"2525. The year everything changed.
Henceforth, textbooks will be forced to make the distinction Humanity out of necessity, for we are not alone in this universe. The wonder the galaxy once held is gone, replaced by a deeper uncertainty. For the first time in recorded human history, mankind has made contact with an alien race. The contact was not peaceful.
It was a border skirmish, initially. A brush-fire war, centred on the Outer Colony Harvest. Attempts at finding a diplomatic solution proved unsuccessful. The aliens' intentions were, at first, unclear, but they soon became evident. The entire colony was evacuated, it's orbital tethers destroyed. Orbital plasma bombardment demonstrated the aliens' military power, and the genocidal ambitions that accompanied it. It foreshadowed the coming storm.
Our world is upended. The Spartan program is re-tasked; prioritising the new threat. Section Zero's position on the Spartan program shifts from lingering suspicion to outright support. Halsey's team crest a wave of goodwill borne from equal parts fear and desperate hope. We are afforded more funding, more resources, and more personnel. Prosecuting the Insurrection becomes a distant memory.
ONI undergoes a metamorphosis of sorts, too. Vast resources are directed to bolstering its logistical capacity. Section Three is to be given the unquestioning support of the UNSC. Numerous blank cheques are cashed. Rapid advances are made. My role as a mole becomes a trivial afterthought, for reasons that are immediately apparent.
This new enemy's technology far outstrips our own. Their fleets are more manoeuvrable, with a command of Slipspace that renders ours appear seemingly infantile by comparison. Their weapons are more sophisticated, their technology more advanced. More colonies are lost, as an inexorable tide of destruction rolls deeper into UEG territory. Entire colonies go dark. The death toll is catastrophic. Our past fears of the Insurrection now seem quaint by comparison.
We soon learn the name of our new enemy. They call themselves the Covenant; a religious coalition of like-minded alien races, as varied and numerous as they are fanatical. Our destruction is the will of their gods, and they are the tool.
But the Covenant do not find us easy prey. War-making has always been one of mankind's finest skills. From Troy to Thermopylae, from the Somme to Stalingrad; dogged entrenchment is a long-practiced tradition threaded throughout the fabric of human history. The losses inflicted upon the marauding Covenant are devastating. And yet their war machine rolls inexorably into UEG territory; their numbers seemingly infinite. For all our determination, for all our rabid defiance, we are losing. The loss of human life is unprecedented.
I am assigned to a forward intelligence position, tasked with monitoring the alien advance as part of a Prowler detail. It is here where I become an acquaintance of one Quintus Adams, a young but talented field operative. Together we chart mankind's destruction, observing as the frontline faces setback after setback.
Together, we document our impending extinction as a species."
- excerpt from a private record, author unknown
It was tense work, not helped by the droning sirens of the biocontainment breach. Eventually the pincers and plasma fitters folded back on their mechanical arms, retracting into the ceiling panels. Professor Erickson scrutinised the vitals on the monitor for a moment, before nodding once, satisfied. He keyed a button on the display.
The armature encasing Rashid's leg snapped open.
Hesitantly, like a foal finding its feet, Rashid Datar stood on two legs for the first time in six months. The first steps were wobbling; tentative and uncertain. His advanced nervous system was already pumping out the effects of the localised anaesthetic, the seams of his flesh raw where the biological met the mechanical. But there was no mistaking the rush of euphoria coursing through his veins.
His hands clung to the edge of the operating table, gripping it tightly.
"Excellent work, Professor. You have my thanks."
"Your synchronisation rate with the hardware will improve over time." Erickson explained, "Ordinarily I would suggest two months physiotherapy, as your body adapts to the subtleties of weight distribution and micro-motor function. Somehow I don't think you'll be afforded that luxury."
The alarms snapped off, abruptly. Rotor blades rattled the windows in their frames.
"An astute observation, Professor."
Rashid released the table, balancing his own weight. Mechanical servos whirred as he stomped down from the op platform, clumsily. He wobbled over to his Delving Deck. He clipped on his ear-piece, tapping in a brief series of instructions.
A door on the far side of the chamber hissed open.
"I am nothing if not a man of my word, Professor. I would suggest heading in the opposite direction to me; this is only going to get messier before it's over. Oh, and do try to stay away from the windows; there's no telling how trigger happy these people are."
Rashid stood tall, the assault rifle in one hand, data tablet balanced in the other.
"Now if you'll excuse me, I really must be going."
The men gathered in a dockside warehouse in the Eastern Harbour. It was entirely empty but for the assembly of vehicles arrayed in a wide circle; some stately cars, others utilitarian transport trucks or storage vans. Lonely cranes dangled above them; all menacing chains and idle gantries. Some thirty men had assembled, hardened killers all. Mercenaries and thugs, enforcers and hired guns. It was as many as Khulov could assemble on such short notice. The intelligence had only just come through.
It was everything he wanted to hear.
It was Mikhail who delivered the information. His face was still heavily pockmarked with cuts from the abortive hit; a raw reminder of Khulov's humiliation. He passed the datapad to Zolov, who relayed the news, as to-the-point as ever.
"We have a lead on Elias Becker's location."
"Go on."
"Word from our contact in the APD. There's a motorcade enroute from a secure UEG compound, moving along Highway 9. Heavy escort. Our source believes its senior enough to be Becker."
"You trust this man?"
"He's given us witnesses before, boss. Several times."
Khulov scratched at his jowls, nodded once, sniffing as he looked down at his shoes. He always did this before making a big decision.
On a ledge high above, hidden eyes watched the meeting unfold.
"Think he bought it?" McBride asked, staring through a high-power scope. They were perched on a gantry, far removed from Khulov's assembly. Four armed operators lurked nearby, providing perimeter security. They were only a small part of his new strike force, bedecked in the very latest military hardware.
McBride's role was asset control. Khulov's task had been to contain the Cadiz Tape, but with a lockdown in place, the situation had escalated far beyond the crime boss' capacity to get the job done. It was unfortunate, but oftentimes in operations like this a problem could present an opportunity.
Albert Cox was still dressed in the bodysuit of an APD officer, though he looked significantly different having shed the bulky riot armour. Like McBride, the neural lace at the rear of his skull had been removed; one of the few tell-tale signs of Blackshard membership. His posting had been a less physically active role than McBride's; his body had softened, but his instincts remained as sharp as ever.
"Want to tell a big lie?" replied Cox, "Tell a lot of small truths first. We've fed them enough to be a credible source."
"I'm aware. Becker just wants to know if this will contain Khulov long enough to get off-world. After that it won't matter. None of it will."
"It should. Jennings is a thorn in Khulov's side. If her proposed crackdowns go through, the entire local operation is at risk. Who knows, maybe the old man will end up doing himself a favour."
"Not likely. Trident's on that security detail. Has been for months."
"Two birds, one stone." Cox shrugged, "In any case, I'll need a new cover after this. Khulov doesn't mess around."
"Relax, we're done here." McBride lowered the scope, his expression frank. "Orders are to return to the lab and secure the perimeter. We're bringing everyone in. A few short hours, then we're finally getting off this rock."
"You serious? Arrowhead is complete?"
"Almost."
Cox's ear-piece buzzed. He listened carefully, before replying with a smirk. McBride glanced at him.
"Trouble?"
"Quite the opposite. APD Control just reported an arrest in Central District. Female, late twenties and a military-trained male, late thirties. Suspects match the description of our friends from the 'Zone. Looks like the Cadiz Tape crew."
"I'll send a strike team immediately."
"Negative, not with a lockdown in place. Things are hot enough already. I'll go myself."
"Fine. Deal with it, quickly."
Cox checked his sidearm. An M6D, fully loaded. McBride stopped him with a forestalling hand.
"No mistakes, Cox. The boss doesn't want the UNSC to know we're coming. Containing that tape is mission-critical."
"Oh, don't you worry. This won't take long."
"Stay down!"
Carl was hyperventilating. Rebecca kept her cheek pressed to the floor, hands splayed, silently thankful that the glass of the store had blown inward.
Murphy was breathing, albeit shallowly. For how much longer was debatable. There was a lot of blood.
A knee planted itself heavily against her lower back. Rough hands cuffed her. Rebecca gritted her teeth but made no sound. By the time the pressure released, her hands were tightly secured behind her back. Loathe as she was to admit it, she was getting all too used to this drill.
She watched as one of the cops rolled Murphy onto his back, popping open the front of his blood soaked overalls. His body armour had caught two of the rounds. The third had punctured his lower mid-section, toward the kidney.
"Jesus, Edge, you got him good. Gut shot." The shorter cop grimaced. "That museum piece of yours packs a punch."
The taller, dark-skinned cop was busy policing the discarded assault rifle. From the way he handled it, he knew what he was doing. This was not surprising: most of the APD had served in one capacity or another. He spared a glance at Murphy, grimaced.
"Get the med-kit, Greggs. I don't want to be writing reports for the next six months."
"Fuck that - you shot him."
Edgerton fixed him with a glare. He was too busy repeating their request for backup.
Greggs shrugged, his weapon up and sweeping. He moved forward into the store, out of Rebecca's line of sight.
Edgerton noticed Rebecca watching him. "You mind explaining what went on here, Ma'am?"
Rebecca lifted her head from the ground, offering him a livid scowl.
"You see that blood coming out of his ears?" Rebecca glowered. "His eardrums burst. Murphy saved our lives. Carl here owns the store, he'll tell you."
"A-actually I just rent the place –"
"Not now, Carl!" Rebecca spat, returning to look at Edgerton, nodding. "Go on. Check inside the store if you don't believe me."
His partner already had.
"Edge, you'd better get in here!"
Both cops disappeared out of sight. She could hear crunching glass as they moved about inside; the rasping snick of more cuffs snapping shut.
"Murphy!" Rebecca hissed the second they were gone. No response. She tried again. "Murphy!"
The spy had gone remarkably pale. His eyes remained closed, but he kept his hands on the wound, applying pressure. Good, he was still rational enough to try minimising the trauma.
There was a commotion as the cops manhandled the two surviving thugs out of the store, shoving them roughly down beside Rebecca. The man with no tongue had all but passed out, his chin a dribbling ruin. The other man just glared at her, silently fuming.
"Any idea?" Greggs asked, dusting his hands as he stepped back from the heap of prisoners.
Edgerton shook his head.
"Get a sit-rep on our back-up and get the med-kit, Greggs; I'll keep 'em covered."
The situation had escalated with the discovery of the hitmen in the store: the shell casings, the anything-goes, no-kill-like-overkill force application. Both men knew the street. They recognised Boss Khulov's work when they saw it. All pretence of attitude was gone from Greggs' demeanour, replaced by a crisp efficiency.
"On it."
Edgerton paced back and forth around the scene, careful not to disturb anything, as Greggs disappeared further up the corridor. Edgerton stroked at his goatee, musing aloud.
"See, I know these two fuckups. Charge sheets longer than your arm." Edgerton began, slowly, "And the bodies inside? Well… far as I'm concerned, you just might have just done the proud city of Argjend a favour."
His partner returned with an emergency aid kit; administering biofoam to Murphy and the tongue-deprived merc. Edgerton hunkered down before Rebecca, waggling a disapproving finger in her face.
"But that doesn't give you licence to go dropping bodies in my city. Hell, this isn't even our district, but we're Homicide. True police."
"Last of dyin' breed." Greggs agreed over his shoulder.
"And being true police, we wanna know why you're crazy enough to run around during a lockdown, getting chased by scumbags with enough hardware to make even my old quartermaster blush."
Greggs, now thoroughly spooked, shook his head.
"This is crazy, Edge. Let's bring 'em in, deal with it downtown."
Rebecca shook her head adamantly, finding her voice. She kept it level.
"You bring us in, we're dead. Every single one of us. Including you."
"That a threat, Ma'am?" Edgerton asked sternly.
"A guarantee, Detective. This goes way above you or me."
"I'll bet. How 'bout you start by telling us who you people really are?"
To their surprise it was Murphy who answered. Evidently some degree of hearing had returned.
"Murphy, Brendan, Staff Sergeant," he rasped feebly, eyes half-open. "98349-31337BM"
Edgerton and Greggs exchanged a look.
"Run it through." Edgerton nodded.
Like most cops, Greggs had an APD TACPAD tucked beneath the sleeve of his overcoat. He asked Murphy to repeat the service number, tapped it in. His eyes widened.
"Holy shit. Our boy here is ODST. This is some hard-core stuff, Edge." He scrolled down, reading. "Twenty year service record; enlisted in the Marines at eighteen; Force Recon two years later. Graduated to ODST on the first intake." A low whistle, "Medal of Honour recipient, 2552."
"Hell, we should be saluting you, Helljumper! A regular boy scout." Edgerton said, eyebrows raised.
Greggs' eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Or not. Says here you died three years ago, Sergeant. Drop accident on Bliss."
"That's the official word." Murphy groaned, hands curling around his stomach. The biofoam had stemmed the bleeding; the pain-stims slowly filling his stomach with a spreading, numbing emptiness. His eyes were lolling about in his head, unfocused. "Takes a lot more than that to kill a bastard like me."
"We're ONI." Rebecca interjected suddenly. Both cops blinked at her, before she clarified. "Well, he is. I'm Rebecca Pearson. Civilian contractor, working with the Spartan program out of Laconia."
"Laconia?" Greggs scoffed, "Never heard of it."
"Because you don't have the clearance, Detective."
She saw the look of scepticism that passed between the two cops. She fed them her contractor ID. Most of her records were sealed now, had been ever since Carter took her on, seemingly a lifetime ago. But the black bars and redacted assignment postings were enough to pique their interest.
Rebecca did her best to explain what had happened: the drop at the market, the kidnapping, the shoot-out in the 'Zone and Damien's timely intervention. About Murphy's mission to eliminate Elias Becker. She made no mention of Fenton or Watanabe.
For their part, the detectives said nothing beyond confirming the occasional detail here and there. Most of it sounded outlandish, even to her ears; crazy beyond all reason. Nevertheless, they exchanged a surprised look here and there. Parts of what she said seemed to confirm what they had suspected.
"And these guys here, they're working for this Becker guy?" Edgerton asked.
"Your guess is as good as mine, Detective."
Edgerton ran a hand through his hair. Greggs shook his head.
"Screw this, Edge. This is messy… too messy. Let somebody from Central deal with it. When forensics get down here, we'll pull ballistics and tie our boy scout here to the bodies. Self-defence, witness protection. Case closed."
Edgerton didn't react at first. He studied the look of earnest determination on Rebecca's face, then looked at the bloodied criminals, the broken shopfront and carpet of shell-casings that littered the mall. Puzzle pieces began sliding into place within his mind. Still, a healthy level of doubt lingered.
"Let's say we believe you." He said slowly, exchanging a cautious look with Greggs, "That this is some kind of black-op, hocus-pocus, cloak and dagger shit. What proof do you have?"
A smile formed on Rebecca's lips.
"I don't." Rebecca said, enjoying the look on their faces, "But Carl does. Right there, in his left pocket."
Before Edgerton could move, a voice shouted.
"APD, coming through!" a gruff voice shouted. Heavy footsteps approached, ringing off the tiles.
Everyone looked around. A single officer approached, dressed in riot gear. He had his faceplate pushed back to reveal his grizzled and slightly puffy face.
Greggs met him halfway.
Rebecca frowned. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't quite place it.
"That was fast." Greggs greeted, hands spread. "Detective Greggs, Homicide. Where's the relief?"
"You're looking at it." Cox flashed his badge, his shrug exaggerated by the plating of his armour. "Sergeant Aldrich, Western District. Everyone's stretched thin with the 'Zone boiling over like it is; was coming back off shift when the call came through. What we got?"
Greggs and the new arrival began walking back together.
"Five suspects, three bodies. Whole lotta hardware, likely gang related." Greggs shot Cox an aside look, "Get this: chick here says they're ONI."
"No shit?"
"Yeah, pretty crazy, right?"
Greggs looked tiny compared to the bulk of Cox. The swagger of the armour aside, Rebecca noticed a certain steel in the man's posture. Another veteran. Still, that unsettling feeling grew; cinching the knot in her stomach. It only tightened further when he drew closer.
Then the penny dropped like a meteor, and her heart froze.
The bulbous nose, the puffy face encased by the riot helmet. It was the same cop from the Western checkpoint. The same man who had waved them through; who had been the only man to interact with them as they moved from the 'Zone into the city proper. The only man who had been close enough to the 'Hog to plant the tracking device that had dogged their every attempt at escape.
Maybe she was being paranoid, but after all she'd been through, it seemed paranoia was an asset rather than a liability.
Rebecca looked away, quickly, trying to hide the flare of recognition in her eyes. Her heart started racing. Her hands were still cinched behind her back. They were utterly helpless.
She turned and looked at Edgerton, eyes pleading. He noticed, but didn't say anything.
It was extremely rare for a homicide team to be first responders to a scene. It was the dutiful men and women of APD Patrol that took calls like this. They secured the crime scene, sealing it off in an effort to try and preserve as much evidence as possible. A support call would bring in the detectives after the fact, along with a forensics team and city coroner. To receive a single officer in response to a call was most unusual.
But then this wasn't any normal day.
"Detective Lester Edgerton." Edgerton said, offering a smooth smile, "Glad you could join us, Sergeant."
"Glad to be here." Cox whistled as he took in the scene. "Quite the mess. You guys first here?"
"Got lucky. We were in the neighbourhood when the call was made. We think it was the security guard; caught a couple of strays for his trouble."
"Passed him on the way in. Poor bastard."
Rebecca began signing furiously behind her back. She couldn't see her hands, couldn't tell if Murphy could make out what she was signing correctly. The angle was all wrong. Even so, she persisted; repeated the same alternating, two word message, over and over.
+Danger. Here. Danger. Here.+
Damien gunned the Chopper, belting forward toward the incoming Warthogs.
Chidinma zoomed forward above him. The front of the wings snapped open; humming a whirring click as the tips of a half-dozen small rockets slid forth, emerging like vampire's teeth. The rail cannon hummed as it prepared to fire.
"Now, Three!"
Chidinma unloaded. Full spread on a single target. Rockets spat forth with a hiss-sneeze, splintering into a half dozen micro-rockets which in turn activated, jetting forward; curling contrails as they spun closer toward the marker designated in her HUD. A rippling cloudburst of surging fire filled the horizon, right as the twinned cannons spun into life; a red tornado of fire arcing into the maelstrom. The mass-driver thumped, once; throwing up an obscuring geyser of black dust and pelting debris.
Warthogs skidded through the descending shower, squealing left and right; blinded by the deluge that had fallen a scant few metres short of them. One flipped on its side, bounced twice and landed neatly on all four wheels. Its passengers lost their lunch messily over the dashboard.
Damien's bike smashed through the mist, thrusters flaring. One 'Hog got too close, and lost a front bumper for its trouble; the Chopper's monstrous front wheel devouring it wholesale in a descending crunch of compacting metal.
Chimera One ripped through the mayhem, sparing a glance behind him.
The Marines chasing them were coughing and spluttering, amazed to be alive. Their tyres were alight, their bonnets littered with smouldering clumps of asphalt, but they were all intact. Chidinma had intentionally dumped her payload just short of the designated kill-zone; a merciful inefficiency. Those few that could swerved around the debris, continuing the chase.
"Rash, we really need you!"
To Damien's surprise Rashid's voice suddenly cut in.
"—amien?! Is that you?!"
"Me and about half of the UNSC! Where the hell have you been?"
"Doctor's appointment, One; my apologies."
"What the hell is that noise in the background?"
"A small biocontainment panic, nothing to be alarmed about. Tracking your position now."
"We're still on Highway Three. Stape's got 'Hogs all over us. Only way forward is to Central, but with the lockdown in place there's no way we're getting through!"
"Working on it. Get onto the next overpass. Should be coming up on your left now."
Damien took the winding ramp, leading up onto the next major beltway. This stretch of road brought them back toward the massive retaining wall that enclosed Central.
Three Warthogs were gaining on them. After Chidinma's opening barrage any hesitation had been taken off the table. Weapon mounts cycled to chattering life; rounds slicing either side of Damien. He flinched as a series of heavy rounds thumped across the back of the restraint chair. His shields hissed at the proximity of the impact, crackling.
"Got problems here, Three."
"On it." Chidi sent.
Her Frame shuddered as she hauled up on the sticks, jolting the airframe into a soaring loop that brought her up and over in the opposite direction. She dipped the nose as she smoothed into a dive, the incoming 'Hogs drifting into her gunsights. The targeting reticule flared red.
She squeezed the firing triggers; a two second burst. The rotary cannons set just beneath her stirrups burred to life with a frenzied spittle-roar, rattling the entire airframe as the ammo panniers emptied. She triggered a single rocket for a good measure.
Roadwork gave away to a coiling lick of flame as micro-rounds shredded asphalt. The Warthogs scrabbling for traction as their drivers instinctively flinched. Still, they levelled out and continued growling onward, holding their nerve. Chidi frowned as she banked to starboard, dipping the Frame on one wing, swooping back around.
"No good, One; they're wise to us. They know we're not going for a kill shot."
"I wish they'd extend the same courtesy!" Damien winced, jerking the Chopper to the right as another swarm of shots fire licked by. The Spartan had little doubt that, had the Marines decided to let rip fully with the turrets, it would be mere moments before he was smeared all over the highway. The Marines had to pick their shots carefully, or risk lighting up half of downtown Argjend - the urban confines and proximity to major infrastructure were the only things keeping him alive.
"I may be able to assist, One." Rashid replied. "Just a moment."
The Chopper trembled as it tore over a set of holes inset into the road surface. Rashid called up the automated traffic control network. Most of the systems had been left in standby mode, a lobotomised relic from The Surge of 2557. Whatever rudimentary A.I. had once been responsible for the network had been rendered comatose by Kaizen during her unexpected rampancy. It didn't take a huge amount of effort to revive some of its more primitive functions.
With a resounding jolt, a line of thick steel bollards snapped upwards, imposing themselves between Damien's Chopper and the pursuing Warthogs.
Damien only heard the crunch of metal. Suddenly the air no longer hissed with snapping tracer fire.
"That worked." Chidinma chuckled.
"Nice work, Rash."
"I am, as ever, your humble servant, One."
The blast doors ahead began to split down the centre, dragging open with a deep rumble.
Chimera whipped under the archway into the heart of Central.
"One." Rashid said.
"Yes, Four?"
"Perhaps don't thank me just yet. You're not going to like what's ahead of you. Updating your HUD now."
A window popped up in the corner of Damien's display. It was an overlay of Highway 04 within the context of the larger city; a ten-kilometre stretch of road that was dominated by a large suspension bridge straddling the Argjend River. The roadway before the suspension bridge fed into a pair of stilted and meandering S-curves, sloping upwards toward the bridge. The rail line passed beneath the higher of the two, diverting north-west and traversing the Argjend River, which served as a natural divide between north and south of the city. Victory Plaza nestled in the centre of the river, on an island long since reclaimed by the exhaustive expansion of the capital.
Damien and Chidinma were depicted as green triangles. A wall of substantially larger red triangles awaited them in the centre of the bridge.
"Are those what I think they are?"
"Yes, One. Scorpion MBTs. Three of them, to be precise."
Rashid had been correct. Damien didn't fancy his chances running that particular blockade, not in the slightest.
"Looks like General Stape is done playing games, Four. I appreciate the work you've done so far, but I need off this road, quickly."
There was a roar as a deeper set of engines made their presence felt. Both Damien and Chidinma glanced about, startled.
A Pelican dropship bore down on them. It was dressed in UNSC colours, outfitted for combat pursuit; the bird bristled with weaponry, between its chin mounted rotary cannon and bulbous rocket pods. It closed the distance steadily, filling the sky.
Its PA system boomed to life.
"Fireteam Chimera, this is Platinum One! Surrender immediately, or we will fire upon you!"
Damien gunned the engine harder.
"Correction, Four: I need off this road now!"
Warmonger was close to Victory Plaza when they were shot down.
It was inevitable, really. Perry had done all he could. The stealth drive had all but melted, and the city's rooftops were lined with anti-air defences, targeting lenses and sensor dishes, all of which were entirely focused on him. He wove the Condor through twist after twist, weaving under sky bridges and scraping around turns the Condor simply wasn't designed to make. But eventually he ran out of space; had to slip over the lip of the skyline to dip into the next canyon. They were two klicks from the objective when he felt the impact.
Perry wasn't sure what caught them in the end, whether it was a surface-to-air missile or a targeted mini-MAC. The result was the same. The impact took the Condor's port rear thruster clean off, smashing the airframe with a slap of pressure. The remaining portside thruster flared as it tried in vain to compensate. Air-friction buffeted the hull, jostling them.
Perry grappled with the controls. The entire cockpit was shaking, the joystick vibrating like a buzz saw in his hands. He opened the channel, voice rock-steady.
"239 - We've lost Engine Four. Won't be able to keep her afloat much longer. I'll get you as close as possible to the waypoint marker, but if we take another hit there's no guarantee I'll get us there in one piece."
"Solid copy." Eric replied. He was covered head-to-toe in combat webbing; festooned with grenades, spare magazines and combat knives of all shapes and sizes. They rattled and jangled as he clung to an overhead safety rail, his boots mag-locking with the floor grille as he made his way aft.
"Just do me a favour, Spartan."
"I'm listening."
"If we're alive when I manage to ground this bird, you'd better come and rescue our asses."
"Count on it. Good flying with you, Warmonger."
Eric offered Park a farewell thumbs up, slammed the release button with the heel of his hand, and vanished off the back ramp in an instant. Park sealed it quickly, then buckled tightly into his flight seat. Weapons of all kinds quivered in their restraint racks, rattling like halyards in a gale.
The Condor listed badly, venting a trail of ugly black smoke. Perry flicked a switch, diverting power from the starboard engines to boost the single remaining port thruster. Even so, the stick rebelled, bucking wildly as it pushed itself to the right. Perry's forearm was taut from the strain of holding it steady.
They clipped the parapet of the next row of buildings, the lower deck-plating bursting through brickwork in an explosion of masonry. The entire ship jolted as it scraped past. Warning icons began skipping across the status monitors. Fuel pressure was dropping. Sweat beaded Perry's brow. Alarms hooted, as dials began dipping across the board. They were spilling fuel across rooftops like blood from a speared whale.
"Park, I'm going to dump the fuel. Get yourself strapped in."
"Way ahead of you, Perry."
"Good. Remember when I said this was going to get bumpy?
"Yeah?!"
Perry licked his lips, settling one hand on the fuel release toggle.
"I may have undersold it."
Perry yanked the lever. Fuel vomited from the tanks, water-mix splattering out in an incontinent release. The fusion cores decoupled, heatsinks draining them of their more explosive venom. Steam vented from release valves dotted along the Condor's undercarriage. The vibrations juddering throughout the hull intensified. As the power to the grav-drives failed, the Condor was increasingly forced to rely on its natural aerodynamics, but the D81 was a bloated whale compared to its smaller cousins. Steering it with plummeting power levels was like trying to fly a bathtub brimming with cannon balls.
Perry toggled the wide-band emergency transponder; warning everyone in the vicinity that they were coming in, hard, and there was damn little they could do about it. Park was busy erasing their navigation records, any and all data that might compromise the mission. By the time the salvage crews got to them, the ship would be a nameless enigma, devoid of any identifying trace. It was also highly likely that the ship itself would be a featureless smear on the parliament lawn.
They cleared the next line of buildings, just. Victory Plaza swam into to view before them. Its large, elegant fountain, its neatly paved flagstones, freshly mowed green lawns and decorative, vibrant flower beds. To their right was the white marble majesty of the Granican Parliament, with its expansive white steps and soaring majestic columns. To their left, the APD Headquarters, as robust and imperious as any courthouse. Traxus Towers rose up behind them; Perry had missed it by a fraction of inches.
Perry saw none of it. He was too busy trying not to crash the damned ship.
The plaza was an elegantly maintained assembly ground for what looked to be, for all intents and purposes, the entire Granican military. Mantis Assault Walkers pivoted on their servos as their gunpods auto-tracked the descent of the plummeting transport. Soldiers scattered left and right, scrambling for cover as the Condor came shrieking down into the heart of the plaza. The altimeter was little more than a blur as it rocketed toward zero.
One thousand metres.
Perry hauled the stick towards his stomach. Park buckled himself in on the top deck above, watching the plaza shoot towards them.
Five hundred metres.
The landing gear had deployed. Perry steeled himself; his lips closed, his mouth a barren desert. They were coming in way too hot. Park squeezed his eyes shut, knuckles cracking as they gripped his restraint harness tight.
One hundred—
The landing gear shattered on impact, folding in on itself and shearing away entirely as the Condor burrowed into the immaculate lawn like a bullet; gouging a furrow into the dirt that exploded up around them in an all-obscuring wave. The flight harness yanked against Perry's chest so hard he thought his ribs might snap. The Condor skipped back up into the air for a stomach-lurching moment, then impacted again, slewing to the side and smashing clean through the edge of Victory Fountain stonework, casting up a wave of water that hissed up over the canopy like a power hose.
The Condor had finally come to a halt in the middle of Victory Plaza, surrounded on all sides by a hundred soldiers and multiple Mantis Assault Walkers. It lay on its side like a wounded bird, the heat of its skin venting steam as it soaked in the sizzling water, its engines glowing red hot. Dark pollutants seeped from the downed ship like pus from a wound, staining the clean water an oily, pretty purple. Booted feet thumped up all over the hull. Winded and astonished to still be alive, David Perry raised his hands up over his head.
The entire canopy, cracked and brittle as it had become, was filled with armed soldiers pointing rifles at him.
"Hey Park," Perry croaked, "How's my flying?"
A groaning cough answered him.
"My thoughts exactly."
Perry looked down at the instrumentation. Venting the engine core had doubtlessly saved their lives. The alternative would have been an explosion on a catastrophic scale. Perry came to the unfortunate realisation that by this point, he was an old hand at crashing aircraft.
He could hear a cutting saw keening to life, as security teams began to bore through the crumpled hull. His contribution to the mission was at an end.
"Nailed it." Perry sighed, slumping in the flight seat.
"Sir, the unidentified transport has been brought down just outside the plaza."
"Survivors?" Stape asked. The lieutenant consulted his data pad.
"Two. The pilot and another passenger. Equipment on board is heavily damaged, but matches Spartan-grade design specs. Neither prisoner is showing up on UNSC records; we're cross-referencing with our database now, but without a Smart AI it's going to take some time before we have a positive I.D." After a pause, the lieutenant added, "No Spartans detected on board, Sir."
"I want a containment unit around that crash site. Nobody gets in or out." Stape called up a schematic of his own building, assessing it for weaknesses. "Double security on every floor. Until Spartan G239 is found, I want this place to be a goddamn fortress."
"Yes, General."
"What about the medical facility? Has 482 been secured?"
"Negative, Sir. We have surrounded the target area but Havenwood is a private facility. We're having difficulty lifting the lockdown measures. None of the codes provided by the facility's owners are working. Analysts suspect a systems intrusion, but haven't found any evidence to that effect."
"Never mind trying to pick the lock; kick the door down. Who has tactical command of the area?"
"22nd Commando are on station." The lieutenant answered. "Fowler's team are in position to execute."
Stape nodded, eyes scanning the war room.
"Do it."
On the roof of Havenwood Medical, armoured boots hit the ground running. The 22nd Royal Commando were a highly trained shock corps of drop troopers, uniformly dressed in matte black, up-armoured Hazop gear, incorporating bulky breathing tubes and silver coloured visors. Celebrated specialists in storm-clearance, General Stape favoured them as a reactionary deployment force, airdropping them into no-win scenarios where only the best could make a difference. Their gear reflected this: it was downscaled Mjolnir variants once considered classified, now adapted for non-augmented fireteams.
Henry Fowler waved his men onward. They skulked across the roof, panning weapons around the heat exchangers and sat-com dishes. Whispered clearance reports sounded out over the squad com. Intel had been simple. A single Tier One target was inside the building, with multiple hostages. Good enough for him.
"All ground elements, proceed to breach point."
Operators staked mooring lines into polycrete, securing harnesses and spooling coils of rope out over the edge of the building. Schematics were limited, but Havenwood was by all accounts a self-contained fortress, designed to seal the building from biological outbreaks and viral epidemics. Structural analysis told them that a window insertion was the most vulnerable point of entry. That meant rope work and shaped charges, for the most part.
Fowler joined a trio of commandos hunkered down next to the rooftop fire escape.
"Bio-con?" Fowler asked the man next to him. Unlike the others, Stirling carried a detailed sensor paddle, and was busy playing it around the edges of the sealed door.
"Green on all counts." Stirling replied. "No residual traces either."
"Owens, Farrell, get a charge up on that doorway. The rest of you take assigned positions and await my command."
A series of double-clicks answered him over the com – operators confirming receipt of response.
No nonsense, ruthlessly efficient.
Good. The general was watching it all unfold in their helmet cams. He would expect nothing less.
Who Dares Wins was the 22nd's ancestral motto, taken from a time before the UNSC even existed.
Fowler never lost.
Captain Reade strode the deck like a caged animal, hands clasped behind her back. A tension had draped itself across the bridge.
"Still no word from the surface?"
"None, Ma'am. Same response as before: General Stape's staff are reporting a high-priority alert, and repeat their request that our fighters remain on standby."
"Keep trying."
The Pelican kissed down on the edge of Victory Plaza, disgorging UNSC Army Rangers.
Frank Merrill's men stood in stark contrast to the more appropriately attired Marines holding down the square. The Ranger's fatigues were entirely the wrong colour, for one thing. They were dressed in uniformly shabby desert camouflage; dust-goggles, keffiyehs, and ponchos. Their weapons were swaddled in dust covers, and sand sifted from them wherever they tramped. The 325th had been tasked with sweeping the barrens north of New Cadiz for lingering rebel activity, and were enroute back to Argjend as part of a long over-due rotation when the lockdown order came through. Hastened by the unfolding situation, their pilot's orders had been to dump them here, and await further instruction. Just another casualty to the whims of command.
They'd only just got here, and already the place was beginning to look like a warzone.
A long rutted trench had been gouged through the centre of the square, cracking stonework and churning up muck. A D81 Condor lay in the centre of a large fountain like a beached whale. Water trapped beneath the transport's bulk jetted out either side, in great arcs of oily mist. The sunshine caught it, forming a rainbow that only served to frame the devastation.
"What do we have, Corporal?" Merrill asked, surveying the chaos that had been visited upon the once pristine plaza. His targeting monocle began noting points of interest, mapping survey data and orbital scans to his neural lace.
Lerner was on com's duty. The hefty field unit he humped on his back lended him a tortoise like aspect. He was busy frowning into the bulky microphone affixed to the side of his helmet, one hand pressed to it as he listened.
"Entire com-net is a mess, Sir." Lerner answered. "We got… uh…"
Lerner cross-referenced what he was hearing with the compass inset into his MA5.
"… a hostage situation north of the plaza. 22 Commando just went in. We got… " He panned south, "Some kind of mess along the southern highways, and what… looks like a riot in the Western District."
"Jesus, we leave town for a year and the entire place goes to shit." Binkowski shook his head ruefully. "This is why you don't leave Marines to do the Army's job."
"Stow it, Binks."
"Stowing it, Sir."
Merrill turned to two of the men closest to him, directing their attention to where a group of Marines were digging in around the edges of the fountain. It was bizarre to see it: wide open, immaculate lawns, rutted with foxholes and heaped with sandbags. Fixed weapon emplacements nosed out, their operators barely visible above the snarling gun muzzles.
"Riley, Lopez; see if you can find out from those jarheads what in Hell's Seventh Circle we're supposed to be doing here exactly. The rest of you, establish a perimeter, I want all sectors covered."
A chorus of acknowledgements answered him, as the Rangers went about their tasks.
Merrill noticed the two Mantis Assault Walkers standing guard at the steps of the Granican parliament. He began making his way toward them, the rest of his command squad falling into step behind him.
The nose art of the striders was familiar to him. Stride Team Kodiak had rotated back from the New Cadiz front six months prior, having lost one of their own in Stape's disastrous abortive push for Orbital Two. Both units had established a solid working relationship; the Mantis Stride providing heavy firepower, the Rangers serving as an infantry screen. Had it not been for the actions of Fireteam Chimera, one of Kodiak, indeed most of Merrill's own men, wouldn't be alive today.
Which made the rumours he was hearing particularly unsettling. He reached up and toggled his helmet mic.
"Kodiak One, this is Sergeant Frank Merrill, 325th Army Rangers. You copy?"
"Loud and clear, Sergeant," Stride Commander "Wallaby" Williams replied in his distinctive Australian drawl, "Good to see you, mate."
The chirpiness of the man seemed entirely at odds with the massive killing machine he piloted.
"These rumours true, Sir?"
The top hatch of the walker squeaked open, as Williams clambered up; his face hidden behind the bulky interface helmet most Mantis pilots favoured. They exchanged a brief wave over the vast stretch of the plaza. Evidently Williams had been sitting here idle for some time.
"At this point, your guess is as good as mine, Frank. Got the order 'bout an hour ago. We're to hold the Parliament building, in case there's an attack."
"That wasn't what I meant, Sir."
"Thought as much. One sec mate."
Williams disappeared for a moment, and there was a hydraulic sigh as the walker hunkered down on its haunches. The pilot clambered down, doffing his helmet. He was athletic for a stride jockey, his stubble a little longer than regs permitted. Not unusual for a walker pilot, who often fancied themselves cowboys compared to the tightly wound standards of the regular soldiery.
They shook hands rather than saluted. Williams seldom stood on ceremony.
"Didn't want to say it over the coms, Frank." Williams confided, "General's pissed, and I'll only land myself in trouble. Again."
"So it's true, then? Chimera have gone off the reservation?"
"Believe me, I didn't want to believe it either, mate." Williams shook his head. "But that building over there? They say it's where Rashid was held."
They had learned Rashid's name after Orbital Two came down. They had all had - made a point of it too. You didn't let a man take a hit like that on your behalf and not learn his name. The brass frowned on it; of course they did. You didn't socialise with field equipment.
Only there was more to it than that. Chimera had defied orders, were persona non grata amongst Stape's senior staff. The tribunals that followed had sat poorly with the ground-pounders, infantry and armour alike, but any back-talk was muzzled quickly, for all their sakes.
Chain of command overrode sentiment, it always would.
"Doesn't seem right, Sir. They pulled our asses out of the fire in 'Cadiz."
"You're preaching to the choir, Frank. I just hope we don't have to be the ones to pull the trigger."
Both men fell silent for a moment. Spartans were heroes; selfless, unquestioning in their service. To fight them felt wrong on an instinctual level. More selfishly, both men knew what Spartans were capable of, and had witnessed their lethality first-hand.
Neither wanted to be on the receiving end of it.
Eric's thrusters flared once as he hit the rooftop in a rolling tumble, denting ceramic tiles as he impacted. His Battle Rifle snapped to bear as he emerged from the roll on his feet. He was two blocks from Victory Plaza, keenly aware of how exposed he was in the open. The majority of buildings that were capable of auto-sealing had long since been fortified, but a keenly honed sense of Spartan paranoia got him moving, fast.
He had no A.I. support, no squad mates, and no support of any kind. Any allies still in the field were either hopelessly outmatched or running for their lives. His target's whereabouts were unknown, and the only hope of tracking it would require rescuing a one-legged, unarmoured Spartan who hadn't seen a practice range in six months.
Eric bared his teeth in a grin. He was a Spartan III.
Suicide missions were his specialty.