Chapter 1: Awakening
A bone-deep ache, the kind that settled in your marrow and refused to budge, was the unwelcome greeting to his consciousness. His eyelids, suddenly heavy as lead weights, fought to stay closed against the sterile white glare that flooded his vision. A metallic hum vibrated through the cryotube, a constant thrumming that seemed to resonate in his very skull.
He tried tried to flex his fingers, but they wouldn't respond. Panic threatened to overcome him but he forced a shallow breath in, the sterile air of the pod scraping his dry throat. Any panicking would only make the wake up cycle even worse.
An artificial voice, calm and modulated, cut through the silence. "Mercenary Zackary. Cryostasis cycle complete. Vital signs nominal." The voice lacked warmth, but the confirmation that nothing abnormal had occurred was reassuring.
Science maintained dreaming in the freezer was impossible, yet endless purple hallways and the hum of alien doors always danced at the edge of his awareness during cryosleep. Had it been a dream, or a memory surfacing from the depths of his mind? It was a question he couldn't answer yet.
With a hiss and a groan, the cryotube sputtered to life. Zackary gritted his teeth, willing his body to obey. Fifteen minutes, that's how long these wake cycles took according to his memory. Fifteen minutes to thaw him out, jolt his heart back into action, and get him ready for whatever awaited him on the other side.
Slowly, ever so slowly, feeling returned to Zackary's limbs. He forced his eyes open, squinting against the harsh glare that flooded the cramped room, wherever he was. A primal urge to move surged through him, a need to escape the confines of the pod.
He flexed his fingers, the tingling sensation a welcome sign of returning life. But the automated wake cycle he expected didn't materialise. No gentle hiss of escaping gas, no gradual brightening of the chamber. Frustration gnawed at him. He coughed, a dry, hacking cough that ripped through his throat. The metallic tang of something foreign filled his mouth. He needed to sit up, to clear his lungs. With a muttered curse and a surge of annoyance, he slammed his fist against the crytube door.
The impact yielded nothing. He slammed again, harder this time, adrenaline overcoming the grogginess of cryosleep. Finally, with a hiss and a groan, the door buckled inwards, giving way to his assault.
Zackary, stumbled out of the pod, the world tilting slightly as his body readjusted to gravity. He doubled over, expelling the vile-tasting surfactant in a series of coughs that threatened to turn into full-blown vomiting.
"Easy there, champ," a voice chuckled from above. "That's supposed to go down your gullet, not decorate the floor."
Zackary straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He squinted upwards, his eyes adjusting to the harsh light. A woman stood there, observing him with amusement.
A woman stood there observing him, her brown hair pulled back into a neat bun, not a single strand escaping its confines. Her face, youthful yet etched with lines that spoke of experience, was framed by the sharp angles of her brow. Her clothing were dark, almost charcoal grey, adorned with strange symbols that Zackary didn't recognise. Her eyes, a piercing blue.
"Tastes like recycled armpit sweat," he finally managed to reply, his voice raspy. "I was promised a good night's sleep, not a trip to puke city."
A genuine smile lit up the woman's face. "Well, consider this a complimentary appetiser then," she said, her voice laced with a foreign accent. "My ship isn't exactly a bed and breakfast, but I'll be sure to pass on your compliments – or complaints – about the… breakfast to the chef. Let me assure you, that cryotube is top-of-the-line technology."
Zackary scoffed. "Top-tier? This feels more like a Mark VII suspension system. Most decent ships run on Mark VIII's these days. What junkyard did you fish this antique out of?"
An impressed glint entered the woman's blue eyes. "Mark VII, huh? You know your freezers.
"More like I know the dry, itchy skin on my ass," he countered, "which is a lovely side effect of the Mark VII."
The woman's smile widened. "UNSC background, then?" she asked, her voice a touch too casual.
Zackary remained silent, wary. The woman was clearly a mercenary, judging by her attire. Mercenaries often operated in murky moral territories, and divulging his background wasn't exactly high on his list of priorities.
However to ask anyway meant she either she was incredibly brazen to probe a stranger's background so blatantly, or something about his awakening had caught her attention. He glanced around the chamber. Five other cryotubes lined the room, occupants still cocooned inside, no doubt undergoing their own post-cryo reawakening rituals. He was the first one awake, and apparently, the most talkative.
Deciding to deflect her question with one of his own, he asked, "So, smuggling operation go smoothly?"
The woman's lips curved into a knowing smile. "About as smoothly as one can expect on Andesia. Those insurrectionists were thicker than a Mora's skull, but a few strategically placed bribes got us past most checkpoints before the contractors took over."
"Surprised they didn't just sell us out," Zackary mused, a hint of grudging respect in his voice.
The woman laughed, a rich, throaty sound. "They're more interested in their own squabbles these days. Apparently, they've rebranded themselves as the United Rebel Front, some upstart named Mattius Drake calling the shots."
"Not much for reformation," Zackary remarked, his voice tinged with a hint of skepticism. "The URF has never been a proper insurgent organisation. It's a disorganized mess, lacking a chain of command, real sponsors, or any viable military resources. It's nothing more than a badge of honour for any small-time hoodlum with a grudge against the UNSC to slap on a white flag. A desperate cry for attention, if you ask me." His words dripped with dismissiveness.
The women chuckled, a dry sound that held little amusement. "But that's precisely why the UNSC has such trouble dealing with them," she countered, a touch of exasperation lacing her voice. "They're a hydra, cut off one head, and two more sprout in its place. These URF cells operate like rogue insects, small, independent, and difficult to root out."
She leaned closer, her blue eyes glinting with a mix of annoyance and grudging respect. "It's not like the New Colonial Alliance, where taking out the bigwigs can cripple their entire operation. The URF thrives on chaos. No matter how many cells they dismantle, as long as the UNSC continues to squeeze the Outer Colonies, they'll find new recruits, fuelled by anger and desperation, to keep their bloody flags waving."
Zackary absorbed her words, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. This women with her unexpected knowledge and understanding of Insurrectionist movements, was proving to be more than just a pretty face in a grey uniform. Perhaps her own past held some connection to these rebels.
"And you are…?" he finally asked, curiosity piqued.
A sly smile played on her lips. "Your captain for this little journey," she announced, extending a hand. "Captain Alexous, at your service."
"Your Zack, correct?" she asked.
Zackary hesitated for a moment, remembering he was completely naked before grasping her hand, the firm grip conveying a sense of confidence and hidden strength.
"Zackary, actually," he corrected gently, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Looks like I'm the early bird here."
"Greenhorns, the lot of them," Alexous scoffed. "Don't know how they got accepted for this assignment, they haven't gotten used to the joys of off-world cryosleep yet."
Zackary chuckled, the sound raw and unfamiliar in his own ears. He nodded in understanding. "So, about those clothes…" he began, gesturing vaguely at his exposed form.
"Ah, yes," Alexous said, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Your belongings are stored in the adjacent hangar. Feel free to grab them while I babysit the rest of these sleepyheads. We have a meeting at 1700 hours sharp."
The two wasn't embarrassed about his state of undress as they knew the reasoning behind it. Cryosleep with clothes was a recipe for freezer burn a horrifying prospect he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy – freezer burn. Agonizing welts and raw, blistered skin – the mere thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Still, the lack of clothing felt like an unwelcome intrusion, a violation of his privacy.
Grateful for the distraction, Zackary nodded and made his way out of the chamber. The metal floor beneath his bare feet felt surprisingly cold, a stark contrast to the sterile warmth of the cryopod. The ship itself wasn't spacious, a far cry from the UNSC frigates he was accustomed to, but for a civilian vessel, it seemed functional enough. He navigated the dimly lit corridors, the rhythmic hum of the ship's engines a constant presence in the background.
According to the briefing, Zackary was supposed to be smuggled onto the sleek lines of a Mariner-class transport, the aptly named "Luck of Times." He scoffed inwardly at the name but the transport itself was high quite in demand of buyers.
After navigating a maze of corridors, Zackary reached a metal door marked "Storage Room B." Inside, the industrial hum of ventilation fans filled the air. The room was dominated by stacks of crates, their contents obscured by dust and neglect. Terraforming equipment and rusted excavation tools lay scattered about, a facade to appease any prying inspectors.
Zackary knew exactly where to go. He strode towards a row of battered lockers, each emblazoned with a faded nameplate. His own, "ZH-117," was easy to find. Opening the locker, a wave of familiarity washed over him. There, neatly folded, were his usual digs: a worn but reliable military-grade suit and a pair of sturdy combat boots. They might not be fancy, but they offered the comfort of routine, a grounding element in this strange new reality.
But it was the sidearm nestled in a compartment at the locker's base that truly brought a smile to his face. The cold metal of the M6C semi-automatic Magnum felt reassuring beneath his fingers. His thumb traced the familiar grooves of the grip, a subconscious caress.
There were flashier options available, the M6H with its increased firepower or even the antique M6D with its legendary stopping power. But for Zackary, the M6C held a special place. Its compact size and unwavering reliability had served him well in countless tight situations. It wasn't the biggest gun in the fight, but it was his, and he trusted it implicitly.
As he stood there, lost in the comforting weight of his sidearm, the door creaked open again. An elderly gentleman entered, his posture a study in quiet respect. His age was etched into the lines on his face, a stark contrast to Captain Alexous' youthful vitality seasoned with experience. There was a calmness about him, a demeanor that spoke of quiet competence.
"Mornin'," Zackary greeted the newcomer with a cautious nod. The man grunted in response, a gravelly sound that spoke more of weariness than animosity. He shuffled towards his locker, muttering under his breath as he accessed a data pad.
"It's hardly good, and I very much doubt its morning," he grumbled, his voice laced with annoyance. "Promised us a forty-five day journey, and here we are, stuck in cryo-sleep for damn near sixty."
Zackary's eyebrows shot up. "An extra fifteen days?"
The man snorted, a humourless sound. "Unless my datapad is malfunctioning, it shows the 26th of June, 2557." He squinted at Zackary, his gaze piercing through years of experience.
"Its an expected delay, probably a delay with the inspections. Changes like this are par for the course in this line of work," Zackary offered, a hint of sympathy in his voice.
The man chuckled, a dry rasp that surprised Zackary. "I suppose I've just outed my own inexperience then. Forgive my misplaced displeasure."
A wry smile emerged on Zackary's lips. "But I understand your frustration. Missions always come with a few unexpected bumps."
The man finally extended a hand, his grip surprisingly firm for his age. "Dr. Edgar Connor," he said, introducing himself. "Researching Forerunner and Covenant artifact's and their blasted contraptions is my… misfortune."
Understanding flickered across Zackary's face. He hadn't pegged the elderly man for a solider, yet he didn't expect Mr. Spectre, the designer behind this mission to go to the length of hiring researchers.
"Considering our operation, that expertise makes you a valuable asset." Zackary replied, shaking Dr. Connor's hand firmly before pausing. "Just how dangerous are Forerunner artifact's?"
Dr. Connor sighed, a world of weariness in that single breath. "Worse than you can imagine, son. A single touch of the wrong artifact could turn you into a pile of dust faster than you can blink, assuming it doesn't activate some other infernal Forerunner trap."
Zackary suppressed a shiver. "And even if we somehow manage to survive the artifact's themselves, we'll have the UNSC, ONI, and probably the Covenant breathing down our necks."
Dr. Connor scoffed. "Exactly! Makes you wonder what that Spectre fellow was thinking, dragging us into his suicide mission. Though I have to admit, the Sangheili-crafted chairs he used as bait were quite impressive."
Zackary's eyes narrowed slightly. He wasn't a man easily impressed, but Sangheili craftsmanship, particularly furniture designed for human comfort, was a rare find. Still, professionalism held him back from indulging in any collector's dream.
"Furniture isn't exactly my area of expertise, Doctor," he replied smoothly. "Though It makes for good cover."
Dr. Connor chuckled, a hint of mischief in his gaze. "As a self-proclaimed historian, I prefer my furniture without bullet holes, thank you very much. But to each their own, I suppose."
"A researcher like yourself, one would think the allure of these Forerunner artifact's would be the primary motivator, for joining this operation I mean" Zackary said, probing for information.
Dr. Connor's smile turned enigmatic. "You got me there, merc. How could I ever give up the opportunity of interacting with the artifact's I've been researching? But tell me, what brings you to this particular mission?"
Zackary hesitated for a moment, then met Dr. Connor's gaze head-on. "Two hundred and fifty million credits," he stated bluntly.
Dr. Connor whistled, a low, impressed sound. "Considering the potential selling value of the artifact's and the… relative… risk involved, that's not an unreasonable price tag. Mind me asking what you need that kind of cash for?"
Zackary shrugged, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. "Let's just say… it's personal."
He slammed his locker shut with finality, the sharp clang echoing in the metal confines of the storage room. "Well, Dr. Connor, I wouldn't want to keep the briefing waiting. See you there."
"Indeed," Dr. Connor replied, a glint of curiosity still lingering in his eyes as Zackary strode past him.
Emerging from the storage room, Zackary brushed past two figures making their way in. One gave the look of a seasoned veteran with a face etched with experience, the other a young man, barely out of his teens, his cheeks burning crimson with the awkwardness of nudity. Zackary offered a curt nod to both, allowing them space to enter the room before continuing on his way.
His stomach rumbled, a harsh reminder of his body's needs. The memory of his breakfast decorating the floor after cryosleep wasn't pleasant, so he made a detour to the ship's cafeteria. A few protein bars would have to suffice for now.
Following the ship's signage, Zackary arrived at the mission briefing room, located next to the command deck. Inside, a circular lounge surrounded a central TE-15 holographic table. While it was the civilian model – the TE-21, the military counterpart was all the rage these days – regardless the TE-15 was functional, albeit a touch smaller and more affordable.
He was the first to arrive, unsurprising given his eagerness. He settled into a seat, patience humming through his veins. Dr. Connor entered shortly thereafter, and the two exchanged greetings before taking their respective seats.
Captain Alexous was next, a brief conversation passing between her and Dr. Connor before the remaining two members of the team shuffled in, their body language radiating a distinct lack of camaraderie. They chose seats far apart, strangers thrown together by circumstance.
The final arrival drew a collective look. Bald and clad in a skintight suit that left little to the imagination, the newcomer possessed a striking feature – an LED display embedded over his left eye. Despite his tardiness, Captain Alexous didn't seem fazed. She gestured to the remaining seat.
Once everyone was settled, the captain wasted no time on pleasantries. "Alright, let's get down to business. We're all professionals here, so introductions will be brief. Mingle with your colleagues later if you feel the need." Her tone was blunt, no room for nonsense.
"First up, we have Zack, our ex-UNSC muscle," she stated, her gaze landing squarely on him. A flicker of self-consciousness washed over him at being singled out, but he managed a curt nod towards the others.
"Next is Kai," she continued, gesturing towards the young man. A nervous but enthusiastic wave followed the introduction. While Zackary couldn't help but worry about the kid's inexperience, there was a certain eagerness in his eyes that suggested a willingness to learn.
"Dr. Connor, here, is our resident egghead," Captain Alexous said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "He's responsible for keeping our Forerunner gadgets from blowing up in our faces and making sure we actually know what we're taking." Dr. Connor returned the amusement with a genial nod.
"This is Dylan, our IT specialist," she introduced the next crew member, the one that was late. "You won't see him on the ground, but you'll hear him in your comms. He's the one who'll be cracking security systems and keeping us hidden from prying eyes."
Dylan spoke up "Just finished liaising with the pilot, Captain. We should make a clean exit from slipspace, assuming there's no one waiting for us."
"Finally, we have Delmar," Captain Alexous announced, her gaze shifting to the middle-aged man. "Our hired muscle for anything too heavy for the rest of us. And if brute force fails, he's also our resident expert on the excavation equipment you saw in storage." Delmar responded with a simple nod of acknowledgment.
"And lastly, for those who haven't figured it out, I'm Captain Alexous, your fearless leader for this little operation. There's also Coraline and Doris up on the bridge, but you won't have much interaction with them. They're the ones keeping this hunk of metal from falling apart."
A moment of silence followed, broken only by Kai's ill-timed question. "All-female crew, huh?" he blurted, his voice laced with a hint of surprise, perhaps even disbelief.
Captain Alexous' eyes narrowed. "Don't push your luck, kid. If those two went toe-to-toe with an Elite, I wouldn't bet on the Elite." Her voice left no room for argument.
The holographic table pulsed to life as Captain Alexous swiped a hand across its surface. A constellation of shimmering blue dots materialized, their coordinates displayed in crisp white lettering.
"Alright, let's get this on the table," she began, her voice devoid of pleasantries. "We all know Mr. Spectre is the prime mover behind this operation, but there are other players involved, and for good reason. Discretion is paramount."
A collective nod rippled through the room, the jovial mood replaced by a focused intensity.
"Our mission," Captain Alexous continued, her tone turning serious, "is to secure and extract a collection of Forerunner artifacts. Mr. Spectre has been meticulously planning this for months. According to his intel derived from a UNSC informant, on the other end of these slipspace coordinates leads to a planet with significantly large Forerunner artefact. Theres also whispers that suggest there may be more trinkets lying around the site."
Dr. Connor, ever the inquisitive one, leaned forward. "What kind of artifact's are we talking about? Weapons? Technology? Knowing their purpose could be invaluable to keeping us alive."
Captain Alexous shook her head. "Unfortunately, that intel remains elusive. The informant couldn't provide that. But hey, the thrill of the unknown is a bonus factored into your final paychecks, right?"
Dr. Connor's sigh was a mixture of disappointment and resignation.
"The mission itself is straightforward," the captain continued. "Using the slipspace coordinates, we'll head to the site and grab as many artifacts as we can physically manage. Smaller ones are preferable – think efficiency in terms of cargo space."
A wry smile touched her lips as she finished, "That's it, folks. Any questions?"
Zackary, ever the pragmatist, was the first to speak. "Leaks. The possibility has to be considered. And if this site is as significant as you say, wouldn't the UNSC be crawling all over it?"
Captain Alexous nodded curtly. "The UNSC hasn't gotten their grubby mitts on it yet. They're bogged down elsewhere, so following protocol they can't leave until they have gathered enough manpower. However, intel suggest they're secured their personal and leaving within the month to the planet. Hence the expedited nature of our little operation."
She paused, taking a breath. "Mr. Spectre assures us these coordinates are our little secret, shared only with us and the UNSC. He's double-checked, triple-checked, you name it."
Kai, the young, eager one, summarised the plan. "So, we link up with these other parties, punch in the coordinates, grab the goodies, and vanish before the UNSC shows up for their science fair?"
Captain Alexous grinned. "Precisely, kid. If our intel is accurate, the sheer volume of artifacts will leave the UNSC none the wiser. They might not even notice a few missing trinkets."
Delmar, the muscle of the group, rumbled a question. "Who are these other parties you keep mentioning?"
The captain's gaze swept across the room, her voice firm. "There are no other parties besides the ones you see here. A small, tight unit ensures minimal leaks. You all understand the importance of discretion, I trust."
A chorus of murmurs indicated agreement.
Kai, however, couldn't resist a follow-up. "Is there a difference in pay?"
"Indeed," Captain Alexous confirmed without hesitation. "The payout reflects the varying degrees of danger involved. Each of you received individual briefings regarding compensation."
Zackary, couldn't help but acknowledge the sheer magnitude of the sum promised – 250 million credits. A life-altering windfall. For context, a typical marine wouldn't see that kind of money in a decade earning anywhere from 60 to 90 thousand credits in a year. More if they were an officer.
As a mercenary, Zackary wasn't unfamiliar with financial hardship. Scraped-together commissions and the constant threat of poverty were his unwelcome companions. The prospect of such a fortune, not for himself but for someone dear to him, was undeniably tempting.
But Zackary wasn't easily swayed by riches. He was a seasoned soldier, keenly aware of the high cost that came with high-stakes missions. The very nature of this operation – Forerunner artifacts – reeked of danger. These ancient relics were a siren song to every major player in the galaxy, and no matter how Captain Alexous painted it, nothing was ever guaranteed when dealing with the Forerunners. This might be the most valuable cargo he'd ever secured, but a nagging suspicion remained.
250 million credits for glorified security detail? Suspicious indeed.
As he contemplated the situation, he absentmindedly scratched the back of his neck, 'Assuming the intelligence is correct, there shouldn't be anything preventing us from completing the mission,'
He glanced around the room, avoiding eye contact with others as his thoughts intensified. 'Except for the off chance it was leaked to other parties resulting in a small skirmish. But that's within acceptable danger levels for a mission like this,' he continued, tapping his fingers.
'Of course, with a price tag of 250 million credits, I can't eliminate the possibility that they intend to dispose of me afterwards, or there's something in the assignment Mr. Spectre refrained from mentioning, hence the high payment.'
Upon immediately thinking of this, Zackary instinctively nodded his head, disagreeing with his own thoughts. 'Then again, I have no reference on how much Forerunner artifacts would sell for in the black market or to Mr. Spectre's own private buyers,' he muttered, rubbing his temples.
'But given its rarity and the fact there isn't a single one outside the hands of the UNSC, a singular one would be valued well and truly above 500 million credits. Making it a profitable transaction.' He leaned back in his seat, his eyes staring off into the distance.
Well, it was too late to reconsider now.
Captain Alexous scanned the room, letting her gaze linger on each face. "Any lingering questions? Consider it settled then." With a decisive nod, she deactivated the holographic table, the blue constellation dissolving into nothingness.
"We'll be exiting slipspace in a few days," she announced, her voice carrying a hint of both authority and anticipation. "Until then, get yourselves settled, familiarize yourselves with the ship, and for heaven's sake, try not to cause any trouble. I expect to see all of you at dinner tonight. Dismissed."
With that, Captain Alexous turned and strode out of the briefing room, leaving the newly assembled crew to their thoughts. A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft hum of the ship's systems.