Star Crusades Mercenaries: Book 01 - Lords of War Page 2

  Captain Simmonds nodded while taking aim at the first one. He pulled the trigger, and long lines of Sanlav rounds struck around the target. Dozens of them exploded and sent shards into the nose cone, but the vessel kept on coming.

  “They’re Byotai heavies, in any case. Hardened utility craft designed for working in hostile environments. We need stronger weaponry.”

  He licked his lips as a burst of automatic cannon fire ran down the flank of the ship. Warning lights flashed on, and he spotted at least a dozen breaches.

  “You keep on the missiles. I’ll take the fighters. We cannot enter the atmosphere with major damage. We’ll burn up.”

  “Sir.”

  The engineer continued tracking the approach of missiles from the enemy craft and engaged them. The Sanlav rounds were perfect at this task, and he was rewarded by flash after flash. Not one of them made it close enough to damage the vast transport.

  “Loading solid shot,” said Captain Simmonds, “Firing.”

  The bank of turrets loaded with solid rounds unleashed them in long bursts. They were the same types of ammunition that had been used for generations; hardened slabs of metal that could punch through the thickest of armour. The first few rounds seemed to vanish into the attack, and then finally came a serious of small explosions.

  “I have breaches in their nose and flank. Hit them with Sanlavs and bring them down.”

  * * *

  Heavy Tug ‘Zephyr’, Karnak, Demilitarised Zone

  The heavily modified tug shuddered as hundreds of hardened slugs tore through the plate armour. The computers blared uncontrollably, and small fires burned in a dozen places. The three Anicinàbe warriors shouted at each other until silenced by the fourth, a tall warrior, dressed in traditional attire. His clothing was made from dozens of different fabrics, with a bandolier across his chest and a looted Byotai carbine at his flank. They were of average height, yet thin boned, white skinned, and their eyes as black as the void outside. Each bore the markings of the outlawed Spires Clan, a criminal smuggling ring.

  “Huritt, we cannot take much more. This is a civilian ship, not a battleship!”

  Their leader listened but said nothing. He watched from the narrow windows as clouds of gunfire streaked out from the massive transport. One of the loaders, a special corvette sized vessel had been hit hard. Most of its hull was covered in cranes, but some had been removed and independent automatic cannons welded in their place.

  “We have done our job, as we have been paid to do. No ships are to enter this territory unscathed, by the order of Warleader Tahkeome. It is time all learned that these worlds will never belong to the cold-bloods.”

  The insult was an ancient one, first used upon the fateful encounter with the Byotai, centuries earlier. The reptilian race was slow to anger, and to many appeared almost dim-witted. This was an easy mistake to make, though, and they were as intelligent and perhaps more dangerous than any of the varied intelligent life forms. Cold-blooded, isolationist, and inward looking, they were the exact opposite of the flamboyant, violent, and weak-bodied Anicinàbe.

  Another burst struck their port flank, and a piece of sharpened metal splintered away, narrowly missing the crew. Huritt laughed when it missed him by just a few centimetres. He was confident, perhaps too confident, and this near miss simply buoyed him up further.

  “Gods of the Anicinàbe laugh at this ship. Even with such pitiful equipment, we can bring ruin to the allies of the cold-bloods.”

  He tapped a button to contact the other craft.

  “Fire weapons at my target location. A five-second burst will suffice. They must be hit hard enough to rupture their hull.”

  He licked his lips, imagining the ship’s fate.

  “We will then withdraw to the flotilla. When the time is right, our infiltrators will call for our assistance, and we will be ready to help.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and at the empty space off into the distance. Though they could not be seen, he knew what lay out there, and it filled him with excitement. It was the fleet of Warleader Tahkeome, the one man that had united the border raiders, pirates, and opportunists to his cause. For the first time, he felt a common bond with his Anicinàbe kin.

  The cold-bloods have no place here. The Anicinàbe are destined to rule the stars, and when they see our strength, they will cower and bow before us.

  * * *

  Transport ‘Astral Clipper’, Karnak, Demilitarised Zone

  “Missiles approaching the bow. They’ve gone supersonic,” yelled the helmsman.

  Captain Simmonds tracked the missiles on the computer and blasted at them, but this time he was unable to stop them in time. Three missiles moved in a figure-of-eight pattern and then struck the ship. The impact was massive, and for almost an entire second, the artificial gravity and lighting completely cut out.

  “Impact!” cried out Engineer Barbero.

  The missile impacts were quickly followed by a series of strafing runs. With power gone, the ship was unable to control its turrets, and for a few more seconds the ship was defenceless.

  “I need power, Barbero. Get me control, and fast!”

  Engineer Barbero grabbed onto his seat straps and activated the solid-state interrupters. They were a manual override system that could divert the powerplant to a secondary circuit running along the lower hull. It was a simple modification, and one passed on to all kinds of ships in the last few years. It took nearly twenty seconds, but when he pressed the last button, the ship lit up as though it had been merely sleeping.

  “Done. If they sever the secondary circuit, we’re screwed, though.”

  Systems restarted, and the screens flickered on to show the changed situation. The enemy vessels were all over them now and raking the ship with their automatic cannons. Even so, the concentrated fire from all three attackers was still not enough to halt the ship, but it was enough to finally breach the hull in two storage compartments. Captain Simmonds looked at the videostream coming from the exterior cameras and shook his head. The radar trackers had picked up two more missiles. Barbero gulped.

  “Torpedoes, if they hit, we’ll be done.”

  Captain Simmonds merely laughed.

  “Torpedoes? Hell, I could outrun those things with just my legs.”

  He turned his attention to the helmsman.

  “Give me a twenty degree rotation, and bring the port turrets into position.”

  He then looked back to the engineer.

  “Now hit those torpedoes, and hit them, hard!”

  Two of the turrets refused to respond, but the others activated and unleashed streams of solid slugs and Sanlav rounds. The slow torpedoes were easily hit, and both vanished in bright blue explosions. Even the Captain was surprised at the colour.

  “I don’t know what they were, but I’m damn glad they didn’t hit.”

  None of them seemed to realise the ship had begun to accelerate as they skimmed the upper atmosphere. Warnings were already popping up, but the enemy vessels had proven a clear distraction. Helmsman Palmer shook his head.

  “Captain, we can’t enter the atmosphere like this. There is no chance.”

  Captain Simmonds looked to his crew, but no one had anything useful to say.

  “We’re going to lose the ship,” he said finally, “but not before we give them a bloody nose.”

  Engineer Barbero smiled at him.

  “Captain, they’ve pulled back. Looks like they don’t want to join us on the way down. They’re all accelerating away.”

  Captain Simmonds shook his head.

  “No, they don’t get away that easily. Punish them!”

  Both men ignored the warning alerts as the great ship began to sustain thermal damage. They tracked the targets via the computer and unleashed every turret on the ship against the heavily damaged corvettes. One of the guns must have struck a fuel line or perhaps an engine, because a blast tore of a great chunk of metal and fuel lines. The vessel twisted about and then fell back.

>   “Good, if we’re going down, then so are they.”

  Their excitement was short lived as the hull of the massive ship screamed under the great strains of re-entry. One screen filled with red warnings as superheated air began burning through any breaches.

  “We’ve got less than a minute before she’s lost,” said the engineer, “Maybe less.”

  Captain Simmonds knew he needed to give the order, but there was something disconcerting, almost primeval about giving the order to abandon what had been their home for so many months. Every second he waited gave time for yet another warning light to come on.

  “Very well.”

  He pressed the button for the intercom.

  “This is the Captain. Get to the lifeboats. Astral Clipper is gone.”

  He looked to his comrades in the cockpit, and at the same time the power cut; the only lighting still active was the backup battery powered emergency lights. The dull red glow gave the interior a dangerous, almost deadly feel.

  “We need to go...now!”

  His last action was to hit the evacuation beacon. It was a single button, and as he pressed it, a hatch atop the ship flipped open and a small propulsion unit blasted away from the ship. It began broadcasting the second it left, sending video data, location information, and data. In a matter of hours, the information would spread from world to world, spreading the news that the Demilitarised Zone had once again turned into a warzone.

  * * *

  Kha’Dri World Ship, Taxxu Prime, Centauri Alliance

  The sound of fighting machines echoed through the cavernous interior of the ancient World Ship. Though out of sight, the machines could be heard hundreds of metres away. There was nothing else that provided the screaming shriek of metal blades and the continuous drone of metal striking thick armour-plate. This crashing of weaponry was punctuated by the sounds of articulated limbs, powerful motor drives, and pistons that were all too familiar to the small group of Alliance officers and officials. Every impact was accompanied by the voices of cheering men and women.

  General Daniels looked back at his group and then on into the ship. He was the epitome of an Alliance war veteran. Two deep marks ran down his head and disappeared at his neck. An augmented optical unit had replaced his left eye, and his left arm was more metal and synthetic parts than actual flesh. Each mark and scar on his body told a story, and he exuded an aura of professional calm as he walked.

  “This way General,” said Mr Walker.

  The man was impeccably dressed in a sharp suit that gleamed even in the unusual lighting conditions. His only concession to style was the security tag on his chest. It was the mark of the Carthago Trade Consortium, the largest commercial trading, research, and mining entity in the Alliance. General Daniels looked at the civilian and noticed he was staring right back at him.

  “What’s the problem, son, never seen augmented optics before?”

  He didn't even flinch at the question.

  "Sure, I was just wondering if you'd been fitted with one of our newest models. The latest EP2 series comes with optical enhancements, flare protection, and of course, our lifetime connection to Secnet."

  He then ushered them on further inside the facility.

  "We manufacture plenty of other products, but our new range of prosthetics and upgrades comes directly from the newest Biotech research.”

  A civilian in the General’s group muttered just loud enough for Mr Walker to still hear. It was one of the junior executives from the Colonial department, and a man the General had been ignoring for most of the trip.

  “All courtesy of the agreement between Alliance Central and CTC. Somebody had friends in the right places for that contract."

  Mr Walker smiled, flashing his teeth as well as any high-level salesman. He’d heard, and yet the words seemed to run off him like rain.

  “Alliance provides the permits and more importantly, the access.”

  Again he flashed those gleaming white teeth.

  “CTC provides the technical expertise, manufacturing, and logistics. We make profits, and the Alliance gets the latest designs hot from the press. Without us, you would be waiting another generation before you saw any results. The private sector can guarantee products to markets in months, not decades...and that’s a promise.”

  General Daniels said nothing, but he was already finding this man to be something of an irritation. He was fully aware of the difficulties facing the Alliance right now. Money was not the issue, but there was little stomach for getting involved in military operations, or even increasing combat units to the sizes they really needed to be. Few would push for Alliance funds to be put into research, especially military research when there were cities to rebuild, schools to construct, and people to feed. This arrangement benefitted them both, that was true, but he suspected CTC was getting much more out of the deal than the Alliance.

  “Let’s keep moving.”

  They continued on inside the massive ship. The place was busier; much more so than he would ever have expected this far out in Alliance territory. Every ten seconds they ran into yet another group of technicians or engineers. A decade ago, this was the scene of the greatest calamity of the modern era, and now it was a hub of trade, research, and engineering.

  Give it another ten years, and this will probably be a place of meditation and relaxation. Hell, I might even come here for a vacation.

  Robotic warriors and long dormant fighting machines lined the hallway leading to the display arena aboard the monstrous vessel. It was a ship older than even the most established Alliance colony. Human technology replaced where alien computing and hardware had once been. Even some of the dimply lit corridors and passageways were brightly lit and cast hard, black shadows past many of the unusual alien artefacts. The war machines had been placed there over the years, and all showed signs of damage and heavy wear. Mr Walker pointed to them as they passed by.

  "It wasn't strictly necessary, but after...the changes in the company, we felt it appropriate to utilise parts of this facility as both a museum and a place of remembrance for the losses of many generations."

  "How very philanthropic of you all."

  The sound came from the Colonel, positioned a short distance behind General Daniels. Mr Walker looked to the officer, a tall, thin man with a rakish black moustache.

  "Colonel Black, in the Special Weapons Division. Nearly forty percent of our employees are former Alliance military. You see, civilians can only provide us with so much, but in the end, we need the end customer, people like you.”

  He took a few more steps and then nodded, as though agreeing with himself. General Daniels nearly laughed at the show the man was putting on for them.

  “It makes good sense for business, and of course, because it’s the right thing to do."

  The Colonel looked to General Daniels, and there was something shared between them. It was inaudible, though, much to Walker's annoyance. All he could detect was that something he'd just said had confirmed something to both of them. He lifted an eyebrow, exhaled, and then beckoned deeper inside the craft.

  "Not much further now."

  The small group of officials moved on further through the Great Hall of Heroes, as it had now been nicknamed. It was tall and very different from the other passageways in the ship. Previously, the creatures and machines of the Biomechs used it to display war machines of their past. Now that tradition had been expanded to even include hardware used and modified by the Alliance, a shared history that seemed fitting, based on what had gone before. They slowed as they passed some of the most recent additions.

  “This is one of our Mark I CES suits, a model used in the Uprising. This is an antique now,” said one young lieutenant, "I’ve never seen a Mark I in the flesh before. What's it doing here?"

  General Daniels looked at the machines and then nodded.

  "The assault on this facility costs hundreds of casualties, Vanguards, marines, and the rest. We had to scrape together everything we could to win. Ha
lf of that tech was lost, and it appears much of it was kept here for study. In any case, a lot of what came back has since been scrapped."

  He reached out and touched the bullet-ridden armour. A pair of gashes down one side showed where something terrible had ripped it open like a can of tuna. He moved a little to the right and nodded towards the next machine.

  “These are similar to our Vanguards. You'll recall the stories of the Ghost Warriors?"

  The young officer swallowed as he answered.

  "The remote presence fighting machines?"

  General Daniels nodded.

  "Yes. The primary semi-autonomous fighting suits of the Biomechs. Now they are disconnected, barren shells sitting on display next to the armour of the men and women that died here.”

  He took in a slow breath.

  “It’s almost sad...almost.”

  As he said the words, he fidgeted with his artificial arm, once again feeling a phantom itch he could never find to scratch. Just seeing these defunct machines brought back memories of the fighting ten years ago. He hadn’t witnessed these particular models in combat, but he’d seen more than his fair share of combat. A figure approached, a Marine Corps officer. He stopped, and then saluted, his hand moving up quickly.

  “General Daniels, I hope your trip went well. My team has prepared the meeting, as requested. The Special Weapon Division has made the facility fully accessible to us.”

  “Thank you, Captain Wilson. The journey from Helios was...uneventful.”

  He then cleared his throat.

  “I am not here for an inspection or tour, though; I am here to see him.”

  The Captain swallowed uncomfortably.

  “Of course, General.”

  General Daniels sighed.

  “I need to speak with him, and fast. Time is short, as I explained before I left.”

  The man looked a little uncomfortable.

  "Understood, General. He is in the middle of a demonstration to CTC executives. After that, I'm sure it..."