Chapter Nineteen: When it Rains...
2231 Hours, September 4, 2564 (Military Calendar) \
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System
Mire City, Meillan Region
Deputy Director O'Riley was pleased. Although Hugo Lorring, the quartermaster and technical wizard of the Shade Branch HQ in Tethys, had a remarkable reputation for his efficiency, but O'Riley had not expected him to deliver as soon as one day. While initially surprised, the Deputy Director certainly was not complaining. The monthly shuttle to Archon Island should not be arriving until tomorrow afternoon, so this gave him plenty of time.
Just as O'Riley bent down to pick up the first of the two crates of thermite charges, the door to the storeroom slid open, sending a slight draft into the room. Inquisitor Muëllen stepped inside, straightening his shirt before addressing O'Riley.
"Come with me," the Inquisitor gestured for O'Riley to follow him back out into the corridors. "There are some things you need to know."
Casting a nervous glance over his shoulder at the two crates of thermite, O'Riley followed Muëllen out the door and through the network of hallways running through the Cruciamentum. They took a short-cut through the holding cells, striding down the long hallway lined with cell doors. O'Riley had never been down this part of the indoctrination facility before, preferring instead to remain in the other areas. "How many others do we have in here besides the Ambrose boy and the traitor?"
"None," Muëllen replied, slipping through the doorway at the other end of the corridor. "There used to be two others; a nine-year-old boy and a fifteen-year-old girl. The girl's indoctrination was completed two days ago and she was sent away, the boy died in the Chamber last week. The younger children don't usually survive, and he was no exception."
O'Riley pursed his lips, repressing the surge of anger he felt at the Inquisitor's indifference. Despite the tragedy of having one child lose her mind and another lose his life, it greatly simplified his plans. He would not have to go to any length of trouble to make sure innocent prisoners were far away, or worry about collateral damage.
Muëllen led the Deputy Director up a flight of stairs and through another corridor before entering a small room filled with a good amount of sophisticated equipment operated by several Guardsmen. To O'Riley's knowledge, this was the Cruciamentum's control room.
"Our plans have changed somewhat," the Inquisitor began to explain. He gave one of the operators a discreet nod.
The man closest to the Inquisitor input a series of commands into his console. The large viewscreen taking up one of the control room's walls flickered to life, showing a compound of smoldering and still-burning buildings and several dozen corpses of Magisterial Guardsmen splayed out all over the place. It was clearly the remnants of an outpost, maybe one of the isolated listening or recon installations.
"How did this happen?" O'Riley squinted, leaning in closer to get a better look at the screen. "The Illuminati are organized and deadly, but even they don't have the strength to obliterate one of our outposts like that…"
"This is all that remains of Farseer Epsilon, a listening outpost situated on an island ninety miles off the west coast of Terra Firma," Inquisitor Muëllan explained. "It was attacked and destroyed by an unknown force five days ago. We have limited footage from this camera; it was the only one not destroyed in the attack. The only clear image we got of the attackers was this-" he nodded to the operator again.
The viewscreen's current image was replaced with one of two young men sprinting out of a building near the entrance of the compound towards another building which the camera could not see. They were both in their mid-late twenties and wearing black combat fatigues and jackets. The larger man was dark-skinned, extremely muscular. He had shorter black hair in the beginnings of an afro and an iron jaw. He had the look of a leader about him, someone who could run straight at Death without so much as blinking. The second man was much smaller, both in height and in build. Truth be told, he almost looked puny, but O'Riley knew better. He had fair brown hair which was starting to hang into his eyes. He was pale and freckled, but his most striking feature were his eyes; they were a harsh shade of electric blue which seemed to pierce through anything they gazed upon. In the image, he appeared to be heavily wounded, but he was moving nonetheless.
"These two were obviously not the entire attacking force, there were others, but they were the only ones we could get a visual on. We are lucky to have this image at all…You know these men?" the Inquisitor asked, noticing O'Riley's reaction to the viewscreen's image.
The Deputy Director gave a slow nod. "The black one is Tyrone-G083. He is a Spartan-III, a supersoldier from the war. He was part of a company of 330 children recruited to fight the Covenant…only thirty-two of them are still alive today, the rest all died in the final battles. He's a deadly one…apparently he was able to beat an Elite in an arm-wrestling contest-"
"And the other one?" the Inquisitor cut O'Riley off, impatient for answers.
"The other one is Alexander-G004, also a Spartan-III of the same company. He took the surname 'Ambrose' after the war's end and still uses it today. He is Robin Ambrose's father."
"Doesn't look like much," Muëllen observed the smaller man in the image, a small note of disappointment creeping into his voice.
"That's probably exactly what hundreds of dead Covenant have said as well," O'Riley retorted. "You do not want to find yourself in a fight with him."
"I digress…" the Inquisitor shook his head, clearing his mind and returning it to the present. He gave the operator a final nod. "The Archives in the Tethys Region was breached earlier today. And this is an image of the three perpetrators who committed the act."
The image of Tyrone-G083 and Alex Ambrose shrunk, diminishing to take up only half the viewscreen. A second image sprang up to fill the other half. This one depicted the inside of a bank lobby. Three people were on their way out. The operator highlighted the picture of Tyrone in the first picture, and then did the same for the second one, which Tyrone was in as well.
"Same person in both places," Muëllen stated. "We have connected the two. The prowler which you and Director Culwynn used to take Robin Ambrose away from Earth and out of UNSC space was also at Farseer Epsilon. We think they gained access to its databanks during the attack. That would explain how they found the location of our top-secret Archives building."
"And if the Ambroses have found the Archives, you think they would also have found out that their son is here," O'Riley finished for the Inquisitor.
Muëllen nodded. "Exactly. They are probably on their way now. The Magistrate has ordered us to move the Ambrose boy to Archon Island, where we will continue working on him. The good news is that the monthly shuttle to Archon Island will be arriving at midnight tonight, earlier than expected. It will be cutting it close, but we just might be able to move him before the Ambroses arrive."
O'Riley's stomach turned to lead as he digested this new information. This put a lot of pressure on him now. Originally, he had been planning on executing his plans early tomorrow morning, but if the Archon Island shuttle was arriving in an hour and a half, he had to act now. "If you will excuse me, I must make preparations."
"Yes, go ahead," Muëllen waved the Deputy Director off.
O'Riley jogged back through the corridors and down the stairs, returning to the storeroom. He bent down and gripped the first of his crates, levering the lid open. "Hello, my beauties…" he murmured as he started to take out the thermite charges.
Six kilometers away, a cloaked phantom sliced through the air, speeding over a wide open plain towards Mire City, a dark, sprawling blanket of buildings built around a large river.
"So give everyone the plan one last time," Bill Collins said to the holographic detective, who was idling in a corner of the phantom's main hold. Collins would be assisting Colonel Angiers in monitoring the surroundings during the operation, making sure the ground teams had no unwelcome surprises. He was also anxious; if the boy were killed before he could be rescued or if the mission failed, he was truly afraid of what Sam Ambrose might do to him afterwards. A lot was staked on this mission.
Polaris snapped back to reality. "Very well," he said, walking through the air back to the hologram projection array set into the centre of the main hold's floor. A solid holographic representation of Nemesis III sprang into existence, complete with swirling clouds, flickering storms, and moving oceans. "We are currently in the Meillan Region, a state covering most of the eastern peninsula of the western continent of Terrus Occasus."
The hologram of Nemesis III zoomed into a point in the planet's western hemisphere. The clouds vanished, revealing a large continent shaped roughly like a fat crucifix. The hologram focused in on the eastern arm of the continent, zooming in on a large city in the region's central plains.
"This city is known as Mire City, according to the data I acquired from the Archives," Poalris explained. "It is the location of one of Nemesis III's three Cruciamenti. A Cruciamentum is basically a type of prison where adolescent and pre-teen troublemakers are taken to be indoctrinated, which is their way of saying brainwashed."
"Brainwashed?" Garris repeated. Polaris had not talked about aspects of Insurrectionist life like this before; it was coming off as something of a surprise.
"Yes, the Magistrate—the collective term for the Insurrectionist government as well as the five-man ruling body which serves under the High Chancellor—seems to employ certain methods of brainwashing to turn troublemakers into pro-government drones. Either that, or the children die in the process. The Magistrate loses no sleep either way."
"Idiots…" Sam muttered. "Breaking away from the UNSC for this. However bad the UNSC may have been in those days, it was never totalitarian."
"Anyway," Polaris continued, "The Archives' databanks on the prowler which we found on Farseer Epsilon has revealed that it landed briefly at the Cruciamentum in Mire City. It was logged that your son was dropped off there and has been incarcerated ever since."
"Where is this Cruciamentum?" Alex asked the smart AI next.
"Here," Polaris gestured to the hologram of Mire City, which zoomed in even further. The image focused on the southern reaches of the city, specifically a large, mostly abandoned ghetto. The Cruciamentum was obvious to spot. It was a large, black and gray complex situated in the middle of the ghetto, standing out amongst its drab and dilapidated neighbors. "There are extensive security defenses in place around the Cruciamentum, so we will not be able to land directly on or next to it without being shot out of the sky, cloaked or not. I will land us here," a pulsing yellow beacon appeared a full kilometer away from the Cruciamentum, tucked away in a back alley, hidden from the view of any lucky peeping toms. "This ghetto is abandoned by the civilians, so there should be no fear of collateral damage. How we will actually storm the Cruciamentum will be up to you; I have next to no data on the place."
Tyrone nodded, satisfied. "There is probably going to be heavy resistance, so I think only Sam and I should-"
"And me," Alex interrupted.
"No, Alex, your chest still needs to-"
"My son is in that building. I am going, and there is nothing you are going to do to stop me. Get the idea?"
For one of the first times in his life, Tyrone-G083 backed down. "Aight, bro. Just try to take it easy...don't give your wounds any excuses to wreak hell with your system."
Mr. Peruski was already in the process of choosing the color thread which he would use to sew his name into Alex's chest wounds when Polaris reported that the phantom was nearing the drop zone.
Everyone gathered at the side openings and gazed outside at the passing landscape. The thick of the city had passed by and now they were flying over a large ghetto full of dilapidated and crumbling buildings made out of metal and brick. Some of them had collapsed or caved in completely, leaving rubble and garbage strewn throughout the streets.
"Approaching DZ now," Polaris announced.
"Gear up!" Tyrone bellowed.
"Hey! Hey! Common, stay with me here," Blaze hissed, shaking Robin awake. "We need to be ready to move once these things are through." He continued to saw at the almost-completely cut figure eight-shaped irons binding Robin's hands behind his back.
Night had fallen several hours ago. Robin had undergone another session of indoctrination lasting all morning and afternoon. He had been tossed back in and shackled up just as the sun was going down.
The two boys had been lucky; the Paladins had not noticed that the irons had been nearly sawn through. Jess, Blaze's partner in the field, had slipped him a bottle of some silver paste-like substance along with the flask of acid. After the sun had risen, Blaze had filled the tear in the irons with the paste. Once it hardened up, it looked just like the alloy, concealing his work.
The moment Robin had been dumped back into the cell, Blaze had set back to work on his irons. The hardened paste had come away easily, exposing the gash in the irons. He had been sawing away with the diamond-edged hacksaw which Jess had slipped him.
Robin, who was exhausted to the brink of deliriousness, mumbled something in reply, but Blaze could not understand him.
"Look, you have to keep awake until we reach the safehouse. Once we get there you can sleep until next year, but you can't cop out on me now," Blaze kept on talking steadily, keeping the younger boy from nodding off. He kept sawing away at the irons, baring his teeth in satisfaction when he saw his progress. The irons were held together by only a thread of alloy.
The black-haired thirteen-year-old kept working for the next hour, wearing the metal down further and further.
Robin mumbled something else, but it was still unintelligible. Blaze asked him to repeat himself and he did, putting more energy into his voice. "So why do they call you Blaze? What's your real name?"
Blaze cracked a grin, old memories flashing through his brain. "After I was taken in by the Illuminati, I wandered off into one of their testing chambers and nearly incinerated myself with a prototype NA7 Flamethrower. I had no name before that, so everyone just started calling me Blaze. My hair's been jet-black ever since…" he chuckled at the memory. "I was only eight years old; I touched nearly everything I saw; we all did at that age…only difference was that most other eight-year-olds did not have access to military heavy weapons. My old name from the workhouse was O928-77, to answer your other question."
Robin gave a light grunt. "Yeah…stick with Blaze; it has more of a ring to it."
Blaze kept on chatting about his past for the next five minutes when the irons binding Robin's hands suddenly went SNAP and broke in half. The manacles were still around Robin's wrists, but they were now two separate pieces of metal rather than a single set of shackles. Blaze had already cut through the top link in the chain securing the remains of the irons to the wall, so he slid the manacle around Robin's left wrist out of the cut he had made.
He let out a loud whoop of joy and nearly started to leap about the cell, but he contained himself. We're not safe until we reach the safehouse, he reminded himself. He leaned down and shook Robin again. "Kid, you're free! Get up, we have to leave!"
Those words alone acted like a shot of adrenaline. Robin's half-closed eyes snapped open, wide and alert. He stretched his cramped arms, sighing with pleasure as he eased out the kinks which had been plaguing him for days. He brushed a stray lock of hair from his eye and climbed to his feet…
Alex Ambrose was lying flat on his stomach on the third floor of a half-collapsed building across the street from the Cruciamentum. The roof was long gone, along with half of the third floor, leaving the top of the building's interior open to the elements.
Ambrose rested his sniper rifle on the remains of the wall, adjusting his sights and focusing in on the Cruciamentum itself. There was a constant patrol of Guardsmen walking around the perimeter of the prison as well its roof, keeping a constant, vigilant lookout for trouble.
Well, trouble had come calling tonight, but they would never see it coming, despite all of their faithful and cautious patrolling.
Alex's job was to get an assessment of the best point of entry into the building, and he had chosen this building to be his last observation post. He had observed all of the other sides of the prison, making this his last sweep. This was also the most promising side; there was a service entrance on this side of the Cruciamentum which seemed to lead into some kind of storeroom. That was probably where the prison's supplies were stored and taken in. Provided the patrols did not change their timing, it would be a simple matter to sneak in through that entrance without being seen.
"What's it lookin' like, Eagle-Eye?" Tyrone whispered to Alex from behind, using his friend's old callsign from the war.
"I think we have a winner," Alex answered. "Service entrance at one o' clock, take a look."
Tyrone crawled up next to Alex and pulled out his field glasses—very powerful military-grade binoculars—and observed the Cruciamentum across the street, paying close attention to the spot which Alex had indicated. He gave a low hum of satisfaction, nodding. "Good work," he said, "That should do nicely…"
"Backup team, what's your status?" Alex whispered into his COM unit.
There were a few seconds of silence before the voice of Officer Waters came through from the other end. "This is backup team, we are in position. If you need help, just give us the word. Backup team out."
Officer Waters, Mr. Peruski, and the barely recovered Alley Garris were holed up in another building not too far away, ready to render assistance to the main team if needed.
The main team comprised of the Ambroses and Tyrone. Because of the extremely high risk factor of storming a heavily fortified and defended Magistarium structure like this, everyone had agreed that it would be best for the main team to comprise of only Spartans.
"Are we a go?" Sam, who was crouching behind the two men in a dark corner, hissed.
Alex and Tyrone gazed at the service entrance for a few minutes longer, gauging the milling patrols and sentries. For a little while, there was no break, but then there came a lull in the ranks. The ground patrol did not show up around the corner and the rooftop sentries were leaving their posts.
"The guard is changing," Alex noted. "There's no better chance for us than now."
Tyrone nodded in agreement. He unslung his M90 from his back and racked the pump, his mouth curving back in a wolfish grin. "Let's move!"
The three Spartans stood up and sprinted for the edge of the building, leaping off into the street. They all executed quick forward rolls as the hit the asphalt, dispersing the force of the impact. They continued to roll until they were back on their feet, shaking off the three-story plunge as if it were a pinprick.
Alex gripped his chest, which had started to painfully throb in protest to the extreme movement, but his face gave away nothing.
The three Spartans crossed the rest of the street. Just as they were thinking that everything might actually go to plan, just as they set foot on the sidewalk, all hell broke loose.
The explosion ripped the Cruciamentum to pieces. The huge building's entire roof was thrown fifty feet into the air from the force, spinning away into the night and crashing through other buildings across the streets. One of the entire sides of the Cruciamentum was blown out, littering the street it bordered with burning debris and roaring white flame. The other three sides were not damaged as badly, but parts of all of them still collapsed.
The three Spartans were thrown all the way back across the street from the shockwave of the explosion which had destroyed the Cruciamentum, impacting painfully into the curb.
Their COM units crackled to life not a nanosecond later. "What the hell was that?!" Collins's voice, startled and high-pitched with panic, burst through.
"Main team, are you alright?!" Colonel Angiers's voice said next. "Main team, please respond!"
Tyrone grabbed his COM unit and responded to the spook's transmission, giving his status and those of Alex and Sam.
Sam had hit her head on the curb and was just starting to sit up. Her eyes were glazed. She looked dazed and shell-shocked. Tyrone moved to help her, but Alex remained rooted to the spot where he stood.
Alexander Ambrose stared into the roaring white and yellow flames consuming the Cruciamentum, his emotions running wild like a river full of rapids. "He was in there…" the Spartan murmured. "My son was in there…"
Alex had been feeling pure shock, a kind of paralyzing trauma which blanked out everything else. Now, his emotions hit him, roaring through his mind and body like the white flames consuming the remains of the Cruciamentum. He sprinted towards the burning prison.
Tyrone sprang into action, sprinting after Alex. He caught up and threw himself into him. To Alex, it felt like a freight train had just ran him over. He went flying, landing on the road in a heap. He moved to get back up, but Tyrone practically sat on top of him, pinning him to the road.
"Let…me…GO!!" Alex screamed, struggling futilely against his friend's superior strength.
"It's no good, Alex!" Tyrone roared, wrenching Alex's arms behind his back and jamming his knee down between his friend's shoulders, immobilizing him. "He's gone! He's gone, and killing yourself won't bring him back! It won't make Sam too happy either, and it won't kill the ones responsible for this!"
Alex's struggled grew less forceful until he finally stopped and went limp, submitting himself to Tyrone's hold. He started to shake and Tyrone let him go, concerned with what was happening to his friend. He flipped Alex over onto his back and was almost startled to see that his old friend was crying. Tyrone had never seen Alex cry before and the sight was unnerving to him. He offered Alex a hand, but his friend made no move to take it.
Alex quickly stopped crying after a minute and sat up, mumbling quietly to himself in an unintelligible tone. He rocked back and forth on his haunches…just sitting there talking to himself. Just as Tyrone was really starting to get concerned, he stopped muttering abruptly and stood up, casually dusting himself off as if he had just been through an old house. "Let's go," Alex said emotionlessly. "There is nothing for us here."
He brushed past Tyrone, moving towards Sam, who was just getting to her feet, tears streaming down her face.
Tyrone watched him go. Something had changed about his old friend within the millisecond of the explosion. The light in his eyes seemed to have gone out, replaced by a black fire.
Hatred. Pure, dark, all-consuming hatred.
Tyrone had faced off with brutes and their chieftains in hand-to-hand combat in the war. He had even done the same with the Flood, the parasitic horror which had destroyed the galaxy once and nearly got a second chance during the war. He had stared down all of those horrible things during the war without so much as flinching, but when he looked into Alex Ambrose's eyes, he was truly afraid of his friend in that moment.
Tyrone shuddered, dispelling his feelings, and turned to join his comrades