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On A Red Horse: Chapter 3
Posted By: Diamond Dog<swordfist14@cox.net>
Date: 7 July 2003, 9:02 PM
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Sosli led his squad through the corridors of the Hand of Justice. The Grunt was a veteran and wore crimson armor, a fact that he was very proud of. The rank was meant to signify that this Grunt was skilled in battle and blessed by the Gods because he had survived multiple battles, but to Sosli it meant that he was particularly good at hiding and running away. He grasped his plasma pistol tightly and sucked on his methane greedily. The report from Command had been to lead his squad to the cargo hold and slay the intruder there.
When he first heard the order he was surprised. They were low on the ranking in the "free" squads, those not assigned to a specific position. Even more, they had no Elite commander. Sosli was the leader. This meant that Command was either testing them... or everyone else that had been sent was dead. Sosli shivered. He had survived so long by trusting his instincts, and his instincts right now were pleading with him to not go where he was going now.
He had to follow Command, but maybe he could take some steps to help his chances of survival. He looked over his shoulder to the squad of five Grunts that were waddling behind him, and inspected each of them. Lolon, the new Grunt just transferred to his team, would work. "Lolon!" he called. The Grunt looked at him. Sosli motioned for him to join him at the front of the pack. The Grunt scampered forward eagerly until he was even with Sosli. "You're a good Grunt, Lolon. A good soldier. I'm counting on you to take the lead of the team if I fall in battle. Are you up to that, Lolon?"
The Grunt's eyes widened and he nodded.
"In fact, why don't you move on in front of us a little bit? That way when you see the enemy you can tell us, and you will be in a good position to kill him and gain honor. What do you think of that?"
Lolon looked as if he was bursting with joy, nodded frantically and snapped a salute as best he could, then waddled forward.
Sosli grinned beneath his breath mask. He looked back at his friend, Tatam, and they snickered.
Laler 'Losamee prowled through the darkness. On first entering the cargo hold his squad had been surprised at the lack of the light. 'Losamee and the shield-carriers had noticed that the lights had been destroyed. So they had moved into the darkness. The cannon-fodder had almost panicked but he had discliplined them and they now cowered behind 'Losamee. Their procession was moving slowly throughout the hold, sweeping it for the intruder. The shield-carriers could see a little bit, the "Grunts", as they had been named by the primitive humans, could not see at all, but 'Losamee could see the best of all. He could make out distinct shapes.
He was snapped out of his thoughts by a snort on the radio channel. He was about to ask what the problem was when there was a squeal, suddenly cut off. He barked a question in his native tongue. Silence. Lat, a higher shield-carrier turned around annoyedly and squawked. There were no Grunts left. Lat beckoned to two of his friends and they slowly stalked in the direction where the Grunts had been. 'Losamee followed them with his eyes until he could not see them any longer. He snarled. "Lat, report in."
The silence of the hold suddenly seemed deafening to 'Losamee. He felt his heart race. A noise echoed from behind 'Losamee and he whirled to face it in battle-stance, plasma rifle extended and ready. He fired a burst into the darkness, and the plasma illuminated crates and boxes before it splashed into the far wall. Must have been nothing, he thought to himself. The Elite turned around and suddenly felt fear grip his heart in a cold vise. Where the last shield-carrier had been, there was a bloodstain. Blood thumped through his veins and he became aware of a presence in the cargo hold. His quarry.
So now he was the hunter and it was the hunted. 'Losamee heard a soft creak. He crouched down and loped to it cautiously, his mandibles opening in a grin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shape move through the darkness. It seemed unaware of him. 'Losamee smiled again and closed in for the kill. He burst out at the shape with a snarl and hurled himself at it. Seeing red as his limbs struck it wildly, he aimed his plasma rifle and sent a long volley of plasma into the shape. It fell to the floor and 'Losamee relaxed and bent down to peer at it closely. What? He thought. A cloth covering a robe-supporter. He whirled around in time to see a black shape before it crashed into his face.
Chip held the War Eagle steady as it hovered next to the other Pelican in front of the ship bay of the Covenant cruiser. Staring at the shimmering purple shields that separated them from the pressurization chamber, he opened up a COM channel to Command. "Uh..." he began. The voice of General Trent came back at him before he could the words out.
"Pelican Delta Two, come in."
"This is Kurth," he chimed in.
"Well Chip, we now know why they call you 'Cowboy', don't we son."
Shit. "Sir that was..."
"You broke several UNSC starship regulations screaming out of our hangar, Chip.
"Well I can explain..."
"You also unnecessarily endangered the lives of Bravo."
"Sir, at no time was I not in complete control. Nothing would have happened."
"Your record shows that you have never lost a man while carrying them."
"Sir."
There was a pause.
"Do you hate these damned regulations as much as I do, soldier?"
Chip's face broke into a grin.
"Affirmative, sir."
"I hope you also know that lighting a combustible onboard a UNSC vessel is highly illegal?"
Chip glanced at the smoke trail coming from his cigar.
"What's your preference?"
"Sweet William, sir."
"Ah, we have something in common. What did you want to know?"
"Sir, there's gonna be a problem if Falstaff doesn't get his ass together and crack through these..." The purple glow faded from view. "shields."
A crackle announced someone breaking into the channel. A cold voice started to speak.
"I assure you, pilot, my ass is fully together. Now stop making snide remarks, or yours will be fully apart with my digital foot jammed up it. Are we clear?"
Kurth grinned. "As glass, Falstaff."
"Damn right," the smart AI said, and broke contact.
The M-12 rifle felt cool in Hoot's hands, like a finely tuned sleek killing machine. Which was exactly what it was. He shifted his attention to Boomer, who sat next to him, with a Jackhammer launcher slung over his shoulder and a grenade in his hand. The thin petty officer was touching a metal cross to his forehead, mouthing a prayer. Hoot smiled. His friend, who loved big explosions, was also highly religious.
The back door of the Pelican slid open with a groan, and everyone looked out it. The pressurization chamber receded away from them as they flew into the hangar. Hundreds of whines announced immense volleys of plasma as they seared into the Pelican's armor. "Get it ready, Alpha," Hoot bellowed. The lieutenant colonel reached up and grasped a metal rung on the ceiling, as did the rest of his men. Powerful thrusters rocketed the few tons of Marine and armor up near the ceiling of the hangar.
The Pelican swung around and pointed them towards the enemy. Hoot took it all in with a glance. Three floors that extended a third of the way out into the hanger and ended braced with support columns. The hundreds of bellowing Covenant as they unleashed a plasma firestorm on the Pelicans. The bottom of the hangar, thickly laced with Ghosts and Banshees. Bravo Team's Pelican as it moved toward the bottom jutting floor. Three Shade turrets pouring out purple bolts of plasma at the Pelicans. There was a loud hiss as the armor of their bird started to melt and drool off in dripping streams. Hoot hoped the armor would be thick enough.
Then the two Pelicans activated the 70mm chain guns on their undersides. Thousands of rounds slashed through the Covenant lines, decimating the Grunts and Jackals who were exposed. Elites glowed white-blue as their comrades burst apart in chunks of flesh and blood. Scraps of skin and armor flew up into the air like confetti, while pierced methane tanks hissed frozen gas over the carnage. The remaining Covenant dove behind cover, Elites following last of all, after a few of their number crumpled under the hail of bullets. The chain guns ran dry, and they starting clacking. Alpha Team opened fire on the enemy as their Pelican accelerated them towards the top floor.
The two boarding craft gently slid into the ship next to several escape pods. A few seconds later the doors opened and Charlie and Echo poured out silently. "Book" Riley moved quickly with the others, scanning the immediate area for threats, his eye peering down the sight of his battle rifle and finger resting on the trigger. Seeing none, he stood with his back to the wall and slowly leaned over and peered around the corner.
He turned to Charlie and Echo and held up two fingers. Next came his pinkie, then he drew his index finger across his neck and fluttered his hand through the air. The Charlie lieutenant nodded and unsheathed two slender throwing knives from his belt. Book looked again around the corner, waited a few seconds, then pumped his hand up and down. The knives whistled as they flew through the air. As they moved around the corner Lieutenant "Dart" Howe bent down and retrieved his knives from the necks of two Grunts.
Another corner and three more Grunts crumpled, blood drooling from the holes in their heads. They came to an intersection. Dart glanced at his eye-display and Charlie turned left, Echo right. His men moved quickly in a crouched position, sweeping the hall with their rifles and covering their teammates. At approximately 200 meters from the escape pod bay several more Covenant had fallen, none of them uttering even the smallest grunt of alarm before they were silenced. The corridors were eerily quiet. The silenced weapons had done their job. They had not been noticed so far.
The sound of a door opening came from around the corner. Dart waited a few seconds, then peeked down the corridor quickly. Two Jackals, squawking to each other about something they found funny. Charlie Team moved into the corridor, and Speck and Flea dropped to their knees and aimed. The hollow-point bullets tore into the heads of the aliens, punching holes in their skulls and expanding violently inside their brains, sending razor-sharp shrapnel out in all directions. A fine mist of brain tissue and blood hissed over the floor and walls, and two headless bodies collapsed to the floor.
Dart sized their location up. A short hall, with two doors on each side. There were probably more Covenant inside, and the lieutenant had been trained not to take chances. The last thing they needed was to be torn apart at their rear when they were noticed. Dart pointed to the doors, made a fist, and pumped it up and down. His squad silently split apart into groups of three and waited at the threshold of each door. Zee, his master sargeant, and Smokey, their demolitions corporal, lined up behind him. Zee squeezed his shoulder. They were ready.
Dart whispered into his mike, Execute. They burst into the room, the door sliding open before them. The three Marines acted like a SWAT team: the first man covered the left side of the room, the second the right, and the third to help whoever had more baddies. Even if the man covering the left side saw an enemy on the right, he had to trust his teammate, because if he turned to take it out, then another enemy could come through his side and wipe all three out.
There were four Jackals and three Grunts standing in shock before them, no longer jabbering as they had a second before. Dart moved fast, with adrenaline surging through his veins. He dropped to one knee and opened fire as Smokey stepped forward, Zee behind them wielding a pistol in each of his massive hands. Their guns belched and rocked back in their owners hands.
The Grunts' breathmasks shattered as the bullets slammed into their brains, sending their small bodies flipping head over heels. Gore and chilled methane violently sprayed as they tumbled to the ground. The Jackals, caught unshielded by surprise, squawked as blood burst from holes in their chests and heads. The last survivor was a major Jackal, slammed into the wall from the force of the bullets. It stared wide-eyed into space as its comrades fell to the floor. A second later it slid to the ground, leaving a bloody smear on the wall.
As Zee opened his mouth to give the all clear signal, he saw it; a shadow moving forward in his peripheral vision. "Contact!" he yelled, and trained both pistols on it. He got a few rounds off before plasma slashed towards him. Instantly he ducked and rolled forward. Silenced gunfire from his teammates erupted behind him. As Zee got to his feet the white-blue glow that covered the Elite faded, shattered by Smokey and Dart.
It snarled at him, but he was already moving. He slammed a pistol butt into the alien's jaw and felt it shatter. With his other hand he dropped a pistol and unsheathed his K-Bar. The seven-inch titanium knife plunged deep into the Elite's flesh. It grunted.
Zee used all his strength to force the blade upward, ripping through organs and veins. He shoved it against the wall, then stuck the barrel of his pistol in its groaning mouth and pulled the trigger. The Elite fell to the floor with a clang of armor on metal and a fleshy sound of wet meat.
"All clear," he said.
Andrew Durant fired several times, then ducked back down behind the cargo container. Plasma hissed over his head. Bravo had sprinted forward onto their level and ducked behind cargo crates while the Covies where still recovering from the massive Pelican chain gun. Now they were pinned down. It was frustrating because they had ample firepower to take care of the enemy, but if they poked their heads out too long they'd be dead.
He thought of what his superiors had always told him: you don't like what's going on, you change it. Simple, but they had to survive to make that change. Scarecrow considered for a few moments, then yelled above the roar of bullets and plasma on the Bravo freq. "Grenades on three, out on mark. Let's show these sons of bitches who's boss." His men reached at their belts. "Five...four...three-" several pins dropped to the floor and frag grenades bounced at the feet of the Covenant. "...two...one...mark." The grenades boomed, swallowing several aliens in fire. Burning bodies flew through the air as Bravo Team rolled out from behind cover.
Durant lay on his stomach firing next to Hollywood, who had his M-60 mounted on a bipod and roaring away. Seraph and Siren stood behind the cargo crates with their sniper rifles aimed and eyes on their scopes. Their guns cracked in rapid succession, and bullets lanced over the heads of Scarecrow and Hollywood.
The Marines facing the west side of the level weren't doing as well. Their grenades had taken out only a few Grunts, as the two Elites marshaling the forces there had yelled at the Jackals to shield the blasts, and they had. Now a line of shields covered the bodies of the Elites and several Grunts. A storm of plasma slashed through the air. Santa Cruz crouched next to Staff Sergeant McKnight and Sphinx, who hefted a Jackhammer.
He motioned to them, yelling, "We need to break this! Sphinx, earn your keep with that thing buddy. After he fires, Knight, you and I are on cleaning duty. You got me?"
They nodded.
Sphinx leaped up from behind cover, his massive frame holding the rocket launcher steady. Before the Covenant could react, the launcher whooshed, and a rocket screamed into their midst. It detonated with a wail, and the Covenant formation broke like water on rock. The explosion incinerated several Jackals and Grunts, and the rest of the aliens were lifted off their feet and tossed aside like rag dolls. A few flew over the edge of the level and screamed until they thudded onto the bottom of the bay.
As they staggered to their feet, stunned and bloody, Santa Cruz and McKnight leaped over the cargo crates. Cruz thrust his arms forward and fired his Cruz Juniors, the twin guns booming as they rained bullets at the aliens. Behind him McKnight expertly held his M-12 up to bear and fired single shots at the surviving Covies. With each crack of his rifle another alien thudded to the floor. Cruz aimed his SMGs on either side of him and opened fire as he ran forward. Blood burst from broken bodies to his left and right, splashing onto the floor in waves. His guns ran dry, and he ejected the clips. They clattered to the floor, and in one fluid movement he slapped the SMGs down onto new clips mounted on his belt.
He had a new target now: the Elites. They were standing and looking enraged, but the rocket had cost them their shields. Cruz grinned. "I'm right here baby," he said. The SMGs roared. Many of the bullets were stopped by armor, but several got through. And that was all that was needed. The Elites roared in pain as their chests were torn apart by the storm of bullets. Muscle and bone snapped and tore, and thick dark blood bubbled from their throats. The plasma that they had got off before being hit hissed into Cruz's body armor. A little bit scorched his skin, but he ignored the pain.
The closest one swung weakly at him. He easily dodged it, ducked, and kicked the Elite's legs out from under him. It warbled as it fell to the ground. Cruz moved to the other one and delivered a side kick to its chest. It groaned and stumbled backward, losing its balance. It stepped off into space. Santa Cruz turned as it screamed and disappeared. He aimed a SMG at the head of the Elite on the ground. It was shaking and drawing breath in long, quaking, gasps. Its death rattle. His gun boomed, and blood spurted onto his clothes.
"Show off."
Cruz turned to see McKnight grinning at him with his rifle casually leaned against his shoulder, standing amid a cluster of dead bodies. He hadn't been touched at all.
"How do you do it, man?" Cruz said.
The staff sergeant shrugged. "Too good-looking to die, I guess."
The voice of their elltee, Durant, sounded over the Bravo freq. "All bad guys hung out to dry, and I didn't even have to save your sorry asses this time."
Cruz answered. "We love you too, Scarecrow."
Pilo 'Pitomee looked at his monitor casually, and flipped through the various security cameras. When he got to the one in the ship bay he did a double take. His eyes opened wide and his lower mandibles drooped open in shock. He whirled around. "Excellency, there's humans in the ship bay!"
A menacing tower of muscle and gold armor turned around and pierced him with his gaze. "You are sure?"
"Yes sir."
It snarled. "How long have they been there? How did they get there? How did we not know before now? What have you been doing, sleeping?"
'Pitomee quailed. "Sir, should I send reinforcements to the bay? I don't know how they... I mean I was-"
Ralor 'Raslomee silenced the babbling officer with a glare. Slowly he got up and paced towards the front of the room until he was behind his operations officer. He regarded him with the air of someone looking at something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of their shoe. 'Raslomee leaned forward and sniffed. "Do I smell cowardice upon you, soldier?" The officer trembled like a leaf in a hurricane. "You call yourself Prophet-blessed?"
At this 'Pitomee broke down and started shaking in a way pitiful to see. "Please don't harm me sir I swe-" He suddenly sat bolt straight up and screamed. It was a rending, horrible sound that seared through the nerves of everyone in the control room.
Slowly it turned to a gurgle and then a sigh as he slumped against his displays. 'Raslomee withdrew his plasma blade from 'Pitomee's back slowly. Blood and melted flesh gushed through the smoking hole left in his armor. It poured onto his plasma blade. The white-hot heat of the plasma instantly incinerated the blood, and it vaporized with a cackle. A foul stench permeated the room.
'Raslomee unclenched his fist and watched the cold blue sword retract into his forearm. He turned his gaze back to the corpse before him. "Get rid of this," he said to the nearest Elite, disgust drenching every syllable, "and find me a new operations officer."
He strode back to his platform and mused to himself aloud. "Humans are nothing. Weak, dumb, unclean, wretched creatures that grovel in the dirt. They are no challenge to me and should be handled easily by my soldiers. No," he said, a gleam appearing in his eye, "I want a challenge. An opponent worthy of my presence, worthy to engage in combat with. An equal. Is there no such entity?" he muttered.
He paused. "Ah. The intruder in the cargo hold. Tell me, 'Kovamee, is it still there?"
"To the best of my knowledge, sir." replied 'Kovamee.
"And how many squads have we sent there?"
"Twelve, sir."
'Raslomee grinned slowly, revealing rows upon rows of razor sharp teeth. Someone so powerful to make many warriors transcend the physical was certainly mighty. A great yearning filled his heart. A true warrior... He felt his temperature rise and his muscles clench. He was born for combat. It was what he always wanted. 'Raslomee headed off to his room to prepare. Let the humans see their comrade's dripping head clenched in his fist. Despair would ravage their ranks and his troops would tear through them like a gale.
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