Michael Thomas: Siege of Titan

The seventh year of the war proceeded much as the previous six had. Though the Centauri Confederacy had reasserted control of Proxima Prime in less than two months, the insurgency was still underway. The fighting had moved from the plains and mountains and into the cities where technology and numbers counted for little. Every month the troop ships arrived and as they dropped off new recruits, the casualties returned on the very same vessels. The one thing that did change was that this was the first year in which the insurgents fought and held off conventional military forces in open battle. With their capture of the Bone Mill they were able to establish a strong defensive position up to a kilometre underground. It was the true beginning of their revolt and one that would see the Proxima System engulfed in the fire of crusade and holy war.

Reports of the Proxima Emergency

Spartan was hurt, really hurt. He hadn’t felt this much pain in years and even then he hadn’t been in danger of dying in such a degrading manner. As he lay on the ground he could feel the dull ache across his shoulder and chest from the impact, it took him superhuman effort to stay conscious. The arena floor burned his feet and as the pain kicked in his vision started to blur. He lifted his left arm and as soon as he moved the muscle he could feel the sharp pain in his ribs, it was like a knife being thrust deep into his flesh. He forced himself past the pain and wiped his brow, making him concentrate on the fight he faced. At the very least he had broken ribs and as for his shoulder, he had no idea. Anyway, it didn’t really matter, as he was about to suffer far worse if he didn’t move. He struck his hand against his chest, hitting the valve that released a dose of drugs into his bloodstream instantly numbing the pain in his body. In licensed matches these kinds of drugs were never needed but this kind of fight could lead to death, and in these circumstances he was more than happy to put something into his blood to give him a fighting chance.

Forcing his eyes open, he saw the dull metal mace heading for his head. With every ounce of energy he had left he rolled to the right. The weapon smashed down into the ground, missing his body by inches. He kept rolling and then forced himself up into a sitting position.

“Now I’m pissed!”

He dragged himself off the floor and up to face his opponent.

Maximilian was his name, or at least, that was his fighting name. The man was massive, an image of a Greek god, he stood over two metres tall. His torso was puffed out with thick muscles and blood dripped from a gash across his stomach. Of all the opponents Spartan had faced, this one had caused him the most trouble. In fifteen minutes of gut wrenching combat they had both broken bones and cut flesh, yet they were still fighting.

Like all the combatants he had his own unique armour and equipment. He was armoured but not completely, as a fully armoured man was boring to watch. The crowd wanted to see mismatched opponents using skill and knowledge to best their adversaries. His lower were legs covered in titanium greaves, as was as his chest and shoulders. The metal gleamed with a dull iron finish and each plate was fitted with short studs that resembled spikes. On his head was a thickly armoured helm with metal plates reinforcing the sides and two rounded spikes that pushed out to make him look like an iron image of a hellish demon. The helm was the same colour as the rest of his armour and in the wrong light he looked like an armoured Minotaur of ancient myth. On his right hand he wore a studded metal gauntlet in which he grasped a dull metal maul. The gauntlet was slightly broken from the previous fighting but enough of it remained to protect the back of the hand and knuckles. The maul was a simple weapon but easily capable of braining a man or denting metal armour. It was solid metal and nothing other than an iron works would be able to damage it. On his left arm was a hexagonal metal shield with a runic symbol of relevance to him only, along with the symbol of a half-naked woman draped around the rune.

Spartan straightened his back, feeling the muscles and joints in his body clicking and crunching. For a moment he felt old but it was just tiredness and the pain of the fight. He moved his left leg forward into his fighting stance, much like a nineteenth century boxer. As he looked around the arena the bright lights made it feel like he was on some ancient desert battlefield. Sweat dripped from every part of his body and he could feel a trickle of blood on his brow. He looked down, spotting his weapon on the ground. Unlike Maximilian, he wore just one piece of armour. It protected his right shoulder and part of his chest but no more. It might look like this left him at a disadvantage, but without the helmet he had better visibility and wasn’t bogged down by the shield and armour. Without giving his opponent time to stop him he reached down and grabbed his weapon. It was a metal rod about a metre long with a cast iron sphere welded to each end. It was crude but devastating when used by a strong man like Spartan. He grasped the weapon in the middle with both hands, a wide gap between each of them. He looked around, the bright glare from the lights still almost blinding him before he raised the weapon and gave out a roar.

The arena burst into applause and excitement as he turned to face all directions while keeping a wary eye on his opponent. This display was not just for the audience. He needed a moment to get his breath back. His ribs were making breathing difficult, without adequate air he wouldn’t be able to match the machinelike technique and brute force of Maximilian. Even more important this display was annoying, really annoying, to the shield-carrying monster standing just a few metres away.

With a roar Maximilian had had enough and bounded towards him, his shield pushed out in front and his maul held high. It took just three mighty steps for him to get close enough for Spartan to put his simple plan into action. He dropped his weapon low and then swung it up and to his right so that it caught the lip of the shield. The mass of iron ball at the tip easily smashed the shield away from the giant, simultaneously exposing the monster’s stomach. Spartan kept the weapon moving and brought the other end up high into his stomach, delivering a bone crunching smash. With speed and agility he leapt to his left and tilted his body just far enough away to avoid the maul and delivered another crippling blow against the back of his leg. With a groan the man crashed to the ground face first moaning in pain. A great cry burst out in the arena as Spartan raised his weapon with a pained smile.

“That’s three down, two to go,” he muttered to himself, the realisation that he still had more work to do hit him.

A siren blared followed by a muffled and crackling voice over a loudspeaker system. The lights flashed and then changed colour, bathing the area in a dark purple that transformed the mood to something deadly and sinister. Spartan hated it when they did this. It might impress the crowds but all it did was make his life much harder. It did mean that he had about thirty seconds before the next fighters entered though. He looked around, staring intently at the crowd above looking in awe at the savagery of the pit. All around the perimeter he could see racks of display boards, undoubtedly showing the latest odds for the scores of illegal gamblers that flocked there. They weren’t the only people who came to the fights. Like the arenas of Rome there were many men and woman that simply adored the fighters. These modern gladiators had the same violence and virility that excited their ancestors thousands of years before. There were plenty who would pay good credits to spend a few hours with them after a major event like this one.