Chapter 48 – Incus
August 23rd, 2552 - (16:52 Hours - Military Calendar)
Epsilon Eridani System, Reach
Viery Territory, New Alexandria
:********:
The quiet was nearly as unsettling as the sounds of fighting. The latter had mostly petered out, leaving the former to reign over the container port for the last five minutes.
Five long, unbearable minutes, Duncan thought.
The Covenant had pulled off two minor victories prior to being beaten back. The first was breaching the barricade near the northwestern corner of the port. The second was doing the same to the barricade on the southwestern corner. On both occasions they had succeeded in reaping casualties from those forces holding back the larger threat approaching from the west. The troopers of 1st Battalion had predicted the pincer and still hadn't been able to entirely stop it, not even after imploring ODSTs at either of the vulnerable flanks. Nevertheless, the Covenant had gotten a bloodied nose in exchange. They had withdrawn, for now at least.
Left in the wake of the attack was a defensive line that was struggling not to show where it frayed at the seams.
1st Platoon had planted themselves among several of the machinegun nests on the port's northern perimeter. Duncan was sure 5th Platoon had done the same further down the line. Together, they reinforced the turret crews that manned the sandbag walls set between the port's network of concrete barriers.
Epsilon had lost both of their rides as well as Whiskey's Rocket Hog. Duncan had personally lost his M41. He'd grown so used to handling it that it left him feeling like he'd lost an arm, leaving him with nothing more than a stump in the form of his MA37. He quickly disregarded the comparison, however, after remembering Rico.
He settled on making do with what he had. He was crouched behind a sandbag wall, setting his elbow on top of it to support his rifle. The position's original machinegun crew conversed in low, worried whispers on his right, the long barrel of the M247H hovering over his head in a slanted orientation. Mito was on the left of the gun. He was preoccupied prying fresh rockets from a small crate and slapping them into his launcher. Nova was next to him, aiming towards the old barricade. Duncan had his sights fixed in that direction as well. Like everyone else, like hundreds of others on the edge of the port as well as those within it, they waited for an attack they knew was coming.
"Ep-1 to Whiskey-3 and 4, anything so far?" The Staff comm'd.
"Nothing yet." Mackley replied. "That enemy armor's still half a klick out. Can't really say they've moved much."
"Not a mortar in the sky either." Lang added.
"Copy." Standing within a neighboring machinegun nest, the Staff looked out to the west, mumbling curiously to himself. "What're they up to this time?"
Crouched beside him, Zack suddenly stiffened up. Duncan had learned from the last time to pay attention to that. The rest of the squad had apparently learned that lesson as well.
"Ep-7?" Hector called suspiciously.
"What's up?" Renni asked. "If we need to start running, let us know now so we can at least have a head start."
"Command just got back in touch." Zack said.
Duncan could already sense the unaccustomed trepidation in his tone. He looked around again and spotted other radiomen sprinkled around their side of the perimeter. Each of them was talking to their nearest comrades as others leaned into their conversations.
The Staff gave Zack a look. "And?"
"Well...at least they're not dropping them on top of us this time..."
Duncan swallowed, feeling his throat tighten with stress. That one sentence alone caused the atmosphere on the platoon's comms to shift, melting into a subdued silence as more and more eyes and visors craned skyward. The clouds were occupied with the usual variety of Covenant aircraft maneuvering at high altitude. There was nothing else of note aside from a light gathering of cirrus clouds and the yellow-hot glare of Epsilon Eridani, not that they needed to see the threats to know they were there.
The Staff let out a long exhale, bringing his DMR to bear while he watched the skyline. "...How many?"
"...Four."
Duncan felt his heart skip a beat. The oppressive heaviness from before was back in force.
"Jesus." Hector sighed.
"Why don't they just glass us already?" Mito thought aloud. "What're they even waiting for?"
"Stow that talk, trooper." The Staff said. "We're just going to have to stop them here."
"That's if they really don't land on top of us." Nova commented.
The Staff turned again to Zack. "Where?"
"Two to the west, one north and one south. They'll be here any minute."
"Whiskey-3 to Ep-1, I don't think we can get Kilo-9-2 back over here in time. Without him, there's not much we can do on our part."
"That's alright, Whiskey. We might be on the move for this one. Be ready to ditch the crane."
"Yessir."
Duncan glanced up at the crane and the long jib that extended out overhead. Mackley and Lang were looking at an 80-meter-high escape via fast rope if they had set one up already. For their own sakes, he hoped they had.
He looked past the crane and saw a sight that neither he nor anyone else would ever want to. Four of them to be exact.
They appeared as meteorites as they pierced through the cloud cover one after the other. They plunged towards the surface, bleeding long tails of fire in their wake. Pressurized air rippled from them in waves that fanned outwards into cones of atmospheric compression. The closer they drew, the clearer their entourage became. Groups of a dozen smaller fireballs trailed after each of the four larger objects.
Duncan saw firsthand how right Zack was. It was Szimpla all over again. However, it was clear that Epsilon's radioman was also right in saying that none were going to hit them. Their velocities and trajectories made that an impossibility. They were, however, going to land around the port and in the exact locations that Zack had told them. The truth of that brought him no comfort or relief whatsoever. It did, however, at least stave off the sense of impending panic that he'd felt during the flight from the maglev station.
Being dropped on once was horrifying, but being dropped on twice in the span of the same hour would've been downright traumatic.
He kept an eye on the falling clusters for the last few hundred meters of the orbital insertion, witnessing as blue jets of flame burst from the greater masses at the last second. They slipped past the skyline and out of sight.
He marked the moment the ground shook like separate shocks of the same earthquake. Four distinguishable plumes of dust and debris rushed skyward in long, dark curtains, two in the west, one in the north and another in the south. After several drawn out seconds the tremors ceased.
He grabbed one of the sandbags that had fallen from the wall in front of him and planted it down in the spot where the vibrations had made it slip out, wanting to keep as much cover for himself as possible. He listened closely. Before long, the ground shook again. These were different, minor quakes in comparison to the first. They were, however, much more plentiful and much more coordinated.
"Here they come." Hector said, bracing himself.
"I've got a visual." Mackley noted. "All four Scarabs are inbound. Be advised, 1st Platoon, that hostile armor is starting to move out from their staging points. If I had to guess, they're going to link up with the walkers before they push our way."
"I think these guys will get here first." Lang said observantly. "Incoming Covenant dropships. Most likely a strike group."
"Direction and numbers?" The Staff asked.
"Southwest, west and northwest. About nine in all, four Phantoms and five Spirits flying in groups of three."
"Perfect."
The sarcasm was lost on no one.
"It gets better." Mackley added. "Heads up, I'm seeing significant troop movements on the ground, around 550 to 600-plus. They're tagging along with that armor, sir, heading right this way."
The comms went silent for another long second.
"They're really going to town this time." Zack said distantly. "Hey, maybe we should skip town ourselves. Who's with me?"
The Staff looked out to the shattered remains of the old barricade. "You know, 1-Actual had something she always used to say in situations like these."
"Captain Harper?"
"Mhm. Want to hear it?"
"Well, if it's the captain, I mean, yeah. Run it."
"Shut up and buckle up."
Zack thought about it for a long while before nodding. "Shutting up, sir."
"Good man."
With Zack quiet, there was no other sound over the comms, no other noise in their vicinity aside from the reverberation of giant footsteps.
"Another heads up," Lang said. "Dropships in three...two..."
Duncan saw when the first Spirit soared over the tops of the buildings to the west. Two Phantoms came close behind, flying to either side of it. The next band of dropships appeared shortly afterwards from the northwest. Duncan assumed the third group had arrived in synch somewhere out of sight to the southwest. The first group came straight on towards the port, ignoring the increasing amount of gunfire that lit up their hulls from below. Their speed spared them the attention of the Scorpions' smooth bore cannons as they quickly flew over the container port. The second group, slightly slower, began soaring down the street lining the port's northern edge. The mouth of the lead Phantom's main armament twitched in the direction of the defenses, firing in tandem with its starboard plasma cannon. What it faced in exchange was an ensemble of twelve machineguns and a score of small arms fire, a wall of returns which quickly divided among the two trailing Spirits as they joined the fight.
Duncan singled out the Grunt gunner on the lead dropship. Beside him, the M247H unleashed itself wholesale on the same target. In seconds, the Grunt disappeared in a flash of methane that cast both corpse and cannon from the troop bay.
There was a loud crack nearby.
He traced it to one of the large barriers where a circuitry of crevices burst through its frame as the last heavy bolt landed, blowing out huge chunks of concrete. Shouts rang out from the machinegun crew below who had barely abandoned their post when the downpour came, smashing into their gun and catching one of them in the back.
The guilty Phantom, hull sparkling under the assault, fell prey to a shot from the Stanchion that speared through its nose at an angle, obliterating its heavy plasma cannon.
Hardly had their leader's broadside been silenced when the starboard troop bays of the tailing Spirits slid open. The Covenant troops within loosed their own broadside with needlers and grenade launchers, filling the air between them with pinkish tracers and racing projectiles. Duncan briefly lost his sight to an explosion of pink light and felt something splatter over his armor. He drowned out the subsequent shout for a medic by drowning one of the offending Skirmishers in five-round bursts. By his second squeeze of the trigger, the needle rifle and its owner tumbled out of the closest Spirit.
An explosive combination of heavy plasma bolts and rocket propelled grenades peppered the upper half of the line. As machinegun crews fell silent, more and more of those who remained turned their full wrath towards the attacking Brutes. Duncan was doing the same, his rifle paying stuttering heed to the fuel rod wielding chieftain in the rearmost Spirit. The Brute's shields flared under the mutual interest of several turrets, not that it seemed to mind. The cannon on its shoulder held its peace until its targets were aligned. Then it let loose, spewing several fuel rods.
The roiling energies barreled into the upper half of the line in a hammering cascade, striking concrete barriers, sandbag walls and people with equal force. In an instant, two machinegun nests were blown apart in emerald blasts that spat sizzling limbs, bent barrels and mists of sand onto the street.
Not wanting to give it a chance to reload, Duncan slapped in his next magazine, firing on it through a kickup of dust as heavy plasma bolts smashed the defense barrier above him. He squeezed off a long burst in a wide sweep as the Spirit flew past. A collaborative effort from the surviving turrets zeroed in on the chieftain once again, blowing out its energy shields just as it rammed in another cartridge. Before it could raise the cannon, a rocket from Mito flew into its stomach. The explosion jetted pieces of guts and armor out of the bay alongside the twirling bodies of several Grunts.
The line of dropships finished their run at the northern defenses and flew in over the perimeter fence in close order. The last Spirit glided above the container port, trailing smoke from the small inferno blazing in its starboard bay.
"They're landing behind us!" Dalton warned.
"We'll have to take care of them later!" The Staff replied. "For right now-"
A loud, inhuman scream resonated across the entire sector, overwhelming and canceling out every other sound. The parking garage on the other side of the street suddenly lit up with green flames. A torrent of plasma surged through its top floor and out the other side like an overfed fireplace. A similar scream rang out from the west side of the port with another resonating in quick succession. A fourth bellowed from the south side, each one echoed by the powerful droning of focus cannons.
The world around the container port took on a bright green glow.
The pounding footsteps had grown perilously close. The pair of Scorpions that had been guarding the old barricade began a cannonade of their own, firing at the approaching automaton as they rolled backwards. A few more shuddering steps later and the scream returned. A new torrent lanced into one of the tanks, consuming it from end to end in a yellow-green flash. The last Scorpion retreated past the burning remains of its partner, firing at the giant leg that stomped into view.
The Scarab drew itself out into the open, its legs stabbing down or knocking aside the last remnants of the blockade. More tungsten shells whizzed into its body from the main force of tanks, blasting away at its carapace.
It paid them no heed.
Two careful steps turned its head towards the northern line which was already dissolving at the sight of its arrival. Both soldiers and ODSTs alike began bailing from their positions and running for the nearest gates. The illumination behind its mandibles brightened. The beginning of another scream rose in its throat.
"1st Platoon, through the gate, let's go!"
Duncan was already on his feet when the Staff gave the order and pivoted around into a dead run. The gateway of Entry 6 yawned wide open behind him. The rest of the platoon and a few more stragglers were sprinting down the sidewalk from both directions. He was the first of them to leg it through the gate. Just a few steps further on he heard the roar of the focus cannon and the rhythmic rumble of its secondary armament. He skidded beside a container, stopping to make sure everyone made it in.
Mito was the last to make it through when a wall of green flames fell across the gate, enveloping several soldiers that hadn't reached it in time. Duncan didn't stop to listen to the screams. He got moving again, dashing further along the makeshift pathway left between the containers.
The Staff planted a Nav point on a spot off to their left. "Whiskey-3 and 4, link up at Warehouse 3!"
"Roger that, sir, we're moving!" Mackley replied.
Duncan peered into the sky, spotting the nearest crane towering a short distance to their left. Two long ropes had been tied near the counterweights and descended down its full height. A pair of small figures were halfway to the ground, using them to fast rope to the bottom. They were almost out of sight when a burst of heavy plasma bolted into the crane's tower, shattering it at the middle. Its loud metallic shriek turned to a groan as the structure began to tilt.
"Whiskey-3!?" Dalton yelled.
"Almost down!" Mackley groaned.
A loud snap echoed from the tower's superstructure before it gave out altogether. The fall was faster than Duncan expected as the crane collapsed in on itself like a bent knee. It pulled Mackley and Lang with it, swinging them out of view. The crane kept falling and it was clear where it was going to land.
"Hey-hey-hey, watch it!" Zack grabbed Yuri by the shoulder and yanked him out of the way, toppling them both to the ground. The crane crashed down in front of them in a puff of rubble and snapped wires, shattering more of itself upon impact.
"Whiskey-3, 4!?" Dalton called and got no response. "Whiskey 3 and 4, sound off!"
Not hearing an answer, the Staff waved towards a perpendicular alley in the maze. "This way!"
The platoon changed course and channeled down the alley. Activity whirred above them. Overhead, a Phantom floated ahead of them on an eastbound course, every weapon system onboard firing at targets across the port.
The shadow of the dropship cleared the alley before they did.
Coming out on the other side, they entered a wider space between the containers. Duncan spotted their missing snipers not too far from the exit. The two of them were lying near a dented container, worryingly close to where the crane's operator cab had smashed into the ground. Lang was shaking an unmoving Mackley by the shoulders.
They quickly surrounded them, Epsilon forming an armed perimeter as their squadmates closed in.
Dalton kneeled beside them. "What's his status!?"
Lang shook him again. "He's unconscious! We hit that container pretty hard on the way down!"
The world above became illuminated by the chimneying blast of a focus cannon that streaked into the port, lengthening their shadows and washing them in an intense heat wave.
Without warning, Mackley's eyes shot open. He sat up, sucking in a ragged breath.
Dalton breathed easier. "Can you move!?"
Mackley nodded. He struggled to pull himself back up. Dalton and Lang grabbed his arms and yanked him to his feet.
He checked on the Stanchion, seemingly finding his own relief after making sure it was still in one piece. "Good to go!"
"Nav point!" The Staff shouted. "Get to it!"
The platoon was moving again. They headed into another alley that proved to be far longer than the first. The way the container-made walls were situated around them caused the sounds of the larger battle to echo. It was as if there was a Brute with a spike rifle or a Skirmisher with a needler waiting around every corner. They were forced to treat their surroundings as if that were the case. There was no telling where the dropships had delivered their cargo. At any moment Duncan expected to run face-first into a Hunter roving for prey or a Grunt with an overloaded pistol that didn't know he was there.
But he didn't.
They re-emerged into another open space unopposed. The base of the crane stood in front of them. The torn remains of the mast jutted out from the foundation like a sparking stump. Beyond it stood Warehouse 3 which was by process of elimination the tallest structure in the immediate area. The cluster of sandbag walls gathered in front of its doors were manned by a skeleton crew, a handful of Army troopers.
Jogging closer, Duncan recognized some of the faces if only in passing. They were a squad from Lima that he remembered running by him during the rescue on the boulevard. The soldiers had reaped their own tally of dead Covenant. Several handfuls of Grunts, a few Jackals and even a Brute were sprawled out amidst the bullet-riddled, blast cratered space before their defenses. That wasn't to take away from the number of their own comrades that lay in bloodied pools or draped over hissing turrets.
They'd arrived on the tail end of a firefight, one of many likely unfolding throughout the entire port.
"Who's in charge here!?" The Staff asked.
A hollow-eyed sergeant stepped up. "I am, sir."
Everyone instinctually ducked as a heavy plasma bolt blew through one of the transom windows above, bathing them in a drizzle of glass.
"Looks like you did a good job here, soldier, but I recommend tagging along! Your position's not going to hold once they breach the perimeter!"
"You go on ahead, sir." The sergeant replied with a deathly calm. "We'll manage."
The Staff stared hard at the man and Duncan slowly became aware that the other troopers weren't even looking at them. Their focus was either on the ground, on their weapons or on the unguarded pathways around them.
"...Let's move!"
At the Staff's behest, the platoon jogged off. They circumvented the squad's position and started towards a new pathway.
One of the soldiers shouted after them. "See you in hell, Helljumpers!"
For what it was worth, Duncan wished them well, even if he didn't say it. The longer they lasted, the more time they would buy everyone else.
The Staff planted a new Nav point, this time on one of the four administrational buildings that stuck out from the center of the port like a group of blue-paned bookshelves.
They ran alongside the walls of the warehouse for a while before navigating once again into the labyrinth. From there, it was a series of winding corridors and wide passageways that brought them closer and closer to the main buildings. They came across more bodies from both sides. Lone troopers lay at the end of long blood trails, hands grasping at carbonized wounds. Brutes sat against containers beside the signature blast marks of frag grenades. The corpse of the occasional Hunter clogged whole paths, forcing them to reroute.
Every now and again Duncan would dare to look back. Two of the Scarabs had breached the perimeter and were beginning to stride across the westward end of the port. Rockets and tank shells would regularly detonate against their hulls. They had made it a routine of shirking off the blows, turning and firing their focus cannons on specific targets within the maze. The ultra heavy cannons on their tails gunned away at more distant spots of interest. Duncan couldn't see exactly what they were hitting but what he was increasingly sure of whenever he looked back was that there was less and less return fire rising to challenge them.
Two thirds of the way to the administrational buildings, the containers became scarcer. There were more breaks in the metal tree line around them, more routes to take, more room to maneuver, more bodies to step over.
Soon the containers phased out altogether before a fenced off clearing that surrounded their destination.
The compound of the administration center was under attack.
Where the port's main maglev rail ran through its center, a gathering of Army troopers was engaged with a force of Covenant drop-offs. The latter were slowly progressing towards them from the west side of the clearing, using the loading platforms and containers lining the maglev rail to cover their advance.
The platoon stopped at the edge of the fence, watching the fight as it unfolded.
"What's the plan, sir?" Dalton asked.
The Staff paused to size up the opposition. Duncan used the momentary reprieve to do the same. The enemy had their backs turned to them. Scattered along a 100-meter stretch of the rail, they were wholeheartedly focused on the troopers holding the administration center. At a closer look, he took note of a Brute chieftain that stood atop a boarding platform just 20 meters ahead of them. Its hammer was harnessed across its back, arms folded over its chest while it observed the battle that it had likely orchestrated.
The Staff finished getting his eyeful of both the fight and its apparent architect. He turned to a Brute corpse that lay nearby. Reaching down, he pulled off the spike grenade sticking out of its belt and moved to the fence.
"Keep it quiet."
He put his hands to the top of the fence, shoved his boots into the wire and started to climb. It was all the instruction they needed. The platoon mirrored his example, grasping and clambering their way up and over the fence. They each landed silently and pushed forward from the edge of the clearing, taking careful steps towards the first boarding platform.
The chieftain continued to watch the fight with close interest. With its back turned, it couldn't see the many guns that were aiming at it or hear the soft steps of the Staff as he crouch-walked behind it, spike grenade in hand. He stopped short of the potential blast radius before reeling his arm and tossing the grenade with all the force of an axe. Its spiked head tomahawked into the back of the Brute's skull. It flinched and whirled around, yanking the gravity hammer into its hands, but the Staff had already jumped clear of the platform.
The grenade detonated, sending its headpiece spiraling away. As yellow hot quills spattered across the platform, the headless body fell to its knees and slumped to the floor.
There was no time to dwell on the easy kill that wouldn't normally have been quite so easy. The Staff pointed two fingers forward and the platoon answered the call.
What ensued was a series of carefully calculated maneuvers that picked off the Covenant stragglers along the maglev rail, neutralizing isolated Grunts, Jackals and Brutes that had mistaken the shots killing their kin for echoes from distant skirmishes.
In a matter of minutes, they were approaching the other end of the rail. The administration center was a short walk away. A pair of tanks were posted on the four-way at the heart of the compound. Their cannons hammered away at an opposing pair of Hunters that had taken cover behind the frontmost buildings, using their shields whenever they peeked around the corner to fire their fuel rod cannons.
They were completely unaware of their own isolation, that is until two of Mito's rockets slammed into one's exposed back, blowing out gallons of worms from smoking armor. Its fall was nothing compared to the torment of its partner which the platoon had singled out with grenade after grenade after grenade. Each one tore out more and more of its inner colony. By the fifth, the lone survivor had given up the ghost and fell on its eviscerated stomach, nearly disemboweled.
The two tanks settled down upon seeing the platoon emerge from their cover of containers and barrels. They ran towards the Scorpions, but others beat them to the punch. A host of Army troopers oozed out from behind the combat barriers and sandbags that encircled the four structures of the compound. Most were carrying stretcher-bound soldiers that had all the hallmarks of the wounded and injured. They were quickly placed onto the tanks by medics that helped to set them atop the treads, by the turrets and even beside the cockpits.
Duncan noticed someone familiar among them. Captain Thompson was at the heart of it all, shouting orders to the back-and-forth procession like a police officer in a traffic jam.
The Staff walked up to him. "Tango-Actual?"
"Staff Sergeant." Thompson nodded. "How many times are you going to save my men today, trooper? I don't know if I can survive paying back this many favors."
"Hopefully that was the last one, sir. What's the situation here?"
The captain paused, watching as two soldiers ferried the half-scorched body of an officer towards a tank.
"Who's that?" The Staff asked.
"Captain Bence...Golf Company's CO."
Duncan could practically feel himself sharing the same grimace as his squad leader.
"You're in command now, sir?"
"...Guess so. Tango, Lima...now Golf."
"Orders?"
Thompson looked at him. His first words were submerged beneath the ear-ringing tenor of a droning roar. All eyes shot to the building on their left as emerald plasma burst through its upper floors, tossing a rainfall of broken glass and burning papers over the gathering.
The ground shook with powerful footfalls that drew everyone's notice to the wide clearing behind them. A giant, segmented leg landed near the maglev rail. Another rose past it to slam down on the other side, allowing the Scarab to begin turning itself towards the center of the compound. Its mandibles parted to expose the green sun growing in its mouth
"Fall back." Thompson said, his voice rising as the walker stomped into position. "EVERYONE FALL BACK!"
:********:
Sergeant Major Burgoyne looked across New Alexandria for what he was sure was the last time. If he was successful, it certainly would be.
The forward jib of the crane offered a good view of the container port's southeastern corner as well as everything else.
He could see the enemy aircraft that flew through the skies as if they owned them.
He could see the corvettes hovering high in the west as if the city itself was already theirs.
He could see the fires raging across the length and breadth of the container port that seemed to confirm everything else.
Tempests of flame bloomed around the port like flowers in a hellish garden, one watered by the focus cannons and ultra heavy armaments of the four Scarabs that strode through it and around it. They were like gardeners, stopping every so often to tend to young shoots, planting new ones that blossomed through the roofs of warehouses as others spread their flaming roots over embattled helipads, containers and maglev rails. Covenant dropships soared and floated above the scene as crows over an unguarded harvest. They planted their own glistening seeds in the form of heavy plasma bolts that bombed those few Golf Company positions still putting up a fight. On the roads to either side of the port, the remaining Scorpions and Warthogs were mounting a fighting retreat from the horde of Wraiths, Revenants, Ghosts and ground troops that were now spilling into the area from the west. Energy mortars sailed after some, catching others. Whenever one caught their attention, a Scorpion would be burned to death by the dragon-like breath of a Scarab. The house-sized flamethrowers were more than able to leave whatever vehicle they touched as little more than a burning wreck. Then the walkers would return to their grizzly work at the port, as if they had done nothing more than swat away a pest from their crops.
He'd always wanted to be a farmer.
Growing up on an ag-world tended to do that to one's ambitions. It made life simpler where everything else tried to complicate it. It was only too bad that the Covenant had taken that from him and made an enemy out of him in turn.
He looked over his shoulder.
There, though somewhat obscured by the buildings, he could see the starport. He saw for himself that none of the starships had taken off yet.
His family was still there, his wife and his three kids, one boy and two girls. He'd done well for himself. He wondered how they would fare without him though. He had a pretty good feeling about it. His son had a habit of picking up where his old man left off. He was proud of him for it, but he hoped he had said it enough times for him to remember that.
His brother had always told him that the boy was the second coming of him. He'd lost his brother on Alluvion, and his older sister on New Harmony, and his eldest brother on Harvest. He was both the youngest and the last of a long line of dead soldiers. He had no qualms about living up to the family tradition either, so long as the buck stopped with him.
He turned to the one man he still had by his side.
Lieutenant Forrester was with him. While he himself had been with 1st Battalion for years, the Lima Company lieutenant had only been in the business for one. Like other junior officers that had come before him, he wanted to see how long he would last. A year wasn't bad.
Not bad at all.
They were both relieved of their respective commands by virtue of no longer having one. Their men were gone, having either gone missing, perished in the infernos of the last few hours or been absorbed in ad hoc formations that were now too busy withdrawing. Even now, Burgoyne watched the hemorrhage of UNSC forces draining out from the port. The mass of men and vehicles were pulling back to the east, heading for the promenade.
The promenade.
That was it.
There was little else beyond that...except the starport.
That was why he was up here, ready, waiting. He felt the weight of the bundle of rope in his hands. He felt the two rucksacks on his back and the weight of the things inside them. He took one look at Forrester and the similar ruck that he was carrying. He saw at a glance that the man was having the same thoughts, judging his life, mulling over every decision that had brought him to this point, this last point.
But soon there was no time left to think, only to act.
Burgoyne kept a close eye on the Scarab that had gotten the furthest ahead of the others. It had split off from its fellows as it gave chase to the throng of survivors fleeing from the administration center. Perhaps without knowing it, the path it was taking was about to bring it past their crane.
"Think this'll work?" Forrester asked.
"We'll make it work." Burgoyne replied.
"Agreed." The lieutenant paused for a long while as the footsteps of the approaching Scarab shook the tower. "...It's been an honor, sir."
Burgoyne shot him a grin. "I thought I was supposed to be the one calling you sir."
"Yeah, funny isn't it?"
"Always."
As the Scarab neared the tower, the two of them stood up and threw their legs over the rails. With a shared nod, they tossed their bundles, letting the ropes unfurl until they landed atop the passing head of the walker.
"Go!"
Burgoyne jumped off, hands and feet clasping the rope. Forrester mirrored the move. They slid down towards their objective while keeping their descent steady and stable. One wrong move at such a height would spell the end of their mission before it had even started.
As they neared the end of the ropes, the lines themselves dragged across the body of the passing Scarab. They slipped past the face of its rear gun, sliding to a stop above the small platform at the base of the weapon.
Burgoyne immediately pulled off one of his rucksacks and threw it. Rolling, it came to rest against the base of the ultra-heavy cannon.
"Move!"
They split up. As their ropes fell away, the two of them slid down the hunched carapace, skidding to either side of the large entrance to the troop bay. A reverberation shook them about as the Scarab used one of its legs to knock over a gantry that had gotten in its way. It was beginning to pass from the port and out onto the eastbound road that would take it to the promenade.
Burgoyne looked over at Forrester. "You ready!?"
Before the lieutenant could answer, a Grunt came waddling up the ramp to the top of the entrance. It froze the second it laid eyes on the sergeant major. With his freehand, he drew his M6 and shot it in the face, letting the body tumble back the way it came.
"Ready!" Forrester said. "Be seeing you, Burgy!"
Detonator in one hand, M6 raised in the other, he got up and rounded into the entrance, running headlong down the ramp. Muffled gunshots, human shouts and alien screams emanated from the troop bay before all was silenced in a thunderclap of sound and a tremoring blast of fire that exploded back through the entrance.
Burgoyne shut his eyes for a moment, the passing wind and the roiling flames so loud that he almost couldn't hear himself. "Be seeing you, LT."
He looked up towards the ultra-heavy cannon while he pulled one of the triggers on his own detonator. The pack full of C12 exploded as planned, blasting the ruined mouth of the cannon clear of its fuming foundations.
He rolled off the sloping carapace, landing on the portside walkway.
A Grunt was on the plasma cannon ahead. Peering up at the damage above, it didn't see him coming. He charged, squeezing off two rounds into its forehead that knocked it off the cannon. It was about to fall in his way when a swift stroke from his pistol smashed across its face, bashing the mask out of its mouth and hurling it off the platform.
He kept going.
Finally rounding the corner, he came into the alcove that shielded his objective. The space was aglow with the reddish radiance of the walker's power junction, punctuated by the blue illumination issuing from the center of a biomechanical heart the size of a door.
The steam hissing array of complex components was too complicated for him to understand, which was good. Complicated meant easy to break.
He heard the strained voice of his company commander on his comms. "Tango-Actual to Oscar-1, come in."
Burgoyne kneeled in front of the alcove. He flipped his rucksack off his back and placed it firmly against the junction.
"Tango-Actual to Oscar-1, respond, over?"
He looked about him. The Scarab was leaving the port. It was now roaming onto the three-way that lay at the end of the street, one of only two main roads from the port to the promenade. It was taking a moment to turn itself around in order to resume its eastward march.
He had it right where he wanted it.
"Sergeant Major, are you there!?"
"I hear you, sir." He said calmly, setting his sidearm on the floor beside him as he sat on his haunches.
"Burgoyne, where are you!? What's your position!?"
"I'm on a Scarab, sir."
There was a long pause. "...What're you doing?"
"Picking my poison, sir. Good luck out there."
"Sergeant-"
Burgoyne squelched the line. His hands went to his helmet. He slipped it off his head and set it beside his pistol. For the longest second, he enjoyed the feeling of the cool breeze rushing through his hair. He didn't have that much of it, but he also didn't remember the feel of the wind ever being quite as good as this.
He savored it.
Footsteps.
He felt them before he heard them. They weren't the Scarab's. They were smaller and yet heavier than his own, moving along the starboard walkway.
He slowly realized that he'd forgotten about the other plasma gunner.
An idea came to him then, and he found himself carrying it out before he'd fully understood it, raising the hand that held the detonator, holding it up like a tradeoff to the arriving Brute.
The alien towered over him the moment it turned the corner. But in the half second that it had to perceive his presence, it saw exactly what he wanted it to see.
Its eyes widened as it began drawing its spike rifle.
It saw the detonator; it saw the glimmering power junction and the rucksack resting against it. It saw the content smile on his face as he pulled the trigger.
Incus - Anvil