This spawned out of a conversation I had with my Journalism teacher. I said that Macbeth was cool, but Macbeth on a spaceship would be cooler. I've taken some liberties, and of course, this is no longer in script format. Enjoy.
- Rourke is a captain in the infantry, which is different than Macbeth's rank, that of a ship's captain.
MACBETH
Adapted from Act I, scene II.
"Sir, vital incoming reports from the Glamis," the competent, but overly dramatic helmsmen of the flagship Strathclyde. "Transports loaded with wounded are inbound."
Emperor Duncan I gritted his teeth and stroked his steely beard. "What of the battle? Tactical, what is the status of those traitorous rebel ships? Are they in full retreat?"
"Unable to tell, my lord," Lieutenant Richard Capella said. Long, spidery fingers tapped furiously across the motion-sensitive keyboard on his console. "Our forces and the enemy ships are still too closely engaged."
"Open the bridge viewport," Duncan ordered. The helmsman nodded curtly and entered a command. There was a pneumatic hiss, then the two meter thick armored plating on the Strathclyde's bridge slid into hidden sheaths. Against the backdrop of space, bright minuscule flashes indicated where the cruisers and destroyers of Duncan's navy clashed with the rebel Kern Confederation. The Emperor knew that somewhere in that frey, Maximilian Macdonwald was organizing the rebellion on the rouge dreadnaught Cawdor.
Macdonwald had had his eyes on killing Duncan and seizing control of his empire for many years, but Duncan had never thought that the man would be so fool enough as to try it. He had, and a great many people had suffered for Macdonwald's greed and arrogance. That was why, over the dusty red orb of Mars, an ambush had been set and launched against the campaigning rebels.
"Pritchett to the bridge," crackled the voice of starboard Landing Bay 2's LSO, or landing signal officer. It was his job to guide ships in and clear them for launch. "I have a message for the Emperor."
Duncan pushed a control on his command chair. "Speak, if you have anything of value to say."
"M-my lord." Pritchett sounded uncertain. "It is your son, returned from battle. He has news."
Duncan didn't bother responding to the other man. He lifted himself out of the chair and headed for the lift that would take him to the landing bay, and to his son. His two bodyguards, burly special forces men whom he had hand-selected for their loyalty, about-faced and followed suit. They were imposing enough on their own; in full armor, crewmen scurried to get out of the way of the Emperor.
The landing bay was a scene of great chaos as medics and surgeons rushed to and fro to care for wounded sailors and soldiers. None paid any notice to the hierarch, and he would have it no other way. Duncan squinted as he searched for Malcolm, his son, and rightful heir to the throne of the Colonial Terran Empire. At last he spotted him, ordering a surgeon to tend to an infantry captain.
"My son," Duncan said, approaching the two. He clasped his shoulder briefly, then turned his attention to the blood-soaked captain. "Who is this bloody man, and why is he so?"
"It's my fault, sir," Malcolm reported solemnly. "Capt. Rourke and his soldiers fought to prevent my capture by the enemy. It is by his doing that I stand before you."
"I'll see that you are awarded amply, my friend! Now, o brave captain of naval infantry, what was the state of the battle as you left it?"
"No thanks are necessary, sir. It was my duty. As for the fight, it was hard to tell for many hours. We could hear the impact of SSMs and through the porthole, fighters, flak, and cannon fire strobed from ship to ship. Macdonwald and those traitors to humanity pounded our ships mercilessly. I didn't think we would even get the chance to launch our own attack and capture the enemy flagship."
"Then the Fife, under Capt. Macduff, and our own Glamis smashed through the enemy lines, and we were ordered to board the Cawdor and retake her. I lost a platoon during the flight to the Cawdor, and we took heavy casualties storming the engine room. My radioman, Pvt. West, informed me that your Highness's son was in danger of being overrun. I left most of my men where they were, and took two squads to secure Prince Malcolm."
"Macdonwald, damn him to hell. Luck was certainly with him. Our reinforcements were blasted out of the sky, and the assault on the starboard side had stalled. The dropships had been destroyed, stranding them. It all looked quite hopeless sir, until..." The captain coughed, blood running down his worn face.
"Until...?" Duncan pressed. He shook Rourke by the shoulder. "Speak!" Rourke's unfocused eyes settled on the Emperor. He coughed again. His answer was barely a whisper.
"Macbeth."
THIRTY SEVEN MINUTES AGO, ON BOARD THE DREADNAUGHT CAWDOR
Private West, the radioman who had volunteered to accompany Capt. Nathan Rourke's rescue team, flopped to the ground, blood and brain matter splattering onto the bulkhead behind him. A rebel had popped his head with a scatter-gun from near point blank range. Rourke raised his flechette rifle and sent a prolonged burst of magnetically accelerated metal barbs into the man's abdomen. The unarmed rebel's stomach was sawed in half, and his torso slid to the deck in with an audible wet SMACK!
"Die, imperialist warmongers!" a rather manly-looking woman cried. She lobbed a concussion grenade past Rourke's head. Two soldiers were killed, flattened like pancakes against a bulkhead. A third landed in their spilled innards, leg gone below the knee.
Rourke and the survivors of 2nd and 3rd Squads, 2nd Platoon, G Company were taking cover wherever they could, in rooms, behind supply crates, even behind the bodies of fallen comrades. Prince Malcolm was behind Rourke, who was crouching in the semi-circular Deck 9 Damage Control Center. Two soldiers were on either side of Malcolm, keeping up a barrage of suppressing fire.
"We're fucked real good, Captain!" Corporal Leslie Franklin. She was in a cabin directly in front of the officer. Franklin blindfired around the corner, surprisingly hitting two rebels and killing them.
"Reenforcements!" bellowed Pvt. Simon Prost. A flash-bang exploded next to Prost, disorienting him. He was promptly cut down by rebel fire, ETAP slugs blasting his armor and scrambling his organs. Flechettes or explosive rounds; neither death was a good one.
Rourke risked a glance around the corner, and saw that Prost and Franklin were right. At least twenty rebels were racing towards them. A stray rebel round struck the captain's helmet, blowing a hole in it, and causing him to fall into the open. Rourke felt warm, thick liquid ooze down the side of his face. A second shot exploded on his shoulder paldren. Another ripped his finger off and cut into his chest before he could get back into cover. He howled in pain, but managed to get into position. Malcolm reached into his medkit, and removed a small laser. He used it to cauterize the wound. Rourke nodded in appreciation and ordered Malcolm back to his spot.
The situation was hopeless. They were but six battered soldiers, against approximately 25-30 rebels, some of whom had power armor equal to that of his men. To his confusion, the rebels ceased firing at the soldiers. Rourke ordered likewise.
"Hold fire, men. I think they're surrendering," he said, just loudly enough for the opposing Kern sailors to hear. Rourke's troops laughed, more as a psychological weapon than any reaction derived from humor.
"Hardly that, Captain! In fact, quite the opposite," a strong voice called. The tone was light, but humorless. "You have ninety seconds to hand over the royal brat, and I'll spare the lives of your brave men."
Wary of what had happened the last time he had stuck his head out from cover, but curious as to who was talking to him, Rourke peeked out. A huge figure, clad in blue armor with gold trim stood in the open. Clutched in his right hand was a Colt .72 Special Purpose, an obscenely oversized magnum revolver. The break-barrel held six .72 caliber magnum cartridges capable of piercing Rourke's own armor like a fist through wet tissue paper. The man's helmet screen was up, revealing a square chin cloaked in a dazzling red beard. Beady almost black eyes squinted through the haze of smoke from the cigar clamped in his mouth. It could be no one else but Max Macdonwald.
"I'm afraid I can't do that, traitor."
"You're in no position to insult your host, Captain," Macdonwald scolded. He strolled closer, absurdly casual. The rebel leader was now level with Franklin. Rourke held his breath. He didn't need to see the woman's face to know she was terrified. There was the sound of high-velocity flechettes striking metal, then a clatter as the weapon was yanked from Franklin's arms and thrown to the ground. In one motion, Macdonwald snatched the soldier, a hand locked on each of her shoulders. Power armor was a wonderful invention. It amplified strength fivefold, perhaps more in Macdonwald's case. Franklin shrieked as her arms her torn from her sockets despite her armor. She dropped to the ground, blood pouring from where her arms used to be. Macdonwald drew back his foot and kicked Franklin's head. Her head was easily detached from her body, sailing down the narrow corridor.
"I've no tolerance for insubordination. Now, SURRENDER!" Macdonwald was further enraged by Rourke's silence. "Fucking idiot! Listen! Your troops have been pushed out of engineering, and are being flushed this way. On my command, my men will box you in, and kill everyone. We've already killed the other companies. You're the only one left, Captain."
Macdonwald sounded like he was telling the truth. Screams, gunfire, and footfalls grew louder and closer. Rourke pulled the magazine from his weapon, tossed it aside, and fumbled to load a fresh one.
"Time's up, Captain," Macdonwald said softly. He raised the Colt and aimed it at a container that one Sergeant Dan Connors was hiding behind. The report was deafening, and the result caused Rourke to retch. Connors had been reduced to a pile of limbs, his torso completely vaporized by the shot. As the pounding of feet on metal deck grating was almost on them, Rourke let his rifle fall to the ground. He leaned back against the wall, waiting for the end.
The soldiers who opened the blast door and sprinted towards them, chased by flechettes and explosions were the expected Loyalist infantry. Instead, the beige uniforms of Kern rebels adorned them. Seven soldiers ran past Rourke. Two made it to the relative safety of Macdonwald's men.
"What the hell?" Macdonwald shouted, raising the Colt.
Smoke obscured the opened blast door, but what appeared to be a lone man stepped out. His armor was similar to Macdonwald's, albeit black with white trim. Stamped on the front left shoulder was a fist wielding a dagger, over a starry backdrop. The insignia of the CTE. One of Rourke's four surviving men stood up, oblivious to the enemy.
"It's the Captain! It's Macbeth!" Private Carson "Preacher" Jayne shouted, pointing. Macdonwald yelled a charge, and snapped off a hasty shot. It went wide, striking the standing Loyalist in the forearm and removing it. Undaunted, "Preacher" Jayne balanced his rifle on his stump with his left hand, and shot three rebel soldiers.
Macbeth sprinted towards Macdonwald, laughing and firing his rifle. Five more rebels went down and, renewed with energy and morale, the Loyalists joined Macbeth in chasing the Kern troops down the corridor. Macdonwald fired once more, missed, then tossed the empty and useless Colt aside. In that moment, Macbeth was on him, and the two exchanged blows that would have smashed through fortified walls. Armor dented, the two men grunting and swearing at each other. Macbeth managed to wrestle Macdonwald under him. Stray shots striking him, Macbeth landed hit after hit on the rebel leader.
"Traitor! You will die like the damned piece of shit you are, Macdonwald!" Macbeth reached his fingers into a gap in Macdonwald's chest plate, pulling it apart. Even in the ANT VII armor, and even with his considerable strength, Macbeth struggled to get it open. Macdonwald's fight turned frantic, and the coward's blows less and less effective. One lucky shot shattered Macbeth's faceplate below the nose. The Loyalist drew a long, wicked-looking knife from his belt and held it over his head. "Now, worthless dog, you're dead. And you will know that your treachery was halted by Roland Macbeth!"
Macbeth plunged the blade deep into Macdonwald's belly. His eye's bulged, and the cigar stump fell from his mouth into his throat. Macbeth gritted his teeth, then slid the knife up to Macdonwald's chin, carving him like a Thanksgiving turkey. The enemy spasmed and writhed, making these odd gargling noises. Finally, the villain gave in and died. Macbeth stood triumphantly over the corpse that had been Maximilian Macdonwald. He considered, then ripped Macdonwald's head from his shoulders, to show to the rebel fleet.
"A platoon of reenforcements will be here shortly, my Prince," Macbeth said, turning towards Malcolm and saluting. "A medic will care for the wounded captain."
"Much obliged, sir," Rourke whispered. He could feel his voice going.
As if Macbeth's words summoned them, armored troops stormed past, intent on capturing the bridge and securing the Cawdor. A white-armored girl, who look no older than 19, kneeled next to Rourke, and began removing tools from her kit.
Two soldiers stopped to talk with Macbeth. One Rourke recognized as Major Thomas Seyton, commanding officer of Rourke's regiment. The other clasped Macbeth's shoulder in friendship.
"You always have all the fun," Commander Edward "Fast Eddie" Banquo said, looking at Macdonwald's slain body. "It seems you put down yet another rebellion by yourself.
"And you always take all the credit, my friend," Macbeth laughed.
"Bridge is secure sir! We've rounded up the surviving bridge officers, and the Captain of the Cawdor. Orders?"
Macbeth heard the voice of one of the second-wave lieutenants over his radio, and he ordered a return to the Glamis with the prisoners. When he'd disembarked her to join his men in battle, just over three hundred had been killed in taking the two kilometer dreadnaught Cawdor. Probably more since then.
"Sir!" Maj. Seyton seemed very excited, and not in a good way. "Report from Tactical! They've got fresh contacts approaching, in standard attack formation. It appears to be the Norwyan, Captain!"
Macbeth sighed. "Just when I was imagining taking all your money in a game of poker. Norwyans, of all the things that could happen."
"Recall all your men to the dropships. We've got a fleet to burn."
"I should have expected the Norwyans to make a pass at us in this state, rouble rousing Colonials. They're taking a big risk, attacking this deep into our territory. I can only hope, for their sake, that they are beaten so badly that we have no excuse to declare war. Tell me, Capt. Rourke, were Banquo or Macbeth at all unsettled by the arrival of the enemy fleet?" Duncan asked. He would have to keep Macbeth in mind when announcing the end of the rebellion. He would be admired and worshiped as a hero.
"If a jay frightens an eagle," Rourke snorted. He was beginning to feel woozy again. "If you'll excuse me, my lord, I'm feeling faint."
"Of course, of course. Surgeon! See to this soldier," Duncan ordered.
"My lord," two voices said unanimously behind him. Duncan turned around, and returned the salute of two officers.
"Who is this?"
One of the men stepped forward. "Sir, I am Commander Angus of the Berlin."
"And I am Cpt. Hoffman, C.O. of the Ross."
"What brings you to my attention, Captain Hoffman?"
"To report in person my lord. I've just come from the Fife, where I assisted in repealing a boarding by Norwyan special forces. Their fleet has been almost totally wiped out. The Glamis is chasing the last of them away from the system as we speak."
"The Glamis? Under Macbeth." Duncan said thoughtfully.
"Yes sir, and if Bellona were to have a groom, it would be Capt. Macbeth. He matched their ships shot for shot, and blew them out of the sky! Already, President Sweno has sent a messenger, talking of peace. I told him that he could forget about retrieving his captured ships unless he pays the sum of 100,000,000 credits. To cover the cost of the war, my lord."
"Hmpf. Good thinking, Captain," Duncan said. He turned to one of his silent bodyguards. "Bring me the former Captain of the Cawdor. I'd like a word before his execution." He turned back to Hoffman and Angus. "And tell Macbeth that what the soon-to-be-beheaded Captain has lost, is now Macbeth's."
"Very good sir," Hoffman said, but he looked shaken. To have command of one dreadnaught in the Emperor's navy was rare. To have command of two was unprecedented. Still, perhaps Macbeth had earned it. He was, after all, a most loyal hero.