Fall of Terra Nova

by Michael G. Thomas

  Bishop nodded in agreement.

  “Good. Tell me then. What has he found?”

  Bishop pulled out his datapad and placed it on the desk. He turned it over and struck the lower section of the unit. A small slither of plastic slipped off to reveal a compartment. Nothing obvious was revealed until Bishop pulled out a small tool from inside his jacket.

  “Anderson really isn’t taking chances on this is he? Have you seen the data?”

  With a click, a small metal disk extended about the size of Bishop’s small finger.

  “No, Sir. The Commander gave me this and told me I had to destroy it unless I was able to give you the data personally.”

  “Why so long? You’ve been with the fleet now for several weeks.”

  “Yes, Sir. We had to collect some additional data from the Yorkdale before coming here.”

  He leaned forward and handed the datacard to the Admiral. She turned and pulled out a spare datapad from the drawer in her desk.

  “Is that a secure unit?” asked Bishop.

  “Of course, this unit has had its data connections severed.”

  Pressing a small section on the side revealed the standard dataport for cards and secure encryption keys. Wireless technology had been the norm for centuries, but with this kind of data a hardware link was always the safest method of transfer.

  The screen flashed green and displayed a series of images, graphs and data. As Admiral Jarvis skimmed through, she spoke quietly.

  “What about the Yorkdale? Do they have a copy of this?”

  “No, Sir. I had strict instructions to speak with Commander Gun before revealing this.”

  She stopped for a moment and looked up.

  “You checked with the Jötnar before coming to me?” she demanded, her face starting to tighten with either anger or surprise. Bishop wasn’t sure which.

  “Yes, Sir. My orders were very strict, Sir. He said it was of importance to their race, and it would be disingenuous to hide it from them.”

  Admiral Jarvis looked back down and continued reading the data. The first section was addressed specifically to her and contained the summary of Commander Anderson’s intelligence on the Biomech programming. At first it appeared dull and overly scientific until she reached the third paragraph. The words ‘program termination’ caught her eye. She read further.

  According to the data, the Biomechs had all received accelerated basic development with regards to muscle, bone and intelligence. None of this was news until she came to the part of training and re-education. The scientists reported that the computers and equipment on Prometheus were required to send a series of codes to manage and handle their Biomechs. One of the injured, but still living Biomechs, had been found with the ability to receive updates from the compounds data system each day. Admiral Jarvis looked up at Bishop.

  “You have seen none of this? What about Commander Gun or his comrades?”

  “Commander Gun has seen this same data. He said it didn’t matter to him.”

  “Really? That’s interesting. Was there anything else?”

  “No, Sir, other than Commander Anderson would like to speak with you on a secure line once you have read and checked the datacard.”

  She nodded, but her eyes remaining glued to the pages of text. The more she read, the more she was surprised at what she found.

  “Very good, Sergeant. That will be all.”

  “Sir.”

  He saluted and made for the door. As he approached, it hissed open to reveal the corridor and her ever-present marine guards. Displaying utmost professionalism, they stayed completely still, but she knew they were able to watch from inside their helmets. With a nod, they closed the door, and she returned to her desk and the datacard that was still connected. She sat down, took a short sip from her glass and continued reading. She paused for a brief moment then from her standard issue datapad, sent a signal to the Naval Intelligence unit on board the Crusader. She wanted experts to have a good look at the data. Once finished, she looked back at the screen.

  The graphs and statistics showed that the Biomechs had been programmed with additional layers of knowledge and motivation. All contained the basic level of problem solving, motor functions and the like. The second and third layers were temporary and specifically to do with combat and strategy. The first two layers were permanent and nothing could remove them once installed. The third and most superficial layer was used for direct orders, control, strategy and tactics. Though it wasn’t confirmed, it was the opinion of all but three of the senior researchers that this was how the Union forces were able to control the Biomechs. A daily update was transmitted to their forces that continued or modified the third layer of programming. It was short term, and if interrupted for more than a day the Biomechs would revert to the first two stages. Commander Anderson considered it a failsafe in case the masters lost the ability to control them. They would then cease their current operation in less than a day.

  “Interesting. So if we can find a way to alter or halt these signals, we could create substantial problems for the enemy,” she said quietly.

  Leaning forwards, she tapped on her datapad to connect her directly to the CiC.

  “Get me a secured video link with Commander Anderson on Prometheus, immediately.”

  “Yes, Sir,” came the reply.

  She turned back to her datapad and examined several of the summaries concerning the dissection of the Biomech casualties. The more she read so, the happier she felt. One screen caught her eye. It was to do with the AI Hubs. The damaged models examined by her the staff on Prometheus had established the units contained the same three levels of programming as the Biomechs. It seemed the synthetic creations were not just mindless animals after all. They had been built with multiple levels of intelligence, skills and tactical mastery. The Echidna Union was on the cusp of commanding a completely synthetic race from the four-legged animals up through to humans and then the control of warships.

  Admiral Jarvis tapped the intercom unit again and connected with her communications officer.

  “Sir?”

  “Send the Chief up here as soon as possible.”

  “Sir.”

  She leaned back in her chair and took another small sip of the red, almost brown fortified wine. She let it sit on her tongue for a few seconds as she savoured the taste. There really was not anything better on board a ship than a fine glass of port. She thought back to the synthetic creations they had discovered over the months of war, allowing herself just a moment of satisfaction. If they were correct about this communication layer, then they might have a chance against the Union after all.

  * * *

  Spartan rolled to the side as the heavy metal rod smashed into the floor. The din of metal on metal reverberated through the landing bay. A scatter of sparks flickered along the floor, and a narrow mark ran for almost a metre. He had been forced to move fast to avoid the attack and even then had only just managed it.

  “Spartan!” shouted Teresa as loudly as she could.

  Over a minute had gone by so far, but neither of the two warriors had managed to make a strike of note against each other. Both were well built and tough, but they were a world apart in technique. Spartan was by far the more experienced and capable fighter. His footwork and posture was years ahead of Khan’s. With skill and timing, he moved like a dancer as he carefully evaded strikes, but Khan was no slouch in combat. While lacking the experience of Spartan, he did have brute strength and lightning reflexes. He was able to deflect or displace every attack Spartan launched, with annoying rapidity. By all account, it would have been a fight worthy of the pits and areas throughout Prometheus itself.

  Spartan jumped up and spotted Teresa calling to him. He was used to the roar of the crowd but seeing her there was a distraction that could cost him his life. He turned back and examined Khan’s posture. His mighty opponent stood like a monster from ancient legends. He held the rod up high on his right shoulder like a bat and glared at Spartan. The c
reature’s left foot was forward, and his expression betrayed arrogance. Spartan had fought in scores of close quarter battles from criminals on Prometheus, to the pit fights and then the battles in the Marine Corps. He knew when his enemy thought he was winning. He moved closer to Khan but not close enough to be hit.

  “Khan, you’ll feel this one!” he shouted. The words were not just to inspire himself, but also to encourage Khan to respond.

  He swung his metal rod hard and brought it down in a powerful cutting motion. It looked like a two-handed sword from Earth’s medieval past. If the blow had caught any man, it would have killed him instantly. But he missed and cut short, managing to miss the massive creature by half a metre. The weapon clanked uselessly on the ground, now impotent against the follow-up strike from the Jötnar.

  Khan smirked and slammed his own rod down. His own attack involved even more effort and power than Spartan had used. It all happened exactly as Spartan had intended. He had practiced the same feint and counterattack move many times in the past. By attacking short, it encouraged his opponent to give up his posture and start his own heavy attack. Spartan lifted the rod up horizontally and took the impact on the rod. The force hit so hard it almost buckled his legs. He let the rod drop down to his right, so the attack slid off and the Khan was thrown off balance. He had his opening, and without hesitation he jumped at it.

  “Now!” he roared and spun the rod around in a circular motion behind his back, over his head and then down onto the back of the Jötnar. It struck him hard on the right shoulder with force that would have broken the bone of a normal man. Khan groaned in pain and released his rod as a spasm rocked his body. His left leg buckled, and he dropped down to one knee. Spartan stepped back and readied himself. He was convinced this was the fight-winning move, but he didn’t want to go further. Beating one of Gun’s Captains was one thing, killing him was quite another. One of the Jötnar moved forward to intervene, but Gun grabbed him and pulled him back.

  “Fair fight!” he snapped.

  The subordinate lowered his head and stepped back. Gun had clearly established a firm chain of command, and one that almost certainly revolved around him hitting people that disagreed. Gun stood upright and watched with a look of enjoyment on his face. He lifted his arm and pointed past Spartan. Suspicion now starting to enter his mind, so he turned back around to check on his opponent, who he assumed at this point, would be on the ground in pain. Incredibly, the hurt Khan glared at him and shook his body as though stretching before a fight. His body creaked and crackled as the muscles and bones were pulled hard. Spartan couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  “No bloody way.”

  He looked over to Gun who appeared to be chuckling. Spartan looked less than impressed.

  “Yeah, thanks a lot, Gun,” he said quietly.

  “That it?” snarled Khan, as he turned to face Spartan. The mighty Jötnar shook his shoulder blades and leaned his head from side to side. Each time he moved, the joints crackled. It wasn’t what Spartan expected or wanted to see. The mighty creature left the rod on the ground and pounded towards Spartan with both arms extended to grab at him. In a fight of brute strength and mass, Spartan would have no chance. Khan was easily twice his weight, possibly much more.

  He lowered his body closer to the ground with his feet pushed out in a wide stance, waiting for the clash. Khan came into range and reached out for him with his great paws. Spartan easily evaded with a quick twist and moved off to the side. The Jötnar stumbled past as he expected to slam into the body of Spartan. Without a second’s hesitation, Spartan moved in for the blow. With one carefully executed cut, he struck against Khan’s left forearm. As it hit the limb, a crunching sound indicated a major fracture. But that wasn’t enough, and Spartan had decided it was a decisive victory or none at all. With a second flurry of twists, he brought the rod down onto Khan’s jaw and crashed into the bone. He jumped back and rested the rod on his shoulder, expecting to see Khan collapse to the floor. Instead he stopped and turned to face him. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek from the second strike.

  “Are we done?” asked Spartan. He knew the fight could get out of hand, for the Jötnar had a reputation for never backing down. This fight could easily end with one or both of them being seriously hurt.

  Khan moved to the fallen rod and lifted it up. He said nothing, but his actions told Spartan all he needed to know. Khan stepped forward, but this time was playing it safe. Spartan jumped forwards in another feint, much like his first attack. Khan had already worked this movement out and simply waited until Spartan withdrew before attacking. Spartan was thrown onto his back foot and forced to defend against a dozen attacks, each heavy strike following the next. As the metal rod struck, he felt his leg becoming weaker and weaker.

  “Now you fall!” shouted Khan, and with one swift motion he swung the rod in a horizontal arc that knocked out Spartan’s legs from under him. He flipped over backwards and hit the ground hard onto his back.

  “Spartan!” Teresa cried out, and she moved forward to help him. Gun grabbed her around the waist and held her back. She looked up to Spartan, but he twisted his head away and shook himself. The pain was starting to spread from his leg, and he could already see a vision of the medic telling him off. He was aware of the potential for long-term damage by using his leg in such a violent melee. A metal rod hitting him on the head if he didn’t move was a great motivator, and he’d rather lose a leg than be dead or brain damaged.

  “Not yet. I’m just getting started!”

  With all his remaining energy, he lifted himself back to his feet. His injured leg felt like fire burning through his body. He knew he should stop, but something inside him refused to let him back down. Maybe it was pride, perhaps even stupidity that kept him on his feet. Over these many years, the one thing he had always found difficult was when to back down. He lifted the rod, the metal now feeling twice as heavy as it had before. He extended it as though he had just completed a fencing thrust towards Khan.

  “Are you ready?” he asked with a crooked smile.

  “Yes!” shouted an excited Gun from the sidelines. Teresa looked over to him with an expression of dismay and anger.

  “What?” he said with a wicked snigger.

  Spartan’s attempt to goad the Khan into attacking him wasn’t necessary. He surged forward, and with a roar he swung his rod at Spartan’s own weapon. It was a dismissive strike, more a swat than a cut. As the rods were about to meet, Spartan dipped the rod low. It was a move often used in fencing called a disengage, allowing him to attack offline and towards Khan’s right-hand side. As the monster barrelled past, his attack missed by several metres.

  In one fluid move, Spartan brought the rod down hard onto Khan’s wrists. As it struck, there was a sickening crunch of bones cracking. Khan roared in pain and dropped to one knee, the pain now starting to affect him. Spartan didn’t stop and swung the rod around, sweeping it hard into the back of Khan’s legs. The warrior was strong and stable on his feet, but there was nobody that could stand after receiving a major blow behind the knee. The strike swept his legs out from under him, and he collapsed in an awkward mess.

  “Finish him,” cried Teresa, finally sensing Spartan might have a chance.

  Spartan knew it and leapt around Khan, pushing the rod up and around the warrior’s throat. He pulled hard and locked it into a painful choke.

  “Yield!” shouted Spartan.

  Khan shook and shuddered as he tried to shake Spartan from his body. Even with a shattered right arm, and pain wracking his body, he refused to stop the fight. He tightened his throat muscles, and with his unbroken arm he punched Spartan hard in the ribs. The blow hit like a block of concrete and Spartan cried out in pain. Like a terrier he wouldn’t let go, and instead he pulled even harder on the metal rod, his muscles bulging as he strained against the might of the Jötnar. He could feel the creature’s pulse pounding away through the thick veins on his body. One more squeeze and he tipped forward slightly, y
et he still refused to back down.

  “Enough!” shouted Gun from his position off to the side. The roar from the Jötnar leader was louder than anything Spartan could have imagined. Those that had been cheering for Khan were instantly silenced. Spartan felt Khan loosen his body slightly at the command from his superior. Sensing he might be about to yield, he moved backwards, but he kept the weapon in his hands. So far, the Jötnar warrior had managed to fight on no matter what happened in the fight, and he had no doubt Khan would continue to strike even after being told to stop by Gun.

  In a surprising move, Khan lifted himself up and turned to face Spartan. The gash on his head had opened up a little more, and several streaks of blood ran down his face and neck to his chest. There were welts and marks all over his body from the violent fight he had just fought. His broken forearm was crooked. It was an obvious sign of heavy damage, yet he seemed unaffected by it. He exhaled and roared at Spartan.

  “Great,” muttered Spartan as he braced himself for battle. The Jötnar stepped forward and extended his unbroken arm. For a moment, Spartan suspected it was a feint, but something about his face made him think otherwise. Taking a chance, he moved forward and grasped Khan’s forearm. As they made contact, the Jötnar stepped closer and grabbed Spartan, squeezing him hard before releasing him.

  “Commander Gun was true. Spartan is mighty.”

  Spartan tried to keep himself upright, but his injured leg couldn’t take anymore and it finally gave out. He dropped to his knees, but Khan grabbed him and helped him maintain his balance. The two looked at each other as both recognised the warrior spirit each contained. They were fighters, and neither was ever likely to back down in any kind of fight. Gun and Teresa approached and stood to the side of the two warriors.

  “Spartan? Talk to me,” said a concerned and slightly angered Teresa. Khan looked at her. He was surprised at the venom and anger he could sense in her tone. He leaned forward to examine her, and she turned and stared back at him.