War of the Exiles

by Michael G. Thomas

  They are getting out of control.

  Spartan shook his head and found he was moving faster as he considered the situation. With regular soldiers he could hold them back, but the idea of putting over a hundred of them in close proximity to those that had brutalised their friends was a problem. There were already calls from many of the colonial representatives in the Alliance Council to rein them in.

  The Blood Pack will slaughter a thousand of the Spires, and still it will not be enough.

  The upper levels of the massive transport were a hive of small corridors. This was in stark contrast to the bulk storage areas that filled out the rest of the ship. IAB technicians had converted them to house barrack rooms for the Tenth Quadrant Exiles. Though more than functional in its role, it was still very different to custom built assault transports used by the other races. Spartan had started his career in the Confederate Marine Corps aboard such a ship. They shared a role, but their configuration could not have been more different. Assault ships were designed to fulfil two roles, the first to transport troops and equipment to war zones, and the second to provide the ability to deposit them into such a place. For all the blustering, Kraken was only capable of the former, and everybody on board knew that.

  If we ever go into combat, this thing will be nothing more than a coffin.

  Spartan moved away from the six smaller rooms being used as quarters for the Black Widows and to the centre section of the ship. For a short part of the walk, he was behind two of the Widows. Unlike Syala and Arana, they always kept their faces covered when among others. The sisters had explained the measure was a simple one of protection, primarily due to their missions in the Alliance. Missions against organised crime lords and their entourages could get them and their families killed. He looked at them as they walked and wondered if they were also female. Both were as tall as him, though less bulky. He suspected they were, not that it would make any difference in combat.

  He turned the next corner and into a wider passageway where a hidden machine made a continuous and very annoying clicking sound. Both of the Widows entered one of the side doors, and as they entered, Spartan spotted a number of their comrades in various stages of dress. Even their under armour was dark, giving the impression of skin-tight armour. One saw him and looked back in his direction. A black face protector concealed her face, but he could see her neck and forehead, as well as the long locks of golden hair.

  Interesting.

  Another female voice said something, and the door shut with a dull clunk. Spartan shook his head and continued onwards. The interior lighting flickered as he walked until he reached half of its length. There was not a soul to be seen at this point, even though he could hear the sounds of armoured boots far off into the distance. After so many years of combat and training, he could recognise the different types of soldier often just by this sound. The marines of the Alliance wore fully enclosed PDS armour that left a dull clunking sound, whereas the Jötnar created a deep thumping noise. The Thegns were far more rhythmic, sharing more with machines than the other flesh and blood soldiers.

  We could have used them in this fight.

  Spartan continued forwards and recalled the recurring dream he had encountered since hearing of the latest developments on Karnak, one of the most common of the fighting on Spascia a decade earlier. He envisioned the great demonic monsters and machines of the Biomech enemy as they brutalised the defenders of Spascia. Every time they became bigger, stronger, and more dangerous, he was there trying to stop them. After more than a decade, Spartan had seen Teresa and his son Jack killed a hundred times. In these dreams Spartan killed in the hundreds, perhaps thousands, and still he continued to fail. This new dream was something very different, though; it was becoming more and more of a vision.

  A pair of IAB technicians approached with a wheeled sled carrying a single heavy weapon to fit on a set of Blood Pack armour. Spartan waited as they passed him by and looked at the unit with interest. He then continued onwards, his thoughts returning to that one vision-like experience. It was a simple dream, where he imagined what the battlefields of Karnak would look like with unrestricted warfare, being fought in any manner he determined necessary. If he was given the go-ahead, he could put an entire army on the surface. The defenders would be bolstered by at least a few hundred thousand Thegns on the ground. With Alliance armour and weaponry, and transported by the IAB, they could be in and out of action in hours, and with vast numbers.

  An army, united by purpose, not race. Like that could happen.

  To anybody else the idea might have seemed horrific, but with the war over, the surviving Thegns were now totally loyal to their masters. These last of the Twelve Biomech rebels were some of the most loyal creatures Spartan had ever encountered. As well as providing the key to the knowledge locked away at Taxxu, they had also pulled back the last remaining Biomech armies. Few trusted them, though, and there was little chance the Thegns or any of the other creatures from the war would ever be given unrestricted access to Alliance facilities or institutions. The numbers of these soldiers was great but nothing compared to the dormant casualties drifting in long sealed Tomb Ships at Taxxu. These were the remains of warriors lost long ago, yet they were a resource waiting to be tapped into. In Spartan's dreams they would go into battle and die to the last man, without hesitation or concern for their lives, even those that had spent years alongside Humans and perfecting their many skills.

  Spartan, Gun, and Khan had spent hundreds of hours with the remaining Biomech rebels, discussing the past, and the mysteries of the time well before the races fought against each other. According to On’Sarax, the Biomechs were just one of the many races created by something in the Helion Nexus. The rebel Biomech suspected that each race had been specialised, with the Helions and T'Kari originally being one people, the most populous and suitable for all roles. The Byotai were a warrior class, and the Klithi the traders and explorers. He had seemed almost saddened that the knowledge of past events had long been lost, and now only remnants could be found. He thought that one day all might be united in purpose, but that day was far from now.

  Spartan smiled to himself, recalling one particular conversation where they had argued about the virtues of each of the races working together. Spartan often dreamt of this last conversation. It was one of the most enjoyable debates with his friends, and also the last true conversation he and Z'Kanthu had before his death in the war.

  The races unified, and with a single purpose would be something incredible. We have the technology and resources to do this. The Thegns would fight under our banner. Leaders like Five-Seven could command them, with advanced equipment provided by the Alliance, pilots by the Anicinàbe, ground troops from the Jötnar and Byotai, and so much more. What could we achieve if we worked as one?

  Artificial creatures like Khan, Gun, and even Five-Seven had proven what they could do. Five-Seven had risen through the ranks to become the most recognisable face of his entire species, while Gun had commanded entire Human armies into battle. Spartan began to daydream as he made his way through the myriad of passageways. He imagined legions of the warriors, each protected by their natural body armour, and with powerful Alliance weaponry in their hands. Mixed in with them were platoons of Humans in Maverick armour and just as many Jötnar, at least half in the silver and grey of the Blood Pack. In Spartan's mind it was the perfect fusion of man and alien, supported by the technology of many ages. He then shook his head with wry amusement.

  Like any of them want to see that, they would sooner fight each other for no other reason than they are different. Nothing could make them work together.

  Spartan moved further towards the blast door. This was the end of the narrow corridors, and from memory he knew the next section was the primary access shaft that ran through two-thirds of the ship.

  If I were ever given the chance, I'd bring them all together. Hell, I'd force them together. Man, alien, synthetic, Biomech, and machine. We'd be infinitely better together tha
n at each other’s throats.

  At that very moment, when his optimistic vision of the future shifted, the lights went out. For a second it was as if he'd lost his vision. Spartan half-expected he would hit the ground but quickly realised every one of the lights had cut out completely because the ceiling strip lights had failed. Just the gentle glow of one red light far off in the distance provided any relief.

  What caused that?

  Spartan stepped to the side of the passage, making sure the wall was at his flank and instinctively reaching for his pistol, expecting trouble at any moment. He might be unarmoured, but Spartan was never one to be caught unarmed. Even the strongest warrior could be laid low by a knife to the gut or a blade drawn across the throat. Whether on the World Ship at Taxxu, or even visiting Syala deep in the bowels of the transport ship, Spartan was protected.

  "You're kidding me."

  Spartan paused for a moment, making sure he could see his way through the next section. Many parts of the transport were unfit for habitation, and this section seemed to belong in the middle category. Long cables ran in loose lengths along the ground where they had been hastily installed. His eyes finally adjusted, and the single light on the right side of the blast door was enough for him to see the ground and walls around him. He relaxed and then continued on.

  Better.

  Upon reaching blast door, he tapped the gently glowing red panel. The metal plating slid open, and the dull orange light almost blinded him. Spartan lifted one hand to shield his face just as a squad of twelve Jötnar marched past him. Like all of the Jötnar mercenaries on the ship, they were members of the Blood Pack, and though equipped to do a similar job to their Alliance incarnations, they looked little like them; lacking the complex PDS armour and JAS suits used by the Alliance Jötnar units. The Blood Pack were still massive, and while the regular Alliance Jötnar were relatively uniform, this group made extensive use of their own personalised, albeit less complex equipment.

  What is that?

  Spartan sniffed the air, trying his best to avoid the smell. The ship was clearly not designed for the transport of ground soldiers, and already the place was filling up with the stench of oil, sweat, and food. Combined, it reminded him of the smells often found in the busy parts of New Carlos on Prime or the backstreets of Kerberos. An IAB officer stopped in front of him and indicated to an open doorway on the right where a faint trickle of smoke pushed out.

  "Sir, there's been a fire in the lower galley. We're moving everybody back until it's cleared."

  Spartan noticed the smell was much stronger than before.

  "Serious?"

  The Lieutenant shook his head.

  "Not really. One of the Jötnar started a fire, and it knocked out three ovens and a storage bin. It spread fast and wiped out stores in two lockers. The fumes were the real problem, but we'll have that sorted out within the next thirty minutes."

  "Very well, carry on."

  It was a minor issue, one of many that had occurred over the last few days. The timetable had been pushed ahead due to the growing problems on Karnak. This meant conducting much of the preparation for the mission during the trip.

  If this had been an IAB only operation, they would already have arrived at Karnak. But this was no IAB sanctioned operation. It was a clandestine unit being moved in civilian ships. The fleet had travelled for days now, but with nothing more complex than conventional engines was forced to use the Interstellar Network. This series of Spacebridges connected all the regional star systems, as well as most of the planets. Though travelling through these rifts in space-time, there was still the time to travel to the next Spacebridge, and depending on the route, this could take days or even weeks at full-speed.

  To an outsider, it looked no more complex or threatening than a large trade fleet. The transports were nothing special, an odd mixture of Byotai and Helion, and only a few showing any kind of external weapons. There were eight ships in total, with twice that number of small Byotai escorts and a pair of Alliance Liberty class destroyers for area defence. The last two ships would follow to the Byotai border, where they would then hold back to leave only alien vessels in the actual mission.

  What's that?

  Spartan's secpad activated, and he lifted it to find a message from the captain of the ship. It was short and simply stated there was a violent incident occurring on the Jötnar deck.

  What's going on?

  Spartan increased his pace and made his way past the last few sections to reach this larger part of the ship. The Jötnar quarter was specially chosen for them, as it was by far the largest part suitable for habitation. Whereas the other sections had been loaded with prefabricated barrack blocks, this one was actually still in its original form. The taller ceilings gave the Jötnar space to move around and to train without fear of damage to the ship. Even the shortest of them was around two and a half metres, many reaching just over three metres. The variance was a consequence of the large amount of genetic material used in their creation.

  Spartan approached the pair of Blood Pack guards, neither of which moved aside for him, even though he was both the senior commander of the IAB present and senior officer of the entire operation.

  "Move it, now."

  One of the Jötnar looked to the other and then back to Spartan.

  "We don't take orders from Humans."

  A loud crashing sound came from inside the area being used by the Jötnar, and then the smashing of something that sounded expensive. Spartan nodded.

  "You don't say. Now... I want..."

  "Wait here," said the Jötnar, completely ignoring Spartan.

  The Jötnar moved back and struck the door. Without a sound the door swung open, and another Jötnar looked out. As with the other two, Spartan didn't recognise him.

  "What?"

  Spartan shook his head and took a step towards the doorway. The guards closed ranks, easily blocking his path with their torsos. Though members of the Blood Pack, they were only partially armoured; just their chests and joints covered in the custom plate armour. Shouting burst out through the gap in the door, the same he would expect in a brawl or skirmish.

  "No, you wait here."

  Spartan has been patient enough and took one more step so that he was now only a metre from the massive pair.

  "I am the commander of this operation, and you will move out of my way...or suffer the consequences."

  The first Jötnar that had done all the talking so far began to chuckle.

  "I don't care if you're Ko'mandor Gun himself. Nobody interrupts the Blood Pack until you've been..."

  That was the moment Spartan struck hard into the creature's flank. It was a low blow under the ribs and hit with force. He then pushed up his left arm and stepped past the guard, wrapping his leg around the lower part of the Jötnar's left leg. He spun about and embedded his foot in the back of the warrior's leg. The shock of the attack threw the guard off balance, and he staggered forwards, before recovering and then roaring with anger.

  Spartan turned to the second and punched four times in quick succession before stepping around him, like a boxer moving to avoid a blow.

  "Next time..."

  Again he struck, this time low into the stomach and rib. His artificial arm gave him extra power for the strike, his overall strength allowing him to hit significantly harder than any of them expected. They turned around and lowered their arms, this time ready for an actual fight. The first stepped closer, and Spartan ducked low and jabbed into his armpit, frustrating him more. At that point the door swung open, and out came Olik.

  "Enough!"

  The two Jötnar hesitated, and Spartan took that opportunity to run at the shorter of the two and jump up, kicking hard at the upper leg. He gained a short boost that brought him to head height and struck a powerful hook that connected with the warrior's noise. Blood splattered left and right as he landed back on his feet.

  "Next time, what?"

  Spartan exhaled, having barely expended any energ
y yet; the two Jötnar clenched their fists and prepared to come for him. Olik moved out from the doorway and blocked the path to Spartan, shielding him with his own body.

  "Enough I said! This is Spartan, and if one of you even thinks of doing this again, you'll be the prey back on Hyperion."

  The taller of the two stopped, exhaled twice, and then lowered his head. Hyperion was a jungle world on the periphery of the Alliance and the only planet fully populated by Jötnar. The great forests were still filled with large numbers of creatures constructed by the Biomechs and now hunted by the Jötnar for sport and training.

  "Apologies, Spartan. We thought you were..."

  Spartan snapped back, giving him no time to apologise.

  "Don't waste your words. You will guard this section professionally, or not at all. This is no place for mindless thugs. Do you want a war with humanity? Because listen to me, there are more people back there who want nothing more than to lock every Jötnar in a cave to rot. You are dishonouring the memory of your ancestors."

  The second Jötnar lifted his arm out and across his chest, and then also bowed before Spartan. This time neither of them spoke, so Spartan turned back to Olik.

  "I thought this Blood Pack of Wictred's was professional? If they can't control themselves, they can go right back where we found them."

  With that, he stepped inside and past the small groups of Jötnar. The commotion outside had garnered the interest of very few of them. The place smelt musty and reminded him of the barracks on board the Confederate Assault ships in the war. This space was big enough to house an entire battalion of regular infantry, but on this ship it was used to house twelve squads of Jötnar, a full one hundred and twenty warriors plus their commanders. The smell of oil, burnt metal, and the bodies of so many warriors was far from pleasant.