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Harvest:The Lost Colony
Date: 1 May 2006, 7:19 pm
The Harvest Colony…
2525 A.D……
February 3rd……
3:15 am……
The Colony was silent. Darkness overshadowed everything, blotting out the stars completely. The grounds surrounding the Main Barracks were deathly cold, the chill breeze rushing through the morning air. The Night Patrolmen paced sluggishly upon the sandy earth, leaving behind profound footprints from their thick, weighty boots. Clad in the same uniform as the other UNSC Marines, their broad, metallic body armour clanking across their chests, they surveyed the night sky like hawks, ever watchful. Their Assault Rifles fully loaded and cradled in their arms, they often began to get bored. There had never been any major action since, well, they couldn't remember. Their technologically advanced viewfinders, shimmering a bright emerald, were situated in front of their left eye. They allowed them to see as clearly as if it were daytime, and also allowed them to automatically zoom in on anything that looked suspicious. These men had been trained to do their job well, and they had, but with nothing to keep them occupied or 'on-edge', they had grown complacent, almost lazy.
The Patrol on duty at the North side of the Colony had just begun to check his standby Pistol. He lethargically pulled a fresh clip of rounds from his belt, and pushed it into the Pistol. He stowed it back in his utility belt with a groan. He silently thought to himself. He had to get some rest. His eyes were bloodshot, and had almost begun to turn pink. Moving his arm just to scratch his head had started to feel as if he was trying to heave a ten ton weight. All of a sudden, everything turned black. The stars disappeared; everything went quiet; he could hardly see his own hand when he held it in front of his face. For a split second, he realised that something was wrong. But in that split second, he failed to hear the gently padding footsteps slowly approaching from behind. A tall, shimmering figure, transparent against the shadowy background of space, swiftly stalked towards him, grasping a large curved weapon in its fist. The last thing the Guard saw and felt as he turned was a large arc of bright light, sweeping towards him through the darkness, effortlessly cleaving through his fleshy throat. As he fell to his knees, his hands desperately clutching at his seared neck, gasping for breath, the shimmering figure in front of him moved on, proudly knowing it had claimed its first kill of the day.
* * * * *
The Covenant Elite hurried towards the Control Room, the elegant, curved Energy Sword gripped firmly in his hand. He knew the Colony's Control Room would be located close to the Colony's centre, and would be heavily guarded.
Hmmph, he thought, if that human is anything like the rest, this is going to be easy. As he sprinted between the stone cabins and barracks that were dotted about the Colony, he promptly dispatched a number of Marines scanning the streets, the Energy Sword amputating limbs like a knife through butter. As he tugged the Sword from the torso of one of the least formidable Marines he had so far encountered, he glanced further up the street. A large, roughly square structure, surrounded by Marines and Turrets planted on the ground, lay ahead. He knew he had to be extremely fast about this, lest someone discover his unusually shaped footprints he had recently created.
Concealing the Energy Sword and tucking it into his, now invisible, belt, he darted up the street, just managing to avoid most of the overhead artificial lighting. He dodged between the Barracks and alleyways to the east, trying to flank the Marines up ahead, and to approach the Control Room from the right. The Elite paused in the pitch-darkness of the alley he had just entered, flanked on either side by yet more barracks, knowing that his Covenant brothers would soon arrive to annihilate the remnant of these pathetic, powerless humans. Even so, he realised there were enough buildings in this 'colony' to house a small army. Banishing the thought from his mind, he glanced upwards and to the right. The building was low enough. He bent his powerful legs and leapt high into the air, pirouetting midway to land upright upon the roof, his feet firmly planted on the rough stone. He pivoted his head rapidly to the right. He could probably jump the distance between this roof and that of the Control Room's. Wasting no time, he dashed forwards, and when the edges of his feet touched the edge of the rooftop, he hurled himself through the air. As he glimpsed the rooftop in front of him, he knew he wouldn't make it. Extending his arms to their full length, his claws held wide, he snatched at the rooftop's rim. His claws scraped the edge, leaving jagged scratches as he hauled himself up. All of a sudden, a soft, almost peaceful rumble sounded throughout the colony. No! They are already here! The Elite scrambled to the edge of the roof and peered out. Brightly lit windows extended along the length of the building, casting a dazzling glow across the colony's streets. The Elite knew he had to end this, now, meaning stealth was no longer an option. He leaned out over the edge of the roof, and withdrew his Plasma Rifle from his belt. He checked once to ensure it was fully charged, and fired. The windows shattered into a thousand pieces, razor-sharp shards of glass exploding outwards, tumbling towards the dusty earth below. The Elite steadily but carefully manoeuvred himself into the Control Room. Banks of computer equipment, monitors and other electronic gear were spread out across the whole floor. No time for subtleties. The Elite grabbed two deep blue Plasma Grenades from his belt, armed them, lobbed them towards the computers and flung himself back out the window. As he landed, face-down, the building erupted, bluebell flames cascading through the windows, sparks and rocky debris hurled through the air as the sturdy, well-dug foundations trembled violently.
* * * * *
At the same time, the Colony's perimeter guns, gates, shields, communications, sensors and many of its vital internal systems either shut down or exploded. Men raced to and fro, puzzling over what had just happened. Harvest was defenceless.
Harvest:The Lost Colony Part 2
Date: 27 June 2006, 7:10 pm
The Harvest Colony…
2525 A.D…
February 3rd…
3.35 am…
The windows erupted inwards, spraying jagged shards of crystal-clear glass all over the bunks. The ground quaked, violently, several objects (alarm clocks, for example) slid smoothly from the bedside tables and shattered on the floor. A draught of red-hot, scorching air rushed in through the now empty window frames. Shadows wheeled overhead, dark masses of purple dashing through the sky, spraying the earth beneath them with white-hot plasma, people running to and fro.
* * * * *
Colonel Robert Joseph Wallace woke with a start, cold sweat dripping steadily down his face. The noise was incredible; the wind blasting in, the chatter of rapid machine gun fire rebounding off metal, the sound of earth-shattering explosions, and the sound of men yelling, shouting, screaming. He hurled the quilt backwards and away, leapt out of bed and hastened to the window. It was chaos. Men were sprinting to the left; the ones that weren't, the ones that were fighting back, were being slowly obliterated, by goodness knows what. The others in the East Dormitories had woken also, and were hurriedly beginning to strap on their body armour. Wallace rapidly imitated them; within half a minute, he was adorned in shining, glittering silver chest plates, compact helmet with attached viewfinder and broad, weighty boots. What the hell is going on? Snatching up the MA5B Assault Rifle stashed in his bedside table's smoothly, elegantly polished oak drawer, he joined the other troops as they filed outside…fast.
* * * * *
Aboard the Covenant CCS-Class Battle Cruiser, Repentant Saviour , now overlooking the slow, painful destruction of the Human colony Harvest, Zealot Esra Vonoromee surveyed the event with modest satisfaction. They never even saw what hit them . He watched with growing interest as buildings were destroyed at the push of a button, flames cascading upwards rapidly, debris scattered everywhere, and as the pathetic, snivelling humans were slaughtered mercilessly as they fled, blue bolts of hyper-velocity plasma slamming into them from behind, scorching their flesh, shredding their armour like paper. Vonoromee sneered evilly, his slender golden mandibles clicking together. This shouldn't be too difficult , he thought silently.
" Where are Ontramee and Egudo Rota Harru?" he barked, in a deep, throaty Covenant tongue, his gaze fixed on the ferocious, ruthless massacre now taking place.
"Ontramee is behind you, Supreme Commander, but Harru is in a state of depression, after the death of his brother. Although our Lekgolo brethren are indeed mightily fierce and possess almost infinite strength, ironically Harru's brother was killed in a riot. Apparently, he had hurled one of the Unggoy over a balcony , and, well, the others fought back". A tall, muscular Ultra Elite strode up to Vonoromee, clad heavily in bleach-white, segmented armour, a long, gleaming Energy Sword grasped in his hand against his side.
"I need you to assemble your squad as soon as possible. You are to travel to the surface; your objective being to eliminate any remaining human resistance, and to recover as much intel as possible. Anything from weapons research, force deployment, the locations of any nearby bases are all crucial".
Ontramee bowed his head, both in obedience and acknowledgment of his mission. As he pivoted smoothly and began to saunter away, he overheard the Commander roar, "Be ready within five!". With a respectful huff, he continued his tedious journey towards the Hangar Bays.
* * * * *
Wallace stumbled clumsily as he dashed away from what everyone now considered the enemy. Falling ungracefully onto the dusty, rough surface of the planet, his Assault Rifle was thrown from his grip and landed with a resounding thud about a yard away. His mouth collided hard with the ground, and his lower lip burst, fresh blood now seeping through onto his once-white teeth. The freezing wind bit away at his bare hands and face, that were both fast becoming extremely numb. The Barracks on his left erupted violently and vociferously , spraying him with glass and stone chips, the searing heat washing over him with devastating temperature. As dangerously-close streams of multi-coloured plasma flew overhead, he scrambled forwards, as fast as he could. Grabbing his magazine-fed, half-empty Rifle, he spun round instantly. UNSC Troops and ODTSs were scattering rapidly, running for their lives, many being shot down simultaneously. In that single moment, everything happened at once; an enemy transport flying low above bathed him and several others in shadow; a shaft of bright light emerged from its underbelly; some kind of bipedal creature floated slowly down towards the ground; a neon blue orb was thrown at Wallace's feet. It didn't take him long to figure out what it was exactly. Hurriedly and deliberately, he snatched it up in one hand, brought his arm back as far as it would go, and hurled it with tremendous power at the creature he had just seen. Only, it wasn't there anymore. It was as if it had vanished into thin air. The grenade landed softly, and exploded deafeningly, sapphire energy sprayed out at all angles. Bringing himself back to his feet, he watched, puzzled, as the enemy ships continued to tear through their defences like a hot knife through butter.
" Retreat! Fall back! We're outnumbered!" came the cry that rang through the ebony-black sky. Wallace didn't need telling twice; he simply turned and ran.
* * * * *
"When we joined our beloved Covenant, we took an oath. A binding oath…an oath to defend our precious brotherhood from any who would seek to break us".
"According to our station! All without exception!" came the thunderous reply.
"On the blood of our fathers, on the blood of our sons, we pledged our allegiance. We shall confront our enemy with honour, and wage open war upon them, crushing their weak, pathetic bodies underneath our feet as we advance!"
"Even to our dying breath!"
"Any who would dare to break this oath are Heretics, worthy of neither pity nor mercy! Remember this, comrades!"
"We shall grind them into dust!"
"And continue our march to glorious salvation!". Ontramee's 'pep talk' was over. As his troops prepared each other for battle, thoroughly examining their Plasma Pistols and Carbines twice over, he strolled heavily into the Phantom's cramped cockpit.
The Phantom's controls were scattered all over; the main dashboard was situated quite comfortably in front of the pilots' seats, whilst auxiliary turret controls were integrate into the violet, metallic wall panels on either side. Any other, secondary functions were usually the buttons built in to the roof. Vital information, such as altitude and speed, were displayed via holographic projection onto the main window, which also provided an excellent 90 degree view to either side of the battlefield. Which was exactly what it was at this moment in time.
They were steadily nearing the Drop-Zone. The cloaked Phantom slid smoothly through the night sky, many unaware of the gentle wheeze of its engines as it gradually lost altitude. Hovering (almost) silently above the ground, Ontramee ducked back inside the Phantom's Rear Bay. The others were standing by; the Unggoy arranged neatly in their lines, environment suits fitting snugly over their tiny bodies, Plasma Pistols held firmly by their sides. The Kig-Yar stood there eagerly, Beam Rifles cradled in their long, spindly arms, their mouths held wide open in anticipation, rows of razor-sharp teeth jutting out at intervals. The other Sangheili muttering to each other enthusiastically, predicting the events of the forthcoming battle, their jet-black and deep-amethyst battle armour fixed securely over their bodies, Energy Swords, inactive at the present, grasped powerfully in their claws. They were ready. They had seen many battles before, and they would live to see many more before they died. He could tell. These were his troops. He had faith in them. They would not disappoint.
Harvest:The Lost Colony Part 3
Date: 20 September 2006, 4:35 pm
The Harvest Colony…
2525 A.D…
February 3rd…
3:50 am…
He had no idea what had happened. One minute, he was running. The next, he was being hurled through the air, as if some giant invisible hand had suddenly reached down, snatched him up and tossed him away. Once again, lying on the coarse, sandy surface of the planet, Wallace attempted to compose himself amid all this chaos. He brought his arm up towards his face; the Plasma Grenade that had launched him forward had scorched his arm badly, the metallic armour plating a charred, blackened colour, the cloth beneath burnt away to reveal a seared, razed layer of tender, otherwise pink flesh. It stung like hell, although there was nothing he could do for it. The only Med-Kits they had were back in the Barracks, and most of them were gone now anyway, most of them just smouldering, ebony-black embers crumbling in upon themselves, the others alight with auburn flames, constantly licking at the brilliantly carved stone and gradually destroying the oak surfaces within the Dorms. The noise was deafening; the unremitting fire of the enemy's plasma weaponry shrieking forwards, the others screaming in pain, the aliens, the freaks guffawing deeply in amusement, pleasure, satisfaction as they mercilessly gunned down what little remained of the humans. Blood trickled down the front of his face from a large, jagged cut high on his forehead from when he had been flung to the ground. The smell was awful; charred flesh, fumes from the enemy transports, the discharge of plasma…and fear. Just looking around, Wallace could see that the others were terrified, quivering uncontrollably in sheer terror. He had to admit, even he was petrified. He knew that there was no way out; the most this colony had available to it were the M12 LRV 'Warthogs', basic model jeeps that wouldn't even stand up to a blast from one of those lowly Plasma Grenades. Slowly but surely, Wallace began to realise; they were going to die here. There was no way out.
He began to go over any possibilities in his mind, desperately trying to take his mind away from the thought of death. The main Defences had been tied into the Power Supply which was housed securely in the Control Room…unfortunately, there wasn't one any more. The Radio would be out too. The enemy wouldn't have any need for the Armoury when they already had far superior weaponry to them.
Directing his forlorn gaze upwards in despair, Wallace began to understand just how beautiful the stars really were. Just put there, against the vast blackness of space, glimmering away, like newly carved jewels in a ring, as if to simply decorate it, to make it more pleasing to the eye.
As the sounds of the firing grew steadily louder, Wallace suddenly snapped back to his senses. Alright. Enough's enough. Might as well go down fighting. He practically jumped up to his feet. Glancing at his Assault Rifle, he emptied the chamber and slammed a fresh clip in. As the LCD Monitor rapidly refreshed itself, the display showing 60 rounds loaded, he pivoted smoothly on his heel, to confront the oncoming enemy. Snapping one eyelid firmly shut, he aimed carefully down the barrel, and took aim at the nearest alien.
* * * * *
The Jackal rushed forward, its emerald, glowing energy shield grasped in one hand, a diminutive, fist-sized Plasma Pistol gripped in the other. Its jaws clicked open and shut, jagged teeth jutting out at obscure angles, its thin, spindly legs allowing it to gracefully skip forward lightly. It didn't even see it coming. The sound of three, crushing gunshots shook the night and reverberated annoyingly, as three 7.62 mm rounds rushed forwards. One pierced the Jackal's shoulder, penetrating its soft, off-colour flesh with relative ease, violet blood spraying backwards onto the surface. Another entered the Jackal's abdomen, the Jackal shrieking in pain as it was pushed backwards with the force of the blow. The Jackal just had enough time to catch a glimpse of the last bullet as it infiltrated the Jackal's skull, the bullet shooting right through between its large, orb-like eyes, smashing with tremendous force into the Jackal's brain. It was dead before it hit the ground.
* * * * *
Wallace surveyed the scene with mild satisfaction as the Jackal was launched speedily backwards through the air, its Plasma Pistol jettisoned swiftly from its grasp, its jade Energy Shield vanishing with a flash of light into thin air. The Jackal's corpse flew about two yards rearward, and then collapsed clumsily onto the ground in a heap, lavender blood seeping from its open, untreated wounds. Wallace ducked into the nearest alleyway; tugging an M9 HE-DP Fragmentation Grenade from his weighty belt, he snatched the minute, metallic, silvery pin from its crown and hurled it back into the street with his strongest arm, his left. Peeking out from round the sharp corner, he watched it curl fluidly through the air, and bob gently along the ground, coming to rest at the feet of a much larger, more heavily armoured, cerulean-coloured alien. The grenade detonated violently, minuscule shards of murky green shrapnel flying away in all directions, dust and rock kicked harshly into the air; the creature hardly budged. The blast had however alerted it. Revolving on its heel, it spun round to reveal a massive, burly carapace, a long, slender metallic shield smothering its entire left forearm. Its miniature skull seemed largely out of proportion when compared with the rest of its body. Drawing a bead on the puny, weak, feeble human, it jogged forward at a steady pace, its armour clunking heavily. The human took aim…and fired. It didn't affect it in the slightest. The shots simply rebounded off the burdensome shell, the bullet casings tinkling away onto the rocky ground beneath them. As the creature drew nearer, the human continued to fire, as if hoping by some miraculous circumstance, it would penetrate its thick, protective layer. The beast brought its arm back, and then hurled itself forward with tremendous force, its massive shield arcing through the air, heading with maximum velocity towards the human's cranium. Wallace dropped to the ground briskly, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow of the Hunter that, having missed its desired target, slammed forcefully into a nearby ODST, a sickening crunch of shattered bones ringing out against the racket of battle as the Helljumper, clad in the traditional jet-black, polished jumpsuit , was hurled with monstrous force backwards . The soldier flew swiftly through the air, somersaulting rapidly, his limbs dashing out in all directions, until finally; he collided with a nearby solid stone wall. His backbone snapped viciously as he crashed into the rough architecture, then slowly, he fell, limp, unmoving, onto the ground. He didn't stir again.
* * * * *
Sailing gracefully through the night, the Phantom sped purposefully towards its objective. Its low altitude did not bother the pilot in the slightest; vigilantly gazing downwards for any sign of trouble, he deftly manoeuvred the vehicle even lower. Glancing down, he examined the dials and meters on the dashboard, he nodded to himself, pleased that everything was going so well. The Elite pilot looked back up; he stared out of the viewscreen as a 102 mm High Explosive, Anti-Tank Rocket headed directly towards them from below, gaining forward velocity with every second. He didn't have much time; he began to calculate the distance in his head. 50 feet…40...30...20...10. He yanked on the controls, banking right hard. The Phantom slipped to a 45 degree angle; its passengers were tipped to one side. Breathing a small sigh of relief, he continued on, the Phantom self-righting itself simultaneously. As he continued to steadily fly the transport, the ship rocked violently, the nose tipping forward rapidly at a dangerous angle. The tremors shook the hull plating violently, the ship's armour trembling rapidly. It only take the Elite a second to realise what had happened; whilst he had simply assumed that the Rocket had been fired straight, with no guidance whatsoever, the Rocket had in fact locked on to the Phantom's heat signature and curved around behind them mid-flight.
As the Phantom was steadily propelled towards the ground, the nose now almost vertical, the Elite unbuckled himself from the pilot's chair and began to fumble for the cockpit door latch. He was too late. As the Phantom began picking up speed, the nose impacted vehemently with the ground, the cockpit pounded in upon itself as the entire weight of the ship was placed on top of it. Glass from the viewscreen shattered and was flung around feebly, the frame sadistically crushed, the metalwork crumpling in upon itself slowly. The Elite was flung powerlessly forwards onto the glittering dash, and was compressed mercilessly as the roof bent inwards sharply, pressing itself on top of him. Tan-coloured dust and jagged, grey rocks were kicked up in the ship's wake, as the entire vessel capsized heftily, its occupants thrown about pitilessly like toys in the hands of a child, collapsing unintentionally over each over as the ship ground to a jarring halt. The violet ceiling of the Phantom rushed rapidly up to meet them as they arced clumsily through the air, limbs flailing left and right as they were catapulted to the floor.
* * * * *
Wallace hurled himself backwards sharply, as the Hunter's burnished, tapered shield swung round once more, missing his arm by mere centimetres. As he landed inelegantly upon the earth, his right hand dived downwards, snatching the secreted M6D HE Pistol from the hidden strap within his boot. As the Hunter lumbered dozily back round to face him, he brought the weapon up slowly, snapped his left eye firmly shut, aimed down the length of the barrel, and clamped his finger down on the trigger. The semiautomatic handgun emptied its twelve-round clip briskly, a dozen 40 mm SAP-HP bullets slamming ruthlessly into the Hunter's mid-section. The rounds mercilessly slammed into the Hunter's orange waist, embedding themselves deeply, blood spurting out from the fatal wounds, and seeping grossly onto the floor. The Hunter stood rigid for a moment, facing away from Wallace, showing its back, as if in insolence, before finally, swaying slightly, then stumbling thunderously to the earth. Wallace brought his gaze back up; the enemy were advancing, rapidly, throughout the Colony, hurling bodies out of their way, as they marched stridently towards him. He had no idea of what to do; there was nothing left to protect them from this determined, relentless, callous adversary. Nowhere else to run. Nowhere to go. They had been beaten. And they had won. The UNSC forces had been routed.
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