Star Crusades Uprising: The Second Trilogy

by Michael G. Thomas

  “Interesting. So if we can find a way to alter or halt these signals, we could create substantial problems for the enemy,” she said quietly.

  Leaning forwards, she tapped on her datapad to connect her directly to the CiC.

  “Get me a secured video link with Commander Anderson on Prometheus, immediately.”

  “Yes, Sir,” came the reply.

  She turned back to her datapad and examined several of the summaries concerning the dissection of the Biomech casualties. The more she read so, the happier she felt. One screen caught her eye. It was to do with the AI Hubs. The damaged models examined by her the staff on Prometheus had established the units contained the same three levels of programming as the Biomechs. It seemed the synthetic creations were not just mindless animals after all. They had been built with multiple levels of intelligence, skills and tactical mastery. The Echidna Union was on the cusp of commanding a completely synthetic race from the four-legged animals up through to humans and then the control of warships.

  Admiral Jarvis tapped the intercom unit again and connected with her communications officer.

  “Sir?”

  “Send the Chief up here as soon as possible.”

  “Sir.”

  She leaned back in her chair and took another small sip of the red, almost brown fortified wine. She let it sit on her tongue for a few seconds as she savoured the taste. There really was not anything better on board a ship than a fine glass of port. She thought back to the synthetic creations they had discovered over the months of war, allowing herself just a moment of satisfaction. If they were correct about this communication layer, then they might have a chance against the Union after all.

  * * *

  Spartan rolled to the side as the heavy metal rod smashed into the floor. The din of metal on metal reverberated through the landing bay. A scatter of sparks flickered along the floor, and a narrow mark ran for almost a metre. He had been forced to move fast to avoid the attack and even then had only just managed it.

  “Spartan!” shouted Teresa as loudly as she could.

  Over a minute had gone by so far, but neither of the two warriors had managed to make a strike of note against each other. Both were well built and tough, but they were a world apart in technique. Spartan was by far the more experienced and capable fighter. His footwork and posture was years ahead of Khan’s. With skill and timing, he moved like a dancer as he carefully evaded strikes, but Khan was no slouch in combat. While lacking the experience of Spartan, he did have brute strength and lightning reflexes. He was able to deflect or displace every attack Spartan launched, with annoying rapidity. By all account, it would have been a fight worthy of the pits and areas throughout Prometheus itself.

  Spartan jumped up and spotted Teresa calling to him. He was used to the roar of the crowd but seeing her there was a distraction that could cost him his life. He turned back and examined Khan’s posture. His mighty opponent stood like a monster from ancient legends. He held the rod up high on his right shoulder like a bat and glared at Spartan. The creature’s left foot was forward, and his expression betrayed arrogance. Spartan had fought in scores of close quarter battles from criminals on Prometheus, to the pit fights and then the battles in the Marine Corps. He knew when his enemy thought he was winning. He moved closer to Khan but not close enough to be hit.

  “Khan, you’ll feel this one!” he shouted. The words were not just to inspire himself, but also to encourage Khan to respond.

  He swung his metal rod hard and brought it down in a powerful cutting motion. It looked like a two-handed sword from Earth’s medieval past. If the blow had caught any man, it would have killed him instantly. But he missed and cut short, managing to miss the massive creature by half a metre. The weapon clanked uselessly on the ground, now impotent against the follow-up strike from the Jötnar.

  Khan smirked and slammed his own rod down. His own attack involved even more effort and power than Spartan had used. It all happened exactly as Spartan had intended. He had practiced the same feint and counterattack move many times in the past. By attacking short, it encouraged his opponent to give up his posture and start his own heavy attack. Spartan lifted the rod up horizontally and took the impact on the rod. The force hit so hard it almost buckled his legs. He let the rod drop down to his right, so the attack slid off and the Khan was thrown off balance. He had his opening, and without hesitation he jumped at it.

  “Now!” he roared and spun the rod around in a circular motion behind his back, over his head and then down onto the back of the Jötnar. It struck him hard on the right shoulder with force that would have broken the bone of a normal man. Khan groaned in pain and released his rod as a spasm rocked his body. His left leg buckled, and he dropped down to one knee. Spartan stepped back and readied himself. He was convinced this was the fight-winning move, but he didn’t want to go further. Beating one of Gun’s Captains was one thing, killing him was quite another. One of the Jötnar moved forward to intervene, but Gun grabbed him and pulled him back.

  “Fair fight!” he snapped.

  The subordinate lowered his head and stepped back. Gun had clearly established a firm chain of command, and one that almost certainly revolved around him hitting people that disagreed. Gun stood upright and watched with a look of enjoyment on his face. He lifted his arm and pointed past Spartan. Suspicion now starting to enter his mind, so he turned back around to check on his opponent, who he assumed at this point, would be on the ground in pain. Incredibly, the hurt Khan glared at him and shook his body as though stretching before a fight. His body creaked and crackled as the muscles and bones were pulled hard. Spartan couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  “No bloody way.”

  He looked over to Gun who appeared to be chuckling. Spartan looked less than impressed.

  “Yeah, thanks a lot, Gun,” he said quietly.

  “That it?” snarled Khan, as he turned to face Spartan. The mighty Jötnar shook his shoulder blades and leaned his head from side to side. Each time he moved, the joints crackled. It wasn’t what Spartan expected or wanted to see. The mighty creature left the rod on the ground and pounded towards Spartan with both arms extended to grab at him. In a fight of brute strength and mass, Spartan would have no chance. Khan was easily twice his weight, possibly much more.

  He lowered his body closer to the ground with his feet pushed out in a wide stance, waiting for the clash. Khan came into range and reached out for him with his great paws. Spartan easily evaded with a quick twist and moved off to the side. The Jötnar stumbled past as he expected to slam into the body of Spartan. Without a second’s hesitation, Spartan moved in for the blow. With one carefully executed cut, he struck against Khan’s left forearm. As it hit the limb, a crunching sound indicated a major fracture. But that wasn’t enough, and Spartan had decided it was a decisive victory or none at all. With a second flurry of twists, he brought the rod down onto Khan’s jaw and crashed into the bone. He jumped back and rested the rod on his shoulder, expecting to see Khan collapse to the floor. Instead he stopped and turned to face him. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek from the second strike.

  “Are we done?” asked Spartan. He knew the fight could get out of hand, for the Jötnar had a reputation for never backing down. This fight could easily end with one or both of them being seriously hurt.

  Khan moved to the fallen rod and lifted it up. He said nothing, but his actions told Spartan all he needed to know. Khan stepped forward, but this time was playing it safe. Spartan jumped forwards in another feint, much like his first attack. Khan had already worked this movement out and simply waited until Spartan withdrew before attacking. Spartan was thrown onto his back foot and forced to defend against a dozen attacks, each heavy strike following the next. As the metal rod struck, he felt his leg becoming weaker and weaker.

  “Now you fall!” shouted Khan, and with one swift motion he swung the rod in a horizontal arc that knocked out Spartan’s legs from under him. He flipped over backwards and hit t
he ground hard onto his back.

  “Spartan!” Teresa cried out, and she moved forward to help him. Gun grabbed her around the waist and held her back. She looked up to Spartan, but he twisted his head away and shook himself. The pain was starting to spread from his leg, and he could already see a vision of the medic telling him off. He was aware of the potential for long-term damage by using his leg in such a violent melee. A metal rod hitting him on the head if he didn’t move was a great motivator, and he’d rather lose a leg than be dead or brain damaged.

  “Not yet. I’m just getting started!”

  With all his remaining energy, he lifted himself back to his feet. His injured leg felt like fire burning through his body. He knew he should stop, but something inside him refused to let him back down. Maybe it was pride, perhaps even stupidity that kept him on his feet. Over these many years, the one thing he had always found difficult was when to back down. He lifted the rod, the metal now feeling twice as heavy as it had before. He extended it as though he had just completed a fencing thrust towards Khan.

  “Are you ready?” he asked with a crooked smile.

  “Yes!” shouted an excited Gun from the sidelines. Teresa looked over to him with an expression of dismay and anger.

  “What?” he said with a wicked snigger.

  Spartan’s attempt to goad the Khan into attacking him wasn’t necessary. He surged forward, and with a roar he swung his rod at Spartan’s own weapon. It was a dismissive strike, more a swat than a cut. As the rods were about to meet, Spartan dipped the rod low. It was a move often used in fencing called a disengage, allowing him to attack offline and towards Khan’s right-hand side. As the monster barrelled past, his attack missed by several metres.

  In one fluid move, Spartan brought the rod down hard onto Khan’s wrists. As it struck, there was a sickening crunch of bones cracking. Khan roared in pain and dropped to one knee, the pain now starting to affect him. Spartan didn’t stop and swung the rod around, sweeping it hard into the back of Khan’s legs. The warrior was strong and stable on his feet, but there was nobody that could stand after receiving a major blow behind the knee. The strike swept his legs out from under him, and he collapsed in an awkward mess.

  “Finish him,” cried Teresa, finally sensing Spartan might have a chance.

  Spartan knew it and leapt around Khan, pushing the rod up and around the warrior’s throat. He pulled hard and locked it into a painful choke.

  “Yield!” shouted Spartan.

  Khan shook and shuddered as he tried to shake Spartan from his body. Even with a shattered right arm, and pain wracking his body, he refused to stop the fight. He tightened his throat muscles, and with his unbroken arm he punched Spartan hard in the ribs. The blow hit like a block of concrete and Spartan cried out in pain. Like a terrier he wouldn’t let go, and instead he pulled even harder on the metal rod, his muscles bulging as he strained against the might of the Jötnar. He could feel the creature’s pulse pounding away through the thick veins on his body. One more squeeze and he tipped forward slightly, yet he still refused to back down.

  “Enough!” shouted Gun from his position off to the side. The roar from the Jötnar leader was louder than anything Spartan could have imagined. Those that had been cheering for Khan were instantly silenced. Spartan felt Khan loosen his body slightly at the command from his superior. Sensing he might be about to yield, he moved backwards, but he kept the weapon in his hands. So far, the Jötnar warrior had managed to fight on no matter what happened in the fight, and he had no doubt Khan would continue to strike even after being told to stop by Gun.

  In a surprising move, Khan lifted himself up and turned to face Spartan. The gash on his head had opened up a little more, and several streaks of blood ran down his face and neck to his chest. There were welts and marks all over his body from the violent fight he had just fought. His broken forearm was crooked. It was an obvious sign of heavy damage, yet he seemed unaffected by it. He exhaled and roared at Spartan.

  “Great,” muttered Spartan as he braced himself for battle. The Jötnar stepped forward and extended his unbroken arm. For a moment, Spartan suspected it was a feint, but something about his face made him think otherwise. Taking a chance, he moved forward and grasped Khan’s forearm. As they made contact, the Jötnar stepped closer and grabbed Spartan, squeezing him hard before releasing him.

  “Commander Gun was true. Spartan is mighty.”

  Spartan tried to keep himself upright, but his injured leg couldn’t take anymore and it finally gave out. He dropped to his knees, but Khan grabbed him and helped him maintain his balance. The two looked at each other as both recognised the warrior spirit each contained. They were fighters, and neither was ever likely to back down in any kind of fight. Gun and Teresa approached and stood to the side of the two warriors.

  “Spartan? Talk to me,” said a concerned and slightly angered Teresa. Khan looked at her. He was surprised at the venom and anger he could sense in her tone. He leaned forward to examine her, and she turned and stared back at him.

  “You Spartan’s mate?”

  Catching them all by surprise, she brought her fist in hard and struck Khan on the chin. Against any other man it would have put them on the ground, but not him. The impact shook him, but the result was laughter, not pain.

  “I like you,” he said to both of the marines with a smile. A small quantity of blood dripped from his mouth, and he spat a mouthful onto the floor. Two Jötnar approached. One wore a red sash across his shoulder and carried a heavy looking leather satchel. He said something quietly, and then removed a series of splints and bandages to patch up Khan.

  Spartan turned to his right and looked at Gun who until now had said nothing.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Commander Gun looked first at Spartan and then to Khan, who nodded solemnly.

  “Very well,” said Gun quietly and then placed his hand on Spartan’s shoulder.

  “You’re one of us.”

  Teresa stood motionless, apart from shaking her head in confusion. Spartan raised an eyebrow at her expression.

  “One day, Spartan, you’ll refuse a fight, and I want to be there when that happens.”

  Spartan grinned.

  “You might wait a while for that.”

  They looked to Khan who was sitting on one of the old and heavily worn bulkheads. A group of Jötnar stood around him and were talking excitedly about the fight. One, with less markings on his body and armour, jumped about as if re-enacting parts of the fight.

  “He is young one. Inexperienced. We turn to warrior...like you!”

  Teresa put her arm around Spartan and pulled him till he groaned a little from the pain still spreading through his body. He tried to smile, but it was more than he could manage.

  “Nobody is a warrior like him!” she laughed. Gun joined in, greatly enjoying the joke. Spartan simply shook his head.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Terra Nova Guards Brigade is a unique unit in the Confederate military. As one of the many territorial regiments raised in the war, it saw much action. Originally known as the 2nd City Militia Battalion, the unit contained a large number of British migrants from the home colonies. The regiment was given the unique Guards designation due to its heroic defence of the capital buildings in the Great War. Over seven hundred of the twelve hundred soldiers died in the final battle. The Guards are now the largest of the Army Brigades, and with over six thousand soldiers spread over five battalions, they are well trained and dedicated to the defence of Terra Nova.

  The Terra Nova Guards Brigade

  Spartan and Teresa walked slowly along one of the many crude gangways running the length of the habitation section. Several parts had been hastily repaired in the last week, and the welds were showing. It wasn’t the smartest work, but it did the job. More importantly, the flooring was intact along with the majority of the railings. On the inside, the ship had more in common with an industrial site or construction yard than any of the vessels they had serv
ed on before. The internal compartments of the Confederate Navy vessels were generally clean and bare metal or grey throughout. Functional, clean and effective was the best way to describe them. That was a description that couldn’t be further from the Yorkdale. The metal was old and in parts rusting and rotten to the level that both expected to find breaches in the hull.

  The Yorkdale had never been designed as a ship of war, and this was similar to most of the marine transports. They had all been built for civilian work, but with improvements that would make them useful for other jobs at a later date. Transports like CCS Santa Maria and CCS Santa Cruz were usually built for colony construction. The Yorkdale was different and unlike most other commercial ships. She was fitted out with reinforced bulkheads and strengthening struts throughout the hull. The underside was double the thickness of the rest of the ship and utilised thermal protection plates. She was larger than the marine transports and even tougher. The single largest different was that she looked crude and rough in comparison to the sleeker, more modern looking transports.