Machine Gods (Star Crusades Nexus, Book 2)

by Michael G. Thomas

  “No, not yet. We can’t move unless the odds are in our favor.”

  He then slowed his speech to emphasize his words, “Do not make a sound.”

  Spartan was forced to use all his self-control when one of the enemy’s warriors, the massive mechanical creatures like the group they’d already come across, dropped down to the surface. This one was slightly different to the dead ones; it was still fully armored but much shorter and squatter. If it had been human, it could easily have been a dwarf, based on the size difference. It was much more heavily armored, with additional plates covering the articulated sections. The head was sunken and protected by a thick metal collar.

  What the hell is that?

  It looked about and then walked slowly but carefully around the debris. It moved off to one side and behind a partially collapsed three-story building. Spartan couldn’t quite see what was happening from his position. He moved slightly to the right and immediately regretted it. Either his foot or his elbow must have grazed the rubble. Whichever didn’t matter though, as chunks of dusty material fell down around him. There was now a hole the size of his head to the side, and he could see the eyeless head of the machine facing him.

  No, it can’t see me. There’s no sound here, he thought hopefully.

  His intercom whispered gently in his ears.

  “Spartan, we have a problem,” said Tuke in his machinelike voice.

  “I know. Tuke, what’s your status?”

  “I…I am in position behind a fallen walker. My sensors indicate more of these machines in the area. Whatever we are going to do, it needs to be done quickly.”

  Spartan nodded mentally.

  “Wait, I can see…”

  Then the transmission stopped. Spartan used the retina-based control system on his suit to reconnect to Tuke, but the alien warrior didn’t respond. There was no sound on the intercom, and Spartan couldn’t do anything but hope the T’Kari was staying low and silent. He hoped against hope that the alien fool didn’t try to do anything clever.

  “Bastards!” snarled Khan.

  In an instant, Spartan knew their position had been compromised. The smaller warriors moved about quickly and smashed aside a pile of broken metal, dragging Tuke out. It was like watching a pack of dogs pulling a rabbit out of a warren.

  “Khan, do not move!” came from Spartan’s lips without even thinking. He knew full well that his old comrade would be itching to jump into the fray. Spartan continued watching the machines, and his blood felt as if it was starting to boil.

  “Spartan, we have to help!”

  “Don’t you dare, Khan!”

  They dragged the helpless Tuke toward the waiting metal behemoth. It bent down slightly and moved its head closer to the T’Kari. It then turned to the right and swung back with its right arm. Sharp, heavily powered claws grabbed at him and lifted him up off the ground. The blade cut deeply, breaking and shattering the armor like rotten wood. Gas escaped from the cracks and damage. Spartan knew there and then that Tuke was a dead man. He wanted to leap up, but they were heavily outnumbered. Dying would achieve nothing for any of them.

  “What the hell!” he shouted, as one of the six smaller machines pulled metal out of the way to reach him.

  He lifted the barrel of his L52 Mk II pulse carbine and blasted it with a single high-energy round. All three barrels combined their output to send the triple charge directly into its center mass. At this distance, the high-speed round smashed cleanly through its armor, out of its back, and into the debris behind it. Spartan pushed himself up, twisting to aim his weapon at the next nearest foe. It fired at the same time as Spartan, and managed to clip his armor along the left elbow joint. The impact was like being hit by a lead weight, and it spun Spartan about. As he lost his balance and fell down, he watched with satisfaction as his target fell backward, missing its head.

  “Die!” screamed Khan over his intercom.

  With that, he rushed in, firing his weapon as he vanished into the middle of the group. Even the great machine seemed to recoil at the fully armored sight of Khan. He shot one and then leapt at the center of the large machine. Spartan didn’t wait, lifted himself to his knee, and took aim at another of the soldiers. A powerful impact struck him hard, and he turned his head to see a second of the massive machines standing over him and grasping his armored leg. Then he was upside down and hanging from his foot; a great deal of pain soared through his limb, and his carbine lay helpless on the ground.

  I’m not going like this!

  He flailed about and struck at the metal plating on the machine. Not even his most powerful blow could penetrate it. He caught a fleeting look of Khan as he hammered away with his edged weapons, and then he could see space.

  My pistol! He remembered.

  Without even needing to check, he reached down to his thigh and felt the flat metal plating. A gentle tug and the military issue firearm came away loose in his hand. He aimed it at the blurred shape holding him and pulled the trigger repeatedly.

  * * *

  Spartan opened his eyes to the sight of nothing but the dull shadows of other prisoners. He reached down and checked the pain coming from his legs. The pain in his left leg was excruciating to the touch. He blinked a few more times, looking around with wide-open eyes. They started to adjust to the grim lighting conditions, and he could see that the people around him were an odd mixture. Some wore military clothing, many nothing more than rags. Spartan opened his mouth to speak, but the dryness in his mouth and throat stopped anything other than a groan from coming out.

  Where the hell am I? he wondered, swallowing several times.

  He smelled the air. It was damp, cool, and very different to the feeling he’d expected inside a spacecraft. The wall behind him felt cold and slightly rough, maybe shaped from some form of resin.

  “Spartan?” He heard a familiar voice.

  He looked about, trying to find a sign of his friend. The shadows and hidden faces of the dozens of people in this section made it almost impossible to adequately search the place. He tried to stand, but the pain in his leg kept him on the floor.

  “Spartan, over here!” said the voice, this time from his right.

  He twisted at the hip, lifted up his bodyweight on his hands, and finally found the large shape of Khan behind two groups of people.

  “Khan? Yeah, I see you.”

  Spartan’s eyesight was much better now, and he could see there were holes above them. They were tiny, no bigger than a finger, and sent down a dull yellow glow at equal distances along the floor.

  “Stay there,” said the old warrior.

  With a lot of noise, he staggered over to Spartan and dropped down beside him. His right arm hung down uselessly, and Spartan could see dark shadows across his body. It was only then he realized neither of them was wearing their armor.

  “What happened?”

  Khan coughed a little and let out a low groan. The cough itself seemed to send more pain through the Jötnar’s body. Both of them leaned against the wall. They were like a pair of old men with the aches and pains of bodies three times their ages.

  “You don’t remember the trip?”

  Spartan shook his head.

  “No, last thing I saw was you fighting that machine.”

  Spartan was sure he could see the glint of teeth, presumably Khan grinning. He finally closed his mouth and sighed.

  “Spartan, but that was about a week ago. You don’t remember getting here?”

  He thought hard, desperately trying to remember. He’d dreamed of all manner of bizarre things. Machines fighting, dogs running off with his keys, and being trapped in an ice cube. The images were all short, as dreams always were, but none of it seemed relevant for what was happening. Again Spartan shook his head.

  “No, nothing, I don’t remember a thing after the fight. I take it we didn’t win?”

  Khan coughed roughly.

  “Well, Tuke didn’t. They pulled him in half before I could kill that thing.”
>
  Spartan was surprised, even shocked at this revelation.

  “You destroyed that monster?”

  Khan tried to laugh, but the pain was now clearly causing him trouble.

  “Oh, yeah. The first one was easy. It was the second one that was the real problem. You know, the big, dark red one.”

  He looked at Spartan as if he should know what he was talking about. Again the two waited, but Spartan simply couldn’t remember a single clear image of the events. Khan leaned in close.

  “He’s the one that took your hand.”

  Spartan’s heart sank at those words. He lifted both of his arms and found the stump of the left arm that stopped at the elbow. He almost choked as he realized the trauma his body had sustained.

  “What…what happened?”

  “It took your arm and smashed your legs swinging you about.”

  He sat back and let out a long breath.

  “Still, you weren’t useless. You manage to bring it down to the ground with your pistol, long enough for me to get there.”

  “And yet we are still here?”

  Khan laughed grimly.

  “I might be a great fighter, Spartan, but even I can only destroy so many of them. Another four came after the red one. We both fought, but they beat us down and dragged us to their ship.”

  “Tuke?”

  Khan coughed, “Yeah, he’s still on that station. In pieces.”

  He picked up a rock or piece of metal and cast it along the floor.

  “Poor bastard.”

  The two stared at the other prisoners for almost a minute before Spartan spoke again. As he opened his mouth, he cradled he mutilated arm, trying to avoid looking at where the cut had been. The stump itself was covered in a synthetic material that was as hard as plastic.

  “Who fixed my arm?”

  Khan spat on the floor.

  “Fixed? The animals out there sealed your stump Spartan, that was before they started the questions, in the yellow room up there.”

  Khan pointed above them and to the small lights. Spartan looked to the light, and then it came back to him, as if a video screen had been showing him the footage. He recalled the bed he’d been strapped in, as machines moved around sticking needles into his upper arm and shattered legs. The part he remembered most clearly was the red machine. It looked like the others on the derelict station, yet this one was a dull crimson and adorned with trophies. As he thought back, he saw images of human, Biomech and T’Kari heads hanging about its torso.

  “You remember?” asked Khan, watching his friend.

  Spartan tried to speak but leaned forward, retching as his body involuntarily spasmed. If he’d actually eaten anything, he would have vomited. Instead, his body went through a series of painful convulsions and eventually calmed down.

  “Yeah, you remember the red machine well enough. He just keeps asking one question.”

  Spartan panted and it took him almost a minute before he could speak. He took a number of deep breaths before trying.

  “Question? Yes, he kept asking me…over and over.”

  “Where is the Gate to Helios?” finished Khan.

  Spartan looked to him and nodded slowly.

  “Yeah, same for you, huh?”

  Spartan rested back, doing his best to ignore the pain. He looked to his right and then to the left, counting over forty people in the dark, cold place; the majority a similar size to Spartan, but one thing seemed to unite them.

  “They are avoiding eye contact with us, why?”

  “They’ve been here longer than us. I don’t think they are strong enough to speak, let alone try and move over to us. I’ve tried talking to them, but they always look away. Sometimes they cry, but usually they just curl up and say nothing.”

  A noise in the darkness alerted them. It was the shape of a man. He lifted himself up to his feet, and his silhouette was black and clear underneath the dull light coming from above. He looked over to the two of them and staggered to the nearest wall. As he reached it, he pulled back his head and smashed it as hard as his frail body could manage. His forehead connected with the wall in a cracking motion that must have shattered bone. Not one of the other prisoners even flinched as his body slid to the ground, still, and quiet as death. Khan looked to Spartan.

  “It happens every day. This place must make them mad.”

  Spartan’s right fist clenched tightly, and he was convinced his left fist was doing the same. His upper body shuddered as his anger spread through every muscle in his body. Even those in his broken legs did the same. Khan sensed a change, and he turned and placed his great hand on Spartan’s shoulder.

  “Khan, we’re not staying here. We are getting off whatever this is, and we are going to put their heads on spikes. You understand me?”

  Khan nodded, but even he seemed less than convinced at the words.

  “There is just one problem, Spartan.”

  “Which is?”

  “This place, it’s an underground prison. Where will we go, assuming we can get out?”

  Spartan seemed unconcerned at that piece of information.

  “Prison? So what? I was trapped on Prometheus with General Rivers for long enough. We got out of that one, and we will this one as well.”

  “True, but you had Gun on your side back then. This is different.”

  Spartan shook his head.

  “No, not really. I have you, and we have something else that they don’t have.”

  “What?” asked Khan, genuinely curious to hear his response.

  Spartan tapped his temple.

  “I can remember the way we came in here.”

  It may have been dark, and both of them were in pain. Even so, Spartan was convinced he could see the gleaming, dull teeth of his friend as he smiled. He punched Khan pathetically in the shoulder with his good hand.

  “Right. So, what are we going to do, and when are we going to do it?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Multi-role Logistics Drone, also known as the ‘Mule’, was developed before the Great Uprising and saw its first use in those early, yet brutally violent struggles. Initially created to carry equipment and ammunition, some later variants carried weapons and were used in an assault role. The latest model of the Mule features a three-day powerplant that allows it to operate independently in almost any weather conditions. It has a combat module that can be configured for cargo or weapons, and sometimes even as a medical stretcher.

  Equipment of the Alliance Marine Corps

  General Daniels watched with a satisfied look on his face as wave after wave of Alliance fighters strafed the Helion station. Each attack run reduced the defensive fire and opened the target for more attacks. The Lightning fighters had been forced to withdraw, following the devastating flak defenses of the station. Luckily, the new Hammerheads were proving perfectly suited for this job. With their strong defenses and powerful weapons, they’d destroyed over half the turrets. It was the only aggressive action the group of six battered Alliance ships had taken so far. He looked briefly around the CIC, trying to avoid the smell of blood and fear that permeated the place.

  “Clear the wounded and get me more crew in here!” he growled.

  Marines were already inside, helping to carry the wounded and dead from that part of the ship. He could see on the status indicator on the cracked main display that there were casualties on other parts of the ship as well. It made his next decision much easier to choose. He grasped the intercom, looking back as Admiral Anderson was helped to a chair. Blood dripped from a head wound but he seemed conscious. He was tempted to try and check with the Admiral, but the sight of so many casualties swayed his opinion.

  Why are we trying to keep the peace? What peace?

  Lieutenant Powalk twisted his head around quickly, instantly catching his eye.

  “General, the T’Kari have finished collecting their wounded and are falling back to the Rift.”

  “Good.”

  General Daniels seemed
satisfied at the news and took it as a signal to move to the next phase of the action.

  Now we get out of this place.

  Their escape wasn’t going to be that easy though. The ship’s sensors flashed bright once more, as the powerful energy weapons on the station targeted ANS Serenity. The defensive turrets poured fire in the direction of the attack, but it was futile. The heavy beam struck the starboard of the Crusader class ship, exploding a section almost fifteen meters long. As they watched the destruction, a detail of three junior officers, one with a bandage on his head, ran into the CIC and took up their stations. The youngest, a short Asian man fitted on his headset before speaking. He looked around, trying to find General Daniels.

  “General, a message from Serenity. Their main engines are offline. They estimate two hours, assuming no more damage.”

  He nodded in reply.

  So, this is it. We evacuate our ship and run with our tail between our legs...or we stay, and fight.

  Whereas the Admiral was calm, collected, and dispassionate, General Daniels was a marine at heart. Giving up ground after paying a high blood price rankled him. He gave the first choice a moment’s decision and made up his mind.

  “We are ending this, right now! All Alliance ships, you are clear to fire. Bring your ships into a dispersed assault pattern on three axes. Protect the fighters and ready your primary weapons!”

  Admiral Anderson tried to stand, lifting his right hand as if to plead for him to stop. General Daniels couldn’t afford to waste time, so he concentrated on the few officers remaining. With the helm and tactical stations remaining functional, the ship was still in the fight, albeit with reduced capability. He dreaded to think how many losses they’d sustained in the continuous bombardment from the station. The sound of the fighters’ crew crackled near the desk of the CAG. He listened to one excited voice.

  “It’s a hit, her air defenses are down!” called one of the fighter commanders.

  General Daniels skimmed through the icons moving on the tactical map and found the point on the station where the gun system had been weakened. It was slightly to the right of the upper levels. A quick glance told him where he suspected he could do the most damage.