Author's note: I had Ch. 9 and 10 in the wings for about a week (so I have a new three-chapter set for you all starting with 9), had to get Ch. 11 up with 'em though. I didn't think that big of a question mark was cool to leave off on. All I can say is two things: Thank Heaven for Thanksgiving holiday and GO SEAHAWKS! Also, I'd like to thank Dan Abnett for the idea here (not that he'll ever know this existed, haha).

Chapter 11

Infirmary on the Alliance Base, New Istanbul colony outskirts, Canyon 12

"How're you feeling?"

Corporal Daniel Fernham stirred feebly at Private Jackson's voice.

"Pretty good, yourself?" he groaned.

Helena laughed, shifting in her bedside chair.

"No, really. How're you doing? What'd the medics say?"

"You probably don't want to know."

"I do."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

Fernham sighed. He liked the Private – she reminded him of his own sister. But she could be very incessant on occasion. He found it annoying.

"Infection."

Jackson was quiet for a while.

"How bad?"

"They gave me antibiotics, but they're not sure whether they're working."

"Why not?"

"Do I look like a med-" Fernham's voice broke down into a series of violent coughs. His whole body shook violently, shaking the bed back and forth. Helena sat bolt upright, calling for a medic. A uniformed orderly rushed over, pressing the corporal down into the bed. He pressed an injector into Fernham's neck and depressed the plunger. The corporal's cough subsided, but flecks of blood remained on his lips. The orderly scanned Fernham with his omnitool quickly, peering closely at the results.

"Corporal, how are you feeling now?" asked the medical assistant.

"The same damn question over and over again. How do you think I feel?"

The orderly chuckled.

"Chief Medic Bronsow will be along shortly. Don't die on us, corporal."

There was an awkward silence between Fernham and Jackson as the orderly left. Daniel looked outside. He narrowed his eyes as he saw a huge figure in armor right outside the infirmary.

"So…who are they, again?"

Jackson twisted around in her seat and peered outside as well. The figure, blackened armor absorbing the harsh white sunlight, was talking to a medical officer. The officer was making exaggerated gestures while the figure remained motionless.

"Them? They call themselves the Alpha Legion. Whatever that is." Helena paused momentarily. "I don't know how much more I can tell you, everything's being hushed up right now by command…"

"I could make it an order."

"You could," she relented.

"I'd rather not."

Private Jackson looked around. The infirmary's square and blandly white interior was empty, save for the orderly at the far end of the room.

"They came down right after you were knocked out."

"Came down?"

"Perimeter marked some sort of asteroid on a trajectory to impact behind known enemy concentrations. It crashed. But it wasn't an asteroid."

Fernham raised his eyebrows as Jackson continued.

"It was some sort of pod. Looks like a tear drop, actually. We couldn't tell what it was while it was burning up in the atmosphere. Until then, we'd been getting pushed back. The grizzlies and makos were getting pounded. We'd have been overrun in a few minutes if they hadn't shown up."

"What happened?"

"A minute happened."

"Then?"

"We had three Collector prisoners."

"Collectors?"

"Yeah."

"Damn. Then what?"

"I'm here visiting you."

The corporal laughed hoarsely, but stopped as his gaze caught the figure outside the infirmary again.

"Jackson…he's looking inside."

The private turned around, startled.

"What?"

"It-he's looking in here."

Fernham started as the two figures outside headed towards the entrance to the infirmary.

"What are they doing?" wondered Fernham.

The two marched in through the doorway. The larger, armored figure barely made it inside – his shoulder pauldrons scraped the frame.

"Private Jackson, what are you doing here?" asked the medical officer suspiciously.

"Just visiting, Major Bronsow, sir."

The light skinned medic nodded after considering the reply for a second.

"I … suppose you might as well stay. Otherwise we'll end up with another rumor," grumbled Bronsow as he reached Fernham's bedside, the huge armored being trailing slightly behind him. Now that the Legionnaire was closer, everyone could see a wicked-looking machine on his left arm – it was covered in needles and fortified flasks. The chief medical officer looked down at his hands before continuing.

"Corporal, I won't sugar coat it for you."

"Hit me, doc."

"You're … well … the antibiotics have aggravated your situation. They're simply not working. I don't know why, but nothing we have is making a dent. The bacterium seems to have a precoded adaptation to everything we've tried."

Fernham's head throbbed as if in sympathetic agreement, he nodded slowly.

"How much longer?"

Bronsow shrugged.

"If we don't give you any medication, maybe a day. I don't know. The rate at which the bacterium is chewing through your immune system is variable, dependent on how many antibiotics we give you." The chief medic seemed frustrated at his helplessness. "I just don't know what do to. I'm sorry, Dan."

Fernham grinned. It obviously didn't have the intended conciliatory effect – his teeth were stained with blood, and Bronsow shifted uncomfortably in response.

"Just doing your job, John. Just doing your job. Like I was doing mine," croaked Fernham.

"I know. Hard to take, still-"

"How were you injured?"

Everyone looked up at the Legionnaire. Fernham coughed harshly for a few seconds before replying.

"I-I think I was covered in alien guts when the medics found me?" the Corporal's voice trailed off into another bouts of cough, this time accompanied by sprays of blood.

"Do we have to do this right now?" asked Jackson worriedly. Bronsow also looked to the Legionnaire. The giant simply ignored them and continued.

"I think it highly probable that enemy physiology incorporates toxins, so as to prevent genetic copying attempts. These toxins are highly advanced by your standards, and through what research my brothers have been able to conduct, I have determined that your current medical levels of technology are insufficient to deal with biological attacks of this sort." Even over the violent coughing, the Legionnaire was able to make himself easily heard in his filtered voice. "There is only one possible solution, based off the likelihood that you will be dead within a day."

Bronsow looked suspiciously at the massive super soldier.

"And that would be?"

"Astartes bodily fluid make-up is, in every way, superior to any humans'. By intravenous inoculation of a measure of my blood, we can save him."

They were all speechless for several moments.

"Look, besides the fact that we have no idea what you even are, this is absurd! There's risk of further infection, then there's the possible incompatibility of his blood type versus yours, and then there's–" Major Bronsow started up indignantly before being cut off.

"There is no risk. His … phenotype, as your contemporary sources call it, will initially recognize my blood as foreign and attempt to attack it. The protein markers on my corpuscles will change so his leukocytes do not attack them. It is an adaptation my brothers and cousins all share."

Bronsow opened and closed his mouth wordlessly before shaking his head.

"I'm sorry. I can't allow this. If we had more time, maybe. But not now. There are too many intangibles."

The Legionnaire remained still and did not reply. Helena looked at Bronsow.

"Sir, maybe … maybe it could work. We don't know – "

"No, Private. It's not going to happen. All we can do for the Corporal is … well … make him comfortable." Bronsow looked very miserable at the admission. He turned around towards the orderly, who had until now been standing still, listening to the conversation.

"I need to get some, uh, supplies. Follow me. I'll need help carrying it all. Dan, if there's any next of kin you want informed, I've made sure the extranet uplink station is free for the next half hour or so."

Both hurried out quickly. Helena sat at Fernham's bedside for a minute longer but soon followed them out, checking her omnitool's alerts but looking distraught. Fernham put his head back on his pillow, taking a deep breath.

"Do you believe in a greater purpose, Corporal Daniel Fernham?"

He squinted at the Legionnaire.

"Not gone yet?" The Legionnaire didn't answer. "Fine. You mean in … God?"

The Legionnaire raised his hands slowly and took off his helmet. Fernham was startled to see how truly human he looked – the black hair was at odds with his piercing blue eyes and white skin, but Fernham instantly felt as if a veil of mystery had been lifted. He realized that the facelessness of the Astartes had been putting him on edge. Not that he was relaxed per se, even now.

"No. Do you believe in a greater purpose?"

"Aren't they the same thing?"

"Not necessarily."

Fernham pondered that reply.

"What does this have anything to do with me?"

"Everything."

Fernham was thoroughly confused now.

"Look … I don't really have much time left, according to the good Major, who you were just here to listen to. So, as you can probably imagine, I don't really feel like discussing my faith …" Fernham trailed off.

"Do you believe in a greater purpose?"

"Again?" Fernham sighed exasperatedly. "I'm still taking it as belief in God. The answer's yes. I believe in God."

The giant leaned down, and Fernham found himself unconsciously pressing his head into the pillow.

"There is only one greater purpose that you or your God should believe in."

"And what's that?"

"To win at all costs. Against everyone … and everything."

The Corporal was put off by the sheer wall of determination behind the Legionnaire's voice. The Astartes' eyes were blue slits now, his mouth a thin line.

"Remember this. Because you embody all that your species fights for. I ask you this: what purpose do you think your God has in store for you?"

Before Fernham could answer, the Astartes straightened and replaced his helmet.

"God or not, Corporal, we all have to continue on our roads. I leave you to yours."

The giant turned and made for the exit. Fernham called out after him.

"But what does this have to do with me?"

The Legionnaire didn't even stop.

Fernham worked his mouth silently for a few seconds before coughing harshly again. He raised a shaking hand to his lips and wiped a trickle of blood off his mouth. The Corporal still didn't know what that'd been about.

But it certainly got him thinking.

As he turned his head to the side, wincing as his a shaft of pain lanced through his abdomen, he wondered what his destiny was.

Or what it could be.

()()()

Private Jackson kicked a crate over violently, cursing in anger. She couldn't believe that Bronsow was just going to let Fernham die like that! It went against everything she believed in as a Marine. Giving a soldier a chance was all that was ever asked for in the Alliance Corps – nothing more, nothing less.

But Fernham would ever be given that chance to continue the fight against the Alliance's enemies.

Helena kicked over another crate. Its contents spilled out, prepackaged cans of food rolling out from their compartments. She shook her head in anger. Now, for the first time in her life, she was faced with a dilemma she hadn't been trained to overcome – try and argue with Bronsow for the life of the Marine she considered a surrogate brother, or sit back and watch him die.

Jackson sat down on one of the upended crates, looking out across the cliff upon where the infirmary was situated. A great expanse of grassland greeter her, the sun's light gleaming on the hulls of the vehicles crossing the highway in the distance. The emptiness of the grasslands always filler her with an immeasurable calm. Whenever she would feel conflicted or distracted from her military duty, she'd find a nice view of the grasslands that covered nearly seventy percent of all the landmass of New Istanbul.

"What am I supposed to do?"

The wind blew through the prairie grass, giving the impression of waves rolling across the surface of a great ocean.

"Can I save him?"

The waves continued to move slowly with the wind in response.

Private Jackson turned around quickly as she heard a set of footsteps behind her. The legionnaire who had been in the infirmary was walking out. She cocked her head to the side as an idea came to her.

She got up and started after the Legionnaire with renewed purpose.

She wouldn't let Fernham die.

()()()

Durrow strode forwards, measuring his steps precisely. He knew the human female was following him.

"Um – Legionnaire. Excuse me!"

He stopped and turned around purposefully.

"Private," he nodded.

"You…you said in the infirmary back there that – that you could help Corporal Fernham. How exactly would you do it?"

The Astartes turned his helmeted head down to regard the Private. He had initially thought that she liked the Corporal, but upon further examination it seemed as though she was losing a sibling. Her posture wasn't as heated as someone who was about to lose a spouse, or something similar. She seemed defeated, despite her efforts not to look so.

Excellent.

Durrow kneeled down to one knee, bringing his face level with the Private's. He supposed she was good looking, although it had been many centuries since he had ever harbored any such thoughts about a female human. She had shoulder length black hair, now plastered to her face. As he observed her face, he realized that she looked like someone he had known, a long time ago. The thin lips, the green eyes, and tanned face all reminded him of a woman he had known while growing up in the mountain range the local population called the Sudlych Andyi on Terra.

"Is…is it possible?"

His memories were very blurred from psychoconditioning, but if he was correct, he was remembering his birth mother.

This unnerved him.

"Yes," he answered.

"I – I know Bronsow won't allow it, but I don't have a choice. I can't let him die." The Private looked very conflicted at this admission.

Durrow reached over to his left arm and manipulated a rune on the redactor mounted there. A compartment slid open, and he took out a small syringe. While holding it, he removed part of his right gauntlet, placing it carefully on the ground. Durrow stabbed the syringe into his hand, and the plunger automatically pulled itself outwards as it sensed liquid entering the container. He yanked the syringe out and replaced his gauntlet.

"Take this. The ideal location for injection would be the side of the neck, but anywhere should do." He held the syringe out, and the Private reached out and took it. Durrow placed a hand on her shoulder – she visibly sagged under the weight of it, but remained standing. "Disobeying an order is never easy. In some cases, it becomes a necessity. Remember that the ends always justify the means. Always."

The Private nodded, and Durrow stood up. Everything was proceeding as Pax had predicted.

As the Astartes watched the Private walk towards the infirmary, he smiled.

()()()

Corporal Fernham was sleeping when he felt something prick his neck. He tried to move his arm up, but found it held down by something.

"I'm sorry," someone whispered.

He felt a liquid come rushing into his neck. Fernham's eyes snapped open, and he found Private Helena Jackson standing at his side with a syringe in her hand.

"Wha–" his throat locked up before he could finish the question. A sharp pain built up in his neck, and he struggled to breathe. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as his body started shuddering violently. Just before he lost consciousness, he heard Jackson's whispered voice again.

"The ends justify the means."