Chapter 7 – Haut promptis

January 4th, 2552 - (12:41 Hours - Military Calendar)

Daedalus system, Ballast

Vallejo station, En Route to geosynchronous orbit

:********:

Captain Edwards could see everything from his display at the head of the bridge. Its forward positioning allowed him to keep tabs on the goings on of the rest of his crew as well as the long consular station in front of him. His fellow navy-men were typing away at holographic keyboards with a will, checking and double-checking system reports on their personal displays and speaking to others around the station via their comm-links. They were working prodigiously to make sure their ascent was a success.

Yet he had his doubts.

More specifically, he doubted that things were running as smoothly elsewhere as they were on Vallejo station, or in the halls outside the bridge for that matter. Something was wrong. He could feel it, and it wasn't the chill of the air conditioning filtering through the synthetic cotton wool blend of his uniform. His sixth sense was rarely wrong. It had helped him survive the tactical train wreck of the battle of New Llanelli after all. If it worked there...

Edwards took a closer look at the massive holo-screen before him. The projection was hands down large enough to fit in the lounge of the Luna-based sports bar his father used to run back when he was a civilian. In those days, he wore his waiter's apron. He kept conversation to a minimum as he moved from table to table. He took orders from inebriated patrons screaming their heads off at the latest Gravball game or somberly looking out a vacuum-proof window to watch another Earth-rise. Back then he was the one taking orders. He'd come far since his enlistment. Now he was the one wearing the officer's uniform, the one giving the orders. Even then, had things really changed?

He remembered the bit of wisdom his father had imparted before he left for the Naval Academy. He'd pointed to the Gravball game playing in the longue and said: "When you get older, you're going to come across people that are going to tell you life isn't a game. They're wrong. It is. It's just that the stakes get higher in the one you're going off to play. So go out there and win, because if you don't, well, a lot more people are going to lose than just you."

His old man's words rattled around in his head as he watched the enlarged display of the battle in space. Rather than Gravball teams going head-to-head, here it was a host of red signatures going up against a host of blue ones. Every so often, a handful would flicker, indicating a direct hit. Others disappeared altogether, some without warning. If he didn't know any better, he would have assumed the entire thing was nothing more than a simulation. It wasn't. Each red signature that vanished from the gathering of dozens of others marked a Covenant vessel's destruction. Each of the blue signature's that disappeared showed a UNSC vessel doing likewise, along with the hundreds of souls onboard.

Unlike ground battles, naval engagements were a wholesale affair. For the regular military grunts, there was always a chance, however small, that some of the unit might survive in the case of a massacre. That didn't apply in the world of hard vacuum. If a ship was destroyed, it was to be expected that none of the crew would survive. Everyone on those decks literally lived together, slept together, fought together and died together. The survival of the ship meant the survival of the crew. The same applied to its destruction. Every navyman and woman worth their salt figured that out as recruits and still signed up for the job anyway, from the lowest junior enlisted in engineering all the way up to the captain at the helm. That simple fact of facing what was effectively a zero-sum game, all or nothing, was what arguably made navy crews more tightly woven together than any other branch of the United Nations Space Command.

Yet to him it all still looked like a game.

He had too much distance from the battle to feel what it would be like for those in orbit. He could sparsely imagine breathing easy at some light damage from a badly aimed torpedo, only to see a neighboring ship with a friend onboard go up in flames. The idea though was enough to tighten the knot in his stomach. The idea that he was about to find out firsthand what was going on up there. The constant rumble reverberating through the floor was a reminder that time was running out. So was the sight of the increasingly blue stratosphere beyond the bridge's reinforced glass walls. The arching support columns that acted as the room's ribcage barely registered any movement. The moment they started shaking, so would his faith that they were going to make it into orbit.

With the rise of the station, the rest of his crew had taken to buckling themselves up in their seats. He chose rather to stand on the forward command platform and wait. He was confident that the anxiousness he felt in his gut would keep his stance rock solid. His crew worriedly told him otherwise. His legs showed them otherwise.

He sensed their attention routinely shifting from him to the projection of the wider conflict, then to their screens before repeating the cycle. His eyes never left the display. As if it were the real deal, his gaze gravitated towards the figure of Ballast behind the UNSC lines. Its equatorial regions gently curved out of view on the screen. There, within the signature of the planet itself, was a number of new contact signatures. Blue. Friendly. Ten in all. They bore the impressionistic sword shape of the orbital defense platforms they were meant to represent. All ten were accounted for. All ten were growing in size as they rose up through the atmosphere from different regions of the northern and western hemisphere.

One in particular caught his eye. It was slower than the others. He focused on it to see if it would pick up speed.

It only slowed even more.

"Comms?" He called. "Which station is that?"

Within the four rows of console stations, he could hear one of the comms officers typing away more furiously at his display. He spoke up with a frantic voice. "Ugh, um-, it looks-, looks like...Havenwinter station, sir."

"Give me a visual."

From the front row, his comm officers got to work. A second later the front display enlarged on the ODP of note. More of the station's general shape became refined. The IFF tag blipped next to it; 'ODP-#47716/ Havenwinter Station'.

"Incoming contact, sir." One of his comm guys reported. "It's from Anaheim control."

Edwards swallowed. "Put him through."

The voice of the other station's captain came through the bridge's intercom. Edwards sensed the concern in the man's tone on the first word. "This is Anaheim control to Vallejo, do you copy?"

Edwards cleared his throat. "This is Vallejo control, go ahead."

"We're having trouble contacting Havenwinter. Atmospheric interference or something else is getting between us and the bridge. We need you to contact Captain Billard since you're the closest. See what's going on with their ascent speed."

"Understood."

"And make it quick. We don't need anyone slowing down. The situation up there is deteriorating faster than we thought."

The knot in Edwards' stomach tightened. "I'll do what I can, sir."

As the line of communication switched off, his comms officers diligently contacted Havenwinter station. A few seconds passed before one of them spoke up. "They've accepted our hail, sir. We're getting interference too. The line's weak but it's hanging in there."

Edwards nodded. He set his sights on the lagging ODP. "This is Vallejo control to-"

He stopped as Havenwinter station's signature flickered red on his display. Suddenly its entire form became a stable red.

Then the station disappeared.

Silence fell over the bridge save for the static that filtered from the communication systems.

Edwards blinked a few times. But the contact signature didn't reappear. Slowly, his jaw loosened as the realization hit home.

He heard one of his officers stand up far behind him. "...Sir, did-…Havenwinter just-"

The knot in Edwards' stomach rose into his throat. It threatened to strangle him where he stood. Amidst a surge of unbelief, he forced his rationality back to the forefront of his mind and swallowed back down his nerves. "Bridge, get me a recording of what just happened. Bring the satellite visual as close as you can."

No one answered. Murmurs grew behind his back. Without moving his body, he turned to face the four rows of officers assembled at his back. Many of them were still staring wide-eyed at the point on the forward display where Havenwinter had existed just seconds earlier. When they caught sight of his glare, they returned to their work, now with a greater urgency.

"Transmitting visual." One of them replied.

Edwards returned his attention to the main screen as it changed from its previous view to a time in the not-so-distant past. A side profile of Havenwinter station's full image manifested in front of him. Much of its finer details were more plainly visible as it accelerated through the atmosphere. There were no enemy contacts to be seen, not even a single plasma torpedo. Everything looked relatively normal, that is until he saw the ascent flames from three of its R7 thruster couplings flicker.

"Enhance visual."

The image refined further into a 1-kilometer proximity. The view was sufficiently close for him to make out the moment that the three thruster couplings stopped flickering. Then their exhaust trails suddenly condensed into highly pressurized, pinpoint jet-streams.

A heartbeat later, a flash of illumination blew apart that section of the station, followed almost instantaneously by a secondary explosion that scythed the platform in half. Edwards' eye twitched as he watched Havenwinter station collapse in on itself. The last of its momentum carried it upward a few more kilometers before it reached its terminus. The remains stalled then fell down through the column of exhaust left in its wake, its superstructure still aglow.

"...Send the recording to the other stations..."

One of his officers spoke up. "What's the report, sir?"

Edwards sized up the sight of the glowing wreck descending through the atmosphere. He started tracing the clues together, starting from what remained of the MAC gun and the splintered remains of the girdle. There was the damaged R7 couplings that were still misfiring as well as the thousands of pieces of free-falling debris ejected from its interior. He caught himself wondering how much of that debris, objects now being engulfed in reentry flames, was once the onboard crew. How much?

"Report that several of the station's R7 thruster couplings experienced ruptures in their fuel tanks. It was probably brought on by an improper mounting that got exacerbated by an uneven weight distribution, causing more overreliance on the improperly mounted couplings and triggering an overheat. Add that we weren't able to contact them in time."

"Lifeboats?" Another officer asked, his desperation evident.

No one moved to answer him, partly because they all knew.

Edwards turned to face him and slowly shook his head, his tone somber. "...Havenwinter station was lost with all hands. Send the report."

The mood of the room changed. Edwards felt it as he observed the dozen officers returning to their displays, except for one, the one who'd asked about the lifeboats. The junior officer stared disbelievingly at the main screen. At length, a grim resignation took over. He closed his eyes, forced himself back down to his seat and got to work again.

Edwards suspected the man had just witnessed the death of a close friend, or perhaps worse, friends. He didn't grieve though. There was no room for that here. For the show of discipline, Edwards was thankful. Reaching for his intercom display, he hoped the rest of the station would take it the same way. Or maybe they wouldn't. Whether it was a blow to their morale or not, everyone needed to know the tactical situation, especially now that one of Ballast's best chances for survival had just crashed back down to the planet.

:********:

The captain's announcement was clear, even though Duncan wished his ears were screwing with him:

"Attention all, be advised, Havenwinter station has just been lost with all hands. We believe some of their thruster couplings went off from an overheat caused by an unequal weight distribution. There are only nine platforms left. Pray we make it without any further incident...bridge out."

The previous conversations that once filled the corridor died down, leaving behind a dead silence.

Duncan slowly looked to the others. The rest of the squad was just as quiet, but they were looking to each other from behind their depolarized visors. There were shaking heads, arching backs and blank stares.

"No way..." Zack whispered.

"That..." Yuri said, sounding ready to boil. "That's not...that-" He suddenly yanked off his helmet, threw it to the floor and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "How!? How the hell!?"

"Yuri." Nova held out her hand and lowered it in a calming gesture.

Yuri gritted his teeth. His fists tightened. He looked ready to take a swing at someone, anyone that had caused something that should never have happened. But there was no one to swing at. They had all been on Havenwinter station.

A few seats down, Hector shook his head, his voice low and raspy. "Half of Delta was on that thing...half..." He took in an unsteady breath and said nothing more.

Duncan didn't realize he was clenching his fists until he felt his knuckles cracking. It was a tragedy. But it wasn't just a tragedy. There was something insulting about the whole situation as well. The lives of over 120 ODSTs had just gone up in smoke, and that for no fault of their own.

Near the end of their row, Deaks peeked out to the Staff. He asked uncertainly; "...Burial details?"

The Staff who was quiet up until that point finally turned away from the window to look the corporal straight on. He didn't say anything. Deaks nodded in acceptance of an answer he already knew.

Duncan understood it as well. There couldn't be any burial details when there was nothing left to bury, only a memorial to be made in the honor of what couldn't be salvaged.

It was rare for the body of any ODST, if it could be recovered, to ever be sent off to any relatives. They were usually buried wherever they could be placed, such as at a battalion headquarters. Moreover, dead ODSTs rarely ever got shipped back to their relatives because there were rarely ever any relatives left. The people who decided to take on one-way trips to hell often had the resolve to do so because they'd already been there. Now there were no bodies left, and hell was the last place Duncan hoped they'd gone...for hell's sake.

His thoughts turned him to Baelson who he saw was just as stoic as the Staff. He noticed that there was no response from the colonel's comms either. The officers and noncoms were probably of the same mind. There would be a time to grieve the loss. It simply wasn't now.

Duncan followed the lieutenant's line of sight to the window, and beyond that to the R7 thruster coupling mounted to their section of the station. Its blunt roar was growing more muted by the minute as they got closer to hard vacuum. His attention remained thoroughly fixed on the large device, watching every slight vibration and tremor it made. A single line of thought kept his focus clamped on the machine: Delta might not be the only company to lose big today.

"Hope your crew did a good job, Martin." He whispered to himself.

:********:

The proximity alarm sounded before Edwards could get a solid gauge on what was going on.

He swiveled from his display to the rest of the bridge. "Situation report!"

One of his weapons officers answered in kind over the blare of the alarm. "Hostile contact! We've got a CCS flying in on an intercept course! Elevation: 30 kilometers up, 40 kilometers starboard and closing!"

Edwards winced. He took a few steps to the right of the main command console to peer through the glass walls. He craned his neck and looked up, knowing at this range he would be able to see it.

As expected, above a flock of cirrostratus clouds there was a distinct hourglass shadow flying towards them. His trained eye not only guessed its speed, but spotted a detail that made his skin crawl. The ship's underbelly was glowing a menacing red.

He saw the tactic play out in his mind. The CCS would get in position right above them and fire its most stable weapon at this range. It would melt them out of the sky before they left the mesosphere.

There was no time to complain about why the Navy had missed a free floater like the one coming their way. He deduced they had 20 seconds. Not enough to use any basic defense or to utilize the MAC gun, which was still warming up, but enough to try something absolutely insane.

The idea left his mouth before he could give it an honest consideration. "Engineering, slow thruster couplings 1 through 5 and 10 through 12 by 25%! Detach 6 through 9 and send them on ahead! Target that energy projector!"

He sensed the bridge crew's moment of hesitation and met it with a cold stare. "Order received!?"

The crew snapped back to their work, honing in on the job at hand and less on its catastrophic potential. One of his nav officers' fingers machine-gunned across his display pad until at last, his face was lit up by a green notification. "R7s 6 through 9 ready, sir!"

"Send them!"

The officer sucked in a sharp breath and pressed an icon.

Vallejo station trembled.

The vibrations were quick but violent. Edwards didn't need to look at his display. He heard the mechanical whine of the chosen R7s disengaging their hull locks. He felt as the ODP began to tilt forward. Then he saw firsthand as three seconds later the trio of R7s zoomed ahead of them. They ascended into the heavens at a quickening speed that saw them transition from Mach 1 to Mach 3 in under two seconds.

In the next ten seconds, Edwards had to grab hold of the console to avoid being thrown forward. The roars of the remaining R7s grew louder as they struggled to compensate for the extra weight. He watched as the CCS emerged from behind the veil of clouds to soar in overhead. The energy projector on its underbelly was a single eye of light growing brighter by the moment. It was almost right on top of them.

The three R7s shot up towards it beneath cones of highly pressurized air. Despite their supersonic speeds, the battlecruiser detected them ahead of their arrival. It responded with several pulse lasers; fiery lances that initially missed their targets save one which detonated on contact. The two-remaining thrusters continued on. The fingers of plasma closed in on them and managed to strike another just 100 meters short of its unshielded hull. Both of the rockets disappeared within the smoke, and yet as the energy projector reached its zenith, the last R7 cleared the haze and pierced through the final distance to the target.

The coupling struck the energy projector right as it fired.

There was nothing for a fraction of a second, then a confused warble and a subsonic boom as the plasma housing within went off...inside the CCS. Like the backblast of a rocket launcher, an explosion erupted through the top of the ship and into the atmosphere. Secondary explosions rippled through its underbelly, setting its entire structure ablaze.

Edwards grinned. "Give 5% additional thrust to the remaining couplings to help them compensate! Engage the M606s! Make sure that cruiser stays down!"

The ODP continued its ascent as the CCS peeled away from its attack trajectory, clearing their path upward. A projection on the captain's display showed seven points on the station light up. He looked out past the walls to watch the show.

The station's M606 Goalkeeper point defense guns unleashed a bullet-storm of armor piercing rounds into the passing ship. They punched ragged holes across its hull, unleashing smaller eruptions at the bow. The ship's lights flickered, faded and finally failed. It listed uncontrollably to port on the beginnings of a reentry tumble.

Once the cruiser was out of sight, Edwards breathed a little easier. Only a little. He still found that he had to hold on to his console in order to avoid leaning over it. The station needed to right itself. However, it wouldn't be able to do so, at least not fully. Not until they reached geosynchronous orbit.

"How's that stabilization?" He asked.

The bridge, now calmer, were able to answer more quickly. "Our last R7s are experiencing some strain." One of his nav officers replied. "The reactor's struggling to make the adjustment but it's not redlining. We should be able to hold out."

"What's our chances? I want an honest estimate."

The officer maneuvered through several compartmentalized sections of his display. He closed his eyes to think. "...It's a 60 percent chance we make it into geosynch."

"And the other 40 percent?"

"...We don't."

Edwards nodded. "Keep an eye on it then. Everyone else, get ready. Once we're up there we'll have another fight on our hands."

He warily returned to his display, leaving the rest of the crew to carry on their duties in a partly tilted bridge on a partly tilted defense platform. Aside from the portrayal of the battle going on above, three more data analysis projections blinked onto his screen. The two to the left of the tactical overview showed an active measure of the time they had left before they reached orbit: 1 minute. The one beneath it was a portrayal of the MAC gun's preparations. The weapon's superconductive electromagnetic coils were in the green along the electrothermal spectrum, courtesy of the experimental subterranean generators back on Ballast.

The next one to the right of the tactical overview was more worryingly closer to the redline. The calculations for the remaining thrusters were shown. Three of the icons were offline. The remaining eight were each vacillating between '70%' and '95%' with the higher the number telling him how much more stress the thruster was compensating for.

He wondered if these were the same measurements the Havenwinter crew were looking at before everything went to hell for them.

He didn't like their odds. The station was barely able to hold it together with what thrusters they had left. The last thing the UNSC needed was to lose another ODP, especially with the battle going in the direction that it was. The Navy needed them. Hood needed them. Ballast needed them to make it. Edwards held on to his console along with the hope that he'd made the right call.

:********:

Hood had never thought he'd feel so grateful to see a spaceborne object in his life. The sight of the orbital defense platforms on the personal display of his command chair was a welcomed relief. The imaging was segmented into nine screens, showing individual feeds of the orbital defense platforms. All nine were ascending through the last stretches of the thermosphere at different atmospheric sectors.

Nine. Not ten.

His relief was short lived.

His brow raised. "Where's Havenwinter?"

On the holo-pedestal beside him, his Tsarist AI companion met his sobering gaze. "I received a report from Vallejo station. It appears that Havenwinter went down from an improper R7 mounting that resulted in a critical overheat." He paused and added. "It was lost with all hands."

Hood's eyes narrowed on the feeds of the nine platforms. They were finally breaking through into the exosphere. One by one the exhaust trails of their R7 units faded out as they began slowing down towards their rendezvous points.

There should have been one more of them. Should have, but there wasn't. Hood let out a sigh as he pulled his attention away from the feed. The last thing the navy and the people on Ballast needed was for him to lose his focus, especially given the situation that he now returned his attention to.

The scene beyond the Sevastopol's forward viewing glass was nothing short of horrific. The exospheric region between Ballast's equator and local space was filled with the remains of dead and dying ships. On the enemy's side, only 49 remained of their original 62-strong contingent. Many of those they'd successfully taken out were floating away from the battle; dead CCS battlecruisers with shattered hulls, CPV class destroyers slowly drifting with half their bows destroyed. It wasn't enough compared to their own casualties.

On the other side of the aisle, the burning remains of UNSC vessels were floating off from what was left of their defensive lines. Decapitated frigates and disemboweled destroyers were carried limply to the north and south, like the dead moving along the watery currents of the planet's polar gravity. Some, their insides already aflame, were getting pulled closer towards the equator. Those were the ones that would be burning their way into reentry in a few minutes time. Even if any onboard were still alive there was zero chance of a rescue. There were only 45 ships left in any condition to fight, less than half of the 93 he'd started with. The affair had broiled down to him having to bring the Sevastopol into the top defensive line where they'd lost the most numbers. The situation had gotten so bad that many of the frigates chose to hide behind the wreckage of their former comrades in order to safely fire from behind them. Unfortunately, the consequence was that the line was loosened up to the degree of being nearly non-existent.

The survivors of both sides had momentarily disengaged from the fighting to regroup. The Covenant were regathering into their original formations after being scattered with each MAC volley. Their coalescence revolved around the CSO. They formed up on its flanks. Thankfully, throughout the fight, the CSO itself hadn't made any moves. It remained at its rear commanding position for the entire assault. That could very well change now that they had the ODPs. Their supreme commander would undoubtedly be taking notice of their arrival.

Much to Hood's chagrin, he saw the rallying Covenant ships beginning to filter energy through their plasma lines anew. Their repulsor drives brightened.

Hood took the hint. He eyed what remained of his defensive fleet, running through the projections on the status of each. Their MACs were just about fully recycled. The same could be said for the ODPs who's heavier magnetic accelerator cannons were warmed up and ready. The feeds showed their R7s dying out. They slowed down into their positions 20 kilometers behind the defensive lines with an additional 20 kilometers between each station. Vallejo was the last to reach the lineup. He noticed it was tilted forward more than any other, mainly because three of its thrusters were missing. Another question for another time.

Once the stations were all in place, their R7s briefly fired again, rotating each of them so that they were almost horizontal. They were bringing their MACs to bear on the enemy line. Then the R7s disengaged. The thruster couplings released their grip on their hulls and floated off.

Seeing that their backup had indeed arrived, the UNSC elements reemerged from their cover. In a series of micro-adjustment propulsions and flaring fusion drives, the defensive lines tightened up around the ODPs, forming an outward stretching arc. Altogether they created an essential shield wall some 200 kilometers long between the big guns and the ones they'd come to use them on. They parted somewhat to give the station's clear lanes of fire.

They had what they needed now.

Hood set his sights on the Covenant line as they began their second advance. He already had the firing solutions in mind, and in Nick's mind as well. He keyed the intercom, his calm voice never betraying a hint of anything other than the steadiness of a commander. "This is Hood to the ODPs. We'll need your first shots to soften up those flanks for us and a secondary follow-up for support. Everyone else, after the first shot, immediately engage Offensive Maneuver Zeta. Let's wrap this up."

He nodded to Nick. The AI flashed a vibrant green then returned to his normal color. "Firing solutions have been distributed, sir."

Hood looked to his own bridge officers. Around him, they were homed in on their station readouts, rapidly tapping through keypads and preparing to carry out the instructions they'd just received. His weapons officer in particular was readying the ship's MAC gun with a hasty fervor, his eyes practically screaming vengeance. It seemed everyone had lost a comrade today, and everyone wanted revenge.

And they would get it.

On his screen, the ODPs remained motionless. Up here they were loaded weapons of mass destruction waiting to be used. Their targets were issuing towards them on the blue trails of their drives, increasing their speed in the hopes of covering the 600 kilometers of distance between them. Their aim was directly fixated on the platforms. There was no doubt about it, the Covenant knew what was about to happen. They were panicking. But they were too late to do anything, Hood thought as he gave the order: "Fire on my command. Three...two...let them have it!"

For once, the light from the surrounding stars was completely overwhelmed as all nine platforms fired.

The illuminated discharge of their Super MAC guns was blinding in its intensity, and yet simultaneously so fast as to last an instant, and so powerful as to make him feel the vibrations in the vacuum of space.

He didn't see the enemy get hit. He merely blinked and witnessed the aftermath.

It seemed to him to be an instantaneous transition from active Covenant ships to horribly maimed pieces of molten slag. The repulsor drives of several of their vessels were still flaring even as their whole midsections were found to be torn in pieces. Hood's disappointment pointed out to him that he only saw several of their ships damaged. However, there were still far less of them coming towards them. Then he checked the counter on his display. The Covenant's numbers stood at '33', a radical drop from the 49 ships they had a mere second earlier. That meant that less than 16 of them had just been outrightly obliterated. Some were likely struck out because they flew too close to others that were hit, resulting in chain reactions of two or more casualties per round. With ordnance able to reach 4% the speed of light, there was zero chance of survival if they were too close to, or were the target. Like riflemen facing down tanks in the open, they barely stood any chance at all.

It wasn't 3 to 1 yet but it was getting close.

The Covenant finally realized they'd taken casualties and slowed, but they didn't come to any complete stop. They were hesitating. The iron was now hot. It was time to strike again.

Hood jammed a finger on his intercom icon so hard that he heard a slight crack from the screen. "Now, Offensive Maneuver Zeta! Advance!"

The ships of both defensive lines fanned forward, the top line moving purposefully slower than their comrades below. The Sevastopol groaned as it too joined the charge.

No sooner did they begin to move that the remaining Covenant opened fire. Blots of plasma streamed across local space, though a quick glance told anyone that their target was no frigate or destroyer. The torpedoes were heading straight for the ODPs.

Hood bared his teeth. He'd been hoping they would be too stunned to act before the offensive got underway.

He observed the small tadpoles of blue-white energy that slipped far above the lower defensive line. They would have had a direct path to the platforms were it not for the intervention of ships from the top line.

Twelve frigates broke off from their flight paths before Hood could even give an order. They flew backwards and up, angling themselves so that their bulk intersected the trajectories of the torpedoes.

The interceptions came 5 seconds later. Bolts of superheated plasma slammed into the hulls of the frigates. A few torpedoes tried and failed to maneuver around them. The ships were thrown back, bucked aside or completely destroyed by the forceful impacts of three and four torpedoes at a time. Half a dozen fireballs winked in and out of existence, taking the vessels out with them. The handful that wasn't utterly vaporized commenced their limp journey across Ballast's gravity well, their red-hot remains venting atmosphere and debris.

Hood cursed himself for not seeing that coming. His subordinates knew what needed to be done before he did and carried out an unstated order, one he would have hated himself for giving. They'd spared him that. He would make sure their sacrifices were worth it as he saw that the ODPs' Super MAC guns had fully recycled. The lower defensive line was also well ahead of those in the rear of the charge.

"Stations, prepare for another round."

Nick flashed green once more, providing them the targeting solutions they needed. Hood gave the stations a few seconds to perform the minor vector adjustments required using their in-built thrusters. At the cessation of their movements, he clenched his fists.

"On my command." He let the Covenant ships get closer, stone-faced as those same ships that had once stayed beside the CSO now flew in as reinforcements. They were only adding to their own slaughter.

"Fire!"

The second luminal burst overwhelmed his vision. He waited to see the results. His retinas quickly recovered. He blinked away the stars in his gaze to find far more Covenant ships obliterated or bleeding flames and oxygen from gaping holes in their hulls. They spiraled off course under the force of the impacts or drifted lifelessly through the fiery debris fields of their fellow vessels. He checked his counter: '20' . Their numbers had undergone another drastic drop by more than a dozen.

It was now 33 to 20, as close to a 2 to 1 ratio as they were going to get.

"Line 1, open fire!"

The top line of ships, having trailed further behind the lower line, fired their MAC guns, sending accelerated rounds ahead of their faster brethren. The comparatively smaller heavy-hitters still packed a punch. Their rounds lanced across the firmament and struck a dozen more Covenant ships, mostly destroying their energy shields but otherwise leaving the vessels intact...and undefended.

"Now, Line 2!"

As the top line accelerated forward with greater haste, the lower line, being more plentiful and closer to their targets, loosed a hail of Archer missiles at the enemy. Their closer range caused the chosen battlecruisers to have next to no time to react. The missiles bolted into their unprotected bows with naval precision. Explosions battered their hulls, punctured their armor and burned through the interiors. Secondary detonations blew them left and right by the strength of imploding uppercuts and flaming side-jabs, transforming nine of them into fireballs.

The Navy refused to give them any opportunity to respond. The top line flew over those below. They went well ahead into the last 50 kilometers to the Covenant formation. Right where he needed them.

"Line 2, fire!"

The lower line finished angling towards their new targeting vectors and unleashed the wrath of their MAC guns on the last Covenant ships. The accelerated rounds battered away the shields of seven more, some even punching clean through to the other side.

"Line 1, again!"

The top line released their own volley of Archer missiles well within effective range of their newest victims. The chosen seven suffered a similar fate to those that came before. Flames, destruction and spiraling debris. They were snuffed out quickly, leaving the remnants of their fleet in utter shambles.

Still four ships remained.

Four including the CSO which, as Hood looked closer, saw that it was turning away from the battle. Away from Ballast.

:********:

Supreme Commander Rho Barutamee was ready to kill something. Anything. Even himself. Whatever would help alleviate the lethal cocktail of burning ire and smothering shame boiling in his stomach. But there would be no such alleviation, no such relinquishing of this shame to another.

This was his fleet, under his authority, and he had just witnessed its complete annihilation.

From atop his command platform, he sensed that his humiliation had only just begun. While his bridge officers worked furiously at their stations to carry out his last orders, he focused on the two holographic screens projecting in front of him. One of them showed an active feed of the battle from the perspective of the Long Night of Solace's underbelly. There was nothing left but a floating scrapyard of Covenant ships. His ships. Like his fortunes, they'd erupted in smoke and flames. His last remaining option was to save what little he had left. Thus, he had ordered the surviving elements of his fleet to withdraw to intersystem space.

They were fleeing. He loathed the idea of it, but surrendered to the reality of it. With Valiant Prudence in tatters, the last thing he needed was to lose the supercarrier. He could at the very least save the CSO.

That and the oracle.

He turned from the spectacle of the approaching human ships to that of the second feed showing the command platform of the Divine Confession's bridge, and standing upon it, the leader of his Devoted Sentries. Ludumee was considering his last words to him reluctantly.

"Ludumee, do you understand?"

The Sangheili nodded "I do, commander. I will meet you at our rendezvous as planned."

"With the oracle."

Ludumee stood straighter. "Of course, commander. Have faith in your warriors. Its extrication is assured."

"Make certain of it." Barutamee said and whipped his hand through the display, ending the transmission. He glanced again at the sight of the human ships scurrying after his own, undaunted at its size. Impudent little vermin. "...or it will be my head the prophets receive."

"We are ready, commander." His navigation officer said.

"Get us underway." Barutamee replied. He looked past the human ships to their planet. He imagined it aglow with rings of glassed infernos. He was so close. And so far. With his fleet in ruins and the planet still intact, the one thing that could save him now would be to present the oracle to the Hierarchs himself. There was no other way left to him but that of eternal disgrace, at which point damnation was nothing more than a sweet reprieve from a life of unworthiness. He contemplated his last-ditch plan as a burst of light marked the Solace's entry into slipspace, sealing whatever fate he was soon to meet.

:********:

Hood marveled at the sight of the massive CSO turning away from its smaller pursuers and leaping into slipspace. The last several ships with it immediately followed suit. They left in their wake a vast array of new celestial bodies to add to Ballast's orbit. There were dismembered forward sections of cruisers, the ownerless exterior frames of heavy corvettes and the caudal stabilizer fins of destroyers slowly tumbling through the void. A gently growing expanse of debris and wreckage was beginning to fan out over the sector. In a few days it would likely intermingle with those lost from the combined Daedalus Defense fleet, creating one big exospheric junkyard that would take years to move or burn on reentry.

He'd lost two thirds of his fleet, even more than his opponent who'd suffered the loss of nearly all of his.

But it was a victory. A victory for the UNSC. For humanity. He struggled to wrap his mind around that.

For the first time in years, they'd won.

Nick appeared in front of him, worried. "Fleet Admiral?"

"...What is it?"

"Are you...okay, sir?"

"Why do you-" Hood realized the source of the AI's concern: his hazing vision. He reached up and wiped away hot tears from his eyes. He checked the moisture on his fingers and let out an uncertain laugh. "Since when do I do that?" He laughed a bit more at what was happening, at the impossibility of it all.

At the corners of his periphery, he noticed the rest of the bridge crew were now looking to him, surprised but patient.

"Would you like to do the honors, sir?" Nick asked and stepped aside, pointing in a gentlemanly manner to his command console. The intercom icon winked on so that he was connected to the entirety of the fleet.

Hood smiled. He nodded to the AI, peered around approvingly to those on the bridge and drew in a deep breath.

:********:

Duncan felt divorced from his body as the fleet admiral's announcement came loud and clear over Vallejo station's intercom.

"Attention. This is Fleet Admiral Hood. The remnants of the main Covenant force just withdrew from the system. We've won here today, people. The day is ours."

There was quiet at first. Everyone in the corridor looked at each other in disbelief. Then disbelief gave way to belief, and soon a resounding cheer rang out. People, ODSTs, Marines and MPs alike threw off their seating restraints. They crowded into the corridor and into the other passageways, shouting and laughing and embracing.

To Duncan's right, Yuri leaped up and kicked his helmet aside like a soccer ball, shouting: "Oorah!" He rushed into the crowd, took hold of anyone and everyone he could find, man and woman, and planted a less direct but no less hearty version of the Soviet kiss on the cheek. He stopped when he came across Renni, momentarily uncertain. She smiled, shrugged, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into a full kiss.

To Duncan's left, Nova, Zack and Hector had gotten up to give each other bear hugs. Further down that way, the Staff got on his feet. He met Baelson in the center of the corridor and shook his hand. Not far from them, Rico and Mito were pointing out a window into the depths of space, jeering at an enemy that had just turned tail.

To Duncan, none of it was real.

He felt detached from everything, from the bodies embracing and cheering around him. The celebration was strange. He sat there, watching them all. His hand reached for the Harvest rock in his pocket. It felt lighter than usual. He grasped it so tightly that his hand began to shake.

The room became hazier. His eyes felt warmer, his chest lighter, as if some unseen weight had finally been lifted. He sat straighter. As he wiped the tears from his eyes, he removed his restraints and got up. His voice came out uneasily at first. Not long afterwards he found himself cheering and moving about from person to person, hugging whoever he could like they were a long-lost brother or sister. Today that was exactly what they were to him. He couldn't see it any other way.

They had won.

They had actually won.

His heartbeat quickened. He found himself in a world of overjoyed faces, spontaneous dances, hearty jokes and gutsy laughter. There were "Good job's" and "Well dones", pats on the back and fist bumps, high-fives and satisfied nods. All to a job well done.

He thought back to how the station had tilted radically to one side, when everyone including himself were certain they were about to die and that the station's captain would be to blame. And yet here they were. He thought back further to everything that came before, every battle from Miridem to now. This was actually happening. This was humanity's victory, their victory.

His.

After an amount of time that blurred past, he noticed that not everyone had gotten out of their seats.

There was one who remained in place. His sniper rifle was braced next to his legs, his helmet in his lap, his dark hair cast over his face as he was leaning forward, running a cloth over his butcher's knife. The overhead lights made its wet surface glisten. It was perfectly clean. The corporal kept wiping.

Duncan stepped in front of him. "Hey, Deaks."

The wiping stopped.

"We're celebrating here, man." Duncan laughed. "We won! Come on, get in on this!"

Deaks didn't look up. With a slow shake of his head, he returned to wiping the blade. "That's good." He said, a shakiness hidden in his calm tone. "Now if I can just get some teeth, huh?"

Duncan was confused. He was about to say more when he noticed something else. By the way the light shined so clearly off Silver Buddha's surface, he could tell that it wasn't the normal lubrication Deaks usually used for it. It wasn't any kind at all.

The corporal kept his head down.

Duncan nodded, an earnest smile dawning.

He reached over, gave the corporal a congratulatory slap on the shoulder and left him alone. He went on his way to join Rico and Mito at the window, ready to heap jeer upon insult on the losers of today's battle. And, for once, it wasn't them.

Haut Promptis - Rarity

:******:

Author's Note: Hey you guys, so sorry for the late as hell updates from me recently, especially over the last two months. I've had to adjust to a few new circumstances that took away more time from my ability to work on HFF. But now, I'm able to get in more work for the fanfic, so stay tuned for more and thanks for bearing through this little dry season with me. ;)