"An exchange?"

"More amateur stuff. They're lucky it's as busy as it is here, or they would have been snatched. I don't think they realise just how dangerous these people really are. I've sent the rest of the team after our mysterious benefactor. I'm still on the Doctor."

"Solid copy. Keep me informed."

"Signal's kind of scratchy. What's your location?"

"The Tana Ice-Floes. Northern Pole."

"Jesus, that's in the arsehole of nowhere. What has you out there?"

"Retrieving an asset. Stay with Dr. Pearson. We'll be in a position to execute shortly."

- mission log, [DATA EXPUNGED\\ .error\\]

The Tanian Mountains were hazardous, even for an experienced climber.

Jonas Lindberg grunted as he slammed the ice-pick into the mountain side, before reaching his right leg up and testing his new perch with a probing nudge of his boot. He hauled himself upward, digging the knee of his left leg into a natural groove set into the frozen rock-face. The arrest cable clinked in its harness as it tugged tightly against his stomach, tensing as the three climbers below him struggled to keep up. They were tech specialists, trained in repairing UEG com relays in hazardous environments. Each of the team were tough men and women, survivalists used to all manner of extremes, well deserving of respect. But Tana, the most northern city on Granica V was Jonas' home. They were in his arena, one he had mastered long ago.

But Jonas did not grow complacent. He was a quiet man in his thirties; jovial, but softly spoken. Like many in Tana he spoke multiple languages, and was blessed with a gentle manner and an inner mental toughness required of all climbers. The mountain they found themselves on was known as Djur, or The Beast, as his UEG companions had roughly translated. It wasn't the tallest mountain on Granica V, but its conditions made it one of the toughest. To underestimate it was to court disaster.

Jonas led the way for this climbing expedition. The objective – to repair relay towers damaged in the Data Surge six months ago – was simple. The execution was notoriously more difficult. Ferocious crosswinds mean that even Pelican transports couldn't risk the blizzard, and the most recent outage means a team must physically make the ascent. A challenge Jonas himself relished.

The relay disks were at the summit, on an open plateau that was covered in ice-storms for a considerable part of the year. Today was no different.

He paused at his current perch; one hand on the ice-pick implanted into the mountainside, the other fishing out an ice screw from his webbing. He hammered the screw home; twisting it into place and threading the cable in place. He held a hand on the mic bead of his com, bellowing to be heard above the howling gale. His muscles screamed for respite, but he ignored them. Mind over matter.

"Not much farther now. Next point is marked."

Jonas had lived in Tana all his life. He had dealt with the near-constant darkness, the raw, untamed beauty of the northern expanse all his adult life. The hazards here were many and varied: if the polar bears and avalanches were deadly, then the sub-zero temperature was deadlier still.

Today the weather was particularly savage: a howling blizzard had dropped visibility to below three metres. Jonas' beard had frozen to his face, his nose and cheeks were red-raw from where the heat-suit ended and left his skin exposed. The more advanced environment suits offer full visor protection, or thermal-lined balaclavas, but Jonas was a traditionalist; a hardened-climber coming from a tradition of hardened climbers. He did things the old way or not at all.

There were perhaps three climbers in all of Tana capable of matching him on an ascent in these conditions as difficult as today.

None of these men were the man on the cliff-face above him, well out of sight.

Officially, Jonas led the climb. He certainly had set out to do so. Connecting points as he went, threading the arresting ropes through so the others could clip on and follow. This was the thrill he lived for, what he was best at. Then the other man, the taller man, had eclipsed him. It happened so quickly. He appeared, wordlessly took the point gear and moving on ahead, vanishing into the frizzling static of the blizzard above. No support rope, no safety catch but for his two relentless ice picks, hacking up the mountainside as he went. Jonas blinked in astonishment. The man was a newcomer to the team, his accent and mannerisms marked him as being foreign to the primarily Scandinavian community that inhabited Tana. His height too: the Northern Cities built strong men, but none of that size.

Nowhere did.

As an insurance policy, Jonas placed new arresting points of his own, at intervals corresponding with the gaps in the points already set into the mountain. Jonas checked the existing screws; scrutinising the work. Professionally done, though not in a manner Jonas would have chosen. The difference in technique and application was subtle, but Jonas recognised it: the man had formal military training. Jonas shrugged, pushed himself upward and slammed his pick into the next foothold. At least they would make good time.

Something happened above, high up on the mountain. Unexpected and utterly without warning. The entire ice-face exploded downward, descending in a spray of sifting powdered snow sheets tumbling blocks of ice. Whole clumps of it smashed off Jonas' helmet, knocking him senseless. He fell with it, arms free-wheeling as ice-pins and arresting hooks pinged free with ballistic force. He dropped in free fall. They all did. His scream was snatch-stolen by the icy air. His lungs burned with the searing cold.

This was it. This was how he died.

The climbing cable lashed taught, snapping him about. He spun wildly, groping madly for the ice picks that dangled loose from cables affixed to his sleeves. Eventually his knee smashed the mountainside, arresting his spin and sending a white-hot jolt of pain up his leg. Jonas howled.

The winds had picked up, clearing the storm for the briefest of moments overhead. Blinking through burning tears, Jonas forgot the pain in his leg instantly, shocked.

The tall man hung from the mountainside, secured by one ice-pick buried deep in the frozen rock. The entire ice-sheet below him had given way. His other hand clutched the climbing cable, which was otherwise unattached to the mountain proper. His free hand was a balled fist, his bicep bulging as it supported the weight of four grown people.

If the weight burdened the man, Jonas could not tell. His face was hidden by a heavy set of impassive goggles, and his chin was peppered with frozen stubble. The man's jaw was bolted in a tight grimace. The giant stared down at Jonas, waiting patiently. With a start, Jonas remembered himself, pulling his ice-picks back into his grip and securing them into the rock-face with a hastily applied ice-screw.

Jonas looked back up, made eye-contact with his new climbing partner. The tall man nodded once, satisfied, and then resumed his ascent. Soon, he was lost to the blizzard once more.

Jonas opened his com line to the rest of the climb team.

"All okay?!"

A chorus of breathless affirmatives answered him. One man was murmuring a prayer of thanks, over and over. Jonas closed his eyes and sighed, pulse thundering in his ears as relief and adrenaline rushed through his veins.

Jonas Lindberg would lead a long and eventful life. He would climb many mountains, accomplish many more feats the average human being would be envious of. In spite of all this, he would never forget that day - when one man saved four others, and never even stopped for thanks.

That the man had vanished when they reached the peak, absent but for a wide patch of melted snow and a single rope cinched tightly around a boulder, was a mystery that Jonas Lindberg would never solve.

Ten minutes earlier, Damien reached the final summit. He sliced his pick into the top lip of rock, pulling his chin up to face the plateau ahead of him.

Facing him were pair of deep crimson boots. Armoured, Mjolnir Gen 2, Soldier Pattern. Attached to these boots were a large combat machete, and above them again a set of armoured kneepads, which led up into an altogether intimidating figure he knew all to well. Damien looked up and did his best to mask his shock.

"451." Eric's amplified voice boomed out over the gale, expression impassive as ever behind the golden slid of his visor. He bent down and offered a hand. Damien took it, and was swung up to his feet as Eric effortlessly hauled him up and over onto the plateau.

Behind Eric nestled a massive dropship; engines keening in standby mode as it was buffeted by the relentless gale, its running lights piercing through the churning snowstorm. The ship was larger than a standard Pelican; the slight bulge at the rear of its fuselage identified it as a D81 Long Range Transport; an older cousin of the Pelican, but one that was, crucially, Slipspace enabled. The weight of its landing gear had dislodged part of the cliff-face. Its attitude adjustment jets pulsed constantly, making micro-adjustments to hold the ship in place. Only a highly skilled or downright insane pilot would attempt to land a bird in these conditions.

Beyond the dropship lay the interstellar com relays, what had been Damien's original destination. Something told him that things had changed.

"Spartan 239." Damien nodded in reply. "Wasn't quite expecting to see you here, Sir."

"I reserve the right to be surprising. Your arm is bleeding."

Damien looked down, at where the arrest cable had sliced deep into his jacket, slicing into the skin. He hadn't noticed.

"I'm still combat effective, Sir."

"Glad to hear it; it's time you went back to work." Eric pointed at a boulder behind him. "Arrest point over here."

Damien tied off his gear, then nodded to the rope snaking over the cliff side. He pointed toward it with a thumb.

"What about the others?"

"Leave your gear and supplies here, you won't need them. We've left instructions with the ground team that you're being reassigned. They'll be informed once the relay is back online."

"You mean I'm too qualified for maintenance duty?"

"Something like that." Eric nodded toward the drop-ship "C'mon. Storm's clearing soon, and we need to be gone."

"Where are we going?" Damien asked as the ramp yawned shut behind them.

"We've unfinished business in Argjend. They say Fireteam Chimera's out of commission." Eric didn't look back as he strode ahead, "I beg to differ."

Twenty minutes later, and considerably warmer, Damien found himself in the cramped confines of a briefing room. The D81 was an older vessel, favoured by colonials and transport types, but there was nothing out of date with this ship.

It had been heavily modified. The rear troop compartments were gone, replaced instead with two opposing wall-racks of weapons; carrying everything from standard MA5 assault rifles to experimental net launchers and guns Damien had never even seen before. There was a large T-shaped machine caged to the ceiling of the rear hold, and both Spartans had to duck beneath it as they moved deeper into the ship. Damien didn't get a good look at it, but then everything was moving so quickly he didn't stop to inspect it. There would be time for that later.

The central chamber was as modified as the rest of the craft. Commanding the centre of the room was a briefing console. Bolted onto the far end of the chamber was an Armour Assist Unit, used for outfitting Spartans.

Eric reached up and removed his helmet, his ruined face made all the more disconcerting by the slight smile he wore on his lips. Damien had never seen the older Spartan excited before, and quickly decided that he never wanted to again.

"The mission clock is running; has been since we touched down. So I'll be brief."

Two men entered the chamber, stepping out from the cockpit section.

"First, introductions," Eric began. "This is Perry, He owns the ship. Well, the ONI own the ship, but he's been kind enough to fly it for us for the duration of our stay here on Granica."

The pilot was a slim man, dwarfed by Damien in size, but then Damien was used to that. He wore a neatly trimmed goatee and his lined eyes pinched with crows feet whenever he smiled. For all his friendly demeanour, there was something in his eyes. Experience.

"Call me Warmonger." Perry extended his hand, coughed awkwardly, "Or Dave. Dave will do. I'm retired; technically a contractor."

"Damien." They shook hands, "They let contractors join ops like this?"

"Hey, my wife thinks I run a transport business." Perry offered a conspiratorial smile, "You keep my secret, I'll keep yours." Perry turned to Eric, "We've got a course set in to join one of the standard shipping lanes entering above Argjend. Auto-pilot has us for most of the way, but there's going to be a slight delay. Lot of ships looking to make it groundside; only one Starport to go through."

Perry paused, noticing Damien's arm.

"Uh... you do know your arm is bleeding, right?"

"Yeah. So people keep telling me."

Eric gestured to the next man in line.

"You already known Engineer Park. He's on loan from Laconia, and will be providing remote systems support when you're groundside. Your new armour set's been outfitted with some notable improvements. He'll brief you more later."

"Good to see you again, Damien." Park grinned toothily. For once, the portly engineer wasn't hidden behind a dust-mask. "We've got a few more toys for you to try out this time."

"Looking forward to it, Park."

They bumped knuckles. Park winced and flapped his hand at the Spartan's strength.

"Thank you, Gentleman. We're in a liquid situation, so allow me to get 451 up to speed." Eric nodded at them.

Taking their cue, the two men scarpered back up to the front of the ship.

When they were gone, Eric nodded and looked back at Damien.

"There's a ground team in play who you'll meet in due course. But for now it's sufficient to say that you'll be providing tactical support in the event the situation escalates."

"Are we expecting it to escalate?"

"Without question." Eric grimaced. "It's been slowly building to this point over the past six months. Step over here a moment."

The briefing console showed a variety of combat footage, most of it taken from Chimera helmet cams during the Battle for New Cadiz. Damien recognised some scenes directly fed from his own helmet capture; then saw his armoured reflection relayed back via Rashid's cam-feed. His armour had been so clean and pristine then, before the fighting really heated up. Before the whole damn city came down.

The scene was shortly after landfall. Chimera had intercepted a beleaguered UNSC convoy, comprised of combined Army Ranger and local colonial elements. Both Rashid and Damien were poring over the assembled bodies of military aged males, all of whom showed signs of surgical scarring at the rear of their skulls.

"Do you remember these men?" Eric asked.

"Of course. Rash picked up on it. Infrared tattoos on their wrists, neural laces had been removed. Special forces, likely some kind of off-books black ops unit. I tried to mention them at the formal enquiry, asked them to review the footage, but the hearings wouldn't condone it. Said it 'detracted from the wider question of responsibility.'"

That prompted a cynical snort from Eric.

"And isn't that convenient? Here's what we know so far."

Eric started interacting with the display, his inputs nimble and accurate even spite of his massive gauntlets.

"Approximately eighteen months ago, a hidden ONI Research Facility was raided by an unknown force identified as being explicitly non-Covenant."

The footage snapped to a ruined lab; a chaotic scene. There was no audio feed, and for that Damien was grateful. The air was choked with twisting smoke and small fires. Alert signals pulsed an angry strobe in the gloom. Scientists fled to and fro, in abject panic. They stooped over com channels, crying for help. Then further distortions as explosions split the air. A door burst inward; flash bangs and concussion grenades most likely. Sweeping through the twisting after-smoke was the unmistakable silhouette of a UNSC kill-team. No uniforms or insignia, but the drill work was unmistakable, text book. Were they not so intent on mowing down civilians, Damien would have been impressed.

"The location was a Tier One Facility, well protected, closely guarded. Even now, I can't disclose its name or location without a maximum level clearance."

One tall figure stepped through the twisting ruin of the doorway, dressed in a familiar black coat. A panicking scientist fled into the frame, hands held in surrender, pleading. With a smooth efficiency the man pulled a service pistol and drilled him twice in the centre mass, before stepping forward and planting a finishing round in his skull. He spared a glance up at the camera.

Eric stabbed the pause button, capturing the man's face right as Damien's blood went cold.

"Look familiar?"

Damien could only nod, jaw clenched.

Of course he did. Every member of Chimera had encountered him at some point. He had pulled Damien screaming into a transport right as Hibernia burned from Covenant orbital bombardment. He had watched Luke undergo test after test, trapped in a lab like a hapless rat. Stood over Chidinma and Rashid as they recovered in hospital after their abortive flight from Cairo III. Had executed Viktorya's father with the same cold efficiency shown in the video.

Damien found his hand drifting toward the set of dog tags that were around his neck.

Eric was still talking.

"ONI have been monitoring the interrogation footage taken from interviews with the surviving Insurrectionists. Reports are scattered, but many point to Al'Hajar having an advisor, a man by the name of Conrad Hedeker."

"So he has a name." Damien's eyes narrowed.

"He does, but from what we can tell Conrad Hedeker doesn't exist. Conrad Hedeker has never existed. I've been around a long time, but I've only ever heard of this guy in stories. And intelligence is a small community, believe me. So I did some more digging."

The shaky footage of the ruined lab disappeared, replaced by a personnel report and a mugshot. He was younger then, as Damien remembered. Still the man's face was largely featureless, his eyes, nose and ears having all manner of faint surgical scarring. Or, more correctly: faces. A variety of pictures of different identities; his facial hair would shift, or his lips would alter. The footage sped up, year after year, mugshot after mugshot. Over the accelerated time lapse, an entire appearance reformed itself again and again, making and remaking itself with each adopted identity. It was only the eyes that remained constant – an unblinking, penetrating stare.

A handful of project names flashed up beneath his picture; associated projects, most likely. Damien didn't recognise any of the: ORION, TREBUCHET, PINNACLE, and a dozen others besides. ARROWHEAD was the most recent project name on the list. A list of fourteen languages showed up, everything from Pashtun to Sangheili, from Chinese to Kig'Yar trade tongues. No further details were available. The rest was bar after black bar of redaction, record expunged, EYES ONLY.

"Meet Elias Becker. Decorated service record, or at least from what I can infer from the punctuation marks they left in. You think our records are classified? This piece of work has been in operation for some sixty years, and that's only what I can infer from the dates associated with those code names."

"Even discounting cryo-statis and relativity, this guy's gotta be a relic by this point."

"A dangerous relic. Becker is the spook's spook: the boogie man they tell the other boogie men stories about, to make sure they go to bed on time, eat their vegetables. He doesn't have a record because he's never been just one person. He's done it all. Kidnappings, targeted assassinations; everything from top level wet-work to high end genetic research, the Spartan programs."

"Reassuring."

"My entire assignment on Laconia was a deep cover plant. Becker went off the reservation, and it's my job - our job - to bring him in. I've been tracking him ever since. It's a clean capture or kill mandate, open ended. I've been given a zero sum budget."

"ONI must really want this guy silenced."

"He's had a hand in nearly every major project since the Human-Covenant War started. Even if he hadn't misappropriated ONI assets, there's no telling what manner of secrets he might reveal."

"I can understand their concern."

"It's more than concern. ONI are terrified. He gave us the slip in New Cadiz, and destroyed an entire city to do so. There's no telling what else he'll do to avoid being apprehended."

"So the last project name on the list, ARROWHEAD." Damien asked. "That have any connection to what Becker's doing now?"

Eric froze at that, momentarily. Had he been wearing his helmet, Damien wouldn't have caught it. There was something in the eyes though, a sliver of… worry? An unfamiliar knot of anxiety twisted in Damien's stomach. If something was enough to have a stone-killer like Eric spooked, Damien didn't even want to know what it was.

"That's need to know." Eric said eventually, "For now it's sufficient to say Becker has an agenda, and something or someone on Granica V is furthering that agenda."

The overview sifted to show Argjend. A Silver City with a bare-boned and decayed outer half.

"All we know is that he's here. We can't move in. Not directly. If we startle this guy, he'll go to ground, and knowing his background we'll never find him again."

"So what's the call?"

"Groundside intelligence reports a slew of disappearances across the city. Information brokers, low level mostly, but all signs are pointing to a systematic purge. Whoever's behind it, they're not leaving many traces."

"You think he's cleaning house?"

"I think something has left Becker exposed, and he wants to make damn sure that whatever loose end is out there gets tied up."

Damien nodded. Then a question formed on his lips, one that had plaguing him ever since they had stripped him of his combat certification.

"So why pull the disappearing act six months ago? Why not go through official channels?"

"Because the section I work for? We don't exist, not officially. As I said, the mission clock we started in orbit over New Cadiz is still running. Condition Zero remains in effect. Whatever we do, it hinges on plausible deniability. We get caught, captured, killed? That's on us."

"That doesn't sound encouraging."

"That's the job, Spartan. Always has been."

"So what about the others? Why not Viktorya? She's got a score to settle, and has the highest combat rating out of any of us."

"Her whereabouts are unknown. The other members of Chimera are either under close surveillance or combat ineffective."

"Rash still hasn't recovered?"

"No, and nobody's sure why." Eric replied, clearly troubled, "Genetically he was a perfect fit for the Spartan program."

"So it's just you and me then. Two man op."

"Just you and me, 451."

Eric did quite a surprising thing then. He stood back and looked Damien square in the eye. Then he saluted.

"Welcome to Section Zero."