Chapter 28 – Vesparum Nidum
August 19th, 2552 - (14:01 Hours - Military Calendar)
Epsilon Eridani System, Reach
Viery Territory, Eposz
New Alexandria, NA Central
:********:
The Staff was in hell.
He wasn't sure when he'd gotten there but here he was. It was the only real way to justify what he was seeing.
Shooting into the urban clearing, 1st Platoon and everyone else on the tram got an eyeful of the Maglev station.
NA Central burned, or at least many different sections did after part of the Covenant assault wave had found its way to the building.
Several squadrons of Falcons were hard-pressed to deal with a force many times their size. They were like a swarm of fireflies swept to and fro by a swirling blizzard. They rotated about to give their door gunners better visuals, descended after targets, dodged near misses. They weaved aside from pursuers, angled up and away from cascading plasma as the five-round growls of their auto cannons answered the challenge.
Such engagements played out by the dozens amidst the larger battle that raged both around and above the station.
Impulse drives split the air. Banshees dove down from on high, spiraling through a thick foliage of anti-aircraft fire as they unleashed a drizzling rain on the world below. Plasma washed across the ground of the station's perimeter. There the three staggered defensive lines of the 77th Armored Division were skeletons of their former selves. Constant drains on their manpower to aid the westward push had halved their strength. Those that remained were fighting for their lives. Scorpion tanks rolled out of the way of oncoming fuel rods, their cannons wheeling after the perpetrators to catch them mid-flight, spearing them with a shell through the hull or missing altogether. Their turrets turned elsewhere to engage more opportunistic flyers, creating fiery exchanges that quickly dragged in the attention of their drivers, repeating the pattern endlessly.
Warthogs drove in tight knit packs through the corridors that widened between the Scorpions. Their drivers maneuvered over open ground, pulled around the bonfires of other Hogs or weaved between the jungles of railway supports, searching for the best angles and times to evade. Behind them, gunners raised their weapons skyward. They opened fire at incoming threats that saw those driving beside them blasted to pieces. Despite the debris that crashed, sliced and splashed against armor and weapon, they moved to counter. Soldiers unleashed volleys from enraged machineguns, launched dogged rocket barrages and precise Gauss cannonades. Each plucked hostile aircraft from the air in explosions of bright blue and red, all before they themselves were plucked from life in sudden infernos of green and orange. These were answered just as quickly. Friendly positions were replaced just as swiftly as they were blown out of groundside formations. Hostile elements were reinforced just as fast as they detonated in the air or crashed across the ground. Everything devolved, evolved then revolved into an unceasing cycle of cat and mouse where the roles switched faster than either could register. Victors of one struggle for survival became victims of another, where flaming wings, burning tires and vaporized treads were doled out in equal measure.
The world below was filled with flashes of light and cracks of thunder, almost twinkling like a starry night over open water, but it was by far the least troubled compared to the world above.
Though the situation there was less chaotic, it made up for it by being horrifyingly one-sided.
The Falcons were not enough. Far from it.
They did what they could, each earning unto themselves a personal paparazzi of Banshees that chased after them with flashes of plasma. Each engagement was one less batch of flyers assaulting the station. However, they comprised a little under a third of the force brought to bear against NA Central. The rest were being faced head-on by the UNSC personnel within the station itself. Many of the alcove-like docking stations that honeycombed the structure had been turned into massive gunports. Turrets and other heavy weapons were unloaded en masse into the shadows that blitzed the air outside. They did so from behind the tepid protection of hastily erected sandbag walls, heaps of chairs and anything else lying around. Rockets went out from many of the docks like the luminous pollen of matured flowers. Some struck their targets. Some continued to pursue them. Others were lost to impossible maneuvers that saw them rise off into the sky or zip uselessly into the city.
Aside from a superheavy MAC gun, the whole station possessed the destructive capacities of an orbital defense platform and it showed.
And still, it was burning.
The landing pads that speckled the upper areas of the station were host to scores of other defenses. Soldiers manned turrets from sandbagged positions that ringed the larger emplacements. Behind them, M71 anti-aircraft guns let off 10-round bursts. Meanwhile, M95 Lances threw up columns of missile-fire amidst the fireworks of tracer rounds. Many handfuls of enemy aircraft at a time met their end, either to fist-sized bullet wounds punched into their armor or to blasts of light that consumed them in a blink.
And still, the defenders were on the back foot of the fight.
For every flyer taken hostage by an exchange with a Falcon or shot down by a missile, three more buzzed the docking stations, landing pads and elevator shafts like flies over a landfill. While they forced those within the docks or on the pads behind cover, they helped themselves to the station itself and laid waste to it where they could. The damage they inflicted was haphazard at best, at least compared to the scars of sapphire flames that were carved across the building like wounds from a wolf. Wounds inflicted by far more intentional entities.
The teardrop shapes of Seraphs cruised high above. Moving in diamond formations, they arrowed down from the heights of the city and soared over the station. Their payloads fell towards the building as portals to a dimension of hellish fire, one by which some dark being saw fit to expand them by ripping open the very seams of reality. A dozen pads and several of the docks had already been reduced to glowing pilot lights. Two more of the latter were added to their number as alien napalm streaked inside, igniting the concrete of the walls, the fabric of chairs and the skin of screaming mouths.
As Seraphs passed, dropships swept in.
A legion of Phantoms and Spirits glided down from the heights, crashing through maelstroms of flak that popcorned the skies about them. Fire from the station grew even fiercer in the face of their approach. Few blew up in the air, smashed against the walls of NA Central or crashed atop their destinations in flaming heaps. Most touched down with dented hulls that split open or lifted as their troop bays were emptied. Their contents charged out onto the pads and docks, using shattered seating areas or the mangled remains of other Covenant craft for cover. Grunts, Jackals and Elites traded fire with Army positions. Some negotiated well-placed crossfires from behind the slow-moving bulk of Hunter pairs. The shields of the wormy goliaths took on a violent vibration from concentrated fire, their cannons whining readily in answer. All the while, just above their heads, the cannons of their dropships held their own against point-blank bursts of anti-aircraft fire, trading damage to themselves for a chance at the emplacements. Every moment one of the latter fell into a billowing column of destruction. Each blast took some of its protectors out with it, leaving openings for an ever-increasing number of dropships to land unopposed.
The echo of it all reached the Staff and snapped him back into action.
"Platoon, listen up! We've got a heavy hostile presence up ahead! We can't afford to lose the station! Lock down your sectors and watch your heads, we're going in!"
There were no replies to his order, only a quiet apprehension that he could sense in his gut. It wasn't quite fear but the next best thing to it.
There were other trams still running along the network of guideways. Most were fleeing in the opposite direction, making top speed for the comparative safety of the cityscape. Nearly all were loaded with crowds of lucky civilians that had managed to get aboard in time. Many of them were still fighting to stay aboard. The frightened masses had overpacked some of the coaches, causing a few of the doors to remain ajar. More than once, the Staff saw a person fall out. There weren't always people there to catch them and not every savior had such a good grasp on the tram themselves.
What worried him more, however, were the immediate threats that arose before they could even reach the station.
Some of the Covenant air assault had broken off from the main attack and splintered into smaller actions across the railways. Like an airborne plague, they chased after the most vulnerable transports.
On another rail just to their left a tram was racing back west, wreathed in flame. Several Banshees flew after it, harassing it with plasma.
In another spot, a group of the teardrop shaped terrors flashed by an elevated rail. Plasma charges went off in their wake and clawed a path of destruction across the supports. A part of the structure burned, bent and collapsed just ahead of an escaping tram. The transport engaged its brakes in a screeching halt, all in vain. The Staff could do nothing but watch as it sped off the rails with every single coach in hot pursuit. They arced down through a 50-meter fall that terminated in the top of a parking garage. One after the other the different sections torpedoed into the concrete, vanishing in plumes of fire.
The Staff stiffened. He wondered how many were aboard, worried that it could have been them, realized that it could still be them.
He opened a direct comm-link to the cockpit and to their civilian conductor inside. "Driver, switch us onto a survey rail once we're close enough! I want a full rotation! No matter what happens, don't stop unless I tell you to, got that!?"
"Are you sure, staff sergeant!?" The conductor asked fearfully. "Didn't you see that last one over there!? They could take out the rails from right under u-"
"What's your name!?" The Staff asked, never having done so before and not having needed to until now.
"Gra-, Graberg sir! Matthias Graberg!"
"Alright, Matt, I need you to trust me! Do you trust me!?" The Staff winced at a deluge of plasma bolts that splashed into the side of the cockpit, forcing Mackley back into the rooftop hatch. He spotted the culprit flying in from their right and wheeled his Gauss to counter it. Two succinct shots to the canopy sent the Banshee into a death spiral, its drives releasing an ear-splitting shriek on the way down.
"Matt!?"
A wavering voice replied. "I-, I don't think I have a choice, sir!"
"Not anymore you don't! You volunteered for this, Matt! Now if you want to make it out of this, stick with me and do as I say, got it!?"
"Yeah, I got it!"
"Good!" The Staff looked ahead to one of the growing number of junctions that split off from their railway. "Survey rail, third on the left! Take it!"
The tram passed through an aisle of other connecting junctions, trading them up for the one that would bring them the closest to the station. The conductor did his job and the switch rails activated, pulling the transport off its main course and onto a new one leading north.
The survey rails stood out from the rest of the system in that they didn't terminate anywhere on the station. Rather, their high elevation was complimented by their arrangement as transportive rings around NA Central, each joined every so often by a circuitous network of exit and entry rails. Some were lower, some were higher, all offered a circumnavigating route that would have permitted civil engineers to inspect the overall integrity of the building.
1st Platoon had not come to inspect but to kill. And in so doing, they hoped to save what they could, who they could.
Their first target appeared as they rounded the northwestern fringes of the station. An open landing pad was under siege from a pair of encroaching Phantoms. The two dropships were too distracted sweeping it clear of a platoon of sandbagged soldiers to notice what was coming from behind. The Staff didn't need to call them out, only to pick one and start shooting. The others quickly followed his lead.
The tram slowed enough for them to make every shot count in a flurry of gunfire, missile strikes and mass accelerated cannonades. The Staff spent two shots on the dropship doing the most damage, the first pounding the back of its heavy plasma cannon, the second batting it off the undercarriage in a spray of sparks. Nova had the same idea and in a split-second had neutered the second Phantom of its main weapon. The four plasma cannons mounted within the unfolding walls of their troop bays remained. The Grunts manning them divided their attention between their prey across the landing pad and their newest opposition. Beside them emerged a fresh delivery of Elites and Jackals that leapt outside and into the fight.
The fury of the dropship gunners became diluted. It was the opposite for those aboard the tram. The concentrated wrath of several times as many turrets gored their answer into the backs of the arriving forces. The fewest and most resourceful among the enemy managed to hurl deployable energy shields that flitted to life in front of them. The barriers flickered yet held under the onslaught. The same could not be said for their nearest comrades who crumpled, tumbled or somersaulted from gouts of blood and shattered bone that spewed from every inch of vulnerable flesh and breached armor. Still, the survivors were forced to contend with the growing rifle fire of the pad's reinvigorated defenders, one which became more heavily focused on them as their numbers thinned out. Back above, the gunners on the plasma cannons stood even less of a chance. They became the new center points of the destruction dealt out from the tram like the dealer of the cards of fate, each hand less favorable than the last. ASGM-4 missiles streaked under, over or through them. Their weapons platforms were blown off, sending their flaming bodies falling to the pad even as the exposed innards of their dropships were consumed in the bombardment. Whereas Dalton and Daz divided their ordnance between either Phantom, the Staff and Nova pooled theirs onto the troop bay and underbelly of the closest. It paid off.
One second it was whole and trying to turn for a quick escape. The next it had metamorphosed into a ball of roaring energy that baptized the pad with mangled wreckage.
Its partner nearly suffered a similar fate once the bullying fire of the tram ripped a fiery hole in its belly, destroying its gravity lift. By then the platoon's transport was already racing away from the pad, ending their ten-second-long part in the firefight. In their wake they left the personnel there in an advantageous position. With luck on their side, the M71 Scythe perched on a level above them finally came online. The ten-round drum solo of its first discharge was punctuated by the raucous detonation of its target. From the rear of the tram, Duncan and Mito cheered as raking fire from their turrets gave them their last say in the fight. They suppressed the remaining Covenant holdouts long enough for the pad's defenders to flank around them.
The thrill of the moment wasn't lost on the rest of the platoon or even the Staff. Still, he set it aside to take advantage of the brief breather between their first run and the next.
Their second visit was to a docking station. This time, their rail just so happened to ascend past it at an angle, tilting their aim.
Dock 37 was under a different kind of assault, not in regard to what was unfolding but rather who, or what was attacking.
The first tilted glimpses the Staff received of what was happening was of a rocket that wisped a mere meter overhead. He instinctively ducked as a fog of fuel propellant washed over him. The harsh wind shear that enveloped the tram quickly cleared his view. Looking out, he was greeted to a gale of gunfire, bullets and rockets going one way, something that wasn't plasma going the other.
Several clusters of Marines, squads of the Corps of Engineers, were fighting for their lives from behind toppled chairs, information desks and holographic schedule projectors on the far side of the dock. A hail of superheated spikes trafficked through the air around them. They embedded into bare concrete just as easily as armored chests left exposed and helmeted heads that peeked from cover. As squadmates fell around them, skewered by the amber glow of searing tungsten, others maneuvered about or leveled less effective fire at the advancing intruders.
It took the Staff a heartbeat to recognize them, another to register the surprise that bordered on dread.
Brutes.
A whole pack of them a dozen-strong was strongarming its way from the boarding platform. In their push forward they had turned the seating area into a shooting gallery. Geared up in little more than arm pauldrons, leg guards and boisterous muscle, the invaders plodded ahead at a steady march or at a howling dash. The former fired their spike rifles and bladed grenade launchers contemptuously at those that fought from across the way. The latter charged ahead with a reckless abandon, towering walls of animalistic growls and wrathful zealotry that cursed those upon whom they were bearing down.
The Staff hesitated.
He hadn't fired on Brutes since Ballast, since the day they lost the corporal.
Save Duncan and Rico, the same applied for the rest of Epsilon who quickly showed just how much they hadn't forgotten.
A firestorm went out from the passing tram more furious than the last. Over a dozen streams of red-hot hate whizzed into the backs of the unsuspecting aliens, riddling their armor before most had a chance to react.
The Staff singled out the farthest, a thick-armored Brute whose heavy helm and trademarked weapon signified its rank. The chieftain had arrowed after a squad of Marines that had waited too long to retreat. One of them that stayed behind to lay down cover for the others had both his bravery and his life ended by a gravity hammer to the ribs. The chieftain swatted him away like a fly and, with the ease of a bat, quickly tamed the weapon's momentum to swing it back down. One of the three fleeing Marines disappeared as the hammer pulped her into the ground, the gravitic shockwave dismantling another like an organic toy even as the luckiest of the three was ragdolled into a wall. The Staff used the brief pause to line up his sights. As it moved on, he had to be careful not to strike those it was chasing. Its charge after the other survivors was cut short by an accelerated round to the back of the skull. The blow obliterated its shields and backhanded what little remained of its head into the floor. The mini pressure wave knocked its hammer to the feet of those left stunned by its demise.
At that point the tram had the pack's full attention.
Some rounded on them as their packmates fell under the weight of the barrage, body and armor hemorrhaging blood and ionized steam. Spike rifles pierced the tram's hide but were otherwise useless, much unlike the pair of grenade launchers that were turned loose.
To the Staff's horror, the tadpole-like projectiles swam straight into the third coach. While most battered the walls, more than a few streaked straight inside through the holes left from the Banshee attack. Both floors flickered with destructive light. A few frantic shouts echoed before a secondary blast blew out from the lower floor, launching a whole turret out of a window and into a long tumble.
The payback was instantaneous.
In exchange for a few lucky shots, Dalton and especially Daz carpeted the perpetrators with an explosive sprawl that drummed across the boarding platform. The throaty cries of several Brutes rose in answer along with broken bodies sent airborne by the blasts, crashing into the seating area like dying debris. The continuous rattling of the turrets sliced through the haze to cut down those left standing. Those too far for their reach were instead struck to the floor by the vengeful fire of the Marines. Like a hammer to 1st Platoon's anvil, they surged forward to eliminate those that had survived the ambush, those left dazed and confused by the sudden upset.
The tram's fire abated once they passed the dock. Duncan and Mito's rear machineguns were the exception. They kept them barking into several of the enemy who by then were already neutralized. They were shooting at corpses. The Staff thought to intervene but reconsidered. He let them keep at it until the very moment that the torn bodies slipped from sight.
They rarely talked about it now, yet he wondered how much rage was still there, lurking beneath the surface of his old platoon. He wondered if Whiskey had noticed it. More than everything else, he remembered the rocket that nearly took him out. His concerns began to grow that they would risk more and more crossfires from here on out.
His contemplation was put on hold when, without warning, the entire tram came under a miasma of plasma fire. He winced and whirled skyward. As their transport sped along the guideway, a pair of Seraphs had dived in on them. Their plasma cannons released twin sprays that showered them from end to end. Everyone on the roof ducked as they were bathed with strafing fire. The Seraphs pulled up from their dive at the last second and swooped overhead. A wind tunnel effect followed behind them that pinned the Staff against his cannon. He peeled himself off and swiveled towards the threat.
The fighters had already moved on to their next target. Opening their bomb bay doors, they each released a plasma charge that snaked forward in their wake. They crisscrossed the railway ahead and flew off. Behind them, the pinpoints of plasma expanded into walls of blue hellflame. They curved inwards as they hurtled and exploded through the railway. The withering heat caused parts of the structure to glow, bend and give way. A steaming gap quickly formed in their path.
The Staff saw what was coming the moment they dropped the charges. By chance he also spotted their escape.
"Matt, exit rail, left side!"
An unsettling second passed where he wasn't sure if the conductor had heard him. He watched the tram rocket towards the gap, but upon nearing the exit its brakes screamed to life. There was a loud CLANK from a switch rail and they swerved wholesale onto the new path. Its gradual slope led them down and away from the damaged route. The molten gap yawned wide to their right. The smoking bones of its crumbling integrity sailed by to clatter off the luckier railways.
The exit rail leveled out and terminated at a new survey rail that began rounding them to the right, around the northern edges of the station.
Barely had they registered the near run-in with the reaper that new shadows fell over them.
A squadron of four Banshees were the next to take a crack at them. Two made a run at the second coach. Two more flew on ahead of the transport. Dalton and the others turned their guns to the former, the Staff to the latter.
Neither of the pair flying in front of them opened fire on the tram. The Staff didn't care to spare them the same courtesy, seeing that they were bartering their chance to strike so that they could boost towards another spot in the railway. He lashed out at them before they could lash out at the rail. They dodged and weaved through his attempts on their lives with the dexterity of ballet dancers. They weren't counting on him noticing their pattern, however. Predicting a barrel roll, he scraped the right-side wing of one of the flyers. It naturally twirled its way left to a spot that he had pre-sighted. A direct shot landed on its canopy and its speed diminished. Trailing smoke and flames, a final blow to its belly transformed it into a meteor that dipped uncontrollably out of sight.
The second flyer twirled upward as he made a try for it next. Alone, it reached a sufficient distance to dive at the railway. Its strafing run began with a fuel rod that struck the side of the guide rails. Though the stricken patch shook and glowed, it refused to give way even under a drizzle of plasma bolts.
The Staff aligned his aim to its attack vector, waited until he saw a sweet spot then let loose. The shot ripped straight through the canopy and cracked it open, allowing the decapitated remains of a Brute to fall out. He watched both the pilot and its craft spiral away.
An explosion went off behind him and the remains of the last Banshee rained down from the air.
"That's the last of them!" Daz said.
"For now!" Dalton added. "I saw who was driving that last one on your end, Ep-1! Got any guess as to why so many Brutes are cropping up?"
"Not sure!" The Staff replied. "Haven't seen this many since that incident yesterday! These ones probably came in with that last wave!"
Their conversation was ended by the whining engines of Seraphs, perhaps the same pair that had attacked them earlier. They soared in from their left on an intercept course. No sooner did they pop into view than another tram did as well. It was rushing along a neighboring survey rail a short stretch from theirs. The upcoming transport was just as heavily equipped as their own save that their rooftops were armed with M79 rocket launchers in the place of LAUs. These it used to advantageous effect by launching a dozen-strong volley after the two heat signatures. Proximity and speed no longer mattered at that range. While multiple detonations clawed at their shields, the thunder of a Gauss cannon punctured one like a bubble. Additional fire birthed a blue blaze in its hull that led to a secondary explosion. Its drives bellowing from the strain, the fighter wobbled for a moment then suddenly veered to the right. It careened into its partner in a mid-air collision that saw the first erupt against the dying shields of the second. Just as wounded as its incinerated wingman, the last Seraph accelerated away from the fight.
The other tram continued to speed up until the two were neck and neck. The Staff noticed ODSTs behind the rooftop guns as well as manning those in the windows.
The gruff and familiar voice of Gunnery Sergeant Singh reached him over his comms. "This is 3-Actual to Ep-1, how's your tram holding up!?"
The Staff smiled relievedly. "Hanging in there I guess, at least for now! Yours!?"
From behind one of the rocket launchers, the gunny spared him a thumbs-up. "We're a little low on energy though! Listen, the trams from the other companies are on scene too! We need to work together if we want to secure the station before we start running on fumes!"
"You got an order, sir!?"
"More like a suggestion! Let's stick this one out! We'll keep pace, cover each other where we can until things-" He paused as his gunners and those of 1st Platoon delivered a cacophonous broadside to a pair of approaching Seraphs. Their sparking ruins spiraled away on columns of dying exhaust. "Until things settle down, hooah!?"
"Sounds like a plan! We'll back you up how we can, sir!"
"Likewise!"
3rd Platoon's tram drew away from theirs on a path taking them lower. 1st Platoon's took them higher.
They eventually came align with the midriff of the station and entered onto a more even course. From there it was a stable orbit around the belt of NA Central.
Their next objective was an observation platform that jutted out from the side of the building. The small viewing deck was host to another pack of Brutes that had already slaughtered the handful of defenders. They were now clearing the way for more of their kind to jump down from an arriving Spirit. Its troop bays and everything in them were wide open.
A wave of destruction washed across the vista. The Brutes on the platform withered or flew aside as a combination of missiles and bullets churned their surroundings. Above the miniature hell, the Spirit's heavy plasma cannon shattered off the fuselage as the power of the Gauss cannons battered the canopy. Several shots in quick succession caused an internal rumble before a new explosion boomed out of the other side like the backblast of a rocket. The dropship recoiled from the blow and its momentum carried it headlong into the building. Its troop bays crumpled from the impact like a dented fork, tossing the entire craft back over the inferno below and into a death spiral. Those still inside hurled themselves out or were flung through the open doors. Few landed on the platform. Those that didn't fall to their doom had their hopes dashed as a stifling suppression fire mowed them down.
The tram shot by in seconds with a swath of dead Brutes to show for it. The platoon was intent on adding more to its count. They zoomed up from one scene to the next, a months-old bloodlust resurrecting with each pass, one still restrained by the expediencies of discipline and urgency. They visited other landing pads, docks and platforms. They worked systematically to clear out the Covenant presence in each. They held back whenever they came across areas where friendly forces were still engaged. They assisted where they could, supporting victories in the making and upending defeats in progress. Other circumstances flashed by where whole sectors of the building had fallen. The Covenant troops taking residence inside, often Brute-led strike teams, were ready for them. In those cases, the tram's fire became more eye-searingly liberal.
Most places they cleared easily. Some they could not. These they softened up as much as possible to give reinforcements a better chance at finishing them off later.
The aerial warfare at their backs continued to escalate. However, it was prevented from intervening at the behest of a curtain of anti-aircraft fire from their guardian angels. The mobile weapons platform that was 3rd Platoon's tram did its best to keep pace with them from a neighboring rail. Nothing could get past them. Hostile fighters made repeated attempts to buzz either transport. Like moths drawn to an electrified trap, they were quickly burned out of the sky under the pain of bullet-riddled hulls and mutilated engines.
3rd Platoon had shot down its sixth overly persistent Seraph by the time 1st Platoon slid by their twelfth target. It was a maintenance hangar that stretched over several times the length of a docking station. Looking much like an oversized strip window, a small fleet of decommissioned trams were nested throughout the interior. They lined the spaces behind a row of repair gantries in varying states of rust and disrepair. Scattered in front of the mechanical tombstones and even under the gantries themselves were scores of Covenant. While some were more intact than others, none were alive. The two platoons' worth of alien dead were left amidst a scene of dotted bullet trails and simmering craters.
"Looks like someone already cleared this out." Nova noted.
"Must be the other trams." The Staff replied.
"Less work for us." Zack laughed.
Halfway past the hangar, a contact reached the platoon freq. "This is 6-Actual, Delta Company, 22nd Battalion to all armed trams! We need support in the upper sectors of NA Central! The executive landing pads are taking a hit! We can't afford to lose them, troopers! Get up here and give us a hand!"
"Sir?" Nova called.
The Staff nodded. "3-Actual?"
"We got your back, Ep-1." Singh replied.
"Roger that." The Staff switched frequency to the conductor. "Matt, take us topside. We need to help protect the pads."
"Got it." He said nervously.
They cruised past the maintenance hangar before switching to a survey rail that took them further out from the building. The incline was sharper than most, a straight shot to the upper railway network that cobwebbed into the skies.
Other trams were moving through them as well. Several were within sight, making gun runs against Covenant forces in other hangars and docks as they soared along the guideways. They turned the world both above and below into a series of running, on and off firefights. Most were making their way towards the top one shootout at a time.
1st and 3rd Platoons took a faster and more direct route that wound around the station's eastern face, past a number of isolated battles before eventually edging towards the upper sections.
With a distance still remaining, the Staff winced at a blue light that flashed into being on the top of the station. The shrill shriek of impulse drives preceded the appearance of a dozen Seraphs that shot by, darting away towards the eastern cityscape. Behind them, the tail-end of several fiery tidal waves crashed over the top of the building. The separate infernos peeled over the scalp of the station before their progress abated on the slopes. The air hissed around them while their intensity caused the glowing wounds to melt and fracture.
The Staff could still feel the heat prickling his skin as the tram's ascension kept them at a safe distance. Speeding up towards the horizon, they encountered the ever-widening battle raging atop NA Central.
A blinding lightshow of human and Covenant ordnance was flickering across the vastness of the roof. Almost the size of a small town, its surface bristled with a labyrinthian circuitry of infrastructure, from neighborhoods of air conditioning components and tunneling highways of ducts to grassy plazas and glass-domed skylights. Sprinkled throughout were dozens of the rooftop's newest furnishings. From their positions near several times as many of the station's landing pads, a constellation of M71 Scythes, M95 Lances and other defensive systems turned the skies above the station into a flurry of falling stars. Dead and dying Covenant aircraft streaked across the air with capes of fluttering fire, adding their wrecks to those that had crashed onto the roof. Even as they fell, missiles and tracers hissed and stuttered through the haze to reach for the greater host above.
The handful of squadrons of reinforcing Falcons had been lost to a squall of purple metal. They were tossed about in the storm winds of flaring impulse drives as their auto-turrets and machine gunners struggled to switch from one opportunity to the next. They hardly had to stay aware of the AA fire zipping about as by the enemy's sheer numbers alone there was plenty to go around. Banshees were keen to target them or to pursue those trying to angle away from being dogpiled under three-on-one dogfights. Those that played their hand against the anti-air batteries were scythed down like puppets cut free of their strings or blown up like tossed pottery. Still, they persisted. That persistence had already led to columns of smoke that rose from several destroyed AA guns, intermingling with the exhaust from other parts of the roof to form a forest of smog. Those installations still standing were left to pick up the growing slack.
Though hostile aircraft were everywhere, there was a sudden order to the madness. Without warning, a clutch of Banshees broke from their attacks on a group of Falcons. Their withdrawal created a giant hole in the inclement movement of the battle. Through it, the kite-like formation of a dozen Seraphs appeared high above. They rushed past the break in the fighting. Plasma charges fell behind them. The lances of plasma arced through the breach. Upon landing, they clawed a catastrophic path of superheated energy across a part of the roof, engulfing a pair of AA batteries in a roiling furnace.
The Seraphs rushed out of view and the Banshees quickly sealed the gap.
The Staff saw the play.
They were providing aerial cover for the bombing runs. It was a risky tactic, but they were pulling it off. Now it was up to the handful of trams arriving on the scene to upset the scales. Half a dozen armed transports from both ODST battalions had ascended the survey rails that circled the roof. Here the guideways leveled out as their networks reached their highest peaks.
A nexus of pathways curved over the rooftop itself. These were quickly taken up by the most aggressive of the trams that rocketed across them, maneuvering themselves beneath the worst parts of the fray.
The Staff was of a different mind. Seeing the many walls of fire that carved up the area, he decided against it.
"Matt, take us around! Remember, don't stop!"
Matt didn't answer with words but with action, exactly what the Staff needed. The tram reached its magnetic plateau and, like others, forged a path along the exterior rails.
Every weapon was in overdrive. Every transport was unleashing its full furry as it traversed over or around the station's summit. Each revealed itself as the mobile fortress it was by lighting up every low flying craft within range. Flyers moved to combat them. If they weren't sheared to pieces by a spray of bullets and rockets, they were subject to the unpredictable lightning strike of Gauss cannons. Those few that made it past their defenses strafed the trams or tossed fuel rods at them. Gunfire from coaches subsided after green blasts ripped holes through their sides, switching off like lightbulbs only to recommence more determinedly than before. Some refused to stop even as the walls outside were swallowed in flames. This garnered two of the trams the visage of hell's escapees, their occupants becoming damned souls that wished to send others in their place, paying off the devil's debt with the deaths of their foes.
Regardless of battalion or division, the Staff had come to expect nothing less of the Helljumper brotherhood. He would expect no less of his own troopers or of himself.
In the middle of the chaos was 1st Platoon. From either side of them came the inverted rain of ballistics that tore would be assailants out of their attack runs. The machine gunners below diced through the smaller passerby that risked getting in close. Those above struck at larger and more distant prey, creating a multi-layered wall of defense and offense.
The Staff was at the fore. Despite the missiles howling all around him, he had more than enough wherewithal to switch from target to target. Swiveling left, he jabbed an oncoming Banshee in the nose with an accelerated round that freed a few right hooks from Dalton's LAU to take it out. Swiveling right, he scored two hits on the shields of a passing Seraph, allowing Nova to break them with half the power. Daz's pods followed suit by punching it in the gut. A conflagration spewed out of the wound and hurled the fighter to the roof. Its crash cut a long gash of wreckage that added itself to the bounty of a prospering boneyard.
He fought to stay focused on their main objective. His eyes darted through the melee above, searching for where the next attack would come from. Shewing away a persistent flyer, he spotted a break in the blanketing dogfights further ahead. A distant group of tear drops was rocketing in from the west. Their diamond formation said it all. Their high velocity descent made it nigh impossible for the nearest air defenses to turn their way, having only just noticed them.
The Staff laid a Nav point on them. "I've got eyes on the next bombing run! Don't let them get close!"
Thanks to the steep angle, the gunners below could do nothing but maintain their perimeter. Those behind him echoed his example however. Their guns turned westward, waited a heartbeat for the fighters to get within range then opened up.
As the ten Seraphs zoomed over the fight, they blunted the spearhead of their formation by lashing out at the lead three. Their shields shimmered under the assault. One of them had both shield and hull punctured by an impaling shot from Nova's Gauss. A second suffered a partial collapse as the pilot tried to divert more power to its faltering protection. The containment field caused the explosions of Dalton's missiles to be compressed, magnifying the final blast two-fold. Seeing its two wingmen disappear beside it, the lead Seraph saw its own shields fail before a shot from the Staff inflicted a scorching nosebleed. A sudden series of secondaries rippled from front to back, ripping it apart from the inside out.
Those few seconds it took to take out the first three were not enough to deal with the last seven. The rest doled out their own vengeance upon the station itself. They plunged into the gap before pulling off again. Their payloads carried on. The luminous pinpoints fell quietly across a part of the roof before breaking out into a whistling roar of thermal expansion. Again, the walls of fire carved their way through the air defense systems. A pair of M95 Lances were silenced by the flood of incinerating plasma. Their electronics were seared, their munitions cooking off, their frames groaning and collapsing in the blaze.
The Staff watched disdainfully as the breach was closed.
"Sir, I don't think we can handle all of them!" Nova said.
"I noticed!" The Staff replied, realizing then that they would need more firepower. More than that, they couldn't afford to be reactive. Prediction and interdiction would have to be their saving grace.
As the tram began to round onto the station's western face, the Staff looked for 3rd Platoon. He'd lost track of them during their ascent and tried to sniff them out from the zigzag of passing trams.
"Ep-1 to 3-Actual, we need an extra set of hands with these bombers! Can you drop a location!?"
A Nav point appeared off to their right, pointing them back east.
Gunnery Sergeant Singh spoke over a rumbling background. "We're in the thick of things right now, Ep-1, trying to defend these batteries! If you need some help, you could-"
"Stay right there, sir, we'll come to you!" The Staff cut in. In his mind's eye he made out the overall tactical picture and put a nail on their next priority. "Matt, switch us off the survey rail! Take us to the middle of the roof!"
Once more the conductor answered with action. The tram turned hard to the right upon reaching a diverting junction. The newest guideway magnetized them onto an easterly course. The airborne battle continued to unravel above while the Staff traced the Nav point to an area 500-meters ahead. Around the central dome of one of the station's largest skylights there was another tram at work. It snaked along a set of guideways that stemmed around the skylight like the roots of a large tree. It passed beneath the shadow of a trio of AA guns, staving off a swarm of Banshees from them with the help of a Falcon.
"Alright platoon, here's the plan! We're linking up with 3rd then blasting a hole in the air cover near those guns! We'll wait for the next bombing run, let them come to us! That way we'll have enough time and guns to take them out!"
"Sounds like a plan!" Yuri said.
"You sure about that, sir!?" Nova asked. "If we miss, we're done! We'll be sitting ducks!"
Through the howling wind, the Staff glanced back at her. "So don't miss!"
Any conjecture she had left was overruled by the purring hum of another tram. The transport came within 30-meters of them on a rail running parallel to theirs. The newcomers were heading in the same direction though at a faster speed, causing them to inch ahead.
From the now accustomed display of emplacements on the roofs of the coaches, one of the gunners waved over to him.
"Troopers, this is 7-Actual, Alpha Comp!" He said. "Heard you gave our guys some grief back at High Octavia! We'll pay you back for that later! Right now, it looks like we're on the same wavelength, so we'll back you up!"
"Sounds good, 7-Actual!" The Staff replied, more assured now with the extra help. "We've got your ba-"
Hardly were the words out of his mouth before a lone Seraph shot over the other tram, gunning it in the opposite direction. Though a rush of wind shook 1st Platoon, it was nothing compared to what now shot into their neighbors. A shaft of pale blue light speared straight into the cockpit. An explosion flowered out the other side and quickly funneled through the first coach like a hellish vortex, unleashing a supersonic pressure wave of glass and metal. The blast peeled the lead coaches off the rails and into the air like the pinching fingers of a giant. They slammed back down, crashing through the guideways until the rest of the tram was completely derailed. The whole thing crunched, screeched and rolled, launching ODSTs and soldiers off roofs or through windows. The frames of the coaches caught alight as they flipped side over side before striking or exploding against the station's sturdier structures.
One of the coaches, the last, was whipped high into the air by its momentum. The Staff could do nothing but watch in horror as it sailed onto the rails ahead of them. Upon impact it came apart like a fragmentation grenade, spewing man-sized bits of shrapnel and debris as it severed the transportive artery. The Staff grunted from the new pressure wave that slapped into his position. Bearing it, he saw several Banshees break through the smoke above the wreck: a trap.
"Matt, turn!" Was all he could say upon training his cannon on the threat.
The conductor proved himself capable by quickly moving onto an exit rail that they might have otherwise missed. The tram made another hard turn to the right, exposing the Banshees to a full broadside from the machineguns. Two of them were turned to flares of steaming scrap. A third crashed pilotless to the ground. The rest quickly broke from their attack and made for the skies.
Now heading back south, the Staff had to pick a new path for them. Before he could, it hit him all at once that he had just witnessed the demise of an entire ODST platoon. Some of them he knew well, had known well.
Had the fates been even harsher, there could have easily been two Seraphs instead of one.
At that moment his personal thoughts kicked out. Training and experience kicked in under a guiding notion.
They would have plenty of time to die later. Not now, not with a job to do.
"E-, Ep-1!?" Zack stammered. "Did they just-"
"Focus on the mission, trooper!" The Staff barked, putting an end to a question best left unasked.
Matt followed his guidance and they found a rail that took them east again. They began closing the last 100-meters to the center of the rooftop. Much to the Staff's relief, 3rd Platoon was still holding its own.
Back off to the west, another hole formed in the fighting. Shadows flashed by and plasma charges rained through the opening. In an instant, a pair of M71 Scythes were engulfed and destroyed. The opening closed seconds later but the perpetrators were already long gone.
"There's not many batteries left, sir!" Nova warned.
"Yeah!" The Staff said. "Makes it easier to tell where they're going to strike next! Guns up, troopers! This is going to be close!"
The atmosphere tensed across the tram as the one above it became more hostile. A tempest of Banshees was being combated by a trio of Falcons. Beneath them, a pair of Scythes and an M95 Lance offered fire support in short bursts and long salvos.
The gunnery sergeant's tram was on the other side of the small clearing. They picked away at the low flyers and downed those that harassed them. They had paid a price for it, however. Their rear coach was well on its way to becoming a torch. The walls of its lowest floor were bending like wax to the heat of the oven behind its windows. Regardless, the gunners above were fighting back the fires just as readily as they were their attackers.
"Glad to see you, Ep-1!" Singh comm'd as 1st Platoon came up beside them. "Want to help us clear these skies!?"
"Not even a question, sir!" The Staff said, squatting to angle the cannon upward. "Platoon, get to work!"
And they did.
As they rounded the eastern circumference of the large skylight, both trams combined their efforts into a single corridor of death and destruction. A wave of bullets geysered into the enemy airpower even as a wash of rockets and missiles rode on its heels. The coordinated move was channeled into the most concentrated knots of Banshees, gradually untying their stranglehold over the skies. The windows of the two transports glittered with outgoing munitions while the targets above them glimmered like stars over a lake, stars that became supernovas as meteor showers cut their cores, stars that wheeled by as the trams circled the skylight. In their sector the heavens burned and came apart with each hunk of wreckage that fell out of flight.
Within the onslaught, the Staff held his fire.
He was waiting.
His quarry soon came within sight then within range. The aerial protection of the Banshees was shattered in enough places for him to see them clearly.
A new batch of Seraphs was flocking towards the station. They were in their accustomed diamond formation, confirming their purpose. They were heading in the direction of the platoons' position, confirming their aim.
"3-Actual!?"
"I see'em!" Singh said. He planted a Nav point on them and spoke with a commanding certainty. "All Helljumpers, target those Seraphs! Do it now or we all die!"
The stochastic drum of the two trams suddenly stopped then recommenced just as suddenly, this time refocused on the incoming squadron. There was little in the way of protection for the fighters save their own shields which now found themselves bearing the brunt of an entire arsenal. The fighting seconds earlier had slowly spread the attention of the two trams far and wide. Now it was collected into a sputtering fountain that spared nothing, amplified by the Samaritan firepower of a third tram passing by.
While the nearest Falcons were wise to steer clear of it, the Seraphs were put on the receiving end. Within the barrage the squadron was battered. Tracer fire weakened their shields even as rockets pounded them. Bullets cut through their underbellies even as missiles struck their noses. Three of the latter passed through a trio of fallen shields, punching their way inside before turning them inside out, killing three fighters. Three more Seraphs simply evaporated, their hulls buckling then imploding under the crushing weight of the assault. Another two foundered under the conglomerated might of the machineguns and broke apart like dying asteroids. A ninth careened towards the station, casting a fiery debris field behind it as a brush of orange paint across a blue canvas.
One of the last two dropped its plasma charge, its surviving partner having already abandoned the attack with what remained of its fuselage.
The charge whizzed towards the ground. It detonated in mid-air and flashed across an area to their west. The advance of the flames eventually abated. They sucked in oxygen in a despairing howl, having landed too far away to do any damage.
A victorious cheer rang out among the two platoons. Fists were raised, guns firing in salute.
Across the way, the Staff caught an approving nod from the gunnery sergeant, one he readily and gratefully returned.
He was so taken by the solace of the moment that he almost didn't notice when the cheering stopped.
A new sound took its place, distant but growing closer, too hauntingly familiar for him to forget. He had just heard it bare seconds ago when the ghostly hum of impulse drives returned, this time more powerful.
He looked up.
The blanketing dogfights were beginning to thin out. The aerial cover was waning. At that point, however, it no longer mattered.
A diamond formation of Seraphs appeared above the cityscape to the west. It was closely followed by two more, forming a moving triangle.
A force of 30 Seraphs was on its way.
The Staff felt his strength leave him. Despite his will to carry on the fight, his arms sagged and his grasp on the cannon faltered. His mind and body were at war and he struggled to win it. He had to win, they had to win.
He heard Gunnery Sergeant Singh croaking out the beginnings of an order that ultimately proved unnecessary.
A massive shadow fell over them from their right. Not even a second later, the strict formations of the Seraphs were unceremoniously disrupted by a typhoon of anti-aircraft fire. The shower of lead proved so vicious that it struck out a third of their number in mere moments. Missiles larger than anything the trams could deploy raced overhead and into their triangle. They curved and dove for their targets, causing another half of their number to vanish in the resulting fireworks. Only a minority of fighters realized their newfound plight in time to evade. Their formation disintegrated before it could so much as get within range of the station. Its surviving elements flared their drives and scattered in every possible direction. Fewer still escaped the trailing AA that clipped at their wings and tails.
Of the 30 Seraphs, barely three managed to get away.
The sound of the wider fight came back to the Staff. So did something else.
The two trams were passing east again by the central skylight when they looked up. In so doing, they got their first glimpse of their savior.
Some 300-meters above them hung the hulking frame of one of the heavy frigates. Having come in from the north, it had presented its starboard side to the enemy along with its point defense guns and missile silos. Its hull was pockmarked with burns and craters. Nevertheless, it was still flight worthy, still unwavering. Somehow the throatier hum of its fusion drives was comforting.
There were no cheers this time.
Instead, there was a collective sigh of relief across the comms, one accentuated by the sight that followed.
Surviving Banshees and Seraphs began breaking from their dogfights, fleeing at the sight of the arriving frigate. Many were cut down by its defense guns in an act to lower their numbers. With the help of the remaining Falcons and air defense systems, less than half of them escaped from the station, dispersing into the wider city. A newly arriving squadron of Longsword fighters roared onto the scene. They arced above NA Central and split up, each moving in hot pursuit of those larger targets trying to get away.
An injured Banshee cruised close by at a leisurely speed. It had the sluggish movement of a starving house fly. The Staff guessed its pilot was too dazed to react. He fired his Gauss cannon one last time and ripped it into vaporous fragments.
In under a minute the local airways were clear again.
Across the roof, most of the other trams continued to ride the rails in an economy of movement. Some no longer moved under their own power but relied either on their own momentum or on the gentle nudge of others coming behind them. A few were entirely still. Flames issued from their windows and from cratered breaches in their walls to lick at the afternoon air. Their insides were silent save for three distinct sounds, the occasional blast or cooking sizzle of burning ammunition and the slow crackle of the occupants.
Those UNSC aircraft that still had the strength to fly roved about. Some patrolled the perimeter in tight groups. Some descended on landing pads in search of maintenance and fuel. Others circled above the wrecks of fallen wingmen, scanning for signs of life within their ruined frames. The ship all the while remained a constant and reassuring presence above everything else.
The Staff made doubly sure that the nearest skies were clear. By doing so he spotted the sun high in the sky. It suddenly hit him that it was in fact afternoon. He hadn't truly noticed it before, but then again, he hadn't noticed the frigate's approach either. He wasn't sure why the time of day stuck out to him so much but realized with a bit of thankfulness that it gave him a sense of peace. His watchfulness satisfied; he pressed his head to the cannon and leaned against it. Shutting his eyes, he allowed himself to take his first deep breath in what seemed like forever.
:********:
The door slid open and Duncan followed Mackley into the cockpit. It was a relatively clean space compared to everything he'd seen in the last two days. It had an arrow shape in proportion to the frame of the outside hull. A table of various screens and controls caged in the front. Beyond it was a viewing window from which the pilot could do his job. But he couldn't be expected to do so anymore.
Shortly after the fighting had stopped, the Staff had called for the conductor to take them down to a docking station.
He didn't answer.
The tram was still moving though at a much slower pace.
He tried again and again received no reply. After that, he sent Mackley to check on him.
Whiskey's sniper found him dead at the controls. The autopilot had been engaged. As a final act, the conductor had stopped them from speeding into another tram or off a damaged railway.
He'd saved their lives.
What had ultimately cost him his own was a burst of plasma fire that had blown through the windows of the cockpit at some point. Whenever that had been, the conductor had taken the hit without complaining. He did his job and kept them moving.
After they found his body, Hector and Yuri took over. Mackley moved the conductor out of his seat to let the two vehicular specialists finagle with the controls. They eventually figured out enough to get them moving though at a cautious slog.
Most of the docks that weren't busy recovering from the attack were taking care of other trams. Dock 22, the very same one they had set out from earlier, was the only one able to host them.
Having settled in, the Staff had sent Duncan and Mackley back inside to remove the conductor.
Duncan stopped to take a look at him. He was an older man judging by the gray streaks in his hair. He looked like a friendly soul, like someone's old grandpa on the verge of a long-deserved retirement. Maybe he was. Either way, he would never get to. Beneath the scorched side of his shirt, Duncan thought he spotted a few exposed ribs. He knew for a fact, however that the patches of reddened whiteness beneath what remained of his right cheek was his jawbone. He wondered how much of that the old man had felt before he passed. Hopefully, if the plasma had fried the right nerves, not much.
He glanced at the shards of glass lying about the body. He examined the shattered viewing window and the glowing hole blown into a part of the control consoles, something he guessed was among the less vital components.
"Think we can still drive this thing after this?" Mackley asked, noting the damage.
"We'll have to find out." Duncan said and moved for the body.
Mackley grabbed the legs and Duncan hooked his arms under the shoulders. On cue, they lifted together. The arms dangled as they angled the body towards the door. They ambled through the exit and past the small personal quarters as well as the ladder leading up to the emergency hatch. They shuffled out a side door and onto the busy boarding platform.
Their tram had pulled in behind another that was already hooked up to the refueling lines. Both 1st Platoon and their neighbors, the 4th Platoon of the 22nd Battalion's Charlie Company, were left to shamble through the aftermath of the assault. That and somehow make preparations for what was to come next for them.
The dock itself was disheveled at best, chaotic at worst. There had been a fight here as well. Here a platoon of Marine engineers had carried the day. A strike force of a dozen Brutes, Jackals and Grunts were pushed back and put down.
The engineers were carrying the alien bodies over to a heap in a corner of the boarding platform. Duncan watched several of them struggle to carry a Brute out of the seating area. They passed down an aisle of tossed and broken chairs. The severity of the weight left them struggling at the knees. They eventually shuffled close enough to toss it into the heap.
A much more respectful arrangement had been established for friendly casualties. Two rows of UNSC personnel lined the platform from end to end, parting only in the middle to leave a pathway. The occupied body bags had turned the front of the docking station into a makeshift morgue. Of the dozens gathered, a few were still open. Pale faces and closed eyes peered out. Hands reached in to zip them away.
The rest of 1st Platoon had settled themselves around the closest seats. Standing or sitting, everyone seemed satisfied to simply be out of the tram. The same could be said for the survivors of the Army and Marine platoons that had tagged along. Some of them had gone off to find their friends among the bags or to find one for them. There was grief there. They had lost several more men altogether since the first Banshee attack. Those that remained were left to deal with the loss that promised only to mount as time went on.
Duncan and Mackley made for the rest of the platoon who turned to them as they approached. The two found a spot at the end of one of the rows of bags and set down their charge. For a while no one spoke. They eyed their old driver and the others lying at their feet with a respectful deference.
Then the Staff went off and returned with a bag. Hector helped him to work the body inside.
As they did, a high-pitched hiss drew Duncan to the back of the dock. A couple of soldiers were struggling with a large hose that ran from an outlet. They were spraying down a fire that was burning from a blast crater in the wall there. Steam rippled from it in waves as the intensity of the jet stream vacillated every few seconds.
Nearby, a door slid open. Two figures strode out. One was the platoon's weapons supplier, Warrant Officer McCarthy. The other was a man Duncan gauged to be somewhere in his early 20s. He had short blonde hair matted with sweat and an air of timidity that stuck just as close to him as his conductor's uniform. Duncan knew it well, the look of someone who desperately wanted to be somewhere else. What circumstances had drawn him here were becoming more obvious by the second.
The Staff and Hector had gotten most of the body into the bag when the pair reached them.
"You said you needed a new driver, Staff Sergeant?" McCarthy gestured to her guest. "Here you go."
Crouched beside the bag, the Staff scrutinized him. So did the rest of the platoon. The young man seemed to shrink away under so many speculating faces, or at least he was until his attention fell on that of their last conductor. His shoulders suddenly slackened as his eyes widened. The color left his face until there was almost no difference between it and that of the corpse. Drained or not, there actually wasn't much difference there at all except for age.
Duncan noticed the similarities first. He spotted the young man's name tag: 'Cndr. Yohan Graberg'.
The Staff had also observed the hollowness in his stare and nodded to the body. "Friend of yours?"
Yohan slowly shook his head and gave a hoarse answer. "Uncle."
The Staff's expression softened. An empathetic nod signaled his understanding.
"Your uncle was good, Yohan. He got us out of a lot of tight spots, the kind I wasn't always sure about. He saved our lives back there." The Staff braced his hands against his knees and pushed himself to his feet. "But now we're in the market for a new driver. The warrant officer here says you're up for the job. I'm not so sure."
"He is." McCarthy insisted.
"Thank you for that ma'am, but that was before he came outside and found out who our last guy was." He focused on Yohan. "I want to hear it from him."
Yohan met his gaze, his mouth quivering.
"If you need time to grieve, that's fine, but we'll have to find someone else. If you're good for it right now, say so."
The young conductor clenched his jaws. Eyes hazing, he moved quickly to blink his tears away, looking the Staff straight on as if they weren't there. His lips parted and his voice cracked.
"I-...I'm good for it-...ssss-, sir. I-, I can keep up. If you need someone to drive you around...then I'm your man."
The Staff pointed to the body. "Are you as good as your uncle? I need an honest self-assessment here."
Yohan nodded with a growing desperation that was the mirror opposite of the one he'd walked in with. "He taught me himself, sir. He's the reason I even got qualified." He paused for a long while as if lost in some fond memory that soured with regret. "He wanted to-, wanted to help you guys, right? Help you get everyone else out of here?" He bit his lip. "...I do too."
A slow zipping noise broke in. Hector was trying to seal the bag over the face.
The Staff put a hand to his shoulder, stopping him. "We head out in half an hour. There's still more deliveries to make. Until then, if you have anything you'd like to say," He gestured to the body. "Now's the time."
The realization of what he was getting at slowly dawned on Yohan. His eyes started watering again. With a heartfelt expression alone, he gave his thanks.
McCarthy shared a nod with the Staff then left the gathering. Everyone else was quickly stepping aside or drifting off to let the two conductors have their space, all except Rico who mercifully seemed to take exception to the situation.
"Sorry about your uncle, hermano." He said with the earnestness of an old friend. "I'm sure you'll make him proud."
For that, Yohan gave him a grateful look then peered down at the body. "Let's hope so."
Duncan watched the younger of the two come to kneel beside the elder.
Whatever were the first words that came out of his mouth were immediately lost beneath a droning flood of sound.
The wail of a fire alarm echoed across the station. It was coming from the other tram, from its third coach. All eyes turned to a sight that unfolded faster than anyone could react.
The windows on the coach's first floor were bright, not with ceiling lights but with a pale blue flame that filled the interior with a sparkling steam. It was almost like a blowtorch except much too big. Voices rang from inside, wary suggestions to get out that quickly escalated into shouts. Even as the door was opening, a pair of maintenance workers standing at one of the fuel controls saw what was happening. Urgent fingers typed rapid fire commands across the console. The two midnight-black pillars of power cabling rotated and disconnected from the side of the coach, and a spark flew out.
The foot of the first person out the door had just touched the boarding platform when both it and everything behind it was consumed in a flash of light.
Without warning, the coach erupted. Flames blew out of every window like a Molotov cocktail, punching through parts of the wall like belligerent demons, easing the pressure off the furnace inside.
Screams.
Duncan heard one, then several then too many to count. All came from inside. Ululating shrieks pierced his ears as the sight of what came out of the fire pierced his sanity. Several persons had sprinted, jumped or stumbled out of the door and onto the boarding platform. Covered from head to toe in flames, they seemed to dance in the fire as they screamed, some for help, all out of a sharp agony. ODSTs were among them. Others rushed in and tossed them to the floor to roll them out, to let others spray them with fire extinguishers or to pat away at their torment.
Still inside, fists and guns bashed away at the last big pieces of glass in the windows of both floors, clearing the way for one human candle to leap out after the next. Those lower down managed to run away before collapsing to the ground as the pain became too much. Comrades rushed in to help even as those from the upper floor came crashing down beside them.
Duncan was in motion before he realized it. He had gone to help bring up several hoses alongside everyone else, or what he thought was everyone else. A mix of 1st Platoon, soldiers, engineers, workers and even ODSTs whose friends were among those burning had banded together to drag the hoses from nearby outlets. Those at the fore switched them on and aimed. A web of high-pressure streams engulfed the walls of the exploded coach, those that had survived it and even some of the body bags that had caught alight. As they were hosed down, they answered back with screams of pain and steam.
While he was trying his best to keep the kinks out of one of the hoses, a figure in the corner of his eye caught his attention.
It was Zack.
He was still exactly where he had been before the explosion. He hadn't moved. He still didn't move. Instead, he stood there, watching the coach and its passengers burn. His visor was clear and Duncan could make out the mile-long stare on his face.
Shooting his own hose like a turret, the Staff also took notice. "Ep-7, get over here now! Double time!"
He didn't budge or so much as appear to register that he'd even been called.
"Zack!" Nova shouted.
His name seemed to wake him up. He finally got moving. The stare slowly disappeared as he rushed to lend a hand.
Vesparum Nidum – Wasp's Nest
