"We've arranged a civilization in which most crucial elements profoundly depend on science and technology. We have also arranged things so that almost no one understands science and technology. This is a prescription for disaster. We might get away with it for a while, but sooner or later this combustible mixture of ignorance and power is going to blow up in our faces".
- Carl Sagan, 20th century astronomer, astrophysicist
High in the sky above New Cadiz, the burning mid-morning sun had settled to a cloudy late afternoon haze. It hung in the sky; a sickly swollen orange. Caught in the shadow of Orbital Two, the light in the broken lobby had filtered through the shattered window frames of the atrium. Shards of glass twinkled in the murky gloom.
The air stank of cordite and burnt flesh. Red contacts were festering on the furthest edges of the Spartans' sensor array, but the Insurrectionists held position for now, content to lick their wounds and swell in numbers. Orbital scans in the corner of Damien's HUD showed them occupying overwatch positions around the tower. Damien had little doubt they were preparing for a retaliatory push.
Chimera regrouped on the ground floor, by the elevators. There was little time.
The doors had been prised open. There were groove marks where Damien's fingers had shunted the squealing metal apart. Damien leaned over the edge and peered down. The lamp affixed to the side of his helmet sprang to life with a hollow click; sending a probing shaft of light deep into the seemingly endless black.
Luke leaned in over his shoulder and let out a low whistle.
"Remind me to tell you about this thing called com discipline sometime, Five."
"That's a long way down, Sir. Five storeys, easy."
Luke had a point. Mining town or not, this was unusual by local standards. New Cadiz' primary reason for existing was to facilitate orbital transfers to and from the planet. It was a place of transition, and this transitory nature often meant that many of the more modern considerations of the 26th century post war period – underground rail networks, inbuilt housing shelters and all manner of subterranean passages, had simply been omitted during its construction. New Cadiz was a stepping stone for the other, more pleasant cities to step over to reach the stars beyond, nothing more; a place where all the functional unpleasantness of interstellar shipping could be confined to a single, utilitarian place.
Argjend had been founded shortly thereafter, when more discerning settlers had a chance to source a more suitable climate. New Cadiz had been in decline ever since.
"Chimera Actual, are you getting this?" Damien asked, one hand clamped to the side of his helmet "Sub-basement; looks different to the rest of the wider superstructure."
Kaizen's voice piped up in Eric's stead.
"You're in the old Traxus building. They had a presence on Granica, though a review of municipal records notes they pulled out after the basic infrastructure was established sixty years ago. It was leased to a local mining over a decade ago; a company by the trading name Hidden Horizons."
"Are there tunnels beneath the city?"
"Without question, though their being this close to the city core is unlikely. Standard UNSC Development Pattern REQ484-07 dictates –"
"Got it, Kai, thanks."
Damien reached out and grasped one of the cables. He gave it a single tug.
"This is new. Looks a lot newer than the original building, at a guess. Definitely reinforced."
"Standby." Kaizen's voice returned. There was flickering shimmer across Damien's VISR and a pulse in his gauntlet as she scanned the cabling and the surrounding riser around it.
"Recent construction. Confirmed Titanium-A alloy reinforced with several composite high grade metals."
"Bit fancy for a back-water."
Suddenly Luke spun around, snapping his rifle to bear. Viktorya was already covering the opposite direction; as still as a statue.
"Movement on the perimeter." Luke's voice was drained of any emotion now, "Multiple contacts, closing."
Damien watched
"Do we engage?" Viktorya asked eagerly.
"Negative. We don't know how many explosives the Innies seeded in this place. I've no desire to let a trigger happy Innie accidentally bring the entire Tether down on our heads the second they decide small arms fire isn't going to stop us."
Damien mag-locked his BR across his shoulders, standing up.
"We go down."
"There could be anything down there, Sir," Luke didn't take his eyes from his sector. "It could be a trap."
"Oh I know it's a trap, Five. I just want to know who's got enough stones to try and trap a Spartan. On me, Chimera."
And with that, Chimera One leapt forward, grasping the cable and sliding down; ankles crossed for stability. Sparks shrieked as he sped down the wire, swallowed by the darkness below.
Chimera leapt after him without a second thought, vanishing deep into the unknown.
Al'Hajar stalked up the tunnel, six of his chosen men at his heels. They almost had to run to keep up.
They swept past all manner of choke points. Heaped sandbags, hastily piled supply crates and up-turned mining carts; long-since repurposed as crude cover. The Sons of Granica stood ready; hidden behind line after line of over-lapping fields of fire. Strongpoints marked every turn within the warren of tunnels beneath Central. It was around the central elevators where they were concentrated most: some thirty men pointing fixed weapon emplacements at a single kill zone.
The Lion of New Cadiz's advance abruptly halted when he came to the far end of the tunnel. Here the space opened up considerably, terminating in three large bulkheads. Each of the security doors fed into a separate access tunnel; the very nerve centre of the Insurrectionist resistance. Al'Hajar stood in front of the centre door, feet planted.
"Hedeker, we're in position." Al'Hajar snapped on his com, "Open the doors."
Only static answered him. Al'Hajar opened his com again, impatient now.
"Hedeker, I have finished preparing our defences. Open the doors."
In response the door to his right groaned open. Of the three bulkheads it was the most forlorn; forming part of the original tunnel network from the colony's early founding. It revealed a dirt track snaking upward, toward the higher tunnels feeding to the surface.
"I need access to central command. Confirm: Door A2, central annex."
Now the door to the left opened with a thrumming clank. This fed deeper into the tunnels, and had been laid with sheets of smooth polycrete. Large buttresses of Titanium-A bracketed the walls. Recent work; one of their newer bolt-holes.
The central door remained closed. This was the highest grade door. It blocked their path, silent and unmoving; all but impenetrable.
"Door-A2 damnit." Al'Hajar, "What's wrong with you?"
Finally his com-bead finally came to life. It was Hedeker. "You know I never liked fundamentalists." Hedeker mused.
Al'Hajar and his lieutenants looked at one another in disbelief. Hedeker continued speaking, unhurried.
"So full of rhetoric. Such focus and effort, and for what? A burnt book here, a meaningless riot there. Where's the consistency? The logic?"
"Hedeker, enough speeches; the Spartans are coming!"
"I'm fully aware of that, Al'Hajar. I'm rather counting on it."
"What are you doing?!"
"I'm giving you a choice. It's not much of a choice, mind, but then I suppose one needs to take enjoyment in one's work wherever possible. And I've always enjoyed a moral dilemma, especially when the fanatical are involved. Such binary thinking."
"What are you talking about, you fool; open the door – enough rambling!"
"I don't think that's going to happen. I'm taking charge of this operation – somebody has to. Somebody more qualified."
"Such insolence! This is my revolution!"
"Is it?" Hedeker sneered, "Is it really? And where would your revolution take us? To this sand-blasted pit, on the edge of universe? The UEG build the superhuman, and you hope to match them with little more than prayers and rhetoric? If that's your vision for a revolution, then you lost before you even started."
Al'Hajar was spitting with rage by this point. Hedeker for his own part could scarcely contain his contempt.
"The Covenant thought religion would ensure their victory too. See where it got them. This is the 26th century, Al'Hajar: knowledge and technology win wars. Innovation. Strategy. You cannot out-fight the UNSC. You can only out-smart it."
"How dare you! These men belong to me!"
"Those same men will be dead in a matter of minutes. As will you, if you don't move quickly."
Spotlights sprang to life, highlighting the two tunnels where the doors have opened. Hedeker was still speaking.
"You have two choices: the surface tunnel to your right will bring you to the Northern lines. I can't guarantee you'll escape the wider UNSC picket, but it offers you a fighting chance to fight and die with the rest of the deluded fools on the surface. The lower tunnels feed down to the fuel lines beneath the city. My men have sealed most of the tunnels, but there's an access tunnel which feeds out to the southern wastes. Your men won't sing songs of your courage when they realise you've left them to rot, but you might live to fight another day. Live as a snake or die as a lion, Al'Hajar. Choose wisely."
The line went dead.
"Hedeker!" Al'Hajar's fist hammered on the central bulkhead. He was bellowing now. "Hedeker!"
The man Al'Hajar knew as Hedeker reached over to the button on the side of his command chair and politely muted the channel. Pershing stood off to one side, hands clasped behind the small of his back.
"Do you think he'll actually believe we left one of the tunnels open?" Pershing asked.
"Who cares?" Hedeker pushed another button impatiently. "I expect he'll find out soon enough."
On the monitors before him, a hundred different screens lit up. Each showed a different aspect of the base. There, a dozen Sons of Granica hauled panniers of ammunition towards the waiting ambushers, looking to reinforce them. Their mouths shouted urgent soundlessly on the night-vision monitors. There, a view of Al'Hajar and his chosen few sprinting for the lower tunnel, only stopping to glance over their shoulders. That brought a mirthful smirk to Hedeker's face. So much for the Lion of New Cadiz.
"You see, it's like any good magic trick, Pershing. It's not so much the trick itself…" Hedeker flicked a button and all the camera images switched to a single large view. It showed three Spartans crouched atop an elevator, making ready to breach.
They remained oblivious to the hidden cameras watching their every move.
"…it's the misdirection."
The elevator pinged open cheerfully.
A deluge of hard rounds tore into it. The door hadn't even opened; it simply peeled inward, all but melting under the withering fire. Rocket fire followed, gutting the rear of the elevator. Grit and burning metal shards spat up from the immense cloud of dust thrown up by the onslaught.
Chimera watched impassive, high in the shaft above. They clung to the elevator cables; the surging flames mirrored in their visors. Kaizen had triggered the doors remotely.
Eventually the incoming fire fell away. Rocket barrels spun empty; machine guns had racked silent, barrels glowing white-hot. The tinkling of spent casings rolled to a full stop.
Damien silently waved two fingers in a single chopping motion. Luke and Viktorya released their volley; flash-grenades, primed on an impact trigger.
They struck the floor of the ruined elevator moments before Chimera's boots did.
There was white and there was noise. Then Chimera were through.
They didn't bunch up, nor did they stand back and fire. It was a full sprint; Damien out to the left, Viktorya to the right. Battle rifles barked and assault rifles chattered. Men screamed as they died. Grenades punctuated the air, thrown with scant regard for their own safety. Shield systems flickered as the shrapnel spalled off their armour and tore lesser men to bloodied pulp.
Luke went straight up the middle. He simply vaulted over the first gun-crew, his hands reaching down and twisting a gunner's neck so that the Innie's head faced a direction that was not survivable. When Luke landed his side-arm was already in his hand, thundering. His combat knife flashed in the gloom, thumping into flesh and breaking bone. When it lost itself in his next target's stomach, Luke turned on his heel and swept his rifle free of its mag-lock restraints. It juddered to life as he spun and danced amongst the foe.
The original Spartans had been designed to eliminate Insurrectionists. This had been their original purpose, their very design concept. To take a human foundation, to build upon it, and encase it in the strongest of armour. To improve that same man with a strength that was unparalleled, with a speed that could not be matched. All the adaptability of an infantryman with all the durability of tank. As the Human-Covenant war had rumbled ever onward, that design had been improved upon, that concept had refined. A shield system had been added. Greater mobility, tighter efficiencies. So went the ruthless tide of wartime progress.
The butchery in the annex hall stood testament to that progress. The Sons of Granica were trained fighters, well disciplined. In any open field, in any other scenario on a modern battlefield, the would have stood toe to toe with any trained UNSC infantry force, and given a good account of themselves. With the advantage of preparation and the focused nature of their killing field, any assault was doomed to failure. But these were Spartans, and the Sons of Granica were but men.
In the confines of the tunnels beneath New Cadiz they were little more than cattle.
Enclosed as they were beneath the cramped ceiling overhead, explosions shook them; bursting human eardrums. Smoke stung human eyes, and further concussion grenades numbed the senses. The Spartans had no such limitations. VISR software identified priority targets and polarised when visual flashes proved too much even for ab-human eyes. Immune to the chaos, they swept through the Sons of Granica.
Damien smashed his rifle butt clean through the faceplate of an Insurrectionist, bursting the man's skull. He dropped to one knee, drilling the next man charging at him. Clear of immediate targets, he turned around to gain his bearings. Then he saw Viktorya.
Hyper-lethal. A rare descriptor, even amongst the peerless ranks of the Spartan elite. He watched Chimera Two rip through the enemy with barely concealed delight. Her rifle has emptied long ago. She had dumped the rounds in her side-arm as quickly as possible, favouring instead a more personal approach. Hand to hand, fists too fast to track.
She made a dance of it. She ducked under an enemy strike, crushing a throat with a lancing jab. This fed into a leg sweep, which buckled the very knee-cap of the unfortunate hapless enough to be within striking distance. A hand-spring later she was back on her feet; moving, killing. Every strike maimed or killed. Nothing was wasted.
Chimera Two would never hold a command position. She lacked the stability, the human core necessary for the weighty moral choices expected of a fireteam leader. In many ways her damaged nature freed her. It afforded her a certain purity; allowing herself a measure of dedication the rest of Chimera would never reach, and be all the better for it. She became a tool: every inch the killer they wanted her to be.
She spun to a stop. Around her lay a carpet of broken bodies. There were no more targets to engage, no enemies left to kill. All but painted red, she reluctantly lowered her hands and retrieved her discarded rifle from the far side of the chamber.
"Clear." Luke reported. Then, noting the macabre scene around them, added, "Jesus, Vee, remember to use a gun next time."
Damien's pulse still hammered. Thirty to one. The Innies very best, and they had slaughtered them without a moment's thought. Part of him swelled with pride. A deeper part of him broke out in a cold sweat. What had they become?
He pushed the thoughts aside. There was a mission to perform. He pressed a gauntlet to the side of his helmet.
"Chimera Lead to Chimera Actual; do you copy? We're in."
Kaizen's reply was popped with static.
"—ference with the structure around you. Some- of shielding—."
"Copy, Kaizen. Stand by."
Affixed to the wall was a standard UNSC data port. The terminal was a simple enough unit; used for everything from summoning the elevator to providing directions to those travelling via what had once been the elevator shaft. A direct physical link would boost Kaizen's ability to penetrate the Insurrectionist network. Damien settled his free hand on the data pedestal. There was a surge in his gauntlet, as Kaizen's wireless sub-routines fed through his armour's systems and leapt into the network beyond.
Suddenly Kaizen's voice came back, clear and strong.
"Thank you, Chimera One." The A.I. purred, "Connection established."
"Happy to be of service, Kai. Can you get a fix on target location?"
"Standby," Kaizen replied, "Commencing system search now."
"She's in." Pershing noted, monitoring the bunker systems from a side console.
"Excellent." Hedeker's eyes never left the projector unit set in front of the command chair. It was a high-end unit; the type only seen in the most advanced UNSC briefing rooms.
Its projector display sprang into life. Kaizen spun about, three-quarter size. Her eyes quickly fixed on the man Al'Hajar knew as Conrad Hedeker.
"Identify yourself." Kaizen regarded him steadily.
Hedeker sat back in his chair, a wistful smile on his face.
"Long time no see, Kaizen."
"I do not recognise you. No records on file, no active personnel data. This is an active UNSC combat theatre. Identify yourself and state your intentions immediately: failure to do so will see you identified as hostile combatants associated with enemy insurrectionist combatants, marked for lethal censure."
"Well we wouldn't want that, would we?" Hedeker folded his arms across his chest. "Rank amateurs; every last one of them."
Kaizen blinked.
"Your failure to respond with an acceptable identifier leaves me no choice. I am marking you as viable targets for Spartan operators in this theatre."
"Well before you do that, I do have one thing I'd like to say."
Kaizen's eyes narrowed. "And that is?"
"Well two things, actually. " Hedeker sat forward in his chair, smiled. "Undid iridium."
And, with that, all hell broke loose.