Siege of Titan (Star Crusades Uprising, Book 1)

by Michael G. Thomas

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 th
e 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.