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This will be the last chapter of this part of the story. The next installment yet needs a name, but it will feature the Spartan IIs on Onyx, with Halsey, Mendez, and the IIIs. It will be the same time frame, mostly, but in different settings. If you have ideas about the title, or if you'd like to suggest names for OCs, please let me know in a review or PM.
Chapter 20: Epilogue
John shook his head free of water as he stared at the mirror. The dry air of the ship quickly dried his skin and left him with goose pimples as he shaved and brushed his teeth. The Spartan dressed quickly in his bodysuit and then donned his armor. The call had come through the ship while John was asleep, but it had woken him quickly: the fleet was at the rendezvous point and about to drop out of Slipspace.
They would appear just a few thousand kilometers from the outermost planet of the system where the Sangheili had agreed to meet them. Thanks to the improvements in Slipspace drive software Cortana and other ONI AIs had compiled and then improved upon from the Covenant, human ships could now jump with the precision their once-enemies had used to such incredible advantage.
DT was already waiting for him in their designated hangar, all five teams arranged neatly out of the way of the engineers and pilots. The IVs stood off to the side, running last-minute equipment and armor systems checks on each other through small datapads linked to the bases of their helmets. The pilots cursed loudly in the hangar, yelling for this part or that person. The engineers moved quietly, in comparison, though any vocal noise they didn't make was more than compensated for by the heavy machinery loading Pelican and Peliship guns and cargo bays.
Fully half of the overloaded human ships' dropships would be transferring to various Sangheili ships, whose resources had been severely reduced after the split of the Covenant. Without the ship yards and Engineers, they hadn't been able to rebuild many dropships, either, which was why anything capable of transporting goods or crew had been commandeered from Earth to staff their ally's ships.
DT came to attention as John walked over, his unshielded boots clunking thickly on the floor. Something in the steel, a Sangheili design, swallowed most of the hollow thumping, but it still sounded ominous.
"Sir, Troops One through Five ready!" John's second in command, Private Ridder, stepped forward and snapped off a crisp salute, followed by the rest of the troops and the IVs.
"The Spartan Fours have requested permission to tag along, sir!" Lazlakovic stepped forward, helmet under her elbow.
John's DT would be one of the sets of troops transferring to Sangheili ships – and not just any ship, but the Arbiter's ship, which had first rescued him from the Forward Unto Dawn. He nodded; he had received the orders from Admiral Hood just before, via Cortana.
Cortana would not be going with him, though, which made John slightly uneasy. He hadn't gone into battle without her for more years than he cared to think about. Her replacement AI had been requisitioned for mail duty, so he was, for once, completely alone in his armor. The neural enhancements meant that his reflexes wouldn't miss the AI's help, but he would miss Cortana's banter and intelligence.
"Granted," he told Lazlakovic, returning the salute to all of the soldiers. The assumed parade rest; he could see the small tells on each of the Double Trouble troops as they fidgeted. "We're dropping out in five minutes. Prepare to make a quick jump; this is only a rendezvous point."
"Sir, yes, sir!" the troops barked, hefting backpacks and duffle bags; they were stuffed, he knew, with weapons, ammunition, food, and clothing. Sangheili food wasn't palatable to many humans, and most of the humans in the Double Trouble troops had chosen to bring their own weapons. John had his energy sword in one thigh pocket; his bag of clothing was already on a Pelican – a perk of leadership – and the repair kit necessary for his and the IV's armor was already loaded as well.
"Load up," John ordered. His troops split quickly, weaving around last-minute preparations and securing their cargo and themselves into their designated ships. Each ship carried a pile of cargo – again, mostly food and ammunition – in the middle section, and three had Warthogs strapped to their underbellies. The Scorpions would stay on the Blade, simply because they were harder to fit in Sangheili hangars.
The ship around them boomed, shuddered, and came out of Slipspace. John braced himself as they decelerated slowly; a couple of engineers went skidding around on their wheeled carts, crashing into pilots, other engineers, or piles of cargo. One skidded into Carter, whose armor saved him a broken ankle – he quickly set the engineer back on her feet and braced her as the ship slid to the side again.
John looked up as the speakers crackled to life. "All hands, prepare for departure." Cortana sounded calm even though this was a rougher drop than John had experienced on the Blade before.
The last few people still on the hangar deck ran into the safety of the ship; John and Carter, last to board, hopped into their respective Pelicans and shut the hatches behind them. John was with a group of his DTs; the other Spartans were spread out among the other half-dozen Peliships waiting for the hangar to depressurize.
The door slid open in front of the cockpit; John climbed forward to look out over the pilot's shoulder. Black, empty space greeted them – and then an icy comet streaked by, pelting the hangar with shards of ice as thick as a man was tall.
"Shit!" the pilot cursed as a shard pinged off the Pelican's nose with a clang. "What the hell?!"
"Cortana, talk to me, what's going on?" John asked, opening a private comm link between himself and the main ship.
Cortana's harried voice snapped back, "We're not where we're supposed to be! Who the-" She shut off the comm with a snap.
"We gotta close those doors," another pilot screamed over the radio. "I'm getting pecked to bits!"
"Controls aren't responding," an engineer replied from inside the ship. "Hold on, we're working on it."
"DT, move forward," John ordered, going back to the back haft. The troops obeyed instantly, squeezing into the tiny cabin and sealing the door shut. It was a good thing there had only been half a dozen humans and two Elites; they barely fit as it was, the pilot pressed against his instrument panels.
John checked that his suit was sealed and opened the hatch; the explosive decompression shoved him into the hangar and pushed the Pelican forward; he twisted and managed to smack the hatch button again. It closed as he sped towards the hangar's back wall.
The Spartan inverted himself, managing to land on his boots when he hit the wall. He absorbed the impact so that he wouldn't fly off of it and activated the magnetic controls; he had to drop the shields, which meant he wasn't protected from ice so well, but it was necessary if he wanted to get to the manual controls quickly.
One of the Pelicans broke loose of its restraints, spinning into the comet's path. John watched it as he walked around the wall; he couldn't move too quickly or he might set himself spinning out of the ship, magnetic boots or no. It was smashed by a chunk of ice as large as a small house; the ice hurtled past, the ship's nose buckled onto its leading edge like a crumpled paper plane.
"Master Chief, we're gettin' a little chilled out here," one of the troopers joked weakly on the radio. John glanced at the tag – it was one of the soldiers from the Pelican that had just been smashed. There was still a few minutes of air left for them, probably, before the cold vacuum tore the ship apart. John clomped towards his goal, anger rising in the back of his mind. He couldn't protect his troops – but they didn't need to die this way. "Was a pleasure… S-s-serving with ya, all a'ya." The private, named Turtan, sighed and the comm went dead.
"Hangars five through eight compromised. Ten not responding." Cortana listed errors in John's ear; he shut that comm off, too, and finally reached his goal. He grabbed the large handle, twisting it and then slamming it home. The blast doors came down quickly and the Pelicans immediately backed away from them as quickly as possible, releasing the tension on their restraining straps.
John crossed to the engineer's room and yanked open the door; the engineers inside had been killed by a chunk of ice the size of a horse, but the controls were marginally operable. The Spartan keyed in the atmosphere system; it roared to life and started filling the hangar with pressurized air and oxygen. It would take five minutes to fully recover from the vacuum, and John used those minutes to check every single Pelican critically. Two wouldn't be any good for sorties; ice had bent wings or smashed guns and engines. One Warthog was missing; it must have broken loose while John had been moving out of the Pelican.
Except for the one Pelican, however, no one had any major injuries in their hangar. The hatches began opened as John's armor unsealed itself; oxygen and pressure was back to normal, though gravity was still out. Soldiers, pilots, and Spartans all headed for the interior of the ship, unwilling to risk another ice chunk breaking through the blast doors and sending them all out into space.
"DT, head for the gym and wait for orders there. Spartans, with me," John ordered crisply. He didn't know what had happened – or why – but if three other hangars were in the same situation, they needed to be closed before more personnel could be lost.
He sent each of the Spartans to a hangar, telling them to shut the blast doors manually if necessary and report on what they found. He did the same as the ship blared alarms in the areas with pressure. In the opened hangars, however, there was no noise but his own breathing and the muffled sound of his heartbeat.
In all, five hangars had been unable to close after being so explosively decompressed. All of them were quickly shut by one of the Spartans and the troops inside herded into the pressurized areas of the ship as soon as it was safe. Gravity came back online just as John was finished with the final evacuation.
The six Spartans then converged and headed for the bridge. The Fours waited outside as John went into the bridge itself. Cortana was glowing hotly on her pedestal, barking out orders, warnings, errors, and calculations.
"Sir, permission to enter the bridge," John called to the Admiral over Cortana's voice, and the voices of the bridge crew yelling status reports. Admiral Hood waved him up to the viewport where they could see the comet streaking away now. John looked around; three ships were missing.
"Swallowed by that thing," Admiral Hood said, gesturing to the three ships on his "KIA" list.
"The hangars are secure, sir, and all personnel have been evacuated to the interior of the ship."
"What are our casualties?" Hood asked, accepting a holoscreen from a specialist who whizzed by on her way to her post.
"Three Pelicans, two Peliships, one Warthog, twenty-three humans, two Elites, and eight engineers, sir," John answered promptly. "Three dozen wounded; they're at the medical bay already."
"Good." Hood looked over the holoscreen and put it down on the holopanel in front of him; it produced a 3D image of the comet that had hurt them so much. "This thing pulled us out of Slipspace."
John blinked. He hadn't thought that was possible.
"It shouldn't be possible," Cortana sighed, turning on her pedestal to observe the Spartan. The human ships had regrouped into their formation behind the Blade; the noise had dropped as bridge crew handled the disaster. "Admiral, we lost a total of two frigates and all their cargo, plus a stealth-class, and our five dropships. No other ships were that close to the comet; their hangar doors closed on their own. No lives lost on other ships, sir."
"How did we get pulled out of Slipspace, Cortana?" Hood demanded; he wasn't angry, at least not at her, but he was looking for answers.
Cortana shook her head. "Theoretically, it's a possibility for something to so disrupt Slipspace – a large enough comet entering, for example – and cause such a catastrophic burn. But there are too many variables; it was theoretically possible, but it wouldn't happen…"
"It just did," Hood reminded the AI. "Could it have been an attack?"
"Someone would have had to know exactly where we entered Slipspace, be able to track our progress despite the drop-outs we made to muddy our trail, and know where we were going. Then they would have to make a comet – or something large enough – plow "into" us and knock us out… If something could do that, sir, they could have just crushed us. My subroutines insist it is a coincidence. I am not so sure."
"Could it be our friends' friend?"
"Whoever's behind the Brutes?" Cortana frowned. "It might be possible. They did genetically alter a Brute. We don't know what they're capable of; that could be child's play to them. But why would they just knock us out of orbit? Why not just crush us all?"
"A diversion?" John suggested. "To keep us from reaching the Sangheili."
Hood frowned. "I don't like that at all. Helmsman!" The man turned and saluted. "Get us to the rendezvous as fast as possible. Any ships that are unable to enter Slipspace… Will have to be left behind.
"Master Chief, see to it your troops are fit and then report to the engineers. The last thing we need if one of you losing your armor." John saluted; the admiral dismissed him and the Spartan quickly left the bridge, sending the IVs immediately to the engineers and going to the gym himself. His troops were well, though shocked by what had happened; they quietly mourned their comrades who had been sucked into the comet's path. John told them to go back to their bunks and then reported to the engineers.
Only one ship ended up being abandoned; as the engines started warming up again, the crew of that ship evacuated to the Blade, bringing with them as much as possible in the way of cargo and weapons. They then set the sit remotely to a sustainable orbit around a nearby solar system, for retrieval later.
By the time all of the formation was ready to jump back into Slipspace, John and his Spartans had been unloading Pelicans for an hour. Most of the heavy machinery had been thrown about – or lost to space – so the engineers needed the help to get all of the cargo separated from the Pelicans for repairs.
The ship rumbled into Slipspace just as John stacked the last crate of explosives and tied it down with extra care. Engineers relaxed, subtly, as Cortana came through the speakers to assure them all was well. They would make the rendezvous point within three hours; the comet had knocked them out of their original path, apparently, on a little "side trip."
John headed for the mess after letting the engineers and technicians take his armor for repairs and a thorough testing. The few soldiers he passed in the hallway saluted him with awe in their eyes, those who weren't his own troopers. Apparently the story of his actions in the hangars had spread throughout the fleet.
The IVs were already there when the Spartan II entered the cafeteria, packed with hungry pilots – and soldiers who didn't want to be alone as they dealt with the shock of being attacked in a place they had felt "safe."
The tall man grabbed a tray and food and sat with the IVs when Lazlakovic waved him over. He sat down and ate quickly; the IVs were just as interested in their own food, and nearby soldiers stole covert glances at the table of Spartans.
Once all six were satisfied, they piled their trays in the middle of the table and began discussing what had happened. Soldiers from the abandoned ship leaned forward to listen; others added their own stories as everyone tried to puzzle out what happened.
"Ah was just sitting there, ready to get going, yanno, and suddenly alarms're ringing and the ship's a-rockin' like a ship at sea," one woman related, tossing her pink-blonde hair over one shoulder. She was from the abandoned ship and had been one of the last to get on the Blade. "Thank the gods we didna have hangar probl'ms. We'd've been dead meat without yer Spartans."
"Yeah," soldiers agreed, nodding. This, of course, sparked a retelling of John's "heroic" march, which devolved into story-telling. John excused himself as the soldiers began relating tales of his former brothers and sisters, mostly myths and stories from their older siblings or commanders.
Naomi followed him out; she caught up to him and silently nudged him away from the cabins and towards the gym. John allowed her to herd him, knowing that they both needed an outlet after what had happened.
They warmed up separately, stretching to make sure they didn't injure themselves or each other. John used the time to calm the simmering anger at himself – and, mostly, at whoever was behind the attack – for loosing troops. Naomi centered herself and hoped John – formidable even without his armor, and certainly stronger than her – would find the sparring session relaxing.
The IVs didn't have the same problems as the IIs; having been accepted into the program as adults, they had fully matured, both physically and mentally, before being altered. Naomi still marveled at her strength now, still found pleasure in moving so quickly she could literally blur to a human eye when really trying. Lazlakovic had warned them all, however, that John was a different breed entirely – even from his fellow IIs.
He took his responsibilities seriously, a mark of a good leader – but he also blamed himself for things beyond his control. It didn't affect his leadership, nor did he allow it to hamper his skills, but she could feel the self-directed anger in the tense way he held himself. He was a big brother, father, and CO all in one, a difficult juggling of positions that he made effortless.
According to Cortana, he was also the last II known alive. He had watched most of his brothers and sisters die, usually murdered. Naomi also knew about the dirty secret of the II program, about the deaths and mutilations that had happened during the augmentation process. She knew that he had been taken as a child and had bonded to those IIs as fiercely as anyone could bond to another person, but they had not been able to mature normally. Adulthood had been thrust upon them; they were killing machines at the age of thirteen, though Cortana had hinted that John had reached that stage before that.
It told on John; he didn't know how to handle losing his soldiers well. He worked through it, but Naomi had a suspicious that he still carried every single death he had witnessed – or thought he could have prevented – with him, a burden that was unhealthy even for those who had been trained in a more normal fashion.
So when John initiated the sparring session without a word, Naomi was ready to let him take out his anger and frustration for a while before trying to talk to him. She ran the larger man around the gym a few times, trading blows – both careful to avoid serious injury – and silently assessing him. He moved like a man in his prime, but the age signs were there. He was at least forty, just at the tail end of his prime. Though he still had the figure of a rock-hard athlete, and the stamina and strength of a man many times his junior, Naomi could see the damage his abused body had taken. It was hardly noticeable, and the only people who could take advantage of it were other Spartans and maybe fast Brutes.
Finally, John rolled Naomi to the floor with a clever kick and pounced, pinning her slender arms at the elbow and hooking his feet over her thighs so she couldn't get her legs under herself and push him off. She struggled experimentally but the heavier man had her pinned; she finally went limp.
"I yield," she panted; John stood up fluidly and offered a hand. She pulled herself up and smiled. "That was a neat little trick, the leg thing."
John smirked slightly. He had gotten better at using facial expression to soften his harsh-sounding voice, but was still a little wooden about it. Smiling – not to mention laughter – didn't come to the old soldier so easily anymore, but he had the humor and wit to be quite the jokester. Once upon a time, Cortana had said, he had been – as jolly as any child. But the years of warfare, of leading men and women to their deaths, had locked that happy-go-lucky child deep in a closet.
"I can teach it to you," he offered quietly, reaching for a towel and offering her one. She took it and wiped the sweat from her face, neck, and chest.
"I'd like that. But later. I feel flattened." Naomi grinned, inviting him to share in her joke; the man returned the smile slightly, the left side of his mouth quirking up farther than the right and making it more of a smirk.
"Thank you," he said quietly as they tidied the area up – a few weight bars may have been used as sparring sticks at one point.
Naomi nodded. "Anytime, Chief." She stretched, wincing slightly. "Would you like to bunk with us?" she offered as they headed for the exit. "What with all these officers from the poor Hakumata, they'll probably want to put you in with someone."
John frowned slightly, a thoughtful frown – though anyone looking at him who didn't know the gentleness behind that face would swear he was considering murder. Finally, he nodded slightly. "I would like that," he told her, grinning ruefully. "I'll get my stuff."
"I'll come help," she offered. He nodded thanks for the assistance – though he probably didn't need it; she hadn't ever seen him wear anything except the armor or a set of fatigues big enough to make a small tent.
They quickly wove through the hallways silently, trading short greetings with soldiers who passed, and John keyed in the entry code to his room. It was silent inside; Naomi looked around. It was slightly larger than a single room normally, clearly for a higher-ranking officer, but it looked barren.
There was one picture sitting on a tiny bed-side table. The bed was made neatly, almost looking unslept-in. She glanced at it and recognized John – unarmored, in civilian clothes, grinning as he threw a snowball at an unidentifiable woman. A large black creature romped around the woman; probably a dog, Naomi decided, though she wasn't very familiar with pets.
"Is that you?" she asked curiously, picking up the picture. The John in that picture was clearly enjoying himself, as was the woman.
The Spartan turned from where he was gathering his toiletries into a bag and smiled slightly, his eyes warming.
"Who's this?" she asked, pointing to the woman. Perhaps she was prying, but Naomi was nothing if not curious.
"Rebecca," John answered. "The dog is Chichi, her Newfie."
"A Newfie? I've heard of them. Really playful, aren't they?" She decided not to ask about this "Rebecca" – it was clearly something John wasn't really willing to share.
John nodded, chuckling softly. "Chichi is a very playful girl. She loves catching snowballs."
"I didn't know you had a civilian life," Naomi said lightly. John frowned slightly, a flash of unhappiness racing through his expression before it disappeared and he shrugged carefully.
"I was retired temporarily," he said, answering her unspoken question. "Rebecca and Chichi helped me adjust to civi life."
Naomi blinked. "That's right. We got rumors about it." She had been patrolling for pockets of Jackals in the Voltari quadrant at the time, and only been back for three days before the fleet had left for the rendezvous with the Sangheili.
"How was it?" she asked carefully as John packed his clothing into the single bag.
The Spartan II shrugged. "Not what I was trained for, or expecting," he admitted. Naomi nodded; she had been expecting as much, because of the II's history. "But I can proudly do any domestic task now." His chuckle was deeper this time. "Except cook anything edible."
"You can't be all that bad," Naomi protested, handing him the picture so he could wrap it carefully in a shirt and tuck it into the bag. "What about InstaRations?"
John shook his head. "I burn water. Literally. I managed to burn tea somehow."
Naomi giggled quietly. "Well, once this is all over, maybe we can work on that," she offered.
The taller man glanced down at her; something in his look made her think of a child, thrust suddenly into an unknown situation. "What?" she asked softly.
John shook his head and led the way out; she followed, silently waiting for him to answer the question. He didn't, however, as they came to the IV's bunk; Lazlakovic, anticipating the arrival, had already cleared off a bunk of their cluttered armor. The five IVs were waiting for them as they arrived; they greeted the pair with grins and a warm welcome to John.
John quickly unpacked into his small area, folding his clothing neatly into the dresser under the bed. Naomi noticed him gently put the picture at the bottom of the drawer instead of putting it on the night stand; she bit her lip, but it was John's decision, not hers.
"We have an hour until we arrive," Lazlakovic told them. "Shower up and then we'll gear up. There's no telling what's waiting for us."
John nodded, gathering a clean towel and soap from his supplies and then entering the bathroom. There were two shower stalls, cut off from the rest of the bathroom – and the single toilet – by a thin white curtain. He stepped into the tiny stall, ducking his head away from the faucet at nose-height, and undressed quickly, folding the clothing over the curtain rod. True to military standard, the Spartan showered quickly; half-way through soaping up, he heard Naomi enter and start her own shower.
They finished at the same time; John wrapped a towel around his waist – more for the IV's sake than for his – and gathered his dirty clothing before stepping out of the steamy stall. Naomi was already in the main room; John found the dirty laundry chute, tumbled his clothing down it, and then walked back to his bunk.
He could feel the IVs watching him as he crossed the small room, probably tracing the scars on his back and calves with their eyes. The taller man ignored the watchers and dried off, pulling a clean bodysuit on and sighing mentally in relief when the men and women around him went back to what they had been doing.
Lazlakovic thought about what she had just seen. John was covered in scars; she would have been hard pressed, even if she'd had ample time to study him, to find a space more than a palm's width without scar tissue dancing crazily over it. She recognized bullet wounds, surgical scars, plasma burns, and needler punctures. There were a lot fewer bullet wounds, but the surgeries he had undergone had been fairly recent. The mythical Frankenstein, indeed.
The II turned around, now dressed in a black bodysuit that hugged his body like his own skin. Though the IVs were certainly no more modest than any other soldier, Lazlakovic was grateful John had worn a towel before leaving the shower, and had managed to get dressed without flashing them all. She had heard rumors of the II's lack of modesty.
"So," Carter said cheerfully, "maybe when we're on our way again, you can share somma those war stories, eh, brother?" John glanced at the shorter male, clearly startled – both at the open curiosity and the "brother" part.
He recovered quickly, though, and nodded hesitantly. "If you like," he said.
"It'd be nice t' hear th' story from someone who was actually there," Basky said quietly. "Not the official reports – or the bullshit we get from those kids whose parents and what have you were there."
John relaxed subtly and nodded. "And maybe you can share some of yours," he said quietly.
Landsmen groaned. "Now you've done it," he told John mock-sternly. John blinked, bewildered. "Basky's gonna talk all our ears off with that damn story about how he supposedly "rescued" me."
"I did!" Basky protested. "You were up to your ears in Grunts-"
"An' I had 'em right where I wanted 'em!" Landsmen shot back, grinning widely.
John shook his head slightly, which made Landsmen chuckle. "Oh, we're not all that bad, Chief. 'Sides, you've gotta have more interestin' stories than us."
"Story time later, kiddies," Lazlakovic ordered. "Admiral wants us in armor five minutes ago."
John nodded and quickly headed for the door; the IVs followed. The reported to the technicians, who strapped everyone into their armor speedily and then shoved them out the door, already turning to their next repair project. John tested the suit in the hallway, gently – bending, twisting, and finally running a systems check himself. He had forgotten how much he had to take care of, in regards to the armor, without Cortana.
The IVs did the same, pairing up as well to test their partner's armor by hitting it carefully, making sure nothing squeaked, rattled, or came loose. If they were going into combat, they just might need to jump ship through an airlock – and no one wanted to watch their partner sucked through a tiny crack in their suit.
"Alright, we're good," Carter said cheerfully. "You good, Chief?"
John nodded, leaving his helmet on – now was not the time to get caught without it. "Will you be joining the DT again?" he asked.
Lazlakovic shook her head. "We're going to spread out in the hangars. If someone decides to screw with those doors again – well, I'd rather we be able to respond more quickly."
John nodded and headed for the cafeteria, where he found most of the DT and ordered them into the hangar. Each was already geared up and prepared for the worst; there were fewer jokes as they marched to the hangar, stragglers who hadn't been in the cafeteria trotting smartly to catch up as they heard the announcement over the speakers that the Blade would soon be leaving Slipspace.
The troops filed into the Pelicans, which had been reloaded and secured more carefully, and strapped themselves in without complaint. John chose to ride with the lead Peliship, closest to the hangar doors.
The ship jumped slightly under them – they were out of Slipspace. John waited for something to go wrong, but nothing happened for long moments until Cortana's voice came through his speakers.
"All crew, prepare to transfer to your assigned ships."
A muted cheer rose up from inside the Pelican; they had made it safely. Cortana patched into John's helmet for a moment. "Keep yourself safe, John," she told him quietly. "You won't have me around to pull your ass out of the fire."
John smirked, chuckling faintly and making sure his external speakers were off when he answered, "As I recall, I pulled your ass out of the fire plenty of times."
Cortana's voice carried that inflection that meant she was smiling, wherever her avatar was, but also slightly worried. "Seriously. You aren't used to fighting without an AI in the back of your mind, even one so 'helpful' as my little cousin."
"Thank you, Cortana." John smiled slightly; he was truly grateful for Cortana's attachment to him, and he would miss her remarks in the back of his mind, but he didn't like being mothered, either.
"See you soon. Keep yourself safe, as much as you can."
"As much as I can," John agreed. Cortana clicked off the link and John turned his attention back to the ship's pilot, who was starting to engines as the hangar doors opened – this time, without the explosive decompression. The ship had been leaking from the hangars purposefully so the Pelicans weren't jumbled about as the doors slid into the belly of the ship.
"We're leaving, ladies and gentlemen!" the pilot announced. The cables restraining the Pelican snapped free and the ships left the hangars in an orderly fashion, streaming towards the bulbous Sangheili warships that were barely visible, father in-system. The larger ships followed more slowly; they would jump back into Slipspace after making a slingshot orbit around the largest planet, a gas giant, and the Sangheili would follow as soon as all the humans assigned to their ships had come aboard.
John and his Pelican headed for the largest of the ships, a flagship with gently pulsing purple sections. The trip took quite a while, though the Pelicans made their best time, and John was glad to be out of the deep space and into a more secure hangar.
He and his troops – John was technically commander of all human forces, but there was an understanding that the humans would follow their Elite commanders and work with the Grunts on equal level – left the Pelicans as the pilots shut them down in the mag-lift clamps that held them suspended in a parking lot fashion. They assembled as Thel and his commanders came down to meet the ones here; across the fleet, other commanders were greeting their human troops.
"Welcome," Thel said warmly, clasping John's forearm as the Spartan went to present his troops with his two officers. "We are grateful for your recovery." The other commanders nodded and addressed the man by his Sangheili name, which made John a little uneasy, as the two races exchanged pleasantries and reported on the numbers of soldiers of each type – Marines, ODSTs, engineers, Spartans, Minors, and Veterans – now in the fleet.
Thel turned to address the fleet once the three humans returned to their troops and stood at their head, at attention. "This alliance between our peoples, after so many years of warfare, destruction, pain, and suffering, is a new beginning. It is an honor for us to fight next to you, our allies and friends, against a common enemy who would kill and enslave us all. We fight to protect our families, our friends, and our loved ones." It was clear, to John, that Thel had had human help in this speech; he used colloquialisms that didn't translate to Sangheili. "We march together, stand together, against a threat like none we have faced before. We will fight – and die – with honor, with pride, and with humility."
The troops ooh-rahed at the end of the speech and Thel left the assignment of bunkers – a good dozen had been specially altered to fit human occupants – up to John and his officers. The soldiers began unloading the Pelicans and Peliships and carting the supplies into a warehouse-like room, where the Spartans would be bunked with their armor. Elites of the DT troops helped, but most of the other Elites on board stayed carefully separate. It would take the rest of the trip to the Brute homeworld, nearly a month-long process, for the troops to really start working together like Double Trouble.
John set his pack down on the bunk he had been assigned. It was a curious thing, made of a purple foam substance, and much softer than anything he had slept on while in the military. It bounced gently when he nudged the side with his hip. He turned back to continue the unloading process, leaving his pack on the bed. He and his troops moved several thousand kilograms of food, weapons, armor, and ammunition before the Pelicans were finally empty. Each was stacked and labeled, and the food was unpacked to prepare a meal for the humans. The Sangheili went to their own mess hall, making jokes about finally being able to eat real food.
John joined his troops for their meal; they ate spread around on creates without tables, but the more open environment made for more jokes and laughter as they compared their living quarters here – more spacious than soldiers were used to, with softer beds and warmer floors – to those on human ships.
"I might just make this a thing!" one laughed. He turned to the Master Chief. "'Ey, Chief, think they got showers here?"
John nodded. "Sangheili shower communally," he explained. "We'll go on a tour after you all finish eating."
"Ooo, communal showers," one young man at the edge of the crowd laughed. "Girls, prepare to be amazed!" Several of the young man's comrades hooted and yelled insults at the youngster; the females in the group snorted and teased him healthily as well. John chuckled.
"Be careful," John warned. "Sangheili have strict codes of honor when it comes to sexual intercourse – especially on the battlefield. Their ship, their rules."
"Yes, sir," the soldiers chorused, though there were mutterings and undercurrents of chuckles as John returned to his food.
"Do they have female Sangheili?" one soldier asked the group at large.
"I hear they're all on the home world," another soldier laughed. "Poppin' out Elite babies!"
John shook his head, bringing their attention on him quickly. "Sir?" one man asked curiously.
"Sangheili females defend the home world. They protect their estates, make treaties for foodstuffs and goods from other states. They aren't, in any way, weaker. In fact, they might be larger. We don't know much about their culture."
"Hey – they picked you up, didn't they?" another asked. "From the Dawn."
John nodded. "This ship did – Thel diverted from their course to bring me back to Earth."
The soldiers turned to more interesting topics, like communal showers. John finished his food and stood. Everyone was done eating by that point; they rose with him, leaving their dirty dishes for the few who had drawn clean-up duty.
"Time for your tour. Follow closely, don't touch anything, and don't wander off." John led the way out of the garage and into the hallways. They passed several common rooms; one, a cafeteria, was packed with DT troops who saw them pass by the door and hailed them loudly. The other Elites in the large room, eating, stared at the humans, muttering among themselves in Sangheili.
John led them past and to the empty gym first. They filed into the large area – bigger by half than any gym on a human ship except the hybrids. The gravity here changed even though the ship didn't have a spinning center; Covenant technology included real artificial gravity. The humans took in the weights, punching bags, and simulation areas with awe; it was more than a little impressive.
"This is the gym. It's free to use any hour. Higher-ranking Elites get precedence. The room next door is the medical bay – use it if you are injured. We cannot afford to have a fighter out of action right now."
The soldiers agreed heartily and John led them next to the communal showers. They, too, were empty, but by the way the soldiers gazed longingly at the shower heads – there were no curtains or walls between stations – this room wouldn't be so for long.
The troops hurried back through the hallways when John dismissed them. He followed at a more leisurely pace, the IVs right behind him. This next month would mean constant training – he had to get the kind of cooperation between humans and Sangheili as DT had, and quickly. He and the IVs would have to work together even more, create the kind of rapid-response team the IIs had been to such good effect. And John himself needed to get back into the lethal kind of reflexes that would keep him and his soldiers alive – or at least give them a better chance. The only way to do that was to spar against Veterans and Thel.
As the Spartans unarmored, the few soldiers still in the room watched covertly. John helped the IVs out of their armor first and they returned the favor, stripping the larger green armor from the taller man quickly and efficiently. John left the body suit on as he carefully stacked the pieces of the MJOLNIR; he had the armor run a self-diagnostic as he went to take a shower with his soldiers.
The bodysuit peeled from his skin as he undressed in the small "locker room" next to the bank of shower heads. There were a good deal taller than the soldiers currently using them, but they did the job. The men and women glanced at him as he joined the line of soldiers and showered; they didn't quite include him in their friendly bantering back and forth, but they made him feel welcome all the same. He finished very quickly and wrapped a towel around his midsection, stepping back into the drying area. Instead of a body suit, John put on a set of fatigues. The men and women around him dressed quickly, shivering, and then hurried back to their bunks, outpacing the Spartan again.
So much has changed, John mused to himself as he walked down the long purple hallway. Just years ago, I was fighting through halls like these. I was killing Sangheilli – now I train them. What Kelly wouldn't give to see this.
The big guy smiled softly to himself, a smile that didn't reach his face. Well, wherever she is – wherever they all are – they'd be proud of what we've done. What they've sacrificed themselves for.
The IVs surrounded him when he entered their section of the garage, demanding war stories. They sat in a circle on the ground; other soldiers sauntered a little closer to overhear as the Spartans swapped tales. A few of the bolder DT troopers sat down in a circle around the circle of Spartans; others joined them slowly as they returned from the shower. They started chiming in, talking about comrades, siblings, parents, and even grandparents they had lost to the war. Everyone gave and received in the group as they all bonded; John felt surrounded by brothers and sisters again. They were smaller, and slower, but they had that spirit of family. They teased the last Spartan II as though he was their long-lost brother, especially the IVs, once John started making jokes of his own.
Thel watched the scene from the on-board cameras, mandibles curving into a slight grin. He knew the anguish that had been in his friend, beaten down by training and what the humans called "willpower." The Arbiter had not personally faced the Demon in combat, but Thel knew his friend had just become that much more dangerous for fighting, once again, at the forefront of a family.