Chapter 21: Smoke
As soon as the Pelican hatch opened, the squad piled out. Nobody spoke; some were still catching their breath. Frost was the last one out, following Carris and Grant. From the dim red interior of the Pelican and into the stark white lights of Hangar One, it took a moment for Frost's eyes to adjust. Blinking and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, he finally was able to see clearly. All over the hangar, crews disembarked from Longswords and Shortswords. Taking off their helmets, they shook hands and smiled at one another. Warthogs rolled down Albatross ramps; medical teams raced towards them with roller stretchers. Wounded Marines and ODSTs were quickly disembarked from the Warthogs, put on the stretchers, and raced out of the hangar. Corpsman handed breathing tubes and IV bags to Navy nurses or just kept running alongside the stretchers. Walking wounded limped after them or were carried by two comrades. Many were in good spirits despite their plasma burns.
Instead of filing back to the barracks, the Marines began to linger in Hangar One. Everyone was looking at each other as if they were stupefied. Their eyes were wide, their mouths open, their BDU's covered with so much stone dust they were nearly gray. Weapons were held loosely, helmets were lopsided, and their armor plating was burned by plasma bolt grazes. Everyone looked utterly exhausted as well as shocked.
"Holy shit," Grant finally said.
"Holy shit, we nailed them," Bishop said.
"Fucking-A, lads," Maddox said, taking out a pack of cigarettes, slipping one out, and lighting.
Similar, bemused declarations began to spread between the other Marines. With each cry, the noise grew louder and louder until the entire company was cheering. Men started tossing their helmets into the air, hugging, fist bumping, and high-fiving one another, extolling their performance with as much profanity. At first, Frost found he could not join. He stood to the side, smiling wider than he had in months, drinking in the sight of the Marines celebrating. Even the officers ecstatic and joined in the rabble-rousing with the enlisted men. The ODSTs who filtered through the crowd looked terribly confused upon the Marines; very few joined in. But the high spirits were like an infection and soon he joined the fray. He felt hands on his back, fists against his shoulder pauldrons, and taps on the back of his helmet.
Turning to face his squad, who were almost lost in the congratulatory fray, he found them all smiling. Walking to them, he Grant and Moser by the shoulders, pulling them in. The rest closed in as well.
"Marines," he said, "I think we have our balls back. Welcome back to the suck."
"And you were worried we would be out of our depth," Grant said, poking Frost's chestplate.
"Let's not get too big for our boots. But we did good work down there. If we can keep that up, we can pull off the next op, the next, and the next."
He was about to go on, but cries rang out from the Navy personnel, 'Captain on deck!' Everyone turned towards the bow. Standing on the platform was Vivian, hands folded behind her back, her gray tunic crisp. She was wearing a broad smile and her already tanned face seemed to be glowing. Taking a step towards the railing, she gripped the top railing and leaned forward.
"That was the first of many targets. There are dozens more in the surrounding systems. We're going to hit them all. You're granted two hours to yourselves before entering cryo. Good work, you're dismissed."
Vivian stepped away from the railing, leaving no time to salute or cheer. But before they could continue exalting in their victory, they saw other personnel removing the dead from the Warthogs. Body after body was carefully placed upon stretchers, covered with a blue sheet, and slowly carted away towards the ship's morgue. All laughter, congratulations, and cheering ceased as the Marines looked upon their fallen comrades. Some men took off their helmets or soft covers and their arms fell to their sides. A few staggered over to the stretchers and followed alongside, tears in their eyes, shed for close friends. Along with the dead Marines there were fallen ODSTs, bulky in their mottled gray armor.
Out of the crowd of remaining Helljumpers came Captain De Vos. In one hand she carried her M7S and under her opposite arm she carried her helmet. Her face was still covered in a sheen of sweat and her hair was loose from its bun. Walking slowly alongside some of her troopers, she appeared somber, but there was an air of dignity any service member could see. Their victory was not lost on her, nor was the sacrifice of her troops. Such knowledge could not heal a broken heart, however. To the Gunnery Sergeant's surprise, Major Royce joined her, still wearing his balaclava and covered in so much stone dust was coming off him in thin wisps that looked like smoke. He shifted his BR55, slinging it over his shoulder and didn't cast a single glance towards the Marines. Everyone watched until the last of the dead disappeared into the I'm Alone's corridors.
Standing among both the stone-faced and the tearful, Frost was reminded of a medieval battle. There was no support, no technology, and hardly any strategy. It came down to two walls of heavily armed and armored men and their mettle. When the lines met, there was nothing but mud and blood, terrified, engraved screaming; slashing swords, thrusting spears, and falling axes. When it was over, one side was running away or so decimated there were few survivors. Those who stood victories did not celebrate their triumph for the glory of God or extolled their monarch for seeing his imperial ambition through. Their fists were raised skyward and their voices extolled the heavens for their mere survival. To have survived such an onslaught was almost unthinkable. Each man stood there, fist and sword raised, smiling, laughing, crying, but ultimately confused at how he still drew breath.
But when the cheering died and the men sat down to rest, they did so in a field of brutalized corpses. It didn't matter if they were a noble, a knight, a man at arms, a peasant impressed as a levy. Combat united them as comrades, brothers in arms, and now countless of their number lay dead. Never were they to march or sing together again and they would not be able to enjoy the fruits of their victory. When the glorious day came to return to their homeland, their wives and children would be left wanting. Upon this realization, what could those ancient warriors do but sit and weep? It was the price of victory, the terrible, twisted, strange nature of reaction after a battle. One was exhilarated at having survived and the primordial urge to win was satisfied, but the tragedy was mirrored in their empty faces and glimmering eyes.
Frost looked back and saw Marines covered their faces with their hands. Men began to lean on one another, cry into others' shoulders, and embrace one another as if they were blood brothers. Some could no longer stand and fell to their knees. Others simply sat down, crying into their sleeves or their hands. Others viciously wiped their eyes with the back of their hands and were helped up by friends. So the procession journeyed towards the barracks. As they walked, the Marines once again found themselves. Tears were dried and wiped away, breaths drawn, heads held up high. Their tall, straight, robust statures returned. It did not look as if they were grieving mere moments before. But a few still covered their faces or kept an arm around a fellow Marine. Such was the tumultuous nature of victory.
Frost lingered, watching them go. The squad hesitated as well, turning back to face them.
"Aren't you coming, Nate?" Langley asked.
"I'll catch up. I'm going to medical."
He didn't know if they thought less of him for deserting the unit at this time. Frost was well aware of how lucky he was to have someone he loved on the I'm Alone. Marines who had wives or sweethearts had to say their goodbyes over a video monitor before they left the Port. There was no telling when they would return to a UNSC installation which had that kind of technology. Their loved ones were lightyears away and the dread of that distance set in the moment that link was severed. For some Marines, it was absolutely crushing; the thought they would never see their families and homes could make him collapse. For others, it was a malignant sadness, something that clung onto them. Its claws did not dig too deeply but nevertheless, they were embedded.
But Frost had Jasmine. His love was close at hand and the comforts that came with it were easily accessible. He would understand if the others judged him for it. But he wasn't going to see her just yet.
Steele lay on his back, his hands folded on his upper chest, and stared up at the white ceiling. His blonde locks were scattered across the soft pillow and stubble was growing on his cheeks. Above and around him, medical machines which were practically Covenant technology to him. Red, yellow, and green numbers flashed on the black screens. Occasionally, something beeped. On one screen, a green horizontal line ticked upwards every so often. A clear bag with a host of black text on its back was hanging from a bag. From the nozzle, a tube ran into the IV on the soft underside of his elbow. He could see the inside of the tube was moist and the bag was nearly empty.
His eyes drifted from machine to machine, his only companions since he was first put into the medical bay. Turning his head, he looked down the row of medical cots surrounded by similar machines. All were empty. Looking the other way, he found the rest on his side of the pod were vacant as well. Lifting his head from the pillow, his eyes slowly ran down the entire opposite side; every single bed was unoccupied.
Grumbling, he let his head fall back on the pillow. It wasn't a particularly loud noise, but it was so quiet he knew it carried at least a little. Glancing towards the entrance on the aft end, he saw the clerk at his desk briefly look up from his terminal. The clique of nurses, clad in sky blue scrubs, also looked his way as well. Once they were certain everything was in order, they returned to their stations. Computer glasses reflected their shining orange and blue screens. Fingers danced across the keyboards, tapping so quickly and with such force he could hear it from the center of the bay.
Looking back up the ceiling, he sighed once more. This time it was louder and angrier. The keyboard tapping seemed to be growing incessant and louder. Steele ran a hand through his blonde hair several times. From the aft end, the typing grew even louder, as if somebody was pounding on a terminal keyboard right beside his ear. His hand froze, his fingers dug into his scalp, and clutched a clump of his hair. He pursed his lips, but began gritting and grinding his teeth so intensely he opened his mouth. Although he could not see himself, he was certain he looked like a feral dog baring its teeth. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to think of something, anything; being with the squad, working on his rifle, the last woman he slept with, the last dozen or so women he was with, what Carris thought of him for that kind of behavior, was the raid going well, were they back, they had to be they were in slipspace already, did they win? Was Carris alright? Was Frost, everyone? The typing's rapidity grew more intense; like he was surrounded by stuffy clerks and their drab terminals.
Steele's deep blue eyes opened and he sat up so fast his chest ached.
"If you don't stop that fucking typing right now I'm going to break your keyboards over your heads!" he hollered down the bay. All of the medical staff looked up at him, some more surprised than others. Their computer glasses caught the overhead lights so it appeared they were wearing shields of solid white across their eyes.
He held his angry gaze as long as he could, panting and wincing as the pain throbbed and reverberated in his chest. It hurt so badly sweat began to drip down his face. Eventually, he released a heavy breath and lay back down as gently as he could. The medical bay became quiet once more and he stared up at the ceiling, still drawing heavy breaths. It wasn't long before the typing resumed but it was not as nagging and loud as it seemed before. But then he heard the tell-tale sounds of feet coming down the aisle. Their gait was quick and orderly.
"Corporal Steele," said one of the nurses, who had light brown hair and a ponytail. Steele had not committed their names to memory and never really checked their name tags. "You're not supposed to make sharp movements."
"Leave me alone," he grunted. The nurse began checking the IV bag, holding her data pad underneath her arm.
"Trust me, I'd very much like to," she said in a flat tone, then flashed her green eyes at him. "But I'm under orders."
She smiled at him pleasantly. Steele just snorted.
"I want to smoke."
"You can't smoke in here," she said, then knelt down beside the bed. Opening one of the sealed, pressurized drawers built into the titanium frame, she withdrew a fresh IV bag. She then hung it on the hook on the opposite side of the IV stand. "It's bad for you, anyways."
Steele huffed and readjusted himself slightly, slowly, and carefully.
"Smoking isn't that bad."
"My nursing degree says it is," she responded as she finished mounting the IV bag. "Do you need anything? Food? Change of clothes? Bathroom?"
"Don't talk to me like a baby."
"I'm asking you very simple questions like an adult. If I wanted to talk to you like a baby, it'd be more along these lines." She bent over, put her hands on her knees, smiled very wide, and her eyes widened happily. "Does somebody need to go potty? Do you, do you? Oh, I bet you do sweetie!"
"Can you hand me a scalpel so I can end my own suffering?" Steele asked. The nurse stood back up straight and folded her arms across her chest.
"Easy there, Marine. Any language like that has to be noted in my report; you wouldn't want to go to a host of therapy sessions after your ribs recover, would you? That could be another two or three months being stuck on the ship and not going on missions."
Steele stared at the nurse for a long time, blinking. All she did was stand over him and stare back. Eventually, he cleared his throat.
"I'm...I'm fine, I don't need any help right now."
"Are you sure?" she asked as she checked her wristwatch. "It's getting a little close to your checkup. This time we need to check your temperature. You're going to have to roll over."
"Ain't one of these machines got something on it that can tell you my temperature?" Steele asked, looking around at the various screens.
"I prefer to do it the old fashioned way."
The nurse reached into another drawer, took out a rectal thermometer, lowered her hand slightly, and then brought the device up several inches. At first, the scout sniper did not say anything. Then, he grinned, propped his arms behind his head, and leaned back comfortably.
"Joke's on you, I'm into that," he lied, trying to sound confident. The nurse bounced her eyebrow, leaned closer, and smirked devilishly.
"You won't after I'm done with you." Steele's smile disappeared and he lowered his arms to his side. Suddenly, he felt very small and vulnerable. The nurse was looming over him so severely she blotted out the light and her shadow covered him entirely. Eventually, the nurse stood back up abruptly, smoothed out her scrubs, and checked her data pad. "I suppose it can wait though. Are you going to be a good boy, Corporal?"
"Yes," Steele replied meekly.
"Good," she chimed, turned on her heel, and went back to her station. Steele leaned forward slightly and watched her go. While he was relieved, he did relish the sight of her swaying hips.
Grinning a little to himself, he shook his head and began to lay back down. Just before he did, there was a commotion in the hall outside the windows. The nursing staff jumped to their feet and went through the door. Dozens of other medical staff members came rushing down the corridor, leading or running alongside stretchers. Corpsmen bearing obvious signs of battle were with them. On each stretcher was a wounded Marine or ODST; some were placid and immobile, others writhed and screamed. Orders began being issued loudly and in quick succession.
At first, he thought they were going to be moved into his medical bay. Much to his surprise, all the casualties streamed past the windows and disappeared deeper into the I'm Alone's infirmary. It was like watching a macabre parade on fast forward. Despite their speed, he could see the wounded troops' agonized faces, open mouths, their lips drawing back to reveal rows of white teeth. Lines were etched into their faces as they squeezed their eyes shut. Some swore, others cried for help or medicine, while others wailed for a faraway loved one. Not long after, less severely wounded Marines began to follow in their wake. These men were helped along by others while a few limped on their own. More medical staff rushed to them and helped them down the hall.
He had not been able to spot any of his friends. Steele was acquainted with most of the Marines of Alpha Company and the regiment as a whole. They were all known to him but he wouldn't go as far as to call them friends. At first, it was reassuring not to see his companions among them. But the relief passed quickly. Just because they weren't among the wounded didn't mean they were alive.
Drawing a shaky breath, he looked back towards the entrance the wounded came through. The doors remained shut. Laying back down, he ran both his hands through his hair. He could feel his heartbeat racing; the machine was beeping faster. Eventually, he held his hands on his forehead and listened to his own breathing growing faster and heavier. He felt helpless, hopeless, and frustrated. It was all he could do not to trip the IV out of his arm and storm out of the medical bay. He could do it, he thought, the medical staff wouldn't be able to stop a Marine Scout Sniper when he was pissed off.
A set of doors slid open. Steele lowered his hands. Walking down the bay came Frost, his BDU covered in gray stone dust. Taking off his helmet, the Gunnery Sergeant smiled a little as he approached.
"Did everyone-"
"Everyone's fine," Frost said, standing beside Steele's bed.
"Fucking hell," Steele sighed in relief, running his hand down his face. When he finished, he exhaled and looked back at Frost. He seemed more at ease than he did prior to the slipspace jump. His shoulders were relaxed, his stature stooped amiably, the grip on his MA5B as well as his helmet in his other hand was very relaxed. Before, his gray eyes gleamed with fire, but now they returned to their usual misty calm.
Slinging his MA5B over his shoulder, Frost pulled up a nearby stool and sat down.
"All the training paid off. We were a well-oiled machine. Casualties were minimal and the operation was a complete success. Word is we'll be hitting new targets soon."
"Peachy," Steele said, folding his arms across his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Frost's smile fade. The Gunner Sergeant sat up a little straighter, his brow furrowed and lips pursed.
"I thought you'd be happy to know it worked out well."
"Why do you think the worst Marine in the regiment would care about that?" Before Frost could speak, Steele looked over at his friend. "This military nonsense is for the birds. Left, right, left, right, salute this dolt, salute that ponce, learn a bunch of acronyms, swab the deck, clean your rifle, get lousy pay to risk your life. You're right, I never cared about being a Marine. Just wanted to get away from that shithole I called home. Guess it was kind of stupid in the end. But when you said that, it..."
Steele found his voice faltering and he had to look away for a few moments. Feeling even more stupid, he shook his head and cursed under his breath. Sighing heavily, he looked back. "...it really got to me. I can take it from Hayes, from Royce, from that bastard Swing, but not you. Anyone but you."
He tried to sit up but a sharp pain resonated on his left side. Immediately, he clutched his side. After a moment, he felt Frot lean over him, gently take him under his shoulders, and move him up just enough so that he was sitting but still in a comfortable position. After he was situated, he took a little time to catch his breath and let the pain fade. Frost sat back down, resting his hands on his thighs. Steele kept one hand over his sore ribs and the other rested limply on the bed.
After a few minutes spent in awkward silence, Steele let his head fall back against the frame. Staring up at the ceiling, he let out a defeated sigh. "Fucking pathetic here, man. Pumped up with meds, confined to bed, winging. I'm dying for a smoke."
Frost grinned and shrugged.
"Sorry. The last thing I need is Jasmine marching in here to see you taking a drag on a smoke I gave you."
"The Frost I knew wasn't scared of pretty girls," Steele said, then tilted his head to the side. "Well, actually, he kind of was." It was impossible not to smile. After a moment, Frost did too and he began to snicker. Seeing Frost's eyes wrinkle up when he laughed always made him seem years younger. In boot camp, he used to laugh so hard his eyes would squeeze shut, he would fall onto his side on the bunk, and hold his gut laughing. He only ever laughed that hard when Steele said something like that.
When Frost finished chuckling, he looked up at Steele. His smile was earnest and his gaze sincere. It was an expression Steele saw many times despite how rare it was for others. Between their squad, ever since boot camp, it was a brother's smile.
"I didn't know being a Marine meant something to you," Frost finally said. "I'm sorry."
"It doesn't. I mean, it sort of does. It ain't the same thing for me as it is for you. Maybe I just wanted to be something I thought I couldn't be. It's tough doing that next to guys like you. You took to it so well. I was still struggling to tie up my bootlaces; I never wore boots before I joined the Marines. But you were faster, you didn't need any help."
"You beat me on the range."
"Shooting is the one thing I really like. It's all I'm good at, really."
"You were better with women, that's for sure." Frost smiled and clasped his hands together. "And you really were the best shot. Still are. I think there really is something in you that wants to be a good Marine. You wouldn't have attended Scout Sniper School and passed if you didn't care at all."
Frost freed his hands momentarily and then pressed them back together. "I love being a Marine. I used to think that it'll be hard when we're out to do anything else. Now, I realize, I haven't actually done anything else, Lou. What I've done as a Marine, it's all I've done, and not all of it's been good."
Steele stared at his friend for a long time. His gray eyes became far more misty, like stagnant fog banks. Slowly, the Gunnery Sergeant's head lowered and his hands clasped together again. Both hands gripped one another so tightly Steele thought they would start to shake. Then, his left leg began to bounce nervously.
Only once before had Steele seen his friend sit that way. He remembered the smoke and the snow, the smell of open flesh and burned trees. Men who looked like Marines walked in every direction, up, down, and across the slopes of the mountain. Fallen, burning trees were everywhere. Corpses were chained, tied, nailed, and hung to the trees that still stood tall. Fallen branches coated blasted, blackened earth. Voices far away and close shouted incoherently; those that were closer sounded like voices carrying across the shore. The far-off voices sounded like mournful ghosts. Marines emerged from the smoke and fog, individually, in clots, in squads, or in platoons. With them were young men and women, men of them in handcuffs. All were dressed in tattered green or brown paramilitary style clothing.
Other Marines appeared, stopping their comrades. Male prisoners were separated, pushed away, lined up, and shot down with single sweeps of an MA5. An officer came up, drew his M6C, and fired a single shot into the head of each body. When he finished, enlisted men rushed forward, hunched over the bodies, and began tugging out trouser pockets, rifling through coats, and emptying pouches. Credit chits, wallets, valuables ranging from watches to jewelry, was stripped from the dead. Remaining prisoners sobbed or cursed as they were dragged away.
With his rifle in his hands, Steele trudged through the destruction. His gaze shifted back and forth, back and forth, witnessing the carnage. It was like warfare from a bygone age. Less than a few meters away, three Marines wrapped a noose around the neck of a gagged Insurrectionist prisoner. Once they tightened it, they took up the end of the rope and began pulling. Slowly but surely, the victim was raised into the air, squirming, kicking, their eyes bulging and turning red then purple, until they finally grew still. Laughing, one Marine ran up, clambered up the trunk, tied the rope around the branch, and descended. Across from them, an entire squad threw down an Insurrectionist who couldn't have been more than seventeen years of age. Instead of shooting him, they began to beat on him, kick him, pound him. All their blows were vicious. What was so striking about the scene was the teenager made no cries of pain. He reacted, his face tightening with every blow, struggling to protect his head.
He walked on, upwards, searching. Two Marines wrestled two men who refused to be parted. When the one on the right broke free and tried to release the man who was still resisting handcuffs, the other Marine merely drew his M6C and shot him through the head. Blood, pieces of skull, and bits of brain flew from the large exit wound. He crumpled over into a heap. The man let out a pained, animalistic, sorrowful wail and fell upon his companion, sobbing. His captor did not hesitate, drawing his own sidearm, and shot him in the neck. He fell atop the body, still as a statue.
Occasionally, there was a shout, a gout of flame, an explosion sending a great column of brown earth and branches upwards, and the rattle of gunfire. Finally, he found a stump beside the trail. A crowd of Marines were in front of it at first, but when they parted like a curtain on a theater stage, he found Frost sitting on it. The young Marine's head was bowed and his back bent. Both gloved hands, covered in blood, were clenched between his legs and his left one bounced continuously. At his foot was his combat knife, drenched in blood, embedded in the soil. When he looked up, his gray gaze was tragic. Tears rolled down his cheeks, cutting through the dust and dirt before disappearing into his youthful stubble. Despite his Battle Dress Uniform, he looked more like a child playing soldier. Sniffing loudly, he shook his head.
At his feet was the corpse of an Insurrectionist. He was just as old as Frost, perhaps even younger. His throat was open and fresh, dark red bloody leaked from the wound. The ragged coat he wore was open and his chest was pierced by dozens of stab wounds. Blood coated his torso.
"I don't know why I did it," Frost said.
The words still echoed in his mind. For a time, he watched Frost sit on the stool in the medical bay, his leg bouncing, his hands clenched, and his head bowed.
"I think something else has been on your mind, Nate," Steele finally said. Frost looked up, opened his mouth, and then shrugged. "What Carris said in the barracks, that got to you too."
Frost's leg grew still and his gaze hardened. Slowly, his hands parted and gripped his knees. Steele held up his hand. "Fuck the handbook, that's not what I mean. You can't sit there and tell me you haven't thought about it."
Briefly, Frost looked around to see if any of the medical staff was watching. None were within earshot, at least if they kept their tones muffled.
"It's been getting to me," Frost admitted. "I've tried to write it off. Almost losing command of the squad, becoming Marine Raiders, high-risk ops, or even you and Carris. But I think it's all a cover, a justification. What I did at the Port..." Frost shook his head, bit his lip, and sighed. "...it scared me. I didn't go down there to kill them, I didn't want to kill them, and when it was over, I regretted it."
"But you saw Skopje, didn't you?" Frost nodded and Steele looked forward. "Guess I did, too. But when we were finally down there, I knew where I was. Didn't you?"
"At first, and then it all went away. I felt angry, I felt unhinged, unbalanced, off, and I wasn't in control. Just...all this hate, all this guilt, it came back. I didn't want it to. I made my peace. I didn't want to kill anymore people. And then it happened." Frost shook his head again. "Something's wrong with me, man."
"Yeah, there is," Steele said after a few moments. Frost looked at him, shocked. The scout sniper shrugged. "There is. You said you moved on. You haven't. If your head's still filled with smoke, you have to clear it, otherwise we're going to get killed. One successful op doesn't mean you won't hold up on the second. You need help."
"Help?"
"Talk to Jasmine."
"No. No. She won't understand."
"She loves you."
"Not if I tell her the truth. She'll think I'm a monster." Frost looked around again and sat forward. "And think of the position she'll be in? She's counseling a criminal and she'll have to choose between the man she loves and the law. I don't want to do that to the woman I love. And Waters?" Again, he stopped, gathered himself, and looked at Steele seriously. "And I'm not going to prison. Even if I know it's wrong, I won't go, I can't go. There's going to be some other way to...to...atone, I don't know what else to say."
"Fuck atonement. I'm not going to jail either," Steele hissed. "But I'm not getting my head blown off because you think you're somewhere else. Get help."
"I can't tell her."
"What's worse? Telling her the truth or living a lie?"
"Like you care about either."
"This ain't swiping dessert from the mess hall back in boot, Nate. This is your mind. I'm not letting you go back to the Ripper."
Nearly a week after the first raid, Vivian was on the bridge of the I'm Alone at the end of another slipspace jump. She left cryo early and was sitting comfortably at her station. Sosa, Bassot, Koroma, Tsang, Delany, Solak, and Uwem were all at their stations working diligently. Reports and systems feedback began to run across her screen. Decatur began to process excess information as well, working silently beside her. There was little talking as everyone monitored their stations.
Tsang's scans turned out negative; the system they were in consisted of three planets and two moons. An asteroid belt rotated around the planet closest to the sun and a rusty debris field of broken ships from a battle from so many years ago drifted along. No Covenant ships were present. Turning to the tactical display on the starboard side of the bridge, she watched as the readouts for all the other ships in the task unit appeared. First came the frigates, then Best of the Best, then Batavia, and finally River Styx. The moment they finished checking in, Vivian stood up.
"Lieutenant Koroma, establish a video transmission between the I'm Alone and River Styx."
"Aye, ma'am!"
The request was sent and then accepted within a moment's notice. Less than a minute later, the tactical display on the starboard side turned black and then an image of Captain Rundstrum. Immediately, the imagining cleared up and entered real time. He was now sporting a thicker beard, complementing his Scandenavian physique. After an exchange of salutes, he grinned confidently.
"Captain Waters, it's been sometime. It's good to see you."
"Likewise, Captain."
"Word on the grapevine is you went native, Waters. Took off your tunic and traded it for a BDU. Folks are saying you jumped ship and became a Marine Raider. Any truth to that?"
Vivian, standing in front of the screen with her hands folded behind her back, blinked at the camera. Instinctively, she looked over each shoulder. All her bridge officers were looking back at her. When they caught her gaze, they quickly returned to their work. Frowning, she shook her head and looked back at the ONI officer's smug expression.
"Yes, I completed Master Gunnery Sergeant Swing's Marine Raider course. But as you can see," she said, motioning towards her gray uniform, "I'm still a Navy officer."
"Leave the ground pounding to the jarheads, I get it," Rundstrum said cheekily.
"How did you hear about it when you were out scouting?"
"I'm an ONI officer, it's my job to know what everybody's doing."
"Fair enough. I trust you've drummed up a more complete list of viable targets."
"I've got a copy for you," He said. Rundstrum returned to his station, tapped a code into his terminal, and a moment later Vivian's equipment pinged with a notification. Instead of going to check, she waited for the ONI Captain to return to the camera. "We have Covenant fleets of various sizes on patrol, planetside bases and production facilities, staging grounds, resupply stations, and a whole lot of them."
"What's the closest target?" Vivian asked.
"A carrier group is in a system called The Separation, not too many lightyears from this one. One CSO-class supercarrier, two CAS-class assault carriers, two CCS-class battlecruisers, one CPV-class destroyer, and three SDV-class corvettes. Some heavy hitters there," he said, stroking his chin.
"A stand up fight might not be in our best interest then," VIvian said. "Decatur, transfer the contents of River Styx's report to my data pad please."
"Right away, madam...done!"
Vivian had her data pad under her arm and opened it. She ran down the list of targets and then correlated them with the operational plan for Operation: EXALT.
"By this time, the main fleet should have completely or nearly completed its first assault, yes?"
"Their first jump ended before your's and they sent me an update. They have taken the first objective and are pressing onto the next."
"Then this carrier group presents a major threat," Vivian said, closing her data pad. "We have our next objective."
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Pages (Google Docs): 16
Original Font: PT Serif
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Author's Note: A few minutes later but there you go. Also, that nurse in the middle of the chapter? Is she based on a real person, you might be wondering? Yes, yes she is. Is she as severe as that? No. Is she a great nurse? Hell yes. Is she my friend? It's been a while, but hopefully we can reconnect. Hey, if you liked her, maybe she'll be a character, I enjoyed writing her. I appreciated the title of this chapter and the imagery conjured up by Frost, comparing post-battle atmosphere to medieval warfare and Steele offering insight into the post-battle of 26th Century warfare. Lot of fun.
I should note my work schedule for this week and next is going to be kind of...shitty. I'm not going to have the same amount of time on my hands due to my job. That doesn't mean there won't be an update to this story and other ones; I got most of my off-site work done in advance. But there's a chance I might not be able to get them, just wanted to get that out there. Alright, comment responses real quick!
Comment Responses
MightBeGone: Thank you! Ground combat is something I really strive to make intense and fast-paced, but also descriptive. The struggle is to balance it out so it doesn't get bogged down. I'm Alone benefits from some slight suspension of realism (granted it's fanfiction and Halo so realism isn't the name of the game but it's something I try to respect) so I don't have to adhere to tactics too heavily. That filters through on its own, but you may find future combat to slow down and be more set-piece occasionally. Anyways, glad you liked it!
Qrs-jg: Ah, you've spotted it! This is a dilemma I've faced before in my Halo fanfiction: how to include ground warfare when an orbital strategy could just solve the problem. If the UNSC ships bombarded the facility, there probably wouldn't have been a need for infantry involvement. But the overall plot and narrative would have suffered without that element, so I figured the division between the resupply station target and the threat of the heavy AA gun, similar to that encountered in mission four of Halo 3, kept off the intended bombardment. But looking back, it could have been implemented with more finesse. It's something I'm going to work on in the future. But hey, I'm glad you liked it, thanks for reading!