Parting Moments of History II - Childhood's End: The Tale of 451
Hibernia is a dreary place to some: seldom sunny, often raining. It's an old name, for an ancient world: "The Cold Place", by its Latin meaning. The name fits. An untamed world, the majority of its continents are an arboreal vastness, a sprawling stretch of thick bodied woodland and lush emerald fields. Streams, un-tamed and leaping with the scaly-flash of imported gene-salmon, wind their way through forest and field. Stonewalls, erected by civilisations long forgotten, line the pathways. They are more akin to dirt tracks than concrete hard-pan. Its people are a simple people of European stock. Irish, Welsh, Scotsmen; the original settlers had seen the rugged sadness of the landscape, and something about it had struck a familiar melancholic chord within them. Perhaps it was the rain that did it. Soft and pattering, it dredged up memories of an older, simpler time; one almost forgotten in humanity's voracious expansion into the stars. For eighty years they had toiled the land. Rich soil, hard work. Communities had grown. Other settlers had come - Dutch, French, Chinese, African. Honest folk all. They too had seen the same value in a quieter, rural life on the fringes of civilisation, and were made welcome. Towns blended, and the universe went on without them. Things are slower out here, at the end of all things. Honest.
Exports were simple, and delivered upward via the planet's only Space Elevator. Lumber, fresh-cut and of the highest quality. Scented pine and towering oak and beech, and sycamore too. Food was shipped up and neatly packaged, but only rare exports. Luxury goods, branded and sold on ancient branding: malt liquor, whiskey and stout. Fish were farmed from the rivers, and crops grown in the fields. There's no Insurrection here, nor is there much word of the horrors that humanity are encountering on the far side of human space. It's a distant problem, drip-fed through a stuttering ChatterNet connection, seldom used.
The unwelcome family arrives later. When cities have been established, and the communities roots have sunk as deep as the trees that surround them. Fresh off a transport, they have no ties here. There are whispers about town, of course. The new family are no family at all. A boy, with deep brown eyes, and a barcode laser-stamped on the inner side of his wrist. He's a slum-child, barely more than a toddler; rescued from a UEG Shelter. That's what the mark on his hand is for, you see. Old ladies cluck with sympathy as they see him blink at his newfound surroundings, at land that is both familiar and yet not. His guardian is an older man, too old to be his father. A veteran with an American accent and a pronounced limp. He too is strange, and less welcome. Whispers are soon accompanied by stares. The veteran's clothing, Navy surplus woodland camouflage, makes a whirring sound as he limps. His raggedly cut beard is shot through with grey, and seems to shroud a pair of eyes that stare a little too far into the middle distance. They are eyes that have seen too much. There is a palsied shake to his right hand. Shell damage, they whisper. From The War. The War is a dangerous subject, full of tragedy and sadness. It's a distant, exciting thing, and when out of earshot, the man makes for distant, exciting conversation. There is no war on the Outer Colony Hibernia, after all.
How little they know.
It's the man's wife that is the first to win the locals over. Like her husband, she is too old to be the boy's mother. She's kind and gentle though, and smiles past the frostiness of their initial reception. She opens a local doctor's practice, high up in the Ard Rí Foothills. For six years they establish themselves: the man, cutting timber and ranging out in the forests. The Man in the Hills, they call him, with eventual affection. He too has won the locals over, eventually. Freeing a man from a trap here, escorting lost hikers there. Aloof as he is, there's a rugged gentleness to him. They live apart; but by preference, rather than necessity.
Years pass. The boy and his guardian are in the woods now, three miles from the nearest semblance of civilisation. Overhead, owls hoot and squirrels flit from branch to branch. Shrews dart from hedge to another. They are entirely alone. It is spooky, but Damien is not scared. Uncle Quint is with him.
"Gather this, boy." Quint smiles down at the kid. Even holding the timber, his trembling hands seem as big as shovels to young Damien. "It'll burn better than the other stuff. Less smoke. As much as you can, boy. Go on now. Molly will be looking for us if we're not back within the hour."
Damien dashes off into the woods. The branches whip past, slapping against his chest. His heart races, his lungs burn. He's exhilarated, breathless. The smell of damp earth fills his nose. It's a rich, honest smell. The ferns brush at his waist like ghostly fingers. He's not a tall child, not yet, but he moves quickly, booted feet splashing up muck and clopping against thick roots veining the woodland floor. He keeps his eyes alert for suitable timber, keen to impress.
He is too keen. In his haste, he does not watch his footing. His foot catches a treacherous root snaking out across the woodland path. He yelps, hands clawing at the air for purchase. It is a futile gesture. He pitches forward and slams into the muck. Lancing fire rockets up his knees as he lands squarely on them.
Damien won't cry. He won't allow himself to. He is twelve years old now, almost a teenager. Aunt Molly tells him that he's going to grow up big and tall and strong, and he believes her. He has no idea of how truly prophetic Aunt Molly's words will prove. He wipes the muck from his face. It has spattered him, head to toe. His cheeks burn with shame, as he knows it will be Molly, not him, who will take it upon themselves to scrub them clean in the foamy suds of a hand-basin. He is a good boy, young Damien, and gentle to boot.
A whirring click announces Quint's arrival. He pushes through the ferns, a look of concern evident beyond his bushy beard.
"You alright, boy?" he asks. Damien wipes a tear from his face, but nods. It's warm and hot, and smears the muck splattered on his cheek. He won't cry. He won't allow himself to.
"I'm fine, Uncle Quint." he replies.
Quint nods in approval. He offers Damien a hand, hauling the boy back to his feet with little effort. He smiles and ruffles the kid's hair. Quint reaches into his pocket and fishes out a cigarette. Smoking outdoors. Now there's a civilian luxury. He chuckles through the curls of twisting smoke; no snipers here. Damien coughs, and the veteran feels slightly guilty.
"C'mon," he grunts, pushing his way through the foliage. Damien follows, his knees raw and chafing, but eager to do his part.
They find an old birch tree, toppled across a small clearing. Birch is good for burning. Damien knows this. It doesn't pop, and the natural oil in the bark gives off a nice heat. It's a perfect find.
Quint reaches down to the webbing about his waist. He unships an old-school hatchet; it's military grade and made of stainless steel. Razor sharp, its blade glints in the dying light of the late afternoon. Damien steps back, as Quint hacks brutally into the bark. He's quick, efficient. Strong shoulders, and an even stronger swing. Though in his early fifties, his physicality hasn't left him. Damien gathers the pieces that Quint casts aside, dropping them into a synth-mesh bag which he cinches tightly.
"Should be enough." Quint concludes, hooking the hatchet back to the small of his back and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Starting to get dark. I'll leave a marker, and we can come back tomorrow."
Damien nods dutifully. Quint grins down at him, winks, and then begins the return journey to the truck.
The truck is a battered Turbogen IWD Spade; a lean, utilitarian vehicle, with a snarling mouth grill and earnest round headlamps. The bodywork is painted an olive green, and has been scuffed and scraped from years of service. The under carriage is caked with muck. Damien slings the bag of firewood into the rear cage, then clambers up into the passenger seat. He buckles his seatbelt automatically.
Quint is busy stowing his equipment pack, when a droning sound of jet wash zooms overhead. It buffets the trees, shaking them like an autumn wind.
Damien looks up, momentarily blinded by the Pelican's searchlight. The trees around them shake from the jet wash. Damien looks up, awe-struck, and feels a jolt of disappointment as the Pelican swings away and powers out of view. Quint frowns, and settles into the driver's seat, concern etched on his face.
"What was that, Uncle?" Damien asks.
"Trouble." Quint replies, gunning the engine.
He drives faster than usual. It makes Damien nervous. The road bumps and jolts him in his seat, as they slide about corners. The Spade's engine purrs and shakes as it copes with Quint's thinly disguised haste. The journey almost becomes thrilling to young Damien, who clings to the dash for dear life. Quint's face is set in a determined scowl.
The sun is falling in the sky. Darkness begins to fall across Hibernia.
Their home is a modest affair. A long bungalow, with a stoop and a porch and pitched slate roof, which has been patched and reinforced as the years have passed. It's a homely, welcoming place, and Damien wouldn't want to live anywhere else in a million years.
Three mil-spec Warthogs are parked outside, dressed in woodland livery. Their engines purr and tick as they idle. Damien knows what they are. He has watched the holo-vids; suspension bouncing, multi-barrelled weapon systems flaring. He always wanted to see one in person. Now he's not so sure. They are out of place here, alien and unwelcome. Hibernia is no place for such things. A half dozen UNSC troopers mill about outside. Their faces are impassive; eyes hidden behind glare-visors; mouths chewing gum or set in a thin-lipped grimace. Damien stares at their assault rifles with awed fascination.
Molly is waiting for them on the porch. Even sitting where he is low down in the passenger seat of the Spade, Damien can see her distress.
Beside her stands a man in a long black overcoat. His head is smoothly shaven, and he is tall, taller even than Quint. His flesh is pallid, and his features nondescript. The kind of face you could pass on the street a thousand times, and never quite remember. Quint hops down from the driver's seat, forestalling Damien with a warning hand.
"Stay with the truck, kid." Quint says. He strides toward the waiting marines, jaw set; posture erect and shoulders tense.
Damien watches from afar. The troopers spread in a semi circle as he approaches. Damien notices that the machine gun mounted on the back of one Warthog isn't quite pointed at Quint, but hasn't been aimed away either. Damien tenses.
Quint is tense too. He shakes the man's hand, nods gruffly, then bows his head low, hands planted on his hips as he listens to the man in the long black coat speak. They seem familiar to one another. Damien is too far away to hear. Molly for her part speaks up occasionally, sharing a concerned look with her husband. More than once, all three glance back toward where Damien is sitting. He knows they are speaking about him, feels his cheeks burn in shame.
Paranoia grips him. Has he done something wrong? He doesn't think so, not that he remembers at least. He attends school, and does well. His homework is always on time, and he actively engages wherever he can. He is a good boy, quick at sports and cunning too. There is no need for soldiers here. Damien is broken from his thoughts by the sound of raised voices. An argument has broken out.
Quint is in the man with the black coat's face. He's yelling, pointing over at Damien and then jabbing his finger back into the stranger's chest. The Black Coat stranger is holding his hands up, appealing for calm. His blank face betrays no emotion. Molly stands back, she's trying to calm Quint down. The marines have their weapons raised. They advance toward Quint. They're shouting too. The machine gun on the back of the Warthog has drawn a bead directly on Quint. Its operator isn't saying anything, but her mouth is set in a determined grimace. Everything is happening too quickly.
The Warthog explodes.
Something shrieks by overhead. Blinding bolts, blue and white and crackling. They stab deep into the homestead. The roof erupts in a geyser of wood chippings and flaming chunks of shingle. Everyone is thrown off their feet. Damien covers his ears and tucks his chin against his chest.
The marines rally quickly. They swing the turrets on the Warthogs to bear and return fire at the skies above. The sound is deafening, a juddering, rattling roar that shakes Damien's ribcage. The man in the black is barking orders, pulling a snub-nosed service pistol from his greatcoat. Quint is lying down covering Molly, who isn't moving. Her head is bleeding, and her leg is twitching and pumping madly. Damien peaks over the dashboard anxiously, but flinches back as another withering torrent of plasma fire cuts across the homestead. Something bounces off the windshield and settles on the Spade's bonnet.
It's a smoking helmet. The skull in it has been stripped of flesh, and grins at Damien manically. He shrieks.
Quint appears back in the driving seat, clothing torn and forehead bleeding. An assault rifle is slung over his back, along with a webbing of grenades. He is alone.
"Keep your head down!" Quint barks, as he punches the ignition switch and floors the throttle. The wheels spin and the Spade lurches into motion. All the while, more plasma fire chops into the trees. Burning leaves flit and twist through the air like fireflies. Oily black smoke coils through the air. Everything around them is awash with fire. Madly, Damien thinks of beechwood, and the sack gathered in the backseat.
They race down a steep hill, treating the dirt road as an air ramp. The Spade leaves the ground entirely on several occasions, its suspension rocking as the wheels crunch back to earth with a banging jolt. The wideband radio is alive with panicking voices from over a dozen settlements. It's planet wide. Something swoops overhead, bathing them once more in the balmy blue of a searchlight. It's no Pelican. It's something else entirely. The shape is all wrong. Something bulbous with smooth contours and azure-purple running lights. The glow off its engines hurts Damien's eyes, but still he stares up at it with a combination of wonder and horror.
It swoops down before them, presenting its profile. Quint snarls and throws the Spade into a skid that brings it offroad. They're off road now; crashing through bushes and snapping past branches. The hull shakes and bangs. Behind them, the road erupts in another gout of bursting smoke and boiling earth. The shots would have cooked them alive.
They hit a tree. Damien's head pitches forward, catching the dashboard. It's too quick for pain. Vision swimming, he reaches up and feels something wet. He's bleeding, he realises with a start. His forehead is bleeding. The chafing burn in his scabbing knees is a long forgotten memory. Quint is unbuckling his restraints.
"Time to move, kiddo." Quint hisses, "Stay quiet, hold on to my hand. Don't let go. You got me?"
Damien manages a nod. Quint gives him a feral grin, his eyes glistening in the dim half light.
"That's my boy."
They move quickly. Quint's breath is coming in ragged gasps as he limps. His artificial hip aches like a bastard, the servos in his thigh strain to compensate. There's so little time. Damien sees that his uncle's shirt is soaked through with blood.
"Uncle Quint, you're bleeding!"
"It's not mine," Quint replies quietly, voice strained with massive emotion.
The spaceship drifts by overhead. Its searchlight throws crazed shadows through the foliage, the dribbling light dabbling the forest floor as it tries to penetrate the thick canopy. Quint pulls Damien into the cover of a gnarled oak tree. The beam sweeps past, moving on. They keep going.
They become aware of a chittering sound behind them.
Something is in the trees. Stalking them.
Quint shoves Damien to the ground, snapping the assault rifle to bear. His eyes dart back and forth as he sweeps the jungle. Another chittering caw sounds out.
Something darting fast and whisper-quick dashes past. Quint snaps off a burst, thumping rounds into the foliage. Shell casings ring to the floor. Smoke drifts out of the barrel and twists into nothingness. It's gone.
The creature barrels into Quint from behind, smashing him off his feet. The creature is tall and scrawny, with rope-like muscles and leathery chicken-skin. A tuft of feathers sprout up along its neck. It squawks, raising its strange purple rifle to fire. Quint is faster. He's on his back, the MA5B assault rifle tucked against his elbow. Hard rounds burst half of the creature's head open, decorating the tree behind it with purple ichor. It flops down to the ground, convulsing.
Quint pulls himself to his feet, soaked with sweat, panting. High on adrenal shock, he doesn't waste time with words. He grabs Damien and pulls him after him, keenly aware of the rustling fast approaching them from behind. Quint shoves Damien back under the bole of another tree, turning to face the foe.
There's four of them, perched on a wide tree long since collapsed. Like vultures, they snap and cackle as they eye Quint up with their beady eyes. They hold their wrist-shields up before them, warding off any incoming fire. They want him to see them. They want him to know that he's been run down and caught. That he's their prey.
Gunfire rings out, ripping two of them down from their perch. The remaining Jackals shriek in terror and dive in the foliage.
It's the man in the black coat. The coat's torn now, exposing form-fitting body armour, matte-black. Flanking him are two of the surviving marines, combat-tense and weapons smoking.
Quint lowers his rifle. After a moment, the marines follow suit.
"We've called for an evac," the man in the coat rasps, short on breath. He's younger than Quint, with a high and tight haircut. Clean-shaven to a point of seeming reptilian. "Hibernia's done."
"So I've noticed." Quint replies bitterly.
The man looks down at Damien with startling curiosity. He offers a hand to shake. Damien flinches back. The man's hand remains outstretched, hovering in the air.
"Damien. Please to meet you. I've heard so much about you."
Quint is in the man's face again, shoving him back.
"You don't touch to him, Spook. You don't look at him, you don't speak to him. Just get us to that transport."
Black Coat nods, then shoulders past Quint. The marines follow with practiced precision, panning the jungle for signs of further pursuit.
The Pelican has been painted black, and blends in neatly with the night sky. Indeed, the only way to tell that it's there at all is the absence of stars behind it. The farmstead has been abandoned. It's a simple facility: some outbuildings, a dairy farm, a barn and a farmhouse. Four fully-armoured ODST stand vigil at the exit ramp of the transport. One of them totes a missile launcher.
Quint is limping even harder now. The encounter with the Jackal has left him bruised and winded. Blood flows freely from puncture wounds where the Skirmisher's claws raked his shoulder open. The Marines are edging ahead. Even Black Coat has to look back, urging them on. Damien stays with Quint, unwilling to leave his side.
They are halfway to the Pelican when the Phantom Dropship returns.
It swings low over the treeline, pintle cannon spitting. One of the outbuildings erupts, splitting apart, and the humans throw themselves flat. Aliens leap from the side of the craft; larger ones this time. There's a half dozen of them. Their voices are booming orders, growling challenges. The two marines move to engage, dauntless. There is no cover here, out in the open. They hunker down in the trampled grass, assault rifles rattling, incoming fire muck tearing up around them in steaming tufts of burnt soil. The ODST looses a volley of rockets, which catch the Phantom in the throat. A billowing geyser of fire explodes, and the ship veers wildly, ploughing into the foliage.
Black Coat grabs Damien by the wrist. He cries out in pained surprise. He looks back at Quint in desperation, terrified.
Quint is torn. He looks at the inviting hatch of the Pelican, then back at where the two marines are hunkered down in the open ground. He notes the vast distance to the dropship, and the aching pain in his bastard hip. Most of all, he looks at Damien.
"Go on now, kiddo." he smiles. "It's alright."
Quint reaches up and pulls something from around his neck. It flashes in the light thrown up by the plasma fire behind them. He tosses it to Black Coat, who catches it neatly.
"Treat him right, you son of a bitch, or so help me I'm going to haunt your sorry ass."
Black Coat nods once, solemnly. Then he scoops up Damien over his shoulder and sprints for the Pelican. The ODST pull them aboard.
Quint winces as he throws himself flat beside the two marines.
"What's your names?" he askes, sighting up and firing. A Grunt squeals as its methane tank erupts, rocketing it into the air. One the Elites bellows angrily.
"Seymour, Private First Class." one shouts over the blaring of his assault rifle.
"Hoskins, Corporal." the other calls out with a grin, slapping a new magazine home. "Welcome to The Shit!"
"Ooh-rah," Quint grins, as he hears the Pelican pull away in the distance. He got Damien clear. That's what Molly would have wanted. His eyes are wet. Then that old familiar feeling is back. The combat-high. After years spent running from it, he's finally back home. His hand is no longer shaking.
The Elites are on them in moments.
"Semper Fi!" the marines roar, rising up to meet them.
Hoskins dies first. He does the hard work, putting a full mag into the encroaching horde. Shields fizzle, straining. Plasma fire punches him off his feet, blowing his spine inward. Seymour is next, a backhand by the commanding Elite breaking his neck in an instant. Quint's rifle runs dry as the Elite bears down on him, its shield gone, its breath stinking and hot upon his face. Quint reaches for his webbing.
It's a sharp edge, well honed. Plenty of use, but consistent. Chopped plenty of timber in its time. Oak and beech and sycamore too. The edge glints in the pulsing light of plasma fire. An upward, arcing swing, both hands on the grip. Quint grins a feral smile. Always had a good swing.
Quint buries the hatchet deep in the Elite's face. It splits like firewood. He's already dead by the time the Elite keels over, shot through in a dozen places. His hip has stopped aching at last.
The two remaining Elites step back, surprised at the sudden death of one of their own.
"Brother Kerran'ee has fallen." one of them rumbles.
"A good death." the other concludes. He is taller, with a long sloping head-crest and scorched white armour. He will have command now.
"A good death? To be felled by a Human is no death for a warrior!"
"It is not of Brother Kerran'ee's death I speak of," Vtan Arum'ee replies, nodding respectfully at Quint's broken form.
He looks around at the burning wreckage of their downed Phantom. Smoke wafts up from the ruined hull, as the Unggoy crew pull themselves clear from the wreckage.
"Signal for new transport. The Hierarchs were mistaken. There is no glory to be had this day."
High in orbit, the Pelican slips into the shrouded hold of an ONI Prowler, Innocuous Presence. As the ship vanishes into Slipspace, Damien looks up at Black Coat. Black Coat is studying the glinting object Quint had tossed him. He holds his hand out toward Damien, palm upward. In it is a set of dog-tags.
"These belong to you, Damien." the man says.
Gunnery Sergeant Quintus Adams, 25th Infantry Battalion, UNSC Marine Corps, the tags read.
Damien slips them over his neck. He won't cry. He won't allow himself to. His cheeks are red, burning wet with sweat, that's all it is.
He looks up at the man in the Black Coat.
"What do I do now?" he asks quietly.