The Sins of our Fathers Chapter 2: Whispers from the Void, a Halo + Mass Effect Crossover fanfic

Chapter 2: Whispers in the Void

/Request Received….Authorization Accepted: HDY 0712-4….Executing….Files Retrieved

/UNSC Home Fleet Battlenet:

…

/FILE 1:

/CSG-6 Standing orders:

Issued: FADM J. Harper, 5th Fleet, Date: 2552.10.20

1: DEFEND CAIRO BATTLECLUSTER (ATHENS, MALTA, CAIRO)

2: Resist Covenant Landfall (NUCLEAR WEAPONS AUTHORIZED)

3: Prioritize DESTRUCTION of Covenant HVTs (CAS Type Carriers)

AMENDMENT: FADM J. Harper, Date: 2552.10.21

4: ATHENS and MALTA destroyed: Prioritize protection of CAIRO

AMENDMENT: FADM J. Harper, Date: 2552.10.27

5: REPEL Covenant Navy Reinforcements AT ALL COSTS

6: Prevent Landing of Covenant Ground Reinforcements AT ALL COSTS

7: Deny Enemy Orbital Control AT ALL COSTS

8: THIS IS OUR STAND. HOLD THE LINE: MAKE THE FUCKERS PAY. GOOD HUNTING.

AMENDMENT: HDY 0712-4, Date: 2552.11.3

9: CA-755 Command Staff Deceased. Recommend Transfer of Command under UNSC.. Respond.

AMENDMENT: HDY 0712-4, Date: 2552.12.17

10: Unknown Contacts in SOL System. Complete Loss of Contact with FADM J. Harper, CSG-6 personnel, and UNSC HIGHCOM. HDY 0712-4 Assuming CSG-6 and CA-755 Command Under Regulation: UNSC. (Emergency Authorization of AI Command).

11: UPHOLD General Order 098831A-1 'COLE PROTOCOL'. Prevent Seizure of UNSC Assets by Unknown Contacts.

…

/File 2

/HDY 0712-4 Battle Strategy Analysis, Date: 2552.12.17

Unknown forces in 5th fleet debris field. Presumed hostile pursuant to UNSC. (Unidentified Forces in Active Warzone). Fleet strength 45 warships, 2 cruisers, 43 frigate and below, clustered together in tight defensive formation. Two more auxiliaries arrived today. Are these forces behind the pulse that murdered my crew? Currently unable to decipher their coms. Signal security is low, almost as if they want to be heard. Possible innocent party? Its Earth, can't take the risk. I won't let my crew's sacrifice go to waste. I don't know who else is left. Is this fear? We've given up too much to let give up Earth without a fight. We have insufficient UNSC forces at hand. We have one chance. Once they know Triumph is here, it's over. I'll make it count. Long live the UNSC.

STRATEGY ANALASYS: NUCLEAR FIRST STRIKE RECOMMENDED.

DESIGNATE: BATTLEPLAN CRIMSON

DETAILS: SEE ATTACHED

…

/File 3

/CSG-6 Composition and Manifest. Query = 'SHIVA' (Last Updated 2552.11.3)

1. CA-755 'TRUIMPH', Marathon Class. CSG-6 FLAGSHIP. STATUS: ACTIVE

Ordnance: (MAC: 14 SH, 10 LW; SHIVA: DEPLETED; ARCHER: 5-13, 56-70; M66 SENTRY: 1052)

Notes: NONE

2. CA-413 'FEELING LUCKY', Marathon Class. STATUS: CATASTROPHIC DAMAGE

Ordnance: (MAC: BOTH INCAPACITAITED; SHIVA: 4 (SILOS 1&2 INCAPACITAITED); ARCHER: DEPLETED; M66 SENTRY: MOUNTS 4-6 INCAPACITAITED, 2034)

Notes: SHIVA Control Disabled Under UNSC. (Derelict Ship Weapons Procedure), Requires manual UNSC Officer's Override to Enable.

3. FFG-307 'AEGIS FATE', Charon Class. STATUS: ACTIVE

Ordnance: (MAC: 17 LW, ARCHER: DEPLETED, 50MM: 194)

Notes: NONE

4. FFG-316 'CONCORD DAWN', Charon Class. STATUS: DESTROYED

5. FFG-214 'ALABASTER SKY', Stalwart Class. STATUS: DESTROYED

6. FFG-184 'HIGHTOWER', Stalwart Class. STATUS: DESTROYED

7. FFG-122 'BUMP IN THE NIGHT', Stalwart Class. STATUS: COMMUNICATION LOST

Ordnance: CURRENT LEVELS UNKNOWN

Notes: NONE

8. FFG-161 'IVORY TOWER', Stalwart Class. STATUS: ACTIVE

Ordnance: (MAC: DEPLETED, ARCHER: 1-3, 13-16, M340A4 STREAK: DEPLETED, M870 RAMPART: 729)

Notes: NONE

/CA-755 'TRIUMPH', Date: 2552.11.27

***ALERT***

NEW TRAFFIC ON: HomeFleet/5Fleet/CSG-6:

CA-413 'FEELING LUCKY' REQESTING ACTING CO, CSG-6

LONG RANGE INTENSIVE SCAN DETECTED

INVESTIGATE ORIGIN?

HDY 0712-4 (Acting CO, CSG-6): Negative Feeling Lucky. Find me RADM A. Crawley's neural link.

WAITING…

FOUND: RADM Amanda Crawley. CO, CA-413 'FEELING LUCKY'

Service ID: 08094-30061-AC

STATUS:DECEASED

HDY 0712-4 (Acting CO, CSG-6): Activate her SOS beacon. Designate her as 'ACTIVE' and return access privileges to her neural link.

WAITING…

DONE

HDY 0712-4 (Acting CO, CSG-6): I see your primary and secondary reactors were destroyed during the attack. I assume SHIVA and Archer targeting is offline?

AFFIRMATIVE

HDY 0712-4 (Acting CO, CSG-6): Spin down your auxiliary reactors and cut power to all systems except the central bridge console.

HDY 0712-4 (Acting CO, CSG-6): When that's done display the power and damage schematic of the ship on Lucky's console. As soon as Crawley approaches the console, prompt her for manual auxiliary systems re-activation.

WAITING…

DONE

HDY 0712-4 (Acting CO, CSG-6): Once we receive manual auxiliary systems re-activation authorization, prompt our dear Admiral for SHIVA reactivation and control transfer to Triumph. Keep the prompt low key and unintrusive. Format 1a. Don't turn the power back on until "Admiral Crawley" gives me SHIVA access.

WAITING…

ACKNOWLEDGED

HDY 0712-4 (Acting CO, CSG-6): Delete all records of this order, and wipe the ship's combat logs. Destroy any data that isn't vital to the SHIVA launch systems.

WAITING…

DONE

HDY 0712-4 (Acting CO, CSG-6): Good work Feeling Lucky.

ACKNOWLEDGED

"Admiral Tibril, Sir." announced the communications officer on Kilware's bridge, "Xiphos has initiated the deep scan of the debris field you ordered. She should be able to tell what kind of power these wrecks are running on, as well as if we somehow missed any eezo."

"Good, report back to me when…"

"Sir, unencrypted communication from the debris field! Origin appears to be INSIDE of one of the defending dreadnoughts. It's a short message, broadcasting on all frequencies, and repeating regularly. Without knowing its content sir…" the young officer rambled on, talking a mile a minute. It was one thing to be relaying messages and directing fleet traffic on the frontier. When you are surrounded by eviscerated wrecks quadruple your mass? Nerves start talking. Tibril cuts his officer off.

"Just give me your guess Lieutenant."

"In my experience, sir, that means an SOS."

SOS? Had his scan triggered some kind of automated distress beacon? It would fit. Turian R&D had often floated the idea of a distress beacon that would only go active when it detected a ship in range. It would allow a crew to have a distress message ready for decades without power, not the months the internal power supply of current models allowed for. Of course, ideally you tapped into the ship's power, but that's not always possible. Like if your ship happened to get gutted by a 5km long behemoth. Had the Xiphos scan notified shipboard systems about the presence of potential rescue ships?

Tibril ordered his Kilware's sensors focused on the distress source. The goliath ship was off Kilware's starboard bow, slowly dancing in space, clearly without power. As it rotated around, he could see the cause. A huge gash ran down the entire length of the ship, carving deep into the hull, and cooking the vessel from the inside out. Huge chunks of armor plating had been ejected and drifted lazily around the wreck. Detritus streamed out of the rifts in the hull, leaving a long trail as the dreadnought drifted away from wherever it once had been. On the other side, antenna, weapons mounts, and crew modules appeared to be blown out into space from the inside. The damage was catastrophic. Tibril was frankly surprised that she hadn't atomized herself. With an eezo core, she certainly would have. The advantages of primitive space travel I suppose.

The coms officer highlighted the origin of the SOS. It came from a small protrusion underneath the giant's bow. As the image on his screen zoomed in on the source, Tibril was taken aback. He saw a small glass enclosed platform in the corner of one of the staggered steps near the bow, reminiscent of the bridge on older pleasure cruisers, where the stunning views made up for the numerous safety violations.

The glass had been shattered and blown out of its frames. It was protected on either side by heavy plates jutting out from the hull but could still be seen from many angles. Fools. All this power, and you put your command crew in a glass box? The jagged hole cut into the ship began a dozen meters above the bridge. The story told itself. In the first second of being fired upon, the blast would have shattered the bridge windows, spacing the entire command staff. I suppose against a weapon like that, it wouldn't have made much difference anyways.

Indeed, a certain element of Tibril admired the cavalier attitude of this species. To be able to look out at the black stary veil of space while driving a kilometer long pillar of might. He'd be willing to try it once or twice. Provided nobody shot at him.

The signal location was ideal. An SOS signal coming from the bridge? He could retrieve some valuable intelligence, not even to mention the potential technology buried in the destroyed ship. Still, he could be walking his infiltration team into a trap. Set by who? The command crew that was spaced in milliseconds? The survivors who were wiped out by the pulse, just like on Essus?

The risk was worth the reward. And Tibril trusted his Cabals to be careful.

"Coms, get me a Cabal and contact Xiphos for a technological advisor. We're answering this SOS. It's time to figure out what's going on here."

Victus watched his ground team from the Corvus's bridge. The live feed from all 12 squad members were splashed across the viewscreen. They had landed their shuttle in a plaza in the dense downtown area of the city, with orders to explore and take everything that wasn't nailed down with them. Signs of heavy fighting surrounded them. Corners were blown off buildings. Walls were stitched in crisscrossing lines of pockmarks and burns. Overturned and burnt-out vehicles littered the streets. Sandbag fortifications and strange purple crates formed the respective battle lines.

Corvus' team moved in. One of the soldiers picked up a rifle dropped amongst a pile of clothes and gear. The heft surprised him. He gave the squad lead a questioning look.

"Go ahead, see what they can do," the team lead told him with a shrug.

The soldier took a long look at the rifle, which had a pistol grip and a trigger familiar to the Turian. The rifle was long, with a trapezoidal rail attached to the front of the rifle. On top of the rail was an optical scope, with a crosshair, range finding correction markings, and a foreign text. He could see no seams or joints where the weapon could potentially be collapsed like the Turian's weapons. The Turian swung the rifle up to his shoulder, aimed at a destroyed vehicle, and pulled the trigger. A rapid-fire trio of cracks split his ears, the acrid smell of burning gunpowder filled his nose, and the rifle jerked back into his shoulder, sending three brass cases skittering across the plaza.

"Sprits. Who builds this kind of weapon?" the Turian yelped. And with chemical propellent? No wonder these poor bastards got their asses kicked. Kicks like a krogan too.

Still, he'd like to see what these rounds could do. Seemed like overkill for anything without kinetic barriers. Wait, the symbols on the back of this rail are different than before. He squeezed off another quick burst, and watched the symbols rapidly change and then stop. Bingo.

"Sir, there might be numerals on this rifle. Come check this out."

As the squad lead walked over, Victus leaned in. Numbers were the first step to understanding any language. And perhaps more importantly, a culture's technology. This could be their first steps towards creating a translation for this species.

"This rifle fires in three round bursts, sir. If this is an ammo counter, we can figure out how their counting system works. Here, look," using his omni-tool, he quickly jotted down the current symbols and then fired again. The symbols changed again. The soldier recorded these and then started fumbling around with the weapon.

"If I can just….there!" He grunted as he pulled a heat-sink like box on the rear of the rifle before finding a release switch. He took out a magazine filled with cartridges and started taking the individual rounds out and counting them.

"I count 26 in the magazine, and with one in the chamber that makes 27. Which means, these numbers mean 27. And the symbols on the rifle now…." he says as he flips the rifle back over, looking at two different red symbols, "with only the round in the chamber, the first numeral is zero, and the second is 1!"

The squad leader clapped the Turian on the back and began to walk forwards, "Good work Varso, stick that in your pack, we'll give it to the eggheads back on Corvus when we're done here. Let's roll!"

As the squad moved down the narrowing streets they zig-zagged between stranded vehicles, makeshift barricades, and locked doors leading into buildings. They looked above them where the gray residences stretched up stories above their heads, a series of balconies and thin cables crossing between them. Graffiti written in languages they couldn't understand was scribbled across abandoned walls. Were they the last manifesto of a rebellious teen? A motivational message from evacuated civilians to the soldiers fighting in the streets?

(Remember Reach)

(FUCK the UNSC)

(The end is near REPENT!)

Varso trailed his had along the walls, taking careful time to inspect every minute detail of the streets. A flowerpot, wilting tulip left un-watered. He picked up some kind of stuffed animal, abandoned and trampled in what must have been a hasty rush to escape the onslaught. A toy soldier lay next to it, dark brown skin and asari face, dressed in the all too familiar garb scattered across the streets and alleys of the city, face contorted in a heroic yell. Varso remembered receiving a similar plaything from his father, decades ago. To inspire your military ambition, he told me. Varso remembers his father's smile when he came home from a tour. How he would join Varso in imaginary battles against an impossible foe, led by the toy Turian soldier. Looking back, I don't know why he bought it. I was always excited for my conscription. He knew I didn't need a toy to inspire me…

Varso could remember those days fondly, back when life was so simple. When school and his dinner were his largest concerns in his life. Back when war was a fun fantasy. Back when a mission didn't mean a chance at never seeing a brother again. He was proud of his service, of course he was. He was a Turian after all. It was his purpose, his cause. To protect his people, his honor, and his family. He wondered if these foreign soldiers, who were wiped from the face of the planet without a trace, ever though the same way.

Were they scared when the attackers came? Did they put on a brave face for their children? Did they think of honor? Curse their luck? What kept them from turning and running? What empowered them to stand their ground?

Varso wishes beyond all else that he could ask one of them, to reach across the void and meet them. Hear their story.

Varso stared at the toy for a few more long heartbeats, before reaching back and slipping it into his bag, alongside the stuffed animal. They playthings jostled against the heavy rifle as Varso got up and moved to catch up with the team, stopping briefly to inspect the city surveillance camera watching the alley.

They emerged from the hallway into an even larger courtyard. The street looped around some kind of central monument, where a small dome supported by concrete pillars raised above some kind of a station or device. Shrubbery and strange tanks surrounded the monument, and the signs of battle marked the streets.

The squad lead carefully approached and inspected one of the tanks scattered near the monument. He rapped his knuckles on the bright orange side and listened to the hollow clang inside. He held his omni-tool near some kind of breathing apparatus before it beeped. Traces of methane? In a breathing mask? So then the tank is a breathing apparatus to survive here?

"There's methane in this tank Captain Victus."

In orbit, Victus snapped his head up to the screen, "You're sure?" The squad lead responded in the affirmative. Spirits. Methane breathers on a planet with a nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere. This meant that this attacking species didn't evolve here. And none of the methane bearing planets in the system showed any sign of native life, the initial scans from the Xiphos had confirmed it. This isn't some local war between two races from the same system. The attackers aren't from here.

It all clicked. The size of the attacking fleet, the difference in ship design, the fanaticism of the defense. And to get to Vita III? No species is making an interstellar voyage on sublight engines to launch an invasion. Not with this scale of destruction. The logistics just don't work. Which means somewhere in the debris field around him, there were FTL drives that didn't rely on eezo. This could revolutionize space travel, untether the Citadel from the relays, depending on the speed of the drives.

In a flurry of activity Victus and the bridge team contacted Kilware, leaving the ground team unattended.

So when, Varso approached the monument, and he felt a chill run up his spine, the squad was alone.

As his heartrate spiked, he slowly looked around him. He'd had this feeling once before, right before walking into a pirate ambush on some backwater world bordering the Terminus. Back then, his squad had lost three men. And now, he was feeling it again.

He carefully scanned the street around him. The city was eerily silent. No animals. No civilians. No gunfire. Just silence. Nothing was out of place, and yet somehow everything was.

Varso was certain they were being watched.

The squad noticed his reaction and dropped into crouches, setting a defensive line around the monument, the squad leader silently working his way over to Varso. Varso's eyes jumped from balcony to balcony, street to street. Searching for an enemy he was certain existed. Somehow, on this dead world, somebody was monitoring their every move. He could feel it, the eyes trained on the back of his head.

Varso took gentle, controlled, breaths. Almost praying for the snap of a bullet to break the tension and return the world to motion.

And then, the machine in the center of the monument started ringing.

The squad snapped around and trained their weapons at the machine. It rang again, a long pulse and then silence for a second. It rang twice more, all while the squad watched motionless.

"Varso, go check it out," the squad lead ordered in a near inaudible whisper. Varso took slow and careful steps, one after the other, approaching the machine. Holding his rifle in one hand, he carefully lifted the handle on the mechanism. It lifted a curved piece, attached to the machine and when it was free, the ringing stopped. He examined the piece and saw a speaker and a microphone embedded in it. A public communication device? He lifted it to his ear.

"Hello?"

He got no answer. Varso didn't know why he bothered. This was a dead world. They were just chasing dust and echoes. He put the receiver down and walked back to the squad. The ringing didn't resume.

Varso felt a drop of liquid on his head. Then another. And another. He looked up to see an overcast sky, the skies opening to rain on their heads. He checked his omni-tool: water. Safe. The rain was constant now, a steady heartbeat in the otherwise silent city. Finally breaking the unresolved silence that filled the streets; a cleanse to wash away some of the stains of conflict.

Down the road, a car started flashing; bright red and blue lights accompanied by a loud siren.

As the squad stared at the spectacle, a traffic sign behind the car illuminated, its bright orange arrow directing to the right.

("DETOUR, DETOUR, DETOUR…")

At their feet a crosswalk on the road lit up in flashing white lights. An automated voice chimed from a hidden speaker:

("WALK SIGN IS ON. PLEASE CROSS")

While the Turians could not understand the voice, they had a few guesses.

"Some kind of city VI like on the Citadel? Could it be giving evacuation instructions with traffic signs?"

"I don't know sir."

"Ground team, this is Corvus. We're taking these messages and using them to compile a translation program. Follow the messages, and record more."

"Affirmative Corvus"

And so, the Turian squad walked off into the rainfall, footprints left in their wake being gently washed away.

Behind them, the traffic camera watched on in silence, rotating to follow the group as they disappeared down the street.

Maelal Ozor was a curious Salarian, in more ways than one. To his Asari crewmates on Xiphos, he was a bizarre technician signed on to the team for his mechanical expertise, a last minute addition to the hastily assembled mission into unknown space. A token Salarian presence in the relay expedition, while the STG patrolled Terminus space affected by the pulse. In a crew of consummate professionals, centuries old Asari scientists who pursued the truth of the universe with a delicate hand, his childlike scramble for any hint of new technology was simultaneously off-putting and endearing.

Ozor had once considered joining the STG. He certainly had the mind for it, his test scores far above his peers. But Ozor wanted to share his discoveries with the world, to be able to grab the person next to him and tell them about all the fascinating things he had discovered. The cloak-and-dagger status quo of the Salarian intelligence services would never had fit him. He would have found himself either alone and depressed, or in front of a firing squad for divulging state secrets. So he went into civilian science, and was soon studying the relays, taking part in research missions to the furthest flung relays, trying to discern the grand mysteries of the galaxy's prevailing FTL method. He had studied the citadel, trawled the underbelly of the massive station, following keepers, trying to figure out how the station worked.

And now, he was onboard a shuttle, EVA suit on, with a Turian Cabal surrounding him. Their target? The bridge of a gargantuan alien dreadnought. And estimated 10-15 million tons of warship with no apparent mass reducing technology, in a 1km long warship that dwarfed anything ship in Citadel space. And something had carved it stem to stern, ripping through meters of titanium alloy, living spaces, and crew members alike. And, if the reports from the ground team were true, somewhere in this debris field was a brand new, eezo-less method of FTL travel.

Ozor was in heaven. He was on the precipice of a great scientific discovery. He would soon learn things that nobody in the galaxy (well, nobody still alive) knew. He could explore a whole new world of technology. A brand-new realm of science. Could he pioneer a new study of whatever this species was? Could he introduce a new technological commodity to the universe. He could be rich; he could be famous. But to Ozor, that didn't matter, as long as he got explore this novel world. He could spend the rest of his short Salarian life in this debris field alone, wandering the halls of ships long since destroyed.

He looked around the transport shuttle, at the stoic Turian Cabal surrounding him. A group of soldiers who could kill him in an instant, who had seen combat on dozens of worlds, who could lift unthinkable mass with their minds using the power of biotics. They could never understand the gravity of this moment. All they saw were the dangers. They couldn't see the opportunity, only another objective. They didn't see a new technological marvel, they saw the ship that got its entire crew killed.

So as the ship rapidly approached the derelict, Ozor knew that he needed to make the most of this trip. To push the boundaries. To discover what he could in the little time they would have.

"Prepare for EVA," announced the pilot's voice over the comms system. The Turian at the rear of the shuttle grabbed the long tether attached to the wall of the shuttle and hooked it on himself. The other Turians in the cabal inspected each other and their seals. Ozor felt the Turian behind him pat down his seals and breathing equipment, before reaching around to give him an 'OK' signal. He was good to go.

The atmosphere was lowly pumped out of the crew cabin, before the rear hatch silently opened. The Turian with the tether gently pushed off, using the tiny thrusters in his suit to guide himself towards the ruined bridge of the dreadnought. As he crossed the abyss, Ozor glimpsed the bright sunlight reflecting off the titanium plating surrounding the bridge, the huge white lettering stretched across the hull above it.

(Feeling Lucky)

As he reached the bridge, Ozor watched the Turian drifted in through the shattered windows, and past two chairs that stretched out over empty space; their occupants legs would have dangled over the glass panel that would have provided a magnificent view below the ship. Now, it was all ruined. The upholstery on the chairs had been scorched away by the heat of the blast, and the metal had been warped and twisted by the thermal radiation of whatever destroyed this ship. Two shattered monitors suspended from roof would have displayed vital ship information Ozor suspected. The Turian clipped the tether to the frame of one of the chairs, giving it a firm yank to ensure it was secure. He waved to the Turians still on the shuttle. One by one, they clipped onto the tether, and pulled themselves across the gap onto the bridge. The Turian guiding Ozor clipped them both to the tether, and then navigated them across the gap. Feeling his feet hit the deck of the bridge, and his magnetic soles activate, he unclipped and observed the ruined bridge.

The bridge consisted of a lower level ringed with workstations along the walls. At the front of the lower level were the command chairs they had clipped the tether to. Workstations near the front were scorched and warped, while those further aft, away from the opening were undamaged. There were the tattered remains of uniforms on many of the chairs, and with some sorrow, Ozor realized he could see matching uniforms drifting outside that had must have belonged to crew sucked out into space. A terrifying, miserable fate.

Towards the inside of this lower ring, was a raised platform, no more than a meter above the lower deck. Another rings of seats and consoles formed the perimeter of this platform, and in the center stood what could only have been a Captain's chair. Monitors and manual controls littered the ceiling, giving the bridge the feeling of an old school freighter, just with far more technology and subsystems and far lest rust. Behind the swiveling command chair was a long table with a glass surface, and at one end, was some kind of pedestal, where the room opened into standing space before encountering the stout sealed bulkhead separating the bridge from the rest of the ship. Above this pedestal was some kind of flashing diagram of the ship, the lone light on the bridge.

All the lights scattered across bridge were dark. Not surprising, the ship must have either lost power or shutdown her reactors to avoid a detonation.

As the Turian cabal cleared the bridge, Ozor made his way up the steps to the command chair. He saw a flashing light nestled in a tattered uniform underneath a damaged console forward of the command chair. The console had been smashed, cracking the screen and leaving a sickening dent in the housing for the keyboard. This crewmember must have been flung into the console by the decompression. At the speeds needed to inflict this kind of damage, certainly fatal, at least assuming Asari physiology. Small mercy. Faster than asphyxiation. He worked to untangle the flashing metal object from the uniform, taking care to glance at the badge on the uniform's chest.

(UNSC Feeling Lucky)

(Crawley)

There were rank insignias on the shoulders and collar of the dark grey uniform. Gold highlights and devices shone brightly in the sunlit bridge. In a large patch on the shoulder, a creature identical to the ones painted on the sides of the ships. The same animal, this time in gold, adorned the collar. Ozor had seen enough military uniforms to know what this much gold meant.

He looked at the flashing device he had picked up. At one end was a plate, which appeared designed to fit flat against whatever the device was installed on. From the plate protruded a flat and broad piece of circuitry. It looked to Ozor like some kind of implant. If that were the case, these interfaces on the perimeter of the broad circuitry were probably biometrics.

Ozor brought his omni-tool up to the device. It beeped rapidly, the same signal the commander the Turian fleet had played the team in the briefing room prior to the mission. The implant was transmitting the SOS.

"Captain? I found the mission objective. It looks to be some kind of implant. Based on the shape, and assuming Asari biology, it appears to be surgically implanted into the back of the skull. With technology of the ship's species, and size of the device, likely has advanced biometrics in addition to IFF and distress capabilities. The uniform indicates this individual was likely high rank…" Ozor rambled on, before the Cabal leader cut him off.

"Shut up and give me that Salarian. Kilware, we have accomplished the primary mission objective," the Cabal leader started walking away while talking, past the pedestal. As he moved by the pedestal, a prompt flashed next to the diagram of the ship. Ozor's amphibian eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Did the system react to the implant?

"Captain, don't move! That implant might be providing access to the ship's systems. If I get power reactivated, we might be able to…" he trailed off as he inspected the diagram.

It depicted a wireframe of the ship, covered in red and black along the path of the gash in the hull. Elsewhere was marked green. In the rooms with green markings, a yellow lightning bolt icon flashed red. A lightning bolt. A symbol for electricity perhaps? Likely. Towards the aft of the ship, there were enormous modules, the largest two of which were colored black, with red warnings flashing on them. If this is anything like our ships, those will be the power generation plants. Black must mean destroyed, since the path of black modules matches path of gash in the hull. If I can find an auxiliary reactor and reactivate it… His eyes scanned the diagram and found a pair of modules nestled in the bowels of the ship, identical to shape and form to the larger reactors, but this time one of the reactors was highlighted in green, the same color as the undamaged portions of the ship.

On a hunch, he quickly memorized the symbols marking the undamaged auxiliary reactor.

(Auxiliary Fusion Reactor #2)

And, as he analyzed the message that had appeared when the captain approached, he saw the very same markings in the message.

(Auxiliary Fusion Reactor #2 is operational, but shutdown. Restart?)

The system must be asking him to restart the reactor. It makes sense. Keep the ship offline to conserve fuel and power, and offer a reset when a high ranking officer approached. With luck restarting the reactor would restore power to the bridge systems. That's if I'm right. Or it could be some kind of trap. But if I tell the captain that I don't know for sure, he'll shut me down, and we will never learn anything.

"Captain, I can get the power restarted from here, using an undamaged auxiliary reactor."

"Are you sure Salarian?"

"Yes," Ozor lied through his teeth.

"Do it, the ship's crew are dead. They won't be attacking anybody. A little power in here could help us recover some evidence of what happened here."

He nodded. Now how do I actually interact with the system? On the small screen below the hologram there were two options, one green and one red. Ozor looked back at the model. Green undamaged, Red is damaged. Green good, red bad in this culture? He stared at the screen. Here goes nothing. He pressed the green button. The bridge remained silent, lights off. A new prompt appeared.

(SHIVA warheads locked down under UNSC. (Derelict Ship Weapons Procedure). CSG-6 standing orders permit use of nuclear weapons. CA-413 is incapacitated. CA-755 requests command and control of SHIVA warheads. Release SHIVA warheads for CA-755 command and control?)

Ozor pondered the new message. Nothing had happened yet. Is this some kind of confirmation message? Auxiliary systems needed for reactor start? Once more he hit the green button on the screen.

For a second, nothing happened. And then Ozor felt a gentle rumble through the soles of his feet, which shortly resolved into a gentle hum. Once by one, the lights on the bridge flashed on, red emergency lighting bathing the dark recesses of the bridge. Consoles lit up across the space, and monitors were brought to life displaying whatever information they were designed to. The door in the bulkhead chimed and opened in response to the Turian standing near it.

"Aha! Success!" Ozor had figured out an alien technology system.

"Good work. Take the implant Salarian, and see what you can access on these monitors, while we take a look around past this door," the Cabal ordered, handing off the aforementioned device as he and the team disappeared down the hallway outside the door.

Ozor was about to be let loose on an alien's ships bridge with an officer's access codes and dozens of terminals to examine. Suck it STG.

Ozor got to work, reaping the benefits of his confidence.

The rain worsened as the afternoon faded to night. What had started as a sprinkle was now a downpour. The Corvus ground team hugged the buildings as they worked their way through the streets of New Mombasa, following the mysterious VI's signs. For hours they had been following the signs. Sometimes they lost the trail, only to be quickly brought back on track by a car's siren or roadblock. One time they were brought back to the path by a machine spitting out hundreds of coins.

Varso picked up what he thought might be useful as he went, his pack slowly filling up with abandoned weapons and relics of the deserted city. He felt like a scavenger picking his way through the aftermath of a warzone, looking to make a cheap buck. He felt wrong. He wishes he could have helped.

Everywhere they go, the see reminders of the people of the city. An advertisement, with smiling children's faces. Propaganda posters, depicting brave soldiers in their gear, pointing at an unknown foe.

He scans the skyline, wondering what this city looked like before its war. A huge tower, with rings supporting a study framework, reached partially into the sky. At the top, it was broken. It was a space elevator. Or at least it once was. It had collapsed, its upper half flung away into orbit, and its lower half scattered for hundreds of miles across the savannah. What he would have given to ride it just once. The space elevator's profile would have been a feature of the city, a mighty tether disappearing into the clouds. As it was, it was just a monument to what could have been.

It would have been the economic center of the city, a huge tool for commerce. Had the citizens of the city, still been around, it would have taken years to rebuild. I guess it doesn't really matter.

As they walk, a comfortable monotony sets in for Varso. The rain continues to pour. They weave between cars and down alleys. Every so often a sign will flicker to an arrow to show them directions. Varso has no clue where they are being led. He just hopes it will have some answers.

As they move on, the frequency of the VI's interruptions increases. Traffic barricades pop out of the street when they take a wrong turn. Entire billboards light up with large arrows directing them. Now entire rows of machines were spitting out coins. The city had come alive with the eerie sounds of traffic warnings and automated messages.

The VI leads them to a large building, with a broad façade and stairs leading down into an underground area. A large sign presumably tells citizens where they are.

(Kikowani Station)

A long overhanging roof supported by thick concrete pillars serves to shelter the team from the pounding rain. Metal shutters are closed over the staircases, and Varso can hear the surging roar of floodwater somewhere down in the darkness. So much for finding an evacuation route.

The VI has suddenly gone quiet. No more signs. No more automated messages. Without warning their "companion" had left them. Without direction the team began to wander beneath the shelter of the buildings overhand. They meandered between pillars, investigated writing scrawled on the walls.

(This is the end)

(Help Us!)

Nobody on the squad spoke.

Varso rounded a pillar to find a suit of armor leaned up against the opposite side of the column. The armor was dark grey, with a large composite chest plate covered in straps and webbing. There were small writings on the flat surfaces, identifying inscriptions likely.

(UNSC)

(ODST)

The chest plate was scratched and nicked, the freshly reapplied coating already ruined by nights of heavy under-suit was some form of fabric, flexible, resilient, painted in dark grey. The arms and legs were heavily armored, dark gray plates, their backs camouflaged in a subtle grey-green patten. The helmet had a light blue full-face visor, unlike anything they had come across so far. A white stripe ran from the forehead all the way back to the helmet. A sidearm lay by the soldier's fingerless gloves, painted dark black with night-sights and a suppressor. Spec ops maybe?

And then he heard a series of beeps and the automated voice once again.

("GOOD CITIZENS FOLLOW ORDERS")

("JOIN THE UNSC, BECOME A HERO TODAY")

"What are you?" Varso didn't expect an answer. He couldn't speak its language, and neither could it. Useless VI. He looked around and saw the security camera on the pillar opposite him tracking his moment. What does it want with me? Its just a VI right? What does it care about me? Why take us here?

He turned back around and picked up the helmet. Inside on the visor, he could see a HUD still running. Peering into the helmet, he started switching the small buttons on the exterior of the helmet. Some kind of night vision. A map. Recordings? Audio Files? He reached around to put the helmet in is pack. As he slipped the helmet in, the voice chimed in again.

("TRAVELERS ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE SAFETY OF PERSONAL ITEMS")

("PLEASE REPORT CRIMES AT NEAREST NMPD STATION")

("THANK YOU FOR HELPING OUR CITY!")

More recordings in a language he couldn't understand. He wishes he had a translator.

"Varso! There's nothing here! Let's head back to the shuttle and get dry," called the squad lead. Varso took one last look at the former spec-ops soldier and the security camera watching him before turning his back and walking away.

/ CA-755 'TRUIMPH', Date: 2552.11.18

***ALERT***

NEW TRAFFIC ON: HomeFleet/5Fleet/CSG-6:

HDY 0712-4 (Acting CO, CSG-6): Hailing Aegis Fate, Bump in the Night, Ivory Tower.

FFG-161 'IVORY TOWER' ACKNOWLEDGING

FFG-306 'AEGIS FATE' ACKNOWLEDGING

HDY 0712-4 (Acting CO, CSG-6): Prepare for engagement according to BATTLEPLAN CRIMSON. Set ship wide condition ZEBRA.

FFG-306 'AEGIS FATE' WAITING…

FFG-161 'IVORY TOWER' WAITING…

FFG-306 'AEGIS FATE' DONE

FFG-161 'IVORY TOWER' DONE

/ CA-755 'TRUIMPH', Date: 2552.11.18

***ALERT***

NEW TRAFFIC ON: UNSCBattleNet:

HDY 0712-4 (Acting CO, CSG-6 (HomeFleet/5Fleet/CSG-6)): All surviving UNSC forces, set ship wide condition ZEBRA. Nuclear ordnance authorized. FLASH WARNING. Repeat. FLASH WARNING.

/ New Mombasa City Superintendent, Date: 2552.11.18

***ALERT***

NEW TRAFFIC ON: UNSCBattleNet:

(Permissions: READ ONLY)

HDY 0712-4 (Acting CO, CSG-6 (HomeFleet/5Fleet/CSG-6))

All surviving UNSC forces, set ship wide condition ZEBRA. Nuclear ordnance authorized. FLASH WARNING. Repeat. FLASH WARNING

The walk back to the shuttle had been a quiet one. The city VI had not said another word. No more directions. No more games. Instead, the storm had only gotten worse. The rain pounded the fireteam, drowning out the sound of their footsteps. The wind picked up, blowing sheets of rain in their faces. As the squad rushed to the shuttle, Varso took one last look around the haunted city, wondering if he would ever be allowed to return. To investigate more. Maybe one day I'll find out what happened here.

And then all hell broke loose. All the cars in the square erupted into noise. The billboards on the tower walls started flashing. The automated voice returned; volume boosted beyond what they had ever encountered before. Every single viewscreen and monitor in the plaza was rapidly flashing red. Street barricades popped up and down, turning the plaza into a wave of motion.