On a viewing platform overlooking the starport's hardpan, Administrator Jennings watched a city become a fortress.
It was almost dusk, and Sergeant Murphy was running his third rotation of the day. He had stripped down to his vest, and he confidently strode up and down in front of the assembled militia. This time, there was no trouble with the PA. A handsome man with green eyes, dark hair and an easy-going manner, Murphy could have stepped straight from a cheesy UNSC recruitment poster, were it not for the ridiculous grin which was constantly plastered across his face. He was manic, almost preternaturally hyper. For once, however, his boundless energy and straight talking attitude worked in his favour.
In short, the colonists loved him.
Murphy proved to be a rallying force for the militia, a face with whom they could identify. Administrator Jennings, a born politician, had realised his potential all too well. She was the one who had suggested he drill them without his helmet, something which - rather incongruously for one so sociable - he was very fond of wearing. Jennings had to admit, she found that conflicting aspect of the commando's character quite charming.
Removing his helmet was a small touch, but it lent the lessons a more personable instructor, ensuring that the crowds looked forward to their training rotations, rather than view them as yet another thankless chore. The commando's popularity had gotten to a point where a group of the colonists, comprised of one hundred of the colony's most experienced trackers and hunters, had even dubbed themselves "Murphy's Militia".
If only I could achieve the same enthusiasm with the rest of the preparations, she sighed.
Today's lesson? Fire-arms operation and maintenance: a "How To" guide. Slung under Murphy's arm was a bullpup assault rifle. It was a sleek weapon, but decidedly dated compared to the ones used by the marines. Age and excessive use had worn its finish considerably. It clearly once belonged to Murphy, due to the gaudy Irish flag stencilled across its side. Clearing his throat theatrically, he held it up for all to see.
"Rightio, lads and lasses, allow me to introduce you to my old friend, the MA5B." he swept his fingers along the weapon's side, like a salesman showing off a particularly luxurious product.
"Let me start off by saying I'm a big fan of it, and - once you get your hands on one - I daresay you'll be too. It's 87.6 centimetres of pure sex, and fires on three settings: fully automatic, fully automatic and - just for a bit of originality - fully automatic. May I suggest to those of you with itchy trigger fingers that you restrain yourselves to using short-bursts, unless you absolutely have to. Not only 'cause your accuracy's gonna go to shite, but there's also the ammo factor to consider. At 900 rpm, you'll be running empty faster than my wallet on shore-leave. And what did we learn the first day?"
"Against the Covenant, a trooper without ammunition is a dead trooper." they droned in unison. They had heard that line more times than they could count.
"Now you're getting it!" Murphy beamed, before continuing.
"Until recently, the MA5B was the solid workhorse of the UNSC, but it's since been replaced by its older, nastier bastard cousin - the rather imaginatively titled MA5C. Unfortunately, resources are tight, and our automated manufactories aren't exactly up to date, so like it or not, you're all going to have to make do with this model. The main difference between the two is the mag size - you get to play with 60 rounds, whereas the Marines have to make do with 32. On the flip-side, the Marines' variant packs more punch, and are probably more inclined to hit something at ranges exceeding one hundred metres."
And so the lesson continued; the emphasis being on the importance of fire-discipline, as well as the need for the militia to focus their fire as one. What they would lack in accuracy, they would make up for by sheer weight of numbers. It was what Major Abelev called the Spam 'n Slam Doctrine. "I don't care how tough their shields are," he had said, "Let's see the bastards stand up to two hundred assault rifles on full auto at point blank range."
The weakness to this plan, of course, was its reliance on the assumption that the Covenant would choose to assault on the ground. The ranking Navy officer, Song, had raised the point that the Covenant could very well choose to simply glass them from orbit. Abelev, ever the optimist, simply replied with a glib "well then at least that'll settle things quickly."
Nevertheless, shelters were hollowed out in the mines below Horizon, and all non-combatants were evacuated into them, along with a generous amount of supplies. The rest of the colony, ostensibly all able-bodied souls above the age of seventeen, got on with the task at hand.
One of the most significant of the changes to befall Horizon happened not inside the city, but rather outside it. Abelev had ordered a massive network of trenches, redoubts and earthworks dug around the exterior curtain wall. The scale of the work was unprecedented. Once the shelters had been fabricated, construction equipment and heavy drilling teams were hastily procured from the depths of the mining facilities and given newfound purpose. The refineries were all but bled dry. No expense was spared. Economists estimated that the entire resource-cost of the operation shortened the colony's lifespan by thirty years. Only the gravity of the situation, coupled with Jenning's adroitness as a negotiator, saw that the ambitious plan came to fruition. In the short term, the city's defences flourished.
In the long-term, Abelev's preparations doomed Horizon's future as an economically-viable colony.
Inside the city, even more changes were made. Horizon quickly became every infantry commander's worst nightmare. Every street corner became a fortified cluster of sandbags, every rooftop became a pillbox. The city's rail network, for so long the main means of transport available to the populace, became a weapon unto itself. Train cars were reinforced with thick sheets of iron plating, evolving into mobile artillery platforms. Their roofs were removed, to allow open space for crude howitzers that could be hastily repositioned wherever they were needed most. Like all of the preparations, the cannons themselves lacked sophistication, but more than made up for it in raw functionality. It was a shining example of the colonists' practical desire to survive, at any cost. They were pragmatic people, and the weapons they produced - all exposed bolts and visible gears - reflected that. Warfare has little tolerance for visual aesthetic.
This mentality was displayed elsewhere.
There was no clearer example of it than the thick supply pipelines which dominated most of the colony. Critical to the functioning of the city, each of them had been laminated with a second skin of industrial-strength, flame-retardant insulation, and then coated under an additional surface layer of reinforced concrete. Spotter teams and gleaming support weapons blistered across the surface of the pipes, shaded by the thick tracks above. The gantries of the many refineries became warrens for machine gun nests and hidden marksmen.
The positioning of these gun emplacements was overseen by the marines of Bravo Platoon, who were responsible for the coordination of the defences within the city walls. Their extensive expertise was crucial. They chose the best defilade positions, opting for sites which emphasised generous kill-zones and concealment in equal measure. Charlie Platoon, under Lieutenant Brambley, had the harder job. They were to oversee the external defences, and ensure that the militia lines held at all costs. The two platoons would rotate in this task, having two days on, two days off. Work-crews laboured long into the night.
Like a bear-trap, Horizon was simplistically brutal; coiled, and ready to spring.