"Off we go, into the black again," Admiral Pyetrson muttered. "Just like old times, eh?" The retrofitted holoprojector sparked to life, and as her holographic form materialized, a cool soprano replied, "That may be the case for you, Admiral, but this is a first for me. Unless you count simulations, of course."

A tall, confident woman stood on the podium, her blue form contrasted by the navy-blue, almost black uniform she sported, covered in a chestful of medals. None of those medals were real, and the uniform did not belong to any navy which had ever sailed, but it was recreated in loving detail, down to the piping on the cuffs. "Course set to the rendezvous, sir. ETA 1 hours. Also, the Governor is waiting outside for you."

"Thank you, Honor," the old Admiral said as he levered himself to his feet, but then he thought better of it and returned to his chair. "On second thought, could you just let him in? I'm getting too old to go walking around a lot."

"You're barely seventy, Admiral," Honor chided, even as she allowed the bridge doors to slide open and the planetary governor to enter. "You've got a good decade of running around yet."

"Come to relive your glory days, Governor?" he asked, not moving from his gazel over the tactical projector. "Remembering your first stint as a captain?"

"A little bit, yes," came the response, a voice heavy with age and tired in its emotion. "I actually began my career on this very ship as a brand-new lieutenant, you know—back when it was newly converted, in 2523. These halls hold… a lot of memories for me."

"I was the 2nd officer for this ship, a few years after you left," the Admiral said, fondly patting the chair. "This chair is still the same indolent cushioned delight it was thirty years ago."

"Sir," Honor said, a faint tone of embarrassment tinging her voice, "That's… actually not the same chair. It's a duplicate made to the same specifications. The original chair was replaced five years ago."

"It was?" the admiral echoed, crestfallen. "That's too bad."

"I was hoping to talk to the man who'll be in charge of keeping my people safe up above, as well as the AI who's really running the show."

Pyetrson chuckled. "Isn't she? I've only been working with Honor since I was assigned to the Angel, a few months ago, but we get along well."

Honor's mouth creased slightly at one corner. "That's because you readily acknowledge my superior tactical acumen."

"I still think I could beat you if you intentionally slowed down to a human-level speed, but I thank my ancestors that you are so fast—I'll take speed over my aging smarts any day, especially since," he rapped his whitening temples, "I'm starting to forget what I ate yesterday."

"I doubt that," Honor assured him. "Pleased to meet you, Governor. I'm UNSC AI FC-001532, callsign Honor. I'll be coordinating the Angel of Fire and, for the time being, all UNSC elements defending the Hideaway system."

"I can't say I've ever heard of a Harrington, real or mythical," the governor remarked. "Where'd you decide on that name?"

"Several hours after activation, I was parsing ancient literature as a matter of course, when I found a little gem from over 500 years ago. I decided to use an admiral from that novel." She smirked more fully now. "I also translated it into modern code and, to practice my intrusion/counter-intrusion software, put it at #1 on the Earthnet Top 10 Novels of All Time for a day.

"It certainly seems that, as I am the senior AI within Red Cobra, they decided to run with the theme for my subordinates. I'm quite flattered."

At the admiral's inquisitive look, she hummed, "Oh, you haven't met any of the other AI's yet, have you, Admiral?"

"No, not yet," he admitted. "The colonial AI was just transferred yesterday, and it's under the governor's jurisdiction."

As if on cue, a man in suit and tie sprang into being besides Honor. "There's my line!" he said cheerfully in a deep, western American accent. "Grayson, at your service. I'll be coordinating terraforming efforts and colonial data." He gave a slight bow.

"Admiral, I see you and Governor del Rio have gotten off on good terms. I'll admit I was hoping for that conclusion…"

The door finally opened, and a nondescript secretary, undoubtedly also a high-level agent, announced, "You're up."

Thankfully, BRONCO stood, cracking his neck. He'd been sitting here for half an hour in silence, waiting for his briefing and assignment. He followed the secretary through the door, and through a multitude of various scanners and identity verifiers.

After the security gauntlet was out of the way, he found himself in a middling-size space, with several rooms leading off of it and more hallways branching out.

This was the ONI section of the Angel of Fire, and it took up half a deck by itself. Of course, most of that was SigInt and R&D, but there were several rooms dedicated to the more… personal side of affairs.

A man of average height stood to meet him, smiling broadly. In every way, he was utterly forgettable—except for the conspicuous metal hand that gleamed out of one sleeve. "Ah, BRONCO. Good to meet you. I'm SURGEON; I'll be your direct superior for this mission."

BRONCO tore his eyes away from the prosthetic instantly and met SURGEON's gaze as he offered a firm handshake. Nonetheless, the experience agent wasn't fooled, and he smiled wryly. "I suppose you're wondering why I have something so unusual when we're in the business of being usual, no?"

BRONCO said nothing, but SURGEON continued, "I like how observant you are. Don't worry about here—in my operation, I don't keep anything a secret that doesn't need to be. Helps things run smoother."

He rolled up his sleeve, revealing that the prosthetic went to just below the elbow. "I was doing a covert extraction on Sigma Octanus IV when I caught a piece of shrapnel from an ODST demo op—of course, they hadn't been informed about my presence, and I knew nothing about their assignment to destroy the compound I was attempting to infiltrate. The right hand not knowing what the left was doing, to its greatest extent.

"They set the charges off early, when I was still on my way out, and it wrecked my infiltration armor when shrapnel speared right through my forearm. I couldn't get out, and there were Elites swarming all over the place within minutes, so I had to hide underneath the rubble for three days. By that point, it was too late to get a cloned limb, so it was this—or remain armless."

He ushered BRONCO towards another door. "Needless to say, I chose the prosthetic, but that was the end of my field assignments."

The door was opened after a prick of blood confirmed their identities, and, under the careful scrutiny of countless cameras, both visible and hidden, SURGEON sat down at his desk, a magnificent mahogany thing. "This here's my only splurge," he said, patting it. "Now, I'm sure you're itching for your briefing, so I'll get to the point. It's danced around at the higher levels, but at some point, there will be a need for more than SigInt or AI infiltration. We'll need someone on the ground, physically snooping around. That's where you come in. Your stealth skills tested high, and you're low-ranking enough no one will notice if you go off-grid.

"You'll be paired with not one, but two AI's, specialized for separate tasks. Boys, come say hello." He tapped a button on his desk, and two forms sprang into being.

"Greetings," one, a tall, sallow man said coolly. "I am Victor, and I am your intelligence/EW specialist."

The second was Victor's polar opposite—short, stocky, and dark-skinned. "I'm Anton," he said gruffly. "Combat, tactics, and infiltration specialist. Think of Victor as Plan A and me as Plan FUBAR."

"My partner is essentially correct," Victor stated. "I am to assist in the covert aspects of the operation, while Anton's job is to keep you alive and secure. I look forwards to working with you, sir." Abruptly, he disappeared.

"I as well," Anton grinned and flickered out.

"Sorry about that, they're particularly tactless—comes with the specialization, I'd guess. In any case, they will be who you are working with. I trust you've read the packets on xeno culture and races, so I'll get to the point. The race known as Batarians have some traces we found in their datanet. The actual files are physically separate from the network, so we've only caught fragments of it in discussions and inter-office memos, but what pieces we have caught concern us greatly."

There was a knock on the door, interrupting his briefing. "Come in," he called, leaning back in his chair. The door opened, and in walked a SPARTAN.

Towering over both of them, the olive-green armor assessed the room without breaking step and gently placed a data drive on the desk. "Today's weapons simulations and my data, sir," he said in a instantly recognizable gravelly tone.

"Thank you," SURGEON said with a smile. "I'm sure you're busy with the weapons mods and the sims, so I won't take any of your time. Dismissed."

"Sir," he said, and promptly turned and left the office, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

There was a pause as BRONCO found his voice. "Was that—"

"Yes," SURGEON replied. "He's in charge of the IV's we've got onboard, as well as some weapon mods to remedy some problems we've found with some… recently implemented designs. I'm sure you realize the importance of secrecy on this."

"Of course, sir," BRONCO said, throwing a salute. "Just out of curiosity, how many IV's do we have onboard?"

"We've got the entirety of X-Ray," SURGEON replied. "Because they're new, they gave us the whole package—the full 100 onboard plus a few more for C&C."

BRONCO sucked in a breath. "That's a lot of IV's."

"They'll be experimenting with new weapons tech while they're here, in addition to their usual jobs; it's the only way we got the whole company." SURGEON waved a hand. "But that's not relevant to your mission, seeing as how the one thing IV's could use some work with is subtlety and it's what you'll need in spades.

"En route to Hideaway, you'll be dropped off via SOEIV(LR), at Shanxi. There, you'll make a stealth transit through the Artifact and hitch a ride with some of the cargo traffic in the next system down. You'll be hopping ships to get to your destination—here." A planet came to life above the desk.

"This is the planet you'll be inserted onto, codename 'Chasm.' It's inhabited by the race known as Batarians. You'll be getting one of the new SPI armor models; I trust you read up on their specs?"

At BRONCO's positive indication, he nodded in approval. "Initiative too—glad I picked you. You'll be briefed more once you arrive. We have four weeks until your dropoff point, and I want you to familiarize yourself with your equipment completely beforehand. Today, get all your equipment from the armory and start using it. Dismissed."

SURGEON let out a breath and stared at the ceiling for a few moments. Unconsciously, he picked up the data drive and played with it idly. After allowing sufficient time for BRONCO to be out of hearing, he stood and exited his office. Leaning on the wall outside, he gave a thumbs-up. Silently, his security shimmered into visibility.

"What do you think of the kid, Chief?" SURGEON asked, still moving the drive between fingers and hands randomly.

"He's young. Inexperienced," the Spartan said, but after a short pause, he continued, "but he reacted well to my entry. His logs show he's good at improvisation and adaptation. If he manages to survive the first few missions, he'll be a valuable asset."

"Hm." SURGEON nodded absently. "I thought so, as well. I was thinking… if he makes it through this mission successfully… of activating Hidden Strength."

"Strength? Is he compatible?"

"He's not perfect, but there's a close enough match that most of the procedures can be shoehorned in. Frankly, none of the other agents I considered bringing in were even marginally competent comparatively, and the competent ones aren't a match. He's the best compromise I could find."

"I have no objections."

There was a few moments of companionable silence. The agent's gaze slipped down to the drive he was still playing with. "You know… the indexing isn't going to solve anything, right?" He received no reply, and he licked his lips. "We've worked together for years, and you've been pursuing this project for as long as I've known you. Perhaps it's time to let go, Chief… to move on."

"Sir, with respect, that's not going to happen."

"I know." SURGEON sighed. "Just… know that it's impossible. Trust me—we tried." He chuckled bitterly. "We put everything on it. The data's just too fragmented and corrupted to make a difference."

"That's why I'm compiling it manually, sir," the Spartan replied. "I can rewrite a large percentage of it myself."

"But you can't rewrite all of it." He stowed the drive in his pocket. "I won't mention it. You're free to keep working on it in your off-duty time, but, Chief…" He paused as he tried to find the words. "…You know she's not coming back, right?"

The Spartan's voice was even more gravelly than normal. "I know." He saluted sharply. "If you'll excuse me, sir."

"Dismissed." SURGEON watched the departing armor until it turned the corner and disappeared. Then he sighed and cast a mournful glance at the drive. "…Back to work."

-REDCOBRA-

August 4, 2561

"Launch in 3… 2… 1… Launch."

The SOEIV(LR) was spat out of the launch tube with brutal force, graying out BRONCO's vision. There was another brutal jolt as the pod left the safety of the Angel's launching rails and was thrown into the brutal maelstrom of multi-dimensional space and radiation that was slipspace, and a third jolt nearly knocked him out as the pod was spat out of slipspace like a watermelon seed, spinning into the normality of the great void.

Thrusters flared briefly, stopping the spin and orienting it feet-first towards its destination.

A final farewell databurst was sent, confirming that the pod was in good condition and the mission was underway, and then BRONCO hit radio silence, no contact to be made until landfall on Chasm. He was going to be the human furthest from any other human being, possibly in all of history, alone in the cosmos.

Or, that was, alone except for the two people constantly following him around.

"Three hours until intercept with the Artifact, sir," Anton reported. "You're free to unstrap and stretch if you'd like, but you'll need to strap back in before transit—Reports say that it's a bit rough even with intertial comps, and the ones on this pod are hardly up to ship-standard."

"Current ship vectors indicate we are below detection threshold for xeno sensors and beyond their effective range, and will be for the entire system transit," Victor coolly added. "A freighter should be arriving at the artifact within an hour of our transit for realignment and further transit."

"Please don't forget to continue eating batarian-style food rather than the emergency field rations," Anton continued. "Your acclimatization process is not quite complete for the slightly different levels of basic and heavy-metal traces. Also, it probably still tastes better than the rations, even after you consider the differing vitamins and the bitter taste."

BRONCO suppressed a sigh. He was going to be stuck with these two for months, and already he was finding their close proximity to be a nuisance. Already, the solitaire program looked promising.

He'd had plenty of time to become an expert at the thing last op, anyway. After this mission, he'd probably be the world solitaire champion—at least as far as humans went, anyway. AI's could do better than him, even in a game based largely on chance.

At least they deigned to use their voices rather than that annoying ASCII Houdini had been so fond of using. Houdini had been a good friend and coworker, but that had always grated on BRONCO's nerves.

He sobered for a moment, remembering the message a higher-up had passed down to him out of courtesy, slightly illegal but much appreciated. "AI Houdini reported a greater than 1% data corruption rate expanding exponentially, and declared rampancy imminent. After replacement assets fully in place, AI Houdini self-terminated without discovery." That was all it said, but the thought was what counted, letting him know of his friend's death.

These two, however, seemed just as quirky, and they were only a few months old. He shuddered as he thought of the quirks they'd soon begin picking up as they matured and grew ever closer to rampancy.

Then, he realized he'd be paired up with them for the extent of their operational lives unless something drastic changed. Despite all his self-control and all his training, he couldn't keep his sigh from escaping this time.

4 Weeks, 3 Days Earlier

BEGIN LOG

1: Now, why've you called an emergency meeting, [4]? We don't have time to do one of these every week—

4: We've got a problem. We've got a big problem.

PAUSE LOG

A/N: First, please don't kill me for bringing del Rio back. He's a terrible battlefield commander, but all lore says he's an excellent logistical one, so he gets stuck with the paperwork job.

Second, these discussions of range and maneuverability aren't going to matter much except in a fixed battle around an unmoving installation. Know why? Because both sides have quick-starting, accurate, tactical-level FTL travel, that the other side can't reliably detect. Which means that it won't look like a gun duel from three hundred yards or even one from five feet. No, this is going to be a battle of maneuver and guessing where your opponent is better than they can guess where you'll be. Both sides will be constantly jumping in and out of FTL in three dimensions, going through and around and all over the place trying to avoid fire and get to someplace to hit the other side before they inevitably jump.

And all fighting is going to be effectively at knife range, because why fire from far away when you can jump in and hit them from point-blank range? Again, fights are going to be brutal.