Star Crusades Uprising: The Second Trilogy

by Michael G. Thomas

  Talos glared at him and then around the room. It was as if he was trying to find a friendly face, or anybody that would help him in some way.

  “Don’t waste your time. Your Zealot friends are either being taken away in chains or are dead. No one can help you now. You have a choice. You can either shoot yourself like the coward I know you are, or you can fight like a man!”

  Khan and the other Jötnar roared with enjoyment at the spectacle. To Talos it must have sounded more like laughter, but the threat in their voices was obvious.

  “Why would I want to fight you, Spartan?”

  “You never fought in the Arena. You never experienced the fear or the blood of combat. I know a coward and a weakling when I see one.”

  Talos threw down his pistol and stepped towards Spartan. One of the Vanguards took half a step towards the man, presumably thinking it was now okay for him to take the man prisoner.

  “No, he made his choice. Now he can find out how much of a man he really is. Are you ready, pit fighter Talos?”

  Spartan stepped out in front of the man with nothing but his combat overall and webbing. He wore no armour, and his arms were bare from the shoulders down. Talos watched him with suspicion. With a flourish, he threw his robe to the ground and exposed his armour underneath. It was almost copper in colour and made up of thousands of tiny plates, each one no larger than a fingernail. From his belt, he pulled out a long, curbed dagger with a silvered blade and fine detailing on its hilt.

  “Pretty knife,” sniggered Spartan. From his own webbing, he pulled out his M11 Bayonet. It functioned as a bayonet for the L48 rifle and was also designed as a tough and durable fighting knife. As he dropped into a fighting stance, he thought back to the words of his instructor back on the Santa Maria so many months before. The description of the edge, tip and build quality was etched into his mind as if it was only yesterday.

  He lowered his centre of gravity and placed his left leg forward. His left hand and arm moved out to the side so as to make it difficult to strike. His blade was reversed with it pointing downwards in his clenched fist.

  “Spartan. You and your friends made my life hell on Prometheus!” said Talos.

  The two circled each other slowly. Their Jötnar captors held the handful of surviving Zealots tightly, but they still watched the fight carefully.

  “Talos, you know I said I remembered you back in our fighting days?”

  “Yes.”

  “I lied. You must have made no impact on me. Did you even fight one bout?”

  “Bastard!” he screamed and lurched forward. The attack came quickly as a classic overhand strike, like a murderer stabbing down with a kitchen knife. Spartan had practiced this manoeuvre many times and caught his right arm with a firm blow, parrying it with the bone of his forearm. The impact was hard and nearly knocked the blade from Talos’ hand. With his free hand, Spartan locked his left arm, and delivered a savage blow with his knee into the man’s stomach. He dropped down, doubling over with pain. Spartan stepped back and waited.

  “Is that it, Talos? Who even gave you your name? Did you make it up to frighten your innocent prisoners on your raids?”

  It was not over though, and Talos managed to lift himself up and move forwards, but this time far more cautiously. Spartan sensed the change and forced himself to calm down and watch carefully. He had seen this before. A foe was much more dangerous when they calmed down and fought more tactfully.

  “I fought alright, dozens of bouts, but you were their favourite. Don’t you remember the day we lost two fighters in one bout, and nobody knew why? They just collapsed and died.”

  It took a few seconds, but the memories started to come back. He remembered the series of fights, incredibly brutal melee battles with up to a dozen combatants. In the middle of the fight, two of their warriors started to shake and then collapsed to the ground, dead. It was a serious scandal and had nearly shut them down.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “It was supposed to be my turn in the Arena that day. Because of you, I was moved back to training with the plebs.”

  He jumped forward, this time stabbing from underneath at Spartan’s belly. The attacks were shorter and faster than before, and it took skill and speed to avoid them. One almost struck his rib. He was forced to beat it aside with a strike from his right knee.

  “So what? You failed and now you pick on the weak to make up for it.”

  “Oh, no. That isn’t what I did. You see I poisoned them before the fight. If I couldn’t fight, then neither could they.”

  Spartan stopped in his tracks, not so much surprised as angry at the behaviour of the pathetic man that claimed to be such a mighty warrior. He looked directly at his face and spat on the floor.

  “You aren’t a warrior. You aren’t even Talos. You’re a pathetic child with inadequacy problems. In fact, forget it. This fight is over. You aren’t worth wasting sweat over.”

  Spartan turned his back on the man and took a step towards Khan who watched with a disappointed expression. Around him stood the bloodied but contented looking Jötnar.

  “What?” he asked.

  Two of the Vanguards turned to their right and raised their weapons. Khan spun about and lifted his own serrated axe, all of them expecting trouble.

  “Lower your arms! Captain Hobbs, Charlie Company, 5th Battalion,” said a familiar voice.

  Spartan slid his blade back into its sheath on his belt and watched as his rival approached from the darkness. She walked in, upright and commanding. Her armour was spotless, and the visor of the PDS armour was slid open to reveal her face.

  “Lieutenant Spartan, I might have guessed,” she said angrily.

  In the reflection of her gleaming armour, Spartan spotted the tiniest of movement. He lurched to his side and spun about, narrowly avoiding a final thrust by Talos. He spun on the spot and struck the lower back of the man. The Zealot leader dropped to the floor just a metre away from Captain Hobbs. He tried to lift himself up, but the heavy boot of Khan crashed onto him and pinned him to the floor. Spartan moved back and stood directly in front of Captain Hobbs.

  “Spartan, look at yourself,” she smelt him, her nostrils recoiling at the imagined slight. “You smell like a labourer. Officers do not roll on the ground like swine.”

  “He saved your neck!” snarled Khan, his arms tensing around his axe.

  Spartan glanced at him and gave him a look that hopefully reminded him not to do anything rash. He looked back to Hobbs.

  “This is Talos and he is the Captain of this vessel. He should prove useful for the Intelligence Division.”

  “Indeed. It was fortuitous I arrived before your private brawl got him killed and anything he knows lost.”

  She turned and marched past him to the smaller corridor. As she moved away, she spoke quietly to two of the marines near her.

  “Take him to our landing craft and ensure he is secure. He should prove useful.”

  She stepped through the gap and looked back over her shoulder at Spartan.

  “I will document this incident in my after-action report, Lieutenant.”

  She departed along with a squad of the marines from the Santa Cruz. Spartan recognised a few of them, but they did their best to avoid eye contact with him. He stood there and shook his head, always amazed how quickly people were to turn on their friends or comrades.

  “Spartan? How did you find us?” asked an excited looking man in torn and slightly bloodied fatigues.

  “Kowalski, I’m glad to see you.”

  “Not as much as I am. Here, you remember Misaki?” he said and beckoned for the woman to step forward. Spartan looked at her and smiled, doing his best to disarm her after the bitterness he had found in her the last time they met.

  “Spartan, thank you,” she said coldly.

  “It wasn’t just me. I take it you noticed our Jötnar friends? We have joined them in the creation of a full blooded assault battalion.”

  “Assault battalion? That sounds like
the kind of place that would suit you just fine.”

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “We’re fine, Spartan. Could do with a sit down though, they weren’t big on the facilities on this ship.

  “No problem, Misaki.”

  Spartan waved to two Vanguards who stomped over to him. One carried the painted insignia of the 2nd Squad leader.

  “Escort the prisoners to the assault shuttles. Make sure these two are returned to the Yorkdale.”

  “Sir,” said the man and indicated for them to follow him. Spartan looked back at Kowalski.

  “This is Sergeant James Lovett. He’s a trusted Sergeant in the unit. Follow him, and he’ll make sure you get to my transport. You’ll find Teresa and Gun there as well.”

  “Nice. One happy family!” said Kowalski with a partial smile.

  Spartan looked at Misaki, but she was already looking away from him. They moved off to leave Spartan, Khan and a small group of Jötnar and Vanguards in the room. The remaining thirteen warriors were all sweaty and covered in streaks of blood. Spartan’s Vanguard armour was where he had left it. He moved up and stepped inside, pulling the straps on and hitting the seal button. As it clamped down, he gave the instruments a cursory glance. They were damaged, but all the main functions were operational and still had sufficient ammunition on board. He tapped the communication button.

  “Lieutenant Spartan here. Prisoners and enemy Captain secure.”

  There was a very short delay, barely enough time for Spartan to examine the location of the rest of the Confed forces on the ship.

  “Daniels here. Good work, Spartan. I’m getting reports from the other units on the ship. Her systems are partially out of action, and a tech team is already tracing the communication lines to find the AI hub. We will find it soon enough. There are more marines from the Santa Cruz arriving to assist in moving the equipment and prisoners. I suggest you return to the Yorkdale and take care of your casualties. That was some good soldiering there, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, Sir. I will be in touch upon my return to the Yorkdale. There is just one thing left for me to take care of. There are still Zealots on board, and they are working to the rear of the ship.”

  “Understood, Lieutenant, I’ll get a few fighters to watch for any that try to escape. Good luck. Oh, and one other thing.”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “Watch your back.”

  The connection cut and Spartan spent a brief moment checking on the status of his Vanguards. A number were out of action, and at least a dozen were injured. He checked the schematic of the ship and concentrated on the aft.

  “All assault units converge on the rear of the ship. I’m picking up minor heat blooms eighty metres further back, a short distance from the escape pods.”

  “Escape pods?” asked Khan.

  “Yes, these Zealot cowards are probably trying to escape with whatever intelligence or data they stole. If they get off the ship, they might be able to make it through the debris to one of the surviving frigates. We need to be fast.”

  “Yes!” roared Khan and he ran off. The Jötnar pushed out through the gap and into the corridor that continued into the bowels of the ship. Spartan shook his head at the impetuous warriors.

  “I thought I was bad,” he muttered and then moved after them. He moved through the gap and found most of the lights were off. A quick flick and he switched to thermal imaging.

  “Commander Gun here. Loading bay clear, have prisoners.”

  “Excellent, I am taking the rest of our forces to the aft of the ship. Some of the Zealots are making a break for the pods.”

  “Okay, we will join you.”

  Spartan continued after Khan, stepping carefully to avoid the many bodies that littered the interior of the warship. Gunfire became louder the further they travelled to the rear of the vessel. Very little seemed to be working this far back, probably due to the damage sustained in the fighter attack that had crippled the engines.

  “Thirty metres to the pods!” called one of the Vanguards as he powered on at a substantial speed. Spartan tried to move faster as he was aware of the danger they were in if they didn’t move quickly. Lights started flashing in his suit as the external sensors picked up the tell tale signs of excessive smoke and burning flames. He stepped out into the main engine room to find smashed metal and over a dozen dead Zealots. At the far end, a group of almost gold clad Zealots swung curved weapons and blasted away with pistols as the enraged Jötnar hacked their way through them. A small explosion sent one of his warriors staggering backwards and to the floor. By his best estimate, the two sides were evenly matched. They must have expended all their Biomechs in the battle and were trying to save what few Zealots they had left. It was just as he had suspected, the Biomechs were nothing but slaves to the Zealot caste.

  Several more shots rang out, and another Vanguard swung out of control and crashed into the wall. A door opened to the side, and two Zealots moved through to the waiting escape pod. They were out of time.

  “Charge!” cried Spartan. With his blades extended, he surged forward into the surviving group of enemy soldiers. Khan and the others did the same, and in less than five seconds the battle turned into a hellish scene of blood, gore and steel. Body parts and ammunition littered the floor. It was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Spartan took a step back and peered through his splattered visor. Khan and the rest of the warriors were dripping in blood. Thankfully, their casualties were low, but the enemy unit had been cut down to a man. Spartan shook his head at the carnage. It was not what he had planned, but he had done what was necessary. At least that is what he consoled himself with.

  Commander Gun and his bodyguard rushed into the room to find the battle over.

  “No!” he growled, obviously angry that he had missed the fight. Khan stepped forward and struck him in the chest.

  “Too late, Gun, fight is over.”

  He nodded in agreement and turned to Spartan, baring his teeth in a grin that looked more like a grimace.

  “Good first mission, Spartan.”

  The Jötnar lifted their weapons and howled in delight at their bloody victory. Spartan watched them and found against his better instincts that he wanted to do just the same. He lifted his arms and joined in with the celebration.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Proxima Emergency proved finally that the battleship class was far from obsolete. The speed of CCS Crusader allowed her to get into and out of trouble quickly. The single inarguable issue, however, was that only a modern battleship could stand its ground over a long period. Thick armour, redundant systems and heavy weapons were of more value long term than high speed. Luckily, for the single ship in the battlecruiser class, its armour and weapons was easily a match for the previous and much older generation of battleship. The real question remaining is, what will the battleships of the future look like?

  Origins of the Battlecruiser

  Spartan was feeling good for a change. He had just left a meeting with the senior commanders on CCS Santa Cruz and been commended for a change. Even the damning report from Captain Hobbs hadn’t been able to diminish the bloody victory he had won. Casualties had been lighter than expected, but there had still been a number of deaths. Most of the Jötnar wounded were already recovering. The Vanguards had sustained substantial equipment losses and four dead. It was a costly endeavour, but the rewards had been great. It was the capture of over twenty Zealots that had given the Assault Battalion its first battle honour and commendation by the Colonel. As he walked down the corridor, he noticed almost every marine stepped back. It might have been out of respect, but more likely it was the fact that two heavily scarred Jötnar warriors flanked him and Sergeant Lovett.

  “Spartan, why a commendation?” asked Gun.

  Spartan was surprised. He hadn’t realised the concept would appear alien to him. Going back to school, the idea of awards or commendations was the thing that pushed them all to excel in contests and sports.

&n
bsp; “It is a sign of respect by the commander of our ground forces. Every unit here knows the Assault Battalion has been recognised for its skill and bravery in battle.”

  “We are Jötnar. Do they not already know this?”

  “True. It isn’t the warriors though, it is the battalion.”

  They walked for a little longer.

  “Vanguards and Jötnar?” he asked, his voice giving the impression he was still a little unsure.

  “Yes.”

  Khan nodded, finally looking as though he understood, even if Gun wasn’t completely convinced.

  “So now Vanguards and Jötnar are one?”

  Spartan nodded.

  “Yes, well, I hope so.”

  They reached the entrance to the canteen to find it blocked by a throng of marines who were busy arguing over some minor issue. As they approached the group, none of them moved to give way. One finally spotted Spartan, or more specifically spotted his uniform, and whispered something to the others. In seconds, the group had split either side of the doorway to give them space. Spartan walked on and proceeded to the doorway, but Khan stopped in the middle of the throng.

  “What you argue about?” he asked in his dull, emotionless tone.

  “Why do you want to know?” asked a young looking marine with a skull tattoo on his cheek. Spartan turned back and looked at the man.

  “He wants to know because he is a Captain from the Assault Battalion, and you will show him respect.”

  Three other marines started muttering behind the cover of their friends. Spartan pushed through and grabbed two by their collars. He grasped them firmly and dragged them out in front of the group. Gun grabbed for the third, but he managed to evade him and struggled to escape. The marine ran quickly, and it looked like he might make it, but Khan had other ideas. He pushed out his leg and caught him around the ankle. The young man staggered, desperately trying to regain his balance before collapsing to the floor. He reached out to pull himself up only to find Gun lifting him up and pushing him to Spartan and the other two marines. Spartan stepped closely to the one that had run and stared into his eyes. He waited for a few moments, letting the tension rise.