Chapter 39: Security

De Vos stopped in front of one of the hallway vending machines leading to her office. The one on the left served a variety of flavored waters while the other served snacks ranging from bags of chips to bags of miniature cookies. On the bottom were vanilla miniatures she liked so much; the chocolate ones were too dusty and the flavor of the creme became lost in it. These ones concentrated the flavor and the vanilla wafers weren't dusty at all. She hungrily eyed the blue bag on the very bottom row in the far right corner: F5. It was 0430 in the morning, light hadn't yet pierced the murky cloud barrier, and she hadn't even eaten breakfast. But she was too tired from her morning PT to care.

The machine buzzed as she slid her credit chit into the slot. As she waited, De Vos looked down the hall both ways. Unlike the I'm Alone, where the lights were dimmed during nighttime hours to help keep personnel adjusted to time schedules, the lights of the TOC were kept on perpetually. These were unforgiving, artificial lights which caused her eye strain. Lights on the I'm Alone and other UNSC Navy ships were carefully constructed to mirror natural light and were dynamic enough to be considered soft. With crew members bombarded by terminal screens crossed with streams of data for their entire duty shift, it was important the ships' lighting didn't compound the issue.

Squinting down the hall, she watched some officers enter an office with data pads under their arms. They were already chattering and were eager to get in. Clearly, they hadn't taken apart in the combat side of Operation: EXALT. It wasn't often that she became distasteful of non-combat personnel; everybody in the UNSC Armed Forces had a job to do and if even one part of the machine failed, it would have a huge impact on the rest of them. Even the people who worked in finance were important. After all, the soldiery needed to get their wages. But as she watched these younger, fresher, untested officers stroll through the halls, griping about the quality of the mess hall's coffee, or how nobody had come by to change out the water tank of the communal bubbler, and how extranet access was shaky, she became nearly angry. It seemed like the grievous casualties and the whole offensive's setbacks were completely lost on them. What they were concerned about seemed so inconsequential, unimportant, and short-term.

Thump. De Vos looked back at the vending machine. It whirred again and then made a thunk sound. With another whirr, the coil containing the bag of cookies she wanted so badly slowly edged towards the drop box. Still tired, she leaned against the glass of the machine and waited. Keeeeer-thunk. Suddenly, the coil stopped dead. De Vos blinked, winced, and groaned.

"Don't do this to me." It edged forward a little bit more and then the bag lazily slumped against the glass. She groaned loudly. "Come on." Smacking the side of the machine, she listened to a few of the mechanical sounds but nothing happened. Grabbing the edges, she shook it a little.

"Oh, ma'am? Ma'am? Captain."

"What?" De Vos snapped without looking at the speaker.

"You're not allowed to shake the machines, Captain."

De Vos looked sharply at the second lieutenant to her left. The young man's eyes went wide immediately. He looked very fresh, probably just out of OCS. His uniform was new and crisp, he was clean-shaven, and his hair was cut rigidly to regulations. Narrow-faced and big-eared, he looked more like a caricature of an OCS grad than an actual officer.

He cleared his throat and held up his hands. "Actually, never mind, Cap'. Break the thing if you want."

Quickly, he turned on his heel and hurried through one of the nearby office doors. She turned back to the vending machine and saw her reflection. Her eyes were deadly, her lips drawn back so much she was nearly baring her teeth. A large lock of her red hair, having grown out of over the course of the offensive, fell over her right eye. After a few moments of staring at herself, she lowered her gaze and chuckled quietly. Here she was staring silent daggers into the non-combat action personnel and a split second later she was demanding the old machine hurry up so she could have her cookies. Feeling silly, she shook her head and leaned against the vending machine. She guessed she was focused on the short-term, too. The big details could wait for the morning war council meeting.

Giving up, she withdrew her credit chit and went to her office. The door slid open and revealed her space. Nothing really changed besides the absence of a few personal items she brought along. The plants the designers added were dead, though. She guessed whoever was in charge of watering them had forgotten about her space. It didn't bother her that much; De Vos didn't exactly have a preference for plants. But seeing the potted African Violets along the window sill shriveled up, yellowed, and dried made her feel a little pang of sadness.

Why now, she wondered as she approached them. Running her finger along one of the decaying leaves, images of the countless rows of covered corpses came back to her. The odds they faced on this offensive were just so terrible it was miraculous anyone survived. So many ships were destroyed in orbit, thousands of lives were lost in space and on the ground. Entire fields were littered with the burning hulks of vehicles and bloody bodies. Each time, the Covenant paid a high price. They lost more ships, they lost more lives, they lost more supplies, and they won anyways. Whenever they engaged in a battle, it was to win and the cost didn't matter. Those suicidal, genocidal, insane aliens were going to win if it took every single one of them. Sometimes, that was what they paid; they would rather die trying than fail. De Vos couldn't ask her Helljumpers to pay that kind of price. Such a cost was too steep, too daunting, and contradictory to the cause. The UNSC was trying to save their species and they couldn't do that if they threw every single man and woman into the meat grinder for some rock in the middle of space.

But that's what it felt like. Thousands of warriors died on behalf of humanity for a few slivers of dirt and they lost those gains. What was it all for? Humanity? De Vos let go of the leaf and looked out the window. Below, the martial scenes typical of UNSC installations had not begun. Marines were at the chow halls after stirring for their 0330 PT, the Army was just mobilizing for their own schedule, and ODSTs were absent. Personnel from various branches belonging to support units were beginning their work days as well. Out on the plains, she could see the twinkling lights of the farm projects. The hands there were entering the fields, soldiering in their own way. If this was a part of humanity, nothing really changed because of this operation. Did it empower their position? Give them a morale boost? Were lessons learned?

Each question made her come back to the lives lost. When she heard about how the main task force was taking a lot of ground, she could reconcile the losses. Back where they started and having lost everything, it was more difficult. The most she could say was they were able to tie up Covenant assets and prevented them from going to other, beleaguered battlefronts. But that didn't quell the uneasy, guilty feeling pulsing in her chest.

There could have been another way, something preventative, smarter, more tactically sound, something that could have seen the sheer number of lives spared and those that were lost were spent on something worthwhile. Looking back at the plants, she believed these brave men and women didn't have to die the way they went out.

The door opened and De Vos whirled around. Major Holst came storming in. He looked like a mess; his hair was unkempt and lacked its usual gel. His cheeks were still gray with stubble, he had dark bags under his eyes, and he hadn't showered yet. Falling into the seat across from her desk, he tilted his head back and groaned.

"I don't want to go to this fucking thing," he complained.

The meeting scheduled for 0600 was going to be big. General Amsterdam, Vice Admiral Travers, Colonel Hayes, Major Royce, Captain Waters, Commander Solak, almost all of the ships' commanding and executive officers, Major Holst, and herself were going to be there. A number of Army and Marine Corps staff officers were also going to be present. It was going to be a lengthy and laborious conference reviewing their strategy, cataloguing their current assets and strength, and planning a new segment for the operation. In essence, it was a giant think tank.

Travers was pushing for this meeting very hard and so was Colonel Hayes. Many other officers were less enthusiastic but were hiding their opinions. Amsterdam wanted the troops to rest and was using all her clout to push it to a later date. Although she was only in charge of one battlegroup, everyone respected Captain Waters' word and achievements. Many looked to her to give the final word. From what De Vos could see, Waters was growing more reluctant about it but knew they had to meet eventually. If they spent too much time idling at the Port, they might lose what little initiative they possessed if they did renew the offensive. With a week having gone by, she made the call to get it out of the way.

"It's like bad weather, sir," she said finally, "we know we're going to get wet, so let's just get it over with so we can get back inside."

"What's the point of even going?" Holst continued. "Nobody ever listens to what we have to say. I pitch an idea and somebody shoots it down. We're constantly abiding by someone else's plans rather than acting as an independent force. It's bullshit."

"Orders are orders, sir."

That made Holst look up. He glared at her for a few moments.

"Yeah, and who ordered us to drop in that hell hole? Waters was ready to sacrifice us to save some insignificant garrison. Marines get the juicy assignments and her ships get all the glory."

"That's what you're concerned about, sir?" she asked, motioning towards him skeptically. "Major, people would have died if we didn't drop on them. We have to do everything we can to support other units, even if that means giving up our own lives so we can save many more. Because of what we did that day, there are thousands of troops who can continue the fight. That's because of us."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that."

"Sir, those troops thanked us personally for what we did."

"Did you hear anything about us in the news, though? I read the bulletins, the Marines and G.I. Joe's who came to save us got all the credit. I didn't see one article talking about us."

"It's not about who shows up in the papers!" De Vos yelled, slamming her hand on the desk. With that, military hierarchy, tradition, and protocol went out the window. "Every time you come into my office you do nothing by whine, bitch, moan, and complain! Nobody listens to me, my name's not in the paper, I only got the Silver Star instead of the Gold Star. There are things more important in this war than your ego and your ribbon rack, Major!"

Holst stared at her in angry shock. Slowly, he stood up and began walking towards the door. Just as he reached for the control panel, his hand froze. Then, he turned around.

"We used to be warriors but we're nothing but materials for somebody like Waters. If we don't get transferred somewhere else, she's going to drop us into unwinnable fights without a chance of survival or reward. People like her and Travers will use us up until there's nothing left. You'll see."

Steele ran his hand up and down Carris's back. The Spartan was sitting on the edge of her bed, wide-eyed and red-faced. Her lips were drawn into an uneasy, quivering line. Although her posture was straight, she trembled a little bit as she gripped the edge of the bed between her legs. He was doing his best to appear calm but it was very difficult not to smile.

"That was beyond embarrassing," she finally said.

"You've had plenty of health eval's before, why's this one so different?"

"Dr. Jasmine went over a whole bunch of pills and implants that I can use and then proceeded to educate me in safe sex." She sighed, deflated a little, and then pinched the bridge of her nose. "Maybe I'm just overreacting."

Steele leaned back on the bed, folded his hands onto his chest, and smiled up at the ceiling. There weren't cracks in the concrete like some of the older, more dingy barracks he stayed in over the years. He forgot how severe the lighting could be in this building but he appreciated the cleanliness and modern appearance of it. Once, the 89th deployed into a combat zone via wide, college campus green. The fighting folded into the dormitories and the Port barracks rooms reminded him of them. Imagining that he was on a campus instead of a military base made him feel younger.

"Nobody exactly gave you the talk. Nobody gave me one so it was all trial and error for me. It's a good thing we have somebody like Dr. J around."

"When we finished the exam she said it's okay to be nervous. It's natural."

"Tough for people like us," Steele said, reaching up and touching her back. Carris didn't bristle but she tensed up as he ran his knuckle up and down her spine. "We're not used to being nervous. It's either no fear, or shit-your-pants terror. Stuff in between is alien."

She turned halfway and smiled at him.

"Well, it'll be fun trying to figure things out. Right?"

"Oh, we'll definitely have a few laughs I'm sure," Steele said. "I'm...excited about it. Well, not just that, I mean everything. You know what I mean."

He was still getting used to it. It didn't feel like all that much had changed. As far as they acted, they were still good friends. More than anything, he didn't want that feeling to change. But things were far more tender. When they walked, they were closer together. At night, when he broke out his book, she was right beside him. If they fell asleep in the same bed, they were nose to nose, their breath merging, their arms around the other. It was moving a little faster than he expected, so it was nice to take a step back and just enjoy each other's company in the privacy of the barracks.

Carris leaned back until she was laying beside him. When her head rested on the mattress, her mop of black hair hid some of her face. Steele reached over and tugged a few locks out of the way with his finger. She smiled at him after that.

"This is the first time I haven't wanted to go on an operation," Carris finally said.

"Yeah, I hope they keep us here for a little while. Give us a little time."

"Well, I'd like that, too." Carris looked up at the ceiling. "But the war has gotten a little...heavy for me. I've been fighting for a long time, Louis. There have been plenty of bad engagements and failed missions. This time feels different. All that momentum from when we took this planet just feels gone. I feel very tired."

Steele looked at her for a few moments, taking note of how pale she was from being in her armor so much, how oceanic her blue eyes were, and the contrast between her skin tone and jet black hair. It was almost like looking at an old porcelain doll, although one that was far more muscular, taller, and military through and through.

"I got pretty scared during that battle. When everybody started getting hit, I thought I was going to lose it. I think part of that fear is still with me. I'm hoping it goes away soon."

"Yeah. The war's not over."

"Wow, you guys are boring."

Grant stuck his head through the open door to Steele's room. He smiled wide while the pair sat up quickly. "I was hoping for something more embarrassingly sappy but you went all doom and gloom."

"How long have you been there?" Steele asked when Carris, who was increasingly red in the face, remained silent.

"Since the recital of Dr. Jasmine's lecture."

Carris shot to her feet, her blue eyes on fire, and charged for the door. Grant began laughing as he retreated into the hall. Steele couldn't get on his feet fast enough. By the time he was in the hall, Grant was pitching himself through the entry to the stairwell and Carris was right behind him.

"The MPs aren't going to save you!"

Steele just smiled as he pulled out a cigarette pack, lit one, and began taking short drags on it. Turning away, he went to the community lounge where he found some other Marines and most of the squad there. Some of the men were hunkered on the couches and chairs near the television set mounted on the wall. A few were playing video games which Steele had never really bothered with. Ignoring the machine gun sound effects and weak-sounding grenade detonations from the game, he trundled to the kitchenette where his friends were drinking coffee. Knight stood by the window and gazed at the courtyard. Bishop was leaning against the counter and slurping obnoxiously from his mug. Maddox was just filling up his cup.

"Want a brew?" he asked.

"With the way you make it I'd rather guzzle gasoline," Steele said. "What's next on the agenda? Hayes doesn't have some bullshit FTX planned or something, right?"

"No, it's just morning PT and then it's a free day for us," Bishop said. "Shouldn't you know that, corp?"

"You might have me mistaken with somebody who takes his responsibilities seriously," Steele said. "You know what, pour me a cup. I ain't awake yet."

Maddox handed him the cup he just poured and Steele poured a few sugar packets into it. Mixing in a dash of creamer, he leaned beside Bishop and drank quietly. Sometimes, it was preferable just to be with friends in silence rather than forcing a conversation. Although, the sounds of the video game were a bit disruptive. But the smell of cigarette smoke, coffee, and freshly cooked scrambled eggs Borko was cooking in the frying pan, combined with the muffled conversation of other Marines, made for a pleasant ambience.

Borko was also cooking bacon. The tray was sizzling with juicy, fatty strips. After checking them, he carefully plucked one off and handed one to the sniper. Steele ate it in three bites, ignoring the heat.

"Excuse me, have any of you see Gunnery Sergeant Frost?"

Steele knew that voice. He looked at the door to see Jasmine standing there. She was only wearing her olive drab turtleneck sweater with the UNSC Navy logo on the left side of the chest. Her glasses were sliding down her nose and her black trousers were wrinkled.

"He disappeared on us after PT," Steele said. Jasmine noticed the familiar faces and walked towards them. Her expression was fatigued and concerned. "We thought he might have gone to see you."

"No. I've barely seen him at all this week," she said quietly. Jasmine pushed her glasses back up her nose and then smiled weakly. "Do you need anything? Any bumps or scrapes from PT?"

"We're squared away."

Jasmine just nodded and left the lounge. The others looked at him.

"Why'd you tell her that? He went to the range."

Steele finished his coffee, left it in the sink, and went to the door. Peeking around the corner, he watched the doctor travel slowly to the elevator. Her head was down, leaving her knot of black hair high up. Both hands remained jammed into her pockets. At that moment, Steele realized he wasn't looking at the doctor or a Navy officer. He was looking at a young woman, worried for the person she cared about the most. Sighing, he went back to his quarters to get his utility uniform.

###

Frost was the only one at the firing range closest to their compound. He was standing behind a sandbag wall with a variety of paper targets in front of it. On the table to his right was an MA5B, an M6C, and a BR55. Magazines for all three weapons were neatly organized into piles on the table. A few stray bullets stood upright near them. Standing in the firing pit right behind the sandbags, Frost raised an MA5C and squeezed off the entire thirty-two round magazines in a series of short-controlled bursts. Bullets peppered and tore through a paper target fifty meters away. When he finished firing, he put the weapon on safe, ejected the magazine, caught it, and went over to the table.

Approaching from behind, Steele slowed down and took off his head cover. He watched as Frost set the rifle down with the empty magazine, then picked up the M6C, loaded it, and went into the pit.

"It's a free day, you know," Steele said before his friend began firing. Frost didn't look back.

"That's a big mistake."

"Jasmine's coming around for you."

"I'm busy."

He raised the firearm, aimed, flicked the safety off, and began firing. Depleting half the magazine, he put it back on safe and then lowered it.

"Busy all week, then?" Steele asked, stepping into the pit and standing beside his friend. Ever since Frost finally came planetside, he had been quiet and distant. He didn't eat at the chow hall, subsisting on eatables he bartered from the local sellers who came in. Increasingly, he kept the door to his quarters locked and didn't engage in conversation when he showed himself. Even during PT, when he was forced into company, he barely spoke. When they finished, his showers were quick and he disappeared afterwards.

Frost didn't respond. He flipped the safety over again and emptied the remainder of the magazine. Engaging the safety and dumping the magazine, he turned to go to the table. Steele put his hand up. "Talk to me, man. What's up?"

"What's up?" Frost echoed, agitated. "How about we just got our asses kicked by the Covenant? Everything we did was for fucking zip, dude. We're losing this war and I'm out here pretending we're not. Fucking pointless, man."

He ran a hand through his brown hair, exhaled heavily, and then planted his hands on the sandbags. Steele observed him for a moment before turning around, folding his arms across his chest, and sitting on the sandbag wall.

"You should talk to your girlfriend."

"I can barely look her in the eyes anymore. How can I?" he stood up and shut his eyes. "I lied right to her face. I lied to everybody because I'm a coward who can't accept that he's lost his mind." He set the pistol down on the table and rubbed his forehead. "I can't get a grip, Lou. Like, what the hell's wrong with me? The only time I feel normal is when I'm drawing a bead on a weapon or a Covvie. Something's messed up."

"I'm not a shrink, I can't help you. What you need to do is go to Jasmine and tell her the truth. She can help you. She'll understand."

"No."

Steele couldn't help but feel aggravated. If he was so confused and concerned, why wouldn't he seek help? It was hard for anybody to ask for help but if he was so frightened by it, what was stopping him?

"Even if you're not going to talk about it you have to go see her, alright? You told the woman you love her so put your money where your mouth is and stop leaving her in limbo. She's worried about you."

Frost looked up, his gray eyes deathly intense.

"Just because you're off in your fairy tale romance doesn't mean you can give me advice about my relationship. I'm handling it."

"Yeah, ignoring her, that's really handling it, Nate."

"I'm busy. I'm trying to get things right on my own. I'm trying to get ready for what's coming next, okay? I don't know what that is but this is all I know how to do, alright? So, just give me a break, okay Marine?"

Steele reached over and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Drop the 'Marine,' shit. You can't use that as an excuse. I know that's not why you're out here. You're afraid to talk to her."

"Get off me," Frost said, shoving Steele's hand away. He loaded the pistol, ensured it was on safe, and stepped into the firing pit. "And get off my range."

"I'm not going unless you're going."

"Shut up."

"C'mon man, it's time to go."

"I said shut up, Corporal."

"Oh, it's Corporal now?"

Frost whirled around, his eyes wild with rage, and his teeth bared.

"Yes, Corporal Steele! Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I need you to shut the fuck up and stop hounding me over what I should or shouldn't do! Get back to your little fucking fantasy world and keep pretending you and Carris can have you little fucking white wedding in a lifetime that isn't falling apart, and leave me the fuck alone!"

Steele stared at him. Frost's chest heaved. The sniper took one step back and felt his boot fall on the spent brass cartridges. They jingled and clinked when he raised his foot again.

"Don't forget to pick up your brass, asshole," Steele said, turning from him and marching back to the barracks.

"We were too spread out, our strength wasn't concentrated, and our lines of communication were tenuous at best. When and if we renew this offensive, it's important to consolidate each planet we take."

Travers motioned with his one arm towards the display hanging from the ceiling. A star map showing various clusters and systems, derived from the projector hidden within the depths of the Port, was shown. Circled in red was the system the Port itself occupied, with others circled in yellow in a leftward course into Covenant space. Red X's denoted where they fought major engagements during the entire operation.

Vivian, sitting to Travers right, was looking at the screen instead of him. None of the independent battles she and her battlegroup fought in were noted on the map. It seemed trivial, almost childish, to be annoyed not to see where her personnel fought their battles. After all, it was just a bunch of signatures on a map. But those battles were victories and only because of the courageousness and aptitude of the men and women under her command. Neglecting their success and dedication was insulting.

He picked up the data pad sitting at the head of the table, reviewed some of the text on it, and then set it back down. "As of right now, we do have a fairly robust resource and manpower pool to draw from. Mostly Army units; Marines are tied up in other ops right now."

"Forgive the interruption Vice Admiral but if we're going back out there we need more Marines," General Amsterdam interjected. "Ground ops are what the Army does. You give us ground, we'll hold it. But my troops aren't trained in planetary seizures and assaults. That's what Marines are for. Shock troops. Without them, you're asking troops to commit to a kind of warfare they have little to no experience in."

She picked up her own data pad and examined the contents. "And these units you're listing, while fresh, are used to a more static kind of warfare. They've been sitting in Inner Colony space waiting for the Covenant to arrive. Offensive action has been more of a formality rather than a doctrine. If you want these troops, they'll need remedial training, resupply, organization, mock-ups...we're talking months of re-mobilization."

"What about joint training exercises for the current Army troops on station?" Hayes asked aloud, shrugging as he did. "My Marines are battle-hardened veterans; if we disperse them among Army units and drill them in planetary assaults, we can create our own pool of shock troops."

Amsterdam glared across the table at him. Dropping her data pad, she leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest.

"Colonel Hayes, I've reviewed the after action reports of the Marine Expeditionary Units involved in this offensive. They are indeed veterans and their combat records are stellar. But there simply aren't enough of them. Furthermore, the MEU is an outmoded tactical organization." She turned to Travers. "The MEU was a flexible force that was an excellent shock asset during the Insurrection but they're not meant for large scale ops like this."

"We've suffered casualties, yes, but the best way to keep these men alive is to keep them fighting. Complacency, General, is the death of a Marine. The moment you begin coddling him, making him think he's safe, the less effective he'll be. If he's less effective, the more likely he'll be killed when the fight finds him. Keep a Marine fighting and you'll see a Marine who is living."

"With all due respect Colonel," Vivian said, "between our battlegroup and the main task force, we have half of the Marines we set out with. And those who are still fit to fight are worn out. Everybody is worn out. Morale is low." She pinched the bridge of her nose and turned towards Travers. "Regardless of their statues, with reinforcements we would have enough manpower to commit but that's not the problem. What we need are ships. Heavy tonnage ships, support ships, mobile repair stations, infrastructure to provide Anchors and orbital MACs. Without a large, tactically flexible fleet, we won't be able to pierce an orbital defense to deploy infantry."

Travers stared at her for a few moments and then sat down. Running one of his heavy hands over his bearded face, he stared at the long conference table. Officers from various branches were clustered around the table. There wasn't enough sitting room and many staff officers crowded around it. The space was so tight Vivian could feel someone pressing against the back of her chair.

The Vice Admiral eventually looked up and gazed at Major Holst.

"You haven't said much. I'd appreciate an ODST's input into this matter."

Holst glared at the Vice Admiral. He looked very unprofessional as he slouched in his seat. When he didn't say anything, De Vos leaned forward.

"Vice Admiral, if I may, ground forces committed to a lot of heavy battles, as did the present fleet. We took many casualties and lost many ships. It's very easy to contradict those losses with the numbers we have available at present. But I think the deciding factor resides in Captain Waters' statement." She motioned to the blonde haired officer with her hand. "Personnel are exhausted. Morale has plummeted. Asking the men and women of this entire task force to go back out there in its present condition would have disastrous consequences, I fear."

De Vos looked at Vivian with a somewhat expecting expression. Catching on, she leaned forward.

"Right now, we should focus on rebuilding. Get the units that are half strength to full strength, reorganize, wait for reinforcements, engage in training exercises once we've reached acceptable troop levels, and boost morale with some show of force on the part of the fleet, once we have enough ships that is. The most offensive action I can recommend are controlled, punitive, skirmishes into Covenant space. Hit and run, let them know we're around, maybe destroy a station or a few ships, and fall back."

"I concur."

All eyes went to Major Royce, sitting next to Colonel Hayes. Even the senior Marine officer was surprised to hear his XO speak. Royce, a reserved, foreboding, and dark looking man, did not meet their gazes. "Ground elements are spent and orbital elements aren't up to snuff. Better to wait, rest, rebuild, and reorganize for the time being. Going back out into Covenant space would be tantamount to a suicide missions."

Don't trust Royce. Rundstrum's words echoed in her head. Vivian looked down the table and spotted the Prowler captain looking back at her. He seemed very grave at that moment. She turned back to Royce, who betrayed no emotion. Something about his agreement unsettled her. Her brow furrowed over her burning emerald eyes.

Nonetheless, other Navy, Army, and Marine officers began to chime in. Although there was some debate, most of them fell into Vivian, De Vos, and Royce's camp. As the chatter began to rise, the senior officers tried to quell it. Eventually, silence fell after a series of blunt orders from Amsterdam. At that point, Travers sighed and back in his chair.

"Alright. Alright. I see which way the wind is blowing. As of right now, all offensive actions are postponed until I say otherwise. We're reconvene tomorrow morning to begin planning our reconstruction. Return to your units and pass on the news. You're dismissed."

One by one, the major players at the table all got up and departed with their retinues of staff officers. Vivian remained seated until the officers behind her departed. As she stood up, Travers walked briskly over to her and took her by the forearm. "What's the matter with you? You're supposed to be my warhorse over here and you're telling these people we need to recuperate?"

Glaring, she freed her arm and stood as tall as she could.

"Sir, you can't possibly deny the tactical situation we're in. If we commit, we'll be slaughtered. Give these people time to rest, they need it. They earned it."

Travers scoffed and marched by her. Vivian watched him go, her brow furrowed and lips drawn into a menacing line. That's when she noticed Hayes was still at the table. He didn't seem to be making any kind of effort to leave. As the flow of departing officers slowed to a trickle, she leaned over to Commander Solak. "I'll meet you at the airfield. Hold the Pelican for me."

"Aye, ma'am."

Solak was one of the last men out, shoulder to shoulder with Major Royce who cast a glance over his shoulder at her. Ignoring it, Vivian walked over to Colonel Hayes. A large man and always robust of personality, he seemed withdrawn then in the black leather office chair. His eyes were fixated on the opposite wall and his big hands were clasped together so tightly they were shaking.

"Colonel, I think this is best for your Marines. We both know they're tired and with a little rest, their morale will rise."

"How do you know what's best for my boys?" he asked without looking at her. "It's always when you think you're safe. When you think you've won for good or you're far away from danger. You let your guard down and then your boys start dying."

He stood up, towering over her. "This is your battlegroup. Those ships are under your command. But these Marines? These boys? They belong to me. You don't know anything about them and don't pretend you do."

With that, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the conference room. Vivian watched him go, sighed, and followed. Just as she exited the room she found Major Royce leaning against the wall. He was dressed in his green utility uniform, his head cover clasped on his left hand, and his hair swept back. It was a little beyond regulation. Even though she was less than a foot away from him, he was a hard man to pin down. Something about his features, ghostly and shadowy, made him impossible to describe. Wherever he was, no matter what he wore, he seemed to blend in.

"Colonel Hayes is passionate about his Marines. They mean very much to him. Sometimes, that can affect his judgement."

"What about you?"

"Those men don't belong to him," he said, pushing himself off the wall. "They belong to the Marine Corps, just like your ships and crews belong to the Navy. We're officers; we come in for a time, command, and then leave for the next command. Of course, that's how it used to be. But once we win this war, some officers won't be able to understand how to let go." He turned to walk down the hall, leaning towards as he did. "Some are already under that spell, Captain Waters."

Vivian waited until he was gone before she made her way to the airfield.

Decatur's favorite place on the I'm Alone was the bridge. It was where he was most often sought, where he could provide the most tactical input during combat, and observe the action for himself. Well, that was something more personal; he was, in effect, everywhere in the I'm Alone. He was in all its systems, the exterior and interior cameras, and even the intercom. Any terminal, any screen, anything linked to the ship's network, he could instantly access. But beaming his hologram to the bridge made himself feel like a real officer rather than an artificial intelligence. There, he could draw his pistol and sword like a tiger baring its fangs. Even if it was ineffectual, it made him feel like he was contributing and he knew it pleased Captain Waters to see his aggressive spirit.

She was also one of the reasons why he enjoyed the bridge so much. Waters was an excellent Naval officer, better than many of the greats he knew in his day. Dedicated beyond a fault, completely courageous, fiercely intelligent, daring as a pirate, crafty like a fox, and ultimately passionate about the men and women under her command, she possessed all the traits necessary for a great leader. Her spirit was infectious; when her blood was up, her emerald eyes sparkled and she flashed a toothy smile when an enemy ship detonated. Outside of combat, she struck up banter with her officers, treated them with respect, maintained her dignity as a superior, but made it clear she didn't consider them drones in their work. She already made that abundantly clear from the conversations they shared.

To be restricted to a life of computation, analytics, arithmetic, and projections was a dull fate. Under Oswald, a name so absent from the crew's memory they probably forgot about the whole affair, he feared he would be cursed to that life. To find such a life distasteful seemed wrong; he was still an AI, not an actual soul. But he wanted to be more than that; he wanted to be a part of a crew again. Was that free will, the remnants of his creator's personality, or had he assumed the role of Stephen Decatur too deeply? None of it mattered, as his wish was granted the moment Waters took command.

He kept track of the Pelican as it landed in Hangar 01. Pilots Jasper and Pajari were at the helm; he knew they were still both sorrowful at the loss of their erstwhile companion Isha who had never been recovered. A new crew chief was assigned to their dropship, but the relationship remained standoffish. As they touched down, a notification blip resounded in his ears. Petty Officer Franklin McMaster was sending him a review ticket for a personal letter he was sending home. All outgoing personal mail needed to be reviewed by Decatur for breaches in security. Reading the letter in about a millisecond, he found it to be a touching note to McMaster's mother. He assured her they were safe in friendly territory, he was well-fed and in good health, and that she didn't need to worry. He even added in a poem lamenting his absence from home but stating his belief in the cause.

It was very touching to Decatur and he approved the letter immediately. During that time, Captain Waters and Commander Solak left the hangar and were now riding a quick access elevator to the bridge level. Moments later, they appeared through the doors.

"Captain on deck!" Decatur said loudly. Everyone stood up and assumed the position of attention.

"As you were," Vivian said as she dropped into her chair. She smiled at Decatur. "There wasn't any joyriding while I was gone, was there?"

"None at all, ma'am!" Decatur said. "Not this time, anyways. I doubt I could convince dear Lieutenant Sosa to partake, anyways."

"Mhm," came a grunt from the navigator.

"I trust you were able to convince the cadre that another offensive at this present time would be foolhardy at best?"

"We stalled them. We can start rebuilding, but Travers definitely wants us back in play soon. But we have some breathing room."

"Good! A good ship and a better crew can do a great many things, but if you lack the arms and spirit, then it is better to..." Decatur flickered as he registered some readings on the far side of the system. He turned around and looked out the bridge glass. "Captain Waters, multiple slipspace ruptures detected."

Vivian leaned forward and began working at her terminal.

"I've got them, too. No IFF tags."

"More slipspace ruptures detected, Captain. Twenty plus, no, thirty plus. Thirty-five. Forty slipspace ruptures detected."

"Decatur, enhance the bow cameras."

In an instant, Decatur's eyes were in the forward cameras. He zoomed in as far as they could go. In the distant blackness of space, he saw the blue, white, and purple flashes of Covenant ships exiting slipspace. Dozens of assault craft billowed from their hulls and began descending on the Port. Half of the present ships began speeding towards the planet while the other half turned their bows towards the I'm Alone.

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Author's Note: Sorry for another late update. Things have been crazy on my end and I'm pretty tired. Once again, I'm going to skip comment responses and I know a couple people are waiting on responses to PM; sorry, I'm not going to get to those yet. Haven't really been in a talk-y mood as of late. But we're in the home stretch: two more chapters as we can wrap this installment of I'm Alone up. I'm super looking forward to it, hope you're looking forward to the action-packed ending. Thanks for understanding guys.