Slaves of Hyperion (Star Crusades Uprising, Book 6)

by Thomas, Michael G.

  “Uh, well, I’m not quite sure what you mean, Admiral.”

  “Well, I have been commissioned by the Senate to come up with a new class of ship, a craft that will become a universal warship for use in all kinds of operations. The Navy is to have its capital ships slashed to a total of thirty. That is a fraction of the size we are used to. Instead of battleships, cruisers and transports, they want a more economical class that can engage other ships, land troops and reinforce ground operations.”

  Spartan was shocked at the number.

  “Thirty ships? I thought we had a Navy of nearly three hundred ships?”

  The Admiral nodded.

  “Yes, but over half are due to be decommissioned due to age or damage, and that number also includes small vessels like destroyers and frigates. The smaller craft are not the issue; the plan is to rush a new vessel into production in the next twelve months to replace cruisers, marine transports and battleships. Any slower, and we’ll be forced to rely on broken down and failing vessels. Nine ships are being decommissioned this very month. We need replacements and fast. If we build different classes, we’ll face a major capability gap. I don’t need the best, but I need as good as we can get at everything, and fast.”

  He looked at the three of them, and each looked as confused as the next.

  “The basic recommendations have always been agreed by Navy High Command, a ship of about the size of an Achilles class cruiser with similar firepower. More powerful engines and the capacity to carries up to five hundred marines or a similar sized flight group. A flight deck to handle the landing craft when used for marines or gunboats, and fighters when configured for carrier operations.”

  Spartan looked both impressed and surprised at the information.

  “That is, well, optimistic. Can you deliver that level of miniaturisation into a single ship in the time you have?”

  “We have to. The design will be flexible so that each ship can simply alter its crew and craft on board depending on the mission. So some can be used as pure marine transports, like Santa Maria, while others will operate aircraft and perform as carriers.”

  “I assume they can do both with a smaller unit of marines and aircraft as well?”

  “Exactly, you understand the plan, Lieutenant. Now, what I need is any advice you can offer as experienced ground troops. What worked and what didn’t aboard the Santa Cruz? I already have information from scores of experienced Navy personnel, but now I have one of the Alliance’s most respected marines and two of our best cousins, the vaunted warrior Jötnar.”

  “Yes!” roared Khan with undeniable pleasure.

  Spartan looked at the Admiral and did his very best not to look too happy at being offered the chance to play a part in something so important. He looked at the holographic models being shown in the centre of the room and then to the Admiral.

  “Okay, so what can I tell you?”

  “Straight to the point, I like it. Tell me about Santa Maria and Santa Cruz. Then I want to hear about that old warhorse, the Yorkdale.”

  The mere mention of Khan’s old military transport caught his ear and his attention. It didn’t take long before the four of them were arguing away at the merits and failures of the ships and the units stationed on them.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The fighting that engulfed the Proxima System proved once and for all that the divisions in the Confederate Military were a major weakness. Marines, soldiers and militia fought each other while Union soldiers and their Zealot soldiers ran amok. It was the violent lessons learnt on the scores of battlefields in the war that paved the way for the new order, the Alliance Military with her modern fleets and well trained marines. The days of politicians leading colonial army militia into battle died with the end of the Proxima Emergency.

  Reports of the Proxima Emergency

  Sergeant Morato and her team waited patiently inside the Marine Corps landing craft. In the zero-g environment, they were forced to rely on the straps and clamps to stay still while the craft manoeuvred alongside the suspicious transport. The medium-sized vessel was the standard craft used to insert marines into battle and was big enough to land a large unit directly into battle. On this occasion, however, it was just a single marine platoon led by a young Lieutenant Harper and her eight-man ASOG reconnaissance troop. The name was something of a misnomer, as the recon part of the ASOG teams contained the best-trained and experienced members of the ASOG unit. As well as being expert fighters, they were required to be the best at survival techniques, infiltration and a host of other specialisations.

  “Sergeant, your troop ready?” asked the Lieutenant, a slight tremble in his voice betraying his frayed nerves.

  “No problem here. We go in first, and I’ll give you the signal to follow. Remember, watch for friendlies. We don’t want any accidents in there.”

  Teresa watched him nod in agreement before he turned back to the thirty marines in his platoon. With the significant downsizing of many units, it was only the most experienced and mentally stable that was left. So many had been granted long-term leave, and even more moved back to their home colonies to assist in the recovery effort. He gave them a quick pep talk, but it seemed they were all ready and competent. If they were anything like her, they just wanted to get on with the operation. Teresa did wonder why she hadn’t feigned mental instability to get out of another tour, but it was just against her nature. She had fought hard to get where she was now, just like Spartan.

  I hate the waiting!

  All of his men wore the dark grey PDS armoured suits as worn by marines for a good number of years now. Each of them was encased in close fitting armour and carried L48 carbines with the small-calibre box fitted. When in space-borne operations, it was critical for combat units to avoid large calibre weapons as they could easily penetrate the ship’s armoured skin and depressurise an entire section. The optional modification gave them more ammunition, a higher rate of fire and a safer round. Teresa looked back to her own unit but said nothing; they knew what had to be done. She and Lovett had done this kind of thing a hundred times before. The other six were almost as experienced.

  “Okay, make sure you keep your weapons on low mode. I don’t want to get blown out into space, alright?” she said with a cheesy grin.

  The other marines present thought she was being serious, but the rest of her unit knew a joke when they heard it. Unlike the marines, they were carrying the L52 Mark II Assault Carbines, much to the envy of the marines. These weapons could destroy large chunks of the transport if not handled correctly, but that wasn’t a concern to Teresa. If these experienced men and women couldn’t control their weapons, nobody could. They wore exactly the same armour as the marines with one simple exception; the grey paint had been interspersed with black tiger stripes. It was a minor detail, but it made the distinction between ASOG and marine very clear. A scraping sound indicated they had made contact with the target. The impact shook the marines inside, but it was nothing serious.

  “Here we go. Remember, watch for friendlies!” said Teresa.

  Almost in perfect synchronisation each of the ASOG fighters activated their visors. With a quick buzz, the fronts of their helmets clamped shut to encase them in an airtight suit. The PDS armour was proof against light small arms but not designed for complete protection against heavier weapons. Unlike the massive power assisted suits of the Vanguards, they were more a replacement for the earlier body armour and webbing carried by soldiers and then marines.

  “Five seconds,” said the co-pilot in a quiet voice over their suits’ intercoms. The interior lighting had already switched to red, and they all clung to the rails in case of a sudden impact. Then came the final crunch. The external hatch slid open, and the automated coupler unit created a bonded vacuum seal between the two craft. It took seconds for the procedure to complete and was followed by the diamond-edged cutters that proceeded to take away the target’s exterior hatch. Teresa watched the action from a live external feed taken by the landing craf
t. She could see the glowing metal where the cutter was busy at work but not much else.

  What are we gonna find in there?

  In answer there was a much louder clunk as a chunk of metal drifted against their own airlock, a slight hiss, and the interior hatch slid open. That was her signal and without hesitating, she pulled herself away from the wall and kicked. The weightless drifting was an odd sensation, and she was acutely aware that without contact to the walls, she had no control. Her head and arms entered the airlock first, and she failed to find the nearest rung. As soon as she made contact, she made four hard pulls and was inside the vessel. The rest of her unit followed. In less than thirty seconds, they were aboard and inside what appeared to be a large storage area. They spread out, each using one hand and their legs to manoeuvre around the floor, ceiling and walls while keeping the right arm free to handle their rifles.

  “Talk to me, Sergeant, what have you got?” asked the impatient Lieutenant still waiting on the landing craft.

  Teresa had already switched to thermal imaging and then infrared, but so far this section seemed empty. A quick glance at her team confirmed they had found the same.

  “Nothing in the landing area, Sir. We’re moving to the crew section.”

  She pulled herself along what looked like the ceiling to the next section. From the external shape the crew on the Santa Maria had sketched for her, they were about a quarter the way inside. The craft was easily double the size of the landing craft, and Teresa estimated it could carry about two hundred people or a large amount of cargo.

  Corporal Smith, a veteran of the Euryale campaign, lifted his hand, the common signal for the team to stop. They all waited, completely motionless save for their breathing inside their suits.

  “I’ve got readings in the habitation section,” he explained over the suit’s sound system.

  Teresa checked her own data that was being collected from her comrade’s suit. The networked integration was one of the new features of the PDS armour and being trialled by some of the ASOG troops scattered through the sector.

  “Yeah, I see it. Looks like two-dozen tangos in the next section. Wait...one is moving.”

  On her HUD she could see the shape of the heat blooms as they were projected inside her visor. If she altered the power mode on her rifle, she would be able to blast through the separating wall and destroy the target. Unfortunately, a high-power blast would breach the hull, depressurize the craft, and kill whatever was in the room.

  “They could be survivors from the Atlantic Star. Move on!”

  Corporal Smith moved through the small connecting corridor and into the multi-room habitation area. It was laid out like most transports with lines of seats, but with the lack of power or lighting, it was hard to tell what was inside. Teresa entered the first section and moved alongside her Corporal. Both lifted their rifles and scanned the area. At the far end, about ten metres away, were five people. None appeared armed although it wasn’t easy to tell by using the thermal and infrared overlay alone.

  “Alliance Navy, who are you?” she asked.

  Her thermal imaging sensor overloaded and quickly deactivated as the internal lights switched on and bathed the habitation area with light. At the same time, three more of her team arrived and spread out with their weapons at the ready. At the end of the space stood a bearded man with long robes and a beautifully detailed sash. On either side of him stood two creatures, much like the Biomechs she’d seen before. But these were different, smaller in stature and less animalistic in look. They carried firearms but of a pattern she was completely unfamiliar with. There was one thing they all had in common, the colour red. All five carried blood red symbols of a snake goddess emblazoned on their chests. Two of her men moved ahead only for a fifth guard to appear. He swung a mace type device that embedded in the man’s shoulder. The armour managed to absorb the impact but still sent him spinning out of control. Teresa twisted slightly and placed the central figure in her sights.

  “Hold your fire!” she barked.

  The man lifted both his hands, but she couldn’t tell if they were the common sign of surrender or simply to get attention. Either way, his guards lowered their weapons a short distance, and the stray guard moved back to the side wall while two of Teresa’s team pulled the wounded man back behind them.

  “Greetings, soldiers. My name is Pontus, and I bring a message of peace and reconciliation on behalf of my brothers. I wish to speak with your Captain.”

  Corporal Smith looked to Teresa, and she could just about see his bemused expression through the smoked visor. He raised an eyebrow and looked back to the man. She didn’t recognise the name Pontus, but these were clearly not Alliance citizens, and the symbols were very similar to the Echidna iconography she had seen so many times before.

  “What do you want? Where is the Atlantic Star?” she demanded in a firm voice.

  The man smiled and reached into his pocket. The ASOG troopers turned their aim directly to him, but Teresa lifted her hand to halt their eagerness. From the folds of his robe, he removed what appeared to be an identity chit. He smiled and pushed it away towards Teresa. In the zero-g environment it moved in a perfectly straight line but slow as if being draw by an invisible cord. It took nearly five seconds to reach her, a time that increased the tension ten-fold in the habitation area. She reached out and caught it, then pulled the chit up to her visor. She examined it carefully before looking back to him.

  “I have large numbers of the survivors. A tragic accident, you might say. Now, bring me to your Captain so that we might discuss the issue.”

  Sergeant Morato nodded to her unit who moved in closer around the man. His guards lifted their weapons and directed them at her. The troopers stopped their movement forward, but kept the enemy in their sights. Pontus smiled at her.

  “That is quite far enough. Now, I am waiting.”

  She looked at him for a few more seconds and finally contacting the Lieutenant.

  “Sir, we’ve got a security chit from the crew on board the Atlantic Star. We also have guests.”

  There was a short crackle from the communications gear, and only a few of the words made it back to her. She changed the coding and tried again.

  “Sir, I have a man here called Pontus. He says he is a brother, that’s how Typhon described him and his comrades on Terra Nova. He says he wants to see the Captain. Oh, and apparently, he has survivors from the Atlantic Star.”

  Still there was no answer. She was about to make arrangements when two of the marines appeared along with Lieutenant Harper. Once next to her, he tapped a button and opened the visor of his helmet. Teresa shook her head angrily at the reckless stupidity of doing that. The PDS suits lacked the sensors to check the immediate atmosphere, and he had little to no protection against biological agents. He looked to Pontus and back to her.

  “Comms are non-functioning. Must be something to do with the interference from the atmosphere. Who is this?”

  She maintained her aim on Pontus but leaned in close to him so Pontus and his guards would be unable to hear her. The Lieutenant looked just as much worried, as he was surprised, to see the man on the vessel.

  “Sir, I think he might have some kind of relationship with Typhon and the Zealots. He describes himself as one of the brothers, and he’s got a Biomech guard.”

  The young Lieutenant examined the man from a distance and was intrigued by his armoured bodyguards. With a hand gesture, he ordered his own men to take up flanking positions.

  “What does he want, and why the hell is he here?”

  “He said he’s called Pontus, and he wants to talk with the Captain.”

  The Lieutenant shook his head at the suggestion.

  “Does he now? Why would I even consider this offer? He might be carrying a weapon, or a bomb of some kind.”

  As they talked, the man stood silent, watching them both with a bemused expression on his face. He seemed to become more and more exasperated by their talking until he finally int
errupted them.

  “I can see that neither of you is in charge of this little endeavour. It is very simple. Either you bring me aboard your ship to meet with your Captain, or my pilot will detonate our engines. He looked to his left hand where he carried some kind of time device.

  “I will give you thirty seconds to decide.”

  Teresa looked to the Lieutenant for a decision, but he seemed uncertain as to what he should do. He tried once again to contact the Santa Maria, but their communications had dropped from the odd lost data packet to disconnection. The system reported a total signal loss at a distance of more than a few metres.

  “Sir, something is going on here. I recommend we leave this craft immediately.”

  Pontus shook his head.

  “Twenty seconds. If anybody leaves this vessel, I will have the engines detonated. I have no wish to cause harm, merely to speak with your Captain. You may search me, and my guards will stay here during my visit. What do you say?”

  * * *

  General Rivers waited patiently in the briefing room. A dozen heavily armed guards stood nearby and outside were another three squads, all ready to jump in with a single word. He heard footsteps approaching and looked to his personal guards. They were ready for trouble. From the right hand door the familiar shape of Sergeant Teresa Morato appeared.

  “Sir, he’ll be here in less than a minute.”

  “Good,” he replied, more relieved at the end of the waiting than anything else.

  The lights in the room flickered and returned to normal.

  “Is it just me, or are we experiencing more than the usual level of equipment failures and disruption right now?” he asked rhetorically. As if to answer his question, the figure of the ship’s executive officer entered the room. He saluted quickly to the General before speaking excitedly.

  “Sir, our ship-to-ship comms are still functioning. We cannot reach Alliance Fleet Headquarters though. The Captain is concerned that the transport may be carrying some kind of device. He is withdrawing the ship to high orbit and away from the craft, just in case.”