Siege of Titan
( Star Crusades - 1 )
Michael G Thomas
Siege of Titan
Michael G. Thomas
CHAPTER ONE
The seventh year of the war proceeded much as the previous six had. Though the Centauri Confederacy had reasserted control of Proxima Prime in less than two months, the insurgency was still underway. The fighting had moved from the plains and mountains and into the cities where technology and numbers counted for little. Every month the troop ships arrived and as they dropped off new recruits, the casualties returned on the very same vessels. The one thing that did change was that this was the first year in which the insurgents fought and held off conventional military forces in open battle. With their capture of the Bone Mill they were able to establish a strong defensive position up to a kilometre underground. It was the true beginning of their revolt and one that would see the Proxima System engulfed in the fire of crusade and holy war.
Reports of the Proxima Emergency
Spartan was hurt, really hurt. He hadn’t felt this much pain in years and even then he hadn’t been in danger of dying in such a degrading manner. As he lay on the ground he could feel the dull ache across his shoulder and chest from the impact, it took him superhuman effort to stay conscious. The arena floor burned his feet and as the pain kicked in his vision started to blur. He lifted his left arm and as soon as he moved the muscle he could feel the sharp pain in his ribs, it was like a knife being thrust deep into his flesh. He forced himself past the pain and wiped his brow, making him concentrate on the fight he faced. At the very least he had broken ribs and as for his shoulder, he had no idea. Anyway, it didn’t really matter, as he was about to suffer far worse if he didn’t move. He struck his hand against his chest, hitting the valve that released a dose of drugs into his bloodstream instantly numbing the pain in his body. In licensed matches these kinds of drugs were never needed but this kind of fight could lead to death, and in these circumstances he was more than happy to put something into his blood to give him a fighting chance.
Forcing his eyes open, he saw the dull metal mace heading for his head. With every ounce of energy he had left he rolled to the right. The weapon smashed down into the ground, missing his body by inches. He kept rolling and then forced himself up into a sitting position.
“Now I’m pissed!”
He dragged himself off the floor and up to face his opponent.
Maximilian was his name, or at least, that was his fighting name. The man was massive, an image of a Greek god, he stood over two metres tall. His torso was puffed out with thick muscles and blood dripped from a gash across his stomach. Of all the opponents Spartan had faced, this one had caused him the most trouble. In fifteen minutes of gut wrenching combat they had both broken bones and cut flesh, yet they were still fighting.
Like all the combatants he had his own unique armour and equipment. He was armoured but not completely, as a fully armoured man was boring to watch. The crowd wanted to see mismatched opponents using skill and knowledge to best their adversaries. His lower were legs covered in titanium greaves, as was as his chest and shoulders. The metal gleamed with a dull iron finish and each plate was fitted with short studs that resembled spikes. On his head was a thickly armoured helm with metal plates reinforcing the sides and two rounded spikes that pushed out to make him look like an iron image of a hellish demon. The helm was the same colour as the rest of his armour and in the wrong light he looked like an armoured Minotaur of ancient myth. On his right hand he wore a studded metal gauntlet in which he grasped a dull metal maul. The gauntlet was slightly broken from the previous fighting but enough of it remained to protect the back of the hand and knuckles. The maul was a simple weapon but easily capable of braining a man or denting metal armour. It was solid metal and nothing other than an iron works would be able to damage it. On his left arm was a hexagonal metal shield with a runic symbol of relevance to him only, along with the symbol of a half-naked woman draped around the rune.
Spartan straightened his back, feeling the muscles and joints in his body clicking and crunching. For a moment he felt old but it was just tiredness and the pain of the fight. He moved his left leg forward into his fighting stance, much like a nineteenth century boxer. As he looked around the arena the bright lights made it feel like he was on some ancient desert battlefield. Sweat dripped from every part of his body and he could feel a trickle of blood on his brow. He looked down, spotting his weapon on the ground. Unlike Maximilian, he wore just one piece of armour. It protected his right shoulder and part of his chest but no more. It might look like this left him at a disadvantage, but without the helmet he had better visibility and wasn’t bogged down by the shield and armour. Without giving his opponent time to stop him he reached down and grabbed his weapon. It was a metal rod about a metre long with a cast iron sphere welded to each end. It was crude but devastating when used by a strong man like Spartan. He grasped the weapon in the middle with both hands, a wide gap between each of them. He looked around, the bright glare from the lights still almost blinding him before he raised the weapon and gave out a roar.
The arena burst into applause and excitement as he turned to face all directions while keeping a wary eye on his opponent. This display was not just for the audience. He needed a moment to get his breath back. His ribs were making breathing difficult, without adequate air he wouldn’t be able to match the machinelike technique and brute force of Maximilian. Even more important this display was annoying, really annoying, to the shield-carrying monster standing just a few metres away.
With a roar Maximilian had had enough and bounded towards him, his shield pushed out in front and his maul held high. It took just three mighty steps for him to get close enough for Spartan to put his simple plan into action. He dropped his weapon low and then swung it up and to his right so that it caught the lip of the shield. The mass of iron ball at the tip easily smashed the shield away from the giant, simultaneously exposing the monster’s stomach. Spartan kept the weapon moving and brought the other end up high into his stomach, delivering a bone crunching smash. With speed and agility he leapt to his left and tilted his body just far enough away to avoid the maul and delivered another crippling blow against the back of his leg. With a groan the man crashed to the ground face first moaning in pain. A great cry burst out in the arena as Spartan raised his weapon with a pained smile.
“That’s three down, two to go,” he muttered to himself, the realisation that he still had more work to do hit him.
A siren blared followed by a muffled and crackling voice over a loudspeaker system. The lights flashed and then changed colour, bathing the area in a dark purple that transformed the mood to something deadly and sinister. Spartan hated it when they did this. It might impress the crowds but all it did was make his life much harder. It did mean that he had about thirty seconds before the next fighters entered though. He looked around, staring intently at the crowd above looking in awe at the savagery of the pit. All around the perimeter he could see racks of display boards, undoubtedly showing the latest odds for the scores of illegal gamblers that flocked there. They weren’t the only people who came to the fights. Like the arenas of Rome there were many men and woman that simply adored the fighters. These modern gladiators had the same violence and virility that excited their ancestors thousands of years before. There were plenty who would pay good credits to spend a few hours with them after a major event like this one.
“Nothing changes.” Spartan turned his attention back to the arena and the promise of yet another bloody spectacle.
With a shrill howl the siren announced the next fight was about to begin. At the far end of the arena a pair of heavy iron gates started to rise. There was no
reason for them to be so slow and noisy other than that creating a further illusion of delay and suspense. This whole place was a pantomime of blood and showmanship.
The strobe lights flashed continually as the gates clunked open and his two opponents stepped out. As the first moved into the light a great roar went up through the crowd. Spartan knew immediately who it was. Keira! Nothing got the crowd worked up more than a scantily clad woman with armour and a weapon. She took a few paces forward so that she was standing directly in the beam of one of the main spotlights. She was tall, perhaps two metres and sported long green hair. She wore a folded metal skirt decorated with flecks of blue and gold powder to give it an expensive, unusual look. As expected she was fitted with a metal reinforced corset providing dubious protection, but it certainly appealed to the crowd. Of more interest to Spartan was her choice of weapon, an iron ball swung from a metal rod.
“Shit!” Spartan swore but not loud enough for the rest of the fighters to hear.
It didn’t matter though as the second fighter had now arrived and for the first time he was faced with having to fight two women at the same time. She was much bulkier than the first woman. Her upper body and head were covered in exquisitely carved golden armour. He didn’t recognise this one but the expensive armour made him wonder what was so special. Her legs were bare and for just a moment Spartan was distracted before he drew himself back to the fight.
“Come on, man, concentrate you idiot!”
From behind her back she pulled out two small objects that looked like half size maces. For a few seconds Spartan breathed a sigh of relief, until she shook them. With a sudden noise they extended to double their length and crackled with blue sparks. They were electro mauls and illegal outside of the police. They were potentially lethal, especially when placed near the skull or nervous system. Spartan had personally seen deaths in the arena from these weapons.
“Great, they never play fair do they?” Spartan laughed as he swung his own weapon in front of him and moved towards the two women.
The woman in the gold armour started moving the two mauls around her body as if in some kind of ritual dance, the other started to swing the iron ball over her head in a wide circle. The bright sparks flashed on the mauls, creating colourful lines and arcs as she spun them in a web of defensive patterns around her body. It might look pointless but he had seen this method before and it very easily confused and disorientated an opponent.
A loud blast on the horn indicated the start of the fight. Without hesitating Spartan moved to Keira and her circling iron ball. It was his intention to remove one of the women from the fight as soon as possible rather than have to fight both of them at the same time. He lifted his weapon up high, catching the chain connecting the weapons together. As they entangled he rushed in to strike her. He expected to hit her with the reverse end but before he could make contact the woman with the powered mauls was on him. The first strike missed but the second caught his left arm sending a sizzling spark through his flesh. It forced him to release his hand as he jumped back in pain. The weapon was obviously on its maximum setting so he had to be careful as it had the potential to confuse him enough to be struck by Keira. If they could both reach him this fight, and possibly his career, would be over.
As he staggered back she struck him again and again, each heavy impact numbed his muscles forcing him to his knees in pain. As Keira untangled their weapons the other woman moved up to stamp down on his head. It was his chance and with a quick movement he grabbed her ankle ripping it to the right. She lost her balance and collapsed. Spartan picked up one of her mauls striking her hard across the exposed parts of her body, the shocks sending her into spasms. He grinned and then remembered Keira. Instinct told him to move and as he jumped back he raised his newly stolen mauls above his head. It was a simple move he always made after a major attack or defence when he needed to recover to a safe distance for body protection. This was a lesson that early fencing masters had learned and it was a lesson not wasted on him.
It was the right choice as the iron ball came smashing down towards his face. The maul in his right hand took most of the impact but it still sent him flying across the arena.
“Keira! Keira! Keira!” The audience rallied behind the woman as she continued swinging the weapon over her head.
Spartan moved back and checked his weapons. The one in his right hand had stopped sparking, presumably damaged from the impact of the iron ball. The other still seemed to be working, just his luck.
Keira stepped closer, keeping the weapon swinging at just the right distance to threaten him but not too close to be entangled. Spartan moved and kept moving to maintain distance between the two fighters.
“Spartan! This time you’re going down!” she shouted as she released the weapon.
The heavy iron ball rushed towards him and it was only with a superhuman effort that he was able to slide to the side to avoid the strike. As he regained his footing the ball swung back and she continued swinging it. She had developed a wicked technique that allowed her to both swing the weapon in wide arcs as well as to hurl it forward like a heavy iron cannonball from an eighteenth century warship.
He ducked and dived as the ball swung ever closer to him. His reactions were fast and it was almost impossible to strike him without leaving herself exposed. Then he spotted the opening. The iron ball moved just a little too far. He leapt forward past the ball and grabbed the chain. He could see the fear in her eyes. Then the lights cut out.
Shouting came from above in the crowd, though whether it was from missing the fight or feeling cheated at the prospect of losing their winnings he couldn’t tell. Then the screaming started. Spartan stood still, as his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He could still make out the shape of Keira in front of him but little else. A flash came from above and several of the red emergency lights came on. They were low power but they did provide a dull red glow. He stared intently at the woman stood in front of him, they were both transfixed on their entangled weapons but the commotion above made it perfectly clear that for now the fight was off.
A loud blast echoed across the arena and the shape of a man tumbled down to the soft earthen floor. Spartan released his weapon rushing over to check him. As he approached a sickening feeling welled up inside. The body was a cop, but not just any cop. It was a man from the Advanced Tactical Unit. Spartan lowered himself down to look at him more closely. Like all ATU officers he wore the latest powered tactical armour giving them good protection. The armour also contained built in communications, analysis and air supply for riot duties. This wasn’t the kind of gear a normal officer would wear, it was something you would expect when raiding an arms factory or for taking out a terrorist cell. What worried him even more was that he had two massive holes in his chest. Each was the size of his fist and neatly burned through the armour and out the back. The inside of the man was fused as though molten metal had been neatly poured into the wounds. The sides of the flesh were seared.
“Fuck!”
Keira ran over, examining the body before turning to Spartan.
“This man has been hit with a military issue thermal blast, probably at close range from a shotgun, you know they’ll screw us for this?”
“Keira, what the hell do you know about military issue hardware?”
“Jackass!” She rushed over to the side of the pit. She moved fast, it was hardly surprising, he’d seen her move in previous fights and she was well known for her agility and physical prowess.
Two more bodies, this time from the spectators, dropped down into the pit. Spartan tried to move as a volley of shots hit the ground. It looked like they weren’t taking any prisoners and in the open space there was no cover.
“You coming?” Keira called as she climbed up onto the metal gate and towards the lower edge of the viewing gallery. She dropped some of her armour down to allow her to move more freely.
More gunshots blasted across the site as extra ATU officers arrived and engaged in battle with
whoever they were after. They could either stay in the pit and risk being shot or take the opportunity to try and get somewhere safer before any more of them arrived. Maybe they were after the gamblers or whoever ran the illegal fights. Who knew? The one thing Spartan did know was that he didn’t want to be around when they switched the lights back on. It was ten years with no parole for unlicensed blood sports. They might not be legal but if you wanted the real thing you had to go underground, it was only there that real weapons and cruelty could be shown in all their glory. More important to Spartan was that he only needed two more fights to pay off his indentured service and be free of the bastards. He reached the ledge to find a waiting hand from Keira. He dropped down and into the viewing area. There were several bodies on the floor with scores of people running and screaming as they made for the exits. Around the computer displays and gambling terminals no less than a dozen men with advanced weapons were holding back double the number of ATU officers.
“This place is a goddamned warzone!”
“No shit!” Spartan swore as he looked for a way out.
At the other side of the room and right between the violent crossfire was a small door to a refreshment area. From memory Spartan was pretty sure it led to a shuttle bay where they could probably catch a ride. From the main entrance more black-armoured officers arrived. These guys meant business and wore even heavier armour than the first batch. Every square inch of their skin was covered with a special mixture of metal and plastic that could stop all but the mightiest of weapons.
The defenders in the club didn’t seem too bothered and they responded with even more fire. Sparks flew from the police armour as bullets, shells and armour-penetrating darts hammered into the group. The three at the front engaged their shields as a batch of extending plates popped up from their armour giving them bulletproof riot shields. Their arms and hands remained free.
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