"Integration of existing combat units proved to be a fundamental stepping stone for getting PROJECT [REDACTED] off the ground. That existing operators were being repurposed for roles they had not originally been designed for was deemed unfortunate, but ultimately necessary. Their technical expertise, field skills and raw lethality marked them as the perfect, practical instructors for the next generation."
Convincing them of this suitability, however, was another matter entirely."
- Classified Transcript: ONI Case File [REDACTED/EYES ONLY]; estimated date [REDACTED], 2557
It's hard to sleep in when the wall rolls up into the ceiling.
Crisp morning light lanced through the triple-glazed balcony window. Blue sky, thinly streaked with wisps of frothy cloud; all the promise of a glorious new day. The wall-shutter hummed gently as it fully retracted into the lip in the ceiling.
"Good morning, Rebecca", a synthesised male voice said, "It is 7.15am, Local Time. Weather patterns are considered pleasant, averaging at 18 degrees Celsius. You have mail."
News items began flashing across the clear white wall on the far side of the bedroom. News feeds, still images and talking heads. A stock market ticker began to run its way across the bottom of the wall. Arms manufacturing, construction companies, infrastructural and civil engineering firms all showed green. An archaic icon of an old-world envelope began to pulse in the lower right corner, silent but insistent.
Oblivious to it all, Rebecca managed an incoherent groan and rolled over, burying her face in the pillow with mutinous intent.
Then the clanking started. This came from outside the apartment; as thousands of construction crews started work for the day. The reconstruction of an entire city is not a subtle undertaking. Cacophony didn't even begin to describe it: the judder of jackhammers, the shrieking buzz of an industrial cutter and the clanging of a thousand different things being banged, shoved, welded and machine-stamped together. Somewhat unhelpfully, the apartment's integrated A.I. recorded the sound, looping a playback of it through the surround speakers.
"Alright, alright, Jesus, I'm up! Enough!" Rebecca snapped, kicking the duvet off and rubbing her eyes.
The amplified sound died down, her alarm system suitably mollified. She still couldn't believed she'd paid extra for such a feature.
She padded out into the centre of the apartment, cinching the tie of her bathrobe tightly. The apartment was a single space accommodation; an integrated work-live unit where one half of the wide room formed a living area, all thick cream carpets and ice-white plaster; the other half a dedicated kitchen/food preparation suite. It wasn't quite a penthouse, but at twenty eight years of age, Rebecca was proud of how she had landed on her feet after the war. She paused to look at the row of framed certificates which lined one of the walls. She was proud of those too.
"You have mail, Ms. Pearson." the integrated A.I. repeated patiently.
"Yeah, you mentioned." Rebecca stifled a yawn with her fist, "Prepare a coffee, then play messages dated 31 August 2555. Prioritise psychological evaluations for patient cases G-F."
The auto dispenser gurgled as coffee poured into a mug on the kitchen counter. Cappuccino, freshly made and steaming. Rebecca slurped greedily, a practiced caffeine fiend. Perfect.
"Loading current work routine as per your request, Ms. Pearson." the AI replied chirpily, "You have ERROR messages."
Rebecca pushed the tangled mane of thick dark hair out of her face and frowned.
"What?"
There was a scolding electronic blurt, like the kind used to chastise dim-witted contestants on ChatterNet game shows. The synthesised voice sounded almost apologetic.
"Error: could not process service request. Please try again later."
That got Rebecca's attention. The apartment complex's AI was never known for its brilliance, but in the twelve months she'd been living in Auburn Wood it had never failed to process a work request. She drummed her fingers against the side of the coffee mug, brow furrowed.
She walked over to the mail icon, and manually dragged it out into the centre of the wall with a flick of her hand.
The window expanded to a dozen icons, ranging from actual client correspondence to automated spam messages asking for URGENT! investment in an exciting new investment opportunity on some backwater colony called Crassus. She went to key the first actual message, a psych-eval report for a regular client meeting, but nothing happened. The message was greyed out. In fact, all of the messages - even the spam - were greyed out. A single message hovering above them all, pulsing in full colour and sternly code-stamped with official UNSC sequence numbers. None of the code numbers made any sense to her, but an uneasy crackling sensation prickled its way up the back of her neck.
"What's this now?" Rebecca asked aloud.
"An employment offer." a deep voice said behind her.
Rebecca yelped in surprise, wheeling about.
A uniformed soldier stood in the corner of the room, hands clasped neatly behind the small of his back. He cut an impressive figure, backlit by the New Francisco skyline behind him. Standing perfectly straight, like a figurine on a wedding cake. He was early 50's at a push, with close cropped hair greying at the temples, and a neatly trimmed goatee that complimented his rich dark skin. His uniform bore no rank insignia of any kind, and his physique showed a lifetime of training that was ever so slightly giving way to middle age.
"Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?!"
He smiled, his teeth fascinatingly white.
"A man spends enough time working in the dark, Dr. Pearson, he gets good at being unnoticed."
"Well I've noticed you now. You still haven't said what you're doing in my apartment."
"Offering you a job," he said, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from an impeccably clean shoulder.
He arched an eyebrow, then added with a smile:
"Please, there's no need for the knife."
She looked down at her hand. In her shock she had instinctively snatched up a bread knife from the kitchen counter. She set it down with warily, but kept her suspicious glare where it was. The knife remained within reach.
"So you looked me up on Waypoint? How tremendously diligent. Care to explain why you're lurking in my apartment?"
If her sarcasm bothered him he didn't show it.
""You're a highly qualified psycho-analyst, who specialises in combat induced trauma and warrior psychology. I read your paper on "The Mindset of a the Modern Warrior - not bad, for somebody who's never seen the business end of a plasma rifle."
He stepped forward, hands spread in an expansive gesture, for a man so evidently disciplined.
"You came in the top percentile of your college class, despite a single repeat test - which was discounted on account of emotional trauma attributed to the loss of your parents on Reach."
She suddenly staring found herself studying the floor. He was still speaking.
"Your transfer here to New Francisco was fortuitous. Since official cessation of hostilities in 2553 you've established a comfortable private practice, rehabilitating war veterans diagnosed with PTSD. Occasionally, usually on a quarterly basis, you publish a new paper to muted academic acclaim. They're well received, but you yourself are deemed by the local academia as being too young for widespread recognition just yet, so I'm told."
"You're well informed."
"I'm military intelligence, Doctor: being well informed is my job."
"Point, but I still don't see what the-"
He met her glare steadily, solemn.
"Your Citizen Identification Number is 9204-829-5442-C, your blood type is O Negative. Your favourite colour is yellow, although on the majority of personality forms you have a tendency to answer 'red" - indicative of a muted but determined stubborn streak. That will be useful."
Seeing the look on her face, he added, "We do our own psych-analysis too, Doctor. We know who to recruit and when to recruit them. And what we're doing here, what I'm doing here, is recruiting you."
Fully conscious that she was still standing there dressed in a bathrobe, somewhat mortified, all she could do is gawp. Smooth, Rebecca.
"For what?"
His expression was deadly serious now.
"My name is Admiral Idris Carter. Formerly of the Beta-V Security Group, a group so top secret even the Admiralty Board are unaware of its existence. We're building the single most effective fighting force the universe has ever seen. And you're going to help us."
The New Francisco Municipal Trustee Bank was a towering structure; an edifice of smooth marble cladding, vaulted archways and mirrored glass. MTB were a significant lending presence on Artesia III, and their central location on the main boulevard reflected this. Underlit as it was by flood lamps and digital banners, MBT Plaza stood an august, solemn structure.
It was a shame that it had been evacuated. Three block quarantine; total martial lockdown.
New Francisco Emergency Response Teams were bunched around every street corner, impassive figures padded in full-visored breathing masks and matte-black ballistic armour. Com chatter squawked and crackled back and forth between fireteams as observation choppers juddered overhead, search lights blinding as they washed over the building. Uniformed police linked arms and held the media at bay, as armoured personnel carriers trundled into position, rotary turrets angled toward the towering bank.
A perimeter was established six hundred yards out from the edge of the Plaza.
High above the atrium, crouched low on the architrave of the lobby's interior, Eric watched with detached professionalism. Below him, the voices on his audio scanner were shrill, tinged with panic. Things were not going to plan.
"Seven minutes, you said we had seven minutes before an effective response!" one of the terrorists hissed, jogging to the doorway. Innie tattoos covered his knuckles. The red beret perched over his face mask was a crude throwback to the Koslovic heyday. So too was the cut down Sinoviet SKR carbine.
"Relax." another replied confidently, "We've got hostages."
"And they've got frigging tanks, man!"
And on it went. Eric quietly made notes, tapping particularly salient details into the TACPAD mounted on his wrist. ONI would appreciate the intel.
"You're getting all this?" Eric asked, seemingly to no-one. A window opened on his visual display; a delicate Asian face, lightly freckled. Shimmering glyphs and pulsing data runes flowed upward along the counters of her skin, like reverse tears. Kaizen was Eric's integrated combat assistant: a Smart A.I., recently created; designed for delicate situations precisely like the one they faced now. This was their third mission together.
"Every word; keep transmitting."
"Acknowledged. Got a count yet?"
"I count thirty-six separate heat signatures below you, 239."
"Black-hats?"
"Twelve."
Eric touched the temple of his helmet. The viewfinder zoomed in. Glowing red squares isolated and tagged armed members moving through the crowd. The hostages were mainly bank workers, all of whom were suitably terrified by the unfolding crisis. One of them, a heavy set guard in his sixties, slumped face down on the ground. He'd been executed: a show of force during the initial takeover. Single head shot, point blank range. A statement of intent, no doubt.
A dozen miniature windows and info displays began overlaying themselves over the crowd below. Financial statements, citizen registration numbers, living addresses, known political affiliations. Heart-beat monitors too, all racing. Too much, all at once.
The Spartan frowned.
"Something wrong?" Kaizen asked.
"The display. Little busy for my taste."
"The Gen 2's still a working prototype; we only got the Soldier Pattern from the Materials Group last week. It's our job to work out the kinks, cut it a little slack."
"I am. Point stands. Can you do something about it?"
The icons abruptly vanished. Only the target tags remained. Twelve red squares, sweeping through the crowd, weapons raised.
"Done. How's the view?"
Eric gave the lobby a once over. Six of the terrorists were gathered toward the rear of the lobby, where the atrium tapered back into a central lift core and a series of open plan offices, primarily used for informal client meetings. The remainder were amid the hostages, with two of them standing by the entrance door. They were ducking back from the windows, wary of police snipers nestled on the rooftops around them.
"Sloppy."
"You're hard to please." Kai sniffed.
"Not the HUD, their tactics. No roof sentries of any kind. Gear's outdated too. Mostly UNSC surplus; MA5's and short range PDW's. Borderline antiques in some cases."
He paused a moment. The centre piece of the lobby was an expansive oak reception desk which dominated the centre of the room. There was a bipod mounted on the front desk. The gun snout gleamed hungrily. Its operator was smoking a cigarette as he idly panned the gun in a sweeping arc, his facemask pulled up over his nose.
"Shit."
"Something wrong?"
"They've rigged an M739 over the lobby. Crowd's in the kill zone. Tactical suggestion?"
"Hold off, 239. Too many at risk."
Eric engaged his stealth system. He stood up.
"239, is there a part of the phrase 'hold off' that eludes you?"
"Two-twenty four, Kai." Eric said.
"Excuse me?"
"Combat Directive 2-24; the operator's judgement will always supersede that of an integrated A.I. in a live-fire combat situation."
"This isn't a live-fire combat situation, Eric."
"It's about to be. You've got half of the NFPD mustering outside, ready to blow down every single window in this place. These guys haven't had a major deployment since the war ended. They're itching to be let off the leash. That happens, we lose hostages. I'm going in."
"Standing by." There was a note of resignation in her voice.
Eric did a shake test on his gear. He flexed his neck in a wide circle, rotating both arms. The automatic servos in his artificial arm whirred and clicked in its socket. He left his Battle Rifle mag-locked to the back plate of his Gen 2 armour. Status Green, he thought to himself. He worked alone now.
"Are we still field testing this thing?" he asked, casually patting his armour, "Worked fine the last time."
"Yes, the Materials Group want more field data on how the Gen 2 holds up in live fire-"
"Good. Start recording."
He jumped.
Even with a hissing spurt from the Re-entry pack mounted on his armour, the marble tiling exploded under Eric's immense weight, venting chunks of powdered masonry in all directions. The machine gunner overlooking the crowd was dead before he even managed to turn; neck snapped like a wish bone. The Spartan cast the broken body aside like a discarded rag doll, fizzing into view as his stealth system faded. Red armour, golden visor. A white symbol of a scimitar had been painted lovingly over the left hand side of the breastplate. Death on two armoured legs.
In his hands was the M739 Squad Automatic Weapon.
"Oh," one of the terrorists standing by the entrance door breathed. "Fuck."
The SAW is not a precision instrument. Used for squad suppression in high intensity combat situations, its role is that of a support gunner. Weight of fire, rather than accuracy of impact is its intended function. UNSC Combat Regulations recommend controlled firing in 3-5 round bursts, in order to maintain an accurate delivery of fire down range. Hip-fire is not recommended.
The UNSC Combat Regulations, Kaizen decided, were not written with somebody of Eric's capabilities in mind.
Eric braced the SAW under a vice-like grip between the crook of his artificial arm and his chest plate. His other hand was braced on the barrel of the machine gun. The armour encasing his arms went into lock-down, effectively freezing them in place.
The Spartan clamped his finger over the trigger.
The noise was deafening; sounding for all the world like an industrial strength sewing machine set to murder. The last thing the Innies saw was the strobe of the muzzle flash; then that thunderous, guttural roar. By the time the shell casings tinkled to the floor, the hostages had been painted with a mist of pink blood. Six pairs of legs flopped to the ground with a wet squelch. Five target markers vanished. Not a single round had gone below waist height.
The remaining terrorists bolted. Eric turned around, tossing the smoking SAW aside with a clatter.
"Remember to leave one of them alive, 239!"
Eric grunted, unshipping his BR. He snapped the rifle to bear, squeezing off a burst. It caught one of the fleeing kidnappers in the thigh. The man yelped and spun to the floor, clutching his leg.
"Shot." Kai approved.
The other five targets rallied, turning around and returning fire. It was panicked, reactionary. Hard rounds spanked off the oak reception desk, spitting wood chips and exploding inset monitors with fits of fizzling sparks. The hostages screamed, clutching their ears and pressing themselves into the stone floor as rounds zipped and cracked overhead.
Eric advanced, rifle raised. His shields flared as they deflected the incoming fire. The Innies, hopelessly outmatched, did not have the luxury of a shielding system, nor the reassuring weight of dense Mjolnir plate beneath it. Eric closed the gap quickly, a burst per Innie. Four bursts before he closed the gap.
One of the remaining terrorists roared a challenge, swinging his rifle at Eric's head. Brave, but ultimately stupid. Eric caught the rifle neatly, then drove his helmet forehead first into the man's face. Somebody exploded; something wet. Eric moved through him, shoving the body out of the way with a dismissive backhand.
The last remaining terrorist flung his gun aside, falling to his knees.
"P-please, don't!" he stammered, hands raised.
Eric plucked him from the ground by the neck. The man's feet dangled a foot from the ground, swaying. Eric cocked his head to one side as he studied the man, as a wolf studies its prey. He looked back over his shoulder at the terrorist he'd wounded previously.
"No good." Kai reported, answering his unspoken question. The heartbeat monitor over the fallen man showed a flatline. The orange threat indicator greyed out, then faded altogether. "Femoral artery. You'll need this one alive."
Eric turned back to face the terrorist, whose face had gone blue from the Spartan's vice-like grip. The man had pissed himself.
"Your lucky day." Eric said simply, dropping the man without ceremony.
The Innie gasped and began scrabbling backward. Anything to put distance between himself and this murderous god. Then he curled up in a foetal ball, quivering.
New data flashed up on Eric's HUD.
"New code signal coming through. It's command."
"Orders?"
"Withdraw." there was some confusion in Kai's voice, "… and redeployment."
"Redeployment? We've been tracking this cell for months."
"It's a redeployment notice," Kai repeated firmly, "Beta V encryption, but not from any hierarchy directive I'm aware of."
A strange twinge of unease crept into Eric's belly. His eyes narrowed.
"No clues as to who it's from then?" Eric asked.
"It's one word, with routing coordinates attached: 'Spartan'."
Eric's motion sensor began to swarm with movement. Massive incoming, three hundred metres. New Francisco's finest were about to come down on the MBT lobby, hard.
"Time to go." Eric said, re-engaging his stealth field.
By the time the ERT stormed the lobby, in a dramatic burst of exploding inward glass and a searing flash-thump of stun grenades, it was all over. They found the hostages huddled together, covered in their captor's blood but otherwise unharmed. They also found a single, hogtied - and entirely petrified - prisoner.
Eric was long gone.