"More Spartans? Is this a joke? We don't have the time or the resources. Even if you could source candidates, the candidate attrition rate alone is entirely unacceptable. Request denied."

"We're not talking invasive mechanical augmentation, not anymore. The tech's far beyond that now. Halsey's work opened a whole new series of doors for us. The suits are improving, to a point where the body inside it doesn't need to be Frankenstein's monster to be effective."

"So what are you proposing?"

"Less machine, more man: a refined solution."

"Which is?"

"Genetics. We can double, perhaps triple our candidate intake rate, without even a fraction of the wastage."

"So that's your solution? Increased numbers? Human wave tactics, like Ackerson suggested?"

"We've both read his report. There's no faulting his math. 'Lives for time'."

"So this is about attrition. Covenant or no Covenant, I'm not prepared to let this administration become the Stalinist regime of the 26thcentury. Say we somehow do win this war-"

"We're not winning this war."

"-But say we do. You're talking about human experimentation on a massive scale. Word of this gets out? Statistics alone won't save us."

"The way this war is going? Neither will election votes, Ma'am."

- an intercepted conversation, source unknown

The convoy was hit less than forty minutes after departing the safe house.

They had been tangled up in the back streets for some time, hemmed in on either side by large warehouses; crumbling brick-faced facades edged with metal sheeting. Eastern-Central was the oldest quarter of the city, and in many ways the least sophisticated. Even the curtain wall isolating it from Orbital One was primitive; the polycrete seemed to have blasted through the heart of buildings and crumbling warehouses, cross-sectioning them like an axe through a skull.

That was not to say it was without splendour. Gentrification had long set in, and many of the old warehouse and storage depots has been renovated; the dust-caked loading bays replaced with coffee shops, charcuteries, and bohemian drinking dens, all sand-dust covered floorboards and vaulted wine cellars. Every nook and cranny was lovingly restored, and found new purpose as trading halls were divided; the high ceilings mounted with large drapes that split floor sections from markets to restaurants to cafes and libraries with breathless speed. All told, it was one of the most lavish, fashionable quarters within Argjend, far removed from the silver sterility and smooth granite composure of Central's utilitarian heartland. Or at least it would be, had it not been entirely evacuated; as alarms still howled in the distance.

Naval trade had experienced something of a revival with the destruction of Orbital Two, though the majority of Argjend Harbour and the surrounding coastline was now largely dedicated to either luxury condos or maritime infrastructure. On any normal day, recreational pleasure crafts could be seen pottering up and down the Argjend River. It was an idyllic place to live, sought after by some of the wealthiest of Argjend's citizenry.

Except for one neighbourhood. The Depot was the only name ascribed to it. It had been an industrial storage park, one of the few entrenched pockets of dereliction on the east side; a blight on an otherwise spotless jewel. There was no revelry here. The windows were boarded up or darkened by murky shadows; the streets silent but for the droning of automated cleaning rollers, sweeping brushes snuffling along the cracked pavements and foreboding alleys, rattling cans and sweeping tinkles of broken glass as they trundled by. Nobody knew who owned the place, but it was a sizable land holding. The Depot had never benefitted from the wealth the rest of the district enjoyed. Whether that was by design or not was open to speculation.

Something was playing havoc with the containment gates compartmentalising Central. Bollards, section gate controls – the whole system was playing up across the city. Even the traffic lights were at it.

It was because of this that the convoy rolled through, taking advantage of the Depot's relative lack of sophistication. Three hard-top Warthog LRV's, outfitted for personnel protection, escorted by unmarked secret service vehicles; state cars and armoured minivans, uniformly black in colour.

A single armoured APC formed the centrepiece of the convoy; its large wheels dwarfing even those of the M12 LRV's. The Armadillo was a colonial creation, adapted out of necessity to accommodate the sheer size of the Spartan detail assigned to the Administrator. Its tracks had been replaced by wheels: it had been deemed politically inappropriate for an Administrator to be ferried about in what could only be described as a tank. The only thing missing was a turret.

They edged between the tightly compacted warehouses, secret service operators muttering checkpoint updates to their controllers. They were uneasy.

Much of their trepidation stemmed from the last minute route change Loic had been ordered to take. The official reason had been to avoid some of the more sophisticated traffic control measures enacted by the lockdown. Loic could understand that. Eastern-Central, being an older part of the city, was decidedly less regulated. Yet the route had seemed meandering, unnecessarily so. The light idled red for almost five minutes before Loic suspected something was up.

He was about to give the order to move when the explosion happened.

There was no warning. The initial detonation lifted the lead Warthog airborne, cresting a column of fire. Vital signs for the lead security team flat-lined. Amanda and Sarah screamed, the sound muffled by the rubberised masks of their biocontainment suits. Their face masks fogged up, obscuring the world from view. The rear of the APC was washed out in harsh red light, as emergency protocols kicked in.

"RPG! RPG!" a panicked voice cried over the com channel.

A second explosion immolated the rear vehicle. They were boxed in.

Trident responded immediately. Suraj slammed the personnel carrier into reverse, the rear tyres crunching over the still-settling wreck, grinding heavily as it compacted the metal beneath. The APC was almost free of the kill zone when a third rocket slammed into its side, immobilising it. It sat there, straddling the burnt-out service car.

"Multiple targets, elevated position." Callum reported from the passenger seat. Sure enough, small-arms fire began slapping down all around them; thwacking off reinforced ballistic glass and denting bodywork.

"Axle must have been damaged." Suraj studied the readouts on the dashboard. "We're not going anywhere, One."

In the rear hold, Loic rose to his feet, placating Amanda with a forestalling hand. He was busy relaying orders.

"Lay down a base of fire." Loic instructed. "Suraj, Kazuo; stay tight on the APC, protect the Administrator at all costs. The rest of you, with me."

Loic turned to Aata. The Maori had already risen to his feet. Loic clapped him on the shoulder, nodding once.

"Aata, you're up." He slammed the release button with the heel of his fist. "Defence Pattern Noble."

The rear hatch slammed down. The noise of the fighting outside welled to fever pitch.

"Pattern Noble, confirmed." Aata's filtered voice boomed; he stormed out, a monstrous M247H support weapon in his hands.

Whether the small-arms fire bothered the giant Spartan was open to debate. He stomped out into the street, shots sparking down around him, sizzling his shields. He panned his golden VISR about, registering targets, locking target locations. The shooters were dressed in civilian attire, from business suits to baggy hoodies. The only uniform part of their appearance were the facemasks used to conceal their identities. Simple ski masks, from the looks of it, coupled with the occasional rebreather to pre-empt a smoke attack.

Aata would never be so subtle.

The OPFOR were hired contractors. Civilian shooters; well-orchestrated but ill disciplined. Their lack of accuracy confirmed as much. It took a concerted effort to bring a Spartan down, as had been proven months before, but the ambusher's attack was reactive – they were as focused on engaging the beleaguered secret service as they were the olive-drab Spartans emerging from the APC. A grave mistake.

Aata was big. He was big before augmentation, being the largest Spartan candidate on Laconia. His arms were tree trunks, sleeved in tribal tattoos. Encased head-to-toe in Gen 2 Enforcer Battle Plate he stood at a height as tall as any Spartan-II. During their training on Laconia he became a two-legged force-multiplier, a heavy weapons specialist every bit as large and powerful as the ordnance he wielded. Such was his size that only the fastest and most skilled Spartan candidates ever stood a chance at besting him. It was simple, really. Once he landed a hit, you were done.

Today was no exception.

"Targets sighted. Engaging hostiles."

Feet planted, back straight, Aata's heavy machine gun rattled and bucked in his hands as he unloaded; demolishing man and masonry alike as it ripped across the rooftops, punching fist-sized holes out of the surrounding eaves, bursting windows and splintering floorboards. His storm was joined by the harsh rattle-bark of Loic's BR85, and Callum's DMR. Suraj and Kazuo stepped down from the vehicle, joining them. The Spartans formed a human perimeter around the beached transport, transposing themselves between the high walls and the target vehicle. What few secret service personnel survived contributed what they could; side-arms barking, occasionally joined by tight rattles of submachine gun fire.

A rocket smashed into the ground amongst them, blowing Loic and Aata off their feet. Loic's HUD washed with static as it rebooted. He scrambled over to an arched doorway, shying into cover as his shields slowly reset. The lintel above him was being steadily eroded as stray shots smacked timberwork into splinters. Loic glanced about.

There was no sign of Aata.

"Four, status!" Loic barked.

The giant emerged from the hole in the wall on the far side of the street; loose brickwork sifting from his shoulders like clumps of winter snow. His breastplate was blackened with scorch marks, but the machine gun resumed its murderous chatter.

"Status Green." Aata chuckled, "Stubborn little bastards!"

Trident weathered the storm. Five Spartan operators were more than a match for anything this city's underbelly could throw at them. Eventually the shooting subsided. What few ambushers remained had melted away. A silence fell on the street, broken only by the wailing of alarms from some of the parked cars nearby.

"Package secure." Aata reported, gun barrel glowing an ember orange as it cooled. Shell casings sizzled on the broken pavement.

He spoke too soon. Armoured vans screeched to a halt at the far end of a side alley, disgorging more hired shooters. Soon the air was alive with tracer fire, snapping and pinging off the brickwork around them. Bodies tumbled to the floor; men dying as soon as they stepped out onto the street.

Aata waded toward them, machine gun roaring. Fireteam Trident moved in behind him, picking shots over his shoulder. It was Fireteam Trident's first active engagement since the UNSC taskforce arrived in system. While Trident did not share Platinum's dogmatic perfectionism or Chimera's flair for chaotic creativity, they were a consistently effective fighting force, characterised by the dependable reliability of their war-making. It was because of this consistency that they had been tasked with the safeguarding of Argjend's elected ruler. Presented with the opportunity to finally unleash their potential, they leapt at the opportunity; laying into the foe with barely concealed delight.

Aata's laughter could be heard above the relentless gunfire, rendered cruel by his helmet filter.

He hadn't had this much fun in months.

Greggs and the patrolman Aldrich stood in the ruin of Carl's store. The place had been torn asunder; the walls scored with bullet holes and spattered arterial spray. Greggs was long since desensitised to it; had been for years. Ten years infantry service followed by six years of Homicide would do that to you. Strangely enough, Aldrich didn't seem to blink either.

"You think you can lock down the scene on your own?" Greggs asked.

"Of course." The officer replied, preoccupied. "Got your back, detective."

It was a genuine concern. This was a major gangland shooting. For a scene of this scale, there would ordinarily be between eight to ten patrol personnel securing a scene; cordoning off the area, rounding up suspects and taking statements from local residents close to the scene. It was most unusual for a lone police officer to shoulder such a burden.

A murder scene was a precious commodity to a homicide detective; a wasting asset. From the moment a body first hit the floor and started to cool, your chances of being able to pin it to a killer began to deteriorate. Scene contagion was constant; from the tramping feet of well-meaning but clumsy cops to DNA evidence falling prey to temperature and environmental considerations. The very elements were against you. That wasn't even counting the items that might otherwise be accidentally mishandled by other detectives or forensic investigators working the scene.

The only saving grace in this particular shoot out was that it was indoors, in a secure site. More crucially, there were live witnesses; the proverbial holy grail for any homicide detective trying to close a case.

Only something didn't sit right with Greggs. A lot of it was to do with the manner in which this Aldrich guy carried himself. He had the doughty toughness of a patrol member, certainly, but he displayed a level of interest that far exceeded the curiosity an ordinary patrolman would express.

Socially he seemed off too. The banter was there, sure; he bitched about his ex-wife, grinned at the right moments when Greggs mentioned overtime, but there was a cunning behind it all. A performance, well-rehearsed and seemingly authentic but bereft of fluency. The small details gave it away: the way he scrutinised the shelves, looking them up and down. As thought searching for something. The total disinterest he showed in the fallen bodies was also unusual. Patrol normally loved the gory details.

"You been working the Western long?"

"Two years. Worked the Starport shift before then."

"Starport huh? Bet that was quite the wakeup call. Not as many 10-7's there."

Aldrich simply nodded. Greggs frowned. It was an old homicide joke. One that normally eased tension with the patrol troopers.

Ten-Seven was APD radio code; specifically the short-hand for broken equipment (permanent); morbidly applied to the numerous bodies Homicide pulled out of the Western District on an alarmingly regular basis. No-hopers, substance-addled refugees, bystanders of gang violence and blindsided gangers themselves. Death wasn't fussy. It took a certain disposition to work a homicide shift in the Western.

It also took a certain level of observation. Spotting the finer details became instinctive. The absence of a button on a torn coat, the ability to know where a bullet embedded itself in a stack-house drywall. To know when a witness was lying, or if an element of a person's story simply didn't fit with the alibi his friend had sworn by.

Aldrich was spending an inordinate amount of time scrutinising the various items set out on the perimeter displays. He should have been erecting site tape; planting holo markers and - once a cordon was established – warding off any bystanders or rubberneckers looking to get a nose into the scene. Instead he was here, seemingly searching for something. Greggs' suspicion increased.

Then the patrol trooper disappeared into the backroom. Greggs watched him go, brow knitted. He heard a rustle of glass behind him. Edgerton appeared in the shop, side-arm drawn. He made eye contact with Greggs. Pressed a finger to his lips.

There was a look in Edgerton's eyes. The same look he'd worn moments before a tweaker drew on them in '56, scoping an alley murder off Alewood and Longview. Edge had a sense about these things, stemming from his service days. Edge had been an analyst, responsible for monitoring Covenant signals and anticipating potential troop movements. He had a nose for trouble. It wasn't a sixth sense, but sometimes it damn well seemed like it.

Greggs was no slouch either. Eight years of working cases, and a clearance rate as respectable as any case-man stood testament to it.

"Say, you secured a crime scene before?" Greggs called out, his tone almost conversational.

"Oh yeah, plenty of times." Aldrich's voice wafted back. "Comes with the territory."

They could hear the muted sound of a holo-keypad winking to life. Greggs and Edgerton exchanged a look. Greggs mouthed what-the-hell to his partner. Tampering didn't even begin to cover it.

"You okay in there, Sergeant?"

No answer was forthcoming. Not at first.

Greggs tried again.

"Say, you responded to the 10-102 when the call came in?"

A distracted reply eventually came back.

"Uh… yeah."

"A 10-102? You sure?"

"Yeah. Came in over the radio. Was in the area."

Greggs had his weapon unshipped now. He held it loosely by his side, masking it in the fold of his overcoat. Edgerton slipped over to the side of the doorway, careful not to tread the slivers of glass littering the threadbare carpet. He took position, both hands braced on his revolver, its barrel toward the floor. He nodded at Greggs.

"Hey Aldrich!" Greggs growled, "Get out your ass out here!"

The door opened and Aldrich emerged, clearly irritated.

"What?! What is it?" Aldrich bristled.

The barrel of Edgerton's revolver dimpled Aldrich's cheek.

"You can start by telling us who the fuck you are." Edgerton said, matter-of-factly.

"What are you talking about?" Aldrich managed through gritted teeth.

"A 10-102, know what it is?" Edgerton asked.

Aldrich didn't say a word. Greggs didn't wait for an excuse.

"Course you don't. 'Cruelty to animals'? Call only comes in on Halloween. As I see it, a 112 is more your bag."

"'Impersonating an officer.'" That was Edgerton, "Now, that's a more serious kettle of fish. That gear of yours might work lurking around the station house or on a patrol run, but this is a crime scene. There's protocol. Rules."

"You guys are crazy!"

"Maybe. Whole lotta crazy going on today." Greggs replied. His gun was up now too. "Less than an hour ago I saw a Spartan chew up half the SWAT in the goddam city. Heard all sorts of crap from our friends cuffed outside. Spies, black ops. All kinds of mind-games. Crazy shit. You'll excuse us if we're a little on edge."

"Alright, alright – I'll explain; just get the gun out of my face!"

"Call me paranoid, but I'm rather partial to keeping it where it is." Edgerton replied.

Nevertheless, Edgerton took a half-step back. The pressure on the barrel relaxed, if only for a second. That was all the opportunity Cox needed.

Greggs didn't see what happened next. Suddenly Edgerton's weapon was in Aldrich's hands and Edgerton was falling to the ground, clutching at his wrist. Hours of police training took over. Greggs' pistol discharged twice; a brisk double bark, centre-mass. Aldrich folded and disappeared behind the counter.

Greggs surged forward, arms extended in a classic shooter's pose. He edged around the counter, stepping around behind it.

Aldrich lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The first round had grazed the upper rim of his chest plate. The recoil of the shot had pulled Greggs' aim upward, his second bullet giving the imposter a decidedly fatal tracheotomy. The man gurgled a horrible choking sound, as his legs thrashed reflexively. No amount of biofoam in the world was going to save him. He was dead, he just didn't have the sense to know it yet.

"You okay, Edge?" Greggs breathed, stepping forward and hastily kicked Edge's revolver away from Aldrich. He kept his weapon trained on the dying man.

"Yeah." Edgerton winced as he nursed his injured wrist. "Thanks. Our boy had some moves."

The gurgling subsided.

"Emphasis on had." Greggs said grimly, lowering his gun. He realised his hands were shaking with the adrenal come down.

"Ran a search on him while you were inside." Edgerton rose shakily to his feet. "Two years in the Western and no arrests? Somebody didn't do their homework when they wrote that back story."

"What tipped you off?"

"A little sign language from one of our friends outside. That, and a recently acquired sense of paranoia."

"He's dead." Rebecca's voice interjected. "Good."

She stepped in through the broken storefront. Her hands were still cuffed behind her, but there was a determination in her stride, a certainty. The sense of relief washing off her was enormous. Greggs didn't share it.

"Lady, I just shot a cop. Now is not the time."

"If he's a cop then I'm a princess, Detective. Check him for a neural lace. Go on, I'll wait."

Greggs hauled Cox's body over, facedown. There was no data plug; no uplink cybernetics of any kind. Just a pink ribbon of scar tissue. Rashid's field notes from six months earlier had been quite particular.

"Got a U.V. light? Good. Now check his left wrist."

Greggs toggled the filter on his flash-beam. Sure enough, there was a single beam encircling the man's wrist. A black band. In its centre was a red hand, adorned with the wings of the UNSC Eagle. Within the centre of the hand's palm was an angular piece of rock, sharpened into a savage dagger like shape. A black shard.

Both detectives stared for a moment. Eventually Greggs turned to address Rebecca.

"Ma'am, ordinarily I'd tell you to get your ass back on the ground like we told you to earlier, but right now I'll settle for you telling us - one more time - what the hell is going on."

"I can do better than that, detective." Rebecca replied. She nodded down at the object Cox had been carrying in his other hand. It was a boxy data-pack, an antique.

"I can show you."

On the highway approaching Victory Plaza, a few short minutes from where a blockade of Scorpion battle tanks awaited Fireteam Chimera, the chase continued. The Pelican overshadowed the Chopper and entirely dwarfed the Orbital Frame. It gained on them steadily.

Chase opened a private channel on his TAC-COM; one he had not used since training exercises on Laconia.

He was shocked when Damien actually answered; a miniature portrait flashing to life on Chase's HUD.

"Chase!" the other Spartan beamed, "Fancy meeting you here!"

"Damnit, 451, end this madness now!"

"No can do, Platinum, but trust me - we have our reasons..."

The Chopper seemed tiny in the Pelican's crosshairs; an insect waiting to be squashed.

"Your reasons are going to get you and the rest of your team killed. I've been given the kill order, Damien. I won't hesitate."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"Call it professional courtesy."

"Well in the spirit of professional courtesy then, allow me to make you a one-time offer, never to be repeated."

"Which is?"

"Back off."

Chase spluttered in disbelief.

"'Back off?' We have every discernible advantage, Chimera. Superior firepower, a target lock from an elevated position. We have you dead to rights. You're in no position to negotiate."

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong. You may have a Pelican, but I have a Chidi. So back off… and I won't set her on you."

Damien cut the channel. Chase snarled.

"They're accelerating." The pilot noted. The Pelican had both the 'Frame and the Chopper outclassed in both firepower and speed. It was simply a matter of time.

"You have a target lock?" Chase asked.

"Affirmative, Spartan."

"The bike isn't going anywhere. Target the flier."

"Yes, Sir, acquiring target lock…" the pilot pressed a toggle on his flight stick to cycle the next target.

Which, quite suddenly, was no longer there.

Chidinma cut all forward thrust, letting the Pelican shoot overhead. She targeted the rear engines, dumping her remaining missile payload without hesitation.

There was a spitting series of coughs as a shower of a dozen micro flares spat out of the rear of the Pelican, intercepting the rockets before they could impact. A ribbon of explosions flashed out, obscuring the Pelican momentarily; all sound, no thunder. Chimera Three burst through the pall of smoke, pressing the attack.

Chidinma thumbed the fire selector over to cannons, stitching the rear of the craft with a storm of shots. One of the smaller thruster gimbals ruptured, throwing the Pelican into a precarious wobble. It cut speed abruptly, and she was forced to jink around it as air friction jerked the monstrous dropship toward her. She stung the lander again as it passed, gouging a furrow out of its belly armour.

Then it was behind her, for the briefest of moments. She looped away to starboard, drawing the Pelican after her.

Chidinma couldn't kill it, not with the limited armament she had left to her. This Frame variant was a prototype, hampered by a smaller munitions package than its larger cousin. Even if she did manage to penetrate the hull, she couldn't risk bringing it down. The collateral damage alone would be catastrophic.

But she could sure piss it off.

Grinning to herself, revelling in the mismatched duel, a deadly game of cat and mouse began between the skyscrapers of Argjend.

Eric vaulted over the lip of the courthouse roof, rolling onto his belly. He was barely hidden beneath the slim parapet edging the cornice of the large temple-like structure. The Supreme Court sat directly opposite the Granican parliament, separated by the open expanse of Victory Plaza.

Eric held his wrist up against the stonework ledge, prising free a small optical wire feeding into the TACPAD mounted on his wrist. A small view window beeped to life in the corner of his HUD, relaying the view as he played the wire left to right.

Beneath him, hundreds of soldiers had fortified the square. The Assault Walkers lurked with silent menace, the heat rippling the air above them. Many of the surrounding rooftops had sniper teams posted in overwatch positions. All eyes were on the hospital at the far end of the plaza. Nobody noticed the tiny fibre optic cable peeking out over the edge of the parapet. That was good.

The hospital also happened to be his destination. That was very much not good.

Eric peeked over the edge, VISR software auto-cataloguing targets. Multiple infantry groups, two Mantis Assault Walkers. More Warthogs than he rightly knew what to do with.

A different approach was required.

He active his com.

"Sierra 482, are you receiving?"

"Bit busy at the moment, Sir." Rashid replied, voice strained.

"I can see that, Spartan. You've got clearance teams at both ground and roof level, with additional assault teams fast-roping in. Primary threats are the window insertion teams. Looks like shaped demolitions and a kill team. Are you armed?"

"MA5, single magazine. Thirty-two stun rounds, Sir."

Not nearly enough.

"You're going to need to improvise, Spartan. Something tells me these guys aren't the type to use stun rounds."

"Oh, I fully appreciate that, Sir. It's just that Damien and Chidi are in a bit of a tight spot, and I'd rather help them with the limited time I have left to me. I'll improvise a defence once my new guests announce themselves."

"Options?"

"Limited."

"Let's hear it."

"I'm considering taking a leaf out of your book, Sir: beating them senseless with my newfound leg. Perhaps sharpening a stick or two."

"Negative, Rashid. You're no good to us dead." Eric replied, watching as the men on wires walked down the face of the building, upside down. "Finish what you're doing and get ready to do exactly as I say."

There was a momentary pause.

"Done. I'm all ears, Sir."

Eric's MJOLNIR system could automatically track Rashid's bio-signature. It had been attuned to the younger Spartan ever since he'd taken on the role of instructor at Laconia. It had suddenly given him an idea.

"Alright, Rashid: here's what we're going to do."

The last communication Damien received from Rashid was odd. It wasn't even coms.

A text message appeared in the corner of his VISR, scrolling across the bottom like a ticker tape.

The message was four phrases; short and concise.

Can't talk. Position compromised. Maximise speed.

Damien broke off, rereading the next part. It didn't make any sense at all.

P.S. Wound up fetching you that train after all.

The Plan, such as it was, left little time for anything but the barest preparation.

Rashid sat calmly in the heart of the building, in a large office, well away from the surrounding windows. He set the Delving Deck on the table, watching the tracking software count to a close. It had taken all of his encryption talents to counter-trace the bug Damien was carrying.

He had left the MA5 out in middle of the hall, fully disassembled. Stun rounds might stop a trooper or two, but this wasn't a fight he was going to win by force, nor by hopping about on one leg.

One of the projected windows showed an overlay of the city, and had marked the position of each member of Chimera. Only one was missing. Removed from her armour, Viktorya's bio-signature remained elusive.

The deck trilled a crisp electronic cheep. Scan complete.

"At last!" Rashid cried, tapping the menu.

He sat back in his chair. That couldn't be right.

According to the overlay of the city, the original signal source was right on top of his position. Rashid leaned closer and zoomed the map in, closing in on Victory Square; expanding the field of view.

Five hundred metres south. He tapped again.

Traxus Towers. The large building dominating the square. Right here in the center of all things Argjend.

Rashid delved deeper. The more he analysed the code, the more familiar it seemed.

Of course it was. He'd written it himself, employed it on Laconia a lifetime ago, tracking patrol routes of guards before yet another abortive escape attempt. It was refined, certainly, more sophisticated and updated in all manner of subtle and nuanced ways, but the root of the architecture was unmistakable.

The code was his.

He felt a trembling bang as the windows blew inward. The building shook with the force of the blast. The clearance teams were in.

Rashid worked calmly, noting the NAV data and uploading it to both Eric and Chimera's neural laces.

Next he took a system dump of his Deck and copied it onto one of the small datapads left idle in the meeting room. He slid it into an innocuous drawer and took a seat by his computer once more, wiping the system memory. When that was done he closed the Deck down, pushing it back. Doubtless they would confiscate it once they came for him.

He was perfectly calm when the armed soldiers stormed in, weapons bristling, barking and roaring an incomprehensible cacophony of demands.

Rashid Datar swivelled about in the chair, hands raised high above his head. He wore a pleasant smile on his face.

"Gentlemen!" he beamed, "I've been expecting y—"

A rifle butt to the face snapped his head around, hard. Then, the Spartan stood. He towered over the soldiers around him, his hands still held high. He offered no retaliation to the stinging blow.

Instead he started laughing, spitting through bloodied lips.

"Really? You'll have to hit me a lot harder than that to knock me down."

The Net Launcher wasn't a subtle weapon. Designed for trapping big game out on the prairies of the southern continents - elephants and Gúta, their natural predators on this world - it was a long barrelled cannon not dissimilar to an elephant gun in weight. The shock net caught Rashid in the torso, laying him out flat. Micro-filament wires ensnared him top to toe, surging with electric current. Even at its lowest setting, the stun-charge was enough to blast him unconscious.

Fowler lowered the launcher, pushing it into the hands of the commando beside him.

"General, this is Fowler. Target secured."

"Get me a target lock!" Chase barked.

The pilot sweated, trying his best. The 'Frame was everywhere and nowhere. Every so often the hull shuddered as another flurry of shots raked the hull. The fuselage was holding, but time and time again they were stung; internal alarms warbling with each lancing strike. The Pelican was not designed to track as flitting and nimble a craft as an Orbital Frame. Nor could they open up with their full ordnance, not without a definitive target lock. It was like a bear trying to swat a buzzing mosquito with one paw tied behind its back.

Chidinma for her part danced and shied around rooftops, varying the attack vector each time. The Pelican's manoeuvring thrusters had been hit more than once, and it moved ponderously, reeling as it tried to react to the knife thrusts stabbing at its flanks. Myers and Reeve opened the rear hatch, trying to pick at Chidinma with small arms fire. It was impossible to get the necessary deflection. She was too damn quick.

Damien was slipping from their fingers. Caught as it was between the beleaguered Pelican and the wall of UNSC armour, the Chopper didn't seem to mind; surging away toward the rising curves in the highway, uncontested.

Chase Keller was nothing if not adaptable. If he could not swat Chidinma out of the sky, he could target her morale. He adapted his tactics accordingly.

"The bike, Pilot. Target the bike!" Chase ordered, "Wipe that bastard off the damn road!"

"Heads up, One, you've got company!" Chidinma's voice buzzed in Damien's ear. "They're not taking the bait any longer!"

"Copy!"

He could hear the keening of the dropship's engines grow louder once more.

A friendly target marker appeared on Damien's radar suite; two klicks, maximum range. Suddenly it flashed closer. Whatever it was, it was closing at an alarming rate. With a start, Damien recognised the target ID. It was Rashid's. Only the shape and configuration didn't match any known Spartan signature he'd ever seen. Damien stole a glance over his shoulder.

A mag-train was screaming down the track, engine coils humming as it split the air. Damien's eyes traced the route of the track ahead. It fed around beneath the arches of the rising S-curves of the highway; curving away toward the heart of the city. In the distance, an objective waypoint marker hung on the far horizon, settling over the austere grandeur of Victory Plaza. Rashid's counter-trace had finally run its course.

At last, a target. Damien grinned, gunning the boost.

The Spartan could hear the roar of the Pelican's engines as it closed upon him, heralding his destruction. There was no time to dwell on the situation. The train was only a kilometre out; a few breathless seconds at the rate it was going. His planned course of action was foolishly rash, insane even. No field manual would ever cover such a scenario.

Just another first for Fireteam Chimera.

The Chopper hit the first turn at speed; Damien leaned into it, so low his elbow almost sparked asphalt as he drifting around the arching bend. He straightened in the saddle as the bike transitioned into the next turn. He had no intention of making it.

Instead he pointed the nose of the Chopper straight at the barrier wall. He clenched the firing trigger. Thick cannon fire thumped out; blasting fist-sized limps out of the polycrete, spitting pebbles in all directions. What little barrier remained was a pock-marked ruin, spider-webbed with cracks. Damien braced in the saddle; feet poised, ready to spring. He could almost feel the Pelican's targeting lenses on him, preparing to fire.

Damien slammed the grav-boost.

The Chopper blasted through the barrier, sailing through the air for a heart-stopping few seconds. Then gravity wrenched it downward. The glistening river filled his vision. Damien's feet exploded downwards, pushing off from the saddle; suit thrusters flaring. He and the bike parted ways: the Spartan spring-boarding upward, the bike plummeting away. The train flashed below him, a silver blur.

Even with his thrusters, his augmented physique and mag-locked moulded body plate, the impact slapped Damien so hard his shields collapsed outright. It took two precarious bounces before his armoured gauntlet finally gained spark-shrieking purchase on the hull. His other hand thumped into the carriage roof, fingertips pinching up curling folds of buckling metal as they stretched the train's metal hull. He felt the gel layer of his suit auto-compact to cope with the strain; moulding like putty as it struggled to keep his organs from liquefying within the hardened contours of the beleaguered bodysuit. Damien couldn't breathe, not at first. The wind shear alone threatened to pluck him from the hull and cast him free as the train rocketed toward the heart of the city. Shoulder muscles burning, feet magnetically braced; Damien clung to the tail end of the train's dented roof for dear life.

Far below, the monstrous Brute bike struck the water with a savage spray. It sank immediately, the water white and frothing from where it struck with the force of a cannonball. Steam curled up from where red-hot cannons had struck the icy water. Then it was gone, the water still save for the expanding ripples and occasional rising bubble.

"What the hell just happened?!" Chase hissed.

"He… he jumped, Sir!" The pilot managed.

Chase's eyes narrowed.

"The train! Bring us closer." The Spartan ordered.

"Sir?!"

The Spartan had already disappeared into the rear hold. He stormed over to one of the equipment lockers, bolting on a jump pack. He pushed Myers and Reeve aside, moving over to the rear hold. He paused at the edge of the ramp, addressing them briefly.

"Reinforce the General's position. I'll finish things here."

"Yes Sir!" they chorused.

Chase turned to face the outside of the ramp. The Pelican swooped closer to the track, so close they could feel the electrostatic hum of the train's grav-field.

"Platinum One to General Stape. Targets are attempting to disengage." Chase unshipped his BR85, stepping to the very edge of the ramp.

"Continuing pursuit."

Damien clawed his way along the train, inching toward the edge of the carriage. He swung his legs over the side, easing himself down. The triple-reinforced glass of the carriages had been designed for the post-war era, the mag-rail's designers had boasted. The cabin's engineering anticipated air strikes, Covenant invasion fleets and sustained plasma fire. Or so they said. Those designers hadn't quite factored in the boot of a desperate Spartan at point blank range. The glass splintered on the first kick. The second kick knocked the window entirely out of its frame, where it shattered on the floor.

Damien swung himself inside, settling in a low crouch. He clung to the seat beside him as he caught his breath. He had no weapons beyond a simple combat knife. Everything ached.

The carriage, indeed the whole train, was empty. Whatever Rashid had done, the runaway train was locked on a course for Central Station, only a short distance from Victory Plaza. The area would be crawling with UNSC troops. That meant he had to get off this train, and quickly. He started for the front car.

Suddenly there came a loud jolting thump. Damien looked up.

A second dent had appeared in the roof above him.

The back room was roasting from the heat of so many bodies.

Edgerton and Greggs had left the two thugs locked up in the back of their perforated police cruiser. Murphy and Carl had been dragged along with Rebecca, primarily because Carl – as the owner of the store – was the only one equipped to handle the software. All of them had been un-cuffed.

Murphy had been propped in a chair at the back of the room, his head stooped. The bio-foam Greggs had administered had doubtlessly saved his life, as drowsy as it made him.

Carl was conducting something of a presentation, his fingers expertly manipulating the various keyboards that had thrummed to life with a wave of his hand. With the data converted to a more modern format, the techie was in his element.

His breathless excitement told them as much.

"Here's the New Cadiz tape. You've all seen it on the 'Nets."

They had. It was an iconic sight, morbidly so. The tethers came down. Smoke and dust, plumes of fire. Nevertheless, both detective's expressions were grave as they watched. It was sombre thing, watching a city fall.

"Now watch here. Twenty four hours later."

Soldiers picked over the ruins. An unmarked Pelican touched down. Carl continued.

"The whole site was locked down after the fighting stopped. Ground Zero was off-limits, pending approval from the security teams that the rad levels were safe for further relief efforts. News 'Nets carried the story that Innies had stockpiled nuclear warheads; dirty bombs, crudely manufactured. The contamination risk was so damn high the area's still a no-go, even today. Or so the official statement says. Notice anything in particular?"

Carl tapped at the screen. Not one of the soldiers in the footage wore HAZOP gear of any kind.

"Does that look like a team concerned with radiation?"

"There's more." Rebecca added. "Skip forward, Carl."

The scene zoomed by, the frame rate lending soldiers an erratic jerkiness, like one of the old silent movies from the history channels. A series of black armoured troopers emerged from debris of what had once been the Admin Tower. They pushed some sort of floating casket in front of them, suspended by grav-pods. Leading them was a man in a long black coat; his pale skull bereft of hair. His gaunt face regarding the devastation with a regal dispassion.

Both detectives recognised Commissioner Weldon as he approached and snapped a salute. Neither recognised the older, more intimidating man in UNSC desert pattern fatigues.

To their collective surprise it was Murphy who spoke next. Eyes barely more than slits, his breathing ragged.

"The man beside your beloved Commissioner is General William Finchley Stape, Commander-in-Chief of all UNSC forces stationed on this planet. He issued the lockdown… commandeered the entire military. He's got the Granican armed forces eating out of his hand."

"It's a goddamn coup." Greggs breathed.

"No." Rebecca shook her head. "We think it's something else entirely. Look again."

The enhanced view slow-tracked back over to the man in the black coat.

"The man they're meeting is Murphy's… our target. Elias Becker, former ONI operative. But that's not what has me nervous."

Rebecca leaned across Carl and tapped a final key. The camera zoomed in on the floating pod the black armoured soldiers were pushing. The silhouette was unmistakable.

"That right there is a cryo-pod." Rebecca's finger tapped the screen hard enough to make the display distort and warp around her finger. "A big one."

"New Cadiz wasn't a rebel insurrection." Murphy rasped, "It was a goddamn extraction op."