Chapter 7-2: One for the Road (Part 2)
[12 September 2551]
[City Center, Romagna, Angelus-II]
[0213 Hours]
"COVERING FIRE!"
Bridger's scream was drowned out by the hail of gunfire that almost blew the speakers over each comm headset in the sector. The small cluster of vehicles, reduced from four to three, were desperately trying to corral the massive walking edifice that was the Scarab into the kill zone, while simultaneously fending off attacks from its air and ground escort and avoiding the Scarab's tree-like legs and the searing miniature sunbeam that shot from its head.
And for the most part, they were actually succeeding.
David analyzed the Covenant behemoth making its way slowly toward them. He murmured, half to himself, "Larger than other Scarabs, silver color, beam cannon instead of pulse blaster…that's an excavation platform, not assault. What the hell are the Covenant looking for…?"
"You can ask them when they get here." Claire analyzed the scene with a practiced eye. From her vantage point it had an eerie, surreal quality; the 'Hogs became ants scuttling beneath the legs of a grotesque beetle. She pressed her hand to her ear and issued rapid fire orders like gunshots. "Khaled, change of plans. Take your squad and neutralize that Phantom once it's within range. SPNKR teams, concentrate your fire on the Banshees until they're down. Once they're down, focus everything on that Scarabs legs. Our vehicles are going to be coming in hot, so keep your fire clear of them. Questions?" There were none. "Good luck."
"Get down." David's hand clamped on her shoulder in a firm grip and forced her to duck below the concrete railing of the rooftop. She hit the ground just as the first Banshee's whistled overhead.
"Two more Banshee's just showed up; reinforcements already coming in." The Spartan said grimly.
"Oh, what I wouldn't give for a communications jammer right now." Claire grated as she struggled to bring her rifle to bear.
"I hear you." David glanced at her. "I liked the way you issued those orders. Short, swift, to the point. Growing into quite the officer there."
Claire offered him an incredulous grin. "Am I going deaf, or did the great poet-warrior Spartan just give me a compliment?"
"Don't let it go to your head." David sat up with his back to the concrete wall and peaked over the edge. "I've got point. Thirty seconds."
As if to confirm this, Keller spoke over the comm. "Gird your loins, Hummingbirds."
"Wilco. Hummingbirds ready." Khaled's voice, cool and smooth as silk, drifted over the comm like. "Lieutenant Avalos? See you on the other side."
"Same." Claire polarized her visor and nodded to David. "On my mark."
"Copy."
The ground shook as the Scarab ambled closer and closer to the kill zone. There was a pause as it stopped, not to fire its main gun, but as if its pilots were frozen in indecision. Bridger picked up on it immediately. "Captain, I think that Scarab is catching on!"
"Then let's give her something to occupy her mind. Markovich, the detonator."
Claire's ears picked up on that last word. "Captain, what the…?"
There was a reverberating roar as the two buildings lining either side of the street behind the Scarab crumbled and fell like fallen trees in a hurricane of dust and debris. The Scarab, just in time, moved to avoid the worst of the blast- directly towards the kill zone.
"What the fuck was that?!" Claire exclaimed.
"Demo charges, bunker busters." David shook his head. "Keller set them up to trap the Scarab."
"What else do you think he's not telling us?" She asked grimly.
"I'd rather not guess."
The Scarab trundled closer and closer, prodded by the three vehicles on the ground.
"This is Rabbit team, we are entering the kill zone now. Stand-by, ground teams, stand-by, stand-…"
Bridger never finished his orders. A burst of static erupted in place of his hoarse voice. Far below, the Warthog LRV exploded into flames as one of the Scarabs massive limbs came down and crushed it into submission.
"Fuck, Sergeant Bridger is down, repeat, Sergeant Bridger is down!"
That was enough for Claire. She raised her right hand, three fingers extended. "Hummingbirds, prepare for boarding! On my mark: Three…Two…One…MARK!"
David erupted from his position even before Claire screamed "MARK!". There was a belch of flame as he activated his jet pack. His stomach lurched and his heart leapt in his chest as he rose ten, twenty, thirty feet above the rooftop. The initial flare had jettisoned him directly above the Scarab. He hung there for a split second, suspended in icy moonlight and flaring shadows, before gravity took hold and he plummeted quickly to the spine-like platform extending from the Scarab's roof. Behind him, Claire and the rest of the Hummingbirds erupted a split second later.
He hit the platform, landing on the balls of his feet and feeling the shock travel through the gel layer of his suit. His feet might hurt in the morning but that would be all.
Above him and to his right the Phantom gunship brought its side plasma cannon to bear as it spotted the Helljumper's leaping into the air. Khaled and his squad sprang from cover in a burp of exhaust. The Arab sergeant emptied his Magnum into the face of the Grunt manning the second plasma cannon before it so much as utter a surprised squeak, then he and his men were inside the cargo hold of the gunship. Sounds of human and Covenant weapons exchanging fire ripped through the air, then there was some commotion as the gunship wobbled, then steadied. On either side of the cargo hold, Helljumper's tossed the corpses of the gunships crew (some not so much corpses as wounded Covenant) out into the air and took position on the plasma cannons. "This is Khaled. We've got the gunship. Lieutenant Avalos, we'll support you as long as we can."
David quickly holstered both his SMG's. All his thought processes had ceased; training and instinct had focused his mind even more than the combat cocktail he had injected. Banshee's, one, five, seven, and eleven o' clock positions; gunship will draw their fire. Covenant below me; count six Grunts, two squad leaders, four troopers. Three Elites, one officer, two troopers, Plasma Repeaters. Skirmishers with Needler Carbines.
He yanked two frag grenades from his belt, primed them, and dropped them from either side of the spine he was on. He counted three, heard two consecutive booms followed by screams, and drew his SMG's and vaulted to the floor below.
In front of him, Claire and her squad of Hummingbirds landed on the deck just after the grenades detonated, sending three of the Grunts and two Jackals flying off into space and causing the Elites shields to flare. It worked out so that the Spartan was on one edge of the platform, the ODST's on the other, with the Covenant caught in the middle.
For once, it was no contest.
David landed behind a Grunt, reached over its shoulder and grasped its chin, and snapped its neck. He raised both SMG's and hosed down the Elite Officer as Claire and her squad, armed with Assault Rifles, Submachine Guns, and Shotguns, pulped one of the cobalt Elites and the remaining Grunts and Skirmishers. Claire looked up as the Spartan paused to reload his SMG, then yelled, "David, on your nine!"
He instinctively ducked to one knee, dropped his SMG's, and drew his Automag as the last cobalt Elite, its shields flaring like an aura around it, rushed him with a roar. He put half a dozen rounds into its head and broke its shield. The Elite paused, shook his hands to the sky, and roared. David didn't hesitate, but rose, took three steps forward, and heel kicked the squid chinned alien with enough force to send him flying off the platform and into the night.
Fifteen seconds had passed since Claire had given the order to go.
Below them, there was an ungodly racket as the ground teams unleashed everything they had. Fuel Rod teams concentrated on the Scarab's legs, hoping to make them buckle, while SPNKR teams sent salvos of heat-seeking missiles up towards the Banshee's that were scrambling hither and yon as their pilots tried to desperately to figure out what was friend and what was foe and how everything had gone to hell so quickly. Two of the insect-like aircraft were knocked out in the first five seconds. A third, doing a barrel roll in an attempt to dodge a missile, hit the side of a building and exploded on contact, raining hot metal and steaming body parts down on the Scarabs deck as Covenant reinforcements emerged from the hold like larvae from a mother bug's egg sac.
David plugged a Grunt and a Jackal in the head, holstered his Automag with one hand and hurled his fist, armored with the Cestus, into a Skirmisher that had charged into the fray too quickly and was rewarded with a face full of kinetic retribution. He grabbed the creature's Needler Carbine as it fell, aimed, and snapped off half a dozen rounds, dropping Grunts left and right. Two Jackals turned to engage him and were promptly cut down by Claire's Assault Rifle.
David dropped the Carbine as it clicked empty, ducked and scooped up a Plasma Pistol in one hand, drew one of his SMG's in the other, and sent a charged blast of plasma into the Elite Officer that emerged. Before the alien could bring his Needler to bear, a dozen 4mm caseless rounds penetrated his helmet and lodged in his frontal lobe. He fell to the ground, twitching. David shot him in the face with his borrowed Plasma Pistol as he walked down the ramp to the Scarab's interior. Claire followed him, directing most of the squad to stay on the deck and keep the Banshee's at bay for their retreat.
Thirty seconds gone.
David paused at the landing, motioned to Claire, pantomimed tossing a grenade, and raised three fingers. Claire nodded, motioned to one of her ODST's, and made the same gesture. All three drew and primed a frag, and tossed them around the corner, towards the front where the driver controls were. Three seconds passed, followed by a three simultaneous booms. David, Claire, and two Hummingbirds charged around the corners, guns blazing.
Two Grunt Commanders, garbed in bone white armor, were bleeding and disoriented from the grenades blasts. The team cut them down mercilessly. Two Elite Officers that had been manning the controls were crouching, scrambling for their guns as they tried to get their bearings. But they weren't the main threat, no, not by a long shot. There was something else, something David, in his combat mode, couldn't register. Something-
Zealot. The word sprang into his mind a split second before the enormous shadow took form in the dimly lit interior. David had enough time to register ornately carved armor the purple-red color of a blood clot and the bright flash of an energy sword before he hurled himself backwards, saving himself from immediate decapitation.
The Elite Zealot issued a roar that was deafening in the cramped interior of the Scarab. He marched toward David even as the Spartan, flat on his back, fired his SMG at the advancing alien. The bullets pinged off his shields, doing no more damage than if they had been water droplets.
Bastards not fighting, David's mind, heightened by combat cocktail and adrenaline, babbled. Bringing retribution on me. He tried to get up, move out of the path of that deadly blade of plasma. The jetpack was too heavy; it upset his balance. He couldn't move. He fired, finger locked against the trigger, not thinking of death or dying or the afterlife but of the immediate and pressing need to slow that Elite so he could get up and fight. His world had shrunk, narrowed to a pinpoint; his sole purpose in life was to not die in the next five seconds.
Five…Four…
Click. His SMG rang empty. The Elite loomed over him; his senses, heightened beyond his superhuman levels, saw the beast's mandibles crinkle in what might have passed for a grin of triumph.
Three…
His hand dipped for his Automag. Futile, but it was still a loaded firearm.
Two…
The Zealots shields flared, almost blinding him. Claire and her two ODST's had scrambled and opened fire on it.
With a throaty roar of rage the Zealot sprang towards them with a nimble grace that was terrifying. Claire pushed away the ODST on her left and covered him with her body, saving both. The third ODST wasn't as lucky as the Zealot swung in a wide, breathless arc, cutting him apart diagonally down the chest. He fell with a sound like laundry thumping in a basket.
Claire. That one word snapped David's mind into an entirely new level of focus. Time seemed to slow, colors stood out in all their vibrant glory: the bruised, brooding magenta of the Elite's armor, the pulsing white-hot of its energy sword as it raised the blade high above its head, the brilliant blue of Claire's eyes as she raised her sidearm and emptied it into the Elite, defiant to the end, never yielding.
No. He tucked himself into a ball and thrust his legs outward; hurling himself onto his feet, then took two steps forward. With one hand he grabbed the Elite's wrist, arresting the swing of its sword at the apex of its descent. His other hand jabbed into what passed for the alien's elbow, fracturing its arm. As it opened its mouth to roar in agony he drew his combat knife and plunged it into the space beneath its arm pit, stabbing again and again until the Elite suddenly jabbed the elbow of its free arm into his visor. He stumbled back. The Elite, pumping claret and bellowing hoarsely, swiveled to face him-
Ch-chick! BOOM!
-And promptly collapsed to its swollen knees, a look of almost comical incredulity etched on its alien visage. Through the fresh gaping hole in its chest David could see Claire, a similar look visible through her visor, the muzzle of her borrowed Shotgun still smoking.
Ninety seconds gone.
He kicked aside the corpse of the Zealot and pulled Claire and the second ODST to their feet. "Thanks."
Claire pumped the Shotgun, ejecting the empty shell, and passed it back to the ODST. "Anytime."
"My line."
"Yeah, well, I'm borrowing it."
"Fair enough." David glanced at the ODST. "You got anything to add, trooper?"
He mumbled something.
"Again?"
"Let's just get the fuck out of here."
He glanced back at Claire. He could've sworn she was grinning beneath her visor, a terrified, exhilarated grin.
"You heard the man."
He strode over to a console, examined it briefly, then bashed apart the outer plating that protected the Scarab's internal veins. He drew from the hardened case on his hip a small but powerful explosive (compliments of Keller, thank you very much), attached it to the fuel line nestled beneath the plate, and set it. "Primed. Get clear."
Claire and the other ODST moved back, dropped their jaws, and David mashed the detonator. There was a small, bright explosion, and a torrent of luminescent orange jetted from the severed fuel line. They felt the titanic crawler shudder to a halt. The lighting in the Scarab's interior turned blood-red as a shrill alarm began to sound.
David nodded. "Now we can go."
"Roger." Claire keyed up her headset as she knelt and gently retrieved the dogtags from the fallen third ODST. "All call-signs, Scarab's gutted and it's going down. Get clear, repeat, get clear."
"LT, this is Khaled. Need a pick up?"
"Make it quick." She turned and nodded. "Okay. Now we should get the fuck out."
The three rushed back up the ramp to the open air, just as Khaled's purloined Phantom swung broadside. Hatches opened and ODSTs extended their arms to catch their brethren who leapt from the Scarab.
"Let's go! Let's go!" Claire made sure every member of her squad made the jump, then turned to David. "After you."
"Ladies first." He sounded dead tired.
"You're an ass."
"Right behind you."
So she turned and triggered her jump pack, jetting straight into the Phantom's waiting hold and the open arms of Katy, then reached and extended her arm, motioning to David. She heard the ODST piloting the aircraft say over the comms, "Helljumpers, this is your pilot. We are getting out of here." She watched as David, her poet-warrior Spartan, coiled his body, preparing to leap into the relative safety of her embrace, and in the heartbeat before the crash came she felt something like relief. For once, their paths hadn't crossed on an explosive fault line.
For once, it would be a clean finish.
Then the dive-bombing Banshee, its pilot having realized the Phantom was no longer Covenant-controlled, delivered a fuel rod straight to one of the gunship's vulnerable points. There was a bone jarring jolt that almost jettisoned her from the hold, followed by a high, hurt-sounding mechanical groan as the Phantom shuddered and careened into the side of a multi-story building. The sudden shift pulled her away from David. For a moment, she saw him frozen in mid-air, glowing obsidian amidst the flares and gunfire and explosions, arm extended out towards her. Then he was gone, falling into the void below.
She opened her mouth to scream and felt her heart plummet into her throat once again as the Phantom's engines failed and it began spiraling towards the ground. She jerked her head up reflexively, as if craning her body away from the inevitable impact and at that moment the Scarab exploded.
Her world went up in a blinding bluish-white flash, and she knew no more
[0218 Hours]
David sounded dead tired because he was dead tired. But he wasn't bushed enough to forget his jump pack. And that's what saved him. He had heard the scream of the Banshee, seen the greenish-yellow burst of its fuel rod on his periphery, and suddenly the Phantom jumped out of his reach. On instinct, he had stretched his arm out towards Claire, who was doing the same even as she clung for dear life to the gunship's hold.
Then gravity took over.
He had fallen maybe twenty feet before he remembered to trigger his jump pack, and slowed his descent enough to maneuver into the shadow of the building opposite that which the Phantom had collided with. As he landed the Scarab issued its death knell and collapsed upon itself in a blinding nova of heat and light. The energy wash-off knocked him back and bled his shields, and his suit's shrieking alarm drowned out the burst of comm chatter that immediately followed.
None of that mattered to him. The image of Claire, arm outstretched as the Phantom lumbered like a drunken giant into the building, was burned brighter on his retinas than the Scarab's explosion. He jammed his hand to his ear. "Claire? Claire, do you copy? Claire?!"
The comm channel was erupting with expletives and requests for orders. He forced himself to keep his voice calm as he repeated, "Claire, I know you're out there. Please, respond."
"David." Keller's voice answered him. "Still with us, I see."
He stumbled and crashed into an abandoned storefront as a series of secondary's detonated from the wreckage. "Hummingbird's Phantom went down. Do you have eyes on?"
"Eyes, eyezzz, eyeeeezzzz…you know, David, I don't think she made it. Tsk tsk tsk…"
"Bullshit." The word shot from his mouth with conviction, not contempt. "I'm a hundred yards from the crash site. I need fire team support ASAP-"
"And you'll get nothing of the sort. Covie reinforcements are already dropping in to our southwest; they'll devour the crash site in minutes. Time to make our egggggg-zit."
David glanced skyward. A squadron of Covenant Phantoms was landing to the rear of the burning hulk that had not ten minutes before been their functional Scarab. Talk about rapid response.
"I'm not leaving."
"That's an order.
He drew his Automag and checked the chamber. "I know."
"Order's are those things you're supposed to follow."
He shrugged off his jump pack. It would only slow him down.
"Oooohhhh, Daddy Bristow is gonna be very, very disappointed in his baby boy…"
"Keller?"
"Hmm?"
"Fuck off."
With that he bolted from the shadow of the building and broke into a dead sprint, running parallel and down across the street, towards where he had seen Claire's Phantom go down. Halfway there his ears picked up a low sound, distinct even amidst the discordant cacophony of street battle as the Human and Covenant forces began to trade gunfire: a droning, low-pitched thrumming, as of wings. His mind, hazy with exhaustion and the last, sweet dregs of adrenaline, took a wild turn, and for a second he thought the ODSTs in the crash site would ascend as actual Hummingbirds.
Then it came to him: those were wings. But not Hummingbird wings.
He vaulted over smoldering craters and wayward pieces of broken Scarab, then scaled a sizable chunk of wreckage and paused at its top. The Phantom's crash site was directly in front of him.
It was swarming with them.
[0217 Hours]
With the exception of a few memorable occasions, Claire never found herself waking up in the arms of someone she had to work with. Even as a green-as-grass buck private, she had kept her eyes and hands to herself, and politely turned down the eyes and hands that had reached out to touch her. Part of the blame was that she was- had been- saving herself for Matt Keller. And after that turned to shit, she didn't feel like putting herself in a position where she might have been vulnerable. And everyone, but everyone, was vulnerable between the sheets.
So it was with disorienting surprise that she woke up with not one but TWO fellow soldiers nestled next to her, one at her hip, the other draped partially across her stomach. What was more surprising was that they were all in their BDU's. What was most surprising still (once the last twenty-four hours came rushing back to her) was that they were all still alive.
She seemed to be lying on her back towards the rear of the crashed Phantom, surrounded by a crush of groaning and wounded ODSTs. A couple of meters and a million miles above her, starlight peeked through the torn metal and spurting electric bursts of the open broadside hold.
She began writhing, pushing at the trooper on her belly. A groan issued from the general area where his helmet was. "Five minutes more, mama…"
"I'll tell her when I see her, Sugar. Now get up."
He rose shakily into a kneeling position, coughing and cursing. Claire pushed at the second trooper. "Let's go, soldier-"
He lolled and collapsed. His neck was broken. She felt her hair stand on end as a small shiver worked its way up her spine. But her voice was strong and steady as she called out, "Katy! Sound off!"
"Yeah, I'm fine, LT, thanks for asking." The blonde Non-Com pulled herself up to the lip of the broadside hold. "This is Sergeant Rawlings, 1st Platoon. Anyone copy?"
Claire didn't hear the response, and she suddenly realized her helmet was busted. The visor was cracked and the integrated headset was silent. She yanked it off and tossed it away as she helped Sugar and a dazed Hummingbird to their feet. Her mind was racing. "We gotta link up with the main force, evac the wounded before the Covenant regroup. Katy, get back on the horn and-"
"CLAIRE!"
She spun around, heart racing. Katy was teetering precariously at the edge of the broadside, clawing at a giant insect with a brownish-green carapace and blurring wings that chattered in a low, sibilant echo.
Drones.
As if on cue, a half dozen more materialized out of the cold night and buzzed into the Phantom's hold, firing Plasma pistols and screeching their arrival to the shell-shocked ODSTs.
One immediately latched onto Claire. Its scabrous, reedy appendages held her in a vice-like grip as it knocked her off her feet. She could smell the musty, pungent odor of its beating wings, hear it screech and chatter as its mandibles loomed in her face. Lambent, emerald eyes peered cold and unfeeling at her as it opened its maw.
She cringed away from the Drone, screaming in fear and anger. Her hand, pinned at her side, fumbled with her holstered Automag. She got it free and fired literally from her hip, putting two armor piercing rounds through the alien's chitinous exterior. Its grip slackened, and she kicked it away and finished it with a coup de grace to the head. Beside her, Sugar all but disintegrated another Drone with a Shotgun he picked up, while other troopers likewise punished the bloodthirsty buggers for their hubris.
"HEEEELP MEEEEEEE!" A second Drone had latched onto Katy. The pair of them lifted her bodily into the air and began to carry her away as she struggled in mortal terror, trying to break free. Claire kicked away the dead Drone and scrambled towards her friend, knowing all the while that she wouldn't be able to reach her. She grabbed onto the broken mount for the Phantom's side turret and raised her Automag.
The skittering, frantic movement of the Drone's spoiled her aim; she couldn't kill them. But she couldn't let them carry off Katy and let them do God knows what to her. So she sighted the one target that would prevent both outcomes: Katy.
The ODST's helmet had fallen off in the chaos, and her blonde hair hung in disarray. Her eyes met Claire's.
"I'm sorry, Katy." She whispered.
She squeezed the trigger and fired.
Her aim was true; the round would have gone straight through Katy's head if it hadn't connected with the black blur that tore her from the Drone's grasp and enveloped her as it hurled itself into the Phantom's hold. Before she could react it had righted itself into a combat crouch and was firing its own Automag at the swarm of Drones.
"David!"
The Spartan turned and flashed her a thumbs-up. "Surprised?"
"No, now that I think about it." Silly Claire; he had his jump pack, after all. He's survived worse. She moved to check Katy. "Katy, you okay?"
"I'M FINE! Jesus fuck…."
"You sure?"
"Yes!"
"Sure?"
"Yeah. Stop looking at me like that!"
"You're fine." She slapped Sugar's backside. "Take care of her. We're getting out of here."
"A-fucking-men to that, LT."
She accepted the Assault Rifle he passed to her and moved to help David, firing choppy bursts at the cloud of insect warriors. "Is anyone else?-"
"Covenant reinforcements are massing a stone's throw to the Southwest. Keller is pulling the remaining forces back. I'm all there is." David's voice had lost its fuzzy exhausted edge.
"Troop size?"
"Six plus Phantoms, mixed groups." His Automag clicked empty. He dropped it and drew his Submachine gun, raking gunfire in a low arc and cutting a swath through the screeching Drones. One flew straight at him, its Plasma pistol charging. Claire arrested its flight with a burst of 7.62mm.
David activated his comm. "All call signs on this freq, this is Spartan Zero Zero Nine. I'm at the Phantom crash site adjacent to the Scarab with two dozen plus friendlies W.I.A. Need immediate assistance. Any fire teams in the area, please respond."
The only response he received was a louder, angrier buzzing.
"David…" Claire's voice was urgent. He looked up.
The Drones had multiplied three-fold. There were at least two, three dozen in a swarming, pulsing crowd above them. David raised his submachine gun and fired off a rapid burst that ended with the bolt clacking against the receiver.
Empty. He tossed the weapon away and moved further into the Phantom's hold, issuing orders over his shoulder. "Claire, you and Sergeant Khaled get your troops ready to move. Combat ready, whoever can walk, fight, or carry wounded. Be ready to move on my signal."
Claire slapped a fresh mag into her Assault Rifle's receiver and chambered it. "Copy. And what's your signal gonna be?"
David grunted. As she watched, he grabbed hold of the Phantom's side mounted Plasma Cannon, and with a sharp twist ripped it from its mooring. He hefted it in his arms and turned towards the cloud of Drones.
"You'll know when it happens."
[0220 Hours]
For as long as he could remember, PFC Landez had never put so much as the width of a toenail out of line. He had gone through daycare, pre-school, elementary, high school, even a year in college without so much as a bad report or a disciplinary citation. He liked to joke to whomever would listen (which, since he was not only a bottom-of-the-barrel infantryman and designated driver for all the stuffed-shirt officers, but also suffered from a lifelong stutter) that his life was about as exciting as a test pattern. Not even being on the frontlines managed to change that.
Which made his latest decision of defying a superior officer (and ONI agent's) direct order to retreat, commandeering the Troop Transport 'Hog he was currently driving, and double timing it back to the Phantom's crash site all the more uncharacteristic of him.
His was one of only two surviving vehicles that had lured the Scarab into its kill zone. In the wake of its destruction, Landez had heard Captain Keller issue a general order to fall back. Given the number of Covenant dropships massing around the Scarab's smoking carcass, the order was one he was more than happy to follow.
He was at the rally point, ready to ferry the civilian militia back to Refuge Omega, when the call came in.
"All call signs on this freq, this is Spartan Zero Zero Nine. I'm at the Phantom crash site adjacent to the Scarab with two dozen plus friendlies W.I.A. Need immediate assistance. Any fire teams in the area, please respond."
Landez glanced over his shoulder. The Scarab (sorry, what was left of it) was less than a half click away. He spoke into his mike. "Ca-Ca-Captain Keller, this is PFC Landez. Request per-ma-mission to re-task 'Hogs to the crash site, over."
"Request denied."
Huh?! "Buh-buh-ut sir, they're literally two or three football fields ah-away-"
"I don't like football."
"Huh?"
"Fuck off, Private. Ferry the screaming civvies back to base. Now. Keller out."
Landez glanced at his shotgunner, Corporal Cooper. Cooper shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "C'mon Landez, you heard the Captain."
"But that's bullshit! You heard the Spartan, th-th-they got two dozen Helljumpers back there ah-ah-ah-and-"
"Ah, ah, ah, and nothing! They got a Spartan and two dozen Helljumpers, they'll be fine. Let's worry about our own asses right now, eh?"
Landez stared at Cooper. Then he switched on the engine of the 'Hog, popped the clutch, and suddenly whirled it around one-eighty degrees in a hard moonshiner's turn, kicking up dirt and debris in his wake.
Cooper yelled, "Private, what in the god almighty hell are you doing?!"
"I'm guh-guh-going back for those Helljumpers."
"Stop the 'Hog! That's a direct order."
He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, pushing his speed from 100 to 120 kilometers per hour.
Cooper drew his Magnum. "Private, I swear to God, I will splatter cherry red all over this windshield if you don't stop the vehicle-"
Landez slammed the breaks. His safety harness bit into his shoulders and chest but saved him from splattering against the windshield as Cooper promised. Cooper, on the other hand, jetted head first into the dash. He slumped, stunned and bleeding.
"Guh-get out if you wuh-wuh-want. Buh-buh-but I'm not leaving those J-J-J-jumpers behind."
Cooper glowered at Landez but didn't say another word. Landez gunned the 'Hog and shot towards the crash site.
He was a midget at just over five feet, skinny and short limbed. He was a goody lil two shoes with a goddamn stutter and no real skills except for an ability to drive like a son of a bitch. All his life he never questioned any of that, never stopped believing that God, in His infinite wisdom, would put him right where he needed to be.
Tonight, this crash site was where he needed to be.
The sounds of shouting, alien screeches, an incessant buzzing and a steady whistling thump that he recognized as plasma cannon fire greeted him as he roared into sight of the downed Phantom. Pockets of Covenant were forming a staggered firing line along the Scarab's wreckage. Above the Phantom, a swarm of Drones buzzed in agitated fury, diving in coordinated strikes to take potshots at…
"Yeah, that's definitely a Spartan."
The Spartan in question was standing on the upturned edge of the Phantom, illuminated by the strobe light flash of the Plasma Cannon he fired from his hip into the swarm. Buggers dropped on all sides like…well, buggers.
Cooper keyed his comm. "Helljumpers, Troop Transport on your six!"
The Spartan glanced in the general direction of them, then motioned inside the Phantom and resumed firing at the Drones. A cluster of black-armored troopers leapt out and formed fire teams.
Landez tapped the brakes once, then again, slowing smoothly to a stop in the shadow of the Phantom. One of the Helljumpers, a pale, dark-haired Lieutenant with vivid blue eyes approached him. He found himself snapping a salute like a parade-ground recruit. "Puh-puh-Private First Class Leh-Leh-Landez, Lieutenant, huh-huh-here to help."
"Cut the salute, Private. Are you all there is?"
Cooper cut in. "We disobeyed direct orders to get here, ma'am. Yeah, we're all there is."
The LT motioned over her shoulder. Half a dozen ODSTs formed a lunch line and began passing wounded from the Phantom to the Troop Transport Hog while the Spartan and another fire team of ODSTs kept up suppressive fire. Cooper shouted, "They're gonna bust us to Privates for this, Landez!"
Landez shrugged.
The LT clapped him on his shoulder. "Thanks for coming back, Private."
It was the first time in at least eighteen months a woman (and a very beautiful woman at that) had deigned to touch him. Landez couldn't help himself; he grinned at her.
A flash of luminescent pink winked past his vision and he felt something tear through the flesh of his neck. He just had time to think What the fuck? before the thing exploded.
Blood splashed across the LT's face. Chunks of flesh- his flesh- flew lazily past his vision as his world spun. He fell out of the driver seat, into the Lieutenant's arms. Her expression had turned from tired and grateful to horrified. Her mouth moved with words he couldn't hear. Above her, he could barely register the shape of the Covenant Phantom as it deposited troops on top of the crash site. Funny; it seemed very important to save those troopers at the crash site a minute ago. Wait? Save the Covenant troopers, or the Human troopers? He couldn't seem to remember….
He suddenly felt very tired. The Phantom drifted out of focus, and he instead focused on the face of the Lieutenant as she held him, saying whatever she was saying. She was very beautiful.
If he was gonna die, might as well go out looking at something beautiful.
Exit Landez, stage right.
[0222 Hours]
The driver slumped unconscious in her arms. She wiped his blood from her face with a shaking arm then yelled at the Corporal in the shotgun seat. "Stabilize him and get ready to drive!"
The Corporal looked stricken as he took the PFC into his arms and began to apply Biofoam to his neck wound. "Fucking stuttering..." He glanced up. "Eyes up!"
Claire spun on heel and brought her rifle to bear as a team of Grunts, Jackals, and Elites dropped from the Phantom that appeared above the crash site. "Shift fire left!"
A line of plasma bolts and ballistic rounds cut down the Grunts and forced the remaining Covenant to split fire in both directions. The Phantom above shifted its chin mounted gun- directly at the 'Hog.
Claire grit her teeth. No goddammit…
A line of 102mm rockets punched into the side of the Phantom. It shivered as if angry, and flew away. Claire looked back and saw elements of the civilian militia and the remaining 224th charge forward in their line of Hogs, Mongooses, and patchwork civilian vehicles, some three hundred meters back. She yelled to the Corporal in the Troop Transport's driver's seat, "Get these men to the firing line, then get back ASAP."
"Roger." The Troop Transport roared back to the main Human force, a dozen wounded ODSTs crammed into its hold. Claire turned back in time to see more Covenant ground reinforcements beginning to take up firing positions in a staggered line along the Scarab's wreckage. There seemed to be hundreds of them. Her heart sank as she moved to cover. There's no way we can get out of this…
Movement on her right; David leapt into cover next to her, passing her more ammo. "Drone's are pulling back. Looks like one hundred plus foot mobiles converging on our position. Guess they're pissed." He glanced at her. "You hit?"
Claire looked at him. "No. Hey?"
"Yeah?"
"How'd you know we were still alive after the crash?"
"I didn't. Now give me some cover."
Something in those seven words hit Claire like an injection of adrenaline. She rose with David and opened fire on the line of Covenant as he bolted back to the crash site and retrieved its second Plasma Cannon. Together, along with Khaled, Katy, Sugar, and the five or so Helljumpers still combat ready, they laid down covering fire for the rest of Claire's platoon and the Hummingbirds as they ferried their wounded back to the Human lines. What had started as a last-ditch rescue operation had devolved into a giant pissing contest of fire superiority.
It took another trip to get the wounded back to relative safety. The Troop Transport 'Hog swung back around one final time. "Last run, everybody in whose going!" The Corporal yelled.
"Pile in, Helljumpers!" She slapped each trooper's shoulder and directed them towards the vehicle, then cupped her hands over her mouth. "David! Let's go!"
The Spartan dropped his borrowed Plasma Cannon and picked up an Assault Rifle, backpedaling as he continued to fire on the Covenant. "Think I'll fit? I weigh more than three of you combined."
"Who cares? No one left behind, remember?"
"When did I say that?"
"Peek-a-boo, kiddies. I see you."
"Keller." Claire and David said in unison.
The voice on the comm laughed. "Delighted to see neither of you are currently dead or dying."
"Don't you have a retreat to be spearheading?" David said, as drily as one could say in the ungodly racket of live combat.
"Be soft. I'm relaying a communiqué."
There was a brief burst of static, then a familiar female voice came over the comm. "This is Captain Rios of the UNSC All Under Heaven. Lieutenant Avalos, do you copy?"
They made it! "Loud and clear, Captain. And damn glad to hear you."
"Likewise, Lieutenant. We're here in low orbit with elements of the 4th Fleet, about to engage the Covenant Battle Group. A squadron of Longswords is inbound to provide close air support. They need target markers on Covenant positions!"
"Of course they do." David sighed. Claire turned and saw him juggling an electronic beacon in his hand.
"You just happened to have that in your pocket?"
"Hard case, actually. Damn thing's roomy."
He looked up at her. She marveled at the fact that with a full company of Covenant ground forces stacked against them, his attention was on her.
"David."
"Get in and go. I'll pop the beacon and be right behind you."
Katy, firing her Magnum at the Covenant from her seat, piped up. "Fuck that! They're all over us!"
"David, you can't do this."
"Don't think I'm fast enough?"
"I know you're fast enough, damn it, but that's almost a quarter mile of open terrain…"
Her feet left the ground as the Spartan scooped her up in his arms and threw her, albeit gently, into the nearest empty seat. "Don't worry. I won't be far behind." He slapped the bumper. "Driver, after you."
"David, you piece of shit!"
He flashed a peace sign and resumed firing. The muzzle flashes of his rifle grew smaller as the 'Hog sped away. Claire kicked the edge of her seat in frustration.
Khaled patted her shoulder. "He'll be fine, Lieutenant. His kind always is."
Claire stared at the receding figure of the Spartan. Her Spartan.
"Not always, Sarge."
[0230 Hours]
No heroics, Davy Boy.
Yeah, thanks for the reminder.
He reloaded his Assault Rifle, grabbed a Grenade Launcher one of the troopers had left behind, and then sprang from cover. Two Grunts who had crept up on his position had time to squeak in alarm before they were mercilessly cut down. The Elite behind them, another cobalt rookie, pointed at him as it babbled something to the effect of, "Wort wort wort."
"Wort wort this." He grabbed its outstretched arm, jabbed the muzzle of his rifle into its neck, pulled it over his shoulder and slammed it onto its back, then stepped on its neck and twisted.
He was within fifty yards of the Covenant line; the air around him was a flurry of plasma bursts, Needle shards, and-
Fuel Rod. The blob of radioactive energy, courtesy of a Grunt's launcher, detonated just to his right, bleeding his shields instantly. He ducked beneath a convenient outcropping of debris, heart pounding and claxons screaming, then closed his eyes and calmed his breathing as his shields recharged. He needed to be calm.
Find your center. Find your center. Find…your…center…
Unbidden, Claire's face appeared in his mind.
That works too.
And it did, because his heartbeat returned to normal as his shields returned to full strength. He swapped out his rifle for the Grenade Launcher, held the trigger, then opened his eyes, turned, and re-entered the firestorm.
He launched an EMP-charged grenade straight at the offending Grunt with the launcher, sending it and its cohort flying while bursting the shields of nearby Jackals and Elites. As they scattered or struggled to recover, he drew the electronic beacon, triggered it, and hurled it straight at the feet of an Elite veteran. The veteran, perhaps thinking the blinking device was some kind of grenade, dove to cover. When it got back to its feet the Spartan was gone, sprinting all out for the human line.
He radioed it in. "Captain Rios, this is Spartan-009. Beacon is hot, send in the Longswords."
"Copy, Spartan. Get clear."
Approximate distance to friendly forces: 400m
Relative speed: 60 km/hr or 37.25mph
Relative energy drain: Gargantuan
Prognosis: Relative speed will drop by 60% within 150m, lowering in progressively smaller but inevitable increments as lactic acid causes severe cramps in extremities. Relative speed will bottom out to approximately 18.5% maximum within 100m of friendly forces.
Projected outcome: Run fast or die trying.
He heard an ungodly chorus of howls behind him. As his breath shortened in his chest, it occurred to him that the Covenant forces must have spotted him (spotted you, Davy boy? You're a human tank sprinting down a roadway between two firing lines? What do you expect?) and gotten real pissed. The roar was drowned out as the whine of a hundred Covenant plasma weapons, impotent fury made tangible, began to compete with the Ratatatat! of automatic ballistic gunfire and hoarse cheers of wounded and weary human fighters.
The scream of a dive-bombing Banshee caused him to duck and roll. A Fuel Rod detonated close on his six. His shields dropped precipitously low. The alarm was beginning to drown out every other noise. He rolled to his feet and kept sprinting.
A faint metallic taste began to fill his throat and the back of his mouth; his limbs grew stubborn, muscles burning as he sprinted, panting like an ancient steam engine. C'mon, goddammit, a few more meters…I'm coming to you, Claire…I'm almost-
Something punched him between the shoulder blades with enough force to knock him off balance and drain the remainder of his shields instantly. He stumbled, almost fell, then righted himself and continued running, the parts of his brain still capable of conscious thought wondering which of those aliens was enough of a dead-eye to peg him from this dis-
The next punch carried the same weight. He saw a line of transparent green exit out the brand spanking new hole in his shoulder. Globules of blood, in slow motion, flew past his vision after the line. He watched them fly, oddly fascinated by their shapelessness. He slowed down a bit. He did feel very tired after all. And-
The third punch, almost directly on top of the second, was the one that finally dropped him. With the force of the shot and his remaining momentum he pitched forward into the ground like an orbital drop pod; the shock and pain traveled through his body, knocking the remaining breath out of his lungs and stunning him as he slid to a stop. Everything was screaming: his suits alarm system, his body in its armor, the voice in his head…
GETUPDAVYBOYYOUUSELESSFUCKYOUCANTSTOPNOWNOTWHENYOURESOCLOSESOCLOSETOTHEENDTHINKOFYOURMISSIONYOURTRAININGYOURFRIENDSCLAIREJENNIFERBRISTOWWHATWILLBRISTOWTHINKNEVERYIELDNEVERYIELDNEVERYIELDYOUSMELLYGOATGETUPNEVERYIELDNEVERYIELDNEVER-
Just shut the fuck up, and let me die in peace, will ya?
…
Thanks.
[0230 Hours]
The Carbine wasn't an ideal long range sniping weapon, but then again, Sev Rolamee wasn't an ideal long range sniper. Nor was he in ideal shape to be a long range sniper. His encounter with the Demon, the one who had felled his mentor so many campaigns ago, back in the human citadel had left him with severe plasma burns that had cut through his armor and bare skin. Even with the battlefield salve that he had applied once a safe distance from the doomed building, his wounds sang their fury with every move he made.
But that was only soft plasma. Nothing like the high speed radioactive rounds he had put into the Demon. More than he had expected to need granted, but no one is impervious to a trio of magnetic field-encased fuel rods.
He watched the Demon fall and waited for that feeling to enter his chest. That warm, satisfied feeling of conquest.
But it didn't come.
Beside him, the silver-white armored field officer, Enz Gurlamee, chortled approvingly. "A fine shot, Rolamee. Iras had trained you well."
Sev barely heard him. "This Demon deserved worse for the pain and humiliation he has caused me."
"You can't bear the blame for what those worthless Brutes do. Imagine, when I relay your report that Gracchus untied the Demon to challenge him to a fight!"
Despite himself, Sev flushed. "It is beneath you to exposit the details of Gracchus' ignominious end."
"Unfortunately, my friend, I am compelled to. A lack of proper explanation would raise the suspicion that you were somehow at fault for the Demon's escape. And I would hate for such slander to tarnish your otherwise impeccable record."
Sev shot a quick look at the field officer; his expression held no guile or suspicion. All the same, he felt a chill in his gut. "You speak the truth. I…appreciate your discretion."
"But of course." Gurlamee yawned impressively, then turned to his crimson-armored attendants. "Give the order; full charge."
"But sir, we have no air support-"
"I don't want to see the Human's tuck tail and scamper back to their hole. They are weak and outnumbered. We finish them now. Besides," he clapped Sev on the shoulder. "I'm sure Officer Rolamee would love to have the head of the Demon he felled as a trophy."
The attendants relayed the orders. The Covenant line, Elites, Grunts, Jackals, and Skirmishers all, rose up and suddenly began advancing as one.
"A fine day this is shaping up to be. One they'll celebrate in the record for ages- Well!" He peeked down his monocle. "Look at this!"
Sev followed his gaze.
Below him, in the wide, broken street, a hundred Covenant soldiers advanced, their weapons blazing at the line of entrenched humans. He could see the Demon, little more than halfway between the two groups, lying still, seemingly dead.
And from the human line, one lone, small figure broke rank and charged towards the Demon.
[0231 Hours]
She broke rank and charged towards David the second after he fell.
Katy and Sugar grabbed at her, yelling, "No LT!" She shook them off and ran as fast as she could towards the fallen Spartan, the air around her twinkling with green and blue and pink energy. She could hear shouts and screams behind her for to come back, get down, find cover, don't go to him, he's dead.
She heard them, but didn't process them. Her mind was numb, body filled with that strange, shifting sand feeling that you get when your foot falls asleep, as if she would disintegrate into a billion particles of salt and shale. She couldn't see the line of Covenant now charging at the Human lines, nor feel the heat of the plasma bolts as they passed close enough to singe her armor.
There was only David, lying still in the middle of the street.
She slid to a stop next to him, then grabbed his hand. "David?! DAVID!?"
He jolted and stirred. She could barely hear his voice, lost amidst the deafening cacophony of screams and gunfire. "Claire?..."
Her heart wrenched at how weak he sounded. "I'm getting you out of here."
"No…Go, just…leave me…too tired…just leave me…" His head, which he had raised slightly, lowered. His helmet made a hollow clanging as it touched the ground.
The sight of David, wounded and defeated, would have broken her heart under normal circumstances. And while she was a soldier and David apparently had a knack for lost cause, final stand situations, this she didn't classify as "normal circumstances."
Consequently, her heart wasn't breaking; it was melting, burning with the heat of the sudden and overwhelming rage that threatened to choke the life out of her- that is, if she didn't choke what life remained out of this lazy-good-for-nothing Spartan.
"GET UP!" She screamed. "GET UP, YOU SELFISH BASTARD! GET YOUR LAZY ASS UP!" She stood up and kicked him in his side, doing more damage to her toes than his ceramic titanium armor. Plasma fire was whirling around her. The small part of her brain that still maintained its rational integrity told her, quite meekly, that she should probably get down.
The rest of her brain was too focused on venting molten fury to care. She kicked David in his shoulder, close to his fresh wounds. He jolted, yelped, rolled into the fetal position. She knelt down and grabbed his melon-sized helmet in her hands, then all but roared into his visor. "ON YOUR FEET, SPARTAN! WE. ARE. LEAVING!"
And, amazingly, he did. He struggled to his feet, unsteadily. She grabbed his arm, looped it around her shoulders, and clinched her free arm as best she could around his waist, guiding him back towards the Human line. "Stay with me, David!"
He said nothing.
They had shuffled and stumbled maybe twenty yards when a stray plasma bolt struck her directly in the left ass cheek. She cried out and stumbled to her knees. David crashed next to her.
She twisted around and drew her Automag, fired three wild shots at the Skirmisher that had shot her. It loped easily past the bullets, moving with a speed that made it impossible for her to hit. It suddenly turned sharply and headed straight forward, bringing its Plasma Pistol to bear. She took aim again, but before she could fire, an Automag behind her coughed and the Skirmisher tumbled end over end as a bullet lanced through its cranium.
David had half risen, his own Automag drawn and ready. "I told you…to go…"
"Cierra la puta boca y disparar!" She had, in her rage, reverted to Spanish, but it needed no translation. Both soldiers shifted into decidedly non-textbook firing positions- David on his back, Claire twisted on her knees- and emptied their sidearm's at the fast moving Skirmishers and the solid wall of Covenant beyond.
"You should've gone!" David yelled.
"Not without you!" She yelled back.
"We're dead!"
"THEN WE DIE TOGETHER!" She screamed.
Her 'Mag clicked empty. She reached for a fresh clip and felt nothing but empty air. She looked to David and saw he was out of ammo too. Beneath his visor, she could see his eyes look to hers. The look in them said something to the effect of, This is it. She glanced up and saw the main Covenant force within a football field's distance of them. They'd be all over them in seconds.
She felt his arm go around her shoulders, and she found her arms wrapping around his neck. To die in the arms of a friend, a loved one…there are much worse ways to go.
Then the familiar whine of a low flying squadron of Longswords filled her ears. She glanced up and spotted them to their six, silhouetted against the night sky. "David…Longswords…"
David said nothing, but swiftly pulled her onto her back and shifted his body to cover hers as much as possible. She buried her face in the area of his neck as he wrapped his arms around her, and she heard him whisper, "Hold on."
She held him and he held her as the Longswords swooped in low and delivered their explosive payload onto the charging Covenant forces. The ground shook and the air around them screamed with heat and light. Chunks of molten asphalt and waves of hot dirt engulfed them; she could feel David's body shake as his shields and armor took the brute force of the inferno. She held him impossibly tighter, praying and waiting for it to be over.
Then the only sound was of the after fires crackling and secondaries popping off, and of David's hoarse, uneven breathing. He rolled onto his side and she sat up.
The Covenant line- along with most of the street in front of them, extending as far as she could see- was gone, all but disintegrated. The fires from the explosions lit up the night around them.
She groaned and fell onto her side, because she suddenly realized her left ass cheek was in incredible pain. David took off his helmet, and she looked into his weary but wary eyes, set behind the sweat-streaked, unshaven face. He murmured something.
"Come again?"
"We good?"
"Yeah, yeah, we're good."
"Good…because I'm tired."
His eyes closed and he seemed to drift off. She sat up suddenly, alarmed. "David." She kicked his knee. "David!"
"No rest for the wicked…" He sighed and opened his eyes again. "I'm not going anywhere, Claire. Just need some rest."
"You and me both." She relaxed again. The sounds from the general direction where her head was pointed told her the rest of the remaining Human forces were moving up, probably to retrieve them.
"I thought this was it, David. Today was the day we wouldn't make it."
"Day's not even started yet, Claire."
Something about that statement struck her as deliciously funny, and she began laughing, a bright, warm, ringing sound amidst the dying fires and devastated cityscape.
David couldn't help it; he began to laugh with her.
The two soldiers- Helljumper, Spartan- lay in the center of the ruined city and laughed like children as their fellow soldiers came to rescue them.
[0233 Hours]
He had hidden in the far recesses of the Human structure from which he and the commander Gurlamee had observed the street battle, and thereby escaped the worst of the blast. Gurlamee wasn't so lucky; as he emerged from under the pile of rubble which had fallen on him in the bombing run, he spotted the commander's claw, spouting a little blood, lying a bit off to his side. It still held the monocle.
He kicked the claw aside, dusted himself off, and drew his Plasma Pistol. He peeked out of the fresh hole in the side of the structure.
The street had disappeared behind the shroud of smoke and fire, remnants and aftermath of the Human's fighters. The entire company of Covenant soldiers had disappeared too. His motion tracker, still operable, detected a large mass of red dots on the far edge. The Humans were moving up.
It was time to leave.
He jumped out of the hole, landed on the ground twenty feet below, then took off at a run down the street in the opposite direction of where the Humans were, stumbling as the burn on his leg shot a lance of pain through his body. He needed to link up with the remaining Covenant forces, somewhere to the South.
Sev found himself shaking. Not from the death of the commander and the entire company; he had seen groups far larger get annihilated for far nobler causes. No, what caused him to shake was the Demon.
He had watched the rounds from his Carbine fly straight and true. He had watched them hit the Demon, once, twice, thrice. He had seen the Demon fall.
And then he had gotten back up. Three shots. He had hit him with three direct shots and still he lived.
With effort, he banished the thought to the back of his mind, forced himself to focus on direction and evasion, as the sound of human airships reached his ears. He'd need to focus, live to fight another day.
Next time he'd use six shots.