A lifetime ago Washington had known a war room very much like this one. Now as then the front wall was taken up entirely by monitors, information writhing across the screens in response to changing variables. The holotank in the center of the room was dark as it awaited the generals to arrive and begin the briefing. All he needed was the pervasive hum of V4/L-DFR engines and it would be easy to pretend he was back aboard the Mother of Invention. Hell, Carolina was even in her customary spot right next to the oblong tank, leaning on the edge as she waited for the meeting to begin.
As many similarities as there were, it was impossible to believe the memories were anything but that. South wasn't pacing in the back of the room bitching about some imagined slight while North tried halfheartedly to placate her. Wyoming and Maine weren't lurking well away from the everyone else while CT prowled the edges of the group. York wasn't hovering by Carolina's shoulder trying to tease her into breaking her professional veneer.
Instead there was half a squad of simulation troopers clustered around the refreshment table at the back of the room. Tucker, Donut and Caboose were almost in Pointless Conversation Formation Quebec — wait, no, Grif entered and made a beeline for the table as he pulled off his helmet. That shifted the group to Bickering Formation Foxtrot as he and Tucker began to argue over the last eclair.
The contrasts between his past and present teams were glaring.
Wash let out a soft breath as he indulged in the sweet ache of nostalgia. More than his teammates, he sometimes missed the man he'd been back then. Bright and fresh and working with people who cared for him as a younger, dimmer brother, alternating between teasing and nurturing with maddening fickleness. A man who had no idea what betrayal felt like, who had never killed in cold blood and could still believe he was a good person. A man who —
"CHAAAAARRRGE!" Sarge hollered as he kicked the door open, firing his shotgun at the first cerulean object he saw. Simmons came in screaming behind him, pointing his weapon but having the good sense not to fire.
"What the HELL?!" Carolina shouted, furious but fortunately well out of the shotgun's range. No one else in the room even looked up.
A man who had never had to interrupt his brooding internal monologue to scream at another man, "God damn it, what have I told you about launching a preemptive counterattack?!"
Sarge and Simmons stopped and exchanged chagrined looks. "Not while there's a war going on," they said in unison, lowering their weapons and hanging their heads.
"That's right," Wash said, crossing his arms in front of him. "And why don't we preemptively counterattack when there's a war going on?"
"Because it's a distraction from the actual enemy," Sarge recited in a halfhearted mutter as he scuffed his boots on the floor. He perked up. "But Donut — "
It was literally like dealing with children. "Ah, ah!" Wash said, annoyed to find himself waggling a finger at someone almost twice his age and half his sanity. "No excuses. Now apologize to Carolina."
You would have thought he'd suggested cannibalism the way Sarge recoiled. "Say what now?" he asked incredulously.
Wash gestured to Carolina. "You shot at her when she didn't have her helmet on. She's not even on the Blue Team. You owe her an apology," he said sternly.
Sarge thought a moment, working the situation through his own twisted logic. After a moment he snapped, "Simmons! Apologize."
There wasn't a second of hesitation. "We sincerely regret any damage or emotional distress our valiant offense may have — "
"Not Simmons, Sarge," Wash said, "You."
The two team leaders stared each other down. Carolina crossed her arms in front of her, pose relaxed as she watched the scene play out. Simmons fidgeted next to Sarge, adjusting his grip on his weapon.
Wash had to admit he was uncertain if he could come out on top in a contest of wills — the man had cracked jokes with Maine's hand around his neck. Fortunately, Wash wasn't afraid to play dirty.
"You shot at an innocent girl, Sarge," he said. He ignored Carolina slowly turning to stare at him; he didn't need to see her face to know there would be retribution.
It did the trick, however. Grumbling curses under his breath, Sarge stumped forward until he was standing in front of Carolina, drawing her attention away from Wash. It was the bare essentials of an apology. While "sorry" did not make an appearance among the mumbled words, "you look like a dirty Blue but I guess I don't hate you" meandered onto the scene. Wash bit down on a sigh. It wasn't worth it to push the issue. As long as Carolina accepted it, he didn't care.
She watched Sarge with a wry smile, never moving or reacting to his words and forcing him to continue talking to stave off an awkward silence. Wash was rather surprised at how well she'd adapted to dealing with the sim troops; the Carolina he'd known in Freelancer would be stepping over Sarge's corpse to chase after Simmons. The Carolina in front of him was being playful and toying with the Red leader.
He wasn't the only one who'd changed, Wash thought as he suppressed a smile.
"Alright, Sarge. Apology accepted," Carolina said finally, her voice thick with humor. Sarge sagged with relief.
"There. Don't you feel better?" Wash said.
"It's not right!" Sarge complained, storing his shotgun on a magclip at the back of his armor. "How's a man s'posed to stay sharp if he's not allowed to hone his skills against the flint of his mortal enemy? Strengthen his mettle in the fiery forge of battle! Bevel his edge against the anvil of his opponents' defenses! Wrap his foe's wooden grip with his leathery woah hang on that one got away from me."
A perky male voice chimed in from the back of the room. "Hey, Sarge! Are you talking about — "
"No, Donut!" the four of them said in unison.
Like most everything, this failed to dampen Donut's spirits. "Sure, Sarge," he called brightly, "but if you want to continue 'not talking' about it, I know where you can find a lot of information about leather and wood!"
Sarge's only response was an indecipherable mutter as he went to investigate the refreshment table. Simmons magclipped his weapon and trotted after him, saying, "I think your edge is still excellently beveled, sir!"
Wash shook his head in disgust. This was his life now, and he was not nearly as depressed by that fact as he should be.
"When did you get so good at handling people?" Carolina asked with a small grin.
"I learned the hard way that if you try and stop crazy you're just going to lose your mind, too," he spat, "The best you can do is channel it in another direction and ignore as much as you can."
Carolina twisted to stare at Sarge's retreating back. "How did that shotgun not hit me, though? Is it loaded with blanks?" she asked.
He shook his head again, feeling a headache taking shape. "No; the truth is way more idiotic. He figured out a way to supercharge his shotgun, so now it's incredibly deadly — but only if you're standing less than three feet away," he explained. He shrugged in response to Carolina's incredulous stare. "That's not even his worst idea — remind me to tell you about the EMP gun. Like I said, I ignore as much as I can. Any idea what this meeting's about?"
Carolina hummed a negative, shaking off her stunned disbelief. "Only thing they told me was that they needed Epsilon's help for something," she said. "He's been in their system all day doing who knows what." She shrugged. "Hopefully calling us here means he was successful."
"He was."
They all turned as Kimball and Doyle walked into the room, helmets off and faces grim. There was no preamble as they went straight for the holotank. Wash winced; that wasn't a good sign.
Kimball pressed a data crystal chip into a receptacle on the machine. A diminutive figure shimmered into being in the center of the tank. "Alright, gather 'round, jackasses, and prepare to be amazed!" Epsilon crowed.
"Not sure that's how you start a staff meeting, Epsilon," Carolina chided warmly as everyone moved closer.
The AI shrugged. "Hey, I just spent the past eighteen-point-six hours developing an encryption tunneling protocol using a TLS to insert an LSP into Charon's LAN TCP/IP — "
"Now I know my ABC'S — "
" — Shut up, Caboose," Epsilon said without heat, then continued as if there had been no interruption, "Into the TCP/IP to duplicate all incoming and outgoing transmissions to our servers for decryption. It wasn't exactly putting your ear to a glass on the wall; sue me for wanting a little recognition."
"Showoff," Carolina teased.
"Good to see being a computer's brought down your ego, dude," Tucker jeered, "Maybe if you spout enough bullshit nerd stuff everyone will forget you can't use a fucking sniper rifle."
"Bite me."
"Epsilon has been invaluable in our efforts to gather information," Doyle said, a smile widening under his beak of a nose. "It has been an absolute pleasure to work with so dedicated and effective a soldier, however transparent."
Wash frowned slightly at Doyle as Epsilon preened. The leaders of the New Federation army had been working hard to try and heal the devastation caused by the civil war as fast as possible to prepare for the conflict with Charon. Kimball seemed fine, but the strain was starting to show on Doyle. The bags under his black eyes and his normally coiffed hair hanging lank were testament to the long hours he'd been working. His skin, normally a rich brown acorn color, was comparatively pale with exhaustion. Still, he seemed in good cheer as he rubbed his hands together and leaned towards the tank. "Epsilon, if you would be so kind as to begin the presentation, please?" he said.
"Fine, I guess. Not like I worked my ass off or anything," Epsilon grated. The overhead lights dimmed and surface of the holotank was instantly alive with a topographic display of the Armonia and the surrounding area. "Yeah, so thanks to some brilliant but unappreciated hard work — "
Kimball's voice was not amused. "Epsilon."
" — we now have an ear in Charon's ground network. Now, we can't yet access their TDRS — "
"W, X, Y and Z — "
" — Shut up, Caboose. Quiet Game Time. Anyway, no satellites, no interstellar communication, no ratting out what that scumbag Chairman is up to or asking for help with the blockade."
"So all that work with nothing to show for it. Great meeting, everyone!" Grif quipped.
Against her copper skin Kimball's tawny eyes looked almost preturnatural in the holotank's glow as she leaned forward. "Not 'nothing,' Captain Grif," she said, "We intercepted and decrypted a communication to their nearest station. Epsilon?"
The map zoomed out to highlight a spot about twenty miles from Armonia. "Now, they used the new IWPA3, but I've already figured out that an adjusted Morelli/Castaway attack will decipher that one easily," Epsilon said in a grandiose manner, strutting in a small circle. "I mean, props to them for using their own private security protocol, but come on, it was so obvious they used CCMP to encrypt their keys they may as well have handed it to me on a platter."
"Epsilon."
He threw up his hands with a frustrated growl. "Fine, okay! Here's the stupid message."
A facsimile of a waveform grid sprang up, a cursor sliding across the peaks and valleys as the audio played.
"Outpost Two-Seven, this is Mike-Lima-Sierra-Four, over."
A chill speared down Wash's spine at the familiar voice. His jaw clenched as remembered anger stirred within him, bringing to mind memories of the radio jammer station. He had known Locus would show up again, but it had been something that remained in the future — something that he would always have time to deal with later. Now… he forced his revulsion to the side as the message continued.
"Mike-Lima-Sierra-Four, this is Outpost Two-Seven reading you five. Go ahead, over."
"Outpost Two-Seven, contact has been made with CSO 'Glorious Revelation.' Standby for incoming Type-Two-Five Spirit at your location tomorrow, callsign 'Manumitter's Arrival,' confirm, over."
Wash crossed his arms, settling his weight on one leg. Elites? Here?
"Type-Two-Five Spirit 'Manumitter's Arrival' incoming tomorrow, copy. What are our orders, over?"
"Hold position and await further instruction. Mike-Lima-Sierra-Four out."
The waveform blipped out of existence as if it had never been. Wash's frown deepened. "Why are the Elites landing on Chorus?" he asked.
Kimball's smile held no trace of warmth. "Why, indeed," she said as she leaned on her palms on the holotank. Her tone took on the quality of someone very deliberately not implicating anyone else in the room. "Some may disagree, but this message means we can no longer sit back and wait for Charon to make the first move. We may not know what Elites have planned or what Charon's interest in them is, but it is vital we keep them away from each other. We're overwhelmed as it is; the only thing keeping them from wiping us off the map is that they're waiting for something. We can't risk these Elites being used against us, so we're taking preventative measures."
They all jumped as Sarge let out a joyous shout. "Great merciful Mars, finally some good old-fashioned violence!" he crowed.
Doyle's lips twitched as if he wanted to frown. "While I do admit this information is somewhat alarming," he started, and Wash could hear his tone sharpen to a spearpoint thrust at Kimball's heart, "what some may fail to realize is that this also represents an opportunity to secure communication lines beyond Chorus' stellar field; an opportunity that may be jeopardized by rash action. If we ally with these Elites without provoking Charon, we can utilize their supercarrier to bypass Charon's blockade and radio for help from the UNSC while they remain oblivious.
"Attacking will only alert Charon that we have intercepted their message, resulting not only in a militaristic retaliation that we are not ready for but also adapting their encryption protocol. So 'violence' should be our last recourse."
Sarge wilted, cursing under his breath.
"HA!" Grif whooped, "Murphy'd!"
"That's not how it works, dumbass," Simmons said.
Doyle's brow furrowed in confusion. "What — "
"Don't," Wash cut in. "Trust me. One thing I've learned, if you weren't there for the original dumb conversation, just let it go. Asking about it only starts up another dumb conversation."
"You should write a book," Carolina said.
Wash scrunched up his face in an insincere smile. "Funny," he said.
"If we can get back to business," Kimball said, "While General Doyle makes an excellent point," her sarcasm had the weight of a hundred arguments behind it, "We don't have the luxury of being discreet. That outpost needs to be ours before the Elites arrive."
"Son of a bitch," Grif snarled as Sarge cheered again.
"Told you," Simmons said.
"Carolina has the most experience in this kind of thing, so she'll be leading the takeover operation. As for the rest of you, you've all been selected to participate in this mission since your records show prior experience in dealing with the aliens in... various ways." Wash stifled a flash of guilt at the memory of a pile of Elite corpses in the sand.
"Donut never met the aliens," Simmons pointed out.
"Yuh-huh!" Donut said, "Back at Blood Gulch! There was the baby and the big one!"
"I won the Quiet Game!" Caboose announced, grinning as he added with pride, "I always win the Quiet Game."
"That's great, buddy. You're the champion. Time for Round Two!" Epsilon said.
The Reds hadn't paused in their discussion. "Dude, you had a Pelican drop on you before you saw the baby and you got knocked the fuck out before they got in the ship," Grif said.
"But I was in the area!" Donut huffed.
"And that's more experience than anyone else here," Kimball said.
Epsilon turned to face her. "Wow. It's that bad, huh?" he said.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Yes. It's that bad," she said. "Chorus was the last planet colonized before the war, and we're so far out of the way that we never saw any combat — these will be the first Elites to ever land here."
"Can we stop calling them 'Elites'?" Tucker asked in a strained voice.
"Would you prefer 'baby daddies'?" Grif said coyly.
Tucker gave him an ugly scowl. "Look, I can't really explain it, but they don't like being called 'Elites.' Something about the importance of names or some shit. If we're gonna be trying to get these guys to join our side or whatever, we gotta call 'em what they call themselves: Sangheili."
The group exchanged glances then turned as one to stare at him. Tucker's face flushed darker than normal under their scrutiny. "Hey, I'm just trying to not piss off the giant aliens with a supercarrier overhead, okay? You want an alliance or not?" he snapped.
"Better listen to our expert," Epsilon said with a sly laugh, "He's had closer encounters than anybody."
"Fuck you you little — "
"We will certainly take Captain Tucker's suggestions to heart," Doyle said. "We may not have had contact with the Eli — with the 'sang-hee-lee,' but the UNSC had extensive records on them that remained within our archives when we lost contact. Our information may be a trifle out of date, but we at least know the political situation has the potential to be extremely volatile."
Kimball picked up the conversation. "Towards the end of the war, a new religious figure appeared among the Sangheili," she said, the new word rolling off her tongue easily. "Around the same time it was discovered that the Halo installations wouldn't begin their 'Great Journey' but instead would wipe out all organic life in the universe. The combination were major factors in the Great Schism. The UNSC has since learned a great deal about the installations, but no one knows much about this new leader."
The entire Blood Gulch crew had gone suspiciously quiet. Wash cleared his throat to help cover the sudden lack of stupid comments.
"So what's the plan?" he asked.
"As I said, Carolina, you'll be running the military op," Kimball said, "Eliminate Charon's forces and take control of the outpost. We'll remove a threat, increase the size of our controlled territory, and snatch the Sangheili out from under the Chairman in one fell swoop.
"There's a cave network just outside the perimeter you can use as a forward operating base. You want to get in quiet. Outpost Twenty-Seven isn't that large, so no need for a big group. You're each to pick two members of your squad to bring along with you — and, yes, the New/Fed Protocol is in effect."
Wash stifled an irritated sigh. He could understand the theory behind forcibly intermingling squads to ensure no claims of favoritism. In practice, however, it was a cumbersome policy that in no way stopped the squabbling — the soldiers just found new things to bitch about.
"Once the outpost is secured and the Sangheili arrive, Tucker, you'll assume control. You have the most ambassadorial experience of everyone and it will be your responsibility to convince them to help us. Is that understood?"
"Yes, ma'am," Carolina said immediately, with Tucker a second behind her with much less enthusiasm. Wash glanced at him, a ribbon of concern threading through him at Tucker's carefully neutral face.
Kimball nodded, bringing his attention back to her. "Assemble your teams at the motorpool at zero four hundred hours. That should give you enough time to get to Outpost Twenty-Seven and take your positions while it's still dark."
Something didn't sit right with Wash. "We've been trying to break through the Charon blockade for months," he said, "Why are they letting an alien transport just waltz right through their lines?"
Kimball's mirthless smile looked predatory in the low light. "That," she said, "is a very good question."
"Another good question," Doyle said, looking down at the tile, "What is buckshot doing on the floor?"