"Some memories stay with me. Vivid, sharp. I recall them as I lived them; the moments startlingly clear in my mind's eye.
2512. Development begins on a new project, codename MJOLNIR.
The brief is simple. A powered exoskeleton, capable of amplifying a wearer's abilities on the battlefield. A soldier who can carry more, run faster, jump higher, hit harder. A two-legged force multiplier.
Dr. Catherine Halsey is appointed project lead. Section Three is her kingdom now. She rewards ONI's trust with a level of critical thinking that can only be described as genius. I have not since seen its like.
Dr. Halsey's initial prototypes are inspired, but lack practical functionality. Armour and shielding are far in advance of traditional infantry combat systems, but the power supply is cumbersome, even dangerous in some cases. The core systems are vulnerable to small-arms fire and projectile ordnance.
Dangerous too are the tests themselves. Early attempts to marry live operators with hydraulic exoskeletons are disastrous. More than one test subject is lost to the unrelenting servos of the early, cruder systems. I can still hear the snapping bones; the agonised shrieking. Designs are revisited.
The Spartan II's continue to improve. The children mature rapidly, advancing at a rate that makes the Project ORION subjects seem primitive by comparison. Their genetic augmentations far outstrip the advances of the materiel development wing. I am struck with a feeling of being obsolete, but push such conceited thoughts aside. The Insurrectionist Question remains unanswered. We have the answer at our fingertips. All we need do is grasp it.
I work as a low-level researcher in the research and development division, responsible for monitoring a candidate's compatibility with a given exoskeleton. Progress is slow. Setbacks, numerous. But I am placed in a privileged position; exposed to two very separate disciplines simultaneously. ORION has served me well. Neural pathways are improved; my critical thinking and memory retention are above recorded standards. Halsey is pleased, and provides me with a small degree of mentoring, in what limited time she has.
I learn much, quickly.
The Mark I is unwieldy, ill-suited to field exercises. Month after month of frustration. For every breakthrough, a setback. The design brief is simple, but the application… elusive. Mark II and Mark III are no different; variations of the same recurring problem.
August 4th 2520: Another subject is lost to a suit malfunction that morning, a woman. She will be the last. It is decided that, from now on, only second-generation augmented be allowed to interface with the prototypes. Also significant is the change in approach: henceforth, it will be the operator's physical strength that determines the power of the suit, not the other way round.
The woman who died was known to me; a fellow ORION soldier. Not a close friend, but nevertheless, I bear witness. The same day, I am approached by Section Zero, who express mounting concerns over the ethics of the project. Haunted by her screams, understanding the need for accountability, I readily accept.
My double life begins."
- excerpt from a private record, author unknown
The two Spartans hit the ground hard; weapons sweeping the drop zone.
"Platinum Four and Five on station." Deng reported, "Proceeding to waypoint marker."
"Solid copy." Chase replied, "Good hunting, Spartans. Proceeding to next objective."
The Pelican lifted off, engine wash sending a tumult of broken glass tinkling across the deserted plaza. It disappeared from sight, vanishing over the rooftops. The square was in ruins. Burnt-out police cars and slumping APCs trailed smoke from hundreds of bullet holes. One or two members of the APD lay where they fell, overwhelmed by the tear gas. Vitals were weak, but present.
Less well-off was the museum itself. The Argjend War Museum was a bullet-chipped monster; its alabaster-white walls stained a sooty grey. Its steps were littered with discarded firearms and snaking blood trails. Smoke curled from the lobby ominously. Platinum hadn't seen a place this bad since the Human-Covenant War.
The Spartans rose to a half-crouch, combat ready, undaunted.
They kept their weapons trained as they advanced on the museum.
Inside, Damien took inventory.
He had an SMG with four magazines, a sling of grenades, and a DTM Law Enforcement pump-action. Not a huge arsenal, but then his attackers had anticipated a conventional domestic threat; favouring neuro-chemical gas and close-range assault weapons. I guess Mjolnir never featured in the field manual.
SWAT's reliance on gas had been their downfall. While their rebreathers incorporated a VISR system not dissimilar from Damien's own, it was comparatively antiquated, reliant on residual body heat; designed for hunting for biological targets, not a machine-like outer shell. The Gen-II armour simply didn't feature on any scans. Damien had let them jump at shadows, taking full advantage of the limited visibility of the choking gas by picking engagements at key moments. An ambush here, a pulled grenade pin there. The majority of gunshot wounds the APD suffered had been self-inflicted by their own panicking team-mates.
For his part, Damien had been content to select single-fire, neutralising targets almost at leisure. If he could preserve life, he would. New Cadiz had left enough blood on his hands.
Most of the tear-gas had cleared, venting through the broken skylights above, but the museum remained a mess. Bullet holes had cracked the dark stone walls, which had crumbled in sections, exposing slivers of naked concrete beneath. The red emergency lighting bounced off the angular cracks, looking even more sinister than before. Damien waited by the Brute Chopper, watching the gauge tick closer to full. Rashid had assured him it was nearly ready.
Something pinged on his HUD. Damien wheeled about, the SMG's strap rattling as it snapped to bear
Two isolated radar contacts had appeared on his sensor suite, briefly: one second they were there and the next they were not. An uneasy, all-too-familiar feeling settled in Damien's gut.
A feeling he hadn't experienced since Laconia.
Damien hurried down the steps to the main hall, darting nimbly forward on quiet feet. His heart-rate spiked. Still nothing on the radar, but that instinct, that intuitive niggle, remained. Damien came to a stop behind a plinth close to the entrance hall, crouching low in the centre of the floor. A mock-up gravity hammer sat in the ruined display case, presented on a velvet cushion.
Damien peeked over the edge, squinting into the gloom. His VISR panned from one vision mode to the next; probing, hunting for targets. It switched back to standard; the long dark hallway fading back into murky darkness, under-lit by the menacing red emergency lights inset into the floor. Thin shafts of light shone down from the skylights high above, motes of dust swirling like static.
Then a voice spoke. Gruff, but playful. Even with the metallic filter, there was no hiding the South African drawl. A lance of recognition and adrenaline shot through Damien.
Platinum.
"Easy now, Chimera. No need to make this any harder than it has to be."
Hendric, Platinum Five. That meant heavy weapons, explosive ordnance if given clearance. Another dart of movement to the left. Hendric's silent partner. Moving up at an angle, trying to flank him. No telling who that was, not yet. Platinum were notoriously fleet of foot. Damien rested on the ball of his feet, primed to bolt if he had to.
Hendric's voice called out again.
"See, if you just come quietly, we won't have to make this messy, eh? General wants a word with you. He's very upset."
The voice came from the same direction it had originally. Again the sensor contact to the left twitched, creeping ever closer. Misdirection; Hendric was trying to hold Damien's attention.
Two targets. Both Spartans. Damien suddenly felt very exposed.
There were a few lessons that had particularly stayed with Damien from his time on Laconia. The first was that you didn't mess around, not against a hostile Spartan deployment. They had all of your speed, all of your augmentations, every scrap of your training. There was another rule, one Chimera as a whole had been quick to adopt as the scenarios progressed and the defeats mounted; any caution you employed against enemy Spartans on an exercise, you doubled when it came to Fireteam Platinum.
The target on the left darted up again, a flash of white in the gloom.
Damien snapped out of cover and unloaded a burst from the SMG. The muzzle flash strobed brilliantly in the darkness. It also revealed his position.
The deluge of return fire was extraordinary. Damien threw himself flat.
Any of the exhibitions that hadn't been ruined during the SWAT raid were mulched by the blistering chatter of an M739 SAW. Thick oak frames splintered as hard rounds smashed into them, chewing into the stone plinths beneath. Brackets fell loose, dumping priceless post-war artefacts from their stands. The velvet cushion above him was shredded, spitting feathers high into the air. Vases salvaged from communities long lost to the scorching fire of the Covenant armada disintegrated into fine powder. Damien hurled himself behind the display to his right, thrusters flaring as they propelled him into tumbling, graceless roll.
The second target appeared; a juddering MA5D unloading in tight, controlled bursts. Hard rounds tore up sections of the floor where Damien had been hiding moments before. Damien caught a glimpse of the armour. So it was Deng, then. Platinum Four; precise, methodical, an eye for Covenant systems that rivalled Rashid's mastery of computers. A ruthless, calculating counterpoint to Hendric's brute force.
Damien scrambled deeper into the hall; driven back to the next row. The two pursuing Spartans marched forward in lock-step, shoulder to shoulder; maintaining a withering hail of fire. Damien pulled a grenade from his webbing; pulled the pin with his thumb and slung it over the display. He had to snatch his hand back as more rounds skipped overhead. There was a thump and the incoming fire abruptly cut out. Damien waited for a few breathless seconds, pulse thundering in his ears.
A low threatening chuckle wafted from the dark.
"You're jumping at shadows, boy."
Jumping, Damien thought to himself. Not a bad plan.
Damien sprinted for the wall, foot kicking off a side display; hands clawing at the wall as his thrusters carried him upward. He braced against the wall; launching himself for the lander strung up along the ceiling. One hand shot out and grasped the fuselage. Fingertips only, then a second hand caught hold. A rasp of his thrusters carried him the rest of the way.
He'd only barely pulled himself atop when a storm of fire chopped up at him, sparking off the ancient hull of the Argjend. This time he wasn't quite fast enough. Stray rounds clipped his legs as he swung them up. Another caught him in the shoulder pauldron, twisting him about as he tumbled out of sight. The shot had narrowly missing the tracking device Rashid was so desperately trying to crack. Chimera One rolled deeper into cover. The gunfire cut out; Platinum showing perfect firing discipline.
Damien caught his breath. His shield monitor bleated in his ear as it struggled to restore itself.
"Damien!" Rashid's voice cut in urgently, "I'm reading increased activity across all military channels. Eyes up, you may have company!"
"Yeah, I gathered." Damien growled, flopping over onto his stomach as he caught his breath. "Platinum just introduced themselves."
Damien's shields sprang back to life, humming status green. He picked himself up, staying crouched.
"You going to wait up there forever, eh, Chimera?" Hendric called out. "Why not come down and say hello?"
Then the SAW opened up again. Deng added his fire to the mix. At first Damien wasn't sure what they were aiming at. It soon became clear. The support cables started fraying; then snapping, one by one. They tore free of their moorings with a violent squeal of tortured metal; a twanging whiplash that sang against the high walls. The lander jerked downward, once. Then it dropped lower again. Damien clung on for dear life. The skylights rose above him, ever higher; beyond any distance he could hope to reach.
There was no other option. He was going to have to fight.
"What are you waiting for, Damien?" Hendric asked. The Argjend I lurched on the few cables that held it aloft. An uneasy groan filled the air as they strained under the weight. "Afraid to come down and be a man?"
"Oh I will," Damien replied amiably. He unslung the shotgun, pumping the slide and targeting the most visibly strained cable. "Just on my terms."
The shotgun thundered in the cavernous hall. The cable snapped free of its moorings. Damien jumped, triggering his thruster pack at the last second. He lost the shotgun in the chaos.
The lander tore the wall tiles down with it. Cables, dropship, lumps of rock; they descended in a roaring avalanche of crumbling masonry. The screech of descending metal was deafening. The floor display of the Outer Colonies was buried beneath a heap of twisted metal. The choking dust welled up high, obscuring the world from view.
Hendric and Deng had thrown themselves clear. They were up on their feet quickly, weapons hunting; VISR systems flipping from one vision mode to the next.
"Where are you, you bastard?!" Hendric snarled.
"Right here."
Damien shot out of the mist at high speed, thrusters white-hot orbs in the sifting smoke. His shoulder slammed square into Hendric, smashing him off his feet. A flurry of submachine gunfire blazed toward Deng; frenzied, wildly inaccurate. Deng was much too quick. The smaller Spartan was already behind cover, crouching low as the bullets chipped into the plinth he'd spun behind. Deng's shields sparked where ricocheting rounds pinged against him. He waited for the rain of incoming fire to subside.
Platinum Four rose up and responded in kind. His bullets only split smoke and murdered the far wall. Deng lowered the rifle, frowning. With mechanical efficiency he slammed a new mag home. Then the barrel was up again, hunting for a sign, any sign, of the target.
Chimera One had vanished again. Damn, but the bastard was quick.
Deng helped Hendric to his feet. The larger Spartan's chest plate was dented inward. Hendric blinked, searching about in the scattered rubble.
His SAW was missing.
Hendric smoothly drew his side-arm, a thick nosed magnum revolver, loaded with explosive rounds. The gun was a civilian model, a Gruber .44; silver barrelled, engraved with custom etchings. It wasn't even close to regulation, but he'd carried it for most of his twenty years of service prior to becoming a Spartan. The Gruber had finished more split-jaws than any sidearm had a right to. It would put a man down, Mjolnir or no Mjolnir.
Fireteam Platinum advanced up either side of the corridor, creeping through the eerie silence of the settling dust.
Movement on the radar. A warbling roar that was all too familiar. Hendric's instincts took over. The Gruber barked: three shots, solid grouping.
The Elite's animatronic head burst. It rocked back and forth on its hinges, a geyser of sparks spouting from its neck. Damaged speakers warbled a distorted, taunting laugh.
"Wort! Wort! Wort!"
"Who's jumping now, Platinum?" Damien's voice drifted, chuckling. His voice was everywhere and nowhere. The puppets jigged and danced as Platinum treaded by, carefully searching.
"Snivelling little shit!" Hendric bellowed. "Come out!"
Damien complied, ducking out from behind the Hunter dummy; he crouched between its stumpy legs and gargantuan shield. The SAW was already chattering in his hands.
Platinum dove for cover behind the already ruined plinths. Key dates were erased from history as they were peppered by a storm of automatic fire.
Damien held the trigger down until the drum clicked dry, the holo-counter flaring red. By then he was already moving. Answering fire chased him, but he was faster. The Hunter dummy came apart, blasting into chunks of spiralling wax; proving far less robust than the mighty creatures it imitated. Stray rounds clanged against the monstrous front wheel of the Brute Chopper. Damien swung into the chair, reached up and grabbed the handle bars above him. Fully charged or not, it was time to go. He gunned the ignition.
The Chopper growled to life, grav-drive thrumming, the motor settling into an idling purr.
Hendric went to open fire. His revolver clicked on an empty barrel. He lowered it, bemused.
"That's your plan?" Hendric guffawed, incredulous, "That antique?"
Damien pulled the grip-handles inset just above the handle bars, triggering the weapon system. Thick 35mm cannon shot thundered forth; super-heated rounds tearing sizeable chunks from the ruined lander further down the hall. The two white Spartans dove in opposite directions, scrambling for cover. Damien swung the Chopper around, the monstrous front wheel demolishing the timber of the tidy dais it had stood on for so many years. He twisted about in the saddle.
"Some things get better with age."
With a roar of the engine and a blast of the afterburner, the Chopper surged through the rear window, roaring down onto the highway below in a shower of shimmering glass. Deng and Hendric rushed up to the ledge, snapping their weapons to bear.
Too late. The Chopper was already thundering up the highway, its grav-drive just a purple-blue spot on the horizon.
Eric punched the com frequency from the blimp into his TACPAD.
"Chimera One, this is Sierra 239. How copy, over?"
A different yet familiar voice answered him.
"Chimera Four here, Sir. Damien's a little preoccupied at present."
"Rashid. I should have expected as much. Is that blimp your doing, Spartan?" Eric asked.
"Using what I had to hand, just like you taught us, Sir. I'm not reading you on any scans. What's your position?"
"Close. We're just about to enter the Central District. Give me a sit-rep."
"Dr. Pearson has made contact with your ground team. They have the package and have gone to ground. Damien's running interference. Chidi was en-route to him, but is now isolated and in need of support." There was no concealing the concern in Rashid's voice. "Sir, I don't suppose you can assist?"
"I'll need a position marker."
"Standby, synching you to the others' com systems now. And… thank you, Sir."
Eric stomped back to the rear hold. He thumped a button on one of the sealed cages with a clenched fist. Battle rifles, MA5s, twin-cylinder rocket launchers, even M-6 Non-Linear Rifles; every weapon a soldier could conceivably wield on a 26th century battlefield whirred down on secure brackets. Eric picked up a BR-85, mag-locking it to his back.
Spartan G239 felt a familiar stirring. The rage; that old battle thirst. His hands trembled as they unconsciously balled into fists. He was a Spartan-III. Built for total war, bred for savagery. Modern day berserkers; to be unleashed on the foe. Expendable. The doctors had worked on him at Laconia, time and again, giving him the new upgrades, the improved augmentations. Hoping to convert him to the new, more civilized generation. A waste of time. His thumb rubbed against the faded Scimitar sigil on his chest plate. Some things ran deeper. Some things never died.
"Park, get back here."
The tech hurried to the rear hold, clinging to the walls for dear life as the ship twisted and turned. Perry's flying wasn't for anyone who didn't have an ingrained fondness for roller coasters.
"Sir?"
"I need an assault rig prepped for Chimera Three. Aerial deployment. You know what to do."
"On it."
The crimson Spartan pressed his good hand against the side of his helmet.
"Warmonger."
"Go ahead, 239." Perry replied.
"One of our own needs our help. Uploading coordinates to your nav system now. Make it fast, Perry."
"You got it, Spartan." There was a tilt in the hold as Perry made the course correction, then added, "Five minutes left on the stealth drive."
"Copy." Eric replied brusquely. He was plucking grenades from a drawer, mag-sealing them to his waist.
"You're not concerned? We'll have the entire goddamn UNSC Navy on our heads…"
Eric looked at Park, who was listening in; a sick look on his face. The Spartan was armed to the back teeth in cutting edge military hardware. Eric drew a long combat knife, admiring the shine on the blade as he twisted it about with his mechanical hand. He thumped it down into a sheath strapped across his breastplate.
"Then I guess it's time to see if you live up to your call sign."
"Myers, go."
Platinum Two leapt from the rear of the Pelican, falling forty feet. His jetpack flared once before he touched down on the rooftop. A perfect dismount, textbook. Two buildings over, Chidinma watched him land, her heart in her throat. She turned and fled.
The hunting Pelican's engines flared as it powered forward, circling in a pursuit pattern. In the rear hatch, Platinum One watched the chase unfold. Crouched beside him, Spartan Reeve steadied his sniper rifle, drawing a bead on her. He tensed on the trigger.
"Hold fire." Chase said to him.
Reeve looked up.
"Sir?"
"Orders from Stape. Alive… if possible."
Reeve's finger eased from the trigger with some reluctance.
Chase watched as Myers took off, an armoured cheetah. He swelled with pride. Platinum Three was his best scout.
His greatest hunter.
Not Platinum, Chidi thought, feet slapping the ground as she sprinted as fast as she could. Not now.
Chidinma slid under a heavy set of pipes; was up running again seconds later. She heard the heavy crack of the Spartan landing behind her, one building over. Mjolnir assisted boots thumped over and over again as he dashed after her. Chidinma leapt across another gap in between buildings. The stomping footsteps drew closer and closer.
It didn't matter how quick she was, or how intelligently she navigated the perilous jumps from one roof to the next. A Mjolnir-assisted IV would outrun an unarmoured Spartan of the same generation. The gulf in efficiencies was simply too great. He was going to catch her.
Chidinma was just surprised at how quickly he did.
The Spartan slammed down directly in front of her, jetpack exhaust smouldering. Spartan Myers rose to his feet. His submachine gun remained mag-locked to the small of his back. He stood there, hands apart, like a grav-ball blocker poised to make an intercept. Rashid looked over her shoulder, frustration bubbling up. The blimp was just behind him. She had been so agonisingly close. Now it may as well have been on the other side of the planet.
Chidinma fell into a fighting stance, open-palmed, knees bent.
"Really?" Myers asked in disbelief, voice harsh through the unseen filters in his helmet. "Your call, Spartan. Orders are to take you alive. I'll try not to pulp you too much."
He adopted a stance of his own; closed fist; a mixed-discipline Marine stance. She knew it well, had mastered it herself.
Chidinma let him have first strike. Myers was fast, frighteningly so. His balled fist tore in at her, wind whistling behind it. She ducked, barely; countering with a smooth shove to his elbow that drove the momentum of his strike slamming into an air exchanger. It left a sizeable dent, not dissimilar in size to Chidi's own skull. She swallowed.
Myers came at her again. Two jabs and roundhouse kick. She ducked the first, deflected the second, hissing in pain as her wrist met armoured plate. The kick only half-connected, glancing her ribs. But it was enough to smash Chidinma off her feet. Had it fully connected, this fight would be done already. Chidinma rolled backwards, coming up in a smooth combat crouch. But she was winded and it showed. She rose unsteadily to her feet. Myers tutted, circling her; his hands rolling in small circles.
"Did that smart, Chimera?"
Chidinma's flurry of blows came so quickly Myers had to counter three times in quick succession. Driving palm strikes dented plate and drove him back. She snapped around, stabbing a spinning hook kick at his face. He anticipated it, ducking low and charging bodily forward; trying to slam her into the brick wall behind her. Chidinma vaulted over his shoulder, a smooth somersault. Brickwork exploded as he hit the wall. Myers swung around snarling.
Both combatants reset, eyeing each other. They resumed their circling; probing for weakness.
This was a hopeless venture. Deep down, Chidinma knew that. Any hits she did score did little more than cosmetic damage; and were only only going to harm her in the long run. Myers, by comparison, was fully protected by Tier One battle plate; armour that boosted his reflexes, augmented his power beyond that of his already considerable natural abilities. How did you win a fist-fight with a tank?
Nevertheless, Chidinma stood her ground. She would not make it easy for him.
On they sparred. A blistering array of punches and counter-strikes. As peerless a fighter as Chidinma was, for all her rage and determination, it was no good. Myers was too quick, the balance too heavily tipped in his favour. Eventually his hand snapped out, his armoured gauntlet encasing Chidinma's exposed hand. He began to squeeze. Chidinma fell to her knees, emitting a feral hiss of pain.
"Who taught you how to fight?" Myers taunted, his head tilted in mock pity as he applied more pressure. Chidinma howled.
"Me." Eric answered, very close by.
The red Spartan's fist silenced any response. The grip on Chidinma's hand released. The scout's head snapped around so hard his helmet flew off. Blood splattered against the roof. Some teeth too. Myers to his credit staggered to a half crouch, still reeling from the blow.
"And I certainly trained you better than this." Eric sneered.
Eric's mule-kick pitched Myers clean off the side of the building. He didn't bother watching him fall.
Eric looked down and saw the shocked expression on Chidinma's face.
"What? He'll live." Eric growled, pulling her to her feet with his mechanical arm. "On your feet, Chimera Three. I need every one of you in this fight."
Reeve snapped his rifle to bear. The crosshairs locked clean on Chidinma's torso. Centre-mass; a certain kill shot.
"Sir?"
Chase could see Reeve's crosshairs in his own HUD.
"Take the shot."
Impact warnings blared within the hold. Something slammed into them, at speed. Something massively heavy. Chase spilled off-balance, crashing backwards into the hold. The world outside was cast into a whipping blur as their Pelican was thrown into a dead spin.
Reeve's shot whistled clear, missing entirely. He would have slipped out of the hold too, had Chase not grabbed his ankle suddenly. The heavy rifle tumbled away to the street below.
"Pilot, report!" Chase barked, his other hand enmeshed in the floor grille. The spinning was slowing as the Pelican struggled to regain control.
"Something… something just hit us!" the pilot stammered, incredulous. "Some kind of blimp!"
"What?!"
The Pelican remained flightworthy, the outside blur subsiding. Chase got a clear view out the rear hatch. Sure enough, grav engines struggling, heavily dented, a wayward airship was wobbling through the sky drunkenly. Its entire nose had caved in.
Chase snarled when he saw the warped Chimera logo plastered on the side.
"Inform General Stape that we have eyes on Spartan G-239." He reported, "And tell whoever they have securing Chimera Four that they want to get there quickly. Sierra 482 is in the network. I repeat: Sierra 482 is in the goddamn network!"
The D81 Condor shrieked through the air, trying to weave a path through the streets that didn't lead straight into the countless police and military fliers soaring above the city. Perry kept one eye on the monitor for the stealth drive. It was blinking red; all but spent.
In the back, Park was already prepping the Armour Assistant. Eric clapped Chidinma on the back as she stepped up into the arming stirrups. Armour pieces bolted into place; encasing her torso, wrists, shoulders, feet. In seconds she was encased in iridescent purple armour; the colour of a Covenant cruiser. She felt the system engage and interface with the body suit beneath. A surge of unnatural, god-like strength infused every muscle she had. Let Platinum try and touch me now.
"What's the plan, Sir?" Chidinma asked, tilting her head back as an Aviator helmet was lowered over her head. It clamped into place with a hiss-seal of pressurised air.
Eric was helping Park undo restraint locks on the ceiling cage. It ran the full length of the hold, holding something massive in shape. Park had to fold the Armour Assistant against the back wall to make room as they worked.
"General Stape wants a fight, 483. I'm more than inclined to give him one."
With a final clasping rattle, the cage began to lower. All three of them stepped back.
"Right now, we only have one soldier in the field." Eric said, raising his voice over the motorised whine. "And Spartan or not, he can't fight an entire planet alone."
The cage's motors clanked to a halt as it touched down fully. Park stepped forward, running systems checks. Chidinma didn't need to see over his shoulder to know what it was. She'd used a similar battle-system before, albeit in simulated exercises. A well of excitement rose up within her.
It was a prototype. A miniaturised version of the OF92/EVA Booster Frame; a single-engine flier, it sat on a miniaturised rail cannon that ran along the underside of the fuselage. Its recurved wings were folded beneath it for storage. It was a more aerodynamic version of its larger cousin, having been tweaked for atmospheric flight. Twin rotary cannons sat beneath each wing tip.
Chidinma turned looked at Eric boldly.
"Not without air support."
Rashid heard the boots in the corridor long before the door to his hospital room burst open. He stabbed a single key on his keyboard. The multitude of windows that were projecting onto almost every square inch of the white-washed room vanished instantly. Across the city, a lonely, entirely lost blimp no longer displayed the Chimera unit patch. Somewhere near the Starport, an entirely confused tech support team cheered.
Then the door came down; an entire clearance team hustling through.
Rashid looked up at the dozen armed Marines pointing clicking rifles at him.
"Gentlemen." He smiled affably.
They confiscated his Delving Deck, patted him down, looked for any kind of backup transmitter hidden on his person.
Chimera Four had done all he could for Chidinma and the others. They were on their own. For now.
It took five Marines to try and man-handle Rashid into a wheelchair. Eventually he pushed them away. They stumbled, falling over; taken off-guard by just how strong he truly was.
"Leave it." He snapped irritably, "I'll do it myself."
Rashid swung himself into the chair. He glanced up at one of the marines, meeting the man's scowl with a sheepish smile.
"Wouldn't fancy giving me a push, would you?"
"This is unacceptable!" Jennings repeated. She was eye-level with Loic's breastplate, but still made for a fearsome figure. The giant Spartan had his hands spread, trying to mollify her
"Madame, I am very sorry, but we were not informed of the lockdown order. Your safety is our only concern."
"That shit! That scurrilous little shit!" Jennings spat, pacing. "This is why we have riots in the street, this is why the UNSC have rocks thrown at them whenever they patrol! You can't just run roughshod over democracy whenever it doesn't suit you!"
Loic glanced at Aata, who simply shrugged his tectonic shoulders with a hollow click. He was here for hitting things. He was good at it.
"Madame, it is for your own safety." Loic tried again.
They were in a secure apartment in one of the more affluent towers in Central District.
Secret service personnel punctuated every corridor. Out on the landing, Callum stood watch with a high-powered rifle, surveying the streets below. Kazuo and Sanjay were due any moment now.
The door chime rang. One of the guards looked at Loic. Loic nodded at him.
"Mom!"
"Sarah!"
Amanda Jennings' thirteen-year-old daughter ran and embraced her mother in a tight hug. Sarah was a slim girl, pretty; an elegant reflection of her world-weary mother. She was growing rapidly, at risk of becoming a young woman. Kazuo and Sanjay clomped in behind her, nodding at Loic and Aata in silent greeting.
"What's going on, Mom?" Sarah asked, eyes wide. "When the Spartans showed up at school, everyone started talking. I saw the 'Nets. Is it really the terrorists again?"
"We don't know, sweetheart." Amanda shot Loic a look. "All we know is that the Loic and his team were instructed to bring us here."
They moved into the sitting room. Coffee had been prepared, to calm nerves as much as anything else. The Spartans hovered at the edge of the room, trying to blend in as much as eight-foot-tall walking death machines could. Their massive boots left lasting imprints in the thick carpet.
Loic put a hand up to the side of his helmet. He cleared his throat, conscious of the metal edge his filtered voice lended to the otherwise cosy room.
"Madame Administrator, General Stape is on the line."
Amanda set her coffee aside, rising to her feet. One of the walls was blank; it served as a holo-viewer. Sarah went to make herself scarce but Amanda shushed her down.
"Put him through." Amanda said.
General Stape appeared on the monitor, as haggard and weathered as ever. Behind him was a wall of monitors. Crisis Control had been taken over by military personnel. Amanda could see the soldiers in the background, lining the walls of the chamber. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain composed.
"Administrator." Stape bowed his head gravely, "I do apologise for the inconvenience."
"An inconvenience? That's a delicate way to put it, General. This is the second time in six months you've incited mass panic. It'll be even more of an inconvenience when my people no longer trust me at the next election. You're not doing me any favours, General, so don't pretend you are."
"Quite the contrary, Ma'am. This situation is far graver than six months ago. The media is quite mistaken. We're not dealing with Insurrectionists. Not anymore. What we have on our hands is a far worse. What I'm about to tell you is classified information."
Stape couldn't see Sarah off-screen, or the other Spartans for that matter. Amanda decided at that moment that if it the information was good enough for her, then it was good enough for the rest of them.
An image appeared: a red armoured Spartan, his visor a single horizontal slice of gold in a helmet that resembled some kind of futuristic samurai.
Loic and those of Fireteam Trident in the room restrained the urge to snap a salute. They watched silently, absorbing the information as they would any combat briefing.
"This is Spartan Eric G239; the same Spartan who disappeared after the collapse of New Cadiz. He's an older vintage, the ones we called Spartan-III's." Stape licked his lips before continuing, "The III's were notoriously unstable; mass-produced, deployed for situations that can only be described as no-win scenarios. A more desperate creation, from a more desperate time. As you can see from the arm, this Spartan's no stranger to personal trauma."
A series of mission deployments flashed up on screen. Stape's voice carried on as they scrolled through. Most of the missions were redacted or classified.
"239's combat record is highly classified, and remains so since the war ended. He was in charge of the initial Spartan taskforce we brought with us from a secret facility, the name and location of which I am unable to disclose at this time. It was also Spartan G239 who brought the rampant A.I. to Granica V, inflicting it on the planetary network."
"My God." Jennings breathed. Stape wasn't finished.
"And he's not acting alone."
New images flashed up, taken from security cameras overlooking the exterior of the Argjend War Museum. Sarah recognised it at once. She often spent her weekend afternoons sketching there. Particularly the life sized models of the Covenant. She'd helped the curators get the look just right; especially the Hunters. Those were her favourite.
The footage showed a far less peaceful situation. A blue Spartan stood on the steps. The armour pattern was unfamiliar to Loic, but the markings on the chest-plate were clear enough.
"We believe this is Spartan 451, former leader of the now decommissioned Fireteam Chimera. He led the Spartan strike force deployed into New Cadiz. The same strike-force that brought the A.I. ground-side. Whether it's a direct terrorist action, or whether they're doing this because of some twisted loyalty to their former mentor, is unclear. All we know is they're involved, and are this time considered an active threat to the security of Argjend and indeed the wider planet.
More footage, this time of a dark-skinned woman sprinting across rooftops. The jumps she was managing and the athleticism on display was breathtaking. Chasing her was a small fleet of police craft.
"We're still trying to establish a motive, though we probably won't have one until the situation is contained and Fireteam Chimera neutralised. We've dispatched our top specialists to contain the situation."
Fireteam Trident looked at one another. A silent debate ensued. None of them said a word but acknowledgement lights on the HUD began flashing red in protest. Even Callum's, who was listening in over Trident's com network. Not one of them had agreed with Chimera's decommissioning. Loic flashed his as amber. The message was clear: their duty was the safety of Administrator Jennings and her family. They were the mission. Any personal views were secondary. One by one, reluctantly, the lights went orange in turn; an acceptance, of sorts.
"This is an unprecedented situation, Administrator. We've never had a Spartan unit go rogue before. The implications are… unsettling. APD units have been unable to stop them, and it is with the utmost reluctance that I find myself deploying UNSC soldiers within the city limits once more. I'll get you your city back, Ma'am. I just need time."
Amanda wasn't sure what to say. The footage was damning, certainly. She watched the police officers flee the museum en masse, stumbling as they helped each other to safety. Some of them rolled about, clutching bleeding limbs; teeth bared in silent screams of agony. Amanda was glad the footage had no audio. She watched the blue Spartan toss its cannon aside, striding back into the building. Impervious those who faced him. That four of these human tanks now stood in her living room filled her with the deepest sense of unease.
Reluctantly, Amanda closed her eyes and nodded.
"I understand, General. Do whatever you have to do."
Rebecca and Murphy hunched forward in the cramped, dark room. They'd forgotten the dinginess of the room, the choking dust and the tragic stench of Carl the Repair Guy. All eyes were fixed on the screen. They barely even blinked.
The footage began as they all remembered. Whoever had edited it had included those familiar, haunting images. Landmark images; ones that had changed an entire planet's way of life, and not for the better. The Orbital came down, and with it the city. A wall of ash and fire swept over the camera. When clarity returned, most of the buildings before the camera simply no longer existed; a sea of bricks and half-walls barely standing. Large semi-circles of Orbital Tether looped across the horizon, like gargantuan tombstones. Thick cables hung from them, swaying listlessly in the wind.
Relief crews picked through the devastation; armoured UNSC soldiers outfitted with heavy respirators. They pulled bodies from the wreckage, ferrying them out on stretchers. As the timestamp accelerated, they became tiny, blurring figures, buzzing about at hypersonic speeds.
Carl slowed the footage a full twenty four hours after the New Cadiz Tape traditionally ended. Most of the fires had been put out, or had died down to smouldering embers. He'd seen something flick into frame and then vanish again. He reversed, hit play once more; now in real-time.
A Pelican dropship kissed down in the ash-covered field, and more soldiers emerged. These wore no insignia, and were dressed in uniform black armour. Murphy and Rebecca exchanged a look as the soldiers fanned out on the screen, establishing a careful perimeter.
Two figures emerged from the rear of the Pelican, their faces largely hidden from the camera at this range. Another party emerged from the smouldering wreckage of what had once been the Admin Tower. The two groups saluted one another. When they turned, Murphy and Rebecca sat up straight, recognising different people at the same time.
They both gasped.
They rewound, watched it a second time. And a third. Just to be sure.
"No…" Murphy murmured.
"Can't be." Rebecca agreed, unable to rip her eyes away from the screen.
"Zoom in." Murphy said, waggling his finger at the screen. "This changes everything."
"Uh, I'll try." Carl said. His fingers expertly tapped at the ancient keyboard.
It was choppy, heavily distorted, even pixelated in places, but the footage didn't lie. Rebecca went straight for her com.
"Rashid? Rashid are you there?"
A far raspier voice answered her. One she hadn't heard in a long, long time.
"Dr. Pearson. It's Eric."
"Eric?!" Rebecca gaped. "Where the hell have you been?! You know what, never mind. You're going to want to see this. You're all going to want to see this."