VII

Damon Vasher stood on his tiptoes, falling forward before breaking his fall with his arms. Hands in diamond formation, he rose up and down forty times, paused to catch his breath, and repeated. Sweat rolled down his almond-brown skin, pooling underneath as droplets dripped from the tip of his nose. He grimaced against the burning sensation that swarmed about his shoulders, biceps, and forearms. Switched to midsection: crunches, reverse crunches, frog and jackknife sit-ups, and flat bench leg pull ins on his bunk.

Break.

Damon shot up on his feet, snatching the gallon of water from the stop the footlocker at the edge of his bunk and sucked down four heavy gulps. He held the last helping his mouth, inflating his cheeks as water slid down the sides of his mouth before swallowing it down. His heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his bare chest, but took in slow breaths and eased it down into its natural rhythm. He though he should've continued, hit his regimen harder than before. Decided to call it for the day. He walked his throbbing body into the latrine, evacuated his bladder, and took a quick wipe off.

There wasn't a gym in any form in the camp; but that's what you get when you turn an old ONI research facility into a center for displaced civilians and UNSC personnel. A house for spooks and nerds, Damon believed. No environment fit for the longevity of soldiers and their needs. Even then, however, he couldn't ignore his regimen, his conditioning. It was drilled so deep that it felt like a sin if he missed an opportunity. Had to stay ready. Had to stay healthy. Had to stay sane.

Damon stepped out of the shower, toweling off as he glanced at the clock panel on the wall—264 hours. There was no use in having 24-hour clocks anymore. It made no sense on Titan. The moon rotated so slowly that one day on its surface was the equivalent to 15 days on Earth. Every clock began at 360 hours and counted down to keep track of the "days". There was no month-cycle, either. Wanted to figure out what time of the year it was? Good luck with that. He was sure some of the mathematical nerds around the camp could figure it out, but he could've cared less about something like that.

Time to work.

Outside he patrolled the fence line, keeping his pace just below a casual stroll to search for imperfections. The circumference of the fence stretched over a mile and a half. At his current pace, it would take him just shy of two hours to make it around. That was fine by him. He figured it was going to be an uneventful day; the more time he could kill the better. From what he could see, the fence was still intact. There were a few wires of metal that untwined from the formation, but it was nothing to raise a fuss over. The realissues were potential gaps, obvious cuts, and sabotage. All what you'd expect from human interference. He missed the days when other humans were the only thing to worry about. If the Grunts wanted to launch an attack, he doubted a simple chain-link fence would keep them out. Still, it was something to do.

Damon made it to the halfway marker he'd placed during the previous walk, a simple spoke of wire with a red piece of fabric on its end. He continued on, now fully behind the camp's buildings where no one usually ventured unless they wanted complete privacy. It was also the best place for possible intrusion. The camp's camera's weren't operational; they couldn't spare the power for them. If Damon wanted to keep an eye on the "problem" areas around the camp, then he had to physically be present. Good thing, too—there was always something interesting to find.

He began following a pair of boot prints that weren't his own. They led further into the camp, but he decided to trace them back to the point of origin. It was probably nothing, just one of the other patrolmen breaking off to head back inside. Damon stopped. The prints, as he followed them back to the fence line, began showing more and more traces of blood.

Huh.

Maybe one of the patrolmen cut themselves and rushed back inside. Not likely. Taking in consideration of the distance between the steps, in both length and width, the person was walking—or staggering—toward the camp. So, where'd the bloody prints come from? Damon wasn't a cop; he was just an army corporal. At any rate, he went on to investigate until he came where the prints originated. His first reaction to what he saw was mild irritation than outright concern. A section of the fence had been cut with a slight bulge inwards. The soil had heavily disturbed, as if someone was struggling to get through.

Just who in the...?

Damon's first objective was to find out who was patrol before him. It was complete negligence that this was allowed to happen. Thankfully the blood was human, but that didn't ease his nerves. Someone had gotten inside their walls, their home; which was hella strange because Damon was under the impression that they were the only refugee center for hundreds of miles. No person, injured or not, could've made the trek from camp to another. It just wasn't possible without the proper gear or a vehicle.

"Corporal Vasher."

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere. Damon looked around to see if anyone was nearby out of sheer habit. He knew, aside from the lookouts, that no one would've been out here. The voice came through his short-range comms. It was DEV. "Go for Vasher."

"Captain Anderton would like to have a word."

Damon shriveled his face. He didn't have time for one of Rey's useless errands today. There something definitely more pressing. "Can it wait? I'm doing checks right now and I've got something."

A pause. "The Captain says it's urgent. You are needed."

Damon rolled his eyes with a grunt. Fine, he'd go. He assumed he'd have to relay what he found to Rey eventually, but he would've liked more evidence before then. If this intrusion was a big deal, the time was of the essence to get to the bottom of it. No need to put other people in danger. They were supposed to be safe, no matter how infinitely inaccurate that idea was. He sighed and replied, "I'm on my way."

Damon didn't try to waste time thinking what Rey might've wanted. Nothing of interest had happened lately. There was the recent raid that Pearce and Diaz had carried out, but there was probably no new news concerning the Grunts. Maybe some new behavioral habits, more weapons collected, and other general intelligence. A suitable topic, although Damon was more concerned about the bloody prints he found outside.

He marched through the halls, still adjusting his UNSC-issued fatigues that he felt awkward wearing. It seemed irrelevant in their present circumstances. Everyone else he knew, UNSC or not, either stuck with the coveralls given to them or the clothing they had on their backs when they arrived. But something inside of him made him want to look the part. A sense of normality, he guessed.

Damon went inside the command area to find Rey swiping through documents on his data pad. DEV was floating just a few feet away from before turning to face Damon standing in the doorway.

"Corporal Vasher. Good for you to join us."

Rey looked up, saw Damon, and waved him over. "Damon. Thanks for coming."

Damon went inside and slid the door shut. If he didn't know any better, he would've thought Rey was living in here. A cot with a pair of thin mattresses stacked on top of each other was in the far corner, sheets tucked neatly in the corners with a dingy white pillow on the surface. The man had his own quarters. Damon didn't know why he insisted on sleeping on that thing. He was dressed down today, too. No formal fatigues, no coveralls; just a black hoodie with tan tactical pants and boots with loose strings.

"Help yourself to some water or coffee," Rey trailed off, eyes fixated on his data pad. He looked up occasionally at the TACMAP that outlined the compound where the Grunts were held up. "I don't have any creamers, just sugar."

"I'm fine," Damon declined.

Rey moved on, formalities aside. "I'm sure you've heard Pearce and Diaz made it back from the raid."

"Yeah, I know." Damon went over to the table set off the side from the TACMAP and sat down, looking through the map's visuals at Rey. "I don't know the details. They find anything of benefit?"

Damon asked out of pure necessity. He'd had his share in the raids, and each time proved less beneficial than the last. Most of the time, it was just recon for tactical and intelligence value. How were they living? Have their numbers increased? Was an attack imminent? Basic stuff you'd gather from any enemy, human or not. Taking their weapons and sabotaging their tech was just an incentive to let them know the humans weren't to be screwed with.

And it still bothered him that people like Jacen and Naomi went by themselves. They weren't soldiers; they were practically civvies with enough street knowledge and a measure of weapons training to get by. Beggars couldn't be choosers, though. They only had a handful of actual soldiers, a few with previous armed forces experience, and one former Marine whose contribution was more mental than physical. The rest were just people who avoided being glassed and were thankful to have their lives. Giving them a gun certainly didn't make them peers.

But it was the Rey moved over to where he was sitting that made Damon think there was more to this raid than the ones before. There was a certain optimism in his weathered eyes that Damon hadn't witnessed in… Oh, God, how long had it been? Years maybe. He was curious, if nothing else.

"We found one, Damon," Rey said.

Damon raised his brows, took a quick look around the room. He reached back into his previous conversations, trying to retrieve a clue of what Rey might've been referring to. Came up empty. He leaned back in his seat with an I don't know what you're talking about expression. "Found what?"

"Facticius Indoles." DEV zoomed over, leveling off between Rey and Damon. "The Huragok species of the Covenant, commonly referred to as Engineers. We are positive the Unggoy are in possession of one."

Damon's eyes transferred from DEV to Rey. It all came back to him, a chat some time ago about how the Grunts were surviving on their own. At best, it was an incredibly unrealistic hunch. But was it true? "And you know this how?"

"Pearce and Diaz discovered it. Their description checks out."

Damon couldn't say anything, not right off. He knew something was amiss when the Grunts didn't readily die off within a few years. Raid after raid proved that they were thriving, but the details on how eluded them. If indeed they had an Engineer, it would certainly prove how they'd lasted this long. "How is this relevant to us? They have an Engineer. Big ups for them, I guess."

"The relevance is that they're thriving; we're not. They have an ace in their corner, and I think we should go get it."

Damon couldn't recall the last time he was at a loss for words. There was the time his girlfriend severed the relationship via a one-word text and a middle-finger emoji; the time his alma mater lost the basketball championship to a no-name underdog; and the time it was announced that humans weren't alone in the universe. However, in the ever-changing whirlwind of his mind, what Rey allowed to come out of his mouth was something that paralyzed Damon's tongue.

"Come again?" Damon managed to reply.

"I had my suspicious," Rey started. "Those Grunts ended up here around the same time we were brought here, and through it all, they remained alive. I expected them to die off within a few weeks, but they didn't. Something was keeping them alive. The last raid confirmed what I was thinking. They have a methane-rich atmosphere inside the compound, created by one of our oxygenators. They have running electricity synced with their tech. Heating, cooling, breathable air, possible food reserves—everything we're running out of.This is our chance to secure our future."

Damon shook his head with his hands over his face. He sighed heavily has he brought his hands down. "What the hell, Rey? You're talking about capturing a member of the Covenant and bringing it here to help us! With respect, sir, there is so much wrong with this idea that logic appears to have been left out. Have you even considered the numerous ramifications of this on both sides, human and alien?"

Rey gave no indication that Damon's words reached him. He simply frowned with raised brows and went over to the TACMAP with hands deep in pockets. Damon followed him across the room with his bewildered eyes, waiting urgently for his superior to have a moment of clarity and realize just how absurd—and dangerous—that idea was. But that clarity never came to Damon's dismay.

"I want you to take a look at this." Rey waved DEV over. "DEV, bring up analysis A3 of 2553."

"If you say so." DEV exchanged the view of the Grunt compound on the tactical map to a list of various operational systems that kept the camp running.

Damon rolled his eyes; he knew where this was going.

"You see this, Damon?" Rey gestured to the screen. "This was our operational status three years ago. Decent, right? We had enough food, energy from the generators were running at 89%, conditioners kept this place at a toasty 75 to 78 degrees consistently, all of our oxygenators were pumping out plentiful air, and our comms system was fuzzy but working nonetheless." He took his eyes away from the map and glued them to Damon, unblinking. "DEV, now bring up analysis A5 of 2556."

The screen changed to something that made Damon's stomach dip. He stood up, walked slowly over to get a closer look. Every system was virtually on life support. It was shocking everything was still running at its current capacity. Food hovered around average when rationed, but by the stock numbers, it was well below what they could provide in the future. The eight generators they had were knocked down to three, functioning at a meager 25%. Air conditioning left the camp at a chilly 68/65 degrees with no increase. When it came to breathable air, the two oxygenators they had was struggling to provide for the entire camp. And there was obviously no working comms, otherwise they wouldn't be there.

"This can't be right," Damon said at last.

"Oh, it's right," Rey laughed. "I know these numbers, memorized 'em. It's our reality, and it's only going to get worse. DEV has done what he could with repairs and maintenance, but he has done all that he can. It's up to us now."

Damon shuffled his feet, wincing as if he was straining. If this was what Rey was studying every day, then it was no wonder why he appeared older than he really was. The stress of it all would've broken a lesser man, but the captain remained even and moderately placid through it all. Even at that, it still didn't mean everything he suggested was right.

"Do you mind?" Damon gestured his shoulder to the file cabinet stationed just beyond the cot.

"Sure," Rey nodded. "There isn't much left."

Damon walked over to the metal cabinet and opened the bottom drawer, pulling back the row of empty folders to retrieve a bottle of aged scotch. He shut the drawer, taking one of the foam cups next to the cold coffee maker and poured a modest amount. It had been years since he'd drank a drop of alcohol. His tolerance was probably lower than it was in his college years, but he was sure his body—and liver—would adjust. He took in a slow, miniscule sip, feeling the burn swirl across his tongue and kick in his throat. Scotch was never his first choice, but today, it only seemed appropriate for something strong.

"If there truly is an Engineer there, it's the Grunt's only means of survival. We take that away, if we're not killed in the process, they'll become desperate. And both of us know, desperation will make anyone or anything liable to think they have nothing to lose. This would spark a full-on, nothing-held-back retaliation. I mean, they'll bring their entire forces here, armed or not." Damon finished off what was left in the cup, looked at Rey. "Are we that desperate to evoke that?"

Rey wanted to scream out an emphatic yes, but he knew that would do nothing to appeal to Damon's logical nature. The man was, like himself, a soldier in the UNSC armed forces. No action was carried out until everything was laid out, planned carefully, and thoroughly reviewed before executing it. But sometimes, and it was rare, you could evoke action by simple facts and circumstances, totally bypassing logic. Was it logical for Moses to cross the Red Sea with three million Israelites and the Egyptians hot on their hills? Hell no. But the circumstances permitted drastic measures, and it worked out. So would this.

"Damon, we can't wait around for the UNSC to save us. Hell, we don't even know if there's still a government left to save us." Rey pointed to the TACMAP. "When each of those categories reach emergency-level status, this entire facility will begin its shutdown procedures. DEV and I have held that off as long as possible, but we can't prevent it from happening.

"Phase one of this shutdown will start by eliminating all nonessentials, whether it's occupied or not. Power will be reduced below what we require, heating and cooling will be eliminated, and water reserves will taper off. Our food will thaw and spoil, water will have to be rationed, lighting will be too dim to function during the night. That's just phase one. Phase two hits engineering. That cuts more power, oxygen levels will increase to burn off the rest left in the oxygenators before they're depleted, and any consoles still running will initiate the Cole Protocol. The final phase completely removes all electrical power, wired and wireless. In this event, DEV is to recheck all system to make sure they're all shut down. Then he, too, will power down into a dormant mode until the facility is revitalized in the future.

"These are the facts, Damon. This process takes weeks, ensuring all human activity is ceased. But we'll starved before we freeze to death; and if we happen to hold out beyond food and the temperature, we'll soon suffocate from no oxygen. All of this will happen if—"

Damon held up his hand; he'd heard enough. "Okay, okay… I get it. We're dead without a solution, but this is…" Damon held back. Rey was committed, and there was nothing that was going to change his mind. Old war dogs were like that. But he was right about one thing: there was no guarantee the UNSC was coming back for them. Like the Grunts, they had nothing else to lose but their lives. They sure didn't have anything else.

"DEV." Damon's voice was infused with regret. "How long until this shutdown happens?"

"Relative to Earth-time—two years, four months, eighteen hours."

Damon voiced a hushed expletive. There was no avoiding it now. Circumstances would have to force their hand. If it took a suicide mission to preserve their lives, then that's what it was going to take. Damon wished it wouldn't come to this, but what other options did they have?

"What's the plan?"