Warning: The themes, concepts, and images shared in this particular story will be graphic and adult in nature. Please do not continue reading if you are squeamish and/or looking for a happy ending. Also, language will be used that may make some uncomfortable.
The Realities of War
Captain Brandon T. Jameson walked down the corridor of the UNSC Azkaban, the homely steel grey surrounding him and reminding him of simpler times. The ship's former captain had so named it for the fictional prison of five hundred years past. The past ten years of Covenant warfare had stripped humanity of many of its finest officers, and the newly-made captain felt advanced beyond his years.
With the loss of Jericho VII, most of humanity's major Outer colonies had been glassed. The battle had been fierce, but ultimately, it had not mattered. Even the two days of stalemate had hardly been enough time for the Spartan-IIs that had landed on the planet to mount an effective resistance. Someone high-up had sent a full platoon of seven robot soldiers, including the famous Master Chief to lead them.
Coming into the holding cells, the human stopped. The light from the ceiling cast a pale light on his face, which did nothing to improve his sallow complexion. His tightly curled brown hair was still vibrant and strong, unthinned by the stress of his new position, but he kept it cut shorter than most.
Even from his slightly-taller-than-average height of two meters, a few of the holding cell's inhabitants towered over Captain Jameson, while the rest cowered away. They watched him warily through the transparent wall that separated them from the reset of the ship. It was rare to have prisoners of war – the Elites were far more likely to attack with no chance of survival, and they never surrendered. Grunts would surrender given half a chance, if separated from their commanders, but they died quickly without their methane tanks and were useless in learning the Covenant tactics and plans.
The five prisoner Elites had been sitting in a tight circle, their backwards knees folded in what seemed an awkward tangle of limbs, and they stood as soon as the captain entered the room. They had been stripped of their weapons and armor, leaving only the thin under-shell as covering, and seemed unfinished as a result. The tallest had been wearing golden armor before it had been removed, but the rest were mere Reds. It was rare to capture such a high-ranking Elite, and the story was nearly as incredible.
Captain Jameson sat down, buckling the restraints around his chest to keep himself steady as the ship rocked on its way out of Slipspace. The bridge crew were all newly-woken from cryosleep, rubbing their eyes as they attempted to focus on the holoscreens before them. The bridge AI, named Alyana, appeared at the captain's right hand.
"Sir, receiving a transmission now," she said quietly, her hands folded demurely over her lily-white nun's habit. "It is coming from the Resolute."
"I'll take it at my station," Captain Jameson replied, fitting a headpiece over his ears.
A gravelly voice came through the speakers. "This is Captain De Blanc of the UNSC Resolute. I have orders to transfer my prisoners to your ship, Captain."
"This is Captain Jameson of the UNSC Azkaban. We have received your orders and will be waiting. How many?"
"Five Elites, two dozen Grunts, three Jackals." Jameson raised an eyebrow in astonishment – capturing one Elite was hard enough. "The Spartans brought them in."
That would explain it, Jameson thought sourly to himself. "Will the Spartans be transferring?" he asked carefully.
"No," De Blanc answered, "they'll be staying on station for a while yet. We've lost the planet, and it's just a matter of time before they start glassing. Spartan-117 has requested that we linger to watch."
Jameson shook his head slightly. "We'll be ready for your prisoners when you send them."
De Blanc signed off and Alyana murmured quietly, "Our holding cell will be cramped with so many prisoners."
"We'll see what each of them knows and then start airlocking the bastards," Jameson replied sternly.
"Aye, sir." There was disapproval in the AI's voice; she was coded to provide an ethical voice to the prison ship's purpose. But she would not disobey, and in times such as these, with humanity's resources stretched thin already, they did not release prisoners – not that the Covenant would consider ransoming them anyway.
The transfer went quickly – De Blanc had taken the precaution of administering a paralyzing sedative to all of the Elites, and the Grunts and Jackals could be easily controlled through force and threats, as they were within the Covenant ranks. Jameson's hand-picked transfer team had stripped the prisoners of their weapons and armor, storing it all in one of the ship's bays to be picked over for surveillance devices and examined by the ship's engineers.
After the transfer, Jameson had jumped his ship away again, avoiding the Covenant ships that ignored him anyway, intent on glassing the planet. The Resolute had stayed, as promised, on station to watch the event.
Once the Elites had woken, they immediately tested the walls for weaknesses, but there were none, and they had since been sitting in that circle. Jameson planned to start removing the Grunts first, for questioning and then airlocking, but wanted to see his prisoners altogether, to savor the minor victory that had been snatched. Between them, especially with the gold-armored Elite, this group would hopefully be able to divulge some intelligence worth the effort.
Though Jameson himself did not speak it, the man knew a little of the Covenant tongues. The specialists he had on board could not only understand and translate it, but they – with the help of Alyana – would be able to hopefully extract some sort of useful intelligence from the group.
"You're ugly bastards without your armor," Captain Jameson told the Elites in a conversational tone, smirking slightly. "But ugly or no, you'll have some information for us, I expect."
"Kill ussss and be done with it, human," the former gold-armored Elite snarled, his fangs dripping with drool.
"So you do speak English?" Jameson smiled, a feral thing that struck fear in his human prisoners. "Good. But we won't be killing you just yet. We want to know what you know first."
The Elite made a short chuffing sound, almost like a snort, and turned his back on the captain, retaking his seat. The other Elites followed his example.
"Sir, I have a transmission from HIGHCOM." Alyana's ever-quiet voice interrupted the captain's thoughts as he watched the prisoners. Frowning, Jameson jogged quickly back towards his office. He passed a few people in the hallway, all of whom stepped aside and struck salutes smartly.
Once in his office, the captain sat in his chair, waving at the desk to wake his computer. He signed on and provided proof of his identity in the form of a voice identification sequence and DNA sample.
"What's the message?" he asked Alyana as he pressed the tip of his finger to the analyzer. It pricked him and retreated.
"It's eyes only, sir, meant for you and no one else." Alyana sounded faintly apologetic. Jameson counted to five slowly, reminding himself that the personalities taken on by AIs often complimented the brains from which they were cloned, and Alyana's timidity was not the result of anything he had done to her. The captain and AI of a ship were supposed to be matched by personality, but the warships and destroyers had first pick of the best smart AIs, leaving Jameson with Alyana.
Jameson opened the file Alyana highlighted for him and skimmed through the introduction. It was the standard crap about discretion that ONI insisted on, but what caught his attention was that the orders had come straight from HIGHCOM instead of FLEETCOM. The content of the message, however, was what truly drew his attention and made him sit straighter in his chair.
"They want me to drop the prisoners down on a planet and just… leave them there." Jameson could hear his voice rise in incredulity; Alyana murmured something quietly, but he wasn't listening. "Why the fuck would HIGHCOM give up prisoners before we've had a chance to get information out of them?"
"It is not our imperative to question HIGHCOM," Alyana reminded him gently.
"Fuck that," Jameson snarled, "get someone from HIGHCOM on the line. I don't care who."
"I will attempt to contact them," Alyana promised, her avatar shrinking away from the anger in his voice. "Please calm down, captain, your vital signs are elevated and…"
"I'm not gonna blow a gasket, Alyana, just do what I fucking told you to!"
Alyana's avatar disappeared altogether, though she was still, of course, fully functional. "Yes, sir," she said from the desk's small speakers. "I have ONI on the line, sir."
Jameson didn't know the face which greeted him as the communications link exploded to life on his desk. The woman on the other end of the line was an Admiral, by the bars on her shirt. Her features were sharply defined, her face coolly impassive as she regarded him.
Captain Jameson struck a quick salute, expecting to be released immediately, but the woman merely stared at him for a moment longer and then said sharply, "Speak, then. You dislike your orders."
Caught off-guard and unsure of whether to release his salute or remain at attention, the man frowned. He disliked the snotty attitude that seemed inherent in top brass, but this woman took that arrogance to a whole new level. "Yes, ma'am," he said after a moment. "This is a prisoner ship. We have never had five Elites at once – not to mention one of the gold-armored ones – and the opportunity to learn the plans of the Covenant is…"
"Of great concern," the woman assured him coldly. "Yet we know their plans. They are trying to exterminate us. Tell me, captain, do you know how many worlds we have lost?" Jameson nodded stiffly – he felt each and every one just as much as any human would. The Admiral leaned forward, crossing her arms on her desk, a fire – a cold, chilling fire – lighting in her eyes. "You will leave your prisoners – all of them – on Jericho VII and you will leave the system without hesitation."
"Yes, ma'am, but…" The Admiral's eyebrow ticked in warning and the captain, well used to reading the expressions on his superiors for cues, shut his mouth quickly.
"Those are your orders."
Jameson stiffened even more, though he was rimrod-straight anyway, as the Admiral's face darkened and the communications link was severed from her end. He released back into his chair finally, growling expletives to himself.
"Shall I correct our course, sir?" Alyana asked timidly, waiting a moment for the worst of his anger to dissipate.
"Do it," Captain Jameson snarled. "Send us back to Jericho VII. Let's hope the bastards are done with the place or we'll be in for a hot welcome."
Muttering to himself about the whims of the Admiralty, ONI bitches, and losing perfectly good prisoners, the captain went to relieve his frustration on the gym's weights.
~~Jericho VII system, onboard the UNSC Resolute
The Master Chief watched through the viewport as the planet rotated slowly, the fires on its surface still burning hot though the Covenant had all jumped away nearly fifteen minutes ago. Behind him, six of his brothers and sisters stood silently as well, watching the scene. Captain De Blanc stood at John's elbow, watching solemnly as the fires began dying.
"It's never easy to watch," he said suddenly, shifting slightly. John glanced down, making sure to move his helmet to indicate to the captain he had heard the man, though the room was silent. The bridge crew had all been dismissed, most of them going straight to their bunks after forty-eight hours of continuous service on the bridge, fighting the lost battle in space.
"We held them for two days," De Blanc continued. "Your team made that possible." He glanced around at all the Spartans, who didn't react. "Because of it, we managed to evacuate nearly forty percent of the planet's population, including nearly seventy percent of the children."
Forty percent, John thought to himself. That's not enough. He could tell the others were having the same reaction. One more day, even, would have bumped that over fifty.
Even now, an hour after the last of the retreating human ships had left the system, John and his team were covered in blood and gore. It was starting to smell, but they had wanted to watch the full glassing. The Covenant ships had just jumped away as well, leaving the Resolute where it hid in the shadow of one of the planet's moons.
"It's just going to smolder," De Blanc continued after a moment, turning slightly. "You should all get cleaned up." John struck a smart salute, mirrored by his Spartans; De Blanc nodded in dismissal.
Silently, the seven Spartans trooped quickly through the now-abandoned hallways towards the small bay given over to their use. They didn't meet anyone on their way – not only was it out of way of general traffic, closer to the engines than most bunk rooms, but most of those onboard were in the medical bay or recovering in their own bunks.
Inside their bay, the Spartans were greeted by the team of technicians responsible for the care and upkeep of the MJOLNIR armor. There were fourteen in all, two per set of armor, plus their leader, and they could recognize their assigned armor even if they didn't know the men and women inside them.
"Welcome back," the technician leader, named Nick, said quietly, motioning for John to raise his arms. "You've really banged up your armor."
"It wasn't us," Kelly replied. "You should complain to the Covenant."
Nick snorted slightly as he brought out a stepladder. It was only two steps high, but he needed it to be able to take the helmets off the Spartans. He did so for each one quickly, taking the time to use a rag and wipe a smear of blood off Joshua's forehead.
Once all seven Spartans were breathing non-recycled air again, their helmets already placed on the waiting tables, the rest of the technicians moved in, unbolting and unhinging the pieces of armor to release their inhabitants.
"I always hated this part," Kelly joked as a technician pulled her chest piece off, staggering slightly under its weight. "Too slow without it."
"You all need to be seen by a doctor," Nick told her fiercely. "I don't want you ruining my armor 'cause you got injured and didn't get it seen to. You've done that enough already." He glared at John, who was by no means the only Spartan to have done so, merely the most prone to it. In a way, the rough affection was soothing to the Spartans, who had just spent the past two days fighting hard as the UNSC's "robot soldiers." At least they hadn't lost anyone this time.
"We will," Fred promised. "As soon as we get some clothing on."
"Good idea," Nick acknowledged, gesturing to the back of the bay. "We've already unpacked a set of fatigues for each of you."
"Thank you, Nick," Linda said quietly.
Nick grinned slightly, helping a younger technician – obviously new and quietly shaken at the sight of the battle-hardened men and women as the armor slowly revealed what lay underneath – with a piece of Fred's armor caked in orange Hunter blood.
At least, everyone was free of their armor, the pieces borne away by the technicians to be cleaned and repaired. John rolled his shoulders and glanced at the showers. The Spartans carried all their gear with them when they came onto a new ship, including a two-station shower bank that Nick had also had waiting.
By common consent, Kelly and Linda took the first shower, washing their own blood and sweat from their bodies and then quickly dressing in the light Navy fatigues. Will and James helped Joshua, whose twisted ankle was now a problem out of the MJOLNIR, into the shower, and then passed him off to the two females, who supported him on their way to medical bay. John and Fred showered next and followed the threesome, leaving Will and James to bring up the rear.
The medical bay was quiet, though it would have been filled with the groans and screams of the wounded mere hours before. Now, all the patients had been drugged – or had died from their wounds and placed in airlocks – and the result was the stillness of the aftermath of a battle.
"Can I help you?" a friendly nurse asked, appearing from one of the rooms on John's right. Her uniform was splattered with blood and other tissues, but her hands and gloves were clean, her short hair kept severely pinned under a hairnet.
"We're reporting for physical checks," John replied quietly, aware that his deeper voice would travel much farther than hers in the bay. The nurse nodded stiffly.
"Spartans, I assume?" she asked, motioning for both men to follow her. "I'll check you over real quick myself. Our doctors are dealing with Needler patients at the moment. If you'll go in there, I'll come see you in a minute," she said to Fred, who followed her pointing finger to an empty examination room. He waved a little sarcastically in farewell to John, whose dislike of being fussed over was Spartan legend, and disappeared.
"Any twinges or pain when you move?" the nurse asked as she led John into another room.
"Yes, ma'am," John replied honestly. "I believe I have several torn muscles from the fighting, but those just need time."
The nurse nodded. "Still, we'd better check for anything internal. You Spartans are notorious for getting banged up. Here's a robe – I assume you know what to do."
"Yes, ma'am," John answered, taking the paper robe. The nurse pulled a curtain from the wall around her station to give him some privacy, though he didn't have a sense of modesty – a consequence of being a Spartan – and he quickly changed and lay down on the examination table. The robe, usually long enough to cover most patients past the knee, came to mid-thigh, and he couldn't close the back of it.
The nurse, when she came around the curtain, grinned slightly. "We need to stock bigger robes if you're going to be with us much longer," she teased, calling up the scanners. John held his breath when he was told as they rotated down his body, whirring softly.
The images that came up were all in the green. He had taken a beating, but his augmentations and the armor – and his own skills – had saved him from anything worse than a crack through one of his metacarpals, which the nurse said would heal quickly.
"Well, Mr. Spartan, you check out green, which is incredible," she said after her examination was done. "Just rest for a few days and all those muscles will be back to healthy. Will you be going into cryosleep?"
"Yes, ma'am," John answered.
"Alright, well, I'll see you when you thaw, then." She smiled again, a warm thing that made John wish – in some distant way – he could return the gesture, but the muscles in his face merely twitched slightly. "Now shoo, I've got to see to your gorgeous hunk of a comrade."
Shaking his head – and laughing to himself at Fred's expense – John got dressed again and left the room. Kelly and Linda were waiting in the lobby area for him.
"Josh's in surgery, managed to chip a bone," Linda said quietly. "We're green."
"Same here," John told her, leaning on the wall between the two women. "Fred's up next."
"Will and James are being examined now. I think Will's hiding a broken rib – we'll see. He probably charged another Hunter." Kelly shrugged. "To cryo?"
"In a bit," John answered vacantly.
Kelly huffed but nodded. She didn't want to admit it, either, but having so many fellow Spartans around was pleasant. All of them were exhausted from the two days of stalemate battles, especially the last push at the end to get off the planet as the Covenant started glassing it, so there wouldn't be rough sparring, but all of them wanted a least a little interaction with the only family any of them had before returning to the icy grip of cryosleep.
It was nearly an hour before all seven Spartans were again assembled, and Josh was under strict orders from the doctors to be gentle on his newly-repaired ankle. He protested when Fred slung his arm over his shoulders, but allowed it. They all went to the cafeteria, hydrated several ration packs each, and disappeared into their bay.
John opened the first ration pack in front of him, wrinkling his nose slightly. "Anything good?" Fred asked from across the pile. They were seated on the ground, Josh's leg stretched out and lying in Fred's lap where he could keep the injured Spartan from moving around.
"Corn," John answered, eyeing the bag of golden-brown kernels with distaste. He was hungry enough to eat it, but it didn't mean he liked the slippery little things.
"Trade ya," Will offered, holding up a thick protein bar. He hated the things with a passion, claiming they were nothing but refined crap, but John loved the dense energy. He accepted, tossing the slightly shorter Spartan his ration pack.
Nearly ten minutes of methodical eating had gone by when Kelly suddenly looked up. "Why haven't we jumped yet?" she asked herself and the rest of the team. "I haven't felt the ship move, but it's been at least three hours since we left the bridge."
"Perhaps the captain is waiting for orders," Linda answered.
"He received them as soon as we were onboard," John countered, shaking his head. "We are to retreat to the inner colonies – he delayed the jump so we could watch."
All of the Spartans frowned. "Then what are we doing?" Fred asked after a brief hesitation.
The Chief shook his head; he didn't know why the ship was stalling, but he wanted to know. Silently, he rose, heading for the intercom system.
"Captain De Blanc, this is Master Chief Sierra 117, requesting a reason for why we have not entered Slipspace yet," he said into the intercom. "Are our orders changed, sir?"
The captain didn't answer; it was the ship's AI, Medusa, whose voice crackled back through the speakers. John disliked the AI's chosen avatar, which had been on the bridge when he had first reported to request a garage bay be handed over to the Spartans' use, of a beautiful young woman with snakes for hair, but there was no denying that she was one of the more personable smart AIs he had worked with.
"Sorry, Chief, we've received new orders but they're classified." John raised an eyebrow, and his Spartans tensed subtly. "We're staying here for a while. Brass has some intelligence that says the fight on Jericho VII might not yet be over. Don't go into cryo – we may need your team sooner than we thought."
"Understood." John turned back to his team, shrugging slightly. "It's a waiting game, then," he said quietly.
"I hate it when brass does this. The Covenant could hit another planet. This one is dead – there's nothing left. What could they possibly want on it?" Kelly vented her frustration on an unfortunate pack of ration, which imploded as she squeezed it. She set it down quickly to avoid most of the mess.
"Maybe on one of the moons?" Linda suggested quietly.
John merely shook his head. "We won't know until someone gives us our orders. Until then, we'll sleep – the regular way. We're all exhausted and if the Covenant do come back, we'll need to be on the ground sooner this time."
They all nodded. A platoon of Spartans could do a lot more damage if they got on the ground before the enemy had built encampments and defensive lines. Having expected to go straight into cryosleep, the team hadn't set out their cots – they did so now, though, arranging them in an easily-defensible pattern out of habit and training.
John deactivated the room's main lights, leaving only the emergency beacons lit over the exit and along the base of the walls. He lay on his cot, nearest the doorway where he could more easily hear an intruder, and pulled the light blanket over his body. It was specially made to be long enough to fit him, as was everything in the Spartans' travelling kit.
They carried more gear with them between ships than any other company, but it was the little luxuries that made the difference. Besides, they made up for it in carrying nothing but weapons and ammunition onto the battle field, and their effectiveness in both ground-side and space battles made most captains willing to endure the hassle of reassigning bunks and garages to squeeze them into something suitable.
~~ Jericho VII system, onboard the UNSC Resolute, sometime later~~
"We have new orders." De Blanc's face was carefully neutral as he looked out the viewport towards the now-dark planet that used to be Jericho VII. "It seems there is a team of Covenant scouts that have been sighted ground-side by one of our recon drones. They must have been left by a stealth ship – we didn't pick up anything coming into the system."
The Master Chief frowned slightly. "What could they want here, sir?" he asked. "The planet has been glassed – there's nothing left."
"Possibly they missed something. I don't know. But HIGHCOM wants you and your Spartans to take them out before they can complete their objective – whatever it is."
The Chief nodded. "We'll need a Pelican to get ground-side."
"I've got one – and a good pilot – already waiting. And you'll be taking some of these with you." The captain held out a roughly spherical black ball. It had several small buttons in its side, and a camera lens in a slight recess. "They will record the mission so we can hopefully figure out what they're doing here."
"What is our primary objective?" the Chief asked.
"Take that team out," De Blanc answered. "These cameras will record everything for our specialists to look over later. You just concentrate on getting in and taking them out as quickly as possible.'
"Yes, sir."
"Dismissed." The Chief struck a salute and walked noisily out of the captain's office, taking the black camera with him. The rest would be waiting in the Pelican, he assumed.
"I wish we didn't have to lie to him." The Resolute's AI, Jill, said sadly, appearing on Captain De Blanc's desk. Her usual avatar was of a portly elderly woman with a kind face and tightly-curled light brown hair. She wore blue jeans and a blue polo shirt.
"Orders are orders," De Blanc reminded her, thought there was sympathy in his voice. "I don't like it, either, but whatever HIGHCOM is up to, I don't think I want to get involved. I'm a simple soldier."
"So you keep claiming."
Captain De Blanc smiled slightly, hearing the disbelief in the AI's voice. "Don't we have supply manifests to look over?" he suggested. He wanted to spend time on that, rather than observing what was about to be slaughter on Jericho VII – five Elites, a couple dozen Grunts, and a few Jackals didn't stand half a chance against a platoon of Spartan IIs. Equally, the man didn't want to address the lists of casualties and write letters of condolences to more families.
"Of course, sir." Jill pulled up the required screens.
~~Jericho VII, just after Pelican touchdown~~
"Scans indicate that our target is four hundred meters from LZ," the pilot yelled over his shoulder. "I'll drop you and stay on station to evac when you're done. Shouldn't take you too long, sir!"
"Roger," the Chief replied, turning to his Spartans. They were all decked out in newly-clean armor, though the technicians hadn't had time to buff everything, so John could see specks of blood still caught in joints on his sisters and brothers.
"Intel shows that there is a task force led by five Elites. We don't know why they're here, but HIGHCOM wants us to take them out before they can do anything. We take no prisoners this time."
"Yes, sir," the Spartans replied in unison.
"Fred, Josh, you'll take eastern flanking positions. Will, James, western. Kelly, Linda, and I will engage directly. There's reports that one of the Elites is in Gold armor, which means this is clearly a high-ranking mission."
Kelly pointed in silent query at the black spheres, twenty in all, that were floating at shoulder-height.
"Those are cameras, and will follow us to record the mission and ascertain the enemy's purpose here," John explained.
"Our helmet cams aren't enough?" Will asked, frowning slightly.
John shrugged delicately in his armor. "ONI must want third-person visuals," he guessed.
"We're here," the pilot announced. "Thirty seconds to landing."
"Weapons check," John ordered, unlimbering his own assault rifle to check it and his store of ammunition. For close-quarters work, which this would certainly devolve into, everyone was carrying a pistol and a rifle, though Linda had insisted on bringing her sniper rifle as well, and Kelly had a complement of plasma grenades, though where she had policed them from, John couldn't have said.
"Good hunting, Chief." The pilot landed the Pelican with a slight thump and lowered the hatch – the Spartan team spilled from it in a controlled formation, the two teams of flanking soldiers separating.
The LZ was in what had once been a soccer stadium, and they moved quickly through the slagged remains. The last known location of the Covenant team had been in the city's small shopping center, four hundred meters to the north.
The three teams split up, taking different routes towards their objective. The buildings around them were heavily damaged from being glassed, most mere shapeless heaps of melted Plasticrete and metal. Smaller twisted lumps marked where vehicles and crashed ships had been burned. There was nothing to mark where the millions of humans had died – the heat of a glassing was enough to completely incinerate a corpse.
Though the Spartans moved carefully and slowly through the city, they found no evidence of scouting teams. The Chief and his sisters took up a position just outside the mall, taking cover behind a small vehicle. Fred and Josh came in from the east, taking cover in an outlying building as Will and James did the same from the west.
The shopping mall had been melted slightly, but there were still usable entrances. John waved a single hand to advance, and he, Linda, and Kelly stormed through three of the main entrances, keeping low to the ground as they swept through the building.
Their targets were all gathered in the middle of the building, according to John's motion tracker as the team crept closer. The center of the mall had once been a food court, but the heat that had melted the outside of the building had made it inside as well, and most of the store fronts resembled nothing more than burnt shells.
Something didn't feel right. The targets hadn't moved since John's tracker had first picked them up, except for some minor shifting back and forth. They didn't try to leave the mall or set up a defensive perimeter. They were grouped tightly, easy targets.
"This feels wrong," Kelly said over the comm. "There's a Gold in there – he, at least, should know better than to group up so tightly. "
John nodded to himself in agreement from where he was crouched behind the remains of a mall-center kiosk. "Keep it tight and by the book," he ordered. Their orders were still orders - they had to take out this group, no matter how weirdly they were acting.
"Chief, I have a visual and… Well, here." Linda sent a feed from her forward camera.
John stared at the picture, forgetting, for a split moment, that he was technically in the middle of a war zone and concentrated solely on the video. "They look drugged," Kelly said after a moment.
The Chief concurred. The Elites moved slowly, sloppily, with none of their usual grace. They wore weapons, and their armor was on, and they seemed to be trying to coordinate the unruly Grunts. The littler aliens were squealing in high-pitched barks, apparently communicating among themselves and ignoring the Elites, a situation the Spartans had never seen before.
One of the red-armored Elites struck a Grunt out of his path as he stepped forward, unsteady, and five nearby aliens screeched and ran, only to run into the shield barrier set up by the Jackals, their backs to the Spartan team. The hideous aliens were apparently undrugged but waiting for orders from their superiors, corralling the Grunts like shepherds with a group of unruly sheep.
John knew his orders were to eliminate the squad of Covenant, however, and gave the signal. Kelly and Linda darted forward with him, sending a storm of bullets towards the Jackals' unprotected flanks. The rounds tore through the aliens' skin and ricocheted off the inside of their shields, burying themselves within the aliens from the front. Then the Jackals fell, opening the line, and the bullets passed into the horde of Grunts.
The Gold-armored Elite swore in his language, yelling defiance as he drew his plasma rifle and dove for the cover offered by a heap of molten metal that could have been anything before the glassing of the planet. The Grunts scattered in alarm, going in every direction except towards the Spartans, running them right into the arms of the two flanking teams. James and Will slung their rifles, taking potshots with their pistols for a few seconds and then striding into the fleeing Grunts with bare hands, snapping necks and pulling methane containers from their throats to choke the little creatures to death.
Meanwhile, Fred and Josh went after two of the Reds, filling their shielded armor with bullets to override it and then switching to the heavier rounds of their pistols to take the killing shots. Two Reds dropped quickly, the other two following the Gold behind the heap of slag.
The Grunts and Jackals were all dead within moments, a few of the smaller aliens still coughing and twitching as they suffocated. John and Kelly hunkered together behind what had been a children's ride, the plastic horses melted together into some semblance of a barrier. James, Linda, and Will split off to try and flank the Elites, which Josh and Fred ensured everything on the ground was dead with headshots.
"Charge the position on my mark," John ordered, bracing himself to dart forward.
The Gold Elite chose that moment to pop out of cover, firing rapidly at the Spartans, who all dove back to cover though the shots went wild, the Elite's hand clearly shaking as he tried to aim.
"You fight without honor!" the Elite roared in his language, John's helmet translating it into text for him. Frowning slightly – it was an incredible insult from an Elite, not to be used lightly – the Chief felt his original feeling of wrongness increase dramatically.
Linda lay on her stomach, the edge of her sniper peeking out from behind her cover, ready to put a bullet through the Gold's head as soon as he emerged. The armor of a Red showed first, however, and she sunk a bullet through the Elite's faceplate, blowing his brains out through the back of his head.
Two to go, John thought to himself. "Suppressive fire," he ordered. "Kelly, with me." The Spartan female flashed her green acknowledgement light.
The five Spartans set up suppressive fire, staggering their reload so at least four Spartans were constantly firing. John and Kelly darted forward. Years of working together kept the two attackers from crossing the lines of fire from their comrades as Spartan Time kicked in, slowing everything down.
John rounded the corner of the Elites' shelter first, a consequence of his having been closer to their barricade, bringing his pistol to bear on the first thing that moved. The Gold Elite, however, dove forward and leapt on the green Spartan, forcing both of them backwards. Instantly, the hail of bullets stopped even as Kelly engaged the Red Elite to keep the Spartans safe from friendly fire.
John rolled onto his back, bringing the Elite with him and releasing his pistol to free up his right hand. "Die, Demon!" the Elite roared, mandibles opening wide. "Your dishonor is a stain upon your kind."
What dishonor? John wondered to himself even as he threw a punch at the alien's head. The quick Elite ducked it, however, and pushed the Spartan down, leaping up again. Out of the corner of his eye as he flipped upright, John saw Kelly trading blows with the last remaining Red.
The Gold Elite roared in a wordless battle cry, charging forward. John ducked an uppercut and brought both fists down on his enemy's arm, breaking his grip on his plasma rifle. It clattered to the floor.
The Elite roared in pain and headbutted the Spartan. John's forehead cracked against his helmet and he tasted copper blood in his mouth. "Down!" Both John and Kelly hit the deck instantly and Linda sent a round through the Red Elite's helmet, while Fred fired at the Gold.
"Leave him alive," John ordered, making a snap decision. Fred stopped firing, the Gold Elite's shields flickering as he withstood the assault. Instantly, John was up on his feet again, tackling the Elite.
Kelly didn't question her brother and dove at the Elite's legs, bringing all three of them to the ground with the Elite beneath two fully armored Spartans. His chest armor kept his lungs intact, but they all heard the painful snap of breaking ribs – the Elites had ribcages that could withstand enormous amounts of pressure – and he roared, spraying a fine mist of spittle at John's visor.
"I hope he speaks English," Fred said, coming over to the scene and sliding John's pistol back into the Chief's holster even as his brother shifted to straddle the Elite's chest.
John turned on his loudspeakers. "You can understand me," he told the Elite, voice harsh. "All your Gold commanders do. Something here wasn't right. You're drugged. Your team was drugged. What is your mission here?"
The Elite snarled and then groaned in pain as the Spartan leaned his weight more fully onto the alien's chest. "Stupid Demon," the Elite grunted, mandibles drooling in blood and saliva. John could smell the blood on its breath – one of his lungs had to be punctured. He would likely not survive with a Spartan sitting on his chest much longer. The text scrolled on his HUD as the translation software did its job. "You have been used like the chattel you are. We already fought on this planet – a building fell on my brothers and I, killing most under my hand. You brought it down upon us. You took us prisoner and denied me my honor warrior's death. So kill me! Kill me that I may regain some of my honor and face my ancestors with dignity and grace."
John frowned. He remembered bringing down the building on a group of Elites – led by a Gold-armored Elite – and then finding the Gold one alive, albeit unconscious, and securing him as a prisoner. Standing orders to collect prisoners had been issued long ago, though rarely put into action. He also remembered Kelly capturing two Reds, and Linda and James accounting for one more each, though they never surrendered and it was mostly accidents that had led to their being knocked unconscious and found before death or a comrade secured them.
But it wouldn't explain how or why the Elite prisoners had reappeared on the planet. John had overseen their transport onto the Resolute and Captain De Blanc had transferred them to another ship, built to handle prisoners, and the Chief trusted the man.
It also didn't explain what had drugged them. The fight had been over very quickly, especially considering the amount of time the Covenant team had had to set up defensive barriers, patrols, or even simple discipline.
"What put you on this planet?" John asked, shifting his weight slightly to release the pressure on the Elite's chest.
"Your ship," the Elite replied. John felt a sudden sickening lurch in the bottom of his stomach as he turned and surveyed the bodies of Jackals and Grunts.
"They were prisoners," Kelly said softly. "Prisoners... And we executed them."
"Secure the Elite," John ordered, moving away. He stared grimly at the bodies of the aliens as Kelly bound the Elite's arms and legs. Now that he looked closely, he could see the haphazard way the Grunts wore their armor, as though they had been stuffed in it.
"Think he could be telling the truth?" Fred asked, coming to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother.
"His armor shows significant damage," Kelly reported. "More than John could account for in their spat. A building just might have fallen on him. And we all saw how drugged those aliens were – the Jackals were the only ones doing anything useful."
"But why?" John growled. "Why would they be transferred to a prison ship and then released? Why are these cameras following us?" Said cameras had all floated up to the ceiling, well out of reach, after John gave his order to leave the Gold alive.
"Let's see what facts we do know," James suggested.
"One," Linda said quietly, "the Grunts and Elites were clearly drugged at the beginning of the fight. The Jackals seemed to be unaffected."
"Two," Kelly added, "our orders came straight from HIGHCOM, which is unusual, instead of FLEETCOM. They kept De Blanc and the Resolute here specifically so an entire platoon of Spartans could take out a single Covenant task force. That's a lot of firepower for so few enemies."
"Three," Will added, "these cameras are storing everything that just happened here and we don't know why they needed to come along, especially considering how many there are." They all looked up at the floating spheres. "Why aren't our helmet cameras enough?"
"What advantage does the UNSC gain from delaying the Resolute, releasing prisoners with valuable intel, and sending in a platoon of Spartans followed by cameras to kill them all?" John asked himself without bothering to activate the radio. They were all wondering it.
The Elite gasped in pain as he sat upright, testing his bonds, clearly thinking to break free and commit to a suicide charge, eyeballing his dropped plasma rifle. Linda, guarding him, followed his gaze and kicked the weapon further away, planting a boot on the Elite's shoulder to hold him down.
Suddenly, John's radio crackled to life. "This is the UNSC Resolute to Master Chief Sierra 117, do you copy?"
"Sierra 117 to Resolute, I copy," John replied.
"Have you completed your mission, soldier?" The voice was one that John didn't recognize, and since he hadn't identified himself, the Spartan didn't know what rank of officer was contacting his team.
"No, sir," he replied honestly. "There are complications."
"You are not meant to think, soldier," the man on the other end of the radio hissed. "Your orders were to eliminate all Covenant on Jericho VII. Have you completed that mission?"
"No, sir, we have taken a prisoner."
There was a pause of silence, then the voice came back, angrily. "Your orders were to terminate, Spartan. I suggest you get rid of your prisoner and get back to the Pelican for evac."
"Sir, this mission from the beginning was different, and we have reason to believe this Elite has valuable intelligence regarding…"
"You have no reason!" the voice yelled. "Soldiers obey – they do not question orders. Dispatch the Elite and report to the Pelican or I will have you all court martialed for insubordination and cowardice in the face of the enemy!"
The threat, they could all tell, was very real. John nodded to Linda, who shot the Elite point-blank in the head. The Gold fell forward, blood spurting for a moment before his hearts stopped, covering Linda's boots.
"Objective complete," John growled into his microphone. "Reporting back to the Pelican."
"Good Spartan." The voice sounded like it was praising a dog that had done a trick correctly. "Resolute, out."
The radio shut off with a violent click, almost as if someone had slammed down the receiver on the other end, and John motioned for everyone to form up. They jogged double-time back to the Pelican, preferring speed over stealth, and boarded silently. The pilot took off with only the usual "strap in and hang on" speech and the group flew silently back to the Resolute. John eyed the floating cameras the entire way, wondering what they had captured on the surface – and more importantly, why.
Onboard, the Chief marched immediately to the bridge but was told that De Blanc had already retired and could not be woken except for an emergency. Refusing to bring the issue to the captain's second in command, John made a mission report to hide his true intention in going to the bridge and found himself dismissed to the Spartan's bay with a proverbial pat on the head.
Inwardly annoyed, frustrated, and confused, John returned to the garage and let Nick and the technicians peel his armor off, joining his siblings on their cots as quickly as possible to discuss the events of the past few hours.
"I was stonewalled," John said immediately upon taking his seat, running a towel over the stubble that had grown overnight on his chin. For the umpteenth time he wondered why someone hadn't permanently removed the Spartans' facial hair follicles to reduce the time spent in personal grooming and hygiene, but dismissed the concern in face of the larger enigma staring his team in the face. "Captain De Blanc is sleeping and won't be up for a while, and his second…" The Spartans all nodded knowingly, having run into the "robot soldier" myth many times before. "I gave a report and they took the cameras."
"So they weren't transmitting – just storing." Will nodded. "They were smaller than I would have expected for so vital a mission that seven Spartans were assigned to it." There was clearly an undercurrent of disgust in his voice. "I could have slept through the whole thing – you did most of the work, Linda."
Linda shook her head and said quietly, "Something wasn't right."
They all nodded in agreement. "Why send in a Spartan platoon to execute prisoners, and tape the whole thing?" James murmured.
"Studying our battle tactics?" Kelly suggested.
"Why now?" Fred countered, worry in his voice. "They could have gotten valuable intel from that Gold, at least, but there wasn't enough time between when we handed them to De Blanc and when we first heard of their being dropped on Jericho VII to get it out of him. They're tough bastards, I'll give 'em that, and they don't sing easy."
"Another upgrade?" Josh shook his head at his own guess immediately, though. "No, our armor's still pretty new."
"I keep returning to the fact that they taped it. Whoever they are, they wanted that footage – and in third person, so someone could watch us and the Covenant," Kelly said quietly, chewing idly on something – probably gum from a technician. She tended to be a favorite amongst them.
John shook his head slightly. "It's no good guessing," he told them. "Let's get back to sleep – then we'll confront De Blanc and see what is really going on around here."
"Just remember, you're a Chief, he's a captain, and they're likely ONI," Fred reminded him. "Don't get demoted over this – I don't want Blue Team. I've got my own problems." He smirked slightly at James, Josh, and Will, who rolled their eyes back at him playfully.
"You couldn't handle us anyway," Kelly teased, shoving her brother. Though it was gentle for a Spartan, it would have knocked a normal human into a wall and likely done some damage.
"Good night," John said forcefully, though everyone heard the undercurrent of suppressed amusement in his voice. They returned the sentiment, rolling into their cots and telling themselves to sleep. Since the technicians were still coming and going, taking armor out, they left the lights on as the Spartans all drifted to sleep.
From his position overseeing the transportation of the expensive and unique MJOLNIR suits, Nick smiled fondly at the seven hulking men and women breathing softly across the room, their postures relaxed. He knew a single word in the wrong tone of voice would wake every one of them, however, and encouraged his team to be silent as they trooped the equipment to another garage to work on it. The Spartans deserved their rest – he clicked the lights off with a small smile at humanity's heroes.
~~ Jericho VII system, onboard the UNSC Resolute, elsewhere~~
Vice Admiral Margaret Orlenda Parangosky strode through the Resolute's hallways, ignoring the men and women who stepped aside and struck smart salutes when she passed, the triple star insignia giving away her rank even if very few aboard knew who she actually was.
The mission had mostly been a success, except for the last-minute betrayal. Spartan 117 had called off the attack to spare the Gold Elite, and the Vice Admiral was not pleased. So she planned a little visit to the recalcitrant Spartan soldiers to remind them that they were the UNSC's soldiers, subject to exactly the same laws and regulations regarding following orders as every other Marine, Army, or Navy grunt, augmentations and record kills or no.
Parangosky was a shorter woman, her face one of those that most people would have said was older than the body it rode on and sharper and colder than anyone her age had a right to be, barring the atrocities of war she had already seen – and ordered committed. Her heels clicked smartly on the metal decks as she wound her way down the Spartan bunker.
She stepped into the room without announcement and found the seven Spartans being refitted into their armor, talking quietly to pairs of technicians and overseen by a lead technician. All seven men and women turned to the door upon her entrance, though she hadn't yet said anything, and carefully saluted, their faces neutral. They didn't know who she was, and they wouldn't be told, but she had to bring the soldiers back in line.
"Stand to, Spartans," Parangosky barked, though there wasn't a waver in any of the salutes to warrant the correction. There was no reaction on the soldiers' faces except a slight tightening around all of their eyes, especially the brown-haired male on the very left.
"Which one of you is Sierra 117?" The man on the left, with brown hair and hazel eyes, stepped forward and renewed his salute.
"Master Chief Sierra 117, sir," he said calmly, introducing himself. A "117" was stamped into his chest armor, Parangosky noted, and cursed herself for missing that little detail that could have given her the upper hand.
"Well, Master Chief, I'm sure you can explain why you disobeyed a direct order to terminate all Covenant on Jericho VII in favor of colluding with our enemy."
That caused a stir among the technicians, and even the Spartans changed their facial expressions to one of mild shock, though they quickly swept them clean again.
The Master Chief, still in a textbook-perfect salute, replied after a brief pause to ensure the woman had finished speaking. "Our orders were to terminate all Covenant on Jericho VII, but we have standing orders to capture any aliens, and it seemed…"
The three-star admiral's eyebrow ticked upwards slightly and the Chief, used to reading his superior's expressions to guide his reports, went silent.
"You spent several minutes speaking to the Gold-armored Elite," Parangosky reminded him viciously. She had reviewed all of the mission tapes, both captured by the floating cameras and by the Spartans' helmets. "Then you spoke amongst each other, and it took another reminder of your orders to follow them. Is your memory deteriorating, Chief, do you need to be retired?"
The Spartan's mouth twitched slightly into a frown, but he replied without inflection to his strong, deep voice. "No, sir. I made a judgment call based on several discrepancies between the team's behavior and that we have observed so far…"
"You do not make judgment calls," Parangosky snarled, irritated by the obvious favoritism this man had been subject to in the UNSC thus far. She would change that. "You follow the orders you are given to the letter, no more, and no less. Am I understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you all?" This time, Parangosky directly addressed the six other Spartans in the room. She was very well aware that, if they wanted to, they could easily dispatch her, the technicians, and everyone else on this ship – and they had to be absolutely obedient. If they started questioning orders, how long until they defected to the Covenant side? Humanity certainly hadn't done them any favors.
"Yes, sir," the Spartans replied in unison, still in their rimrod-straight salutes.
"See that you remember." Parangosky turned on her heel and left. Her new destination was the captain's quarters – she knew the man favored the Spartan II program, and quite possibly had worded the orders to the Master Chief in a way that hadn't struck all standing orders from relevance as he had been told.
With a series of silent signals, a twitch of the finger here, a nod there, the seven Spartans communicated even as the technicians continued – more timidly after the dressing-down the soldiers had received – their work in refitting the repaired pieces of armor to the Spartans' bodies.
Dangerous? Kelly wondered silently.
No, John replied. Angry.
Followed orders, Fred protested.
Prisoners unimportant, Will guessed, frowning slightly – it wasn't an actual frown as much as the shadow of its cousin that touched his lips, but his brothers and sisters could read it easily.
Never before, James chimed in. He was right – prisoners had been one of the highest priority standing orders the Spartans received, after the one to rescue civilians, especially children, where possible.
No mistakes. Good op. Linda helped a technician adjust her thigh's armor even as she "spoke" to her siblings. Vice Admiral new.
John nodded slightly. He hadn't known there was a Vice Admiral on board, and he didn't recognize her. Captain De Blanc had seemed in charge of the ship, but now that was quite obviously untrue.
Be careful, he ordered, allowing the technicians to seal his helmet around his head. His HUD snapped to life, his motion tracker going nuts with all the friendlies around him so that he shut it down immediately.
"I just wish we knew what the hell that whole thing was about," Kelly sighed into the private comm between the Spartans.
"I don't think we should pry," James suggested. "We already got in trouble."
"I felt like a green swabbie who missed a spot cleaning the floor," Will grumbled.
"Enough," John commanded. "The Resolute will jump soon. We should be in cryo before that."
"Yes, sir," his Spartans replied. They thanked the technicians – Halsey had drilled the importance of being nice to techies into them during basic training in the MJOLNIR, and all seven Spartans knew their lives were in their hands – and headed for the cryo bay, which had been notified of their plans and was waiting to receive them.
As the frosted glass cover closed over the Chief, the Spartan couldn't help but wonder, to himself, what he and his team had done. They were the UNSC's executioners, in one way, but they had never been so blatantly set against a team of Covenant prisoners. John knew, in a detached way, that Covenant prisoners didn't get ransomed; the Covenant didn't practice it, and the UNSC wasn't willing to release any aliens once it got their hands on them.
These questions faded, however, as the icy grip of cryo sleep took over. Just before John's eyes closed, however, he saw a familiar face outside the frosted glass; Captain De Blanc, looking down into his visor, and mouthing the words, I'm sorry.
~~Captain De Blanc's office, UNSC Resolute
Vice Admiral Parangosky didn't knock but came right in, causing the captain to look up sharply before standing and saluting. He, of course, had known of her presence, but she hadn't bothered speaking much to the man except giving orders. She disliked his attachment to the Spartan IIs, his concern for their welfare that surpassed the recommended limit, and his easy-going nature. Captains were the backbone of the UNSC now, and they needed to be ruthless.
Once again, Parangosky found herself wishing she had been able to secure the transfer of the Spartans to the Azkaban, where Captain Jameson would not have hesitated or questioned when told to set the prisoners down to be executed, though he had questioned why they had done it so quickly without giving him the opportunity to get information from the alien warriors.
"Captain De Blanc," Parangosky said in greeting, seating herself across from him and waving away his salute. "Sit."
He did so carefully, perching on his chair as though he would need to flee at any moment's notice. She made him nervous – good.
"To what do I owe the honor, Admiral?" De Blanc asked carefully. He was clearly controlling his hands, as they twitched, wanting to fidget.
"You failed to give the Spartans their full orders." Parangosky held the man's gaze steadily, and he broke it first, looking slightly over her left shoulder. "You had specific orders to tell them to disregard all standing orders. It was to be a simple termination exercise."
There was confusion on the captain's face. "Admiral, forgive me, I know ONI isn't going to divulge its entire plan to me, but from what I've seen of the tapes thus far, those Covenant soldiers weren't all there, mentally. You can see…"
"I know very well what you can see," Parangosky interrupted. "It is none of your concern. What was your concern was ensuring the Spartans did as they were told. The best trained dogs still need good orders." The captain bristled slightly at the comparison. "And those orders have to come from qualified personnel, captain," the Admiral continued without allowing the man to protest. "Am I clear?"
"Crystal, sir," the captain replied stiffly.
"Good." Admiral Parangosky rose and left, making her way back to her own quarters. They were by no means spacious by general standards, but for a ship-board cabin, they were more than adequate. There, she activated her personal AI, who had come directly from ONI with her orders.
"Wipe all logs and make it look like a Slipspace time anomaly delayed us," she ordered. The AI's avatar, a blue horse-like creature with a scorpion tail and four eyes on a human torso, appeared briefly.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied calmly. "Inserting necessary…"
"I don't need a play-by-play, Alex, just do it."
"Yes, Admiral. Working. Done. Anything else?"
Admiral Parangosky initiated the tiny AI's failsafe destruction code and the tiny chip in the desk before her fried instantly, killing the artificial intelligence and his records of the events. Now, the only evidence of the mission lived in the bodies of twenty black spheres.
Parangosky would see those spheres delivered to the ONI base on Earth, where technicians would use the footage to launch a whole new propaganda campaign.
With the losses suffered so far, fewer and fewer people were signing up the UNSC, at least of the grade the brass wanted. Orphans, those displaced by the war – they came in droves. But they were broken, often being set to menial tasks for psychological reasons. The UNSC needed to show victories, give glory to the soldiers.
As much as it burned the Vice Admiral to use the Spartan IIs to be the vehicle of that glory, it made sense – ever since the program had gone semi-public, with the UNSC finally acknowledging the near-robotic soldiers, public opinion polls indicated that Spartans were considered invincible. Showing the green-armored giants removing a significant team of Covenant – specialists would add in more aliens to the footage – without losing a single soldier would have incredible effects on morale and enlistment, ONI PR guys suggested.
Vice Admiral Parangosky leaned back in her ergonomic chair, letting the cushions cradle her. The ship jolted slightly as it jumped suddenly and she smiled briefly. They were returning to Earth, where she belonged – behind a desk, giving orders and seeing them carried out by competent men and women, not botched by stupid sentimentalities towards the UNSC's glorified fighting roosters.