The Great Journey
A/N: none
Reviews:
pzgr6: Wow, that was a fast review. It was in like, 30 minutes or something? Nice…
Ninjoc: Yeah, people do tend to ignore originality more (I know this from friends' experiences), and that sucks. Still, I don't particularly write for reviews; I'm writing to show my point of view on what will / what should / what can happen. It just so happens that so-called "Halo 3" or "Halo 2 extension" fics than more original ones. Writers who show originality are to be commended unlike others who write slightly modified versions of "Halo 3" fics.
Ultra Sonikku: Thanks for the tip…in the meantime I'll be sweating it out over some stupid practice tests because if I don't get a bad score, my parents will thrash me into the dust. Literally. No joke here, unfortunately…
nightdragon0: Valid points. I somewhat had those in mind while writing the chapter, in fact.
AdoptedThug: Yeah, it's always better when the humans slaughter Covenant, but I have to balance it out. Draw your own conclusions as to what this means.
Hibiki54: Most of the next few chapters will tend to have a little more plot than action, but I'll try to satisfy the more bloodthirsty types as well.
Khellendros: Heh, at least somebody is picking up on the fact that I hate Brutes, and that they're primitive, oversized, bipedal gorillas with little more (if not less) intelligence than any gorilla from Earth. Elite Brute
Duke Devlin: No, no, I agree with what you said, and my parents are so oppressive already that you sound completely reasonable to me.
drunkgrunt343: Earth. It's coming. Very soon. It's a very climatic and significant battle, but obviously it won't be the end…not even close.
Gavius: Well…thanks.
Yomiko the hellbunny slayer: Heh, that was my original name for the Captain, but I'm saving it for later.
Much thanks to everyone listed above! You are not neglected just because I didn't say "thanks" in the personal response!
Shout outs to everyone else who reviewed: Zanger, Warior, Madame Belldandy, corkscrew737, goldfish demon, and Ugabuga, thanks for the support, compliments, and reviews!
Chapter 9: You Can Run…
0104 hours, February 22, 2553 (UNSC Military Calendar) ♦ Unidentified Covenant-controlled Forerunner vessel, holding position behind Covenant staging point around Mars.
The Master Chief stood underneath the small vent that represented the only chance his team had of stopping the Covenant High Prophet of Truth. Mentally, he reminded himself that it was not his team. Rather, it was 'Canarmee's team, as the former members of the Covenant were much more likely to follow a member of their own. Especially when the other option was a human who had killed thousands of their fellow soldiers.
He didn't blame them; the Spartan trusted them no more than they trusted him. He sighed to himself. Back to the 'trust' issue again. Am I ever going to gain the trust of these bastards, and will I ever trust them? He let the unimportant thought go and surveyed the "Separatists," as he had silently dubbed them. It was a curious term, but he felt that the word accurately described the ones it classified – Elites, Grunts, and Hunters, breaking away from the cause they had been attached to for so long and finding a new one to fight for. At least for the moment.
'Canarmee – he's the one I can trust and rely on, almost as much as a human soldier, thought the Master Chief as the Elite in mention issued final orders to his soldiers. True, there had been friction between the two at first, but now each had a grudging admiration and respect for the other. The Chief definitely sensed this, and he was fairly certain that the Elite could as well. He had sworn to himself that he would never trust his former enemies, but his views were changing to reflect the current situation.
The Master Chief's eyes swept over the other former Covenant that surrounded him. The Grunts were obviously used to being oppressed and taking orders already. In fact, receiving those orders from a Spartan might even be easier treatment than what they could expect from their normal officers.
The other Elites, however, he could not rely on as much. They were fighting for the same cause, that was certain, but to what extent would that hold together the rag-tag mixing of Elite and Spartan? He could feel resentment and hostility directed towards him, seeping through the air like a poisonous cloud. The Elites were a very proud species; ruined and removed from power though they were, they still clung on to their old arrogance.
However, that faint aura of poison was deadly enough to kill them all. The Master Chief knew that the Elites could watch him fall without turning a hair, and, truth be told, he felt the same way about them, as well. For the coming battle, such mutual animosity was completely unacceptable. The human was more open-minded than his stubborn Elite counterparts, and thus could put aside his thoughts of mistrust and hatred of the Elites for the time being. Somehow, the Spartan had to convince the Elites to do the same. They would never listen to him, so to get his message across, he needed…
"'Canarmee!" The Elite in question was inwardly startled by the sudden call, but still as unemotional as ever on the outside as he strode over to the Chief. John beckoned for 'Canarmee to follow him into a less crowded section of the room. Sensing that the human had something important to say, 'Canarmee asked no questions. It was mere proof that the two had solid faith in each other; the Chief would've expected any other Elite to ignore him.
So the Spartan spoke of the issue on hand, and the Elite listened. Luckily for the Master Chief, 'Canarmee understood the situation well and was able to drill some sense into the Elites under his command. Just as UNSC Marines and ODSTs followed their orders, when a ranking officer of the Covenant issued a command, it was respected. The Chief felt relief wash over him. Going into battle alone would've been better than going into battle with "allies" that could just as easily kill him as the enemy. Now, that would no longer be an issue. He hoped.
'Canarmee was the first one to test the ropes. The Elite clambered up to the narrow vent, strapping his weapons to his back and climbing with two ropes to hold his weight. Like the Master Chief, 'Canarmee was much heavier when fully armored. Therefore, after the Elite was safely in the vent, the Chief began his ascent in the same fashion that 'Canarmee had, by using multiple ropes to support his weight.
By the time the last Elites and Grunts had hauled themselves up, John and 'Canarmee had already began crawling through the vent systems so that room was made available for the others to enter the vent as well. The two leaders' shields scraped against the narrow duct walls, flashing purple and yellow in the darkness. Quickly both of them deactivated their shield generators, and 'Canarmee also ordered his team to do the same. As the strike team moved further into the winding series of tunnels, all light from the makeshift brig was lost. The only light available to the soldiers was the glow of their weapons – purple-pink emanating off of Needlers, Plasma Rifles tinged with blue at their tips, and the green ammunition indicators on the Carbines' magazines. The Chief's MJOLNIR armor, however, was equipped with a flashlight, which he quickly put to good use.
The Elites and Grunts on rear-guard, if they could be called that, blindly followed the flickering shadows from up front, hoping that they were being led in the correct direction. 'Canarmee wound his way through the tunnels as best as he could, using his knowledge of the ship's interior as a guide. Several times, the team hit dead ends, and were forced to backtrack. After what seemed like an eternity of crawling through the pitch-black vent tunnels, 'Canarmee and the Chief finally spotted light streaming in from a vent grating. 'Canarmee gave orders for his team to be extremely silent, and run through a final equipment check. The Chief clicked off his flashlight and made sure all his weapons were in working order and fully loaded.
The Spartan slid up to the vent grating. He did this with exaggerated, slow movements, in order to mute the scraping of his armor against the stone walls as much as possible. Then, he drew out his fiber-optics probe once more, inserted it into his helmet, and snaked the thin tube out through the vent.
The cavernous room that they were about to enter was packed with Brutes and Jackals. This was both good and bad news; good because the increased amount of enemies in the area meant that they were getting closer, but obviously bad because of the opposition they would face. He noted that the Jackals carried shields of a deep crimson color, and that the Brutes carried brightly decorated battle flags on their flags. Clearly, these were elite troops, most likely protecting the Prophet. John sent a video feed over a Covenant channel to 'Canarmee, hoping that the Elite combat suit's electronics were compatible with the MJOLNIR Mark VI's.
Apparently, they were, because the Elite halted his equipment inspection and turned his attention to the feed on his HUD. 'Canarmee was silent for a moment as he took in the details of the room.
"So…any idea where we are?" the Chief asked slowly. 'Canarmee drew out the handle of his Energy Sword and palmed it before responding.
"Yes, I know precisely where this room is located. This is the Holy Guard's staging room." He paused and muttered an Elite curse under his breath. "This room used to be populated solely by honorable Elites and Grunts. Now, the Prophet entrusts these fools to protect him? We shall teach him that it was a grave mistake to abandon the Elites."
John waited patiently for an answer, not wanting to fray the Elite's already-stretched anger.
'Canarmee managed to calm himself down and turned back to face the Chief. "I apologize for that, but it was necessary to let my anger out so I may enter battle with a cool head." As the Elite spoke, he shifted the sword handle from hand to hand as if itching to activate the deadly weapon. "We are in luck. The Holy Guard's staging room is adjacent to a hallway that leads directly to the vessel's Control Room."
The Chief nodded in satisfaction. "Good. Now, how will we deal with those guards? There are easily a hundred of them. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't be that difficult to eliminate them, but now we can only enter the room one at a time, due to the narrow vent system. We'll be torn apart before we hit the ground."
The Elite issued some commands over a Covenant channel, and an oblong purple object was passed up to the Elite leader. He handed the device to the Master Chief, who turned it over in his hands. The object had a hard casing, and running through its middle was a shimmering blue streak, not unlike the plasma conduits used on Covenant warships.
"Plasma explosive," 'Canarmee explained, even though the Chief had already guessed at the object's purpose. He opened his communications systems to encompass the entire force gathered in the tunnels. "We have ten of these heavy explosives. They are very destructive; each one matches the power of five plasma grenades. I suggest that we drop and detonate them to cause confusion and devastation against the enemy's ranks. While they are still in disarray, we should drop down into the room. As our forces enter, it is advisable to cover our entry with plasma grenades. The remaining survivors should be easy prey for us. Since the majority of the enemy will be distracted by the explosives and grenades, we should be able to take the room with few casualties."
John reviewed the plan, and found it to be a fairly sound one. "Agreed," he said, smoothly retracting and sheathing his probe. The Elites and Grunts carrying the explosive plasma devices passed them up to 'Canarmee. He tapped a combination of buttons on each of the explosives, then crawled up to the vent.
Without hesitation, the Elite smashed the vent grating open with his fist, then began tossing the explosives into the room below. The Chief heard Jackals squawking and Brutes roaring below. Plasma fire lashed up at the Elite, but he took the blows on his shields and did not back down until he had thrown the last explosive out.
"Get back!" 'Canarmee yelled. The Grunts cowered and Elites covered their eyes to shield them from the blinding plasma blast. The Master Chief didn't twitch, however, for his visor would automatically darken. He watched plasma bolts continue to pound the open vent hole where 'Canarmee had been moments before. A grenade bounced into the shaft, but the Separatists and the Spartan had already retreated farther down the tunnel.
The explosives and the plasma grenade detonated simultaneously. The vent shaft was filled with a brilliant sapphire flash, and the Holy Guard stationed in the room screamed out in agony as their flesh burned away to the fury of the plasma. The light slowly dimmed, but the screaming in the room continued.
The Master Chief blurred forward, swiftly followed by 'Canarmee. The two shot of the vent, which had been conveniently widened by the enemy plasma grenade. By the time John's armored boot touched the ground, he already had two primed plasma grenades in his hands. The Spartan threw the grenades at the most intact clump of Covenant inside the room, and 'Canarmee did likewise. True to the Elite's earlier prediction, most of the Holy Guard were so disoriented that there was very little fire directed at the interlopers. The Chief crouched and rolled to one side, avoiding what little plasma had been shot at him.
The five plasma grenades that the Chief and 'Canarmee had thrown exploded in a chain, pulverizing the Covenant survivors. Before they had time to recover from this second wave of explosives, they were hosed by a mix of weaponry from the Spartan, 'Canarmee, and four Elites who had dropped out of the tunnel. About half of the fifty survivors dropped, but the rest, mostly Jackals, formed a shield wall, advancing on the Separatist attack team, peppering them with Plasma Pistol fire. John and his allies were completely exposed, but their shields absorbed the damage easily. Without any leaders to direct them, the Jackals were just firing at random targets. If they had concentrated on one single Spartan or Elite, they would have at least killed or wounded one of their enemies.
The Master Chief dropped to a knee, swiftly made the switch to the more accurate Carbine, and began pouring fire into the small niches on the sides of the Jackal shields. He had already felled eight thanks to his expert marksmanship when all the Jackals suddenly fell flat to the ground. Confused, the Chief looked up from reloading his Carbine and received a nasty shock.
Five Brutes stood behind the cowering Jackals, all holding Brute Shot grenade launchers angled straight at the Chief.
John dove to one side, but it was too late. The Brutes opened fire, and the resulting explosions blew the Spartan backwards. His shields were completely drained from two grenade blasts, and a third grenade glanced off the hard surface of the floor, narrowly missing his head and detonating on the wall behind him. Plasma from the Jackals who had leapt glanced off his armor but one shot penetrated his arm, searing the skin and causing him to grit his teeth in pain.
'Canarmee and the ten Spec Ops Elites screened the wounded Chief, tossing even more grenades to distract the Brutes while they dispatched the Jackals, who had not re-formed their shield wall. The Brutes roared as they watched their forces being ripped apart. They charged as a group, thundering towards the Elites and slashing the air with razor-edged Brute Shot blades. The Elites poured plasma, needles, and Carbine projectiles at the charging Brutes. However, the ape-like creatures' natural resiliency made them very difficult to kill. The Separatist assault force only managed to put down two of their enemies despite the amount of fire they were putting out.
Predictably, the remaining three Brutes' fragile tempers boiled over as they as their comrades fell. They smashed head-on into a single, unlucky Elite, simultaneously pummeling him with fists and Brute Shot bayonets. The Spec Op Elite's shields, though very tough, couldn't take such an assault and quickly flashed away. His armor cracked and was sliced apart as the Brutes continued their merciless attack. The Chief and the others continued firing at the Brutes, but they had to use precise shots as any misfired shot would end up killing the Elite, not the Brutes.
Dark blood sprayed over the wounded Elite, and three Brute corpses slumped on top of him. The Elite gasped in pain and made a feeble effort to push the bodies off, but soon his motions ceased – halted by either unconsciousness or death.
'Canarmee motioned for his squad of Elites and Grunts to cover him, then bent over tend for his fallen comrade. Like all human commandos, the Spec Ops Elites were trained with rudimentary medical skills. As the Elites, Grunts, and Spartan watched the door, 'Canarmee felt for the Elite's pulse.
"He's alive," 'Canarmee announced to the others assembled around him. He gave no further details and dragged the wounded Elite to a corner of the corpse-strewn room, taking out an aid kit as he did so. The aid kit was carried by every Spec Ops soldier; theoretically, most injuries could be treated or at least stabilized in the field. It was somewhat redundant considering the suicidal fanaticism of the Spec Ops legion, but 'Canarmee found his particular kit to be very useful.
As 'Canarmee treated the injured Elite to the best of his abilities, the others lost no time in preparing for the final assault on the Prophet of Truth. Additional sidearms in the form of Plasma Pistols were gathered for increased firepower, and two Elites scooped bloodstained Brute Shots off of the deck.
"Primitive, but nonetheless effective," remarked one Elite as he fed a fresh belt of grenades into his Brute Shot. "Just like your race's weaponry, Demon." The Spartan didn't know whether this was intended as a positive or negative statement, but it mattered not to the human. He merely nodded, the most common of his responses, and kept his eyes on the room's sole doorway.
A precious thirty seconds elapsed before 'Canarmee stood, his hands bloodied from the work he had done on the Elite's wounds. The injured Elite groaned and awoke, courtesy of the stimulant that 'Canarmee had injected into his system. A Brute Shot's bayonet had sliced through his right chestplate, and several patches of cracked armor gave testimony to the vicious strength behind a Brute's thick fist. The Chief knew of the characteristic strength that Elites displayed; though weaker than a Brute, they were still very powerful when compared to an average human Marine. Despite this, John was still surprised to see the Elite get to his feet. The alien warrior's face contorted as he suppressed a hiss of pain, but he remained standing and retrieved his Carbine off of the floor.
Just like a Spartan – he just gets up and keeps on fighting, mused the Chief as he crossed the guard room in a few quick strides. He took a quick glance out of the door, which had opened as it sensed his presence. "It's clear," he said, though confusion was evident in his voice. Why would the Covenant leave their most revered figure seemingly undefended?
'Canarmee was worried as well. "This is either an extraordinarily foolish move, or a dire omen of things to come. Either the Prophet of Truth is too arrogant to post guards, or there must be a greater purpose here. The Prophet may have arrayed his entire guard force around him in the Control Room, or something of that sort. This must be a trap." The other Elites gave murmured assent to their leader's statements.
The Chief nodded, but said, "Trap or no trap, we will still proceed as planned. Let the Covenant throw all they can at us – it'll just make Truth fall harder than ever!" At this, the Elites gave a louder roar of approval. Normally, the Spartan wouldn't speak to a team of Marines or Spartans in such a manner, but he knew that it appealed to the supercilious Elites. And, hopefully, by appealing to their arrogant sense of honor, the Spartan's position would be elevated in their eyes, thereby clearing a path for him to talk some sensible strategy into them.
John decided that there was no use in droning on about the reasons for needing a plan, so he launched straight into it. "It's not going to be easy handling all those Brutes at once. If possible, we should lure them out into the hallway, where they will be choked off at the bridge door and easy prey for us. I'm counting on Truth to be overconfident and for the Brutes to be their usual foolish selves; otherwise, if the Prophet calls his troops back into the room or the Brutes don't decide to charge out, then we will attempt to soften them up with all the plasma grenades we can muster." John paused, running through more possible ideas with his agile mind. "'Canarmee, is it possible for you to have the Hunters sent up here?"
"Yes. I will do so," the Elite replied. He turned away, conveying orders to the Separatists that had been left behind in the makeshift brig over a private COM channel.
"Good," the Chief continued. "We'll need their firepower. Once the Prophet's guard force has been weakened, we'll pick off as many as we can from a distance with Carbine fire and the Hunters' heavy weapons. When we can do no more from a distance, we'll have to go in and neutralize the Prophet in hand-to-hand combat." It was an exceedingly simple plan, but none of the Elites were putting up any objections, not to mention any better ideas.
"And we use these cannons!" squeaked a white-armored Grunt in broken English. He pointed a stubby finger to the cluster of Grunts, who had unearthed a cache of four portable plasma cannons. They were not as powerful as their larger cousin, the Shade, but would still be very useful against the mass of Covenant guards.
"We'll set the turrets up as soon as we get inside the room. They'll provide good suppression fire." The Chief was cut off by heavy, metallic footfalls in the hallway – very heavy footfalls, which could only mean Hunters. The armored behemoths shambled into the room, and 'Canarmee nodded to them.
John slid a grenade in and out of its pouch idly. "Everything seems to be in place." He turned to 'Canarmee. "Anything else you'd like to add?"
The Elite climbed on top of an abandoned cargo module. He surveyed his troops silently, nodding as if satisfied with the soldiers he saw.
"You are the finest band of warriors I have ever had the honor of fighting alongside. We have overcome nearly any challenge thrown at us, including the betrayal of the Prophets." 'Canarmee paused, eyes still sweeping through his Spec Ops Elites and Grunts. "Our time of revenge is at hand. Fight harder than you have ever before. This task will be more difficult than any you have ever encountered in the past. Nevertheless, we shall fight. And we shall win." He drew his sword and raised it to the air. "Let's kill us a Prophet."
The Elites raised their weapons and roared out an alien battle cry in unison with their leader. Never one to waste time with such acts, the Master Chief slipped away to survey the Prophet's defenses with his faithful fiber-optics probe. He was in for a colossal surprise, however. The room was completely empty, save a few Brutes piloting the vessel.
Automatically, the Spartan retracted his probe and slowly returned to the room where the Separatists were assembled. In a rare display of anger he lashed out at a nearby cargo crate, snapping the module in half with his enormous strength. Never before had he been unable to contain anger; however, this time, his greatest enemy had been within his grasp – only to slip away through his fingers.
The Chief's allies turned to face him, puzzled by the sudden outburst from the usually taciturn human. "What is the matter, Demon?" inquired 'Canarmee, who had obviously forgotten the Chief's remark about the epithet of "Demon."
"See for yourself," muttered John, tossing the Elite his fiber-optics probe. The Elite strode out but soon returned, even more enraged than the Chief. He slashed at the air with his Energy Sword, roaring Elite curses to the winds.
One of the Spec Ops Commandos, clearly confused as to what was going on, asked his leader what dreadful event had occurred. "That stinking, cowardly Prophet is longer here," spat 'Canarmee, his voice choked with rage. "No doubt he is running like the spineless worm he is, knowing that we are after him."
Outraged silence greeted this proclamation. None of the Separatists could think of an acceptable response, and cursed the Prophet of Truth along with their leader. After half a minute of swearing that the Prophet would die a painful death for his cowardly act, 'Canarmee held a quick conference with the Chief, then took up his position on a cargo module once again.
"Warriors, the High Prophet of Truth has indeed proved himself to be the worst slime in the galaxy, and for that, he deserves your curses. However, we must focus on tracking him down and finding him, so we may exact revenge and justice upon him. This would be an easier task if we captured the Control Room. We could monitor all activities aboard this vessel from that room, so it is crucial that we wrest the bridge from those filthy Brutes' grasp."
The Elites stormed out, followed by the Hunters and the waddling Grunts. That left the Master Chief alone in the room, who gave a grim smile of nothing in particular as he hurried to catch up with the sounds of battle already coming from the bridge. He arrived to find the five or so Brutes that had been piloting the ship slumped over, bodies mangled by the various weapons that had been used on them. The Elites familiarized themselves with the controls, which had been modified long ago for use by Covenant pilots. 'Canarmee quickly began to monitor various cameras and surveillance equipment that the Covenant had mounted throughout the ship.
"The Prophet is not traveling through any of the primary corridors," he reported, still watching the holographic displays intently. "He may be hiding in a maintenance tunnel, or using ventilation, as we did–" He stopped short as the display rotated to the main docking bay's camera. A score of Phantoms were departing from the bay, and ten more were being loaded with Brutes, Jackals, and Drones. All of their hulls were golden, in contrast the usual purple sheen associated with the alien dropships. Most likely a high-ranking dignitary, the Prophet of Truth, was on board one of them. The Chief stared, helpless; there were no weapons on the Forerunner vessel, and even Earth's massive orbital MACs couldn't hit them from this range.
'Canarmee muttered something under his breath. "He must be rendezvousing with another vessel so he may command without fear of enemies such as us. Coward." The Elite tapped a control, rotating the display to the external docking bay camera. They watched as the dropships entered the docking bay of a colossal Covenant cruiser. The space around the enemy warship rippled, and the cruiser disappeared.
The Chief cut his external speakers and opened up a COM channel with Lord Hood for a situation report. "Admiral Hood. This is Spartan-117, reporting, sir."
"Chief. I assume you're going to tell me your mission was a success."
One of the Spartan's gloved hands tightened into a fist, but he willed himself to relax and unclenched the fist. "Negative, sir," he replied, using his years of military experience to keep a calm and level tone. "Our target managed to escape before we arrived. The Prophet boarded a Covenant vessel and ran. Slipspace jump."
"'Our' target?"
John glanced at the Separatists that stood around him. "It seems that the Separatists – that is to say, Elites, Grunts, and Hunters – are no longer honorary members of the Covenant. For now, they have the same goal as I do."
"I see. Excuse me for a minute." The Admiral paused and switched COM channels, briefly re-organizing the defense of earth. There was a rustle of static, and Lord Hood's voice came back online. "Very well, Master Chief. Do what you have to do to see that your mission is successful. If you need anything from me, just ask."
"Thank you, sir."
A background conversation ensued, drawing Admiral Hood's attention away from his conversation with the Spartan. It appeared that a Slipspace rupture had been detected inside Earth's atmosphere, accompanied by a considerable amount of panic on the humans' part. The Covenant, until now, had been charging the human planet's defenses head-on, when they could've slipped past all of that in Slipspace. However, from what the Chief could hear, only that one ship had jumped into the atmosphere.
"Chief, we have a problem," said the Admiral grimly. "A Covenant warship has jumped past our orbital defenses and into Earth's atmosphere. We believe that it's the very ship that the Prophet is on board. At the moment, however, the ship doesn't show any signs of activity. No weapons charging, no engines online, nothing. From what we can tell, its reactor is mainly idle and it's just holding position. Those first two carriers aren't showing many signs of activity, either; just one small foray on to Zanzibar Island, which was repelled. I don't like this at all."
"Yes, sir," was all that the Chief could muster up.
There was a brief pause. Then the Admiral spoke up again. "Chief, I have a question for you. Do you and your 'team' have control of the vessel you are on board?"
"Affirmative," John replied, who could already guess at Lord Hood's next command.
"Excellent. I'm assuming your vessel is capable of pinpoint Slipspace jumps, so bring that ship behind the orbital defense grid – I'm sending you the coordinates over a secure data line. Once you've arrived, I'll dispatch a Pelican to extract you and the highest ranking Elite. That Separatist will be disarmed prior to docking with the Cairo, purely for safety reasons. I want you and that Elite to report directly to the bridge immediately and await further orders. The rest of the Separatists should remain on board your ship. Hood out."
"Yes, sir," the Chief said, and closed the channel. He relayed the Admiral's orders to 'Canarmee, half-fearing that the Elite would refuse to obey orders from a mere human. However, 'Canarmee was anxious to establish good relations with his former enemies, and he had no other immediate leader to report to, so he quickly accepted the human Admiral's terms.
The Elites quickly entered the coordinates given to them by the Master Chief and touched a few controls. The viewscreens blurred and with a whisper of light, the Forerunner ship vanished from its previous location, to appear behind a battlecluster of orbital MAC stations a millisecond later. It was one of the quickest and smoothest Slipspace jumps the Chief had ever witnessed; obviously the Forerunner systems were millennia ahead of their human counterparts.
A light flashed on one of the various holographic displays, and an Elite reported to 'Canarmee that a human dropship was inbound. Nodding to the Chief, 'Canarmee strode briskly out of the bridge. The Spartan followed and allowed the Elite to lead him to the docking bay. They met no resistance on their path to the bay. Apparently, all of the Covenant forces had evacuated along with the Prophet. The two warriors still kept their weapons at the ready should a leftover enemy choose to attack them.
The two reached a massive set of blast doors, which could only lead to the docking bay. Mechanisms whirred and the slabs of metal slowly drifted open to reveal a cavernous bay. The bay seemed even larger because it was largely abandoned, save a few cargo modules, and the only remaining ships in the bay were a quartet of Covenant Seraph fighters.
R&D might find those useful, thought the Chief as he and 'Canarmee descended to the bay floor in a grav lift. His boots touched the strange stone / metal hybrid deck with a soft clank. After confirming that the area was clear, 'Canarmee disarmed himself in compliance with the Admiral's request. Through the translucent energy shield that cut off the bay from the vacuum of space, John could see the familiar gray Titanium-A outlines of a Pelican dropship. A light flashed in his HUD, indicating a incoming transmission on a private channel. He opened it.
"Spartan-117 here."
"Chief, we'd be much obliged if you'd let us in. Unless you'd prefer to stay on board with your new alien buddies," said the dropship's pilot over the COM.
The Spartan in question turned to 'Canarmee. "They need to get in. How do we lower these containment shields?"
"We don't," answered the Elite. "This Forerunner energy wall has two modes. One of them is the solid, damage- and object-resistant state you see now. The other mode is–" He walked over to a holodisplay on the bay's wall and hit a control, and the energy shield shifted to a nearly transparent state. "–a semipermeable field which allows solid objects to slip through the field, but retains the atmosphere in the bay. The Lords' technological achievements truly are remarkable, aren't they, Demon?"
John had to agree. R&D wouldn't just be interested in all the wonders that the Forerunner ship held; instead, they would have a field day with all that techno-crap. Hopefully, some of those technologies could be utilized by the humans for the war effort.
"Pilot, you're clear to come through," the Chief reported.
"You sure, sir?" asked the pilot. Doubt was clear in his voice.
"Do it."
"Sir, yes sir!" With that, the obedient pilot shoved away his fears and hit the Pelican's thrusters. It rocketed through the field into the bay, completely unscathed. The pilot engaged the dropship's landing gear, and with a rush of exhaust, it settled to the bay deck.
'Canarmee and the Master Chief quickly got on board. The pilot turned around, felt a sense of relief as he saw that the Elite was unarmed, and gave the Chief a thumbs-up. John returned the gesture, glad to see a friendly human face. The pilot flipped down his flight helmet's visor, tapped a few buttons on the control console. The Pelican's landing gear retracted, its engines flared and the dropship shot of the ship bay.
Barely a minute passed by, but the Pelican had already reached Cairo station and gained security clearance from its Longsword fighter screen. The pilot maneuvered into the station's ship bay with practiced ease, set the Pelican down and released the seals on the dropship's rear hatch. The Chief hit a panel to drop the hatch, and jumped out, closely followed by 'Canarmee. A welcome party had already assembled to greet them. A fire team of five Marines were assembled, still wearing their armor and helmets after the recent Covenant attack on the station. The leader of the team, a Filipino Sergeant, stepped up and saluted the Chief, simultaneously whispering to the Chief, "What's the Elite's name, sir?"
John returned the gesture, snapping on a private channel and replying, "Cura 'Canarmee." The Sergeant nodded turned to the Elite and saluted also, respectfully. Obviously Admiral Hood had briefed these Marines extensively, as he wanted to have good relations with his potential new allies from the start. To everyone's surprise, 'Canarmee returned the human salute. Encouraged, the Sergeant began his speech – which, the Master Chief assumed, was also drilled into the soldier by Lord Hood, judging by its wording and formality.
"Welcome aboard the UNSC Cairo, Cura 'Canarmee. My commanding officer, Fleet Admiral Sir Terrance Hood, sends his regards and looks forward to meeting with you in private. My squad and I will escort you to him. As you can see, we are only lightly armed, as a sign of our good will. I see you are disarmed as well; forgive us for requiring that, but we do not distrust you. It is just a temporary precaution until a more formal alliance has been made."
Good will, indeed. Is that why all of the Marines still have M6Cs? mused the Chief, somewhat humorously, who had noticed the sidearms that were clipped to the soldiers' sides. At least the soldiers looked calm enough, for the Marines' hands were hanging loosely at their sides, not resting on their pistols.
'Canarmee nodded. "I understand. Please lead on."
The Sergeant turned on his heel and marched off, followed by his four Marines, John, and 'Canarmee. The Spartan nodded to several Marines that he remembered for heroic action during the counterboarding effort. The bodies had been cleaned up, but blood still stained the steel deckplates. Lines of bullet holes, plasma scoring, and occasional piles of wreckage were all remained as evidence of the battle that had claimed two hundred Marine lives on board the Cairo.
Some Marines with haunted looks in their eyes stared warily at 'Canarmee as he was led up to the command deck. Obviously, these Marines had lost friends to the Covenant and were extremely suspicious of the Elite. 'Canarmee ignored these accusing glares as best as he could, and distracted himself by hand-polishing his armor, which had become grimy after crawling around in unused tunnels and fighting on board the Forerunner vessel.
The unusual group of seven beings stepped into an elevator that still contained a few discarded Battle Rifle clips and a lone brass 9.5mm shell casing. A Marine stabbed the control for the command deck and the elevator lurched up at a breathtaking speed. Within seconds the elevator's doors parted to reveal the half-wrecked command station. Blackened areas indicated where fires had once raged and shell casings carpeted the deck. The Covenant boarders had launched a last-ditch assault on the command deck and had been slaughtered, though not without taking many Marines with them.
Two Marine sentries stood next to the elevator, armed only with SMGs as the threat level on board the Cairo had been lowered to minimal. They nodded to the Chief and 'Canarmee. "Admiral Hood has been waiting for you two, sir." John, 'Canarmee, and the Marine fire team promptly marched onto the raised command platform, where the Admiral stood. The five Marine escorts saluted the Admiral, who thanked them, and returned to their normal duties elsewhere on board the station.
That left John and 'Canarmee alone on the platform with Admiral Hood. The Spartan snapped to attention at the sight of a superior officer. 'Canarmee, dutifully, did likewise.
"At ease," the Admiral said.
Thus began a long conversation, where the Chief's only part was explaining the events that had unfolded on Delta Halo. After this lengthy explanation, 'Canarmee and the Admiral retreated to the Admirals quarters to discuss alliance matters in private while the Master Chief took a short shower and had a long meal after the harrowing experience on a second Halo. John was then given a dead Marine's former quarters and proceeded to grab some badly-needed sack time.
In the meantime, 'Canarmee and Admiral Hood had created a temporary alliance that would be in effect until the Covenant were driven away from Earth. Then, the highest-ranking Elite left alive would be sought out and a formal alliance would be made. The Elites, Hunters, and Grunts officially adopted the designation given to them by the Chief, "Separatists." 'Canarmee used the Cairo's COM system to broadcast news of the alliance to all of his surviving brethren, openly using Covenant channels as a sign of defiance and contempt.
John awoke some two hours later, restless from a nightmare that had haunted him throughout his slumber. A flash of tentacles and grotesquely twisted flesh, screams of humans and Covenant alike, and the unearthly shrieks and groans of the Flood had awoken the Spartan. The Master Chief had a sick feeling in his gut, one that told him that he hadn't seen the last of the Flood.
Shaking his head to clear it of the lingering nightmare, John activated and slipped into his MJOLNIR armor. Decades ago, it would've taken a team of expert techs to assemble the armor and fit it onto the Spartan; however, thanks to advances in technology and the countless times John had assembled the suit himself, the task had become a simple one.
As he set the suit's helmet firmly on his head and locked it firmly in place, the Chief noticed a message indicator light flashing in his HUD. He tapped a control with his chin, opening the brief text communiqué.
Chief,
Report to the secure black ops briefing room at 0400 hours. Details at the briefing.
- Hood
The Chief glanced at his HUD's general information display and noticed that he had awoken at precisely the right moment – 0356 hours. John nodded, hoping that the mission he was about to be briefed on would allow him to re-engage the Covenant, and hopefully Truth as well. He walked briskly out of his quarters and proceeded to black ops briefing room, where the most audacious and top-secret missions were concocted on board the Cairo.
John entered the darkened briefing room and found that the only two occupants besides himself were 'Canarmee and the Admiral. He saluted Hood and took his place by a holographic display pedestal.
"Welcome, Chief. I see your timing is impeccable, as usual," began Hood with humor regarding the Chief's strict adherence to his orders. "'Canarmee and I have agreed on a temporary cease-fire and alliance between the humans and the Separatists. I assume you're not interested in the finer details of that, so I reserve those details for HighCom."
The Spartan nodded and glanced at 'Canarmee. The alien warrior favored him with an even, respectful glance. Though the Chief thought it was a little quick to make such a decision, he was grateful to have the Separatists as allies rather than enemies.
Admiral Hood entered several commands into a personal datapad, and the holopedestal flickered to life. A mass of blue resolved into a model of Earth, with a tiny island on the east coast of Africa highlighted in red. The model rotated until the patch of red faced the three figures in the briefing room. The Chief could see three sleek warships in the atmosphere of holographic Earth; obviously representing the Covenant intruders. Hood tapped the highlighted portion, and a box appeared to its right. Data figures cascaded through the box, and a title appeared on top: Zanzibar Island.
The Admiral tapped the island again and the scrolling data winked away, leaving the holographic Earth clear once more. "Zanzibar Island," he said. "The one place where the Covenant decided to stick their noses into. Out of all the major population centers and military bases on Earth, they chose to invade none of them. Instead, they drop a battalion-strength force for a seaborne assault on Zanzibar. This seems to be an even more foolish move when they can just incinerate the position with their capital ship weaponry, but Zanzibar has virtually zero military value anyway. Therefore, the conclusion HighCom and I have reached is that Zanzibar must have some other importance to the Covenant, enough so that they will take hundreds – maybe thousands – of casualties to capture it unharmed."
"Agreed, sir," replied the Chief. He had reached the same conclusion himself based on personal experience where the Covenant behaved similarly to secure a location that they wanted. On Sigma Octanus IV, the Covenant had spared an entire human city – but not its occupants – so they could retrieve an object sacred to them, a crystal that had led both the Covenant and the humans to the first Halo.
"Currently, there are two companies of Marines from the 3rd Earth Defense Brigade stationed on Zanzibar Island, and are most likely engaging the enemy as we speak. However, If not reinforced soon, those Marines will most likely be overwhelmed. I would send down a wing of Pelicans to help them out, but they're too slow. The Covenant ships would probably destroy them long before they can land." The Admiral eyed John and 'Canarmee. "So, you two will provide those reinforcements via HEV drop pods. And, hopefully, you'll keep the Covenant from discovering or taking whatever is so important to them at Zanzibar."
"Understood," said John. 'Canarmee nodded as well, eager to have another crack at his former allies.
"Good. I knew I could count on you two. Still, although you two are undoubtedly the most skilled soldiers on board this station, you will need assistance. Fortunately, Cairo is home to another elite team, who will complement your abilities nicely. Master Chief, You may not have fought alongside them before, or even known of their existence, but I don't think I can spare the time to explain all these subtleties." He tapped a COM device and spoke into it. "You may proceed to the secure briefing room now."
"ODST Team Eight is a select squad of ten extremely skilled individuals, part of the 1st UNSC / ODST Special Forces Operational Detachment. Team Eight operates under the Navy Special Weapons chain of command rather than the normal Marine structure, much like yourself, Chief. They have been selected to receive intense and specialized training from the day they entered the military, and are much like the Spartans except that they are not inducted at childhood. However, they have received biological augmentations such as muscular growth hormones, skeletal toughness-enhancing drugs, and neural function enhancers, in addition to their extreme training. For the lack of a better scientific explanation they are slightly toned-down versions of the Spartan-IIs, for they have extraordinary strength, reflexes, and intelligence many times that of ordinary humans, not to mention veteran military expertise and experience.
"Team Eight and their sister teams, more colloquially known among the few who know of their existence as ODST Delta Force, are named after the ancient United States' elite 21st century combat team, and the section of the UNSC they belong to – the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers," Hood continued. "They are equipped with the most advanced UNSC equipment and armor, aside from the MJOLNIR Mark VI system. Like the MJOLNIR, their specially designed suits are remarkably resilient, equipped with powerful shielding, and exponentially increase their strength and reflexes. You will find the Deltas most useful in this operation, and as I mentioned before, they will be nearly as good as Spartans watching your back."
At that moment, the Admiral was interrupted, because the door to the secure briefing room had just slid open. Ten fully armored figures marched into the darkened chamber, helmets at their sides. Team Eight was comprised of nine males and one female, and all had the looks of hardened, veteran warriors. John could clearly see their resemblance to the Spartans, as the Admiral had noted. Their space-black armor suits gleamed in the light of the holographic projector, and John noticed that the Deltas' armor had the luminous, glowing slits that were indicative of shielding, just as the Admiral had said. Their shoulders were still marked with the golden comet of the Helljumpers, but the usual lettering below the insignia that usually identified a soldier within his unit had been replaced with "Delta T-8." Overlaid over these insignias was a number corresponding to each Delta's operational number in the squad.
One of the Deltas stepped up, clearly the leader because of the "L" designation on his shoulder patch. "ODST Team Eight, reporting, sir!" he said, snapping to a crisp salute as he did so.
The Admiral returned the salute and greeted his new guests. "Eight Delta Leader Peter Wallace. It's a pleasure to finally meet you again. I assume you and your squad heard the entire briefing over the COM, as my orders specified?"
"Yes, sir!"
"I guess I'm free to proceed, then." He turned to John. "Master Chief, I'm asking you to lead this op. You probably have the most experience in high-risk ops such as these." Admiral Hood paused, thinking. He didn't want to offend Eight's Delta Leader, and more importantly, he didn't want to insult 'Canarmee, so he decided to put in a small statement for their benefit. "Delta Leader and 'Canarmee, I know that you are both elite warriors as well, possibly on par or nearly on par with the Spartan himself, but my decision is that the Chief is the best man for this job. You will take all your orders from him. Understood?"
"Understood," said Delta Leader. Everyone's eyes flicked to the Elite, who contemplated the Admiral's statement for moment.
"Understood," he growled.
"Excellent. Thank you, 'Canarmee." Lord Hood turned back to his portable COM and began to issue orders to his bridge staff. "Lieutenant Parsons, I want you to contact the tug Lusitania and have us moved to the predetermined coordinates in the NAV database. Call in two heavy destroyers for cover while we are en route, and have the carriers Essex and Thor fill the hole while we are temporarily out of position."
"The Cairo is currently en route to a position where you will be hot-dropped straight on to Zanzibar Island," said Hood, returning his attention to the team assembled in the briefing room. "Chief, I suggest that you and your team gear up for the mission, and report to drop pods A1 through A12 by 0430 hours. Good luck, and may God be with you all." With that, the Admiral gave a final salute to the lucky dozen and hurried out of the briefing room, returning to the bridge where he was needed.
The Spartan surveyed his new squad, nodding as if pleased by what he saw. "Delta Leader, you know your team much better than I do, so you may equip them as you see fit. However, I will need to know what each Delta specializes in, so I can use their abilities to our advantage in combat."
"Yes, sir," said Delta Leader in a slightly awed voiced. Evidently, even the Delta was amazed at being in the same room as the legendary Spartan, never mind participating in an op with him. "Deltas! You all know what weapons you want to have your hands on. Choose what you excel in. Delta One, pack a ruck with C12 as a little present to the Covenant. Delta Four, make sure you bring the necessary electronics equipment along. Delta Nine, you're free to customize your S2 as you see fit, but make it fast. You heard Admiral Hood; the clock is ticking.
"As you may have guessed, Chief, Eight Delta One – or just Delta One, since we are not operating in tandem with other Delta teams – is our resident demolitions officer, and Delta Four is our electronics expert. Deltas Two and Three are excellent scouts and stealth operators. Deltas Five through Eight are all general-purpose infantry, deadly with Battle Rifles and typical weaponry. Delta Nine–" he turned to the only female operator in the squad– "is our one and only sniper. She can nail a buzzing fly at 400 meters and will decapitate the enemy with or without a spotter. I can snipe pretty well myself, but my primary advantage is my speed – I can sprint faster than any of these ladies in Team Eight. That's the lot of us, sir."
"Thank you, Delta Leader." John then turned to the Elite, who was all the more alien when standing in a room filled with humans. "'Canarmee, if you prefer Covenant weaponry, you may wish to return to the Forerunner vessel and have my permission to do so."
'Canarmee shook his head. "No, I shall defeat the Covenant with the very weapons they deemed to be so 'primitive.' Human armaments or Covenant armaments, I will slaughter them all the same."
Silently, the Chief agreed with 'Canarmee's mentality of "I'll use anything as long it kills." There was more alike between the Elites and Spartans than he had first realized. "In that case, let's move out. Team Eight, 'Canarmee and I aren't quite familiar with the Cairo's deck plan, so we would be grateful if you led the way for us."
The twelve warriors filed out of the briefing room, and ODST Team Eight led the way to every warrior's favorite place – the armory. Once again, John was eager to get his armored gloves onto clean UNSC weapons again, and quickly grabbed himself a Battle Rifle and Shotgun for equal effectiveness at long range and close-quarters-battle, or CQB. He grabbed eight fragmentation grenades and filled his suit's ammunition pockets with ten Battle Rifle clips and six packets of twelve Shotgun shells each. The Chief also decided to fill a rucksack with C12 explosives and Lotus antitank mines in case they became needed.
'Canarmee equipped himself with a Sniper Rifle and a pair of SMGs. Although the human weapons seemed quite small compared to Covenant weapons, their trigger guards had been designed for use by both bare-handed users and soldiers with armored gauntlets, so the Elite could slip his hands through them without any trouble. However, the M6C was downright puny in his hands, so he chose an M6E as his sidearm. The M6E fired 12.7mm rounds, the same caliber as the M6C, but the M6E's rounds were denser, equipped with additional chemical propellant in the casing, and featured a brutal armor-piercing / high-explosive combination tip for maximum damage. The more powerful pistol was also considerably larger than the standard M6C due to its extended eighteen-round clip and felt like a proper sidearm to 'Canarmee. The eleven humans decided to choose the M6E as well; its increased power would be needed against the tough Brutes. 'Canarmee strapped on a belt of ammunition pockets to hold his weapons' magazines and pulled a bandolier of grenades over his head.
Finally, the Delta, John, and 'Canarmee took turns stepping through the shield recharging station, as all of them had deactivated their shielding systems. The human and Elite shield systems were very similar, and 'Canarmee's shields were charged by the human system without incident. The fully armed team marched out of the armory seconds later, a fearsome sight even to their allies. They wasted no time in hurrying to the row of HEV drop pods reserved for them and strapping in. John gave final orders over his squad's private channel, which he had created specially for them.
"Once we hit dirt, our first priority is getting a situation assessment. We don't want to start shooting blindly without any idea what's going on. I'll forward on any intel Admiral Hood sends me to you, but don't be counting on much; he's got enough on his hands without having to help us as well. Our next priority is to rally the Marine survivors and push the Covenant off the island. I'll give more specifics once we engage in combat. My last is request that is that you, 'Canarmee, stay behind us until the Marines verify that you're not an enemy. Got it?"
"Yes, sir!" roared the Delta over the COM.
"Agreed," was 'Canarmee emotionless response.
There was no time for any more talk. At that moment, the Master Chief heard a series of loud, explosive clicks above as the drop pod detached itself from the Cairo. The Chief's stomach, along with his team's, lurched sickeningly as the HEVs entered the outer layers of Earth's atmosphere, began to stabilize for the descent to Zanzibar, and cut twelve fiery streaks through the clear blue sky.
Heh. I cheat you off with the "none" for the Author's Note, but what is this, eh?
That was a rather unenthusiastic response to Chapter 8, but I sort of deserve it because of the time I took to write it. It seems like I have been forgotten. Or, otherwise, people are reading my story, only they don't review it. Hopefully, this is true, because it would suck if nobody read this crap, never mind the reviews. I'm considering adding in the "Dr. Halsey / Kelly" thing sometime in the future. Possibly, if people want an explanation for it and if I ever get enough time on my hands (see below). And if I haven't mentioned this already, enjoy the action while you can, a lot of beefy plot will be revealed afterward.
Part of the reason these chapters have been taking longer, besides my earlier excuses…er, reasons, is because I've been drafting them up first, then extensively revising, editing, changing, and making them better for a long time before I actually submit it. In my opinion, it's best to turn out high-quality chapters at a moderate / slow pace than churn out shit chapters at a very brisk pace. If I had more time, I would be submitting new chapters at a moderate pace, but seeing as I don't, they're coming out s l o w. Sometimes I tend to over-detail, in my opinion, so let me know if I am. And also, FFN tends to butcher my work occasionally, so don't be too surprised if that happens.
For those of you who still read this, I'm hoping you've already gotten used to waiting.
Until next time.