"Section Zero. We who do not exist.
We are the phantom presence that lurks between the cracks of Naval Intelligence; the all-seeing eye watching every move made, every step taken. Nothing is missed.
Or so the myth went. When I joined, the reality was far more mundane. Observation reports, highly encoded, to be filed twice a month. There were sophisticated surveillance protocols in place, certainly, but it was strictly an investigatory branch of Naval Intelligence; ensuring all projects were above board and in keeping with ONI's high internal standards. For all of Parangosky's dogmatic vigilance, there were no covert strike teams then, no emergency containment procedures or shadow operations to counter other shadow operations. Those came later, as the circumstances of the UNSC became more precarious, its leadership more jaded with age and perilous circumstance.
Now, it is an entirely different beast.
I continued my double life, spying on those closest to me. The II's, those that had survived the rigours of augmentation unscathed, had embraced the Mark IV system. Mjolnir had finally proven a success. Deployments against the Insurrectionists were comprehensive. Entire cells disappeared overnight. Four years passed, rebellion after rebellion being put down with brutal precision. At long last, we had our answer to the Insurrectionist Question.
I was not always there to witness their victories. My former line of work haunted me, as my faceless masters called upon my skillset, sending me here and there. I am a relic of a previous generation, disguised as a scientist and engineer, trained as a soldier. Clean-up work, the Admiral called it. The reality was somewhat less palatable. Not all of my targets were Insurrectionists.
As I travel, Section III continues to expand. For all the success of the Spartan-II Program, there were tragedies, more victims whose suffering must be witnessed here, in the pages of this journal. They are candidates who will never see combat first-hand. They are the broken ones, whose bodies rejected the augmentation forced upon them; their bodies twisted, their lives ruined.
Not all of the broken were damned, however. Some found roles as researchers, lending their considerable talents from the side-lines, content to cheer on mankind's tentative steps on a post-human journey, unable to walk it themselves. Others retired, afforded the best medical care; allowed to live out their days in relative peace. Or so we thought at the time.
One candidate did neither of these things. Serin Osman, formerly Serin Çelik. Spartan-019. We found her on Cascade, a street waif long abandoned by her family. She has come far since then. Sharp and calculating, she retained the mental gifts bestowed upon her by the program; displaying a keen ambition and potential, even at that early stage. Parangosky herself took an interest in Osman's development.
Even then I knew to watch her, carefully."
- excerpt from a private journal, author unknown
Operation Bellerophon commenced as soon as Stape's official orders were broadcast across the civilian nets. Streets emptied.
All available APD units were committed to the containment of the riots spilling forth from the Refugee Zone; a more volatile echo of the civil disobedience that had precipitated martial law some six months prior. Grav-lines were shut down as a full lockdown was instituted; enforced by the colonial militia and supervised by the UNSC. Civilians flooded down the steps of the stations, guided by APD units tasked with enforcing the lockdown. They waved LED guide sticks, channelling the crowds toward their appointed dispersal routes.
The political response was every bit as negative as Amanda Jennings feared. The nets exploded in outrage, with more separatist extremists being quick to point out that, yet again, Administrator Jennings had been quick to cede authority to her jackbooted superiors. Others took a more moderate view, citing the shootouts in both the Refugee Zone and the Argjend War Museum as proof positive that terrorist agitators were active in the city, and that stern measures were simply an unfortunate necessity if order was to be maintained. Alastair Cummings, Jennings' chief political rival, pointed out that yet again, the people of Argjend were at risk from destabilising elements incited by the influx of Refugees. Debate raged, both spoken and digital.
None of the frenzied coverage made it off-world.
The old checkpoints returned. Stinger strips, concertina wire and armed patrols; each street corner a manned pillbox, as sirens split the air and marines tromped forth from their barracks, or hung from the back of transport Hogs; eyes impassive behind glare visors in their helmets, jaws working as they chewed tobacco, Chum™ and any other substance the regs permitted. Power-plants, the Starport – all key military and financial institutions were seized by the soldiers and swiftly garrisoned.
Khulov's men had to hide in back streets, or risk a brutal engagement against a highly trained and decidedly better equipped standing army. Dozens were arrested outright. K-9 units strained at leashes and snuffled pavement as they were led from street to street, alley to alley. Stape's crackdown was absolute.
Argjend was a sophisticated post-war city by Outer Colony standards. Air raid shelters were numerous, and worked into the city's architecture. Surface-to-air defences were state of the art. The culture was one borne from all too costly personal experience. Civilian disaster drills were keenly practiced by the law-abiding members of society. They dutifully returned to their homes or, if caught out in public, filed into shelters beneath the city.
The more cutting-edge offices in the centre of the city engaged their own private security measures, large blast shutters – once decorative panels or sheets of sleek chrome cladding – sliding into place with a grinding rumble; sealing shut with heavy thuds that sounded like closing tombs. Anti-air defences unfolded like blooming flowers; whirring on servo struts as auto-targeting computers calibrated and monitoring scopes periscope-twitched to life. Rail cannons, automated assault turrets and flak cannons. They spun on rooftops slowly, sweeping the sky with careful deliberation.
Chase's Pelican kissed down on the street. Reeve found Myers planted deep in the roof of a parked taxi. The entire top of the car had caved inward beneath him. Reeve helped him climb down, the metal warping further as he prised himself free.
"Status?" Chase asked.
"Green, Sir." Myers scowled, prodding at his missing teeth with an armoured finger.
"Good. We're losing time." Chase pressed Myers' helmet into his hands as they stepped aboard, before triggering the inter-squad link. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the lifting engines.
"All units, be advised; Sierra G239 is active within the AO. We believe they may be employing advanced stealth technology. Take no chances on this one: orders are to shoot on sight."
"Amen." Reeve murmured. He was still sore over the loss of his rifle. The Spartan unshipped a DMR from stores. In an urban environment like this, chances were high that any future engagements would be considerably closer.
"Do we have eyes on target?" Deng's voice crackled.
"Negative. We'll loop around and continue the pursuit of 451. Four and Five, reinforce Victory Plaza. General Stape's security is your top priority – Chimera's Laconia trained. We know their MO."
"Attack Pattern Hydra." growled Hendric.
"The very same. Waypoint markers have been updated; Operation Bellerophon is a go. Repeat, Operation Bellerophon is a go. Godspeed, gentlemen. Spartan Keller out."
The Crisis Control Centre's staff had been entirely been replaced by UNSC servicemen, handpicked by the general himself. APD desk jockeys were usurped from their stations, as men and women with uniform high and tight buzz cuts took their places. Military charts – physical and digital – were splayed out over tables as officers gathered around; jotting small notes with wax pencils and digital styluses as older plans were cross-referenced with more sophisticated wireframe models. Soon the room was warm with the heat of thickly packed bodies, abuzz with activity. Styrofoam cups and data-pads littered the edge of every display table.
Under General Stape's watchful gaze, the city hardened; readying itself for a war that had already started.
A war he intended to win.
"Captain on deck!"
Captain Reade of the UNSC Carpathia smiled as her bridge crew stood to attention. She was a robust woman, silver haired and tough as boot leather when the situation called for it. The Carpathia had seen its share of conflict during the War. Reade had served aboard it ever since she was a cadet; back when the hull was gleaming and deck-plates unscarred. Nowadays, she felt every bit as weathered as the ship.
"At ease." Reade returned the salute smartly. "What do we have, Bakar?"
Reade's mousy coms officer was already waiting with a datapad. She handed it to Meade. She was young and talented. Enjoy it while it lasts, kiddo.
"City-wide alert, authorised by General Stape as of 1340 Zulu Time. Martial law has been declared."
"Situation?"
"Official word is Insurrectionists, Ma'am. Rioting in the Western District, evidence of a terrorist attack in a major medical facility in the Central District and brushfire conflicts all over the city. Local police believed it to be gang affiliated, but General Stape's orders suggest otherwise."
"His orders?"
"The General has requested a complement of Broadsword fighters be placed on standby."
Reade exchanged a look with her executive officer, Commander Javadi. Evidently he shared her concern.
"And did the General explain at any stage why he wanted us to activate Broadswords?"
Bakar shook her head.
"No Ma'am. The request was for fighters on standby, armed for pursuit and bombardment if necessary. Operation code phrase is Bellerophon."
"Very well. Launch two fighters, have them adopt a holding pattern in the exosphere but no closer. This planet's had enough civil war as it is; I would rather avoid another mass-panic, no matter how the General feels."
Meade settled in her captain's chair.
"Mr. Tan, bring our weapon systems online and keep our powder dry. Yellow alert, broadcast to all hands."
"Aye, Ma'am, prepping systems now."
Javadi stroked his beard, one eyebrow raised quizzically.
"Expecting trouble, Ma'am?"
Reade studied the view from the main view screen, watching the marker buoys wink against the sweeping backdrop of the planet below.
"This is the Outer Colonies, Mr. Javadi. There's always trouble."
Rashid let the marines escort him toward the elevators. He drew stares from the staff and patients they passed. Of course he did: he was the giant that lurked on the top floor; often talked about, seldom seen. What drew even more stares were the four armed soldiers escorting him. Military Police, bulky in their body plate; one of them lugging his Delving Deck under the crook of his arm. It wasn't every day you saw cutting edge military soldiers in the street, let alone the disinfectant flavoured halls of Havenwood Medical. The motorised wheels of the chair carried him along, squeaking against the hard plastic floor. The trooper had denied Rashid's request for a push.
This wasn't going to do. This wasn't going to do at all. Without his Delving Deck alive and actively transmitting, Eric and his team would lose communications with anyone relying on anything less than a Mjolnir-level com suite. Rebecca and Murphy would be on their own. Chidinma too, if Eric hadn't reached her in time. Unless Rashid did something, quickly.
As they pushed him toward the elevators, Rashid began to formulate a plan. He noticed the blue masking tape on the magazines of the MP's rifles. Stun rounds, designed for disabling rowdy troopers, or – in his case – mutinous Spartans. He spied an alarm button mounted on the wall, noted the thick floor seals that lined each and every threshold they passed through. This was a state of the art facility, with the very best Isolated Containment Unit on the planet. Germ-warfare, alien pathogens and chemical agents; there was no limit to the number of angles a potential bio-terrorist might take in the 26th century. Designed for disease prevention and bacterial quarantine, the entire building was capable of self-sealing in the event of a documented outbreak. The large biohazard symbol printed on the big red alarm button told him as much.
Another four guards awaited them at the far end of the hallway, standing vigil outside the elevators. There was one more doorway between them and the group escorting Rashid. Now or never then. Rashid took a deep breath.
And tipped his wheelchair over on its side, crying out in alarm.
One of the guards drew a bead on him instantly. Another two reflexively went to help him. Even without his Mjolnir plate, even as wasted as he felt from six months of laying idle, Rashid was easily over three hundred pounds of corded muscle and reinforced bone. They struggled between them as they hoisted the crippled giant up onto their shoulders, trying to prop him up on his one good leg. Another trooper wrestled with the wheelchair, attempting to right it.
That's when Rashid threw himself to the right, suddenly nimble; focusing all his power into his one good leg. The troopers were thrown off balance as he launched himself free. He hurled himself bodily toward the emergency containment alarm. The palm of his hand slapped it as he tumbled to the floor.
The result was bedlam.
Reinforced containment glass slammed down across every threshold in the building. Sprinklers hissed to life, soaking them in sterilising foam; temporarily blinding the troopers as their visors misted over. Red sirens and strobing emergency lighting washed through the downpour. Rashid was already scrambling on his hands. Months of physiotherapy had kept his arms strong, strong enough that when he hit the first trooper's ankle it was at considerable speed; spilling the trooper over Rashid's shoulder onto the floor. He collapsed to the floor with a splash.
The one trooper who hadn't gone to help Rashid struggled to take a shot, unable to get a clear line of fire past the wheelchair, past his stumbling comrades. Confusion reigned.
By then Rashid was suddenly at the trooper's feet. The Spartan reached up and clamped a hand onto the man's webbing. Rashid tugged, hauling the man off-balance. He stumbled straight into the stun rounds of his comrade, jerking and twitching as the rubberised rounds thumped into body armour with an electric sizzle.
Rashid's hand snaked out, snatching the boot knife from the disabled trooper's ankle sheath. With a slicing thump it embedded itself in the shooter's shoulder. The MP cried out, dropping his rifle as he collapsed; hands reflexively gripping at his wound. Rashid flopped forward in the foam, snatching up the fallen rifle. He rolled onto his back and triggered two clean bursts.
The two troopers clambering to their feet were smashed down once more, quivering as the stun rounds smacked home. Rashid lowered the rifle, took a deep breath.
Four downed MP's and an upturned wheelchair surrounded him. Not a bad result for a man with one leg.
The troopers by the elevator were now pressed against the glass, hammering at it, their blows softened to muffled thumps. Angry faces mouthed noiseless threats. Rashid ignored them, hauling the wheelchair upright and settling himself into it. He retrieved the Delving Deck, giving it a shake as the foam sopped from it. The disabled MP's would be on their feet in twenty minutes or so, and by that time he would need to devise a means of disabling the containment lockdown separating this section from the next one over. He would need to move quickly.
Wheels sloshing through the film of foamy-sop, Delving Deck balanced on his lap, Rashid made for the Prosthetics Department.
"Where are we going now?" Amanda demanded. Secret Service men clustered around her, worrying at ear-pieces like particularly well-muscled nannies. The corridors of the safe house were thick with them, as they pulled on rebreathers and mirrored eye-goggles. Somebody pressed a full HAZMAT suit into her hands. It was rubbery and spongy. She stared at it, incredulous.
"Please, Madame, put on the suit." Loic asked. "We have just received word of a possible biohazard incident at Havenwood Medical. This location is no longer secure."
The Spartans herded her outside toward the awaiting motorcade, surrounding her in a wall of green armour.
"Thirty seconds remaining on the stealth field, 239." Perry reported, glancing up to flick a switch above. "Opening rear hatch now."
There was a sudden thump of decompression as the rear hatch descended with a rumble. Bright sunshine seeping into the rear hold through the ever-widening aperture. The hull outside was a translucent blur. Chidinma's HUD flickered from interference cast off by the struggling stealth field.
Chidinma stood by the Booster Frame, watching the buildings and winding streets whip by; looking out over the horizon like a surfer contemplating the churning waves. Park was swaddled in his sealed flight suit, keeping a careful distance at the rear controls. He tapped a button on the console. There was a whirring sound as the Frame nosed toward the edge of the troop bay on an automated loading trolley, before clanking to a halt at the precipice. It hung there, locked in place by mechanical clamps that bit deep into holding points beneath the Frame's chassis.
"We've lost signal from 482." Eric was saying. "We have a limited window before Becker vanishes entirely. Mission priority is on re-establishing an uplink with Rashid, and finalising the counter-trace on that marker. Your role is provide fire support and ensure that happens."
"What about Rashid?" Chidinma shouted over the howling engines.
"I'll get to Rashid, Spartan. Just keep 451 alive."
Chidinma swung her leg over the saddle, settling her feet in the stirrups. She tapped two keys and the entire control display lit up. Her hands settled on the forward-sloping control yokes; similar to those of a Covenant Banshee. Her HUD flashed as it slaved the Frame's control system to her Mjolnir suite.
Eric stood at the edge of the ramp beside her, one hand on a safety grip.
"The light is green, Spartan." Eric confirmed. "Fly well."
Chidi thumbed a switch on one of the handle bars.
The anti-grav nacelles lining the the underside of the Frame activated with an ever rising hum. The Frame began to buck and wobble, rising from the floor but remaining tethered to the Condor. Then the locking teeth snapped open; the Frame hurtling free as it detached itself from the speeding dropship. Wind howled at Chidinma, rocking the airframe with a trembling shudder.
The Booster Frame fell toward earth, engines dark. The city screamed up toward her, as the howling wind battered the airframe, jostling it. The streamlined contours of her armour clicked and flexed as it micro-adjusted to compensate for the G-forces slamming against her.
Chidinma flicked the next activation stud. Long recurve wings snapped open with a metallic rasp. There was a shuddering jolt as pulse jets at the front the Frame vented to push the vehicle out of the screaming dive. When she balanced out she hit the next switch. Retro rockets blazed to life, surging her forward; engines flaring to full power. She shot away into the sky, angling round and soaring over the city. Skyscrapers flitted below her, the lines of cars rendered tiny on the streets below.
Behind her, the Condor shimmered into view, bulky wings and bulging Slipspace Drive a black shadow on the horizon as it rocketed in the opposite direction, toward Havenwood Medical.
Chidi opened the TAC-COM.
"Sierra 483, on-station and in position to provide aerial support. Chimera One, do you copy?"
"Solid copy Three!" Damien shouted over the roar of the engine, "What's your position?"
"Coming up on your six now, One."
Damien twisted in the saddle. There, in the distance; a rider, recurve wings, an underslung rail gun; little more than a cruciform speck at this range.
Then Chidinma was over to his right, racing through the sky. The sonic boom followed, reverberating against the high glass facades of the buildings around them. Chidinma chopped speed to match his own. She twisted in the saddle; flashed him a thumbs up. He returned the gesture.
"I would not miss it for the world, One."
It was just as well. A half dozen UNSC Warthogs snarled up the highway behind him. They had yet to take a shot, given the number of civilian vehicles still trying to vacate the city streets, but that would not last. Once the lockdown was fully in place, and the streets emptied of traffic, the gloves would come off.
The highways were large sky-bridges that looped around the city core, hemming in the Central District like an asphalt girdle. They were supported by massive granite archways, beneath which suspended grav-lines snaked their way throughout the city. Some of the bridges were taller than others, and often intersected; weaving complex figure of eight patterns across the city's topography. The buildings around the central core were considerably taller than Victory Plaza, which formed a shallow dimple in the heart of the city. These skyscrapers were icons of commerce, tall and foreboding towers of blue-mirrored glass, whose steel frames dazzled a brilliant silver in the high afternoon sun.
Right now Damien raced along Highway 03, a long stretch of road that led straight for the outer wall of Central District. The boundaries of Central were vaguely defined, vulnerable to rapid re-zonings at the whim of corporates looking to muddy area codes in favour of a more exclusive postal address.
Roadblocks had been established to curtail Damien's progress. APD patrol cars primarily, who had been demoted to a secondary role with the pronouncement of martial law. They were trying their utmost to slow the Spartan down, allowing more specialised military units to close the net.
Damien had already blasted through one such checkpoint, ducking low in the saddle as the police opened fire. They had upgraded to MA5 assault rifles, though they might as well have been firing blanks, such was the thickness of the Chopper's armour. The giant wheel bit clean through the spooled coils of razor wire, flattened the stinger strip and ploughed over the line of parked police cars, crunching bonnets and folding metal as it ground its way through with locomotive disregard. Officers threw themselves left and right as Damien shot by.
"Heads up." Chidi crackled over the inter-squad channel.
Another checkpoint lay ahead. Heavier duty this time; two police cars, framing a black armoured Armadillo troop carrier outfitted for SWAT duty. Black armoured officers crouched with rifles braced in a firing position. One officer lay prone atop one of the patrol cars, his eye pressed against the scope of an anti-material rifle perched on an extended bipod.
"No unnecessary casualties, Three." Damien sent back, "This isn't their fight. Just clear some room!"
"Solid copy, One."
Chidinma thumbed the red button on her flight yoke.
The large cannon affixed to the underside of the Booster Frame extended with a whirr of arching servos. It was considerably smaller than the gun mounted on a traditional Frame; where its brawnier cousin could split the battle plate of a Covenant cruiser, this was intended for somewhat more refined force application. The underslung barrel split lengthwise, revealing the long mass driver within. An electromagnetic crackle of energy tensed and coiled along the length of the driver, charging. Chidi sighted carefully.
She stabbed the button again.
A lance of blue energy banged out so violently the entire airframe rattled; striking the Armadillo so hard it shunted backwards on its wheels, screeching skid marks. The black hull glowed an orange-red as it slid to a halt. The shockwave burst the windows of the surrounding patrol cars; bowling men off their feet like skittles. Damien's Chopper growled as it wove through the gap, neatly slipping past the dented APC.
"Nice shot, Chidi!" Damien grinned.
A green acknowledgement light indicated her thanks. Then it flashed orange; a warning.
"Danger ahead, One."
Central District was separated into a series of hexagonal compartments, divided by impressive perimeter walls. While the majority of the skyscrapers far exceeded the height of the walls, each and every highway had to feed through bulkheads that would seal in the event Orbital One ever suffered a catastrophic event. They were precisely the kind of feature that a secondary settlement like New Cadiz had lacked; the kind of feature that would have averted the catastrophe.
Right now it presented an immediate obstacle to Damien. With a lock down in place, the door was sealed; not even the Chopper's 35 mm cannon would penetrate it.
"Can we blast through?"
"Negative. Those doors are designed to withstand orbital debris. The Frame won't make a dent."
Damien grappled with the control reigns, the grav-drive shrilling as he wrestled the Chopper into a long skid. Chidinma circled high and to the right, swooping around in covering pattern. The Warthogs were closing the distance; would outrun a Chopper in a straight distance run. The engine purred as he assessed his options, mind racing.
The Warthogs were rapidly closing the gap. Falcons whipped into view, appearing over buildings on the horizon. UNSC sharpshooters clung to the sides of commandeered APD fliers, their boots dangling from side hatches or resting on landing skids. The two Spartans watched the chase slowly draw to a close.
"Can't go around them." Damien said eventually.
"We cannot outrun them either." Chidinma said, nodding at the blast shield at their backs.
"Last remaining option, Three." Damien revved the engine. "We go through 'em."
The Prosthetic Department was a fascinating place. A roboticist's dark fantasy, it was mutely lit, like a mausoleum for the mechanical. The floors, walls and ceilings were a dark onyx, bedecked with similarly dark furniture. Great glass displays showed off the numerous prostheses available: a somewhat ghoulish array of skeletal hands, mechanical arms and disembodied legs. They rotated on up-lit displays, like a car showroom for the macabre. The earlier models were all steel claws and twisting hooks; crude but functional. Later models were more sophisticated, with micro-servers approximating joints and nerves and knuckles. Some even had rudimentary artificial skin, ranging from the rubbery to the realistic. Rashid would have loved to explore the displays in greater detail.
Unfortunately, he was much too busy taking the department hostage.
He sat in the wheelchair, his Delving Deck propped on his lap. He had the MA5 in his hands, trained on the panicking huddle of technicians at the far end of the room. Rashid spoke slowly and loudly, with calm authority.
"I can assure all of you that it is not my intention to cause any further harm or undue stress beyond that which has already transpired. But also believe me when I say that none of you will be permitted to leave until such time that I am capable of walking out of here on my own two feet. The sooner you help me, the sooner I can let you go. Is that clear?"
The robotics specialists and grafting engineers sobbed and clung to one other, senseless. Some held their hands up in surrender, pleading. Rashid felt immensely guilty. They were too busy cowering to provide any meaningful acknowledgement. Rashid sighed and put a round in the ceiling. More screaming. He wasn't getting through.
Time for the villainous approach, then.
"Right. Let's try this again, shall we? I want a leg, and you're going to give it to me. Or I'm going to start executing you, one by one. Starting with the youngest."
Now that was a bald faced lie. But then the scientists had no idea his rifle was loaded with stun rounds. He certainly wasn't going to tell them that either.
"I… I'm afraid there's nothing here capable of accommodating a patient of your size, Spartan Datar."
One of the scientists stammered. He was a refined gentleman, taller than his companions. A pair of medical spectacles balanced precariously on the tip of his nose. They reflected all manner of diagnostic data up at him; presented him with a surgical HUD of sorts. He stood up, hands shaking. Internally, Rashid admired his bravery. Externally, he adopted a withering scowl.
"You. What's your name?"
"Professor Erickson. Thorvald Erickson." The doctor tilted his chin upward, a small measure of pride returning, "I am in charge of this facility."
"Professor Erickson."
The name rang a bell. Rashid's fingers chattered on the keyboard as he typed one-handed. The doctor's email correspondence, personnel file and all manner of sensitive information flashed up on the holo-display. Rashid's eyes moved left to right, taking it all in with astonishing speed. The assault rifle never wavered for a second.
"You're lying." Another two key strokes, double checking, "I was approved for mechanical fitting three months ago. Correspondence with one Dr. Heinrich Falk, your counterpart in Nova Merced, confirms as much."
The professor blanched. Rashid was still reading.
"You were stalling for time. Hoping to run tests on me… to determine what made me the way I am?" Rashid smiled as he tutted, pausing to make eye contact with the doctor, "Don't you know that's classified, Professor?"
"Please, I'll help you. Just let these people go."
"Certainly." Rashid smiled affably, as he stabbed a key on his deck. One of the containment doors at the far end of the hall swished open. "Out, all of you."
The professor blinked in surprise.
"Really?"
"Well not you, Professor, obviously. But the rest of you? On you go now. Mush. Shoo."
There was a small stampede for the exit. The door hissed shut behind them, leaving Rashid alone with Professor Erickson. Rashid set the rifle down.
"Did you really think I was going to harm those people, Professor? That I'm some sort of terrorist; a butcher?" Rashid shook his head. "Honestly, I'm surprised at you. You've been spying on me for long enough."
"S-Spying?"
Rashid regarded him mildly, as a teacher might appraise a mischievous student.
"You think I didn't know? The intercepted communiqués, the hidden cameras laced throughout the walls of my room? That I didn't find them within a week of arriving? That I hadn't already read those messages, learned of your intentions? Please, Professor; you're an amateur, playing at a professional's game. I've spent months counter-intruding your systems; I've owned them ever since one of your staff had the stupidity to hand me a data-pad a week after I woke up.
"I know everything about you; your habits, your daily routines. That affair you had with your intern fourteen months ago. I've read everything you've ever published, even the early stuff, before you knew what you were doing."
Professor Erickson gibbered something ineffectually. Rashid didn't let up for a second. He continued, relentless.
"Give me some credit, Professor. I'm a Spartan, the culmination of some of the least ethical research the Office of Naval Intelligence ever sullied its hands with. I've been spied on for just about as long as I can remember. By people far scarier than you, I can assure you. I merely wanted to see if you were going to be honest when I asked for you to assist me. You failed, as it happens. Miserably."
"You had us at gunpoint!"
"Oh, details!" Rashid snapped, "Here's the deal, Professor: you help me get the prosthetic I was owed, or, and this is a promise, not a threat; you'll be needing a new prosthetic or three before this day is over."
They worked quickly, the giant and the skinny professor. It was an awkward partnership. There was no badness in Erickson, at least none that Rashid could find after spending months carefully snooping through the man's private files. A nosiness, perhaps, and a willingness to bend the rules to facilitate the illicit investigation such nosiness entailed, but nothing beyond that. Once it became clear that Rashid simply wanted to get moving and get out, the professor's willingness to aid him became all the more apparent.
With a snap the auto-surgeon's holding clamps locked Rashid's stump in place. The manifold arms worked quickly, rotating around the armature that encased his leg; one applied a film of antiseptic spray, another injecting a localised anaesthetic into the remains of his leg. Rashid kept the MA5 to hand - while the professor was unlikely to try anything at this point, Rashid was now at his most vulnerable.
In the background, the Delving Deck sat on a table on the far side of the room, rebooting. Rashid had killed the uplink as soon as he'd been disturbed. With hundreds of subroutines having been brutally severed, it would take the machine a few minutes to fully reset. As it slowly booted up, they worked side by side, the Professor and the Spartan; rebuilding Chimera Four as best they could. It was difficult work under adverse circumstances. The biocontainment alarms still hooted incessantly.
Neither heard Damien's calls for a sit-rep over the radio.
Rebecca, Murphy and Carl were trying to devise a means of transmitting the data to the others. Carl had the disc-reader rigged to a conversion program for widespread dissemination, but the nature of the tech meant it was going to take some time. They sat watching a progress bar, marvelling at how slow this was taking.
"It's the format." Carl explained helplessly.
"It's mind-numbing." Rebecca sighed, chin cupped in her hands.
Then the doorbell chimed a pleasant sing-song greeting. Everyone looked at each other. This was alarming. The store was, after all, closed.
Murphy stood up, reaching for his sidearm. Carl and Rebecca turned and stared up at him, alarmed. The footage had already instilled a healthy dose of paranoia. Murphy put a finger to his lips, and, stooping into a crouch, slipped through the door leading into the shop floor. He shuffled forward on his hands and knees, trying to avoid making a sound. He paused to listen.
Two sets of footsteps milled about the store. No, three. The talked quietly amongst themselves. Murphy didn't understand the language, but he recognised the sound of it. He'd served in the same theatre as some of the Eastern units before. They had all the trappings and equipment of a UNSC unit, but the insignias and private battle language were very much local colour. English was only used when communicating over standard com frequencies. Still, he had an ear for these things; knew the language when he heard it.
Somebody stepped up to the counter. A back-lit shadow; broad-shouldered, solidly built.
"Hello?" a voice calls out. Thickly accented. Definitely Eastern European.
Carl emerged, doing a decent job of not acknowledging Murphy, hunkering down right in front of him.
"Good afternoon, Sir." Carl smiled, the very epitome of customer service. He'd learned a lot about it in the past hour or so.
"We are looking for these people." The Russian said. Carl peered closer as though studying a photograph. "Have you seen them?"
"Uh… no," Carl blinked quickly, "I'm afraid our store is closed, so I haven't seen anyone here all day. Lockdown, y'know."
Carl wrapped up his closing argument with a high-pitched, nervous giggle.
Murphy's breath tightened in his chest. Carl was a dab hand at electronics, but acting was not his forte.
There was the longest pause. All Murphy could do was crouch there, tightly gripping his side-arm. The antics of the car chase earlier that day had taken its toll. His M6 only had a single magazine left.
"Are you sure?" the voice asked again. Murphy could imagine the face that went with it; stony-eyed, masculine to a fault, all but unblinking. The Russian mob did a particular brand of scary, and it was effective.
Carl nodded too many times. Sweat beaded his brow.
"Y-yeah, yes of course! I mean no, I haven't seen them! Total strangers! Sorry!"
Murphy waited for rough hands to appear over the counter, for Carl to start squealing.
Instead the men left, the door beeping as they exited. Murphy counted four beeps in total.
Something was awry.
Carl visibly sagged, planting his head hands on the counter.
"Oh God, thank god that's over."
Murphy's hand shot up, yanking the tech down behind the counter. Carl yelped in surprise as he fell.
Then the windows caved in, as a cacophony of gunfire raked the front of the shop. These guys were packing some serious heat. Murphy's ear picked out the sounds, trying to interpret the chaotic noise. He heard the spit-rattle of a submachine guns, and an MA5 on full-auto. One of the shooters added a pump-action shotgun the mix. Rack after rack of Chatterpads and info-slates detonated as impacting rounds peppered the back wall. Chips and plastic shards flew into the air, raining down over the counter and powdering them in a fine dust. Buckshot took glass display cabinets apart. Carl dug his fingers in his ears and howled.
"Stay down!" Murphy growled through gritted teeth. He clamped a hand over Carl's mouth. Carl stared at him, his breath pulsing against Murphy's palm; all but hyperventilating. They stared at each other, faces inches apart; Murphy willing the tech to stop making noise. Eventually Carl ran out of breath.
The deluge slackened. The last weapon to cease firing was a harsher bark, higher in pitch. A side-arm then. Hired guns, ill-disciplined. Murphy realised that with Damien leading the entire APD on a merry chase across the Central District, this pattern was probably being repeated all over the city.
The door beeped again. Once, twice, three times. Confirming the kill, making sure the message had been sent.
Footsteps crunched ever closer. Murphy narrowed his eyes, trying to pinpoint their location. Three targets; one from left, two on the right. The rest were probably on overwatch outside. No time to worry about them.
Murphy snapped above the counter, shoulders set; the M6 braced on the table. Two shots, centre mass.
The thug on the left folded without a word, his SMG triggering as he fell. Tufts of plaster sifted down from the snaking pattern it blasted in the roof. Murphy ducked back.
A storm of bullets hammered into the counter. Carl resumed screaming.
Murphy bellied along the floor, moving to the right, closer to the wall.
He popped up again. Another two rounds. He caught the next man in the forehead. The man's legs went out from under him, boneless.
The remaining shooter had a pistol trained on Murphy; had caught him dead to rights.
The goon pulled the trigger.
The patrol Genet had seen better days.
After fleeing the museum, Greggs had driven as far as they could south, away from the elephant graveyard of discarded APD vehicles; high on adrenaline and terror. Edgerton had eventually persuaded him to pull over by a Re-Station. Like most of the streets around them, the place was devoid of life. Some water pumps for fusion engines, a shuttered up store for odds and ends. The floodlights were on in the forecourt, but nobody was home. Sirens and warning klaxons echoed in the distance. Edgerton sat on the bonnet of the car, watching as his city became a fortress. A cigarette perched in his mouth. It did little to calm his shaking hands.
Greggs was buried elbows deep in what was left of the dashboard's on-board computer. Like the bonnet of the car, it was stitched with bullet holes. They had to smash what was left of the windshield just so they could see past the spider web cracks. The map display fizzled and sparked as Greggs pulled at wires and circuits unseen.
Edgerton twisted about, flicking ash onto the road surface.
"So what are we looking at, Greggs?"
Greggs heaved a sigh as he flopped back in his seat.
"I've replaced the burst tire, but the GPS is shot. Auto-nav too. Radio is functional, but that's about all we've got. There's been a general recall of all units, sector-wide. Apparently, it's the military's show now."
Edgerton watched as an open-top cargo transport loaded with marines rumbled by. He took another drag on the smoke.
"Lot of that going around today."
"You don't agree with it?" Greggs joined Edgerton on the bonnet, hands in his pockets. He refused the box of cigarettes Edgerton offered him. He was trying to quit.
"Hell, I agree with it. I'm not going up against a Spartan, no sir. But I've been thinking."
Edgerton was a slow-moving investigator, by the standards of the APD Homicide Department; careful, deliberate, perhaps to a fault. He drove most of the other detectives crazy, such was his methodical, protracted style. But there was no shortage of brilliance to the man; he'd worked as a data analyst for a reason. When he had a theory, Greggs - a wild polecat of a man, tenacious and stubborn despite his diminutive height - would be the first to listen.
"Go on."
"The bodies at the warehouse. Special Forces, right? Body-suits, no insignia, no tags. Gear they carried was bleeding-edge, man. Hard-core stuff. Media are saying it's Insurgent activity; more Innie rioting, some shit like that. But we were first there, and I sure as hell didn't see any bodies like the one's they're showing, and you didn't either."
Edgerton flicked the cigarette butt down onto the hardpan, stubbing it out with his toe.
"Then you've got another element on the loose. A Spartan. Takes apart just about every SWAT soldier the APD throws at it. Then we get the recall. And now-" a Falcon trilled overhead, festooned with armed soldiers. Edgerton nods up at them. "You've got the entire UNSC hauling ass over the city, putting the APD on perimeter duty."
"So what are you saying, Edge? That it's an internal thing? Some kind of black ops, eyes-only bullshit?"
Edgerton fixed Greggs with a solemn stare.
"I'm saying shit doesn't add up, my friend. For one thing, that story the media's putting out, that ain't true. Innies don't have Spartans. It's way above their pay grade."
"Don't need a case file to tell me that. So what's your read, then? A deserter?"
"I don't know what my read is. Need more data. Can't build a case without evidence. But if it smells dirty, and looks dirty, then it probably is dirty." Edgerton had produced another cigarette, lit it smoothly. "Somebody's cleaning house, one way or another."
"I don't know, man. Spartans are involved: I think you and I will be long dead before any of this shit gets declassified."
Edgerton raised an eyebrow at him.
"Unless…"
Greggs knew that look. It was the same look that kept cases open for months far longer than they otherwise should be; that made great arrests and prompted Major Crimes' intervention.
"No, Edge. Fuck no. I'm not getting involved in this, and neither are you. ONI wants to bury its skeletons, I say let 'em."
"Look Greggs, all I'm saying is that, for me, this shit's personal. They take our case, they pollute our crime scene; worst of all, they shot up our motherfuckin' car. This is our city. We are the Argjend Police Department. Now some police might want to go stick on a riot helmet, be a good little dogsbody for those soldier boys, but as I see it, this case just got a whole lot bigger than a shoot-out in the 'Zone. And I intend to find out why."
Greggs nodded at that, thinking of the dismissive treatment the 'Zone clean-up crew had given him; of the wildly contrasting story the nets had carried in the hours since they'd been reassigned.
"Fuck it, I'm in."
"Amen, brother. Welcome to the crusade."
The two cops bumped knuckles.
"So where do we start?"
"Museum's a no-go. Not with that crazy Spartan on the loose. Warehouse scene is a bust too; whoever those spooks were, they're not the type to leave any traces, as I see it." Edgerton stood up and moved around to the passenger seat. His fingers prodded at the battered police computer, the scanner too.
"We stay on the radio. We stay mobile. Anything suspicious goes down, we haul ass there and get to it before anyone else can."
They didn't have to wait long. An emergency dispatch warbled from the police scanner. Reports of gunshots at the Underpass, a popular Central mall. It was beyond the operational border of the military exclusion zone.
"Think it's related?" Greggs asked as he banged the door shut, pulling on his seat belt.
"Night like this? Everything's related."
Click.
The top-slide had already snapped backward, locking in place; hungry for a new magazine. The goon's eyes bulged in disbelief; in his frenzy to draw on Murphy, he hadn't noticed his mag was empty. Then he swore and started for the door, arms flapping.
"Sloppy." Murphy muttered, taking aim.
A single round clipped the guy in the back of his thigh. The thug yelped and tottered to the floor, the spent weapon spilling from his hands.
Murphy vaulted the counter and kept his pistol trained on the downed man. Maintaining aggression was essential in this situation. Murphy planted his boot on the man's bullet wound. The thug shrieked. Murphy grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around onto his back. He shoved the pistol into the man's cheek, so tightly the flesh bulged up around the barrel.
"Ammo discipline." Murphy sneered, "If you fucks knew what you were playing at you, wouldn't be in this position."
Murphy heard a heavy crunch. He looked up at a heavy pair of boots right in front of his face. He looked slightly higher, and found himself staring down the barrel of an MA5 assault rifle at point blank range.
Ah, yes. There had been four shooters.
"That'll teach me." Murphy sighed, slowly setting his gun down and rising to his feet, hands raised.
The guy holding the rifle was another identikit merc; this time sporting a bushy beard and a nose piercing. He kept the MA5 jammed in Murphy's face.
"Of course there's one thing you're forgetting." Murphy continued, "My partner's behind you."
It was ridiculous. It was never going to work.
The goon actually started laughing; a gap-toothed chuckled. Murphy laughed along with him, maintaining eye contact. Then Murphy's eyes skipped over the man's shoulder, and back again, as though conferring with a creeping team-mate.
The man glanced, a half-second glance. It was all Murphy needed. One of his hands slapped the barrel of the MA5 aside. The other gripped the thug's forearm, squeezing a very specific point along the ulnar nerve. Murphy was deafened as the rifle discharged inches from his face; the muzzle flash searing his face. He didn't care. The rifle slipped free of the thug's grip, sliding into Murphy's arms. He released the thug's wrist, gripped the rifle by the bottom of the stock.
Then he slammed the rifle up into the man's jaw. Teeth clacked together audibly. Blood gushed from his mouth. Murphy had the rifle turned in an instant, covering the downed men. The second thug gibbered as the blood welling in his mouth poured freely down his chin; matting his beard. He'd bitten through his own tongue.
Murphy snapped the rifle to one survivor whose face wasn't drooling blood.
"You, talk!" Murphy snapped, the volume of his voice all wrong in his head. It sounded muffled, as though from the end of a long tunnel stuffed with towels. Burst ear-drum. The keening ringing sound that refused to subside told him that well enough.
The man's lips were moving. Murphy hadn't a clue what they were saying.
"Carl!" Murphy called. At least he think he called. The ringing sound was unrelenting. "Get over here!"
Rebecca appeared. She was mouthing something too.
Murphy was bellowing at the top of his lungs.
Rebecca hurried past Carl, who was still cowering behind the counter.
"Make sure the file conversion finishes." Rebecca said to him, giving him a shove for a good measure. Carl nodded, collecting his wits, and disappeared out back.
"Murphy, we need to get moving."
The operative didn't reply, he kept the rifle trained on the two miserable thugs prostrate on the floor.
"I said we need to get out of here!" Rebecca yelled again.
There was no recognition in Murphy's eyes. He held the gun on the two wounded men. Blood was streaming from his left ear. His mouth worked open and closed like some kind of beached fish as he tried to clear his ears. Then he finally blinked and noticed her.
"WHAT?" he bellowed. Rebecca flinched.
Blood was pouring out of Murphy's left ear. The right wasn't faring too well either.
"I HONESTLY CAN'T MAKE OUT A WORD YOU'RE SAYING!"
Rebecca sighed. Great, her sole remaining bodyguard was now completely deaf. She tried military sign language. A number of her patients had been hard of hearing after the war. Plasma shelling, proximity to friendly artillery fire and prolonged exposure to decibel levels far in excess of recommended levels, partial or even complete deafness was one of the most common conditions for civilians and service personnel alike. Surgery could restore hearing in relatively short order but the waiting lists had been extensive. It had been more prudent to simply learn how to sign, and help the more immediate PTSD cases when they were at their most vulnerable.
+We need to move. Now!+ she signed.
Murphy nodded.
"ASK THEM WHO THEY'RE WORKING FOR!"
+NOT SO LOUD+ Rebecca's hands all but flapped as they signed furiously. Murphy nodded in solemn understanding.
"Ask them who they're working for." Murphy repeated in a stage whisper.
"Khulov! Khulov sent us!" the leg-shot thug managed. He looked awfully pale. "Please, we have no choice. He will kill us if we say no!"
Rebecca didn't know the sign language for malevolent Russian crime boss, but Murphy seemed to get the idea based on the fear in the thug's eyes.
"We're leaving." Murphy said. It would have sounded decisive, were it not for the ridiculous stage whisper again, "Search them for keys."
Rebecca found an entry swipe in the tongue-less goon's pocket; a TurboGen flatbed. She also took both their wallets and all their credits for a good measure.
Carl emerged from the back room.
"It's ready." Carl panted, holding up a memory card.
"Excellent." Rebecca said, touching her ear-piece. "Eric, it's Rebecca. You there?"
Nothing. Maybe it was interference from being underground.
"Rashid?"
Static answered. The entire link was seemingly down.
+I can't get through.+ Rebecca signed. +Nobody is answering.+
"Doesn't matter." Murphy replied, his voice louder but oddly disjointed, as though he had blaring headphones in his ears. "We need to get out of here."
"Carl, you're coming too." Rebecca said.
"M-me? My entire store just got trashed!" Carl cried. He pointed at Murphy. "You just killed two people! I need to call the police!"
"Believe me when I say that's not an option. And if you stay here, chances are these guys' friends are going to come knocking."
Carl had no argument for that. His mouth worked up and down a few times. Rebecca didn't waste time waiting for him.
They stepped out onto the mall, glass crunching underfoot.
"We'll need wheels, transportation, some kind of –"
"Drop your weapon!"
Rebecca and Carl froze, hands shooting for the sky. Murphy, his back turned to the source of the sound, kept walking.
"I said freeze!"
Murphy kept walking, oblivious.
Three shots clipped him. He spun to the floor without a sound. Rebecca and Carl kept their hands in the air, terrified.
Officers Edgerton and Greggs advanced on them, side-arms drawn. Beside them was the body of the mall security cop; another hapless victim of Khulov's hired guns. The man's headphones were loose, and blared the faintest tinny after-beat.
"Don't move!" Greggs barked, "Hands behind your head, legs spread!"
Rebecca and Carl lay down on the ground, hands behind their heads. Rebecca twisted her head about to look toward where Murphy's body had fallen.
The spy lay still on the ground, unmoving; his head turned away from hers. The MA5 lay just beyond his reach.
Blood pooled across the floor, warm against the cool tiles.
Becker stood over the hushed casket, dressed in a white lab coat. He studied the readouts with intent. They were close. So perilously close!
McBride appeared beside him. For such a large man, he moved with alarmingly subtlety. All of Blackshard did.
"Semion Khulov's men are out combing the streets for you, Sir."
Becker set his datapad down, lips pursed.
"Are they now?"
"He believes the Spartan's interference was your doing. He wants blood."
Becker looked over at the second cryogenic tube to his left; mulling this over. Every crisis, an opportunity. Misdirection was everything in times like these.
"Blood? I suspect we may have to give him a damn sight more than that."
Becker shrugged off the lab coat, revealing the form-fitting body armour he always wore. He pulled on his black coat, buttoning it smartly.
"Prep a transport, and have your team ready. We'll deal with this directly."