Author note:
"Hey, long time no see! So, I kinda got bored with the last story and ended up starting a new one about Battlestar Galactica. But then I got the itch to write a Halo story again. The problem is, I didn't really like where it was going… so now I'm starting fresh with a brand new first chapter
History of Humanity by Elenor Wright:
The Element Zero Communication Relay (ECR) was the invention that saved humanity from the brink of civil war. Crafted from the rarest material ever discovered—Element Zero—ECRs enabled real-time communication across vast star sectors. Their arrival revolutionized interstellar politics, making remote voting not just efficient, but fair.
Before the ECR, many outer colonies—and even some inner ones—were effectively voiceless. Separated by distance and delay, their votes couldn't reach Earth in time to count. These worlds were often dismissed by the United Earth Government (UEG) as unimportant, their needs ignored. Over time, resentment festered. Then rebellion erupted across multiple systems.
With the United Nations Space Command (UNSC) and the Colonial Military Authority (CMA) preparing for open war as more colonies joined the uprising, humanity's unity teetered on the edge.
Then, from seemingly nowhere, a scientist presented the ECR to the Senate.
Though revolutionary, the device was met with resistance. Senators feared giving it to the rebels would weaken their own influence. But the President, supported by the majority of the UNSC and a faction of the CMA, pushed for deployment.
Hundreds of relays were manufactured—but there was a problem. There simply weren't enough to connect every star system.
After intense negotiations between the President, UNSC, and rebel leadership, a compromise was reached: the UEG's territory would be divided into star sectors, each anchored by a "courier system." These key systems, outfitted with ECRs, acted as communication hubs. Neighboring planets would transmit their votes to their courier, which would relay the data to the wider network.
While this setup introduced slight delays, it reduced voting times from months to just a few days.
For the first time, no planet was forgotten.
But the success of the network came with a cost. The only known Element Zero deposit—the source of all ECRs—was exhausted.
In response, twenty exploration groups were dispatched with a single mission: find new Element Zero deposits.
One of these groups was the Fifth Exploration Group, commanded by Commander Sarata aboard the UNSC Head First, an Able-class heavy destroyer.
Would you like to continue reading about Fleet Admiral Sarata?
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Harvest Sector: Shanxi Colony
Date: March 1, 2553, 7:48
"I'm up! I'm up—don't yell!"
The voice came out hoarse and half-choked, muffled by the tangle of sheets and the bleary fog of sleep. Commander Sarata bolted upright in his bunk as light spilled across his face from the overhead panel. He squinted hard, scrubbing his eyes with the back of one hand while blindly groping for his uniform with the other.
His hair, thick and black, was an unruly mess—flattened on one side, sticking up wildly on the other, like he'd gone twelve rounds in a bar. . . . It was four. He's not good at drinking.
Sarata's brown eyes—usually sharp and calculating—were still glazed with sleep as he blinked at the silhouette standing in the doorway.
"For fuck's sake," the man barked, "you need to get to the ship—it's already morning!"
Sarata blinked. Once. Twice.
Then he shot upright with the sudden energy of a man who'd just remembered what galaxy he was in.
"FUCK—WHY DIDN'T YOU WAKE ME UP EARLIER?!"
He scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over his boots, pants half-on, shirt still inside-out. The room—a compact officer's quarters lined with bulkhead-gray walls and a single flickering holo-frame—buzzed with frantic motion as Sarata tried to regain command of his morning and his dignity at the same time.
His friend just shook his head. "Because I did, dumbass. Three times. You told me to go to hell and rolled over."
Sarata froze halfway through shoving an arm into his jacket sleeve. "Ah. Shit. That sounds like me."
His friend sighed, rubbing his temples like this was not the first time. "Dress fast. I'll be waiting in the car."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and disappeared down the hall, the sound of his footsteps fading into the hum of the ship's early-morning systems.
"Got it," Sarata muttered, tugging the jacket straight and trying to remember where he left his other boot.
He found it under the bunk, of course—wedged between yesterday's uniform pants and a half-eaten ration bar. With one last curse and a grunt, he forced his foot in, slapped the door panel open, and bolted down the corridor.
One frantic minute later...
Sarata burst out the dorm block's side door, breath steaming in the cold morning air. He yanked his collar into place just as he stumbled into the waiting car.
"Drive!" he gasped, breathless, barely in the seat before slamming the door.
His friend, already buckled in behind the wheel, raised an eyebrow as the vehicle hummed to life.
"So... too much alcohol?" he asked, smirking as the car drifted forward.
Sarata shot him a withering glare. "Fuck you."
"Ah, so definitely too much alcohol."
The car glided onto the colony's main transit line—a half-paved road of compacted regolith and prefab slabs, weaving through a half-finished skyline. Tower cranes creaked in the distance. Construction bots clambered over skeletal buildings, welding steel frameworks into place as morning light bounced off their solar visors.
They passed a group of engineers in dust-stained uniforms crouched around a busted conduit line, the workers waving them to detour left. The car dipped slightly as it rolled over a temporary bypass—a gravel path surrounded by caution lights and exposed power cables.
"Third detour this week," his friend muttered, tapping the console to pull up the newest nav overlay. "I swear this place is more roadblock than road."
Outside the window, the colony sprawled—freshly printed housing units, dome fields being pressurized, and a half-finished shuttle tower framed in scaffolding. Children kicked a ball around near an open supply crate, dust trailing their feet. Drones buzzed overhead like lazy bees, hauling crates, soil samples, and scaffold parts through the rising sun.
"Still smells like fresh oxygen scrubbers," Sarata muttered, leaning against the window. "It feels like we're living in a space station."
"Better than a dead rock," his friend said, steering around a cement mixer that had stalled in the middle of the road. "Give it five years. Hell, give it two. This'll be a city."
Sarata didn't answer right away. He just stared out at the colony. At the buildings that didn't have names yet. At the streets that weren't finished. To the people already calling it home.
Then he exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his messy hair. "I hate mornings."
His friend snorted. "You hate functioning."
"Yeah. That too."
The car accelerated, curving past the last row of prefab structures—and there, ahead of them, the docking platforms came into view. Resting in one of them, towering and armored, was the UNSC Head First. A blocky silhouette of matte gray plating and hard angles, it loomed over the yard like a sleeping beast, lights flickering across its hull as crews moved around it like ants.
"Home sweet home," Sarata said, chuckling under his breath. "At least it's not a halberd. I'd hate living in one of those—it feels like sleeping inside a railgun shell."
His friend grinned. "Yeah, and those corridors? You take one wrong turn and end up in the damn coolant vents."
They both laughed, the tension of the morning finally starting to fade.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sarata glanced to the left, where the rising frame of the colony's space elevator clawed toward the sky. It wasn't finished yet—only three of the structural rings had been laid—but even incomplete, it dominated the horizon.
"Can't wait to see how fast the city grows once that elevator's online," his friend said, nodding toward it. "No more waiting days for cargo haulers to touch down. We'll be swimming in supplies and civvies by next year."
"Yeah," Sarata muttered, his voice softer now. He leaned back in the seat and let his eyes close for just a second. "Just hope we're still around to see it."
There was a brief pause.
Then a light tap on his shoulder.
"We're here."
Sarata blinked, sat up straighter, and looked ahead.
The Head First loomed larger now, bathed in the golden light of early morning. Her armored hull was dull gray, scarred from years of use but still proud, still solid. Dozens of workers and crew bustled around her at the dock—loading equipment, checking manifests, and running last-minute diagnostics. The hum of engines and cargo loaders filled the air, undercut by the rhythmic clank of boots on metal.
Sarata opened the door and stepped out of the car, boots crunching against the gravel and steel mix of the platform. A breeze caught the corner of his jacket, fluttering it slightly as he looked up at the ship towering above him.
His friend leaned across the seat, resting one arm on the steering wheel. "Try not to fall asleep at your own launch."
Sarata shot him a tired smirk. "No promises."
He adjusted his collar, squared his shoulders, and started walking toward the boarding ramp—a wide, sloped bridge of reinforced alloy that extended from the portside hull down to the platform like the tongue of some great beast. As he stepped onto it, two dock officers at the base gave him a nod and a casual salute.
"Commander," one of them said.
"Morning," Sarata replied without slowing, the clang of his boots echoing up the ramp with each step. The noise of the colony faded behind him, replaced by the low mechanical hum of the ship waking up.
Inside the ramp's entryway, the overhead lights flickered to life as he passed, illuminating warning stripes, ceiling conduits, and painted directions to various compartments. The air smelled like metal, plastic, and recycled oxygen—sharp and familiar.
He could feel it already: the shift in weight, the subtle pull of routine settling in. He was stepping back into command—not just of a ship, but of an entire mission that could shape the future of humanity.
And with that thought, he straightened his back just a little more.
Time to get to work.
17 Minutes Later
The lift doors hissed open with a smooth shunk, and Commander Sarata stepped onto the bridge of the UNSC Head First.
The scent hit him first—filtered air, warm metal, and faint ozone from active consoles. Then came the sounds: the quiet murmur of voices, the low hum of systems running hot, and the subtle tap of boots and fingers dancing across controls. It was a familiar rhythm. Comforting, even.
The bridge itself was compact but efficient, designed for utility over grandeur. Panels lined the walls, glowing with shifting data feeds. The main viewscreen stretched across the front wall like a panoramic window, currently showing a feed of the colony's skyline and the rising sun cresting over distant ridgelines.
Heads turned as he entered, and a ripple of nods and greetings passed through the room.
"Look what the cat dragged in," said Lieutenant Vale, the ship's communications officer, not even glancing up from her console as her fingers danced over the comms board. "Figured you'd oversleep right through the launch."
"I almost did," Sarata replied dryly, walking down the command deck toward his chair. "But then I remembered I'd have to listen to your voice twice as much if I missed it."
That got a chuckle from Chief Warrant Officer Dhawan, the ship's damage control officer. He was already reviewing diagnostic schematics from the engineering deck, AR lenses glowing faint blue across his eyes. "Good to see you, Commander. The systems check is ninety-two percent complete. Still waiting on a couple stragglers from cargo, but hull integrity reads clean."
"I'll take it," Sarata nodded, then glanced toward the weapons station. "Vega?"
Lieutenant Commander Alina Vega, the weapons officer, looked up from her station, arms folded. She was tall, sharp-eyed, and had the calm, focused energy of someone who could destroy a warship and then go right back to drinking coffee. "MAC's in standby. Racks are loaded, safeties locked. Everything's purring like a kitten."
Sarata grinned. "Let's not fire the kitten."
"No promises," she replied with a wink.
At the helm, Ensign Matteo Cruz, a wiry pilot with fast hands and faster reflexes, raised two fingers in a lazy salute. "Engines are spooled and ready, Commander. I programmed three exit vectors just in case something decides to explode before breakfast."
"Good man," Sarata said. "Let's stick to Plan A. At least until lunch."
Then, as he approached his chair, someone was already there—standing beside it with a datapad in one hand and a mug in the other.
"Coffee, a brief, and a passive-aggressive list of things you missed by being late," said Warrant Officer Lira Kass, the second in command and the only person on the ship brave enough to hand him a to-do list before he sat down.
Sarata took the mug, sipped, and let out a sigh that was half caffeine relief, half resignation.
"Thanks, Kass. I assume the passive aggression is extra bitter today?"
"Oh, I steeped it overnight."
He chuckled, finally dropping into his command chair as the crew settled into their rhythm. The Head First was alive now—fully operational, fully awake. His crew, his people, were already moving with the kind of quiet efficiency that came from trust earned over many missions together.
Outside, the colony faded from the viewscreen as the ship's thrusters began to hum, preparing for launch.
"Alright," Sarata said, leaning forward slightly, "let's go find ourselves some Element Zero."