Gates of Cilicia bls-1

by Michael G. Thomas

  This will work. I will make it work, he decided.

  “Why did you think I hired so many of you? With four Titans and the best-trained warriors in the Galaxy, there will be none who can stand before me. When this is all over, it will lead to a lasting peace and I hope, a period of mutual trust and understanding between both our peoples.”

  Clearchus nodded in agreement. Although many might doubt the intentions of one of the most powerful men in the Empire, he considered himself to be a good judge of character. Cyrus had always been clear with him right from the first time they had met The armada of mercenaries had been assembled from the rusting remains of a dozen fleets, and each thrown together into a hasty but well equipped armada. Only the Laconian ships were in decent shape, but like most things Laconian, they lacked the numbers to be able to go it alone. He just wished the Laconian League had the resources to carry out this mission for Cyrus alone, rather than having to involve warriors and ships from every part of the Terran territory.

  A change of Laconian guards approached. They wore the grey uniform adopted by the Ten Thousand, but like Clearchus, they also wore their own Laconian armour over the top. This advanced equipment was relatively thick and provided strong protection against projectile weapons and thermal charges. Their helmets were tall, crowned with an imitation of an ancient plume to increase their height and foreboding. On the left arm of each warrior was the body shield device. Weighing nearly fifteen kilograms, it was often carried in a pack by other Terran soldiers. The Laconians trained to use it on their arm, so they could make use of the projected shield as both a defensive and offensive weapon. When activated, the device created a metre-wide disc of energy that was proof against all man portable weapons. They stood in front of the six men that were currently stood watching over Clearchus. Cyrus nodded in the direction of the guard party, and they moved through their standard procedure for the changing of the guard. It was partly practical and partly tradition, but it also maintained their position as the pre-eminent practitioners of war in the fleet.

  “Your men carry their full panoply wherever they go? Even on board ships?” he asked in surprise.

  Clearchus returned the salute from his men, and they formed up neatly around him and Cyrus, all waiting and watching for signs of danger.

  “Of course. They are my personal guard, and a picked unit from my ship that follow me wherever I might go. Of what use would they be if unarmoured or armed? What about your guards?” he asked coyly, tilting his head slightly to the right.

  Cyrus looked to the darker part of the ship where two men waited silently. They were Imperial agents but carried no visible weapons or armour.

  “What guards?”

  Clearchus laughed out loudly at the poor attempt to conceal armed guards on his bridge. He indicated with his hand and in less than a second, the six Laconian guards had activated their body shields on their left arms. The devices flashed and created a semi-transparent glowing shield that extended around the hand and into an oval that covered half of the body. At the same time, they raised their right arms, pointing their carbines directly at the Imperial agents. Almost as quickly, the two agents drew small metallic objects and pointed them at the Laconian soldiers. They were tiny, but Clearchus was certain they would be powerful and deadly weapons, especially if being used by the personal protectors of such an important man.

  Cyrus laughed, “Okay, you make your point well. They are bound to me, and each is the newest son of their families. They have long provided guards to protect the sons and brothers of the Emperor and are completely loyal. They serve the same purpose as your own warriors.”

  Clearchus indicated for his guards to stand down. They moved back to their positions and deactivated their carbines and shields. They stood still, almost like statues apart from their heads. Unlike most ceremonial guards, these men were always busy and checking the area around them. Also unlike Alliance soldiers, who usually planted the shield generators on the ground to provide cover to fight behind, only the Laconians trained to carry theirs into battle. In the right hand of each warrior was an Asgeirr-Carbine, the weapon that marked out any Laconian soldier. Though it was no more powerful than a pulse rifle of the Alliance, or any other Terran colony, it had advantages. It was half the length of a rifle. This reduced the effective range, but it made the weapon more manoeuvrable and combined with the built-in blade, it turned the right hand into a combined projectile and close quarter combat weapon.

  A door to the side of the command centre of the ship hissed open revealing a three-man delegation. They wore the distinctive garb of the Ionian territories. A disputed area that had once been under Terran control, it had now been carved up into a dozen separate territories, each controlled by a powerful Ionian warlord. The high gravity world had helped breed a swarthy but short people who specialised in shipbuilding and high-energy weapons. The woman in the centre approached Cyrus and bowed down low.

  “Lord Cyrus, our siege vessels are here and ready for work.”

  Cyrus nodded in pleasure.

  “Excellent, may I introduce you to the leader of our expedition, Strategos Clearchus of the Laconian League.”

  The woman bowed again, though this time not quite as low.

  “I had no idea we had the pleasure of Ionian troops on this operation,” he said with suspicion.

  “Well, not even the Laconians can match our technology when it comes to the kind of fighting we can expect on the borders of Empire space.”

  Clearchus well understood the barbed insult. It wasn’t just that their technology was more advanced; the woman was referring to the failed attempts by the League in the last few years to reclaim the lost territories run by the cartel of Ionian warlords.

  “Perhaps. Even so, you are now under my command.”

  The leader of the Ionians looked to Cyrus in surprise, but he nodded in agreement also.

  “In that case, we are now all ready. I suggest you return to your ships as quickly as possible, and we will leave in approximately thirty minutes.”

  The party of Ionians bowed politely and left through the door from which they had arrived. Further away, a number of officers moved about the command centre, checking the status of the hundreds of ships. Cyrus stepped to a large display that showed each contingent, its commander and the ships under their command. The Ionians appeared at the bottom, a tiny but powerful addition to the vast Armada.

  “So, my friend, what does this bring our total to?”

  Clearchus examined the display for a moment and moved several icons about as he calculated their forces. It didn’t take long for him to finish.

  “Just over ten thousand four hundred Terran mercenaries, sixty ships including our Titans plus your own forces. By my reckoning, we have nearly twenty thousand automatons under the command of Ariaeus, if he ever turns up.”

  “Excellent. Well, my ships and troops will be useful, but it is your Terran warriors I am counting on to win the day. Ariaeus is a bold tactician and with twenty thousand of his own warriors, he will be able to keep the battle going, but your spatharios will decide it.”

  He stepped closer and examined the ships in detail.

  “So, we have roughly ten thousand Terran mercenaries, interesting. That is what you shall be called until the expedition ends. A fitting name for such a venture.”

  “Name?” asked Clearchus, a little confused at his statement.

  “Yes, you are the Ten Thousand, and a name that will be remembered for thousands of years. Now, for more pressing matters. We will leave and start our mission.”

  Clearchus moved closer so that only Cyrus could possibly hear him. He whispered into his ear.

  “Is it not time to inform the fleet as to our true intentions?”

  “Soon, I have several important communications to make with my own forces that are due to arrive. Then we will meet for a fleet briefing in the command centre where both of us will stand together and explain the full purpose of our expedition.”

  Cle
archus nodded and watched as the Median nobleman moved out of sight. From the shadows emerged his two topoteretes who had been waiting and watching from a discrete distance. Clearchus stepped to the main computer system and moved through a series of gestures to bring up a starmap of the region of space on the border of the Median Empire. Pleistoanax and Kleandridas were his most senior commanders and normally commanded half of the military forces at any one time. Perhaps more importantly, they had sworn a blood oath of protection for Clearchus. When he entered battle, at least one of them would always be present with him, the second usually assisting in the command of the army. All three of them wore their traditional crimson Laconian uniforms, topped with their iconic helmets, even when on board a ship. As well as the long flowing robes, they also wore the common infantryman’s breastplate. An archaic looking device, it was actually made of an advanced polymer compound that was proof against many common weapons. In the past, there were occasions where the armour had even withstood direct fire from plasma weaponry, an impressive feat. Only the senior commanders and the elite bodyguard unit were entitled to wear the red tunics and armour. Other Laconian units were allowed to wear the crimson cloak but only for ceremonial purposes.

  “Now that Lord Cyrus is away, we can discuss the details of our force. He might be nominally in charge, but we know where the true power lies in this fleet, and it is with the Laconian commanders and its rigid structure.”

  Both men nodded but to a level that only a man paying extreme attention would have noticed due to the barely discernible movement.

  “As you both know, only ten percent of our heavy infantry is Laconian or trained by our forces. We might have armed them like us, but trust me, they aren’t the same as us.”

  The two topoteretes smiled, both well aware of the obvious insult.

  “I want you to check with each Dukas that their Tagmata are drilling and training to the standard I laid out. It might not be strictly the system we normally use, but it is better than the training they get in their own militaries. Officers from Komes upwards are to use Laconian orders and organisation during this operation. I understand that some of the Megaran troops under Pasion are trying to drill in the Alliance fashion. Explain to them in words that they will understand that this Armada is an attacking force, and we do not hide away behind our shields. We need aggression and drive to win our battles.”

  A young auletes approached. He wore the uniform adopted by the fleet, of field grey, almost black with the colours of his leader on his shoulder. He stopped and saluted, waiting patiently for the commander to acknowledge his presence. He finally turned to face the young man.

  “Strategos, we have picked up an urgent distress signal from one of our scouts in the Cilician Gates sector. The Kentarchos says it is a matter of life or death. His words, Sir.”

  Clearchus nodded and pointed to the large display unit that was showing the starmap he and his comrades had been studying.

  “Put him through here. As you were.”

  The man saluted and then tapped a device on his wrist. With a simple gesture, he moved the connection from his own device and to the map display unit. As soon as the video stream arrived, he left. The three senior officers stepped closer to see the video. It showed the interior of a ship that was evidently sustaining heavy fire.

  “Strategos, I am sending you detailed information on a large fleet of ships in this sector. It would…we cannot…Mulacs…invasion underway…” said the commander of the ship. Over half of the video stream was damaged, and the audio was barely intelligible. As Clearchus continued listening, he beckoned to one of the senior auletes who rushed over. He turned and spoke quickly before returning to the feed.

  “I need detailed analysis on this feed, immediately!”

  The image flickered and jumped as though it was going out of phase. When the image finally cleared, the scene was one of carnage and destruction. Bodies lay throughout the ship, and only a handful remained at their station.

  “This is Strategos Clearchus, Commander of the fleet, what is your status?” he stated in a clear and surprisingly calm voice.

  There was no response, and the audio stream on the transmission cut, followed soon after by the audio stream. He waited for a few more seconds, but it was clear nothing more was coming through. Clearchus looked to his two deputies and considered the situation.

  “There are only two possibilities,” he explained. The two men nodded in agreement. Pleistoanax spoke first.

  “Either they are unable to transmit, or they are unwilling. I would say that based on the videostream, the former is the most likely.”

  “But who were they attacked by, raiders or a patrol from Tissaphernes? This is, after all, his own territory,” added Kleandridas.

  Clearchus rested his chin in his hand as he considered the problem. He didn’t like the news, and it was a distraction from their primary mission. Even so, it could not be ignored.

  “It may be Tissaphernes’ territory, but we are operating as a military force that is sanctioned by the Median Empire. The commander of that scout vessel gave us a few vital clues. Firstly, that an invasion of some kind is underway. Why would this have anything to do with Tissaphernes, unless he is mobilising a fleet to go somewhere? The most telling of all though is the Mulacs.”

  Kleandridas nodded.

  “I agree. The Mulacs are a menace in this region of space. The last reports Cyrus gave us showed that dozens of raiding parties, each upwards of five thousand mercenaries and a dozen ships, have been recorded. That’s more than enough to raid stations and small colonies on their own. If they have united under the banner of one Mulac leader, they would have the logistics and numbers to attack an entire colony, maybe even a planet.”

  Clearchus moved his hand and brought up a diagram of the force’s structure. At the top were him and Cyrus. A simple movement of the hand, and the system proceeded to establish a secure connection.

  “Clearchus, is there a problem?” asked Cyrus.

  “Yes, you need to come back immediately. Our scouts have detected a large invasion force, possibly Mulacs at the Cilician Gates.”

  “I’ll be with you in three minutes. Assemble the Dukas. We might be starting the campaign early.”

  The battlestations alarm was the sound Xenophon was dreading. For the last week they’d been conducting drill after drill, and it was starting to bore. That dreaded sound meant getting up early, throwing on clothes and then more physical exercise. Sometimes they rehearsed ship boarding action defence, and other times they met in the landing bay to prepare for an assault. If nothing else, they had started to get to know the rest of the three hundred members of the Night Blades. Their leader, Komes Pasion, was a rigorous teacher and leader. In just days, he had already transformed Xenophon and Glaucon from their often slovenly ways, to keen and aggressive members of the group.

  “This is your commander, Dukas Xenias. We have just received urgent information from Strategos Clearchus. All units are to assemble in your ready rooms for an immediate briefing. This is not a drill. We will be jumping within the hour.”

  Xenophon stumbled from his bunk and landed a short distance from Glaucon who was already pulling on his grey uniform. Since joining up, they had been issued their uniforms, dull grey overalls with mounting points for plating, equipment and webbing. It was much better quality gear than would normally be issued to troops, and undoubtedly down to the lavish funds made available to the mercenaries.

  “I thought we weren’t going to be going into action for a few more weeks?” said a confused Glaucon.

  Xenophon nodded in agreement.

  “Something has obviously changed. It’s not like they have told us much, anyway.”

  In the bunk opposite, Roxana jumped down. She was already in her overalls and grabbed her boots from the rack. She had obviously listened to their conversation, as she joined in where they had left off.

  “Our job is to rid the border territories of raiders, pirates and anybody else who s
houldn’t be there. What if they’ve found a patrol or a raiding party?”

  “Could be,” replied Xenophon. “Let’s get to the briefing and find out.”

  Glaucon was ready first and already out of their dorm and heading along the corridor to the briefing room. Dozens of other mercenaries were also making their way in the same direction. All of them wore the grey uniforms of the mercenary force, and the only difference between units being national or unit emblems. Unsurprisingly, the image on his chest and shoulder displayed a darkened blade with a lightning strike running through it. A young woman ran back to her room, evidently having left something behind. She said something that Glaucon couldn’t quite catch as she rushed past, something to do with Mulacs.

  He entered the room and was soon followed by other members of the unit, including Tamara, Xenophon, Roxana and lastly, Jack. The room was packed, and they were forced to the side where some of the other members of the unit waited. A few seconds later their commander, Komes Pasion, walked in. He didn’t wait, and he moved directly to the middle of the podium and launched into his briefing.

  “Men and women of the Armada. As you know, this force was assembled and funded at the expense of our host, Lord Cyrus of the Median Empire. We have been organised with the sole purpose of operating outside of Terran space. This is a legal requirement for most of your homeworlds. You might be mercenaries, but this operation is something much nobler than the norm. Over thirty planets and colonies had been raided or attacked by a variety of hostiles factions in the last eighteen months. Most of these areas are located inside the borders of Median space.”