Chapter 5 - Deceptio

September 16th, 2544 (04:20 Hours – Military Calendar)

Ulterin System, Miridem

Matin Province, Continent of Vitre

Misriah Armory Weapon's Production and Storage Site 'La Grotte'

:********:

The tram was no longer an option.

With North Camden station compromised, the only available avenue was a convoy system of 18-wheelers carrying Misriah's equipment. The Captain would've seen the funny side of that, Duncan thought. And maybe she was doing just that in some distant afterlife, seeing the funny side. He tried not to think about it too much, but the loss of 1-Actual and every trooper in Squad Eagle was weighing down on the collective soul of 1st platoon. It registered in the way they wordlessly prepared with long stares whenever it was time for another delivery run. They would cling to the handlebars on the containers of the tractor trailers bussing down the highway towards the Starport. The stars in the night sky weren't always constant. From time to time they would watch one move across the firmament and fire a MAC round into another, destroying the 'star'. Everything looked the same from the ground. It was probably different for the Navy holding position over the West, buying time for the forces fighting on the surface. The ODSTs would be joining the latter soon.

There were no further incidents. They had started finishing up the last of the deliveries from La Grotte including most of the site's work personnel in the last 2 days. Now on the third day since what happened at the station, they had wrapped things up.

Squads Epsilon and Echo stood outside the Transit Station. The rest of the grounds around them were mostly abandoned. The streets that bustled with workers and delivery trucks were almost empty save for crates and ditched utility trucks. The buildings were dark. All was quiet, and so were the troopers as they stood waiting for their rides.

One of the transit building's front doors opened and Stewards stepped out. He was unarmed except for a model black M6A Magnum holstered on his thigh. His sleepy eyes went unaccompanied by his characteristic smile. The troopers watched him walk up to the Staff.

He looked him over in his armor with a hint of respect. "You guys were good out there. We may not have become friends but I can at least say that you're tough as hell. And I can also say the same for your Captain." He extended his hand. "It's been an honor."

The Staff depolarized his visor. He scrutinized the gesture and the man offering it. Then his expression softened. He took the hand and shook.

"Same to you, Stewards."

Stewards looked him over again. "I guess…you're the leader of 1st platoon now, Staff Sergeant."

For a second the Staff didn't know how to respond. Then the reverberation of multiple vehicles caught everyone's attention. They spotted the convoy of four troop carrier Warthogs speeding down the road towards them.

Stewards patted him on the shoulder and walked back to the transit building as the Hogs pulled in. He briefly waved back without turning around as he walked through the door, disappearing into the darkened interior.

The worker personnel that had brought the vehicles stepped out to give them access.

The Staff took in a deep breath. "1st Platoon, load up."

On his order the two squads hopped into the Hogs. They took one last look at the transit building then followed the Staff's lead Hog in turning around and driving down the road, heading for the gates.

:********:

Footsteps echoed through the desolate hallways of the Transit Station's interior as Stewards made his way through them. Occasionally the throngs of tossed filing papers would crackle under his boots. He stopped halfway into the room and spotted the Assistant Manager.

Roman was sitting in one of the lounge chairs with two MPs standing beside him. He heard Stewards coming and peered over his shoulder at him, looking somewhat surprised.

"Ah, Captain, I thought you already left."

"I wouldn't worry about me." Stewards said. "What about you? You're not getting any security on this mission except these MPs. With respect, that's not a security guarantee, not like if you were going with us."

Roman sighed. "Nothing's a guarantee these days." He leaned forward, lost in some distant thought. "I've had some time to think on this. I figured after what happened at the station that you, your men and the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers have lost enough on my account. I'll manage with the MPs. They have to count for something at least."

"Do they?" Stewards glanced at the two Military Police. They were both fairly young men, perhaps fresh out of whatever inner colony bootcamp had churned them out. There weren't many old heads around these days. It was mainly the youths fighting the war that their parents had fought while they were on swing sets in kindergarten. It was easy to think of it as a generational curse since those who came after lost in even greater ways than those who came before, those who'd died back when there were still outer colonies. Stewards briefly wondered what UNSC personnel would think that died early on in the conflict if they saw what humanity had been shorn down to today. Maybe they would think their sacrifices were worth something, or maybe they would think they had only delayed the inevitable. In earlier times, Stewards would've fluctuated between which he thought was right. Nowadays he didn't have such uncertainties.

"Sounds like you have some remorse."

"Remorse? Yes, among other things."

"You don't seem too worried about actually making it out of here. Survivor's guilt perhaps?"

Roman gave an amused laugh. "You could use that as a motto for a recruitment drive and probably get twice the number of volunteers from the inner-colonies than what happened with Cole." He got up onto his feet. His breathing became beleaguered.

"I was supposed to retire this year." He said, catching his breath. "As you can see, I'm no longer fit to be running the planetary branch of a major intersystem enterprise. Don't get me wrong, I'm not suicidal, but people don't need an old man who can barely stand up on his own two legs without getting winded. If I live, alright then. If I don't, Misriah can just use my retirement pension to put more rifles into the hands of capable soldiers like these two." He gestured to the MPs. "No, I wouldn't call it survivor's guilt. I haven't survived anything. However, I am guilty of sending people to places where they couldn't."

Stewards understood where he was coming from. He spoke his mind. "You should've paid the ODSTs."

Roman winced. "Pardon?"

"They more than deserved compensation." Stewards pressed.

The Assistant Manager shook his head. "As much as I hate what all of this led up to, the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers are a part of the UNSC, the very same UNSC that offered us near-unconditional assurance to protect our assets in exchange for producing them."

"You're saying they were just doing their jobs?" Stewards asked, sounding more like he was making a statement than asking a question.

His face hardened. His sleepy eyes bore into the man before him. "I only lost five of my men. The ODSTs lost far more than that, including their leadership. But we're being paid for what we're doing. Those troopers? They're doing it because they were ordered to. Even if it wasn't legal the gesture would've counted for something, at least more than a handshake and a nice farewell. And one more thing, if the UNSC had offered 'near unconditional' assurance to protect you, then why am I here right now?"

Roman stood speechless. So were the MPs standing by his side who were trying to avoid giving the impression that they were listening. At length, the Assistant Manager's gaze fell to the floor in defeat. "Perhaps the gesture...would have counted for something."

Their attention was pulled away from each other as the loud burbling engines of an 18-wheeler came to ear, coming to a halt outside the transit building. One of Stewards' men comm'd him. "Ready when you are, sir."

"I'm on my way."

Roman offered his hand. "Thank you for your service, Captain."

Stewards looked him over. "Is the means of evacuation for me and my guys still in place?"

Roman nodded. "The freighter is already waiting for you at the Vers L'avant, as promised. It will drop you off at Minister."

Stewards nodded back. He shook his hand, then tightened his grip. "Get yourself a ride out of here, Roman. Live a long life and actually do something with it that won't make you want to give it all up once you retire."

Roman winced again. Stewards left him like that. He strode out of the transit building and up to the side of the tractor trailer. The rest of his guys were riding using the handlebars to hold onto the side of the container.

The Captain grabbed a handlebar like the rest of his men and hung on. Then they were off, passing through the gates of La Grotte. Not one of them looked back as the facility grounds fell behind them and sunk out of sight beneath the predawn horizon.

:********:

New Memphis had changed in many ways in the last two weeks from what Duncan remembered. There were definitely a lot more destroyed buildings than last time he'd been here. Ashened apartment complexes lay half-crumbling, their concrete guts spilling out into the streets and forming roadblocks. It forced the convoy to reroute more and more the further east they went.

They came across sights of finished firefights that had raged across the city days earlier. The smoking wrecks of Scorpion Tanks and Warthogs were joined by blown-open Wraiths and the smoldering remains of the ground assault craft known as Ghosts. Dead Covenant soldiers lay where they had died, often opposite the positions of fallen UNSC Marines. There were civilians as well, a significant number that were caught in the crossfire. They did their best to drive around the bodies but it wasn't always possible.

Duncan kept his eyes up since he was in the passenger section of the Lead Hog. He swept his rifle from left to right, checking the rooftops and windows of passing buildings. While this area was already secured by the UNSC, no one was ready to take any chances, not after what happened to Squad Eagle.

So far, they had another three kilometers before they would regroup with Bravo Company

"Think Yuri's waiting for us already?" Duncan asked.

The Staff shrugged as he piloted them around a rubble-filled roundabout. "If I know Matchstick, and I do, he's not waiting for us. He doesn't wait for anyone. I doubt he even knows what that means."

Duncan nodded, and like the rest of 1st platoon, remained silently alert as they drove through the streets.

:********:

Forward Operating Base Gamma served as the provisional field headquarters for the 211th Marines. Only two kilometers west of the De Gaulle Starport, the multi-story building was originally a branch of the inter-colonial Freighter Insurance Company 'FarDelta'. Half of the affiliated sign on top of the building was missing with the other half left scorched by plasma fire.

Lieutenant Colonel Garrison considered it as the least of the damage compared to the structure's multitude of blown out windows and walls that crumbled in places. Yet somehow it wasn't damaged enough to stop it from being used for today's meeting.

Garrison sat in one of several seats surrounding a brown oakwood table in a conference room. He took note of the flickering lights overhead. Four days ago, the Covenant had started targeting the Matin Province's primary Electrical Grids and Power Plants. The 211th's 5th and 7th Battalions along with elements from the 53rd Armored Division were struggling to hold what infrastructure they could outside of New Memphis. But the Covenant's attention was slowly shifting from the East to the West. At this point it was obvious to anyone and everyone that Miridem's time was running out. Now Garrison and the two other officers in the room with him were about to be responsible for what would likely be the last major action taken by UNSC personnel on the planet.

The lights dipped again then returned to full brightness, highlighting the solemn faces of the officers in charge of the respective units.

Sitting opposite Garrison was Colonel Akono Mentieth, the UNSC Army Colonel in charge of the 53rd Armored Division. He was a man of darker complexion with a strong stature and looked somewhere in his late forties or early fifties. He wore a crisp army uniform with the corresponding Diamond and Chevron insignia to prove the rank. Both he and the men and women under his command had been fighting on Miridem since day one. They knew the situation on the ground better than anyone else.

"Are you certain there's no other way to penetrate their defenses?" He asked, sizing up the 3-dimensional projection in the middle of the table. The hologram was emitted from a built-in holotank and depicted the city block surrounding the De Gaulle Starport. Mentieth pointed to the streets, more specifically at the red dots that patrolled the air above them.

"Considering their maneuverability, those squadrons could easily use the sharp corners for evasion tactics and the long streets for attack runs. It's still tall order for anyone we send in, even if they are just a diversion."

"There's few if any other options save a high-end frontal assault." The speaker sat perpendicular to the first two. As far as rank went, he was the second most powerful person left in the Ulterin System, the man in charge of all ground operations: Major General Andrei Horvath. Though solely in charge of the 211th Marines at first, the deteriorating state of affairs planetside led to the ground command being passed down to him. He wore Marine Corps fatigues and sported the two silver stars of his rank on his shoulder. He ran a hand through his regulation-length dirty blonde hair to smooth it down. He looked at least ten years younger than Mentieth and Garrison himself, but authority overruled seniority here.

"We knocked out most of their airpower when we took the west side of the city. These are only smaller craft occupying these streets as an outer defense and early warning system. Using units from your 53rd to form pockets within these patrolled areas will help gather the Covenant craft into places where we can corner them."

"Like catching flies with honey." Garrison stated.

Horvath considered the idiom. "Yes, something like that. And that's where you come in Garrison." The hologram switched to an overhead view of that section of the city. As it did, the projection played out, showing multiple yellow dots entering the block from all sides.

"Your Alpha and Bravo Companies will head in first to setup anti-aircraft killzones. Then armored columns from the 53rd will drive up and stop within these killzones. They're too good as targets for the Covenant to pass up. Like you say, they'll be like flies to honey."

The yellow dots were then joined by a dozen yellow rectangles driving down the streets and coming to a stop, surrounded by the friendly contacts. The spray of red-colored entities around the block then flocked towards them like iron fillings to a magnet. One by one the crimson dots disappeared.

Mentieth rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's…risky. The troopers will have to be in position well in advance of the armored columns."

"But if they manage to pull it off then we'll have an opening to the Starport." Horvath pointed out.

Garrison folded his arms across his chest. "My troopers will be in place, no doubts about it. They'll get the job done."

"We'll be counting on it." At Horvath's words the hologram focused on the Starport. It was a C-shaped building whose two-kilometer length was resized to a hundred centimeters. There was a dome at the structure's central radius and along its circumference were uniformed bulges that were refueling stations. There were thirty on both the North and South Wings, sixty in all. It would be enough to fuel a fleet of starships, and the intention was to do just that.

"If we pull it off, we can commence the breakout against the enemy armor surrounding the De Gaulle. First we'll have a targeted strike via Longswords on those in the west"

The hologram highlighted four semicircles of a dozen red dots each. They occupied the Starport Apron surrounding the building and acted as a second layer of defense. Several yellow arrowheads suddenly zoomed past and one of the sectors of the defensive line disappeared.

Mentieth arched an eyebrow. "You're willing to risk an ASGM payload delivery that close to the Starport? Not to discredit your plans sir, but if even one of those hits a fuel-line, it could light up a refueling station, and if just one of those goes off, the chain reaction could-"

"It won't." A quaint female voice interrupted. Mentieth and Garrison both looked around for the source of the voice when it spoke again. "Requesting permission to materialize, Major General."

"Granted."

A glint of light appeared on the holotank. A figure slowly emerged from just above the Starport. The image of a blonde teenage girl dressed in 13th century French armor arose. She stood gallantly with a sword in hand. Garrison thought the halo glowing behind her head was a bit much. She reminded him of Will, Falchion's resident AI. He remembered how Mr. Green fashioned himself after Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Now here was this one who looked like a guardian angel. He briefly wondered what AI's fascination was with Earth's historical figures pre-interstellar expansion.

"Good morning gentlemen." She quipped, sounding energetic. "My name is Joan. I am the local Smart AI in charge of the day-to-day management of the De Gaulle Starport, and I can assure you that a targeted strike on this area will not harm any structures."

She waved her hand over the projection of the Starport, causing it to shimmer. Then a network of root-like fuel pipes appeared running underground from the surrounding area, beneath the Starport apron and to the refueling stations which lit up like nodes along the De Gaulle's circumference.

"I've already turned off the pipes within the calculated blast radius and drained them of fuel. That way we avoid any such chain reactions."

This time it was Garrison's turn to raise an eyebrow. He looked to the Major General. "How did you get the Starport's AI here? Wouldn't her core be-"

Joan interrupted. "Behind enemy lines? No. My core was extracted to an armored matrix prior to the Starport's fall into enemy hands. However, I was able to successfully drain each refueling station and shutdown every single fuel-line as a precaution before my extraction. This way any combat surrounding my castle would not accidentally bring about its destruction."

"Castle?" Garrison wondered if she was a bit too invested in whatever roleplay she was involved with. "So, you're saying there's no risk to the station?"

"Indeed." Joan said matter-of-factly. "I personally assure you, no, I guarantee that-"

Horvath cut her off. "Thank you, Joan. That'll be all for now."

Joan blushed red but saluted like a soldier. "I apologize for my ramblings, my Lord. I will sign off for the time-being and leave you to your briefing."

The Major General gave her a thankful nod and watched her avatar wink off. He sighed. "She's a lively one, I'll give her that." He pointed to the hologram, causing it to resume. A hail of yellow dots and rectangles on one side of the encompassing cityscape began attacking at the area cleared by the Longswords, causing scores of enemy armor from other sectors to pour in, attempting to contain the breach.

"The Covenant and any infantry they have will likely see our push from the west and come running to secure that area. That'll leave other sectors vulnerable. From there I'll have my 1st and 2nd Battalions pincer through those positions spearheaded by the 53rd Armored. We'll surround the remaining ground forces and finish them off, then form a layered defense around the perimeter."

The hologram showed just that with bars of yellow moving in on the Starport from the North and South. They crossed over the De Gaulle then swiveled back West against the last red positions like a door on its hinges.

"That's all there is to it gentlemen. We capture the Starport, then we'll bring in Joan to get it up and operational again."

Garrison nodded. "We can manage that."

"It's feasible." Mentieth acknowledged. "It'll be no easy task but if we can hold it long enough, we may be able to save a significant amount of the population…assuming the situation in space doesn't deteriorate faster than we can act."

"Tursk has things relatively stabilized over the Western Hemisphere." Horvath said. "While there are a few minor skirmishes, the bulk of the Covenant forces are too preoccupied with the East."

Garrison knew that 'preoccupied' was a very watered-down way to say they were glassing it. A planet didn't have to be fully under their control for the Covenant to commence an orbital bombardment. Whatever territory they gained; they saw swiftly to its destruction. They were like little children with a lollipop in hand who didn't understand the concept of delayed gratification, only that too was a gross oversimplification of them as a threat. And if it were true, what did that say about humanity since they were losing to them.

The name Tursk also stuck out. Ahead of Horvath, Vice Admiral Tursk was the most important person left in the system. Earlier in the week he'd consolidated the remnants of the 12th and 15th Naval Expeditionary Fleets as well as the Reach QRF into a single Fleet under his command. Right about now they were probably busy trying to keep the Covenant fleet from expanding its hold over the planet, and if that was no longer possible, then to delay them.

Horvath continued. "The Vice Admiral is going to need the Starport open in order to ensure the evacuation. As you know, 70% of the remaining population have yet to be cleared and have been waiting for a rendezvous point to do so without having to risk being shot down from orbit. We have to grant them that window either today or not at all. Failure is not an option here. You'll have an hour to organize and brief your units, then we move out. You're dismissed gentlemen."

:********:

Captain Stewards strode with quiet swiftness across the B-deck of the Parabola Class freighter, Mayweather. The ship had left the Vers L'avant Starport less than half an hour earlier laden with the last shipment of La Grotte's weapon and vehicle caches. The trip through the atmosphere wasn't too bad. Thankfully, the Navy were still holding their own against the Covenant, giving the ship the opportunity to escape what was a closing trap. He looked out a passing window and spotted the far-off flashes of yellow and blue light in the distant upper atmosphere. The fighting was predominantly near where the planetary time demarcation line intersected the equator. He was grateful that the ship was headed in the opposite direction towards the Northern pole. He was also grateful for the ship itself.

He passed through an open door and entered a wide mess hall. The room was quiet. He navigated his way through the labyrinth of blood-soaked tables, ignoring the bullet-riddled bodies of the several dozen dead crewmembers still sitting in their seats, their hands and faces buried in the very same breakfast that they had been eating. He didn't spare them a glance because he knew how thorough his men could be. There was no reason to worry about survivors, not where the AMADDS were concerned.

Less than five minutes ago he had left from the hanger bay after giving the order for his men to wipe out the Mayweather's crew. He'd waited until everyone was in place first: Teams 1 and 2 at the ship's two hangers, Team 3 at the Mess Hall, and Team 4 at Engineering. The goal was to get rid of the dead weight onboard and only to keep essential personnel that were vital to the Mayweather's functioning like engineers. HVI's were another concern. If they found anyone that could be deemed as High Value Individuals, they could be used as future "negotiating tools". That was the word that his commanding officer preferred to use since it sounded more refined than hostages, which Stewards personally preferred out of practicality. However, at the moment he was somewhat disappointed with himself.

He thought it over as he made his way up a flight of stairs onto A-deck and realized that it was the missed opportunity in the form of Roman. The man was the perfect hostage: weak life convictions, meaning he could be easily manipulated, out-of-shape, meaning he wasn't much of a threat, and relatively high-ranking in Misriah, meaning a high ransom. Stewards knew it was only a chance to convince him to join the AMADDS on the Mayweather, and though he'd failed, he was secretly somewhat relieved that he had. While his job compelled him to take him as a hostage, he couldn't help empathizing with the man. His disillusioned view of the world and his place in it was one he had seen time and time again, and it was often the face of the men and women that he chose to recruit into their ranks. It hit too close to home. So he simply used the fact that Roman was about to retire as a means of throwing the idea out entirely. After all, who'd really pay a ransom for someone they were about to lose anyway?

Stewards was on his way up to Team 5 on the bridge. He came out onto a hallway and spotted two of his men standing guard at the door on the far end. They nodded to him as he walked past and the doors slid open to let him through.

The bridge was a pentagonal room with a viewport running its full length. Various stations occupied each side. The officers who had once occupied those stations were now having their limp bodies removed from their seats and piled up near the door. His AMADDS were occupying those seats in turn and getting the ship ready for a slipspace jump.

Stewards' attention drifted to the captain's chair in the room's center and the man that stood beside it. He wore the overalls accustomed to a Misriah employee, although its gray coloring singled him out from the others. So did the way he stood proud and seemed to glower at Stewards despite the nozzle of the MA5B being pushed up against his temple.

The gun's owner, Team 5's leader, was actively shouting death threats into his ears that he promised to fulfill if he didn't get on his knees. He eventually got him to submit by pressing the barrel far enough into his jaw and staring him down unwaveringly. Team 5's leader turned to his Captain. "We got one for you sir, an HVI."

Stewards sighed. He knew what came next, what always came next. Still his naturally sleepy eyes and honest smile held on his face. Diplomacy would have to win out if he wanted the answers he needed.

"How are you?" He asked

The man glared up at him and spat on the floor at his feet. "You'll never take this ship. It's not meant for marauders and pirates like yourselves. I'll sooner see it destroyed than in your hands."

Stewards' smile never wavered. He remained gentle. "Are you the Captain?"

"What's it to you?" He hissed then stood up defiantly, ignoring the growing threats from Team 5's leader. The rest of the team, meanwhile, remained preoccupied with manning the ship.

"I'm only asking as a passenger right now."

The man gritted his teeth. "Yes, I am. And 'who' might you be that you think you can so brazenly-"

Stewards whipped out his M6A in a flash and shot a single round between his eyes before he could even flinch. The former Captain of the Mayweather reeled back from the impact, slammed his head against the back of his chair and slumped to the floor.

Stewards' honest smile never wavered. He watched the blood begin to pool on the floor and stepped over it on his way to the Captain's chair. "Someone clean this up."

Team 5's leader sighed. "I thought you'd want him as a hostage, sir."

"No one's going to pay for a no-name Captain of a no-name ship, especially the UNSC." Stewards sat down in the chair, switched to his comms and checked-in with the other teams. Their leaders reported back that they had secured their objectives and were combing the ship for any stragglers, all except Team 4 who were staying to protect the Shaw-Fujikawa Translight Engine located in Engineering. They would need to protect it when considering what was to come next, what always came next.

"You know the drill people. We'll do a random jump first then return to headquarters."

"You sound like a real Navy officer, sir." One of the new 'bridge officers' joked. "Next thing you know we'll be wiping NAV data for a protocol that doesn't even protect us, just the people that hate us."

"We're not about to lead the Covenant back home." Stewards corrected, though he understood the funny side of that comparison. "Plot the course and get us underway."

"Ay-ay, sir."

Stewards reclined in the chair and looked out the viewport at the surface of Miridem. They'd gotten what they came for, far more than what they'd been paid with at least. That was how it always went and would always go, for however long this war would rage, until the UNSC reached the end of its own tenacity and faced a final oblivion.

He almost felt a sense of connection to the world, not to its people, but to the troopers undoubtedly still on it.

Two weeks is a long-time in the life expectancy of any person on the frontlines, perhaps enough to grow a measure of intrigue and maybe even concern in who you were fighting alongside. He admired their willingness to stay here and keep fighting, but not so much as to do it himself.

Team 5's leader began the countdown from his station. "Entering slipspace in five, four, three…"

Stewards looked at Miridem one last time and wished to the ODSTs of 1st platoon a quiet "Good luck". Then the planet disappeared from view as the Mayweather entered the deep void of slipspace.

Deceptio – Deception