(-(-(—[]Red Jsarez[]—)-)-)
Each individual mind had their own understanding of certain words and their various synonyms.
People took words out of context on a regular basis and utilized the words for the irregular. Chaos was one word of many; chaos was speck out of thousands of different words taken out of proportion. Chaos was a word I would usually use on small-scale incidents. Larger scales had more exquisite words to make apparent the vehemence I put on the occurrent.
This specific incident did not warrant the word chaos—chaos was not proper. It was, simply put, just surreal. Sometimes surreal could not be removed from context. At least the context remained here.
With his free hand, SPARTAN Derek Johns unclipped his M6H from his thigh's magnetized strip and brought it to bear. His elbow was aligned horizontally from his torso, giving him space to move and mobility for targeting. He was accoutered with nothing other than a sidearm, to avoid discouraging any assassins.
Assassination was not a suitable word. They could have fired on us before we shielded ourselves; assassins did not have consideration for civilians. If they, for some ethical reason, did, the press were doing us a favor by being dense enough to remain and document what was happening while the bystanders rushed to nearby emergency exits. Other retards persisted to see the outcome of this very real scenario.
"COMMs, now!" Johns ordered me. I did not like the lack of patience in his tone, but I did not hold myself to be so egocentric that situations such as this were secondary to re-establishing my dominance. Following his orders, I pulled, from the pocket of my Navy fatigues, a device that I plugged into my right ear promptly. The amplified breathing of Johns denoted the working condition of the earpiece.
The Elite Zealot moved passed the ranks of its twenty-seven adjuncts. The way the Sangheili moved was delicate, and its legs shifted with a peculiar agility and malleability I had never seen exhibited by an Elite. The Elite was small in physique and size . . . It was petite. It was a female Sangheili.
"This is not a terrorist attack," the Elites said in fluent English, striding closer to us. "This is a negotiation!" The Elite came to a halt and revolved her head around, looking at the civilians amassing behind Johns' blue, protective, hardlight shield ellipse that enveloped us. "Your regime has something of a particular value to me, and if they can't give it to me, then death will come to you."
"Your over-watch is taking their time," I remarked silently; Johns' COMM systems would amplify my voice, so what I said would remain anonymous to the civilians and assailants.
In response, Johns' by standard, average, voice came through my earpiece: "I was skeptical if you would figure it out. Snipers are in position, and ground agents are on station; they're just awaiting a chance. I think they want to find out what this Elite has to say."
The snipers would not have to wait long. The female Elite, eager to show her confidence, moved exquisitely towards the hardlight cylinder Johns and I centered in while Lynda Keyes gave orders to Tyler Hauver and Dean White, assisting the port's security in establishing a margin for the civilians' safety.
The Elite female stopped in front of the hardlight shield and pressed her hand against the shield's anterior curve. In lieu of spending her attention on Johns, who stood above me as the perceptible threat, she locked her hidden eyes onto me. Hidden or not hidden, I felt her soul speaking to mine. Albeit, I could not draw apart the transaction.
This is personal, I realized.
"I want the bodies of Vale Nar 'Saras and Jol 'Turas," the Elite said; she did not move, and thatdisturbed me. "In return, the massing behind you will suffer no death. A small price?"
ONI leak, I concluded.
"We don't comply with the requests of terrorists," Johns' replied. To my botheration, he was not going to relent; his demeanor turned from protecting me to upholding Human jurisprudence in a matter of moments.
"We are not terrorists!" the Elite snapped, her mandibles flaring and sending spittle flying from the gap between her jaw guard onto the shield. Furthering her clear anger, she dragged her hooked claws along the shield. Bodily aggression was a stressing method of the Sangheili. "We are the Pariahs of Ethnicity; we are a sanctuary, not a hate group. We want what belongs to us—by rights!"
"Pariahs of Ethnicity", I repeated internally. The Gravemind's vision. The Elite in exotic fittings called his assemblage what I had just heard.
Curious, I found no reasons to not ask Johns about them. "The Pariahs of Ethnicity—who are they?"
My monotone seemingly didn't have enough demand in it; Johns was not inclined to answer me. "Now's not the time—"
"Secrets," the female Elite hissed as she began pacing around the front of our shield. "He won't tell you what your Illuminati desires you not to know."
"That's not it," Johns said, choking a laugh. "It's the situation. I'm in a negotiation affair, and I can't be distracted in any way."
"You don't negotiate with terrorists," I reminded Johns, keeping my voice low so only the Elite or Johns could hear me. The news correspondents would only increase their pressure on me if I demonstrated any non-patriotic terms.
Johns was not pleased, but he did not take his eyes off the Elite pacing on the opposite side of the dividing shield. My attack on him did not outdo the importance of the state of affairs. He said, "I'm not so sure we're dealing with terrorists, actually. 'Illuminati' is a term used by simpletons—this attack is way too adroit for simpletons."
"Illuminati is the name given to us for you," the Elite explained. Her forbearance was ending, and her pacing became rapider as she put more intensity into her steps.
"By the same person who leaked the bodies' recovery to you?" Johns asked.
The female Elite stopped pacing; she turned to face the shield and put her hand on it, directly in front of Johns' position. "You were not going to return the bodies," the Elite said conclusively, removing her hand from the shield and running it along her other arm's scales; she stroked herself to ease her anxiety. "Or you were, but not without something in return."
The Isigrass. I scoffed when I subconsciously realized that ONI knew where Thel 'Lodam and the Monarch were heading and that ONI were going to risk diplomatic constancy with the Arbiter to get David Larson back into the fold. I also rubbed underneath my chin when another recognition came to me. A vengeful widow.
I needed to know something before this argument extended too far. "Who was Jol 'Turasee to you?" I asked.
The Elite craned the semi-reptilian head, at rest on a sesquipedalian neck, to me, and placed both her hands against the shield. "You know who I am—that is why you asked. How did he die?"
"A trigger-happy Marine executed 'Turasee at point-blank range," I said. I intentionally lowered my voice for the forthcoming words. "I executed the Marine almost immediately ensuant. I was not myself. . . ."
This isn't good. I remained composed as Juridical replaced me as the administrative personality. The arrangement of him must have made any reference to Jol 'Turasee a trigger.
"It was justice," Juridical added after assuming control. Johns grunted; he realized that an alter had taken control by the change of my vocalization from one with no pitch delivery, no emotion, to one with a powerful tone that relied on conviction.
Johns did not feel as if I was the central focus—he was correct in that assumption. He said, to the Elite, "I'll repeat: We do not negotiate with terrorists. And, above all, we do not negotiate with alien terrorists."
"Be considerate for your people," the Elite hissed, neglecting the facts about ONI that must have reached her mind.
I felt subtly perplexed about the alter's plans. He placed a hand on Johns' armor-plated shoulder. Since I was the main personality, my perspective senses maintained a coherence. I felt what any alters felt when in control, and that offered an undesirable conclusion.
"Relinquish the bodies of Fleetmaster Vale Nar 'Sarasee and Minor Jol 'Turasee. Effective immediately is my overtaking of orders. You will follow my orders," Juridical said. Every motion of my lips, every breath that carried with his words made me feel more and more dominated.
"Remove your hand," Johns ordered over the COMM. "Remove it. I don't follow your orders."
Juridical did not obey. Johns denied him any attention and instead switched channel—I heard the ping-click as Johns disconnected. He was addressing the ONI snipers—he was giving the marksman, positioned at the elevated vantage points of the terminal, neutralization directives.
"There are marksmen positioned around the terminal," Juridical warned the Elite. "They are going to attack."
The Elite believed him and backed off from the hardlight shield's radius as Johns' elbow hooked around and took Juridical in the ribs.
"Open—"
The Elite widow's dictation came too late. As she began to order her men to open fire, tiny trails appeared through the air and bullets impacted off of the twenty-five Humans and three Jackals, causing them to all to drop flaccidly to the ground's surface, flinging their M6 series pistols and various SMGs into the air. There was no bodily fluid—non-lethal rounds.
The Elite was also taken out. Four bullet projectiles, leaving air trails, took her shields out before a final round to her left articulatio humeri took her down.
Juridical sucked in all the air his respiratory functions allowed. He got to his feet as Johns deactivated the hardlight shield that flared brightly once before vanishing, leaving only tiny energy molecules to drift to the ground.
Johns kept his magnum lowered to the Elite's paralyzed body as he crept over to it. Stopping to a hold just by the body, he prodded it with his foot. Content that she was no longer a danger, he relaxed his tightened muscles, holstered his magnum on his thigh's magnetic strip, and turned about to face me.
Juridical's breathing calmed, but I could still feel the inflammation of the swelling ribs. I was lucky to have survived the hook without a damaged ribcage.
Lynda, White, and Hauver came rushing over with five security personnel. Hauver helped Juridical up as White brought his arm's TACPAD up to his mouth and initiated a link to Courtney—she was freaking out, no doubt.
"I saw that elbow!" Lynda said, incensed and positive that there was a deeper explanation. "Mind telling me what the fuck that was for?"
"He was impeding my handling of this situation!" Johns snappingly replied, crossing his arms and watching the civilians and reporters being led from the terminal. "I did what my handler ordered me to do."
"That was not justified," Juridical said, physically indicating the unconscious bodies littering the ground like soda cans or cigarettes. "Supplying them with the product of their request would have been ethical."
"These people aren't patient. I wasn't equipped to handle this," Johns said. "And civilians were in danger. We couldn't risk a firefight. Personally, I have little doubt that twenty-four hours from now, they will be shipped back to Sanghelios with the corpses."
Juridical retracted from control. A control I instantly resumed. It was simple. Juridical posed a problem, but not one that did not have a quick solution.
I took my tailored stance; straight, aligned, and ready. "It's me," I said to reaffirm my presence.
"I know," Johns replied. He peered over his shoulder. Pelicans were dropping off reserved Army Troopers in the parking lot that ariled the distance between the port and the highway leading into Sydney.
"Follow me," Johns said, leading us from the terminal. Squads of Army troopers passed me, Lynda, White, and Hauver as we exited from the atrium. Nearly all of them glanced at me as they rushed by, hefting DMRs and Army-issued MA37 assault rifles.
"They'll be secured and taken to a detention facility in orbit," Johns said, removing his helmet and placing it under his arm. His blue-dyed hair whipped as the breeze greeted his face. Sudor beads blew from his hair and face like water being sucked off a surface. "I've been assured that they'll be sent back to Sanghelios—the bodies with them. The Pariahs of Ethnicity have close bonds with the Arbiter, so ONI won't go out of their way to piss them off."
"They were pretty organized," Hauver noted.
"Who's their boss?" Lynda asked. She's playing the detective, I thought, not understanding the relevance of her question.
Neither did Johns, in the pertinence matter. "Why ask?" he questioned. His voice saw itself elevated, so the roar's of the Pelicans did not drown out his voice. It ruined the inquisition mood.
"On Sanghelios, different Keeps have different Elders that raise the local kiddies," Lynda said, attracting my full attention. "So, that being said, the primary skills of an Elite depends on the Elder, who raises 'em. For instance: The Elites from the 'Vadam or 'Lodam Lineage are skilled warriors. Also, the 'Saras Lineage are recognized widely for their skilled tacticians, as well."
She plays the detective game well, I thought.
"Did 'Lodam tell you all this?" White asked. We were losing distance between the atrium and the selected Pelican for our evacuation; the conversation was about to enter a hiatus.
"Nah, 'Sarasee," Lynda said. "Issue boy wouldn't talk to me before he went nuts. That Vale guy did. He was kind of cool. It's a shame he's dead. . . . Franti too."
The conversation displaced with Hauver's heading. "I thought you didn't like Night, ma'am."
"I don't like Morgan," Lynda deadpanned. "Cylus and Franti are and were all right. In fact, they were better than all right! They did exactly what I would do!"
"You would assassinate a Governor or kill a Squad of Helljumpers?" White asked doubtfully. He was joking. I did not have the basic grasp of what Lynda would do—but he did.
"Don't be an ass, Cap." Lynda cracked a laugh as we reached the Pelican. Two Squads of troopers piled out of the tray and hurried past us, heading to the atrium. I was not impressed by the Army's response times; Naval Intelligence predicted a hostile situation, so they had response teams on standby.
They are adding more and more to my hate bucket dedicated to them, I thought grimly.
Lynda let out a pained sigh, clambering up into the D79-TC Pelican's bloodtray; the rest of us followed her up. The Trooper manning the turret did not presume to aid us up. The Trooper aside him quickened over to the door to the cockpit compartment and clapped his fist against it, disclosing our embarkation to the pilot. Were it an EXFIL situation, he would have used his COMM. The method was more or less sportive banter.
Lynda observed the communication but paid it no heed. "I feel sorry for Night. The good two," Lynda said quietly and painfully; she gave her recent suspiration an explanation. "Officially, they've been dead for years, so their names aren't gonna be etched into the monument. Nor will they be remembered at the Tribute."
" 'Tribute'?" I asked, settling on one of the many seats that ran parallel to each other in the bay. The arrangement offered movement and an opportunity for respite.
But instead of the state cooling down, things heated up with Lynda's eyes glinting with incertitude as she glowered at Johns. Johns was not offended by the expression and took a seat on the bench row diametric to me. "I thought he might have already known. And he didn't look like one who would appreciate reiteration," Johns explained.
"Too much emphasis is better than not knowing at all," I said. White made a curious hum seating himself next to me. My timbre had not grown on him. Your voice is no joy to listen to either. I would not repeat my mind.
"I apologize," Johns said dryly. His apology was not legitimate, and he was not trying to hide that fact.
"Apology accepted," Lynda grinned, taking a seat a few spaces up from Johns; Hauver sat adjacently to her.
"It wasn't directed at you," Johns said without visible emotion, resting his helmet on his lap and bringing the TACPAD built into his right gauntlet up to his mouth and began intercommunication with his handler.
Lynda, on the polar spectrum, acknowledged Johns' words with a forward glance but did not give him anything else. Ignoring him, Lynda pointed at me with a minimum quantity of effort and said, "ONI didn't plan for the pop to find out 'bout us for a few days yet. But when we arrived back at Earth, ONI wanted to smuggle all the survivin' families over to Sydney for a commemoration service for the Kryptonite and her crew. The name for this thingy has been opted to be called 'the Tribute'."
Lynda wrapped her fingers around a support bar above her seat as the Pelican lifted off. I adored the movement that went with the Pelican's locomotion, but Lynda did not. It did not halt her proceeding. "The Tribute is planned to take place just as soon as all the families get here—a few days, in short. Originally, President Ruth Charet was to reveal our survival at a public conference in the Royal Botanic Gardens in Sydney where the model of a monument to be dedicated to us would also be unveiled. But, as it goes, ONI didn't communicate with the families on the right levels, and someone with a big oral cavity yapped about us over social media."
"Which led to rumors, which led to ONI having to corroborate the rumors," Hauver added. "Now it's a lot harder to get out and enjoy a cup o' joe. A bunch of fucking journalists are camping right outside the base. Pretty nostalgic for me."
Whatever he was implying, White and Lynda knew; they did not pursue an answer. I had no care, so no ground to adopt their stead. I remained silent until I realized I had yet to ask something that was obligatory of me as a brother.
"How's Courtney?" The question belonged to White. Irritated I was at my absent of asking earlier, I was also irritated that he did not dare to tell me at the same timespan.
"Sore. Worried." White motioned to Johns. "Out for one's blood." He slanted in his seat and rotated his head, so his left eye met my right. "Sorry I didn't tell."
Sorry I didn't ask. "We had more imperative matters," I said. In lieu of no assuasive pitch to go with my monotoned voice, I permitted myself a single nod to give him; a gesture as clear and worthy of being simple was sufficient.
"Hey, we're bringing up old topics, are we?" Lynda asked, looking down the bench row to Johns, who had culminated his transmission with his handler. "What 'bout the name of the bad guy's boss?"
". . . Orta 'Rakzom," Johns said, ulterior from the conversation; the light of the tray radiated from his eyes, showing them stuck on the distance. His handler went more in-depth than just ask for a concise debriefing. I wished I had paid careful attention to what transpired.
" 'Rakzom, eh?" Lynda rubbed her chin, a generic motion to designate a thinking state. "Never heard of them. Are they popular?"
"Not by a long-shot," Johns answered, rubbing a hand through his blue hair that breached several hygiene and esthetic regulations. "They're a traditional Lineage fuelled by honor and a rebellious disposition towards the Covenant. Nevertheless, they served when their duty demanded it, but not without doubts. Orta was all for the Covenant, but he grew a deep resentment towards the hegemony, and that resentment extended to his Lineage as well. He despised the Covenant because of their disposition towards his Keep and their holdings, but he hated his family for holding him back."
"You didn't stop from going all out about him," Hauver remarked. "It sounds like he was a school project of yours."
"In a matter of speaking, he was. Though I was more engaged without the background noise of a dozen other kids, so I picked up more. And, being older, took it into a better consideration than I could at ten, or nine." Johns explained earnestly. "He's interesting. It comes from his out-of-the-way character with the rest of his relations. For one: He was never promoted beyond a Minor despite his excellent war prowess. His brother held him back through . . . inconclusive means."
An Abomination, a deep voice said. At the time, I paid it no heed, and amassed all my concentration on John's facial expression that grew more and more fervid; his voice raised with each second. He was about to say something that he anticipated would take us off-guard.
"The 'Rakzom are a clan dedicated to swordsmanship and honor," Johns said. "They are no tacticians. But, as you have seen, Orta is cunning, resourceful, efficient, and he knows how to lead despite never leading. No Sangheili knows this, but he's not a 'Rakzom. He's Vale Nar 'Sarasee's dead kid."
An Abomination. It was now my voice in my head.
"Nope. No. Too many contradictions," Hauver protested decorously. "Although I didn't speak to 'Sarasee myself, Lieutenant Franti did to a surprising length, and what 'Sarasee told Franti was stuff that really didn't go beyond a circle that he and a few other Sangheili shared."
"If this is so classified, how does a standard SPARTAN know?" White asked, questioning Johns' integrity.
Johns took the challenge to his legitimacy with stride and lowered his voice so the two Troopers by the border of the tray could not hear us. This is the production of multiple answers, I thought.
"I've just been reassigned from social services to the Head-Hunters—just then." Johns glanced at me, suspecting me of already being wise to a comparative reference to this. "I hope this explains the dead face I've been wearing."
"Positively cleared of confusion," I replied.
Johns nodded. He rotated his view between us to signal that he was about to address us all. His voice became as close to a whisper as he could get while still retaining enough strength to allow his voice to contrast from the Pelican's rumbling. "ONI already wanted Orta dead for causing some trouble here and there This attack just solidified their fear of what this Elite is competent of in terms of skill, strategy, and boldness. One of ONI's main rules is to keep the Sangheili crippled."
"How are you so sure that ONI will appreciate you relinquishing this information to us?" I asked, taking into account the faces' of Lynda and Hauver. They looked like they had just seen a ghost.
"You already know half of ONI's dirty secrets," Johns answered.
No, that's not it. This is a test, I realized, having no intent on indulging him on his test. Osman cared for me, but she put ONI first in all terms. She needed to know if we would provide a future problem. And she had a right to be worried.
To purchase us time, I spoke to the others with microscopic eye signals. I told Hauver, White, and Lynda to keep their mouths shut. Johns had not seen their faces—he had not seen my eye signals—so to him, we remained oblivious to his remark.
"More than half," I replied, ending the topic with a full-stop ambiance to my paper-blank voice.
If White could protect Courtney, I would forsake her for my own selfishness. But White would not be able to protect Courtney from Osman; only I stood a chance against Osman.
I was not leaving. Courtney rested at the climax of my capital end, and I would put her before me in all regards in all further occurrences.
I may end up killing people, I thought, overeager for the potential future. The future held too many potentials to be narrowed down by a single mind—several minds would not do either. You had to experience the future to accurately know what it held.
An unnerving silence followed. It made an implication to our uneasy feelings subsequent to Johns' own implications. I would have ended it myself had Hauver not intervened.
"I'm going back to Orta here," Hauver said, rubbing the lids of his eyes and leaning back in his seat. "I'm sorry, but I'm picking up a load of bullshit here. How does ONI know something so private yet and the Sangheili know null?"
Diverting from the established topic, we had to wait a moment as the pilot's voice reverberated throughout the bloodtray. "Cargo, this is family driver. We're minus three off."
Johns keyed his earpiece. "Affirmative, family driver. Give us a heads-up for when we're landing."
"Sure thing. Family driver, out." A zap of static made my pharynx fuzzy as the pilot switched off the link.
An end to the disruption. Johns relaxed his hand back down by his helmet on his lap and peered down the seat row to Hauver. "The answer is going to be annoyingly unsophisticated."
"Better than fucking hard," Hauver playfully retorted. He is masking his anger well, I noted, interested in his unaccustomed adeptness in this field. He was not surprised.
"Okay. I promise not to make fun of you," Johns said.
"Good. Making fun of people's my job." Hauver hid a small smile. His eyes were darkening in intensity. Yes, that is correct. I recalled a valuable element to Hauver's character. Like me and David Larson, he was not all Human.
"I guess we're colleagues." Johns fiddled with a guard plating on one of his fingers. "Well, let's quiz you first. What do we have that the Covies don't?"
"Good daddies?" Lynda inquired.
"Morality?" White asked, only now figuring out Johns earlier comment—he did a noteworthy job at hiding his emotions.
"Equal rights?" Hauver asked before snapping his hand up to stop any reply. "Wait, I'm sorry, we still don't have equal rights."
Johns gave him an intrigued look but answered with a smart flavor to his voice; he was impressed with himself. "Forensic science." Johns clicked his fingers at the nettled expressions that blanketed the trio's faces. "Yeah! I love my job! ONI has a DNA database in a subsurface research laboratory with the strands of several prominent Elites floating around in biological preservation coolers."
"Please tell me you're not suggesting that the Elites donated their sacred blood to their once sworn enemies," Lynda groaned, unconvinced and amused at the prospect. "I'd have more luck believing that the Brutes donated their sperm for Humanity in a research effort to figure how they're so damn ugly and hairy."
"You make the best analogies, Colonel," Hauver said.
"I know. And people say that I have a messed-up mind." Lynda stuck her tongue out and wrapped her lips around it, gagging on it before completing her expression and saying, "Better to be insane than boring."
I concur. Not many will see an agreeable argument, I thought.
"Analogies don't belong here," Johns said. "What's fact is fact. But to answer your question: The Elites didn't give up their DNA willingly. We took it, and they aren't aware of it. For example: We gathered the Arbiter's DNA from multiple sources. One of the more popular samples was from a splatter of the Arbiter's blood when a Brute Chieftain attacked him at Voi, just before the Flood first arrived on Earth."
"And subsequently got told to fuck off," Lynda added viciously, having a "Humanity for the win" tone lingering with her voice's color.
"How did you get Orta's DNA?" I asked. "And after you answer that, tell me how you know in addition to why ONI collected the DNA when a treaty with the Elites wasn't yet debatable." I thought about inquiring to how ONI had a congenial mix of bio-chemicals and artificial compounds to support the strands, but the answer to my question came with the implementation of Forerunner engineering into Human technological applications.
" 'Rakzom was with the first wave of Elites sent down to engage the Flood at Voi," Johns explained. "And, of course, his shields got dropped and he got injured to an extent that the Elites dumped him on us whilst Elites and a detachment of badasses went through the portal to the Ark."
"Were you with the detachment?" Lynda asked, crossing her arms and wearing a face that said, "got you, bitch".
"Yes," Johns deadpanned. Snap goes the mousetrap.
"Narcissist," Lynda mocked smugly, puckering her lips and delivering multiple non-digital emojis Johns' way.
John persisted in displaying his ability to brush off Lynda's fanatic activeness as nonmeaningful jests and swiveled his head back around from her to face me. "To answer your second question, Sierra, I'll say that I know because I'm officially under the dominion of the Office of Naval Intelligence, unlike the bulk of the SPARTAN Branch. And ONI didn't limit my boundaries, to keep me in a state of inclusion ."
"Cargo, this is family driver!" the pilot said; his voice was clearer than earlier. "We're directly above the Evan's Military Reserve. I'm bringing the taxi down, so ensure that you're seat-belted."
No one touched their seat harnesses. In an account to the pilot's proclamation, I looked out the bloodtray for the first time and saw Sydney's scenery saturating the view; skyscrapers and edifices, both being constructed, repaired, and existing. Air traffic moved in lanes around the towers; most lanes retained a consistency of being military or authority aircraft only. Drones also patrolled the border of the upper-exposed base, in particular. Drones being commanded by media outlets. It was illegal for civilian drones to transgress above the base's airspace, so I was safe from media attention for now.
"Answer the third question," I said, savoring the view for once. Often, one needed to relax and take in the visual aspect of the world.
"At the time, ONI took the samples to develop a biochemical weapon that exclusively killed Sangheili for in case they backstabbed us. But when anticipations weren't met, they resorted to playing a more safe game," Johns explained.
You're becoming more obvious, I observed, taking Osman's game into a more severe cerebration. Black-Box had not talked to me since I left the shuttle. Speculation to why had ended. The AI was as Osman said he would be: A percipient in observation—he was there for my needs.
"Also, I think I should mention this as it's a large part of this whole conversation," Johns said. "The reason we have a link between Vale and Orta is because we simply have already taken samples from Vale's corpse. The tech the strands are pulled apart by is sophisticated and relies heavily on Forerunner support."
"I gathered that," I said.
One of the Troopers by the opening of the Pelican's bloodtray whistled for out attention. We gave him that attention; all of us turned and saw that the Pelican was setting down on a landing pad platform. Courtney and three officers unknown to me were stood tightly straight, awaiting us.
Johns, Hauver, Lynda, and White got to their feet, grabbing whatever possessions they had. Following their example, I grabbed the strap of my rucksack and checked to make sure that it was still strapped tightly across my back. I had forgotten about it, and only now remembered that it was still with me.
I pushed up to my feet and fell in with the four, craning my neck in a stretching fashion as I moved. My natural skill with Pelicans allowed the motions of it being securely locked and latched down to be of no discomfort.
White leaned over to Johns. "You may want to wear your helmet. Captain Jsarez isn't happy with you."
Johns grunted in reply. He brought his helmet above his head and lowered it over; steam hissed as the padded hoop of the helmet connected with pressure sealing components around the neck region of his armor. The helmet locked down. The hiss that went with the steam venting was nostalgic enough to make me close my eyes and remember all the times I had heard that noise . . . It was a sound that I would not likely hear again.
ONI hadn't told me what they were going to do with my MJOLNIR Mark IV armor. I didn't care. It was only a large agglomeration of expensive metal. It was nescient of me to think so, but listing all the comprising parts of my armor down into my mind was not satisfactory for the current juncture.
Courtney hadn't changed significantly from a few days ago. Her black hair was no longer long but rather cropped. She now looked more like me. She wore a standardized Navy Commissioned Officer uniform. Her face was a replication of my own; average in composition with nothing overreaching their length. The only asset that one could consider aberrant was our pale white complexion and emerald green eyes.
The straight posture the other three stood at did not expand to her. She stood straight, but the need to apply pressure to her ribs disrupted her.
"She's not as formidable as you," Johns observed, vexing me at his dare to state the obvious. "Definitely not. This is going to come back and bite me."
"Courtney's more of a slasher than biter," Lynda said. Her voice was more stiff as her smile thickened the words she spoke.
No. She's a kicker. I thought back on the kick Courtney landed to Ensign Alex Gile's face when he referred to me as a machine.
"I can't tolerate slashing; I'll have to defend myself," Johns said, joking, but not enough to deceive Lynda who chuckled and banged her fist against his shoulder's pauldron, indicating that he was to do no such thing.
"Cargo, this is family driver!" the pilot said. "Get the fuck off my bird!"
"Reserves," Lynda sighed as the Pelican's ramp lowered; the two Troopers stepped off the edge of the bloodtray first and hurried down the access stairway and off of the landing pad's platform. "They always have a terrible and informal sense of humor. SPARTAN Johns, if you have that pilot court-martialled, I'll keep Captain Jsarez off ya'."
"Deal," Johns agreed at once.
Colonel Keyes is accelerating my respect of her with each passing jib and jab. I was impressed with Lynda's way to deal punishment and to keep the mood light.
A mild clang of the ramp dragging against the pad got Courtney moving. No one followed her as she walked up the ramp, running her slender fingers through her hair and using the opposing hand to shift some strands from her face. She smiled at me before turning to Johns and contorting her face to a scowl. She put effort into rubbing her ribs—she was making a point that she was pissed.
"Did you do this?" Courtney pointed to my ribs then her own.
"Yes, ma'am," Johns said, fearless to my sister's imminent wrath. "One of Sierra-098's alternative personalities had taken control and threatened the lives of nearly a thousand people. I wouldn't have cared if those people were killed; they are sick, greedy fucks, but I have a job I love too much to be fired over. And the hook was deliberately smoother than it could've been."
"No it wasn't," Courtney said inexpressively, crossing her arms and frowning at Johns. "I may not have my brother's resistance to pain, but I felt that, and it hurt too damn much."
"Babe, please don't attack him," Lynda pleaded. "I have a little deal with him, and kicking his ass will ruin it!"
"I can't possibly kick his ass when he's cosplaying," Courtney said blandly.
"I don't consider myself a SPARTAN," Johns said.
"And that must be the only good ingredient to that potion that is you," Courtney said. "BB told me about ONI's plan to draw out any assassins with a potential motive, and I'm pissed about that, you know? That's my brother they were using as bait, and you went along with placing him on the hook."
"I didn't have a choice, and I wouldn't refuse and risk another SPARTAN replacing me and getting Sierra-098 killed," Johns explained. Unbeknownst to him, he had just dug himself a big damn hole.
"You're self-centered to think that," Courtney said. "People tend to think a lot about themselves. But to a point where they assume they're perfection is beyond stereotypical for a sociopath."
"I'm not the sociopath here," Johns said.
Say it. Say it. Say it.
"You calling me crazy?" Courtney asked, grinning sadistically. "You have no idea."
"It's going to remain that way," Johns said, looking beyond Courtney to the three officers waiting on the pad. He cocked his head back to Courtney. "If you'll excuse me, ma'am."
"Yep, get outta here." Courtney waved him off. "You smell like spook."
Johns groaned as he walked aside Courtney and down the Pelican's ramp. The three officers fell in with him as he passed by them. It was only now that I spotted the ONI insignia on their Naval fatigues.
"That was tense," I heard BB say through my neural interface. It was the first time he had spoken in hours. It was not relieving.
"How have you been?" Courtney asked me, turning and leading us down the ramp.
"Sleepy," I said. "How's your head?"
"I've been getting headaches, but they're dying down pretty fast," Courtney replied as the five of us filed down stairway connecting the platform to the field of the base. "A significant improvement to the initial pain spike. It felt like a spider was crawling around my brain and ripped itself from my nose."
You're not far off. "The Gravemind seemed to want to emphasize the 'going out with the bang' aspect of his character," I said. "What you felt was what happened."
"I wonder how bad pain would be if it weren't suppressed by both our immune systems," Courtney hummed distantly.
"We can make some comparisons," Lynda suggested, moving up between me and Courtney.
"Nah. Nah." Courtney shook the suggestion off. "Your wounds aren't something I want to think of."
"Pussy," Lynda grunted, cheerier for the first time in a while.
"Drunken whore."
Lynda narrowed her eyes in something close to astonishment. "Touché."
Is this normal? I thought in wonderment. What a lovely interpersonal chemistry.
The transaction of stepping from framed metal to dirt and grass was discernible—one could pick apart the contrast. The base was nine hundred meters in length and seven hundred meters in width. In the lower right corner of the base were twelve different landing pads that lowered into an belowground hanger complex where an assortment of aircraft resided. Overlooking the pads was a command tower two hundred meters high.
Barracks, offices, suites, classrooms, a medical facility, and an armory were all in a grid placement across the base. Alleys went between each structure with each alley being wide enough for a Warthog to move through.
Surrounding the base was a fortification bulwark twelve meters tall, preventing the base's secrets from reaching the public's eyes. In addition, defense drones circled the airspace for any infiltrating drones belonging to the media.
"I assume you've heard about the Tribute. I've discussed it with BB, and I'll discuss it with you," Courtney said, "but I've gotta go pick up Joyce from the police headquarters shortly."
"Why you?" I inquired. No matter how densely dead my tone was, there was still a higher pitch for when I was asking questions. The adjustment of basics was impossible.
"Believe it or not, the supporter probably needs support," Courtney said. "I saw that he's not mentally amazing after speaking with him when he was first arrested."
"Can he still help me?" I asked.
Courtney peered over her shoulder as she walked towards a large cubic building with different compartments appearing externally, shaping it into a cube with smaller cubes extending from the base construct.
"I don't trust anyone other than him," I clarified.
Courtney nodded and snaked her head back around. "It's just something that you'll have to change, Red. Joyce has lost his job, lost his credibility, lost his pride."
"Did he state his plans?" I asked. If I could learn his plans, the possibility of swaying him to remain and assist me was all the more easier. I needed Joyce to help me rid myself of the alters. Especially if Ava became a problem in the future.
"He thought of going to live with Lance Corporal Brian Davis and his family on the moon, but I put forth my own offer." Courtney smiled and rubbed her chin. We were closing in on the building that I assumed to be our residential barracks. "An offer that's going to keep both Davis and doctor Hallas Day here as well. The latter wanted to join the crew of the Infinity, but he feels like he can do more good with his family."
"How so?" I asked.
"His parents are wealthy and famous scientists in Japan. They own several universities and are descendants of Wallace Fujikawa," Courtney elaborated.
Interesting. Day feels more into history and xeno-archeology than quantum mechanics and atom dynamics, I thought.
"Was it honeyed words or threats?" I asked.
"Neither. I just appeased their sides that are ticklish to the thought of doing something right. They're all good people. That fact was set in stone after they all agreed to this. Plus, they won't be away from their families."
"You're being vague."
Courtney sucked on her lips as we all filed up a stairwell hanging along the outside of the structure and leading to the main entrance. "Oh, but being vague makes you guess!" Courtney jested.
"Well, I've guessed."
Courtney took it to mind that I was in no position to appreciate a joke. It was now that she fully realized that I was different. Temporarily or permanent seemed to be two words that made her spine shudder.
"As you're aware, dad was a entrepreneur when I was listed as MIA." Courtney was repeating an obsolete process. "Well, I just found out that his 'empire' has grown almost fifty times since I disappeared. It's all been left under the control of mom but is being managed by a close friend of dad's. Technically it's all mine. This is not including the help we'll get from Day and his family. So no one is going to question all the ONI money I plan on publicly using to start up a relief organization. EDEN."
That took me off-guard. "Why?" I asked.
"Because there's only so much the UEG and UNSC can do to aid the outer colonies when most are controlled by interdependent governments," Courtney explained eagerly—she was an excited child again. "But if a public-supported organization offers help in return for no vow of loyalty toHumanity's prime government, they won't refuse; we'll be able to help so many people, Red. And it won't stop there. We'll also deal domestic aid. EDEN will offer solicitors for both victims of injustice and victims of crime. On top of that, we'll also battle back Insurrectionists from colonies that need aid."
Courtney looked at me over her shoulder and flashed a smile. To the unwise eye, it was an avid and intoxicated smile. But Courtney had it for antithetic reasons to what BB believed. She knows, I repeated to myself in a mantra. She knows. She knows. She already knows.
Courtney's eyes shone, and I saw a dark intent in them. Lingering intensely was a hatred that demanded oblation. Her emerald eyes said that she was distressed, infuriated, devastated, ambitious.
"If we're going to be dealing with criminals and insurgents, we're going to need some tough backing." Courtney smiled and waved me onward up the fragile stairwell. "That's why EDEN is going to double over as a private military company."
That was it. The UNSC Kryptonite originally had a crew of four hundred and sixty-six men and women of the UNSC. Four hundred and twenty-eight were killed—thirty-eight are alive as of today, not including me.
Most of the four hundred and twenty-eight died when a CSO-class supercarrier attacked the UNSC Kryptonite. A Covenant extremist group commanded the supercarrier. A Covenant extremist group that originated from the Sangheili civil war. The civil war was fuelled by the Office of Naval Intelligence to keep the Sangheili crippled, so they never posed a threat again.
ONI and Osman had indirectly caused the death of four hundred and twenty-eight people both young and old. It did not matter if it was indirect as they knew the reprisal lengths of their decisions. They knew they were sacrificing lives when it was unneeded—the Sangheili offered no real threat as long as the Arbiter remained in power. Peace was an accomplishable ambition.
Courtney knew all of this.
Four hundred and twenty-eight people died. A Captain had a protective relationship with their crew. Courtney probably felt like she let her crew down. She also had to kill a young woman to save herself. But it did not fall down to closure; this was all revenge.
In my mind, I deciphered her words: Red, ONI fucked us over, again. Now it's our turn. We're going to raise an army with one goal, but it secretly has another: To kill everyone who had a role in the Sangheili civil war.
I was game.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Two weeks. This qualifies as a delay, and a delay it shall be titled.
Why was there a delay? I was distracted; I found something that grabbed my attention like a hawk and constricted it so hard that a pet python my friend had died in anguish at the very notion that it was outdone.
I also had problems with a writer's block. I had a hard time handling the situation at the beginning of the chapter, but I'm reasonably content with the ultimate outcome.
The first thing to address is Orta 'Rakzom. Relating to his supposed heritage, I'll like to make a disclaimer: I once quit a story because a dead character was "brought" back to life in an attempt to extend the drama of the series. Perhaps I didn't give the story a fair chance to explain? Incorrect; I had already experienced cliché after generic cliché, and I was on the verge of leaving the story out of frustration.
I'm not inane enough to believe my writing is cliché-free. But I at least harbor the small hope that I'm doing a good job.
To make this longer, I have to address something. I recently discovered that the date the UNSC Infinity was commissioned on was February 21st, 2557. But I can get around this. How many test missions did Infinity undertake before being publicly commissioned?
Orta 'Rakzom is an original character designed by Trusne. Thanks go out to Trusne for submitting the information. I have big plans for your character.
Thanks also go to shadowfiguredeath10 for following. Albeit, I find you have an astonishing resemblance to another follower I have called shadowfiguredeath0.
And thank you Starart123, Fleightfire, The Constitutionalist, and Trusne for reviewing the last chapter. Your words go a long way to encourage me that I'm doing a good job.
One last thing to consume your time. I believe some of the original characters I created were without explanation from the readers they originated from. When I was young and naïve, I instantly made characters without the consent or input from their respective readers.
If you are unsatisfied with your character, please tell me in a private message so we can plan a new character together.
The characters you want to replace can be dead; it doesn't matter. I killed Timmy and Adam Franti because I was unsure if those they were based on were still reading. Also, I needed to free up some space, so I developed these characters as best I could before crushing them like cockroaches.
I'm not George R.R Martin, so don't freak out for the future.
Typos, grammar errors, cannon stuff-ups; if you see them, I hope you'll highlight them for me. I at least expect a thing or two from The Constitutionalist. If one desires perfection, they have come to the wrong place. But I give it all I have, and I'm aware that my writing is flawed. Acknowledgment of one's cons commences the journey to bettering oneself.
