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Halo: Shadows of Hope

Chapter 18: The Light in the Darkness

UNSC Prowler Dark Shore

In orbit around Planet Chi Mu E-1

The planet was effectively nameless. Whatever name the former inhabitants of Hope might have given their star system's only gas giant was irrelevant. It was a number in UEG planetary databases. A blip. A statistic. For all intents and purposes, it may as well not have even existed. A trait shared by what had become its twenty-ninth satellite in recent days, far smaller than the other natural twenty-eight. The Dark Shore didn't exist. Its crew didn't exist. And thanks to a job well done in this star system, it never would exist.

Ignominy...Keancros could appreciate it.

Residing in a single-occupant control room, a position mostly reserved for Prowlers with minimal crew, the shadow allowed himself to slightly more luminous, pouring himself a glass of water. Bare necessities only on these ships, however unpleasant that might be. If it wasn't for the conclusion of his operation in Chi Mu, he wouldn't be drinking at all. Still, it was a subconscious habit, a human desire to make the best of a good situation when it was part of a much larger desperate one. Well, desperate times called for desperate measures and while he held no regrets, Keancros could nonetheless appreciate that.

He took a sip of the water. Stale and dull. Just like this starship.

Prowlers lived up to their namesake, equipped with stealth technology ranging from counter-electronic systems to stealth ablative coating. It would have been difficult enough for either the Haven or Aeros to detect the Dark Shore in normal circumstances, but with the stealth ship nestled within E-1's gravity and magnetic field...well, it was no Jupiter, but there was enough influence to hide it even further. Coupled with the fact that Chi Mu didn't follow Bode's law and developments in real-time slipspace communication, it was possible to communicate with Sattler and Harwood without the risk of being traced being presented. Not even the Covenant had given any indication that they knew of the Prowler's presence. Yet another cherry on top of a cake that was slightly less stale than the water he was drinking.

Keancros rose the glass again...then tossed it aside. Bad enough it tasted the way it did, but the plastic being used belonged to an age centuries ago.

Rubbing his eyes and fighting the urge to get a proper sleep as opposed to cryo, Keancros briefly ran over the facts. SK-018 was neutralized, but not before proving that the entire concept of a Reaper was flawed. The relic was destroyed as well...a shame in a sense, but if there was any truth to the Covenant log the subject had observed or been informed of, maybe that was just as well. Keancros didn't know what to make of the structure, whether it was actually Covenant or the product of another race entirely, but either way, that wasn't his problem. Nor was it Sattler or Harwood's, the pair having gone down with their respective ships...technically a boon, but still, Keancros couldn't help but feel some regret, however brief. Indeed, Harwood might have saved more lives in death than she ever had in life given her last gambit. The Aeros had gone out like a nova, thanks to its reactors...yes, that would be something to investigate. Just as much as the Reaper armour design...something the UNSC Ordnance Committee could review. Facility RKD had been clamouring for a spin-off of MJOLNIR for some time and Keancros would have been more than happy to give it to them. For unlike the Reaper concept, mere armour would pose no threat to S-III. Heck, it might even benefit them in the long run.

Closing his eyes, deciding to sleep regardless of circumstance or time, Keancros knew that it wasn't over. Not in the long run and given the report he'd have to write in regards to these events, not in the short run either. Idly typing on the keyboard, he supposed he should get his name, rank and serial number down first. Start with a K, write down the next eight letters, then...wait...

I don't need to do that. Reaper's over...the brass know who I am...

On screen, the word KEANCROS had been written. Well, no matter. A quick re-arranging of letters was all that was needed...a reverse, effectively...

Very soon, it had been returned to ACKERSON.

Marathon-class cruiser Leviathan

Status: Within slipspace

"Well, I won't say it's as good as new, but..."

"I'm the medic, sergeant. You don't need to lay out the basics for me."

Jefferson grimaced, a gesture that Chambers could see now that his helmet was taken off. The marine's back was a scarred mess, even with the healing lubricant he'd rubbed onto it. Chambers would have no doubt been more qualified...heck, she could even pronounce the medicine's name, but with the Leviathan having become a floating hospital for Hope's more unfortunate souls, a bit of plasma scarring hardly qualified as urgent. Still, the Helljumper had helped out. He only knew the basics of first-aid, but if those basics could be applied, he might as well use them.

Wish some other basics could be applied...

The sergeant shook the thoughts away. Wishes were like lead paint-delicious but deadly. Indulge in them for too long and you'd render up incognitive.

Rising to his feet, the ODST wondered if he should put his helmet back on. It would be overkill inside a warship like this, but with the smell of blood and sweat permeating the air, it was about the only thing that could shield him from it. Chambers didn't look too good herself, and not only because of the plasma scarring. Maybe it was because she didn't have much experience. Or maybe it was-...

"Sarge?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't suppose you've heard anything from Jack?"

...yeah, that was it.

The sergeant sighed, running a hand through his longer than average hair awkwardly. He felt like he'd been put on the spot, and the longer than regulation haircut wasn't helping anything. He wasn't sure what he was meant to say in this situation-heck, he shouldn't have had to say anything at all. Surely Chambers must have realized by now that her friend was in all likelihood, dead from the same plasma that had wounded her earlier.

"Chambers, I..."

"Don't beat around the bush sarge."

Beat around the bush? I...crap, we need a new Corps for this! Break bad news to comrades corps, what a-...

"Who said anything about a bush?"

Jefferson span around. Chambers looked up. Everyone else...did nothing, considering that they were either drowning in blood, sorrow or both. So when Jack Hawkins appeared on E deck, missing his helmet, all of his armour bar his left leg guard, a uniform that looked like it had been at the mercy of an ice hound and bumps and bruises on every patch of exposed skin, the ODST and medic were the only ones who noticed. Looking at the expressions of joy on both jarheads' faces though...Jefferson reflected that they were the only ones who needed to.

"Jack!"

"Rachel!"

Jefferson winced, even as he helped the medic recover from her failed attempt to get up, murmuring something about not taxing her back. Right now, all of a sudden, he wanted to get to a different deck entirely. Let the two lucky ones have their privacy. Clearly he'd been forgotten in the short run, the pair in an embrace as Hawkins gave accounts of everything in the Covenant arsenal that might have passed as being genuine if not for his obvious exaggerations. Not that Chambers seemed to notice. If anything, she seemed to find them endearing.

Reverse Darwinism, the pairing of the most idiotic...crap, no wonder regulations against fraternisation exist.

"Hey sarge?"

Jefferson winced...again. Not only had Hawkins broken out of the hug long enough to notice him, but he was following his girlfriend's example and calling him "sarge." Right...a NCO...of course that was what he was.

"Private..." the ODST began slowly, watching as Hawkins scrambled to his feet with the grace of a chimpanzee. "I see that you got off Hope."

"Yeah...I was assigned to some civvies on an early evac bird," the private answered. "Only got out of the hanger bay."

"Uh-uh...well, I'll leave you to it. This isn't Hope, this isn't the barracks, so-..."

"Wait."

Jefferson had hoped that Hawkins would take the hint. When an ODST turned around, he turned around and didn't look back (well, at least according to propaganda posters that always seemed to feature a rising or setting sun). Not that he was actually a Helljumper, but he doubted Hawkins would realize that. He doubted that anyone would, what with the destruction of the Aeros.

"I...wanted to thank you..." the jarhead began awkwardly, rubbing his right shoulder in a manner that suggested it wasn't to alleviate muscle pain. "I mean, we had our differences...the barracks, the evac zone...but I just want to say thank you. We both do."

And with that, he stuck out his hand. The olive branch.

Son of a...

The ODST blinked, unsure of what to do. Insist that Hawkins salute? Walk away? Draw the conversation out longer? Or should he...

Ah, screw it. They aren't relics.

Humans...you couldn't analyse them. Taking the private's hand and shaking it, Jefferson was reminded of that. Maybe that was why he'd thrown the book at the pair back on Hope, why he'd done a 180 later and helped both kids get off the world. Maybe it was because he didn't want to be the only survivor...like on Sanctuary. Maybe it was because they reminded him of the ones he lost...and what their budding attraction reminded himself of...

Hope...Sanctuary...these relics are everywhere...

Well, no matter. The non-coms didn't know what had transpired way back then. They weren't entitled to know and as they lay alongside the deck wall alongside each other, they clearly didn't need to know either. Sure, they'd probably die sometime within the next year and/or be assigned to different units...still, the ODST saw no harm in letting them have their friendship be complicated for now. Complications weren't always bad...

Turning away, ignoring the marines, swabbies, civilians and even a Spartan he saw walking by, Jefferson returned to walking his road.

Alone.

Reverence-class cruiser Shining Light

Chi Mu System

"Here they are, my lord. Devotion's logs."

"The originals have been deleted, shipmaster?"

"Yes. These are the only remaining copy."

"Good. Leave me."

It was almost amusing. With another being, say one of his own kind, the Prophet would have had to take steps to ensure that no-one else had glanced at the logs and if they had, make more plans as the ramifications dictated. With the sangheili however...well, in this regard, they were just like the jiralhanae. Blind through faith rather than obedience, smarter rather than stronger. For all the lack of initiative that had been displayed nine years ago, the Prophet had to wonder if a new course should be taken. Well, no matter. Few had questioned the course of this war and with the destruction of this world's relic, even fewer would. Yet more evidence of humanity's destructive goals.

Uploading Devotion's data, the Prophet knew that the silence in his quarters was misleading. The Shining Light was the flagship of the Fleet of Purity and it behove it to lead the glassing of the world's human settlement. Not that there was much left to glass, but sometimes an example had to be set. He'd even learnt it himself, learnt that sangheili honour did not mean a fleet should hold back in such circumstances. The Divine Crusader had taken the world, but had let many of its occupants escape. Had the fleet arrived from the start, the situation would have been entirely different. An intact relic for starters...

...a relic that, judging from these logs, Devotion intended to utilize.

The hierarch doubted this was indicative of most of his kind. The shift from an Age of Doubt to an Age of Reclamation was not as tumultuous as other transitions in Covenant history and coupled with the threat before them, had quickly polarized all other contenders against the union's enemy. Clearly Devotion had spent too much time alone, too much time reading apocrypha, too much time indulging in destructive dreams. To become a god, to rule alone...ridiculous...

The Prophet closed the files and deleted them. No-one could learn of what Devotion had done. No-one could suspect that there was even a fraction of discord among the san 'shyuum. This world would be cleansed, abandoned and forgotten. No-one would ever learn of its secrets.

Allowing himself a small smile, the Prophet lay back in his gravity throne. To a lesser mind, the task would seem quite daunting. But not for him.

After all, the Prophet of Truth was very good at keeping secrets...

Marathon-class cruiser Leviathan

Status: Within slipspace

Despite wearing half a tonne of power armour, despite being taller, stronger and faster than any other human on this ship bar the rest of Green Team, Isaac-039 was effectively anonymous.

All in all, the super soldier wasn't that surprised. On the battlefield, Spartans were beacons, banners to rally around and fight the good fight. Off the battlefield, they technically didn't exist. Off the battlefield, they were a reminder of everything that encompassed war, the opposite of everything the brief respites from it did not. People didn't want to be reminded of the battles they waged. Isaac had served his part on Hope, now he was an unpleasant reminder of it. Officially, the Spartan-II Program didn't exist. As no-one dared meet his gaze, it was clear it didn't exist unofficially either.

Which suited the petty officer just fine. He felt like some privacy now.

Reaching the end of E deck, coming to a series of windows that looked out towards the cruiser's starboard side, the Spartan looked out into the nothingness of slipspace. Pitch black, bereft of all life and light...something to do with there being nothing in the visible spectrum to see. It therefore wasn't really a spectacle people lined up to view, why observation decks on luxury transports were only used to showcase planets and stars. Yet Isaac found himself enjoying the solitude. It was empty...yet not hollow. For all the rage of the eleven dimensions of the slipstream, it was peaceful...natural...always flowing, always moving, always with purpose. After all that had been said and done on a small world orbiting Chi Mu, the Spartan found it soothing. Hundreds, thousands, maybe tens of thousands had reached such oblivion over the past few days, as December and the year drew to a close. Come 2535, and there'd be yet another UEG colony struck from the records. Insignificant in the greater scheme of things. But for now, Isaac felt at peace.

"You never truly appreciate what you have...until it's gone."

Well, he had felt at peace...

Isaac glanced at the...intruder, as his mind automatically classified the girl that had suddenly appeared beside him. Dark haired, dark eyed, probably in her late teens if he had to guess. A girl that met his hidden gaze with her own, apparently not at all intimidated with a seven foot tall behemoth looking down on her.

"Hope..." she said slowly. "What wasn't appreciated..."

Isaac continued to stare. Dry blood and a few plasma burns covered her skin, but she was otherwise in decent physical condition. Psychologically...he wasn't so sure. Not after Kirk...after Keancros...after everything that had happened.

"I'm Tara," the girl continued offhandedly, turning her gaze back to the emptiness of slipspace as she did so. She let out a sigh, running a hand through her hair and letting a few specks of dry blood fall out. "Lived on Hope...didn't appreciate what I had until now...lost my brother, a close friend...don't think I appreciated what I had until I lost them either."

"I'm...sorry."

They were basic words, but the Spartan wasn't sure what else he could say. It didn't know how to provide sympathy...true, he felt it, but his homeworld was still safe and orbiting Epsilon Eridani, he'd seen and understood death since the age of six...he understood the ramifications of such losses, but he wasn't sure how to deal with them. Simply put, he'd never had to face up to them.

Oh, like Kirk and René you mean?

Isaac winced. This girl was making him uneasy...ironic, considering that he was something more than human. Luckily, she seemed ready to wrap things up. Either she'd said all she had to, or had realized that Spartans didn't provide good listeners.

"I should go..." Tara said eventually, turning her gaze back to Isaac's. "Just...thank you."

"For what?"

"For saving our world. You did all that you could, and for that, I'm grateful. We all are."

Isaac watched the girl walk off, not missing the pistol holstered in her belt and murmurs that "we're just getting started." He could guess what might happen next, even if his understanding of psychology stemmed from unofficial interaction with Halsey, Mendez and Déjà. Anger, the need for revenge...come early next year, and some branch of the UNSCDF would be getting a new recruit. Some might call it appropriate, even heroic. But right now...he wasn't sure what it was. If anything, it just seemed wrong somehow. To lose everything but your life, only to join a machine that would make you lose even that eventually...like Kirk and René had lost theirs. Even those ranging from Harwood to Ellison stirred memories. Sighing, Isaac used one hand to loosen his helmet while using his other to raid an ammo pouch. He couldn't put this off any longer. Not if he wanted to be counted as a useful member of Green Team, or even a useful soldier period.

In one hand, hung the helmet, before it hit the deck floor. In the other, was the picture. Taken a decade ago...the only way he could see Kirk and René now.

Isaac glanced at his younger self first, then at his faint reflection in the window. The boy in the photo was younger, shorter, less muscular, had far more hair and was less pale. Yet it was still him, the Spartan reminded himself. Isaac-039...it was proof that...that...well, he didn't know what it proved. Nothing apart from the fact that Kirk and René had been his friends. Proof that...that he had to move on. To put the picture away.

Kirk and René are dead. Maybe they died nine years ago, maybe they died less than a week ago...

Isaac could accept that. It wasn't pleasant, but too many people were counting on him to do otherwise. Maybe Kirk, in the last moments of his life, in a brief return to the person he once was...had seen that...

"I know what's...troubling you. And I'll tell you this. If you don't...believe...in yourself...in what you fight for...then you're indeed a tool. A weapon. A means to an end. But you're not. We're not. No-one...is... I did what I believed was right. I believe in myself. Can you say the same?"

Isaac smiled faintly, glancing at the photo one last time before folding it away...to join his team...to prepare for the next battle. To ensure that what had happened at Hope would never happen again...

He could say the same.

The End

A/N

So, that's that. First concieved in 2006, fully written in 2010 and now, in 2011, fully posted. And as such, this is the point where I go on the "go me" tangent to a certain extent. Still, being the last chapter, there's stuff I'd like to address here both in regards to the chapter itself and the story as a whole.

Starting with the former, I guess there's two main things to address. Namely, it's the ending and information provided in Evolutions that prompted me to change the fleet commander from Cole to Stanforth. As revealed in the book, Cole never backed down and on the rare occassion that he did, he always came back for seconds. I was reluctant to make Hope one of those exceptions, especially since I suspect that more of Cole will be revealed in Traviss's novel trilogy (insert rant here). Anyway, played it safe. The second issue stemmed from The Cole Protocol and was the final step in me putting this story on the backburner years ago before coming back to it after Denial. The idea was that Devotion's use of jiralhanae and pursuit of godhood would be the catalyst for Truth going down a similar path. In the realm of fanfiction, I find such approaches work extremely well or come off as pretentious, but either way, it was rendered a moot point. Even if there were signs of discord between Truth and Regret in regards to their different approaches to the Rubble, it was clear at the end that the Prophets were still effectively on the level. So while I included some veiled references to future events here, I had to cut out the catalyst aspect and threads leading to such a result in earlier chapters, said revision spurring the revision of this story as a whole.

So now, to address the actual story. Effectively, it's the last of the 'black sheep' stories I wrote over my first year of writing in 2006-writing multi-chapters left, right and centre with no real conception of length or quality. With the completion of this story, all of the 'sheep' have either been completed, deleted or discontinued. Kind of the end of an era in a sense, but considering I've actually begun and ended other stories over the course of posting this one, given differing lengths, it's spared you a 'nostalgia moment.' Anyway, at this time of writing, I have three more Halo stories on my 'to write' list. Sanctuary stands as a sort of 'character prequel' to this one, with no prizes being awarded as to who said character is. Farthest Reach is a post-Halo 3 story while The Orion Chronicles is a collection of oneshots based on deleted material. My current writing focus right now however is on a Battlestar Galactica fic titled Final Five-which goes to show that my subtlties for naming stories in regards to specific characters are about as non-existant as the dodo. Still, thanks to everyone who reviewed and hopefully the five year wait from conception to completion was worth it.

Update (08/05/2011): Corrected spelling and grammar errors.