Greenhorn V2

by acceptmyusernamealready

The old sailor's adage puts it this way: treat your ship well, and she'll take care of you. Of course, everyone knows they're just referring to basic reactor maintenance, equipment checks, and keeping the fuel injectors clear. Everyone knows that thinking the ship is actually alive is crazy. Right? Well, a certain Charon-class frigate and friends have something to say about that.

10. Chapter 9

"Contact north, on radar, on visual, estimate four zero foot mobiles, two IFVs."

"Roger, contact on scope. Grid square reference?"

"Roger, wait one." Huddled in the rubble of a shell-cratered restaurant with an IR-absorbing camouflage tarp draped over them, the two-man sniper-spotter team was nearly invisible from every conceivable angle. "Got it. Ready?"

"Send traffic."

"Grid square reference Kilo-Papa-Bravo-Eight-Zero-Two."

"Confirm, grid square Kilo-Papa-Bravo-Eight-Zero-Two. Hostile air in the AO?"

"Net reads hostile air assets fifty klicks north by northeast."

"Roger, request two eight Hotel-Echo plus two Whiskey-Papa on target."

"Roger. Overwatch, Stalker Ten-Two, estimate four zero foot mobiles plus two IFVs, grid square Kilo-Papa-Bravo-Eight-Zero-Two, moving south-south-west ten klicks per hour. Request two eight rounds Hotel-Echo plus two rounds Whiskey-Papa, over."

With a thought, the order went up over the battlenet. Three drones, sleek and stealthy forms orbiting high above the battlefield, each received the transmission and independently relayed it, along with a timestamp and geotag, up to the local artillery coordination node. There, a pair of dumb AIs independently examined the request, verified its authenticity, assigned it a priority, and added it to the fire support queue within microseconds. Fifty kilometers away, a battery of fifteen self-propelled guns received the coordinates and target description. The entire process, from order to first shot, took maybe forty seconds, and thirty shots later, the vehicles were packed up and hauling ass to avoid counter-battery fire, leaving their 200 millimeter shells to speak for themselves.

"Overwatch, Stalker Ten-Two, count three zero rounds on target, confirm two hostile IFVs plus multiple foot mobiles down. Good effect, cease fire, repeat, cease fire, out. Ever seen anything so beautiful?"

"Negative. Some of 'em are still moving."

"Roger. Ugly motherfuckers."

"Wind?"

"Three klicks per hour, south to north."

"Roger. Wind three klicks per hour, south to north. I have a shot."

"Roger, no other hostiles in the AO. Take the shot."

The SRS99-S7 AM sniper rifle barked, one 14.5 millimeter armor-piercing fin-stabilized discarding-sabot round leaving the barrel in a blast of smoke and flame. Downrange an Abyssal barked orders at its subordinates, trying get its surviving troops into cover amid billowing clouds of white phosphorus. It never got the chance, as the anti-materiel round, designed to kill Brute Chieftains in a single shot, turned its head into a spray of gore and hit another Abyssal standing behind it, instantly dropping both to the ground.

"Confirm two foot mobiles down." The battlenet registered the kill a moment later, tactical AIs automatically factoring it into their battle plans. "Couple more, then let's get outta here."

"Roger." The sniper rifle fired twice more, splattering two more alien heads against the ground where their blood began hissing as if the soil itself was rejecting them. "Confirm two foot mobiles down. Pack it up, ping battlenet for CAS."

Photoreactive plates rippled as the two UNSC Army Rangers faded back into the rubble, SPI armor and camouflage capes rendering them as ghosts as they silently traversed the shattered urban landscape. The only things marking their former presence were a trio of 14.5 millimeter bullet casings, steaming slightly in the cold morning air. The remaining Abyssal soldiers would never discover them as a squadron of Sentinel drones swept low, vectored in by the battlenet, and saturated the white phosphorus target markers with anti-infantry rockets. By the time they flew away the Rangers were long gone, camouflaged in another overwatch position overlooking the bombed out remnants of the Sydney waterfront.

---

Barrages of city-flattening missiles, volleys of starcore-hot plasma lances, salvoes of asteroid-cracking MAC rounds, and the innumerable needle-thin lines of continent-razing energy projectors, each one the pinnacle of weapons technology hard-won through decades of war, quadrillions of credits of research, and billions of lives, hardly made an impression on the enormous Abyssal dreadnought hanging like a tiny second moon a million kilometers from Earth. Nuclear spears splashed against its shields and follow-on pulse lasers pounded through the tiny gaps momentarily left by the intense EM flux. They left acres of surface scorched and blackened, but opportunities to inflict damage were few and far between and worse, any damage faded, before the fleet's incredulous eyes and sensors, like frost in the sun. Holes closed up, scorch marks faded, massive tracts of deformed metal twisted back into their original configuration — on some level, the fleet's AIs found the entire process rather fascinating, and would have devoted some small portion of runtime to analyzing the blatantly impossible thermodynamics of this heretofore unseen process, but on most levels they shared the sentiment running throughout FLEETCOM: rapidly increasing concern as the dreadnought repaired itself as fast as the UNSC could damage it.

So fast, in fact, that the carrier battlegroup and hundreds of orbital defense stations firing at it seemed positively beneath the alien vessel's notice as it turned its attentions and that of thirteen battleships towards the lone contact on its other side, dancing and weaving and lobbing missiles over her shoulder as if her life depended on it — which it, of course, did. Her theatrics drew off battleships' potent point defenses and allowed wings of aerospace craft to press in close, bearing potent but shorter ranged weaponry, but even as unstable slip space portals tore at ludicrously powerful shields the UNSC aerospace forces paid their share of blood and iron. Millions of metal shards drifted in a debris field marking the graveyard of thousands of drones and over a hundred fighters, a testament to how much had been sacrificed to allow a pair of remotely piloted Pelican drop ships to sneak through a small hole in the shields. One slipspace torpedo later, and a gaping hole, edges glowing with radiation, opened just long enough for nine small figures to scramble their way across the smooth, dark surface plating like insects on a tree and slip inside. If the Abyssal noticed the boarders amidst the storms of radiation and clouds of debris surrounding it, it gave no indication.

"Contact, all stop."

That boarding team now advanced deeper into the bowels of the alien ship. Eight Spartan-IVs and one shipgirl, every other superhuman lugging along a hundred-fifteen megaton boosted-yield HAVOK nuclear demolition warhead. Their goal, to breach the engineering and command spaces of the Abyssal warship, plant the nukes, and evacuate if possible. If evacuation proved impossible, their lives would pay to ensure the bombs went off.

"Copy, motion tracker, fifteen meters front."

Now, perhaps eight hundred meters deep by Dawn's estimation — it was hard to tell when everything looked the same and the alien hull blocked out all signals — the shipgirl was more confused than anything. Where were all the troops surely onboard this ship? Why hadn't a massive wall of guns and shields met them yet? With a MA5C clutched in her hands, her eyes darted around, jumping at shadows while she prayed that they weren't all walking into the mother of all traps.

"Copy, hold positions. Bravo Two, Three, cover that intersection. Four, with me. Everyone else, cover our six."

"Roger."

An Abyssal soldier rounded the corner into a volley of deadly accurate fire. No wasted bullets; seven rounds fired, seven rounds hit as the first six popped its shields and the last took it between the eyes. It fell, soundless in the airless environment, and Kenniston — Bravo Three — ducked back to reload his rifle as Mordeaux — Bravo Two — moved up to cover him.

"More movement, hostiles coming around the bend. At least ten."

"Copy. Four, move up."

"Roger, SAW moving up." Spartan Jin, AKA Bravo Four, took a crouching position on the other side of the corridor, M739 Mark IV Squad Automatic Weapon braced against the knee of her VANGUARD-class MJOLNIR. "SAW in position."

"Roger." Mordeaux held up one hand, other hand holding an assault rifle. A moment passed before five grenades bounced through the intersection. Mordeaux barely had time to utter a warning before they exploded, spraying shrapnel everywhere and releasing a thick cloud of smoke. The Spartans barely reacted as most of the metal fragments embedded themselves in the walls and the rest rattled off of their shields. Gunfire followed shortly, causing the two Spartans to lean back into cover as their shields continued to flare. "Go IR vision." A moment passed, rounds ripping away at the flowing metal walls and floor, before the Spartan let out an annoyed grunt. "IR smoke. Go Promethean vision." An orange light rolled over their visors, followed by Jin letting rip with her machine gun. Streams of tracers perforated the smoke, spent cartridges rattling around on the floor. Some return fire came, but Mordeaux placed carefully aimed bursts from his MA6A onto the origin points, and it soon stopped. "Cease fire."

Jin lowered her gun as Dawn peeked around the corner, wincing slightly at the maroon blood pooling around the crumpled bodies of thirteen Abyssal soldiers. Small dents and divots marred the wall above them, though they were quickly vanishing before her eyes. She kept her own MA5C assault rifle aimed at the bodies as Jin and Mordeaux moved forwards, only lowering it when they confirmed their kills. "Are you guys always so… cold, about this?"

"Yes." Spartan Blanc, Bravo One, captain of Fireteam Breaker and overall mission commander, replied in a voice devoid of any emotion whatsoever, then signaled for the nine-man boarding party to regroup just outside the bloody intersection. "Bravo Seven, report. How's the network coming?"

"No progress." A Spartan in an ENGINEER-class suit fiddled with a datapad, assault rifle strapped to her back. "None on Kalina's end either."

"Copy. Dancer, secure the intersection."

"Roger. Eight, take point."

Dawn shuddered as four Spartans moved forwards and occupied the bloodstained intersection, a DYNAST-clad soldier taking point with a shotgun. The Spartans weren't robots, but they were doing a pretty good job of fooling her, ever since entering the giant Abyssal ship — all business, professional, bloody efficiency. She actually hadn't fired a single shot since the boarding action began, as the Spartans eliminated what little resistance popped up. They barely spoke, short commands and small gestures conveying all the information they needed, and besides telling her to stand here, stand there, get down, hang back, they hadn't talked to her either, even though she was patched into their circuit. Dawn knew better than to try for small-talk, but it got a bit lonely stewing in her own head. She wished she could still listen to the fleet battlenet, but she'd lost connection as soon as the boarding team slipped through a molten, radioactive hole blasted in the alien flagship's outer hull by a four hundred megaton nuclear-pumped plasma spear. Probably something to do with how the hole sealed itself moments after their entry, like a mouth closing after swallowing its prey.

Bad mind. Bad simile. Down. Was it her, or was the air slightly warm? And moist? Bad mind! Bad thoughts! And the walls, the way they flowed into one another — not like Covie architecture, which at least followed consistent arcs and lines, this was more like—

Dawn slapped herself, hard, across the face. Unfortunately, she underestimated just how much strength her rigging lent her arms, and the blow sent her staggering into the nearest wall. A pair of Spartans shot her glances, irritation radiating from opaque faceplates, as she caught her balance. Dawn offered a shaky grin in return, massaging a bright red mark on her cheek.

Crouched in the intersection, Bravo Seven tapped her datapad, sending a pulse of faint blue light racing down the adjoining passageways. A moment passed, then she pointed left. "Possible elevator that way. Other paths branch too much for exploration in our timeframe." The other Spartans took a moment to review the tentative map of their immediate surroundings that assembled by the ARTEMIS tracking system; Dawn could only guess what they were seeing.

"Roger, on VISR. Waypoint set." Blanc lifted his assault rifle and crooked an armored finger at Dawn. "Come on, we're moving. Don't slow us down."

"Roger, roger." Dawn sighed and fell in behind the Spartans, bringing up the rear as they advanced in a loose column. "Damned kids with your fancy gizmos," she added, under her breath. She had full battlenet access, but with a software package decades out of date she could only dream about the kind of tactical awareness that the Spartans were afforded by their advanced VISR systems and sensor-integrated combat management software. Sure, her computers could stitch together a rough imitation, highlighting enemies and points of interest other people pointed out, but she couldn't predict enemy movements, actively spot points of interest, or coordinate infantry maneuvers even half as smoothly. Her sensor suite could pick out an inert rock from halfway across the solar system, but in this cramped, footbound environment she was forced to turn off her powerful radars and imaging systems or risk being deafened by the massive sensory feedback. Without them, when compared to the Spartans, her OODA loop approximated a guy shouting through a bullhorn at another, half-deaf guy. "Back in my day, we didn't have some fancy ARTEMIS doing all our recon for us, we had a pair of boots and binoculars, and we had to share the damn—" Her nose made hard contact with hard metal, bringing her and her thoughts to a sudden stop.

"Hey, old-timer, look alive." Clutching her nose and peering through watery eyes, Dawn realized she had walked straight into a Spartan's back. Slightly put-out by the fact that the super soldier hadn't even flinched from the impact, she looked around to see both Fireteam Dancer and Breaker arrayed in security formation, crouching behind the scant cover available in the alien corridor, facing outwards with interlocking fields of fire, forming a loose circle around Seven as she worked at what looked like a panel of elevator controls. "If your bones aren't creaking, take cover and help cover the approaches."

"Yes, sir," Dawn mumbled, suitably chastised, and traded her MA5C for an M739 Mk II SAW from her armory. Not quite as potent as Jin's Mk IV, but it could still lay a barrage where it counted. She felt a couple of the Spartans look askance at her as she did so, particularly as the assault rifle dissolved into faintly glowing white particles which dispersed like ash, and as the machine gun appeared from a similarly glowing orb of light which shaped itself into the weapon's silhouette before disappearing, leaving the gun to fall into her hands. The HAVOK nuke on her stomach and the reactor housing on her back, to say nothing of her heavy armor, made it a little awkward to crouch, but she managed it. "In position," she said, for anyone who cared.

"Roger. Seven, report."

The Spartan stayed silent. In her place, another female voice answered. "Not much progress." Kalina, the dumb cyberwarfare AI hitching a ride with the boarding party, spoke over the taccom channel. "The panel's completely airgapped, so even if I could worm my way into the Abbie shipnet I couldn't hack it. We're trying to tackle it by physically hot-wiring it, but the circuitry—"

"It's FUBAR. Some kind of solid-state kludge, and no access port. It might be biometrically locked, but I don't have the equipment or time to determine that." A frustrated note bled into Dancer Three's voice as she stood back from the panel. "Permission to take more direct action?"

Blanc nodded. "Make it quick."

"Roger." No sound reached her ears, but Dawn could see the liquid crystal fibers covering Seven's legs tense as she stanced up in front of the elevator doors, which looked more like the wings of a beetle folded over each other. Without another word, the Spartan reeled back and punched the doors hard enough to dent the metal and make Dawn yelp in surprise. She didn't let up, driving her fists into the metal over and over until a small gap opened up between the two door panels. She then pushed her fingers into the gap and began to pull, pull, and pull, grunts of exertion coming over the taccom until, with a shriek that vibrated through the floor and into Dawn's bones, the doors peeled apart to reveal the dark, empty void beyond.

Blanc pointed at the opening as the Spartan stepped back, shaking her hands out a bit and looking no worse for the wear. "Three, check the shaft." Kenniston moved in and stuck his left gauntlet into the opening, followed by the faint pulse of ARTEMIS spreading throughout the space beyond. Barely two seconds later he jerked his hand back, followed by a ghostly grey-purple form rushing by the opening like a phantom in the night.

"Lift is active," Kenniston said, somewhat redundantly, completely calm despite the fact he'd almost lost his hand. "ATS saw one six hostiles, heading downwards. They know we're here."

"Roger that." Blanc tilted his helmet as he thought for a few seconds. "As expected, we should anticipate more resistance as we penetrate deeper. Abbies are probably consolidating forces around the citadel. There's likely better terrain down there, where they can bring numbers against us properly. Expect heavy weapons, armor if there's room."

"So, a ring of tanks right around engineering and command? Perfect." Bravo Six gestured to the mangled doors. "Any idea how far down we need to go?"

"Toss a sounding frag down, see what we see." Seven nodded and pulled out a small orb studded with lidar emitters. As she made to toss it down the shaft, the floor trembled beneath them as if an earthquake was passing through. The Spartans mag-locked their boots; Dawn stumbled before Mordeaux reached out and caught her by the shoulder. Murmuring thanks as she regained her balance, she cast a look at the ceiling and the void beyond, hidden behind meters and meters of metal, nervously caressing her weapon.

"That felt like a big hit."

"Unlikely. Took everything and then some to make a hole for us, and it only lasted a few seconds." Blanc gestured for Seven to go ahead. "Probably didn't even crack the shields — if it did, bastard will've regenerated them by now."

"Yeah…" Dawn's thoughts strayed to Amber, and how she was holding up. Being thrown straight into the thick of things, with so much riding on her shoulders… Dawn wished she could have taken her place, but then Amber would be in here, and sending her back into the heart of the enemy so soon after she'd escaped from them — well, Dawn wasn't sure how much of that time Amber retained, but that would be, at the very least, most certainly a recipe for some hefty PTSD triggers. "I wonder how things are out there…"

---

"If it's any consolation, Admiral, no plan survives contact with the enemy."

"Thank you, Roland, very helpful. Now—" Lasky grunted as his crash restraints dug into his shoulders, keeping him from being thrown into the display table in front of him. Infinity's hull groaned around him, shuddering from kinetic energy bleed-through even as her shields successfully resisted the impact of an energy projector. More rounds struck home as she charged an Abyssal cruiser division, doggedly standing their ground despite the dozens of capital ships and hundreds of lighter units barreling towards them. Brave, but stupidly so. If they wanted to fight, Lasky was more than happy to oblige. "— Enterprise, Thoth, immediate execute assume position minus one one zero by minus zero six seven, distance one thousand kilometers, reference Infinity. All units, prepare to engage the enemy."

Battlegroups Enterprise and Thoth responded immediately, swinging down and port. They arrived on station just as the tight formation intercepted the cruiser division, in just the right place to pin the alien ships between themselves and Battlegroups Infinity and Fujin. The cruisers finally began to scatter, still firing ineffectually, deadly salvoes of kinetic and energy weapons splashing uselessly against the powerful frontal shields of the UNSC capital ships, sparing lighter units their fury. MACs and energy projectors flashed on the run-in and secondary batteries delivered broadside after quick-load broadside on the follow-through. For frigates and destroyers, the undulating, pitch-black alien warships were tough nuts to crack. Under the main batteries of over twenty battleships and fleet carriers their shields and armor posed about as much resistance as Kevlar to an APFSDS shell, and as the main formation moved on a light cruiser division and two destroyer division detached and fell on the remnants like blood-frenzied sharks.

"Hostile cruiser division neutralized. CruDiv 9, DesDiv 1 report light damage. CruDiv 17 reports moderate damage. Infinity shields forty percent. Fujin shields fifteen percent. Brahma, Anubis shields thirty percent. All units awaiting further orders."

"All units, stand by on current course, come to half speed, adopt Formation Delta-Two." Lasky nodded in satisfaction. As planned, the capital ships had attracted and absorbed the majority of enemy fire. Now, as their shields rebuilt, they regrouped to form the core of a loose defensive formation, hexagonal clusters of armor and shields arranged in a tight ellipsoid, long axis oriented on the fleet's current vector, interspersed with a swirling cloud of light ships. "Roland, send all battlegroup commanders my regards. CruDiv 17, report, do you require time for repairs, over?"

The face of the division commander appeared on screen, her teeth bared in an adrenaline-fueled grimace. "Affirmative, Forty Shillings took three penetrating hits to her starboard main battery breech. Maneuvering unaffected, requesting permission to detach her for repairs, over."

"Permission granted, out." On screen, the Autumn-class heavy cruiser Forty Shillings, sporting a jagged, gaping, twenty-meter diameter hole in her dorsal armor belt, pulled away from her division. Her slip space drive, beyond the influence of Earth's jump interdiction beacons, tore a hole in the fabric of space time through which she slipped, jumping to rendezvous with the auxiliary division led by Gallant. The intercept was slightly complicated by the fact that Gallant was currently conducting evasive maneuvers at eight percent of light speed just beyond the asteroid belt, trying to make the vulnerable auxiliary ships just a bit less appealing to Abyssal destroyer wolfpacks.

"This is Gallant, intercept successful. Commencing repairs, out."

"Good." One final survey satisfied Lasky that no other auxiliary tasks remained. Time to get back in the fight. "Roland, find our next target."

"It's a shooting gallery, sir." The AI bowed and vanished into a shower of red voxels which moved to highlight an enemy formation. "Lord Hood humbly requests that this battleship division not exist in the very near future."

"He commands and we obey." Lasky stared intently at the designated Abyssal unit. Perhaps fifty ships, centered around a few battleships, positioned on a flank, taking long-range potshots at the Home Fleet battleline, now buckling under the strain of a concerted Abyssal advance. Home Fleet mobile units, destroyer, light cruiser, and some heavy cruiser divisions, were attempting to gain the flanks and rear of the Abyssal push, but those battleships, along with other clusters of heavy units, were positioned so that those light units couldn't attack the enemy core before getting through them first. Destroyers and cruisers stood little chance against battleships, and if they tried to jump past the screen that would only trap them between the naval equivalents of a hammer and anvil. No, it would take the UNSC's own heavy units to break the cordon. All Home Fleet battleships and carriers were currently engaged, unable to overcome the numerical superiority of the Abyssals… but on the same token, the alien bastards were completely tunnel-visioned on breaking the Home Fleet. A perfect opportunity for his ships, running wild in the Abyssal rear and not tied down to any particular defensive positions, to wreak some havoc. "We'll come from the bottom, engage from behind, then break left and up. Roland, plot us a course."

"Done. All maneuvers scheduled and listed."

"Thank you. All units, immediate execute, come to bearing one-eight-one by two-five-four, adopt formation Alpha-Two, offset seven zero zero, reference Infinity, accelerate to engage designated hostile formation. At nine thousand kilometers distance, come to bearing one-zero-four by three-zero-zero, adopt formation Alpha-Three, offset seven zero zero, reference Fujin, accelerate to disengage. Enterprise, maintain defensive posture and prepare to sortie strike wings. FrigDivs Eight through Eighteen, detach after initial engagement to support the aerospace forces. All units, acknowledge and execute orders."

Confirmation lights blinked green as System Fleet Eridani swung into action, moving into a wedge formation with Infinity at the tip, Fujin and Thoth in the wings, and Enterprise in the center. If all went to plan, this formation would move to engage the enemy group, acceleration adding velocity and power to their main battery fire. Just before close-quarters fighting ensued it would loop backwards to disengage, collapsing into a line formation to maximize secondary battery and ventral energy projector firepower, Enterprise's bombers pounding whatever remained. "Time to engagement?"

"Two minutes."

"Thank you. Pre-plot some firing solutions, please. Lieutenant Smith, projected velocity at engagement?"

"Sir. Projected velocity one zero five two klicks per second at engagement."

"One zero five two klicks per second, thank you, lieutenant." At that speed, there would be time only for one, maybe two good salvoes between opening fire and breaking off. A pity, but any slower and the Abyssals could reposition to properly engage his ships. Freedom of movement was Lasky's greatest advantage; at this point, getting stuck in would only play to the aliens' strengths. He rechecked his crash restraints, made sure his vacuum mask was close to hand, and pointed at one of his staff comms officers. "Lieutenant Chevalier, signal Lord Hood that we are complying with his request. All units, maintain current course, prepare to engage the enemy."

Trailing some ten thousand kilometers behind and above the main body, Battleship Group 13 lazily observed the human battleline, as well as its more vainglorious counterparts in the vanguard. From its vantage point it could clearly see the ebb and flow of battle, as well as that the overall momentum was swinging in its comrades' favor. The human line was buckling, nearly broken in several places, smaller ships slipping piecemeal through their frontlines to attack the carriers in the rear, heedless of their commanders' snarled orders to stay in formation. They were mostly quickly swatted down, but the fact it was happening at all indicated that the human fleet was losing cohesion. Their battleships were all heavily damaged, venting atmosphere in several locations, formations crumbling as they struggled merely to survive, let alone contribute to the wider battle. Increasing numbers of lighter units either fell back, trailing fire and shedding debris, or were outright destroyed. It had taken awhile, but between constant, grinding attrition and the Command Ship dividing their attentions, the humans were crumbling. Feeling rather comfortable in its current position, the group commander allowed itself to daydream a little, leaving its units to run themselves, ignoring ugly reality for just a bit to imagine future victories and glories.

So it came as a bit of a shock when over two hundred heavy MAC shells slammed into it from behind, at the same time as several dozen energy projector beams seared away shields and boiled thick armor into useless slag and gas. One battleship resisted several destroyer and cruiser shots, shrugging them off with seemingly no effect. A pair of eight hundred-tonne shells from Fujin's main battery were a different story; the ship seemed to swell and balloon as they penetrated its thinly-armored main propulsion units at three percent of light speed. The titanic rods of metal self-annihilated on impact, sheer kinetic energy transforming them into jets of superheated gas and plasma. Much of their mass scattered in a pair of tremendous explosions, but more of it continued on, barely impeded by hundreds of decks and layers of internal armoring, until it blasted out the other side of the vessel, having traveled nearly the entire length of the alien battleship.

As broken hulks tumbled away, the surviving Abyssal ships executed a disciplined about-face to bring their main batteries to bear on their attackers. Expecting a tight formation of enemy capital ships to slug it out with, they were instead met with naught but a hail of missiles and railgun slugs, the wisps of rapidly-receding drive exhausts, and dozens of frigates weaving intricate plasma trails as they danced fifteen thousand kilometers away, taunting the Abyssal capital ships with their maneuverability as they hurled light MAC rounds and missiles. As the Abyssals engaged them with a furious volley, scoring several main battery hits, their sensors displays lit up with yet more drive trails, much closer this time, as stealth torpedoes began to detonate throughout their formation.

As the last unstable slip space portals vanished, leaving multiple wrecks drifting helplessly with large chunks taken out of their flanks as if bit by some massive cosmic dog, the aliens pressed forward to crush the frigates, to their credit undaunted by their losses. They still had a few battleships, after all, and with torpedoes expended no number of human frigates were a match for even three Abyssal battleships working together. However, it was at that moment, with Abyssal point defenses greatly weakened, formation cohesion severely disrupted, and targeting systems fixated on the nimble frigates, that a series of micro-portals opened above the Abyssal ships. Out poured two dozen wings of Claymore bombers and Sentinel drones, fresh out of Enterprise's hangers, and they scythed through the Abyssal formation with little resistance, disappearing into yet more portals on the other side. Their entire attack took but a few seconds, but the nuclear spears and bomb-pumped lasers left behind as a parting gift, delivered directly into the stockings of good little Abyssal boys and girls, left a mark that lasted quite a bit longer.

"Casualty report: Baselard, New Delhi, heavily damaged. Hunahpu, light damage. Los Angeles, Venice, lost," Lieutenant Smith reported. "Hostile formation has sustained heavy casualties, judged to be effectively neutralized."

"Thank you, lieutenant." Despite his hit-and-run tactics, Lasky had still lost two frigates. Not unexpected, but still somewhat disheartening. At least the result seemed to be worth the cost, as Lord Hood immediately poured Home Fleet mobile units through the gap his ships had created, renewing their harassment and raiding of the Abyssal rearguard. Dispatching Baselard and New Delhi to Battlegroup Gallant for repairs, he turned to Roland to consult on their next maneuver, only to find the AI already deep in thought. "Roland?" Initially no response, as the AI gaze remained downwards, chin in hand. "Roland!"

"Ah." The AI started and looked up, embarrassed. "Apologies. Verdant just passed along an update from Captain Garcia. Update as follows: Delaying action is proceeding smoothly. Progress of boarding party is unknown but Auxiliary 2 is performing well. Estimate will be able to hold the Z-class in place for another four hours."

"Hmph." Loathe as he was to admit it, that Abbie — no. She deserved a little more credit than that by now. Healthy suspicion was one thing, but unreasonable paranoia served no one. That… shipgirl. Yes, that was the best way he could describe her. That shipgirl… In Amber Clad, was it? She was doing an alright job, all things considered. Lasky didn't want to imagine what would happen once that Z-class got tired of her and made it in range of Earth. Hopefully she, along with Battlegroup Yamato, could buy enough time for the boarding party to destroy the thing, or for the Home Fleet to swing around and lend its firepower to the mix. "Let me know if he requests support. We need to keep that thing pinned where it is."

"Aye, sir." Roland smiled coyly. "Warming up to our friend in the Auxiliaries, eh?"

"Within reason. I'd still like to keep her at arms length, but she's proven an asset thus far." Especially since she's under ONI's thumb now. Lasky could still see Agent Berlin's smug smirk, millimeters short of being a full-blown grin, as she reported the successful test of her hypothesis. Though he was glad to be proven apparently wrong in his suspicion, did it have to be ONI who did so? No one to blame but myself, he supposed.

Still, surely he had to be allowed a few gripes today, right? Lasky could count on one hand his recent blessings. One, in the form of Forward Unto Dawn. Another one — no, maybe half a blessing? He wasn't quite ready to hold hands and sing Kumbaya with In Amber Clad yet. Another in that he'd gotten word of the attack on Earth in time to be of help, and one last one, in that a Z-class hadn't been present at Reach.

Around these three and a half blessings laid the ruins of his carefully crafted battle plan. Gone were the feinting maneuvers and sweeping attack runs; now he was simply flying by the seat of his pants, attacking targets of opportunity, generally trying to be a 500-ship nuisance in the Abyssal rear. He had an extremely powerful force, to be sure, more than capable of doing plenty of damage… but there were over two thousand Abyssals in front of him. He'd been counting on having Forward Unto Dawn on hand to split their attentions. Without her, he just wasn't drawing them off fast enough, and the Home Fleet continued to be ground to dust.

As his ships came around for another attack, a UNSC battleship, under fire from no fewer than twenty enemy ships, finally succumbed. As its fireball faded, cruisers scrambled to fill the hole in the line while other battleships tried to reposition, but Abyssal destroyers and frigates threw themselves into the gap, all guns blazing. The opposing sides got off one main battery salvo before a vicious close quarters action ensued, spinal MACs and energy projectors ditched in favor of coilguns, pulse lasers, and wave after wave of thousands of missiles, launched so quickly and at such close range the space between human and Abyssal ships seemed to be covered in a blanket of rippling fire. The Abyssals disengaged after a minute, falling back to their own lines, but they left in their wake two crippled UNSC cruiser divisions and a broken formation.

In another section of the battleline, two UNSC cruisers charged, desperately trying to buy time for several heavily damaged ships to withdraw. They succeeded, but at the cost of their lives, a cost they paid dearly when the Long Road Home, bow shot off and over ninety percent of its crew dead, rammed itself into an Abyssal cruiser and detonated its reactors. UNSC aerospace forces continued to launch strike after strike, but their numbers were growing thinner and thinner as attrition took its toll. Where once there were hundreds of craft in a strike there were merely a few dozen, and the pilots were getting tired, making mistakes. Four squadrons of bombers overcommitted to an attack on an apparently crippled battleship, only for an Abyssal frigate division to pop out of slipspace and eviscerate them with their point defenses. Here, a mobile destroyer division fell, finally run down by their Abyssal counterparts. There, a battleship was forced to retreat, its escorts left to try and plug the gap while it affected emergency repairs.

Lasky gritted his teeth as the same scenes continued to play out, with minor variations, all alone the line. He needed a change in tactics. Keeping all of ships together wasn't allowing an adequate rate of attacks, but at the same token he needed these numbers to ensure that each attack was successful. Going against an Abyssal formation with equal numbers was a fool's gambit, but he did have over five hundred warships to work with. "We're going nowhere fast with this strategy. Roland, what if we split Enterprise and Thoth off to form a separate task force? Fujin will stick with Infinity, and each task force will prosecute separate targets." On screen, the fleet split into two, each section going off to attack separate sections of the Abyssal line.

"Hm… that's nearly three hundred ships per force. Only around a dozen capitals per, though. Force concentration goes down in a big way, but if we stick to bullying the fringes and gradually work our way in…" Roland made a show of chewing his non-existent thumbnail. "It increases the risk, but if we want to make a timely difference I don't see much other way of going about it. Well, we could always just bullrush the entire thing, but heroic charges tend to get heroes killed." He nodded. "In the absence of better, not-suicidal options, I concur."

"Not suicidal." Lasky snorted. "That's a way to put it. Very well then. Lieutenant Chevalier, open channel to battlegroup commanders." The portraits of the various group commanders appeared in front of him. None of them looked much worse for the wear, except perhaps Tourville on Fujin. There was a slight sheen of sweat on her brow, probably from the beating her ship had absorbed, but if anything she only looked more excited. "Change of plans. We will be splitting the force into two sections in order to up our attack tempo." He pointed at the left two portraits. "Captain Marcos, Captain Nomura, Thoth and Enterprise will break off and form Task Force B, Captain Marcos in command, and commence independent action. Restrict your operations to the left flank until further ordered. Captain Tourville, Captain Shen, Fujin and Infinity will remain under my command and form Task Force A. All associated forces will remain with their respective battlegroups. Forces may split further at the force commander's discretion. Are there any questions?"

To their credit, the commanders didn't look fazed at all by the sudden change in orders. Only Marcos raised her hand, expression revealing nothing. "Clarification, Admiral," she said. "Are there any restrictions on what enemy units we can engage?"

"Negative, but exercise good sense. You will have reduced support, don't pick fights you can't win, but this is necessary if we want to take enough pressure off the Home Fleet. Inflict as much damage as you can."

"Understood. We will not fail." With a salute, she disappeared. Nomura also saluted, eyes calculating, before leaving as well. A moment later, Battlegroups Enterprise and Thoth split off, propulsion burning at flank speed. That left Tourville and Shen still on the channel, the latter of whom quickly disappeared. Though he was nominally the commander of Battlegroup Infinity, since Infinity was the fleet flagship Lasky had practical control. Lasky was just thankful that Shen was the kind of man who didn't mind this sort of arrangement, being more than content just commanding his ship.

Rather reminds me of me. With a nod, Lasky continued, "Captain Tourville, I trust you have no problems with this arrangement?"

"None whatsoever. This sort of small-unit fighting suits me best." Her eyes gleamed with excitement and aggression. "Battlegroup Fujin is at your command."

"Very well. Dismissed." As Tourville vanished, he turned back to the battlespace display to plot his next move. "Roland, where are we needed?"

"Everywhere, really. Battlegroup Minerva's looking rather weak, but they aren't on the verge of utter collapse, so I'll put that on the back burner for now. There's also a slight situation developing on the bottom flank. We've got five cruiser divisions trying to circle around Nemesis and punch up into Warspite. Warspite's escorts are trying to hold them off, but they're not exactly at full strength, and her aerospace forces are currently… indisposed."

"Then that's where we'll go. Set course for intercept, get me firing solutions—"

Lieutenant Chevalier interrupted, voice slightly raised. "Admiral Lasky, priority flash message from Admiral Hood."

Lasky arched an eyebrow. Now what? "Go ahead."

"Message as follows, sir: immediate execute, flank collapse imminent. Redeploy forces to support Battlegroup Minerva. Provide time for Home Fleet elements to regroup. Message ends."

"Thank you, lieutenant." No longer on the back burner, then. "Roland, give me the tactical situation."

Looking a bit peeved at having his tactical analysis upended, Roland said, rather stiffly, "Unfortunately, the situation has changed very, and I mean very, recently. Minerva has suffered unsustainable damage and is falling back at full speed." Roland pointed to the location in question. UNSC formations finally gave way as hundreds of Abyssal ships surged forward in a concerted push. The human warships fell back in good order, trying to reform the battleline, but many were caught up and overwhelmed. Titanium-grey wrecks floated in the wake of the alien advance, flames feeding off the atmosphere venting from shattered hulks as swarms of missiles flew back and forth through the debris fields, detonations rippling across human and alien shields alike. "From the looks of it, those ships are trying to land more troops to reinforce their current beachhead in Sydney."

"Hm…" Lasky scanned the readouts, cursing Hood's timing and looking for anything he could use to his advantage. "Of course, it's just as I split my forces. I don't suppose it's too late to recall Task Force B?"

"They've already engaged enemy forces trying to hit the center. Pulling them out now would only get them killed." Captain Marcos must have gotten tired of nibbling around the edges, as the display showed Battlegroups Thoth and Enterprise slashing downwards into the center of the Abyssal fleet. By now, the Abbies were well aware of the hundreds of ships attacking from the rear, and several sub-formations had repositioned to properly engage the UNSC ships. Confronted with a solid wall of shields, armor, and an alert enemy, the previous tactics of an attack run to close range, followed by a fighting disengagement were off the table. Instead, it appeared Marcos was opting for long-range missile volleys, interspersed with volleys of energy projectors in an attempt to lure the targeted Abyssal ships out of their protective formation. Nomura's bombers were waiting in the wings, ready to pounce as soon as that happened. A safe, conservative strategy, but one that required complete focus and a significant time commitment. No, Thoth and Enterprise were off the table.

"Acknowledged. On the bright side, the Abbies have pulled their rearguard forward to support this attack, so we should be able to attack the main body directly."

"Quite." Roland briefly glanced upwards. "All units report weapons at ready condition, adequate fuel reserves, no urgent repairs, standing by for your orders."

"Very well. All units Task Force A, immediate execute, come to bearing one three two by two seven six, adopt formation Alpha-Two, reference Infinity, offset five zero zero, accelerate to engage designated hostile formations. At four thousand kilometers distance, come to bearing three two zero by three five four, accelerate to disengage. All units, acknowledge and execute orders."

"Repeating your tactics?" Roland put his hands up defensively when Lasky turned an unamused gaze on him. "Not complaining, they worked well enough before. I did notice you're pressing the engagement much closer this time, though."

"I'm hoping the close approach either scatters their formation and gives Minerva time to reform, or gets them to chase us. Either way, it'll let us get in an extra salvo and do some more damage," Lasky explained. The task force began to accelerate into its attack run, propulsion flaring and reactors straining as rows of coilguns and plasma lances swung into position, missile targeting systems acquired lock and main batteries loaded salvos. Checking once more to make sure his crash restraints were tight, he settled back into his chair and kept his eyes on the display. "As long as the Home Fleet can hold, we can whittle the Abbies down from the rear. We just need to hold."

"Mm." Roland still looked worried. "Unless that big sonuvabitch on the other side of the planet decides to swing around and pay us a visit."

Lasky shook his head in resignation. "Captain Garcia will let us know if anything urgent crops up. Until then, we can only pray that everything turns out okay."

---

"Not okay, not okay!"

Within the Abyssal dreadnought, Dawn remained unaware of the various developments occurring outside. Perhaps just as well; she had enough problems of her own to worry about, especially as she backpedaled and dove for cover for the third time in as many minutes. An Abyssal gun turret swept towards her, crackling yellow beams of accelerated ionized particles scorching the decking as she tried to catch her breath. Drawing in lungfuls of smoky, alien atmosphere, she gingerly prodded at a scorched section of her chestplate, hissing as the tender skin underneath protested the stimulation. "Way too close," she murmured. If it hadn't been for her starship-grade armor, that particle beam would have blasted half her left lung into fine mist, and even then the heat transfer had seared her through the plating. "Where the hell did all these motherfuckers come from?" she asked, not for the first time and to no one in particular.

"Alright?" came a voice over a radio, as if she'd merely tripped over a loose stone.

"Yeah, fine, fine. Got cocky, that's all." You would think I'd have learned my lesson the first two times, Dawn thought, risking a peek above her cover and receiving a flurry of plasma bolts in compensation for her trouble. "Goddamn, where do they keep coming from?" No matter how many Abyssals the Spartans dropped — and they dropped plenty — there never seemed to be an end to the reinforcements streaming into this enormous chamber-turned-battlefield. After hours without encountering anything more significant than a patrol, it was as if the entire crew complement of this alien behemoth suddenly decided that life was rather overrated and were now trying to drown the intruders in lead and blood.

And, though she hated to admit it, the strategy seemed to be working. She could barely hear herself think over the tracers whining past just overhead. The 60-billion tonne Abyssal dreadnought just managed to edge out a Covenant supercarrier in mass; naturally, its embarked ground forces would be just as large. From the moment they entered the compartment, whose exact purpose Dawn had yet to divine, the Spartans' kill count hadn't stopped rising. By her estimates, it lay somewhere in the high hundreds now. Her own count was either thirty two or thirty five, depending on whether or not three of them had merely been wounded the first time she nailed them. Yet still they came, morale seeming no worse for the wear.

She wouldn't call them a horde. The aliens displayed remarkable discipline and unit cohesion, never breaking in the face of heavy casualties, utilizing coordinated focus fire, snipers and heavy weapons to prevent the Spartans from closing to close range. If the supersoldiers wanted to charge the alien line and break through, they'd have to cross nearly a hundred meters of open ground against a density of guns Dawn could only describe as 'jam-packed'. Oh sure, if the Spartans made it all the way over they'd tear the Abyssal soldiers apart, but it was the making it over there part that was proving troublesome. Even with their augmented speed, it would take a few seconds sprinting at full tilt, and that was more than enough time for a baker's dozen machine guns to wear away MJOLNIR's shields and turn a man into a colander.

For their resistance, the Abyssals paid a steep price in blood. Dawn would never consider herself a crack shot, especially against targets in a defensive position with good cover, but with just so many targets even she could rack up a killcount. Once again braving the bullets, she popped up, drew a bead, and put six shots into an Abbie rifleman. A grenade quickly followed, summoned into her hand with a thought and thrown high into the air so that it was timed to explode just as it hit the ground, giving it no chances to be thrown back. She shot one more alien before enemy fire swept back her way, several rounds bouncing off her helmet as she ducked back down. Dawn could hear the paper-ripping sound of a Spartan opening back up with a machine gun, along with the deeper thud of a sniper rifle and the ever-present rat-tat-tat of assault rifles. A swathe of aliens fell, but as always more came up to take their place, not the least bit discouraged by their massive casualties.

Against these sorts of dug-in numbers, even eight Spartan-IVs and one shipgirl could barely find any openings to push ahead. A real meat-grinder of a strategy, but one with a certain brutal elegance to it; if the Abyssals' greatest strength lay in numbers, then it made perfect sense to use them. As for why they couldn't just go around this river of blood, rather than pushing fruitlessly against the current… well, there'd been more than a few arguments about that among the Spartans themselves. But that massive dais on the far side of the chamber, pulsing with strange slowing glyphs, as well as the fact that most major passageways seemed to end up here one way or another, indicated that this was the something worth fighting for. Unfortunately, their eight-man plus one shipgirl team was built for infiltration and rapid action, not this kind of stand-up battle.

A shot rang out, reverberating like a thunderclap, and the particle turret abruptly fell silent. "Turret down," Five reported, the Spartan's form momentarily appearing as taking the shot disrupted his active camouflage. Strapping his sniper rifle across his back and drawing an assault rifle, he elegantly backflipped from the small ledge, really a crevice, that his magnetic boots bound him to, disappearing amidst the clouds of smoke billowing from smoke grenades scattered throughout the cavernous compartment. More particle beams, plasma bolts, and plain old bullets stabbed at his previous location, but he was already gone, only faint swirls in the smoke clouds indicating his position as he searched for another vantage point.

"Good shot." Blanc's voice replied, practically monotone with how unexcited it sounded. "Dawn, lay suppressing fire on that turret, don't let them get back on it. Dancer, assume overwatch. Breaker, advance to those points."

"Roger," three voices replied simultaneously, two calm and one shaky. Dawn poked out above her cover and fired a long burst from her assault rifle, instantly drawing the ire of about a dozen Abyssal soldiers who seemed to prefer shooting at her over any of the power-armored cyborgs running amok in their ship. Which god's cereal she'd pissed in that morning, Dawn didn't know, but it allowed Fireteam Breaker to move forward another eight meters or so, taking positions at waypoints Dawn couldn't see but which appeared on their HUDs. Again, she wished that the techs could have taken maybe another twenty seconds to do a bit more than the most basic of tactical software integrations, but according to them her programs were 'thirty years out of date' and 'practically incompatible with current protocols', whatever the hell that meant.

"Some people do this," she muttered, summoning a fresh magazine from her armory and racking her rifle's bolt, "for a living? And enjoy it? Fucking lunatics." Dawn squinted down the sights and drew a bead on what she thought was an Abyssal's head — it was hard to tell with all the smoke, the dim ambient lighting, and the flashes of weapons fire constantly casting everything into harsh light and warped shadow. The eerie glow of the glyphs wasn't helping either, illuminating the aliens with a pulsing purple light. She held the trigger down for three seconds, carefully controlling the recoil, and was rewarded with a shriek. "Got 'em," she whispered, then swept her barrel back and forth. Shadowy forms ducked and scattered as her bullets sparked off of metal, briefly decreasing the amount of fire coming her way and allowing a Spartan to chuck a grenade over the Abyssal barricade. Their shields sparked as they were instantly focused by no less than nine aliens, and even decades of scientific advancement couldn't stop them from popping as the super soldier pivoted behind an outcropping.

As a heavy thump sounded out, Blanc let out a frustrated noise. "We're getting nowhere fast," he said, crouched down and waiting for his own shields to rebuild. "Dawn, can you use your weapons systems to wipe these assholes?"

Shaking her head, Dawn replied, "My targeting's offline in here, too much rebound; I'd be firing blind, and that's worse than not firing at all." In theory, her point defense guns, Archer missiles, and, if necessary, MAC could shit fire all over the Abbies. However outdated her weapons systems were, as a warship she still operated on a completely different level from infantry. Unfortunately, the massive, cluttered returns generated from high-powered radio waves rebounding chaotically throughout the enclosed space were more likely to give her a splitting headache than a viable firing solution. That precluded her from using her stocks of Archer missiles to thin the hostile numbers — without accurate targeting data, she'd be eyeballing the launch and more likely to blow herself up than to put any significant dent into the enemy.

Luckily, the Spartans were not lacking in explosives of their own. A rocket blasted downrange on a column of flame, seeker head reaching out and locking onto a faint heat signature amid the blobs and streaks of infrared radiation bobbing, weaving, and zipping throughout the cavernous compartment. It suddenly shot straight up, high above the battlefield. A blink later, an explosion erupted behind an Abyssal barricade, tossing body parts into the air. "Tangos down. Reloading." Moments later, another rocket leapt from Bravo Eight's launcher. This one missed by a hair's breadth, shooting past the Abyssals to impact the far side of the compartment. An explosion erupted, obscuring the dais and temporarily blocking out the light of the glyphs. When the smoke cleared, however, there didn't seem to be any lasting damage done.

"Watch your aim. Dawn, keep up the suppressing fire. Five through Eight, get ready to move up, keep targeting officers. Two, Three lay fire down on the left side. Four, with me, rake the right. You know the drill, everyone."

"Roger." Jin repositioned to point her machine gun at the designated targets, fired a burst, then paused. "SAW is empty." Another pause. "I'm out. Switching to DMR—"

"Wait! Four, behind you, catch!" The Spartan half-turned, just enough to catch the hundred-round drum of ammunition that Dawn tossed her way.

"Where did—"

"I've got plenty more where that came from, just keep firing!" The Spartan stared at the ammo for half a second longer before nodding, reloading, and turning back to continue hosing the Abyssals with hot metal. "Anyone else who needs ammo, let me know!" Even if she couldn't use her weapons systems, her shipgirl abilities could still contribute in other ways — namely, through the deep, deep stocks of ammunition in her onboard armories.

The Spartans took this new development with admirable aplomb. All of them were running low on ammo, but you wouldn't know it from the almost casual way they stated their needs, as if they were simply grabbing a slice at the local pizzeria.

"Need assault rifle ammo."

"Requesting fourteen point five."

"Ninety mike mike HEAT."

"Okay, don't have that one," Dawn replied, hurriedly summoning and distributing ammunition as fast as her crew could pull it out of storage. She prayed that none of it got hit mid-transit as it alternately flew through the air or slid across the floor into waiting hands to be slapped into waiting weapons and be delivered into waiting alien skulls. "I have M41s in storage?"

"It'll do." A case of SPNKR rockets with accompanying launcher spun like a frisbee into Eight's hands. "Haven't seen one of these in…" Shaking her head, the Spartan discarded her current weapon in favor of the SPNKR, locked in the dual rotating tubes, took a firing stance, checked her back blast, and unleashed a tankbusting HEAT warhead straight into the chest of an Abyssal officer who stood barking orders, all within the space of two seconds. "My thanks."

Dawn returned a thumbs up. "No problem!" With the ammunition situation temporarily sorted, she took up her rifle again, but caught the sight of Blanc's visor staring at her, even as he put three rounds into a rifleman's skull. "… maybe one problem?"

"I wish you'd told us about this sooner," the Spartan ground out as he shot a grenade out of midair, then shot its thrower as it tried to duck back down. "Could've been useful quite a ways back."

"… it slipped my mind?"

"Evidently." Blanc dropped down to reload, but paused with his empty magazine halfway out of the well. If she listened closely, Dawn could almost hear the grinding of gears turning in his head. "What's in this 'armory' of yours?"

"Oh, lots. Let's see—" Dawn emptied her latest magazine, then ducked down to give herself a chance to shut her eyes. With her surroundings slightly blocked out, she turned her focus inwards, her consciousness flying through corridors and bulkheads to arrive at her primary armory. There, a harried-looking marine greeted her and led her in, past groups of sailors and marines trying to catch their breath from their impromptu cardiovascular workout, running back and forth with piles of magazines in their arms. She found herself in front of racks and racks of equipment, some of it pristine, some it less so. "All standard-issue small arms, M247 GPMGs, M41 rocket launchers, M7057 flamethrowers, a couple of Spartan lasers, handful of target designators, some railguns—"

"Target designators?" The gears continued to grind. "Are they compatible with your missile systems?"

"Yeah, I think. What've you got in mind?"

"Give one here first."

A target designator soared through the air and landed in Blanc's outstretched hand, where he gave it a quick once-over and turned it on. Immediately, a small hum began to sound in Dawn's mind, so soft it was almost subliminal. The noise wasn't distracting or irritating, though by all rights it should have been. It felt natural, like a part of her, and that was a little weird, because she wasn't like a computer or something, but Dawn didn't have time to think about it. "I'm going to laze the Abbies. When you get a lock, blow them away."

"Huh?" Her eyes followed the invisible laser beam emitting from the designator's head. "Are you sure this'll work? I've never done this before."

"No harm in trying. Get ready." Blanc fired another long burst from his rifle, then tossed a smoke grenade. As the Abyssals poured fire into the resulting smoke cloud he strafed right, target designator held stead in one hand. The hum grew louder as Dawn's sensors began to pick up on the laser's return, followed by a shrill lock on tone as her computers established a solid connection with the device. A clear picture of the environment took shape in her minds eye, targets and missile trajectories plotted out, quite a refreshing change from the incomprehensible returns of her radar arrays and the dim, smoky, limited field of view her Mark 1 Eyeballs offered.

"Got it!" Dawn shouted, rather surprised that her targeting software could even integrate the provided data, given that it was coming in the form of a highly directed laser beam rather than a wide-field radar scan. It was completely possible in theory, but in her entire career she'd never tried it… until now. First time for everything, she supposed, as she called a row of Archer missile silos into being along her right arm. Her equipment responded instantly, flashing into existence, all silo doors open and ready to fire. The lock on tone changed, from lock-on acquired to ready to fire. "Missile bombardment ready! Everyone, get down!"

"The hell—"

"You heard her, get down!" Blanc went prone as the other Spartans stopped firing and ducked behind cover, flat on his belly but still out in the open as he determinedly held the designator on target. "Go for it."

"Firing!" With a massive roar and gout of flame, a salvo of missiles left their silos. Despite their small size — they were essentially Archer missiles scaled down about a hundred times — the backwash was powerful enough to knock Dawn onto her rear. Her eyes kept tracking the missiles as they rocketed high into the air, above all obstacles, seeker heads locked onto the faint signal of the target designator as they reached their peaks and nosed over. The Abyssals spotted the missiles as well, and disorder seized their ranks as they scrambled to get away from the hail of explosives.

Too little, too late. Blanc swept the designator back and forth, sending missiles screaming left and right, raining down as a line of explosions blanketed the Abyssal defenses. Massive fireballs, out of all reasonable proportion to the size of the missiles, roiled in a wave of angry red-orange blasts that consumed everything they touched. Warheads designed to blast through warship armor tossed tons of slagged and vaporized metal into the air. Bodies vanished, torn to pieces, as a blast of hot, over-pressurized air washed over the strike team. A few lost lock and went stray, slamming into various walls and support structures. One missile shot all the way to the back of the compartment, where it once more covered the glowing dais in a sheet of flame.

The Spartans weathered the storm in their MJOLNIR; while Dawn's mass prevented from being thrown backwards, the heat still seared the backs of Dawn's arms, which she threw up to cover her face. The sound was so loud she almost couldn't hear it, on account of being deafened, but it was like someone repeatedly detonating packs of C12 inside her ear canal followed by several fully loaded freight trains rolling past. Belatedly, she realized that she was screaming. She couldn't even hear herself over the explosions. There was no sound in space, so she'd never actually gotten to experience the impact of her weapons up close and personal. It was terrifying, and drove home just how powerful the Covenant were — had been — that they could shrug off something like that with no effort.

The ground was still rumbling when she suddenly felt a pressure on her shoulder. Blanc was kneeling next to her, one hand on her left arm. "Are you okay? We need to move."

Nodding, she shakily got to her feet and gave a thumbs-up. "Y-yeah, I'm good now." Her barrage had done what small-arms couldn't and cleared out the Abyssal defensive positions. Craters and carbonized fragments of body parts laid scattered where there were once machine gun nests and plasma cannon emplacements. Yet, despite the devastation caused by dozens of anti-shipping missiles, Abyssal soldiers were still trickling forwards, trying to form a secondary defensive line. At this point, Dawn's respect was starting to morph into something more resembling concern. This was beyond courage; in this situation, any reasonable soldiers, human, Covenant, or anything between, would withdraw, regroup, and reassess the situation. Instead, the Abyssals just kept coming, past the point of reason, throwing their lives away in the defense of… something. She was beginning to think this was less discipline and more some sort of compulsion. Studying alien psychology, though, was not her responsibility. Killing aliens was.

A crystal shard glancing off her torso armor brought her all the way back to reality. Dawn readied her missiles for another barrage, but before she could start firing procedures, Blanc put his arm out in front of her. "No need for that. Stand down."

"Huh—?"

"Dancer left, Breaker right, close quarters drill. Rush them!"

Blanc literally blurred before her eyes, augmented muscles and strength-enhancing armor instantly propelling him from zero to what Dawn's sensors clocked at a tentative fifty kilometers an hour. The other Spartans dashed forwards as well, leaping over their cover and sprinting so fast that their footfalls left dents in the deck, leaving a gaping Dawn to choke on their dust. Scattered small arms fire met them, as well as a few machine guns, but the disorganized shooting was a far cry from the literal bristling wall of heavy weapons that faced them before. Nor was it even nearly enough to stop eight Spartans charging full-out, and before the Abyssals could organize a proper response the Spartans had covered the distance and fallen upon them.

The nascent defensive line disintegrated into a chaotic mess of violence. The Spartans disappeared into a swirling mass of limbs and flashes of gunfire, though which Dawn could barely make out what was happening. From what concrete glimpses she caught, though, the whole affair was shockingly one-sided. Though competent soldiers, and a match for any UNSC marine, the Abyssal soldiers were hopelessly outmatched at close range. In one moment, Blanc ducked under a bayonet thrust, planted his rifle in the belly of his attacker, and blew its stomach out its back while simultaneously kicking behind himself and caving in the knee of another alien. In another instant, Jin had an Abyssal in a headlock, using it as a bullet shield while she whirled around, firing her SAW one-handed, scything through Abyssals like wheat. In one more flash, Mordeaux and Kenniston stood back to back, guns stowed away and long-bladed monomolecular combat knives in hand, less human and more whirling storms of sharpened metal that slashed, stabbed, and disemboweled any Abyssals who dared approach. Advancing with her rifle at the ready, Dawn tried to find an opening to help from a safe distance, but the swirling melee offered few opportunities to do so.

Not that it was needed. Within a few moments, dozens of Abyssals laid dead, eight Spartans standing victorious above their scattered bodies. The super soldiers didn't even look out of breath, reloading guns and cleaning blood and viscera off their fists and knives. This was their element, rapid assaults on unprepared hostile forces. They could take the smallest gap, the smallest sliver of opportunity, and blow it wide open. Dawn shivered as she jogged to catch up with them — she was damn glad that she was on their side and not the other way around.

"Reading no additional hostile reinforcements," Kenniston reported, just as Dawn arrived next to the group. The Spartans had arranged themselves in a loose defensive perimeter in the shadow of the glyph-inscribed dais which the Abyssals had seemed so eager to die for. Several of them were gazing up at the structure, which seemed no worse for the wear despite being hit by an Archer missile. It towered high above, at least ten meters tall, a solid cylinder without any tapering. A variety of cables ran out from it and into the deck, without any visible seams or attachment points where they entered the dais. Dawn couldn't tell what it was made of, and she shivered again as she looked at it. Even accounting for the dim lighting in the compartment, the thing seemed inordinately dark, as if it was sucking in light from its surroundings. It simply radiated a sense of foreboding, a feeling that nothing good could come of messing with it. "Any injuries?"

"Negative."

"Green here."

"Excellent work, people. Establish a perimeter. Five, overwatch. Seven, take a look at those symbols. Try to find out why the Abbies were so determined to defend them." Seven nodded and moved towards the dais, kneeling before one of the glowing symbols and tapping on her datapad. As the Spartans fanned out, Blanc turned to face Dawn. "Nice job. Really helped us out back there."

"Really?" She rubbed the back of her neck, suddenly bashful. "Oh, it was nothing. I'm just happy to be of help."

"I don't think we could have done that without casualties without your fire support." His helmet tilted, as if he was seeing her from a different angle. "Should've realized it sooner, but you're really a human-sized artillery platform, aren't you? The tactical implications…"

"Hey, I'm right here, you know?" Dawn crossed her arms and glared at the Spartan. "Don't talk about me like I'm just some sort of machine." Her glare was slightly diminished by the gore caking her boots, an unsubtle reminder to be careful about her tone of voice.

Luckily, Blanc didn't seem to be too offended. "Apologies, I'll keep it in mind. Stand by for now." Turning around, he walked towards Seven, still working on her datapad. "Seven, report. Initial assessment?"

Kalina spoke in place of the Spartan, the dumb AI's voice containing equal shades of curiosity and frustration. "It's… odd. Temperature readings are consistent with ambient conditions, but the black-body radiation emission curve is extremely flattened, way lower than what it should be. It's practically endothermic, for lack of a better term, like its somehow sucking in rather than emitting radiation — which shouldn't be the case, if it wasn't clear."

Slightly curious, Dawn leaned in to get some readings on her own instruments. Indeed, the temperature was nothing special, but her radiation sensors were giving all sorts of weird readings. She switched over to Geiger counters for a spell, focusing them on the space directly around the dais, and frowned when they registered even less radiation than ambient space. Weird indeed, but she didn't have much time to think about it as Blanc responded, "Is it a threat?"

"We can't say definitively—"

"I have something." Seven suddenly spoke, cutting off Kalina and drawing everyone's attention. "Some sort of data node. Seems to be a lot of traffic flowing through it."

"Can you detect any safeguards?"

"A few, but nothing that's actively countering my probes. Probably nothing that would kill us."

Blanc nodded. "Tap the data. Everyone else, fall back six meters, prepare to move."

"Copy. Accessing now—"

A chill went through the collective spines of the boarding team. For Dawn, this manifested as a tingling that ran up and down her back, a highly uncomfortable sensation not unlike a spider running along her skin. She let out a shout and shuddered with violent revulsion, trying and failing to twist around so she could swat whatever manner of horrid, eight-legged creature had crawled up her shirt. Her imagination ran vivid with images of some hairy, cluster-eyed arachnid sinking venom filled fangs into the small of her back, draining her dry before she realized that it was highly unlikely there were any spiders aboard this alien ship.

The Spartans had it much worse. They practically turned into power-armored statues, going completely rigid and still as a sensation of pure dread seized them. As veterans of the battle at Reach, they had all experienced something like this before, when the Abyssal fleet first entered the system, but nowhere near this degree of intensity. It was like a heavy blanket had fallen over all of their senses, leaving them unable to focus on anything than an involuntarily growing feeling of panic inside themselves. Despite all of their training, conditioning, and years of live combat experience hardening them to trivial things like fear, this panic somehow bypassed all of that and wormed itself deep into their brains, expanding so that it was the only thing that filled their worlds. It whispered in their ears, rendering them unable to even scream. It took every ounce of their fire-forged discipline not to collapse on the spot, so much so that they barely even noticed when the dais emitted a low, bass rumble, accompanied by a long, high-pitched hiss of escaping gas.

Dawn did notice, however. She saw a pencil-thin streak of light trace a line from the top of the structure to its bottom, and also noticed with considerably more alarm the massive spike of radiation that accompanied it. "Watch out!" she shouted, before realizing that none of the Spartans could hear her. Her Geiger counters, previously dormant, spiked into a frenzy of clicking as the dais continued to split, with Seven was directly in front of the radiation source. The glyphs began to glow even brighter, accompanying steadying increasing energy readings which caused MJOLNIR shields to spark and fizzle, strong enough to guarantee cancer in anyone not wearing a full-body lead suit. At its current rate, it would grow strong enough to fry Seven even through her armor, but the Spartan just wasn't moving! Only one thing to do, then. Dawn ran forwards, put her arms beneath the Spartan's, and began pulling, groaning with exertion as she tried to shift the super soldier's two-ton bulk to no avail.

"Come… on!" One more option. Dawn ran around to Seven's front, planted a foot in her chest, and activated thrusters at the same time that she kicked with all her might. The additional thrust,did the trick, tossing the Spartan back several meters just as her Geiger counters hit their maximums, deafening her as they screamed of imminent death by radiation. She could feel the skin on the back of her neck beginning to blister, despite the shielding that her equipment provided, and turned around to try to present her more armored front to the source, covering her eyes with her arms.

A small, hard object planted itself in her abdomen. Dawn felt all the air in her lungs exit in a quick and very violent fashion before she was thrown back, crashing into Seven who was still struggling to get off the deck. Dawn's head cracked against Seven's helmet as they both went down in a tangle of metal-encased limbs, sending stars shooting throughout her vision. Groaning again, this time in pain, she was vaguely aware of her Geiger counters calming back to normal levels, but she could hardly bring herself to care over the distinct sensation of someone taking a pickaxe to the rear of her skull.

"Well, well. Look who managed to make it all way down here." One thing, however, did cut through the pain. A voice, oozing so much contempt that Dawn could vividly picture the twisted sneer on whoever it belonged to. Woozy from pain, she briefly imagined a snake, venom dripping from its tongue, and decided that that was an appropriate metaphor. "I was under the impression that humans generally called before barging into someone else's home. Hypocritical, yet unsurprising."

"Don't move." Blanc's voice, slightly hoarse, rang out in response. The Spartans were evidently recovering from whatever had possessed them. Dawn could hear heavy footsteps as they moved into position — she was still trying to clear her vision and figure out whether or not she had a concussion. "Identify yourself."

"You will be silent if you know what Is good for you." Her eyes beginning to clear, Dawn finally got a look at the owner of that supremely irritating voice. A tall, pale, humanoid figure, wearing some sort of thick, grey, form-fitting bodysuit. Armored boots sheathed its legs up to its thighs, orange veins of light running through the pitch-black metal. More armor encased its arms and a spiky plate protected its chest. Small metal shards floated and orbited around its waist and shoulders, suspended in midair. A helmet sat on its head, an eyepatch covering one eye while the other blazed with a frigid blue fire. With a cold feeling of dread, Dawn realized she'd seen something… someone very much like this not too long ago.

The Abyssal's visible eye focused on her. "Now, this is a surprise, is it not? Forward Unto Dawn, yes?"

"H-how do you know my name?"

"From someone quite excited to see you… not that you will ever meet them." Heedless of the assortment of assault rifles, machine guns, and rocket launchers being pointed at it, the Abyssal spread its arms wide, the orange lights running along its limbs glowing brighter. "Now, you must be aware that you have been quite the bother. Stealing away a soul that we worked so hard to bind… why, that is just rude! Would you not agree?"

"A soul… you mean Amber?" Dawn clambered up to one knee, wincing at the residual pain in her head. Oh, that was definitely a concussion. A week of rest, no loud noises, bright lights, or vigorous physical activity, remain hydrated, but first get out of this alive. "I don't know what you bastards did to her, but you're going to pay for it."

"Oh, I am so scared." The Abyssal looked to the side, brow furrowing as it was just realizing the presence of the Spartans. "Get that thing out of my face, will you?" With a flick of its hand, an invisible force sent Blanc's assault rifle spinning out of his hands and shoved him back half a meter. He recovered quickly, pulling out his pistol, but was clearly shaken. The other Spartans backed up as well, redoubling their grips on their weapons. Dawn's gaze quickly flicked over to the HAVOK nukes on their backs, as yet unnoticed by the Abyssal. Those were the trump cards; if nothing else, they could light them off and blow this Abbie to hell. "I would love to see you try and make me."

"Why you—!"

"Enough of this." The Abyssal raised one hand into the air. Dawn's radiation counters spiked again as a series of portals opened around the boarding team, a full platoon of Abyssal soldiers stepping out of their inky, swirling depths. The Spartans immediately repositioned to face this new threat, surrounding them on all sides. Dawn got back on her feet and readied her own weapons, calling on her warship side to lend her strength. Her tiredness faded away as a burst of energy entered her limbs, but sweat still rolled down her forehead and her breathing remained quick and shallow. "I do commend you for making it this far, but that is far enough." The Abyssal brought its hand down and held it out in front of itself. With a flash of light and a sound like the world's largest drain being unclogged, a long polearm, a glaive really, appeared in its hand, head pulsing with energy. The alien twirled the two-handed weapon in one hand, something resembling the oversized lovechild of a needler and a plasma pistol appearing in its other, then pointed the blade at Dawn. "You may call me Light Cruiser Princess. For interfering with our plans, I sentence you to death."

Despite her growing sense of dread, Dawn managed to crack a cocky smirk. "You make that glowy, pointy stick yourself? Didn't realize you were a nerd and an alien fuck."

"Hmph." The Abyssal's eye burned brighter, and the sound of cocking weapons came from all around as the Abyssal soldiers prepared to fire. "No more talk. You die. Now."

---

For Amber, time had long since lost most of its meaning. Who cared about hours and minutes when the struggle was simply to survive the next second? Her armor was blackened from near-miss missile detonations, dented from glancing coilgun rounds, and breached in several places when she had been forced to choose between dodging an energy projector or avoiding a salvo of particle beams. Her own missile stocks were near depletion, her point defense guns on their umpteenth reload cycle, fuel supplies down to five hours of combat maneuvers. Dried blood caked her abdomen, a series of particle beam penetrations which her damage control teams had sealed off and anesthetized, but not before she'd almost passed out from pain.

Have to keep going…

Wiping a trail of blood from the corner of her mouth, Amber fired all her port maneuvering thrusters, firing her main propulsion at full reverse thrust at the same time, launching herself sideways and out of the way of yet another salvo of plasma beams. In retaliation, she swung her MAC around on her shoulder, capacitors already charged, and let loose a round at one of the battleships pursuing her. Recoil slammed her back as her sensors tracked the 600-ton shell out, out, out, all the way to its intercept with the offending alien ship. At this range, facing her comparatively low-velocity gun, even that clumsy ship could have dodged out of the way, but it instead opted to tank the shot on its shields. They barely flickered with the impact, and Amber had the distinct sense that it was mocking her. She gritted her teeth and quickly loaded another shot, scooting to the side again as incoming fire alerts sounded, narrowly avoiding a massive mass driver slug as she let off another round.

Can't let them down…

At this point, there were only two things keeping her from blacking out from exhaustion: her fear of letting Dawn down, and a burning desire to prove Admiral Lasky wrong. The first was self-explanatory; as to the second, if ever Amber felt like giving up, all she had to do was to picture Lasky's skeptical expression and remember his accusing words, and a burst of strength and purpose would enter her. He doubted her loyalty, or her usefulness? She'd prove him wrong with her own two hands.

I can't die here.

Unfortunately, motivation could only carry her so far. Despite her best efforts at evasion, a shot clipped her main propulsion, sending a bolt of fire up her leg and disabling one of her primary thrusters. The suddenly uneven distribution of thrust sent her spinning off on a random vector, and by the time her damage control teams restored propulsion and Amber regained control, she found herself being targeted by the Abyssal dreadnought. Her sensors picked up a massive buildup of energy in its main weapons systems, and simultaneously detected a salvo of hundreds of missiles racing towards her. They were arranged to bracket her so that even if she dodged the dreadnought's shot, she was guaranteed to get hit by at least five missiles, enough to blow her to kingdom come. Her point defenses were insufficient to shoot them all down. With a sigh of resignation, she closed her eyes, tasked her PDCs to do the best they could, and braced for pain.

It was with some degree of confusion that, a few seconds later, she opened them again, sensors informing her that the missiles had all overshot and were headed off into deep space. Amber quickly patted herself down, confusion growing when she realized she hadn't been incinerated. Had the dreadnought not fired at her? She reached out with her instruments, casting her senses wide and far, and determined that yes, the energy buildup she'd detected was gone. Even stranger, the ship had stopped all movement, neither advancing towards Earth nor towards Amber, just sitting there, in space, motionless. Its escorts seemed just as confused, formation in a slight mess as they compensated for the sudden change in speed. "What is going on…?" she breathed, just as her tightbeam radio crackled to life.

"Hey. Hey! Can you hear me?"

Amber waited a beat for she realized the stranger wasn't going to say 'over.' Despite her fatigue, the failure to follow protocol irked her, and she responded crossly, "This is In Amber Clad, I read you. Over."

"Oh my God, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice. It's been… Jesus, years, since I last spoke to someone human!"

"Huh? Wait, who is this?" Amber discreetly ordered her signals officers to comb the transmission for malware. They returned after a few moments, having found no viruses, but instead something about the format of the message which made Amber do a double-take before scrambling to key her microphone again. "Your transmission protocols — why are they from 2552? I mean, mine are too, but that's not the point here. Identify yourself! Over."

"Don't worry, don't worry, just let me be excited for a minute, hm~?" The ending lilt covered up a distinct, watery quaver, as if the speaker was suppressing tears. The line went quiet for a few seconds before the voice return, steadier than before. "Alright, I managed to sneak into a comms channel while that bitch is distracted by more pressing matters, but we don't have much time. Listen and do exactly what I say."

"Do exactly as—hey! I don't trust you for a minute, you still haven't answered my question! Who are you, where are you transmitting from, and why should I believe a thing you say? And say over when you're done, over!" She was getting antsy. Though this was a much-appreciated break, those battleships wouldn't stay milling around forever. Eventually, they would remember her, and her struggle for survival would resume.

"… that's fair. Right." The sound of a throat being cleared. "Okay, it's a bit complicated, but basically this alien has hijacked my body for itself. I'm the equivalent of a split personality, but I still have some autonomy, and right now my uninvited guest is doing its level best to pound Dawn into a bloody paste. Bad for her, but good for me, because its mental guards are down and I can sneak a transmission out to you through its neural implants! That's where I'm transmitting from, inside its head. As for why you should trust me, well, I want my fucking body back. And as for who I am, you can call me Pillar of Autumn."

"Pillar of—?!"

"But that's not important, hm~? Please, listen to me closely. I know how we can all make it out of this alive, but only if you do exactly as I say."