Chapter Two
New Saint Etienne
It had been quiet for hours. Lucinda didn't trust it. She hunkered down beneath a rancid blanket of garbage and peered from a crack that had rusted through a corner of the dumpster. By her rough calculation, it had been her hiding place for almost two days. She couldn't really be sure, her watch wasn't working and all she had to go on was the rise and fall of the suns; but she wasn't sure if she could trust even that because she had fallen asleep a couple of times. She had also wet herself at one point, unable to hold it any longer and afraid to move too much, let alone leave the relative safety of the big trash can. Urine had left her skin raw but she was too tired and scared to feel humiliated. Lucinda closed her eyes against a swell of sadness, despair, and the feeling of being helplessly small and alone.
She had tried to return to the rally point; but having made it with the advancing sounds of war closing in she had rounded the familiar street corner to find the line of buildings no longer existed. A smoldering crater had stood in their place, glassed edges pushing against asphalt, tumbles of bricks and melted cars littering the roadway. A body lay prone in the street unmoving and half crusted in black char.
Panic had risen like a suffocating gloom. She had nowhere else to go and was armed only with her father's antique pistol. Sinking back into the shadows, Lucinda had tried to keep calm.
It didn't seem real.
As she had stood there staring a hand had clasped her shoulder and Lucinda had nearly screamed as she wheeled to see the bent form of Monsignor Jim and his granddaughter Della Belafonte hiding in the shadows beside her.
"The Covenant done show up," Jim had whispered in his brogue, pinching up his wrinkled face, "This change everything."
Della had been pale, her short blonde curls like a wild mane sprouting from her head. Her eyes wide and glassy. She had looked as if she were ready to pass out from fear.
"We go now from here," Jim had guffed.
Lucinda had nodded, a lump of tears knotted painfully in her throat, "What about the others?" she croaked, thinking of her mother and father, the rest of her family and her friends, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder as Jim led the girls down an ally.
"Tu es con," he said like an oath, "They all dead, love," he had answered without emotion.
Before she could find words to protest, frustration and anger rising up at his cavalier proclamation, two Grunts had waddled around a corner. The lights from their pistols washed over Monsignor Jim in the second before they opened fire.
Jim's withered old body locked up and he screamed, an ungodly sound tearing from his gaping mouth as his flesh was seared by green bolts of plasma. The smaller aliens had hooted to their unseen companions, "Over here!"
Della had turned and she and Lucinda had careened into each other in the panic to run. Heated green gasses streaked past them in blobs that lighted the walls and danced in hot succession at their feet. At some point, Della's scream had pierced through the fog of pure terror pushing Lucinda forward. She had ducked down a side ally, running until she collapsed, running until she couldn't hear anything and could barely see straight, running until she was completely alone.
The Covenant was everywhere and as Lucinda had slunk along the façade of an old apartment building she heard the high-pitched garble of Grunts followed by an Elite's bark. She hid behind the dumpster and waited for the aliens to amble away. As she had sat there plastered against the reeking garbage receptacle she had seen the green and purple glow of Covenant weapons from a nearby side street and climbed into the can to hide.
Snuggled beneath the layers of filth, daring at times not even to breathe, night had passed into day and back again. Lucinda had heard many patrols come around, and sometimes caught a glimpse of the aliens through the rusty hole in her hiding place. The last had come by what felt like hours before. Still, she could hear war raging in the distance from all around and every now and then a Covenant vehicle could be heard swooshing through the air nearby.
Though fear clutched at her gut with icy tendrils at the thought, she had to get out of there. She couldn't hide in the trash forever and a good time to try to escape and find someone who might have weapons or know what to do was looking as open as ever. Crawling as quietly as she could, Lucinda made her way to the flap of the dumpster and held her breath as she raised up to peer out.
Nothing.
She crawled quickly but quietly from the bin, hooking her small feet on the outer rails the trash trucks used to lift the unwieldy receptacle and landing on the litter covered ally floor as delicately as she could. She backed to the cool brick of the building to steel herself against trembling limbs and failing resolve.
She made it all the way up another block before hearing the chatter of Jackals and hiding beneath a pile of black trash bags and street garbage. The creatures' noise faded away but she kept her face turned to the ground and eyes clamped shut, willing herself to remain hidden. Even with her father's pistol biting into her hip from the waist of her pants Lucinda couldn't bring herself to take hold of the weapon. There would be no rising to the occasion…she was a kid, just wanting to hide until it was over.
Her whole life she had been prepared to fight the UNSC and attain freedom from the UEG and their distant rule; but she had never exchanged bullets with the enemy, never had to kill someone, and suddenly the risk of being seen by an overwhelming enemy seemed far greater than the reward of killing a few of them. She hated herself for feeling like a lost child, but that was exactly what she was.
A nearby rustle made her chest tighten as fear seized her tightly, "Psst," she heard the sound and opened her eyes, "Mademoiselle, ici vers le bas."
She knew some French out of necessity and followed the directions, and the sound of a male voice, to see a small basement window jiggle and swing inward with a faint squeak. A hand hurriedly waved through the opening for her to come closer. Relieved, she abandoned her hiding place and crawled on hands and knees, sitting on the ground and dangling her legs through the window. Several sets of hands grabbed at her and pulled her down into the darkness beyond.
Flagship Vengeant Shepherd
The prophet spoke at eloquent length about the blessed duty to destroy the humans and reclaim the Holy Relics. His melodious voice carried all throughout the legion to the crews which remained shipboard; those preparing to embark in the second wave; and those already victorious in the lengthy struggle to take and hold the primary city by force. His tone never wavered. Sitting atop his gravity throne on the bridge of the flagship, his words were to be an encouragement to the weary, a balm to the wounded, and a prattling annoyance to all.
Yipip slowly shifted from one stumpy leg to the other, his long Deacon's tunic swaying gently like the faithful caught up in the rapture of the Prophet's words. In truth, he could have recited the incantation himself and found it rather boring. Mostly, he had somewhere else he wanted to be and he was already running late. He was tired and his friend was waiting. But, the faithful were patient in the presence of their Prophet, or at least they pretended to be, and the Unggoy did his best to appear penitent and sincere as Humility offered up his sensuous, divine words.
When at last the invocation was complete, silence lingered after the Prophet had lifted his arms in praise to the Forerunners. He hailed the coming of the Great Journey, and called down blessing for the final attack on the humans and recovery of the relics. As the Legion Master came and knelt at the Prophets side, Yipip and all others not required were released to go about their duties. The Unggoy toddled down the halls in haste, dodging the remaining crew members, especially the leering Jiralhanae. He checked that no one was close by, peeping around corners so as to avoid being discovered before he lifted open a duct covering. Crawling in, the grate swung closed leaving nothing amiss to those who would later pass by. Yipip hoisted his tunic in an unflattering manner to make his travel easier and began to make his way through the familiar vent. Winding this way and that, the trek took him past many other passages and coverings. Some he had foiled to leave open for his sneaking and a few were convenient access paths used by the Huragok. Yipip arrived at a downward turn which gave him a view through its grate into a faintly lit cubby below.
Lifting the covering, the Unggoy dropped down carefully onto a pallet of ratty blankets and dirty pillows. The Legion Master's slave stirred, lifting his head from beneath a layer of blankets and turning his bruised, sleepy face to his friend. The Sangheili boy rubbed at his eyes and winced. Yipip flopped himself down on the shabby bed.
The Legion Master would be kept busy with the Prophet for hours and not return to his quarters until the final assault was well underway. They had plenty of time.
The Unggoy took his friends mandibles in his chubby hands and looked the Sangheili's face over carefully. One of the slave's eyes was nearly swollen shut and a vessel had burst on his cheek leaving a dark, puddled mark. Blood had oozed through and dried to the wound in a thin crust.
Releasing the small Sangheili's face, the Deacon removed a bundle from the folds of his tunic. It had become his custom to bring along various salves and healing ointments, a few bandages, and a tiny ration of food.
The Deacon passed the boy a wedge of thick, pilfered wafer and the Sangheili gnawed at it eagerly. Yipip had taken it as part of his duty to see to the slave's welfare when he found time away from official ministry. In specific terms, he found the slave's company more enjoyable than any other in the legion. The boy's voice was soft, not harsh and gravely like the other Sangheili. Unlike the remainder of the crew, he was not mean spirited. No, more than that, he was nice to Yipip. The slave's station was lesser even than the Deacon's, though susceptible only to the abuse of his master where the holy man took lumps from practically everyone, even the Kig-Yar. Besides, Yipip was certain the Legion Master was not feeding him properly. It wasn't bad enough the Shangheili leader was cruel, often beating the slave for no infraction at all, but he didn't even see to the boy's care as one would a dog.
Finished with the ration, the slave sat obediently while his wounds were tended to. Yipip's beady eyes traveled the battered face as he worked, dabbing away the crust of blood and smearing the wound with a healing balm. It was cool and tingly on the abused flesh. The Deacon returned his things to the bundle and tucked it back beneath his tunic, retrieving a worn book from a pouch on his hidden belt. The Sangheili boy's pale yellow eyes lighted with excitement as he arranged the bedding into a nest and snuggled in, pulling a thin blanket over his slim shoulders.
This was the best part of his day. The part when his friend would come with extra food and make his hurts stop. Sometimes, when his master was sleeping or away, they would play games in his tiny room, or Yipip would tell him stories about his home planet and try to teach him to read. But, this evening it was late and there would be no time for games or lessons. The Deacon would read a short story from the old book and the two of them would sleep curled together for a few hours and the slave would get to feel safe and loved for a small time before the Unggoy had to return to his duties about the ship.
The dropship hangar smelled pungently of the stench of Jiralhanae. Bodily filth and aromas generally suggesting poor attention to hygiene, those were the smells that assaulted 'Koridee's nose as he made his way to the dropship and his file. Even though all of the Jiralhanae who would be making the surface attack had been sent cycles before, the hangar still reeked of their presence. The stench choked the Stealth Major just as surely as the anger that welled up at what the smell brought to memory. That such beasts had taken the place of Sangheili during the initial assault was beyond degrading.
Torsch was a devout man, strong in his conviction about the purity of the Great Journey. Like most Sangheili who had accepted the faith, he generally held his peace in the belief that the San'Shyuum perverted their position with the gods. Such disgraceful self-righteousness had befallen men of religion for eons, it was a thing to be endured with the hopes that not all were so corrupted. Still, his anger and frustration had simmered in the many, many hours as he waited for word to finally return that the city had been taken. This wrath flashed over as he rounded the dropship and saw the Deacon about his blessing of the troops.
The Sangheili snarled and gave the small holy man a hearty kick, sending the Unggoy tumbling and squealing across the deck.
That was another thing: the San'Shyuum saw lazy miscreants as preachers of the faith.
'Koridee's men looked at him with detached expressions at this outburst, all well accustomed to his volatile temperament.
With a deep breath, Major 'Koridee straightened to his full height of just over seven feet, which was not comfortable given Sangheili's natural posture. He walked the line of his men addressing each with simple eye contact as a measure to reassure himself and gather his bearing now that some of his irritation had been spent.
Everyone before him was a stealth soldier. All highly capable men clad in black and burgundy armor and armed with standard weapons and tools of the position. It was their duty to push past the line of war and follow mapping coordinates to the hidden relics. His previous reservations aside, 'Koridee's faith in the Journey was strong. It was no less infuriating, but he had come to accept the presence of the Jiralhanae as simply a temporary test of conviction.
New Saint Etienne/ Outside Fort Champlain
The Covenant had torn the city apart. Blood and guts and bodies and charred remnants were everywhere. The attack had come from all sides and lasted for days before an eerie silence had blanketed the battered and burned city and townships. A distant skirmish would peal across the growing dark and be put down with frightening swiftness. A dog would howl or a scream might ring out, but otherwise the Covies had made good on stamping the humans into submission, driving them into hiding, taking key locations, and slaughtering any who tried to stand in their way.
Amy leaned against a window frame looking out at the outline of buildings in the distance. Fires had burned themselves to smoldering embers that trailed smoke into the darkening night. Every now and then she could just catch the wink of a Covenant weapon somewhere in the distance on a rooftop or through a window. She was two blocks away from Fort Champlain but felt no closer than she had been when the crackling and booming of slipspace ruptures jerked her from bed.
It felt like months ago.
Letting the curtain fall back, Amy winced and muttered a curse against a nauseating wave of pain as she rolled along the wall and propped herself away from the window.
In relative terms, she was seriously lucky. In the frantic struggle to make it from her civilian apartment to the Army installation, the Sergeant First Class had come upon several other soldiers and they had tried to make a legitimate run at getting to post. Not all of them made it this close.
The streets had been thronged with civilians grabbing at the soldiers and begging for help: chaotic masses asking what to do, how to get to the evac station, why the raid sirens weren't going off, what had happened to the power grid, why vehicles were suddenly dead and useless.
Amy didn't know what to tell them, she was just following training: training that said to get her ass to where the weapons and ammo were.
No matter how hostile the local relations had been with the governing body, everyone seemed determined the UNSC members had the answer and had dogged their heels.
Like magnets, as more soldiers made their way into the street they collected together in groups and held close even when Covenant troops began tearing through the civilians. Dropping into alleyways they did their best to fend off the aliens as utter carnage was wrought in the city streets. The stench of burning flesh and the shrill screams of doomed people permeated every sense as the hooting and roaring and worting of the enemy seemed to overcome even the sound of weapon's fire.
A few armed civilians and some rebel groups made a good stand with the soldiers, but in the end, it was only Amy and a green private who had been left to take refuge in a crumbling building as day waned into night, again.
Cory Trice was propped sitting against the wall in the corner, holding a Covenant rifle like a child would a stuffed animal, a line of drool trailing from his open mouth. He looked as rag-tag as Amy did. Like practically everyone else who had been taken by surprise, he was in a mish-mash of civilian clothes and battle uniform, with an arm resting on his assault helmet and strategic bits of body armor still in place over battle dress pants and a singed gray t-shirt.
In her haste to haul ass from her apartment, Amy had jumped into a rumpled pair of tac pants and managed to throw only her armor vest over the sheer silk top she had worn to bed. Boots and helmet were all she managed to add to the clothing before retrieving her personal rifle and cramming every extra loaded mag she could find into her pockets then scurrying out to the street.
In the end, it was the silk camisole that had done her in. She had almost made it round the brick corner of a storefront into an ally, but a well aimed shot from a plasma rifle had sizzled past, ghosting the unarmored curve of her waist below her tac vest and melting the fabric to the flesh from below her ribcage to the top curve of her hip. Despite how much the burn stung; or how dirty the wound probably was; or how she could feel the ooze of her own damaged skin and fluids from ruptured blisters gumming the fabric at the waist of her pants, that was the least of her present concerns.
The creepy stillness which had grown with the drawing night was beyond unsettling and in it Amy felt she could practically see the minutes tick painfully by as panic ebbed and rose in alternate measures. She could tell herself a thousand times she needed to kick Trice from his peaceful slumber so they could get a move on, but that didn't change the fact that none of the missiles from Nantes Arsenal had launched, or the fact that the comms systems in both of their assault helmets were, and had been, as quiet as death.
Her only guess was that the Covies had gotten wise and hit the area with an EMP and wiped all power and the colonial AI. That meant there had probably been no distress call. And, even if there had been, it could take weeks, or more likely months, for backup to arrive. Ambrosia II was on its own and now, with the initial attack having reached a lull, the Covies would sweep in anticipating finding Forerunner artifacts. When they didn't find any the planet would get glassed into oblivion just like all the others before it. The people could keep fighting but the only things standing between them and certain death were five 10 ton Nassau surface to space missiles; and they weren't going anywhere without an AI or electricity to run the manual launch sequence and the damn codes.
At best, Amy knew that no matter what she did in the next few days or hours she would just live to die in the planet's eventual glassing.
It could have been worse, she supposed. Huddled in another room of the now dilapidated row house was a pair of armed civilians who had come along just before dusk. An older woman called Grand-mama Larouche, who didn't speak a word of English, and her massively pregnant granddaughter, Penny. They were the single most armed civilians Amy had come across and she couldn't help but wonder if they were in fact rebels or had raided a rebel safe house. She didn't care, having civvies along would slow them down but she couldn't just let….aww, hell, who was she kidding, they weren't going anywhere but to glassy graves.
The one Amy felt the worst for was Penny. The young black woman was almost six months pregnant with twins she would never see or hold. In light of that, Amy didn't feel she had much in her own life worth missing. She had been raised by her grandparents when the courts awarded them custody but they were both dead. There had been few men in her life and none worth wasting the brain power to think about. She had no kids, no family she claimed, she had thought about getting a cat once, but had settled for a plant she promptly killed…and her career was about to die with her so, that was pretty much it. While Private Trice continued to snooze the last hours of his life away and Grand-mama Larouche read passages from an old paper Bible aloud to Penny in the other room, all Amy had to comfort her was personal emptiness and the memory of a dead houseplant.