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Redesignation 1of 2
Date: 2 February 2004, 5:57 PM
The deck rocked as another piece of the Autumn parted company with the rest of the ship.
"Anyone got any suggestions?" asked the Master Chief.
The Spartans resembled a group of bronze statues. They carried the analogy through to their response.
The Chief sighed. "How about a stirring chorus of 'One Wheel On My Wagon' then?"
Another plasma bolt shook the hull.
Towards the back of the group, an armoured hand rose into the air.
The Chief went rigid. He cursed silently that he hadn't qualified his request. He should have said, "Anyone got any suggestions...except you."
"Go ahead, Spartan."
History has provided some stunning examples of tactical acumen; General Custer's "Where did all those Indians come from?" Admiral Lord Nelson's "They couldn't hit an elephant from thaaaargh," and King Leonidas's "Goat track? What bloody goat track?"
The suggestion offered to the Chief was right up there.
When Dr Halsey had set up the Spartan project, she had chosen the initial participants after exhaustive interstellar traversal, painstaking research and complex test procedures. On a remote farming moon, a boy named Jonathan had been one of the very few to meet the Doctor's exacting requirements. But on the day the boy was due to be picked up and shipped out, he was absent from school having succumbed to a virulent outbreak of chicken pox. Unaware of this, UNSC Special Operatives stalked into his classroom in a flurry of long black coats, dark glasses and attitudes usually associated with teenagers at the back of the school dance. They had asked for Jonathan and left with a pale and scrawny specimen of boyhood who was tenuously linked with the prospective Spartan candidate in two respects only. His name also happened to be Jonathan. Oh, and it was him who had passed on the chickenpox.
The Master Chief jabbed at the airlock control panel. He looked out at the Spartan on the other side of the reinforced glass.
"Ready?"
Jonathan 012 straightened up. "Yes sir."
The plan was insane. Not the sort of heroic-against-all-odds kind of insanity you always knew the good guy would overcome in the end. This was more your dress-in-a-bedsheet-yelling-noodle-oodle-doo sort of insanity. But the Chief had good reasons for going along with Jonathan's plan. He couldn't deny there was an element of style to it. But more importantly to all aboard the Autumn, the plan meant Jonathan would no longer be among them.
There was a metallic clang as the Chief operated the airlock doors.
As tradition demanded preceding any heroic (or bedsheet attired) act, the Chief felt obliged to gift his fellow Spartan with a decent set up line.
"What if you miss?"
Jonathan's visor turned towards the Chief.
"Uh...I...um, I hadn't really thought of tha..."
The airlock decompressed. And Jonathan 012 shot out into the vacuum.
The Chief pressed the panel again, initiating the process that would reseal the doors.
Stylish indeed. Possibly even worth trying himself at some point. But that snappy comeback needed work.
Instead of returning the boy instantly, Dr Halsey became fascinated by him. Disaster not only followed Jonathan everywhere, it sometimes went on ahead. During art class, a glop of paste he had spilled on the floor resulted in another child having to be put in traction. On Jonathan's day to feed the class goldfish, they all went belly up. He had even managed to cause a fire. During swimming lessons. Dr Halsey was a scientist. She dealt with cold facts and quantifiable data. She tied her hair up and wore really big glasses to emphasise the point. Even so, she couldn't help the feeling there was something almost supernatural about the way that although Jonathan was the cause of catastrophe after catastrophe, the ill effects only seemed to befall others around him...
In contrast to the angular human ship which it had been battering with uncanny
accuracy, The Covenant cruiser 'Symbolic Leviathan' had lines like a well
sucked acid drop. As he floated through space towards it, Jonathan thought two
things. One was whether somewhere on the Covenant homeworld, a high ranking
alien chose the names of their spaceships using a copy of Roget's Thesaurus and a
pin.
The other was 'Gah.'
Only with a lot more a's in the middle.
The Master Chief returned to the cargo bay. To the casual observer, the assembled two-ton cyborgs did not appear to have moved a micrometer. But to the Chief, there was a noticeable attitude of relief to the Spartans' poses.
"Is it me," he asked, "or do we seem to be getting hit less all of a sudden?"
Doodu was a Grunt who was going places. Admittedly, they were places like the ship's mess to clean the food nipples while battle raged outside, but by Covenant standards he was a Grunt with prospects. He had already been promoted to Silver and was angling to rise one day to the exalted rank of Black. The secret of his success to date was simple. Short legs. Given the predisposition of his race to turn tail and flee faced with almost any opposition, Doodu's pitiful limbs had always left him in the rear of the retreat. Which, from his superiors' perspective, put him closer to the enemy than his comrades. That's why the rank of Black denoted extreme bravery. They were really rubbish at running away, possibly on account of the cripplingly heavy fuel rod guns they carried. Doodu just needed a chance to show that he had so much more to offer than wielding a mean nipple cloth. He rounded a corner. And came face to face with a Spartan.
Jonathan propped Fred up as best he could whilst clutching their team's red flag. The sleet stung their eyes and soaked into their vests and shorts as the two young men stumbled barefoot through the blizzard.
"Should've been there by now," muttered Fred. Blood trickled from a gash at his temple.
Jonathan grunted, half under the weight of Fred and half because all he'd managed to do was trip over and cause a diversion while Fred had savagely laid into three of the opposing team. He'd managed to wrest back possession of the red flag before the blues could get it back to their base. The element of surprise had helped, but even so Fred had taken quite a pummelling in the process.
Jonathan squinted at a distant shadow on the icy rock face.
"I've found the cave. We're back."
Fred managed a weak smile, and Jonathan seemed to find extra strength to quicken their pace over the last hundred metres. The gloomy cave was no less cold than outside, but it offered shelter from the biting sleet. Jonathan moved to lower Fred and replace the flag in its holder.
"No," said Fred, "I'll do it."
Setting his teeth, Fred hauled himself upright using the flag as a crutch. He limped forward, and reverentially slotted the flag home. He promptly slumped to the ground.
Jonathan breathed a sigh, and then let out a yelp as two figures detached themselves from the shadows.
"Um," said one, scowling, "does that mean we win?"
"Guess so," said the other, "but it's not much of a victory."
Fred stared at his comrade in disbelief.
Frozen as he was, Jonathan still managed to turn a shade paler.
"Ah," he said. "Wrong cave."
The plasma pistol quivered and shook. Not because it had been overcharged for a shot, but because a very small alien was pointing it at a very large cyborg.
"Why are you here?" squeaked Doodu.
Judging by Doodu's voice, the Spartan could swear someone had swapped the Grunt's methane breather for helium.
"I'm here to sabotage your ship," Jonathan replied.
The pistol wavered even more. Doodu had been shocked when he had asked the Spartan to drop his weapon and the human had complied without hesitation. But confessing his mission before Doodu had even uttered a single armour-filling threat of grisly torture...maybe Spartans weren't as fearsome as Doodu had been led to believe.
"How?"
"I'm already doing it."
"How are you doing it?"
"Ah. That I couldn't tell you."
Doodu hopped from foot to foot. "You will tell me. You will tell me or you will die."
"No, no. I mean I can't tell you because I don't know."
Doodu took a step backwards. Memory repression eh? The cyborg's mission must have been hypnotically buried so he could never be forced to reveal the details. Well Doodu knew someone who could soon fix that. If Doodu could deliver up a captive Spartan and full details of his mission...
Black? He could be the first ever Gold Grunt.
Redesignation 2 of 2
Date: 2 February 2004, 6:08 PM
As part of their training, the Spartan cadets took a crash course in vehicle orientation. Quite literally in Jonathan's case. His written off Warthog haemorrhaged fuel all over the motor pool floor. A mechanic thrust a mop and bucket at Jonathan, then trudged off shaking his head. Jonathan swabbed away without complaint for half an hour or so, then sought out the mechanic to return his mop and emptied bucket. The mechanic frowned.
"Where did you dispose of the gas?" he asked.
"I poured it down the latrine," said Jonathan.
A nervous tic pulsed beneath the mechanic's left eye.
"Hey Pete," he yelled over his shoulder, "who was that just went in the head?"
"Uh, the Sarge I think," came the reply.
There was a note of urgency in the next hollered question.
"Did he have his cigar?"
"Do Grunts poop in their breathing tanks?"
Jonathan and the mechanic looked at each other.
Whoomph, confirmed the latrine.
"Your name's really Doo Doo?" asked Jonathan.
"Silence!"
Doodu gestured for the cyborg to approach a door. As he complied, the door hissed open revealing what appeared to be a small workroom full of holographic monitors.
Maybe they'll even give me my own miniature power sword, thought Doodu. Jonathan regarded the workroom's occupant. The floating creature turned to face him. Its six eyes widened and its tentacles flailed excitedly. It emitted a stream of high-pitched chirrups, which Doodu answered in kind. Jonathan noticed that there was a different sound in this room. All the other parts of the ship seemed to emanate a weird blooping and bleeping, like some kind of alien elevator music. But in here, the sounds were louder and at a much more rapid frequency. The alien seemed to nod in time with it.
Jonathan smiled. It spent all its time in front of monitors. It listened to fast, loud music. And it probably couldn't get a date either. It had to be an Engineer.
The Engineer produced a silver device speckled with glowing lights and held it next to the Spartan's head. Jonathan was aware of a slight buzzing between his ears, but felt no discomfort or particular sensation.
The Engineer chirped at Doodu.
"He says you have no repressed memories," squealed Doodu.
"I didn't think I did. But then I suppose I wouldn't if I did, would I?" Jonathan reasoned.
"No more of your games. How did you intend to sabotage this ship?"
Had Doodu possessed a better grasp of human emotions, he might have noticed that Jonathan's reply was almost apologetic in tone.
"By being on it."
"So one of your men has infiltrated that cruiser?" Jacob Keyes was forced to raise his voice to make himself heard above the constant fire of the Autumn's cannons.
"That's an affirmative sir," replied the Master Chief.
"Spartan 012 you say?"
"Sir."
"You don't think we should send some help?"
"No sir," said the Chief. "The Covenant deserve everything they get."
The Symbolic Leviathan lurched wildly. Doodu was thrown to the deck and his pistol skittered from his hand. To his horror, it came to rest at the Jonathan's feet. The Spartan calmly picked the gun up, and with his other hand, hauled the Grunt upright. Handing the weapon back to its owner, Jonathan turned to the Engineer.
"Let me guess. We hit an asteroid? One of the engines blew up? A seemingly unimportant exhaust port was hit setting off a cataclysmic chain reaction?"
The Engineer's tentacles blurred over instrument panels. It made more of its twittering noises. Doodu stared at the pistol in his paw and then at Jonathan.
"He says the reactor's gone critical," said the Grunt. "He says that an incredible combination of factors has resulted in severe core damage. A phenomenally lucky shot."
A low, mournful klaxon bellowed throughout the ship.
"Or a phenomenally unlucky shot," said Jonathan, "from your perspective."
The Engineer floated towards the door, whipping its tentacles in a state of agitation.
"We...we have to abandon ship," said Doodu.
"I guessed as much," replied Jonathan.
The Grunt seemed to sniff at him.
"You did this, didn't you? Somehow, you caused this."
"Quite probably."
"But...how?"
It was hard to shrug wearing two tons of armour, so Jonathan threw his hands in the air to convey his lack of explanation.
Doodu's breather tank gave a long hiss. The plasma pistol once more pointed at Jonathan. But this time, the Grunt held it steady.
"You are still my prisoner. We'll make for the lifepods. Then when we're picked up, you'll be made to answer."
"It's not so much the answer as the question," said Jonathan. "You should have just asked my name."
There had been an accident on the rifle range, which left a seasoned instructor only able to get as far as the little piggy eating roast beef on his left foot. There had been the teleporter incident where half the Spartans had appeared at the arrival portal while their armour, right down to the undergarments, had stayed resolutely at the departure point. Then there had been the unfortunate episode with the rocket launcher during a King Of The Hill session. Which resulted in no Hill. Despite petitions from all sides, Dr Halsey staunchly refused to remove Jonathan from the Spartan program. She felt that somehow, whatever it was he had could be harnessed as a survival trait in its own right. Jonathan's fellow Spartans were not so gracious. Jonathan returned to his locker after training one day to discover it had been vandalised. Where it used to read JONATHAN 012, some of the stencilled lettering had been scratched away and the number had been augmented with a marker pen. It now appeared as -
JONA H 013. Jonathan couldn't find it in himself to alter it back.
"Get in," said Doodu with a flick of the pistol.
Jonathan was about to duck into the open lifepod hatch when he heard a thunderous roar behind him. He turned to see a blue Elite galloping down the corridor towards them. Doodu emitted a shrill squeak. The Elite levelled a plasma rifle at Jonathan and barked the guttural, garbled words of its peculiar language.
Doodu cowered. "He's...he's my prisoner, exalted one. I captured him," said the Grunt, keeping his eyes firmly at floor level.
The Elite viciously swatted Doodu aside, then growled a full, four-mandible challenge at Jonathan. It raised the plasma rifle and fired point blank.
At least, it tried to fire. There was a hiss and a billow of steam as the rifle opened up like a flower.
"Not often you see 'em overheat on the first shot," said Jonathan.
The Elite tossed the rifle aside and lunged forward with a snarl. Jonathan yelped and just managed to sidestep, causing the alien to crash to the deck. Jonathan sprang forward and knelt on the Elite's back, trying to grab hold of the creature's limbs and render it immobile. The alien howled at the weight of the cyborg crushing it, and writhed and kicked in an effort to free itself. Jonathan had to admire the alien's strength. His admiration soon turned to panic as he realised the Elite was managing to get the better of him. Suddenly he was the one doing the struggling. With a final massive effort, the Elite forced itself backwards, sending Jonathan sprawling. It roared with triumph, then slumped forwards, whimpering as it died.
Jonathan lifted himself up on his elbows and looked from the massive, smoking hole that went right the way through the Elite to the smoking plasma pistol in Doodu's paw.
"That...that was supposed to hit you," wailed the Grunt.
Jonathan gingerly stood up. He nudged the alien corpse with the toe of his boot.
"I'd say you're in deep, Doodu."
He'd been saving that one.
The Grunt made rapid squeaking sounds and hammered at its own head with both paws.
"Why me?"
"They don't call me Jonah for nothing," said Jonathan as he shoved the distraught creature into a lifepod. Stepping back, Jonathan gave an airy wave, then slammed his hand on the release button. He watched as Doodu's pod fired off into space, then clambered into an adjacent empty pod.
A few seconds later, the Symbolic Leviathan spat Jonah out.
The Master Chief scanned the hundreds of tiny dots that separated off from the big one.
"That one," he said, indicating a flashing dot. "That's Jonah's transponder."
"Helm, move to intercept and retrieve that lifepod then resume course," ordered Keyes.
"I'm gonna have him officially redesignated," said the Chief. "Dr Halsey was right. That Spartan is a walking weapon."
Keyes chuckled.
"One thing though son. If that boy's such a jinx, why am I taking him back aboard my ship? He's probably the reason that cruiser found us in the first place."
The Chief was silent for a moment.
"There's only so much bad luck he can generate. We'll just have to be careful where we let him loose."
Behind them, the helmsman closed the bay doors behind Jonah's pod and reprogrammed the Autumn's destination. The planet Reach.
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