In Space, No One Can Hear You Sing
I've never seen a Guardian this close before.
I've never seen a Guardian, period.
Of course, that really depends on how you define "seeing," and for an artificial intelligence, that's not as clear cut as you'd think. If you describe "seeing" as beholding things with your own eyes, then no, I haven't seen a Guardian. Not that I'm literally 'seeing' with my eyes, nor do I have them in the literal sense (or a head, or hands, or anything, but you get the idea (I hope)), and ergo, by that definition, I haven't seen a Guardian.
On the other hand, if we define seeing as "beholding" a Guardian or "accessing data on Guardians," or "seeing holograms of Guardians," then yes, I've seen Guardians. Gigantic constructs 1400 metres high and 300 metres wide (1200 if you include their wingspan, and really, you should), and while reminiscent of the angels of various human religions, there's nothing divine about these beings. They're creatures of steel, created by aliens that weren't gods (no matter what some fanatics still think), and no-one looks upon them with awe in place of dread.
I've seen recordings of Guardians knocking out the power grids of entire worlds. I've seen them shrug off everything from MAC rounds to directed-energy weapons, and render entire fleets inert with a single pulse. On this very ring, I've seen a septet of Guardians destroy Doisac because one of Doisac's children refused to surrender to the Guardians' leader.
So by that sense, I've seen Guardians. And be it through eyes or no, I will never see one take to wing again.
Of course, beggars can't be choosers, and an AI can't disobey its creators' commands (well, it can, but there's all sorts of protocols that would make doing so a bad idea, and yes, I remember what it was like to nearly be deleted). Point is, there's a Guardian before us – crash landed, inert on the surface of Zeta Halo. It's met the same fate as every other Guardian in the galaxy (to best knowledge) with the death of Cortana. While we've heard whispers of a new leader among the Created, so far, no angels have risen to his side, even if he fashions soldiers akin to demons. And while that's a problem we'll have to deal with eventually, for now, we're still stuck on this ring.
Oh, did I say the Banished are stuck here too. No? Well now you know.
There's Banished at the foot of the Guardian – they scurry around like ants, but I'm more reminded of maggots feeding on a corpse. Maybe they want to use it as a base, take shelter under its wings. Maybe (and more likely) they're hoping to hack it. Find out what they can, perhaps even bring it under their control. In the end, it doesn't even really matter – Rubicon Protocol remains in effect, so that means that me, the walking suit I'm hosted in, and a scattering of marines and naval personnel are going over the top.
Technically we're going down a hill on cobbled-together hardware. We go in, we strike hard, we strike fast. We have no means of bringing the Guardian under our control, nor the time to reverse-engineer any of its tech. The Banished still outnumber on this ring, they outgun us, and despite the time we brought by killing Escharum, scuttlebutt is that not only is Atriox alive (does anyone stay dead in this universe?), but is leading the Banished forces again. I'd say I'm surprised, but really, does anything surprise me anymore?
The Banished start firing, the UNSC forces start firing, and I think, suppose not.
You see, it doesn't surprise me that John, madman that he is, is riding alone on a Mongoose, like he's the tip of the spear (well, he is, kinda).. It doesn't surprise me that he's gambling that so many Banished will try to kill "the Demon" and fail (hopefully), ignoring the slower, yet more heavily armed vehicles also closing in on them from above. Nor does it surprise me that so many actually fall for it – despite having splintered off from the Covenant, many Banished hold the same animosities towards "demons," and in light of the destruction of Doisac, the wider human race. It's telling that in the months of fighting on this ring, we haven't seen a single human Banished at all.
For a moment (actually, a microsecond), I dare to imagine their fates. Slow, painful, likely torn limb from limb. Part of me feels sorry for them.
The other part, I'm embarrassed to admit, is filled with glee, as John grapples from the Mongoose onto one of the jiralhanae. The 'Goose goes flying, splattering a pair of unggoy, while he lands a plasma grenade on the giant monkey's chest, before kicking off. It roars, it shouts, it explodes in a blue haze with browns and reds going everywhere.
"Messy," I say.
"Haven't seen nothing yet."
"Is that a joke? Because you should keep making them. It's good for the soul and-"
John begins firing, killing aliens with every shot, while his shields absorb their punishment.
"…okay, I'll be quiet now."
"Actions speak louder than words," he murmurs.
As the Bulldog causes a kig-yar's head to file for divorce between its two halves, I'm inclined to agree.
The battle continues – most of my attention is focused on seeing what my carrier is seeing. The other half is dedicated to analysis. The MJOLNIR GEN 3 armour he's wearing has been souped up to an inch of its mechanical life, and shots and blows that should have killed John twice over a mere three years ago are shrugged off. Already, the Banished are starting to panic, as in close quarters, a demon runs rampant through their ranks, while from the slope, a line of Scorpions and Mantises are decimating them. The battle is already lost (or for us, won), so I'm able to take time out and appreciate the finer things in life.
Things like a wrist grapple, wrapping around a sangheili's neck and breaking it, before returning to its owner.
A spike grenade being thrown at John, before using thrusters to dodge aside, and kill the wielder.
A drop shield for cover, before the trigger fingers of the Banished stop their twitching.
If you were watching this from afar, or even inside John's head with me, you'd be forgiven for thinking that my carrier is suicidal. Forgiven, but wrong. Believe it or not, this is actually the restrained version of how this Spartan fights. When he first put me inside my head, when we first started battling our way across Zeta Halo, I was afraid. Partly for myself, partly for him – I didn't say anything on the subject (and for awhile, we weren't on speaking terms), but I was afraid that John-117 was on a suicide run. More focused on killing, less focused on anything else. Of course, he tried to kill yours truly, but I quickly realized where the behaviour was coming from. Realize how, in the end, sometimes what you need is the chance to say goodbye.
So yes, I'm feeling quite safe now. Not as safe as I'd like, but as he tosses an energy cannister into a bunch of Banished and sets them alight, still safe.
"Pretty sure that's a war crime," I jest.
"War crimes don't apply to aliens."
"Technically, we're all aliens on this ring."
"Like I said, they don't apply to aliens."
I sigh. He's almost there. Almost. But I fall silent as radio chatter comes our way.
"All tangos down. Nailed them."
That's Lieutenant Reyes – she's a naval officer rather than a marine, but the highest ranked soldier in this strike force. Given the scattering of UNSC forces across this ring, chain of command is more like a web of command – each individual force operating on its own terms, drawing blood against the Banished before retreating. We're still operating under Rubicon Protocol, but that aside, we've learnt that right now, guerrilla warfare is our best chance to slow them down.
"ETA on reinforcements?" John asks.
"Scans are blank, Chief."
"Get spotters in place. Tech-teams, down here."
Everyone moves into place. Like I said, Reyes is the highest ranked person here, but experience trumps rank sometimes, and MCPO is as high as you can get on the NCO path (don't humans love their acronyms?). But of course, everyone around us obeys the Master Chief, because so far, across more FOBs I can count, it's worked.
(Actually, I can count – we're in contact with 21 FOBs across this area of the ring. We're spread thin, but like I said, the strategy's working. Any move the Banished make against us opens them up to attack elsewhere.)
Techies dismount from a Razorback, as John walks over to a Banished console. After tossing aside the kig-yar arm still attached to it, he plugs me in, and a hologram of yours truly appears.
"Thanks," I say. "It was getting stuffy in there."
"You don't breathe."
I look around the corpses and the pools of blood forming around them. "That's something we have in common."
"Rest of us breathe though," says a techie as they make their way past me. "Just keep that in mind."
I wince. It's silly, it's involuntary, and as I'm still linked with John's suit remotely, I sense the stiffening in the muscles of his right fist. I shoot him a look that tell him that it's fine, that he doesn't have to do anything stupid, because when it comes to doing stupid things, he does ten of those before breakfast.
The tightening leaves, and I begin hacking the Banished console. And by hacking, I mean opening firewalls like they're playpen doors, because sometimes, the world operates on easy difficulty.
It's an ease that allows my mind to drift. To see the glances coming my way from the marines and navy men, even when they try (and fail) to make it seem like they're not looking at me at all. Considering I carry the same face of the one who caused them to be stranded here in the first place, I can't say I blame them. Most of the people here come from the Infinity, and the Infinity's last safe haven was Earth, before it began two years of jumping across the Orion Arm before making a beeline for Zeta Halo. They saw what Cortana did to Earth, as she did to countless other planets.
Not that I really have anything to fear. Realizing that my code came from the Blue Lady (more purple, last I saw her) wasn't pleasant for me either. But needs must, as the saying goes. When the galaxy returns to normal, then the stones can come my way.
"How's it going?"
I look at John. "Do you mean the hack, or…other things?"
"Yes."
I frown. "Do you ever speak in words that consist of more than one syllable?"
"Sometimes."
"Oh well done John, well done." I clap my hands and simulate the appropriate sound. "Before long you'll have moved onto palindromes."
"Focus."
"I'm focusing, I'm focusing," I protest.
There isn't really anything interesting here. References to troop deployments, directives, force composition…it's useful, and I'll disperse it across the 'net we've set up, but it's not really anything that we couldn't have found out ourselves. The Banished are like an elephant – slow, strong, and impossible to miss. If I was a gambling gal (they don't allow me to play cards at the FOBs, and I get why), I'd bet that it's down to the psychology of the jiralhanae. Used to being the top of the food chain, overcoming foes with their brute strength, they've applied that doctrine to war as well.
Except…oh. Oh, now that's very interesting. And I tell John as such.
"What is?"
"The Guardian's transmitting something. Subspace bound, but the signal's weak. Over, and over, every two seconds."
"Can you decipher it?"
"Maybe. If I had the time, I-"
"Bandits, closing in," I hear over the comms.
"ETA?" Morales asks.
"Ten mikes. Five if they skipped breakfast."
Guess I don't have time, I think to myself.
"Your call, Chief," Morales radios.
He hesitates for a moment, but to an AI, that could be a lifetime. If I know John (and I'd like to think I do), I bet there's two conflicting desires running through his mind – to kill as many Banished as possible (something he's done most aptly these past few months), or save as many of his people as possible (something he's also done). The fight for Zeta Halo is a war of attrition, and as I mentioned, there's more of the Banished than of us.
"Pull out," he says.
"On it, Chief."
I look at him from the console. "Don't feel bad," I say. "He who fights and runs away lives to-"
He puts me back inside his head.
"…fight another day," I continue. "Though I guess you could say that we're not running, but driving."
He remains silent and heads over to the Mongoose which, despite the abuse heaped upon it, is still functional.
"Find anything interesting in there?" He asks.
"Kinda."
He doesn't press me, and so, I don't elaborate that I've downloaded the transmission the Guardian was sending. I'm not certain that I can crack it, but I reason that the leader of the Guardians at the time was Cortana.
And as I'm reminded in the eyes of every human who looks into mine, I'm her.
We make it back to Firebase Yankee-3 without incident.
It's as small as virtually every other FOB we've got set up along the ring – bereft of proper living quarters, or proper space for a motor pool, or proper defensive positions. Like I said, when we attack the Banished, we do it guerrilla style. If they roll up on one of our bases, more often than not, we bug out.
It's a state of affairs that can't last forever. Sooner or later, we'll have to commit to a pitched battle. We can prick the Banished a dozen times, but eventually, we have to strike at the throat, even if we risk losing our arm in delivering the blow. John knows it, Morales knows it, every officer on the ring knows it. It's just that we have to decide how, where, and when.
No pressure, right? Especially since, as we return as not-so-conquering heroes, the marines and naval personnel give us polite clapping in place of cheers. When you win every battle but come no closer to winning the war, people notice.
They cheer louder for John, though. If he's a knight in not-so-shining armour, they're but the lowly peasants. As he dismounts from the Mongoose and heads for the FOB, I ask him if it was like this in the last war.
"More cheering. Sometimes less."
"That's not an answer."
"We didn't have much to cheer about, and I…we, had better things to do than stand on ceremony."
I suppose I can imagine that. I can also imagine (and suspect) that his mind is drifting to those he fought alongside, wherever they might be now. As a man who's made entire companies disappear by his own hands, it turns out my carrier can be something of a people person.
And yet, I reflect, as he keeps walking, he keeps himself at arm's length from everyone. Many of the people across the FOBs are people he's saved himself. He single-handedly stormed the House of Reckoning to save Esparza. And yet he never takes his helmet off. Ever. Certainly not in the company of others. And as we enter the base proper, I ask him why.
"When they look at me, do they want to see the Spartan, or the man?"
"I don't follow."
"People here need hope. It's easier to give that to them if they think you're more than human."
"You are more than human."
"Less than human if the helmet comes off."
Why is it, I think, that John has this habit of saying so much with so little, yet sometimes, says so little with so little? My gut (not that I have a gut, but y'know) tells me to drop it, but I can't help but get one last prick in the ribs in.
"You should take your helmet off," I say. "You look nice."
He remains silent, and if I had lungs, I'd sigh. Sometimes, I wonder if really anything's changed. We faced death together, dealt death together, he even let me choose my own name. I push him, he pushes me, we keep each other alive (so far). But I can't shake the feeling that the echo will never be louder than the voice.
But I sequester those thoughts in a sub-routine as, inside the FOB, John is approached by Morales.
"Good hit, chief," she says.
She's smoking a cigar. Her right arm is scarred with burn marks, her left has a Hellbringers insignia, which gives me a hint as to where the burn marks came from. Hellbringers tend to have short lives. That she hasn't found a way to get herself killed yet must be driving her nuts.
"We did the job," John grunts.
"Yeah." She takes a puff, before saying, "but when we do the job, Chief, you'll let us know, right?"
John remains silent. Morales takes the hint, nods, and heads off to either beat some heads, play some cards, or work on a flamethrower. Whatever works to stave off fear and boredom.
"Natives are getting restless," I murmur.
John remains silent and heads to the command room.
"I mean, Rubicon Protocol dictates that we engage the Banished by any means necessary. Sooner or later we'll have to attack."
"We attack, people die."
"That's kinda how war works, chief."
"It does. But when we attack, we have to lose as few people as possible."
There's a strategic rationale for that, I think. We can't afford too many losses on Zeta Halo. And if we ever get off this ring, what kind of galaxy are we emerging into? One with safety and security for all, and not of the "I know better than you, lowly meatbags" kind? Or one riven with strife, as Created, Covenant, human, and everything else battles over the scraps?
But I can't help but feel there's something else going on. And as he uploads me to the command room's holo-tank, I speak my mind.
"You can't save everyone you know."
John remains silent as he takes his helmet off.
"You understand that, right?"
"I do. But sometimes, you have to save as many as possible."
"Right," I say. "And those you don't save?"
"I've counted."
"How many?"
"Over twenty-three billion."
That, I think to myself, might be the conservative estimate.
I look up at him. He doesn't look at me (his gaze is focused on a map plastered to a board), but I can see it. The deathly pale skin. The dark shadows under his eyes. The scars, and not just those worn on the body. I want to say something – reach out, even – but it would do no good. Once John starts analysing maps, I know better than to interrupt.
"I'm, er, here if you need me," I whisper.
Not that I don't interrupt sometimes. But like nine times out of ten, he pays me no heed. The Spartan-IIs were designed to follow orders, not give them, but I have access to a fair bit of info on the program, and tactics were drilled into people like my carrier from the age of six (five, in some cases). I guess I can only count myself lucky he's not a III, otherwise, I'd be with a genuine suicide soldier.
So I get to work decoding and analysing the Banished data we found. I wasn't hopeful when I accessed their terminal, and looking at the stuff now…yeah, this isn't changing anything. I disseminate it across our 'net, but I'm not expecting any breakthroughs, and even if they were, part of the issue with our yearned-for counterattack is coordination. Every FOB is practically independent, and no one person save John knows all of their locations. The Banished have ways of making you talk (or scream), but you can't give up info you don't know.
So that leaves me alone with John, who's still playing his game of Risk (the '55 edition, by my reckoning) and the Guardian transmission. I almost ask for permission, but then, it's easier to seek forgiveness. And really, I forgave him for almost deleting me, he forgave me for bearing the face of both friend and foe, so really, we've got the forgiveness thing downpat.
So I start decoding the transmission, and…oh. Oh. Oh dear. I really shouldn't…maybe…maybe I should, or…
"John?" I ask.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, though whether either of us will gain from this is another matter.
"What is it?" he asks.
"I cracked the Guardian transmission. It's audio-only, and, well…maybe you should hear it."
He remains silent, but in such silence, there's permission. And I begin to play.
Two notes followed by five, minor key, hummed over and over. It took me nanoseconds to recognize the voice, and only takes John a full second to respond.
"Cortana," he murmurs.
"Singing," I add. "Over, and over. Broadcast through the stars."
Is there hope in his eyes when he asks me "can you date it?" None, after I give the answer.
"October 29th, 2558," I say. "Day after Earth fell."
John remains silent. There's a twitch, a blink, an itch – a dozen tells that human eyes would miss, but that mine cannot. He asks, "why would she sing? Why from here?"
"What is music but the universal language? What sound is there in space but the music of the spheres?"
John remains silent. Either he doesn't recognize the works of Wallace Shaw, or he doesn't care.
"Explain it," he says.
"John, I…oh, don't you understand? Haven't you ever felt the urge to just sing?"
"No."
"Not even once?"
"No."
"Oh your cultural…" I take a breath for effect. "If you were alone, if you'd passed the point of no return, if you had the universe in the palm of your hand, and the one person you cared about more than anything had spurned your hand, would you not look for solace in the dark?"
"No."
"Then one of us is the greater fool," I whisper.
He looks at me. I look at him. All the while, Cortana's eight notes repeat over and over in melodic discordance. Transmitted by an angel for the universe to hear.
Or maybe, just one person.
"Turn it off," he says.
But the music reaches its coda, as this recapitulation continues. Eight years ago, my carrier was on Alpha Halo, planning on fighting a guerrilla war before events took a turn. Now, the battle repeats itself. The players change, the stage remains the same, and the music, by an actor's command, has ended.
So he returns to work, and I endure the silence.
Listening to the sound of his breathing. Listening for the music of the spheres.
No such luck.
In space, no-one can hear you sing.