"Gene-modding is nothing new. It was as far back as the 21st century when humanity attained a comprehensive understanding of genetic sequencing. It was the 22nd century before we actually applied our knowledge: a tweak here, an enhancement there. They struggled to get that far: there were as many legal questions as scientific ones.
For all the risks, it stood to us, time and time again. The long range reconnaissance patrols in the Rainforest Wars, for instance; men and women who could stay awake for forty eight hours without the faintest sign of fatigue. Or the far-scape pioneers, the original Outer-Colonists; engineered to quietly reject the innumerable diseases encountered on the wild frontier. On their proto-augmented shoulders, the UEG was built and, with it, the UNSC.
There were set-backs, of course. Reduced life spans, unforeseen side-effects; growths and lesions and tumours. All manner of horrific tragedies, best forgotten. Still, progress was made. With each passing century the science improved; our methods and flesh-craft steadily refined. Finally, mankind had conquered an obstacle that had been hitherto insurmountable: its own genetic destiny.
ORION was the realisation of all that had come before. It had been subtle in its implementation. Increased lifespans, faster reflex times, improved adrenal response rates. I remember my first injections, aged eighteen. My scalp was still raw and bare from where the induction committee had plucked me from Boot. The scientists cooed over us, told us how perfect our genes were; how this was meant to be. They told us that while they could not make us immortal, our legacy would live forever. That ours was the first step in an exciting journey.
Had I known where that journey led, of what horrors ORION would spawn later, I think I would have run screaming, all those years ago."
Excerpt from a private record, author unknown
The Chamber of Governance was a lofty title, but it suited. The vast hall sat beneath a vaulted dome ceiling, in the very heart of the Granican Parliament in Victory Square. Externally the building was all white marble and broad stone steps; a tourist attraction, such was the quality of the masonry. Nobody built wholly from stone anymore, not on Outer Colonies. It was a dignified relic, a post-card distributed on and off-planet.
The chamber itself was every bit as grand. The table was a deep, rich mahogany; circular in shape, capable accommodating fifteen of the most influential members of Granica V's government.
Today's assembly was no different. It was a who's who of major politicians; a vibrant mix of full dress uniforms and civilian attire. All branches of the local government were present. Commissioner Weldon was there, head of both the APD and a member of the Granican Security Council. He shook hands with the civilians, offering salutes to one or two of his former comrades in the colonial reserve. A former military man, bearded and well into his sixties. The old habits die hard. He wore the frocked blue of the APD, his cap tucked under his arm. It was rare to see a veteran that age.
Weldon snapped a particularly crisp salute to the next man who entered; a weathered, sag-faced man who wore every minute of the Covenant War etched across his haggard face. It was returned neatly. General William Stape had been a permanent member of the Governing Council since the UNSC Taskforce's arrival late last year. It was he who had instituted martial law six months prior; who had restored order with rubber bullets, armoured cars and marching boots. A heavy handed approach, but ultimately necessary. As the ranking UNSC official in the system, he was a key player in the room. Crushing military power would make anyone a force to be reckoned with. Stape wasn't shy about bandying it around either.
Administrator Jennings was the last to enter the chamber. She was small in stature for such a powerful presence. If Stape was the military muscle in the room, then she had the soft power side of things sown up. The entire room responded to her. Having inherited the position of Acting Administrator following her predecessor's untimely assassination at the hands of Insurrectionist agitators, it had been an easy step into a more formalised role as the effective Head of State.
Jennings had swept into power in the formal elections following the end of martial law, riding a wave of goodwill from the thousands of residents who had followed her from Crassus, a smaller colony on the furthest edge of the galactic rim.
She was in her late forties now, but the years had been especially hard on her. Power aged you, sooner than it ought to. Amanda Jennings was no exception in this. Now she was silver haired, her face lined from years of responsibility. The Battle for Horizon eight years earlier had taken much from her – a husband, countless friends, indeed the very colony itself. That she found herself in such a key position on an unfamiliar world was a testament to her fortitude as a political operator.
Jennings platform for election had been founded on three basic principles: a comprehensive solution to the refugee crisis, an end to martial law and a reinstatement of Granica V's sovereignty as an autonomous UNSC protectorate and, thirdly, an end to organised crime. Jennings was a facilitator, a negotiator and a diplomat of some renown.
Right now she was livid.
Outwardly Jennings seemed fine. She nodded greetings here and there, offering the occasional brief smile to her closer allies. But there was a crackling intensity about her. Amanda Jennings took matters concerning the Refugee Zone personally. After all, it had not been long ago when she was one herself.
She took her seat. A hush fell on the chamber.
Jennings took her time. She sat back in her chair; shoulders set, spine straight. She formed a steeple with her finger tips; tapping them together twice, with slow deliberation. As though reaching some private conclusion.
Then the Administrator folded her hands on the table in front of her and began. Every syllable was measured; carefully weighted, tested and then delivered, firm and clear. Loudly projected, precisely enunciated.
"Good morning. I want it to be made perfectly clear to everyone here that I do not hold any of you individually responsible for what happened in our city last night. This is a tragedy of circumstance, born from external pressures originating far beyond the borders of this colony. Every major city has had to deal with flotillas drifting in from worlds that were less fortunate than our own. I myself arrived here on one such ship. The 'Zone is a symptom of an external malady, compounded by the destruction of New Cadiz. It is a malady I would see healed with all speed."
Jennings regarded the rest of the table steadily, her eyes moving from one face to the next. Her chin rose in defiance as a harder edge creeped into her voice.
"But that does not absolve us from our obligation to protect the people of this city. This does not lessen our failure, indeed my failure, as Administrator of this colony. Under our governance the problem has been allowed to grow. Its problems have been permitted to fester. Last night's butchery is a damning testament to our inaction."
Jennings took a moment to lick her lips before continuing. Nobody dared speak.
"Well no longer. The 'Zone and our frankly criminal neglect of it ends today. Commissioner Weldon, I want containment of the crowds. Careful containment: we are here to help these people, not bully them."
That drew a scowl from General Stape.
"I want recovery teams rotating in the 'Zone for the next week. Food, medical supplies; whatever they need, we provide. Any production of the auto-manufactories is to be re-designated for housing. I don't care about the space considerations. The economic implications be damned. If we need to build hyper-scrapers, then hyper-scrapers it is. If it doubles the city's footprint, then let it double. We have a planet's worth of space. What we've been lacking is the fortitude to properly accommodate these people."
There was applause. Much of it was heartfelt. Some of it was mere courtesy.
"Administrator." General Stape raised a hand "I believe I speak for everyone here when I say that last night's gang violence was unfortunate, tragic even. But the problem isn't one of policing, or housing; it's a question of security. We have on our doorstep an entire ghetto made up undocumented citizens, many of whom have no readily identifiable means of income. Many of whom are being steadily identified as hailing from families that have recorded Insurrectionist links. This threat cannot be over-stated."
Commissioner Weldon weighed in behind him:
"I agree with the General, Ma'am. We cannot afford to simply let them loose under the grounds of pure altruism. Not without the requisite checks and balances in place. We're processing 'em as best we can, but the 'Zone for the moment is a necessary evil. I believe we should be more concerned about why it is there are so many weapons being brought through into the 'Zone. And what that requires, as I have asked for, time and time again, is a greater police budget."
It was a conservative politician who spoke up next. Cummings; the rake thin man with a widow's peak and bony jaw. A brilliant man, though calculating and oftentimes cruel for all his savvy. He was Jennings' main political opponent; a financial broker of considerable local importance. Cummings was a long term Granican, who had been steadily amassing a small fortune since the Great War had broken out some forty years prior. Now he was powerful, both politically and financially (the sad fact that these two characteristics were intrinsically linked did not escape Jennings).
Even with the crash of the local stock market last year, Cummings remained a force to be reckoned with. He had, after all, invested in the very construction companies Jennings was now addressing. His voice was a hollow rasp as he spoke.
"Each of us shares your grief for the families in the 'Zone, Administrator." Cummings spoke slowly, with confidence, "we understand all too well the challenges you yourself faced in coming to this planet. But we find ourselves balanced on a tight rope: if we rush to accommodate the needs of the influx too quickly, we stand accused of being soft, and risking further refugees flooding our way from off-world. If we are seen to do nothing, then we are callous, inhuman. Now I don't propose to speak for everyone here, but I for one would rather be seen as cold and prudent rather than warm and foolish."
"There's also the matter of stability."
That was General Stape again. His views on New Cadiz were black and white. To Stape, the city had been an Insurrectionst hell-hole; an ant hill to be squashed with a descending boot. An Orbital Tether landing on it was probably the best thing that ever happened to it.
"You drop that wall and let 'em in, you'll have more than riots on your hands. You'll need my boots on the ground, and next time – and there will be a next time - we won't be leaving."
There it was. The overt threat; toys cast from a pram. Stape, Weldon and Cummings; a trifecta of military, police and financial power. Jennings was, in the bluntest interpretation possible, quite sick of their shit. She responded as such, her tone considerably more measured than the fury spiking within her.
"I've had quite enough of your version of law and order, General. I thank you and all your men for the service you have provided, I do; but The Great War is over. The governance of this colony is a UEG matter, to which the UNSC is answerable. I would remind you that this is an Outer Colony, not a staging area." Jennings countered sternly, to some applause, "And I do not care for the word influx either, Representative Cummings. It dehumanises an all too human problem."
And on it went: Jennings demanding the same measures she'd been pushing for since her election. The vested interests staunchly opposing her every step of the way, and nothing being solved all the while. The deadlock was infuriating.
Still, they relented on certain items. The wall wasn't coming down overnight, but by the time the session ended, some three hours later, she had coordinated a relief effort that would keep the naysayers and political point scorers in check for another day. Jennings had built her platform on immigration reform; not because it was a topical issue, but because it was damn important to her. If she failed in this, then – as she saw it - she didn't deserve to be Administrator. It was as much a victory as she could have hoped.
As she exited the chamber, an immense shadow fell over her.
"Ma'am."
She looked up and smiled.
Her escort had arrived. She found it difficult to tell the Spartans apart, but this particular giant stood out amongst his peers for his sheer scale. Trident Four, Aata, was a Maori. Whatever genetic gifts the Maori people had (and they had many), physical strength and size stood out in particular.
While seldom without his helmet on duty, Jennings had seen Aata's face before, knew that it was stencilled with the tribal tattoos of his proud people. He was almost double her size. He had mentioned once that his armour pattern was known as the Enforcer type. The designation suited him. Aata carried a standard MA5B Assault rifle when on security duty. It looked like a mere toy in his hands.
"Your transport awaits you outside, Madame Administrator. The rest of the team is on standby."
"Lead on, Aata." Jennings smiled, patting him on the arm.
The Administrator and her goliath of a bodyguard strode out of the hall together, his clomping footfalls echoing in the cavernous hall. Crowds of diplomats, movers and shakers all, parted like a biblical sea before them as they made for the exit.
Watching them leave from one of the observation platforms high above was Elias Becker. He was soon joined by Commissioner Weldon.
"Do you think she's even aware?" Becker mused, drumming his fingers on the railing thoughtfully. "That she's in power because we permit her to be in power?"
Weldon shook his head.
"We have the situation contained. As far as she's concerned, it's a terrorist attack. The ChatterNet and Waypoint feeds only corroborate as such."
"Excellent." Becker turned and looked at Weldon frankly, "There may be an incident in the city later this afternoon. An overspill of gang activity, that's the official word. I want your most trusted men on standby. Could be a lead on those Russian gangs you're always talking about. Doubtless the Administrator herself will be pleased."
"Of course. I'll send word immediately."
Becker smiled, pleased. Weldon was a loyal puppet. The moment Becker had contained Kaizen's digital rampage, the commissioner had belonged to him. That Becker had been responsible for the 'Surge in the first place was an entirely separate detail, one he never particularly intended to share.
"And another thing. We have reason to believe there's a rogue Spartan on the loose. One with Insurrectionist sympathies; a dangerous precedent." Becker saw the look in Weldon's eyes, "Now, now; there's no need to panic. I will ensure you receive the appropriate support via the appropriate channels, but I wanted you to hear it from me first, so you can prepare accordingly."
"Yes Sir, thank you."
"Do you remember those Chimera people? The Spartans from the tribunal last year? I suggest you have them contained. Double the guards on them. Triple them, if you can."
"Yes Sir. Absolutely Sir."
Weldon gave another salute. Becker nodded at that, patted the railing twice and strode off, a spring in his step.
There. That should be the matter settled.
Now he could get back to work.
They parked the Warthog in a dingy alley not far from the border of the 'Zone. The Clinic was an entirely different one to the one Watanabe had told the checkpoint guard. This had not been intentional subterfuge on her part: Murphy had simply been insistent that they go here instead.
Western Medical Four was a government funded medical centre, though medical centre was far too grand a title. In truth it was a back alley clinic, as good at distributing methadone to recovering addicts as it was at patching the odd bullet wound or two. Such was life in the Western District.
The place didn't seem open. There were no lights on, and any windows that they could see were ominously barred to the outside. Only the inert medical sign above the rusted doorway gave any indication that it was a place of healing.
Murphy took point. He hammered his fist on the steel door, twice.
"We're closed." A voice muffled through the door. "Come back at noon."
"Hepburn, open up." Murphy spared a tired glance at Rebecca. "It's Murphy."
"Murphy's dead. Died four years ago. Drop went bad, so they said." A note of curiosity entered the voice, "Who is this?"
"The same Murphy who pulled your arse out of the fire on Crassus seven years ago. Brute Choppers. A refinery. A Scarab or two, as I recall. Also sand. Lots of sand."
At that, there was a series of muffled clicks, squeals and clacks, then one final hollow scrape as the final deadbolt was pulled.
The door was wrenched open. A tiny, age-shrunk man blinked up at them.
"Well I'll be damned. It is you. They said you were dead!" Hepburn grinned toothily, though there were little in the way of teeth left. He spied Fenton and Watanabe, grinned again. "'Tan! Mikey! Great to see you! Come in, come in!"
He waved them inside, shooing at them like disobedient cats.
The clinic was every bit as dingy on the inside as it was outside. There walls were chipped linoleum, and the lights were as dim as a morgue. Rebecca could vaguely make out shelves of old medical supplies; specimen jars, antique calipers; all manner of bric-a-brac.
Mounted on the wall was a butchered MA5 assault rifle; one she'd never seen before in all her time spent in the presence of soldiers. It had a wire stock, for one. Any navigation and ammo counter had been gutted from the main assembly. The barrel was wrapped in sand-choked cloth.
"Like that? That's an MA5K – K for Crassus, we used to say. Kicked like a bastard, but so reliable! You'd pour sand down the barrel, and still she'd fire. Not the prettiest, but then we had to use what we had to hand, innit?"
That wasn't the only souvenir on the walls. Nailed to the wall were all sorts of black and white photographs – doubtless a stylistic choice on Hepburn's part. One image showed a group of sixty resistance fighters crowding around an armoured ODST. The ODST had his helmet off, and was holding a black flag with Murphy's Militia written in white paint across the front of it. She realised it was a younger Murphy; handsome and smiling.
"Different times then, different times." Hepburn sniffed nostalgically, following her gaze. There was a bit of dust in his eye.
Murphy set a hand on Hepburn's shoulder.
"Fenton's been hit, Hep. He needs medical attention."
"Right, right. 'Course." Hepburn scraped at his cheek. "Right, well firstly; let's manage expectations. I'm not a doctor."
All four of them blinked at him. Seeing their look he held up his hands defensively.
"'Ang on, don't get too upset. See, there's one in the next room. Just a minute!" Hepburn turned his head over his shoulder and started yelling. "Hey, Suz! Come out here! Got some people you need to meet!"
A door swung open. Suzy was a younger clone of Hepburn; mid-forties, and while not a handsome woman, she was considerably less scruffy than her father. She wore hospital scrubs and was evidently still prepping for the day's work ahead.
"Suz's my daughter, see." Hepburn explained, somewhat unnecessarily, "She runs the place. Has done since we got here. I'm… erm, well a bit of a handy man I suppose. Try an' help out as I can. You know, this and that."
"Security primarily." Suzy smiled patiently as she shook hands with each of them. "Suzy Hepburn."
"Brendan Murphy. I served with your father on Crassus. I don't believe we've met."
Suzy shook her head.
"I was inside the underground shelters when the invasion started. Didn't see much beyond the casualties they brought in from the Outer Wall. By the time the fighting was done, Horizon was little more than a burning shell. I spent the next few months in aid stations tending to the wounded. Then we were on a refugee ship, bound for the Granica System."
"And here you are. Good to meet you. This is Dr. Rebecca Pearson, a psych specialist with the UNSC. These two here are part of my team: Haruko Watanabe, Michael Fenton. Ex-ODST, now with Naval Intelligence."
Suzy blinked at that.
"You're a spy? Aren't you supposed to keep that sort of thing a secret?"
"These are extraordinary circumstances, Dr. Hepburn. Fenton here needs help. I don't trust anywhere else to take him. Is there somewhere he can lie low for a while?"
"'Course mate," Hepburn Senior spoke up, "My bedroom's upstairs, first door on the right. Stay as long as you like."
Murphy nodded his thanks.
"Thanks Hep. 'Tan has some medical training; she'll stay will stay with you for the duration and provide direct security." Watanabe agreed with a determined nod, "I have to get Dr. Pearson here to a secure location."
"Why?" Hepburn asked, "Here's safe as safe can be."
"It's not her safety I'm worried about, it's yours, Hep. The people we're dealing with aren't the type to stop and ask questions."
"The Refugee 'Zone last night?" Rebecca spoke up for the first time, "That was them. I don't want to get you caught up in this any more than I am."
Hepburn nodded gratefully.
"Well listen, Murphy. It's great to see you. Wish it were under different circumstances, mate. You leave Fenton here with us, and we'll get him right as rain, I promise 'yeh."
Murphy and Rebecca thanked them and departed, stepping back into the alley. Neither of them noticed the small black disc affixed to the top of the 'Hog as they climbed back inside: it was a small, semi-translucent material; difficult to discern in the gloom of the alley.
They set off, pulling out onto the wide roads once more. That change in architecture around them was startling. Compared to the 'Zone, the Western District was downright civilized. Rebecca marvelled at how quickly her own standards had changed over a short few hours.
"Crassus." Rebecca said eventually, breaking the silence, "I read about it in Explorer Monthly once. One of the Outer Colonies, right?"
"Yeah. Not a whole lot out there, that far on the rim. Just one city, Horizon. Mining town. Our ship, the Anchises, had set down for emergency repairs following an ill-fated encounter with the Covenant in an adjoining system. Captain was dead, most of the senior command staff too. We thought we were going to sit out the war, stranded on that dust-bowl for the duration. As it happened, the war came to us."
"What happened?"
"Sangheili cruiser transitioned into the system, being pursued by a goddamn Brute Assault Carrier. This is when they'd turned on each-other, right at the tail end of things. The Great Schism is what they called it. To me it was just another shit-storm, same as any other."
Murphy paused to let a car pass before taking the next turn. Then he continued.
"The whole Covenant was coming apart, and Crassus got caught right in the middle. Elites wound up on our side, as it turned out. Lucky thing too; I don't think we'd have made it but for them. The fighting lasted a full week."
"Was it bad?"
"Hell, it was bad everywhere, Doc. Stories I could tell. But yeah, it was bad."
"And that photo back there?"
That prompted a weary chuckle from Murphy. Rebecca was struck by how old the man looked all of a sudden. Traces of grey were creeping into his dark hair. Stubble coated his jaw, dark against his pale skin.
"That was Hepburn's idea. He was a prospector, spent a lot of time with the other trackers the colony employed. I drew the short straw of being the only ranking ODST on the planet, so I had to train 'em. Hepburn's gang took to it better than the others. We formed a special guerrilla unit out of the most talented. They took to calling themselves Murphy's Militia."
"That was decent of him."
"Yeah, well they fought. Fought damn hard. Hit and fade tactics mostly – ambushes, improvised explosives; that sort of thing. Even downed a Scarab by detonating one of the refineries. But that photo? Less than a quarter of them made it out alive. I'd say less than ten are living now. So I'm not dragging him into this, not this late into the game."
Murphy went quiet for a moment, lost in memories. The morning traffic had eased somewhat into the midday; the office commuters had settled, and the only major traffic was the occasional ambulance.
"But yeah, ancient history." Murphy eventually concluded, feeling awkward. He seldom talked about the war. None of them did.
Rebecca wasn't sure what else to say, so she didn't say anything.
They idled at a red light in lingering silence, waiting for their filter.
Two blocks behind them, three vans rounded the corner, pausing at the set of traffic lights behind them. Each were HuCiv haulage trucks; non-descript but for a loading hatch and large double doors to the rear. They carried no brand marks, and their licence plates were newly minted; fresh off the machine press of the auto-factories. Red, white and black. Just another group of contractors, out for a day's work. Or so it appeared.
Inside the vans, strong men loaded sub-machine guns and pulled on masks over their heads. They wore heavy leather jackets, which bulged around their mid-sections; their ballistic vests lending them a turtle-like aspect. In the back of the vans, assault rifles rattled as magazines were slapped home, charge handles snapping ready. Urgent Russian voices psyched themselves up, barking instructions, shouting encouragement.
Riding shotgun in the lead van, Mikhail Dolidze checked his weapon. The M7 sub-machine gun was a particularly nasty piece of kit. It fired caseless ammunition, perfect for hits like this. It meant they could box the target in, hose it, and then torch the vans without having to worry about stray casings.
That their weapons were army surplus was the icing on the cake: unless the police had access to the specific shipment record the rounds were I.D. linked to, a ballistics report wouldn't prove anything other than the weapon had been machine stamped in a UNSC factory, somewhere in the galaxy. More needles in a stack of needles.
Mikhail had been an enforcer with the Khulov Syndicate for twelve years. He was not a man prone to understatement. This was proven by the extended magazine he'd customised his M7 with. It now resembled a set square, held by the opposite end of the rule. He kept it low against his lap, the magazine resting between his legs. His mask was rolled up on his forehead. He'd lower it closer to the target.
They got their filter. A green light, in a very literal sense. The red van rumbled forward, drawing ever closer.
"Unit Four, close in now." Mikhail spoke softly into his radio.
Then he pulled his mask down.
Murphy's Warthog stopped at the next junction. Another red light. They were on the very eastern limit of the Western District now. Ahead was an expansive intersection. Rising up around them were the larger glass towers associated with traditional Argjend. The shops here were respectable; neat coffee shops and parades of shops. Pristine public access terminals chimed and warbled as pedestrians passed. A mag-train roved by on the track above, humming gently. Shoppers and business people teemed on the side-walk, oblivious to the problems of the world.
Murphy frowned, looking at the rear view mirror. His eyes narrowed.
"Something wrong?" Rebecca asked, studying him.
"That's odd." Murphy began.
A red van had nosed up right behind them, almost kissing bumper to bumper. The Warthog was a monster of a truck, and dominated the road, but the van was so close he couldn't make out its occupants from the shoulders up. Murphy looked left, then looked right.
There was an identical van either side of them. One blue, another black.
Then a fourth grey van screeched to a halt in front of them, presenting its profile. Its side door began sliding open.
"Down!" Murphy roared, hauling Rebecca's head down into the foot-well.
The windows erupted inward. The Warthog rocked and trembled as hundreds of rounds raked the vehicle from four directions. The upholstery of the headrests disintegrated; shredding and ripping into component chunks. The dashboard went up, the inert NAV computer exploding in a fit of sparks. The airbags banged outward in response to the downpour, obscuring the world entirely. These too were shredded. There was a manic series of pops and hollow-thuds as the outer hull armour warped and dented from the onslaught. Headlights popped, glass shattering, electrics sparking. The roof began to sag, as the support struts holding it up groaned under the strain; bending beyond all recognition.
Murphy's spendthrift agency budget had saved their lives. His Warthog was also military surplus. Yes, it was a cut-down wreck, shorn of features and converted back to civilian use. But it still retained the armour plating where it counted. It bought them precious seconds. Nevertheless, they were out of time.
Faced with no other option, blind as he was pressed down within the seat-well beneath the flaccid ruins of the airbag, Murphy took the only option left to him. He popped the 'Hog into first gear.
And mashed the accelerator.
A Warthog is beloved by UNSC service personnel for its reliability. It is a dense, muscular brute of a vehicle. It can run for kilometres on end on its highly efficient hydro-fusion plant, relying on simple rainwater as a conversion catalyst. Its armour plating can weather all manner of small arms fire, both plasma and kinetic. Its four wheels; monstrous, almost absurdly large in size, can easily master every kind of terrain you can throw at it; be it icy snow, choking desert, or sucking muck. None of these reasons are why Marines love the 'Hog (or indeed why, it is often said, the 'Hog loves the Marines).
The M12 FAV has one other key point of utility. It makes for a smashingly effective battering ram.
The 'Hog, over-revving, squealing like a stuck pig in first gear, charged forward; impacting the lead van with all the crunching subtlety of a MAC round. The van was lifted up by the sheer force, shunted backward onto two wheels by the snarling grill guard. Then the tusk-like tow bars snagged the underside of the van, holding fast, locking tight.
The Warthog ploughed into the intersection, carrying the crumpled van up in its teeth. The van's wheels spun on empty air, having been lifted entirely clear from the road. The high pitched rev of its engine sounded for all the world like the keening cry of a mortally speared animal. That Rebecca was screaming in abject terror wasn't helping.
Murphy stomped on the brake. Rebecca lurched forward against her seat-belt, the wind yanked out of her. The van tore free, flopping onto its side and lay still, tyres rolling slowly, engine ticking as it coughed up smoke. Anyone inside was either unconscious or dead. Murphy didn't care; he had an exit now. One he intended to take.
Murphy mashed the clutch, spun the wheel, and kicked the 'Hog forward again.
It clipped the side of the up-turned van, smashing past and free onto the open road.
The other three vans closed on them, machine guns spitting. Hard rounds sparked against the back of the 'Hog.
Murphy handed his pistol to Rebecca. She stared at it, wide eyed.
"What the hell do you want me to with that?!" she bristled.
"Shooting them would be a strong start!" Murphy shot back.
Rebecca took the pistol, hands shaking, and blindly held the pistol between the two front seats. Rebecca was a respectable girl from a respectable upbringing. Highly intelligent, a gifted academic; she was an only child, and a source of eternal pride to her parents and teachers alike.
She'd never handled a pistol in her life. The prospect of firing the thing scared her as much as the vans of homicidal lunatics chasing them. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the trigger. A dull click rewarded her efforts.
"The safety, Doctor!" Murphy yelled, exasperated, "You've got to toggle the –"
"I know about the safety!" Rebecca snarled, flicking it with her thumb triumphantly. "I don't need you to—"
"Hang on!" He cried, hauling on the wheel.
The Warthog swept around the next corner. Rebecca was yanked in her seat, her wrist smacking against the tattered remains of the head rest. The pistol tumbled from her grasp, disappearing down the backseat of the car. She bawled in frustration; high on terror and rage in equal measure. If there was one thing that ever got Rebecca into trouble, it was her temper. Today it would save her life.
"New plan!" Murphy announced, setting the wheel straight and toggling cruise control. It was, by some strange miracle, still working. "You drive!"
With that, he dove into the back seat, fishing for the pistol. Rebecca yelped and clambered across the front seat; the 'Hog wobbling as she grabbed the wheel to pull herself over. She mashed her foot on the accelerator. They were doing 160 kph in the middle of a 50 zone. Passing traffic honked and tooted reproachfully as they ripped past. That is, until the three vans flashed by, weapons blazing.
"Where the hell am I going?" Rebecca yelled, having to roar above the wind. Her hair was another obstacle entirely; a now-unholy mess that threatened to blind her at any moment. She'd managed three near-misses already. Oncoming traffic careened out of the way, smashing into the once pristine access terminals, or skidding manically to avoid a head-on collision.
"Just keep driving!" was Murphy's muffled reply. He eventually resurfaced with the handgun in his hands, a triumphant look on his face. "Aha!"
A bevy of shots smacked into the rear of the car. A brake light shattered. Murphy threw himself flat and took a breath.
The ONI operative came up in a classic shooter's position; arms extended, braced for the recoil. It was just like the shooting range. If the shooting range had wind howling in your ears, and you were standing on a platform that wobbled madly from side to side every given second. He narrowed his eyes and targeted one of the van's drivers. Fired twice. The pistol kicked in his hands, barking angry reports that were snatch-stolen by the wind.
No good. The black van's windshield spider-webbed, but the van itself kept coming. Its passenger reached forward and responded in kind with his sub-machine gun. Rebecca's manic manoeuvres saved them; the rounds send asphalt chips spitting into the air, but they failed to connect. The 'Hog's only saving grace was that they were as hard to hit as their pursuers were. But then, with automatic weapons, their pursuers didn't exactly need to be certified marksmen to put an end to this chase.
Still, their would-be assassins had miscalculated. The vans were bulk haulers; perfect for boxing somebody in, but ill-suited to a high speed chase. Rebecca was steadily outrunning them. Slowly but surely, the vans were falling back.
Rebecca would have lost them entirely had she not clipped the Genet passing through the next intersection.
The Genet is a diminutive four-seater. No nonsense, practical. It's also popular; with its characteristic smooth-sloping glazed roof-shield, the Genet is particularly noted for its mileage and relative affordability in the post-war market. Neither of these factors play in its favour when involved with a side collision with an M12 at maximum speed. The tusks of the 'Hog gouged into the rear wheel of the hapless Genet, sending it into a flat spin. Directly into the path of the oncoming blue van.
The van didn't crash into it. Not in the traditional sense of the word. Instead, two of its wheels ramped directly up onto the smooth slope, launching the van into a corkscrew jump that caused it to slam solely on its front left wheel. It crunched downward, the front section crumpling as it tumbled into a sliding skid. It rolled and rolled and rolled, its occupants rattling around like marbles in a biscuit tin. By the time it came to a trundling stop, the blue paint was scraped back to an ugly brown, flecked with chrome. Nobody emerged from the smoking wreckage.
The hapless Genet driver, a junior accountant who had no business being involved in a high speed car chase, popped the door and stood up, blinking. Realising he was alive, he began to giggle hysterically, before taking off up the street as soon as he heard the sirens in the distance. He played no further part in these events.
Rebecca, three blocks ahead by this point, realised the impact had hurt the 'Hog worse than she initially thought. They were losing speed; as the Fusion Core struggled to cope with the sheer abuse inflicted since the initial ambush. Creeping up on them, relentless, hungry, came the two remaining vans. Rebecca seethed. She had been shoved, kicked, tied up, shot at. It had been a relentless twelve hours. She pressed her foot further down on the accelerator.
They whipped under another grav-line. A train shot overhead.
The red van began to overtake them. A man held a T-shaped weapon out the window; pointed it right at her. With a feral snarl, Rebecca jerked the steering wheel to the right. Murphy yelped in the backseat as he was tossed about in the rear seat. The man with the submachine gun cracked his head against the door, his aim thrown off. Stray rounds whistled overhead.
Rebecca rammed them twice more for a good measure. The side armour of the 'Hog was dragging on the ground by this point, kicking up a spray of sparks. Murphy was trying to reach up and grab at the passenger door of the van.
"What are you doing?!" Rebecca yelled over her shoulder.
"I'm going to jack them!" Murphy explained, his fingers inches from grazing the van's door handle.
"'Jack them'?!" Rebecca was incredulous. She slammed the 'Hog into the van again, sending him flying back into his seat. "This isn't a movie, you'll be bloody well killed if you 'jack them'!"
"Well what do you want me to do?!" Murphy complained.
"You're ODST! Shoot the bastards!"
"Works for me!" Murphy replied, opening up on the red van at point blank range.
The gunman shrank back inside as Murphy's shots punched the wing mirror clean off. The red van sped up once more, pushing up ahead of them. Steadily it drifted in front of Rebecca. Then the rear doors kicked open. Three men crouched in the rear of it. They were pointing assault rifles square at her.
What happened next seemed to occur in slow motion. At least, that's how Rebecca remembered it for the rest of her life.
Murphy was a trained Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. It was no surprise he noticed it at first. The glint of blue movement in the air caught his eye. Whatever it was, it came down at an angle, before the red van. Only it was much too high up. You would have to have jumped from the mag-line to get that high. Then it occurred to him that this was what had occurred.
Damien descended onto the road directly in front of the red van, thrusters flaring; one hand balled in a fist as he shot down into the middle of the street. He'd been crouched atop one of the passing grav-trains, leaping from line to line in a desperate race to catch up. The momentum of the train had only accelerated his thruster's velocity. His gauntlet thundered into the pavement with an almighty crack; his armour system casting off an electro-static shockwave as it split the hardpan and caught the van square in the grill.
The van went airborne. It simply flipped end over end; the grace of the flip utterly incongruous with the tortured screech of impacting metal as it caught the shockwave. Its windshield and front tyres burst. Glass shredded Mikhail and his driver. They were too busy screaming to notice. The van front-flipped over Damien, almost scraping him as it sailed overhead. Damien kept his head bowed, shoulder and knee set into the small crater he'd just blasted into the concrete; like some meditative statue from the ancient past.
Rebecca slammed the brakes. Statue or not, she was about to smear him all over the street.
Only suddenly he wasn't there. Quick as a flash the Spartan was up, spring-boarding off the on-rushing grill guard and leaping into a somersault that carried him through the air toward the black van behind. Whatever maternal sense of responsibility Rebecca felt for the Chimera subjects caused her heart to do a somersault all of its own.
The Spartan went clean through the windshield like a bullet: through the driver; slamming right through into the rear cabin and out of sight. There was a blinding strobe of gunfire as bullet holes punctured the walls and roof of the van. The black van slowed to a halt.
By the time the side door opened and Chimera One emerged, wreathed in gun-smoke and covered in the blood, Murphy's jaw was hanging.
"He jacked them!" Murphy was hyperventilating like an excitable child as he pointed. "Look! He jacked them!"
The Spartan clanked toward them, ejecting the spent magazine of his MA5, slamming a new one home. The spy stepped forward to introduce himself.
"Brendan Murphy. Naval Intelligence. Part of the ground team." Murphy extended a hand.
The gauntleted hand encased his own, as though it were a child's.
"Sierra 451. I'm your support unit. Call me Damien."
Murphy cleared his throat, regaining some of his usual composure.
"Well, thanks for the assist, Damien. Again."
"Anytime." Damien's VISR reflected Murphy's awed expression, "Now if you don't mind, Mr. Murphy, I'd really like to have a word with my shrink."
Behind them, they could hear a chorus of sirens approaching. The vehicular rampage through downtown Argjend had not gone unnoticed. Damien's helmet snapped about in the direction of the sound.
"On second thought, we need to move. Now."
Murphy took over driving duties. He had to prise Rebecca's hands free of the steering wheel.
"Nice work, Doc." Murphy grinned, patting her on the shoulder. With a disturbing start, Rebecca realised the former Helljumper was thoroughly enjoying the entire experience.
The Spartan clambered up onto the backseat of the Warthog. The beleaguered suspension positively groaned under his weight.
Murphy hit the accelerator, turning off the main road and leaving the wreckage of the ruined vans behind.
"So, Damien," he asked, "You mind telling me why it is everyone in this damn city is trying to kill us?"
"Not everyone." The Spartan replied, pressing a hand to the side of his helmet.
"Rash, where are we with contacting Three?" The Spartan asked.
"Rashid's involved in this?" Rebecca gaped.
The opal visor just turned and looked at her.
"Of course. Look up."
She did.
A blimp drifted into view, powered along by grav-engines that were pulsing white-hot from overuse. Emblazoned across its sides were Chimera's unit patch.
"You stole a blimp?!" Rebecca was aghast. She pictured her psych-approval reports going up in flames.
"I didn't." Damien held up his gauntleted hands defensively. "Rash did."
Damien reached forward and tapped Murphy on the shoulder, showing him something on his holographic TACPAD.
"Switch your com to this frequency. I haven't been able to raise Eric for hours, but for now Rash is coordinating operations groundside."
"Got it." Murphy replied. "What's the plan now?"
"Right now?" Damien turned and shot Rebecca a conspiratorial look, "We're breaking curfew."
Chidinma had spent a restless night trying to determine a means of slipping away from her gilded cage. She was stationed at The Priory; an impressive ebony tower that straddled the border of the Western and Central Districts. The lower floors were a police station; old and antiquated. Some of the doors still relied on hinges. The top floors had been a barracks for the local police. No longer. It was now designated for the exclusive use of the UNSC forces stationed in Argjend.
The name of the building stemmed from what had been there before: an old monastery, founded by some of the more pious Albanian settlers that drifted in from the Inner Colonies centuries before. No longer. The building that now stood there now was a dark obelisk, topped with landing pads for military fliers; both manned and unmanned craft.
Chidinma hadn't slept. Rashid kept her abreast of developments; piping her updates on what was going on via direct link. She was still unable to come up with an inventive solution on how to escape. There was an entire garrison beneath her, and beneath that, an entire police station. She had no doubt she could force her way out physically, but the collateral damage to innocent service personnel left a knot in her stomach.
Wanting to stay sharp and having little else to do, Chidinma decided to be as productive as she could. She spent the morning training. She left a com-bead in her ear just in case.
Chidinma donned her body suit and spent the morning sprinting around the track on the twentieth floor. The Priory was shaped as a concrete Y; both prongs supporting a central helipad, which was ringed by smaller landing pads; like petals on a flower. Around the neck of the Y was a broad running track, encased in glass. Weight lifting was out: none of the equipment the APD or Marines had was Spartan rated. She'd simply break anything she touched, and requests for more specialist equipment had long since fallen on deaf ears.
An hour and thirty miles later, Chidinma was on her way back to the locker room for a well-earned shower, when a full security team intercepted her. From the look on their faces, this was not a social visit.
Just then, Rashid's voice buzzed in her ear.
"Chidi where are you?" Rashid's asked.
"I'm busy." She murmured, "Not now."
"Chidi, this is urgent. It's Damien. He's here. In the city. He needs your help."
"I said not now." Chidi hissed.
There were three men blocking her path. They were the usual well-muscled handlers; each wore caps and headsets. Each wielded a stun baton, which they slapped against their palms with wet, meaty smacks. They carried heavy duty disabling rods, strong enough to down a horse. Another three guards closed in behind her.
"Spartan 483, please come with us." One of the lead guards said. The men wore heavier armour than was usual. Something was amiss here.
Sensing the tone in her voice. Rashid quickly pulled up her signal location. The Priory, twentieth floor. He patched into the monitor feed from one of the nearby security cams. She was surrounded. Not good.
"Ma'am. I'm going to have to ask you to relinquish your communicator." The guard asked, his hand reaching out expectedly.
Chidinma didn't pay him any attention. Rashid was still speaking in her ear.
"Chidi, listen carefully. It's time we got you out of there. Be ready to move on my signal."
"What's the signal?" Chidi bit through gritted teeth.
"You'll know it when it happens. Head for the stairs, stick to the rooftops; I have the area monitored from above. You'll see a blimp. That's me."
"You have a blimp?"
"Well technically it's more of a fixed-frame rigid airship, but that's neither here nor –"
"Ma'am, the communicator. Now!" The guard warned "I won't ask you again."
Chidinma wasn't moving. She stood her ground in the centre of the six men, one finger pressed to her ear so she could heard Rashid over their repeated warnings. Steadily, they closed in.
The leader of the guards sighed.
"Take her." He ordered. "Now!"
There came an ear-splitting shriek; an electronic squeal of scrap-code; so loud that Chidinma could hear it, even standing fully three metres away. The guards staggered, ripping their com-beads out, ears bleeding. Rashid's signal, in a quite literal sense.
The Spartan took her chance.
Chidinma's hand snapped out, slapping the lead guard's wrist with lighting speed. The stun baton tumbled to the floor with a rattling clank. She grabbed him by the collar and hefted him one-handed over her shoulder. The guard sailed through the air, smashing two of the men behind her off their feet. They went down in a clatter of tangled limbs. The second man recovered with admirable speed, swinging at her with the shock baton. It sizzled through the air above her head. Chidinma was too quick.
She was much too quick for all of them.
A neat handspring placed her beyond the reach of the return swing. Tumbling with the momentum, her foot scythed out, smashing the man's legs out from under him. She rolled forwards; coming up so suddenly in front of the third man it was as though she'd simply teleported before his eyes. An iron vice hand clamped onto his wrist. There was a crack as bone powdered. This baton fell too, and its owner along with it; legs kicking as he writhed about on the floor. Chidi kicked the baton up into the air with a flick of her toe, catching it smoothly. Another sharp flick of her wrist sent it whistling through the air, spinning like a Frisbee. It caught the last man square in the stomach; the jolt blasting him backward across the floor. There was a protracted squeal as he slid across the linoleum floor. Eventually he came to a stop.
Chidinma stood back and admired her handiwork. Six guards lay heaped on the floor, groaning and rolling about, winded. Then an alarm split the air. Klaxons; shrill and bleating. A full alert, city-wide.
By then she was already gone, the emergency exit door swinging on its hinges.