PART III

SPIRITUS MUNDI

Chapter 48: Divine Wrath

June 6th, 2015 (Gregorian Calendar) Fredericksburg, Virginia

If you want to know the place where the North ends and the South begins, then I can safely tell you that the borderline is here. It follows the contours of the mighty Rappahannock River, from the furthest point out along the Northern Neck where the Potomac meets the Chesapeake, all the way back up into the fall line, and the rolling mounds of the Blue Ridge Mountains beyond. Those of Northern Virginia are not Yankees, but they are not exactly southern either. They exist as culturally and politically different from the rest of the state, having far more affinity with D.C. than they do with Richmond.

But here, here at the gates of Fredericksburg the South can be said to truly begin. Here where the air is humid and thick, and two lane roads stretch deep into the country side like long winding black veins of asphalt. Where roads still bear the name of Confederate Generals, the echoes of the War of Northern Aggression could still be heard, and the Rebel flag still flew.

Cor Tenebrae had always thought it was a damn beautiful flag. It was such a shame that it had garnered such a bad reputation. It wasn't the flag's fault. It never hurt anybody. It was people who had a habit of doing that.

Of course the Civil War had always enamored him. It was difficult not to be entangled by it, his own aptitude for history and the close proximity of over a dozen battlefields making it neigh impossible for him not to give the War Between the States at least a passing glance. He owned several Civil War memorabilia, and a small library of books.

A few miles west of Jefferson Davis Highway, where the deer run rampant and unchecked, and grape vines creep through the forest canopy while weeping willows shed their tears and feed the babbling streams along the creek banks. There on some nameless road that the county never bothered to paint with yellow dividing lines, a white pickup truck screamed past an abandoned silo.

The air smelled of manure. It smelled like home, the cows blinking mindlessly as they chewed on grass and watched as the truck rolled past. The windows were down, a cigarette in the driver's left hand. Music blasted from the radio, the volume turned up as far as it could go. The speed limit read forty-five. The speedometer red sixty-five, bordering on seventy. Cor Tenebrae could not be blamed. After all, it was a mortal sin not to drive unreasonably fast when this kind of music was on. The heavy guitar riff vibrated the speakers, the writer nodding along as he took another drag and let the smoke slowly roll out of his mouth.

Finished with my woman

'Cause she couldn't help me with my mind

People think I'm insane

Because I am frowning all the time

All day long I think of things

But nothing seems to satisfy

Think I'll lose my mind

If I don't find something to pacify

The writer finished his cigarette and tossed the butt out of the window, drumming his fingers on the side of the truck. To his right the thick wilderness broke into a wide expanse of dark green fields, broken only by thick rows of corn and occasionally a crop of tobacco. There was a bump as he entered into the next county. You can always tell you are in a different county by that bump. The place where one transportation department's jurisdiction ends and another's begins. This time they had actually bothered to put markings on the road. He slowed down as he reached a railroad crossing, a large abandoned white house sitting only feet away from the tracks.

It must have been a beautiful house in its day; Greco-Roman, Colonial, and even a smattering of Gothic influences present. A beautiful house once, but now its siding was cracked, its paint faded, its wood rotten and termite infested, and its windows shattered. The only window that was not broken was the one that had the large sticker plastered over it.

OWNED BY BANK

This was not a strange or an unfamiliar sight. Abandoned homes were common out here. Not as common as it had been during the Housing Crisis, but still common enough. Out here employment opportunities were limited and usually involved a rather lengthy commute. It was not so much of a problem where he lived, in Fredericksburg, but it was certainly a problem the further east and west one went from I95 and Jefferson Davis, and the further south one went from Fredericksburg, until of course you reached Richmond.

Cor Tenebrae supposed that was the way it had always been. Those who campaigned for social justice could talk a good game, but they very rarely succeeded in good actions, and what good actions that did come about were often limited to paltry concessions by the prevailing institutional order. They only ever gave a damn about that which affected the directly, and nobody had ever given a damn about the rural poor.

They were too redneck, too conservative, and too white.

Make a joke and I will sigh

And you will laugh and I will cry

Happiness I cannot feel and

Love to me is so unreal

The writer put those thoughts away as he pulled into his driveway, broken asphalt crunching underneath the tires. He made his way through his house, grabbed a beer, and headed towards the back door. Once outside he set the beer bottle down on a concrete sidewalk he had poured with his own hands. He reached into his pocket for another cigarette, and was just about to light it when he turned around and saw what was laying right beside the doorway.

The snake slithered along the concrete, its copper brown scales baking the humid air. A dead leaf was crushed underneath its belly as it moved, its body a full three feet long, and its diamond shaped head told the writer that it was poisonous.

The writer squatted down to get a closer look at the copperhead. He took a sip of beer as he watched the snake move, and finished lighting his cigarette. The copperhead seemed to notice him, and sluggishly began to move in Cor Tenebrae's direction. The writer let out a long stream of smoke in the direction of the snake and, suddenly aware he was wearing no shoes or socks, cautiously stood up and backed away. A moment later he had returned, shovel in hand.

The writer gripped the shovel like a spear, lining the sharp point carefully with the snake's neck. He struck, the shovel blade pinning the copperhead onto the sidewalk. Blood poured and spurted out of the snake as its body writhed in painful protest. Its fangs were bared, its mouth biting into the metal shovel head, small droplets of poison dripping down and mixing with the blood.

"Come on you son of a bitch," the writer muttered as he began to work the shovel in a sawing motion. With one last effort the writer cut the snake's head off. He reached down and grabbed the body, and was unsurprised when it wrapped itself completely around his forearm and attempted to constrict him. Snakes tended to do that even after you killed them. The writer raised an eyebrow as the bloody stump where the head had once been suddenly lashed out at the hand that was holding it.

Even in death it was still trying to bite him.

The writer scooped up the snake's head with the shovel, marched into the woods, and threw both the body and the head into the stream, looking on in satisfaction as he watched them sink down into the muddy water. He threw the butt of his spent cigarette into the stream after the snake and went back inside.

Jack watched as Cor Tenebrae entered the house through the back door. He was a man in his mid-twenties, looking mostly of Irish descent, with dirty blonde hair, Atlantic blue eyes, and a fit muscular build.

"You look different that how I imagined you," Jack called out to him, and the writer stopped dead in his tracks.

The writer looked surprised at Jack's presence, but not shocked, and that surprise quickly gave way to one of fatigue. "Should have known you would show up," he said in a defeated tone. He went to the fridge and grabbed two more beers. "You have any idea what it's like?" he asked Jack as he handed him one of the bottles. "Having you guys in my head the whole time. Talking to me, making it difficult to focus on anything else?"

"I know a bit about hearing voices in your head," Jack said as he leaned against a wall. He looked around the house. The room he was in seemed to suffer from a case of split personality. The far wall to the right of the T.V. seemed to be dedicated solely to the Washington Redskins. Newspaper clippings and Sports Illustrated covers featuring the team set behind Burgundy and Gold frames. At the center of the shrine was a large picture featuring the final quarter of Super Bowl XVII. That glorious moment when John Riggins broke through Miami's defenses, Heismanned an opposing player to the ground, and ran forty-three yards for a touchdown.

The rest of the room was dedicated entirely to the Civil War. Union and Confederate bullets, and belt buckles. There was a copy of the Charlestown newspaper boldly declaring that the Union Was Dissolved. A chart featuring the Union Regimental Battle Flags. Paintings that had been bought from souvenir shops at Fredericksburg. There was one of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson at the Battle of Fredericksburg, another of the 20th Maine at Little Round Top, another of a lone Union sniper, and his favorite, that of the 26th North Carolina marching towards Gettysburg. Covered in Glory.

There was an old, tattered, and battle worn Confederate flag pinned to the wall next to the chart of Union battle flags, and set behind a Dixie blue and grey frame. Jack pointed at the Revel banner. "What do you think your readers would say if they knew you owned one of those?"

Cor Tenebrae shrugged. "About the same as if they knew I was a Republican. Some would understand and accept it, and others wouldn't. Same with everything in life I guess."

Jack cocked his head. "You're conservative?"

"With Libertarian leanings. So long as it doesn't hurt anybody else I think it should be legal. I believe in limited government, gun rights, and following the Constitution to the letter. People say that makes me a Republican so that's what I call myself." He sighed as he took another sip of beer. "Like it or not that flag is a part of history, and I love history. I love owning history. It's my hobby, and anybody who thinks I might be operating with some ulterior motive should as themselves if that's really true of me, or if they are just giving in to stereotypes."

Jack nodded. "You know Rabbit had a Confederate Flag."

"We yeah, but that's because Rabbit was racist as shit."

"And you don't see any contradiction there?"

"Nope."

Jack shook his head disapprovingly, but kept his silence.

"So why are you here?" the writer asked.

"You always take your time getting to the point don't you?" Jack asked. "Is that why it's taking you so long to finish the story?"

"I believe in being thorough," the writer said as he took another sip of beer.

"Bullshit," Jack said. "You've been dancing around Alesia for months because you don't know how to finish it."

The writer threw up his hands. "Maybe I wrote myself into a corner alright. Maybe I don't know how Romanov is supposed to win the battle without it looking extremely contrived."

Jack glared at him. "You were specifically chosen to write this story so that it wouldn't be written into a corner."

"Well it was a pretty shitty choice on their end wasn't it?" the writer contested. "I have way too many side characters, my pacing is slow, and more sub plots than you can shake a stick at, and in all honesty right now I'm stuck. I don't know what to write next."

Jack took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. "You know how this works. You know how ka works. None of us can do anything until you write about it."

"And I can't write anything until you guys decide to do something. See how much of a catch twenty-two this is?"

Jack clenched his jaw in frustration. "You're a writer. Just make something up. Tell us what to do."

"I'll tell you what to do as soon as you tell me what to write."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Jack said, finally losing his temper. He marched over to where Cor Tenebrae was standing, towering a full foot above him, the nearly seven foot tall Spartan casting a long shadow over the face of the man that had written him into existence. "I don't have time for your bullshit. I made a promise to my mother that I would find the Master Chief and bring him to her, and I'm not going to break that promise because a sniveling little prick like you got writer's block."

"What are you going to do? Beat the inspiration into me?"

"I'm considering it."

The writer swallowed hard, briefly wondering if a figment of his imagination could indeed kill him. He felt it was safer not to test that theory. "Fine, I'll pull something out of my ass and end the Alesia arc, then I'll write your dad's part of the story."

"And you'll bring him to me?"

"Most of him, yeah."

"What do you mean most of him?"

"Nothing," the writer said quickly. "I mean it's not like I'm planning to kill him off or anything. That would be silly. I would never do something like that."

Jack glared at him through his father's bombardier blue eyes. "Finish the story, or I'll finish you." He brushed past the writer, his broad shoulder enough to knock the writer back into the wall.

"You know I might be able to figure out how to end Alesia," the writer called out, rubbing the spot where his head had hit the wall. "But I don't think I'll ever figure out what to write when Cortana discovers what you really are, and what you're planning to do. How many people you are going to have to kill to make that happen."

Jack stopped, his back still turned to him. "I reconciled myself to my fate a long time ago. The Civil War that's coming will shatter humanity to pieces. Somebody will have to reunite them. To lead a crusade against chaos, to lead humanity towards the Mantel, and create an Imperium even vaster then the Great Old Ones. Humanity does not just need a leader. They need an Emperor."

"Imperator Homini," the writer muttered. "Well at least my Warhammer fans will be happy, though to be fair it's still not technically a cross…" He looked and Jack was gone. Gone as if he had never been there to begin with.

Of course he had never really been there. Just an exceptionally vivid day dream, or at least that is what the writer told himself. He never had fully grown out of talking to imaginary friends after all.

Cor Tenebrae got himself ready. If he was going to sit down for a serious writing binge then he needed all the caffeine he could get his hands on. The writer set aside two separate mugs as the coffee maker burned hot. The first mug of coffee cooled as the second one brewed, and in the meantime the writer pulled several cans of Pepsi from out of the fridge. When the second mug was finished brewing he quickly chugged the first one, failing to add any cream or sugar before he did so. He then tucked the cans of soda underneath his arms, and carried the second mug to the office.

Once there he sat down, slowly sipping on the coffee as his mind went blank, an inner eye beginning to awaken within his head's hidden vaults. He drained the second mug, popped open a can, and chugged the soda quickly. His eyes went wide, the caffeine coursing through him, his mind jumping erratically from one thought to the next. He reached over and grabbed a light grey notebook. There were only a few pages left in it now. Fairly soon he would have to purchase a new one.

He opened up a second can, drinking this one slowly as he stared at the blank page in front of him. He scrawled swiftly on the top of the page, little care given to his penmanship.

Divine Wrath, he wrote.

When the second can was finished, Cor Tenebrae's attention was completely focused on the page. He sat there hunched over the notebook, filling the page in small, barely legible chicken scratch. An Elite could have walked into the room and stood behind him, and the writer would never have noticed.

Another can of soda was drained, and soon the only sound in the room was the steady rat-tat-tat of his pen as Cor Tenebrae began to write once more.

Infinity and the Divine Wrath moved towards each other, a clash of titans, the two colossal ships closing the distance to where they were only a few dozen kilometers from each other.

"Eighty three percent," Durendel said calmly as Romanov clenched the side railing in front of him with both hands. His black eyes stared intently at the Covenant Super Carrier. "Ninety-two percent."

Durendel suddenly looked up, as if catching something out of the corner of his eyes. "Plasma Torpedoes incoming."

A young Lieutenant at navigation looked up at Romanov, expecting orders. Romanov stared him down, a deep cowl on his face at the mere implication of evasive maneuvers. "Not a muscle," he growled.

The Lieutenant gulped. Captain Romanov could be an alright guy most of the time, even if he was a little strict. Hell, most of the Thirteenth Battle Group seemed to love him, but during the heat of battle there was absolutely nothing more terrifying than him. Even a mere hint at questioning his orders was akin to inviting down the wrath of God Almighty himself.

The Lieutenant returned to his duty, issuing crisp short orders to his subordinates, navigating Infinity in a straight narrow line towards the Covenant Carrier. A bead of seat trickled down his face as orbs of bright green and purple plasma hurled towards them. In atmosphere the air around the giant balls of plasma became super charged, and began to crackle with sharp bursts of electricity. The trickle of sweat became a torrent.

The plasma torpedoes slammed into Infinity, the entire ship rocking violently even as the shields absorbed most of the damage. Behind him Marcus stumbled, placing a hand on Romanov's back in order to keep his balance.

"Damn it," he heard Romanov curse as the image on the viewing monitor cleared. Marcus immediately saw what he was cursing. Divine Wrath had used the torpedo barrage as cover, changing the ship's trajectory so that it was now coming towards Infinity at a slight angle. This presented a larger target but also prevented Romanov from achieving the bow to stern killing blow he was looking for.

"Shields at twenty percent," Durendel Warned. "MAC Gun at one-hundred percent. Ready to fire."

Romanov hesitated, glaring at the Covenant ship which was now so close that it blocked out the majority of Alesia's sky, Infinity cast in her long dark shadow.

"Captain, we need an order," Marcus urged.

Romanov muttered another curse. "Damn it to hell. Durendel, take aim at the ship's engines and fire the MAC."

"Understood," Durendel said. "New targeting solution acquired. Firing main cannon."

Infinity shuttered and the lights grew dim as several tons of depleted uranium accelerated to near the speed of light by Infinity's super conducting magnetic coils. There was an explosion of bright purple as the round struck Divine Wrath's engines, effectively rendering the ship dead in the water. A killing blow in normal circumstances, but in atmosphere and at such close quarters such a blow was not enough.

Divine Wrath fired again, Infinity's shield breaking against the alien onslaught. The plasma melted through meters of reinforced titanium armor, puncturing several decks. Those who were in the compartments that were breached had two choices. They could either breathe in, in which case the super-heated air would enter their lungs and kill them immediately, or wait for the plasma to burn them to death.

"I'm not one to question your tactical genius," Durendel said. "But we still seem to be heading towards the super carrier, and with our shields down and our hull currently melting…"

"Navigation, evasive maneuvers," Romanov barked.

"Oh thank God," Durendel said. I'll actually take over for this maneuver. Everyone strap in." He increased power to Infinity's engines, and for the first time brought the reactors to above ten percent power. In a battle like this warships on both sides acted more like lumbering giants, at least in comparison to what they were capable of out in open space. Still, the ship's speed exceeded two-hundred kilometers an hour as it passed over top the Divine Wrath. There was only three hundred meters between the two ships, and Durendel took the liberty of sending out a salvo of Archer Missiles and even utilized the much smaller point defense MACs along Infinity's underbelly. He scored several good hits, but that is all they were in the end. Good hits. Not fatal, not critical, just good. That was the general problem. By Durendel's own estimation Infinity had the Divine Wrath out classed in every way, but the ship was just so damn big. At least three times the size of Infinity, and Covenant ship design was superb. She could take one hell of a beating and just keep on chugging along.

But Infinity could take a beating too, her hull becoming pock marked with blackened scars as Divine Wrath returned fire. The exchange of rounds was brief, but brutal. Durendel silently counted up the cost as Infinity rolled past the enemy ship. He sighed, and brought up a new series of calculations.

Under normal circumstances I would advise doing a sling shot around the planet, but right now we need less speed and more firepower." He brought up a map. Rather than a pristine and perfect three dimensional rendering of Alesia, the map instead looked as if it were several centuries old, hand drawn, and complete with a 'Here Be Dragons' warning on the outer edges. "I recommend pulling an immediate round about, slowing Infinity's speed down to less than fifty kilometers per hour."

"We might as well be crawling at that point," Marcus noted.

"But we will be able to bring all of Infinity's firepower to bare," Durendel countered. "Take down the super carrier."

Romanov shook his head. "And meanwhile we'll be a sitting target for the rest of the Covenant ships in the fleet."

"Then we'll use our own ships to cover Infinity."

"Half my ships have already been destroyed, or are too heavily damaged to move."

"Then we'll lose the other half," Durendel said. His voice softened. "Victor, I know you are attached to your men, but we all knew this was a possibility going up against such a superior force. Our first priority must be to protect Infinity. Without her everything is lost."

Romanov turned away from the AI in frustration. He looked over his bridge crew. Most of them looked exhausted, but they were still functioning. Still ready to fight, to do whatever he asked of them. A few of them glanced up at their Captain, and in their eyes he saw trust. With a sinking feeling Romanov knew that if he was going to save the rest of the Battle Group he was going to have to break that rust.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, knew that it was Marcus, and spoke to him. "Let it be lost then." He looked at his lifelong friend. "What is the point of victory if I destroy my own army to obtain it? How am I any better than ONI if I use my own men as cannon fodder?"

Marcus gave him a sad smile. "The revolution. Everything we fought for." He let out a long beleaguered breath. "Well, we came close didn't we?"

"Close," Romanov agreed. "Durendel, just how accurate are Infinity's Forerunner engines?"

"In theory, or in practice?" the AI asked.

"How accurate?" Romanov repeated firmly.

"As accurate as you want them to be, but it comes with a high risk."

"I'll take it," Romanov said. He then proceeded to tell Durendel his plan. Marcus had to admit that even he was skeptical. It could only really work if they were feeling particularly suicidal, but then again Marcus supposed that was the point. When he was finished Romanov asked Durendel his opinion.

"C'est magnifique," the medieval looking AI responded, but then added grimly. "Mais ce niest pas la guerre. C'est de la folic."

Romanov frowned. "And here I thought Cortana models like crazy."

"Sire, there is crazy, and then there is insane."

"Well," Romanov said. "Insane is going to have to do the trick."