Star Crusades Uprising: The First Trilogy

by Michael G. Thomas

  “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. Wh
en 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 t
en 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.