful aim with the riot carbine. She pulled the secondary trigger and sent a blast of superheated thermal pellets. The whole group were struck by the blast though no major injuries or damage were caused. In the confusion of the blast she pulled the primary trigger and released a three round burst hitting the closest man’s hand. Additional bursts struck both men across their bodies and one in the head. In just a few seconds they were both dead. The other three made a desperate rush to the rear of the vessel to try and escape from the gunfire.

“They’re going for our power plant, put them down!” shouted Barca and he jumped in after them.

“Barca, get back!” Teresa shouted as she fired more shots. Unfortunately because Barca had moved ahead he was now blocking the line of sight. One of the enemy had spotted this and turned back to fire a burst from his rifle. Most of the rounds clattered harmlessly into the thick skin of the ship but three managed to reach Barca, two hit the think armour on his arm but one found the glass visor and easily smashed inside, striking him in the face. His suit instantly depressurised and he drifted lifelessly where he fell.

“Bastards!”

Teresa slammed in another clip and emptied the entire set of rounds. Bishop moved forward and added his own fire as he pulled Barca’s unmoving body down to safety. Several of the incoming rounds struck Barca’s amour, giving Bishop the time and cover he needed to reload and fire a final burst until just one of the enemy remained. He was busy trying to connect a device to the panel at the end of the corridor. Bishop fired a single round above the man’s head.

“Hey, your buddies are gone. Hands up or eat a bullet!”

Teresa pulled herself along, holding her pistol out in front as she approached the man. As she moved closer she could see that he hadn’t brought a weapon on board, it was a computerised hacking unit designed to gain entry into their computer system and give them control over the ship. The man turned around and lifted his hands. As he released the unit it drifted away and clattered against the wall of the corridor.

“We’re clear down here, and we have a prisoner, Sir.”

“Good work, Teresa, any casualties?”

Teresa looked back towards Bishop who was checking Barca. She could see that he wasn’t coming back though. The visor on the suits had limited protection against debris but against firearms it was almost unless.

“Yes, Sir, Barca is dead, he was killed in the firefight.”

There was a short pause.

“How about the prisoner?”

Teresa looked back at the man in the carapace armour. Through the thickened glass she could see the fear in his eyes.

“Why are you on my ship?”

“I..uh…I…” he muttered in confusion.

Teresa turned her head slightly and raised her pistol so that it was just a few centimetres from his face.

“I asked you a question!”

“We are looking for strays to sell.”

“To sell? Who to?”

The man was taking no chances now and answered immediately.

“Slavers, they are paying ten times over the going rate for some big project,” he said, desperately trying to appease her as she maintained the position of the weapon in front of his face.

CHAPTER FOUR

Alpha Company was one of the first companies to establish a permanent paramilitary training facility on Terra Nova. The well trained personnel were often members of the Army or Marine Corps and provided bodyguards and security staff for some of the most important companies in the Confederacy. Their claim to fame being, that they were the first private corporation to finance and build their own cruiser. With its range of firepower and ability to project power they quickly became the number one security company in the System.

Private Security Directory

The manacles on his hands and feet were impossible to remove. Spartan had been wriggling and tugging for the last hour and so far the only result had been a new series of cuts and bruises on his limbs. With a final effort he stopped and looked about the room. It was the same cell he had been in earlier but the numbers of prisoners had been reduced. General Rivers must have been taken somewhere else, along with the other escapees, as there was no sign of him. He did notice that Marcus was still in the room and it didn’t looked like he was starting to regain consciousness. The door was locked and he hadn’t seen anybody for almost three hours now. The temptation to try and escape when they were taken to the lavatory was always there. But since his attempted escape all prisoners, when taken out of the room, were escorted by six fully armoured guards.

He thought back to the violent battle during their escape and the large room. His memory of the event was still a little hazy, no doubt due to the abuse he took at the hands of the enemy. A few key images did stick in his mind though. The cylinders were full of fluid, he was certain of that, as the nearest one had dumped gallons of the stuff all over his body. What really interested him though was the image of the creature staggering out and attacking him. It was the only time he had seen one out of its customary armour and what he had seen definitely convinced him that they were human, or at least part human. Contrary to what some had told him, they were certainly not machines, no more than any living thing wasn’t a machine. There was something else though, what was it? Then he remembered. The creature had spoken to him. This was the only instance he had heard anything other than grunts or roaring sounds from the creatures. The ability to speak immediately moved it out of the machine or creature camp and into a human of some kind.

The next question was what were the cylinders and fluids all about? There could only be a few reasons for them being like that, though he was hardly a scientist. It could be a way of transporting the creatures from place to place. The liquid might be a way of regenerating damaged tissue or to provide a cushion during high-speed travel. That was hardly likely though, they were tough and easily able to be strapped into place prior to high acceleration. Maybe it was something else. The creature was unarmoured, and nowhere as potent in hand-to-hand combat as ones he’d faced in battle before. Maybe they were newly born or perhaps even infants? After all, they had to be born, modified or created somehow and the cylinders might have something to do with it.

As he lay there, chained like a common criminal, he heard a series of loud thumping sounds pounding through the hull. They became louder until he could feel the vibrations through the floor. Two of the prisoners started moaning at the sound.

“What is it?” His immediate thoughts were that it must be related to the great creatures further along in the ship.

“It’s the ship, they are making adjustments before the shielding, we must be entering a storm area,” said one of the prisoners.

Spartan was surprised at finding a man with any kind of starship knowledge on board. Only somebody with transport knowledge or engineering knowhow could surely understand that kind of thing. Though the more he thought about it the more he realised it was stupid to think otherwise. So far he had found prisoners from all walks of life.

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve spent my time on freighters, trust me, they are changing the makeup of the plating and electrical shielding. They only do this when they know they are going to hit a danger zone. If I had to guess I’d say we must be heading to Prometheus.”

“Prometheus?”

“Yeah, you heard of the place?”

Spartan said nothing for a moment as he thought back to Prometheus. He had spent some time, prior to joining the Marine Corps, as a pit fighter in that hellhole. It was an odd place, unlike Prime or Kerberos there wasn’t a central colony. The planet was a burning hot rocky ball of minerals that made habitable colonies out of the question. The only structures on the surface were those of the hundreds of mining, research and refinery operations. Even though the temperatures made engineering projects expensive and dangerous there were many benefits to working there, the primary one as always being money. Around the planet were hundreds of starbases, mining outposts, trading stations and research labs. In the middle of this mass of humanity were three military compounds including a small naval station and shipyard, an orbital Marine Corps barracks and a well-guarded research station. It was like the Wild West back on old Earth where prospectors came to make money and gamble it away on the many vices the stations had to offer. The attraction of quick money and even quicker ways to spend it also provided the Marine Corps a suitable recruiting ground for fresh warriors. Not that Spartan had ever looked for enlistment. That came down to the police raid and subsequent accident. The look on the judge’s face as he gave him the choice, prison or military service still haunted him. As he sat in chains and was heading off to yet another uncertain fate, he started to wonder once again if he had the made the right decision.

There was something that didn’t make sense though. He had made the trip several times to and from Prometheus and the storms were only a problem if you went through them, but they were avoidable. It just increased the trip from days to months.

“Why though?”

“Only reason I can think of is they are going to try to sprint through the storms. Fat lot of good the shielding will do for them though, if they are hit going through the ship is toast. Actually, technically we will be toast, the ship will probably be okay.”

Spartan looked less than impressed.

“What’s the point of the shielding if it doesn’t work then?”

“Most ships can travel fully automated. If you send her through, the shielding should be enough to protect the hardened computer systems. Biological matter though, that’s something else!”

*

Teresa moved about inside the enemy ship. It was of a similar size to the Tamarisk and so far she had already found a dozen weapons plus secure datapads and backup drives. Bishop was in the aft of the vessel while she rummaged around in the crew areas for any information that might be of use. Both wore their suits, as they had needed to make the short EVA manoeuver between the vessels so that they could board her. As she opened one of the crew lockers the intercom in her helmet activated.

“Kowalski here. Anderson has information from the prisoner on the location of the ship’s log files and communications backup. He says to go the waste disposal unit. It’s two doors back from the bridge. Open the door and look to the left, you should see a set of circular doors. Open them and you’ll find the data storage segment of the ship.”

“In the toilet?” she asked scornfully.

“Hey, don’t blame the messenger! I guess they thought it would be more secure hidden somewhere you wouldn’t expect.”

“They got that part right. I’m on my way, any other information?”

She moved away from the lockers and pulled her body along by holding onto the handles along the walls. The crew area was surprisingly barren though, unlike the storage area that was loaded with all kinds of air sealed containers. She moved past one metal door until she rounded a corner and could see the entrance to the bridge. Counting along the wall she spotted the correct door.

“Nothing yet, apparently this guy is ready to spill his guts though. By the time the Commander is done he won’t have any secrets!”

“Good, these bottom feeders deserve everything they get!”

Pushing out her right hand she held onto the railing with her left and twisted the wheel to open the door to the waste disposal area. As it swung open she thought it was the wrong place before realising she was looking at loose plastic drapes that she had to pull through to reach the inside.

“Left, right, no…left,” she muttered to herself as she felt for the door. She quickly found it and swung open the door to reveal an entire panel of glowing lights.

“Jackpot!”

“I think the Commander is going to like this!”

*

The lights flickered and in one final flash the room changed from pitch black into harsh white light. As Spartan lifted his manacled hand to the light a group of the familiar armoured soldiers arrived and started to unlock the chains from the wall, taking the prisoners one at a time down the hall. As Spartan watched his thoughts returned to the idea of escaping. They must have arrived at their destination, these guards were not people he had seen before and they wore patches from some kind of private security company. The patch looked a bit like a snake but he was too far away to read the lettering. Another two people were taken away and that meant Spartan was next. As three guards approached he tensed up, readying himself for any opportunity he might find. Only one guard stepped forward though, the other two lowered their thermal shotgun and aimed them at his chest. The third moved forward with a metal rod about a metre long. Spartan tried to struggle but the chains gave him just a few centimetres movement.

“Don’t struggle, we’re just attaching the rod!”

It didn’t matter either way as the man aimed the rod at the collar around Spartan’s neck and pushed it into a notch that locked into place. As it joined together Spartan could feel it tighten around his neck, they were obviously taking no chances.

“Good, now stay calm and come with us. If you struggle this will happen…”

Spartan’s eyesight blurred for a moment before he felt a sizzling fire sensation. A series of pulsing muscle spasms ripped through his body and he felt as though his spine would snap from the involuntary movements.

“The control rod will send the pulses into your spine, too much will cripple you. Understood?”

Spartan, now barely able to stand properly said nothing, his lack of defiance gave them all the encouragement they needed. The man led the chained and collared Spartan out of the room to follow the line of prisoners and guards away from his previous prison. They moved past where earlier they had stolen the weapons and armour. The burn marks on the walls had been covered up and the door and locks looked as though they had been replaced with new ones of much sturdier construction. He looked in through the thickened glass window of the small barracks room before he felt pressure on his neck.

“Move it!” shouted the man.

Spartan stumbled forward and soon reached the turn where his small group had prepared for their rush into the next section where the cylinders were fitted. The thought of seeing the mysterious part of the ship placated him for a moment and in just seconds the long column of lumbering people wandered into the open area. Spartan choked with surprise as he witnessed the shocking display. As he stared with wide eyes they all slowed down due to the congestion. It gave him a moment to survey the scene before him.

The first thing that was obvious was that the area had been cleaned up and repaired. No longer was there liquid, broken Plexiglas or the rubble of battle. The floor had been scrubbed and all the cylinders removed. In their place were a dozen of the shock troopers. Each of them stood to attention as if waiting for something. Unlike the ones he had fought before these were clothed and equipped in grapheme-based armour. The thin skin of the grapheme material was harder and stronger than steel and protected all the key body parts of the creatures without impeding their movement. Under the armour each of them wore a skin-tight suit of an unknown construction so that no skin was exposed. Their heads were all covered in a form of modified PDS helmet that had been expanded to fit the larger proportions of the monsters.

“What the hell are those things?” shouted one of the prisoners.

The man that had told Spartan about the storms and the ship’s shielding turned around to whisper to him.

“I thought we’d stopped using mechanoids centuries ago?” he said before being struck in the back by one of the guards.

It was true, Spartan had read a few accounts of the use of mechanical slave labour in the files on board the Santa Maria before his first action on Kronus. The idea of robotic machines that could move and carry out the same functions of humans had fascinated him. His interest wasn’t shared though and it was well known that their use had created resentment and hostility to mechanoids that took away the livelihood of citizens. It must have been a long time ago though, well before the Great War, perhaps even before the founding of the colonies in Proxima. The machine smashing holidays were still carried out at special festivals on some of the colonial worlds in much the same way as the piñata at children’s parties that were held by some families on Kerberos.

The group started to move forward and for the first time Spartan was able to see the corridors that led away from the open space and into a loading area on the ship. The prisoners were all being lined up and Spartan was surprised to see more prisoners coming in similar columns from other parts of the ship. As he turned to look back towards the shock troopers he noticed the familiar shapes of General Rivers and Marcus in the group. Marcus nodded at spotting him but none of the three did anything to get the attention of the guards. Spartan was just happy to see that his comrades were still alive after their escape debacle. The nearest guard pushed Spartan to get his attention, presumably thinking the massive hulk of the shock troopers fascinated him.

“Yeah, don’t worry, son. You’ll be really comfortable with the idea of those guys soon enough!” The guard started to laugh. It didn’t take long for several of the other armoured men to join in.

The door at the side of the ship started to open, lifting up slowly to reveal a glass covered walkway that led inside an industrial looking complex. The open space was easily twenty metres wide and bore the faded marking of Pro-Gen, an old research company that had famously gone bust in a drug scandal about a decade earlier. It wasn’t much but it did confirm two things to Spartan. First, the company facility was based on the planet of Prometheus, as expected. Second, there was a link between the shock troopers and Prometheus, though whether it was down to their training or creation remained to be seen. Along both sides of the open area stood armed guards, each with the same insignia he had seen earlier. They were all armed with shotguns, carbines and in one case some kind of heavy glaive. From the darkness at the end of the walkway a group of men in suits approached. As they came closer Spartan noticed one man was being followed by another small group of guards, though these were carrying axes and cutlass type blades. Along with this group another of the shock troopers approached, this one carried a savage looking curved blade in one hand. It was almost as though they were back at the Siege of New Carlos though this time there were no marines and no battle.

The men stopped a short distance from the prisoners and the guards following them fanned out to provide a continuous security line back into the complex. Something clicked on Spartan’s back and he found he could move more freely. Turning around he could see the guard with the rod had disconnected it from him so that only the manacles around his hands remained. He indicated for Spartan to step forward and onto the platform. As he did so many more of the prisoners stepped forward to join him. The man with his own guards seemed to be in charge. He lifted his hand, not that it was needed as the prisoners were already silent.

“I am Governor Richards, welcome to my facility. On this station we accept criminal elements from all colonies whether they are Confederate, independent or private. Soon you will join others in the secure wing where you will assist in the engineering projects we are working on as part of your sentence. Any attempts to escape will be dealt with by exposure to the planetary surface. For those of you unfamiliar with Prometheus, you will last no longer than thirty seconds in the extreme heat. There is no escape from this facility, only death, or the end of your sentence. You will choose which comes first. The rules are simple, disregard them and the punishment will be severe.”

He paused for a moment and scanned the prisoners before indicating to the guards to push them forwards.

“Follow my men, they will escort you to your new home. Remember, do as you’re told and you will find us fair.” His was suddenly cut off. Two prisoners rushed forward along the platform and away from the ship. Spartan watched them move and for a second considered joining them, it was pointless though. They were running towards the enemy, not to safety. Before they even reached the first door the lone shock trooper blocked their path. Spartan knew they had no chance, it would take a whole marine squad or at least some heavy weapons to bring one down. As the first man staggered past it swung its left arm and struck him low in the body. It was as though the poor man had run headlong into a metal barrier. Before he had hit the ground the creature slashed at the second with its curved blade, the impact was fast and powerful and cut down through the man’s collar and down to his thigh. The bloodied ruins of the man dropped into a dead heap on the ground.

“As I said. Break the rules and the punishment will be severe.” The Governor indicated to the guards to grab the surviving prisoner and take to one of the small sealed doorways that led to an airlock seal. Some of the prisoners started to fidget and there was an obvious feeling of heightened tension. Spartan wasn’t stupid though and it was obvious that any attempt to escape or to help this one man would end with him joining his fate.

The guards moved him up to the doorway and hit the button to the side. The door slid up revealing an airlock loading station about ten metres long that led out towards another similar doorway. The man turned around and faced the prisoners. As he started to shout the door slid down, instantly locking him into the small room.

“Now, if anybody else has the urge to break the rules you will suffer the exact same fate as this unfortunate individual. I never make threats at this facility, I only make promises.”

He signalled the guards and without even pausing the first man hit the release button. The exterior door opened sending the poor man to the burning hot conditions on the surface of the planet. There was no breathable atmosphere and the heat started to burn him from the moment the door opened. The change in pressure blew him out so that he was ejected onto the burning hot surface. His clothes were on fire and his skin peeling away in just seconds. In less than a minute he was motionless and his body, still burning, sent shivers through the assembled prisoners. There was total silence in the open space and with the doors shut not a sound entered the building from the howling winds outside. Spartan glanced to his side, spotting the large, dark figure of Marcus watching the burnt husk of a man. To the casual eye he looked dispassionate but Spartan knew the man well by now and his rage was barely contained.

The Governor turned away to walk along the open space to the open doors that led into the dark caverns of the base. As he reached them something bumped into Spartan. He turned around to find the mass of prisoners pushing forward, herded like cattle along the platform to follow the Governor. Along the sides and at the front the heavily armed guards kept a watchful eye over them. He hadn’t spotted it at first but as they moved through the doors a number of discreet domes protruded from the ceiling at irregular intervals. The Governor stood waiting between two of the domes about ten metres from the prisoners. He lifted his hand for them to stop.

“These domes are here for all of our protection. They are part of the automated defence system in this facility and scan all entry and exit points. Any unauthorised access by prisoners or staff will be met by these…” He pointed at the domes.

In perfect synchronisation a short barrel pushed out from the dome along with what looked like a single glowing red eye. The entire dome rotated so that the eye could view a complete 360° arc. Every few moments it stopped and the lens made an almost silent noise as it moved forwards to alter it focus, at least that is how it looked.

“Intruder detected. Return to your holding area, you have five seconds before lethal force is authorised,” came an automated voice directly from the unit.

The Governor pulled a small device from his pocket and pressed a button. The red light switched off and the unit retracted back inside the dome.

“These units are everywhere on the site. If one tells you to move you had better do it fast. In the last eighty days we have had thirteen attempted escapes and one hostage taken. Every single person involved has been terminated by the sentry system. Listen to the Eye and do exactly as it tells you!”

Satisfied that the prisoners had heard his message he beckoned for one of the guards to approach. He moved forward and clicked his feet smartly.

“Sir.”

“Take them to their quarters and introduce them to their duties.” The Governor promptly turned and disappeared off into the blackness.

The guard cleared his throat before addressing the prisoners.

“You will follow me to your wing, a lovely new structure built by the loving hands of your predecessors. Now…follow me!” He turned towards a narrow corridor to the right. As he moved forwards the lights flickered on to bathe the area in a bright white light.

As Spartan moved forward there was only one thing on his mind. It wasn’t the quarters, their jobs or even the terrible fate that awaited them all. It was plain and simple, he was thinking of the trigger device held by the Governor.

*

Admiral Jarvis, the senior Confederate Commander in the Proxima System stepped carefully over the cables and tools that lay strewn across the floor. To her side stood the imposing figure of Lieutenant Colonel Blake, the Commander of the 5th Reconnaissance Battalion and the senior Marine Commander from the Santa Cruz. His ship had returned from Kerberos two weeks earlier and a large number of his marines were already on the station and assisting with the defences and getting the systems up and running. Admiral Jarvis had been on the moon of Kronus for over an hour now to survey the repair work on the Titan Naval Station and assess its readiness in case of further emergencies. As she walked through the station she was surprised to see a number of the weapon systems had been remounted and showed as live. Behind her and the Colonel were a small group of marines, each of them in their standard Personal Defence Suits (PDS) and armed with L48 rifles. They were covered from head to toe in the sealed tactical armour and were marching smartly behind her in a small column. They had been handpicked from the men and women of the Reconnaissance Battalion, the elite unit of the Marine Corps units currently in the System. Though they marched with precision they were by no means operating as just a ceremonial guard. Their weapons were all loaded and each one of them constantly checked their surroundings, looking for potential threats, including the ever-present problem of improvised explosives and booby traps. Their armour was painted in mottled grey urban camouflage and two of the marines wore heavily scarred and marked armour. It was a matter of pride to not cover up or repair damage, providing it didn’t affect the integrity of the suit. The Admiral stopped for a moment and surveyed the scene around her.

“Colonel, I still can’t believe this station fell to the Zealots in the first place. We had ships, marines and weapons here, it should have never happened!”

“You’re right, Admiral, it shouldn’t but the insurgents have managed to infiltrate our colonial forces from military bases through to command staff. Not only did they seize army compounds on the surface, they managed to take a battleship as well. They are better trained and motivated than any of us could have imagined.”

“Perhaps, still, it shouldn’t be possible to get this far.”

Multiple warships as well as the large military garrison with its formidable surface-based weapon systems had heavily protected the station. The design was in such a way that it should be able to hold off an entire capital ship on its own. With support ships and escorts it should have been impregnable to any organised force. The fact that lightly armed civilians attacked the station, successfully overrunning it for a matter of weeks, still astounded her.

What was more incredible to her though was that since the battle, the crippled and almost totally destroyed station was now back in use. The last time she had seen it up close had been through the view screens on her ship as it was being torn apart by battle. The video displays had shown the fighting on the surface as the marines fought their way through the strong defences and heavy weapon emplacements. A number of marine landing craft had crashed and burned in that operation, one that had cost hundreds of lives on both sides.

“We’ve come across over a dozen infiltrators in the last week. Some must have stayed hidden after the place was abandoned, the rest must have got here as stowaways. It’s cost us another nine men trying to clear them out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Colonel. Since I’ve been away you’ve had a tough time of it, I know. The good news however is that we now have three task forces, one here, one at Kerberos and the main Fleet at Khimaira. Our numbers have been increasing as missing ships or those that went into hiding have managed to reach the assembly points. It won’t be long now before I have the numbers and resources on my side to go on the offensive,” she said confidently.

Colonel Blake nodded in satisfaction.

“That is good to hear, Admiral. Since we lost the General and the ceasefire was implemented morale has taken a dive. Knowing we are about to get back into the fight will fire us all up.”

“Don’t you worry, Colonel, there is plenty of fighting left to be done,” she said with a wry smile.

They pushed on past the partially cleared debris. The station would probably never be quite the same. The battle damage and self-destruct system had caused so much devastation it would take years to bring it back to anywhere near the position it had once been. In fact, at any other time it might have been abandoned permanently, but with secession fever spreading through the Proxima Star System, and no contact with the rest of the Confederacy in Alpha Centauri, she needed to hold on to any facilities and forces that she could. The two Star Systems formed the bulk of the Confederacy but the vast distance between them created problems in both communication and travel. Even the fastest manned ships took hundreds of days to make the trip and compressed laser communications took two months to travel from one System to the next. Not that the time difference really mattered at the moment, Alpha Centauri appeared to be having its own problems and all transport and communication was currently blocked between them. Admiral Jarvis’ last orders from Naval Command had been to protect the citizens of the colonies and to crush the insurgency that was spreading before it was too late.

The Naval Station itself was large and capable of offering medical aid, repair crews and substantial combat support anywhere in the vicinity of the planet Prime that the station orbited. There were also a number of much smaller stations known as the Transit Stations and the surviving platforms from the battle had proven invaluable in getting supplies and equipment unloaded prior to being moved to Kronus. Down below only one of the seven colonies, Avagana, remained loyal to the Confederacy. Although fighting had stopped it could only be a matter of time before the secession forces made a final push to claim this colony. It was an odd situation whereby the strongest naval base and defences were orbiting a planet that was fairly hostile to Confederate control. As long as Avagana stood it was imperative that the Fleet maintained a stranglehold on the transit routes. The ships guaranteed the safety of the colony by interdicting any hostile forces trying to resupply units that might attack Avagana. Also, from this position reinforcements could be dropped directly into battle. It was a dark time for the Confederacy, a place where the violently independent colonies had been bickering and arguing for decades and had now found a voice in the guise of the new socialist dogma of the Church of Echidna. Four of the eleven planets in the system had already seceded and these included the only two habitable worlds, Kerberos and Prime. The remaining loyal colonies consisted of small planetary platforms, research bases and industrial complexes based around the dead worlds and gas giants in the System. As she considered the current tactical position her attention was drawn to an approaching man. The young Captain, his fatigues dirty and well used, stopped in front of the Admiral and saluted smartly.

“Admiral.”

She stood for a short time, inspecting the man and simultaneously examining the space around them. He must have suspected something was wrong as his eyes drifted off to the side to a pile of heavy metal machinery and equipment before snapping back to the Admiral.

“Good work, Captain, Colonel Blake informs me your work teams are making excellent progress on the station. I was hoping it would be ready for basic repair work yet you’ve managed to bring a number of weapon systems online as well as establish workable medical facilities. Outstanding!”

“Thank you, Admiral. We have a good team here and they are bringing more and more of the equipment up to operational capability every day. I expect to have the primary shipyard cleared for dry dock work within forty-eight hours.”

Admiral Jarvis walked along what had been the beautiful plaza and scene of the violent clash between the Zealots and marines. The debris had already been cleared but the damage to the structure was still very obvious. She moved slowly, still finding the lower gravity difficult to get used to. She had been on similar stations before and found it took a few days to get back into the rhythm of movement. It was common knowledge that extra weight could make life much easier and she had already adopted some of the salvage teams’ gear, especially the grav boots. It was a fancy name but there was nothing fancy about a pair of boots whose only special feature was an extra twenty kilograms of weight added to the innersole via the dense polymer inserts.

“Tell me about the weapons, I thought the large calibre mounts were destroyed in the battle?”

“They were. We’ve been recovering equipment from the crippled hulk of Victorious. The ship is a wreck but lots of the systems are salvageable, especially those on the starboard section, they were the least damaged.”

Admiral Jarvis considered the battle for a moment. It had been the most terrifying and violent ordeal she had ever faced when they put the Battlecruiser Crusader up against the rebel Battleship Victorious. After a long and deadly duel the Crusader had emerged the winner though at a very heavy cost. Even now the warship was still undergoing repairs at Kerberos along with a number of other vessels that had been in action since the uprising.

“How about the CiC, how badly damaged was it?”

“Well, not good, Sir. The self-destruct system pretty much destroyed the entire tactical system, the communication relays and all the power systems. We’ve set up a temporary power core and are moving systems down from the Bunker Hill and Santa Cruz to establish an operation data centre. I estimate it will take at least a week before all the systems are tied in and capable of providing wide band networking throughout the Fleet.”

“Still, that is a good start. So in approximately a week we can start using the base here as the Sector Headquarters. I will ensure you are sent extra crews and equipment to help in your work.”

“Thank you, Admiral, I should get back to my duties.”

Admiral Jarvis nodded and returned the salute from the young man who then turned away smartly and rushed back to the many jobs he obviously needed to work on. No sooner had he left he was accosted by a several workers, each of them looking to him for information on the work projects. As the men went about their business the Admiral pulled out her datapad and examined the latest reports on the Fleet. There were a number of messages awaiting her attention but it was the one marked urgent that caught her eye. The subject simply read ‘prisoners’ and it could mean only one thing. Tapping the message it expanded out into a full report by the intelligence staff on the CCS Wasp, the light carrier and flagship of the small fleet in orbit around Prime.

The first part of the report outlined three potential leads in the disappearance of General Rivers and his unit. The first two leads indicated a number of criminal gangs who were working on dangerous underground mining operation on Kerberos. The third lead came directly from comparing the previous two with the data recently arrived from the Tamarisk. It wasn’t much but it did seem to point to one man, a trader with links to the slave trade on Prometheus. According to the associated data the information recovered by Commander Anderson and his crew indicated that a consignment of slaves and high value prisoners were being sent to Prometheus. There was no exact location or even total number of slaves though. The data was already out of date but the more Admiral Jarvis thought about it the more she was convinced it was the strongest lead so far. What could be higher value than the senior General in the Proxima System, other than her, of course?

Sliding her finger over the message she spelled out a set of revised orders as well as a full copy of the intelligence data to be sent to the Tamarisk. Hopefully the information would prove useful in their attempts to locate the General. As she pressed the button to send the encrypted and classified message back to the ship she noticed movement at the far end of the plaza. Placing the datapad back into its pouch she made her way to the observation windows where a small number of workmen had already moved to. As she approached a few of the men spotted her and quickly moved back, one of them coughed to get the attention of the rest before she arrived. Upon reaching the toughened and recently replaced glass she looked out at the moving shape.

“It’s the Resolution, Sir,” said one of the workers.

“The Resolution? I thought she was a hulk.”

Admiral Jarvis watched the massive grey ship move slowly away from its mooring and towards one of the cleared dock areas.

“I don’t think she’s functional,” she said pointing out to the bow of the ship. “If you look carefully, Colonel, you can see the tugs pulling her away from the station. According to the damage report though it seems that with a repaired core and a new fire control system installed she might actually be usable.”

“I don’t understand, I thought she was already crippled beyond use in the battle for the station? When our marines took the station she was out of action already. If her guns had been active it would have been a suicide mission.”

“True. It looks like the crew were able to sabotage the ship before it was overrun. They damaged the power corps and destroyed all of the fire control system making her dead in the water and impotent.”

As they watched the vessel move away Admiral Jarvis rechecked the battle damage again on her datapad. By her calculations, if there were any chance of getting the heavy cruiser patched up it would help boost her meagre forces to something a little respectable. Though the numbers were not all in yet she had a confirmed list of six capital ships, three marine assault transport ships and up to eighteen frigates plus an unknown numbers of cutters, corvettes and destroyers. It was hardly a fleet worth of the Great War where dozens of capital ships gathered for apocalyptical battles. It might be enough though to conduct significant operations in this System. At present she was down on heavy warships with both the Crusader and Vengeance undergoing substantial repairs.

“I think I’ve seen enough. If you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I need to return to the CiC. Please continue as you were, you are running an excellent operation and I have no doubt that both the station and the Fleet will be fully operational and ready to conduct combat operations in a matter of days.”

The two officers saluted before turning to their previous duties. As the Admiral marched off the Colonel turned and watched just for a moment as she disappeared into one of the many corridors, closely escorted by her bodyguards. He turned back to the work crews and shouted out to a small group of men working on a power coupling.

“Chief, where are we on the Point Defence System?”

The short, slightly overweight man in the orange jacket of the deck chief lowered his tools and spoke a few words before getting up and walking towards the approaching officer.

“Sorry, Sir, what was that?”

“I need an update on the PDS?”

“We’re hitting a few problems. The power lines to the core were fried in the attack and we have to reroute them through the old copper lines. The output is a lot lower but I reckon we can have about half the system up and providing basic defensive screening in about twenty hours.”

“Good, good. Any chance of getting the full system up after that?”

“The full system? No way, we’ll have to rebuild the entire power network for that. I’d need about fifty men and two months minimum to do that, Sir.”

“What if I could get you two hundred men and all the power lines and hardware I can salvage from the carcass of the Victorious?” asked the Colonel with a slightly raised eye.

“Well, if you can pull that off I reckon we can get it done in about a quarter of the time. If you can scrounge the power lines from the ship we could even get some of the primary anti-ship railguns running again, Sir.”

“Alright, consider it done. I’ll see you again tomorrow and I’ll bring you news on the hardware you need.”

The Chief smiled before realising quite how much extra work he had just volunteered for. He opened his mouth to respond but the Colonel was well gone.

CHAPTER FIVE

Cases of cell mutation were first recorded on the manned missions to Mars back in the old Solar System. Direct exposure to radiation with little shielding resulted in abnormalities and many children were born with deficiencies and long-term problems. Screening of newborns was the only option until the development in the late 21stcentury of adequate radiation shielding equipment. Even then some of the more crude ships and bases lacked decent protection until the mid 22nd century. By this point, tens of thousands had been affected and the scourge of mutation became a known and terrifying problem.

Lessons on Mutation

Spartan stood in line along with what must have been about another hundred prisoners. They’d been granted just a few hours sleep before being forced to meet in the main hall of their wing in the compound. The internal structure was crude and certainly not a military or research laboratory site. Though there was much space, this part of the facility had been built by simply blasting through the hard rock on the planet to create living space. There was no heating, not that it was needed, as all the stonework was warm to the touch but not too hot that it burned. The side effect was that the overall temperature was hot and it made breathing and sleeping difficult. As he stood there Spartan could see the sweat dripping from the prisoners, each one of them losing substantial amounts of water.

In front of the group was a nasty looking man. He was short and squat, stripped to the waist and carrying a coiled whip on his side. Dotted throughout the area were a number of armed guards, some watching the group the rest just relaxing, obviously used to the day-to-day grind at the compound.

“My name is Vespis and this place is your new home, it is also your last home!” shouted the little man as he paced along the group.

“Some of you are here because you owe money, others because of your crimes and the rest for just being assholes! I don’t care though because now you belong to me!” He then stopped in front of them.

“Remember what the Governor told each of you, the entire site is protected by automated sentry units as well as over a hundred armed guards. There are only two ways out of this compound. One is by visiting the surface. That is a one-way ticket by the way and the punishment for repeatedly breaking our rules or refusing orders. The second is a lottery for those who do as they are told. Each day a random selection of you will be given the only opportunity you will ever have to leave here alive. This is a trip to the re-education and social rehabilitation centre.”

Spartan wasn’t interested in the options right now, all he could think about were the numbers of guards in the facility. Over one hundred was a massive amount. A hundred guards must mean there were thousands of prisoners, maybe more. This was a much bigger operation than he had ever expected.

“If you obey the rules you will receive privileges.” He raised both hands up and as if by magic it seemed, a loud buzz echoed through the chamber before settling to a low hum. At first it wasn’t clear what was actually happening until a blast of cool air moved into the open space. It felt as if they were standing outdoors in a light breeze before it eased and started to reduce the overall temperature.

“The entire compound has its air scrubbed and cooled, that goes for this area too. Every section can be cut off and experience shows you will sweat out every last drop of water in hours. Any breaking of the rules will result in a six-hour penalty with the scrubbers switched off. Anybody breaks the rules twice and you pay a visit to the surface. That is the one-way trip!” he snarled and then waited for the information to sink in.

“Now, there are plenty more people coming from where you came from. You’re cheap and we can afford to lose some of you working here, so don’t fuck around!”

There was a stunned silence in the hall as the prisoners stood in a mixture of fear and relief at the switching on of the scrubbers and coolers. Cool air or not, it was obvious to them all that this was a one-way assignment and some were already showing signs of they would probably give up early.

“Each of you will be assigned a coloured band which you will wear at all times. The colour will indicate your group for work, rest and training. Failure to wear your band will constitute a breaking of the rules. Failure to comply with the orders of our officials or guards will constitute breaking of the rules.”

He turned and continued walking, looking at the odd prisoner and then moving along. As he came closer Spartan did his best to avoid eye contact but it didn’t work. The short man stopped directly in front of him and looked carefully at his face.

“You…you have military or combat training don’t you? Which unit?”

Spartan was torn between telling the arrogant toad the truth revealing a secret that might be dangerous, or lying and being caught out. Both options could be as severe as each other. He decided to take the middle road and use an earlier truth, answering in a slow, monotone voice.

“I used to be a pit fighter.”

“Fighter, huh? We have fighters at the pits here on Prometheus. Ever fight on the station circuit here?”

“Yes.”

The little man stepped back with a smile on his face.

“Good, then you must be the first volunteer for the red group. Take this and stand over there!” He handed Spartan a red elasticated band. He slid it on and looked over to where he was supposed to stand.

“Don’t make me tell you twice!”

Spartan didn’t wait, he moved forward and towards the space a short distance from the rest of the prisoners.

“The red group is what I like to call the special group. It will get the toughest assignments but it will receive benefits and the chance to win your freedom. Anybody who works in the red group for one continuous week will be sent to our education programme. From there you will be,” he coughed quietly to himself, “reintegrated into society.”

Spartan was hardly an intellectual but he could see the man was lying. Whatever this re-education thing was it wouldn’t be for any kind of freedom. The question was though, did he want to stay in the prison forever or did he want to try for the re-education and see if it would improve his chances of escape? As he stood there thinking, the man had stopped and was talking to more of the prisoners. It didn’t take long before the red group had expanded to twelve men and two women. There was one thing they all had in common. They were the fittest and strongest. That one fact scared Spartan more than anything else he had seen or heard in the last hour. They hadn’t selected General Rivers or Marcus as he could see they were still with the rest of the prisoners. Their lack of strength and injuries may have put the man off from selecting them, assuming there wasn’t another reason.

“What the hell are they planning?” he muttered quietly to himself.

Two more men in suits arrived and started handing out more of the bands but this time they appeared to be passing them out indiscriminately. As this continued the short man moved to the red group and checked each of them before stopping in the middle.

“Come with me.” He then turned about and walked away.

As he left two of the guards went alongside him and another four behind. A few of the red group started to move, then as if one they all walked away in a short, snaking column. They went towards the far side of the cavernous area to a locked bulkhead door about five metres wide. As they approached, the domed security units activated and scanned the group. The short man spoke quietly to the units that immediately turned around, their glowing red eyes watching the prisoners closely. As they were walking past the security system Spartan felt a horrible chill through his body when he noticed one of the red eyes turning to follow him. It was strange but he was convinced it adjusted and altered its focus as it watched him. Nothing happened though and just a short while later they were going uphill along a much more modern corridor. Unlike where they were sleeping, the walls were ribbed with metal and a series of low level lights guided them on their way. Continuing on, they were led up to a point where a bright dot of a light could be seen. As they continued moving Vespis, the man with the whip, called out to them.

“When you reach your destination, just remember one thing, anyone who tries to leave or refuses to co-operate will be returned to the general population. Do it again and you will be sent to the surface for a little sun bathing.”

Spartan tried to work out what was ahead but the low light in the corridor, coupled with the bright light in the distance, made it impossible to make out any kind of detail other than that the light was becoming bigger.

“Where are we going?” asked one of the prisoners, a tall, strong looking man with a series of scars across his chest.

Spartan looked back, assuming he was talking to the man behind him but when his gaze returned he noticed the man looking at him. Spartan shrugged.

“Look, man, I’m not stupid. They took the strongest and put us together. From what the guy at the front said we aren’t going to like it.”

“You’re probably right,” answered Spartan laconically.

They were now only a short distance away and could see that the light was coming from a large open space that led out from the corridor. As they moved to within twenty metres Spartan spotted the first two guards, both in very heavy armour and equipped full modern rifles. They carried on and he was unsurprised to notice the markings on the armour, the same kind of snake symbol he had seen on the other armoured men. The doors were already open in front of them and in seconds they were all out of the corridor and in a large expanse of probably fifty metres radius. The perimeter and ceiling were masked in blackness, the only light coming from a wide skylight that lit up the centre of the place with a bright white light.

“Stop!” shouted their leader who then moved back to face them.

“This room is used as a test area for various subjects. We are looking for the strongest and those with the greatest survival instincts for a special project. It means better living conditions and movement to the re-education centre where you will eventually be placed back into society.”

“Who put you in charge? Why are we here?” shouted a wide and powerful looking Asian man at the back of the group.

“It doesn’t matter who we are. You are the prisoners and we are all that stands between life and death for you all. You may leave at any time, just ask for it and you will be taken out and released onto the planet’s surface,” he said as he leered at them.

“Bastard!” shouted one of the men though he kept down low enough to not be seen.

“You are all flawed, but you can take this as your opportunity to make amends. Remember…you can leave whenever you want.” With an evil smile he turned to a box that had just risen out of the floor.

“Inside this box is a random selection of items. In ten minutes you will face a dangerous and deadly challenge. Those of you that survive will stay in the red group and return to your sleeping quarters at the end of the test.”

There was a deafening silence as they stood in disbelief. Spartan looked about the group and then to their tormentor. “What if we chose to not participate in your test?”

Vespis simply stood and stared at them for almost half a minute before speaking.

“It is very, very simple. If you refuse to participate you will rejoin the rest of the prisoners and force a group punishment for breaking the rules.”

“Screw this, I’m leaving!” shouted a scrawny looking man with long blond hair and thick, muscular arms.

“Two breaks of the rules and you will be sent to the surface where you will be in the fire of Prometheus!” He lifted his head and hand up high with an odd cackle in his voice.

“What the hell is this guy’s problem?” muttered Spartan, a few of the others grumbled in agreement.

“The only other option available to you is to follow through with the test and to fail it. Failure is an option but one I think you might want to avoid!” he laughed and then started to move away.

“What’s going on here? Hey, you!” shouted an oriental woman who pushed to the front and reached out. She tried to touch the man but two of the armoured guards stepped in to block her path. Spartan grabbed her and pulled her close until her head was pushed up to his chest.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered, “do you want to burn?”

The woman pushed away and wiped her brow as she stared at Spartan. Of all them in the open area he was the only one that looked unfazed by what was happening. The man and his guards left quickly, leaving them all stood in the bright light of the high ceiling mounted light burning down to the box in the middle of the room.

“What is this place?” asked the woman.

“Looks like a yard to me,” answered one.

“No way, man, it’s another prison area,” said another.

“I know what this place is!” said Spartan with a firm tone in his voice.

As the rest of the group started to move about, Spartan stood his ground and looked down at the floor and the scratches and markings. He knelt down and rubbed his hand on the floor, feeling the deep cuts and imperfections. As he concentrated on the floor the oriental woman approached him. Spartan sensed somebody moving and looked up to see her getting closer. Though her clothes were dirty and ragged he was surprised to see the poise and strength in her figure. He looked up at her pale face. Her ruffled hair ran down to just below the neck where it ended in rough curls. It must have been dyed as it contained streaks of blonde that were not her natural colour.

“Who are you?”

“Spartan. Why?”

She looked back at the rest of them, two were pulling open the box and scattering the items across the floor.

“You seem to be the only one who doesn’t seem afraid.”

“You’re wrong there. Only a fool wouldn’t be afraid in this place,” He looked back to the floor. The young woman moved closer and bent down to examine the floor with him. She ran her hands along the cracks and pits in the stone, noticing the residual warmth coming up from the planet’s molten rivers that boiled beneath the surface.

“What is it?”

“This place, it’s an arena.” He started to stand up, as he moved she followed until they both stood facing each other.

“Arena? Like a sports field?”

“No, like a pit fighting arena.”

“What did you say?” shouted a tall, dark skinned man. Spartan ignored the man and turned back to the woman.

“Look, they are going to make us fight something and the only way we’re staying alive is if we win. What’s your name?”

“Misaki SatM.”

Spartan nodded and then turned to the rest. Some of them had already taken items from the box and it was a bizarre collection of artefacts. There was a selection of hand tools, axes and metal fittings. One man stood with an axe resting on his shoulder as another two argued over a serrated knife.

“I used to be a pit fighter, I’ve seen this before. How many of you have combat training?”

Some ignored him but most turned to answer. It seemed they had a modicum of training, or at least that is what their raised hands told him. Misaki lifted her hand too.

“You have combat training?” asked Spartan with a raised eyebrow.

“Why? Can’t a woman know how to fight?” she said with a wicked smile before scuttling over to the box to look for a weapon.

As she rummaged about she picked out what looked like a piston from the innards of an internal combustion engine. She grasped it by the small part to create an improvised mace. With a little more digging she started to tug at something in the base of the box. Before she was able to remove the object though a great rumble echoed throughout the chamber. At the same time a grinding sound like that of a heavy rock being dragged came from one side of the open area. Misaki fell back from the box, in her hands she grasped what looked like a metre long iron pipe. She steadied herself and called over to Spartan.

“Hey, Spartan…catch!”

She tossed the metal pipe and for just a second it looked like it might collide with his head. His reaction was fast enough and he easily caught it, swinging it around for a few test strikes before resting it on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I thought it might be more your style!” she laughed as she flashed a smile in his direction.

“I wouldn’t get too excited. If I’m right we’re about to get into something bad, really bad.”

As if to emphasise his point the grinding stopped to be replaced by the pound of feet as something large and dark approached. Most of the fourteen of them were now carrying objects from the box. Two rushed back to the entrance they had arrived from as the rest stood in silence, each watching for whatever was about to appear before them.

“Stick together and stay in the light!” shouted Spartan as he moved into the centre.

Misaki moved ahead and joined him, standing just a metre away to his right.

“What is it?” she asked.

From the darkness the shape took form as the thing moved towards them. One of the men, a tall man about the same size and build of Spartan rushed forward with a bar in his hand. He disappeared into the shadows so that the approaching thing and the man merged into a moving shadow. There was just a single crunching sound and the man stumbled back into the light and fell back to the floor.

Misaki ran to him and rolled the man over. A trickle of blood ran down his face and a dark pool of blood started to form around him. She leaned down and listened for signs of breathing. She shook her head in shock as she looked back to Spartan.

“He’s dead!” she shouted.

*

Kowalski sat at his display, idly moving data about and occasionally playing one of the video games he’d secretly brought to the vessel and installed on the system. It was hardly a modern game in fact by any standards it was ancient. The game was based on a security system whereby the player had to rewrite code on the fly to circumvent the computer which was doing the same. It was a test of speed, programming and mental dexterity. Though the language it used was obsolete it did keep his mind active and the basic algorithms were sound.

“Come on, come on!” he shouted as streams of data rushed down the screen.

The computer player had managed to breach his final firewall and data was pouring from his servers. His fingers darted about on the touch based screens as he moved blocks of code into place and ran a series of subroutines that damaged the scrambled outgoing data as he attempted to repair the breach. A box popped up in the middle of the display and the game paused, the race against time now stopped until he was ready to resume.

“No way!” he muttered as he read the subject of the message before turning to the intercom.

“Commander, we’ve got a Fleet transmission, looks like they’ve found something.”

There was a short pause before the groggy and tired voice of Commander Anderson returned on the speaker system.

“Understood, be there in sixty seconds. Get the rest of the crew in, we all need to see this.”

“Affirmative.” Kowalski hit a button to change the transmission to ship wide. “Kowalski here. We have a Fleet transmission regarding our mission. Please meet in the control centre immediately. This looks important, out.”

As he replaced the handset he looked at the heading of the message and tried to imagine what they might have found. He was tempted to view the message but it required an access code that although he had, it would immediately let the Commander know he had read it first. He sat, staring into the screen as the Commander arrived.

“Kowalski, thought you’d have had it decoded and read by now,” he said smiling.

“Well, it is addressed for your eyes only, Sir.”

The Commander leaned in to read the text of the message before entering in his hex based security code. It took a few seconds for each of the layers to be removed before it was displayed in all its detail. As well as a message from Admiral Jarvis it included several dossier documents with attached images and videos. Bishop and Teresa arrived almost at the same time and pulled themselves into position around the display.

“What have we got?” Bishop asked.

“Any news on Spartan?” added Teresa.

Commander Anderson looked at a few more of the documents before turning back to them.

“It is interesting. From the data we sent them they have matched it to other intel and come up with three possible leads. The main one though is to do with this man, Maximilian Hex. He’s a smuggler and slaver known to work in these waters. The lead points to a shipment of slaves and high value prisoners being sent to Prometheus. There isn’t an exact location but data from patrols in that area show increased numbers of ships around the planet.”

Bishop looked at some of the information, specifically the dossier on Hex.

“I don’t see why they are so sure this guy is the one we need to find. So he deals in slaves, so do hundreds of traders through the System.”

“For a starter look at the numbers of ships recorded moving to Prometheus. There has been a forty per cent increase in the last three weeks. Most of these vessels are unflagged and not on our system.”

“True, Sir, but couldn’t they be refugees from the colonies that have seceded? There must be hundreds of thousands of displaced people?” asked Kowalski.

“There is one more piece of information from an informant on board a transport near Prometheus. He hasn’t seen the prisoners but he did hear a rumour about one of the ships that arrived from Kerberos in the last week. He said a group of prisoners managed to fight their way out of their cells and killed a large number of security people.”

“Bishop didn’t look convinced but Anderson continued.

“Well, it’s the only recorded time that anyone has managed to escape on board a slave or prison ship. There was one other thing…a number of those killed was in close quarter combat.”

“Close quarter? That sounds like Spartan!” said Teresa with a growing smile.

“Give me the details, I’ll run it through the local net and the Prometheus trading markets and see if I can come up with some leads,” said Kowalski.

He leaned forward and started to move windows of data around the displays. At first he checked public markets and news stories, then law enforcements bulletins and coastguard and customs data. There was so much material whizzing about that the rest of them finally gave up trying to track his progress. Then he stopped, a single window with a blurred photograph and a few lines of text showing.

“There he is!”

“You crazy bastard!” laughed Bishop as he ruffled Kowalski’s hair.

“Look, it says here that he has a public sale of licensed armour and tooling on the Prometheus Seven Trading Post for the next ten days.”

“No way, it takes months to make that trip. You know, the storms. You have to plot a new navigation route every time you head for the place.”

“Yeah, it’s true. Bishop’s right about the storms,” said a miserable Teresa.

“Not true!”

They all looked at Kowalski who simply ignored them, he was far too absorbed in the details of Hex and his business dealings on Prometheus. It must have been fascinating because Commander had already called out his name three times before he responded.

“Uh, yeah?” he asked, looking a little confused.

“Prometheus. What isn’t true?”

“Oh, right, well…the storms and the routes used by civilian and military traffic. You can bypass the lot and cut the trip to about four days.”

Bishop looked at the Commander, who appeared less than convinced, and then back at Kowalski who sat there looking calm and collected.

“Bullshit!”

“It’s true, Bishop. I submitted a paper on it over a year ago. The algorithm I developed will allow a nav system to plot a route through the storm with a ninety-two per cent safety margin. You need a decent system, one that can multitask multiple routes in real time along with updated storm tracking information from the naval buoys.”

“You’re serious?” asked Commander Anderson.

Kowalski looked at him for a few seconds before replying.

“I’m always serious, Sir, when it comes to tech. Trust me, my system works. The chance for loss is there, but it is the fastest and most direct route to Prometheus.”

“Why haven’t I heard about this?”

“First of all the risk is considered too high for manned vessels and the travel speed needs to be reduced according to the mass and rated engine power of the ship. Even a haulage or transport ship will have to drop speed to give a total journey time of about two weeks. Any faster and the computers won’t be available to avoid the storm anomalies. Second, the first demonstration to the brass resulted in a simulated passenger liner being destroyed. I told them to use a smaller ship but they insisted. Something that big at the speed they used had only a fifty per cent chance of making it through.”

“I believe you. Back when I was a captain out on the Rim I sent reports back that were ignored in favour of more reliable sources. It’s the price we pay for being out of the loop. So as I understand it you’re telling me a slaver could have made this trip in about two weeks if they had your algorithms?”

“Sure, no problem. How would they have got them though?”

“The computer data centre on Kerberos was hit during the riots and protests. I think we lost many guys when it was stormed. A lot of data was taken before it was cut off from the main data feed. It’s possible they could have got it there,” suggested Bishop.

“Maybe, or somebody could have just sold the software code. It would be worth a lot of money on the black market.”

“Kowalski, are you sure the Tamarisk could do the trip in four days? I know she is bigger than most small transports but she’s been refitted with a more powerful computer, engines and power plant.”

“I’ve already done the calculations, Sir. We can be there in ninety three-hours if we leave right now.”

Commander Anderson looked at the rest of his crew. There were only four of them now but they were becoming almost a family. Bishop an experienced Marine Corps veteran and Kowalski his best friend, one of the top techs in the Corps. Then Teresa, the demure but hot headed Hispanic fighter, who seemed to have limitless energy when it came to getting what she wanted. Anderson himself had been the XO of the Battlecruiser Crusader but this job was something special and needed his skills that he had learned taking on the organised crime syndicates out on the Rim. He just hoped that when this was all done and finished he could get back to being number two on the flagship.

“Good, confirm the course for Prometheus and get going at maximum speed. I’ll contact the Admiral. I suggest you all check the files on our destination. It is not the place to arrive at unprepared.”

“Sir!” came the almost instantaneous reply from his crew.

As the Commander moved away from the computer and along the corridor, Bishop turned to look at the other two. Kowalski looked completely unaffected by the turn of events and moved back to looking at the data, Teresa’s face on the other hand was positively glowing.

“You look like you’ve hit the jackpot.”

Teresa raised one eyebrow as she looked back at him.

“Well, this gets us one step closer to them doesn’t it?”

“Let’s hope so,” he said and then turned back to Kowalski. “Can you get the schematics of the Prometheus Seven Trading Post? What kind of place is it?”

“No problemo, here it is.”

On the display a rotating model of the large station appeared. It wasn’t military, or at least it didn’t have the look of any of the naval stations used throughout the System. As the model rotated it seemed the station was not far off the size of the station on Kronus.

“How big is that place?”

“It’s big, I mean real big. It’s based on the early Bernal sphere design, it’s intended as a long-term home for permanent residents but according to the data here the station has been moved from accommodation to mainly trade and commerce. It used to be called the Prometheus Seven Colony. It is almost two thousand metres in diameter, giving it a circumference of over six kilometres. At this size the station should be able to house anything up to one and two hundred thousand people.”

“Why isn’t it used as a colony anymore?”

Teresa cut in, “Since it was built a number of stations have been built on the moons and there are scores of compounds on the surface that use the planet’s heat to drive thermal generators. Apparently much of the population moved during the last few decades to the surface and the new cities being built there are well shielded. Still, give me a lush green world with air and an actual breathable atmosphere.”

“Screw that, Teresa,” muttered Bishop, “all the images I’ve seen of Prometheus make it look like hell.”

“It is. You get used to it though. When I worked there I spent most of my time on the stations but I did do a bit of manual labour underground. Trust me, you don’t want to work there. Doesn’t matter how much they pay you, it isn’t worth it!”

She looked back at the display and smiled. “Somewhere out there are Spartan, Marcus and the General. And you know what? We’re going to find them!”

*

“Help me!” cried Misaki as she tried to massage the expired man on the ground. It was pointless, his heart had stopped, he wasn’t breathing and the pool of blood was increasing. It looked like there was little chance anything could be done. Even so Misaki refused to back down and continued the heart massage in the grim hope something might change.

“Come on, let’s out of here!” shouted one of the men as he banged on the now closed door.

The rest of them stood still, all waiting for the thing to emerge from the shadows. Spartan moved in front of Misaki and the fallen man and held the metal pipe on his right shoulder like a baseball bat.

“Misaki, he’s dead, come on!”

Misaki ignored him though her frustration was obvious. She carried on pounding at the man’s chest and shouting out.

Spartan looked in the direction of the shape that moved out into the light. Of all the people in the open space only Spartan seemed unperturbed by the great hulk. It was a Biomech, one of the creatures that Spartan had come across several times now. After these encounters he was still in awe of the mass and power of these things. This one looked more like the ones he had seen in the urban combat operations on Prime. It was armoured up with improvised metal plates and carried what looked like a heavy iron maul in each hand. With a roar the Biomech moved directly into the light and planted its feet, glancing around as the people scattered through the open space.

“Misaki!” called out Spartan as he stood his ground.

The young woman picked herself up and moved up to him, her own improvised mace out and ready.

“What is it?” she asked, a trembling tone in her voice.

“It’s one of those Biomech shock troopers the Zealots have been using, keep away from it!”

Pushing in front he swung his metal pipe, drawing the attention of the creature. Three of the other people moved towards Spartan, either for safety or recognising that he seemed to know what he was doing. The creature stood still, as though it was waiting for an order. As the rest waited a shrill whine blasted from hidden speakers.

“Welcome to our little training arena. In front of you is one of our pets. He is the smallest and youngest. Today’s test is to survive until the bell hits ten chimes. There are no rules, just survive until the time runs out!”

The creature roared and rushed ahead directly towards Spartan. He stood still and waited, his weapon in position and ready for the fight.

“Let’s do this!” Spartan shouted and to their surprise he ran forward to meet it head on.

“Spartan!” Misaki screamed as she watched him rush directly into the path of the monster. It was like a tale from Ancient history with a mythical hero tackling a Minotaur or other ferocious beast.

As Spartan reached striking distance it swung its right arm and brought the mace on a collision course with Spartan’s head. The bell struck one and at the same time the mace whistled towards his face. With incredible speed and timing he ducked down at the last minute and leaned out to strike the passing creature in the back of the knee. It might have been bigger and stronger than any of them there but its knees were still vulnerable to an attack. As his metal bar struck the thing lots its balance and slid onto its back, flailing about in anger. Spartan stood up and turned around to look directly into its eyes. He stepped forward but it was already up off the ground and snarling. A few of the prisoners rushed from the side to try and take advantage of the moment to strike. The bell struck again.

“No! Stay back!” shouted Spartan. They either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

The first man stabbed hard with a small knife only to find it got stuck in the creature’s thick hide. It swung its left arm and struck the man in the temple with its mace. The crunch of bone made a terrible sound and the man was dead before his lifeless corpse hit the ground. The others waved their weapons and made ineffectual strikes but with the death of their comrade they lost the will to close the distance.

Spartan pushed forward and swung his bar in an arc just a short distance from its face. The attack missed but did force a response. Instinctively the creature tried to parry the strike but hit nothing but air. Its inexperience showed as it twisted around and exposed its right flank. Spartan wasted no time in slamming the heavy metal hard into its ribs and breaking at least two of them. One of the women jumped forward and managed to hit the creature on the head but hit the armoured skullcap causing nothing but a loud sound. The bell continued to ring though none of them were paying attention, just concentrating on staying alive. It swung at the woman but Misaki managed to jump in striking the weapon aside with her own mace and then drag the woman to safety.

“You!” shouted Spartan as he pointed his weapon at the creature. It roared at him though there were no intelligible words, just animalistic noises.

It swung the maces, clearing the rest of the prisoners away until a small, loose line of them stood with Spartan on the right of the group. As it moved forward one step at a time they move in around Spartan, finally understanding that their best chance lay with him. They prepared for another attack when the bell rang out for the tenth and final time. In synchronisation with the sound a series of lights came on around the arena.

The creature stopped its attack and lowered its weapons, whether it was a signal from the lights and sounds or it was simply used to the procedure was unclear. All they did know was that for now the fight was over. The whistle from the speakers came back, followed by the man’s voice. As he spoke the beast turned away and returned to the large doorway from where it had entered the arena. As it approached the door slid open revealing four heavily armed guards with their weapons pointed at the prisoners.

“Congratulations. Some of you have passed your first test,” came the voice from the speakers.

The entry door opened with a dull grinding sound and two of the prisoners who were still lurking nearby jumped through and into the arms of the waiting guards who pushed them back inside.

“Follow the guards backs to your quarters, you will face a new and much tougher test tomorrow.”

The sound cut off and the guards beckoned for them to follow as several men in lab coats approached the two bodies and started to lift them onto stretchers.

“What the hell is this place?” Misaki asked.

Spartan looked at the guards and then back to her.

“I don’t know, one thing I do know,” he said before leaning in closer to her, “I’m not waiting around to find out.”

CHAPTER SIX

It is one of the ironies of the new colonies in Alpha Centauri that some of the oldest nationalities from Earth would come to find new homes in Space at the expense of the old world on Earth. Whereas in the past Italians, Germans and British citizens had flocked to the New World of the Americas a new wave of colonists travelled to such places as Carthago and Terra Nova to establish new communities that worked hard to stay true to their old routes. British communities on Terra Nova still fly the flag on traditional public holidays and the National Flags are still worn by some on their military uniforms, as is the right of all citizens of the Confederacy. Italian-Novans constituted some of the earliest Confederate Army units.

The Old World meets the Newer World

“Spartan, is that your real name?” Misaki asked.

The two were sat on the wooden benches running along the side of their quarters, along with the survivors of the first confrontation with the Biomechs. The quarters for the red group was cramped but seemed at least a few metres bigger than what the rest had to manage with.

“Yeah, it’s my name.”

“That’s it? You must have another name?”

Spartan said nothing, either he was too tired to speak or not prepared to say anymore. Misaki waited for a little longer before speaking again. They had all had a thorough medical examination before being given their uninspiring overalls. The colour was a kind of faded orange and at some time they must have belonged to a company as the logos had all been ripped off, leaving small patches and holes in various places.

“What do you think is going on here?”

This question seemed to get Spartan’s interest, even making him sit up and look at her briefly before speaking.

“A few things are pretty clear to me. First, this place is illegal. The weapons, armour and layout would have serious problems with Confederate control. Second, slave labour being used in pit fights is dodgy, very dodgy.”

“How so?”

“Trust me, it is. The last bit though is those Biomechs. They are related to the Zealots and their masters in the Church of Echidna. Why are they here and why were some being transported to this place on our ship?”

“The Church of Echidna, aren’t they the people who started the secession in the first place? I thought they were offering a peaceful, safer alternative to that of corporate control through the Confederacy?”

“You think so, Misaki? I’ve seen their peaceful ways, now you’ve seen them too!” he replied with a slightly raised tone that he immediately regretted.

From the far wall a pair of armed guards approached. They were again dressed in the dark body armour he’d seen when they arrived, each carried a shotgun and side arm. They were much more heavily equipped than any prison guards he had heard of. They moved up to the metal bars of their sleeping area and looked inside.

“What’s going on in there?”

The guard was met with total silence.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Remember the rules, break them and you pay the price.”

The second guard started to laugh, evidently enjoying the reminder of the power and control he had over the prisoners. He lingered a little too close though and Spartan was able to get a good look at his equipment and clothing. They waited a few more seconds before walking off to harass another group of prisoners.

“What were you looking for?”

Spartan lifted up his hand, waiting to make sure the guards were well out of sight and hearing before looking back at her. He indicated her to move closer. She crept forward, doing her best to make as little sound as possible and stopped close to his face.

“When we were being transported here I noticed the guards wore a snake symbol on their uniforms. Those guards had the same patch on their uniforms. I think it might be a department of one of the churches. Don’t snakes have something to do with one of the religions?”

“Well, I do know that Echidna was half woman half snake and supposedly responsible for creating all monsters in the ancient world. Maybe that has something to do with it?”

Spartan scratched his chin as he considered the information.

“If these guards are part of a militant department or corporation they could easily be linked to the Church. They’ve been dealing behind the scenes for a long time I’ve been told and I would bet good money they supply the insurgents with money, weapons and intel.”

“That makes sense, Spartan, the insurgents do have a lot in common with the Echidna missionaries. The next question though is what the hell are they doing here on Prometheus and even more important, why are we here? I’ve heard that there used to be all kinds of state funded research, especially biological and chemical science on this planet. Maybe the Biomechs are being brought here to be experimented on. They could be trying to improve or train them to be better fighters.”

“Maybe. I’ve seen them in action though and they can fight perfectly well, they certainly don’t need any more training to be effective. There’s also the issue of all of us here. So yes, what the hell are we doing here?”

Misaki considered this for a moment.

“Good point. Prisoners are either being held here for political reasons or as a resource. From the way they treat us I’d say we’re a resource.”

“I agree.”

Spartan heard something and lowered his head to avoid attracting attention. Of the small group remaining from the battle in the arena all were asleep or resting, each waiting for whatever hardship would be meted out next. One man lay on the floor, he had been groaning for the last hour from the heavy impacts he had sustained during the fight with the Biomech. Misaki was convinced it was broken ribs but neither the guards nor the other prisoners had much in the way of medical training. One of the guards reappeared but this time he moved on past the bars and ignored them, he appeared content to just let them see him. As he moved off Misaki moved her face closer to Spartan’s ear and whispered quietly.

“You said you’ve been on Prometheus before. How long ago was that?”

She leaned back to give him space but Spartan simply shrugged and ignored the question. Misaki raised an eyebrow in frustration but he refused to back down so she tried a different tack.

“Is that where you joined the Marine Corps? What happened then, did they ship you off right away?”

Spartan shuffled uncomfortably on the hard wooden surface.

“No, they posted me on a rookie transport and training programme through the sector. They told me it was a long trip from Prometheus to Prime, they say it’s because of the storms, I don’t think so though. I know ships have done it in a few months.”

“So why did they take so long then?”

“I think it’s more likely they were taking it slow to get green units like mine trained up for the meat grinder at the Bone Mill. I’ve heard since that the recruiting ships normally took newbies directly to Prime for training in a few months, they must have slowed down to get us trained before we hit the planet. If that’s true they already knew we had people that couldn’t be trusted on the surface.”

“Sounds sensible to me, no point landing rookies directly into a warzone. Did you realise what was happening during your training?”

“No, we were all way, way too busy. I think we picked up extra recruits and equipment at stations on the way but they never told us where we were or where we were going. After a week’s worth of training you don’t really care which piece of black space you’re travelling through, believe me!”

His mind drifted off to Teresa and their time on the Santa Maria. It was weird but those weeks of physical and mental endurance were some of the highlights of the last year for him. After years of moving from place to place he had bizarrely found a home amongst the rough but unpredictable world of the Marine Corps.

“How about you Misaki? What happened and why are you here?”

“Good question. I was on a colonial tour with my dance company when we were raided.”

“Raided? Why?”

“There were some protests on Kerberos that our routines were, well let’s say a little risqué!” she said with a sly grin.

“Strip dancing?”

“No…nothing like that. Our group is more like the old burlesque troupes you can sometimes see on Terra Nova.”

“Never been to Nova, it’s a long, expensive trip to the old worlds.” He looked down at the floor in thought. “Wait, you said you were raided? By the police?”

“Well, we thought it was police at first which is weird because we were all licensed up to run shows on any colony we were invited to. The men wore no insignia but they were in normal riot police clothing. They said we had breached the peace and took us all away. Next thing I knew I was on the ship, in chains and drowsy.”

“That doesn’t sound like the police to me and these people definitely have links to the Zealots and their sympathisers.”

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, each looking out through the bars and watching the lines of prisoners moving off for their allotted tasks and work projects. It seemed that they were able to avoid this extra work but only at the price of risking their lives by participating in the various tests the Governor had set. As Spartan sat there thinking he noticed Misaki watching him. Her face was tight and the stress obvious. He wanted to say something but couldn’t think of anything particularly reassuring. She had been dragged from her work in almost the same manner as he was, all this just for performing some kind of dance. He thought about the dance she had talked about before realising he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Burlesque?”

Misaki looked at him intently, a little surprised at the question. “Yes?”

“I’ve never heard of it. What is it? Some kind of ethnic dance?”

“Not really. It is part dance and part act with an emphasis on style and sexiness. It can include striptease, garish costumes, bawdy humour, that kind of thing.”

“”Oh…I see.” Though his response suggested the exact opposite.

As they sat in an uncomfortable silence a pair of the guards approached. Spartan looked at Misaki and then at the floor, giving her a visual cue to look down and avoid eye contact with their tormentors. The footsteps stopped, they were waiting outside the door. With a grinding sound the door slid open. Spartan turned to see the men pointing their weapons directly at his chest.

“Spartan?” the first asked.

“Maybe.”

“Come with us, the Governor wants a word,” the second ordered as he gestured with his shotgun for him to stand.

Spartan looked around the room, most of the prisoners were watching though none said a word for fear of reprisal from the guards. Spartan moved but before he could stand up the first guard took a step back.

“Take it slow…that’s it, nice and easy.” The guard appeared far more nervous than Spartan would have expected.

As he stood up a third, unseen man approached and attached a metal rod to Spartan’s manacles. As before they could hold him off at a distance so he couldn’t grab or kick at them. As soon as he was past the frame of the door it was quickly shut to stop anybody else following them. The first guard moved in front of Spartan. He came close but not too close.

“Play your cards right and this could be your ticket out…soldier boy.” He slammed his shotgun butt into Spartan’s stomach.

Spartan dropped back and spluttered as the impact drove hard into his torso. It wasn’t enough to drop him though and he quickly straightened up, his height and mass easily dwarfing the guard.

“Okay, tough guy, come.”

With a push Spartan found himself moving behind the guard and followed by at least two more of them. Though he was desperate to escape there was nothing he could do when locked up and surrounded like this. As they moved away he looked around at the people coming back from their other duties. Most were filthy. They looked as if they had done hard physical work, possibly mining or construction. Based on the filth he thought the former was more likely. The guards continued nudging Spartan towards a cylindrical metal doorway at the side of the open space. It had no obvious markings or features and could easily have been some form of blast shield. The guard in front spoke into his helmet-mounted intercom unit. The words were too quiet for Spartan to make out but they must have been to give clearance to open the door. With a mechanical whirr the door slid around to the right to expose a small cylindrical room. The guards behind pushed him inside and followed closely. Once the four were all inside the door shut and low level white lighting illuminating the room. The floor shook and Spartan felt slightly lighter as the room went down at high speed.

“Where are we going?”

The guards ignored him, simply standing still and waiting. Somewhere in the walls a speaker system sent a series of codes and beeps but it meant nothing to him. He felt his legs becoming heavier again and then with a gentle bump they stopped. The door slid open to reveal a short corridor that led to a closed door. With a click the metal bar detached from his manacles and the guards stepped back inside the room. Concern for the unknown sent a shiver down his spine as he stepped out into the featureless corridor.

“Head to the door,” ordered the guard and then the door slid shut leaving Spartan alone in the corridor.

It was weird, very weird. He had gone from being taken and guarded by heavily armed men, to now being totally alone with no sign of the enemy. He felt even more a prisoner than when he was manacled, at least then he knew where he was and had a certain expectation of what to expect. The door behind was of massively thick metal and sealed. The walls were smooth and hard and the only object that broke up the shape was the door at the end of the hallway. As he stood there he wondered if there was anything he could do other than approach the door. He touched the door behind him. It felt cool, much cooler than anything else he had been near since his arrival. The surface was ultra smooth, almost polished in appearance. Pushing against it was no different to pushing against a stone wall, it refused to move even a millimetre. His gut told him to do something, anything other than what he had been told to do. It was pointless though, he had two choices, either wait or move ahead.

“Screw this!” he muttered and marched off for the door.

It might have led to something worse but the waiting was just as bad and if it was terrible he wanted it over with as quickly as possible. After his experiences in the ring and in combat he understood the unreasoning fear that gripped a man as he awaited his fate. With a final look behind he walked faster, ever watchful for anything, a marking, an object or handle that might give him cause for hope. He ran his hand along the wall, feeling for something. As he reached the door he found nothing, not even a scratch. Pushing his hand forward the door slid to the side to reveal a brightly lit room. The door was almost silent, more a hiss than a mechanical rhythm.

“Come in,” came a firm voice from inside the room.

Spartan stepped forward, squinting at the light as he entered. With a whistle sound the door slid shut behind him. In front was a large metal desk and around the room what looked like cylindrical windows. Outside was the stillness and tranquillity of water. For a moment Spartan thought they were under an ocean but he quickly remembered they were on an inhospitable planet of fire and lava. Hardly the view you would want from your windows and definitely not a cool ocean. He thought to himself, was there even any water on the planet, before remembering where he was.

“I see you’re admiring the view?” said the man sat at the desk.

Spartan said nothing, he’d already worked out they were deep underground and this room contained fake windows, much like the artificial windows on board the Confederate Navy vessels. By projecting an image onto the wall or a pre-allocated space the illusion of any location could be created.

“Nice view,” replied Spartan in a calm a tone as he could muster.

“Quite,” he replied, then took a gulp of water from a glass on the desk.

“You are probably wondering why I have asked for you to be brought to me?”

“You’re Governor Richards?”

“Indeed. I see your memory is intact…good. Now, I have been reading your dossier and I see there are some, shall we say, slightly colourful episodes in your life over the last ten years?”

“I guess.”

“You guess? I don’t think so. A man with your background and training is wasted in the service of Marine Corps. Do they even know about your history before that unfortunate pit fight incident?”

“Incident? I was forced to fight to pay my debts, I had no choice!” Spartan was getting angry.

“I’m not really interested in that, I would rather hear your side of the story about the years before you joined the military. My contacts inform me that several members of your family were killed by colonial security forces, the forces who now serve the same master as yourself. Don’t you find that a little ironic?”

Spartan fidgeted, he was uncomfortable as he listened to the man’s questions. There didn’t appear to be any guards and the room was bare apart from the two chairs, the desk and the windows. He thought of rushing ahead and grabbing the Governor but it couldn’t be that easy, not a chance.

“You don’t know about my family.”

“Oh the contrary, I know all about your family. You will find our records are far more detailed than those of the so called Confederacy.”

He moved his hand across the desk and brought up a series of virtual documents and photographs that he moved over to Spartan’s side. He glanced at them but took no interest as the past meant little to him. He had always lived in the here and now and talking to this man was the price he had to pay while he worked out his escape plan.

“Did you know your parents were pilgrims? They were involved in the founding of some of the Church’s most influential buildings. You don’t remember them do you?”

“Remember what? It says on my records what happened to me and there is nothing about pilgrims or any other crap. Come on, your reports are shit. You don’t even have my father’s name!”

The man looked a little angry at his outburst and even a little disappointed.

“Your records state your parents died in a car crash when you were an infant. They found you near a burnt wreck and took you to hospital. Ten years later and you were still moving from children’s homes. The interesting thing though is that we both know that isn’t how it happened, don’t we?”

Spartan had blocked out most of his childhood and he could feel the old memories starting to surface. With effort he forced them back down and looked at the Governor.

“I don’t care about the past. I’m only interested in what happens next.”

“The second part I don’t doubt. Well, you’re in luck, Spartan. As you may have noticed, unlike the Confederacy, our organisation is moving up in the world. This facility is one of many and it is going to provide a future for every soul in this System.”

Spartan looked at him suspiciously. The mention of forces hostile to those he served felt alien to him, though he couldn’t deny that the Confederacy had taken serious blows in the last months as the insurgency grew.

“You have probably already worked out that this isn’t a Confederate facility, it isn’t even an official Promethean outpost. This entire centre is owned outright by the Drakaina Research Corporation and the great work we are doing here will help change this entire System for the better.” He pressed a few buttons at the end of the desk.

Spartan looked around the room and then back to where a number of three-dimensional diagrams appeared showing the layout of the complex. As he watched he was shocked to see how far underground the compound went. If this was true the site was easily twenty times bigger than he had thought, large enough to hide an entire colony if required to. The display altered slightly and followed several shafts moving out from the site.

“As you can see here, we are expanding into the bedrock where we will establish additional laboratories and factories. You might think we are treating you poorly, Spartan, but trust me, this is all for the greater good.”

Spartan stared at him, his expression obvious. “Bullshit!”

“Quite,” replied the Governor before continuing, “the Confederacy has never been strong. Each colony is independent, too independent while the political and military wings of the state have trouble maintaining order. It is inevitable that the structure will collapse, the only question is how many will die in the conflagration that will burn through every colony.”

“How many will die? The insurgency is responsible for the deaths of thousands already!” replied an angry Spartan.

“Some must die if the colonies are to be reborn into a single safe, powerful and secure empire for its citizens.”

“And your solution for this is to stir up trouble so the colonies tear themselves apart?”

“We need to start from the beginning. A new slate if you will, and there is no point in trying to fight the Confederacy, even weakened it will fight for decades. With the help of people like you we can simply make the Confederacy impotent, remove them from the equation and replace them with a new, solid foundation as part of a new union of colonies.”

Spartan shook his head. Though some of the ideas seemed reasonable he knew deep down that this man must be tied in with the insurgents and if that were true then their religious and social doctrine wouldn’t be far behind. He’d already seen what religious fanaticism was capable of and he wanted nothing to do with it.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“It is my job to provide a large part of the resources needed by our people to rebuild this star system. As we sit here thousands of undesirables work to expand this complex, right under the noses of your Confederation lackeys. We are always looking for new recruits to lead combat forces and to represent the public face of the organisation.”

For a moment Spartan was tempted to get physical and hit or strike, anything other than listen to the drone from this man. He really wasn’t interested in politics but it was obvious something big was planned and he was being offered a chance to take part in it.

“Why would I want to join you?”

“A fair point. First of all, your training and skills have been brought to our attention. You have fought in multiple engagements where you have overcome overwhelming odds. We have many resources but we are always looking out for those with more specialist skills and the experience to do what needs to be done. If you join us you will become part of the solution, not the problem. The rewards will be great and in time you can expect to see your status improve immeasurably.”

The Governor was obviously finished and placed both hands on the desk, indicating he wanted a response from Spartan.

“You aren’t giving me the whole story here. Who exactly is ‘us’? Your corporation doesn’t operate on its own, what are your relations with the Church or the Zealots?”

“Relationship? Come now, surely you must have realised by now that there are no factions or interested parties involved. These are just names, the public faces for our movement. Join us and help change the Confederacy into what it should be.”

Spartan had to force himself not to slam his fist onto the desk. He was trying to think ahead but it didn’t seem to be helping. He could of course say yes and try and work out a way to escape by working within the system or he could go back to the cell with the rest of the prisoners and await his fate. From what he had seen, if they were being put up against Biomechs every day then their days were numbered.

“Okay, I’m interested. I don’t really care for the Confederacy one way or the other. It’s just an employer for me and not one I would have chosen given the choice.”

“Of course. I notice you were given the option of jail or service. If you are considering joining our enterprise we will need a demonstration of your loyalty, the same as for anybody else joining us. We expect and demand total loyalty and subservience to our authority for everyone. That goes from the lowliest of cleaners up through to our generals.”

“Generals?” said Spartan involuntarily.

“Why of course. You think what you have seen so far represents all of our resources? We haven’t even begun to unleash our forces. For now they are waiting, though people such as yourself could help shorten the length of any campaigns and ultimately save lives.”

Spartan couldn’t do it. His mind kept telling him to say yes, get out of the cell and try and work from the inside. The problem was that there were parts of the offer that appealed to him. The structure, the power and the resources to do something significant were a massive temptation. If he pushed he might even become a major commander who could mould and shape things in a way that might actually benefit people. The trouble was his gut told him he was lying to himself. He knew deep down that they would kill or enslave anybody opposed to their will. The relatively light hand of the Confederacy would be replaced by a totalitarian regime with strict laws, rules and religious decrees. As he considered the options the Governor sighed.

“I see you are unsure as to what you should do. I will take your lack of an immediate ‘no’ to be a ‘maybe’. You can return to your cell, I suggest you give this a good think over. Just don’t wait too long. Nobody has survived in the red group for more than two weeks and I think you’ll find some of your friends will be joining you,” he said with a dismissive smile.

The door slid open and in walked two of the guards, they looked like the ones that had brought him there but with the armour there was no way to be sure. He had just a few seconds before he was out of the room and in that brief moment he had just one question to ask.

“If I accept, can I bring others with me?”

“That is something we can discuss…if you decide we are your future. Just remember, you don’t have long.”

A hand on his shoulder pulled him to the door and before he could reply he was back in the corridor and making his way along the smooth surface to the sliding door. A light click behind them indicated the door to the room was now shut. Once they were three quarters the way to the door it hissed open to reveal another two guards who were standing alongside another prisoner. It wasn’t anybody he recognised, she was a petite woman in her mid thirties with fiery red hair that was now matted and messy. As she moved towards Spartan in the corridor she turned and looked at him.

“What do they want? Three of my friends just died in the mines. What is happening?” she cried her voice becoming hysterical.

Spartan didn’t know what to say and before he could speak they were pushed past each other and he was back inside the elevator. As the door shut behind him one of the guards leaned in towards his ear.

“Everybody joins in the end you know. It’s just a matter of time. Leave it too long and you’ll die in the mines or the arena. Your choice,” he said before straightening up.

Spartan looked up at the dark visor, the face only partially visible under the glass.

“You?”

The guard said nothing and it looked like he was going to ignore Spartan. The elevator moved gently and they made their way back to their starting position. No light or markers indicated where they were and that told Spartan that the elevators were either controlled via the suits or they were being monitored from another location. He looked around at the featureless area until he spotted a slightly different coloured tile on the wall. He moved his head to one side and noticed it had a glossier surface than the rest. It must have been a camera mount or mirrored glass as it was the only feature there. The elevator started to slow down, now just a few seconds from the destination.

“I used to be in one of the gangs back on Kerb. You know, we shifted electronics, weapons and shit. Next thing I know, we get busted by some kind of team and sent to a camp. They told me I could join or work in their factory ships.”

Spartan said nothing, surprised the man had spoken. The door hissed open to reveal the vast open space surrounded by the room-sized cells for each of the work gangs and groups. The first guard moved out and indicated for him to follow. As he moved the second guard leaned in and spoke quietly.

“This place is bullshit. They are making weapons for some kind of invasion. Get out!” he said in a whisper so that the other guard didn’t hear.

Spartan was dumbfounded and his look could have easily given the guard away for the fact that he then struck Spartan in the shoulder.

“I said get to your cell, animal!”

Spartan staggered a few feet. He was angry but more at himself than the pain in his shoulder. On one hand he was being offered the chance to join the enemy and on the other he was being warned away. The only honourable thing was to stay and die, hardly a choice. They moved on further until they reached the bars and doorway to the red quarter where the rest of his group were. As the door opened he noticed some were eating food, others were trying to sleep.

As Spartan stepped inside he realised his manacles were fitted but unlocked. He turned back around but the two guards looked the same and were staring directly at him.

“Remember what I said!” said the guard to the right and then they were gone.

As quickly as they had arrived Spartan found he was alone with the rest of the prisoners who were waiting and looking as though they wanted to hear what had happened. Misaki rushed over to him and lifted her manacled hands up so should could lifted them over his head.

“I thought they’d taken you away!” she cried, grabbing on to him hard.

Spartan was taken aback by her actions but quickly relaxed. After a few moments she loosened her grip though her arms were still around him and holding him in tightly. He was surprised at her actions as they barely knew each other and had only spoken for a matter of minutes. He put it down to the stress and anxiety of the situation.

“What did they want?”

Spartan lifted her hands, freeing himself and then slumped down to the wooden bench along the side. He hadn’t been away long but returning to this filthy part of the compound reminded him of how low they could all fall. The smell was disgusting and the toilets were at the far end and exposed to all. Spartan shook his head, arguing with himself.

“Spartan! Tell me!”

“They want us to join them, to help remove the Confederacy with their new system.”

“That’s it? Is that so bad?”

“I don’t know, Masaki. So far I haven’t seen much to be positive about. Anything would be better than this place though.”

Misaki looked at the rest of the prisoners and then back to him.

“When you were away a man arrived and told two of the men they had been selected for the re-education programme. They say a few people each week will be selected from the red group.”

“Why this group?”

“Can’t you see? Everybody here is the fittest and the strongest. Maybe they’re testing us with the fights and challenges to weed out the best for whatever they are planning. Some kind of elite organisation maybe?”

Spartan considered her comments and although he doubted there was any kind of fancy organisation waiting for them he did agree with the system of selection. By taking the strongest survivors they would be receiving a steady stream of strong, fit, intelligent and healthy people. Maybe they were training them as Zealot troopers or perhaps something more insidious like eugenics or reproduction.

“If you go, will you take me?”

He didn’t hear her, he suddenly felt very tired. Some of the lights started to cut out until the entire area was lit by just a small number of dull yellow lights. As the light faded so the electronic red lights of the night vision systems started to warm up. It might look dark but Spartan was certainly under no illusions he could be seen and probably heard at any time.

As he looked around open area he noticed a dark shape moving closer. He almost lifted his arms to strike when he heard Misaki speak again, this time she was almost touching his face. She must have moved around and directly blocked his line of sight.

“Spartan…” she whispered.

He felt her cool skin against him and then her face touched his. He tried to adjust his position as their lips met, both falling from the wooden benches to the hard and uncomfortable floor. Spartan flat on his back and Misaki draped across him. He tried to get back up but she held him down.

“Are you going to join them?” she said quietly.

Spartan lay there, saying nothing, just breathing quietly. Not that he didn’t like Misaki where she was, it was just the last time anything like this had been back on the Santa Cruz with Teresa. As he lay there thinking of her and what she must be doing right now he completely forgot about the half-naked Misaki still straddled across him. With a sigh of discontent she lifted herself up and back into the darkness, leaving Spartan to his thoughts.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mechanical slave labour had been experimented with several times in the history of the Colonies. The most significant flirtations with the technology took place prior to the Great War and had led to three bloody riots and strikes by workers. The Confederacy after all was designed for its citizens and in the end a simple ban on machines that took the work of citizens was put in place. Even so, machines that could do jobs that humans could not were never outlawed and they were frequently used by the military. One reminder of this decision is some of the machine smashing festivals held by some families still on Kerberos.

History of Slave Labour

Commander Anderson stood against the wall, holding onto the rails as he looked at his prisoner. The man was locked in the brig, the smallest room in the entire ship and protected by ten centimetres of thickened metal all around. The man was still, looking back at the crew of the Tamarisk with the same level of interest that they held of him. Contrary to what he might think the Commander was no animal and he was almost certainly waiting for something violent and terrible to happen to him. Commander Anderson had spent a long time on the Rim and had experienced all kinds of crime and brutality but that had never changed his mind on physical torture, it had always been abhorrent to him. That didn’t mean he couldn’t use more creative ways to get information out of his prisoner.

“Crap, Bishop, are you sure this is the best way to get there?” asked Teresa who stood a metre away and held onto the side in the same manner.

“The route Kowalski gave us means we need to change velocity and heading at specific intervals. The normal accelerate, turn and slow down model ain’t gonna cut it today. Just listen out for the warning buzzer and hold on. The next change is due in seven minutes.”

The route to Prometheus was unlike anything any of them had ever been on before. Both the ship and the computer systems were being pushed to the limits and they were all aware of the danger they would be in if the vessel missed one of the way points by even a few kilometres. As Teresa thought about the route she watched Anderson as he stared at the prisoner. The slender officer looked almost like a schoolboy with his trademark unkempt hair and freckled face. For a second she had doubts about whether he was the right man for a mission like this one. She had seen him in action though and he was easily capable of leadership and violence when the moment called for it.

Teresa placed her hand over her mouth for a moment before straightening up.

“You okay?” asked the Commander.

“I’ll live, the trip is a bit rough.”

“Watch yourself, throwing up in a vacuum ain’t pretty!”

“Thanks, that helps!”

Teresa glared at him and it didn’t take long for him to succumb and burst into laughter. The sounds echoed through the open spaces of the ship as it hurtled on its new and uncomfortable route. He pulled out the intercom and hit the general broadcast button.

“Find yourselves somewhere comfortable to hole up, this trip is about to get bumpy.”

*

Spartan woke to find himself on the floor and with the most outrageous backache. The chamber was bathed in the dull light that their captors considered normal. Most of the other prisoners were stood up, looking around at the fuss in the open space between the cell areas. He started to get up but the pain forced him to stay down for a moment. At first he thought he might be injured but then he remembered the previous night, Misaki jumping on him and then falling to the ground. He moved slowly this time and managed to sit up as the pain started to subside.

“Misaki?” he called, unable to see her.

A siren sound echoed through the chamber and from the right the great shielded door that led back to the surface open to reveal a dozen guards and ten times that number of prisoners.

“Holy shit, man, have you seen this?” asked one of the men.

With a great effort Spartan got to his feet and hobbled over to the large barred doorway to watch the spectacle.

“They’re like us, man, just like us!” cried a women in despair as more started shouting.

“Where are they getting them and why isn’t somebody doing something about it?”

“Fucking Confed leaving us out here!”

“Hey! What have you done to help the Confederacy other than bitch and whine?” asked Spartan, his blood starting to get fired up. All his life he had heard the whining from bleeding heart liberals about one group being upset or offended but they never seemed to lift a finger to help anyone, except when it made them look good.

“The Confederate military have died in their thousands to protect people like you. Maybe if more of you had been as angry a few months ago we could have crushed the insurgency and these scum before it got worse!”

The rest of them kept quiet as they continued to watch the scores of people file down into the open space. Just as when they arrived, they started to receive their welcoming speech.

“This room was empty when we arrived, right?” asked the woman, quickly forgetting what Spartan had said.

“Yeah, so?” answered another.

“So if it was empty, were we the first to get here?”

“No. I’ve spoken to a few people here and this place has been running for months, maybe even years. The last red group must have transferred to the re-education programme or maybe they joined the rest of the prisoners if they weren’t strong enough.”

“Or they were killed in the sick little arena games of theirs?” came a familiar voice.

Spartan moved towards the sound, past the other prisoners before coming to two men, both seated in the corner.

“Son of a bitch!” Spartan said with obvious pleasure in his voice.

In front of him sat General Rivers and Marcus Keller, his two comrades from Kerberos.

“Spartan, I see you’ve been pissing off the local girls again?” asked Marcus, the tall, strong looking German. His family were descended from one of the earliest colonial expeditions to Terra Nova, over three hundred years before. At least that is how he told the story, there were certainly very few German-speaking communities left now.

Spartan turned to his left to see an angry looking Misaki trying to discreetly hide behind one of the other prisoners. He was confused, as he hadn’t done anything wrong, to the contrary he had been nothing if noble towards her. He held out his arms towards her, trying to indicate something, anything to her. She recoiled though and shifted back. He sighed and turned back to Marcus.

“Right, you know me. I see you’ve both got your red armbands, welcome to the club.”

General Rivers beckoned for him to sit down next to him on the corner bench.

“I heard they sent you to the Governor. What did you find out?”

“For starters one of the guards did this,” he said quietly, showing them his unlocked manacles. “Anyway, the Governor wants military trained people to join their side. He has detailed files on me, I assume he will have the same on you both too.”

Marcus looked confused at his comment.

“Don’t they already have enough people? From what I’ve seen the Zealots and their friends already have more than enough people to fight their wars.”

“That’s what I thought, apparently not though, unless it’s just some kind of scam to make us do something. They seem to be collecting people for some kind of epic projects. The only other option is that this is just a glorified extermination camp.”

Marcus shook his head.

“No way, man, I ain’t going to no bonfire!” he said angrily, shifting from side to side. General Rivers sat listening intently, taking in all the details before speaking.

“What about this red band stuff? One of the women said they put you up against a Biomech? Where the hell did they find those things?”

“Remember the capsules on the ship that brought us here, Sir? They must bring them here for training or something. I don’t know, all I know is that they don’t seem particularly worried about killing us just as long as enough of us keep working with the labour gangs or fighting their pets.”

“I’m sure Confed is doing whatever they can to track us down, what concerns me is that if we didn’t know this place existed, then how in the hell will anybody find it now and connect it to our disappearance?”

“You’re also assuming they think we are still alive. What if they just said we were executed or died in an accident? Confed has bigger things to worry about right now, Sir.”

“Too bloody right it has. Half the colonies have seceded and those that are left are the smallest and least populated in the System. We’re gonna need a miracle just to survive this one, let alone actually fight back.” Marcus added in a firm tone.

With a familiar sound the barred door slid open to reveal a group of guards. They spoke to one of the prisoners and then escorted him away. This time they didn’t leave immediately. The nearest guard spoke first.

“Six more to join your little group,” he said as he pushed in another small band of haggard and angry looking people. “I have a have a special message from the Governor.”

Reaching inside his combat vest he pulled out a piece of paper and held it in front of him.

“Today you will be split into three groups. Your test will be one of wit and intelligence, as well as strength. The group that takes the least casualties will be offered a place in our re-education programme. The rest will be returned here to await tomorrow’s challenge. The groups will consist of those of you with criminal backgrounds in one, Confed personnel in another and the third and final group made up of those of you who don’t fit into either group. Remember, we want only the fittest, strongest and most capable in our programme.”

The guard put the paper back into his pocket before sliding the barred door shut. One of the new prisoners, a broad shouldered and muscular man grabbed the bars and shouted back.

“Why would I want to join your pissing programme?”

The guard turned back to him. “It’s your choice, just remember, nobody lasts more than two weeks in the red group. Do well and get out, or die, that’s the choice,” he replied before starting to laugh.

The man continued shouting at them but they turned away and walked off to join another group of their comrades.

“Hey!” Spartan tried to gain the attention of the new prisoner.

“What?” barked the man, as he turned and stared back at him, his look was one intended to intimidate but it did nothing of the sort.

Spartan glanced at him, noticing the tattoos running up his arms. On one arm was the Army crest, or at least that is what it looked like from where he was sat. The man was bare-chested and a number of marks and scars indicated either he had a lot of medical work or more likely he was a combat veteran.

“You military?”

“Yeah, Army Alpha Team, why?”

“I thought so, you don’t have the brains for the marines!” laughed Spartan.

“Marines?” answered the man with a little disdain before realising he was talking to a marine. The rivalry between the Army, Navy and Marines was well documented and more violent than even that between the Marine Corps units themselves.

“I thought I was the only Confed man here.” He marched over and to sit down next to Marcus. As he came closer Spartan could make out the Alpha logo on his bicep. It wasn’t a group he knew much about other than that they often competed with the Marine Recon units at some of the inter-service athletic events. At least, that is what he remembered from basic training, it wasn’t like he had been in the Corps long enough to participate in anything like that.

“My name’s Claus, Corporal 14th Colonial Regiment, Alpha.”

“How did you get here?” Marcus asked him.

“We were part of the advanced units deployed on board a suspected hijack near Khimaira. It was a liner, supposedly over three thousand passengers and crew. We boarded the ship and found Zealots in control, about thirty of them. We cleared the decks and regained control of the ship, that’s when we found them.”

“Found who?” Spartan asked him.

“The passengers. Every single one was inside some kind of liquid capsule. We opened one, the passenger died in less than a minute. I don’t know what was going on but there must have been a thousand of them. We hacked the log and the navigation computer to get intel. The ship was being controlled remotely via a computer system but it locked us out before we could get a trace. It seemed they were been shipped off to Orthrus though.”

“Orthrus, they seceded along with Kerberos right?” asked Marcus.

“Yeah, well, from what I’ve heard half the planets in the System have seceded. The video reports we saw said Kerberos, Prime, Orthrus and Agora have all lifted the finger to the Confederacy. That’s all the big worlds gone.”

“I don’t get it, why were they at Khimaira to start with? It’s just a gas giant.”

General Rivers cut in. “There is more to it than that, Khimaira is surrounded by mining and research stations. In many ways it shares a lot with Prometheus apart from the planet’s surface being completely inhospitable. There are platforms in the lower atmosphere, low enough to provide a modicum of gravity, they’re more like floating cities than stations.”

The soldier appeared more relaxed now as he sat in the company of other veterans. There was something about him though that made Spartan, and to a lesser extent General Rivers, uneasy. Maybe it was just the Army’s inbuilt machismo or maybe it was something else. Claus noticed Spartan staring at him and he automatically glared back.

“Hey, haven’t I seen you guys before?” he asked as he glanced at the men sideways. Then, as if a light had been flicked on inside his head he recognised Marcus. “Yeah, I know. You’re the guys they fingered on Kerberos, for the coup right?”

“Fingered isn’t exactly the word I would use.”

“Yeah, they fingered us alright, it was a serious set up. We were part of the security detail and tried to stop the massacre. In the end we got framed for the whole thing, why do you think they dumped us here instead of going to trial?” added Spartan.

The group fell silent for a few seconds when the soldier broke the uncomfortable silence. “Whatever, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? We’re all screwed in this dump!”

General Rivers turned to the bars and looked out into the open area to check what was happening. He had heard several groups being sent out to the work projects but so far none had come back and one should have returned in the last hour. He thought about mentioning it before spotting a small party arriving at the far end. He couldn’t see who they were but there were at least twenty of them. He turned back to Claus.

“You didn’t say how they caught you?”

The soldier put his chin in his hand for a moment as he thought back to whatever calamity had befallen him. Like the rest of the prisoners they had all experienced a variety of horrors and his must have been of a similar nature. He took a deep breath before turning back to the General.

“It is pretty simple. The escorts for the liner must have been away on another raid because about six hours into our operation we received a distress call from our frigate and then nothing. The bastards must have destroyed her when they came back. All I know is twenty minutes later a dozen gunboats and small vessels docked with the liner and unloaded about a hundred personnel including ten of those Biomechs. You ever fought one of those things?” he asked with a genuine look of horror on his face.

“Yeah, once or twice,” said Spartan as he threw a glance over to his comrades.

“We held them for nearly an hour, in the end we were down to side arms when they sent in those things. We tried to hold them off but they are just too much. Only me and one other guy survived, the rest they tore apart, literally before our eyes. They must have knocked us out or drugged us or something, next thing I know I’m being dumped on this rock.”

“Same story for all of us then. Where is your partner?”

The soldier shrugged, not answering Marcus, he looked around at the rest of the group and then back to the three men. “So what’s the deal then, they interrogating us or something?”

Spartan pointed to a column of about thirty people marching out and towards one of the opening doors.

“Not sure yet. Most of the people coming in are being sent off to work on various projects expanding this place. From what I’ve seen it is massive, truly massive. They are working on big projects here.”

“Like what?”

“Good question, something to do with resources for the enemy. Food, supplies, weapons, equipment or maybe just a simple indoctrination and training centre for new soldiers.”

“Like a factory for Zealots?”

“Interesting, it could be or maybe machines or even ships,” replied General Rivers.

“Ships? You think they could build something like that and not be noticed?”

“Why not, Claus? They’ve managed to slip thousands of people off colonies and ships while our forces are busy fighting insurgents throughout the sector,” suggested Spartan.

“Yeah, convenient that, ain’t it?” said a suspicious Marcus.

The familiar buzz of the cell’s door being opened drew their attention back to the newly arrived guards. It was impossible to tell if they were the ones from earlier, apart from slight variations in their sizes they all looked the same. They all wore the same clothing and equipment.

“It is time, come with us.” The first guard pointed his rifle at the prisoners.

One by one they marched out until their column moved in the same direction as before. This time their number was larger, bolstered by the new prisoners. As they were leaving two stayed in the cell, one a man in his late forties and a woman in her early twenties who lay down sobbing. The woman had already survived the first encounter with the Biomechs, but from her reaction she wasn’t stable enough to go through the same situation again. One of the guards moved in and pointed his weapon at them.

“Get out, now!”

The two ignored him and stayed still.

“One warning. Either you get out and join them or you suffer punishment!”

The man turned to the guard and took a step towards him. “I don’t care! What’s the point, we go we die, we stay, we live a bit longer, then die!”

“Not anymore. New rules from the Governor, anybody refusing a direct order is in violation of compound rules and will be transported to the surface, immediately!”

The man started to become agitated, either from the frustration of the situation or because he was trying to get himself to the stage where he was confident enough to attack. The guard must have sensed the danger as he gave a hand signal to one of the other guards who moved up, shotgun at the ready.

“What’s it gonna be? Your choice.”

The man looked back to the woman who was still sobbing. “You coming or staying?”

The woman sniffed a few times and then stood up. She had the look of someone who had given up thinking and decided to do something. The man looked at her for a moment before looking back to the guards.

“Okay, we’re coming,” he said and started to walk slowly forwards.

One of the guards kept his weapon trained on the man, the other two stepped back to watch the rest of the group. It was a simple mistake but the price would be deadly. The man had moved no more than three steps when he lunged at the guard. Taken completely by surprise the guard was able to loose off a single gunshot that missed by a wide margin before the man was on him. As the two crashed to the ground the woman screamed and ran towards the fallen pair. Spartan spotted the commotion and tried to move to help but Marcus firmly held him.

“Get back, now!” shouted closest standing guard.

He was already aiming his weapon at the two on the ground but was unable to obtain a clear shot. At the same time the woman rushed forward. It was more a reaction than any kind of aimed shot but the guard easily blasted her with his shotgun. The thermal charge burned through her shoulder and part of her chest, killing her in seconds as she dropped down. On the ground the two men struggled and by some miracle the prisoner was able to draw the man’s side arm. With a single shocking blast the round entered the guard’s temple at point blank range and sent blood and gore across the floor.

Spartan tried to struggle free but Marcus pointed into the distance at armed men rushing towards them. He was right but it didn’t make Spartan feel any better. He wanted to help and he wanted to get off this rock. Six or seven of the group pushed away and grabbed at the nearest guards. One was shot immediately before the closest were overpowered and more weapons taken.

“Take cover!” shouted Marcus as bullets started tearing across the open space between the reinforcements and the struggle outside the cell.

Spartan, Marcus, Claus and Rivers all sheltered down behind the large metal housing near the sliding door. It wasn’t a minute too soon either as two rounds struck the thick iron and ricocheted off into the distance. A series of short blasts indicated the rebels had killed the guards on the ground and were now engaged in a deadly firefight. Through the section other prisoners screamed and ran for cover, desperately trying to avoid the crossfire that had already struck two of their number.

“What are we gonna do, man?” shouted Marcus over the sound of the gunfire.

Two more of the rebels were struck down to leave just five who fired from kneeling or standing positions. Double their number of guards moved towards them at a quick walk, their body armour deflecting the odd inaccurate round as they advanced.

”They’re getting canned out there. This could be our chance,” said Spartan as he pushed away from Marcus.

“Spartan, use your head!” said General Rivers with a stern tone.

“We can do this!” He then rushed out into the open towards where two of the felled fighters lay. One was unarmed but the other carried one of the guard’s rifles. It wasn’t a model Spartan recognised but it was simple enough. He twisted the safety and aimed at the advancing guards. Remembering his training he exhaled and aimed slightly low. The first round slammed the butt hard into his shoulder and he was surprised at the kick. More importantly though the round had struck the nearest guard in the chest and he was already staggering back. Thinking he might have only a few rounds before they returned their fire, he aimed at the man to the left of the group and then spray a long burst of at least forty rounds before the gun was empty. Two of them managed to reach just a short distance away before the overwhelming fire forced them back. He managed to hit all of the nearest guards, killing three and sending the rest back into cover.

“Jesus Christ, man, you got a death wish or something?” shouted Claus in a mixture of surprise and admiration. “Throw me a piece!”

Spartan kept low and sprinted to the bodies of two of the fallen guards. Both were well armoured though Spartan was a little surprised at the variety of equipment being used. He would have expected more uniformity, not that it mattered right now. Rummaging around he managed to find two shotguns and a pair of pistols. He thrust one into his belt and slid the rest of the weapons across the door to Marcus, Claus and Rivers before pulling himself back into cover. Resting the empty rifle on the floor he pulled out the pistol and slid the magazine out, checking it before slipping around the corner with the pistol drawn and pointing in the direction of the enemy.

Throughout the prison area any of the prisoners who weren’t locked away were either cowering behind any cover they could find or running away from the sounds of the battle. The seven remaining guards stayed in their cover though their shooting was sporadic and inaccurate.

“If we’re going to do this we’ll do it properly, understood?” shouted General Rivers.

Marcus nodded, quickly followed by Claus.

“Spread out, keep low and close the distance. We don’t have the time or the ammo for a drawn out fight.”

Marcus ducked down and then rushed out into the open and past a group of people hiding behind upturned metal boxes and crates. He dropped down and squeezed off three rounds at the guards before waving for the rest to follow. Spartan spotted two of the guards trying to move back to find better cover and managed to hit one in the leg, forcing him down. His comrade left him bleeding, running back as fast as he could.

“Push them back!” shouted Spartan as he stood from his cover and advanced on the larger group of guards. As they lifted up from cover to shoot he fired single, carefully aimed shots. He wasn’t aiming to kill, more aiming to keep them pinned down so they could get closer. He had already covered half the distance before Claus got his hands on another weapon. It was one of the dropped rifles and without hesitating he started to put heavy fire down on the guards. His shooting was fast and precise as another guard quickly went down. As he fell a pair of hands lifted in the air in a plea to surrender, this was quickly followed by the other six. Spartan kept his weapon up high, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice and then rushed forwards to the guards. As soon as he reached them he disarmed the first one, taking his rifle, placing his own pistol back in his belt. Marcus moved towards him and did the same. Claus stayed where he was, rifle raised and looking out for signs of the inevitable response by the enemy.

“Don’t kill us!” whimpered the nearest guard.

“Kill you, what do you think we are, animals?” asked an angry Marcus.

“Wait, something isn’t right.” General Rivers moved up, checking the guards. He stopped in front one of them looking at him carefully.

“How long have you been a guard in this place?”

“About an hour.”

“What?” Marcus shouted.

“Yeah, I thought so,” said the General. “Strip!”

The guards looked at each other in surprise, unsure what to do. Spartan, still not grasping what the General was getting at lifted his own weapon and pointed it at the heads of the nearest two men.

“You heard him!”

The guards needed no further encouragement and quickly started to remove the webbing and armour though in their haste several of them managed to entangle themselves in the gear.

“What the hell?” laughed Marcus at the scene that was rapidly turning to a farce.

As the first man finally removed his body armour the laughing stopped. Underneath he wore prison fatigues and wore the same red band that they wore. Spartan lowered his rifle and walked up closer, holding the arm so that the band was in plain view.

“Why are you wearing this?”

The man started to stutter and Spartan turned his head at a slight angle, evidently unimpressed with the response he was receiving. Two more of the guards had removed their armour and exhibited the same clothing and red bands.

“Look, we’re prisoners from the fabrication section. We’ve been down here for nearly a year. We finished work last week, they said we could join the rest in the factories or do one year’s guard work to earn freedom.”

“Horseshit, man, no way did that happen!” Claus swore as he moved forward and punched one of the men hard in the stomach.

“Hey, back off, now!” demanded General Rivers. “Fabrication section, what is that?”

They stood in the centre of the prison compound a number of the prisoners emerged from cover and wandered over to see what was happening. Many more stayed hidden, experience showing them that doing anything other that what they were told usually ended in swift punishment. Misaki stepped forward and bent down, placing her hands on one of the dropped rifles. She lifted it up and pointed it directly at the guards. Her face was contorted with anger and for a second it looked like she was going to open fire on them. Before she was able to make a decision a loud clunk came from the far end of the open hall. Everyone, including the captured guards, turned to the direction of the sound. With a mighty hiss the large metal doors at the end opened to reveal three darkened shapes. They stood there, silent but terrifying as the loudspeaker system switched on.

“This is the Governor, I see you have all been introduced. This is unfortunate but not at all unexpected. Now that you have had your fun all prisoners will return to their holding areas. Guards, return to entry point Bravo for debriefing.”

There was a short pause and a number of the people ran back to their cells, some even clambering over the dead or wounded to reach what they considered to be safety. Misaki and two other prisoners stayed out in the open with Spartan and the rest. All were now armed and waiting for something violent and terrible to happen. The speakers clicked once more.

“Of course, anybody refusing to comply will be dealt with in the usual manner, a short visit to the surface.” There was a chilled silence, as they all stood waiting.

Almost in perfect synchronisation with his voice the three shapes moved forward to reveal themselves as three-metre tall Biomechs. They were the modified assault troops used so effectively by the Zealots in their struggle against the Confed military. Spartan and his companions, as well as most in the red group, were aware of what they were but many of the others started screaming at the sight of the terrible creatures. They moved to within twenty metres before stopping and lowering their weapons at the group. From this distance they looked like a horrible cross between a human wrestler and an ogre from the old fairy tales. These were no creatures though and were armoured and armed as you would expect to see any other soldier or military vehicle.

“That’s just great!” said Spartan in a tone that couldn’t have been any less sarcastic.

General Rivers looked around at their small number and then back to the cells where scores of prisoners were cowering.

“What’s the plan, General?” Marcus asked him.

The others looked to him as the guards started to move away and towards the doorway. They walked with the obvious body language of defeated men, certainly not the hired thugs they expected would work in a place like this. One of the men stopped and turned back, two of the others stopped with him. He looked about before looking directly at Spartan and the General.

“Did you say General? General Rivers?”

He nodded in reply, saying nothing.

The guard looked at him closely and then over to Spartan, his expression had already changed from earlier, there was now a hint of something. At first glance it appeared to be hope, but closer examination showed it to be more likely intrigue.

“I heard rumours about you, yeah, probably over a year ago. Is it true you held off an insurgent assault on a Confed compound singlehanded?”

General Rivers ignored the waiting Biomechs as he spoke directly to the guards.

“I was the only one left alive, I can tell you that.”

The guard looked back at him for a moment and continued his walk to the doorway. For a moment it looked like he would turn back but as he slowed the short figure of Vespis entered, flanked by two armed guards. This time something was different though. Previously the normal security personnel in their dark clothing and body armour flanked him. This time they wore the robes of the Zealots and in Spartan’s experience that usually meant lots of additional armour concealed underneath the fabric. Each of the men carried a crude halberd, a polearm weapon with a vicious looking cutting blade and a sharpened tip. As they approached Spartan sensed something had changed and in his experience, it was rarely good.

“You were warned, all of you. You had a chance to get out of here, instead you tried to be smart.” Flicking his hand as a signal to the rest of his guards, they each moved off around the group and quickly removed their red arms bands before returning to his side. They were still armed but Vespis didn’t seem to be troubled, probably because of his two guards and the three heavily armed Biomechs that watched over them.

“Due to your attempted coup you’ve been fast tracked to the Harvesting Centre.”

“Harvesting Centre?” asked Marcus.

“Are you deaf?” shouted Vespis and with a hand signal one of the guards approached and smashed his rifle into Marcus’ stomach. The impact was hard and sent him crashing down to the floor in pain. A spurt of blood gushed from his mouth as he hit the ground. General Rivers bent down to help him but one of the Biomechs pointed a large calibre weapon directly at him and turned its head as if to say no. Spartan glanced at the weapon, noticing it was much bigger than the guns he’d seen them carrying in the past. It was easily the size of a heavy machinegun and contained multiple barrels that presumably rotated around a solid core. He almost forgot their situation as he stared at the new and wicked looking firearm.

“As I was explaining,” said Vespis with an irritated tone, “you will be transferred to the Harvesting Centre! It’s a nice place, just what people like you need. Somewhere we can make use of those fine muscles of yours!” He looked back to the guards. “Shackle them!”

Spartan moved away from the approaching man. The idea of the Harvesting Centre did little to inspire confidence in his situation. As he started to move he felt the cold metal of a rifle muzzle at his temple. Spartan turned slightly to see it was the guard he had spoken to, he must have turned back to assist in the situation. Vespis moved towards him and gave the guard a harsh look before turning back to Spartan.

“I’m not asking, prisoner. Do as you’re told or lose your head, that’s your only choice!” he snarled and then moved back to the guard.

“What are you doing back here? You can go back with your comrades for debriefing, then you’ll return to your cells. You had your chance!” he snapped.

Three more of the original guards had now moved back near the Biomechs and an argument had erupted though it was too far away for Spartan and his people to hear what was going on. As they stood watching one of the Biomechs twisted its upper body and swung its arm and smashed a guard several metres before he hit the ground. It moved to strike the next man but was grabbed by the other two Biomechs who smashed it down to the floor and tried to hold it down.

“What the hell is going…!” shouted Vespis before Spartan jumped forward and grabbed his left arm, quickly locking his elbow and twisting it behind his back. He screamed out but Spartan forced his knee into the back of Vespis’ knee, pushing him to the ground in pain.

Marcus and the General needed no direction and took up positions around Spartan as Misaki stood her ground and lifted her rifle to point at the Biomechs.

“General, now!” shouted the guard who ducked to avoid being struck by one of the Biomechs.

Marcus opened fire first and was joined by the General and Misaki as they poured fire into the two Zealot guards. Their fire was accurate and the first man took the impact of almost fifty rounds in the face and chest. As he hit the floor the second Zealot jumped forward towards them. Several rounds slammed through the robes but must have hit his armour as he kept coming. He reached within three metres of Marcus when Misaki leapt out and smashed the butt of her rifle into his face. As he fell down Marcus put a round into his forehead. The rest of the guards picked up other weapons and signalled to Spartan and the others to join them.

Spartan dragged the still gasping Vespis behind him as he moved towards the fallen Biomech. Around it stood the other two monsters as well as the three guards. The man that seemed to be the leader stepped forward and looked towards Spartan first.

“You can’t be Confed military, you move like a pit fighter. What’s your name?”

Spartan tilted his head slightly, surprised at the man’s comments.

“Spartan.”

“Ah, the hero of New Carlos. I’ve heard of you. Didn’t you used to fight in the circuit here?”

“How the hell do you know him?” demanded a less than impressed Marcus.

“I don’t know him, I’ve heard of him,” he said before turning back to General Rivers.

“General, we received word almost a month ago they were sending you here. We’ve been getting ready for six months to get out of this place. We have vital intelligence for the Fleet.”

“Fleet? Who the hell are you, son?”

“It doesn’t matter, you can call me Tigris. I’ve been working undercover here since our patrol was captured. We don’t have long, are you in, General?”

“We know nothing about you, how can we trust you?”

Vespis started to struggle and Spartan tensed his forearm to pin the man in place as the colour started to drain from his face.

“Look, Sir, I want to get out of here just as much as you do but first we have to shut this place down. You cannot believe what is happening here.”

“Why don’t you tell us?” suggested Spartan.

The man turned his head in disagreement. “No, no good. You need to see it for yourselves, come on, we need to go.”

Spartan shouted to him. “Wait. How can we get out? What about the security system and the guards?”

“We aren’t getting out of here, not yet anyway. We can get somewhere safe though and do some damage at the same time,” said Tigris.

Spartan looked to General Rivers and Marcus to gauge their thoughts. None of them was particularly happy at the situation but it was better than sitting in the cells waiting to die. General Rivers gave him the nod and then turned to Marcus to whisper something. Spartan looked back to their new allies.

“What about them?” he asked Spartan, pointing to the two Biomechs, as he did they turned and look directly back at him. The nearest turned his head slightly so that one eye stared directly at Spartan’s face.

“What about us?” said the creature is a low, growling voice.

Spartan jumped back in surprise and then looked to his right where Marcus and now Misaki stood. They looked equally confused.

“Yeah, good question!” replied Marcus in an almost drunken tone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The use of kinetic weapons so far after their original development has often been considered one of the failings of the Confederate science programmes. Direct energy weapons systems such as particle beans, plasma weapons and lasers have been in development since the early twentieth century. The greatest obstacles to their widespread use was blooming, high power consumption, beam absorption and the lack of an indirect fire capability.

Experiments with Rayguns

“We have to move now!” shouted Spartan as he helped Rivers drag the wounded guards from the previous firefight into cover along the wall.

Spartan looked back to the large metal doorway about twenty metres away from their position. It was still wide open and on the one side the automated weapon turret sat idly with its glowing eye watching the group. Each of them was careful to not get too close to its cone of fire as like the other weapon systems, its job was to ensure no unauthorised personnel crossed its area of control. On the floor were a series of markings that designated areas that were safe and those watched by the weapon system. There was no way through the door without moving in front of its barrels.

The General himself had already taken a grazing wound to his leg in the firefight. It had been bloody but a quick bandage was all they had time for right now and the injury looked far from critical. As they moved Spartan spotted a Zealot guard taking aim at them. He instinctively pushed the General out of the way and dropped to one knee. As he did he lifted his rifle and fired two aimed shots, both striking the man in the head and neck, forcing him to the floor in agony. Picking himself up he moved back over to the General and continued to help move the injured man.

“Marcus, covering fire, we need to move back!” he shouted.

Tigris meanwhile had managed to sneak up to the control panel and had found the only piece of cover behind the console itself. He was still trying to seal the entry door as Spartan and Marcus fired rapid shots in the direction of the recently arrived reinforcements. As he pressed various buttons, the eye and its attached weapon system panned back and forth as it checked for signs of intruders. They’d already held off one wave in a cunning ambush but their numbers were now starting to tell as more and more of them arrived. It couldn’t be long before the Biomechs joined them and then it would be over. Tigris kept hitting a series of buttons but he was getting nowhere. The low pitch tones indicated the system wasn’t going to authorise him.

“It’s no good, if we can’t seal the door we might as well stop now. They will just cut the fans and in a few hours we’ll all be dead,” said the General as he kept his head down along the sidewall. Each of them was now carrying at least one weapon conveniently taken from the recently killed reinforcements.

Another dozen guards appeared and two of them threw in small metal canisters that clattered around the floor.

“Flash bangs!” shouted Marcus who ducked back.

The rest hadn’t time to move and the whole area vanished in a bright white light that rendered them stunned and unable to focus properly. Spartan landed on his back but already he was trying get up up when he spotted the enemy rushing inside. Summoning all the strength he could find he forced himself back up to one knee and lifted his rifle. His eyesight was blurred and his hearing almost non-existent but that didn’t stop him from pulling the trigger. It looked like slow motion as the gun jumped and rattled as each round burst from the barrel. The enemy, surprised by the return fire, ducked down and unleashed a devastating amount of fire that forced Spartan to the ground. He rolled over to the left and behind a metal bulkhead off to the side. The enemy must have thought they had killed most of the defenders as they rushed inside the doorway to within just a metre of Spartan. As they moved past he looked over and noticed the General and Marcus were starting to come to, but if he just waited there they would be overrun before they were able to get back into the fight. There was no sign of Tigris and he could only assume he had been killed as the men arrived. Mustering all his strength he pushed himself up.

“Arrgh!” shouted Spartan as he jumped up and hurled himself at the first Zealot guard. The two staggered out into the open but incredibly they managed to stay upright. The others turned in surprise but didn’t shoot for fear of striking the guard. Spartan slammed the base of the pistol grip into the man’s head and then spun around to fire three bursts into the other men. Two fell to the ground dead but a third managed to avoid being hit and moved ahead to Marcus and Misaki who were still rolling about on the ground. The Zealot stopped and aimed at Misaki’s head pulling the trigger but it was too late. One of the Biomechs jumped in the way and took the impact in its chest. It was knocked back a short distance and then aimed its multi-barrelled cannon at the man.

“Die!” it howled in a monstrous roar and fired a long, savage burst of heavy metal slugs that literally shredded the man before their eyes. Several more Zealots crossed the doorway but were easily cut down by the creature.

Spartan turned back to the man he’d struck who was still moving on the floor. Taking careful aim he fired a single shot into the man’s temple, not even hesitating to use his weapon.

“Come on, we can’t hold this place forever!” he shouted.

Tigris appeared from behind one of the dead Zealots, somehow he must have ducked away after falling in the skirmish and managed to avoid being hit. He jumped up to the panel and hit a series of buttons.

“No, no way…just give me a…” said Tigris as a high pitch sound emanated from the panel to be followed by the door closing rapidly. As the door shut the lights on the automated weapon systems changed to green.

“Are they off?” asked a surprised Spartan as he pointed at the weapon system.

Tigris nodded.

“How did you know how to do that?”

“A long story, trust me, we don’t have time for it, not yet.” He moved away from the panel and back to the waiting group of prisoners and guards.

“How long will it hold?”

“The system will rearm in ten minutes providing the correct key is entered and trust me, they have it. This is the only way in from the barracks, we have a really small window if we’re going to take it, Spartan.”

“What’s your plan?”

“We can take the transit corridor to the security room and command centre. If we take that we can access the entire compound’s security systems, release the captured ships, the cells and the prisoners. If we’re smart we can maybe cause some trouble at the shipyards on our way out.”

“Shipyards?” demanded Spartan.

“Like I said, we don’t have much time, we should go,” said Tigris as he made to move.

“No way, why should we trust you? You’ve already changed sides, why won’t you do it again?”

“Changed sides? I never changed, some of us had to do this to maintain our cover until somebody like you guys came along. Look, you can fly right? And handle a gun? We can’t get off this rock without you. Hell, I doubt we’d even be able to breach the security station,” he said with an almost pleading expression.

“What about the rest of the prisoners? We can’t leave them all behind.”

“We won’t, but first we have to get to the security room. It’s been tried twice before and both times the time sealed locks on the doors opened thirty minutes after an emergency had been declared.”

“An emergency?” laughed Marcus.

“Yeah, I think this probably counts!” added Spartan who was double-checking the magazines he’d taken from the bodies. “I take it when the doors open we’ll have everybody here?”

“Yep, and when they get in they won’t just punish us, it will be the end for everybody in the cells. They have itchy trigger fingers and aren’t afraid to use them. Last time this happened they murdered nearly a thousand people. Most of them forced out on the surface.”

“How will we get through the doors to the command room?” asked Spartan.

“Simple,” replied Tigris with a hint of a smile. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out his security card. “This little guy will give us access to the security and command rooms, nothing more and nothing less.”

General Rivers moved closer and examined the card before nodding in agreement.

“That’s all we’re going to need. We get to the command centre, open all the weapons stores and release the prisoners.”

“Agreed, Sir, come on!” said Tigris as he moved away from the door and rushed along the side of the open space towards one of the armoured and still closed doorways.

“Release them? They’ll be massacred!” cried Misaki who until now had stayed silent. She tried to hold Spartan back as he moved past her. He stopped for a moment, looking hard at her.

A small number of no more than a handful of the prisoners from the red group were still out of their cells and they were already picking up what weapons remained from the battle. One of the men, a gruff looking man in his fifties approached and looked up and down at Spartan.

“What about the rest of them, you’re just leaving them here?”

“No, once we have access to the command centre we’ll release them. For those that want to fight there’ll be weapons, don’t worry about that. We need you and anybody else you can find to set up defensive positions in this area until we can get access to the locks for the cells.” He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“If we don’t get back in time we’ll need you to hold them off until we can return with more weapons and help free the prisoners.”

“I’ll stay with them,” said General Rivers, “ they need someone with experience to hold this place. It’s big but there’s plenty of cover. If we do it right we could hold back an entire company.”

Spartan looked at him but he was less than convinced at the prisoners’ ability to defend the place. It didn’t matter though as they had little choice. He turned to Misaki.

“Look, Misaki, in the end they are all dead if we don’t find a way to escape.”

“You’re damn right,” said the old man as he held his captured shotgun in the air. The man turned and rushed back to the others as he explained the situation. Three of them were already dragging the bodies of those killed to the side of the space for extra cover. Spartan turned back to Misaki.

“It’s better for them to die on their feet fighting than on their knees. Come on, we need your help as well!” said Spartan as turned and continued chasing Tigris. Misaki followed close behind.

*

Admiral Jarvis stood in the armoured bridge of the heavy cruiser CCS Furious and watched her small armada make slow but steady progress towards its rendezvous with the rest of the Fleet at Khimaira. It had taken some time to finally get this group ready for action. It was only by pressing many of the survivors of the destroyed cruisers at Kronus to serve on the warships, that enough crew had been found to man the vessels. Even so the ships were operating understrength but right now she needed as many major vessels in service as possible. Then of course there was also the problem of abandoned ships that could be used by the enemy. One damaged cruiser had been scuttled at Kerberos already due to lack of resources and to deny her to the enemy. Her armaments and supplies had been split amongst the rest of the ships. The Furious Battlegroup might be at half its normal strength but with four operational ships it would be able to provide a complete and effective combat division for the Fleet.

From the view screen placed inside the bridge she was able to watch a magnified view showing the other ships close enough that she could count the antenna and weapon ports running down the flanks of the massive vessels. None of the ships were in brilliant condition and each was marked and scorched from where they had been sitting for three years in dry dock. They were all Achilles class cruisers, warships designed as flexible ships that could operate independently or as part of a larger group. They were armed in much the same fashion as other Confed capital ships with electromagnetic railguns as the primary weapons. The hulls were littered with point defence turrets and each was capable of carrying a number of shuttles or landing craft. Though unable to deal with something like a battleship they were easily capable of taking on multiple destroyers and frigates or dozens of smaller vessels. The Furious was something else though. As a heavy cruiser she was a modified and heavily improved Achilles class with additional armour, larger power plant and more powerful weapons. She lacked bays for shuttles to make room for extra armour and gunports making her doubly effective as a weapons platform or command and control ship. She was second only to the handful of battleships and battlecruisers in the sector.

The small task force’s destination was the carrier CCS Wasp that waited for the arrival of the Admiral along with a slowly growing number of ships. Since her last visit to Khimaira a month ago the flotilla had increased to double its size and every day more personnel arrived to join the fight. The planet and its orbiting stations had become a kind of rallying point for any forces or vessels sympathetic to the Confederacy.

The communications officer turned in her seat and looked over to the Admiral who was still busy gazing at the assembled ships.

“Admiral, Bellerophon, Patroclus and Perseus report their weapon systems are ready for gunnery trials.”

She continued looking out at the ships. Most of the main guns on the cruisers were concealed behind sealed gunports. The design was partially to protect the vulnerable parts of the weapon systems but also to also reduce the warlike look of the vessels when around friendly vessels. It was well known that Perseus had never fired her guns in anger though she doubted that was a condition that was likely to remain for long. Few in the Fleet had managed that luxury in the last months. She barely registered the comments from her officer until noticing her waiting.

“Tell them, good work, they may conduct their drills when ready. I want a full test and evaluation of the sanlav rounds in the cruiser weapons. I expect a full debriefing within the hour,” she demanded and then turned to her navigator.

“How long until we reach the Fleet?”

“Twenty-nine hours until Khimaira, Admiral, I’ve already received word that two more cutters have managed to escape from Orthrus and are due to arrive several hours before us.”

“Excellent news, they should have intelligence on the enemies’ deployment in that System. Perhaps things are starting to look up for us. At some point the people in the rebel colonies are going to realise they have turned from a fair and equitable system to one of servitude,” she said to those on the bridge, though to herself she worried that many might not live to experience the revelation.

“Admiral, we have just received a bounced signal from the Fleet, it is marked for your eyes only from Captain Hardy.”

“Put it through to my datapad, Lieutenant.”

Admiral Jarvis lifted the device from her belt and waited a few seconds before the encrypted message arrived from her communications officer. It was unusual to receive a message this way she thought. It must be important for it not to go to the commander of the Battlegroup but directly to her. After entering her access codes she accessed the video message. When the access screen slipped away it revealed the face of Captain Hardy.

“Admiral, I have just received an encrypted emergency communication from vessels purporting to be from the Seventh Fleet. The transmission was encrypted but sent to High Command, it contains distress codes and a full log of their transit to our System over the last month.”

“Seventh Fleet?” she muttered to herself, “I thought they were part of the Terra Nova Home Fleet. What’s going on?”

Admiral Jarvis looked about the bridge, the officers were all busy and the Captain was pre-occupied checking navigation charts. For a moment she considered keeping the information to herself, normally she would discuss this with her right hand man, General Rivers. But with him gone she had no one as reliable and steady as him to talk with. The Captain was a decorated officer with years of combat experience and she had also conducted at least two tours at Carthago in the Alpha System.

“Captain, look at this,” she ordered as she lifted her datapad up towards her.

She turned from her duties to the message and read it intently. As her eyes moved further down the page she looked more and more incredulous. When she finished she looked back at the Admiral.

“Interesting. The Seventh Fleet, heart of the Home Fleet. After all this time they just appear, right when we need them. I don’t like it, not one bit. This could easily be a trap to lure part of our Fleet to open space to be picked off or attacked. The signal could be faked and we have no idea if there is even a single Confed ship in that area.”

The Admiral looked back at the datapad re-reading several of the sections. As she checked the specifics the Captain brought up a list of known ship dispositions. She centred on the ships known to be part of the Home Fleet. She ran her hand down the list, checking off each of the warships.

“The order of battle at Alpha is impressive, I don’t see how a revolt even the size that we have faced could cause much trouble for them. Admiral, do we have any information on what has happened to the Alpha System? Do we assume they are in the same position as us, and trying to regain control? If so why cut off access to us? Maybe they were trying to stop the contagion and revolt from this sector spreading to the home Systems including Terra Nova?” asked Captain Williams.

The Admiral nodded in agreement. She walked to the projection windows looking out into space. One of the cruisers was already firing periodic shots from its starboard batteries into target drones. Some of the weapons were fitted to the rotating sections and others were mounted directly into the static hull behind thick armour. She turned slightly to one side to look back to the Captain.

“That is a good question. The last contact we received told us there had been an attempted coup, almost certainly by forces loyal to the secessionists. It was defeated and an embargo placed on the Proxima System until the situation is resolved. They could quite easily be sat waiting to get the all clear from us first.”

Admiral Jarvis walked over to the tactical display and console and beckoned for the Captain to join her. The display was much like those on board the other capital ships though it lacked some of the three-dimensional display features shown on the carriers and battlecruisers. With a few deft movements she entered her access codes to view the last known Fleet disposition in the Alpha Centauri sector as well as the expected formations and supply routes. The display changed to Alpha Centauri and its two stars. The System was much more substantial and better developed than Proxima Centauri and contained thirteen colonised planets. At the heart of the System was the heavily built up capital of the entire Confederacy, the world of Terra Nova, built in the image of Old Earth and the most important planet next to Prime in Proxima Centauri. The Admiral pointed to a glowing orb in the middle of the map.

“The primary communication hub is based here next to the Alpha transit point and about four days travel from Terra Nova. This is where our signals are normally gathered and then repeated to the various communication channels or ships. We have a similar communication and transit point in this System and yet there has been no communication or travel between them for over three months. The communication routes between the two star Systems had been jammed and the last official contact said they had been struck by a coup attempt and were shutting down the route to avoid contamination. Since then communication has remained jammed with digital noise and no vessels have arrived from Alpha.”

“True but with a journey time for manned trips of over three hundred days is that surprising? Even if they left two months ago we would not have seen them yet.”

“They could still try to communicate though. All they have to do is get past the jamming at the transit point and they would be clear to transmit. The question is, why haven’t they tried?” asked the Admiral.

“Either they are unable to contact us or they are unwilling,” explained the Captain.

“According to the attached notes the commander of the group states they are the remnants of a taskforce, including a carrier and a cruiser wing that have survived an ambush on their way from Alpha Centauri to the Titan Naval Station as part of a reinforcement detachment. They have apparently been conducting a fighting withdrawal for the last month. Their ETA at the Proxima transit point is eight days. Thoughts?”

“I don’t like it, Admiral, but we can’t take chances with something this big. I suggest a token force to meet them. Small and fast just in case they hit trouble.”

Admiral Jarvis stood for a moment, considering the situation. The Fleet assembled at Khimaira was closer to the transit point but there appeared to be no great hurry. Vessels could make the journey in two days, more than enough time for her to organise a plan with enough contingencies if it turned sour.

“Lieutenant, get me a secure link to the Wasp, I need to speak with her captain asap.”

“Understood,” replied Lieutenant Matterson as she started the procedure.

The datapad started to buzz, the familiar sound when a high priority communication had arrived.

“Excuse me,” said the Admiral as she moved away to a slightly more discrete part of the bridge.

The incoming message was short but to the point. It was from the Tamarisk that was due to arrive at Prometheus within the hour. They would be making immediate contact with the arms dealer, with the intention of obtaining information to the whereabouts of contraband prisoner transfers and sale. He was requesting any additional units or support Confed might have at the station.

“Good work, Anderson,” she said quietly to herself, “with luck you’ll find them before they vanish.”

A few deft taps on the device and she sketched out an update on the tactical situation near the planet as well as the details of several safe houses if needed. Her final point in the message was that she would arrange for a local team to meet them upon their arrival, details to follow. As she signed out of her device and placed it back in its pouch on her belt, she moved back to her communications officer.

“Almost there, Admiral,” said the officer who felt under even more pressure as the Admiral stood patiently.

*

They were already through the first door but fierce resistance from the last six remaining guards had kept them pinned down for more than four minutes. The corridor was wide but offered no protection from the defensive fire. The enemy were well equipped with assault rifles and at least one was armed with a thermal shotgun that made a mockery of any kind of armour. One of Tigris’ men had already been cut down trying to rush it. Spartan and Tigris kept checking around the corner for an opening but nothing presented itself. The enemy were at the far end where the corridor opened out into a small foyer with what looked like several small blast doors. At least one cabinet had been knocked over to provide the defenders with cover to shoot from.

“We’re screwed man!” shouted Marcus, his own weapon now out of ammunition, “I’m out!”

Spartan reached down and pulled his half expended pistol out. He quickly checked the magazine before passing it to Marcus.

“Save the ammo, we need a plan and fast!”

Spartan looked back in the direction they had come from. They’d already killed two guards getting to this stage by rushing the first corridor. The Biomechs had followed them and though one had made it the second had been pinned by a small group of Zealots who had stayed hidden and now cut-off their escape. With time of the essence they had been forced to leave it covering the rear.

“What about him,” asked Spartan as he looked towards the waiting Biomech, “can he force his way inside?”

Tigris made to answer but was interrupted by the great beast leaning over and speaking in its gruff, always angry tone. It was well armoured and seemed eager for a fight though whether it could fight its way down such a treacherous space was highly doubtful to Spartan.

“I can do it,” it said and without even checking for confirmation it stepped out into the corridor. Bullets struck into its armour immediately but with a series of painful grunts he pushed forward, lowering his heavy Gatling gun and staggered ahead. With a deafening roar the weapon opened up and filled the corridors with flames, smoke and spent shells.

“The crazy bastard!” shouted Spartan. “Follow him!”

Jumping from cover Spartan, Marcus, Tigris and Misaki moved up close behind the hulk. They fired the odd shot past him where they could but his great size blocked most of their view. It took only around twenty steps before they reached the end of the corridor. As the Biomech reached there it staggered and collapsed to the floor, blood dripping from numerous wounds. Spartan leapt over his body and right between two startled Zealot guards.

“Bastards!” he cried as he smashed his rifle butt into the first man’s face and then spun around to fire multiple shots into the second who slammed against the wall and then dropped down dead.

Marcus was quickly onto the injured first man smashing his own weapon several times into his face. The next two followed behind and took up positions in case any more guards arrived.

“Inside is the command room, it should be empty, you ready?” asked Tigris.

Spartan nodded and with a firm kick he forced open the unlocked interior door. As he went inside he could see it was empty. The room was about twenty by twenty metres and packed wall to wall with displays and computer systems.

“Jackpot! I’ll get the system online, you watch the corridor in case anybody else tries to get in.”

“I thought you said that was the only way in?” asked Misaki.

“For us, it is. There are two more access points where the Biomech was killed. If they are fast they could get a few people there in the next few minutes, make sure they don’t get in!” he added and then turned to the computers.

“Great work, anything else we might want to know?” demanded an angry Spartan.

Tigris was already hitting buttons on the computer systems and answered but didn’t turn away from the displays.

“I doubt it, once I have access you’ll have your answers. Now watch the corridor!”

Spartan turned his head in annoyance. There was nothing he disliked more than when people used him and right now that is exactly how it felt. He waved over to Marcus.

“Back to the corridor, apparently we might be expecting company. Misaki, watch him,” he added as he tilted his head in the direction of Tigris.

The two moved back and Spartan tossed her a magazine. At the doorway they came to the bodies of the two Zealot guards and the Biomech who was still moving. Spartan knelt down with a great effort managed to turn it over.

“Spartan!” the creature roared, the pain in its voice evident.

“Hey, easy now, you’re badly hurt.”

The creature started to make a strange noise and it took a few seconds before Spartan realised it was laughing. The roar was more like a battle cry or howl than anything he had ever heard before. As the creature slowed down its breathing altered slightly.

“Hurt! I will die. Spartan, you must promise!”

Spartan didn’t quite hear the last word and leaned in to hear more clearly. As he moved the creature reached out and grabbed him with its muscular arms.

“Promise to release my people!”

Spartan could barely breathe and had to use all his strength to pry its arms from him.

“What do you mean your people? You mean Biomechs like you?”

The creature nodded slowly, blood now dripping from its mouth.

“Release them, give us our revenge!” he snarled and then started to cough blood.

“He’s dying,” said Marcus.

“Really?” answered Spartan sarcastically.

“Here!” said the Biomech as it lifted its weapon arm to show Spartan his Gatling gun. It was easily as wide as Spartan’s head and presumably very heavy. He reached to hold it and as he took some of the weight the Biomech let out a final sigh before becoming still.

“That, I didn’t expect,” said Marcus as he helped Spartan lower the Biomech’s arm.

“Why was he showing you that thing?” he asked as he pointed to the gun.

“He wanted me to have it, to use to free his people. I had no idea they could think or reason for themselves.”

“Don’t get sentimental on me now, you remember what they did on Prime!”

“True, this one is different though. Look at it, the face is less pronounced and the torso is slightly bigger. Maybe they have been breeding or creating different types.”

“What? Like little ones and bigger, tougher ones. Why?”

“I don’t know, maybe they haven’t perfected the system yet. The first ones I saw when we boarded the ship near Kronus were smaller and faster. They didn’t seem particularly intelligent though. This guy could be a new type of heavier, smarter Biomech for a different kind of battlefield use.”

As the two looked down at the broken body of the fallen creature the second Biomech arrived.

“Where have you been?” asked Spartan.

The creature looked at him and then down at the body. It could see that Spartan was in the process of removing the gun from the fallen Biomech.

“He was angry, I told him he would die this way,” said the creature as it bent down and helped lift the weapon, passing it to Spartan.

Though it was heavy Spartan was strong, well built and used to wielding weapons from his time as a pit fighter. With effort he grabbed the middle section in his left hand and placed his right on the concealed trigger assembly.

“Good. You are like us, you like big guns!” said the creature with what looked like a crooked smile.

Spartan looked back to Marcus who simply shrugged his shoulders. It was a bizarre scene with the three enemies stood in the same place discussing weapons. Spartan noticed a lever on the side of the weapon and tapped it. The barrels started to rotate at high speeds and he had to be careful not to catch his hand in the moving parts.

“They are coming!” said the Biomech as it stepped back and faced one of the blast doors. As it took a few steps back it lifted its arm and the gun on its right arm started to rotate.

“What about the guys back there?” Spartan asked him.

“All dead,” came the calm response.

“Marcus, come on, get back!” he shouted and the two men moved taking cover near the doorway that led into the command room. As they took up good positions Spartan glanced back inside to see Tigris still working on the computers.

“Tigris, they’re coming. How long?”

“Not long, about another two minutes, you need to hold them back!”

The blast door started to glow along the sides and warmth radiated from the glowing sections. In just seconds large parts of metal were already starting to drip or fall away, then, with a white flash the blast door fell apart to the ground. For a moment nothing happened, smoke and dust scattered from the doorway and then a number of Biomechs, they were the man-sized creatures Spartan had faced on the surface of Prime months earlier. As the first of them leapt inside the entire doorway disappeared in flames from the allied Biomech’s Gatling gun. One long burst shredded at least ten of the enemy and cleared the doorway.

“Bloody hell!” Marcus shouted over the din of the weapon.

“It’s not like he needs much help from us right now is it?” laughed Spartan.

As the smoke cleared another mixed group of Biomechs and Zealots appeared and started moving around the doorway but they were obviously unwilling to jump through. One popped his head out and Spartan instinctively hit the fire button on the gun. The recoil was substantial but somewhat mitigated by the weapon’s substantial bulk. In less than three seconds he expended hundred of rounds, though whether he managed to hit anything was unknown. He pulled his finger from the trigger and the gun barrel started to slow down.

“Yeah,” said the Biomech as it stepped into the doorway and looked out for any sign of the enemy. A few must have caught his eye as he fired two more bursts before stepping back.

“Clear…for now.”

The area went quiet, the only sounds the hissing of superheated metal and the groans of several of the dying Zealots. As they stood waiting a low pitched tone echoed through the open space followed by a chorus of clicking.

“What was that?” Spartan called out.

“I’ve got it, command access to the compound!” replied Tigris excitedly.

Spartan placed his hand on the Biomech’s arm.

“Stay here, I’ll be back.” He rushed back inside the room. Tigris was already moving scores of video screens about on the displays.

“What do you have?”

“What don’t I have?”

Spartan looked unimpressed and moved his hand to touch one of the displays.

“Hey, uh, don’t touch that. Look, I’ve released the locks on the cells, every single cell in the place. That’s your block plus the other fourteen of them.”

“Fourteen? There must be thousands of prisoners here?” Misaki said in surprise.

“At least. The security system is offline and I’ve triggered a system reboot which will take up to an hour before everything else comes back. After that the doors, locks and guns will come back under the control of the supervisor of the system.”

“Who is that?”

“That’s the problem, the default system supervisor is the Governor.”

“So what are our options?”

“It’s quite simple, Spartan, either we use the time we have to get out of this place or we try and take over the entire compound.”

“How could we get away? By ship?”

“Good question, Misaki.”

With a few deft hand movements he brought up two video feeds that showed massive caverns full of people working and vast structures surrounded by scaffolding and machines.

“What is that?”

“The shipyards. I told you, Spartan. These guys have been working here for sometime. They’ve been launching one every month since I’ve been here.”

“That doesn’t help us though, what about operational vessels, is there anything we can use to escape?”

“I’ll check,” he said as he looked through different feeds.

Spartan looked at the feeds before looking down at the gun he was still carrying. He thought back to the dead Biomech and what it had said.

“The Biomechs, why did they help you?”

“I managed to alter the programming on a dozen of the capsules in the new chamber that was being constructed during the last breakout attempt. It might have failed but it gave me the cover I needed to make the changes. I disabled the indoctrination program they’ve been running so when the Biomechs were released three weeks ago they were screwed up. They must have thought they were faulty because they were used as cannon fodder in the arena or for training the other Biomechs. Shame I couldn’t do any more, but when the revolt failed I had to get back and help round them up or they’d know something was up.”

A red light started flashing on the panel and on one of the screens an incoming message alert appeared. Some of the camera feeds started to shut down and Tigris tapped furiously on the virtual keyboard as he managed to lock out parts of the system before control was removed.

“What is that?” asked Marcus.

“It looks like several ships have just taken up positions over the compound. One of them is trying to obtain remote access to the security system. They managed to get part of it, including access to the outer door and the shipyards, but I’ve managed to lock down the rest.”

“Good work.”

“Yeah, I take it this scuppers our escape plan though? No point trying to escape in a transport when they have ships waiting for us.”

“God, Spartan!” Misaki called as she gazed at one of the screens.

“What is it?”

“No way, look,” said Marcus as he leaned closer to one of the displays.

“Here, let me,” said Tigris as he moved the video feeds to a series of larger displays that were mounted in the freestanding wall in the middle of the room. The first screen showed a long hall easily up to a kilometre long. It was packed full of cylinders just like the ones on the ship that brought Spartan and his comrades to Prometheus. That wasn’t the image that had caught Misaki’s eye though. It was another area, much smaller, where bodies were being loaded onto conveyer belts by large numbers of people. As Spartan watched he followed the body of a man as it worked its way along the belt before reaching a large metal box where it subsequently disappeared.

“God, what is this place?” demanded Spartan.

“I told you, this is the Harvesting Centre. It’s where they take the strongest prisoners. The machines harvest bodies, tissue and organs to make and repair their new toys.”

“Toys, you mean the Biomechs?”

“Yeah, exactly. This is where they make them. From what we’ve worked out they modify the strongest prisoners, like your red group, with equipment in the factory rooms. Tissue, organs and other stuff like that goes to the same place. All I know is that people and body parts go in one end and at the other we get creatures like him.” He pointed to the doorway where the Biomech stood, waiting patiently with its gun.

“But how many are they making?”

“Marcus, thousands from what I can see.”

Spartan was deep in thought, busy scratching his chin before interrupting them.

“Hang on, how long does the indoctrination program take to change them?”

“A few days I guess, why?” asked a confused looking Tigris.

“Because if we can free them we’ll have thousands of Biomechs who I’m sure would very much like to know what has been going on.”

“Spartan, are you serious? These things have killed thousands already,” exclaimed an angry Marcus.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. They are intelligent creatures, just like us. The ones we’ve fought were tortured, mind altered and savage. We can turn them into an army, maybe even allies! We certainly have a shared enemy.”

They all went quiet for a moment as they tried to absorb the revelations and possibilities they had discovered. The light on the console kept flashing red, reminding them of the circling enemy vessels.

“Spartan, I like it, what’s your plan?” asked a pleased looking Misaki.

CHAPTER NINE

Private spaceflight is now a common occurrence with both private enterprise and even some wealthy individuals now being able to take part in space travel and commercial ventures away from their home worlds. The first of these ventures occurred in the late 20th century where wealthy donors could hitch rides on national space programmes for a fee. This expanded rapidly into the 21st century with the rise of space tourism. The following decades moved quickly to commercial exploitation of the resources around Old Earth. Once the first interplanetary colonies were formed it would never be the same again.

Origins of Private Space Travel

Bishop took his rifle apart for the second time in the last hour. Working on equipment in a zero g environment was certainly different to when he practiced on the base, but there were benefits. Providing the vessel was coasting, as it was right now, there was no gravity and the parts stayed roughly where he left them. One game he and Kowalski played was the thirty-seconds weapon strip. If they were fast enough the parts would stay close enough to the starting positions and the job could be done without placing them on any magnetised surfaces. Right now though he was taking just one part off at a time, cleaning and checking for any imperfection or dirt that might impact on its effectiveness. It wasn’t really necessary, the weapons were all in a state of excellent condition but it gave him something, anything, to do while they waited for the last six hours of their trip to come to an end.

They had left the outer reaches of the storm areas over an hour earlier but travelling any faster in this region would draw attention to them in a very busy shipping area. Not that Bishop was complaining, the journey through the storms had been horrendous and the ship had sustained damaged to one if its engines on the tail end of the trip. He was just thankful they managed to make it without losing any major systems or taking damage to the habitation sections.

As he placed the barrel back into its housing he checked one of the monitors that watched the exterior of the ship. From this position he counted at least ten large vessels, cargo ships and transports each the size of a Confed battleship. Scores of flickering lights indicated the myriad of smaller craft as they moved about their business carrying people and supplies throughout the stations, bases and planetary compounds. It was much busier than he had ever expected.

“Bishop, double-check the weapon housings. It is imperative that nothing can be detected from our containers. If they pick up the firepower in this ship we’ll be intercepted by customs and checked, then we’ll be screwed.”

Bishop snapped the separate parts of his rifle mechanism back together with a satisfying clunk and then placed it on one of the many clip mounts on the walls of the room. He then reached out to the intercom on the wall near to where he was working.

“Roger, checking now, Sir.”

He pulled himself out towards the access door to the spinal corridor that ran the length of the ship, stopping at the engineering panel. With a few deft taps he switched to the weapon maintenance panel that was retrofitted when the ship had been rebuilt and heavily modified.

In the main habitation section of the ship Kowalski and Commander Anderson made their own final checks as they moved ever closer to the Prometheus Trading Post. Most of the computer displays showed columns of details and figures on the state of the fuel and their flight trajectories. Anderson leaned back, so far it all looked good. That was something that always worried him.

“Sir, we’re picking up a coded message from the station, are we expected?” asked Kowalski as he rechecked the signal for authenticity.

Anderson moved up to the communications unit to check the details himself.

“It looks okay, the watermark and sig file are all current. Audio or video?”

Kowalski split the incoming data streams up so that he could remove the content from the secure packets. It took only a few seconds as the computer checked the data for errors or security problems before it could be viewed.

“It’s a live video stream, Commander, shall I connect and respond?”

“Negative, put the stream on the board, let’s see who we are dealing with first.”

As Kowalski moved the live stream to the larger display, with surprising speed an image appeared of a small room, though the subject in the middle was just a shadow. Kowalski turned up the brightness and adjusted other colour levels until they could see it was a man in a dark room speaking directly into a microphone. No matter what he changed he couldn’t get any more definition other than a basic outline of the man.

“Tamarisk. Good to see you arrived safe and sound from your hazardous trip. I trust all went well. My name is Angelo, I’m part of a recruitment agency on Prometheus Seven, I specialise in assembling problem solvers with specific skills in a very short time. I’ve been contacted by our mutual friend Ganymede concerning your personnel requirements and have been informed of your operational needs and tight deadline. Please respond.”

“What the hell is that all about?”

“Sounds like code to me,” said Teresa as she arrived in the cramped room, gently pulling herself along with the grab rails and placing a hand onto Kowalski’s shoulder. He jumped at the unexpected contact.

“You’re right,” replied Commander Anderson. “I’ve not heard of Angelo before, but single name units are almost black ops of some kind. Ganymede is the codename for command officers of Admiral or higher.”

“Man, I hate it when you sneak up like that!” said a shaken Kowalski.

“You need to chill out, Kowalski, it’s only me!” she replied with a grin.

“Okay, this looks safe to me. Establish a comms link with this character and set our transmission to audio only, no reason to give him a free look at us.”

“On it, Sir.”

“This is Tamarisk, we weren’t expecting any assistance,” said Commander Anderson.

There was a short pause as they sat waiting before the man in the video appeared to nod and then started to speak.

“I was contacted recently by a mutual friend. She said you might need assistance of the physical kind upon getting here. I’ve taken the liberty of assembling a team of locals. The price wasn’t cheap but the bill has been covered by Ganymede.”

The Commander hit the mute button and turned to Kowalski and Teresa.

“He said she, it could be the Admiral.”

“Makes sense, she’s the only senior commander with full knowledge of our mission and she knows we are due to arrive soon. Can we trust them?” asked Teresa.

The Commander shrugged and turned back, releasing the mute key.

“We are due to land within the hour at Docking Bay 14, we’ll meet you there,” said Anderson immediately cutting off the sound. They sat and waited before a final message came back.

“Understood, Tamarisk, safe journey, we will see you shortly, out.”

The video cut to black and was quickly followed by a connection terminated message.

“Do we need their help, Sir?”

“No idea, Teresa, but if we need to break into a prison facility or ship we’ll need every hand and weapon we can find. If it was indeed the Admiral then she will have arranged the best she can find at such short notice.”

“Who are they anyway?” asked Kowalski who turned away from the computer for the first time in the last hour.

“The Confederacy has Black Ops units throughout the sector. Some gather intelligence, others are sleepers who wait for orders as and when they are needed. My guess is this Angelo is part of an Intel team out here. Lots of information, goods and money pass through this area all the time. As for the people he has assembled, well, they will almost certainly be local mercs.”

Kowalski scratched his neck and appeared lost in thought before speaking again. “Mercs, out here? I thought the Confederacy stopped using hired guns decades ago.”

“Officially we stopped the mercenary units being used in the Army. After all, why pay for mercs when you can get professionals for less money and without the loyalty issues. They do have their place though, especially when you need a proxy.”

“Proxy? What do you mean?”

“He means, Teresa, you pay somebody else to do your dirty work. It costs a bit more but if it goes wrong you don’t take the heat,” replied Kowalski.

“Yeah, something like that. Okay, this is going to be interesting. I want all of you to re-read the files on the station and on our contact. We will be there in fifty minutes and I don’t want to be caught with my trousers down. Don’t forget, we are black market traders looking to buy weapons and armour for insurgents. Keep quiet, be discreet and for God’s sake don’t call me Commander. Understood?”

Teresa and Kowalski both nodded, Bishop shouted back down through the ship to acknowledge the plan.

*

The series of vertical display units showed feeds from more than twenty locations in the facility. On three of the screens were scores of guards, each collecting equipment from the barracks and assembling at two open areas near the building. One display showed a massive computer centre that must have been at least a hundred square metres, packed with large metal units and cooling systems. The other displays showed hundreds of prisoners rushing from their cells. Some were overpowering their guards, others grabbing captured equipment, many more simply cowered or hid as they waited for whatever unfortunate event was about to unfold.

“We’re going to have to get this thing organised. Once the guards enter the main areas they will have coordination and firepower on their side.”

“The prisoners won’t stand a chance, Tigris. We need to even the odds somehow. What exactly do we have access to here?” asked Spartan.

“Well, when the ships arrived they were able to connect to and access the mainframe, wherever the hell it is. They shut off access to the management and computers systems as well as the communications gear. We’ve still got control over the security systems, ventilation and cells, that’s it though. We can’t do anything to the harvesting areas, shipyards or anything outside the compound.”

“What the hell?” Marcus paced back and forth like a caged animal, muttering to himself.

“This isn’t good. So all we can do is release the prisoners and give them access to most of the base. Is there nothing else we can do from here? What about the Biomechs? Can you change their programming, maybe get them to help in the fight?” asked a despondent Spartan.

“No, not from here, that has to be done at the actual location where the Biomechs are being made. Also, it doesn’t take minutes. The changed programming could take days to kick in for the newest models and the older ones will take even longer. We don’t have the time right now, why change them if we’ll be dead within the hour?” answered Tigris as he turned back to the displays that were still functional, for signs of anything that could help them.

“What do you know about this computer area here?”

“No idea, Spartan, I’ve not seen it before. It must be important though, look at the cabling on the base layout and the power management. Holy crap, it is big!” said Tigris as he scrolled through several diagrams.

“Hey, I recognise that layout.” Misaki stepped closer. She examined the details and then checked two of the displays where the metal housings hid the cables from the computer area. She started to nod the more she looked.

“Well, what is it?” asked Marcus.

“When we arrived I noticed a large communications tower. It was the only substantial structure in this entire area on the surface. Those containers and housings run from the tower down to the computer centre. If you look here you can see smaller communication connections moving out to the factories, harvesting areas and shipyards.”

“So you’re saying this computer system is networked throughout the compound, so what?”

“No, that’s not what she’s saying, Marcus,” said Tigris, who looked as though he had already worked it all out. He pressed a few buttons and brought up the network details for the entire system. “The bulk of the data and computer power is being moved between this centre and the communication tower. If you ask me this entire facility is being controlled or managed from elsewhere.”

“What about the Governor then?”

“He’s a brute and a bully, Marcus, but he doesn’t look like the kind of man who could manage and operate a complex facility like this. Tigris, if you’re right then somewhere in this sector is a base or hub that controls it,” Spartan added as he stood at the sector map that showed the planets, stations and steroid belts that littered the Proxima Sector.

“Not just this place, Spartan, it could control many more, possibly dozens of them through Proxima Centauri,” Tigris said as he traced his fingers across a number of the planets.

“You know what you’re saying, Tigris? The Zealots and their partners could just be the tip of the iceberg with this thing. They could have thousands more Biomechs, maybe even ships being hidden away, ready for the moment to strike.”

Spartan thought for a moment and continued, “This is all speculation but if, and this is a big if, this station is one of many and it is being controlled from elsewhere then we have a duty to get the information out of here. Even if we don’t get off this rock, people will have to know.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Marcus asked.

Misaki raised her eyebrows, desperately wanting to know what they were talking about.

“We need to control that communications tower so we can get a signal out to warn the Admiral and anybody else who is listening. There is a sickness down here, something dark and dangerous and I think Confed are going to want to hear about it.”

“I’ve got an even better idea,” said Tigris. He pressed three buttons and brought up the images of the prisoners in one of the sectors where they were engaged in bloody fighting with a small number of guards. “What do you think the public would think if we could show them pictures of this? Video footage of the prisoners, the guards, the labs and the Biomechs being built here from the flesh and blood of our own people.”

Spartan nodded with a wry grin. “Tigris, now you’re thinking like an officer. Turn the population against their masters.”

“Okay then, what do we need to do?” Marcus asked.

“Tigris, somehow I don’t think they are just going to let us walk into that place and start using their system. Also, when they realise what we’re doing won’t they just destroy the communications gear?”

“Time isn’t so much the problem, Spartan. As long as we can get a data packet out of this area I can lock onto any repeater stations in orbit around the planet. If we can transmit a general distress for up to a minute it will propagate throughout the network on the public channels.”

“Are you sure, Tigris?” asked Misaki.

“What’s the point of a clear, unencrypted data channel if you can’t transmit to it in an emergency? That’s why we have it! But we need to hit the computer centre and fast, before they get there first.”

Tigris brought up the map to the compound centred on their position in the security room. The site had the look of a spider with them positioned halfway along on the left. Four of the legs were fitted out with harvesting rooms, prison cells and at the tip were the shipyards. Another four arms were in various states of completion. Tigris traced his hand from the tip of their leg on the base.

“So this is where we all arrived. Each end of the leg section leads to the surface where the loading bays, platforms and hangars. As you move in you come to the prison cells and the barracks. Now there is one barrack building per leg. We’ve been fighting one of them so far. If you move further along the leg it gets wider till you reach the centre.”

“What’s in the middle?” asked Spartan.

“The harvesting areas and shipyards are based around the wide sections of each leg where it joins the central hub. The main office for the Governor is here, at the end of our leg.”

“Why isn’t he in the middle?”

“I don’t know, good question, Marcus. I’ve only seen a small part of this myself. I might have been a guard but they never trusted us with more than one sector.”

Misaki moved the map to get a closer look at the central hub. She zoomed in to examine the shafts, corridors and rooms. “Okay, it looks like the computer centre is right in the middle, further below the surface than any other part of the base. Why? Don’t computers usually go further away from heat?”

“Could be using the thermal energy to power the place. Also, don’t forget if this place is as heavily protected and controlled from elsewhere you’re going to want the computer gear as far away from the surface and interruption as possible,” said Spartan. Misaki looked back to the map and continued.

“If you move up you’ll come to the large barracks structure. Above that, right on the surface is a massive open area with access doors leading to the surface.”

Tigris leaned in and quickly spotted the obvious.

“They are for launching ships when they are completed in the shipyards I would think. Look, the route from the yards is short and direct, right to the surface.”

“The route from here to the computer centre leads right past more prison blocks, then the barracks before we get to the security gate here. We’d have to reach it, defeat or bypass the guards and then smash the gate to reach the elevators to the centre,” said Spartan, partly to himself and also to the group.

“No, the elevators are out as long as the security system is down. It’s all part of the system.”

A loud thumping sound came from the corridor and they all turned as the Biomech lumbered inside. The creature looked bored, it had been stood in the corridor for some time now as they went over what to do. It glanced at each of them and then at the screen before turning to Spartan.

“Well?”

“We’re going to show everyone what is happening down here. When we’ve done that we’re freeing your friends from these bastards!” said Spartan firmly.

“Good!” growled the creature with a satisfied expression on its face.

“What’s your name?” asked Misaki.

“Name? We have no names,” it replied in a monotone voice.

Spartan moved up to him and looked carefully at the creature’s face. “Yeah, he has a name, look at him. He’s a crazy bastard, just like me!”

“Well?” asked Misaki impatiently. Spartan turned back to look at her.

“Gun.”

Marcus shook his head at the idea.

“Gun?” asked the creature before looking back to Spartan. It lifted its arm to show him the Gatling gun.

“Yes, Gun!” he growled with obvious pleasure.

*

The Tamarisk sat on the landing pad, its legs extended to support the vast bulk of the vessel. Most stations would be unable to house such a craft but this Prometheus Trading Station was one of the largest manmade structures in the entire Confederacy. At the bottom of the ramp Commander Anderson, Bishop and Teresa stood waiting. Kowalski stayed behind on the ship in case of trouble and to man the ship’s weapons in case they needed to make a hasty retreat.

“Where are they? We’re in the right place?” asked Teresa.

Bishop checked his datapad confirming the landing spot was to be Bay 14. He looked up and spotted the peeling red paint up on the wall. “Look, like I said, 14, we’re in the right place.”

Almost on cue the circular door leading away from the landing platform hissed open to reveal two men, one in a scruffy leather jacket and a pair of faded combat fatigues, the other in a cheap suit. Both walked up to them and stopped three metres away. The man in the leather jacket moved ahead slightly.

“I’m Angelo, this is my associate Mr Jones who resides on this station.”

“I’m Ter…” started Teresa before the man raised his hand and cut her off.

“Please, no names here. I know who you are and you know more than enough about me already. If you’re ready I have somewhere a little more private where you can meet the rest of the group and let me know about the plan. Are you ready?”

Commander Anderson nodded. “We’re ready.”

“Good. Let’s go,” said Angelo who then turned and walked back through the doorway, closely followed by the man in the suit. Commander Anderson moved up behind with the other two following. Bishop tapped him gently on the shoulder as they were leaving.

“The plan?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah, we’ll think about that when we have information from Hex. Just play along.” Bishop turned to Teresa who was leaning in to listen.

“It just keeps getting better and better doesn’t it?” he said with a grin.

“Great,” replied Teresa as she slid her hand away from the concealed pistol tucked inside her jacket.

They went though the doorway and into a small arrivals lounge. It was obviously well used by traders and travellers rather than tourists or more important personnel. The walls were worn, the interior was shabby and grimy. As they carried on Angelo turned his head to speak to them.

“It doesn’t look much but this is the quietest part of the station. There are more salubrious places of course,” he explained and gestured off to a set of airlock doors to the right. “You first.”

Teresa and Bishop walked up to the door as it opened automatically. They felt a subtle but noticeable difference in air pressure and temperature. Inside was a circular room with a high ceiling and many reflective surfaces. In the middle was a water feature that babbled away into a small recessed pond. Teresa went through the door and stayed close to the wall. As she moved slowly along the perimeter Bishop came in and did the same on the other side. Angelo nodded and indicated for Commander Anderson to enter. He paused for a moment before stepping through the entrance, the rest followed closely behind.

“Interesting place you have here,” said Anderson as the door slid behind them. As it shut the room must have pressurised as he could feel a slight change in his ears.

“Just wait a moment,” said Angelo as he stood still.

A barely audible clunk echoed through the room that was followed by a low level hum.

“We are clear now, please, have a seat,” he said pointing to the green chairs that were scattered about the place.

The water in the middle of the room continued to fall and that, along with the odd hum and air pressure, made all three of the crew feel uneasy.

“It’s no big deal. This is our meeting room, it is ionized and cleansed by our scrubbers, we have sensors throughout and the water helps as an audio screen. It is almost impossible to bug this place,” explained Angelo.

Commander Anderson sat down and beckoned for Teresa and Bishop to do the same. As they did so Angelo and the man in the suit did as well. With the five of them seated Angelo spoke first.

“Please, no names, even here. Understood?”

Anderson and the rest nodded in agreement and it looked like Anderson was going to speak first before Angelo beat him to it.

“I have been monitoring traffic in this System for the past three weeks and there are a few anomalies that might be of interest you and your business here. Before we start though I assume you are familiar with the situation here?”

Before anybody could speak the man in the suit explained.

“You should know that this System is not easy to reach so when people do get here they tend to stay for some time. We have a lot of traffic between the planet, research labs, factories, quarries, stations and the like. So much that we have no adequate way of monitoring what goes on here. On top of this the locals are hostile to any external influences on what they do. There are literally hundreds of organisations and corporations with a vested interest in this System and all of them make use of private security. You can’t even visit a factory or planetary mining facility without a dozen guns pointing at you. I assume you are aware of the high levels of drug trafficking here as well as slavers, prostitution and unregulated fighting?”

“Let me stop you there,” said an irritable Anderson. “We’ve been here before and we’re well aware of the undesirable nature of this place. That isn’t why we are here now. What do you know about us and are there anomalies?”

Angelo nodded with a slight smile coming to his face.

“Good, I heard you were a man of action, not words.”

He reached down and pulled out a small device about the size of his hand. Laying it out in front of him it flickered several times before showing a holographic model of the station.

“First of all I know you are here to find someone, the trouble is so is everybody else. In the last three weeks the amount of external traffic has increased by two hundred per cent. That isn’t the real deal though, what interests me is that most of the new traffic is coming right through the storms.”

“I thought the storms were dangerous?” asked Bishop, trying to sound innocent. Commander Anderson threw him a look that told him to keep his mouth shut.

“Quite. The current reports show over a dozen ships have been lost in the last five days alone. Somebody it seems really wants to move something back and forth and they aren’t worried about the risks. All that to change the flight time to weeks instead of months. Would you know anything about that?”

Commander Anderson shrugged, saying nothing.

“I see. Well, as far as what you wanted done here I have a number of people on retainer that can be assembled within the hour.”

“What kind of people?”

“Engineers, technicians, security specialists, pilots…useful people. I’ve been instructed by Ganymede to make my full dossiers available for your perusal,” he said with a look of interest in his face.

“Good, for now we have an operation on this station to attend to. The matter of the arms fair.”

“Ah, yes, I have secured access for the three of you to visit in the next thirty minutes. Your details are already logged under the name of your trade ship Tamarisk.”

“They know our ship?” demanded Teresa.

“Of course, all vessels docking or landing at stations will be logged. It is always easier to hide something in plain sight.”

“How about you? Are you coming?” she asked him.

“No, I’m already known to several of the buyers that might be there. I will be on standby at this frequency. Use the access codes I attached with the communication earlier. When do you plan on attending the fair?”

“Immediately, we can’t afford to lose any time,” said Anderson as he made to move.

“Before you go it’s important that you understand the people you will be dealing with. From my sources I already know two of them are selling weapons to the drug Cartels on the Rim and one is a known cop killer from Kerberos. Don’t kid around with them, they play tough and they act tougher,” he said seriously.

“Don’t worry, we can handle ourselves,” replied Teresa as she stood up.

The man in the suit beckoned for them to wait a little longer.

“This particular arms fair is specifically personal firearms, especially those of a more unusual and specialist nature.”

“Unusual, you mean illegal?” asked Teresa.

“Of course, you won’t find much in the way of legal civilian weapons there. So don’t make a fuss when you spot gear that has been taken from Confed stores. There’s a lot of cachet to making use of stolen military gear. The Black Blades Gang on this station was famous for all using Confed Army issue pistols and blades.”

“Yeah, made it easy to track them though,” Angelo interrupted.

“To get there taken the elevator to the fifteenth level, you will exit from the service shaft into the back section of the main foyer. It is always very busy, watch for pickpockets and head to the main desks. Above the desks are the screens for conferences, meetings, demonstrations and the like. You are looking for the Tactical Gear and Supplies Fair.”

Bishop and Teresa looked at each other in confusion.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a simple cover for the main event. When you arrive you will need to ask for the ‘specials’. That will get you into the more exotic line-up of kit. After that you’re on your own. Remember, there are no police out here. The Trading Station has its own security personnel and they always, and I mean always, come down on the side of those with the biggest wallet.”

Commander Anderson stood up and headed to the door. Teresa and Bishop were close behind him. Angelo stood up and watched them leaving the room.

“My associate will be here if you need us, you have my details, just be cool. I’ll make sure the team is ready for your inspection. Good luck.”

As they left the door shut behind them leaving the three out in the quiet, slightly damp corridor. There were only two directions they could take, either left to where they had landed or right that led further inside the station.

“Ready?” asked the Commander.

Bishop nodded as Teresa checked her pistol was in position before confirming.

“You only brought the synthetic, right?” he asked her.

“Yeah, and she’s loaded with plastics only.”

“It’s time for you to hide it somewhere discreet.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll have to get real friendly to find it,” she said with a smile.

Anderson grinned and then turned to check their route. “It’s time then, let’s go.”

They moved off at a fast walk along the corridor, the Commander at the front and Teresa at the rear. Though they moved quickly they didn’t want to arouse suspicion if anybody was watching. It took less than a minute for them to reach the end where they met three doors. Two were locked and presumably store or control rooms. The third door was wider than the others and fitted out with a keypad and display. As Bishop moved closer it must have detected his position as the display altered to a rough outline of a face.

“Please enter your destination,” it asked in an artificial and less than friendly voice.

“Charming,” said Teresa as she glanced at Bishop.

“Let me,” said Commander Anderson as he leaned in and pressed the one and the five. As soon as he moved his hand away the door slipped to the side to reveal a small metal elevator. Teresa went in without a thought, quickly followed by Anderson. As they turned Teresa noticed Bishop was still outside.

“What?”

Bishop took a breath and then stepped in. As the door shut the display starting counting the floors as they were whisked to their destination.

“What was that all about?”

“I had an, well, a problem in one of them years ago, Sir. It was stuck for over a day and started to drop. I’ve never trusted them since.”

“Don’t worry, if it really breaks you’ll be a dead man anyway!” laughed Teresa.

“You ever been here, Teresa?”

“No, Sir, this place was always a bit too upmarket back in my day.”

“Upmarket? You kidding me?” asked a less than sympathetic Bishop.

The elevator made a curious whistling noise as it travelled through its tight fitting tube. After a few more seconds it started to slow and with a slight jolt stopped.

“Floor 15, Main Foyer,” said the computer as the door opened.

Directly in front was the massive entrance to the trading station and it was already clear the entrance was designed to impress. Apart from a vast circular floor there were three spiral staircases winding around what appeared to be a statue of a man planting a tool of some kind into the ground. Scores of large displays, many over five metres high, pushed up from the ground and around them hundreds of people moved about. Many rushing about their business, the rest gazed intently at the information being provided.

“Wow, nice digs,” said Bishop.

“Yeah, wonderful,” said Teresa as she scanned from left to right. “There, the desks, we need the route to the place.”

They made their way across the crowded foyer. As they walked Bishop was amazed at the variety of people. Some were just workers but there were also mercenaries walking about in full army issue carapace armour. As two walked past he tapped Teresa on the shoulder. She tilted her head slightly, watching them.

“I know, remember what Angelo said about the weapons and security.”

They continued on past the people until they were close enough to the desks to see the screens above them. There were eight desks and each one carried two displays overhead. Anderson waved for Bishop to take the ones to his left. Teresa did the same to the right and she spotted the fair almost immediately.

“Look, we take the route past the stairs, through the doors and then follow the red line till we reach the convention reception.”

Anderson nodded in satisfaction and pointed in the direction they needed to go.

“Shall we?” he asked rhetorically.

They left the desks and moved past the staircase. It was less busy along this part of the foyer but there were still a lot of people milling about. As they reached the doors a man in an armoured suit and carrying a box on his shoulder walked towards them. As they went to go through the doorway he turned and glanced at them.

“Arms Fair?” he asked.

Teresa looked to Anderson who simply nodded.

“Don’t bother, you’re too late now. Something’s going on down there and they’re kicking customers out,” he said and then continued on his way.

“What the hell?” called Bishop before turning and running down the corridor. Commander Anderson tried to grab his attention but he was already around the corner. Teresa looked to him before he gave her the nod. They ran the short distance to find Bishop and about a dozen irritable people milling about outside the entrance to the convention centre. Bishop stood there shaking his head as Anderson walked up to the two mercenaries who were guarding the doorway. He was about to speak when two men and a woman in white overalls, and the symbols of the Prometheus Emergency Clinic, emerged pulling a wheeled stretcher out of the room. On top was a covered object, presumably a body.

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” said Teresa quietly to herself.

Anderson stepped aside to let the medical personnel pass him, before moving closer to the guards. As he approached he noticed one of them moving his hand down to a weapon on his belt. Anderson made sure he kept his hands in plain sight, directly in front of him.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Who knows, we opened for viewings ten minutes ago and that’s when we found him.”

“Are you going to re-open?”

“No, the fair is shut till tomorrow, the investigators will need time with this one. Why, who are you after?”

“Maximilian Hex, we have an appointment,” replied Commander Anderson.

“Had, I think you’ll find is the correct syntax. He’s the guy under the sheet,” said the guard with what appeared to be a leering grin.

Teresa moved up to the Commander and Bishop moved discreetly over to the stretcher to try and get a look.

“Hey, what do you want?” said one of the startled medics.

“Uh, nothing,” said a dumbfounded Bishop.

Anderson shook his head and then indicated for the other two to follow him. As they walked from the entrance Teresa spoke first.

“So he’s dead, minutes before we arrive. Is it me or does that seen a little bit convenient?”

“Yeah, I think it’s time we paid our friend Angelo a little visit!” said an angry looking Anderson.

CHAPTER TEN

Hundreds of years after the bayonet appeared irrelevant marines and soldiers throughout the Confederacy are still using it. Why still use them when modern body armour and weapons makes their use unnecessary? To quote a marine Captain, “What a thing guarding prisoners. The look on their faces when you have a 12 gauge shotgun with 17” of gleaming steel fixed to it–-Priceless for compliance. There were Occasions when we fixed Bayonets during Cordon and Raids for the psychological fear they instilled…”

The Military Bayonet

Commander Anderson was first through the door and into the foyer. As he pushed through the crowd a concerned looking Teresa checked layout plans on her datapad. She’d already contacted Kowalski on the Tamarisk and a quick search had found the location of Maximilian Hex’s apartment. Anderson had sent for Angelo and three of his best mercs to meet them there. As she finished checking the route she called out to the Commander.

“Are we sure we can trust them? What if they were behind this?”

“Who knows? Right now we need information and fast. The data I have on Angelo tells me he is unlikely to turn so easily. Either way, we’ll know based on how he and his team responds at the room,” he said as he stopped for a moment. He looked to the left and then back at the staircases. “Up the stairs, three floors and then past the security desk, right?”

“That’s what Kowalski said,” replied Teresa.

Bishop moved ahead and started climbing the wide, marble effect staircase. As they went up they were granted a perfect view of the elaborate foyer with its many people and large glass windows. As they reached higher it was possible to make out the glowing red feature of the burning planet of Prometheus below.

“You said you worked on that place?” asked a surprised looking Bishop.

“For a time, we moved around a lot. You can make a lot of money if you’re in the right place and the right time down there,” she explained.

“Yeah, I heard that. Unregulated private sector work with a high mortality rate. Sounds a bit like what we all do now!” he grinned as they reached the exit point on the third floor. “This is us.”

Anderson moved towards the small security desk where a bored looking man sat watching a screen. He wore a grey suit and had no obvious weapons or armour. Behind him was a smart looking corridor with reflective metal surfaces and flushed door fittings spaced equally apart. It was undoubtedly one of the more expensive parts of the station.

“Can I help you?” asked the man.

Anderson was about to speak when a group of four men, all in smart suits approached. Teresa instantly recognised the face of Angelo leading them. Each of the men was tall and well built. To her they had the look of military or at least had been military in the past. Angelo moved closer and stopped next to the security man.

“Excellent, these are my guests from the trading floor, please buzz them in,” he asked politely.

The guard tapped a few buttons and with a bored look waved them on. The three needed no reminder and moved quickly past the desk, following Angelo and his companions along the corridor.

“What was that all about?” asked Teresa.

“In this place it pays to have a cover. I’ve been working as a fixer for sometime now.”

“A fixer?” asked Bishop.

“Yes. Someone who finds things or people then puts them together with others for deal and contracts. You can find a bit of everything in this place, but you need to be able to open certain doors or to make contact with the right people. That is how I was able to get you access to the arms fair.”

“Yeah, big help that was,” snarled Bishop.

“I only heard about that a few moments after you left. It would appear contact was made from a source outside of this System that was acted on immediately. I have people investigating but I’m not hopeful. Someone didn’t want you to find him and it looks like they made it with minutes to spare. Did you hear how he died?”

“Let me guess, an accident?” suggested Commander Anderson.

“Not quite, he was shot in the head with a military issue L48 carbine. Normally that wouldn’t be so unusual, but there are now rumours spreading that Confed forces are moving onto the stations here. One thing they don’t like out here is anybody telling them how to run things.”

They continued in silence before coming to the end of the corridor that split off to the left and right. The route looked identical in either direction. Angelo indicated for them to turn left but before they could move one of his men flew back a metre and slumped to the ground dead. There was a hole the size of a tennis ball in his forehead.

“Back!” shouted the Commander as they all jumped for cover. With the corridor clear the only safety they had was to not move around the corner.

Teresa and Bishop both pulled out their concealed synthetic pistols. The weapons were small, snub-nosed affairs with small, low velocity disintegrating projectiles. They were useless for military operations but perfect for covert action, assassination or for getting through security clearance. They were also extremely expensive. A volley of almost silenced gunshots blasted down the corridor forcing the six of them to stay where they were.

“Somebody doesn’t want us getting there!” shouted Bishop before leaning around the corner and firing three quick shots. The gun sounded like a hammer striking wood, the sound dull and unlike any other firearm. He ducked back.

“I can see three guys, they have a cabinet or something overturned and are hunkered down behind it. No way to hit them.”

Angelo signalled to his two remaining men who pulled off their suit jackets to reveal body fitting ammunition belts and concealed fully automatic machine pistols. They pulled out the weapons and slammed in the long stick magazines. One leaned around the corner and fired a long burst as the second pulled a small hockey puck shaped grenade and hurled it along the corridor. The flash was followed by a concussive blast that shook the floor.

“Go!” shouted Angelo.

The two men with machine pistols pushed forward, each of them firing bursts of two or three shots as they rushed the enemy position. Teresa followed, the rest were right behind her. In seconds they were over the cabinet and amongst the bullet-ridden corpses of their attackers. Three metres behind the men was the damaged doorway leading into Maximilian Hex’s apartment.

“We won’t have much time, private security around here is fast and violent, and I’d say four minutes, five tops.”

As Commander Anderson rushed through the door he turned back to Angelo.

“Okay, you watch the corridor, we’ll be three minutes and then we need to go, fast!”

As the three entered the room the excess immediately hit them. The space was voluminous, especially on a station where every cubic metre cost money. The walls were adorned with fine paintings and much of the furniture antique.

“We haven’t got long, we need records, and any kind of data that can help us find the prisoners.”

Teresa moved off towards the door to the bedroom and Bishop checked the furniture and floor for anything helpful. Some of the shelves had been forced, somebody, possibly the men from outside, had already been ransacking the place. As Teresa entered the bedroom she cried out and then went silent.

Bishop rushed closer and peered around the doorframe. A pistol shot blasted past and tore a painting from the wall.

“Come any nearer and the next one goes in her head!” shouted a man in the room.

Bishop turned to Anderson and indicated for him to take up position on the other side of the doorframe. Anderson lifted his hand, showing he was going to go high and Bishop low. With a final nod they counted with their hands and then rushed in. The man wore a suit and was holding Teresa up against the wall with a pistol to her temple. As they came in Teresa struck the man hard with her elbow, forcing the pistol away from her face for a brief moment. It wasn’t much of a window but it was enough. Bishop fired a single shot into the man’s chest that pushed him back, Commander Anderson placed a beautifully aimed shot into the man’s forehead that sent a spray of blood and gore against the wall. Teresa jumped away from the carnage to stand next to Bishop.

“Thanks!” she laughed nervously.

Anderson was busy looking at a series of papers and a portable security terminal that the man must have been trying to leave with. His attention was caught by something on the display.

“What is it?” asked Bishop.

“It’s still signed in, some kind of communication between this guy and a high security location.”

“How can you tell?” asked Teresa.

“Well, for starters it says High Security Communication along the top of the unit. There’s a map showing several sites in this sector as well as a partially written message, look,” he said as he lifted up the heavy unit and dumped it onto a worktop.

Bishop looked around the unit, checking it for signs of common connections or access points. As he examined the device he shook his head.

“Never seen anything like this.”

“I have, these are used on ships and stations for encrypted communication between command units, whoever Hex was talking to was important. The map shows four locations. One is an underground site in Avagana, the second is an old research station below on Prometheus, the third is the Titan Naval Station and the fourth is an unidentified point 50AU away from Prime.”

“Fifty? That is further out than all the planets? What is it?”

“Bishop, that I don’t know,” said Commander Anderson as he zoomed out and then zoomed down to the planet of Prime.

“Teresa, check this a moment, wouldn’t you say this corresponds with…”

“The Bone Mill” she added before he could finish.

“Exactly. My hunch is these four sites are connected in someway with the insurgents. Titan Naval Station was obviously the location for a major insurgent action and for sometime was held by their forces. The Bone Mill is still a stronghold for their forces and if you remember was the launching point for a Biomech assault. This location on Prometheus is unknown but what are the odds it’s equally involved?”

“Interesting. What about the location out in space? It could me a meeting point of some kind?”

“Why so far out though, Teresa? A reasonably fast ship would take about three weeks to make that trip. That would hardly useful for trading or transit. It must be something else.”

“Have you seen this list of materials?” asked Bishop.

The three examined the document on the unit. It displayed a list of shipments of heavy materials, girders, security gear, metal plating and much more.

“This is big, really big. We’re talking enough materials to build a medium sized space station and according to these logs it has all been going to one of the old compounds on Prometheus.”

“It’s unusual but why would that be anything to do with our mission, Sir?”

“Good point, Teresa. If you look at this list though you can see food, water and medical supplies going to the same place. More interestingly though is the quantities, this is more material than we needed for six months on the Crusader. We’re talking about two thousand personnel there. This compound has been receiving more than that every week.”

“Every week? That would mean they have thousand and thousands down there,” added Bishop.

Anderson read a few more details before turning to Teresa.

“Teresa, get Angelo in here.”

“You sure about that, Sir?”

“I think so, Bishop. They did their work here and lost a man in the process, we can’t ask for more.”

Teresa headed for the door as Anderson continued examining the computer system. Bishop moved to the stack of papers that had been in a briefcase and laid them out on the unit. As he shuffled through them Angelo arrived without his men.

“We can’t stay any longer, have you got what you needed?”

“Just look at this, quickly!” said Anderson.

Angelo stepped forward and looked at the display. He traced the screen with his hand and seemed intrigued by the location on the planet surface.

“Interesting.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Commander.

“We heard rumours sometime ago that something strange was going on at that place. We did land a team to investigate but all they found was a partially completed shipyard. It wasn’t licensed, but then what is around here?”

“But look at the food and supplies being sent down there. No way can that just be a shipyard,” said Anderson.

“What if they are sending human labour to the compound and using them in their production process?” suggested Teresa.

“What? Are you serious?” asked a surprised Bishop.

“Hold on, she has a point,” said Angelo as he pulled out his own datapad and checked a few details. It took a few seconds before he brought up an image of a transport ship.

“We picked up a distress call from this area about an hour ago, the local rescue unit said they were responding so we ignored it. The interesting thing though is it is from the exact same location as where all these supplies were supposed to be heading. A report came in just before you contacted me to say it was a fire alert, nothing more serious. If you look at the logs on my datapad though, what do you see?”

Teresa examined the data but couldn’t quite see the correlation.

“Look, on this transport route vessels move back and forth one a day. Since the alert came over a dozen ships have been making their way to the drop-off point to the planet. You see the ships need to drop smaller vessels to make the trip to the surface. If you ask me it looks like a force is assembling to be sent in.”

Commander Anderson lowered the lid of the computer and turned to the group.

“A revolt with the workers down there?” asked Bishop.

“Or a riot?” added Teresa.

“Either way I think we have our location. Something big is going on down there and if we don’t hurry it might be all over. Angelo, get your team assembled with full tactical gear and meet us at the Tamarisk in twenty minutes, I’ll brief you when you get there.”

“Don’t you want to sent out scout drones first?”

“No, time isn’t on our side. We’ll sort out a detailed plan on the way. We’re going to have to improvise on this one. Speed is of the essence and I have a few ideas about getting inside.”

“Okay, it’s your funeral. Twenty minutes.” He turned and ran for the door.

“So, this is it then, Sir?”

“Yes, Teresa, grab what you can and follow me. It’s time to go, come on,” he said as he grabbed the briefcase and papers.

“About time, I just hope they’re alive when we get there!” said an excited but fearful Teresa.

*

“Go, we’ll cover you!” shouted Marcus.

Spartan, Misaki and Tigris rushed ahead and ducked down behind an overturned trolley. They had already covered most of the ground and so far run into just two guards who were quickly dealt with. At this point the main corridor opened up into the large ring section that occupied the centre of the base. From their position they could make out several dozen guards as well as columns of prisoners who were being escorted away, presumably to their cells. In the background the annoying hum of the compound alarm system wailed, indicating that a general alert was in progress. Spartan looked back at the rough note he had drawn on his arm.

“According to the security room this section opens out into the main ring. We’ll have access to the harvesting areas and shipyards as well as the entrance to the computer centre. Can’t we just sever the link somewhere?”

“No way. Did you see how far down the cabling goes? It’s multithreaded as well, we take out one and they just shift the load onto a different circuit. The only option is to destroy or hijack the antenna masts or the computer centre. The masts are on the surface and exactly where reinforcements are likely to land,” said Tigris.

“Yeah, but how the hell are we going to clear that area and get down to the computers? There must be over a hundred guards out there, look, see another group in armour?”

“Spartan, you need to do this one quietly,” said Tigris.

Spartan gave him an odd look as Marcus joined in.

“The only way you’ll get through there is if we get you a diversion. My recommendation is that you and Tigris hide here and we’ll create a diversion and draw them back down the arm and towards the cells and security room.”

“No way, you’ll never hold them off.”

“We don’t have to, we just need you to get control of the computer system and comms. When you get there patch into the security feed and dump the video out on all frequencies. People need to know what these bastards are doing!”

Tigris looked at Marcus then back to Spartan.

“He’s right Spartan, if we control the computer centre we will have full access to everything in this compound, including climate control, air filtration and pressure. We can hold the site to ransom or depressurise the whole place.”

Spartan looked to the small group, trying to work out if this plan had any possibility of working. He never had the chance though as Gun made the choice for him and stepped out into the open roaring loudly. His voice must have attracted the attention of a score of guards as streaks of fire from projectile weapons blasted around them.

Spartan dove for cover, Misaki and Marcus moved to the side of the Biomech and joined in the shooting. Inside the great cavern the sound of the weapons was amplified substantially though nothing like the sound that came from Gun’s Gatling gun. As he opened fire the entire group almost vanished in flame and smoke.

“Spartan, come on!” shouted Tigris who ducked down low and sneaked off around to the right, keeping his body low and in the shadows. Spartan followed and in just a few steps they were out of the line of fire and following round the perimeter. Every hundred metres or so, they were forced to stop as they reached a series of wide metal doors, each one easily able to accommodate a small transport vessel. Spartan turned to see Marcus disappear back down the corridor with Gun providing a devastating rear-guard. In front of them were at least twenty bodies and three times of that number were rushing after them.

“Look, that must be the entrance to the staircase right? We need to get there and then head down three levels. You ready?” asked Tigris before noticing that Spartan was still carrying the multi-barrelled gun given to him by the dying Biomech.

“What the hell did you bring that for?” he asked incredulously.

“This baby?” asked Spartan as he patted the metal of the barrels. “She might come in handy. Don’t worry about me, I can handle myself.”

Tigris shook his head in annoyance but Spartan simply ignored him and looked about the large open area, feeling exposed to attack at any moment. Their position was weak and vulnerable and he knew it.

“Wait a minute. We need to give ourselves a clear chance to make the distance. Look!” he said as he ducked back down pointing as discreetly as he could in the direction of the approaching men.

His timing couldn’t have been better, another ten seconds and they would have run directly into the heavily armed group and their mission may have been over. As they kept low to the ground a group of six Zealots in their flowing robes and a dozen armoured guards ran past towards the doorway they had just passed. Spartan watched in fascination as one of them, the tallest of the group, pressed a series of buttons to open the seal. With a groan the massive door lifted up to reveal a great area, the equal of the hull of the ship they had arrived on. Hundred and hundreds of cylinders were laid out in the just the same fashion as he had already seen.

“Biomechs, they are making them here, poor bastards!” said an angry looking Spartan.

“Who cares about them, they’re just meat, right now we have our own skins to save,” said Tigris.

For a moment Spartan looked at the man in disgust, he had turned on his own and now had a callous disregard for the creatures being made here. His redeeming feature though was of course that he was helping them, maybe that was enough thought Spartan to himself.

“For now, we will be back to help them,” said Spartan firmly. The more he thought about it though the more there was something in Tigris’ tone that worried him. After his combat in space and then on Prime he had more reasons than most to hate the Biomechs. Yet he of all people could feel compassion for these manufactured slaves. One of them had already given its life for them and he had no doubt Gun would do the same. Tigris on the other hand seemed to be only interested in himself and would do whatever it took to stay alive. While their aims were remained in synchronisation, Spartan would stick with him, but with a watchful eye.

“Spartan, now!” shouted Tigris as he checked one last time and then dashed across the open ground. Spartan looked and followed, keeping low and moving as fast as his legs would carry him. They quickly made their way across the ground and reached the doors that led to the staircase system. The door was wide enough for three people to enter at once but like most of the compound it was locked.

“Can you open it?” asked Spartan as he looked behind them nervously. They were terribly exposed in this position and if they were located they would have no choice but to fight and die on the spot.

“No problem, the details from the security room should allow us access to most of the restricted areas,” he said as he accessed the computer security system in the touch screen fitted to the wall. Spartan watched him work as he moved and rotated hexagonal icons around the screen until with a crunching sound the door opened to reveal a dark room with a narrow staircase going up and down. To the right were two locked elevators. Tigris moved directly past the door, calling out to Spartan as he made for the stairs heading down.

“Don’t bother with the elevators, they are always locked down in an emergency.”

*

“The signal is coming from the centre of this facility here,” explained Commander Anderson as he showed his newly expanded crew the situation. As well as Bishop, Kowalski and Teresa there was also Angelo and his team of eight heavily armoured mercenaries.

“You’re sure you want to hit this place? From your scans it looks like there could be thousands of people down there. What if they are all hostile?”

“Then this will be a really short trip, Angelo!” said an irritated Teresa.

“Hold on to your hats people, I’m picking up something!” shouted Kowalski as he moved through three pages of contact information.

“Yeah, look at this,” he said as he brought up a three-dimensional model of the area around the planet. It showed six green contacts above the planet and directly above the compound.

“What are they?” asked Angelo.

“Cutters by the look of their size, about the same size as us. There are no Confed ships in this area, they must be private security,” said Commander Anderson.

“Trust me, the private security around here you will not want to mess with!” replied a serious looking Angelo.

Teresa threw him a look of concern, for a moment worrying that the Commander might cancel the mission. If they were unable to complete this operation there was a very good possibility that they would lose the prisoners and that would be the end of Spartan and the rest of them.

“Nonetheless we’re still going in!”

“What landing craft options do you have on this ship?”

“We have two shuttles, one a standard small crew civilian craft, the second a heavily modified black ops model. At a push you can fit six in each craft plus gear and weapons,” said Bishop.

“That’s not going to help us. How will we get the prisoners out with just two shuttles?”

“You won’t, Angelo, for now your mission will be to secure access to the landing zones and attempt to find the prisoners. From the information we have there is something bad happening down there. Either there is an emergency or a riot and revolt of some kind. You land and then move in hard and fast. Get me intel and if you find the General get him to the surface. We can ferry up passengers with multiple passes, you might even be able to secure craft on the surface. As soon as you start your attack I will send a general Confed alert for assistance. Any police or off-duty forces are required to respond to the call and it might give us the extra numbers for the operation.”

“We’ll be in range in five minutes, Sir,” said Kowalski as he monitored the displays.

“There is one other option,” said Teresa.

“I thought there might be, what is it?”

“We could bring the Tamarisk down and land her, Sir. With her loading space and weapons we could take off any number of people and have the firepower to assist in an evacuation.”

“No, not yet. We’ll be a sitting duck to those ships in orbit. If we try and land we’ll be shot down and lose everything. It is an option afterwards though,” agreed Anderson as he brought up a view of the planet’s surface.

“As you can see here there are a number of access doors, much like loading bay doors, at fixed intervals around a central landing pad. The central point is directly over the main power source and also beside the communications array. I suggest you form two teams. One will secure the communications array and the landing area. The second will penetrate the base and find our men.”

“What about you, Sir?”

“I will stay with the ship, Teresa, and keep the cutters busy while you perform the drop.”

“No way!” called Kowalski at the news. “That’s a suicide mission, Sir, and one man can’t do that, you’ll be toast.”

“Not necessarily, she’s got more than they will be expecting and you will need the time on the surface.”

“Commander, they have the numbers, I’ll stay back and help with the operation. You need another set of hands for this one.” Kowalski spoke in a tone that suggested he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

The Commander considered his offer for a moment before accepting it.

“Okay, the two of us will provide a diversion by moving directly into the path of the cutters. I will trigger an electromagnetic discharge that will scramble their sensors for up to a minute. That will be your window to start your attack run. All clear?”

Teresa, Bishop and Angelo all acknowledged him.

“Good, Bishop, you’re the senior marine here, I want you leading the rescue team with Teresa as your second. You know our men and I know you’ll do what needs to be done. Take half the mercs and the heavy weapons with you. You’ll need them. Angelo, take the rest and keep that landing zone clear, it is critical for the retrieval of you all. If it falls apart you will rendezvous with Angelo and get the hell of that hot rock.”

“We’ll get them, Sir.”

“I know you will, Teresa. Okay, get your gear and prepare your shuttles, how long do we have, Kowalski?”

“Three minutes, Sir, they’ve already picked us up and are scanning us.”

Anderson turned to them. “Good luck, people, see you on the flip side!” he said with a grin.

Teresa and the others pulled themselves through the ship to meet the waiting mercenaries in the loading bay. It didn’t take long for them to make it there. They were already wearing their armoured suits and just needed to grab their helmets before climbing inside the shuttles. Teresa tapped four of the mercs on the shoulders.

“You four are with us, we’re on the rescue op the rest of you will be with Angelo and securing the LZ.”

The mercs all looked to Angelo who gave them the nod. Teresa noted that they looked to him and not the marines. It wasn’t really surprising, he had arranged their contracts, but it was of concern to her as to who could be fully trusted.

Reaching to the wall mounting she pulled off her helmet and pulled on the protective helmet. It took just seconds before they were ready for the vacuum of space and with simple hand signals they pulled themselves along to the two shuttles to get themselves ready for the operation.

Anderson looked over the computer screens and then to Kowalski.

“I’m going to put us right in the middle of the force. When I give you the signal you hit the trigger and send the pulse. If they look hostile we open up with everything we have, got it?”

“No problem, Sir, I’ve got the guns already loaded and the EM capacitors are on trickle charge, another minute they’ll be ready.”

“Good, this is going to be one hell of a surprise for them,” said the mischievous Commander.

The communication screen started to flash to indicate an incoming message. Kowalski hit the button to show the feed but not to respond. The face of a Zealot, in the common robe they all seemed to wear, appeared.

“This is restricted territory. Please vacate this area immediately or you will be fired upon.”

“Connect us,” said Anderson as he quietly cleared his throat.

“This is Captain Mathius of the transport vessel Tamarisk. We have food and supplies for the compound below.”

Kowalski grinned to himself as he watched the capacitor move further and further up.

“Tamarisk, you are not registered for any deliveries. Alter your course immediately or we will use deadly force.”

Anderson grabbed the intercom. “Who the hell do you think you are? Under whose orders will you open fire?”

“The Church of Echidna is the only authority in this region. This is your final warning, Tamarisk.” The signal was cut off abruptly.

“Commander, they are charging up their weapons, I am detecting railguns and missiles on two of the ships. Wait, what the…!” he cried hitting a button on the console quickly. An alert tone echoed through the ship and the emergency thrusters pushed the vessel slightly to one side as a projectile rushed past.

“They mean business, Sir, I think you can call that a shot across our bow!” he laughed.

“Yeah, you could say that. Standby on my mark, 5…4…3…2…1…now!”

Kowalski hit the release button and with a crackle a blast of energy rushed out from the ship in a large invisible bubble. A few sparks jumped from one of the broken computer units, next the navigation system and two displays went down.

Anderson reached for the intercom and spoke calmly, “Shuttles, you are a go, good hunting!”

*

Tigris and Spartan made it down to the three floors without issue and came to a rectangular room with doors on three sides. Each was mirrored like security glass but there were no obvious locks, hinges or doors. Tigris moved closer and struck his pistol against the toughened glass.

“Shit! It’s a security screen, I’ve heard about them. They drop down to seal rooms against fire, water and gas.” He stepped back and aimed into the middle of the door opposite him.

“What are you…” shouted Spartan before the loud crack of the pistol echoed in the room. He blasted it three times but the bullets did no more than take small chunks from the glass.

“Out of the way,” said Spartan as he swung his heavy Gatling gun into position. It was much too heavy to hold on the shoulder so he held it hung down next to his thigh. He pulled the trigger and with a deafening roar it spat out hundreds of large calibre heavy slugs that tore chunks from the glass. In seconds one pane was destroyed and he turned on the spot until the other two doors exploded into tiny shards. The gunfire halted but the barrels continued to turn as Spartan depressed the trigger.

“Nice!” shouted Tigris, as he stepped forward over the glass. Spartan dropped the gun, pulled out his side arm and followed him.

*

Teresa was first out of the shuttle, quickly followed by Bishop and the four mercenaries. With speed and precision they fanned out onto the landing platform. The second shuttle had just landed and she could just make out Angelo giving orders as the side door opened. She turned back and examined their surroundings. The landing platform was circular in shape and easily two hundred metres wide. To the one side was a large metal door recessed into the rock itself. A large communication array pushed up from the ground on the right with a series of antenna and dishes pointing up to the skies. The horizon was packed with rocky mountains, molten rock and burning fires.

“We’re on Hell!” Bishop shouted through his headset.

Teresa turned back to the rest of the team, checking they were ready and fully armed. She carried an L48 carbine as well as several grenades mounted on her armour. In a holster on her hip was a P9 pistol, one of the items kept secure in the lockers of the ship.

“Let’s go!” she cried and led the team towards the doorway. Bishop moved off to the left side of the door and pulled out a small case with a computer bypass unit installed. He attached a ribbon cable and fibre optic authenticator and started the procedure.

“How long?” asked one of the heavily armoured mercs.

“Hopefully not too long, our suits can’t take this heat indefinitely,” said Teresa as she checked the suit monitors.

As she stood waiting the door suddenly opened revealing a low ceiling and wide corridor that ran in a circle inside the structure. She turned back to see Angelo and his team fanned out and checking the perimeter. He spotted her and waved.

“Bishop, we’ve secured the platform but we can’t stay out here, I suggest we move inside and guard the area from where you are. The heat will burn through these suits in ten to fifteen minutes.”

“Do it!” he said and then turned to the corridor. He was first inside, quickly followed by Teresa and the mercs. After just a few hundred metres it was very clear something was going on. A number of bodies littered the ground and more could be found the further inside they went. One feature missing on their armour was any kind of external microphone system, though the suits were fitted with alarms in case of sound induced weapons. Checking the atmosphere was safe she flicked the release catch and pulled off her helmet. Fresh air washed to her face as well the dry heat from the planet. What really hit her though was the sound of gunfire and shouting. Bishop did the same though the mercs stayed fully sealed, she had no doubt their armour was more advanced and better equipped than hers. They all kept running, still finding nothing but the occasional body dressed in rags. She turned to Bishop.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Get down!” he shouted as he jumped to the side and pushed her away. A blast from a powerful weapon knocked him back and to the ground. The mercs scattered and started to return slow but carefully aimed fire. Teresa lifted her carbine and scanned the area ahead. The winding path continued downwards into an area that looked like a giant circular racetrack. It must be the centre of the base as at least a dozen huge blast doors led off into corridors and rooms like the legs of a spider, her attention was caught by robed men carrying rifles. Two of them had spotted her team and were opening fire but the rest were shooting indiscriminately against people in rags and filth.

Teresa aimed carefully and squeezed off two rounds into the closest man’s face. The second was dropped by a fusillade from the mercs. With the immediate danger over the mercs pushed ahead to deal with the other guards as Teresa bent down to help Bishop up. Incredibly he was smiling.

“Don’t worry, the armour did its job for a change!”

Teresa pulled hard and lifted him back to his feet. A fierce gun battle was going on between the guards and the mercenaries but the guards were completely outclassed and in less than a minute the route was clear.

“Where now, Teresa?”

“Good point, what do you think is happening here?”

“If you ask me I’d say this is a prison revolt, look,” he said as he bent down to one of the bodies. The person was wearing ragged overalls and had rough, scarred hands. The woman had been shot three times in the chest and it looked like she had been trying to reach the surface.

“If it’s a revolt then you can guarantee our people will be right in the middle of it. Look, over there!” She pointed towards more guards rushing through a wide doorway firing their weapons.

“Good idea, we can hit them from behind and roll them up till we find whatever the hell is going on here, come on!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Of all the characters in the sad tale of the Proxima Emergency it is that of the decorated Admiral Jarvis that is one of the most interesting. Prior to the troubles she had been due for early retirement for still unexplained reasons. Her quick thinking slowed the assault of the insurgents throughout Proxima and it is considered by many to this day that without her the System would have fallen within a month. It is only the long-term reputation of Spartan himself that finally overshadowed her ascendancy as his rise to pre-eminence became legendary.

The Fall of Admiral Jarvis

Alarms flashed throughout the bridge of the Tamarisk as she withstood barrage after barrage of weapon fire. In less than a minute of the battle starting she had sustained heavy damage and breaches in multiple quarters. One gun was knocked out and a fire was burning furiously in the spine of the vessel.

“Concentrate cannon fire on the closest cutter. Full burst then rotate ninety degrees and do the same to the next!” ordered the Commander as he altered their course to take them in closer to the group of vessels.

A violent crash smashed the Commander hard against the display and drew blood from his forehead. He wiped it aside and checked the screen.

“Bastards, they just hit our main engines with rockets. How many are left?” he asked, slightly confused from the strike.

“The first cutter is already a hulk, the second is burning from the inside out. Four remaining and they are closing in around us, Sir.”

“I see them, hold on!”

He hit the evasive manoeuvres button that triggered the dorsal thrusters to pump a massive discharge of gas into space and forcing the vessel downwards. As they moved two cutters poured their volleys of railgun ammunition into each other. Kowalski redirected the automated turrets to continue their gunfire against the two disengaged ships, scoring good hits on both.

“Excellent work,” smiled the Commander just as another hit struck the bow of their ship. Two of the displays blacked out followed by scores of red lights flashing across the consoles.

“Crap, we’re got a problem!” shouted Kowalski.

Anderson tried to lean forward to examine the external camera feeds but strong g forces were forcing him into his seat.

Kowalski managed to get a screen up and started to trigger emergency control programs. “We’ve been hit in two of the stern propellant tanks, the escaping gas is putting us into a spin.”

Another series of flashes sent sparks across the computers before the entire system went dead. A crunch like that of metal clamping against metal shook the ship and ever so slowly their spin slowed down.

Commander Anderson looked at the damage inside the vessel, just the red glow of the emergency lights remained. He could see the bloodied face of Kowalski and the significant damage inside.

“What’s happening?”

“They’re boarding us, Sir, they must be.”

“No, they are not taking the Tamarisk! Break out the weapons, I’ll start the auto destruct sequence.”

Kowalski turned to him for a moment as the realisation that this could be the end of their mission occurred to him. The Commander gave him little chance to dwell on his thoughts.

“Kowalski, get going, now!” he growled.

*

Spartan and Tigris stood in the middle of the abandoned computer centre and looked about at the masses of equipment. The air-conditioned room was the coolest part of the compound and certainly the best maintained. In the centre of it stood three men, all dressed in suits and all visibly terrified at the sight of the two armed men.

“Who’s in charge here?” demanded Spartan.

None of the men spoke but one looked over to a short, balding man. He was probably just looking for advice but it told Spartan all he needed. Marching over he placed his pistol to the man’s forehead.

“Transfer full control of all the security points, cameras and doors to me!”

The man started to mutter, pleading innocence.

“Do it now, or this one eats a bullet,” said Tigris as he dragged one of the men to the wall and push him face first against it.

“Well?” asked Spartan.

The man hesitated for just a few seconds. “Okay, okay, come with me.”

The man, obviously terrified, led Spartan to one of the computers and sat down. With a flurry of hand movements he started to move control of all the systems to the computer centre. On the screens nearby Spartan could make out the running battles that were now raging throughout the compound. The sector he had been secured inside was definitely the focal point of the conflict and hundreds appeared to be engaged in a brutal and bloody battle.

“I want full control of the scrubbers, climate control and air vents.”

“What?” the man asked.

A bang shook the room and the man Tigris had been threatening slumped to the floor, a dark red pattern of blood and gore running down the wall. Spartan shook his head, the more time he spent with Tigris the more he doubted the man’s sanity.

“Okay, I’m doing it! It will take a few minutes for access to the circulation and airlock system to transfer!”

“Where are the controls for the shipyards, the factories, the machines?” demanded Spartan before the man could turn away.

“Uh, we just manage the computers. The overall control comes from the Core.”

“What do you mean, the Core?” shouted Tigris from where he stood.

“The Governor, us, the guards, we’re all just custodians for the system. The factories are maintained by us but the orders come directly from the Core through the communication system.”

“Where is it?”

The man shrugged, “Really, I have no idea, we aren’t given that kind of information.”

Spartan tilted his gun slightly and gave the man a look that told him either he told the truth or he would be joining his comrade.

“I promise you, I do not know!” he cried.

Spartan relented and lowered the pistol to leave the man to carry on with his work. He worked fast and it didn’t take long before Spartan had full control of all the systems for the compound. He checked the screen to get an idea how the revolt was going, it wasn’t easy but from what he could see it looked like a stalemate. For now that was okay but he knew that the ships in orbit would soon start dropping in reinforcements, then it would all be over.

“You, over here!” Spartan shouted as he beckoned for the other man to come forward. “You will patch all of the video feeds, including the harvesting rooms and these prison areas. Link them together into an unencrypted packet and start transmitting the data on all channels.”

The man looked to his supervisor who nodded furiously.

“Good, now, I have another job for you. Find me that bastard the Governor, we have things to discuss,” he said angrily.

“I thought we were going to hold them to ransom?” asked Tigris.

“We will but it’s going to take a few minutes to get full control. Plus, we need to find that bastard first before we can negotiate.”

“It’s working,” said the one of the men as he pointed to the screens.

“What exactly?” asked Spartan.

“The transmission, I’m sending the signal you wanted, it is being sent out to the Trading Station, outposts and any ships within range.”

“Good, attach a message explaining what this place does. Don’t try and be smart-ass, we have military units on the way and those who help us now might avoid consequences later on. Understood?” he said winking at Tigris.

“Okay, I know about the Biomechs and the ships, we were forced to work here like all the other prisoners,” he said, though Spartan looked less than convinced.

“What are you waiting for?” was his only reply.

“Hey, Spartan, have you seen what’s going on at Screen 13?” asked Tigris.

Spartan shook his head and stepped back to take a look at the display. It was the large corridor that ran from the security room and towards the centre of the base. About a hundred prisoners along with the bulk of what must be Gun were hunkered down behind an improvised barricade of containers, broken machinery and bodies. Attacking them were double their number of guards and Zealots along with a sprinkling of Biomechs. The defenders appeared to have the better position though and were managing to hold them back. Spartan looked closely, he was sure he could see the figure of General Rivers next to the creature waving something and shouting.

“The crazy old man, he’s always in the middle of trouble,” said Spartan to himself. “Look, is that who I think it is?”

Tigris looked at the enemy reinforcements that surged through the corridor to assault the barricade. In the middle was the unmistakable shape of the Governor.

“There he is!” said Tigris with venom. “I want him!”

“Easy now, there’s time, first we’ve got to get control of the facility, then we can finish him off.”

“Fine, you stay, I’m out of here!” shouted Tigris and then he was gone.

Spartan looked about the room and then to the two men at the computers.

“How long till I get control?”

The one man turned back to Spartan, “It’s yours, I can put the control to a portable device if you want?” The man was obviously trying to appease him.

“You can transfer control to a datapad?”

“Sure, give me a few seconds.”

It took just a few taps before he turned back and handed him a ruggedised datapad that was locked into the system. Spartan looked at the screen and noted the complete structure of the base, it looked even bigger than he expected.

“Just tap the area or system and you can issue commands directly to the computer centre.”

“Good, come on, upstairs!” he said as moved back to the broken glass and in the direction Tigris had taken.

As the three left the room the largest screen showed the raging battle around the barricade. A small monitor showed the video feed back towards the centre of the compound where six armoured warriors were engaged with the Zealots in a bitter firefight. Spartan spotted the action from the corner of his eye and quickly pulled himself back. As he did so the two men ran for it, he lifted his pistol and pointed it at the back of the closest. He started to pull the trigger but stopped, he wouldn’t kill them, not yet anyway. Looking back at the screen he tried to work out who the six were. Tapping the display the camera zoomed in to show the six in body armour and military grade firearms. At the front were a man and woman, both without helmets and firing carbines. He almost fell over when he spotted the woman’s face.

“Teresa!” he shouted.

Without pausing he turned and ran for the stairs.

*

Teresa ducked as a Zealot swung what could only be described as a sharpened halberd at her head. Her speed saved her but not the mercenary who took the full impact in his shoulder. Even his toughened synthetic body armour could not stop the razor sharp crystal edged blade from cutting deeply into his flesh. As he dropped in agony he lifted his carbine and tore the man in half with a deadly burst of gunfire.

“Bishop, what’s the plan!” she shouted, firing a short burst at another Zealot as he emerged from cover.

They had reached the mouth of the corridor and run directly into a group of reinforcements that appeared to be involved in a major battle further inside the compound. As the last Zealot was cut down her team moved to the walls and looked inside the corridor at the unfolding battle. Two of the mercs dragged the wounded man to cover before joining them.

“I don’t know, we can join this fight but it could be nothing to do with our mission, what if this is just some kind of labour dispute?” he asked before lifting his carbine and pointing it behind Teresa.

“Hey, who are you?” he shouted as a man, half dressed in the garb of one of the guards approached with raised hands.

“The name’s Tigris, I was going to ask you the same. I’m helping with the escape, you here to help?”

“We’re looking for a Confed General and a group of prisoners.”

“A General, well, I’ve been working with a guy called Spartan, I know he’s with a group of Confed guys, most of them are back there in the fight.”

Bishop turned to Teresa who pulled back the bolt on her carbine and rushed after the enemy reinforcements.

“Come on!” shouted Bishop before Tigris was able to explain further.

The surviving mercenaries followed, each of them continuing their carefully aimed shooting and started to pick off the guards and Zealots from behind. In less than a minute the enemy’s numbers had been halved before they even realised there was somebody behind them. In the middle a small group of Biomechs looked like they had gone on the rampage, there were three and all of them had turned on the Zealots, one with a Gatling gun tore a dozen men to shreds. In the middle a man in a suit stood calmly and shouted for them to stop. A few guns stopped but one of the Biomechs continued to fight before being dragged to the ground by half a dozen Zealots. They were about to finish the creature off when the man called out.

“Stop this madness, immediately!”

The gunshots had all but stopped and the remaining thirty of the enemy moved back slightly, taking up positions in cover as the leader followed them. The Biomechs stayed where they stood, neither following the enemy nor joining the defenders on the barricades.

“I am the Governor and you will lay down your weapons immediately. This act of sedition is punishable by exposure to the surface!” he roared.

One of the defenders fired a shot that just missed the man and was immediately hit in the forehead by a return shot from one of the guards.

“At this very moment a dozen warships are bringing hundreds of reinforcements to quell this little revolt of yours. Surrender now and you can return to your cells, keep fighting and you will all be executed, including those still in their cells.”

From her position Teresa could make out people moving back and forth though it wasn’t clear what they planned to do. As she contemplated what to do the newly arrived guard stepped past her and towards the Governor.

“Governor, I’ve made contact with the enemy, I know who they are and their plans.”

The Governor turned and smiled at him.

“Excellent, so our little group have given up their contacts in the Confederacy. Good work, this news will greatly assist in our struggle,” he said as he indicated for Tigris to move to the side and out of the way of likely gunfire.

“Governor, this is General Rivers, Commander of Confed ground forces. Surrender now and I guarantee you a fair trial!” came a booming voice behind the barricades.

Teresa’s heart lifted as she recognised the voice.

“Governor, you bastard, turn around!” roared a voice she knew even better.

Turning she spotted the bloodied figure of Spartan. His clothes were ruined and blood dripped down his face. In his hand he carried a rifle, presumably taken from one of the many fallen guards. The man turned around to face Spartan, a look of amusement on his face.

“Well, well, I see you have…” he started before being cut short by a single shot to the head. Blood burst from his skull as he dropped lifelessly to the ground. With their leader gone the remaining guards surrendered, leaving just around ten Zealots who backed away, looking for a way out.

Spartan looked over towards Teresa who stood holding a smoking carbine, still pointing at the body of the Governor. Bishop stood next to her. From behind the barricade the remaining people jumped down and rushed towards Spartan and the other survivors. General Rivers, sporting half a dozen minor wounds was helped down and limped towards Teresa. Spartan also spotted Marcus and Misaki. A loud roar came from the defenders followed by Gun who jumped over the metal obstacle and landed just a few metres from Teresa. She lifted her gun ready to fire again, only to be stopped by the strong arms of Spartan who grabbed her tightly.

“I knew you’d be in the middle of this!” she laughed.

As the two embraced, General Rivers approached with Misaki and Marcus.

“Ahem!” coughed the General, trying to get Spartan’s attention.

It seemed nothing would split them apart until finally Teresa pulled back, spotting the figure of the General. She saluted smartly, Spartan pushed out his hand and shook it

“Excellent work, both of you. Can I assume, Private, that your appearance here is the precursor to Confed troops arriving?”

Teresa looked back to Spartan, her eyes alive with pleasure and then back to the General.

“We came on the Tamarisk, Sir, just two shuttles. How many people are here?”

“Thousands, Private, tens of thousands. We can’t leave, not yet,” he said firmly before turning to Spartan.

“Did you get the signal out?”

“Yes, Sir, it’s already being transmitted on all frequencies.”

Bishop stepped forward, saluting the General.

“Sir, you might want to hear this,” he said as he held out his intercom unit.

“Commander Anderson here. Your signal got out. There are over twenty civilian ships in orbit demanding the Echidna vessels leave immediately. Apparently your footage is causing uproar on the Trading Post. There’s talk of an outright ban on the Church and its associates throughout the Prometheus System.”

There was a short burst of static before he continued, “We will be landing shortly. What is your status?”

“We have the prisoners, a lot of them,” said Spartan almost excitedly.

“Good, we won’t be taking off anytime soon though, the ship’s badly damaged.”

“You and Kowalski?”

“We’re okay, Sergeant, I have to go, this is going to be an interesting landing, Tamarisk out.”

Bishop took back the intercom unit and fitted back his armour.

General Rivers looked over to Bishop.

“Thank you, son, your team have done the Confederacy proud. I need you to help arrange triage for the wounded and we have to get in touch with friendly vessels in the area. There are a lot of hurt people down here. Spartan, can you patch me through to our Communication Post on the Trading Station? I need to get word to the Admiral about this place.”

“Sir!”

“Look out!” shouted Teresa as she spotted Tigris moving out from the shadows with a pistol pointed at General Rivers’ head. She grabbed at her pistol but it was too late. A bright light engulfed the traitor before scattering his body into a dozen pieces across the floor. She looked across to the smiling Biomech whose gun was still rotating giving off smoke.

“That’s Gun by the way, our new best friend!” said Spartan who then grabbed Teresa again and pulled her close.

General Rivers moved away to speak with Bishop and the scene quickly turned from one of carnage to one of recovery and repair. As the General walked away he left Misaki stood, staring at the two with a look of anger on her face. With a growl to herself she stormed off to join the others.

“Hey, you crazy woman!” Marcus finished tying the bonds on two of the Zealots and ran over to Teresa and Spartan.

Teresa hugged him so hard he groaned. As he pulled away she looked at them both.

“You two don’t get away that easily,” she said with a laugh and then held them both tightly.

*

Admiral Jarvis paced inside the CiC of the newly repaired and now fully operational CCS Crusader. It had taken weeks to finish the repair work but with her now ready for battle the Admiral finally had a fleet worthy of the Confederacy. Over a dozen capital ships sailed alongside her as they made their way to their rendezvous with the CCS Wasp and her extra forces.

“General, the information you obtained from Prometheus is fascinating. As per your recommendations the Biomech programming has been reversed though what we will have to do when they are hatched, for want of a better word, is something we will have to consider. The total count of prisoners released will be in the thousands. Thankfully the video footage has created uproar throughout System,” she said with glee.

“That is good news, Admiral, will this turn the tide?”

She stood, silent for a moment as she looked at the strategic map of the Proxima System. Nothing had changed in terms of control of territory but the propaganda victory couldn’t be overstated.

“News from my contacts at Fort Hood on Kerberos tells me there have been several popular uprisings against the new government and their rulers. It isn’t the end, not by a long shot, but I truly believe this is the best opportunity we have had for months. How is the team? I understand they are back on the Santa Cruz recovering?”

“Yes, the entire group were commendable and I have requested promotion for them all. Especially Sergeant Spartan and Private Morato. They proved strong and dependable in a critical situation.”

“Indeed, I understand my old friend Commander Anderson is still on the planet working through the shipyard intelligence?”

“Yes, when he saw some of the half completed vessels I couldn’t get him to leave,” he said with a grin.

The intercom on the wall started to emit a tone. The Admiral walked over and picked it up, she listed for a moment then replaced it.

“General, the probe is due to enter the anomaly in the next minute.”

The entire CiC was empty other than the two commanders and one trusted science officer who managed the probes support system. On the screen between them the image flipped from the strategic map to a full size time-delayed video feed from their probe.

“This is the anomaly Commander Anderson obtained intelligence on?” he asked. The science officer nodded in agreement.

“Does it correlate with the intelligence we received from our source on Kerberos?”

“Yes, Sir, it is positioned roughly 50AU from Prime. We tracked the surviving cutters from the battle over Prometheus making their way to the point before losing contact with them.”

“Special Agent Johnson managed to get additional location data to us from Fort Hood before the planetary transmission was jammed. Whatever it is, the insurgents don’t want us finding out about it,” explained the Admiral.

“What is it? Some kind of cloaked or masked base?”

Admiral Jarvis shrugged.

“Admiral, the probe has just past through the path of a massive digital transmission, it is coming from the anomaly. We only have a small fragment of the data, it appears to be encrypted control code for automated systems, I have sent it to the decryption analysis engine for study,” the Science Officer said, pressing several buttons on his console. Just seconds later he turned back to the Admiral. “The probe is entering the anomaly in ten seconds.”

The three stopped what they were doing and watched the video feed. They had no idea what to expect other than it was the unknown.

“Strange,” said the Science Officer, “the probe is still accelerating, it should be…” he said as the image flashed and showed several bright colours and then went black.

“Signal lost, Admiral.”

General Rivers appeared unmoved but Admiral Jarvis shook her head in annoyance and turned away.

“I knew we should have sent something slower. Six days for the probe wasn’t enough in my opinion, it must have hit something on its arrival.”

“Uh, Admiral, you need to see this.”

Admiral Jarvis turned back, intrigued by the tone of the man’s voice.

“Yes?”

“Look, if I move one frame at a time there are three frames after the flash on arrival.”

“Okay, what is it?”

The officer brought up the first image. It was nothing other than a multicolour blue blur. The second image was dark blue with a few patches on it and the third was just noise.

“Can you enhance the second one?”

“I’ll see what I can do, Admiral.” He started fiddling with his computer.

Admiral Jarvis moved to the next computer and started trawling through astronomical objects before settling on one. She hit a key and blew it up full size on the main view screen.

“Well, how long?”

“It will take a few hours to fully compile, this is what I have so far though.” He loaded the partially enhanced image to the screen next to the one the Admiral had used.

“Are you seeing what I am, Admiral?” asked a bewildered General Rivers.

“Quite, if I’m not mistaken, that is Terra Nova.”

“The capital of Alpha Centauri?” asked the confused Science Officer.

Admiral Jarvis stepped back and examined the images side by side.

“It looks to me like we have just discovered a viable route that leads directly to Terra Nova. If it works we can travel between both points in weeks instead of nearly a year.” She turned and looked at the General.

“This is sensational. We must assemble a fleet and move to control this position immediately. If this anomaly truly works, it will be the single most important piece of real estate in the entire sector. We and nobody else must control it. This could be our lifeline to the old worlds and the key to our final victory!”

She stopped for a moment as she considered their position before looking at the images again.

“You being captured may have been the best thing that ever happened to us!” she said happily.