"Combat stresses are inevitable. The majority of Chimera have some form of documented PTSD from early childhood. We've tried to counter it; subliminal hypnotherapy, repeated high-end mental resistance training and regular psychiatric review, but in the end a lot of it comes down to the individual.
Spartans are different to us. It may sound difficult to believe that now, having spent so much time observing them, getting to know them, as I have. But there's no denying it. The candidates chosen for the Spartan IV Program are remarkable. There's a timbre there; a resilience unmatched by anything I've ever seen. They say Olympic athletes are born with an innate ability to transcend the pain barrier, to master it and put paid to its damning limitations. I suspect Spartans are drawn from the same pool of limitless resolve.
But Chimera I worry about. Tenacious and driven, yes. Gifted? Certainly. But there's a price for that brilliance. When they make landfall on Granica I am left to wonder: will they prove themselves in the field, as they have done, time and simulated time again?
Or will they break?"
Personal notes of Dr. R. Pearson, civilian specialist appended to the Spartan posting on UNSC Frigate Carpathia (notes digitally intercepted by UNSC AI designate KZN, April 2557)
"Two minutes to reversion."
The atmosphere on the bridge crew cinched tight with breathless anticipation. It was always this way before a reversion. In the past, it often meant an oncoming brush with death; a violent encounter with a fleet of technologically superior alien fanatics. Times were different now. The Carpathia had been refitted with a plethora of shield upgrades, hull reinforcements and superior weapon systems. Like any post-war UNSC vessel, the ship could stand its own in a stand-up space-brawl. But still, memories remained. So too did the tension.
There was a gentle warbling tone, and the ship-wide PA came to life.
"All hands, prepare for Slipspace reversion. ETA, one minute."
Bridge crew sat primed at their stations, fingers hovering over their control consoles. Captain Reade stood high up on the central command dais, one hand resting on the guard rail. A sifting aura of cloud data shimmered around her, thrown up by the holo-projection suite. Reports on local conditions swam overhead, like schools of pilot fish, ready to refresh and update from a single flick of her hand. Their intel prior to entering Slipspace was almost a month old. A liquid situation, as General Stape had put it. Potentially poisonous liquid, in Reade's opinion. Nevertheless, any worries she pushed aside. Sharp reflexes could mean the difference between life and death.
General Stape stood behind her now, ready to issue orders to the dispersal teams. Spartan 239 lurked by his side; an impassive armoured shadow. The briefing had been odd for Reade. Having a seasoned ground pounder call the shots was not something she was used to. But this was a Joint Strike Operation, and FLEETCOM's chain of command was clear. Shipboard matters remained her specialty, however. For now, the old man was silent, content to let Captain Reade to run her ship. That was good.
After all, she ran it well.
"All stations; Precautionary Alert: Status Indigo. Weapons, I want you online. Shields too. Eyes sharp and stay focused."
"Aye Captain." a chorus of voices replied.
Lieutenant Lamar, the ship's navigator, was hunched over his console, studying the countdown timer with the utmost concentration. Sweat beaded the hairline beneath his stark widow's peak.
"Reversion in five, four, three, two -" Captain Reade's knuckles whitened on the hand rail, "- one-"
With a shuddering lurch the star field flared into a climactic wall of light, before resolving itself into the tranquil hush of the Granica System. The planet rose up beneath them, filling the lower half of the display like a luminous blanket; a tapestry of verdant greens, deep-sea blues; stark whites and rusted orange. Frothy cloud jacketed the surface of the planet. The system's star flashed up amber-gold over the horizon of the planet's curvature: a first class sunrise on a truly galactic scale.
The targeted jump had brought them into the upper atmosphere of Granica V, some 200 kilometres from the border of the Granica System's Interstellar Jump Point.
"Navigation, report."
"We're at the edge of the Granica ISJ, Ma'am. Report just came in from Engineering: all systems nominal."
Captain Reade nodded once, coolly satisfied. Not bad, as Slipspace jumps went.
"Sensors, any activity?"
"No active threats, Ma'am. Detecting multiple orbital freighters around Tethers One and Two, but nothing unusual. Cargo haulers, varying patterns; three large scale civilian transport vessels, and standard administration craft - tug boats, mainly. It looks like the majority of orbital traffic has already skipped town."
"Noted, monitor it and get me a report on previous ship activity. Where they came from, likely destinations. And keep an eye on those that stayed. I don't want anyone else leaving the system without me knowing about it first."
"Understood, Captain."
Reade turned to the young looking crew member stationed at the dwarfing bank of com-monitors; a listening set perched on her ears.
"Ensign Bakar, any hails from the planet?"
The petite coms officer peeled one ear-piece away from her ear and shook her head, ponytail bobbing.
"None, Captain. Detecting a standard distress beacon, but it's a standard colonial EPIDB signal. Pre-war tech from the looks of it."
"Not exactly Cole Protocol but still, it got us here. Give me a handle on time dilation."
Bakar's delicate nose wrinkled as she studied the transmission logs.
"Based on time stamps transmitted from Tether Two; three week transit time, just over month local, Captain."
"About as fast as we could have hoped. Weapons, Shields: are we online."
"Green on all fronts, Captain." That was Palermo, the senior munitions officer, "Weapons primed and fit to shine."
Captain Reade stepped forward to the command port; spine erect, her chin held high. She couldn't have asked for a better crew. Her eyes took in the planet beneath her.
"Outstanding, gentlemen. Take us closer."
The ChatterNet was an infinite ocean, a sea of endless data. Kaizen took to it like a dolphin plunging back into the surf, immersing herself in its rippling waves, coursing eddies and surging currents. She took to it as a thirsty man takes to fresh water, scooping it up and splashing it over her face. Guzzling it greedily, until her archives bulged and her skin pulsed with digital bliss. She gorged herself on the information.
The intel came to her; instant, faster than a blink. Faster than thought. Social networking messages, panicked local announcements, grainy time-stamped aerial footage fed from vid-drones transmitted by local news networks. All channels, all sources, all access; processed instantly and filed for mission logs. Riots in Victory Square. Tear gas and armoured police barricades across the capital city; Argjend. Blink-switch, next data-source. Situation reports, emergency announcements, direct combat feed from shaky helmet cams; roared orders and panicked screams. Stitching gunfire, crumbling masonry, oily palls of drifting smoke.
She surfaced. Blinked her eyes to clear her vision. Breathless, she emerged.
She fizzled into life on the holo-pedestal nestled by the captain's command table.
"Captain Reade, General Stape."
Both humans turned to look down at her. For a moment she resented them, the way they looked down at her. Like a data pad. To Reade, just another subordinate, a com-buoy, to be relied on for hard nav-data and little else. To Stape, just another tool; another weapon to give him an edge in a dirt-brawl: a hand grenade, an extra magazine, a blunt-edged entrenchment tool, narrowly within grasping distance. She saw the way they looked at her, used her, and hated them for it.
She banished the thoughts instantly. Being subsumed in the angry throes beamed from the local ChatterNet had infused her with the rampaging emotion pulsing out from the data-stream of the conflict-torn planet. She closed her eyes, purging her memory banks of the unnecessary feedback noise. Serenity restored itself. She shut her eyes, her expression serene. That was the path to Rampancy. That way madness lied.
Kaizen recovered. The process took less than a heartbeat. The humans still looked at her, and she saw their expression for what it was. Professional focus, mingled with expectation. That was better. She made her report.
"Sir, the capital is secure. Argjend still holds. Public order is maintained by martial law."
"Then what is it?" Stape asked, scowling. He's in the middle of coordinating a large scale troop deployment. Her interference is an unwelcome distraction. She looked up at him, meeting his gaze from her tiny place down upon the pedestal. He needed to here this.
"It's New Cadiz, Sir."
She blinked, icy calm now. She regarded the two humans openly. On the main monitor, she flipped on an image of torched Warthog. Lynched bodies turned in the air above it, suspended from a broken street lamp.
"The city burns."
In the armoury, Chimera made ready for war.
Damien clipped a series of ammo pouches around his waist, giving the gear a shake test. The planet was human colony, which meant provisions would be secondary. Survival needs could be scavenged on the ground. That prioritised ammunition, disposable weaponry. By their very nature, Spartans were a quick deployment strike force; in and out. The conventional forces, Army and Marines alike, could hold the real estate once the fighting was done. The simple water canteen on his belt sloshed as he clipped it around his waist. The Spartan frowned, quickly exchanging it for a full one. It wouldn't do to have his position revealed by such a simple oversight.
Damien prepped accordingly. The Spartan mag-bolted a MA5 Assault Rifle to the back of his armour. Synth-scales hardened with a smooth click as the suit provided a robust magnetic adhesive between the skin of the suit and the brushed chrome finish of the bullpup weapon. He pulled a BR-85 down from a weapon rack, pulling the charge handle, inspecting the weapon's ejection port for any blockages. He lined the weapon up, nestling the rifle against his faceplate. The VISR system auto-zoomed via the transmission chip in the rifle's scope. While the scope itself worked perfectly well to the naked eye, the VISR interface cleaned and light-enhanced the image shown; offering infrared, heat-tracking, even a mild target tracking capability.
The rest of Chimera followed suit, immersed in their own private rituals.
The initial emergency script piping out of the Granica System had been a general wideband distress call. Knee-jerk, reactionary. Anything could be going on down there; which meant they prepped for anything.
Rashid was picking his way over the heavier weapons, entirely undecided. He had a natural preference for the M6 Grindel; the so-called Spartan Laser, but initial reports mentioned marauding groups of untrained rebels; unfocused and ill-disciplined. He set it back on the rack, the weapon auto-folding into its inert shape as soon as he set it down.
"Try this." Luke suggested, tossing him what appeared to be sealed packing crate. "Magnetic Accelerator Rifle. Loads of fun."
Rashid turned it over in his hands, examining it as one would a fine bottle of wine. The weapon unfolded and snapped ready.
"Curious."
Luke just shook his head, a laugh emanating from behind his heavy faceplate. He clapped Rashid on the shoulder. "Just bring it with you, Rash. Trust me."
Damien caught a red reflection in the smooth steel of the armoury's weapon rack. Eric had materialised behind him, as silently unnerving as a lurking shark.
"Damien, a word."
"Sir." Damien stepped away from the others. They stood at the far end of the prep room, beyond earshot.
"You'll be heading in with the ground teams. Initial scans are coming in from the bridge. New Cadiz is a mess. Expect heavy resistance.
Eric folded his arms across his breastplate.
"A parting word of advice. I meant what I said on Laconia. You're ready for this. When you're down there, don't lose sight of the basics. Remember your strengths. It's not your Gen 2, it's not your weapon systems, and it's not your shield system. Creativity is Chimera's single defining strength. The best team leaders I've ever followed had the same natural ability; they knew how to react to circumstances; responding and adapting as required."
Eric's voice became low, a confiding tone, a private rasp full of conviction.
"Listen to your Spartans. Follow your instincts. Keep your head. Most importantly, bring your Spartans back alive - I don't need any more deaths on my conscience."
"We won't let you down, Sir." Damien nodded earnestly, his confidence clear even through the filtered helmet.
"I'm sure you won't, Spartan. Fight well."
Eric stepped back out into the corridor. Damien took a half-step after him.
"Sir, another thing."
Eric turned to look at him. The gold-slit visor regarded the younger Spartan carefully.
"Shoot."
"I wanted to thank you, Sir. For sticking up for us back on Laconia. For giving us this opportunity."
Eric waved Damien's comments away with an emphatic shake of his head.
"You won this opportunity by your own merits, Chimera One." the veteran growled, "Now all you have to do is take it."
With that the door hissed shut, leaving Damien alone with his thoughts.
Across the chamber, Viktorya hefted a rocket launcher, examining it under the spot lamps. She admired its raw destructive power. Luke looked over at her, his MA5 and under-slung grenade launcher looking decidedly civilised by comparison.
"Subtle, Vee. Real subtle."
"'Always outnumbered, never outgunned.'" Viktorya quoted brusquely, setting the launcher back on the prep table and turning her attention to the next auto-folding weapon rack. It hosted a gleaming array of combat knifes, each one glistening from the luminescent lighting strips topping the chamber's walls. She took three of them down, selecting them with a practiced eye and sliding them smoothly into different places on her combat webbing; one on the wrist, one on the ankle, another hidden away at the small of her back. Father had taught her well.
Luke looked over to where Chidinma was loading shells into a shotgun. Her helmet lay on the bench next to her, and she hummed to herself peacefully; a lilting, haunting melody. Strapped to her back was an anti-material rifle. He only barely noticed that her hand was shaking, ever so slightly.
Finally, he saw himself, reflected in the full-height mirror affixed to the end of the chamber. Head to toe Warrior Pattern Mjolnir, gun-metal grey, laden down with enough weaponry to smash an army. Or level a city.
"Yeah, well... here's hoping." Luke muttered.
Kaizen had been right.
For the first two weeks of the uprising, New Cadiz had burned. Police stations had their windows burst inward, as Molotov cocktails were hurled through with snarled yells. The glass exploded in a rolling whoosh of heat and tinkling shrapnel. Pebbled shards littered the street, and crunched underfoot as the mob swept on, chanting slogans and waving banners. There was no time for martial law, no time to even blink and restore order. A resounding series of detonations rocked the foundations of the city. The night air was alive with car alarms, bleating and shrill; an angry cacophony.
Then the purges. As order collapsed, so too did any semblance of moral behaviour. UNSC sympathisers were set upon by the marauding crowds; men, women and children pulled from their homes and put to the wall. Rivalries came to the fore, with personal vendettas between citizens being settled in the most primitive, final way. Crimes – transgressions both real and imagined - were blamed on those unfortunate enough to get caught in the cross fire. By the third day of the revolution, a dozen small plumes of fire rose up into the morning air.
Those who knew better hid in their homes, locking the doors and sealing them tight. They cowered in their bathrooms, hoping against hope that that fateful knock would never come, that tramping boots would not drag them shrieking from their homes. Those who knew better kept to themselves, stockpiling their meagre supplies and sure of only one thing: this was only the beginning.
It proved a testament to the widespread nature of the unrest that only the United Liberation Front proved to be the only ones capable of restoring order. They quelled the riots order in a manner far more brutal than any UNSC crackdown could.
A smoke grenade here, a volley of .50 calibre gunfire there. Their gunmen rattled down the street in heavy agri-jeeps, or sped by in crudely customised open-top technicals. Red streamers whipped in the wind behind them, revolutionary ribbons declaring their open allegiance to the spreading insurgency. Thump metal blared out of speaker systems. The rap was harsh, guttural, savagely seductive. Children ran in their wake, oblivious to the broken bodies strewn in the gutters, heedless of the broken water mains and cracked sewers, which pooled across the street, filling the air with a savage, mutinous stink.
The rebels themselves were cocksure and exuded an air of raw aggression. Bulging arms were exposed, glistening with sweat. Steely jaws hid behind jutting jaws and mirrored sunshades. These were young men high on the purest drug of all: war. They obscured their faces behind crude respirator masks, mining visors and bulbous dust-goggles, their heads either shaved raw or dangling down in ragged braids. Only a select few within the mob hinted at an underlying organisation; the ones with military grade hardware and tattoos speaking of a more fanatical allegiance. They fed the chaos, whipping the rioters into frenzy; unnoticed amidst the churning crowds. Their malign presence within the city would not become apparent until later.
The result of uprising was inevitable. Over the weeks following the initial outbreak of violence, the moderate elements of the populace fled the city in droves. Orbital scans showed large roving worm-like patterns growing out from the city. Investigatory satellite magnification revealed these shapes to be massive convoys of people. Those who could not afford transport, or indeed had their transport stolen from them, took to the eastern roads on their own two feet, with little more than the few possessions they could carry. The nearest settlement was some 150 km south of New Cadiz, a small dust-choked watering hole by the name of New Perth. Many would not live to see it. The sun high above showed them little mercy, and thousands would die of exposure in the coming weeks.
Pitiless and cruel, it marked the beginning of the single largest humanitarian crisis the planet had ever seen in its short, innocent history.
It must be said that the UEG were not idle during this time. While direct military intervention in New Cadiz was deemed impossible in the short term, given the scale of the fighting, relief checkpoints were prepped at intervals along the I-79, the principal highway leading in from the southern wasteland. The crowds overwhelmed them; descending upon them with slapping feet red-raw from the punishing trek. That many in the crowd were insurrectionist sympathisers did little to help matters. By the time the third suicide bomb had been detonated at a UNSC relief post, the decision was taken to abort direct relief efforts, and instead simply air drop relief materials into the wasteland. Naturally, the vast bulk of these supplies - water, basic tents, and medical supplies - were scooped up by United Liberation Front scout teams, operating out in the desert on long range dune buggies and custom-converted technicals.
The rebels brought the looted goods back to New Cadiz, where - deprived of the more moderate elements of the population, lean and hungry - the city began to prepare itself, priming itself for a war that was sure to follow.
And follow it did.
Chimera tramped along the metal gangway, keeping their heads bowed to avoid banging their helmets against the low-hanging ceiling alcoves. The drop bay formed part of the skeletal underbelly of the Carpathia; a narrow walkway bracketed on either side by sealed doorways lining the bulkhead. Each doorway was a drop-pod, and each drop-pod was empty. They awaited their armoured cargo like yawning mouths, hungry and open; waiting to entomb their human cargo.
Filing along behind Chimera were the impassively armoured members of the Royal 22 Commando. Though scarcely above chest height on Damien, the Special Forces troopers made for an impressive sight, clad as they were in polarised silver visors and slope-backed Type-B Air Assault Pattern helmets. They took their assigned places, trading backslaps and words of encouragement; their parting jokes rendered strange by the voice filters of their helmets. They stowed their weapons with a no-nonsense attitude borne from years of experience.
Viktorya clambered into the first pod without complaint. Chidinma and Luke did likewise. Rashid paused for a moment, dithering in the doorway. Damien clapped him on the back.
"Relax, Rash, it'll be fine."
"Have you read the specs on these things, One?" Rashid countered.
"I have. And have you run the simulations, Four?"
"Of course I have. Dozens of times. You were there with me."
"Then you know there's nothing to be worried about." Damien gave him a hearty slap on the back. "Up and at 'em, Four."
Rashid's grumbles were drowned out by the hissing rush of the descending blast door. Damien took one last look back up the red-lit corridor. Bar two techs double checking the pressure seal of each pod at the far end of the drop bay, the rest of the assault crew had loaded up. In the hangar, a half dozen armoured units would be similarly prepared.
Damien stowed his BR-85 in the side clamp, but kept the MA5 in his hands. He'd want a high rate of fire the second they kissed dirt.
He turned around and stepped back into the pod, pulling the restraint clamp down over his shoulders. They clicked tight as they sealed around the armour, the torso bracket auto-adjusting to accommodate the bulk of his Gen2 armour. Then the blast door descended with an industrial whirr, clacking shut. There was a rubberised squeal as pressure clamps sucked tight.
"All pods sealed and primed." a tech's voice clipped over the deck-band.
"Chimera, status."
Four green lights answered him.
"One, this if Four; that's a green light by technicality More specifically: I feel like throwing up."
"Noted Four. Try your best to swallow it. Now clear the channel; orders coming through."
Something unseen jolted, and the slid pod backward. There was a hydraulic whirr as the pod shuddered in its prep-tube, its angle shifting. The view out the narrow viewport tilted back, obscuring the view of the bay's gantry corridor. Adjusting exit vector, prepping trajectory. With a final clank, the pod settled into place, primed to launch.
Damien rested the back of his helmet against the cushioned padding of the headrest, his breathing controlled, measured. Even so, locked there in the drop-pod, he became aware of how utterly helpless he was. His heart hammered against his ribs; an industrial jack-hammer. Rashid had been right: doing this for real felt very different. Inches beneath his feet was cold, hard vacuum, burning atmosphere. A civil war in full, savage swing. Every fibre in his augmented frame tensed, braced for combat. Pupils became pinpricks. Adrenaline coursed through his veins; surging liquid power, priming him for combat. Tense as he was, he felt monstrously alive.
Spartans do not experience fear. With mechanical professionalism, he took in the instrumentation. It matched the layout of the simulated pods they'd trained in time and time again. Twinned attitude adjustment levers, with triggers controlling the thrust dispersal lining the Drop Pod's outer skin. They were inert in his hands as he gripped them. The initial launch sequence was automated, in order to prevent potentially fatal launch collisions. Full control would not come into effect until he was halfway to dirt-side.
Inset into the centre of the display was a topographical overview of the pre-programmed drop zone. It depicted an open clearing south of New Cadiz; a wide expanse overlooked by the central highway, I-79. The highway sloped down a shallow incline leading into the city, narrowing significantly as it waded into the clustered worker housing which defined much of the southern expanse.
Kaizen's voice filled his helmet, her briefing accompanied by a panning overview of the city's southern highway. Mortar fire had peppered the asphalt with slapdash patches of smouldering craters. It resembled the surface of the moon, or acne scarred flesh. Palls of gun smoke drifted over the city, a wafting smog of cordite.
"Orbital scans show increased combat activity levels along the I-79, a principal arterial route feeding into New Cadiz. Combined elements from the 325th Airborne and 12th Armoured Division have attempted to retake the city. Their convoy is bogged down in the outer suburbs, and requesting immediate assistance from any available UNSC forces."
The map display shifted to direct video feed. Closer down now. Some kind of hull-cam from a sub-atmospheric drone. It was a mess. Coils of oil-black smoke wrinkled the sky, twisting in the morning wind. A motorcade pierced the southern belly of the city, fully a kilometre long; machines of all sizes and specification. The head of the convoy was alight. Tracer fire whickered in from the streets, the adjoining alleys, countless small windows. Hundreds of insurgents swamped the rooftops, churning heat-blurs thrown up by the Carpathia's orbital scans.
Damien reached up and touched the transmit button on the drop-pods control dash.
"Sir, Chimera will take it. Request permission to secure the convoy and provide direct assistance."
Up on the bridge, Eric and Stape exchanged a look. Stape regarded the impassive Spartan steadily, his rheumy eyes unblinking.
"239, you're the ranking Spartan. Additional armoured support may be some time. It's your call."
Eric studied the map through his golden visor; watched the friendly IFF tags being swarmed on all sides by hostile OPFOR markers. The Rangers were presently outnumbered five to one. Further hostile contacts were streaming in toward the flashpoint, like blood cells swarming to a healing wound.
A drastic situation, demanding a drastic response.
Eric nodded once.
"Put 'em in."