"Assembling a team of Spartans is a delicate process. While many of the teams were to be allocated distinct combat roles uniquely suited to their individual skill sets - scouting, infiltration, personnel protection - a number of the teams deploying from Laconia were intended for catch-all direct action. A blend of talents, designed to adapt and respond to any given combat situation. These teams were a unique breed, a throwback to the Spartan II program which had preceded them. Inventive, adaptive, and - when necessary - voracious.
That one of these teams would be designated Chimera seemed only appropriate."
/Audio-log transcript from the personal notes of Director Idris K. Carter, as recorded by A.I. designate Kaizen, integrated combat assistant assigned to Laconia Operations (retrieved 2559) /EYES ONLY
They spoke for hours. Damien would lead the conversation, his manner conversational, with more personal questions guided by Rebecca. Eric would interject from time to time, mainly to press on a technical point.
Viktorya for her part sat tremendously still, perched on the edge of her chair. She never lost that animalistic air of pent-up rage, but then that was as much a part of her character as her laser-accurate stare, the type that took in everything and missed nothing. She sat bolt upright, like a startled wolf. Her answers were to the point, terse. They had to tease her story from her, sentence by sentence, word by painstaking word.
Rebecca looked at the girl, noticed the scab marks on her arms from where the cryo-burn had chafed the skin red-raw, and felt a wave of sympathy for her. Here was a person who could have done anything they wanted. An athlete, a leading businesswoman, even a catwalk model, should she have so desired. Like the other Chimera candidates, Viktorya had won the genetic lottery; only the prize had not been riches or fame or any promise of lifelong comfort, but instead abduction and induction into a clandestine military program. Now she was asocial, skittish; notably violent compared to the other candidates. That such a program had been deemed necessary - no, had been proven necessary - spoke volumes about the unforgiving universe they lived in.
At the end of the interview, Viktorya gave her word that she would commit to the program, on one condition.
"This man. The one in the black coat, with the dead eyes. I want to know who he is. Where he is. Any files you have on him, you give to me."
"And when you find what you need to know?" Rebecca asked.
Viktorya didn't blink. Her voice was low, dangerous.
"I'm going to kill him. Slowly. And you will not stop me. On this condition, I will fight for you."
Rebecca grimaced and turned to Eric.
"Your call, Tin Man."
Viktorya's watchful expression was mirrored in the golden, impassive visor.
"We don't train soldiers motivated purely by revenge." Eric said bluntly, "Especially not Spartans. You want to avenge your father? Extra points for drama, but no sell. We're a military operation, not some privileged snot-nosed CAMS detail. You have the potential to become part of the single most effective fighting force in known space, bar none. You want in? Stow the baggage and step up. Join the program, get in line, and I'll see what I can do to help you.
Viktorya bristled in her chair. Eric was still speaking, a gauntleted hand raised to forestall any vitriol.
"When I say we'll look into who this guy is, I mean it. Kaizen is our integrated combat A.I., brought in to monitor and streamline operations on Laconia. She's ONI tech. We've already pulled up what little we have on Operation ARROWHEAD, but that doesn't mean she can't find information elsewhere."
"Elsewhere?" Viktorya echoed vaguely, eyes narrowed.
"I'm not at liberty to say." Kaizen's voice answered through Eric's helmet speakers. The effect was disquieting, until the projector mounted on the side of Eric's helmet fizzled into life and beamed a two inch replica of Kai onto the table. She bowed respectfully. Viktorya stared back at her, expression unreadable.
"And if you find anything?" she asked.
Eric answered this time.
"There will be an investigation. Due process. A hearing, if there's any merit to what you've told us."
"A hearing is not justice."
"And a government-trained super soldier settling scores is? Look at your position, Candidate. Consider it carefully. The powers that be can leave you to rot here in cryo-sleep, or you can have half a shot at finding this man."
"Vee, they'll find the guy. We can't ask for more than that." Damien interjected, "Without their assistance, you'll never find him. It's the best chance you've got. Besides, I could use your help on this - I don't want to go into this alone."
Viktorya studied him for a moment. He held her gaze, blue eyes earnest but determined. After a long pause, she nodded.
"What do you need from me?" she asked Eric.
The Spartan leaned forward, fingers steepled before his visor. The chair beneath him was reinforced steel, but even so, the legs bent slightly under the weight of his armoured bulk.
"We've cleared you for use of the training facilities on the surface. You've got ten weeks to shake the freeze-burn before the program gets underway. The other candidates entering this program will have spent the past three months surviving induction. You'll have to play catch up."
Eric's visor turned toward Damien, "That goes for you too, 451."
"Sir."
"And try to steer clear of the marines on base. There's a lot of bad blood left over from that last stunt you pulled."
The two candidates nodded. Focused, obedient. Rebecca did her best to hide her shock.
"What about the others?" Viktorya asked. "Chidi and Rash? Luke?"
"We'll call for you when we need you." Rebecca assured him.
"Who are you speaking with next?" Damien asked, curious.
"Candidate 492, uh..." she checked her notes, "... Rashid Datar."
"Ah, Rash."
That provoked a frown on Rebecca's part.
"Why 'Rash'?"
Damien managed a half smile, scratching at his jaw.
"We call Rashid 'Rash' because he's cautious by nature. Conservative, deliberating. He's the smartest of us by a hundred light years. Coming out of a hole like Cairo III, he only survived by analysing each and every situation three times over. It can make him slow to trust."
"Rash does not make mistakes." Viktorya agreed.
"Hesitation isn't a good trait to have in a Spartan," Eric growled.
"No, Sir, but if you've ever seen him with a piece of tech in his hands, you'll see his value." Damien shrugged, the gesture expansive because of his sheer size, "Man's a genius, a force multiplier. He's the reason the lights still don't properly function on the third sub level of this facility, six months on."
"That's classified information, Candidate."
"Then I suggest the guards whisper to each other a little quieter, Sir." Damien smiled.
"And Chidinma?" Rebecca asked, taking notes.
"Tougher prospect to win over, but a necessary stepping stone. Chidinma and Rash escaped the fighting on Cairo III together. They've been tight ever since. Chidi's tough - something of an older sister to Rash. I'd start with her. Get her on side? He'll follow out of loyalty, no question."
"And how do we do that?" Rebecca asked.
The candidate turned to the armoured Spartan.
"Got any flight simulators, Sir?" Damien asked.
"There's a training suite for Broadsword pilots over in Hangar Bay Two. Why?"
This time both candidates grinned, wolfishly.
Candidate 483 was the dark-skinned girl Rebecca had seen in the archived footage in Director Carter's office. The one with the glare that could strip paint from a starship. She wasn't as tall as Damien or Viktorya, but at over six and a half feet, her height was considerable. Encased in an armoured Gen II suit, Chidinma would appear taller still.
The cell, large enough for someone of Rebecca's modest height and stature, could have been considered spacious, even roomy. It had not been built with a would-be Spartan in mind.
She sat at the end of her cell, legs folded beneath her in a meditative pose. Her head was smoothly shaven, with only the faintest suggestion of stubble having been allowed to grow back. She held her chin high, regally. Like Viktorya, her frame was that of a gymnast; with a lean corded muscle that favoured lithe grace over bulky mass. Her baleful glare was currently doing its level best at inducing spontaneous human combustion on the part of her captors.
"Why are you with these people, Damien?" Chidinma asked, voice laden with suspicion.
She was of Nigerian extraction, her diction precise and accent melodious. She had smiled warmly at Damien when he arrived, but any warmth had quickly frosted over once Rebecca and Eric had appeared behind him. Viktorya was absent, having been sent to medical to have her thaw-burn treated.
Once Eric stepped into the cell, head bowed low to avoid catching the door frame, Chidinma's spine stiffened and her knuckles tightened, like a rattlesnake poised to strike. She eyed them warily.
"Easy, Chidi," Damien said, approaching her, "Just here to see how you're getting on."
A light frown knitted her brow.
"I am incarcerated in a secret underground military installation, Damien," Chidi replied stiffly, "I have not seen the outside of this cell, much less the open sky, in over six months. How do you think I am 'getting on'?"
Damien settled himself on the bunk beside her, forearms resting on his knees and fingers laced together. The two of them alone were enough to make the cell feel crowded.
"And what if I said that not only could you see the sky again, but that we could get you back in the air?"
Chidi didn't react, not immediately. But even Rebecca, a total stranger to Candidate 483, saw the hungry glint in her eyes. She looked up at the Spartan and the psychologist.
"Can Damien and I have a moment to speak?" she asked.
Rebecca and Erik looked at each other.
"Alone?" Chidi pressed.
Rebecca beckoned to Eric, and the two of them stepped out of the cell. Once the door slid shut, Chidi turned to Damien, her face knitted with a mixture of concern and pity. Her tone softened.
"Damien, these people are not your friends."
Damien glanced at the closed doorway, then back at his friend.
"And what would you have me do, Chidi? Sit in a cell and sit on my hands for the rest of my life? I've been here three years longer than you. You asked me to try and help you and Rash escape, and I did. We tried. We had our shot at getting away and, we blew it. This is Plan B."
"Capitulate wholesale? Damien, that is not a Plan B."
He stood up to his full height, emphasising his augmented physique. He spread arms out wide. In the narrow confines of the cell, his arms were long enough for his fingers to brush either wall.
"Look at us, Chidi. I've broken two of the sparring machines in the Training Room; Viktorya can run a two minute mile and barely break a sweat. When we hit those guards during our escape? They didn't just fall down when we hit them. They broke. We're not exactly normal anymore. Even if we did get away, where would we go?
He laughed, bitterly.
"I mean, where could we possibly hide?"
"I remember Cairo III, Damien," Chidi said in a quiet voice, "I remember what Rashid and I had to go through, to try and escape the war. These men, with their screens and their tests and their injections, they would have us face that war again. That is not something I am eager to do. Not again."
Damien hunkered down on his knees. He rested a hand on her shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"It's not the same war. And you won't have to face it alone, Chidi. You, me, Rash and the others; we'll come through this together. I promise. As far as I can tell, that doctor's genuinely on our side."
Chidi raised an eyebrow, "And the Spartan?"
A conspiratorial smile tugged at Damien's mouth..
"Bit of an arsehole, granted. But you can't win 'em all."
She grinned.
"You know, Damien, you always have a way of cheering me up."
"That's what I'm here for. Now how about we get you back in the saddle?"
"On one condition my friend."
"I think I've used up all the conditions we're allowed."
"A favour then. Consider it my sign-on bonus."
"Name it."
"I want access to a simulator. One with access to the wider base network."
"Ah, bribery. I thought you might resort to that."
"Well?" Chidi arched an eyebrow, amused.
He offered a lop-sided grin in return.
"And it's already taken care of."
Chidi's stepped out of the Entrance Hall's lobby into the open sunlight. She tilted her head back, eyes closed, basking in the warmth upon her skin.
She smiled up at the sky, oblivious to the stares of the guards and administrative staff around her. Spartans were held in high regard, and with good reason. But to see a former prisoner released and given free reign so readily unnerved them. Many of the troopers around base had friends who were still nursing broken bones and cracked ribs. Many fingered their side-arms by reflex.
The others waited for her in a transport LRV, the engine purring as it idled. They watched her as she turned about, arms extended, breathing in the fresh air. Months of stale reprocessed air took their toll on one's disposition. To Chidi, the fresh air, combined with the raw military stink of boot polish and hydroleum was almost intoxicating.
"Why does she want to visit the flight simulators?" Rebecca asked quietly.
"Flying is what Chidi does." Damien answered from the back seat.
Rebecca noticed that the young candidate was squinting more than he otherwise should have been. The morning was bright, true, but not piercing to a point where one needed sunglasses. His augmented eyes were unused to the sharp brightness of the morning light. She noted the artic white pallor of his skin. He kept looking up, staring at birds as they flew overhead. Being outdoors was evidently a novelty to him too.
"She grew up in one of the poorer sections of Cairo III." Damien was saying. He raised a hand up to shield his eyes as they adjusted to the glare. "Lot of slums, tough living. It's an Innie riddled hell-hole, from what little she used to tell us. The only source of entertainment was the local holo-arcade. Started out on vid-games, then graduated to full on simulators. When the Covenant hit in '49, it's how she and Rash got out. Chidi's had a thing for flying ever since."
"Candidate 451's assessment is correct." Kaizen's voice buzzed in Rebecca's com-bead. "Candidate Chidinma has logged an inordinate amount of time on UNSC approved flight simulators. Her test scores are remarkable, for a self-taught pilot."
"So why not send her to a flight school?" The doctor asked. "Why bother with the Spartan program at all?"
"Genetic profiling. Candidate 483's potential was deemed to be more useful in the Laconia Program." Kaizen's voice filtered out through Eric's helmet speakers, "Like all Spartan 4 candidates, individuals have been screened for genetic compatibility within existing acceptable thresholds. Any flight skills will supplement her capacity as a field operator."
The discussion was cut short when Chidi appeared beside them, looking cheerful and invograted.
"I am ready." she smiled.
"Then let's see what you can do, Candidate." Eric replied, reaching for the gear stick.
Hangar Bay 2 was situated on the southern end of the base, immediately beside the expansive runway for space-bound traffic. The area was littered with cargo containers and docked landing craft. All forms of atmospheric craft had settled on the runway: transport loaders, Pelican dropships and Kestrel-pattern VTOLs, bulk haulers and lighter tug vessels. In the distance, processor vanes spun like skeletal windmills.
Overshadowing it all was the cyclopean orbital loading tether, a vast metal structure of concentric rings stretching high up into the upper stretches of the atmosphere; heavily-ribbed and dotted with winking running lights. If the star port was the heart of the Laconia Facility, then the orbital tether was its aorta.
Eric steered the Warthog in, winding between jogging troopers and bustling loading teams. He had to stop to let a Mantis Assault Walker stalk past, its heavy footfalls shaking the pavement. The unit had been tasked with cargo-lifting duties, and retro-fitted with a set of loading claws as required. Its weapons had been cowled with dust covers. Rebecca craned her neck up at it, mouth agape. The thought of having to face such a thing in combat terrified her. The Spartan candidates also looked on in admiration, marvelling at the vehicle's power. To Rebecca, the Mantis provoked a feeling of a horror-filled awe. The candidates in the back seat were mesmerised by it too. It even drew a nod from Eric, out of professional courtesy; from one killer to another.
They disembarked outside the central terminal building, an imposing tower of sunlit glass and polished steel.
As a central hub for transport off-base, the building was a hive of activity. Off duty loader pilots, service personnel and technical engineers hurried to and fro, chattering in excited tones. Even amidst the hustle and bustle, you could spot the flight jocks a mile away. For starters they were one of the few people on base not sporting a high and tight haircut. Their trademark aviator glare-glasses and rolled up flight jackets formed part of an unofficial uniform. That, and the exaggerated swagger they adopted whilst sauntering about the base. There was a thick stink of strong cologne and superiority in the air. More than one of them gave Rebecca a leering, cocky look. The lingering stares got old fast. Rebecca soon decided that the wax-polished floors of building stank more of bullshit than cologne.
Eric led the way, his armoured bulk parting the crowds with its usual trademark subtlety. The fighter jocks even stepped aside, pulling their sunglasses off as the giant strode by. The two towering candidates also drew stares.
They arrived at the Testing Bay. Simulators pods lined the walls; enclosed units, gun-metal grey in colour, which fully encased cadets in an armoured capsule containing an isolated suspended gravity field. All forms of spacecraft could be simulated here, atmospheric and exospheric; ranging from fast attack craft to lightly skinned scouting ships. While the majority of sims would run the test candidates against simulated A.I. opponents, qualified volunteers could step up to provide a more dynamic challenge.
A flight officer intercepted them the moment they stepped out onto the hangar's smooth concrete floor. The pips on his jacket indicated he was a Naval Flight Officer. Nichols, according to his name badge. His nose never left his data pad.
"This deck is cleared for Intermediate and Advanced Training personnel only. You're not supposed to be here." the man called out as he approached, still intently reading his data pad. Rebecca hid a smile. The man had simply heard them coming, and responded by reflex. He hadn't even bothered to look up.
Eric's shadow fell over him.
"Sierra 239 reporting for candidate preparation." his filtered voice managed to be menacing even without inflection, "I have clearance."
The flight officer looked up, eyes bulging. Eric looked down at him.
"Uh, why yes, so you do. A-apologies, Sir. Proceed."
Rebecca offered him a comforting smile and the man rallied somewhat.
"I, uh, I should warn you, Sir. There's a simulation about to take place. Flight Lieutenant Prescott is taking Kite Squadron up for a sortie. Dissimilar Combat Training, with one of the cadet groups. Any volunteers will likely be rolled into the OPFOR side."
"Just tell me where to go." Chidi said, stepping forward. The flight officer looked at her, puzzled.
"He's not flying." Chidi explained boldly, stepping past the man and making for the simulators, "I am."
Chidi plucked a flight helmet from one of the side racks, buckling it on as she clambered up into one of the simulator pods. With a wheeze of steam, the pod's lid closed down around her, effectively sealing her inside. There was a whirr, and the pod rose up on a support rail affixed to the wall. The lambent green occupancy light beneath the pod flicked to an angry red.
Rebecca and the others made their way to an observation platform overlooking the simulator bay. It offered a commanding view of the dozens of simulator pods lining the walls. A holo screen gave a visual representation of what the pilots sitting the examination experienced.
Nestled inside the pod, Chidinma examined her surroundings. The unit had yet to power up, and the instruments lay inert. Suddenly her seat shifted forward, and the controls rolled backward into the front of the pod. Two large handlebars slid forward in their place, the grips canted to either side in a gentle slope. The pod automatically reconfigured itself for the context of the simulation.
Purple Covenant activation runes flashed up before her face.
Chidi smiled, placing her hands on the handle grips. A flick of her thumb brought the rest of the instrumentation online with a pulsing green flash. The handle grips trembled with power, systems ready.
Game on.
"Tighten up, Kite Seven, you're drifting. Watch for solar crosswind."
"Copy, Kite Lead, adjusting."
Ensign Richard Cotter kicked himself as he nursed the stick upward. The pod's simulated gravity trembled realistically. Almost too realistically. He felt the airframe shudder as it cleared the atmosphere. Take-off sequence had been smooth, the hull barely jolting as it settled into the exosphere. The subtle quake made Cotter conscious of the three shock prods nestled against the small of his back. The prods were wired into seat of his flight chair. If he got stung, they would deliver a nasty jolt, even bruising. As good an incentive not to get iced as any. For the third time in as many minutes, Richard went to wipe the sweat from his brow and scowled when his thick flight gloves bumped against the visor of his helmet. Focus, Richie. This was not the time to screw up.
Adding to the sense of pressure was the presence of Wing Commander Loic Laurent. As in Loic "L'Oiseau" Laurent. Loic the Bird; The Shrieking Eagle. Forty-seven career kills, an ace nine times over. Harmony, Reach, Earth; the man's exploits were legendary, his ability and combat record behind a stick unparalleled. That he had been appointed as Senior Flight Instructor to Laconia Academy didn't help matters. The commander was taking a backseat role to Kite Leader, Flight Lieutenant Prescott, more content to observe rather than lead. Prescott's voice had a tense edge to it. Cotter got the feeling he wasn't the only one being monitored here.
The simulation had placed Kite Squadron in the thin stretches of Laconia's upper atmosphere. The planet below them stretched out, a vast whorl of blues and greens, shocked with white cloud cover. Atmospherics were minimal this high up, but still a factor to consider. The void ahead of them was a riot of colour; a rich coiling canvas of twisting purples and autumnal greens. It was peaceful, suspiciously so.
"Alright Kites, stay sharp. We know how this story ends." Prescott's voice crackled over the com. Cotter dialled back his speed a bit, drifting his Broadsword to snuggle high on Kite Six's port wing. He could see Cadet Alexander's helmet in the cockpit, as the pilot reached up and adjusted a dial above her head. Cotter could even make out the stylised orange eagle Alexander had stenciled above her visor. The level of detail the simulator projected was staggering.
Ahead of them, the UNSC Impetuous Decision glided silently above Laconia's surface. Four hundred and seventy eight metres of smoothly polished Titanium-A battle plate, the Stalwart-class vessel looked as though it had been brushed with chrome. In reality the silver tints were hull scarring, its pitted surface a grim memento from the Impetuous' long and storied service record. Its point defence cannons tracked, silently sweeping the stars for lurking threats.
It was just as well, for the Impetuous was about to have a very bad day. In approximately thirty seconds, the SDV Corvette Furious Tirade would revert from Slipspace, disgorging a wave of fighters to try and cut the UNSC frigate apart. Broadsword teams would engage the Furious Tirade's fighter screen, cut through the Tirade's shields and kill the corvette's engines, buying the Impetuous time to effect the jump to Slipspace. That was the plan, anyway.
The Impetuous Tirade, as the simulation's nickname went. A wry comment on the reactions it provoked from the beleaguered candidates who ran the simulation. It was a classic scenario, notorious amongst UNSC cadets for its difficulty. The path to career advancement started here. Candidates would be tested on communication, marksmanship and maneuvering as a cohesive fighting force. Combat scores would reflect their standings within their class group. Their standing in their class group would dictate their pecking order within the squadron. With three early destructions and one particularly disastrous friendly collision under his belt, Richard Cotter badly needed to do well today.
Victory conditions were simple: the Impetuous Decision, laden with wounded fleeing the front lines, was to survive the jump to Slipspace, in accordance with Cole Protocol. Nothing else mattered. It sounded simple, but complicating matters were the sheer number of fighters the simulation threw at prospective candidates. Most of the bandits were light skinned Banshees, nimble but unshielded. They were easy prey to the murderous cannons and robust shields of a Broadsword. The simulation, randomised as it was, also threw in Phantom troop transports and heavier Seraph-pattern strike fighters to keep candidates on their toes. That many of the enemy craft would be piloted by fliers from competing squadrons kept matters interesting.
Kite Squadron comprised three flights of four Broadsword starfighters. After years of strenuous testing, the F-41 Broadsword remained a stalwart servant of the fleet; serving as a space superiority fighter. With a robust shield system and an advanced integrated targeting suite, the Broadsword was solid and dependable. Only the newer Sabre fighter offered comparative maneouverability. Richard's ship, Diamond Tip, was a hefty craft; with a thick central fuselage and a streamlined cockpit. With twin 35 mm cannons and a complement of missiles, the Broadsword was a multi-purpose strike fighter capable of packing serious punch. Like the rest of Kite Squadron, Diamond Tip had been dressed in the olive drab livery standard for a craft of this kind. Richard formed part of Two Flight, under the command of Flight Lieutenant Nichols, a two-tour veteran.
"Energy readings spiking." Nichols reported, voice icy calm. "Brace for Slipspace rupture."
As if on cue the empty void ahead split apart in a pulsing flare of blue light, and something vast and sleekly curved slid through, as silent and deadly as a shark. Without warning or provocation, dozens of small flitting shapes disgorged from the ship's fighter bays. Banshees, recurve wings and oily purple hulls. The Furious Tirade had arrived, and with it, its fighter escort.
"Detecting multiple impulse drive signatures." Kite Two reported, her voice steady. "Incoming hostile fighters; Banshee class."
"Unit count?" Commander Laurent asked mildly, as though asking for a cup of tea.
"I count twenty six."
"Twenty eight, Cadet. Adjust ladar for return bounce off the corvette's hull."
"Sir." Two's voice was tight. Nobody wanted to argue with a legend.
"Kite Squadron, move to engage." Prescott ordered sternly "Keep those fighters off the Impetuous."
Kite Squadron swept up in a loop, coming in low over the Impetuous' hull. The point defence cannons swivelled to face the oncoming fighter screen. The Impetuous rolled about, presenting its nose toward the Tirade, minimising its target profile.
"Impetuous to all Broadswords. We are plotting Slipspace jump coordinates now. Buy us time."
"Alright, Two Flight, this is it." Kite Five, Flight Lieutenant Nichols was saying over the Two-Flight internal com channel. "Sound off and let's get to work."
"Kite Six," Cadet Alice Alexander said, her voice piqued with tension, "Weapons primed."
"Kite Seven," Richard said, his own voice sounding raspy in his ears, "Systems green."
"Kite Eight," Cadet Ernie Campbell was as chirpy as ever, "Hot to trot!"
Twinned dots of blue light marked out each oncoming Banshee. This far out, it was impossible to mark out the iridescent purple of their hulls by eye. The pulse drives dotted the void, like a swarm of livid blue fireflies. There were too many to count. Cotter took a deep breath, his eyes flicking from the weapons display to the ladar scope.
"Four thousand metres, closing."
"Locking targets, brace for contact."
"Three thousand metres." Kite Nine reported. Ashley's voice was rock steady. Cotter wished he had even half her confidence.
Two thousand metres. The target indicator blinked green. There was no such thing as weapon range in a space brawl, but the constraints of the targeting software led to an optimal kill-range. A range the enemy had just entered.
"Light 'em up, Kites."
Richard flicked his weapons over to guns. The targeting reticule blinked red. He squeezed the firing stud.
Hard rounds ripped out toward the oncoming swarm, blistering white flashes against the blackness of space. Three of the oncoming Covenant craft exploded outright, hulls torn asunder as Kite Squadron's cannon fire sliced home. A fourth flew on for a few seconds, before simply peeling apart. Return plasma fire flashed past, spitting and slicing. Shields flared, angry and sparking. Cotter's ship shuddered as a trio of shots lanced across his forward shield.
"Break! Break! Break!"
Kite Squadron's formation exploded out in a chaotic starburst. The two flocks of ships became one angry brawl. Stabbing plasma light glanced by Richard's canopy, and his shields flared. He rolled to port, throwing the Broadsword into a downward spiral. A Banshee shrieked past, another Broadsword hot on its tail. The LADAR scope bleeped incessantly, almost drowned out by the keening of the proximity alarm. Cotter spun about on the drive trails of a twisting Banshee, guns thundering as they ripped it apart.
"Scratch one!" he whooped.
Something hit him from behind. The Broadsword jolted. The shields screen blinked red. Less than half strength. Cotter threw the Broadsword into a scream-dive, spinning through a latticework of plasma fire. There was a Banshee on his tail, hell-bent on tearing him apart. A flick-roll to port and a jolt of the impulse drive brought him up in the opposite direction. Still the Banshee clung on, rocking his Broadsword with another burst of plasma fire.
"This is Seven, I've got one on my tail!"
Kite Eight was the closest.
"Copy Seven. I see you, Richie." Campbell replied.
Campbell triggered his cannons as he rocketed down after the Banshee, his guns spitting. At a target that was no longer there. Ernie Campbell frowned.
"Thanks Eight." Cotter was saying, rolling back into the fight.
"Don't thank me just yet, Seven. I lost him."
"Slipped you?"
"It's gone." Ernie craned his neck over his shoulder, trying to get a visual.
"How could it just disappear?!"
Ernie Campbell's voice was thoroughly spooked.
"I have no idea."
Chidinma's shoulder muscles bunched as she hauled the Banshee up in a shrieking climb. A stroke of her thumb armed the fuel rod launcher. She spun low, diving toward the Impetuous Decision, defiant as she wove through the storm of fire hurtling toward her. She squeezed the firing stud. A thick bolt of green fire blew one of the Impetuous' cannons apart in a thousand pieces of hissing debris. The shrapnel skittered against her hull, rattling the ship. She rolled away as the remaining point cannons tried to catch her in vain.
She was still annoyed at herself for letting the Broadsword get away. If the other one hadn't shown up, she would have already started her tally. Turrets were easy prey, but little sport. It was the pilots she wanted.
The Banshee was a nimble flier, but a delicate one. Lacking a robust shield system beyond a rudimentary hull screen, she had to rely on pure wildcat instinct to avoid the angry bolts of fire thrown up by the UNSC's defence screen. Fortunately the Broadswords were occupied for the moment, all but overwhelmed by the Covie fighters swarming them. They were distracted. That was good. Distracted pilots made mistakes. Distracted pilots died.
Chidi knew the others were watching her performance. She glanced at the mission clock. Ten minutes in. Time to open a proper tally.
Hungry for a kill, Chidi circled back in the direction of the twinned Broadswords she had been chasing earlier, pulse drives flaring.
"This is UNSC Impetuous Decision to all Broadsword units, we need that Corvette taken offline."
"Copy, Impetuous." Prescott said, spinning his Broadsword away from a trio of fighters on his tail. "Two flight, you're up. We'll tie up the fighters, you dice those engines."
"Copy, Kite Leader." Nichols replied smoothly. A burst from his cannons took a Banshee in the wing. It exploded, sending the hapless bandit into a chaotic spin toward the planet below. He opened his com.
"Two Flight, make for the Tirade. Killing its engines is top priority."
Two Flight acknowledged and broke off from the melee. Nichols went to do so as well, intending to pull off a snap roll to starboard. He was still bottoming out his roll when his proximity warning blared. Nichols barely had time to look up. The stray Banshee ploughed straight into him, clean through his shields and into the canopy. The two fighters hurtled off into the void, trailing smoke and venting spurts of compressed air, the broken hulls wrapped together like lovers entwined.
Kite Five vanished from the ladar display.
"Five is gone, I repeat Five is gone!"
Panicked cries played out over the Two Flight com net.
Six Banshees were engaging them. Alone and without Nichols' experienced hand to guide them, Two Flight were being overwhelmed.
"On my six! On my six!" Ernie shouted, snapping his wrist on the stick. The flick-roll saved his life. A torrent of blue plasma fire chopped through the space his ship had occupied seconds earlier. Two Banshees chased after him, vying for the kill. Cotter barrelled down upon them, his cannons taking one apart. The remaining Banshee broke off, its pulse drives trailing flowing purple contrails as it spun away.
Cadet Alice Alexander was the next one splashed.
"I can't get this guy off of me!" she cried. "Shields critical! I need to-"
Plasma shots gutted the undercarriage of Kite Six's Broadsword. Landing gear fused with the fuselage in a smouldering lump. A second and third salvo tore the starboard fins off the Broadsword. The fourth burst cut deep into the hull, igniting the Broadsword's munitions. Alice's Broadsword exploded in a spectacular fireball.
Chindima flew clear of the blast, hunting for her next target.
One down, two to go.
The alien runes on her visual display pulsed an alarmed orange. Instinctively, she rolled to port, as hard rounds skimmed the edge of ship. Even glancing hits tore a jagged gash out of the Banshee's outer skin. She threw full power into boost, blasting forward toward the reassuring bulk of the Furious Tirade.
Cotter sped after her, using his own boost to keep up.
"Where are you going!" Campbell asked. He unleashed a torrent of rockets after his own target. The rockets, angry red, lashed out like a swarm of angry hornets
"That's the Banshee that stung Alice. I'm getting payback!"
"Not without me you're not!"
The Furious Tirade, its engines at full power and uncontested, continued to close the gap toward the Impetuous Decision.
The mission clock read fifteen minutes.
It would be over in less than ten.
High up on the observation platform, Damien marveled at the chaotic speed of the conflict. The complex, twisting turns, the frenzied struggle of pilots who would kill two, three, four enemies, only to be killed themselves a moment later.
Three Flight was down to three craft; Kite Eleven having been boxed in by three enemy fighters and taken apart in a storm of plasma fire that cracked the Broadsword open like an egg. One Flight fared little better, though part of its survival was testament to the skill of its pilots.
None were more skilled than The Shrieking Eagle. The name fit. Commander Laurent had made ten kills, having almost overheated his cannon system. Switching to rockets, he made another two. Watching him was a pleasure in and of itself - the elegant loops that folded into snap-turns and sudden course corrections which threw even the simulated A.I. fighters into a dizzied spin. Yet for all he killed, for every Banshee he ripped apart, a there were always more, more, more. Though he might win a dozen more sorties, Kite Squadron would lose this battle if things continued to deteriorate.
Evidently he knew that too. He broke off from One Flight's desperate defence of the Impetuous, gunning his engines for the beleaguered Two Flight. Two Flight were nestled close to the hull of the Furious Tirade, winding in and out of the lancing plasma fire of the corvette's defence turrets. They had killed the majority of the fighters assaulting them. A single stubborn Banshee remained, which danced and jinked between the curvature of the Furious Tirade. Sometimes the dogged little fighter even rolled through the gaps in the ship's architecture, the larger Broadswords unable to follow.
Damien smiled to himself, exchanging a nod with Rebecca. He knew Chidi's flying when he saw it.
Beside him, Eric scrutinised the display. Pound for pound, the Impetuous couldn't afford to get into a slugging match with the Furious Tirade. For one thing, the Tirade, with its gentle sloping lines and external buttress, was fully double the length of the Impetuous, and had twice the armament. The fighter screen was another matter, however. The Impetuous rolled into the fighter swarm, weapons primed. Mounted guns licked out in sheets of flame. Banshees screamed as they died, torn apart by the deluge. One of the Broadswords strayed into the path of the friendly guns, its shields buckling. The Broadsword twisted away, trailing smoke but still flight-capable. Observing instructors noted the mistake, charting it silently.
More fighters began pouring in from Slipspace. Larger pulse drive signatures.
"New signature reading on scope. Second wave incoming!"
"Seraph fighters!" one of the cadets of Three Flight panicked.
Commander Laurent ignored them. He held thumb down on the ignition thrust, hurtling toward the Furious Tirade.
To where two candidates were having a very rough time altogether.
Cotter swore as a burst of plasma fire singed his starboard shield, leaving oily scorch marks across the wing. He peeled off from his pursuit, weaving to duck under a second burst. The Furious Tirade's guns had his scent, but that wasn't the main problem. Every time he went to make a run on the Tirade's engines, the damned Banshee would reappear, flitting out from the shadow of the Tirade's hull and driving him off course with needling bolts of plasma.
"Kite Seven, Kite Eight, this is Commander Laurent. Head for the engines, I have your back."
"Ten four, Commander." Campbell replied, rolling to port. The baleful orange glow of the Furious' engines burned bright in his canopy. He flicked over to missiles. The tracking system started beeping.
"Weapons primed."
The targeting display began to keen. Red-reticule. The system beeped twice.
"Target locked." He reported. "Firing."
Proximity warning. How was that possible? There hadn't even been a warning indicator. Campbell didn't even have time to blink. The fuel rod missile caught him square in the nose, blowing the front of the craft back out via the engines. Kite Eight detonated like a SHIVA warhead: with a nuclear flash he detonated.
"Campbell's gone!" Cotter shrilled.
"Focus, Kite Seven!" Laurent snapped, swooping in on the direction the missile had come. "Take out those engines, or we lose everything!"
Privately Laurent was curious. That missile shot had been blind fire. A fluke, surely. Or had it? Simulated opponents didn't do that. Which meant that whoever was in that Banshee was either very lucky, or had considerable talent. For the first time since the mission began, Laurent's interest was piqued. For the first time in almost three years, his pulse quickened at the prospect of a worthy challenge.
The Banshee was circling around the Tirade's hull, hoping to line up a second kill shot, this time on Kite Seven. Laurent swooped after it, the rangefinder closing. He banked the Broadsword up on its port wing, neatly side-slipping a salvo from the Tirade's turrets. The Banshee flitted in between the main superstructure and between one of the external support fins. Undaunted, Laurent shot through the gap, readying his cannons.
The Banshee was gone.
Almost three decades of combat experience made him jerk the Broadsword into a flick-roll at the last second. The canopy instrumentation flared a luminous green as the fuel rod missile screamed past. The Banshee flew down at him, plasma emitters spitting. Laurent smiled tightly, spinning his Broadsword out of the way and blasting the engines up to full power.
The Banshee had rolled upward and let him fly under. It had been luring him.
So it was skill then, not luck. Laurent watched as his shields restored, then rolled out of a thrusting dive. That was the thing about skill. It could only get you so far. You either had it or you didn't. Some of the greatest pilots Laurent had ever flown with had been better than him, in some cases appreciably so. It was luck, or rather the lack of it, which meant that Laurent was here instead of them. Skill and luck: you needed both, in generous yet equal measure. Laurent lined up the elusive Banshee in his gun sights. Luck was a precious commodity, with a very particular catch.
It could run out at any time.
Cotter's targeting computer pinged. He squeezed the firing stud. A blitz of crimson rockets jetted out, arcing in toward the Furious Tirade. The external port engine detonated with explosive fury. His ship rocked as the venting fuel debris toasted his shields. Cotter flipped over to guns and raked fire into the engine beside it. That too exploded. The Furious Tirade began to list drunkenly on one side, venting plasma fire into the void.
Cotter broke off, his shields shimmering from the residual heat wash flaring off the Tirade's engines. New missiles slid into the Broadsword's launch bays. The weapon status light winked green.
"Kite Lead this is Kite Seven. I've hit two of the engines, coming in for second attack run."
"Acknowledged with thanks, Seven." Prescott's voice was distracted, "Good hunting."
Chidi swore violently as she threw the Banshee into yet another demented barrel roll. Cannon fire chased her every inch of the way. This guy was everywhere. Any turn she tried, he guessed it, any dive she flung herself into, he followed. The man might as well have been glued to the back of her Banshee.
But he still hadn't hit her. Not yet. Chidi's reflexes and reaction time gave her an edge, one she intended to exploit. In the corner of her eye, she could see the second Broadsword lining up to make a final run on the Furious. Two of the engines were all that were keeping the corvette in the fight. Without them, the Impetuous would be able to complete the simulation, and jump to Slipspace.
Chidi bit her lip, concentrating on avoiding the scything fire her pursuer was throwing up at her. Her nemesis was faster, quicker, more experienced. He was going to get her. She knew that. It was only a matter of time.
She looked at the Broadsword swooping in toward the Tirade. Then she looked back at the rear scope, to the view of the Broadsword bearing down on her six.
That's when she had an idea. She thumbed the boost, throwing full power to the engines.
All the while, she was grinning.
The target indicator issued a steady beeping sound as it slowly locked on. It was taking too damn long. The plasma discharge from the ruptured engines was playing havoc with Cotter's targeting system. Finally, the system issued a keening tone, and the HUD glared an angry red.
"Fire resolution plotted. Firing."
He reached for the trigger.
Then the star field went black.
Cotter yelped as the shock pods in his seat buzzed him.
The simulation pod's seal popped with an exhale of released air. With a whirring clank, the servos settled the pod back on the metal deck. Blinking, Cotter unbuckled his restraints and doffed his helmet, utterly confused. He stood out of the pot, sliding down the ladder, and making for the observation room. He leaned heavily on the guard rail, rubbing his lower back. His feet were drowsy and sluggish after the shock-jolt.
An alarming number of Kite Squadron awaited him. Dominating the room was an armoured giant, along with a slightly shorter man, who also happened to be built far too tall. Both were too busy studying the display to pay the pilots any heed.
Ernie Campbell clapped him on the shoulder, his generous mouth grinning ear to ear.
"Tough break, Richie."
"What got me?"
"I did." a woman's voice answered.
Cotter turned around, then had to look up. The dark-skinned woman towered over him, her regal eyes tinged with amusement. She set her flight helmet back on the rack.
"And who got you?"
"Who else?" Cadet Alexander said. "Laurent did."
"You know in real life, the Impetuous survived." A French-accented voice replied.
They all turned around. Loic Laurent was striking for his lack of height, more than anything else. The man barely came up to Cotter's shoulder. Well groomed, his goatee was neatly trimmed, but did little to cover the puckered scar tissue which tugged at the corner of his mouth. His hand had a slight palsied shake to it. PTSD was a common sight amongst long time veterans. Commander Laurent regarded the Spartan candidate solemnly.
"You detonated your fuel core, disabling my Broadsword. I was unable to recover my systems in time to avoid the Tirade's cannon fire. It has been a long time since such a trick has worked on me. A long time indeed. Well done."
He bowed politely, before making for the exit.
"You fly well, Cadet. I expect we will see great things from you in the future."
Chindima smiled despite herself, trying to ignore the envious stares of the assembled flight cadets.
The Impetuous moved into position, presenting its starboard flank toward the Furious Tirade. Cannon fire licked out in angry sheets of fire. A Banshee flew straight into the deluge and got ripped apart in a flaring comet of sizzling debris. Swarms of missile pods flitted between the two vessels. Plasma fire lanced deep into the frigate. Deep gouging trenches were chopped into the Impetuous flank. This was ship to ship naval combat at its very bitter worst.
"Watch those cannons, Kites." Prescott warned to the remaining Broadswords. There were fewer than five of them left. "Enough bandits up here as it is without killing each other."
Not that it mattered. The Tirade drifted into the kill position, its fighter screen keeping the few remaining Broadswords hopelessly tied up. One by one, surrounded on all sides by storms of Banshee and Seraph-pattern strike fighters, the surviving members of Kite Squadron began to fall. Prescott was the last to go, his Broadsword trailing flame as it hammered into the hull of the Impetuous. The ship was already alight in several sections by then.
Twenty four minutes into the simulation, its fighter escort annihilated, its engine core under concerted plasma bombardment, the UNSC Frigate Impetuous Decision was lost with all hands. No survivors.
Prescott was livid. Two Flight in particular were chastised for losing tactical control of the situation the moment Nichols' bird went down. There would be months of extra training details, focusing on squad orientation and unit discipline before the Impetuous Tirade scenario would even be attempted again.
The pilots filed out of the observation deck, spirits low, fearful of the verbal tongue-lashing awaiting them.
After they had departed, only the two Chimera candidates, the Spartan and the doctor remained.
"You destroyed yourself to achieve the objective." Eric noted with approval.
"I had no choice. Commander Laurent was the better pilot."
"Commander Laurent's record is well documented. A fundamental part of being a Spartan is making difficult decisions in the face of overwhelming odds. A lesson it seems you have already learned, Candidate."
"Praise, coming from the Tin Man?" Rebecca arched an eyebrow. "Brace yourselves: the world may be about to end."
"I give credit where it's due, Doctor." The Spartan's visor turned back toward Chidi, "You'll train with Kite Squadron going forward. Once a week, in addition to any training required of you as part of the Spartan Program. This is on the condition that your abilities you develop in the air must not be at the expense of your skillset on the ground. Understood?"
"Sir." Chidi snapped a salute. Eric returned it smartly.
"Excellent. Kaizen will make the necessary arrangements. Dismissed."
Eric occupied himself by studying the scenario's test data. Chidinma walked over to Damien and Rebecca, looking almost chirpy.
"You made a right show of them, Chidi." he grinned.
"Where did you learn to fly like that, Chidinma?" Rebecca asked, making notes on her data pad.
That brought the light right out of Chidi's face. Rebecca regretted asking almost immediately.
"I do not wish to speak about it."
"I understand, and… I'm sorry. Chidi."
"May I go back to my cell now?"
"You may not. You've been assigned a bunk in the main Spartan barracks, Subsection Zero-Three. Kaizen will provide directions."
The candidate nodded, then followed the guidance lights Kaizen had activated along the wall. Rebecca looked helplessly at Damien.
"You won't get that story out of her, Doctor Pearson. Not yet." Damien looked apologetic. "It takes time for her to trust. My apologies, I should have told you that."
"No problem. I imagine we should start on the next candidate. Candidate 492?"
"Ah, yes. Rash. That should be interesting."
"Interesting?"
"It's Rash. Things are always interesting when Rash is involved."