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Charge of the Grunt Brigade - Part One: Colonel
Date: 27 August 2003, 10:18 PM

      He had been a Colonel, once, long ago, young, handsome, dashing and brave. He was one of the finest graduates of Reach's military program, with a shining future in the UNSC Marine Corps ahead of him. But then it had all fallen apart when his wife left him to shack up with some Medical Corps colonel, and as a result too many AWOL charges and accusations of being drunk on duty had ruined him. They bumped him first down to
Captain, followed by Lieutenant, then down to Second Lieutenant and stuck him on a base on a lonely, far off colony to wait out the years with a miniscule garrison where he could do no harm. He had, by the highest authority within the UNSC bureaucracy, been blacklisted against promotion. And he knew it.
      So it was no surprise that, when he received a letter of reinstitution of rank to Colonel, that he thought that surely the message had been misaddressed and was the rightful property of another forty-two-year-old Lieutenant Major Asa L. D'Arcy. He rushed from the barracks down to the company clerk's office and demanded an explanation, barely managing to get the words out of his mouth.
      "Calm down, Lieutenant, calm down," the clerk said, speaking soothingly to the man as if he were a hysterical animal. "Yes, that's right, you've been reinstated as a Colonel. Yes, Lieutenant, I'm sure that that letter is addressed to you. How do I know? It got sent straight from the ONI, top-priority on the email list. No, Lieutenant, there's no probability that something that high-priority could have been misaddressed. Now, Lieutenant, please, can you leave me to finish my work? I've got an unsightly load of junk mail coming through... Marine life insurance policies and all that..." The clerk slid a Colonel's insignia across his desk and turned back to his computer.
      D'Arcy grabbed them suspiciously. He then walked back to the barracks and plopped down on his bed, holding the letter up to the blinding light of the desert morning. Of course, it wasn't fake, it had been printed straight of the company clerk's computer. He didn't know what he was looking for then in terms of falsity, but it had to be wrong. There was no way he was a Colonel. Not with his record.
      A thought occurred to him, and he realized he had yet to finish reading the message. He held the paper close and pressed against his nose as he continued on.

      ...having been seen fit for reinstitution to his former rank of Colonel, UNSC Marine Corps, Asa Lawrence D'Arcy is further instructed to report to ONI headquarters on planet Reach for special and highly classified assignment. Failure to comply with these instructions will result in a pay reduction to seventy-five dollars per month and further penal action as a court-martial should decide. Congratulations, Colonel...

      His eyes bulged at the words "special and highly classified assignment," as they stood out among the rest of the inane blabber. Now what could that be?
      He hadn't a clue. All he knew was that if he was getting orders straight from ONI he'd better haul ass back to Reach. He sat up, set the letter down on his bunk and began to throw his things from the trunk at the foot of this bunk into the duffel under it. Finally, he withdrew his service pistol. A sleek, polished M6D semi-automatic standard sidearm with a twelve-round magazine and caliber of .450 Magnum. He placed this in its holster and lay it on top of the duffel, next to the letter from ONI and his new Colonel's insignia. He would need that later.
      He leaped out of his clothes and hit the showers.

Dr. Halsey, an aging, slender, no-nonsense civilian specialist on the payroll of the UNSC and the scientific leader of the SPARTAN-II project, shuffled papers on her desk. She had three stacks—one of things she considered unimportant or silly or unnecessary, another of things she would have to get to later, and the last one, significantly smaller, of things that she considered top-priority.
      As she filed her new papers into these three stacks she glanced at the old, familiar pictures on the wall. They were the images that she had come to recognize as her own children, even though her duty as a military-employed civilian scientist demanded she form no connection with the subjects. They were the pictures of her Spartans.
      Kelly at graduation from Spartan training, the now-deceased Sam saluting beside his friend John as the colors of the UNSC passed, Linda holding her sniper rifle and a target filled with a close-knit group of bullseyes, Fred in his MJOLNIR battle armor, his helmet held beneath his arm, and finally a photo of young Fhajad, a small, muscular child later crippled by the augmentation process that had ruined or killed so many of the trainees. Now unable to walk or move without his body trembling uncontrollably, the wheelchair-bound Fhajad saw Dr. Halsey almost every day as a fellow employee of the ONI. The deaths and crippling of many of the Spartans had broken her heart—but she moved on, knowing that what she had done to them had been for the better good. For humanity.
      Now a certain paper caught her eye, and a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. It was the paperwork of the new and unusual situation ONI had burdened her with. The new brigade that had been formed had finally found a commanding officer, it seemed. That choice had not been hers, as was promised. Her first instinct was to file a complaint, but knowing how a great majority of the UNSC regarded her as a quack and would exploit any complaint she made she would have to see how things panned out... Before the name of the commander of the unit had not been written down—it would have been hard to find any respectable officer willing to take on such an assignment, even more of a joke within the UNSC than the Spartan project had been at first. But now, in bold type, the name was set on the page:
      Colonel Asa L. D'Arcy, UNSC Marine Corps.
      The name was not entirely familiar, but somewhere in her often-useful packrat memory the name came up as associated with some kind of discipline trouble. She tapped her chin with long fingers. What else could she have expected? Just as with the Buffalo Soldiers of the plains following the American Civil War, only the worst officers would be given such commands as this. Though, hopefully, just like the Buffalo Soldiers had, this command would turn out to be extremely efficient and earn respect within the UNSC. Of course, that would be an extremely long shot to count on...
      "Dr. Halsey?" Déjà appeared above the miniature holoprojector on her desk.
      "Yes Déjà?"
      "A certain Major General Othello Kingsley to see you, Doctor. He says he has an appointment, but I see no record of one in my logs. Should I let him in?" the AI asked inquiringly.
      "Ah," she said. She had forgotten about that. "Yes, Déjà, send him in."
      The AI glided out of sight and the doors to Dr. Halsey's deep-underground office parted with a rush of air. An average sized man, whose gray hair was shot with streaks of black, gathered himself up and stepped tentatively into her office. A ceremonial cavalry-type saber, meant to be worn only on dress occasions, hung beside his left hip and his service pistol, the standard M6D was suspended from his belt on the right hip, as per regulation. Apparently a flamboyant man, he held a Custer-like quality with his glance and the grin beneath his bushy moustache was charming. General Kingsley was one of the best fighting officers within the UNSC—and one of the most intelligent.
      On the surface he was a political pawn, a campaign tool of the UNSC bureaucrats. He appeared on campaign commercials and ads, delivering snappy slogans followed by a salute or a thumbs-up sign. Secretly he was the reason the party he supposedly supported lost every election. But fortunately for Dr. Halsey—who was a supporter of his little scheme—the party kept using him as a political tool, making the mistake of not seeing that he was smarter than he looked.
      Déjà appeared once more above the holoprojector, and turned to General Kingsley. "Here is the Doctor, General. Dr. Halsey, will you be needing anything else?"
      "One thing, Déjà. I want you to turn off the recorders."
      "Yes, Doctor," the AI said, and she was gone again. When she returned, she asked, "Will that be all?"
      "Yes, Déjà. Thank you."
      After waiting several seconds while the recorders went off, and once she was sure they were alone, Dr. Halsey spoke. "Good morning, Othello," she said, and gestured to the brass-studded armchair on the other side of her desk. "Have a seat."
      "I'll stand, Catherine. Thanks," Kingsley said, folding his leather riding gloves and placing them inside his coat. He scratched his moustache and folded his arms. "How are things going down here? I see you've managed to discover the locations of those recorders those ONI goons set up in your office," he said, looking around the ceiling for what he could not possibly see.
      "Which ones? The ones they told me about, or the ones they didn't?" Dr. Halsey asked, her hands folded in front of her face as she leaned back in her chair. She
      "Both, I suppose. You did—?"
      "Find them all? Yes, I did. I have Déjà do a bug sweep of my office every month. Apparently ONI keeps coming back for more, just as I suspected they would. These bureaucrats never let up. Can't wait for the chance to get me in a corner and use what goes on in here against me."
      "Ah, yes. They are like that."
      "Tell me, Othello, are you familiar with the growing number of Covenant defectors that have been surrendering themselves to us?" Dr. Halsey asked coolly, leaning back in her chair and pressing her hands together, her two index fingers slightly brushing her upper lip.
      "Partially. I know that there have been a few surrenders, especially among the lower castes in the Covenant juggernaut and in small groups of usually no more than five," Kingsley answered. "I heard somewhere the ones who were not killed anyway by Marines were taken to secure military facilities, interrogated and thrown in the stockade. That's all I know."
      "All you know?" Dr. Halsey asked.
      "Well, other than a few rumors about some of the prisoners being used in biological weapons experiments," the General said.
      "Actually, if you took the time to dig a little deeper you would find that those rumors are quite true."
      "Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"
      "No, it's not. I wanted to talk to you about defectors. Not just prisoners of war, Othello, but Covenant foot soldiers that are actually willing to change uniforms and finish the rest of this war under the colors of the UNSC. Fighting alongside our own human Marines," Dr. Halsey explained slowly.
      Kingsley was silent for a moment. He scratched his moustache again and rested a hand on the pommel of his saber, a purely absent-minded and non-threatening gesture. He furrowed his bushy brows and frowned. "I suppose it's possible. After all, the Covenant treat their own men like shit."
      "That they do," Dr. Halsey said, ignoring the not-often heard example of frontline language Kingsley had displayed. "And yes, it's entirely possible. In fact, we have a substantial number of Grunts, a few Jackals and at least one Elite who have actually begged for the chance to serve with us."
      After a short pause: "Now, don't kid with me Catherine."
      "I would never consider it—especially with such a subject," Dr. Halsey said. She pulled open a desk drawer and removed a file folder, marked "classified". She handed it over to Kingsley, who took them curiously. "I think that you'll find these quite interesting, to say the least."
      Kingsley licked his thumb and opened the file. The first picture in the collection was one of around one thousand Covenant Grunts, all unarmed and with circular tags about their necks, signifying them as prisoners of war. Of course, they were unarmed, and behind each stood an MP with a stun baton. He flipped over to the next photo.
      The same thousand Grunts, now joined by twenty Jackals. There were a significantly smaller number of MPs present, and the Grunts seemed to be doing some sort of exercise. The equivalent of jumping jacks to them, he supposed. An exact imitation of the human activity would be impossible due to their short-legged and stocky frames. Their POW tags bounced in rhythm with their movements as they propelled themselves into the air and went down again. Kingsley was slightly afraid when he realized that these were military exercises...
      The following picture was of the thousand Grunts, the score of Jackals and a single elite engaging holograms of Covenant forces in battle. The defectors, still bearing their POW tags, were armed with training weapons that emitted a targeting laser whose signal deactivated Covenant holograms when they struck them. A caption at the bottom of the photo said that the Covenant's brainwaves were monitored during the activity, and upon spotting the Covenant holograms they subconsciously recognized them as enemies. Kingsley grew steadily more worried about what was going on...
      The last photo was of the one thousand and twenty-one Covenant defectors standing at attention, their fists pressed against their hearts in salute as the colors of the UNSC passed, carried by MPs. The defector's ranks were perfect even by parade ground standards, and their armor color had been changed from its original, Covenant colors to the silver and black of the UNSC Marine Corps. In every defector's possession were the traditional plasma pistols they used so often, and the elite, who bore on his shoulder the rank of a Marine Corps Lieutenant, held a humming energy blade in his hand. None of the Covenant were wearing POW tags. At the bottom of the photo were words that made his jaw drop: "The Grunt Brigade".
      Kingsley slammed the file shut and tossed it onto the desk, only slightly aware that his jaw was still hanging limp. He closed it shut and narrowed his eyes. "Those are very good fakes, Catherine. You planning to let them be captured by Covenant?"
      "I was afraid you might have a similar reaction, Othello. Yes, it would be very effective within the lower Covenant castes to have these pictures captured, but I assure you that they aren't fakes. They were taken by a very good friend of mine named Fhajad. He doesn't lie."
      "Are you telling me that we took prisoners from the same enemy who, in their first message to us, vowed to destroy us, trained them in combat exercises, and gave them a commission among our own ranks?"
      "Yes, Othello, I am. In fact, they're going to be attached to your division."
      "May God have mercy on our souls."

Colonel Asa L. D'Arcy stepped off of the Archangel's single Pelican, which had ferried him from the military transport ship to the Omega Wing of planet Reach—location of ONI's Section Three secure facility Castle. His pistol was tied down to his right hip and his pack was slung over his shoulder. His colonel's insignia reflected the sun off of his collar as two MPs rushed towards him.
      "Sir, we've been asked to escort you to the office of Dr. Halsey. We need your papers," the first MP, a corporal, said. He held out his hand expectantly, and was confused and disappointed when nothing was placed in his grasp.
      "I'll keep my papers, thanks," D'Arcy said, nodding.
      "But sir—"
      "Corporal, I'm sure you've been with the Corps long enough to know how to follow orders. Am I correct?" D'Arcy asked, cutting him off and falling back into the position of seniority easily.
      The Corporal nodded. "Yes, sir. Follow us, please."
      They led him to the first of many gates, where three more MPs stood, MA5Bs in their hands and looking decidedly dangerous. One of them fingered his trigger nervously, handling his weapon a little too jerkily for D'Arcy's comfort. The Corporal approached him, and nodded in D'Arcy's direction. "He's all right, Jim. Let us through."
      The MP eased up a bit and punched the button at the door and it opened. If Castle had been on lockdown the door would require someone with the proper security clearance to slide one of his dog tags through a slot below the control panel. With secure ONI facilities, these security clearances were quite higher than what would be required to enter a normal military base, usually a rank of at least Corporal. The Corporal and his partner lead D'Arcy through.
      It turned out, as D'Arcy had guessed, that this checkpoint was merely the first of many. As they went deeper and deeper into the endless caverns of Castle, the security requirements grew more rigorous and the number of guards multiplied. Usually there was a guardhouse to the side of the heavily guarded checkpoints, where guns and ammunition lined the walls and even deeper in there were rows of bunks where he could see a few guards turning restlessly in their sleep. He wondered how often these guys got out. Not often, judging by the pale color of their skin. Nonetheless, the guards were usually large and overbearing.
      Finally, about an hour later, they came to Dr. Halsey's office. The AI, in the form of a Greek goddess, consulted with the doctor and then let them in. The MPs saluted Dr. Halsey and a Major General standing by her desk, and D'Arcy followed suit. "Ma'am, Colonel D'Arcy, as you asked."
      "Thank you, Corporal. You may leave us, now."
      "Yes, ma'am!" the MPs saluted and exited the office.
      Dr. Halsey placed her fingertips together and pressed them to her lips. She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, then shot D'Arcy an inquisitive look through her glasses. "Colonel Asa Lawrence D'Arcy, correct?"
      "Yes, ma'am, that's my name."
      "Do you have any idea why you've been called here, Colonel?"
      "No ma'am."
      "Do you have any... personal speculations?" Dr. Halsey said. Her tone was flat and pure business, not kind nor treacherous. Yet, something about it made the hair on the back of D'Arcy's neck prickle. He hesitated a moment before answering her question, tossing a glance to the General standing by her desk for guidance. The man nodded.
      "Well, ma'am, the letter that reinstated me as a Colonel... it said something about a 'special and highly classified assignment'. I suppose it's some Section Three project you've assigned me to. That's really all I can think of, ma'am."
      "That's fine, Colonel. General Kingsley will be explaining the situation to you," she said, and turned to the Major General. "Othello?"
      The General stepped forward and came into the full light—D'Arcy recognized him as General Kingsley, from all of those political ads. He was a lot like some General he had studied in grade school. What was his name? Oh, yes. It was Custer that foolhardy glory-seeker who got himself all blown to hell by Indians somewhere in Montana. They had a lot in common: they lived in the limelight, they loved having their photograph taken, and they were both brevetted at a very young age for gallantry in combat. This one, it seemed, was a bit smarter. But he would see.
      The General produced a file from behind his back and handed it over to D'Arcy. He watched with a bit of amusement as the Colonel's eyes bulged, seeing the contents of the classified folder. It reminded him so much of what he must have looked like only hours ago: very humorous.
      "Uh... sir? Ma'am? What's this?"
      "Well, now, Colonel, I'm sure you've seen some combat?" the General asked.
      "Yes, sir."
      "So you tell me."
      "Well, General, I think it's pretty obvious that they're Covenant ground forces: Grunts, Jackals and an Elite. But what I meant to say was, why are you showing me this? What are these pictures trying to tell me, exactly?"
      "Again, you tell me, Colonel."
      "Well, sir... it looks like we've armed Covenant prisoners and made them Marines," D'Arcy said slowly, forming his words carefully with his lips. He did not believe a single word that came out of his mouth, yet he still braced for the impact the answer he got might bring.
      "Exactly, Colonel."
      General Kingsley waited for it, but it did not come. There was no skeptical laughter, no sudden outburst of disbelief and outrage. Rather, the Colonel simply shook his head. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "So, what are they for? Some equality-platform public-relations stunt?"
      "No, not at all. They really are soldiers." This time it was Dr. Halsey who answered, getting up from her chair and pushing her glasses higher up on the bridge of her nose. She took the file from D'Arcy and held up the photo titled "The Grunt Brigade". "And you will be commanding them."
      There was a long, drawn-out pause.
      "Ah, now, when I got my letter and read about a classified assignment I knew there was going to be a catch," D'Arcy said, breaking the silence and shifting his jaw. He looked from Dr. Halsey to General Kingsley, then back to Dr. Halsey who was looking at him expectantly.
      "Will you accept this assignment?"
      The old soldier thought about it for a while, taking in both sides of the argument. Did he want to be in charge of a whole brigade of fifth-columnists who could easily turn on him at any moment? Or did he want to go back to eating a batch of Lieutenant's field rations for breakfast? And, still yet, he found himself wondering if this wasn't all some sort of big, pointless practical joke—though what were the odds of that? Finally he answered. "Damn straight!" He patted his service pistol. "If you'll excuse the language, ma'am. It's been awhile since I've been out of the lines."
      Dr. Halsey blew it off with a wave of her hand. "It's of no importance. I'm just glad to see that you took to this assignment so quickly... and, believe me, had I been confronted with something like this, with no prior knowledge, I would be quite flabbergasted. This is unlike any project I have ever taken part in before, and I have seen quite a few of them."
      "Yes, ma'am. Are we done here?" D'Arcy asked hesitantly, not wanting to sound insubordinate. General Kingsley threw him one of those "your-front-line-manners-ain't-gonna-be-tolerated-back-here-missy" looks, but Dr. Halsey seemed not to notice.
      "Yes, we are. You may leave. Report at the front gate at zero-seven hundred hours tomorrow morning," Dr. Halsey said. "We'll be waiting for you there to take you to a new location and walk you though the more specific details of your assignment."
      D'Arcy snapped to attention and whipped a crisp salute to his forehead. "Sir! Ma'am!" he barked, then executed an about-face and walked to the gate, shoulders thrown back and chin held high. He stopped just before the door, and eased up. With his head turned slightly, he looked at her over his shoulder. "Ma'am, I have just one more question."
      "Yes?"
      "When do I get to meet the troops?"

Charge of the Grunt Brigade - Part Two: Troops
Date: 14 September 2003, 11:00 PM

      The two Grunts walked back and forth before their barracks, chattering slightly while conducting their midnight watch. Their plasma pistols were held in two mandibles, one on the handle and the other supporting the barrel. Though all Grunts looked pretty much alike to humans, the markings on their bodies declared them brothers. The elder one said to his junior:
      "Are you cold?"
      The younger brother replied, with a shiver:
      "No, I'm just shaking uncontrollably at the thought of what the Prophets would do to us if were ever to be captured. You?"
      "A bit—nothing like the action we saw back on... on... what was that planet's name again?"
      "Which one? The one where our commander lead us straight into an ambush and we only survived because the human's vehicles bombarded their own men? Or the one where we had to dig snow trenches with our mandibles and stick our heads in to keep warm while that Elite came up and kicked us in our asses out of fun?"
      "I don't know. After awhile, they all just seem the same to me."
      "They do get that way."
      An old Jackal, his back bent in an odd angle from a battle wound sustained in his youth, approached the two Grunts and ignited his shield, whose control panel was polished to perfection. He was an officer and had no need to be up and about. Nevertheless, he said, "My watch." The two Grunts exchanged glances, holstered their weapons and reentered the barracks, taking their places along the walls and settling down to sleep. The night still had several hours until dawn. The old Jackal picked up where the brother Grunts left off, and began the slow, methodical march of the picket.
      The extensive barracks were located at the far end of a large base, out of the way of many of its human occupants, most of which had no idea of the Covenant's presence. The defectors moved in before the Marines, and kept a low profile so as not to be noticed. For all the Marines knew, there weren't any Covenant anywhere near the planet, much less living next door. Kingsley's plan to move them in just before the Marines landed had worked perfectly.
      But no plan is foolproof.
      Privates Tom Avery and Hyrum Quinn, two fresh recruits, and Private First Class Ryan Ferguson, a big, bulky jock, straightened up quickly as two MPs, stun batons in their hands, crossed their path. The three Marines, two of them slightly drunken, barely managed to hide their jug of vodka from the patrolmen's hawk-like eyes, but as soon as they were sure the MPs were no longer a threat they each took another swig of the strong, homemade liquor. Private Avery coughed a bit, and grinned as he stumbled forth, the most intoxicated of the three. "Hand that back over before you spill it," Ferguson said quickly, his deep voice booming across the grounds.
      "Not so loud, God damn it!" Private Quinn whispered urgently.
      "Hey, guys, which way are we—" Avery started off, but then was cut off by his own hiccup. He tried again a few moments later, after another swig of homemade vodka. "Which way are we going?"
      Quinn, the least drunken of the three, straightened up and peered about the area, looking for some sort of sign or landmark showing the way back to their barracks. Finding none, he said quietly, "I don't know—which way did we come?"
      Ferguson's head rotated on his thick neck and looked all around them, scanning also the empty ground that encompassed them. No barracks where anywhere nearby in any direction, but quite away ahead they could make out a set of barracks that seemed exactly like theirs. "That must be it," Ferguson said, belching. He pointed ahead, and the other two followed his arm to the structures ahead. "Maybe we can sneak in and the Sarge won't notice."
      "Yeah," Avery said hopefully.
      "You wish," Quinn said bitterly. "Let's go."
       They trudged on, Avery being such a nuisance with his sloppy footing and spilling vodka everywhere that Ferguson ripped the jug from his hands and slapped the cork through the top. "I'll carry this."
      "Spoilsport," Avery muttered under his breath.
      There was a guard at the gate, an MP with an MA5B assault rifle in his hands. Avery, Quinn and Ferguson gave him a wide berth, turning sharply to the left and ducking low by a row of trees and falling into the cover of the shadows. "God, they have them everywhere around here," Avery said irritably.
      "Sure ruin all the fun, don't they?" Ferguson said, holding the jug of vodka tightly to his chest. He looked back to Quinn, who was snaking along the ground slowly, watching the MP in his patrol of the gate. "Hurry up, man," Ferguson said in a loud whisper, pausing and rising up a bit.
      "Get down, you son of a bitch!" Quinn whispered frantically.
      But it was too late. The MP at the gate saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and his head snapped in their direction. He raised his rifle and shouted, "Who goes there?" The three Marines dropped as if having been sighted by an enemy patrol and lay still for several moments, not daring to even breathe lest their position be revealed.
      Finally the picket MP gave up his search and lowered his rifle. Quinn snaked up ahead of the Avery and Ferguson, giving them both disgusted looks. To Ferguson he said with a sigh:
      "I don't know you ever made PFC."
      They continued their stealthy journey up the row of trees, which slowly gave way to a sunken road filled with damp sand. It reminded them of crawling through similar terrain beneath a net of barbed wire during basic training almost two months ago. They had trained so hard in the art of combat, and since then they had seen none. It was, to all of them, a disappointment. Quinn prayed silently every night they would get called to the front soon.
      The sunken road led away from the trees about one hundred meters, and the Marines' distance from the MP was a total of one hundred and fifty meters. At night, good enough distance to safely bridge the gap from their position to the wall, where they could climb over with relative ease—the electricity was only turned on during lockdowns and there were no razors or wires on this wall.
      Quinn lay over to the side and waited until Ferguson and Avery caught up. Ferguson blundered through the sand while Avery made fair progress down the sunken road. The large man reached Quinn and was about to cross over when the latter's hand grabbed him by the collar. "Wait. Let Avery go first."
      Avery licked his dry lips and squinted across the dry, dusty road. He imagined a bright, fluorescent yellow line running from his own position to the wall, a guiding light in the dark that would help steady his drunken movements. He blinked away the slight fog that was clouding the corners of his eyes, and began his dash across the line. He made it over without the MP even noticing. "Good," Quinn said quietly to himself. "A blind spot."
      Ferguson belched again, and Quinn slapped him across one cheek and then the other. He grabbed him once more by the collar and pulled the big jock close to his face, where their breath mingled. Quinn could smell the vodka on Ferguson's breath, and pulled tighter on the collar. "Don't foul this up, Ferguson," he said, treating the PFC like an disobedient subordinate.
      "Yes, sir," Ferguson said groggily, without thought. The rank he bore was of no importance among the enlisted men if Quinn was present, because no matter what, the quick-witted and impatient soldier was their commander. If it were not for the streak of sadism in his personality, Quinn would already be at least a corporal by now, and he knew it.
      Quinn shoved the big man out of the sunken road and Ferguson moved like a large puma across to the wall. Finally, with the stealthy movements of a snake, Quinn followed him across, just far enough away so that dust was not kicked up in his face. Finally, when all three of them were concealed behind the power generator, Quinn narrowed his eyes and placed a foot on the top of the waist-tall structure. "I go first. Then Ferguson, then you, Avery, and you'd better hurry. If you get over in ten seconds—both of you, that is—I'll pay for the drinks our next leave." It was one of the few gestures of kindness he ever expressed to his fellow Marines, but a well-appreciated one.
      Quinn vaulted quickly over the wall, and could barely be heard landing on the other side. Ferguson followed clumsily and almost fell flat on his face coming over, but managed to break his fall with his hands and knees. He was just rising when Avery landed on top of him, tackling him to the ground. "Quiet!" Quinn whispered angrily. Nevertheless, they had made it over in good time. He owed them a drink.
      Quinn squinted into the darkness and tried to find their barracks in the midst of all the others. They all looked exactly alike, and in this dark he could barely make out the signs on the huts. He certainly could not see what they said. "We have to get closer," he said, at the same time seeing a strange glow move about somewhere down the line. He squinted closely at it and pointed. "That way."
      They advanced a little less carefully, but kept their heads down when they passed the individual barracks. The glow grew closer, and Quinn held up a hand for the other two to stop. "What is that thing?"
      In return, the object behind the glow turned and shouted in a foreign and strained voice, "Who goes there?"
      "Covenant!" Ferguson bellowed, diving behind one of the barracks. "Covenant! Covenant are invading! Get your guns!" he continued to yell, scampering like a terrified toddler on his knees across the barracks. He screamed even louder when rows of Grunts began to spill out of them.
      The guard was running towards the three, swearing loudly. "Shut up, you fool! Shut your mouth before you wake up the whole base!" Avery grabbed the radio clipped onto the MP's shoulder and, before the overwhelmed picket had time to react, he opened up on the open-air frequency.
      "Covenant invading! Covenant invaders! High alert!"
      Now the alarms began to roar and the whole base awoke with an uproar. Avery and Ferguson were both drunken and hysterical, and finally the MP began to kick them to get them to stop screaming. "You idiots! How the hell did you get in here?"
      Lights flashed on all over like a dozen separate thunderstorms and far away the faceless forms of Marines scurried about, gathering weapons and generally making a fuss about what was going on. Quinn, indifferent to all the ruckus, pressed himself close the wall of one of the individual barracks, and waited silently until a Grunt hoped out, weapon in hand. In an instant the battle-hungry soldier was upon him, wrestling him to the ground and ripping his plasma pistol away from him. Quinn managed to get a grip on the thing and shoved it into the Grunt's face, melting it away in a burst of plasma. Quinn stepped bravely into the barracks and opened fire, scattering his shots all over like a hailstorm.
      He knocked the heads off of two Grunts, and the others sprang to attention and tried to get a hold of him. He cut down three more in their tracks dropping them just at his feet. Three more rushed him while another lunged onto him from his sleeping platform, tackling him to the ground. The remainder of the platoon woke slowly as the scene progressed. The quartet wrestled his gun from him, but not until he had managed to blow a crater into a red one's center mass. In anger and desperation, the same Grunt who had tackled him dealt him a blow over the head, rendering him unconscious.
      "What should we do?" they asked the senior Grunt in unison.
      He ordered the standing two to drag the Marine to the corner, and they placed the bodies of their fallen comrades around him. The sirens blared in their ears, and the senior Grunt led them out of the hut—hands up in the universal gesture of non-hostility.
      Several Warthogs breached the gate where the picket had previously been standing and rushed into the barracks compound, supported each by a platoon of around thirty-two infantry Marines. The large force split up, one eight-man squad for each of the individual barracks. Within five minutes every Covenant in the compound stood before his hut, hands behind his head as Marines pointed assault rifles and pistols at them. The sirens had gradually stopped screaming. Last to enter the camp was the Warthog of Brigadier General Toskov, Major General Kingsley's second-in-command.
      His driver drew the warthog to a stop at the had of the compound, and Toskov stood up in the side seat, grabbing a handset from beside him. It was hooked up to the Warthog's attached speakers, and so the Russian's commanding voice boomed as he spoke. "What the hell is going on here?"
      The MP grabbed Ferguson and Avery by the scruff of the collar and dragged them one-after-the-other over to Toskov and dropped them at his feet. "They raised the alarm, sir. There was a third one... I don't know where he is."
      Toskov covered the receiver of the handset. "How the hell did they get in here?"
      "I don't know, sir. Must have climbed the fence." The MP was glad that it was dark; he didn't want the General to see the fear in his face. The discovery of this project he had been assigned to guard could very well mean his job—not to mention some time in the stockade.
      Toskov, however, was concerned with the more important matters at hand. He raised the handset once more to his mouth, waited awhile as the words came to him, and began to speak. "All Marine personnel will report back to their quarters, barracks and stations and continue for the night as if this never happened. All prisoners will be released."
      There was total silence.
      The Marines exchanged glances, not sure what was going on. Even officers were confused. They had just captured an entire brigade of enemy forces without struggle, and that in itself was strange enough—but to release them?
      "You heard me, Marines! Move it!"
      Slowly the men came back to life, and whether they understood what was going on or not, officers started to bark orders at their men. They escorted the Grunts and few Jackals back into their barracks, eyeing them with confusion and wariness. Three men surrounded an Elite, their guns held tightly and leveled at his head, not noticing that he was an officer and outranked them all. Slowly the Marines began to filter out of the compound, quietly and quickly. They were saving their chatter until a more opportune time. By lunch tomorrow the mess hall would be buzzing with more than the usual conversation.
      Toskov had Ferguson and Avery piled into the back of his Warthog, under the watchful eye of the gunner. "We'll be needing to take a trip back to the provost marshal's hut, driver. These men are drunk."
      Out of the corner of his eye, Toskov saw three figures emerge from the hut to his left, the front in its row. Two Marines were supporting a third, apparently unconscious and dripping in blue slime—Covenant blood. There was a large gash on the top of his head. "Private! Report!"
      The Marine holding the unconscious man's right side handed him over to the MP, who also placed him in the back of the Warthog. "Sir, we found him in there behind a few Covenant bodies, sprawled out in a corner. He was being guarded by a few live ones. The place is splattered with blood, sir. Looks like he caused some damage before... before... well, before whatever went on night went on."
      "All right. Guard, go to the hut and disperse the survivors among the other barracks in their row," Toskov ordered the MP. "Tell them we'll have theirs cleaned out by tomorrow morning." The picket jogged over to the hut and emerged with several bewildered looking Grunts, their hands over their heads but their weapons still at their sides.
      When the MP's business was done he returned to Toskov's Warthog. The other two Marines were gone, running to catch up with their units. The General looked down at him gravely, and, with his light Russian accent, said, "Corporal Wallace, you'll be demoted one rank and not receive your pay for the next two months."
      The now-Lance Corporal nodded, then saluted, knowing that this punishment was already a very lenient one. He had slipped up, not being vigilant enough in his guard duties of one of ONI's best-kept secrets. They should have put a whole garrison of MPs if they were that worried, but ONI hadn't wanted to attract attention to the spot.
      Now it was too late. It didn't matter that Toskov had ordered the men not to talk, for they were going to. That was inevitable. He knew at that moment the chances were very slight that he would ever get promoted again.
      Without another word from its highest-ranking passenger the Warthog swerved around and rolled out of the compound, kicking up dust in its wake. The MP stood there silently for awhile after Toskov had exited, slumped in his position. His helmet was pulled down over his eyes as he glared inwardly at himself. A single tear of self-pity rolled down his cheek, and he made no effort to wipe it away. He simply cursed himself. The MP spat to the side, then raised his rifle and sauntered slowly back to his station. With the surety of many nights' experience, he began once more the slow, long, pacing march of the picket.

Charge of the Grunt Brigade - Part Two: Troops (Continued)
Date: 14 September 2003, 11:03 PM

      The trip was a quick one, only thirty minutes to the base where General Kingsley's division was stationed, traveling by standard Pelican. Dr. Halsey sat next to Kingsley while D'Arcy faced them on the opposite end of the craft. Also present were several MPs, armed with assault rifles, who formed a perimeter around the Pelican and waited for the other passengers to file out of the craft upon its landing. The Pelican held tight until its passenger area was emptied, then closed its ramp and lifted off.
      D'Arcy could see a small crowd lingering at the fringes of the base, a few scribbling down notes. They paid little attention to each other in what D'Arcy assumed was their search for information, peeking around and trying to get a clear view of he, Kingsley and Dr. Halsey's faces. Reporters. What were they doing here?
      Brigadier General Ivan Toskov came out to meet them with a small convoy of two Warthogs, the one trailing in his wake missing its chaingun to make room for an extra passenger. Kingsley climbed into the side seat of the first Warthog, his second driving, while Dr. Halsey and D'Arcy piled into the rear Warthog. They took off at a cruising speed. The second Warthog was silent but in the lead vehicle Kingsley listened as his second informed him of the previous night's events.
      "In spite of the guards we placed at the three entrances to the defector's barracks, it appears that a trio of drunken Marines managed to make their way in under the nose of a Corporal Wallace. It caused quite an uproar—one of the men raised the alarm and the entire base, almost, entered the barracks and took all of the residents prisoner."
      Kingsley swore and slammed his fist onto the Warthog's dashboard, rattling the radio handset on its magnetic perch. Toskov continued on without any hesitation; he might as well get the bad news over with:
      "I had the defectors set free, but it was too late, as I'm sure you know. The jig is up, as I've heard them say in America. Also we lost five, all out of the same platoon's hut. One of the drunken three got hold of a plasma pistol... I must tell you, sir, that any hope of secrecy with the project has been blown to hell. Already we've had to turn away one reporter—by tomorrow there will be a swarm of them."
      "I saw them," Kingsley said irritably.
      D'Arcy listened closely, his fox-like ears soaking in the news like a dry sponge. So he wouldn't be the first new person the Grunt Brigade would see... a bit of a disappointment, and also a misfortune. With such a rude awakening as they had been given, he was sure the defectors—he was hesitant to call them Marines—would be more wary of any new humans. He hoped they would still be battle-ready. He prayed the shock of it all had not run their nerves aground.
      Dr. Halsey seemed not to notice the conversation, but D'Arcy knew better. Someone with her intelligence would have a mind teeming with thoughts on the subject, running many different angles at once. D'Arcy was no fool himself, but he knew that in the brains department the civilian ONI employee outranked him by quite a larger margin than she did in reality.
      Soldiers paused in their tracks as the convoy passed, eyeing Dr. Halsey and D'Arcy with suspicion and curiosity, as close as they were willing to come to insubordination. A few exchanged words with their comrades, expressing suspicions that this definitely had something to do with the suspicious events of the previous night. These were usually stared down by General Toskov, while Kingsley ignored them, letting his second do as he wished. He had more important matters to consider...
      He would very soon have to deal with the press. Those conniving bastards hadn't changed any for a millennia. They could write something one way and set you up for life or the other way and ruin you forever. So far in his career he had been lucky. Most of the newspapers loved him—but the ones who didn't struck out with a deadly, forked tongue. God, he hated them. These younger officers didn't know what they were asking for by bucking for promotion. He had been the same way.
      However, ambition was an important—no, it was a necessary quality for young officers to have. Not only did it almost always go hand-in-hand with courage and intellect, but it also meant they would not fear for their own lives in the quest for promotion and victory. Victory was what the UNSC needed. What humanity needed. And if little victories got them big promotions along the way, then that was good. The more young and intellectual Generals and Admirals to fill the ranks of the UNSC, the better. Younger commanders had always been better... Alexander the Great, Lysander and Henry V, just to name a few.
      The convoy slowed to a stop at a wall, waiting for the now multiple MPs on duty to open the gate. It slid slowly apart, and the convoy passed through. D'Arcy perked up in his seat, viewing the extensive rows of individual barracks. The windows were tinted so he could not see inside, but he could not help but think: there are Covenant soldiers in there. Our Covenant soldiers. My Covenant soldiers.
       An Elite stood before one of the individual barracks, with twenty Jackals behind him. D'Arcy eyed them with wonder, and as the convoy pulled up before them the Elite barked an order and the foremost six Jackals pressed small, fife-looking instruments to their mouths and began to play an interesting, foreign-sounding tune. Grunts filed out of their barracks, and stood before them, saluting with their fists pressed against their hearts. Assembly.
      D'Arcy looked into the Warthog that was beside him. Toskov lifted a handset from the dashboard of his vehicle and handed it to D'Arcy. "Time to make your greeting speech, Colonel. Make it good."
      "Do they—?"
      "They will understand you."
      D'Arcy gave a slight shrug and brought the small handset before his lips. "At ease."
      The Grunt Brigade moved as one and obeyed his command. Impressed, D'Arcy continued: "I am Colonel Asa L. D'Arcy, UNSC Marine Corps. I've been assigned to be your commanding officer..." He trailed off, trying to find the words to say next. "They gave me to you—yes, me to you, not you to me—on short notice, so I don't really have much to say. I just want you all to remember one thing. I'm proud to serve with you, and with your permission, I'd be proud to serve over you, and turn this Grunt Brigade into the best fighting force in the universe."
      Toskov cast him a dark look at this point, as if trying to say "don't let them feel like they're in charge". D'Arcy ignored him. He switched the handset to his left hand and straightened up, saluting. Again moving as one entity the defectors gave their own salute. "Dismissed!"
      He tossed the handset back to Toskov. "Good?"
      "Good enough."
      "I think that's all we came here to see, wouldn't you say, Catherine?" Kingsley asked, straight in his seat, watching the defectors file back into their barracks. He placed a cigar between his fingers and, in the manner of the refined, used a cigar clipper to lop off the end and light it at the same time.
      "I'd say so, General."
      "Colonel, get acquainted with your men," Kingsley said, puffing on his cigar.
      "Yes, sir."
      "Dinner is at zero-six hundred, in the officer's mess. There will be a Warthog to pick you up at that time. Any questions?" Kingsley asked, flashing a small grin from beneath his moustache.
      "No, sir." D'Arcy saluted.
      The two officers returned the gesture, and the convoy rolled out of the compound. D'Arcy looked about the place for a while, taking note of the office-looking hut at the head of the compound. His barracks, he supposed. He'd get to that in a while. Now he went to the officer's barracks and knocked.
      A Jackal opened the door, saluting. The rest of his comrades snapped to attention. D'Arcy returned their salute, again in human-fashion. "At ease. I want all officers to meet at my quarters in five minutes. Is that clear?"
      The defector officer and noncoms nodded, replying with a foreign-accented "Yes, sir!" Their language was fair, which D'Arcy was glad to see. While they might be able to understand what he said—through translator chips, he supposed—he also had to be able to communicate with them. They exchanged salutes and he left them to their business.
      He walked over and pushed open the unlocked door of his quarters. It was a one-room affair, with a desk and computer to his right and a bed to his left, along with a small table in the middle and two chairs. An ashtray was perched in the center, accompanied by a pack of complimentary cigarettes. There was a door at the far end of the room, what he supposed was his own bathroom. He didn't feel the need to explore it now.
      He walked over to the computer and sat down. After tapping a few keys he logged on, set his password and began exploring the programming and adjusting the settings to his own personal preferences. There was a writing program, internet access, email, and an online library accessed from a different program than the internet. He opened this.
      Just as fluent with computers as most people nowadays, he pulled up several texts on different areas. Now that he was once more in command of a real military unit he would have to brush up on his tactics. Captain John Schmitt's brilliant tactical analysis, Warfighting, would do him good. After pulling up several other texts, he placed Warfighting at the top of the list. He would need them—or at least he hoped so. Dr. Halsey said that the Grunt Brigade was going to be one of real soldiers, but how far did the term "real" go?
      He minimized the screen just as he received a knock on his own door. "Enter."
      The officers entered and the room was filled. All were hesitant to sit. "Have a seat, if you can find one," D'Arcy said. Despite the offer, the formal officers remained standing but a single Jackal, who hobbled over to the table and sat in a chair. The others paid him no mind—elderly, by the way his back was bent.
      "Well, I suppose we'd better start off by getting acquainted. Lieutenant?" D'Arcy asked, nodding towards the towering Elite.
      "My name is Kantamee," he said slowly. "Lieutenant, UNSC Marine Corps."
      The seated Jackal spoke up—apparently next-highest in authority. "Sergeant Major Usakkun."
      "Master Sergeant Hizatok."
      "First Sergeant Othakuum."
      "Sergeant Usakkun, hive-nephew of Sergeant Major Usakkun."
      "Sergeant Tekkirath."
      "Sergeant Alokaat."
      And it went like that for several more moments, until they had gotten down the list, all the way to the most inexperienced Jackal, Corporal Rekyut. D'Arcy gave a faint smile at some of the names—they reminded him of the intelligible talk of a toddler. He made note to study the names and pronounce them to the best of his ability. Some of them sounded more human than others, and he would start with those.
      They gave the names of their commands and assignments. D'Arcy realized with a large amount of frustration they were utterly shorthanded. Would Grunts be suitable officers? Only of small commands, the defectors said. They already had senior Grunts running their own barracks, each in charge of a platoon, but that was already stretching it.
       "Damn," D'Arcy said.
      "Sir, we will make do. We have faced more gruesome conditions before."
      This time it was the Elite who spoke up, from his position several feet taller than the rest of them. One of the Jackal's limbs trembled slightly—Corporal Rekyut still held a fear in his heart for the larger Covenant species that had always before commanded the respect of their soldiers by means of pain and fear. He placed one of his mandibles on the limb and stilled it.
      "I'm sure you have, but when you did you had full ranks, didn't you?" D'Arcy asked, slightly afraid of the large creature even though he had shown his obedience. He gave no sign, but it took a lot of his nerve not to take some irrational action and run his respectability and trustworthiness aground.
      "Sometimes, sir. But with this problem we will still not falter."
      "Do all of you feel the same?"
      Slowly, the entire group nodded. "We will survive."
      "That's all I needed to hear. Dismissed!"
      After the host of defector officers had left, D'Arcy stepped out his door and watched them go back to their barracks. Four of the Jackals separated from the group and went to positions where they stood watch around different sectors of the compound. The Elite himself took the first watch over the officer's barracks, holding a needler in one hand and his other hovering over the hilt of his plasma sword. There was no need, but D'Arcy was impressed by their sense of duty. He shouldn't have been, for they were soldiers just like any others—some more disciplined, some less. But generally the same. The Colonel continued to watch in admiration for a few more moments. This really was his command. These were his Covenant soldiers. His men. He gave a faint smile, and spoke silently to himself.
      "We'll make Marines out of you yet."

Charge of the Grunt Brigade - Part Three: Second
Date: 13 October 2003, 2:16 AM

      Captain Vincent Sean Callaghan, UNSC Marine Corps, sat upright in the pelican with five other young officers. All were Navy save he, and none of them spoke. All were tall and thin, all were stern-looking and, for the most part, just receiving their first independent assignments and struggling with the adjustment from Academy life to active service. Vin himself had experienced such a time only two years ago, leaving Lexington, Virginia, his alma mater of VMI, and his home planet for destinations unknown.
      Serving as a staff officer for Brigadier General Joseph Johnston Torrington, he earned promotion by his wit in planning sessions and gallantry in battle, rallying the disorganized remnants of the 17th and 5th regiments to the General so they could make a push through the enemy lines, allowing the rest of the division a path of retreat so they could make it back to headquarters and proceed from there. They had succeeded, and fought and fought as long as they could, all expecting to die. They sustained eighty-percent casualties in the fight, cutting their already decimated forces down to seventy-five men before the entire 3rd Corps came in, guns blazing, and rescued them. The Marine forces retreated off-planet and, for once, the Covenant did not chase them. They were after something on that planet, and the pleasure they derived from killing humans could be put off until they got it.
      Well, he had survived, hadn't he? And now he was belted into the seat of a combat transport with five Naval officers who made a good show of suppressing their nervousness on their journey to the shipyard. There the group would break up and board their assigned ships, and, if FLEETCOM had their way, would not see each other again until they were fifty. If they lasted that long. And who knew if the entire human race would even last that long?
      "Five minutes," the pilot announced.
      "Where do I get off?" Vin asked.
      "I'm supposed to drop you off at the shipyard, sir. There'll be a ride for you there," the pilot answered, not turning back. He was a Marine aviator, maybe twenty, which meant he probably had about a year's worth of experience in a Pelican. Had he seen combat? That was hardly relevant to their current trip, but it was something Vin had become accustomed to, mentally evaluating his pilots. If he had not seen combat, this pilot was almost certainly wishing for it, even praying for it. Just like any other young man. They all did, until the first blood... and some after.
      Whether they wanted to or not, they all returned to the battlefield. If it was human nature, bloodlust, revenge or a sense of duty that made them do it, they all had their different reasons. Perhaps Audie Murphy best characterized it when he said, "As long as there's a man in the lines, I feel that my place is up there beside him."
      "Two minutes."
      Vin took from his pocket the printed orders he had been sent by email. ONI, who had been the ones that transferred him this time, got it to him via the computer of the Gethsemane, the ship that had brought him here when he received his initial transfer orders. The computer then filtered out the email to printers on each deck of the ship. Whichever unlucky Marine or crewman who had been assigned to deliver the mail did his duty, and the ship's residents and passengers got their mail. Not a complicated system, really, but it could take awhile.
      Awhile meant messages could be more than six hours old by the time they were received. People nowadays complained about this, while seven hundred years ago it could take months for the mail to get through. Vin wondered what it would be like for modern society to be stripped of all of its technology and placed in such a situation. Could they survive? He doubted it. But if the Covenant won, any surviving humans would have to learn how to survive, and quickly, because it was highly unlikely that all of today's pleasures and comforts would be available to refugees trying to escape genocide.
      It was up to them to make sure that wasn't necessary. The UNSC had to win this, for humanity's survival. In this war, there would be no winners or losers. No conquerors or conquered. Only exterminators and the exterminated.
      "Thirty seconds!"
      The Pelican drew close, and its engines rotated to VTOL mode and the craft descended. The touchdown was light, and the ramp opened quickly but surely. The soldiers got up to file out, all looking to Vin. He was the highest ranking there and, as tradition and rank demanded, he was first off.
      "No, you first," he said, pointing to a Naval officer with pilot's wings on his uniform. The young officer looked at him, a bit confused. He was still used to Academy life, where the senior cadets always took aggressive command of any and all groupings, and were fully content to exercise the perks of those commands.
      "Sir?"
      "If there's someone out there waiting to shoot us, I don't want to be the first to find out. You can be the unlucky penguin that gets pushed into the water, eh?" Vin said with a grin. These graduates needed to lighten up.
      The young pilot nodded, and eventually a smile came to his lips. "Yes, sir," he said, understanding the joke. He walked forward, descended down the ramp, and was followed out by the other graduates. Two actually turned about to look for assassins, then back to Vin, but Vin only smiled.
      "Thanks for the ride!" he yelled back to the pilot.
      "Anytime, sir!"
      The ramp closed, and Vin rapped it twice with his knuckles in a signal to take off. He then ducked down, running out of the path of the backwash from the jets. The Pelican lifted off behind him, ruffling his hair and the flaps of his uniform. Within a minute it was a mere dot on the horizon.
      They had been dropped off at the airfield. To their left was a large hangar for spacecraft; the shipyard was a massive structure that dominated the area for several miles around. There was a small air control tower directly in front of them, and three transport Warthogs, all lacking the 50mm LAAG chainguns they would have sported in combat.
      Two were close together, with Marine drivers at the wheel. Another was a bit to the left. In the driver's seat, looking dark and suspicious, sat a man in civilian clothes, about Vin's age. A spook? Maybe. Whoever he was, he gave Vin a bored look and drove up in front of him. "Get in, Captain."
      "And who are you?"
      "Buckle up."
      Blatantly disregarding the order, Vin leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. "Damn, if I had known I'd be pulling a job for ONI I wouldn't have agreed to this assignment," he said, trying to pump information out of the silent man. From his angle, Vin could see the butt of an M6D jutting forth from beneath his left shoulder.
      The spook offered no comment, no affirmation of what Vin had said or no denial. He didn't even say what they both were thinking: as if he had any choice on this assignment in the first place. He simply pressed the gas pedal and they drove off.
      Vin examined the dashboard of the Warthog. There was a small lock on the glove compartment, no radio or magnetic perch in between the steering column and the glove compartment, and in the back, where, even without a chaingun, there should have been an open compartment. Instead there was a hooded trunk. All of these things were special issue; they would have had to be added later, once off the assembly line. This was definitely an ONI vehicle.
      Halfway through the trip, the spook made up his mind to speak up. "What have you been told about your assignment?" he asked, not taking his eyes off of the mountain road they were driving across.
      "Just where I was to report to. Nothing more from there. I didn't even know where exactly I was going until I got them on the Gethsemane. What have you been told about your assignment?" Vin asked defiantly.
      "Not to let you ask so many questions."
      "I'm sorry, was I making this tough for you, sir? Or is it really sir? Lieutenant, maybe?"
      "It's Captain Slaughter, Captain, and if you want what I've got for you you'll shut your trap." Slaughter said. He removed a keycard from his pocket and held it in two fingers, taunting Vin.
      Vin yawned softly and clasped his hands together. "What have you got for me?"
      Slaughter tossed the keycard in the air. Vin snatched it out before it blew out of grasp, and examined it. It was plain white, unmarked, with a magnetic strip running across the top. "Slide that through the lock on the glove compartment," Slaughter told him.
      Vin did, and the glove compartment popped open. It revealed another concealing lid, the color of gunmetal. It had a keypad on the top with all the one-digit numbers arranged three-by-three. "Code?" Vin asked, his hand hovering over the keypad.
      Slaughter pushed his hand away and in a flurry of movement typed in the code, leaning over slightly but still driving without any fault. "Inside there," he said, leaning back over to his side, "you'll find sealed orders for you there. Open them now, before we get out of the mountains, and read them quickly." Slaughter pressed a button on the dashboard, and the roof closed over them.
      The orders were in a large mail packet. Vin flipped out a pocketknife and cut them open, sliding them out quickly until he saw the first sentence. He increased the exposed amount of paper in intervals, line-by-line, proving to Slaughter that, while he was no spook, he was not the idiot the ONI operative made him out to be.

      Captain Vincent Sean Callaghan:

      I'm sorry I couldn't be there to meet you in person. I had previous engagements that demanded my presence with all urgency, and it is not prudent to keep bureaucrats waiting, because you never know who might be on the committee that decides the outcome of your next possible pay raise.

      Despite that, I must warn you as solemnly as humanly possible that the information you are about to read is at the highest level of classification. If you leak any of this, you will be tried for treason and put before a firing squad. There have already been too many complications in this matter, and we don't need anymore.

      Enclosed you will find a folder that contains top-secret images and reports of a very serious nature involving your next assignment. Please examine them closely, then destroy them by flame and scatter the ashes on the road you are traveling. I have copies on file, so if something might happen to you before you can reach us what you see will not die with you but be passed on to the next officer chosen to take your place.

      You will report directly to Major General Othello Kingsley, where you will receive further orders regarding this matter. Good luck and Godspeed.

      -Dr. Catherine Halsey

      Vin slid the orders back into the packet, and pulled out a folder. He flipped it open and, without hesitation, began to examine what soon turned out to be the intriguing contents. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Slaughter watching his face, searching for an expression of surprise or disbelief to appear. Had the ONI operative seen what was inside previous to this trip? Or was he just now learning what his superiors had not trusted him to know?
      He read through the remainder of the folder, put it back in the packet and pulled out his miniature lighter—what long ago would be used for cigarettes was now an all-purpose source of flame. With a flick of his thumb it was open and ignited, and he held it up to the corner of the mail packet. The packet caught fire, and he dropped it into the ashtray that Slaughter held out for him. After it was done burning, Slaughter opened the roof and tossed the ashes over his shoulder.
      Only after this did he ponder what he had seen. Defectors? The idea was not entirely original one, to be sure. From mercenaries in the Peloponnesian War to Italian soldiers in the Second World War, defectors were present in almost all conflicts. Even in Mohammed's conquest of the world in the name of Allah, there had been defectors willing to accept Islam and abandon their ancient tribal traditions, rooted deep in pagan beliefs. Because of this he knew Holy Wars were no exception, and this was certainly a Holy War—on both sides. But that did not mean that he had expected the fanatical beliefs of the Covenant hive to sprout a garden of dissenters.
      Could he fight against his fellow humans, his brother Marines, indeed, in the name of gods he cursed avidly and passionately almost on a daily basis? Could he serve the enemy of everything he believed, of everything God had created? Could he kill children and women in a bloody rage for simply the sake of not having his ass fried by a Hunter? No, damn it, he couldn't, and he wouldn't, even if he could. He could never be a defector. The spirit of these defectors amazed him, because certainly they knew that they were an enemy to their very own survival.
      But aren't we all.
      "Catch any of that, Slaughter?" Vin asked.
      "What, the smell?"
      "Don't play stupid."
      "Like hell I won't. Would you prefer a 'no comment'?"
      Vin sighed and looked behind him, watching the ashes disintegrate against the force of the mountain winds. Guiding his eyes back to the road ahead, they fell once more upon the large trunk hood that was on top of where the passenger or gunner compartment should be. "What's in there?" he asked, jerking a thumb back.
      Slaughter looked at the trunk through his rearview mirror. "Your luggage," he said, with a hint of annoyance. Vin was acting a bit childish, nagging him with every sentence. Trying to get to his head. Didn't these combat Marines know ONI trained you to combat this very thing?
      "Ever feel like your abilities are being wasted on jobs like this?"
      "You ask too many questions."
      "And you don't answer any."
      "I learned a long time ago that was a good way to keep out of trouble," Slaughter said, turning sharply to the left, unworried by the sheer drop of hundreds of meters that awaited them if he should turn to sharply or drift to far to the side of the road.
      "Sorry, but I've always been a slow learner. Ever shot anybody?"
      "Yeah, all guys like you."
      Vin was apparently done wasting his childish efforts to tease Slaughter. There was silence from then on, and by the time they reached civilization once more, they both were the stern, commanding professionals that had disappeared into the mountains at a drastic speed only an hour ago. How many satellites had recorded everything that had passed during that time, missing only the interval where a roof was over their heads? It made Vin queasy to wonder.
      The first distinctive path they took was to where General Kingsley's division was stationed. Vin noted there was no map displayed on the GPS panel of the dashboard, just behind the steering wheel. Slaughter either had studied a map of this place or been in the area before. Odds were it was a combination of the two.
      The MPs let them in with a flash of papers, and Slaughter guided the Warthog to the command center. More MPs stopped them at the entrance, took their papers, read them thoroughly, and asked their business.
      "We're here to see General Kingsley, Sergeant," Slaughter said curtly to the towering Indian man. If they had been standing on the ground he would have easily had had a head on them both.
      "Major General Kingsley's not on base at the moment, sir. We can direct you to Brigadier General Toskov if you'd like."
      "Thank you, Sergeant."
      The MP Sergeant and one of his men escorted the Warthog to the gates that led to the division command offices, where the company clerks did their work and where the unit commanders reported to their superiors. The gates parted like the Red Sea, letting them pass and then closing behind them. The Indian Sergeant went back to post and left Slaughter and Vin to find Toskov for themselves. Not a hard task, to be sure. They didn't need a detail of MPs babysitting them twenty-four-seven.
      Slaughter drove up to the hut with the highest-flying flag, caught up in the wind. More of the same routine of showing MPs their papers followed, and they were admitted to the front office, where a secretary—Vin was slightly surprised; most officers with higher ranks had AIs to do their paperwork for them—was seated, hard at work with a stack of paperwork.
      They stood before the secretary's desk for several moments, until Slaughter, not in any mood to take the "I'm-sorry-you'll-have-to-wait" shit that would be provided if he asked the secretary for his time, slapped his hand down on the secretary's desk, right in front of his pen. The man's eyes followed Slaughter's fingers to his hand and his hand up his arm, finally coming to the irritated eyes of the ONI spook. "Yes?" he asked, somewhat timid.
      "We're here to see General Toskov."
      "He's busy at the moment. You'll have to wait for—"
      "Now, Lieutenant."
      Slaughter was now leaning over the desk at a dangerous level, his eyes boring into the secretary's from only a few centimeters away. He breathed into the Lieutenant's face, and the secretary backed up. He dropped his pen and held up his hands slightly. "Yes, sir," he said and got up quickly and went to the door.
      Vin smiled. Slaughter knew how to get results.
      The secretary opened the door for them, and held it there as they circled around his desk and filed through. As he passed, Slaughter flashed a grin at the secretary. "Thank you, Lieutenant." Vin winked.
      Toskov was conversing with a Colonel who sat in a reclining chair with hands folded in his lap. They looked up as the two Captains entered, Toskov across circular-rimmed glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose. The Brigadier General set down a paper he was holding and looked to the secretary, who followed them in. "Lieutenant?"
      "Captains Slaughter and Callaghan to see you, sir," the secretary said, repeating the names he had read off their papers.
      "Didn't I ask not to be disturbed until I was done with Colonel D'Arcy?"
      "Sir—" the secretary started, but Slaughter cut him off.
      "My fault, General. I insisted on delivering Captain Callaghan to his new post as soon as possible, as per orders." Slaughter patted his right coat pocket. "You can look it up with ONI, if you'd like."
      "No, that won't be necessary, Captain. Lieutenant, you two are dismissed," Toskov said quickly. Slaughter tossed him a salute that was rather on the sloppy side, and the secretary went rigid and his hand snapped to his forehead. He made a perfect about-face and opened the door, leading Slaughter out.
      Halfway through the door, Slaughter turned his head towards Vin and held up his hand. "I'll be seeing you, Captain. You can count on that. Semper Fi," Slaughter said, and left without waiting for a response. The Lieutenant, a good secretary, closed the door quickly but softly behind him.
      Vin turned to Toskov and saluted. "General."
      "Captain." Toskov nodded. "If you would be so kind as to wait for a few moments until I'm finished with Colonel D'Arcy?"
       "Yes, sir."
      "You may have a seat in the corner, Captain" Toskov said, motioning to the chair opposite the man he had marked as D'Arcy. Vin walked over and plopped down in the chair, placing his cap on his lap.
      "Colonel, I'll see what I can do about getting your men a spot on the firing range. We'll need to divert the flow of personnel traffic to the area, but if we manage to time it right that shouldn't be a problem."
      "Thank you, sir," D'Arcy said.
      "That will be all, Colonel. Dismissed!"
      "Yes, sir!" D'Arcy said, and stood up. He picked his cap up from the small table next to his chair and tucked it underneath his arm. A salute snapped to his forehead, in the same, crisp military manner that the Lieutenant had displayed. Toskov returned his salute and Vin saluted also. D'Arcy promptly left the room.
      Vin sat in the chair for several moments, waiting as Toskov worked diligently. His fingers played over his keyboard, the information he was typing displayed in his glasses for only him to see. There was a screen that could be projected to display what was going on to multiple persons, but by the dust on the switch that would activate it, which was located next to the keyboard that was built into the desk, Vin assumed it hadn't been used much.
      When General Toskov was done he removed his glasses and set them lightly on the table. He looked up to Vin, and then without taking his eyes off of him he reached down and pulled open a drawer. He took out a folder and placed it on his desk. "I assume you read the message and saw the file Dr. Halsey sent you?"
      "Yes, sir."
      "Have you spoken to anyone about what you saw?"
      "No, sir."
      "Did you dispose of what you were given?"
      "Yes, sir."
      "Then we don't need this," Toskov said, and put the folder back in the drawer. Vin was surprised that he didn't lock it—he was pretty sure what was in that folder—but then again it might be set only to open when in contact with Toskov's fingerprints or genetic signature, provided through the abundance of cells crawling or dripping across human skin. "So, tell me what you think is going on, Captain Callaghan?"
      "Is this office clean of bugs?"
      "Yes, Captain. You may speak freely. Just not loudly."
      "From what I read from Dr. Halsey, there's been a unit of defectors formed in the UNSC Marine Corps. Other than that, I don't know anything other than it has something to do with my transfer..." Vin trailed off, his mind going too fast for his mouth. "I'm not being put in command of this unit, sir?"
      "Not quite, Captain Callaghan. That... honor goes to Colonel D'Arcy." Toskov's pause before the word "honor" said enough of what he thought of the program and the defectors. But, a good old soldier, he did his duty without grumbling. "You," he continued, "will be serving as a member of Colonel D'Arcy's staff."
      "As what?" Vin asked.
      "Executive officer of the Grunt Brigade," Toskov said, and Vin was sure he saw a smile flash across his face. "Congratulations, Captain. You are dismissed. You can find a ride to your new unit's compound from Sergeant Kanwar, the Indian MP on duty outside the gate."
      "Yes, sir." Vin stood up and saluted.
      "Good luck, Captain."

The Warthog bumped and trembled as it swerved to avoid shallow ruts on the side of the poorly-kept road. Vin sat erect in the side seat, trusting Sergeant Kanwar not to roll them over. They were slowly leaving more cluttered areas with buildings, barracks and people, and coming into areas with more room for the dust to be kicked up. A light cough came out of Vin's mouth, and his covered it with a fist.
      "Sorry about the dust, Captain."
      "I don't mind, Sergeant. My lungs have been breathing that musty, recycled starship air for too long. I like the change. It reminds me I've got land under me again," Vin explained as the Warthog rumbled across a patch of rough, gravelly road.
      "Yes, sir. It's a good feeling," the Sergeant said, giving a slight smile.
      "That it is." They were silent for the remainder of the trip.
      Sergeant Kanwar pulled up to the compound a minute later and dropped him off with a salute. Vin returned it, was admitted to the compound by the MP, who had seen him with Sergeant Kanwar, his superior, and took it as all the clearance Vin needed to be admitted. He was led by the MP to a hut off to the side of the main rows of barracks, where the MP knocked on the door. "Colonel?"
      The same Colonel D'Arcy that Vin had seen in Toskov's office opened the door. Both Vin and the MP saluted, and D'Arcy saluted them back. "Lance Corporal Wallace. Do you need something?"
      "No, sir. Just delivering a new officer to your unit," Corporal Wallace said. He stepped aside and Vin took a step forward, standing where the MP had stood a moment ago.
      "Thank you, Corporal. You may return to your post," D'Arcy said.
      The MP executed an about face and marched back to the gate. He went through, closed it and locked it with his dog tag, which contained a military security clearance chip, using it as a keycard.
      "Well, Captain, come in, and let me explain to you some of our situation here. I know about you, but you don't know about us," D'Arcy said gruffly, stepping aside. His service uniform was unbelted and his cap hung from a hook on the wall. Vin removed his cover and put it beneath D'Arcy's, then stood by the Colonel's desk as D'Arcy settled down in his desk chair. "Have a seat, Captain. There's some chairs at the table over there," D'Arcy said, motioning a few feet to his right.
      "Thank you, Colonel, but I'll stand."
      "Suit yourself, Captain."
      "Thank you, sir," Vin said, nodding.
      "How much do you know about what we've got going on here?" D'Arcy asked.
      "I know about the Grunt Brigade. I know that I've been assigned to be the XO of this unit."
      "Anything else?"
      "That you're the CO. That's about it."
      "We've got twenty noncoms, all Jackals. We have one officer, a Lieutenant, an Elite. You'll get to know them in awhile. The rest of the Grunt Brigade is manned by Grunts, one to a platoon, and from what my officers have told me that's already stretching it, as Grunts are made to be cannon fodder and don't really have any training past how to shoot the man in front of you and do what your superiors say. They're not supposed to be superiors. So you can see our dilemma?" D'Arcy was now tapping a pack of cigarettes lightly against his hand.
      "Yes, sir, I can see the problem."
      "You're job is to train these Grunts. We cannot go into battle with noncoms who are combat ineffective," D'Arcy said. He pulled out a cigarette, removed the safety strip, tapped it on the end and placed it in his mouth as it lighted up. "Cigarette, Captain?"
      Vin reached out, took one and placed it in his pocket. "Thank you, sir, I'll smoke it later." He had his own cigarettes, a different brand, but it wouldn't be prudent to refuse his COs hospitality when they had just met. He would smoke it later, whether D'Arcy saw him or not.
      "I want a report by reveille in a week. Understand?"
      "Affirmative, sir."
      "All right. You can go to your barracks now and pick out a bunk. The officer's hut is the first one in line, the row nearest to my quarters here. Your belongings are already there. Get to know your fellow officers and get as much information on training Grunts as you can from them. You are dismissed," D'Arcy said, exhaled from his nostrils, and stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray.
      Vin saluted, and D'Arcy nodded to him. He turned around, picked his cap up off the hook, placed it beneath his arm and opened the door. "One more thing, Captain Callaghan," he said. Vin paused.
      "We have a spot on the shooting range tomorrow at zero-six hundred. General Toskov just emailed me. I want you to bring your sidearm with you. We'll all be doing some shooting. I like to see how well the men I serve with shoot," D'Arcy said.
      "Yes, sir."
      "It doesn't have to be loaded. You'll get ammo at the firing range."
      Vin smiled. "Sir, I always keep my sidearm loaded."

Kantamee looked up as a human male, about six feet tall and looking to be about in his mid-twenties, entered the barracks. The officers present snapped to their feet, their hearts pressed against the center of their chests. "At ease," the human said. "I'm your new XO. Captain Vin Callaghan, for any of you who want to know."
      Kantamee walked forward and held out a hand. "Welcome to the Grunt Brigade, Captain."
      Vin looked him over, from his towering eight-foot high crown to his large feet. Standing in the large creature's shadow, he reached out his hand and grasped the Elite's. His fingertips barely made it around. "Glad to be here, Lieutenant. Colonel D'Arcy told me my luggage was here. Were any black bags dumped here?"
      "Yes, sir, they're on the last bunk in the row."
      "Ah," Vin said, peeking around the Elite's shoulder to what he supposed had been chosen as the bunk for him. It was a normal affair, like what he had usually slept in, only a few feet longer. The Jackals had sleeping platforms with little caves dug out of the walls for their backs, similar to what he supposed Grunts would sleep on. The four long bunks at the end, of which his was one, were empty and well-made. Apparently Elites could sleep on mattresses if they had to.
      He let the officers to their business of cleaning and maintenance. There were only five or six present, counting Lieutenant Kantamee. He supposed the rest were policing the compound. He took his bags off his bed, and set them beside his bunk. Sitting down on the bunk, he unzipped one small bag, then proceeded to unlock it. He opened it up, then removed the M6D pistol inside.
      He opened the slide, then peered inside the chamber to make sure a shell was present. After that he checked the clip. The magazine was full. Vin belted the gun onto his uniform, took D'Arcy's cigarette out of his pocket and smoked it. When he was done he knew that, like so many other places he had been stationed, this was home.

Charge of the Grunt Brigade - Part Four: Grunts
Date: 25 November 2003, 3:11 AM

      The firing range was rich with the sizzling sound that plasma bolts made as they passed through the air. Plywood targets set before cement blocks, rather than paper ones, were used so as not to consume resources so quickly. Each soldier with a plasma weapon was issued with two extra energy batteries for their arms, and made good use of them.
      The needler-bearing Grunts and 'Kantamee, who favored a needler over a plasma rifle or pistol, were given wooden blocks, which rained splinters downrange when they were bored into by the explosions. Vin, as he reloaded his sidearm, watched 'Kantamee chip away six more inches of wood. "Nice gun," he commented.
      "It's slow, but the result is decidedly worth the wait," the towering Lieutenant said flatly, lowering the weapon.
      Vin raised his fully-loaded M6D .450 magnum pistol once more, and went to work on the target. Using double-tap, he worked off rounds in six pairs. The gun kicked against his hand, and he held it firmer, his shooting eye peering expertly through the scope mounted on top of the muzzle. Had he been a footsoldier, he would have had the choice between that, open sights, and electronic sights provided by the standard-issue targeting reticule, mounted on the helmet. Officers normally weren't given such equipment.
      "I'm out," he said, ejected the magazine from the hilt of his sidearm and set both down on the bench in front of him.
      D'Arcy only used one magazine, was satisfied with a tight-knit grouping around the central mass of the target—confirmation of his shooting provided courtesy of the telescope set on his bench beforehand—offered the magazine to Vin, then set it down beside him when his XO declined. It was likely that the next officer to use the ammunition would gain more out of the target practice than he would, he reflected grimly. He didn't nag about what assignments the Grunt Brigade would be getting, but he could sense an air about the officer's mess and even General Toskov that his unit was nothing more than a propaganda sham. And, despite what Dr. Halsey had told him, he was starting to believe that's all they were going to be.
      "They're good soldiers," Vin said, seeming to read his mind. D'Arcy followed his executive officer's gaze down the long line of enlisted men, defectors, and nodded vaguely. The sun was turning an orange haze against the mountainous sky ahead. About time to wrap it up, it seemed.
      "Cease fire, cease fire," the speakers blared. The order was followed, and two hundred weapons were lowered. But not set down.
      "Disarm your weapons and place ammunition and your arms on the benches in front of you," the voice of the speakers continued. Now the clatter of weapons, ammo and energy batteries could be heard as they were let go of by the soldiers and placed on their benches. There were six Grunts or Jackals to a bench, and now six guns on each bench.
      "Examine your targets," the voice ordered. Only the officer's shooting bench had a telescope. The gates between the benches swung automatically open, and the hundred members of the Grunt Brigade walked down the wide paths toward the targets.
      'Kantamee had little to examine but sawdust and splinters. He swept them off the platform the wood had been perched on, into a bag hanging from the back for the very purpose. He then stood back and waited for his superiors to take down their targets.
      Vin unclipped his target from the posts from which it was suspended, and held it in front of him. There were several holes around the bullseye of the circular target, clustered together. It was too complicated to make different targets for Elites, Grunts, Jackals and Hunters, so the UNSC had switched from human-shaped targets to simply circular ones.
      Vin folded his target and placed it beneath his arm. D'Arcy did the same with his, and the trio marched back to the bench, where they collected their weapons, returned any extra ammo or magazines belonging to the firing range, and disposed of their targets.      
      As they went back and the next two hundred hurriedly advanced to the firing line, Vin thought about how much it must be costing the division, and the entire UNSC to be furnishing the Grunt Brigade with all they needed. Methane, which was pumped into the Grunts' huts through pipes that they could hook their breathing apparatuses to while they slept. The pipes could also be used to fill their spare methane cartridges, ammo for life. They needed energy batteries for their weapons, also. Vin wondered why they hadn't been given ballistic weapons, but the Admiralty would do what the Admiralty would do. For surely the Admiralty had had a hand in all of this... ONI was one of their favorite puppets.
      "So, Captain, how do you plan to train these senior Grunts?" D'Arcy asked.
      "I was planning to give them VMI's command training program in a nutshell, without the textbooks," Vin said, tightening his gunbelt. "Purely low-level command stuff, no big complicated maneuvers or really anything else. They probably understand most of that. I want them to learn command. Which is why I think I'll throw some stuff in from JROTC, too." D'Arcy nodded, then added a comment:
      "I went to the Academy on Reach, myself, and I was the only one I knew to do it. The rest of my family were all seadog types. Right now they're cruising about on subs, conducting little political wars on other countries within the UN. Too subtle for me."
      "Yes, sir," Vin nodded. While out in space, the UNSC felt a firm sense of unity, at least within most of the planets and people, Earth would always be the land of nations. The UN headed most of the Naval forces there, but there would always be factions. God, if they ever won this war they would go straight back to where they were before it started, maybe worse, with each nation trying to make a grab at the throne of the Human Empire.
      But then, what were the odds that'd ever happen?
      "We won't use our men like cannon fodder. We won't be the Covenant," D'Arcy said. "These Grunts have to be worth more than the three three-ninety bullets they cost us when they're on the other side. Understand?"
      "Roger that, sir."
      "All right. Start today. You can have the empty corner of the compound to start with. Show me some progress by tonight and I'll see if I can hook you up with some training obstacles."
      "I've already got a few myself."
      D'Arcy handpicked six Jackals and 'Kantamee and sent them with the senior Grunts back to the compound with Vin, who discussed what the first course of the training session would be with 'Kantamee as they marched back.
      The empty corner D'Arcy had spoken of was about one hundred meters by two hundred meters and was devoid of much besides a few trees and a large area of long grass. Vin had the six Jackals organize the senior Grunts into file, and they stood at attention as he, the Jackals and 'Kantamee went among them and inspected each row.
      A few Grunts flinched, a few avoided his eyes, a few breathed heavily. The majority of them didn't react at all. Vin looked to one of these and scrutinized his alien features. "What's your name, soldier?"
      The Grunt didn't fumble with the words or pause, but rather spoke in a clear manner that surprised Vin. "My name is Gayag. Private First Class, serial number seven seven nine three four oh three nine six one G."
      Vin memorized it. Gayag. Private First Class. 77934-03961-G.
      "Only one name?"
      "Yes, sir, only one name."
      "Well, PFC Gayag, let's see you take these first eighteen men," Vin said, pointing to the side down the line, "and see if you can make a pyramid of Grunts, nice and straight. Are you up to the challenge?" he asked, not very concerned that it would be extremely difficult for the short and stocky creatures to do so.
      "Sir, yes, sir!" Gayag said confidently.
      "Good, because you'll be facing off against the team that's already started over there," Vin said, nodding to the team organized by Lieutenant 'Kantamee just behind them. "Winners get a headstart on the next one."
      Gayag started to say something, then turned around and barked orders to the Grunts in their native language. Vin stood back as the Jackals kept an eye on the proceedings, and motioned for 'Kantamee to come to him. "What are they saying, Lieutenant?"
      "I don't know much of their language, but from what I can tell he's organizing his men into files by size."
      "And the other team?"
      "I think you can see what's going on over there yourself."
      Vin looked to the other team and saw he was right. The Grunt given command of Team One, a certain Popok, also was yelling at his Grunts, but they weren't too enthusiastic about following his instructions. Apparently Popok wasn't a favorite character amongst the ranks of the senior Grunts.
      Vin almost felt sorry for him, but then decided feeling sorry for him would only lead him to feel sorry for himself, and nothing could be accomplished by that. It would not do to have a commander who was combat ineffective. Popok would figure the situation out for himself or learn the hard way.
      He turned his attention back to Gayag's Team Two. He already had a row of six Grunts facedown in the long grass, and had five more trying to climb over them. They gave each other boosts, lifting their fellow Grunts onto the growing pyramid. There were grunts of stress as more weight was added, but no one faltered.
      Vin noticed a shadow slowly reaching out to Team Two, a jagged shadow wide and growing rapidly. He looked to Team One, and saw Grunts slowly but surely climbing upon each other, at the orders of a gruff and muffled voice whose origin was hidden from Vin. He looked around from Popok, wondering if he had been a victim of mutiny, then managed to find the owner of the voice. It belonged to a sturdy Grunt, watching his team's success in the pyramid challenge from the bottom, using a crystalline mirror to coordinate Team One's efforts visually. Popok had found the key, Vin thought. The commander supports the weight of the unit.
      At the bottom, the commander did have difficulty seeing what was going on, but at the bottom the commander also earned the trust of his men, gaining their respect by showing them he put his butt on the line for his people, not his people on the line for his butt. Gayag might be the stronger, smarter commander, the more liked, even the better one, but he had failed in the purpose of the challenge, despite who won. And, as both pyramids grew, outmatching each other, Team One higher at one point and then Team Two taking the lead, that contest could go either way.
      Eventually it was indeed Team Two who won, but Popok seemed satisfied with even completing the challenge. He looked over his shoulder to Vin, who gave nothing but a curt nod. So this is how to play DI, he thought. Not a bad job.
      "All right, five minute break, then meet me back here," Vin said. The Jackals relayed the information to the Grunts, who understood it better in the Covenant's official language, used when communicating in official situations and between the species.
      As the Grunts wandered off to their huts to refill their methane tanks, refresh themselves with whatever it was that the soldiers were served at the compound's independent mess hall, or review the happenings of the challenge, Vin had two of the Jackals fetch six poles and two rolls of rope from beneath his bed. He had scrounged the items up from the division's supply room the previous night after the dinner meal.
      Using the butt of his sidearm he hammered each meter-high pole into the ground, one at each corner of two equilateral triangles he roped off with the rolls of cord. He now had two triangles about five meters apart from each other, small triangles with not much room inside for what he intended—which was exactly what he intended to be the case.
      When the Grunts returned he explained to them their task: both Teams would enter a triangle, and get every last Team member out of it without touching the ropes or poles and without going under. The only way out was over the top—and Team Two would start first, as was promised when they undertook the first challenge.
      "But," he said, "I'll give you a chance to sleep on it, get an idea of what you'll do. For the rest of the day I want you to do the pyramid, racing each other. Maybe your Lieutenant will throw something in to make it interesting, say, head starts, or hands tied behind backs."
      The Grunts shouted, "Yes, sir!" and began building their pyramids once more.
      Vin looked at the sun. They had expended about an hour of their total of six, which meant they had five left. He smiled, turned to 'Kantamee, and explained to him in more detail what he wanted. "Run it through with them: pyramid, break, pyramid, break. Tomorrow we'll start the triangle challenge."
      "Yes, sir."
      It might not be interesting anymore, Vin knew, repeating the process. But these were the basics, what would set up a foundation for them to build from when he threw at them what he planned for later. Something even more challenging than the triangle... if he had the chance...
      They would climb.

The next morning Vin was on what was now the training field before any of them, early enough to feel the dew sprinkle against his leggings and seep through to his skin. He stood there, motionless, watching the Grunts organize into their files. As soon as roll was taken, Teams were separated, and the triangle challenge was begun. Team Two was at the lead, according to what Vin had proclaimed the prize for yesterday's challenge.
      Five minutes later, when Team One started out, Team Two was not any farther than they had been when they themselves began. They had gotten two over, then three, but one of the Grunts tripped over the rope on his way over, collided with the three Team members o his on the other side, and all four fell to the ground—then Team Two started again. Team One had a similar experience.
      Popok decided he should go over first so as to view the situation better—and from another angle: that of the outside. Forsaking fear of injury, he had his Team launch him headfirst over the side. As it happened, he landed on his face, got up and brushed the dust off of himself. In an island of flattened long grass he paced, watching as first the smaller, then the larger, then smaller came over so as not to burden each one with the taking over of the more unshapely and heavy. Miraculously they got four more over before a haphazardly swaying Grunt bumped the rope, and the Jackals watching Team One herded them all back in.
      It was two hours before both Teams were finished, and even then Vin was surprised at their determination. He remembered the exercise from many years ago when he was in his school's JROTC, with his instructor yelling, and people being carried and thrown over and then crawling under again. It was a pain.
      They did the triangle exercise for the rest of the day, just as they did with the pyramid yesterday. 'Kantamee suggested they try blindfolding those who had gotten over already so as to make transfer of even more Grunts across the rope even more difficult. Vin liked the idea. It built trust on both ends: the receivers learned to trust the ones guiding them into place, as the guiders learned to trust those guiding them across.
      Trust. These men trusted each other already, and though it was now stronger and more vivid, it wasn't what he needed to concentrate his efforts on at the moment. Trust was all good and well, but trust was the not the purpose he had been assigned to achieve.
      Nor did the poorly-equipped and undersized field he had been given to train with offer all the possibilities he had hoped for. He wanted obstacle courses, he wanted climbing poles, he wanted a chance to do things right. He might not be trying to build strength, or necessarily train for maneuvers and combat, but he wanted to teach the pressures of command. And he couldn't do that with what he was given.
      What's more, commanders relied on their subordinates to ease some of those pressures. Here he did what he could, which was having a Grunt at the head of each team organizing an effort to win what amounted to, in the end, silly little games. There was no chain of command other than commander-to-enlisted. This isn't what he wanted at all...
      Climbing. That was what he wanted. Obstacles would teach evasion and maneuvers, and these challenges would teach the mental foundations for them. At the end of the obstacle courses would be poles to climb, flags to take as prizes of victory. But there needed to be challenges in these obstacle courses that split up the groups, taught them that they couldn't merely rely on one but each had to be able to do the job of the one that fell before.
      He knew that all this was impossible in the Grunt Brigade's separate compound. He needed to achieve usage of the division's training facilities. Once he acquired those, and learned to understand them, he'd go from there.

It another day, but Colonel D'Arcy appealed to General Kingsley and got them what Vin wanted. There were obstacle courses, climbing poles, sand pits, the works. Obstacles could even move and lunge out at the Grunts. The obstacles were no longer obstacles, they were the enemy, as Popok and Gayag soon learned. The obstacles could be disabled, but it required actual coordination of effort and a real chain of command. The two allied armies were separated into platoons, each assigned an obstacle to take out. When obstacles were taken out the force moved on, sometimes at the cost of "lives", sometimes—but rarely—death-free.
      A Grunt "died" when a laser on an obstacle, moving with the simulated speed of the average enemy's muzzle sweep, painted a Grunt. The Grunt was set aside and the armies continued.
      When they got to the end of the obstacle courses and reached the poles, the armies wreaked havoc upon each other using stun batons found half-buried in the sand. Runners would ascend the poles only to be brought down by quickly-following enemies from the opposing Team. The stunned, or otherwise "dead" Grunts, followed the same procedure their predecessors, brought down by lasers, had obeyed, and the battle continued. When Popok himself, bravery gathered up, charged forward with a stun baton in between his mandibles and shimmied up the pole, using the small protrusions in the pole only to propel him upwards rather than provide support. Another Grunt from Team Two tried to bring him down, but Popok let go of the pole, and brought him down and of the pole with his body weight. He grabbed onto the pole before he himself fell, hurtled himself upward, snatched the pole, and with the stun baton still between his mandibles, leapt down into his own Team, who caught him and carried him back to Vin. They were victorious.
      "Who knew they could climb so well? Their stubby bodies..." 'Kantamee didn't finish the statement.
      "Does it matter? We know now they can think things up on the spot, command smaller groups and larger ones, coordinate their efforts, and kill each other without remorse. What more do we need to know?" Vin asked gleefully.
      "Nothing. But it's not we that need to know, Captain. There's still the Colonel."

But the next day it turned out Colonel was happy with what he saw, just as happy and overjoyed as Vin had been, even though he made no effort to show it as the soldiers lined up in file after repeating the exercise, their speed down by sixty-four seconds even though the obstacles had changed and their timing reset. He merely tapped a cigarette on the end and smoked it, nodded, and turned to Vin, 'Kantamee, and the Jackals assigned to the project. "Good job."
      They went back, after that, to cleaning weapons, polishing armor, improving their English skills, just as they had before. The Grunt Brigade's staff read tactics reports and drilled their troops once a day. There was not much more to be done—this was not the front, but the rear, yet these were still soldiers, on-duty.
      But Vin knew that, even though it might not make much of a difference to onlookers from the outside world, that now each of his senior Grunts possessed an appreciation and elevated knowledge of command that would quite possible increase their survival rate by twenty percent.
      So, he had finally done what D'Arcy really wanted: changed the price tag on this Grunt Brigade, per-unit, from just three bullets too a platoon. That was about the worth of the average Marine, if he didn't chicken out or make stupid mistakes and he wasn't at risk from the big guns. A whole platoon, one for each one of them.
      Vin didn't know about anyone else, but he thought those were damn fine odds.

Charge of the Grunt Brigade - Part Five: Deployed
Date: 2 July 2004, 3:41 PM

      Well, this is it folks. The second to last chapter of COTGB—and my return. My official return, anyway. It's probably a little weak in some places—I haven't written in a few months, and by the time I started up again with this chapter, I had already written everything but the end. If you find it's unimpressive, boring, or even cheesy (see the battle poem), I sincerely apologize. I can only do my best.

-Walker

      The orders came in two weeks later. They would be deployed in a week, moved closer to the front. They had been training hard the weeks before, and now they doubled their efforts. The sand pits, war games, and exercises seemed to go on forever. It was hard to simulate large-scale battles, because they had no one to train with—even though the whole division knew of their existence, their officers weren't allowed to know for sure, or in other words have continual visual contact. So the Grunt Brigade fought alone.
      Would the top brass ever acknowledge their existence? At the time this wasn't the matter. It was their job to fight and their job to die for a people who hated them, against the people who had raised them. They did their job without complaint.
      They jogged the troops around the compound, the Colonel in the front, followed by Vin and 'Kantamee, with the Grunts in back and the Jackals along the side. Sergeant Major Usak yelled at them encouragement and curses in the Covenant's inter-species language, and even went as far as to drag a Grunt from the back of the line and throw him in the front. The exercises went on.
      At the firing range, Vin and D'Arcy took turns at the Covenant weapons, namely the plasma rifle. Its rate of fire was slow compared to that of the MA5B, but it would do if they needed to pick up a weapon that provided more firepower than their sidearms.
      'Kantamee blew away individual blocks of wood lined up before him with his needler, expending all his ammunition as quickly as possible. Because the needler was more of a point-and-shoot weapon rather than one that needed to be aimed, the Lieutenant was at the firing range working on his speed. Which, with the slow-to-destroy needler, would be essential.
      They pushed themselves to the limit right up to the last day, when, in the fading hours of twilight, all of the Grunt Brigade assembled at the head of the compound. Armor was polished, uniforms were worn primly and properly, and weapons were held in parade-ground marching position. There was a podium set up before them, and soon, within moments of their assembly, Colonel Asa L. D'Arcy walked up to the podium, sidearm tied down on his right hip, his cover in place over his head, and his face expressionless. If it had been quiet before, now it was so silent you could hear a pin drop in a soundproof room. Vin stood on his right side, 'Kantamee at his left, and the Sergeant Major beside Vin as the leader and father of the Grunt Brigade began to speak.
      "We've been training hard for this past week. You've probably gotten no more than, on average, thirty hours of sleep per soldier. You've jogged, fought, climbed and crawled through every waking hour. You only stopped to be fed once you were finished, only took a break when your methane tanks ran low. Here we've simulated battle as best as possible, with the best equipment we could provide, and the most witty officers to challenge you. We've done everything we could to break your spirit. And now, I'm proud to say, it stayed alive."
      At this D'Arcy paused, opened his mouth, exhaled. His tongue ran lightly over his lips, and he looked all along the lines of a thousand soldiers before him. At each corner was a Jackal, and some along the sides. A color guard of five Grunts held the colors of the UNSC, the flag of the Marine Corps, and the Brigade's own flag—a striking, unsoiled white with the words "Vencer o Morir" embroidered around an image of Earth. The words translated from Latin to English as "Conquer or Die." D'Arcy spoke again.
      "When you're fighting, listen to your noncoms. Use your eyes, ears, and your nose. You know the enemy, you know their tactics, chain of command, everything. Use that knowledge. That's what'll give you a better chance to see another day, providing there will be another one.
      "I'm not going to lie to you. If the enemy strikes, then we're going to be the first to fight. The first to die. Our division commander, General Kingsley, is under orders to spare as much human life as possible. Well, to the rest of the world, you don't count in that category.
      "But don't ever forget that the rest of the world isn't going to be in that foxhole with you. The rest of the world isn't going to be covering your six. With the moment that battle commences, the rest of the world can all go to Hell, because to me, at least, every last one of you is human. Because it takes a man to die for a people that hate him."
      D'Arcy looked over his lines once more, then turned back, and descended from the podium. "Captain, we'll be taking a separate ship than the rest of the division. See that all the men get onboard the right buses to the docks," he said to Vin. Vin nodded, and relayed the orders to the Sergeant Major.
      'Kantamee overheard what was said and stopped Vin. "Do they think we're not good enough to ride with the rest of the division, sir?" he asked. Vin was slightly intimidated by the Elite. It wasn't any hard feelings on either party's part, but Vin was pretty sure anyone who had an eight-foot-tall alien leaning over them would feel an adrenaline rush.
      Finally Vin shook his head. "No, it's just that the rest of the division knows they aren't halfway good enough to ride with us, Lieutenant."
      The two officers stared at each other, and finally laughed. Vin's chuckle was drowned out by the deep-throated laugh from his subordinate that raised the hair on the back of his neck. He ignored it. They were family now.
      Looking over the diverging men before him, Vin knew they all were. Every one of them was part of a family that spanned race, religion, nationality, and creed—and now, species. They were part of the Marine Corps.

The ships took off in the dark of night. To viewers on the ground they seemed candles ascending to heaven. Soon they joined the stars, transferred their cargo to the true spaceships, which in turn lit their engines, a distant luminescence, then were lost in the depths of slipstream space.
      Commander Kit Jameson eased back into her command seat as the stars turned into star lines and then fell away. It was a familiar scene, and she saw more of that than open space. As the Skipper of the troop transport Archange], she was required to stay awake an hour after entrance into slipspace and an hour before exit. The Archangel had no AI, so if the human mind failed, the ship was doomed. And that was her life.
      The Archangel had only seen action once while she was Skipper. Coming out of slipspace six years ago, a Covenant patrol boat had fired a few shots at her. Apparently far from home, the miniature ship soon realized its mistake and turned around as quickly as possible. Jameson ordered the gunners at the only weapons, two 50mm cannons, to open fire, and soon the little boat was obliterated. What the boat was doing out there in the first place, she had no idea. But its wreckage would stay out there.
      Colonel D'Arcy strolled behind her, minding his own nonexistent business. His footsteps changed rhythm often and were becoming annoying. Jameson regretted granting him access to the bridge, but, then again, she was fairly sure he would have come up anyways. Besides, he had been very polite when she brought him to Reach. It wasn't as if she could just give him a flat-out "no."
      "So, Colonel," she said. He stopped and turned to her. "What's it like, commanding the enemy?"
      "They're Marines. Not the enemy," D'Arcy answered firmly. "But, to answer your question, not much different than commanding humans."
      "No? I find that surprising," Jameson said, tapping her fingers on the arm of her chair. "Aren't there any problems communicating?"
      "Not really. Most of them understand enough English to go on, and those who don't are learning," D'Arcy answered.
      "So they obey orders?"
      "Just as good, or maybe better, than some human soldiers," D'Arcy said proudly. "They're good men, all with combat experience. They know that you listen to your superiors or you're dead. In their army it was by their own officers' hand. Now it's by the enemy's."
      "Hmm..." Jameson said. She caught one of her bridge officers, an Ensign, with his head slightly to the side as if listening to the conversation. Ensign Howell had been assigned to the Archangel after he graduated from OCS, and was ready to move on to a ship that would see more action. Troop transportation wasn't much to his liking. Jameson considered rebuking him, decided to let him be, and said, "Have you had any trouble keeping the unit a secret?"
      "Well, everyone who would know about it—the division, satellite intelligence officers who can see us from space, those directly involved with the program—have either been ordered to not answer any questions about us from the outside or are under a vow of secrecy," D'Arcy answered. "Which, I'm sure, includes you and your crew."
      "Yes... So, everything's still quiet?"
      D'Arcy smirked. "Not at all. The media caught wind of us almost as soon as we arrived. It's no secret, except officially—which, I'm sure, it won't be for long. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if ONI's holding a press conference right now and announcing our existence. If you ask me, whoever was in charge of keeping things quiet did a pretty sloppy job."
      "I'd agree."
      "But, then, it's not my place to make such accusations, is it?" D'Arcy smirked again, then spun around. "I'll be in my quarters, if you need me." With that, he walked to the exit and left.
      Jameson tapped her fingers once more on her chair's arm. D'Arcy had said his Grunts were good soldiers. He seemed a smart, hard man... yet, she wasn't sure. There must have been some reason they left the Covenant. That reason could likely be to escape ridicule for incompetence, among other things...
      She thought about it for a while, and remained undecided on the issue. But, despite whatever his thousand defectors might be, she decided that Colonel D'Arcy was one hell of a Marine.

The dreams were shrouded in mists of bloody red, an omen of death looming near. The dreams were of his wife, and the smell of eggs and steaks on the frying pan. The taste of beer and his own cigarettes made his mouth water. The sight of home made depressed him, because he knew he would never see it again.
      The dreams of home were swept away into a sea of black. He was on a ship—what ship he did not know—and he watched several Covenant ships approach with his face pressed against the viewport. He saw the plasma turrets glow, then lance out with beams of fire—
      He was on the ground, a pistol in his bloody hands. He dropped it, shivering with weakness, and let his hands fall to his belly. They hit something soft, and wet. He looked down as he pulled his hands out of his darkened intestines, burned with plasma.
      Then he blacked out, and he saw a casket being carried by six Marines in dress uniform. As his body marched to the grave, a twenty-one gun salute was fired and taps was played. He felt cold...
      The mist suddenly became a heavy fog, and his eyes opened. He heard a hiss as his cryopod unsealed itself. The hatch popped open, and he rose from his chamber of slumber clumsily. He had to steady himself before he took in his surroundings.
      Someone then grabbed him and pulled him down without waiting for him to exit. "C'mon, sir." A jumpsuit was tossed at him. "Put this on, and then we'll get you battle ready."
      It was a young female speaking, blinking at him, ignoring the expanse of bare skin. "Sir, we should get you ready to get dirtside as soon as possible."
      "Did you say battle ready, crewman?" Vin asked. He stepped into the jumpsuit and zipped up as he asked the question. The jumpsuit fit him fairly well, but the arms were too long and the same with the legs.
      "Yes, sir. We've run into trouble. If you'd follow me, sir." The Seaman strolled off, expecting Vin to follow. He did.
      They passed several people as they walked the hallways to the armory. Mostly they were enlisted personnel, but they did pass a Commander and Vin barely managed to salute, struggling to keep up with the female crewman. The Commander seemed not to notice.
      The door to the armory opened as they approached it, and they passed through. Vin noticed that the Colonel was already putting on his armor as he entered. The crewman walked up to a closet, punched in a code, and the door swung open. She stood aside to let him see the full suit of standard Marine armor inside. "Here you are, sir. Will you be requiring assistance?"
      At this D'Arcy looked up and grinned at Vin. Vin turned to the woman and shook his head. "Not at all, crewman. You're dismissed."
      Vin approached the suit of armor and began piecing it together on his body. It usually took five minutes to do so, but Vin could sense the heavy feeling of suspense engulfing the ship and did it in three.
      He laced up the arms, then he put on the chestplate, which he tied at the sides. The legs went next, and he had to seat himself to secure them. Finally he took his cap and placed it on his head, making sure it fit snugly. He stood up, and had there been a mirror in the room, he would have appeared to be a completely battle-ready Marine officer.
      But for one thing.
      He opened his pistol case, which was at the bottom of the closet. He made sure it was loaded, then placed it in his holster, which he clipped to the belt already fixed below his chestplate. He placed four extra magazines in their individual pouches on the same belt. Now he was ready for a scrap.
      D'Arcy walked up to him from behind and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Ready, Captain?"
      "Yes, sir," Vin said, turning around he snapped a salute at his CO, who returned it in an equally crisp manner. Then D'Arcy nodded and reached his hand out to the young Captain. Vin took it, and held it strongly.
      "All right then. Let's report to the launch bays."
      They exited the armory, D'Arcy explaining the situation as they went. "We came out of slip space just as the Covenant did, right over New Syracuse. They've sent troops down to the planet, and her defense is weakening. Seeing as this was our destination anyway, I figured that we should help the Marines down there with their little pest problem."
      "Yes, sir."
      "We're going to land at the command center, where General Kingsley and the rest of the division are already fighting. We'll take our orders from there," D'Arcy said.
      "Yes, sir."
      "Lieutenant 'Kantamee is already waiting for us to arrive at our launch bay. We'll be traveling in separate Pelicans, for obvious reasons. The noncoms are dotted along the enlisted men's craft, and we'll be placed in random ones. Commander Jameson is waiting for us, too, so she can get her ass out of here and join the battle group where there's some protection."
      "Yes, sir."
      "Whatever part we're going to play in the coming battle, we're going to give them hell. Got a box of cigarettes?" D'Arcy asked, nodding to Vin's empty carry space on his belt.
      "No, sir," Vin, said, searching the belt.
      "That's all right. They weren't for me, anyway."
      "Understood, sir." Vin nodded.
      "Here we are," D'Arcy said. They had come to a wide door, which opened as they came near. Vin and D'Arcy walked through into a large launch bay where a fleet of Pelican dropships waited, their jets hissing.
      'Kantamee approached them, sand saluted. "Colonel. Captain."
      "Yes, Lieutenant?" D'Arcy asked.
      "Sir, I know we don't have much time, but I feel obligated to present you this." As D'Arcy looked down, 'Kantamee extended his hand. In his outstretched palm were two cylindrical shapes, metallic in nature, about the length of a human hand.
      "What are they, Lieutenant?"
      "Plasma swords, sir. Please, take one. And I also brought you one, Lieutenant." 'Kantamme watched as both took one in hand. "Normally I would present them in full ceremonial dress and with the proper words, but the Ceremony of the Warrior lasts at least three hours in your time. Ah, but for another day." 'Kantamee paused in thought, then returned to the subject at hand. "These are carved with the crest of my clan—my former clan. I have been struck from the records."
      Vin looked up at the tall alien. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
      "No, sir. Thank you. For the honor." 'Kantamee saluted once more, and departed to board his Pelican.
      A Lieutenant with a palm-computer and a headset approached them. "Colonel, you'll be flying on Delta Three Thirty-Six. Captain..." the Lieutenant trailed off, checking her computer. "You've been reserved a spot on Delta Three Twenty."
      "Thank you Lieutenant," D'Arcy said, nodding. D'Arcy and Vin split away, with one last nod to each other, and boarded their separate dropships. It was go-time.
      Vin was received by his Pelican full of Grunts by their senior yelling something in the Grunt's language, which seemed to translate into "Officer on deck." The Grunts stood up and saluted. Vin nodded to them.
      The co-pilot of the dropship yelled back, "All right, everybody. Strap in, and hold your weapons tight. Stay erect and don't—" the co-pilot stopped talking as he did a double-take on his passengers, then continued as if he had forgotten that they were transporting defectors. "Don't do anything stupid."
      "Thank you, Warrant Officer," Vin said. He walked into the cockpit. "Close the ramp."
      "Yes, sir," the co-pilot said. The pilot nodded to him, and gave a thumbs up.
      "Let's go."
      The engines, which had been previously humming idly, fired up and went full force. The Pelican shook, and the pilot asked him if he'd like to take a seat.
      "Not yet, Chief. Not yet," he answered. He walked to the side, and pressed his face against the viewport. The Pelican lifted itself off of the deck, retracted its gears, and joined the rest of Delta squadron as they zoomed out of the launch bay.
      Vin watched as they entered the encompassing black of space, and his eyes fixed onto the large Covenant ships off to port. His heart fluttered with terror at seeing the large metal beasts. He saw their plasma turrets begin to glow, then saw the beams lance out in an arm of destruction.
      One cut through the Archangel, gutting it up the middle like a fish. Fire erupted from its wounds, and debris were flung out ward into space. The other human ships in the sector scattered, returning fire with a barrage of missile pods and a few MAC rounds.
      They pounded the enemy ships, which were also attempting to scatter. Shields flickered, and fire splashed over them. Some died completely, gutted up the center just like the Archangel. Vin was suddenly ripped away from the scene as the fleet of Pelicans swerved down and to the right, towards the planet. He struggled to hold himself up, regretting not having taken that seat.
      As he straightened himself once more, he realized that this was the end of the space battle for him. His eyes were fixed on the shimmering blue planet, New Syracuse, below. His own battle was soon to begin.

Lieutenant 'Kantamee, unlike Vin, took a seat rather than stand during the zero-gee free-fall, and to ease the paranoia of the pilots he took one away from the cockpit. The more at ease they were, the better they would fly—and he had no desire to be shot down.
      The thought sparked his sense of irony—an Elite, sworn since he was old enough to speak to have complete loyalty to the Covenant, follow all orders without question, and be willing to trade his life and the life of all others in his command to fulfill the wishes of the Prophetic Council, was the bearer of a standard that countered all that with the image of Earth. If the Covenant ever got their hands on him...
      He knew what the price was for treason... a slow, painful mutilation, and then death. He had seen it all over the holoscreens on his home planet. Whenever an insubordinate, labeled a traitor and sentenced without trial, went through this process, the entire population was glued to the images by their eyes. Squealing Grunts, gasping the oxygenated air for any trace of methane... shrieking Jackals, gutted up the middle with plasma swords... Hunters, stripped of their armor, then their skin, then each of their individual tendons cut and their muscles shredded before their eyes... and finally, Elites, to be eaten alive by terrible creatures from lands afar, kept alive by extensive medical technology until the final moment of death. He shuddered at the thought, felt the bile rise in his throat.
      No Brute had ever been accused of treason. The fanatically loyal soldiers were known to kill themselves without a second thought if even a hint of offense was taken from their actions by the Prophets. Perhaps they had learned long ago, better than any of the Covenant races, that it was better to go this way than shrieking and squealing like a drowning child across hours of pain and suffering.
      He didn't have to worry about that now. Down on that planet was where he would meet his death in battle, or in some other place where his services were required. He would not allow himself to be captured... he would kill himself first. If he had a weapon, it was simple. If not, there were other ways... shut down the life support systems in his armor... cut himself off from the air. If without armor, there were still other ways. He had thought about this for a long time. His decision was made.
      He glanced down at the Grunts around him. Were they thinking the same things? Or were they too stupid, too simple-minded? Perhaps some of them were. But he had grown to appreciate his subordinates during the past few months. He knew their intelligences, their limits. They knew what they were facing, and they stuck with it. That was more than he could ask from any Covenant soldier.
      'Kantamee felt a jolt, and the gravity suddenly returned. One of the Grunts let out a characteristic squeak of relief; there was no other sound but the pilot's voice. "We have entered the atmosphere. ETA to command base, five minutes!" The pilot yelled over his shoulder.
      'Kantamee cocked his needler and closed his eyes. He fell into a state of meditation, remembering the days of old, when he fought under another banner, another creed. The memories were foggy at best, downright unintelligible at worst. Then, motivated by a sense of duty drilled into him—no, bred into him—he cleared his mind, took a deep breath, started to speak. He was going to recite his battle poem.

      "Let loyalty be thy honor,
      In glory let thy name shine
      Turn not thy back to the foe
      Never surrender the line

      "Thy faith, crossed with death
      The glory of the tomb
      The heartbeat of the homeland
      Heaven forward looms

      "Treason met with death,
      Obedience with reward,
      Smite the blasphemous heathen
      Wielding justice's sword

      "Finally, a simple promise
      A Covenant with the gods
      Honor them with thy courage
      Obey their sacred laws

      "No more do they ask
      No more do they command
      Never surrender thy honor
      Thou art the god's hand!"

      'Kantamee placed his fist on his heart in salute. Now he was prepared to go into battle. He might die. He might be wounded. He might be maimed. But, despite any reward or punishment he would be receive in the afterlife, he was prepared to meet whatever gods were out there.
      One of the Grunts tugged at his elbow, and brought him fully out of his declining state of a cleared, meditating mind. "Sir!"
      'Kantamee turned to his left and looked down. "Yes, Private?"
      "Sir, we're here."

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