Lords of War (Star Crusades: Mercenaries, Book 1)

by Michael G. Thomas

  It took Spartan almost thirty minutes to cover the ground from the old capital buildings to the military base. He could have made it in half of the time, but he’d been travelling carefully, using every piece of cover he could find. At the same time, he’d planted all but two of his micro-thermite charges on the way. Seven charges carefully placed where he believed they would cause the greatest disruption. Spartan lay stomach down on the ground, as low as he could get his body. Light was fading fast as the nearby star moved below the horizon.

  Now, show me to them.

  The overhead view provided by the drone had narrowed the location of the transmitter to an open area. There was a low wall around the dedicated spaceport, but unlike similar facilities on other worlds, the landing pads were simply cleared areas in the flat, open ground. Aircraft waited while the single fat, squat shape of civilian heavy lifters dropped in from low orbit, escorted by a pair of Hornet dropships.

  There!

  A light flashed, but what really perked Spartan up was the second light. Both were in close proximity, and now the drone had isolated their position down to an area no bigger than fifteen metres, and less than seventy metres from his own position. The ambient light continued to fall, and the long shadows began breaking up as the only natural light source vanished. All that remained were the artificial lights running throughout Montu, and unlike most cities, this place was a dull, grim-looking place.

  It’s time.

  Spartan rose to his knees and rested his hands on the wall. The sensors in his armour brought up the temperature and rough composition, but that didn’t really matter to him. Either he could smash through or he would blast it apart. Then, to his frustration, the drone vanished from his sensors.

  Dammit!

  The markers from the thermite charges were still showing on his visor, as were the last recorded positions of the enemy soldiers and vehicles. He stood up and glanced over the wall and towards the distant aircraft. Ever so carefully, he moved the carbine up, rested it on the wall, and then pushed one of the two remaining micro-thermite charges into the lower flap. It slipped inside and rested inside the main coil section, and the internal switch flipped to grenade mode.

  Stay quiet.

  The helmet projected the approximate landing place, a short distance from one of the two bowsers near a landed aircraft. Spartan pulled the trigger and held his breath as the micro-thermite charge was discharged and flew in its course, barely changing on its way down. His heart almost stopped when it landed, and one of the nearby crew turned around.

  Damn it.

  The figure headed towards the charge, then stopped and went back to whatever he’d been doing. Spartan would have wiped his brow if his visor had been open, but he had to rely upon the moisture collectors in the helmet and concentrate on the mission. The numbers were greater than expected, but there were gaps in the defences, and few were taking much care in looking after the place.

  They are confident and cocky. That will be to my benefit, and their failure.

  Their numbers wouldn’t deter him from what needed to be done. He rose higher still and then pushed hard. The armour was unable to assist with augmenting his strength; that was the job of equipment like the Vanguard armour. His own strength was substantial, though, and with a strike from his right arm a chunk of masonry the size of his head broke off. He followed it up with more until he’d created a gap big enough to slip through.

  Move!

  He kept his centre of gravity low, but there wasn’t much he could do out in the open. There were no tunnels or other structures visible from here, and he already felt exposed and vulnerable. As he moved, slowly but surely, he could do no more than rely upon the cooling features of the armour. Incredibly, he made it to the source of the signal without being detected, and dropped to his stomach. There was a wide-open hole before him, much like a deep well, or even a pit. He leaned over the edge and could see movement below.

  “General? Gun?”

  The movement stopped and then shapes moved again.

  “Spartan?” came back a familiar voice.

  Gun!

  Spartan could feel the elation in his body even though he had absolutely no idea what to do to get them out of the prison pit.

  “Where is the entrance?”

  A different voice called up this time. It was the General, he was sure of it.

  “The main door is down here, double layered and strong.”

  Spartan didn’t hesitate and threw himself off the edge. He fell down what must have been at least two levels before the shock absorbers in his armour groaned under his heavy landing. Before he could recover, the bear-like shape of Gun was on him and crushing him. Without the armour, he would certainly have suffered multiple broken ribs. As they separated, Spartan got the first look at the two of them since they’d left. They still wore the fatigues they must have been wearing upon arrival. Neither was armoured and both were heavily bruised.

  “Can you walk?”

  Gun slammed his fist into the wall.

  “Walk? I can do anything.”

  He then looked up.

  “Well, anything but climb up there.”

  Spartan followed his gaze to the opening far above. It looked so much smaller from down in the prison pit. The walls were smooth, almost like glass, and clearly from where the tunnel had been burned directly into the rock. Even worse, the walls moved in closer as they reached the top, like a reversed funnel shape.

  “Maybe this will help.”

  Spartan opened the side plate on his left leg and removed his backup sidearm. Next to his armour and the vast bulk of Gun it seemed ridiculous. General Daniels reached for it, and Gun grunted.

  “Too small for me, anyway.”

  Spartan opened his visor and breathed in the warm, damp air in the pit.

  “This is going to get messy, and fast. Are you ready?”

  Both prisoners gave him the nod, but General Daniels lifted his hand a fraction.

  “Before we go. What’s the plan? I take it you have one. What about the other prisoners? There were Byotai and Khreenk taken with us.”

  An alarm sounded off into the distance, much like a warning klaxon.

  “My friends,” said Spartan, “We do not have time. We have to get out of here. We will come back for them when we have information.”

  General Daniels looked sadly to Gun and then to Spartan.

  “A good friend, his name was Turi. They took him some time ago. We’ve not heard from him.”

  Spartan closed his eyes as he considered their plan.

  “Look,” he started, “We need to get from here and to the underground transit station. I will look for this man, but we can’t stay for long. This place is full of them.”

  He waited, but neither spoke.

  “I have a few distractions to keep them busy. In the meantime, I expect nothing short of speed and uncontrolled violence.”

  “That’s my specialty,” said Gun.

  “Good.”

  Spartan indicated for them to move away from the door and placed himself between both of them and the doorway. His armour made almost no sound as it moved, but it did continue to shift slightly in colour, now turning darker grey with hints of brown.

  “I see you brought the new toys.”

  Spartan laughed.

  “You could say that. Now, stay back.”

  “Uh, how do we get through? You can’t punch your way through solid metal?” asked the General.

  Gun was already as far back as he could go. Spartan indicated for the General to join him once more. He did so and lifted the pistol to his face to check the safety. Spartan noticed the man’s hands were shaking, and that there were bloodstains on his clothing. He wanted to speak, to patch him up, but the mission was his priority, and he knew he had to stick with it.

  Get them out and on the train. We can worry about the details afterwards.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  Spartan lifted his XC1 carbine and pointed
it at the centre of the door. The first blast ripped a crater out of the metal, but it was still intact.

  “You’re going to need to go a lot further than that. Keep going,” said Gun.

  Spartan laughed.

  “Not a problem.”

  This time he held down the trigger, and the weapon unleashed a torrent of fire at the metal object. Each ball of super-hot plasma, protected inside its magnetic casing, crashed into the reinforced plating. One by one, they ate away at the metal until with one final flash, the entire door came away and crashed to the ground with a great thud. The cell filled with dust, and Spartan changed to his thermal vision mode.

  “Stay close!”

  He stepped through and found two guards running in his direction. One blast hit each of them. Then they were past the bodies and at a staircase, barely large enough for Gun to use.

  “Where now?” Daniels asked.

  Spartan leaned back as a burst from a rifle struck the railing next to him. He moved back into position and fired one shot straight up. It was followed by a cry, and then a tumbling body crashed down onto the ground beside Gun.

  “We go up!”

  Though wounded, the fallen soldier tried to grab a long curved blade from his side. It was big, not far off the size of an Arabic scimitar. Gun put his left foot on his arm and yanked the weapon away. In his hand it looked like a large knife.

  “Stay down,” he said firmly.

  The soldier refused to cooperate, and with his free hand, he slid down to grab a sidearm. Gun shook his head in annoyance and brought the blade down onto the soldier’s arm. It was quick and equally brutal as the arm was severed from the torso.

  “Try it again, and I’ll take your head.”

  He lifted his foot, and this time the soldier kept still, though whether out of obedience or shock was impossible to tell.

  “This way.”

  Spartan continued upwards until they reached the top of the staircase. It led inside a guard area. The space was open plan and relatively wide, but with a ceiling barely three metres from the ground. Decks at one side were covered in boxes, and in the middle lay a projection of a mountain region. Cultured shapes moved about, and the sound of voices played in the background, presumably from open channel communications. Two militiamen looked at the imagery, but only one saw Gun heading towards them.

  “You!” Gun roared.

  He didn’t hesitate and grabbed the first one, lifted him from the ground, and cast him across the space. The unfortunate soul crashed into the wall and slid to the ground. The second made the mistake of drawing a firearm. Spartan was still moving forwards and fired twice from the hip. Both shots struck their target square in the chest.

  “Keep moving.”

  Three rounds glanced off his chest, and he twisted around to see another Anicinàbe soldier. This one was covered in sand coloured robes, and he blocked the doorway leading to the next level. The militiaman wore the garb of the Spires Clan, and a metal plate covered his face from the nose downwards. The eyes were hidden behind red-tinted goggles, and in his hands he carried a powerful looking multi-barrelled carbine. Another round struck Spartan, and he ducked to the right and behind the hexagonal shaped projector.

  “He’s mine.”

  General Daniels might have been weakened, but his shooting was as good as it had ever been. The first round from his pistol struck the soldier in the neck, the second in the shoulder. Spartan ran past and up to the next level. Gun and the General stopped at the fallen soldier. General Daniels nodded to the substantial looking carbine lying beside the body. Its sides bulged out with multiple vents and cutaway sections to help keep it cool.

  “Nice gun. Looks like one of ours. Perhaps a reverse engineered L52, but bigger and fitted with this cooling unit.”

  He then looked to Gun.

  “You should take it. You’re not much good use with that toothpick.”

  Gun looked at his blade and grunted.

  “You’ll be surprised what I can do with it.”

  His lip curled up to the side, and the General shook his head. He then bent down, lifted the thin carbine, and tossed it over to the Jötnar. The massive warrior caught it in his vast paws and turned it about, one way and then another. His hands were much too large to get around the grip and to the trigger. Normally, his kind used weapons specially modified for their use, usually very large weapons.

  “It is like a child’s toy. I’d rather stay with the knife.”

  General Daniels sighed.

  “Stop whining, Gun. Fix it and follow me. We need to get out of this place, and soon.”

  He left the Jötnar on his own and went to follow Spartan just as the warning alarm sounded. It was different to anything he’d heard before and pulsated in high and low tones, accompanied by flashing lights throughout the facility. Daniels looked back at Gun who was still doing something to the weapon.

  “Move it!”

  He kept the pistol out in front. Unlike most soldiers, he kept the weapon close to his body and in both hands; something he’d learnt to do after getting into a number of close ranged encounters. He moved like a man in his twenties, and few would have realised this was a man left for dead in the Biomech War, a man that had been found beneath broken machines and shattered bodies. Gun lifted the blade he’d only so recently taken and brought it down on the trigger guard. There was a small flash of sparks, and the impact shattered the material, leaving the trigger fully exposed. What remained of the guard hung off from one small sliver of material. Gun grabbed it with his other hand and yanked it away, leaving the gun clear.

  “Yeah, that’s better. Much better.”

  Now properly equipped, he rested the blade in his left hand and held the gun up in his right. It still looked small, but far more dangerous than just an edged weapon. The vents hissed as steam pumped out from the side, and he laughed at the absurdity of the thing.

  “Piece of alien junk.”

  Gun then climbed the five steps, easily covering the distance in a single bound, and into the last corridor just behind Spartan and Daniels. Far off into the distance was the pale light from exterior lamps, presumably those that lit the spaceport. At least five soldiers blocked their way and were positioned behind boxes or crates on each side of the hallway. Even Spartan had thrown himself on top of the wall to avoid the fire. One round struck Gun in the shoulder, and he moved to the left wall. He snarled in anger.

  “I’m getting tired of this. What about this diversion of yours?”

  He shouted the words loud enough that Spartan could hear, even over the sound of the gun battle. Spartan, meanwhile, used the cover in the hallway and blasted away with his carbine. Another round struck centimetres from Gun’s ear as he aimed the three-barrelled carbine. Gun yanked back the trigger, and flames erupted from the front. Not waiting, he stepped out into the corridor and began to run.

  “Here we go,” said Spartan.

  At that point, he activated the trigger for the charge near the wall and alongside a pair of parked up armoured trucks. At first there was just a single bang, but multiple explosions quickly followed it, as the fuel and ammunition caught fire and joined the explosions. The ground shook slightly but not enough to cause any of them to stumble. Spartan spotted the commotion behind him as Gun rushed towards him down the corridor. He looked at the enemy and fired a short burst of seven rounds. The powerful projectile ripped through rock, metal, and flesh with ease.

  Now...Move it.

  One step and then another, while tagging, identifying, and shooting every single target that presented itself. Not even the shape of an armoured warrior slowed him down. The very last guard staggered inside. Spartan jumped up and kicked him hard in the stomach. As the unfortunate soldier landed on the ground, he took bullets in the shoulder and back from General Daniels.

  The General went ahead of the two and then stopped and peered in through one of the small open doors. It was too small for Gun, but the General didn’t hesitate, and ran inside and cried
out in anguish. Spartan jumped in with his carbine lifted, stopping at the tables. A dozen butchered bodies lay strewn across them. The General was busy looking at the face of a dead Byotai male.

  “Turi,” he said, he voice rough and quiet.

  Spartan had no idea who it was, but clearly the General was upset. He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Whatever they did to him, his pain is over. There’s plenty enough time left for us to feel the same. We have to go.”

  When Daniels turned around, Spartan could see a look on his face, one he’d not seen since the bitter hand-to-hand combat of the Great Uprising a generation ago. He grabbed Spartan’s arm.

  “We will go. But promise me one thing, Spartan, promise me will avenge those butchered by this animal... Ogimà Nakoma.”

  Spartan nodded, his face grim with resolve.

  “I promise. Now, let’s go.”

  He left the room, and General Daniels gave it one last look before they returned to the main room and climbed the last few steps. Then they were outside and in the full glare of a single large searchlight mounted far off into the distance.

  “Put down your weapons!”

  It was an electronic voice, the classic monotonous tone of a translator circuit over a loudspeaker. Spartan scanned the horizon from left to right, picking out scores of militiamen streaming out of a spacecraft that had recently landed around a kilometre away. All were armed and were heading right for them. He tagged them one at a time, but with the other two without networked armour, he had nobody to share the information with.

  “There,” said Gun.

  Spartan followed his gaze and found another group, all of which were filing out from a single-storey building near the searchlight. Beside them was a single articulated loading machine, a massive walking monster covered in lamps that projected out into the distance.

  Hooded soldiers flanked one figure. Spartan could sense the hate in Gun’s tone and suspected it was probably somebody responsible for their capture and torture. Several of them opened fire, but at this range their fire was erratic. Gun fired back, quickly scattering a handful.

  “That is Nakoma, the bitch that’s been interrogating us.”

  He took more careful aim at the figure and fired, showing great restraint by not doing his usual charging for them. Though his shots were close, there was little chance of striking her this far away. The weapon was powerful, but it was a close range carbine, not the kind of thing used to snipe at people.