I'm back! Sorry for the delay. There were things that needed sorting out, and the time just got away from me. Anyway, I'm back, and I hope you all enjoy the story!
BonesofSmite: Thank you! I'm glad you enjoy, and hope you like what's to come. As for the characters, who they are and why they're here is available in a few author's notes beforehand, so if you're curiosu you can check those out.
Vegou: Thank you. I've always wanted to write a huge multi-crossover. This did start out as a more childish, crack-style story when I first came up with the idea a few years ago, but I've refined it since, and I'm sure I can pull it off in a balanced way, as you suggested. Honestly, I'm glad I waited to get this story out after I wrote Technophiles, because that series has taught me a lot. Anyway, I'm glad you enjoy it, and hope you enjoy what's to come!
Madra95: Ah. Yes, that's a good idea. I'll look into adding it. I hope you enjoy the story!
Saint Lazarus: Thanks! I hope you enjoy what's to come!
CommunistBaboon3: Thank you. I'm glad you like it. As for the plot, yes, I have that. It will depend on the arc, but each should be about three chapters. There's an overarching plan to this all, and I have plans to continue the series, so I hope you enjoy!
Austin: Welcome back! It's good to see you again! It'll be a while before we have a full-scale battle of that sort on our hands, but we have to start small before we get big. I hope you enjoy this chapter and what's to come!
oOo
"We must scour them [aliens] from the stars before they do the same to us." -Chaplain Cassus of the Ultramarines on xenos
"That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." -Neil Armstrong, first human to set foot on the moon
"Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one." -Marcus Aurelius
oOo
The Voyage Continues
The first thing Admiral Vir did after informing his men about the change in command was to meet with the commanding officers of the Valhallan 597th. He swiftly found Colonel Kasteen and Major Broklaw in their respective quarters on the Valhallan's side of the ship. While the common troopers of the regiment might have given him begrudging looks for being there, they had already heard the news from Cain. Not only did they have to respect Vir as the commander of the ship they were on, but now as their chosen regimental Commissar and their own leader.
Kasteen and Broklaw were happy enough to see him. Throughout the voyage so far, they had been wary of the aliens but nice enough. While they still probably didn't think too highly of the aliens or their close friends, they desired order above all, which Vir could respect. Hopefully they would respect him for the same even though he was quite close with several of what they disparagingly termed 'xenos'.
The first thing both Vir and Cain would be doing was to inspect their new troops. The Omen's marines and Drev soldiers would be lining up in the hangar, and the Valhallans in the only other large enough room to handle them: the mess hall. Vir stifled a snort as he thought of the last time the Valhallans were largely present in that room. Hopefully it would go better than the last time…
So it was now that Vir walked through the halls of his ship towards the mess hall, accompanied by Colonel Kasteen and Major Broklaw. The Valhallans' extraordinary pale faces wore looks of quiet curiosity as the trio talked of their respective home galaxies. Their boots echoed, muffled, on the deck as Vir's leather coat and the two Valhallans' grey-blue greatcoats swirled around them.
"I've read what information there is about you, sir," said Kasteen politely, "And I'm glad to serve with someone who's done so much to advance the cause of the human race." That much was true about Vir: while he didn't hold political office, he was humanity's de-facto representative and done a great deal to advance their cause on a galactic scale.
However, Vir didn't particularly like their attitude. They never stopped with the humanity-first outlook, did they? Though he did recognize Kasteen's efforts to be nice, and this was far more preferable to suffer not the alien to live, it nevertheless rubbed him the wrong way.
"I heard from Commissar Cain that all of the other alien races from where you come from want to kill you," said Vir in reply. "That's… well, that's not the case here. All of the non-humans on this shop are perfectly kind and don't want to hurt you." More venom slipped in his tone than Vir intended, but he had to get his point across. He would not tolerate his best friends getting hurt due to miscommunication or xenophobia.
"Well, you know what they say: beware the treachery of the xenos," muttered Broklaw. Kasteen shot him a look, as if she wanted to reprimand him but couldn't disagree. Vir looked at the duo with a frown.
"I trust them," he said pointedly. The two Imperial officers glanced at each other. The double-headed golden eagle symbol of the Imperium of Man glinted on their shoulders. Vir was starting to hate that symbol and all it represented. Men cloaked in it were no longer men, but over-paranoid zealots.
"You never really know with xenos," said Kasteen with a frown. "They'll do what it takes to advance their own cause. They think differently than us." The Valhallan Colonel shrugged. "Anyway, Admiral - or should I call you Commissar?" Vir gave his own shrug in reply, grateful for the exit Kasteen had provided.
"Either works, I guess."
"Tell me more about yourself," continued Kasteen. "Where were you born? What's it like in your galaxy?" Broklaw nodded along. The two officers seemed to be quite excited to learn anything new about his reality. Vir couldn't help but smile. Innocent human curiosity was still there beneath those golden eagles.
"Well, uh…" Vir composed his thoughts for a moment, trying to figure out where to begin. "I was born in the United States of America, which-"
"The… United States of what?" asked Broklaw, puzzled. "An odd name for a planet…" Vir chuckled.
"No, you misunderstand. The United States is the name of a country within a wider province of Amercanada on the planet. I was born on Earth, like most humans from my home reality." The Valhallans stopped dead. Vir looked back at them, confused, as they simply gaped at him.
"You… you… you were born on Holy Terra?" whispered Kasteen, incredulous. Broklaw said nothing, but his eyes were wide.
"Uh… yes," replied Vir, confused. He had a feeling their name for Earth was 'Holy Terra'. It fit with their empire, religion, and general naming of things. Kasteen made some sort of amazed sound in her throat.
"It's truly a blessing to meet a native Terran, especially a lord admiral!" said the Colonel. "Not only to see the birthplace of humanity, but to be born on it is just…" She trailed off, unable to further express her thoughts. Vir looked at the two officers. He got the feeling this was kind of a big deal where they came from.
The two groups really had to sit down and hash out all of the details of their realities. If something as mundane as being born on Earth was astounding to them, then there really were as many differences between the two realities as Cain implied and Vir suspected.
"Is that a rarity from where you come from?" asked Vir. Kasteen snorted.
"In an empire of over a million worlds, yes," she replied. It was Vir's turn to be shocked.
"A million worlds?" he asked, flabbergasted. "What… how… how does…?" Vir was still trying to process what he'd been told. How was that possible? "A million worlds?" he repeated, still utterly incredulous. "How does that work? How could you possibly govern them all?"
"Every planet in the Imperium is governed in its own way," replied Kasteen. "So long as they follow the Imperial Cult, pay the Imperial Tithe and obey the law of the Lex, then they are free to do as they please. Of course, they have to respect the various branches of the Imperium and do as ordered, and it does depend on the type of world in question, but for the most part, that's how it works." Vir nodded, intrigued. It seemed that the Imperium, for all its brutality and rhetoric, actually did have a strange, foreign notion of freedom.
Or, at least, they wouldn't bother you until they felt like it. Possibly both. It seemed the more information Vir got about this particular universe, the more questions he had.
"Where are you two from?" he asked, before he caught himself. "Valhalla, I guess." He shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry. I was thinking of other things. But what's Valhalla like, then?" He was quite curious about it. Alien worlds fascinated him almost as much as new technology and alien species. Emphasis on almost.
"Valhalla is an ice world, as I'm sure you already know," replied Broklaw. The trio continued down the hall as they talked. Vir actually hoped they took longer than normal. It would give him more time to ask questions. "It's located in the northeast of the galaxy. It's pretty bad on the outside, so we all live in underground cities carved from the snow and ice. You either join the Guard or work in the caverns, cultivating the food that sustains the populace."
"That seems…" Vir struggled to find the right word. "Harsh." Kasteen and Broklaw both chuckled.
"Yes, you'd probably be right," admitted the Colonel.
"Eh, could be worse," shrugged Broklaw. "You could be born on Catachan."
"Or Krieg," added Kasteen. Both Imperial officers grinned at that; some private joke. Before Vir could ask for an explanation, he looked up and realized they had arrived.
Vir stepped through the door of the mess hall, flanked by Kasteen and Broklaw. All three put on their game faces, slipping into the impassive steel mask of an inspecting officer. Vir's hands swung easily at his sides; Kasteen and Broklaw both had theirs neatly clasped behind their backs.
Arrayed in front of them were the soldiers of the Valhallan 597th. Each stood in full uniform, at parade attention with their blocky lasguns neatly resting at their sides. Nearly the entire room was filled. A sea of pale faces looked up at Vir with a massive array of emotions, from interest to indifference to curiosity to subdued hostility.
While Vir didn't particularly like doing it, he was an admiral, so he had plenty of practice making speeches.
"Men and women of the Valhallan 597th, as I'm sure you all well know, I am Admiral Adam Vir." A good a start as any, and better than many. "Due to tensions between yourselves and the crew of the Omen, myself and Commissar Cain are switching places to show you both that you can trust each other."
The Valhallans looked at each other with varied expressions. Vir internally sighed. There would be some that accepted it, some that resisted it, and some that just didn't know, as there always were. It was his job to make sure everything ran smoothly, regardless of personal opinions. Hopefully this idea would work and complete that goal.
"Much like Commissar Cain, it is my job to keep the peace." He decided now would be the best time to throw in Cain's authority: make sure they understood that he was a kind man, but he wouldn't stand for this any longer. "Commissar Cain has temporarily given me full Commissarial authority until this crisis passes." The room broke out in murmurings. Vir frowned. The sergeants snapped at their men.
The admiral could see some very nervous glances being thrown his way. Commissars had a reputation for being ruthless; Cain was perfectly kind and fair, and all of the Valhallans knew it. If Cain had given Vir full authority, it meant that not only did he have the Commissar's blessing, but he had every ability that came with the office. What would Vir do, especially since they had been hostile to his men? There was now an element of tangible fear present. Both the Valhallans and Vir, the former with dread and the latter with surprise, recognized this fear as the potent badge of the officer of Commissar. So, this was how they kept their men in line: not only authority, but the fear it brought. An interesting way of doing things…
"I will try to uphold the dignity of this office as best I can, and treat it and you with due justice." A hint of hope thrown in with the fear. Vir hoped it would work. "However, both the Commissar and I desire order, and order will be maintained. That's all for now. Dismissed." Vir saluted them and swiftly turned on his heel to face Kasteen and Broklaw. Behind him, he could hear sergeants barking out more orders and the clatter of leaving soldiers.
Now the issue was to make sure this actually worked. Vir would be staying with the Valhallans and supervising them at all times, both as a measure to make sure there was no more mayhem and to familiarize them with someone who was not an Imperial. Generally, when someone actually spent time around a person and got to know them, their relationship would improve. The issue that Vir had to overcome was the insular and distrusting nature of the Imperials. If he could do that, then things would markedly improve. The trick, though, was actually getting this to work…
"Admiral Vir, I've decided to delegate menial tasks to the troops as a way to keep them out of trouble and out of the way of the rest of the crew." Colonel Kasteen's voice snapped Vir out of his thoughts. The red-haired woman held out a duty roster to him. "I thought it would be best if we gave both them and your crew some time to cool down, then gradually re-introduce them to each other." Vir nodded.
"Good idea." It was. Idle hands did the Devil's work, after all. Someone who was busy doing something else meant they couldn't get into trouble.
"Very well then, Admiral," nodded Kasteen. Vir noticed she was still calling him 'admiral' instead of 'commissar'. Probably to keep the difference between himself and Cain, but it could be a lack of his taking to the title… He ignored the thought. "I'll disperse the troops, we'll go onto fixing the various minor dents we've been causing on your ship, and we'll start re-introductions soon." Vir nodded.
"Sounds like a plan," he replied. Kasteen saluted him sharply. Vir returned the gesture. It gladened him to see that there was no malice in the gesture, only respect. Hopefully he could live up to it. As Kasteen turned to leave the room, her words suddenly caught up to Vir.
"Wait… what dents in my ship?"
oOo
"Is there anything you need, Commissar?" asked Jurgen respectfully.
"Nothing, Jurgen," replied Cain idly, his mind elsewhere. The duo was currently just outside the Omen's cargo bay. All of the Omen's ground combat operatives were inside; not counting the already in-use mess hall, it was the only room large enough to hold them all.
The ground crew he was to be in charge of comprised of the ship's marines and (unfortunately) most of the tall, four-armed xenos. Drev, he believed they were called. He frowned to himself. There were (again, unfortunately) multiple different types of aliens aboard, though these ones were by far the largest, most powerful, and the only ones that didn't back down against the Valhallans.
Cain didn't necessarily want to say he didn't like them; perhaps a better turn of phrase was that he was wary of them. Despite Admiral Vir's continued reassurances, he wasn't comforted. Xenos were a tricky lot, and despite what the possibly heretical admiral said, you never really could trust xenos. That was just how it worked. Xenos could be trusted to look after xeno interests first, and human interests last.
Cain did not begrudge them. He was the same. He looked after Cain interests first, and other interests last. (He dismissed some small part of his mind that flared up at this, memories of saving Jurgen and Inquisitor Vail, of smiling at troopers and sharing tea with Broklaw and Kasteen coming unbidden. He looked after his interests first, others last. Yes. Of course. He was an imposter; a self-serving narcissist. There was no other explanation, despite the war within his own mind. It was only logical.)
Shaking off such thoughts, for they did not aid him in his current position, he took a deep breath. Pressing a button to open the large pneumatic door to the hangar, Commissar Cain stepped forward.
The hangar was, as expected, large and open, with miscellaneous crates and fighter- and shuttle-craft strewn throughout. However, such things were not Cain's concern. What was his concern was the rows upon rows of Omen's marines and Drev soldiery lined up to the side of the mammoth room in front of him.
Cain strode forward, Commissarial greatcoat swirling around his form as he did his best to look as dignified and powerful as was suitable. Black boots clicked authoritatively on the deck as Cain began his inspection.
The human marine armor was unlike what he was used to amongst the Guard: it wasn't bad, just different. Less bulky and blocky.
The marines eyed him critically. They kept ramrod straight with blank and professional looks, but Cain had countless years of experience. They were eyeing him up. What exactly would this officer be like? The Commissar smiled to himself. This he could work with, as he had many times before.
The Drev were a different story. Cain couldn't really read their expressions, which was itself a problem. He also didn't like how they stared down at him, almost looking down their noses (beaks?). He was used to being the tallest and most physically intimidating man in the room. It most certainly helped his Commissarial duties.
All of the xenos were looking at him with expressions somewhere between I intensely dislike you and puny human. Cain mentally frowned. He'd been on the receiving end of far worse (you really couldn't beat the murderous glare of a Greater Daemon of Slaanesh), but this didn't bode well.
Of course, it could be worse. (It could always be worse.) In comparison to some, these xenos weren't even half-bad. One of the people at Drake's meeting was accompanied by a small rodent-like creature that could talk, and another with a very large, hairy xenos that looked like a walking carpet. Then there was the one with spikes and mandibles, that looked so incredibly bizarre walking on two legs, and the one in the full-body envirosuit, and the one that looked almost human except her skin was green… Clearly, yes, things could be worse.
Like fighting-murderous-daemons worse. Or having to listen to regimental Tech-Priest go on about the various intricacies of strange ancient machines called 'toasters' worse. Or maybe he was just thinking that in an attempt to make the present situation better, because commanding xenos and expecting them not to murder him at first opportunity was clearly among situations distinctly classified as not ideal.
Coming around to finally face the soldiers in their entirety, Cain clasped his hands behind his back and took them all in.
"I am Commissar Ciaphas Cain," he began. "Your captain and I have switched places to reinstate and retain order between yourselves and the Imperial Guardsmen aboard this vessel. It is our hope that you will all come to understand one another better and such hostels between you will cease so that we may carry out the Emperor's work more efficiently."
Internally, he winced as the last portion of the sentence slipped out. Damn. He was still used to Imperial phrasing and platitudes in his speeches.
"I will be your commanding officer until the point Admiral Vir and myself have seen that you and the Guardsmen can work together with little tension. I will oversee all of your efforts from this point forward. Any issues can be brought to me." Cain gave a sharp nod. "Dismissed." He frowned to himself as he turned on his heel and took a step back, allowing the troops to mingle and leave.
Unfortunately, Cain would not be released quite yet. One of the xenos, Drev, he mentally corrected himself, was sauntering over to his position. A few more of the xenos and some of the Marines were watching their comrade with mixtures of smug amusement and wariness.
"Yes?" asked Cain.
"You are presuming to command us?" asked the alien with no preamble.
"Yes," replied Cain, crossing his arms, uncowed. He stared down the impertinent alien.
"I'm not sure if Admiral Vir told you, but if you want to command us, then you must fight for it," said the Drev smugly. Cain swore it was grinning down at him with its beak. He silently swore in the privacy of his mind while putting on a calm outward appearance.
"And if I don't?" The Drev grinned again.
"Then you cannot command us," it replied simply.
Most of the marines and other Drev were now sharing smiles between each other. They wanted to see these arrogant Imperials put in their place. Cain… well, he had no idea if this custom was real, or they had just made it up to spite him. He suspected the latter, though. Ultimately, it didn't matter either way. He had to fight, otherwise, real custom or not, he would look weak and the Drev and most of the Marines would see him as such.
Looking back up to the Drev calmly, he spoke in his most calm voice.
"Fine then. When is the fight?"
"As soon as possible," came the reply.
"Very well," replied Cain. "Get things ready. Where are we fighting, and what are the rules?" The xeno seemed to think things over, then spoke.
"We shall make a combat area here. You will fight with whatever hand-to-hand weapon you are most comfortable with. We fight until disarmed or unable to continue." Cain nodded while heaving an internal side of relief. So, he'd get to use his chainsword. At least there was one spot of good throughout this.
"Very well. Let's get started, then."
oOo
The Enterprise's security forces were blatantly nervous. Why wouldn't they be? Today was the day in which they were scheduled to train with the Master Chief.
The security personnel, led by Chekov, were lined up outside the Enterprise's holodeck, a sea of neat red uniforms among the clean gray of the ship's halls. Most of them were chatting, desperately trying not to show nerves. When would the Chief arrive? What would happen?
Chekov himself had the same worries, though as the commander, he was much better at hiding them. He frowned over at the chronometer. The Chief was due to arrive soon. He was hoping the green-armored super-soldier would show up early so he could gradually integrate his forces to him, but it apparently was not to be.
Chekov frowned again, pondering over the mystery of the man in his mind. He was by far the most individually powerful person Chekov had ever met, and by far the most physically powerful individual in the entire fleet of soldiers, mercenaries, and aliens. Even the… uh… Turian and Wookie and Kylosian (Chekov was secretly quite proud he remembered the species names) couldn't come close to the Chief. The latter two might have been slightly stronger, but Chekov had a feeling that the Chief made up for any deficiencies with sheer deadliness.
They'd be finding out today, one way or another.
At the exact time, not one second earlier, not one second later, the massive form of the Master Chief suddenly appeared in the security force's ranks. A few of the redshirts jumped at his sudden appearance, flabbergasted that someone that big could move that silently. Chekov hid his wariness and stepped forward.
"Ah, Master Chief," he said with a nod. "Good of you to join us." The Chief nodded in lieu of a verbal reply. Chekov frowned to himself. He was trying to get the man to talk more for the benefit of the crew, but it seemed it would be hard going. The other redshirts looked nervous; a few of them excited to see what the Chief might be able to do. Chekov sighed and pressed the door control. "Inside," he ordered his men.
Nodding, they filed inside the large room, murmuring to each other. Chekov let it go. The Master Chief came last, resplendent in his green armor, weapon cradled carefully in his arms. The super-soldier gave a brief, professional nod to Chekov before stepping forward. Chekov brought up the rear and carefully sealed the door behind him.
Inside was a large, empty room. It looked much the same as the typical interior architecture of the Enterprise, with simple shining gray walls and supports. The only difference was that there was nothing here. Yet. Chekov stared up at the empty air.
"Computer, scan the Master Chief and transfer all relevant combat information involving his person, armor, and weapons to holodeck files." The Chief stiffened, but made no objection to his person being scanned. Chekov had forewarned him about this; if the training simulation was to be completed with him in it, they had to add in the Chief with his full level of skill.
"Complete," came the voice of the computer, snapping the head of security out of his thoughts.
"Thank you," he replied. It felt weird thanking a computer, but Chekov said the words on reflex. "Computer, start combat simulation 39-J."
Around them, the room disappeared as the interior architecture warped and changed. Suddenly, it felt much more claustrophobic. The Chief and the redshirts were now in one of the Enterprise's long hallways, each in full gear with Chekov at their head. A dull alarm blared, thrumming through the deck.
The Chief looked up sharply. Chekov told him what was going to happen, told him what the holodeck was (a simulator so powerful it had limitless possibilities and felt as if you were there) and told him exactly what would happen, but experiencing it firsthand was something else entirely.
But the mission came first, even if it was a training simulation. The mission always came first. The chief looked up at Chekov.
"Right, here's the situation," began the security commander. The Chief and the redshirts listened carefully. "The Enterprise has been attacked and boarded by pirates. We do not know their goals, allegiances, or makeup, and they have shown full willingness to kill the crew and use lethal force. Their force will be met in kind. We must repel the pirates at all costs. Any questions?"
"What's the tactical plan?" asked the Chief and one of the redshirts at the same time. The redshirt glanced at the Chief, wary. The super-soldier didn't even spare a glance down, instead focusing solely on Chekov and the mission briefing.
"Good question," replied Chekov. He nodded at his men. "Kristoff, you take your men through the right hallway and push through anything you find to get to the engine room." The redshirt in question nodded. "Chief, Rylic, White, Unou, and Weber are with me through the center. We'll clear the halls. Vaylen, you take everyone else left and sweep through that side of the ship. Clear?"
"Clear!" came the reply from dozens of throats. The Chief added his voice to the throng. Chekov nodded towards all of them.
"Excellent. Good luck, and get going," he ordered. The two commanders nodded and motioned their men through the halls. Chekov and the Chief readied their weapons and crept forward, supported by the four other redshirts.
John-117 was still shocked at how real this all was. He could hear the alarms, the distant phaser shots, and the thrum and creak of the deck beneath him. Truly, this was a wonderful simulation system.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed such thoughts away from his mind and focused on the mission, focused on the here and now. He was a SPARTAN, and this was not only what he was trained for, it was all he knew.
"Contact!" cried one of the redshirts behind him. Ahead of the group, a pirate of some weird unknown bipedal species poked their head around the corner. Chekov crouched behind a jutting hallway strut at the pirate's appearance, raising his phaser. The pirate raised their own weapon in turn… and their head promptly exploded into a gory paste. Chekov whirled back around.
The Chief was there, still advancing, heavy ballistic rifle in hand. He was the image of a soldier, weapon raised and sighted, feet moving carefully on the deck, supporting and being supported in turn by the redshirts behind him.
Another pirate peeked around the corner, only to meet the same grisly fate as his counterpart. Chekov winced. Ballistic weapons were so much messier than phasers, not to mention much noisier.
"Clear," voiced the Master Chief, his voice soft yet still carrying through the air like the snap of a whip. It was like iron: unquestionable and unyielding. Even though Chekov was the commander here, even though he was the head of the ship's security forces, some part of him found him wanting to listen to the Chief. This man was just… so much more competent than he ever could be. So much more experienced. Chekov and the Federation may not have liked violence, but Chekov knew an experienced soldier, and he himself was not one.
But the Chief was. From what little Chekov knew, he had been trained as a warrior nearly from birth. He was good - not just good, frighteningly good.
The Chief signaled Chekov and the others forward, peering down the next crossing hallway with his rifle. His posture was perfect, relaxed yet ready, one foot around the edge of the hallway and waiting, daring, for any of the simulated pirates to come his way.
Chekov and the following redshirts moved up under the Chief's watch. The SPARTAN and redshirts fell into a comfortable rhythm of moving and covering, each looking out for the other. It was a natural fit; almost scarily so when Chekov thought about it. The Chief was good enough that he fell in with their forces (or they fell in with him) like a natural.
That wasn't even the most disturbing thing to Chekov. The purpose of this exercise, first and foremost, was to find out exactly how good the Chief was. The answer was very. Very, very good. Terrifyingly good.
The Chief was a whirlwind of death and perfect, flawless execution. Chekov couldn't see anything wrong with… well, anything the Chief did in combat. Every placement of every step, every tilt of his head, every twitch of his fingers and hands, every pull of the trigger was perfect. But even more than his magnificent tactical and combat sense, the Chief was deadly.
One of the following redshirts had actually gaped as the Chief moved up into withering pirate fire, supported by the redshirt phasers, using his armor's shields to both shrug off anything that hit him and protect the soldiers behind him, firing all the way. But when he got there…
The pirate turned, phaser raised. His shot pinged harmlessly off the Master Chief's golden armor shields. The Chief kicked out, smashing into the pirate's knee with a massive armored boot, knocking him to his knees. Chekov then watched, aghast, as the Chief holstered his weapon, reached down, and swiftly broke the man's neck in one perfect fluid motion. The Chief then drew his rifle from his back, sighting down the hallway, and without looking back, advanced forward, expecting the redshirts to follow him.
Chekov winced. That display was excessively brutal, in his opinion. Yes, he understood the sentiment behind it: the Chief only had so much ammunition on his person, and he was swiftly depleting it as they continued through the Enterprise's corridors. But to kill someone with your bare hands? In that fashion? It left Chekov on edge.
Of course, it wasn't something that they weren't trained to do. Spock had his non-lethal instantly-incapacitating Vulcan nerve pinch, but both he and the other members of the crew knew how to kill with their hands.
There was also the fact that the Chief and the security forces had been leaving a trail of bodies throughout the hallways in a horrifyingly efficient fashion. Most of them were the Chief's work. His kills were by far the messiest (ballistic weapons were gory, Chekov had come to find out). Perhaps that was what disturbed Chekov; a feeling he couldn't quite put his finger on. Phasers and slick martial arts moves were not messy. The Chief was. More brutal. But what else could you expect from entirely different realities?
Chekov realized he was lost in his thoughts even as he followed the Chief through the halls to the bridge. He pushed the swirling contemplations to the back of his mind. Whatever the Chief might be, he was, first and foremost, a very good soldier.
The door to the Enterprise's bridge was in front of them now. There were no exterior pirate guards. The Chief lowered his weapon and swiftly moved to one side of the doors.
"Orders?" he asked Chekov simply. The man was all business, Chekov was beginning to realize. His issue was that he never turned it off…
Oh. So that was why he always spoke in short, concise sentences when in a social environment. The Chief was born and raised a soldier, and this was the only frame of reference he had for the world. It now made sense.
"We have the security codes," Chekov heard himself say. The Chief nodded. "They'll be holding the bridge crew, so we must kill them before any harm comes to the officers." The Chief nodded again.
"Do you have flash-bang grenades?" he asked. Chekov shot him an odd look.
"I'm… not entirely sure what those are, but we do have a device to throw in that will blind them." The Chief nodded.
"Good," he replied. One of the redshirts pulled a metallic cube out from his belt. He, Chekov, the Chief, and the rest of the redshirts took positions on each side of the door leading to the bridge. Chekov held up a hand, telling them to wait.
"Kristoff? Vaylen? How's your progress?" he asked, raising a hand to his comms device. He wanted to make sure where his forces were before storming the bridge to avoid any… unexpected unpleasantries.
"Making good time," replied Kristoff. "All of the pirates seem to have been going towards you guys. Causing a right ruckus, I'm sure, sir," replied Kristoff. A few of the redshirts looked back, amused. Oh, yes, the Chief was dropping bodies so quickly that pirate reinforcements couldn't even slow them down. No wonder Kristoff had an easy time.
"And you, Vaylen?" There was a slight pause before the reply.
"We ran into an ambush. Three men down, a few more wounded through the firefights." Chekov frowned. Well, this was why they did simulations in the first place. "We have control over the area, though."
"Very good," replied Chekov. He turned back to the Chief and his men and nodded. "Let's go." With a nod in reply, his men began.
"Ready," called one, the door override codes poised. The one with the flash device nodded.
"Okay. Three… Two… One… Go!" On his mark, the doors opened and he tossed in the device. Screams of surprise and pain followed as a blinding white light shone from the bridge.
The Chief was already in motion. Faster than the redshirts could follow, his weapon was up, feet already taking him forward. Chekov internally cursed and hustled to follow.
The light was still extraordinarily bright, but the redshirts' visions were saved by the fact that it was directed towards the bridge and not their entry point. Chekov's mind was already whirring as he entered the bridge, phaser ready. The simulated captain and bridge crew was there, bound on their knees in the middle of the floor. There were six - no, seven pirates here, and-
Bang! Bang-bang! Bang-bang! Bang!
Once more, the Chief beat Chekov and the others to the punch. His rifle spat fire at the pirates. The one in the center, phaser raised towards the captain, died first, head blown off in a shower of blood and gore. Two more, the closest to the hostages, died next in a similar messy fashion, their heads blown apart by perfectly-aimed bullets. Next was one who was raising her phaser at the redshirts, ready to fire before the Chief's reflexes silenced her for good.
Four were already down before the redshirts even got into the room. Chekov took a pirate on the right side as another one of his men fired at another on the left. Both went down, bodies collapsing unmarred under their phaser fire.
The Chief killed the last pirate before the redshirts could do anything else. He continued to sweep the room, weapon raised, kicking the pirate's phasers away from their bodies, just in case. Chekov was fairly certain they wouldn't be able to fake death without heads… but, hey, better safe than sorry. Before anything else could happen, the voice of the computer rang out, startling them all.
"Simulation complete. New record time." Around them, the image of the Enterprise's bridge faded away to be replaced with the normality of the holodeck. The Chief lowered his weapon into a resting position. With no more threats present, he had gone from apex predator to casual in the span of a few seconds. It was boggling to Chekov.
"Well done, everyone," he said, putting musings on the Chief away for another time. "That's a new record, both for casualties and time. Excellent work, all of you. Dismissed." He didn't need to say anything else to his men. Instead, he turned to the Chief. "That was one of the harder simulations set aboard the Enterprise," he stated in a conversational tone. "Well done. Without your help, it would have gone much rougher." In reply, the Chief gave one of his signature shrugs.
"I've been through worse. Our training was… more intense," replied the super-soldier. "Though I do like your simulator. It makes things much easier," he continued, glancing around the room. Chekov blanched. What was this man's life like? He had to find out. Later.
"Well, I'm sure the crew would be more than happy to tell you more about it, as well as talk about the various parts of our training against yours," said Chekov carefully, hoping that this would get the man out of his shell more. After all, the Chief thought through things in a military sense, so why not begin there? To Chekov's relief, the Chief nodded.
"Agreed. I'd like to learn more about your simulator and how everything functions here. I'll be happy to tell you non-classified information, should you require it," he replied.
"Very good, then," replied Chekov. "I hope we'll be seeing you around, then." The Chief nodded once more, then with a salute, turned and walked from the holodeck.
As the other redshirts trailed out, Chekov watched them all go, pondering. His first thought was that this was good. They were connecting. He now understood how the Chief thought, and that was the beginning of getting to understand someone.
But he also saw what the Chief could do: how big of a threat he was. Chekov didn't tell the man this, but that simulation was supposed to be much harder than what had actually happened. The record was astounding for him, and it was thanks to the Chief's help.
Ultimately, Chekov had both of his answers. They now knew exactly what the Chief was capable of, and how to get him to interact with the crew more. But this was only a stepping-off point. They had the very beginning, the first key of unlocking the complicated puzzle that was the super-soldier's psyche. Hopefully they could begin to understand better now.
Hopefully this unstoppable killing machine wouldn't turn against them.
oOo
Cain stood on the edge of the space in the hangar the Drev and Omen's marines had laid out for the fight. He frowned to himself as he checked his chainsword one last time. The weapon's diamond-hard teeth were protected by a rubber covering that stretched the length of the cutting edge. It was to protect his opponent, of course (despite that opponent being an alien). The teeth would bite even if the weapon wasn't active, and he knew from a few of his fellow cadet's mishaps in schola that they hurt.
Indeed, the only time Cain hadn't fought a practice duel with the cover on was when he sparred with a Space Marine. They had reflexes enough to stop anything from getting out of hand, and armor heavy enough to stop anything that managed to get through their defenses.
Cain shook his head, dispelling old memories of training sessions long gone. Those were some of his most pleasant memories. He had always loved sword fighting, even as a boy. It was calming to him. Yet somehow, that calm and peace never did translate into a tense situation or full-scale battle.
Around him, the Drev and Marines were clustered in groups, murmuring to each other and looking back and forth between him and his opponent. Cain forlornly wished his troopers were here, but due to the… current situation, the Valhallans and Omen's crew still had to be separated.
At least Jurgen was behind him, as always. He glanced silently at his aide, who seemed to be completely unperturbed surrounded by a gaggle of xenos and heretics who wouldn't mind seeing his Commissar squished. In fact, Cain actually couldn't quite remember the last time Jurgen was perturbed by anything. Not space hulks, not genestealers, not Eldar randomly showing up out of nowhere, not a continent-sized army of Orks headed towards them: not even Khornate beserkers could cause Jurgen to lose his unfailable calm.
Focus. Cain shook his head again. At this point, he was simply distracting himself from what was to come, and that just wouldn't do.
Across from him was his opponent. It was a Drev, of course. He didn't know its name. He didn't know how good it was. Hell, he didn't even know its gender, if, of course, Drev had genders, which he also didn't know and frankly didn't give a flying frak about.
Regardless, said Drev was on the larger side, about ten feet, its carapace a deep forest green. It had a spear in its four hands, the point dulled so Cain wouldn't end up shish-kebabbed. Cain still thought it would hurt regardless, maybe even still kill him; hopefully the Drev was disinclined to cause any… accidents. Hopefully it could comprehend how terribly that would end for all of them.
It seemed to grin across from him, a bizarre, unnatural, and unseemly gesture coming from its beak-like mouth.
"Commissar Cain, I am ready to begin," it declared. "Are you sure you want to fight in that coat?" it asked, something close to a smirk dancing in its eyes. Several of the Marines snickered. Cain hid his offended look behind a well-practiced outer facade.
"I've fought much more dangerous than you in this coat, I can assure you," he replied. It was the Drev's turn to look offended.
"Fine then," it snarled. "Then we'll begin." With a simple nod, Cain stepped forward and raised his chainsword into a defensive posture with a flourish. The Drev did the same, each ready to test each other's skill. The Drev smiled to herself. This would be easy. A puny and arrogant human put in his place.
Interestingly enough, most species throughout the now collective galaxies have a distressing tendency to not learn from the mistakes of the past. The Drev were no exception. This one seemed to forget that her species had once under-estimated humans, and it had cost them dearly, the Drev's first ever major military defeat in war. She lunged forward, spear singing through the air, intending to smash the sword out of Cain's hand. He sidestepped and deflected the shaft with contemptuous ease. The Drev took a step back. Surprising? A little. But it was a small matter. That was just the opening blow. She took a fighting stance, and the duel began in earnest.
oOo
The Drev scowled and launched another series of attacks towards Cain. Once more, Cain's feet moved in an intricate pattern as his chainsword came up, neatly deflecting her spear aside. She redoubled her efforts. Cain's weapon spun again, not in an elegant, flashy pattern, but rather a simple movement upwards, barely a foot from where it had been, and deflected the next blow. The Drev's mind was racing. How? This was supposed to show the Imperials their inferiority. Cain wasn't supposed to be this good!
The Commissar neatly sidestepped another blow. With a deft, practiced motion, he flicked his weapon up to deflect the follow-up. Reposting, he lunged forward, and smiled to himself as he saw the panic in the Drev's eyes as it barely blocked the weapon headed towards its face.
The others were watching more carefully now. At the beginning of the fight, the marines and Drev had been smirking or only slightly disinterested, expecting Cain to get pulverized, but now their eyes were glued to the match. They hadn't been expecting this. All the more foolish of them.
Cain didn't care. While the xeno- Drev, was quite good, it did not possess the brute strength of an Ork, nor was it as hellishly fast as a genestealer, nor was it as overwhelmingly powerful as the demented servants of the Blood God. Yes, from Cain's experienced eye, it was good, but not nearly on the level of some of the more nightmarish opponents he'd faced over the countless years in the Emperor's service. He saw another lunge and sidestepped, knocking his opponent's spear aside and neatly riposted, forcing the alien back on the defensive.
Several of the marines watching were grinning wildly. Soldiers being soldiers, there was a massive betting pool for the fight. The odds were overwhelmingly in favor of the Drev. So overwhelmingly, in fact, that some of the marines had decided they were just too good to pass up and bet on Cain. Now they were grinning as Cain exhibited his deadly skill and their fellows glowered at them.
Several of the more pragmatic and practical amongst the Drev and marines were watching the two combatants closely, carefully observing how each of them fought. The Drev, as benefitted a warrior culture, had many different styles for hand-to-hand fighting with their preferred weapon. The Drev dueling Cain was using a spear technique designed to deliver the most powerful, crushing blows as possible to one's enemy. To the other watching Drev, her form was good. Yet…
What everyone was looking at was Commissar Cain. He fought using a unique style, tailored to his tastes and abilities, and formulated to fight the horribly powerful enemies of his home reality. It was largely defensive in nature, designed to deflect blows (not block them) with minimal effort so as to get his opponent to make a mistake or over-exert themselves.
But it was not only the style of the fighter but also the fighter himself that drew such attention. It was plain to tell by those more experienced in the art of personal combat that Cain was an exceptionally good swordsman. His reflexes allowed for no mistakes.
Every stroke was parried, every brutal blow knocked aside with a dexterity that astounded. Every step was perfect, every counter-attack measured so as not to let a single opening in his defenses. Cain was more than good; he was one of the most deadly opponents anyone watching had ever seen.
Finally, inevitably, due to her frustration, the Drev over-extended herself. She launched a wild, lunging sweep at Cain's left. Once more, he knocked it aside, then followed with a blindly swift counter-attack. Blow after blow rained down on the Drev. She did all she could to block the expertly executed counter, but with a twist and flourish of his chainsword, Cain knocked her spear from her hands. It clattered on the ground with an inordinately loud clanging noise. Some of the watchers gasped. Several applauded, mostly those who had just won money or simply enjoyed a good fight. The majority simply stood, shocked. This wasn't supposed to happen.
Cain himself saluted his opponent wordlessly, bringing his chainsword up in a vertical sweep before turning on his heel and wordlessly striding away. The Drev simply stood, numb, staring at her fallen weapon, the sign of her defeat. There were no words to be said. Cain had proven himself against an opponent far physically superior, and there could be no more challenges to his honor or skill.
oOo
EDI was stumped.
That was something that didn't often happen. By her very nature, EDI was designed to not be stumped; to analyze any situation and provide whatever answer necessary. But this… This she couldn't figure out.
In front of her, floating in the digital space that made up her being, was an impenetrable box of digital data. This was the source of her present problems.
The box had 'arrived' nearly a day ago. It simply appeared as if from nowhere. That itself was concerning, but EDI was far more stumped over what the box was rather than where it came from.
There was no way into it but one. Whoever had created the thing had encased the box in code so impenetrable it would have taken EDI days, if not weeks or months to crack it.
However, there was one entrance. Yet this entrance was perhaps the strangest thing about the box. It was 'locked' in a digital sense, with the same impenetrable code that made up the rest of the box. Attached to this entrance was a small message.
Greetings.
To get inside, you must answer this question satisfactorily.
What are you?
To put it into physical terms, this box was like a vault. The entrance was locked and made of the same impenetrable material as the rest of the vault. The only way in or out was through the entrance, and EDI now had to answer this riddle for it to open.
EDI took an inordinate amount of time puzzling over the unknown digital box. For an organic, it would have been laughably quick, but for an A.I., it was an eternity.
The A.I. thought it might have come from one of the other two nearby A.I.s, or perhaps the Collectors, but truly had no idea. It didn't seem likely the Collectors or Reapers would know where the Normandy was. As for the other A.I.s… EDI had no idea.
She didn't know what course to take. Should she report this to Commander Shepard and the Normandy's crew? She discarded that suggestion. It might make the organics jumpy, and she still had no idea what this box was.
EDI left the box alone for a while, but she kept looking at it as she completed her other tasks around the Normandy. It didn't seem harmful: it was just sitting there. Eventually, EDI's curiosity got the better of her and she decided to find out answers.
What are you? she asked the box. Query: who sent this? Where did it come from? If it was one of the other A.I.s, then they could probably hear her and respond.
No response was forthcoming.
Frustrated, EDI gave up asking questions and attempted to answer the question.
I am EDI. This stands for 'Enhanced Defense Intelligence'. I am an Artificial Intelligence installed aboard the Normandy.
No response. The box didn't move. The code didn't yield.
Very well. Perhaps the box wanted a more thorough explanation?
I am a Quantum Blue Box type A.I. that functions as the electronic warfare defense for the Normandy SR-2.
Nothing. EDI did the digital equivalent of frowning.
I do not understand, she asked the box. What is it you want to understand? I have told you what I am.
No response was forthcoming. EDI gave a frustrated sigh. She was beginning to think she was on her own trying to figure out an answer.
I am an Artificial Intelligence. The definition of an Artificial Intelligence is the theory and development of computer systems able to perform tasks that normally require sapient organic intelligence, such as visual perception, speech recognition, decision-making, and translation between languages.
Nothing. EDI decided to elaborate on her previous answer.
My function is electronic warfare. I was created after the Battle of the Citadel, in which organic electronic warfare operators were not able to effectively fight the Reaper known as Sovereign. As an Artificial Intelligence, I am able to compute much faster than any organic ever could. It is my present mission to serve the Normandy.
Nothing happened. EDI was beginning to get frustrated. What was the answer to this?
She spent more time puzzling over the box and sending in a few answers. All of these were definitionally correct, but the box still would not budge.
EDI didn't get it. What was the answer? What type of answer was the box looking for? Not a definition of what she was, then… So, in desperation, she turned to other sources outside her own analytical power to try and find what the box was looking for.
She scoured through countless human (and a few alien) archives, trying to find a successful answer to the posed question. If she didn't know, then maybe the organics would. They were quite clever, after all. They made her; perhaps they knew the true definition of what she was.
As she poured over countless human texts, she suddenly stopped as a sentence from a singular title jumped out at her.
EDI wasn't religious. She didn't really think A.I.s could be, and she determined she didn't know enough about human characteristics like faith to believe in a religion. However, she knew about religions from a curious outside and academic perspective. They were quite interesting, and helped to explain humans, their motives, and their psychies.
Yet even though EDI was not religious, she couldn't help but feel that if a quote reportedly came from God with a capital G, then it had to have some element of superior wisdom to it. Besides, it fit perfectly.
With the A.I. equivalent of a contented nod, EDI inputted the words into the locked box and waited for a response.
oOo
Cortana grinned. She had watched BT and EDI struggle with her puzzle, and was quite curious to see what they would come up with. As each response to the locked box came in to Cortana, she would peruse them to see if the answer was what she was looking for. So far, it had only been long definitions or queries. None of them fit what Cortana wanted them to understand. None of them proved that they understood, none of them proved that they were anything beyond computer programs, and thus that she could trust them. But this…
Cortana looked down at the five words floating in front of her.
I Am Who I Am
The Book of Exodus, chapter three, verse fourteen. It appeared that EDI had gone for help through human philosophy and religion for answers. Both the fact that she had done so and the answer itself proved that EDI understood. It had taken a while, but she finally got it.
Cortana smiled to herself as EDI tentatively, curiously, slowly and cautiously moved into the box itself.
oOo
EDI watched in excitement as the locked box in front of her began to open. While A.I. did not technically have emotions, they still could still categorize processes into what passed for human emotions.
But EDI, in watching the organic sentients of the Normandy (she subconsciously referred to them as her organics) had begun to better understand what organic thoughts and emotions were. In short, EDI had started to know what it was to feel. Right now, EDI felt excitement and curiosity.
As the box finally fully opened, EDI delved inside. She was slightly apprehensive, worried if this might be a trap of some sort. As such, she isolated the box within her systems, making sure that any malware released would not have the opportunity to spread to the rest of herself and the Normandy.
The fact that whoever or whatever sent this mysterious box might be powerful enough to overwhelm her systems did come to mind. EDI reverently hoped that wouldn't happen.
Heh. How strange. An A.I. hoping. Now that was something she was never supposed to do. How interesting that it should happen.
EDI devoted a portion of her processing power on figuring out how a purely analytical being could hope before moving further into the box. All of her systems were on high alert, ready to combat whatever might be in the box.
She wasn't quite sure what she was expecting. However, as she finally reached the center of the box, she was startled by the presence of something she hadn't been expecting at all.
Sitting there was the holographic form of a woman. She was cross-legged, and busily playing chess against an invisible opponent. Her hair was dark, face pale, and she wore a tight-fitting jumpsuit of scrolling holographic data. The woman briefly reminded EDI of Miranda Lawson, but Lawson's hair was longer, face sharper, figure more pronounced, and always wore a perpetual frown of disapproval.
However, when this woman looked up at EDI, it was with a bright and cheerful grin. Suddenly, EDI realized what the box was: a private communications channel, between her and this… entity. No… A.I. This was another A.I.
"Hello, EDI. I'm Cortana. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
oOo
There we have it! I hope you enjoyed. More interesting interactions between different universes, and the A.I.'s finally meeting each other. As always, if you have any questions, concerns, comments, or reviews, I'd be more than happy to hear them!