The Great Betrayal (2 page)

“Work…you useless piece of…” he shouted before spotting an override lever.

He turned away from his system and pulled at the fallen storage box near the side of the computer. He hadn’t seen it before because a crate of spare parts had covered it. The chase must have shaken them free, revealing an entire engineer’s panel. As well as a computer display, it was fitted out with mechanical overrides to a number of systems. Without thinking, he pulled on the lever. A low hum spread through the inside, followed by the whine of motorized turrets.

“Khan? What have you done?” asked Spartan in an accusing tone.

He didn’t need to ask any further. Lines of status lights lit up all around the cockpit.

“Uh, Khan, we have power,” he said, barely believing what he was saying.

Khan laughed back at him, and Spartan tapped the icons for each of the enemy fighters. The turrets were fully automated and tracked the craft, each turret taking careful aim with their twin automatic cannons. They were simple affairs, nothing like the railgun, yet perfectly suited for use in the coldness of space. There was no trigger for these weapons. Instead, each turret adjusted its fire pattern based on their current trajectory and velocity as they fired. Two turrets eliminated their targets with minimal ammunition, but the final turret fired once and then exploded. It caused no major damage to the bomber but did tear the weapon from its mount, whereupon it vanished into the darkness. The other two turrets spun around as though in a race and tore the last fighter to pieces with a final burst.

“Uh, is that it?” Khan asked.

Spartan checked his scanners and then the damage indicators for the bomber. A sickening feeling ran through his body as he checked the gauges and status bars, each time expecting to come across the one result that would leave them stranded in uncharted space for the rest of their lives. The four-engine heavy bomber was a resilient war machine, but it had already been considered obsolete when captured two decades earlier; and previous battle damage showed along its long fuselage. They had escaped from the Biomech fleet almost a month earlier and had followed the telltale trail of debris and fuel emission through four separate Rifts before coming to this one.

“Looks clear to me, just that cruiser guarding the entrance.”

Khan nodded and finally unclipped himself so that he could pull himself through the interior of the craft to the gunnery position just behind Spartan. The space was far too small for him, so he pulled the straps from two seats around him in an improvised but useable fashion.

“How many does that make it now?”

Spartan checked the scanner before answering.

“Eleven fighters so far. I think that one might be more of a problem.”

Khan shrugged.

“I don’t care. Anything is better than being a prisoner on that dammed ship.”

Spartan nodded ruefully. It was true; both of them had experiences aboard the Biomech command ship they didn't want to remember, and neither knew how long they were there. It might have been weeks, but it could as easily have been months or even years. The interrogation, punishment, and torture had taken its toll on the two of them. Their escape had been violent, and it had taken no small degree of skill and ingenuity to slip the fleet and make it this far.

“Yeah, I’m not arguing with that.”

He nursed his stump where one of the Biomech machines had torn away his arm. The pain had long gone, although he was convinced he could still feel where his hand had once been. The machines had done that to him, but he was certain it was for nothing more that perverted pleasure. The thought of the blades cutting into his flesh made him queasy, so he shook his head and concentrated on the pulsing shape waiting for them at the end of the debris field. It was one of the largest Spacebridge tunnels he’d seen so far.

“What do you think is on the other side of that Rift?”

Khan lifted up the side of his lip, an expression he often gave when confused.

“It might be a friendly region of space; it might be another region they have passed through. Either way it won’t be here.”

“What happened here though?”

He pointed to the debris circling the planet.

“This was no skirmish. It looks like hundreds of thousands of ships, and a lot of them are as big as very small moons.”

Khan looked at them. Spartan watched him, wondering if his friend was merely examining their shapes, or if he genuinely had an explanation for what was going on. Neither said anything for almost a minute before Khan turned back to him.

“I’d say this was an extermination battle. Just look at the numbers. We have capital ships, remains of transports, and smashed space stations…and what about the planet?”

Spartan looked at them and tried to visualize the scene of what must have been the greatest ever space battle. He had seen enough battles in his time, but even the massive battles in the Uprising had rarely involved more than a score of major ships on each side. Even the accounts of the Great War fifty years before had shown battles with no more than fifty ships as the norm.

He’s right. This is a graveyard.

The planet showed no signs of life, its atmosphere was toxic, and there were clear signs of destructive activity showing up on the scanners. Spartan used the long-range targeting cameras to examine the area in more detail before the glowing entrance moved into view. It instantly brought his attention back to their current predicament.

“Remember the Biomech fleet, Khan, how many ships were there?”

Khan lifted his shoulders slightly.

“Who knows…a lot I would think.”

“Hang on,” said Spartan; shifting slightly in his seat, “that’s not a cruiser, look.”

He turned the scanning unit toward the ship guarding the entrance to the Rift and activated the passive scanning equipment. They had made that assumption based on the size of the vessel. The shape was different though, and as they watched, it became clear that it was something else.

“You’re right, look at the configuration. A control station,” said Khan.

Spartan altered the settings to show an even closer view of the station. It looked in poor shape, but even from that distance, they could make out the outlines of a substantial powerplant that was attached via a series of reinforced gantries.

“Exactly. This must be one of the entrances to more enemy space. Why else have a station to monitor and control it?”

Khan placed his chin in his hand and considered their problem.

“In that case, how the hell will we get through without them stopping us?”

Spartan had already returned to the small tactical map shown on a computer display to his left. It showed the dead worlds and the debris field, as well as this destination.

“We can’t stay here. Look, the carrier that followed us here is moving up out of orbit. I’d say three, maybe four hours, and they’ll catch up with us.”

“Unless we make for the Rift?” he asked rhetorically, “But if we do, that station will just shoot us down as we enter the place.”

Neither seemed to have much of an idea. Instead, Spartan made the final adjustments to leave the higher layers of debris prior to breaking out to the Rift. Khan watched the station and scratched his forehead.

“It’s not right, Spartan. We can’t make it this far, kill so many, only to be stopped by that thing.” He pointed at the image of the station on the screen. Spartan twisted his head around and smiled at him.

“I have a plan.”

He said it with a firm tone and familiar look that brought a grin to Khan’s tired and scarred face.

“Does it involve doing some serious killing?”

Spartan nodded, his smile wide.

“Have my plans ever been anything else?”

Khan wasn’t particular bothered by what the plan might be, just as long as there was one, and if it involved violence, then that was even better. He watched Spartan and noticed him checking the escape sequences for the bomber. It could mean only one thing.

He means to jump ship. Sounds just like one of Spartan’s plans.

* * *

Jack lifted the glass of port and threw back yet another mouthful of the reddish liquid. No sooner had he swallowed it, he grabbed the bottle and poured out the last drops into his glass. He dropped the bottle back down on the unit at the side of his desk and drank back the last of the fortified wine. Unthinkingly, he had not bothered to filter the wine, or even to decant it prior to drinking. A small amount of sediment dripped into his mouth and snapped him out of his daze. He almost choked as the dry pieces clung to his throat, and he was forced to grab the bottle of tepid water nearby and gulp down mouthfuls. The water ran down his cheeks and mouth, covering his stained marine tunic and even his pants. The door swung open, and a bright yellow light filled the room like a blazing sun.

“What the hell!” he muttered, knocking the water over.

His eyes could barely adjust to the light conditions, and the levels of alcohol in his body blurred and slowed everything into a dreamlike state. He tried to stand but staggered and fell to the ground, directly in front of whoever had just entered his bunk space.

“Private Morato, on your feet!”

Jack tried to lift his head, but he couldn’t find the strength. Instead, the face of his dour NCO, Sergeant Stone moved in front of him. As usual, the Sergeant sported a grim, angry looking face devoid of any emotion. The man was a scarred veteran, many years older than Jack, and yet a marine with experience in dozens of theaters. Unusually, he was wearing his dress uniform, although Jack was in such an inebriated state, he barely noticed. He turned and slammed the door behind with such force that a gust of air blasted into Jack. He bent down, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged the sorry looking Private to his feet.

“I know your mother is in a coma, and your buddies ain’t coming back. We’ve all been there. I’ve been there, and it will happen again. I promise you.”

He released Jack but stayed in the position.

“You have responsibilities, and it’s been far too long. Every veteran in the Corps has had to face this.”

Jack’s head tilted slightly as though the weight of his own head was proving too much to hold up. The Sergeant grabbed him and held him upright.

“Listen to me, marine. If you want a court-martial, you’re going about it the right way. Pull yourself together!”

He moved away from the inebriated marine and watched him drop down to his knees. He shook his head while looking at the pitiful Jack and bit his tongue before he continued his rant. He was well aware the young marine had suffered more than most. Even so, Sergeant Stone could recall the stories from the marines that fought in the Uprising, and although he’d been too young to join-up at the time, he had witnessed some of the fighting first-hand; especially the attacks on urban areas that had killed many of his friends.

“Private, now…get to your feet!”

Jack summoned as much willpower as he could muster to stand up straight. He swayed, and for the briefest of moments almost vomited onto the Sergeant. He held his breath and regained his balance, and then finally looked at the man carefully.

“I…uh…”

“I what?” barked the Sergeant. “I’ll tell you what you’ll do. You will get showered, dressed, and down to the dry dock. The scuttlebutt is that Conqueror will be relaunched in less than an hour, and you will be there, Private!”

He stepped to the doorway and looked back at the pitiful excuse of a marine.

“Son, you and the rest of your squad excelled yourself on Helios. Don’t let them down by falling apart.”

With that, he was out of the door, and Jack was left standing in his barely conscious state. He staggered to the small bathroom and missed the washbasin, crashing into the wall. He tried to avoid hitting his head but only managed to move quickly enough to strike his cheek on the cold metal. It opened a small cut, and a trickle of blood ran down to his neck.

It took Jack fifteen minutes to shower and change his clothes, as well as time to swallow painkillers and wash his face for the tenth time. He eventually staggered out of the small room and into the corridor. The door swung behind with a clunk, and he found himself in the bright open space of the secondary passageway in the marine quarters of Saratoga Naval Station; the brand new Alliance base situated in the heart of what used to be T’Kari. A group of five Jötnar marched past, each wearing their black marine uniforms with pride.