Black Legion: 04 - Last Stand

by Michael G. Thomas

  The blade, on the other hand, was anything but antiquated or natural. The razor-sharp metal had been sharpened further in the ship’s armoury, and its monofilament edge would cut through flesh, bone, and clothing with ease.

  “Nice blade,” said Tamara.

  Her attention was never easy to gain, but edged weaponry always seemed to work. She gazed as if looking at some kind of precious jewel as Xenophon twisted and turned the weapon in his hands. He stopped and looked at her and then threw it at her, blade first. It spun through the air, and she twisted a fraction before catching the hilt.

  “Nice moves, little girl,” Glaucon laughed.

  Tamara flipped and tossed the blade about like a toy and then handed it back to Xenophon with a mischievous look in her eye.

  “If you die, can I have it?”

  All of them laughed at this, and he feigned injury at her words.

  “So harsh.”

  He wiped his brow and looked back at the small number of people on board. As usual, the Legion had found it impossible to decide who would organise supplies, so it was being done on a ship by ship or contingent at a time.

  The other Terrans were landing at different parts of the Trading Post to reduce the risk in case of trouble. The Thessalians had been the first, even though the Dukas of their provisional Titan had ordered them not to. Their reputation for hard and fast negotiation was not ideal on this world, but they would not be held back.

  “Look.”

  As the dromon rotated during its vertical descent, he spotted their craft. A column of Medes civilians was busy loading containers into their craft while a pair of Terran spatharii watched on with their weapons shouldered.

  What did they promise for all that? he wondered.

  The dromon shook and then as quickly as they’d arrived, they were on the ground. The doorway opened out, and the cool air of this alien world greeted him. He drank it in for a few seconds before detaching himself from the harness. Roxana placed a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to look at her. They’d been friends a long time now, since well before his own brief time in the Attican Navy.

  “Are you ready?”

  He nodded ever so slightly, lifting himself to his feet. It was only a short distance to the doorway, but he could already feel his nerves beginning to fray. There was a great deal riding on this negotiation, no matter what any of the others said to him. The fleet was almost out of food and fuel, and without it little to no chance they would be able to continue their journey onwards.

  What really worried him though was if they stayed. There were many in the Legion, especially the Laconians, who relished the chance to take the fight to the Medes. It wasn’t just a fight that they wanted though; some advocated a direct strike on the homeworlds around Babylon Prime.

  Fools, all of them.

  Unlike most of the Legion, Xenophon was well schooled in ancient and modern history of both the Terrans and the Medes. Even though they’d been engaged in massive space battles already, he knew full well that the Royal Fleet of Artaxerxes was simply that. Every Satrap had access to a local fleet of similar numbers. He had already explained to the commanders of their little band of the risk they faced staying in one place too long. The Medes could pin them with a fleet, even sacrifice one just so that they could bring in more ships from the outer lying regions. His estimate was a month to bring in five regions worth of ships.

  We have to negotiate and then get the hell out of this place before the Medes come visiting.

  He moved down the ramp onto the pad itself and looked about at the town. The Terran traders and foraging parties had landed at the only inhabited site of significance. There were a small number of towers with two carrying communication arrays, but as far as he could tell, no weapons.

  “This place, it seems awfully vulnerable for a supply world.”

  Xenophon shook his head in disagreement.

  “I don’t see how. They have foodstuff and provisions, valuable to planets but not for pirates and raiders. Don’t forget, there are Medes patrols in this area, and I bet one has already notified their high command of our presence.”

  Glaucon sighed.

  “You are probably right.”

  “Yes,” Tamara said, moving ahead of them, “another reason why we need to get a shift on. Let’s go!”

  She moved at quite a pace, and any locals that spotted her did their best to move out of the way of the slightly unhinged teenager. One Medes male stood his ground, and she stopped directly in front of him and looked up at his face before jumping and making a sound like a mad dog. The trader stepped back in surprise and moved aside to let them pass.

  “See, they are no threat to us,” exclaimed Tamara and then moved off.

  Glaucon watched her while speaking quietly to the others.

  “Is it just me, or is she becoming more and more erratic?”

  There was no time to answer because two Arcadian spatharii were waving at them to approach a clearing between four small buildings. Their walls were beige in colour and rough to the finish. The windows were small and their rooftops flat and uninteresting. A maglev train hurtled past making little noise until several seconds further ahead. Behind it moved scores of wagons, each covered and marked plain grey in colour.

  “Keep your eyes open. You remember Cunaxa,” said Xenophon.

  He was a little louder than he intended to be but pretended to ignore them as he spotted the small collection of Medes. There were a number of other aliens, as well as two larger creatures he’d not seen before. For a second, he thought they might be the violent Mulacs as seen in the territory of Tissaphernes. These were not quite so big and unlike the others, although they did wear chest armour in a dull type of metal.

  Interesting.

  He walked in and approached a chair that was held out for him. In a single, graceful gesture, he slipped into position and looked across the table at the weary looking Medes trader. Around them a dozen armed guards waited, and the sense of danger was stifling. Lady Artemas entered and lowered herself into position to his right. Glaucon, Roxana, and Tamara waited with the other guards. The conversation went on for what seemed an age before Artemas looked to Xenophon.

  “Well?”

  Xenophon creased his brow in confusion.

  “Uh...I have no idea what any of you are saying.”

  She looked back at the entourage and back to Xenophon.

  “They say this will not do; the terms are not acceptable to the Governor of Larissa. He suggests if you want to pay this amount, then you should wait for the representatives from Babylon Prime to arrive,” Lady Artemas said, looking at him.

  She was the beautiful daughter of Lygdamis, one of the Median governors of the independent Ionian Territories, and now the only Medes citizen in the Legion. She was the niece of the deceased Cyrus and close to Xenophon. Normally, she dressed in a closer fashion to that of Laconian women, but today she wore a long flowing crimson dress that hung low at the back and ran down to her feet. To all intents and purposes, she was attired as a Medes noblewoman, but Xenophon knew she wore her tight flitting reinforced corset and torso protection underneath.

  Just in case, he recalled her saying.

  She shook her head and translated the trader’s words one sentence at a time.

  “The goods and provisions will cost triple what we are offering. They will consider taking a Terran warship in lieu of payment, but if we delay much longer, we can expect to run into Royal forces.”

  Xenophon leaned in to whisper in her ear.

  “I thought these people were soft and easy to manipulate?”

  Artemas’ face remained completely emotionless as she replied.

  “Larissa is still part of the Core Median Worlds. They can expect Imperial protection in a matter of days.”

  Really?

  He nodded to Glaucon who approached with his pulse cannon at his shoulder.

  “How many captured automaton transports do we have?”

  Glaucon had no
idea and shrugged. Xenophon raised an eyebrow and waited patiently.

  “I...uh, roughly twenty I think, Sir.”

  Xenophon thanked him and then looked back at the Larissan entourage.

  “I can offer you half of the money you request, plus five undamaged Media transports, each filled with jewels, metals, and material of importance to the God King and his Satraps.”

  He then waited while Artemas translated, no doubt adding her own unique twist on his relatively simple statement. There was a short pause while the Larissans discussed the terms. They were of the same build as Artemas with their lightly built bodies and pale skin. Unlike most Medes, this particular group had looser skin and flabby bodies, betrayed by the excessive amounts of bare skin they seemed so proud to parade about. Finally, the leader of the group made some odd gestures, and the others joined in.

  “Well?” asked Xenophon.

  Artemas listened a little longer before speaking.

  “They accept.”

  She seemed almost surprised at this.

  “The food and other provisions will be sent via the city spaceport. They will be released along with the payment in Imperial currency.”

  “Agreed.”

  “The Ships, they want them left in orbit when we leave.”

  Xenophon stood up from his seat, and everybody else around them did the same. He extended his hand out to bind the agreement, and the Medes official did the same. When their forearms met, he was surprised even further at their complete lack of strength. He then turned and moved back to his colleagues while the Medes dispersed. A small group of Terran warriors moved out from the shadows to approach him.

  “Good work there, Dekarchos,” said Komes Pasion.

  The man was the commander of the elite Night Blades, the unit Xenophon and his friends had originally been a part of. Their numbers were now a good amount smaller, yet what they lacked in bodies, they made up for in experience and sheer aggression. His smile faded, and his jaw tightened though in just a few seconds. Xenophon automatically reached for the kopis blade fitted into the belt sheath, but the Komes placed his hand on the hilt to keep it still.

  “It’s the Thessalians.”

  Xenophon hadn’t even considered he would be talking about their people causing a problem. The Thessalians were similar in attitude as the Makedonians, both of being groups of Terrans that bordered on the wild and dangerous. Neither was wholly accepted as being civilised by the other Terrans, but their military prowess was undeniable, as was their skill in the use of fast ships and light infantry tactics.

  It wasn’t the history of these people that worried Xenophon or Komes Pasion though. It was the fact that one of them had just removed the head of a Median trader with a kopis blade. He held the severed head by the hair in his left hand and shouted to his comrades.

  “He thought he could profiteer from us!”

  “He thought wrong!” laughed another.

  Xenophon and Komes Pasion looked to each other, dismay and disappointment showing on their faces. Lady Artemas interrupted them before either could say another word.

  “The warning has been sent. The Medes are calling out their militia. We should go.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Median Battleship ‘Vairya’, on approach to Larissa

  Tissaphernes sat upon his great golden seat in the centre of the command deck on a slightly raised platform that moved him higher than everybody else in the ship. The floor space around him was completely clear for a distance of three metres in all directions.

  “My Lord, the fleet is ready and awaiting your command,” said the faceless automaton.

  The deck contained over a hundred of his like, all dressed in identical multi-coloured tunics and small gold skullcaps. They were the mass manufactured indentured workers that filled the worlds of the Empire. They were intelligent and eminently capable, yet weak in physical stature and never particularly well trained or equipped. Tissaphernes looked at them and smiled. The memories of Babylon Prime were starting to fade, even though they were only a few days old. His mission was clear, and he had planned the end of the Terrans down to every ship in his fleet.

  This will be glorious, and the Emperor himself will beg me for the use of one of these captured Titans.

  That put a smile on his face that he didn’t even bother hiding from his crew. He had been away from his home and powerbase for some time now, but for the first time in many long months he was starting to relax. Cyrus, his rival for the control of the border regions of the Empire was dead, and he had been given complete command of the regional troops to chase the surviving Terrans out of the Core Worlds after the meeting on Babylon Prime.

  They will die, and then I will return to Lydia and Caria with their bodies straddling my battleships.

  The thought sent a shiver of pleasure through his body. The Terrans had proved more of a nuisance than he had expected and defeating them would be most enjoyable. He’d tried to cripple them back at the Cilician Gates, but they had managed to extricate themselves before they could be destroyed in his trap. This time he would bring the full might of his own forces, as well as the contingents supplied by the Emperor. The only disappointment had been the requirement to take the small fleet of Dukas Phalinus to assist. He had no need of their ships, but that hadn’t stopped him finding a use for them.

  When this is all over, I will bring war on their worlds and families for daring to attack us.

  He recalled the tales of old where the Emperors of the Median Empire had taken great war-fleets to the Terran Worlds. In the past, the heroes of Darius and Xerxes, some of the most infamous of the God Kings, had tried and failed to bring the Terrans to heal. Battles at the Hot Gates, Plataea, and Salamis had demonstrated time and time again that guile and cunning were needed to defeat them.

  No God King will ever defeat them. Only I can win this war.

  Should he prove successful in his mission, he knew he would have no problem clearing his borders of Ionia of Terran military power. Not that Tissaphernes wanted to remove the Terrans; he had other plans for them after seeing their skills when commanded by Clearchus and Cyrus. They might be a troublesome race, but they had their talents, and if focused, he was convinced he could use them to further his plans. An automaton officer caught his attention and bowed low.

  “My Lord, you requested information on the Zacynthians.”

  Tissaphernes frowned, trying to recall what he had asked for. The automaton waited and then realised his Lord wanted him to continue. As he started to speak, a group of automatons moved about him to assist with the replacement of parts of his armour.

  “I...uh...the reports from the Dukas show he has a single battleship, twenty-four cruisers, and eleven light cruisers ready for battle.”

  Tissaphernes nodded and sent him away, along with the remaining automatons that had finished the final touches of his clothing and armour. He had changed into an elaborate set of armour that combined the classical lines of the Median armour with the long flowing garb of the Imperial family. His shoulders were raised with beautiful carved and engraved golden plate, and atop his head a helm in the shape of a great beast. A purple cloak ran from his shoulders, his breastplate a dull ivory with intricate detailing and relief. His legs were clad in ivory and feet protected by tall boots, ribbed with lavish gold trim. He was the epitome of decadence and wealth, and he loved it. He looked to the automaton that had just spoken, recalling what he had said.

  The fleet, ah, yes.

  He looked out to the great horde of crew and smiled to himself. Tissaphernes was heavily armoured and protected by a small cadre of elite guards that waited along the side of the deck. Not one of automatons carried a weapon of any kind other than the dozen senior officers who moved about nervously. These men were of the elite Medes faction, the society that controlled the wealth and power of the Empire. Outside of the God King’s territories, the entire race was known as the Medes, although only the richest and noblest of their kind were true Medes. The M
edian sector was once the only part of the Empire, ruled by the Medes themselves before they expanded and absorbed the territories around them. As sectors fell, so did their capitals, yet unlike the races and Empires before them, the Medes were cunning. They maintained the existing local arrangements and societies, ruling them with their own local Satraps, each taken from the elite of their territories.

  There were now thirty-four of these Satraps, including the capital worlds of Media itself, and Tissaphernes fancied expanding his area of control out and away from the rest of the Empire.

  “Good, very good.”

  He looked carefully at the automaton before him. There was nothing especially significant about him, apart from the markings on his skull cap and a dull orange sash he carried about his shoulder and down across his body. He was ranked as a Darbabad, the Terran equivalent of an Admiral of the fleet, and the only automaton on the ship that dared look the Satrap of Lydia and Caria directly in the eye.

  “Lead the fleet to the assembly point, no closer than fifty parasangs to Larissa. If we approach any closer, it will be you that meets the Terrans first, after I have expunged you from this great ship.”

  “My Lord,” was all the automaton said.

  He turned and moved to his cadre of officers, who then relayed the orders directly to the rest of the fleet. It was slower than the system used by the Terrans, but it did keep automatons in the loop, and Tissaphernes liked to see where his orders went and who was following them correctly.

  He looked down at the buttons around his great seat and snorted in derision. With a single tap, a structure much like a black cylinder rose from the ground to surround him in a centimetre thick semi-transparent material. It continued until reaching almost three metres and then stopped. There was a single flash, and the black transformed to show space and every single ship in his fleet. He looked at the largest of the battleships and lists of orders appeared next to them, confirming the direction and disposition he had decided.