 |
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
|
|
|
In Amber Clad 01: Spinner's End
Date: 10 January 2005, 4:10 AM
Author's Note: This is, basically, a novelization of Halo 2. There will be a few scenes of my own, mostly involving the Prophets and politics and all that jazz, as well as a few concerning characters from the books(Halsey & Kelly), but 90% of the story is just from the game.
Ninth Age of Reclamation//Covenant Holy City "High Charity," Inner Sanctum of the Hierarchs, the Prophet of Truth's personal quarters.
The High Prophet of Truth was situated in his private quarters, seated at his computer terminal. An artificial space-scape painted the wall behind him, filling the room with an iridescent glow, reflecting magnificently off of the mirrored walls. He was thankful it was artificial; the true view outside of High Charity would fill him with unimaginable grief.
The atrocity of Halo weighed heavily on his mind. The Fall of Installation 04 was an enormous tragedy, robbing the Covenant of the greatest joy imaginable - fulfillment of the Great Journey. It was prophesized, of course, that other rings would be found, but how soon was anyone's guess.
There were, however, much more important things to be dealt with. Truth stopped typing and reclined in his chair, sinking deeply into gel-filled cushions as every proposal in the history of High Charity's network was searched.
His top Brute general and most trusted advisor, Tartarus, had reported only minutes ago that the Prophet of Regret had suppressed a submission to the Council. This was, of course, ordinary procedure - Tartarus wouldn't dare strike his word against a Prophet's - but it was the last piece of a very large puzzle, and led Truth to believe without doubt that Regret was hiding something vast.
Truth smiled. It wouldn't be hidden for long.
The terminal flickered once and faded from a deep purple to vivid blue, signaling search results. There was only one. Truth opened the file and leaned forward in anticipation, eyes wide, and began to read.
Fleetmaster Ado 'Sutamee of The Pious Inquisitor
High Prophet and his Council:
Our Engineers have worked tirelessly analyzing the data from Halo, as well as the Human world Sigma Octanus IV. The Sacred Crystal found in the planet's depths held the key to discovering the location of Halo, as prophesized. The Humans aboard their vessel, the Pillar of Autumn, found the ring's coordinates embedded in the Crystal's chemical structure, among other things our scientists are still attempting to decipher from the radiation signal. After running multiple simulations, we have concluded that the spike at location 2.10.545.4141 was emitted from a crystal of similar structure and purpose. I suggest immediate action - the Humans are aware of the Crystal, though perhaps not its function.
I await your appraisal.
Truth grunted in disgust. This confirmed it - oh, Gods, the fool.
Though Regret had not stated so, Truth knew that Regret shared his goals- to find another Halo, and complete the Great Journey. The three High Prophets all had knowledge of the signal that came from an unexplored sector of space; such a powerful radioactive spike could only be another Sacred Crystal, embedded with coordinates of a Sacred Ring. When he had heard of this spike, Regret had immediately taken charge of a fleet in route to the location. Truth was certain that, without intervention, Regret would succeed. However, such knowledge and power in the hands of the feckless could be disastrous.
Truth stepped back a moment, attempting to see the situation from Regret's perspective Suppressing this notice from the Council's eyes and influence was unwise and belligerent, but at this particular point in time, they would never support an action. Though the Halos were holy relics of the Forerunners, the discovery of the Flood had shaken the faith of even the most of the Council; for why would the Forerunners bequeath them with such a curse? So, Truth decided, Regret must have intended to reach the Crystal before the Humans, even if it meant slighting the Council's input.
Truth sighed. Under his sole rule, things would be different for his people.
Regret would fall easily. He was young, brash and arrogant; Mercy himself had noted these traits. Truth made a mental note to write Mercy, reinforcing this opinion. Mercy's elimination, however, would have to come latter - and, unless Truth achieved overwhelming power once Regret was finished, it would need to be very, very subtle. Perhaps the Brutes would be of service. The newest addition to the Covenant were strong and subservient, with muscles of pure steel, and allied with the Elites, they would make a mighty armada indeed.
However, Truth's plans were still in their infancy. Quelling the heretics would bring round some of the Council, but his manner might be thought of as unorthodox. Transforming a traitor into an Arbiter was absolutely unheard of -
There was a light tapping on the door, jarring Truth from his thoughts. "Enter," he called, and the doors slid apart.
Violet light splashed into the room, rays shattering into arcs as they reflected off of Truth's mirrored embellishments. The bowed figure of an Elite Honor Guard was silhouetted in the doorway. "Holy Prophet of Truth, the Council humbly requests your presence at the Trial of Alai 'Platomee."
Truth sighed, partially with relief and partially with dread - for despite his superior ruling in the council, his own plans would not stand well against such black-and-white vision.
Ninth Age of Reclamation//Covenant Holy City "High Charity," Sanctum of the Hierarchs.
The divine Covenant Worldship High Charity drifted amidst lifeless battleships and galactic dust - the remnants of Halo, a relic of the Forerunner legacy. A daunting armada of ships swept the area, working swiftly and methodically to salvage any remaining personnel - as well as keeping a sharp eye for lingering human forces. The ring itself, listless and broken, hung dead in space just outside Threshold's orbit. It glowed, red like fire. Red like blood.
Seventy thousand infantrymen. Fifteen ships and their navigators. Some of the finest tacticians and in the Covenant fleet. All of these losses weighed heavily on Alai 'Platomee's shoulders, and now was the time to answer to them.
"There was only one ship," he said, standing tall in the center of the Council Chamber. A gallery of members gathered in the risers above him, row after row circling towards the ceiling; the chamber was, for once, entirely full. A squad of Brutes stood alert at the exit. He paid them no mind; the Prophets were the ones who needed answers.
The Prophet of Regret's hologram shifted forward slightly. "One? Are you sure?"
"Yes," Alai 'Platomee answered. "They called it...the Pillar of Autumn." The words felt like fire, passing through his lips. No human creation merited a name...but he had sworn to give a full account.
"Why was it not destroyed with the rest of their fleet?" The Prophet of Mercy inquired. He, unlike Regret, was present in body.
"It fled, as we set fire to their planet," 'Platomee responded. "And I followed with all the ships in my command."
Mercy nodded, but Regret appeared livid. "When you first saw Halo," he inquired, "were you blinded by its majesty?"
"Blinded?"
"Paralyzed, perhaps? Dumbstruck?"
"No."
"Yet the humans were able to evade your ships! Land on the sacred ring, and desecrate it with their filthy footsteps!" The hologram flickered for a moment as the Prophet slammed a fragile first to his armrest.
Alai 'Platomee hung his head in shame this time, not daring to meet the Prophet's eyes. His heart was cold. "Noble hierarchs, surely you understand that once the parasite attacked-"
A crowd of Grunts clamored in the first few rows of the Council, halting any explanation. It was no matter; this sole action indicated to 'Platomee that no excuse of his would be ever be accepted.
"There will be order in this council!" Mercy exclaimed. He opened his mouth to speak more, but there was no need; the crowd had fallen silent.
The High Prophet of Truth hovered towards 'Platomee, down the center aisle between Mercy and Regret, the manifestation of law. "You were right to focus your intention on the flood," he spoke, voice misty and murky as his name. "But this Demon, this - Master Chief - " The Prophet of Truth's lip coiled in disgust at the mere thought of committing a rank to any human soldier.
"By the time I learned the Demon's intent, there was nothing I could do," he answered.
The crowd roared in condemnation. 'Platomee picked up a familiar voice in the rubble; Tartarus, highest ranking of the Brutes, laughing deeply.
Unheard of. Absolutely impertinent.
"Noble Prophet of Truth, this has gone on long enough!" Regret declared over the clamor. "Make an example of this blunder; the council demands it!"
Truth did not respond; instead, he directed his attention to 'Platomee. "You are one of our most treasured instruments. Long have you lead your fleet with honor and distinction," - 'Platomee drew a quick breath, allowing himself to hope - "But," Truth continued, "your inability to safeguard Halo was a colossal failure."
The Prophet of Supposition rose in the stands. "Nay, it was heresy!"
The Council roared in agreement.
"I will continue my campaign against the humans!" 'Platomee cried out. He no longer hoped to be released without a charge; his words were desperation. Please listen to me, he urged them silently. Please hear me, please believe me, I am nothing but faithful, I give my oath-
"No!" Truth said, with condemnation. "You will not." He waved a hand lightly, and Tartarus, in turn, motioned to his Brutes. 'Platomee barely felt arms grasp his own. He turned numbly..
"Soon the Great Journey shall begin," Truth's words echoed through the hallway exit of the Council Chamber. "But when it does, the weight of your heresy shall stay your feet...and you shall be left behind."
As Alai 'Platomee walked to his grave, sins tearing at him, he found himself agreeing.
0658 hours, September3, 2552//Chiroptera-class vessel, in Slipspace en route to [[error]] ANOMALY: location outside of UNSC controlled space.
Dr. Catherine Halsey was on edge.
She cross-legged in the pilot's seat of an old Chiroptera-class stealth vessel - a pirate's personal ship, no less, and that was visible. The space was cramped; though the poorly-lit "bridge" was normally operated by two people, she couldn't imagine how it would work out. The controls were laid out on a dented sheet of metal, above which was a two-inch thick window. It was blank, of course - in Slipspace, there was nothing to see - but numerous holographic displays compensated for the blackness. There was a partition behind her, separating navigation from crew, and a weapons locker behind that. Besides normal operational areas, however, the vessel was sparse. The controls were also very different - more complex than modern versions, and there was no AI to take care of trajectory calculations.
Steering, however, wasn't what worried her.
It had been two hours since she had abandoned Admiral Whitcomb, Corporal Locklear, most of her Spartans, and all the others at the Gettysburg's launchbay. They must have registered her disappearance by now; Governor Jiles would be livid.
Tap tap.
Kelly was awake.
Dr. Halsey sighed, exhaling deeply; this would be difficult. She buzzed the door open.
Kelly stood to the side of the doorway, silhouetted in the flood of light from the passenger's quarters. Her helmet was removed, close-cropped blue hair disheveled. She took a quick glance around the room and then stepped in.
"Ma'am," she said, voice tense.
Dr. Halsey swiveled her chair around. "Have a seat, Kelly. I'm glad to see you awake." She waved a hand at the seat right of her, and the screens covering that portion of the desk. "Monitor surveillance, please; this is one of the more dangerous sectors of Slipspace, I'm afraid."
Kelly nodded, but hesitated. "Ma'am, I don't under-"
"Have a seat, and I'll explain."
Kelly sat, armor clinking against the antiquated metal. "The Chief's first strike mission was set for 0530 hours," she said, looking over the surveillance reports.
"Yes."
"Why aren't I with them?" Her voice was calm and controlled, but her gauntleted hand curled into a fist. Dr. Halsey felt a momentary chill down her spine.
"A top priority, highly classified ONI reconnaissance mission was ordered at 0200 hours. One Spartan was needed, and I felt that you were most suited to the job. I'm here for tactical purposes; they wanted one of their own people along."
"Why not Lieutenant Haverson?"
"Odd, isn't it, that a commissioned ONI tech would be present on the Pillar of Autumn, the only human ship to find Installation 04?" She glanced at Kelly, who gave a slight nod.
"Captain Keyes intercepted a transmission from Sigma Octanus IV before the jump to reach, containing a set of coordinates. Cortana plugged them in when the ship jumped from Reach, and they led the Pillar of Autumn to the ring. Haverson came aboard the Pillar of Autumn after the fall of Sigma Octanus - after the transmission was received. He knew that they were headed to another ring."
"If the UNSC knew about Halo," Kelly asked, "then how was it possible to jump there without violating Cole Protocol? If there was a chance that the Covenant would follow-"
"It's UNSC-recognized space," the doctor explained. "But not UNSC-controlled. Lieutenant Haverson," she explained, keeping her voice carefully controlled, "was part of another special weapons project headed by Colonel Ackerson, situated on one of the seven. That project," she continued, "has since become uncontrollable - and we are here to put an end to it."
That much, at least, was true.
"I'll tell you more once we find the ring."
Kelly had calmed now, accepting this explanation, and took charge of the vessel's operating procedures. "Re-adjusting ETA from two hours, thirty-one minutes to four minutes," she said, brow furrowed
The doctor nodded and returned to the controls. She disliked lying to Kelly, but it was necessary - for now, at least. She performed routine maintenance scans and checked the surrounding area for any ships - Covenant, of course, but UNSC as well. Both were enemies, now.
She sunk back in her chair as numbers scrolled relentlessly on the displays, staring out the bridge's window at the starscape with only half-interest. She had stopped questioning if what she was doing was right; there was no definite answer. Everything was grey. She wasn't saving the world this time. She wasn't preserving a unified government, or engineering super soldiers, or designing the UNSC's most technologically advanced armor. This time she set out to save herself; to keep from repeating cold-blooded mistakes. To save the ones she could.
Outside the ship, stars came into view, drenched in a green glow. The vessel exited slipspace smoothly.
The display Kelly was monitoring started to blink. Dr. Halsey turned to look at it, but as she glanced torwards the station something else caught her eye.
Dead ahead, hanging in space, was another Halo.
The doctor smiled wryly. "There are four submachine guns and sixteen clips in weapon storage. Suit up, and get ready," she told Kelly. "We've got work to do."
In Amber Clad 2: Homecoming
Date: 13 March 2005, 9:26 PM
0610 hours, October 20, 2552//Earth Defense Platform, Cairo
Spartan John 117 stood just outside Cairo Station's armory, waiting to be called in - and fitted for a new Mark-VI MJOLNIR suit. He had been looking forward to the upgrade for nearly a month; after enduring countless battles on Halo and the Unyielding Hierophant, his once brilliant armor was dull and damaged.
After docking in the Vyrlian system for necessary repairs to the Gettysburg, John and his fellow Spartans had taken up Admiral Whitcomb's request to warn earth about the upcoming Covenant invasion. They had been assigned to different posts across UNSC-controlled space. Linda had been on several missions, fighting all along the west spiral. Fred was stationed on Syrakeet III, the colony nearest to Earth. Will was on the planet below, preparing for a ground assault. John had spent a day recovering, and then was shifted to duty on the orbital platform.
John felt out of place on the station. His Mark-V armor had been abandoned and sent to UNSC headquarters for analysis, leaving him feeling as if he had lost a layer of skin. He could still fight exceptionally, of course, but the UNSC was hesitant about sending their best to the battlefield without the finest protection - for without the MJOLNIR armor, John was just as vulnerable to death as any other. The UNSC wanted to keep him alive for when they needed him, and though John understood and respected this, he couldn't help but feel eager for battle.
And, perhaps worst of all, the mere thought of the impending Covenant invasion hung over the station like a plague. Everyone, whether situated on or above the planet, was watching the skies with a sense of utter trepidation.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
John, thrown from his thoughts, walked to the railway and looked down. A man was stumbling up the steps, lugging a crate and breaking a sweat. John walked down to him and took the crate, balancing it on one side.
The man rose an eyebrow, and then grinned before heading to the armory door and unlocking it. John followed and set the crate on a spare table.
"Nice to meet ya, Chief. Master Joshua Guns," he introduced himself, holding out a hand. John's firm grip easily shrouded his, and the man laughed. "Always wanted to do that. Never worked with a Spartan before; we're lucky to have one on station. Sorry I'm late - the shipment just arrived this morning, and there was some confusion on the docks."
John nodded in acknowledgement, studying the man. He was short and slightly heavy-set, with a bold, laid-back manner of speaking. Older than John, but not a grizzled veteran in combat like Sergeant Johnson. John disliked him immediately.
"Well, let's get started, shall we?"
John nodded again, glancing around the room. Racks of submachine guns and battle rifles adorned the walls, winged by helljumper helmets and other spare parts. Laid out on the center table, however, was the real prize: MJOLNIR plates, iridescent shields glistening in the light.
"You're armor's been bumped up a notch," Guns said. "The shield incorporates more Covenant technology - they recharge faster, more resilient, almost a millimeter slimmer...very efficient. Just came up from Sondheim."
John slid on the black, skintight suit of buckministerfullerine. The gel inside cooled to his touch, and it was noticeably lighter. One by one, he clicked the metal plates into their latches.
Master Guns, meanwhile, had opened the crate. Inside were the remnants of John's Mark-V armor, and a data pad detailing design. Master Guns looked dismayed as he pecked through the gear. "How're we supposed to work with this? The new ODST suits won't be out for months..."
He picked up the data pad and whistled. "Whoah, Chief. You're lucky you got back here alive - the plating was about to fail. There's viscosity throughout the gel later. Optics? Totally fried...and let's not even talk about the power supply." Guns paused a second, and then ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Do you know how expensive this gear is, son?"
Master Chief smiled wryly. "Tell that to the Covenant." He picked up his helmet and donned it with a hiss.
"Damn aliens, raising our taxes. 'Least it's going to something worthwhile." Guns shrugged. "Come on over here, and step onto the zappers. We'll make sure everything's workin' fine, and then you'll be outta here."
They ran through all standard procedure tests - shield recharging, HUD schematics, and checking the optical neural interface. The armor was flawless; John was eager to put it to the test.
If only the assault were set for somewhere other than Earth.
"You done with my boy here, Master Guns? I don't see any training wheels." drawled a familiar voice. John glanced up to see Sergeant Johnson leaning in the doorframe. He was adorned in full dress uniform, crisp and professional with a chest full of medals.
Master Guns scowled. "His armor's working fine, Johnson." He turned to Master Chief. "You're free to go, son. Just remember - take things slow."
Johnson smirked. "Don't worry, I'll hold his hand." He turned into the hallway and stepped on a lift. John followed. "That boy's been pissy ever since before I shipped out for basic - and lemme tell you, that was ages ago." He glanced at his reflection in the glass panels. "Couldn't guess it by looking at me, though."
The car they were traveling in halted momentarily as shaft outside opened up. The station's rigid metal interior gave way to a vast expanse of open space - Earth, swirling vividly green and blue against a backdrop of inky stars.
Johnson looked out appreciatively. "Earth - haven't seen it in years. When I shipped out for basic, there was nothin' here. The Orbital Defense Grid was all theory and politics. Now look at it - 300 GOC platforms, every one with a MAC gun! With coordinated fire from the Athens and the Malta, no Covenant capital ship's getting through without looking like Swiss cheese - and in that case," he continued proudly, "we've got my Corps."
John admired the view. Hundreds of starships spun in and out of orbit, docking either on stations or the planet itself. All of the ships were, technically, extraterrestrial - John doubted most of them had ever been in the Sol system - and yet they gathered here with a protectiveness and vivacity that no colony would ever see. John understood - though he had seen only vids of the planet, he felt with overwhelming sense that this place was home.
"Ships've been arriving all morning. Nobody's saying much, of course, but I bet something big's about to happen." Johnson said as the lift halted. John felt gravity sway beneath his feet. He had a grave feeling that Johnson was right.
They stepped off the lift, and into a windowed bay.
UNSC officials and crew crowded alongside the bay walkway, clapping and cheering. Automated cameras hovered above, orbiting the Chief and Johnson.
John nodded to the crowd, but frowned behind his reflective faceplate. "You told me there wouldn't be any cameras."
"And you told me you were gonna wear somethin' nice," Johnson retorted, waving. "Folks need heroes, Chief - we give 'em hope. So smile, would ya? Because soon, we won't have much to smile about."
The crew parted, allowing the Chief and Johnson through. Two officers in dress uniform snapped to salute before keying open the doors to the bridge.
The room was magnificent, alight from a wrap-around display. It was artificial, of course - any real windows would be a dead shot for any Covenant ship, putting the entire station out of operation - but the view was impressive all the same. Officers in full dress uniform lined the walls, applauding with what seemed to be true enthusiasm - something hard to come by at such ceremonies, these days.
Sergeant Johnson and Master Chief strode down the center of the bridge and up a ramp, where Admiral Hood and an aide waited for their approach. Admiral Hood was a wartime, one-man superpower, in command of all human forces. His victories were well known, even those before the Covenant war - John and his fellow Spartans had studied his fleet's defeat of pirate forces endlessly. His face was twisted with age, but he was still surrounded by an insurmountable air of authority. John, instinctively and respectfully, snapped his fingers to his temple.
The Admiral returned the salute. "Gentlemen, we're lucky to have you back." He paused for a moment as the aide approached from behind, and then tightened his lips. He turned to the controls. "Go ahead, Cortana."
Cortana's holographic figure appeared on the pedestal beside the controls, foot-high and a royal blue. Complex mathematic symbols scrolled her body, glowing purple and then fading. "Another whisper, sir, near Io," she spoke. "We have probes enroute."
There was no doubt on the bridge about what she was speaking of. The applause was suddenly dulled.
Admiral Hood nodded. "I apologize, but we're going to have to make this quick." He reached towards his aide, who held out a tray of medals. Lifting one from the selection, he nodded to Sergeant Johnson. "Sergeant Major, the Colonial Cross is awarded for singular acts of daring and devotion. For a soldier of the United Earth Space Corps, there is no higher honor."
He reached for another decoration and turned to John. "Master Chief Petty Officer John 117," he said, resting it in John's armored gauntlets. "Few have shown such courage and endurance while in the jaws of death - and fewer have succeeded in escaping. For gathering invaluable intelligence, and perhaps saving us all, no tribute stands high enough." John nodded, deeply honored, and stepped back.
During the applause, a young, dark-haired woman marched forward from the line of officers behind Admiral Hood. She stepped in line with the Chief and Johnson, standing solemnly.
"Commander Miranda Keyes," Admiral Hood said to her. "Your father's actions were in keeping with the highest traditions of military service. His bravery in the face of impossible odds reflects great credit upon himself and the UNSC. The Navy has lost one of its best." Her eyes lingered on the medal in her hand - as did John's. He held only a select few in as high regards as the late Captain.
An alert sounded, blaring throughout the bridge.
All eyes were on Cortana. "Slipspace rupture, directly off our battle cluster," she reported to Admiral Hood.
"Show me."
She clicked on the display, holding out a hand to demonstrate the location. "Fifteen Covenant capital ships holding position just outside the killzone." Their figures glowed red-hot on the screen. Master Chief's muscles tightened.
"This is Fleet Admiral Harper," buzzed a voice over the comm. channel, filled with static. "We are engaging the enemy - repeat, engaging the enemy - "
"Negative, Admiral," Hood commanded. "Form a defensive perimeter around the cluster." He turned to Commander Keyes. "Commander, get to your ship and link up with the fleet."
"Yes, sir." She saluted smartly, and then was gone.
"You have the MAC gun, Cortana. As soon as they come in range, open fire."
"Gladly," she responded. Her hologram blazed from blue to violet, and then flickered off.
Admiral Hood walked to the display, scrutinizing. "Something's not right," he muttered. "The fleet that destroyed Reach was fifty times this size..."
Master Chief watched as UNSC ships surrounded the red cluster. Suddenly, the cluster starburst, sending red points spilling through gaps in the defense system. It would be impossible to stop them all.
"Sir!" an officer reported from his terminal. "Additional contacts! Boarding crafts, and lots of 'em."
"They're going to try to take our MAC guns offline...giving their capital ships a straight shot at Earth." Admiral Hood turned to John. "Master Chief, defend this station."
"Yes, sir." He nodded. Master Chief and thee Sergeant promptly exited the bridge. John could feel adrenaline rushing through his veins; his knuckles curled in formation. He turned to Johnson. "I need a weapon."
Johnson grinned. "Right this way."
In Amber Clad 3: Ad Astra Per Aspera
Date: 13 March 2005, 9:30 PM
Ninth Age of Reclamation//Covenant Holy City "High Charity," Public Amphitheater
"Heretic! Heretic! Heretic!"
The cries cut into Alai 'Platomee as any knife would, slicing though his flesh and bones to place the very essence of shame in his heart. He smiled to himself, four jaws parting, as he thought of this - funny, wasn't it, because the concept would soon become very literal.
Thousands of Covenant lined the stands of the amphitheatre; he looked up at them and down towards those crowding the streets below, feeling a slight sense of vertigo. He stood tall, nonetheless - Elites were creatures of honor, especially in times such as these, and he would not bow to death. These beasts would earn no satisfaction from his torture.
Tartarus, chieftain of the Brutes, led him down the center aisle to a podium that overlooked the city's center, where the Forerunner ship stood tall and proud, as a monument to 'Platomee's sins. Brutes flanking either side of him held out their staffs, criss-crossing his path - it was time.
Each gripped one of Alai's wrists and wrenched them up to shoulder-level. He tightened his forearms against their grip, watching their struggle with a slight sense of satisfaction. Still a warrior, after all.
The two Brutes locked him into place. With an electric hum, blue energy beams encircled both wrists. They weren't shackles, as he could move freely, but a white-hot, searing heat radiated from the bands, and 'Platomee was not keen to move.
Tartarus stopped walking and turned around and looked 'Platomee from head to toe. He grinned, baring crooked teeth and distorting his bulky features. "Drawn quite a crowd."
"If they came to hear me beg, they will be disappointed."
Tartarus chuckled, deep and gravelly. "Are you sure?"
With that, he reached down to the control panel and activated the two towers on either side of 'Platomee.
A brilliant arc of orange energy cascaded down through space to either wrist cuff. Barely controlled shoots radiated wildly from the main beam, twisting up and over and down again to Alai 'Platomee himself.
The pain was excruciating. His nerve endings screamed. He arched his back unwillingly, muscles contracting and releasing at fierce speeds, spasming and convulsing - the seizure entered his throat, arresting his windpipe and sent his vision searing with red - his jaws clamped wildly, and though he willed himself not to with every bit of control he had, a scream tore its way from his lungs and into the heavens.
And then, as suddenly as the pain had begun, it stopped.
He felt a shudder pass through him, and collapsed as far as allowed.
"Let there be no greater heresy!" Tartarus shouted to the crowd. "Let him be an example for all who would break our Covenant!"
Alai felt the Brutes strip his armor from his body. The plates would be grey now, dark and smoldering, in contrast to the brilliant gold sheen that they had once possessed. He didn't look down, he couldn't look down, he wasn't thinking, every bit of him ached so violently...
With a resounding clang, his helmet hit the floor of the podium. Dangling from the restraints, he dared to look up.
Tartarus stood before him, tall and brawny. He held a glowing, red-hot brand of steel up to 'Platomee's chest, and thrust it - hard - into his flesh.
The Mark of the Heretic, the ultimate disgrace. It would never disappear and never fade, from flesh nor memory.
Alai 'Platomee leaned his head back and fell onto the brand, screaming with agony. This was ultimate; this was shame.
Ninth Age of Reclamation//Covenant Holy City "High Charity," Penitentiary, cell #104119
'Platomee was thrown onto the hard, cold metal floor of his cell. The first public performance, he had soon learned, was only the beginning. He had lost track of the days he had been in the cell, for there was no light to judge day or night by - just constant sessions of interrogation and torment. Questions about the heretics - questions to which he had no answers.
He sat up, massaging his strained tendons, and heaved himself onto the bench. Stretching out and closing his eyes, he couldn't help but analyze the situation from a tactical point of view. He had no resources, no weapons, and no control - and he was certainly in no condition to fight. Brutes were strong, he knew - it was rumored they could tear apart even a Hunter - but Elites were quick and agile. Two Brutes always oversaw his sessions. Perhaps if he could take the rifle of one, when it was unexpected, there would time enough to disable them both...
But no. He wasn't even fooling himself. This was past the point of damaged pride, of stained Elite honor - survival, if anything, was the key.
And, just maybe, if he lived through this hell, he would have the chance to repent.
The cell door slid open with a mechanical hiss. Three brute guards flanked either side, their figures silhouetted in the soft hallway light. One stepped forward and reached for 'Platomee's arm. "Come," he spoke, voice deep and rough - Tartarus. There was a hint of a game in his voice, as if he was daring Alai to ask the occasion. Daring him to mention something about the brutality of two sessions not but an hour apart, daring him to show any remnant of the rebellion the guards seemed so insistent he possessed.
'Platomee did not respond, but stood and exited his cell, hoofed feet birthing echoes against the metal floor. Tartarus snarled and lifted his club, striking 'Platomee in the small of his back.
He grunted and fell to his knees, vision dancing.
"Look what you've done!" the second Brute exclaimed. "Now he's in no state for meeting the-"
"Silence," said Tartarus. "Grab an arm, each of you, and pull your share."
'Alai Platomee felt his arms being lifted, and then his legs dragging down the hall. Meeting who, he wondered.
They traveled in silence for a few minutes, past rows and rows of chambers. He could hear inmates hollering as they passed, banging on walls and shrieking. His eyesight began to clear.
The Brute on his left grunted and adjusted his grip on 'Platomee's arm. "How much further must we heft this baggage? Any cell will do." A group of jackals to the right burst into a fit of rage as the party passed. 'Platomee could hear them clawing at the barriers. He heard a clash of metal on metal - the brute had kicked at their cell. "Why not toss him in with this lot? They could use the meat."
The right guard grunted. "Why not us? My belly aches! His flesh is seared just the way I like it -"
"Quiet." The voice came from ahead. 'Platomee craned his neck to see Tartarus's graying fur. "You whimper like Grunts, fresh off the teat! This one is not meant for the jails - the Hierarchs have something special in mind."
They stopped moving, and 'Platomee felt a familiar jump in his throat. They were descending in a gravlift.
Unusual, he thought. Unorthodox. This could only mean -
But 'Platomee did not allow himself to hope.
At the bottom, they reached a bridge lined with Elites clad in traditional uniforms of red and gold armour, adorned with iridescent spears and head crests. Honor Guards. At the end was a door higher and wider than any other 'Platomee had seen - the entrance to the Mausoleum.
Inside, the walls were lined with metallic, grid-like doors, marching up at regular intervals until indiscernible. Each, 'Platomee knew, was a grave. The sight was magnificent. The Prophets of Truth and Mercy sat in the center, donned in full formal robes.
Tartarus fell to one knee, and the other Brutes followed suit. "Noble Prophets of Truth and Mercy, I have brought the incompetent," he said, voice filled with respect and admiration - and a hint of pride. 'Platomee bristled inwardly. That was no way to speak to a Prophet.
"You may leave, Tartarus," Truth spoke.
"But - I thought - "
"And take your Brutes with you."
The two Brutes, confused, glanced at Tartarus for guidance. He turned to face them, lip curled. "Release the prisoner."
They exited.
Alai 'Platomee struggled to bow properly before the Prophets, but could not manage. He remained on his hands and knees, face to the floor.
Truth paid this no mind. "The Council decided to have you hung by your entrails and your corpse paraded through the city," he said simply, and 'Platomee's blood ran cold. "But ultimately...the terms of your execution are up to me."
'Platomee struggled to his knees. He traced the Mark of the Heretic that scarred his flesh. "I am already dead."
Truth smiled. "Indeed." He glanced up towards the ceiling, motioning around the room with a fragile hand. "Do you know where we are?" he asked.
"The Mausoleum of the Arbiters."
"Quite so. Here rests the vanguard of the Great Journey...every Arbiter, from first to last. Each created and consumed in times of extraordinary crisis."
Mercy shifted his chair forward. "The taming of the Hunters," he cited proudly. "The Grunt rebellion - why, were it not for the Arbiters, the Covenant would have broken long ago!"
'Platomee heard the veiled rebuke, and admitted to it. "Even on my knees, I do not belong in their presence," he responded.
Truth nodded. "Halo's destruction was your error," he said, "and you rightly bared the blame. However, the Council's decision was..." he tapped the arms of his chair, as if searching for the acceptable word "...overzealous. We know you are know heretic."
'Platomee looked up, hardly daring to believe these words. Truth was smiling. "Yes, we know your faith is strong. This is the truth face of heresy - one who would incite rebellion against the High Council." Truth waved a hand over the arm of his chair, and a small holographic figure appeared.
It was an Elite, but with face and stance so different from the one 'Platomee knew. The holo flickered green, and then blue, and began to speak, gesturing wildly. "Our Prophets are false. Open your eyes, my brothers! They would use the faith of our forefathers to lead us into ruin! The Great Journey is - " And with another wave of Truth's hand, the image disappeared.
"This heretic, and those who follow him," Truth continued, "must be silenced."
"Their slander offends all who walk the path," stated Mercy.
'Platomee was puzzled. "But what use am I? I can no longer command ships, lead troops into battle - "
"Not as you are," Truth interrupted. "But become the Arbiter...and you shall be set loose against this heresy with our blessing."
A pod from the wall shifted down to hover just above the ground. 'Platomee climbed to his feet and watched, half in awe, half in wonder, as the door slid open and out to the ground like a ramp. Inside was a suit of silver blue armor, ceremonial and ornate, yet the most well-crafted he had ever seen.
'Platomee turned back to the Prophets. "What of the Council?"
"The tasks you must undertake as the Arbiter are perilous," Mercy responded. "Suicidal. You will die in your crusade, just as each Arbiter has before you. The Council will have their corpse."
'Platomee walked to the suit of armor, admiring it with reverence.
This was his chance for survival. This was his chance to repent.
He reached out for the helmet and placed it onto his head with practiced ease. It fit perfectly - as if he had been born to wear it.
"What would you have your Arbiter do?"
721 hours, September 13, 2552//Chiroptera-class vessel, Weapons storage//Flood-Control Installation #01
Kelly-087 was a biomechanical wonder. Her muscles were compacted and laced with wire, her bones reinforced with what might as well have been titanium alloy, her already-magnificent reaction time increased to something worthy of a demigod by regulated biochemical signals that originated at the base of her skull. Dr. Halsey could draw the list of modifications from the back of her mind without giving it a second thought. Demigod was, indeed, the correct term - and yet the word provoked its own misgivings. This war was on, after all, for them to remain human - that was what ONI Section II had told the public, and what she had told herself.
Hah. What of that, really? She had convinced herself of many things over the years, and few lessons taught by ONI still held true.
"Everything's in place, Doctor." Kelly drew herself upright, slipping a bag of supplies over her shoulder with ease and snapping on her helmet. She took a Magnum from the table and flipped it in her hand. "Ready when you are."
Halsey nodded and turned to the exit ramp; it slid open as she palmed the door, swiftly and silently. Kelly moved first, checking either side of the door before exiting and motioning Dr. Halsey forward.
The ship had docked in a vast underground cavern, almost akin to the pathways discovered in the depths of Reach. The only light came from the entryway of the Chiropteran-class vessel, illuminating the surrounding area with a soft, filtered light for half a second before it slid shut again- but it was enough. Doorways spiraled around the circular walls, each unnaturally tall and wide, to correspond with the cavern's scale.
This was not a human place.
Dr. Halsey had expected a lot, but nothing of this scope and scale. She withdrew a handheld computer from her coat pocket, and tapped into the files she had pilfered from Araqiel. "There should be directions on the floor," she told Kelly. "Step down, and you'll see."
Kelly stepped forward once, and then twice, footsteps heavy with MJOLNIR armor. Five seconds passed, and then an unearthly blue light began to fill the room.
Trailing from where they stood at the center of the room were paths of text, each leading to a different doorway. Cylinders of charged, sloshing liquid bordered each door, running along the floor and then up the walls, meeting kilometers above.
"I'm sending you a copy of the correct pathway. It'll set up a Navpoint, and we'll go from there."
Kelly nodded, switching on her helmet's high-powered flashlight. The white beam sliced cleanly through the darkness - but before Halsey had confirmed the file transfer, Kelly had started towards the correct entrance to the facility, near eleven o'clock.
"There's something I don't understand," she said. "The paths were activated when I stepped down. We know this happens - Fred did the same thing on Reach, and John mentioned it in his report from the first ring - but only with Spartans."
"And you're wondering if Colonel Ackerson's team..."
"Yes."
"I can't answer that," Halsey said simply. "Or even why it happens. Weight-related, perhaps - maybe Spartans in MJOLNIR armor are close enough in size to the founders of these rings that their presence is noted. Chemical or electronic activation. If Ackerson's team had the knowledge, they could easily simulate the presence of a Spartan and gain access to the correct facility."
"Is that what you think?" Kelly asked.
"I think that all of your team is properly accounted for, and that to assume otherwise is absurd. However," she continued after a moment, "Ackerson had quite the catalog of Spartan DNA filed away, which leaves open many possibilities." She chose her words carefully, as not to mention the flash clones created and killed so many years ago.
With that, they reached the end of the pathway. Metal inscriptions shone up and down the door before them, swirling with turquoise. A disfigured palm-plate slid out of the center upon their approach; Kelly placed a gauntleted hand on it, providing them entry.
Inside, everything was crisp and sterile - the ideal lab environment. Bright overhead lights set multiple metal instruments glinting. Sitting at a desk directly across from Dr. Halsey was an old man, fit in figure but tainted by age. Over a standard UNSC uniform, a white lab coat tapered down to his knees.
His eyes remained trained on his terminal upon their arrival. "James, the fourth -"
Kelly immediately snapped her gun to chest height with a clang.
The man looked up, and stopped speaking. He hesitated, eyes on the pistol, but stood, looking over the intruders with a deep, scrutinizing gaze.
Dr. Halsey placed a hand on Kelly's weapon, and she lowered it. She stepped forward, arms crossed.
The man did the same - and then his eyes danced with recognition. "Catherine."
"Jeromi," she whispered.
|
