Chapter Twelve: Point of No Return
"There. My M6 is cleaned, locked, and loaded with three seconds to spare. Happy?"
"You ought to clean your M7 again."
"I just did!"
"Yes, and you took nearly twice the UNSC regulation time. You will need to be able to do these things quickly."
Forty-one Marine privates wandered aimlessly through the barracks, some sitting on their cots reading, others nervously watching the door. Morning calisthenics and the four-mile run had taken something out of all of them, but they all knew that their day was just getting started. They were replacements, fresh out of basic training. Following the Covenant's arrival on Earth, the training process for the Marines had been accellerated at a dangerous rate. Most of the traditional exercises of drilling and marching in formation had been omitted altogether, but the new draftees had still been so pressed for time that even more essential elements of basic training had been completely ignored. Rather than undergoing extensive conditioning, new draftees received two weeks of weapons training and a crash course in field tactics before being shuttled into service. In these troubled times, most of their training and conditioning would have to occur on-the-job.
"Fine... so how do I go about doing this again?"
"The obvious first step is to remove the clip, empty the chamber, and safe the weapon."
"Okay, done."
"There's a release on the side, just in front of the trigger. Push it in while pulling the barrel up and out, and it will come off."
The front of the M7 SMG split off. It looked as if the gun had been torn in half.
"Was that right, Durga?"
"Yes, Jersey."
It didn't look right. The weapon's design made is seem so fragile that he was afraid something important would snap off.
"Guns shouldn't be able to do that," he muttered.
"This one does," his chatter replied. "You're falling behind. Run the cleaning rod down the barrel. Now
"Okay, okay. Why are you so edgy?"
"Your commander just landed in a pelican on the north end of the base. He'll be here in under a minute."
"Why didn't you tell me? I'd better get this back together quick!" Private Jersey Morelli awkwardly pushed the two pieces at each other. "Uh... help? A little help?"
"You haven't finished cleaning your weapon," the AI replied through his earpiece. "If you meet regulation time, you will have it cleaned and reassembled before they arrive."
"So telling me about the CO was just a motivational thing?"
"Yes. You're a soldier now, Jersey. I can't coddle you anymore. Your life and the lives of others will depend on how well you function as part of a team."
"There. I've cleaned the barrel, I've greased it, now how do I put this thing back together again?"
"Grip the gun by its stock-"
The door opened and seven Marines walked in, bantering each other.
Private Kevin McKinsey snorted. "Come on, man, you were drunk off your ass. That doesn't count."
"Yeah, whatever. Well, if-" Corporal Diego Perez looked up to see forty teenagers in clean, crisp new fatigues sitting in the barracks already, one with a disassembled M7 on his lap and a bewildered look on his face.
"Aw, man, all rookies?" Perez muttered. Jersey wasn't sure how many of the marines were close enough to hear it, but given the corporal's attitude towards them, he didn't want to end up as part of the man's squad.
Jersey Morelli ducked his head and tried to keep from being noticed, but being closest to the door and having been caught helplessly toying with his M7, he knew he had made a bad first impression on the veteran soldiers who would be his direct superiors. He would have to win their respect. That was alright. If he could earn the respect of Janissary James, of all people, he could win over the other marines.
"Second Platoon, ten hut!"
A Lieutenant stood in the doorway of the barracks. All of the marines snapped to attention, and Jersey shot up, sending the stock of his M7 falling off his lap and sliding under the next cot. He grimaced at the loud clattering sound of plastic on instacrete, which drew looks and a few snickers from other nearby recruits. The Lieutenant had looked directly at him as it happened. He wanted to curl up in the corner and die.
"At ease," he said. "I'm Lieutenant William Garrison, and I'm your commander. You all know why we're here. You know what you're fighting for, but due to the times, none of you have received the proper training and experience you will need. Some of you may believe the Covenant was defeated. But make no mistake, they will be back, and they will be very pissed off. We are going to be deployed, and we are going to be deployed soon. In the meantime, I am going to subject you to the harshest training you have seen yet. Those of you who haven't done so, get geared up. I want every one of you arranged in front of the obstacle course in three minutes. Tomorrow, the rule is two minutes. Now move!"
Sergeant Major Avery J. Johnson immediately took charge. "You heard the man, greenhorns! Move it out!"
Jersey scooped up the pieces of his M7 and tossed them on his cot, quickly arranging them and reassembling the weapon. All the while, Durga whispered instructions into his chatter's earpiece. She was only a few months shy of being seven years old, the age at which smart AIs became rampant. If the Navy found out about her, they would shut her down. The AI was risking a lot by keeping in contact with him, but even if she was already going rampant, she hadn't changed at all.
She still took care of her people.
# # # # # # #
The deck of the Pious Inquisitor shifted underfoot as the ship lifted off of the surface of the moon. It, along with the 194 Separatist ships under its command, was making the final preparations to jump into slipspace. Though a nearby grunt in the corridor lost its footing as the tremor rippled through the ship, Staff Sergeant Kyle Haskins did not. Engineers were floating around the corridor, obliviously repairing the damage that the ship had incurred during the mutiny. By the end of the day, it would be hard to tell that anything had happened at all by looking at the ship, but the behavior of those on board was noticeably different.
His guard detail had been stepped up considerably following the first attempt on his life and the mutiny, as he was now flanked by two Honor Guards. After all of the complications, it seemed, they did not want to take any more chances. The Fleetmaster had wanted to keep him secured there until the fleet reached Tterrab, but after witnessing 'Calasee's execution, Haskins had requested to go to the bridge. Surprisingly, they let him.
The door of the bridge had been destroyed during the mutiny, and now a wall of heavily-armed elites stood in its place. Some looked at him with confusion or resentment, but as far as he could tell, none of them felt blind hatred towards him. He had apparently been elevated in status from an enemy to an annoyance. Not much of a confidence boost, but at least it gave him a shot at survival.
Haskins entered the bridge as the other elites joined the guard at the door. The Fleetmaster was talking to two elites, one of whom had an elaborate ceremonial helmet and the other a SpecOps Ultra with only two mandibles. Haskins recognized the latter from earlier. Perez and Johnson had dubbed him 'Half-Jaw' while talking in the brig, but the other elites simply called him 'Leader.'
'Daulanee noticed the human and nodded. He spoke briefly to 'Zamamee in his native tongue, and the Ultra bowed and walked out of the bridge, not looking at Haskins as he passed.
"So this is their representative?" the elite with the ceremonial helmet said, scrutinizing Haskins. "I thought he would be taller."
'Daulanee cleared his throat. "My lord, I personally chose this human. He has, at least in my eyes, proven himself worthy of the position."
The elite huffed. "Very well, I shall trust your discretion. I take my leave," he said. "Guard, to my quarters."
Haskins watched as the elite exited the bridge, flanked by six Honor Guards.
"That was Hiru 'Kyrona, one of the two Councillors to survive the Purge of High Charity. Surely you understand that bringing you to Tterrab is highly controversial. You will be the first human to do so in all of our history."
"And if I'm lucky, the first to live through it," Haskins said. "You said there were two councillors. Where is the other?"
"Lord Milo 'Ornala is on the Undying Triumph," the Fleetmaster replied. "Perhaps you shall meet him upon our arrival at Tterrab."
Haskins was still getting used to the way elites were named. The first part of the name was an adjectival describer, such as "fast" or "deadly," the second part was the creche or family name, and the 'ee' denoted military service. The structure made sense, but still, some of their names were real tongue-twisters.
Names seemed to be very important in Elite society; they had to be earned. It helped to explain why, even though the Fleetmaster and several other elites on the ship knew his name, even those who seemed most receptive to him insisted on calling him by his rank, or simply referring to him as 'human'. It placed him far below them in social status.
"My lord, the fleet is almost prepared to enter the alternate space," the new pilot said.
The Fleetmaster nodded. "Our time is short. The fleet is preparing to exit the system, and I shall have to send you to your quarters. What was this business you wished to speak of with me?" 'Daulanee asked.
"It'd take a while to explain. I just think there's something we ought to check, but it won't take long. Just play back what happened on the bridge from the time the armory detonated to the Shipmaster's capture."
'Daulanee was taken aback. Was he about to follow orders from a human, one whose rank was infinitely lower than his?
"That was a request, not an order, Fleetmaster. This is your ship," Haskins said.
The human was either remarkably perceptive or had a good sense of the Sangheili thought process, 'Daulanee thought. Perhaps both. He would have to, if he were to avoid the many cultural tripwires he would encounter on the Sangheili homeworld. The Fleetmaster toyed with the thought that the human had had nonviolent encounters with his people in the past, but being unable to envision any such scenario he soon disregarded the whole idea. "As a request, yes," he replied.
The front of the bridge was filled by a hologram displaying several black-armored SpecOps mutineers standing around in the bridge. Most of the bridge crew stopped to watch, as well. To Haskins' dismay the elites in the recording all spoke in their native tongue, but as best as he could tell, the shipmaster ordered the barricade blocking the entrance of the bridge to be removed. Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity as gunfire began to be exchanged with Separatists in the corridor. Separatist elites poured into the bridge, overwhelming the mutineers. They watched up until the moment that a SpecOps elite turned around and whacked the mutinous Shipmaster on the head with a plasma rifle.
"Freeze it," Haskins said. 'Daulanee complied after a moment's pause. "That's what I was afraid of."
"What is it?" 'Daulanee asked.
"Keep an eye on the elite that clubbed the Shipmaster and play it again in reverse."
The recording played backwards, and as it did so, 'Daulanee's eyes widened. The elite stayed in the bridge through the entire recording, even before the Separatists entered.
The elite that had clubbed the Shipmaster had been one of the mutineers.
"You see, in my former line of work, I was trained to notice these things," Haskins said. "When the mutineers saw that the armory had been destroyed, they knew their cause was dead. They couldn't possibly take the ship by brute force. So they got clever. They betrayed their own cause, intent on vanishing back into the ranks as if nothing had happened. They sacrificed their commander in the process. Discarded him as if he were nothing. I'd bet this elite isn't the only one. "
"There could be a guerrilla resistance movement forming on the ship. Saboteurs. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, sergeant," 'Daulanee said. He gestured towards the elite in the holographic display, speaking to the guards at the door. "This warrior must be brought in for questioning immediately."
"I might be able to help you with that," Haskins said. "Interrogation was my former line of work."
"I fear that you would lack the physical strength to use our... tools, human. Perhaps at a later time, if our efforts do not succeed."
That's right, Haskins remembered. They obtain information through torture.
It was only beginning to sink in, the enormity of the task he was undertaking. He would be going to an alien planet to negotiate a ceasefire with those who, as of two weeks ago, were still mercilessly slaughtering his people. He had taken a look at the list of regulations that ONI had fired up to him at the last minute, describing points to be brought up during the negotiations. Many of them were technicalities that would have to be dealt with later on, if at all. Would a Fieldmaster be considered the same as a captain, or a major? The big question was if a ceasefire was possible at all.
He took a quick look at his palmtop. He had received many messages from various officers in ONI and the UNSC, most of which, to his surprise, were well-wishers. There were also a few from the marines he had served with. He opened the first he saw that had come from one of the marines, Sergeant Avery Johnson. Seeing that it contained a number of audio files that were sure to be flip music, he smiled, shook his head, and put the palmtop away. He would have time to look through the messages later.
The main display changed again. The frozen image of mutiny vanished, replaced with a hologram of the planet earth. He would probably never see it again in person. Or another human being, for that matter.
"You have shown great bravery by coming with us," an elite said. Haskins turned to see Aro 'Silnumee standing behind him. He had not even heard the Mirratord First enter the room.
"Let's hope it amounts to something," he replied.
"I recall that there was once a kingdom known as Sparta. If another asked the king of Sparta for assistance during a time of war, the king of Sparta would send one man... such as yourself."
Haskins turned, surprised. "You're familiar with our military history?"
"Can one not learn from their enemy? History has a tendency to repeat itself, yes? It would apply to our present situation. There was a time when three hundred Spartans held off a Persian force of a million men at Thermopylae, much as your people have held off the Covenant for thirty long years," 'Silnumee said. "Misguided though we were, my people have always recognized honorable adversaries. Do not forget this."
Haskins nodded, but the analogy was not reassuring.
At Thermopylae, the Persians had won.
# # # # # # #
"That rope to the left is technically the shortest route to the belltower," Durga said, "but since the entire squad of three must reach it and the slowest time from each squad is what ultimately counts, I would recommend that you go for the wall climb and the subsequent cargo nets. It will allow all three members of your squad to proceed as quickly as possible... provided you all have the upper body strength to clear the wall. Blink twice if you understand me."
"I got it, Durga," Jersey whispered.
"You got something to add to this briefing, Private Morelli?" Sergeant Johnson snapped.
"N- no, sir," Jersey replied.
"Then if you wouldn't mind giving the Lieutenant your undivided attention."
"From now on, Jersey," Durga said, blink twice to acknowledge me. It draws far less attention."
Private Jersey Morelli bit his tongue and said nothing. The Lieutenant was counting off squads of three at random. Finally, Jersey was assigned to a squad. His teammates were a private with thick-rimmed glasses who was nicknamed 'peels' and a marine with 'Rodriguez' stenciled on the back of her helmet.
Jersey flashed her a cheesy grin. Rodriguez glanced at him and said nothing. He saw her rank as she turned away and gritted his teeth in embarressment. That was some way to greet a superior, especially one he had never met! He didn't know if he had done something wrong or if she was just ignoring him, and that made him feel like...
Like dumb high-school kid. Not a soldier. He was about to go into combat, but he felt no extra confidence from all the training. Did every marine feel like that these days? Or just the ones that were hustled through the assembly line like he had been? He could only hope that the training and conditioning he was yet to receive would prepare him in ways Durga could not. All the battlefield intelligence in the world would mean nothing if he lacked the basic combat skills he would need to stay alive.
"First group, go!" the Lieutenant shouted. Twenty-four Marines charged into the vast obstacle course as the other twenty-four stood and watched, some slapping their arms to keep warm. It was November 17th, and the weather in upstate New York reflected it. As most of the marines passed out of sight in the jungle of obstacles, Jersey studied his feet. His black combat boots seemed slightly small for him, but that was because he had elected to wear two pairs of socks. He had begun to regret it, as the marines had had to slog through a half-frozen puddle the size of Lake Erie that had formed on the road between the barracks and the obstacle course. He wouldn't have been surprised if there was standing water in his boots. He couldn't feel his feet. He looked back up, catching the corporal's eye. She must have had water in her boots, too, but she either didn't notice or was doing a good job of not showing it. Jersey Morelli looked over the climbing wall to see a sporadic stream of PFCs reaching the bell and each pulling the cord twice. A minute later, the first tired, disheveled private emerged from of the obstacle course. He laughed in relief, seeing that he was the first to complete the course.
"Private," Lieutenant Garrison said, "where the hell is the rest of your squad?"
The private was deflated immediately, looking at the gate through which he had come. "Sir, I- we split up. We couldn't agree on the fastest way-"
"In a combat situation," Garrison began, "you would not split off from your convoy because you disagreed about which street to go down! You want to get yourself killed? When your team fails, you fail. Am I understood?"
The marines waiting at parade rest would have preferred death over trading places with the private at that moment. Jersey noticed that the corporal named Perez seemed particularly ashamed, as if he himself had been scolded. Even Durga had no way of knowing why Perez reacted that way; how he had initially behaved on the surface of Halo 05.
Marines continuously emerged from the obstacle course, and Garrison looked at his watch in disapproval. The last to emerge was so overweight that Jersey was surprised he had been admitted into the Marines. Then again, with the Covenant having found Earth, it seemed that the UNSC would take anyone who could fire a weapon.
"Second group, go!" Garrison ordered. The twenty-four remaining Marines charged into the obstacle course. Jersey was going to tell Rodriguez what Durga had told him, but she was already heading towards the wall climb anyway. The wall seemed to quickly grow in height as the three marines got closer to it. Rodriguez made an impossible jump as they approached the wall, slamming into it and grabbing hold of the ledge. Jersey realized he had come to a stop and jumped, trying to reach the top of the wall as Rodriguez pulled herself into a sitting position on top of it. Jersey fell short, sliding down the wall. His second jump fell short, too. He had lost the momentum he would have had if he had taken a running leap. The other marine, Peels, crouched and held his hands together. Jersey looked at him, then back to the corporal, and allowed the private to help lift him up. Jersey was embarressed. Here, he was the one with a top-class AI that would eagerly give him any information he needed, but he hadn't thought to help the other marine up. He would have still been down there, uselessly jumping against the wall. He had a lot left to learn about teamwork.
They proceeded through the rest of the obstacle course, not reaching the bell tower first, but not reaching it last, either. It could have been worse, Jersey thought. He clearly wasn't the worst soldier in the sorry lot, but he was nothing impressive, either. When the last of the soldiers were assembled, Garrison stopped his watch.
"Ten hut!" Sergeant Banks called out.
"At ease," Lieutenant Garrison said.
Forty-eight heels clicked together audibly as the marines snapped to attention. Several replacements wheezed for breath, still panting from the exertion of the obstacle course. Would the Lieutenant single out the slowest arrivals and subject them to public humiliation like the drill sergeants at boot camp?
"I watched you all out there," Garrison said, "and I did not see soldiers. My dividing you into squads was purely superficial, yet still I saw you out there pushing each other and trying to cut each other off. This isn't a game. It isn't a childish climb for supremacy to see which one of you can impress me the most. This unit was, on the whole, the slowest in the obstacle course today, and that's counting other companies that are comprised of recruits such as yourselves."
He paused for a moment, directly in front of Jersey.
"I'll let you all in on something that the desk jockeys don't want the public to think about. Most recruits who see combat do not last more than three months. Have no mistake, we are at war, and the worst is yet to come. The cold hard truth is that most of you will not see home again. What you've got to realize is that, for all intensive purposes, we must consider ourselves dead already. Be it through fighting, or be it through waiting, know that every one of us is going to die... unless we win. You must all accept and embrace the fact that a human victory in this war is the only way to guarantee your survival. Then, and only then, will you be able to function as a soldier is truly supposed to function. You must display no mercy to your opponents, as you will receive none in return. You have to be ready and willing to kill, or you will be killed."
Everything was silent, except for the cold wind blowing between the recruits.
"That's all there is to it," Garrison said. "Go back to the barracks, change your socks. We reassemble and run the obstacle course again at 1400 hours. Dismissed."
The marines headed back for the relative warmth of the barracks. Jersey did not notice, but while listening to the Lieutenant, he had forgotten about his waterlogged combat boots.
# # # # # # #
"Leader, the primary line is broken! Our inquisitorial forces are being flanked! We must fall back!"
"Pull them back to the second line!" Field Master Motak 'Harlamee shouted. "Bring forth our Banshees to cover their retreat!"
Covenant forces in the vicinity hastily packed up equipment and took places in vehicles wherever possible, with stragglers providing cover on foot. A high-pitched shriek cut through the ash-filled air of the Quarantine Zone on Halo Installaion 05, the voice of the Flood. A Sangheili warrior in the levitating sniper station aimed his beam rifle and fired twice at something out of 'Harlamee's sight down the hill. As the camp cleared out, the last Spectre came to a halt next to 'Harlamee, who looked to the sniper in the floating platform.
"Sniper! You must fall back!" 'Harlamee shouted.
"The flood approaches too quickly! I shall keep them off of you as long as I can!"
"A valiant gesture, warrior, but that was a direct order! I shall cover you! Make way to the Spectre!"
Combat-forms ran up the ridge towards the abandoned camp from several directions. The sniper jumped over the railing of the platform and ran full-out towards the Spectre as 'Harlamee dropped Combat-forms that gave chase. As soon as the sniper was seated in the left passenger seat, 'Harlamee took the other. A three-round burst from a human weapon punched into the frame of the Spectre inches from 'Harlamee's head, and he returned fire with his carbine, landing two rounds in the Combat-form's chest. It shrieked and fell to the ground as the infection-form controlling it burst. As the Spectre pulled away from the now-abandoned staging area, a Flood-controlled Warthog gave chase.
"Hold on!" the driver shouted. The Spectre pressed between two ragged pieces of debris jutting out of the ground, sending sparks flying. 'Harlamee saw his opportunity and tossed a plasma grenade in the narrow gap in the debris. The pursuing Warthog passed directly over it as it exploded, killing the Combat-form in the passenger seat and costing the driver an arm, but the Warthog pressed on. It passed through the gap, spitting high-caliber rounds towards the Spectre. 'Harlamee clamored up the side of the moving Spectre and took control of the unoccupied cannon, returning fire to the Warthog. The rapid-fire beam chewed the gunner apart quickly, and a few well-placed shots in the engine block caused the Warthog to burst into flames and explode. 'Harlamee heard the sniper in the other passenger seat scream as a passing Combat-form knocked him off of the Spectre and he was quickly covered in Infection-forms. More Combat-forms were approaching, but 'Harlamee took the extra second to shoot the fallen Sangheili warrior in the head and spare him the horror of becoming the Flood.
The Spectre was being chased and fired upon by a dozen Combat-forms. One that approached from the side took a flying leap and latched onto the side of the Spectre, and the driver took one hand off the controls to shoot at it with a plasma rifle. It raised its whip-like appendage to strike the driver, but the driver aimed at the arm it used to hold onto the spectre and removed it with three well-placed shots. The combat-form fell off the side of the Spectre and rolled away, tripping another which was running alongside the Spectre. A human dropship passed overhead, taking fire from a pair of Banshees, and as 'Harlamee continued to mow down pursuing Combat-forms, the Pelican burst into flames. Two more Combat-forms leapt out of the back of the dropship and landed on a low plateau before the dropship itself took a nose-dive into the ground just beside the Spectre. The concussion of the explosion threw 'Harlamee from the Spectre, but moments later two rockets slammed into the Spectre itself and blew it apart, the flaming wreakage coming to a grinding halt near the shell of a downed Enforcer.
'Harlamee blinked, laying unarmed on the ground in his mud-spattered gold armor. A number of Combat-forms ran past him and the destroyed Spectre in pursuit of the retreating Covenant forces, apparently thinking he was dead. He looked around for a weapon, finding only one of the pathetically small automatic weapons used by humans. He knew that the pious thing to do would be to face the enemy unarmed before using the weapons of the infidels. After they passed, however, a number of Infection-forms perched on debris but a few meters from 'Harlamee. The Fieldmaster cocked his head, staring at them in horror and disbelief. One of them apparently noticed that the Field Master was alive and rushed towards him.
Not like this, 'Harlamee thought.
More infection-forms poured over the debris.
Not like this!
'Harlamee grabbed the SMG, pointed it at the nearest infection-form and depressed the trigger. 9mm rounds shredded the infection-form, then two, three, six more. 'Harlamee pushed off the ground and shakily stood up. The SMG emptied as the last Infection-form burst before him, and he cast the weapon to the ground.
"A curious test of faith!" 'Harlamee shouted. Another SMG was on the ground nearby. He picked it up. Too light, not enough ammunition. He was about to throw it aside, as well, before he saw a broken crate with packages of ammunition spilling out of it. He ripped open three packages before finding a clip that fit in the gun. All weapons could be reloaded, even sidearms... what a brilliant idea! Why was it not done with every Covenant weapon? 'Harlamee took up three matching packages of ammunition before a Combat-form leapt over the ledge. 'Harlamee blazed away with two SMGs, surprised by how they made his hands jump with recoil. The bullets tore into the Combat-form, doing little damage, but as it turned to face him, a stray bullet penetrated and destroyed the Infection-form in the chest. The combat-form collapsed, dropping an M90 shotgun. 'Harlamee glanced at the weapons in his hands. His aim with them was wretched... but perhaps it was a design flaw limited to this particular weapon. 'Harlamee placed one SMG on the magnetic clip on his armor where a Plasma Pistol should have been and picked up the shotgun. These, he knew, worked differently. He pumped the gun as he had seen humans do before and turned as another Combat-form perched on the crate. He aimed and fired. The combat form dissolved before his eyes, now little more than chunks of rotting tissue and a foul cloud of spores. A combat form, slain with a single shot! As he continued to fight with his new weapons, 'Harlamee soon grew used to recoil, and actually found satisfaction in the way the gun kicked in his hands. Soon, it was as if the guns were a part of him, as if he were tearing his foes apart with his bare hands.
Why have we been limiting ourselves? 'Harlamee thought, Against the Flood, our weapons pale in comparison to these!
As 'Harlamee fought his way towards the second line of Covenant forces, he was intercepted by another Spectre. The driver stared in shock at the Field Master, covered in soot, grinning maniacally and wielding only Human weapons. As he approached the Spectre, the driver offered him his plasma rifle.
"Many thanks, but I am adequately armed," 'Harlamee said as he took up the unoccupied passenger seat. "To the second line!"
# # # # # # #
Motak 'Harlamee woke with a start, automatically training his weapon on the diminuative Unggoy in the doorway. The poor creature cowered in fear. 'Harlamee chuckled and set his plasma rifle down.
"Have no fear, small one. I shall not harm you."
The grunt peeked between its fingers to see that it was no longer staring down the barrel of a gun and stopped shaking. It stood up relatively straight and cleared its throat.
"We go to Elite homeworld. Lord 'Daulanee tell me to tell you."
The Field Master nodded. "Dismissed."
The grunt left, quickly. During the mutiny the ship's intercom system had been disabled, and it was still offline in many parts of the ship. Apparently, grunts were now being used as messengers.
Motak 'Harlamee stood up and looked around the room. He normally began each morning by reading tactical data for upcoming engagements, but on this morning there was no enemy to fight. He stepped into the corridor, more crowded than one could expect at this time of day, but then, there were many evacuated from High Charity. The ship seemed too calm to have just emerged from a mutiny. Two young Sangheili males in a side corridor aimed toy guns at him, and he briefly pointed his plasma rifle back at them, playing along. They laughed and continued playing war amongst themselves. 'Harlamee thought of his own family on Tterrab. He knew not what to expect upon arrival. Had the Prophets perhaps attacked? Did they mean to, or did they even have the means? After hearing about what had happened on High Charity, 'Harlamee did not wish to leave it to chance. It would be good to go home.
He wandered through the Pious Inquisitor until he made his way midship. Scattered throughout the chamber were several energy jets that helped control the climate of the room and allowed quick transportation from the first level to the observation balconies. The Field Master went to a window to take a final look at the Human home world, a blue-green globe ripe with life that reminded him much of his own world. Gazing upon it for what he believed would be the last time, he could see gray patches on its surface that must have been vast cities.
"Ironic, is it not?" a voice asked. 'Harlamee turned to see the SpecOps leader who had assisted him in ending the mutiny approaching the window.
"In what way, Leader?"
"That after all this searching, after many cycles of war, here we are above the human home world, with no intentions at all to attack."
"True," 'Harlamee said. "It is also ironic that our two races are so alike in so many respects. Their world reminds you of Tterrab, does it not?"
Zuka 'Zamamee paused, considering, and slowly nodded. As they watched, Separatist ships began to flash out of existence in plumes of white light. A milky-white envelope of energy formed across the window and instantly snapped to black as the ship jumped into the emptiness of slipspace, leaving Earth behind.
"How long until we reach Tterrab?"
"With this vessel? Three days, perhaps four. I should hope that we are not too late."
"I wished to thank you the other day," 'Harlamee said, "for what you did for my warriors. Too many of them lost their families to the Jiralhanae on High Charity."
"I did what you would have done, had our positions been reversed. It is what any good commander would have done."
"I fear that we have not been formally introduced."
"Of course. I am SpecOps Senior Commander Zuka 'Zamamee. And you?"
"SpecOps Junior Fieldmaster Motak 'Harlamee."
'Zamamee twitched involuntarily. If 'Harlamee noticed, he said nothing. "'Harlamee, is it? Would you happen to have ties to the High Council?"
'Harlamee scrutinized the SpecOps commander. "Had. My father was on the High Council of Masters. He was killed when the demon destroyed the first Halo."
'Zamamee nodded, hoping that the Fieldmaster did not suspect him of withholding information. There was no doubt in 'Zamamee's mind: Councillor Soha 'Rolamee had had a son, a Field Master by the name of Motak 'Harlamee. Councillor 'Rolamee had actually been executed; beheaded for failing to quell the spread of the parasite on the first Halo. Did the Fieldmaster need to know what had truly happened? That his father had died in shame for failing the prophets? No, 'Zamamee decided. It would be best for him to remain deceived. Let him believe his father died in honor and glory.
'Harlamee suddenly turned his back to 'Zamamee. The SpecOps leader looked over 'Harlamee's shoulder to see the minor grunt that had poked him from behind.
"Lord 'Daulanee tell me he want to meet you."
'Harlamee turned and bowed to 'Zamamee, who held higher rank. "Alas, I must go."
'Zamamee nodded. "Do you know what this is about?"
'Harlamee nodded sadly. "I believe I do."
# # # # # # #
He entered the silent chamber and the door closed behind him. The room had once served as the Prophet of Regret's personal meditating chamber, but in the prophet's absence, it could now serve other purposes. He walked up the sloped floor towards the podium, looking to either side of the path leading through the room. Two weeks ago, it would have been lined with Honor Guards who would not have hesitated to kill him if he made any move against the Prophet of Regret. One week ago, the room had served as a secondary sick bay due to the influx of casualties from High Charity. Now, with the mutiny quelled and the wounded of High Charity having either died or been healed of their ills, the room was empty, a silent testament to the ship's past. At the end of the room, Fleetmaster Aya 'Daulanee stood alone.
'Harlamee stopped and bowed. "I am reporting as ordered, my lord."
"Be at ease, brother," Aya 'Daulanee said. The Fleetmaster took a deep breath. "I fear I am the bearer of bad tidings."
'Harlamee lowered his head. "So I have learned. I know that the loss of your mate must pain you greatly. I shall not contribute to your melancholy. I tell you now that I do not hold you responsible for what happened to my sister. I forfiet the Writ of Vengeance. You are forgiven."
The Fleetmaster nodded. In Sangheili society, losing a mate or a young child to the enemy was considered the single greatest sign of incompetence that a warrior could display. 'Daulanee's offense was only made greater by the fact that his mate had been the daughter of a High Councillor. His was an offense tantamount to heresy or high treason, but rather than being subjected to the torture devices of the prophets or being branded with the Mark of Shame, offenders would typically be slain outright by the next of kin. It was within 'Harlamee's rights to kill 'Daulanee where he stood for not protecting her, but the warrior had waived the right. 'Daulanee lowered his head. He did not feel deserving of mercy. From the turmoil of forging the alliance and the unneeded complications caused by the mutiny, he had not even had time to mourn her.
"You are a great leader of the Sangheili people, brother, and Yola 'Lalanra's passing was not in your power to prevent," 'Harlamee said. "Perhaps you can take comfort in the knowledge that you are not left without an heir. Your father's line remains unbroken."
'Daulanee's head shot up. "You have learned the fate of my sons?"
The Fieldmaster smiled. "The list of survivors was unorganized, yes? It did not say which refugees were on which ships?"
"I feared they may have been lost during our battle to rid this planet of Truth's presence."
"You need not fear for their safety; they are on this very ship. My warriors escorted them out of harm's way before engaging the mutineers, and I met both of them on the way to the observation deck this morning."
'Daulanee bowed. They were both too young to have earned a nom-de-guerre or engaged in combat, and he had not seen either of them since the Prophet of Regret had chosen him to lead the fleet. With any kind of fortune, that would change soon after the fleet was safely in range of Tterrab.
"My thanks alone would be an insufficient display of gratitude, Fieldmaster," 'Daulanee said, "which leads me to the second reason you were summoned."
The Fieldmaster snapped to attention.
"I conversed with SpecOps Leader 'Zamamee about your conduct. Yours was the only SpecOps unit on the ship not to join the mutiny. Rather, you took up arms against it. Had this not been done, the humans would have surely destroyed this ship out of preemptive self-defense. For this reason, and this alone, I still have a fleet to command. Such loyalty is to be recognized... and rewarded."
'Harlamee's eyes widened as he remembered the other purpose the prophet's chambers had served. A gleaming white suit of armor rose out of the floor, held by blue bands of energy. The armor of a SpecOps Ultra. He walked over to the armor reverently. He had never been certain if his quick ascent through the ranks had been for his own merit, or due to his father's position on the High Council. This promotion banished the doubts. He had feared that credit for ending the mutiny would go to the 'Zamamee due to his higher rank, but the SpecOps leader had swallowed his pride and acknowledged 'Harlamee's efforts, and the Fleetmaster had made the just decision. For the first time, 'Harlamee knew for certain that he had been recognized and promoted on his own merit. Rather than carrying the hurtful belief that nepotism had bought his position, he could bear this new rank with pride.
He had earned it.
Something still bothered him, though. He did not believe that the explosion that effectively destroyed the mutiny was an accident. There was someone out there, alive or dead, who had not been credited for their efforts. He would have to find the true hero before the Pious Inquisitor docked at Tterrab and warriors began to disembark to reunite with their families.
"What of your family, Leader?" 'Daulanee asked. "Do you know what has become of them?"
"I shall not know until our destination is met, my lord," 'Harlamee replied. "My mate was not on High Charity, and I do not yet have an heir."
"Perhaps, with time and a spell of peace, that can be amended."
The door of the room opened again, and an elite wearing the armor of a medic entered the room with a bewildered look on his face.
"My lord, many apologies for my interruption, but... something has happened."
# # # # # # #
Private Morelli watched as Corporal Rodriguez and another marine arm-wrestled on a collapsable card table. The marine was exerting himself, trying to force Rodriguez' hand, but she had planted her elbow on the table. She simply focused on not losing, waiting as he wore himself out. He paused for a moment to rest, and in that moment, Rodriguez threw her arm down at full force, twisting the private's arm at an unnatural angle and nearly making him fall out of his chair. Other nearby marines cheered the winner, crowding around the table and blocking Jersey's view. The loser came staggering out of the crowd, rubbing his wrist.
"Who's that?" Jersey whispered into his chatter.
"That would be Private Eric Fellnor, age 23," Durga replied. "He used to work as muscle for hire for Thin Kinkle."
"The guy that killed Jan's dad?"
"Yes. Fellnor surrendered to Jan when Gilly threatened to use grenades. Gilly wanted to kill him, but Jan gave him an option. He could either enlist, or-"
"Yeah, I get the idea. Wait... did you sign him up?"
"As a matter of fact, I did, and he couldn't be happier. Private Fellnor has adjusted well to life in the corps. He's the unit's scrounger."
"The what?"
"Almost every unit has one. Someone with connections. Someone who can get around the red tape. If someone wants something that's obscure or contraband, something the Corps won't supply, he gets it for them. Usually through the black market or petty theft. But there's always a price."
"Doesn't look too happy now," Jersey said.
Fellnor perked up. "What was that?"
"Uh... nothing," Jersey replied, turning to walk away from the humiliated marine. He ran straight into one of the privates who had been reassigned to the unit that day.
"One way street!" someone joked.
"If you drive like you walk, you're gonna die, kid," the man said.
"Private First Class Rashad Davis, nicknamed 'Dee Dee,' or 'Deeds,'" Durga explained. "Born in New Tehran on Tau Ceti IV, he came to Earth to study law, dropping out of school and voluntarily enlisting the day after Tau Ceti IV was glassed. Received substandard scores for marksmanship, but he was something of a legend in the 108th for his driving skills."
"Why 'Dee Dee'?"
"It stands for 'designated driver,' but he earned the nickname for his consistent refusal to drink alcohol."
"Where was the 108th stationed? Why the transfer?"
"They were stationed in Diego Garcia, but they were deployed in New Mombasa. Almost all of the 108th was wiped out when the Covenant attacked."
"Oh."
Jersey's attention wandered back over to the card table, where the corporal had just beaten her second competitor.
"Who is she?" Jersey asked.
"Hold on... that's interesting."
"What?"
"Gray hole."
"Like Jan's dad?"
"The same. Dig down, and all you find is lint. Her identity is just a shell. Fake name, fake registration, fake military ID. Currently answers to Corporal Sophie Rodriguez."
"Hot, though."
"She only appeared on the books about a month and a half ago, but already has been disciplined for dislocating a man's arm of what was officially described as 'a dispute over a high-stakes card game.'"
"Yikes," Jersey said. "Why do I always pick the thumpers?"
"Welcome to the corps, Jersey. That's all you're going to find from now on."
# # # # # # #
'Daulanee, 'Harlamee, and the medic ran down the corridor towards the sick bay, but it was clear to 'Daulanee what the problem was before they arrived. The image was very unsettling. Dozens of grunts were clustered in the corridor outside the entrance to the sick bay, curled up on the floor. 'Daulanee saw a minor elite repeatedly kicking one of the grunts, but it made no sound and refused to budge. At the far end of the grouping, he could see grunts being carried away one by one by other elites, some straining to lift them. As he watched, one of the grunts was set down further down the hall, but it stood up and began to waddle back to the others. Seeing this, the elite that had just put it down smacked it hard and shoved into a side room, locking it inside. Despite all this, the other grunts remained completely still, blocking the entrance to the sick bay through sheer numbers.
"Why are they doing this?" 'Daulanee asked. It appeared to be a movement of passive resistance, something he had only heard of in ancient records.
Something that had not happened since the Grunt Rebellion.
"The only words we have discerned from them is that they will speak to you, and you alone, my lord," the medic said.
'Daulanee walked over to the nearest grunt and touched its shoulder. The white-armored grunt, part of the medical staff, looked up and stood.
"Why do you do this?" 'Daulanee asked.
"Doctor no listen to us," the grunt said. "You have all authority. Don't let them kill him."
Motak 'Harlamee cocked his head, his mind racing.
"Kill who?" 'Daulanee asked. All of the grunts in the corridor stood up and parted, allowing 'Daulanee to pass. He entered the sick bay, following the white-armored grunt. The sick bay was filled with wounded from the recent mutiny, both Sangheili and Unggoy, but the room was even more clogged with grunts than the corridor had been. This group parted as well to make way for the Fleetmaster, as the white-armored grunt came to a stop and gestured between two operating tables. 'Daulanee looked to see a red-armored grunt that had been placed on the floor between the operating tables, which were, as always, reserved for wounded Sangheili. 'Daulanee was not educated in medicine, but he could tell that the grunt was in a bad way. It was lying on the floor unconscious, covered with bruises and open wounds. Its breathing was very shallow. The Fleetmaster was surprised the grunt had even been brought to the sick bay. Grunts that were injured so badly were typically left on the battlefield to die or euthanized by medics...
Oh.
"This is the grunt whose life you intend to save?" 'Daulanee asked. He looked around the sick bay. There were other grunts on the floor that were in just as bad of shape, some of higher rank, and yet others whom he doubted were still alive. Why this one?
SpecOps Leader Motak 'Harlamee stepped forward and took a close look at the grunt. As he did so, his eyes widened.
"The Armory," he said. The grunts looked at each other, and 'Daulanee looked at him, puzzled. "Was this truly the one? Was it not an accident?"
"Yes," the white-armored grunt replied.
"My lord," 'Harlamee said, "if what they say is true, then this lowly Unggoy played the largest role in ending the mutiny, contributing even more than myself. Had the armory not been destroyed... the ship would have been lost."
The white-armored grunt nodded. "He save your ship, my lord. You save him."
'Daulanee took one last look at Zuzat, still lying comatose on the floor. In giving the order, he would be submitting to a grunt. Would he submit to a grunt, of all things?
But then, was there not such a thing as loyalty? Had it been an elite to throw the grenade, he would have been promoted by at least three ranks, as opposed to being euthanized. No. To hell with pride, 'Daulanee thought, to hell with maintaining an image. This is the right thing to do.
"Take care of him," 'Daulanee said to the medic.
"What? But my lord, he's too far gone to-"
"You are to do whatever is in your power, doctor, to save its life. Should you fail, I shall hold you accountable. I have nothing more to say."
Grunts across the sick bay stood up, their demand met. No longer organized by any means, they shuffled out of the sick bay through every exit, leaving the doctors to their work. Many took a moment to bow to the Fleetmaster as they left. The Fleetmaster's eyes followed the white-armored grunt that had spoken for the group, but it also left without looking back. His eyes caught a shadow in the entryway, an elite flanked by two Honor Guards with an elaborate ceremonial helmet, beckoning to him. The Fleetmaster dismissed 'Harlamee and the doctor, walking out of the room.
"My lord," 'Daulanee said, "to what do I owe this visit?"
"You know very well that you have been considered for a position in the High Council for years, Fleetmaster," High Councillor Hiru 'Kyrona said. "Yet your behavior does not reflect a worthy leader of the Sangheili people. You knew what you had to do in regards to the Unggoy, yet you showed mercy. Why?"
"Forgive my impertinence, master, but am I to slay one who very nearly gave his life to prove his loyalty?" 'Daulanee said.
"An awkward position, yes, but surely you are aware of the implications of his survival? Even now, in methane tents across the ship, word is circulating that it was an Unggoy that ended the mutiny, slaying more foes than all of our warriors combined. They already view him as a leader. Soon, they may view him as their long-foretold king."
"It is yet to be seen if this king shall even survive his injuries," 'Daulanee said.
"You have read the Histories. The last Grunt Rebellion threatened to tear the Covenant apart. An Arbiter was needed to end the bloodshed, and even he was mortally wounded before he managed at last to kill their king."
"This I remember," 'Daulanee said. "I also remember that following the Rebellion, thousands upon thousands of Unggoy were massacred to set an example for the others, and the Unggoy have hated our kind ever since."
"Yet you spare the one who may yet rally them to rise against us?"
"The Covenant has already broken, my liege," 'Daulanee said, "and these desperate times call for solutions to new problems. Had I slain this lowly grunt, how might the Unggoy have reacted? It is abundantly clear now that they are more than willing to resist our authority. Had I killed their leader, it could have spark another mutiny. If I were to let this Unggoy live, however, they shall begin to view our people as allies, rather than slavemasters. No, we mustn't make a martyr of him. We need their cooperation as much as they need ours."
'Kyrona cast the Fleetmaster a dark look. "So be it."
# # # # # # #
"So, this kid was just standing outside this liquor store, watching everyone that went by. And then, out of nowhere, Eric here-"
"God, you're killing me, Deeds!"
"Eric just comes walking up, and this kid hands him a twenty and asks him to go in and grab him a six-pack. Well, he goes in, the kid just stands there trying not to look suspicious, and about a second later he just comes sailing back out the front door, tosses the beer at this kid, and runs off! I mean, the store owner just runs out into the parking lot and unloads on him with an M6, but by the time he got there, the kid, the beer, and the money were all gone!"
A dozen nearby Marines burst out laughing.
"Exaggeration," Durga whispered to Jersey. "What really happened was-"
Jersey whacked the side of his helmet.
"Alright, no spoilers," she said. "Oh, and by the way, I just got word that-"
Lieutenant Garrison entered the barracks and the conversation in the room tapered out.
"At ease," he said. "I just have a couple announcements. First off, this afternoon's run at the obstacle course is cancelled."
There was a cheer across the barracks.
"Secondly, all passes are cancelled. We are being redeployed to the East African Protectorate. We will load up for departure at 1400 hours. We will not be coming back."
The entire barracks fell silent.
"As you were."
The lieutenant ducked out of the barracks. Conversation slowly began to start up again, but much less enthusiastically than before. Marines dispersed throughout the barracks to clean their weapons and load up their equipment. Rodriguez was checking her supply of MRE's when her chatter buzzed. She picked it up and opened the new message.
# # # # # # #
-START TRANSMISSION-
FROM: Cpl. Jason Morelli, Communications Officer, UNSC Gettysburg
TO: Cpl. Sophie Rodriguez, UNSC 42nd Marine Division
SUBJECT: Restitution
I've just received word that my son was drafted into your unit. Keep him safe. Keep him alive. You owe me a favor.
-END TRANSMISSION-
# # # # # # #
Rodriguez looked up from her chatter towards the young marine, halfway across the barracks. He seemed to have withdrawn to his cot and resumed talking to himself. He was one of the rookies that she had immediately written off. She had been certain that he was too green, that he would die on his first day of real combat. She had seen it before, too many times. Most marines tried not to grow too attached to replacements. They died quickly. She had known too many Polaskis, and Browns, and Stenslands, and Irvings, and Scalitas. Why get to know them, when it would only tear you down to watch them die?
A wave of numb horror washed over her. My God, she thought, what has happened to me that I started to think this way?
She couldn't babysit all of the replacements. None of them could. The Lieutenant had been right: most of them would never see home again. But she owed her life to the corporal from ONI's Radio Beacon Deployment Program. Now, she had been given the chance to pay it back. So she would talk with the kid. Learn to care for him. And, if need be, die to save his life.
That, she decided, was what all soldiers were supposed to do.
Author's Note: For future reference, I have absolutely no military training or experience. None at all. This probably showed in this last chapter. What I know comes from books and veteran accounts I have read. I will write as authentic a portrayal as I can, but I ask my readers who have served to forgive any inaccuracies.