Star Crusades Nexus: Book 03 - Heroes of Helios

by Michael G. Thomas

  He looked back at the bloodbath around them and shook his head angrily. Hunn was gone; Thai Qiu-Li had been cut down by the Animosh, and now so to was the Lieutenant. He forced himself up and staggered over to Teresa, dropping down to his knees next to her. She smiled at him as he appeared.

  “You reenlisted for this?” he said, shaking his head.

  Teresa smiled back.

  “The Marine Corps? The best days of my life.”

  Jack laughed, and the two of them sat there, watching the smoke rising in the distance as the revolution began.

  * * *

  Over thirty bodies lay strewn about the chamber, and the cries of the wounded became louder than the fighting. T’Kron had managed to pull Ayndir to the safety of a shattered Helion sculpture, but bullets continued to pass by overhead. Harlan and his guards, however, had secured the main doorway area and looked like they were trying to get out. Anderson stood up to take a shot, but the return fire from the Helion guards forced him down. Their accuracy surprised even him.

  “Who the hell are they?”

  T’Kron nodded in their direction.

  “More Animosh, the internal security forces. They are the Helions’ best. Indoctrinated from birth to…”

  Anderson turned away, shaking his head for T’Kron to stop. General Rivers heard the description of the enemy and crawled over to the sculpture.

  “Animosh you said? Like the suicide attackers in here? Those are the same forces that are attacking Lieutenant Rossen and the others. She said they’d murdered our crew and were hunting them down.”

  He shook his head angrily.

  “If they get out, they’ll burn this place down and then blame the Zathee, and nobody will ever know of this betrayal. We’ll be sucked into a decade long war here.”

  The main door opened and revealed a great yellow gleam of light. From the dark interior of the chamber, it looked like the sun itself was burning down through the entrance.

  “Come on!” snapped the General, lifting himself to his feet.

  Anderson was with him, along with T’Kron and two other T’Kari that had managed to avoid gunfire until now. Rivers looked at their little band, and deep down, he knew they had no chance. They were exposed and now facing off against the dozen Animosh that were standing as Harlan’s rearguard. The first of the group were already out.

  This is it. We have to stop them.

  He lifted his pistol, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. The blast at the doorway knocked them all to the ground and filled the place with dust. The bright yellow opening turned brown and then black, as the Animosh were blown apart by the impact. Body parts flew back into the chamber, and Rivers spotted the shattered remains of an Animosh guard crash to the ground in a bloody pile. Two of the other Animosh ran for cover, but Anderson and General Rivers shot them down before they could reach the nearest safety.

  “What the hell?” said Admiral Anderson in a dumbfounded tone.

  Both of the senior officers aimed their pistols at the breach, but the shape that emerged transformed their expression to that of pleasure, mixed with relief. Like a massive metal beast, the form of Commander Gun entered. He didn’t stop until he was deep inside, and a full platoon of Alliance marines had fanned out in the chamber. In his left hand, he held the shaking form of Harlan.

  “Gun!” called out a relieved General Rivers.

  With a quick push, he cast the man across the floor where he landed just a meter in front of T’Kron. The normally placid T’Kari leader kicked the Helion as he lay writhing on the ground, shouting at him in one of their languages. Gun stomped forward and stopped in front of General Rivers. He delivered a mock salute and then lifted his left boot to rest it on the chest of the terrified Harlan.

  “General, Admiral, good to see you both.”

  He turned and started to move back as more marines streamed inside. Right behind them came Alliance medical teams moving to the many wounded littering the chamber.

  “You need to see this.”

  He was at the door and outside before any of them could speak. General Rivers helped Anderson, who seemed to be having difficulty with his left leg. They staggered to the door past the bodies and blood. Gun seemed completely unaware as to what had happened, and simply waited a few meters outside for them to reach him. Once there, they could look out at the great expanse of the city. Gun’s arm extended out, and he pointed off toward a series of massive towers and spires to the south. Great columns of black smoke rose up into the sky, and vapor trails indicated the location of a myriad of tiny aerial battles.

  “What’s happened?” asked Anderson.

  “Teresa and her marines, they did something to bring down the military network. That’s how we were able to bring reinforcements from the fleet.”

  “Is she safe?” asked the General.

  Gun nodded, trying to hide his excessively wide smile.

  “Oh, yes. Hammerheads secured the site, and she’s on her way here now, along with the survivors.”

  Anderson nodded but concentrated his focus on the black columns of smoke coming form the city.

  “What about those?”

  Gun grinned at that last part.

  “Ah, that’s the rebels. Teresa said the Zathee and the synthetics were coming this way. Looks like her people started a revolution.”

  Anderson and Rivers looked at each other, but neither seemed particularly surprised.

  “I see,” said General Rivers finally, “It looks like we have a war whether we like it or not.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The story of Spartan took a drastic turn over the course of the exploration of the Orion Nebula. Most in the Alliance assumed he was dead, or at the very least captured by the enemy following the mysterious Rift Incident in T’Kari space. There were some though that waited and prayed for his return and for his inevitable vengeance, small groups that knew that if the legendary warrior were ever to return, the face of the entire sector would be changed forever.

  The Rise of Spartan

  Spartan opened his eyes and saw that once more he was in the interrogation room. This time, however, there was a man present. He tilted his head to the right. It couldn’t go far, but he could see the shape of Khan tied down on the flat panel beside him. As he moved, he could feel the metal strap on his right arm wobbled slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was a degree of movement he hadn’t expected. The man approached and leaned in close to his face.

  “Spartan, hero of the Alliance. Are you ready?”

  Spartan recognized the man’s face instantly.

  “Typhon, you bastard!”

  He tensed his muscles slightly and felt the metal move.

  This is a chance. You have to take it!

  The man looked at him with merciless eyes, the face of a man he knew he had seen die already in the flames of Terra Nova in the last days of the Uprising. At a short distance away in the background was one of the machines. This was the smaller yellow one, a model he only recalled seeing twice before. It was thickly armored and like the others appeared to have no weapons.

  “We have no more time for your games, Spartan. This is your last chance. Our forces are poised to strike at the heart of your worlds from a thousand hiding places. Give us what we want, and your planets will be spared.”

  He summoned as much saliva as he could manage and spat into the man’s face.

  “You’re no man. You’re just another of these machines’ creations.”

  He pulled with his right arm and felt the metal break.

  “When I make it home, I will bring destruction to every one of your allies. Their worlds will be turned to ash, and I will place your head on a pike!”

  With a single firm wrench, he snapped his arm out from the manacle and found it completely free. Typhon was caught completely off guard when Spartan leaned forward and smashed his fist into the man’s cheek. He staggered back while Spartan tore at the straps and metal fittings. His damaged limbs and injuries sent pangs of pain through his
body, but adrenalin mixed with desperation kept him going. Before he even realized it, he was up and on his weak legs. The yellow machine lumbered toward him, evidently expecting an easy fight.

  “Khan!” he called out to his friend who still lying prone and not moving.

  There was no response, so he looked about for something he could use.

  I’ll have to take care of this myself.

  Spartan felt strong though and grabbed at the tools and equipment until finding a metal fitting. It was nothing fancy, but it was almost a meter long and heavier at one end. He ducked past the machine’s first strike and brought it down on the back of the arm. It clanged with a dull thud but did no immediate damage. Spartan was nothing if persistent and lifted it again to bring it down another four times, shattering the joints. He had the satisfaction of seeing the arm clatter down to the ground. The machine floundered about and called out in some strange machine language. Spartan took the opportunity to limp to Khan and smash away at his manacles. Nothing happened, and for a second, Spartan experienced an unfamiliar feeling of desperation, then he realized they were simple lock straps as used in fighters and transports for the crew.

  Where the hell did they get those?

  He pulled on the quick release buttons, and they popped off with a clicking sound. The straps must have been pulled down tight because Khan seemed to grow nearly twenty-five percent at the release of pressure. Spartan had no time for pleasantries. He could feel the air moving and ducked down to avoid the second arm of the machine. It struck hard at him. The metal limb crashed into the wall behind and tore a chunk out that dropped to the ground. Spartan turned about and faced off against the machine. It was larger, metal, and more powerful, yet the two were mismatched in all the wrong ways. Though the machine was strong, the mind behind it seemed completely inept in the art of violence. Spartan, on the other hand, was a monster, consumed by desperation and rage. He reached down; lifted up the shattered limb he had broken off earlier, and raised it above his head.

  “I…have had…enough of you!” he roared.

  The wounded, broken, and aged figure of Spartan seemed transformed at the single chance of freedom. He charged at the stupefied machine with every remaining ounce of speed and power he could muster. The robotic foe even managed to strike Spartan, yet with all the man’s anger, it appeared to have no effect. Even as blood sprayed from a new wound to his chest, he continued to rain down blow after blow until the yellow machine lay smashed on the ground.

  “Spartan?”

  Khan stumbled onto his feet and looked about dazed. He was in much better condition than Spartan, but his mind seemed elsewhere.

  “Yeah, I’m here, old friend.”

  Khan looked down at the machine and started to laugh.

  “That didn’t take you long, did it?”

  Spartan grinned, trying to ignore the searing pains now starting to spread through his body as the adrenalin surge began to subside.

  “We don’t have long. Do you remember the way to this room?”

  Khan nodded happily and reached out to rest his hand on Spartan’s shoulder.

  “Spartan, I can remember more than that. Through that door, we can reach the landing pad and their transports.”

  Spartan didn’t look particularly impressed.

  “Think we can do it?”

  Khan looked about the room. After finding nothing, simply bent down and tore a metal leg from one of the tables to use as a simple club. He swung it once and caught the light fitting by accident. It exploded and sent fragments of hot plastic around them. Spartan shook his head as he watched. Khan stopped and then rested it on his shoulder.

  “Who cares? I’ve had it with this place. Today we either make it, or we die. Agreed?”

  Spartan nodded, and for the first time in weeks, perhaps months, he felt alive. His blood was pumping, and the memories of Teresa and his son Jack flooded back to give him even the smallest glimmer of hope.

  “Let’s do this.”

  * * *

  The three machines watched the screen with emotionless glances. The red machine with rusted, heavily worn features around its feet and joints tilted its thick helm toward the other two.

  “Didn’t I tell you? He is magnificent.”

  The others said nothing for a few seconds. Finally, the dull red model nodded toward the shape of their smashed yellow companion. Spartan and Khan had left the room, but not before Spartan had finished off the wounded Typhon.

  “I thought he was supposed to take him as a prisoner?”

  The red machine tilted its head, though with no eyes or face, it was unable to demonstrate amusement or emotion of any kind.

  “We can make another. It does not matter. Spartan is the one.”

  As if on cue, the two broke out into a wide passageway where several Biomech servants were caught by surprise. These were wholly biological, yet weak, smaller, and even less substantial than the races of the T’Kari or the Helions. They tried to stop the prisoners, but a few simple yet brutal hacks sent them to the ground. Even a single Biomech warrior was torn apart by Khan. Nothing would stop them now. The red machine nodded with obvious satisfaction.

  “Excellent, the first phase of the plan is complete. Make sure their route is clear. I want them back with their people within the month.”

  It then turned from the screen as if it showed no interest anymore. Instead, he looked at his two comrades.

  “Our time is nearly at an end. Return to your fleets and move them into position. We strike at the opposition of Helios.”

  It was a simple time measurement and would occur when the two largest planets in the star system of Helios aligned with their star. They already knew this. It had been planned now for many years, and none of the three could quite believe that their time had finally come. They touched their torsos with their mechanical arms and turned to leave. One machine stopped and looked back at his leader.

  “We have waited too long for this. Goodbye, brother.”

  With those final words, they left the control room, with its myriad of displays and computer equipment. Only the red machine stayed in the room, alone, and without guards or company of any kind. He moved back to the display to watch the escape of Khan and Spartan.

  Soon I will be dead, and you, Spartan, yes, you will be the Hero of Helios.

  He thought for a moment, imagining the future he had dreamed of now for millennia. He imagined the burning of enemy worlds and the opening of the great seal, the Black Rift in space that imprisoned his dying race. On the screen, the two prisoners had already made it to the landing deck where a variety of captured fighters and machines waited. He smiled to himself as they made for one of the battered looking Confederate bombers. He accessed the memory store in his armored suit that showed him the footage of the raid on a human convoy in the middle of their war over two decades earlier. He had personally supervised the destruction of four capital ships and thousands of humans. It was the bomber that amused him the most though. Its last mission had been a bombing run on this very ship that he now occupied. Now its crew were long dead, and it would serve a greater purpose, though this time it would be for him, not the Confederacy or even the Alliance.

  Yes, Spartan, after all of this bloodshed, you alone will be the savior of my people. As your Alliance burns to ashes, my people will be reborn.