Chapter 7

The Helljumpers maintained a strenuous regime, even during these times of peace. A good six hours a day was dedicated to training. Particularly close quarters combat. The idea that a human could survive an intimate encounter with a Brute was unheard of years ago, but humans were adaptable creatures. Training consisted of evasion, dodging, and cardio endurance. Very little of what would be thought of as combat, mostly get away, get out of reach, and flee to a safe distance. Meele combat still carried the stigma of extremely high mortality, but a few soldiers had managed to dodge the heavy hammers raining down from the sky, and escape with their life.

"It's a style I came up with, just modified CQC really, the stuff they teach in basic," the colonel explained as he demonstrated how to get out of a two handed strangle hold. An hour or two ago, Kimber had come down with a fitful cough, and rubbed her throat in the hopes of easing the pain. The extensive makeup had smeared on her hand, and Kalashnikov noticed the purple welts. He questioned her of course, how she received such wounds, and she hadn't lied by saying she had angered an Elite who showed his dominance by choking her for a few moments. He made sure not to grip so tightly that that she may be in danger, but he did hold her tight. "The Brutes aren't going to be gentle," he had explained.

"Put both hands over your head, then slide them down so the wrist is caught under your arm. It works alright on Elites, a Brute's arm is pretty thick, but try it just the same, better than doing nothing. If their choking you, they probably aren't putting all their focus on you. You should be able to slip away. Then you run like hell, got that?"

"You mean my four foot nine frame shouldn't duke it out with King Kong Jr.?"

Kalashnikov chuckled, and pulled one of the dozens of survival knives from his vest, taking the blade and passing it to Kimber. She had never been very good with knives, but took it and looked it over as if she were an expert. "If you need to stab them, don't aim for the torso. Too much muscle and fat, it's like giving a paper cut. I wouldn't be surprised if the knife gets caught in their fur. Face would be good, they have something like our jugular veins just under the chin. But I doubt anyone could reach all the way up there, and it's not like they won't be guarding. Aim for the foot. Drop to your knees like you're begging for mercy, and stab them just up and to the side of the big toe. Hurts like hell, plus they'll think twice about bothering to chase you down when their foot is throbbing."

"You ever face down a Brute?"

"No, during the raids, we keep our distance. We've got a few men who pack salt buckshots in case the Brutes get through the hail of rifle fire. A face full of it will stun one, even when berserking. That's how we were able to take the chieftan alive. Went at it with an Elite once."

"When?"

"Sometime during the war. Didn't end too well. Four broken ribs, a concussion, right arm dislocated, broken leg and foot, and lost my left hand." He rolled up his sleeve to show the scar where the doctors and surgeons had reattached the limb, just to prove he wasn't lying. "He must have thought I was dead. He cut off my arm and I just passed out. I didn't bleed out only because the energy blades cauterized the wound. Lucky me."

"Yes lucky you!"

"You ever wonder why we lived and others didn't? Why that Elite killed my whole squad but passed over me?"

Kimber shrugged. "No, I figure that keeps me sane."

"I've thought about it. Why didn't that Elite make sure? A simple fluke? Maybe his boss called him off to other duty so he didn't have a chance to make sure everyone was dead. Maybe he was just bored and doing a half assed job. Maybe he thought I was dead. I should have been dead, people die for less. Call me narcissistic, but I do believe I was spared for a reason, by fate or divinity."

"What reason would that be?"

The colonel thought to himself, carefully, choosing his words as if they were a weapon he would be taking into the heat of battle. "Too make sure humanity is never, ever on the losing end of a war again." He turned and walked to his desk. "Speaking of which, would you like to see something?"

Kimber shrugged.

He pulled out a few large pieces of paper, about three feet by four feet, spreading them on his desk, then putting a stapler and a mug that said World's Greatest Dad at the sides to keep it from rolling up. They were immediately identified as blueprints: the white sketches contrasting sharply on the azure paper. "I'm trying to figure out a way to put a bayonet onto the bottom of our assault rifles. I got the idea from the Brute's weapon. Course, what we're up against, I doubt any of us have the muscle to stab through them with a normal bayonet. So I'm trying to figure out a way to put a chainsaw on."

Kimber lifted an eyebrow. "You serious?"

"It's a great idea if I can make it work. The Brute comes charging forward and I dodge, then rev it up and cut them to quivering little bits. But there are problems with the weight, how to power it, how to activate it. If only I can get it to work. You know my great, great, great ancestor, he was a weapons designer. He changed the face of warfare. I guess it's in my blood."

---

"You hear anything?"

Savage looked up from his video game, his thumbs still moving in rehearsed motions, and the assorted beeps and boops that accompanied the game still sounding off. His attention turned back to the game as he talked. "None of the cameras work."

"What do you mean?" She pointed to one of the cameras that hung from the far right corner, the red light beneath it blinking rhythmically.

"Yep, that's not plugged in to anything. If they were doing something of a questionable nature, I guess they don't want a record of it. But if anyone, like us, comes by, we'll see the lights blinking and figure everything is just dandy."

"Or?" she asked. "There is some sort of logical explanation right?"

"None that I can think of?"

"How bout you?" she asked of Wesson.

"No one has said anything. I guess we aren't lucky enough for some silver tongued Helljumper to mention that they targeted the Blameless Grace and then killed everyone on board. But everyone seems to have war trophies in their rooms: Needlers, those sniper rifle things the Jackals love so much. I even saw one of the medics at the firing range using a Plasma Rifle. Not to mention everyone, at all times, is armed. The cooks and engineers, the non-combatants, they've all got magnums or SMGs on their belt."

She sighed, thinking to herself, rationalizing. "The colonel admitted to attacking some Brutes. Would make sense that they have some of their weapons, he's got a dozen weapons on his walls. And the Covenant doesn't take prisoners. Most people would rather go down fighting. There is no such thing as noncombatants in this war."

It was Savage who spoke up next. "I know that you and the colonel go way back, but I'm starting to think that the shipmaster is right. I mean, it's getting harder and harder to say that he's wrong."

"Where's Colt," she asked, eager to change the subject.

"In his room, drinking."

"Go talk to him. Or at least make sure he's not sleeping on his back."

Wesson nodded, saluted, and left.

"You feeling alright?" Savage asked.

"It can't be Greg," she muttered.

"We all lost people in the war. For a long time, all I wanted was to kill them all. I still want to kill them all. I mean, that temptation is there for all of us."

"It can't be Greg," she repeated.

---

Even Colonel Kalashnikov had to admire the craftsmanship that the Elites put into their weapons. The exact science behind their blades was still a mystery, how the energy just burst forth from the handle and solidified, sharp and hot enough to burn any it touched, and yet held its sword like shape, not expanding infinitely out. Like a cutting torch he supposed. How it burned when it touched.

He heard a footstep, and he turned, but was surprised to see no one standing in the threshold of his door. No one in the corner. No one on his bed. A trick of the mind perhaps? He was a bit tired, the stress and tedium of the patrols may have been beating down on him. No, he knew better, and stretched his hand across his desk to set off the alarm, but something took firm hold of him by the wrist and yanked him away. His feet left the ground and he was lifted up. The air before him swirled, as it did during a heat wave, and he found himself looking into the eyes of an Elite, a moment before a grip found his throat.

"Fuck you," he spat, as the Elite began to squeeze.

Both arms over the head, then snapping them down. Perhaps it would have worked, had this Elite's attention wondered to other things, or if he were engaged with others. But this Elite stared directly at him, mutilated face unflinching, taking in every moment of his death. He tried to break the grip again, but he was too strong.

---

Kimber's pace was quick as she hurried to Kalashnikov's personal quarters. The last thing she wanted was to seem suspicious to any of the soldiers, but she also wanted to get there as soon as possible. Everything was falling into place, reinforcing her already burning suspicions. No matter what she told herself, the words were always there.

Especially what the Brute had said. Perhaps he was lying, but why? What did he have to gain? She hadn't offered freedom should he tell her what she wanted to hear. In fact he had no way of knowing that she was suspicious at all. For all he knew, she was one of the soldiers who had killed his kin. And maybe there was a perfectly rational explanation as to what Savage had learned.

She walked into the colonel's room without knocking, and froze when she saw the half-jawed Elite holding Kalashnikov off the ground by the throat, Kalashnikov squirming and twisting like kitten. The shipmaster noticed her as well, looked towards her, and wondered what she would do. Instinct over took any reason and she drew her pistol and fired four precise bullets into the shipmaster's helmet and forearm, though she aimed only for the spots that were well covered by armor. He dropped Kalashnikov, and turned his attention to Kimber, who held her weapon in a defensive manner before her, but didn't fire any more shots. Attention now focused, there was no way she could defend against him. He could cross the room in a single pounce and fall upon her before she even pulled the trigger. But he seemed hesitant, just staring at her, trying to connect bullet shots in his armor and the smoking gun in her quivering hand.

It had been a mistake to turn his attention away from Kalashnikov, who charged forward and crashed into the Elite, tackling him out the door and into the hallway. Rtas was caught off balance, and fell, smacking into the hallway's wall, making a large dent by his weight. But he quickly regained his composure, and swatted the human away.

Kalashnikov grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall as the Elite approached. The burst of white mist distorted his vision to the point that the colonel could charge over and smash the extinguisher in the chest. Another blow, using the extinguisher's full momentum, swinging it with the ease of a child playing with a yo-yo, into the Elite's jaw and knocking him on his back. Lifting the fire extinguisher above his head, the colonel dropped it. A pool of drool began to ooze out from the missing half of the shipmaster's face.

"I want to know how he got onto my ship without my knowing." Kalashnikov set down the extinguisher, suddenly feeling light headed. He leaned against the wall, holding himself, dizzy. "Go," he shouted to a private, who gave a quick salute before scurrying off to fulfill his orders.

"You should sit down," Kimber said kindly. "I've been choked by an Elite before. There's no telling how long your brain was without oxygen. Even a few moments can do some damage."

"Thank you so much for your concern," he said lovingly. "But I'm fine, and how an Elite could get onto my ship is much more important. I am just thankful that he came after me first. If any man had fallen to his hand, I would never forgive myself. I am not surprised they would send an assassin. Do you know who that was? The shipmaster of the Shadow of Intent. The real question is, why would the Elites send such a soldier as him? I think I should be flattered."

"Why are you not surprised they would send an assassin?"

"We cannot trust them, Nicole. Not by any means. Hannibal ad portas. They will tolerate us as long as we don't set our sights too high, but the moment that we over step whatever boundary they have drawn in the sand, they will come down upon us with the wrath of god, for no reason at all."

"Lex talionis," she countered under her breath.

This is kind of a transitional chapter, meant to shift the tone into phase two of the story. Hope you liked it.