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 t
he 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 forward
ed 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.
Star Crusades Uprising: The First Trilogy Page 34
