A/N

So rumours are around that Bungie is making an extraction shooter set in the Marathon universe. Thoughts on that aside, drabbled this up as a result.

Running the Marathon

We call it Running the Marathon

Too on the nose? Tough. I've seen aliens with no noses, they don't complain. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Right now, the Anatolia is en route to Tau Ceti IV. Twelve light years from Earth, in a ship that would have taken even our fastest ships decades less than twenty years ago, but now, we can make the jump in a blink of an eye (comparatively speaking at least). The Pfhor Empire has been destroyed, the s'pht have gone their own way, and we're free to reap the benefits of faster-than-light travel. The galaxy is ours for the taking.

And Tau Ceti IV has a lot for the taking. A human colony with countless antiquities that black market buyers in Sol would pay a pretty penny for. A few examples of pfhor technology that certain rebels on Mars would pay a lot more than that.

"All Runners, prepare to drop."

The three of us head for the drop bay. In ten minutes, the Anatolia will pass within one-hundred klicks of the planet's surface, at which point we'll be dropped to the colony below. We'll go in, grab whatever we can, deal with whatever UESC grunts get in our way, and return to the shiponce it completes its orbit.

Quick in, quick out.

"So who's going to die?"

I look at Leon. The squad's second.

"Someone always dies," he points out.

"No-one's going to die," says Pasiphae.

"Really? Because that's not what I heard. Some poor Runner always dies."

"You've done runs on Mars," I point out.

"Which is relevant to doing a run on Tau Ceti Four…how, exactly?"

Pasiphae rolls her eyes and keeps fitting her gear. Leon blows her a kiss before putting on his helmet. Sometimes, I wonder why Leon isn't dead already. He's given Pasiphae countless excuses to blow him off. Literally.

On the other hand, he has a point. Runners have a high casualty rate. And from what we've heard of those who got to the Tau Ceti system before us, it's no different here.

As my squad and I put on our power armour, I consult my wrist-comp to go over the planet's stats – length of day, air composition, gravity, the works. It confirms what I already know – Tau Ceti is the only Earth-like planet within twenty light years. It was chosen to be mankind's first extra-solar colony for a reason when the Marathon launched in the 25th century. Sooner or later, there's going to be a land grab as more and more people leave Sol and head for greener pastures, content in the knowledge that three-eyed aliens won't descend from the heavens and enslave them.

First contacts, amirite?

"Drop in five minutes."

Octavius, the ship's AI, couldn't sound more excited. Granted, he couldn't sound any less excited either – he's an AI, and not an advanced one at that. Based on what reports we've received, especially from the vylae, over-competent AIs are a potential health hazard. One minute they're serving you, the next, they've infested an entire planetary network.

I check my rifle's scope. And Pasiphae asks me a question.

"What?" I ask.

"I said, have you killed anyone with that?"

"Course I have."

"Right…"

I blink. "You haven't killed anyone?"

She shrugs.

"Bloody hell."

"What's that?" Asks Leon. "Is Passie a cleany?"

"Fuck you, Leon."

"Just saying, cleanies ain't cut out to be Runners."

"Everyone's born a cleany," I say, as I attach my rifle to the back of my suit. "No-one comes into the world with bloody hands."

"True. But is she going to leave this world in one?"

Pasiphae cocks her rifle. Leon rolls his eyes. I wish I'd known this before we'd taken Pasiphae onboard, but it's too late now.

"Drop in four minutes."

We head for the tubes. Pasiphae's a cleany, I reflect. Unblooded. Hasn't killed anyone before. Which is a potential problem, because the UESC administers the ruins of the colony as a Worlds Heritage Site. The site of first contact, a memorial to those the pfhor killed or enslaved. Rumour is that it's also to allow them to have dibs on alien tech, but that's above my paygrade.

"Drop in three minutes."

I mean, not that I have a steady payrate. How much a Runner earns is dependent on how much loot they take.

"Ready to dance, boys and girls?"

Ariadne, our captain, is the one who does the divvying.

"Boys and girls," Leon sneers. "How dare you make assumptions about my plumbing."

"Believe me Leon, I've made plenty of assumptions about your plumbing," Pasiphae sneers.

"I'll take that as a yes," Ariadne says.

Over the radio, I ask, "any sign of trouble?"

"We've timed this right, we've entered a break in UESC patrols. Inside the colony though? That's another story."

"Right."

"Drop in two minutes."

We don't say anything for fifty-nine seconds.

"Drop in one minute."

"I'm bored," Leon whines.

I take charge. "Follow my lead, stick together, take what you can, don't risk your lives for what you can't."

"Yes dad," says Pasiphae.

"I mean it!" I take a breath and wait for drop. This isn't my first rodeo. I spent five years dropping from ships onto Mars, killing rebels and other malcontents. That isn't even touching on Titan – I'd tell you more, but then I'd have to kill you.

"Drop in ten. Nine. Eight."

Oh fuck. I need to pee.

"Seven. Six. Five."

Well, too late now.

"Four. Three. Two."

I really should have prepared some kind of motivational-

"One. Deploy."

…speech!

…

…

…damn, that's warm.

Things go to shit pretty quickly, but I guess I should fill you in on some things.

Tau Ceti's been hit by more Runners than Leon's IQ (so, at least double digits), and the UESC has stepped up security. They're operating on the same level as us – similar weapons, similar armour, similar levels of training. Some of them are even veterans of the Pfhor War. Men, women, and according to rumour, second generation battleroids.

Personally, I don't put stock in that. But it doesn't matter. We're detected before we've even a klick above the ground.

"Shit!" Leon exclaims. "We're detected!"

Yeah, what he said. Anti-spacecraft fire starts coming from the surface and I adjust our trajectory.

"Adjusting trajectory."

…okay, maybe I'm repeating myself, but you try acting calm under fire, bub. It's no picnic.

"In, out," I say as the air explodes around us. "We hit the ground, we start running, we keep running."

Leon says something I can't make out. Pasiphae looks pale. Like, paler than normal.

Oh this day's going great.

The colony is in ruins. Pre-fab buildings and concrete mega-structures, reduced to ruins through planetary bombardment. The planet as a whole is fine. In fact, it's similar to Earth. An Earth that existed before any of us were born – yellow sun, blue skies, white clouds, biomes ranging from Arctic ice caps to searing deserts. Earth's doing fairly well for itself these days, but paradise was lost long before we encountered angels and demons in the stars.

Too poetic? Yeah, probably. Point is, it won't be long before Tau Ceti is fully colonized, and our revenue stream will dry up. Every Runner knows this, which is why crews like ours have poured everything into the looting of Tau Ceti before the plebs show up.

"Hitting the ground in three…two…one…mark!"

We land. It's time to start looting.

"Bandit, three o'clock."

And shooting. Which Leon does, as he pops off one unlucky UESC grunt.

"Yeah! Perfect ten!"

Perfect ten as in a shot, or perfect ten as in this is the tenth person he's killed? Don't know. Maybe I'll ask him later.

We start running. We've practiced this drill dozens of times. We enter one structure after another, grabbing whatever we can and attaching it to our suits, reducing its weight through gravity-manipulation technology. Most of them are baubles covered in dust – baubles that are old enough to go on an antiques road show, like those wankers fawning over 23rd century pottery, and explaining why it's different from 22nd century pottery, before retiring to their mansions above Venus.

Don't know why people pay for this crap. But they pay a lot, and that's what matters.

We break out onto the street. The rat-tat-tat of gunfire fills the air.

"Hostiles," Pasiphae says, as she checks her wrist-computer. "Two-thirty metres, closing, north-north-west."

"Numbers?"

"Ten, maybe. Patrol squad I reckon."

"Yeah?" Leon asks. "Let's take the fuckers."

It's tempting, but we're Runners. Runners run. Rule one of being a Runner is that you run rather than fight if the opportunity is open to you. When it comes to Running the Marathon, you want to keep yourself at a calm, collected pace. Always keep moving, never stop for battle.

"Negative," I say eventually. "On me. We keep moving."

"Aw man…"

"Shut it!"

We keep running, moving at a steady thirty klicks per hour due to our power suits. The UESC grunts will be moving at a similar pace, but as long as we match our speeds, they can't catch up to us.

We duck and weave through various buildings, picking stuff up. More trinkets. More artifacts. If it's not bolted down, we take it. Heck, even family photos – something for relatives back on Earth to get all weepy over.

"Fucking junk," Leon complains. "We should be going after the big stuff."

"Too late now," says Pasiphae.

"According to you." He looks at me as we break into the open and head for the next building. "Come on, you know I'm right. My tac-map says there's a research hub three-point-five klicks from here, we can make it in-"

He never finishes his sentence as a round tears through his leg.

"Fuck!"

He starts screaming. We dash into cover. He says words beginning with S and F a lot. He's out in the open, and he's like a stunned rabbit waiting to be put out of its misery.

"Pasiphae, on him."

"What?!"

"On him!" I peep out and begin firing in the general direction of the sniper, as calculated by my HUD cross-referencing the angle of the bullet, the size of the wound, and the overall terrain. I have no chance of hitting them. But I can keep their head down long enough for Pasiphae to pull Leon into cover.

"Calling for extraction," I say.

"Fuck off, I'm fine!"

Leon isn't. Really, I don't care if he dies, but if he does, we lose a man, a suit, and all the suit's loot. And as fun as it is to find words that rhyme (shoot? Give him the boot? Will he launch a lawsuit?), it's even more fun to stay alive.

"Ground team to Anatolia, requesting evac."

"What? Already?"

More gunfire. More shouts.

"We've had complications."

Pasiphae keeps shooting. Leon keeps cursing.

"Roger that," sighs Ariadne in disappointment. "Be with you in five."

I wince. A hard burn like that is going to cost us a lot of fuel. Furthermore, the velocity involved will make it harder for us to reach the ship.

"Fuckers!" Leon yells.

Is he calling me and Pasiphae that, or the UESC grunts shooting at us? I wince, as bullets ping and pang around me, as I set up a mini-propulsion device loaded with liquid oxygen. It launches, we ride it, we dock with the Anatolia. Simple?

Pasiphae curses. I glance in her direction, and see one power-armoured soldier fall, who's subsequently pulled away by more power armoured soldiers.

"Got one," she whispers. "Fucking got one. I-"

She doesn't say anything else after her head explodes.

"Shit!"

Leon says that, before bullets hit him. Tearing through his armour and body.

"Fuck!" I look around. Now I've got to drag two corpses up to the ship. Bastards. If they'd died tomorrow, I wouldn't have to worry about this.

I fire at the UESC soldiers, wondering if any would like to join our crew. Maybe tomorrow I can find a plant, after watering my bonsai trees.

Hey, don't knock it. Nothing grows in space.

"Alex, I've got two flatlines."

Alexander, I silently correct her. "Yeah, the other two are dead."

"Oh. That sucks."

I like Ariadne. She doesn't go for the weepy shit.

"Make sure you bring the corpses up."

"Will do." I duck, and fire some more, before checking my HUD.

Calculations have been done. It's now or never.

I launch.

It's not easy to fix two corpses to a mini space rocket that has enough fuel to incinerate an entire city block. Maybe some of the fuckers are burnt up. Don't know. Don't care.

What I do care about is velocity and angle. So as I break through Tau Ceti's atmosphere, as I see the Anatolia approaching, I let the HUD run its calculations.

"Oh fuck, this is gonna hurt."

"What?" Ariadne asks.

"Nothing!" I deactivate the rocket and turn it around. "Nothing at all."

Just because we've got FTL travel doesn't mean that Newton isn't the biggest son of a bitch in space. We go up, we've got momentum. Want to slow down in space, you need opposing force. Scuttlebutt is that the s'pht don't need to worry about physics, but then, floating weirdos in power suits probably don't need to worry about anything.

Like using the bathroom for instance.

"De-accelerating in three…two…one…mark."

I do so. My stomach heaves. My oxygen supply dips, as I gasp for air. Something flies off Leon's body, disappearing into the void of space. Bastard. He's screwing me over even in death.

Still, I'm headed for the airlock. Right on course…right…on…course…and…

"Yes!"

I fly in. My suit, their suits, scrape along the ground. A-grav kicks in, and I'm reminded that gravity is for pussies.

"Team leader is onboard."

"Thanks, genius."

"You are welcome."

We give the others a quick funeral after stripping them of their suits and loot. In the common area, Ariadne runs the numbers.

"Well," she says eventually. "We sell all this shit back in Sol, we might break even."

I wince. "That bad?"

"That bad." She pushes the calculator aside (our AI could do it in a nanosecond, but Ariadne's old school). "Luckily, we've got an out."

"Oh?"

A hologram springs up between us – it shows Tau Ceti IV, the Anatolia, estimated positions of UESC patrol ships, and one ugly mother heading straight for us.

"The Mesopotamia," she says.

Correction – it's more of an ugly father.

"It's slower than our ship, but they've got more runners than I have fingers."

"So at least eight then."

"Exactly. So with you, that rounds things up to nine. We work together, we split the booty…"

I snigger, thinking of what I'd like to do with Ariadne's booty.

"…and we get back home and live like kings. Or queens."

"I thought you didn't like monarchy."

"I don't." She takes a sip of moonshine and heads off. "But we all make do."

It's a day later, and we're Running the Marathon again.

"Drop commencing in one minute."

More weirdos dressed in power armour. Each of them unique, each of them killers.

"Fifty seconds."

Not friends. Never friends. But we work together, we get the big bucks, we go home."

"Forty seconds."

"Your AI talks a lot," one of them complains.

"We tried ripping out his tongue," I say with a shrug. "Didn't help."

"Thirty seconds."

One of them glares at me (his helmet's polarized, but I can feel it). "Think you're funny?" He asks.

"Twenty seconds."

"Not really."

He gives me a friendly punch. "We're gonna get on just fine."

Well, shit, I think. If he says we're gonna get on fine, I know things aren't gonna be fine.

"Ten seconds."

Well, maybe I can do a Thermopylae and kill him on the surface.

"Five. Four. Three."

The three of us stand ready. And I smile.

"Two. One. Deploy."

This time, I remembered to take a pee before dropping.