The Great Betrayal

Chapter THREE

Many people have questioned naval tactics and strategies ever since the first armed spacecraft clashed. The first battles were between modified conventional craft with ultra long-range missile systems. Neither ship would usually see the other, as they would be attacked and destroyed at a distance of hundreds of thousands of kilometers. With advances in electronic warfare in the middle of the twenty-first century, the ability to strike at long-range became more and more difficult. The battles soon changed to the great battleship duels of the Great War and the carrier battles and ship skirmishes of the Great Uprising. Looking to the future, all hopes rested on the idea of the universal ship design, with a mixture of weapons, armor, defensive systems, and embarked fighters. Events in the Orion Nebula would put this idea to the test.



Naval Cadet’s Handbook





The training scenario on board the Alliance warship was not the most well prepared that Jack had ever seen. Since the news that the entire regiment was to be shipped out, they had been practicing a great variety of different missions, and this was the fourth in the last fortnight. The entire training hall and barrack area had been converted to represent an urban warzone, but it was hard to visualize the place as anything more than a glorified Marine Corps kill house. The buildings were wood and plaster, most of which were unpainted, and the destroyed vehicles no more than stacks of crates and boxes with camouflage nets and sheets laid over them to give form. He inhaled, but the fully enclosed PDS armored suit removed anything that could be a contaminant so he took in the clean, yet slightly oily air the built-in storage tanks provided.

“I’m in position,” he said quietly.

The others in his team were spread out, and according to the computer generated overlay, were also ready and waiting. He looked at his target and then checked on both sides for signs of anymore of the guards.

“Sentries eighty meters ahead. No sign of the hostage.”

He dropped to one knee and moved into position behind one of the broken walls. In a single fluid motion, he took aim through the optical sight of the L52 Mark II carbine and placed the target drone directly in the center. It moved slowly, its imitation arms moving about as it did its best to act like a realistic target. To the right of the sight were a number of details that constantly updated, including wind speed and distance. That was when he identified two more guards that were standing around the prisoner. He took careful aim at the sentry to the left and flagged the others for the rest of his team. Lines flashed around the others as each marine selected and tagged a target.

“I have a shot,” he said in a calm and clear voice.

As he looked at the robotic target, the memory of his last fight on Helios flooded back. It wasn’t the Animosh, or even the flyers that rushed about near them; it was the unstoppable artificial creation that had been landed to fight them. In all his life, he’d never experienced such helplessness than when fighting the unfeeling machines. The drone reminded him of how they looked and moved, and it unnerved him. He’d lost a lot of friends that day, and try as he might, he couldn’t get their faces from his mind.

Concentrate, this will get you killed!

To the flanks of the drone appeared another two mockups of Helion civilians. They looked like static dummies and were fitted out in a very rough approximation of the types of clothing seen on the planet. Jack remained hidden behind a fake wall, with the carbine resting on the top. He could see the positions of the rest of his fireteam to the right where each waited for the order.

“Take the shot,” Wictred said slowly.

It was the sound of his Jötnar friend, and the only member of his team to make it back alive from Helios. He winced at the calm sound and wondered if the losses affected his synthetic companion the way it did him. He moved the weapon just a fraction and then squeezed. The recoil was modest, and it used nothing more powerful than what was in reality a glorified heavyweight beanbag round. It hit the target in the center mass, knocking it back. Half a dozen more rounds struck about it as the other marines added their own fire.

I don’t think so, he thought.

He recalled his ineffective shooting at the drone on Helios. It was nothing like the drones in this scenario, of course. This one was designed to mimic a human, nothing more; whereas the beast of a machine he’d faced on that hot planet was a combat drone, a heavily armed and armored fighting machine, more like a twentieth century tank than a man. In the end, it had taken concentrated fire from Hammerhead gunships to destroy it.

“Now!” called out Corporal Wictred.

A dozen rounds landed around the targets before another team of bayonet equipped marines lurched from cover and rushed in to grab the hostage. He didn’t recognize the markings on their armor, other than to see they were not from his squad. The plan had been for a fast firefight that would remove each of the targets.

“Wait!” he called out.

Jack moved his carbine to the right as he checked for signs of the enemy. The briefing had suggested there might be up to eight, and so far only three were down. It wasn’t his call though, and the second team of four was in the target area in seconds. He spotted two drones lifting rifles; after taking careful aim, put one on the ground. The second was blocked by one of the marines, and he was unable to take the shot without striking his own comrade.

Idiots!

The team reached within three meters of the drone that held a hostage to its front. They spread out, each pointing their weapons at the machine. It moved its block shaped head as if looking at them and then vanished in a green haze. The paint bomb on its chest exploded, effectively killing the hostage and the entire rescue team. Even from this far away, a glob of green paint managed to strike his visor.

Dammit!

A klaxon sounded, and a bright lamp switched on, bathing the combat area in a warm yellow light. Sergeant Stone emerged from a raised balcony area to look down at the tired and painted covered marines. Jack stood up and wiped at the visor, leaving a narrow smear on the front of the reinforced transparent housing.

“Great job, gentlemen. You managed to neutralize the hostage and two teams of marines in the process.”

He grinned, but it wasn’t one of pleasure, just simple annoyance mixed with expected disappointment.

“You failed two of the three objectives. You did at least kill the hostage takers.”

Two more marines stood up. One of the younger marines, a tall man of well over two meters, opened his visor and then threw his weapon on the ground in disgust.

“You’ve got something to say, Private?” snapped Sergeant Stone.

The Private looked up at him, and Jack could easily identify the arrogance and self-importance in the man’s posture. It was odd. That kind of attitude rarely made it past the initial training. It was something that had little to offer the Corps.

“There’s no way to win this, Sergeant.”

The battle-hardened drill instructor laughed a low, hearty sound that should worry any marine who heard it. He walked to the edge of the balcony and surveyed the sight below him. There were nearly thirty marines, and every one of them looked fed up.

“The mission was to rescue the hostage from a terrorist cell that had promised to kill them if you attacked. You attacked. You died. What other outcome did you expect?”

He shook his head in disappointment while a number of heads lowered. Jack watched but found himself almost smiling. He looked out at the training hall, to the marines, and finally at the grizzled Sergeant. He then lifted his arm slightly to the air.

“Sergeant.”

The man moved his eyes, but not one other muscle appeared to move.

“Yes, Private?”

“We could have shot them down at a safe distance.”

Sergeant Stone’s right lip lifted slightly, appearing to be amused.

“Yes, that’s true. But what about the hostage?”

Jack laughed to himself before speaking.

“The hostage wouldn’t make it, but our marines would have.”

Stone nodded at the last words.

“Very true.”

He lifted his right arm and pointed to the spread out groups of marines.

“There will be times when you will be forced to make difficult decisions. Helios is a nest of backstabbing vipers, and your friends could become your enemies in seconds. When your backs are to the wall, you must always remember to look out for the marine next to you. A marine is the only person you can rely on when you get there.”

He looked back to Jack and gave him a short nod. It wasn’t much, but it was probably the only positive comment or expression Jack had ever seen him give.

“Now, get some food inside you, and report back here in three hours.”

Jack was one of the first to leave and went straight to his quarters at the rear of the habitation section of the ship. Unlike on the space station, his was no longer a dedicated room. Now he had no more than a small bunk plus personal stowage area and a display terminal. He jumped up to the bed and tapped the screen. It flickered on and accepted his credentials, showing him the same basic information as the much smaller secpad. In seconds, the unit accessed his communications log and identified a series of new messages. One in particular caught his eye.

What’s this from Terra Nova?

He swiped his hand, and a progress bar appeared as the data was decrypted for him. Terra Nova was an unimaginable distance away, and without the communication repeaters now installed at every Rift, it would be impossible to ever receive a signal. Finally, the front image of the military hospital appeared to be replaced by the face of a doctor.

“This is Doctor Barcheta, of the Terra Nova Medical Institute. I have a progress report on your mother, Ms Teresa Morato.”

Jack took a deep breath, almost sighing as he waited for the inevitable. He had few really family left and with Spartan missing, his estranged siblings hating him, and his mother in hospital, he found the Marine Corps to be more his family right now.

“The gunshot wounds to the right thoracoabdominal region are showing rapid signs of healing, and there is no sign of peritonitis. Ms Morato’s head injuries, however, are more serious. The lacerations are healing, but it still too early to tell if there will be any permanent neurological damage.”

Jack was gladdened that the news hadn’t been more serious. The last he’d heard she had been admitted after falling into a coma and that her wounds were of a serious nature, potentially life threatening. The real worry to him now was the coma. It had been months since the battle, and he’d already read multiple accounts where casualties had remained in a comatose state for years, sometimes even decades.

Will she ever come out of it?

There was no more video from the doctor, but there were a number of private reports, as well as x-rays and still imagery of his mother. He stared at them for almost ten minutes before shutting off the system and rolling over onto his back. He hadn’t wanted to remain with the Corps and would have been much happier staying with Teresa until she recovered; he was loath to lose what little he had left. But with her injuries being so severe, he couldn’t even speak to her. He knew his time was better spent with his remaining friends in the Corps, and Gun, the commander of his battalion had requested he return as soon as possible. The door opened, and the remaining marines in the barracks walked out, leaving him on his own. One entered and held the door open.

“Jack, get out here!”

It was Wictred, his oversized Jötnar friend that he'd fought so many battles along side. Both Wictred and his Jötnar companion Hunn had joined the Corps at the same time as Jack, but Hunn had fallen in battle. Jack hesitated, not wanting to spend more time socializing with the others, but the expression on Wictred’s face gave him no leeway.

“I’m not asking, Jack. I’m telling. Now move it!”

It was a pleasant order, not the kind barked by Sergeant Stone, but the tone was clear.

“Yeah…yeah,” he answered and threw himself down.

Wictred shook his head and stepped out into the passageway. The blast door started to close behind him as he called back inside.

“Maybe change your clothes before you join us?”

Jack looked at him while the door slammed shut with a clunk. He looked down and only then realized he was wearing his marine issue clothing from the previous training session. But there was no paint. They were dripping in sweat.

You idiot.

He ripped of his tunic and pants and walked to the shower entrance at the end of the barrack room. He was inside and the water pouring down over his body before he even noticed the dozen other marines busy washing. Over half were women, and on any other day, it would have been a reason to stay a little longer. Today he wasn’t in the mood.

It took Jack and the others nearly an hour before they were changed, showered, and in the ship’s canteen for their lunch. The ship operated like vessels through the ages, on a twenty-four hour system. Marines came in for lunch at multiple times of the day, depending on their shift patterns and operations. It wasn’t an issue, as all foodstuff consumed were dehydrated and shipped in packets from forward naval bases throughout the Alliance. He walked in and moved to the counter where the staff handed out the meals in bowls.

“What are the options today?” he asked glumly.

The tall black marine behind the counter grinned with a gleeful expression.

“Private, we’ve got the best for you today. Lamb casserole, chicken in herbs, and today’s special, chili con carne.”

Jack looked at each in turn and gave up. He just grabbed at the first piping hot bowl and moved to one of the long tables where Wictred and three other marines were sitting. He moved around the table and sat on the opposite side to face him. He looked down at the portion of lamb casserole and breathed in the taste. It was served in a white bowl and gave off a faint green hue from the broccoli and vegetable bouillon. Pieces of meat and carrot floated about to give it a less than appealing look. Jack took a spoonful, chewed, and then swallowed it down.

“Nice?” asked Wictred with a wide grin.

Jack took another mouthful and watched as the rest of his new squad sat down. At first it was just a handful, and then as quickly as the first sat down, the rest were there and making themselves comfortable. There were thirteen of them in total, and each acknowledged Corporal Wictred as they sat down. He looked about the canteen, recalling his time many months ago when the ship had been fresh and brand new. Although the exterior and systems of ANS Conqueror had been fully repaired and improved, the interior sections had seen far less time spent on them. The canteen showed signs of electrical scarring, and the patched bullet holes on one of the walls had been filled and painted in such a hurry, the marks were still visible.

“It could do with more salt,” he answered finally.

Wictred had been promoted following the Helios incident and was now the senior corporal in the squad. That meant he was responsible for the other twelve that made up the three fireteams, as well as liaising with their platoon commander.

“So,” started Wictred, “we screwed that one up, and Sergeant Stone wants improvement.”

Private Jana Jenkell, the squad’s medic spoke first. Her jet-black hair had been cut short, and her dark blue eyes almost matched the color. Her faced was grim, and as Jack glanced at her, he wondered if he’d ever seen her smile. As she spoke, he remembered she was the new one with the stutter.

“Well, they set off the bomb because they were able to activate a trigger. Why not eliminate that ability?”

Frewyn, the oldest of the group shook his head. He was stoutly built and spoke with a common accent that gave the impression he was far less intelligent than he actually was.

“How exactly would we do that?”

Jack swallowed another piece of lamb and then spoke.

“Gas or a stunner of some kind.”

Private Riku laughed at this idea. Of all those, seated she was the most unusual looking. Tall and attractive, she could easily have been a model if it hadn’t been for a hideous scar that ran down her face. There was something else that in Jack’s opinion made her probably the ugliest woman he’d met; it was her miserable fixed expression.

“You have one of those lying about, Private?”

“You’re such an asshat,” said Private Jenkell.

The young woman took another mouthful of her lunch and laughed at the taller and more attractive woman. Several of the others sniggered at her insult, and it was clear that Riku had few real friends in the unit.

Jack looked at Private Riku with the same kind of irritation Private Jenkell had and shook his head with a look of disinterest. Once more Private Riku displayed a look that bordered on contempt of him. Wictred had told him it was how he imagined a woman chewing a wasp would look like. Jack smiled as he thought of that, and then spotted her watching him. He lifted an eyebrow, and she scowled in return.

Would it kill her to smile? Maybe.

Jack recalled the last three conversations he’d had with her, and they'd always ended up the same. No matter the subject, it reverted to her, as if she always had an experience that trumped the rest. She loved complements and seemed to ask questions and make comments designed to make people feel obliged to add something nice about her. Amusingly, this never appeared to work. It seemed to encourage bitterness amongst the rest of the marines with almost every word that came out of her mouth, and that encouraged her to try even harder.

“Good attitude, Private Riku. What would you do then? Oh, I remember, you waited at the back.”

She scowled at him, and he nodded as if thanking her for some kind of concealed complement.

“You’re most welcome,” he added, much to her annoyance.

A tall, wide man, looking more like a wrestler than a marine, scratched at his nose before speaking. His face had been burned badly in the past, and he had a number of marks and scarring running from his left ear down to his chin. His lip was slightly squashed and of them all, he looked as though he’d been in a number of fights.

“You have an idea, Corporal?” Wictred asked.

The big man nodded.

“Yeah, we have a few options if we don’t want to lose people. What if we take in a hostage of our own and send them in, right in front of them and in plain view.”

“Nice,” announced Jack at the idea.

“Good idea, Callahan,” said Wictred, “So either we use a form of nerve agent to incapacitate the target, or we use a decoy of our own. Those are both options that could save marines.”

“There is one more,” said Jack.

Private Riku shook her head as he spoke.

“We could make sure we kill them all this time.”



* * *





Spartan and Khan clung to the interior of the bomb bay fitted to the bulbous flank of the aged bomber, as it continued on its course toward the increasingly large shape of the space station. By all accounts, it was larger than any ship either of them had ever seen. Spartan guessed it must be around fifty percent larger than a Confederate battleship from the previous war. The station moved off to the right and then vanished from view for a moment.

Hold on, whatever you do.

Both of them were attached via improvised harnesses they had taken from the small crew area in the middle of the bomber. Without it, they would have been thrown about as the craft moved. They had set the spacecraft on a spinning course that while slow in its rotation, still gave the impression the craft was out of control; either because of internal damage or more likely the crew had been incapacitated. Although the bomb bay was sealed, it lacked heating or an independent air supply. Spartan was okay, as he had been able to fit inside one of the crew’s emergency space suits. Khan, on the other hand, was forced to use one of the spare oxygen units and helmet; the rest of his body would have to manage as it was. Spartan just hoped the doors would stay closed and sealed because exposure outside of the spacecraft would kill Khan in less than a minute.

“Spartan, you think this will work?” asked Khan. His voice rasped from inside the mask, and Spartan could tell he was already feeling the cold. It was probably the tenth time his old friend had asked the same question, and once more he was forced to encourage him.

“Of course, when do my plans not work?”

Khan sniggered to himself, both of them were well aware that Spartan’s plans were far from perfect. In Khan’s experience, they always required a little extra muscle to make them work. He looked up and at the side of the space station as once more they spun about to face it.

“What’s stopping them from seeing us?”

It was a good question, but Spartan had thought of that already.

“Look, we’re next to the damaged bomb mount. There are fuel leaks and electrical damage all around here. Unless they examine this section with advanced scanners, they’ll miss us. Anyway, why bother looking?”

It was true. With the spacecraft drifting through space, it presented no great problem and could easily be left alone to continue its path out into the black void of space. On its current trajectory, it would pass right between the Rift and the station. The bomb bay was completely sealed from the exterior of the ship until opened to give access to its internal bays. There were four small windows, each no bigger than a man’s hand, at the far end to give engineers visual access for loading and maintenance. It wasn’t much but enough to allow them a good view out of the spacecraft and toward the station. It was when Khan was looking through the nearest window that he spotted it.

“Spartan, look.”

He nodded to his left and kept his movement to a minimum. It wasn’t that he was clinging to the outside of the bomber, but he was familiar enough with the various scanners onboard Alliance vessels to know they could detect heat changes, and that could easily be taken for movement.

“What is it?” Spartan asked, moving to the window and looking out.

He could see the shape of the Biomech transport ship as it moved toward them. It immediately filled him with dread. It was larger than the bomber, but nothing the size of the cruiser that had been pursuing them. There were two small drones attached to its dorsal armor, neither had been detached. Instead, it moved into position underneath them and then even closer.

“See, I said it would work,” Spartan said.

Khan smiled inwardly but could sense the relief in this friend’s voice. The vessel took nearly five minutes to finish moving into position and matched their rotation before it connected using some form of grav clamp. Once joined, they could feel a slight jolt as the ship’s engines activated, and their course was corrected. Another minute later, and they were heading directly for the station, the cruiser waiting not far from where it must have released its spacecraft. It took them to the right of the station where three docking mounts were located. As they approached, the two were able to get a good look at the exterior of the metallic construction.

“Seen anything like this before?”

Spartan moved his head slowly.

“Nope, this isn’t ours, and it doesn’t look like the gear the T’Kari use either.”

“Biomech?”

Spartan tried to shrug but found it hard to move the muscles while also trying to be as quiet and still as possible. There were no windows on the outer parts of the structure, but as with most stations, there were a large number of antenna and communication masts that extended in almost every single direction. Spartan looked at the individual details but finally concentrated his attention on one small part near the airlock. It looked like a spider but on closer examination was a dry dock. Underneath it were three large buildings, each almost big enough to house one of the new Alliance frigates. There were also a dozen gantries and sat atop them were Biomech drone fighters, much like the ones that had attacked them during their escape.

“Yeah, that sells it.”

Khan looked in the same direction and recognized the shape of a Biomech ship, like they’d seen while on board the T’Kari Raider many months earlier. Every second brought them closer, and the size of the ship increased until they could appreciate the scale.

“It’s got to be one of those carriers,” Khan said.

The shape was certainly familiar, but this wasn’t as big as the mighty cruiser class ships they had seen before. These were something closer to the smaller escorts and scouting ships used by the military. Along the side of the hull were markings and a black shape of some kind of snake beast. Spartan sighed at the sight of the shape.

“Echidna.”

He looked irritated but not surprised.

“Man, why can we never shake these guys? We keep finding them.”

Khan looked at it for a second and started to speak while watching the ship.

“At least that tells us who they are. This must mean we’re at a Biomech outpost.”

Spartan took several short gulps of air and felt an immediate rush of cold oxygen in his chest. It felt like heartburn, but he ignored it, knowing very well his friend was in far more discomfort than him.

“Even so, this is hardly well protected. What do we have? One Rift, a control station, and a shipyard with a couple of ships and a dozen drones. Hell, I’d say this is a way station for long-range ships.”

“Maybe,” replied Khan. His voiced lacked conviction.

It was another thirty minutes before they reached the docking mount. They drifted into position, and the bomber shuddered as they were locked into place. At this range, they could make out every single detail, and the more they looked, the more alien the place appeared. The base was static, and on the way the spacecraft interacted there was no form of artificial gravity. As they waited, Khan spotted movement.

“There,” he said, pointing with his forehead.

The shape of a large Biomech machine appeared, its body completely exposed to the elements. It moved slowly with one foot connecting securely before it moved the other. It seemed nervous, or perhaps it was just taking its time.

“One of our metal friends?” asked Spartan.

They both watched the thing with barely concealed bitterness. Khan clenched his fists, and Spartan could see his friend’s muscles contracting as he squeezed the straps. Khan was angry, very angry. Spartan extended his one good arm and placed his gloved hand on Khan’s shoulder.

“Easy friend, I know. We’ll have our revenge. I promise you.”

The machine looked like one of the incredibly rare Biomechs. Not one of the artificial monsters they had fought on a dozen worlds, or even the completely synthetic warriors like Khan that had been built as frontline soldiers for the War. No, these were the machines with biological minds, the leadership caste of the entire race they knew simply as the Biomechs. This one looked just like those that were responsible for their interrogation and torture for so many months. It appeared to be smaller, and its metal outer housing was in a poor state. The black paint had been rubbed or worn down so much there was more bare metal than paint remaining. It was bipedal and appeared to be a rough match for Khan in terms of height and girth. Its head was sunk down low and looked more like a beetle than a machine. It moved toward the spacecraft and waited like a statue just five meters from its side.

“What do we do now?” asked Khan.

He looked to Spartan and could just make out the wide smile on his friend’s face through the armored visor. The chill was now spreading through his body, and he was starting to wonder if he could still move his legs. The bomber shook and then moved toward the large metal structure ahead of them. When they were halfway there, the doors opened and revealed a dark interior.

“When we get inside, we’ll get out of here.”

Khan winced. “And then?”

Spartan pointed at the Biomech craft lined up inside the structure.

“We’ll find a way out of this place, I promise you. Maybe we’ll take a few of those bastards with us.”

He beckoned with his hand, and his thumb extended out to the machine.

“And I think he should go for starters.”

Khan nodded but was forced to hide a rough cough before answering.

“He will do…for now.”

Spartan looked away from Khan and smiled.

Don’t you worry; we’re getting out of here and back home. We’re going to get our friends, the fleet, and the Corps, and we’ll grind these animals until there’s nothing left but ash and waste.