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Halo: Shadows of Hope

Chapter 4: Divergence

UNSC frigate Wild Endeavour

Status: Patrolling Outer Colony/Inner Colony border region

Pointless…that's how he'd describe his situation.

Not that he would voice such thoughts, or most likely even be asked a question pertaining to them. It was to be expected really. The reactions of naval crewmen, even fellow soldiers, to a metal clad behemoth in Mark IV MJOLNIR Powered Assault Armor were limited in variety, restricted to either keeping a wide berth or staring in awe. There were exceptions however, an example being the group of ODSTs that had probably been as bored as he was and had been looking for a way to alleviate it.

For the first, and hopefully the last time, he'd fallen into the old "what the hell trap" then and paid the price, namely landing several jarheads with broken bones and a concussion in the ship's infirmary. Since then, he had resolved to keep his distance from anyone and everyone; a setup that suited the crew just fine.

But not Green Team… mused the Spartan-II, continuing his stride through the ship's passages, determined to be doing something. It doesn't suit any of us…

It was not his place to question his superiors but rather obey them. Still, the frustration would not go away. Sargurine had been one of the most fortified worlds in the Outer Colonies, a world that may have actually been able to slow down the Covenant advance. Instead, the local forces and most of the populace, deciding that a better course of action would be attempting to negotiate with the advancing aliens. Disagreeing with such a plan, the UNSC force had reacted heavy handily, the result being that Sargurine was at war even before the Covenant showed up.

The results were rather spectacular. And messy.

And this was where the Wild Endeavour had ended up as a result patrolling space for any Covenant activity, the worth of such a maneuver lost on him. After all, why would alien vessels choose to emerge between star systems? As far as he could tell, it was simply part of the Colonial Administration Authority's insistence that, even as it surrendered more of its powers to the UNSC, that it had not given up on the Outer Colonies, all the while holding the bulk of the navy back to make a proper stand in the Inner Colonies. All part of a plan to sacrifice lives and source of raw materials (of which the Outer Colonies had an ample supply of) for time; time to better fortify the core worlds. As such, to his knowledge at least, Admiral Preston Cole's fleet was the only active one throughout this region of the galaxy, fighting a running battle to…

The Spartan-II's mental train of thought ground to a halt, his movement stopping short instantly. Shifting his head, his stance adjusted to give him optimum balance, he cast out his senses-senses that were beyond those of any normal human. Naval Code 45812 had done its job well, producing a physically augmented super soldier whose senses were sophisticated enough to sense a shift in the ship's course...

He didn't know why this was the case, and curiosity did not really prompt him to discover the reason. However, this was a change of situation and as such, he was obliged to adapt to it so that he may better serve his superiors. Within twenty milliseconds, his mind…no, instinct (after all, the mind, specifically the unwanted indulgence that was imagination, was untamed, a potential distraction and therefore a hazard to his ability to operate effectively) had kicked in, determining that the best course of action was heading for the bridge, ready to receive answers and orders.

It was all that he lived for.

It took him 1.237 minutes to reach the bridge…or at least he thought it did. Weeks of spending time in a sterile environment hadn't done his mental awareness any favors. It was at home that he best functioned…on the battlefield. Not some piece of metal hanging in space that was about as far away from the battlefield as you could get…

At least the bridge's crew is at home…

It didn't take enhanced reflexes to come to that conclusion, the swabbies' rapid movements of typing, walking and sometimes both simultaneously conveying a sense of purpose and ease that came from doing your job in a controlled environment. At least, he assumed that was the case for them. Controlled environments were rather tame for him and his battle brothers and sisters. They lacked challenge, the unexpected, the-…

"Can I help you?"

Alright, so maybe the bridge did have the unexpected. To an extent…

Swiveling his gaze faster than what was possible for many humans, he found that things had become slightly more unexpected, finding the ship's commander giving him a salute. If one could see past his polarized visor, a small twitch in the forehead may have been seen; the equivalent of raising an eyebrow (which was far too unsubtle). He couldn't remember the last time someone had actually shook his hand-usually it was just salutes, the question being which came first. Still, taking his superior's hand and shaking it, he quickly lapsed back into comfortable formality.

"Petty Officer Second Class Spartan-029 reporting," the NCO said.

"At ease," Commander Cho Ling as she dropped her hand. She turned her back to him, going back to looking over a single piece of paper that she was holding.

"I'm glad you're here," Ling murmured, her eyes still fixed on the piece of paper. "It would be good to have someone of your caliber going over this."

The petty officer wasn't sure what to make of this situation. Still, finding a single piece of paper in his hands a second later, he had a good idea.

"So, what do you make of this?" Ling asked, looking up at the seven foot tall armored behemoth, scrutinizing him with dark eyes that became her Asian ethnicity. Korean, with a trace of Han Chinese to be specific, although in this day and age, such distinctions were rarely made.

Not that this mattered to -029 as he looked over the paper, having not been trained to deal with demographics. Analysis however, had been included. As such, it only took him a few seconds to decipher the code.

"It's a distress signal from a slipstream package," he said, handing the paper back to his superior. "Requesting reinforcements to the Chi Mu System via encrypted code and…" He trailed off. "Odd…"

"What is?"

-029 shrugged. "It seems odd…no mention of situation, operational strength or urgency of request. It's…well, extremely general."

"My thoughts exactly," said Ling. "And it's not just that. We don't know what we're getting into. We're just one ship and this could be a trap…"

-029 remained silent as he looked back at the paper. It was a simple alpha numeric-hardly sophisticated, but non-standard. Either ONI was losing its touch, or this kind of code wasn't in their database. But all ships had full access to naval coding. Why diverge from that and produce a code that would require manual translation?

Unless you're Covenant…

"Before you ask, I don't like this," said Ling. "But hell, anything's better patrolling empty space while the brass chases after its own tail." She turned and faced the main view screen. "At least, while they still have a tail to chase…"

The Spartan twitched again, albiet less subtlely. He wasn't used to people speaking ill of their superiors, bar that Army CO Halsey and Mendez often went on about (Anderson? Acklensan? Whatever, probably not important). Still, what he was admittedly more used to nowadays was people thrust into positions that they weren't ready for. In the space of a few seconds he guessed that not only was Ling new to this, but was also basing her actions as much as his advice as her own gut instinct.

Well, at least her instinct was in the right place…

"I'm here to fight, not command," Green Team's leader said eventually, handing the request back to the commander. "Still, we have nothing to gain by hanging out here. And one frigate could make more of a difference in a general request than the difference that would result from being lost."

Ling nodded. "Aye…you're right. Thank you."

-029 blinked. Thanks? When was the last time he'd received that?

Well, no matter. He didn't care anyway.

CCS-class battlecruiser Divine Crusader

Location: Seven miles north of human settlement, upper canyon wall near Forerunner artifact

Status: Inoperable

Any living creature is affected by its environment and despite his status, the Prophet of Devotion was no exception, especially not in his current circumstances. Residing in his personal quarters with a gaping hole in the roof above him, he was understandably…well, annoyed was too tame a word. Livid would have been a better description.

Of course, the san 'shyuum had not risen to the position of leaders of the most powerful galactic empire in history (short of the Forerunners of course) by losing their cool. That was more the role of the jiralhanae or a peeved kig-yar faced with an impetuous unggoy. While lesser species squabbled, the Prophets stood (or rather sat on gravity thrones) high, watching impassively, if only in appearance. Still, a certain san 'shyuum on a downed battlecruiser was anything but passive, as his latest journal entry indicated. And doing his best to keep his temper in check, Devotion began to proofread…

The gods are either testing my devotion to the Great Journey or have seen fit to curse me with an imbecile of a shipmaster. Although my faith is absolute and have not erred from the true path to my knowledge, recent events do indeed raise the possibility that the latter is involved to an extent. Although I have no right to question the actions of our lords and masters, they could have picked a better time to test my belief.

In a word, 'Tikawomee is an imbecile. How he ever came to command a ship is beyond me and, unless there are signs of improvement in his ability, I shall seek to find out. He has proven himself to be most useless in ship combat, destroying a mere two enemy frigates before having his own ship crippled by a larger capital ship that he should have reacted to before coming into weapon's range. Such a performance was…lackluster, to say the least (and the least it is).

The issue of the strength of his belief is another issue that concerns me, a concern which stems from him voicing commands to initiate a self-destruct sequence upon atmospheric entry to prevent the ship from falling into human hands. Although this is a sangheili protocol over which I have no power, I cannot help but marvel at the idiocy of such a suggestion. Suppose one of our ships did fall into the hands of our enemies. What then? What could those barbarians possibly do with such a thing? Their minds are too primitive to comprehend even the most basic of our technology, even when such technology is but a shadow of what has come before. Just as well I suppose. The Forerunners had no intention of letting vermin use the products of their prowess. Such a right is ours alone.

But I digress. The issue of 'Tikawomee has become increasingly pressing as of late. He has his uses of course, acting as a leader to the soldiers this ship possesses, but his authority is starting to come into conflict with my own. I wonder…if an unfortunate and entirely unforeseen accident were to occur, one which removed him from our midst, would that be a loss or gain to the Covenant? It is a question that I have to consider.

Of course, there are many things that I must consider. Although we have landed on a world tainted by the foul feet of humanity, it has, for the most part, escaped their corruption. At least one collection of primitive structures is located on this world, but has not tainted it as much as other worlds, a fact for which I am grateful. Any resistance they throw at us will be light, allowing a team to be sent into the relic. Although millennia old and having only reactivated itself recently, I am certain it is capable of full activation.

Soon, it shall begin. The time of ascension is nigh. Once I enter the foundation, I shall-

"Holy Prophet? May I have a word?"

Devotion's train of thought screeched to a halt, the Prophet turning to face the door to his chambers with remarkable speed. 'Tikawomee stood there.

"Yes?" asked the san'shyuum irritably.

'Tikawomee began to kneel but the Prophet interrupted. "Don't bother ship master, our situation does not give us the luxury of pomp and circumstance."

The sangheili's visage darkened. "You don't know how right you are."

A lowly shipmaster entering a Prophet's personal quarters was a rare occurrence, reserved for either extreme circumstances or for those whom had proven themselves in the Prophet's eyes. As far as Devotion was concerned, circumstances nor 'Tikawomee's ability (or lack of it) prompted such an action. Therefore, they began heading for the ship's corridors.

Still, it may have been in the Covenant's interests to have Devotion make an exception. Their presence may have dissuaded the shadowy individual who had been hiding above from dropping down, lithely landing on the floor next to the console. A console that the san'shyuum had left on.

The figure was clearly humanoid, albeit taller and slimmer than the average biped, moving with fluid grace. Most distinct however, was its attire; metal covered its entire body. Sleek, polished metal of which the only exception was a baleful red glow in the center of its forehead, standing in contrast to the wires socketed into the back of its head, extending down into the spine. It leant down on the desk and, courtesy of translation systems, began reading the Covenant writing, comprehending with cold logic the possibilities it presented.

Interesting…

Chi Mu System, Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")

Planet Hope

History had shown that space travel was a bad idea. Up to around a decade ago, practically every piece of fiction that featured aliens had humans on the receiving end, no doubt a side effect of a consciousness trying to justify militaristic imperialism and the need to answer to a single government on an unremarkable planet orbiting Sol. And with first contact actually vindicating everything from B-grade movies to sci-fi classics that loosely fit into the apocalypse category…well, suffice to say that people weren't too fond of aliens nowadays.

It was therefore understandable that the arrival of a cruiser of this alien conglomeration had set Hope's citizens on edge at best and induced hysteria at worst. The marines were little better, roving up and down street on foot and in Warthogs, supposedly ensuring that order was maintained, but really running around like chickens with one leg…or one of those three legged chickens bred for the circus via genetic recombination. Either way, for people that had been out of action for three years, they were having a tough time getting back into it.

Alan Ellison, having been on the surface when the battlecruiser came down, didn't give it much thought. Similes were the last thing on his mind right now, especially-…

"Ellison, what the hell are you doing!"

…since someone was calling him.

Walking around aimlessly, comprehending what had just occurred, Ellison hadn't been fully aware of the direction that he was headed. It was only now that he realized that he'd strayed near the edge of the town, namely one of the many checkpoints. It was at such a checkpoint that a group of Warthogs was present, led by-…

"First Lieutenant Physon, how corking to see you," said the engineer promptly, standing up straight and giving a salute with the speed that came from having a peeved superior officer bearing down on you.

"Spare me the antics private, I'm not your commanding officer.

And that God for that, Ellison mused, coming face to face with someone who had not only managed to get an officer's commission but also look akin to a bear at the same time.

At first glance, a casual observer would have probably mistaken Physon for a sergeant. With facial and scalp hair that was brown and bushy, akin to a grizzly bear that had tried to shave itself but failed miserably, he certainly looked the part of an NCO. Big, gruff and intimidating, he conformed to the sergeant stereotype perfectly, or at least would have done had he possessed the "strict but fair" aspect that NCO stereotypes tended to conform to. However, it would be at this point that one would see the single silver bar on Physon's uniform and not be surprised at all. He was a lieutenant, an individual who strove to ascend through the ranks and make life hell for anyone who got in his way…

Like Private First Class Alan Ellison for example.

"Don't you have something to be working on?" Physon snarled. "Something by the name of Goliath for example?"

"That's classified sir," Ellison responded smugly, glad to be placing a bee up Physon's arse that would spill blood one way or another. "I'm afraid that I'm not at liberty to-…"

"Well if you're not at liberty to discuss it, then how are you at liberty to be strolling around like…like…"

Ellison smirked as Physon strove to find a good choice of words. The asshole was so wrapped up in his soldier life that he couldn't find a way to describe the lifestyle of the opposite.

But still, Ellison admitted, he had a point. A Covenant battlecruiser had come crashing down, no doubt bringing heavy equipment with it, and all the force here at Hope to defend the settlement was five companies of rusty soldiers and a trio of equally rusty tanks. Goliath could make a difference in the inevitable conflict, but as long as it was operational. Of course, Ellison mused bitterly, his job would have been much easier if he'd been working with people who were actually competent, instead of being morons who couldn't tell the difference between a spanner and a screwdriver.

Then again, maybe it's my fault to. It's not as if you ever expected it to be able to make a difference…

"Anyway, you know what I mean," said Physon, drawing Ellison back to reality. "Just get your arse back to your pet project, private. I've got some soldiers to find." He turned and started heading for the waiting convoy.

"Wait, missing soldiers?" Ellison asked, walking after the lieutenant. Physon stopped and turned and raised an eyebrow in a single motion.

"What rock have you been hiding under private?" asked Physon, trying to sound condescending but not entirely succeeding. "Didn't you hear about the ODSTs?"

"No…why?" Ellison asked, though beginning to regret his curiosity. If fellow marines were missing, Ellison would have genuinely cared. ODSTs however, no doubt the same ones who had touched down this morning…well, you could only care so much about trigger happy, gung-ho psychos who loved to shout "jump feet first into hell!" at every opportunity.

Physon would have got on great with them. Maybe that's why he was willing to head out rather than fulfill his role as CO asshole.

"Orders from Major Howard," Physon continued. "We lost contact with them two hours ago. At first, we thought it was a radio malfunction but-…"

"Wait, two hours ago?" Ellison asked. "But that was before the Covenant showed up. How could-…"

One of the Warthog drivers beeped, diverting both Physon and Ellison's attention. Without a word, Physon ran over, jumped in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle and hung on as the convoy rolled off, heading north. Right into the esophagus of the beast, if not its belly.

With all that hair, maybe the Covenant will choke on it.

Sighing, Ellison knew that he should go. Goliath was giving him trouble and he was no David, but still, everyone on this colony had a job to do. Hell, even Physon was a necessary evil, even if his role was to lead fellow marines into what could be a killing ground and, given the dark clouds, what looked like a storm. With a shrug of not indifference, but rather ressignment, Ellison headed off, hoping that he could find some stones for his proverbial slingshot.

Thunder rolled…

…it rolled snake eyes.

Darkness.

There was nothing unnatural about this darkness. Buried underground, removed from sight and mind, no light could penetrate stone. Light from within however, was another matter.

Full illumination was still a long way away. But he had time. He'd spent an eternity in darkness…what difference would a few more hours make?

He quickly deleted such a thought stream. He had to be prompt in illumination. The artifact had been reactivated and as such, must be made ready for use. And if such use required illumination, he would gladly provide it, along with whatever else his masters desired.

Such was the role of a Monitor…

A/N

(2011-08-05)

Corrected spelling and grammar errors.