 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
FAQ
Screenshots
Concept Art
Halo 2 Updates
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
HBO IRC Channel
Links
Admin
Submissions
FTP Uploads
HTTP Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
Halo 3: Elysium by Travis Knight
|
Halo 3: Elysium Part One
Date: 22 January 2007, 8:34 pm
The plain was a lot of open area, and John stood solemnly watching the horizon. There were two marines, a hog, a launcher, and three bandoleers of grenades. He had felt the butterfly of fear before in his life, but never had it stayed so tight. He closed his eyes, chinned off the external noise receptors, and all was silent. His Mjolnir armor clasped him like an impenetrable coffin. He felt the dread of the new mission slowly flow away.
When he turned the receptors back on, he heard some of the chatter over the COM.
"So, has he told us the plan?"
"No. I don't think he will. I heard they don't like talking to us."
"Should we ask him?"
"I'm not doing it. They're monsters."
"Shut up, Roy. That suit can hear a pin fall in a tornado." Then they went quiet. They were sitting in the jeep, waiting for John. He moved forward, silent despite the great weight of the armor. He raised his hand, setting it on the jeep, and flexed his shoulder. White foam stuck out from where his suit had taken a needler shard from the last wave of Covenant. The base had been all but wiped out, and the survivors had set a meeting point six miles north, just out of the shadow of one of the great covenant carriers hovering over them like a menacing purple cloud.
John cleared his throat, and pulled himself into the seat. He opened his external mike, and addressed the marines. They needed no silencing. When he had moved to the hog they had quieted. "Secure the ammo," he said. He revved the engine, and waited. When they gave him the all clear signal, he floored it. He hardly felt it in the armor, but in the mirror, he saw them jerk back. In seconds, he was moving along over the flat ground at over sixty miles an hour. The hog engine whined as he shifted gears, shooting across the flat ground like a big green bullet.
They had gotten to the other side of the plain when they saw the pillar of smoke. A huge, towering black column of billowing smoke rose from where they had set the meeting point. Upon closer inspection, John noted the licking flames and scattered corpses. He immediately informed the two troopers that they were now likely on their own.
One of them reached for the radio, to send out a distress signal. John barked a quick order and the man's hand stopped short. "They scan our frequencies, too, soldier. Do you want to give our location away? They'll glass this entire area. Radio silence."
"Yes sir."
John nodded and brought up the map on his faceplate. He scanned around for any kind of cover that they could hide in and plan some kind of attack. Nothing for over two miles, all flat, they were sitting ducks. He closed the map and floored it, ignoring curses that streamed from the marine's mouths.
"What are we going to do, sir?"
"Get to cover, and then we'll plan something." It was growing worse by the minute. The Ark had opened, and the Forerunner signal had been sent out, alerting every covenant vessel of their location, and they were surely en route now. Cortana was still with the grave-mind thing, and Johnson was still with the Arbiter. Even with the help of the elites, the Sangheli, the tattered UNSC resistance was still out gunned a hundred to one. How had this happened? How had earth fallen? John ground his teeth, and tried to will the hog to move faster. In the distance, he saw the wreckage of something baking in the afternoon sun. He pointed the nose of the hog towards it. It would have to do as their temporary base.
When they arrived, John was disgruntled to see that it was the wrecked pod of a Bumblebee. Six charred forms lay inside. Before the marines could see, John took it upon himself to drag what he could of them out and into the shade of the wreckage. Then he smashed the windshield out. It would never fly again anyway. They would be in the ship with him while they planned, and they would need to be able to breath. John silently gave thanks for the fresh, recycled air in his MJOLNIR suit.
They backed the hog up to the exit of the bumblebee, and piled into the wrecked escape pod. The wind coming through the windshield off of the plains kicked up dust and ash, and the marines coughed frequently enough to annoy John.
"Here's where we are," John pointed to a location on a paper map one of the marines had kept. "Here's where the regrouping was supposed to take place," he slid his shelled finger across the map, and stopped over the image of a craggy area scattered with outcroppings. "And here's where we retreated from." Again, John slid his finger across the map.
"So what are we going to do? HQ is gone, and as far as we know, the rest of the platoon is KIA. We're short on supplies, and the jeep only has so much fuel. We might as well keel over and die, chief."
"No, let's make a run for the next platoon's location. We know they're near Kiliminjaro."
"We're not going back to that Ark thing. You saw how the covenant ran from that thing, and how it flashed. If they run, we run."
"Quiet." John was trying to think and their constant bickering was keeping him from full concentration. Supplies low, fuel low, morale lower than dirt- there was only one thing to do. "We're going to take the fight to them."
They looked at him stunned. A long pause before, "Are you mad? Have you lost your mind? We're not following you onto one of their ships, regardless of rank. Hell no, sir!"
"Not onto their ship…into the Ark. We'll follow truth, and the other brute chieftains, and kill them."
"Us and what army?"
John was silent. He couldn't expect these marines to have the kind of courage he had. They didn't have the armor, the training, and the knowledge. But they had no choice. Kelly was gone with Dr. Halsey long ago, and gray team was scattered. Michelle was MIA, Anthony was off with the ODST platoon near Kiliminjaro, and the batch of exoskeletons John had seen in combat had been all but wiped out. There were one or two reports of a scattered bunch of them, but John didn't know where, and didn't want to know. They were kids, and he couldn't trust them in battle.
They had calmed down, John noted, but they still had looks of disbelief. "Disobeying orders is a death penalty," he noted, and flexed his hand. With grim, gaunt looks, they nodded, and stood. "Search the pod for ammo, grenades, any thing, I don't know what to expect down there. We need to be prepared for anything. We probably wont have any kind of supplies for the duration of our…visit."
"Yes, sir," they replied, and went to work.
Fifteen minutes later, they had torn apart the inside of the escape pod, and used the field torch to patch the hog and further armor the sides. The warthog looked heavy and over-armored. It looked ready to survive hell. John nodded his approval, and the marines got in. Behind the metal shields, the turret stuck out just slightly, with just enough room to swivel. The sides had been built up a bit so they would have protection from any kind of fire directed at them, though a direct plasma hit would boil it away instantly. The tires were further armored, and John no longer worried about them so much. What he was concerned about now was the speed of the vehicle. With the extra weight, it would be slower.
He got in and started it. It accelerated slower, but at top speed wasn't much slower than it had been before. It turned a little heavier, but he adjusted quickly. The Ark was a two-hour drive. Hopefully they could retain enough gas to get them there.
Halo 3: Elysium Part 2
Date: 22 January 2007, 8:35 pm
It was a long drive. They drove in silence, with the two marines huddled close, supporting one another. John squelched a lurch of sadness, which was laced with fury and guilt over the death of Michelle. He gave his head a barely visible shake, and pulled into the abandoned town of Old Mombasa.
The caked mortar buildings stood hunched and huddled, casting long shadows down cobbled streets. Shop windows were broken doors kicked in, and corpses strewn about. A few silhouettes moved around, stalking the streets silently. John noted that they were armed. He continued forward carefully. Even a spooked civilian could kill an unready soldier. He remembered the survivors in New Athens when blue team had armed them. Even without the help of the SPARTANs, the untrained people would have probably made it out by themselves.
He drove along one of them, giving him a brief glimpse. A tattered gray shirt hung loosely off of his starving torso. Bands of muscle and bunches of veins were too visible, and his rib cage was obtrusive like a claw just beneath the skin. His eyes were deep set and sunken., and he gave an astonished look at the golden faceplate and olive armor that encased John. He saluted smartly, and watched. Others, more survivors and scavengers, came to the streets when the man started yelling in a native African tongue.
"Shut up! They'll hear us!" One man, a heavily armed black man, stood atop a generator looking down at the warthog. He carried a mobile turret, with bandoleers of ammunition and what looked like patched marine fatigues. "You'll ruin the trap!" John stopped the car. They might need that turret, and an untrained civilian definitely did not.
"You," John said, pointing at him. "In the name of the UNSC, I am commandeering that weapon. Give it to me now." John got out of the car.
"To hell you are, you freak!" the man shouted as he dropped to the ground. "Do you know where you are?"
John waited silently, resisting the urge to simply kill the man and be done with it. Humanity needed every single man and woman they could use. The covenant were on earth, this was no time for beating around the bush. The man walked up to John, and stood little under half a foot below John. He looked right up into the faceplate, and sneered.
"You in a ghost town, green boy. You and we all that are left, and you want us to give up our survival? Leave, now, if you don't want trouble."
"This is no time to be fighting amongst ourselves."
"Yeah, 'cept you bullying us. We survived the last covenant assault, and we gonna survive the next," he patted the gun, "with these. Get out."
John clenched his jaw. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this. With lightning speed, he struck out, knocking the man back. Before he could fall out of arms reach, he grasped the gun, and two of the bandoleers, then stepped forward and grabbed a set of dog tags and snatched them off the man's neck.
"Hey," he said, falling back and landing hard. He grunted, and raised himself. From behind his back he pulled out a magnum and fired directly into John's chest. He rocked back a bit with the slug, which fell crumpled to the ground, deflected off of the energy shield.
"Don't do that again," John warned. "I need any grenades and ammo you have. Surrender them now."
"Hey man, I don't like this," came the voice of one of the marines in the jeep. "I don't like the way they're looking at us."
John ignored it and looked hard at the black man in front of him. He clenched one fist, a sign the other Spartans would have understood. Reluctantly, the man gave ground. "Fine," he snarled, "but if we die, it's on your conscience. Wait, you don't have one." He spit at John's feet and stormed away, throwing the bandoleers on the ground before John.
The Spartan knelt and picked them up, tossing them in the back. More people began to toss things at them, and John caught some. That which fell out of his reach, he pointed at the two marines to pick up. After a while he ordered them back into the jeep, and they continued. In all they had gotten four MA5B Assault rifles, eighteen clips of ammunition, four magnums, two SPNKR missiles, to which John had no clue how civilians had gotten them, the mobile turret and six hundred rounds for that, and three more battle rifles. They had also received a belt with six grenades still attached. John no longer worried. Unless they ran into the entire Covenant Armada, they would be fine. There was enough ammo from the bumblebee, the town, and the hog's turret to last them more than a few days of decent fighting. He hoped.
The town continued along on its winding path, and John noted a few familiar landmarks from his earlier ventures through what was left of the town. The majority of the eastern and newer part had been obliterated, and it was only this older section that had survived the brutal Slipspace bubble that had opened. His radiation count was notably higher, but not in the red.
When the buildings ended suddenly, like some giant knife had sliced and slid them away, the ground sloped down. John drove along the crater, carefully picking his way among the debris. In the back of the jeep he heard a slew of curses coming from the marine. "Load the turret," John said to him.
"Yes sir."
Ahead of them, John saw the telltale wiggle of bright orange armor that alerted him to the presence of grunts. The little aliens reminded him of dogs, they walked on all fours, and sounded remarkably like them at times, as well. Three of the Sangheli elites came out of a cluster of buildings. They held their weapons at the ready. John heard the charge bolt click into the turret behind him as he slowed the vehicle.
As he got closer, he saw the paint scratched off the elite's armor, baring the gray metal beneath it. Around them hung the ceremonial necklaces of their victim's teeth, and John relaxed, noting it they were decorated with what looked like Brute fangs. These were separatists. He let go of his Assault rifle and pulled up to them.
"May the prophets fall," he said to the closest one, who walked up to him.
"And may the Brutes die with them," it replied, snarling into John's visor. He clearly wasn't happy at the sight of a Spartan. "State your business, human."
"No. Let us through."
There was a brief exchange of foul, guttural language, and the elite stepped back. Another one, decorated in fewer teeth, stepped forward. He was able to articulate English better, John noted, when he spoke. "We cannot allow you to pass. We have orders from the highest of our ranks to hold all back from this site."
John ground his teeth. These bastards weren't going to let him through without garnering some kind of information. Some alliance. "I am going to kill Truth." They erupted into some form of laugter that set John on edge. He cocked his head slightly, indicating that he didn't understand. Of course they didn't understand the gesture, but continued to make the odd noise in their throats.
"Good luck," one of them bawled. "We've tried, he's too well guarded."
John felt a smoldering of anger. "I've killed a prophet already." They fell silent.
"You are the demon who killed that fool Regret?"
"Yes, now move."
"Leave one of your men here, I am coming with you," said the one whom John had spoken too first. John didn't like the idea.
"No."
"Then we will slag your vehicle and kill your men."
John was silent. They stared back at him, and one motioned forward the grunts. Two held golden fuel rod cannons that glowed green with the charges that sat in back of them. They aimed in the hog's direction, an ample motivational tool that John need not consider twice.
"Fine. One of you get out."
"We're staying with you, chief."
"No. Its get out or die." They weren't willing to give ground. John felt backed in on all sides, with no support on the horizon. "It's death either way, chief. These monsters will char us if we don't get cut down in battle. We choose battle."
From the ground, one of the grunts procured something from a pouch. "I have human food," it barked in a high throaty voice. In its small claw it held out some kind of smashed bag of dried chips. It looked with cow eyes at the marines.
"Aw, what the hell. At least they speak English." One of them, John didn't know which, got out. From the back, he grabbed a weapon and some ammo. John watched as he snatched the bag of food out of the grunt's hand and sniffed at it. He made a squeamish face and handed it back, surveying the lot of them. Behind them, John saw a few other humans mixed in. The crowd itself was about thirty or so in number, though it was spread out and not in any particular organization.
The elite seated itself obviously uncomfortably next to John. He saw its energy shield pop and fizzle out and it settled more comfortably in, though its spine wasn't designed for the alternating right angles of Human seats. It gave him a curt nod and grunt, and he floored it. He couldn't get over the thought of this thing as the enemy. He had killed hundreds of them himself, and now some of them- not all, were fighting by humanity's side, eager for revenge with the knowledge of the treason and brainwashing carried out by the prophets and brutes. John had deciphered for himself that the three races had always been blood enemies, but for a time, the Sangheli and prophets had been peaceful. The entrance of the brutes into the covenant had been treading on thin ice, and it inevitably gave through.
John drove in silence, and the marine behind him stood at the turret, facing behind them, scanning the horizon. There were brute and jackal hunt-and-kill teams out here, closer to Kiliminjaro and the Ark. On the horizon, John could see the white smudge of light emanating from the massive structure that had been unearthed. It lit up the small piece of the horizon, keeping the dawn from painting a full picture.
"Human sunsets are rancid," said the elite from beside him. "How can you live on this backwater sewer?" John said nothing, but bristled. He had thought it beautiful. They continued then in silence.
As they got closer, they entered the shadow of the great cloud above the Ark, which swirled and heaved with lightning, thick with rain and thunder. The sky became a massive rolling swab of thick cloud, and the lightning grew ever more virulent the further towards the center they went. It also grew brighter, until at one point, John had to wonder how something so bright could be made by machine.
When they neared the Ark, John heard the whine of mongoose engines. From outcroppings of scorched rocks, six of the four wheelers matched speed with the warthog. On a frequency John's COM picked up automatically, they gave the call sign.
"State your name and rank," John barked, not slowing. They were fifteen miles to the edge of the basin.
"Captain Foreman, Lieutenant Kim, Sergeant Laurie, and Privates Midge, Ryan, Coleman, and Evan. Where are you headed, sir?"
"The Ark, we're going in."
"Its suicide, sir. The Banshee patrols start up not much further ahead, and there are three covenant cruisers hovering a few dozen yards above the rim of the basin. Each time we try to penetrate their perimeter we're sent running with out hands covering out asses. They're too thickly concentrated."
John knew all this. He also knew that they had no choice. "It doesn't matter."
"What if you don't make it?"
"I will."
"Then we're coming with you, sir."
"No, stay here."
They didn't slow. John glanced at the mongoose closest. His FOF tag read Lt. Kim. "Kim, who are your best riders?"
"Midge and Ryan," he replied.
John watched as they sped up, and fell in formation behind the lieutenant. "We'll take them, we might need recon vehicles. Are they armed?"
"Each with a SPNKR and rifle."
"Good. Spartan 117 out."
"Good luck, sir."
John heard the COM click off, and he adjusted himself.
Beside him, the elite twisted his neck back and watched as two of the ATVs fell in with the warthog, trailing just out side of the dirt kicked up by the tires. In the mirror, John noted they were in ODST gear. Good, he would need the battle hardened blood of these men. He was short on hands as it was, and he was about to jump feet first into hell, as they said before a drop.
As he got closer to the Ark, the purple hulls of the covenant craft came into clearer view. He heard some bickering over one of the COM channels between the two drivers. He ignored them, but kept in mind that this would tax all of them. Unfortunately, he didn't know how to expect the elite to act under fire. He knew they had private COM Channels, but he didn't know which. Instead, he looked at it. It returned his gaze, and after a while, he said, "Human tactics; no charging, no bravado. Are we clear?"
"You threaten my honor?"
"A mentor once told me that there is no honor in unnecessary death. I am in charge. You stick with us and support us."
Grudgingly, the elite accepted. "As you command," he said.
Halo 3: Elysium Part 3
Date: 22 January 2007, 8:36 pm
Five minutes of racing across the nearly flat ground was suddenly shattered when they heard a scream over head.
"Banshee!" screamed the marine on the turret.
John immediately opened the link to the mongoose drivers and ordered them to fan out and make evasive maneuvers. Behind him, the turret swung around and opened fire. Bright flashes of orange lit up the mirrors. The elite growled, and ducked its head, gripping its own plasma rifle.
Behind the jeep there was the familiar whooshing of wind as a rocket sailed up, followed by a metallic sounding explosion as the banshee flier exploded apart into a bright blue fireball. The purple hull sped out in spinning arcs in every direction, raining some down on the jeep. John ignored it.
Suddenly the second banshee swooped down in front of them, coming out of a rolling dive. It faced them directly, playing chicken with the human vehicle. John saw the telltale flash of green light as the fuel rod gun lit up, and spun the wheel hard to the left, fish tailing the warthog. The turret on the back opened fire, but the shots simply bounced off the alien craft's nose, sending sparks and flak to the sides.
The ensuing blast of plasma sizzled close to the warthog's rear bumper, causing it to heat red. Static flickered around on John's display, but didn't impede much.
Before the hog came to a sliding stop, there was a flash of movement and John turned to look as the elite beside him twisted and leapt into the air, spinning gracefully. In the air, his black and silver armor flashed grotesquely in the odd light coming from the Ark. As the elite soared through the air, it gripped a small silver rod that had been clasped to its waist, and an energy sword flashed to life brilliantly. The elite came down hoof first on the nose of the flier, and drove the energy sword into it without hesitation, cutting to the side. The banshee suddenly dropped, its engine dead, and the elite continued to stab at it methodically. John heard the scream as the brute pilot inside was punctured with plasma over and over again.
When the banshee hit the ground, the elite rolled hard on its side, and sliding to a hard stop. He picked himself up, and John watched admiringly as the alien jogged over to the idling hog and climbed back in. It gave a satisfied grunt, ignoring the awe-struck stare of the marine on the turret, and waited in silence as John floored it.
If the elite had been one of John's soldiers he would have complimented it.
They encountered very little resistance for the remainder of the trip to the rim of the crater. Twice they saw banshees circling, but was most likely for reconnaissance. The Covenant armada seemed to think that the human resistance was a joke. And the small resistance force led by the Spartan had already taken out two of their fliers with relative ease. They probably weren't willing to risk any more resources on them. Still, John kept one eye on the ground and the other in the air, figuratively speaking. He boosted his radar to maximum range, and tagged his team yellow. Every time a red or white dot would enter, he would take note and watch it as closely as he could afford.
_____
When they reached the rim, John pulled up along the edge. It was a four-hundred-foot drop at least, and at the bottom was an oddly tinted soil. At the center of the crater was the massive three-mile wide circle, glowing unbelievable bright. His visor had to polarize to prevent him from going blind. The marines were forced to wear extra protective goggles on top of their already tinted faceplates. The Elite seemed not to notice, but avoided looking directly into the light. John got out and looked over. He had been on the edge before, when they had activated the Ark. He remembered the wind and sheer power of the machine below him. What he didn't know, however, was the purpose, and that made him edgy.
A sizzling blast of plasma shot over John's shoulder. "Phantom!" came a cry over the com. John rolled backwards, coming out of it facing the warthog. Sure enough, a phantom drop ship had slipped unnoticed out of the clouds and was dropping off its load of covenant troops in the miniature gravity beam it carried. They slid down the scintillating tube of light, touching down lightly, before fanning out. Jackals moved into a phalanx of glimmering energy shields, with grunts behind them, all armed with fuel rod cannons. Behind them a row of brutes in blue armor barked and growled with the anticipation of blood. A brute captain stood behind them in brilliantly colored red armor with an head dress that outmatched his underlings. He shouted orders in a tongue John's new translation system could hardly pick up.
It must have been the raw, pure version of the Brute's native language, because there seemed to be some of the grunts seemed to have problems following orders correctly, resulting in a heavy thumbing in the back of their small round heads.
"Kill the scum," John's translator announced. "Leave the Demon to me!"
He crouch ran to the side of the warthog, where the elite was crouched watching over the side. "We will do well to hit them first," it said, looking now at John.
"Agreed." John opened the COM, and ordered all working rocket launchers to fire at the phalanx's feet. Hopefully the concussive blast would knock them back and into the grunts. If they were lucky, the nervous and twitchy trigger fingers of the grunts would take out the whole front of the line.
John hefted a launcher and aimed. At his command, they all fired at once. The turret opened up as well, sending blue-black blood high into the air and through the cloud of dust and smoke. Suddenly three fluorescent green explosions wracked the cloud of smoke and shook the ground. Screams of agony came through across the gap, and John heard the brutes screaming in rage. They waited only a second more before the brutes advanced with the two remaining jackals and lone grunt. The brutes soon moved ahead of the grunts, their long, powerful legs propelling them faster.
John dropped the launcher, its open casing threading a slender finger of smoke upwards. He gripped his rifle and started firing in quick, controlled bursts. The turret above him to the left painted the battlefield yellow as it cut down a jackal, a grunt, and a brute. John himself downed one of the six advancing brutes.
Next to him, there was a roar of anger, and he tried to stop the elite from leaping over the side of the hog, but the iron bands of muscle that wrapped around the elite's leg jerked John forward. A burst of white fire brought the energy sword to life, and the elite ran forward, screaming. "Fool!" John shouted after it.
The elite ran forward shooting with its plasma rifle, burning holes into the chest of one brute, who kept moving for a moment, before collapsing into a smoldering heap. A second brute advanced on the elite, swinging the mighty scythe on the end of its weapon, slicing the air. The Sangheli ducked, evading the blade, and caught the brute off balance. With a simple stroke, he sliced the brute into two cauterized halves, and it collapsed screaming and writhing in pain as it died.
From a distance, John watched as the elite managed to cut down the last four of the brutes alone. The marine at the turret said something about not being able to fire, swearing at the elite, but quickly quieted down to watch.
John saw the danger first, and in an instant was vaulting over the hog, and sprinting to the elite's aid. But he was too slow. The massive, red armored brute captain strode out of the smoke as the elite jammed its energy blade through the last of the four brutes. It grabbed it by the face, its massive hand wrapping all the way around it, and slammed it into the dirt. The elite tried to get up, but the brute kicked it again in the side, and the elite convulsed in pain. John watched in horror as the elite brought its huge, thick foot up, and slammed it down on the elite's face. Dark blue blood seeped out as it roared in triumph and beat its chest.
In that instant, John collided with it like a missile. They slammed into the ground, rolling. The brute was stunned, and John took advantage of this to pin it. He brought his knee as hard as he could into its stomach plating, and felt it give way. It howled in pain, and with a tremendous heave, threw him off. John landed sprawled, but rolled with the movement and came up on his feet quickly. The brute's armor was mangled, smashed, with vein like cracks spreading all the way up the plating. With a simple gesture, it tore off the armor, throwing it to the ground. Its muscular physique rippled as it flexed. Its shaggy brown coat moved with the wind. It dropped into a crouch and rushed John on all fours.
Luckily, John had experienced this tactic more than a few times before, and he side stepped, bringing his leg around for a crushing blow into the brute's back. It sprawled out next to the dead elite's body and rolled to get up. John felt his stomach sink as he saw it clasp the energy sword hilt. In the corner of his eye he saw a queue pop up asking him for orders, but he ignored it, focusing on the advancing brute.
It held the energy sword high, and it burned brightly against the gray clouds above. John strafed around it, trying to make it to his fallen gun. His foot brushed against the one of the brute's spike rifle. He crouched, all the time keeping his eye on the moving brute, and gripped it. He had never used one before, but it looked much like a human firearm.
John held it up and pointed it at the brute, pulling the trigger. He was surprised by the jerk of the rifle as it fired the razor sharp flak. It cut into the brute, making it stagger back and whine. John took his chance, and sprinted at it. He jumped and drop kicked the brute, crushing its sternum. When John landed, he came up on his knees with his gun pointed at the brute. Tears welled in its eyes as it struggled against the lethal wound, writing in pain. John put it out of its misery, and moved around it to where the fallen energy sword was. He attached it to his belt and moved away. The three marines watched in awe as he climbed back into the hog. Its side was embedded with the brute flak, and in some spots slogged, but it ran fine.
What they couldn't see, was that through his nearly invincible armor was that he was shaking. That brute had been a struggle. He hadn't been prepared, he had acted on sentimentality, and it had almost cost him his life. John suddenly felt the exhaustion rush in on him from the last week of running and hiding since they had been driven back. He wanted to sag down and sleep, but he couldn't. His trained mind and body stowed them away. He would have a good sleep when this was over, either way, and this wasn't the time to fall apart.
He gave the ready signal and nosed the hog up to the edge of the cliff. Since there wasn't any way in through ramps or tunnels, they would have to improvise. "Bring one of the mongooses over here," he ordered. The marines complied silently. He took the hook attached to every warthog's front, and attached it to an extra cable lining they had taken. He squeezed the hooks tight against one another with his one hand. The marines watched on in awe and curiosity. When he was done with that, he estimated the length of the cord to be about twenty-five feet short. He glanced over the edge of the crater, and looked down. There were some ledges, luckily, down there, and he surmised that it was round enough towards the bottom for the marines to be able to climb or slide down. He got back in the hog and backed it up about five feet., and jumped out. He grasped the hooks and attached them to the bumper of the first mongoose. "Get in the hog and get ready to slam it into reverse," he ordered. The marine on the hog's turret dropped into the drivers seat.
"Yes, sir."
"I'm going to knock this mongoose off of the cliff and then help keep the hog from falling over."
"The weight will tear off the bumper!" declared Private Ryan, who had given up his ride.
"That's where you come in", John said. He pointed at the simple controls of the cable coil. "Unwind it slowly enough to prevent it from snapping, and quickly enough so that we aren't here all day."
"Yes sir, I'll try sir." John nodded and braced his foot on the mongoose. With one powerful movement, he nudged it over the edge. He spun around and dug his feet into the ground and braced his arms on the warthog. There was a sudden jerk, but his armor barely whined with the strain. He heard the cable unwind with a twanging sound, and felt the hog as it struggled to reverse.
It was a long minute of silence as the fire team tried to keep the mongoose steady. The one watching quietly gave estimates. At less than fifty feet John's feet slipped. He slid forward and the hog came with him. There was an excited yelp from Ryan, but the hog finally caught and drove back. John's heels had been over the edge. He pushed forward with it, and felt the weight lighten. "Mongoose is on the ledges, sir."
John nodded in response, and pointed at the cable. They unwound it a bit and jiggled it. After a string of curses it came loose and was quickly retracted by the motor in the coil. After that, they repeated the gesture without a hitch.
Next was the marine's turn. They used the buckles in their straps to attach to the hooks, and john lowered them. Because there was no one to help reverse the hog, he had to strain extra hard to keep it from nosing over the side. When he retraced the wire, he tied it around himself and leapt over the edge. He plummeted fast, but drove his feet into the side of the crater, creating vertical wake. His feet went numb from the vibration, but as he slowed he saw the marines fighting to right one of the mongooses which had landed upside down.
John glanced back and saw the two deep lines his heels had left in the dirt sides of the crater. Walking over to the marines he lifted the mongoose to its side with ease, and tipped it back over onto its tires. "Do they run?" he asked.
"They should," Midge responded.
"Good," said John as he mounted the ATV, "We've got ground to cover."
"Yes sir," they said. Midge rode behind John on the metal foot rail, holding onto the metal shoulders of the Spartan. John led the way, and they rocketed down the nearly smooth sides of the crater, rushing towards the arc at just above sixty miles an hour. When the ground leveled out, the purple hull of one of the many Covenant cruisers fell to a low height just above them. John saw it's intentions and ordered evasive maneuvers.
It didn't help though, because it was like an ant avoiding a shoe. The cruiser opened fire with twelve of its plasma turrets, glassing the ground around them. It continued for well over a mile as they targeted again and again trying to hit them. John felt his stomach sink when they finally hit the other mongoose.
A plasma turret's discharge could melt instantly through inches of especially hardened titanium, could evaporate thousands of gallons of water. What it did to two lightly armored men and a small mongoose John did not care to find out. He didn't look back, just kept driving, shifting left, right, right, left, in a mad attempt to reach the ark before he two was eliminated.
The ramp leading up the ark- where the scourging white light shot up from the ground- was only a hundred yards before them. John leaned down, trying to will the mongoose to move faster.
At one hundred yards, the cruiser pulled up, and seraph fighters swooped down. With precision lasers they shot at the mongoose. Two of the beams got close, scorching the dirt where the mongoose had been only seconds before, but with only a hundred feet to go, they pulled up and around. They were in the clear. Or so they thought.
A line of brutes was forming on the rim of the Ark, and John felt his stomach sink. They jostled over the edge and he heard a wailing scream. The marine that had been riding with John, Private Ryan, was shook loose. He flopped through the air, and then his FOF tag went dark. John cursed. He cursed loud, and repeatedly. The ramp sloped up sharply and he was forced to crouch as a hail of plasma and flak surrounded him. As he rushed up he gripped his rifle in one hand and with the other activated the white energy blade. He shot up and over through the line of brutes, twisting and firing and swinging as the mongoose's velocity carried him the last three feet before launching up into the air.
John managed to decapitate a brute and kill two others with his rifle, and knocked one down the ramp. The other dozen or so snarled and roared, but did not fire. They couldn't fire into their holy relic, John knew. But he was not safe. He was rushing into unknown danger as the mongoose fell into the bright light. He braced himself and for the first time in his life prayed for help. He didn't know from whom, but he asked for help from anyone.
When he landed, he landed hard. And in the middle of a fire fight. He was dazed from the sudden jump, but he was trained to readjust quickly. He dove off of the mongoose as it exploded from a direct fuel rod hit, and waited until the brief shower of debris and fire were over. Then he was up and running.
He strafed, not stopping his movement, searching for a weapon. Miraculously, the weapon satchel they had attached to the mongoose survived. He moved to it, carefully avoiding the lines of fire coming from all around him, and picked it up. With that, he took time to figure out where the lines of fire were coming from. One came from a grassy knoll to his right, and more came from the massive silver tower to his left. More plasma than good, hard lead came from the left, and he decided that it was probably covenant in nature.
He sprinted away from the massive twisted rift in space he had come through, avoiding the odd structure because it hurt his eyes, and moved around the hill.
When he was safely behind another knoll, he tried to plan out what to do. If the battle was between humans and covenant, they would probably be nervous and shoot at him. If it was separatists and covenant, the separatists were just as unpredictable and would likely shoot at him out of habit. He called out on the regular UNSC frequencies with the basic SOS call, but there was no response. John tried the separatist greeting in the alien tongue. He had found it hard to pronounce and harder to remember. But that might be because he didn't want to remember it at all. He wanted no association with the covenant besides being their doom.
John took a deep breath. He only knew one other call, and he had only said it a few times in the last few months. It was the Spartan call signal, and he would die rather than give its meaning to someone outside of his 'family'.
John spoke quietly and solemnly now, with little hope that his attempt would harbor anything. "Oly oly oxen free," he said with iron in his voice.
He waited. After five seconds he repeated the signal. No reply. He repeated it once more. There was a lapse in the firing off to his right. John watched carefully.
There was a click on the COM from the band the Spartans used when on a mission. "…John?"
|
