"… that the situation had quickly become dependant on the actions of a few, charismatic figures was made abundantly clear by the second day of the siege. Then, and for the rest of that pitiless week, the ultimate fate of the colony would rest entirely on their shoulders."
- From "The Crassus Campaign - A History."
Light, trapped beyond the bumbling grey clouds; it suffused the sky with a dull glare that made his eyes ache.
Making matters worse was that the sky above was skewed, as if the entire world had been twisted on its side, like a badly set picture frame. Perry groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, skull throbbing as the sun seared bright-white spots across his vision. It felt like he'd drunk the entire colony's supply of liquor, and been unfortunate enough to survive the experience. Barely. Right now, his brain was fervently trying to desperately gnaw its way through the roof his mouth. He let out another groan.
The next thing he noticed was that he was cold. No, that wasn't accurate enough. He was freezing. The canopy was missing, presumably having been torn by the force of the crash. He'd yanked his ejector cord, but it had evidently malfunctioned: the cord was still clenched in his balled fist, and he remained very much trapped in the cockpit of the downed Hornet.
"So much for safety procedures," he remarked sourly, flinging the useless yellow cord aside.
The pilot squinted through his cracked flight visor, trying to make out what the time display said. It too was shattered; dented from where his head had pitched forward upon impact. At least that explained why his head hurt so damn much. Perry reached up and pulled off his flight helmet, blinking into the cold morning air. Pale nimbus clouds hung in the air, serene and tranquil. It was so quiet. Was the battle over?
No, it couldn't be. It was dawn, and an entire army group of Jiralhanae didn't simply vanish just like that. He could hear the brittle cawing of birds, as they picked at the carrion outside. It was dawn, then. The vultures only came out then, before the sun really got cooking.
He went to move, and failed. Something was holding him down. When he looked down, he nearly fainted. The hull had buckled down over his legs, pinning in a vice-grip. He tried to move them, but felt nothing.
Are my legs broken? Another thought entered his head, panic swelling up inside him like an infection. Am I paralysed?
Another alarming realisation popped into his head. He had to get out of here. Right now, the canopy was on its side, but in less than an hour, the sun would be up. The edges of the canopy were almost at scalding temperatures already, and this was even before the midday blaze. Perry imagined himself trapped, at the mercy of the burning sun, as it inched its way into the heavens. Once the cloud cover parted it would be all over for him. Directly exposed, and packed into a sweat-soaked, stuffy flight suit as he was, the pilot would bake to death in a matter of minutes. That is, if the Brutes didn't get to him first. That particular thought made him shudder.
He knew full well what the Jiralhanae did to prisoners.
"Over 'ere lads!" an voice called. It was human, but old, coarse with age. An English accent, possibly of London origin. Perry wasn't sure. He'd only been to Earth twice, and even then those visits had been were for advanced flight training, nothing more. He strained his ears, listening.
"Quiet Hep!" another hissed, this one with a more typical Crassian drawl, "You'll bring the entire Covenant down on our heads!"
"Let 'em come, says I. Been sitting up on that ruddy wall for the past twelve hours. Reckon I could use a good fight."
The canopy shook. Somebody was clambering up over the side of the airframe. A head appeared, peering upside down over the top of the canopy's side. An old face, wrinkled and worn from decades of exposure to the burning sun. A pair of mischievous blue eyes twinkled beneath a battered pair of grubby glare-goggles, which were pushed haphazardly up across his forehead. The man's grin revealed a series of denuded yellow stumps.
"'Why 'ello there son," the old man chirped, seemingly heedless of being upside down, "Name's Hepburn, but 'Hep' does it just fine. Just a sec, mate. Get you down in a jiffy."
Hep's head disappeared from view. There was a metallic rattle, from somewhere out of sight. The relative silence of the still morning air was split as a welder flared into life. Perry ducked, covering his head as a shower of sparks sprayed up through the air above the cockpit, some of them splashing down over the controls with a lingering sizzle A warm glowing line appeared in the wreckage above him, tracing its way down dangerously close towards his legs.. A large chunk of the cockpit fell away.
Suddenly, he was free. Rough hands pulled him upward, and as he moved, blood and relief coursed through his legs in equal measure. He had only been numb.
Perry staggered a few steps, before his jellified legs tumbled to the ground in a disorderly heap.
"S'alright, son, take it easy now. Looks like a mild concussion." Hep said, standing over him as he dusted off his hands. "Lucky to have survived all that, mind."
He wasn't lying. Perry found himself spread-eagled in a field of corpses, both human and alien alike. He strongly fought the urge to vomit. While he had been unconscious, the maelstrom of battle had swept all around him, as the two armies fought tooth and nail and fist to stake their claim on the contents of the ruined Hornet. It was all too evident that neither army had been successful, though both had paid a terrible price for their efforts. The scale of the carnage was hard to fathom. All around him, the golden sand had been stained a greasy black.
Determined counter-shelling from the human lines had extended the length of the outer trenches considerably. The Jiralhanae - quick to adapt - had begun to imitate the human's defensive emplacements, almost tripling the length of the Outer Trenches overnight. They achieved this using heartless slavery, working their Unggoy legions to the bone. Many of the Grunts were ultimately digging their own graves, before their limbs gave out of exhaustion or - in some cases - they succumbed to the sporadic mortar fire which cracked down incessantly upon the Covenant forces.
The tremendous Unggoy casualties hardly mattered to the Jiralhanae, who took the opportunity to use their fallen workers as a convenient source of rations, slowly roasting their runt-like corpses over crudely fashioned spits. This only made their exhausted work crews work harder.
None of that mattered to Perry right now. At the moment, he was trying to get the measure of his motley team of rescuers.
Alistair Hepburn was a tiny, wiry man, whip-thin and just as tough. Like the rest of Murphy's Militia, he wore the dusty tattered clothing of an extreme desert survivalist. A scoped rifle was slung across his back - surely an antique, judging by the teak and brass finish. Unlike the rest of him, the weapon was immaculate. He squinted down at Perry, scrutinising him. He didn't seem too impressed.
"Funny, to think the Boss Man places such high importance on you." He remarked at last.
"Boss Man?"
"Yeah. Friends in high places, n'all that lark. Murph - I mean the Sergeant, he 'ad us inch our way forward since the sun went down. Took us the entire 'ruddy night to get over here too."
Perry wasn't sure what to say to that, so he managed a vaguely confused grunt, followed by an apologetic shrug. Hep didn't seem to be listening, and cheerfully gestured out toward the bodies all around them.
"Observe the carnage, guv. Notice the distinct and pleasing lack of Covenant gorillas currently infesting this region. You want 'em proper dead, you come to Murphy's Militia. Results guaranteed, and no mistake. Twelve hours it took to get to you, but get to you we did."
"I, well, thank-" Hepburn cut him off.
"Lot of the boys wasn't 'avin' it at first, mind. Didn't want to risk their skin for some pilot who evidently don't understand the concept of a fuel gauge. So I says, 'Sergeant Murphy', says I, 'you give me two of the boys, and we'll get that plucky pilot bloke back in a two winks of a blind bat'. And, lo and behold, 'ere we are now, eh?"
Perry knew better than to try and get a word in edge-wise. He settled on an enthusiastic nod. Undeterred by the look of blank incomprehension plastered across Perry's face, Hep went to continue on his monologue. Perry took the time to study his other two rescuers.
One of them was fidgeting skittishly, stealing the odd hunted glance towards the silent Jiralhanae lines. A plump fellow with a sunken chin and an impressively maintained zinc-grey goatee, Perry knew who was. His name was Musgrave, and - until very recently - he'd been one of the lower ranking chefs in Community Mess Hall 14-B. He hosted the bingo night on a Tuesday - something Perry had personally sworn to never attend, but Santos had dragged him to regardless. Musgrave had a tough aspect to him, as had many of the colonists, but even he couldn't hide his discomfort at their being smack bang in the middle of No Man's Land.
"Time to get moving, Hep." he urged, "Can't sit around waiting for the entire war to end, can we?"
His other companion, a silent mountain of a man with hooded eyes, extensive tattoos and an Adam's Apple the size of Perry's fist, grunted his assent. Evidently the strong, silent type. Perry had no idea who he was, but he looked big and mean. Definitely mean, considering he had a rocket launcher balanced on his shoulder. Meanwhile, Hep seemed quite content on battling it out with Musgrave. This clearly happened quite often. Hep was talking.
"'ang on a minute, boys. Can't you see the poor bugger's only just woken up?" The ancient tracker made an expansive gesture toward the carpet of ruined bodies, "And to this bloody great big mess as well."
Musgrave's retort was drowned out by the droning rumble of a bass-like horn. It shook the pebbles and the corpses, making them bounce and jiggle in giddy anticipation. Perry's rescuers looked up, anxiously.
A mere four hundred metres away, a Jiralhanae scout platoon was picking their way forward, investigating the racket. They were but a prelude to the beginnings of the conflict that day, and demonstrated surprising stealth for such hulking monsters. Their dirt-brown coats also blended with the ruined top-soil of the battlefield, disrupting their outlines in an effective form of natural camouflage. It was only their glinting cobalt armour, coupled with the sunlight which winked off their toothed weaponry, that gave them away. Still, Musgrave only noticed them when they were almost on top of them.
"Shit!" he screamed helpfully, dropping to one knee and opening up with his MA5H in short, controlled bursts, "Contact, contact!"
The three militia fighters hit the deck, ducking behind the battered husk of the downed Hornet. For a moment, Perry was struck by a bizarre sense of déjà vu. He had seen this before: him, and three other defenders, holding off a superior number of aliens twice their size, and four times their strength. Only this time, there was about forty of aliens, and his allies weren't trained UNSC personnel. Perry crawled along to a long-since abandoned fox-hole, looking around for his side-arm. He cursed.
It was somewhere back inside the vehicle.
"ODST, rise and address." a filtered voice ordered.
They came from nowhere, and hit everywhere. The commandos had hidden themselves amongst the devastation, their opal visors dulled with soot to reduce the shine.
They rose up from the ground like phantoms, battle-rifles spitting and grenades slinging through the air with startling accuracy. The amount of grenades thrown staggered Perry; entire bandoliers lashed out. Each salvo of bullets was preceded by a carefully aimed toss, followed by a bone-jarring explosion.
Behind them, the rest of Murphy's Militia rose up, some of them wearing ragged strips of dyed cloth strips to blend themselves into the terrain. So too did the Outcasts, grim figures in filthy grey robes. All manner of fire-arms; customised, improvised and antique, began to rip into the Jiralhanae vanguard. The sound was an intense cacophony, of varying pops and snaps as the Eastern Defenders fired as one. Wading into the wall of suppressive fire, the Brutes dashed across No Man's Land, weapons spraying. Some fell, cut down as they charged, while others still tripped and stumbled over the bodies of the fallen. It was a mess.
The ODST's moved forward to meet them, the militia providing auxiliary support from the safety of their fox-holes. Ten commandos rushed to meet some thirty Jirlhanae warriors. Hot on their heels charged the Outcasts, who moved with comparable fluidity, their cloaks swishing and knives glinting in the crisp morning air. Deep in the heart of the Outer Trenches, a reckoning was to be had. Caught in the middle, Perry threw himself flat as hard rounds whistled overhead, occasionally punching holes clean through the dented sheet metal of the battered Hornet. His three rescuers dove for cover too, knowing better than to get between the ODST and their targets.
Any moment now, Perry was going to die.
But what scared Perry the most was not the horde of advancing aliens, nor their broken corpses or the desolate landscape around him. No, it was the ODST themselves. Amidst a war-torn universe filled with mighty warriors, blood thirsty aliens and unstoppable super soldiers, these killers were human. They were no Spartans, no towering Sangheili or hulking Jiralhanae. Just ordinary humans, ruthless and efficient.
No, not ordinary at all. Not even close.
They made killing an art-form. They moved as one, knees bent, weapons braced tightly against their chests. The coordination and tactical precision with which they dispatched the enemy was uncanny. They did what any marine fire-team would do; move, shoot, communicate, but it was the manner in which they did so that set them apart from the other soldiers stationed on Crassus.
It was perfection. Their aggression also startled Perry. It was unprecedented. Not only were they denying the enemy advance, they were counter-assaulting them, cutting deep in their horde with a flurry of well placed frag grenades and crackling small-arms fire.
By rights, they should have all been killed. To charge a Covenant platoon in such a manner practically begged for death. Statistically, even one of them should have been hit at least twice. So effective was their war-making, however, they advanced unscathed, bullets whickering into the ground all around them. Not one of them was even so much scratched. It was almost reminiscent of the propaganda movies Perry had seen early in the war. Only this time, it was real.
As they closed the gap, the platoon of Jiralhanae split down the middle, scattering for cover as detonation after detonation slapped them off their feet. Shields collapsed in a fizzle of electricity. The splintered clumps of Brutes flung themselves into foxholes and small craters, frantically trying to avoid the humans' blistering assault. All they did was choose their own graves, as bouncing grenades tumbled into their make-shift defences. The ODST fanned out into a defensive semi-circle as they reached the Hornet, bodysuits blending seamlessly with the ash-thickened terrain. Molikos shored up his Outcasts, deploying them in a standard Sangheili defence pattern. They had seized the objective.
Now they would have to hold it.
"Contacts, left side!" Mendoza reported, dropping to one knee and snapping off a tight burst.
The commandos' fusillade responded accordingly. Grenades flew.
"Fenton, Sweeney!" Murphy pointed to an abandoned machine gun post laying at the bottom of a shallow gulley. "Get that .50 cal up and running!"
It was a forlorn wreck, having been knocked off its mounting during the previous day's fighting. Perry doubted anyone could even lift it, let alone get it to fire.
"On it."
The two ODSTs broke off from the squad, slinging their weapons and hauling the gun back into place with a grunt of exertion. Their hands moved too fast to follow as ammo belt connectors snapped into place and the weapon sights were adjusted. Years of experience had paid off. Within less than ten seconds, the weapon was fully rigged.
"Weapon status, green." Fenton reported smoothly, "Engaging."
The commando swung the machine gun to bear, tracking it toward an advancing trio of Brutes. Sweeney kept him fed, his hands clearing out kinks in the ammo belt with practised ease. Rotational training in multiple disciplines meant that each ODST was capable of assuming any battlefield role, in any given situation. The strobe of the muzzle flash was mesmerising, the gun juddering as it chopped the charging Brutes down.
"Incoming Bravos, right flank." That was Watanabe, the squad medic. While a certified aid-man, she clearly hadn't skimped on her weapons training, and killed the enemy with as much gusto as any of her squad mates.
"Suppressive fire." Murphy ordered, ducking down beside Perry. The young commando's normally jovial personality was gone, replaced by an professionalism which was as terrifying as it was effective. Perry went to get up, eager to help.
"Stay down, Warmonger!" Murphy snarled, shoving the pilot back onto the ground. A rookie to this kind of situation, the pilot would only wind up getting himself shot.
The commando moved up to the side of the wreckage, peering around the corner. He didn't even blink as a spiker round embedded itself inches away from his faceplate. He loosed off a quick burst in return, prompting a snarl of pain from somewhere out of sight. Three of his men moved up to opposite ends of the ruined Hornet, moving to cover the other angles of approach. Murphy knew he couldn't stay here forever, and Smith's next com message confirmed his appraisal.
"Hostile reinforcements inbound. Looks like another three platoons joining the party."
Shite.
They'd stirred up the hornet's nest. The Loyalists were moving up to support the brutalised Jiralhanae incursion force, bringing with them a tide of Unggoy infantry. The ODST punished their advance severely, and Perry just sat there and stared, agog, at their heroism. Murphy didn't pay him any attention, downing another Brute with a clipping headshot. The aliens roared in indignation. He'd just killed one of their squad leaders. A hailstorm of Loyalist fire sliced into the meagre cover provided by the ruined Hornet, which was deteriorating by the minute.
Yup, they're definitely pissed, he concluded.
"Time to move, Helljumpers." Murphy announced, touching the side of his helmet,
"Militia, pull back to the inner line. We've got it from here. Howard, we need immediate extraction on my position."
"Copy that, we are inbound, ETA two minutes." Howard's deep voice was calm and collected. Murphy had been right to bring him into the Militia's fold.
"Alright lads, time to go. Prepare for exfil."
There was a rumble of engines from the city's direction. Six M12 LRV Warthogs zoomed forward, suspension jolting their drives like peas in a can as they leapt over the narrow trenches . The ragged terrain transformed each crater and pot-hole into a thrilling series of bumps and jumps, and the engines seemed to growl in delight as the Warthogs were put through their paces. Two of the Warthogs were standard reconnaissance variants, complete with rear-mounted chain cannons. A delighted Marikos manned one of the weapons. They whirred into life as the ODST picked up the awe-struck Perry, dragging him bodily toward the transports. Howard grinned at Perry as Murphy dumped the pilot roughly in the back of one of the vehicles, before hopping into the passenger seat.
"Let's get the hell out of here." Murphy said.
"You're the boss." Howard replied, shifting the Warthog into gear and gunning the throttle.
The vehicles dashed away, back to the safety of the Inner Trenches. As quickly as they had arrived, the 105th Hell Jumpers were gone.
Gurakal, Squad Leader for three cycles now, led his Jiralhanae around the wreckage of the ruined Human vessel. The mysterious warriors in black had vanished. So too had their Shamed Sangheili allies, who had presumably fled back to the shelter of their Heathen Citadel.
Cowards.
"Squad Leader, look!" Jurok cried.
Gurakal turned toward his inferior. His eyes widened in surprised disbelief.
With a cataclysmic flash, the satchel charges Smith had seeded throughout the Hornet's wreckage detonated.
In the communications centre, things were starting to heat up.
Abelev was pacing back and forth before the command display, a mug of cold coffee clutched in a claw-like grasp. He hadn't slept since the beginning of the battle, and his eyes itched desperately. On the far side of the room, Communications Officer Joseph Williams frowned as his display screen abruptly went black. There was a pause, then the screen popped back into life. They'd switched to emergency power. He checked the status grid on their main supply line: it was dead.
"That's strange." he said aloud.
"What is it?" Vtan asked, appearing at his shoulder. Williams looked up at the Elite, worried.
"The main power line to Generator Twelve just went offline."
"Who's on security detail for that sector?"
"Patrol Team Gamma Four, Sir."
"Try them on the short-range carrier wave." Vtan instructed. Williams nodded, pinging the security team a transmission request.
"No response, Sir."
Vtan's eyes narrowed.
"Your assessment?"
"Not sure, Sir, could just be a glitch in the system."
"Curious.. Wait here, I shall investigate this myself."
Without another word, the Sangheili Shipmaster turned on his heel and left the room.
Their current situation was grim at best.
The ruins of the Northern Gate left a gaping hole in the middle of the Curtain Wall, and the enemy were seeking to exploit it fully. The collapse of the gatehouse had resulted in a tousled ramp of broken concrete and heaped earth, which led up into the city from the Inner Trenches below.
The defenders, recognising the significance of such a potential vulnerability, had spent the night shoring up the top of the ramp with the collapsed wreckage; forming a dense bulwark of piled rubble, twisted girders and smashed machinery. A line of colonists had spread themselves along the rim of the bulwark, using it as a base from which to deploy their 30mm mortar platforms. The fallen Scarab lay just beyond the bulwark, straddling the entire opening with its splayed legs. It now served as a defensive structure in its own right, having been covered with colonist weapons emplacements. Malwrekus' scorched head-crest had been affixed to a large pike, which had been erected on the summit of the Curtain Wall, to the endless outrage of the Jiralhanae forces.
Their fury was made known by the manner in which they attacked the bulwark. On the city's defence grid, the position had been marked as Position A-E3, and it would witness some of the most intense fighting of the entire campaign.
Right now, it was under renewed assault.
This time they had come with tanks. With many of the Curtain Wall's emplacements awaiting re-supply from the city's ammunition stores, the Covenant had chosen to exploit the opportunity with a combined armoured assault. Three grav-tanks, all that remained of the Jiralhanae's artillery support in this sector, slid forward, plasma batteries belching.
Fortunately, the Brute's Super Scarab was nowhere to be seen, having stalked its way around to the western flank during the small hours of the night. The Wraiths' pintle-mounted plasma turrets dazzled and strobed as they drifted forward, their hulls notched and puckered from the incessant pinging of ricocheting MA5H rounds.
Rukth snarled as a plasma shell obliterated a Human missile crew to his right. Blood spattered down across them. He turned to the eight Spec Ops who swiped the mess away with a distaste.
"Again they test my patience!" he crowed, "Warriors, we must take it upon ourselves to silence the Hierarch's batteries, lest their wrath be directed upon us."
"Lead, Squad Leader, and we shall follow." Olank nodded, inserting a new energy canister into his carbine. The other Black Elites growled their approval. They had butchered the enemy for hours, slaying hundreds of Brutes and slaughtering numberless hordes of Unggoy. Projected kill-to-death ratios by strategists in hindsight came out at an estimated seven-to-one, in favour of the Sangheili.
It had proven a worthy test, for even worthier warriors, but one thing was certain: their ammunition would not last.
Already Rukth had cast aside his plasma guns, which had all but melted from over-use. The Spec Ops had taken to using salvaged carbines stolen from the bodies of their enemies, not wishing to sully themselves with the simplistic slug throwers used by the Jiralhanae, or the primitive weapons of their newfound allies. Right now Rukth dearly missed Zerat's presence, who had been tasked with rallying the precarious Western Front. His beam rifle would surely have been invaluable right about now.
"Follow me, my Brothers. Those who flee from danger are cowards, unworthy of calling themselves Sangheili!"
Rukth activated his optic camouflage, vaulting over the bulwark and dashing forward down the slope. His warriors followed unquestioningly. The Brute tanks were mercilessly shelling the bulwark itself, and twice his camouflage nearly collapsed under the passing fallout of the blinding plasma shells. The only sign of their approach was the bursts of dust kicked up as their hooves scuffed the dirt. The gunners, who were busy directing their fire toward the more visible threat of the colonist defenders, took no notice. Not until it was too late.
The Elites spread out, slithering across the surface of each of the tanks.
Rukth leapt forward, the sheets of plasma fire spitting out from the cannon warping and bending as they were reflected by his combat harness' translucent outline. The Jiralhanae manning the turret growled in surprise, tracking the turret toward him. His scatter of desperate shots met only thin air.
Rukth was already behind him. He gripped the Brute's head, bashing the Loyalist's face repeatedly against the turret assembly until the weapon itself dented from the impact. The Spec Op turned and then smashed his clenched fist down into the Wraith's piloting assembly. The first blow dented the plating, the second and third buckled it open slightly. The fourth, fifth and sixth crumpled it completely. He tore the top hatch free of its hinges, exposing the driver to the open air. The Brute pilot looked up, astonished.
Rukth de-activated his camo, then twitch-smiled. A fizzling plasma grenade was clutched in his hand.
"Greetings, Cur."
There were to be many accounts written concerning the Crassus Campaign, many of which would differ over their tactical interpretations of the conflict. However, it was unanimously agreed by all concerned that the Second Day proved to be little more than a grinding war of attrition, as both armies sought to gain advantage over the other to little or no discernible effect.
In the west, the Jiral'han - having incurred tremendous casualties during the activation of the mine field - made one last push. It was repelled, though at great cost to the defenders of the Western Curtain Wall, who - like so many of the city's missile batteries - were almost entirely bereft of ammunition by this point in the campaign.
Sensing this, the Jiralhanae made territorial gains accordingly, only to be driven back by the licking tendrils of flame unleashed by the militia's incendiary units. The stalemate continued, with hundreds of casualties mounting on either side; and the Covenant having gained nothing but a few blood drenched feet of territory to show for it.
As the second day drew to a close, the intense fighting did not. Sangheili Special Operations warriors, under Rukth 'Kilkar, stole out in the darkest hours of the night, inflicting massive casualties on the entrenched Jiralhanae. Many Brutes would awaken to find themselves surrounded by the corpses of their allies; only realising when it was too late that their own throats had been cut.
Daring night raids were also carried out on the Eastern Front, with ODST and Sangheili Exile elements performing lighting hit and fade strikes on vital Jiralhanae supply lines.
Of course, the Jiralhanae would not suffer this without returning their own pain upon their enemies.
As trenches were periodically taken, lost and then retaken, prisoners - both human and Sangheili - were snatched up and dragged back to the Loyalist lines, to a fate surely worse than death. Many were skinned alive. Their anguished screams were projected through large speaker systems, wafting up from the Covenant lines to terrorise the besieged humans. Nobody slept that night, as the wails and screeches became so shrill, they no longer sounded human. This would continue for the rest of the week. The full horror of the situation would only become apparent later on. Archaeological digs would later reveal a plethora of human bones, many of which bore signs of having been gnawed upon.
Determined to not meet the same fate, the defenders trebled their resolve, denying the enemy with a zealous hatred equal to that of the invaders.
Amanda Jennings stepped neatly to the side as a gurney rattled its way up the corridor, the medics shouting to be heard over the howling of their patient. The man had taken a spiker wound to the groin, and blood jetted out freely, the arteries brutally severed. They disappeared into a lift, the doors sliding closed with a gentle, merciful ping.
Jennings closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. That was too much for her.
She was in one of the city's many improvised medical centres. It had once been an administration building, one of their district planning offices. Jennings had encouraged all able-bodied non-combatants into assisting the desperately over-worked medical staff, in whatever way possible. Having spent a brief period of her early teens as an intern at a veterinary clinic, she had volunteered herself for this duty. She knew it would send a good message to the people, and their morale was at the forefront of her concern. Even if it meant having to witness things like that.
Amanda rounded the corner, stepping into the main treatment room. The walls were a soothing blue, but the scene happening inside the building was anything but.
The office had been cleared of all non-essential furniture, much of it having been impatiently cast out of the windows in an attempt to make space for more patients, who were clogging up the building with each passing hour. They were low on beds, and many of the desks had been appropriated to become make-shift stretchers, such was the demand for operating tables. Hastily erected curtains separated the more critical patients from view, but the arcs of blood which sprayed across them left little to the imagination.
Nor did the widening pools of blood which pooled out across the tiled floor, making the surface slippery and treacherous. The only sounds were the barked instructions of medical personnel, the moaning of the wounded, and - from both parties, on occasion - weeping. The air reeked with anti-septic.
Most of the wounded here were people injured from the Covenant's initial bombardment. Shrapnel cuts, plasma burns, broken bones and torn skin; almost too many cases to count. The invaders were massive in size, and the scale of their weapons dictated that few humans survived a direct hit. She thought about the patient back in the corridor. Perhaps that was something to be thankful for.
Even so, the amount of suture kits and the supplies of disinfectant were running dangerously low. Many would die from treatment they would receive, as much as anything else.
The Sangheili wounded were another matter. She heard them before she saw them. There were three of them. One wore the crimson armour of a Major Domo - the Elite equivalent of a Sergeant - and was unconscious. Which was merciful, considering most of his legs were missing. Another Elite had been heavily sedated, the medics having to resort to cattle-strength tranquilisers to put him to sleep. It had taken the entire building's supply just to quell the tormented alien's howls, the denuded stump of his arm having been cauterised shut by a welder, of all things.
The third Elite was awake.
"Get away from me, you squabbling peasants!" The Elite swatted at one of the doctors, "Let me die in peace!"
The medical staff were giving the alien a wide berth. He was strapped down to the table by a series of large leather restraints, of the type originally designed for mental patients. Most of the higher restraints had been snapped by his agonised thrashing.
The dying warrior's strength was impressive, considering he had all but been disembowelled. Shards of broken needles still hung in his shredded flesh, from where the explosive crystals had detonated. Neon-blue ichor stained everything, and his guts were a tangled mess of torn entrails. Only his shaking hand stopped them from spilling messily across the floor. An exasperated nurse turned toward the Administrator, grateful for her assistance.
"We're just trying to help him, but he refuses treatment!" The nurse explained, ducking as the Elite sent a tray of medical instruments sailing overhead.
"Everybody out." Amanda ordered. Having thousands of more willing patients to care for, the doctors didn't need to be told twice. They turned and hurried off, leaving Amanda alone with the brutalised Sangheili. The Elite turned towards her, blinking once in surprise.
"You… you do not seek to hinder my passing?" he asked huskily, his voice coarse with pain.
Amanda shook her head.
"Even if you let us, we understand precious little about your body's physiology. Our treatment might very well do more harm than good."
The Elite nodded soberly, pleased. His eyes were filled with acceptance.
"Then do me one last favour, Human." He indicated the straps which held his legs down, "These bindings, untie them. I will not die bound like some quarrelsome slave."
Amanda stepped closer, carefully unbuckling the restraints. The Elite stopped thrashing, and let her go about the task unharmed. She realised her own hands were shaking more than his. When the final buckle was undone, the Elite leaned back in his chair, sighing in relief.
"It was a good day, Human." he recounted wistfully, "Many times we denied them, paving the earth with the bodies of our enemies. The Shipmaster will be pleased."
Amanda nodded, suddenly struck by the impulse to reach out and hold the Elite's hand. She did so, and he looked at her in confusion. He seemed to sense her compassion, and gripped her arm urgently. She tried not to cry out in pain as the alien's grip bit deep into her skin. Even now, in this sorry condition, his strength was staggering.
"The Southern Gate..." he hissed, "...does it still stand?"
She nodded.
"From the last reports I heard, Lieutenant Lewis' men have driven off six seperate Covenant attacks." She patted his hand, "Your people were instrumental in their success."
He closed his eyes, and sighed in relief.
"Then I can die in peace, Human." He lay back on the table. "My duty has been fulfilled."
"What is your name?" Amanda asked. His eyes remained closed as he answered.
"Warrior Kruk 'Zarman, Minor Domo of the Second Detachment. Defender of the Southern Gate."
"Die well, Kruk 'Zarman." She smiled a brittle smile, "You have honoured us all with your sacrifice."
He never heard her. The dead cannot listen.
She bowed her head and wept.
The pitched fighting on the Eastern Front had entered a lull period. All was silent, but for a single piercing sound.
Clang, clang, clang!
Perry beat the antiquated cooking pot with a spent magazine, the noise loud and invasive in the still hush of the night. His panicked heart throbbed in his chest, matching the sound's tempo. This had to be stupidest thing he'd ever agreed to do, in the history of the world, ever.
Musgrave had given the pot to him - any cook-able rations had been consumed hours ago, and until their next supply drop came through, the pot served little purpose other than its current one. A use which Perry was quickly growing to hate. Nevertheless, he banged the pot some more.
Clang, clang, clang!
Pack Leader Erakt heard the sound first. He motioned for the other fourteen Jiralhanae to fall in. They were well trained, and made little noise as they ducked forward, Spikers at the ready. The only sound they did make was the rustling of their combat webbing, coupled with the odd clink of armour as they hustled toward the noise's origin. The Jiralhanae Captain held his own Brute Shot warily. He inched his way forward slowly, careful not to bump into something which would reveal their approach.
Clang, clang, clang!
Erakt's foot snagged the trip wire. It tugged, then there was a flash. He was blinded as a series of flare guns banged noisily into the sky at point blank range, sending two pulsing stars whooshing up into the deep, dark sky. His entire squad was illuminated for all to see. Blinded, he stumbled about groggily, trying to swipe the after images from his eyes. There was thirty seconds of ferocious gunfire, and pain.
When the smoke cleared, all of the Brutes were dead. Murphy's Militia threw back the tarps under which they were hiding, rising to their feet and canvassing the bodies for ammunition. Murphy got to his feet, topping up the magazine in his BR-55 with a satisfied smirk. He patted Perry on the shoulder.
"Nice work, Warmonger. I've finally found a use for you." he grinned, "Let's pack it up, boys; move two hundred metres back, then re-set the bait. Hep, you're Pot Man this time."
Scared stiff, Perry handed the pot and spoon over to Hep, who accepted them with good natured grumbling. Loyalist Phantoms shot past overhead, briefly bathing the trench in pulsing blue light. AA tracer fire tracked them as they shot straight over the city's curtain wall.
"I wonder where they're going…" Perry murmured, looking up at the sky.
They lurked in the night, murderous and invisible.
The Jiral'ja infiltration team dropped from the grav chute of the Phantom troop transport, stealth-shrouds activated. There was five of them per team, and their instructions were clear: destroy the enemy, using any means necessary. Supply lines, power plants, morale - use anything and everything to undermine the defenses of the Human Citadel. The idea was not open engagement, for to do so would be suicidal, not to mention a pitiful waste of resources.
The Jiral'ja were smarter than that. They ducked into the shadows of a parked tanker as a trio of Human troop vehicles rattled past, headlights flashing. The foolish Humans had no idea how close they'd come to death.
They slunk through the back alleys, working their way toward the objective. The spotters posted in the Phantoms high above had done their job well. They had observed the Human's movement patterns for some time now, gauging where the civilian shelters were likely to be. The nearest Human nest should be close enough.
Almost there.
It was 3:30 AM when the defenders first got wind of Jiralhanae infiltration. Administrator Jennings had just called into the Command Centre, her medical shift coming to an end. She should have been sleeping, but she couldn't do so on good conscience without first appraising herself of the ongoing battle. She was slumped in a chair behind Abelev, who was staring blearily at the bank of control monitors.
Across the city, the Shipmaster had made an unpleasant discovery.
"Disquieting." Vtan remarked.
He was in Generator Twelve, and bodies were everywhere. It was like an abattoir.
The Humans had been slaughtered piece-meal, and from the looks of it, they hadn't even a chance to let off a single shot. It had not been quick either. Blood painted the walls, thick ropes of gore dripping from every surface. The bodies were trussed to the rafters above; gruesome trophies which dangled limply. The Brutes had given them no quarter. He keyed the Battle Net.
"Major Abelev, we have a problem. It appears the Covenant have already breached the Curtain Wall."
"Say again, Shipmaster, I don't think I heard you right. The Wall is holding. Please clarify, over."
"We have a problem. Jiral'ja."
"Say what?"
"Brute infiltration teams - covert specialists. I've seen their like deployed before. They move quietly, but their handiwork lacks... restraint."
"Impossible." Abelev snorted.
"Not from where I am standing, Major. Notify our forces. They are already inside."
Williams looked up from his console. The com line was alive with chatter.
"Sir, we're getting word from the shelters - their sentries haven't reported back in some time."
Amanda was wide awake now.
"Oh God." Amanda's voice was a horrified whisper.
"What?" Abelev scowled, irritated.
"Sarah..."
Abelev was already out the door, bellowing instructions into his com-link.
It was 3.45 AM, and Sarah couldn't sleep.
She didn't mind. She was sketching away in her notepad, humming away to herself happily. The sirens, the way the children all got to stay in the same building. It was all so exciting.
Currently, she was drawing herself atop the two Hunters. She'd decided to draw them wearing top-hats this time. She liked top hats. They were outside on the street, protecting her and the rest of the colonists in this shelter, because Mister Shipmaster had told them to. She felt sorry for them. It got cold at night.
She felt another odd bump outside. Mommy had made her wear her head-phones, listening to some composer called Bait-hoven or something, so she wouldn't get scared. She wasn't scared: there was no way Jib and Jubb would let anything happen to her.
The door to the shelter opened behind her. She didn't notice, so intent was she on colouring her picture. She frowned and stuck her tongue into the side of her cheek, scribbling with furious concentration. It was tough to keep the colours inside the lines.
Two streets away, the Jiral'ja strike team crept ever closer.