A/N: This is my second story on this site and although for now it's unrelated to my first story, Exodus of the Damned, it shares a similar timeline that splits off after Halo 4 simply out of convenience not because of any ill feelings towards Halo 5. I just don't feel like messing with a developing plotline in that regard. In fact I'm borrowing heavily from Halo 5.
Anyways, here you go.
/
Chapter 1: Pariah of Glass
September 24, 2580
When people think or hear about glass, what do they think about? Silicate sand roasted molten in a kiln to be poured or blown into works of art, or transparent window panes for all to see through?
Regardless of what anyone claimed or said of glass, the residents of the planet Mesa had a name and description rolled into a single word for glass indigenous to their own breed of human: Hellspawn. Mesa was coated in a layer of glassy material that was the product of heat so intense the planet's surface had simply melted down to glass. The source of that heat was plasma ejected from the prow of invading warships.
Warships belonging to an alien theocracy known as the Covenant, who'd declared humanity an affront to their deities and waged genocide against the species. Only after three decades of defensive warfare did humanity defeat the Covenant by striking at their leadership, toppling the whole machine. However, the cost of victory was unimaginably high.
Mesa was included in that cost. Out of a prewar population of 219 million individuals only half a quarter of that number could still claim to be born and raised on Mesa. And today fewer than a couple dozen survivors actually lived on Mesa.
The planet itself was completely barren. As far as the eye could see a special kind of wasteland solemnly known as glasslands stretched. But all was not truly dead anymore. Humanity, surviving the War, had returned to Mesa, albeit that return was limited.
/
James Oz crouched low on the roof of a squat prefabricated barrack building with a plasma cutter in hand, the hydraulic servos of his bulky hardsuit hissing with every movement of his knees. All around him a glass storm raged. Winds caused by Mesa's ravaged atmosphere could peak up to 300 kilometers per hour and almost always carried clouds of finely pulverized glass. Similar in effect to ancient Earth sandstorms, glass storms were deadly to the exposed. One unprotected breath during a storm was a guaranteed lungful of powdered glass, suffocation, and death within minutes. Such was life on a glassed planet.
The community in which James Oz lived was walled and situated on a relatively flat plateau. The wall itself crafted out of warship grade titanium was twice as tall as most of the village's structures and was intended to protect the village from the larger chunks of glass that tended to fly along the ground during storms. But sometimes the wall couldn't keep everything out as was the case with the air-filtration vent James was tasked with repairing.
A long tubular piece of glass had flown over the wall and embedded itself into the vent cover, skewering the filter and tripping a whole host of safety systems. As soon as it happened the air ducts connected to the vent were isolated and closed, the maintenance department was notified, and James Oz was dispatched to fix it. If left unattended particles of glass would continuously fill up the air ducts and leave a brutal and ungodly mess to clean up after the storm. So fixing it then and there was the accepted procedure and James was well equipped for it.
His hardsuit was specifically designed for operating in glass storms. The outer layer was composed of overlapping plates of ceramic alloy designed to withstand high impacts. Just under the plates was a air tight layer of titanium and nano-laminate weave on top of a reactive gel layer designed to regulate temperature and fit meaning just about anyone could wear the same suit. Integrated computer systems in control of the suit's hydraulics were connected directly into James's brain via wireless neural interface allowing the suit to actually move with James instead of James having to move the otherwise 200 kilogram hardsuit himself. The helmet was constructed mostly the same, vacuum sealed, included half a dozen individual air filters along the lower jawline, and the visor was green in color. To improve the suit's visibility in storm conditions the suit had a color scheme of reflective neon white and orange.
James didn't even grunt from the minimal exertion of yanking off the compromised vent cover exposing the damaged air filter and the offending piece of glass. Undoubtedly, glass particles was now pouring into the air ducts at an exponential rate but the inevitable cleanup still wouldn't be as bad as if the problem was ignored until the storm died down.
Disconnecting and removing the broken filter was easy enough. Installing the new undamaged filter was equally simple. Switching the plasma cutter for a welding tool, James placed the new vent cover into place and in a matter of minutes it was securely welded down. The vent would remain shut until the storm ended and the ducts were cleaned out. Only then would the filter be allowed to do its work and everything would be back to normal.
Clipping the welding tool to his belt, James made his way off the roof. His headlamp barely illuminating the way forward as the storm cloud was so think millions of individual grains of glass was likely striking him every minute and the brutal wind gusts fought vainly to dislodge him. Eventually he planted his feet on the unpaved bare glass street. Instead of making his way back to the maintenance shed to return the hardsuit, James pushed onto the village's main street where all the recreational buildings were situated including the lone tavern.
Cycling through the airlock to remove any remaining particles from the air, James passed through the inner doors. Officially, the prefabricated structure was called Recreational Amenity MK: III, Model: 60432-34/Social Gathering Center, to the 500 people who called the area home it was simply: The Shattered Stool. The interior, like many other structures, was colored in a range of drab greys to drab whites with a blocky architectural design and rounded angles. The actual bar counter was off to the left of the door and a number of tables and chairs enough to comfortably seat 50 people took up the rest of the space.
James popped the seal on his helmet, allowing his ear length black hair to hang loose. He placed the helmet on a protruding metal shelf next to a dozen other hard helmets of similar but less complex design. Moving over to the counter, James opted to stay standing due to his suit's weight and flagged down the bartender who rapidly made his way to James.
"What'll you have, Oz?" the bartender, a portly man with short brown hair and a bushy mustache not found anywhere else in the galaxy, inquired smiling.
"Oh, same 'ol same 'ol, you know what I want, Barns," James said with an even wider grin.
"Eh, well," Barns began, "I'm hoping one day you'll see the light of truth about this swill." He poured a brackish brown fluid into a plastic shot glass and set it in front of James. "I for one truly believe the rumors that this stuff is made from the glass."
"All the better for the corporation," James stated as he downed the shot in one gulp, suppressing a grimace as it went down. "Finding more purposes for the stuff every day; Liang-Dortmund, renewing humanity's legacy," he half quoted, raising his glass to the corporate logo stenciled on the wall.
"One chip of glass at a time," Barns's grin turned into a laugh. "So, did you clock in some good overtime?" he asked once he'd calmed down enough.
"Nah, Not enough for LDC to bother," James said shaking his head. "But those boys over in Barrack B15 owe me a brew each," both James and Barns shared a laugh at that and James slid the shot glass back across the counter. "Put it on my tab."
"Will do buddy," Barns beamed, "Oh, keep an eye on those Riggers. They're squirrelly about debts."
"I'm aware, Barns," James playfully droned, "I've been here just as long as you."
"Ah, but you Maints don't have as much contact with them as I do. I'm do run the 'social gathering center' after all," Barns retorted, the joviality of the conversation unmissable at this point.
"Bah," James happily stormed off and approached a table occupied by a bunch of fellow residents playing cards. They were dressed in apparel similar to James's hardsuit in coloration, but not of the same complexity. A single piece cargo suit was their main apparel underneath ceramic alloy chest pieces, knee and elbow pads, shin and forearm guards, and a myriad of belts, loops, pouches, and buckles for storing gear.
"I'd sit down and deal myself in, but I fear I may crack the glass under our feet more than we're already paid to," James quipped.
"Woe is me," a dark skinned player sarcastically spoke up, "Here I thought my bad luck would be getting worse."
"Oh, I think you have enough already," James stated, peaking at another player's cards who quickly hid them from view. "So, how's the life of a Lazop this fine stormy day, Abe?"
"Average," Abe replied wincing as the person across from him played a card that put all his strategies in jeopardy, "Drilling out grid squares and whatever interesting things LDC puts on our plate."
"As usual. Alright, see you later, Abe," James said with a wave.
On concluding the check up conversation, James weighed his options. He could go back to the shed and return the hardsuit like he was technically supposed to, but he'd be stuck there for the duration of the storm. Going straight to the barracks was an option, but no one would be there due to the storm and most everyone being on shift digging away the glasslands as was their job. Ultimately, he stood himself up in front of one of the bar's windows, a thick plexiglass design able to withstand just about anything, and stared out into the storm.
James could see illumination from almost a dozen different structures reflect strangely off the flying glass and as was common when someone was stuck in one spot, they started thinking. Invariably, James's train of thought hovered over his job which, in a way, he shared with over half a million other colonists of Mesa. Deglassing a glassed planet, as was Liang-Dortmund Corporation's unwavering promise, was a tedious, unimaginably slow, and multi layered process that had spawned a unique frontier culture all its own. 40 years after Mesa was glassed, 30 some years after the War ended, and 20 years since LDC had begun its operation only about 22% of Mesa's glassed surface, which was about half the total landmass, was officially deglassed. This 1.1% deglassed per standard year rate was considered rapid by LDC in comparison to the corporation's other operations across dozens of glassed planets and, by James's own estimation, Mesa had another 60 years before it was entirely glass free.
Of course the planet would never truly be glass free. Laws and restrictions passed by the United Earth Government had declared significant areas of previous human habitation on glassed worlds war memorials, and Mesa had 14 such significant areas.
James paused his intense ruminations to peer as far down the main street as he could. He could just barely make out the massive holo emitter in the center of town that broadcast schedules, news, and displayed the name of this place, his home. Verboten Station, named after an old sign that had been dug up during the town's early construction, was directly in the middle of one of these memorial areas and surrounded by the remnants of the old civilization. Twisted and warped husks of once gleaming skyscrapers, chunks of concrete and asphalt, bits of vehicles and dwellings, and, of course, the occasional discovery of human bones all surrounded Verboten Station. At some point, possibly in a century or so, this area of ten square kilometers would be one of 14 pyramids of black glass surrounded by a lush and refurbished Mesa memorializing the past.
James shook away that morbid line of thinking and summarized the deglassing method to himself. Laser operators, or Lazops, went in first with gargantuan heavy augers equipped with solid state lasers that sliced and diced the glasslands into grid squares and unearthed valuable mineral deposits. Then the Riggers came in with equally gigantic mobile mining rigs, designed in line with Ancient Earth mining dredges, that crawled along scraping the glass away as it went one square at a time, keeping what was useful and discarding what wasn't. Meanwhile, in the middle of everything was the recreational workers, Rekkers, like Barns, and the maintenance technicians, Maints, like James, that kept everything running smoothly.
Suddenly feeling dwarfed in the grand scheme of things, as was usual when he thought about this stuff, James moved back to the bar for another drink.
/
The storm didn't die down for another 12 hours, but when it finally did the previously roaring glasslands became deathly silent.
Wilhelm Schmidt deactivated his quad, a Mongoose ATV colored in LDC orange, and allowed the silence to claim one last vestige of noise. All around him was the ruins of buildings and the jagged spires of glass that defined Mesa today, but hadn't existed before. He still remembered what it was like back then. This was his birthplace and continued to be his home even after having to abandon it so long ago.
Schmidt climbed off the quad and retrieved his pickaxe and spade from the back along with a small black duffle bag. The bag was slung over his shoulder while the tools were clipped to his belt, only then did he leave the quad. After traversing almost 200 feet of uneven glass, Schmidt stopped in what may have been a four way intersection before the War. Ruins towered over him and between them ran two broad avenues leaving a wide clearing in the middle.
Schmidt knew this place, he treasured it, it held special meaning to him. Kneeling down, he used the pick and spade to chip out a one by one foot hole in the glass. The effort was a grand workout for his well conditioned 60 year old frame and he relished in it. True to its design, the green visor of his hard helmet didn't fog from his breath.
After that came the real hard part, the duffel bag. Schmidt unzipped it and peered down into its contents, almost wishing he still had tears to shed. The bag was full of blackened human bones. A femur, bits of a hand, a foot, a jaw, a couple of ribs, some chunks of skull, and a lot of teeth all occupied the same space.
Schmidt was a Rigger. He worked aboard the mobile mining rigs that crawled across Mesa scraping the glass away inch by inch. Sometimes they scraped up more than glass, and Schmidt felt it was his duty as a native Mesan to put his deceased fellows to rest as best as he could.
Unfortunately, forces both unknown and incomprehensible to Schmidt and every other living being chose that moment to interrupt him. For what reason, either in necessity or twisted humor, was unknown.
Schmidt first detected the change due to slight vibrations in the ground. Initially fearing an earthquake, he zipped up the duffel and stared up at the ruins in case one decided to fall. Instead he was shocked to see the empty air between two of the old buildings not 15 meters in front of him warp and pulsate until a structure literally resolved into existence.
Schmidt stared dumbfounded at the apparition, half believing himself to be hallucinating. The structure was simply a pair of pillars holding up an ornate arch, but the design was vaguely familiar. Schmidt remembered his historian mother showing him photos of the remains of a dead Earth civilization and calling the architecture Greco-Roman. That's what appeared to be right in front of him and what was most alarming was that the archway seemed open to an abyss blacker than any chunk of glass he'd ever seen.
Just as he was about to return to his task and hightail it back to town to report the bewildering occurrence, something else happened that put him back in a stupor. A man, an honest to God man, stepped out of the arch. There had been no evidence of his approach, Schmidt hadn't even seen him beforehand. He just appeared and was know staring bewildered at the world around him.
Equally bewildering to Schmidt was the man's general appearance. He wore a leather tunic underneath heavy metal armor colored deep black and wore a helmet with decorative wing like protrusions. The helmet perfectly framed his exposed and weathered face and beady eyes that darted around before latching on to Schmidt
Schmidt didn't have time to comprehend these oddities before a second figure "stepped" through the arch, more obviously armed. In a flash, the second figure brought up his strange weapon, cocked his left arm back, and released.
A striking blur shot towards Schmidt and impacted on his chest. Instinctively, he reached his hand to the point of impact and inadvertently caught the projectile as it bounced off his ceramic alloy plate. The projectile revealed itself to be a long, thin, wooden shaft with feathery protrusions at one end and a sharp metal point at the other. The tip of the point had been blunted by the hit.
Convinced of these figures' hostility and without much hesitation or second thought for his tools or the duffel, in the end the living were more important than the dead, Schmidt ran. One look back proved the strangers weren't pursuing him but he didn't slow all the way to the Mongoose. Hoping on the ATV and keying the ignition, Schmidt gunned it back into the glasslands towards town with the weird projectile still clutched in his hand.
/
The strangers watched the native flee after miraculously surviving an arrow shot. With little more than a couple of hand gestures the stranger who fired the shot disappeared back into the arch while the first stranger moved to the spot the native had vacated.
The stranger's long strides crossed the distance in seconds. He briefly examined the discarded pick and spade, simply noting the tool's familiarity before moving on. The duffel bag was of higher interest to the stranger who, after failing to figure out how to open the bag, resorted to hacking it open with a knife.
Only with considerable effort was he able to open a hole large enough to look inside and when he did he visible flinched and stood back up. To the stranger the bag of bones was a kind of confirmation of his mission. The people of this strange land obviously were barbarians to keep such things and needed to be brought under enlightened rule.
Looking up at the ruined towers surrounding him, the stranger marveled at their unnatural structure and wondered what kind of power could've built them. In the end though that power was obviously gone from the land, giving the stranger confidence as a harbinger of a new power.
Unceremoniously, the stranger kicked the duffel bag into the hole Schmidt had dug up earlier. To him this act symbolized the burying of this land's old ways, making room for the new. He turned back to the arch and waited until dozens of armored red caped figures poured through.
/
"Mayday! Mayday! Verboten Station, please come in!"
Verboten Station's on duty communications technician palmed his cup of synthetic caffeine and water LDC called a coffee ration and keyed his mic. "Please identify?" he calmly questioned.
"Wilhelm Schmidt, Senior Manager, rig 176-5-N."
The technician relaxed a bit on hearing the name. Everyone knew Schmidt and his legendary integrity. "What's going, sir?"
"I've been attacked! By...pirates!"
The technician slightly tensed. Piracy was an all too real problem in the less than lawful outer colonies. "What can you tell me, sir? Force numbers, weapons, vehicles, anything?"
"I can't say anything on numbers or vehicles, but...they shot me with something. It didn't penetrate my gear, but I've got no idea what it is."
That was a slight relief. "Sir, are they human?" the technician asked, dreading the possible answers.
"I think so."
That was an even greater relief. "I'll inform security and the mayor. Get yourself home, sir."
/
James nervously tugged at his collar. His hardsuit having been replaced by regular miner gear. Not to long ago he'd been repairing what little damage had been caused by the glass storm as a maintenance technician. However, he now stood at Verboten Station's main entrance with a group of around a 30, including the station's mayor and security chief, as a volunteer member of the Mesan Colonial Guard.
In front of them, beyond the gate, was an army of unknowns numbering 200 strong. Everyone of them garbled in black colored armor. They were unnervingly silhouetted against the surrounding black and grey landscape giving a handful of miners pause.
The mayor, a tall and thin man who'd been in office for many years, walked a short ways beyond the town gate with a megaphone in hand. "Attention unknowns!" he said, the megaphone enhancing his voice to a shout. "I do believe there has been some misunderstanding. As a representative of the Liang-Dortmund Corporation I am fully equipped to handle this dispute through negotiations!"
"Hey," a voice hissed from James's right, "We should've closed the gate already. There is another glass storm coming, you know."
"I know Abe," James replied, "Unfortunately, if we close the gate on these people without talking to them and that news gets out. PR nightmare for LDC."
"Shit."
"Yeah, but at least this storm won't last long. It's only an offshoot of the main complex and the last report puts it an hour out. More than likely, it won't last as long as that."
Abe opened his mouth to reply but at that moment he was cut off by a piercing scream. The mayor fell on his back clutching a feathered shaft of some sort lodged in his abdomen. One look further out confirmed that the unknowns were crossing the distance at an alarming rate.
"Close the gate! Close the gate!" the security chief yelled as he and another miner rushed forward and pulled the mayor back. "Hold the line!" he ordered no one in particular before disappearing.
Ultimately, the gate was too slow, and by the time it did close roughly two dozen unknowns had slipped through and were now wreaking havoc in Verboten Station's outer courtyard. The volunteer colonial guard, expecting their mayor to successfully negotiate with the unknowns, was caught off guard and disorganized by the sudden melee charge.
Wielding sharpened metal weapons many of the miners native to the Outer Colonies were completely unfamiliar with, the unknowns went to work. One miner was stabbed in his rather unarmored gut and went down screaming. Another brought his arm up to deflect a blow only to have it shorn completely off and an armored boot to the chest sent him flying backward. One more managed to punch an unknown in the face only to vanish under a flurry of stabbing metal and black figures.
James and Abe were some of the first to recover from the initial shock. Pulling out the M6 sidearms they'd taken from the armory, the pair opened fire on the unknowns. Their example was soon followed by the rest of the guard and pretty soon bullets were flying and unknown bodies were dropping. The courtyard was soon cleared of unknown hostiles at the cost of 16 miners injured or dead. The survivors didn't have much time to contemplate their position before a series of loud WHUMPs sounded from beyond the wall.
"All guardsmen to the top of the wall! The enemy has energy weapons! Hurry!" The voice of the security chief yelled through the communicator in James's hard helmet and from the looks of those around him they'd heard the message too.
James felt a flare of anger at the chief. He was the commander of the local guard and he'd disappeared before the initial actions and now he was yelling obscure orders over open comms. He wasn't proving himself very well. Worse yet, with the incoming glass storm...
James's opinions were evidently shared by more by than a few of his colleagues. Begrudgingly, they climbed the service ladders, joined with another group of colonial guard, and surveyed the scene beyond the wall.
The remainder of the unknown force was milling around the base of the wall looking confused and fairly disorganized. As soon as the guardsmen appeared on top of the wall however, they became instant targets. Wooden shafts with sharp metal ends both large and small were soon flying up at them. Most missed, a few ricocheted off hard helmets and ceramic chess pieces, however a few did find soft targets, an arm, a leg, one miner caught one in the throat and fell backwards off the wall.
The guardsmen, using what little cover was available, didn't hold back themselves. Every time one of their pistols barked a winged helmet flew or black armor hit the glass. However, as the confrontation dragged on the miners quickly became jittery. They knew they couldn't stay very long.
Soon enough their worries were confirmed when one miner called out, "Storm wall!" The ominous black cloud had just crested the horizon and was roaring in the direction of Verboten Station. The unknown forces also chose that moment to unveil something.
Blue orbs of energy shot up from the enemy's rear ranks and flew at the wall. The miners atop the wall remembered the security chief's callout of energy weapons and ducked as low as they could. Most of the energy blasts splashed across the wall with little effect although a few unlucky miners were vaporized by high aimed shots.
By that point, many of the remaining defenders were falling back few by few. James, holding his ground for a second longer, could see ripples of shock and expressions of confusion in the enemy. Apparently they'd expected these weapons of theirs to be able to take down the station walls. James filed this observation away as he vacated the wall himself.
Down below, the enemy commander observed the frantic motions of the defenders up above. He connected them to the rapidly approaching dark cloud and began shouting orders for specific defensive formations.
"Evacuate the wall! All able bodied fighters to the maintenance storage shed. There's a plan in the works," the security chief again called over the comms. By the amount of people running in random directions it was obvious to James no one was paying him any attention.
He keyed his own communicator, "Chief, this is James Oz and I need you to explain this plan to me."
"That's unneces-"
"It's very necessary, chief," James cut him off. "Your orders have gotten people killed and no one is listening anymore. Tell me the plan."
There was a pause followed by a very audible sigh. "The enemy seems to know the danger of the glass storm and are gathering under deployable shields of some kind. I want to take a force in hardsuits beyond the wall hit them as the storm passes. Copy?"
"I copy," James said. It wasn't a bad plan. As the old saying went; a strong defense is a swift offense.
He switched to the open frequency, "This is James Oz. You all know who I am and I'm personally vouching for the chief's plan. It's better than waiting until the storm ends to deal with these assholes. All volunteers to maintenance storage!" James switched off the communicator and resumed his sprint through the streets. By the time he made it to the shed the wind had picked up substantially and glass particles were already flying.
He blew through the airlock and entered the shed proper which was only a shed in name as the actual building was comparable to a medium sized warehouse. Inside were some 60 individuals all with various armaments ranging from handguns to steel pipes. This display was one of many reasons James was proud to be a colonial, knowing everyone around him was ready to give their all in defense of their home regardless of the lack of trust in their leadership.
On James's appearance, the security chief made his presence known and laid out the plan. After that he unlocked the racks bearing dozens of hardsuits and an auxiliary locker holding small arms, mainly SMGs. The miners had only just started putting on their hardsuits when the structure shook ever so slightly, indicating the storm wall had hit.
James, once again clad in a hardsuit, pulled an SMG out of the locker. He recognized it as an M20, perfectly suited for the close confines of Verboten Station's interior but anything beyond the wall was questionable. His M6 would most likely be his best friend in any ranged engagement.
"Okay," the security chief spoke up when everyone had settled down, "we'll bunker down here until the storm is almost passed. That shouldn't take too long."
The 60 miners turned impromptu soldiers spread throughout the maintenance shed intent on relaxing a little before running into battle. As a result a bunch of side conversations developed.
"Who the Hell are we fighting?"
"Not a clue, man. They're easy to kill though. So it'll be easy to show them why you don't fuck with the frontier!"
"Hell yeah to that, brother."
"Who called it in?"
"Schmidt, over in the corner there. He heads out into the ruins on a personal errand and comes back screaming over the radio about pirates."
"Good for him. We'd have been caught with our pants down without his warning."
Eventually, the roaring of the storm outside began to lessen and apprehension began to grip some of the miners.
"Alright," the security chief called, "let's go."
The miners secured their helmets, sealed their suits, and filed out of the maintenance shed. Outside the light provided by Mesa's star was nearly nonexistent and the air was choked with particulate, forcing the miners to use their helmets infrared settings. Keeping silent and mostly to themselves, the volunteer force made their way back to the wall and climbed up, the second time for some. At the top the miners began affixing cord wherever they could and tossed it all over the other side. As the security chief had explained, using the main gate was akin to lighting a beacon and if the enemy's shield generators were portable things would get complicated quickly.
Before he took one of the cords down, James switched off his infrared and examined the field with his own eyes. Three domes of blue light blazed out through the glass cloud. James could see these domes pulse and waver under the constant barrage of glass. The fact that these shields were holding up so well was a testament to their strength. James switched his infrared back on and the domes were replaced with three clusters of warm mass surrounded by a sea of neutral temperatures. Then he climbed down with his comrades.
The general consensus was if the miners couldn't see them without enhanced vision then they couldn't see the miners. As the 60 strong force all but sprinted to their assigned positions the security chief who'd remained on top of the wall began barking orders. He divided the force into three groups of 20 each tasked with surrounding one dome each to keep the enemy divided when it came time to re engage.
"All fighters maintain a low profile until I give the order," the security chief ordered. "When I do, storm their shields and try to force a surrender. LDC may want prisoners."
"The Hell?"
"How are we supposed to do that?"
Can we even get through their shields?"
"Hold the questions," the security chief interjected in an attempt to regain control, "If they're anything like the military's portable shields people can go through but weapons fire can't."
"How can you know?"
"This is so fucked!"
"Everyone stay put and shut up!" James had lost what little patience he had left for the security chief as he leapt out from behind an outcrop of glass.
"Mr. Oz, what the Hell?" The chief called.
In as much of a crouch as his hardsuit allowed, James stalked up to the edge of one of the domes. He could see the forms of the enemy soldiers with the infrared just lounging about hardly two meters away waiting for the storm to end. James reached out and his hand passed right through totally unnoticed by those beyond. It didn't feel like he'd stuck his hand through a wall of electricity like the military's shields supposedly felt like, but like an organic film or membrane.
"We can go through the shield," James reported through his communicator. The glass storm was on its last legs and if the goal was to catch these guys unaware then the miners would have to make their move sooner rather than later.
"Good work, Mr. Oz. Please return to your position and wait for my order-"
"All teams," James cut the chief off, "move in now, breach the shields, fire shots in the air, kill anyone who resists, and pacify the rest. Go! Go! Go!"
"What?" the chief cried.
At once all 60 armed frontier miners surged forward. Some screamed war crimes over the comms while a few flipped on their headlamps for added psychological effect, an action that quickly spread out amongst the miners. James watched the heat blips within the shield stir and move about with a little more purpose having evidently noticed the commotion made by the miners. He waited until the rest were just about to pass through before moving forward.
His first action was to bury his SMG's stock into one of the enemy soldier's face. As that man fell to the glass like a brick James sprayed the air above him with bullets. His intention, along with the others who followed his lead, was to startle the enemy and keep them off balance. The actual result went a little farther.
Enemy soldiers recoiled in pure terror at the sound of the gunfire with most even dropping their weapons and going to their knees. Those that remained standing instantly became priority targets for the charged up miners. One raised his weapon, which James had only just recognized as an ancient style sword, and was cut down, another defiantly pointed one of the long metal tipped shafts at a miner who responded with his M6 by blowing the soldier away with .50 caliber magnum. The last red caped soldier to offer up any resistance thought he could beat his attackers to the draw, notched an arrow of all things, aimed, and was scythed apart for his trouble with concentrated SMG fire.
Beginning to end, eight enemy soldiers out of around thirty were dead. The rest were cowering at the apparent sight of the one eyed fire breathing monsters storming their shield dome leaving only two still standing. One was obviously an officer with very ornate black armor and a cape while the other stood in the middle of the dome and was a much shorter person almost completely hidden under a grey cloak and thick robes with only slender wrists and hands holding a staff of some sort visible. Motes of blue light emitted from staff flowed into the shield indicating that this piece of wood, for lack of a better description on the miners part, was the shield generator and lending its wielder a lot more importance.
"All teams check in," James ordered.
"We got ours, James," Abe's voice replied, "For all their bark and bite earlier they gave up pretty quickly now. We only had to kill a handful. I wonder if we put the fear of God in them with our headlamps."
"It's the same with the third dome," a more serious miner interjected, "Ten of the enemy dead the rest have surrendered. We've also captured what looks like a higher ranking officer."
"Copy, please stand by," James said.
"Uh, this guy is looking a little crazy," a miner in James's team announced.
The one enemy soldier standing had begun acting irate. He shouted unintelligibly at the other soldiers and angrily gesturing at the miners. Then he made the mistake of stalking straight towards James while fiddling with something on his belt. James hoped the soldier would back off up until the soldier passed within five feet in front of him. James drew his sidearm with drilled efficiency and shot the soldier in the kneecap, aiming to cripple instead of kill.
The soldier who was possibly dressed as a higher ranked officer fell to the glass on his good knee and screamed long and hard. Another miner crossed James's vision and kneeled next to the injured enemy. He gripped the soldier's shoulder with his left hand while illuminating the man's pained eyes.
"You're the guy who tried to kill me when you first got here," the miner said for all to hear. His right hand developed into a fist, "Try to do it better next time, Giftzwerg." His fist crashed into the soldier's lower jaw knocking off the primitive helmet and revealing a dull featured man with long dark hair tied up in a bun. Now the debate of whether or not taking the enemy soldiers prisoner was worth it began. James wasn't the only one wrestling with this as the other miners either lowered or raised their weapons in deliberation.
James walked passed the officer who'd just been knocked cold and through the crowd of enemy soldiers. Most of them scurried out of his way though he give one stubborn acting soldier a kick to get his message across. He stopped in front of the only other standing figure. The person in robes. James reached forward and pulled back the smaller person's hood revealing the angular features and blue eyes of a young woman with almost blindly blue hair.
Her tired eyes and exhausted visage convinced James that enough had died and the rest should be taken prisoner and given a chance at justice. He and the rest had signed up with Liang-Dortmund to build themselves a home not to slaughter people, pirates though they may be. Besides, enough of them had died in retribution for the miners they'd killed.
James patched a call to the security chief whose angry rants had gone ignored for the duration of the skirmish. "Chief, the enemy have been pacified. We've got prisoners and need the auxiliary barracks ready to take them in."
"James Ozymandias! You disobeyed a direct order. I-"
"I don't need to explain myself to you," James snapped. "Have you called this into headquarters?"
"Yes," the chief answered still reeling from James's insubordination. "Mesa Station has already deployed security forces."
James winced at the notion of Verboten Station swarming with PMCs. "You can be certain when they arrive I'm submitting a report detailing how your decisions got people needlessly killed."
"And you can be sure my report will highlight your disobeying a direct order and threats against a superior officer."
"I'm not a true soldier anymore," James vehemently stated. "As far as I'm concerned, I have a right to question your judgement. Now open the gate, sir," the sarcasm in "sir" was thick as cream as James cut off the call.
Gently, James prodded the woman with the shield staff forward. "All teams get the prisoners moving to town. We're putting them in the auxiliary barracks until further notice." James was meet with an wave of affirmatives as the other miners began forcing the prisoners to get up and walk.
Briefly, James considered making the woman in front of him drop the shield, but shook that idea away. The glass storm outside had mostly died out, however any further exposure to Mesa's air other than what these soldiers already had was a death sentence. Not that James or any of the other miners particularly cared. These strange humans had attacked them, their home, and killed their neighbors just like a certain enemy humanity had faced not too long ago, with no warning and no apparent intent for mercy.
As the prisoners were herded through Verboten Station, forcibly disarmed along the way, and roughly crammed into the two auxiliary barracks structures, James wondered why these people had staged this attack with such primitive equipment and believed they could've won. He couldn't think of any sensible reasons.
A/N: Follow, favorite, and review please.